Tag Archives: humour

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

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. 

 

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?”

funny-image-1426

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.”

oprah

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.

You Have Some Toilet Paper Stuck to Your Shoe…

*This would’ve been posted a week ago if I wasn’t such an asshole, or if I didn’t discover the “watch pilots early” function on Xfinity online, or if I didn’t have a job where accidentally locking a key inside the drawer it unlocks thrusts you into an awkward and only REMOTELY warranted category of “the girl who does mindlessly stupid things like locks keys in drawers.”

awkward

..Such as the moment when this person realizes they used the wrong form of you’re

I’m on of those people that is über in tuned to everyday social awkwardness — like it’s painful for me to watch two newly acquainted people in mid conversation because I can tell that one of them is slowly running out of things to say and their darting eyes are saying it way too loudly. If I’m talking to a coworker and she starts touching her face, I’ll immediately start mirroring the action as if her body is subconsciously telling me I have shit on my face. I’d rather look stupid wiping my face for no reason than look stupid with shit on my face and the inability to take a hint.

Before I leave the bathroom, I check three times to make sure there is no toilet paper stuck to my shoes, or making a train out of my skirt — not only because of how embarrassed I’d be, I’m taking into account here the painful 3rd party embarrassment of every one that would see me, frozen in indecision, unable to expose my mistake for fear of having to watch my reaction. I’d rather walk across the bathroom three times, staring at my back side to the glares of incoming females, then deal with that horror.

Then there’s dress code. Most of my day at work is spent watching people walk away to their desk. Yes, if there was a hidden camera filming me every day it would look like a documentary about the judgmental, sex crazed, stalker nature of the Millennial female receptionist. I just can’t stop watching people walk away — I need to study the “heel walk” more closely while stockpiling more outfit ideas. Plus I know everyone stares at me in the break room when I stand on the step ladder in my pencil skirt to stock up the coffees. It’s a classy balance.

toilet-paper-shoeWith this said, I want to bring attention to the giant piece of toilet paper that was trailing from my shoe after my last post. It was a typical post about my hilarious existence, immaculately edited with silly pictures for good measure. I’ve been doing this thing recently after my posts where I try not to act like I’m Tom Hanks in Cast Away and my notifications icon is Wilson. It was going well until I realized I hadn’t heard any alerts from my phone, like AT ALL. I reasoned with myself, well you posted kind of late, idiot and this is what happens when you get a job and forget about your real friends. Then I looked at the post. YOU GUYS. It was a half a sentence long: “I don’t go out much but when I do” is what it said. Granted, that was the opening to my post but that was ALL it was, the first half of the opening sentence. Immediately, I started crying like I did when my mom would forget to call the house I was sleeping over and pretend I had to come home for something.

It was on facebook and twitter! I would be exposed for the tehchophobe I really am. Technology hated me. The girl who trained me in my current job, and who has since had to explain to me thirty times how to set up a video conference, can really testify to this. For an hour, while I sat patiently pretending not to wait for new WordPress notifications, my awkwardness was on display for the ten people that read my blog world to see. I started swearing at Tengo to the point where I convinced myself he was behind the whole thing because I hadn’t walked him that day.

tp stridersAND YOU ALL. Where’s the solidarity? Where’s the “hey, looks like you have some toilet paper hanging out of your pants, Aly.” For a whole HOUR I had a post out there that was a half a line long — and people were reading it and then quickly moseying along to the next  properly posted blog entry written by someone whom technology doesn’t hold a grudge against. I hadn’t been that embarrassed since 8th grade when my mom decided to come to school during gym to tell my boyfriend to stay away from me and that he was “a real creepy kid.”

Thankfully, by the power of some technological feature that saves previous drafts of your post, I was able to salvage most of what I had written. (Yes, I see that technology ended up saving my ass in the end but no, I will not apologize to it.) You didn’t have another copy somewhere, you ask? No, that’d be what the PREPARED person does, the person who doesn’t just make To-Do lists to cross things out, the person who remembers to use a calendar to remember the things she has to do in the future. I am not that person. I am merely a flawed human who occasionally forgets how awkward she is; Mostly because I’m too busy looking at your outfit as you walk away.

Why Don’t You Go Out More?

tumblr_mbjru9OW4L1r426i4o6_250I don’t go out much but when I do I like to envision myself as that person that you look at and say to yourself “why aren’t I having that much fun?” Like, I want you to watch me twerk it and try to get equally as low. Usually I can manage to balance between twerking it like B and ironically giving my best Maya Rudolph angry dancing face.

And if you’re like most girls my age, you’re a sort-of-recent College graduate playing Sex in The City on the weekends while you make almost enough money to pay your student loans each month. But if you’re like me, you go out once a month to some place that can be construed as a “bar” to socialize with the other children and still can’t pay your student loans. Asking me to “go out” on the weekends is too often akin to a child being asked: “I was thinking we could go buy that third Ipad you’ve been wanting so badly but then I thought hey, why not take you to the dentist instead?”

Lately, however, I’ve been trying to make an effort to be more social, like, not just talk-to-my-friends-on-the-internets social.

My first brush with the harsh reality of why I don’t go out was when we decided to go into a random bar on sixth street. You guys, we were the oldest people there. Granted, we should’ve judged the place accordingly when we saw the beer pong tables set up at the front, but my competitive mind only sees games as opportunities to win at something. Then I saw them. Two blonde girls wearing the same high-waisted, tribal patterned, Harem pants with identical black tank-tops tucked in. And they were best friends (obviously). And then I thought of the dialogue between them before coming to this very bar:

harem pants“I wish I could wear these pants out,” says Thing One.

“Why can’t you? They’re SO cute. I have like, basically the exact same pair,” says Thing Two, thinking to herself, I really wish I could wear mine out too.

“I just, like, don’t really know if I can pull them off, you know?” Thing One is surprised by her outburst of vulnerability, she never lets Thing Two see her insecurity, specifically because her life up to this point has been in competition with Thing Two.

“My mom always said the first step to pulling it off is putting it on.” Thing Two’s mom never said this. Thing Two’s mom would have told her not to wear the same exact pants as her best friend at the same time at the same place. “You know what?” Asks Thing Two. “Let’s BOTH wear them. Who cares? YOLO, RIGHT?”

“You’re right!” Thing One says as she pulls up her Urban Outfitters Harem pants, “We look HOT.” She thinks to herself, And at least mine aren’t from Forever Twenty-One.

*****

At Barbarella, the dance club that introduced me to Austin, we ran into that girl who isn’t aware of her personal space or of how much her dancing looks like a chimpanzee’s mating dance. (Do chimps have mating dances? I always imagined they did in my head and I can’t look it up in fear of my hopes being dashed.) She’s cute in the way Zooey Deschanel would be if she wore the same clothes but was twenty-five pounds heavier and had blonde hair — just as long as she’s wearing that “steal” of a vintage dress she found at Goodwill that looks more like the dress you wore at your brother’s First Communion than a vintage find. She’s dancing like no one’s watching, literally. And this is coming from someone who spent most of the night looking like this:

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The most accurate portrayal of “The Maya Rudolph Dancing Face” caught on camera (Or, just how I dance and look normally)

Last but not least, there’s that group of guys that are all wearing the same brand of flip flops. They are either wearing polos or t-shirts with the name of the pool they used to lifeguard at written across the back. To state the obvious, they call each other “bro” in lieu of ever learning first or last names so their brain space can better be utilized memorizing the scores of all the sports games.

As I sit in the only available chair and wait for Anna, Rich and Chris to get scrumptious drunk food I can’t eat, Bro One approaches.

“You’re not eying my sub are you?” He had Ron Howard’s face in Happy Days mixed with some Matt Saracen from Friday Night’s Lights. I immediately willed him to disappear as I blinked. He wouldn’t, so I got up and joined friends in the pizza line. But as we all walked back over to a table, friends with pizza in hand, Ron/Matt reached out and placed his douchey little hand on the space between my right shoulder and breast. This is the worst pick up line ever, mainly because it’s like, sexual harassment. I immediately had flash backs of being drunk in high school at a St. Johns dance, getting into an almost fight with another girl as my boyfriend of the day tried to “hold me back.”

“Don’t touch me, creep,” I said, only to be heard by Big Bro, a six-foot-five mess of a man with sauce stains all over his lifeguarding tee from the meat-filled sub he was chaotically shoving down his un-shaven gullet.

“He didn’t touch you,” said Big Bro, apparently suited to chronically being on the wrong side of every argument.

“Tell your friend you touched me!” I demanded of Bro One, my integrity hanging in the balance. He instead took it as a public outcry for a public apology to which Big Bro pretended not to hear.

“Yeah, I’m like sorry, that was totally an accident,” said Bro One, his eyes lighting up as he discovers Anna for the first time. It would have to do.

I felt satisfied enough when Anna, meaning to give Bro One her old cell phone number, actually gave him her mom’s number. You guys wonder why I don’t go out more.

Ways to Make Interacting Always Feel Awkward

"So I just hit reply all, because you know, screw him."

“So I just hit reply all, because you know, screw him.”

It’s Tuesday after a long weekend and you’re about to see a lot of people that are going to throw a lot of small, itty-bitty, pocket-sized talk your way. If you’re one of those lucky people that gets to spend your entire day with a bunch of sort of strangers in cubicles, rushing past you, stopping to waste your time, or not stopping to waste your time when you want them too, then you know what I’m talking about. If you happen to woman the front desk, then you really feel me.

I’ve began to categorize these people, these chit-chatters, or stare-at-the-ceiling passersby. I was lost playing the character of Jane Goodall in Office Chimps–the television series I have invented in my head–when I hypothesized that there were quite a few species of office talkers or non-talkers. Here are a few:

office-internet-down-workplace-ecards-someecardsThe sideways smile: This person isn’t completely sure of their place — like, in the world. Upon closer look of the sideways smiler approaching the front desk, you will see the indecisive nature of his stride, and the insecure anticipation oozing out of eyes that never really meet your gaze: “Will she look at me back?” He thinks. Or, “Am I sure I zipped my fly back up?” The key is that this person will never actually say a word to you, because then, their identity as a low key, has-something-better-to-do lone wolf will be meaningless.

The Walking By One-Liner: This could be a simple “How’s it going?” or “Good morning.” A key characteristic of this species is lacking original thought. They also are seemingly unable to stop walking. It’s as if they are floating on a work cloud that disallows them from ever not being in motion — unless it’s work related. Some types of One Liners are also known to do a “drive by” work assessment. Like, “Hey, get back to work!” or “Is that work related?” The one liner attempts to be cool in his drive by judging, but in reality he is thinking of all the ways in which he works harder than you. Also his job is more important — you’re just the angel that ordered the chocolate Mousse cake for this month’s birthday party in the break room.

"And I said to him, not bald. SHAVED head."

“And I said to him, not bald. SHAVED head.”
Photo Credit: Forbes.com

The lingerer: It’s an awkward job but someone has to stand by your desk uninvited for twenty minutes and confess he is “secretly” into restoring old cars. He just wants to get to know you, and your dietary restrictions. He’ll say things like “You’re vegan? No wonder your so trim.” And obviously, these comments are important to hear and always welcome, but it’s the remaining five minutes of summing up the conversation and shifting from left foot to right foot that makes it uncomfortably unmanageable. By the third “allllrighttt well…” you’re already about seven minutes past the time I’ve allotted in my mind for this conversation to begin, progress, finish, and wrap up again.

What I actually enjoy are the people that come up to you and ask a genuine question, like it’s actually conceivable they have remembered your name. I’ll also take a hardcore, eye smile because good for you. And I accept solid eye contact with a smile as a positive and meaningful exchange. You don’t necessarily have to come up to my desk and compliment me on my new shoes to win my affections, although that is always welcomed. On the flip side, why ask me how I’m doing if you’re not going to wait for the answer? I think I’m getting this office thing down.

How do you interact at work? Is working from home the dream I imagine it to be?