Flavor of the Week: Jewish Boys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Flavor of the Week: Jewish Boys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


On Saying No

136-face-with-no-good-gesture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image via. 


A Bar Mating Dance

douche de leche

“Douche de Leche” is a segment featuring pieces for girls to gape at and guys to laugh at, written by some of my closest male friends and (almost completely) uncensored. This post was written by someone who chooses to remain anonymous, though he claims the following:

douche

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

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

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

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

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

She says dryly, “So do we.”

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

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

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


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.


Douche de Leche: The Ultimate Hangover Cure

douche de leche

‚ÄúDouche de Leche‚ÄĚ is a segment featuring pieces for girls to gape at and guys to laugh at written by some of my closest male friends, (almost completely) uncensored. This post was¬†originally¬†written by one of my best friends, the lovely and talented Jacob Koffler, and myself, who both think this is a very important matter.

Remember that book¬†Everybody Poops? The one your parents read to you when you were five? Well, it’s time for part two. Not only does everybody poop, but everybody takes a hangover shit. And everyone loves it.

It seems that we’re comfortable talking about everything on the internet. But when’s the last time you read an in-depth exploration of the most essential part of your Sunday morning? Sure, there are other hangover cures-iced coffee, a bacon-egg-& cheese, helplessly moaning alone in your bed, or whipping up a Bloody Mary and starting again–but whether you’ll admit it or not, you won’t feel like yourself until you’ve trekked to the bathroom and let it all out.

Everyone's fav emoji

Everyone’s fav emoji

Lack of a hangover shit truly ruins your day. That morning queasy-shaky-emptiness isn’t assuaged in a ten-minute playdate with your toilet. Instead, it lingers for hours and hours. As the wretched feeling slowly fades, it takes pieces of your dignity with it. It just isn’t the same.

We really can’t overemphasize the importance of the hangover shit enough. The difference pre- and post-shit is comparable to how your mother felt when she finally pushed you out. Think of all those half-digested brewskis and cocktails inside you as a baby–while you don’t want your hangover shit to be premature, at a certain point, you gotta get it out. It’s totally worth it to wait until morning; after all, the nature of a hangover shit is to shit¬†hungover. If you’re still drunk, the satisfaction level automatically diminishes. In the morning, it just plops right out.

So, we’ve all agreed on the hangover shit’s importance. Here are some tips to maximize everybody’s favorite part of the week:

1. Bring a book. It is a Sunday, after all. Might as well multitask.

2. Bring a friend! Hangover shits are more fun in pairs and a great bonding activity. True friends are on the same hangover shit cycle.

3.¬†Check for toilet paper before you go.¬†This ain’t the woods.

4. And last, but certainly not least,¬†pick the perfect bathroom.¬†Sunday mornings often prompt waking up in a foreign location. Although the bathroom closest in proximity may be the most convenient, it doesn’t mean it’s the best. Don’t settle.

Remember, hangover shits should no longer be taboo. Let’s create a safe space in which we can all talk about it. This shit is important, people.


Flavor of the Week: 2013

Good bye fro-yo, good bye 2013.

Good bye fro-yo, good bye 2013.

Congratulations! You survived your hangover. How does it feel? Rewarding, I bet.

2013 is officially over and we are no longer in that awkward limbo state between Christmas and New Year’s known as “the holidays.” During “the holidays,” everyone talks about everything that’s happened over the past year as if the year has already ended. In reality, the next year hasn’t started yet, either. Our society sets aside a week for us to reminisce and resolute and think about the reasons why we hate ourselves and how we can strive to change in the year to come. The holidays are a strange concept–everyone kind of stops doing everything and doesn’t start real life until the next year gets here. It’s a week that, though it sits on the calendar, doesn’t actually exist.

Now that we are in a new year, I thought it would be appropriate to accurately and fully asses the year that’s passed us by–FYD style, of course. 95 (!!!) posts later and I think I’ve got a pretty good sense of what 2013 was about. Here’s the shortlist of what you really shoulda taken out of that wild year. As the Grateful Dead says, “Oh, what a long, strange trip it’s been.”

1. Your Facebook pro pic says a LOT about you. And by a lot, I mean 4,926 post views in twelve hours-a lot. 

2. The selfie had a revolution. It was the thing of the year, by far.

3. 2013 brought us Thanksgivukkah–a chubby JAP’s dream come true!

4. Every. One. Got. Mono.

5. Kimye is everything.

6. FYD lesson: the balance between being a bitch/playing hard to get and being a slut is very, very difficult to find.

7. Celebrate the anniversary of your Bat Mitzvah by handing out the leftover kippahs you’ve been storing, because there¬†is always a bald man somewhere in need of a hat!

8. Tobi.com took over young women’s “trendy”/mundane going out clothing.

9. Everyone used read receipts. Then, they didn’t.

10. Miley came in like a wrecking ball.

11. We acted like chopped salad was just born, even though it wasn’t.¬†Overpriced chopped salad was born, transforming the dirty water dog-type lunch into one better suited to the women taking over the workforce.

12. FYD lesson: your relationship with your boyfriend is really a threesome between you, him, and Facebook.

13. Everyone wrote about kale, but I wrote about it first. Trust.

14. Cady Heron would not have survived a plastics’ group text. That is why being a girl nowadays is so frickin’ difficult.

15. We speak emoji.

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

17. We were labeled the “me me me generation.” But¬†millennials¬†rock. We’re going places, and they can’t stop us and our selfies.

18. I read¬†Fifty Shades of Grey while living in a rural Eurasian town of conservative Muslims. You might not remember that, but it’ll make you laugh.

19. I wrote my first post, “On Not Being a JAP,” for The FYD. But, obviously, there’s a little JAP in all of us.

20. A lot of other stuff happened that I didn’t get to cover. Gay marriage! Legal weed! Love! Loss! Sex! (GASP!) Breaking Bad! But, obviously, we still have 2014 for all of that.

Cheers to another fro-yo filled year of all of the above. May it bring you all overalls, muploads, selfies, shoe sales, peace, and low fat goodness.