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.

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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I Love You, Chopped

When I fall in love with a TV show, I give it all I’ve got. I re-watch episodes ad nauseum, learn the characters’ life stories so I can better understand their actions/decisions, and vehemently defend it to anyone who says things like, “Eh that show’s okay,” or worse, “I’ve never seen it.”

I’ve demonstrated this affection with several shows in the past, including Gilmore Girls, Real Housewives of Orange County, and What Not to Wear, and I have just realized that my latest obsession (which isn’t really all that new) has passed the point of innocent adoration and catapulted into full-on crazy-girl fixation.

 

 

I have a passion for Chopped.

 

I’ve mentioned it before, but I didn’t realize the unreasonable extent to which I was actually dedicated to this show. Like, I would do things to and for Ted Allen that I would never consider doing for any boyfriend I’ve ever had. An addiction is defined as “the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming,” and I’ll be damned if I’m not almost at that point.

 

I wish I was a straight guy so you could give me the queer eye

For starters, if I’m flipping through channels and see that it’s on, I physically cannot turn it off. I am sucked in like a bachelor in the champagne room at a strip club, and there’s nothing anyone can do to bring me back. Once, my mom asked to watch some other show, and after lifting the remote with shaky hands and visibly twitching at the thought of missing the Dessert Round, I finally just threw the remote at her and left the room.

On top of that, Chopped has taught me some valuable lessons which I have incorporated into my everyday life. I was recently slicing open individually-wrapped chicken breasts that were allegedly “E-Z Open” but were most definitely NOT, and the knife turned on me and gashed my thumb. I hate blood and blades, so typically this would be a recipe for overdramatic disaster, but instead I thought “The clock is ticking, Chef Skylar, keep going!” and wrapped a paper towel around it and kept on keeping on like it was nothing. Mind you, I was not being timed or in any type of competitive situation whatsoever, but this is what the show has done to my gut reactions.

I have also become a douchebag at restaurants. No, not toservers; those people are saints who put up with way more shit than anyone should ever have to, and for that I’m always sure to tip at least 25%. I keep my jerkiness on the DL, but it’s there in the form of me reading the menu description and then being extremely nitpicky about how well that explanation is portrayed on my plate. “Roasted Pumpkin and Spinach Risotto: Oven roasted pumpkin with baby spinach, garlic, tossed through Arborio rice and served with freshly shaved parmesan”?? Interesting, because the garlic was sautéed too long and has become bitter and I’m totally losing the flavor of the pumpkin. The huge chunks of parmesan are hardly “shaved” and you could have really used a citric element to provide a bit more acidity. I’M NOT SORRY I’M JUST SAYIN.

 

 

Finally, it is my dream to reenact Chopped in my own kitchen with my friends, except the rules would be altered slightly to accommodate for massive drinking before the competition commenced. Basically, we take shots of tequila, and then our makeshift Ted (probably my friend’s boyfriend) yells out, “Today’s mystery ingredients include: Fritos, someone’s leftover taco salad from Qdoba, a half-eaten chocolate rabbit from Easter, and Blue Powerade. You have 20 minutes. Time starts now!” Naturally, I would reduce the chocolate and the Powerade into a sauce while throwing the salad into the food processor to grind it up and make patties out of it that I would crust with the Fritos and fry. I would drizzle the fried vegetable patty with the chocolate sauce and call it a Fried Mexican Vegetable Cake with Blue Mole.

 

I would win the Appetizer Round only because my friends would be shitfaced lying on the floor eating Fritos and crying.

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Gotcha Bitch: Country Music

As a recent country music convert, I’m unsure of the rules in terms of just how critical of the genre I’m allowed to be. That being said, I have ears and some fucking common sense, so I know horrible music when I hear it, and new country is pretty bad.

New country is riding the coattails of decent/old country by including a few key aspects that are supposed to make us forget that everything else coming out of the singer’s mouth is ridiculous. You think I’m going to overlook you talk-singing about a "corn star who’s the talk of the crop at every county fair" just because you mention her jew-lah suntan? Guess again.

I see through your honkey-tonk formula regardless of how often you compliment my badonkadonk, and I’m one step away from boycotting the city of Nashville in its entirety if things don’t shape up. Now pour me a shot of whiskey bourbon and let’s break down why name dropping Conway Twitty every five lines does nothing to distract from the fact that you’re probably wearing a cowboy hat with just one X.  

Blake Shelton – Boys ‘Round Here
Congratulations, southern gents, you’ve been pigeon-holed into being horrible conversationalists, worse dancers, and future Leukoplakia patients. “Chew tobacco chew tobacco chew tobacco spit” is the only thing Hank Williams can do up in heaven to keep himself from crying. I’m down for drinking the ice cold beer, but could we go somewhere else rather than down by the river? Jason Aldean, Kenny Chesney, and Eli Young Band have all brought me down there already, and I’m pretty sure there’s a dead member of The Band Perry floating around in it.   
Side note: am I the only one who’s surprised every time a southern accent comes out of Blake Shelton’s mouth? He looks so British to me. Unrelated to the topic at hand, but disconcerting nonetheless.

Jana Kramer – Why Ya Wanna
I honestly don’t even know what Jana Kramer looks like, but if I had to guess, I would assume that she’s blonde, has a decent bod, wears tacky airbrushed acrylic tips with rhinestones, and reenacted the scene from “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” where Kate Hudson cries and flings tofu at Matthew McConaughey screaming, “My boyfriend thinks I’m fat!”…except Jana was serious. This outburst naturally led to their breakup, which naturally led to her being a crazy girl and pulling an, “Oh my God I had no idea Ex-Boyfriend would be at the one bar we have in BFE but let’s not leave because I really want him to see me how’s my hair make me laugh so I look like I’m not perpetually miserable.” You’re right, he shouldn’t be the bigger person and ask you how you’re doing or give you a hug, because that would mean you don’t get to psychoanalyze the situation over Qdoba with your friends tomorrow afternoon or for three days after. Aren’t country girls supposed to be badasses who don’t take shit? Who let this whiney loser into the club?

 P.S. The video proves my hair color prediction was off. Everything else still stands.

When in doubt, shoot it out
Shooting is one of those things I think I’d actually be pretty good at if A) I had someone to patiently teach me how not to blow my face off and B) I wasn’t so hopped up on Zantrex all the time to keep a steady hand. Even then I’d still only be able to take out some rusty soda cans or a squirrel [if I thought he really deserved it]. Is shooting your boyfriend/girlfriend really a common thing? So your boyfriend shook you around and now you want to Lorena Bobbit him with a shotgun; that’s fine, Miranda Lambert, you do you. But then we get into Commies and terrorists and the second amendment and suddenly everyone thinks they’re Tex Williams in a pair of American Eagle Light Faded Wash Original Boot Cut jeans. Tuck it in your waistband and rub the corner of your concealed carry license for good luck whenever you need a boost; not every Toby Keith song needs to be taken as the gospel.

Natural disasters are radio gold
Most people’s thoughts following the tornado in Henryville, IN or Hurricane Sandy were, “Oh that is terrible! How tragic for those people! Let’s donate and help.” In Carrie Underwood and Little Big Town’s heads, these high winds and funnel clouds were in the shape of dollar signs. Tracy Lawrence’s “Texas Tornado” was revamped with a female edge as Carrie once again reminded us that her home state of Oklahoma has like, super bad weather, and LBT jolted us from our relaxing “Pontoon” vacay to get revenge on an ex. I guess earthquakes and avalanches don’t show how pissed off we are about our boyfriend forgetting our birthday; we have to rip his house off the foundation and hope Auntie Em made it to the cellar before it was too late.

The Entire Kip Moore Discography
I was Jedi mind-tricked into liking Kip Moore’s “Somethin Bout a Truck” when it first came out, and I hate myself for it every day. Yet again the ice cold beer thing got me (Corona and lime, get in mah belleh), but then he goes on to talk about a red sundress (“I HAVE ONE OF THOSE!”) and a creek (“I USED TO LIVE BY ONE OF THOSE!”) and corn (“I EAT THAT!”) and before I knew it I insisted on playing it every time it came on the radio despite everyone else insisting that it was god-awful. Fortunately, after he released a few more singles, I came to and realized that that fucker just follows the same cumulative song formula for every tune he writes. First we had a truck in a field and a girl and a potential one-hit-wonder, then he shoots back with “Hey Pretty Girl” and sorry-I’m-not-sorry, nothing about this “dance” feels right. I heard you the first time, Kip, I don’t need you to reiterate how badly you want to take me home just so we can sleep in separate rooms which illogically leads to me getting knocked up and having a shotgun wedding with you. My kiss that tastes like honey doesn’t want any of your “Beer Money,” it wants a divorce and full custody.

I know there are plenty of terrible new country songs that I failed to mention here, but browse the internet and you’ll see that even God hated “Truck Yeah,” so there’s no need to bring any more attention to it. Is this enough to make me stop listening to country music altogether? Not quite. Am I thankful that “5-1-5-0” has finally lost airtime, regardless of what it’s been replaced with? Every day.

The Walk of Shame vs. The Stride of Pride

Classic weekend scenario: You and your roommates decided while pregaming the pregame that you were going to go much harder in the paint than usual tonight (“Like, if I leave the bar with both my earrings and without stumbling like a newborn baby deer, the night is a failure”). Consequently, you took more shots than is respectful of your BMI and the kid who complimented your new top, touched your leg once during your conversation (“Ugh, he totally loves me”), and bought you three Vegas Bombs offered you a ride home.

To your home? Of course not.

Fast forward four hours and you wake up in a strange bed staring at posters of Brooklyn Decker and Beer Pong Rules. Roll over and check to see if Dude Bro is awake attractive. If yes, sneak to the bathroom, wash your face, make yourself look halfway decent, climb back in bed, and pretend you look this flawless every morning. If no, silently gather your things and GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE.

It is at this time that quick-decision-making skills are a must. You have two options, and they are integral in making the 20-30 minute trek you’re about to go through justifiable – or if nothing else, bearable. Ask yourself: do I want to maintain a shred of dignity, or am I chalking this up to experience and understanding that having “WELCOME TO COLLEGE!” yelled at me from passers-by is absolutely mandatory? Either way, here’s a survival guide to both scenarios.

Merit Badge: you earned it

You chose: The Walk of Shame – Bold move. There are a few things you should reside yourself to from the get-go. First, even if you wiped the mascara from under your eyes and fixed your hair into a casual “I meant for it to look like this” messy bun, it’s still 9:30 am on Saturday and you’re still carrying your heels. Everyone knows it. See that old man taking his dog on a walk? He definitely knows it, because he’s probably seen several hot messes walk out of that same apartment building. Do not make eye contact with him. Hopefully your side bangs have nonchalantly fallen into your face to mask the amount of indignity you should be feeling, and hopefully you recognize your surroundings well enough to bee-line it home through back alleys and side streets. You should already be on the phone with your BFF demanding immediate pick-up in exchange for a Qdoba thank-you; however, if she enjoys having you embarrass yourself or happens to be making a Walk of Shame of her own, you should immediately change your tune and hope that no one you know will be driving by anytime soon. Not that it matters: anyone who has ever been to college will know what’s up and will be yelling hilariously rude things to you as they speed by. You have no control over this, and quite frankly, you fucking deserve it, so just keep your body/pride angled toward the ground and wonder how people who just have a glass or two of wine spend their mornings.



What an inspiration



You chose: The Stride of Pride – You either really couldn’t care less about what people think of you, or you’ve done this so many times before that you’re a seasoned pro. Whatever the case may be, you know for a fact that smudged eyeliner is inherently sexy and that a red banded mini dress is appropriate all hours of the day. If you carry your shoes, you’re swinging those babies around like a baton twirler. Of course, the experienced Strider of Pride has slipped her heels right back on and swags past the morning joggers like it’s for sale and the rent is due tonight. When people call to you from their cars, you throw up an “Oh hey girl!” hand and smile big. This is the closest you’ll ever get to being Ms. America so you better own the shit out of it. Sure, you’ve broken out your phone, but only to have a normal conversation with your boss/mom/rabbi about the weather or the recent State of the Union address. Finger comb that rat’s nest and throw those shoulders back: you’re a veteran of the Slut Strut, and you’ve gotta show these hoes-in-training how to do it up right.

The Modern 12 Days of Christmas

...because we all know that no one in this day and age would be psyched about three chickens and a dozen Keith Moons invading their apartment. You know the tune:

On the first day of Christmas my guy-that-helped-me-jump-start-my-car-and-then-got-my-number gave to me: a 1.75 of KG.

On the second day of Christmas my guy-who-randomly-knows-my-roommate-who-vouches-that-he’s-really-funny-and-smart gave to me: two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the third day of Christmas my guy-whose-guilty-pleasures-are-also-VH1-countdowns-and-Diners-Drive ins-and-Dives gave to me: three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the fourth day of Christmas my guy-who-suggested-we-go-do-something-together-sometime-if-I’m-not-too-busy gave to me: four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the fifth day of Christmas my guy-who-walked-me-to-class-even-though-his-next-one-was-on-the-other-side-of-campus-and-started-ten-minutes-ago gave to me: fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.

On the sixth day of Christmas my guy-who-came-over-and-watched-a-movie-and-didn’t-even-try-to-go-for-a-feelski gave to me: six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.  

On the seventh day of Christmas my guy-who-brought-me-a-Frappucino-as-I-studied-for-finals-even-though-I-hate-coffee-but-it-was-such-a-sweet-gesture gave to me: seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the eighth day of Christmas my guy-that-actually-called-me-to-see-how-my-day-was-instead-of-the-usual-“Whattup girl”-text gave to me: eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the ninth day of Christmas my guy-who-drunkenly-told-me-how-beautiful-and-special-I-am-but-didn’t-remember-doing-so-the-next-day-hello-awkward-situation gave to me: nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the tenth day of Christmas my guy-whose-friends-tell-me-he-thinks-I’m-“chill”-and-talks-about-me-all-the-time gave to me: ten fingers for hand-holding, nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the eleventh day of Christmas my guy-that-I-think-I’m-dating-but-we-haven’t-had-the-“talk”-yet-and-I’m-afraid-to-bring-it-up-because-it’ll-freak-him-out gave to me: eleven minutes of making out, ten fingers for hand-holding, nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG. 

On the twelfth day of Christmas my boyfriend gave to me: twelve long-stem roses, eleven minutes of making out, ten fingers for hand-holding, nine bucks for a cab, eight fits of laughter, seven random smiles, six notes on the guitar he’s learning to play, fiiiive com-pli-mennnnts, four Facebook “likes,” three bites of his Qdoba, two tickets to DayGlow and a 1.75 of KG.