What My Grandma Thinks of Your Thanksgiving Outfit

Last Thanksgiving I had a very enlightening conversation with my cousin about who my grandma's "favorite" grandchild was. I thought I had it in the bag since my brothers and other cousins have all committed some kind of heinous act (tattoos, blue hair, living in sin, general sassiness, etc.) to get them written out of the will, while yours truly is an angel whom she adores through and through.

Apparently, I was wrong.

My cousin matter-of-factly informed me that my grandma was NOT my biggest fan because I wear "booty shorts." It should be noted that she lives at the beach and we primarily visit during the summer, so shorts are the obvious choice, and to be quite frank the woman should be thankful I'm wearing pants at all. But it disturbed me nonetheless.

You see, I could read between the lines: In Grandma language, "Skylar wears booty shorts" roughly translates to "My granddaughter is a massive whore." Completely false! Size medium shorts may be the acceptable length but they're too big in the waist! It's the issue that has and will plague me for life! Grandma, understand!

Needless to say, I am not a massive whore, and I also now stick to a strict below-the-knee, above-the-collar-bone wardrobe mentality when around my grandma. I recommend you do the same, unless you'd like to be bombarded by passive aggression and comments like, "Well would you look at that" and, "Oh."

Here's what you can expect to hear should you wear one of these outfits to Thanksgiving dinner with my grandmother:

"Are those pants your mother's?"
"No, they're mine."

"Your mom had some like that in the seventies."

"Oh rea-"

"I didn't like them at all."

"...Great..."

"You look so nice! You look just like your grandpa!"

*Ten minutes of uncomfortable crying*
(Repeat every hour on the hour)

"Are you going to change before dinner?"

"Nah, it's just our family so I thought I'd be comfy."

"Mmhmm..................................Have you found a job yet?"

 

"You know, Betty Crawford's granddaughter is about your age and she works as a marketing analyst in Chicago! You live in a city too! So much in common."

 

 

"Are you cold?"

"No."

"Are you wearing a scarf because you're cold?"

"No..."

"It's ALWAYS SO COLD in this house!"

 

 

"So...is your special friend coming to dinner?"

"I'm single."

"But, you know, your special friend...?"

"Grandma I'm not seeing anyone right now."

"All of your fancy, special friends..."

"Are you asking if I'm gay?"
"WHAT NO WHAT I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT WHAT." 

 

 

"Hm."

 

 

 

--Happy Thanksgiving!

 

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - Justin Bobby

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 was walking to the bus stop one day when a guy approached me and struck up a conversation. He seemed very indie and mysterious, so of course I immediately dubbed him Justin Bobby a la The Hills.

Justin Bobby got my number and asked me to meet him after class for dinner two days later. I told him I was a vegetarian (lie) but he took me to a Mexican restaurant that had little-to-no vegetarian options. Thanksss...

He proceeded to tell me that he strongly believes in reincarnation and that people had "past lives." He believed that he was a lonesome cowboy in the past life, possibly like Jesse James. He thought I was a quilt maker. When I commented that my past life sucked, he went into detail explaining how cowboys needed quilts for under their saddles, and he was certain he and I had met before. Apparently, I had made him a quilt for his saddle and I was essentially meant to help him in this life.

Needless to say that date was cut short and his number was deleted ASAP.

--Crafty Audrina Patridge

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - Pug Luvr

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.

 

After my boyfriend and I broke up from our approximately four-and-a-half-year relationship, I went on a blind date with a guy who was 26. I figured older, more mature, distraction, all good. Let me just say THANK GOD we went out for drinks because if I wasn't drunk I don't know what I would have done.

 

So he's starts out seemingly normal, everything is going well. Then he proceeds to tell me that he's never had a girlfriend--not even middle school, hand holding, not-a-real-relationship relationship--so I figured I'd switch the subject and randomly talk about how I really want a husky. He tells me he hates big dogs (he's 6'4...) but he is obsessed with pugs--not because he thinks that they're so ugly they're cute, but because he thinks they are the most beautiful creatures in the world. He even has an "I love pugs" t-shirt that he frequently wears out to bars (amazing that he's never found the right girl, right?).

 

For whatever reason, I agreed to a second date, figuring I could just take shots beforehand. He took me to P.F. Changs, and all of a sudden he started asking me personal sex questions like, "What's your favorite position?" and, "Oh you were a gymnast? I bet you're real flexible!" "Do you like it dirty?!"

 

Needless to say the ride home was extremely awkward. And I proceeded to immediately defriend him on Facebook.

 

--Balto Babe





Female Body Inspector? FBI! You're Hysterical: Male Halloween Costumes, Explained

I love me a clever Halloween costume. As evidenced by last year’s “sexy” costume post, I’m all for creativity, but you really do walk a fine line between looking hot and being the butt of everyone’s joke the whole night (Sexy Bacon? You’re making breakfast time taste like lap dances and a father’s tears).

 

For the guys, it’s really not about looking hot as it is being “funny,” a term we will use very loosely throughout this entire post. “Look ladies, I’m wearing my personality! Could it be any easier to find someone else to talk to tonight?” How many costumes can they really make that either suggest that the wearer has a ginormous Krull the Warrior King or force hoes to shove their boobs in his face, and what exactly does the costume say about the guy as a whole? Let’s find out:

 

Wholesome Disney Character Costume – You either have kids, or are in the complete opposite direction and have never been laid. Ever. More than likely you are wearing this to a neighborhood costume party where your wife is a big puffy version of Buzz Lightyear (because who does she have to impress anymore?), but should you find yourself at a bar at 1 a.m., you will definitely only be taking one and a half Gummi Bear shots and drunkenly telling a Sexy Ninja Turtle, “But I like, respect you, you know what I mean?” right before you go home alone.

 

Rub Me Genie – Get it? It’s like asking for a hand job. Because at 26 years old that’s exactly what you should be going for. Your friends really don’t like you or else they would have talked you out of this horrendous get-up. Rub your own lamp, weirdo.

 

Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man – You’re a heavy drinker (read: alcoholic) and a man with a plan; I admire you. You’re aware of the fact that you will be getting unbelievably trashed tonight, so when you’re swaying around and falling into people, you know they can’t get mad because you’re just staying in character. This is genius. Carry on. Also, Family Guy references are always crowd pleasers, it’s just a fact of life.

 

Weed – Nothing says, “I’m unemployed!” like a marijuana leaf costume. You’ve also just placed a big target on your back because if a group of guys come stumbling out of a bar, who do you think the cops are going to zero in on first? You guessed it: the bro who looks like he dropped $75 on a ticket to The String Cheese Incident concert.

 

The Joker – It’s been done. You’re either lazy, completely oblivious to any advances in pop culture, or a Bar Dad. To be fair, it’s most likely all three. Seriously though, there’s even been another Batman movie to come out since this one, you really need to get with the times.

 

Charlie Sheen – Can’t wait to hear you yell out, “Winning!” all night with your buddy The Joker. Go home.

 

Robin Thicke – You, sir, are doing it right. Culturally relevant in every possible way, this costume could either be a happy accident or the ploy of an extremely strategic young man. Women will flock to you for one of several reasons: 1) Every Woo Girl in the place will assemble when the DJ plays “Blurred Lines” for the umpteenth time. “OMIGAHH I LOVE THIS SONGGGG YOU SING IT SO GOOD!” 2) You have un/intentionally invited multiple ladies to twerk all up on ya throughout the course of the night. If you play this correctly, you can start a twerking contest in which five skinny white girls will drunkenly grind on your junk trying to outdo each other, and one black girl will step in to show them how it’s really done. Major, major kudos.  

 

Zombie Hotdog – Goddammit, is nothing sacred anymore?!

 

Banana – Have you been anything new for the past seven years? Be honest. Whatever, you don’t even really like Halloween and will still pull based on this blatantly obvious nonchalance. You can also revel in the fact that Sexy Big Bird will definitely text her friend Sexy Cinderella in the morning, “omg i think i got gang banged by a fruit basket last night, can u come get me?”

 

Zero Fucks Given T-shirt – Can you just go in a corner and watch Portlandia on your phone the rest of the night? Like, please? Your rose gold oxfords and grandpa cardigan are really putting a damper on everything. No, I don’t think the DJ knows any Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

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The Worst Date I Have Ever Been On

Let’s call him Not John.

We had met a few weeks before at the winery I occasionally work at on the weekends. He was very smart, super cute and actually appreciated my vulgar sense of humor; such a trifecta is not easy to find, believe me. I had agreed to go out with him one time before on an excursion that led to Annapolis, MD and a photo on his Instagram with a caption reading “My baby ;)”. This is why I can’t have nice things.

Despite that photo and several warning signs that I was too lazy to pay attention to, I consented to a second date. I’d set Not John straight this time: we’d take it easy, see what happened, nothing serious. This would work! Only girls are the psycho ones, right?

I was meeting him at a park by the Potomac River right after work at 7 p.m. It was May, aka spring dresses were in full swing, and although my typical date outfit includes heels of some kind (so I stand a small chance of making eye contact with a person), I opted for flats since we would be in nature.  I pulled in right at 7 and sat for a minute to let Rihanna finish belting out Rude Boy. At 7:10 I gave him a call, and he said he was “so sorry, on my way, just picking up food, be right there.”

Food had been mentioned so I was totally fine with it. This gave Rihanna and I more time together to collaborate on Umbrella, S&M, and Love the Way You Lie (of which I also rapped Eminem’s part. Renaissance woman over here). I had been so taken with this personal concert that I was shocked when I checked the clock. 7:40. What the actual fuck. Where was he?

I’m not typically a serial caller, but Not John was forty minutes late, I was hungry, and since the long days of summer hadn’t quite kicked in yet, it was starting to get a little dark. “Haha (what’s so funny?), I just had to shower real quick (well I appreciate that), I’ll be right there (déjà vu).”

If I was a bigger bitch, I would’ve said, “Don’t even bother” and driven home to a trusty plate of Bagel Bites, but unfortunately I don’t have that particular bone in my body so I overenthusiastically said, “Okay!” and awkwardly sat until he pulled in a few minutes later.

He immediately won back a few points by telling me how pretty I looked and showing me the bags of food.

“We just need to walk a little to these picnic tables right by the water,” he said.

For once, flats were the right decision. We walked with our bags of yummy and chatted and he laughed at my jokes and everything was just peachy. However, as I said before, it was technically still Spring, where the sun goes down at an understandable 8 p.m., and we were on a path in the woods with no lights. We had already been walking for a little over ten minutes, so I casually asked, “So where are these picnic tables?”

“Just a little bit longer,” Not John said.

Chatting continued, fighting off gnats began, and weird nature sounds became louder. Fifteen more minutes went by, and I had a mental flash of my story being used on an episode of CSI.
“He lured her into the woods saying they were going on a ‘date’. He shot her in the head.”
“I guess it’s true. Love… *takes sunglasses off*…hurts.”

“We’ve gotta be getting close, huh?”

“Uhh yeah I think it’s right around the corner.”

Stop. Just fucking stop. “Think”? You “think”? I followed you into the jungle on a guess? Thank god we weren’t paddling on the river or else we would definitely be recreating OpenWater.

In an uncharacteristic twist of fate, I managed not to flip out and calmly suggested that if the picnic tables weren’t around the next corner we should probably turn around. Not only was I totally over it, but it was now officially dark and the rabid toads were on the prowl.

Shock of the century: the picnic tables weren’t around the next corner. We turned around, using the glow of his phone as a flashlight and my heightened survival instincts to lead us back as quickly as possible. Again, my lack of dramatic bitchiness did not allow me to bring up the fact that this was a poorly executed excuse for romance and instead, I just talked about anything else that came to mind. We covered my love for The Wedding Singer, when I got my tooth knocked out in a soccer game in sixth grade, and my disdain for Taylor Swift when he suddenly chuckles and says, “I’m so glad we’re at the point in our relationship where we can just laugh about things like this.”

Let me reiterate for anyone that’s been scanning this post for the part where we hook up in the woods (P.S. sorry to disappoint): this was our second date. Relationships take several more dates and conversations and actual feelings before they can come to fruition, and we could not have been farther from that point.   

I was shocked into silence. For the first time in my entire life I literally didn’t know what to say. I might’ve blacked out for a while because I really don’t recall the rest of the walk back to civilization, but finally we made it back to the parking lot.

“We can eat in my car,” he said.

“Exactly what I wanted to do!” I accidentally yelled, a side effect of regaining consciousness and a potential indicator of PTSD.

We ate in silence. He might have told a story or two, I’m really not sure as my sole focus was on escaping the confines of his godforsaken Acura and the night as a whole. I was forced out of my “Mmhmm”’s and nods when he says, “So I have a surprise for you.”

I swear to you I was fully prepared for an engagement ring to be pulled out at that exact moment, and my stomach fell directly to my toes in terror.

“What’s that?” I asked, wondering if the plastic knife I was using would properly sever my left hand off and if that would be an appropriate “no” to his proposal.

“I got us tickets for The Great Gatsby in Frederick at 10:20!”

Crisis somewhat averted, but a new issue emerged. From where we sat at that moment, Frederick was at least another 25-30 minutes away. Gatsby was almost two and a half hours long. My patience had already worn thinner than Nicole Richie circa 2006. I just couldn’t do it.

“Ya knowww…” I began, my go-to conversation starter phrase when I don’t feel like doing something, “…I have to work really early tomorrow, and I was going to try to get some stuff done beforehand so I’d be waking up even earlier, and I wouldn’t want to fall asleep during the movie, and…”

At this point I just trailed off and gave a fake sorry smile. This was exhausting. He sighed “Okay” and was visibly disappointed, and said we should try again the following week, which I agreed to but which I immediately knew would never happen. I couldn’t take the risk of any other costs factoring in to our divorce.

After speeding home, I showered the unfortunate nature of the evening off of my body and prepared myself for just how uncomfortable our future interactions would be. Perhaps giving the turn-your-head move went he went in for the good night kiss was a twist of the dagger in his already wounded heart, but seriously? He tried to take me on an uninformed picnic to a mystery location in the middle of the woods and then assumed he had wifed me up before I even had a chance to send a “Bail me out of this nightmare” text to my best friend, leading me to eat salad in the front seat of a car while Ginuwine crooned softly in the background.

I thought things like that only happened with people you met off of Craigslist.  

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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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