Can We Discuss Disney Princesses Though

I was on the phone with my dad yesterday crying (surprise) over my lack of romantic luck recently. He gave me some really wonderful advice, the most hilarious of which came when he said, “The worst thing Disney ever did for society was write those stupid happy endings.” Or something to that effect — I tend to describe things a little more sassily than he does.

Anyway, it got me thinking: according to Disney, everything works out in the end if you’re a quiet woman in a patriarchal society. I am not quiet, and I’m actively attempting to smash the patriarchy at every turn, so I’m a little concerned about what this means for my love life. Also, I’m not exactly straight so I just wanna know what Disney would recommend if I’m trying to woo a mermaid, but I doubt I’ll be getting any answers on that front any time soon.

I’ve never wanted to be a princess, but I’m realizing that in a Disney world, I would have to be in order to fall in love, so uh…here we go. Now, there are a few (million) necessary adjustments I must make to my life in order to attain princess perfection:

  1. Become tiny. Which might be difficult since I’m 6′ and not exactly slender. Maybe I can cut my legs off at the knees, which would successfully reduce my weight and height in one fell swoop. It would also allow me to become helpless. Maybe my prince would be down to push me around in a wheelchair for the rest of eternity (which is obviously also how long our love would last).
  2. Replace my sweet mother with some horrible woman who wants to lock me in a tower or make me mop her floors and take care of her fat, evil cat. I could probably start looking for that type of woman at the local Chicos clothing store. The more chunky jewelry, the better, I’d assume.
  3. Become straight. And probably develop a dwarf and/or squirrel fetish.
  4. Don’t leave the house unless I look immaculate (note to self: find fairy godstylist). Only do housework if forced to. Allow mice to take up residence in my apartment.
  5. Immediately unlearn every self defense skill I’ve ever been taught. Walk into forests alone at night. Take food from strangers. Make deals with weird octopi in ocean caves. Make out with frogs even though they probably have weird swamp bacteria all over their bodies. Totally wander into random cabins in the woods without worrying about some racist hillbilly coming in and axe murdering me while I’m fast asleep.
  6. Let teacups teach me about love. Employ candlesticks for both light and therapeutic advice. Become easily impressed by silverware. Become way too obsessed with my hair for anyone’s good (this one might not be too tricky for me).
  7. Stop talking. This might be hard, as I don’t think I’ve spent more than 3 hours in silence at any given time. I even talk in my sleep, for goodness sake.
  8. Assume kissing men will always be magical and totally save my life. Because obviously everyone knows how to kiss me the way I’d like. None of them will shove their tongues down my throat (princes don’t actually possess tongues, anyway) or drool on me (and yes, before you ask, that has happened to me and I really don’t want to talk about it). Let random twerps kiss me just in case it helps my situation in life.

I think that’s it.

And yes, I’m super serious about the squirrel fetish.


Are You Single or What?!

Im_Single_display_copyThe world needs to be clearly labeled so I don’t make a fool of myself. For example, I’d appreciate if, when I was lost as a driver, I could pop up a sign that says, “I’m not from around here, so I will be driving weirdly for the next few blocks. Please don’t road rage at me.”

More importantly, though (let’s be real, it doesn’t matter if I get critically injured in a road rage incident, because I don’t even have a boyfriend), I would love if men could wear signs that say, “I am single” / “I am SO NOT SINGLE” / “I am single but I find you repulsive.” So much less confusion would ensue. I don’t do subtlety well at all, so I kinda need to be conked over the head with romance (which, in itself is supposed to be subtle…basically, I don’t do well with romance).

Also, I could then let people know that I am not asexual, I’m just constantly uncomfortable and kinda weird. It’d go something like this:

“Hello, I am a single lady, please take my hand and try to woo me. But please, do not send me pictures of your genitals or your biceps, because I do not want them and you need to keep that to yourself. Take me out for a nice dinner and tell me I’m funny. Laugh at my jokes. Laugh at more of my jokes. Laugh when I do something awkward/stupid. Kiss me goodnight. Don’t rest your tongue in my mouth. Thank you.”

And I’d be looking for a nice, tall boy who had a nice sense of style (seriously, boys, learn how to dress yourselves) whose sign said:

“I am a single fella. Sometimes I say fella as a joke because I’m super hilarious. I like thinking about things, and I don’t say “that’s gay” or “that’s retarded” because I’m sensitive…but not so sensitive that I’ll cry when I’m stressed or if you accidentally offend me. I’ll laugh at your jokes, even the ones that make no sense, because I’ll understand them. I don’t have a habit of doing weird things with my tongue when I kiss girls goodnight.”

And that is how the world would go ’round. Wouldn’t life be easier?

Santa, You’re A Bad Husband

santa kissingI know Christmas is over, but we’re supposed to keep it in our hearts all year long anyway, so I figured I’d amuse you all with a rant about how terrible of a husband Santa probably is. Special thanks to Christina, my sorority sister, for starting this joke and inspiring this post.

1. He’s fat, which means that he eats a ton of food that Mrs. Claus has to cook every night, he’s very possibly diabetic, he probably has a lot of heart problems, and he  refuses to go to the gym. Or maybe he was just born this way, baby. Either way, he’s a financial drain because food is spensive and medical bills don’t pay themselves.

2. He kisses other women underneath mistletoe. Santa is a loose woman unfaithful! He gets it on with other people’s mothers, then gives those children presents as a bribe to keep quiet and not tell their daddy.

3. He’s gone all night on Christmas Eve doing who knows what with who knows who (see #2).

4. He’s home EVERY OTHER DAY FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR. Sittin’ around, yelling, “Linda! (That’s probably Mrs. Claus’ name) Get me a sandwich! I’m trying to watch the reindeer games on ESPN! LINDAAAAAAAAA don’t forget to use extra mayo! LINDAAAA you didn’t use enough mayo! LINDAAAA I’m having a heart attack, take me to the hospital!”

5. His best friends are squeaky little people who hammer on things all day long. Can’t anyone get any peace and quiet around here?!

6. He’s basically unemployed. Who pays Santa? Certainly not all the children that he bribes with toys. Certainly not all the fathers whose wives Santa has kissed. Certainly not those women, because that would technically make Santa a prostitute…wait…

7. He might be a prostitute.

The End. Merry January, my little muffins.

I Got Married at a Party

With this ring, I thee...see ya.

With this ring, I thee…see ya.

Once, I was married for about three seconds. Well, okay, that’s a lie, but it felt that way.

I should start by saying that I don’t really go to parties, because:

1. Drinking is illegal for me, as I’m only 19 and in the U.S. you have to be 21. Which I personally think is a mistake, since everyone in college wants to drink and will find a way to do it whether it’s legal or not, but that’s beside the point.

2. Most parties in college consist of a lot of alcohol consumed by a lot of people.

3. See number 1.

So I don’t tend to go out to parties much, but about two months ago I did, (and didn’t drink, Mom!) and was having a lovely time dancing on my own (because boys are afraid of my sick moves) when my friend noticed a guy standing behind me, staring at me. She thought this meant that he wanted to dance, but I personally thought it was because he was out of his mind on a whole lot of illegal substances which could potentially have put him in the hospital. But at this point, he was at least semi-responsive and looking at me, and somehow managed to ask me if I’d like to dance. I said yes, mainly because I am an awkward monkey and don’t know how to talk to someone whose blood is half alcohol and half weed.

We had been dancing for about 3 seconds when he rubbed my butt. With his hand. In a very…rubby…way. And then he removed his hand from my trouser area (thank goodness) and held my hand. Really strongly, in an “I am now dating you” sort of way. I know this sounds so ridiculous, but I think it was one of the nicest hand-holding experiences I’ve had, creepy guy/butt rub aside. And then he looked deep into my eyes, and might’ve continued to my soul had he not been so wasted that his gaze shifted to my ear.

The point is, I got a butt rub, hand hold, and soul-searching gaze all in about 10 seconds before he walked away, at which point I busted out laughing for about a year. Because really, I could’ve been creeped out or offended, but this sort of thing would only happen to me. My friends? Would’ve danced with a normal fellow and had nice conversation. Me? Butt rub hand hold all the way.

Oh, and did I mention that I sat about 10 feet away from him in my class two days later? Yeah. I see him all the time. Best part? He doesn’t remember. But I do. I remember. And he is my husband. My creepy, slightly rapey husband.


Happy Tanniversary

Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there! Guess what I just did? Got tanned. Spray tanned, that is, for the first time and for a number of reasons, which I shall list!

1. I’m pale. Like, really pale. Not my-skin-barely-covers-my-veins pale, but pale nonetheless.

2. It’s my one year anniversary with my boyfriend tomorrow, and I don’t want to be a pale chicken. Not that chickens are pale…it just sounded like a good phrase to use…

3.I’m pale.

Okay, so with that out of the way, I’d like to embark on the marvelous journey that is the tanning salon. More specifically, though, I’d like to describe the idiocy that occurs inside its walls.

1. The guy who helped me had a MOM tattoo. It didn’t bother me as much as it probably should have, mostly since I have a feeling that he was just being ironic…because really, who does that? I definitely forgave him though, because he had the om symbol tattooed on his wrist, and I’m kinda in love with that. (I should add that HE did not spray tan me, a machine did…)

2. You stand on these metal plates that have numbers on them, and the woman’s voice in the machine says, “Put your left foot on number 1” and so on, so that you know where to stand and when to turn 90 degrees. As he was showing me the machine, he said, “You stand here so you know where to go, and also the metal plates will ionize with your skin and make the tan better.”
You guys, I almost pissed myself laughing. The metal plates will ionize? With my skin? What?

3. My bff forevs Chloe has had many such experiences. I wrote about one of them here, but I should share one more with y’all tonight.
Bimbo at the Salon: “The spray will react with the amino acids in your skin and really make the tan last longer and be darker.”
I worry that she is right. But mostly I’m sure that she isn’t…

4. As I was about to go back and get my spray tan on, a woman walked in the salon. The guy behind the counter knew her by name, and said, “Oh, Clarissa gets Mystic Tan all the time, and she loves it!” And Clarissa perked up and said, “I DO! I LOVE IT!” and it was like we were in a commercial for sunshine and awesome, and then we all hugged.

So the moral of the story is, spray tanning is as entertaining as it is…um…darkening? Which is a lot, I think, since it’s only been three hours and I feel like I just turned Mexican. Just kidding, that could never happen (for more reasons than one…or maybe just one), but I look a little darker than usual! So hopefully I don’t turn into a carrot overnight. Wish me luck!

Oh, and Michael, happy anniversary, darling :) I love you.

There Must Be Rehab for This

Some of you (none of you) have noticed that I no longer have a Facebook. Why, you ask? Oh, no reason.

Okay, there were lots of reasons:

1. Who cares about what happens on Facebook? I could care less that you went to a magic show and that it “blew your mind.” Or that it was the worst day ever until your “baby-boo-poobear” sent you a text.  Or that you’ve gotten your Gemini horoscope from Or that you’re still playing Farmville (for goodness sake, stop already!). My real life is pretty removed from reality as it is (I swear I think about frogs and Thai food more than I pay attention to what’s going on around me) without Facebook getting in the way.

2. Why should I spend time in a “social” setting that is filled with antisocial people? Some of my “friends” in high school never actually spoke to me except on Facebook. It was really awkward seeing them in person, but somehow Facebook pulled down the barrier and made us close. I never valued those friendships the way I value personal (like, actually in person) friendships.

3. Facebook leads to me feeling crappy about myself. I already do that enough in real life, so there’s no reason to enhance it online. And I waste time on it anyway. I don’t need to look at people’s profile pictures for two hours instead of reading a book, or actually breathing outside air.

But…now that I’ve stopped using Facebook, I’ve realized I’ve grown very dependent on social media. I practically spew useless information. Here are some things I’ve wanted to tell people, but then didn’t because I knew it would only be considered acceptable conversation on Facebook, especially when phrased this way:

1. Chips and salsa at midnight = bad idea!
2. I watched a movie tonight! It was great.
3. I love George Harrison. Let’s all have a gush-fest about how dreamy he is.
4. The rain here is so annoying. My hair is so tangled! Boo.
5. Twilight? Puh-lease.
6. The dude behind me in the library is being really loud. Quiet! We’re in a library!
7. College rulez!
8. College sux.
9. Seriously though, library man. Shut up.
10. Read my blog! Look! My blog’s so great!

I’ve also noticed that other people freak out when they find out you’ve deleted your profile.

1. “You’ll be baaaaack. They always come baaaaack to Facebook. It’s beautiful and, mmm, it smells like heaven; no one can resist. Reeeeeer!”
2. “Oh. My. God. I heard from Mary who heard from Kathy that you deleted your profile. Why? Why? Why?”
3. “You’re a loser. Pttttbbbbtttt.”
4. “You’re a double-loser.”
5. “How are we gonna be friends without Facebook?! Oh noooo.”

And for the first couple of days, the moment I get on the internet, my fingers would automatically type in “….” and I’d think to myself, “Oh God. Oh God, what have I become?! I. Will. Not. Cave. I. Will. Not. Go. Back. To. FACEBOOK! There must be rehab for this.”

It’s been almost two weeks now, and I’m still clean, man. Still clean after quitting cold turkey. Not many people thought I could do it, but I’ve proven them wrong. I’ve proven them all wrong!


Mary Poppins Pockets

My boyfriend keeps everything in his pockets. I guess that’s not unusual, since most guys don’t carry purses etc. It’s just always so hilarious to me when he pulls his phone and wallet, a whole cake and a small elephant out of his pockets at the end of the day.

What? How? How was all that stuff in there? They didn’t seem full…you didn’t look like you’d had a poo incident in the front of your pants…then how? Your pants aren’t weird or anything, right? There’s no “false bottom” in them? Is that possible?

How have you been carting all that stuff around all day? And can I have some of your magical powers?

There's an elephant in there, I swear.

Of course, I laugh at him, because I have no tact. And he may or may not strangle me (or throw his pocket elephant at me) in anger for writing a stupid blog post about his deformity unusually spacious pockets.

I laugh about it because I think it’s cute. I will never get over the novelty of his Mary Poppins/Hermione bag pockets.  I laugh because honestly, there’s no reason to laugh. I shouldn’t be surprised anymore. I know what he keeps in there (elephants, I tell you!), so it shouldn’t be surprising.

I laugh because I laugh at everything, to be honest. I think the things I say are hilarious, I laugh at my own blog posts (way too hard), I laugh at people’s pockets…it’s just what I do.

It makes me wonder, does the novelty ever wear off? I hope not. I’d like to think that I will forever laugh at his pockets, and lots of other worn out and old jokes that we’ve formulated over the years we’ve known each other. Because it seems that as long as I can laugh at him, and he can tease me for it, we’ll always be in pretty good shape.

Leave it to me to turn a post about pockets into a lesson on keeping love alive, or some such rubbish.

But seriously, I always wanted to date someone like Mary Poppins.

Double-Talk (Part 2)

What they say: I like your outfit, you look really comfy.
What they mean: You look like a slob; my goodness, couldn’t you have at least tried this morning?!

What they say: You always have the cutest clothes! I swear, they’d look bad on anyone else but you!
What they mean: Those clothes look bad on everyone. Why are you wearing them, you tramp?

What they say: You were too good for him. It’s best that you broke up.
What they mean: You have terrible taste and MY GOD I’ve been waiting for you two to break up for months. He’s a loser, and you are by association. Also, I never told you while you two were dating because I’m a terrible friend.

What they say: Have you seen my [object]?
What they mean: Drop everything and help me look, slave.

What they say: Does this make me look fat?
What they mean: If you say yes, I’m dumping you.

What they say: I look fat.
What they mean: I feel a little crappy about myself but know I don’t actually look fat, so if you could just reinforce that…thanks.

What they say: You’re the nicest boy I’ve ever met, I’m so glad we’re friends.
What they mean: I have terrible taste in guys so I will never like you. I’m too busy mooning over twits. Thorry!

What they say: I’m busy.
What they mean: Leave me the hell alone, you’re obnoxious and I’d rather eat my pants than spend time with you.

What they say: We just don’t need any employees at the moment.
What they mean: Seriously, it looks like you’re wearing my grandmother’s sweater. So no, we don’t want you selling clothes here.
Or they could just mean they’re not hiring at the moment…whatever…

What they say: Having reviewed the many applications we have received in the past few months, we regret to inform you that we cannot accept you to Harvard at this time.
What they mean: Your daddy didn’t donate enough to our library.

What they say: We just don’t have similar interests.
What they mean: You stayed up until 3 AM playing beer pong on a Wednesday night, and really, I don’t feel like cleaning up your puke anymore. Pack up your Abercrombie wardrobe and get movin’.

No Touching!

Some of the things people do when they’re in relationships amaze me. Like, how exactly does the kissing-photograph go down? “Hey, I really like you, so we should take a photo together while we kiss.” No. I’m sorry, but that’s really annoying. And if you do that, then…well, stop. It might be less obnoxious if you didn’t upload it to Facebook immediately, but then it’d just be sitting around in your house and that’s pretty annoying too.
So here’s what couples shouldn’t do in public.
1. Give each other massages.
Um. What? Why? Why are you touching her like that while I’m at a party trying to eat my bag of Doritos in peace? I want to eat the WHOLE BAG, and if you make me vomit it up….
2. Nibble.
Just don’t. Wait until later. Find a supply closet for all I care, just DON’T NIBBLE EACH OTHER RIGHT NOW.
3. Take photos together constantly.
I will break your camera. Group shots are fun. Even the really obnoxious “taking a photo of yourself and a couple people by extending your arm in front of you like a fool” is okay every once in a while. But please, don’t do it constantly. I don’t want to be interrupted mid-sentence by you smooching your boyfriend while clicking away at your camera. Like I said, I’ll break the dang thing.
4. Talk as if you’re one entity.
You probably spend a lot of time together, and that’s great. But once you start to be defined by a relationship and ONLY talk about the things you do together, we have a problem.
5. Make really disgusting references to your sex life.
One word: Unnecessary!

I hope I’ve taught you well. You’re welcome, because I basically just prevented you from being punched in the face someday.

How to Treat the Fellaz

1. Offer to do things for him.
I think he’d especially appreciate if you re-laced his shoes all cool so the laces aren’t crisscrossed but instead go straight across. That’s a real winner right there. Expect a ring tomorrow.

2. Be real.
I always hate it when people say that: “I’m just bein’ real with you, bro.” But…be real. Shut up giggling and trying to make his ego swell. It should swell only when it deserves to swell! When you’re impressed by something he says/does, let him know it, otherwise, just act like you would with your girlfriends (minus the makeup talk). Be nice, but don’t be sweet, unless you’re just totally in love and can’t help it. In that case, get a friend to slap you across the face and make you WAKE UP! I’m kidding. Maybe.
And for Buddha’s sake, stop sticking your butt out. It isn’t cute and it makes you walk funny.

3. Look cuddly.
You want a cuddle, and so does he. Unless he’s a leper, in which case you should probably not get that close…but you can definitely love him from afar while he tries to get his condition under control…
Basically, be a little touchy, but stop slobbering all over him. The touchy can only go so far. And only touch when there’s a reason to. Like…if he tells you a really crap joke, you probably shouldn’t laugh and then hang all over his arm. But if he tells you the nicest story ever about his dog dying the day after his dad died, you could give his arm a little fondle. But keep it classy, cuz his dad and dog died.
While we’re on the subject, I’d like to say this: don’t date guys with tons of issues. His dad is freaking dead…and so is Fido. The man needs some space!

4. Look at him. Speak to him.
These are important because A) we know fellaz are morons and don’t get a single subtle hint we throw at them and B) you know you want to. Suppressing the urge will just make you explode into a crazy ball of scary later.
If you compliment his sweater because really you just love what’s underneath, he isn’t gonna get it. I repeat: subtlety doesn’t work.

5. On that note, be assertive.
Tell him what you want. Because he won’t understand what you want unless you say it loudly, clearly, and in as little words as possible (I realize how sexist I sound. I’m definitely aware that guys are smart, but even I’m terrible at understanding subtlety and I’m a girl!). So tell him when you’d like his jacket. Tell him your favorite type of food. Then he’ll know how to please you :)

Once again, people helped me with this. Since I’m not a boy and do not understand boy minds, a big thank you to my friend Adam for his assistance! And to my cat for always being there for me even when I forgot to feed him dinner the other day. And to Maddie for the shoelace suggestion. Why don’t we have boyfriends?