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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Problem solved!

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


Just keepin' up with the trends

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



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

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

NO ONE IS SAFE

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The Truth Behind the Backhanded Compliment

If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.
Likewise, if you think you're saying something nice but receive a head tilt and a, "Haha, thanks, I guess," you still shouldn't say anything at all and maybe recognize that you're a bit of an oblivious bitch.

I understand that some people don't grasp the concept of tact and have no control over what comes out of their mouths. I am one of these people, to a point, but my lack of discretion usually rears its offensive head in the form of telling drunken tales of yore at Easter dinner. Mama taught a girl right, and I'm extremely aware of my words when they could affect the personal feelings of others (unless I'm intentionally trying to snub you, in which case, prepare to cry).

Backhanded compliments are usually harmless, but just because you didn't mean it the way it sounded doesn't make you sound like any less of a jerk. Here's what your victim really heard:

"You look pretty in this picture!" = "Wow, you finally managed to find an angle that doesn't make you look like a disgruntled baboon someone smacked in the face with a soccer cleat. Only in this singular instance do you look decent; rest assured, none of your other pictures compare to this one and you should probably keep it up as long as possible, seriously."

"You're so brave to be wearing that" = "You look like a huge whore."

"I didn't know you had it in you!" = "I have literally always believed that you were a spineless sloth who would amount to nothing and could never put extra effort into any goal besides finishing his/her Qdoba in one sitting. I am really, seriously, genuinely shocked by this accomplishment. Give me a minute to process my overwhelming disbelief that you could do something substantial with your life."

"You look so skinny" = "Notice I did not say, "You are so skinny." See? Ya see that? Your wide belt and/or structured jacket isn't fooling anyone. A for effort, though." OR "I can't wait to text Catherine about your anorexia."

"Don't worry, you can date him" = "I'm giving you my unwarranted permission to get with my ex. However, by no means are you exempt from incessant Facebook stalking and you can be sure that whenever you casually mention him in conversation I'll be quick to jump in with a, "Oh yeah, I remember when he used to do that" or, "Does that lip smacking thing annoy you too? LOL eskimo sisterssss."   

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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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How to Name Your Baby

I have several friends who are in the baby-making business at the moment, which I’m really happy about because A) I love the infant clothing section at Target and B) I have really attractive friends so finally this world will be repopulated with some hotties. Who knew bumpin’ uglies could produce such a beautiful result? Irony.

 

Assuming that they’ve got the actual “procedure” under control, I’d like to move on to the most important decision a parent can make for their new child: making their grade-school roll-call experience a living hell. After examining several naming trends over the past few years and teaching dance to toddlers, I feel that’s the only logical explanation for some of the absurd names I’m forced to pronounce and pretend are “unique” but also 100 percent socially acceptable.

 

Not sure what to name your impending bundle of joy? Follow these tips:

 

#1 I before Y: The letter Y has had its moment in the spotlight. You will very rarely find a SallY or AbbY or BradY anymore, but quite honestly, just changing the Y to an I is so 2001, so today’s parents have decided to get drunk and draw letters out of a hat in order to decide on an original name spelling. The consequence outcome? Vironyka. Jaiydin. Alycksandrya. Basically, you want your son/daughter to be in the next Star Wars movie, because no one on this planet can say those names right on the first try.

 

I mean technically it's the best choice...

#2 Legos: Remember in second grade when we learned about compound words? News + paper = newspaper. Lady + bug = ladybug. The same principle can be used for your baby too, if you, ya know, hate them. If you like the name Rylie but your significant other likes the name Sadie? Settling for a name like Elizabeth is unnecessary. Call her Raydie instead! You can argue that she lights up your life like a ray of sunshine but all the rest of us can think about is that she is an effective killer of roaches and ants. Preh-shuss.

 

#3 “WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?!”: For those that are super in touch with nature (like, in touch enough to be growing some nature in their basement under a blacklight), environmentally friendly names are totally a thing. Apple, August, Violet, River, Luna, Chrysanthemum – they all guarantee that your new baby is on the fast track to having dreads and becoming the next Double Rainbow guy.

 

#4 Super Villains: If you want everyone to know just how badass of a kid you have before they even have the wherewithal to identify their own foot, name it something menacing. Blaise, Maximus, Alpheus –who would mess with that baby in the sandbox? It should go without saying that you’re now obligated to give your youngin a mohawk the second they have more than three strands of hair, and should dress them up as Bane for Halloween.

 

#5 Backwards man, Backwards man: Nevaeh. That’s all I’m gonna say.

 

Kimye has set the standard for making your child the laughing stock of their elementary school. It’s up to the rest of us to blow North [West] out of the water and make legal name-changing the new trend of the year 2031. Can’t wait to meet little Aubryannelliera!

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Untweetable

I’ve noticed a recent increase in the amount of people that tweet something along the lines of, “UGH the things I wish I could tweet sometimes.” Naturally I've been a little confused, because I don’t have a filter so the concept of self-editing is completely lost on me. I was positive that I had never not tweeted something, and decided to check out my Twitter Drafts to see if this was true.

 

IT WAS NOT.

 

Apparently, from about last March until now, a ton of my 140-characters have gone by the wayside, either due to poor WiFi connection, poor alcohol management, or Poor Skylar Syndrome in which I would type something depressing out that I had no intention of actually tweeting and then forget to delete it. I considered omitting those that fall into the latter category, but what fun is that? Please laugh at my shortcomings, I beg you.

 

 

If you don’t follow me on Twitter, and you see the tweets below that didn’t make the cut, you can only imagine what you’re missing out on. @SkylarKorby, get at me.

 

The people who say “I don’t think I say this enough” followed by how blessed they are are usually the ones who say it way too much. #congrats #nowstop

 

Fishin for the lawd. #HappyEaster

 

I have never been so happy .ad o am right now. Anthony kiedis love meee. #Rchp #bestshowever #amaxzing

 

We go together like lamb and tuna fish. #weird #love

 

My boy likes red lipstick but I can’t wear red lipstick because I like him so much that I’ll get red lipstick all over his face. #wwjd

 

“Back that bitch out into the water” is, apparently, not what @LBTmusic is singing. #couldafooledme #Pontoon

 

“Her lack of eyebrows used to terrify me. It seems as though she’s gotten that under control though so she can come.” --anonymous #theymatter

 

My only request is that I get to walk down the aisle to the chopped and screwed version of The Wedding March. #ghettoromance

 

The amount of respect I have for someone decreases by at least 70% when I hear that their ringtone is Cruise by @FLAGALine. #sawng #awful

Just got told I have a smile like The Joker. #Rude, but I’ll be damned if I don’t see the resemblance

 

Garden Vegetable @WheatThins, how do you do that voodoo that you do so well. #crack

Nohting says "I don't give a fuck" lke an obliteratted girl sitting outsid of the Granville crying & screaming "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK!" #wifethatup

#FYI after 3 a.m. all country music on the radio is heavily harmonized and very suicide-centric

 

Awkward hobby: Looking to see who everyone’s “best friends” are on #Snapchat. S/O to @TheMotoBenny, @ELSchum, and @jconks!

 

Vai a farti fottere una puttana

 

Today’s self-discovery: my scalp tingles when I’m upset. It’s like feeling your hair grow but minus the drugs. #trippy

You are cordially invited to go fuck yourself

 

#ParentalControl is still on the air? This knowledge would’ve saved me about 6 months of my life

Accepting @SkyDigg4 compliments by association because a lot of people told me I was pretty today and I’m trying to keep that momentum going

 

S/O to Fatty, Sideburns Lady, and the Mutants Over at Table 9. #lovestinks #yeahyeah

“Or maybe they break up cause she cheats on him with a 30 year old cook from the local red lobster.” –optimism by @ELSchum

 

I AIN’T NEVER SCARED. #exceptaroundwasps

 

In giving me directions, my dad just spent 3 mins emphasizing that the stop sign I’d encounter was NOT a yield sign. The mystery behind my awful driving skills is solved

 

Crying in my work parking lot because I hit a bird on the way here. He popped. #sorrybud

 

#YIKES

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The Five Phrases We Should All Let Go

I believe that every word that comes out of a person’s mouth should have emphatic significance (see what I did there?).

 

Whoever introduced synonyms to me in elementary school should be kissed by someone who knows how and promptly bought Chipotle. I love to talk, I love to force others to listen to me speak, and the sole reason I abstain from smoking cigs is because I’m terrified I’d have to get a tracheotomy and my sweet sweet voice would be replaced by robot sounds.

 

As far as I’m concerned, language is a privilege, and my love for it is consistently ruined by people who pollute the air with god-awful catch phrases and misspelling of the word “congratulations” (there is no D. Stop it). Below are the five phrases that I think we should all agree to retire.

 

1.       “That’s all.” Typically used when someone makes an opinionated statement about something that they’d rather not have disputed.

Ex: “The University of Louisville is the best at everything. That’s all.” (p.s. SHOUT OUT TO THE SUGAR BOWL WINNERS HEYYYYYY)

Can also be used when something weird/out of the ordinary has happened and a person wants to play it all nonchalant.

Ex: “I was just told I have the potential musculature appropriate for a career in female body building. That’s all.”

Why it bothers me: It’s used totally hypocritically. If you tell me, “Fuck you. That’s all,” that is definitely NOT ALL and there’s about to be a (what?) girl fight.

 

2.       “Epic.” Typically used when someone wants an event to sound much more impressive than it actually was.
Ex: “Dude last night was so epic. Tyler puked in a girl’s hair and then helped her clean it out; Chris snuck into the DJ booth and played like four Hootie and the Blowfish songs; we went to McDonald’s and John ate his fries with mustard; and then I DD’d everyone. Fuckin wild night, bro.”
Why it bothers me: People have actually told me stories like the one above. I feel bad for them. Epically bad for them.
 
3.       “Fail.” Typically used when someone doesn’t go out on a Saturday night because they’re too busy looking up memes on (what else?) FAILblog.
Ex:

Why it bothers me: The grammar Nazi in me can’t get past the obvious fragment going on here, and anyone I’ve ever met who uses “fail” in everyday conversation is incredibly annoying so it’s the associative property at its finest.
Why it really bothers me: People usually use “epic” and “fail” together. I can’t even…
 
4.       “Is this real life?” Typically used when someone is easily entertained.
Ex: “It took me less than thirty minutes to straighten my hair. Is this real life?”
Why it bothers me: All it took was a drugged up child with two fingers who thought this was going to be forever to start this phenomenon. My friends are drugged up all the time and it’s never even made a blip on the pop culture radar….UNTIL NOW:

5.       “Mind blown.” Typically used when someone realizes something that the rest of society figured out a long time ago.

Ex: “Just found out that Fez's name on That 70's Show stood for Foreign Exchange Student. MIND BLOWN.”

Like Facebook, Google, and speakerphone, our parents will revive this phrase about 5-20 years after it’s worn out its welcome with the rest of our vocabularies.

Ex: “My microwave has a Popcorn button. MIND BLOWN.”

Why it bothers me: I’m just a really huge know-it-all and nothing fazes me.

Karaoke is my Nemesis

My family, as a whole, is a quirky bunch. There are many traits that I have inherited that, try as I might, cannot be denied or even sufficiently hidden from the rest of society. I’ve come to accept this in most cases, such as my inability to tell a story without including way too many irrelevant details that turn a two-minute “this one time…” into a twenty-minute dissertation. I’m also not suited for quiet settings – these vocal cords are powerful. There is one quirk in particular that I wish had been some kind of genetic mutation that my infant self could have beaten the odds of, but sadly, it made its way to the idiosyncratic forefront: screwing up song lyrics. 

We’re going to blame my dad for this one. He started it all sometime back in the 70’s when he was singing along to The Beatles’ “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” and asked the person next to him, “How could he tell?”
“Tell what?” they asked.
“That she had Colitis.”
Good ole Bill thought they were singing, “The girl with Colitis goes by” instead of “The girl with kaleidoscope eyes.”

Yes, it is okay to laugh, we make fun of him for this all the time. Unfortunately, I can’t laugh too hard, because I do it too. Frequently, and unapologetically. I’m under the impression that if I interpret the words a certain way, that is how they should be, and no lyrics website will tell me otherwise.

 

Below are a few of my most notable creations, and I will continue to sing them loud and proud.

 

Rihanna – “Umbrella”  

When the sun shines, we'll shine together
Told you I'll be here forever
Said I'll always be a friend
Took an oath TOUGHEN UP, Ima stick it out til the end

 

Rihanna is from Barbados. She has that little island accent that makes you want to punch yourself in the face, it’s just so cute (too soon?). For this reason, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and thought she was pronouncing toughen “toe-fen” and up “ope.” Since this song was such a huge hit, I was corrected quickly, but since we all know how much I like to be told what to do, I was steadfast in belting out the lyrics that I thought were “better.” Quite honestly, I think Rihanna’s more recent songs are pretty terrible anyway, so maybe she should take note of my improvements and adjust her lyrics accordingly.

 

Manfred Mann’s Earth Band – “Blinded by the Light”

Blinded by the light

Revved up light a deuce DOUCHE

Another runner AND A RONER in the night

 

If I had initially been introduced to the Bruce Springsteen version of this song, I’d be a completely different person. Not only does The Boss know how to annunciate his S sounds (sorta…), his lyrics read, “cut loose like a deuce,” which doesn’t exactly make sense either, but at least I’d be able to decipher them. Let’s not even get into what I think a “roner” is, because I have no idea. Did the Earth Band even have another hit after this? Probably not, so who am I to criticize their British ridiculousness? Those people think beans on toast is a meal, I’d rather not question their vocabulary.

 

 

Pussycat Dolls – “When I Grow Up”

When I grow up

I wanna see the world

Drive nice cars

I wanna have groupies BOOBIES

 

Everyone thought this when first hearing this song. It still rings true in my mind because when I was younger, I did want boobs. I’m apparently still not there… The point is, the song could totally work both ways and for a tune that’s about becoming rich in the future, it’s not so far-fetched to believe that a trip to the plastic surgeon wouldn’t make the list.

 

 

Usher – “Burn”

I know this is something I gotta do

But that don’t mean I want to

What I’m trying to say is that I love you I just ALEXIS

I feel like this is coming to an end

 

I know what you’re thinking. “Who did you think Alexis was, Skylar?” And to that, all I have to say is that Usher is not known for his fidelity and admitted it in “Confessions” on the same album so it’s not my place to judge which ladyfriend he’s singing to at any given time. I’m particularly bad about this one, because I just can’t seem to get it into my head that the lyrics could be anything else. As someone whose name does not appear in any song out there (except “Skylar’s Song” by Vince Neil for his daughter who had cancer; not exactly an upper), I applaud Alexis for paving the way for the rest of us to get broken up with via catchy R&B melodies.

 

Sugar Ray – “Every Morning”

Every morning there's a halo hangin’ from the corner

of my girlfriend's four post SPOPO’S bed

 

Again. What kind of name is Spopo? I wish I understood myself.

The Nose Knows

I recently read an article about the five things women immediately notice about a man. The first three were confidence, demeanor, and dress, to which I openly responded, “Bowshit, bowshit, and bowshit.” Then I scrolled down to find that the fourth one was “hands,” and I thought, “Now we’re getting somewhere.” (The fifth one, to all of you OCD nut jobs out there, was physique. Feel better? Xanny up.)

 

Personality traits mean absolutely nothing to me in the first two minutes of being introduced to someone. We both know that I just want a free drink and you’re trying to be incognito in checking out my boobs, so why would I even worry my pretty little head about your behavior? This isn’t a third grade parent teacher conference.

 

What do I notice right off the bat? Noses. No hesitation. I can tell a whole heck of a lot about you by your shnoz, deducing much about your character strictly based on the placement of your nostrils. My friends will ask me my opinion of a guy based on his clothes, but it is in the man-snout that I can really determine if I approve. Let me break it down for you right quick:

 

Pointy-beaky – You’re a fun guy when you want to be, but only when you want to be. In other words, you are uptight and would have rather stayed in to study for the LSAT or catch up on last week’s Criminal Minds but your friends dragged you to the bar. I can already tell that after two more Michelob Ultra’s you’re going to become extremely douchey and probably try to criticize my outfit in an attempt to vilify my confidence and get me to go home with you, but tough cookies T.J. Detweiler; this isn’t recess and I’m nowhere near stupid enough to play those games. All signs point to you being an asshole, and by “signs” I mean your NOSE.

 

Lil Christmas Bulb – There’s a lot of personality in that round nasal ornament, and I like it. You don’t think you’re very attractive, and I can’t tell if I find you attractive because of your adorable bashfulness, or because you really are just good-looking. Whatever the case may be, you’re intelligent but shy, which is fun in the moment but if I can’t break you after fifteen minutes (I’m patient if a cute boy is at stake, and only then), peace out girl scout. You have the charm a-brewin’ at the tip of your beak, but if you don’t know what to do with it then you might as well be Voldemort.  

 

Somewhat Whoville – You are silly and fun and the life of the party, which is so great when we’re all in a group having a blasty blast for one night. But you’re like this all the time. ALL THE TIME. How much coke does one have to do to keep this up? I am intrigued by your genuine friendliness and effortless wisecracks, but I have a sneaking suspicion you’re 27 years old living off of your dad’s paycheck and that you see absolutely nothing wrong with it. If that flag was any redder we’d have to slip it a Midol. Welcome, welcome fahoo ramus / Welcome, welcome get a job-mus.   

 

Manly & Prominent – Gets me every time. You are my weakness, and the Grecian presence in the middle of your face has swooned me into believing anything you say and doing anything you want me to do. There’s something about a big honker that says, “I have my life together” and “I’ll take you out to dinner, wherever you want, yes of course we can go to Sonic,” and for some reason that just makes me feel inexplicably wonderful.  

 

There are, of course, combo meals with all of these. I may not realize a Prominent Beaky dude is as big of a jerk as he is until the second date when he asks what my dad does for a living in an effort to determine our financial compatibility (this has actually happened). A Whoville Bulb, while extremely holiday-spirited, is just too big of an emotional basket case for me to handle. In all honesty, I won’t be truly happy until Justin Timberlake is mine, so while I work out the logistics of ruining a new marriage, feel free to reread the above analyses and apply them to your next social interaction. Who knew noses could be such a relationship time-saver? You’re welcome.

Retail Rant

Working in retail is like working in hell.

Anyone who works in retail will support this assertion.

If you work in the food service industry, you are in a deeper circle of hell than I, in which people send back the plate of food that they’ve already finished because it’s “not what I ordered” and ask for extra sides of ranch for no other reason than the fact that they feel better if there are at least twelve ounces of ranch within a five foot radius of their body at any given time. You win.

The retail world, however, has its own woes. Let me break down a few of the miseries I experience on a daily basis, and maybe, on your next shopping excursion, you will realize that your friendly sales associate would actually rather go all bath salts on your ass than dig through a perfectly folded pile for a size medium that you definitely cannot squeeze into.

Upon entering the store, I am obligated to greet you. “Hey there, how are you doing today?” could either be a genuine enquiry or a segue into informing you about the new merchandise we just put out. I’m not asking you to be my blood brother or to babysit my dog while I’m on vacation; I’m just asking a simple question. I may be small, but my vocal cords are mighty, and I know you heard me. Continuing past me as if I didn’t exist – much less asked you about your current state of being – is rude and automatically guarantees that I will tell you the least-flattering pair of shorts you try on “Looks great!” Take that, fat ass; all you had to do was say hi.

Now I happen to work in a store that specializes in jeans. We sell other shit too, but we are in the jeans business, and the well-made jeans business at that. Well-made, brand-name jeans are expensive. The jeans you bought at Old Navy that give you saggy Mom Butt and accentuate your fupa are the opposite of well-made and are falling apart for that reason. When you come up to me and ask, “Are these really $99?” and I reply with the affirmative, don’t look at me like I’m a founding father of the KKK. It wasn’t me, I didn’t do it, it’s not my fault. “Can you afford $100 jeans?” you ask me condescendingly. Fucking of course not, you moron, that’s why I work here and get the discount. If we had such a problem selling the jeans at their full price, this store probably wouldn’t be here and they would’ve replaced us with a Gymboree months ago. Quit yer bitchin and either try a pair on or get out of my way: I have board folding to do.

Side note: since I do work in a specialty-brand jeans store, the joke, “Do you guys sell jeans?” lost all of its hilarity about halfway through my first day. Just stop.

So let’s say the previous transactions have gone smoothly and you’ve agreed to try on a few styles in a fitting room. We’ve gone through the whole, “How do you like your jeans to fit? What size do you think we’re looking for? Do you prefer a boot leg or straight leg? Light wash or dark wash?” spiel, and you have about six pairs of jeans at your disposal. At this time, we’ve already spent a solid ten minutes together, and I feel like we’ve forged a decent bond. I know things about you that I don’t even know about my own family, and while I wait for you to show me how the next pair looks I strongly consider inviting you to my wedding and making your niece my flower girl. “What do you think?” I ask about the dark-wash slim-fit boot leg you’re modeling. “The fit is great, I really like these a lot!” you say enthusiastically. Hooray! Success! Good things! As I am anticipating the wave of achievement that can only be felt by swiping someone’s MasterCard for $150, you all of a sudden exit the fitting room, no jeans in hand, and say, “I think I’m gonna come back later. Thanks,” and out you go. The curses I utter as I return the jeans to their shelves are enough to shock Richard Pryor, and I can only hope every item of clothing you wear for the rest of your life either shrinks in the dryer or loses all of its elasticity and never fits the same EVER.

I actually really do enjoy my job – mostly because I work with some hilarious people and we all agree that being treated like shit by customers is more entertaining than degrading – but please keep in mind: if you’ve made the trip to the mall, you probably had at least half an intention of purchasing something. Being an asshole to me is completely unnecessary, and when I see you out in the real world, you will realize that we are, in fact, the same species. The only difference is, my jeans were 60% off, and no one lied to me about whether or not they hide my muffin top.

 Thanks for stopping in! Come back and see us!

Graduation Acceptance Speech

Wow, I really didn’t see this coming! It was an honor to even be nominated! I don’t even have anything prepared. Just kidding, here goes:

First, I would like to thank the Business School for weeding me out after first semester of freshman year. I thought since I was successful at DECA events in high school that I really wanted to be a Marketing major, and could potentially turn that into a career in PR. Luckily, by forcing me to take math, science, and bullshit gen ed classes before I even stepped foot inside of a marketing classroom, you ensured that I would change my mind and fall back on the one thing I’ve ever actually been decent at: writing. I owe ya one!

I would also like to thank my parents for not telling me “Well why not stay in state for school?” They also did not force their alma maters on me, and my dad calmly accepts defeat when Louisville beats UConn twice in one basketball season. They sent me care packages and did not have me delivered to a mental institution even when stress freak-outs caused me to start crying over the phone for no particular reason. When I came home on breaks after living off of nothing but Ramen and apples for three straight weeks, my mom plumped me right back up. Basically, they’re awesome, and if I ever become rich and famous I promise to pay them back for my tuition. Way to be, Mawm and Faja!

A big shout-out goes to my adrenaline levels for forcing me to eek out multiple all-nighters without the help of Red Bull, Monster, coffee, Adderall, or any combination of the four. I am very proud of my ability to stay up all night fueled entirely by procrastination, self-loathing, and the fear of failing out of school, and it goes without saying that I’m just an all-around better person than anyone that is incapable of doing so.

To all of the pref night and formal dates I have had, you are all stud muffins and thank you for inviting me to get drunk in a pretty dress at a hotel fo’ free. Not everyone can say that they slept in the hallway as the night maids vacuumed around their freezing body; or stepped in the puke of another girl who was unable to handle her Heaven Hill; or did the Cupid Shuffle on Bourbon Street while horse cops took videos on their iPhones; but I sure as hell can, and the memories (or at least the pictures) will last forever.

Every cop that has broken up a party and forced me to hop fences in heels; every professor who has taken a liking to me and allowed me to turn in a paper a week late just because I didn’t feel like doing it on time; every time I hit the refresh button to view my grades at the end of the semester, only to find that my Comm grade STILL WASN’T UP; every girls’ night spent talking about the Dud Friend and/or whichever guy screwed us over that week; every time the Campus Preacher told me I was a harlot who was headed straight to the fiery depths of Hell; every outlet in the library that was conveniently being used when my computer was on 2% battery and I would lose the last eight pages of my paper if I didn’t plug it in like now; every free food event hosted by a student organization I had no intentions of joining; every time someone asked me if I was in a sorority, and I said no, and I got the response of “…Well that’s okay;” every random person that I have ever come across that I now say “Hi” to even though neither of us is really sure how we met in the first place; and of course, every year living in the lovely city of Louisville that has given me an inexplicable hatred for anything UK related:

Thank you. It’s been real.

Surprise Stud: The Hinge

When I first came to college and didn’t know anyone, I would identify certain people by nicknames. I now know the names of Highlighter Shirt Kid, Pukes-And-Brushes-Her-Hair, The Shnoz, and Fishface, but that doesn’t mean I ever stopped using the nicknames, and I probably never will. Giving a person a nickname grants you a lot more conversational freedom, because talking about someone “behind their back” right in front of them is like, way more respectful. Duh, it’s called manners.

I was once told that guys spoke in code around girls so that they could talk freely about them with the girl being none the wiser (sketchy), but SURPRISE we do the same thing. I love giving guys nicknames because even if the one they are awarded is painfully obvious to the rest of the world, generally the guy has no idea he’s being talked about, which gives me a hearty chuckle. Let’s explore my favorite and most widespread (among my friends, at least) nickname invention. I’m gonna need to copyright this shit:

If you are one of the 0.0001% of red-headed males out there who are actually attractive, and you have ever been around me, you have probably heard the word “Hinge” thrown around quite a bit. Congratulations, unlikely-babe magnet, I’m talking about you. A Hinge is a Hot Ginge[r]. That’s right, an attractive person sharing a follicle-likeness to Carrot Top. I didn’t think it was possible either. Jokes about the carpet matching the drapes and a lack of soul aside, a Hinge should own his Hingeness, because when girls realize what a hot commodity and rare occurrence a decent looking red-headed guy is, they pounce. It’s a part of every girl’s bucket list, promise! Red-headed females are especially fond of Hinges, because if they’re going to repopulate a species, they might as well give the next generation a fighting chance with a strand of surprisingly sexy DNA. A Hinge cannot be determined by anyone except an outside source, aka a girl, because if Hinges were all going around self-proclaiming Hinge-dom, Rupert Grint might actually stand a fighting chance in society (sorry, Ron). If you’re a guy and a ginger, keep on crossing those fingers that you make the cut. You probably don’t, but at least you distracted yourself from your unfortunate freckly knuckles and lower-than-average life expectancy. 



A thousand times yes.

Potential...

SAVE ME JESUS

#PCB #YOLO #Lostmydignity

FUUCK BITHCES GET MONEYTYYYY!

HOW DID I GET SAND IN THERE?!

DUMP EM!

What’s up bro? Are you having a fucking sick time? Did you see that hot slut over there? What about the cottage cheese whale over there? FUCKED EM BOTH, YEAH I DID! What? WHAT? Dude I can’t hear you over all the dubstep! Tone it down a notch? Do you know who I fucking am, bro?

IT’S ME, PCB, BABY!

Dude I got so fucking hammered last night…. HAHA I’m fucking kidding, I’m still hammered. And I ain’t sobering up for shiiiiit. Yo can you hold on a second? I’ve gotta photobomb that group pic over there real quick.

THREW UP THE SHOCKER, YOU ALREADY KNOW!

Dude so tonight I was thinking pregame aka finish off the 30-rack I bought an hour ago and then let’s roll to La Vela? I know a guy who knows a guy who heard of someone that had a threesome on one of the beds there. Help me pick out which TapOut shirt to wear.

RACK CITY BITCH.

I don’t know why I just said that.

Let’s go talk to that group of girls over there. Do you think they can tell I went tanning (shh don’t tell anyone) and spent a month in the gym drinking nothing but Muscle Milk just as easily as I can tell they spent a week in the gym eating nothing but carrots dipped in Energy Vitamin Water? God I hope so.

Hey ladies! Having a good time? Where are you all from? Ohio University? I heard they never party there! Hahajustkidding so when are you gonna show me your tits? Hahajustkidding but no really I know you’re wasted you might as well just get it over with. Only if your Big does it too? ‘Oh it’s Spring Break why not’? THAT’S THE SPIRIT. Don’t worry, I still respect you.

Oh sure, I’d love to take a picture of you all jumping. Everyone ready? Hold hands!

1-2-3-JUMP!

Wait sorry, the DUFF on the far right got like half an inch of air, try again.

1-2-3-JUMP!

Girl in the middle might wanna put her Corona down. We get it, you’re a party animal.

1-2-3-JUMP!

Decent, let’s try one more for good luck.

1-2-3-JUMP!

Perfect. You’ll realize later that I just took four consecutive zoomed-in pictures of the brunette’s boob that conveniently popped out. Untag!

Do you girls like Luke Bryan? Heard he’s playing a show later, we should all meet up there! I hope Avicii makes a surprise appearance and remixes “Rain is a Good Thing,” wouldn’t that be awesome? Here, let me get one of your numbers aka hot blonde girl with the better body than everyone else who will conveniently find herself in my bed tonight. Peace!

Dude is the week over already? I barely remember anything but I’m pretty sure I had a fucking bomb-ass time. Did we ever find Rob after that night at Harpoon Harry’s? And did you see Veronica win the ass-shaking contest? Definitely hitting her up when we get back to school. Did you ever get that huge shard of the Bud Light Lime bottle out of your foot? You should probably get that checked out, bro.

What’s that? No I totally raw-dogged that calling-her-a-4-would-be-generous from University of Kentucky, why? No, I asked, she was all clean. I ASKED bro, it’s fine. Why? Yeah it does kind of burn when I pee, so what? Nah that’s not Chlamydia, that’s the hot sensation of Spring Break, baby! We went fuckin’ HAM, dawg!