Conference Things.

As you know, my conference was this week. I was really looking forward to it since my mother (who is in a different field) always has a great time when she goes to her conferences. When I previously told my professors about my plans to go, they all had the same response: it is going to be overwhelming, don’t get depressed, it is easy to get depressed there, skip some sessions and go have fun. I thought they were insane UNTIL I GOT SERIOUSLY DEPRESSED ON THE THIRD DAY. And it wasn’t just the third day that pissed me off. It was a combination of ridiculous things that annoyed the shit out of me and exploded yesterday.

First, when I arrived and went to check in at the convention center I decided to go to a session that night. While I was waiting for it to start, I heard an older professor BRAGGING about the fact that he didn’t know any of his students’ names, and I’m not just talking about undergraduate students. He was proud of the fact that he didn’t know his graduate students’ names (graduate classes are MUCH smaller than undergraduate classes, usually 4-15 people). WHY WAS HE PROUD OF THIS? He was bragging to 2 younger women who were loving every second of it. GROSS. This guy has a job that I’d kill for and he obviously couldn’t care less about it. What an asshole. This is what drives me nuts about the job hunt. I’m busting my ass trying to get a job. Yes, I am young and don’t have decades of experience, but I actually like teaching and forming a bond with my students, as opposed to some jerk who doesn’t care anymore. I WILL GLADLY TAKE OVER FOR YOU AND LEARN THE NAMES OF YOUR STUDENTS. I’ve applied to every job in my specialty, so now I have to sit and wait. You know how bad I am at that whole patience thing.

Second, I met ONE nice fellow conference attendee the entire time. She’s a curator at a museum a couple hours away from where I live. We chatted on the shuttle bus back to our hotel. She was lovely. I can’t say that for the rest of the people here. The young ones look at you as competition for the few jobs out there, and the older ones think they are too good to talk to you. So basically everyday, I would attempt to politely talk to people before the sessions/talks and each time I would get a look like I had 5 heads. SERIOUSLY?!?! Where I come from you are nice and polite to people even if they are the competition. And seriously, how do you know that we are competing for the same job? You might be a graphic designer, and I’m a photographer. I’M NOT GOING TO STEAL YOUR JOB, SO INDULGE ME IN SOME SMALL TALK. A lot of people come in groups from their respective schools or use it as a mini-reunion from grad school. These groups will only talk amongst themselves. What a weird and lonely few days it has been. I totally understand why people come to this once and never come back again. I DID however, meet two wonderful bartenders. Sean/Shawn and Gretchen. They will be a positive part of my trip. He writes screenplays and she looks like Lisa Loeb (cat-eye glasses and all).

A couple interesting session/talk observations:

The first talk I went to was enjoyable, and 30 minutes in, a woman walks in with the loudest rolling backpack in the history of the world (broken wheel?), walks back and forth looking for the perfect place to sit. She then takes all of her electronics out and plugs them into the sockets in the back of the room, and stacks them. Making her way to the perfect seat, she made an elderly woman GET UP to accommodate her rolling backpack, and smacked the elderly woman in the face with her super long dreadlocks while she squeezed by. I watched in amazement.

My favorite talk so far was yesterday afternoon and like clockwork, 30 minutes in, another crazy came in. This girl was probably my age or a couple years younger. First thing I noticed was her outfit- the entire thing was a mishmash of every shade of red, pink, and purple. Red dress, purple tights, bright pink boots, and a red bag. Yes, it was hideous. Then I noticed her nails. Long and pointy like those belonging to a witch, and painted FUCHIA! Holy fuck. Her hair was long and stringy, of course to continue the witch theme. Her notebook was cheetah print. I mean, I have a cheetah print pen (a gift from my step-dad), but it is a REALLY nice one. What potential employer would take you seriously if you looked like a carnival? And add a tattered cheetah print notebook? I don’t understand how someone could find that acceptable for a career related function. I know we are artists, but COME THE FUCK ON! You can only get away with so much crazy at one time.

I’m about to leave for my next talk, I’ll fill you in if any crazy shows up 30 minutes in. 

(image: http://www.facilitiesonline.com/files/jpg/bonven_meeting_blog.jpg)

The Hunt.

I’ve been noticeably absent lately, sorry about that. Not really. Our MFA thesis show opened, had an excellent run, and we even got some press for it! The closing is this weekend (very sad). I’ve also been hustling my ass off trying to get out as many job applications as possible and preparing for a conference next week. I’m fucking exhausted.

My conference is in Los Angeles, a place that I have never visited before, so I’m pretty pumped to explore. This will be the first time I’ve gone on a major trip by myself, so I’m a little nervous and realllly excited. Since this is my first professional conference, I decided to go balls-out and cashed in all of my Delta SkyMiles so I could book the entire trip first-class, starting out with a non-stop flight from DC to LA (FUCK YES LUXURY).  This conference will not only have talks by both artists and art historians, but it is also a meat market for jobs. For example, I have applied to jobs already- some of those universities will be attending the conference and might want to interview me if they liked my application package. Some other universities will be attending the conference and if they are looking to hire someone (but didn’t get around to posting a job on the organization’s website) they will post jobs the first day of the conference. All of the other job seekers will then do quick interviews, speed dating style (this makes me want to vomit). It will be crowded, noisy, and stressful. Although this scares the shit out of me, I’m going to put on a happy face, take a deep breath, and rock that shit. If there’s anything I can do, it is make a good first impression (SOUTHERN, MUTHAFUCKA!). My grandma taught me that useful art form. My other secret weapon? PANTSUITS. I have 3 pantsuits and a business-appropriate dress, all have been altered so I feel comfortable and confident wearing them all day. Believe me, I hate wearing these kinds of clothes (as you know I’d much rather spend my days in yoga pants and a sports bra), but sometimes you have to suck it up and wear some tailored Banana Replublic shit. I’ve also ordered business cards, little square charcoal grey ones, BECAUSE I WANT THEM TO REMEMBER ME AND HIRE ME, and I’m in the process of making up more copies of my package to hand out at the speed dating events. I feel like I’m just preparing to walk up to people and scream “LIKE MEEEEEE!”

Before I attend this shindig, I’ll have already applied to 15 jobs, most of which are full-time tenure-track assistant professor positions. As far as I know, this is every assistant professor of photography job in the country (except those that will magically appear on the job board at the conference), and it is incredibly competitive. Here are all of the states I have applied: Arizona, Maryland, Virginia, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Indiana, Iowa, Wisconsin, Illinois, Florida, and California. Let’s hope that at least one of these places is looking for someone younger, energetic, and slightly insane (MEEEEEEEEEEEE). Fortunately one of those places (actually my dream job) has started to show interest in me, so now I just wait and pray (and lose my mind daily) that they ask to interview me. (SWEET SIX-POUND EIGHT-OUNCE BABY JESUS PLEASEEEEEEEE HEAR MY PRAYER.) My heart races and I feel nauseous every time my phone makes the “new email” sound. If I make it the next few months without having a stroke, it will be a miracle.

After this conference week of stress, I’ll be going down to San Diego to visit my sister for a week. This makes everything better. I’ll get to go to the beach, day drink, and watch cartoons with my nieces. This is my version of heaven. This might take my mind off of the “new email” sound. Nope. Nothing will keep me from this level of freak out. Even if I got a job the freak out would transfer to the fact that I defend my thesis in 49 days. THIS IS AN EMOTIONAL TIME FOR MEEEE. Conference + Job Stuff + Thesis Defense + Graduation= I feel like I’m going to projectile vomit at least 12 times a day. Luckily it is always the anticipation that is the worst part for me, so it’ll be over soon.

More to come after I experience the whore-out land that is a conference job fair.  Wish me and my pantsuits luck.

Also, I think I need to change this shit to a WordPress or something. The GIFs on Tumblr give me headaches. Fuck I’m old. 

(image: http://www.someecards.com/usercards/viewcard/dcb8b6f4cbf12ce505b2b6bb4a68537d) 

Happy Things!

The semester is over, I’ve submitted grades for the class I taught, and it is almost Christmas! I’m trying to not let the fact that I’m sick (cold) ruin my holiday spirit. Here are some things that are making me happy at the moment.

Neti Pot- The process for using this is gross, but I love mine because just 5 minutes ago it evacuated a ridiculous amount of yellow-green toxic sludge from my nasal cavities. I’ll be able to breathe for the next 30 minutes! Yay! …Until I’m once again stuffed up and have to Neti Pot again.

TV- Being sick after the semester is over SUCKS but lets me do one of my favorite things- watch hours of TV in bed while wearing a blindingly neon sports-bra, hoodie,  and monogrammed lounge pants that Allison sends me for all major holidays. Netflix streaming, Hulu plus, Amazon instant videos ALL ON MY TV THROUGH MY BLU-RAY PLAYER. I’m currently watching Party Down. Technology is good.

Snuggling- What makes movie and TV watching while sick even better? Snugglin’. This can be done with another human or Bebe. Bonus points for running your fingers through my hair. Bebe can’t do that. Worthless cat.

—————NETI POT BREAK—————

Knee- Last week was the one-year anniversary of my fourth knee surgery. It was gruesome and really painful, but I worked my ass off at physical therapy and can run now! Doesn’t hurt that I lost an assload of weight (I call it an assload because my ass is an assload smaller) along the way- it makes running SO much easier! IMAGINE THAT! When I was in London a few weeks ago, I was walking ALL DAY EVERY DAY and it took me a few days to realize that I wasn’t on the floor writhing in pain! I didn’t have to take any of my prescribed Vicodin that I always have to travel with! Praise the knee gods!

Thesis stuff- My full first draft of my written thesis is done! Now I just have to add stuff in once the exhibition is open and if I come across anything additional that needs to proclaimed.  The relief is a wonderful feeling. Like climbing a mountain. Now I just have to do a couple photoshoots (one today!), edit the photos, edit my video some more, and drive to Philly to pick up my custom frames. YESSSSS!

Christmas!- I’ve had 5 of my mom’s Christmas cookies today. This is a good thing. I really missed the quality family time during my Thanksgiving trip, so we are going all out for Christmas. It will be fantastic and drunken. There will be mimosas, tons of food, and my brother in law will wear his Sparkles t-shirt (with boa) that I made him a few years ago. The day after, we will do it all again to celebrate Boxing Day (to make up for Thanksgiving) and I will be making Rum Ham. Merry Happy Christmas Boxing Thanksgiving to us!

(top image: ME)

(bottom image: http://aninanimatefuckingobject.tumblr.com)

Things I don’t understand. Vol. 3

Vibram Five Fingers- I know that a lot of people find Uggs hideous, but these fuckers take the cake. If you wear these, you look like an idiot. If you wear these and think they look great, you look like a fucking idiot. What’s worse than these shoes (I don’t think they should even be called shoes… more like hoof covers)? Walking around barefoot. We all have that friend who decides that we aren’t meant to wear shoes, then throws away all of theirs in an act of defiance. After months of seeing their “barefoot” photos on Facebook (I don’t want to see an entire album of your hideous hooves), I want to throw something. How is winter going to work for you? I hope you enjoy frostbite, not to mention the delightful prick of stepping on some addict’s syringe. I hope you put an AIDS test on your Christmas list.

Shelf bra camisoles- I’ve lost a lot of weight recently (45 pounds FUCK YEAH!), so naturally my clothes are too big. Item by item I’ve been replacing my wardrobe so I don’t look like a slob. Last week I decided it was time to get new camisoles. In case you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, they are those little tank tops to go under your see-thru clothes. (I mainly wear camisoles on teaching days so I don’t look like a SLOOT.) I am a creature of habit and extremely picky about clothes, so if I find something perfect I will buy it over and over until the Grim Reaper takes me. I love the Merona Ultimate Camisole from Target. Only $8! Last week I hauled my ass to Target to stock up on these babies. One problem- my camisoles were nowhere to be found. I made my frustration noise (an ex of mine thought I sounded like Marge Simpson’s angry sound) and immediately texted my sister Tristan to complain. Once I got home I figured I could still order them online. Awesome! Wait. OUT OF STOCK. Tristan looked at all of her local Targets and could only find one. FUCK IT ALL. It was time to find a new camisole source. After searching every place possible, I have discovered that the camisole market has changed. Yes, they all sold camisoles, but they all had shelf bras in them. This is an extra layer of camisole underneath that has an elastic band. It basically functions as a bra/extra support. That’s great and all, but this doesn’t work if you have big boobs. For example, if I ever try to wear these, the shelf bra cuts off halfway on my boobs/real bra, so most of them will be below the band, and if I put the band where it should be I will be spilling out of the top. I’d rather not show that to the world. Only one place made an acceptable non-shelf bra camisole, and that was Nordstrom. Bye-bye money.

Communication- I may have changed my mind on something. Yes, I am admitting that I was wrong. ENJOY IT ASSHOLE. While I still prefer texting, especially while busy, I think an actual phone call is more appropriate in some cases. This would specifically be with someone you are dating. When I think back, all of the guys that were really into me only called, except for the occasional text if they knew I was in class. That was nice. I think hearing someone’s voice is comforting- for example, I talk to Tristan on the phone almost every day, but I’ve been really busy lately with school, so that had moved to mostly texting. One day we were talking on the phone and she commented that she had missed talking to me, and missed hearing my voice. That made my fucking day. It is nice to be missed. I agreed with her- I missed hearing her voice too. If you have ever been around us in person or overheard one of our phone conversations, you know that we use bizarre voices (I’m not sure why or how that started) and create extremely complicated epic stories. I always feel bad for my brother in law when I visit, because he gets to experience what he calls “Tristan in stereo.” Life wouldn’t be as enjoyable/ridiculous without talking to my sister on the phone. I think this also applies to dating. While I’m on that note, let’s move on to that other form of communication- texting. I know this was previously discussed in a previous post, but it is becoming an epidemic. An epidemic that needs to go the fuck away. If someone texts you,  ANSWER THE FUCKING TEXT. Not 3 days after you receive it, not a day after you receive it, answer it no more than an hour after you receive it (if you aren’t extremely busy). If you are extremely busy at the time, answer it when you get out of that meeting/stop for a minute/etc. It takes 30 seconds and IT ISN’T THAT HARD. This especially applies to situations where people are trying to get into each other’s pants. If you take a day or more to respond to a text YOU ARE RUDE. Nut up and get some manners. Do you really think you’ll get into my pants if you ignore me? Every hour that you don’t respond, the legs close more, and your chances dwindle. While those chances dwindle, the chances of me giving my number to a hot guy at the bar (who asks if he can CALL me) increase. It’s simple. NUT UP. STOP BEING RUDE.

 In case you haven’t noticed, I’m back to my favorite mindset- not putting up with people’s bullshit. MWAHAHAHA!

(image: http://www.squidoo.com/lord_of_the_rings_hobbit)

London Things.

This Thanksgiving my family did something crazy. A few months ago my mother mentioned to me that her friend, who is living in London for the time being, invited us to visit for Thanksgiving and that they were taking me with them. Holy fucking shitballs. I had always wanted to go to the UK, so of course I was in.

This trip couldn’t have come at a better time. Yes, it was right in the middle of my thesis year, so I’ve been a basketcase of stress, but sometimes you need to step away from things and get a breather before you start seriously looking at the logistics of buying a gun and some ammo. I am also one of those people that lets go of their shit while traveling, and seem to FIND MYSELF again. (I am so full of shit.) Yes, I am full of shit, but there always seems to be one moment in every trip, one of those “A-HA!” moments when you realize why you are doing what you are doing.

It was a lovely trip. Here are some highlights:

• Always look your best while traveling. Mom decided last minute that we should get our hair done before the trip. “If you meet Prince Harry, you don’t want to look like shit, now do you?” NO, NO I DON’T.
• Flight attendants need to stay the fuck away from me if my sleep mask is on. Our flight over was an evening/overnight one, so after dinner was served, I set my pod seat to “sleep mode” (Mom upgraded all of us to first class, which comes complete with the lay-down bed seats, because she has MORE FREQUENT FLYER MILES THAN GOD. Yes, I’m spoiled. Yes, I realize it and am very thankful for everything I have/get. Yes, I’m accepting applications for husbands.) As most of you know, I cannot sleep on planes. The only time this has ever happened was on a flight over to Paris a few years ago, and since I am a nervous flyer, I got shitfaced on vodka cranberries and passed out. It was a fluke. So, this time I had a few drinks, covered myself in a blanket, slapped on the sleep mask, and listened to my “GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP” mix on my iPod. I tossed and turned for hours. The feeling that strangers are watching me sleep is just too much for me to handle. Just as I was starting to drift off, a flight attendant poked me and asked if I wanted to be woken up for breakfast. “Uhhhh NO!” (Sorry flight attendant lady, it wasn’t your fault that I can’t sleep like a normal person.) I should have worn a sports bra. I get crabby when forced to sleep in a real underwire bra.
•  I fucking love gin + tonics. I have found my new drink, y’all. Vodka cranberries always gave me heartburn and a bright red tongue. Margaritas are filled with sugar. My new drink is perfect, and I’ll never get scurvy or malaria. PRAISE THE BOOZE GODS!
• I never pack enough underwear. Or the right kind. I am a spastic packer. I panic and take too much out at the last minute. When I threw a mound of underwear into my suitcase I apparently didn’t calculate that I’d need more than 3 pairs of the low cut ones to go under my low cut jeans. The rest of the time I had to wear my pajama/lounge pant friendly underwear (yes, I have underwear for every occasion) with my jeans, which stuck out of the top of my jeans, and was visible if I bent over and my shirt rode up. GRACE AND ELEGANCE, PEOPLE.
• Accents are even hotter than I originally thought. Of course the British accents were hot, but even hotter was the Lithuanian accent belonging to the hot Lithuanian waiter at our neighborhood restaurant.  His name was Giderus or Giderich (I was too busy staring at his arms and thinking about naked things to get a proper spelling.) We flirted. My stomach was fluttery. Delightful. He set up a reservation for us to have brunch there the next morning (our last day) and he would be our server again. The next morning we go in only to find that he was in charge of the espresso machine. He shot me a sad smile. Oh well. You will always put a smile on my face when I think of my first trip to London, sweet Giderus/Giderich.
• The Tate Modern was the site of my “A-HA!” moment. One of the first days of the trip, I went to the Tate Modern (I had been looking forward to this museum since the day I found out we were going to London). The second room that I walked into was filled with feminist art. Guerilla Girls, Cindy Sherman, and a couple others. Oh, I should probably mention that the artist I talk about most in my written thesis is CINDY FUCKING SHERMAN. I stood in that room for… I don’t even know how long. I got emotional. That’s when I remembered why I’ve been busting my ass for this MFA. Only a few more months to go! And that was just what I needed. I came back to the states feeling revived about my work.
•  Jetlag is a bitch. The 48 hours following my departure from London: traveling for 20-some hours, being rejected, not being able to fall asleep or sleep past 5am, then having a gynecologist appointment? Thank god for my new drink.

(Images: MEEEEEE)

Things I don’t understand. Vol. 2

Why is there still no sign of any Jetsons machines?

As I was driving the 4.5/5 hours back from Connecticut on Sunday, I found myself thinking about all of the amazing things that the Jetsons had (this happens frequently) that I would totally use all the time. #1- flying cars that go crazy fast OR some sort of teleportation device that would require you to get into a tube and it shoots you there. Actually, that might scare the shit out of me. I’m fairly claustrophobic (MRIs are not fun for me, and I remember hyperventilating in a tube ride at Adventure Island as a kid. THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT: http://adventureisland.com/Ai/Explore/Rides.aspx?id=1136) Maybe if it just vaporized me for a second then made me reappear where I wanted to go… that would be ok. But what if something went wrong and I went to an alternate universe? Not having Peter Bishop/Joshua Jackson in a few episodes of Fringe for this very reason has been pretty traumatizing for me. Maybe that’s why we don’t have this technology yet. Who knows. #2 The machine that makes whatever meal you want. Mine would need a variety of my favorite meals, including: sushi, iced tea and fruit snacks, HAMBURGER, legit Philly cheesesteak, and eggs benedict. Oh, and don’t forget the booze. Actually, let’s have a separate machine for booze. #3 The machine that showers you, dresses you, and puts on your makeup/does your hair. I need my sleep. Figuring out what to wear everyday is a daunting task, which is why I wear different versions of the same outfit day after day. I have bigger fish to fry, like putting fake fingernails all over my body.

When did people turn into such assholes?

Maybe I’ve been completely oblivious for a while, or maybe it’s just the cold weather, but for some reason everyone is turning into a dickface. Believe me, I know when I’m stressed or busy I can turn into a raging bitch. With that being said, I never lose my manners. So, if we are close and I send you an email/text/call, YOU FUCKING RESPOND. This especially goes for important questions. If my best friend, who is a very important attorney I might add, can take 30 seconds out of her day to respond to my text about what shoes to wear, then you can surely reply to a question regarding an important life decision. My loved ones know, no matter how busy I am, I will always take the time to let you know you are important to me. When did people lose their common decency as human beings? Did they ever have it? Should I just give up and move back to Atlanta? I honestly don’t understand and am baffled at least once a day. WHY DOESN’T EVERYONE HAVE SOUTHERN MANNERS?

Why does it take so damn long to see a doctor?

As a lady, I take my yearly “lady” appointment seriously, especially since my power V will destroy anything in her path if she isn’t happy with the circumstances. So today I call to make an appointment to make sure everything is still copacetic, and the nurse says “Well, the next opening Dr. Klein has is… November 22.” WHAAAAA? A month? Are you fucking kidding me? What if my uterus was going on strike and started shooting laser beams at innocent bystanders? Would you see me then? No, I have to wait almost a month. What the shit. This is what I get for being responsible. Maybe if I was banging multiple guys they would take me more seriously. There’s a thought. No, I could never do that. The guilt would ruin me. I’d have to kill myself by eating 100 buffalo wings followed by a “Gotta Have It” from Coldstone followed by an awful chick flick. Guess I’ll wait a month.

Why are there so many douchebag bartenders?

Tonight while having dinner at a bar with my friend Amy, we were cursed with the douchebag bartender. Don’t get me wrong, bartenders are for the most part very delightful, and they know when to talk and when to shut the hell up. This guy did not. Amy and I were having a very serious adult conversation, basically all evening, and this asshat would interrupt at the WORST times with a bonehead comment. When I was telling Amy about my big news regarding my work that I was really excited about and we were both about to cry? “Uh. You done with that?” GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM US, YOU ASSDICK. What happened to the bartender that knows your name, what you want to drink, what you want to eat, and when to leave you alone? What is the world coming to? This is why I am now drinking my wine at home.

(image: http://www.someecards.com)

On Stress.

About 2 years and 7 months ago I found out that I got into graduate school and couldn’t have been happier. I was so proud of myself, my parents were so proud of me, I even think my cat Bebe was proud of me (probably not). With 3 more years of school and hard work, I’d have an MFA! A terminal degree! Watch out!

When I started my first year, I vividly remember the 3^rd years telling me to enjoy it because it goes by in an instant. I laughed and thought they were insane. How can three years not feel like an eternity? And why did they always look like they were going to projectile vomit and jump off of a bridge?

Fast forward to now. I am that 3^rd year. Someone told me that grad school would be the hardest and best thing I’d ever do. They weren’t kidding. I had always gotten stressed about exams and projects in school, but this has reached a new terrifying level. Imagine a feeling of constant anxiety, stomach pain, mild depression, and need to drink mass quantities of any hard liquor you can get your paws on. This only gets worse during midterm reviews and grad review days (HOURS of straight critique which I equate to getting a Brazilian bikini wax in the middle of a packed arena while the crowd tells you how stupid you are). Luckily as a 3^rd year, I don’t have to go through these review days anymore.  Those days have been replaced with thesis committee meetings and one greenlight meeting.

Basically in committee meetings you show your thesis committee (who you hand picked) what you have been working on, they critique it, they ask you a shitload of questions, you discuss what theory/theories you will talk about in your written thesis, they ask you a shitload of questions, you try to answer them intelligently while sweating profusely. (Note- ALWAYS wear either white or black to committee meetings. They won’t be able to see your sweat stains.) Week before last I had an important committee meeting. It’s always nerve racking to sit in a small room with three women that you really respect and view as mentors when they are looking at your work, even more so when the photos you are showing them are of you, half naked. The meeting went really well, but I felt like a zombie afterward, in a state of shock and exhaustion. I answered texts from loved ones asking how it went (they got the standard “It went really well” reply), I packed my things and made my way home. After a few hours of sitting on the couch, staring at episodes of Fringe (I have a Joshua Jackson thing which started during Dawson’s Creek… speaking of which, I need to watch that shit again), I realized I hadn’t eaten all day (this happens a lot), so I fixed myself dinner and drank a bottle of wine.

After I got into bed, it hit me. “That was my first full committee meeting. It went really well. This is my last year. I won’t be doing this next year. I’m almost done. This is my THESIS.” The rush of emotions was overwhelming. I sat there and cried for about 15 minutes. Bebe judged me and telepathically told me I was weak.

In 10 days I will be having my eminent greenlight meeting. In this meeting I will show my committee a “rough cut” of what will make up about half of my thesis exhibition (holy shit) and the parts of my thesis that I’ve been writing (holy fuck shit). At the end of the meeting, they decide if I get the “green light” to continue working and submit my exhibition proposal to the gallery (holy ass dick  fuck shit). Needless to say, I’m stressed out. Believe me, I’m confident in my work and I know what I’m doing, but I’m an emotional person, and passionate about what matters to me. This matters to me. Therefore, I will be legitimately psychotic for the next 10 days (and have been for the past week). I’m acting batshit crazy, I know, just be patient with me, please. Thankfully my best friend Allison knows that all I need is a nice “how’s it going?” text and a music video link, and my sister Tristan knows all I need is a freakishly loud “I love you EEEEE-YA!” from my nieces, and some fake late night sultry talk.

Almost there. I’ll be myself again shortly. Thank you for your cooperation and not having me committed.

(image: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gl59E0LyvY8/SwrpHSbwX-I/AAAAAAAAAHU/tBcI5ADmxx0/s1600/hanginthere001.jpg)

Things I don’t understand.

• ROMPERS. These should not exist for people over the age of 2. If you are sitting at your computer thinking: “But I LOVE rompers! They make my stomach and vagina area look so SLIM and GRACEFUL!”… YOU ARE AN IDIOT AND PROBABLY DON’T OWN A MIRROR. These things were not made with any thought or consideration of the female body. “Hmmmm, we need to make a woman look like she’s had 8 kids and give her a dumpy ass. I think a potato sack combined with shorts is just the ticket!” Ladies, do yourself and the rest of the world a favor. Stop wearing rompers.
• TOES THAT HANG OFF OF THE FRONT OF SHOES. I don’t have monkey toes so maybe this is really insensitive of me, but I don’t give a fuck. If your toes are soooo long that they touch the ground when you are wearing shoes, you need to rethink your life choices. This is so completely disgusting that I’m getting nauseous just thinking about it. Get your shit together and buy bigger shoes. Or just get your toes amputated. Please.
• WHY IS SILKY/SATINY STUFF SO DAMN HOT? Yes, I know why it is sexy hot, but I do not understand why it is temperature hot. Let me explain. I wore a silky/satiny thing to bed for sexy time, and a few hours later woke up in a sweat that was so intense it made me question if it had rained in the bedroom. In my panic, I lay there wondering what in the hell could make me sweat like this? I hadn’t had a sexy dream, or a dream about defending my thesis. What gives? I was a little worried that the guy would wake up and be freaked out by the fact that I looked like I just went swimming, but he didn’t (or he just isn’t telling me because he’s nice). I went back to bed and woke up at least 2 more times sweating profusely. I will never be wearing silky/satiny things in bed ever again. I’ll just have to figure out how to make a t-shirt incredibly sexy. COTTON ALL THE WAY BABY.
• DOORSTEPS THAT ARE TALLER THAN STANDARD HEIGHT. This might be an odd one for you. Let me just tell you, in the past 2 or so months I have rolled my ankle twice because of these things, and it hasn’t been pretty. In my mind this happens because I have a hard time judging length and distance, combined with the fact that I walk down stairs like an idiot. As you have previously read, the first rolling occurred during girls weekend. It wasn’t too bad. The most recent rolling occurred after a night out with 3 of my favorite men in the world: Joseph, Jarrett, and Jaimes. We went for sushi and then to a piano bar to sing our hearts out (there was also a slow dance to “Lady in Red”). It was a fantastic time and one of us even got choked up while talking about marching band music (I’m not naming names, but you know who you are, and your name starts with a J). After saying our goodbyes to Jaimes, we went back to Joseph and Jarrett’s place so I could get my bag and head home. As I was walking out the front door, I misread the step and rolled my ankle so hard that it let out a disgustingly loud POP. Of course, my first thought is that I messed up my knee. I stood up and didn’t feel anything wrong with my knee. Then the pain in my ankle came. Joseph, in true friend fashion, started freaking out, asking if I was ok, if I wanted an ice pack, if I wanted to stay on their couch. My close friends will not be surprised by my reaction: because I don’t like to show weakness, especially when it comes to pain, I yelled at Joseph to just get me in the fucking car and stop freaking out. Yes, I am amazed everyday that people actually want to be friends with my psychotic ass. So, after I hopped on one foot to the car, I started my drive from Baltimore to Silver Spring. If you ever want to laugh while feeling guilty, imagine me driving down MLK screaming in pain with an ankle the size of a softball. When I finally get home, I barely make it to my bed, throwing my clothes off, putting an ice-pack on, and eating as many Advil PM as possible. Over the next few days it gets better little by little. Fast-forward a week. It still hurts more than it should, is swollen, and my entire foot/ankle/lower shin is purple/blue/black/green. After sending photos of it to my voice of reason, he insists that I get it looked at. So yesterday I saw my amazing orthopedic surgeon who took one look at it and gave me crazy eyes that said “If you messed up my work I’m gonna murder you.” We did a few x-rays. Nothing broken! Then he finally laughed and said “Accidents happen. Just don’t do it again.” It will happen again.

(image: ME, muthafuckaaaas)

V-POWER.

V-Power

It’s not just in Shell gasoline anymore.

It all started on February 21, 1996. I was waiting for my friend Ericka and her mom to pick me up for early morning chorus practice. Minding my own damn business, I decided to use the bathroom one last time since they were running late, which would leave me with no time to go at school before practice (tardiness might be my biggest pet peeve). My stomach had been feeling weird, but I figured it was my body rejecting the early wakeup time. I innocently peed, and was stopped in my tracks. There it was. I would never be the same again. Luckily my sister had pads under the sink, so I stuffed 10 into my book-bag (I had no idea how many I would need to use before I would die from a hemorrhage), and sat outside in shock while drinking my can of Surge (you’re welcome for that flashback).

As you have previously read, my body went clinically insane during puberty. Within a matter of months, my boyish body exploded into a juggernaut of boobs and hips. It was terrifying. Over the years I had issues with my vagina; my cycle was always off track and pretty painful (a sign of things to come in 13 years). But it wasn’t until college that I noticed the extreme power that my V harnessed. Living in a dorm with 30 girls sharing one bathroom is intense, but imagine that when all of those girls are on the same cycle. I remember mentioning it to my sister Alesia one day, and she replied with a nonchalant “Yeah, you did that to me all the time.” Uhhhh wha? A lot of the time I am oblivious to things happening around me, and this was no different. Had my V completely changed my sister’s V? Did I have an alpha V? YUP. And it didn’t stop there.

Shortly after I was made aware of this power, I came home from school for a visit. What happened a couple days later? My V brought my mother out of full-blown menopause. Oops. Sorry mom. This would happen every time I came home to visit. Again, really sorry mom. Unfortunately my V has a mind of its own and I can’t always predict when it will want to show its dominance. So, not only did I ruin people’s menopause, but I ruined a lot of vacations and anniversaries as well. Poor Alesia would make the dire mistake of hanging out with me before a special occasion. Occasion ruined. My V owes my brother in law a lot of beer.

The tales of the V-power have traveled among all of my friends, and they are now afraid of it. Recently I was at an all-day concert with Alesia, my brother in law, my friend Em, and her husband. It was hotter than hell, but my sister insisted on getting an order of deep-fried Oreos. She offered one to me, but those of you who know me well are aware that my body cannot handle that much grease and sugar. I declined and told her to be careful, as we were in extreme heat and there were only Porta-Pottys available for use. She insisted that it wouldn’t do anything to her. About 10 minutes later we were dancing around Em as she sat in her beach chair, her flesh burning to a crisp. Alesia stopped dancing, clutched her stomach and said “Ohhhhhh noooooooo you were right.” In a split second, Em stood up and screamed “GODDAMNIT ALI! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! I HAVE TO GO ON VACATION! GET THAT FUCKING THING AWAY FROM ME!” Em thought I was bringing Alesia’s (and eventually her) period early.

Don’t worry, my V has ruined plenty of things for me as well. If my hormones are powerful enough to fuck shit up for other people, imagine what it feels like to have that going on in your body. It’s like being a different kind of Incredible Hulk; one that doesn’t change colors or turn into a giant. Instead, it makes you listen to country music, watch things like “Bachelor Pad”, and want to maul the mailman. After all I’ve done for it, I don’t understand the blatantly undermining behavior.  I give my ovaries medicine 3 times a day to keep them in check, I take it to the best waxer in Maryland, and I don’t let random gross guys near it, what gives? So, thank you, V, for randomly arriving in the middle of the night during my last trip. You are a spoiled bitch and I hate you. (Please don’t kill me, I’m sorry for calling you a spoiled bitch.)

(image: ME)

Sleeping Conditions.

After my recent epic battle with jet lag after my trip to San Diego, I will never again take a red-eye flight and brush it off with an “It’ll be FINE!” These flights should only be taken by narcoleptics or people with Ambien prescriptions. When I got to the airport in SD, I was exhausted and excited to get on the plane so I could pass out. Of course we boarded a little late, so by the time I got to my seat in first class (I love winning the upgrade lottery) and chugged 2 vodka cranberries, I was WIDE awake. I remained that way the entire flight despite my sleep mask and iPod mix titled “Go the FUCK to Sleep”. Not only was I in shock that I couldn’t pass out, but I was PISSED. Before the flight I decided against taking an Advil PM or Zyrtec since I wasn’t sure if those things make me do weird things in my sleep. Stupid. Dan, the guy next to me had his head in the right place. He popped a couple Ambien and was fine. Yeah, we had a random conversation about yoga capris, but I was delighted because (as you have read previously) I fucking love yoga capris.  After this trip, it took me almost a week to get back to normal and that was only with the help of Advil PM.

Being awake at 3am gave me ample time to realize that I have a strict list of conditions that must be perfect in order for me to fall asleep and stay asleep.

• I cannot sleep in public. This includes airplanes. Nothing creeps me out more than thinking that some smelly old guy is watching me. I also imagine the flight attendants mocking me from their weird airplane kitchen area. If I enjoy quietly making fun of people’s sleeping faces, they must as well.
• I must have the correct sleep mask. My favorite is the one that comes in the Delta first class kit for international flights. They are thin but don’t let any light in and have a little piece of cloth near the nose to block out the area between your nose and cheeks. Instead of one thick elastic band to secure it, these have 2 thin bands to go over your ear and under your ear. Thin straps are the way to go; thick straps give me a headache. Thank god my mother is about to get back from a trip, I just ran out of these masks and have been settling for a similar but not as good brand. If she doesn’t bring any back, I might have to fly to Australia just to get the masks.
• I must have some sound going on. TV is preferable. If it is silent, all I do is lay there and think about everything that I’m worried about.
• I must have cold air and a fan. Sweating in your sleep is gross and never needs to happen. EVER.
• I must have my hair in a bun on top of my head. This helps the sleep mask stay on, and prevents tangles forming in my golden locks.
• I must have my Tempur-pedic pillow with the neck bump thing.  The thing is, when you have big boobs they naturally pull your shoulders forward, and your whole body in general. After awhile, you find yourself hunching over into your lap while always having a horrible backache. This pillow helps you to reverse (or just make more bearable) the damage that your boobs have done to the rest of your body.
• I would like to have at least 2 non-Tempur-pedic pillows. This is for general body cushioning. After my last surgery, I got so used to propping my leg up 24 hours a day and sleeping with 10 pillows to make sure that I didn’t roll over and fuck up my leg, that I now like to have a pillow on either side of me. It is comforting. Shut up.
• I must have Blankie. Yes, I am 26 and I still have my Blankie. My sister is 31 and still has her Blankie. If you think this is weird and/or dumb, I have one thing to say to you: FUCK OFF. Blankie has aged and now resembles an octopus made out of silk. When he was in his prime, I’d make a face turban out of him instead of wearing a sleeping mask. My best friend Allison thought it was odd at our first sleepover during high school, but she got used to it, and eventually came up with the name “turban time”: when I had reached the point in the night when I was ready to sleep, and therefore would construct my face turban. During one of our first sleepovers, I scared the living shit out of her mother when she came into the room to wake us up and I had my face turban on. She thought I had suffocated and was dead in the bed next to her daughter. Fun for the whole family! Now that Blankie is in the downslope of his lifetime, he is not big enough to form a face turban, so I ball him up and place him in my chin/neck/shoulder area to enhance the effect of the Tempur-pedic pillow.

I think that’s all. And yes, I am aware that I have lost my damn mind. 

(image: Mrs. B- she took this after she realized that I was breathing and not dead.)

NOTE: Allison insisted that I include updated photos of us to assure my readers that we are in fact attractive and we only look weird early in the morning before we’ve had a chance to shower and put makeup on.

(images: ME)

Girls Weekend: Episode 3

Although it was awesome that my friend had the balls to make out with 2 guys in one night, she also got sick from her mishmash of liquid courage, in a bush outside of Seacrets. We went to our designated meeting place and waited for Vic and the other cabbie. Alesia informed me that Vic liked me and was planning on bringing a case of beer with him when he picked us up. Cindy asked me to convince Vic to take us to McDonalds for HAMBURGER. I happily agreed. The minutes passing felt like an eternity. My friend was not in good shape. Vic was nowhere to be found. We decided to scrap it and just grabbed a random cab. This cabbie was an asshole. He blasted the worst music ever made, awful AC, and wouldn’t stop for HAMBURGER. We finally got home, and thankfully Amy and sober Tracy were going on a Wawa run. They got me a hot dog (not as good as HAMBURGER would have been, but still good), and other snacks that I do not recall. I looked down at my forgotten ankle. It had passed cankle status and went to “Elephant Man” status with 2 creases in it from all of the swelling. I slept with ice packs that night.

New tip #5: DO have one friend that stops drinking early enough to go on late night food runs for everyone.

New tip #6: DO bring ice packs, there will always be at least one clumsy bitch in the group.

The next day we detox and tan by the pool. Pool lounging might be one of my favorite activities ever. Later we go to our traditional Hooters late lunch. We eat greasy food and laugh and talk about the dumb shit we did the night before. On the way home, Wifey and I buy rings and have a ceremony in the living room of our rented house. In our vows we reassure each other that we are still able to date/sleep with/marry guys. That night we hang out, pack, and eat the 50 cupcakes that Tracy made. After a good sleep, Denise makes us waffles, we pack the cars and head back home. I spend all day doing laundry, then fly out to San Diego the next morning at 6am to visit my sister.

New tip #7: DO have a Wifey that has no issues with you sleeping with men.

(image: ME)

Girls Weekend: Episode 2

The next day we went to the beach, which shouldn’t have even been called a beach. Satan’s cruel trick would have been more appropriate. Maybe I feel so strongly about this beach because I grew up going to the calm beaches in Florida and California, who knows, but this beach was like Mars to me. There was basically a 20 foot stretch of beach from boardwalk to water, so everyone was packed together like sardines. Then there was the water. It was pretty chilly, and 5 feet off the shore the waves were crashing so hard that even fearless children didn’t want to get in. Eventually some people would fight their way out and get past the huge waves to float around. After feeling tortured by having to sit on the shore, I made my way out with Barb and Em. It was tough but we made it out there. We floated around for a bit, and then decided to go back in. I was ALMOST there, when a wave from the seventh layer of hell came and knocked us over. I tried to stand up, but another one came crashing down on us, and as we went down, I reached for Barb and grabbed her boobs as all of Delaware and Maryland watched. I laughed uncontrollably as I tried to get all of the sand out of my swimsuit. I imagine myself looking like an escaped mental patient wearing a cute bikini and Ray-Bans.

That night was our big “Jersey Shore” night out, so after the beach we went back to the house (actually a few of us went to check out the pool in the neighborhood, which was fantastic, then went back to the house) to eat dinner, shower, and get our “trashy” on.  Oh did we ever. After much consideration, I ended up wearing outfit #3: a dress that I would wear on a non-theme day, but when accessorized could totally pass for “Jersey Shore”. My ankle was swollen to “cankle” status at this point. In an effort to forget about the pain, I started drinking while I put on my fake eyelashes and kilos of eye shadow. Topping off my elegant look were 2 gorgeous pieces of jewelry that made me so happy I almost peed a little: my infamous Sex Panther ring, and the Sexual Turtle necklace. Just thinking about it now gives me goose bumps. SO ELEGANT.

By the time we were all finished getting ready and taking pictures of each other, the 2 van cabs had arrived. Cindy grabbed me and said we should go in the cab with the hot driver, all I have to hear is “hot” and I’m there. You have to understand something… when I’m intoxicated I become incredibly saucy/ballsy/sure of myself. Yes, I know this happens to a lot of people, but this is on another level. On most days I am the most painfully awkward flirter EVER. I never know what to say, which then leads me to saying really dumb things. Imagine a combination of Liz Lemon on 30 Rock and Leslie Knope on Parks and Recreation. Yes, it is that bad. After some sweet booze, I transform into Amanda Woodward from Melrose Place.

I should also mention that we all had our alter egos for the weekend as to avoid creepers. Mine is Alex (I will answer to it since some of my teachers always called me Alex to avoid confusion, and I won’t forget it after 5 minutes), Alesia is Jinxie, Em is Misty, Denise is Crystal, and that’s all I can remember. The point of alter egos is to actually use them. We caught Denise using her real name and had to yell at her.

New tip #3: DON’T forget to use your alter ego.

So we pile into the cabs, and I decide it is my new goal in life to get our cab driver to like us, so I start flirting heavily with him. Cindy is very happy about this. His name is Vic, he finds the perfect setting for the AC, plays dance music for us, and even takes a group picture of us when we get to Seacrets. We set up a pickup time and place for later in the evening. Vic is a prince of a cab driver.

After doing a lap of Seacrets (this place is HUGE) we stake a place in the dance club area, or CLEUUUURB (don’t even think about stealing this one, you unoriginal skanks) as I refer to it. Cindy insists that we drink the “Pain in the Ass” all night, which is delicious and filled with booze, so I did. We dance for a while, and I notice that a creepy old dude is dancing behind my Wifey, making gross creepy old dude comments. He also touched the ass of one of the ladies, so I start giving him a combination of my “crazy eyes” and my mother’s “evil eye”. Crazy eyes are a Seley trait that could disarm Mel Gibson’s William Wallace in Braveheart in less than 3 seconds; while my mother’s evil eye can make you want to kill yourself for doing even the slightest thing wrong. So creepy old dude goes to leave, stops and says to me “I know how you are looking at me and I don’t appreciate it” so I say in my finest crazy bitch voice “I don’t appreciate you being so fucking creepy. We aren’t interested.” And like that, he was gone.

A few minutes later I sent my usual “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU” text to Em (which she doesn’t see until the next day), and as I hit send I get a text from Alesia: “Come outside now!!!!!” The extreme use of exclamation points made me nervous, so I figured someone had gotten kicked out. As soon as I get outside, Alesia and Em introduce me to 3 young guys and an old man that looked like Paul Sr. from that motorcycle building show. I start talking with the most suitable one, who looks like a UFC fighter. Alesia was shocked that I didn’t go for the redheaded one. I had to remind her that my ginger obsession died last year after having some of the worst sex of my life with a bearded ginger.

Sometimes (like now) I find it hard to get out of my head, and will sit and list every reason to not have fun with this guy. (I have told you previously that I have lost my mojo). Yes, he was cute, but I’d never date him, especially since I pointed out that he was wearing a douchebag shirt (he looked sad when I explained it to him) and a fedora. Then in a moment of clarity, I realized that I was SINGLE and on VACATION. I can do anything I want on vacation! I don’t have a boyfriend or husband! Since I needed some backup, I asked Cindy if I should make out with him. Cindy’s response: “UMMMM YEAH HE’S HOT!!!!!!” So I did. When I looked up I saw one of my friends making out with a very attractive dude right next to us. We are classy broads, let me tell you. The rest of the evening at Seacrets was filled with a steady flow of “Pain in the Ass”, dancing, making out, and random decorative plants. I looked up again and saw my friend making out with a different guy right next to us. We had fun. We deserved it. Don’t worry, we didn’t do anything extreme like go home with these guys, so sit your ass down. Sometimes all you need to get out of your rut and bring back your mojo is some kissing with a guy you don’t want to date.

New tip #4: DO make out with a guy you never have to see again.

(image: ME)

Girls Weekend: Episode 1

Well, I’m back from my 2 big trips of the summer and I’m exhausted. This girls weekend was the best yet! It’s amazing how much fun you can have when the insane bitches aren’t present. There were a couple DON’Ts this trip (one of which I committed) but they weren’t too bad and our DOs were so awesome that they cancelled out the DON’Ts, so we are all excused. Since I want to give you all “best of” for the weekend, I will break it up into episodes since it would be overwhelming to digest in one sitting. Here is episode 1.

We all arrived at our rented house in Betheny Beach by mid-afternoon on Friday. After unpacking and getting our first drinks, we did our usual first night thing of sitting around and talking, which turned into a dance party shortly thereafter. Since this would most likely be our only exercise for the weekend, I joined in wholeheartedly. This was especially fun for me because my knee surgery in December has allowed me to run, dance, and be more fun in general. As we were all jumping while dancing to Britney Spears/Ke$ha/Black Eyed Peas, I felt compelled to yell “LOOK! I HAVEN’T DONE THIS IN 8 YEARSSSSS!” every so often. Normally I would apologize for this behavior, but I won’t because I went through a shitload of pain after 4 surgeries, not to mention all of the work I put in at PT for the past 7 months, SO FUCKING DEAL WITH IT.

In all of my excitement, I needed a break for some fresh air. As I made my way outside, I misjudged the height of the step from the front door, which made my foot land weird, which then caused the doormat to slide, which caused my ankle to roll. Domino effect of destruction. You have never heard music stop so quickly. Everyone knows how complex my knee is, so they all thought I had fucked it up. 8 women yelling “IS IT YOUR KNEE?!?!?!?” sent me into shock, so I just started yelling at everyone that I was fine and to stop paying attention to me. Luckily the only pain I felt was in my ankle (THANK GOD). I was told it was a graceful fall, but I think my friends are just being nice. Then, in my state of shock, I cried. Not because I was in pain, but I was so mad at myself for letting this happen (I know it wasn’t my fault, but I felt dumb), not to mention terrified that it could have been my knee. I hate crying in front of people, it makes me feel weak. There are only a few people that I feel comfortable crying in front of; luckily some of them were there.

Em and I shared a room, and I now know reason #56,283,819 of why Taco married her. She is an awesome roommate. We talked about dumb shit while falling asleep and she manages to not be creepy while she watches you sleep.

That’s all for today. More to come later. Remember,

New tip #1: DON’T roll your ankle and cry.

New tip #2: If you DO fall, do it gracefully.

(image: ME) 

Girls Weekend DOs and DON’Ts

This weekend I have a glorious event called “Girls Weekend”, which started 6 or 7 years ago when my step-sister and her girlfriends from high school reconnected. This will be my 5^th year attending this shit-show. In the beginning we would always go to Atlantic City, which was fun but pricey, and the guys were super douchey. The past 2 years we went to Myrtle Beach, which was lovely, but an 8-hour drive made me want to kill myself. This year we will be going the shortest distance, about 2 hours, to the Bethany Beach area. I’m a little frightened that we’ll be so close to home. What if I happen to see one of these strangers that I did dumb shit in front of again? I don’t need an awkward encounter at a Starbucks because some dude recognizes me from our famous “theme night”. Yes, theme night. In the past our themes have included: for the older ladies- “newly divorced and rich”, for me- “just came into my trust fund/Paris Hilton”, and I can’t remember the others because I was under the influence the entire time. This year’s theme is “Jersey Shore”. Yes, I know. I’m half excited and half mortified that I’m participating in this one. Whatever happens, I’ll rock that hair pouf and freakishly sparkly dress like it’s the end of the world. Each year it seems like we have at least one new attendee. Most of the time, they crash and burn and are never invited back. There are many things that can go very wrong or very right on these trips. Here are my pointers for surviving.

DON’T COCK BLOCK. I am one of the 2 single ladies in this group of 9. If you are married, and see me flirting with a guy, don’t walk over and try to flirt with the guy. I WILL SLIT YOUR THROAT SO FAST YOU’LL NEVER FEEL A THING. Go home to your husband and flirt with him, or if you are so desperate to flirt with a random guy on vacation, go find one for yourself. STEP OFF.

EAT. One of my best friends who I love dearly is notorious for drinking all day and not eating, so by the time we are ready to go out for a night of dancing, she is nearing a blackout. Food isn’t your enemy, it is your friend, a friend that allows us to drink longer and dance with random dudes. Please eat.

ACCEPT MY ALTER EGOS. Those who love me and know me well have met Cookies and Hamburger. About 5 years ago the world was introduced to Cookies, and my sister was the first to meet her. Apparently when I was really hammered I’d start yelling “COOKIES” because, you guessed it, I really wanted some cookies. I even tried to convince my brother (for about 2 hours) to walk a mile to the gas station to get me some Chips Ahoy. A couple years ago Cookies faded into the background and Hamburger entered our lives. Yes, “HAMBURGER” is what I yell at my designated driver (thank you all for still being my friend, I’m an asshole) until I can get a happy meal. Hamburger is also a very talented singer/songwriter. During a Hamburger trip, I/Hamburger rewrote the words to Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” so the song would be about falling in love with hamburgers. There is video of it somewhere, which will never see the light of day. It is a true expression of my beauty and elegance.

BE YOURSELF. Don’t try to be everything to everyone. Mimicking each person in the group in order to get them to like you is annoying. You don’t know what it’s like to be in an MFA program or be married to a radio traffic producer, it’s ok. You don’t need to turn into all of us “Runaway Bride” style. JUST RELAX. 

APPLY YOUR SUNSCREEN. One of the ladies (who is no longer invited to girls weekend because she is batshit crazy) was very fair skinned, and would always do the same dumb shit every year. Our first day at the pool/beach, she’d forget to put sunscreen on a huge area of her body, turn into a patchy lobster, then she’d be miserable for the rest of the trip. PUT THE DAMN SUNSCREEN ON. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT YOUR SUNBURN FOR 3 DAYS, IDIOT.

DON’T BE AN EMOTIONAL TRAINWRECK. I know it is hard to be the new person in our group, but don’t turn into a 2 year old if it takes a little time. A couple years ago, one of the ladies invited a friend of hers to our weekend. She was very reserved and didn’t have a great sense of humor, so she kind of fell into the background. On our big night out for dancing, we were in the club for not even 10 minutes before she was crying in a corner. What. The. Fuck.  Apparently our friend that invited her wasn’t paying enough attention to her, so she threw a pity party and turned into a blubbering idiot. Not cool. She blamed it on PMS (ladies, you need to stop using this excuse for being an insecure psychopath), and might have been expecting us to all go home, but there was no way in hell we were leaving after spending so much time getting ready. We sent her back to the condo in a cab, which got lost, and she had to pay a $50 cab ride. It’s simple: don’t be that lady. She was not invited back for obvious reasons.

DON’T GET US KICKED OUT OF 2 CLUBS. My friend that likes to drink and not eat is the reason we have this rule. After a day of drinking at the pool, we ate dinner and got ready to go out. Well, WE ate, my friend probably had 2 bites of her spaghetti. We had made it out to the clubs successfully, paid our cover charge and went to scope out a base camp for the night. Fast-forward 20 minutes. As I am heading to the restroom, I run into my sister who tells me that we have to leave immediately and that I need to round up the rest of the girls. Once we are all outside, we come to find that our friend, in her drunken state, didn’t like the attitude that a random girl gave her, so she pulled down the girl’s tube top, exposing her boobs to the entire club. Annoyed but still ready to party, we headed to the next place. We find a table, put our drunken friend in a chair, and made our way to the dance floor (with people switching off on who had to stay back and watch our troublemaker friend). One of my other friends, Wifey (we call each other Wifey since we are the only 2 single girls, and had a drunken marriage ceremony in a Denny’s while waiting for our Hamburgers) had met a cute guy while dancing so she was enjoying herself, and as things were getting more interesting, we are told that we have to leave the club because our friend fell asleep at the table. At that point it was “2 strikes and you’re out”, so we all piled into a cab and called it a night. This pointer is a bit of a combo, as it combines “don’t get us kicked out of clubs”, “eat”, and “don’t cock block”.

HELP ME WHEN I GET STUNG BY A JELLYFISH. Last year we rented a pontoon boat, and while parked on a sandbar (NOTE: never leave a boat on a sandbar because it WILL get stuck) we all jumped in the water and floated for a few hours. Out of nowhere, I felt this awful stinging on my left boob. I thought something bit me so I got out of the water, and noticed the bright red mark. My friends figured I was stung by a jellyfish, but I’d never been stung before so wasn’t sure if that was the answer or not. That was some annoying pain. A few minutes later we saw the jellyfish had washed up on shore. Wifey grabbed a floatie/noodle and beat that thing past death. That is friendship/Wifey love.

Last but not least…

DON’T SIT ON A T-SHIRT COVERED WITH PUFFY PAINT. This needs no explanation.

(image: ME)

I’m baaaaaack!

I’m sure you’ve noticed that I haven’t written anything in a few weeks. Every year, I have noticed a pattern in my behavior. For about a month after classes are over for the semester, my brain shuts down. I’m not creative or social during that “recharging period”. Luckily I am starting to come out of my recharge and am ready to create again! 

With all of that downtime, I’ve noticed more and more things that piss me off. Here’s a list.

·       My scale is schizophrenic. I step on the scale and read that I am a certain weight. 10 minutes later I weigh myself again (because I don’t trust the scale’s judgment), and I am anywhere from 2-4 pounds lighter or heavier. Please note that I did not drink or eat anything in those 10 minutes. WHY CAN’T PEOPLE MAKE THINGS THAT WORK?!?! IS IT THAT DIFFICULT?

·      The DC/Baltimore area dating pool. DC guys are too self-obsessed, spend too much time with a Bluetooth in their ear, and use too much hair gel. Baltimore guys need to take a damn shower and get over their wannabe hipster personas. There is no in-between here. I live in my own dating hell.

·      People that use LOL, LMFAO, etc. and think it is socially acceptable need to be shot. Actually, the person that came up with that shit needs to be added to the list of people that need to be shot. If you comment on my Facebook status with “LOL that’s funny :p LOL” you are now dead to me. There’s no excuse for such stupidity.

·      Cell phone contracts. So you are telling me that I can’t trade in my piece of shit Blackberry until MARCH? Unacceptable. If I’ve had to bring in my phone 3 times to get replaced because they keep breaking for no reason, you need to give me a different kind of phone. I hate you AT+T. Go somewhere and DIE.

·      Summer dresses. Believe me, I love a good sundress. But this summer, it seems like every dress I look at is one of the following: racerback, spaghetti strap, or strapless. THIS DOES NOT WORK FOR ME. I need to be able to wear a bra with a dress. Not want, but NEED. These things are fantastic, and I want to keep them that way. GIVE ME SOME PROPER STRAPS YOU ASSHOLES! Maybe the assholes are trying to get back at those of us who are “blessed”, because they are bitter that they do not have the assets. I know what it’s like to be jealous of someone else’s gifts, but get over it. Make me a cute dress goddamnit.

That’s all for now. YAY summer!

 (image: http://0.tqn.com/d/civilliberty/1/0/J/1/-/-/firingsquad500.jpg)