That’s What She Said-ing: Let the record show that I was making sexual innuendos to just about everything deserving way before Michael Scott made it trendy, but as soon as his catchphrase hit the airwaves, my material increased tenfold. I’ve That’s What She Said-ed my mom. I’ve That’s What She Said-ed my teachers. I’ve yet to That’s What She Said my grandma that I recall, but explaining something of that inappropriate magnitude to an 80-year-old is not on my to-do list. I find it incessantly hilarious even when everyone around me assures me that it’s not, and I’d like to think I’m a Gay Rights trailblazer simply because I call a TWSS in an unbiased fashion.
- “I wanna eat out tonight.”
- “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!”
- “Don’t you mean that’s what HE said?”
- “Homo you didn’t. It’s the new millennium, stop being so narrow-minded.”
I will do this until the day I die, so you might as well humor me and just laugh along for the obligatory two minutes. Failing to do so will only make the process harder and longer…heeheehee.
Saving documents/contacts with clever names: You know what isn’t fun? Writing a 10 page paper on the lack of necessity of the study of critical theory as compared to the study of classic texts in modern academics (that sentence barely even made sense, imagine how the next 2,286 words turned out). You know what makes it a little more bearable? Saving the document as “eng491 I hate you.doc”. I also have “wtf are performative utterances.doc”, “ARTH five guys named Zhiang.doc”, and “music history is a joke.doc”. It’s also a joy to look through my phonebook after a particularly stellar weekend and discover new friends such as “Sigma Chi Dance,” “Outside Daniel,” and “Probably Justin?” that I’ll most likely never talk to again. Sure, I could name these things something bland like “Comm 305 Final.doc” and facebook stalk my way to some manswers, but it’s much more enjoyable this way. Super plus bonus: I take it as a passive aggressive success when I get to submit the cheekily-named papers online, knowing that my teacher will see the titles and either chuckle empathetically at my wittiness or rethink the absurdity of the assignment while he/she begrudgingly searches mine for nonexistent grammatical errors. Sweet victory.
Successfully giving myself an unsmudged manicure: Any female knows this is a monumental feat. The fact that I have undiagnosed ADHD makes this accomplishment even more of a celebration. For whatever reason, I choose to paint my nails at the absolute least opportune times, and then I’m somehow dumbfounded when I look down 30 minutes later to find a mess of nicks and smears despite the fact that I’ve just removed every key from a janitor’s keyring and replaced the carpet in my bedroom with hardwood. I’ll never be able to explain myself. I just know that Sally Hansen is my savior and Insta-Dri nail polish is the fucking bomb.
Finding the perfect gift for someone: My best friend’s birthday is coming up, and I’ll be damned if I haven’t been scouring any and every online store to find the exact balance of “I can’t believe you remembered!” and “HAHA I love our inside jokes.” I live for this stuff. It goes without saying that Christmas shopping is my crack. You think your mom might enjoy a book about Europe? Pfft. Novice. Try a book on vintage French wines with tickets to an old country winery. Get on my level, bitch. Not that I’m bragging, but if elephants are known for their memory, call me Skinny Dumbo. If two months ago you mentioned – in passing – that you wish you had more options in terms of styling your hair, don’t be shocked when you get a salon gift certificate for a cut-color-and-style from yours truly. I would rather spend hundreds of dollars on someone knowing it’s exactly what they wanted and that it truly surprised them/made them ecstatic than just settle for another gift basket from Bath and Body Works and vow to try harder next time. I love doing it, so stop saying, “You shouldn’t have!” and please just sit back and enjoy the pampering.
Big ole Dolly Parton hair: The best investment I have ever made in myself was the purchase of my teasing comb. I plan to include it in my Oscar acceptance speech. It has secured a place in my will. The fact that it doesn’t have a name is pretty shocking considering my affinity for personifying inanimate objects. The motto “Big Hair, Little Hips” defines my life, and I’d sooner stay in for the night than have a coif that stands less than 3 inches from my scalp with enough hairspray to stop a stray bullet dead in its tracks. Huge, teased-up hair is happy hair, and I’m just as delighted to spend the extra 20 minutes perfecting this halo of massive proportions. Being unable to run my hands through my strands without losing a finger or four is a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it means joining the ranks of my true idol, Donna Reed. Give it up for the bouffant, playas.
The stories on VitaminWater bottles: Dear Glacéau, HIRE ME. Love, Skylar. I used to have a very strange obsession with Revive (fruit punch) VitaminWater, and I’d die every time I read the silly little story on the label. Not only do these guys create a delish beverage, but it was clear to me that they were my kind of people in all aspects. Seriously, who does this remind you of: “If you woke up tired, you probably need more sleep. If you woke up drooling at your desk, you probably need a new job. If you woke up with a headache, on a ferris wheel, wearing a toga, you probably need answers…” I belong there. Half the time I’d be reading this in my 8am College Algebra class (your sympathy is appreciated) and while it did not help me think of any real-life scenario in which I’d use matrices, it was good for a brief pick-me-up. You can read some of the other amusing labels here, and just know that if you don’t at least smirk at their sassiness, you’re either a descendent of Scrooge or you have no appreciation for life’s little joys whatsoever and this entire post has probably pissed you off. I won’t apologize for being happy!!