A Brief Open Letter to the Woman at the Dog Park

Is your name Starlight? Or maybe Rainbow-serenity? Let’s go with Starlight. I hope that’s okay, Starlight. When I was little I’m pretty sure I dreamed of your free-spirited ease of being and penned a song about you entitled, “Why can’t the world be free?” More than anything, I think the song scared my dad into fearing my future liberal political and social endeavors. I have a few confessions, Starlight, and since you’ve shared with me that you’re moving to “the new high rises downtown” I feel like it’s a good time to get them out in the open.

First, my fiance saw your boobs. I know! I know! Do you also feel a lot closer now? I do. I feel great getting this off my chest, (see what I did there?!?). He didn’t comment much about them which inevitably means they were impressive and I can see that, Starlight. Like, literally I can see the outline of your breasts because you’re never wearing a bra — the nipples too. And that’s okay! Bras are just a cagey nuisance of underwire and female suppression. And you know, if only all of us women could be so open as to share our boobs with the world via our patios maybe, just maybe we’d be a freer place.

I just found out this is called "African Style" and I'm left wondering... why does everyone hate Americans so much?

I just found out this is called “African Style” and I’m left wondering… why does everyone hate Americans so much?

When did you have your adorable baby, Starlight, and do you also think he has the head of Rob Reiner? Like, not in a bad way, he just has the biggest baby head I’ve ever seen. And this concerns me, as the level of shape your body is in would put Cosmopolitan’s “How to lose (insert area of body that any women has ever complained about)…” section out of business.  Is it because you are constantly carrying that nugget on your back using a tie-dyed sheet and a few overhand knots? Wait, did you secretly grow up in Laguna Beach, CA where your father taught you to sail and do things like tie knots properly? Now that I think of it, your red hair did not seem all that natural (because women born there can only be blonde. And rich. You know, because, Laguna Beach). Were you friends with LC? How about her and that Kohl’s deal, amiright? I’m sure you’re happy for her. Because, you know, karma and good vibes.

I have to admit that I’ve often thought about the nature of your family, like in the way that I could’ve sworn your baby daddy was a homosexual male. And it’s obviously none of my business, except for the times he yells “hi!” when I’m out on my balcony which is an obvious open invitation to examine your personal lives. It’s just, his hair is so perfectly unkempt and also that time I swore he was holding hands with a man. It’s confusing! Are you guys pulling an The Object of My Affection starring late 90s Jen Aniston and Paul Rudd? Because who wouldn’t want to raise her child with gay Paul Rudd? If so, no judgment here!

Because wouldn't we all marry gay Paul Rudd?

We’d all marry gay Paul Rudd.

Mostly, I just want you to know I’m thinking of you and how much you look like Jenny Lewis and how jealous that makes me. Oh, and I also wanted to know if all of your friends also look like a combination of the Lost Boys from Hook and members of an up-and-coming indie band or is that just you? And also sure, your baby is a pretty fucking loud crier (But still totz adorbz!).

Apparently, the Lost Boys may have actually formed an Indie band already...

Apparently, the Lost Boys may have actually formed an Indie band already…

Enjoy your new home in downtown Austin, Starlight! (Remind me again how you mysteriously make enough money to live in downtown Austin yet could pass for not having a shower in your home…)

Love,

Your nosey neighbors! xoxo

About that Time I Met Mindy Kaling

Did I wake up that morning thinking I’d meet her? No, I did not, but there was a chill in the air from the North and I was having a good hair day, so you could say there were some signs.

If you haven't watched clips of this play yet while then I actually don't want to hear from you...

If you haven’t watched clips of this play yet while then I actually don’t want to hear from you…

And of course I had imagined it the way I still imagine sitting front row at the off, off Broadway production of Matt and Ben (curse my high school self’s sense of social importance for preventing me from seeing this work of gold!.) I’d walk up to her majesty and pretend like we had met before. I could see it all now. I’d call her red jumper “bold” and she’d tell me she liked my new Zara coat — “classic yet current,” she’d say. Soon enough we’d be chatting about her time playing Ben Affleck, the writer’s room at The Office, and the struggle of being a woman in comedy.

Somebody would snap a picture of us assuming I was also a celebrity because of the comfortable and candid nature of our interaction. The picture would get retweeted endlessly by the like twelve followers I have till it inevitably ends up on Perez with the caption “Mindy and her new bestie, Aly, a writer currently living in Austin” and then he’d say something cheeky like, “watch out Mindy, that new bestie has some serious styleZz” or “this girl gives writers a GOOD-LOOKING name.” Seriously, I could be like Karlie Kloss to Taylor Swift, except for the whole me not being a supermodel thing.

Chic, right? Right?!?!

Chic, right? Right?!?!

The day it happened as I said, I was wearing my new Zara coat because I recently decided Zara was super chic and also so it wasn’t obvious that I was not in possession of a festival badge. (SXSW Hierarchy breakdown: badges get you in to everything, wristbands get you into almost everything, having neither gets you in a line for three hours to see some random indie band from fifty yards away.)

So as I approached the Austin Convention center with Matti, badgeless save for the press badge I consistently imagine myself wearing, I readied myself. Sure, even existing in the same building as Mindy Kaling was enough to brag about for days but I needed to actually see her, breathe in her full-bodied, female talent or whatever. When we entered the building it was clear that security was ready for me — every possible entrance to upstairs, (or heaven as I came to see it) was guarded by some volunteer who’s only job was to shame people without badges into not asking if they could go upstairs. I eyed my target by the elevator, an innocent looking young man who reminded me of the skinny Conor Oberst fans I used to make fall in love with me in middle school — so, I had this in the bag.

“How do I get upstairs?” I asked the the fifteen-year old guarding the elevator.

“Probably by using that elevator.” Well, that was easy.

I liked his style, direct, to the point. As I hopped on to the elevator, Matti was caught by the Connor Obersty looking temple guard as he exclaimed, “Badges, only, people, badges only!” Apparently, the boy had turned in to an angry Newsie after I entered the elevator.

I felt unjustifiably avenged as I rode the elevator to my ultimate destiny while Matti was left behind in the figurative dust. “Female comics unite!” I repeated over and over under my breath like my own personal Captain Planet mantra.

The older, badge-holding woman standing next to me in the elevator chimed in, “he’s not going to get up here without a badge.” and then as the statement left her lips lined with a magenta pencil, she started to look me up and down, “wait do you even have a badge?”

“YOU WILL NOT RUIN THIS FOR ME,” I loud whispered at her as we exited the elevator.

The closest I got to Perez Hilton stardom was a mini photo shoot Matti took of me posing with a signed picture of Mindy. Things could be worse..

The closest I got to Perez Hilton stardom was a mini photo shoot Matti took of me posing with a signed picture of Mindy. Things could be worse..

And then I saw her. Doves flew from under the table she was signing at and I could have sworn I heard Beyonce live-singing “Who run the world? Girls!!!” in the background like I was slow-motion-walking into my future or some shit.

After waiting in line for about 30 minutes the devil dressed in a “Volunteer SXSW” t-shirt came up to me and the others in line, put his hand straight out in front of me and said, “this is where the cut off will be to meet Mindy, but you’re welcome to stay and see if she has more time!”

I immediately hated him and all of the decisions that led him to this exact moment, denying me access to the my idol, my future writing partner and best friend. Of course I stayed and waited. And as we inched closer and closer in line she was right there in front of me. Her teeth were more imperfect than I had imagined which only made our bond stronger as I like to brag that my teeth “have character” that way people are less inclined to poke fun at my snaggle tooth, you know, because I choose to like it.

True to the devil’s word, the lucky rotund seventeen-year old with a badger her daddy probably bought for her (or I just have to imagine this to make myself feel better) was the last person in line to have a converstaion and picture taken with Mindy.

He's even sassy in black and white!

He’s even sassy in black and white!

“Not so fast!” I said to myself, apparently audibly. I ran out in front of the table where Mindy was signing and started to bow. For some reason, bowing was the one thing that came to my mind to do. Do I regret it? No. I regret nothing. (Except for that time a couple of days ago when I saw Daniel Esquivel from Project Runway at the local food co-op and I didn’t tell him how much I loved his purse).

“Mindy…I just… wanted to…”

“INTERACT WITH HER!?” Some blockhead yelled from behind me, as if this were her moment with the queen (of course, her instinctual completion of my sentence was completely accurate but that’s beside the point).

“Hi!” Mindy mused, like an angel, “well it was a really good interaction.”

And then I bowed again because apparently that’s my thing when faced with overly exciting, fabulous situations. I just bow it out.

I was not lying about the jumpsuit...

I was not lying about the jumpsuit…

I then convinced Mindy to sign her remaining head shots to give out to the rest of us mere mortals. She thought it was “the best idea!” so you could say we’re friends now. I may still be waiting for that whole Perez Hilton story thing but at least I came away with an almost friend in Mindy and a new found confidence in wearing loud jumpsuits. So, win-win.

 

 

 

P.S. – I also met Stephanie Beatriz and Melissa Fumero from Brooklyn 99 after. They told me “they liked my whole outfit I had going on.” Despite not really knowing if that was a compliment I’m pretty sure they’re going to look me up when they’re back in town. brooklynn99

Just what you needed on a Monday…

I was about eight minutes into scrubbing the pork and bean juice stain out of the carpet in the large conference room in hell at work when I began to wonder what my life had come to. Countless hours examining the gender stereotypes embedded in the American power structure, unlimited sleepless nights staying up to write a collection of short essays meant to illuminate the spirit of the liberal Gen Y female experience, and i’m currently earning my way by cleaning up meat remnants from a corporate lunch I wasn’t even invited to (OKAY, FINE I had the leftovers when everyone was finished). ANDDD…This is usually how Monday goes.

What’s that you say? I’m not the only disillusioned millennial whiny baby with a decent corporate job and an ultimate inability to make my creative dreams come true (SO FAR, OKAY! I STILL HAVE TIME GRAMMIE SO GET OFF MY BACK!).

With that being said, Mondays still suck. And can this just be a universal thing? So the following videos are for you, art student who now works as a receptionist at Aloha Dental. And here’s to you, girl that works downstairs at Floyd’s, because I’m sure your dream wasn’t to remember that I get an Iced Soy Chai Latte every morning (although, thanks for making me feel like I’m in an episode of Cheers every morning) and I’m positive it also wasn’t listening to me elaborate for far too long on the “relative flakiness of your gluten free bread” as compared to the Udi’s Brand. This is for you, and me, and the all of us who’d rather be in bed dreaming then at work pretending to be busy so your boss doesn’t see you writing on your blog. Side note: After recently meeting Richard Socarides, the Head of Public Affairs at the company I work for (he also worked for this guy you may have heard of — his name’s Bill Clinton) and subsequently finding out he often spends time at work blogging for the New Yorker, I feel absolutely justified in my blogging work breaks.

Now take a few brief moments away from the menial task you’re trying to mindlessly complete and watch these inspiring/cheesy/makes-being-a-human-worth-it videos. For your health.

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s post on how I  managed to meet Mindy Kaling (the Queen, to you mere mortals), the annoying neighbor character from Up All Night, Sinbad, Shawn White, and watch a live taping of Comedy Bang Bang all in one week! (All for the low, low price of staying on your feet for at least 9 hours a day for like, ten days in a row. It’s called #SXSW, people.)

YOU GUYZZZZZZ. This kid is everything. He has SO many more videos. Watch them all you assholes.

If you’re not crying you have no soul and I don’t want to hear from you. You and Marnie from Girls should go on a date together you heartless animals (And yes, I know that Marnie actually has a heart but that societal expectations and an extremely low sense of self-worth has gotten her into some UGLY situations. But still..)

What’s in an Age?

me pup

“This is 25” — Hit me up, Judd Apatow

Basically what they tell you in general about age and experiences is you have more of them when you are older, you know, like cumulatively. Which would mean that by the time you turn say, 25, or a quarter-of-a-century-old for us obsessed with their own mortality, you’re just wiser than the average 18-year-old punk because you know, you’ve experienced more. Which if we’re boiling it down, means basically, you’ve now been able to drink legally for four years, and you’re body stopped being able to tolerate heavy drinking, say, 3.75 years ago.

So what makes up 25 years, you ask?

It’s mostly vague memories of every time you forgot something at the grocery store.

It’s 25 reasons why you should have stuck with that whole “science career thing” because I guess science was cooler and more lucrative than you thought in 7th grade. (Bill Nye on Bill Maher, anyone?)

25 means paying your own cell phone bill but still being on a plan with your brother and being extremely judgmental to friends whose parents still pay their bill (I’m looking at you guy-at-work who thinks buying things from Groupon automatically thrusts you into adulthood).

You probably cook for yourself and someone else at this point and you’re probably massively in debt and completely ignorant to how massively in debt you are but at least you’ve started complaining to your friends about how in debt you are (which is better than avoidance, right?).

25 years means you’re actually pretty impressed that you haven’t lost that “child hood spirit” which allows you to still skip in public.

adult25 years is 9131.05 days of not accidentally dying on a treadmill or hopping a fence or using a fork to get your bread out of the toaster, which, let’s face it, good for you. (Side note: Want to be intimately and immediately aware of your own mortality? Google how many days you’ve lived and enjoy.)

25 is the amount of years it has taken you to buy shoes that cost more than $10 a pair.

25 is the age your mom was when she married, had two children, and a mortgage and you still can’t sew on a button.

25 is the age you are when your fiance buys you adult things like a fabric steamer for Valentine’s Day and it’s the best present you ever received in your entire life.

At 25 you have bunions like your Grandma but you still hold out hope that your retainer from Junior year of high school will fit.

At 25 you are no closer to buying a Lumosity subscription to work out your brain but at least you contemplated searching for an exercise ball on Groupon.

At 25, brushing your teeth qualifies as leaving the house.

At 25, the Olsen twins are 2 years older than you but you still watch Full House.

At 25, you’re old enough to tell Miley Cyrus to put that dirty tongue back in her mouth.

In 25 years, you’ve established a larger collection of half-filled diaries and Forever 21 receipts than you’d like to admit (But good times, right?).

In 25 years you’ve learned that paper towels are a luxury for the well-to-do.

At 25 you’ve stopped self-deprecatingly pointing out your grey hairs, because now it really is just sad.

But mostly, at 25, you feel the same as 24 except you’ve just realized you have a year less to show the world how awesome you are. And less time to be famous with your youthful breasts and mostly even complexion (‘sup Loreal anti-wrinkle eye, tone evening cream, I see you on that shelf). So I mean, in the omniscient words of B. Spears, “you better work, bitch.”

Mondays Aren’t that Bad (and other deeply profound observations)

Mondays are good for things like counting how many bills are past due in your head, or tallying the number of days it’s been since you’ve last moved your body in a way that could be construed as exercise. It’s also ripe with awkward exchanges: You get stuck riding the elevator with the unruly looking man who always answers your mass emails to the office with inappropriately personal tidbits about his life — “It’s Birthday cake day today? That’s funny. When me and my sister were six we also had white cake with strawberries on top. And then we swam in the lake with our grandfather who ended up having an affair with our old nanny!” Cool C-dawg, thanks for letting me know.

monday-morings_o_502267

Mondays are certainly not dignified days.

Round One: Monday in the bathroom

Monday morning is where I find myself, hurriedly brushing my teeth in the women’s bathroom at work because I’m late, when all of the sudden I’m listening to the primal grunts of a fellow human struggling to eliminate dead animal remnants from their bowels. Besides the twinge of jealousy I feel toward this person for producing normal bowel movements so early in the morning, I’m generally displeased with what’s happening. In these moments, there is no higher power saving us from the hideous beasts we biologically are deep down inside. Not even a courtesy flush could save me from the guttural moans of a woman thrusting aside gender norms for the chance to maintain her digestive normality— WAIT A HOT SECOND, there’s a fucking guy coming out of that stall. In a construction helmet. He smells of bologna sandwiches that have been heating up on a hot sidewalk mixed with the dirty mop water that used to collect at the end of my driveway from the makeshift car wash service that Di-Di the homeless crack addict started when I lived on “the bad side of town.”

“Uhh…ohhh…this is… Is this the girl’s bathroom?” I wasn’t buying the act. You heard me clack in here, man, all pigeon-toed in my heels like a grown-ass woman.

need-discuss-impact-workplace-ecard-someecards

I shook my head up and down as my Sonicare toothbrush glided unpleasantly over my half broken fillings. (Sidenote: It’s never worth it to go to the “wholesale” dentist just because you have a chance to win the Free Trip to Hawaii Sweepstakes. Chances are, the contest never existed in the first place.) At this point, I’m fighting the urge to spit my toothpaste all over him repeatedly as if I were filming hilarious outtakes for a show called My Life Monday (The screwball sequel to His Girl Friday).

Round two: Monday at the pump

Later that day, on the way home from work, I decided to finally acknowledge the lit up emergency light on my dashboard, indicating “Your father is not coming to do this for you. Please put air in your tires, you irresponsible brat.” Obviously, like most civilized people, I needed to buy something in the gas station to get cash back and have change for the quarter-operated air pump from 1963. As I walk out of the gas station there is a Mercedes SUV inching uncomfortably closer and closer to my car, which I have intentionally parked an inch away from the pump, until the Mercedes appears to be human centipeding my car.

“She wants your car to buy her a drink first!” I said to the woman now exiting her car and moving toward the air pump. Apparently she was not amused by the personification of my white Chevy Aveo. She was also unaware, like most Mercedes owners I’ve come across, that having a Mercedes doesn’t automatically disqualify you from having to wait in a line or you know, being a decent human being.

“I was actually about to use that,” pointing to my car that was positioned in the only spot allotted for the air pump.

10 out of 10 Mercedes are that asshole that just cut off 100 cars and is now trying to merge into your lane..

10 out of 10 Mercedes are that asshole that just cut off 100 cars and is now trying to merge into your lane..

“Yeah. Well, I’m going to go ahead and use it. And it’ll be a few minutes and then i’ll just pass it on over to you.” I was astounded and exponentially impressed by her ability to make cutting me in line sound like a favor she was doing me. When I regained consciousness as a human being able to stand up for herself, she was already discarding the pump from her hand, there was no “passing it on over” that took place. I imagined giving her an atomic wedgie in her Lulu Lemon yoga pants for most of that night. But not before I met JJ.

Enter JJ

JJ really wanted a Sirloin Sandwich combo from Jack In The Box and I was standing in his way. By standing in his way I mean I was crouching down, pumping air in my tires like a self-sufficient adult woman. That’s when he came rushing to my aid like an unkempt, hungry Prince Charming of the Streets.

“hey-hey-hey, let..let.. let me do that for ya. I got some gloves on — make this real smooth and easy for ya.” Granted it was 41 degrees in Austin, which meant there was a “Severe Weather Alert” already in effect.

“I’m actually pretty okay all by my lonesome. It’s just this tire really—“

“Aww no, ain’t no lady as pretty as you getting her hands dirty on dees tires.” As he grabbed the air pump out of my delicate lady hands I thought about how many people JJ has met at this pump. Obviously, he lived his life with intention and purpose. Instead of wasting time begging for change like others struggling to make a buck, he camped out at the one place that doesn’t take credit cards and went from there. I liked his drive, although I resented the superior demeanor he possessed when claiming my tire was “full enough, mama.”

Despite the fact that JJ’s help was thrust upon me like an unwanted work email at 4:59 p.m., I gave him a dollar. And when he asked me for another dollar because he’d been “dreamin’ ’bout dem Jack fries” I gave him another dollar.  It was a Monday after all, and I was happy to spend the end of it making JJ’s dreams come true. And as I drove home, weaving through the mass of deplorable Southern drivers, honking at the inevitable douchey bro in a hummer and then at the irresponsible douche with a dog loose in his truck bed, I thought, ughh, well, I guess Monday could be worse.

I’m Back and I Have Something to Share

new years 1“You guys, I’m gonna be so much better this year!” Is what I said on January 1st about writing a post every night after work instead of, for example, watching the entire season of House of Cards in one sitting while shoveling vegan, gluten-free chocolate macaroons into my abnormally small pie hole. I’m sure you’ve noticed how it’s now February. And cue what I am now trying out as the theme of my new year — the year of giving up before I even sta-, er… the year of coming back from behind!  Because what’s even better than starting off strong? Starting off horribly and still winning! That way, you already know what failure tastes like having been so close to it  — it’s sour and the texture is a lot like uncooked tofu sitting in its’ own white frothy liquid.

The underdog spirit gives you resiliency! That go-getter from college that just wrote a Facebook status about her seventh promotion doing a job she actually got a degree in can’t get you down. Never mind that  you just posted a picture of your dog curled into the “tiniest, tightest ball you’ve ever seen!” for the hundredth time. You have the determination of a chronic late bloomer and it’s going to get you places! And after you make it big (well past your physical prime, obviously), when those severely creative people come up to you with their pixie hair cuts, ironically puffing a cigarette and say, “I knew you could like, put it out there if you tried,”  you’ll curse them inaudibly under your breath for not inviting you to their writing circle and say, “cool cigarette.” like Ray said to Shoshanna in that episode of GirlsI can almost taste the delayed success now and it’s a lot like cake batter without the raw eggs.

worryIn all seriousness, I blame my struggles with moving successfully into the future on my tendency to dwell (others refer to this as “anxiety). That coupled with a crippling necessity to romanticize nostalgia relegates me to a consistent state of dwelling on why I can’t and don’t want to grow up. Then I get stuck on the what-if past, like what if my mom breast-fed me? Would I be better at math? Or what if my parents embraced my love for dramatic monologue instead of my ferociously competitive appetite for winning at organized sports? Would I feel more comfortable with imperfection?

So, basically, I’ve always got a foot in the door, just, you know, in the doorway behind me. For me, this is why I need to embrace the existence of the underdog. Because at some point my brain always stops me from playing the fun game of  “Who would I be if my parents enjoyed Scrabble as much as the Patriots?” and makes me realize “Oh yeah! Making life decisions outside of coordinating Miralax doses with my intake of cheese is actually a positive and rewarding experience!” I’m just hoping the feeling is gonna stick. And sure, hoping has turned into some actual trying. Like the other day at work, I let it be known that I have larger career aspirations outside of bringing La Croix back to the break room or finally getting Almond Milk stocked (although, good for me, right?)

And then, a few days later, driving to work, wishing I could go back to sleep, something amazing happened. I was distracted by an oddly inspirational sign:

goal

I got angry at first because obviously this was a personal attack against my tendency to delay goal-getting. Then I got nostalgic about my childhood which led to questioning my upbringing: If my parents didn’t buy me a television as a child would I have grown up to be an early bird? But then, in true underdog steed, I was like, “Fuck. That quote’s actually pretty deep. I should probably get some shit done today.” And then I did. 

 

Balking Heads: Why Being on Television Does Not Make You an Expert

john stosselIt could be residual shame from repeatedly forcing my mom to call me out sick at Stop and Shop when I was fifteen until I eventually stopped showing up, but I can no longer miss work without a swelling wave of guilt and unrealized goals washing over me like a scene from The Endless Summer. Except this wave is called anxiety and i’m not hanging ten, man. I just can’t do it. It’s something about my self-deprecating self-obsession that sweetly allows me to believe I don’t deserve to take a sick day when I’m sick while maintaining the assumption that things will fall apart if I’m gone. However, if I am sick then you are not sick. It’s just that simple, have some empathy people.

With this in mind, you can imagine my infuriation when John Stossel’s mustache recently spoke out about health insurance on Fox & Friends, claiming that women use the service more because they are hypochondriacs. Wrong again, you mustachioed blockhead. Sure, maybe women are more responsible and more proactive about their health but since when did that become a bad thing? Oh, right, when our communist President took office and passed a comprehensive health care bill is when.

First off, preventative health care is less expensive then reactive and there’s also that thing, what’s it called, oh yeah! Childbirth! To which host Steve Doocy replies, “And as a number of Republicans have made the argument, why should I pay for — I’m in my 60s, why should I pay for your maternity coverage?”

Click is you can't see --Their expertise is astounding.

Their expertise is astounding.

I’m sorry, Mr. Doocy and sixty-year-old or over republicans who don’t want to pay for my maternity coverage, has your penis stopped producing semen? Is there a rule I’m unaware of that disallows men over 60 to screw young women and get them pregnant? Hugh Hefner, anyone? Did the women you’re speaking of get pregnant on their own? Did all those man-hating liberal feelings just knock them right up? Am I also allowed to stop paying for your Medicare and Social Security because I’m 24, in debt from student loans you told me to take, working full time and can barely afford my rent?

The fact that a woman’s insurance shoulders the financial burden of childbirth is in of itself offensive and telling of the unequal nature of our society as a whole. Stossel, who would’ve been better as a professional Freddie Mercury lookalike claims, “if it’s insurance, you ought to be able to charge people who use the services more, more.” Or, how about if you’re a douchey Libertarian who thinks he has any authority over women’s healthcare costs, you should have to spend one day as a pregnant or menstruating women to determine whether you’re man enough to be a woman. Then we’ll talk about who has to pick up the bill.

Stossell-Organs

Because what could go wrong with selling your own organs?

After reading that article and many like it, a rage of pent up aggression from a lifetime of “are you on your period?” jokes came over me like that time an old man corrected my skating at Roller World — those “men” that stick their fingers in their ears and sprint away at the hint of the word period like I’m about to open an envelope of Anthrax only transmittable through the ear canal. And then I realized a main reason I’m resentful toward those men that react with such ignorance is because they’ll never have to deal with curses of the female body, never have to suffer through a horrible bout of irritable bowels just as their period is starting — when this situation occurs angels look down and weep at the poor helpless female souls who are on on toilets wondering how in the world anyone will ever find them attractive after such an atrocious act.

Sure, it’s the miracle of life, sort of. It’s the poisonous snake. It’s why I will ALWAYS keep talking about my period even when your penis-holding self tries to embarrass me in front of everyone on our sophomore dorm floor by saying, “Ewwwww, no one wants to hear that,” or “go watch The Notebook or call your mom or something.” Because yes, the douchebag in this story is not only sexist and immature but also really bad at comebacks and no, I don’t feel one ounce of sympathy for you having to pay part of my health costs or having to hear about the evil miracle happening inside of me because that’s ALL you have to do is HEAR about it. And I’m SO SURE that you’ve never sent disgusting pictures of your shit to your roommate in a bragging way. My shit’s probably so much bigger than yours, bro. (And I can say this because an upright and successful young man has already formulated a proper marriage proposal, the dowry is all lined up, etc.)

*I’ve been away a while and the rambling nature of this post may speak volumes to that but to those who have stayed to read my insanity unfold, I am very grateful and as a reward, I’ll wait a couple of days before mentioning my period again. Stay tuned for my next post, where I realize I’m turning a quarter-century old and get nostalgic about nostalgia and Gilmore Girls.

Someday You’re Going to Be the Oldest One in the Room

adulthood-brad-pitt-demotivational1Being an adult is assembling office chairs with an Allen wrench until your thumb grows an additional layer of old man skin. It’s the sinking realization that rush hour traffic at 6:30 PM is more intense and resentful  than rush hour traffic at 5:30 PM — the man in a Men’s Warehouse suit cutting you off is more intentionally bitter about the life decisions that brought him to that very moment, being stuck in traffic with you as you suck on your e-cig, playing that Pink song “Give me Just One Reason” with the lead singer from The Format over and over again because Matti will murder you in your sleep if he hears it one more time at home. This is being an adult.

It’s walking into a bar and not immediately crying when you realize you’re the oldest one there. It’s putting on your big girl panties and apologizing to that one person you work with that you have dreams about publicly humiliating even though it should really be the other way around. It’s figuring out the best way to outsmart your insurance so you can pay the lowest possible deductible when you go in for a colonoscopy. It’s coming to terms with having to get a colonoscopy at age 24. It’s accepting the fact that you’re going to hear a lot of people poop in the bathroom at work because not everyone cares enough to find an underused bathroom on the 2nd floor to take care of business in. And it’s learning to appreciate those casual poopers with enough empathy to give a few courtesy flushes as you innocently pee in the stall next door because in the end, we’re all in this together.

welcome-to-adulthood_o_1955335Most of all, however, being an adult is realizing that most things aren’t going to go your way. And you’re just going to have to deal with it. And when someone at work speaks to you like that bitch second grade teacher you still have nightmares about you’re going to have to cry in that same stall you go to for strictly poop business because crying in public at work is unprofessional and you’re not a baby. And when you come home to your apartment to find that your prince of a puppy has had a poop party while you were gone, well you’re also going to have to deal with that (but crying is okay, because you’re home and you’re only human after all). And yeah, maybe you didn’t realize that being an adult would require so much thinking about poop.

It’s accepting failed expectations and tricking yourself into believing it’s never too late (because it’s never too late to start saying it’s never too late).

Like when you have intentions of seeing people over the weekend outside the confines of the barely functioning heat box you call your computer because your trying this new thing where you “break routine” and do things you normally only watch people do on television, like go to work Happy Hours and take a shower more than twice a week.

But then adulthood pays you a visit by asking you, “were those two pieces of pizza you siphened from Matti tiny adorable bite by tiny adorable bite really worth it?” And of course they weren’t because now your writhing on the couch like your trying out for the lead in the Exorcist. Friday then turns in to “remind Aly why being adult is more than casually going to drinks with friends” day. And this of course, only happens when you have grand plans to meet and exchange hilarious stories with the amazing people behind the blogs you read at an awesome event called Blogger Interactive. And you’re going to cry on the couch about it as Matti asks, “are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital because your pain tolerance really scares me sometimes?”

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Being an adult is realizing that time is not going to magically multiply, allowing you to complete the tasks that are actually important to you, like say, writing posts for your blog. And you’re actually in charge of your own life now. Which means choosing to buy a half gallon of coconut milk cookie dough ice cream is ALL on YOU and you have to deal with the repercussions. It’s appreciating the small things like when you finally get health insurance and your doctor uses the phrase “stupid anemic.” It’s realizing that not every single thing you do is going to be flawlessly brilliant and witty and that you still need to try to be a successful, compassionate human being. People will forgive you for your imperfections, mainly because they’re too worried about how bad they will look judging you.

Being an adult is finally accepting yourself for the flawed but hilarious person you are because at this point, what choice do you have?

Just Don’t Be That Guy

pic1The internet has brought me to this guy and his self appointed Generation Y life expertise and you know what universe? I’m not laughing. He is every guy on Wall Street that gambled away all your money. He’s Ted Cruz fake fillibustering Congress with Cat in the Hat references. He’s Bruce and Kris Jenner rolled into one fantastically unbearable Kristen Wiig as “Gilly” lookalike (next time on the Kardashians: Bruce and Kris go to court to see who wins custody of their hairstyle). His name is Preston and he is a self-prescribed “thinker.”

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Clearly the beginnings of a twerk…

Preston prides himself on being “the ultimate man’s man for Gen Y.”  The 20 Mistakes You Don’t Want to Make in Your 20s would be more properly titled, A List of Stuff I Took From Other Lists of Stuff and Also Some Offensive Stances on Female Dignity. Some other gems from this author include, “The Awful Girls Who Decided To Take Their Shoes Off In Nightclubs” “The Ultimate Prank Combining Beers and Bros,” and my favorite, “Miley Cyrus: The Reason I Never Want to Have a Daughter,” a detailed look into how super successful women like Oprah aren’t seen twerking it because “they have their fun in a ladylike fashion.”

Sure, the list tries to masquerade as an uplifting guide to being a generic person: Build your dreams! Forge your own path! But then this thoughtfully put together list of complete bro-rageous bullshit exposes its author for who he is: a bitter asshole who innately believes women are inferior to men and that being elite is the only option in life, all while presupposing that sacrificing happiness to get ahead is the only actual route to happiness (and let’s face it: he’s probably also not getting any).

Preston douchebag-ism #1: Don’t be in a relationship in your 20s because it makes you complacent and boring. “The last thing you need is to be bogged down by an insecure lover rushing you home.”

I find it so refreshing when someone says AT me: “Whaaaaaaat? You’re too young to be engaged!” It’s such an affirming life statement. So from now on my reply is, “Whaaaaat you’re too old to be alone!” or maybe “But I bet the baby that’s surely growing inside of you is company enough! What’s that? You’re actually not pregnant? Oh, THEN I’M SORRY FOR MAKING A SWEEPING GENERALIZATION ABOUT YOUR LIFE DECISIONS.”

Also, if anyone can force me to get off my ass and stop watching Gilmore Girl reruns it’s Matti. Sure, if I were single I’d get back all that time I waste having safe, intimate sex but this isn’t exactly the type of “bogged down” I have a problem with.

Prestonism #2: “A bad job is like a bitchy gf who gives bad head.” 

Hey Preston, that other article you wrote about how women have made it a long way in the world might be negated by this statement. Thanks for all those new equalities, progress! Now I can go back to giving GOOD head,  you know, the whole reason women were made with mouths (And for gossiping, of course! OBV).

“Your sex life is an investment… Instead of navigating through an ambiguous investment in which you shower your woman with cash and prizes for the mediocre sex provided, deal with a professional as soon as possible…Want a best friend? Buy a puppy. Want great sex? Call an escort.”

Are people I know really doing this? I thought this was only a serious thought in the movie Porky’s. Preston, I know this is hard for you to accept, but women were not solely made for you to have sex with. We can talk and think just like the other humans! Oh and try having sex with a non escort again soon, just take that huge misogynistic stick out of your ass and it may be a bit more enjoyable. Also, you should probably try making a human best friend, dogs tend to forget your birthday and they SUCK at planning parties.

It’s the people like Preston that scare me because they remind me so much of Christian Bale in American Psycho. Sure they’re not all serial killers but they all kinda border on sociopathic. Like who makes not “dating an unstable woman with mommy and daddy issues” a criteria in one’s life, as if that label can accurately characterize any one woman? I suggest learning from Charlie Sheen — stop being so offensively ignorant in public. (Hey, these days, you can even get famous by being smart!)

*If nothing else, I will spend my adult life exposing Prestons for the immature, sexist, secret Charlie Sheen wannabes they really are. And of course making fun of them for my own enjoyment and ultimate comedic benefit…

8 Reasons Why Women Should Do Whatever the Hell they Want

*This post is written entirely in response to this article. You’ve been warned.

Hey ladies, in case you were wondering, you shouldn’t go to college because when you think of it, you really don’t need to go to college to be an amazing mother or a loving and subservient wife. And oh yeah, that’s all you were meant to do in this world! What’s that? You’ve always dreamed of becoming a doctor and saving lives? Sorry, that’s why God made men, you silly woman! You know those people with magical penises that allow them to enter into any vocation they so choose? Yeah, they’ll cover the whole life-saving, dream following thing. Now go iron your husbands’ pants and plan out the family meals for the week you kindhearted nurturer!

That was the takeaway message from a recent article my wonderful future mother-in-law sent my way: “6 Reasons to NOT send your daughter to College.” Charming, huh?  I thought I had lost the ability to be shocked by misogynistic ramblings. Apparently I can still be shocked. And apparently it’s still acceptable to use religion as a means to subjugate women. It seems as if the author of this piece has learned nothing from Pope Francis’ recent pleas for humanity.

So, I thought, if those beliefs are out there, preying on innocent minds, why not give voice to the rest of us idiots living in “near occasions of sin”:

“College and education have very little to do with each other…Today, anyone can learn anything they want with the vast library system across the country and with the easy access of the internet.”

Exactly! If only this argument was around when my adviser informed me I still needed to complete my US History requirement senior year. But for reals you guys, I’ve learned much more from the comment section on ANY Youtube video than I EVER did in my Liberalism and Marxism class. Screw critical understanding of the political landscape of the last century, that cat playing with that monkey is ADORABLELY SMART. Also, do you guys wanna go to the public library with me and just really learn the hell out of everything?

“College may be necessary for the provider of a family depending on the vocation God is calling them to or for those who are called to the Priesthood, both of which are intended for men.”

You know what I want in my God? I want my God to choose who can serve him and spread his word. I mean, that’s pretty much the MAIN lesson I got out of Sunday School all of those years — that God is SUPER picky about who he wants to live and spread his message. Wait, hold on, that’s not right…

eve“…the day-to-day grind of a job is below the dignity of women… it’s like being a hired hand, as result of the fall and the penalty for original sin… But the penalty for the woman as a result of the fall was pain in childbirth, not to work.”

HOLD UP A MINUTE. You’re telling me we could have had babies pain free if we didn’t listen to that damn snake?

 

“Keeping a home, being a loving wife, and being a nurturing mother are of immeasurable dignity to a woman and not something to be farmed out to servants.  The feminist world has twisted this so that a job (career) appears elevated, and homemaking is denigrated.”

That’s SO weird, I was under the impression that an entire society founded on patriarchal order and an overvaluing of masculine qualities was the reason femininity  and domesticity were undervalued. You’re telling me homemaking was valued until us idiot women started getting jobs? You’ve GOT to be kidding me! And as a former nanny, thank you SO MUCH for that servant metaphor. Here I was using my inherently nurturing qualities to save some extra cash for my future family and all the while I could have been focusing my subservient energies on nurturing my man’s dreams!

It’s also so refreshing to hear this argument against feminism. I mean, I’ve never met a feminist that hasn’t threatened to kill me for wanting to be a mother some day. Do feminist mothers even exist? Probably not, because they’re too busy giving birth control pills to little kids! Amiright?!

“The indoctrination of the feminist culture and the practicing of a sexually promiscuous lifestyle severely cloud, practically blind that good judgment…Not having a degree frees her to enter into a marriage with proper roles in which her husband will provide for her and their children.  Christian marriage by definition does place her in a submissive role to her husband, but no one forces anyone to marry anyone.  She should go to the altar with full knowledge of what she’s entering into.”

“Often the reason for a girl going to college is the pressure of the society around her, including her parents.

First off, I’m just gonna say it, okay? Every feminist I’ve ever tried to have a conversation with has cut me off mid way to go have sex with someone. Promiscuity is just in their nature. It’s why they came to college — not to learn how to accurately maintain self-confidence in a male-dominated world, or how to articulate her beliefs in an educated manner. Feminists came to college to get laid, let’s just face it. They’re strung out on 60’s free love and they want to spread it around like Herpes!

sandwich godIf society would just stop putting all this pressure on us to follow our dreams and “get educated” through completing a college degree we’d finally be free to serve our man and start popping out babies after middle school like God intended (It’s when we get our girly period time, right?!). And man, sign me up for that Christian marriage thing — I’ve been looking for a good submissive role to sink my teeth into for months now! What’s that thing that Luke said again? Oh right: “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.” Certain situations, of course, are excluded from this teaching. Such as a tired man who just got home from work and REALLY needs his wife, who also worked all day raising his children, to make him a sandwich. (And God said, if you want him to put a ring on it, you must make him 300 sandwiches).

“Is a degree worth the loss of your daughter’s purity, dignity, and soul?”

SHIT. I knew all that weight I lost since college was a cop out — It was just my heavy sole leaving my loose, slutty body!

“Once she becomes sexually active with him, she releases hormones that mask his faults, and she remains in a dreamy state about him.  We can see why God would arrange things in such a way so that when in a proper state of holy matrimony, she would be less sensitive to his faults and thereby less tempted to be critical of him.”

This is some real scientific stuff here. I just don’t understand why I get so pissed when Matti plays with his hair if we’re having sex regularly. Are we not doing it right? Is there a way to make yourself emit more of this  “dreamy” hormone?!? Is it available in stores?

“..more and more women are coming forward to tell their stories of regret for having by-passed the more meaningful things in life to opt for the approval of feminists who cared nothing more about them than being statistics to reinforce their agenda.”

It’s true — every feminist I’ve ever come across is always so obsessed with her agenda. This agenda, that agenda — enough ladies, we get it, you’re on your period! I’ve certainly never met a feminist who wept for victims of rape, who bravely placed herself on display for the world to hear, to criticize and to learn from. I’ve also never met thousands of women who struggled against adversity to push the simple message of sexual equality to the forefront. Personally, I’ve never cried after desperately trying to explain to male friends that being a feminist didn’t mean I hated all men and all mothers.

Excuse me now while I go use the promiscuous skills I learned in college to seduce a married men out of going to church with his family.