Copier Corral: Parking Spot

It's Wednesday, so you know what that means .... New Girl breakdown from your friendly office coworkers! Grab some coffee and we'll meet you at the copier.

NEW GIRL SEASON 2

EPISODE: PARKING SPOT

Warning: contains spoilers from the latest episode of New Girl. So if you haven't watched it yet, don't read on!

Warning Number 2: does not contain much explanation of the episode's specifics, but rather commentary on it. So .. actually ...  if you haven't watched it, it won't make sense to you anyway.

BANG-O-METER

Jess went outside of the box with -- drum roll, please -- SIDE SWEPT BANGS. In terms of character development, this is epic. I am loving the side sweep, even if she does fidget with them the entire episode.  Maybe her forehead is vampiric and can't be exposed to direct sunlight.

NEMO: NICK'S EMOTIONAL MODUS OPERANDI

Plaid Button-Down

Translation: Shades of optimism (not a hoodie) but strong undertones of emotional fragility (still flannel)

This week the show highlighted the plight of the modern city-dweller: where to keep your damn car. Unlike rural and suburban areas, parking in a city is more of a privilege than a right. A privilege that some of us shell out hundred of dollars every year to buy. But, in places where legalized extortion (a.k.a. parking permits) aren't possible, one has to rely on other measures. The more optimistic of us assume that parking is a pay-it-forward business: be thoughtful and commit random acts of kindness throughout the day and karma will reward you with a curb location right by your front door when you get home at night. The rest of us? We know better. Parking isn't a benevolent spiritual being. Parking is a cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch. That d-bag who cut you off on the exit ramp. He's squealing into that spot five seconds before you even spot it.

So when a beautiful, shining, completely unclaimed parking spot -- IN A GARAGE -- is dangled in front of our New Girl roommates, no wonder they lose their minds. I mean, what could be better? (Really, Winston? Skipping out on a reserved garage spot to just because some chick calls you and gives you a thirteen-minute window for some sweet lovin'? Rookie mistake. Winnie, you gotta pave that paradise to claim that parking lot.)

Thus, the tradition of Winston splitting off on his own side storyline continues. (At least he's getting a story line and not just playing the straight man to the other whack-a-roommates.)

As you can imagine, hijinx between the three remaining roomies -- Schmidt, Nick, and Jess -- ensues as each one tries to manipulate / seduce / awkward moonwalk the others into giving up the space.

I'm no authority on negotiation tactics. In grad school I enrolled in one business negotiation class. I thought it would be fun. Turns out the class was in the MBA program. And those mofos are straight-up scary. They are addicted to the thrill of the barter.  Day one of class, I was like chum in the water. I wound up sweating and fidgeting my way through the next ten weeks, while they all tweaked out over the their negotiation high. What they learned in the class? Seventy different ways to emotionally manipulate a fellow classmate. What I learned? That I apparently cannot make direct eye contact and value the feeling of resolution WAY more than actually resolving anything.

That being said ... Schmidt CLEARLY missed some opportunities during the Parking Spot Standoff.

Missed Opportunity #1:

  Jess plays the Lady Card. Winston trumps her with the Race Card. Nick tosses out the Lonely Bartender Card, clearly a throw-away move.

Schmidt reaches into his hand ... and throws out ... Deserve the Spot Card?

DESERVE THE SPOT Card?

I'm sorry, Schmidt. Are you keeping that Jew Card of yours up your sleeve for some reason? Play it, damn it. It's the Left Bower of Persecution Cards.

Missed Opportunity #2:

Schmidt, Jess, and Nick are crowded into the actual parking spot. Squatter's rights. Last one to leave gets the spot. Knowing his roommates as he should, Schimdt has to realize that his true opponent is really just Jess. Nick is commitment phobia + magpie attention span, wrapped up in a plaid shirt. No way is he seeing this through. Jess, however, is sticking to her guns. She's a formidable opponent. She only has two known weaknesses:

1. the color khaki, and

2. male genitalia.

Didn't we learn that way back in Season one? She can't even say the word. She resorts to Nickelodeon nicknames like "pee pee and bubbles."

So when Schmidt starts hopping around, saying that he has to pee, I'm like, GENIUS! Whip it out. You get bladder relief AND a parking spot. Missions Accomplished.

That is what Schmidt should do.

That is not what Schmidt does.

Instead, he winds up sitting on the pavement in his own pool of urine. Parking-spot-less.

Come to think of it, this entire episode was an exercise in misdirection and unmet expectations. Just look at the end of the episode. Schmidt reveals that Nick violated the No-Nail Oath and thus he is entitled to a smooch from Jess. Then, after being sexually thwarted by an errant pants selection and the cheap-o sales clerk at the pharmacy, Winston comes back to the loft and bemoans "Winnie needs a win!"

Soooo .... Nick violated the No-Nail Oath.

Which entitles the other roommates to some Jess-on-Roomie action...

And  Winston is looking for an option besides self completion...

Putting all those factors together .... carry the one ... that means ...

Winston gets the parking spot?

What? I thought for sure it meant he would get his own smooch from Jess. Or, if not Jess, then at least from Schmidt.

However, we DID do surprisingly well last Copier Corral with our Hopes and Dreams for this week. Check it out!

Last Week's Hopes and Dreams!

(Were we right?? )

• HOPE ACCOMPLISHED - Daisy DOES make another appearance!
• DREAM somewhat CAME TRUE - CeCe DOES try to date a hot Indian guys. She just didn't meet him at the Marriage Convention, like we predicted.
• DREAM DASHED - Schmidt didn't make any sexual overtones involving naan.
• WHAT DREAMS HAVE COME - Nick DID start to shower. Heck, he started the episode with a teeth-brushing vignette. Didn't we also say he would start rocking more button-downs and fewer t-shirts and hoodies? Why yes. Yes we did.
• HOPE sort of ACHIEVED - While we don't have a new relationship name for Winston and Daisy (I'm still holding out hope for Waisty) but we did get a new solo nickname. Winnie.  

In summary, here are our final thoughts.

Lessons Learned

(This is where we break it down for ya.)

• I own the exact same hoodie as Nick.
• Nick has amazing fluid control skills. Spitting that beer back in the stein? He could audition for the water fountains in front of the Bellagio.
• How does that cardiganed dude standing in line behind Winston at the pharmacy NOT have a condom in his wallet? Throw Winston a loosie, frat boy.
• To get what you want, sometimes you have to shake what the good people of your home state gave you. (Since I'm from Ohio, this means shaking some underarm flab and an inferiority complex.)

Wait ... What?

(This is where we punch holes in the New Girl boat about things that don't jive with us. Or we just rant.)

• I'm still not sure how Nick became the Decider of the parking spot. They would have had better luck asking that creepy super Remy from downstairs to make the call.
• When Jess and Nick ran out to their cars to move them, didn't it seem like there were tons of parking spaces they could use?
• When Winston makes it back to Daisy's side of town, he can't find her building. Um, none of those buildings look the same. If he can't find her apartment out of those buildings, I'm not sure he should have graduated high school. Or be able to make coffee.

Next Week's Hopes and Dreams!

(This is where we provide our predictions for future episodes. Inventive title, eh?)

• Jess WILL keep her side swept bangs, but she'll switch to a right-part orientation
• Winston WILL find out about Jess and Nick. And he will think it's no big deal. And his nonchalance will drive Schmidt insane.
• We WILL discover the secret location of Schmidt's nipples. And, when twisted clockwise thrice, they will divine the name of the cardinal appointment to be the next pop. (Twist counterclockwise and you'll get the winning numbers to PowerBall.)

Bestill My Hearrrrrrt

You guys ... I think I may have met someone .....

On Valentine's Day, no less!

I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes. He is a pirate.

Let me back up. This week I've been down in Savannah, Georgia for my first ever business trip. (Hence my panicky post earlier in the week about traveling. Yes, the flights went okay. Yes, I made it through security. Yes, I felt the need to entertain the TSA attendants with witty banter as they body scanned me. No, they did not laugh, but they also didn't flag me for a body cavity search. So I'm calling that a win.)

The whole thing feels very adult: airplane flight, hotel reservation, conference registration. The days are pretty long, crammed with lengthy concept lectures and intense work group sessions. By the time dinner rolls around, I'm running on fumes.

Tonight is our last night in Savannah, which just happens to also be Valentine's Day. Our group decides to try out a local eatery near our hotel called The Pirate House. I of course imagine this to be a sea-faring version of Medieval Times, except instead of corsets and jousting we would see eye patches and walking the plank.

Turns out, The Pirate House a very nice restaurant, complete with a necktied waitstaff and dim lighting. No problem. After all, this is a business trip. Mature dining experiences with cloth napkins are to be expected.

Side note: to all restaurant managers, may I offer a suggestion? If you are running some type of Valentine's Day, two-entrees-for-one special, perhaps place that conditional statement in, I don't know, size 48 bold-face all caps font at the top of the specials menu. That way, you will save your servers the extra time of having to go back to a customer and explain that the item they ordered is not available to them since they are an old, withered up spinster who can't keep a partner around past the appetizer portion of the meal. Either that, or bring said spinster two servings of the chicken marsala Valentine's Special. And a box. And some more bread.

Now that we have THAT little kink ironed out...

We order (re-order) our meals and sit chitchatting about that day's conference topics. Halfway through a story about a work group conversation hijacker, one of my colleagues looks across the dining room and startles.

"I think I just saw a pirate."

We of course  all scoff at her and write it off as her brain short-circuiting after a long day of conferencing.

Turns out, she is totally right. The server corroborates her story. "Oh yes, we have a pirate. I'll send him over to you."

Ten minutes later, as I am tearing into my filet mignon (that I secretly wish is chicken marsala), I hear a voice coming from below my shoulder.

"Excuse me, lasses..."

We all turn, and there, kneeling down beside my chair and pointing a saber at my purse on the floor, is a pirate.

"... but who be the owner of this here handbag?"

 No, that pictures has not been doctored. Those are some crazy-ass eyes.

Not to be too critical, but I feel it's important for me to clarify the type of pirate this gentleman is portraying. As pirates go, he isn't rough and ragged. He's no Johnny-Depp-as-Captain-Jack-Sparrow, nor is he Johnny-Depp-as-he-is-in-real-life-which-is-still-noticeably-piratey. To be honest, he's kind of a dandy. First of all, he has two fully functioning eyes. His teeth are Crest WhiteStripped to perfection. Barely a brush of stubble on his cheeks. I Web-MD symptoms for scurvy on my phone. No dice. White fluffy shirt? Pressed and pristine. Socks? Striped and straight. Hat? Definitely three-pointed. Jauntily askew? Nope. It's placed at a perfect horizon. Flat and straight as the plains of Oklahoma, which is nowhere near the choppy waters of the high-farin' seas.

Then there's his performance... It isn't that he's a bad actor, necessarily. It's like he's acting like a pirate, as opposed to just being a pirate. You know? Like he is doing a caricature of what a pirate is, not a character. Maybe the problem is that it  feels like he is trying too hard. Like he really cares whether you think he's a pirate. If this was a real pirate ship, there is now way this guy would be captain or first mate. He would be lucky to be the schmo swabbing the deck, casting longing looks at the tight-knit crew of pillagers and plotting ways he can knock out a few of his perfectly formed teeth. I'm pretty sure that if he ever tried to order someone to walk the plank, it would come out as more of a noncommittal suggestion than a barking command. Maybe he'd luck out and someone would think, hey, the water looks nice, maybe I should dive off this wooden board and pop in for a quick swim.

That being said, if I were to date a pirate, this is the type of pirate I would wind up with. Captain Jack Sparrow would take one look at me, mutter "goody-two-shoes" under his breath, and swagger off to something more buxom. Some girls attract distant yet douchey. I attract eager yet insecure. (Trust me, I'll take the latter every time. As my friend says, you always want to date someone who is just a touch damaged, self-esteem-wise. Makes them easier to keep around.)

Anyway, The Pirate chats with us a bit.

Pirate: "Where'd ye get sech a fine lookin' bag?"
Me: "Ah, yes, on the high seas of the internet."
Pirate: " ... yes, err ... be ye privateers or buccaneers?'
Me: "Oh, actually we're Buckeyes!"
Pirate: "..."

Check out that death-stare he is shooting at me. Apparently this pirate is not used to witty repartee. Probably because most customers who call him over their tables read at a third-grade level. I had intended to help by being part of the bit, but I start getting a sinking suspicion that he prefers to work solo.

Then The Pirate says he doesn't understand any of the racket playing in the room through the loudspeakers. (Um, it's Sinatra. Have a little respect.) Would we like to hear a song? Well, I sure as hell want to see where this is going. So he reaches into his vest and pulls out a metal flute-whistle. What is this, Riverdance? He tells us we should feel free to clap along, then proceeds to whistle out some high-seas tune and stop his feet. (Which basically DEMANDS that we clap along.) We applaud politely at the end of the fair tune.

...

(Then, as you can imagine, there is some awkward silence.)

....

Then we ask if we can have a picture with him.

"Ah, yes, I'd beer 'appy ter oblige ye travellers from thee north, but may I suggest we parlay down ter the hostess table at thee entrance? See, yar able ter get much better pictures with ye cameras with thee overhead lamps down yonder. Jest shout ahoy when yer leavin' and I'll beer ready."

That's right. The Pirate prefers that any pictures of him be in good lighting.

We agree and tell him we'll grab him on our way out. He bobs his head and swashbuckles over to another table.

For the rest of our meal, I spy The Pirate popping in and out of the background. Half the time he just scoots into a corner of a hallway, eyes darting around. He never seems sure what to do with his hands.The poor guy  doesn't even feel comfortable in The Pirate House. Good sir, if you can't own your space at The Pirate House, then really what is left for you? Long John Silvers? Red Lobster?

An hour later, we sign our checks and gather our things. Ever lurking, The Pirate pops up and asks if we be ready ter take our portrait. He leads the way, feather bobbing excitedly toward our photo shoot locale.

Still ... cute, right?

All in all, one of my more successful Valentine's Days. I can't wait to tell our future brood of little lads and lasses how me and the Pirate met up! All because his refined flute playing, impeccable fashion sense, and  our shared appreciation of  handbags. (Wait a minute ...)

Bonus: The menu at The Pirate House had a recipe for a cocktail called Chantham Artillery Punch. And it looks fantastic.

Then again, any recipe is fantastic when the last step is "Add one case of champagne when ready to serve." 

Fond Farewell

Here's a fun fact about myself that I didn't realize until about twelve hours ago.

I am terrified of taking flights.

Not so much the actual flying part. Hey, that's totally out of my control. Once we're hurtling through in a big metal tube, that's on you, Mr. Pilot. The worst part of actually flying for me has to do with the whole ear-popping phenomenon. (Side effect from having ruptured my eardrums just sitting in my dorm room, watching a movie. It makes you a little gun shy with any changes in eardrum pressure.)

But my stomach is in knots, I feel all jittery, and I keep playing over and over in my mind how this is going to go horribly, horribly wrong.

I'm talking about the whole airport experience.

It's like, as soon as I walk through those automatic doors, I'm develop a mild form of autism. Can't read social cues, feel overwhelmed by signage, don't understand what the blazered people around me want. (TICKET? ID? BAG? HIGH FIVE?) In fact, one time, upon approaching security, I saw a TSA attendant stretch out his hand to me. He was reaching for my ticket. I instead dumped all of my spare change and my earrings into his hands.

I have night terrors about not remembering to get that pink tag for my carry-on bag, so I can't put my suitcase under the plane, so I wind up trying to jam it into an overhead compartment, but it won't fit, so instead they just leave me standing on the runway. Which is when I discover that I dropped my keys onto my seat. And now don't have any keys. I'm stranded at the airport. And I am going to die here. Forever haunting Terminal B.

(In actuality, I totally front through the entire process. I paint on a patina of boredom across my face, just a jaded jetsetter trying to get through TSA checkpoints. So I probably don't stick out much overall. But inside that cool, collected exterior is a litter of jittery gerbils, spazzing out slamming noggins-first into walls.)

So I'm typing this during the fifteen minutes before I leave for the airport. If I don't make it (meaning, I die of embarrassment at the ticket counter), think of me fondly. Think of me, bright and beaming, cracking jokes and dazzling coworkers at meeting with my wit. Don't think of me, sitting on the linoleum airport floor, flop sweating and crying into a bag of overly-priced Combos.

Night Shift

Dear Myself,

I'm sure, when you are reading this in the morning, you will be exhausted. You will slap annoyingly at the alarm clock. (Which, by the way, is uncalled for. It's just doing its job.) You will literally roll out of bed. You will be so out of it that you'll wind up putting your contact lenses in the wrong eyes and then wonder why you have a migraine by lunch. The reason I am writing to you is because I (Past You) am up at 3 AM. Wondering why? It's because of you. You lazy, unmotivated, veg-all-day jerk face. You refuse to be productive during normal, practical, easy-to-use daytime hours. Instead, you lounge on the couch, watching a marathon of Rugby 7 matches, a sport you don't understand in the slightest. (Side note: Ladies. You HAVE to check out Rugby 7. Trust me. A sporting event with a running time of fifteen minutes and athletic physiques that will make you feel incredibly confident in your relative thigh size? You're welcome.) Then, when most people are turning off porch lights and heading to bed ... you get some inexplicable, impractical rush of energy to be productive.

And produce you do.

At 8 PM, you decided to throw in a load of laundry.

While you're down in the basement stuffing the washing machine, you spy your painting supplies. Oh yeah, you had been meaning to put a few extra coats of paint that trim in the dining room. Why not start now?

Why not give it three coats?

In between drying time and laundry cycles, you have to do something to occupy your time, right?

Why not try to figure out why your printer hasn't been working? Sure, you'll give it a whirl!

Why not print out some pictures, now that your printer has been trouble-shot into submission? Don't mind if you do!

You know, you've been meaning to redo some of the frames you have in  your front room. How about an art project or two?

How about typing up a blog post about all of this? Since, you know, you can't seem to write anything during the FIVE HOURS you avoided writing like it was the plague.

In summation: when the sun is out, the only thing your capable of producing is a butt-cheek impression on the sofa cushions. But, sun's down  .... okay, I was going for a whole play on the "sun's out, guns out" cliche, I can't think of a clever rhyme to "down" that indicates accomplishing a crapload of stuff. And I blame you. Because you're the one who kept me up this late.

So the next time you are kicked back on the couch, flipping through your seventeen DVR'd episodes of The Big Bang Theory (Seriously, why are you even still taping those? You've seen all of them. ALL. Of. Them.) please consider emptying the dishwasher instead. It will take you five minutes. And will earn you three hours of sleep.

(But the art project did turn out pretty nice. At least, to my bleary 3AM eyes. We'll see what it looks like once I get a few hours of shut-eye and my standards improve.)

Copier Corral: Schmidt Happens

One of my favorite parts of the work week is Wednesday morning. It starts boringly enough. Everyone comes in, says hi, goes into their offices, maybe wedges a lunch bag into the fridge. Then, after a few minutes, someone will mutter something like this:

"Get your crap together, India."

And it's off to the races.

Every Wednesday, our office partakes in a joyful yet academic analysis of last night's episode of New Girl. For those of you who aren't familiar with this show, let me summarize: cute yet quirky (I will NOT type the word "adorkable") girl meets three emotionally dysfunctional single dudes and moves into a ridiculously huge loft which, given their respective employment histories, they could never afford. And. Hilarity. Ensues.

If you're wondering whether or not you should start DVRing the show, here's a quick litmus test:

Watch the clip below for as long as you can.

Did you make it to the seagulls flying by? You'll probably like the show.

Did you bail out as soon as Zooey Deschanel flung off that lime-green comforter? You will hate all A-plot stories featuring the main character.

If you are on the fence, keep in mind that the ZD quotient does vary from episode to episode. One week you'll get a show chock full of ballet flats, high-waisted shorts, and teapot decoupage. The next week, it's all-out binge-drinking, True American style, with varying levels of nudity. The former has high ZD, the later is more heavy on the Schmidtism. Schmidtism refers to the character of Schmidt, one of the roommates who suffers from an overly earnest desire to mover from Player to Playa. (As in a ladies man, not a beach.) Picture everything John Mayer does. Now take away the money, the guitar skills (skillz?), and the authenticity. You're left with Schmidt.

Side note: know what's a fun game? Looking at a quote and trying to figure out if it was said by Schmidt or John Mayer. Here, say it with me. Who's ready to play....

GUESS!

THE!

D-BAG!

"It’s like I come on very strong. I am a very…I’m just very. V-E-R-Y. And if you can’t handle very, then I’m a d-bag. But I think the world needs a little very. That’s why black people love me."

Survey says .........

DING DING DING!!!

JOHN MAYER!!!

"I want to tell people about us because I think you are the dopest, flyest, smartest, ballsiest woman that I've sexually enjoyed in really long time."

Survey says .........

DING DING DING!!!

SCHMIDT!!!

"My Six Word Story: My heart didn't come with instructions."

Survey says .........

DING DING DING!!!

JOHN MAYER!!!

 

That game is tougher than it seems, ain't it.

The good thing about Schmidt is that he's the acidity to the ZD base. They balance each other out so that, by the end of an episode, your stomach isn't violently convulsing from too much aspartame or too much Jaeger. (I'm assuming you can figure out which goes with which.)

In what I hope will become a weekly post idea, here is the SPOILER-LADEN review of last night's New Girl episode, Table 34, courtesy of the hard-working employees in 244Hitch.

Disclaimer: this post will make no sense if you did not watch the most recent episode of New Girl. I suggest you either

1. open up a new Internet browser window, watch it, and come back when you're done, or
2. forget this post, Google the phrase "John Mayer Quotes," and enjoy the shock-and-awe of those results.

Lessons Learned

(This is where we break it down for ya.)

• Winston gets his mojo back.
• Schmidt gets the best lines and the best turban.
• Nick gets to moonwalk out of awkward conversations.
• The culture of India gets pwned. (Because I know I have some relatives over the age of forty reading this blog, I feel the need to point out that there isn't a typo in that last sentence.)
• Nick and Jess really "get" structural engineering when it comes to newspaper and masking tape.
• The television-viewing audience gets a view of an Indian Marriage Convention. (Is that a real thing?)
• We all get to look inward and ponder that dark, soul-searching question, "To what table would I be assigned?"

Wait ... I Don't Get It

(This is where we punch holes in the New Girl boat about things that don't jive with us. Or we just rant.)

• Why did Sam the doctor make such a big deal about Nick and Jess kissing? Wasn't he chanting "KISS! KISS! KISS!" a few hours earlier during True American? Plus, when he and Jess first started seeing each other, I believe it was a Friends With Benefits arrangement. Sure, it grew into something more over time, but can a guy who used to look for hitting it / quitting it situations really be that prudish about a kiss? And does no one recall when he broke up with Jess during Halloween, because she wanted something serious, only to come crawling back in cliff-hanger fashion for Christmas? Jess, you earned some credit with that. Cash in those chips, girl.
• Why does kissing Winston automatically mean that you will not appear in the next episode? This is also known as the Stockholm Shelby Syndrome. We really liked Daisy from last episode. Finally, someone for Winston to banter with who doesn't just sit there like a turd in a punch bowl. We have hopes that Winston and Daisy will last enough to register as a full-fledged New Girl Relationship. (B-Plot in at least three of the next five episodes.) But with our luck, given that Winston and Daisy had such great chemistry, the writers will ditch the relationship. The thought process always seems to go like this:
• Winston gets a really interesting character development moment -->
• Audience loves it -->
• Next episode, no mention of the previous moment is made and Winston is instead given an lame story point -->
• Audience hates it and feels Winston's talents are being wasted -->
• Writing team think GREAT! and keeps that ineffective story line for Winston for the next five episodes.
• (Of course, I am referring here to Shelby. She lasted the longest of any external significant other on the show. It took forever to kill her off story-wise.)
• In the meantime, we'll hold off creating a Shipper name for Winston and Daisy until we know whether this plotline has staying power or will trail off.
• Nick really squandered an opportunity there at the end with Jess to earn some points with her by comforting her during her breakup. It started out okay. Dancing like a fool to get her to smile while she sips on a  rosé wine and listens to Taylor Swift? That part was genius. And it ended okay, with a very disconcerting by earnest attempt at a hug. But the part in the middle? Where he starts talking about how he's never been a home wrecker before and it feels kind of good, or proud, or something? Dude, focus. This isn't about you right now. Jess seemed to take it well, but that seemed like a stretch given how upset she was.

Next Week's Hopes and Dreams!

(This is where we provide our predictions for future episodes. Inventive title, eh?)

• Daisy WILL make another appearance. Hey, she's got a great voice for radio. Maybe they'll use her as a vehicle to revive that plot line where Winston got his own sports talk radio show. You know, the one we never hear about anymore?
• CeCe WILL start dating one of those hot Indian guys from the Marriage Convention. Schmidt WILL make a reference to naan with sexual overtones.
• Nick WILL start to shower, since Jess said he would look "smokin' hot" in a previous episode if he just took better care of himself. He will also start rocking more button-downs and fewer t-shirts and hoodies. (The key to Nick's emotional state are his sartorial choices. Collared shirt = Nick happy. Anything fleece = Nick sad.)
• Winston and Daisy's new name WILL be ... Waisty. Or Dainsty. Or Winsy. Or Daiston...

Stuffed Sentiments

Wondering where to go for aggressively embroidered pillows?

May I suggest Garden Ridge?

Ahh, Garden Ridge. That industrial warehouse of home decor crap. Metal shelves brimming with buxom toilet paper ladies, rhinestoned candles, and full coats of armour. Each aisle holds weapons of more shock and awe than the last. Cases in point:

Yes, that is a female elf waitress on roller skates (order's UP!) and an exotic bird, made out of springs and rocking shades and a visor. Who would order these as merchandise? Garden Ridge. There's a reason my mom has dubbed this place Garbage Ridge.

So I should have seen the following discovery coming. There we are, my friend and I, casually perusing the bedding aisles for some cute, quirky accent pillows. After a few minutes, we stumble upon this heap.

Appears innocent enough, right? So we stroll over. And begin between to read between the stitched lines. I give you:

In case you missed those sentiments, they read as follows:

ZIP IT (cleverly written in a zipperized font. Oh, Garden Ridge! Does your wit know no bounds?)

You Say Psycho Like It's A Bad Thing (I give them credit for using the correct form of "it's")

Let's Save Time And Assume I Know Everything (We ALL know someone who we would like to give this one to. And, if you don't, congratulations! One of your very own is on its way to you as a birthday / retirement / breakup gift. Which I'm sure you totally saw coming.)

Does the Noise In My Head Bother You? (Something about the block font and the orange construction color choice makes this one especially disturbing.)

As you can see by my face, aggressive pillows make me sad. (Exaggeratedly so.) How can a pillow be so sarcastic? Their very existence is predicated upon their ability to give comfort and support, not throw shade. I half expected to find a pillow that was all bitter about being a pillow ("Oh, no. Sure. Go ahead. Sit on me. It's not like I was DOING ANYTHING." Or, possibly, "I'm ACCENT, bitch.")

For those of you with a penchant for particularly disturbing pillowed sentiments, I give you this:

I know what you're thinking. And you're wrong. You didn't misread that pillow. In case you think your eyes deceived you, here's a close-up shot:

Yes. That pillow dares to say-- nay, exclaim, "Yes, They're FAKE! My real ones tried to kill me!" That is a pillow that combines embroidery, plastic surgery, CANCER, and major 'tude. I like how the oversized glasses go with the oversized ability to offend.

Now, wait. Hold on. Before you get your panties in a twist about it, look closely. See? The chick is rocking a pink ribbon. So it's cool.

Sprinkled among this mountain of sass are some more earnest sentiments. I guess these are designed to offset the general emotional scheme, the same way designers take a living room of tans and sage greens and throw a pair of violently orange lamps into the mix. (Which always look great in a magazine photo shoot but look horrendous in a real-life living room.) It's important to have contrast.

One such accenting sentiment pillow:

At first glance,, the pillow's colors and font seem soothing. Nothing confusing or offensive about this pillow.

Then again ... um ... I'm not sure what situation this pillow is for. Is it a bereavement pillow? Does it come with a complimentary condolence card? And really, I think this pillow's swinging for the fences. I've never had a life crisis where I thought, hmm. What would my pillow say about this? Let me go check my settee...

I also found this one huddled close to the God pillow. (Safety in numbers.)

Take that, Taliban.

Then there are the pillows that pack a one-two punch:

BAM! You're about to get some sweet, sweet lovin'.

BAM! Get to stepping.

Is it me, or is the NOT TONIGHT pillow side a bit of a tease? The words say no, but that leopard print and curly font say yes. That pillow side is asking for it.

Then there are the sweet ones.

How SWEET is that? Well, sweet if the fisherman gives it to his lady love. Arrogant if said lady buys it for herself and plops it down on the Laz-E-Boy to remind the fisherman that she is a woman in her prime and all she's asking for is a night out on the town every once in awhile. Nevertheless, this one gets a thumbs up.

But this pile of pillows isn't to be trusted. One second it's heartwarming, the next it's passive aggressive. Such as this treat:

You may read that as a sweet pillow. But it all comes down to context. Yes, if it is given by child to father, then it's sweetums all the way. But couldn't it also be read as a challenge to a particularly distant father, or a pillow a single mom buys for herself to give her some lumber support as she aches from all of the emotional heavy lifting she's been having to do while her baby daddy is out gallivanting around and avoiding his responsibilities.

....

Okay, I think I've been in this aisle for too long. Plus, at this point I'm starting to smell something horrible. Like, maybe rotten eggs? Or is that just the stench of my decomposing sense of humanity and goodwill?

Ah, Garden Ridge. You never fail to disappoint.