How to Enjoy the DMV

I am one lazy sonuvabeautifulwoman, for many reasons that all culminate in the fact that I've been using a license with "Under 21" engraved across the top for over a year. It never seemed like a big enough deal to me to go through the process of "getting it flipped" because A) I was in Kentucky the majority of the time so I really couldn't anyway, and B) my license picture was actually semi-decent and you don't mess with success.
It wasn't until recently that it seemed as though everyone in a position of power (i.e. those who provide me with alcohol) took issue with my vertical identification. One night, a beverage cart lady refused to sell me a Stella Artois because my ID wasn't facing the correct way, not only pissing me off but thoroughly inhibiting my ability to be classy. A slew of similar events finally convinced me to to solve the problem once and for all, and since I am briefly home in good ole NOT WEST Virginia, I figured a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles was in order.
The DMV is an awful place. No one will argue with that. Normally, I would dread a visit there, but for some reason this morning I woke up in a stellar mood, and decided that I was going to make this the best experience it could possibly be. Since it is my nature to share my expertise with the masses, I hope the next time you have some vehicular responsibilities to take care of, you will follow these guidelines and resist the urge to backhand whichever parent decided to bring their screaming toddler with them to purchase a vanity plate.

Proof I can't have an Instagram:
I'm super uncomfortable taking
pictures of myself

Step 1 - Get wildly overdressed for the occasion: Everyone at the DMV wants to kill themselves. Maybe not outright, but I'm pretty positive the glamour of suicide seems enticing to all parties as you wait in line for 45 minutes surrounded by people who cough without covering their mouths. Getting ready this morning, I avoided the Soffe's-and-a-T-shirt route and instead put on real clothes. This is a struggle for me basically any day of the week, but it is my experience that a person who looks halfway presentable gets a hell a lot further than the one who has ketchup stains on their wife beater, so I eeked out the extra effort. I'm pretty sure Paris Hilton has a quote about this, but like anything pertaining to Paris Hilton, I don't give enough of a shit to google it.

Step 2 - Make friends in line: In college, I might as well have gotten my degree in girl-on-girl social interaction, because after 4 years of obligatory friendliness at house parties, etc., I am an expert in pretending I'm not a bitch making temporary BFF's. The line at the DMV is notoriously long, regardless of the time of day, and instead of playing Tetris on my phone while avoiding eye contact, I decided to force an innocent bystander into conversation. The girl directly in front of me also got the Look Cute memo, so I instantly complimented her on her maxi dress. And also on her Longchamp. And then she complimented me on my skirt, and I could tell that we'd both played this game before. We bonded over the fact that no one likes coming to the DMV and made her boyfriend feel like a superstar for waiting with her, and she was called to be helped right before I was going to ask her if she'd like to forget this crazy world and run away to Europe with me. I think I found my soulmate.

Step 3 - Get competitive: Stupidity runs rampant at the DMV. People are always forgetting important papers or alternate forms of ID or their first name, which usually results in several losers exasperatedly removing themselves from the line and trudging back to their cars in a huff of frustration and defeat. Bitches. I live to one-up the weakling of the group, and this is the perfect opportunity to do so. Watch with disgusting pleasure as individuals drop like flies, ambling past you with their heads hung low, both of you knowing that their error has gotten you one step closer to getting home in time to watch Ellen.

Step 4 - Embellish your personal info: Minus a few parking tickets and an unfortunate accident in a Subway parking lot when I was 17, I am very proud to say that I have never been involved in a car issue that has required police involvement and/or any sort of courthouse visit. Therefore, since my time doesn't need to be spent creatively side-stepping these types of situations under the "Driving History" section of my forms, I get my kicks elsewhere. Those who are fortunate enough to see me on a regular Wednesday afternoon (when I am not donning 4-inch wedges) know that I am not, in fact, average-sized. I don't think my boyfriend even realized how short I truly was until about three weeks into our relationship when I finally wore TOMS to go get Jimmy John's. While everyone else would swear up and down that I'm an even five feet tall, I use this opportunity of alone time to add the extra inch and be known across the state of VA as 5'1". I also got very specific with my hair color and wrote "light brown" because I figure this will cover whatever questionable hair choices I make over the next ten years. Side note: I debated changing it up and recording my eye color as "Hazel" strictly because I was feeling saucy, but then thought better of it because I was starting to feel like I was entering myself into the Witness Protection Program instead of just renewing my license.

Step 5 - Accept DMV Dude's flirtatious advances: No one likes being at this godforsaken place less than the people working there. Between the aforementioned idiots arriving in troves and the fact that the room is seriously underdecorated, I can't imagine surviving an 8-hour shift without entirely losing my mind. Apparently, though, Rajesh (my guy and potential new lover) took the same optimism pill as I did this morning and was refreshingly chipper. We joked about how unnecessarily necessary it was to represent my legality through a 90-degree rotation of my picture, and he assured me that I should keep my hair blonde regardless of what my license says because it is "very beautiful" (a point of contention I will use against my boyfriend next time he suggests I go back to brunette. Who could disagree with the wisdom of a DMV worker? Exactly). Rajesh said that it could take up to 10 days for my new license to arrive, but something tells me that he's going to expedite the process just for me, and that he will also be keeping a copy of my photo for himself because his creep vibe was way strong.

No Fun

All in all, I'd call this DMV visit a monumental success. I considered making a grand exit complete with Miss America waves and a curtsy, but everyone else seemed peeved by my positive attitude, so I instead decided to shoot an encouraging smile at the 15-year-old kid who was about to fail his driving test for the second time and cut my losses. I can only hope that my picture didn't turn out god-awful, and that I can finally go buy my Stella in peace.

Retail Rant

Working in retail is like working in hell.

Anyone who works in retail will support this assertion.

If you work in the food service industry, you are in a deeper circle of hell than I, in which people send back the plate of food that they’ve already finished because it’s “not what I ordered” and ask for extra sides of ranch for no other reason than the fact that they feel better if there are at least twelve ounces of ranch within a five foot radius of their body at any given time. You win.

The retail world, however, has its own woes. Let me break down a few of the miseries I experience on a daily basis, and maybe, on your next shopping excursion, you will realize that your friendly sales associate would actually rather go all bath salts on your ass than dig through a perfectly folded pile for a size medium that you definitely cannot squeeze into.

Upon entering the store, I am obligated to greet you. “Hey there, how are you doing today?” could either be a genuine enquiry or a segue into informing you about the new merchandise we just put out. I’m not asking you to be my blood brother or to babysit my dog while I’m on vacation; I’m just asking a simple question. I may be small, but my vocal cords are mighty, and I know you heard me. Continuing past me as if I didn’t exist – much less asked you about your current state of being – is rude and automatically guarantees that I will tell you the least-flattering pair of shorts you try on “Looks great!” Take that, fat ass; all you had to do was say hi.

Now I happen to work in a store that specializes in jeans. We sell other shit too, but we are in the jeans business, and the well-made jeans business at that. Well-made, brand-name jeans are expensive. The jeans you bought at Old Navy that give you saggy Mom Butt and accentuate your fupa are the opposite of well-made and are falling apart for that reason. When you come up to me and ask, “Are these really $99?” and I reply with the affirmative, don’t look at me like I’m a founding father of the KKK. It wasn’t me, I didn’t do it, it’s not my fault. “Can you afford $100 jeans?” you ask me condescendingly. Fucking of course not, you moron, that’s why I work here and get the discount. If we had such a problem selling the jeans at their full price, this store probably wouldn’t be here and they would’ve replaced us with a Gymboree months ago. Quit yer bitchin and either try a pair on or get out of my way: I have board folding to do.

Side note: since I do work in a specialty-brand jeans store, the joke, “Do you guys sell jeans?” lost all of its hilarity about halfway through my first day. Just stop.

So let’s say the previous transactions have gone smoothly and you’ve agreed to try on a few styles in a fitting room. We’ve gone through the whole, “How do you like your jeans to fit? What size do you think we’re looking for? Do you prefer a boot leg or straight leg? Light wash or dark wash?” spiel, and you have about six pairs of jeans at your disposal. At this time, we’ve already spent a solid ten minutes together, and I feel like we’ve forged a decent bond. I know things about you that I don’t even know about my own family, and while I wait for you to show me how the next pair looks I strongly consider inviting you to my wedding and making your niece my flower girl. “What do you think?” I ask about the dark-wash slim-fit boot leg you’re modeling. “The fit is great, I really like these a lot!” you say enthusiastically. Hooray! Success! Good things! As I am anticipating the wave of achievement that can only be felt by swiping someone’s MasterCard for $150, you all of a sudden exit the fitting room, no jeans in hand, and say, “I think I’m gonna come back later. Thanks,” and out you go. The curses I utter as I return the jeans to their shelves are enough to shock Richard Pryor, and I can only hope every item of clothing you wear for the rest of your life either shrinks in the dryer or loses all of its elasticity and never fits the same EVER.

I actually really do enjoy my job – mostly because I work with some hilarious people and we all agree that being treated like shit by customers is more entertaining than degrading – but please keep in mind: if you’ve made the trip to the mall, you probably had at least half an intention of purchasing something. Being an asshole to me is completely unnecessary, and when I see you out in the real world, you will realize that we are, in fact, the same species. The only difference is, my jeans were 60% off, and no one lied to me about whether or not they hide my muffin top.

 Thanks for stopping in! Come back and see us!

Thrust into the Real World: Month 2

Things have not gotten better in my second month of forced adulthood.

First of all, apartment hunting is not only a huge pain in the ass, but also, it makes me want to die. Like I was actually driving to work this morning and thought, “Huh, you know what would make this housing search a lot less stressful and would allow me to sleep through the night without nightmares of homelessness and shame? Getting massacred by that huge eighteen-wheeler filled with gasoline barreling down behind me.”

That, my friends, is morbid. But I’m nothing if not honest, and I figured if I got into a harrowing car accident [that I somehow survived because I’m one resilient mofo], at least I’d get a cushy stay in a hospital bed for a few weeks and could continue to Google one-bedrooms with the assistance of a morphine drip.

Because the stress of home-hunting has left me broken and battered, I have realized that I heavily depend on two things to quell my anxiety: Diners Drive-ins and Dives, and My Drunk Kitchen. It should come as no surprise that my bank account hasn’t really improved in the last month, and I’m still broke as a joke making meals out of canned green beans and Yoplait Lights (100-calorie White Chocolate Strawberry: get in my belleh), but these two shows are solely responsible for keeping me from making horrible decisions.

Number one: Instead of stress-eating (as I am prone to do), I watch Guy Fieri do The Hunch over a massive bacon-wrapped bison burger, and in my malnutritioned state of being, I can actually taste said burger in my mouth, and my stomach is satisfied. Juices dripping to my elbows, cheese grease slicked across my face, pieces of lettuce sticking to the corners of my mouth. Nom. Side note: I don’t even like burgers, which is an even greater testament to how close I am to becoming a featured charity case on a Christian Children’s Fund commercial.

Number two: Alcohol is not the answer….Until you’re forced to get your apartment application co-signed and you start crying in front of the leasing agent and all of the precious decorating plans you made for the PERFECT studio apartment you found all retreat into the distance as Nickelback plays mockingly and mercilessly in the background. Ten Months Ago Skylar would’ve picked the world up and dropped it on its fuckin head while simultaneously chugging a bottle of Pinot. NOT ANYMORE. Hannah Hart does this for me, while hilariously creating “meals” that really just consist of passing a bottle of Svedka back and forth and making witty puns that even I didn’t see coming. The best part about this is, I am distracted by my pathetic post-grad life for a good  3 ½ minutes; I get in a much-needed laugh or twenty; and for some reason (and my roommate backs me on this), you can watch these videos without a glass of anything alcoholic and I swear you’re still buzzed afterward. Maybe life isn’t so bad after all.

Stayed tuned for next month’s update! Perhaps I’ll actually be living in a place that has a roof, typing up these posts on a brand new computer, occupied by things other than a man with peroxide-blonde Dragon Ball Z hair? Dare to dream, friends.

Surprise Stud: Jason Mraz

From listening to him speak, you would think that Jason Mraz was a quintessential over-emotional, my-guitar-communicates-my-pain, I’ve-dated-Taylor-Swift musician. He sounds like he voluntarily reads bedtime stories to terminally ill children every Wednesday night and has three pet Dollface Persian Kittens.  

This sweet and smooth voice is very deceiving.

The guy is a freak.

We’ve all listened to his radio hits and just thought they were poppy little songs showcasing Mraz’s impeccable diction. False. They are so effing sexual. “I can save you from unoriginal dum-dums/Who wouldn't care if you com...plete them or not”? “I'm yearning to turn you on/I've been working on getting you off, so get on board”? Jason Mraz isn’t a virgin?! This is worse than when I found out Jason the Red Ranger became a porn star.

When he’s not banging hot chicks, we’d all like to believe that Mraz was planting peonies in his garden. If by “peonies” we meant “marijuana,” we’d be right. He’s a huge pothead! In 2009, he marched to “Free the Weed” and has been quoted as saying, “Pot laws are ridiculous.” He’s even been arrested for possession! What?! I guess this explains his laid-back vibe and brings a whole new meaning to his song “Live High.”

He first premiered on the scene with “The Remedy” and basically looked like every half-cool college guy with an ironic t-shirt who got his hair trimmed every six weeks. Now, he’s coming at us with Jesus hair, hippie beanies, and an array of philanthropic work that makes Dave Matthews look like Hitler. His scruffy man-beard is a thing of beauty. I have to congratulate Mr. A to Z on keeping up appearances for so long, because it’s quite obvious that now that he’s achieved repeated success, he’s going for the gusto and letting it all hang out. I can’t knock him for being a bit of a manwhore or being a fan of the ganja, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t all take me by surprise. For some reason, I expect these things out of John Mayer…but then again, he is THE quintessential over-emotional, my-guitar-communicates-my-pain, I’ve-dated-Taylor-Swift musician. Score one for Jason. 

Frienemies

Technical Difficulties

I am a bad computer mommy.

To whom it may concern: I have not/will not/cannot be posting as much hilarious stuff for your reading pleasure in the next few weeks because Wanda, my laptop, has kicked the bucket.

This probably could've been prevented.
- When her battery started to go and she needed to be constantly plugged in, I simply scoped out every outlet in a 2-mile radius and kept on keeping on.
- When I incurred second-degree burns on my thighs while Facebooking in bed, I should've realized that her fan was working overtime and that she needed to see the IT doctor in order to fix her fever.
- When my speakers went silent and I could no longer blast Christina Aguilera Pandora at 100-level volume, I cheated on Wanda by getting my "Dirrty" fix through Nadine, my phone.
- When she warned me with a random shut-down, I let her have her space for about an hour, only to turn her on again and have her work for me like nothing happened. I am a slut (to be fair, so is she).
- When she died for good, she made sure I felt the error of my ways by doing so on the day that I had two huge interviews to conduct that required e-mail correspondence and audio transcription.

For all of this, I am deeply ashamed and inexplicably sorry.

So this is just a case of too little too late. I'm also broke as a joke and will probably sell my kidney, eggs, and blood plasma simultaneously in order to rack up some funds to buy a new Wanda. Of course, I'll pick a new name, because the memories will just be too painful.

R.I.P. Wanda H. Packard. You were a good piece of machinery. Thank you for never judging my lack of tech-savvy, ignoring the crumbs in the keyboard, and keeping just how often I actually YouTube scenes from "Best in Show" on the downlow. 

Thrust into the Real World: Month 1

It would be wonderful if I could tell you that, since graduating on May 12, I had secured my dream job and was moving to Boston to become a successful twenty-something with a fabulous loft apartment and a newfound taste for Chai Tea lattes.

This could probably not be more false.

Instead, my entrance into the real world has consisted of downloading a weight loss app, riding a mechanical bull, and buying a pair of wedges on mega clearance ($70 down to $17, I’m still not over it). My one saving grace is the fact that my name has finally been printed in the magazine I’m interning for, and even with that I’m trying not to overanalyze just how much of an asset they consider me to be after listing my name last out of all interns (alphabetizing be damned).

Is this how it’s supposed to be?

Is it still acceptable that I’m eating Ramen and canned tuna and considering them both to be balanced meals?

Isn’t my resume magically supposed to be overflowing with achievements and valuable experience by now?

Aren’t I supposed to be discovered by some Hollywood agent who sees promise in my mildly offensive humor and ignores my lack of acting experience, making me the new long-lost cousin on Modern Family?

When exactly do I have to stop taking satisfaction in passive aggressive Facebook status fights between couples?

What the hell is this whole “adulthood” bullshit?

I did not spend four years of my life Sparknotesing Shakespeare just to learn that half of the apartments advertised on Craigslist are actually in the ghetto and that coin laundry is not, in fact, a thing of the past. Getting frustrated with the whole apartment-search experience has, however, led me to my newest hobby/obsession: Craigslist personals ads, specifically Men Seeking Trannies. But I digress.

Hopefully, I’ll find a job sometime in the near future that does not require me to ask “Are you looking for jeans today?” or “Would you like the receipt with you or in the bag?” Until then, I just hope that at least a few other post-grad lives out there look as bleak and unassuming as mine. Now if you’ll excuse me, One Day is on HBO for the twelfth time in the past three weeks and I’d like to go criticize Anne Hathaway’s debatably “British” accent.

The Soundtrack to My Life

If you have never been to Disney World, you need to go. No, this is not a paid endorsement (although if they’d like to throw a few bucks my way for the publicity I’d be cool with it), and no, I’m not trying to make all of you deprived adult children out there feel bad about the fact that your parents didn’t love you enough to take you to the Happiest Place on Earth. There’s a lot more to it than Mickey Mouse-shaped fudgesicles and multiple rides through It’s A Small World. If I could incorporate aspects of the Disney fantasy into my everyday life, I would obviously start by beginning each day with a spin through the Teacup ride and having rotating daily lunch dates with each of the seven dwarves. Unfortunately, this is not realistic, but with the help of an iPod and an impressive need to feel like the most important person alive at any given moment, I have found a way to quell these magical desires.

 

 

In any Disney movie, the characters cannot seem to walk around without some kind of cheerful flute tune or ominous cello music reflecting their current situation. I’m the first to admit that my mood fluctuates as often as Miley Cyrus’ role model status, and I think it’d just be easier for everyone I come in contact with if there was some tunage to indicate how I felt at one particular second or another. Enter The Soundtrack to Skylar’s Life:

When I get up in the morning: The first three minutes will be dedicated exclusively to Wham!’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” simply because it’s an upper and anything that distracts me from the fact that it’s 7:30 a.m. is a huge plus. As I get out of bed and get ready, it will switch to a montage of girl power songs like Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Women Part 1,” Christina Aguilera’s “Can’t Hold Us Down,” and Kelis’ “Milkshake.” I can now take on the day.

 

 

When I’m driving to my internship: Ludacris’ “Move Bitch,” because navigating through Downtown is a nightmare, and then the Speed Racer theme song because I’m perpetually late.

 

 

When I finish my work and the other slacker intern’s assignment all in one day: A back-to-back combo of Tina Turner’s “Simply the Best,” “It Ain’t Hard to Tell” by Nas, and obviously, “The World’s Greatest” by R. Kelly.

When I realize I won’t have time to go to the gym today and immediately decide to throw all calories out the window: Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls.” And “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-A-Lot. Then Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt.” Because I now feel like a fatass and realize I probably have some kind of seriously twisted relationship with food.

When I get a cute text from my boyfriend: “Sweet Pea” by Amos Lee because it’s just precious and so is he J.  

When work calls and tells me they need me to come in half an hour early: “Hate My Life” by Theory of a Deadman. This needs no explanation.

When I’m helping a guy in the fitting room and his girlfriend is giving me the stink eye from across the store: Tila Tequila’s “Fuck Ya Man” to her, and to him, Avril Lavigne’s “Girlfriend” minus the whole, “I should be your girlfriend” part because thanks but no thanks I’m not interested, I’m just trying to get you to buy a $120 pair of jeans and hopefully a belt.

 

 

When no one’s come into the store for an hour and a half and I’ve refolded the same pile of denim twice: Todd Rundgren’s “Bang on the Drum,” followed by Blue Oyster Cult’s “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” because I’m almost positive I’m going to die surrounded by peasant blouses and graphic tees.

When I meet my friends at a bar after work and they’re already breakin’ it down on the dance floor: Without question, “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” by Will Smith. Since I am not yet drunk but don’t want to miss out on the fun, I throw my self-consciousness to the wind and on comes Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance.” After a few whiskey and Cokes, Jamiroquai’s “Canned Heat,” Snoop Dogg’s “Drop It Like It’s Hot,” Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose,” and Irene Cara’s “What A Feeling” will ensure that the mental image I have of myself while dancing is vastly different from the actual display of awkwardness taking place.

 

 

When I get tired of people stepping on my feet and Fun Drunk Skylar turns hostile: Mystikal’s “Danger,” then “Awnaw” by Nappy Roots. This is not the time to mess with me.

When the cabbie drives completely out of the way because he realizes we’re too tipsy to notice: Supertramp’s “Take the Long Way Home.” When we arrive at our apartment and our fare tops out at $20 even though the usual ride costs only $8 but we’ve had such a fun night that no one really cares, the friend with cash hands it over while T.I.’s “Whatever You Like” plays

When I climb in bed only to realize that I have to be up again in four hours: Drake saying “Yolo” over and over and over and over and over and over and over…