It's Too Late to Apologize, It's Too Laaaate

Boys get a lot of shit for their [sometimes] ridiculous behavior. I know I’ve written about it, I know my friends and I talk about it, and I know Cosmo provides the criticism about it that usually spawns the conversation between my friends and I, but it’s time to be fair. Yes, you guys do some crazy ass stuff, but me and the ladyfriends are not completely innocent. I may be acting entirely alone here (I believe in the Girl Code, but I also believe in logical thinking), but I’d like to apologize for some of the things we do.

Babes: I’m not breaking any bond, so cool your jets and reinvite me to Girls’ Night J.

Sorry about the throw pillows: We know they’re cumbersome. We know there are too many of them. We know they’re too frilly and bedazzled to nap on and are therefore rendered pointless, but hear us out: They match the walls. That couch is a hand-me-down from my friend’s cousin’s sorority sister, and probably has about seven years’ worth of drool, spilled vodka, and mystery stains all over it. Neither of us wants to look at that, and pillows are a cheap and easy cover-it-up solution. We understand that your couch is in the same condition and you let the filth fly free, but the soap in the bathroom is lavender scented and the cookie jar is in the shape of a puppy, so we’re clearly living on two separate planets to begin with. Remember, though: the name “throw” pillow is just a stylistic term, so don’t even think about tossing that baby on the floor. Kindly push it aside and tolerate our girly ways; you can return to your rugged man cave later.

Sorry about the man-hating Facebook statuses: I don’t personally write these, because I’m not a fan of broadcasting my every emotion in general, but I see it quite often and I know it’s gotta be annoying. To be honest, you all can be pretty fucking stupid at times, but the yin to that yang is when you’re total sweethearts and sadly no one ever seems to give credit in those situations. The fact that a girl still has solid chances of getting laid even after she posts, “I’d like to cut off every penis in the world and feed them to a pack of hungry panthers” really has to be the lowest of low blows, because if you were to reciprocate that against the female population, you’d be left jacking off to your poster of Jeremy Piven for the rest of eternity. Don’t take it personally. And hey, if you really want to ward off these evil, estrogen-filled fragments of lady-scorn, a random “You look really nice today” (minus the boob stare) goes a long way.

Sorry about the lip gloss: It’s goopy and gets all over your face, so you either walk around after a smooch sesh looking like a five-cent tranny, or it’s blatantly obvious that you were just making out with the fat chick in the bathroom and we’re all gonna talk about it fo dayz. Wish there was something we could do, but the fact of the matter is, you’d feel a lot worse about yourself if you felt like you were kissing Tyrone Biggums, so it’s one of those things you just take with a grain of salt and inconspicuously wipe off afterward. Plus, it tastes like watermelon!

Sorry about my period and all of the elements that come with it: What, you think it’s a booze cruise to Skinny and Comfortable Land up in here? We really don’t want to burst into tears when you don’t immediately deny how much hotter our roommate is than us, and we certainly don’t want to snap at you for not refilling the Brita pitcher, but in four-ish days everything will be back to normal so just sit tight and keep your game face on. We appreciate you being so great and offering us the last bite of lasagna, but we already feel like fat cows (as evidenced by our sweatpants) so just keep it to yourself and rub our backs. And don’t judge us when we go to sleep with said sweatpants on – you knew nothing was happening tonight anyway. Now get out before we cut you.

Sorry about my obsession with Toddlers and Tiaras: And Say Yes to the Dress. And Real Housewives of New Jersey. We know you think this definitely means we want to marry you in a $12,000 Pnina Tornai gown, tease our hair while living in a Scarface-esque mansion across the Hudson River, and raise our daughter to be an obnoxiously bitchy 3-going-on-23-year-old, but it’s not entirely true. Horrible reality TV is our thing (and who says we want to marry you in the first place? Whattup Albie Manzo!). We're not going to tell anyone that this is what we do every Wednesday night at 8 pm, and we promise you can watch Deadliest Catch later, so be a trouper and let us have our guilty pleasures.

Sorry about the drunk texts: It’s probably a super ego booster when we tell you how great you look in person. It probably has a significantly less encouraging affect when you receive that compliment in the form of, “Omg ypu lokk sooo hot TOnifht.” Our bad. It’s the thought that counts, but we can all agree that if we’re having trouble spelling “you,” our thoughts are probably not all there. There’s a good chance that we sincerely mean what we say, it’s just a little difficult to determine what we mean in that mess of gibberish. Please don’t forever view us as incoherent, flippant, sloppy idiots, because if we were like this all day every day the assumption would be that we were palsied, not drunk. Laugh it off, and for the love of God don’t bring it up tomorrow.

Sorry about my relationship with my dog: Actually, I'm sorry you and I will never even be CLOSE to having the relationship I have with my dog. I love that little guy to pieces.    

Help Wanted

Approaching my senior year of college, I’m having PTSD-like flashbacks to my senior year of high school and all of the “Prepare for the rest of your life” stress that is headed my way. Back then, the only information anyone was interested in was where I was going to college, what I was majoring in, and what I was planning on “doing with that.” I always ignored the assholes who asked the last question, because it seemed so far off that it didn’t even deserve recognition. Four years later, the subject has resurfaced, and unfortunately just laughing and trailing off doesn’t show much ambition on my part. The simple answer is: I want to be a writer. The simple solution is: have a more genius idea than J.K. Rowling and become a billionaire. Of course, this is easier said than done, and it never hurts to have a plan B. Luckily, there are many facets to what interests me, so I could be happy doing just about anything (except every single occupation featured on ‘Dirty Jobs’ with Mike Rowe. I’m way overqualified to be a cow poop inspector).

Infomercial spokeswoman: I don’t know anyone in this world who genuinely enjoys watching infomercials more than I do. I know the prime airtime (3-7am) so I can get my fix at any hour of the day. I watch The Magic Bullet commercial religiously, and after purchasing one, I fawn over it like my firstborn child. The loss of Billy Mays hit me hard – I miss that killer beard and explosive coked-out bellow of advertising enthusiasm every single day. It is this relentless excitement that I find so appealing, and anyone who has ever experienced an all-nighter with me knows that at my kookiest, I’m one of the most entertaining people around. I would excel at showing how assembling a contraption was SO EASY A CHILD COULD DO IT and it just takes A SNAP (cue two pieces clicking in place), and that it was DISHWASHER SAFE so there was NO MUSS NO FUSS. Infomercial people typically work with a lot of food, which is right up my alley, and even though Chef Bob had just used the serrated knife (A $50 VALUE, YOURS FREE) to slice the rotisserie chicken that had been “cooking” for ONLY 30 MINUTES I would still have a mouthgasm as soon as I took a bite because THAT’S AMAZING, IT’S SO MOIST AND FLAVORFUL. As a practiced Barker Beauty wannabe, I know how to show off a product with the flick of my wrist and the caress of my perfectly manicured fingertips, so everything seems much more impressive than it actually is. I would know how to clean EVEN THE TOUGHEST SOAP SCUM with one swift swipe of the LIGHTWEIGHT, CHEMICAL-FREE portable steamer, even though in reality it takes a few scrubs and some elbow grease courtesy of the world’s strongest man. If nothing else, I’d really just like to immerse myself in an atmosphere where talking way too loud and forcing people to scream out SET IT AND FORGET IT in unison is just the norm.

Rapper: Prepare yourself for the whitest, nerdiest, least gangsta thing anyone will say all day: I figured out the formula to becoming a successful rap star. It’s as simple as going back to fifth grade and learning about similes and metaphors. Lil Wayne might like to bill himself as the Best Rapper Alive, but he should really thank his English teacher for introducing him to the magic of such lines as, “Life is the bitch, and death is her sister/Sleep is the cousin, what a fuckin' family picture.” Who would’ve thought literary devices could be so badass? With an affinity for and amazing ability with alliteration, combined with this theory, I’d be the Shakespeare of the hip hop industry. The girl who became a YouTube sensation imitating Busta Rhymes’ section from ‘Look at me Now’ would see me as her personal Jesus after I dropped my first single, and all it would take is a simple, “I’m hot like fiah, haters sizzle like fajitas/Your new girl is fugly, yo soy bonita/I’m homemade mac and cheese and that ho is just Velveeta/Boy you need a boss bitch not some skanky ass Lolita.” Collabo with Nicki Minaj coming soon.

Costume Standby: You know when you’re watching a movie, and you notice the actor is holding a cup in his right hand, and then the shot shifts to someone else, and when it goes back to him he’s suddenly holding it in his left hand? I do. OCD is a hell of a time. There was a very bleak period in my life that I like to call Five Minutes Ago where I would be watching a movie on TV and then rush to IMDB to check the “Goofs” section to see where there were flubs and if I could catch them as I watched. As we all know, I’m a stickler for doing things right, and if Reese Witherspoon’s hair was behind her ear in the first take, you better believe that it will stay that way for every single take from here on out. The curtains in the window were open in the last shot and now they’re closed? Not on my watch, buddy. The job description for this career has to be insanely easy; there’s no way they can be looking for anyone outside the realm of obsessive, scrutinizing, psycho, and nagging. I’ve hung around my grandma enough to be all of these things and more, and although it seems like a pretty insignificant role to play in the grand scheme of Hollywood, if I can make one fellow neurotic moviegoer’s viewing experience a little less anxiety-ridden, I’d feel just as fulfilled as the guy who sells TOMS.

America’s Next Top Model: You can stop laughing now.

Real World/Road Rules Challenge Regular: If all it takes is living in a house for several months with a few hot strangers to catapult me into a lifelong job of navigating obstacle courses in exotic locations, sign me right up. I swear, between the stipends they receive for appearing on the show and the unnecessary cash they rake in for club appearances, half of those people dropped out of ITT Tech and are set for life. Their resumes flaunt skills such as “binge drinking,” “making out with girls,” “falling into water from twenty feet up,” and “obvious steroid use.” As long as we all agree to a Don’t Judge Me policy, I can totally do all of those things! The fact that I have an above average head on my shoulders would already hurl me leaps and bounds over the rest of the contestants, and then it’s pretty much a competition based on A) who screams the loudest and B) who has decent upper body strength. All I really have to do is get myself on the next season of the Real World, make an ass out of myself so I captivate audiences, secure a spot on The Challenge, and make an ass out of myself part deux so they have no excuse not to bring me back season after season for the next eight years. It’s practically fool proof. Excuse me while I go write thank you notes to Coral, Wes, Trishelle, and CT for being the biggest inspirations since Gandhi and Princess Diana.  

Toto, We're Not on Trading Spaces Anymore...

My friends and I are moving into our new apartment this weekend. We have The Artistic One, The Hippie, and me, Girlicious (and I know they’re reading this right now and are surprised and perhaps a little confused by their new nicknames. Especially mine. Creative license muthafuckaaaaz), so naturally the aesthetic we’re going for is a smorgasbord of style that will randomly look good because hey, it’s better than white walls. I love our eclectic flair, and I could not be happier that this place is going to ooze our personality while looking lightyears better than your typical college-girl pad. That made me think about what is usually found in the apartments of our peers, and I realized that I want absolutely none of those things to appear on my walls or my coffee table. Come on ladies, spice up your lives. And a special shout-out to my roomies; thanks for being unusual in the best ways possible!

“Live Laugh Love” – This. Effing. Phrase. I understand the message it’s trying to convey, but I’ve seen it plastered on everything from picture frames to coasters to Facebook photo albums and it’s straight up overkill. I’m going to do those things anyway, I don’t need a wall decal to dictate my every move. You might as well hook a second expression below it that says “Blink Sneeze Gossip” because God forbid I forget to do my other favorite daily activities. Look, I get it; the sign was half-off at Target and you figured, “Oh my gahhh this will look totes adorb hanging over my sofa! I better buy four to place around the rest of the apartment so everyone knows that I am, in fact, existing, expressing amusement, and feeling affection for EVERYTHING!” Please just hang a Rage Against the Machine poster next to it to give yourself a smidgen of street cred.

French Memorabilia – I don’t mean to throw this in anyone’s face, but I’ve been to France before. Not Paris, mind you, but France nonetheless. Does this give me the right to cover every surface of my pad with the Eiffel Tower and the words “Ja t’aime”? No, it does not. I’m glad you have travel aspirations but maybe you should save the twelve bucks you just spent on that black and white print of the Arch de Triomphe and pop it in the piggy bank instead so you can actually have the funds to go check it out in person. And while I’m irrationally ranting, why France? Why can’t I ever walk into a girl’s apartment and see a mural of Brazil or Russia? I’m sure they feel a little jipped. All I’m saying is change it up a little. Show your cultural side. Choose a different freaking country, there are like 195 of them. A fridge magnet advertising Estonia will intrigue me much more than the one with a coffee cup and “Bonjour” randomly written across in blue, white, and red cursive.

Knick-Knacks with No Purpose – I am very no-nonsense. Apartments are so aptly named because they’re itty bitty, which means no space, which means everything I own is battling it out for an open surface. So maybe it’s just personal preference and an aversion to clutter that makes me question the coffee table vignettes purchased entirely from Hobby Lobby. Is there a reason you have more candles burning than the Roman Catholic Church? I appreciate the fact that your place smells like a sugar cookie factory but you could single-handedly torch the building in a matter of minutes and that makes me a slightly uncomfortable. Also, what’s with the vase of various…I guess you could call them flowers but that’s not like any tulip I’ve ever seen. The medieval spiked ball mace-looking one seems particularly menacing. Which HGTV host convinced you that thing was a good idea? That bowl over there has nothing in it, and neither does the gaudy jeweled box. WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?

Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn – Oh hey girlfraaans. You two are better than Santa at being in five places at once, because I swear to God I don’t know one girl who doesn’t have you rooming in her apartment in one way or another. Marilyn, your white tutu pic is a huge hit, let me tell ya, and Audrey, the iconic Breakfast at Tiffany’s shot is featured eeeeverywhere. I’m not gonna knock you two ladies because I think you’re mega babes and super inspirational in terms of fashion, but maybe you should stop being such postmortem attention whores and give it a rest for a little while. I can deal with you scrutinizing at me from one spot, but when you’re scattered around a room in five different poses gawking at me through glamorous eyes I panic a little. I guess it’s pretty sweet that you babes have withstood the test of time and still manage to secure yourselves a solid fan base with the 18- to 22-year-old female set, but try to pump the brakes. It’s not polite to stare.

(Okay, so I might be guilty of this one. Nobody’s perfect!)

The Solitary Action Movie – It is my opinion that any female who has not seen How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, P.S. I Love You, and A Walk to Remember is arguably a female at all. A girl who doesn’t own these movies? You’re out of the club. The movie collection of your typical college girl has all of these as well as Love Actually, some awful Nicholas Sparks adaptation, a Disney movie, and then the universal cry for validation from all prospective males: Fight Club. Just as stated before, any guy who doesn’t like this movie might as well forfeit their Man Card. We know this. We know that when you’re at our apartments and you’re looking through our movie collection, all of your negative criticisms about our ownership of Maid in Manhattan and Bride Wars will fly out the window as soon as Brad Pitt shoves that bar of soap in your face. Granted, it’s a fantastic movie and I know more than enough girls who genuinely enjoy it, but let’s face it, we’re well aware of the fact that we win brownie points by having this gem in our entertainment arsenal. So you get to sit there and watch a slew of badassery with “this really cool chick,” and we get to feel awesome about ourselves while ogling Brad’s ridiculous abs. Win win!

Thank You, Come Again

Being the self-centered perfectionist that I am, I was reading through my various blog posts the other day, analyzing if everything was up to my humor standards and doing miscellaneous editing. I was generally pleased with my posts (as I hope you all are!), but I did notice a somewhat disheartening theme: I’m kind of a nitpicky jerk. I mean in my defense a lot of my rants are justly inspired and I’d never complain for the hell of it, but there seems to be a slightly pessimistic mood hanging over BT Dubs and I am very much a glass-half-full kind of babe. I’m obviously not going to turn into Mother Theresa anytime soon, and there are still plenty more things in this world with the potential to rub me the wrong way, but I decided that for today’s post I’m going to go about voicing my opinions on these issues much like Leah Dieterich does in her blog THX THX THX: showing appreciation for what pisses me off. Who needs therapy? I’ve got the whole inner peace thing alllll figured out.

To the pyromaniac teenage boy who sets off firecrackers at 1 in the morning: While being jolted awake by the wailing screech of a roman candle is not exactly my ideal alarm clock, I’m thankful for the fact that you’re an equal-opportunity nuisance and manage to do this at the point where my street and your street connect so that the entire neighborhood is getting annoyed right along with me. If I felt like you were seeking me out, I’d have flashbacks to the scene in Billy Madison where Billy smoothes things over with Danny McGrath and narrowly avoids the wrath of his hit list. I don’t want that. Your utter disregard for the fact that I’m not sleeping in until 2 in the afternoon like you are doesn’t bother me in the slightest, because I know in about four years you’ll be in my shoes, and we can cry together. Let’s agree to agree and you can set off your potential deathtraps on only the patriotic holidays, like 4^th of July, and Memorial Day, and St. Patty’s. Until then, I give you a hearty pat on the back and encourage you to pursue your other favorite hobby: being horrible at basketball.

To my bright idea of leaving most of my clothes at my apartment at school while I’m home for the summer: Hindsight is always 20-20. At the time, I know I was feeling very logical, thinking, “Well I need to pack for Europe and summer vacay, AND I’m flying home so it all needs to fit into 3 bags along with my Caboodle and the justifiable amount of hair supplies that I own,” leaving me with a handful of tops that I’m tired of wearing and dresses that I’ve owned since junior year of high school when my boobs were much smaller and my style was way more embarrassing. Luckily, this fashion faux pas has granted me two bits of wisdom that I’ll cherish forever: my mom’s clothes fit me, and are more expensive (read: NICER) than mine, so closet shopping is clutch; and I’ll appreciate my clothes that much more when we reunite in a few short weeks. This also means that when I’m sitting at home with nothing to do, a trip to the Polo outlet is not only a sufficient time waster, it’s a necessity – unless you want me to go bare buns, I need those twill embroidered shorts. I’ve never taken an in-depth econ class, but I’m pretty sure this is what they mean by “supply and demand.”

To humidity: I did not miss you while I was in Austria. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. However, you serve as some of the best inspiration around to get me up and out of bed before 7am so that I’m not choking like an asthmatic nerd during 7^th grade gym class while I run in this horrid July heat. Also, you give me a free pass in the hair care department, because it would be pointless to spend the extra 25 minutes blow-drying and straightening my hair when I’ll inevitably be wearing a Pomeranian on top of my head the second I step outside. I just braid it and go and suddenly my laziness is a part of one of the chicest hair trends of the summer. It might be nice if you could reconsider your involvement in the whole heat index thing too, because I honestly don’t need it to “feel like” 115 degrees outside at any given moment. I’d like to sing “I’m Walkin’ on Sunshine” without actually feeling like my body’s being engulfed by flames. I know you’ve got my back girl!

To alcoholic beverages: Damn you and your exorbitant prices. No human in their right mind should have to pay $8 for a Peach Caipirinha, especially when you jip me by using crappy rum instead of the traditional cachaca (didn’t know I knew that, didja? Don’t insult my drinking intelligence, breh). That being said, I’ve come to value your costly nature, as it sheds light on not only how much I consume on any given night, but also, who is buying the goods. Hate to sound like every spoiled brat with a short skirt, but I’m not a fan of paying for my own drinks. As the evening progresses and my cup runneth low, it is important to gauge just how important that next Jack & Coke truly is if Billy Buckteeth over there is holding the cash. Do I really want to owe him a decent conversation later on? No. Do I really want to cough up another $5 for what will probably be Coke with a limp-wristed splash of whiskey? Definitely not. Looks like it’s time to go home, thanks a heap rip-off drunk juice!

To the couple I watched fiercely make out as they drove down the street: You know what you two, I’m going to be completely honest with you. I wasn’t grossed out one bit by your intense PDA. Considering you don’t often see couples that genuinely like each other these days, I thought it was very sweet, and the fact that you were willing to risk an accident and put about 5 other people’s lives in serious danger is quite a testament to our generation’s views on monogamy. When we all safely arrived at the stoplight, I unapologetically stared at you in my rearview mirror, because I was sincerely impressed with Boyfriend’s multitasking skills. His face had been buried in Girlfriend’s neck the entire time, and yet he drove a completely straight line and stopped with the required 15 feet between his car and the car in front of him. Your impatience to get down to the biz in the privacy of your parents’ basement is completely understandable, as I’m sure a totally romantic Bruno Mars song had just come on the radio and the mood struck. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that you and I didn’t get into a fender bender, but only because I would have felt incredibly guilty about ruining your special moment. Two thumbs up and an enthusiastic horn-beep to you love birds; you’re in it for the long haul for sure!

To Lawn Hottie, the super sexy lawn mowing guy who my best friend and I shamelessly stalk around the neighborhood: I have no complaints. Keep doin' what you’re doin'.

 



FB Tendencies

I’m on Facebook. A lot. It’s mentioned in basically every single one of my blog posts, it’s how I keep up with all of the gossip from home when I’m at school (and vice versa), and I’m not embarrassed to admit that the majority of my basic stalker knowledge comes from my newsfeed. I’m not obsessed (I SWEAR) but let’s face it, it’s an integral part of modern society.

My experience has shown me that over the years, several common Facebook habits have emerged by way of picture and wall comments, status updates, and the general etiquette of this most flourishing social network. There is no doubt in my mind that you will read each of the below situations and either recall a time where you observed their occurrence or were the culprit of one such act. Now that’s embarrassing.

“I wish there was a love button” – I know it’s hard to remember, but the “Like” button wasn’t always around. I know, I know, what did we do before a time when we could passive-aggressively show interest in an ex’s new relationship or take an insensitive jab at our friend’s broken leg after a misguided four-wheeler accident? But as has been the case with all types of technology (what more can the iPhone 5 do, my laundry?), the public is never satisfied. Therefore, when you have a particularly attractive new profile picture or you actually have NICE friends who applaud the new job you just landed, instead of just hitting “Like,” they have to throw this phrase in Mark Zuckerberg’s face. I'd like a “write my 10-page paper for me” button, or a “hangover be gone” button, but tough luck Aladdin, you can’t always get what you want. Instead of pining after the impossible, why not just voice your approval in a normal way, like, “Hey, congrats man.” I wish there was a be more creative button.

Take 1, Take 2, Take 3 – I live for new photos. I get an unhealthy kick out of posting and captioning my own, and if you start talking to me about your recent trip to the beach, there’s really no need because after spending half an hour stalking your album, I feel like I was there. Creepiness aside, one of the main things that bothers me as I’m casually clicking through people’s pictures is when they have the same one multiple times in a row with the aforementioned caption. “Take 1” is usually one girl smiling with the other one fixing her hair. “Take 2” typically shows first girl laughing and second girl holding out the “I’m not ready!” hand to the photographer. “Take 3” is usually the good picture, or the point at which everyone gives up. Here’s what I’m wondering: instead of posting unnecessary pictures that no one actually has any interest in looking at, why not just post the final product and move on with your life? I’m sure your friend with the hair issues would be thankful for your consideration, and I’d have more time to browse other people’s birthday and wedding memories.

Reposting a profile picture multiple times – Apparently repetition is not my homegirl. I love how you can tell when someone found their ideal profile picture - the one in which they look hot (like, much hotter than they normally ever do/could) and which they’re pretty positive they’ll never be able to duplicate ever again - because of the fact that they’ve used the picture at least ten different times. It’s like their thought process was, “Great God Almighty, my Holy Grail of photographic perfection! I’m never changing it….It’s three months later, this new picture I just got tagged in is almost as attractive…NOPE back to the panty-dropper!…maybe I should change it to a picture of me and my new girlfriend who was swindled by my tricky photography skills…just kidding! You don’t mess with excellence!” Wash, rinse, and repeat several more times and suddenly you’ve got nearly a dozen copies of the same picture and a dumbfounded me asking, “You know you can just reselect the one picture, right?”

“You were so cute…what happened?”  - Oh, your cleverness slays me. Your friend posted a childhood Olan Mills shot with their chubby cheeks and adorable little suspenders, sitting inside of a wagon and giggling like a little angel, and you thought, “Oh I know JUST what to comment on this one.” Newsflash, sistahfriend, IT’S BEEN DONE. This phrase is just so unoriginal and unfunny, it boggles my mind. We get it, ha ha, you want to point out that they used to be cute but with the effects of alcohol and multiple all-nighters their innocence has all but vanished. Well done. And just in case people had trouble reading your comment, four others will write the exact same thing below you, driving the point home and reducing the picture-owner’s self esteem to a pile of dust. Is there really nothing else you could have pointed out? Like the fact that they were wearing suspenders? Comical fodder was at your disposal and you blew it. I wish there was a dislike button for this comment.

“We need to hang out soon!” – I’m gonna make this short and sweet. If you go eight months without giving a single thought to someone, and then bump into them one night at a crowded party where you have a conversation mainly comprised of swapping compliments and catching up on each other’s romantic escapades while simultaneously pocketing random bits of gossip, there is absolutely no need to make plans to hang out in the near future. You two clearly aren’t essential to each others’ lives, and you accomplished everything you needed to in that short chat, so while I understand the social responsibility of posting this phrase to each others’ walls the day after the encounter, we all know that in reality it’s going to be at least another eight months of random “Miss you girl!” messages and countless broken plans until you bump into each other again and the whole cycle repeats itself. Don’t beat a dead horse; just let destiny take the lead and keep the universe in order. Besides, without the cushion of party-fury around you two, how do you know you actually want to chill one-on-one with that person? Something to consider.

Passive-aggressive status fights – If enjoying watching the emotional breakdown of a couple through their dueling status updates is wrong, I sure as hell don’t wanna be right. It all starts when Bob tells Ann that he actually wants to go to the Reds game tonight instead of going out to a nice dinner at Cheesecake Factory and then to play mini golf with her, like she had been planning for the last two days. Obviously, Bob is a thoughtless prick, and due to the fact that their relationship has been on the outs for the past two weeks, Ann’s going to broadcast this fact to everyone in her network. “I wish things were like they used to be :(” Bobs strikes back with a “Nothing like a night with JUST THE GUYS.” Ladies and gentlemen, let’s get ready to rumble.

Ann: “I love when my girls take me out to make me feel better! Y’all are the best! Boys can’t stop staring at the HoTt LaDiEz!”

Bob: “Ha love when creepy guidos post on my gf’s wall. Nice try dude.”

Ann: “Ha love when my boyfriend doesn’t make time for me and then wants to come over later. Nice try dude.”

Bob: “Bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks.”

Ann: “The more men I meet, the more I love my dog <3”

Bob: “Shootin hoops to blow off steam. Damn, I’m getting too old for this.”

Ann: “Off to VA Beach for the weekend with my best friend of 12 years Derrick! So glad to get away with one of the nicest guys I know!”

Bob: “FUCK YOU ANN YOU WORTHLESS SLUT I HOPE YOUR DIRTY ROTTEN CHLAMYDIA-INFESTED VAGINA BURNS HOTTER THAN HELL YOU HEARTLESS WHORE”

Ann: “LIKE YOU’D KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MY VAGINA BOB IT’S NOT LIKE YOU EVER GOT ANYWHERE CLOSE TO IT! ASK DERRICK WHAT IT’S LIKE HE WAS SO MUCH BETTER THAN YOU’LL EVER BE!”

Bob: “You know pimpin ain’t easy”

Ann: “All the single ladies, now put your hands UP ;)”

Better than Christmas, man.

Oh Österreich

My time in Europe is coming to a close, and while I realize I haven’t posted nearly as much as anyone would’ve liked, I figure my trip here in Bregenz was essentially like a novel you have to read for English class: I can give you the book, but we all know you’re going to head straight to Sparknotes for the abridged version anyway. No skin off my nose, I got to spend a month admiring the Alps and eating gelato while you sat in a classroom/office and YouTubed Jason Aldean songs wishing the adult world would pump the brakes. Sucks to suck!

I’ve found Austria and its geographic cohorts incessantly entertaining throughout my stay. Not just middle-school-humor entertaining (fahrt = ride, puppenhaus = dollhouse…I’m sorry, some things just aren’t worth the trouble of growing out of), but knee-slappingly, goshdarnit-they-don’t-know-how-hilarious-they’re-truly-being comical. Here are a few of my favorite incidences that made me want to plant a wet one on every unsuspecting Franz, Johann, and Wolfgang on the street:

People Assuming I’m British – “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” “Oh, ich spreche nicht Deutsch. Spreche Englisch?” “Ja! You are from London?” ß I can’t tell you how many times this exchange occurred. I like speaking in a British accent as much as the next person, and on more than one inappropriate occasion an overzealous “’ELLO GOVNAH!” has escaped my mouth, but I’m pretty positive that at the end of the day and/or in typical conversation, my accent is made in the USA. It got to the point that even if I had been having an English conversation with someone and they finally asked if I was from England, I would switch to a British accent, if only for a sentence, to see if they would catch the change. If there were grounds for me to take offense to this, I probably would have, but their assumptions weren’t based off of terrible oral hygiene or lack of culinary ability so I’ll just chalk it up to my very articulate pronunciation and move on.

Children with Accents – I love little kids (in a compassionate way, not a To Catch a Predator way). Whether it’s their adorable mispronunciation of the word “spaghetti” or the fact that we’re on the same psychological wavelength, I would take hanging out with a group of kindergarteners over the goons I currently associate with any day of the week. I also work with kids, so I’m used to the spontaneous shrieks of happiness and the nonstop chattering about nothing in particular that they tend to produce. When I was listening to the quiet hum of Bregenz from my window one day, I heard one such little girl rambling on and on and laughed to myself because once again I could barely understand what she was saying. Only this time, it wasn’t because she was going a mile a minute about their new Pillow Pet or the last episode of Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!, but because the kid had a FREAKING ACCENT! Omigoshsocute. I don’t know how parents here discipline their children, because even if my future son/daughter were to tell me they had burned the house down, saying it with a precious spit-filled “ich” would make it impossible for me to get angry. I want to bring them all home and keep them in a little room that I can go into whenever I need some Austrian silliness in my life. I’m just not sure how I’d get them through customs.

German Banner Ads – Upon arriving in Bregenz, it took me about a week to get the internet up and running on my computer. When I finally did, I was met with a very interesting surprise: the ads along my sidebar were all entirely in German. German dating sites, German pet adoption, The Secret to Getting Rock Hard Abs (in German); if I didn’t know better, I’d think the Austrian internet provider was mocking my single life and admitted weight gain, but that’s beside the point. I’m not sure why this tickles me so, because rationally if I’m in another country, there will not be American ads plastered all over the place. Poor Wanda (my laptop) must be so confused. Seeing the ads for clothing stores I’ll never be able to go to and LivingSocial coupons I’ll never be able to cash in is a little disappointing, and a lot of the time the pictures in the ads are fascinating but reality quickly hits when I have no idea what they’re selling me on. Either way, www.Flirtfair.at sounds like it’s got whatever I need whenever I need it, so that one’s totally getting bookmarked.

Tone-deaf Austrians – Have you ever been sitting on the steps leading into Lake Constance and heard a familiar tune far off in the distance, but were unable to determine what said tune was because of some unrecognizable hindrance? Have you determined that, for once, the obstacle was not the heavy German accent accompanying the tune? Have you finally realized that the tune was Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” but just barely because the person was so off-key that it almost rendered the melody unlistenable, and you actually questioned the message of the song in relation to your current situation because the performer was so terrible that the deafening foghorn that drowned her out moments later was actually preferable to suffering through to the sound of dying cat that was ringing from her vocal cords? I have. Twice.

Old School Pop/Rock Music – Every morning, my roommate and I would sit at breakfast with our host parents, who I affectionately named House Mama and House Daddy, eating yogurt with muesli and homemade bread with Nutella or cheese. Life was good. Life got even better when the radio was turned on and Bryan Adams’ Everything I Do (I Do it For You) started playing, followed by the Eagles’ Desperado. Each and every song that played was some kind of pop or rock song dating back to the 70’s, with the occasional polka thrown into the mix for a cultural reminder. The best part? House Daddy knew every word! The man can hold a conversation in a wonderful mix of German and English (Germenglan?), yet he recites every line of Springsteen’s Born in the USA perfectly? This place is just too fantastic.

Colmar Calamity

Let's discuss my birthday weekend in Colmar, France.

We began the trip at 7am on Friday, and with two connecting trains and a hotel stay about 10 miles outside of town, we figured our weekend would be a smidge eventful, but nothing too severe. Oh that I was so young and naïve.  

We arrived at our first train stop in Feldkirch, Austria with just three minutes to connect. I was never very good at thoroughly following directions in elementary school, so naturally, I read our travel itinerary wrong. Instead of departing from platform 3, we were supposed to be at 4A, which sounds close but was actually across a set of treacherous-looking tracks. We scramble to get there only to find no train in sight. We still have a minute before it takes off, where could it be? That can't possibly be it all the way down the platform at 4D, can it? That can't possibly be the conductor sounding the whistle, can it? That can't possibly be our train pulling away from the station, can it? Oh, it be. Remaining calm is the name of the game, so after finding a new connector and sitting around for a while, we were back in motion.

After a smooth transfer in Zurich, we arrived in Colmar. First order of business was finding a place to eat and pee – in no particular order, but for sanitary reasons, preferably not simultaneously. Now I obviously assumed that people in a small French town wouldn't speak much English, but the train station info center girl? She should reconsider the occupational skills section of her resume. French people like to tell you “yes” to your questions even when they really mean “I have no idea but this will probably get you to go away faster,” so after a good 10 minute discussion that achieved nothing but absolute confusion, we finally just lied and said we completely understood and headed out in the general aimless area which she had described.

Wandering through the upscale suburban neighborhoods of town was a lovely experience, but at this point we were starving, and considering we only had an address and a prayer to lead us to our hotel, we decided it would be smart to find it before it got dark and the creeps came out to play. We stopped at a random bus stop to reevaluate our lives when a cute old woman dressed in all white (helloooo symbolism) took pity on us and tried to help. She barely spoke English, so after a lively exchange of pointing at maps, nodding, and pronouncing things in all kinds of wrong ways, we ended up following her along the bus route until we ended up at a point where we assured her "We can take it from here." Wish it were that easy.

Our hotel was named Fasthotel Colmar-Houssen, so logically, taking the bus into Houssen and getting off at the stop named Houssen Centre made us feel like masters of the French public transportation system. Unfortunately, this was incorrect. Albeit adorable, this place was a ghost town, and there wasn’t a sign for our hotel (or anything else, for that matter) anywhere in sight. Minor anxiety mixed with fatigue began to set in. It was at this point that I asked myself “What would Bear Grylls do?” but then I realized he’s a jack of all trades and probably spoke French, so that was a bust. We moseyed around, we used our go-to phrase "Parlez vous anglais?", we almost got attacked by a lumber yard watchdog, we were summoned by a cute yet suspicious character in a black BMW, we trekked through a corn field, and after nearly 4 hours and 10 miles almost entirely on foot, we arrived. Cue immediate pass-out.

The next morning (BIRTHDAY MORNING WOOO), we woke up and showered in our cruise line-sized bathroom, ate our complimentary breakfast of yogurt, chocolate-filled croissants, and orange juice, and bussed it all the way to Colmar. Things were looking good. I’m finally 21! The excitement built up so much that when I hastily jumped off the bus, my shoe strap snapped. Awesome. Walking more than 5 steps proved to be impossible, so I decided to show the French how fashion-forward I can truly be and went barefoot. We quickly found a store and I dropped 50 euro (about 75 American dollars) on a pair of cute gladiator-esque sandals because it was my birthday and I can be broke if I want to.

The rest of the day consisted of gallivanting through the charming streets of Colmar – shopping, eating, people watching, and last but absolutely not least, taking a gondola ride through the canal which earned the town the nickname Petite Venise. It was exactly like the pictures I had Googled, which is very important to me because after a few missteps with misleading hotel reservations, I had become accustomed to the idea that what you see is definitely not what you get. We had been drinking wine throughout the day and decided to switch it up with a few Happy Birthday Heinekens, along with a surprise Happy Birthday Waffle brought out by the waiter. A little off the beaten path in terms of birthday traditions, but I love me some free dessert. Finally, we headed back to our humblest of abodes to watch our five channels of TV and sleep.


Might need to make this a regular thing...

 If you ever need a place to visit that is NOT Paris, I would highly suggest Colmar as a firm option. It's the quintessential storybook town and it took everything in me not to burst into a Beauty and the Beast sing-a-long on every corner. Of course that could’ve been the wine peeking through, but I heard that when you join the Legal Drinker’s Club of America, behavior like that is customary and in most parts of the world, encouraged. Joyeux Anniversaire à moi!