A True Tale of Survival and Courage and Stuff

It all began in a time much different than now. A time about 15-20 minutes ago.

My car desperately needed an oil change. Like, “Okay Miss have you ever heard of treating things properly?” level of desperate. Like, the kind of desperate where even that one mechanic who somehow always manages to eat a PB & J sandwich while changing a tire still has time to look up and give you judgey-mechanic-glances, level of desperate. You get the idea.

So this morning I get my helpless, hungover body out of bed and go to the his-wife-made-that-sandwich-eating mechanic who will make all my wildest dreams come true with this 56 dollar oil change. My older brother promised to pick me up, that was the deal. But then the worst thing imaginable happened.

I call and tell him it’ll take a whole HOUR and that obviously he needs to come get me because what am I? On the f***ing cast of Survivor??? How would I last if I can’t even get a simple oil change when the little sticker tells me to????

jack black

My once beloved brother tells me to just wait until it’s done and to “Look around Walmart or something.” I can’t believe my ears. Does he think I’m some kind of peasant? Some kind of nature-forager who can just live without a car and merely a laptop at 20% battery life?? I can’t live off the natural land like that.

After a brief moment of plotting revenge on his life (giving him an even more mediocre Christmas present this year) I begin the journey that will change my life.

People often tell me that I exaggerate things a lot. Probably about 3 million people have told me that. I mean, 5 million people can’t be wrong I guess, but to those 9 million people, I say no. No, I do not exaggerate. I just have a vivid imagination and the ability to keep myself entertained for pathetically long amounts of time. So sue me.

Anyway, I begin to scavenge my way through the Walmart parking lot, looking for signs of life and making friends with the seagulls on this here land. They are my people now.

These seagulls would never abandon me like my own flesh and blood did. Okay the seagulls just flew away but that’s cool, they probably went to go get help. They’ll be back.

I’m walking through the overgrown land as passengers of clearly-recently-oil-changed-cars drive by looking at me with judgemental eyes. Also, it could just be because, as it turns out, I’m walking through a decorative garden in the middle of an intersection.

It also really doesn’t help that in my having rushed to the mechanic early this morning while super hungover, I didn’t exactly try to look my best. And by that I mean, I absolutely look like a homeless person, or maybe just somehow who’s never seen the inside of a shower. There’s mascara on places of my face that don’t even really make sense, and also probably the lingering scent of regret that I feel from eating that hot dog last night. Just kidding Hot Dog, you were great last night

After trying on really hilariously ugly clothes (like come on, who wears this? I look like a knight from the middle ages. And yes I’m barefoot. This is my life now) at a nearby Winners, more like Losers considering what I currently look like… (that was a good joke, I don’t care what people say)

… I then wandered my innocent, lost soul into the nearby McDonald’s.

At first I thought it was a golden-arch looking mirage, but then I remembered that there literally is a McDonald’s in every nook and cranny on this here Earth. You know the guy (James Franco) that cut off his arm ‘cause he was desperately trapped between 2 rocks? Well, I feel like he probably only did that to score some tasty McNuggets ‘cause I guarantee there was probably a McDonald’s within an arm’s reach (pun very intended).

Anyway, this brings us to present time. Here I am in a McDonald’s.

Still waiting.

Abandoned.

Car-less.

Laptop at 15%.

Hungry.

Homelessy-looking.

I look out the window and see two female humans in their natural habitat sitting in the drive-thru. They’re singing to what I assume is a Fetty Wop song, or whatever. The one friend is Snapchatting the driver’s dance moves. I shed a single tear thinking of the innocent people that will have to watch that severely lame Snapchat video for a whole 10 seconds. The dance moves were so “basic” that I rummage through the land here, find some ketchup, and manage to write out “S.O.S” across the table.

Hopefully someone sees this.

I’m sure those seagulls will.

They’re just really busy right now but they’ll be back for me.

I like the workers here at McDonald’s because they don’t judge you. Even when you sit in their restaurant writing up some ridiculous story, laughing at your own jokes, they don’t judge. Even when you get a sugar-free iced coffee so that you can look like you swear you don’t eat McDonald’s ever, they smile at you and kindly say things like: “Can I help the next in line please?”

Full disclosure: I had a Big Mac last night. I just can’t keep that from you guys, from my memoirs. I feel that Michelle, the leader of her clan here at McDonald’s, knows that about me. She has a way of reading people. I’m really just glad I had one big hefty meal within the past 12 hours in case I never see food again because of the whole being recklessly abandoned thing. By the way, it’s now been exactly 1 hour and 23 minutes. That’s 83 minutes. I’m a little ashamed that I used the remaining battery life on my iPhone to calculate what 60 + 23 was. Being abandoned in the wilderness affects your mathematical skills, among other things.

I wonder what life will be like if I ever get to leave this McDonald’s and go back to civilization and car-driving world. Will I get to eat real food again? Will people seek the tales of my survival story?? Will those seagulls keep in touch???

Okay, forget everything that’s been said here. The mechanic just called. Car’s good to go.

Moral of the story, don’t ever get an oil change.

And also, don’t trust seagulls. They’re just about as loyal as older brothers.

An Open Letter to The Super Bowl

An Open Letter to The Super Bowl

I really love watching the Super Bowl, I truly do. But there’s something that bothers me every year, so I feel I need to finally let it out.

Let it out like the air from last year’s ball!!!

Or whatever, I don’t know. Tom Brady?

I don’t think I’m alone in how I feel on this. We all know interruptions are a guaranteed annoying part of any large scale televised event. We all groan when what we’re TRYING to watch is rudely interrupted.

Just when I start to get entertained, BAM!… a bunch of men in tights fill up the screen, selfishly stealing the show. And then they fill up the screen for sometimes even 20 minutes at a time?

This grave problem, that no one seems to openly discuss for some reason, has become so bad that the Super Bowl’s main show is only able to last 30 seconds at a time before it goes back to a bunch of guys fighting for the best concussion*.

30 seconds! Those football players have hours to make great plays. Imagine trying to get a touchdown in 30 seconds?? Not easy.

Or maybe it is.

I like hockey.

But seriously, the people behind the advertisements arguably were also born with a true talent, worked their asses off to make it to the big show, plausibly suffered far fewer concussions*, but who knows, some even might also pat each other on the backside after a good idea comes about! 

(*… and yes, I did recently watch the movie Concussion. I am now extremely well versed in neuroscience, the NFL, and have become an even bigger Will Smith fan than his very own family.)

Maybe I wouldn’t have such an issue with the huge amount of air time the “football game” gets during the Super Bowl if it weren’t for a recent unsettling experience.

Around Christmas time I was at the mall shopping for everyone in my life except for myself (I was shopping for myself) and I overheard two of the retail workers talking about football. One of them was describing some form of site or show or I don’t know, I didn’t listen THAT closely, what do you want from me? And the one guy said: “… [this] makes it SO easy to understand football, even women can understand it now.”

He remembered that there was a human female specimen in the store so he quickly said: “…like kids, or anyone really, can now understand it.”

Yes, Gavin (I named him Gavin) women and children have the same brain capacity. We cannot figure out what in God’s name they’re doing with that funny shaped ball!!

Gavin, you foolish, foolish retail t-shirt folder, I do understand football. I understand there will be nachos involved, and that I can get behind.

Anyway, I think the almighty Murrica needs to hear me out on this serious issue and cut back on all the “football” that interrupts the string of 30 second wonders.

How else am I supposed to find out what car I can’t afford?

10 Steps to Making a Murderer

10 Steps to Making a Murderer

Step 1: Put on your Netflix-watching-pants and text 8 of your closest friends saying that you’re having a “Much needed Netflix night” because they care.

Step 2: Watch Making a Murderer.

Step 3: Post about it online aggressively. No social media platform should be forgotten. No MySpace account? Slide a quick DM to Tom and get that activated. Forget posting that you went to the gym today, there’s no time for that!!!

Step 4: Ask everyone you see if they’ve seen it. It’s important to know if the cashier at the No Frills you pretend you don’t go to knows that you have an opinion about something. Don’t get sloppy and forget to say the word “affidavit” in conversation. You didn’t stay up past 1 am Googling legal jargon to not pretend you know what it means.

Step 5: Gasp in agony if no one has watched it because this is the single worst thing that’s ever happened to you and your family.

Step 6: Write a Facebook status about your position regarding the outcome of the trial while completely acknowledging that it is a Netflix show and that your status won’t change anything about anything, except for maybe your respect in the online community. (MySpace Tom will judge.)

Step 7: Sign a petition that makes about as much sense as calling small candies “fun sized*,” because you know everything because you watched a Netflix documentary and studied law since, well, episode 1.

(* Ain’t nothin’ fun about small candy.)

Step 8: I will then murder you all.

Step 9: Congratulations!

Step 10: There you go. There’s a murderer. You made a murderer. You’re amazing. Really going places in life.

Brutally Honest Account of Daily Life as a Human Woman Lady

10:00 AM:

I march my beautiful acne-free self into the bathroom to wash my face with face wash that is obviously 100% naturally derived from grapefruits because I am NOT a peasant.

grapef shan

10:05 AM:

I splash my face with enough water to drown a small family given that my face has obviously somehow caught on fire. I truly never have as much fun as I am having right this second, but then I remember I get to eat a hilarious salad later on and I smile even more.

FACE WASH

10:15 AM:

I then step over the dangerously large puddle and decide to shave my hairless legs.

dance

 

11:01 AM:

Naturally 2 of my closest girl friends show up for the leg shaving. Like usual, we quickly max out our credit cards on matching white beautiful gowns and dance a little.

kate

11:20 AM:

We then call our parents for a quick wire transfer of $2000 so we can book a trip down south. Why? Because we shaved our legs. Keep up.

beach shaving legs

Luckily it’s not my time of the month or else we’d all have to buy new dresses and head right back down south to dance on a beach.

tampax copy

8:00 PM:

After finally settling into our resort and googling how it could possibly still be so sunny outside, I ditch my friends for the handsome beach man that lives under the nearby waterfall. He doesn’t speak, he just laughs and twirls my little body around and around until the hairs on my legs start to grow back. Then he leaves me for the next clean shaven vacation lady that comes around.

Beach w guy

12:00 AM:

When I finally get through customs and the long period of questioning given how many sharp razors were in my bag, I hitch a ride back home. At this point, I finally get hungry. The only food I’ve had is the little bit of 100% all natural grapefruit extract face wash that accidentally got in my mouth.

12:01 AM:

HUNGRY MEANS YOGURT. OH MY GOD I LOVE YOGURT. ALL WOMEN LOVE YOGURT! Yogurt treats me with respect and tells the BEST jokes.

yog shan

Also, yogurt makes everything go downwards arrow.

activia down

12:31 AM:

Perfume time!

perfume 1

12:32 AM:

My best friend shows up with matching trench coats so that we can put on our favourite giant perfume and embrace each other romantically like we do every night.

Perfume BLOG

1:00 AM:

Time for bed! I polish my engagement ring, put on a coat of makeup and get my silly sun-kissed self cozied up into bed!

bed

1:45 AM:

I accidentally leave my window open and the scent of a man’s body spray (ughhh MEN! ❤ xoxo) slips through the crack of the window and tickles my fancy.

1:46 AM – 10:00 AM:

The local neighbourhood women and I put on our bikinis and gather like we do every night to hunt down the man with the body spray.

axe

It’s a good thing he makes more money than me because how else could I keep affording these wildly expensive impromptu visits down South every time I shave my legs!!

(Word of advice: don’t photoshop weird photos of yourself while sitting in a Starbucks… People. Will. Wonder.)

A Millennial’s Letter to Santa

A Millennial’s Letter to Santa

Yo Santa,

 

I swear I’m a dope son, just to be clear.

I just don’t know what to get my Mom this year.

 

I’m usually cool with the stress Christmas brings,

But Santa man, this year she wants impossible things.

 

She wants me to teach her how to use Facebook and Google Maps.

But I wish I could just teach her how not to write “LOL” in all caps.

 

She told me she wants me to stop being so rude,

and to somehow get her a “Rod Stewart” in the nude?

 

 Not knowing what to get her, doesn’t make me feel very #blessed,

I guess I could always just accept her Facebook friend request.

 

She wants me to lower the numbers when she steps on the scale,

and to finally teach her how to attach pictures to an email.

 

Why can’t I just give her a cheap pair of gloves,

and teach her that “lol” does not mean “lots of love.”

 

I tried to go shopping for her but I’m on a losing streak,

How do I wrap up me taking the garbage out once a week?

 

She wants me to watch movies with her that involve Tina Fey,

and she wants to Netflix and Chill with Michael Buble.

 

She asked me to stop using the word “dope,”

And to stop buying her so much scented soap.

 

I’ve been to 5 stores and I can’t find a “Tom Hanks,”

And I don’t wanna get caught buying her Spanx.

 

I wish a macaroni picture frame still gave her great joy,

Now I have to get her a picture with “that Justin Biebs boy.”

 

Alright. Whatever. I’m starting to no longer care.

Where the hell would I find a lock of “Bon Jovi’s” hair?

 

Santa, this year my mom just has absolutely no chill,

I think I’ll buy her all of these things then mail her the bill.

From:

A Millennial

 
 

 

The Mother of a Millennial’s Letter to Santa

The Mother of a Millennial’s Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

 

All I want for Christmas is some help raising my teen.

This year he asked for a hoverboard. I have no clue what that means.

 

His requests are ruining Christmas. Shopping has been no fun.

Why is there no bakery in town that will make me a “man bun” ?!

 

I just want the old times back, where he’d play action figures from his bed,

But now I find him in his room, dropping water condoms on his head.

 

I want to make him happy this year and I promise that I will.

I just don’t know how to make his “bae” want to “Netflix and chill”

 

He wants a turkey dinner but that all depends…

Will he spend the whole damn dinner “Snapchatting” his friends?

 

I just wish he’d stop pretending that he’s so “hashtag blessed,”

and start looking up to literally anyone but Kanye West.

 

The one thing he wants more than them all,

Is 10,000 followers… Can I find those at the mall?

 

He also wants an album from a Fetty Wap?

Is this a type of video game I can find at FutureShop?

 

Will he even be happy with all that I’ve bought?!

He said he’d only be happy if I got him a “THOT”

 

For Goodness sake… Screw him. I no longer really care.

I just found out THOT means “That Hoe Over There.”

 

You know what? He’s getting coal this year. Would that be “on fleek”?!

And I’m going to tell the kids at his school that his “game” is really weak.

 

I know exactly how he will respond. He’ll say I have “no chill”

How ‘bout this my precious son; I should have never gone off the pill.

 

Having a teenager is the worst. Motherhood’s a scam.

He doesn’t even mean me when he says he loves his “fam”.

 

As a gift, I’m going to get him a job and make him have to work.

Good luck posting that to your Instagram, you little f****** jerk.

 

This year he’s sure as hell not getting any of these things.

Santa, for Christmas, just make sure his hotline never “blings.”

 

Love

The Mother of a Millennial