A Friend for All Seasons

I'm fortunate enough to have a very large, very diverse group of ladyfrands stationed all over the country to assist in every freak out, humble brag and what-if scenario. These girls are all special in their own ways, which not only keeps things interesting but is also super handy when I need advice on something that Jennifer is too religious for but is right up Sasha's alley (no offense) (slut).

Everyone needs a friend for every conceivable life scenario. I've enlisted the help of my beebs and had them send me some of their favorite examples of convos with friends that they definitely could not have with anyone else. (Livin' with my bitches, #LIVE.)



 
 

The McFriend - This sweetheart would never, ever judge you for eating delicious snacks, especially when they're bacon-wrapped. She is crucial, because while the rest of your friends are trying juice cleanses and eating kale and cucumber salads, this faithful comrade will indulge every edible whim and snag some extra ketchup and/or honey mustard. She personifies the judgment-free zone, and will always be quick to blame your slight weight gain on water weight or your period, because it sure as hell wasn't your recent three-day-long Chipotle binge.

The Ex Sympathizer - Everyone has exes, and everyone has exes that won't go away. Some friends turn into feminists when you mention you and your ex were casually texting the other day and berate you for "going back to that pathetic piece of trash loser." Way harsh, Tai. This friend understands that shit happens, and that if you happen to wake up next to that piece of trash loser one morning after a night of innocent reminiscing over Patron Café shots, worse things have happened. They may not encourage further chats with said piece of trash, but they're probably texting you the message to the left immediately after waking up next to their own pathetic loser. Condolence high five!

The Creep - While most girls are not "psychos," we do all have some rather eccentric thoughts that occasionally float around in our heads. Do we plan to act on them? No. Is it nice to know that someone will have our back 110% if we ever decide we want to? Absolutely. The Creep will take your weird idea and take it a step further to say, "Hey! You're not alone! I, too, am a recreational sociopath! Let's get brunch."

The Nasty Gal - Some girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice. Others are absolutely disgusting. This friend is clutch when you haven't showered/shaved your legs/swiped your Woman Card in three weeks and you just feel like sharing something grotesque. She probably has brothers or just really couldn't give less of a fuck about social norms, and has no problem discussing bodily functions at length. While this friend may not be your first choice to bring as a plus one to your meeting with Her Majesty the Queen, she's the perfect sidekick for an all-night bar hop that may or may not end with eating cheese fries off the floor.

The Cosmo - True to her name, this friend is a walking women's magazine. Quick with a sex tip of the day, questionable first date advice, and a seemingly endless supply of photos such as the one to the right, she will never need you hangin' should you need some *ahem* emotional uplifting. Perhaps not the ideal candidate to get you through a serious life crisis, but if you're just looking for a quick pick-me-up, you've got your girl.

The Fort Knox - This girl is a steel trap. If and when you decide to do something semi-socially uncouth like join a sugar daddy website or sell your eggs on Craigslist, she will be your emergency contact and confidante in case the meet-up goes awry. She'd never dream of letting your secret slip because while she's not one to criticize, at the end of the day you both know that your scheme for bagging a rich dude/making some extra cash is a little sad. Whatever, you do you. FK is a text away at any hour of the night or day!

 The Disney Channel - Sometimes, it's nice to have someone around who doesn't look down upon you for the fact that you still love old TV shows as much as you did in 2001. Sometimes, it's nice to watch these shows together via Skype, text, or Facebook message. Sometimes, you still cry when the Bug Juice campers leave at the end of the summer and even though half of them will be back next year it's still a big deal and you consider them your friends. Sometimes, it's obvious why you're [both] alone on a Friday night. Yikes.










If you have a friend that encompasses all of the above traits and more, she is a magician and might also be fake. It's nice to spread your ridiculousness out over a few different people anyway, lest they get sick of your nonsense and abandon you altogether. Seek out each of your friends for their individual strengths--especially the one who is good with makeup and hair. That is one essential betch.

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The Fuber

Yet again, I should not be alive.

I know, I know, I should probably start blaming myself for these things, but really, again, this wasn't totally my fault. Who shames the victim anyway? Don't be that guy.

Let's start at the beginning, where everything always seems normal and pleasant:

This weekend I was out in the Upper East Side grabbing drinks with a friend. Great night, great bars, great drinks, great times. Neither of us were in the mood to truly rage, so 1 a.m. rolls around and we go our separate ways.
Seeing as I just moved to the city like, two weeks ago, the Subway system still terrifies me.
Seeing as no one cares about my neuroses, and weekend track construction is a thing, changes to the late night lines are an inevitably confusing problem.

I hopped on the 4 train only to discover that my connection to the E would not be happening as I originally planned, and I needed to take the 6 back to Grand Central to get on the 7 to connect to the E later down the line.
If the previous sentence makes sense to you, you're either a saint or sober. At the time, I was neither, and although four drinks don't exactly do me in, they make any trip involving that many numbers and letters turn into quite the production. Still, I managed to follow directions reasonably well, and got off at my transfer station in Jackson Heights.

As soon as I stepped off the train and it pulled away I knew I was in the wrong place. The two trannies I encountered a few seconds later confirmed it. Luckily, I'm used to this shit by now, and I calmly stepped off to the side to consult my phone and the many transit apps I had installed the day I moved here.
Suddenly a stout man with grease stains on his shirt appeared by my side out of nowhere, speaking to me in Spanish. I ignored him and silently apologized to Señora Baker for spending both Español I and II in high school doing my homework for other classes. I noticed him gesturing towards the trannies standing close by and realized he was either asking if I was part of their clique or wondering if the one on the left was a natural blonde (Answer to both: no. I was wearing a sundress and gladiator sandals for God's sake. Harsh roots though, girl). I glanced at him, shook my head, ignored him while he yelled something that was definitely not, "Where is the library, friend?" and put my full attention and trust back into Moovit.

To get to a station that would take me back to Queens, I would have to walk nine minutes. Not a substantial amount of time at any other point of the day, but at 1:45 a.m. when you're tired, have lost your buzz, and have just been made aware that you have mannish features, nine minutes is a lifetime. Couldn't do it, so I called an Uber.

Amrin and his Toyota Highlander would be there to pick me up in six minutes. Perfect! I would definitely be thoroughly creeped out by the produce vendor on the corner making sexy eyes at me by then! My phone notified me that I had just hit 10% battery life, which is pretty standard for these situations, so I put it away and awaited my chariot's arrival.
Two minutes later a shiny black SUV crosses the intersection and the driver gestures at me. Amrin apparently replaced Paul Walker in Fast and Furious 7 and I could not be more pleased with the casting choice.
I approach the car's open passenger window.
"Uber?"
"Yiss."
And so commences a potential episode of Dateline: Missing in America.

The driver is very pleasant, asking me how my night was and making the usual Uber small talk that is typically cut short by one of my friends in the backseat screaming, "CAN YOU TURN ON THE RADIO?!" We discussed the humidity, how I used to live in DC, how driving in the city is a nightmare, and how cigarettes were a gross habit that I should definitely join him in on our ride because "You are eh-young, is no problem." Valid point, but I passed anyway.

Then my phone rings. Unknown number.

"Hello?"
"Hi, it's Amrin. I'm outside Bank of America in the black Highlander. Do you see me?"
Uhhh...fuck.
I glance at the Driver Formerly Known As Amrin, who is distracted by the gay bar on the corner blasting Skrillex.
"Well I thought I was with you already but apparently not."
"What?"
"Yeahhh...I've got a ride right now but I might be calling you back."
"What?"
"I'll call you back."

I hang up and look back at Stranger Danger.
Buzz: gone. Nerves: ignited. Game face: on. I have way too great of hair to disappear into someone's basement for a decade, okay? This was not going to happen on my watch.
"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?" I asked.
"Alex." Shit. "What is yours?" 
"Jessica."
"Is very nice to meet you."
"You too!!!"

My overenthusiasm was a ploy to scare him into briefly forgetting which Taken dungeon I would soon be inhabiting.
"So you are married?" Translation: Who will come looking for you when you're gone?
"Nope."
"Never been married?" Translation: Did your ex-husband love you enough to come find you when you're gone?
"Never."
"You have children?" Translation: What are we working with down there?
"No."
"You have boyfriend?" Translation: Sweet Allah have I hit the jackpot?!
"YES!"
"You do?"
"Yes yes yes."

(As every girl who has encountered a sketchy bro at the bar knows, the answer is always yes. Always.)

During this transaction I go to my recent calls and dial everyone that is not my parents. Three separate people, multiple redials, no answers. THANKS A HEAP GUYS, REALLY APPRECIATE THE FRIENDSHIP. I am simultaneously watching Alex's every turn and making note of the streets we are on, realizing we are, in fact, going in the opposite direction of my apartment. Classic.

"Uh-oh Alex, I think 67th Street is the other way!"
"No no, we are taking short cut to avoid lights. Is faster, trust me."
"Ten blocks the other way is faster? That's so weird."
"Yiss."

Meanwhile, I'm still haphazardly dialing each number in my recent call log, wondering why I associate with lame-o's who aren't up, out, and about at 2 a.m. on a Friday.

"Alex why don't we just go the regular way. You can drop me off at 67th Street, then there aren't lights to deal wi-"
"Is no problem."
"Actually it kind of is. Just drop me off at 67th Street."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Is no problem."
"67th Street, please."
"....Hokay."

We pull a death-defying U-ie and Alex is chain smoking like an Indonesian toddler, visibly displeased with how this night has turned out. That makes two of us, pal. He casually misses the first opportunity to turn onto 67th Street, holding onto hope that I'll change my mind and be the drugged out Princess Leia to his Jabba the Hutt.

"Right there."
"Huh?"
"67th Street is right up there. You can pull over."
"Is okay, I take you the whole way."
"No no it's really, really fine. Right there is fine."
"You sure?"
"Riiiiight there."

He stares at me for a solid ten seconds and then slowly pulls over, passing over the first option of the vacant fire hydrant space because that would be illegal.

Before he can child lock the doors and strangle me with his Brooklyn Nets lanyard, I say, "Alright well great thanks so much have a great night!" leaping out of the car and race-walking in a zig-zag up the street, as you are supposed to do to wild predators. I never looked back, but I know he waited in that spot until I was completely out of sight.

And that is how I escaped the Fuber, or the Fake Uber. As always, I'm sure a certain level of naïveté contributed to this mess, but I can't help but wonder when my nine cat lives will run out and I won't have the opportunity to write about my death-defying adventures for you folks.

I need a chaperone.

24 Pieces of Advice for 18-Year-Old Skylar

My 24th birthday is tomorrow. I know, I know, so exciting, I wear a size XS/S, I like everything Kate Spade, dahlias are my favorite flower, yadda yadda whatever. Despite the fact that I will now be entering my "mid-20s" and leaving "early 20s" debauchery behind (....), I'm not one of those people that freaks out about suddenly being old.

24 is not old. Not even close. Works for Hugh Hefner!

However, 30 is getting there. You're still workin' it, but you're expected to have your life slightly more together and could potentially have a baby. Whoa. A lot can happen in six years, and while I'm excited for all of those opportunities, I realize there will be a lot of lessons to learn along the way. I'll probably look back at my current self and think, "Really?" mostly because that's exactly how I think of 18-year-old me.

If I could go back in time, I would try my best to save myself and avoid being such a dumbass. Clearly I turned out [arguably] normal, but there are some unnecessary events that could've been avoided with some guided wisdom. Here is that wisdom:

1. Change your hairstyle - You look like a little lad who loves berries and cream.

2. You're still growing - Your body is on like a three year delay, which is jussst adorable. Hold on to that green dress, it'll look better on you in a few years.
3. That girl's actually kind of mean - Don't hang out with her anymore.
4. That guy turns into a huge hippie - I know, right?!
5. That guy turns extremely religious - Hahaha. I mean good for him.
6. Step up your party clothes game - Who wears a cardigan to a house party? This is embarrassing.

7. This is the last year you'll be able to eat meatball subs every single day without consequence - Cherish it. For the love of God cherish it.
8. Never take an 8:30 a.m. class, Math or other, ever again - We both knew that was a terrible decision from the get-go.
9. Say yes to [almost] everything - Everything's an opportunity, everything's an experience, don't miss out on any of it just because you were tired. Surprise: you'll be tired no matter what. Just say yes and go.
10. Save every piece of your writing on an external hard drive - Your computer crashes in four years and you lose it all. Fuck.
11. Wear less eyeliner - It's just a better look.
12. Stop making inappropriate profile pictures using FaceinHole - Funny, sure. But your head on Miranda Kerr's body isn't getting you a job after college and it makes your mom sad.
13. "Ugh I miss you we need to hang out! Lunch soon?" - Use as necessary.
14. You are a trendsetter for hating Twilight - Congratulations! And stay strong, it catches on.
15. Breaking the rules has zero consequences - Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar. You'll have much better stories down the road.

16. Have patience with the difficult people - They'll come back around, and you will have been the bigger person. Snaps.
17. Getting embarrassed is a waste of energy - No one remembers when you just laugh it off, so just laugh it off.

18. Your AP Government teacher who told you you probably wouldn't amount to much because you couldn't care less about PACs? - He can respectfully go fuck himself. And if you had told him so to his face it wouldn't have mattered in the long run. Hindsight is 20/20.
19. A walk of shame is not shameful if your hair looks good - Finger comb, shoulders back, work it.
20. Call your grandma - At least twice a week. She enjoys this. She will like you better than the rest of the family. They will argue this point. They are wrong.
21. Running on the treadmill for 15 minutes doesn't count - Permissible because you've still got a rapid fire metabolism on your side, but refer to #7. Step it up before it's too late.
22. Most of the guys you know today will look like 40 year olds in six years - Cut your losses, it's for the best.
23. Succumb to saying "y'all" for the time being - It's not the only regional accent you'll adopt in your life, might as well just enjoy it while it lasts.
24. Keep writing - It's working. :)

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With a Sense of Fear and Irrationalitaaaay

I got my hair cut last week. Considering the obscene amount of hair I have and the fact that my desire to be pretty is consistently beaten out by my desire to stay in my comforter cocoon for-ev-ver, I ask for lots of layers so the lion's mane essentially styles itself. To do this, stylists use a razor comb, which thins out the ends of your hair as they brush it through. An effective tool? Yes. Source of debilitating fear? Oh. My God.

Sadists.

Paranoid seems like such a dirty term; I prefer "cautiously attentive." When the perfectly capable and steady-handed Irena brought the razor comb towards my precious head, all I could imagine was her slipping on a stray squirt of mousse and skinning me like a prize buck (is that the correct simile? I don't hunt). There is so much that could go wrong there. I held my breath for the better part of the experience and obsessively stroked the back of my head when she was done to see if I could feel any strategic cover-ups of a now-bare scalp. Irena spared me. This time.

I realize that this is completely ridiculous and a huge waste of energy, but I can't help it; there are some things out there that will always terrify me for no reason. Actually, there are lots of them. I should be committed.

Whoa, you win.

Getting a pedicure, the nail technician will rip my big toe off - Nearly fifteen years of dance left me with manly calves and disgusting feet. Bunions, calluses, weird toenails -- I gave up my dream of being a flip-flop model many years ago. Does that mean I'll stop forcing a sweet, innocent lady to tend to my toes with a pumice stone and a prayer? Nevaaa. I have a lot of weird habits that arise when I get my toes done (giggle fits, restless leg syndrome, etc.), but as soon as I see the technician break out the toe separators I completely freak out. One of these days, she will definitely shove that thing in there too hard and completely crack my bunion in half, alleviating the need for the surgery my mother so desperately wants me to get but also guaranteeing that I'll chop both of my feet off to prevent this from ever happening again.

Water fountain backwash - When I was in third grade, someone told me that when you turned on a water fountain, the leftover water from the previous user was saved up and was the first bit of water that came out on the next use. So basically, if you didn't let the water fountain run for a few seconds before you started drinking, you just drank water from the mouth of Frank Farter. Between my youthful gullibility and the fact that a kid could rightfully earn himself the nickname Frank Farter, I hardly ever use water fountains these days. 

Stranger hiding in the house - I really shouldn't live in a multi-level house. I can't handle the possibilities. When I was little (...and also to this day...), I was convinced that a family lived in the crawlspace in our basement. They didn't do anything bad, per se, but they were there and probably judged harshly when I broke something on the computer that caused it to function improperly for the next 10 years (Hey family! Five year secret!). This delusion was amplified when I saw an episode of CSI where the killer hid out in his victims' attics and drove them crazy to the point of committing suicide. CSI is real, so you can imagine how this affected me. No matter where I am, if there is an air vent above me I am 99% positive there is a psycho staring right back at me, plotting his next move. And now you are too.

Burning off my eyebrows - I don't smoke, so that alone has cut my need to own and/or know how to operate a BIC lighter in half. The other half has been taken care of thanks to, of all things, America's Funniest Home Videos. Clip upon clip is shown of people lighting candles on a cake, with the audience howling with laughter when the lighter all of a sudden flares up and poor little Suzie gets a Barbie and a lack of expression for her birthday. People are always losing their eyebrows! Why is no one else worried about this?! I can usually keep my cool in these situations, but you'll notice I'm usually standing at least eight feet away from the fire starter with brow corrector in hand.

Getting T-boned at an intersection - First of all, this has actually happened to me, so maybe it's not so irrational after all. In that incident, the car was totalled but the driver and I weren't seriously injured slash dead so in my mind it was just a practice run by God. Any time I pass through an intersection, with a bright green light and everyone else using blinkers and abiding by every driving law in the book, I still tense up to prepare for impact. I'm just convinced that someone's brake will spontaneously combust and they'll come flying straight at me. Most of the time, when approaching the intersection, I'll instruct the drivers around me (aka scream), "STAY THERE. EVERYONE BE COOL. MAKE GOOD DECISIONS," until I've safely made it through. Long story short my friends don't ask me to drive anymore.

From this list, you can infer that I've never seen any of the Final Destination movies, because I would never leave my house for the rest of my life. I swear I'm normal in most other aspects, but you can never be too careful. Or on too much Xanax.

 

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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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