My Brand!....Is Nothing....

I know this might be hard to believe, but I’m not this beautiful every day.

My long withstanding track record of being practically perfect in every way has led many to believe that I roll out of bed with fabulous hair and flawless skin and abs that could deflect a bullet like a sheet of titanium. While flattered, I must admit this is just not true.

My eyesight is impeccable, though.

I killed it in elementary school eye screenings. Read the bottom line? F E Z D L C P T D, bitch!

In 7^th grade, I wanted purple contacts because apparently that would make me cool, and I needed all the help I could get. Guys check it out! I’m like Elizabeth Taylor! Wait is it not cool to know who that is? Shit.

I’m an asset on road trips as I can read exit signs at least eight hundred yards away. “Exit 69 is the next one.” *GPS: In half a mile, take Exit 69 on the right* “Boom.”

I should be walking around batting my eyelashes and winking and staring judgmentally and doing whatever else a person with perfect vision can do, shouldn’t I? Yes I should, and about 95% of the time that’s exactly what I do. But like I said, I’m not this beautiful every day, and sometimes I just want to throw my fabulous hair up in a messy bun and hide the bod under a baggy t-shirt and generally just look like a big mess while hopefully still hinting at a bit of inherent sexiness so as not to disappoint my fans.

You know which demographic pulls this off at the expert level? Girls who wear glasses.

What I strive for, minus the cig

I have always been jealous of the girls who were “running late” aka didn’t feel like wearing mascara that day and slipped on their glasses along with their sweatpants, managing to look laid back and hot all at the same time. But what were my special eyes to do in order to achieve the same effect?

Buy fake glasses. Natch.

Now if I, with my spot-on memory, recall, I initially bought the fake glasses for a school girl-themed party my sophomore year of college. It would have been a waste of money to just love them and leave them after one simple soiree, so I started to break those babies out more and more. Research Strategies class at 9 a.m.? Glasses ON, attention span OFF. Literary Critical Theory class? I needed to look as intelligent as I could (that class was impossible). Hungover at Denny’s on Sunday morning? Suddenly I looked like less of a disaster. The fake glasses completed me.

Unfortunately, I didn’t anticipate the consequences. Sure, my friends knew that my glasses weren’t real, but no one else did. Initially, this was the point. But then one day, I was at Subway with a guy I was dating and he suggested we switch glasses to see who had worse eyes, snatching mine off of my face before I had a second to protest.

“Wow, your prescription is really light,” he laughed. “My eyes are so much worse than yours!”
“You have no idea…” I said quietly, and then had to explain in front of God, this guy, and the Sandwich Artist that I was a fraud.

So now you know: I’m as flawless as you’ve always believed, I’m just an immaculate secret-keeper. I now make it a point to fully disclose my ocular situation to every old friend and new acquaintance so 1) there’s no confusion about my perfection and 2) they back off and let me pretend I’m one of the cool girls FOR ONCE.

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The Five Commandments of Legging Season

Let us remember in this transitioning season of cooler weather and not having to shave our legs (except on weekends) that although leggings are both comfortable and cheap ($8.80 at Forever 21, cha-ching), there are certain rules that we need to be mindful of.

And Skylar spake all these words, saying, "I am the Fashion Police, who has brought thee out of the land of unfortunate highlights and quesitonable trends, out of the house of ill-fitting clothes."

1. Thou shalt not wear leggings as pants - If they were supposed to be pants, we would call them "pants." It is that simple. They're spandex and/or cotton and are basically a step up from actual skin, the world would really rather not be forced to experience your inevitable camel toe. Buy longer shirts.

2. Thou shalt not reveal a VPL - Do you know why guys lose their minds over legging season? Because of unadulterated views of our bootays. If you're going to offer it up, have some respect for yourself and for your audience and make the event run smoothly, aka without visible panty lines. 0.00% of people find granny panties sexy, therefore the line dissecting your donk is an immediate boner killer. Channel your inner Sisqo and invest in some thong tha-thong thong thongs.

3. Thou shalt not get colorful - Story time! Once, at the beginning of my senior year of college, I was walking to class on a particularly warm September morning. Technically Legging Season had begun, I guess, but it was like 85 degrees before 10 a.m., so clearly Skirt Season was still alive and well. A particularly shapely girl was walking in front of me, and had embraced the season full-force. Unfortunately, she had done so in light grey leggings, and hustling across the street before the walk sign timed out was particularly stressful. This led to back sweat. And crescent moon sweat (a delicate semicircular patch right below the tush). And I could see it. Had she been wearing leggings in the standard and universally acceptable hues of black, navy, and daaaark grey, my eyesight wouldn't have been accosted, but as it was I was made involuntarily aware of the fact that her leggings had never been worn for athletic purposes. Don't be like Betty McButtsweat; stay on the dark side.

4. Thou shall stay in thy legging lane - Let's get this straight: ladies of all shapes and sizes are absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. There, that's done. Now let us all agree that leggings in a size 3XL might not be the most responsible decision by society. We can refer to commandment #1 for the main reason why this is a bad call. If you question whether or not you should be wearing leggings, chances are the answer is, "Nuh-uh." Spandex is a privilege, not a right.

5. Thou shalt not expect a miracle - If you've gained fifteen pounds and put on your black leggings with the hope that they'll suck everything in, you look like you stuffed fifteen extra pounds into a very unwilling sausage casing. If you're trying to abide by commandment #2 but overstep your boundaries and go commando, thinking no one will know the difference, you're overestimating the opacity of stretch cotton. If you have zero butt whatsoever and put on your leggings with the hope that you'll all of a sudden reach Kim K status, you not only need to aim a little higher, but you're also going to be extremely disappointed. Leggings are like the guy who has a fun sense of humor, a great job, and clean fingernails: he seems perfect in theory, but there's definitely some underlying cocaine addiction or toe fetish happening there. Too good to be true.

So that's that. Break out your leggings and your boots and your infinity scarves, but do so properly. Skylar said to the people, “Do not be afraid. Legging Season has come to test you, so that the fear of VPL will be with you to keep you from looking truly heinous.”

Amen.

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Ugly Boybanders of Yesteryear

I went to the Backstreet Boys concert this past weekend. Needless to say, it was one of the best nights of my year, if not my entire life, and my best friend and I couldn’t say anything but, “Oh my God! That was amazing!” for the majority of the ride home.

At the beginning of the concert, the boys’ faces flashed up on the big screen one by one, causing pandemonium that, in hindsight, was probably a little embarrassing for a crowd of 23-30 year old women. Nick pops up? Vocal cords exploded. AJ? Everyone realized that the bad-boy phase they went through when they were 18 wasn’t totally over. Kevin? The girls who go for bar dads and/or appreciate thick eyebrows had a field day. My best friend and I personally lost our shit when Brian appeared, because we were wise beyond our years back in elementary school and inherently knew that he would forever and always be the hottest person in the band alive.

And then came Howie’s face, and we were all reminded of something that just seemed to be a fact of life when we were young: no one likes Howie. Like, there was barely a woo. It’s nothing against him personally, and it’s not like he’s a completely unfortunate-looking guy, but every boy band of the 90’s needed their token boring ugly dude, and for BSB, Howie was/is it. I think he accepts it now and uses the lack of attention to do whatever he wants on stage aka drinking a random fan’s Bud Light and throwing in inexplicable cha-cha moves. I chopped off my cholo ponytail and still no one loves me?! Fuck it, my only solo is a verse in “Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely;” give me a beer.

Not helping your case, bro

I felt bad for the crowd’s lack of enthusiasm for Howie, but I realized that he simply got the short end of the boy band stick, and was a part of an elite crowd of once-famous male performers from the late 90s/early 00s that everyone knew existed but that no one cared to remember the names of. Quite frankly, Howie should feel pretty great about himself, because I think he might be one of the most popular ones on the list of Ugly Boy Banders of Yesteryear. It’s the little things in life, everybody.

Chris Kirkpatrick (*NSYNC) was also ugly. Historically, regardless of if you’re a guy or a girl, you have to be pretty mind-blowingly hot to be white and rock dreads; instead, Chris looked like the creepy human version of a Muppet. Think about it: Lance was obviously not totally “into” all the girl attention from the get-go (but was a terrible dancer? One of life’s many mysteries…) yet I knew plenty of ladies that preferred his likeness to Ellen Degeneres over Chris’s goatee’d doublechin and obtrusive oversize ball chain necklaces. Not even his sweet falsetto could save him then. I drive myself crazy thinking of you, too, Chris, but only because your terrifying face is haunting my dreams and I haven’t slept in weeks.

Justin Jeffre of 98 Degrees really just didn’t even stand a chance. The Lachey brothers were buff and gorgeous, and Jeff Timmons was destined to become a Chippendale, so what role did that leave Justin to lead? You guessed it: the role of the chubby Danny McBride look-a-like with a white trash, bleach blonde Caesar haircut and a convincing air of pedophilia. Singing all of those songs about Jessica Simpson was probably the closest he got to a woman in the band’s entire five-year run. 98 Degrees was supposed to be the band that could beat up all the other bands, which I guess meant that Justin was the lazy friend/hype man in the back who just yelled, “YOU DON’T WANT THIS! YOU DON’T WANT THIS!” while nudging Nick forward and hoping everyone would just call a truce so he could go back home and finish playing PS2 all by himself.

In theory, I suppose Dan Miller from O-Town isn't a complete dud. However, when you compare him to the beauty that was Ashley Parker Angel or Erik-Michael Estrada, you realize that his misfortune lay in two key factors: his boring, white-bread, three-syllable name, and the fact that his chin strap made him look like a rapist. In fact his whole oral region really bothers me. He's got thick lips that appear to perpetually have lipstick on them, and it's almost like he's got lock-jaw and can only open his mouth wide enough to creep me out as he explains his liquid dreams.

Devin Lima from LFO looks like a fucking vampire, straight up. I have a moral opposition against any male who obviously gets his eyebrows waxed, and between his perfectly-sculpted arches and presumably collagen-filled lips, he's completely crossed the line from metrosexual to potential drag queen. You know in "Heavyweights" where Tony Perkis goes crazy at the end of the movie and somersaults off the chandelier? Devin looks like that on an everyday basis. Apparently he has a new band now called The Cadbury Diesel, which just sounds like a really unfortunate thing to find in your Easter basket.

There is a reason you probably haven't heard of the majority of the guys on this list, and that is because they were outshined by their sexy frontmen, therefore garnering themselves very little (if any) real estate on your locker door. These guys were the DUFFs of their bands--it's unfortunate that they had to suffer the trauma of being no one's favorite, but it had to be done, and for that, the guys who went on to have successful solo careers thank them.

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Miley Cyrus Offended My Butt, and I'm Not Taking it Sitting Down

Dear Miley,

 

Please put on some pants longer than your vagina and have a seat, I'd like to speak with you about something. Yes, you may finish your joint before we begin. What was that? Sorry, your horse teeth are distracting.

 

I'd like to discuss your newest hit "We Can't Stop." While several of the lyrics are embarrassing to white people everywhere (“We run things, things don’t run we”? What the fuck does that even mean?), I take up the biggest issue with your thoughts on probably the least white thing about me: my butt.

 

For the sake of time, we will just leave the explanation at this: my butt is bigger than most. Whether it’s the Italian genes or the Polish genes fighting it out inside of my jeans, I don’t know, but thank God I can cook well and carry on a decent conversation or else my donk would probably be the only thing I’ve got going for me. I used to hate it, just because it was a whole lotta junk in a 5”1’ trunk, but we’ve since grown fond of each other and I’ve learned to accept that bikini bottoms in a size small are officially a thing of the past.

 

In “We Can’t Stop,” you spit a few fresh lines which do not sit well with what I sit on. Tell me if you remember the following lyrics, or if you were too jacked on Molly to know what the hell was happening:

 

To my home girls here with the big butt

Shaking it like we at a strip club

Remember only God can judge ya

Forget the haters 'cause somebody loves ya

First of all, you don’t have home girls. Being as you are engaged to an Australian, you might have “mates,” but you most definitely do not have home girls. Take out your aluminum foil grill and be ashamed. Secondly, just because you’re on YouTube twerking in a Japanese animal onesie, you are by no means entitled to consider yourself in the same pool of girls who are shaking it on the daily. Your boney little butt stops moving the second the rest of your body does; mine carries twerk waves for at least an extra second and a half after I cut it out. It’s fucking magic.

The next two lines officially made me want to throw you down the mountain that you climbed up when you were still answering to Disney and keeping your protruding collarbones under wraps. Why would God judge me for having a big butt? He’s got homophobes and Republicans to worry about, I highly doubt baby having back is on the top of His list. You clearly have never had a substantial amount of booty to work with, because if you did, you would realize that girls with big butts don’t have haters. Not even one. So no, it isn’t just “somebody” that loves me, it’s the whole damn drug-addled party in your music video, especially the kid rolling around with slices of bread.

I’m glad that you’ve found a new identity and that we will all get to compare your rap career with Amanda Bynes’, but next time you’re trying to be ‘bout that life, realize that your white-legging-clad tush maylook good in theory but at the end of the day, God, haters and Sir Mix-a-Lot himself want buns, hon.

Love,

Skylar

 

 

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My Life in T-Shirts

If I were ever on an episode of "Hoarders," they wouldn't find me buried underneath years of old newspapers, dead cats and broken Precious Moments figurines; it'd be something more along the lines of leadless mechanical pencils, shoe boxes, and event t-shirts. I would have no problem getting rid of my grandmother's centuries-old china set, but I'd literally fight whoever tried to dispose of my pee-wee soccer jersey.
 
I finally bit the bullet the other morning and decided that owning multiple fraternity philanthropy event t-shirts--identical in everything but color--really wasn't that important. I also probably didn't need the high school spirit shirts from activities I didn't even do or the professional sports team shirts for teams I don't even like.

I did, however, find some gems, and realized just how interesting my life has been through giveaway t-shirts alone. Follow me on an adventure through my life in 100% cotton:

MCI Commercial Try-Out Shirt: If there was ever hope that I could be a child star, it was shot down when I tried out for an MCI commercial at age five. Here's the thing: I don't like liars. The girl who was conducting this audition handed me a telephone and told me that Goofy was on the other end and that I should talk to him. Excuse me, bitch, but I can see you standing right in front of me with another fake phone to your ear putting on your worst Goofy impression, and I'm not amused. I remember just standing there, looking at this girl completely confused and a bit offended that she would take my childhood innocence for stupidity. I did not get the part, surprisingly, but my mom did get me a popsicle right after so it was still a success.

Cool Frogs Field Day Shirt: Field day was the most wonderful time of the year in elementary school. You got to wear your bathing suit to school and run around outside all day throwing water balloons at the kid you liked to show him how much you cared. Also, since I'm a June baby, Field Day almost always fell around or on my birthday. In second grade, I had an awesome teacher who helped us make these t-shirts, and ignoring the fact that the frog eyes I chose are particularly creepy, it's a pretty sweet artifact of my younger days. Even cooler is the fact that good ol' Facebook has connected me with the majority of the people on the back.

"Cheerleading" Shirt: In sixth grade, to promote a healthy rivalry and make sure that we would all enter middle school knowing which elementary school dominated the community, the PTA put on a friendly basketball game between our school and another. Naturally, I opted for the spirit section, because A) sports involving my hands are a no-go and B) I had just seen "Bring it On" and now had dreams to fulfill. I took the role to heart, doing high kicks and screaming my tiny little lungs out while simultaneously wishing the rest of the girls had their shit together enough so we could properly execute a basket toss. Instead, we performed our halftime show which involved half of us forgetting what we were supposed to cheer and one girl holding a sign upside down, leading us to inspire our team to "GO! PANDAS! OG!"

People Got to be Free! Shirt: In seventh grade, I was in show choir. Our teacher decided that we should be the cautionary songbirds of our generation and take our talents on the road, performing a live-action Don't Do Drugs PSA for all of the elementary schools in the area. We took [ahem] "popular" songs of the 70s and 80s to communicate our message, such as Lonesome Loser by Little River Band (1979). Basically, I'm all for telling little kids that crack is whack, but these were my formative years, and between my snaggletooth and the fact that my body was developing from the feet up (it was a mess to watch me dance, seriously), this was not helping my street cred whatsoever.

Seventh Grade Musical Shirt: I was in the school musical in seventh grade as well, because God forbid I waste my talents on "Get high on life!" sing-a-longs alone. Krazy Kamp was about a summer camp, and it was crazy. That's pretty much all I remember. I was an ensemble member, aka I tried out for the lead and got shot down. If you're guessing a theme to my life so far, you're on the right track.

Chuck E. Cheese Shirt: One of my best friends has a penchant for doing ridiculous things for her birthday. In college, she had a party at Taco Bell. When she turned 18, she had a pizza party at Cici's and then we went to the mall where something that qualifies for a 10 year secret happened and I'd rather not discuss it. When she turned 16, we went to Chuck E. Cheese. That's probably the last time I've ever been to that place, but it's an entirely new world when suddenly you know how to effectively cheat at skee ball and you realize that the guy dressed has Chuck has a particularly pungent cologne of weed and dumpster smell emanating from his fur. I'd like to think I won this shirt from my booty of tokens, but I probably bought it; and I'd like to say I regret it, but I definitely don't.

Official Hooters Tank: I take my Halloween costumes extremely seriously. I'm all about authenticity and when I go for something, I give it my all. My freshman year of college I decided I wanted to be a Hooters girl for Halloween, and went so far as to go on the Hooters website to see what the qualifications for employment actually were, just in case I was so comfortable in the tank top that I chose to pursue it as a career. I had my orange shorts, my tube socks, ugly white Reeboks that I happened to own, and hit up three different restaurants in order to score myself this little number. I keep it, thinking that maybe I'll break it out again some day, when in reality I put too much stock in the holiday do to repeatsies.

No Kangaroos in Austria Shirt: The majority of the people that I went on my study abroad trip to Austria with came back with souvenirs that were special to the country and reflected the culture that we had immersed ourselves in for a month and a half. I....came back with this. Do you know how many "Dumb and Dumber," "Let's put another shrimp on the barbie!" moments I put people through? Do you? It was the joke that never got old. I bought my family authentic beer steins and Bavarian blown-glass ornaments, so it's not like I completely dropped the ball, but this shirt was just too perfect to leave behind. Full disclosure: I also bought it in magnet form.

Louisville National Champions Shirt: My school is better than your school in every sense of the word. Yes, I had been graduated for almost a year when this happened, but they could (and will) do it again and again for many years to come, and I will get every single one of those commemorative t-shirts as well. Kentucky pride runs deep, y'all.

I have a feeling the next chapter of my life will involve a lot fewer t-shirts and more promotional goodies like mouse pads and letter openers emblazoned with company logos, and I'm fine with that, but there's just something about wearable memorabilia that makes a life event that much more significant. If I'm not presented with a "You got engaged!" shirt right after my man pops the question, or a "You got your hip replaced!" one when I turn 85 then it's like those things didn't even happen.

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Celebrity Couples that are Never Allowed to Divorce. Ever.

Well ladies and gents, Adam Levine is engaged, joining the ranks of celebrities like Channing Tatum and Justin Timberlake that have sold their souls to monogamy and subsequently ruined my life.

 

I’m all about people being madly in love, I really am; it’s just that when we were meant for each other and you settle for a Victoria’s Secret model or dancing flawlessness or 2005’s Sexiest Woman Alive it’s really kind of a low blow. I have abs-ish! I did ballet ten years ago! I buy 5 for $25 panties all the time! What were these guys thinking?

 

Regardless of Adam’s heinous choice, I hope he’s in it for the long haul, because a beautiful man like that—with his hair I’d like to pet and body decorated in tattooed perfection—deserves to be happy for life. He should look to the following celebrities’ examples of marriage bliss. Long legs and flowing locks and a gorgeous face don’t last forev—oh who am I kidding. Congrats Adam and Behati!

 

Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson: If there was one celebrity couple that I would shamelessly abandon my own parents for in favor of being adopted by them, it would be Tom and Rita. For starters, Tom Hanks is just a stud. We all know that. Even he knows that, but in like, the most humble way possible. And Rita looks like the mom who always baked bomb-ass cupcakes for elementary school class parties and can simultaneously toss back tequila shots like a pro. They just always seem genuinely happy together, and I have a feeling they cuddle on their huge couch in their huge mansion watching “How I Met Your Mother” on DVD and ordering pizza from Papa John’s. Sometimes I imagine I’m there too…moving on…

 

Beyoncé and Jay-Z: To be perfectly honest, I would be terrified to see what would happen to the world should these two ever part ways. I seriously believe that the four horsemen of the Apocalypse would come galloping through the second E! News announced the split. There’s just so much power there; the excess magic coursing through Blue Ivy’s veins will probably turn her into a real life X-Men. Still, it’s cool to see two people that are so wildly successful in their own right supporting each other and appreciating what the other brings to the table. I also think that Jay-Z is a little scared of Beyoncé and does everything he can to make/keep her happy, aka exactly how I anticipate my own marriage will be.

 

Will and Jada Pinkett Smith: The “cool” parents. I feel like their dinner conversation centers around which movies Will and Jaden can star in together (“not because we’re related, but because you’re best suited for the part! Again.”) and what design Willow should get shaved into her head this week. Will and Jada seem very down to earth, which is ironic since they’re Scientologists, and despite rumors that their marriage is on the [moon] rocks they seem like a tight-knit bundle of contentment.

 

David and Victoria Beckham: It is very difficult for me to believe that these two actually like each other, much less are in love and have been married for 13 years, primarily because I don’t know how you could enjoy the company of someone who constantly shot brooding looks around the room and never smiled. Can’t guess which one I’m referring to? Exactly. However, over a decade of marriage and four extremely fashionable children with trendy names can’t be wrong, so maybe clutching to your wife’s boney arm and pretending like Beck’s 2003 cornrows weren’t completely embarrassing is the secret.

 

Hopefully Adam and Behati can keep it real, keep it fun, and keep their hands on each other because FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IF I CAN’T THEN SOMEBODY SHOULD.

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Surprise Studs (not really): Bar Dads

Here’s a little tip for all of you post-grads out there: Real-world bar life is much different than college bar life.

 

In college bar life, you pregame with your friends for about an hour, listening to 90’s pop and changing your outfit four times. You arrive at the bar to find 80 of your peers crammed into a 16x30-foot space, sucking down pitchers of watery beer and pretending to be big spenders by buying a round of Sauza shots that actually come to about $2 a pop. You know everyone there, you commiserate about your most recent Business Statistics test, and then you go home with the kid you went home with last weekend who you swore you would never go home with again because he’s like, such a douche.

 

It’s fucking heaven.

 

Real-world bar life is much less predictable. First of all, there is no pregaming. Your friends are all meeting for happy hour after work, meaning everyone’s coming from four different directions wearing blazers and heels of a sensible height. You will order a glass of wine, maybe a margarita because it’s “Thirsty Thursdayyyyy!” and you’re still gripping onto memories of senior year. Very few people your age are there. In fact, very few people you know at all are there, but there is one specimen whose attendance you can be certain of: The Bar Dad.

 

Nice try, Jon Gosselin

He is very easy to spot. Unlike the businessboys of our generation who stay fly til they die rockin’ Microtwill Photographer Suit Pants from Express Men, the Bar Dad’s suit was $650 from Jos. A. Bank and no he did NOT wait for the buy one get two free sale. Everything is tailored to perfection, so much so that it does a pretty spectacular job of hiding his 55-year-old spare tire. His black leather loafers with tassels mean business, as does his slicked-back flow. He wears cufflinks….EVERY DAY. WHAT THE FUCK.

 

Needless to say, you’re impassively curious as to how Bar Dad achieved his success. Don’t worry, he’ll tell you, but not before summoning whatever bit of 25-year-old suaveness he has left and beginning the conversation with an awkwardly confident, “Well helLO there."

 

“Hi,” you respond, suddenly wishing you were wearing your high school “Class of 2008” t-shirt or Chuck Taylors or feather extensions or ANYTHING that would communicate, “I’m too young for you, bro.” Damn this pencil skirt to hell, seriously. He asks what you do. You’ve perfected making your entry-level job sound a lot more prestigious than it actually is, so you immediately spit out, “I’m an assistant project manager for an information technology company!” i.e. you staple the project manager’s daily schedule together and watch Pretty Little Liars on Hulu.

 

“Way cool,” he responds, because that’s what a young guy would say, right? He starts describing his career—an executive at an asset management firm. He pauses for effect, as if you have any clue what that entails, and then goes on to casually describe how they just entered a joint venture with a European money manager, as if you have any clue what that means. Thank God he mentioned Europe, because it was the perfect segue into describing his love for cross-country skiing and how he just went to Italy this past winter to a resort in Pragelato.

 

 

 

“I’ve never been skiing,” you accidentally offer, a mistake you immediately regret as you notice the sparkle of potential romantic opportunity light up his eyes.

 

“Heh heh, well maybe we’ll start you on something smaller than the Alps. I rent out a place in Aspen every few years, you should come with me.”

 

“Aspen, where the beer flows like wine?”

 

He doesn’t get the reference, but continues to woo you with, “Yeah, we don’t want you to take on the BIG ones until you’re ready.” (Ew.)

 

At about this time, you’re throwing your friends a major stink eye, because they’re dying laughing at your misfortune from across the bar. He’s oblivious to you mouthing, “FUCK YOU GUYS” as he describes his various other vacation spots and sports cars and tee times with clients who are apparently a big deal but you wouldn’t know. He finally steps off his soapbox and asks what you like to do for fun. You carefully sort through your hobbies, trying to sound as boring as possible so he’ll leave you for the administrative assistant slut that just walked in.

 

“Well, uh, I like the beach and reading and I like to work out.”

 

“Heh heh, trust me, I can tell.” *wink* (Ew.)

 

 

 

Make a mental note to wear muumuus to happy hour for the rest of your life.

 

"What beach do you like to go to?” he asks, and you weirdly feel like you should say Caños de Meca or Crete or basically anywhere but Ocean City, Maryland. Does this guy go to nude beaches in Europe? WHY DID YOU JUST IMAGINE THAT.

 

Cautiously, you mention that you and your friends went to Delaware for Memorial Day Weekend and he excitedly responds, “My daughter was there that weekend too!” and starts to break out his phone for pictures.

 

“WELP my friends are over there waiting for me but it was really nice meeting you!” you say with a wave. He tries to buy you a drink but you’re screaming, “No thanks!” from across the room and vowing to your friends that because of this they will be wearing the ugliest bridesmaids dresses imaginable.

 

Bar Dad is always there, always waiting, always hoping that you’re desperate enough for a Sugar Daddy to take him up on his lavish offers and play Step Mom to a girl your own age. Feel free to accept his free drinks, but everything else is just weird. Rest assured: most Bar Dads keep their Bar Dad behavior at the bar, but if you notice your boss comes creeping by the receptionist desk upwards of five times a day and is always asking you where they keep the extra paper clips, it’s fair to assume who you’ll be avoiding later this evening.

 

Note her look of sheer terror

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