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?

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… 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!

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.

On Airplanes


Traveling is odd. People find discomfort in being picked up and reshuffled far away from their cats and their refrigerators. If they aren’t having Woody Allen-type anxiety, however, they feel freedom from traveling. I used to have a terrible fear of planes, but not because of the planes themselves. Rather, it was the idea behind them and the events that could take place upon them. Though a “thing” and the “ideas behind it” seem inseparable, they are not.

I was never afraid that the plane I was on would crash and burn. Nor was I afraid of landing on a desert island, regretting leaving my teddy bear and blankie at home because now, I would be stuck for a lifetime without them. I never did well in times of transition, and perhaps traveling was, for me, a transition. Though temporary, I was moving from one place to another. Change never bothered me much, but transition did. The in-between from where you were and where you’re going to be was terrifying.

Once, I took a trip to Florida with my uncle and my cousins. Beforehand, I was scared shitless of the 3 hour flight and the Fountain Bleu that awaited me in Miami. A week before the vacation, I was speaking with a friend who was flying to Canada alone. “Why are you so scared?” she asked. I told her I didn’t really know, I was just naturally an anxious person about everything. “Airplanes relax me,” she said too enthusiastically. “I just think about how I’m going to somewhere better, and it’s all good.” I’ll never forget that conversation. She made it look so easy. When I spent the entire flight from Newark to Miami clutching my cousin’s thigh in a death grip, I realized it wasn’t. That vacation, I was too anxious to eat anything besides Piña Coladas, which naturally made me incredibly sick, inducing my anxiety even more.

I’m no longer afraid of flying. Now, I fly alone, and I actually enjoy it. Humans are creatures of habit, and so the same thoughts run through my mind every time I fly (actually, I have a conversation with myself… seriously):

Sitting in my seat, directly before take off: They say that that planes are most likely to crash in the first five minutes during take off or during the last five minutes during landing.

During the flight: No turbulence, so no vomit. We are in the clear.

During descent: They say that that planes are most likely to crash in the first five minutes during take off or during the last five minutes during landing.

Somewhere in between Thought Processes 1 and 2 I let the most terrifying thought of them all slip through my mind–worse than projectile vomit in a contained space, worse than a smelly person sleeping on my shoulder, and worse than dropping 300 feet in 2 seconds. I don’t think people are afraid of the mechanics of an airplane as much as they are the concept of one. The permanence freaks the shit out of me again and again and again. There’s no escape and there’s no turning back. There’s nowhere to go.

Then I realize that there is, in fact, somewhere to go. And, of course, I am going there. I am getting there. There’s no turning back, but I’m getting somewhere else instead. When I really thought about it once, I realized the funniest thing. Isn’t that just another way of explaining life?

Image via

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.

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.

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’ll just rely on two of my all-time favorite mottos: “Whatever” and “The diet starts tomorrow.” Though it would be easy to write about Thanksgiving food, I also find that somewhat nauseating. So instead, I’m 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’ve gotten older, I’ve 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—like the generations-old one in my family where you must put butter on your nose on your birthday—do not have to be annoying and/or acne inducing. They don’t 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. “You know,” she said to me, “it’s for people who like that whole tradition-y atmosphere.” For some reason, that struck me as incredibly interesting. I had never before thought about a sorority or a fraternity as being “tradition-y.” 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 “campy” because your sorority sisters are the closest to your camp friends you’ll 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—tradition that leaks out of decorated paddles and camp songs—is that it doesn’t 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’s time to change… when it’s time to start having Thursday dinner at a Mexican restaurant rather than an Italian one or when you’ve gotta choose between having your Thanksgiving meal with Mom’s side of the fam or with Dad’s. I think we have to realize that ending a tradition to do your own thing isn’t bad. It’s just, well, different.

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.


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 workI’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.

On Nostalgia

My childhood teddy bear with inappropriate paraphernalia via my friends

My childhood teddy bear with inappropriate paraphernalia via my friends

It is only so fitting that a weekend spent home in stereotypical suburbia would induce a post on nothing other than good ol’ nostalgia. I’m neither old nor poor enough (yet) to have a real understanding of what it’s like to miss things like being young, waving my prepubescent brother off to recreational soccer practice on a crisp fall afternoon, or hearing the never-ending hum of my teenaged brother’s shitty Windows laptop (a hand-me-down from moi) as he grunts in dissatisfaction at Dungeons and Dragons (or whatever games he plays on there). To my misfortune, all of the above is yet to change. Actually, it all happened this morning. But it’s still weird to be back in my hometown for the first time in a long time. It sort of feels like I never left. Then again, it sort of feels like I never lived here at all.

Nostalgia is a feeling–it is an emotion or a way of thought. Similarly to the way I’m Shmacked turned the intoxicated state of mind into what they call “a movement,” nostalgia took those “remember when…” thoughts and turned them into an even bigger movement, but a slightly less obnoxious one. Nostalgia has become laced like a bad drug into many aspects of our everyday lives. Yet, we keep smoking life by the pound and barely realize the affect that the past has on us. “Throwback Thursdays”? My relentless need to wear ankle socks with tennis sneakers? Overalls, overalls, and more overalls? The past isn’t just ever-lingering… it’s fucking trendy.

Trendy then...

Trendy then…

Selfie now?

Trendy Selfie now?


I was one of the kids that waited my entire life to grow up. I used to try and manipulate the game of MASH so that I would get the life that I wanted. In elementary school I knew where I wanted to go to college, what job I wanted to pursue, where I wanted to live, and how many kids I wanted to have (none of these opinions have changed, literally). My wedding plans are already a decade old, at least. I knew in kindergarten who I wanted to marry, too. And although that changed by the time I hit seventh grade, I still consistently had someone I wanted to–no, I was going to–marry. My best friends consider one of my defining characteristics to be my necessity for pre-planned baby names. Once, someone asked me about my future husband’s opinions, or any relatives of his that he would want to name our children after. My response: “What opinions?”

At the same time, someone like me who has always been so eager to grow up was also so eager to wear a “spin-spin” dress every day to school as a sixteen-year-old and cry for someone to tickle my back whenever I didn’t feel 100%. I am also, obviously, a huge fan of the #tbt. My favorite game is “remember when?” which is a game I made up where, basically, the rules involve one person saying “Remember when…” followed by a funny memory that happened in the recent past. It also has to be ironic in the sense that of course everyone remembers when it happened because it happened so recently, but you had to ask just to make sure anyway.

We could be so obsessed with the past because of the obvious reasons: we miss it, there is an inner child in all of us, it’s fun to dress up as a slutty 90’s Mary Kate and Ashley for Halloween, etc. etc. etc. But it isn’t why we’re so obsessed with it that interests me; it’s the fact that we spent our whole lives waiting to be in the ripe decade we’re barely beginning and now that we’re here, we use our mature social media skills to go back to where we started. So, what is it that we want? To be old, or to be young? Then again, I’m a Jewish woman, so I’ll never make up my mind no matter what.

On Your Body Being A Temple

After a couple of months of neglecting the topic of bodies and a long week of binge-eating my birthday candy, I decided it was time again to have a little chat about our skin and bones.

A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to my guy friend about “The Freshman 15,” which, at Brown, seems to be more like “The Freshman Negative 15.” Not that people I know are necessarily losing weight, but there’s a definite fear of gaining it. We’re so aware of the possibility to gain that we can’t stop thinking about trying to keep it off. This, of course, is probably more unhealthy than the 2a.m. pizza I’m yet to have thus far.

He said, “I’ve been eating really well since I’ve been here. I work out every day, I watch what I eat… I’m all about that whole ‘My body is a temple’ thing. You know?”

Why, yes, I did know. “My body is a temple” is one of my personal favorite phrases. It sounds so nice, in theory of course, to treat your body with so much respect–to only give it beautiful and natural things like grilled chicken and chopped salad and lots and lots of Fiji water. That mantra reminds me of gentle yoga and intense SoulCycle in a candlelit room. I love saying “My body is a temple” because it sounds so pretty on the outside. And, in reality, we really should become conducive to that lifestyle. So when my friend told me that his body was a temple, what was my response?

Obviously, “Oh my God, I’m the same way!”

Do I feel like my body should be a temple? Probably. Do I always treat it like it’s a temple? Debatable. Does my body look like a temple? HA. Let’s be real… I love fro-yo too much to avoid chemical food products, and we all know it.

When guys tell you in a casual conversation that they are true believers that their bodies are temples, it says a lot about them. Generally, I jump to one of two conclusions:

1. You’re an asshole, or

2. You’re really effing earthy

And that about sums it all up. But if you’re good looking and your body not only is a temple in your minds eye, but it’s clear to see that you treat it like one, you’ll have nice Jewish girls lined up for miles to take a turn davening in your sanctuary. Screw the pews… they’ll be down to get all up in your bimah.

Guys that are earthy love treating their bodies as temples. That’s why the smoke the green stuff–because it’s “organic” and au naturale. They also love being skinny, because if you aren’t lanky and try to convince people that you’re earthy, they’re just not going to believe you. It’s a part of the look.

If you’re an asshole, you just tell girls that you like treating your body as a temple because you… (wait for it… wait for it…)

1. “…Just feel better, like all around, you know?”

2. “…Have more energy”

3. “…Like to wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and like what I see.” (I swear on my life I’ve literally heard this one before)

4. “…Gotta compensate for the beer somehow”

5. “…Deserve to look good”

etc., etc., etc.

I have a very vivid memory of reading Siddhartha in my ninth grade English class. We learned about how he would only eat very little, as little as needed, as not to be selfish or indulgent. I’ve also learned that when on a tight budget I’d rather spend my money on things other than food (things meaning the necessary waxes, fro-yo runs, and shoes) that I’ll just eat and then complain about eating for the next five days until my temporary bloat/love handles fade and I start to be able to feel my hip bones again. All of these things, when put together, paint an idealistic picture of my body being a temple. The phrase just sounds so nice, the image it engrains in your mind is so zen, but no matter how long I rant upon it, I don’t know if it will ever be possible.

The next weekend, the guy who told me that his body was a temple went home drunk from a party and spent a good hour vomiting into a trash can. Doesn’t look so sacred to me.


On Birthdays

My second post (ever) on The Fro-Yo Diaries was about “not knowing how old I am,” metaphorically, of course. Often, I feel like I really don’t. I can take care of myself, sometimes I can’t; I’m independent until I need someone desperately; I sometimes cry for hours (but then again, this could be somewhat unrelated to age and instead related to the menstrual cycle).

So on today of all days–my birthday–I would think that age would feel like more than just a number. I would expect to know how old I am for just this one day, if ever. I haven’t really had that epiphany of self-awareness ever before. But then again, I’ve never been as old as I am right now, in this millisecond. I’m getting older with each word that I type, and I’ve never been this old and I’ll never be that young again. This doesn’t worry me yet, but then again, my boobs haven’t started to sag yet and hopefully they won’t for a couple more decades. When they do, I’m sure I’ll freak the fuck out come every September 22nd.

I feel like the fact that we don’t abide to the law takes away from a birthday. Everyone says that it’s impossible to survive your 21st without vomiting all over yourself even though you’ve probably vomited all over yourself before. The only difference is that the alcohol you’re regurgitating was consumed legally. Maybe it will make you feel cooler to have covered yourself in “legal vomit,” but vomit is vomit and it’s absolutely disgusting either way. When you break it down, no one cares about the legality of your vomit. It seems cool for a second until you realize that you’ve been drinking underage since you were thirteen or fourteen, perhaps even since the sacred moment of a sip of Manischewitz from the kiddish cup at your very own Bar or Bat Mitzvah. In reality, vomit is vomit. You’ve done it before, you’ll do it again, and congrats, you’re 21.

But don’t get me wrong–I absolutely love birthdays. I always was very into themed parties. Kindergarten was Dalmatian themed. A clown came and did Britney Spears karaoke with us. We got spots painted on our faces and made our own dog ears. First grade was Luau. Everyone wore bathing suits, grass skirts, and leis. I had an epic sandbox in my backyard and we obviously played limbo. A week before the party, a girl who I didn’t like much from my class in school came up to me and told me that she got her invitation, to which I responded, “You did? But you weren’t invited.” To my knowledge, she wasn’t. And clearly, things haven’t changed much since then as my lack of both a filter and a patience for people who piss me off remains to this day. If you were wondering how the story ends, she insisted that she was invited, which was odd because she was talking to me and it was my party. She didn’t show up, but, like, whatever. She also peed in her pants once and I told everyone about it, so I guess the lesson learned is don’t go where you aren’t welcome/karma’s a bitch/all things happen for a reason/God has a plan or something like that.

Me and my BFFAE being spunky at my luau party

Me and my BFFAE being spunky at my luau party

My mom would always get me a cupcake on my half birthday, and all of my friends thought that was weird. It’s not weird, it just bolstered my reputation as a chunky bodacious preteen and made my mom the coolest mom ever.

The most interesting thing about birthdays to me is how well-celebrated they are. It’s as if someone is patting you on the back and saying, “You’re alive!!!! Yayy!!!!!” Last night I went out to celebrate the eve of my birth, and I happened to run into a lot of my international friends. Each of them kept telling me “Congratulations!!!!!!!!!” I think they only said that because of the literal translation of whatever the word they use at home to send well wishes on a birthday is. But, I could be wrong. Maybe they mean “congrats” when they say it. As cliché as it sounds, today I keep thinking about how I should celebrate being alive every day. I’m dead serious. Before I get sappy enough to film an Activia commercial–maybe even a birth control one–I’m going to stop. But you get what I mean.



To close, I would like to show everyone to a great BuzzFeed article I saw that lets you find out which fictional character has the same birthday as you. So, I would like to cordially wish a very happy birthday to Frodo and Bilbo Baggins!

And then this happened.

And then this happened.

On Regret

I was going to write about the potential differences between mistake and regret; when you should feel one over the other, why you feel one over the other, etc. Instead, I figured I should forget all the hypotheticals and just dive right into it: the mistake is how you fuck up. The regret, on the other hand, is the unnecessary feeling we seem to convince ourselves we need afterwards.

We regret things because we have a conscience. If you do something that you know is bad but you don’t regret it, you might feel like a total asshole. So we use regret as a mechanism of self-torture which, paradoxically, makes us feel better about ourselves. Leave it to us to make ourselves feel shitty about not feeling shitty. People say that you shouldn’t regret anything you do because there’s no way to change the past. There’s no point in trying to convince ourselves that we can.

The scariest thing about time is its uncanny ephemerality in that every second we spend we will never get back. Unfortunately, you will not realize the value of its currency until you spend it all in the wrong place, like how you feel after you buy that ridiculously overpriced but cheaply made Urban Outfitters sweater. You just wish it didn’t happen. But it did, so we have to give it to the Salvation Army and watch hard-earned babysitting money go down the drain. I just wasted both time and calories by eating peanut butter straight from the jar with my pointer finger. There is nothing in life more vicious than that.

Although I am neither old nor wise, I would like to say that I have made many more mistakes than I have regrets–a pretty desirable ratio. I know I regret something when I think back to something I’ve done and immediately feel my cheeks burn. I get embarrassed for myself, and my embarrassing moments don’t even resurface themselves anywhere besides the comfort of my own memory. Mistakes we can always create and sometimes, although it doesn’t seem like often, control.

Today, we are obsessed with the way the world views us. Everything is everywhere, privacy is a sacred gift, and we tend to invest ourselves in other people emotionally and vicariously. Your favorite sports team affects you as much as your best friend does. Miley Cyrus has the ability to make you cry of deep concern (or maybe she only has that impact on me). Regardless, when you make a mistake, it’s likely going to have an aftermath that involves other people. Maybe these people were rooting for you, and maybe they simply saw a photo of you on Facebook or heard about it through the grapevine. Others are going to view you, and maybe if they didn’t, we wouldn’t regret things as much as we usually do.

I really think that everything happens for a reason. If you screwed up, then you screwed up because you screwed up. There’s no clear answer as to why you did it, and there never will be. The most important thing is to realize why you feel the way you do after the fact. There definitely is a reason for that. And just because you figure out what it is, the speckled rosiness in your cheeks might not fade and the increase in heart rate at the slightest recollection of your world-crashing mistake might not, either. But instead, you will hopefully learn something.

Once, I really wanted something that I thought I deserved. I am very hard headed, and because of this (not because I was spoiled as a child and not because I have an endless flow of resources, which I absolutely do not) I was used to getting things that I worked for. When, for what felt like the first time, I didn’t get this “thing,” I was crushed. I didn’t get it because I was told I needed to learn a lesson; that I needed a character build. I didn’t get it because I needed to learn what it felt like not to get it. I pretended that I learned something from this experience, and that I changed for the better. I think that in some respects, I definitely did. But in others, I am still sour because I know–or, at least I think–I deserved it. And I always will.

Recently, I made another mistake. I did something I knew I didn’t want to do. My friends all told me that I shouldn’t stress over it, that it isn’t a big deal at all, and that if I didn’t want it to happen again it wouldn’t. I said the same thing to myself after the first time. If it happens for a third, which I’ll make sure it doesn’t, then I’ll regret it. I just know it.

On Higher Education

Amanda Bynes stars in Sydney White, a movie about “higher” education

The discussions I typically have amongst my friends are usually intelligent. For example, we enjoy talking about theoretical concepts in religion and politics. We also graze upon public policy and amongst public policy, we indulge in the topic of education. As a group of friends that is, for the most part, pretty intellectual, we care about education and are rather opinionated about it. Now that school is back in session, these tiny movie clips of conversation are playing on a reel inside of my head like memories I can’t seem to get my mind off of. I’m wondering if over the next “x” amount of years I spend learning, I’ll figure out the answers to some of the questions about the way stuff works. But for now, I figured that these bits of discussion and information would be good to share. Mean Girls has relevance because we can’t stop quoting it, so my everlasting questions about our system of higher education are important because I can’t stop thinking about them, right? Like is that not the basis of all logic?

The topic we’ve discussed most was more of a thesis than anything else, and it is this: not everyone should go to college.

Today, you constantly see ad campaigns pushing for a college education. Is it true that in today’s society, it seems as though lack of a four-year bachelor’s degree and even some form of post-graduate education is necessary to land a well-paying steady job? Yes, it definitely seems that way. So when I say that not everyone should go to college, I am totally aware of the fact that 9 times out of 10 in the world we live in today, higher education is necessary. But do I think that society should have remodeled itself the way it did to fit that statistic? No, not at all.

You used to not need to go to college to live pretty well-off. If you think about it, that’s why so many millennials are the first in their families to attend college. A university education is incredibly expensive (and perhaps overpriced, a topic I will delve into a little later). If you know that the career path you plan on following is not going to ever require that you know half of the things you are going to learn in college, then why waste your money and time? Economically, it doesn’t make sense.

Because of the influx in the amount of people who want to attend four-year institutions, the application process is increasingly competitive. A college acceptance is starting to become similar to winning Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. Or, for those of you who stick to diets of lettuce and coffee, think of it as willing the mega-millions. I happen to not be a huge fan of the lottery example because there’s a larger likelihood that from your college education you’ll spend around $100,000 and graduate unemployed and in debt to your parents, the bank, or if you’re lucky, both!!!! But, hey, I’m just a pessimist.

If you’re aiming for a career that will really require four years (or more) of higher education, then go for it. If anyone is in favor of being as educated as possible, it’s me. I have binders full of worksheets I made while I was in elementary school. Every weekend–hell, every chance I got–I would force my younger brothers to “play school.” My parents bought me a giant whiteboard and a set of Expo markers. If it were up to me, I would be in school forever. But why continue going if a) you aren’t super passionate about learning, like I and the other anomalies out there are, b) it isn’t necessary for the lifestyle you want to lead, and c) the expenses are outrageous?

You could say that the real problem here is the very cost of education; if higher education wasn’t so expensive, then it wouldn’t be so difficult to give another four years of your life to learning, and although your career may not require all of the learning that is non-specific to your trade, the price of the education would make the whole experience worth it regardless.

And, now, on the topic of expense: why is college getting increasingly expensive? I’m not so great at economics, but I know the rule of supply and demand. When supply is low, demand goes up, and price goes up. When supply is high, and demand is low, price goes down. Although college is getting more competitive, there is a larger number of students now than there ever was before. So demand is high, but it also seems that supply is high. And… price is high? Something isn’t right here. I’m no Econ major, but what do you expect from a pointless liberal arts education anyways?!?!

If anything, I feel like the value of a college education is going down. When everyone’s getting a college degree, no one’s getting a college degree. What I mean by this: when everyone’s wearing Doc Martens, they lose their cool. Now do you get what I’m saying? So, we’ve resorted to various graduate degrees. When something is less unique, it’s less valuable. This is not to say that I don’t feel absolutely #blessed for the education experience I’m receiving. I wouldn’t change a thing for the world. But maybe I’m just a victim to the times.

On Techno

Before you read, let me set the tone for this week’s post with a personal Vine of my own.

One of my father’s unique qualities is his taste in music. That is, he loves every type of music out there. You can get into his car and at any given time find yourself listening to the Grateful Dead, 90’s grunge. He could also be caught singing along to every word of the song “High” by Big Sean (I kid you not). Luckily, some of his appreciation for the sung word rubbed off on me. I am not nearly as talented as my dad, with his perfect pitch and his ability to hear any song once and perform it flawlessly on one of his seven (maybe eight, I lost count) beautiful guitars. However, I do have a small piece of the “music gene” in me… or at least I like to think so.

Nevertheless, there is one genre out there that neither my father nor myself have been able to take a firm grasp of. And this genre, of course, is “techno.”

The rave scene and the music that comes with it (house, dubstep, electronic, etc.) has literally become a cult movement in our generation. While I know a hundred kids that will tell me that techno is not only a legitimate form of music, but is a way of life, I am still wildly intrigued by its true influence and what makes it so damn good.

This is not to say that I don’t often enjoy electronic music. It’s obviously fun, it’s obviously fun to dance to, it obviously gets anyone pumped up for a big night out, and it obviously makes me feel like Miley Cyrus while she’s “tryna get a line in the bathroom.” Who would complain about any of those evoked emotions? Hence, ravers of the world, do not get offended by my opinion. PLUR–I come in peace. If I could use the deuces emoji, I would right now. I’m sending you all mad love from the neon embers of the world wide web. My question is, however, why now?

My first guess is that technology is evolving at an overwhelming pace. We’ve reached the point where technology is no longer only a means through which we can learn and advance. It’s now used in a way to connect people all around the world with a five-minute song that speaks in a language of its own. Techno music is the adaptation of modern technology to culture. In an interesting way, its ability to break barriers is uncanny.

ooooohhh, aaahhhhh

There is something about electronic music that stems father than this; there must be another reason why a movement can turn the entire music industry around almost as much as the birth of rock n’ roll did in the 1950’s. I think it has to do with “the feeling.”

“The feeling” is an imaginary term that I made up in my mind that explains the way one’s body reacts when listening to techno. Even if you don’t like this type of music–no matter how much of a blasphemy you claim that it is because you think that you and your thick-rimmed fake glasses gotta stick it to the indie scene–you have got to admit that you get “the feeling.” “The feeling” is totally physical, similarly to how I feel about Justin Bieber. Just kidding–I would never like a guy for just his body. Who would do that?!???!!

“The feeling” has to do with the psychological effects of techno music and the way your brain receives these unexpected sounds… like a drop in a song, for example. Then, your brain sends out groovy frequencies to your heart and your belly and then you feel kinda like there’s an earthquake inside of you and you could potentially vomit but in a good way.

We are bored. We spend way too much time on Facebook and way too much time watching TV illegally watching Breaking Bad on our computers. So, we listen to techno, we get “the feeling,” and we feel alive. Literally, your body is shaken out of whatever funk it was in and you want to dance. The excessive need to work makes life boring on the daily. The norm has become unacceptable, so now we have techno to shoot static sounds across our nerves. And remember, you’re hearing this from someone who has a soft side for Joni Mitchell and Sheryl Crow, so it must have some value.

What’s next when our bodies become comfortably numb to techno? I should ask my dad. He’ll probs know.

On Being Obnoxious To Our Parents

I just spent ten days with my mother in Italy, and I’ve spent the entire summer living in a house with my two parents. You (the universal you) would think that I’d have the right to be a little #rude to the old folks now and then. But over the last month, I have been taught the difficult way that there is never a time, place, or excuse to be prissy, selfish, or my usual know-it-all-ish.

You can piss your parents off in a lot of ways. Here are some of my favorites:

  1. Tell them that they chew and/or breathe too loudly.
  2. If they ignore your comment that they chew and/or breathe too loudly, remove yourself from the general vicinity so that they understand the severity of their intensive chewing and/or breathing and its heavy impact upon you.
  3. Tell your mom that she “really needs Keratin.”
  4. Tell your dad that you think that the dog shit “in the front” and proceed to give him attitude when he asks you to clarify where “the front” is (obviously it means the mudroom, duh).
  5. Refuse to watch Criminal Minds in their bed with them at night regardless of how many times they ask you to.
  6. Raise your eyebrows when your dad says that he thinks he looks “pretty damn good.”
  7. Tell your mom it was dumb of her to cross out a word using pen on a government document because it will make her look like she is committing some sort of fraud.
  8. Tell your parents that you will vomit if they do not close the door while they are using the bathroom.
  9. Shit on your parents on every form of social media possible. Screen shot 2013-08-04 at 10.38.56 PM
  10. When your mom asks you why you shit on her on every form of social media possible, tweet about her asking you why you shit on her on every form of social media possible. Screen shot 2013-08-04 at 10.39.05 PM
  11. Then, shit on her more on social media by writing an entire blog post about it (just kidding, love you Mom).

On the nine-hour plane ride home from Italy, I did something that angered my mom which left her ranting about my usual negative tendencies. These are the typical recycled insults that she pulls out of the old mental phrasebook: “It’s just so sad. You really don’t even know me.” “You’re not a princess.” “You’re turning into a JAP.” “You talk to me like I’m a little piece of shit.” etc. etc. As you can imagine, the list continues. In this particular battle, my mom delved into the realm of me being unappreciative and never complimenting her appearance nor congratulating her for anything she does well.

So then, I thought: maybe I should stop telling my mom that she should get Keratin. I’m never sure why it’s so difficult to please our parents. It isn’t that we go out of our way to not please them. It’s that we go out of our way to please ourselves. As the filial generation, that is what we are programmed to do. Pleasing others will never be a necessity until we have others to please. Then, we find our own little ones pissing us off.

Me and Mammy Fresh killin it in Florence with some famous boar or something

I always try to convey this point to my mom when she’s angry with me. When I was younger and we argued, I would run to my room and cry for hours at a time. Now, I never cry anymore. Instead I stand there stone cold and reply to every sentence that trails out of her mouth. I refuse to give in and let her know that I may actually feel bad about whatever I did. Part of me does this because I want to show her that I’m not afraid anymore. Maybe we fight back because we’re so similar to our parents and watch the flaws in ourselves come to life in the form of a week-long grudge or an annoying habit (i.e. my father chewing loud enough to make me believe there could be an earthquake). Maybe we’re like this because we’re getting older; we’re getting closer to going from being the ones who listened to the ones who speak. I have to learn to yell somehow, and I suppose my mother is my first victim. My daughter will be my second.

For the remaining three hours of our flight home, I kept repeating the thought over and over again in my head: we’re so fiery because we have no one to teach lessons to yet besides each other. So, we bicker amongst ourselves and talk back to our parents. We tell our mothers that they should get a Moroccan oil treatment to calm their troll doll-esque hair instead of rewarding them with a small compliment for wearing ballet flats instead of clogs. (Just kidding, Mom–I don’t think your hair is reminiscent of a troll doll’s, I promise!!! But don’t get me started on the clogs……..)

On Visiting Day

Between hype over “The Running of the Jews,” a concept my parents made sure I understood before I knew how to say “Shabbat shalom,” and the annual event that took place all along the northeast last weekend, I thought it fitting to make this week’s flavor d-day v-day. According to the Christian faith, v-day is an abbrev for Valentine’s Day. According to the Jewish faith, v-day is short for Visiting Day–an annual holiday filled with more love, blood, sweat, tears, and romance than any other.

I spent last weekend visiting my two younger brothers at sleepaway camp in Maine. I decided that I would make it a social experiment. I promised myself that I would, however tedious it may be, take copious notes of the ridiculous things I heard people say while I was up here. I knew that surrounding myself with ironic, lobster-craving Jews for a full four days would provide the perfect opportunity to compose a beautiful quote book.

This is my 15-year-old brother when I made him put on a fashion show for me including all of the equipment he needs to wear on his week-long canoe trip. He’s obviously psyched.

Before I delve deep into the realm of #ShitPeopleSayOnVDay, I thought I could share a story that will perfectly set the tone for the type of weekend I had. During my brother’s intramural basketball game in a field house hot enough to be the burning embers of body odor in an all-boys camp hell, I really really really had to pee. Whenever I visit my brothers at camp, I have a few fears that are ever-lingering as scars from various experiences of my own at summer camp (i.e., the time I was ten and shit my pants during the age group play… yes, that is one of the most underrated and best kept secrets from my time at camp). Unbeknownst to me, this would become one of those deep cuts in the side of my female dignity.

“Where’s the girls’ bathroom?” I asked my mom.

“The bathrooms are unisex here,” my mom replied in a voice much too nonchalant, implying that for one, it should have been obvious that there were no girls’ bathrooms, and two, that she was trying to sound “mad chill.” As in, every girl uses urinals here.

Thus, I entered the so-called unisex bathroom in the field house. It wasn’t a bathroom that locked–it had two urinals and one private stall. Unisex enough. I went into the stall to pee and spent the entire time praying that no one would walk in. Just as I was about to leave the stall, the bathroom door opened. Of course.

I cannot express enough how this easily could have been a scene from Bridesmaids or The Heat or some other woman-powered comedy flick that macho men refuse to admit is one of the funniest movies they have ever seen. The following ensued: I peeked under the stall and saw that the intruder was a male. How did I know this? He was using the urinal. Fabulous.

Then, so he wouldn’t see me, I put my feet on the toilet seat and crouched there, hugging my legs so he wouldn’t know I was there, until I was in the clear and it was safe to go. For more reasons than one, I was holding my breath. I crouched on the toilet for a good five or six minutes. Might I add, I was drenched in sweat in the most ungraceful way possible.

Finally, he left. I came out of the stall. Just as I opened the door to exit the bathroom, nervous about the strange looks I was guaranteed to get from everyone who realized that I was alone… in a bathroom… with this man… ugh… a GRANDPA walked in. That was an awkward encounter for sure. Especially when I waved and said “Hi!” to him, as if I normally used the boys’ bathroom. How progressive of me.

Enjoy the quotes!

After the first day, I was an accessory to my parents at a dinner of six couples, all with sons in the same group of camp friends. Word for word, here are the best quotes of the night (from the mothers):

“You’re only as happy as your most unhappy child.”

“I’m so proud of myself for friending you on Facebook!!!!!”

“I think that the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry has gotten much more respectable.”

“Every kid was asking for candy, and my kid’s asking for the Boston Globe!!!”

“Let’s face it. Jews love to overdo.” (This could be almost be considered a mantra.)

After dinner, I walked around the quaint, colonial town with my parents.

“Everything says ‘Kennebec’ up here,” said my father.

“I think that’s the name of the river,” I told him from my experience as a seven-year Maine camper.

“No,” he shook his head. “I think that’s just a big word up here,” OK, Dad.

The next day:

“These boys look malnourished.” –My mother in response to the “skins” team during basketball

“What’s civilization?” –My11-year-old cousin’s totally serious and non-sarcastic response to my brother’s claim that he misses civilization

“It’s like the Hunger Games.” –My youngest brother in line to get ice cream

“Rate me on a scale of 1 to 10 of how skinny or fat you think I got since I’ve seen you last and especially pay attention to how I look in these jean shorts.” –Someone who may or may not have been me to my 11-year-old brother

I hope your visiting days were lovely and included both lots of fun and a three-pound max weight gain!

I blog about my time as a camper for the Maine Camp Experience. You can read some of my posts by clicking here.

This post is dedicated to 1AB 2011.

On Change

Life is full of a million tiny moments, and when one tiny moment transitions into another, change happens. Basically every second we are awake, or even when we are asleep, something is different than what it was before: your heart makes a new beat, your mind drifts into new, uncharted waters, you feel something you’ve never felt before. And when all of these changes occur simultaneously, you become a kid trapped on a roller coaster when you really don’t like roller coasters at all.

One of the funniest things about change is how much, or how little, we control it. Just when you think you have the reigns, you don’t, and a situation catapults out of control. Just when you make something delicate into something perfect, it breaks. Naturally, of course, it has to.

Why has changed evolved into this concept that almost everyone is afraid of? I’ve heard so many people say, “Oh, I don’t do change well.” My mom always tells me that my dad is “afraid of change.” Change can certainly be good, because before something good turns into something bad, something bad must have turned into that something good. But I guess we just hone in on the negativity because as humans, that is what we are programmed to do.

I always thought that I couldn’t cope with change. My first year of middle school, I was an absolute wreck and a 95-pound ball of anxiety. My freshman year of high school, my anxiety creeped back upon me like a skeleton with long, bony fingers (basically Nicole Richie circa 2006). So, as I’m now the bony skeleton creeping upon another new part of my life, I can’t help but wonder just how much change will destroy me over the next year.

This is not OK on so many levels.

So far, it’s been interesting. I’ve learned a lot because I’ve messed up a lot. Then again, my recent mess ups brought me to some of my most balanced moments. I can’t help but wonder–am I just endlessly screwing up to beat change to the punch? When I think about these mistakes I’ve made, I don’t feel regret. I just feel like I’ve made a mistake. Does that make me a horrible person? If each of us could apologize to every person we’ve ever hurt, then I think that we would. But that couldn’t work for a couple of reasons–no matter how much we say or do, we can never really go back and change what happened. Gatsby can say that the past is repeatable as many times as he wants, and perhaps he’s right. We can repeat the past with our tortured emotions and our aching hearts. But, ultimately, we’re just going to end up back in the present. Changes happens, yes. And so does reality.

I guess if you have enough money, you can do anything. So sure, you can repeat the past, whatever.

After all that’s happened in the past two months–some mistakes made by yours truly, some mistakes made by immature boys who think it’s OK to tell a lady to “go f— yourself”–I understand that life isn’t always a box of chocolates. It’s more like a fortune cookie. It’s always pretty sweet on the outside. But often, what’s inside can disappoint you. It can also pleasantly surprise you.

Here is my life at the moment in three fortune cookies:

#1 would be a fortune cookie that you crack open, but find no fortune. This cookie offered me nothing, and instead, chose to disappear. In the end, it will be this fortune’s loss and not mine. Because if you run away, no one gets your message, and you’ve accomplished nothing.

#2 would be a fortune that makes me feel like a total asshole. “Stop shopping too much, there are naked children in Bangladesh,” “You are a selfish whore,” “Go sit in the corner and think about what you did. –Taylor Swift,” etc.

#3 would be a good fortune. It doesn’t even necessarily have to compliment me, but it would make me think about myself. Some of my favorite fortunes I’ve ever gotten that remind me of this one include, “I learn by going where I have to go,” “Your life is like a kaleidoscope,” and “A kiss makes the heart young and wipe out the years.” And that grammatical error could not be more suitable for this fortune–I love it every second anyway.

Today I feel different. Two days ago, I spent a lot of time sleeping. I napped from 12-5pm and then got back in bed at 8pm, only to get up at 10am the next morning. I cried a little, of course. But today, I feel different. So right now, I like change, because it brought me here.

On Packing

I know little about packing for anything. My mom was always super into doing the camp trunks, and my only job in this process was to mold my mouth guards so I could be well-equipped while bench-warming during field hockey and lacrosse. It takes me minimum two hours to pack to go anywhere, and I pack for triple the amount of time that I will spend in any given location. When I go away with my family, I am typically able to tell which sized luggage I should bring with me by looking at the suitcase that my two brothers share together and then I find one twice as large to carry just my clothing (shoes go in a separate bag).

Me hitting my athletic prime at camp

Against my will, however, I have to start getting in the mindset of packing to go to school next year. It will take me a few weeks to adjust to this mindset, and then another week or two to really think about packing, and then at least a month to separate things into a million piles (I always, for some reason, thought that making many small piles made me seem more organized and I ignored the fact that they just took up a ridiculous amount of surface area). The future of my packing capabilities is unforeseeable past the construction of my piles, because at that point my patience wears so thin that I get in bed and cry for a couple of hours until my mom makes me tea and I can get myself together enough to finish.

Recently, I’ve been very into posting about hypothetical things because of no particular reason at all. So, without further or due, here is a list of things I would hypothetically pack/do in preparation of having to pack if, hypothetically, I was willing to pack for school next fall.


When I was younger, I used to get an excessive amount of nosebleeds, like, on the daily. Every single time I would go to my best friend Nicole’s house for a sleepover–ugh, poor Nicole–I would get a gushing nosebleed for whatever reason. Maybe she had a humid house. To solve this problem, I got my nose cauterized and my parents put a humidifier in my room to keep the room “moist” and prevent the fragile walls of my nostrils from cracking. I don’t want my roommate to know about my excessive nasal bleeding, so I would pack a humidifier for school just in case.

There are too many good things about this GIF

A Lamp

As a child, I woke up at 6:30 every morning before school to read for an hour. Because of my years of reading in the dark (or I guess you could call it the “blue morning light,” if you want to get fancy), my eyes have become super sensitive to light and are starting to deteriorate. This year, I found out that I have an astigmatism (just like those twins in that contact commercial) so now I really, like actually really, need glasses. Since I’m too lazy to get glasses but still need to be able to see next year, I figured that bringing a lamp to school would be a suitable substitute. Also, a lamp will remind me of my little cute dog and the special lampshade-resembling-hat that she wears when she gets a procedure done at the vet.

Remember this? “We’re BOTH drop dead gorgeous, but only ONE of us has an astigmatism!!!!! Can you tell which?!?!?!?”


Bedding is key, and it has to be clean. At sleepaway camp, I was too lazy to change my sheets every week so I thought that sleeping in my sleeping bag on top of my covers for seven weeks would be a perfectly wonderful idea. It was, in theory, but sometimes even feeling like a cocooned butterfly doesn’t replace the euphoria you feel when you get under the covers in your bed. It also doesn’t replace the feeling of cleanliness. Or dignity, for that matter. Residence Hall Linens  has a gorgeous selection of bedding that I actually won’t mind washing. That is, if I am ever able to master the art of a washing machine before the ripe age of 80.


I don’t even drink coffee anymore, only herbal teas, but duh.


I refuse to walk barefoot on a foreign floor. I could be staying in the nicest and chicest hotel in Abu Dhabi and still never walk barefoot on the hotel room floor. Hence, slippers are a must. Only God knows what kind of hot coals my potentially über-hippie roommate could have walked on during her gap year at an ashram.

Hopefully, she was JC at the ashram with J. Robs.

Technically, I would love to get an adorable rug from RHL, but I really don’t know if I’ll have room for my Hoover turbo-power vacuum in my room to keep it in tip-top shape. You know, with my small piles taking up so much surface area and all. You totally should get one, though!

Not food

Because then I would eat it and get fat.

Happy packing to me!

*this is a sponsored post*

On If I Was a Rich Girl

(… na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na)

I have a memory that almost seems like a dream. It was Halloween, and I was in fifth grade. I went trick-or-treating with my parents in the wealthiest neighborhood in the county because they gave out one-pound chocolate bars. As we drove through the entrance of the community, “Rich Girl” by Gwen Stefani started playing on the radio. It was warm out, and our windows were rolled down. I don’t know why, but I felt like I was in a movie that took place in 1980s Los Angeles. Since then, things have never been the same.

I have a really bad habit of losing things. Actually, I have a really bad habit of losing money. It seems that I most often lose it at the mall, at the nail salon, and on zappos.com. I also, coincidentally, lose a lot of money at Urban Outfitters sales and at this one thrift store in Brooklyn. And at the bagel store where I get my chopped salad…… and at any fro-yo place I have yet to try (because I obviously have to try every fro-yo place in the world, duh).

You can’t sit with us! LOLZ

I think that I have a pretty strong obsession with saving money. But because I “lose” it so much, my mom’s response to this thought is that I’m a blatantly pathological liar who needs a reality check. (Shoutout to the babe who also said I needed a reality check via Facebook status. Like, come on. Everyone knows that shit-talking stays on Twitter. At least have the decency to subtweet like a classy young lady). But, it’s true. I do have an obsession with money, just in a sort of twisted way. I’m never greedy, and I’m always willing to spot a friend. But when I’m not making enough of my own money, I get anxiety. I spend my free-thought time thinking about the money I could be making when I’m studying or hanging out with friends.

So, this year, I got a job. Actually, I got three. I’ve been tutoring and babysitting since I was in eighth grade. For a few months this year, I was tutoring for two hours a day, Monday to Friday. Then I would give up either Saturday or Sunday to babysit. I received a job offer working for a camp and summer program consulting agency that I did not want to pass up on; so, I added that to my plate. Before I knew it, this (see below) was literally my schedule. And I am not exaggerating one bit:

2:30pm – 6pm Work at consulting business

6:15pm – 7:15pm Tutor student #1

7:15pm – 8:15pm Tutor student #2

8:30pm – 9pm Eat dinner

9pm Shower

9:30pm Start studying/working

6am the next day… Wake up

I was making a really good amount of money every week, and I stopped having nightmares in which Oscar de la Renta was making me work in a sweat shop in order to let me wear his Strapless Floral-Applique Ball Gown and then PSY would come in and make me listen to Gangnam Style until I was able to sing the Korean part fluently. Let me tell you, it was HORRIBLE. But, working felt worth-it and rewarding. My bad dreams were gone and so was the pit in my stomach that ached for money. Call me crazy because I’m crazy. I know. 

Screen shot 2013-06-09 at 12.37.18 PM


They say that dogs are a man’s best friend. Well, let me tell you: credit cards are a woman’s best friend. Imagine having invisible money that grows on trees. What do you get? A credit card. You also get a really bad credit score but I’m still too young to convince myself that it’s time to worry about that. And while I love credit cards, they scare the hell out of me. Even though I have my own checking account and my own card, along with the emergency one supplied by Mommy and Daddy, and even though my checking account is solely funded by me and the income that I make from my wide array of jobs, I am afraid to use the card. It’s not like the account balance is under $7 (at the moment…. what??) and it’s not that I don’t know how to use a credit/debit card–trust me, I very well do–I just don’t like the idea of not being able to see what I’m spending. Then, I start to get nervous.

When I told my mom about this, her response was that I opened up a checking account so that I could use the money. That’s the point of it, she said. Well, I’m still afraid and I don’t really know why.

Maybe it has to do with our economy? When we first hit recession, I was too young and too concerned with my first MySpace profile to really understand what was going on. I can openly admit that even now, I only comprehend the stock market a small percentage of the time. Our planet revolves around money. So when I spend, I feel like I’m going to fall off of Earth. It’s a bittersweet and guilty feeling, really. To put it in Jewish terms, it’s something similar to the first day of your last year of sleepaway camp. You don’t want it to start because you don’t want it to end. I don’t want to start using my debit card because I don’t want to lose all of the money I saved in there, too.

By the time I turn 25, I feel like the lifestyle I want won’t even exist. How will I possibly be able to afford a studio apartment in New York City that is, at most, the size of my current closet? Note: my current closet is very short of a walk-in.

It is fifteen years after the first episode of Sex and the City came out, and just recently did people start to question just how Carrie Bradshaw was able to own just that many pair of Manolos. Imagine how far-fetched her lifestyle will seem by the time I’m old enough to really be living it. Carrie wannabes like myself–we’re all screwed.

Maybe I should close my checking account.

On Movies I’ve Never Seen

When I was in elementary school, I used to be a really big liar. It was a huge problem, not because my lies were bad and absolutely ridiculous, but because they were subtle and normal-seeming. Once when I was little, I went to the hair salon with my friend and her mom. My friend and I were talking about our families, and she told me that she had a cousin named Kendall (name changed to conceal identity, and yes, I did choose “Kendall” as a pseudonym in honor of Kendall Jenner). For absolutely no reason whatsoever, I decided to response by literally saying–true story–“Oh my god! I have a cousin named Kendall also!” I really did not, and do not, have a cousin named Kendall. These kinds of situations occurred at least once a day.

Sometimes when you’re having a conversation with someone, whether you want to sound impressive, you care about his or her opinions of you, or you are too lazy to make up real answers to questions they ask, it is easy to lie. Here’s a good example: Someone asks you if you know a band. Your response? “Yeah, I obviously know that band.” Then they ask you your favorite song. Can they tell that you’re lying? Obviously. That’s why they’re asking you the secondary question–to be a total ass. So your response to their second question will be “I don’t really know the names of their songs, or know their songs by heart because I’ve just been listening to all of their stuff like kinda testing it out you know?”

This seems to happen a lot to me with movies. For some reason, people love talking about movies. It happens that there are a lot of major motions pictures considered “classics” that I have not seen. The following is a list of the lies I would make up if someone were to try to engage in conversation with me about the following movies, each number explaining what I imagine the movie to be like. Don’t judge me for some of these. I’m culturally educated, I promise. I have a blog, duh.

1. Titanic

Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, who isn’t even that pretty at all, fall in love on a cruise ship, which would never happen in real life because cruise ship riders are typically tacky, fat, or both. I was so surprised that neither of them got motion sickness after the Titanic crashed into an iceberg. When that gross cruise ship-y bitch tried to steal Leo and his raft away from Kate, I was really upset. That was probably the saddest part of the movie. 

Since I haven’t seen the movie, I don’t understand this meme but you all probably do so I decided to use it.

2. Zoolander (not that classic, but always comes up in conversation)

I love the actor that plays Zoolander. What do you mean when you ask do I know the actor’s name? Of course I know it! Wait so anyway the scene where they pole dance like strippers made me so uncomfortable because it was obviously a rip off of Magic Mike. I also find it so funny that Zoolander turned out to be gay. Right?


3. Casablanca

This movie was one of my faves because it takes place in a small Spanish countryside which is where I would have my estate if I were popular, rich, and famous. I love how they were able to maintain the realistic nature of the plot and the wealthy kinda-princess trapped in Casablanca, her white house where she lived with her really strict dad, regardless of the pumpkin in her field that turned into a carriage at one point. 

I don’t know who these people are, but I like the way they speak.

4. Pulp Fiction

I really thought that the strong use of the metaphor of the pulp was so powerful to this movie’s deeper meaning. The most classic scene is of Denzel Washington sitting down at the end of the movie with his glass of freshly squeezed OJ, blood still on his hands from beating a novelist/fiction-writer to death, and saying to himself, “Wow. This pulp is so fresh, so good.”

Wait, I didn’t know John Travolta a.k.a. the mom from Hairspray was in this??

5. The Godfather

A large group of Italian men are really cliquey and get mad at another close-knit group of Italian men. Both groups have guns. They all kill each other until the mafia group leader is the only one left, bleeding out, regretting his life full of black market business deals and an unsuccessful string of kosher Italian restaurants in the tristate area. 

The offer? Pastrami on rye.

Don’t be surprised if I use any of these in conversation with you. Just pity me, please.

On Being a “Millennial”

Earlier in the week, Joel Stein wrote a cover story for Time magazine about our generation, the “millennials,” and how narcissistic we are. The Fro-Yo Diaries embodies the millennial attitude (from my perspective, of course, and that perspective clearly differs from Joel Stein’s). But, just to give you all a run for your money–whatever that expression means (what a millennial comment of me to make)–I’ve decided to write about my most “millennial” moments. I would encourage everyone to read Joel Stein’s article, but you can only do that by obtaining a physical copy/subscription of Time. Obviously they restrict us from reading a full copy of the article online because, like, if they did, that would be so millennial of them.

Millennial Moment #1:

My mom often criticizes me for making a mess and then not cleaning it up. The other day, I was eating some dried apricots from their plastic container and decided that for the first time in my life, I would put them back in the cabinet when I was done with them. As I was standing in front of the cabinet, seriously struggling to re-seal the lid, my mom charged into the kitchen. This is the conversation that ensued:

Mom: Hannah, will you move please?

Me: Hold on, I’m just putting this thing away.


Me: OK, OK, I’m done. Relax. I’ve made dinner for myself the past two nights. It’s not a big deal.


Joel, how horribly rude and obnoxious was it of me to try to put my apricots away?!?!

Millennial Moment #2:

I make my parents pay $175 for me to have a 45 minute session with my therapist twice a month. Now if that isn’t selfish of me, then what is? I mean, anxiety doesn’t even exist anyway. And young adults don’t have problems. And young adults aren’t allowed to complain. Because we aren’t spending 14 hours of our day studying and working. Because instead we’re playing on our iPhones. Which we solely use for Tinder to meet fake people that that boost our egos, and not for medication-reminders or to set alarms so we make sure our two hours of sleep don’t interfere with getting to class on time or to keep track of our schedules in a calendar (just like you do) or to, God-forbid, have a means through which our neurotic Jewish mothers can use the “Find My Friends” app to see where we are at all times. No, no. Never any of that.

Millennial Moment #3:

I went back through all of my text messages and counted: on Saturday, May 11, I sent 64 text messages. This is actually a really low number for me, as most millennials spend their Saturday afternoons super hungover from going to wild techno raves the previous night, which we do, wearing neon clothes, practically every weekend. But if I went back to my texts from Friday and counted–which a millennial would never do because that requires too much manual labor (you know, all that scrolling)–I’m sure my stats would at least be tripled.

Millennial Moment #4:

Please watch this video in which Joel Stein tries to be a millennial for a day.

Then, ask yourself: have you EVER sexted by saying “Do you have time to have sex tonight?” No, obviously you haven’t. Millennials would never waste that much time on writing a text message. Obvs, we love to abbrev (Obviously, we love to abbreviate). Our sexts would look a lot more like this:

D u hav tme 2 hav S tn?

Note: S is capital, inferring the use of the abbreviation for “sex” and not “snapchat,” which is represented by a lowercase “s.”

This essay is dedicated to Joel Stein, slanderer of the selfie, denature-er of the multitask, and green monster of envy of how successful we’re going to be when we create the flying cars that you watched in The Jetsons–not that I, or any other millennial, even really has the capability to comprehend what a Saturday morning cartoon is. Just because your last name is “Stein” does not mean that you have a free pass to target our generation and still be considered a mensch.

On Talking

I was considering starting this post off with a fancy introduction that compared me to Gretchen Weiners not just because we both got this, like, really expensive pair of white gold hoops for Hanukkah, but because we both start talking and  don’t stop. I am yet to rant on Caesar (although I did say a few ridiculously stupid things in my World History West class) but I have come very close multiple times. Wait… literally, case-in-point, I digress. I didn’t want to include some sappy and satirical opener because I thought it would be ironic to start an essay about talking too much with, well, talking too much. Yet, I managed to do it anyway. Is that an accomplishment or something to be ashamed of? Idk. Should I move on to the next paragraph? Yes.

Her hair is def full of secrets in this pic.

I have this theory that I’ve had for a really long time when I started to realize how stupid some of the conversations I’ve had with certain people are. The theory goes as follows: people talk to hear the sound of their own voice. I know, I know, totally original, right? But actually–it is. I think we want to hear the sound of our own voices for reasons deeper than just, well, hearing it. I think we talk when we’re afraid of something, and when we want to distract ourselves. Sometimes we speak and after a few minutes, we have zero recollection of what we were even saying. This is what I’m talking about (no pun intended, since that was like a half-pun).

The best, and most classic, of these situations occurs when you speak to someone you generally 1) never, ever speak to or 2) really effing hate. Sometimes I’ll start a really motivated and intense talk with a totally rando person. And we’ll both be getting super into it, like rapid fire back and forth and back and forth. Even worse, we’ll be speaking about the most mundane things too. In the moment, we don’t realize how mundane they are so we instead have a 5-minute bonding sesh over the fact that we have this thing in common, which, in reality, every babe has in common.

Now playing: Kanye West – Stronger

For example, we’ll speak about how horrible it is to go to the gym, and how much we want to go to the gym, and how much we wish we were better at working out. And then… BOOM. OH MY GOD, we BOTH hate working out. The tones of our voices will just rapidly raise until I sound like my eleven year old brother who has one armpit hair tops on a good day. At the end of our conversation, I will turn away smiling and feel oh-so productive, happy, and meaningful. That’s right, like I have a place in this world after my conversation about going to the gym with a girl I thought I always probably strongly disliked, likely potentially hated.

Last weekend, I ate at a Mexican restaurant with my camp friends on the Upper East Side. I hadn’t seen them since some devastating events may or may not have happened in my life, and they demanded that I give them the whole enchilada. I don’t really know how that relates to the grand scheme of things, but it was a punny moment I could not leave out (pun credit: Char Levy).

And I’ve gone through all of this for what trouble? Because I’m trying to distract myself from the seven books on Holden Caufield I have waiting for me at my desk at home and other silly things like arguments about credit card bills with my mom, the fact that I have only 4% battery on my iPhone, and my wretched fear of the future of my romantic and social life and the fact that yes, there is a 68% chance of everything going down in flames. But it’s really no big deal. Totally.

On Body Image, Candidly

Body image and the way we see ourselves is like the unspoken thing that we don’t stop speaking about. Half of the discussion about the way we look, or the way we think we look, goes on in Instagram photos of our 5-star meals, tweets about being hungry, and asking our friends if they think we look fat in a dress we definitely look fat in. The other half goes on inside of our heads–what we think about ourselves, what we think about other people, and how we feel (which is, of course, usually pretty shitty).

Screen shot 2013-04-21 at 1.19.04 PM

My hibachi post-game via Instagram

Over the past 5 years, I have weighed everything from 95 pounds to 142 pounds. Today, I’m somewhere in the middle, and I’m happy about that. But body image is and always will be a shadow that is sewn to the soles of our feet–a shadow that is sometimes short, wide, and unflattering enough to send us into cardiac arrest, and a shadow sometimes so tall and thin we literally convince ourselves that hmm, moving to a nudist colony wouldn’t be so bad at the moment. On a recent trip to Florida, I realized that I had not purchased a new bathing suit since the literal seventh grade. My bikinis were all distorted and stretched, too small in some places and too big in others. After one too many nip slips, my mother decided it was OK to invest in a new bathing suit.

I found a bikini that had tea pots on it so, needless to say, it had to be mine. I have no waist but a lot of ass, so generally I would be a small in a top and a medium in a bottom. But this bikini only really fit me correctly in a large. I was a little comatose at first about being a large on top and on bottom, but once I tried on the suit and realized how nicely it fit, I didn’t really mind at all. We have always been taught that labeling is wrong, because you cannot declare anyone fits into any specific category, as we all simply are who we are. So, I ripped the labels out of my absolutely awesome teal tea pot bikini. Size didn’t matter. I’m not a “large”–in fact, I’m not anything. I just felt damn good in that bikini (especially after my 2-week break up diet).

Although I wish I were, I am not nearly this happy about the way I look so often. Whenever I get into that deep, dark place where I can’t afford a trendy liquid cleanse, I can’t put aside enough time to finish Bethenny Frankel’s book Naturally Thin (which eternally sits on my bedside table), and I can’t drink enough green tea in a day to make me look like a Victoria’s secret model or a pale, thin Olsen twin (I’d take either), I crash and burn. When I get to that place, I am so down that I cry as hard as I did when my little brother was born and I realized that the world would not revolve around me as much as it once did. I’ve never watched the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. But I will watch an episode of Girls where Hannah walks around in public sans-pants.



Once, I was speaking to a friend who was on a serious prom diet. I told her that she looked good, and she responded to my compliment by saying, verbatim, “Thanks! I can totally give you some diet tips if you want!” I was not looking for diet tips. Months later,  I had managed to lose almost 20 pounds. I was at a Bat Mitzvah, wearing a tight black dress I hadn’t had the courage to wear in a long time, chatting with another girlfriend. I hadn’t seen her since I had lost the weight, and in a discussion about body image, I casually told her that I had dropped the 20. Her response? “Really? I didn’t even notice! I never would have guessed!” 

I have spent my whole life comparing myself to other people. Then, I got my shit together. It’s only important to compare me to myself. Because, at the end of the day, bitches will be bitches. Let’s all be Victoria’s Secret models. We’re all chic and beautiful. I promise.

On “The Glass”

I know I’m young, but I think I can say that I’ve had a good bout of ups and downs. My “downs” started in sixth grade. I had panic attacks every day at approximately 11:20 am, and they would last until 1:35. Who would’ve thought—my OCD was so intense that I was even anal about timing my anxiety attacks!!! Impressive Hannah… obv. I would have to excuse myself from my Physical Science class and hyperventilate through the hallways until I made it down to the nurse. Being in the nurses’ office made me even more anxious because I was afraid a fat kid that ate too much cafeteria food would just walk on in and start vomiting practically everywhere and then, as a sympathy-vomiter, I would vomit everywhere as well, but I’d be simultaneously hyperventilating so I would choke and die. My mom would come to school, every day, and she would usually bring me a diet, caffeine-free coke and a plain bagel with cream cheese. I wasn’t really eating those days (because I was afraid that I would vomit it back up) and, so, I would habitually refuse the food.

Me being like “MOM YOU KNOW I’M TOO ANXIOUS TO EAT”… literally

Together, my mother, the two school nurses, and I would ride out the panic attack through its peaks and drops. I swear to Hashem, one of the nurses would take me on walks around the school “to get fresh air” like I was a small, pure-bred dog. Eventually, the panic would fade and I would have missed half of science, my full lunch and Spanish periods, and half of Language Arts. I would amble late into class, exhausted after the episode, every single day. This is probably why some of my best writing work was done as an eleven-year-old. My poems about tumultuous friendships and raps about my “carefree” (yeah right) persona were truly phenomenal.

In sixth grade, I let my problems control my life. I was even nervous to leave the house most of the time. Eventually, my daily panic attack ritual faded and I became a normal child again, gaining a solid 25 pounds back that I am yet to lose. Some days I wish I had panic attacks again because, wow, was that an awesome diet. But in all seriousness, I do still get anxious once in a while. And when I do, it is scary. Over the last seven years, enduring an awful lot of work, therapy, death, love, heartbreak, therapy, and therapy, I’ve made the grand attempt at finding balance. When I spent the past summer in Turkey, I told myself that I wanted to find something because I felt it was the perfect opportunity to pretend my life was a movie. I knew that I wasn’t finding myself, and I didn’t plan to. But I wanted to find something. I think, in hindsight, that something was balance.

Me finding Mt. Erciyes in Turkey.

Soundtrack tune: “Losing My Religion” by REM. Don’t worry Rabbi, I was just “experimenting.”

But, of course, balance of what? For me, it was finding the balance between ignoring our problems and highlighting them. We have been raised under the impression that ignorance is bliss, but knowledge is power. Attaining both of these “things” is utterly impossible… enough to send me into a sixth-grade panic attack all over again. When I hyper-focus on my issues, I’m labeled as a JAP-py drama queen by my mother and a total bitch by everyone else. When I ignore my problems, I let people walk all over me in an attempt to be “chill.” So many things come into play here. Is it more important to let others be satisfied than to put up a fight and, admittedly selfishly, be happy all alone? And even more importantly, are we letting our problems control our lives? Or do our lives control our problems? Which is the correct answer?

I was clearly a high-maintenance child. One of these defining qualities involved my hatred of water. I thought that water tasted disgusting, and I tried to avoid it at all costs. I liked most other beverages like Shirley Temple’s and strawberry milk and pretty much nothing else, but I absolutely despised the taste of water. Especially when I drank it out of a glass. Today, I’m so obsessively concerned with the idea of “balancing my glass” somewhere between being half empty and half full. Maybe I’m just going to pour all of my water out because I don’t even like the taste of it. My soy iced chai cup is always full, and at the end of the day, that’s what I’ve got to be thankful for. Amen.

Iced chai wheeeeeeeee

And me and my iced chai lived happily ever after.

On Background Music

When I watch movies, I’m very observant. I always absorb the minute details that mean basically nothing in the grand scheme of things, and I let these little particulars take up space in my memory that should instead be used for remembering things like my boyfriend’s five month birthday or that I have to put my dishes in the dishwasher and not just in the sink. So when High School Musical 2 came out six years ago, I subconsciously decided to remember that Corbin Bleu, a.k.a. Chad, wore a custom made t-shirt that read “I come with my own background music.”

Music is such a staple in the society of the modern young adult. And just like Chad, I think we all wished we came with our own background music. Why? Because then our lives would be a lot less… well… awkward.


However, Chad is still pretty awkward.

Music serves so many purposes. And as an avid listener myself, I have no intention of denouncing its importance. But the older I get, the more I realize that music creates a safe place whenever we need one. Music gets too loud so that we don’t have to make small talk at parties because we can’t even hear each other. Then, the same music gives us a reason to dance because we aren’t talking. Not only does music let us dodge talking in general, but it fills in the spaces when sometimes, you have nothing to say except “my feet are literally dying in these heels but I’m wearing them because I want you to think my legs are thinner than they actually are” or “I know we’re pretending we just met but we both know we’ve been introduced a solid total of seven times over the last month, but like whatever.”

We want our lives to be like a corny, R-rated Disney channel movie so that it becomes a combination of Mean Girls, High School Musical, and The Notebook. We want a soundtrack that makes us live vicariously through the people we wish we were. We let music set the mood because if we were in a Nicholas Sparks movie, it totally would. And don’t deny it—we all pretend that our lives are like movies in which we are the struggling protagonists with hearts of gold with bitches standing in our way. There’s always an adorable boy who probably has a crush on us because we’re so darn cute. Of course in reality this boy only winked at us because he had dust in his contact and yeah, believe it or not he was a lot more interested in the girl he spent the entire night talking to than he ever was in us (serious shocker). But, nevertheless, we can still pretend that this is just a really complex way of playing hard-to-get and eventually the two of us can reenact a Taylor Swift music video. Probably not the “Trouble” one though because a) T-Swift is clearly sexually frustrated and although we probably are too we’ll pretend that we’ll not and b) there are already too many screaming goat versions of that song and we want to be more original, obviously.

There is truly nothing like a magical moment with the perfect background music—i.e., kissing scene in the rain in A Cinderella Story set to Hear You Me by Jimmy Eat World and even Milkshake by my girl Kelis in Mean Girls. Of course, we all know that after we saw Friends With Benefits we made our ringtones Closing Time by Semisonic (NOT Third Eye Blind). And if we weren’t proactive enough to change our ringtones, we all really wanted to.


Whenever I go to a big party with my boyfriend, my relationship with music becomes love-hate. I feel too weird to dance and I would feel even weirder standing in the corner like an old, antisocial hag, clutching my red cup and iPhone for dear life. Then I’m forced into conversation, which is the very problem music is supposed to fix. I have to kiss random boys I’ve been introduced to on the cheek and act like that’s a nice “thing” even though I think it’s kind of stupid when you’re eighteen. Then I complain and my boyfriend yells at me to suck it up so I either cry or suck it up but usually cry… what? When my life is at its most awkward, music isn’t always there to save me. Occasionally I have to learn to step up to the plate and march to the beat of my own drum. No pun intended (lolz).

On Background Music

When I watch movies, I’m very observant. I always absorb the minute details that mean basically nothing in the grand scheme of things, and I let these little particulars take up space in my memory that should instead be used for remembering things like my boyfriend’s five month birthday or that I have to put my dishes in the dishwasher and not just in the sink. So when High School Musical 2 came out six years ago, I subconsciously decided to remember that Corbin Bleu, a.k.a. Chad, wore a custom made t-shirt that read “I come with my own background music.”

Music is such a staple in the society of the modern young adult. And just like Chad, I think we all wished we came with our own background music. Why? Because then our lives would be a lot less… well… awkward.


However, Chad is still pretty awkward.

Music serves so many purposes. And as an avid listener myself, I have no intention of denouncing its importance. But the older I get, the more I realize that music creates a safe place whenever we need one. Music gets too loud so that we don’t have to make small talk at parties because we can’t even hear each other. Then, the same music gives us a reason to dance because we aren’t talking. Not only does music let us dodge talking in general, but it fills in the spaces when sometimes, you have nothing to say except “my feet are literally dying in these heels but I’m wearing them because I want you to think my legs are thinner than they actually are” or “I know we’re pretending we just met but we both know we’ve been introduced a solid total of seven times over the last month, but like whatever.”

We want our lives to be like a corny, R-rated Disney channel movie so that it becomes a combination of Mean Girls, High School Musical, and The Notebook. We want a soundtrack that makes us live vicariously through the people we wish we were. We let music set the mood because if we were in a Nicholas Sparks movie, it totally would. And don’t deny it—we all pretend that our lives are like movies in which we are the struggling protagonists with hearts of gold with bitches standing in our way. There’s always an adorable boy who probably has a crush on us because we’re so darn cute. Of course in reality this boy only winked at us because he had dust in his contact and yeah, believe it or not he was a lot more interested in the girl he spent the entire night talking to than he ever was in us (serious shocker). But, nevertheless, we can still pretend that this is just a really complex way of playing hard-to-get and eventually the two of us can reenact a Taylor Swift music video. Probably not the “Trouble” one though because a) T-Swift is clearly sexually frustrated and although we probably are too we’ll pretend that we’ll not and b) there are already too many screaming goat versions of that song and we want to be more original, obviously.

There is truly nothing like a magical moment with the perfect background music—i.e., kissing scene in the rain in A Cinderella Story set to Hear You Me by Jimmy Eat World and even Milkshake by my girl Kelis in Mean Girls. Of course, we all know that after we saw Friends With Benefits we made our ringtones Closing Time by Semisonic (NOT Third Eye Blind). And if we weren’t proactive enough to change our ringtones, we all really wanted to.


Whenever I go to a big party with my boyfriend, my relationship with music becomes love-hate. I feel too weird to dance and I would feel even weirder standing in the corner like an old, antisocial hag, clutching my red cup and iPhone for dear life. Then I’m forced into conversation, which is the very problem music is supposed to fix. I have to kiss random boys I’ve been introduced to on the cheek and act like that’s a nice “thing” even though I think it’s kind of stupid when you’re eighteen. Then I complain and my boyfriend yells at me to suck it up so I either cry or suck it up but usually cry… what? When my life is at its most awkward, music isn’t always there to save me. Occasionally I have to learn to step up to the plate and march to the beat of my own drum. No pun intended (lolz).

On Muploading

Ah, “muploading.” The classic mups. Muppy-mup on a Saturday night. Yo let’s take some muploads. Mupload that, betch. Don’t worry, obv already muploaded it. 

You all know what it is, but if you don’t I’ll break it down for you. Muploading is the act of mobile uploading (hence, the term mupload) in which one take a photo with her phone and then posts it to Facebook for the social media world to see. Since the bitches got Blackberries back when we were thirteen, muploading has been a “thing.” It has transformed Facebook from a library of photos from your Bat Mitzvah montage into a constantly updated source of answering all your who-what-when-where-why questions duty free.


A mupload from my own personal collection of me looking like an insane mofo and my BFF Nicole doing her thang. Also some blonde photobombing which is pretty rude.

The concept of muploading, while I admit to taking hefty part in it, brings about many, many questions. Why must we let everyone know where we are and what we are doing 24/7? Taking this a step further, why are we, the muploaders, then checking our News Feeds to see everyone else’s muploads like we’re stalking researching for a sociology project on the modern JAP? Not only do we want everyone to know about us, but we want to know about everyone. This vicious cycle of give and take is eating us alive like a voracious babe with a cup of fat free Pinkberry.

A part of the desire to mupload is the subconscious idea that we need to show everyone proof we were that drunk, or ate that much sushi, or hooked up with that many random guys the last time we visited our BFFs at Michigan… Obviously, all things young ladies like us are just striving to be proud of!!! I’m sure all of you are denying this statement, but we all know it’s true. We want to prove to the world just how cool we are. Philosophers a long time ago deflowered the idea of the selfish and egocentric human. Well, I’m deflowering that of the typical low-confidence, self conscious girl with a fairly trendy wardrobe and an iPhone. This girl lives somewhere inside all of us, whether we like it or not.

Upon the breakdown of a mupload, the most disappointing thing to me in all of this is that Facebook basically isn’t real. It has become a harbor of this wretched mess. Everything we post and upload is carefully planned and posed. We choose only certain photos to post, and only make a status if we know it’ll get at least, like, 10 likes MINIMUM. And why would anyone ever post a picture if it didn’t a) make themselves look hot b) would get a lot of likes/comments or c) both of the previous.

Ladies, tell me. What has the point of Facebook become?

DISCLAIMER: I, by no means, will deny that I am a muploader and an obsessive compulsive Facebooker. We are all in this thing together, like bros from High School Musical.

On Being Totally Obsessed With Controversy

Just a warning: this post may be controversial. No irony intended.

I am a social media addict. My eyes are mesmerized by an endless Twitter feed and the photo icons of Maude Apatow and Lena Dunham. Gmail makes me feel hashtag-blessed (#blessed), and it has this amazing iPhone app in my favorite font. Pinterest was fun for like five minutes, but at least I tried it. I think it’s because I don’t yet have a fully-developed obsession with interior decoration, which will probably form the second I get married someday. Facebook is Facebook is Facebook is Facebook. It is made for stalking, so obv I’m always down. And ah, yes, WordPress. You, WordPress, are my new frenemy/New Year’s resolution. It was either blog or actually make an attempt to lose weight. Enough said.


As you can tell, I love social media. I love knowing everything so that my head is full of secrets, just like Gretchen Weiners’. But there is one thing to hate about this thing that I love. In my blatant, honest, and crude opinion, social media has made everyone a pussy. People have just gotten too sensitive.

Sometimes, I like to think of myself as a Nancy Drew-type. If Nancy Drew were on the school paper, I doubt she would be the Managing Editor like me because that isn’t sleuth-y enough. But as a freshman staff writer oh-so-many years ago, I pitched what I thought to be a genius idea. “Hey, everybody, let’s write about all of the pregnant teenagers in the less-gaudy town next door!” I was immediately shut down. Someone would be offended by this–some fat kid would claim I put the article in the paper to compare him to a pregnant woman, some Jewish mother wouldn’t want her daughter to start a pregnancy pact… and the list only continues. Drama queens.

But am I wrong? Is the news not the news? And how does this shitty situation all relate to social media?

Social media has not only allowed me to obsess over weird things like photos of babies with Sharpay puppies, puffins, and mice with teeny weeny teddy bears, but it has also allowed me to hide behind a glowing screen. Can I stalk the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in real life? Hell no. So I’ll just stalk her on Facebook. When my friends and I bitch fight, we text with the utmost brevity. In person, we either just ignore each other or act like nothing’s wrong. Social media has allowed us to build up this ridiculous wall of sensitivity because we are no longer used to a good slap in the face. Today, the closest things to this startling pain are some pretty rude Emojis, probably.


Here are things that are legitimately controversial:

  1. When I was in first grade, I told a girl in my class that I was going to kill her. She refused to come to school the next day. 
  2. Also in first grade, a girl in my class peed in her pants. I told this guy that I was seriously crushing on because I thought it would make him fall madly in love with me. My teacher gave me a time out. I guess I thought urine was a pretty hot topic of convo back then.
  3. In fifth grade, my boyfriend hacked into my AIM account. Gasp!!!!

I think it’s clear to see that true controversy doesn’t extend pass elementary school. So please, for heaven fucking sake, let me write my gossip column in the school paper. I meant, let me write about local pregnant teenagers.

On Not Knowing How Old I Am

If I have learned one thing from my grandmother, mother, aunts, first cousins, second cousins, and second cousins once-removed, it is how to be a hostess. In an ironic way, I find the moist, gum-stained streets of New York City comforting and the use of plastic ware at a family dinner nauseating. I have been programmed by tradition and, of course, my Jewish heritage to make sure everything is nice, crafty, and colorful. (You can read more about my OCDilemmas on @JewBoyProblem’s blog, Found at Bubbe’s.)

Carrying this value true to form, my mom threw my dad a 50th birthday party last night. It was, more or less, a Bar Mitzvah for adults. Honestly, I used to think 50 was old. I don’t really think so any more. Now it seems kinda cool. Like you’re in that George Clooney phase (or so you hope) where your hair is perfectly salt-and-pepper and your life could be a scene taken from my favorite Meryl Streep movie, It’s Complicated. Even though this sort of So. Cal lifestyle will only be blessed upon a bare 1% of us (cue the “we are the 99%!!!!!!”) it doesn’t seem that bad at all. 


      Mr. Clooney. Whatta babe.

Now’s the time where I turn shit around and use a smooth transition to make it all about me. Hence, watching my dad bask in his age made me think about my own. I am on the horizon of adulthood, yet I have no idea of the value of where I stand in life. 

We are told that we can vote when we’re 18, buy a pack of cigarettes when we’re 19, and legally drink when we’re 21. So, politicians, when will I become a real big girl? When will I grow up? I can’t decide if I’ll feel it upon the burdening loss of an unlucky lottery ticket I used all of my babysitting money to buy or when I receive my first jury duty summons. 

Today, adulthood is broadened into so many different categories–going to jail, voting, drinking, smoking, buying cars, renting cars, renting hotel rooms, having my own phone bill. We are even defined by seeing a rated-R movie. It is almost as if they want me counting down until the next big milestone where I can look back and say, “Hey! Remember the good old days when I wasn’t allowed into the teen club on that cruise ship?!” Cough, cough, fuck you, Royal Caribbean. 

I don’t know if society is trying to boost my ego by rewarding me with age, or making it harder and harder for me to feel like I’ve really grown up. Who the hell knows? When my dad gets his first letter from AARP, I’ll ask. Then I’ll steal his rewards card to get discounts at Dunkin’ Donuts. I guess that counts for the positive side of something. 

On Not Being A JAP

Before I begin, I would like to define a word I will use often: JAP. JAP is an acronym for Jewish American Princess. In other words, a Cher Horowitz via Clueless type that typically resides on the East Coast.

When I was in middle school, the JAPs in my grade carried Coach wristlets. So, naturally, I wanted a Coach wristlet as well. Then, the wristlet became a small, boxy Coach purse. The purse became a Hervé tote and the Hervé tote became a Longchamp tote. And come next year, the Longchamp tote will become the classic Louis Vuitton tote. I don’t recommend trusting my instincts, however, as I’m so low on the food chain of JAPery that I gave up asking my mom for new bags after I was finally gifted the boxy Coach purse (3 years after everyone else, of course).

I always told myself that one day, none of this would matter. We would all grow up and get jobs and families and be our own people and I could do whatever I wanted without feeling like I wasn’t JAPpy enough. Well, times have obviously changed. And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that you can take the girl out of the JAP, but you can never take the JAP out of the girl (whatever that means).

In other words, the JAPs of the world are staying huddled together like a weird school of fish with a lot of David Yurman bangles. As my future is literally on the horizon, I’ve put together a pretty interesting order of events in which a JAP will stay JAPpy, starting with her college education:

  1. She will attend any university featured on Betches Love This or I’m Shmacked. The list of possible college options will not extend much further than this.
  2. She will intern for any major magazine one would read during her mani-pedi (i.e. People, US Weekly, etc.) or some sort of rent-a-dress-yay fashion company.
  3. She will make a Twitter account. 25% of JAPs will have a witty, funny account (these are the JAPs from UPenn) and 75% of JAPs will complain about the constant need of a bagel, sunglasses, and Advil.
  4. She will make a blog.
  5. She will get a book deal.
  6. She will get married, live happily ever after, and give birth to a baby JAP that comes out of the womb in a full Juicy Couture sweatsuit.

See some of my fav examples of this:

Babe Walker, A.K.A. @whitegrlproblem


Leandra Medine, A.K.A. @ManRepeller


@SororityProblem and her famous hashtag #sorrynotsorry


I know that I may have skipped the crucial part of life where I’m supposed to buy all of these tote bags. But will I suffer from PTSD because of it? Will I not be a true “betch”? Will I never own an expensive pair of leather pants and a faux-fur vest? Who the hell knows.

But JAPs around the world, I will meet you at the end. When we are both sitting in the waiting room at Hyperion, waiting to meet with our respective editors, you can look at my size 4 ass and my floral Doc Martens while I strut out of that room with a million-dollar book deal.