Category: friendship

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advice aftercollegelife friendship health lifestyle self help Uncategorized

Over-achiever

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What is that crazy strain that us sentient beings have that makes us constantly unsatisfied with our current situation?

Here’s an example of what I mean:

I don’t have any friends in Portland and I want friends > I get friends > I focus on my job not being satisfying > I want a new job > I get a new job  > I focus on how much better my life would be with a pet >>>

Once we “level up” it’s an immediate switch to think about the next level. Maybe my experience growing up with a Sega Genesis has subconsciously affected my adult life.

Or maybe, there’s a terrible aversion that I have to settling.

I know there’s a whole world out there full of experiences and life and I’m woke to it. Woke to it as fuck.

Even if I eventually have the great job, the amazing husband, the 5 dogs, and the six-pack abs I’ve always wanted, there will always be this innate desire to have experiences outside of myself. Experiences where I feel alive, and well, different.

It’s that what those t-shirts and coffee mugs that say “Wanderlust” are all about?

As much as I enjoy listening to a podcast and cooking a meal, or sweating it out at the gym and feeling stronger, or watching 17 episodes of a cooking show in my underwear, those are not the things that get me up in the morning. Those are just tricks I’ve been slowly developing to keep me out of the Johnson Unit.

I want to feel the way I felt when I walked through the Oxford street market, or when I climbed 300 steps to get the best view of the Paris streets, surrounded by a bunch of strangers, that for those 3 days, were my best friends. I want to camp in the woods with my friends and have a séance in the woods where we tell our deepest, darkest secrets.

I want to fucking live outside my desk, and more importantly, my head.

Of course, I need the security of a steady income and a roof over my head, so I don’t think I’ll be “Eat, Pray, Loving-it” anytime soon. Plus, maybe it was how hard I worked to get to the amazing places I’ve been that makes me appreciate it the way I do. If I flew to Paris every weekend, maybe I wouldn’t have wept at the beautiful site of the Sacre Coeur, and I probably wouldn’t have dared to give 3 strangers my phone number so we could meet at the Eiffel Tower at midnight.

I don’t want to always live for moments in the future, but having those out-of-yourself experiences is so important to me. I hope I can feasibly always have something scheduled to put myself in a situation that is new and exciting to me.

I want to have memories and experiences that are outside of my day to day work > grocery store > gym > home routine. I want to feel connected and alive and shit.

So how does that work, dear readers? How does one enjoy the present moment while also craving something more than being an Assistant and a dog-mom? I definitely don’t have all the answers. Maybe realizing that other people feel this way too and I’m not alone is a comfort in it’s own regard. Maybe being a little more conservative with my paychecks so that I can afford trips to new places is put as a higher priority. Maybe booking time for myself to go explore my own city or try a new restaurant is a reasonable step.

I would love to hear your responses and advice to this quarrel of the ordinary. Please feel free to DM me, dog. Or comment below.

XOXO,

Milky 

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comedy dogs friendship lifestyle

Nice guy

 

7libra

I feel like sometimes people think that I have it easy because I’m a kind, sensitive butterfly who wants to improve humanity and pet puppies and free Tibet. But being nice to others, although it is quite easy for me to do, can be fucking exhausting.

Here’s why:

The opposite of resting bitch face can get you in just as much trouble.

Smiling at people is supposed to be a simple gesture to make the world a better place or whatever, but I’ve found smiling at people can also lead to a 30 minute long conversation with a homeless man who wants to play you a song he wrote, and get advice on how he should color his hair. I’ve legitimately been late to work because I can’t get away from conversations with people quick enough. Especially the people at Trader Joe’s. If you’ve ever been to a Trader Joe’s you must know what I’m taking about. The overly cheery cashier that wants to know way too much about you, for someone ringing up your toiletries. She asks you what you are planning on doing with your four bottles of $3 wine and your block of cheese. “Well….I just got done at the gym, so I figured I would drink back the calories I sweated out, watch some Netflix. Maybe have a good cry. I haven’t cried in awhile you know? Sometimes it just feels good to get it all out.” Do you remember the movie Liar Liar with Jim Carrey? All of my human interactions are like that. I get asked a question, and have the terrible compulsion to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, plus every single one of my feelings. 

Creeping people out with compliments 

I’M SORRY that I like the texture of your skin, but I thought it would be nice if you knew. You have good face and neck skin. How is that my fault? No…don’t run. Don’t run away. Everyone’s looking now. God dammit.

Not getting the same courtesy back 

When I stop for you at a crosswalk – which I always will. I need you to lift your frigging hand up and give me a “Thank You.” I’m not obligated to stop for you. If I had a mean bone in my body or enough horsepower in my mom’s borrowed suburban I could mow you down if I wanted. I also get honked at a lot because I let people merge all the time. I’ll be like, “oh you have a dog in the car, you can go.” “Oh you have a nice bumper sticker about equality, you can go.” BUT YOU FUCKING WAVE TO ME GOD DAMMIT. APPRECIATE ME!”

Saying Sorry 

I’m always sorry. If I don’t text you back right away, if I am in the way of the silverware drawer if I accidentally bump into you. But here’s the thing. You say sorry back! If I step on your foot and it’s my fault, You say sorry, I say sorry, WE BOTH SAY SORRY! We should both be equally sorry for being in each other’s personal space which should be very precious to both of us. If I forget to pay rent, you say sorry. If I hit you with my car, YOU SAY SORRY!

Over-committing

Sure, I can help you move out of your house. Oh what, it’s my only day off in 15 days? Don’t be silly! I’d be happy to! You need to borrow my car? Sure! Take it for a week. I don’t need to drive anywhere. It has a full tank of gas, and I’ll tell you what pal, give it back to me on empty okay?

Getting dumped 

I’ve definitely been broken up with because of being too nice. I remember one time an ex got mad at me for “not standing up for myself.” I wasn’t standing up for myself because he was yelling at me and I didn’t want to yell back. Screaming hurts my throat, and sitting is more comfortable. Give me a fucking break dude. I think being too nice can also be a turnoff. I get that. But why? Why is it that when you care, you automatically turn into the Velma instead of the Daphne. (Yeah, that’s right, that’s a Scooby Doo reference.) Like,  I’M SORRY I BROUGHT YOU BROWNIES TO WORK, MY FUCKING BAD! Oh, I complimented your mom on her new dress. EXCUSSSSSEEEEE ME! I helped an old lady across the street, so what? Is that not HOT to you? I just think men should automatically get a hard-on when I say please and thank you. Is that too much to ask?

So as you can see, being the nice guy isn’t always a good thing, but I can’t change who I am, so instead, I’m going to keep complimenting people on their face shape/skin, breaking for people walking dogs, and doing color consultations with heroin addicts.

XOXO,

Milky

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advice aftercollegelife comedy fitness friendship hobbies lifestyle pdx self help Uncategorized

Peaks

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Do you guys ever wake up and think what the hell happened? I don’t just mean after a weekend bender or  this year’s election, but like an overarching theme of what-the-fuck?

I turned 26 this year and I feel like the difference between what my body does now and what it did 3 years ago is striking. Honestly, I feel a little betrayed. Someone told me once that as soon as I turn 25 everything would change. My metabolism, my alcohol tolerance, my interests, and my skin texture. My skin texture?! That’s where I draw the line, I mean, honestly.

I went from always having my hair done to using my kitchen shears to trim my bangs. The dresses and heels were replaced with a Columbia Outlet fleece and high-rise leggings. I own one $60 bra that I wear everyday, and a bunch of free volunteer shirts from my last job. I legitimately need 10 hours of sleep per day, accompanied by 2 cups of coffee with non-dairy creamer, because even lactose is an enemy to me now.

At first this was a HUGE issue for me. I felt like I had peaked and that my world as I knew it was crashing down. I’m not the young, hot girl anymore (if I ever was), now I’m just the girl who has peanut-butter on her flannel.

I don’t venture outside my home on weekend evenings because I refuse to pay a cover, I wouldn’t dare spend $13 on a cocktail and my size 4 dresses fit me about as well as a sausage casing.

This shit used to get me down, hard. It still does from time to time, but my priorities have changed. I can’t look to the past and think about how great things were because really, every year has gotten better and better for me, even if I haven’t touched a curling iron in months. I feel more authentic to myself. I used to feel so lost because I didn’t feel like I had hobbies (unless you count puking and rallying as a hobby). But really I was just trying to do what I thought happy people did, instead of doing what actually makes me happy.

Now I do ridiculous at-home workouts where I kick and punch at nothing. I listen to comedy podcasts at work and laugh out loud to myself at my desk. I throw on 90’s Pop Radio in the kitchen and sing to Ja Rule while making vegan nachos. I get onstage with a bunch of random people and play pretend. I call my friends and leave them awkward voicemails and tell them how much I love them. I text my boyfriend pictures of dogs. I sit in my bed at 9:30 p.m. with the lights off and talk about myself on the internet.

Do I sometimes crave adventure and a break from the monotony of my 9-5? Sure. Do I sometimes want to flat-iron my 5 pounds of hair and put on some lipstick. You bet your ass I do. But comparison is the thief of joy, dear readers. So when you find yourself looking at Instagram of people vacationing in Europe, or even comparing your more domestic life for one that was filled with drop shots and sleepovers on friend’s couches. Quit that shit. Remember the good times for what they were, but focus on making these times your best. Your happiest. And doing whatever the fuck that is.

Now excuse me while I go Pinterest pictures of Bernese Mountain Dogs.

XOXO,

The Weekday Hangover

 

 

 

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advice aftercollegelife comedy friendship lifestyle self help Uncategorized women

Blood ocean 

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The title of this post is what my ex-boyfriend used to call my period.

Having a period is a very normal, relatable female experience. Similar to liking chocolate, having your first kiss, and crying at the end of Titanic.

Based on these references, you see, I’ve never really felt female. Not that I’ve felt male, which is totally acceptable, (or at least it will be until that oversized Cheeto of a man becomes president and takes away our fundamental human rights.) I mean that I have always felt an equal longing and detachment from “women.”

I don’t like chocolate, I don’t find Brad Pitt attractive, and I stopped watching Titanic after they had sex in the car. Don’t worry, thanks to 20 years of spoilers, I’ve figured out what happens at the end.

I’ve considered myself, being raised as an only child by a man in his 30’s, as some some of mutant hybrid. An X-man, or woman if you will.

I don’t like sports, but I also don’t get a craving for ice-cream. I don’t care for driving, but I also can’t relate to the sensation women talk about when they take off their bra at the end of the day. My first kiss was when I was 7 as a double-dog dare. There were no fireworks, but I do remember he tasted like nachos.

I have a B-34 bra size which means if I didn’t have an aversion to nipping, I could not wear a “boob carriage” and get away with it. I have an IUD which means I don’t get the monthly visit from Aunt Rose. I barely even know what a vagina looks like you guys. 

But I do still feel what it means to be a woman. Being a woman means when you walk into the grocery store in sweatpants and no makeup, and a bun, and you smile at people, no one smiles back. But when you walk into a Plaid Pantry with curled hair and red lipstick on, people open the door for you. When you ask for a pack of Camel Crushes they say, “How could I say no to such a pretty face.” When you forget mascara people ask you if you aren’t feeling so well. When you wear heels, other women stare at you, while men offer to carry your things, or at least stare at your ass when they think you aren’t looking.

Being a woman means getting told to “smile.” Being a woman means never feeling like you are good enough. Being a woman means feeling on top of the world when you are blonde and skinny and young. People say, “Oh, I like her, she’s cute.” or “Oh, you are so skinny and you have such long legs, those will help you when you get older. Lucky you.” Lucky me. I guess.

But also being a woman means this:

It means getting a college degree while working 46 hours a week. It means paying rent, utilities and medical bills while trying to balance a social life and a fulfilling hobby. It means worrying that people will talk shit about you, and then finding the people that will never talk shit about you and loving them so much it hurts. It means getting heartbroken and picking up the pieces with self-help books and red wine and lots and LOTS of texts to your friends back home. It means waking up one day realizing you are 30 lbs heavier than you would ever image yourself being, and reconciling with the fact that that does not define your worth. It means having 3 interviews at your dream company and not getting a call back the following business week. It means finally quitting your dead-end job after years of applications, networking and LinkedIn profile updating. It means saying yes when you want to say yes, and saying no when you want to say no. Even when it feels like you should because you really feel like you should be social, and you’re worried you’re going to come off as a flake, and you haven’t gone out all week but you just really DON’T FEEL LIKE PUTTING PANTS ON. Really, being a woman means whatever the fuck your experience is being you. Not some 60 Minute special on Millennial Moms. Not some Reddit meme about being an overly-attached girlfriend. You are a woman, whether or not you get a Brazilian wax once a month (which holy shit hurts so bad oh my Jesus H. Christ, hold onto your labias) or you haven’t haven’t shaved your legs in 5 months. I’ve personally done both.

Yes, sometimes being a woman feels like you will never be good enough. But you are enough. And I know that for certain, because as a woman, I am always right.

XOXO,

The Weekday Hangover

 

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advice aftercollegelife comedy dogs eating fitness friendship hobbies lifestyle pacific northwest pdx self help Uncategorized

B.F.F.s

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I have the most lovely community of men and women as friends. It’s actually insane how many bad ass people are in my life. Sometimes I think about it too much and I start crying my lil eyes out in awe of the sheer luck & fortune I have to know these people. Shit.

But it’s easy to be a hater, man, I get it. It’s so easy to take one look at Insta and be like “oh man, look at this bitch, she has a picture of a smoothie, and then her next three photos are of the beach, a workout selfie, and her pure-bred dog. Fuckkkkk her.” I don’t remember where I found this quote, but I said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” What if instead of feeling miserable about someone’s health journey, because you’re five breadsticks and a bottle of wine down, you celebrate that someone out there is living the life they want. (If you want to hear more about my opinions on this, check out my previous blog “All the Small Things.”)

It’s a crazy concept, but think about it this way: I now have a few good friends that I was super envious of because they were wicked pretty, super motivated and seemed to be kicking the world right in the crotch. So I didn’t talk to them, I just stalked them on Facebook and followed their posts and was like, “They are so cool. I wish I could be cool….and fuck they just went to Italy. The closest I’ll get to Italy is this bowl of god damn frozen raviolis.”

But if you stop doing that comparison shit, and realize that everyone is a real person with struggles and goals, you can open yourself up to the same opportunities just by reaching out and saying, “Hey, I like Harry Potter, you like Harry Potter, let’s hang out and kill at bottle of merlot.” What’s the worst that can happen? I also literally made a friend with that tag line, so feel free to steal it.

How To Make Friends (Quarter-Life Crisis Edition):

1) Find Common Ground.

  • “You like trashy tv shows? Oh shit, did you see the last episode of Dance Moms?! So. Much. Drama.”
  • “Hey, do you hate this job, because I sure do! What parts about it do you hate the most? Would you like to discuss this over some alcohol?”
  • “Hey there, I see that you have a dog. I loveeeeeee dogs. What is your dogs name? How old is he? Where did you get him? Did you get him when he was a puppy? Does he get along well with other dogs? Can I pet him? Oh shit, I’m already petting him. I got too excited I forgot to ask permission. He seems very friendly.”

2) No One Hates Being Complimented.

  • Imagine this, your new coworker shows up wearing an outfit that looks like it is straight out of an Anthopologie window display. You say, “I love that jumper! Where did you get it?” She looks you right in the eye, flips you the bird, and walks back to her desk in silence.
  • If that actually happens you should try even harder to be friends with this person, because they just won the Hard-as-Fuck Award, and it’s always good to have a sassy lil’ raincloud in your wolf pack to mix things up a bit. Take April Ludgate for example.

3) Don’t be an Asshole.

  • Trust me on this one. This means don’t talk shit about other people just to get on someone’s good side. Take it from someone who worked in the salon industry for 5 years. That shit will always come back to bite you in the ass.
  • Besides being able to open your own juice box now, things haven’t changed much since elementary school. Someone who hates someone today, might end up having a change of heart and loving them tomorrow, and THEY WILL tell them all the shit you said about them.
  • Treat people with common courtesy. Try and give notice if you need to cancel plans. If you aren’t feeling up to a night on the town, explain why and try to set something up for another time. Communicating with people = good. Ignoring texts and blowing people off = Asshole with a capital H.

As my beautiful improv coach fairy once said, “You have to be vulnerable in order to allow yourself to have authentic relationships. It’s one of the scariest and easiest things to do, but it’s so important.”

So, my magestic sea lions, go out into the wide ocean of friendship and swim around. Don’t let comparison be the thief of your joy. Be open to new experiences. And above all, love yourself and DON’T BE AN ASSHOLE.

XOXO,

The Weekday Hangover