My Anti-Women #YesAllWomen Post

Okay, so it’s not really “anti-women” per se, but I needed to get your attention. This is important.

The #YesAllWomen campaign is about telling the truth about women’s rights in this country and worldwide. It’s about the fact that yes, in fact, all women have experienced some form of sexual harassment, abuse, or assault at the hands of men. It’s about women and men standing up for other women and telling the world that events like the shooting and stabbing deaths that occurred in Santa Barbara last Friday and the misogyny that provoked them are not uncommon.

Caught up? Awesome.

So anyway, I started checking out the #YesAllWomen campaign on twitter – you should too! It’s interesting, captivating, heartbreaking, and empowering. It’s sometimes eye-opening, and sometimes not.

Here’s some examples of the types of things I was not surprised to see:

Obviously, any time a marginalized group wants to fight back or stand up for their basic rights, the group doing the marginalizing gets all freaked out and fights back. In this case, the marginalized group is us chicks. I want to be clear, however, that the oppressive group is not “all men” but is actually misogynists of any type (which hopefully includes only a small and pathetic subset of “all men”).

As we’ve already discussed, the comments section of anything is where humanity goes to rot and die, and so naturally we’re going to see the ignorant asshole guys who threaten to rape any woman speaking out against rape, or who use the ever-popular “everyone is oppressed” defense.

Par for the course, really.

Here’s what I was surprised to see:

I double-checked each profile just to be certain, but these last few tweets were all composed by women.

Oh, ladies.

Here’s the thing: some men are rapists and abusers and trolls and monsters and misogynists. This is an absolute truth. These men hate women and hate losing control to women and hate women having any power.

And that sucks, and it is absolutely not okay, but we knew that already, and it’s why #YesAllWomen was started in the first place. The whole idea was to get the attention of men and call on them to join us in the fight for equality.

What I didn’t expect was the amount of women-hating women out there. That’s right: to me, if you are a woman, you have certain obligations to other women. You have an absolute responsibility to be a safe haven for women everywhere – for victims of abuse, assault, rape, violence, aggression, hate. You should be the one who takes another woman into your arms and whispers, “I am with you. You’re safe here.”

Every time, every single time, there’s a sexual assault that gets attention in the media, there are women everywhere who condemn the victim for being slutty/stupid/naive/ugly/pretty/fat/skinny/annoying/drunk/high/naked/flirty/popular/lame. There are women everywhere who roll their eyes and shake their heads and exchange knowing glances because she must have been asking for it. What they’re really saying, these women, is, “That would never happen to me. I’m too smart. Too proud. Too cautious. Too sober. I would never let that happen.”

If you’ve ever said any of those things, then it is you, my friend, who ties your best friend’s hands behind her back while her boyfriend punches her in the gut. It is you who holds your sister down while some guy at a party takes advantage of her. It is you who holds open the door to every misogynistic rapist loser looking for a target, because as your voice echoes, “It’s HER FAULT!”, you become another hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her cries.

Yes, I feel pretty strongly about this.

Are you a woman? Then you should too.

Being the “cool girl” or the “non-feminist” or the girl who can take a joke isn’t worth stealing the voice of one more victim.

I promise you, one of your best friends or your cousins or your classmates has been raped. I promise you, the last time you made a joke about some girl “asking for it,” someone close to you felt your knife twist into her back.

#YesAllWomen deserve support and compassion and loyalty and respect.

From, yes, all women.


What To Do With That Big Fat Butt: A User’s Manual

So the other day, I heard the new Jason Derulo song on my radio. In case you’re wondering who Jason Derulo is, he’s the guy that yells “Jason Deruloooooooo” at some point in every single one of his songs.


Anyway, the lyrics of this particular song caught my attention, especially when I heard the unmistakable rap stylings of Snoop Dogg (which I just had to Google to learn if his name is spelled with one G or two and found this little gem: “Calvin Cordozar Broadus, Jr., known by his stage names Snoop Doggy Dogg, Snoop Dogg, and later Snoop Lion, is an American rapper, singer-songwriter, and actor.” Snoop LION? When was that? Also, a lion is not a scarier version of a dog, Snoopster. You’re thinking of a cat.)

I digress.

Anyway, after listening to the lyrics of this beautiful song, I feel that I am better prepared to accept true love and respect into my life. I feel admired as a woman of the world. I feel accomplished and successful not for my degrees, not for my various contributions to society, but as the proud owner of a big. fat. butt.

I’d like to share my reaction to Mr. Derulo’s and Mr. Dogg’s various questions and observations about my ass.

The song begins:

“I got one question
How do you fit all that in them jeans?”

Well, guys, usually in the morning I just sort of pull my pants on. I don’t really think about it. I find that if I buy jeans in the appropriate size, it’s not super difficult to fit all that in them jeans.

“You know what to do with that big fat butt…”

It serves a few different purposes, yes.

“Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. 
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.
Just a ittle bittle.” 

Oh. I usually just use my butt for sitting and stuff but I guess I could wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle, just a ittle bittle. (Although I think technically it’s “an ittle bittle.”)

“Patty cake, patty cake with no hands
Got me in this club making wedding plans
If I take pictures while you do your dance
I can make you famous on Instagram.”

Um, patty cake is a children’s game. It pretty much requires hands. If you have no hands, you shouldn’t be playing patty cake. If you can play patty cake with your ass cheeks, you are the most talented person in the world and I think I would like to hang out with you.

Also, if someone offers to take pictures while you dance and make you famous on Instagram, you should absolutely call the police. (If they can make you famous on Facebook, though, DO IT.)

“Hot damn it
Your booty like two planets”

I really can’t tell if this is a compliment. Which two planets are we talking about?

“Go ahead, and go ham sammich”

Go get a ham sammich? Like to eat? I am hungry from all the wiggling.

“Whoa, I can’t stand it.”

What the hell? I thought you liked my big sandwichy planet booty, and now you can’t stand it? Fuck you.

“Cause you know what to do with that big fat butt
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Just a ittle bittle.”

Yep, okay, more of that. Done.

“Cadillac, Cadillac, pop that trunk
Let’s take a shot
Alley oops that dunk
Tired of working that 9 to 5
Oh baby let me come and change your life.”

When you say “pop that trunk,” are we still referring to my butt? Cause that doesn’t sound awesome. Also, what if I like my job?

Enter Snoop:

“Shake what your mama gave you
Misbehave you”

My mama doesn’t like it when I misbehave.

“I just wanna strip you, dip you, flip you, bubble bathe you”

Okay, but I already took a shower today. Also if you flip me in the bubble bath I think I’ll drown.

“What they do, taste my rain drops, OK boo?”

No, not okay. I have a feeling that we are not talking about actual rain drops here, and I am offended.

“Now what you will, what you want, what you may do
Completely separated, til I deeply penetrate it”

I’ll have no part of this.

“Then I take it out, and wipe it off
Eat it, ate it, love it, hate it”

Are we eating sandwiches again? And do you love my bootay or do you hate it? I feel like you need to get it together.

“Overstated, underrated, everywhere I been
Can you wiggle, wiggle for the D, O, double G, again?”

Snoop Dogg, you know you look like a wet rat, right?


“Now make it clap
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Now make it clap
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Make it clap
Now make it clap.”

I’d like to meet the woman (or man!) who can clap their ass cheeks. I’ve been standing here trying to accomplish this for ten minutes and my ass refuses to applaud.

“Damn baby you got a bright future behind you.”

So again…we’re not talking about my actual future here, like at my job or in my marriage or anything. We’re literally just talking about my tushie? Oh okay.

I’m off to quit my job and keep practicing my new craft – my future depends on it! (And by “my new craft” I mean “ass-clapping technique”, obviously.)


My Swimsuit Catalogue Doesn’t Know Me At All

So I got the Victoria’s Secret Annual Swim Sale catalogue in the mail yesterday.

I almost didn’t recognize it on my countertop, and for a brief moment thought to myself, “Man, Sports Illustrated is showing quite a bit of ass on their cover.”


I’m pretty sure this is Richard Nixon from behind.

But no, these ass cheeks that are as plump and dimple-free as a photoshopped picture of ass cheeks weren’t meant for my hubby, but for me!

Now, I’m pretty progressive, and I can certainly appreciate a fine ass on a woman as well as the next straight girl. Or lesbian. Or straight guy. Or gay guy. What throws me off, though, is why the Victoria’s Secret catalogue is so sexual just to try to sell me bathing suits. I don’t need it to be sexual…unless I’m using bathing suits wrong.

Like, am I the only woman who can make it to and from the beach without taking any part of my bathing suit off? I usually leave my bottoms on the whole time I’m swimming, but it seems like that may be all wrong.


I’m just gonna take these off for maximum sand in my crotch.


You know how sometimes at the beach you have a spontaneous orgasm while slipping your bottoms off? Me too.

This isn’t just a beach problem, either. The irrepressible need to shed clothing extends to other Victoria’s Secret Model Activities as well, like exercising. (When you’re a Victoria’s Secret Model, you tan, swim, exercise, and eat the occasional sexually suggestive hot dog.)

For the record, if I ever pick you up to go to yoga and you answer the door like this, don’t ever speak to me again.


I don’t really feel like going to topless yoga today, so why don’t you go ahead and leave your shirt on.

The women in the catalogue are capable of feeling one of two emotions: ecstasy or rage.


These seem like a tan line nightmare.


This woman wants to punch you in the teeth. She’s probably just pissed because that is not enough material to adequately cover a vagina. Also, when did the necklace-belt hybrid become a thing?

They start with ecstasy, but then they realize that they’re jutting out their hip so far that they dislocated their pelvis (I made that up but it still sounds terrible) and their joy combusts into anger.


I feel like there’s something slightly off about this photoshop job.

Don’t despair for them, though. Soon enough, the joy returns.

They love eating fruit so much that it sends them into fits of euphoria (but who doesn’t?):



What they don’t love is showing you their face:


Thank goodness they covered her face here. I’m sure it’s HIDEOUS.

You know how sometimes you're on the beach playing peek-a-boo with your fedora and it's so super trendy and adorable? Me too.

You know how sometimes you’re on the beach playing peek-a-boo with your fedora and it’s so super trendy and adorable? Me too.


So you brush all your hair in front of your face and then hold it in place with your hand? Fashion GENIUS.

Thanks, Victoria’s Secret, for reminding me that my face isn’t necessary as long as I have a hot body. Sometimes I forget that and actually try to use my face for things like talking or sharing information. Tomorrow, I’ll remember to just put a bag over my head, slap on my bikini (just the top), and hip-jut my way out the door!


Sidenote: If you’re wondering why the photo quality is so poor, it’s because I used my iPhone to take pictures of my actual paper Victoria’s Secret catalogue. There’s probably a way to download the catalogue online or do some fancy computery stuff, but I don’t really know how to use a computer. Reason number 3928 that I shouldn’t have a blog.

Facebook: Late Night Hate-Reading Since 2004

I’m pretty sure when Mark Zuckerberg came up with Facebook (and by “came up with” I mean apparently stole from these two guys who look like one guy), all he really wanted was a way to discreetly look up ex-girlfriends and judge their choices from the comfort of his own dormroom. The whole point of Facebook, clearly, is to stare at pictures of people you hate and get re-pissed-off at them for whatever made you hate them in the first place.

At least, that’s how I use it.

What is it about Facebook that makes us so desperate to know everything there is to know about everyone we hate?


Seriously, this can’t be just me, right? I can’t be the only loser who stays up until two in the morning typing the names of my sworn enemies into the search bar, only to see faces that I’m aching to punch. With my car.

It’s like self-inflicted torture, and I don’t know why I do it. I can’t help myself. I probably spend more time on Facebook looking at people I don’t like than people I actually do.

Is this weird?


But the thing is, some of the people I hate on Facebook are people that I can’t actually hate in real life. At least, not to their faces, because social convention prohibits it. Like, if you were really mean to me in high school and called me “Ugly Bitch” every.single.time I walked into physics class, but now you’re a husband and father of three and devout Mormon, it would be remiss for me to still hate you for something so petty which happened so long ago. I mean, what am I gonna do, prank call you? Nonsense. We’re all adults now, we all made mistakes, and congratulations on your lovely family!

Just kidding. I still hate you, I hate your whole family, and I’m pretty much hate-reading your Facebook statuses about finger-painting and Jesus.

I think the reason we do the Facebook Hate Read is to confirm our suspicions about enemies from our pasts. Like, if I hate you, I would like validation that you’re a terrible person and I was right about you all this time. Also, I would like to know if you’re fat now.

Did we go on a terrible date six years ago, only to have you tell me three hours in that you think you’re gay? I’m looking your ass up, my friend. Did you make out with my high school boyfriend like five minutes after we broke up? My wine and I will be searching you this evening. Are you an ex-boyfriend, ex-bestie, inexplicably dirty former roommate, or old shitty college hookup? I MUST KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU.

Also, if you could put up some horribly unflattering pictures of yourself, I would really appreciate it.

Oh Shit, I’m Just Like You: A Mother’s Day Tribute

It’s like a train that’s heading right at you for years and years and years. You see it coming, but you can’t stop it and you can’t get off the tracks.

And just like that, it hits you.

You’ve become your mother.


Oh hey, you have my face.

If your mother is my mother (in which case we should definitely hang out because we’re long lost siblings), this transition from A Unique Individual to Holy Shit I’m a Carbon Copy of My Mom involves the taking on of some specific characteristics. Some are good. Some are less good. For example:

My mom talks unusually fast, as do I. When I was in high school, my friends used to save my voicemails and play them back for me as proof that nothing I said made any sense at all because it was so poorly enunciated and spoken at such lightning speeds. My mom talks so fast that she literally forgets what she’s talking about, as if her words move faster than her brain can even process them. She’ll be in the middle of a story, which will remind her of another story, which will remind her to ask me if I’ve made a doctor’s appointment and how is my husband’s dry skin doing and did I get the newspaper clipping she sent me about how cilantro is good for psoriasis? Oh, I did get it? Then why didn’t I ever mention it and why didn’t I thank her for the card she sent? and then will end the whole diatribe with, “It was a nice time.”

What? What was?

Oh, she’s back on that story she started telling fifteen minutes or a week ago. Try to keep up.

Also, try getting off the phone with someone who has so many words. I’ll say, “Okay mom, I’m walking into work, I gotta go,” and she’ll say, “Okay, I just wanted to tell you not to forget to call your uncle because it’s almost his birthday and it’s not nice to not call people on their birthday, and also you should email your sister because she was asking about you the other day, also she’s not been feeling good, my poor girls are always sick! I hope you’re not getting sick too, you don’t sound very good. Do you have a cough? Is that allergies or a cold? Are you taking anything? Oh that reminds me, please make an appointment to see an eye doctor, because your eyes are so important! They really are. You don’t want to be fifty and have no eyes. I know you think I just say things and you never listen to me but this one is important, because everything I read says that your eyes are the first things to go and that would be so sad, wouldn’t it? Yes it would. You don’t want to not have eyes. So remember to do that. And you have good insurance now so you have no excuse! It’s a good thing you have good insurance. We have the worst insurance. Did I tell you how much your father’s dental work was? THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS! There’s three thousand dollars in his mouth! It’s just ridiculous. But it had to be done. When’s the last time you went to the dentist? You know your teeth are so important, everything I read says that you need to be brushing AT LEAST three times a day! I brush after every meal, because I don’t want to lose my teeth! No I don’t. Are you flossing? Please tell me you’re flossing, but don’t lie to me, sometimes I think you lie when you tell me things. I don’t really believe you’re flossing. Anyway say goodbye to me now, I have to go.”

Yep, bye mom.

If you know me well, you know that at any given time I’m about six seconds from completely freaking out. I wouldn’t call myself a “laid-back” person, or one who “rolls with the punches.” No, I’m wound pretty tightly and my stress level is disturbingly high, so much so that my husband has gotten pretty used to saying things like, “Calm down. Just breathe. We’re only deciding what to have for dinner.”

I would like to publicly blame my mother for this.

My mom is capital-N Nervous. She is a champion worrier. She worries about things days, weeks, months before they’re likely to occur, and she worries with passion. If she’s traveling, or I’m traveling, or you’re traveling, any time in the foreseeable future, she’s gonna go ahead and fret about that at least a few weeks in advance. Did you make a list of what to pack? You’re going to forget something, and she just doesn’t want to hear it.

When we talk on the phone, our conversations will be ticking along just fine until she hears the sounds of a car, a person, a siren, or a dog, at which point her voice will drop an octave to worry dark thirty and she’ll say, “Oh no, are you outside? By yourself? You know I don’t like it when you’re outside by yourself,” or “Oh no, you’re home alone? You know I don’t like it when you’re home alone. Lock the doors. Don’t open the doors for anyone,” or “Oh no, you’re driving? You know you shouldn’t be on the phone when you’re driving. Are you looking at the road? Everything I read says that you shouldn’t be on the phone when you’re driving.”

As progressive as she is, I’m pretty sure she would like me to have a gentleman caller escorting me from place to place in a covered wagon. During the day. With a security detail.

Oh, and that reminds me: my mom reads a lot. She reads books, magazines, the newspaper, the internet, and the sides of boxes. She wants you to know that everything she reads says that everything you’re doing is the exact opposite of what you should be doing, and also, apparently you should really be wrapping your cheese in foil or else it will go bad faster, and don’t even get her started on the proper way to store strawberries for maximum freshness.

Seriously, don’t fuck with her strawberry routine. (It has something to do with paper towels and organized rows…I’m not sure, I still don’t really get it. It’s pretty complicated.)

Basically, she’s kind of a know-it-all, and I say that with affection, because so am I. (Um, I developed this entire blog just so I can share my opinions with more people. Everything my mom reads tells her that this blog is the best.)

By now, I think we’ve pretty much established that I am and have always been a fashionista. If there’s any doubt as to where my love of clothes and badass haircuts came from, I invite you to look no further than this photo:

You will never be this cool.

You will never be this cool.

Seriously, I can’t even look at it. It’s like staring directly into the sun. I’m actually sorry for showing it to you, because now you’ll have to live the rest of your life knowing that you will never be that awesome.

My bad.

Anyway, back to me and the girl from Ipanema up there.

I like to think that I’m pretty thoughtful, and I attribute that, too, to my mama. She may not remember what the hell she was talking about, but she will sure as shit remember your birthday. And your anniversary. And your kid’s birthday, and your favorite color, and the type of coffee you drink so she can have it waiting for you when you come over.

She goes all out on holidays, and don’t you think for a second that that stopped when her kids grew up. This is a little glimpse into my mom’s spread this past Easter for my 30-year-old husband and me:


There’s another basket but I couldn’t fit it into the frame.

Every time I’m home, my mom tries to give me everything in her house. She goes through the rooms, saying, “Tell me what you need! Do you want this garlic press? Do you need napkins? You should take these rubber gloves for cleaning. Could you use this jacket? Put these beach chairs in your car. Take a jar of peanut butter, I can always get more peanut butter.”

My mom seems to fear that there are no stores where I live.

I’m waiting for the day that I arrive to my parents’ house to find it completely empty, my mom and dad sleeping on a blanket on the floor, having given away all their worldly possessions. I can just hear my mom now: “Do you want this blanket? Go ahead, take it, we don’t need it.”

Sometimes I check just to make sure she’s not secretly dying, since she so readily disposes of her things. She assures me she is not.

Here are some of the ways in which I am nothing like my mother:

She’s a morning person. (You may recall that mornings are my greatest nemesis.) She has more energy than anyone I know, especially me, which is pretty sad because she has a few decades on me. She’s up at 6:30 every. single. day and if you’re not, you’ve basically wasted a huge portion of your life and hers. When my husband and I go home for visits, my mom can barely restrain herself from waking us up, even when she promises the night before to let us “sleep in.” What this actually means is that around 8:30 on Saturday little Joanie is coming bounding into your room, having already vacuumed the floors and done the laundry and shopped for groceries and worked out at the gym, tsk tsk tsking you for having slept in so late and pulling the covers off you like a serial killer in a horror movie.

This is not my favorite.

You may think that my half-naked husband or random slumber-party guests or visiting friends would deter her, but think again. Cover yoself up, she’s coming in.

I sometimes have to remind my mom not to have more than one cup of coffee, because on two, she’s like a junkie on speed. And since she’s pretty much already like a junkie on speed at her baseline, coffee is adding fuel to the fire. Recently we were at breakfast and while my mom was in the bathroom, I had to kindly ask the waiter to cut her off.

Also, she’s a cleaner. (I don’t much care for cleaning, myself.) During my most recent trip, my mom and my dad and I stayed up until two in the morning talking. My mom left for bed and my dad and I continued chatting for a while until I realized it was almost 2:30 and past my bedtime. I headed to the bathroom to wash my face, and instead found my mom cleaning the toilet. At 2:30 in the morning. Duh.


She likes doing it. Really.

I don’t even clean my toilets during the day.

If you stay at my house, bring your laundry, because mom’s gonna get that shit done. Put it in the hamper before bed, and you betta believe your whites will be washed and folded by morning. She just gets more hours in a day. I can’t explain it.

Now, I know, you’re probably thinking that a woman doing her adult daughter’s laundry is ridiculous, and you’re probably also thinking that I seem totally spoiled and rotten.

Yes. Oh, and yes.


MILF alert.

How else are we different? Well, she’s skinny. Always has been, always will be. I’m not sure how I ever lived inside of her teeny little body, but I can only imagine that my giant arms and legs protruded from her belly like the monster from Alien.

She’s also about 4’10. Like a footstool, or a tree stump. You can rest things on her, which is quite a nice perk, actually. You can carry her around in your pocket and feed her M&Ms, but know that she’ll have you up every morning before seven.

When I used to complain to middle school friends that my mom was strict or mean, they would all say, “But she’s so cute!”

Deceptive, I know. But don’t be fooled by the trendy 70’s jumpsuit and Jennifer Lawrence pixie. Joan can be terrifying.

When I was in elementary school, I had to take this horrible medicine three times a day every single day. It was orange and sticky and disgusting and I would gag every time I tried to get it down. My mom would try to hide it in orange juice, on bread, over ice cream, but it was no use. To this day, pulpy orange juice makes me gag.

Anyway, I used to try to find any way possible to avoid taking this crap. I would toss it down the sink or pour it in a drink, but my mom always knew and always made me take it anyway. Until the day I devised The Plan. Every morning I drank hot chocolate made with Swiss Miss. You remember the little packet of powder, right? On the morning of The Plan I stealthily poured my terrible orange medicine into the empty Swiss Miss packet and pushed the packet – medicine included – deep into the trash, congratulating myself on my brilliance. I danced through the school day gleefully, innocent and carefree. It was a simpler time then.

Hours later, I victoriously returned home from school to find my mom sitting quietly on the couch. She didn’t yell or scream – my mom’s not really a yeller. Instead, she just sits. And stares. She waited for me to speak.

“What’s wrong?” I finally asked, knowing in the pit of my stomach that the day of reckoning was upon me.

“Do you have something to tell me?” she asked.

You and I both know that this question is the kiss of death.

I, of course, said no.

She said, “Okay.”

And that was all. That was all! She’s like an terrorist interrogator. She let me retreat into my room, knowing full well that I was done for.

I maybe lasted ten minutes in a sweaty ball on my bedroom floor before coming clean. It didn’t matter, though. She already knew.

She always knew.

4’10 and bone chilling.


She’s laughing at your fear.

Basically, I see, and especially hear, myself turning into my mom more and more every day. Except for the fact that I don’t clean, am incredibly lazy, am not a very good cook, have no patience, don’t like working out, hate mornings, don’t know how to budget, ignore dust, and can drink more than one cup of coffee without turning into a lunatic, we’re practically twins. 

I could certainly do worse.

So thanks, mom, for being a little bit crazy in all the best ways.

Happy Mother’s Day.


A mother is a person who, seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.

                                                                     ~Tenneva Jordan

Mistakes My Parents Made: A Look at Childhood in the Eighties

There’s good news and there’s bad news.

The bad news is that it’s been a really long time since my last post, which pretty much destroyed my naive newborn-blog goal of posting once a week. (Two months ago, by the way, I was all, “One post a week? Hogwash! I’ll write a post every single day!” Oh, to be young again.)

The good news, faithful reader, is that during my absence I traveled many miles, to a faraway land only spoken about in the low tones of legends. This place is known as “Florida.” You may have heard of it in such mythical bedtime stories as “Naked Florida Man Killed By Police After Eating Part of Teen’s Face,” or “Florida Man Arrested For Calling 911 After His Cat Was Denied Entry Into A Strip Club,” or even “Topless Woman in a Thong Ransacks Florida McDonald’s, Then Eats Ice Cream,” which, judging by the happy ending, is almost certainly going to be turned into an animated feature by Disney.

If you’re thinking this place sounds too good to be true, you’re wrong. I know, because there reside the two people who made me who received me by Stork Delivery: my parents.

Before the days of Facebook and Instagram and selfies in the bathroom, my mother kept photographic proof that I existed with – wait for it – actual photographs. On paper. She put these photographs in photo albums, which used to be three-dimensional books rather than a link on MySpace. (Surely someone still has a MySpace, right? Cool, good reference on my part.)

During my vacation, I scoured these cracked, yellowing volumes in search of evidence that, lovely as they are, my parents are to blame for the person I am today (crazy, out-of-touch with reality, inexplicably confident, unashamed to laugh openly at my own jokes when no one else is laughing or even present…)

And oh, what evidence did I find.

And so, without further ado, I bring you: Mistakes My Parents Made.

That time that they looked on as their youngest child developed an obvious case of childhood obesity:


Yes, my older sister did and does have giant feet.

That time they waterboarded my sister and thought it was so hilarious they took this picture of it:

My beautiful pictureWhen I showed this to my mom and waited for her to apologize for this clear abuse of power, she said, “It looks like she’s having fun!”

My beautiful picture

Yeah she’s totally into it.

Clearly I knew I was next (notice the look of terror as I arm myself with weaponry):

My beautiful pictureThat time they mistook me for a Cabbage Patch Doll and tried to sell me in a garage sale:

My beautiful picture

That didn’t really happen.

That time they got me wasted:

Someone cover up that whoring doll.

Someone cover up that whoring doll.

This mullet:


Seriously, all my dolls are sluts.

Let’s just take a minute to check this out, okay? The girl in this picture is clearly a sociopath and is like someone you’d see on Killer Kids or Hoarders.

I mean, the ears. The hair. The expression.

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Don’t turn out the lights.

This excellent example of a positive role model for girls (although, to be fair, we can probably blame this one on the eighties):

Lauren1 001

I still stand that way in pictures.

This hairstyle:

Lauren2 001

So it’s straight on the bottom and teased on the top? No no, don’t change a thing. You. Look. Awesome.

This leiderhosen outfit:

Lauren3 001

Why haven’t we brought back the side pony?

These outfit choices:

Seriously though, those are some big feet.

That is a lot of coordinated cheetah.

As well as these outfit choices:


Is it still a vest if it has sleeves?


Obviously I wore this while I taught P.E.

That Christmas when I was allowed to believe that this was how to smile for pictures:


This is the smile of a child who’s about to eat your face off, à la Florida Man.


My dad definitely still gets underwear every Christmas.


That’s a pretty cool watch though.

These. Haircuts. (I almost can’t even make this one public. Don’t blame my parents…we just didn’t know about hair back then.)


We clearly never had a chance.

That time we needed props for school pictures (again, not so much my parents’ fault as the eighties in general). Seriously, what the hell am I supposed to be coloring?



Speaking of school pictures, that time my parents allowed me to wear the following shirt on the ONE day of the school year that you’re supposed to set the bar high:


Let’s immortalize this one forever.

I could go on, but I’ve become too ashamed. Basically, everything everyone did from like 1978 to around 1994 was just a huge, glaring mistake.

Take a look through your parents’ photos and you’ll see what I mean.

May as well start looking for a good therapist while you’re at it. You’re gonna need it.

Putting the “Die” in “Diet”, or How Many Calories are in This Water?

So, telling funny stories about snow days and puppy butts has been a blast, but today we’re going to talk about Something Serious. If that’s not really your thang, tune in next week for more Random Crap.

Recently, I began to notice that something was Very Wrong with the way I eat food. You may be thinking, “Why, what’s the wrong way to eat food? Were you eating it with your feet instead of your hands?”

No, silly. It’s just that terms like “healthy eating” or “hunger cues” or “food as fuel” are pretty much lost on me. Honestly, up until not long ago I couldn’t have begun to tell you what a balanced meal should look like. I pretty much assumed that it shouldn’t look like any of the foods I ate throughout college (pizza, Oreos, fistfuls of peanut butter), nor should it resemble any of the foods I ate whilst “dieting” (Splenda, water, plain tuna from the can).

It seems that, unbeknownst to me, I’ve spent 28 years living on two very extreme ends of the disordered eating spectrum: eat very little to nothing at all or eat everything in sight as quickly as possible.

Perhaps you’re thinking that sounds very normal. Perhaps you, like me, have been overlooking something very sinister hiding behind your diet programs and weight-loss books: a great deal of the time, “dieting” actually just means “living with an eating disorder.”

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Yep, I said it: dieting is bullshit. And not just the diets that are obviously bullshit either (weight-loss cookies? please). I’m talking all the diets, even the ones that seem very reasonable and cute. They’re just wrapped up in a shiny bow, sparkling with promises of narrower hips and better relationships and smaller dresses and brighter futures, always reminding you of just how much better you can be. Always reminding you that this person that you are right now is nowhere near Enough. The diet industry has duped us, working tirelessly to convince us that we’re Too Big.

Put down the Lean Cuisine, we’re going somewhere with this.

Once I realized that food isn’t the enemy (but dieting is), I decided to consult a nutritionist to learn how to eat in a healthful way, to nourish and energize my body rather than punish or comfort it. The first thing she told me was: Stop doing weight watchers, stop counting calories, stop weighing yourself, and don’t diet. Ever.

I’m sorry, what?

Not knowing what I weigh would be like not knowing my own name. Not knowing if I’m good or bad, beautiful or ugly. Not knowing what I look like, sound like, smell like. Without that number, how do I know what I’m worth? Exactly how many pounds of flesh I owe for taking up such an unseemly amount of space in my own body? My weight – that number, down to the tenth of a pound – is all that’s ever mattered. That’s what we’re taught, right? That’s what every commercial/billboard/magazine/movie/frenemy/celebrity/fad diet has taught us since the day we were born…right?

And stop counting points? Stop torturing myself for each piece of food that passes through my lips? How would I know what was too much? How would I know when I had failed, or had a “good” or a “bad” eating day? How would I know to go into fasting mode to punish myself for too many slices of pizza the night before, or to go into binge mode because I had painstakingly saved up my points? How would I weigh my value if I couldn’t weigh my food?

If you’ve never counted points or calories or grams of fat, imagine that this morning you woke up and were told that you had a certain number of minutes to live. Maybe that number is 36 or 72 or 410. You would spend each second, each millisecond, obsessing about the number of minutes left to your precious life. You would spend each moment trying desperately to cling to its specific sensations, only to be reminded that this minute of happiness means one less minute of sorrow, or love, or pain. Knowing, with every passing second, that you were losing precious time, and trying to take everything in as quickly as possible before using up all of your moments and being lost forever in nothingness.

Now, imagine waking up from that nightmare only to find that it happens again, every. single. day.

This is the never-ending obsession of point or calorie counting.

Dramatic? Certainly. But such is the life of a chronic dieter. (Especially one with a flair for the dramatic, such as myself.)

You see, those points or calories are as precious and vital as moments of time, breaths of air. Each one is delicate but powerful, representing success or failure, joy or pain. Each one is a persistent whisper, following you into the pantry to remind you to wait until dinner. Chasing you through the grocery store, breaking your heart as you do additions in your head only to realize you were just fooling yourself, that you’d have to go hungry for three days to justify those fresh-baked muffins. Haunting you in the middle of the night as you count and recount, promising yourself you’ll go without tomorrow to make up for your indulgence today. The whispers turn into screams at your best friend’s wedding, the office birthday party, a night out at the bar. The message is always the same: there’s not enough. You’re overdoing it. Stop eating, stop drinking, stop cooking, stop baking, some munching, stop snacking, because you’re running out, and there will never be enough.

If you’re like me, you might be thinking, “But I need to count points! I need to measure calories, or I’ll be out of control!” Pipe down for a second, I’m trying to tell you something.

I get it. I felt the same way. For the first twenty years of my life, I gobbled up everything I wanted, telling myself that I was obviously being punished for something so I may as well enjoy it. I assumed that the very body I occupied was my punishment, because it, like the rest of me, was very very bad. I binged and purged and hid food and owned, at any given time, pants in six different sizes. I didn’t wear shorts or skirts for the entire four years of high school in Florida – including summers topping out at over a hundred degrees – because I thought my calves were fat. I owned only one-piece bathing suits and still wore an oversized teeshirt at the beach. I covered up. I hid. I punished. I mentally beat the shit out of myself for being so ugly, so unattractive, so disgusting, so fat.

I overcompensated. I became really good at being the center of attention. At telling stories. I became hilarious (you’re welcome). I was a good student, outgoing, intelligent, driven. As long as I maintained the exterior of perfection and stability and happiness and self-assuredness, I hoped everyone would simply overlook what I felt was the sheer repulsiveness of my body, the lack of beauty in my face. I hid in plain sight.

hated the other girls. The girls with perfect rod-thin upper arms that never squished against their torsos (I’m looking at you, high school cheerleading squad). The girls who could sit in a desk chair without watching their thighs roll together like thunderclouds before a tornado. The girls with flat, tan bellies and shiny navel rings, which I always wanted but never allowed myself because I knew what every chubby, funny, “she-has-such-a-pretty-face” girl knows almost as soon as we know how to talk: that some things just aren’t meant for us.

And those things certainly include anything which actually draws attention to our bodies. That’s precisely what we try to avoid every second of every day. That’s how we know that certain clothing styles, certain boyfriends, certain jobs, certain foods, certain looks are just out of our reach.

And oh – we make sure to find the people who reinforce our perception of ourselves.

I dated the guy who made a bet with me to see which of us could lose the most weight (spoiler alert: I lost 14 pounds, and he lost none). I dated the guy who said to me, “You’re really pretty, but you’re not hot.” I dated the guy who declared that I was “bigger than any other girl” he’d ever dated, and the guy who told me to cover my stomach one night during sex.

(Yes, these are all different men. No, I did not stab any of them with an ice pick.)

See, when you decide at a very young age that you’re ugly and horrible and worthless and, most importantly, fat, you fall at the feet of the men who make you feel otherwise (even if only for a little while). You tell yourself that they’re settling, that they could do better. Or, you tell yourself that they must have something wrong with them – perhaps they’re not very attractive, or they actually can’t do better.

And then, I’d had enough. I decided I was going to lose weight, and right this moment. I found weight watchers. No, that’s not telling the whole story. I found religion in weight watchers. I prayed at the altar of the weekly weigh-in and baptized myself in the points.

For the next eight years, I counted. I weighed. I measured. I bought the serving spoons marked with portion sizes, the 100 calorie packs that take out the guesswork. I could go into my weight watchers online tracker right now and literally tell you every single thing I ate during that first year. I didn’t miss a single entry. No peanut butter cup went uncalculated, no glass of wine unmarked.

If you’re thinking this shows great perseverance and attention to detail and determination, you might be right. If you’re thinking this was yet another way for me to see, in plain black and white, exactly how awful I was each and every day (right down to the last bite of grilled unseasoned chicken breast), you’re also right.

I was so committed to counting points for the rest of my life that I joked about them in my wedding vows. (Actually, I joked about not following them. The exact line was, “I vow to eat pizza and ice cream with you and not count the points.” Even then, I knew that there was something wild and romantic about not calculating a meal.)

And I lost weight. Quite a bit of weight, for the first time. And that was amazing. Boys liked me more, girls liked me more, woodland creatures flew into my window to brush my hair and sew my dresses.

Except when I realized that I couldn’t keep it off unless I didn’t eat junk food, or drink beers, or go out, or celebrate, or take vacations, or go to restaurants, or go to parties, or go to movies, or see friends, or eat dinner in any environment that wasn’t conducive to my life-raft of counting, counting, counting.

So I gained some back. And then I lost some. And then I gained some back, and then I lost some. Each time I lost, I hit the same damning number – the one that had me in a size 6, but wasn’t technically low enough for weight watchers to promote me to “lifetime” (read: free) status. According to the Body Mass Index, I needed to be a full ten pounds less than my smallest weight ever (at which time I could just squeeze into a size four but only if I committed to eating only plain tuna and vegetables for several days prior) to be considered “healthy” – and even then, I would be at the very tip-top of the “healthy” range. (Can we talk about the Body Mass Index for a second? What sadist thought that up, and can I get his address?)

So, I was a failure. Weight watchers said so. The BMI said so. My mirror certainly said so. After all, why stop at a four? Why not a two, a zero, or the Loch Ness Monster of sizes: the double zero??

Even at my smallest, I was still taking up too much space.

And the real kicker of it is: I was still miserable. I still thought I was fat. Oh, believe me, I look back at those “thinnest ever” vanity pictures and think, “Holy shit, I was actually pretty thin!” But at the time, I was nothing but FAT. Fat face, fat thighs, fat back, fat butt, fat stomach, fat.

Once I got down to a size 10 (for most of my life, to be a size 10 was The Dream, like winning the lottery or getting asked out by Ryan Gosling), I needed to be an eight. It didn’t matter that putting on a pair of size 10 pants in the American Eagle dressing room had me literally crying and laughing at the same time like a lunatic, with the salesgirl standing outside the door nervously asking, “Do you need me to get help?” No, as soon as the euphoria passed, the whispers crept up again. They hissed, “Cut back. You’re too big.” I found myself dreaming about a size eight, then a six. At a six, I desperately pined to be a four, because on me, size six seemed ungainly and huge.

You would think this would have set off a red flag in my mind – it’ll never be good enough! Stop counting! Stop torturing yourself! You’re constantly trying to be ever smaller, smaller, smaller, and it’s impossible! But it didn’t. I thought this was all perfectly normal. My entire life, in fact, I’ve assumed that self-hatred and body-shaming were perfectly sensible pastimes; after all, doesn’t everyone want to lose a few pounds?

Perhaps I wouldn’t have been happy until I literally shrank down so tiny that I simply disappeared. Perhaps that’s what we’re all after, what the diet industry is feeding us (pun intended). Eat less! Exercise more! Lose weight! Gain confidence! Take this pill, drink this shake, eat these meals, count these calories, use this machine, read this book, join this club, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll simply disappear once and for all! You’ll get so small that no one will even notice you there!

Maybe we’re all searching for that nothingness. That disappearing. That the thinness, the sheer smallness, of our newly dieted and exercised bodies will give way to an invisibility. That whoever hurt us won’t have anything left to hurt. Whoever abused us, beat us, belittled us, raped us, ignored us, terrorized us, bullied us, shamed us, mistreated us, will suddenly walk right past us without even registering our shrunken faces. That whoever told us we were ugly when we were children, or convinced us to diet when we were four or nine or twelve, or taught us that boys only love us because of the way we look, or that girls only like us if we’re pretty, or that we’re only as good as a number on a scale – if we’re small enough, maybe they won’t see us anymore. Maybe they’ll pick on somebody their own size.

The thing is, none of it’s true. It’s all a lie that you’re telling yourself, a lie that somebody else told you that you’ve absorbed into your body like scar tissue. That you’ll be better when you’re thinner. That you’ll be happier, smarter, more successful, more loved. If you’re thinking it’s a number on the scale, it isn’t. If you’re trying to reach a certain dress size, you’ll never get there. Just when you think you’ve reached the finish line, the finish line disappears, and you’re left running a never-ending race.

Trust me. I’ve been happy at a size sixteen, and I’ve been miserable at a size six. And vice versa.

You may be one who believes that counting points or calories or fat grams is the only way to control yourself. You may believe that without your diet/exercise regimen/low-fat bread/weight watchers meetings that you will truly grow uncontrollably until you are fifty feet in height and girth, stomping on the villages below. That you will gain a hundred pounds, or ten.

I felt that way, too. Like I said, dieting was my God, and He was merciless.

Imagine a world in which each and every one of us knew, from the moment we came into being, that we were enough. Imagine if you knew that you were perfect exactly as you are at this moment and not one pound less. Imagine, for a second, that you were filled with the comfort of knowing that no matter what happens, you will be enough. You will have enough. You will have enough food, enough love, enough comfort, enough energy, enough friendships, enough support, enough success. That you will be enough because you are beautiful, or funny, or smart, or sexy, or intelligent, or loyal, or strong, or all of those things. That you will stop telling yourself that the only thing that matters is the size of your ankles or the width of your waist. That you will start telling yourself that food does not control you, nor does it identify you.

Imagine a world in which “diet” was as ugly a word as “fat”.

dietMy journey to end the madness started slowly, and is far from over. At first I decided to still calculate the points in my head each night, but not write them down on paper. I vowed to throw out the idea that low-fat or low-sugar or diet or low-calorie meant “better” or “healthier” and realize that ten points of Oreos is not the same as ten points of oatmeal, but that both have their value and their place. I’ve begun to learn about nutrition, truly for the first time in my life. I’ve learned to indulge when I wanted to and to not hate myself for it. I learned that it is actually possible to not think about food more than you think about every other thing in your life. I learned to trust my body and my instincts, and I started to apologize to it for years of mistreatment and torture. I learned to nurse it back to health, like I would a beaten dog that had been rescued from a shelter. I learned to make and eat delicious foods that were sometimes nutritious and sometimes not.

The day I canceled my nine-years-long weight watchers membership was both gratifying and terrifying. (In case you’re wondering, that’s almost $5,000 in fees. When I think about the $5,000 in shoes or vacations or Candy Crush levels I could’ve purchased with that money I want to gnaw my own arm off and punch myself in the face with it.) The day I first ate a piece of chocolate without devouring the rest of the bag or starving myself for the next three days in repentance was a miracle. The day I realized I’d gone an entire month without bingeing or purging was like being re-baptized into a new religion, one that throws open its temple doors and welcomes you with open arms.

If any of these things remind you of yourself, then I urge you, too, to seek some real help when you’re ready to stop torturing yourself simply for existing in any shape other than the one you’ve decided is perfect. I promise you that perfection is a myth.

I believe there is still a long road ahead, but I refuse to spend one more second of it counting points or hunched over in a bathroom. Food is wonderful, and my body is wonderful, and its shape is such a small part of why that is so. There are so many things to do besides diet, and you’re missing it. We all are. Eat a cookie, eat a salad, have a drink, sing a song, help a friend, go on a date, take a bath, take a class, take a vacation, take a breath.

To steal a line from the brilliant advertising executives at weight watchers: Stop dieting.

Start living.

Winter is Lovely This Time of Spring

This morning, I woke up to snow.

If you’re wondering whether I live on some otherworldly planet that time forgot, rest assured that I actually live just outside Boston and the date is, in fact, March 31st.

Interestingly enough, any time the outside temperature dips below approximately 68 degrees, the thermostat in my office building immediately reverts to Hell Mode and churns up the heat to somewhere between Eyebrow Singeing and Charred Flesh. I have to spend a lot of my day walking outside to stand in a swirling mass of snow and rain just to cool down. It’s like a never-ending game of “Would You Rather” where the options are die slowly in a crushing fire or freeze to death in a block of ice, only you actually have to try them both out so you can make the most educated decision.

Tomorrow is April Fool’s Day, which seems fitting. The forecast, I’m pretty sure, is a tornado made of killer bees.

Anti-Aging: When Your Oldness is Simply Unacceptable

When exactly did ‘aging’ become absolutely the worst thing a woman could do?


Anti-aging from the people who brought you Silence of the Lambs.

Seriously, watch like six minutes of commercials and you will see three ads for cars (featuring young sexy women if the ad target is men or 20-something sexy moms if the ad target is women), four ads promoting weight loss (featuring young sexy women regardless of the ad’s demographic), and approximately 78,034 ads about aging. Or, rather, the sheer depravity of actually looking as if you are aging.

Basically, if you are a woman, there is no worse thing you can do than age. Really. I mean, you can age in the literal sense, like have birthdays and stop wearing mini-skirts, but you absolutely must never age in the way that involves getting wrinkles or not being sexy. Because being sexy is, as we all know, The Most Important Thing A Woman Will Ever Do. Ever.

And aging is, as we all know, The Most Horrible Thing A Woman Will Ever Do. We know this because the tv tells us so. Think about it: at any given time, your television (and computer and phone and various billboards and store windows and busses and salespeople and magazines and celebrities) are reminding you that you pretty much look like hell. Grey hair? Dye it immediately. Blemishes or dark spots? Try this cleanser. Bags under your eyes? Cover that shit up, girl. Worry lines on your forehead? What – do you not want to get a man? Stretchmarks or cellulite? I literally just threw up in my mouth.

Look younger AND change your ethnicity!

Let’s look at the term “anti-aging” for a moment. What does that actually mean? Do you know what the only real “anti-aging” product is? A gun. And do you know what the advertisement would be? A commercial of a young, sexy woman, with long, flowy, grey-free hair, and she would lay around in peach-colored satin sheets before saying, “Want to really stop the clock on aging? Now you can!” And then she would shoot herself in the face.

Oh, and then she would die. Because anti-aging is being dead. Or it would be some freakish Benjamin Button situation in which you actually get younger and younger with each passing year, and if this happened, I can guarantee that no one would like you. Seriously. You would be like, “Omg you guys! I’ve figured out the secret to anti-aging!” And everyone would be like “Get away from me you terrifying adult toddler!”

Once your shed your old zombie skin, you can re-emerge wearing the skin of the unsuspecting human you just ate.

Once you shed your old zombie skin, you can re-emerge wearing the skin of the unsuspecting human you just ate.

See the problem here? You really can’t win. This is because the whole “anti-aging” concept is a myth. A hoax. It’s impossible. And yet, it seems to be getting worse.

Maybe our great-grandmothers didn’t have this problem because people only used to live to like 30. Maybe back then, age was revered. People were like, “Yep, made it to 42! High-five.”

Somewhere along the way, though, a woman aging became pretty much synonymous with a woman going on a puppy-murdering spree, or pooping in the heating vent, or eating your leftover Chinese food. Basically, it is NOT OKAY.

So knock it off, already. Either kill yourself or turn into a baby, because anything else is really grossing everyone out.

Things That Make Me Want to Punch A Baby, Volume 1

The other day, a good friend asked me, “Do you ever write anything positive on your blog?”

I mused that over, and realized that I do, in fact, seem to have a penchant for bitter ranting and raving.

Therefor, I decided that now is as good a time as ever to put together a post that’s as cheerful and optimistic as kittens dancing in a bucket of Jell-O. Without further ado, I bring you what’s bound to be the first of many:

Things That Make Me Want to Punch A Baby
Volume 1
  • People who don’t tip at restaurants. If you can afford an inexpensive meal, you can afford an inexpensive tip. If you can afford an extravagant meal, you can afford an extravagant tip. It’s simple math, really. There’s a special place in hell for people who don’t tip their waitstaff, and every meal’s a sneezer. (snEEz-er: noun. Food that was sprinkled with bodily fluids because you’re an asshole.)
  • In general, anyone who is rude to waiters, hostesses, dry cleaners, delivery guys – you’re not a nice person if you’re not nice to your waiter, and no amount of bullshitting will make up for that. (Note to my single friends: if you’re on a first date and the dude is a dick to the waiter, he’s pretty much waving that Red Flag right in your face. Act accordingly.)
  • People who stuff their sweatshirts and suitjackets into the overhead compartments on airplanes. Really? Oh okay, I’ll just shove my rolling suitcase under my ass and prop my feet up on it in this fourteen square inches of space so that your sweater can be comfortable. Does your sweater need anything else? Can I get it a drink? (I’m assuming these aforementioned people are also the non-tippers. They just take their beloved sportsjackets out to dinner and the two are so giddy with lust that no one remembers to tip.)
  • Books with movie covers. This is just in case you were thinking about picking up a book, you see Tom Cruise on the cover and think, “Oh, right, I can just watch this book on my television! Silly me, I can’t believe I almost read. Gross.”
  • The Friends episode I was watching earlier in which Joey announced to his new agent, “I’m 25.” It’s a weird phenomenon to grow older than people who were grownups when you were nine.
  • Also, people who are 25 and are actually making a living at a fulfilling job rather than working six part-times/living with their parents/putting themselves through school/day-drinking and crying round the clock. No one likes a showoff – grab a beer a make some self-sabotaging choices like the rest of us did at your age.
  • People that drive the speed limit in the fast lane. If you do this, no one loves you, and you’re going to die alone. If you drive under the speed limit in the fast lane, you’re clearly some sort of sociopathic terrorist sent here to destroy America.
  • Mornings. Every morning. Without fail. Just once I’d like to have my eyes snap open, a smile already on my lips, my feet poised to bound out of bed like people in orange juice commercials. Instead, I literally make a deal with the devil every single time my alarm clock goes off to let me press snooze just one. more. time. I’m not going to tell you the terms, but let’s just say at some point he’s going to collect and A LOT OF SHIT is gonna go down.
  • People who start sentences with “No offense, but…” Say no more. I already hate you.
  • Girls that wear a full face of makeup at the gym. It’s one thing if you’re coming from work and you’re still sporting some eyeliner; it’s quite another when you clearly put on false lashes and cream blush just before your trip to the elliptical. Working out is awful enough without having your perfect ponytail and painted brows bouncing next to me in the mirror while I’m looking like a sweaty monkey wearing the mask from Scream.
  • Duvet covers. There is absolutely no feasible way to actually fill a duvet cover from end to end and corner to corner with your comforter. It’s physically impossible, because science.
  • Facebook. Okay, don’t get me wrong, I have a facebook because I live on earth but here’s the issue: You know how, sometimes, you’re walking around thinking, “Why, my life is pretty okay!” Maybe you have a job, maybe you’re in a fulfilling relationship or you’re happily single, maybe you just mastered a level of Candy Crush that’s been torturing you for weeks. You take a look in the mirror and say, “I. Am. Awesome.”

Wrong. Facebook is here to remind you that literally every single person you have ever known is doing much better than you are. Haven’t made it to Italy? Everyone you know is studying abroad! Feeling okay about waiting a few years before you walk down the aisle? Sorry, loser, but all your friends have four kids already and they’re loving it. Wondering whether you should have leftover pizza and fistfuls of peanut butter for lunch? All the girls you went to school with are busy shucking their own pesticide-free organic corn to make homemade fiber bars for the homeless. Loving the way you look in that new bathing suit? Come on, fatty, everyone else is doing crossfit and living on chia seeds alone.

Facebook is like the world’s snooty, suck-up coworker who exists to prove that you actually suck way more than you thought you did, and that all of your accomplishments are like seven years later than everyone else’s. Nice try, failure.