Spared

I’m not entirely sure what spurred my recent purge of 103 people from my Facebook friends list, but for the most part, it was easy to decide who didn’t make the cut.

Met once at a party in college and never spoke again? Delete.

You finally had the oopsie baby we all had to pretend wasn’t an oopsie baby even though you purposely wore an empire waist wedding gown to hide the bump? Baby’s cute. Excitement’s over. You’re out.

You friended me because I was quasi-dating your friend? We all knew that wasn’t going anywhere even while it was happening. I appreciate you extending the olive branch. Bye.

For some reason, though, there were some people that fell into the above categories and I still couldn’t bring myself to bring the guillotine down. So, I decided to analyze it.

I really hope the following survivors read these reasonings and message me with their blessing/agreement to go our separate ways. Help me help myself.

How ‘bout you, Eyebrows?

We’ve known each other for several years and I’ve never really had strong feelings either way about you as a person. However, I have very strong feelings about your eyebrows. You either need to dye them or learn to fill them in. They disappear in photos. It’s disconcerting.

I’m hoping to forego all of my fucks one day and just comment these feelings on a photo so you might evolve into something besides a walking five head and I can finally be at peace. Or, you’ll get so offended that you’ll defriend me, instead. Either way works!

The Switcheroo

You got married when we were, like, 20 years old. It was confusing. You definitely changed your name at that time. I still cared about maintaining relationships then, no matter how stilted they were, so I didn’t delete you even when you posted pics of you and your (much older?) hubby’s new condo. This was the heyday of Four Loko, and I was busy destroying my organs. Couldn’t care less about your adult decisions.

However, in my quest to declutter my friend list, I noticed that you had your original last name again. I haven’t kept tabs on you because, like I said, couldn’t care less, but now I’m intrigued. You’ve survived until I can dedicate the appropriate amount of time to ascertain what the fuck went wrong. I’m excited!

Family/Friend Ties

I vehemently dislike you. I’ve never liked you. This is decades-long disdain.

Unfortunately, you’re friends with and/or related to people I’m friends with. We’re going to run into each other and be obligated to participate in group pictures together which you’re going to force us all to retake because you think your tooth looks weird. Face it: Your teeth are weird. The situation won’t be rectified in a matter of minutes.

You’re hateful, hypocritical, vain, and your values are completely out of whack. I legitimately hope you get the new strain of incurable gonorrhea going around. In fact, I’m banking on it.

Christopher Columbus

You’re moving across the country soon. I’m really just waiting until you post the obnoxious status update confirming that you and your girlfriend are on the plane and then it’s over.

Silent Supporter

When did we meet? I know it was in college, but when and how? I’ve had to consider this for several people and most of them got the axe, but not you. Why? Because you’re freakishly supportive of things I post and, apparently, find me hilarious. We haven’t spoken to or seen each other in at least five years and probably never will again, and yet, without fail, there you are.

This is literally all it takes to weasel your way into my good graces. A like or a “haha” reaction? Be still my heart.  

Keep doing your thing and I’ll keep doing mine, you preciously encouraging figment of my life successes.

The Disney Princess Bride

I think you’re getting married in Disney World soon. I very much want to see the photos from this wedding because I think they’ll be magically ridiculous. If you could somehow pull off repelling down the aisle a la Tinkerbell during the nightly fireworks show instead of the traditional walk, that’d be great. Happy for you.

Rage Inspiration

You do Crossfit. Ask me how I know.

Anyway, you’ve gotten in great shape and I’m very impressed by you, so I keep you around as inspiration.

You’re also annoying as fuck.

I do not care about your workouts or your diet or your supplements or your PR’s or your delts. I definitely don’t care that you’re trying to get your Pro Card at whatever bikini/figure/spray tan competition is happening in nine weeks. Regardless, you have my respect. I’ll throw you a like every now and then while muttering, “Oh, fuck off.”

Everyone else I generally know and genuinely like, or at least find interesting, or am obligated by relationship or family to be “friends” with.

So….congratulations?

Am I Sexy Yet?

The Disney movies of the 90s were inarguably some of the greatest animated masterpieces to ever grace impressionable eyeballs. You had Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, Pocahontas, The Lion King, Toy Story, Mulan, and all three of the The Mighty Ducks movies (not animated, but are probably the most important thing to ever happen to any of us, period).

We memorized the songs, spouted off the one-liners, bought the action figures, and dressed like our favorite characters for Halloween. We also reenacted our favorite scenes at recess.

My elementary school playground had a swingset supported by three long poles at either end. Esmeralda swung around a pole in a scene in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and every recess in second grade was dedicated to emulating her gracefulness. I logged serious hours on that baby.

I distinctly remember a teacher warily eyeing me and saying, “Maybe you shouldn’t...play on the pole like that.” A seven year old doesn’t understand the stripper-like implications of their playtime activity of choice, obviously, so I just thought, “You idiot. I’m a gypsy!” and kept at it.

It’s taken twenty years, but all of that practice finally paid off when I recently decided to take a pole dancing class.  

I never got poor enough in college to turn to exotic dancing (thanks, Mom and Dad!), so when I found out this dream could still be realized without any moral or financial stipulation, I was so down. (Nothing against strippers at all. If you want to tell your dad that you afforded his birthday gift by giving some greasy man named Chaz a lap dance, you do you, girl)

I roped a friend into attending the Intro to Pole class with me. If it went well, we shared a fun evening. If I embarrassed myself by twirling too enthusiastically and landing directly on my tailbone, we could laugh together as she helped me limp home. I’m a planner.

Upon walking into the studio, I was surprised to discover the absence of a stage. Also, no one asked what I wanted my stripper name to be (Lola Glitterthighs). Was I in the right place? There were, however, seven poles attached to the ceiling and yoga mats placed all around.

The instructor came out looking like someone who could potentially get fake-eyelashed up and be a great dancer, but would get extremely and feministically offended if you told her so. She also looked like Piper Perabo and I am a huge Coyote Ugly fan. I liked her immediately.

We started off by stretching as Violet Sanford told us what to expect from class.

“Don’t worry if you’re not flexible, or a great dancer, or sexy, or anything like that.”

Triple check. Excellent.

The studio’s website had recommended wearing shorts and a tank top so our bodies would provide plenty of grip on the pole. As we stretched, I caught a glimpse of my butt in these shorts, and decided that if this all went well I was going to be making bank at my newfound side gig. #squats #shegotadonk

Finally, we moved to the pole. Each pole had two ladies on it, and as fate would have it, my friend and I got split up. We’re not co-dependent by any means (I, personally, don’t even like going to the bathroom with other girls), but the amount of emotional support I require whilst hip swiveling is indefinite, and now I was going to have to depend on a stranger for that encouragement.

Jersey demonstrated how to walk around the pole. Arm high, lean out, feet close to the base of the pole, taking smooth, toe-dragging steps. “As you get comfortable with the placement of your body, you can add in things like running your other hand through your hair or down your body.” Yeah, that’s not where I shine, so I decided to just stick to the basics.

Next, we all faced the pole and learned how to body roll onto it. Need I remind you that I’m sharing this pole with a girl I don’t know. Now, we were basically grinding on each other. Women supporting women, amirite? My spine and legs were wet noodling independently from one another and I can apparently only snake from side to side, not front to back. The studio recommends taking at least three of these 90-minute intro classes before moving to the next level, and while I initially thought that was extreme, I realized that devoting 270 minutes just to body rolling might not be a bad idea.

Then we got down to the biz: spinning. The air in the room immediately electrified. This is what we had all signed up for.

First, we learned the Front Spin (side note: these all had technical names, but I was too preoccupied with how great my butt looked in these shorts to pay attention. Seriously, do your squats, gals).

Grasping the pole with both hands in sort of an isosceles triangle, you point your outer foot to the side, then with some added momentum, spin to the front. After making one rotation, the outer leg switches with the inner one, and the inner one wraps around the pole all seductive-like.

This was it. This was my Esmeralda moment. My body instinctively knew what to do, and my muscle memory kicked in to bring me back to the playground. I just needed a bojanglin’ belt and poofy blouse and my seven-year-old self could finally be proud of the person I had become. I spun like my rent depended on it. I spun like I had just bought a new tube of body glitter. I spun like every shoe in my closet was a 7-inch platform heel. It was awesome.

Oh but wait IT GOT BETTER.

We got to spin backwards.

For this one, the outer arm reached overhead to grab the pole while the inner one wrapped around it. Again, we pointed the outer foot, but this time our momentum made us trust fall to the back. As we spun, the inner leg wrapped around the pole as we spiraled to the ground and landed on our knees.

I thought I was excited by the first spin move, but this one was an instant favorite. I was already planning on backwards-spinning around every scaffolding pole I came across between this studio and the F train. My knees were getting demolished and I didn’t even care.

I glanced back at my friend, who was effortlessly spinning around the pole like an elegant goddess. What a natural. So proud.

Piper announced that we would now combine everything we learned together into a mini routine, and my game face has never been more on. She turned on Rihanna, because this was a classy place. No “Cherry Pie” by Warrant here!

After my partner (romantic or platonic? Unclear) took her turn, I grabbed the pole and commenced the walk. We seamlessly transitioned into the body roll, then the front and backward spins, finishing by flawlessly pulling ourselves up from our knees without making ugly grunting noises or climbing the pole like we were in the final stretch of the American Ninja Warrior course (harder than it sounds).

You guys. You GUYS. I didn’t look heinous! I would’ve had at least $1.50 thrown at me from a crowd, and probably not all in nickels.  

Would I go back? Absolutely. And I plan to. I have to at least get up to the level where they let you slide down the pole, or else all of my years listening to T-Pain have been a complete and utter waste.

I also want to gain back some flexibility, because losing my 16-year-old self’s ability to drop into a split whenever I pleased has been a tougher pill to swallow than I care to admit.

Ultimately, it was just really fun to be in an environment where throwing a hip swivel into every movement is highly encouraged. I tried it in the office the next day as I sauntered over to refill my water bottle, and reactions were mixed. Just wait until I bust out a trust fall spin around the legs of my standing desk.

It's a Trap!: Lies Girls Tell on Valentine's Day

I have one very simple, very specific Valentine's Day fantasy that, as of yet, no guy has ever been able to deliver on: I want to get dressed up, make reservations at White Castle, eat several orders of mozzarella sticks at their white-table-cloth-topped tables, and go home to watch The Wedding Singer. This is all. Naturally I'd accept dahlias and a five pound bag of M&M's in addition to this marinara-drizzled dream, but not as a substitute.

If you think I'm being "chill" or trying to come off as a "cool girl," you're absolutely wrong because I'm very aware of my neurosis and lesbihonest, I'll never be cool. This is my dream date. It's pathetic, but it's all I've got.

You know who is being "chill" and trying to be cool? The girls described below. Everyone knows that when a girl says, "You don't have to get me anything for Valentine's Day!" she's being a conniving little shrew and would rather have those ugly blue dyed carnations than cuddle in bed with her cardboard cut-out of James Franco for the fifth year in a row.

Watch out for these statements of straight up fiction:

"This girl would rather drink beer and watch the #Cards play, than get flowers and chocolate on #ValentinesDay"

• Does your beer of choice taste like flavorless disappointment? Then you're probably drinking Heinekin. But it also might be laced with your tears. Every female likes chocolate; Girl Card revoked, traitor.

"Dear All Of My Boyfriends,
Please don't send me presents all at once, I'm running out of room for all these flowers!
Sincerely,
Forever Alone"

• Advertising your embarrassing sadness is a sure fire way to bag a Valentine for next year, keep that shit up.

"SO excited for #GalentinesDay. No boys allowed, just wine and Disney movies! Love eht."

• NO ONE WANTS TO BANG THE 25-YEAR-OLD WHO'S OBSESSED WITH CINDERELLA. YOUR LONELINESS IS NOT A MYSTERY.

"Why is everyone freaking out about Valentine's Day? It's just another day."

• It's on the calendar, your argument is invalid. Will tomorrow be another day when Walgreen's discounts candy by 50% and you fill your pantry with Reese's hearts? No, ma'am.  

"The only Valentine a girl needs is her Daddy!"

• This Edible Arrangement tastes like incest.

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Holiday Movie Drinking Game: The Santa Clause

I'm not ashamed to admit that The Santa Clause kept me believing in Santa for about a year and a half longer than I rightfully should have. There was too much believability to it, minus the painfully obvious fact that Bernard the Elf was Jewish (wrong holiday, bro). In my letters to Santa, I begged him to wake me up so we could chill out in his sleigh, talk about life, and see what he could do about making the My Size Barbie a few inches shorter (it was speculated that I might be half midget throughout the better part of elementary school and she was too tall for me). Memories!

What better way to relive the happier parts of the holiday season of yore than to pour yourself a rum and eggnog (light on the eggnog) and realize that there was some severe sexual tension going on between Scott Calvin and Judy the Elf.

• Charlie pouts and whines and is just fucking annoying in general - Drink!
• Side note: We could stop the game here and you would be sufficiently wasted after about 10 minutes.
• Someone refers to the idea that "seeing is believing" - Drink!
• "Claus" and "Clause" are used as homophones, leading some of us to still use them interchangeably/incorrectly to this day - Drink 3!
• Bernard kvetches - Drink 2!
• Scott asks, "What if I fall off the roof?" - Drink 2!
• A sexual innuendo is made - Drink! I see you, Disney.
• A drug/alcohol reference is made - Drink! I see you, Disney.
• Scott makes fun of Neil for being a douchebag - Drink!
• A reference to "Home Improvement" and/or Tim the Toolman Taylor is made - Drink 2!
• A kid in the real world has elf ears - Drink!
• Comet the Reindeer is sassy - Drink!
• Charlie's mom exasperatedly says, "Scott!" but you can tell she's still into it - Drink 2!
• E.L.F.S. Leader drops a badass one-liner - Drink 2!
• You want to remove the memory that they made two sequels after this, neither of which will ever live up to the original masterpiece - CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!

But Daaaddd, I need to complain about everything to distract from my unfortunate bowl cut!

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Female Body Inspector? FBI! You're Hysterical: Male Halloween Costumes, Explained

I love me a clever Halloween costume. As evidenced by last year’s “sexy” costume post, I’m all for creativity, but you really do walk a fine line between looking hot and being the butt of everyone’s joke the whole night (Sexy Bacon? You’re making breakfast time taste like lap dances and a father’s tears).

 

For the guys, it’s really not about looking hot as it is being “funny,” a term we will use very loosely throughout this entire post. “Look ladies, I’m wearing my personality! Could it be any easier to find someone else to talk to tonight?” How many costumes can they really make that either suggest that the wearer has a ginormous Krull the Warrior King or force hoes to shove their boobs in his face, and what exactly does the costume say about the guy as a whole? Let’s find out:

 

Wholesome Disney Character Costume – You either have kids, or are in the complete opposite direction and have never been laid. Ever. More than likely you are wearing this to a neighborhood costume party where your wife is a big puffy version of Buzz Lightyear (because who does she have to impress anymore?), but should you find yourself at a bar at 1 a.m., you will definitely only be taking one and a half Gummi Bear shots and drunkenly telling a Sexy Ninja Turtle, “But I like, respect you, you know what I mean?” right before you go home alone.

 

Rub Me Genie – Get it? It’s like asking for a hand job. Because at 26 years old that’s exactly what you should be going for. Your friends really don’t like you or else they would have talked you out of this horrendous get-up. Rub your own lamp, weirdo.

 

Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man – You’re a heavy drinker (read: alcoholic) and a man with a plan; I admire you. You’re aware of the fact that you will be getting unbelievably trashed tonight, so when you’re swaying around and falling into people, you know they can’t get mad because you’re just staying in character. This is genius. Carry on. Also, Family Guy references are always crowd pleasers, it’s just a fact of life.

 

Weed – Nothing says, “I’m unemployed!” like a marijuana leaf costume. You’ve also just placed a big target on your back because if a group of guys come stumbling out of a bar, who do you think the cops are going to zero in on first? You guessed it: the bro who looks like he dropped $75 on a ticket to The String Cheese Incident concert.

 

The Joker – It’s been done. You’re either lazy, completely oblivious to any advances in pop culture, or a Bar Dad. To be fair, it’s most likely all three. Seriously though, there’s even been another Batman movie to come out since this one, you really need to get with the times.

 

Charlie Sheen – Can’t wait to hear you yell out, “Winning!” all night with your buddy The Joker. Go home.

 

Robin Thicke – You, sir, are doing it right. Culturally relevant in every possible way, this costume could either be a happy accident or the ploy of an extremely strategic young man. Women will flock to you for one of several reasons: 1) Every Woo Girl in the place will assemble when the DJ plays “Blurred Lines” for the umpteenth time. “OMIGAHH I LOVE THIS SONGGGG YOU SING IT SO GOOD!” 2) You have un/intentionally invited multiple ladies to twerk all up on ya throughout the course of the night. If you play this correctly, you can start a twerking contest in which five skinny white girls will drunkenly grind on your junk trying to outdo each other, and one black girl will step in to show them how it’s really done. Major, major kudos.  

 

Zombie Hotdog – Goddammit, is nothing sacred anymore?!

 

Banana – Have you been anything new for the past seven years? Be honest. Whatever, you don’t even really like Halloween and will still pull based on this blatantly obvious nonchalance. You can also revel in the fact that Sexy Big Bird will definitely text her friend Sexy Cinderella in the morning, “omg i think i got gang banged by a fruit basket last night, can u come get me?”

 

Zero Fucks Given T-shirt – Can you just go in a corner and watch Portlandia on your phone the rest of the night? Like, please? Your rose gold oxfords and grandpa cardigan are really putting a damper on everything. No, I don’t think the DJ knows any Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

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