6 Can-They-Please-Catch-On Beauty Trends

I am a lover of all things beauty related.
I have rewards accounts at both Ulta and Sephora that I monitor more stringently than my credit card balance; I have tried every new mascara that has ever been on the market; my hair routine for a night out is the stuff of legends; and I own six different kinds of makeup primer.

Once while getting ready, an old boyfriend started criticizing my lengthy beauty regimen and went so far as to add a soundtrack to the experience by playing "Waitin' on a Woman" by Brad Paisley on repeat until I was finished. The fact that I witnessed him receiving high fives from strangers later that night aside (HUMBLE BRAG YOU'RE WELCOME), he may have had a point.

This could all be avoided if the beauty industry would ease up on the expectations and complicated routines. Did you know you're supposed to layer up to six different skincare products to achieve maximum facial perfection, AND that you should wait three to five minutes between each product? I love my medicine cabinet of potions but I am nowhere near that diligent.

The following are the 6 beauty trends that I wish would catch on for the sake of my schedule, my wallet, and my love life. Or maybe just the first two; a dude who wears Crocs should never have a definitive opinion on the way you do your thang.

1. GROWN-bré - My hair is naturally medium brown but I get it highlighted because Barbie was always cooler than her brunette friend Midge. Unfortunately, hair does this hilarious bit where it grows (in my case, rapidly) and my roots constantly reveal my secret too soon. Spending over $100 every six to eight weeks to keep up with my mane just isn't happening, so I propose we embrace GROWN-bré, where I completely abandon the upkeep of my highlights and everyone compliments me on my roots while admiring my laziness/cheapness. It's like when girls intentionally dye their hair ombré, except more poor.

 

2. Callouses? More like CUTESES! - My feet are absolutely disgusting and I'm weirdly proud of it. My pride and joy are my callouses, which are so thick from dance, running, and wearing absurdly sexy shoes that I could probably stick a needle half an inch into them before I started to feel anything (you're welcome for that visual). The ladies at the nail salon like to make a show out of pumicing these babies down when I get a pedicure, but why even bother? Smooth feet may be sexy feet but I'd much rather be the badass walking on broken glass without flinching.

Problem solved!

3. Cough "Negative Space Manicure" Cough - AKA let me wear my chipped nail polish in peace. Do I love how my nails look when they're perfectly painted and shiny? Yes. Do I use my hands way too much to keep them that way for longer than 12 hours? Nailed it (ba dum chh). Negative space manicures were a huge trend at Fashion Week and were dubbed the "cutout dress of the nail world," so by comparison I guess letting your mani completely go to shit could be considered the "ripped up skirt from sitting on the corner of U Street crying into the phone at your Uber driver Jesus Skylar get it together...of the nail world." Style is forever, you guys.


Just keepin' up with the trends

4. Uneven Eyeliner Wings - This would change my outlook on life 110%. Why can't one extend a little further than the other? Why can't they be of varying thicknesses? Is it crucial that they both aim a little past the tip of my eyebrow? Did Twiggy realize the amount of stress she was putting on me when she spearheaded this trend in the 60s? It's too much. It is too. much.



5. Legitimate Bedhead - There's "I literally rolled out of bed and didn't even bother to glance at a hairbrush before I came here" bedhead, and then there's "I woke up two hours ago and used salt spray, root lifter, volumizing powder, and mousse along with a diffuser to look this nonchalant" bedhead. The former is reminiscent of homeless chic and causes friends to plan interventions, while the latter is a complete oxymoron. People who claim they achieve their look by doing the former are liars and can Derelick my balls, capítan.

6. Designer Dark Circles - I'm tired, you're tired, we're all fucking tired, and I don't feel like faking being alert by pressing cold spoons on my eyes and caking on the concealer. Let's just accept that I look like a zombie, make our crack whore comparisons, and get on with our day. Standing in the makeup aisle analyzing plastic skin tone samples against my jawbone (or is it wrist?) to determine the most convincing shade for me is not only impossible but a serious waste of time, one that could probably afford me the extra twenty minutes of sleep I need to avoid dark circles in the first place.

NO ONE IS SAFE

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Oops I Did it Again: The Life of a Chronic Impulse Shopper

"Skylar, before you go, there's something I want you to have."
"Oh, it's beautiful! But wait a minute, isn't this..."
"Yeah, yes it is."
"But I thought it used to cost $119!"
"Well, baby, I dropped it down to $90 for ya. BUT ONLY UNTIL 4/27!"

Flash sale emails get me every time. I innocently check my personal email every day on my lunch break, looking for a random picture of Westies from my mom or my weekly email from Giant so I can create my grocery list (I am a 40-year-old woman and I'm not sorry), and my inbox is flooded with money wasting potential.

If I have the willpower, I'm able to delete all of the emails from my favorite stores and continue on with my day, my bank account unscathed. The other four days of the week, I'm violently clicking links to see what I "just can't pass up" because HELLO 25% off basically means free.

It's the classic scenario that no man will ever understand:
If a top is $75 at full price, I rationalize that it's more than I'd like to spend and move on. However, if a top is $100 but is on sale for $75, that's a steal, and I need it in my closet pronto.

Let's check out the common tricks that retailers [successfully] use to ensure that I have four button-ups in stripes of various widths and two new pairs of jeans when a) it's Spring and b) I really only needed one pair, maybe.

"SHOP OUR NEW ARRIVALS A DAY EARLY!" - When you're the youngest of three, you wear a lot of hand-me-downs. Economical? Absolutely. Fashionable? Absolutely not. There was a pair of red, blue, and yellow colorblocked courduroy pants that even as a 7-year-old I knew were getting me nowhere with the boys. For that reason, I'm now a huge fan of clothes that are all mine, and I like getting them before everyone else. Yeah, Jennifer and I might wear the same dress out on Friday night, but Jennifer bought hers two weeks ago. I had it the day before it hit the site. The day. Before. It hit. The site (suck it, Jen). The sooner I have those new clothes, the sooner I can get bored with them and forget that they exist.

"Spring Stock-up Sale! All skirts $15 and up!" - A seasonal stock-up sale signifies change, growth, and a new outlook on life; i.e. I have to pay for my gas in change, my closet has outgrown its limits, and I will be looking out from underneath a cardboard box when I can no longer pay my rent. If the Fashion Gods wanted my legs to be covered up they wouldn't have made them so fabulous (albeit short. Nobody's perfect. #Miley). Pencil skirts don't fit my body correctly, but that one is anchor printed and only $30, therefore I'll make it work. 40 degrees in the beginning of March means pants, sweaters, boots, and scarves. 40 degrees in mid-April means dresses, skirts, tanks, and sandals. I don't make the rules, people.

"Get a free mystery gift when you buy 2 bras!" - What could it possibly be?! A free lotion? A tote? Lip gloss? I don't even need any more bras but this is no time for logic, it's free! The email clearly states that it's only for a limited time and/or while supplies last, the $100 (Side note: yeah gentlemen, two of them cost that much) I spend to ensure I get one is a life investment. Get on my level, Warren Buffet.

"Free Shipping when you spend $120!" - This is my kryptonite. I am literally powerless against it. It works like this every time: The top and shoes I've been eyeing total up to $110. Shipping is $8. I'll just pay shipping and still come in under the $120 mark, right? Hahahahaha. No. I'll add my shirt and shoes to the cart plus another $40 top to guarantee I get free shipping and pay $42 more than I originally would have because I am a free American.   

 "Come claim your birthday gift! No purchase necessary!" - Right. Like that'll happen. It's always the same with you, cosmetics store which I will not put on blast because damnit I love you too much: I walk into the store with the sole intention of scooping my free sample-size mascara and eyeshadow. Eyes on the prize, Skylar, eyes on the pr- Oh my God, Versace Bright Crystal comes in a rollerball? Neeeeeed. Suddenly I'm testing the limits of my baby hands by simultaneously holding root lifting spray, an argan oil hair treatment, fake lashes, and three different shades of lip stain, and the girl at the register wishes me a happy birthday with a twinkle in her eye that says, "Bow down, bitch." And I do.

In the coming months I'll need to buy a car and pay off summer vacays, so you'd think I'd buckle down and save up. Those things will get taken care of, no worries [Dad], but you better believe I'll be cruising to the beach in new sunnies and a brand new bikini, both of which I received for 20% off (but TODAY ONLY!).  

Raise.com--an awesome new peer-to-peer marketplace where you can buy discounted gift cards to your favorite brands and sell your unused gift cards for cash--understands my penchant for good deals, even when I'm not getting one. Check out their blog series about how our go-to stores convince us to impulse buy, and maybe you'll think twice about giving in to the next flash sale.

Or you'll buy three pairs of new wedges. You do you, I don't know your life.

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6 of my Favorite, Most Unladylike Parts of Skirt Season

A photo exists of me at about age two playing in the snow. I am tiny, holding one of my signature Snow Babies (literally a squash-sized pile of snow. My sculpture skills improved with age to include more anatomically correct attributes, like a neck), wearing a bright purple jacket and snow pants with mittens that definitely extended beyond my fingers by about two inches. The picture is, in a word, adorable.

What makes it even more adorable is the evidence of one of my weirdest/most deep-seated quirks that still thoroughly defines me today. I was wrapped tighter than Randy in A Christmas Story ("I can't put my arms down!"), but sticking out from under my puffy coat was a little ruffly dress. As a toddler, I insisted on wearing a dress at all times, so a skirt peeking out from where it shouldn't be was nothing out of the ordinary.

 

I have almost recreated this look a million times this terrible winter. I like wearing sweaters and boots and earmuffs, but make obligatory small-talk with the meek finance guy in the break room and even he would blurt out, "I don't know how much more of this I can take!" Side note: this might also be the exact point that he's snapped. Make friends quick, he's going to set the building on fire. I still love dresses. Hiding my man calves under a layer of tights and dress pants (I don't fuck around) has been so depressing. They didn't deserve to be in leg jail! They want to breathe! I could be unknowingly developing cankles! This is torture, Mother Nature!

Needless to say, I've been desperate for Skirt Season. I realize that any man reading this just let out an appreciative, "Damn straight!" but I'm willing to bet we have different agendas.

For guys, Skirt Season means legs and possibly even some donk should a Marilyn moment occur.

For girls, it means an easy outfit that's cute and feminine.

For me, it means something much more inappropriate than that. Here are my six favorite, yet most unladylike aspects of Skirt Season:

1. Maxi dresses let you sit like a man: "Wanna come over and watch the game?" "Wanna go on a picnic at the park?" "Wanna watch a P90X DVD while we eat Doritos?" I would like to do all of those things very much, and I will do all of them sitting spread eagle. Know why? Because I can. Where mini's and midi's advertise your hoo-ha when you move your knee a quarter of an inch any which way, maxi's are the friend that says, "Let loose, girlfriend, I've literally got you covered" to which I reply, "I love you so much, Crotchless Yoga Pants."

2. Constant Air Conditioning: Remember when the picture of Fergie from The Black Eyed Peas surfaced where "it looked like" she had peed her pants, but she just said she was really sweaty? First of all, that was a lose-lose situation, amirite? Second, had she been wearing a skirt, her Londy Londy Londy would've kept its cool and/or she could've let the River Thames loose and no one would have been the wiser. I love the fact that while I'm twirling in a skirt, it appears as though I'm having fun and being dainty. Not the case. I am actively creating a breezy environment from the waist down. I am a human oscillating fan.

3. Jump out of bed ready for the day: As in, I could wear a casual dress all day Friday, get home late and get straight in my bed, wake up the next morning, and immediately walk out the door to meet a friend for brunch, and I would have been comfortably and appropriately dressed the entire time. It's hard enough for me to take my own shoes off before I tuck myself in for the night--completely change from one set of clothes to another? Child please. The dress accepts my laziness and celebrates it. You gotta love an article of clothing that will change its name to "nightgown" just to make you feel better about your life.

4. Feign interest: Sometimes, I go on dates with people I'm not the least bit interested in (yes, I'm the one they've warned you about). It's not for attention or because I like to toy with people's emotions, I would just rather have plans than not. Simple as that. Throw in free food and an awkward story to share later and I'll go out with just about anyone [hot]. Date night outfits can vary depending on my level of legitimate attraction towards a person, which can get tricky. How do I decide the difference between an "I like you!" outfit vs. an "I haven't been grocery shopping in a week so yeah let's go to California Pizza Kitchen" one? The great thing about dresses is that they do the work for you. My mind says, "Oh my God are we going to talk about your fucking triathlon training this entire dinner?" but my dress says, "That's so interesting! Tell me more about the difference between your off- and on-season caloric intake percentages!"

5. Food baby disguise: Fourth of July is my jam. Beer and grilled meat are the foundation of our beautiful country, therefore patriotism demands that we consume as many of each as we possibly can with a large group of friends and an arsenal of colorful explosives. Unfortunately, Old Glory can cloud your judgement and suddenly you've downed six hot dogs faster than Joey Chestnut. A crop top would totally bail on you in this situation but a sundress steps up to the plate and conceals your bump without restriction. Go grab yourself a slice of apple pie, Baberaham Lincoln, no one has to know.

6. WHAT IF SHE HAD BEEN WEARING PANTS:

 

Enough said.

 

 

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Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - John Tucker Must Die

After the story of my embarrassing life hit the internet, I was inundated with texts and Facebook messages from other girls who had experienced similarly catastrophic dates. In the interest of group commiseration, I decided to create a series that would tell other girls that they're not alone, and tell weird guys that maybe they should pump the brakes a smidge. If you have a story that you would like shared, feel free to send it my way!

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

Last summer I started hanging out and hooking up with this 27-year-old babe who appropriately earned the name John Tucker. We got along great and the sex was awesome, but he never fully wanted to commit, and I knew he had another girl that lived in Philadelphia. Proximity and convenience trumps everything, so I had the upper hand (except when she would come to visit. Whatever).

This past July was about the one year mark of us doing whatever we were doing, and I asked him about this girl--who we'll call Philly--and what she was to him. He promised me it was nothing.

Wrong, obviously. He ended things with me to be with her, and she ended up living with him for the summer. WELL, we all played on the same softball team together and as much as I wanted to be a bitch, I really did like this girl because she was actually super nice. Fuck me, right?

Fast forward to the end of July, and John Tucker left Philly at one bar to come to another bar with me, a minor detail I wasn't aware of until later. She ends up meeting us at that bar anyway, and while we're all standing in line he breaks up with her with me standing right next to him, telling her he's not over me. So. Awkward.

So Philly moved back to Philly, and everything between John Tucker and I was great. It really seemed like we were a legit couple...up until he went an entire weekend without talking to me, that is. It was Labor Day Weekend and I get on Facebook to discover that he went to the beach with her. Spectacular.

Safe to say that things were over for good when I screen shotted him a pic of them together and he responded with, "Yeah I need to talk to you about that." Yeah, don't bother.

--Fresh Princess of Bel Air

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was dying.

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

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

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

--Straight A Student

The Worst Date I Have Ever Been On

Let’s call him Not John.

We had met a few weeks before at the winery I occasionally work at on the weekends. He was very smart, super cute and actually appreciated my vulgar sense of humor; such a trifecta is not easy to find, believe me. I had agreed to go out with him one time before on an excursion that led to Annapolis, MD and a photo on his Instagram with a caption reading “My baby ;)”. This is why I can’t have nice things.

Despite that photo and several warning signs that I was too lazy to pay attention to, I consented to a second date. I’d set Not John straight this time: we’d take it easy, see what happened, nothing serious. This would work! Only girls are the psycho ones, right?

I was meeting him at a park by the Potomac River right after work at 7 p.m. It was May, aka spring dresses were in full swing, and although my typical date outfit includes heels of some kind (so I stand a small chance of making eye contact with a person), I opted for flats since we would be in nature.  I pulled in right at 7 and sat for a minute to let Rihanna finish belting out Rude Boy. At 7:10 I gave him a call, and he said he was “so sorry, on my way, just picking up food, be right there.”

Food had been mentioned so I was totally fine with it. This gave Rihanna and I more time together to collaborate on Umbrella, S&M, and Love the Way You Lie (of which I also rapped Eminem’s part. Renaissance woman over here). I had been so taken with this personal concert that I was shocked when I checked the clock. 7:40. What the actual fuck. Where was he?

I’m not typically a serial caller, but Not John was forty minutes late, I was hungry, and since the long days of summer hadn’t quite kicked in yet, it was starting to get a little dark. “Haha (what’s so funny?), I just had to shower real quick (well I appreciate that), I’ll be right there (déjà vu).”

If I was a bigger bitch, I would’ve said, “Don’t even bother” and driven home to a trusty plate of Bagel Bites, but unfortunately I don’t have that particular bone in my body so I overenthusiastically said, “Okay!” and awkwardly sat until he pulled in a few minutes later.

He immediately won back a few points by telling me how pretty I looked and showing me the bags of food.

“We just need to walk a little to these picnic tables right by the water,” he said.

For once, flats were the right decision. We walked with our bags of yummy and chatted and he laughed at my jokes and everything was just peachy. However, as I said before, it was technically still Spring, where the sun goes down at an understandable 8 p.m., and we were on a path in the woods with no lights. We had already been walking for a little over ten minutes, so I casually asked, “So where are these picnic tables?”

“Just a little bit longer,” Not John said.

Chatting continued, fighting off gnats began, and weird nature sounds became louder. Fifteen more minutes went by, and I had a mental flash of my story being used on an episode of CSI.
“He lured her into the woods saying they were going on a ‘date’. He shot her in the head.”
“I guess it’s true. Love… *takes sunglasses off*…hurts.”

“We’ve gotta be getting close, huh?”

“Uhh yeah I think it’s right around the corner.”

Stop. Just fucking stop. “Think”? You “think”? I followed you into the jungle on a guess? Thank god we weren’t paddling on the river or else we would definitely be recreating OpenWater.

In an uncharacteristic twist of fate, I managed not to flip out and calmly suggested that if the picnic tables weren’t around the next corner we should probably turn around. Not only was I totally over it, but it was now officially dark and the rabid toads were on the prowl.

Shock of the century: the picnic tables weren’t around the next corner. We turned around, using the glow of his phone as a flashlight and my heightened survival instincts to lead us back as quickly as possible. Again, my lack of dramatic bitchiness did not allow me to bring up the fact that this was a poorly executed excuse for romance and instead, I just talked about anything else that came to mind. We covered my love for The Wedding Singer, when I got my tooth knocked out in a soccer game in sixth grade, and my disdain for Taylor Swift when he suddenly chuckles and says, “I’m so glad we’re at the point in our relationship where we can just laugh about things like this.”

Let me reiterate for anyone that’s been scanning this post for the part where we hook up in the woods (P.S. sorry to disappoint): this was our second date. Relationships take several more dates and conversations and actual feelings before they can come to fruition, and we could not have been farther from that point.   

I was shocked into silence. For the first time in my entire life I literally didn’t know what to say. I might’ve blacked out for a while because I really don’t recall the rest of the walk back to civilization, but finally we made it back to the parking lot.

“We can eat in my car,” he said.

“Exactly what I wanted to do!” I accidentally yelled, a side effect of regaining consciousness and a potential indicator of PTSD.

We ate in silence. He might have told a story or two, I’m really not sure as my sole focus was on escaping the confines of his godforsaken Acura and the night as a whole. I was forced out of my “Mmhmm”’s and nods when he says, “So I have a surprise for you.”

I swear to you I was fully prepared for an engagement ring to be pulled out at that exact moment, and my stomach fell directly to my toes in terror.

“What’s that?” I asked, wondering if the plastic knife I was using would properly sever my left hand off and if that would be an appropriate “no” to his proposal.

“I got us tickets for The Great Gatsby in Frederick at 10:20!”

Crisis somewhat averted, but a new issue emerged. From where we sat at that moment, Frederick was at least another 25-30 minutes away. Gatsby was almost two and a half hours long. My patience had already worn thinner than Nicole Richie circa 2006. I just couldn’t do it.

“Ya knowww…” I began, my go-to conversation starter phrase when I don’t feel like doing something, “…I have to work really early tomorrow, and I was going to try to get some stuff done beforehand so I’d be waking up even earlier, and I wouldn’t want to fall asleep during the movie, and…”

At this point I just trailed off and gave a fake sorry smile. This was exhausting. He sighed “Okay” and was visibly disappointed, and said we should try again the following week, which I agreed to but which I immediately knew would never happen. I couldn’t take the risk of any other costs factoring in to our divorce.

After speeding home, I showered the unfortunate nature of the evening off of my body and prepared myself for just how uncomfortable our future interactions would be. Perhaps giving the turn-your-head move went he went in for the good night kiss was a twist of the dagger in his already wounded heart, but seriously? He tried to take me on an uninformed picnic to a mystery location in the middle of the woods and then assumed he had wifed me up before I even had a chance to send a “Bail me out of this nightmare” text to my best friend, leading me to eat salad in the front seat of a car while Ginuwine crooned softly in the background.

I thought things like that only happened with people you met off of Craigslist.  

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My Brand!....Is Nothing....

I know this might be hard to believe, but I’m not this beautiful every day.

My long withstanding track record of being practically perfect in every way has led many to believe that I roll out of bed with fabulous hair and flawless skin and abs that could deflect a bullet like a sheet of titanium. While flattered, I must admit this is just not true.

My eyesight is impeccable, though.

I killed it in elementary school eye screenings. Read the bottom line? F E Z D L C P T D, bitch!

In 7^th grade, I wanted purple contacts because apparently that would make me cool, and I needed all the help I could get. Guys check it out! I’m like Elizabeth Taylor! Wait is it not cool to know who that is? Shit.

I’m an asset on road trips as I can read exit signs at least eight hundred yards away. “Exit 69 is the next one.” *GPS: In half a mile, take Exit 69 on the right* “Boom.”

I should be walking around batting my eyelashes and winking and staring judgmentally and doing whatever else a person with perfect vision can do, shouldn’t I? Yes I should, and about 95% of the time that’s exactly what I do. But like I said, I’m not this beautiful every day, and sometimes I just want to throw my fabulous hair up in a messy bun and hide the bod under a baggy t-shirt and generally just look like a big mess while hopefully still hinting at a bit of inherent sexiness so as not to disappoint my fans.

You know which demographic pulls this off at the expert level? Girls who wear glasses.

What I strive for, minus the cig

I have always been jealous of the girls who were “running late” aka didn’t feel like wearing mascara that day and slipped on their glasses along with their sweatpants, managing to look laid back and hot all at the same time. But what were my special eyes to do in order to achieve the same effect?

Buy fake glasses. Natch.

Now if I, with my spot-on memory, recall, I initially bought the fake glasses for a school girl-themed party my sophomore year of college. It would have been a waste of money to just love them and leave them after one simple soiree, so I started to break those babies out more and more. Research Strategies class at 9 a.m.? Glasses ON, attention span OFF. Literary Critical Theory class? I needed to look as intelligent as I could (that class was impossible). Hungover at Denny’s on Sunday morning? Suddenly I looked like less of a disaster. The fake glasses completed me.

Unfortunately, I didn’t anticipate the consequences. Sure, my friends knew that my glasses weren’t real, but no one else did. Initially, this was the point. But then one day, I was at Subway with a guy I was dating and he suggested we switch glasses to see who had worse eyes, snatching mine off of my face before I had a second to protest.

“Wow, your prescription is really light,” he laughed. “My eyes are so much worse than yours!”
“You have no idea…” I said quietly, and then had to explain in front of God, this guy, and the Sandwich Artist that I was a fraud.

So now you know: I’m as flawless as you’ve always believed, I’m just an immaculate secret-keeper. I now make it a point to fully disclose my ocular situation to every old friend and new acquaintance so 1) there’s no confusion about my perfection and 2) they back off and let me pretend I’m one of the cool girls FOR ONCE.

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Gotcha Bitch: How Do I Put This Gently?

Looking for the best way to communicate your current emotional state of being or show off an inside joke with your best friend?

Use GIFs.
Side note: how are we supposed to pronounce this again? I've been saying "gif" forever but I recently heard someone say "jif" and now I'm stressed.

One GIF-centric blog that I view pretty regularly is #WhatShouldWeCallMe. Between her affinity for eating, publically embarrassing herself, and scoring free drinks from male strangers, I feel like that girl and I would get along just swimmingly.

Unfortunately with every demonstration of hilarity, there is a person who tries to get in on the action and copy the idea, usually to a much less successful (and even less funny) degree. This is the case with How Do I Put This Gently?.

This girl's blog description currently reads, "Just a semi-functioning individual navigating higher education with a cocktail in her hand and a tendency to embarrass herself." However, it once said something along the lines of, "I love '#WhatShouldWeCallMe' and hope to one day be as funny as her." AKA she admits to being a copycat. Strike one.

Strike two is the fact that she is nowhere near as witty as #WSWCM and would probably be the "friend" present at girls' night who doesn't understand that, no, we're not not laughing because we didn't hear you tell your "hilarious" story four times, it's because it's not funny and you were only invited because you'll more than likely get wasted and pay for everyone's cab ride home.

See for yourself: the two post the same GIFs all the time, yet who seems to come out on top in terms of originality and genuine comedic prowess? If you're gonna be an imposter, be a good one, that's all I'm sayin.

#WSWCM: "When I hear something I'm obsessed with mentioned in someone else's conversation"

HDIPTG: "When I hear my crush is newly single"

 

 

#WSWCM: "When I actually take the time to read someone's political rant on Facebook"

HDIPTG: "When the teacher requires the class to buy an unnecessary textbook"

 

 

#WSWCM: "When someone pretends they want to talk but really just want my place in line"

HDIPTG: "When a creepy guy gets too close to me at the bar"

 

 

#WSWCM: "Walking back to my seat after putting the correct answer on the board"

HDIPTG: "How I feel after I come back from the gym"

 

 

#WSWCM: "When I start to feel the shot I just took"

HDIPTG: "Only two more days until the weekend"

 

 

#WSWCM: "When I think about anything I wore during freshman year of college"

HDIPTG: "When asked about my ex"

 

 

#WSWCM: "When I found out how much I owe in taxes"

HDIPTG: "Getting on the scale after the weekend"

 

 

#WSWCM: "When sunlight starts to peek into my window"

HDIPTG: "If my brain could talk right now"

 

Overall, my main issue is that #WSWCM girl can make a decent joke, while the other chick just chooses a GIF and then states the obvious.
Should I care about this nearly as much as I do? No. But my life has been going pretty fucking awesome lately so this is all I've got. Deuces.

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How to do The Pose (i.e. How to Look Deceptively Skinny in Pictures)

Ah, being skinny. The elusive mark of superiority that tells the world either A) I was born this way, B) My workout routine makes Ivan Drago look like a pansy, or C) I ate the entire sleeve of Thin Mints but puked it all up afterwards, deal with it.

It is one thing to be skinny in everyday life. There is a significant decrease in chub rub when you wear short shorts to music festivals in 90-degree heat, for starters. You can also absent-mindedly massage your hip bones while you wait in line at Express to purchase your size 0 jeggings and crop tops. Your life is filled with showers of compliments like, “I want to borrow your dress but it’ll never look that good on me,” and, “Your collarbones are so prominent!” Sweet victory.

For normal people, however, looking skinny is a skill crafted through Facebook profile pics; it’s all about finding the light, knowing your angles, and rotating your leg juuuust like that to make your butt look smaller. Photo deception is a talent that every girl—no matter what her dress size—learns within her first two weeks of college and perfects over the course of those four years, so much so that she’ll beg her advisor to add it as a second major on her diploma. It’s just what we do. If you have ever gathered a group of girlfriends together to get a group shot before a night out, you have undoubtedly heard the following phrases:

“Ugh Brittany will you switch with me? This is my bad side!”

“Hold on I need to do a hair flip. Big hair little hips, duh.”

“Suck it in ladies!”

“Ew. When did I grow three chins?? Take one more.”

Got it down to a science

Guys do not understand the carefully-crafted ballet that is the female picture-taking experience. When they pose for pictures, all they really worry about is what to do with their hands—a problem solved by holding a beer, throwing the shocker, or simply shoving them in their pockets.

I recently attempted to explain the logistics of the female photo pose to a guy friend of mine. He was left just as mystified as before, but it made me realize that there are rules to The Pose and its variations, and as absurd as those rules might be to the layman, they’re pretty effing important if you want at least ten ‘likes’ on your default picture within three minutes of posting it. Let’s review:



Baby Spice to Posh: YOU CAN'T SIT WITH US.

1.       The Hand on Hip – Arm flab is a dead giveaway that the closest thing you do to exercise is spend six hours repinning Crossfit workouts that you’d totally do if you weren’t so busy. Easy fix? Pop that hand on your hip and watch bicep definition appear out of thin air. If you are the member of the posse that got shafted to the end of the line, it is your responsibility to represent the hotness of the group as a whole by poking your elbow out for the world to see. Who runs the world? Your upper arm, girl.

       Side note: pay attention to your fingers. Thumb goes towards the back, the rest relax around your hip/waist. Claw hands are weird. Don’t be weird.

2.       The Twist and Shout (aka just The Twist) – One of my friends recently let me in on a little “secret,” saying that the edges of a picture are always slightly less in-focus and thus more expanded than the rest, so people on the ends always look a bit wider. I was coming off a two-month-long eat-pancakes-in-bed-while-watching-Gilmore-Girls bender, so this was probably an act of sympathy, but should it still hold some truth I think it’s important that everyone masters the beauty of The Twist: with your hand firmly on your hip, plant your feet and rotate your upper body so your shoulders are facing the camera, but your hips are still at an angle. OH MY GOD where did those three pounds go?! Exactly.

3.       The Tilt – I actually hate The Tilt. Unless you’re losing a fight with gravity or have a debilitating case of scoliosis, no one naturally stands with that much of an arch in their back. It doesn’t do much in the ways of making you look tinier anyway, except if you’re trying to literally bring yourself closer to the ground and/or spontaneously practice the bridge you learned in your second grade gymnastics class. The Head Tilt, The Tilt’s slightly cooler semi-functioning cousin, can sometimes create a shadow along the outer jaw that creates the illusion of not-jowls, but generally you just look like you’re in pain. Posture is our friend, everyone.

4.       The Jut – This is actually one of those tricks that they taught in etiquette classes back in the ‘40s, I kid you not. Jutting your head out just a bit creates definition in your neck and keeps your double chin at bay much more successfully than the Head Tilt. It also makes you look interested in and grateful to the poor shmuck you wrangled into taking umpteen photos of you and your friends at the bar. The Jut can go horribly wrong if you get overzealous and start to mimic Sling Blade, so try to keep your jut at a reasonable level. As a general rule, jutting to the point that you can slightly feel it is fine; jutting so that you head butt your friend Rebecca in the nose is probably too far.

Well done

5.       The Knee Pop – The most controversial move on the list. A Knee Pop serves to tighten your leg muscles and give you a bit of extra flair should your Hand on Hip and Tilt be flawless or you’re an overachiever. I myself utilize the Knee Pop from time to time to show off my fabulous calf muscles (it’s not bragging if it’s true). Sometimes, though, the Knee Pop can actually accentuate weird thighs and make you look shorter, which is a pro if you’re an Amazon but generally a con for the rest of the population.  Also, take note that it is a knee POP, not a preparatory move to start the Can-Can. If your friend Anna thinks you’re about to knee her in the boob, you’re doing too much. You should be forewarned that if not executed with conviction the Knee Pop can come off as a bit timid, like, “When this picture’s over I’ll go back to standing in the corner by myself, twiddling my thumbs and eating my hair.” That’s typically something we like to avoid.

Are there any Pose tips I missed? Sharing is caring, ladies, and we’ll all benefit from knowing the ins and outs of looking good in pictures. Statistically, 75% of us will have some kind of online dating profile that we’ll need to bluff our way through in the next few years, so you might as well start the lies at your unbelievably phenomenal photo and end with the fact that you’re a “triathlete” (aka you like to drink margs by the pool, ride on the back of motorcycles, and half-assedly jog across the street when a car’s approaching).

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I Love You, Chopped

When I fall in love with a TV show, I give it all I’ve got. I re-watch episodes ad nauseum, learn the characters’ life stories so I can better understand their actions/decisions, and vehemently defend it to anyone who says things like, “Eh that show’s okay,” or worse, “I’ve never seen it.”

I’ve demonstrated this affection with several shows in the past, including Gilmore Girls, Real Housewives of Orange County, and What Not to Wear, and I have just realized that my latest obsession (which isn’t really all that new) has passed the point of innocent adoration and catapulted into full-on crazy-girl fixation.

 

 

I have a passion for Chopped.

 

I’ve mentioned it before, but I didn’t realize the unreasonable extent to which I was actually dedicated to this show. Like, I would do things to and for Ted Allen that I would never consider doing for any boyfriend I’ve ever had. An addiction is defined as “the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming,” and I’ll be damned if I’m not almost at that point.

 

I wish I was a straight guy so you could give me the queer eye

For starters, if I’m flipping through channels and see that it’s on, I physically cannot turn it off. I am sucked in like a bachelor in the champagne room at a strip club, and there’s nothing anyone can do to bring me back. Once, my mom asked to watch some other show, and after lifting the remote with shaky hands and visibly twitching at the thought of missing the Dessert Round, I finally just threw the remote at her and left the room.

On top of that, Chopped has taught me some valuable lessons which I have incorporated into my everyday life. I was recently slicing open individually-wrapped chicken breasts that were allegedly “E-Z Open” but were most definitely NOT, and the knife turned on me and gashed my thumb. I hate blood and blades, so typically this would be a recipe for overdramatic disaster, but instead I thought “The clock is ticking, Chef Skylar, keep going!” and wrapped a paper towel around it and kept on keeping on like it was nothing. Mind you, I was not being timed or in any type of competitive situation whatsoever, but this is what the show has done to my gut reactions.

I have also become a douchebag at restaurants. No, not toservers; those people are saints who put up with way more shit than anyone should ever have to, and for that I’m always sure to tip at least 25%. I keep my jerkiness on the DL, but it’s there in the form of me reading the menu description and then being extremely nitpicky about how well that explanation is portrayed on my plate. “Roasted Pumpkin and Spinach Risotto: Oven roasted pumpkin with baby spinach, garlic, tossed through Arborio rice and served with freshly shaved parmesan”?? Interesting, because the garlic was sautéed too long and has become bitter and I’m totally losing the flavor of the pumpkin. The huge chunks of parmesan are hardly “shaved” and you could have really used a citric element to provide a bit more acidity. I’M NOT SORRY I’M JUST SAYIN.

 

 

Finally, it is my dream to reenact Chopped in my own kitchen with my friends, except the rules would be altered slightly to accommodate for massive drinking before the competition commenced. Basically, we take shots of tequila, and then our makeshift Ted (probably my friend’s boyfriend) yells out, “Today’s mystery ingredients include: Fritos, someone’s leftover taco salad from Qdoba, a half-eaten chocolate rabbit from Easter, and Blue Powerade. You have 20 minutes. Time starts now!” Naturally, I would reduce the chocolate and the Powerade into a sauce while throwing the salad into the food processor to grind it up and make patties out of it that I would crust with the Fritos and fry. I would drizzle the fried vegetable patty with the chocolate sauce and call it a Fried Mexican Vegetable Cake with Blue Mole.

 

I would win the Appetizer Round only because my friends would be shitfaced lying on the floor eating Fritos and crying.

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