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.

Hobo Friends

Antonio. Donald. Q. Whistles (legal name).

These are just a few of the fine friends I've made over the past few years who just happen to live on the streets. Can I call them my homies if they don't technically have homes? I feel like that's not a cool question to ask.

For whatever reason, I seem to have a special connection with these people--it's probably the fact that I grew up in the white suburbs of Northern Virginia with four Panera's in a 10-mile radius, but who really knows. These relationships have come about largely because I don't know how to avert my eyes or resist responding to someone who calls me "Little Lady." Homeless people are people too! My kind of people:

Antonio - Antonio frequented the corner of the street near my magazine internship when I lived in Kentucky. He practiced the hollaback tactic, where he'd strike up random conversation with any and everyone and after a few solid minutes of talking would casually throw in that he needed five bucks. I was a poor college student so I typically told him, "Yeah man, same," and we'd laugh and laugh and then he'd ignore me, but there were a couple of times where I brought him a Starbucks Iced Coffee that secured me a spot on his good side. I never got to say good-bye to him when that internship finished up, but with Antonio and I, it was never going to be good-bye, just see you later.

Russ - Russ was the first of many homeless buddies I made when I worked in DC. Russ never asked for money or food, but was quick to dole out a compliment, usually in the spring or summer when it was skirt season. "Girl, the fire department know about dem legs? Because they makin' me HOT!" is a personal favorite. Russ always, always, always wanted a hug, but the closest I'd let him get was a fist bump or high five with an exaggeratedly extended arm because while I love new friends, I'm a far cry from Mother Theresa.

Q - Q is a frienemy. Every single morning for over a year, he was waiting at the top or bottom of the escalator at my Metro stop ready to harass me with his beatboxing or outbursts of pure gibberish. For the most part I could ignore him, but one fateful day I was just not having it, and when he lunged in front of me shouting nonsense, I looked him straight in his lazy eye and yelled, "CAN YOU FUCKING NOT?" I gained Q's respect that day. For the next 3 months, I could hear the "bm-ts bm k bm tkt bm" as I approached, but as soon as we crossed paths, he would go silent and we would exchange a head nod/eyebrow raise of friendship. I only learned of his deceitful ways when one day, I overheard him having a normal, gibberish-free conversation with a traffic cop. I quit my job three days later because I couldn't stand to face him ever again.

Tyrone - Tyrone has set the standard for NYC hobo friends. He's a musician (peep the business card), a comedian, a people person, and has 4 teeth. Tyrone posts himself up mid-platform at the Lexington Avenue-53rd Street subway station with a guitar, microphone, boom box, and duffel bag of tricks. There was recently another guy there trying to serenade the commuters with a lovely rendition of Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide," and Tyrone shut it down with a mostly-freestyled version of "Every Breath You Take" by The Police. Nice try, Stevie Nicks, this is Tyrone Territory. Every evening I see him there, we wave to each other, and he asks me when we're going to work out together (I sometimes have my gym bag). I never answer this question because I'm terrified I'm just being naïve and not getting the innuendo; however, I'd be more than happy to collaborate on a "More Than Words" duet whenever he asks.


I swear to God I have real friends too, but sometimes even they can't hold a candle to the likes of my hobros. When was the last time any of you gifted me a bracelet made of straw wrappers? Your impeccable hygiene and consistent income do not interest me--give me a wool blanket and some dingy fingernails any day of the week.

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Celebrity Deathmatch: The Next Generation

Celebrity Deathmatch was easily the best show of the Y2K era. I fondly remember hiding under my grandma's bed to watch it in secret, as my mom had yelled at my older brothers for not only allowing me to watch it with them, but for watching it in general. Apparently ripping off a Claymation pop star's leg and beating them with it could be damaging to a 10-year-old's psyche, who knew?

Notable matches throughout the series were Ozzy Osbourne vs. Elton John, Siskel vs. Ebert, and Ashlee Simpson vs. Her Old Nose. Aside from the fact that I unapologetically believe that today's high schoolers are a bunch of pansies who hide behind anti-bullying campaigns to avoid learning how to buck up and deal with a fucking situation [DEEP BREATH], I really think CDM would be a huge hit with the kids. Think of the bloody possibilities!

Kanye West vs Taylor Swift - The fact that CDM wasn't around for this blessing of pop culture scandal is a shame, for real and for true. TSwift could have started the action by bashing her VMA in Yeezus's geometrically-shaved head, a move that obviously would've been met with an, "I'll allow it!" by Mills Lane. Kanye could've ripped out Taylor's dangly earrings and gouged her eyes out with Beyoncé's spikey "Single Ladies" glove that started the whole debacle in the first place. Eventually Kanye would win and he, Johnny Gomez and Nick Diamond would all perform said "Single Ladies" dance, in full black leotard get-up, on top of Taylor's dead body.

Orlando Bloom vs. Justin Bieber - The two got into a scuffle at a restaurant in Ibiza over VS Angel and Girl I'd Go Gay For Miranda Kerr. Orlando Bloom is a terrible actor but he does have sword fighting skills thanks to Pirates of the Caribbean, so clearly he would break those out and decapitate Biebs in 2.5 seconds. The lower half of Justin's body would awkwardly strip down to its Calvin Klein undies while the crowd boos it out of the ring.

Gwyneth Paltrow vs. Martha Stewart - Both of these ladies have been on CDM before: Martha fought Sandra Bernhard aka Roseanne's lesbian friend Nancy aka whatever you don't remember just keep reading while Gwyneth and Winona Ryder battled it out over who got the role in Shakespeare in Love. The Stewart vs. Paltrow fight comes from Martha saying, "If she were confident in her acting, she wouldn’t be trying to be Martha Stewart," which I think we can all agree is fucking badass. I have no idea how this fight would go, but it would somehow involve garlic aioli, monogrammed stationary, and crisp white collared shirts.

Charlie Sheen vs. Chuck Lorre - The feud that resulted in Ashton Kutcher being the highest paid TV actor for three years running despite the fact that I had no idea Two and a Half Men was still even on the air would be an incredible fight to watch. Between Warlocks, Tiger Blood, and "winning" I cannot see this match going any way but incredibly right. Regardless of the physical outcome of the fight, I think Lorre still wins simply because he's got two of the highest rated sitcoms on TV and has a net worth of $600 million to Sheen's $125 million.

Mariah Carey vs. Nicki Minaj - The two former American Idol judges basically didn't like each other because they're both divas with extensions who wanted to be the hottest one sitting next to Randy. As soon as Mills Lane yelled "Let's get it on!" Nicki would lunge at Mariah with her huge veneers and take a bit out of her stomach like Jaws. Mariah would be fine with this because her weight fluctuates so frequently that she basically just received free lipo. She would belt out a whistle note and completely explode Nicki's eardrums. She would then drop-kick her with a stiletto to the butt, popping it as the entire audience discovers that not only is Nicki's ass fake but it's stuffed with love letters from Drake. Nicki would summon all 600 of her alter egos to attack Mariah from every angle, one of which would suck the talent out of Mariah like Ursula did to Ariel in The Little Mermaid, and Nicki would finish her off with her line from "Did It On 'Em" which reads "If you could turn back time…Cher/ you used to be here now you gone…Nair." Mariah would give her a confused look and then die.

The fact of the matter is that MTV needs to bring this show back, because it was absolutely phenomenal. Our current crop of celebrities is better than ever; how else would we celebrate their stupidity than by cheering their animated versions on as they beat the living shit out of each other?
This is America.  


What other Celebrity Deathmatches would you want to see? Do you think we could petition the network to restart production? Does anyone even still watch MTV??

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How To Uneventfully Get Your Wisdom Teeth Removed

I got my wisdom teeth out this weekend.

Medically, it went as planned, i.e. four teeth were removed and I'm assuming the surgeon wore gloves. However, as is to be expected from my life, it was quite the experience in every other way possible. How does one turn a seemingly run-of-the-mill procedure into a full-on calamitous event? Wellll....

Step 1: Arrive on time yet completely unprepared to fill out the paper work. Where is your insurance card? Beats me. Where is your referral form from your dentist? I actually do know, but the answer is not, "Right here in my purse." Did you fast for six hours? Yes. No water either? Nope (lie). Shake violently out of nervousness.

Step 2: Meet with your surgeon. Get reprimanded once again for not having your referral form (no one told me!). Have a group chat to examine your x-rays and decide what needs to be done, as if we're renovating a sunroom. Find out that while all four teeth are impacted, the bottom two are stuck in your jaw bone and the roots are either cuddling with your inferior alveolar nerve or have it in a chokehold. Removal of the bottom teeth could leave you with permanent nerve damage in your jaw. Cute!

Step 3: Be presented with three options: completely remove all teeth, do nothing to the bottom two and wait for them to get infected thus prompting emergency removal, or get a Coronectomy aka chop off the tops of your teeth but leave the roots intact so as not to disturb their sexy time with your nerve. Ask surgeon why none of this was ever brought to your attention before because uhhh it seems a bit serious. He avoids the question. Ask again. He avoids. Start crying and yelling at him that dentistry is horseshit. Essentially watch the scene from Knocked Up play out right before your, your mom's, and the assistant doctor's eyes:

Swap teeth for vaginas and this is exactly what happened

 

Step 4: Surgeon will ask you to consider all options and come back in a week.

Skylar - Actually, I'm moving to New York in two weeks so that's not going to work for me.

Surgeon - *Scoffs at your ambition*

Tell him to give you five minutes. He scoffs again. Continue to cry. He storms out of the room.

 

Step 5: Surgeon returns. Have him shove consent forms in your face without explaining what's going on. Apparently you're agreeing to the Coronectomy because that's what he thinks is the best idea. Good talk, bro.

 

Surgeon - This is the hardest procedure I will do all day.

Skylar - OH REALLY THAT'S COMFORTING.

 

Step 6: Surgeon will speak to everyone in the room except you. Mom steps in and says, "Uh, she's right here." He tells doctor's assistant to prep Room 6 and leaves. Immediately burst into tears and throw in some hyperventilation for good measure. Everyone tells you to calm down, which obviously helps a ton. 

 

Step 7: Get escorted to Room 6. Immediately notice Ryan Reynolds look-a-like assistant and suddenly feel calm, cool, collected, and angry at yourself for not wearing any makeup. He puts a blanket on you, which seems a bit forward considering the other people in the room but hey you're down if he is. Unfortunately he seems more interested in doctor's assistant. Grey's Anatomy is real.

Scrubs optional

 

Step 8: Get tubes shoved up your nose and offer up your arm so they can insert the IV, which goes off without a hitch because you have very prominent veins. Shout out to doing bi's and tri's last week. #killinit #fitfam #weightlifting #swole

 

**GET HACKED UP**

 

Step 9: Come to in a holding room with your mom laughing at you hysterically.

Skylar - Do I look good enough for a beauty pageant?

Mom - Oh definitely.

Skylar - K good because I have one next week.

Mom - You do?

Skylar - Mhmmmmm.

 

[guy in next room singing "I Gotta Feeling"]

Skylar - Tell him I can join in if he wants, I totally know this song.

 

Skylar - Mom, when they tried to put my IV in I had to look away because I hate needles and blood.

Mom - I know.

Skylar - On campus in Louisville they always asked me to give blood and I always said I wanted to but I didn't weigh enough....*whispering* but I doooooo.

 

Step 10: Go directly home and pass out, but not before Snapchatting this picture to all of your friends:

 

 

 

 

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My 5-Piece Desert Island Survival Kit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Chris Brown & Justin Bieber: The Fat Obnoxious Girls at the Bar

Justin Bieber posted an edgy black and white pic to Instagram on Monday to announce that he and Chris Breezy were in the studio recording a new train wreck of cracked out vocal runs and excessive-yet-necessary autotune "for the fans."

Upon receiving this update via Twitter--because it's NEWS--I made this face:

which is the exact same expression that appears when I'm at a bar and I spot my least favorite patrons walk through the door: The Fat Obnoxious Girls. Coincidence? I think not.

Let's clear something up from the get-go: I don't hate them because they're fat, they're fat because I hate them. And bigger girls can look sexy as hell if they know how to properly dress what their mama gave them. FOGs don't, and as soon as they walk in with their lopsided tube tops and mini skirts that even my friend with Hyperthyroidism wouldn't touch, they're automatically added to the Can You Not? List.

FOGs enter any venue already making a scene. "Woo!"ing and shimmying and screeching along to "Don't You Worry Child." "LET'S TAKE A SHAHT!" they scream at each other. "I BET I CAN DRINK MORE THAN YOU!" they scream at the two guys at the bar. "ARE YOU GONNA BUY US FIREBALL SHAHTS?!" they again scream at the two guys at the bar. The two guys at the bar are too nice/frightened not to, so the four take their shots.

"I CAN ALREADY FEEL IT!" the FOGs scream. It is 11:30. "OHMIGAHD AVICII LET'S DANCE!" The two guys at the bar are dragged to the dance floor to be mercilessly grinded on.

The mini skirts are creeping up to unfortunate locations, and no effort is being made to pull them down. So much skin. The guys at the bar evacuate the dance floor but the FOGs don't care and continue to grind on each other, shooting heavily-black-eyeshadowed "YEAH YOU WANT THIS" glances to other innocent victims who respond with vehement head shakes.
"AHAHAHA EVERYONE'S WATCHING US!" they scream at each other. Half-true; it's really hard to look away when a hoo-ha is about to introduce itself to the world and armpit deodorant balls are glowing in the blacklight.

The event photographer is gathering a group for a photo, and the FOGs do not hesitate to jump right in.

The FOGs automatically think that this group is their new party crew and decide to join in on multiple additional pictures...

...in which it's painfully clear they do not belong. After three or four more photo bombs, one of the members of the group asks, "I'm sorry, do we know you?" to which FOG #1 replies, "YOU WANNA FIGHT BITCH?!" and immediately reaches for a chunk of hair.

A girl brawl breaks out: kicking, slapping, haphazard fists that only make contact maybe twice. The bouncer tries to break it up but FOG #1 is a pro and has latched on to Group Member's upper arm. FOG #2 supportively screeches, "YEAH THAT'S RIGHT BITCH! YEAH THAT'S RIGHT!" but won't get physically involved because she's the prettier one, knows it, and doesn't want to risk facial injury.
The fight is eventually controlled, boobs are reinserted into tops, and all participating parties are asked to leave the bar. "FUCK THIS PLACE! FUCK ALL Y'ALL! ALL Y'ALL ARE RACIST!" the FOGs scream, ignoring the fact that everyone in the general vicinity is white.

They continue to talk loudly about how they're never giving money to "this shitty hole in the wall" ever again (just like they did when they left last weekend) and FOG #1 lights an e-cig while they wait for a cab outside. 

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Playing With Myself

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - John Mayer

After the story of my embarrassing life hit the internet, I was inundated with texts and Facebook messages from other girls who had experienced similarly catastrophic dates. In the interest of group commiseration, I decided to create a series that would tell other girls that they're not alone, and tell weird guys that maybe they should pump the brakes a smidge. If you have a story that you would like shared, feel free to send it my way!

 

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

 

I dated my first bearded musician for about four months in college. He was a character from a romantic comedy come to life, and I ate that shit up like birthday cake. Have you ever been on a horse and carriage ride along the waterfront on an April evening? Like, that happened. Wasn't even my idea.

John Mayer was his idol, and he liked to [try to] play guitar for me, which always made me uncomfortable but I felt obligated to love it because that's what Rachel McAdams would do. I, too, was a huge Mayer fan, and we spent a lot of our time doing gravity bongs and then having in-depth conversations about the significance behind the albums and how the songs interconnected. The fact that I made it out of this relationship without dreads shocks me every day.

Unfortunately, he was super clingy and had a Chinese symbol tattooed on his calf, so I was forced to cut him loose. I really didn't think it'd be a huge deal, but he flipped the fuck out. Like, ugly crying, "you'll never find anyone better"ing, slamming doors IN MY APARTMENT, crazy-girl madness. I half-assed an apology and got him to leave so I could go to the bars with my friends.

That night, and for several days weeks following The Break Up, he would randomly text me John Mayer lyrics that I guess he found applicable to our relationship.
"Can we plz talk tmrw? I cant let just let u walk away. There I just said it, Im scared ull forget about me."
"Id like to think the best of me is still hiding up my sleeve, so Im not gunna lose n e more sleep over u."
"Ill make the most of all the sadness. U'll be a bitch becuz u can. We were slow dancing in a burning room r whole relationship, I shoulda seen this coming."

It was fucking hilarious. And also sad. My friends couldn't get enough of it, and to this day I can text one of them something like, "Do you want extra cheese on the pizza?" and get the reply, "Twice as much ain't twice as good and can't sustain like one half could. But ya!"

 

-- Her Body is a Wonderland

My Life According to Buzzfeed Quizzes

One of my favorite lunchtime pastimes of yore is MASH. Countless hours were spent figuring out if I'd be living in a mansion with Brian Littrell and our 37 kids, working as a trash collector and driving a hearse; or in a shack with the school janitor and our zero kids, working as a firewoman and driving a BMW, aka the more plausible option.

 

I put a lot of stock in these games. If it was down to my crush or the kid who saved his boogers on the underside of his desk [for later, natch], my world was shattered when Fate chose the latter and I was forced to imagine my future life of eternally cleaning snot off the coffee table.

There was no chance in MASH.
MASH was real.

Luckily, Buzzfeed's newest trend of posting personality quizzes satisfies my 20-something need to "find myself" in the most accurate, foolproof way possible. I truly believe that everything happens for a reason, so despite the fact that it's physically impossible, it's nice to know that were I capable of growing a beard, I should grow a goatee--because I'm a "trend setter."

My life is supposed to go a little something like this:

• First of all, my dad is not my real dad. Fortunately, Phil Dunphy is an excellent stand-in for the-man-the-myth-the-legend Bill; i.e. TV Dad and Actual Dad are essentially the same person, and this is neither a gain nor a loss. 

• As much as I adored my time in Louisville, I was apparently better suited for THE Ohio State University. Both have a killer football team, show off how good I look in the color red and let me throw gang signs, so this sounds like an easy swap.

• While I may be celebrating my 24th birthday this summer (June 11th, if you had tossed around the idea of getting me anything in the price range of $50-$450 from Kate Spade), I am actually 35. This is because I'm "training for a half-marathon," prefer Twitter to Tumblr, and consider clothing a necessary extravagance. Since I have the face of a preteen I might actually look 24 by the time I'm 35, so yet again this doesn't make much of a difference.

• All of this is happening in the 50's, because that is the decade I belong in. Anyone who is aware of my proclivity for poofy skirts, Charlotte York, and wearing an apron when I bake will completely agree with this. Anyone who is aware of my dirty sailor mouth and general disdain for rules will not.

• My soulmate is someone named Matt. Call it a hunch, but these quizzes might not be completely accurate.

• On the other hand, I will take the results as the gospel because the city I should actually live in is New York! If you weren't aware (which kudos to you for achieving, because I mention this at least twice a day), moving there and becoming a writing powerhouse is all a part of my three year plan. I'm glad I finally have proof that it can has to happen. Buzzfeed, you beautiful little genius, I'm sorry I ever doubted you.

• Living in NYC could allow me to live out my childhood dream of being Annie on Broadway; however, as destiny would have it, I'm actually supposed to star in Wicked. From two years of being around choir kids in high school who felt the need to belt out showtunes at a moment's notice, I happen to know all the words to "For Good," so I suppose I'll leave my ginger-headed aspirations behind in the name of predestination.

So there we go. I'm apparently meant to follow the wisdom of Phil's-osophy as a 35-year-old student in Ohio in the mid-50's, where I'll meet a Matt who will agree to move to New York and watch me night after night in the role of Elphaba.

We can only hope that this Matt guy isn't put off by a little female facial hair.

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