A Christmas Letter from THAT Family

Merry Christmas everyone! It’s us! The family you love to hate.

We hope everyone had a wonderful 2011. You didn’t? Bummer! Feel free to compare your worthless life to our fabulous one filled with achievement and positivity!

Read about our incredible children! They’re already more accomplished than you’ll ever be!

Lindsay is a junior at her wildly expensive private high school. She is a champion fencer, president of the chemical engineering club, volunteers for Habitat for Humanity, and still finds time to tutor that boy with Autism that lives down the street. If she didn’t get straight A’s we’d beat her! Just kidding, ha ha, we’d just passive aggressively verbally abuse her into success instead. All of her activities will inevitably get her a full-ride scholarship to whichever college she chooses, but that doesn’t matter, because we’ve been breeding her to become a Yale Bulldog since birth. Join the military? Fat chance, Lindsay! If you’ve already forgotten about any of the achievements listed above, don’t worry, we’ll remind you all over again when we bump into you at the grocery store in two months.

We are going to tell you that Connor is taking a semester off from his sophomore year at Pepperdine to travel to Thailand to teach orphaned children their ABC’s, but really, he has a massive cocaine addiction and was secretly shipped off to Sunrise Detox Center in Florida back in October. He used to play point guard for Pepperdine and used to be Vice President of the Sigma Chi Fraternity and used to date a girl that we were positive he was going to get married to and produce children-that-look-like-Ralph-Lauren-models with, but instead, his hair is down to his shoulders and his sense of smell is shot to heck. We had to Photoshop his face from a year and a half ago onto the picture we enclosed because if you saw him now you’d think he was homeless and that we were bad parents. The latter part of that statement is what really bothers us. See you in six months Connor! We’ll love you more when you stop bringing shame to the family!

Stephanie is our pride and joy. Stephanie is flawless. If we weren’t so overwhelmingly religious, Stephanie would be our Jesus. She is a senior at Vassar double majoring in neuroscience and Ancient Greek language and literature. She is a member of the Equestrian Club, a leader in the college’s organization to prevent child abuse, and a producer for WVKR (the Vassar radio station). We have left out that she is also a member of the group that advocates legal equality for the LGBTQ community because we don’t want anyone assuming she’s a lesbian. She’s not! We dodged that bullet by threatening to stop paying her tuition. On top of all that, Stephanie has two jobs that she doesn’t need but insists on having to pad her resume. Stephanie is naturally thin and has perfect hair that always looks professionally done. Even when she wakes up! It’s completely unfair to the rest of the female race! She’s probably going to cure cancer in five years and/or single-handedly lead a revival of Latin as the prominent spoken language on Earth. If you hear us refer to ourselves as “Stephanie” at any point in time, it’s okay, we’re just trying to live vicariously through her.  

Dave is still a financial advisor and is doing extremely well. Like, way way better than you do. Like, his salary is triple what yours’ is. Isn’t that wonderful?! I did not marry him for his money. We are just very blessed. And by “we” I mean “me.” I keep busy walking our two pure-bred German Shepherds and dabbling in interior design.

We hope you all keep the Christ in Christmas and have a joyous New Year! And sorry that your invitation to our annual Christmas Party was never put got lost in the mail! It’s nothing personal! Okay, it is.

"Learn from Yesterday, Live for Today, Hope No One Took Pictures."

As much as I dislike self-reflection, I think it’s a very important exercise that forces you to check yourself before you wreck yourself and analyze just how acceptable your day-to-day behavior truly is. I might find dancing on bars and demolishing 48-ounce bags of M&M’s within a two-day period enjoyable, but in terms of my dignity and my waistline, they’re probably not the greatest things for me. For whatever reason, I chose 2011 to go as buckwild as a Flavor of Love contestant and from these uncharacteristic displays of stupidity I ended up learning quite a bit. Sharing is caring, so hopefully my list will evoke some thoughtfulness in you lovely people. At the very least, you’ll get a good laugh and I’ll be transported back to high school where everything I did caused crippling embarrassment and shame, just on a much nerdier scale. Let’s roll:

This year, I learned that wide-necked, off-the-shoulder tops are not a good look for me. I have a short torso, and all the extra fabric makes me look like I’m trying to hide an oopsie pregnancy. This may work for Jessica Simpson, but I don’t have a career to desperately salvage, so I just end up looking chubs.

This year, I learned that I’m actually a pretty ballin cook. I knew I could bake, but apparently the culinary world has a lot more to offer than a box of Barilla and a jar of Classico, and I discovered that. I have mastered gourmet chicken salad, oatmeal chocolate chip pancakes from scratch, and homemade mac and cheese, and that’s just the tip of the spatula.

This year, I learned that bragging that your fake ID “even worked on Bourbon Street!” is not impressive.

This year, I learned that a person can wear big ole Dolly Parton hair, or a tight red cocktail dress, or an obscene amount of black eyeshadow, but should never try to rock all three simultaneously. Yikes.  

This year, I learned that it’s not necessary to buy sunglasses because a new pair will inevitably fall into your lap at one point or another. I had two pair for a solid four years, and managed to lose them both between the months of March and June. At this point in time, I own three, and I have no idea where any of them came from. That’s called being coincidentally advantageous, and I’ve cornered the market.

This year, I learned that I am Charlotte York from Sex and the City. I’m not explaining this. Just go watch a few episodes and try to deny it.

This year, I learned that although gelato has less fat than ice cream, you can bridge the gap and still gain a solid six pounds when you make a habit out of visiting the nice Italian guys that run the joint every single day.

This year, I learned that I’m not as good around adults as I thought. German people don’t appreciate my humor and were not impressed by my botched delivery of “Guten morgen!” The fact that I don’t like sausage really sealed my fate.

This year, I learned that growing up does not actually mean getting any more mature. There is no shame in enjoying a classic Disney movie, calling someone a copycat, and wearing rain boots, Soffe’s, and a bikini top to the grocery store.

This year, I learned that if your core group of friends has more than five girls in it, two of them will undoubtedly hate each other on any given weekend. It’s science.  

This year, I learned that Madonna and Lady Gaga aren’t the only ones who can pull off the whole brunette-to-blonde thing with finesse.

The Year Somewhat in Review

Every year around this time, publications of all varieties will put out their takes on the most important/exciting/influential/crazy moments of the past year, causing us all to think “Oh yeah, he died!” and “Wait a sec, I turned how old?” HAHA just kidding, only people above age 30 wonder that. Sucks. Anyway, I consider this blog to be one of those varieties of publications because I write it and apparently more than one person in Russia reads it (Здравствуйте, друзья!), so that’s all that matters. On that note, let’s chat about the freak show that was 2011:

• The media as a whole ran with the notion that we all have secret desires to hook up with our buddies and shelled out No Strings Attached, Friends with Benefits, and the MTV show Friend Zone. The two movies were basically Black Swan if Natalie Portman would’ve just chilled the fuck out and gotten laid like the French guy told her to and if Mila Kunis wasn’t such a bicurious crack whore. Why they thought no one would notice that these films were the exact same story released six months apart is beyond me, but I’d give the W to FWB based off of Justin Timberlake alone (he is my ultimate). Friend Zone fostered the American young adult’s fantasy that their best guy friend of eight years would look past the fact that they tricked him into being their wingman for a fake blind date just so they could confess their love and hope that it was reciprocated because hey, we all need a fairy tale to believe in. I don’t know why all of a sudden we’ve given up on our hopes of meeting our soulmate in a crowded dive bar on a Thursday night, because that foolproof tactic has worked phenomenally well for everyone I know. It’s nice that Hollywood decided to give us hope that our one true love is posting raunchy Text From Last Night’s onto our wall and not paying for our Panera and that all it takes is some courage to realize our fate, but in reality, admitting your feelings to a close pal only creates an awkward situation and a ruined friendship. If the world’s coming to an end in a year, I’d like to send it off with all of my playmates in tow, thankyouverymuch.  
•  Someone forgot to inform The Situation that “roasting” someone did not mean locking them in a tanning bed for 3 hours so as to achieve that cancerific orange glow. At the Roast of Donald Trump in March, it was clear that Man Grenade (seriously, his face is a modern tragedy) had no semblance of a sense of humor and produced one of the most uncomfortable on-TV moments of the new millennium. There are so many ways that this shebang went wrong: he began by referring to the Trumpster as “mah man.” There is no way the two are on the same playing field, let alone friends. As the crowd started to turn on him, he told them to “Ay ay ooh chill.” That just wasn’t going to be effective no matter what, and at that point anyone without a birth defect would’ve just stepped down and saved face. The be-all-end-all was when Snoop Dogg unwrapped a rillo right in the middle of the entire thing, inviting the rest of the audience to do the same because let’s be honest, no matter how drug-averse you are, we all needed a little weed after that situation debacle.
• Another state came-to after years in a moral coma and finally legalized gay marriage. In June, New York became the seventh state (with D.C. piggy-backing) to let people do what they should have been able to do forever. Considering it took four years from the initial passed legislation for this to come into fruition, NY and its gays had to feel pretty baller about the whole situation. Don’t worry, it gets even cooler: Kitty Lambert and Cheryle Rudd of Buffalo were wed in Niagra Falls at midnight to become the first couple in the state to celebrate the newly-enacted law, and the Falls were lit up in rainbow just for the occasion. I don’t care what your sexual orientation or your feelings toward gay marriage are; that had to be the prettiest effing wedding in the entire world. I really hope the rest of America wakes up soon!
• In September, the whole Occupy Wall Street, 99%, “Your degree will mean nothing in six months” thing started. To be perfectly honest, I have no interest in talking about this for several reasons, but mostly because I still don’t understand what it’s all about. That probably makes me a bad American and a disgrace to my generation. If I had a nickel…
• A teacher at California State University at Sacramento walked out on his class after no one brought snacks. Apparently, psychology professor George Parrott requires that homemade treats are brought to his weekly labs and if the students don’t pull through, they lose that week’s instruction. When he walked out in November, students filed complaints with the university. First of all, those kids are idiots. All they had to do was dump a few dozen packages of Hostess Mini Muffins onto a plate and pretend they Betty Crockered them up that morning and boom, problem solved. Furthermore, who protests class getting cancelled? I totally side with Professor Parrott (sweet name, bro) because I, too, am a fan of the sweets. There are several situations that I would walk out on if there wasn’t food provided, such as a Weight Watchers meeting, or a marriage proposal. Bottom line, those students totally dropped the ball and it’s just another example of a school that no one’s ever heard of producing truly asinine people.   

The Modern 12 Days of Christmas

...because we all know that no one in this day and age would be psyched about three chickens and a dozen Keith Moons invading their apartment. You know the tune:

On the first day of Christmas my guy-that-helped-me-jump-start-my-car-and-then-got-my-number gave to me: a 1.75 of KG.

On the second day of Christmas my guy-who-randomly-knows-my-roommate-who-vouches-that-he’s-really-funny-and-smart gave to me: two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the third day of Christmas my guy-whose-guilty-pleasures-are-also-VH1-countdowns-and-Diners-Drive ins-and-Dives gave to me: three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the fourth day of Christmas my guy-who-suggested-we-go-do-something-together-sometime-if-I’m-not-too-busy gave to me: four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the fifth day of Christmas my guy-who-walked-me-to-class-even-though-his-next-one-was-on-the-other-side-of-campus-and-started-ten-minutes-ago gave to me: fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the sixth day of Christmas my guy-who-came-over-and-watched-a-movie-and-didn’t-even-try-to-go-for-a-feelski gave to me: six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.  

On the seventh day of Christmas my guy-who-brought-me-a-Frappucino-as-I-studied-for-finals-even-though-I-hate-coffee-but-it-was-such-a-sweet-gesture gave to me: seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the eighth day of Christmas my guy-that-actually-called-me-to-see-how-my-day-was-instead-of-the-usual-“Whattup girl”-text gave to me: eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the ninth day of Christmas my guy-who-drunkenly-told-me-how-beautiful-and-special-I-am-but-didn’t-remember-doing-so-the-next-day-hello-awkward-situation gave to me: nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the tenth day of Christmas my guy-whose-friends-tell-me-he-thinks-I’m-“chill”-and-talks-about-me-all-the-time gave to me: ten fingers for hand-holding, nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the eleventh day of Christmas my guy-that-I-think-I’m-dating-but-we-haven’t-had-the-“talk”-yet-and-I’m-afraid-to-bring-it-up-because-it’ll-freak-him-out gave to me: eleven minutes of making out, ten fingers for hand-holding, nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the twelfth day of Christmas my boyfriend gave to me: twelve long-stem roses, eleven minutes of making out, ten fingers for hand-holding, nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose. --Woody Allen

Thanksgiving is upon us, and I’d like to take a few minutes out of my hectic schedule of procrastinating and looking at PostSecret to actually throw some appreciation up to the universe for making my life remarkably awesome.

I’m thankful forrrr….

·    My hair and how it hasn’t turned out completely god-awful from any of the handful of at-home highlighting sessions I’ve conducted in my quest to go blonde. Things haven’t been perfect, but I don’t look like one of the skanky skunks I so openly despise, so I think it deserves a high five.

·    Hypochondria for allowing me to realize when I’m actually sick, and when I’m just feeling weird. A trip to WebMD has me convinced that I’m dying of scarlet fever even though it is far and beyond 1905, and I know my days are numbered. After I finally get around to medicating myself, it turns out I just need to spend the day in bed with a gallon of orange juice. Oh Overreaction, you son of a gun.

·    Chopped on the Food Network. Watching it as obsessively as I do always makes me hungry, and then I tend to binge on such gourmet combinations as a red pepper and tomato omelette, half a tub of spinach and artichoke hummus, snickerdoodle dough, and a four month old fortune cookie. After I sit back on the couch, stuffed and Googling the benefits of bulimia, I remember that I’m lucky to have food to eat at all, and I let it settle into my lovehandles out of sheer gratitude.

·    Wanton Judgment. No, I don’t mean having a biased opinion about a dumpling stuffed with pork and shrimp, seasoned with ginger and soy sauce. That would be wonton judgment, and sounds delicious. The fact that a person can wear makeup and blow dry their hair every day and then intelligently contribute to the class discussion about sixteenth century British literature seems to be a difficult concept for some people to grasp. I could retaliate and come to conclusions about someone else’s literary aptitude based on their appearance, but I won’t. Instead, I’ll be happy about the fact that I earn my good grades despite the creepy flirty winks that professors throw my way, and I’ll hope that Judge Judy in the front row enjoys hanging out with her four ferrets this Saturday night.  

·    The words judgment, exercise, and knowledge. It’s humbling to know that after seventeen years of memorizing the alphabet, I can still trip up on some words. The fact that you never stop learning is really a godsend – maybe I’ll finally master how to spell these by the time I’m 70. (While we’re at it, I’m also thankful for Spell Check.)

·    Rain. I’m not a huge fan of what it does to my hair or the fact that it makes people drive like they had a stroke as soon as they merged onto the highway, but I get to pull out my silver Hunter rain boots, and the rest of the day I feel like the Tin Man.

·    Awkward encounters. It’s really quite the test of character when the girl who “secretly” hooked up with the guy you were talking to stands behind you in the Forever 21 checkout line and you’re forced to have a civilized conversation with her without mentioning the fact that she’s a devious slut. Being the bigger person is so satisfying.

·    Drunk Skylar. Not only does she clean up Regular Skylar’s room at three in the morning, she also takes the initiative in washing off the night’s makeup so raccoon eyes don’t occur, deleting any potentially embarrassing text messages, and forgetting to set alarms for things that Regular Skylar really didn’t want to do anyway.

·    Adele’s Someone Like You coming on the radio as I drive alone. During this time, I get the opportunity to belt the lyrics while bawling my eyes out and feeling sorry for myself for no particular reason, and by the time I pull up to my apartment I feel loads better and no one had to witness my ridiculous behavior.

·    Flickering lights. Sure, it might be a sign that my lightbulb is about to burn out (and thus will be burnt out for the rest of the year because I’m too cheap to buy a new one), but I like to think it’s my grandpa checking in on me and trying to be funny. As long as he sticks to silly things it’s not creepy.

·    In-car GPS systems. Being directionally challenged, there is no modern invention I love more than this. I am very honest about the fact that I get lost on just about every journey I go on, and since no one in their right mind can legitimately read a road map, GPS is my go-to. Right down to the condescending way it scoffs, “Recalculating” as I defiantly go the way I think is better, I could not get through a day without that baby. 

·    People who have their lives after graduation more or less figured out. I don’t, and your proactivity has terrified me into believing I’ll be working at the Pillow Pet kiosk at the mall for the next twenty years. Therefore, I’ve finally gotten on the job-application ball and am attempting to plan my future.  

·    Skype for allowing me to see my beautiful best friends whenever I please even though we’re hundreds of miles apart. The fact that I can provide visuals to explain my most recent bout of foolishness is a lot better than forcing them to imagine it themselves. I’m afraid of what they’d come up with.  

·    Whoever left the inky black pen in the study room I’m currently sitting in at the library. I lose my pens all the time, and this one makes my handwriting look awesome. And by handwriting I mean the umpteen doodle hearts I just wrote in the margin of my Ethics notes.

The Five Year Secret

When you like to talk as much as I do, you can rapidly (and accidentally!) enter some dangerous territory in terms of your conversation topics. Sometimes it’s just in the form of telling a story that really didn’t go anywhere, or telling a joke that really didn’t go anywhere, or telling a joke about a girl telling a story about a bus that didn’t go anywhere (ba dum chh), but sometimes a person can get so wrapped up in the art of running their mouth that a secret or two just pops out, and boom, trouble’s afoot. Cartoon characters have it easy, because they can easily grab the slip-up in mid-air and cram it back in their mouths before anyone actually notices that they made a verbal boo-boo, but the rest of us have to either keep talking and hope no one caught our little mishap, or own up to it and get ready for a stream of explanations and apologies to whomever the secret was about. I really don’t try to do this, it just happens! You’ve done worse, I’m sure, like that time you…JUST KIDDING.

On the other hand, there are certain skeletons in my closet that won’t see the light of day for quite some time. Five years, to be exact. You see, while some classified info goes into my mental file cabinet without it’s “Do Not Repeat!” tag, other stuff is highlighted, strung with Christmas lights, and practically set on fire to remind me that it is a major hush-hush topic. I invented the Five Year Secret because was trying to prematurely bail myself out. I figure whatever it is that was done/said won’t hold much importance to whoever it could potentially offend five years after the fact, so it provides a nice buffer for me to forget entirely (thus, avoiding the issue altogether) or we can all share a hearty giggle about our ridiculous selves a half-decade ago.

Let’s discuss which hypothetical secrets that I have zero knowledge about or connection to at all serve as perfect candidates for the Five Year Secret:

Hooking up with a friend’s boyfriend:  If you’re a true bitch, you do this type of thing on the daily and therefore could not care less whether or not you’re “friend” finds out about your dismissively slutty behavior. The rest of the world has Jiminy Cricket sitting on their shoulder screaming “Whooore!” right into their ear. Hopefully if this happens, it was an accident, a one-time thing, and you went home and immediately threw up from the guilt. Ideally, you would tell the friend from the get-go, get the fight over with, and go back to being BFF’s at least a week later (Yes, that long. You hooked with her boyfriend ya skank!). However, if you choose to keep it to yourself, you have no choice but to initiate the FYS. The longer you wait, the more the phrases “Why didn’t you tell me?!” and “How could you do that to me?!” will be thrown around in progressively screechier tones, so it’s best to let the entire situation ride itself out. Five years from now, she will inevitably have another boyfriend and your indiscretion can be chalked up to immaturity, and you two can joke about what a loser he was while your little part in the whole ordeal slides under the radar. If you don’t see it going your way, add a year. Or two. Or just make the bed you lie in and stop inviting other people’s boo thangs in there with you.

·         Let the record show that I do not condone this type of behavior, and I would recommend that you tell your friend that she is dealing with a horribly conniving prostitute friend as well as an inconsiderate, deceitful douchebag of a boyfriend. It sucks, but as a gal pal, so do you. 

Hitting someone’s car: [Assuming no one saw it happen,] regardless of if it was your mom’s SUV while you were pulling out of the driveway or a random stranger’s convertible in the mall parking lot, if you caused significant damage, you keep your mouth shut. These things are very easy to get yourself out of without getting into deep trouble. In the mom’s car situation, all you have to do is quietly drive yourself to a random destination, wait a few minutes, conjure up a wobbly voice and some tears, and call her up with a story about how “Someone must have slammed into it and just driven away while you were in [church/homeless shelter/donating bone marrow/feeding starving ducks] and they didn’t even leave a note!” You’re automatically in the clear, and the imaginary jerk is suddenly the subject of your mom’s scorn. In the mall parking lot, the only option you have is to peel out of there as quickly and stealthily as humanly possible. Some people might think these measures are a little excessive and that five years might be unnecessarily long for something so miniscule, but those people have A) never met my mom’s wrath and B) have never had to pay $2000 for scratching a brand new Lexus parked outside of Subway. After keeping the FYS, your mom probably won’t be able to distinguish an old dent/scratch from a new one, and the poor fella at the mall will have let go of his grudge and learned to park his car in a wide open spot rather than right on the line. Your depth perception might also improve over this time…

Hazing activities: We’ve all heard the myth that in order to initiate into a frat, guys will have to have sex with a goat. We haven’t? Well your eyes just got opened WIDE, didn’t they? Anyway, whether you had to remake the scene from Clerks 2, chug a das boot full of your fellow pledges’ urine, circle jerk, or anything else even remotely homoerotic to prove your allegiance to “the brotherhood,” it’s probably in your best interest to keep it on the DL until you’re out of undergrad. Sure, prospective employers whose connection you received through your fraternity will have allegedly gone through the same thing and will understand your pain, but bros can discuss a lot of ridiculous college events, and jacking off your pledge brother in the darkness of the chapter room is not one of them. This will probably be hilarious to reminisce about after five years, given that Brian didn’t develop some weird bestiality fetish, Greg didn’t get a horrible throat infection from his “cock”tail, and Justin didn’t come out of the closet. What fun would a FYS be without some extra surprises?

Peeing your pants after age 9: You should never admit to this. Not five years later, not ten years later, never. Even if people were there to witness it, vehemently deny it. This is right up there with kissing an ugly person and once having an extra toe; it just didn’t happen. Let’s practice:

“Hey, didn’t you pee your pants in Macy’s once?”

“Nope, not me.”

“What’s up Professor Pee Pee Pants?”

*Look around confused to see who they’re referring to*

“Remember that time you…”

“NO I DO NOT.”

Billy Madison had it completely wrong: you AIN’T cool if you pee your pants. You just ain’t. 

There are countless scenarios where the Five Year Secret is far superior to telling the truth. If you don't know, ask. I'm keeping so many of my own right now my brain might explode, which is pretty telling of how embarrassingly nuts my life is. Luckily, we're closing in on the secrets of 16/17-year-old Skylar, so a huge load will be lifted off of my shoulders soon. And depending on how understanding everyone is, a few friends might be lifted off my shoulders as well. Stay tuned!

Kollege Kid Kard

I think they should hand out passes at the beginning of your freshman year that are similar to those punch cards at Dunkin Donuts granting you a free coffee after your tenth visit. Every time you do something quintessentially “Colleeeeeege,” you get a space punched out, and instead of freebies at the end, you get a diploma. There are certain aspects of college that everyone – no matter who you are or where you go – simply must partake in to get the full experience.

• Making your RA’s life a living hell by wreaking sexual-innuendo-laden havoc on the bulletin board she spent way too much energy decorating? *Punch!*
• Showing up still wasted to class on Friday morning only to participate more than you ever have all semester and probably ever will again? *Punch!*
• Getting into a huge fight with the kid you were sorta kinda dating and texting him at 3am that same night to “see what he’s up to”? *Triple Punch!*

I’ve crammed a lot of calamity into my college experience, but there are some things that I will never receive punches for. And I’m strangely cool with that, because I’d rather save my funtimes up for occasions that don’t put me in hilarious danger or make me look like a complete asshole (at least not intentionally).

Here are the ways in which I lose my Kollege Kid Kard:

Not liking Dave Matthews Band: Getting this fact out in the open puts me in great danger of getting shanked by just about everyone I hang out with, but they can suck it, because the man sounds like he’s had the hangy ball in the back of his throat shot with more than the recommended dose of Novocain, and I can’t stand it. “But Skylar, he’s a great song writer!” “But Skylar, they’re such influential philanthropists!” “But Skylar, how could you not love Under the Table and Dreaming?!” I SAID SUCK IT. I’ll take it a step further: A lot of their stuff sounds the same to me; I get “Crash Into Me” and “Where are You Going” confused all the time. There is a certain thing called variety, and Dave ain’t got it in my book. If nothing else, I should probably feel some sense of camaraderie towards the guys based on the fact that they’re from Charlottesville, VA, which is very close to my hometown, but I can’t/won’t even give them that, because Charlottesville is boring as shit. So go off and follow them around like the Deadheads of the 21^st century; Incubus is better anyway.

Never having bonged a beer: I am 5’0” (5’1” on a good day), and although the speed with which I can scarf down a Bruschetta Chicken Burger from Red Robin might suggest my stomach capacity is similar to that of Joey Chestnut’s, physically and logically it just cannot be so. Therefore, I am understandably not comfortable with the idea of that much beer entering my body that fast, and me not either puking or burping in a very manly fashion. Anatomy aside, I have a few personal qualms with the whole “beer bong” practice. For starters, I’m not a chugger. Relaxing my throat sends beer straight down my trachea. I have no egotistical need to be a hero, and I don’t try to be. Secondly, I have a one-track mind that is excellent for quick delivery of That’s What She Saids, but not so great when anything tubular is in or around someone’s mouth. A lot of the time, beer bongs are taken on the knees, and that opens up a whole new world of naughty jokes altogether. Finally, pouring a beer that fast results in an absurd amount of foam, and that’s not only hard to swallow but also a huge waste of my time. I’m just fine casually sipping my classy whiskey and Coke and observing the other party time favorite in which I will never participate: keg stands.

No stories involving homeless men: Honestly, I’m kind of crossing my fingers for this one to still happen, but only if the experience turns out as awesome as some of my friends’ have. For instance, one of my good friends met her hobo pal while cutting through a field on her way home one night. His name was Gravel, and they met on the train tracks. Although the story had all the makings of a Dateline Exclusive, Gravel was very kind and directed her and her friend through the field so they could get back to campus. He may have been missing about 97% of his teeth, but she’ll be damned if he wasn’t helpful. Something similar happened to another one of my friends as she and a couple of other girls were walking home from a bar. Unfortunately, their hobo friend wasn’t nearly as helpful or sweet, didn’t have a cool name, and I’m pretty sure they had trash thrown at them. Still, a story’s a story, and I’m always looking for something new to add to my arsenal of ridiculousness, so if I have to put my personal safety in jeopardy and risk getting taken away to someone’s underground vagrant lair in a storm drain, I’m all about it.

Never attended a PCB Spring Break: I know, right?! How could I possibly have made it to this point in my life without a visit to the Mecca of drunken tomfoolery? Actually, that’s probably exactly how I’ve made it to this point in my life. A trip to Panama City, Fla. leaves you susceptible to any or all of the following things: dehydration, amnesia, Chlamydia, crippling regret, babies. I don’t need any of those things in my life. That is not to say I’m entirely opposed to the idea, though. There are certain aspects of a PCB Spring Break that I would definitely be a fan of, such as meeting D-list reality TV stars, participating in booty shaking contests, and working hard in the gym for three months prior to the trip only to have picture upon picture taken of myself sporting an embarrassing beer belly. How have I deprived myself for so long?  

Not owning Vera Bradley merchandise: I love colorful things. I love printed things. Colorful printed random things that are attention grabbing and girly and wonderful. That being said, I cannot stand Vera Bradley. At first I thought it was just the popularity that got to me. Everywhere I looked, there were hundreds of girls with the backpacks holding the matching laptop case with a matching ID case on their matching lanyard, and suddenly I was so overwhelmed by “Safari Sunset” and “Pinwheel Pink” that I almost threw up quilted paisley florals all over myself. On second thought, it might be the names of the patterns themselves that riled me up. It can go anywhere from just plain “Olive” all the way up to “Floral Nightingale,” and quite frankly that’s a lot of creative license for someone to take. “Twirly Birds” in pink OR navy? Can you even do that? The fact that there are so many options and it seems as though people only own stuff in “Rhythm and Blues,” “Happy Snails,” or “Make me Blush” is just ridiculous. Finally, Vera has taken it way too far in the sheer variety of products she sells. Duffels, garment bags, makeup cases; all good and well. But then we get into the curling iron covers, the placemats, the coolers, and the photo albums, and I feel like she’s being a little greedy. Cornering the market and knowing your audience shows excellent business savvy, but who in their right mind would pay $22 for a stationary set? I’ll stick to something a little less Java Blue, thank you.  

Geezer

            There are several diseases that just aren’t funny. I cannot and will not ever joke about any type of cancer. Multiple sclerosis is a heart-wrenching thing to watch someone endure. Anyone that finds humor in AIDS might as well have it themselves because they clearly have no soul worth sharing with others anyway.

            But Alzheimer’s? Alzheimer’s is hysterical.

            My grandpa was officially diagnosed in 2008, and every subsequent family get-together was inherently entertaining. He was never a patient man to begin with, but as he got irritated over the misplacement of a newspaper or forgetting which channel ESPN was, cursing the entire situation with a “Goddamnit! Christ almighty!” vented his frustration and offered plenty of comedic fodder for my brothers and I to work with.

Growing up, Grandpa would generously send the three of us checks either at the beginning of the school year or the end of the school year or sometime around Yom Kippur even though much to my dismay, we’re in no way, shape, or form Jewish. My oldest brother would rake in a whopping $75, which would lead the naïve eye to believe that my other brother and I would be receiving the same fortune. Erroneous on all [bank] accounts. Middle Bro would collect a cool $50, and yours truly would be left with $25. Thanks Grandpa, how equally-divisible of you. The checks stopped a-coming around the time the thoughts stopped a-flowing, which is pretty unfortunate because as far as I’m concerned, I should’ve made my way up to at least $40 by now. But when a man has trouble dressing himself and obliviously wanders the streets at midnight with just his walker and a dream, it’s understandable when the silly nuances fall by the wayside.

As things progressed (or regressed, depending on how you look at it), the amusement factor skyrocketed. Grandpa had to move out of his house and in with my aunt, which was like a sitcom waiting to happen. Grandpa thought this meant he had upgraded to the penthouse at the Ritz, and like any true diva, immediately made everyone around him his bitch. While he could usually identify my dad after some gentle coaxing, my brothers were always some kind of room service attendant, my aunt and uncle were the concierge and maid, respectively, and my mom and I got to switch off acting as his “girlfriend” (sorry, Grandma). Talk about awkwardly-hilarious. Now I know how Anna Nicole Smith felt. We tried to remind him that we were family, but I’m pretty sure when you get to a certain age, you’ll call anyone anything they want as long as they’ll get you a glass of orange juice and find out what time the UConn game is on.

Grandpa was always good for a quick ego boost. A short note would usually accompany every check we received, telling us how ridiculously awesome we were. Of course, Grandpa would put his own twist on this seemingly standard practice of showing grandparental love. Instead of waiting for us to tell him about our achievements, he would pull a Ms. Cleo and adore us like some kind of geriatric fortune cookie.

Skylar, You’ve done a wonderful job in school this year, getting all A’s and just two B+’s! You played soccer in the fall and practiced very hard in order to make the all-star team. You are a beautiful dancer, taking ballet, tap, and jazz classes; you danced wonderfully in your end-of-year recital! You will grow to be an even more generous, kind, and loving person, and this next year will treat you even better than the last. Keep smiling and enjoy your summer.

Love, Grandpa and Grandma

           

Compare that to the blank stare and muttering of Polish we were met with as of late and it goes without saying that things were getting a little dicey up in this hotel.

            The day before I left for Austria, I got to see my grandpa. He hadn’t eaten in over a week and could barely open his eyes, much less write me a check or give me a compliment. Taking a cue from John Q, I told him, “See ya later” and with a peck on the cheek, went off on my adventure.

Since I couldn’t receive calls overseas, my mom informed me of his death via e-mail about a week and a half later. In a darkly humorous twist of fate, his funeral was scheduled for my birthday (pretty elaborate joke, if you ask me).

I obviously didn’t get to go.

I didn’t get to say a proper good-bye, I didn’t get to thank him for the many accolades, and I’ll never get to pay him back for all of the memories I had acquired over the years.

            It’s funny how things work out.

You Play Ball Like A GIRL

Football season is one of the most trying times in a girl’s life.

Each year, for about 5-6 months, we are expected to be patient in the face of mood swings due to an unexpected loss; understanding when a low-key night of Netflixing snuggled up on the couch turns into an all-out brofest; and “interested” when dinner conversation centers confusingly around the quarterback’s injuries and how that’ll effect the rest of the season. The Super Bowl is our own personal celebration, signifying the end of all the madness while ushering in basketball season, which we can at least sort of follow.

Hate to break it to ya ladies, but there’s not much that can be done right now. You’re stuck in a whirlwind of “Babe I’ll be late picking you up, they just fumbled!” and “If they’re drafting fifteen or below I think it opens up more opportunities to include basically any position other then wide receiver or tight end, you know what I mean?”

No. No I do not. But you know what? I’m gonna grin and bear it because regardless of your nonsensical jabbering and the fact that I only cheer when everyone else in the room does, there are actually some aspects of football season that I enjoy:

Serious Stud Muffins: I am convinced that a large portion of the try-out process is based on how good a guy looks. This also pertains to soccer and lacrosse, but I digress. Naturally, the quarterback is always a major babe, unless he’s Peyton Manning, whose reputation precedes him so he can get away with being an arguable 6.5. I understand that all of the pads and protection are for safety’s sake, but sometimes I wish they’d take it back to playground rules so I could drool over Matt Leinart and Reggie Bush in all their glory. The best part is, regardless of how good of a player they truly are, attractive athletes are exploited to the nth degree by any and all women’s magazines. Gone are the days when a Google image search only returned results of sideline action shots or the occasional new Madden cover. Hot players know they’re hot, and when they do a sexy shirtless photo shoot that still maintains their masculinity because it’s appearing in Men’s Health (“no homo”), it’s only a matter of time before Cosmo secures them a spot in their “2012 Bachelor of the Year.” If only we could convince them all to hit a little gentler so as not to put those pretty faces in danger.

Adorable Names: Unfortunately, those huge space helmets get in the way of my ogling, so I’m forced to rely on the jerseys to distinguish who my faves are. Tom Brady and Mark Sanchez might be hottie totties, but their monikers leave something to be desired. Give me someone like Felix Jones any day. The guy’s named after a cartoon cat, how could you not immediately love him?! The mothers of these football stars knew exactly what they were doing when they signed that birth certificate, because anyone with a name like Bear Pascoe, Ovie Mughelli, or Ryan McBean was destined for greatness. My personal favorite, however, has to be Chicago Bears head coach Lovie Smith. LOVIE. SMITH. He sounds like he hangs out with the Teletubbies and washes his clothes in Snuggle fabric softener all the livelong day. This might in fact be true, because if the work-hard-play-hard theory has any clout, then after establishing his team as second in the league during his first two seasons – achieving a franchise-record 6 touchdowns via defensive return in 2004 and ranking second in overall defense in 2005 – Lovie Dovie can do whatever precious things he wants with his free time. I hear he enjoys painting rainbows and cried while watching The Fox and the Hound. What a sweetie-pie!

DWTS Contestants: Over twelve seasons, Dancing with the Stars has signed on eight former or current NFL players. Jerry Rice, Jason Taylor, and Warren Sapp all came in second place in their respective seasons, with Emmitt Smith and Hines Ward winning it all in theirs. Chad Ochocinco and Kurt Warner at least rounded out the top five, and I guess we’ll all just have to forgive Lawrence Taylor for resting on his Hall of Fame laurels too much to care (and whatever, he was a New York Giant so in my book, he can do whatever the hell he pleases). If ever a player has a remarkably good season or happens to do something remotely noteworthy, they can basically bank on an appearance on this show. Good job securing your spot when you did, Chad, because now that you’re back with the last name Johnson I doubt anyone would give you a second glance. What better way to spend Monday Night Football commercial breaks than to switch over to ABC to watch those hard-hitting man-beasts transform into graceful twinkle toes as they Paso Doble off the field and straight into our hearts.

Color Coordination: I don’t care how sports-savvy of a chick you are; everyone has walked into a room and squealed, “Ooh! Is teal beating silver?” Team names are hard, and with 32 of them to remember, it’s only logical that we revert to our comfort zone, which, in this case, is how cute their outfits are. Teams with expert fashion sense, such as the Giants, Falcons, Colts, and Raiders have colors I can work my wardrobe around, showing some spirit without looking a hot mess. No one looks bad in red and blue! Despite the fact that everyone rightfully hates the Cowboys and their quarterback is viewed as the Jesus of the South even though he has one good week for each of his umpteen embarrassing ones (can’t blame it on Jessica Simpson forever, Romo!), they’ve got colors I can work with. The same cannot be said for the Cincinnati Bengals. I can’t justify wearing Halloween colors five times longer than necessary. Redskins: maroon and gold? Potentially flattering on their own, but combine them and I look like I’m dressed in stale ketchup and mustard. And maybe it’s just the association with cheese that I can’t get myself past, but not even Lil Wayne singing greenandyellowgreenandyellowgreenandyellowgreenandyellow will brainwash me enough to support the color scheme the Packers have going on. I’m all for team distinction and showing your support, but can’t we all just do it in neutrals with the occasional pop of color? Just a suggestion, Mr. Commissioner…

A Message from Irene

Hey Whores,

            So I guess I should, like, apologize for all that craziness I caused this past week. Flooding New York, sO cRaZy! I know everyone’s mad and lives were ruined and blah blah blah, but it, like, really wasn’t my fault. For real! Hear me out.

            Okay so first, I broke up with my boyfriend. I actually ended it because he was so controlling and has such a temper and always wanted all this attention and I’m like, “Um, HELLO, I’m at least a category 3, you need to appreciate me better!” You know what I’m saying? Frustratingggg. So yeah, dumped his ass, and kid goes ballistic. Causes a huge rumble throughout the East coast but since he always acts so irrationally without any follow through, he didn’t cause like any damage and just rattled some nerves. Typical! Still, he was like a 5.8 so I’ll probably drunk dial him this weekend…

            Obviously, that whole thing pissed me off a little. I went to get margs with my friend Katrina because she had been through, like, the same thing with her ex-boyfriend a few years ago. Ugh, looooove girlfriends. She was like, “Girl, this is YOUR breakup and he’s taking the spotlight. Hell to the no! You need to go out there and show him how it’s really done!” Side note: Katrina’s kind of a huge betch, but she invites me to her beach house every summer so whatev. And anyway, after a fishbowl strawberry margarita and free shots from the creepy divorced men at the bar, she made a lot of sense. Don’t judge me! So I totes agreed and went out and did my thang.

            Another thing was that it’s that time of the month. I know, right? All of these things piled into one? FML. I, like, wasn’t even that mad and didn’t plan on getting that out of control, but I ran out of Midol and my cramps were unnnreal and I knew that everyone was gossiping about me and my life so I was all, “Sorry I’m SO interesting, assholes. I’ll give you something to talk about!” and went nutso. Be real, you would’ve done the same thing in my position. It’s like, don’t mess with a bitch who can do it better, you know?

            Anywayz, I guess I did a pretty decent job of fucking shit up. Those people in Vermont are all, “How do we deal with this?” and I’m like, “Suck it! Sorry I’m not sorry!” I mean I don’t wanna come off as Crazy Girl or anything, but I think I totally showed my ex who really runs the show and now I’m like, such a celeb. Look for me flashing my Britney to the paparazzi sometime soon! I’m gonna make bank off of this US Weekly interview.

Love ya XOXO,

Irene

How to be Hot: Girl Edition

It would not be fair to instruct boys how to be hot without giving a little advice to the ladies. Statistically, girls have it much easier when it comes to transforming into a more attractive version of themselves. Half the time, all you have to do is change out of your overalls and get an Acuvue prescription a la Rachael Leigh Cook in She’s All That and you’re golden. But there are certain trends and behaviors that make a girl undeniably unappealing to those around her, and I’m here to save you from yourselves.

It’s about to get betchy up in here; deal with it.

1. Get rid of the skunk hair: It is entirely possible for someone to have an array of shades throughout their coif that are completely natural, due to genes or sunlight or whatever else. No one questions girls with subtly-colored hair because it really doesn’t warrant much notice, and even if she DID dye it, girlfriend did a fantastic job and should be commended for such strategic highlighting skills. The difference between this girl and Pepe le Whatthefuckdidyoudotoyourself is the fact that her hair isn’t peroxide blonde on top and pitch black underneath. Do not argue with me: you look like an idiot. I have no idea who started this trend but she needs to be hung by a Repunzel rope made of her own bad decisions. I don’t think even Locks of Love would accept that trash. It’s not cute, you don’t look sexy in any sense of the word, and no matter how many times I see it I always assume that the girl is either A) pregnant or B) smelly. What’s wrong with monotone? Go buy yourself a box of Medium Golden Brown and reap the benefits of automatically looking less and less like a reject from Rock of Love.

2. Avoid crusty lashes: Makeup is our friend, girls. I won’t feed you some bullshit that we’d all be better off going au naturale because that’s a bold-faced lie, and it’s just common sense that a pretty girl can turn instantly gorgeous with a little eyeliner and some well-placed bronzer. Unfortunately, it’s a slippery slope into spider-eye territory, and before you know it, a few friendly swipes of your mascara wand can leave your lids feeling 10 pounds heavier and your face looking like Janice from The Muppets. If your eyelashes are separated and have a dark tint, there is absolutely no reason to continue to add another umpteen layers so that it looks like you have just four megalashes that each has a personality of his/her own. I apologize for my insincerity if you happen to have OCD and this is just one of your rituals, but use that time to straighten out your refrigerator or something that doesn’t make you look like a crack whore.

3. Be aware of whether or not you can pull off jeggings: I have a huge ass. I’m Italian and Polish, I really didn’t stand a chance. I’m very wary of anything extremely tight-fitting because I know that without trying my donk is going to command some pretty substantial attention, so when jeggings first appeared on the fashion radar, I generally ignored them because there was NO WAY my humps my humps my humps were going to be contained. It seems that not all girls are this self-aware. More power to ya if you’re conscious of the junk in your trunk and still choose to rock pants that are essentially a second skin, but there really is a fine line between “you go girl” and “Girl, you need to go check yourself in a mirror because the fabric is stretching so tightly over your goods I can practically see your crack and it’s scaring me.” Leave something to the imagination. Buy the next size up. Stick with normal jeans, they’re a lot more durable and they don’t have an obnoxious hybrid name that already sounds like a wedgie waiting to happen.

4. Do not wear any perfume by Britney Spears: You know in Mean Girls when Janice says, “What’s that smell?” and Cady responds, “Oh, Regina gave me some perfume,” to which Janice says, “You smell like a baby prostitute”? I am 99.9% sure that the perfume Regina gave to Cady was Curious. If you can pinpoint the strongest scent of the perfume as some kind of über sugary candy or anything else cavity-inducing, and you proceed to drench yourself in it like some kind of slut baptismal, you really need to reevaluate your direction in life. Smelling good is a huge plus and is one of the easiest ways to attract guys (bonus points if you get the illegal stuff with pheromones, but that gets where things get shady), but there’s no need to reek of Willy Wonka’s newest concoction. I wouldn’t exactly endorse anything by Paris Hilton or Hilary Duff either, but anyone who throws a few rhinestones on a bright pink bottle of skank juice is no friend of mine.

5. Shave your legs: This shouldn’t even need to be said. If you’re trying to bag yourself a hottie, hairy legs are like holding a huge neon sign that says, “I couldn’t care less about myself! I smell like patchouli! You’re going to put me in the friend zone…IF I’M LUCKY! We’ll go on dates to Kroger after you take that other girl to the zoo and to get ice cream! What’s shampoo?” Everyone gets lazy, and everyone gets to a point in mid-January where it’s freezing cold outside, you haven’t had a romantic prospect in a solid six weeks, and all you want to do is sit in your sweatpants and color coordinate your school planner, but should the opportunity arise for you to getchoself some male attention you need to be ready. While it may be fun to see who out of your roomies can grow the longest leg hair, no one’s laughing at the disgusted face your boy toy makes when he discovers the Amazon growing above your ankles. Get Skintimate stat.

6. Swap the running shorts for real clothes once in a while: 8am’s are a bitch, I totally hear you. Doing anything but throwing on a random t-shirt and some flip-flops and hiding your makeup-less face behind a pair of Nicole Ritchie-huge sunglasses is practically torture that early in the morning, but consider this: how many other girls woke up and did the exact same thing? I recently sat on campus and counted the number of girls who walked by wearing the TSM uniform of Nike running shorts, a GO GREEK t-shirt, Sperry’s, a Vera Bradley bag, and a ponytail and thought about how happy I was to be wearing…not that. My friends give me shit all the time for “dressing up” for class when in actuality I’m wearing denim shorts and something not produced by Hanes, but I have to say, the boys definitely notice. I’m not suggesting you go all out every single day, but stand apart from the pack once in a while in something that takes about a minute of extra effort and I know you’ll be changed forever. Jessica Simpson was actually onto something when she sang “A little bit goes a long way,” but she up and dropped the ball when she went on to belt out, “With nothing but a t-shirt on.” And who’s married to Nick Lachey now? I’m not sayin, I’m just sayin.

If you know a girl who would benefit from this list, do whatever you have to do to get the message to her. Print it out and slide it under her door, copy-and-paste it into a Facebook message (or post it directly onto her wall if you’re a huge asshole), read the most helpful item directly to her followed by a slap across the face and a drill sargeant-worthy, “Honey, get your shit together!”, etc. Like I said, girls have it easy. There are very few females in this world who are lost causes, and even those girls somehow get themselves a boyfriend from time to time. Seriously, if all you have to do is have normal-colored hair and a pair of well-fitting pants to be considered remotely good-looking, wouldn’t you do it? That’s a yes.

How to be Hot: Guy Edition

Many times, when articles like this are written, they’re prefaced with a disclaimer stating that all of the below information should be taken as a joke, that it’s completely satirical, and that it’s for entertainment purposes only.

This is not one of those times.

I am dead serious.

Being attractive is not hard, and let’s face it, it’s a hell of a lot easier than being fugly. There are a few simple measures that should be taken that I can guarantee will up your hotness factor by at least 70%. Who wouldn’t want those odds? Here we go:

1. Buy Crest Whitestrips: Yellow teeth are absolutely disgusting. I want nothing to do with a boy with pee-stained Chiclets. You smoke? You’re addicted to coffee? Your toothbrush broke twelve years ago? Fine. A box of these babies will run you about thirty bucks and you instantly look cleaner, wealthier, and all around more bangable. I have met more than my fair share of boys with great smiles and a fantastic laugh that I would rather see don a Silence of the Lambs-esque mask than open their mouths. To look in a mirror and see nothing wrong with two rows of teeth colored with highlighters is a serious problem. Please remedy the situation ASAP.

2. Get in the gym: One of the dead giveaways that a boy is a freshman – besides the lanyard around his neck and “What’s your major?” being his go-to pick-up line – is his scrawny body. I don’t care if you’re naturally small-boned and didn’t get the genes of Arnold Schwarzenegger (although now you might want to reexamine that option), there is no excuse for girly arms. I don’t want to size you up and come to the conclusion that I’d murder you in an arm wrestling match. Go to the gym and start lifting. Being smaller is fine, but looking frail makes me want to donate to the Make a Wish foundation in your honor, and if all of that nonsense can be avoided by a few reps on the lat pull-downs and a push up or fifty, it’s worth it.

3. Clear up that face: You went through puberty many moons ago, my friend, and it’s time for the acne to go. There are like 500 different products on the market right now that will fix your situation and preserve your sexy, just like P. Diddy says. I understand that zits can be tough to conquer and in some cases, you might just say fuck it and bail on your skincare regime, but stay the course and you will reap the benefits of having great skin. It should also be noted that boys with bad skin also usually have gross teeth, so if you fall into this category, please refer to #1.  

4. Step up your shoe game: I’m judgmental. I’m sure you couldn’t tell. I can automatically determine whether or not I like a guy within the first seven seconds of meeting him based entirely off of two factors: his nose and his shoes. The latter of the two is crucial. I don’t care who you are, where you’re from, what you did, as long as you’re not wearing all-white New Balances. If I think even for a second that you mow the lawn in your footwear of choice, strike one you’re out. Acceptable shoe apparel: Sperry’s, Nike Dunks, Rainbow flippies, Vans that haven’t been decorated with Sharpie (are you a preteen girl?), and Converse Chuck Taylor’s in black, grey, navy, or tan. That is seriously all. We’ll discuss that shnoz another time.

5. DON’T get rid of your glasses: This sounds ass-backwards based on what is typically delivered by advice circles formulating their points entirely off of pop culture, but I swear to god those specs are babe magnets. Whether or not you’re actually intelligent won’t matter in the slightest when that girl from your physics lab spots you studying and/or “studying” in the library, absent-mindedly readjusting your frames and concentrating on the equation at hand. Suddenly, she shoots her BFF a text saying, “Hey, did you know [secret nickname for you, probably offensive] wears glasses? He’s at the lib looking sextastic right now. Dibs!” You are so in, buddy, and all because you slept in your contacts and your eyeballs were on fucking fire this morning. A boy in glasses is suddenly much more intriguing, and you can and should use your newfound Clark Kent persona to your full advantage. Let the lenses do the work for you.

6. Tame your man-scruff: Clean shaven? Sexy. A little bit of somethin? Really sexy. ZZ Top beard? I don’t even need to say it. Facial hair is your frienemy, and should be treated accordingly. Keep that 5 o’clock shadow at bay and not only will your getting-ready routine be cake, but you’re silently inviting hot girls to touch your face all day (unless you’re break-out prone; see #3!). If you’re one of the lucky few who can pull off a chinstrap or goatee without looking like a cholo or the token “badass” from any of the boy bands of the 90’s, by all means rock that shit out. If you definitely cannot, don’t. Furthermore, if your mantra is “I don’t give a fuck” and you live every day of your life like it’s No Shave November, don’t be surprised when the only girl you find is the one who shares your likeness to Grizzly Adams in at least three areas of her own body. Gross, right? Better break out the Norelco.   

Please, do your fellow bro a solid and pass this list onto him. It’s especially helpful for the incoming college freshman, but let’s not kid ourselves, I know a super senior or four that could use the reminder. And don’t think I’m being sexist here: the ladies have their own list coming so the playing field will be leveled.

Now go forth and summon your inner stud! He’s in there somewhere! Hopefully!