I Blame it on Arnold Schwarzenegger

So.

I leave for Austria tomorrow for five weeks. In a word, I am petrified.

Yes, this is a fabulous opportunity and I handpicked my location so there’s no room for regret or complaint there. I’m the only person from my school going but the people that I’ve talked to from other schools seem super nice and I’m super excited to meet them and hanging out with them is going to be just plain super. Everything is paid for, so a big shout out and monumental thank you go to the parentals. I’ve packed and then unpacked, and then repacked, and even though I’ve still stressed over the fact that a month and a half’s worth of clothes should not be confined to one suitcase and a small duffel, I googled portable defibrillators and it looks like it’ll be cheaper if I just chill the fuck out about it. Hell, I’ve even gotten all of my textbooks except for one, and that’s fine because I never really wanted to read Frankenstein anyway. So why oh why am I so scared?

For starters, I don’t speak German. After a combined 4 1/2 years of Spanish and Italian you’d think I’d choose a country that converses in one of the Romance languages, but I lost my map of Easy Street when I was like 12, so to Austria it is. Luckily, I picked up a book of offensive phrases called Dirty German (purchase here if you’re feeling randy, baby) so if and when the opportunity arises, I can tell someone, “Fick dich ins Knie!” and be on my merry way. I’ve already memorized how to say “slut,” “bitch,” and “He is fugly,” yet I couldn’t tell you how to ask where the bathroom is. Basically, I’ll definitely be getting into a bar fight while simultaneously peeing my pants. Wish it was the first time.

Another topic of concern is food. I used to be a very picky eater. I’ve come around in recent years (yogurt and olives are the most recent additions to my diet), but when researching Austrian delicacies brought me to such gems as “Beuschel – a stew containing calf lungs and heart” I nearly had an aneurysm. I don’t even like cheeseburgers, how on Earth am I supposed to stomach baby-cow-part soup? As an avid consumer of peanut butter, tears actually came to my eyes when I was told that I would be unable to purchase a simple jar of Jif or Skippy whenever I pleased. Apparently, all they have is the nasty all-natural goo with the peanut oil floating around the top that leaves yellow-brown gritty gunk on the back of your tongue for days. I suppose it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I went a few weeks without my daily dose of fully hydrogenated vegetable oils, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. A girl cannot live on schnapps and strudel alone. Not morally, anyway.

Real talk: Adults love me. Parents, grandparents, teachers, the lady that works at the food kiosk inside one of the buildings on campus who calls me “Honeypie;” I don’t know what it is that I do, but they eat it right up. So one would think that I’d be able to effortlessly charm the lederhosen off of any host frau that I was paired with. You know what’s different about Austrian adults? First of all, I can walk up to any of my friends’ parents and nonchalantly say, “Whattup, Bill.” Such an unthreatening name. Now imagine trying to do the same thing to someone named Felix or Maximilian. The letter X is probably the most intimidating letter of the whole alphabet, and between that and this symbol à ß ß I have no idea how I’m going to say hello to these fine people, much less sleep under their roof. I’ve expressed this fear of menacing erwachsene to my own mom who assured me that I was ridiculous, which wasn’t helpful but is nothing new. Guess I’ll either come back from this trip with a new Mutti or she’ll have whipped me so far into shape I’ll only wear dirndls for the rest of my life.

If anyone has any advice in terms of how to cope with these worries, hit a sista up. Tips, tricks, inside scoop, I’ll take it all. Unless you’re like my dad and your idea of beneficial guidance is telling me to watch the movie Taken. I’m trying to quell my fears here, not obsessively calculate my street value.

That's a Rap

I have beef with The Rapture.

I’m beyond the fact that it’s well after death time and we’re all still kickin, and I’m willing to overlook the leniency that it seems to have had as far as the whole “6 pm in each respective time zone” thing. I’m a little TO’d at the harassment I've endured for over 3 years about the fact that 2012 was the big shebang and all of a sudden, bible humpers (yes, I say “humpers” not “thumpers;” I get my kicks from sexual irony as it pertains to the über-religious) start warning me of the newest apocalypse A DAY AND A HALF before it’s supposed to ensue. I’m all for spontaneity, but if I’m going to achieve my life’s goal of eating my body weight in M&M’s, I need a bit of a heads-up.

If nothing else, they could have at least made the whole ordeal a little more exciting. My brother texted me this today: “You know what would be cooler than rapture? Raptor. And we all had to run around like Jurassic park.” This sparked an entire conversation about how our last day on this beautiful, slightly dysfunctional earth could turn out to be the most awesome evaaaa with just a few tweaks to the name. You’d feel pretty pleased with yourself and your life if this was going down as you were going out:

RAPture: We run around being chased by the ghosts of the best rappers of all time. How awesome would it be to essentially play tag with Eazy E, ODB, Biggie, and Tupac until kingdom come? Seriously, think of the badassery for a second. Would we be running or gangsta leaning? Pimp strut? I’d actually look forward to my impending demise if I got to swag surf my way toward it. Granted, the potential for terror is pretty much inevitable, considering the incidences of AIDS, overdoses, and gun control we’d be up against; however, possibility of a live (in an entertainment sense) performance of Shimmy Shimmy Ya would be well worth it.

RAPTure: Our attention spans miraculously improve. At the risk of sounding like my parents and their friends who are in awe of TiVo even though it’s been around since 1999, we live in a technological age, and things like the FB and Twitties consume most of our lives. On this final day of being, we would suddenly be able to pay attention to each other, and not just through photo albums or status updates. Now it’s true that online creeping could and would rear its realistic head and materialize as actual stalking. Weird kid that pokes you on a bi-daily basis would actually be nudging you in the ribcage, and a fat 40-year-old Albanian man would physically follow you around. Disturbing. But since you’d now be more on your game, you can Duckunder Nearside the prodder into a Half Nelson while unleashing the keychain mace on Old Man Shadow. Engross yourself in that, fool!

raptURe: We’ll go out texting. There’s nothing funny I can say about this, because for about 98% of the population, it’ll be true.

rAPTure: We feel more inclined to do things. Maybe a little counterproductive considering the world is coming to an end, but hey, better late than never. This is the perfect time to face your demons and come clean about all of your naughtiness and stop being such a procrastinator already. I, obviously, would take this period of time to do something astounding because my moments of extreme genius and powerful inspiration always come at the last possible minute. Imagine what would happen in the world when people got down to the biznazz! Right when it counted, cancer would be cured and gay marriage would be given the unanimous go-ahead. And then POOF, we’re done. Way to pull it together in the clutch peeps.

I’m just sayin. It’s already Sunday and I’m neither dead nor in fear of dying. What a jip! I guess I’m just that much more prepared for Doomsday. Or will it be doOMsday, the last day of vinyasa yoga classes? We shall see!

"I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells." -- Dr. Suess

I’m a generally easy-to-please person. I get enjoyment out of the silliest, most effortless things, and tiny instances of sweetness, humor, and/or random entertainment can make my entire week. Does anyone else get a kick out of life’s simple pleasures? Here are some of mine that make me go gaga-ooh-la-la:



Too easy



That’s What She Said-ing: Let the record show that I was making sexual innuendos to just about everything deserving way before Michael Scott made it trendy, but as soon as his catchphrase hit the airwaves, my material increased tenfold. I’ve That’s What She Said-ed my mom. I’ve That’s What She Said-ed my teachers. I’ve yet to That’s What She Said my grandma that I recall, but explaining something of that inappropriate magnitude to an 80-year-old is not on my to-do list. I find it incessantly hilarious even when everyone around me assures me that it’s not, and I’d like to think I’m a Gay Rights trailblazer simply because I call a TWSS in an unbiased fashion.

• Example:
• “I wanna eat out tonight.”
• “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!”
• “Don’t you mean that’s what HE said?”
• “Homo you didn’t. It’s the new millennium, stop being so narrow-minded.”

I will do this until the day I die, so you might as well humor me and just laugh along for the obligatory two minutes. Failing to do so will only make the process harder and longer…heeheehee.

Saving documents/contacts with clever names: You know what isn’t fun? Writing a 10 page paper on the lack of necessity of the study of critical theory as compared to the study of classic texts in modern academics (that sentence barely even made sense, imagine how the next 2,286 words turned out). You know what makes it a little more bearable? Saving the document as “eng491 I hate you.doc”. I also have “wtf are performative utterances.doc”, “ARTH five guys named Zhiang.doc”, and “music history is a joke.doc”. It’s also a joy to look through my phonebook after a particularly stellar weekend and discover new friends such as “Sigma Chi Dance,” “Outside Daniel,” and “Probably Justin?” that I’ll most likely never talk to again. Sure, I could name these things something bland like “Comm 305 Final.doc” and facebook stalk my way to some manswers, but it’s much more enjoyable this way. Super plus bonus: I take it as a passive aggressive success when I get to submit the cheekily-named papers online, knowing that my teacher will see the titles and either chuckle empathetically at my wittiness or rethink the absurdity of the assignment while he/she begrudgingly searches mine for nonexistent grammatical errors. Sweet victory.

Successfully giving myself an unsmudged manicure: Any female knows this is a monumental feat. The fact that I have undiagnosed ADHD makes this accomplishment even more of a celebration. For whatever reason, I choose to paint my nails at the absolute least opportune times, and then I’m somehow dumbfounded when I look down 30 minutes later to find a mess of nicks and smears despite the fact that I’ve just removed every key from a janitor’s keyring and replaced the carpet in my bedroom with hardwood. I’ll never be able to explain myself. I just know that Sally Hansen is my savior and Insta-Dri nail polish is the fucking bomb. 

Finding the perfect gift for someone: My best friend’s birthday is coming up, and I’ll be damned if I haven’t been scouring any and every online store to find the exact balance of “I can’t believe you remembered!” and “HAHA I love our inside jokes.” I live for this stuff. It goes without saying that Christmas shopping is my crack. You think your mom might enjoy a book about Europe? Pfft. Novice. Try a book on vintage French wines with tickets to an old country winery. Get on my level, bitch. Not that I’m bragging, but if elephants are known for their memory, call me Skinny Dumbo. If two months ago you mentioned – in passing – that you wish you had more options in terms of styling your hair, don’t be shocked when you get a salon gift certificate for a cut-color-and-style from yours truly. I would rather spend hundreds of dollars on someone knowing it’s exactly what they wanted and that it truly surprised them/made them ecstatic than just settle for another gift basket from Bath and Body Works and vow to try harder next time. I love doing it, so stop saying, “You shouldn’t have!” and please just sit back and enjoy the pampering.



Jealoussss



Big ole Dolly Parton hair: The best investment I have ever made in myself was the purchase of my teasing comb. I plan to include it in my Oscar acceptance speech. It has secured a place in my will. The fact that it doesn’t have a name is pretty shocking considering my affinity for personifying inanimate objects. The motto “Big Hair, Little Hips” defines my life, and I’d sooner stay in for the night than have a coif that stands less than 3 inches from my scalp with enough hairspray to stop a stray bullet dead in its tracks. Huge, teased-up hair is happy hair, and I’m just as delighted to spend the extra 20 minutes perfecting this halo of massive proportions. Being unable to run my hands through my strands without losing a finger or four is a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it means joining the ranks of my true idol, Donna Reed. Give it up for the bouffant, playas.

The stories on VitaminWater bottles: Dear Glacéau, HIRE ME. Love, Skylar. I used to have a very strange obsession with Revive (fruit punch) VitaminWater, and I’d die every time I read the silly little story on the label. Not only do these guys create a delish beverage, but it was clear to me that they were my kind of people in all aspects. Seriously, who does this remind you of: “If you woke up tired, you probably need more sleep. If you woke up drooling at your desk, you probably need a new job. If you woke up with a headache, on a ferris wheel, wearing a toga, you probably need answers…” I belong there. Half the time I’d be reading this in my 8am College Algebra class (your sympathy is appreciated) and while it did not help me think of any real-life scenario in which I’d use matrices, it was good for a brief pick-me-up. You can read some of the other amusing labels here, and just know that if you don’t at least smirk at their sassiness, you’re either a descendent of Scrooge or you have no appreciation for life’s little joys whatsoever and this entire post has probably pissed you off. I won’t apologize for being happy!!

LYLAS - Women I'd Like to Meet

Stacy London from What Not to Wear – Apparently, she graduated from Vassar with degrees completely unrelated to fashion (philosophy and German Literature), which is pretty kickass considering I’ll probably graduate with an English degree that takes me about as far as this blog. I appreciate her witticisms and sarcastic comments that initially seem like they’d break down an emotionally-brittle contestant even more than they do by themselves, but eventually are just reinterpreted as tough love as they check out their stylish new bods at the end of an episode. I’m also in awe of the confidence it takes a 42-year-old woman to have to rock a Cruella Deville-esque grey streak in her hair, especially one that’s been growing solid for at least 5 years. As previously mentioned, her affinity for high heels is the main reason I believe we’re soul sisters.

Chelsea Handler – I owe this woman my current sense of humor. I’ve read all three of her books, I always abandon academic responsibility to watch Chelsea Lately, and until I found out I’d be studying abroad through the month of June, my 21^st birthday plan was to see her perform in DC, get a bottle of Belvedere signed after the show, and proceed to invite her out on the town (I’m still maintaining this option as a solid plan B. Is German beer really that great?). I love her ability to verbally abuse just about anyone that comes in sight, and she lives out my dream of mercilessly making fun of people nobody likes on a nightly basis. Once, when I had to crank out a six-page paper in a matter of ninety minutes, I did a quick read-through of a few of the stories in Are You There Vodka? It’s Me Chelsea and produced the wittiest analysis of Bartleby, the Scrivener I’m pretty sure any English professor had ever seen. I wouldn’t be one of the assholes that go to a taping of Chelsea Lately just to see Chuy, although nubby little chunks do entice me in an interesting way. If there’s any dream of mine, it’s that I’d make it onto Roundtable and actually make her laugh instead of glare at me in disgust. Although that would be awesome too.

Hayden Panettiere – This is my girl crush. I’m as straight as a pin in a flatiron factory, but who can deny the cute little girl from Remember the Titans who never went through an awkward phase and despite making an embarrassing leading appearance in Bring it On: All or Nothing still makes bank as a Neutrogena girl. She is the Regina George to my frizzy-haired chubby dork: She is flawless. She could punch me in the face, and it WOULD be awesome. Whenever I need a new hairdo, I immediately Google her for inspiration, convincing myself that any way she styles her hair will automatically look good on me because we look sorta kinda similar (my admiration for her has made me slightly delusional. Let it happen). I understand she’s no Meryl Streep as far as acting goes, and her brief stint as Paris Hilton's BFF-du-jour was slightly off-putting, but the bottom line is that the girl’s hot and I want to be her. Period.

Christina Aguilera – Saved the best for last. Anyone that knows me knows the undying obsession I have with Xtina. I wholeheartedly supported her through the slutty Stripped phase, even when she dyed the hair black and got a little chubs. Ain’t no thang, girl can sang. A better part of my Favorite YouTube videos belong to her, and I study them so religiously that I’ve actually incorporated her signature head pops and microphone fondling into my everyday activities. When I was 9 and the video for “Come on Over” came out, in which she wears a pair of lace-up, blue-and-white diamond-printed pants, I was in love, and to this day I search for an identical pair to rock around campus. Any roommate I’ve ever had has definitely heard me practice my (ahem) spot-on renditions of “Impossible,” “I Turn to You,” and “Save Me From Myself” in the shower, and should I ever live out my dream of becoming a karaoke star, my set list will also include “The Voice Within,” “You Lost Me,” and strictly her section from “Lady Marmalade.” There is absolutely nothing about the woman that I don’t adore, and if I ever meet her I’m pretty sure – in no particular order – I’ll cry, faint, scream jibberish, and have a stroke. God Bless You, Ms. Aguilera. Screw you, Britney.

Now I know that this list seems short and shallow, and to be considered a more forward-thinking woman in society I probably should’ve included someone like Michelle Obama or Oprah or perhaps even God herself, but that would be misleading. I’d love to shake hands with those women, say “thank you” or “congratulations on being awesome,” but the four people included here could be my Sex and the City crew. I actually want to hang out with them. Sure, I’d be willing to fake friendship with Oprah just to get a show on the OWN Network and maybe get some student loans taken care of, but at the end of the day, do I really want to chill with a one-upper who constantly downplays my personal achievements, such as the fact that I finally figured out that exercise is not spelled with a Z? The benefits of this list are neverending: not only are these girlfraaans cool as hell, but I’d have a personal stylist, a straight-talking advice-giver, someone to introduce me to Milo Ventimiglia, and a diva to sing me to sleep every night.

Would meeting President Obama and having hardcore political discussions be the highlight of my life? Absolutely not. Do I want an invite to the Grammy’s/Oscar’s/Emmy’s/Fashion Week? You know it, girl.

Stick it to the Stacy

I'm going to let everyone in on one of my most genius plans. I've been mulling this idea over since literally the age of 12 and unless some asshole who was jealous of my superior intellect and scheming capabilities were to out me, this brainchild is totally legit.

First, some minor background info: I love What Not to Wear. It’s been one of my top 3 favorite shows for as long as I can remember. I watched it when it was Wayne Scot Lukas instead of Clinton Kelly. I’ve seen Stacy London through all of her hairstyle changes, and not only is she on my list of people to meet but she also solidifies my belief that just because a heel is 4 inches too high and painful as shit does not mean that it should be thrown to the depths of my closet. I’ve forced many a boy to sit and watch it with me, which I realize might be a torturous thing to do, but hey, if he doesn’t like it, there’s the door. The bottom line is, watching this show has turned me into a highly judgmental fashion critic. Watching this show has inserted the phrase, “Shut up!” into my everyday vocabulary. Watching this show has turned me into a conniving nightmare.

The whole premise of What Not to Wear is that a person dresses horrifically (usually due to some deep-seated self-esteem issues), an embarrassed family member nominates them, Bozo the Clown gets secretly followed around by cameras for two weeks, then Stacy and Clinton arrive at their doorstep with $5000 to completely redo their wardrobe. Now I’m sorry that Marla Mae was moo’d at her entire life and even though she lost 150 lbs she still sees herself as the Michelin Man, but I think we can all agree that after the team works their magic on her, she’ll go right back to the $6 t-shirt table at Wal-Mart. Not everyone is cut out to be a fashionista. Suddenly, Marla’s stuck with a $350 suede blazer that’ll never again see the light of day, and we all have to act surprised that the $600 black patent peep-toes don’t fit her busy Idahoan homemaker lifestyle after all. Spare me.

You know who could use $5000 worth of new clothes? This girl. Now unfortunately I have pretty on-point fashion sense. I’m no style star by any means, but I dress cute and I try new things and my shoe collection is becoming quite enviable. In summary, I would never be accepted on the show as-is, which is why the following plan came about: I go to Good Will, stock up on all the hideous Tweety bird t-shirts, elastic-waist biker shorts, and Southpole hoodies I can get my hands on (size XXL? Don’t mind if I do!), and get down to the biz. I’d have a trusty friend nominate me, saying, “I know she’s a beautiful person on the inside, I just wish she would put more effort into her appearance so everyone else could see it!” Suddenly, Stacy and Clinton would interrupt my Chinese Art and Architecture class to let me know that I’ll be bringing my entire wardrobe to New York City, where they’ll throw everything away and send me off onto the streets with rules and style tips and of course, the $5000 card. I’d come home with great new clothes, new hair, new makeup, and a new outlook on life…an outlook that would go straight to the boxes under my bed where my real clothes were hidden. My closet would be tripled!

I realize this plan sounds rather selfish and immoral, but I could really care less. Marla is happy with her tapered Mom jeans, and I say, more power to her! She can keep her I Love Lucy pajama pants and the “I give up” ponytail; I’m still in my prime, and damnit, I want to celebrate it with a pair of killer Christian Louboutins. If I have to lie and cheat my way there, so be it.

I'm comin for you two...

Fat Bottomed Boys

I don’t think it’s fair that guys get to go to college, gain 40 pounds, and call it “Broin’ Out,” but if I happen to make friends with the Subway guy and he knows my meatball sub order backward and forward, having a little extra junk in my trunk is the worst thing I could do. The pool in my apartment complex opens in a couple of weeks, and I’ve been prepping for that day since November. Yes, November. You know what that’s called, boys? Maintaining the magic. Remember a few years ago when you were all strutting around with your ripped arms and sick abs and girls thought you were hot? Well after three years of beer, Qdoba, and Call of Duty, your stomach is one big pillow of shame and the only “hot” thing I can think of is the oven I’d rather stick my head into than be forced to look at your shirtless sack of embarrassment and defeat. You know what’s a lot of fun? Not hooking up with someone who’s spent the winter months harvesting a layer of flubber, that’s for sure. Listen baby beluga, I understand that you’re not the star of your high school football team anymore and the club lacrosse team is “full of a bunch of fags who can’t play,” but I also know that I run the risk of becoming a Butterbody and do everything in my power to avoid such a catastrophe. I expect you to do the same. Spending an hour powerlifting in the gym one day a week – sounding like you’re blowing your load and dying simultaneously – is not going to get the job done.

You’ve got a girlfriend? Not for long, Jack Black. Nice job sealing the deal when you still looked like Gerard Butler circa 300, but if you’re grabbing ass as she’s grabbing love handle, girl’s not gonna be around much longer. You see, while you’ve been perfecting the dent in your couch cushion, some of your fellow males have been quietly keeping themselves in line and emerging as Surprise Studs. I’m sure your personality has maintained all of its humor and chillness over the past few years, but college is absolutely a beauty contest, and a competition between his biceps and your razor sharp wit is really no competition at all.

Honestly, I’m sorry that you lost your sex appeal. I’m sorry that countless cases of Bud Light and bottomless Saver Sacks have brought you to this truly unattractive and unfortunate place in your life. I’m REALLY sorry that you fail to see the problem with any of this, because come pool time I know your pale manboobs are going to accost my eyesight and I’ll be scarred for life.

Hopefully I’ll see you on a P90X commercial in the near future…or, more realistically, The Biggest Loser. A title you so thoroughly deserve.

Yeah, you're welcome

People frequently ask me where my humor comes from, as if I randomly pull a witty comment out of a coin purse every time I’m feeling a little clever. Sure, I’m inspired by the offensive comedy of the likes of Chelsea Handler and Tucker Max, and the aggressively absurd style of Dave Barry always gets me going. Hell I’d even drop a Kevin Hart joke or two if I was the right race or gender, but that’s not the point. I find these people funny, but I’m not going to jack their style like those damn chickens did to Fergie – I’m better than that. To be completely honest, I don’t even find half the things I say all that humorous. I had a rando once ask, “Did you just come up with that?” after an especially quick one-liner, and it caught me completely off guard. Never one to instigate an awkward convo lull, a quip popped out to maintain the flow and all of a sudden I’m the Michael Jordan of hilarity all over again.

I’m starting this blog for this reason. My humor just comes. Not from any special place, not for any special reason, and definitely not for any special person. I say what I say and when people find it funny, it obviously makes me feel good, but it doesn’t make me. I’ll be posting about my random musings and pet peeves, awkward run-ins and eavesdroppings. I will definitely hurt your feelings because it’s a proven fact that I’m funniest when drunk, pissed off, or hyper, and since those three states of being comprise 99.9% of my life, you now have something to look forward to. I will also confuse the hell out of some of you because I’m under the personal impression that if you don’t understand a joke, it’s not because it wasn’t funny, it’s because you’re a dumbass. Finally, I can promise that every single thing I write will be a must-read, because I’m just that talented. Did I mention I’m really humble?