Who’s Who: The Group Text

Do you ever lie awake at night contemplating your own existence, imagining your future and what it will bring, considering the poor choices you’ve made that may prevent that imagined future from becoming a reality when — *ding* — your phone goes off. And then again  — *ding* — and again — *ding ding.* You rub your eyes and resurface here on planet earth, wondering what could be so important that would cause someone to send you multiple messages in a row? And then, you remember… THE GROUP TEXT. There is no first world problem more profound than the group text. It has become a seemingly necessary yet indubitably burdensome aspect of life. Yes, it allows you to address several of your friends in one place about that upcoming plan you’ve made or are trying to make. Indeed, it gives you a safe haven to sound off on The Walking Dead finale in unison. Sure thing, it provides you the platform to create a virtual hang sesh when a few of you are feeling particularly lonely on a Friday night. But at the end of the day, it’s just like the latest Justin Bieber hit song — we know we need it but we’re pretty fucking tired of hearing it after a while. What makes the load of the group text an even more difficult one to carry is that one or more of the people involved in it are pure garbage whose only intention is to make your life a living hell. Or maybe it just feels that way. That being said, here are the 5 worst people on your group text.

The Jokester. There’s always that one friend who thinks it’s their sole right and duty to prove their wit and hipness via group text. They have all of the latest gifs and memes on queue for when their moment is to arise and when that moment does inevitably come, they fire away. Those of us who are truly unlucky have another friend on the chat who likes to spar with the Jokester, thus creating a practically inescapable web of quirky images from which any one of us would be lucky to make it out alive. While the Jokester can sometimes be entertaining and delightful, you will never get anything accomplished as long as they’re on your group text, and you certainly better consider putting your phone on silent until their fingers tire or the subway tunnels cut off their connection.

The Incompetent. It’s safe to say we all have a friend we deeply love and cherish but simultaneously want to strangle, and I’m willing to bet much of that hostility stems from the group text. Because they just so happen to be the friend that wants to be involved in whatever’s happening, but does not want to follow along in order to know what’s happening. They’ll drop a line in every now and then, usually irrelevant to the conversation at hand, and a few hours, days or weeks later will ask for a recap of what they missed. You know, those words on that screen that they can just scroll up to and read themselves? I understand just as well as anyone else that group texts can turn into a hellish mishmash of shit that doesn’t seem worth reading along with, but when it becomes chronic behavior to ignore and ask for CliffsNotes, I simply cannot help your incompetent ass.

The Grumbler. The Incompetent sucks for sure, but equally if not more frustrating is the friend who doesn’t want to be involved so they bitch about being involved when they instead could just as easily leave the chat. You know ’em, you love ’em, the person who can’t just say no to doing something, they have to actually express the offense they feel for having even been asked to join. Why would they want to do that uncool thing you’re going to do? Why would anyone?? It’s the person who has something to say about everything and it’s just about always negative. You imagine them sitting unhappily at their desk eating Cheetos or on their couch swaddled in multiple Snuggies, wondering where life went wrong, unaware that their attitude is their biggest problem and then they remember text messages exist. And they pop open that text bar and go to town on your ass because it’s your fault their existence is meaningless and it’s definitely your fucking fault that you felt the need to include them in a casual conversation about live music. Haven’t you heard of the radio?! Now leave them alone, please, as they sit here and revel in misery instead of pressing two buttons to release them from this private text hell.

The Supersonic. This repeat offender doesn’t exist solely in the group text world, but it’s certainly the worst place for them to be. Don’t you miss the good old days of SMS? I like to think of it as vintage Twitter — you were given 160 characters to say everything you wanted to say, review what you’ve said and then… send! At that point, you would wait for a similarly thought-out response, followed by a rinse-and-repeat-type scenario. It’s too damn easy to text now! We can send so many messages in a row and they’re delivered instantly, and we can see that they’ve been delivered and move on to the next thing we so desperately need to say. As a result, you’re going to have the people that send 5-7 short, pointless messages instead of taking a fucking minute and collecting all of the information they want to share into one succinct paragraph before hitting the send button. I long for simpler times when it would have been more of a burden to the sender to create a new message for each meaningless thought they had than to prepare something complete and whole to say. Now we, the poor recipients, can only sit and wait as they rapid fire away their word vomit in our direction. What a life.

The Phantom. This is by far the most disconcerting of the bunch, but also the most tolerable. That is, because they never speak. It’s that friend who doesn’t want to be involved in whatever’s happening, so they stay on but straight up say nothing. Not a peep. The weird thing about this person is only that they haven’t made the mutually beneficial decision to get the hell out of the group text. They just allow their phone to act as some sort of text dumpster. Are they voyeuristically reading along? Are they just that fucking chill that they’re not bothered by the notifications? Are they not fluent in text functionality? DO THEY EVEN EXIST? It isn’t clear at this moment and by the time this went to press, we received no comment from any known Phantoms. We must now live in wonder.

Yeah, texting is great. It’s a magical land where lulls and awkward silences do not exist. You can pretend to laugh at or care about the futile shit your friends are talking about when in actual fact, you don’t care at all. Like, not even mildly. Your tone of voice would have been a dead giveaway; they’d be onto you. But here, all white liars live in harmony. Please don’t be mistaken, however — it is still a dangerous place. A place where your day can be ruined by the simple sound of a notification. A place where people can be the absolute worst versions of themselves because their idle hands must be busied. There will always be those who joke unnecessarily, who lack reading comprehension skills, who would rather grunt than giggle, who have rapid fire fingers and stagnant minds, who are mysterious in a bewildering way. I see no simple or immediate solution to this problem. But I hope with these tools, you can find some way to accept the darkness that waits behind your locked phone screen, ready to pounce and ruin your day. And I hope you choose to accept that anything, even this, is worth enduring in order to avoid holding a telephone to your ear and engaging in old-fashioned spoken conversation.

The Real Housewives Guide: How to Be the Absolute Worst

There are some things I would just rather not admit. Like that I have the bad habit of yawning without covering my mouth even though I preach about the supreme importance of good manners. Or that I’ve probably seen every episode of MTV’s Catfish. Or that I could do without Anna Kendrick. Or that I eat in bed. But I mean I pretty much eat only in bed. Like, almost nowhere else in my home do I eat. But anyway, nothing pains me more than to admit to another person for the first time that I am an avid watcher of The Real Housewives franchise. Though I keep some small amount of dignity for myself knowing that I only watch on demand rather than tune in each week, and have dropped down from multiple cities to just two (New York City & Beverly Hills), it’s still a difficult lump to swallow and an even more unfortunate truth to speak. In fact, when just this past week I casually dropped a Real Housewives reference into a conversation with a co-worker, she paused, looked hard at me and said, “You watch The Real Housewives? They’re so glamorous and you seem so… dark.” She wasn’t wrong. At first glance, I suppose I don’t exactly appear to fit the Housewives fan mold. (Then again, is there even such a thing?) Still, I’ve learned many a valuable lesson from these women, in terms of what not to do, how not to behave, how not to exist within the bounds of what we like to call human reality. And as I’m now deep in the trenches of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills season six, please allow me to share with you five vital truths I’ve learned from watching all of our favorite and/or least favorite TV wives. Take it as a How To: Be the Absolute Worst.

I. The Art of Admission. Somehow, in Real Housewives land, saying you did something to get a rise out of someone is real enough. All is forgotten the moment you admit you did something fucked up with the sole intention of letting plain old nastiness ensue. Once you admit it, you don’t have to reap the consequences of your original action or own up to the fact that you’re actually just a really shitty person. Recently, new RHOBH Housewife Kathryn told some Housewife that she told some other Housewife something unkind that Housewife had said about the other Housewife just to see how the Housewife who said it would react. I mean, that’s really the best way I can explain it. Just re-read it until it makes sense. (Really, it will never make sense.) But guess what?! It was like witchcraft or some shit. Admitting that she did what she did out of pure malice was her Get out of Jail Free card because almost instantly, all Housewives in dinner party attendance shut the fuck up as if they had never heard someone else come clean about doing something shitty for shitty reasons alone. There was no apology. There was no lesson leading to personal growth. The dinner party ended and all moved on. Abracadabra, baby!

II. Unfortunate Truths. Telling the truth doesn’t matter if you’re an asshole about it. Once upon a time, I was a fan of now defunct Housewife, Brandi Glanville. Not a popular opinion, I know, but I had to appreciate her unique way of “keeping it real.” She said everything — all of the things — she wanted, and the other wifeys did not want to let that shit fly. After accusing one wife of drug addiction, exposing the sham of a marriage of another wife, throwing a drink in yet another wife’s face for reasons unclear to just about everyone including Brandi herself, and threatening to harm and/or kill the majority of the wives among other offenses, this jig was up. Eventually, even I grew tired of my girl B, because it was clear to me that she was an absolute psychopath and it was no longer fun for any of us to watch or be a part of. The good lord Andy Cohen agreed and kicked her off of the show to what I can only imagine must have been Beverly Hills parades even more grand than Vanderpump’s much-promoted Gay Pride. Brandi G, you are gone but not forgotten. The truths you spoke stay with me still, even in spite of your absolute and indisputable insanity.

III. Brand AmbASSador. It’s okay to be a hypocrite if you are also a millionaire. RHONY’s Bethenny Frankel has opinions. Did you know that she has opinions? She does. She has opinions. Opinions about how people live their lives, who they date, how they run their businesses, what they say to other people, what they say about other people… the list goes on. But somehow, Bethenny does not want to hear opinions. She has neither the time nor the attention span for it. She is busy, goddammit! Ya know, running her brand???? How fucking rude are you? And if you tell her how to run her brand?! Forget about it! It’s on. Even though she’s openly critiqued other Housewives business ventures both behind their backs and straight to their faces. Within her own NYC crew last season, she absolutely shat on poor, defenseless Kristen Taekman’s nail color line, Pop of Color, as well as Sonja Morgan’s so-called “international fashion lifestyle brand,” Sonja Morgan New York. But that wasn’t enough for her. During the RHONY off-season, she took her talents to Beverly Hills for a visit. While there, she dared to disgrace the almighty Erika Jayne a.k.a. Erika Girardi a.k.a. ThePrettyMess after she shared a very intimate piece of pop performance art on her iPhone during dinner. Now granted, one of Erika Jayne’s songs includes the now-infamous catchphrase, “Pat the puss,” but how dare you, Bethenny Frankel?! She has eight #1 disco hits, you ingrate!

IV. Who Needs Dignity? Not Lisa Rinna. Lisa Rinna has big, fake lips — she said so! Lisa Rinna’s had the same hairstyle for decades — she said so! Lisa Rinna is wacky — she said so! Lisa Rinna will do anything for a buck — she said so. There’s just about nothing Lisa Rinna won’t cop to and it’s the main reason she’s almost impossible not to love. But it’s also the reason I think of Valerie Cherish pretty much every time she’s on screen. Equally ridiculous, Rinna knows she’s not as classy, intelligent, or sophisticated as some of the other Housewives (not that that’s saying much). Want her to endorse adult diapers? She’ll do it, and to the tune of an apparent $2 million. Want her to say or do something silly? Yeah, she’ll do it, but that shit’s for free. She’s just that kinda gal! She told you… she’s wacky! Rinna’s admitted time and time again that if it gets her money or keeps her relevant, she’s game, and as reasonable people, we can’t hate on that. In fact, maybe we should be taking a few pages from her book. Keep doin’ you, Lisa Rinna. You really are a dream come true.

V. Sane Ain’t the Way. If you’re sane or reasonable, you’re doing it wrong. Poor Eileen Davidson. I first met her as the seductive villainess, Kristen DiMera, on Days of our Lives when I was a child. I admired her both for her moxie and her off-the-charts insanity. When she showed up on the BH streets last season, I thought we were in for it. Unfortunately for all of us, Davidson was nothing like her fictitious counterpart. She was actually — get this — sane. I didn’t let that get to me, though. I was sure that, like many sane new Housewives additions before her, she would be sucked into the drama and that would be the end of that. The old Eileen would be gone forever. But it never happened. Back for her second season, she somehow seems almost more sane, level-headed and real. Too bad for Eileen, she’s not the kind of real these ladies are looking for. They don’t want to have adult conversations, Eileen! They don’t want to confront one another in a level-headed manner and tell the truth, Eileen! They don’t want to take good hard looks at themselves in the mirror, EILEEN! They want to pretend and ignore and divert and argue! That’s the goddamn Real Housewives way! I’ll always be rooting for you, Big E, but if you don’t want to get stomped all over, you’re going to need to change yourself completely for the sake of reality television, just like everybody else.

VI. Queen of the Housewives. Lisa Vanderpump is untouchable. She is unbreakable. She is indestructible. Lisa Vanderpump is the best Real Housewife of all time and she knows it. Consider this your bonus truth. If by some stroke of dreamlike luck, you ever encounter Pumpy, do not dare try to cross her. And if you ever reach the epic rock bottom of becoming a Real Housewife yourself, do not attempt to turn the others against her or slander her good name or reputation. Do not make the fatal error of underestimating her greatness. One by one, you will be defeated. Made into a social outcasts by her hand alone. Banished from the franchise, OR WORSE, denied service at SUR! It’s just the way it is. There has never before been and will never be a greater Housewife than she. And so it is done.

And there you have it, another fifteen minutes of life you’ll never get back. But at least now, you have some insight into the wonderland that is The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I never promised it would be easy. Never really promised it’d be worth it, either. Quite frankly, it isn’t. Like, not even a little bit. Bottom line is, by the time you know you’re hooked, it’ll be too late. And soon enough, you’ll be posting your own blogs about this mindless trash, wondering where it all went wrong. Now go ponder what your Housewives tagline will be. Make it sassy, fierce, and be sure it makes absolutely no sense. Now, twirl!

Perpetuators of Madness

Things for American twenty-somethings are looking grim, folks. When I look at myself and my friends, when I read news articles about so-called “millennials,” when I turn on the the television or pop open Netflix, there’s one glaring truth I can never avoid: My generation sucks. We’re constantly chastised for wanting it all but being too lazy, carefree (read: careless), entitled and fun-loving to work to get it. So we sit at jobs we hate, or in relationships that don’t add up, or with friends we resent because it’s way fucking easier than buckling down and making the situation better. We’re told this is who we are and we begrudge the generalization but, more often than not, it’s accurate. As I type this, I’m avoiding doing more important things that could get me another step closer to where I want to be. But I don’t dispute that there are people my age absolutely hustling, fighting to simply achieve. Some people astonish me with their drive and passion, the way they so clearly see how short this life will be and how much opportunity we have to make it something great. But the rest of us? At best, the most we can manage is something I warmly refer to as “the side hustle.” We live stale daily lives but do whatever we can to make time for our hobbies and passions, hoping one day we’ll turn them into something tangible. Still, that’s easily lost in the shuffle of everyday life and soon forgotten when the weather is warm and margaritas are five dollars until 7pm. Then, all is lost.

It’s bad enough so many of us balk at the notion of becoming self-starters, talk the talk but would rather lie in bed and switch from Instagram to Twitter back to Instagram again, seek and find so many others of our kind to commiserate with over a Lagunitas IPA or three, but we are only aided by the people and programs around us who perpetuate the madness we’ve become such experts at. That’s why, when I turn on the television to see a 25-year old Hannah Horvath being a generally terrible human being who can’t get her shit together, or an alternate-reality Aziz Ansari whose troublingly unlucky in love, or the thirty-somethings in the newer Netflix original series who actually appear to have their shit even less together than I do in my late twenties, or even Carrie and the gang, who are pushing forty and though they have real jobs and real apartments and real money with which to pay for really nice things, cannot lock down love or even some semblance of a totally grownup life, I get why we don’t get our fucking shit together. Because it’s okay to not have your shit together — TV says so! That is, until it’s too late and we’ve become the fictional characters we’ve relied upon for far too long. But for now, let’s take a quick look at a couple of them, in hopes of recognizing what they’re doing to us and vowing to not be a subject to their shitty examples of lives for another day of ours.

 GIRLS. When I exited college and it became very clear to me that I would not immediately (or maybe ever) have a proper career in journalism, I thought it an opportunity to seek out Lena Dunham’s Hannah as a compatriot in my struggle. That was, of course, until I decided she was a disaster of a sociopath who maybe didn’t deserve love or success… like, ever. And fucking surprise! All of her friends were almost equally as terrible. As I sat in my twin bed at my parents home, I thought, “It’s not just me!,” and I watched the rest of that season from that very bed, feeling somehow better about myself. And as their lives went off in troubling tangents, I felt more and more that mine wasn’t so awful; that we were all in the same boat. Time went on and none of their lives really improved much, so why was I pushing for progress? The thing is, though, these people were not real and I shouldn’t have used them to console my worse-for-wear adult standing. In five seasons, they’d be gone, likely living as happily ever after as you can in Brooklyn because we all want to hope for the best… even for you, Hannah Horvath.

 

LOVE. Netflix’s newest binge series lets us follow one 30-something guy who has lost almost everything chase after one 30-something complete fuck-up until he inevitably lands her because that’s what happens, apparently. All the complete nonsense in between, it turns out, is par for course? Is this what I have to look forward to? Just about the only desirable situation either of these alleged grown-ups finds themselves in is that they know Birdie, the leading lady’s roommate, who is the absolute saving grace of their shams of lives. But even knowing this, I watched along as each of the main characters slowly but surely loses their shit and thought to myself, “Well, if they don’t have it together at this point, maybe I’m okay,” like some kind of completely delusional loser! At this point, I was contemplating writing this piece so I was obviously aware that what I was watching was not real and I should not use these people as the bar to which I hold myself, but still, I gave in. I still took comfort in the story of a young woman so far off her rocker it was hard to believe she was still living a somewhat functional life. And as I sat there, binge-watching with my friend, holding Budweiser tallboys in our hands and shouting, “Oh my god, that’s so you!,” at one another as we so closely related to every other scene, the madness continued.

These are just two of the latest and greatest depictions of what can only be described as “loser adults.” Sex and the City, Master of None, Friends, Happyish, New Girl, and even a favorite of mine, Happy Endings, all featured imperfect adult specimens who, though relatable, have had the ability to confuse school buses full of students of life into thinking that having it all isn’t for the lot of us. Carrie Bradshaw had a pretty cool job and a buttload of expensive shoes, but it took her six freaking seasons to figure love out and put on her big girl pants when it came to navigating both her personal and professional life. She was 37 by then. When Aziz’s Dev Shah discovers that what he’s spent his entire adult life seeking may not be all that, he makes a rash decision in hopes of finding what he needs somewhere else. But you can’t help but look on skeptically, as if everyone — even those involved — is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Chandler Bing was roughly 35 when he took a job as an unpaid intern after years of working a generic office job that gave him absolutely no fulfillment. Thom Payne, in the short-lived dark comedy Happyish, spent his younger years securing a well-paying job at a cool company, a hot wife, a cute (yet unbearably annoying) kid, and a house in the Catskills to get stoned at, but he was very truly old and miserable in spite of all of that. Nick Miller is the saddest among a loft of of sad sacks in New Girl — broke, confused, directionless — and those are some of his better qualities. And Dave in Happy Endings was left at the altar, hates his menial role at a nondescript job, and appears to have very little to live for but, dammit he tries, I guess…in a way. And he somehow comes off looking like a prince compared to his wayward, clueless, ape-like buddy, Max. Obviously, the list of these anti-role-models goes on (Togetherness, Scrubs, It’s Always Sunny…). Knowing all of this, maybe we continue to watch on with extreme caution and self-awareness, or maybe it’s time we get off of our complacent young professional asses and do whatever we can to rise up like phoenixes and remember that the hustle is in all of us, even if we are a little bit fucked up.  

#OscarsSoWasted: Pointless Oscars Predictions

Tonight, Oscars night, is my favorite night of the year. It’s one of the few pointless things I hold dear in this life. Each year, I turn down viewing party invitations in order to snuggle up in my bed and watch The Oscars alone. I must hear and see every crucial moment (and all Oscars moments are crucial), and I mustn’t be distracted, not even for a moment, because on Oscars night, so much can happen in a moment. This is a ritual. And tonight will be no exception. I love everything about the Oscars, even the parts I hate. Like the red carpet pre-show where dummies ask movie stars questions about stuff that has nothing to do with the reasons they’re there. Good god, I hate it, but I watch that shit from start to finish! Or the post-Oscars show where a bumbling (yet somewhat adorable) Maria Menounos tries to force conversation with whatever helpless celebrity stops to greet her. But the real action happens during the awards ceremony, or more specifically, the commercial breaks. I live for the quick captures of actors and directors I admire schmoozing with one another. I LIVE FOR IT. And the awards are great too, as long as some asshole actor doesn’t use the podium as an opportunity to so narcissistically congratulate his/herself via a long-winded tale fully equipped with life lessons (looking at you, McConaughey). It is because and in spite of these moments that I love the Oscars and would rightfully consider myself an Oscars fanatic. That being said, I think I’m just as qualified as any Entertainment Weekly columnist to make predictions about what the night will hold. But these predictions won’t tell you who’ll be best-dressed or take home the most coveted awards of the night — that shit is boring and pointless and I’m no Miss Cleo. Big picture, these predictions mean nothing but they do encourage you to drink in celebration of all of the glory that The Oscars hold in their little, golden hands. So fill your glasses, ladies and gentlemen. The nominees aren’t even allowed to drink at this one (this isn’t the Globes, after all) and most of them will go home empty-handed. But for us, ah yes for us, The Oscars will be magic.

Giuliana Rancic will ask at least 5 celebrities an awkward question on the pre-show and will then do everything in her power to fix it, even if it means sacrificing herself on the red carpet as a distraction. *Take a sip of your Oscars champs for each awkward question up to 5 awkward questions. After 5 awkward questions, stop, because it’s going to be a long night.*

Ryan Seacrest will wear his own brand, Ryan Seacrest Distinction, along with a pleased-with-himself grin. *Take a sip every time Ryan name-drops his brand. Take 2 sips every time he appears to be overly-pleased with himself.*

We’ll spend 2 hours watching the E! Network just to find out who they’re wearing even though it’s the most absolutely inconsequential fact of the evening. *Finish your flute every time an actor takes an Oscars dump on ideas the people at E! have been thinking up for months.*

Chris Rock will not be Ellen Degeneres. *Take a shot every time Chris Rock references #OscarsSoWhite because… that’s a thing… and nobody’s fixed it yet, so let’s just get drunk.*

Alicia Vikander will be both gracious and stunning but we’ll still have a hard time believing she’s not definitely a robot on a mission to destroy us all. *Take a sip every time Vikander appears on screen… ya know… to ease the fear.*

We’ll spend all night trying to decide whether we love Kate Winslet or Cate Blanchett more. *Take a sip every time it just pops into your mind that you wish you could be best friends with either Kate/Cate. (I’m still wasted from doing this last year.)*

We’ll all question how and why The Martian was nominated for an Oscar, even me, who hasn’t seen it. *Take a shot for each Bourne movie you’ve seen. Take another shot for each Bourne movie you’ve liked. We’re not to acknowledge The Martian at this time.*

Brie Larson and Jennifer Lawrence will have a girl-next-door-off which will result in hugs because, like, they’re so relatable, right?! *Take a sip every time you doubt the sincerity/sweetness of either leading lady but still vow to love them for the rest of eternity anyway.*

Mark Ruffalo will make a “Feel the Bern” reference at some point. *Take a sip if it happens. Take a sip if you think Mark Ruffalo may be a time-traveling past version of Bernie Sanders. Take a sip if you’d still sleep with Mark Ruffalo even after he admitted to having a tiny dick.*

Someone or everyone will mispronounce Saoirse Ronan’s name after literally hours of practicing it. *Take a sip any time someone says Saoirse’s name either correctly or incorrectly, because they tried… they really tried.*

Rooney Mara will lose the Oscar on account of her longing looks in Carol being not quite longing enough. *Take a sip every time Rooney Mara looks like she’d rather be anywhere else… literally ANYWHERE else.*

When Leo DiCaprio inevitably accepts his Oscar, we’ll notice that his face is a little bit off and he sort of speaks out of the side of his mouth but we’ll still all go on and on for weeks about how gorgeous and talented he is. *Chug right from the bottle when Leo finally wins his first Oscar because everything is now right and just in the world. If he loses, finish the bottle because FUCK EVERYTHING YOU’RE ALL MONSTERS.*

The night will come to a close and we’ll be left with nothing but the unfortunate truth that tomorrow at work, we’ll need to talk to co-workers we don’t like about what we thought of The Oscars. *Finish whatever’s left on the table. Monday awaits.*

You’re Not the Only Cool Girl

In light of last weekend’s events (i.e. the Super Bowl), I really got to thinking about what it means to be a girl in this world. (Cue No Doubt and female rage now.) On a narrow, astonishingly ignorant spectrum, girls can fall into one of two categories: a classic lady or guy’s girl. Our male friends place us into these categories when they decide which of us is right to invite to a baseball game when they get last-minute tickets from work, and we do it to ourselves when we revolve our worlds around making sure both sexes see us as agreeable and adaptive. I am no less guilty of this than any other girl. I’ve built my entire style around androgyny and have said on more than 131 occasions that I relate better to men than to women. But that doesn’t mean that I’m unaware of my own hypocrisy, because I also like hanging out with my girlfriends. I enjoy the conversations we have and when I’m at a wine tasting with them, just like when I’m watching wrestling with the guys, I feel like we relate on a very real and honest level. This isn’t always the case, but I couldn’t say that it happens any less than it does in my encounters with the opposite sex. There are far too many of us who so delusionally believe that our male friends should cherish us for our chill attitudes and affinity for typically masculine activities when the truth is, the only ones we’re fooling are ourselves. So as a tribute to all of those gals trying so hard to make everyone believe they’re one of the guys, I give you: You’re Not the Only Cool Girl.

Dear Self-Defined “Cool Girl,”

You are not cool because you watch sports. Sports are for everyone. And I know saying, “Sports are for everyone,” is like saying, “Racism doesn’t exist,” because even though it’s true in some cases, many people still believe the sports world is a man’s world (just like, fucking obviously, racism exists). But the bottom line is, any girl can enjoy a sporting event just as much as any guy can. I’ve watched teams I’ve never seen before play in games I’ve never liked and still gotten so into it I’m cheering, sweating, grunting, and feeling that nervous feeling in my stomach because it’s just too close to call. And even though in high school, I rocked bitches, pushing basketballs into their faces after they’d made the extremely poor decision to come in my lane, I was still a blonde chick who wore band tees and makeup. So just because you throw on a backwards cap and a form-fitted jersey and speak in sports lingo does not make you one of the guys and it doesn’t make you cooler than any other girl. It just makes you, like, a fun person in general. Big congrats on being fun.

You are not cool because you like beer. Beer is great. Beer is like bread. There are so many variations of it and every last one is so goddamn delicious you can sometimes hardly imagine your life without it at this point. These days, drinking craft beer and visiting beer festivals and breweries is almost as common an activity as seeing a film. So darlings, do me a favor and get off of your high horses and come back down to earth so you can hear me better. Okay, now that you’re down safely, I’ll go on… Just because you can talk beer with the best of them, flip cups like a champ, and drink your male friends under the table doesn’t mean you should go around town acting like your body houses both reproductive organs. Beer is for the masses and it’s no badge of mannish honor that you happen to enjoy it too. (Please note: The same applies to whiskey. Brown liquor does not a man make.)

You are not cool because you “don’t do drama.” You know who doesn’t “do drama?” Sane people who surround themselves with other sane people who have better things to talk about than each other. Being one sex versus the other does not make you any more or less dramatic. I mean, have you ever had a boyfriend with a head cold? Give those motherfuckers a Daytime Emmy because that dramz is worthy of applause and an acceptance speech that goes long past when the music starts playing. And still, even knowing this, we brag to our male friends about our unique ability to not involve ourselves in cattiness and eye-roll-worthy conversation, despite the unlikely fact of an XX chromosome. I won’t argue that gossip and pointless banter seem to often be most prevalent amongst women, but I would argue that there are plenty a man on earth who bitch to their boys about their roommate’s girlfriend regularly inhabiting their living space rent-free, or who just can’t turn a blind eye to and not gossip about that guy at work who talks really loudly on the phone from 9-to-fucking-5. It’s happening, babe. You just might not be there to witness it. Oh, drama. None of us are immune.

So I guess the takeaway here is ::NEWS FLASH:: No girl appears any cooler in the eyes of any beholder — male or female — by playing herself off as nothing more than one of the guys. And more than that, none of us fall into one category or the other. This is 2016, after all. We can be all things. For instance, today I’m wearing a piece of costume jewelry and tonight I’m going to bowl and drink a ton of beer. Isn’t this world an awesome, understanding, emotionally-freeing place?

Albums I Played Until There Was Almost No Meaning Left

 

I like music. I realize this is a generic statement designed to be used in some first grader’s stick figure book where she explains all of the things that make her happy: dance class, flowers, penguins… music. But it was only recently I learned that some people aren’t into music. In a casual conversation with my sister a year ago, she told me she doesn’t have a favorite song and that music doesn’t make her feel anything. A friend of mine practically powers down when I propose she join me for a show on a Tuesday night. And a co-worker straight up said one day that he doesn’t even listen to music. That’s some next-level shit. Not me, though. Knowing that soon enough, I’ll be the thirty-year-old in a sea of early twenty-somethings vibing out to some so-called “alternative” band at Bowery Ballroom, I seek out music new and old every chance I get. With that said, my iTunes library is pretty extensive at this point and I have some great stuff to choose from when I’m trying to push through a particularly annoying day at work or a subway ride from hell. In doing this, I’ve learned that there are those albums that are good for the moment and then there are those albums that are good forever. Those songs you’ve listened to so many times, they’ve almost lost all of their meaning… the ones you don’t just know the words to, but also the inflection, the guitar riffs, the beat of the drums, maybe even where the bass kicks in if you’re in such deep trenches as I am. The albums built from those songs are rare and should be cherished. So what I thought I’d do is share some of mine with you.

Now, I’m not going to make this some kind of motherfucking artsy thing and explain all of the technical reasons I love this shit. If you’re free for drinks one night, I’m down to go over that with you but I don’t feel snobby enough to put it in writing at this particular moment. So I’m going to go through these albums and gush about them succinctly and like a fan would, and that’s it. Maybe you’ve never listened to them and you will. Maybe you know them well and hate them. Maybe you feel the way I do about them. Whatever it is, here they are in three parts, each pertaining to a phase of my life-long love affair with music. We’ll start with my gateway albums — the ones I listened to as a kid (and then teenager) that catapulted me onto the next platform. That’ll be followed by a couple of albums I’ve spent the last few years listening to, and then to two newer albums from chicks whose music took me outside of my box. (My box is basically guys in cool outfits with instruments and deep voices soulfully vomiting words into a microphone.) There’ll be a post-a-day leading into your weekend. Then you can spend Sunday listening to music. Because music is good and if you don’t like it, you’re a monster.

Tomorrow: THE “OHH, SO THIS IS MUSIC” PHASE 

The Night I Lost the Internet

  

For a 20-something-year-old living in the 21st century, one who grew up on AOL, AIM, and other programs with easy-to-remember acronyms, I’d like to think I get on okay in the real world. On nice weather days, I like to go outside and take it all in, sometimes without even an Instagram photo to show for it. I can sit at an evening-long dinner with friends and not even once pull out my phone to check for tweets or messages. I enjoy long weekends away in the country, where I throw any and all technology in a closet in an upstairs room while I relax and enjoy the moment. But the other night, when my Wi-Fi went down, you would have thought someone stole away my most prized possession. As soon as it happened, I began throwing a tantrum. As my soul left my body, I watched from above as I desperately pleaded with an internet router for the network name and password. After entering both and realizing I couldn’t connect, I all but shouted at the skies, “Why me?!,” and after several long and painstaking minutes, I retired to my bedroom, where I repeatedly tried for several more minutes to enter and re-enter the network name and password into my iPad to no avail. When it became clear to me that this would not be fixed tonight, I turned on my record player until the Adele Live in New York special came on. Then, all of the pain went away.

If I’m honest, I really did not know how attached to the internet I was. Sure, I check Twitter, Instagram and Facebook a normal amount daily for any person my age, and I love a good Netflix binge, but I didn’t realize that in the meantime of checking each of those platforms “a normal amount,” and enjoying Netflix binge after Netflix binge, I had become addicted. If I thought that any god above or below us gave a single fuck about me or my internet usage, I would have thought for sure that this was a learning lesson. This was their way of saying, “Hey, the internet is ruling your life,” because it was true and I had no idea. Because I really enjoy “real life.”  I enjoy my friends, and I enjoy the things that the internet can’t give me: putting pen to paper, seeing live music, reading, eating a delicious meal, meditating, reflecting, just thinking about nothing much, really. Now it seems clear to me that ever since the cold weather hit, I come home, check out some YouTube videos, watch a few episodes of a questionable TV series, scroll through all of my social media platforms, shower and go to bed. That’s it. No time for extracurriculars. No time for news. No time for progress of any kind. I’ve been escaping daily into this virtual, imaginary world and ignoring everything going on around me and I hadn’t even noticed.

As I type this now, I am still internet-less, short of the LTE connection my iPhone has, since I’ve maxed out on unlimited 4G data usage for the cycle. I quite helplessly await the delivery of my new router and I’ve only a few hours left to complete this reflection. What will happen when my internet returns again? Will I fall into the same cycle after this brief but necessary trip to reality? Will I remember my time here and make a conscious effort to divvy up any future time I have between leisure and learning? Honestly, I cannot safely say. It’s a crazy world out there; a world where you can get free internet in coffee shops and bistros. There are courtyards just giving their Wi-Fi away. It isn’t safe. And while this post seems extreme and solely for laughs, this is no laughing matter. There was a time when I’d be rolling my eyes so hard at this post. I would actually despise the person who had written it. I’d think their life was completely ridiculous, pointless; rule them out as pathetic and most basically put, stupid. Because really, you can’t tell me you can’t live without the internet, at least as it relates to enjoying yourself. You need it for information and maybe even communication, if we’re being fair. But if you lose your mind because you can’t access an episode of Glee for a night, you should find the nearest cliff and jump off of it. That’s what I’d say, and I don’t blame you if that’s what you’re saying now or if you’re someone who couldn’t even get this far into the post before clicking away, completely and totally annoyed and so you’ll never read these words. 

The thing is, even if we don’t believe we rely on the internet to an unreal degree, we do. Even me. Even you. It’s a massive part of our lives now and it’s become so common to go about life with a device in hand, that it’s hard for us to really see how reliant upon them we are. This is no news to any of us, but I promise you that it becomes surprisingly more poignant when your internet connection is down. There are far greater problems than the one I’ve outlined here, and I’m acutely aware of that. I’m no dummy. So when my internet is up and running again, I’m going back to reading and learning about those problems. I’ll go back about real life and chalk this up one of those divinely-inspired learning lessons I mentioned earlier, and most of all for all of our sakes, I’ll try not to forget the night I lost the internet.

  

Table Talk: What NOT TO Say at Thanksgiving Dinner

 
Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving and listen… I know you’re no rookie. You’ve sat around a dinner table before with 20-or-so people who are basically nothing like you aside from a nose here or an eye color there or a grandparent in common somewhere over there in the corner. But these are difficult times we’re living in now. And with difficult times comes an angry Republican uncle who wants to talk about those times. Do not — I repeat DO NOT — give into his advances. Sit there at the table and smile, shove a spoonful of cranberry almond stuffing in your mouth, and wait for the moment to pass. I know this advice is likely easier said than done. After all, if you’re reading this, you’re probably in your teens or twenties and I think we tend to a be a little more, let’s say, open-minded in most arenas when compared to the older generations. So in case you often find it difficult to bite your tongue, here are some topics that may come up along with strict instruction on what to do when that happens.

Yesterday, Chicago police officer Jason Van Dyke was formally charged with the murder of black teenager Laquan McDonald. Back in 2014, he shot McDonald, who was armed with a folding knife at the time, 16 times in 15 seconds or less. Then the dude lied about it and said McDonald had lunged at him when really he was walking away right up until he lay there on the ground dying while Van Dyke continued to fire shots at his basically motionless body. The video was released yesterday after being withheld from the public by Chicago PD for what would seem to be an unacceptable amount of time (400 days). First: DO NOT WATCH THE VIDEO. If the intel I’ve shared with you above is not maddening enough, the video will make you want to throw a fit, and that’s the last thing you’ll need when your right-of-center second cousin tries to defend the mother fucker. Second: Remember, you may think this is something you want to weigh in on at Thanksgiving dinner, but DON’T! Just. Don’t.

A few days ago, Joyce Carol Oates (or JCO, as the cool kids call her) tweeted asking that we consider sharing some “celebratory or joyous” thoughts on ISIS. Yes, that’s right, ISIS which currently threatens our very livelihood, wreaks terror worldwide and takes religious extremism to an even more insane level than we’re used to. Surely, there must be something cheery to say about ISIS! No, JCO, there isn’t. But she is JCO and so the uncle who calls you a liberal every chance he gets in the three times each year he sees you is going to strike while the iron is hot. He’s going to think you look up to JCO as some sort of literary goddess. He’s going to accuse you of going to one of her readings at the Barnes & Noble on the Upper East Side. He’ll hoist you onto this insane train of thought and then blow that train up right in your face, ISIS style. You’re going to want to defend yourself. Sure, maybe you did go to that reading, but you thought the tweet was nuts too, just like he did! Now again, you’re going to think this is something you want to weigh in on at Thanksgiving dinner, but DON’T. He’ll accuse you of not being steadfast in your liberal beliefs even after you express your disdain and agree with him. Suddenly, not only are you a liberal idiot, you’re a weak, wavering liberal idiot who’s surely read The Wheel of Love and Other Stories thirty times over and discussed it at your gypsy dinner parties where you eat quinoa and beets under mood lighting and guess what, you liberal idiot? YOU LOSE AGAIN.

Over the past several weeks (months? years?), Donald Trump has continued to make wacko racist remark after wacko racist remark but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Trump and his campaign is that even those closest to you are willing to buy into it. Even the ones you see as sane, level-headed, educated, open and fun can shock you. A while back, a friend of mine admitted to her willingness to vote for Trump if and when the time came. I almost spit out my dirty martini when she said it, but I didn’t want to waste good vodka on such an asinine utterance. And do you know what? There may be vodka at Thanksgiving too. Sure, someone with less of a drinking problem may opt for a nice red wine or a Jack and Coke, but who are these pilgrim-ass-fools to deny you vodka as you sit and witness such madness? There is literally an endless supply of Trump ammunition that can come from any direction. Do not infest yourself in any conversation where the words “Donald” or “Trump” or “Make America Great Again” live. These are not safe places. There are no sane people here. Swallow your vodka and think happy thoughts. And if you consider for even a second that this is something you maybe, possibly or definitely should weigh in on at Thanksgiving dinner, DON’T. Think again, loser.

And so there it is. I can’t break down all of the trending topics for you in one post, but consider this your starter kit. Now go do some research, dammit. Thanksgiving dinner is a weird and wondrous event, and one can never be too prepared.

HONORABLE MENTION FOR THINGS YOU DEFINITELY SHOULD NOT TALK ABOUT AT THANKSGIVING DINNER GOES TO: Black Lives Matter, All Lives Matter, protests of any kind, guns, refugees, Syria, North Korea, South Korea, France, Belgium, Russia, Barack Obama’s presidency, the debates, the election, Bernie Sanders, Gwen Stefani and Blake Shelton’s romance (just in case), Planned Parenthood, FanDuel, DraftKings, the New York Giants loss to the Patriots, Justin Bieber (on the off-chance the little cousins are listening), low income housing, the homeless, Love Wins, Caitlyn Jenner, the reboot of Gilmore Girls, Jimmy Fallon’s suspicious tendency to fall down, Hillary Clinton, Hilary Duff, Fuller House, women, men, children, any human of any race, aliens, endangered species, and your cousin Stephen’s “roommate” Gavin.

Not So Meet-Cute

   
 Girls suck, right? Last week, I was catching up with a friend of the male gender when he told me a story about a girl who he had believed was, for all intents and purposes, flirting with him. I had him give me the rundown and it went as follows: Boy is at work, selling cars. Girl wants to buy a car. Boy goes out of his way to assist another salesman so Girl has all of the info she needs before making a purchase. Totally unprovoked, Girl says, “Boy, you’re really nice.” Girl leaves and later emails Boy apologizing for buying the car elsewhere for reasons that make sense. Girl thanks Boy again for all of his help… winky-face emoji included. Girl then texts Boy suggesting they hang out some time. Boy proposes coffee when she’s in town. Girl doesn’t respond for over 24 hours… and with a tepid reaction, at best.

Why do we do this? There are very few reasonable explanations for going out of your way to express interest in a guy only to then turn and run. After thinking about it, there are only a few scenarios that could make sense here. 1. She felt nothing but sorry for him and wanted to make him feel good. He took it the wrong way. 2. She liked him and thought he might like her, but didn’t think he’d act on it. 3. Bitch is playing games.

Once I determined I wouldn’t be able to figure out Girl’s intentions, I started to think about all of the shady shit females pull. Not that we’re the only ones playing mind games, but we’re the only gender I have an exclusive inside scoop on. So on the off-chance that a heterosexual male is searching this blog for pointers, I will now be offering to you some trade tricks in this one-time-only feature. Below are the 5 types of girls you’ll flirt with but will ultimately fail to nail.

1. The Praise Babe. This is the truly terrible girl who flirts with you to make herself feel better even though she has no interest. She doesn’t want much from you, except the inherited knowledge that you think she’s some variation of hot/interesting/cool, and even if you have all of the right qualities — maybe even if you’re the kindest, smartest, best-looking guy in the room — she will inevitably ghost you. She’ll give you her number and when you text her she will feel a rush of excitement, knowing that she passed the test. But she won’t ever respond because without your knowing it, you already gave her everything she wanted.

2. The Charitable Chick. This is the really nice girl who feels bad not being really nice to you and thus you think she’s flirting with you even though she’s not. She considers herself the Mother Teresa of flirting. There you both are in [insert place here]. Maybe without totally meaning to, she finds herself engaged in a conversation with you. “You’re so sweet!,” she thinks and probably says out loud, and you think you have this thing in the bag. Even the least secure of the Mister Nice Guys will hold out hope that he has a chance with this girl. Hey may even take the initiative and suggest they go out some time. She won’t go out with you, buddy. She’ll feel bad about it — really, really bad — but she’ll never go out with you.

3. The Mooch Hooch. This is the girl who only has personal gain in mind. She’s not interested in you; she just wants drinks/sex/food/money and if you can’t provide her with one or more of those, she’ll be gone. She might even have the audacity to accept these things from you without the insinuated reciprocal promise of at least a short conversation. She does not care about you at all. Even if there’s a small possibility inside her cold, dead heart that she could one day love you, she won’t be able to see that because she’s focused only on what she can suck out of you before she disappears into the night. This may possibly be the worst kind of flirt.

4. The Too Good To Be True.  This is the girl who’s actually flirting with you but you blow her off because you think she’s not. It’s with this girl that things begin to get tricky and there that the tables suddenly turn. It’s not that she’s a bad flirt; it’s just that you’ve been dealing with so many of the girls above that you think there’s no way she’s actually hitting on you. Your guard is up and even though she has all of the characteristics you’re looking for and even though it would seem as though she’s thinking the same about you, you abort mission. This is not her fault. It’s not your fault. But it is fact. Because of all the missed hits, you’ll likely forego taking a swing at this one altogether. My apologies to you both.

5. Your Bad. This is the girl who gives you no indication that she’s interested but you continue to pursue her all night anyway. Alas, this one’s your bad, dudes. I can attest to this as I’ve been a party to it many times before. She pays attention to you for a few minutes and you’re off and running. Soon, you’re offering to buy her drinks (which she declines), asking about her plans for the coming week (which she withholds except for the note that she’s “sooo busy”), and paying her compliments tirelessly (which she doesn’t appear to be at all flattered by). She all but rolls her eyes when you ask for her number and she dials it into your phone so begrudgingly you think you think she may have some sort of finger fatigue syndrome. (“Is that a thing? It must be a thing,”  you think.) In those few moments it takes her to hand over the digits, you’re both spared. You’re spared of the serious boner-killer that is getting turned down in person. She’s spared from having to be a total bitch as she blows you off sternly because you haven’t gotten it up to this point. When you text her and she doesn’t respond, you only have yourself to blame this time.

So, there you have it, gents! Unfortunately, dating is not all it’s cracked up to be in a Woody Allen film. There are no Annie Halls within these walls and there is certainly no Magic in the Moonlight. Better luck tomorrow, Irrational Man. (I guess I really ran with that Woody Allen thing.)

I Got the Kim Kardashian App and Here’s What Happened

  
Before we start, I feel I should explain my position on the Kardashian Klan. I would have to assume I am in the minority of well-rounded, able-minded adult humans when I say that I do not find them to be as polarizing as most. I neither love nor hate the K’s, and up until this point have maintained a distinctly bipartisan stance on the sisters. For better or worse, it seems to me (perhaps ignorantly) that these women are good businesswomen, at least.

So when I found myself sucked into an episode of what must have been a new season of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, some strange force of the supernatural took over my thumbs and led me to the App Store on my iPad. In a stupor, I searched for Kim K’s app. Yes, Kim K’s video game app that she does not want to include Scott Disick on because of his recent transgressions, and oh right, demands for more money than any of the other featured players, including Kourtney and Khloe themselves. Ugh, it hurts to know these details. But in truth, I know nothing else about this app. Zero. Zilch. Nada. So I decided I wanted to go in blind and see what this world would entail. To justify this uncharacteristic behavior, I thought I would share my journey with you. Please buckle in for safety.

Day1. First impressions: Though wildly unrealistic, I couldn’t help but revel in the fact that I had quickly become an E-List celeb, and Kim K’s new friend and protege. I’d been pressing buttons for 30 minutes, with no clear clue as to what I was doing or whether or not it mattered. Still, I was only able to pull myself away when it seemed I had to sit on a virtual dinner date with some writer-type for an hour in real time. Then, I went to sleep in real time.

Day2. I was having a particularly difficult day at work and I remember thinking multiple times, “I just wanna go home and play Kim’s app.” So when I got home, that’s exactly what I did. At this point, I began to understand the game play and it was actually harder to make it to D-list celeb than I expected it would be. But lord, I wanted to make it happen. Badly. I started to feel as though I’d joined a cult. At one point, after having stepped away from my iPad for 20-or-so minutes, I exclaimed to only myself, “Oh shit! I’m supposed to be working at Dash!” (Seriously.)

Day3. I was still only a D-List celeb. The strain of what it meant to live the life of a hopeful Kardashian was wearing on me. I grew tired and wanted to quit. It was too hard, this life. And even though it was kind of a trip to live a life I’d never know, I hopped off the crazy train shut down the app.

And that’s it. That’s as far as I got. It was further than I would’ve guessed I’d get, actually. I more or less forgot about the game as real life began to take precedent. But I do have some takeaways:

First, this game is pretty good, believe it or not. Despite it being a game about how to achieve fame and notoriety using your ability to look good and kiss ass, is that not what happens out here in the real world, regardless of your field of work or whether or not your name begins with a K? On top of that, it wasn’t a quick game. Although it only held my attention for a few nights, I was going nowhere fast. While I played, I had to sit through long dates, photo shoots, and media events while the clock ticked away. I needed to make decisions and what would come next would depend on those decisions. And I was given options. Swallow my pride and get ahead? Turn down an offer in hopes that something better would come along? It was all up to me.

Honestly, I think the game could be useful for the clueless kids who are probably banking 30+ hours each week on it. Sure, the end goal is fame and fortune and it’s unclear to me why anyone would want or need that to the extent that the Kardashians have it, but it sure beats shooting hookers in Grand Theft Auto or doing whatever mindless action is required of you in that Angry Birds game.  So this time, I stand in firm defense of the Kardashians. You’re not solving world hunger, Kim, but you’re not killing too many of these people’s brain cells either. And to the rest of you who read this post skeptically, I say give the game a shot for yourselves. And stop acting like you haven’t seen an episode of their show, because unfortunately, no one is safe from that.