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Thursday, December 27, 2012

"Honesty is the best policy...when there is money in it." -- Mark Twain

Before you read anything below, read this: 6 Harsh Truths that will Make You a Better Person
 
No seriously, read it, it’s worth it. He curses, I promise, just do it, alright?
 
I read it three times. And I’ll probably reread it again. I have no clue what David Wong looks like, but I think we can all agree that the term HASIAN just rang loud and clear in all of our heads. Allegedly his real name is Jason Pargin, but unless he’s a Hinge I’d prefer to preserve his attractiveness in my eyes.
 
Anyway, it’s not often that the opinions of others legitimately make me reconsider how I live my life.
 
“If you continue to bleach your hair blonde it will be dry and fried and look terrible,” said my hairdresser of 15 years.
“Duly noted,” I replied, and a year and four more home-highlighting sessions later, I finally decided to bring it back to my roots. I think my split ends are currently holding a family reunion on one strand of hair. WORTH IT.
 
The point is, Wong/Pargin’s piece really got to me and made me realize that every inspirational quote on Pinterest is bullshit. I don’t want to let things be, John and Paul; I want to make them be. And the only way you make things be is by cutting out the animal by-product in the dog food that is Life and getting down to the biz. When this blog is a published book and you’re all receiving Bentley’s from me for Christmas (or Hanukkah!), then I will reveal the ways in which I have decided to internally change myself. But it takes a village to raise a child, and I need help. So here’s what you all need to do for me in the New Year:
 
Side note: this does not get you out of buying me a birthday present. Nice try.
 
Tell me how you really feel: Just recently someone told me that they were tired of my “snobby, judgmental outlook.” Way to hit the nail on the fucking head, babycakes, and thank you. Why has no one else ever had the balls to tell me that I’m a shithead? It’s not news to me, people! I’m just forgetful, and it’s nice to be reminded. I didn’t even get mad when they said it; I’ve actually never had more respect for that person in my entire life. Wanna take me on a date? “We should hang out sometime” is getting you nowhere. “What movie do you want to watch?” “I don’t care.” = We will be sitting here deciding longer than the actual movie takes to watch. I hate hate hate when people beat around the bush, so just come out with it so we can get this road on the show.
 
Tell me how I really feel: When going through a particularly difficult time this past year, I had several great friends who coddled me and wrapped me in blankets and scooped me up in hugs and told me everything was going to be okay while I cried and wiped snot in their hair. Then their shift was done, and the scene was over, and everything was okay again. Problem was, things were not okay again. On a day that was especially not okay, a certain great friend asked me how I was feeling, and, channeling my inner 15-year-old emo kid, I responded along the lines of, “I don’t even know anymore.” No hesitation, he replies, “I do. You’re depressed.” And wouldn’t you know it; I realized I was a walking Cymbalta commercial. This did not sit well with me, and forced me to work on getting obnoxiously happy again. While the rest of my friends had brushed the unknotted section of my hair completely smooth, he took one go at the knot and then shaved my whole head. So when I’m complaining about customers and their coupons and someone replies with the token I-haven’t-been-listening phrase, “That’s crazy,” what I’d really like them to tell me is, “You feel like a failure because you don’t have a real job yet and you graduated eight months ago.” Hit me with your best shot and fire away – I genuinely appreciate the honesty.
 
Miraculously, they still like me after this
Tell me when I look stupid: I am not afraid to try new things with my clothes. Sometimes, this works to my advantage better than others. One night earlier this year, I emerged from my room wearing a short skirt and thigh-high socks while applying red lipstick, thinking I was pulling something off. My roommate quickly informed me that I was most definitely not and that I should change. “Fuck it, I like it, let’s go,” I said. Luckily, people had cameras that night, and the pictures revealed that she was right: I looked ridiculous; like, 10-inches-too-short-to-pull-off-thigh-highs ridiculous. Another time, I had been invited on a pseudo-date to go go-karting and then out to the bars. I dressed for the bars, not the go-karting, resulting in my 4-inch heel getting stuck beneath the gas pedal as I spun out in an embarrassing display of why-did-I-ask-this-girl-out. Point is: if I look like an idiot, help a sista out and let me know. This only applies to clothing, though. I’m completely aware of when I’m acting a fool at every other point in the day.  
 
Tell me whatcha want, whatcha really really want: (You knew that was coming.) Comment on my effing blog posts and tell me what you think about them. I’m sitting here thinking I’m hilarious and clever and wonderful and like, really pretty, and I’d like to know whether or not anyone agrees (especially about the pretty part. Why won’t you love meeee). I’ve got ideas fo dayz but that only helps when people actually want to read about them, and I’m more open to suggestions than Lindsay Lohan’s nostrils. I know all you avid Russian and German readers have something interesting to talk about, so let’s hear it!
 
Bottom line: 2013 should be the year of brutal honesty. Don’t spare my feelings because, lesbihonest, I don’t think I even have them anymore.  Things don’t happen from everyone folding their hands in their lap and politely asking a person not to say “douchebag” at the dinner table, so let’s throw some bows and get all up in each other’s grillz. Dig?

Friday, December 14, 2012

Thrust into the Real World: Month 7

This month’s theme was “How to Get Employed Without Really Trying.”
 
I moved back to Virginia, yadda yadda yadda, had to get a new job because a diva is a female version of a hustler and I need dem bagsa dat money, yadda yadda yadda, apparently I’m super personable and well-spoken because within three days of being here I got two jobs and an internship.
 
Now don’t get excited for or be proud of me, because these jobs do not challenge my skill-set whatsoever. I yet again work at a women’s clothing store, honoring coupons and answering the question “Do you have a petite’s section?” when the large black and white sign reading “PETITES” hangs about six feet overhead. I also work at a winery, hosting wine tastings and pretending I know what customers mean when they talk about a chardonnay’s “tannins.” This job is actually pretty cool, mostly because anyone who comes in at 11 a.m. on a Saturday to get sloshed is instantly my best friend. Do I think I’ll abandon my current career path to become a full-blown sommelier? No, because then people genuinely expect you to know the difference between Pinot Gris and Pinot Grigio. Ain’t nobody got time fo that.
 
The internship is actually my pride and joy of this whole shenanigan. Obviously it’s at a magazine again, but this time I’m in the fashion and beauty part of it, which, as How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days has taught me, only leads to good things like free samples and Matthew McConaughey. For avid readers of this blog: take my sense of humor and pair it with a review on Matte Nail Polish: Hot or Not? and you basically have the next four months of my life. I’m seriously so excited!
 
Remember how October sucked? This past month has been October’s prettier, smarter, better-dressed older sister who drives a 2013 Mercedes SL550. I’m thankful to be rakin’ in dough while getting one step closer to moving up to New York and getting paid to write about my opinions on things (although probably with a few less “shit”s). In all honesty, the fact that I’ve started showering and getting out of bed on a regular basis again is enough of a celebration for me. Three cheers for not being a complete fuck-up!
 
Yes.
 

Monday, December 10, 2012

If Loving Jew is Wrong, I Don't Wanna Be Right

The time has come for me to reveal my first Five Year Secret.
 
I think it’s safe to say that I got along pretty well with just about everyone I encountered in high school. I had braces all the way through my junior year, so the awkward kids were not threatened by me. I was in AP classes, so the nerds respected me. I straightened my hair and wore Hollister, so the cool kids accepted me. No one understood my sense of humor, so the rest saw me as a bit eccentric and went on their merry way. It was the best of times.
 
This same sense of humor, however, got me into trouble.
 
There was one girl that I could never seem to see eye to eye with, and vice versa. She was Jewish. We had a mutual understanding that we were not each other’s biggest fans, but due to forced interaction in classes and extracurricular activities, we expressed this disdain through passive aggressive comments and run-of-the-mill shit talking. So at the end of the year we were signing year books, and she casually wrote something along the lines of, “It was really fun watching you struggle to pass photography class. Sucks to suck at everything. Hope you grow an inch or five this summer” (short jokes, classic). I scribbled my own love note down, and that was that.
 
Just kidding, it wasn’t.
 
Two days later I get pulled out of AP Lit to go down to the principal’s office, which I naturally thought meant they wanted to award me for my perfect attendance because at the time I was a stickler for punctuality. I walk into his office, and laid out in front of me on the desk was this girl’s year book, and I was asked to read what I had written out loud. I cleared my throat and began:
 
“Dear ______, I hope your summer is extremely Jewish. Looking forward to not seeing you, not even if you brought me bagels with shmear. Latke latke latke, Skylar."
 
Side note: getting through this without laughing was just as hard as you think it was.
 
Anyway, the principal looked at me and straight up asked, “Skylar, do you see how statements like this could be considered hurtful?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you mean to be hurtful?”
“No, I meant to be funny.”
“Do you find it funny?”
“Ye- …no…”
“Do you understand that something like this could be considered anti-Semitic?”
 
And then I lost it.
 
Anyone and everyone knows how much I love Jews, to the point that I’m already planning my 23rd birthday to be “Ten-Years-Late Bat Mitzvah” themed. I am fascinated by their culture, I acknowledge every religious holiday, and I wish every single day that I had a Yiddish grandma kvetching about how she never sees me. It is especially painful around this time of year, when I have to wait another 15 days for Jesus to be born when all of my Jew friends are already on their third night of candle-lit awesomeness. I know how to play dreidel, please invite me over.
 
In order to end the madness, I broke it down for my principal and told him that I’d apologize if he wanted me to, but that this girl and I had a very interesting relationship, and that if kids these days didn’t receive honorable mention trophies just for participating in the science fair then maybe this girl wouldn’t be such a crybaby. He sent me back to class with an obligatory disapproving look, both of us secretly knowing that I was absolutely right. I believe this is where the phrase, “Sorry I’m not sorry” originated.
 
 
 
So there it is: at 17 years old, I was accused of being a Nazi. My aim was obviously not to be disrespectful or hurt this girl’s feelings, but as evidenced by every funny Jew I’ve ever known (Jerry Seinfeld, Mel Brooks, Gilda Radner, Seth Cohen, etc.) I really thought she’d have a better sense of humor about it. Oy vey.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Karaoke is my Nemesis

My family, as a whole, is a quirky bunch. There are many traits that I have inherited that, try as I might, cannot be denied or even sufficiently hidden from the rest of society. I’ve come to accept this in most cases, such as my inability to tell a story without including way too many irrelevant details that turn a two-minute “this one time…” into a twenty-minute dissertation. I’m also not suited for quiet settings – these vocal cords are powerful. There is one quirk in particular that I wish had been some kind of genetic mutation that my infant self could have beaten the odds of, but sadly, it made its way to the idiosyncratic forefront: screwing up song lyrics. 

We’re going to blame my dad for this one. He started it all sometime back in the 70’s when he was singing along to The Beatles’ “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” and asked the person next to him, “How could he tell?”
“Tell what?” they asked.
“That she had Colitis.”
Good ole Bill thought they were singing, “The girl with Colitis goes by” instead of “The girl with kaleidoscope eyes.”

Yes, it is okay to laugh, we make fun of him for this all the time. Unfortunately, I can’t laugh too hard, because I do it too. Frequently, and unapologetically. I’m under the impression that if I interpret the words a certain way, that is how they should be, and no lyrics website will tell me otherwise.
 
Below are a few of my most notable creations, and I will continue to sing them loud and proud.
 
Rihanna – “Umbrella”  

When the sun shines, we'll shine together
Told you I'll be here forever
Said I'll always be a friend
Took an oath TOUGHEN UP, Ima stick it out til the end
 
Rihanna is from Barbados. She has that little island accent that makes you want to punch yourself in the face, it’s just so cute (too soon?). For this reason, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and thought she was pronouncing toughen “toe-fen” and up “ope.” Since this song was such a huge hit, I was corrected quickly, but since we all know how much I like to be told what to do, I was steadfast in belting out the lyrics that I thought were “better.” Quite honestly, I think Rihanna’s more recent songs are pretty terrible anyway, so maybe she should take note of my improvements and adjust her lyrics accordingly.
 
Manfred Mann’s Earth Band – “Blinded by the Light”
Blinded by the light
Revved up light a deuce DOUCHE
Another runner AND A RONER in the night
 
If I had initially been introduced to the Bruce Springsteen version of this song, I’d be a completely different person. Not only does The Boss know how to annunciate his S sounds (sorta…), his lyrics read, “cut loose like a deuce,” which doesn’t exactly make sense either, but at least I’d be able to decipher them. Let’s not even get into what I think a “roner” is, because I have no idea. Did the Earth Band even have another hit after this? Probably not, so who am I to criticize their British ridiculousness? Those people think beans on toast is a meal, I’d rather not question their vocabulary.
 
 
Pussycat Dolls – “When I Grow Up”
When I grow up
I wanna see the world
Drive nice cars
I wanna have groupies BOOBIES
 
Everyone thought this when first hearing this song. It still rings true in my mind because when I was younger, I did want boobs. I’m apparently still not there… The point is, the song could totally work both ways and for a tune that’s about becoming rich in the future, it’s not so far-fetched to believe that a trip to the plastic surgeon wouldn’t make the list.
 
 
Usher – “Burn”
I know this is something I gotta do
But that don’t mean I want to
What I’m trying to say is that I love you I just ALEXIS
I feel like this is coming to an end
 
I know what you’re thinking. “Who did you think Alexis was, Skylar?” And to that, all I have to say is that Usher is not known for his fidelity and admitted it in “Confessions” on the same album so it’s not my place to judge which ladyfriend he’s singing to at any given time. I’m particularly bad about this one, because I just can’t seem to get it into my head that the lyrics could be anything else. As someone whose name does not appear in any song out there (except “Skylar’s Song” by Vince Neil for his daughter who had cancer; not exactly an upper), I applaud Alexis for paving the way for the rest of us to get broken up with via catchy R&B melodies.
 
Sugar Ray – “Every Morning”
Every morning there's a halo hangin’ from the corner
of my girlfriend's four post SPOPO’S bed
 
Again. What kind of name is Spopo? I wish I understood myself.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Thrust into the Real World: Month 6

This month sucked. Hard. We're not gonna talk about it.

Here's a picture to help us all forget about it:

Friday, November 9, 2012

The Nose Knows

I recently read an article about the five things women immediately notice about a man. The first three were confidence, demeanor, and dress, to which I openly responded, “Bowshit, bowshit, and bowshit.” Then I scrolled down to find that the fourth one was “hands,” and I thought, “Now we’re getting somewhere.” (The fifth one, to all of you OCD nut jobs out there, was physique. Feel better? Xanny up.)
 
Personality traits mean absolutely nothing to me in the first two minutes of being introduced to someone. We both know that I just want a free drink and you’re trying to be incognito in checking out my boobs, so why would I even worry my pretty little head about your behavior? This isn’t a third grade parent teacher conference.
 
What do I notice right off the bat? Noses. No hesitation. I can tell a whole heck of a lot about you by your shnoz, deducing much about your character strictly based on the placement of your nostrils. My friends will ask me my opinion of a guy based on his clothes, but it is in the man-snout that I can really determine if I approve. Let me break it down for you right quick:
 
Pointy-beaky – You’re a fun guy when you want to be, but only when you want to be. In other words, you are uptight and would have rather stayed in to study for the LSAT or catch up on last week’s Criminal Minds but your friends dragged you to the bar. I can already tell that after two more Michelob Ultra’s you’re going to become extremely douchey and probably try to criticize my outfit in an attempt to vilify my confidence and get me to go home with you, but tough cookies T.J. Detweiler; this isn’t recess and I’m nowhere near stupid enough to play those games. All signs point to you being an asshole, and by “signs” I mean your NOSE.
 
Lil Christmas Bulb – There’s a lot of personality in that round nasal ornament, and I like it. You don’t think you’re very attractive, and I can’t tell if I find you attractive because of your adorable bashfulness, or because you really are just good-looking. Whatever the case may be, you’re intelligent but shy, which is fun in the moment but if I can’t break you after fifteen minutes (I’m patient if a cute boy is at stake, and only then), peace out girl scout. You have the charm a-brewin’ at the tip of your beak, but if you don’t know what to do with it then you might as well be Voldemort.  
 
Somewhat Whoville – You are silly and fun and the life of the party, which is so great when we’re all in a group having a blasty blast for one night. But you’re like this all the time. ALL THE TIME. How much coke does one have to do to keep this up? I am intrigued by your genuine friendliness and effortless wisecracks, but I have a sneaking suspicion you’re 27 years old living off of your dad’s paycheck and that you see absolutely nothing wrong with it. If that flag was any redder we’d have to slip it a Midol. Welcome, welcome fahoo ramus / Welcome, welcome get a job-mus.   
 
Manly & Prominent – Gets me every time. You are my weakness, and the Grecian presence in the middle of your face has swooned me into believing anything you say and doing anything you want me to do. There’s something about a big honker that says, “I have my life together” and “I’ll take you out to dinner, wherever you want, yes of course we can go to Sonic,” and for some reason that just makes me feel inexplicably wonderful.  
 
There are, of course, combo meals with all of these. I may not realize a Prominent Beaky dude is as big of a jerk as he is until the second date when he asks what my dad does for a living in an effort to determine our financial compatibility (this has actually happened). A Whoville Bulb, while extremely holiday-spirited, is just too big of an emotional basket case for me to handle. In all honesty, I won’t be truly happy until Justin Timberlake is mine, so while I work out the logistics of ruining a new marriage, feel free to reread the above analyses and apply them to your next social interaction. Who knew noses could be such a relationship time-saver? You’re welcome.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Vote or Die

It’s Election Day.
 
This used to mean exercising your rights and making your voice heard at the polls.
Now, it means sitting at your computer and ranting about your well-rounded, fully-informed opinions via Facebook. And probably not voting but definitely letting everyone know that “If so-and-so wins, I’m moving to Canada.”
 
I don’t post my political beliefs on Facebook for two reasons:
#1 I don’t believe it’s my place to shove my views down everyone’s throats.
#2 That’s what my blog is for. Teehee.
 
I would like to take this time to have a one-sided discussion with some of the Facebook statuses appearing on my newsfeed, because I figure if someone can disparage the issues that I believe to be most important to this country, I should do the same to their ego. Vote Skylar 2012.
 
“Well Obama...It's been fun. Oh wait...No it hasn't.”
You are a frat star who wears $200 sunglasses and went to a private Catholic high school; I really doubt that any of Obama’s policies over the last four years have affected you all that dramatically.
 
“Cliché something or another about how you should vote! But, really, you should!”
This is completely unrelated to the election, but I really hate when people think posting statuses like this is funny. It’s not. It’s not ever funny. Next time, don’t. I appreciate your unbiased approach though.
 
Super excited to vote for the 1st time! I just wish George Bush was on the ballot!”
You should be very embarrassed and might consider waiting another four years. Also, I'm pretty sure you only feel this way because your boyfriend votes Republican.
 
Here's to endless war and warrantless wiretapping and the destruction of individual rights.”
Very subtle. Granted, this isn’t entirely accurate in terms Romney’s true goals for the presidency, but at least you got the gist of it and subsequently started a Facebook status argument. Those are my crack.
 
“I'm predicting Obama will take an early lead tomorrow... Until all the Republicans get off work. #RomneyRyan2012
This was clever the first time I saw it. Then everyone started slapping it up on the interweb as if their cunning ass came up with it all by themselves. Then I got hostile, because I hate copycats.
 
“I’m voting for Regina George, because she got hit by a bus.”
“I’m voting for Cady Heron, because she pushed her.”
Mean Girls quotes are overdone, but your timing on this was excellent. Touché.
 
Whether you’re an elephant or a donkey, or one of the other political positions that sorryI’mnotsorry will probably never win an election, get out there and do your thing. If you’re not informed about the issues, that’s why God invented Google. If you’re actively choosing not to exercise your right, it’s safe to assume that your founding fathers are not Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin, but Mike D, MCA, and Ad-Rock…and that you won’t understand that joke for at least another three days.  USA! USA! USA!

Friday, October 19, 2012

I'm A Mouse, Duh


I’m not one to toot my own horn (…pfft), but if there is one skill that I exhibit that is greater than all of my other skills, it is coming up with and properly executing awesome Halloween costumes. Minus an unfortunate decision my sophomore year to go as Sexy Rambo (I looked plain stupid and my only saving grace was my bullet belt), I have mastered the art of the fun costume that can be interpreted as “sexy” if some bro is desperate for some action, but is otherwise memorable and usually does NOT involve wearing heels. Yay!


Flo, 2010. My pride and joy.
 
I racked my brain for this year’s ensemble, and although it involves a few more props than I’ll probably be sober enough to keep track of, it’s sure to be another crowd pleaser. I will not be divulging said costume idea quite yet because I can already think of at least three grotsky biatches who will steal my genius and look hideous in the process, and I don’t need that blood on my hands. Just know that it’s arguably one of my best yet and involves an apron.

Long story short, I’m all about creativity when it comes to Halloween costumes, and will never in my life don any get-up bearing the name “Oh My Goddess,” “Ivanna Nibble,” “Miss Demeanor,” or any combo of the three. However, I do give a high five for originality, and as absolutely ridiculous as the new crop of racy costumes is, I can’t knock them for trying. Basically, if I saw you wearing one of these at a party, I’d still assume you were a pretty big whore, but a whore with a sense of humor, aka my favorite kind.

Chinese Takeout Box – The girl who chooses this costume is what we call New Hot, meaning she was fat in high school but successfully completed the Insanity workout over the summer and emerged as a babe who still hasn’t totally solved her issues with food. This costume is not reserved solely for the Asian Persuasion; however, it should be understood far and wide that many racist and stereotypical comments are going to be made both by the wearer and other party goers (ex: “Chinese takeout? So you’re delivering food? SO YOU DROVE HERE?!” and anything having to do with fried rice). The plus side of this costume: you can either use the cute takeout container clutch to hold your geisha makeup for touch-ups, or you can really not combat your edible demons and smuggle in egg rolls which you will sneak bites from when no one’s looking.  

Corn – Food costumes can typically viewed as [somehow] sexy because of the manner in which they are consumed. Strawberries are inherently sensual; people usually feed each other grapes; and unless you’re in fourth grade I’m not explaining the implications behind a banana. But corn baffles me. In this costume, you are basically saying, “What’s up, everybody! I’m an excellent source of fiber as evidenced by my unaltered presence in your poop!” or “Hey guy dressed up as the Indian from the Village People! You call me ‘maize’!” The costume itself doesn’t even demonstrate the “joke” well enough for you to get mad when someone assumes you’re a herpied penis with gangrene. Time to pick another veggie from the cornucopia.

The Lorax – The <1% of hot girls with dreads can rejoice: there is finally an environmentally-conscious costume that says, “I go green but I also go down on the first date.” Previously, if you wanted to show that you were nature’s homegirl, you were forced to dress as a melting polar ice cap, a fish caught in a plastic six-pack ring, or a topless mountain (the sexual innuendo of which will be lost on you because you’re actually passionate about putting an end to surface mining). All of these eco-friendly messages are conveniently wrapped up in a bright yellow, skin tight dress with fur bracelets. Play a solo drinking game to see how many shots it takes before “I speak for the trees!” turns into “Hold my hair back, please!”    




Rooster – Prepare yourself for a night of “cock” jokes and being asked if you’d like to see someone’s “pecker.” You chose this, so it’s safe to assume that your answer to the latter will either be “Yes” or “Been there, done that.”

Honey Badger – First of all, the wearer of this costume is like, so last year. Second, the additions of a stuffed cobra and the repetition of the phrase, “Honey badger don’t give a shit!” are the only things that will provide you with a glimmer of hope that it won’t be assumed that you’re an off-color excuse for a skunk. The eyes of the hat even seem to say, “I can’t believe pop culture has taken it this far” as they roll back in embarrassment. Touché to you for choosing something so obscure when Sexy Giraffe and Sexy Elephant were your other strange options, but save yourself the drunken tantrum when the 400th person asks you what you’re supposed to be and you kick off your furry leg warmers in defeat.

 

 

Oscar the Grouch – Looks like someone has some awkward childhood issues they need to hash out with Dr. Drew. This costume is every girl’s dream, as it shows enough skin to prove to everyone that you got the, “This is my annual opportunity to dress like a slut!” memo, yet it covers your muffin top and pooch, hiding the fact that you threw away the memo that told you to start doing crunches back in August. It draws green, furry attention to your boobs, and is fashioned into a universally-flattering halter style that allows you to tie the straps way too tight and make your rack appear to be much more impressive than it actually is. You will be forced to do a little explaining, as the miniscule Oscar half-face hat doesn’t really offer up much clarification, but the fact that you get to be a complete bitch to everyone around you and claim that you’re just “in character” really seals its spot in my winners’ circle.    
 
 
All images are courtesy and property of Yandy.com

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Thrust into the Real World: Month 5

I am proud to announce that I am typing this from my new laptop, Hilary.

No relation.
Like the second important woman in any person's life, Hilary is a downgrade. She was $700 cheaper than Wanda, is noticeably slower, and doesn't have the cool swirly designs around the keyboard that I could never decipher. We haven't talked about it yet, but I'm sure she has daddy issues up the wazoo and will probably divulge said issues after a night of tequila shots. I'm psyched.

Luckily, I'm not a judger (I'M REALLY NOT!) and I love Hilary for everything she is and more.

With Hilary, I finally have an excuse to go to the library even though I've graduated, because my love/hate relationship with that place turned to full-on adoration when I rehydrated my shriveled eyeballs after my last all-nighter. Also, despite several failed attempts, I have not figured out how to hack into my neighbors' WiFi accounts, so in the spirit of being a cheap bastard I make the 20-minute trek to campus and get bonus points from my tuition.

One of the most awesome changes that I noticed right away from Hilary was the fact that she maintains battery life. Like right now, she's unplugged, and unlike Wanda the Drama Queen, she keeps on truckin like nothing's wrong. This is the way it should be. Not having to rib-check those who are blocking my access to a free electrical outlet? Am I in Heaven?! She is also not causing third degree burns on my thighs, which I just think is totally sweet.

Finally, Hilary serves a professional purpose. My resume and all other "Help Me Get a Job" documents were saved on Wanda. I'm an idiot, so saving them to something like a thumb drive didn't occur to me (note to future employers: JK IT TOTALLY OCCURRED TO ME I'm responsible and career-driven...). Hold on to your hats, but in this fabulous economy and thriving job market, you somehow can't move forward without a resume. Bumsies. I practically kissed Hilary on the mouth (speaker?) upon purchasing because this meant I could finally amp up my little brag sheet with all of the things I've been up to the past few months, aka people will like me and hire me and I can finally be back on the east coast where I won't get shanked for admitting, "I've never had Skyline before."

Long story short, I'm back in business, and bigger and better things are just around the corner! (Ya hear that, Abraham_Linksys?? Just give me your password and I could roll-bounce! Be a friend to make a friend, dude.)

Sunday, October 7, 2012

I'm Jack's Broken Heart

Let's take it down a notch, beautiful people, because it's about to get a little Barry White in here.
I want to talk about love.

What is love?

No, we're not having a "Night at the Roxbury" moment here. We're not having a chick flick "You had me at hello" moment either. I want to talk about the real stuff; the stuff that Hollywood could write but doesn't because they don't think anyone would shell out $9.50 on Friday Night Date Night to see it.
Well, Hollywood can suck it.
I prefer $5 Tuesdays anyway.

To me, love is a completely physical thing. You feel it. It hurts (thanks, Brandon Boyd). It is the one thing that ardently reminds you of the presence of every single one of your organs. Anatomy books say that your heart is the size of your fist, but when in love, that fist can be a cherry-flavored Jell-O mold or be clutching bloody brass knuckles. You walk leading with your stomach, completely helpless in your own directionality. Your spleen shuts down and you feel like shit even though you follow the "apple a day" saying religiously. Your lungs deflate.
Love lives in the throat. It burns your esophagus after you've cried for hours on end; when you've coughed it raw and you sound like a veteran smoker. Your epiglottis turns to concrete and you choke violently on the things you should have said/should have never said. Your uvula swells. You can't bring yourself to speak to anyone for days.
Love gives you lead feet. You fall out of bed and immediately hit the floor, and you can't move because Love broke your ankles and convinced you that your square of carpet is a safe haven (it's also magnificently absorbent). Love makes you walk past the same memory five times in a row until your toes and heels are blistered. Love bruises your knees.

But Love isn't always painful.

Love traces the moles on your back when it thinks you're asleep. It laughs appreciatively at your offensive humor and patiently explains how a transmission works. It places your heart back in your chest after it's fallen to the ground, brushing off the dust and polishing the scratches. It sets its own battered feet in your lap, coughs up its own concrete.
Love will pick you up and wrap you in big arms and hold you without prying with "What's wrong?"'s or "Let's talk about it"'s. Love stiff-arms the unimportant things. It'll even sit on the opposite end of the sofa if you don't feel like being touched right now. It tenderly grazes your wrist and gently squeezes your hand and says a whole awful lot without making a sound.

Sometimes you feel love aggressively, and sometimes it's just nice to know it's nearby.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Gotcha Bitch: Ne-Yo

It is impossible to get anything past me.

That's not actually true, as evidenced by my boyfriend's several successful attempts at surprising me with anything from M&M's to a TV to a freakin bed, but when I am given ample time to figure something out I am the master at observing the situation and cracking the code.

My most recent bout with being a sleuth came when I heard Ne-Yo's new song "Let Me Love You." When the radio announcer introduced the new tune, the first thing that popped into my head was a song by Mario of the same name, circa 2004. Of course, I currently have no idea how Ne-Yo's new song goes, because all I can think of is Mario's song, which led me to a life-changing epiphany:

Ne-Yo is a copycat.

It is my overwhelmingly correct opinion that Ne-Yo gains success from the previous accomplishments of other artists. Nice try, Popped Collar, looks like I figured you out. And unlike the girl in the Bacardi commercial I will not be swooned by your fedora.


Miss Independent - Raise your hand if the first person you thought of after reading those two words was Kelly Clarkson. She released her version during the heyday of girl power songs such as Destiny's Child's "Independent Women (Part 1)" and Christina Aguilera's "Can't Hold Us Down." Immediate success, giving lots of awkward middle school girls hope that society would not limit them to a life of huge foreheads and questionable bob haircuts (whattup). Five years later, Ne-Yo decided to recycle this success with his own version. "Omigah he is like the perfect man, he totally gets that I'm my own person I LOVE HIMMM," said other women. "Oh reeeeeal original," said I.

Think About You - This is Ne-Yo's David Guetta collabo. I believe the thought process went something like this: "People like dubstep. David Guetta makes dupstep popular. David Guetta worked with Usher. I am Diet Usher." Regardless of the melodic dissimilarities, "Think About You" and "Without You" are basically the same thing, because everything dubstep is the same thing, aka I'd rather bury my head in the ground like an ostrich than listen to it. I'd have a lot more respect for Ne-Yo if he had avoided the dubstep route entirely, but what would the world be without tantric beats and glow sticks flooding the radio airwaves? Lack of strobe lights is the reason for political unrest in Syria, count it.

Lazy Love; Sexy Love; Crazy Love - Ne-Yo isn't even innovative enough to not imitate himself. How many schizophrenics have you dated, sir? I'm afraid to ask, but considering the sheer amount of baby mama drama songs he has produced, I can only assume that his Number is way high, and we all know what that leads to, right? Syphillis and illegitimate children. Maybe hang up the falling in love fantasy and adopt a hit-it-and-quit-it mentality like the rest of the music community. It's working out phenomenally well for Taylor Swift.

So Sick - This isn't actually a copycat song. I just find it incessently funny when people tell me, "I'm so sick" and I reply, "...of love songs?" This song came out in 2006. I have a lot of friends.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Thrust into the Real World: Month 4

This was a month of firsts.
It was my first time living completely, entirely by myself in my whole life. This led to me following Alanis Morissette's recommendation of walking around naked in my living room aka the entire apartment, which led to my first meeting of my across-the-airshaft neighbors. They really like me now.
It was my first experience with Reggie the Roach, an eight-foot-tall, 600 pound monster who scared me away from my countertop for a day and a half. I might be exaggerating, but not really. This allowed me to give Lowe's its first experience in selling the largest supply of roach killer imaginable, and now Reggie is mounted on my wall like a prize buck head. DON'T MESS WITH ME.
It was my first time not having a first day of school. I thought I'd have a sentimental breakdown about this, but as soon as the "It's the third day of classes and I already have an exam?!?!" statuses started popping up, my superiority complex reared its perfectly-teased head and I felt juuuust fine.
It was my first time ever having my power and gas shut off. My mom and dad did a great job of never letting this happen when I was growing up, and despite the dumpiness of some of my living spaces in college, I could at least always ensure my straightener would turn on. What...a luxury. The biggest #firstworldproblem that arose from this was the fact that I could not keep my phone adequately charged, which (when coupled with my lack of digital clock) meant I never knew what time it was and had to rely on primitive instincts to determine when I should leave for work. FYI: darkness means its 8 pm.
So my life has more or less calmed down. Hopefully more fun firsts continue to come my way, while Reggie's vengeful relatives continue to quiver in fear instead of eating my face in my sleep.

Monday, August 20, 2012

It's Me! The Picture You Didn't Share

I can't even look at you right now.

I told you your mom would die, Jesus would smite you, and that precious little girl with leukemia would also develop AIDS unless you "liked" or "shared" the picture, and you just kept scrolling down your newsfeed, not thinking twice about the damage you were doing. 

Do you know who I am? 
Do you know what I'm capable of?! 
I'M THE INTERNET, BITCH.

You really think that those posts don't matter? I'm sure you remember the "Don't step on a crack or you'll break your mother's back" chant that everyone sang in elementary school as they walked down the sidewalk. Welcome to the modern adaptation. Obviously, by bypassing the post, you despise your mom, the woman who gave you LIFE and tolerated your bullshit when you were 13 and thought frosted pink LipSmackers were a good look. Now, everyone that is either overwhelmingly superstitious or isn't aware that such things appear on your newsfeed is considered a much better child than you will ever be, all because they clicked the thumbs up. 

You are also obviously completely ashamed of your love for Jesus. What's that? You're Buddhist? Fuck if I care, this is America, and as is the case with gay marriage and abortion laws, you are not allowed to think anything different without being chastised relentlessly. What's that smell you say? Sorry, I ate Chik-fil-A earlier. Waffle fries, nom. Anyway, all I'm saying is, you are going straight to hell and are now going to be known by all 1,100 of your best friends as a hethen. 

As if we all (including God) didn't hate you already, you really sealed your fate by bypassing the photo of sweet little Hannah, 7, suffering with leukemia. Every single "like" equals a dollar that could magically cure her, because THAT'S how charity works. Hannah is a fighter, and you are a weakling who doesn't have any compassion in their whole body. You volunteered with the Make a Wish Foundation last summer and spent an entire month in the youth cancer ward? Erroneous, because you didn't share Hannah's story. Asshole. 

You can try to explain yourself, but we've all judged you already (HARD) and have come to the firm conclusion that you're a self-centered, heartless loser. I will continue to bombard your Facebook with similar posts because my beliefs are superior to yours, and I insist on driving this point home one share at a time. Think long and hard about the life you're living, because it's clear that your lack of dedication to the online realm is leading you nowhere fast.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Thrust into the Real World: Month 3

  If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to be borderline homeless, gather round, children, and lend me your ears.

I started off this month with a trip home to good ole V to the A. Because a visit is not a visit without some underlying chore, one of the main things I was assigned to tackle was the packing up of my room. My parents have decided that now is as good of a time as ever to up and move, which means that eighteen years worth of memories, knick-knacks, and third grade school projects get to be shoved in boxes and moved to a house that we’re all expected to have some sort of connection to come Christmas time. I am admittedly the most annoyingly emotional and sentimental person in our family, so naturally, every day I spent purging old books and discovering where my Barbies have been after all this time was met with a rousing session of bawling my eyes out while sitting on the floor in my closet. I’m 22 years old, and I still had to “say goodbye” to my room and thank it for all the good times. Tip: don’t listen to John Mayer’s “Stop This Train” as you pull out of your driveway presumably for the last time ever, because when he sings the “And you don’t miss a thing/til you cry while you’re driving away in the dark” part, you WILL burst into tears and almost side-swipe a parked car.



After I chilled the eff out a little, I realized that I’m a big girl now, and big girls have their own apartments. Before I left for home, I had submitted an application for the cutest little studio in the world, and had more or less had it guaranteed to me. This was going to time out perfectly: they’d process my app while I was gone, I’d return, move out of my old apartment, and move right in to my new place where I’d have two closets to sit on the floors of. Tip: don’t trust leasing agents, because they do not operate on the same psychological wavelength as the rest of us, and they’ll shoot your plans straight to hell with an AK-47. My leasing lady, who we will call Brainless, decided not to submit my app to the powers at be until two days before I returned to the Ville, meaning that the peachy-keen timeline that I had laid out for myself could now be used as toilet paper. Do you know what it’s like to drive down the highway with everything you own blocking your rear view and fending off the bags of shoes that keep attacking you from the passenger’s seat? Do you know what it’s like to actually get used to driving this way, because two weeks later you’re still not in your apartment? Do you know what it’s like to feel constantly apologetic towards everyone around you because of all of the favors you have to keep asking? Do you know what it’s like to scream, “I can’t right now! Maybe next weekend!” at Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Woman” when they sing, “All my women, who independent, throw them hands up at me”? I fucking do.

So here’s where I stand: I drove away from a home that, after Septemberish, will no longer be my home, but an empty house with some minor water damage and excellent faux painting on the walls. I drove away from another home, which has seen a wine-glass-throwing fight and way too many laughs at the expense of my roommate’s Pomeranian. I’m currently staying at someone else’s home where there is a ghost named Frosty and a two-year-old honey-baked ham in the freezer. 

My roommates and I joked about having to live in cardboard boxes on the side of the road if we couldn’t find new apartments; that joke isn’t funny anymore. If and when I ever move in to my new place, I plan to just sit on the floor and either laugh hysterically or cry uncontrollably, as is, apparently, my new shtick. Way to go, Brainless, you’ve reduced me to a blubbering psychopath.

Tip: when staying with others, cook. A lot. No one hates someone’s forced presence when there are brownies in the oven.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

How to Enjoy the DMV

I am one lazy sonuvabeautifulwoman, for many reasons that all culminate in the fact that I've been using a license with "Under 21" engraved across the top for over a year. It never seemed like a big enough deal to me to go through the process of "getting it flipped" because A) I was in Kentucky the majority of the time so I really couldn't anyway, and B) my license picture was actually semi-decent and you don't mess with success.
It wasn't until recently that it seemed as though everyone in a position of power (i.e. those who provide me with alcohol) took issue with my vertical identification. One night, a beverage cart lady refused to sell me a Stella Artois because my ID wasn't facing the correct way, not only pissing me off but thoroughly inhibiting my ability to be classy. A slew of similar events finally convinced me to to solve the problem once and for all, and since I am briefly home in good ole NOT WEST Virginia, I figured a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles was in order.
The DMV is an awful place. No one will argue with that. Normally, I would dread a visit there, but for some reason this morning I woke up in a stellar mood, and decided that I was going to make this the best experience it could possibly be. Since it is my nature to share my expertise with the masses, I hope the next time you have some vehicular responsibilities to take care of, you will follow these guidelines and resist the urge to backhand whichever parent decided to bring their screaming toddler with them to purchase a vanity plate.

Proof I can't have an Instagram:
I'm super uncomfortable taking
pictures of myself
Step 1 - Get wildly overdressed for the occasion: Everyone at the DMV wants to kill themselves. Maybe not outright, but I'm pretty positive the glamour of suicide seems enticing to all parties as you wait in line for 45 minutes surrounded by people who cough without covering their mouths. Getting ready this morning, I avoided the Soffe's-and-a-T-shirt route and instead put on real clothes. This is a struggle for me basically any day of the week, but it is my experience that a person who looks halfway presentable gets a hell a lot further than the one who has ketchup stains on their wife beater, so I eeked out the extra effort. I'm pretty sure Paris Hilton has a quote about this, but like anything pertaining to Paris Hilton, I don't give enough of a shit to google it.

Step 2 - Make friends in line: In college, I might as well have gotten my degree in girl-on-girl social interaction, because after 4 years of obligatory friendliness at house parties, etc., I am an expert in pretending I'm not a bitch making temporary BFF's. The line at the DMV is notoriously long, regardless of the time of day, and instead of playing Tetris on my phone while avoiding eye contact, I decided to force an innocent bystander into conversation. The girl directly in front of me also got the Look Cute memo, so I instantly complimented her on her maxi dress. And also on her Longchamp. And then she complimented me on my skirt, and I could tell that we'd both played this game before. We bonded over the fact that no one likes coming to the DMV and made her boyfriend feel like a superstar for waiting with her, and she was called to be helped right before I was going to ask her if she'd like to forget this crazy world and run away to Europe with me. I think I found my soulmate.

Step 3 - Get competitive: Stupidity runs rampant at the DMV. People are always forgetting important papers or alternate forms of ID or their first name, which usually results in several losers exasperatedly removing themselves from the line and trudging back to their cars in a huff of frustration and defeat. Bitches. I live to one-up the weakling of the group, and this is the perfect opportunity to do so. Watch with disgusting pleasure as individuals drop like flies, ambling past you with their heads hung low, both of you knowing that their error has gotten you one step closer to getting home in time to watch Ellen.

Step 4 - Embellish your personal info: Minus a few parking tickets and an unfortunate accident in a Subway parking lot when I was 17, I am very proud to say that I have never been involved in a car issue that has required police involvement and/or any sort of courthouse visit. Therefore, since my time doesn't need to be spent creatively side-stepping these types of situations under the "Driving History" section of my forms, I get my kicks elsewhere. Those who are fortunate enough to see me on a regular Wednesday afternoon (when I am not donning 4-inch wedges) know that I am not, in fact, average-sized. I don't think my boyfriend even realized how short I truly was until about three weeks into our relationship when I finally wore TOMS to go get Jimmy John's. While everyone else would swear up and down that I'm an even five feet tall, I use this opportunity of alone time to add the extra inch and be known across the state of VA as 5'1". I also got very specific with my hair color and wrote "light brown" because I figure this will cover whatever questionable hair choices I make over the next ten years. Side note: I debated changing it up and recording my eye color as "Hazel" strictly because I was feeling saucy, but then thought better of it because I was starting to feel like I was entering myself into the Witness Protection Program instead of just renewing my license.

Step 5 - Accept DMV Dude's flirtatious advances: No one likes being at this godforsaken place less than the people working there. Between the aforementioned idiots arriving in troves and the fact that the room is seriously underdecorated, I can't imagine surviving an 8-hour shift without entirely losing my mind. Apparently, though, Rajesh (my guy and potential new lover) took the same optimism pill as I did this morning and was refreshingly chipper. We joked about how unnecessarily necessary it was to represent my legality through a 90-degree rotation of my picture, and he assured me that I should keep my hair blonde regardless of what my license says because it is "very beautiful" (a point of contention I will use against my boyfriend next time he suggests I go back to brunette. Who could disagree with the wisdom of a DMV worker? Exactly). Rajesh said that it could take up to 10 days for my new license to arrive, but something tells me that he's going to expedite the process just for me, and that he will also be keeping a copy of my photo for himself because his creep vibe was way strong.
No Fun

All in all, I'd call this DMV visit a monumental success. I considered making a grand exit complete with Miss America waves and a curtsy, but everyone else seemed peeved by my positive attitude, so I instead decided to shoot an encouraging smile at the 15-year-old kid who was about to fail his driving test for the second time and cut my losses. I can only hope that my picture didn't turn out god-awful, and that I can finally go buy my Stella in peace.

Friday, July 20, 2012

Retail Rant

Working in retail is like working in hell.

Anyone who works in retail will support this assertion.

If you work in the food service industry, you are in a deeper circle of hell than I, in which people send back the plate of food that they’ve already finished because it’s “not what I ordered” and ask for extra sides of ranch for no other reason than the fact that they feel better if there are at least twelve ounces of ranch within a five foot radius of their body at any given time. You win.

The retail world, however, has its own woes. Let me break down a few of the miseries I experience on a daily basis, and maybe, on your next shopping excursion, you will realize that your friendly sales associate would actually rather go all bath salts on your ass than dig through a perfectly folded pile for a size medium that you definitely cannot squeeze into.


Upon entering the store, I am obligated to greet you. “Hey there, how are you doing today?” could either be a genuine enquiry or a segue into informing you about the new merchandise we just put out. I’m not asking you to be my blood brother or to babysit my dog while I’m on vacation; I’m just asking a simple question. I may be small, but my vocal cords are mighty, and I know you heard me. Continuing past me as if I didn’t exist – much less asked you about your current state of being – is rude and automatically guarantees that I will tell you the least-flattering pair of shorts you try on “Looks great!” Take that, fat ass; all you had to do was say hi.

Now I happen to work in a store that specializes in jeans. We sell other shit too, but we are in the jeans business, and the well-made jeans business at that. Well-made, brand-name jeans are expensive. The jeans you bought at Old Navy that give you saggy Mom Butt and accentuate your fupa are the opposite of well-made and are falling apart for that reason. When you come up to me and ask, “Are these really $99?” and I reply with the affirmative, don’t look at me like I’m a founding father of the KKK. It wasn’t me, I didn’t do it, it’s not my fault. “Can you afford $100 jeans?” you ask me condescendingly. Fucking of course not, you moron, that’s why I work here and get the discount. If we had such a problem selling the jeans at their full price, this store probably wouldn’t be here and they would’ve replaced us with a Gymboree months ago. Quit yer bitchin and either try a pair on or get out of my way: I have board folding to do.

Side note: since I do work in a specialty-brand jeans store, the joke, “Do you guys sell jeans?” lost all of its hilarity about halfway through my first day. Just stop.

So let’s say the previous transactions have gone smoothly and you’ve agreed to try on a few styles in a fitting room. We’ve gone through the whole, “How do you like your jeans to fit? What size do you think we’re looking for? Do you prefer a boot leg or straight leg? Light wash or dark wash?” spiel, and you have about six pairs of jeans at your disposal. At this time, we’ve already spent a solid ten minutes together, and I feel like we’ve forged a decent bond. I know things about you that I don’t even know about my own family, and while I wait for you to show me how the next pair looks I strongly consider inviting you to my wedding and making your niece my flower girl. “What do you think?” I ask about the dark-wash slim-fit boot leg you’re modeling. “The fit is great, I really like these a lot!” you say enthusiastically. Hooray! Success! Good things! As I am anticipating the wave of achievement that can only be felt by swiping someone’s MasterCard for $150, you all of a sudden exit the fitting room, no jeans in hand, and say, “I think I’m gonna come back later. Thanks,” and out you go. The curses I utter as I return the jeans to their shelves are enough to shock Richard Pryor, and I can only hope every item of clothing you wear for the rest of your life either shrinks in the dryer or loses all of its elasticity and never fits the same EVER.

I actually really do enjoy my job – mostly because I work with some hilarious people and we all agree that being treated like shit by customers is more entertaining than degrading – but please keep in mind: if you’ve made the trip to the mall, you probably had at least half an intention of purchasing something. Being an asshole to me is completely unnecessary, and when I see you out in the real world, you will realize that we are, in fact, the same species. The only difference is, my jeans were 60% off, and no one lied to me about whether or not they hide my muffin top.

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