HelloGiggles » Meredith Fineman

The Scrunchie Nun-Chuck

Meredith Fineman — Tue, 07 May 2013 09:00:22 +0000

“How do you like my hair-do?” I asked my mother.

“I liked it five styles ago,” she said. We were standing at the front door as she dug for her Koosh-ball key chain. It was true, I’d gone through about six hairstyles in the carpool ride home.

I’ve always been obsessed with “doing my hair,” which has resulted in a wide range of ponytails, braids and straightening treatments. Considering what I’ve put my hair through, it’s amazing I’m not bald. Yet.

Wanting to change my hairstyle began before I can remember – I had nice, wavy curls under a soft blanket of frizz. I think. I’ve been chemically straightening my hair for a solid ten years, so I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s like. But before I discovered that I could fork over substantial money for someone to iron teeny-tiny sections of my hair so that it would stay that way permanently, making my head look like a lampshade, I thought my hair innovations were the tits.

When I was in pre-kindergarten, my mom would often give me pigtails with hair ties with little plastic gumballs at the end, and sometimes braids. I started to do my own hair in about second grade, and I don’t think I ever did much with it. I was an amateur at that point.

It wasn’t until fourth grade that the disruption in the industry of my own head really began. We used to have a babysitter that could French braid perfectly. It was such a treat – so fancy, and seemingly impossible for an 8-year-old. It was also foreign and French and mysterious, like the myth of French kissing. Those French people, I used to think.

I began with the easy stuff – ponytails, pigtails, pigtail braids. By the time I got to double digits in age, an important childhood milestone, I had it all under (hair) wraps. I did my own hair wraps, and I’d bring my string to school and offer to do it for other eager hangers-on. I’d sit in front of the mirror for hours, wrapping friendship string around a braided half-dreadlock, inevitably tangling half my head and having to cut off a chunk with nonfunctioning safety scissors.

But then there were the hair accessories. The butterfly clips, the bobby pins, the glitter. Oh, you want glitter, dotted hairclips? Just give me twenty minutes with some Wet n Wild nail polish and bam! How about a Topsy Turvy? I had the red loop on lockdown in drawer with all of my favorite doily socks. The Topsy Turvy is the most unnecessary and brilliantly-marketed hairstalgia piece there is. Maybe I’d meet my crush at CVS.

The teeny little clear hair bands were the best scores for when I had the patience for a few small braids, often giving up a quarter of the way through. I had a collection of all aforementioned accessories and headbands, the latter of which consistently gave me headaches. The only headband I wore was one with Mexican wish dolls on it from my grandparents’ recent trip to Mexico. I had little people lining my temples.

In addition to coveted hair clips and headbands that hurt like shit, I had an amazing variety of scrunchies. Neon, black, patterned, polka dot and my favorite: velour. I had even tried to make some of my own scrunchies in summer camp the year before. However, they required one element besides elastic and fabric that I didn’t possess – the patience for a sewing machine.

I got so neurotic with my hairstyles, I felt they needed to be documented immediately, lest I wake up one morning before school without hair amnesia, having hopelessly forgotten my vast array of options.

An abridged version goes something like:

Pigtails

Pigtail braids

Pony tail

Half pony

Half pony with braid

French braid (But I needed someone else for that)

Half Topsy Turvy

Full Topsy Turvy

Half Up Flip Bun (This one particularly, I don’t even know what it means. I did then, I don’t know. It does sound fun and adventurous, though.)

I remember the list very clearly, written several times over because that was the year I had made the formal decision to change the way I write my A’s due to a hopelessly cool popular girl who wrote them in a way I had never seen. The list was taped to the back of my bookshelf in purple Gelly Roll, right next to my Y2K bumper sticker. Just in case.

My most innovative, and ridiculous, style of all time was the Scrunchie Nun Chuck.

I had about 40 scrunchies total in my haul. One morning I woke up with a particular burst of inspiration as a fourth grader deep into learning about Ancient Egypt, which may or may not have influenced this decision.

I was going to put as many of my scrunchies on my head as possible. I’d never seen anything like it (and thankfully, haven’t since). I began with my hair half up, and fastened it with a Mexican-print scrunchie (a theme apparently and generous grandparents). I then added a green one, a pink one, and two polka dotted scrunchies. Then I grabbed the rest of my hair and kept going til the end of my hair, which at that point was quite long.

In total, I probably had 20 scrunchies hanging off the end of my head. It was sort of tail-like, and I thought I was awesome.

In reality, I looked like one of those blue people in Avatar. I was a precursor to “Whip My Hair”. Willow Smith had nothing on my scrunchie collection, on display for all the haters to see in P.E. Looking back on it, if I whipped my head around that day, Romy and Michelle Style at the prom, I would have seriously injured myself or someone within a short radius.

I looked completely absurd.

At school, kids seemed to take notice of my insanely creative genius. I got a lot of looks, and comments. My best friend, who at the time shared in our common dorkitude and love of Sabrina the Teenage Witch and Clueless, was horrified. She had a bowl cut, so what did she know about hair? She knew nothing about being avant garde. Today she appreciates my creative finesse, or lives far enough away from me that she doesn’t have to deal with it on a daily basis.

I walked to the bathroom just as we were drawing our names with hieroglyphics, my scrunchie tail sashaying behind me. Another fourth grade teacher from a different classroom (all of that year were on the same floor) stopped me.

“Look at your hair,” she said in a patronizing, yet I’d like to think sweet tone. She was known among all of the lower school as Ms. Trunchbull Lite, making kids eat peas they’d spilled off the floor in the lunchroom. “I guess if I need to put my hair back I know who to ask,” she said with a smirk.

I felt triumphant that an adult had acknowledged my tress prowess. I felt almost charitable – the Keeper of All The Scrunch. But she was sucky, so it felt confusing. On one hand, I think I wanted to acknowledge the compliment. On the other, I wanted to try out the nun chuck element.

For all the kids that had to eat peas off the floor, I decided that woman wasn’t touching my head. Even if she was in desperate need of a scrunchie.

Meredith Fineman is the founder of FinePoint digital PR. You can read more of her writing here.

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Places I’d Actually Like to Meet the Man of My Dreams (And Probably Have Better Odds Of Doing So)

Meredith Fineman — Sat, 23 Feb 2013 17:00:16 +0000

Every woman (well, most) has a secret or not-so-secret dream location for meeting her Fairy Prince, her Sir OKCupid-a-Lot, Her Knight in Shining Armani.

For Mindy Kaling, that place is the Empire State Building, a place so romantic, it is home to many proposals, proposal videos, ideas for proposals, and those face-shaped metal looking glasses that expire after five minutes with a quarter and get all infuriatingly blurry. You’re just trying to see the beauty of Staten Island from where you’re standing, atop a giant, glorious building.

(This is also the setting for the apex of Romantic Movie of the Century, Sleepless in Seattle. When I watch older romantic movies like that, I just wish for a cellphone or Grindr or not writing your phone number in the inside of a book, SERENDIPITY, and just leaving love up to fate. Fate, really, romantic comedies and weird teen movies? Maybe if you look like Kate Beckinsale, or maybe you’ll just have a life full of cats and Words with Friends. Internet friends.)

Mindy Kaling isn’t alone in this wild dream of romance. You’ve definitely thought about your ideal meet-cute, where you bump / collide / fall into the man of your dreams. Maybe you knock into each other in matching neon at a Passion Pit concert, and debate until the wee hours of the morning who discovered the band first (neither of you, I did, or so did every angry hipster before you).

Maybe you’ll meet him or her in line waiting for tickets to a Broadway play, and you will spend the rest of your lives singing show tunes and annoying everyone else with your couples reenactments of Spring Awakening. (Honestly, Jessica and Sam, every time we have a wine night I don’t need to hear how you learned some new Wicked choreography.)

However, there are several missing meet-cutes, or dream locations where I’d personally like to meet a guy. (Besides that small town in the South of France, J’Date.) Enough with the flowers and ponies and falling off the Dawson’s Creek dock into his arms.

Rite Aid / Duane Reade / Walgreens / CVS

Maybe it’s just me, but I feel like I should be investing in CVS stock, or just handing over piles of money to every nonexistent cashier in the self-checkout line. If you’re a neurotic person such as myself, there are endless, endless, excuses to go to one of said pharmacies.

Maybe you need your medication. And then you need to go back because you forgot your other medication. And your Crest White Strips, because you have that awesome coupon and they’re a bazillion dollars without it. I could walk to Rite Aid blindfolded and spin around a baseball bat like that miserable kids game I always refused to participate in because it is so. Damn. Neauseating. I’d still come out with everything (minus one thing, because then I need an excuse to go back), and three new coupons, suckers.

The point is, find a fellow hypochondriac freaking out and getting a flu shot.

How cute would that be? You can spend your nights WebMD’ing each other, or take turns like new parents for chewable vitamin c gummie runs (I think I need to be on My Strange Addiction for this. I can’t stop eating them. They’re snacks, right?) I spend so much time in the cold aisle or traipsing around trying to find the specific bobby pin I like, I’d love to meet a guy who is also making it rain Extra Bucks in the club (card).

That being said, I once went on a date with a guy who didn’t have any sort of pharmacy loyalty card. (Lord knows how this even came up in conversation.) So like, he’s been going to Duane Reade for years, and just ignored the specials and rewards, every, single, time. Red flag.

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A Post-Christmas Memo From Santa To His Staff

Meredith Fineman — Thu, 27 Dec 2012 17:00:47 +0000

TO: UNDISCLOSED RECIPIENTS; ELF MAILING LIST; NORTH POLE STAFF
FROM: MR.CLAUS.HOHO@GMAIL.COM

SUBJECT: VACATION INFORMATION AND A THANK YOU

Hey Team,

I wanted to send this note as a thank-you for all of your work over the past couple months. I know integrating our new Naughty/Nice List database has been hard, but it’s about time we took the office paperless.

I want to tell you all how much I appreciate your help in making the new toy prototypes as requested, as well as dealing with my last minute anxieties over getting to every chimney on time.

My therapist says that it’s just anticipation fears, and that you all help assuage them. For that, I am quite thankful.

Mrs. Clause is continually up mine about cholesterol levels, so this year, instead of going to the Carribean so I can suck up all the margaritas that I never get to drink because I’m too worried about December deliveries, we’re going to Canyon Ranch. It’s a bit of a departure, but I’m getting older and I’m now on Lipitor, so it’s important for my own health and for your peace of mind. Also, Mrs. Claus says that if I deny her the special mud wrap for one more year, she’s going to divorce me.

I am going off the grid for the next two weeks. I’m not checking my email, so please direct all of that to my assistant and our Head Elf of Operations, Helga. If you really need to reach me, you can leave me a voicemail.

I’m also not going to be using any social media, so if one of our social media interns could maintain that in my absence, that would be fantastic.

A few housekeeping matters and feedback from yesterday:

- Next year, in my work with Michelle Obama, we’re planning on switching from cookies and milk to soy milk and kale. This wasn’t my choice, but keeping within the American president’s initiatives aren’t a bad idea. (Our partnership with NORAD has been invaluable, and Barack does run the Air Force.)

- I need a new translator for next year’s gifts in Sweden. I accidentally told a child this year something that roughly translated to “your parents hate you,” because hate and love in Swedish are apparently one letter off. Please post a job listing as such.

- Blitzen, you really overdid it with the early squats pre-delivery. I’m well aware that yes, I am getting heavier, and children are requesting more crap than ever, but to have your leg spasm when we hadn’t reached Canada yet is really, really annoying.

- Whoever thought it was amusing to cover my sleigh in post-its and pictures of LolCats – it’s not. We’re launching a formal investigation, and that elf will be fired.

- Also – Save your drinking for after Christmas next year, elves. We have work to do, and I had to remove three drunk elves from hammering their fingers.

- There will be a refrigerator cleanout today, please remove your old cold cuts and Fage from the fridge. And whomever left that three-week-old Reindeer sandwich needs to speak to the housekeeping elves.

- There’s been a lot of talk about austerity in recent years. Even though things are tight right now, we’re going to give everyone bonuses. The penguins, instead of cash (no posable thumbs), will be getting special whitefish flown in from Brooklyn.

- We will be postponing our holiday party until my return. The theme will be naughty and nice, but please, show some restraint. I’m not interested in a repeat of last year’s garter belts and a certain elfin pair behind the woodworking table.

Happy 2013,
Santa

Santa S. Claus | The Office of the North Pole | 1223 North Pole Ln | +00.000.000

Originally published on MeredithFineman.com/blog.

Image via Shutterstock

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Say Anything (But Really, Say WHAT)? – Five Teen Movie Scenarios That Seem Romantic, But Are Actually Really Weird.

Meredith Fineman — Thu, 11 Oct 2012 17:11:53 +0000

It has come to my attention that John Cusack held a boombox over his head at the Peter Gabriel concert, shattering a million teeny 30-something hearts in one fell swoop (and mine). He wasn’t wearing a trench coat.

Unless you missed the 1980s or are Justin Bieber and were born in the ’90s or another Disney star BORN AFTER 2000, let me give you a little refresher.

Cusack was reenacting his legendary scene in Say Anything, a Cameron Crowe movie in which he plays Lloyd Dobbler, an adorable alt geek who falls for Diane Court, played by Ione Skyeyeyeeye, (this is her only movie, probably should’ve let her manager change her name), the queen bee A+++ student with a felon for a father.

Cusack simultaneously made and crushed my dreams. Twice now. It’s not unusual for movie scenes to give us wickedly unrealistic conceptions of love, lust and what it means to be a teenager. Maybe I should’ve grown up in the ’80s.

But there are five movies in particular that do this, that when paired with the reality of the scenario, are quite odd. Didn’t stop me from wishing someone threw bologna on abstract art. And didn’t stop them from informing my perceptions about love. But let’s get real for a minute.

Say Anything

Fantasy: To explain more of the iconic scene that I alluded to above – Cusack is the lovesick Dobbler who will do anything, ANYTHING for this girl. So much so that in the middle of the night, Lloyd holds up a boombox (now it would be an iPad, an iPod or an iPerson), playing “their” song. (I love it when people think songs are theirs. For the record, ‘Anything Could Happen’ by Ellie Goulding is MINE, Beats Headphones). This is utterly romantic, and Lloyd follows Ione to her prestigious scholarship in some foreign country where they wear floppy hats and he holds her hand on the plane. (This is my favorite part, as someone who white-knuckles the person sitting next to her on any/all flights. Turbulence. Misery.)

Reality: There is a guy in a trench coat you dated for two months standing outside of your bedroom window blasting music. Sure, it’s your song. But, is he going to pull a Clarissa Sam and crawl up? Are you going to let the whole song play? Is he wearing anything under that trenchcoat?

Sixteen Candles

Fantasy: Arguably the most popular (biased) of the Hughes teen movies, lovelorn Molly Ringwald is obsessed with Jake Ryan, a senior in a sweater vest who has never laid eyes on her until she accidentally tells him she wants to sleep with him. It was a note intended for her friend. Jake is dating the most popular girl in school, and instead decides to ditch his hot blonde Stepford Wife-to-be for a quirky ginger with a fabulous early street-style sense. He comes to pick Ringwald up at her intoxicated/high sister’s wedding to a greasy beau hunk (WHAT DOES THIS MEAN) and they jet off to his mansion where they kiss over a cake, because her family forgot her birthday.

Reality: Gurl, you are going to burn your hair and your dress and that entire house is already in disarray from the night before. Fire hazard. This also transpired in twenty four hours. Total. Found out you wanted him to see your ladybits, asked his friend about you, you discovered you had a foreign exchange student in your house by the name of Long Duck Dong (this would never fly in the 21st century, racism at its finest), and decided to dump his hot girlfriend and take you for a ride in his red convertible. Also, are you over the fact your grandma felt you up?

Clueless

Fantasy: Quintessentially the best teen movie of all time (again, biased), and nominated for thirteen Academy Awards, including Best Original Screenplay, Cher is a valley girl who has the electronic closet that drycleaners only dream of. Seriously, when is this going to happen for me? When am I going to push a button and get equipment top three of thirteen thousand? You have this annoying hippie step brother who won’t stop eating out of your fridge. You are seriously in love with a gay guy named Christian. You realize you’re in love with Josh, your hippie step brother, after your best friend wants to be set up with him. You go shopping. You think. You go shopping. You are in love.

Reality: You are kissing your step-brother. How is this going to play out at family functions? Whose Thanksgiving are you going to? Are your parents going to potentially start dating again? How are you going to introduce him to your friends or say how you met during a wedding speech? (“I knew it was true love when we shared a wall in seventh grade and you played the Star Wars theme song every night.”) As much as I love me some Paul Rudd, this is exceptionally odd. And now you chew and spit your food to your child. (And you just had a great reunion.)

Ten Things I Hate About You

Fantasy: You are the prettiest and meanest girl in school, Julia Stiles. You flash study halls to get a guy you’re pining over to roam free, without Cheetos. You have the best. hair. ever. So when you find out that the guy you’ve been dating was really paid to take you out (who ever called Joseph Gordon-Levitt being the most successful actor from this set of people?), you are furious and sad and probably eating ice cream. You write an angst-ridden poem that exposes your true, gushy feelings. But then he uses the money to buy you a sweet guitar.

Reality: This guy was PAID TO GO OUT WITH YOU. Yes, it’s Heath Ledger. But I can think of other uses for that guitar.

Never Been Kissed

Fantasy: You get to relive high school, as an undercover reporter. You go from being a total dweeb to a total babe overnight due to a guy named Guy (who also looks like a gangly Rob Thomas) and shake around with Jessica Alba after school. You have a SMOKING HOT English teacher who thinks you are a total genius and can’t understand why you don’t want to go to college. You finally admit to the ruse after you are crowned prom queen but your mean friends pour dog food on hot tall genome LeeLee Sobieski (who looks like that in Spandex)? Your teacher finally comes around and admits to being in love with you and kisses you for the first time ever on a baseball field in front of a thousand people. No pressure.

Reality: There is NO WAY IN HELL you could pass for a high schooler.

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A Petition to Dethrone Ice Cream as the Official Food of the Break-Up

Meredith Fineman — Thu, 13 Sep 2012 12:00:20 +0000

When you think of a break-up, what do you think of? Jennifer Aniston standing naked in front of Vince Vaughn in an attempt to get him to move out of their apartment/be jealous? Misery, scorn and de-friending? Endless loops of Taylor Swift? More often than not, you see the same image in movies and TV depicting a break-up – a girl (or a boy, if you’re Robert Pattinson on Jon Stewart lamenting Kristen Stewart) with a pint of ice cream and smeared mascara.

It’s a movie mainstay, like the faux groceries in a bag in TV shows. They can never seem to get this right – like, in every bag brought home from the grocery store, there’s a baguette and a stalk of celery peeking out. It’s similar to the empty purse annoyance, when it’s clear an actress is holding the newest handbag but there is definitely not a tampon nor a wallet in there. I digress – when there’s a break-up, there’s the girl with a pint, tub, gallon, bathtub full of ice cream, crying and wallowing. She might be IN the bathtub with ice cream. Or in her pyjamas, which inevitably are ones with the sex appeal of Peewee Herman.

Swirls of Ben and Jerry’s, indiscriminate swaths of chocolate fudge and whipped cream. How did ice cream come to be the official food of breakups?

I find this considerably rude to other junk foods out there.

You have so many options, why limit yourself to a food group that you can’t leave out on the counter while tearing up photos or fielding another three-way call from two friends who are telling you you’re better off? To pull a Ross, it’s just too cold. I need Sensodyne. Let’s take a moment to consider other fantastic potential nominees for the Official Food of the Breakup.

Any Form of Fake Cheese.

There is nothing that screams “I am not interested in current nutrition but I do want to eat my feelings” like fake cheeze. It’s usually with a “z”, to denote something different from your fancy, smelly, spelled-so-wrong-but-tastes-so-right Bleu Cheese. I’m talking about Cheetos, whose neon orange discards glued to your fingers are both delicious and staining. Ritz Bitz, Eazy Cheeze. There’s something soothing about cheese flavoring. Maybe a Combos, the official snack of NASCAR, that will soothe your wounded soul and give you a daily dose of sodium.

Blondies

I am getting specific here because blondies, the square-shaped cookie with the same baking process as it’s legitimate sister, the Brownie, is having an identity crisis. As are you. Are you a cookie? Are you a brownie? Are you ever going to find your night in shining Armani and ride off into the sunset with a fantastic mutual funds plan? Who knows. Maybe you’ll go all Miley Cyrus and chop off your hair. Maybe you’ll be like me and dye it neon pink. But the point is, you can be whatever you want now. You can be a cookie AND a brownie.

Pizza

Pizza is normally reserved for post 1 am. I think you should try eating it sober to soothe your pain and feel a different kind of pain in heartburn. Double pepperoni. Though pizza can be deceiving, like your ex’s five-year-plan, because it will never, ever look like the delicious pizza in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (thanks for pointing this out, Jenna Marbles).

Anything You Were Never Allowed to Have As A Child.

For me, this was: Dunkaroos, Those Cheese Dip Snack Packs, and Cookie Crisp. Those pesky bank robber bandits are here to tell you you’re a grown ass woman who can eat cookie cereal for breakfast. You can eat poptarts until you puke. You’re a fucking adult. You’re in charge of your life. And you are going to paint your apartment, buy Fifty Shades of Sin, and become a new woman. Right after you finish swirling Easy Cheese on that Blondie.

Meredith Fineman is the founder and editor of TheFFJD & Girls Aren’t Funny. She is a publicist and writer living in Washington, DC with her parakeet named Ronald Reagan.

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New York Times Combined Print & E-Book Fiction & Non-Fiction Besteller List, April 13 2013

Meredith Fineman — Tue, 14 Aug 2012 13:00:53 +0000

COMBINED PRINT AND E-BOOK FICTION & NONFICTION BESTSELLER LIST.
April 13, 2013.

1. Fifty Shades of Sin, by E. L. James.

The Christian Grey series comes to a stunning close with its seventh and final book, as Ana defeats the Lord Voldemort. Sin combines James’ stunning prose with even more of the BDSM charm that readers across the globe clamor to read. By combining the book’s violent twists and turns, Ana manages to conquer the “sins” that Grey has laid out for her while making sure their children attend Seattle’s best private school. Comes with three whips, as well as DVD package for safe sex and proper toy washing. Primetime books, $39.99.

2. You’re Just Not That Well-Rounded, by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo.

Authors of the best-selling He’s Just Not That Into You have taken their original premise – teaching women that men are not attracted to them due to a series of rules like length of phone call return and diamond rings - and have applied it to college application process. Interviews from top admissions staff at Harvard, Yale and Dartmouth make the book a primer for anyone applying to an Ivy League school, and potentially a tier two one. Sage advice for any high-schooler and his or her parents. Includes key tips like essay writing and phone numbers for best-selling writers to write said essays. Tips include “If They Don’t Call You And You’re Wait-Listed, You’re Not Getting In Until You Donate a Building”. Random House, $17.95.

3. Jersey Girl Interrupted, by Snooki.

Best-selling author Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi returns with a darker follow-up to her original novel. While her original work, A Shore Thing, focused on the comparison of a young Snooki to Anna Karenina and the use of iambic pentameter, her sophomore novel takes a turn for the morose. There is a murder at Seaside and the protagonist and her group of housemates must find the killer before all of the alcohol runs out. Comes with three whips, as well as a DVD package and tanning oil. MTV Books, $15.95.

4. Knowing Your (Semi) Colon, by Doctor Mehmet Oz & Dave Shore.

In Dr. Oz’s fifth book, the renowned and beloved doctor teams up with famed grammarian Dave Shore to combine bowel and colon health with proper punctuation. With at-home colon cleanses and the history of the semicolon, Oz and Shore combine two unlikely subjects to teach both proper digestion and how to write a sentence. Particularly stunning passages (of bile), include the origin of the suppository and the ellipsis. Oprah Publishing Group, $23.99. (Coupon with current issue of Oprah Magazine by Oprah featuring Oprah.)

5. Unbreaking the Broken, by Michelle Reamberg.

In this tale of self-discovery and coming of age, Michelle Reamberg sheds her suburban Chicago life for a remote desert village north of the Himalayas following a tumultuous divorce. Reamberg learns to survive by hunting and gathering, and discovers her previous life being married to a Jewish doctor had deep secrets that left her unbreakingly broken. Through an inventive prose that Reamberg dubs “rapid sentences with no punctuation,” the style transports the reader right to the desert beneath Reamberg’s feet. An inventive debut. Harper Collins, $17.95.

Art by Erini C.S.

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