I mean it when I say that Halloween is the flavor of the whole effin’ week, not just the day it claims on the calendar. We all know that Halloween is a weekly process, and whoever thought that it solely encompasses a single day is incorrect on a graded scale of “Incorrect” to “So Enthused About Halloween That My Costume Is More Original Than A School Girl Or A Bunny This Year.”
I love Halloween because I’m a fan of all things spooky, creepy, weird, and dark. According to Cady Heron,
But according to me, Halloween is the one day I can wear all black and people will stop asking me if I’m headed over to pay a shiva call. Leave me, my boyfriend jeans, and my high top black Converse alone, puh-lease.
Halloween brings about many fond memories: middle school parties that left me crying, going to the wealthy neighborhoods to get pounds of chocolate, being able to play a socially acceptable form of dress up, having people ask me if they could borrow my real clothes as pieces for their costume, crying again because I was disappointed my night didn’t end up like Cinderella’s (not that Cinderella takes place on Halloween, just the whole pumpkin thing gets me), and broken dreams upon realization that I am not the perfect girl–a combination of Hermoine Granger and Marnie from Halloweentown.
The FYD takes a walk down memory lane of what Halloween was like pre-Halloweek and pre-fro-yo (ice cream was still considered a “thing”)…
Happy Halloween! Eat fro-yo, not candy! (JK LOL, eat candy. Lots of it.)
When I told my parents recently that “FOMO” was added to the Oxford dictionary, my mom went into total outburst.
“I invented FOMO!!!!!!!!!!! Didn’t I, honey?” Some background for you: my mom has always insisted that she literally invented the word “FOMO.”
Although FOMO is a term my mother claims she coined lexically, she sure as hell didn’t coin it theoretically. I bet cavemen had FOMO when they had to take care of their pet wooly mammoths and missed an awesome naked bonfire. Humans have a tendency to overbook. When we overbook, we miss out. And when we miss out, we get FOMO. (FOMO = Fear Of Missing Out.)
FOMO can be a good thing or a bad thing. I mean, it’s never a good thing to feel like you wish you were somewhere else. But at the same time, it means that you have a connection to your group of besties and you know that they’re party people (a.k.a. they like to cuddle and eat cereal out of the box together–shout out to my fam) who are guaranteed to always do something you’re going to enjoy. Often, however, someone who is known for her FOMO is considered desperate, friendless, clingy, and way too attached to a group of people. So, what do we think? FOMO yes or FOMO no?
Someone who doesn’t get FOMO ever is someone who must have a lot of self-confidence. That girl is in charge of her schedule; she always knows what’s up. She doesn’t have FOMO because she knows other people are having FOMO of her. But, of course, we can’t all be this girl. At the same time, there is another side to this: someone who doesn’t get FOMO is potentially anti-social and may or may not have a chemical imbalance/seasonal depression that causes her to leave her friends and their wine spritzers around midnight, get in bed with her MacBook Air, and watch Like Crazy/cry/recite every word. Then, she sleeps for twelve hours and has a forty-five minute phone convo with her mom the second she wakes up. Don’t ask me how I know this girl so well. Just don’t.
In the grand scheme of things, it’s so easy to be antisocial. I have cramps. I have work. I’m saving my energy for tomorrow night. Ugh, my eyebrows right now. My legs aren’t shaved. I don’t feel like putting on pants. The struggle is endless. When it feels like there’s always another weekend on the horizon, it isn’t so bad to sacrifice one. I think that having the ability to be both social and anti-social is crucial. Once, someone told me about a line from a rap song that went something along the lines of: the coolest girl at the party is the one who rolls the joint but doesn’t smoke. I’m going to use that as a metaphor for what I’m trying to get at.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you’ve gotta be able to roll with the punches and go with the flow. If you’re concerned about not being in a socially acceptable minimum of muploads from the weekend, don’t sweat it. Your ex is probably thinking that you spent the night with another guy instead of being home alone with your fav movie and a box of tissues. In the end, it’s a win-win. Besides, there’s always next weekend. Take double mups, not double shots. That’s the motto.
Kanye West and Kim Kardashian are not only an entity: they are a superpower. They are the inspiration behind “Bound 2,” they are the parents of a cardinal direction (making Kim nothing other than Mother Nature). I would venture so far as to say that they are the voice of our generation, but neither of them are “hipster” or “offbeat” enough. Neither of them exploit their naked breasts and bodies for the sake of art enough to be that voice, either. Oh, wait. Just kidding, Kimmy.
Kanye West pursued Kim Kardashian after Kris Jenner decided that Kanye was the ideal “one”: he is the non-relative whose name starts with a K that grosses the most annual revenue. And we all know that Kim likes her men dark and handsome.
Some people are anti-Kanye because they don’t like his attitude and they think he’s out of his mind. It’s definitely valid to debate whether he actually is as psychotic as he makes himself seem or if it’s all an act; a split persona, if you will. Regardless, I don’t really care. I think that it’s genius. He’s the most ridiculous person I know (using the term “know” very lightly) and you’ve just gotta learn how to LOLZ along with him. I don’t know whether I really love Kim or not, as Khloe is everybody’s fav Kardashian (she gets the big beautiful woman points, if ya know what I mean), but I stalk her enough to be her BFF. Once, I saw Jonathan Cheban in East Hampton. It was the richest I’ve ever felt.
Kimye made news headlines this week for the greatest marriage proposal of all time. I was so pleasantly surprised to learn that for once, Kanye did something that wasn’t even remotely about him. For those of you that are unaware: he got the whole Kardashian Klan (what khaos that must have been) into the stadium where the San Fran Giants play. Then, brought Kim out to a screen that read “PLEEEASE MARRY MEEE!!!” Clearly, Kanye is unaware that we all stopped typing like that when AIM went out of style in the seventh grade. Anyway, he gave her a rock the size of my face. And to top it all off, he had a full-blown orchestra playing Lana del Rey’s “Young and Beautiful,” the theme song to my life. If you haven’t listened to the orchestra version of the Gatsby theme yet, then go do it now. It makes you feel like you’re being whisked away in a whirlwind with a bunch of leaves and flowers and some glowing light at the climax of a romantic film set in London.
Kanye, ya done well. Snaps for you.
When two people are interested in each other, they should be together. Right?
No, of course not.
Although that would make perfect sense, human interaction could never be that easy. Why not? Because if it was easy, it wouldn’t be worth it. It wouldn’t be fun, it wouldn’t be exciting, and we would get bored even though we are in the ideal situation of mutual wanting. We’ve convinced ourselves that when we want someone too much, we don’t want them at all. If we wanted them at all, we would make them work.
Hence, the infinite game of “playing hard to get”: of making sure your friends don’t let you respond to that text message until 11:39pm and 46 seconds, of leaving the conversation in a terrifying cliffhanger by not answering the question “Did I tell you that I ran into ‘x’ today?” No you didn’t tell me, and I’m not going to risk my mysterious persona by allowing this conversation to get irrelevant and pointless. The beginning of a relationship is like writing a screenplay–every word has to have a significance. And if it doesn’t, then it isn’t worth saying.
I used to be and still am terrible at playing hard to get. It isn’t that I’m easy, and it isn’t that I’m a slut. In fact, I’m far from both of these things. Instead, I’m a premature yenta that can’t keep her mouth shut. I was born as a small fuzzy caterpillar waiting to turn into a social butterfly. (If you know my mom, you know exactly where I get this quality from). When I entered the fiery hell of high school girl world, I had trouble understanding how it wasn’t considered the rudest thing possible to play hard to get. I was confused about the bitchy aspects of the dating game; i.e., making a guy text you five times before responding, ignoring his physical existence unless he approaches you, and whatever else my American Girl book “All You Need To Know About Boys a.k.a. How To Get Guys With As Little Sluttiness As Possible” told me to do.
My fears were all legitimate. What if he thinks I died? What if I seem so rude that he’s not going to like me at all anymore? What if he thinks I’m not who he thought I was? Eventually, I became so frazzled that my friends would have to deal with my relationships for me. Every text I received was treated amongst my friends like a table read of Girls.
I eventually realized that I’m not the only one with hard-to-get/how-to-text anxieties. Last week I was snuggled up in bed with my teddy bear, blankie, retainers, and sleep mask. Click here if you want a nice image of what that looks like. As I was falling asleep, someone BURSTED through my door (which I obviously forgot to lock) and jumped on my bed. My first thought was that I was being recruited by Agent Cody Banks and the CIA. Momentarily, I came to my senses and realized that it was one of my best friends. She got a text message: “Hey, what’s up?” Then, the conniption fit initiated. Pretty standard.
My mom was keen at enforcing that I should play hard to get since I was in middle school. He should have to come to your house, she would say. Make him work for you. Originally, I thought that she was crazy. But now, I think she changed me for the better. I feel like I value myself (sexually) more than most of the girls I know do… even more than some of my feminist friends do. Impressive, right? I think that although I feel guilty ignoring a text, or making someone who wants me on the bottom of my priority list, it’s all in good reason. If we don’t make someone–anyone–work to get us, then we ultimately give ourselves less value. Sure, anyone’s daddy can buy him a LandRover. But your daddy will never be able to buy you love from a nice Jewish girl like me.
One of the greatest struggles a child has is remembering the names of the ships that brought the white people to America who got kicked out of Europe because they wouldn’t let them film “Sister Wives” over there. I would always get confused between the Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria, and the Mayflower and what each of their respective historical purposes were. After googling “what is the difference between the nina the pinta the santamaria and the mayflower” just to make sure that I had my facts straight, I concluded that the Mayflower brought the cast of “Sister Wives” over and the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria were not just the names of every house keeper in the tri-state area but also carried Christopher Columbus and his men to “discover” North America.
Christopher Columbus, not to be mistaken for Chris Columbus (the man who directed your little brother’s fav movie, Percy Jackson & the Lightning Thief), is a controversial man of epic proportions. There is an entire grassroots movement towards abolishing the holiday we celebrate in his honor. This, if you think about it, is especially rude to and ignorant of the Canadians who celebrate their Chinatown version of Thanksgiving on the American Columbus Day.
Columbus was neither very attractive nor very Ivy League. He thought it would be a great idea to sail westward to reach the East Indies. Like, I see what your trying to do here, but unconventionality only works in situations such as wearing transparent tights under jean cutoffs in an effort to “stay warm,” or when you have to edit a photo on minimum three different applications in order to mupload it in the trendiest manner.
People don’t like Columbus because he didn’t treat Native Americans with respect. It also pisses a lot of people off that we give him the credit to “discovering” America when a) Leif Ericson, some meaty ginger viking, already came and b) the land had clearly been discovered if people were living there. I think in truth, this is kind of like a “why don’t we all just stab Casear” situation and a lot of people have some pent up jealousy that there are no countries left for them to discover… just new iPhone apps to create. You know?
It is only so fitting that a weekend spent home in stereotypical suburbia would induce a post on nothing other than good ol’ nostalgia. I’m neither old nor poor enough (yet) to have a real understanding of what it’s like to miss things like being young, waving my prepubescent brother off to recreational soccer practice on a crisp fall afternoon, or hearing the never-ending hum of my teenaged brother’s shitty Windows laptop (a hand-me-down from moi) as he grunts in dissatisfaction at Dungeons and Dragons (or whatever games he plays on there). To my misfortune, all of the above is yet to change. Actually, it all happened this morning. But it’s still weird to be back in my hometown for the first time in a long time. It sort of feels like I never left. Then again, it sort of feels like I never lived here at all.
Nostalgia is a feeling–it is an emotion or a way of thought. Similarly to the way I’m Shmacked turned the intoxicated state of mind into what they call “a movement,” nostalgia took those “remember when…” thoughts and turned them into an even bigger movement, but a slightly less obnoxious one. Nostalgia has become laced like a bad drug into many aspects of our everyday lives. Yet, we keep smoking life by the pound and barely realize the affect that the past has on us. “Throwback Thursdays”? My relentless need to wear ankle socks with tennis sneakers? Overalls, overalls, and more overalls? The past isn’t just ever-lingering… it’s fucking trendy.
I was one of the kids that waited my entire life to grow up. I used to try and manipulate the game of MASH so that I would get the life that I wanted. In elementary school I knew where I wanted to go to college, what job I wanted to pursue, where I wanted to live, and how many kids I wanted to have (none of these opinions have changed, literally). My wedding plans are already a decade old, at least. I knew in kindergarten who I wanted to marry, too. And although that changed by the time I hit seventh grade, I still consistently had someone I wanted to–no, I was going to–marry. My best friends consider one of my defining characteristics to be my necessity for pre-planned baby names. Once, someone asked me about my future husband’s opinions, or any relatives of his that he would want to name our children after. My response: “What opinions?”
At the same time, someone like me who has always been so eager to grow up was also so eager to wear a “spin-spin” dress every day to school as a sixteen-year-old and cry for someone to tickle my back whenever I didn’t feel 100%. I am also, obviously, a huge fan of the #tbt. My favorite game is “remember when?” which is a game I made up where, basically, the rules involve one person saying “Remember when…” followed by a funny memory that happened in the recent past. It also has to be ironic in the sense that of course everyone remembers when it happened because it happened so recently, but you had to ask just to make sure anyway.
We could be so obsessed with the past because of the obvious reasons: we miss it, there is an inner child in all of us, it’s fun to dress up as a slutty 90’s Mary Kate and Ashley for Halloween, etc. etc. etc. But it isn’t why we’re so obsessed with it that interests me; it’s the fact that we spent our whole lives waiting to be in the ripe decade we’re barely beginning and now that we’re here, we use our mature social media skills to go back to where we started. So, what is it that we want? To be old, or to be young? Then again, I’m a Jewish woman, so I’ll never make up my mind no matter what.
Mazel tov to me, because as of October 4th, I have officially survived five years of womanhood. Not according to the fact that I had to buy my first bra in fourth grade, but according to the facts of Judaism, it has been half a decade since the marvelous day I made a ten page speech when it was only supposed to be three and I shriveled up my face in response to a sip of Manischewitz just to get the crowd laughing. And by crowd, I mean guests in the synagogue pews.
My Bat Mitzvah was a glorious day. I made everyone wear red to the party, at which I had a hysterical crying fit during my dad’s speech. Whenever I bring up my Bat Mitzvah to someone in attendance, they always mention the crying. It’s horrific, and they always do. Always.
I was one of those kids that literally liked my service better than my party because I felt like I really ran shit from the bimah. I also have this odd quality about me where my singing voice is significantly better when I’m singing in Hebrew. I obviously don’t sing in Hebrew often, but I always felt the words float out like butter during my Hebrew school days. Not to pat myself on the back, or anything.
Since I love to create holidays out of everything, here’s a quick list of great ways to properly celebrate the anniversary of your Bat or Bar Mitzvah:
- Make a toast to it while drinking wine with friends, but more expensive wine than that shit the temple makes you imbibe and classier friends than the kids that broke the ceiling at your BM party. Those are the two key words in life: expensive, and classy.
- Tell people that on this day, you became a woman and hope that they realize you’re not talking about your period-iversary (we’ll talk about that holiday another time).
- Sing your torah portion to your reflection in the mirror, especially because
myyour voice always sounds better in Hebrew.
- Wear your tallit as a scarf, because it’s ironic and why the hell not.
- Hand out the leftover kippahs you’ve been storing in that random drawer. There is always a bald man somewhere in need of a hat!
- If you want to feel skinny, don’t try on your party dress… just look at it from afar. But if you have the chutzpah to try, by all means, take a whack at it!
- After number 6, look through your photo album and remember that no matter how much fatter you are now, you’re glad to finally have good teeth and clear skin. This is what is feels like to be a woman.
I used to be terrified of a few things: vomit, roller coasters, and PDA. This is something that most girls have in common. My fears were not of miscellaneous fruits or animals; they were reasonable. But with the passing of time, I don’t know if my fears would stand as “acceptable.” Yes, girls are probably still shuddering at the sight of bodily fluids. Some, like me, will never be too fond of adventure parks, either. PDA is a different story. The girls today don’t give two shits, and I’ll tell you why.
First, let me give some backstory. My freshman year of high school brought a lot of new and exciting changes. My boobs kept growing even after I thought they had stopped, and I was finally getting back into my normal routine of having a panic attack a day. It was really great. It was also the year that I would be start going to school with my first “real” boyfriend. Going to school with your boyfriend for the first time is like having a co-ed sleepover party in the first grade. It isn’t like anything is going to actually happen out of the ordinary, but because you’re in the same vicinity your mind plays a dirty little trick on you that it will. Every day had the opportunity for something amazing and wonderful to happen because I was “young” and “in love” and I was also, like, fourteen.
For him, there was no secret fantasy hiding in the janitor’s closet or the handicap stall of the second floor girl’s bathroom. It was much simpler than that–we were in school together, so when he saw me in the hallway, or when he walked me to class, he was going to hold my hand.
Hence, World War III commenced.
For some reason, I was OK with wishing that one day my boyfriend would get the school marching band to surprise me with a rendition of Weezer’s “Island in the Sun,” but I was not OK with any public displays of affection (for newbies out there, public display of affection = PDA). It wasn’t even that I was embarrassed to have a boyfriend. I was far from embarrassed. I felt like the luckiest girl in the whole school. For a reason I am still not totally aware of, I was terrified of any touching, hugging, kissing, groping, lap-sitting, etc. etc. in front of anyone else.
The two of us would get into bitter arguments over PDA. Why was it such a big deal for me to hold his hand? Why couldn’t we hug before class? Not even a kiss on the cheek? My defense was simple: no one needed to see it. I was always very prude and in the stubbornest of ways. I had heard so many people go off about how disgusting it is to see couples being mushy in the halls. I had even been blockaded from my locker many a time (a common occurrence at my high school) by couples going at it up against the wall.
My literal fear of PDA got so bad that my mom eventually had to say something to me about it. “You’re so cold towards [insert ex’s name here haha lol]. Why don’t you just be a little warmer? One day you’re gonna push him so far away that he’s not going to come back.” Since Mama always knows best, especially when she’s Jewish Yenta Mama, I took her advice to the best of my ability. Slowly, I eased by way into the nauseating hand-holding and the awkward-feeling-but-looks-cute arm around the waist. “See?” I would say to my boyfriend. “Look how good I’m doing!” You’d think I was going through psychotherapy (not to say I wasn’t, anyway) or that maybe he was teaching me how to ride a bicycle (not that he didn’t, either) by the way we would speak about it.
But enough about me. Let’s talk about the biddies in their prime–they can still eat whatever they want, they can still solely rely on Mommy and Daddy’s ca$h flow, they’re still naive enough to believe that a quadruple date with four senior guys isn’t just a quadruple booty call–and how these days, they are lovin’ themselves some PDA. Let me go back to where I started. Why do they love PDA? Obviously, I’m going to blame this on social media. Haha duh.
When I was a freshman in high school, I had a Facebook. But social media was not nearly as much of a “thing” then as it was now. My freshman year was when people learned how to put photos onto Facebook from their Blackberries (freshman now don’t even know what a Blackberry is) that were filtered into an album automatically titled “Mobile Uploads.” And just like that, my fave vocab word of all time–mupload, obv–was born into creation.
Now, there is no way to put photos on Facebook aside from through your iPhone… or at least that’s how we make it look. Facebook and its critical importance in the everyday life of a teenaged girl has built up PDA to become a normal thing. Everyone sees everything you do because there’s a mupload of you doing it already on Facebook. I’ve seen you hooking up, I’ve seen you grinding, I’ve seen you holding each other’s hair back, and I’ve seen you sitting on the toilet. So, you might as well go ahead and hold hands in the hallways. You might as well.
The weirdest thing is this: after a few years of high school, I started feeling a compulsion to chronicle my relationships on Facebook. Simultaneously, I found myself feeling more and more comfortable with a quick kiss or a hand-hold. Just some food for thought…
On the bright side of things, in case you were wondering, I’m totally over my phobia of PDA. Vomit… not so much.
People are very split when it comes to opinions on Instagramming food. Many of you have read (and if you haven’t, then you should) Katherine Markovich’s “An Open Letter To People Who Take Pictures of Food With Instagram,” posted on McSweeny’s not too long ago. The column piece went absolutely viral as thousands and thousands of people who spend entirely too much time on Facebook/the internet ironically agreed with Markovich’s scornful rant on those who combine eating time with social media presence. As a food-stagramer myself, I cannot say that I am against the movement. I’d like to write an “open letter” to this thought-piece which, although humorous, just doesn’t get it right.
First of all, no matter how hard you try, you are never going to get people to stop taking photos of their food. Why? Many reasons. People like food. People really, really like food. Also, sometimes people have a hard time finding something to Instagram. And when those people haven’t Instagrammed in quite some time and are looking to turn something from dull to Lo-Fi brilliance, food is an easy place to turn.
Second of all, the title of her piece is almost as infuriating as the piece itself. You cannot take a “picture.” You can, however, take a photograph. And you (usually) don’t take photos of something “with” Instagram. The piece’s title just goes to show how little Markovich knows about Insta and it’s utilization in American syntax. “To Instagram” is a verb, and “Instagram” is a proper noun in reference to the application itself. But you cannot do or take something with Instagram. And if you don’t know that about Insta-grammar (clever, right?), then you shouldn’t be writing an article about Instagram at all.
When I went to Italy last summer, we would take photos of our meals every time we ate. Yes, I Insta’d a bunch of them. But I wasn’t Insta’ing every single plate at every single meal. Most were for the memories. You can food-stagram in moderation, and that’s OK. My mentor in life, love, and the pursuit of
being skinny happiness, Bethenny Frankel, says “Food is not your best friend or your enemy.” Food is like a one night stand–just because we’re Instagramming a photo of it doesn’t mean that we’re obsessed with it. It just means it looks yummy and delicious and would look great in Amaro.
A big point that most people make in the case against food-stagramming is that people who do it think of themselves as professional photographers or artists. No, no, no, don’t even go there girlfriend. Posting a photo of a slice of chocolate cake is just like posting a photo of you and your best friend… especially for some people. Lolz.
Now that you’re hungry, click here for some food porn.