Look it up...

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.