What You Owe

30 Apr

Here is a non-funny Buzzfeedy blog with a list of some things we don’t owe anyone but need to stop stressing over!!!

An Explanation: Unless you make a real commitment to something important to someone, we owe no sort of explanations for anything. “No, thank you” is just fine. You don’t need a reason for not wanting to do something other than not wanting to do it. If someone in your life takes that personally, then that is their problem to work out, not yours. If you make plans with a friend to hangout after work, then you have a long, shitty day and decide you’d rather house a buffalo chicken sub alone on your couch, you shouldn’t worry that your friend will make a big deal or talk shit or use the old school fan favorite childhood vocabulary word “ditched” . You also shouldn’t feel the need to make up a better excuse because you think they’ll pick your excuse apart. Don’t lie to appease someone. I would rather hang with my friends when they want to hang, not when they feel obligated. Here is a good way to say it, “Hey, today sucked. I won’t be much fun today. Rain check?”. Easy peasy.

An Immediate Response: I love my iPhone in an unhealthy way. My iPhone is for me to use how I want to use it. If I don’t feel like talking, I don’t have to. If I mentally reply to a text, but forget to hit “send”, I don’t need to hear about it (example: “You didn’t answer my text but you opened my Snap!” Unless you had definitive plans to meet up, shut up and move on). We are so connected to our social technology that it’s almost expected that we always be available for everyone. A cell phone is a lifeline to socialization. We pay for it monthly to use it how we want to. Your friends should understand that you will reach out when you reach out. And them, the same.

The Same Priorities: Everyone has different shit going on in their lives, and some are in different places. My husband is one of my priorities, because he is under the “family” category now. If a friend is asking you to set your priorities to the side to accommodate them, then maybe they need to tone down the neediness. Example “But you live with your husband! You see him every day. Hang with me!”. Um. What? Okay, why don’t you call in sick to your highly important career to get day drunk with me because “I need you right now because I’m in a fight with my husband!”. Priorities don’t have to be the same in a friendship, but they do need to be acknowledged and respected.

An invitation: I have more that one friend. Sometimes I just want to hangout with one. Sometimes all of them. It doesn’t always have to be a party, but sometimes it’s nice. If a friend sees you check in on Facebook to the dive bar up the street and wants to join, let her call you and say “Hey, saw you and so and so are at bladdy blah, I’d love to join for a beer!”. There is no need to be butt-hurt over not being included in the initial plan. If someone gets mad at you for that, it is their own insecurity. I’ve had this problem in my own life, as I am sure everyone has heard the old “thanks for the invite” jab (side note, I’d love to jab the people who write this under Facebook check in’s…right in the face). It always confused me, because I just invite myself to places I think it would be okay for me to go. I’m not saying I invite myself to weddings or anything major, but a simple “can I join you guys at breakfast?” will suffice. I started taking inventory on who was doing this crap to me…the “thank for the invite” shit. Noticing a pattern of hypocrisy, I too would call it out, just to make a point (example: “You got pissed at me for doing this without you, but now you’re there and didn’t ask me to come!”). I am vowing to never do that again. If you notice yourself doing that, stop. Maybe you weren’t invited because your friends were going to a restaurant they know you don’t like. Maybe they thought you had plans. Or MAYBE they just didn’t think about you on this occasion. And that’s alright, too.

A little branch off of this topic is that you also don’t owe anyone updates on what you are doing. If you invite someone to hang, and they decline based on what you’re doing, you don’t need to update them if your plan changes. If they were tired when you invited them to come by for vino, then why should you feel bad that you decided to grab a slice of pizza up the street instead? They said they were tired. If the plan sounds more exciting than it used to and the thought of pizza and beer wakes them up (it would wake me up!), then they can give you a call. You don’t have to constantly update someone based on plan changes. You have the right to change your mind. You are an adult and you can do whatever the fuck you want without consulting anyone.

An Apology: If you aren’t sorry, don’t apologize. Too often we apologize to keep the peace. If you feel you didn’t do anything wrong, don’t feel the need lie about being sorry to make someone else feel better. What about your own feelings? Fake apologizing is giving in. It leads to built up resentment, and that’s counter-productive. There is nothing wrong with agreeing to disagree then working towards a resolution based on a mutual want to make a situation or relationship better.

We also have the tendency of keeping quiet about things that hurt our feelings. Why? If something upsets you, just say it. We teach people how to treat us. Don’t let anyone treat you like shit..which leads me into what we DO owe friends, and that is: Respect. I get that to get respect we have to earn it. But I am talking about friends here. If someone is on friend level with you, they should have already have earned your respect. If you don’t respect your friends then you are being a bad friend. If your friend doesn’t respect you, then they are being a bad friend. Friendship is a mutual respect and if one side is lacking, it is probably time to lay the relationship to rest. Respect ties into everything mentioned above. I don’t owe it to my friends to invite them every time I leave my house. But I do respect them enough that I am not going to go to brunch and invite all of my other friends and leave just one friend out. I respect them enough that I am going to call them back when I get a free second. If I am going to their favorite restaurant, I will give them a call to see if they want to tag along. If I have unintentionally hurt their feelings, I am going to apologize because I don’t want to be responsible for hurting them. But I am not going to constantly sacrifice my own feelings to make someone feel better. Any “friend” who expects you to do so is someone you should move on from.

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What People Give A Shit About When It Comes To Weddings

14 Apr

When a girl gets engaged, there are about 5 billion things that run through her mind that first week. These thoughts range from “DO I LIKE MY RING?!” to “DO MY FRIENDS LIKE MY RING?!” to “HOW MUCH WAS MY RING?!” to “Oh my God, I FOUND THE RING RECEIPT! SHOULD I LOOK AT IT?!”, etc. After the hype dies down and the planning begins, the feelings of ” I HAVE SO MUCH SHIT TO DO” starts to set in. You gotta book a reception, make sure the reception hall availability matches up with wherever the ceremony is, play phone tag with your priest – which is weird in itself because calling a priest feels weird- start thinking about who is going to be in the bridal party, and how much fat you need expelled from your body effective immediately… aaaaaand then comes all the vendor booking. I did all that worrying and freaking out myself when I got engaged. I was the first to get married out of my girlfriends, so there was this added pressure that comes with being the first (that rhyme does state that “first is the worst”, no?), and fear that no girl I knew had done this before – recently at least.

I wish there was just one thing that someone had told me. And that is:

NO ONE GIVES A SHIT. There. I said it. No one cares. Before you get all sad and think “What?! No one is happy for me!”, know that is NOT what I am saying. I am saying that no one cares about the details of your wedding. No one. Not even God. No one cares, and no one wants to hear it. Except your mom, she loves wedding shit, probably. And actually, she will probably tell you all that I’m about to, but no one really listens to their moms when they are excited about getting married. Until after they are married, and by then it’s too late and you’ve already probably lost all of your friends after being a psycho bitch for 12-13 months on average. I wish there was someone there to tell me that no one gives a shit about all of the following:

No one cares about your Save the Dates, invitations, place cards, table numbers, ceremony program, or really any other paper goods/stationary associated with you getting married. This is so important because this shit will add up and pretty soon you will have spent $1798.23 on 245 pieces of sturdy “matte” paper that has some calligraphy on it. Think about what you do when you get a Save the Date or invitation in the mail. Do you analyze the font like you’re straight out of that scene from American Psycho when Patrick Bateman wants to chainsaw the dude over his business card? No. You don’t. You open it up and see that it’s a Save the Date and you groan and think “A-fucking-NOTHER one?!”. Then you throw it on a table or on your fridge and dread all the events that you know are going to be associated with this one big event and all the Saturdays you will have to sacrifice over the course of a year. Unless it was made on Microsoft Paint, no one will judge you. Also, people will rag on your engagement photos, for the most part. You can still get them, just know that.

No one cares about your flowers, centerpieces, or knick-knacks: All this shit is pretty to look at when guests are struggling to make small talk during cocktail hour before their buzz kicks in. And stranger reading this blog, I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you don’t have tacky taste. But overall, does anyone other than David Tutera care whether you have babies breath in a vase or white carnations in a jar? Unless they are your one gay friend, probably not. If I’m being honest here, I don’t even like bringing centerpieces home when offered. Why? Because I am always drunk when I am offered or win a centerpiece, and just throw it in my car, and forget it’s there until a month later when I’m looking for something on the floor of the back seat of my car, and by then it’s just a mound of dead roses in a dirty container. We should really just start calling it “losing the centerpiece” because all we are doing is losing time picking up dead flower petals in the car 30 days after we “win” the centerpiece. This not giving a fuck extends to favors, too. Sometimes you get cool wedding favors you can reuse (I guess?). But then again, most people will eventually throw out that plastic birdcage with the couples’ names etched into it. Maybe I’ll feel a little bad about throwing it into the barrel, but I will never think about it after that initial and irrational “Aw, I might have needed that plastic birdcage with Greg and Julia’s name etched into it”.

No one cares if you don’t have an equal number or bridesmaids to groomsmen: Oh my God, you have 3 bridesmaids and 2 groomsmen?! Everything is going to be uneven and awful!!! ACTUALLY, aside from the concern that your fiancé might be a serial killer due to the red flag of having no friends other than the bride’s brothers in his bridal party, no one cares. No, it doesn’t look stupid when just one girl walks down the aisle. No, it doesn’t look stupid if they all walk down single file, or 3 at a time. No one thinks about it, and no one cares. Similarly, if your bridesmaid has a giant tattoo, or a mushroom cut, no one cares. Maybe your sassy grandmother will make a comment. But who cares? No one. The only one who ever cares is the bride, and maybe the bridesmaid if she’s self conscious about a tribal tattoo she got when she was 18 that is impossible to cover up in the dress you picked out. But that’s not your problem, now is it? And there is always someone who brings up “But their bad hair is going to ruin the pictures!”. One bridesmaid is going to ruin all of the pictures? Are you going to deck your house out in pictures of you and your bridesmaids? Maybe one. But most of your framed pictures will be of you and your husband. That will nauseate your friends and family enough without the extra collage of you and your girly girls fake laughing.

No one cares about your cake: Everyone is drunk. They are just eating the cake because they are drunk. They don’t care what it tastes like, and probably wish it were pizza anyways. The only ones who care about your cake are the photographer (until they get a picture of it before and after cutting), and the flower girl, and let’s face it: she’s been kind of a bitch lately. You know what? Fuck the cake, just get pizza. It comes with one of those little white table things in the center for free, and you’ll save $75 by not having to buy a cheesy cake topper that doesn’t even remotely resemble you or your husband. And the “funny” cake toppers? They aren’t funny. No, not even the one with the wife dragging the husband away from the couch.

On the topic of food, wedding guests don’t expect to go to the average wedding and get  a steak that rivals the aged Porterhouse at Capital Grille. Any person who has been to camp knows that most food that is cooked in large quantities end up being bland, and wedding food isn’t exactly known for winning any awards. Everyone knows it, in fact, they expect your stuffed chicken to be best described as “edible”, and they will eat it anways and it will be fine. Sorry for calling your wedding “the average wedding” a few sentences ago. My point it, don’t get bent out of shape if the food isn’t 5 stars. This is getting a little redundant, but, no one cares.

American-Psycho-Patrick-Bateman-Business-Card-Picture Okay, now to cancel out all of the negativity from above, let’s talk about the things that ARE important when planning a wedding. And none really have to do with what other people think, because weddings shouldn’t be about what other people think. It’s what you think. And your husband. I guess.

Pictures: You want to look back and get a flashback of how you felt in that exact moment on your wedding day. Find someone who you think can capture your wedding in a way that is personal to you. Look through portfolios of reputable photographers and if you like their “vibe”, hit them up. Meet with your photographer. Check out their work in person. Talk about what you want. And what you want to be a focus. I vibed with my photographer and felt comfortable with her doing her thing on my wedding day. In my opinion, it also eases a ton of stress to go with a photography company that does packages. It’s less people to worry about and reach out to in the days leading up to, and day of, the wedding. Also, you might think you will never watch your wedding video, but it’s so fun to get one and watch it months later. Just don’t host a viewing party, because no one cares and you will lose the few friends you may have left. (Quick plug for my photographer, the amazingly talented Kristen Conte of Conte Sound Production. Kristen’s husband Tom sings during cocktail hour and is the best DJ. They also have packages for videography/uplighting/pretty much everything. Check them out and tell them I told you to!)

Music: Nothing kills an event faster than bad music. I went to an event last Summer during which the DJ played Sinatra’s version of Old McDonald. Pick a good DJ. You’ll care when you are looking out into the most socially awkward scene since middle school. Only this is your wedding. Yikes.

Dress: No one really cares about your dress (but maybe non-guests will judge you when you upload your wedding album onto Facebook if you pick something that makes you look unflattering). But you will. You will want to feel comfortable and beautiful the day you get married. Put some effort in, for once in your Goddamn life!!!! Oh, and don’t wear anything too weird on your head. I mean, if you love head-wear, who am I to stop you? But there was some chick next to me at the bridal boutique the day I was dress shopping for my gown and she was wearing the ugliest effing bridal hat on her head and her entire “support” team was telling her “Yeah, yeah, that looks GREAT!”. Listen, it doesn’t look great. You’re wearing a white satin top hat with a bird cage and you aren’t in England. Get a new support system if anyone suggests a hat without you ever expressing any kind of an interest in hats. It’s likely that person is your enemy and trying to steal your husband and sabotage your life.

And okay, I guess the guests are a little bit important, so here are a couple things that guests will feel good about:

1. Open bar. Obviously. But it’s not wise if you have too many guests. An open bar at a big wedding can easily turn into a more violent version of the pie eating contest in Stand By Me if you have any wild cards on your guest list.

2. Short ceremonies. Praise Jesus! (Funny story: I had a full mass!!! LOL, right?!)

3. Short car rides between ceremony and reception.

4. Short speeches (threaten the bridal party).

5. Associated events, like showers, being local and not at the ass crack of dawn. 10AM is only a good time for people over 60. Also: make sure mimosas are there. If you have a dry shower, you are just jinxing yourself into an unwanted pregnancy before you exchange vows. It’s bad karma.

6. A dimly lit dance floor. Maybe I’m just speaking for myself here, but no one likes to dance in broad daylight.

7. A decent sized wedding registry with varying price ranges. Don’t worry about putting the big things on it either, people go in on the Kitchen Aid stand mixer in groups! And the attachments are perfect for those loner guests who don’t know anyone else in attendance!

8. A good seating chart. AKA please GOD put me with SOMEONE I know. ANYONE!

So brides, try not to sweat the small shit, because really, no one gives a shit anyways. You can take that and feel depressed that life isn’t all about your wedding. Or you can take that with a side of red wine and stop talking about your wedding. XOXO. pie

Excuse Me Sir, But Can You Get Me A Run?

1 Apr

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DISCLAIMER: I do not condone any of this.

Being of age is something I often take for granted. Can you imagine all of a sudden being 20 years old again and unable to walk into a liquor store and pick up a bottle of $5.99 Sutter Home after the shittiest day in the office?! But at least when you’re 20 you might have had some friends who were a few months older that could do the deed for you. How about when you’re 16 and have no connects?! Not being able to purchase my own booze is something I can barely imagine, yet at the same time remember so vividly. And it’s fucking HORRIFYING to look back at the outrageously compromising situations my friends and I put ourselves in. Seriously, if and when I have kids, I can only pray they will never stand outside of a train station with a backpack scoping out anyone who looked “rough around the edges” to buy them a half gallon of Rubinoff or a 30 of Bud Light to split with 4 people. It can only be described as the most dangerous rite of passage that Suburban white kids could partake in, aside from whatever idiotic trends are “in” right now (I hope small town Midwestern teens are over the whole choking game thing).

Here is how it went down:

If you were the only girl, which I often was, the boys would recruit you to do the asking, THANKS GUYS!, as they eagerly stood a few yards away, staring at the ground anxiously pretending to kick pebbles. Like I said, you’d wait for someone who looked to be in distress. You would discuss amongst each other: “Nah, nah, that guy looks like an undercover. And that one looks like the dad from the Sound of Music. You know, Christopher Plumber. Can’t ask him.” The perfect candidate was a homeless man. The worst candidate was a woman. Maternal instincts can be a real buzzkill. Once you made your selection, you would get your game-face on and go into the cutesiest persona you could fake. The more innocent, the better (GROSS). You’d approach the potential buyer and squeak out in a babyish voice, “Excuse me, sir?”. When they say “Yeah?”, you beat around the bush a little so you can gage the person’s reaction: “Could you get me a run?”. A lot of adults didn’t know what a ‘run’ was, so you’d get a quizzical “a what?”, as if they were expecting a knock-knock joke. Point blank you’d say “Alcohol’. You have to know that you strike out more often than not. Usually you’d get a “You fuckin’ kiddin me?! You want me to get arrested?!?! The fuck outta here!”, (which is precisely what me nowadays would say to a kid asking me to buy for them) until that moment of glory when you find someone who pretends to be apprehensive, but relents after a few “Pleeeeaaaaaaseeeee!“‘s. You can be waiting for hours sometimes. You might have to ask 16 people. Sometimes you’d get lucky and a well-known mentally-not-there bum named Bugs would stroll past the lot. Bugs referred to himself as the “President of Quincy” and his turf was Wollaston. Roger was North Quincy and hung out by the generator behind Hannaford’s. Jerry lived in his van in the Vane Street parking lot, behind the Irish Pub. He would get PISSED if you woke him up, so you had to sit on the curb next to the van until he got up to cook sausage on his griddle. Every one of these men had different personalities. None of them very endearing. Sometimes you’d see a hunchbacked man walking around near the old theater with a shopping cart and think “This is a sure thing”, only to hear him utter his raspy response “I’m just a simple can collector”. You just never knew.

Wollaston was ideal because Bugs was always a safe bet. My friends and I knew all of Bugs’s normal hiding spots and usual benches. His breath stunk of booze and butts. He also required payment in the form of change from the packy order, 5 beers out of the 30 (which really stung), and a pack of Newports. This was a lot for kids who either didn’t work or barely worked. After a couple years of utilizing Bugs’s packy run services, he disappeared. Looking back on it, he was probably dead.

Older kids with fake ID’s, AKA a “connect” knew the power they had over the minors. Sometimes we would call a connect in the early afternoon to secure a run for the evening. They would tell you to trim your order down and not to buy several different liters of flavored vodka. Too obvious. If you got too confident in their promise, you could really set yourself up for huge disappointment if they stopped answering your phone calls as night approached. This was a common occurrence, unless the connect could be described as a “fucking loser” who had no friends their own age. There was an older kid named Shawn who used to buy for my friends and I. He was probably 18 at the time and drove a brown rape van around Quincy. He picked us up after getting us liquor one night and there was shattered glass all over his back seat. We asked why we were sitting on shattered glass and he replied “Oh ha, THAT. My friends were kidding around with me and punched my window in.” Ha…

Unless your connect didn’t have much of a life of their own, or was a direct relative, you had a 50/50 shot. Of course you could water down your parent’s liquor cabinet, but that was tough for anyone with an older sibling. My parents were serving their guests diluted punch far before I was interested in catching a buzz, thanks to my sister. Things aren’t always handed to you, sometimes you have to work for what you want in life.

Perhaps the most stressful part of getting a run came after the victory of actually finding someone to buy it for you. Nope, just having the booze in your possession didn’t mean you were in the clear. Lots of 16 year olds don’t have cars. We had to walk from Wollaston Center to Piney Island or White Rock without a cop getting suspicious about why we were carrying an LL Bean backpack on a Saturday afternoon in July. I likened it to that arcade game, Frogger. Dodging obstacles to get to your target destination. You couldn’t just walk down Fenno Street carelessly like you were carrying a bag full of Thin Mints and sidewalk chalk. You took Wollaston Ave to Waterston Ave to Marlboro Street, and cut through Langley Circle: where the opening to the marsh was. Home base. Of course I wasn’t as observant to this at the time, but in retrospect, growing up is a weird thing. The backyards you were hiding in during a game of Relivio the previous Summer, were the same ones you cut through with the boy you had a crush on and a bottle of stowed away Raspberry Smirnoff vodka a year later. Still hoping not to be seen, but on a different scale and with a slightly more serious consequence that involved an angry mother.

The police knew that Langley was a hotspot, and they’d circle around the perimeter, waiting. The grass behind Langley Circle in Wollaston was hydrated with Natural Ice that Super Cop made teenagers pour out themselves. It felt sadistic. I remember one cop laughing as we cracked each beer open, to pour them out one by one, saying “This is why I love America! You kids work your dead end gigs at Stop and Shop to buy booze for me to bring home to my wife!’ and looking back on it, was one of the most perfect lines I’ve ever heard. A few minutes later, my Nokia (my mom’s phone that she let me borrow on weekends so I could check in) blew up. It was my mom: “I’m listening to my scanner and you better not be at Langley Circle!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”. Better luck next weekend.

I’m going to leave out the parts where my friends and I got sick of dealing with white strangers and their disgusted Absolutely Not!!!’s and lectures when we were just looking for a bit o fun. You know, that part where we quit asking for runs in Quincy all together and traveled to Fields Corner to ask strange men who walked by the old Bradlee’s instead. It’s a little less coming of age/endearing than everything else.

Don’t Tell Me How To Live

31 Mar

There are two things I don’t like in this world. The first are a masculine set of Tevas on a woman I respect.

The second is when I’m texting and walking and someone stops me to point out that they know someone who knows someone who got hit by a truck and died while texting and walking. Or that they saw a video online of someone walking into a mall fountain whilst texting and walking. Why are people telling me this shit? I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. I was once walking on Kneeland Street while talking on the phone and was hit in the head (hard!) by a descending parking lot toll gate. I was disoriented for 20 seconds and…I’m still here! I don’t walk near fountains because they are cesspools for piss and pennies. And I certainly don’t appreciate anyone telling me not to use technology unsafely if I’m not in an automobile. Can’t stop, won’t stop.

“I was texting and driving in LA once and almost drove into a mountain. That could have been a person.” -Tyra Banks

FAT

26 Mar

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Being a girl in my late 20’s I am pretty much an expert at being a girl in her 20’s. And due to society’s unrealistic expectations of what women in their 20’s should look like to look “good”, one of the recurrent themes in a woman’s 20’s is the topic of fat. No one wants to be fat. Fat fat fat. Fat. It’s really important to not be fat. My friends and I can have rather silly hour-long discussions over drinks about fat prevention. We laugh as we talk about partaking in fat behavior. “Oh my God, I was so fucking fat this weekend. I ate late night Wendy’s and drank like 15 beers and skipped the gym.” “Blah, blah, blah juice cleanse, blah, blah, blah, kale, blah blah blah spin class”. We talk about what we are doing to stop being so fat – mind you the median weight of all my friends collectively is probably about 130 pounds. (Many) Women are fixated on fat.

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What even is fat? Some might say it’s when you have a double chin. Or when you are a double digit pants size. Or when you eat buffalo chicken in bed. Or when you are on a Hover Round because you can no longer walk…because you are so fat. I think that the definition of fat has gotten much stricter. These days, and not according to me, if you don’t have a thigh gap, you’re fat. It’s pretty fucking crazy because I do not consider myself to be “fat”, but I haven’t had a thigh gap since I was 12ish. It’s just not feasible for me, a person who has actually been told she has chicken legs, to have a thigh gap. I’m sure there are naturally skinny people out there who have natural thigh gaps, also known as “bitches” (jk lol?), but I would have to eat only celery and water for a month to accomplish this. Even then, I’d probably actually just die. Yeah, no, I would absolutely die.

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The obsessing over fat is exhausting. I’m willing to bet a lot of girls in their 20’s don’t even realize they’re doing it. If you’ve partaken in any of the following behaviors, which are taken from real life conversations I have both been a participant in or listened to,  you probably can relate to what I’m talking about when I refer to the pressure not to be fat:

The Side Profile Selfie: Extending your arm out to your side while looking dead straight ahead and snapping a selfie. Just to see if you have a double chin. Then getting disgusted followed by deleting really quickly. QUICKER!

 Double Chin Up’s: Exercising your chin by nodding repeatedly.

Drunkorexia: Saving your daily calories up for the evening calories you know you will consume from drinking.

Thinsperation: Taping pictures of fitness models or Victoria’s Secret Angels on your fridge, to remind yourself not to be so fucking fat. Because people who are models who are not fat exist in the world. Look at them!

Hoarders Diet: Watching an episode of Hoarders to curb your appetite.

ADHD Fake-out: Taking Adderall to curb your appetite.

Facelift Filter: Cocking your head to your “good side” and posing your chin upward when having a picture taken.

Apple Cider Vinegar Shots: This is exactly what it sounds like: a shot of apple cider vinegar. It speeds up the metabolism and tastes like 75 year old apple juice. And I can’t say this with any scientific proof to back it up, but it does nothing. There is a similar version of this involving cayenne pepper and water. Drink it every morning for best non-results.

IPhone Mirror: Making someone take a full length picture of you in 12 outfits you try on while getting ready to see if you look fat or not, before opting to go with the all black one.

Duckface with Bad Intentions: Duckface, not to be funny or topical, but to enhance your cheekbones and decrease cheek fat.

Spanking Out: Not going out because your spanks are in the wash.

Fatting Out: Not going out because you are fat.

Hilarious? Sad? Borderline disorder?

Just the world we live in!

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Standardize THIS!!!

26 Mar

test

I was a public school child. My sister went to Catholic school for a few years and tapped my parents out so I was sent to Wollaston, which I barely remember, followed by the mean hallways of Beechwood Knoll when it first opened up. And by “mean hallways” I mean “magical hallways” because Beechwood Knoll was hands down the best school I have ever been to. Going to school with all the kids from the neighborhood? Magical. Doesn’t get much better than gossiping about TGIF on Monday morning and making plans to play Cops and Robbers over the weekend on Friday. Not to mention, I had the best teachers in the world. The only almost negative memory that stood out from elementary school was something I find kind of hilarious today, because I don’t think it would ever be allowed to happen in school these days. Allow me to refresh your memory, if you are familiar with anything Quincy Public Schools…

In Quincy there is (or was) a program called the Lab Program (at least, it used to be called Lab, not sure if that’s changed or if it even still exists). It was basically a program for kids who were smart, which I think is kind of a load of bullshit, and I swear I’m not bitter because I was a “standard” level student. Standard was fun and there was less pressure academically (is that a good thing?). But I think it’s bullshit because I am pretty sure acceptance into the program was based solely on the California Achievement Test scores and to not give a child the educational opportunities that Lab offered because of ONE STANDARDIZED TEST feels kind’ve unfair. I don’t want to get into the controversy surrounding kids and standardized tests and how some students are good test-takers because I honestly do not care. Maybe that’s because I don’t have kids and I’m not a teacher. Maybe that’s because I try not to overthink about topics that are way bigger than me, like education. But a few of my friends were “labbies”, as standard kids teasingly called kids in the program, and I remember their homework was about slope and the stock market, whereas I thought that “slope” was a hill you ski down. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t in Lab?

Anyways, tangent! When the Labbies were selected for the program, some woman came into our classroom and said that she had to steal a few kids from the class. In elementary school, your schedule is so planned out that for someone to just pop into your classroom is kind of exciting. She didn’t say where she was taking them, and we all looked around the room anxiously at each other. This was probably around that annoying age when children want everything in life to be fair. Who was this kidnapper and why was she trying to break our pack up?! She informed us that she would be taking the kids whose pointer fingers were longer than their ring fingers (don’t quote me on which fingers she said were longer, it’s been years). Cue my mental stranger danger alarms going off. I glanced at my teacher, who seemed to be in on it. Traitor. The woman then began reading names from a list she was holding. About 5 or 6 kids got up and stood by the door after hearing their names called while the rest of us idiots stared at our hands, trying to eyeball measure our fingers. Before it dawned on us that she was fibbing about her reasoning, the woman announced that she was taking the kids whose names were called for the afternoon and that we would see them tomorrow. We had no idea what it was all about, but our teacher made a surprise announcement that we would be skipping the lesson plan and playing a game in the media room for the remainder of the day. Looking back on it, this was to take our minds off the departure of the other kids, two of whom were my very best friends. I forgot about the treason my teacher had committed and had a ball with the rest of my dumb friends singing songs entitled “Oh Me Oh My I Lost My Homework” (how fitting!)…but I couldn’t help wondering if my other friends were having more fun wherever they had gone.

I learned later on after school when calling my best friend, who was quite humble and I could tell felt a little awkward talking about it, that they’d been pulled from the class because of their placement in a gifted program, and that they would be shipped over to another school every Thursday to do gifted shit. I guess that’s where they found out that slope wasn’t just a mountain at Wachusett. I also learned that they would be separated into their own class in middle school. This was a huge letdown, because I had been in the same classroom as my best friend for a few years now, and the thought of starting middle school without her gave me anxiety. If I remember correctly, the Lab students also were told not to talk to us too much about what they did on Thursdays. Not sure if there is any truth to that, or if it was just some silly childhood rumor. The rest of the non-labbies made due with the fun activities that were planned on Thursdays as a means to keep us occupied.

I don’t know why I remember this experience so vividly, because I was grateful for the lack of pressure. Maybe a kid who wasn’t up to speed academically would have been set up to fail in Lab anyways. I know that some people, not just kids, are more gifted in certain areas than others, it’s a fact of life that the extremely opinionated need to get over. My friends in Lab were better test takers than me. I just find the way that the Lab kids were pulled from class to be hilarious. Like, way to make the dumb kids look like idiots in front of the kids selected for the smart classes. Holding our hands up like schmucks. Pulling our wooden rulers out. Amazing. I don’t think the Lab Program directors had any kind of game plan for how they were going to announce their selections. The woman who walked in the door that day was just winging it or something. It doesn’t feel like that long ago, but would that EVER fly nowadays?! Parents would flip their shit! “YOU HURT MY KIDS FEELINGS, YOU MONSTERS!!!” But it was the 90’s and being excluded from the gifted program at school built character. By middle school Labbies were writing essays about Wall Street after school and I was being peer pressured to chew and screw at Friendly’s. Self-fulfilling prophecy brought on by stereotyping the standard level kids?!?! Meh. It was probably because I spent my free time picking up a hooker named Misty in a video game called Grand Theft Auto and the Labbies weren’t allowed to watch South Park. But I think I turned out decent.

misty

Sit the F Down, Maxine

24 Mar IMG_2572-0

 

Sarcasm is perhaps one of my most frequently used forms of humor. Nothing like the use of irony to mock a little contempt, am I right?! Meh.

Sarcasm is easy to use and always in style. But, like everything, too much of anything can be a horribly obnoxious thing. And if you know someone who is ALWAYS sarcastic, you’ll get it. I’m not talking about people who only use sarcastic humor, but quite literally use sarcasm during every single interaction they encounter on a daily basis. I’m talking the people who you say “Good morning!” to and they respond flatly with “Yeah, REAL good morning”. Hmm. Okay. You’re fun. Only thing more depressing to walk into than a flat ass well wish for a pleasant start to the day is elephant poaching, or Tracy Chapman’s car breaking down mid escape. Give me a fucking break! I’m no Julie Andrews, especially before the caffeine hits the bloodstream, but JUST ONCE can your voice hit one octave up from Eeyore?!

Sarcastic pleasantries are about as useful as an O’Doul’s laced with oregano. But worse than a sarcastic greeting is a sarcastic everything else. Everyone knows someone like this. Everyone. They are your neighbor. A classmate. A mutual friend. The lady at the post office. The Comcast guy. They are the people who post corny (and wouldn’t you know it – sarcastic) witticisms on their Facebook pages or work spaces. Think that sarcastic old bitch from the comic strips. That’s them! Maxine!!!

You can’t say anything to them without a sarcastic response. Example:

“Want me to cut you a piece of this cake?”

“Do I look like I want a piece of that cake?”

Like what the fuck does that even mean? I don’t know. People like cake. Right? Don’t people like cake?! Who is it that look like they want cake or don’t want cake!!? Why are you making me question this?!?!?

Even when you’re happy, talk to a chronically sarcastic person to take you down a notch:

“I got promoted!”

“Oh, I bet you’re happy about that!” , followed by a brief snort.

WHAT? Yeah, it’s a happy thing! The fuck?!

You can be having a serious conversation with a chronically sarcastic person and you can still be met with a borderline condescending response and if you call them on it, or if your tone hints at any annoyance whatsoever, they retort with a “You know I’m just a sarcastic person” and try to get you to laugh it off. Or they’ll try to twist it into you not being able to take a “joke”. Well listen, sarcasm is only funny when it’s not thrown around in every single sentence you utter. Chronic sarcasm isn’t funny and makes me question your intelligence and social skills. Approach with caution, unless you want people to think you’re a little “off”. Actually, just stop it and Google “comedic timing” and “time and place” and “awful people you meet in life”.

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