This year, Jennifer Lawrence became the girl that everyone loved. Guys want to get with her, girls want to be her. And if they aren’t her, then they want to be her best friend. Like me, she gives off the “I don’t give a shit what people say or think” attitude, except unlike me, people like her because of it. Maybe if I was Katniss Everdeen I’d be more liked by people who do archery and appreciate a girl with a big mouth. With the Golden Globes around the corner, I thought the time had come for me to join the JLaw bandwagon. After all, her year wouldn’t be that accomplished without a shoutout from The FYD.
Whenever I try to picture Jennifer Lawrence in my mind, I, for some odd reason, can only think of the Disney Channel star Debby Ryan (from “Suite Life on Deck” and “Jessie”) who is cute–def not as hot as JLaw though–and actually smiles for pics. Whenever this happens I get so frustrated that I google “Jennifer Lawrence” on my iPhone so that I can remember her face and let a wave of relief wash over me. I’ve seen every movie JLaw has been in (including Like Crazy, one of my fav movies of all time) and I seem to google her face ten times a day yet it still refuses to ingrain itself in my mind. I think that really says something.
It’s underrated how she got her start in The Hunger Games. I mean, she had a small career beforehand, but you didn’t really know her until you knew Katniss. The Hunger Games reminds me of my tomboy literary phase in sixth grade. I never went through a tomboy phase in terms of how I dressed, but I read “boy books” for a while. How can just a literary work of tomboy-ness bring out someone regarded as one of the most glamorous people in the world?
I do love JLaw, however. I think that she is very real and has intentions of being the role model that wasn’t out there before. I love that she fell on her way to receive her Oscar and I love that she fell because she was thinking about cake. I also love how genius it was of her to finally tell the media that she fell because she was thinking about cake so strategically right before Golden Globes, as if to say, “give me the Golden Globe for my role in American Hustle and I promise I will do something that will further prove how much of a real, down-to-earth food-lover I am!” Her fall also means that when I inevitably fall on the way to get my Oscar one day I won’t be the first one to do it. The experience will be much less scarring.
As much as I love her, I also think she’s slightly overrated. Some people say they think she’s overrated in terms of her looks, which I totally disagree with. The people that say that are just jealous. I think she’s overrated in terms of how special she is, so to speak. We decided she was amazing because of how vivid she seems through the screen of a MacBook or captured in a magazine photograph. We love her because she’s young, and she’s fresh. I never would have picked her acting skills out of a crowd. Don’t get me wrong, she mastered Katniss, but… well… it’s Katniss.
The first time I saw Silver Linings Playbook, I thought that someone had secretly done an autobiography of my life without my knowledge or approval. JLaw’s diner-freakout scene could easily have been directly taken from any time between November and April of my senior year of high school. People thought her acting in that movie, and in that scene in particular, was crazy. For me it was just like a #tbt or whatever.
Recently, I read a really interesting article about JLaw and all of the things she says about body image–how no one can ever make her diet, she loves a burger and fries, etc. The article, which I believe was on HuffPost, said that the only reason we commend JLaw for being so “real” about her secretly naughty eating habits and her curves is because she manages to portray this persona while still looking thin, beautiful, and healthy all of the time. If someone who needed to lose weight made such a statement about loving a cheeseburger almost every time she opened her mouth, we would probably be disgusted. We would think that she’s being careless and sloppy and needs to go on a diet. But when JLaw does it, we clap for her because she does it and still looks like she doesn’t. This is something I’ve thought about for a long time, but never felt resonated with enough people that I could actually say it and believe it was true. But it totally is.
So, where does that leave us with JLaw? Still love her. Still think she’ll win a shitload of awards for everything she’s done. Still think she’ll continue to talk about food like it’s nobody’s business. But also still think she should make us think about what’s really real and what isn’t.
A couple of months ago, a guy friend jokingly told me that he would sue me because The FYD is a “fallacy.” He said it was a rip off for not properly representing its title. It’s true–I mention fro-yo every once in a while, but I don’t really write about it. On the exact one year anniversary of The FYD, I figured it would be a good time to start.
Frozen yogurt is a very generational thing, which gave reason to the titling of The FYD. Fro-yo is just as millennial as we are not because of the mass amount of chain stores spreading faster than wild fire through an unkempt bikini line, but because of the nature of the product itself.
Fro-yo is quick demand and quick satisfaction. Think fast food for the anorexic. We also believe we can eat more fro-yo than we can ice cream, which is really only half true. Sometimes, I eat fro-yo for lunch or dinner and never feel half-bad about it. If I ate ice cream as often as I did fro-yo (which may or may not sometimes be twice a day) I would feel much shittier, be 10 pounds heavier, and have to go to the bathroom a lot more. We like to think fro-yo is guilt free, which is exactly what we’re supposed to think. Obviously, like all things in life, it isn’t.
Sure, it’s low fat or fat free. But it’s still full of shit, and has enough chemicals to provide a seventh grade girls’ basketball team with full keratin treatments. Fro-yo is kind of like makeup. We can pretend we’re skinny because we make the choice to eat fro-yo and we can pretend we have good skin when we’re really just wearing a lot of makeup. But at the end of the day, you have to realize that you’re just using cash from the third night of Hanukkah to cover up your acne and you’re not losing weight by eating healthier ice cream. If you were actually skinny you’d be eating kale and not cake batter. We’re caught in the vicious cycle of deceit via the deadly sins of Sephora and (insert your go-to fro-yo place here).
You never have to settle on fro-yo. 21 flavors! 50 toppings! It isn’t like a fraternity mixer where you’re stuck deciding between the unattractive Jew and the semi-attractive goy that your mom would not approve of. We should take a moment and be thankful, because back in the day, it wasn’t always like this. The options weren’t always endless. Now, of course, they pretty much are.
Fro-yo started out as Forty Carrots at Bloomingdale’s, where wealthy mothers and grandmothers would take their dressed-up daughters on Saturdays. Today, we all love a good Forty Carrots Instagram. It’s the elegance and class of frozen yogurt captured in Lo-Fi. But fro-yo really rose with Pinkberry in NYC and LA. You could choose from two flavors (maybe three? My memory gets worse with age, ugh) and have the guy behind the counter put two toppings on–more if you had a privileged childhood with money to spend on the luxury of yogurt. Yum.
The problem with trends, like fro-yo, is that they usually die out. Then, they just become another throwback Buzzfeed article to post on your best friend’s wall. Like haha! remember when we thought fro-yo would make us skinny?! Now we just eat large gulps of air!
But I don’t necessarily think fro-yo is a fad. Yes, it’s artificial, but it’s also an indulgence. It’s one of the few things that allow us not to feel constantly shitty about how we look or what we’re doing and how we’re feeling. For once, society was able to provide our generation–a generation in which “plus size” is anything above a size 6–with something good. Kale, I love you, but you don’t always do it for me.
I used to think it was very mature of people to “get coffee.” When I got my license and started “chatting over fro-yo” with friends on weeknights, I felt like an adult. Funny, because in reality, I’m really just a millennial eating fake ice cream, and that’s all.
For the past year, I’ve been trying to learn through The FYD. I want to bring up things we accept as normal into question. I wonder why we, as millennials, do the things we do. But eventually, I’ve come to realize and accept that I can write for a thousand years and still never completely understand one thing: the mind of a guy. Tons of magazines, websites, and publications with a female-targeted audience have columns written by men to try and help women figure out what really goes on behind the six packs, the sideburns, and the sex. However, I still feel like “Jared, a college student from Florida!” or “Brian, in his second year of law school!” just aren’t doing it for me. I don’t know Jared, I don’t know Brian, and what both of them (along with the hundreds of other guys who write for girls) state in their pieces is typically predictable.
Enter a new flavor of The Fro-Yo Diairies: “Douche de Leche,” a segment featuring pieces for girls to gape at and guys to laugh at written by some of my closest male friends, almost completely uncensored. I’m not telling them what to say (though I will edit for grammatical errors, obviously I’m too type-A to let that slide) and I’m not telling them how to say it.
Now, I present to you, the first installment of Douche de Leche… enjoy.
Women always think men have these “thoughts” about them. But when I take a step back, the first thing I think about women is the ridiculousness of what they think I’m thinking. Here’s a list of things I find hilarious about women and their most common misconceptions:
1. GIRLS & THEIR HAIR When girls think guys care about their hair. I’m twisted already, do you really think I’m gonna give a shit if your hair is in front of your shoulders or behind? Just don’t shave that shit and it’s all good.
2. GIRLS & DANCING When a girl thinks a guy thinks it’s all good if she doesn’t know how to dance. Guys rage with their homies and raging is fun. But then when I’m dancing, I’m trying to get with you, and it’s just a huge bust if you can’t dance. A shitty dancer and a rager is probably the worst recipe known to mankind.
3. GIRLS BEING FUNNY Girls think that they need to be hilarious for guys to want to be around them. You know, I’d love a funny girl, but you know what I hate? A not funny girl who tries to be funny. If a girl cracks a joke and it’s hilarious, then they probably are amazing. On the other hand, if she makes the joke in the center of a circle that was expecting a funny joke, all she did was let me down. My night is practically ruined. If she didn’t pay for my cab home, I’d take a dump on her doorstep.
4. GIRLS PLAYING HARD TO GET Girls always seem to run into this debate of whether they should play hard to get, or be just be slutty and get the deed done. On a serious note, life is going to put you in your place, so just be yourself. You’re going to find someone who, whatever you’re doing, can’t help but come over to you. To all the ladies that don’t think they will: just be patient. There are so many late night snacks made just for you to substitute for a shitty night. Sooner or later you’ll hit the jackpot, and if you don’t, just move out of the country. They have places like Kyrgyzstan for that.
5. GIRLS EATING Girls always seem to stuff their faces either when they’re tripping balls or they’re in a comfortable sober state. Whatever it is, food goes down your throat and to your stomach (and elsewhere). It’s not too visible to us if you overdose on dinner, but it’s definitely enough for you to feel it and then start getting self-conscious. Self-consciousness is like bacon–you smell it from all the way upstairs. Except self-consciousness is like a pure, fatty, nasty ass piece of bacon I’d never eat. Before you go out, either start feeling good about yourself (because you probably look great), or don’t go out at all if it’ll only make you feel worse.
6. GIRLS & FACEBOOK Girls and Facebook, holy mother****** shit. If there was one thing that really couldn’t matter in this world, its whether you give the kiss face or the other face that definitely doesn’t have a name. Look, if you want to know the truth, the profile pictures are where we’re looking. If guys wanna show someone this hot girl, they don’t say, “Dude, let me show you the 3,000,000 pictures this girl is tagged in.” Instead, it’s more like, “Let me see the most beautiful pictures she has,” which are usually the profile pictures. So ladies, just relax. Your night isn’t over if you take one picture where it looks like you just got punched in the face. It’s all good, don’t worry. Seriously, it’s all good.
Afterward: The author of this piece was very excited to be featured on The FYD and wanted me to share this–I love you all, everybody that reads this, I can’t explain over the internet, but just know that I really do love you all. In other news, guys are insane.
First, take note: my laptop does not spell check “Thanksgivukkah.” This holiday shan’t be red squiggly lined. It’s for real, people.
For a curvy Jewish girl/all-American like me, Thanksgivukkah is the best thing to ever happen. I get to eat until I vomit, and once I vomit all over my clothes, I’ll be gifted a new shirt to change into. How clutch is that? It’s like god is repenting me for my sins and giving me a soft cushion to land my fat ass on… do I sense a lil bit of Yom Kippur thrown in here?
If you’re still confused, Thanksgivukkah = Thankgiving +
Hanukkah Hannahkkah, both of which happen to fall on the same day this year. It’s like a more generic and Judaically acceptable Chrismukkah. All in favor of an OC reunion to shoot a Thanksgivukkah episode, say “Shalom.” SHALOM, BITCHES.
The irony of Thanksgivukkah is that we have to be thankful for things like family, Buzzfeed as a news source, tempur pedic pillows, frozen yogurt, and our waxing ladies while at the same time allowing ourselves to be spoiled by aunts, uncles, grandparents, parents, and, if you’re lucky, significant others.
A lot of people are literally trying to combine Thanksgiving and Hanukkah by making latke-flavored turkey stuffing or baking gelt-bottomed pumpkin pie. Here are some creative ways I recommend for combining two of my all-time fav holidays:
- Buy a pet turkey and bobby pin a kippah to its head. Don’t worry about having a wild turkey in your home, it’s totally kosher. Just have it chill with your dog or something.
- Stuff your turkey (your dinner turkey, not your pet turkey) with Free People gift cards for the whole family to enjoy. This is also known as the low carb option.
- Only serve Manischewitz. Then again, you should always only serve Manischewitz.
- Dress code required: come as a pilgrim, a Native American, or a rabbi (with payis).
- Only cook with butter, because obvi, there’s barely any oil left.
- Serve pumpkin fro-yo. It’s the perfect combo of “Thanksgiving festive” and “Jewish girl swag.”
- I’ve mentioned this before, but wear your tallit as a scarf. I’m really into this these days.
- Use menorahs as mood lighting. It’ll be the chicest Thanksgiving ever.
- Go in a circle and have everyone say which Judaism-associated sorority or fraternity they are thankful for.
- Set a place at your table for Elijah. I know, I know, he’s the guy from Passover, but Elijah references in every day life make everything seem more Jewish.
Happy Thanksgivukkah! Don’t forget to hit up the black Friday sales, because every Jew would want you to celebrate a national holiday with a good bargain.
Before I decided I wanted to become
Carrie Bradshaw a writer, I wanted to be an artist. First, I had an infatuation with the idea of being a marine biologist photographer for NatGeo. This seed was planted in my head when I was but a decade old, and all I wanted to do with my life was hang out with manatees and take cool photos. In middle school, I shyed away from marine biology and leaned toward rock n’ roll. I wanted to photograph trendy shit, like fashion and famous people wearing weird outfits (or, rather, no outfits). My most recent obsession has been in film, not that I’m handy with a video camera whatsoever. In high school I took up acrylic painting on canvas. Now I have a sick DSLR, a beautiful easel, pallet, brushes, and paint set, and an Instagram (Insta covers the trendy photog shit). But, unfortunately, I stopped thinking like an artist and started writing like a yenta.
Since I discovered that I’m really born to write, I haven’t had as much time to paint, swim with sea animals, or to even charge my Nikon. I thought it would be great to take a trip down memory lane and reeducate myself. After all, a huge part of being trendy is remaining culturally in tact with the artistic community. I have this good friend, Juliette Hayt, who is the most talented chick I’ve ever met. She uses oil, watercolor, and arcylic paint and then inks and pens for illustration. Juliette claims that her dark/surreal subject matter doesn’t reflect her as a person and that it all comes from her subconscious. OK, Jules, that’s like me claiming I dressed up as Wednesday Addams for Halloween just “because I felt like it” and not because she’s actually my alter-ego.
What I decided to do for this week’s flavor is to take some of the coolest shit Juliette’s made and then analyze it through an FYDer’s point of view. Enjoy!
This is an example of a dystopian society in which Jewish women around the world have eaten so much fro-yo that their bodies are starting to melt. Eventually, everyone’s body will be a puddle of fro-yo. The women Juliette featured were once big fans of the mango and pistachio flavors.
This is an edgy representation of one of my favorite movie scenes of all time:
This piece represents the horrors that ensue when boys speak their opinions as well as the complex of the egotistical man. More specifically, it dives deep into what happens when you’re at a liberal arts college and on some sort of hallucinogenic drug and a boy makes a sexist comment. The braces are a strong symbol for how boys think their opinions are more important than ours, but, like braces, they are really just ugly and probably not worth what you paid for them.
This is what happens when girls waste their calories on carbs instead of fro-yo. We become green monsters and not even keratin will fix our hair once it’s turned into spaghetti. These girls were clearly once very trendy because they are wearing baggy, vintage t-shirts with slogans like “yum” and a mustache on them. They also have crazy thigh gaps. The moral being portrayed here is “don’t be spaghetti, and also get keratin.”
People are very split when it comes to opinions on Instagramming food. Many of you have read (and if you haven’t, then you should) Katherine Markovich’s “An Open Letter To People Who Take Pictures of Food With Instagram,” posted on McSweeny’s not too long ago. The column piece went absolutely viral as thousands and thousands of people who spend entirely too much time on Facebook/the internet ironically agreed with Markovich’s scornful rant on those who combine eating time with social media presence. As a food-stagramer myself, I cannot say that I am against the movement. I’d like to write an “open letter” to this thought-piece which, although humorous, just doesn’t get it right.
First of all, no matter how hard you try, you are never going to get people to stop taking photos of their food. Why? Many reasons. People like food. People really, really like food. Also, sometimes people have a hard time finding something to Instagram. And when those people haven’t Instagrammed in quite some time and are looking to turn something from dull to Lo-Fi brilliance, food is an easy place to turn.
Second of all, the title of her piece is almost as infuriating as the piece itself. You cannot take a “picture.” You can, however, take a photograph. And you (usually) don’t take photos of something “with” Instagram. The piece’s title just goes to show how little Markovich knows about Insta and it’s utilization in American syntax. “To Instagram” is a verb, and “Instagram” is a proper noun in reference to the application itself. But you cannot do or take something with Instagram. And if you don’t know that about Insta-grammar (clever, right?), then you shouldn’t be writing an article about Instagram at all.
When I went to Italy last summer, we would take photos of our meals every time we ate. Yes, I Insta’d a bunch of them. But I wasn’t Insta’ing every single plate at every single meal. Most were for the memories. You can food-stagram in moderation, and that’s OK. My mentor in life, love, and the pursuit of
being skinny happiness, Bethenny Frankel, says “Food is not your best friend or your enemy.” Food is like a one night stand–just because we’re Instagramming a photo of it doesn’t mean that we’re obsessed with it. It just means it looks yummy and delicious and would look great in Amaro.
A big point that most people make in the case against food-stagramming is that people who do it think of themselves as professional photographers or artists. No, no, no, don’t even go there girlfriend. Posting a photo of a slice of chocolate cake is just like posting a photo of you and your best friend… especially for some people. Lolz.
Now that you’re hungry, click here for some food porn.
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.
If I wanted to, I could make this post short and sweet: If you haven’t eaten chopped salad, then you haven’t lived. If you haven’t custom-made your own chopped salad, then you are not alive at all. And if you understand why chopped salad is about as trendy as Kim Kardashian’s breast milk is right now, then you are a fricking genius.
But of course, I can’t complain in just these three short sentences. So let me spell it out for you:
I adore chopped salad. It served the role of “Gay Best Friend” to me. But what I cease to comprehend is exactly why chopped salad has become such a “thing.” Salad and it’s ability to be chopped has been around since… like… ever. Yet, girls and women alike act as if suddenly someone discovered that indeed, there is a vegetable called lettuce and, holy shit, we are #blessed enough to be able to chop it into tiny pieces with a pizza slicer?????!!!!
I mean, when you put it like that… am I wrong? Does this not seem absolutely ridiculous?
Women always have and always will love to eat salad–this is not a “new” thing. So why does it seem like it? And why is salad seemingly better when it’s chopped? It’s almost as if we keep getting our baby food diet mixed up with our only-eat-things-that-are-96%-water diet. Rookie move. Get a grip, people.
Salad used to only exist as a sad, lifeless, and stationary being. It was left out on “salad bars” in the centre (yes, centre) of restaurants where it was totally exposed to the germy air and any waft of passed gas that sauntered in from the bathroom around the corner. Now, salad is respected. We gave salad back its rights like it’s 1965, baby. It is kept in a refrigerated, enclosed environment behind a counter where only trained professionals have access to its leafy loveliness.
Decades ago, our country was scattered with luncheonettes where hardworking men would get a 99-cent sandwich and fries. Today, luncheonettes have been replaced with “Creative Salad Companies,” feeding the brains of the driven women and weight-conscious homosexual men who are taking the workforce by storm. It is likely that my dissertation will one day hover around the concept of, oh, I don’t know, something along the lines of “The Rise Of Chopped Salad As A Lunch And/Or Dinner Food Is Definitely Like 100% Linked To The Fact That Women Are Better Respected In Society And Are Taking Over The World In A Great Way.” It’s just a working thought, you know?
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.
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!
The topic of plus sized modeling does not come up as often in conversation amongst my friends nearly as much as I read about it, hear about it, and see it on the news. In fact, the topic never comes up at all. We don’t even talk about modeling much except for those few terrible, terrible weeks before and after the annual Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, which isn’t a real fashion show (Coco Chanel is turning in her grave) and is more of a telecasted porno. The only difference between that and an X-rated flick is that teenage girls become anorexic rather than nauseas.
Glorified events like the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show bring Regina George-style attention to these models. Some of it’s negative, but more of it’s positive. The negative attention is along the likes of “they’re too skinny,” “they need to eat,” and “someone please give this girl some non non-fat fro-yo.” When stick-thin models are put to shame, the media begins to bow down to plus-sized models like they’re big because they ate a little piece of God while they were still in the womb. I’ve read countless online articles from major and reliable news sources that solely focus on praising size 12 models for being beautiful and doing their thing regardless of their size. Plus sized models are applauded for representing the average woman.
As someone who has been pretty average her whole life–I did away with any shot of having a Victoria’s Secret body by the first grade–I have no right to look down upon plus sized models. While it is important to stay healthy and fit, most runway models look seriously malnourished. I appreciate their dedication to things like kale and hunger strikes but I also think that it makes me feel bad about the way that I look.
I don’t know for sure how I feel about plus sized modeling versus skeleton modeling (seeing as either example will never in a million years indicate how certain clothing will actually look on my body). However, as always, I have a lot to say.
To, primarily, address the elephant in the room (no pun intended, but I’ll go with it), does plus sized modeling encourage an unhealthy lifestyle? Does it give out the message that it is “OK” to look like that? I don’t know the answer. I obviously am just asking rhetorical questions to add depth to the essay. But if I did know the answer, I would say it. I wish I did.
How rude would it be if we totally cut out plus sized modeling from the industry? It’s comparable to stopping the sale of plus sized clothing–everyone has a right to buy clothing their size (assuming there are some people that you just never want to see naked) so then everyone should have the right to see someone their size wearing clothing their size. Under that logic, I am a proponent of the plus.
The most interesting thing about this entire debate to me is this: is it bad that I’m even questioning this topic to begin with? Am I living proof of our warped society for questioning the legitimacy of plus sized models? Our country is at war. Half of the people are complaining about the need to make girls feel empowered about who they are, as they are, and the other half is trying to battle a growing childhood obesity problem one carb-cutting lunch law at a time.
But then again, I could have it all backwards. Is it possible?–could we all be so obsessed with curing modern America from its romance with thigh gaps that the passion for a little chunk here and there is too fervent? It’s like going along with a movement not because you’re so invested in what the movement believes, but because you’re so against whatever the opponent has to say. Some feminists out there decided to get as far away from supporting super-thin models as possible. So, now, they support super-fat ones. Why? Not because they like the larger models, but because they dislike the thinner ones.
Well, after an hour of writing and a whole adolescence of thinking, I’m going to make my own movement. It’s called The I-wish-no-one-cared-about-what-anyone-else-thought Movement. I wish I could say that maybe one day, that will actually exist. I wish that I knew what we were supposed to look like. But for now, it looks like we’re only moving further and further in the opposite direction–the direction in which, ironically, the fight for staying thin and the fight for being anti-thin both lie.
Sometimes, people are so desperate for trendiness that they’ll turn something as mundane as a vegetable and make it a “thing.” Well, my friends, this is what happened to kale. Kale used to be a nobody, sitting lonely on gourmet supermarket shelves, only purchased by the small Chinese grandfather who knew the magical powers of this leafy green from his ancestors and his small dragon friend/spirit guardian, Mushu.
Once, someone who is either a really ano Jewish girl or the Hollywood trainer Harley Pasternak (who bears no relation to me whatsoever) discovered kale from the rich soil of our earth. And, upon realizing its great qualities–hello, negative calories–turned kale into a staple of the skinny. Not only is kale both an edible and a drinkable, shout out to green juice, but it is also a way of life.
I decided to google “quotes about kale” to see if I could find something spunky to include. Instead of finding a few interesting quotes, I found a lot of psychos that are literally obsessed with kale. Like, I cannot even. Psychos.
I stumbled upon this charm: a blog called “365 Days of Kale: Where Kale is More Than Decoration on My Plate!” My first reaction? What the literal…
Obviously, this woman got her kale confused with her kush.
During my research, I found this in breaking news on ecorazzi.com: “The Green Quote: Vegan Singer Alanis Morissette Is Obsessed With Kale.” Really? No effin way?!?!?! Send that shiz to CNN stat. I’m sure you’re dying to find out what Alanis Morissette has to say about kale–“It’s like rain on your wedding day.” JK LOLZ, kale is ironic, but more in the trendy way than in the 90’s pop way (you will only understand this if you know Alanis Morrisette’s hits like any good Canadian lesbian would). But she actually did say this: “Kale is my best friend.” Cute.
Kale is like one of those things that people love to talk about because they want everyone to know how obsessed they are with kale. Once, I was with someone who wasn’t particularly in good shape and she was eating steamed kale. She could not stop gushing to be about how obsessed she was with it. It’s like great, good for you, you love kale. But I’m pretty sure that she thought talking about something like kale so much would make her lose weight, and it really didn’t.
I would not be surprised if somewhere in a white loft office space in LA a bunch of really skinny beautiful people who go to Soul Cycle a lot are conjuring up kale fro-yo. Just wait. Seriously.
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).
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.
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.
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.
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!
Because then I would eat it and get fat.
Happy packing to me!
*this is a sponsored post*
When I was in sixth grade and going through a lot of anxiety, I lived off of two things: water, and gum. I was convinced that a combination of these two totally nutritious staples would prevent me from throwing up, like ever. Well, I suppose they worked, as I made it through my year without vomiting once. Since, I have had a strange obsession with gum. Then again, pretty much every babe does.
This is the round-up of my fave types of gum in no particular order:
- Orbit. It’s very classic. Has a fresh flavor, but is not too exuberant. Loses flavor faster than I’d like to admit.
- Stride. Flavor jacked. Super juicy. Love it. I only get the green one, though.
- Trident. The type of Trident that I chew—the small packs with those cute pieces, although that is not a great description (also, is there any other type of Trident? Idk…)—is pretty shitty gum and loses flavor in about 1/8 of the time it takes me to put on overalls or give up on a liquid-only diet. However, I’m literally obsessed with the packaging. Great fruity flavors too. Only fruity gum I’ll chew.
- 5. 5 is good and reminds me of expensive and luxurious things because it names its gum after the natural elements. Kinda makes me feel like Katara from Avatar the Last Airbender.
Gum solves a lot of problems for me. When I am hungry, I chew gum. After I eat, I need to chew gum. When I’m nervous, I chew gum. When I go out, I chew gum. When I drove up the side of the tallest mountain in Turkey in my host father’s VW on the wrong side of the road, I chewed gum. I brought 15 packs of gum with me to Turkey. Turkish gum is “gum” flavored. It’s very interesting. Chewing gum is like being a born-again virgin after you ate 100% of your Chipotle bowl when you know you should have eaten max 70% of it.
True life: last weekend, I came home late and fell asleep chewing a piece of gum. I woke up the next morning, still chewing that piece of gum. I will accept gum as a birthday present. I don’t like cinnamon gum. Not to be picky, just saying.