It's UterUS, Not UterYOU, Except When It's UterME

If you’re a woman who is actively trying to prevent a pregnancy, you probably heard about the “President”'s rollback of the Obama-era policy requiring your boss to include birth control coverage in company health insurance plans.

Businesses and corporations would control your family planning decisions rather than, like, you. We’ve already got states that promote the Coach Carr approach to sex ed, aka the Just Don’t Do It, Promise? way, which, given that places like Texas annually see about 35,000 teens and young women get pregnant before their 20th birthday, straight up doesn’t work.

Women need unchallenged access to birth control.

The current administration just doesn’t think so.

This is hilarious to me, because clearly these sewer lizards don’t completely understand these five benefits that birth control brings about that men should actually be all for.

1. It Prevents Babies

“No Babies!” is the actual name of my actual birth control alarm that actually plays every single day at 8:40 in the morning. It also used to play “Sweet Child of Mine” by Guns & Roses, because I’m quirky and perhaps a bit dark.

These are the best parts of birth control, assuming you’re not trying to conceive, which 43 percent of women in the United States aged 15-44 are not:

• You take it correctly, you don’t have a baby. This has a domino effect, as then you don’t have to ask your side piece to get an abortion all while hypocritically preaching your Pro-Life bullshit. Right, Tim Murphy?
• You take it correctly, you don’t have to bring a kid into this world who, in all honesty, you don’t want right now. Right, Tim Murphy?
• You take it correctly, you can work on your career or spend all of your free time writing that novel or eat brownie batter for dinner because it is your life and they are your decisions and you want to keep it that way and not share or have another living thing be dependent on you.   

2. It Keeps Things From Exploding

During a woman’s period, an egg grows in a sac called a follicle which is located inside the ovary. Usually, this follicle breaks open and an egg emerges, sort of like Lady Gaga at the 2011 Grammy’s. But sometimes, the follicle doesn’t break open, the fluid inside the sac can form a cyst on the ovary.

While ovarian cysts are relatively common, in some cases, they can result in complications that are painful at best (pelvic inflammation, puking) and deadly at worst (internal bleeding, infection, CYSTS. RUPTURING.). #justgirlythings

Wanna guess what can keep cysts from forming?

Yeah. Birth control stops ovulation and prevents the development of new cysts.

The douchebags that want to regulate BC are probably definitely not abreast to these kind of complications. They will never know the excruciating pain associated with ovarian cysts exploding. It’s kinda like the emotional pain you feel when your wife won’t fuck you anymore because you’re disgusting, decrepit, and have the moral conscience of pond scum. But worse. Definitely worse.

3. It Keeps Skin Clear

Acne treatment is an important birth control benefit to mention, as members of the administration believe that a top notch method of birth control is to “just keep your legs closed,” so a method like the pill is unnecessary.

Acne has nothing to do with penises and vaginas.   

However, a group of hormones called androgens, which lead to excess oil production, can lead to more severe cases of acne. BC pills that contain estrogen and progesterone lower the levels of androgens in your body, thus, lowering the amount of oil being produced, thus, clearing up a woman’s skin.

That’s it. That’s the sole reason 14 percent of women take birth control.  

4. It Helps Iron Deficiencies

If you have a heavy flow and a wide set vagina, it’s okay. We all know that you’re not lying about being a virgin, and we don’t care that you use super-jumbo tampons.

What we do (or should) care about is the fact that you might have iron deficiency anemia. Without enough iron, your body makes fewer and smaller red blood cells. This deters your body from getting enough oxygen. When you're anemic, the heart works overtime to pump more blood, which can lead to an enlarged heart or heart failure.

Women with heavy periods and anemia have trouble keeping their iron levels under control -- sort of like a congressman and his addiction to child porn -- so their doctor might prescribe birth control to lighten the amount of blood flow each month.

This is crucial to living a healthy life. The ability to do so should be non-negotiable.    

5. It Keeps Us Feeling Sane

Birth control, in any form, regulates hormones. Hormonal imbalances can truly mess with your body, giving you insomnia, migraines, stomach issues, and making you feel constantly fatigued, among other fun symptoms.

The problem is, different types of birth control affect different women different ways.

Prime example: My friend and I both switched birth control medications around the same time. Her new one, she said, made her absolutely crazy. Crying at random times, becoming an anxious nut case, experiencing extreme insomnia, while also hating absolutely everyone. She immediately requested that her doctor switch her back, because -- say it with me -- fuck that.

I, on the other hand, was fortunate enough to be experiencing all of those things already. My prescription switched, and so did my outlook on life. One week I’m crying in the fetal position on my bed on a sunny Sunday afternoon for literally (literally!) no reason, the next week I’m level-headed, rational, and downright chill, breh.

For a group of people who refused to elect a woman for president because they feared she would be too emotional to make sensible decisions for the country, I find it ironic that they want to take away one of the most effective methods for keeping the majority of their country’s citizens acting sane.

You know what’s scarier than one emotional woman? MILLIONS OF EMOTIONAL WOMEN. Wearing pink pussyhats, no less.

So maybe we can give these idiots the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe they didn’t realize that birth control allows women to conduct their everyday lives with efficiency.

Maybe they didn’t understand that without insurance, birth control can cost $50-1,000, and we just don’t have it in the budget to spend that and pay for our dumbfuck leader’s golf excursions.

Maybe they didn’t hear that they’d save themselves a boatload of hassle by encouraging and maintaining women’s rights and accepting that we’re strong enough to bear the children (when we decide to), then get back to business, so instead could they please worry about the chaos in Puerto Rico, discussing gun control, recognizing police brutality, addressing global warming, supporting Dreamers, preventing chemical warfare, and maybe not making the United States the laughing stock of the entire planet thankyousomuch.   

   

Barbie Wasn't Broken

Feminism has taken on a whole new form over the past year or so. Like, it's been a thing for about 50 years, but recently it seems to have blown UP. I’m wholly grateful for the women who are spearheading the movement to get me paid as much (or more) than my male counterparts, because I have expensive taste and plan to buy what I want by my own damn self.

 

Political affiliations aside, I think it’s pretty sweet that the likes of Carly Fiorina and Hilary Clinton are legitimately considered for presidential candidacy. It’s neat that we could potentially have a First Husband, or First Boyfriend, or First Guy I’m Talking To. It’d also be cool if Madame President had a First Lady.

In something that probably should’ve been bigger news, the Buffalo Bills recently hired Kathryn Smith to fire up the squad as the league's first full-time female assistant coach, and they’re not even making her wear a crop top and shake poms to do it. This is progress.

 

                It’s important to teach young girls that they can do and be whatever they want to be, because bitches get stuff done and the way our world is currently operating, they’re going to have a lot to work on in the coming years. I think it’s just as important to build up your fellow woman as it is to side step the 32-year-old Hot Mess doing lines off a toilet paper dispenser in a bar bathroom—I’m proud of her for doing her thang, but if she’s unable to function at her well-paying job in fashion, I will gladly nail the interview that names me as her replacement. I’ll applaud a ditz as quickly as I will a genius, as long as they’re doing something noteworthy. I’ll throw a “You go girl” towards just about anyone deserving, whether she has a rock solid bod or a pair of well-rounded hips. I’ll look at what she’s doing, not what she’s wearing. I never realized that this wasn’t the norm.

 

 

                As such, this whole Barbie Makeover is kinda funny to me. Not funny like a clown, it doesn’t amuse me, but funny like “Ugh, my future kids are going to have some pretty pathetic play dates.” Listen, I am by no means some unicorn who grew up carrying glittery saddlebags of confidence: I was short; had hairy arms that earned me the nickname Werewolf from ages 5-12; had a literal snaggle tooth; displayed intricately-wired braces for 3 ½ years; and was overly rambunctious in social situations. I wished I was pretty and had straight teeth and that boys liked me, but that’s because other girls were pretty and had straight teeth and boyfriends. I wanted to be like them. You know who I had the wherewithal not to worship? A goddamn toy.   

                I had an entire storage tub dedicated to Barbie and her gang of uniquely-named friends, plus two Kens. My favorite was one who wore a hot pink mini skirt and white t-shirt with pink hearts, her voluminous hair perfectly coifed and her lips glossed the perfect bright rose. She was gorgeous, even when she had been picked as the favorite so often that her hair was unbrushable and the plastic on her toes started to peel (she never wore shoes—such a Bohemian spirit).

Thissss bitch

She didn’t have a specific name, because none of them did, because they were all Barbie, because Barbie is it all and does it all. When she wasn’t helping my brother’s Spiderman action figure save a Beanie Baby from a case of animal abuse, she was base jumping over the stair railing with a plastic bag as a parachute. One of the Kens lost his leg in a horrific accident that I can’t even speak about to this day because I just don’t remember what happened, and this Barbie stuck by his side while maintaining her adrenaline-fueled schedule because while she had compassion, she found it important to pursue her own interests. 

Not once did I hold this Barbie in my hands and whine, “Why don’t I have a 16-inch waist?” She was a doll. This was understood from the get-go.

Her legs were freakishly long and her neck could not adequately support her huge head were she a living, breathing human. She was not. She was a doll.

She didn’t have lady parts, and hardly ever wore underwear. She didn’t need to. She was a doll (maybe a bit on the slutty side, but still).

 

I invited all of my friends to come over to my house and play Barbies, and they reciprocated, and we had a blast. I do not recall one conversation in which a group of three 9-year-olds sat around silently admiring their toys and casually saying, “Damn, this is the goal, amiright?” Maybe I had really cool friends, or maybe my parents did a fantastic job of allowing me to build my self-worth through more beneficial avenues like sports and piano lessons than through the unnecessary veneration a 6-inch tall plaything, but whatever the case may have been, I always knew that Barbie was a doll. She could be impossibly proportioned. It was allowed. I wasn’t going to be called pretty until I was 19 no matter what the fuck that girl looked like, she might as well be able to celebrate it until I could, too.

Can't compete with this

 

Now, I’m not saying that Mattel is wrong for this. In fact, it’s pretty cool that they took the time to acknowledge some of society’s sensitivities to beauty standards and wanted to accommodate the delicate feelings of children – namely little girls – in order to make them feel good about themselves. That is an incredible step to take for their industry. However, toys are toys, and if you can’t communicate to a girl that Barbie and her outlandish boob-to-butt ratio isn’t a deal-breaker in the grand scheme of life, maybe take the doll away entirely and have an actual conversation about why she, as a person, is important.

Barbie went to the moon four years before Neil Armstrong, became a surgeon, was a Marine Corp Sergeant, and ran for President in three separate decades. She can be Argentinian, Nigerian, Navajo, Cambodian, Moroccan, Polish, and Greek. She’s owned upwards of five Dream Houses and even an Austin Healey. Meanwhile, I’m a white marketing professional who takes the subway or walks everywhere. I’m also happy. So strange how I’m able to achieve that, right?

 

We like women that are strong-willed, unique in their initiatives, articulate, and relatable. We seek inspiration from these women, but don’t want their goals and/or achievements to be so out of our personal reach that we don’t feel equipped enough to participate. We want to put them on a pedestal because gaining visibility for themselves and their goals is really bringing light to the issues that face us all, and we can enthusiastically shout phrases of support like, “YAASSSS QUEEN.” In my eyes, that has always been Barbie. She helped me develop an ability to tell stories, provided a way to bond with friends, and gave me something fun to do before I went to soccer practice. She could have 29-inch hips and I could simply be a kid with a toy. Pretty solid trade-off, if you ask me. 

New Yorker? Not Yet

I have lived in New York City for about a month and a half now.

The hierarchical years of service metric claims that I still have about seven years and 10.5 months until I can claim official "New Yorker" status, but I'm a fast learner, and until I've earned my stripes I'm at least taking note of what it will really take to be one of those geniuses who knows how to navigate the subway without using a map.

Here's how I know I've got a little ways to go:

I smile at passers-by - "Oh how courteous of you, Skylar." Wrong. This is not okay. People are uncomfortable when you look at them at all. Years of living in Kentucky (where the Kroger greeter met you with a, "Well hi there my darlin', how yew?") and Northern Virginia/DC (where passing a random yogger would at least get you a breathless "hey" plus head nod) completely ruined me for New York social interaction. The only person who wants to tell you how their day is going is the homeless man missing toenails on the 3 a.m. E Train and my friendliness stops there.

I buy too many groceries - In a technical sense, this is not true. Just as I've always done, I shop for enough food to get me through the week, although the added bonus of not having my car here means I buy enough to fit into two bags that I then get to carry a mile home. Apparently, I'm supposed to completely forgo the grocery list and eat all of my meals via Seamless. Why this is such a difficult transition for me to make I have no idea, because if living the American dream isn't getting a meatball parmigiana sandwich delivered at 1 p.m. and then again at 1 a.m. I don't know what is.

I wear color - My closet is color coordinated in rainbow order and is a collection of predominantly red, blue, and pink. I own three black tops and a black cardigan. That's all. New Yorkers don't wear color, primarily because of occurrences like the toenail-less gentleman above being a run-of-the-mill thing. If I'm wearing a bright yellow sweater and I sit down in the seat that he occupied not five minutes before, who really thinks that the layer of sidewalk on his jacket won't make it onto my clothes? Never mind a little dirt on my back, I might also be pregnant. All black errthang is the way to go.

I say "very" - It's "mad," e.g. "That bagel place is mad busy on Saturday" and "Girl your hair is mad long, whatchu use, Argan oil?" (unfortunately the latter has been taken from recent events and was said by a straight dude.) I sound like an idiot when I say anything even remotely slang-y, which is why, wish as I might, I could never move to Boston because I would be the weirdo painfully trying to work "wicked" into conversation. Same applies here.

I never see anyone I know - In NoVA, I couldn't go to a Target 45 miles away from my house without seeing an old soccer coach or the girl from my high school photography class who overplucked her eyebrows (and was still suffering the consequences). In a population of just over 2.5 million people, that's not ridiculous, but it's also kind of ridiculous. I live eight miles away from Midtown in a population of nearly 8.5 million people and I never recognize a soul. I do have friends in the city, but I'm pretty sure most of them are avoiding me as a polite way of saying, "I never actually liked you, bitch" which I totally respect and understand. As far as new friends go, the "psychic" down the street who always sees something in my aura when I walk by and I are like this.

 

I don't care about baseball - Mets, Yankees, it really doesn't matter to me. There were grown men crying over Jeter's retirement and I didn't even know it was his last game until the day of. I've been told I need to pick a team and devote my life to it, but at a recent trip to Citi Field I didn't even realize the game was over until it was over (and the Mets lost, if anyone wanted the biggest shock of their life). I am a Giants fan through and through, and while I own a Knicks jersey, I would scrounge for Nets tickets in a heartbeat if they led to a potential sighting of Queen Bey. Unfortunately I just don't see myself ever genuinely caring enough about the Mets/Yankees rivalry. Not even sorry.

 

 

 

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Kasually Kidnapped, Part 2

[cont'd from Part 1]

"Wait, turn the cab around, I think I left my phone on the table."
"No you didn't, I checked the table before we left."
"Can we please just turn around and check? I need my phone."
"It's not there."
"Can we PLEASE just turn AROUND to get my PHONE. PLEASE. PHONE. PLEASE."
"We'll find it."

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck, I was stuck in a cab with a full-blown sociopath. I was digging in between the seats when the cab stopped in front of a place that was not where my friends were.

"Where are we?"
"My place."
"Okay better question: Why are we here?!"
"I thought we could hang out and watch a movie."
"I need to go back to my friends right now, you need to take me back to them right now."
"Let's just chill a little longer."
"My phone is gone and I have no idea where I am or any way of telling them where I am. They're going to be worried, we need to go back there."
"Eh."
"No. No 'eh.' Take me back to where they are right now."
"Do you wanna play with my dog?"

I wanted to cry but couldn't. This had gone from bad to way, way worse, and I was desperately wishing I had attended that Krav Maga class with one of my friends a few years ago. I knew how to break someone's nose (shove up with the heel of your hand), but that was the extent of my self-defense training. Why hadn't my brothers and I held Wrestlemania in the living room over Christmas for old times' sake so I could brush up on my skills?

I quietly stood/sat on the arm of the sofa while Gavin obliviously played tug-o-war with his dog, Griff. Griff kept shooting me looks as if to say, "The back door's unlocked, save yourself." I shot looks back saying, "Please be gentle when you gnaw on my freshly-murdered flesh."

I asked Gavin if I could use his phone to call my friends (forgetting the fact that memorizing phone numbers is a thing of the past so I was still screwed), but his was conveniently dead. I was visibly defeated.

"I hate it when you're upset like this."
"What do you have to compare it to?"

I told him that I just wanted to sleep, clarifying after his eyes lit up that I would be doing this relationship activity by myself on the couch. He said I could take his bed and he would take the couch, once again being sure I realized how much of a gentleman he was. I ignored him and walked back to his room to lay on top of his covers and stare at the ceiling. Of course, he followed me and stood in the doorway.

"Yes?"
"Is this our first fight?"
"Yes it is."
"I'll make it up to you."
"Please go away."

Trouble in fucking paradise. I'm typically a pretty good problem solver and quick on my feet, but this was a situation. I laid there for a while, going in an out of sleep, not worrying about Gavin coming in and attacking me because I had locked the door. At one point I got up and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water and saw Gavin and Griff canoodling on the couch, probably plotting which section of my body would be buried in which part of the yard. Gavin had taken off his sweatshirt and thrown it to the side, and there was something sticking out of the pocket.

Yep.

"Is that my phone?"
"You're awake?"
"Did you take my phone??"
"Oh cool it's here."
"ARE YOU CHARLES FUCKING MANSON WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?! I'm leaving, you need to drive me to my car."
"I thought we were gonna chill?"
"You hid my fucking phone from me you psycho, nothing is happening here. Let's go."
"I can't drive, I've been drinking."

Nice try, Beyonce.

"It's four in the fucking morning you idiot, at this point you probably have half a buzz but you are not drunk by any means. Get up and get your fucking keys, you're driving me to my car. I can't believe this."
"I have a company car, Skylar, I can't get a DUI."
"You told me yesterday you drive the truck given to you by the construction company, Gavin, it's not a fucking Rolls."
"You know my name?"
"Jesus Christ."

This exchange went in circles for the better part of ten minutes until he finally begrudgingly got up and put on shoes.

"Babe, I hate it when you're this upset."
"You've known me twelve hours. Stop talking."

He insisted on bringing Griff along, so the happy little family climbed into the truck together. I felt exhausted, guilty, and extremely stupid, and this was only amplified by Gavin continuing to speak to me as if "this" would continue past him dropping me off.

"Babe I'm sorry."
"Do not call me that."
"But we're dating."
"No we're not."
"Didn't we have the exclusivity talk last night?"
"Stop."
"You have my number right?"
"Sure."

Praise the Lord and His miracles, we made it to my car and I still had all of my toes. As you can imagine, he definitely tried to kiss me good-bye, to which I shoved Griff in his face and jumped out of that truck as fast as possible. I know that most people struggle the morning after Sunday Funday, but I think I beat anyone's hangover by leaps and bounds today.

Moral of the Story: Stretch Armstrong might've looked like a circus freak, but at least we can guarantee he loves Creatine more than he'd ever love me. Better safe than sorry.

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Celebrity Couples that are Never Allowed to Divorce. Ever.

Well ladies and gents, Adam Levine is engaged, joining the ranks of celebrities like Channing Tatum and Justin Timberlake that have sold their souls to monogamy and subsequently ruined my life.

 

I’m all about people being madly in love, I really am; it’s just that when we were meant for each other and you settle for a Victoria’s Secret model or dancing flawlessness or 2005’s Sexiest Woman Alive it’s really kind of a low blow. I have abs-ish! I did ballet ten years ago! I buy 5 for $25 panties all the time! What were these guys thinking?

 

Regardless of Adam’s heinous choice, I hope he’s in it for the long haul, because a beautiful man like that—with his hair I’d like to pet and body decorated in tattooed perfection—deserves to be happy for life. He should look to the following celebrities’ examples of marriage bliss. Long legs and flowing locks and a gorgeous face don’t last forev—oh who am I kidding. Congrats Adam and Behati!

 

Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson: If there was one celebrity couple that I would shamelessly abandon my own parents for in favor of being adopted by them, it would be Tom and Rita. For starters, Tom Hanks is just a stud. We all know that. Even he knows that, but in like, the most humble way possible. And Rita looks like the mom who always baked bomb-ass cupcakes for elementary school class parties and can simultaneously toss back tequila shots like a pro. They just always seem genuinely happy together, and I have a feeling they cuddle on their huge couch in their huge mansion watching “How I Met Your Mother” on DVD and ordering pizza from Papa John’s. Sometimes I imagine I’m there too…moving on…

 

Beyoncé and Jay-Z: To be perfectly honest, I would be terrified to see what would happen to the world should these two ever part ways. I seriously believe that the four horsemen of the Apocalypse would come galloping through the second E! News announced the split. There’s just so much power there; the excess magic coursing through Blue Ivy’s veins will probably turn her into a real life X-Men. Still, it’s cool to see two people that are so wildly successful in their own right supporting each other and appreciating what the other brings to the table. I also think that Jay-Z is a little scared of Beyoncé and does everything he can to make/keep her happy, aka exactly how I anticipate my own marriage will be.

 

Will and Jada Pinkett Smith: The “cool” parents. I feel like their dinner conversation centers around which movies Will and Jaden can star in together (“not because we’re related, but because you’re best suited for the part! Again.”) and what design Willow should get shaved into her head this week. Will and Jada seem very down to earth, which is ironic since they’re Scientologists, and despite rumors that their marriage is on the [moon] rocks they seem like a tight-knit bundle of contentment.

 

David and Victoria Beckham: It is very difficult for me to believe that these two actually like each other, much less are in love and have been married for 13 years, primarily because I don’t know how you could enjoy the company of someone who constantly shot brooding looks around the room and never smiled. Can’t guess which one I’m referring to? Exactly. However, over a decade of marriage and four extremely fashionable children with trendy names can’t be wrong, so maybe clutching to your wife’s boney arm and pretending like Beck’s 2003 cornrows weren’t completely embarrassing is the secret.

 

Hopefully Adam and Behati can keep it real, keep it fun, and keep their hands on each other because FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IF I CAN’T THEN SOMEBODY SHOULD.

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