At first, the Polar Vortex sounds kind of fun. I imagine us all to be sipping spiked hot chocolates, boarding a train with a mustache-d conductor heading to somewhere like the North Pole. But then I realize that I’m just recreating a Disney movie in my mind and life is not but a dream.
Instead, the Polar Vortex is a brutal, brutal thing that encourages college girls to hang themselves from barren trees with their infinity scarves.
At the beginning of winter, everyone complained about the nippy chill more than usual. Everyone that wasn’t complaining about the chill insisted upon complaining about the people who were complaining about the chill. These skeptics were under the impression that everyone was just overreacting; that this winter was just as cold as any other. The complainers, skin still thin from what was left of that summer bikini body, were simply in denial of winter’s annual coming.
I wonder if the skeptics of those complaining about the cold feel like assholes now that WE’RE IN A POLAR VORTEX.
Here’s a neat list of five things you can do to stay warm:
1. Give in to that booty call (body heat).
2. Burn the keepsakes of your ex to make a bonfire. The ones you haven’t already burned.
3. Don’t get out of bed, ever. This is a great dieting technique because I would otherwise encourage working out, but haha no.
4. Watch so much Netflix while your laptop is on your lap that you get radiation poisoning!
5. Wear a Peekaru, buy a puppy/become a teen mom, and put it (or your unwilling boyfriend) inside.
In this snazzy Thought Catalog piece that finds itself less cynical than the usual, six of the most accurate quotes from Lena Dunham’s too-real creation, Girls, are highlighted to define “dating in your 20s.” However, as someone who is a strong believer that anyone with emotions can relate to Girls regardless of age, sex, sex life, etc., this piece is a necessary must-read for everyone.
Every episode of Girls is like a quote book waiting to be sewn together. Hence, there are a few quotes here that I thought shouldn’t have necessarily made the creme of the crop cut. But a couple of them hit the nail right on the head, like…
“You act like I’m uptight and then I follow suit. I become uptight. It is the most frustrating dynamic on the planet. It drives me crazy. I can’t stand it.” –Marnie (If this one doesn’t describe my existence as a human and/or as a girlfriend, I don’t know what does.)
“I don’t even want a boyfriend. I just want someone who wants to hang out all the time, and think I’m the best person in the world, and wants to have sex with only me.” –Hannah (No, not me “Hannah,” but obviously the leading lady of Girls shares my palindromical Jewish nomenclature. This one sums it all up–after a while, you realize that it’s totally not about the title as much as it’s about the feeling. Ya dig?)
“It wasn’t love the way I imagined it but it just felt weird if I didn’t know what she was up to or whatever.” –Adam (In other words: modern love. We’ll take it.)
This one gets FYD honorable mention but didn’t make the cut for the Thought Catalog piece (instead they put in one of the dumb lines with a Twilight reference):
“Sometimes being stuck in my own head is so exhausting it makes me want to cry.” –Marnie. (But then again, everything makes me want to cry.)
Read the whole piece here.
I believe there is only one true rule to fashion: look good.
Don’t mix prints, they said. Don’t wear silver with gold jewelry, they said. Don’t wear white after Labor Day, they said. And screw all of that bullshit, I said.
I understand why you’d want to savor your white in the trying months that your thighs are stuck together by perspiration. Fine, take advantage of all clothing light and breezy when the weather deems it appropriate. But why can’t you wear white in the winter? We don’t let Mother Nature control our menstrual cramps–we take Advil and eat chocolate for that. So why should we let her restrict the way we dress? We must create our own rebellious fashion (by wearing white in the winter, if you will). Or else, fashion will never be created.
In order to deserve the respect of rule-breaking, then thou shalt not break the rules poorly. If you’re going to mix patterns and patches, or if you’re going to wear white in a snowstorm, then do it well. Look good.
Shot by the most fabulous Sophie Schwartz.
Nothing but the sky behind Drake’s baby-fro is as blue as the painfully emotional lyrics he spits out on his latest album, Nothing Was The Same. That is, until it starts to rain and those fluffy clouds turn to tearful raindrops.
Yesterday I discovered drakeweather.com and today I am obsessed with it. Never has there been a chicer way to check the weather. I’m tired of weather.com’s constantly changing graphics. They give me motion sickness. Weather By Drizzy is simple and aesthetic. Let Drizzy give you the lowdown on the driz-le.
There’s not much “shit you should read” here, but there’s a lot to see (esp. if you have a Retina display Mac/are tripping balls for any other reason). The site figures out your geographic location and then shows you Drake’s cartoon head surrounded by the visual representation of your local forecast.
Sorry, Brick Tamland, but gangsta rap made me do it.
As gleeful college biddies flock back north to the tundrous Great Lakes and to the non-stop pretty-people-party that is all southern schools, I can’t help but reminisce upon the terrible yet inevitable habit of losing everything.
When I was younger, I used to lose or leave something behind every time I left the house. My first few flip phones would go MIA for weeks at a time, only to show up again crushed at the bottom of a friend’s driveway or stowed away in the wings of the stage curtain by a boy who sang in the sixth grade chorus with me. Eventually, his mother told me of his intentions: he thought it would be funny to hijack my most prized possession and then heroically “find it” again. Of course, he forgot about the hijacking and the devious plan in its entirety and ceased to properly return the phone.
In seventh grade, I lost my childhood teddy bear in transit over a weekend in which I was attending three separate Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. There’s a price to pay that comes with being a 13 year old Jewish girl.
A night in which all you do is “win, win, win no matter what” can be awfully tainted by the loss of your Marc by Marc by Marc Jacobs by Jacobs Marc by Marc keychain. In college, girls lose a lot of things. Dignity, respect, iPhones, and wallets. While there rarely seems to be a bright side to losing any/all of the above, there still must be a reason why we lose so often–otherwise, we just wouldn’t. So here’s a few I came up with:
We lose stuff to get attention, because everyone loves putting together a search party for Daddy’s missing credit card.
We lose stuff to get new stuff, because, hey, wasn’t it time for that iPhone upgrade anyways?
We lose stuff to get our stuff returned, because you never know how attractive an honest man will be.
We lose stuff when we don’t really need or want what we lost, because who needs a jacket when you have a sick new crop-top with a major side boob exposé?
We lose stuff when we’re distracted, because we can’t help it that we’re so popular.
My mom used to yell at me for being so forgetful about my things, and I told her that it wasn’t something I could improve upon because it was an unavoidable character flaw. It’s part of being a girl. (It’s also part of being intoxicated.)
It would be a sin for me to hog all of the amazing shit I find on the internet for myself. New segment: Shit You Should Read. Because you really, really should.
We know a lot about Barbie. Her boyfriend is Ken, her BFF is Teresa. She loves a good beach party and her dwarfish younger sister is Kelly. What we didn’t realize about Barbie is that she doesn’t have a vagina, and what we didn’t know about Barbie is that she’s pretty pissed about it.
In FYD fashion, HuffPost threw up an open letter on their blog from Barbie about body image. We discussed open letters last week because most of them are 99% pointless and 100% overdone in an effort to rebel against the plights of our generation. But to our surprise, Barbie did it well. Here’s some of our fav lines from the piece:
“I have no vagina. You probably know this already (I know your perverted younger brothers know this as well). This is one of the hardest things for me to live with.”
“I wish I looked more like She-Ra or Wonder Woman. They always go to Crossfit together and never invite me.”
“Ken and I have had a rough relationship for many years. He does not have a penis.”
“I do not eat much because I am usually in a box, and then there is that whole being made of plastic thing.”
And Barbie closes with an ode to her glitzy BRATZ (the doll version of betches)… “My body might not be realistic for most, and that is OK. That is actually better than OK. Because I am sure that some young women have talents that most do not have. Some have sparkling eyes that most others do not have.”
Read the whole letter here.
Traveling is odd. People find discomfort in being picked up and reshuffled far away from their cats and their refrigerators. If they aren’t having Woody Allen-type anxiety, however, they feel freedom from traveling. I used to have a terrible fear of planes, but not because of the planes themselves. Rather, it was the idea behind them and the events that could take place upon them. Though a “thing” and the “ideas behind it” seem inseparable, they are not.
I was never afraid that the plane I was on would crash and burn. Nor was I afraid of landing on a desert island, regretting leaving my teddy bear and blankie at home because now, I would be stuck for a lifetime without them. I never did well in times of transition, and perhaps traveling was, for me, a transition. Though temporary, I was moving from one place to another. Change never bothered me much, but transition did. The in-between from where you were and where you’re going to be was terrifying.
Once, I took a trip to Florida with my uncle and my cousins. Beforehand, I was scared shitless of the 3 hour flight and the Fountain Bleu that awaited me in Miami. A week before the vacation, I was speaking with a friend who was flying to Canada alone. “Why are you so scared?” she asked. I told her I didn’t really know, I was just naturally an anxious person about everything. “Airplanes relax me,” she said too enthusiastically. “I just think about how I’m going to somewhere better, and it’s all good.” I’ll never forget that conversation. She made it look so easy. When I spent the entire flight from Newark to Miami clutching my cousin’s thigh in a death grip, I realized it wasn’t. That vacation, I was too anxious to eat anything besides Piña Coladas, which naturally made me incredibly sick, inducing my anxiety even more.
I’m no longer afraid of flying. Now, I fly alone, and I actually enjoy it. Humans are creatures of habit, and so the same thoughts run through my mind every time I fly (actually, I have a conversation with myself… seriously):
Sitting in my seat, directly before take off: They say that that planes are most likely to crash in the first five minutes during take off or during the last five minutes during landing.
During the flight: No turbulence, so no vomit. We are in the clear.
During descent: They say that that planes are most likely to crash in the first five minutes during take off or during the last five minutes during landing.
Somewhere in between Thought Processes 1 and 2 I let the most terrifying thought of them all slip through my mind–worse than projectile vomit in a contained space, worse than a smelly person sleeping on my shoulder, and worse than dropping 300 feet in 2 seconds. I don’t think people are afraid of the mechanics of an airplane as much as they are the concept of one. The permanence freaks the shit out of me again and again and again. There’s no escape and there’s no turning back. There’s nowhere to go.
Then I realize that there is, in fact, somewhere to go. And, of course, I am going there. I am getting there. There’s no turning back, but I’m getting somewhere else instead. When I really thought about it once, I realized the funniest thing. Isn’t that just another way of explaining life?
It’s trendy to write in list form (i.e. “10 Things You Learn By Being A Slut in College” or something like that on BuzzFeed) and it’s trendy to be dry, witty, cynical, and funny. In other words, the Internet is experiencing the writing phenomenon I went through during the few months in which my OCD/anxiety peaked. This phenomenon includes the trendy way to tell someone to shut the f*** up in the most PC manner possible: by writing an “open letter.”
An open letter is exactly what it sounds like–a letter addressed to one person that everyone can read. Since we no longer believe in the Postal Service (deuces, Saturday mail), these letters are published digitally for all the world to see. The open letter is the over-exercised protest of the 21st century.
I’m sick of reading civilian pleas against the narcissism in our society, exemplified here on McSweeney’s nonfiction series of “Open Letters To People Or Entities Who Are Unlikely To Respond.” So, I threw together a little list of pitches for open letters we’d actually want to read.
Open Letter to: The People That Work At Chipotle
Subject: We need to discuss the guac sitch
Open Letter to: Lindsay Lohan
Subject: Don’t screw this one up, we are rooting for you
Open Letter to: Girl Sitting Next To Me On Airplane
Subject: Stop looking at my screen
Open Letter to: Chris Christie
Subject: No offense, but you couldn’t seriously have thought that causing a traffic jam would cause people to hate their mayor which would consequently cause you to win a presidential election
Open Letter to: Justin Bieber
Subject: How can you be wasting Grade A eggs if there are starving children in Africa?
Open Letter to: My Ancestors
Subject: My slow metabolism
Open Letter to: Cake
Subject: Your high calorie count
Open Letter to: Miley Cyrus
Subject: Twerk all you want but we want your bun back and we want it now
Open Letter to: Condé Nast
Subject: You closed your internship program, you crushed my dreams
Open Letter to: Hilary Duff
Subject: Sorry to hear about your divorce but it’s time to marry Gordo
Any ideas for open letters you’d want me to actually write? Let’s talk about it in the commentz.
“Douche de Leche” is a segment featuring pieces for girls to gape at and guys to laugh at written by some of my closest male friends, (almost completely) uncensored. This post was originally written by one of my best friends, the lovely and talented Jacob Koffler, and myself, who both think this is a very important matter.
Remember that book Everybody Poops? The one your parents read to you when you were five? Well, it’s time for part two. Not only does everybody poop, but everybody takes a hangover shit. And everyone loves it.
It seems that we’re comfortable talking about everything on the internet. But when’s the last time you read an in-depth exploration of the most essential part of your Sunday morning? Sure, there are other hangover cures-iced coffee, a bacon-egg-& cheese, helplessly moaning alone in your bed, or whipping up a Bloody Mary and starting again–but whether you’ll admit it or not, you won’t feel like yourself until you’ve trekked to the bathroom and let it all out.
Lack of a hangover shit truly ruins your day. That morning queasy-shaky-emptiness isn’t assuaged in a ten-minute playdate with your toilet. Instead, it lingers for hours and hours. As the wretched feeling slowly fades, it takes pieces of your dignity with it. It just isn’t the same.
We really can’t overemphasize the importance of the hangover shit enough. The difference pre- and post-shit is comparable to how your mother felt when she finally pushed you out. Think of all those half-digested brewskis and cocktails inside you as a baby–while you don’t want your hangover shit to be premature, at a certain point, you gotta get it out. It’s totally worth it to wait until morning; after all, the nature of a hangover shit is to shit hungover. If you’re still drunk, the satisfaction level automatically diminishes. In the morning, it just plops right out.
So, we’ve all agreed on the hangover shit’s importance. Here are some tips to maximize everybody’s favorite part of the week:
1. Bring a book. It is a Sunday, after all. Might as well multitask.
2. Bring a friend! Hangover shits are more fun in pairs and a great bonding activity. True friends are on the same hangover shit cycle.
3. Check for toilet paper before you go. This ain’t the woods.
4. And last, but certainly not least, pick the perfect bathroom. Sunday mornings often prompt waking up in a foreign location. Although the bathroom closest in proximity may be the most convenient, it doesn’t mean it’s the best. Don’t settle.
Remember, hangover shits should no longer be taboo. Let’s create a safe space in which we can all talk about it. This shit is important, people.
This year, Jennifer Lawrence became the girl that everyone loved. Guys want to get with her, girls want to be her. And if they aren’t her, then they want to be her best friend. Like me, she gives off the “I don’t give a shit what people say or think” attitude, except unlike me, people like her because of it. Maybe if I was Katniss Everdeen I’d be more liked by people who do archery and appreciate a girl with a big mouth. With the Golden Globes around the corner, I thought the time had come for me to join the JLaw bandwagon. After all, her year wouldn’t be that accomplished without a shoutout from The FYD.
Whenever I try to picture Jennifer Lawrence in my mind, I, for some odd reason, can only think of the Disney Channel star Debby Ryan (from “Suite Life on Deck” and “Jessie”) who is cute–def not as hot as JLaw though–and actually smiles for pics. Whenever this happens I get so frustrated that I google “Jennifer Lawrence” on my iPhone so that I can remember her face and let a wave of relief wash over me. I’ve seen every movie JLaw has been in (including Like Crazy, one of my fav movies of all time) and I seem to google her face ten times a day yet it still refuses to ingrain itself in my mind. I think that really says something.
It’s underrated how she got her start in The Hunger Games. I mean, she had a small career beforehand, but you didn’t really know her until you knew Katniss. The Hunger Games reminds me of my tomboy literary phase in sixth grade. I never went through a tomboy phase in terms of how I dressed, but I read “boy books” for a while. How can just a literary work of tomboy-ness bring out someone regarded as one of the most glamorous people in the world?
I do love JLaw, however. I think that she is very real and has intentions of being the role model that wasn’t out there before. I love that she fell on her way to receive her Oscar and I love that she fell because she was thinking about cake. I also love how genius it was of her to finally tell the media that she fell because she was thinking about cake so strategically right before Golden Globes, as if to say, “give me the Golden Globe for my role in American Hustle and I promise I will do something that will further prove how much of a real, down-to-earth food-lover I am!” Her fall also means that when I inevitably fall on the way to get my Oscar one day I won’t be the first one to do it. The experience will be much less scarring.
As much as I love her, I also think she’s slightly overrated. Some people say they think she’s overrated in terms of her looks, which I totally disagree with. The people that say that are just jealous. I think she’s overrated in terms of how special she is, so to speak. We decided she was amazing because of how vivid she seems through the screen of a MacBook or captured in a magazine photograph. We love her because she’s young, and she’s fresh. I never would have picked her acting skills out of a crowd. Don’t get me wrong, she mastered Katniss, but… well… it’s Katniss.
The first time I saw Silver Linings Playbook, I thought that someone had secretly done an autobiography of my life without my knowledge or approval. JLaw’s diner-freakout scene could easily have been directly taken from any time between November and April of my senior year of high school. People thought her acting in that movie, and in that scene in particular, was crazy. For me it was just like a #tbt or whatever.
Recently, I read a really interesting article about JLaw and all of the things she says about body image–how no one can ever make her diet, she loves a burger and fries, etc. The article, which I believe was on HuffPost, said that the only reason we commend JLaw for being so “real” about her secretly naughty eating habits and her curves is because she manages to portray this persona while still looking thin, beautiful, and healthy all of the time. If someone who needed to lose weight made such a statement about loving a cheeseburger almost every time she opened her mouth, we would probably be disgusted. We would think that she’s being careless and sloppy and needs to go on a diet. But when JLaw does it, we clap for her because she does it and still looks like she doesn’t. This is something I’ve thought about for a long time, but never felt resonated with enough people that I could actually say it and believe it was true. But it totally is.
So, where does that leave us with JLaw? Still love her. Still think she’ll win a shitload of awards for everything she’s done. Still think she’ll continue to talk about food like it’s nobody’s business. But also still think she should make us think about what’s really real and what isn’t.
A couple of months ago, a guy friend jokingly told me that he would sue me because The FYD is a “fallacy.” He said it was a rip off for not properly representing its title. It’s true–I mention fro-yo every once in a while, but I don’t really write about it. On the exact one year anniversary of The FYD, I figured it would be a good time to start.
Frozen yogurt is a very generational thing, which gave reason to the titling of The FYD. Fro-yo is just as millennial as we are not because of the mass amount of chain stores spreading faster than wild fire through an unkempt bikini line, but because of the nature of the product itself.
Fro-yo is quick demand and quick satisfaction. Think fast food for the anorexic. We also believe we can eat more fro-yo than we can ice cream, which is really only half true. Sometimes, I eat fro-yo for lunch or dinner and never feel half-bad about it. If I ate ice cream as often as I did fro-yo (which may or may not sometimes be twice a day) I would feel much shittier, be 10 pounds heavier, and have to go to the bathroom a lot more. We like to think fro-yo is guilt free, which is exactly what we’re supposed to think. Obviously, like all things in life, it isn’t.
Sure, it’s low fat or fat free. But it’s still full of shit, and has enough chemicals to provide a seventh grade girls’ basketball team with full keratin treatments. Fro-yo is kind of like makeup. We can pretend we’re skinny because we make the choice to eat fro-yo and we can pretend we have good skin when we’re really just wearing a lot of makeup. But at the end of the day, you have to realize that you’re just using cash from the third night of Hanukkah to cover up your acne and you’re not losing weight by eating healthier ice cream. If you were actually skinny you’d be eating kale and not cake batter. We’re caught in the vicious cycle of deceit via the deadly sins of Sephora and (insert your go-to fro-yo place here).
You never have to settle on fro-yo. 21 flavors! 50 toppings! It isn’t like a fraternity mixer where you’re stuck deciding between the unattractive Jew and the semi-attractive goy that your mom would not approve of. We should take a moment and be thankful, because back in the day, it wasn’t always like this. The options weren’t always endless. Now, of course, they pretty much are.
Fro-yo started out as Forty Carrots at Bloomingdale’s, where wealthy mothers and grandmothers would take their dressed-up daughters on Saturdays. Today, we all love a good Forty Carrots Instagram. It’s the elegance and class of frozen yogurt captured in Lo-Fi. But fro-yo really rose with Pinkberry in NYC and LA. You could choose from two flavors (maybe three? My memory gets worse with age, ugh) and have the guy behind the counter put two toppings on–more if you had a privileged childhood with money to spend on the luxury of yogurt. Yum.
The problem with trends, like fro-yo, is that they usually die out. Then, they just become another throwback Buzzfeed article to post on your best friend’s wall. Like haha! remember when we thought fro-yo would make us skinny?! Now we just eat large gulps of air!
But I don’t necessarily think fro-yo is a fad. Yes, it’s artificial, but it’s also an indulgence. It’s one of the few things that allow us not to feel constantly shitty about how we look or what we’re doing and how we’re feeling. For once, society was able to provide our generation–a generation in which “plus size” is anything above a size 6–with something good. Kale, I love you, but you don’t always do it for me.
I used to think it was very mature of people to “get coffee.” When I got my license and started “chatting over fro-yo” with friends on weeknights, I felt like an adult. Funny, because in reality, I’m really just a millennial eating fake ice cream, and that’s all.
Congratulations! You survived your hangover. How does it feel? Rewarding, I bet.
2013 is officially over and we are no longer in that awkward limbo state between Christmas and New Year’s known as “the holidays.” During “the holidays,” everyone talks about everything that’s happened over the past year as if the year has already ended. In reality, the next year hasn’t started yet, either. Our society sets aside a week for us to reminisce and resolute and think about the reasons why we hate ourselves and how we can strive to change in the year to come. The holidays are a strange concept–everyone kind of stops doing everything and doesn’t start real life until the next year gets here. It’s a week that, though it sits on the calendar, doesn’t actually exist.
Now that we are in a new year, I thought it would be appropriate to accurately and fully asses the year that’s passed us by–FYD style, of course. 95 (!!!) posts later and I think I’ve got a pretty good sense of what 2013 was about. Here’s the shortlist of what you really shoulda taken out of that wild year. As the Grateful Dead says, “Oh, what a long, strange trip it’s been.”
1. Your Facebook pro pic says a LOT about you. And by a lot, I mean 4,926 post views in twelve hours-a lot.
2. The selfie had a revolution. It was the thing of the year, by far.
3. 2013 brought us Thanksgivukkah–a chubby JAP’s dream come true!
4. Every. One. Got. Mono.
5. Kimye is everything.
6. FYD lesson: the balance between being a bitch/playing hard to get and being a slut is very, very difficult to find.
7. Celebrate the anniversary of your Bat Mitzvah by handing out the leftover kippahs you’ve been storing, because there is always a bald man somewhere in need of a hat!
8. Tobi.com took over young women’s “trendy”/mundane going out clothing.
9. Everyone used read receipts. Then, they didn’t.
10. Miley came in like a wrecking ball.
11. We acted like chopped salad was just born, even though it wasn’t. Overpriced chopped salad was born, transforming the dirty water dog-type lunch into one better suited to the women taking over the workforce.
12. FYD lesson: your relationship with your boyfriend is really a threesome between you, him, and Facebook.
13. Everyone wrote about kale, but I wrote about it first. Trust.
14. Cady Heron would not have survived a plastics’ group text. That is why being a girl nowadays is so frickin’ difficult.
15. We speak emoji.
17. We were labeled the “me me me generation.” But millennials rock. We’re going places, and they can’t stop us and our selfies.
18. I read Fifty Shades of Grey while living in a rural Eurasian town of conservative Muslims. You might not remember that, but it’ll make you laugh.
19. I wrote my first post, “On Not Being a JAP,” for The FYD. But, obviously, there’s a little JAP in all of us.
20. A lot of other stuff happened that I didn’t get to cover. Gay marriage! Legal weed! Love! Loss! Sex! (GASP!) Breaking Bad! But, obviously, we still have 2014 for all of that.
Cheers to another fro-yo filled year of all of the above. May it bring you all overalls, muploads, selfies, shoe sales, peace, and low fat goodness.