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Wednesday, January 29, 2014

My Life According to Buzzfeed Quizzes

One of my favorite lunchtime pastimes of yore is MASH. Countless hours were spent figuring out if I'd be living in a mansion with Brian Littrell and our 37 kids, working as a trash collector and driving a hearse; or in a shack with the school janitor and our zero kids, working as a firewoman and driving a BMW, aka the more plausible option.

I put a lot of stock in these games. If it was down to my crush or the kid who saved his boogers on the underside of his desk [for later, natch], my world was shattered when Fate chose the latter and I was forced to imagine my future life of eternally cleaning snot off the coffee table.

There was no chance in MASH.
MASH was real.

Luckily, Buzzfeed's newest trend of posting personality quizzes satisfies my 20-something need to "find myself" in the most accurate, foolproof way possible. I truly believe that everything happens for a reason, so despite the fact that it's physically impossible, it's nice to know that were I capable of growing a beard, I should grow a goatee--because I'm a "trend setter."

My life is supposed to go a little something like this:

  • First of all, my dad is not my real dad. Fortunately, Phil Dunphy is an excellent stand-in for the-man-the-myth-the-legend Bill; i.e. TV Dad and Actual Dad are essentially the same person, and this is neither a gain nor a loss. 

  • As much as I adored my time in Louisville, I was apparently better suited for THE Ohio State University. Both have a killer football team, show off how good I look in the color red and let me throw gang signs, so this sounds like an easy swap.

  • While I may be celebrating my 24th birthday this summer (June 11th, if you had tossed around the idea of getting me anything in the price range of $50-$450 from Kate Spade), I am actually 35. This is because I'm "training for a half-marathon," prefer Twitter to Tumblr, and consider clothing a necessary extravagance. Since I have the face of a preteen I might actually look 24 by the time I'm 35, so yet again this doesn't make much of a difference.

  • All of this is happening in the 50's, because that is the decade I belong in. Anyone who is aware of my proclivity for poofy skirts, Charlotte York, and wearing an apron when I bake will completely agree with this. Anyone who is aware of my dirty sailor mouth and general disdain for rules will not.

  • My soulmate is someone named Matt. Call it a hunch, but these quizzes might not be completely accurate.

  • On the other hand, I will take the results as the gospel because the city I should actually live in is New York! If you weren't aware (which kudos to you for achieving, because I mention this at least twice a day), moving there and becoming a writing powerhouse is all a part of my three year plan. I'm glad I finally have proof that it can has to happen. Buzzfeed, you beautiful little genius, I'm sorry I ever doubted you.

  • Living in NYC could allow me to live out my childhood dream of being Annie on Broadway; however, as destiny would have it, I'm actually supposed to star in Wicked. From two years of being around choir kids in high school who felt the need to belt out showtunes at a moment's notice, I happen to know all the words to "For Good," so I suppose I'll leave my ginger-headed aspirations behind in the name of predestination.

So there we go. I'm apparently meant to follow the wisdom of Phil's-osophy as a 35-year-old student in Ohio in the mid-50's, where I'll meet a Matt who will agree to move to New York and watch me night after night in the role of Elphaba.

We can only hope that this Matt guy isn't put off by a little female facial hair.

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Tuesday, January 21, 2014

When Calories Don't Count

It is snowing something fierce outside. I'm cold in 50 degree weather, so you can imagine the physical and emotional turmoil I'm currently going through. Immediately upon walking through the door after getting off work early (heyooo), I headed to the fridge for my standard bowl of mixed berries and maybe string cheese.

Then I looked outside.

Then back at the fridge. Then outside. Fridge. Outside. Down at my nails (just did them last night, they look fab). Back at the fridge.

This is not mixed berry weather.

Sometimes, you just need a carb or two. When your Northern Virginia suburb has transformed into the Yukon, you need a carb or two million. Meatball subs, chocolate chip cookies, nachos; it's like Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory except I'm Augustus Gloop and Veruca Salt all rolled into one: I want to eat everything, and I want it now.

 As far as I'm concerned, calories shouldn't exist when it's a winter wonderland outside. I don't have the ability to hibernate, so a fatty food coma is as close as I can get and I plan to milk that for all it's worth. There are other situations in which calories don't count, and though they are all unique in their own right, each situation typically centers around a lack of makeup and a pronounced couch cushion butt imprint.

The Holiday Season - If you're updating MyFitnessPal and sneaking in a few crunches between Christmas dinner and dessert, you're a pa-rum-pa-pum prick. You know who likes that guy? Not Santa. Your bubbe didn't slave over a brisket for three hours just to hear you complain about the fat content, and if you seriously suggest ways in which to make the cheese blintzes "clean," don't bother returning from your 10-mile run tomorrow morning. If two months out of the year have earned the reputation for being the most calorie-dense, you should treat the season with the utmost respect and stuff your face accordingly.

First Date - Certain foods are not safe First Date foods. Spaghetti is an obvious no-go (stick to shaped pasta, like penne or bowties). Ironically, in an effort to be dainty and skinny, salad is also a terrible choice. You look like a stegosaurus the second one of those spinach leaves goes rogue and tries to escape from the corner of your mouth, leaving you to chase after it with your tongue and/or fork in a way that is anything but incognito. Just let the girly thing go. If your date wants to spend more time with you and linger over a Red Velvet Pizookie, but you're afraid of the extra 150 calories, you A) need to pull the stick out of your butt and B) should stab the first spoon in that baby and show him/her how it's done. You can save tofu for the third date when they realize how boring you are--keep the dream alive for at least one night.

"Wahhh I should've just ordered the burger."
Your Birthday - You can cry if you want to and everyone has to do what you say while giving you presents for it, why wouldn't you be allowed to eat whatever your heart desired? You know why Pillsbury doesn't make Diet Funfetti cake mix? Because Poppin Fresh is an adorable dough boy, not a gluten-free monster. Restaurants actually encourage the surplus of calories on this fantastic day: Arby's gives you a free 12-oz. milkshake, Denny's gives you a free Grand Slam breakfast, and Waffle House gives you a free waffle. A free. Waffle. Why would you pass that up? Because you want "abs"? You can get abs on Arbor Day, loser. Vixen's is waiting, go get you a free lap dance.

Getting Dumped - Following a particularly bad breakup, I stayed in bed for 15 hours a day for a week straight (drama drama drama). Luckily, I locked myself in my apartment and wouldn't let anyone in to see the gremlin I had become, which led to a pleasant absence of expectation and general hygiene. It also led to an obscene amount of pancakes. Effort was not the name of the game at this point in time, and considering I couldn't let my regular Jimmy John's guy see me this way, I had to fend for myself. Pancake batter is easy, and you can make a batch big enough to last you four days in just as many minutes. In that week I probably ate close to 30 pancakes, occasionally throwing an apple or banana into the mix so I didn't get Single Girl Scurvy. I finally snapped out of it and ventured out into society for some exercise and Vitamin D, an act really only fueled by my own self-disgust and the fact that I ran out of flour.

 Girls' Night - A girl who runs a six-minute mile and reads fitspo blogs by day is the same girl who, later on, demolishes the cookie dough dip before anyone else has a chance to try it. Girls' Night is about wine, gossiping about how Christina's new boyfriend is definitely a Bar Dad, and, of course, eating obscene amounts of junk food. No I will not judge you for grabbing Rice Krispie Treats two at a time, because I'm currently double fisting taquitos and sugar cookies. Cheers, sister. Will significant time be spent commenting on how fat we feel and how we shouldn't be eating this? You betcha. But if Brooke shows up with a tub of hummus and a platter of celery one more time I swear to God I'm force feeding her Kalteen bars in her sleep.

And with that, Puking Patty was eliminated from the group text

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Monday, January 13, 2014

With a Sense of Fear and Irrationalitaaaay

I got my hair cut last week. Considering the obscene amount of hair I have and the fact that my desire to be pretty is consistently beaten out by my desire to stay in my comforter cocoon for-ev-ver, I ask for lots of layers so the lion's mane essentially styles itself. To do this, stylists use a razor comb, which thins out the ends of your hair as they brush it through. An effective tool? Yes. Source of debilitating fear? Oh. My God.

Paranoid seems like such a dirty term; I prefer "cautiously attentive." When the perfectly capable and steady-handed Irena brought the razor comb towards my precious head, all I could imagine was her slipping on a stray squirt of mousse and skinning me like a prize buck (is that the correct simile? I don't hunt). There is so much that could go wrong there. I held my breath for the better part of the experience and obsessively stroked the back of my head when she was done to see if I could feel any strategic cover-ups of a now-bare scalp. Irena spared me. This time.

I realize that this is completely ridiculous and a huge waste of energy, but I can't help it; there are some things out there that will always terrify me for no reason. Actually, there are lots of them. I should be committed.

Whoa, you win.
Getting a pedicure, the nail technician will rip my big toe off - Nearly fifteen years of dance left me with manly calves and disgusting feet. Bunions, calluses, weird toenails -- I gave up my dream of being a flip-flop model many years ago. Does that mean I'll stop forcing a sweet, innocent lady to tend to my toes with a pumice stone and a prayer? Nevaaa. I have a lot of weird habits that arise when I get my toes done (giggle fits, restless leg syndrome, etc.), but as soon as I see the technician break out the toe separators I completely freak out. One of these days, she will definitely shove that thing in there too hard and completely crack my bunion in half, alleviating the need for the surgery my mother so desperately wants me to get but also guaranteeing that I'll chop both of my feet off to prevent this from ever happening again.

Water fountain backwash - When I was in third grade, someone told me that when you turned on a water fountain, the leftover water from the previous user was saved up and was the first bit of water that came out on the next use. So basically, if you didn't let the water fountain run for a few seconds before you started drinking, you just drank water from the mouth of Frank Farter. Between my youthful gullibility and the fact that a kid could rightfully earn himself the nickname Frank Farter, I hardly ever use water fountains these days. 

Stranger hiding in the house - I really shouldn't live in a multi-level house. I can't handle the possibilities. When I was little (...and also to this day...), I was convinced that a family lived in the crawlspace in our basement. They didn't do anything bad, per se, but they were there and probably judged harshly when I broke something on the computer that caused it to function improperly for the next 10 years (Hey family! Five year secret!). This delusion was amplified when I saw an episode of CSI where the killer hid out in his victims' attics and drove them crazy to the point of committing suicide. CSI is real, so you can imagine how this affected me. No matter where I am, if there is an air vent above me I am 99% positive there is a psycho staring right back at me, plotting his next move. And now you are too.

Burning off my eyebrows - I don't smoke, so that alone has cut my need to own and/or know how to operate a BIC lighter in half. The other half has been taken care of thanks to, of all things, America's Funniest Home Videos. Clip upon clip is shown of people lighting candles on a cake, with the audience howling with laughter when the lighter all of a sudden flares up and poor little Suzie gets a Barbie and a lack of expression for her birthday. People are always losing their eyebrows! Why is no one else worried about this?! I can usually keep my cool in these situations, but you'll notice I'm usually standing at least eight feet away from the fire starter with brow corrector in hand.

Getting T-boned at an intersection - First of all, this has actually happened to me, so maybe it's not so irrational after all. In that incident, the car was totalled but the driver and I weren't seriously injured slash dead so in my mind it was just a practice run by God. Any time I pass through an intersection, with a bright green light and everyone else using blinkers and abiding by every driving law in the book, I still tense up to prepare for impact. I'm just convinced that someone's brake will spontaneously combust and they'll come flying straight at me. Most of the time, when approaching the intersection, I'll instruct the drivers around me (aka scream), "STAY THERE. EVERYONE BE COOL. MAKE GOOD DECISIONS," until I've safely made it through. Long story short my friends don't ask me to drive anymore.

From this list, you can infer that I've never seen any of the Final Destination movies, because I would never leave my house for the rest of my life. I swear I'm normal in most other aspects, but you can never be too careful. Or on too much Xanax.

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Monday, January 6, 2014

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - Bad Teacher

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

When I was in 4th grade I had a smokin' hot teacher. Alas, I was fucking 10 and didn't realize the opportunity set before me. A stroke of luck occurred when I was 16 and had the chance to become his teacher's assistant. Naturally, I jumped at the chance to see this hot piece of ass every day.

I had finally grown boobs and Bad Teacher definitely noticed, telling me, "If I was your age I would totally be dating you." Maybe I should note that he was 42, married, had two children and was an elementary school teacher. Moving on.

In June of that year, my family moved very far away, and I never thought I would see him again. SIKE. Jump to four years later, Christmas break of my sophomore year of college. I was feeling particularly naughty and decided to shoot him a "hey" message, asking if I could pop by his class so he could see the hot girl I had become (humble, I know). He immediately called me back and wanted me to meet him for coffee at Panera. Of course, I did.

We sat there for three hours and he was unabashedly hitting on me the entire time. Everyone dreams about this shit but it actually coming to fruition was freaky and I didn't know what to do. He ends our conversation with this: "I know the real reason why you contacted me...you want to sleep with me...and that's what I want too. I have fantasized about this for so long and I think we have something special." I AM SORRY, COME AGAIN?! I was totally freaked out and said I had to go brush my hair or pluck my eyebrows, anything to get out of that situation. He walked me out to my car and planted a kiss right on my lips. I pushed him away, got in my car and sped the fuck out of the parking lot.

I never thought I would hear from him again, and I really didn't care either way, but lo and behold on Christmas Eve I get a telephone call from Teach. He said he has the perfect spot where we can meet up and have the best sex ever. He also made sure to mention that he'd definitely bring his boner meds to keep up with me because I was so young and hot. I tried to remind him about his wife and kids and tell him that I just couldn't do that, but he proceeded to talk to me about how special it would be and how he would "rock my world."

I was dying.

Teach then sent me drunk texts all night from his flip phone and texted about as slow as a grandpa, using way too many " and ";P" faces. He clearly thought it was still 2006. I tried to shake it off and not reply but he just wouldn't let up. Finally at 4 a.m. the day after Christmas, he calls me crying, saying he wants to leave his wife and that he would make me the happiest girl in the world with the "pleasure" he would give me. THE FUCK.

I told him that it just wouldn't work out and it was creepy so please stop calling me. He finally hung up and the texted me some Usher lyrics saying "goodbye" the next day [Skylar Side Note: Obviously, the lyrics were from Confessions. Now, Part 1 or Part 2? Discuss].

That following summer I accidentally texted him instead of my friend saying, "Hey babe! We are at the party where are you?" He replied with, "My wife knows I am sorry can't talk."
...I laughed for days. Luckily I haven't heard from him lately, although he hilariously still follows me on Twitter.

--Straight A Student