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Monday, October 20, 2014

Celebrity Deathmatch: The Next Generation

Celebrity Deathmatch was easily the best show of the Y2K era. I fondly remember hiding under my grandma's bed to watch it in secret, as my mom had yelled at my older brothers for not only allowing me to watch it with them, but for watching it in general. Apparently ripping off a Claymation pop star's leg and beating them with it could be damaging to a 10-year-old's psyche, who knew?

Notable matches throughout the series were Ozzy Osbourne vs. Elton John, Siskel vs. Ebert, and Ashlee Simpson vs. Her Old Nose. Aside from the fact that I unapologetically believe that today's high schoolers are a bunch of pansies who hide behind anti-bullying campaigns to avoid learning how to buck up and deal with a fucking situation [DEEP BREATH], I really think CDM would be a huge hit with the kids. Think of the bloody possibilities!

Kanye West vs Taylor Swift - The fact that CDM wasn't around for this blessing of pop culture scandal is a shame, for real and for true. TSwift could have started the action by bashing her VMA in Yeezus's geometrically-shaved head, a move that obviously would've been met with an, "I'll allow it!" by Mills Lane. Kanye could've ripped out Taylor's dangly earrings and gouged her eyes out with Beyoncé's spikey "Single Ladies" glove that started the whole debacle in the first place. Eventually Kanye would win and he, Johnny Gomez and Nick Diamond would all perform said "Single Ladies" dance, in full black leotard get-up, on top of Taylor's dead body.

Orlando Bloom vs. Justin Bieber - The two got into a scuffle at a restaurant in Ibiza over VS Angel and Girl I'd Go Gay For Miranda Kerr. Orlando Bloom is a terrible actor but he does have sword fighting skills thanks to Pirates of the Caribbean, so clearly he would break those out and decapitate Biebs in 2.5 seconds. The lower half of Justin's body would awkwardly strip down to its Calvin Klein undies while the crowd boos it out of the ring.

Gwyneth Paltrow vs. Martha Stewart - Both of these ladies have been on CDM before: Martha fought Sandra Bernhard aka Roseanne's lesbian friend Nancy aka whatever you don't remember just keep reading while Gwyneth and Winona Ryder battled it out over who got the role in Shakespeare in Love. The Stewart vs. Paltrow fight comes from Martha saying, "If she were confident in her acting, she wouldn’t be trying to be Martha Stewart," which I think we can all agree is fucking badass. I have no idea how this fight would go, but it would somehow involve garlic aioli, monogrammed stationary, and crisp white collared shirts.

Charlie Sheen vs. Chuck Lorre - The feud that resulted in Ashton Kutcher being the highest paid TV actor for three years running despite the fact that I had no idea Two and a Half Men was still even on the air would be an incredible fight to watch. Between Warlocks, Tiger Blood, and "winning" I cannot see this match going any way but incredibly right. Regardless of the physical outcome of the fight, I think Lorre still wins simply because he's got two of the highest rated sitcoms on TV and has a net worth of $600 million to Sheen's $125 million.

Mariah Carey vs. Nicki Minaj - The two former American Idol judges basically didn't like each other because they're both divas with extensions who wanted to be the hottest one sitting next to Randy. As soon as Mills Lane yelled "Let's get it on!" Nicki would lunge at Mariah with her huge veneers and take a bit out of her stomach like Jaws. Mariah would be fine with this because her weight fluctuates so frequently that she basically just received free lipo. She would belt out a whistle note and completely explode Nicki's eardrums. She would then drop-kick her with a stiletto to the butt, popping it as the entire audience discovers that not only is Nicki's ass fake but it's stuffed with love letters from Drake. Nicki would summon all 600 of her alter egos to attack Mariah from every angle, one of which would suck the talent out of Mariah like Ursula did to Ariel in The Little Mermaid, and Nicki would finish her off with her line from "Did It On 'Em" which reads "If you could turn back time…Cher/ you used to be here now you gone…Nair." Mariah would give her a confused look and then die.

The fact of the matter is that MTV needs to bring this show back, because it was absolutely phenomenal. Our current crop of celebrities is better than ever; how else would we celebrate their stupidity than by cheering their animated versions on as they beat the living shit out of each other?
This is America.  

What other Celebrity Deathmatches would you want to see? Do you think we could petition the network to restart production? Does anyone even still watch MTV??

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Tuesday, October 14, 2014

New Yorker? Not Yet

I have lived in New York City for about a month and a half now.

The hierarchical years of service metric claims that I still have about seven years and 10.5 months until I can claim official "New Yorker" status, but I'm a fast learner, and until I've earned my stripes I'm at least taking note of what it will really take to be one of those geniuses who knows how to navigate the subway without using a map.

Here's how I know I've got a little ways to go:

I smile at passers-by - "Oh how courteous of you, Skylar." Wrong. This is not okay. People are uncomfortable when you look at them at all. Years of living in Kentucky (where the Kroger greeter met you with a, "Well hi there my darlin', how yew?") and Northern Virginia/DC (where passing a random yogger would at least get you a breathless "hey" plus head nod) completely ruined me for New York social interaction. The only person who wants to tell you how their day is going is the homeless man missing toenails on the 3 a.m. E Train and my friendliness stops there.

I buy too many groceries - In a technical sense, this is not true. Just as I've always done, I shop for enough food to get me through the week, although the added bonus of not having my car here means I buy enough to fit into two bags that I then get to carry a mile home. Apparently, I'm supposed to completely forgo the grocery list and eat all of my meals via Seamless. Why this is such a difficult transition for me to make I have no idea, because if living the American dream isn't getting a meatball parmigiana sandwich delivered at 1 p.m. and then again at 1 a.m. I don't know what is.

I wear color - My closet is color coordinated in rainbow order and is a collection of predominantly red, blue, and pink. I own three black tops and a black cardigan. That's all. New Yorkers don't wear color, primarily because of occurrences like the toenail-less gentleman above being a run-of-the-mill thing. If I'm wearing a bright yellow sweater and I sit down in the seat that he occupied not five minutes before, who really thinks that the layer of sidewalk on his jacket won't make it onto my clothes? Never mind a little dirt on my back, I might also be pregnant. All black errthang is the way to go.

I say "very" - It's "mad," e.g. "That bagel place is mad busy on Saturday" and "Girl your hair is mad long, whatchu use, Argan oil?" (unfortunately the latter has been taken from recent events and was said by a straight dude.) I sound like an idiot when I say anything even remotely slang-y, which is why, wish as I might, I could never move to Boston because I would be the weirdo painfully trying to work "wicked" into conversation. Same applies here.

I never see anyone I know - In NoVA, I couldn't go to a Target 45 miles away from my house without seeing an old soccer coach or the girl from my high school photography class who overplucked her eyebrows (and was still suffering the consequences). In a population of just over 2.5 million people, that's not ridiculous, but it's also kind of ridiculous. I live eight miles away from Midtown in a population of nearly 8.5 million people and I never recognize a soul. I do have friends in the city, but I'm pretty sure most of them are avoiding me as a polite way of saying, "I never actually liked you, bitch" which I totally respect and understand. As far as new friends go, the "psychic" down the street who always sees something in my aura when I walk by and I are like this.


I don't care about baseball - Mets, Yankees, it really doesn't matter to me. There were grown men crying over Jeter's retirement and I didn't even know it was his last game until the day of. I've been told I need to pick a team and devote my life to it, but at a recent trip to Citi Field I didn't even realize the game was over until it was over (and the Mets lost, if anyone wanted the biggest shock of their life). I am a Giants fan through and through, and while I own a Knicks jersey, I would scrounge for Nets tickets in a heartbeat if they led to a potential sighting of Queen Bey. Unfortunately I just don't see myself ever genuinely caring enough about the Mets/Yankees rivalry. Not even sorry.

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Monday, September 8, 2014

The Fuber

Yet again, I should not be alive.

I know, I know, I should probably start blaming myself for these things, but really, again, this wasn't totally my fault. Who shames the victim anyway? Don't be that guy.

Let's start at the beginning, where everything always seems normal and pleasant:

This weekend I was out in the Upper East Side grabbing drinks with a friend. Great night, great bars, great drinks, great times. Neither of us were in the mood to truly rage, so 1 a.m. rolls around and we go our separate ways.
Seeing as I just moved to the city like, two weeks ago, the Subway system still terrifies me.
Seeing as no one cares about my neuroses, and weekend track construction is a thing, changes to the late night lines are an inevitably confusing problem.

I hopped on the 4 train only to discover that my connection to the E would not be happening as I originally planned, and I needed to take the 6 back to Grand Central to get on the 7 to connect to the E later down the line.
If the previous sentence makes sense to you, you're either a saint or sober. At the time, I was neither, and although four drinks don't exactly do me in, they make any trip involving that many numbers and letters turn into quite the production. Still, I managed to follow directions reasonably well, and got off at my transfer station in Jackson Heights.

As soon as I stepped off the train and it pulled away I knew I was in the wrong place. The two trannies I encountered a few seconds later confirmed it. Luckily, I'm used to this shit by now, and I calmly stepped off to the side to consult my phone and the many transit apps I had installed the day I moved here.
Suddenly a stout man with grease stains on his shirt appeared by my side out of nowhere, speaking to me in Spanish. I ignored him and silently apologized to Señora Baker for spending both Español I and II in high school doing my homework for other classes. I noticed him gesturing towards the trannies standing close by and realized he was either asking if I was part of their clique or wondering if the one on the left was a natural blonde (Answer to both: no. I was wearing a sundress and gladiator sandals for God's sake. Harsh roots though, girl). I glanced at him, shook my head, ignored him while he yelled something that was definitely not, "Where is the library, friend?" and put my full attention and trust back into Moovit.

To get to a station that would take me back to Queens, I would have to walk nine minutes. Not a substantial amount of time at any other point of the day, but at 1:45 a.m. when you're tired, have lost your buzz, and have just been made aware that you have mannish features, nine minutes is a lifetime. Couldn't do it, so I called an Uber.

Amrin and his Toyota Highlander would be there to pick me up in six minutes. Perfect! I would definitely be thoroughly creeped out by the produce vendor on the corner making sexy eyes at me by then! My phone notified me that I had just hit 10% battery life, which is pretty standard for these situations, so I put it away and awaited my chariot's arrival.
Two minutes later a shiny black SUV crosses the intersection and the driver gestures at me. Amrin apparently replaced Paul Walker in Fast and Furious 7 and I could not be more pleased with the casting choice.
I approach the car's open passenger window.
And so commences a potential episode of Dateline: Missing in America.

The driver is very pleasant, asking me how my night was and making the usual Uber small talk that is typically cut short by one of my friends in the backseat screaming, "CAN YOU TURN ON THE RADIO?!" We discussed the humidity, how I used to live in DC, how driving in the city is a nightmare, and how cigarettes were a gross habit that I should definitely join him in on our ride because "You are eh-young, is no problem." Valid point, but I passed anyway.

Then my phone rings. Unknown number.

"Hi, it's Amrin. I'm outside Bank of America in the black Highlander. Do you see me?"
I glance at the Driver Formerly Known As Amrin, who is distracted by the gay bar on the corner blasting Skrillex.
"Well I thought I was with you already but apparently not."
"Yeahhh...I've got a ride right now but I might be calling you back."
"I'll call you back."

I hang up and look back at Stranger Danger.
Buzz: gone. Nerves: ignited. Game face: on. I have way too great of hair to disappear into someone's basement for a decade, okay? This was not going to happen on my watch.
"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?" I asked.
"Alex." Shit. "What is yours?" 
"Is very nice to meet you."
"You too!!!"

My overenthusiasm was a ploy to scare him into briefly forgetting which Taken dungeon I would soon be inhabiting.
"So you are married?" Translation: Who will come looking for you when you're gone?
"Never been married?" Translation: Did your ex-husband love you enough to come find you when you're gone?
"You have children?" Translation: What are we working with down there?
"You have boyfriend?" Translation: Sweet Allah have I hit the jackpot?!
"You do?"
"Yes yes yes."

(As every girl who has encountered a sketchy bro at the bar knows, the answer is always yes. Always.)

During this transaction I go to my recent calls and dial everyone that is not my parents. Three separate people, multiple redials, no answers. THANKS A HEAP GUYS, REALLY APPRECIATE THE FRIENDSHIP. I am simultaneously watching Alex's every turn and making note of the streets we are on, realizing we are, in fact, going in the opposite direction of my apartment. Classic.

"Uh-oh Alex, I think 67th Street is the other way!"
"No no, we are taking short cut to avoid lights. Is faster, trust me."
"Ten blocks the other way is faster? That's so weird."

Meanwhile, I'm still haphazardly dialing each number in my recent call log, wondering why I associate with lame-o's who aren't up, out, and about at 2 a.m. on a Friday.

"Alex why don't we just go the regular way. You can drop me off at 67th Street, then there aren't lights to deal wi-"
"Is no problem."
"Actually it kind of is. Just drop me off at 67th Street."
"You sure?"
"Is no problem."
"67th Street, please."

We pull a death-defying U-ie and Alex is chain smoking like an Indonesian toddler, visibly displeased with how this night has turned out. That makes two of us, pal. He casually misses the first opportunity to turn onto 67th Street, holding onto hope that I'll change my mind and be the drugged out Princess Leia to his Jabba the Hutt.

"Right there."
"67th Street is right up there. You can pull over."
"Is okay, I take you the whole way."
"No no it's really, really fine. Right there is fine."
"You sure?"
"Riiiiight there."

He stares at me for a solid ten seconds and then slowly pulls over, passing over the first option of the vacant fire hydrant space because that would be illegal.

Before he can child lock the doors and strangle me with his Brooklyn Nets lanyard, I say, "Alright well great thanks so much have a great night!" leaping out of the car and race-walking in a zig-zag up the street, as you are supposed to do to wild predators. I never looked back, but I know he waited in that spot until I was completely out of sight.

And that is how I escaped the Fuber, or the Fake Uber. As always, I'm sure a certain level of naïveté contributed to this mess, but I can't help but wonder when my nine cat lives will run out and I won't have the opportunity to write about my death-defying adventures for you folks.

I need a chaperone.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Instagram Stole My Sanity

I legitimately think I'm losing my mind, and it's all thanks to an app.

I posted my last Instagram picture sometime back at the beginning of June.
I've done many things since then.
Exciting things.
Fun things.
Adventurous things.
Things I want to brag about to everyone I know.
How am I supposed to do that, call them on the phone? Screw that. I want them to ogle my exceptional life via square photos.

When my photos first wouldn't post, I gave Instagram the benefit of the doubt.
"Oh, it's just a silly little mishap. Probably too much traffic from people posting regrettable Memorial Day Weekend pics. No problem. Maybe I shouldn't be THAT GUY and post a picture of my Blueberry and Peach Coffee Cake anyway," I thought.

Then I baked strawberry soufflé. Then I saw a homeless man wearing a full-on Cat in the Hat costume with Mardi Gras beads on my lunch break. Then it was my birthday. Then my friends from Louisville came to visit. And I couldn't post any of those pictures.

This is the screen that appears whenever I try to upload something.

My friends, though sympathetic, are no help at all.

I've reported my problem to Instagram Help Center which basically told me it was my fault and I should find a stronger WiFi connection and/or get a life.
In reference to the former: my WiFi connection is solid.
In reference to the latter: uh, fat chance.

So now I'm left with one option; the point that I never actually want to reach but which seems to come so naturally to me: complain mercilessly.
Reporting my specific problem to Instagram has done absolutely nothing, so I've taken to Twitter to show them not only how perplexed I am, but that desperation mixed with mental instability is a cocktail in which I indulge on a daily basis.

Please, Instagram, I beg of you, just fix my account. I'm trying to be the voice of a generation, and I can't very well do that without participating in Throwback Thursday.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Skylar's 2014 Emmy's Fashion Recap

Samira Wiley - I want that dress in every color and I want to wear it on the subway and to eat at Subway.

Kiernan Shipka - Brock Lesnar wants his WWE Championship Belt back.

Natasha Lyonne - I think that midi dresses make me look short and have fat calves therefore everyone wearing midi dresses looks short and has fat calves.

Hayden Panettiere - You are flawless and I will find the first homeless man on the street to impregnate me to be even closer to the perfection that you personify.

Julia Louis-Dreyfus - For I have seen the nipple on your soul. <---Completely irrelevant, but Seinfeld quotes are always appropriate.

Keke Palmer - If there's one surefire way to make yourself known when your career is on the brink of major stardom, it's to show some serious boobage. She gets it.

Giuliana Rancic - Donatella Versace if Donatella Versace was featured on a UNICEF commercial.

Lena Dunham - This is the biggest, pinkest can't that ever can'ted.

 Clare Danes - Hopefully didn't squat to pee under any evergreens on the red carpet lest she be confused for a Christmas tree skirt.

Louise Roe - This looks like a tampon on the last day of your period.

Dascha Polanco - The theme song of the night for her boobs and armpits: "Can't Be Tamed" by Miley.

Kristen Wiig - You are more beautiful than Cinderella! You smell like pine needles, and have a face like sunshine!

 Sarah Paulson - And from The Green Mile Collection, we can see that John Coffey has once again vomited up the evil spirit in gnat form to create this ensemble.

 Lizzy Caplan - You're a regulation hottie.

Kaley Cuoco - This is what you wear on Valentine's Day when you are definitely single and have no plans of rectifying that situation any time soon.

Gwen Stefani - Looks like the girl in O-Town's Liquid Dreams video. They were underrated, so I fully support this look.
Photos by Getty/not my property/don't sue
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Sunday, August 10, 2014

How To Uneventfully Get Your Wisdom Teeth Removed

I got my wisdom teeth out this weekend.

Medically, it went as planned, i.e. four teeth were removed and I'm assuming the surgeon wore gloves. However, as is to be expected from my life, it was quite the experience in every other way possible. How does one turn a seemingly run-of-the-mill procedure into a full-on calamitous event? Wellll....

Step 1: Arrive on time yet completely unprepared to fill out the paper work. Where is your insurance card? Beats me. Where is your referral form from your dentist? I actually do know, but the answer is not, "Right here in my purse." Did you fast for six hours? Yes. No water either? Nope (lie). Shake violently out of nervousness.

Step 2: Meet with your surgeon. Get reprimanded once again for not having your referral form (no one told me!). Have a group chat to examine your x-rays and decide what needs to be done, as if we're renovating a sunroom. Find out that while all four teeth are impacted, the bottom two are stuck in your jaw bone and the roots are either cuddling with your inferior alveolar nerve or have it in a chokehold. Removal of the bottom teeth could leave you with permanent nerve damage in your jaw. Cute!

Step 3: Be presented with three options: completely remove all teeth, do nothing to the bottom two and wait for them to get infected thus prompting emergency removal, or get a Coronectomy aka chop off the tops of your teeth but leave the roots intact so as not to disturb their sexy time with your nerve. Ask surgeon why none of this was ever brought to your attention before because uhhh it seems a bit serious. He avoids the question. Ask again. He avoids. Start crying and yelling at him that dentistry is horseshit. Essentially watch the scene from Knocked Up play out right before your, your mom's, and the assistant doctor's eyes:
Swap teeth for vaginas and this is exactly what happened
Step 4: Surgeon will ask you to consider all options and come back in a week.
Skylar - Actually, I'm moving to New York in two weeks so that's not going to work for me.
Surgeon - *Scoffs at your ambition*
Tell him to give you five minutes. He scoffs again. Continue to cry. He storms out of the room.
Step 5: Surgeon returns. Have him shove consent forms in your face without explaining what's going on. Apparently you're agreeing to the Coronectomy because that's what he thinks is the best idea. Good talk, bro.
Surgeon - This is the hardest procedure I will do all day.
Step 6: Surgeon will speak to everyone in the room except you. Mom steps in and says, "Uh, she's right here." He looks at you and might roll his eyes but it's hard to tell because he's Asian. Tells doctor's assistant to prep Room 6 and leaves. Immediately burst into tears and throw in some hyperventilation for good measure. Everyone tells you to calm down, which obviously helps a ton. 
Step 7: Get escorted to Room 6. Immediately notice Ryan Reynolds look-a-like assistant and suddenly feel calm, cool, collected, and angry at yourself for not wearing any makeup. He puts a blanket on you, which seems a bit forward considering the other people in the room but hey you're down if he is. Unfortunately he seems more interested in doctor's assistant. Slut.
Scrubs optional
Step 8: Get tubes shoved up your nose and offer up your arm so they can insert the IV, which goes off without a hitch because you have very prominent veins. Shout out to doing bi's and tri's last week. #killinit #fitfam #weightlifting #swole
Step 9: Come to in a holding room with your mom laughing at you hysterically.
Skylar - Do I look good enough for a beauty pageant?
Mom - Oh definitely.
Skylar - K good because I have one next week.
Mom - You do?
Skylar - Mhmmmmm.
[guy in next room singing "I Gotta Feeling"]
Skylar - Tell him I can join in if he wants, I totally know this song.
Skylar - Mom, when they tried to put my IV in I had to look away because I hate needles and blood.
Mom - I know.
Skylar - On campus in Louisville they always asked me to give blood and I always said I wanted to but I didn't weigh enough....*whispering* but I doooooo.
Step 10: Go directly home and pass out, but not before Snapchatting this picture to all of your friends:
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