Flavor of the Week: Jewish Boys

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Right now, your newsfeed is cluttered with this article shared over, and over–and over–again. The very talented Laura Argintar’s latest contribution to Elite Daily, “Why A Jewish Man Makes The Ideal Husband For Any Girl” is another piece that confirms everything our dying grandmothers taught us when their last words were “marry a mensch who makes his latkes with a Cuisinart and not with a cheese grater.” I love this piece as much as I loved my one pair of Century 21-bought Juicy sweatpants in the seventh grade. However, I thought it needed some FYD pizzaz. Here’s an addendum, reminding us why we always like our fro-yo better when it’s kosher ūüėČ ūüėČ ;).

1. Jewish boys value the nicer material things, like watches and a good manscape. They–especially the ones from Long Island–are the perfect amount of metrosexual.

2. They will never judge you for eating a bagel. They may judge you for eating everything else, but they definitely respect the bagel. Goyim just don’t get the difference between normal carbs and bagel carbs, you know?

3. Also, they will never judge you for putting smelly ingredients, such as lox AND scallion cream cheese AND onion, on that bagel.

4. They know how to properly party: it isn’t a fiesta unless you’re in a room with a minimum of 300 people. His Bar Mitzvah ain’t no cocktail party. It was the royal wedding, bitches.

5. You’ll never have to worry about Jewish boys not wanting kids. They value the necessity of reproduction to keep the tribe alive.

6. He’ll probably make a lot of money (working in finance, the jewelry business, or any other stereotypical profession you want to throw our way) but he’ll also be super cheap frugal with whatever he makes (aside from your Caribbean vacations).

7. When planning your wedding or the Bar/Bat Mitzvahs of your children, it’ll be super easy to agree on a guest list. Even if you’re from different tri-state area states, you know most of the same people in common, anyway.

8. Say the J-word, and Mom will love him.

9. If he goes bald, he can always just wear a kippah, covering up his lack of hair and making him look like an NJB (nice Jewish boy) at the same time! Utilizing the kippah as a two-for-one deal is something us Jews would love to do, anyway.


Flavor of the Week: Jewish Boys

jonah-hill-paul-rudd-seth-rogen-jason-segel

Right now, your newsfeed is cluttered with this article shared over, and over–and over–again. The very talented Laura Argintar’s latest contribution to Elite Daily, “Why A Jewish Man Makes The Ideal Husband For Any Girl” is another piece that confirms everything our dying grandmothers taught us when their last words were “marry a mensch who makes his latkes with a Cuisinart and not with a cheese grater.” I love this piece as much as I loved my one pair of Century 21-bought Juicy sweatpants in the seventh grade. However, I thought it needed some FYD pizzaz. Here’s an addendum, reminding us why we always like our fro-yo better when it’s kosher ūüėČ ūüėČ ;).

1. Jewish boys value the nicer material things, like watches and a good manscape. They–especially the ones from Long Island–are the perfect amount of metrosexual.

2. They will never judge you for eating a bagel. They may judge you for eating everything else, but they definitely respect the bagel. Goyim just don’t get the difference between normal carbs and bagel carbs, you know?

3. Also, they will never judge you for putting smelly ingredients, such as lox AND scallion cream cheese AND onion, on that bagel.

4. They know how to properly party: it isn’t a fiesta unless you’re in a room with a minimum of 300 people. His Bar Mitzvah ain’t no cocktail party. It was the royal wedding, bitches.

5. You’ll never have to worry about Jewish boys not wanting kids. They value the necessity of reproduction to keep the tribe alive.

6. He’ll probably make a lot of money (working in finance, the jewelry business, or any other stereotypical profession you want to throw our way) but he’ll also be super cheap frugal with whatever he makes (aside from your Caribbean vacations).

7. When planning your wedding or the Bar/Bat Mitzvahs of your children, it’ll be super easy to agree on a guest list. Even if you’re from different tri-state area states, you know most of the same people in common, anyway.

8. Say the J-word, and Mom will love him.

9. If he goes bald, he can always just wear a kippah, covering up his lack of hair and making him look like an NJB (nice Jewish boy) at the same time! Utilizing the kippah as a two-for-one deal is something us Jews would love to do, anyway.


On Corny Life Advice, Courtesy of The Internet

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Earlier today, I was looking online for some FYD-inspiration. Instead, I ended up trolling the big thought-piece websites (Elite Daily, Thought Catalog, Jezebel, and the like) for a solid hour. After digesting the mass load of lists about what I should do in my 20’s, things I should tell my BFF like RN!!, who I should have sex with, and how I can learn to let go of an ex, I couldn’t help but take a step back and realize: we really do eat this shit up like candy. We read content (which, might I add, The FYD even contributes to) that is so empty yet so fulfilling. All right, maybe “empty” isn’t the right word. But it’s stuff we already know–it’s stuff we already feel. We love the internet because it puts into words what, often, we cannot.

My best friends and I are currently dispersed around the country. 50% of our communication is laced into the cutesy articles we Facebook message back and forth on a daily basis. Finding a new one that no one’s sent yet is like finding a puzzle piece or a love letter. These articles, posts, or whatever you’d like to call them, help us confirm and communicate what we’re feelin’. Guess what? Now, we don’t even have to hide behind our iPhone screens to send a passive-aggressive iMessage. We can just send a “20 things” list! If you’re feeling risqu√©, you can even send an open letter.

Though I can’t really imagine myself ever being passive-aggressive, I love this internet phenomenon almost as much as I love a good pair of overalls. If you don’t feel like joining the movement, I’ll sum up the best of the best for you. Here’s a round up of everything you really need to know about love, dating, sex, and being 20-something as told to you by millennials who write the stuff that always comes up on your Facebook newsfeed:

  1. Only your true best friend knows when you’re pooping, and how good, bad, or average it was.
  2. Loneliness makes us make some pretty bad decisions.
  3. Not every person you’re with has to be someone you want to be with forever.
  4. Sometimes, binge eating is necessary and ok. But when you binge, there is always an underlying reason for it, and that usually means something’s not ok.
  5. Everything happens for a reason.
  6. For some people, eating 4 slices of cake is something you should definitely do. For other people, it isn’t. Just do what makes you happy.
  7. Pay attention in class.
  8. We are born alone, and we die alone, so it’s ok to be alone sometimes. Actually, it’s really good.
  9. Finding “the one” only matters if you find him or her at the right time.
  10. It’s hard, but often necessary, to unlove someone.
  11. You know you’re really close with someone if you can sit in silence together.
  12. Nobody cares when you subtly complain about how little you ate.
  13. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.
  14. You also really don’t have to wear so much makeup.
  15. When women are alone, they do not wear pants.
  16. When a friend asks you about her outfit, be honest.
  17. And even though the internet is throwing all of this advice at you, telling you how you should feel about being alive, remember that you have a gut (regardless of whether or not you ate the four pieces of cake) and first and foremost, you should always go with that.

Flavor of the Week: Justin Bieber

Yes, it’s shocking that I’ve never written about J. Biebs before, but it’s also shocking that his downward spiral didn’t start the moment people first compared his looks to those of Ellen Degeneres, Miley Cyrus, or any other token lesbian in pop culture. Whatever, we all surprise ourselves sometimes. And so, the time has come for Justin Bieber to receive the FYD spotlight. Justin is like Eurotart. Technically, he’s yummy enough to be the flavor every week. But you can’t spell “Eurotart” without the “tart” and that’s a fact.

This week, Justin made headlines for his unbelievable performance as a teen sensation that doesn’t talk to anyone politely unless he/she was on Disney at some point or made out with James Franco in¬†Spring Breakers. ¬†TMZ released a video showing Biebs being a total dick during deposition with the lawyer of a certain paparazzo who is suing the Bieb Team for assault. Well, if this guy caught up with Kristen Bell’s new charity initiative (#savethefamous), he would know that he was doing serious harm to Bieber in the first place. Justin is so delicate and sensitive. His hobbies include drag racing and Xanax!¬†Justin’s $wag coach should be getting a $eriou$ rai$e because Bieber can really, really put on a show.

To my dismay, Justin Bieber has evolved into somewhat of a joke (can you tell?). It’s a shame because we all thought he was something special when we saw home footage of him playing an acoustic guitar on the streets of Canada. We also all thought that if there was ever a superstar us nice Jewish girls would have the opportunity to sleep with, it would probably be him. I feel like he’d be into the Long Island accents, you know?

My guilty pleasure is eternally¬†Believe Acoustic. Perhaps it’s a subconscious effort to salvage the Justin Bieber we all once knew and loved. In order to preserve the sanctity of the closest thing current sixth graders will ever have to Michael Jackson, let’s recall some of Bieber’s greatest moments…

The music video where he makes a shout out to Selena and we all wished we were her:

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The days of the coconut head:

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This photo in general:

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This song:

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And, now, this mugshot:

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LYLAS, Justin.


On #WhiteGirlProblems

After years of some deliberation, I’ve decided it’s pretty much impossible to “be” a girl.

I can start off by talking about the sexual double standard (thank you, sociology prof): the idea that the same action is perceived by the general public completely differently depending on if it was executed by a male or by a female. A guy sleeps around with a lot of girls, his friends applaud. A girl does that, and other girls think she’s disgusting; everyone is well versed in this example. The constant complaint of amateur feminism revolves around the idea of the “slut.”

A girl can be a slut, and not only will guys get with her, but they’ll get with her because of it. They won’t love her and they won’t want to date her. But she’s a dime, right? A guy can be a slut, and girls will be both a-ware and war-y of it. But will they still get with him? Probably. If a man whore wanted to take a girl out, would she hesitate to say yes? No. But let’s be real here: would a guy ask a slut out if he knows she’ll be an easy bang in the first place? Never.

The unrealistic expectations don’t end here. The next topic I’d like to elaborate on is my personal favorite: fashion. We’re supposed to dress “trendy.” And right now, trendy looks a lot like all black, vintage t-shirts, ghetto-fab, rocker-chick-ish, but also polished, put together, and expensive. Naturally, I would take this advice and walk around in ripped boyfriend jeans and a small t-shirt with my black high top Converse 24/7. And, naturally, I do. But most of the time I lack the element of “hot.” It takes one helluva effort to find the perfect mix of Kurt Cobain circa 1992–though most girls who strive for “trendy” have no idea that the MTV Unplugged in New York album even exists–and maybe, like, Kendall Jenner or something. We’ve gotta dress like a tomboy, but in crop tops and skinny jeans. Um, what?

We could never forget the bod. We can’t be too skinny, because then guys won’t like us. But we have to be fit; toned. We have to have some curves in¬†some¬†places–the right places–but not too many. We also have to love food, because we all are striving to be Hilary Duff in¬†A Cinderella Story when she chooses the Big Mac over the rice cake. Besides, Chad Michael Murray likes a girl with a hearty appetite. But then this happens…

…and we all are, like, well, sorry not sorry you’re always too busy talking to the girls who eat the rice cakes.

Do you see our dilemma now? If we eat whatever we want but don’t look like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, then it’s gross. But if we eat whatever we want and still look like Lindsay Lohan pre-rehab, then we’re in the clear.

In the end, it’s all about making it seem like we care and we also don’t care at all. I probably look like I was dressed by a blind person four out of seven days a week. But guess what? I spent forty minutes picking out that outfit in my hot pink fuzzy robe. #Appreciate. It relates to the fact that we ignore your texts for an hour but, to no surprise, were staring at your little “typing” bubble the entire time. Do ya notice the pattern yet?

The fact that perfection consists of so many things makes perfection itself impossible. If perfection wants to really exist, then it should just be one thing that you can hold, or pet, or grab, or something, and when you have it you know exactly what it is and how it feels and what it looks like and then you can just be happy.

I could be wrong. Maybe instead, perfection should change for us. In reality, HA HA. Unfortunately, we know that perfection can never change. There will always be an idea of what we have to do, what we should look like, and who we have to be that exists in girl world. But since it’s so unattainable, then why the hell am I wasting time trying to convince myself to wear normal jeans?


Shit You Should Read: Aaron Carter Still Wants Candy

HE IS SO HOT

HE IS SO HOT

Hilary Duff does everything right. She stayed away from the Hollywood partying scene and survived a childhood of Disney stardom. She brought my alter ego, Lizzie McGuire, to life from 2001 – 2004. Then, she stole our hearts again in Cheaper by the Dozen (after which, every girl wanted a summer internship at¬†Allure post-high school graduation) and in¬†Agent Cody Banks.¬†She dresses like a normal human being. She maintains a normal human figure. And, best of all, she named her son “Luca Cruz.” 10 points to Gryffindor.

In case you didn’t know, I am the go-to resource for all things Hilary Duff and Lizzie McGuire. I may or may not have hoarded Lizzie McGuire Valentine’s cards from third grade that I still have in my desk drawer.

Apparently, we’re not the only ones who feel that Hil kills it in her patched denim and crimped hair. Earlier today,¬†People.com¬†threw up a post about everyone’s elementary school crush, Aaron Carter, wanting to get his girl back. Hilary separated from her husband, hockey player Mike Comrie, earlier this year. Lizzie’s back on the market. And this time, she isn’t looking for a bra.

lizzie wants a bra

“Don’t be that stupid d*** that loses the love of your life forever. Like me…” Aaron Carter is having another party, and he wants Hilary to come get it. (See what I did there? Lolz.)

A fan tweeted back to Aaron, asking him if he was talking about Hilary. His response? “Sure am.”

What are we more jealous of: the classic red and silver outfits Lizzie and Miranda wore during the “I Want Candy” (read: Aaron wants Lizzie) video shoot, or the fact that Aaron still has a sweet tooth, ten years later?

Aaron, just letting you know, I also look cute when I’m wrapped in a sweater. In case you’re interested.

Read the People.com article here. 


Flavor of the Week: Being Stressed Out as F***

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Everyone loves to just walk around saying “Ugh, I’m literally so stressed out right now.” Stress is everywhere, embodied in every kvetching student, in every mother of three children, and in every girl who breathes. It is the symbol of our generation that thrives on espresso, that doesn’t really sleep at all, and that has to deal with the most competitive job market and higher education system in the world.

The worst thing about all of this isn’t even how suckish being stressed feels; it’s that everyone is stressed, so no one’s really stressed, and it’s become an acceptable and normal thing to constantly feel like you’re swimming in a kiddie pool with Tilikum (Tilikum, for those of you who are unaware, is the killer whale in the focus of my fav documentary,¬†Blackfish).

Because I’ve been stressed out since I, as a wee newborn, witnessed my mother birth my placenta, I thought I could offer a few tips in dealing with stress.

Do:¬†drink coffee.¬†It’ll keep you going.

Don’t:¬†talk to other people. Because you’re just going to take all of your stress out on them and then you’ll look like a bitch. Of course you probably are a bitch, but it’s best to hide that at all costs and whenever possible.

Also, don’t:¬†talk to your boyfriend.¬†He will inevitably piss you off.

Don’t:¬†be around people who chew and/or breathe loudly.¬†They will also piss you off. And distract you.

Do: yoga. Clich√©, yes. But it’s a great way to kind-of work out and kind-of take a nap during¬†shavasana.

Don’t:¬†smoke a cigarette. No matter how cool you think they make you look, they just don’t. They also don’t actually make you less stressed. Post-boge, you still have an overwhelming amount of shit to do so it makes more sense to stop wasting time taking years off your life and instead just like, work!!!

Do, but also don’t:¬†stress eat. Stress is great for binge eaters. If you say you’re stressed while eating a piece of cheesecake at 3pm (ya know, just an afternoon snack!) or while eating an alfredo pasta, pepperoni pizza, and a giant snickerdoodle cookie at 1am (a.k.a. me last Tuesday night #sorrynotsorry), then everyone is like “Oh, ok, you’re off the hook for not trying to mimic Kendall Jenner’s chopstick-like frame at this moment in time.” However, stressing can be a great way to be like “Ahhh my tummy is in such knots! I cannot seem to stomach a thing!” and shed a few pounds.

Do:¬†go to bed early, and do something for yourself before you go to bed.¬†I’m not saying go to sleep at 10pm, but don’t go to sleep at 2am. I usually work until 10:30ish, then whip off my bra immediately (remember, ladies: no bra, no problem), and then get in bed to watch an episode of Girls. Glass of wine, optional.

Though stress is the most chronic illness of ever, it is something that we can combat together. One last tip: cry. Cry a lot. But stay positive! You will get through this! (Ha. Ha. Ha.)


On Karma

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The concept behind karma is that you ultimately get what you deserve. Sometimes you deserve something good, and sometimes you deserve something bad. But whatever you deserve, you’re going to get because that’s the way the universe works.

So you sometimes want karma to exist, and sometimes you don’t. You hope you can get away with silly misdemeanors without any repercussion. And then the one time you do something wholeheartedly kind, you pray you get something equal in return, perhaps in the form of a Balenciaga or a free bottle of wine. If you’re really lucky, the frog you kiss could become a prince. With karma, who really knows?

As a very anal micromanager, I obviously believe in karma. Knowing–or hoping–that something will come out of something else is reassuring. Just the productivity itself is reassuring. I believe in karma. I also believe that me believing in karma makes me kind of a bad person.

For example, if I’m ever holding a piece of trash–like paper, or a wrapper, or something like that–and I accidentally drop it in the street, I chase after it, pick it up, and throw it away. I know my mom hates it when I don’t turn the fan on while I’m in the shower. So, I try to turn the fan on as often as I can when I’m showering at home (which really means turn it on whenever my mom is home while I’m showering). If I finish a roll of toilet paper, I replace it. I turn off the lights before I leave the room. If I forget to and then remember after I’ve already left, I go back in and turn them off.

Whenever I think about all of the bad things I do, I always feel like I should do a little good to counter them out. It’s like a self-regulating karma. If I do too much bad, I’ll be a bad person, and I don’t want to be a bad person so I do some good stuff to make it all even. When I replace that roll of toilet paper, I think, “Good. Now you’ll get good karma.”

Yeah, I care about the environment and keeping the paint nice on the bathroom walls while I shower and all that other good stuff. But I will admit that I primarily do all these little deeds in the hopes of getting some good karma in return. This, I’ve concluded, is kind of bad karma in itself… or is it?

Who regulates karma? Who decides what gets put on the good list and what gets put on the bad? Do they care about my intentions? Or are they just glad that whoever uses the bathroom after me won’t have to sit on the toilet for half an hour, hollering for someone two rooms over to come give them more toilet paper?

A while ago, I did something pretty bad: I snooped on someone else’s Facebook. I’m sure everyone is judging me for this, and I’m sure everyone is thinking, “wow, what a low blow” right now, but I’m also sure you’ve all done it at least once. Don’t worry though–I learned my lesson and I can promise you that I will literally NEVER do that again. You know why? The whole next day, I was sick to my stomach with the worst diarrhea I’ve ever had in my entire life. I went to go visit my high school teachers and found myself running to the bathroom every 10 minutes, rudely excusing myself on behalf of “my little brother waiting for me” or “this phone call looks really important.”

I have always believed in karma. But since then, I’m more hyperaware of it than I ever was before. You’ve probably heard a bunch of times that “karma’s a bitch.” Well, I can vouch that it’s pretty shitty, too.

Image via. 


Flavor of the Week: Jaden Smith Instagram Roundup

This has been going on for far too long and has been flying under the radar far too quietly. I feel as though I must take the liberty of exposing Jaden Smith’s Instagram account to the public.

Jaden Smith looks like The Weeknd and spits godly phrases like Yeezy. He acts on screen like Taylor Lautner circa The Adventures of Shark Boy and Lava Girl. And that about sums it up.

I have a really strange talent for finding semi-famous people’s social media accounts and then obsessively following their lives until I know almost everything about them. I tried to make Jaden Smith one of my stalkees, but it just didn’t work. His guard is too raised; his thoughts too deep. As I attempt to deconstruct the Instagram photos shared by @iputthesocietyonmyback (something Jaden really does, especially valued at $8 million at the age of 15), you’ll hopefully see what I mean.

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Here, Jaden turns geometry into something trippy as balls. I am wondering if he is implying that this is just the start of his passion for paper pyramid building. Will he be building more pyramids? Will he be gifting those pyramids? Will Jaden Smith send me a paper pyramid? I am v excited to see where his paper pyramid endeavors take him.

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In other words, “selfi√©.” Jaden freestyles in this caption, revealing a passion for the Twilight series, which he wants to watch in a light blue room. He’s lucky that he has enough money to paint a room light blue just to watch a¬†Twilight movie in it. Jaden comes to terms with his ridiculousness, warning others not to end up like him, “Young Black And Delirious.” Don’t ignore the second stanza, either. BTW, I think you mean *too, Jaden.

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Oh, cool. Thx 4 the update.

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Yes, yes. Enchant them with the White Silk Pants. Those are always a winner. Also, I do not see any young dumb scamps in this black and white photo of LA!!!! I wonder if his fingers ever get tired of typing with capital letters. Eh?

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Ready for Hawaii or ready to become a dementor? I’m kinda into this one, though. Super ironic.

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Yes, Jaden, you protect the Kardashian sisters and their pretty blonde friend in an Iron Man suit. Jaden posted this to remind us of his inability to blend into society–the society that is, after all, on his back.¬†I wish I was the privileged child of a celebrity. Then maybe I could look cool pretending every word is a proper noun, too.

That’s all for this week. Check out Jaden Smith: the philosophical poet of our generation on Insta to gain more wordly insights.


On Saying No

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As women, we’re taught to say “no” to things like mean girls, scary men, and carbs. Obviously, some have more difficulty saying it than others. Just as obviously, I’m not one of the girls that does.¬†

My seventh grade year consisted of 400 panic attacks–one daily, and the occasional two-a-day. Food, along with many other things, made me anxious. This is mostly because it is very hard to chew, swallow, and hyperventilate at the same time. I hated this; if there was one thing I wanted, it was to be able to go out to eat and not worry about not eating. My parents tried to ease my stresses by telling me that I never had to eat if I didn’t want to. If I was hungry, I should eat, and if I wasn’t hungry, I shouldn’t eat, and that was that. I would never have to make an excuse to anyone, and I should never feel bad about anything. This is my first recollection of learning how to say “no.”

A more relatable example may be that of the typical haircut. You’re sitting in the chair, and a woman who smells really good but also borderline like the depletion of the ozone layer by hairspray asks you how you want to get trimmed. A little face frame? A little side bangs? Some layers? OK! OK! OK! Suddenly your hair becomes this crazy thing that you have the ability to change however you want to. But you also know that the change isn’t permanent, so a risk wouldn’t hurt. It sounds like the perfect storm–and it usually is.

Suddenly, you look in the mirror and realize how closely you now resemble a poodle with hair that awkwardly falls RIGHT in the middle of your boobs (you all know what I’m talking about). You didn’t want your hair this short and you just asked for a trim, but here you are, looking like Slash. And couldn’t it all have been prevented with a little, “no”? With a little “that’s short enough, thank you and please stop killing the polar bears with your beauty products”?

I’m still kinda bad at directing my hair stylist, but other than that, I’ve gotten good at saying “no.”

It’s a Saturday night, and I’m having a heated conversation with a guy who told me to relax because I wouldn’t dance with him. I didn’t want to dance, I didn’t want to kiss him, and I didn’t want to lead him down either of these undesirable paths. At first, he playfully teased me for having a stick up my ass. But then the tone changed, and I found myself being reverse slut-shamed. I was being prude-shamed.

“Look,” I told him, “I just don’t want to go there. I just don’t want to kiss you.” And it was true–not a bone in my body wanted to. I liked him, but not enough to go there. Not enough to go anywhere, really.

Then, shit hit the fan. He penalized me for saying no, telling me that he read my blog and he knew what I was “all about.” Then, he went on to say that my expectations of men were unrealistic, that I thought I was Taylor Swift, that I needed to relax, that things would never work out in my favor if I continued to believe in love the way I did, and ended the argument with a really solid closer: “If you just peck me you might feel something that you don’t even know exists right now,” essentially dissing every aspect of my being and then trying again, after all of that, to get me to kiss him.

In the most unintentional way possible, he proved all my theories true; I’ve never been happier about saying “no.” He made me realize that when I act with my own opinions and beliefs in mind, I win. So yeah, I’m still going to be a “relationships-girl” and I’m still going to not want to kiss you unless I actually want to and I’m still going to have high expectations. Because I woke up this morning not feeling like a shithead, and isn’t that the goal?

To people like that, we say “sorry-not-sorry.”

Image via. 


Flavor of the Week: How I Really Met Your Mother

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As we’ve come to know too well, the times are a-changin’. What once was nice and traditional has now become outdated and prudish. Girls bare more skin at Bar Mitzvahs than I do on the beach. Hell, they don’t even wear dresses to Bar Mitzvahs anymore. Now, it’s all about the crop top and shorts combo. I commend the trend, but when I have a daughter of my own I’ll make sure she relies on other “in” pieces… like oversized turtlenecks, for example.

My grandparents met through a mutual friend. My grandfather called my grandmother, introduced himself, and asked if she would “marry [him] this afternoon.” It was classy. My grandma wore white gloves on their date to the zoo. I’m all about it.

My parents met in standards more era-appropriate–on a college street corner on Halloween. Later that night, my dad serenaded my mom by playing her righty guitar upside down (he was a lefty). Slightly more edgy, but as charming as ever, to say the least.

I thought I’d share some ways for you to tell your children in ten or fifteen years from now about how you¬†really met their mother–likely a story neglect of white gloves, potentially containing a good serenade (but only if one of you was, like, on molly at a rave or something like that).

1. “We liked the same @JewBoyProblems tweet. Then, I stalked her on Twitter and she seemed like the perfect balance of Long Island and sleepaway camp-cool for me.”

2. “As soon as I found out that he¬†was @JewBoyProblems, I knew Bubbe would approve.”

3. “So, son, there used to be this thing called Tinder…”

4. “We were both waiting on line at Juice Generation and she complimented me on my desert boots.”

5. “We didn’t go to the same co-ed camp, but we had socials…”

6. “She made a naked video of herself and somehow every thirteen-year-old in the Tri-State Area got a hold of it. I used it as a conversation starter when we met in college.”

7. “My mom was her SoulCycle instructor.”

8. “I know you wouldn’t think that the Boca West club pool could be a romantic spot, but…”

9. “I was ZBT, she was SDT, and the rest was history.”

10. “We were on the same Westcoast Connection Europe teen tour!”¬†(Funny sidenote: I went to the Westcoast website to find a photo to pair with this, but I recognized too many of the kids in all of the promos and didn’t want to make them feel super awk when they heard their face was plastered across The FYD)

11. “I held her hair back for her at a tailgate. She thought I was the nicest guy in the world.”

12. “We had friends in common and I kept liking all of her #tbt’s.”

13. “I was standing behind her in line at Pinkberry and offered to pay for her fro-yo.” (My husband to my child)

Image via. 


On Feminism

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Do you believe in the complete equality of men and women?

If you answered yes to that question, then according to AmIAFuckingFeminist.com, you’re a fucking feminist.

This simple question is meant to eradicate the stigma involved with feminism. If you answer “No” to this question, you look pretty stupid.

Last night I was talking to a guy who called me out for being a feminist. I don’t even think I was wearing my “feminist hat” at the time, but I must have said something about not wearing a bra. He asked me why I was “such a feminist,” even though I don’t consider myself to be “such” a feminist. I always thought I was more of just “a” feminist.

My reply: “Do you believe that men and women should have equal rights?” He paused.

“Not really,” he said.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said. My jaw dropped.

A long conversation ensued. It contained utter disbelief and pure resentment on my part, and strong defense on his. I asked what he thought about a potential female president. I asked him about abortion and birth control. He agreed with me on all of these matters with little to no hesitation whatsoever.

“So‚Ķ you’re a feminist.” He still insisted he wasn’t.

There is a problem with the definition of feminism and with the idea of what a feminist looks like and what she (or he?) believes in. Traditionally, we believe feminists are 70’s hippies that don’t shave their body hair. We believe feminists think that women are better than men, and that they should reign supreme in what is currently a male-dominated society. The modern movement rooted in websites like Jezebel and in media forms like episodes of¬†Girls¬†attempts to alter this preconceived notion. Now, feminism is all about the idea that everyone should be a feminist, because if you’re not, you sound like a huge asshole. It’s about proving how easy feminism is to understand and believe in as we strip its definition down into its skimpy Victoria’s Secret lingerie.

By doing this–by making feminism relatable–are we devaluing the concept? Should we be changing the ideas of feminism to accommodate a stubborn society, or should we be focusing on changing the stubborn society to legitimize females?

To me, it seems silly to try to encourage people to put a label on themselves that they historically haven’t been comfortable using. Because of websites like Am I A Fucking Feminist, people know what feminism is. But at the same time, I feel like we’re settling.

There’s a pretty good chance I sound really stupid right now. The chance to spread feminism? Why not take that by the reigns and run with it, right?! Any good girl lover would surely do that! It’s just that throughout my entire life, I was under the impression that I should feel proud to be a feminist–to be one of the few who are knowledgable about what women deserve and appreciate my role in society as a female. Maybe I’m being selfish. Maybe I’m just a victim to feminism, which, after all, is really just a word.

This nuanced-feminism would reply to my thoughts by saying that we aren’t changing the movement at all–that the stigma has always existed and has always been incorrect from its inception. But just because the stigma is incorrect does not mean that we cannot ignore it.¬†The argument that movements like Am I A Fucking Feminist are trying to make is that feminism isn’t a “big deal” and it never has been; it simply stands for the respect of women that men typically always receive. I agree with this new perspective on feminism and I think it’s pretty cool. But if you don’t want to be considered a feminist, then I don’t know if I want you to be one, either. Does the point diminish when we have to change the outward nature of the movement to appeal more to the masses?

I also don’t know why we even use the word “feminist” anymore. Isn’t it more of an equal-ist? An everybody-ist?

The guy I was speaking to last night said that there are definite differences between men and women that we can’t ignore. We just aren’t smart enough as a society yet to figure out how to let that respectfully reflect in every day life. Interesting. Interesting, indeed.

Thoughts on feminism? GO!


Love Is in the Air… And in the Shoes

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Threads: American Apparel velvet bodysuit / Free People boyfriend jean / Vince Camuto pumps / Urban Outfitters necklace

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May all of your Valentine’s Day kisses be covered in red lipstick.¬†

Love,
Hannah

Shot by the birthday girl, Sophie Schwartz. 


Flavor of the Week: Valentine’s Day

mean girls valentine

A week ago, I wasn’t sure if my “Valentine” knew about Valentine’s. He kept referring to February 14th as “February 14th” and not as “Valentine’s Day.” It could have been intentional, sure. But it also could have been because he lives under a rock. I assumed it was the latter. I also devised a devious plan.

I figured I wouldn’t bring it up. I’d wait it out and see if the V-word would ever make its way into our vocabulary. If I were to write about Valentine’s Day before I saw him on February 14th, he would have seen it, and my plan to make him figure it out on his own–or else–would have been tragically ruined. I was creating a loophole, expecting–or maybe even hoping–that February 14th would come and I would be able to say, “Happy Valentine’s Day to you too,¬†Babe.” The “babe” would obviously be in a very rude and sarcastic tone, and he would owe me everything for a lifetime because of it.

Girls are completely evil. In what sick, twisted world would anyone¬†want her Valentine to forget Valentine’s Day? Apparently, this one.

Eventually, I found out that he knows Valentine’s Day is this Friday. I’ll miss my evil plan, but it was time to part ways. I feel terrible for boys who have to deal with girls like me every February 14th–or, for that matter, boys who have to deal with any girls at all. Valentine’s Day is full of glitter, hearts, chocolate, and contradiction.

Girls who say they hate Valentine’s Day really don’t. These are the girls who, though they’d never admit it, actually care about Valentine’s Day more than anyone else. If they really hated it and if they really didn’t care, they’d have no opinion at all. Now, the girls who hate Valentine’s Day are reading this and saying, “But I really actually don’t give a shit.” Honey, please. How can you not?

These are the girls who have the highest expectations for Valentine’s Day, and they assume their expectations will not be met months before February even rolls around. They’re disappointed before they’re given the opportunity to be pleased. Being anti-Valentine’s doesn’t make you independent or rebellious, either. In my fattest and most awkward stages throughout life, I’ve always managed to love Valentine’s Day. Having my mom and my grandma was plenty for me.

The best way to go about Valentine’s Day is understatedly. It’s one of the few holidays where I truly believe less is more. I always thought that receiving jewelry as a gift was incredibly awkward. When a boy gives me jewelry, I always feel like I owe him something in return. I feel guilty taking it. It’s fancy. I’m not. (Then again, that isn’t to say I won’t accept it. I mean, let’s face it, I’m poor and I’ll take whatever I can get.)

The problem with Valentine’s Day for both guys and girls is the ridiculous amount of pressure that people manage to shove onto a calendar date. For some reason, humans feel the need to prove how much they love each other on one day. I love Valentine’s Day–I always have–so I’m not saying I’m against it. I am, however, against the awkward pressure between two people who both can’t help wondering how much the other is satisfied. Satisfy me 365 days a year, and I’ll feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Buy me a low key dinner on February 14th, and I’ll still just as much feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Hey, at least you remembered what February 14th is.

I said it before, and I’ll say it again–girls are evil. Sure, I bet I’m selling myself as the coolest Valentine there is. I don’t need gifts! I don’t need lovin’! But of course, if I were to get nada, I’d be temperamental as feck. We say we hate Valentine’s Day, but that’s really because we love it. We say we love Valentine’s Day, and then make boys feel like they need to buy us Blue Ivy or North West or earrings or something. This is what Valentine’s Day does to us. The insanity is painstaking, but for some reason, it remains one of my favorite days of the year–in my fat, awkward stages, and in my well groomed ones.

Valentine’s is a day about love; not about boys and not about gifts. If you want to give someone the best Valentine’s Day there is, then remember that. Besides, save your whining and disappointment for New Years’. If you want to talk about depressing holidays, I’ll give ya that.

Image via. 


A Bar Mating Dance

douche de leche

“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 and (almost completely) uncensored. This post was written by someone who chooses to remain anonymous, though he claims the following:

douche

Enjoy Anon’s piece about how men are basically animals.¬†

Underneath the round, chest-height table there are no more barstools. I stand and look around for an open seat. The table to my left is crowded with a group of girls draped in variations of each other’s outfits. Just beyond them, a pack of boys stake their claim around another table. One popped-collar Polo-wearing member shifts his gaze from the table of girls, to the bartender, then the bouncer at the door, and, finally, back to the table. His friends seem hyper-aware of their postures, keen to keep their chests puffed out at least six inches from the tips of their chins at all times. But Polo Shirt didn’t get the memo. Hunched over, he’s occupied himself by scratching a key across the brown glazed tabletop. I test the surface with my fingernail.

Immediately, resin builds up under my nail. I can’t help but wonder how much damage he could cause with his metal utensil. He looks up again and this time I swear his nose scrunches as if there’s a threat to be smelled. While the bloodhound marks his territory, his friends have begun to engage in their own animal behaviors.

A smaller but more confident member of the boys’ group stands up from his casual lean atop the stool. He’s short and not particularly well built. I wonder how much his hair gel contributes to his total body weight. He smoothes a left paw through the bristly fur atop his head but it pops up like astroturf. His shirt, striped and untucked, doesn’t distinguish him much from the two others who stand and follow him. Together, they migrate over the the girls’ group.

“We go to Brown,” states the boy at the back of their triangular formation. He had leaned forward onto his toes as he spoke, and now rocks back with a smirk as if to punctuate the declaration. The girls put on their best looks of feigned admiration before one breaks the synchronized sarcasm.

She says dryly, “So do we.”

It’s even awkward from where I’m standing, ten feet away. The boy at the back turns his shoulders, ready to flee the scene, but catches himself in his moment of pussy-ness when his friends stand their ground. The smaller boy–with his shirt now partially tucked in–has set his sights on a brunette at the near edge of the girls’ table. He makes eye contact, distracting her–perhaps himself, too–from the embarrassment of his friend’s failed icebreaker. the other two boys try to salvage the situation with the larger group. Striped Shirt now seems removed from his friends.

His target–the brunette–leans in the slightest amount. He mirrors her action. She looks down at her boots and giggles, a restrained mimic of the full-throated chucked he lets out with his head cocked back. Only now does he notice that his friends, tending to their wounded pride, have moved back to more familiar territory. Stripe Shirt places his hand on the girl’s hip and whispers something in her ear. She looks back at her friends before standing and following the boy across the room. I see him smooth his hair once more before they disappear around a corner.

I straighten up and realize that I’ve been staring. I feel like a less talented, less interesting version of a Planet Earth photographer; he sits in a camouflaged tent for hours to capture footage of a Bird of Paradise performing its mating dance. It unfurls its feathers and bounces around a potential female partner. If the mate is disinterested, a fact that’s even harder to read on the expressionless faces of birds, the preened and radiantly feathered male will simply move on. The boy with the striped shirt has succeeded tonight. His friends, now members of a slightly smaller group, ruffle their feathers and turn their heads towards a new group of girls sitting closer to the bar.


Flavor of the Week: The Real Biggest Losers

The Biggest Loser

I’ve never watched a full episode of The Biggest Loser. I only have one friend who’s really into it (though I don’t believe she even watched this season), and the only other person I know who liked it was my grandma (who is now deceased). Regardless, it seems like a pretty inspirational show. People change their lives for the better, have happily ever afters, etc. etc. etc. The concept is really great. But in a society where we teeter back and forth between being too thin and too fat, does The Biggest Loser prompt people to feel like… big losers?

Rachel Frederickson was just crowned this season’s winner, dropping from 260 to 105 pounds. Before I read the first of many articles I would eventually read about her, I saw her “after” photo. She looked good–toned, fit, thin. I assumed she was in her early-mid 30s. It turns out that Rachel’s only 24. That was the first unsettling fact to me.

Then, I learned that she now weighs only 105 pounds. Then, I learned that Rachel is 5’4”. I’m 5’4”. I’m not nearly 105 pounds. Yes, bodies come in every shape and size, and weight is just a number. Body fat is proportioned differently depending on the person, and no one should feel the need to conform to a number on an outdated BMI index. But there is an undeniable fact that everyone is aware of, and it is that being 105 pounds and 5’4” usually means you’re too thin.

Obviously, controversy sparked from every corner of the body-centric world. Two very valid arguments arise: the first, that The Biggest Loser¬†is¬†a weight loss show and Rachel accomplished (very well) exactly what she went on the show to do. This side argues Rachel shouldn’t be penalized and she didn’t take things too far. The second argument pleads the opposite: that Rachel clearly has a problem; one drilled into her head by a show that monitors contestants as if it was the NSA for fat people.

Those of you who blame The Biggest Loser for turning an obese young woman into a petite someone who other women will envy–you are wrong. You cannot blame a television production based on helping unhealthy people lead healthy lifestyles for a contestant’s weight loss. At the same time, you can’t say that Rachel’s weight loss is okay just because you “wouldn’t call her skeletal,” as Betches Love This likes to put it. “Have you ever seen an actual anorexic person or like, a Holocaust survivor?” The “Betches” continue, “That is fucking skeletal.” They also say that Rachel “is the size of a mother of three who spends a lot of time at Soul Cycle¬†or like, Kate Middleton,” and therefore we shouldn’t be concerned.

No, no, no, no, no. We can be funny all we want–we can make fun of ourselves, of the pettiness of young women, of the ridiculous obsessions we have with things like social media and men, but we cannot make jokes about body image. Just because someone doesn’t “look” like they have an eating disorder–like they aren’t “skeletal”–doesn’t mean they aren’t suffering mentally.

Last week, I called my mom in hysterics because I felt comparable to a very large whale. Moms are used to the complaints of their daughters, many of whom are perfectly fine and healthy but suffer from a paranoia and awareness of the body that is unnecessarily overwhelming. My mom, however, could sense the extreme level of shittiness I was feeling. When I told her that it pained me to look in the mirror and to have more than one sit-down meal a day–that the thought of giving in to a plateful of food rather than the Chobani and then the apple and then the Fiber One bar snacking regimen I had perfected to a tee–she knew I was falling into a trap.

My mom asked me why I hadn’t spoken to anyone about this–my friends, a therapist, etc. I told her something I consider to be one of the most wretched mindsets of our image-infatuated generation: I just didn’t look like I had a problem. I’m not “thin,” I’m curvy with a butt and boobs and legs, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been like that since the fourth grade. What are the odds that someone takes me seriously when I walk up to her and tell her I’m having trouble eating? You can claim someone would listen to me, and if it was a real problem, someone would be able to tell. But unfortunately, I can fill you in from experience–that isn’t the case. It seems like you can’t have a problem unless you look like you do.

Okay, so if I lose 30 pounds, will you believe me then?

Luckily, I swung out of my funk and adjusted back to a normal, healthy routine. But there are thousands upon thousands of girls that won’t. Did Rachel Frederickson’s drastic weight loss pose a bad influence on self-conscious teens? I didn’t watch The Biggest Loser, but I’m assuming they only showed her losing weight healthily. They probably didn’t showcase her anorexia, or her bulimia, or any other eating disorder she might have. As I said before, her size doesn’t have to correlate to her mental state, and her mental state doesn’t have to correlate to her size.

In truth, the people who tend to be sensitive to the appearances of people in the media will be affected by Rachel’s weight loss just as they would the body of any other celebrity. The less sensitive people won’t. The job of The Biggest Loser is to help its contestants become healthier. The job of me–and of every other young lady, and even the job of every young man–is to make sure that I am healthy, that my friends are healthy, and that my family is healthy. Rachel’s weight loss was startling to me, too. But can we please get over the battle of too thin versus thin enough and realize the bigger picture?

Please?

Image via. 


Covering Up

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Threads: vintage waffle top / Free People chenille skirt / Luichiny boots / Helen Ficalora necklace

Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote one of my first posts for The FYD, titled, “On the Precedents of Sluttiness… and Trying to Combat Them.” Though I think this post is one of the truest I’ve written, it slyly slips under the radar, dwindling lonely in the isolation of Internet’s past.

So one one windy, winter day when I found myself risqu√©-ing my outfit with the mantra that “more” is, in fact, “less,” I couldn’t help but think back to that post. I had, though not for the first time, become the subject of my own work–the piece on display behind the glass. A year ago I was pointing at myself today, clad in a chenille mini-skirt and thigh-high boots. I was fully clothed in the sluttiest way possible.

For the TL;DR sake of my previous post, I’ll sum it up for you: generally, we are led to believe that the less you wear, the more scandalous you appear. Crop tops, bikinis, booty shorts, and the like. But I proposed a revised theory in which the more you wear, the more mischievous you appear, and the more sexually appealing you become. Tell me if I’m wrong, but aren’t monokinis “sluttier” than bikinis? Is it not “sexier” to wear over-the-knee boots with a short skirt than it is to wear my Supergas with a short skirt? Neglect that point–though I find tennis sneakers to be pretty sexy, the larger public likely doesn’t agree. But what if I were to wear shorter boots? It wouldn’t look as… good. It just wouldn’t.

I propose(d) that the images men create based on our sneak previews are more exciting than the skin actually behind all the leather, velvet, and denim. Tell me–am I wrong? And should I be slut-shaming myself for wearing my thigh-highs with my mini skirt?

Shot by the ever-lovely Sophie Schwartz. 


On The Super Bowl (And The Boy’s Girl)

Am I a boy's girl yet?

Am I a boy’s girl yet?

My 10th grade history teacher tried to convince my class that football was a modern day version of gladiator fighting. Internally, I somewhat agreed. He was a smart man and made his case well–gladiators fought as a means of entertainment, flooding arenas with fans who wanted to see a man (though it didn’t matter which one) die. Football’s not far off. For some reason, people love seeing bodies hurled at each other. While we don’t watch football players literally fight to the death, we live vicariously through their injuries, wondering if we, too, will make that same, painful expression one day during childbirth.

The Super Bowl is a staple of American culture. Most people genuinely enjoy it, but in the way you enjoy Break-Fast on Yom Kippur. It’s not because you like repenting for your sins, but because the holiday just sends out a festive vibe or whatever. In my book, the Super Bowl isn’t real football. But it’s pretty close, so every girl pretends she really gives a shit about the football part of it when truthfully, she probably doesn’t. Besides, the odds that a team you are actually a fan of year-round playing in the Super Bowl aren’t in your favor. So if you don’t love football and your team isn’t playing, how much do you really care who wins?

There’s a certain stigma attached to the boy’s girl: the girl that likes beer, isn’t afraid of anything, and understands football. She’s attractive, thin–but not too skinny–and dresses simply enough to look good–but not fashionable–and attractive all the same. This girl yells at the television screen on Super Bowl Sunday, gambling away her old babysitting money on bets she swears she’ll win. She probably will win, because that’s just the way the boy’s girl works–not only does she put herself out there, but she gets away with it, too.

Guys say it’s impossible to be “just friends” with a girl. If he’s “friends” with her, he wants to sleep with her. If he’s not, then he has no interest in her at all. This is how I feel about the boy’s girl–it’s impossible for her to actually be a perfect boy’s girl. The relationship between a boy’s girl and herself is too good to be true.

Don’t get me wrong,¬†I am a fucking feminist, I’m not a sexist, and I’ve been nurtured via the milk of liberal arts college to believe that gender is a spectrum. The masculine female and the feminine male wholeheartedly exist. I’m not saying a female can’t thoroughly enjoy football, because I’m sure she can. I don’t not enjoy football myself. But the boy’s girl is different than just a girl who likes football, and she’s too good to be true. It isn’t that she falls in love with football, but she falls in love with the idea of falling in love with football. She falls in love with herself; she’s in love with the version of herself she’s capable of becoming with just a little push–if she were to be just slightly more masculine. If she’s pretty enough/chill enough to have the boy’s girl persona become attainable, then she will grab it with both hands and step into it like it’s a Cinderella costume.

Every girl who isn’t a boy’s girl has a soft spot for girls that are. As frustrating or as fake as boy’s girls may seem, everyone wants to be one. I’m not willing to give up colored tights and dresses and my tendency to remain callously uptight in order to evolve into a boy’s girl. I think I’d rather just be me. But it would be nice, dontchya think?

The truth of the matter is that at the end of the day, girls want the same things that guys do. A girl wants a boy’s attention in the subtlest and sneakiest way possible. So, she transforms into a boy’s girl. Boys don’t think that they can be friends with girls? Well, girls think that they¬†can be friends with boys. And that’s exactly where things get dangerous. The main difference between boys and girls is that eventually, we (girls) can coerce you (boys) into telling us how pretty you think we are, or how badly you want to “get” with us. But we’ll never give you the satisfaction that you’re willing to give us. Instead, we’ll ask you to pass the guac and the pizza and crack us open a cold one during the big game.

A boy’s girl gets away with being a boy’s girl pretty well. But don’t forget: inside, she’s still a girl.


Flavor of the Week: The Polar Vortex

No way! Tom Hanks gave me a ticket to the Polar Vortex!

No way! Tom Hanks gave me a ticket to the Polar Vortex!

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.

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Images via and via. 


As Per Usual, “Girls” Defines Your Love Life

hannah and adam

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.

Image via. 


On Facebook Stalking

facebook stalking

I’ve gotten so used to the shame that comes with Facebook stalking, I subconsciously avoid directly addressing it in posts.

Well, people, it’s time.

Facebook stalking is something everyone does. Naturally, then, there’s no reason for it not to be addressed. It is as unavoidable as me getting my period for the first time in the middle of my hiking trip during sleepaway camp–in other words, it is unavoidable as f***. If we’re all Facebook stalking, then there must be a reason why. Though the practice is mindless in itself and only requires the clicking of a mouse every couple of seconds (next photo, next photo, next photo), its significance as a contributor to the millennial persona is wholeheartedly huge.

Apparently, Facebook is a “sharing” site, though we know that isn’t true. Is sharing really sharing if it’s a one-way kinda-sorta thing? We don’t really communicate via wall post (um, excuse me, I mean timeline post) as often as Zuckerberg wants us to. In fact, if you do post on someone’s timeline, you are hard core judged by everyone else who sees it. We all have iMessage–the greatest invention since whole wheat sliced bread–and if you really wanted to speak to someone quickly and efficiently, you would text her. Nothing pisses people off more than siblings or best friends who write to each other publicly on Facebook. Clearly you already have a texting convo going, so whatever you’re writing you clearly are just writing for the sake of publicity.

We have driven Facebook off it’s given beat and path. We mock those that use it for it’s original intention. So if you aren’t stalking someone, are you doing it wrong?

In theory, Facebook stalking makes sense. We’re drawn to seeing photos of other people–especially, of course, people we know. Pictures have always intrigued us. I obviously would not have liked Madeline nearly as much if she wasn’t wearing such a cute jumper all of the time. But when we look at photos of other people on Facebook, it’s in almost no context at all. There aren’t really words to this picture book. It’s just… well… pictures.

Everyone has a few people that they focus their energy into stalking, habitually typing a name into the search box. Then there are the people you forget about until they pop up on your news feed because they were tagged in your best camp friend’s best home friend’s photo. Come Sunday mornings, we sit on the edges of our seats, anxiously awaiting the mass mupload like it’s the fricking messiah.

However, we find ourselves in knee-deep contradiction. When those whom we do not desire the stalking rights to post solo shots of themselves or even a 50-photo collection of the previous weekend’s events, we give them shit. We get annoyed. We want some to use Facebook as a canvas, and we want others to sit quietly behind a screen (as some of us stalkers might) and join in the could-be thoughts of pretty, skinny girls sipping on cranberry colored cocktails.

So when you stalk someone, are you truly engaged in learning more about her? Are we just jealous of the identities these people have created for themselves on intangible social media? Are we so unsettled in our own lives that we yearn to live vicariously through other people (no matter how many hours we spend looking through the same album of muploads repeatedly)?

Facebook makes it so damn easy for people to judge you. But don’t you want to be stalked, and not a stalk-er? Don’t you want to be judged?

They say that any publicity is good publicity. In a world of being “Facebook famous,” I guess so.


It’s My Closet, I’ll Wear White If I Want To

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Threads: Marc New York by Andrew Marc coat / Free People overalls / Lush cable knit sweater / ASH booties / Silpada turquoise ring / Grand Bazaar, Istanbul hamsa double finger ring

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. 


Weather By Drizzy

NWTS

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.

Screen Shot 2014-01-23 at 4.13.38 PM

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.

Image via. 


Flavor of the Week: Losing Everything

mr. forgetful

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 expos√©?

We lose stuff when we’re distracted, because we can’t help it that we’re so popular.

i can't help that i'm 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.)

 

Images via & via. 


An Open Letter By Barbie (that’s right… Barbie)

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. 

Let it all hang out, gurl

Let it all hang out, gurl

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.


On Airplanes

bridesmaids

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 Pi√Īa 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?

Image via. 


Flavor of the Week: Open Letters

It‚Äôs trendy to write in list form (i.e. ‚Äú10 Things You Learn By Being A Slut in College‚ÄĚ or something like that on BuzzFeed) and it‚Äôs 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 ‚Äúopen letter.‚ÄĚ

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‚Äôm 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‚Äôd 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.

Image via. 


Douche de Leche: The Ultimate Hangover Cure

douche de leche

‚ÄúDouche de Leche‚ÄĚ 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.

Everyone's fav emoji

Everyone’s fav emoji

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.


Flavor of the Week: Jennifer Lawrence

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.


On Fro-Yo

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.


Flavor of the Week: 2013

Good bye fro-yo, good bye 2013.

Good bye fro-yo, good bye 2013.

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.

16. FYD lesson: there is a time to laugh, and a time to cry. There is a time to Instagram, and a time to mupload.

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.

 


On “Getting Over It” & Related New Year’s Shit

Carrie does NYE.

The most appropriate photo – Carrie does NYE.

A lot of people think it’s very important to set goals. I think I’m one of those people, but I’m not entirely sure. Over the past year I’ve learned that I think things about myself that aren’t necessarily true. I make lists a lot. I try and get a better grade than I did before or run an extra half-mile at the gym. I set standards for myself. I put pressure on myself. When I mess up, I tell myself I’ll never make the same mistake again. Literally, I make promises to myself in my mind. Obviously, I don’t always get where I wanted to be. But I think about it, and that counts for something, right?

Today, people are concerned with two things: 1) gaining weight over the holidays, and 2) making New Year’s resolutions. I make resolutions every year. I don’t ever look back at them, or keep them in mind as the snow melts and the sun takes me out of social hibernation, but I sit and write a few things down on the last day of December.

I always knew I loved to write. Writing was the one thing people told me I was good at. I didn’t always want to be a writer, though. I went through the usual career phases–National Geographic photographer, marine biologist, professional dancer, etc. But as I’ve gotten older, I realized something: I had a lot to say. Therefore, I had a lot to write.

Last New Year’s Eve I decided I would start a blog. I would post every Sunday (eventually, I decided to post on Wednesdays, too) and I would write about things people would actually want to read and say the things people didn’t always want to say. The Fro-Yo Diaries was conceived and before I knew it, I was a teen mom to this baby of a blog.

Spike Jonze’s recently released film, Her,¬†is¬†about a guy that falls in love with a computer operating system. Think Plankton and his wife Karen circa¬†Spongebob. The FYD has been that thing for me. I’m not in love with it, but it’s the most constant thing there is. We have dates every Sunday and Wednesday. And I’m a¬†great girlfriend. I never cancel (fine, I only cancelled once, but rescheduled for Monday) and I even kept the relationship going long distance when I was out of the country for two weeks. I didn’t realize how people come and go in life until I had something that stayed for as long as I wanted it to. Perhaps this is also because a lot of people came and went this year. That’s ok, though.

This is my last post for 2013. For some reason, I feel like I need to make it a big deal.¬†There are two parts to New Year’s Eve: what goes on internally, and what goes on externally. Everyone loves the partying and the dressing up and the kissing. And if you so choose, you can live that to its fullest. But the internal part only happens to some people. It happens to the dramatic people like me, people who like making lists and having fresh starts even though when you wake up on January 1st, you don’t feel so fresh and you’re still the same person you were the night before.¬†My mom tells me that things get different as you get older. Birthdays aren’t as exciting (or, people don’t give as much of a shit about you); Christmas isn’t so magical. Life is kind of different, too.¬†

A lot has happened in the past year. Sometimes, I wish I was a Kardashian just so I could have gotten it all on tape. Unfortunately I’m too poor and not nearly beautiful enough for that, so I was forced to discreetly scribble conversations and important moments on my iPhone notepad so I wouldn’t forget a thing. I get criticism for writing about opinions that clash with other people’s, or sharing personal stories that others prefer not be shared. I’ve been told I’m a tad bitchy or rude. I’ve also been told to “build a bridge and get over it.” I’ve received my fair share of “go f*** youreself” and other lovely, lovely words. But I’ve also been told I’ve made people smile and laugh. I’ve been thanked for saying things other people hadn’t, and commended for being so open about some of the things others would rather lock away like an old pair of boot cut jeans.

I learned a very important lesson over the last year: life happens, and if whatever happens is important, I should write about it. I write about what is important to me. If I don’t write about something, then I’m going to forget it. No matter how shitty something is, I don’t want to forget it because it’s a lesson and a blessing and it takes me somewhere else.¬†I call them The Fro-Yo¬†Diaries for a reason. Duh.

Recently, I’ve been having this huge problem where I either can’t sleep at all or I can’t stop sleeping. My insomnia is brought on by this mental and infinite to-do list that keeps running through my mind. But I don’t really want to do any of it at all, and so instead, I sleep because I feel bad just being awake. I sleep all day sometimes. Some nights, I don’t sleep at all.

If you were to ask me this second what my New Year’s resolutions were, I would tell you that I don’t have a frickin’ clue. If you asked me three years ago what my resolutions for that upcoming year were, I’d have the list memorized and edited for grammatical errors. I’ve changed a lot, but that probably isn’t a bad thing. Maybe while I’m awake, I’ll give it a good thought.

Happy New Year’s.
Love,
Hannah


Flavor of the Week: Eating Stuff Out Of The Jar

I decided to get creative. Instead of blurring out the photo, I “anonymified” it. As I sit at my computer screen, hysterically laughing at this devious creation (thank you photo editing apps), I can’t help but recall when this photo was taken: four days before I broke up with my boyfriend. We went into the city for a night, and all I kept saying was that I wanted to buy a pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie Ben & Jerry’s and eat out of it with a spoon. Needless to say, we bought the pint at 2 a.m., shared a sparse amount (whatever I was willing to give up) with some friends, and finished the entire thing. Therefore, I can scientifically prove to you that eating stuff out of the jar is a comfort, easing some of the most difficult curveballs life throws our way.

My first instinct was to write about Nutella. But honestly, what am I going to tell you about Nutella that you don’t already know? Nutella and the young woman are inseparable. We rely on Nutella like we rely on tampons. To put it bluntly, they just soak everything up.

If you’re happy, you might celebrate with a thing of Nutella. If you’re high as hell sad, you’ll head right for the Nutella. But in reality, it isn’t the hazelnut that gives you a sense of satisfaction. It’s eating shit right out of the jar that does.

For being obsessed with being skinny, we seem to let all f**** go when a jar of something yummy comes our way. Ben & Jerry’s just isn’t the same in a cup or a cone or a bowl. It’s only great out of the tub. Bethenny Frankel says that “naturally thin” people never eat stuff out of the jar. You end up eating without thinking, eating too much, and getting fat, and dying alone. Or, god forbid, you might decrease the size of your thigh gap. We all know that a decreased thigh gap is only good for catching crumbs of food as they fall on the way to your mouth. So not worth it.

In honor of the food coma that Christmas instills in all people–if you aren’t eating a ham right now, then you’re definitely going¬†ham¬†on kosher Chinese food–it’s important to come to terms with the fact that we love eating shit out of the jar. I spend most of my weeknights on the floor on my room sticking my fingers in a jar of Justin’s almond butter with my best friend. We love getting dirty with some Nutella, ice cream, almond butter, and obviously peanut butter (the indulgent version of almond butter). Eating out of the jar, for most girls with ridiculous body image issues, is the closest you’ll ever get to going skydiving or something like that. Risky as hell. Living life on the edge. Not counting calories for a slim (or not so slim) second.

On a day like today when I’m having serious trouble coping with my own #fatgirlproblems, I’m going to give you shitty advice: eat out of the jar. But keeping “thin” in mind, maybe only have a few bites. Also, remember that committing to not eating out of the jar is, by association, committing to not taking swigs out of the bottle. Now that is¬†a bond I’m not sure any of us are ready to break.


On The Selfie

selfie of me with popcorn

selfie of me with popcorn

Oxford Dictionary named it 2013’s word of the year. I name it the word of the f****** century. It’s about time I covered the selfie–a bit of life that unintentionally has grown to define a generation.

If we are two things, it is communicative and narcissistic. Combine these concepts and the selfie is born. In 2006, Apple released the first MacBook installed with iSight. In 2010 the iPhone 4 came out with two cameras–one front facing–and a year later the iPad 2 was produced with the same camera model. In 2007, my mom decided she wanted to start taking what would eventually be given the name “selfies” with her Nikon digital camera (these were the days before DSLRs) and claimed that one day, she would publish a book of photos titled “At An Arm’s Length.” And now, as we near the end of 2013, the selfie has become a socially acceptable reason to make an odd face while staring longingly into your iPhone camera.¬†Oh, onlookers think,¬†it’s just a selfie.

selfie of feminism, power women, and all things great about life

selfie of feminism, power women, and all things great about life

We love the selfie so much that we decided to make it transportable. At one point, we were satisfied with opening an application on our laptops and having the ability to give ourselves a good “check out” in the middle of class or while trying to get shit done at Starbucks. But Photobooth wasn’t enough. We needed to look at ourselves on our tablets; on our phones. Suddenly, everything became a mirror with which we could capture moments of life we wanted to keep forever (or until your iPhone lays itself to rest).

Selfie etiquette is a whole other topic in itself, but I suppose I can squeeze in a quick summary… don’t mupload solo selfies–you aren’t Kendall Jenner. Make sure your albums are a solid and equal combination of selfie and regular pics. Make the selfie comical and cute. Emphasize the skinny arm. Document crucial events with the selfie.

Example: selfie of the time my friend vomited in the back of a cab and I sat shotgun because I didn't want to deal with it

Example: selfie of the time my friend vomited in the back of a cab and I sat shotgun because I didn’t want to deal with it

I love the selfie more than I love a good Free People sale. Does this make me obsessed with myself? I’m not sure. My mom says I think I’m a princess, which is half true, but I don’t know if I’d go far enough to say I’m¬†obsessed with myself. I don’t know if I’d go far enough to say that all of the people who take selfies are obsessed with themselves, either. Samsung says that 30% of photos taken by people between the ages of 18 and 35 are selfies. 75% of “normal weight” women say they constantly think about their weight and appearance. So why do the statistics say we’re self-loving when it seems like we’re in an era of incredible self-loathing?

The link between body image issues and selfies exists but is almost as incomprehensible as the Bound 2 music video. I’d like to propose a new angle on selfies: maybe they’re a good thing. Maybe we should let ourselves soak in the good lighting and flattering effects that iOS 7 provides (bitches love chrome). Maybe getting a good look at ourselves in the mirror–making ourselves look Instagram-worthy or mupload material–could help to battle this self esteem. It may be a good thing to get a look at ourselves from the shoulders up. Maybe this post is heavily influenced by the intense food coma I’m suffering right now. Maybe the diet starts tomorrow. Maybe tonight I’ll take a really great selfie and feel better about myself.

Maybe we should just let the selfie be.

Image via. 


Flavor of the Week: An FYD Christmas List

(elF)YD

ELF-YD

Dear Santa,

I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering why a nice Jewish girl like me would be writing to you, asking for gifts on a holiday that doesn’t even belong to the chosen people. Well, Santa, it turns out I had a rough year. It was also a great year–don’t get me wrong–but I would venture to say there were times where I, usually a hard headed independent woman that don’t need no man, boarded the struggle bus. I think I deserve a present or two. On that note, I want to introduce to you the Jewish concept of mitzvah–a worthy deed. You would really be doing a mitzvah by helping your marginalized friend (a.k.a. me) out. If I were you getting me a gift, here’s what I would just hypothetically get for myself. If you were my boyfriend or my family member or a good friend getting me a present for the holidays, still totally in theory, Santa, I would also recommend anything on this list. Santa, I think this will be a great role playing game for you. I feel like you’re really going to get to know me.

  • Tickets to the Beyonc√© concert at Barclay’s, either of the nights. (I’m not very picky, Santa. But I would prefer GA seats, if you were wondering.)
  • A tobi.com gift card! JK LOL, do not get me this. Seriously, don’t.
  • But feel free to get me a Free People one.
  • An iTunes gift card, because I’m poor and like music.
  • Some makeup, because I’m really ugly and need it. Pity me.
  • An unlimited supply of zero calorie fruity drinks, preferably carbonated ones.
  • A new iPhone. Mine is literally degenerated (the selfie camera is really bad quality).
  • This phone case. Make sure you get the size that fits my new iPhone (mentioned above).

  • A new Facebook profile pic. Mine is getting really old. Can we arrange an artsy photo shoot with the Nikon you got for your Bar Mitzvah? Oh, shit… I forgot you didn’t… um… sorry, Santa.
  • A book deal.
  • The opportunity to babysit Nori West.

Merry Christmas! (Or, as one of my favorite TV characters, Schmidt from New Girl, likes to call it, “White Anglo Saxon Winter Privilege Night.”)

Love, your biggest non-gentile fan,
Hannah

p.s. Here’s one more for the road:

elfyd2


On Kissing

It’s believed that many years ago, mothers would chew food for their infant children and pass it to them via mouth-to-mouth contact. This ritual was not just built to establish family; it was not just to say “I am the mother and you are the child.” It was a necessity of life. It was something, while endearing, humans could not live without.

Today, we kiss not because we need it. Or, perhaps, we kiss because we do. But when I linger on the idea of mouth touching mouth, lip biting lip, I find it to be a strange concept regardless of its origin. Kissing is, in part, something we do because we’re told to. From a young age, we were drilled with the idea that all could be fixed with a simple solution of true love’s kiss. Kissing can wake up an unconscious princess, therefore, it must be able to alleviate all of my much more peasantly problems, right? But regardless of fairytale and fiction, why does something as simple as the connection of two orifices give us a euphoric feeling we wouldn’t experience otherwise?

Philematologists (the formal word for a kissing scientist) have come to the conclusion that we keep on kissing because of chemistry. Kissing releases chemicals and hormones in your body that trigger feelings in your brain. It helps us to judge how interested we are in somebody. I know you know what I’m talking about when I say that you can feel the difference between a kiss that means nothing–it just doesn’t do it for you–and a kiss that gives you that¬†feeling.¬†And, after all, kissing is (almost) as intertwined with someone else as you will ever be.

When I was younger, my grandma and I had a joint obsession with¬†The Princess Diaries. We were convinced we were the nonfiction Jewish version of Princess Mia and Queen Clarisse (a.k.a. “Grandma”). Through my freshman year of high school, I would have sleepovers with my grandma once every month or so and we would alternate between watching the first movie and the second while eating frozen Cool Whip out of the container. We knew every word, every scene, every sound. I also had every book in the series–all sixteen of them. To most, Mia is known for her trademarked idea of the “foot-popping kiss.”

Dear Boyfriend, take note, thanks

Dear Boyfriend, take note, thanks

“You know, in the old movies whenever a girl would get¬†seriously¬†kissed, her foot would just kind of‚Ķ pop.”¬†My grandma and I watched each month as Mia figured out her true love via test of the foot pop over and over again. This was my exposure to sex and romance–watching a Disney-produced film with my grandma, who once wore white evening gloves on a day trip to the zoo with my grandpa.

One night, my grandma and I decided to sway from our routine. We rented¬†The Kids Are All Right, now one of my favorite films, starring Annette Bening and Julianne Moore as a lesbian couple whose teenaged children meet their sperm donor father. In a scene, Bening and Moore attempt to spice up their sex life by watching gay porn. Consequentially, this scene was graphically displayed on my grandmother’s oversized plasma screen television.

I had never seen my grandma cringe the way she did. Though we also shared a love of forward thinking girl power, I was primarily her Princess Mia, not her gay porn advocate.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Though I was getting older and more “aware,” I was still big on the foot-popping kiss. My friends starting kissing boys in the sixth grade. Though I had my fair share of opportunities–and by opportunities, I mean boys leaning in and me literally running away–I waited so that my first kiss would be perfect. I wanted it to be memorable so that one day, I could look back at the five minutes of my life I was closest to becoming a princess. My first kiss was a foot-popper. And, of course, I told my grandma about it the next time I saw her.

I understand why we touch each other. I understand snuggling, cuddling, sleeping together, even holding hands. Part of me still finds it strange that we have a compulsion to kiss.¬†When you see someone you love, you want to kiss them hello, you want to kiss them goodbye, and you want to kiss them every second in between. I know I want my lips on someone else’s, but I’m not sure why.

To Mia Thermopolis, a good kiss is foot-popping. To Romeo and Juliet, a kiss is a prayer and a sin sweetly purged. And to me, it’s something I’m still trying to figure out (with practice, of course).

Images via, via.


Flavor of the Week: The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show

victoria's secret fashion show

Because it clearly doesn’t receive enough media attention as it is, right?

The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is the one time a year girls decide to work out for like, a solid week. Then we remember that it’s winter and we’re actually in hibernation so jk lol we aren’t going to work out. But if the fashion show happened during March, perhaps, we would definitely all continue to do an impressive 20 jumping jacks and 10 sit-ups before bed. Right? Right.

The fashion show was an exciting time for me until I watched¬†The Social Network and learned that the founder of VS committed suicide because he thought that his company, which now produces bras with a greater value than my house, would fail. Now it’s just depressing. It’s¬†especially depressing because it also pulls a trigger that causes thousands of teenaged (and not-so teenaged) girls struggling with body image to give a public cry for help. The fashion show prompts the immediate overload of a Facebook estrogen presence. “Why don’t I look like that?” (which usually looks more like “y dont i looookkk likkkeee thttt ughh fml :/”) along with a million other self-hating statuses go up for the world to see. This year, it was ALL about the cover photo switch to a feature of the models wearing bras made out of gold and other flakey metals.

The fashion show is an interesting concept–yes, these models are not “typical” or “accurate” representations of women, but should it get to the point where we cannot handle watching them? A while ago I wrote about the controversy of plus-sized models. It turns out¬†there’s just as much controversy about coke-thin models. You shouldn’t be at a point where you can’t bear to watch the show because it makes you feel shitty about who you are. At the same time, you also shouldn’t watch the show and obsess about these women as body role models you strive to become.

If the show does get you down, which is totally normal, think about these things:

1. BOYS LIKE BUTTS. I promise.

2. If you don’t have a butt, boys will still like you. BECAUSE BOYS LIKE GIRLS WITH ACTUAL PERSONALITIES. AND BOOBS. (just kidding) (well, kinda kidding)

3. Buy yourself an overpriced ridiculously bedazzled push up bra. No, not because boys like boobs. Buy one so that you can walk up to one of the models and say, “OMG, twinsies!!!!!!!” or “GET ON MY LEVEL, BITCH.” I’m a personal fan of option two.

Image via. 


On What Guys Really Think About What We Really Think

For the past year, I’ve been trying to learn through The FYD. I want to bring up things we accept as normal into question. I wonder why we, as millennials, do the things we do. But eventually, I’ve come to realize and accept that I can write for a thousand years and still never completely understand one thing: the mind of a guy. Tons of magazines, websites, and publications with a female-targeted audience have columns written by men to try and help women figure out what really goes on behind the six packs, the sideburns, and the sex. However, I still feel like “Jared, a college student from Florida!” or “Brian, in his second year of law school!” just aren’t doing it for me. I don’t know Jared, I don’t know Brian, and what both of them (along with the hundreds of other guys who write for girls) state in their pieces is typically predictable.¬†

Enter a new flavor of The Fro-Yo Diairies: “Douche de Leche,” 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. I’m not telling them what to say (though I will edit for grammatical errors, obviously I’m too type-A to let that slide) and I’m not telling them how to say it.¬†

douche de leche

Now, I present to you, the first installment of Douche de Leche… enjoy.¬†

Women always think men have these “thoughts” about them. But when I take a step back, the first thing I think about women is the ridiculousness of what they think I’m thinking. Here’s a list of things I find hilarious about women and their most common misconceptions:

1. GIRLS & THEIR HAIR¬†When girls think guys care about their hair. I’m twisted already, do you really think I’m gonna give a shit if your hair is in front of your shoulders or behind? Just don’t shave that shit and it’s all good.

2. GIRLS & DANCING¬†When a girl thinks a guy thinks it’s all good if she doesn’t know how to dance. Guys rage with their homies and raging is fun. But then when I’m dancing, I’m trying to get with you, and it’s just a huge bust if you can’t dance. A shitty dancer and a rager is probably the worst recipe known to mankind.

3. GIRLS BEING FUNNY¬†Girls think that they need to be hilarious for guys to want to be around them. You know, I’d love a funny girl, but you know what I hate? A not funny girl who tries to be funny. If a girl cracks a joke and it’s hilarious, then they probably are amazing. On the other hand, if she makes the joke in the center of a circle that was expecting a funny joke, all she did was let me down. My night is practically ruined. If she didn’t pay for my cab home, I’d take a dump on her doorstep.

4. GIRLS PLAYING HARD TO GET¬†Girls always seem to run into this debate of whether they should play hard to get, or be just be slutty and get the deed done. On a serious note, life is going to put you in your place, so just be yourself. You’re going to find someone who, whatever you’re doing, can’t help but come over to you. To all the ladies that don’t think they will: just be patient. There are so many late night snacks made just for you to substitute for a shitty night. Sooner or later you’ll hit the jackpot, and if you don’t, just move out of the country. They have places like Kyrgyzstan for that.

5. GIRLS EATING¬†Girls always seem to stuff their faces either when they’re tripping balls or they’re in a comfortable sober state. Whatever it is, food goes down your throat and to your stomach (and elsewhere). It’s not too visible to us if you overdose on dinner, but it’s definitely enough for you to feel it and then start getting self-conscious. Self-consciousness is like bacon–you smell it from all the way upstairs. Except self-consciousness is like a pure, fatty, nasty ass piece of bacon I’d never eat. Before you go out, either start feeling good about yourself (because you probably look great), or don’t go out at all if it’ll only make you feel worse.

6. GIRLS & FACEBOOK¬†Girls and Facebook, holy mother****** shit. If there was one thing that really couldn’t matter in this world, its whether you give the kiss face or the other face that definitely doesn’t have a name. Look, if you want to know the truth, the profile pictures are where we’re looking. If guys wanna show someone this hot girl, they don’t say, “Dude, let me show you the 3,000,000 pictures this girl is tagged in.” Instead, it’s more like, “Let me see the most beautiful pictures she has,” which are usually the profile pictures. So ladies, just relax. Your night isn’t over if you take one picture where it looks like you just got punched in the face. It’s all good, don’t worry. Seriously, it’s all good.

Afterward: The author of this piece was very excited to be featured on The FYD and wanted me to share this–I love you all, everybody that reads this, I can’t explain over the internet, but just know that I really do love you all.¬†In other news, guys are insane.¬†


Flavor of the Week: The Jonas Brothers

joejonas

You may have seen it, you may not have, but Joe Jonas spilled all of his dirty little secrets in a killer essay published in New York Magazine. With all of the hubbub surrounding Mr. Jonas and his artsy choice of facial hair, I thought it would be nice to throw it back to the Jonas Brothers. At one point or another, you loved them.

They had such an interesting family dynamic. You had Nick, who was the cutest and the youngest. He seemed like a wise, old soul who was inevitably the brains behind the operation. There was Joe, who was absolutely gorgeous but lacked a certain depth I was really seeking out in a teenaged male pop star to fall in love with. Then there was Kevin. Ah, Kevin. He smiled with his mouth closed a lot, nodded his head often, and wasn’t… well… hot. And I respected him for that. I’m not going to say he was my favorite Jonas just because that would be the alternative thing to do, because he wasn’t. But he seemed like a genuinely nice guy.

I was never obsessed with the Jonas Brothers nor was I ever obsessed with any boy band. I think that ability to obsesses is either something you have in your system, or you something you don’t. Every girl I know that was obsessed with the Jonas Brothers had also been obsessed with a million other Disney stars at some point in her life. And when I say obsessed, I mean obsessed. I try to understand how someone else’s life can be¬†that interesting. Why is it that we attach ourselves to people we’ll never really know? There are the obvious excuses–we’re bored, we don’t like ourselves, we don’t like the lives we choose to lead, etc. I feel like there must be something bigger than that, though. Human fascination with other humans is just as troubling as human fascination with crazy things like aliens and killer whales… and the Jonas Brothers.

When the JoBros broke up, they had already fizzled out. While it was sad to the die-hards in my generation, it didn’t mean much to society. They had their peak, they did their thing. And let me tell you, Joe Jonas went out as gracefully as ever. Though his piece is long, it’s worth reading every word. He’s brutally honest in a way that sort-of shattered my view of the Disney star and sort-of was exactly what I needed to hear. As I submerged myself in his words about losing his virginity (but what about the promise rings?????!!!!!) and smoking weed with Miley (every current teenager’s dream come true), I realized that along with Joe Jonas, a chapter of my life had also closed. He’s growing up, and we are too. Farewell, JoBros.


On Tradition

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone. Yet again, I start the long weekend eating a stuffed turkey and end it feeling like one. I‚Äôll just rely on two of my all-time favorite mottos: ‚ÄúWhatever‚ÄĚ and ‚ÄúThe diet starts tomorrow.‚Ä̬†Though it would be easy to write about Thanksgiving food, I also find that somewhat nauseating. So instead, I‚Äôm going to write about tradition.

Tradition is something that we, as humans, admittedly celebrate but underratedly infatuate ourselves with. When I hear the word, I think of family. For the majority of my life, my family has prided itself in tradition, as I’m sure everyone else’s has, too. I always felt like the nature of our traditions was better than everyone else’s. In the most obnoxious way, I’ve always assumed that our traditions were more, well, traditional.

Once upon a time, I wrote a piece for @JewBoyProblem’s blog, Found at Bubbe’s, about the importance of a nicely set table to my family. In it, I spoke of my grandma’s need to use her fine china as often as possible. It shaped me into a dining snob. If I go elsewhere for a holiday/special meal, and we’re eating on plastic… forget about it. This example of FYD-fam tradition, along with dozens of others, gave me a feeling that my family was special. We have other traditions that weren’t as fancy, don’t get me wrong. But, then again, we really love our china.

As I‚Äôve gotten older, I‚Äôve started to take notice of little ways tradition intertwines itself into our lives that aren’t as obvious as those displayed at a Thanksgiving meal. I finally understand that different traditions‚ÄĒlike the generations-old one in my family where you must put butter on your nose on your birthday‚ÄĒdo not have to be annoying and/or acne inducing. They don‚Äôt have to be weird or embarrassing, either. Tradition has become a feeling that we subconsciously cling to.

Recently, I was having a conversation with someone about the Greek life scene at different schools. ‚ÄúYou know,‚ÄĚ she said to me, ‚Äúit‚Äôs for people who like that whole tradition-y atmosphere.‚ÄĚ For some reason, that struck me as incredibly interesting. I had never before thought about a sorority or a fraternity as being ‚Äútradition-y.‚ÄĚ If anything, it seems like more mupload-y. You know, like who can mupload the most amount of photos from the most unique and flattering angles of all the food your big got you? Or who can capture us dancing on eleven different elevated surfaces? To be fair, I thought of Greek life as ‚Äúcampy‚ÄĚ because your sorority sisters are the closest to your camp friends you‚Äôll ever get. I went to sleepaway camp for seven summers and basked in its traditions. My camp was all-girls, uniform, and incredibly strict. Because of these traditions, I became a better person. Camp was something my mom had done (we actually went to the same camp) and my grandma had done. My family had camp in its traditions, and my camp was traditional. Therefore, camp = tradition of all sorts.

So if Greek life is campy, and campy is tradition-y, then I guess Greek life is tradition-y. I never thought I’d be saying this, but I suppose I am because traditions evolve. Whether sisterhood blossoms by wearing bathing caps and one-pieces in a freezing lake (like it did for me) or by dedicating yourself to a group of girls for four years of your life, it sticks. This is the magic of tradition.

My only hesitancy to modern tradition‚ÄĒtradition that leaks out of decorated paddles and camp songs‚ÄĒis that it doesn‚Äôt seem as special as china set on the dining room table. It also seems to lack the individualism that I usually seek. The hardest part about tradition is deciding when it‚Äôs time to change‚Ķ when it‚Äôs time to start having Thursday dinner at a Mexican restaurant rather than an Italian one or when you‚Äôve gotta choose between having your Thanksgiving meal with Mom‚Äôs side of the fam or with Dad‚Äôs. I think we have to realize that ending a tradition to do your own thing isn‚Äôt bad. It‚Äôs just, well, different.


Flavor of the Week: Thanksgivukkah

I effing love this

I effing love this

First, take note: my laptop does not spell check “Thanksgivukkah.” This holiday shan’t be red squiggly lined. It’s for real, people.

For a curvy Jewish girl/all-American like me, Thanksgivukkah is the best thing to ever happen. I get to eat until I vomit, and once I vomit all over my clothes, I’ll be gifted a new shirt to change into. How clutch is that? It’s like god is repenting me for my sins and giving me a soft cushion to land my fat ass on… do I sense a lil bit of Yom Kippur thrown in here?

If you’re still confused, Thanksgivukkah = Thankgiving + Hanukkah Hannahkkah, both of which happen to fall on the same day this year. It’s like a more generic and Judaically acceptable Chrismukkah. All in favor of an OC reunion to shoot a Thanksgivukkah episode, say “Shalom.” SHALOM, BITCHES.

The irony of Thanksgivukkah is that we have to be thankful for things like family, Buzzfeed as a news source, tempur pedic pillows, frozen yogurt, and our waxing ladies while at the same time allowing ourselves to be spoiled by aunts, uncles, grandparents, parents, and, if you’re lucky, significant others.

A lot of people are literally trying to combine Thanksgiving and Hanukkah by making latke-flavored turkey stuffing or baking gelt-bottomed pumpkin pie. Here are some creative ways I recommend for combining two of my all-time fav holidays:

  • Buy a pet turkey and bobby pin a kippah to its head. Don’t worry about having a wild turkey in your home, it’s totally kosher. Just have it chill with your dog or something.
  • Stuff your turkey (your dinner turkey, not your pet turkey) with Free People gift cards for the whole family to enjoy. This is also known as the low carb option.
  • Only serve Manischewitz. Then again, you should always only serve Manischewitz.
  • Dress code required: come as a pilgrim, a Native American, or a rabbi (with payis).
  • Only cook with butter, because obvi, there’s barely any oil left.
  • Serve pumpkin fro-yo. It’s the perfect combo of “Thanksgiving festive” and “Jewish girl swag.”
  • I’ve mentioned this before, but wear your tallit as a scarf. I’m really into this these days.
  • Use menorahs as mood lighting. It’ll be the chicest Thanksgiving ever.
  • Go in a circle and have everyone say which Judaism-associated sorority or fraternity they are thankful for.
  • Set a place at your table for Elijah. I know, I know, he’s the guy from Passover, but Elijah references in every day life make everything seem more Jewish.

Happy Thanksgivukkah! Don’t forget to hit up the black Friday sales, because every Jew would want you to celebrate a national holiday with a good bargain.

Image via. 


On Concert Etiquette

Going to concerts has always been and will always be a huge part of my life. I’ve seen over sixty, and that’s not counting the dozens of shows at the small indie venue my extended family used to own. My dad was a Deadhead and won my mom over by picking up her righty acoustic guitar, flipping it upside down (he was a lefty), and serenading her in her college apartment. Without music, there’s a legitimate chance I wouldn’t even be here right now.

That being said, I figured it was time I did a post on concerts. I was having a lot of trouble deciding which angle I should take because the wealth of information I could share about shows is enough to fill my first book. After some hefty brainstorming and a hefty hangover, I came up with an idea. This week, I wanted to do things a little differently.

Last night, I went to Kanye West at Madison Square Garden. It was nothing short of a religious experience. This nice Jewish girl is now a firm believer that Jesus–rather, Yeezus–walks (metaphorically, of course… don’t fret, Rabbi). Since I’ve been to so many shows in the first quarter of my life, I’ve become accustomed to creating the perfect concert-going experience. My night with Kanye was¬†perfect. But I wondered… if FYDers were in my shoes, what would they do? I sent out a little Google survey to everyone I knew and had as many people as possible anonymously fill out answers to a few questions I conjured up. First, I’m going to list you the questions followed by my fav reader responses. Then, I’ll answer the questions from my POV, revealing how shit actually went down last night. Look at me, blogging on the edge. Trippy.

"I just talked to Jesus, he said whaddup fro-yo" --Kanye West, I Am A God

“I just talked to Jesus, he said whaddup fro-yo” –Kanye West, I Am A God

1.¬†I’m going to a Kanye West concert. What should I wear/how should I look?
“HOT! look like Kim K he likes that” –female, 18
“All black, everything. Very chic, but then again, you are going to be surrounded by thousands of people that all think Kanye is next coming of Christ, so what you wear won’t really matter, cuz no one will notice.” –female, 18
“jeans converse tee” –female, 18 [This made me LOL]
“jeans, comfortable but cool heeled boots, dark top, leather jacket” –female, 18
“You know how much I love that fur vest…” –supposedly female, 18, but I think this is actually my mom
And the best response… “I dont know i wouldnt go to a kanye west concert. I would however know what to where to a zac brown band concert. A cowboy hat” –male, 19

2. Should I go to the concert intoxicated?
“YESSS DUH” –female, 18
“intoxicated with alcohol? no. should you be fucked up on molly? yes.” –female, 18
“yes kayne sucks so being drunk would make it better” –female, 18 [Kanye doesn’t suck, anon 18 year old female]
“Maybe a little” –female, 18
And the best response…¬†“intoxicated is a strong word. Do whatever you feel the need to do to enjoy yourself, whether that includes alcohol or not.” –female, 18

3. Should I go to the concert intoxicated?
Yes, I repeated the same question twice. It’s because I went to the concert intoxicated. Just kidding, it’s because I don’t know how to make a Google survey.

4.¬†If I haven’t bought my tickets yet, where should I sit or stand? Why?
“In close enough proximity to snap a quality insta pic, but not close enough to be spending absurd amounts of money for that ticket.” –female, 18 [Whoever you are, I love you]
“Stand because who wants to sit down when they’re drunk?” –female, 18
“where you can breath and DANCE DUH” –female, 18, who can’t spell breathe
“????? How are you there without a ticket?” –female, 18, who likes question marks
And the best response…¬†“sit. on stage. because.” –female, 18

5.¬†HELP! I don’t know any of the words. What should I do???¬†
“i dont know how to respond to this” –male, 19
“You have plenty of time to memorize that shit. Worst case scenario, if you sing “watermelon” over and over it looks like you know all the words to everything.” –female, 18
“like right now this very second? you’re at the concert and you don’t know words? lol why. why would you go to a concert you don’t know the words to the songs to. um if it really matters that much to you, look it up on your phone? i’d just try to relax and enjoy the moment and dance or something. no point in trying to memorize the words now.” –female, 17, oh wow
“scream” –female, 18
And the best response…¬†“vomit everywhere. no one will question you for not singing along” –female, 18

6.¬†How should I go about making “concert friends?” How much true personal info should I give my “concert friends?”¬†
“oh lol i don’t know” –female, 17
“you dont make concert friends, just dance with random people” –female, 18
“not a lot just get stoned with them” –male, 19
And the best response…¬†“do molly. no personal info, but do have sex with them.” –female, 18

7. What should I do if I get lost and my phone died? 
“Memorize the number of someone you are going to the concert with. That way, you can always call someone (or your mom).” –female, 18, but I really think it’s my mom
“Ask one of your concert friends to borrow their phone duh” –female, 17
“Borrow a normal looking person’s phone and call the really cute boy you’re obviously with.” –female, 18, YESSSS
“Cry and wander around and cry some more!” –female, 18
“pray” –female, 18
And the best response…¬†“ask kanye for a charger” –female, 18

Now, here’s how it all happened frealz:

1.¬†I’m going to a Kanye West concert. What should I wear/how should I look?
This girl nailed it: “jeans, comfortable but cool heeled boots, dark top, leather jacket” –female, 18. I wore black silk harem pants, suede heeled booties, a black bustier, and a moto jacket. All black everything. Always.

2. Should I go to the concert intoxicated?

3. Should I go to the concert intoxicated? 
Still hangin’ out up there.

4.¬†If I haven’t bought my tickets yet, where should I sit or stand? Why?¬†
When you’re going to see someone like Yeezy, it’s GA or die. No brainer. Usually, it’s GA or die.

5.¬†HELP! I don’t know any of the words. What should I do???
I happen to be wildly infatuated with Yeezus so I knew every word to every song. But if you don’t, just dance a lot and flaunt your tacky neon concert outfit.

6.¬†How should I go about making “concert friends?” How much true personal info should I give my “concert friends?”¬†
How am I supposed to go about making concert friends if I’m too antisocial to make real friends? But when I do make concert friends, I sometimes tell them my name is Darcy. Don’t really know why.

7. What should I do if I get lost and my phone died? 
I didn’t get lost but my phone did die right after I ordered an Uber home (ugh). Then I tried to use a payphone and finally gave up on it after my seventh try–so millennial of me. Then I cried a little and took the last bus home. The end.
 


Flavor of the Week: FYD Does Art History 101

Before I decided I wanted to become Carrie Bradshaw a writer, I wanted to be an artist. First, I had an infatuation with the idea of being a marine biologist photographer for NatGeo. This seed was planted in my head when I was but a decade old, and all I wanted to do with my life was hang out with manatees and take cool photos. In middle school, I shyed away from marine biology and leaned toward rock n’ roll. I wanted to photograph trendy shit, like fashion and famous people wearing weird outfits (or, rather, no outfits). My most recent obsession has been in film, not that I’m handy with a video camera whatsoever. In high school I took up acrylic painting on canvas. Now I have a sick DSLR, a beautiful easel, pallet, brushes, and paint set, and an Instagram (Insta covers the trendy photog shit). But, unfortunately, I stopped thinking like an artist and started writing like a yenta.

Since I discovered that I’m really born to write, I haven’t had as much time to paint, swim with sea animals, or to even charge my Nikon. I thought it would be great to take a trip down memory lane and reeducate myself. After all, a huge part of being trendy is remaining culturally in tact with the artistic community. I have this good friend, Juliette Hayt, who is the most talented chick I’ve ever met. She uses oil, watercolor, and arcylic paint and then inks and pens for illustration. Juliette claims that her dark/surreal subject matter doesn’t reflect her as a person and that it all comes from her subconscious. OK, Jules, that’s like me claiming I dressed up as Wednesday Addams for Halloween just “because I felt like it” and not because she’s actually my alter-ego.

It's funny that people think this isn't my face naturally

It’s funny that people think this isn’t my face naturally

What I decided to do for this week’s flavor is to take some of the coolest shit Juliette’s made and then analyze it through an FYDer’s point of view. Enjoy!

"The Meltdown"

“The Meltdown”

This is an example of a dystopian society in which Jewish women around the world have eaten so much fro-yo that their bodies are starting to melt. Eventually, everyone’s body will be a puddle of fro-yo. The women Juliette featured were once big fans of the mango and pistachio flavors.

This is an edgy representation of one of my favorite movie scenes of all time:

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This piece represents the horrors that ensue when boys speak their opinions as well as the complex of the egotistical man. More specifically, it dives deep into what happens when you’re at a liberal arts college and on some sort of hallucinogenic drug and a boy makes a sexist comment. The braces are a strong symbol for how boys think their opinions are more important than ours, but, like braces, they are really just ugly and probably not worth what you paid for them.

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This is what happens when girls waste their calories on carbs instead of fro-yo. We become green monsters and not even keratin will fix our hair once it’s turned into spaghetti. These girls were clearly once very trendy because they are wearing baggy, vintage t-shirts with slogans like “yum” and a mustache on them. They also have crazy thigh gaps. The moral being portrayed here is “don’t be spaghetti, and also get keratin.”

Thanks for joining me for a great lesson in Art History 101. Also, props to my girl Juliette for letting my borrow her unbelievable artwork. I only aspire to be as artsy as you are. Click here for her site and check her out on Insta @juliette_hayt.

On Long Distance Relationships

I have always wanted to be a guru of something. I’ve attempted many times, going through a guru of Polly Pockets phrase, guru of Dalmatians phase (don’t ask), guru of tye dye Soffe shorts phase, guru of anxiety phase, and even a guru of haiku phase. I finally feel like I’m a guru of something, though it’s something I neither imagined I would be a guru of nor one I ever wanted to be. Unfortunately, I am a guru at long distance relationships.

haha same

haha same

Being a guru of long distance relationships is really tough work. Ideally, I would have an ashram located in a TriBeCa loft space where teenaged girls wearing a strict uniform of bare feet, Lulu Lemon leggings, and vintage Grateful Dead t-shirts would come with the two most essential things in life (tissues and yoga mats). Then, we would sit in prayer circles and I would offer words of wisdom about topics like “She’s Not Just His Best Friend, She Wants His D,” “Obsessive Facebook Stalking Is A Disease,” and “Don’t Let Him Manipulate You, You Got This In The Bag Girlfriend!” Of course, I can’t afford the ashram just yet so for now I have a small group of Instagram followers that had a mild infatuation with my fairytale-esque relationship while it still existed.

I was in a full fledged LDR for seven months. Then, like everything else eventually does, it ended. Because of my obsession with cynical millennial-oriented thought-piece websites, I’ve read tons and tons of posts about LDRs. To my surprise, they seem to be a really popular topic. This is probably because writers like to tell the world about their failures in love. Clearly, it provides good material. I’ve read pro-LDR pieces and anti-ones. To be honest, most of them say that these relationships aren’t worth it. To be even more honest, I have to agree.

There is a strong argument in favor of long distance relationships: if you really “love” one person, and if you see a potential future with that person, then distance shouldn’t change the way you feel about them. But I didn’t stop loving my boyfriend because he was far away. Things changed because we did, and we changed because we are human. He probably claims I changed because I’m a bitch, but whatever.

I’m not anti-long distance, don’t get me wrong. If you can do it, then you should. But there is a serious problem in long distance relationships and it’s that people forget to put themselves first. Call me selfish, sure. But your relationship shouldn’t turn into an extracurricular activity. You need to do you. You can also do each other, but you primarily need to do you.

People keep writing about the crucial parts of a long distance relationship–talking every day, trusting each other. They say that when a long distance relationship fails, it’s because you’re missing one of these ingredients as if your love life can be written down in a cookbook and made by following a recipe. All of these clich√© writers are neglecting to highlight¬†happiness. LDRs have a tendency to break someone’s heart in half and then hold one piece hostage a thousand miles away. You deserve to have your whole heart, all of the time. You deserve to have¬†you. My LDR didn’t end because I couldn’t deal with the four hour bus ride or because I wanted to be with other people. It was because I needed to have myself and my whole self to do what I wanted. We deserve to feel OK by ourselves because we’re fucking awesome.

Recently, my ex-boyfriend gave me a digital shout out, so I thought that it would only be fair to return the gesture. There was a lot of talk about my break up. Haters gonna hate, but what it comes down to is that my long distance relationship just didn’t work.

On long distance relationships, in summary: life is going to happen, so maybe we should let it. 

Image via. 


Flavor of the Week: Being Sick

Being sick right now is like rolling deep at E-Zoo. Everyone’s doing it.

My sickness started the first night of Halloweek. For the first time in my life, I completely lost my voice. Usually when people lose their voices, I assume they’re faking it to try and sound “hot.” Apparently guys like it when our voice resembles theirs via 2008. So the second I hear someone complain about a lost voice (which they probably do just to show off their faux-rasp), I never hesitate to ask, “Have you tried coughing to fix that?” or, “You could probs just cough and that’ll go right away!” It’s really rude, I know, but being sick is much chicer than faking sick. Faking sick is too much effort. It’s better to just not be sick at all.

There are pros and cons to being sick. When I went home from school for fall break, I went on a psycho eating binge that wasn’t like “ugh, I had fro-yo thrice in one day” but was scary and revealed a lot about the unconscious association I have between food and home. Before I get all I-went-through-seven-years-of-therapy on you, I’ll get to the point–I literally ate myself into sickness. You don’t wanna know the gory details, but I was¬†sick. Like,¬†sick.¬†The con this time around was that I almost shit my pants at a petting zoo (long story). The pro was that I lost two pounds when I should have gained five. Yay.

Mono is a sickness with tons of pros i.e. you don’t have to get out of bed for months and have an excuse as to why you physically are incapable of working out. If you have mono, everyone knows you get guys. It’s like a less slutty and more desirable form of HPV. One of my best friends (who is prominently featured on The FYD for her Big 10 prof pic) says that everyone at Michigan has mono right now. A.K.A., everyone at Michigan is sexually active right now but using protection (if they didn’t, they would have something else). This is so great to hear.

For me, being sick is an excuse not to go out. At the same time, I look like I’m such a partier that my body is degenerating. Last Saturday, I didn’t go out because I had a cold that was probably a hybrid strain of the Bubonic plague and Yellow Fever. Instead, I lied in bed with cranberry almond trail mix and fro-yo while two of my best friends sat on my carpet and told me funny stories about things like their IBS kicking in during a morning-after (another illness FTW).

Being sick really isn’t so bad after all. Honestly, if you’re gonna be popping Advil on the daily, you might as well be sick when you do. It’s good karma.

Image via. 


On What Your Profile Picture Says About You

As an avid reader from an early age, I was always told to “never judge a book by its cover.” Years and years have passed, and we’ve gone from judging books by their covers to judging girls on their cover photos. The importance of an AIM icon has transposed itself to the importance of a Facebook profile picture. And if “a picture says 1,000 words” then we’ve all got books as long as the bible to read… the 3,564 photos you have tagged of yourself in a story 3,564,000 words long. I was once told in conversation with a professional writer that you do not become a writer until you’ve written 1,000,000 words. I guess we’re all writers now… three times through, anyway.

What I’m trying to get at is that your prof pic says a lot about you. And if you think that this statement is disputable, go ask your best home friend’s camp friend’s best college friend’s camp friend how she knows what you look like. I dare you.

Here’s who you are as defined by your pro pic. Yes, I am stereotyping you.

The solo shot.¬†The solo shot is either something you¬†do¬†or something you¬†don’t. A girl that sets a solo shot as her prof generally feels really comfortable doing so. If you’re a solo shot girl, you’re confident. Potentially a leader more than a follower. The real question here is: how did this you get that solo shot? Why would someone be taking a photo of just you, alone? Two potential answers: you asked your friend to take this solo shot, or your friend has a lesbian crush on you. Either way, really.

The tailgate.¬†You’re decked out in Big 10 apparel, sipping on your cup of beer or, if you’re a true betch, holding your ominous liquid in a Vitamin Water Zero bottle. If you’re on a roof, you’re a party animal. If you’re not, you’re still just a fun gal looking to have a good time. Also, you go to a Big 10 school. And you go to a Big 10 school. Did I mention that you go to a Big 10 school?

Couldn't help but not blur out the face tats

Couldn’t help but not blur out the face tats

The boyfriend. You’re in a serious relationship, and your boyfriend is hot. If it wasn’t or if he weren’t, it wouldn’t be worth sharing your Facebook identify with him. If you have a serious boyfriend and you’re pro pic isn’t one of the two of you, then do you really have a serious boyfriend at all?

One from my own personal collection

One from my own personal collection

The camp.¬†You’re a nice Jewish girl, and that’s about it. Just kidding. There are two varieties of campy pro pics:¬†310213_2479434102606_1614303645_n

¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬†-With little girls/your bunk. You’re super maternal and caring. You love getting down in the dirt and caring for “your girls.” Watching a guy play with a baby is like Facebook stalking a girl whose profile picture is one of her with her little campers. You must be cute and lovable. Oh, you must.

¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬†-With friends. You’re wearing your Nike running shorts and white Hanes v-neck like a boss. Oh, wait, were you color war captain? You were a GENERAL!!!!???? No way!!!!!! You must be the SHIT!!!!

The party pic. You’re always looking your best in these because you spend at least half an hour working on the shading of your eyeshadow. You’re pretty and you like to have a good time. You’re also capable of keeping your shit together on a Saturday night, which is respectable for sure… especially because it seems like most of us can’t accomplish that, nowadays.

The birthday bitch.¬†You’re not just¬†a birthday bitch, you’re¬†the birthday bitch. For some reason, girls always look great blowing out candles, staring at a birthday cake, or wearing a sash or a tiara. It comes naturally to us to be viewed as royalty.

My current pro pic... kk

My current pro pic… kk

The Halloween.¬†Halloween is the only time that a girl can get away with making her pro pic equal to a porn photo shoot. You clearly want us to see your bod, and you know that this is the only socially legal way to do so. Maybe you’re not this type–maybe your costume was just really creative. In that case, mazels. Try art school.

The broad-goes-abroad.¬†You’re so cultured and well-traveled. You love to take adventures and also pose with a bunch of locks or maybe some giant letters. Because, hey, who doesn’t?!?!?!?!

The TWC (Third World Country).¬†You’re a Cady Heron wannabe who is trying to balance the “pretty but down to earth” thing. Also, you’re trying to save the world… one Instragram filter at a time.

The “I’m eating at a cute cafe/restaurant outdoors on a sunny day”.¬†Your life is simple, beautiful, and full of wonder and smiles. You also like to pretend that you’re a living, breathing fashion ad. The photo cries: “Take me out to lunch! I’m beautiful!” (I love this one. It’s chic as hell.)

The Bitchy Beachy Babe.¬†See “The Halloween.”

The seflie. If you make a reference to the fact that your pro pic is a selfie in the caption, then you rock at life in an ironic way. If the photo reminds me of my days as a sixth grader on MySpace, then you need to wear less eyeliner.

Special shout out to all of my babes who let me Facebook-stalk them to the death to find the perfect pro pics. 


Flavor of the Week: Movember

I learned what No Shave November was in high school when every guy I knew slash every Jewish girl who got her lip waxed on the reg decided to grow a ferret on his/her face starting on November the first and ending on November the thirtieth. (Just kidding about the girls, maybe they had some other excuse or something.) These woodland critter-seeming mustaches and sideburns poked their way through the pores of teenaged boys far and wide in what I understood to be an age old tradition used as an excuse to prove that someone had, in fact, finally hit puberty. Only a small handful of people were actually capable of sprouting a full beard back then. Regardless, facial hair made a guest appearance for one month of the year.

These guys shave eleven months for one. Soon, I learned that this tradition would haunt me to college. Oh, yes. No Shave November is definitely a “between the ages of fourteen and twenty five” thing. But this year, for the first time, I heard formerly known No Shave November referred to instead of “Movember.” And my reaction was: WTF is this??????

"30 days have September, April, June, and Movember"

“30 days have September, April, June, and Movember”

When someone says “Movember” I imagined two things: 1) moving trucks, and 2) me someone being like “put some mo’ food on my plate” or “mo’ money mo’ problems.” It turned out that I was COMPLETELY fifty shades of wrong. Not only is Movember a (bad) combination of the words “mustache” and “November,” but it’s a charity event. Who knew?

According to the Movember Foundation, which is also a thing I guess, men are supposed to grow mustaches during the month of November to, and I quote, “change the face of men’s health.” I am really ambivalent about this as a legitimate cause. The Foundation throws “Gala Part√©s” around the world, charging an entry fee (that of which is donated to men’s health causes) and encouraging Movember-related costume contests. So here’s the question we’re all wondering: who comes dressed up as an un-manscaped penis?

And here’s what every girl is thinking: is there any way for me to use this as an excuse to not¬†shave my legs?

Images via and via. 


On Chivalry

Recently, I’ve read a lot of online articles about chivalry. Some argue it’s dead, others argue it isn’t, and many say women are, in fact, the ones who’ve killed it. As someone who believes that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities (and not as someone who doesn’t shave my legs, because I do, or as someone who is an unhygienic man-hater, which I am also not), I consider myself a feminist. But as someone who manipulated her first kiss so that it would be under a streetlight on New Year’s Eve, I also believe in classic romance and knight-in-shining-armor happy endings. Something I’ve struggled with all my life is figuring out where these two important and constant values find their balance.

Is it possible for me to be a feminist that believes in chivalry? Or am I, along with every other girl who was raised on a diet of Disney princess movies, the utmost contradiction?

First, I want to address the claim that chivalry is dead, because it definitely isn’t. It might be hard to find them, but guys who won’t let you open your own car door and pay for all of your meals still exist… they’re just really hard to find. We’re also at the age where girls aren’t looking for someone who is as chivalrous as he is attractive or as he is fun. And if we aren’t demanding it, guys aren’t going to go out of their way to do it. If we give ourselves to them and they don’t need to put in the effort to woo us, then why would they? It makes sense. Perhaps your guy is more chivalrous than you might think… he just hasn’t found his armor yet. He’s been too focused on riding the horse (haha).

When we get older and boys realize that we are god’s gift to planet earth, as we obviously are, maybe things will change. Chances are, actually, they will.

Chivalry is not necessarily degrading to women if it is done right. When it started, it was about the strength of men in comparison to that of women, displaying the qualities they have that we physically do not. I am definitely on the liberal side of most, if not all, social issues. Like, basically 100%. But it bothers me when feminists try to define themselves as feminists by saying that women are just as strong as men, or just as capable of carrying a 50 pound package from the mail room as a man would be. In truth, we are not. It’s simply not how we’re built. Men are made to be stronger, and that is a fact that, upon admittance, does not make me a bad feminist. It makes me someone that doesn’t ignore certain truths that some who refer to themselves as “feminists” often do. He isn’t holding a door open for you because he thinks you can’t do it yourself. He’s holding it open because, historically, and truthfully, it’s probably easier for him to do. Not a big deal.

However, the issue of paying for a woman is something completely different. My ex-boyfriend never let me pay for a single thing, ever. Rarely–and by “rarely” I mean once every couple of months–I was allowed to pay tip at a restaurant, and that was it. Concert tickets were split evenly–the only rule we agreed on. Of course, it’s nice to have someone pay for all of your shit. If one of my girlfriends paid for everything, it would be just as nice. But, in theory, he was making no more money than I was. We were both teenagers using our parents’ credit cards.

Once I started working, my views about this changed. Now, I don’t let guys pay for me. OK, fine, once in a while, I do. But I never let it happen unless I put up a real fight. Sometimes, guys are relentless. I think we have to realize that they aren’t trying to be degrading, and they aren’t trying to prove they are more powerful–fiscally or physically–than we are in any way, shape, or form. They’re just using a centuries-old tradition to show us that they’re worth it. Think of it this way: they feel like they have to prove something to you. They are men, not boys. Maybe we should take it as a compliment. Maybe I’m a shitty feminist. Thoughts?


Flavor of the Week: Halloween

This post is dedicated to my grandma, who loved Halloween... wish you were still here to ride around on a broom with me, Gee!!!

This is based on me and my grandma, we used to ride around on a broom together

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”)…

Me starring in "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" as "The Pumpkin"

Me starring in “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” as “The Pumpkin”

A jester, not my most creative look

A jester. Mom, we could’ve done better that year.

This may or may not have been taken for Halloween... I don't know, I liked to dress up as a cow girl a LOT apparently

This may or may not have been taken for Halloween… I don’t know, I liked to dress up as a cow girl a LOT apparently

This was when I went through that phase where I was OBSESSED with the fact that I had the same initials as Harry Potter, as you can probably tell by my whole "look"

This was when I went through that phase where I was OBSESSED with the fact that I have the same initials as Harry Potter, as you can probably tell by my whole “look”

Haha lol

Haha lol

Lastly, me dressing up as a Real Housewife of New York City

Lastly, me dressing up as a Real Housewife of New York City

Happy Halloween! Eat fro-yo, not candy! (JK LOL, eat candy. Lots of it.)


On FOMO

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.