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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!

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?”
“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