DPChallenge

Ask And You Shall Receive… A Lie.

My mom and dad always told me to tell the truth.

Fact: big hats are always an excuse for inappropriate behavior.

That doesn’t mean I always listened.

For the most part, I am pretty honest. It has gotten me into trouble, but most times, I firmly agree with the whole honesty is the best policy thing.

I had to go to the doctor for a yearly check up, or as I like to call it, an invasion of my privacy. Like… stop touching me, and don’t ask me about my life. I’m 24, I probably do all the things you are asking about on your little PhD question sheet. Let’s move on.

But before entering the room of shame where I am guilted into talking about all the bad things I do, they make you fill out a questionnaire about your ‘history.’ I looked it over and thought about how many times I actually tell the truth on these types of surveys… the answer: not very often.

So, instead of doing it honestly, I concocted a list of all the things that I lie about on a daily basis, and a little insight into my rationale/right to do so:

Working Out: This is numero uno on the list. I always lie about the last time I exercised. Honestly, if someone doesn’t physically drag me by the hair, hands, legs, and feet to the gym, I will remain on my couch. But, if someone good looking and in shape asks me what I do for activities, you best believe I’m talking about doing cardios, dumbells, yogalaties, mountain climbing, and P90X on a Sunday afternoon. Gotta talk good to look good, ya hear?

Liking Food: Thanksgiving rolls around and everyone thinks they’re Martha Stewart. Please do not try new recipes at Thanksgiving or Christmas, or any holiday that has the word TRADITION stamped across it. It’s called tradition for a reason. I like apple pie, I don’t like apple pie with a fig tree growing out the center and a candy crust made of malt molasses. My parents taught me to be polite though, so I’ll take a few bites and say it’s the bees knees – then promptly go eat an entire sleeve of Oreos to cleanse my pallet.

Last Time I Ate: I love food. I always look for snacks. So naturally, if I go out to lunch and 10 minutes later, someone asks me to meet them for an early dinner I am b-lining it straight to that destination. I’ll walk in claiming I am starving and my parents are hoarding all the food in my house and I’m forced to result to hunter-gatherer tactics to nourish myself.

Height and Weight: My doctor REFUSES to allow me to think I’m 5’4. Every time, it’s 5’3 and 7/8. I’m 1/8th of an inch off? Not in my house. My hair air drying has the consistency akin to that of a prepubescent teenager, I know I got an eight of an inch in there somewhere. As for weight… don’t even ask me why I lie about that.

Time I Left: Ever heard the phrase, “Oh yeah, just left, I’ll be there in five.” Yeah, that actually means I’m still in bed, no pants on, with my retainer in my mouth. I’ll hop in the shower and see you in half a day. But, don’t ever be late when I’m on time. Heads. Will. Roll.

Family History: Anything that I can lie about family history-wise on a survey that will give me something free, beneficial, or discounted, I am all for it. My grandfather has twelve toes, my uncle breeds llama-donkey hybrids, I don’t care. You think freegrocerycoupons.com is really going to run a background check to see whether or not I’m actually related to Michael Jordan? Didn’t think so. I’ll take my two free gallons of milk and a store brand poundcake be on my way.

Drinking/Smoking: I never drank until I was 21, and cigarettes are bad. This is/is not a lie.

Knowing What You’re Talking About: I like to talk. If we’re in deep conversation and it transitions towards a topic that I don’t know anything about, I’m just gonna pretend I do. I commit to it. “Yeah, I’ve seen that show, season 1 was crazy! Remember when that guy did that thing… oh man! Had to close my eyes.” Vagueness is the key to owning social situations. You have to almost not know what you’re talking about to know what you’re talking about. If you think about it, it makes sense.

…

For real though, always tell the truth when you’re talking to police. Lies will get you thrown into the slammer so fast, you’ll forget what day of the week it is and wind up thinking orange is actually a nice color to wear.

Things Boys Are Doing While They’re Not Texting You Back

You asked him about his thoughts on the color blue, and he hasn’t responded. The nerve!

Here’s what he could be doing instead:

sleeping
rattling off sports statistics in a macho-off with his friends
eating pizza
doing hoodrat shit with his friends
watching baseball
watching basketball
watching football
watching hockey
watching any other sport in the world
watching sports center
reading ESPN.com
eating burritos
googling pictures of Dwayne Wade
drinking beers with his friends
playing video games
playing basketball
playing football
playing baseball
playing golf
googling pictures of Kevin Durant
doing anything active
taking a nap
eating pasta
trying to figure out why you asked him that question
doing push ups
googling sports predictions for the upcoming season
watching porn
reading Barstool Sports
complaining that there is no one around to make him a sandwich
talking to someone on the phone
taking a shower
forgetting you texted him in the first place
researching the illuminati on wikipedia
grocery shopping
comparing who has bigger biceps among his friends
googling pictures of Mila Kunis
making fun of someone else in his group of friends
watching a movie
trying to figure out/understand the female psyche
actually doing work
dreaming out the next meal
talking in a weird accent
masturbating
googling pictures of sneakers
driving somewhere
not talking about his feelings
working out
watching videos of old people falling over on YouTube
eating lunch
eating breakfast
eating dinner
eating a snack
watching some more porn
refreshing that app that tells you all those sports scores and stats
googling pictures of LeBron James
pretending to work out while they check out other girls at the gym
figuring out where he left his cell phone
on his lunch break
enjoying some extra curricular activities
or he just doesn’t feel like answering your question because he feels no immediate need to respond as it will not directly benefit him in the near future

Honestly, The “Now, That’s What I Call Disney” Compilation Is A Complete Travesty.

This compiler is a dunce.

I can’t go into the weekend with this on my mind. So, here we go.

I asked my mom the other day, “On a scale of 1-10, how dramatic am I?”

In unwritten dramatic scales, 10 presumably consists of daily temper tantrums in the street because you can’t get two toppings on your ice cream cone, and 1 consists of ignoring all problems in your day to day life because you’re just “so over the drama.”

My mother rated me at an 8.

Yes, an 8 on the drama scale. My mother just sentenced me to a semi-regular mental and physical breakdown in a public place over frozen treats.

Keeping that in mind, but at the same time, ignoring it completely and thinking of me in a more positive, attractive, calm and collected light, I want to tell you a story.

Recently, there was an attack on my childhood.

It started with an infomercial. An innocent advertisement for a compilation of songs that serenaded me through adolescence, Now That’s What I Call Disney!

At the start of it all, it seemed like a mix I could get behind. A little piece of plastic disc nostalgia that I could really see myself enjoying… Until I saw the track list.

Frankly, it was just atrocious. Flat out wrong, immoral, and a complete mockery of the cartoons that taught me the wind had colors, carpets can fly, and legs were required for dancing.

I don’t know who did it. I don’t know what committee is involved with the song selection. I’m assuming can only be a panel made up of this woman and her friends, to represent Disney in the first volume of hits.

But, God as my witness, it needs to be corrected.

At first glance you may think to yourself, hey Meg, your mom is totally right, you are dramatic, I actually think I saw you crying about missing toppings on your ice cream cone back in August.

And while I was having a tantrum, it was actually because my friend wouldn’t buy me a wine at 3pm on a Wednesday.

My thoughts on this CD are still valid. If you’re going to have a Now That’s What I Call Disney, you’ll need a few Bare Necessities, if you will (umm…. yes, pun totally intended). Here are my expert feelings on most of the selections:

…THE GOOD

Can You Feel The Love Tonight: I’ll be honest, this is the first love scene I ever saw in a feature film. So, that alone needs to be a reason for it to be PRAISED. Lion love is like, so real.

Part Of Your World: Never in my life have I found someone who had as many thingamabobs as me. I also have never met anyone who didn’t know what a fire was and why it burned. Still don’t. So… anyone?

Hakuna Matata: Zen Nation. I didn’t know what chill was until I heard this song. Plus, teenage Simba was kinda hot, no? Just me? K.

Under the Sea: How did I know things existed under water? This song. Figured the sea was just a big bathtub that covered the Earth’s floor before I found out there were talking crabs and singing corals down there. Just a big percussion party at the clam bake on the ocean floor.

Circle Of Life: NAHAHHHHHSSIIVVEEENNNYYAAA- NAMA-MEE-SCALABOOOOOW. Don’t know if that’s what it says, but I’m gonna sing it like that so loud, and so proud. Every time. Such a good song.

Colors of the Wind: I have asked four grinning bobcats, none have answered. I have no idea why the hell they keep smiling and someone needs to answer me. NOW.

I Just Can’t Wait To Be King: This song taught me how to rule a household. One time my mom told me to go clean my room before my grandparents came to visit. I was all like, “Kings don’t need advice from little horn bills for a start.” — I don’t want to talk about what happened after that. (#Grounded)

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious: Ummdiddaliddiaummdillaaaiiiiiiii. I don’t think there are actual words to this song, so it gets credit by default for being a jumble of syllables with a boss melody.

…THE BAD

When You Wish Upon a Shooting Star: Could this be a more boring opener? Do I want to fall asleep immediately after one song? No. I want to continue my journey down memory lane and go back to the time that I actually thought body parts would grow if I lied (aside: this would be so cool if you could pick the body parts that grew after lying, like my hair, I’d be Millenium Rapunzel with all my fib growth).

Someday My Prince Will Come: The only acceptable song from Snow White that should be included on this cd is Heigh Ho, and you didn’t do that.

Bella Notte: More like better not. Snore city. Population: everyone listening.

A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes: To be honest, I didn’t even know there were songs in Cinderella, this is just dumb.

Once Upon A Dream, Go The Distance, Friend Like Me, I Won’t Say: Same thing, don’t even remember these songs. Like a bad football player, cut ’em.

Everybody Wants to Be A Cat: Newsflash: No one likes cats. Dogs are so in right now. Puppies are the new currency, and cats are straight up debt. No one wants debt; no one wants cats.

I See The Light, You’ve Got A Friend In Me, Life is A Highway: New aged Pixar Disney movies shouldn’t even be considered for volume 1 (Post ’95). It’s just a sin. Get out of my face Tangled, Cars, and Toy Story. See you next year, suckaaaaas.

Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride: Does it sound like a good time? Yes. Do I even know what it means? No. I’ve never seen Lilo and Stitch because I like movies about real animals with real plots. I see you Lion King. Respect.

Reflection (NOT CHRISTINA AGUILERA): I don’t know why I would have to explain this, but not having Christina’s version of this song is nothing shy of eating a sandwich without condiments. Just deplorable.

… THE UGLY

Seeing as I just exiled ten songs from DisneyTown, there are some additions that need to be spoken for in order to make this whole ordeal right:

I’ll Make A Man Out of You: The fact that this song isn’t number 1 on the whole thing is blasphemous. This is the best song in Disney history. Coursing rivers, great typhoons, raging fires, moons with mysterious dark sides. Color me intrigued. Repeat. All day. Every day. Except when I get sick of it. I take one day off. Then start again.

Be Our Guest: Talking candles? Pots and pans that have feelings? An ottoman that’s a dog? GIVE ME THIS HOUSE. I don’t need friends, I have decorations that will hang out with me. Life crisis averted.

Heigh-Ho: Give a kid a pick-axe and ask him to sing a song. What’s it gonna be? This one. Unforgivable overlook.

Reflection (Christina Aguilera Version): Phenomenal acting by Mulan in this music video. Very attentive, inquisitive stares into various mirrors of sizes and lengths. Breathtaking.

…

The only way to make this right is to take my suggestions and reprint all the copies of the cd out there right now. I’m speaking for a generation of 85’s to 90’s babies. But really, I’m speaking for myself. Fix it. Fix it now. Make it right. Or make a man out of me. Either one would be greatly appreciated.

Although, under no circumstances, will I be doing this:

GOOD DAY.

Your Cell Phone Is Turning You Into A Jackass

Have you ever had a tree magically appear in the middle of your walking path? Bump into a mailbox that had the audacity to stick out just a little too far from its post? Fall victim to a dip in the sidewalk that DEFINITELY wasn’t there yesterday?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, you may not know it, but your cell phone is turning you into a jackass.

A lot of people in today’s society would rather lose both arms and trade their first born instead of going a day without their cell phone. We have this need to be connected at all times of the day; to know what is going on every minute of every hour. Without our phones, we might miss what Angelina Jolie wore to the grocery store at 8:36am on a Tuesday.

But I’m not here to point fingers. I have, at one or many points, answered yes to all three of the questions I posed above. Which is why I have recognized and admitted that my cellphone has in fact, turned me into an asshole.

If you live in a city, or anywhere that generates substantial foot traffic, you recognize that something as simple as walking in a straight line may seem like a Herculean task for some people. There are those people who take up the entire sidewalk, or those who think that suddenly stopping will somehow make the laws of inertia follow suit, preventing everyone who is following from a body to body collision.

If you put a cell phone in the hands of any and/or all of those people, the world might just self destruct.

When you have your cell phone in your hand, everyone around you becomes irrelevant. It’s almost as if it emits a force field that envelops your entire body, blocking out all sound, sight, and common sense. So naturally, that oak tree sprouted overnight, that mailbox is absolutely sticking out too far, and that dip in the sidewalk was definitely not there the day before.

On the off chance that you happen to be a human being who doesn’t use their phone for an application telling you how to put one foot in front of the other, yet you still can’t put it down for your ten minute walk to wherever it is you’re going, we would all like you to know that we understand how important your life is, and we will start making adjustments to our schedules to stay out of your way.

Your cellphone cloud of ignorance does not dissipate when you leave the sidewalk, it follows you into your home, your work, and your social life.

When you are out with friends and simple conversation isn’t enough to stimulate your brain, your cell phone might be turning you into a jackass. Refusing to acknowledge anyone else’s conversational needs before your own is a tell tale sign of not giving a fuck about anyone but yourself.

I’m sure the person or people you are out with loves staring at your forehead while you answer text messages from friends who are not currently present. Seeing you take a phone call at dinner and then listening in on half of your conversation with your cousin, John, may or may not be the highlight of their day.

There are several remedies that can help reverse being a jackass when it comes to using your phone. All you need to do is simply take your cellphone, place it in your pocket, and go wherever you need to go. I promise no one will think you have no friends if you are walking around completely aware of your surroundings.

You can also take a more extreme approach, and when out with friends, put your phone on vibrate, silent, or in some cases, even powered off. This will ensure that you will have face-to-face, uninterrupted conversations with whomever you’re out. Should the occasion arise where one or more parties need to use the restroom, feel free to take out your phone to check to see if anyone thinks you’ve skipped town.

But, maybe you could use the brief moment of solitude to reflect on your newfound freedom, know that you’re with a person or group of people who have chosen to hang out with you, and revel in the fact that you do indeed have friends even though you are not currently on your phone talking to someone.

Or you can always just be a jackass.

Honest Acceptance Speeches

Yeah, we all know you want to thank your parents, your family, and your fans. But really, how can you forget all the things that really make the world go round?

First and foremost, I’d like to thank:

Bono, for single handedly fueling sales of blue polarized sunglasses.
Puppies, for teaching couples that kids are really going to be a lot of work.
Crunchy peanut butter, for diversifying the snack game.
Maxi dresses, for being my entire summer wardrobe.
Sunglasses, for allowing me to sneakily stare at people without being noticed.
Snuggies, for repurposing the bathrobe by simply wearing it backwards.
Text messages, for allowing me to ignore phone calls because “I can’t talk right now.”
Tattoos, for permanently reminding me of how stupid I am.
Beyonce, for being “everything,” so girls all over the world “literally can’t even” to the point that they “die.”
Grease, for clearly indicating when I need to shower.
Barbecues, for giving everyone an excuse to eat and drink outside.
Scarves, for catching all my crumbs so I can save them for later.
Glasses, for allowing my eyeballs to be puffy with a barrier.
Air conditioning, for keeping me sane when it’s above 74 degrees.
Nick Lachey, for somehow staying relevant.
Dancing with the Stars, for cutting Kim Kardashian in the first week.
American Idol, for proving that The Voice is better.
Katy Perry, for comparing men to aliens, all while looking like an alien herself.
The Skinny Arm Pose, for making girls everywhere create triangles with their bodies.
Instagram, for giving everyone the option to look better than they actually do.
Push-Button Faucets, for showing me that I take too long to wash my hands.
The DMV, for teaching me that I have no patience.
The grocery store snack aisle, for your ability to make me forget and disregard everything I initially came to buy.
iPhone screenshot, for allowing me to capture inside jokes in text message threads and post them on social media, even though no one else will understand what it means.
Status updates, for letting me know that Carl from Florida is currently on his third episode of Hoarders with no plans of stopping anytime soon.
Spaghetti, for demonstrating that I am not an attractive eater.
Selfies, for letting the world know exactly what my face looks like at all hours of the day.
Buns, for somewhat salvaging my bad hair day.
Makeup, for making me look like a human being.
Accents, for blessing the world with imitation material.
Bret Michaels, for his commitment to the bandana cause.
Oreos, for being milk’s favorite cookie.

… And of course, last and certainly not least, I’d like to thank Leonardo DiCaprio, for being my imaginary husband and life partner. You’re the best, babe. I wouldn’t be here without all your love and support.

Stay classy.

Dear Girls Of Tomorrow,

I’ve been there before. I’ve made those mistakes. Take my advice: here’s how not to dress.

We live in a digital age. It’s no secret that most things we do eventually end up on the internet. This is awesome for events like New Years Eve, birthday parties, and charity events or functions.

Then there are the events involving a face plant in the street running to catch the late bus that your friend HAD to document.

To put it bluntly, not everyone is photogenic. But that doesn’t give you an excuse to throw common sense out the window with the baby and the bathwater.

What I’m saying is, there’s going to be pictures of you girls circulating the internet for the rest of your lives. You need to take preventative measures to ensure that when you do land your dream job interview, a picture of you in seventh grade wearing a Ronald Regan mask and your grandmother’s bathrobe doesn’t surface during the process.

So you should not do any of these things before or during taking a picture that will represent you for the rest of your life at that age, and your friends and family will also see it and that is how they will remember you forever.

2nd Grade

A general rule of thumb is to not wear your grandmother’s tablecloth when taking a photo.

A nice pink embroidered doily collar may seem cutesy and innocent, but in reality it will only make your co-workers and peers question whether or not your mother took outfits off your life-sized Raggedy Ann doll and dressed you in them in an effort to save money.

Also a good thing to remember is to not do dangerous activities before a known photo-op. Going on a two-wheel bike adventure when you aren’t the most confident rider isn’t the type of activity you want to roll into when your third grade yearbook photo is right around the corner.

3rd Grade

If you’re just too adventurous and crazy to avoid indulging in extreme sports, you’ll inevitably be the girl wearing long underwear because you can’t fit regular sleeves over your cast.

REMEMBER: THERE ARE ALWAYS RETAKES. ALWAYS.

Borrowing argyle sweater vests from your youngest brother is not only frowned upon, but in some countries it’s illegal. I don’t care how flawless your hair looks that day, or if you were an ombre pioneer before ombre was a ‘thing,’ you do not need clothes that badly that you resort to rummaging through your brother’s drawers to find an outfit.

4th Grade

(But I mean look at that blonde to light blonde fade, it’s totally magnificent, right?)

Make sure your shirts fit you.

A good way to determine if a shirt fits is by making sure it is not two sizes bigger than every other shirt you own. Or that is not your mom’s.

5th Grade

Don’t wear choker necklaces, even if that dangly bead in the middle is the most jaw-dropping plastic gemstone you own, and it makes Rose’s sapphire necklace from Titanic pale in comparison.

Seriously, don’t get bangs in puberty.

I don’t care if they look great on Sabrina, the cool girl, you will ultimately end up gluing them to your scalp with a can of Rave hairspray every morning and consequently looking more like a guido-gremlin hybrid than a fifth grade girl.

Oh yeah… and braces. There are no rules about braces except that it’s required to change the rubber band colors to coordinate with the holidays.

Don’t set the tone for your middle school reputation by wearing a floral v-neck from Limited Too.

6th Grade

Also, practice your smile extensively before taking any pictures.

Photographs aren’t forgiving – neither are parents when it comes to allowing you to hang out with their children.

Creepy smiles will not get you very far. It definitely won’t get you a babysitting job.

Puberty is the worst time in your life. Try and make the best of it.

7th Grade

Wearing half-turtle neck argyle sweaters is not a way to make the best of it. At the very least, if you’re going to do it, commit to a full neck or at least a scarf.

It’s imperative that you never, ever let your mother attempt to tame your pubescent mane by straightening it with a curling iron. You will end up with tresses shaped like a voluminous frizz triangle and have people asking if someone rubbed a balloon on the back of your head to create static electricity.

Wearing your hair in a half-up, half-down fashion is completely acceptable, if done correctly.

8th Grade

Wearing half of your hair in a bun from gym class and the other half down as the remnants of last night’s botched straightening job is a big, big no no no nononononoNO.

Plus, wearing a collared shirt with a lace-up neckline is one step shy of actually going cookoo for Coco Puffs.

And again, with the smile. Please, for the love of God, practice your smile.

Avoid shopping at Aeropostale, Wet Seal, or Rave.

9th Grade

Don’t take two tiny tresses located at the widow’s peak section of your hairline and wear them in a bang-like, accessory fashion, not pulling them into your ponytail or headband.

You will regret this. Mostly because you will slightly resemble a dinosaur.

Last, but definitely not least, if your friends ever tell you it’s okay to take sweatshirts from lost and found and parade around claiming them as your own, please ignore them and immediately question their intelligence.

By not doing these things, and following my instructions, strangers will not have to wonder – even just a little bit – if you grew to develop an odd affinity for fedoras or played the tambourine in a traveling band.

Ultimately, fashion consciousness is not always second nature with every girl, clearly it wasn’t my strong point. At the end of the day, if you don’t do or wear what makes you happy, you’re missing out on a lot of what life has to offer. Do what you love, and wear what you want.

Unless it’s a lace up, argyle, v-neck polo. Please, please, please avoid those.

UP NEXT: How to NOT apply make-up.

Love,

Meg (President of the Late Bloomers)

Treat Emotions Like Beer, Bottle Them up.

brothers.

Although my parents would characterize my seemingly regular childhood temper tantrums as a pretty aggressive display of emotion, outside of demanding extra dessert and slapping my brothers for ripping the heads off my barbies, I’ve never been great at expressing my feelings.

Maybe it was because I grew up with three younger brothers. As the oldest of four, and the only girl, I never really had a model for how to act. My mother and I, although very close, are very different when it comes to personality.

Needless to say, if you’re going to survive eighteen years in the midst of a male dominated household, you have to learn how to protect yourself in emotional combat. Aside from the regular physical battles, the way brothers really get to you is by finding your mental weaknesses, and attacking when you least expect it.

Growing up with brothers teaches you not to dwell on little things, to stand up for yourself, and how to be competitive. But it also, unintentionally, leads you towards the masculine side of the emotional spectrum; so instead of saying how you feel in the moment, you retreat and don’t talk about it.

When you hang out with boys all the time, you learn that they would rather give you a beer than sit and listen to your problems.

friends.

Because nothing makes guys more uncomfortable than when a girl just unloads all her personal crap on them. Especially if it’s during a football game or when you’re out at a bar. When you have a “girl day,” you learn to drink a beer and deal with it later.

This works well until you realize you are in college and have not sustained one real or lasting relationship during your lifetime. If someone wanted to date me, I was either unaware or uninterested, because if it meant talking about feelings and being vulnerable, I didn’t want any part of it.

Everyone puts up walls for different reasons. Personally, the initial thought of letting someone in that you barely know is daunting. The act of sharing secrets, opening doors to your past, and exposing yourself, metaphorically, to another person for the sake of a connection is terrifying.

At the same time, while a little mystery is a good thing, there needs to be a dichotomy between the two people in a relationship to make it work. Eventually you will have to let your guard down.

Recently, there have been an overwhelming amount of circumstances that formidably illustrate my inability to give up control over certain aspects of my life. Whether it be attending a friend’s wedding, my parent’s thirtieth anniversary, or my most recent breakup, I have come to the brutal realization that I need to step outside my comfort zone in order to foster a meaningful connection with someone.

I’ve had my fair share of crazy experiences: skydiving, bungee jumping, one time I even ate cat food. But the tangible part of being afraid is much more desirable than emotionally freefalling into unknown territory. I mean at least after skydiving I got a sticker telling me I did a good job not dying.

Thinking about the craziest thing I’ve ever done, I immediately remember how terrified I was to actually commit to it. Picking up and moving to a new city, alone, without a job or any financial support other than my own was the single most daunting event in my life. But looking back on the past year and a half, knowing where I am now, the reward was totally worth the struggle.

At the end of the day, no one can make you take that leap other than yourself. Outside influences, supportive or not, have no weight compared to what your gut tells you to do. Knowing that personal reflection and a willingness to change are attributes I admire in someone, it only makes sense that I try and develop them.

My twenty-fifth birthday is only a few weeks away. I’m not entirely positive if it is the looming “quarter-century” age label weighing on my conscious, or just the stark reality that I’m resisting a change I know I need to make, but either way, it’s scary as all hell knowing that being vulnerable is something that is not only expected, but appreciated in lasting relationships.

I guess I’ll just have to be twenty-five and terrified.

I just hope someone gives me a sticker on my thirtieth birthday. I need to know I did a good job not dying.

Food Taught Me Everything I Ever Needed To Know About Life

You can learn a lot about a person by what they eat. And no, I’m not saying you should stare at people while they’re eating, that’s rude. Unless it’s a celebrity, then please report back because I NEED to know what Oprah eats for breakfast that makes her so powerful.

This may come as a shock – or it won’t because you’ll realize that my brain works in strange ways, and this is just one of those things that makes me unique – but food has taught me everything I ever needed to know about life.

Real talk.

Sidenote: Let me start off by saying that if you looked in my cabinet where I store all my food, you’d probably think I had a child. But alas, those are my groceries, I just eat like I’m seven. So this is one of those times where I will make judgments about others, completely ignoring the fact that I have been all of these people at one time or another.

For starters, if you’re sitting on your couch in dirty sweatpants using a ladle to eat a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, I’m going to assume you’re going through a breakup. Or at the very least, a rough week. When a spoon just isn’t big enough to satisfy your cravings for creamy delights to the point where you’re going to go straight for a ladle, among the Cherry Garcia remnants, you have heartbreak written all over your face.

And for you, I will pray. Because no one can stop after one ladle scoop of B&Js. It’s impossible.

When I see a twenty-something eating a steak with an older man or woman, it’s a safe bet that they are not paying for it. You never eat the cheapest thing on the menu when your parents are footing the bill. I’ll hit up Olive Garden and pay $9.99 for unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks; but you best believe when I’m out with my parents I’m getting my fill of fine wine and filets.

If you can eat it in your pajamas, it’s not acceptable to feed a potential life partner. Nothing says, “Hey baby, let’s get married!” like bagel bites with a side of Doritos. You should learn to cook something substantial before you commit to someone for the rest of your life.

But when you’re drunk, it’s completely acceptable to throw all dietary restrictions and personal inhibitions out the window and go face deep into a pile of nachos and cinnastix. A good rule of thumb is: if you don’t remember it, it never happened.

This is also a great indicator for how old someone is. No one above thirty should be forgetting they ate forty-eight loaded tater tots and an entire Christmas ham the previous night due to alcohol.

I immediately know I need to tread lightly when I see someone eating a salad. Especially men. Woman have this extra chromosome where they can turn off their memories of delicious food and focus solely on bathing suit season. It makes stomaching a salad almost mouth-watering. Almost.

But the time a man voluntarily orders a cobb salad at a restaurant, don’t say anything mean to him within a five-foot-radius. He is not choosing to eat that salad. His doctor, his mother, or his girlfriend told him he needed to stop eating so many carbs and watch his cholesterol, and eating an entire head of iceberg lettuce is the only thing stopping him from shoveling a foot-long chicken parm sandwich down his throat.

When you’re around someone who is grumpy, they may need a snack. That’s why I always like to keep a few granola bars in my purse. You never know when a romantic stroll with your boyfriend will turn into the last moments of your life because you told him the restaurant was “like five minutes away” an hour ago.

Boys need to eat sixty-times more a day than women. Granola bars save lives.

I also know you’re having a great time at your dinner date by the filter you’re using to instagram your food. Anything less than a high contrast filter means your date sucks. No one wants to see a poorly photographed, low resolution cheeseburger. I want to see that thing oozing grease out of my phone.

If you don’t instagram a picture of your food, I assume you’ve either died, or are having a real, face-to-face conversation with the person who brought you out, and there may be hope for your love life after all.

Also, if you like Taco Bell, KFC, and Pizza Hut, you may be my soul mate. Inquire within.

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What’s Up With That Wednesday

I like to eat.

This was most evident when I came back from studying abroad in Dublin circa 2009. My mother was waiting for me at the ‘Arrivals’ section of the airport, and after five months of separation, the first thing she said to me was, “Wow, you look different.”

And it wasn’t the good different. It was the twenty pounds heavier complete with a fat face and borderline emerging cankles different.

Being overseas for five months really expanded my horizons with food. My newly expanded waistline and bloated face were concrete evidence. But as much as I learned to love food and experiment, there were some things I could not wrap my head around.

Spicy food. One time I went to get wings with my friend Shannon. She tried some from the “extremely hot” column. Next thing you know, I look over and she’s got sweat coming out of her ears. HER EARS. I’ve never been in a situation where ear sweat is not only acceptable but you voluntarily eat something that causes it.

Seriously… What the hell is up with food so hot that it could burn off your face?

Ghost Peppers:

I tend to avoid ghosts at all costs. Especially in my food. I don’t want to eat something that is invisible until I bite into it and all the sudden my mouth is engulfed in an inferno that only milk can control. I’m lactose intolerant, milk don’t work for me.

Jalapeno Vodka:

I accept this. But I only accept it in a bloody mary. Otherwise, let’s stick with Stoli Orange and club soda. It’s citrus sophisticated.

Habanero Pepper:

Yeah. HabanerNO. I want nothing to do with you. It’s not personal, only it is. It is personal. I can’t be eating something for dinner that will make me cry. I’m already a woman, I don’t need another reason to shed tears in public.

Suicide Chicken Wings:

I don’t think I ever want to be put in a situation where I would want to kill myself over a chicken wing. It just seems wrong. I like to enjoy my wings, maybe have some beer, ~~watch~~ pretend to watch sports but really be scouting all the hot men at the bar. I don’t want a fatal chicken appendage to come between me and a good man hunt.

…

I’m sweating just thinking about all of these. I’m gonna go put an icepack on my forehead and stand in a freezer.

Did I miss any?

Teach Me How To Do… Anything.

Some people just have it all. They’re gifted with athleticism, gorgeous flowing hair, the ability to eat a thousand bags of cool ranch Doritos and not gain a pound. The “have it alls” are naturally beautiful, conversationally gifted, and can generally stop drinking after one glass of wine.

Then there is me.

On a good day, which is usually a Thursday, I snooze three times before getting out of bed, realize ~~I don’t want to~~ there is not enough time to shower, and opt for a headband to conceal the collection of greasy follicles on my head.

Make up is a struggle. Picking an outfit is a war.

Despite the fact that I’ve made several resolutions to be more polished and put together, I can’t seem to get my body on board by taking sleep off the top of my priority list.

Basically, I’m a hot mess and I can’t do anything correctly due to the fact that sleep dominates my life and I was given the short end of the stick in the talent department.

Given the opportunity, or a new body that miraculously is good at stuff, I would like to know how to do the following:

Cooking:

It’s no secret that I am the worst chef on the planet. You ask me to make you toast, I’ll give you a plate full of bready ashes and a glob of jelly on the side. I just don’t know how to do it. My idea of a fully cooked dinner is a bag full of microwaved steamed broccoli and a side of 90-second rice. I like microwaves because you don’t touch anything, and at the end of three minutes, your meal is hot and you didn’t ruin anyone’s day.

Construction:

If I have to look at another piece of IKEA furniture and try to assemble it based on picture directions, heads will roll. There are always four extra pegs and a structure that, to me, looks sound, but once I place an item of more than a pound on it, the whole thing will come crashing terribly to the floor. I can’t build anything. Except bears, I can totally build a bear.

Anything involving cars:

I bring in my car for a routine checkup and the mechanic tells me I have a four-foot-long boa constrictor in my engine and a nest of African rats in my trunk. Seems reasonable, so yes, I’d love to pay $800 for you to alleviate that problem, Mr. Mechanic. It would be nice to know that it isn’t possible for my gas tank to be under the hood of my car, or the general location of my spare tire.

Navigation:

If I text you and tell you I’m five minutes away, multiply it by four because I will be lost in thirty seconds. I cannot, for the life of me, navigate to and from a location in one successful attempt. Sure, you may think to yourself, “Why doesn’t this chick just buy a GPS?” And to you I say, thank you, but even GPS are not immune to my idiocy, and I have no idea how far three-hundred feet is, so now seems like a good time to make a right.

Yeah.. um, let’s just take a left.

Half and Half

half wit. half wisdom. a whole lot of nonsense.