There’s really nothing like an Indian buffet at 1:30 am. Even though I probably curse life in New York more than I applaud it, where else this side of Mumbai can you get chicken tikka masala and shrimp tandoori in the wee hours? Sure I’ve had those regretful mornings when I wake up to realize that I inhaled two slices at Fat Sal’s or diner fries and eggplant parm with a chocolate milkshake before passing out, but morning after Curry in a Hurry tummy is a whole different Bollywood tune (one with quite gag-worthy sound effects). Luckily, I think I ingested enough naan and basmati rice to combat the wild forces at work in the soupy saag paneer and spicy tikka masala swamp, so I could be doing a lot worse right now.

Onto other important matters, this hot mess just fell into my lap. I’m begging you, take a look.

You’re not sure if you want to laugh, cry or heave, right?

About a year ago, it dawned on me that “the valley girl” had basically disappeared from social consciousness to the point that I found myself wondering if “valley girls” even exist anymore. I mean, if you are female and between the ages of 11 and 19 and live somewhere between Woodland Hills and Studio City, I suppose you qualify as a valley girl…but does that mean that you’re a “valley girl?” While I’m sure there are lots of girls who do meet enough criteria to be considered a “valley girl,” that doesn’t mean that today one would describe said girl as a “total val.”

I in no way want to encourage a return to the high-pitched (and highly irritating) motormouth valley-speak we all found so amusing at one point, but I do find it somewhat sad that this lovably ditzy pop culture staple is no longer…at least as we knew her. We bid adieu to the shrieking, hair-twirling, gum-snapping, lackadaisical airhead scuffing her Keds against the red-tiled floor of the Galleria and regrettably welcomed the Oxycontin and coke-riddled, barely-talented (if it all) Zoebot celebutante dangerously hightailing it down Robertson Boulevard in a Mercedes convertible. I never thought I would say this, but at least those “val gals” had class…or at least just enough dignity to keep their wreh-wrehs from public view (as far as we know).

What strikes me most about this whole thing is that even though this whole contest is tongue in cheek, these girls are celebrating being a part of a vast cultural wasteland (the Sherman Oaks Galleria really is about as sophisticated as it gets over the hill). Even if they entered the contest ironically, it doesn’t change the end result of being crowned the “ultimate valley girl.” And all that basically says is “I’m totally, like, one of the most vain and ignorant dingbats this side of Ventura Boulevard! But I look totally rad in my white Jordache short shorts and red Ray Bans! Isn’t that tubular? I knooooooow!” So somehow, I feel this title is probably not something you want to put on your resume…unless you’re applying for work at either Claire’s Accessories or Bob’s Classy Ladies.

Bag your face, kids. I’m outtie.

There’s really nothing like an Indian buffet at 1:30 am. Even though I probably curse life in New York more than I applaud it, where else this side of Mumbai can you get chicken tikka masala and shrimp tandoori in the wee hours? Sure I’ve had those regretful mornings when I wake up to realize that I inhaled two slices at Fat Sal’s or diner fries and eggplant parm with a chocolate milkshake before passing out, but morning after Curry in a Hurry tummy is a whole different Bollywood tune (one with quite gag-worthy sound effects). Luckily, I think I ingested enough naan and basmati rice to combat the wild forces at work in the soupy saag paneer and spicy tikka masala swamp, so I could be doing a lot worse right now.

Onto other important matters, this hot mess just fell into my lap. I’m begging you, take a look.

You’re not sure if you want to laugh, cry or heave, right?

About a year ago, it dawned on me that “the valley girl” had basically disappeared from social consciousness to the point that I found myself wondering if “valley girls” even exist anymore. I mean, if you are female and between the ages of 11 and 19 and live somewhere between Woodland Hills and Studio City, I suppose you qualify as a valley girl…but does that mean that you’re a “valley girl?” While I’m sure there are lots of girls who do meet enough criteria to be considered a “valley girl,” that doesn’t mean that today one would describe said girl as a “total val.”

I in no way want to encourage a return to the high-pitched (and highly irritating) motormouth valley-speak we all found so amusing at one point, but I do find it somewhat sad that this lovably ditzy pop culture staple is no longer…at least as we knew her. We bid adieu to the shrieking, hair-twirling, gum-snapping, lackadaisical airhead scuffing her Keds against the red-tiled floor of the Galleria and regrettably welcomed the Oxycontin and coke-riddled, barely-talented (if it all) Zoebot celebutante dangerously hightailing it down Robertson Boulevard in a Mercedes convertible. I never thought I would say this, but at least those “val gals” had class…or at least just enough dignity to keep their wreh-wrehs from public view (as far as we know).

What strikes me most about this whole thing is that even though this whole contest is tongue in cheek, these girls are celebrating being a part of a vast cultural wasteland (the Sherman Oaks Galleria really is about as sophisticated as it gets over the hill). Even if they entered the contest ironically, it doesn’t change the end result of being crowned the “ultimate valley girl.” And all that basically says is “I’m totally, like, one of the most vain and ignorant dingbats this side of Ventura Boulevard! But I look totally rad in my white Jordache short shorts and red Ray Bans! Isn’t that tubular? I knooooooow!” So somehow, I feel this title is probably not something you want to put on your resume…unless you’re applying for work at either Claire’s Accessories or Bob’s Classy Ladies.

Bag your face, kids. I’m outtie.