Period Tips...FOR HIM!

When my lady friends and I are gal pal-ing around, sipping on wine in the same room or via Snapchat, three distinct topics of conversation always come up: the state of Turkey’s borders now that it has opened them to Syrian refugees; the disproportionate burden of student loan debt on minorities; and bOy PrObLeMz.

 

Recently, a series of unfortunate events caused being on the rag* to be brought up in conjunction with the third subject. Questions like, “What doesn’t he get?” and “You’re almost 30, is this a new thing for you?” and “IS IT REALLY THAT HARD?!” were tossed around haphazardly, and I realized that, as a whole, men and/or boys really don’t know anything about the inner workings of women.

 

None of them.

At all.

 

To be honest, the above questions deserve an answer. If a guy is of millennial age, he has been around ladies and their Aunt Flo* for roughly 15 years. While we understand that it’s not happening to you and that you’d rather not discuss it, it’s going to occur monthly for the next 20-30 years, and there are some facets of the occasion that we are owed understanding of. If you shy away from reading this post because you’re uncomfortable talking about vaginas, you should not be anywhere near one and your manliness is absolutely in question. Go back to training camp and let Captain Li Shang make a man out of you, Mulan: you are not done.

You think it’s all just Tampax and Midol? Think again. 

 

I think it goes without saying that excessive bitchiness (like, bitchier than a girl’s normal bitchiness) should never, ever be met with, “That time of the month, huh?” Expect a flurry of disgusted eye rolls, “Wowww”’s, and almost definitely a few tears if you choose to utter The Forbidden Phrase. Did you think that was going to help things? Did you think the knives stabbing our abdomens were suddenly going to cease because you pointed out what the hell was going on down there? Please tell me that you would react with serene rationality if your insides were suddenly rejecting the wall of justice they had built up over the past 30 days so I can call you a liar. Pro tip: if you think what’s happening is happening, keep it to yourself. Should even a hint of inference, assumption, or deduction in reference to my attitude or my body enter the conversation, you will be verbally abused, and as one friend put it, “know that I probably meant it but maybe not how it came out.” Maybe.

 

Have you ever been around a girl who you guessed was riding the crimson wave* and watched her devour an entire Cinnapie from Papa J’s? Did you say something? I hope you didn’t fucking say something. We’re not just having a bad day or feeling like a pig, we’re doing both of those things simultaneously. My stomach was flat yesterday and now I appear to be two months pregnant (sweet irony), so as you can imagine, pointing out my current situation will truly be the icing on the cake….chocolate cake…with cookie dough bites baked inside….and butter pecan ice cream….and a vat of hot fudge. Yessss. You wanna be helpful? Don’t suggest we go to a salad place for dinner, because I’m eating for my ovaries and they could not be less interested in vegetables this week. Let’s get some meatball subs and you can not look in my direction while I shove it in my mouth in three bites.

 

Some twisted individual placed the idea in men’s heads that when we’re curled in a ball on the edge of the couch wearing size XXL sweatpants and clutching ourselves, we want to be “massaged” and “held” and “touched in any way.” Ew, freak, get the fuck off of me. This isn’t a charley horse that can be shiatsu’d away in a few minutes; it’s my body literally hosting a rebellion against potential children. If your hand comes near any part of my body with plans to rub me, I’ll break it and continue watching Gilmore Girls like it was nothing. Real talk. If you feel the need to comfort me, employ the Claw and Retract Method: one gentle hug and then immediately let go. It should last no longer than two seconds to correspond with my current level of patience, and it should not put pressure on any part of me that could result in more pain. The more pain I have, the more pain you have, remember that.

 

Here’s the part that caused the most uproar amongst the girls: period sex. Women don’t want to be talked to or touched for the majority of the duration of Leak Week*, but they want it bad. Badder than Usher, even. At any other time, a guy would be all over this, but mention the potential for a little untidiness and suddenly all bets are off. Let me get this straight: we actually want to do all of those things that you want to do the other 98% of the day, and we want to do them five minutes ago, now, and tomorrow, and you won’t because it could get messy?

Furthermore, if you are seduced by our admittedly aggressive demands, don’t you dare swallow your balls back into your body upon first glimpse of some red on the sheets. If Bloody Mary* shows up unexpectedly and it’s a surprise to the whole room that some stainage has occurred, we can split the trauma 60/40 (this is worse for me, trust). However, if you were warned and were all, “No biggie,” and then flip out when there is a bullseye on the bed, making a show out of disgustedly tearing everything apart and saying something like, “Ugh, that’ll never come out” or “Gross!” is the opposite of me wanting to do it again. Now I’m lightweight embarrassed for the both of us: me, because obviously, and you because apparently I’ve been dating a 13-year-old who probably still laughs at Uranus jokes. Actually, both of those are embarrassing for me. God invented towels and OxiClean for a reason, you big baby—meet me upstairs in two.

 

Referring to my *PERIOD by anything other than my *PERIOD makes it sound awful and makes me feel like more of a disgusting troll than I already do, *PERIOD. Any lingo that has become synonymous with a woman’s *PERIOD was obviously invented by a man, because a woman already knows how shitty it feels to bleed out their insides and they would never bring brash language into the mix. Blood is exiting the vagina because the uterus is shedding the lining that the eggs, produced by the ovaries, were waiting to be fertilized in. That’s your daily dose of accurate terminology, straight up. If you want to refer to any of that by anything else (except for "menstruation" because not even we like that), don’t. If you’re disconcerted by medically descriptive language, put your penis on a shelf and only take it back down when you’ve grown the testicles you need to use that thing properly.

 

Finally, the ladies and I request a thank you. If we are not trying to have a baby together, and we take it upon ourselves to regularly make sure that it doesn’t happen, we want that to be acknowledged (Ex: “High five for not getting pregnant out of wedlock because that’s not really your life plan, girl. Appreciate you stepping up”). If we yell at you for no reason because our hormones are out of whack, but then apologize and recognize our illogical outburst, we want that act of valor to be appreciated. If we have zero energy, ache, can’t wear anything but yoga pants, and are breaking out like a before picture in a ProActiv commercial, and you ask us to go out and meet up with a few of your friends at some bar that may or may not be filled with hipsters and not the fun kind, and we squeeze into jeans and a cute top and execute winged eyeliner, throw a salute. I don’t want to be there, but I’m faking it, and I’m faking it for you.

 

 

If you considered yourself a connoisseur of the female reproductive system before reading this, I hope you now realize that you were not, in any capacity. Feeling like a big shot because you only slightly flinched when buying a box of tampons (and not even the right ones) in the self-checkout line (because what if they think they’re for you?!) is nothing to brag about, and I don’t admire you for it. Hopefully you’ve been enlightened to our actual needs during this trying time. Now leave me with my jar of peanut butter and my spoon and get lost.

Skylar Gets Swindled

Things were going pretty uncharacteristically fabulous in my life, and then two days ago I was brought back to reality by the most bougie homeless man to ever exist. His dietary choices mixed with my staunch gullibility once again beg the question, “How do these things always happen to you?!” to which I reply, “Shoot me in the face.”

Here’s how my most recent interaction with a hobo friend went down:

I was walking to the gym after work, stopped to watch the game going down at the West 4^th Street Basketball Courts, didn’t get the opportunity to yell, “AND 1!”, got bored and kept going. All of a sudden a man comes up to me and asks, “Excuse me, do you have a dollar?”

Now, everyone knows that the answer to this question is “No.” Not because you’re a bad person, or cheap, or a liar, but because homeless people run rampant and if I gave them all of my dollars I wouldn’t have anything left to impulse-buy Pretzel M&M’s with in my bi-weekly moments of weakness. At this time, I had nine single dollars in my wallet, which is a rarity, and as selfish as it may sound I was guarding them with my over-privileged life.

“No, I’m sorry,” I replied to the man who will now be known as Richie Rich.

“Would you mind buying me some food?”

Ugh, tug at my heartstrings, Richie. I literally don’t know what came over me, but I agreed.

“There’s a Morton Williams right around the corner.”

“Sure, let’s go.”

As we walk and chat about things like the warmer weather and allergies, I started to take stock of what exactly I was dealing with. Number one, he was wearing relatively new looking shoes. In my top 10 most recent homeless-guy experiences, 80% of them are wearing holey black Velcro New Balances with the pinky toe displayed prominently, so this was new. Second, he was wearing clean Adidas track pants and carrying a multi-pocketed Jansport that for the purposes of this story appeared much more high-tech than your standard shopping cart. Interesting, to say the least.

“I’m really trying to get my energy up,” Richie Rich said.

“That’s always a good plan.”

“Have you heard of Kombucha?”

Yes, Richie, I’m a white girl from the ‘burbs who befriends several health nuts, follows fitspo Instagram accounts, and pins quinoa recipes on Pinterest; of course I’ve heard of Kombucha.

“I really like the Multi-Green one. It’s a great detoxifier.”

WHAT WHAT WHAT.

“And I’m a vegetarian so it’s a great supplement to that type of diet.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

Everyone stop laughing immediately. I was already pretty keen to what was happening and it was not cool.

Richie continues to explain the different benefits of a variety of products typically found at Whole Foods and I just nodded in defeat. We arrive at the grocery store and still giving him some semblance of the benefit of the doubt, I think we’ll go straight to the prepared food section, he’ll grab a veggie sandwich and his fermented tea concoction, and we’ll be out.

Nope.

Richie grabs a fucking basket.

So there we are, the Odd Couple shopping for Tuesday Night Dinner. Richie throws Kombucha, premade samosas, two Vitamin Waters (Restore flavor), and a box of Boca burgers in his basket, along with a toothbrush and my trust. It crossed my mind several times to say, “Are you kidding me?” and dipset, but the small chance that this was maybe the only thing Richie would eat for the next couple of days coupled with me potentially being the girl who left a homeless man in the aisle of the grocery store with food he couldn’t pay for made me stay.

We get up to the checkout line and he tosses it all on the conveyer belt like he’s done this a few times before. The cashier looks at me out of pity and confusion, which is something I’m used to but was much more attentive to in this situation. I had let my conscience be my guide and now I was planning on speaking to her in my office the next morning and putting her on leave without pay, because she was an idiot.

Everything is rung up to a grand total of $52.11, which is more than I spend on groceries for myself for an entire week. I swiped with undetectable hesitation and kept the receipt to wipe off my shame later that night. Richie and I walk out of the store holding hands (jk) and I’m just about to launch into a full-on sprint when he says, “There’s a Duane Reade right down the street….”

Really? Really.

“Sorry dude, I’ve got to go.”

“Oh okay, thanks again then!”

“Ohhhh you are so welcome.”

If you think it ends there you clearly need to backtrack and read some more of my life tales because it most definitely does NOT, per usual.

The next night, I was walking with my boyfriend and another friend through the same area. I had just finished telling them this exact story, and they berated me for being naïve and oblivious, and I was agreeing but defending it all by saying, “Hey, at least my karma’s in check.”

We’re about to cross the street when a man rounds the corner.

“Excuse me, do you have a dollar?”

They both automatically say no and keep moving.

I start violently squeezing my boyfriend’s hand.

“THAT WAS HIMMMM!” I hissed.

Predictable “NO WAY”’s and “Are you sure?”’s and “GO YELL AT HIM!”’s were thrown around but obviously did not occur. Richie might’ve been wearing a Rolex and applying a mud mask to his face when he passed on his way to a candle-lit hot yoga class, but who could be sure.

So I’m back and arguably better than ever, friends. For my sake, I hope my life will return to a state of boring normalcy. It won’t, though, and you’re all welcome for that. Raise a glass of brewed yeast and bacteria encased in cellulose to being young and dumb; I have like three more weeks of being able to get away with it!

x

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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Playing With Myself for the Holidays

In a nutshell

I love my family. I frequently want to punch them all square in the face, but I love them.
Going home for the holidays is great because it's a very rare occasion that all five of us (parentals + brothers + me) are in the same place at the same time, but in our household, the Three Day Rule stands: We love hanging out, laughing, retelling stories for the thousandth time, eating disgusting amounts of food, and sharing an understanding that the dog is the best thing that ever happened to the entire world; but after 72 hours, it's definitely time to go.

I'm sure your family is the same way. How does one survive family time without completely losing their shit? You make a game out of it, of course! See also: alcohol.

Keep Away: If every single member of your extended family gets along swimmingly, you practice witchcraft. We're all blood and should love each other unconditionally, blah blah blah, NEWS FLASH: Here in the real world, Uncle Ned and Cousin Bradley hate each other's guts. It's fantastic. What's not fantastic is their differing religious beliefs ruining the enjoyment of perfectly good stuffing, so it's fun to get creative with how far away from each other you can actually keep them.
"Hey Uncle Ned! Have you ever seen my dance recital video from 1998? They're watching it now in the basement! All the way downstairs! Yep keep going."
"Cousin Bradley remember when you backpacked through Europe? See if you still have your hiking skills and go upstairs."

Mad Libs: My grandma has gotten to the point where she can't remember anything. Conversations are carousel rides that touch on relationship status, how you like your job, if where you live is safe, and when you're coming to visit her. And round and round we go. If you truthfully answered these questions each time she asked (roughly 15 times each over the course of an hour), you would go crazy. Answering them differently each time may earn you dirty looks from the others, but Grandma is very accepting of whatever answer you give her (unless you say you're single), so you might as well keep it interesting.

Wait What?: My mom has an interesting habit of listening to you until she doesn't feel like it anymore, i.e. you're in the middle of your story and you can see her mentally removing herself from the moment. It's incredibly frustrating if you're not ready for it. If you are, you seize the opportunity and start talking about absolute bullshit. The goal is to see how absurd of a point you can get your story to until she tunes back in.
"Oh so I went to this networking event a few weeks ago in the Lower East Side. It was cool, lots of freelance writers and..." *there she goes* "...heroin. Heroin everywhere. I shot it up with a midget who looked like the mini love child of Steve Buscemi and Giada de Laurentiis. His veins were collapsed so we had to find one in the bottom of his leprechaun foot. I also ate like five shish kabobs-" "FIVE?!"

Puppy Puke: People watch TV shows and think it's okay to give the dog human food because that's how kids on 1950s sitcoms got rid of their brussel sprouts. LOL classic. Fast forward to the pooch consuming turkey, cornbread, peas, and rice casserole over the course of three hours and try to guess if he'll puke all over the living room before or after your brother conveniently disappears when it's time to do the dishes. Another approach is to count the amount of times you tell your dad not to give the dog any people food because it's really not good for him, only to have him respond, "He likes it!" then tell you you're overreacting when you call him stupid while blotting vomit out of a rug. I hope you're reading this, Bill.

The Significant Otherlympics: Family calamity is one thing when you're generally immune to it. When you're an outsider who's trying to impress everyone while acting like the suffocating passive aggression  wafting over the table isn't awkward at all, the holidays are taken to a completely new level. Watching your sibling's "special friend" try to keep their facial twitch under control while Aunt Susan blatantly insults your mom's cooking might as well be the height of a figure skater's triple axel: will they nail it? Will they fall? WHAT WILL HAPPEN? When two or more boyfriend/girlfriends are present at the table, you can pit them against each other in a battle of wits to see who deserves to still be around come Valentine's Day:
"Hey Pete, you're really pro gun control right?"
"Yeah..."
"And Brooke, you're an atheist right?"
"...Yes..."
"Wonderful. Have you met my grandpa? The 65-year member of the NRA and ruthless Catholic? Aaand GO!"

Good luck this holiday season! Maybe the fam will finally remember that you're a vegetarian (and have been since 2009) this year! Just kidding, they won't.

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7 Reasons Why I Defriended You

We're all adults here. As adults, we understand that sometimes friendships just don't work out. It's not anything anyone said or did or thought, it's just a fact...

Unless it's a Facebook friendship. In that case, a connection between two people relies solely on what is said or done or thought. If Christina and Sarah can see my profile but you can't anymore, and you don't know why, you probably committed one of the following crimes against my sanity:

We're full broken, not just bent

You Got Married - Lesbihonest: We weren't that great of friends in college. I actually almost defriended you a year and a half ago, but then you got engaged and I just had to see which Pinterest crafts you chose to employ in your reception (beautiful vintage lantern centerpieces, by the way). I'll stick it out for a week after the big day to view your pictures from the honeymoon in Punta Cana, but then we're back to square one, where the only conversation we've ever had was about our Shakespeare II class. Soon enough, every #TBT will be of three weeks ago (THAT'S NOT A THROWBACK) and how shocked you still are about being "Mrs. Brown!" Byeeee.

You Are Now Your Baby - Where'd you go? / I miss you so / Your profile pic is now a baby / In a Graco
Fine, your kid is adorable. His chubby Michelin Man legs evoke squeals of delight and I want to squeeze his cheeks. That being said, is he that fat because he ate you? Because I haven't seen your face grace my timeline in a solid three months. Children are beautiful miracles, yes, but I would like some indication that you still exist. Replacing your profile picture and cover photo with Avery's face and replacing all of your embarrassing college albums with pictures of all of her "firsts" is zero fun for me to stalk. Peace and blessinz.

You Advertise Your Good Deed - Hayley Joel Osment could've payed it forward to a lot more than three people if he had posted about his deeds on social media. Here's my thing: I'm proud of you for being a kind person and helping people in need; good on you, Mother Theresa, that's very admirable. I just think it loses a little bit of its sparkle when you post a three paragraph status detailing how saintly you are. Doing things out of the goodness of your heart is respectable--doing things to get 34 'likes' in five minutes is not. Keep it to yourself. Take it easy.

You and Your Boyfriend Apparently Don't Have Phones - If you have to post "I love you!"'s and "You're the best!"'s on your significant other's wall every other day, you won't even make it to the first grievance on this list. Text each other. Call each other. Be with each other. I feel like the third wheel of a hang out sesh I didn't even RSVP to and now I'm super uncomfortable, making comments about the episode of Shark Tank that, apparently, I'm the only one watching. Deuces.

You Post Pictures of Your Paleo Meals - "OMG guys this Dairy Free Dark Chocolate Coconut Pudding is so much better than regular pudding." Easyyy, there's no reason to be a fucking liar. I have followed your fitness journey long enough to see ab definition and a singular chin, I'm over it now. Ya look good. Why do you continue to accost me with nightly snapshots of your hunter-gatherer dinner? If you think I'm going to believe that your cauliflower crust pizza is better than my Papa John's Double Bacon 6-Cheese you're wrong. Eat some gluten, live a little. See ya later.

You're a Staunch Republican - Subscribe to whatever political affiliation you wish, that's all you, girl. Hell, open up an educated conversation about current issues, we could use a few more intelligent people speaking their minds. The second you start attacking a specific group of people or way of life simply because TFM sold you a "Reagan Bush '84" tank is the second I stop respecting your opinion. Having a view on a governmental matter is not a segue into being a douche. Seacrest out.

You Don't Ring a Bell - I literally don't know who you are. Awkward squint and head tilt.

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My 5-Piece Desert Island Survival Kit

I did not watch Lost.
I did not watch Fantasy Island.
I've been told that I look like Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island, but I've never seen more than half an episode of that show either.
Thus, my familiarity with desert island life is not exactly up to snuff.

When Man Crates--a new company that ships awesome gifts for men in custom wooden crates--reached out to me asking what I would pack in my own personal survival kit, I was admittedly at a loss. "Um a cell phone and alcohol to keep me entertained until help arrives, duh," didn't exactly seem like the best response, and I actually believe that my friends would let me stew for a few days just to get some piece and quiet and to avoid being forced to watch pimple popping videos on YouTube (The Zit That Won't Quit. You won't be sorry).

Therefore, I needed to consider what my essentials would be, and you know what? Leave me on that island; with the necessities I've come up with, I don't want to come home.

Justin Timberlake, shirtless: He must look exactly like the picture below. I cannot stress this enough. We're stranded? We're running out of food? The animals are coming to gnaw on our thighs? It's okay, Justin, it's fine, let's just hug it out and never let go. Maybe an "I Thought She Knew" or "(Another Song) All Over Again" serenade while you rub my back will help us think of a survival strategy.

Drum Kit: I have always wanted to learn how to play the drums, and I would finally have the time to do so. As a perfectionist, I do not like trying things if I don't know I'll be the absolute best at them, so with this opportunity to learn (as well as JT's guidance) I could channel my inner Neil Peart and go nuts. 

Ketchup: I effing love ketchup. Like, more than I love my family (minus the dog). If I'm expected to cook mystery animals over an open flame, I will be needing an excessive amount of the red stuff. I recently sent a Snapchat to my friends about a culinary experiment pairing carrots and ketchup that they all found disgusting, but I'm willing to bet, given the circumstances, they'd respect my ingenuity in the interest of life-saving preparation. If things start to go south and Justin hasn't paid me a compliment in the last five minutes, he's getting whacked and I'll savor his biceps with a heap of Heinz.

A bat: I love being outdoors, I just don't appreciate the bugs that come with the territory. One bat can eat between 600 and 1,000 mosquitoes and other insects in just one hour. I like those odds. Bug bites on the tops of your feet are like, the worst, and I really just don't feel like dealing with that.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, the 4-book boxed set: Every literature professor I had in college would groan in agony to hear how much I love these books. They have been my favorite since high school, and I can read Bukowski, Plath, and King all day long, but Brashares is my girl. Have I read all four upwards of ten times? Yes. But you can't be alone and scared on an island when you have the story of long-lasting friendship and a pair of magical Levi's on your side, can you?!

Speaking of, there is one thing I definitely would not be needing on this adventure: Pants. I barely like wearing them when lounging around my house alone on a Saturday, there's absolutely no way I could be convinced to keep those babies on if I'm fending for my life. Shirts, you're next.

I'm clearly a smidgen on the complicated end, but Man Crates makes it easy to find the perfect survival essentials and/or gift for the guys in your lives. Their mission is to end the difficulties that have long been associated with buying gifts for men, and whether he's an athlete, a beer lover, a carnivore or more, Man Crates has something awesome that he's going to love.

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Playing With Myself

When I was younger, my mom's tactic for getting me to get a chore done faster was to put me in an imaginary competition with a girl from a different country (typically Jamaica. Nope, no clue why).

"Skylar you have to beat the girl from Jamaica in unloading the dishwasher!"
"See if you can vacuum the living room faster than the girl from Jamaica!"
"I need you to take the dog on a long walk. Be gone...longer than the girl from Jamaica."

My mom is a scheming little genius, but this trickery instilled a lasting competitive spirit in me that has since caused me to seek and find the game in every situation. Why suffer through a nine-hour road trip when you could be racing on the real-life version of Need for Speed's Rusty Springs track? I need to unlock the secret ninth car! I want to drive the Warrior! The Mitsubishi Eclipse next to me doesn't know it but we're totally in two-player head-to-head racing mode right now, and I. don't. lose.

 

Life should definitely not be taken seriously, so if you need to participate in your own personal game show to get yourself through the day, feel free to get yourself started on one of my favorites:

Treadmill Races: Everyone does this. If you are side-by-side with someone on a treadmill, and you both happen to crank your speed up to 7 at the same time, it's so on. Once, I had already run my two miles and was about to slow down to a walk when a girl jumped on the machine next to me and immediately cranked it up to a sprint. Part of me thought, "Have fun with your shin splints, idiot," while the rest of me realized she was about to win. Win what? I don't fucking know, but I wasn't going to lose it. My inner Shaun T said to dig deeper, so I upped my speed to a 9.5 and prepared to dominate.
She totally noticed.
Other people totally noticed.

 

It was the most unnecessary display of female peacocking that has ever taken place inside of a university gym, minus the sluts in the corner successfully out-whoring each other with their thrice-rolled Soffe shorts. We hung together for about a minute before the awkward side glances started to happen, silently asking, "What is even happening right now?" Need I remind you that I'm not a quitter, so I ignored the gargantuan cramp developing in my ribcage and pretended like this was just a casual yog. This was a girl after my own heart, because she stuck it out for another 15 seconds before she let out a small gasp and desperately punched the keypad down to a cool five miles per hour. I'm a gracious winner, so I continued on for 30 more seconds before I calmly turned down to a 3.5. I went on to walk home like a newborn deer because my legs were completely shot, but whatever, I had Flo-Jo'd the shit out of that girl.

 Clean Up on Aisle 3: If I don't have a game plan upon entering the grocery store, it is a complete disaster and I end up panic-buying three bags of almonds, pizza dough, and a greeting card. A shopping list is not only an orginizational tool, it's a necessity. However, even with an outline of my needs I can still get distracted and find myself spending an inordinate amount of time comparing the protein amounts in various brands of hummus.

 

I came up with a solution to this problem by accident. I had been running errands all day and was starving, but the grocery store was the last stop on my itinerary so I just scooped a 32-ounce Gatorade and kept moving.
By the time I got to the parking lot I was legitimately in fear of my bladder. Boy, was she angry. Still, I needed food, and the Get Out of the Store Before You Pee Your Pants game was born. I was checking out, with precisely everything on my list, in 12 minutes. Now, when I know I don't want to waste time/money perusing the aisles, I drown myself in water and then do a little jig as I pick out my 10 for $10 yogurts before I speed home.

Secret Singing: I really get down with my bad self while listening to music in my car. If Rihanna ever had a freak vocal cord accident and needed someone to sing the rest of her set list, I could grab the mic and belt out both parts of "Stay" without issue. I took voice lessons for five years and, as the youngest child of three, am a natural-born performer, but I still have serious problems singing in front of people. Even within the confines of my car, where no one can actually hear the sweet magic coming from my mouth, I am self-conscious about the guy next to me on the highway noticing my solo performance. To avoid embarrassment, I have come up with a series of tricks that allow me to trust the voice within while appearing completely normal to the outside world.

1. Pretend to be on the phone - Unless you live in California, New Jersey, or any other state that prohibits cell phone usage while driving (safety first!), simply holding the phone up to your ear and singing your heart out just looks like a very passionate conversation to onlookers. Foolproof.
2. Nose scratch - The point here is to create distraction in the vicinity of your mouth. Just make sure it is very obvious that it's a casual scratch. Appearing to dig for gold is infinitely more embarrassing than being caught belting out "Timber."

3. Drinking from bottle - Pretend you're going to take a sip of water, stop short of getting any liquid in your mouth, and proceed sing it loud and proud. Bonus: it works as a mini microphone!

Six Degrees of Tanning Bed Music Separation: I will admit, this one is a bit excessive. You're literally just lying there, so you've gotta do something to stave off your mom's incessant warnings of skin cancer. A typical tanning bed sesh lasts about 12-15 minutes, or about four popular songs from 2007. Let's say these songs are "Buy U a Drank" by T-Pain, "Kiss Kiss" by Chris Brown, "Umbrella" by Rihanna, and "Good Life" by Kanye West.
Lets play: I clearly remember getting in trouble at a high school dance for grinding up on a kid from my math class too intensely (you're welcome, buddy) while "Buy U a Drank" played romantically in the background. T-Pain was also featured in Chris Brown's "Kiss Kiss" that year, and with two years before the Rihanna Smackdown would go down, those two were still cute together. Rih came out with "Umbrella," which I'm still not sick of, featuring Jay-Z. Jay-Z and Kanye West are butt buddies. Kanye had released Graduation aka not as good as The College Dropout and Late Registration and "Good Life" which featuuuuured...T-Pain.
Technically that's only five degrees of separation but I can feel my moles changing in color and border regularity so it's time to get out.

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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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Are you doing Ananda Balasana, or are you just happy to see me?

Body Pump. Zumba. HIIT Treadmill workouts. Kickboxing. This is how I roll in the gym. I am entirely too wound up for anything that requires a clear mind, deep breathing, and Enya, and I don't feel like I've actually worked out unless my thighs are shaking on the drive home and I have sweated off all of my self tanner.

That being said, I needed a change. I basically only use a handful of machines, the Bosu ball, free weights, and resistance bands if I'm feeling nastay, so my gym visits have gotten old real quick. All of the cool fitness classes--like Total Body Conditioning and Belly Dancing--take place while people that aren't stay-at-home moms are at work (those bitches get to have all the fun), so my choices were limited to basically...yoga.

Okay!
Yoga it is!
I can do yoga!

...I cannot do yoga. My yoga experience is isolated to a single afternoon where I attempted the hour-long P90X Yoga X DVD and quit after 20 minutes because I was bored it was too hard. Like, my dog was laying on the floor watching me and left because he was embarrased by my attempt at Warrior 3. I'm one of those people that will forego an activity altogether unless I know I'm the best at it, so this one instance entirely turned me off from yoga. However, given a newfound interest in self-growth and my lack of class options, I decided to follow the eternal words of Aaliyah and dust myself off and try again.

First, I needed a yoga mat. I knew that if I was left to use the dingy ones provided by the gym the threat of ringworm would convince me to never, ever attend a class. Plus, those mats are all ugly and I wanted a pretty one, so I dropped $25 on a beautiful purple number with a swirly paisley print. I put it in the front seat of my car to remind/shame me into taking it with me the following Monday night, which I technically did...

I just didn't attend class. For two weeks straight, I proudly carried that mat into the gym, proudly locked it in my locker, and proudly carried it back out to my car without so much as unrolling it. I meant to go to class, I really did, but OH NO my 5-mile bike ride overlapped the beginning of the class by 30 seconds and I couldn't very well walk in late, now could I? OH NO my hand was cramped up from lifting weights and I heard wrist pain is a serious problem for yoga newbies. OH NO what if my pants are see through?! Damnit Lululemon, get out of my head.

I woke up yesterday disappointed in myself. "Just fucking go, you little shit, you're so annoying," my abusive inner voice said, and unfortunately, that girl ain't neva lie. Go. Go go go. Go! I got ready for work repeating this mantra, threw my gym bag together, and prepared to let this cloud of Ohm hang over me all day until I pulled into the gym parking lot that night.

In the locker room I pep-talked myself in the mirror, not worried about the old Asian lady getting naked in the corner hearing me because God knows she couldn't give less of a shit. I was here early, mat in hand, pure yoga focus. Yogus. Foga. Fyogas? Froyo sounds so good right now. GET IT TOGETHER, SKYLAR.

I got ready to change clothes and was met with an entirely new challenge. Do not laugh at me because this seriously almost changed the entire course of the evening and I really did consider cutting my losses and going home:

I wear really bright workout tops because they make me feel important, so that morning when I spotted a heap of pink on my floor aka my second closet, I had assumed it was the top that makes my boobs look good and immediately threw it in my bag. When I pulled out the hot pink workout leggings that I impulse bought a month ago, I actually almost threw up. We're not talking socially-acceptable pink, or even colorful-but-not-obnoxious pink. These are blinding. I already had enough anxiety going into this night, and now I had to do it in Malibu Barbie's clothes? Good, great, grand, wonderful.

Luckily, I did not go home. I put on the leggings. I grabbed my mat. I washed my hands (I don't know why I'm telling you this, but it feels poignant). I walked out of the locker room and ignored everyone who couldn't avoid staring at me because HELLO it looked like I had been wading in highlighter fluid. I filed into the room with the rest of the yogis and unrolled my mat (hooray!) next to a small, seemingly non-threatening man who was possibly a jockey.

Right off the bat, some girl in the front row pops up into a forearm stand and I let out an exasperated, "Fucking really?" Kentucky Derby to my left definitely heard me but I just looked at him and shrugged because whatever we were all totally thinking it. I sat in a butterfly stretch nervously glancing at my other opponents and realized that I was definitely too competitive to be here, but it was too late because the tall, blonde waif of a teacher had just walked in. Heeeere we go!

Cynthia introduced herself, letting us know that this was a beginner yoga class and that we should all be very aware of our breath and our presence in this space while clearing our minds. So think about being here but don't think at all, got it C-Dawg. I wanted to ask her if she saw the circus freak in the front row balancing on her pinkies and if she considered that to be "beginner" because if so, I was out, but I kept my mouth shut as she turned off the lights and turned on the sound of crashing ocean waves.

We opened our hips, stretched deep into our shoulder blades, engaged our cores, rounded our backs. "Now feeeeel your spine elongate into a stronnng column." I can't, Cynthia, I have scoliosis. I really did try to focus on my breath and just chill, but it was like every memory and random thought that I've ever pushed to the back of my mind came stampeding to the forefront. Credit card payments, grocery lists, who last borrowed my red dress, ex-boyfriends' birth dates, Leibniz's notation (HA just kidding)--everything was clamoring for some action.

While the actual "centering" of myself was hard, the moves were not. Apparently that 20 minutes of P90X was all I needed to master the basics, because Gumby up front and I were going toe-to-toe in terms of who would be named Team Captain (they did that in yoga class, right?). I even managed a decent shoulder stand! My once-rubberband-like hip flexors were still struggling, but regardless, as the ocean waves provided their final soothing crash and we all namaste'd, I felt like I had done pretty well.

The official name of this class was Gentle Yoga, so I think my next venture will be Hatha Yoga or maybe even Power Yoga to prove that I'm a bawss. One day I hope to sweat my demons out in a Hot Yoga class, but given the fact that a heart attack over my outfit almost derailed my initial effort, I'll give that one some time. Will I give up my cardio seshes? No, because they regulate my cookie intake. But anything that will break Adam Levine and his model fiance up and finally show him how perfect for each other we are is enough to keep me going.

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When Calories Don't Count

It is snowing something fierce outside. I'm cold in 50 degree weather, so you can imagine the physical and emotional turmoil I'm currently going through. Immediately upon walking through the door after getting off work early (heyooo), I headed to the fridge for my standard bowl of mixed berries and maybe string cheese.

Then I looked outside.

Then back at the fridge. Then outside. Fridge. Outside. Down at my nails (just did them last night, they look fab). Back at the fridge.

This is not mixed berry weather.

Sometimes, you just need a carb or two. When your Northern Virginia suburb has transformed into the Yukon, you need a carb or two million. Meatball subs, chocolate chip cookies, nachos; it's like Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory except I'm Augustus Gloop and Veruca Salt all rolled into one: I want to eat everything, and I want it now.

 As far as I'm concerned, calories shouldn't exist when it's a winter wonderland outside. I don't have the ability to hibernate, so a fatty food coma is as close as I can get and I plan to milk that for all it's worth. There are other situations in which calories don't count, and though they are all unique in their own right, each situation typically centers around a lack of makeup and a pronounced couch cushion butt imprint.

The Holiday Season - If you're updating MyFitnessPal and sneaking in a few crunches between Christmas dinner and dessert, you're a pa-rum-pa-pum prick. You know who likes that guy? Not Santa. Your bubbe didn't slave over a brisket for three hours just to hear you complain about the fat content, and if you seriously suggest ways in which to make the cheese blintzes "clean," don't bother returning from your 10-mile run tomorrow morning. If two months out of the year have earned the reputation for being the most calorie-dense, you should treat the season with the utmost respect and stuff your face accordingly.

First Date - Certain foods are not safe First Date foods. Spaghetti is an obvious no-go (stick to shaped pasta, like penne or bowties). Ironically, in an effort to be dainty and skinny, salad is also a terrible choice. You look like a stegosaurus the second one of those spinach leaves goes rogue and tries to escape from the corner of your mouth, leaving you to chase after it with your tongue and/or fork in a way that is anything but incognito. Just let the girly thing go. If your date wants to spend more time with you and linger over a Red Velvet Pizookie, but you're afraid of the extra 150 calories, you A) need to pull the stick out of your butt and B) should stab the first spoon in that baby and show him/her how it's done. You can save tofu for the third date when they realize how boring you are--keep the dream alive for at least one night.

"Wahhh I should've just ordered the burger."

Your Birthday - You can cry if you want to and everyone has to do what you say while giving you presents for it, why wouldn't you be allowed to eat whatever your heart desired? You know why Pillsbury doesn't make Diet Funfetti cake mix? Because Poppin Fresh is an adorable dough boy, not a gluten-free monster. Restaurants actually encourage the surplus of calories on this fantastic day: Arby's gives you a free 12-oz. milkshake, Denny's gives you a free Grand Slam breakfast, and Waffle House gives you a free waffle. A free. Waffle. Why would you pass that up? Because you want "abs"? You can get abs on Arbor Day, loser. Vixen's is waiting, go get you a free lap dance.

Getting Dumped - Following a particularly bad breakup, I stayed in bed for 15 hours a day for a week straight (drama drama drama). Luckily, I locked myself in my apartment and wouldn't let anyone in to see the gremlin I had become, which led to a pleasant absence of expectation and general hygiene. It also led to an obscene amount of pancakes. Effort was not the name of the game at this point in time, and considering I couldn't let my regular Jimmy John's guy see me this way, I had to fend for myself. Pancake batter is easy, and you can make a batch big enough to last you four days in just as many minutes. In that week I probably ate close to 30 pancakes, occasionally throwing an apple or banana into the mix so I didn't get Single Girl Scurvy. I finally snapped out of it and ventured out into society for some exercise and Vitamin D, an act really only fueled by my own self-disgust and the fact that I ran out of flour.

 Girls' Night - A girl who runs a six-minute mile and reads fitspo blogs by day is the same girl who, later on, demolishes the cookie dough dip before anyone else has a chance to try it. Girls' Night is about wine, gossiping about how Christina's new boyfriend is definitely a Bar Dad, and, of course, eating obscene amounts of junk food. No I will not judge you for grabbing Rice Krispie Treats two at a time, because I'm currently double fisting taquitos and sugar cookies. Cheers, sister. Will significant time be spent commenting on how fat we feel and how we shouldn't be eating this? You betcha. But if Brooke shows up with a tub of hummus and a platter of celery one more time I swear to God I'm force feeding her Kalteen bars in her sleep.

And with that, Puking Patty was eliminated from the group text

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