Which is exactly what I think every time I see Jesse Eisenberg’s distinctively arrogant geek-hipster expression behind the neon-green GENIUS. PUNK. BILLIONAIRE. (really now?) on one of The Social Network movie posters. Followed closely by: Why is this not a made-for-tv movie on TBS?

Because don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of dramatic tech industry movies. I am, after all, a former Machead who popped popcorn and made a date to watch the Mac vs. PC epic Pirates of the Silicon Valley. But that featured Noah Wyle, Anthony Michael Hall and Bill Gates crashing rental-car Ferraris. As far as I can tell, The Social Network features Harvard underwear, Jesse Eisenberg being intense and full of himself, and Justin Timberlake.

It doesn’t help that I don’t like Facebook – it’s full of account choking games, connects me with people I would prefer to imagine had been vaporized in a hushed-up nuclear accident, and my parents are on it – or that (given that I live in New York) every new media outlet is shrieking with glee over it, but really: this is a tv movie. That they’re showing in theatres. Which means it’s a tv movie with a hilariously overdramatic soundtrack and line readings that make the actors sound like they’ve mistaken Facebook for the cure for cancer.

I’ll rent it. Maybe.

If I’m really bored.

Or just watch Pirates of the Silicon Valley again.

See, here’s the thing. It’s Pride Month, which means there’s parades and festivals and articles, and this year in particular you have people coming out. Vanessa Carlton told her audience at Nashville Pride Fest that she’s bi. Christina Aguilera has said she’s bisexual. Cameron Diaz said that she’s been attracted to women, and overwhelmingly the reaction that I’ve seen on the blogs has been twofold. First, yeah, you have the people celebrating, and congratulating the celebrity about coming out…and then you have the other half, the ones who define a celebrity coming out as a form of famewhoring. Particularly if they come out as bi. I mean, really. They don’t really like the same sex; they’re just doing it for attention.

Lovely, people, really.

Beyond the celebrity connection, there’s also been a lot of sneering at the idea of girlcrushing (or…boycrushing, I suppose, I’m not a guy, so I’m not sure what they call it) because it’s totally just a play for attention, and they’re just gay lite, or doing it to make the dudes hot, and they’re trivializing the LGBT cause!

No. Actually. They’re not. I’m a bisexual woman. I figured out I was a bisexual woman because I’d girlcrushed on so many actresses that it made me realize I was actually attracted to women.

I’m also a semi-closeted bisexual woman. I’m out on the internet (and getting more out on the internet as we speak) but I haven’t told my family, and I’m not sure how. And stupid or not, every time a female celebrity comes out as bisexual – whether it’s Vanessa Carlton or Christina Aguilera or Anna Paquin – and has a generally positive reaction, it makes me think I could tell my own mom without it being a huge deal.

Bisexuals are not attention whores. Famous bisexuals are not famewhores. Bisexuals are people who happen to be attracted to both males and females, and frankly, it has nothing to do with you.

I’ve used a lot of things on them. The most effective has probably been The Body Shop’s Hemp cream, and really, if it smelled better I’d still use it, but I have to put socks on after I use it, and then my socks smell like a boy’s bathroom in high school (you know the one. Close to the door that goes to the ag building, across from French, hugely popular with the…well. The stoners.) I’ve used Burt’s Bees foot cream but I don’t find it works as well as my mother claims it does.

I have a salt scrub that works semi-well, but needs a boost from something else.

The fact is there probably isn’t a quick-fix for this, my feet are too much of a mess for one thing to work – but I can’t keep myself from trying. So the search continues! Seeking: one lotion that slough the dead skin off my feet and moisturizes the skin without smelling like your boyfriend’s college dorm room.

…I’m doomed to fail.

I will not wear heels with bootcut jeans at work on a Monday, dammit, and you can’t make me. I’ll wear my cowboy boots instead.

Sure would be awfully nice if I could wear flats, though. Do I need to buy short length to do that?

It seems like when guys march into the kitchen, a lot of them make it a competitive arena. The ingredients have to be fresher, the techniques have to be fancier, and the tools have to be the most badass tools available for the job (I blame Alton Brown for the last. Have you seen his immersion blender?) And for myself, I tend to cook the way my mom does. I don’t have problems with canned vegetables. I do tend to bake from scratch, because I like to bake, but my tuna noodle casserole is most certainly not made with sushi grade ahi and cremini mushrooms. It’s made with Chicken of the Sea and Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom. I cannot evenly chop an onion to save my life. I use pre-chopped garlic from a jar. I own a Rachael Ray cookbook.

But I still love to cook, and it’d piss the hell out of me if someone was standing over my shoulder critiquing my technique; if I wanted that, I could go to culinary school.

I’m not saying all, or even most guys are like that, and maybe I’m getting all New York Times Styles here and building a trend from a couple of random data points. I don’t really think so, though. Food Network has gotten increasingly testosteronized over the past few years – the only pure cooking show left in primetime is Good Eats, and while I dearly love me some Alton, we’ve already mentioned his propensity for superpowered kitchen equipment. Other than that, it’s approximately 10 million competition shows and a few reality shows. The faces of baking is Ace of Cakes‘ Duff, mentioned by Rosin, and the dude from Cake Boss. I don’t watch Cake Boss, but he’s a burly Italian guy from Hoboken.

The fact is that increasingly, there are less and less female voices in the culinary press and pop culture, and as a woman who likes to cook, I worry about that. Do I want to be tethered to the stove? Not really. Do I want cooking to be yet another arena where I get mansplained to? No. I’ve got plenty of those as is.

It’s pouring down rain today. As it is late fall/early winter in New York City, this isn’t exactly a rare occasion. It rains in New York for three-quarters of the year, and the months of November and December tend to be more water-logged than most. One would think that would mean we’d all be experts at traversing the streets in downpours by now. One would be wrong, clearly, so here are some tips and tricks for not pissing the soaked girl in the purple wool coat off to the homicidal point.

1. A fallen umbrella is not a car accident. It does not require slowing down, it does not require rubber-necking, and it definitely doesn’t require both of those things at 8:40 am when two trains have just emptied out at the World Trade Center site. Move. Walk. Please.
2. Golf umbrellas are great for when you’re sheltering several people in an open air space like, say, a golf course. Golf umbrellas are horrible for when you’re using it solo in an extremely densely populated area. Get a smaller umbrella for the commute, all of you. The head you keep ramming into thanks you.
3. The usage of an umbrella of any size increases your space requirements. Keep this in mind, and other pedestrians’ hair won’t get caught on your umbrella, thus making you both late for work.

This public service announcement is brought to you by the fact that I’ve been at work for two and a half hours, and my feet are still wet.

I know, it seems like a little thing, but for me there’s nothing more uncomfortable than the Slowly Creeping Downward Feeling of tights that won’t go all the way up. I actually think it goes back to a solitary incident in junior high school choir when a pair of pantyhose slipped down to the point where someone pointed it out and said they were trying to find a replacement.

I, of course, was completely humiliated and immediately ran for the bathroom to try to yank them back up again. But I digress.

This happened this morning with a brand new pair of dark brown tights. At first, I thought it would be bearable, but slowly – as I stood in the overcrowded NJ lightrail, and then the overcrowded PATH train, and then the overcrowded number 4 subway – I began to feel the inevitable pull of gravity and the first thing I did when I got to work was run for the bathroom to strip them off.

The second thing I did was logon to We Love Colors and order four pair of thigh highs. (I got black, brown, charcoal, and rubine, which is kind of a dark purple color.)

I’ve never actually worn thigh highs before; they aren’t readily available at, like, Target, which is where I generally buy most of my socks and tights (although the creeping pair this morning was $10 and from Sock Dreams, so they don’t even have the excuse of being cheap), but I have been interested in them for a while for just this reason.  I held off because I was using the stomach-minimizing power of full tights, but if they aren’t staying up, it’s not like they’re working for that, are they?

So stockings it is. Fingers crossed that they don’t end up being a separate but equal pain in my ass.

Sigh.

I mean, I’ve already imported my crap into Google – it’s not like I had much choice in the matter – and I realize that Web 2.0 companies need to make money just like everyone else, but it’s a little wearying that every single web app I use and like is eventually either made enterprise-only or dies or is sold to Google, at which point it’s Google-ized. The first time I remember it happening was with Writely, now Google Docs, but in the intervening years it’s happened again and again, at least a dozen times. At this point I’m just wondering when Twitter is going to go enterprise-only, and what Google-owned microblogging service will be recommended to us poor schlubs who aren’t enterprises, just normal people.

(And before someone from Google comes over and perkily evangelizes Reader – I’m sure it’s better than it was. But I hate change, I’m stuck in an airless, humid, stuffy apartment and can’t open the windows lest the dumbass cat I live with decides to jump from the second floor, I just finished the temper-inducing endeavor of paying my bills, and – because it’s worth repeating – I hate change.)

On another note, WordPress. Please. Could you send me my fucking comment notifications. Jesus.

I’m not sure why this bugs me so much when I gloss over the Twenty Six Year Old Drop Dead Gorgeous Virgin thing, but there you go.

Fuck me.