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

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

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

Women need unchallenged access to birth control.

The current administration just doesn’t think so.

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

1. It Prevents Babies

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

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

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

2. It Keeps Things From Exploding

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

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

Wanna guess what can keep cysts from forming?

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

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

3. It Keeps Skin Clear

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

Acne has nothing to do with penises and vaginas.   

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

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

4. It Helps Iron Deficiencies

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

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

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

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

5. It Keeps Us Feeling Sane

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   

The 6 Things Every Woman Should Actually Have in Her Closet

Every woman’s magazine has published a list of all of the necessary items a lady needs in her closet to make it “complete.”

These lists typically include some kind of ballet flat, a trench coat, a little black dress, and well-fitting jeans. All of these classic pieces are supposed to give you a well-rounded selection that makes getting dressed “a breeze” and will keep your wardrobe “timeless.”

I’m all for it, but at the same time, these lists missed a few key pieces that real women need in their real closets for when real life goes down.

1. Black pants that look professional but feel/fit like sweats - You wake up on a Wednesday at 8:15 am hungover as shit because last night’s catch-up drinks with your friend Alexa got way out of hand, per usual. You have to leave for work in 15 minutes. After emerging from a cloud of dry shampoo, you will technically need pants (I don’t make the rules, girl). You’ve been trying to make leggings-as-business-casual happen, but it’s not going to happen, so you need another option.

Enter: the black jogger. Preferably high-waisted and a polyester-spandex blend, you can pair these with a button-down or any decent top and generally pull off looking like someone who’s not getting a little old to be fucked up on a Tuesday night.

2. Throwaway flats - Different from their timeless, structured variety, these life savers are the difference between strutting through the club crowd to the bathroom like a vixen, or bambi walking it out of the building at 12:30 because you literally can’t stand any longer. As a rule, you cannot have spent more than $9 on them at a Payless BOGO sale.

The key is to wear these until the last possible second before arriving at your destination, switch into your heels, and then immediately put them back on when you’re out of sight of anyone you’d like to bang. So, you’d walk to the train in the Throwaways, stash them in your clutch (yep, they’re typically pretty flexible) when you change into your sexy shoes, and whip them back out at the end of the night.

Sound lame? You’re not going to look any cooler hobbling along in the 4-inch heels you never learned how to properly walk in anyway. Take the advice.

  

3. An oversized, thick, long c...ardigan sweater - If you’re always cold but don’t have enough clout in the office to control the thermostat, an article of clothing that’s essentially a blanket is crucial. Sure, you’ve got the boho-hipster-chic thing working for you, but you could also curl up under your desk and take a nap at any moment. AT ANY MOMENT. That’s the kind of freedom we’re marching for next, ladies.

4. Red Pants - I’m not going to sit here and say, “Everyone looks great in a high waisted trouser cut!” because if you don’t feel good in that cut then what’s the fucking point. Go with whatever style makes you feel the most fabulous, I’m not Stacy London/God. The most important thing is that they’re bright red. Two reasons:

1. If you’re having a bad day, these pants will help you fake it better. Bright colors have power. Red is a powerful color. You’re really just doubling up on your strength here. Like Dragon Ball Z.
2. Everyone needs a pair of last-day-of-period pants after wearing black all week. You triumphed over your uterus yet again, you deserve to celebrate while still being aware that all bets are not off quite yet.

5. A Boob Shirt - Save it, feminists. Boobs are magical and make things happen. It’s science and history all wrapped into one (er, two).

Going on a third date and have already convinced the other person that you’re an intellectual with multi-faceted interests and ample artillery in the witticisms department? Well done. Unleash the money makers!

Seeing an ex after several months of not speaking to see if you guys can work things out? Remind them what they’ve been missing. Even if you don’t end up getting back together, you three made a very significant final impression.  

Boob shirts need be three things: extremely low cut, not a crop top (pace yourself), and able to tearfully bring a grown man or woman to their knees. Try Express.

6. Emergency “No It’s Part of My Outfit” Jacket - Your boyfriend invites you to dinner. Perfect! He forgot to mention that his parents whom you’ve only met once would be joining you. Not the right time to wear the sexiest LBD you own!

Luckily, you grabbed the “Just In Case” jacket on your way out. This can be conveniently left on and still look like an intentional element of your get-up. Leather jacket, army jacket, bomber, drape coat, all will work. I once misjudged the length of a skirt and worked in an office almost exclusively of middle-aged men. Didn’t plan on wearing my lightweight trench coat all day, but didn’t want to give Chet in Accounting another reason to corner me in the kitchen, either, so that was my outfit that day.

This jacket will also come in handy for beating your boyfriend with once you’ve “so nice to see you again!”’d the parentals away. Really? Not even a warning?

Hold on to your crisp white shirts and plain black turtlenecks, but add these items into the mix. A boob shirt with red pants? Are you a member of an early 2000s girl band? Try again.

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.

New Years Resolutions...for Other People

I have a lot to work on. 

Fortunately, none of these things will make it into the public space for multiple reasons. 1) Everyone is already inundated with "New Year, New Me!" posts on their Facebook timeline from the health and fitness blogger du jour, and to be perfectly honest, I didn't get fat over the holidays, so I'm good. 2) Gauging by how far I make it through others' inspirational posts about their struggles, no one would tune in for very long should I choose to flip the script and be serious for once. 3) I prefer that everyone operate under the impression that I'm fantastic and they're peasants.

Although I won't be divulging the personal changes I hope to make in 2017, you can guarantee I have plenty to tweak about other people in my life! Aren't you all lucky?!

Start Taking Vitamin C Supplements - Dear Person Who Has a Chronic Cold at Work: get your shit together. You are an adult with adult children, therefore you do not have the luxury of the excuse that your home is an incubator for germs brought home by a kindergartner. Your weak immune system is confounding, as I am aware that you sustain yourself solely on salads and green tea. I simply do not understand how you're always sick. Even in the summertime. What is the matter with you. Fuck. 

Buy an iPhone 7 - My favorite part about other people going to concerts is that they Snapchat the entire show with poor sound quality and even poorer camera control. No one wants to watch you watch Garth Brooks from the nosebleeds with your boyfriend's off-key singing interspersed with drunken "WOO GARTH YEAH!"'s wailing in the background. Get yourself a new iPhone so within 5 minutes of starting a video, your battery will drop from 60% to 2%, saving us all the headache.

Practice Saying, "No Thanks" - Do I want to get tapas and then go to a douchey bro bar in Murray Hill strictly for its entertainment value on a Friday night? Sometimes. Do I realize this is a tough sell? Absolutely. The friends that will tell me straight up, "I hate that godforsaken neighborhood and the overgrown frat bro's that reside there" are immediately at the top of my list, because they're honest and shoot me down promptly. The ones who conveniently don't receive my text until 9:45 pm, respond with, "For sure I'll let you know!" and then follow up four days later with, "Omg my night got so insane, sorry I missed you" can rot in hell. Bitch, it's Tuesday, I'm a busy adult and I've moved on. However, please note that I'm also petty and will not invite you to anything ever again. 

Make Fun of Your Child - Kids are everything I enjoy: chubby, uncensored, curious, and wobbly. Don't try to pretend that they're not. If you've given me the Hallmark Channel version of the monthly update of Avery's life, you can bet your awkwardly-posed photo shoot that you've been blocked from my social media feeds. Those that document when their kid insists on dressing up like Frankenstein from Big Daddy or giggles at curse words they don't know the meaning of are my favorite, because that's real life and real parenting. 

Forget Pescetarianism: Go Full Vegan - Sometimes, people like to microwave salmon in an office environment, or overcook sea bass in an apartment setting. These people are assholes. If you are one of these people, understand that you are not only bastardizing the culinary process but are also tormenting the senses of smell of everyone around you. Fish odor isn't bottled by Dior for a reason, and if you can't cook a filet correctly and eat it responsibly (alone, in a well-ventilated area, in a building that is yours), then you can't eat it at all. Poseidon says so.   

Savor Your Alone Time - It is not my fault that you're single and I'm not. If we're hanging out and my boyfriend texts me or I drop his name in conversation and you groan about how you're sick of being "alone," you have exactly two options: 1) Kick me out of your apartment, shower, and get out in the world to prowl around for a future mate or 2) Fucking relax and we can continue eating pizza. Desperate people who wear their desperation on their sleeve decrease their chances of attracting a lifelong partner by 64%. I have no idea if that figure (or even that statement) is remotely accurate, but if it made you realize that you need to get over yourself slash stop getting under other people in an effort to secure a long-term girlfriend/boyfriend, then take it as the gospel. Being single is fine. Worry about literally anything else. 

Establish a Stringent Hair Care Schedule - BSpears. Britney. Brit Brit. In the name of everything that is holy, fire your hair stylist. A person with a net worth of nearly $200 million should not step out of the house with such an atrocious display of acrylic extensions haphazardly whip-stitched onto their head. Either get yourself a great wig and a solid grip band, or let your mane flow free for a while as you execute every healthy habit possible to keep you from looking like trailer trash. We'll be ten years removed from 2007 this year, my dear, let's act like it.