Oh Österreich

My time in Europe is coming to a close, and while I realize I haven’t posted nearly as much as anyone would’ve liked, I figure my trip here in Bregenz was essentially like a novel you have to read for English class: I can give you the book, but we all know you’re going to head straight to Sparknotes for the abridged version anyway. No skin off my nose, I got to spend a month admiring the Alps and eating gelato while you sat in a classroom/office and YouTubed Jason Aldean songs wishing the adult world would pump the brakes. Sucks to suck!

I’ve found Austria and its geographic cohorts incessantly entertaining throughout my stay. Not just middle-school-humor entertaining (fahrt = ride, puppenhaus = dollhouse…I’m sorry, some things just aren’t worth the trouble of growing out of), but knee-slappingly, goshdarnit-they-don’t-know-how-hilarious-they’re-truly-being comical. Here are a few of my favorite incidences that made me want to plant a wet one on every unsuspecting Franz, Johann, and Wolfgang on the street:

People Assuming I’m British – “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” “Oh, ich spreche nicht Deutsch. Spreche Englisch?” “Ja! You are from London?” ß I can’t tell you how many times this exchange occurred. I like speaking in a British accent as much as the next person, and on more than one inappropriate occasion an overzealous “’ELLO GOVNAH!” has escaped my mouth, but I’m pretty positive that at the end of the day and/or in typical conversation, my accent is made in the USA. It got to the point that even if I had been having an English conversation with someone and they finally asked if I was from England, I would switch to a British accent, if only for a sentence, to see if they would catch the change. If there were grounds for me to take offense to this, I probably would have, but their assumptions weren’t based off of terrible oral hygiene or lack of culinary ability so I’ll just chalk it up to my very articulate pronunciation and move on.

Children with Accents – I love little kids (in a compassionate way, not a To Catch a Predator way). Whether it’s their adorable mispronunciation of the word “spaghetti” or the fact that we’re on the same psychological wavelength, I would take hanging out with a group of kindergarteners over the goons I currently associate with any day of the week. I also work with kids, so I’m used to the spontaneous shrieks of happiness and the nonstop chattering about nothing in particular that they tend to produce. When I was listening to the quiet hum of Bregenz from my window one day, I heard one such little girl rambling on and on and laughed to myself because once again I could barely understand what she was saying. Only this time, it wasn’t because she was going a mile a minute about their new Pillow Pet or the last episode of Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!, but because the kid had a FREAKING ACCENT! Omigoshsocute. I don’t know how parents here discipline their children, because even if my future son/daughter were to tell me they had burned the house down, saying it with a precious spit-filled “ich” would make it impossible for me to get angry. I want to bring them all home and keep them in a little room that I can go into whenever I need some Austrian silliness in my life. I’m just not sure how I’d get them through customs.

German Banner Ads – Upon arriving in Bregenz, it took me about a week to get the internet up and running on my computer. When I finally did, I was met with a very interesting surprise: the ads along my sidebar were all entirely in German. German dating sites, German pet adoption, The Secret to Getting Rock Hard Abs (in German); if I didn’t know better, I’d think the Austrian internet provider was mocking my single life and admitted weight gain, but that’s beside the point. I’m not sure why this tickles me so, because rationally if I’m in another country, there will not be American ads plastered all over the place. Poor Wanda (my laptop) must be so confused. Seeing the ads for clothing stores I’ll never be able to go to and LivingSocial coupons I’ll never be able to cash in is a little disappointing, and a lot of the time the pictures in the ads are fascinating but reality quickly hits when I have no idea what they’re selling me on. Either way, www.Flirtfair.at sounds like it’s got whatever I need whenever I need it, so that one’s totally getting bookmarked.

Tone-deaf Austrians – Have you ever been sitting on the steps leading into Lake Constance and heard a familiar tune far off in the distance, but were unable to determine what said tune was because of some unrecognizable hindrance? Have you determined that, for once, the obstacle was not the heavy German accent accompanying the tune? Have you finally realized that the tune was Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” but just barely because the person was so off-key that it almost rendered the melody unlistenable, and you actually questioned the message of the song in relation to your current situation because the performer was so terrible that the deafening foghorn that drowned her out moments later was actually preferable to suffering through to the sound of dying cat that was ringing from her vocal cords? I have. Twice.

Old School Pop/Rock Music – Every morning, my roommate and I would sit at breakfast with our host parents, who I affectionately named House Mama and House Daddy, eating yogurt with muesli and homemade bread with Nutella or cheese. Life was good. Life got even better when the radio was turned on and Bryan Adams’ Everything I Do (I Do it For You) started playing, followed by the Eagles’ Desperado. Each and every song that played was some kind of pop or rock song dating back to the 70’s, with the occasional polka thrown into the mix for a cultural reminder. The best part? House Daddy knew every word! The man can hold a conversation in a wonderful mix of German and English (Germenglan?), yet he recites every line of Springsteen’s Born in the USA perfectly? This place is just too fantastic.

Colmar Calamity

Let's discuss my birthday weekend in Colmar, France.

We began the trip at 7am on Friday, and with two connecting trains and a hotel stay about 10 miles outside of town, we figured our weekend would be a smidge eventful, but nothing too severe. Oh that I was so young and naïve.  

We arrived at our first train stop in Feldkirch, Austria with just three minutes to connect. I was never very good at thoroughly following directions in elementary school, so naturally, I read our travel itinerary wrong. Instead of departing from platform 3, we were supposed to be at 4A, which sounds close but was actually across a set of treacherous-looking tracks. We scramble to get there only to find no train in sight. We still have a minute before it takes off, where could it be? That can't possibly be it all the way down the platform at 4D, can it? That can't possibly be the conductor sounding the whistle, can it? That can't possibly be our train pulling away from the station, can it? Oh, it be. Remaining calm is the name of the game, so after finding a new connector and sitting around for a while, we were back in motion.

After a smooth transfer in Zurich, we arrived in Colmar. First order of business was finding a place to eat and pee – in no particular order, but for sanitary reasons, preferably not simultaneously. Now I obviously assumed that people in a small French town wouldn't speak much English, but the train station info center girl? She should reconsider the occupational skills section of her resume. French people like to tell you “yes” to your questions even when they really mean “I have no idea but this will probably get you to go away faster,” so after a good 10 minute discussion that achieved nothing but absolute confusion, we finally just lied and said we completely understood and headed out in the general aimless area which she had described.

Wandering through the upscale suburban neighborhoods of town was a lovely experience, but at this point we were starving, and considering we only had an address and a prayer to lead us to our hotel, we decided it would be smart to find it before it got dark and the creeps came out to play. We stopped at a random bus stop to reevaluate our lives when a cute old woman dressed in all white (helloooo symbolism) took pity on us and tried to help. She barely spoke English, so after a lively exchange of pointing at maps, nodding, and pronouncing things in all kinds of wrong ways, we ended up following her along the bus route until we ended up at a point where we assured her "We can take it from here." Wish it were that easy.

Our hotel was named Fasthotel Colmar-Houssen, so logically, taking the bus into Houssen and getting off at the stop named Houssen Centre made us feel like masters of the French public transportation system. Unfortunately, this was incorrect. Albeit adorable, this place was a ghost town, and there wasn’t a sign for our hotel (or anything else, for that matter) anywhere in sight. Minor anxiety mixed with fatigue began to set in. It was at this point that I asked myself “What would Bear Grylls do?” but then I realized he’s a jack of all trades and probably spoke French, so that was a bust. We moseyed around, we used our go-to phrase "Parlez vous anglais?", we almost got attacked by a lumber yard watchdog, we were summoned by a cute yet suspicious character in a black BMW, we trekked through a corn field, and after nearly 4 hours and 10 miles almost entirely on foot, we arrived. Cue immediate pass-out.

The next morning (BIRTHDAY MORNING WOOO), we woke up and showered in our cruise line-sized bathroom, ate our complimentary breakfast of yogurt, chocolate-filled croissants, and orange juice, and bussed it all the way to Colmar. Things were looking good. I’m finally 21! The excitement built up so much that when I hastily jumped off the bus, my shoe strap snapped. Awesome. Walking more than 5 steps proved to be impossible, so I decided to show the French how fashion-forward I can truly be and went barefoot. We quickly found a store and I dropped 50 euro (about 75 American dollars) on a pair of cute gladiator-esque sandals because it was my birthday and I can be broke if I want to.

The rest of the day consisted of gallivanting through the charming streets of Colmar – shopping, eating, people watching, and last but absolutely not least, taking a gondola ride through the canal which earned the town the nickname Petite Venise. It was exactly like the pictures I had Googled, which is very important to me because after a few missteps with misleading hotel reservations, I had become accustomed to the idea that what you see is definitely not what you get. We had been drinking wine throughout the day and decided to switch it up with a few Happy Birthday Heinekens, along with a surprise Happy Birthday Waffle brought out by the waiter. A little off the beaten path in terms of birthday traditions, but I love me some free dessert. Finally, we headed back to our humblest of abodes to watch our five channels of TV and sleep.


Might need to make this a regular thing...

 If you ever need a place to visit that is NOT Paris, I would highly suggest Colmar as a firm option. It's the quintessential storybook town and it took everything in me not to burst into a Beauty and the Beast sing-a-long on every corner. Of course that could’ve been the wine peeking through, but I heard that when you join the Legal Drinker’s Club of America, behavior like that is customary and in most parts of the world, encouraged. Joyeux Anniversaire à moi!

Playa Haters Ball

I’m not sure if anyone else is aware of the hip new trend sweeping the 18-25 year old male demographic, but I’ve made it my personal responsibility to make sure everyone is as up-to-date on the current events of our generation and this one’s a doozy. Don’t get left in the dark!

Now maybe I’m just downright special, but the frequency with which this new craze has occurred in my life over the past four months or so is simply amazing. Really, I have no idea how one girl could be so blessed. I’m referring, of course, to the number of guys who hit on me and/or ask me out WHILE THEY HAVE A GIRLFRIEND. Not only is this a major insult to my intelligence as well as my social circle, but with the advent of Facebook, I could receive a lobotomy from Michael J. Fox and still be fully aware of the fact that both the poor oblivious girlfriend and I are getting played.

Below are my favorite instances of this laughable behavior. Names have been creatively modified to protect the egos of the borderline retarded. Nice try, boys.

We’ll start with who I guess could be considered the most innocent of the group. Not really, but after being called out he admitted his faults and I’m assuming has kept his little buddy pointed solely at his girlfriend ever since. Happy Almost One Year, you two! I think you’re gonna make it! I met Dancing Machine at a Thunder over Louisville party this past April. Very nice guy, we chatted for a little and danced up a storm. He had to leave, so he asked for my number and told me he had a great time talking to me.
I’ll be damned if within the next 24 hours I hadn’t received 3 texts assuring me, “I’m not a creeper,” a friend request, and a message in my inbox again stating what a fun time he had with me. DM was apparently not aware that unless you make such things private, the phrase “In a Relationship” stands out quiiiite a bit amid such blatant flirtation. I immediately stopped replying, showed his Facebook to my friends, laughed about his stupidity, and carried on with my life.
Well.
The next weekend rolls around, he shows up to the bar I’m at. Through some undeserved spell of confidence, he sends the text: “What up girl” (oh, woo me) to which I respond, “Not much, might wanna go home and ask your girlfriend the same thing.” Aw shit. Dancing Machine tries to backtrack and explain but I’m not having any of it, and calmly advise him to just go home and be with her because ain’t no dancing be happenin tonight with me, girl. He left soon after with his tail between his legs, and has avoided eye contact ever since.

I have to hand it to Frat Pro, he really had me going for a while. We’ve known of one another for a little over a year, and when we started shooting the breeze about how our timing was always off with each other, I thought things were actually off to a decent start. I received drunk texts all through Spring Break, as well as sober messages asking when we could hang out, which we did for about two and a half weeks. He’s a cute guy, my type to a T, and I was pleased.
Then finals week rolls around, and I’m sitting off in a corner of the library so I can procrastinate without the judgmental eyes of the kids that actually have to study, when up on my newsfeed pops “Frat Pro is now in a relationship.” I search my memory to see if I missed anything in our recent hang-out seshes, because god knows I was definitely not in the market for commitment. Nope, all clear. So I sit back and decide to see if the situation is some kind of elaborate joke.
Two days go by, relationship is still going strong, so I shoot him this eloquent text: “Is this girlfriend thing legit?” After what seems like forever, he confirms it, to which I reply, “Well played, sir.” “It’s not like that,” he says. Oh, it’s not like you’ve been hanging out with at least two different girls over the past three weeks, one of whom is still completely unaware of it and is now stuck with a conniving douche for a boyfriend? My mistake. I basically told him not to try to pull off something like that ever again and we went our separate ways.
I will report that two months later they are no longer in a relationship, so she can go back to being the perfectly sweet girl I’m sure she was and he can go back to wearing Croakies and holding onto the memory of his once great body.

I have known Receding Hairline since my freshman year. I believe the nickname we gave him then was Faux Hawk because of his hot ‘do, which only amplified his already massive sex appeal. It goes without saying that times have changed. It sucked when he got a girlfriend spring semester of that year, but alas, we moved on, and unfortunately for her they entered the comfort stage way too quickly and now he lives as one of the top 5 inspirations for my previous post Fat Bottomed Boys.
But I digress.
Every time I’ve seen RH in my college career, be it while getting food or in the library, he’s been super friendly and juuuust teeter-tottering on the brink of flirting. Then you hand him a beer, and all of a sudden, the see-saw catapults him to full-on mackin and I calmly remove myself from the situation. Most recently, I pregamed with a few friends at his house. He was already drunk when we got there, best evidenced by the “Daaamn. Hey Skylar,” that I received upon walking up the steps. I caught a few more awkwardly forward glances being shot my way before we decided to leave. Thought of it somewhat, just because A) his girlfriend was nowhere in sight and B) they were going on their 3-year anniversary, but nothing to worry about.
The next day, one of my friends (who was not very familiar with him or his behavior) asked me what I thought about him, kind of like one of those notes you’d pass during social studies in 6^th grade. Apparently, he thought I was “lookin good” that night and wanted to get hooked up. Yes, this is the affect Tiger Woods has had on young men. I immediately told my friend that he had a girlfriend and regardless of whether or not he dropped her or dropped a few, it was evident that he was a major asshole and could spend the rest of his life perfecting the art of the combover. It should be noted that Receding Hairline and Frat Pro are in the same fraternity. I’ll let you make your own conclusions.

Now New Years Kiss is an interesting situation. He doesn’t go to school with me, so after we met last summer, our contact has been limited pretty much to the random school excursion and occasionally on breaks.
I initially thought he was just your typical college guy (nothing spectacular in any direction), so I took everything he said with a grain of salt, and whenever we found out we’d be in close proximity and I received the, “So when can we chill?” texts I just brushed it all off. He never struck me as the relationship type, so when I found out that he up and got a girlfriend a few months ago, I was pretty surprised. Still, more power to him, she is very pretty and I heard through the grapevine that he had been after her for a little while so it was all gravy. That is, until I received a message the other day asking when we’d see each other again.
I’ve been the third wheel more in my life than is socially acceptable, so my confusion about this comment was laid on pretty thick. “Well my girlfriend’s not here all summer and won’t be here much next semester so I dunno…” Yeah, “I dunno” either buddy, but it sounds like you should break up with her and try doing things with a clear conscience instead of creeping around her back while she’s out of town. If the movie Old School taught us anything, it’s that true love is hard to find; sometimes you think you have true love and then you catch the early flight home from San Diego and a couple of nude people jump out of your bathroom blindfolded like a goddamn magic show ready to double team your girlfriend. I’m not saying this is anything like that, I just happen to enjoy that quote, but the point is, keeping me on the backburner whenever you get lonely is not the way to my heart. A bag of Milk Chocolate M&M's is. And the only thing that New Years Kiss has in common with that one true love o’ mine is that neither has nuts.

I make jokes about being a homewrecker and when I see a cute boy with a girlfriend, the phrase “Challenge accepted” definitely crosses my mind, but at the end of the day I respect people’s relationships.
Boys: stop putting me in an awkward situation, because your girlfriend will blame ME for your indiscretion long before she starts punishing you with withheld sex, and even then you all are still together while I’m labeled as a manipulative whore. Keep it in your pants, keep your eyes on your girl, and be thankful that I haven’t outed any of you. If it happens one more time, you’re all screwed. Spread the word.

I Blame it on Arnold Schwarzenegger

So.

I leave for Austria tomorrow for five weeks. In a word, I am petrified.

Yes, this is a fabulous opportunity and I handpicked my location so there’s no room for regret or complaint there. I’m the only person from my school going but the people that I’ve talked to from other schools seem super nice and I’m super excited to meet them and hanging out with them is going to be just plain super. Everything is paid for, so a big shout out and monumental thank you go to the parentals. I’ve packed and then unpacked, and then repacked, and even though I’ve still stressed over the fact that a month and a half’s worth of clothes should not be confined to one suitcase and a small duffel, I googled portable defibrillators and it looks like it’ll be cheaper if I just chill the fuck out about it. Hell, I’ve even gotten all of my textbooks except for one, and that’s fine because I never really wanted to read Frankenstein anyway. So why oh why am I so scared?

For starters, I don’t speak German. After a combined 4 1/2 years of Spanish and Italian you’d think I’d choose a country that converses in one of the Romance languages, but I lost my map of Easy Street when I was like 12, so to Austria it is. Luckily, I picked up a book of offensive phrases called Dirty German (purchase here if you’re feeling randy, baby) so if and when the opportunity arises, I can tell someone, “Fick dich ins Knie!” and be on my merry way. I’ve already memorized how to say “slut,” “bitch,” and “He is fugly,” yet I couldn’t tell you how to ask where the bathroom is. Basically, I’ll definitely be getting into a bar fight while simultaneously peeing my pants. Wish it was the first time.

Another topic of concern is food. I used to be a very picky eater. I’ve come around in recent years (yogurt and olives are the most recent additions to my diet), but when researching Austrian delicacies brought me to such gems as “Beuschel – a stew containing calf lungs and heart” I nearly had an aneurysm. I don’t even like cheeseburgers, how on Earth am I supposed to stomach baby-cow-part soup? As an avid consumer of peanut butter, tears actually came to my eyes when I was told that I would be unable to purchase a simple jar of Jif or Skippy whenever I pleased. Apparently, all they have is the nasty all-natural goo with the peanut oil floating around the top that leaves yellow-brown gritty gunk on the back of your tongue for days. I suppose it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I went a few weeks without my daily dose of fully hydrogenated vegetable oils, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. A girl cannot live on schnapps and strudel alone. Not morally, anyway.

Real talk: Adults love me. Parents, grandparents, teachers, the lady that works at the food kiosk inside one of the buildings on campus who calls me “Honeypie;” I don’t know what it is that I do, but they eat it right up. So one would think that I’d be able to effortlessly charm the lederhosen off of any host frau that I was paired with. You know what’s different about Austrian adults? First of all, I can walk up to any of my friends’ parents and nonchalantly say, “Whattup, Bill.” Such an unthreatening name. Now imagine trying to do the same thing to someone named Felix or Maximilian. The letter X is probably the most intimidating letter of the whole alphabet, and between that and this symbol à ß ß I have no idea how I’m going to say hello to these fine people, much less sleep under their roof. I’ve expressed this fear of menacing erwachsene to my own mom who assured me that I was ridiculous, which wasn’t helpful but is nothing new. Guess I’ll either come back from this trip with a new Mutti or she’ll have whipped me so far into shape I’ll only wear dirndls for the rest of my life.

If anyone has any advice in terms of how to cope with these worries, hit a sista up. Tips, tricks, inside scoop, I’ll take it all. Unless you’re like my dad and your idea of beneficial guidance is telling me to watch the movie Taken. I’m trying to quell my fears here, not obsessively calculate my street value.

That's a Rap

I have beef with The Rapture.

I’m beyond the fact that it’s well after death time and we’re all still kickin, and I’m willing to overlook the leniency that it seems to have had as far as the whole “6 pm in each respective time zone” thing. I’m a little TO’d at the harassment I've endured for over 3 years about the fact that 2012 was the big shebang and all of a sudden, bible humpers (yes, I say “humpers” not “thumpers;” I get my kicks from sexual irony as it pertains to the über-religious) start warning me of the newest apocalypse A DAY AND A HALF before it’s supposed to ensue. I’m all for spontaneity, but if I’m going to achieve my life’s goal of eating my body weight in M&M’s, I need a bit of a heads-up.

If nothing else, they could have at least made the whole ordeal a little more exciting. My brother texted me this today: “You know what would be cooler than rapture? Raptor. And we all had to run around like Jurassic park.” This sparked an entire conversation about how our last day on this beautiful, slightly dysfunctional earth could turn out to be the most awesome evaaaa with just a few tweaks to the name. You’d feel pretty pleased with yourself and your life if this was going down as you were going out:

RAPture: We run around being chased by the ghosts of the best rappers of all time. How awesome would it be to essentially play tag with Eazy E, ODB, Biggie, and Tupac until kingdom come? Seriously, think of the badassery for a second. Would we be running or gangsta leaning? Pimp strut? I’d actually look forward to my impending demise if I got to swag surf my way toward it. Granted, the potential for terror is pretty much inevitable, considering the incidences of AIDS, overdoses, and gun control we’d be up against; however, possibility of a live (in an entertainment sense) performance of Shimmy Shimmy Ya would be well worth it.

RAPTure: Our attention spans miraculously improve. At the risk of sounding like my parents and their friends who are in awe of TiVo even though it’s been around since 1999, we live in a technological age, and things like the FB and Twitties consume most of our lives. On this final day of being, we would suddenly be able to pay attention to each other, and not just through photo albums or status updates. Now it’s true that online creeping could and would rear its realistic head and materialize as actual stalking. Weird kid that pokes you on a bi-daily basis would actually be nudging you in the ribcage, and a fat 40-year-old Albanian man would physically follow you around. Disturbing. But since you’d now be more on your game, you can Duckunder Nearside the prodder into a Half Nelson while unleashing the keychain mace on Old Man Shadow. Engross yourself in that, fool!

raptURe: We’ll go out texting. There’s nothing funny I can say about this, because for about 98% of the population, it’ll be true.

rAPTure: We feel more inclined to do things. Maybe a little counterproductive considering the world is coming to an end, but hey, better late than never. This is the perfect time to face your demons and come clean about all of your naughtiness and stop being such a procrastinator already. I, obviously, would take this period of time to do something astounding because my moments of extreme genius and powerful inspiration always come at the last possible minute. Imagine what would happen in the world when people got down to the biznazz! Right when it counted, cancer would be cured and gay marriage would be given the unanimous go-ahead. And then POOF, we’re done. Way to pull it together in the clutch peeps.

I’m just sayin. It’s already Sunday and I’m neither dead nor in fear of dying. What a jip! I guess I’m just that much more prepared for Doomsday. Or will it be doOMsday, the last day of vinyasa yoga classes? We shall see!

"I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells." -- Dr. Suess

I’m a generally easy-to-please person. I get enjoyment out of the silliest, most effortless things, and tiny instances of sweetness, humor, and/or random entertainment can make my entire week. Does anyone else get a kick out of life’s simple pleasures? Here are some of mine that make me go gaga-ooh-la-la:



Too easy



That’s What She Said-ing: Let the record show that I was making sexual innuendos to just about everything deserving way before Michael Scott made it trendy, but as soon as his catchphrase hit the airwaves, my material increased tenfold. I’ve That’s What She Said-ed my mom. I’ve That’s What She Said-ed my teachers. I’ve yet to That’s What She Said my grandma that I recall, but explaining something of that inappropriate magnitude to an 80-year-old is not on my to-do list. I find it incessantly hilarious even when everyone around me assures me that it’s not, and I’d like to think I’m a Gay Rights trailblazer simply because I call a TWSS in an unbiased fashion.

• Example:
• “I wanna eat out tonight.”
• “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!”
• “Don’t you mean that’s what HE said?”
• “Homo you didn’t. It’s the new millennium, stop being so narrow-minded.”

I will do this until the day I die, so you might as well humor me and just laugh along for the obligatory two minutes. Failing to do so will only make the process harder and longer…heeheehee.

Saving documents/contacts with clever names: You know what isn’t fun? Writing a 10 page paper on the lack of necessity of the study of critical theory as compared to the study of classic texts in modern academics (that sentence barely even made sense, imagine how the next 2,286 words turned out). You know what makes it a little more bearable? Saving the document as “eng491 I hate you.doc”. I also have “wtf are performative utterances.doc”, “ARTH five guys named Zhiang.doc”, and “music history is a joke.doc”. It’s also a joy to look through my phonebook after a particularly stellar weekend and discover new friends such as “Sigma Chi Dance,” “Outside Daniel,” and “Probably Justin?” that I’ll most likely never talk to again. Sure, I could name these things something bland like “Comm 305 Final.doc” and facebook stalk my way to some manswers, but it’s much more enjoyable this way. Super plus bonus: I take it as a passive aggressive success when I get to submit the cheekily-named papers online, knowing that my teacher will see the titles and either chuckle empathetically at my wittiness or rethink the absurdity of the assignment while he/she begrudgingly searches mine for nonexistent grammatical errors. Sweet victory.

Successfully giving myself an unsmudged manicure: Any female knows this is a monumental feat. The fact that I have undiagnosed ADHD makes this accomplishment even more of a celebration. For whatever reason, I choose to paint my nails at the absolute least opportune times, and then I’m somehow dumbfounded when I look down 30 minutes later to find a mess of nicks and smears despite the fact that I’ve just removed every key from a janitor’s keyring and replaced the carpet in my bedroom with hardwood. I’ll never be able to explain myself. I just know that Sally Hansen is my savior and Insta-Dri nail polish is the fucking bomb. 

Finding the perfect gift for someone: My best friend’s birthday is coming up, and I’ll be damned if I haven’t been scouring any and every online store to find the exact balance of “I can’t believe you remembered!” and “HAHA I love our inside jokes.” I live for this stuff. It goes without saying that Christmas shopping is my crack. You think your mom might enjoy a book about Europe? Pfft. Novice. Try a book on vintage French wines with tickets to an old country winery. Get on my level, bitch. Not that I’m bragging, but if elephants are known for their memory, call me Skinny Dumbo. If two months ago you mentioned – in passing – that you wish you had more options in terms of styling your hair, don’t be shocked when you get a salon gift certificate for a cut-color-and-style from yours truly. I would rather spend hundreds of dollars on someone knowing it’s exactly what they wanted and that it truly surprised them/made them ecstatic than just settle for another gift basket from Bath and Body Works and vow to try harder next time. I love doing it, so stop saying, “You shouldn’t have!” and please just sit back and enjoy the pampering.



Jealoussss



Big ole Dolly Parton hair: The best investment I have ever made in myself was the purchase of my teasing comb. I plan to include it in my Oscar acceptance speech. It has secured a place in my will. The fact that it doesn’t have a name is pretty shocking considering my affinity for personifying inanimate objects. The motto “Big Hair, Little Hips” defines my life, and I’d sooner stay in for the night than have a coif that stands less than 3 inches from my scalp with enough hairspray to stop a stray bullet dead in its tracks. Huge, teased-up hair is happy hair, and I’m just as delighted to spend the extra 20 minutes perfecting this halo of massive proportions. Being unable to run my hands through my strands without losing a finger or four is a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it means joining the ranks of my true idol, Donna Reed. Give it up for the bouffant, playas.

The stories on VitaminWater bottles: Dear Glacéau, HIRE ME. Love, Skylar. I used to have a very strange obsession with Revive (fruit punch) VitaminWater, and I’d die every time I read the silly little story on the label. Not only do these guys create a delish beverage, but it was clear to me that they were my kind of people in all aspects. Seriously, who does this remind you of: “If you woke up tired, you probably need more sleep. If you woke up drooling at your desk, you probably need a new job. If you woke up with a headache, on a ferris wheel, wearing a toga, you probably need answers…” I belong there. Half the time I’d be reading this in my 8am College Algebra class (your sympathy is appreciated) and while it did not help me think of any real-life scenario in which I’d use matrices, it was good for a brief pick-me-up. You can read some of the other amusing labels here, and just know that if you don’t at least smirk at their sassiness, you’re either a descendent of Scrooge or you have no appreciation for life’s little joys whatsoever and this entire post has probably pissed you off. I won’t apologize for being happy!!

LYLAS - Women I'd Like to Meet

Stacy London from What Not to Wear – Apparently, she graduated from Vassar with degrees completely unrelated to fashion (philosophy and German Literature), which is pretty kickass considering I’ll probably graduate with an English degree that takes me about as far as this blog. I appreciate her witticisms and sarcastic comments that initially seem like they’d break down an emotionally-brittle contestant even more than they do by themselves, but eventually are just reinterpreted as tough love as they check out their stylish new bods at the end of an episode. I’m also in awe of the confidence it takes a 42-year-old woman to have to rock a Cruella Deville-esque grey streak in her hair, especially one that’s been growing solid for at least 5 years. As previously mentioned, her affinity for high heels is the main reason I believe we’re soul sisters.

Chelsea Handler – I owe this woman my current sense of humor. I’ve read all three of her books, I always abandon academic responsibility to watch Chelsea Lately, and until I found out I’d be studying abroad through the month of June, my 21^st birthday plan was to see her perform in DC, get a bottle of Belvedere signed after the show, and proceed to invite her out on the town (I’m still maintaining this option as a solid plan B. Is German beer really that great?). I love her ability to verbally abuse just about anyone that comes in sight, and she lives out my dream of mercilessly making fun of people nobody likes on a nightly basis. Once, when I had to crank out a six-page paper in a matter of ninety minutes, I did a quick read-through of a few of the stories in Are You There Vodka? It’s Me Chelsea and produced the wittiest analysis of Bartleby, the Scrivener I’m pretty sure any English professor had ever seen. I wouldn’t be one of the assholes that go to a taping of Chelsea Lately just to see Chuy, although nubby little chunks do entice me in an interesting way. If there’s any dream of mine, it’s that I’d make it onto Roundtable and actually make her laugh instead of glare at me in disgust. Although that would be awesome too.

Hayden Panettiere – This is my girl crush. I’m as straight as a pin in a flatiron factory, but who can deny the cute little girl from Remember the Titans who never went through an awkward phase and despite making an embarrassing leading appearance in Bring it On: All or Nothing still makes bank as a Neutrogena girl. She is the Regina George to my frizzy-haired chubby dork: She is flawless. She could punch me in the face, and it WOULD be awesome. Whenever I need a new hairdo, I immediately Google her for inspiration, convincing myself that any way she styles her hair will automatically look good on me because we look sorta kinda similar (my admiration for her has made me slightly delusional. Let it happen). I understand she’s no Meryl Streep as far as acting goes, and her brief stint as Paris Hilton's BFF-du-jour was slightly off-putting, but the bottom line is that the girl’s hot and I want to be her. Period.

Christina Aguilera – Saved the best for last. Anyone that knows me knows the undying obsession I have with Xtina. I wholeheartedly supported her through the slutty Stripped phase, even when she dyed the hair black and got a little chubs. Ain’t no thang, girl can sang. A better part of my Favorite YouTube videos belong to her, and I study them so religiously that I’ve actually incorporated her signature head pops and microphone fondling into my everyday activities. When I was 9 and the video for “Come on Over” came out, in which she wears a pair of lace-up, blue-and-white diamond-printed pants, I was in love, and to this day I search for an identical pair to rock around campus. Any roommate I’ve ever had has definitely heard me practice my (ahem) spot-on renditions of “Impossible,” “I Turn to You,” and “Save Me From Myself” in the shower, and should I ever live out my dream of becoming a karaoke star, my set list will also include “The Voice Within,” “You Lost Me,” and strictly her section from “Lady Marmalade.” There is absolutely nothing about the woman that I don’t adore, and if I ever meet her I’m pretty sure – in no particular order – I’ll cry, faint, scream jibberish, and have a stroke. God Bless You, Ms. Aguilera. Screw you, Britney.

Now I know that this list seems short and shallow, and to be considered a more forward-thinking woman in society I probably should’ve included someone like Michelle Obama or Oprah or perhaps even God herself, but that would be misleading. I’d love to shake hands with those women, say “thank you” or “congratulations on being awesome,” but the four people included here could be my Sex and the City crew. I actually want to hang out with them. Sure, I’d be willing to fake friendship with Oprah just to get a show on the OWN Network and maybe get some student loans taken care of, but at the end of the day, do I really want to chill with a one-upper who constantly downplays my personal achievements, such as the fact that I finally figured out that exercise is not spelled with a Z? The benefits of this list are neverending: not only are these girlfraaans cool as hell, but I’d have a personal stylist, a straight-talking advice-giver, someone to introduce me to Milo Ventimiglia, and a diva to sing me to sleep every night.

Would meeting President Obama and having hardcore political discussions be the highlight of my life? Absolutely not. Do I want an invite to the Grammy’s/Oscar’s/Emmy’s/Fashion Week? You know it, girl.