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Self-Care

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I went to one free meditation class offered through my work and now all I want is to get seriously jacked on self-care.

I want to be rubbed in essential oils, go on a silent retreat, and be healed by crystals.

I am officially 100% drinking the kool-aid on this one. I was driving home from my families this weekend and thought, “You know what I should do? I should go to Peru and take Ayahuasca.” So yes, you could say that I’m pretty into this.

This will be an interesting journey to follow so if you haven’t already subscribed to my blog, well hot dog, now would be the time. Part of the reason I stepped away from blogging and comedy for a while is that while I have an easy time admitting my neurotic tendencies and general fuck-uperry, actually trying to do something about my negative behaviors or “Sadness kinks” is going to be a whole different ball game.

So after I made the decision to get, like, super fucking healthy, I did what I always do when I get excited about something. I go all in babyyyyy.

So far it’s been a wild ride. On top of my therapy and a daily dose of Lexapro I decided to quit drinking, which is swell. So swell, that when I got sober and had nothing to blame my negative feelings on, I got a tidal wave of anxiety and had to call the mental health line, get on a waiting list to see a physiatrist and eventually a drug and addiction counselor.

Dear readers, there is nothing that makes you feel worse about yourself than taking the steps you need to take to feel better about yourself.

First, you have to hear the phone recording say, “If you think you are having a psychiatric emergency, please call 911.” Like, okay, listen up ma’am, I can’t tell you how many times I have thought I was having a psychiatric emergency. If I called the cops every time I cried at a commercial or slept for 13 hours they would be like “Kaylee, we told you the last time, please stop calling here. This is not an emergency.”

Once I finally got an appointment, I had to pee in a cup LIKE A GOD DAMN CRIMINAL (or someone with a self-diagnosed bladder infection trying to figure out if it is really a bladder infection.) I had to admit that I have an unhealthy relationship with alcohol. I had to answer a questionnaire that basically asked: “On a scale of 1/10 how likely are you to….you know…. *nurse practitioner whispers* kill yourself?”

I had to speak to my negative body image and when asked about how I feel about my body responded honestly with “Oh gosh, I mean I hate the thing. I really do sir, it’s awful.” More strangers have seen me cry in this past month than when I went to a  friend’s sisters wedding and was just “so *sniff* proud of her. *sniff*.”

Going through all of that sucked. It blew metaphorical chunks all over the life I wanted people to think I had handled. I had to admit to my partner I was struggling with addiction. I had to go through with my work holiday party knowing that there would be free booze and that I couldn’t have any, even though other people could because I had a problemmmmm ugh!

But here I am, 21 days without alcohol, snuggling my animals, being honest with myself and my intentions, and working out a plan. Because it’s important.

I think the absolute tightest part about self-care is the discussions that make you realize you aren’t alone, and that the crazy thoughts you have are in fact, not that original.  This will be the goal of my posts moving forward. To provide insight and a light-hearted look into mental illness, addiction, and self-doubt. Hopefully, it helps even one person feel less alone in their struggles while being (fingers-crossed) mildly entertaining.

More to come!

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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aftercollegelife comedy hobbies lifestyle pacific northwest pdx self help Uncategorized

All the Small Things

blink 182There’s something about spending  82 days in a leg brace and 6 months in physical therapy that really puts things in perspective.

I think it’s ingrained in the human condition, something about always having to search for better resources as a Neanderthal or some shit, where we can’t just chill out and reflect on how far we’ve come. How often do any of us really sit down and think, “I can breathe, I can walk, I can even pay my electric bill when I put my mind to it. I’m a decent human being and everything is pretty o.k.”

For me, the answer is never. I’m constantly in a state of mind, where I’m beating the shit out of myself, like frigging Tyler Durden. The internal dialogue ranges from, “Holy shit what am I doing with my life, and why am I not famous already?!” to, “Man, I really should have done a load of laundry last night.” It’s as if the fact that I’m not on SNL and don’t have clean underwear are the the defining characteristics of who I am as a person, and that person is lame with a capital L.

Well I’m over it, and am going to sincerely do my best moving forward to not be so hard on myself, which is a hefty effing task if you know anything about me. I can’t even take naps because I feel like I’m wasting valuable time that I could be running laps or dusting something.

I think we should all be more supportive of encouraging people to focus on the positive. Like, have you ever noticed when you ask someone how they are doing, the answer is always “okay,” or ,”good.” How come no one is doing fucking phenomenal? I want someone to be like, “Oh me? I’m doing mighty fine today, because I cooked food for myself and made a credit card payment.” If someone said that to me, I would be like, “That’s fucking awesome Rhonda. You celebrate that girl. You fucking bump that credit score to the heavens and get some essential nutrients today, dawg.”  (*I have no idea how credit cards work.)

We shouldn’t be so worried about sharing our accomplishments in the fear of making others feel bad or less successful or whatever. I’m reading this self-help book right now (because extensive therapy, medication, and extremely supportive friends and family just ISN’T ENOUGH DAMMIT) and it says that when you try to do something positive, especially something that is radically different from your current state, the “universe” is going to try to push back. Like, let’s say that all of a sudden I decide to get off the sauce, quit smoking, and dedicate myself to yoga practice.  I’m going to get all sorts of wack feedback like, “So what, are you not drinking anymore?” “Is that just soda water?” I know this to be true because it’s already happened to me numerous times. Way to encourage my drinking problem guys.

And we are totally all guilty of it. I had a friend that started hitting the gym hard, and she would always post Facebook updates about going to work out and “crushing it” and then take photos of herself looking like a total fox. I remember one night scrolling through my news feed while straddling a plate of Mexican food, and saying, “Fuck that betch. Fuck her right in her six-pack abs.”

But imagine if instead of nay-saying, and shaming people into hiding their accomplishments, we took inspiration from the success of our peers, and used that to fuel our own journeys to fulfillment?

As Taylor Swift so eloquently put it, “The haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.”

I think whether it’s your own demon brain thoughts, or someone else tripping on your newly adopted paleo diet, or career change, or WHATEVER,  you got to “shake it off.” and just keep doling out those positive vibes. Share what makes you happy, and celebrate other people for making dope life-decisions.

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

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aftercollegelife comedy lifestyle pacific northwest pdx

Blues

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I’m starting to understand what Lana Ray was all up our asses about that Summer Time Sadness. I’ve been a bit of a funk lately and I’m starting to think maybe there’s something deeper going on here than being depressed about my  naked body splayed out in front of the air conditioner thinking, “Dear god it’s bikini season and I’M NOT READY.”

Perhaps Summer is a time to clean house (mentally and physically) and it can be kind of sad to realize you hibernated the whole winter and didn’t really save any money, or get any thinner or get a boyfriend, so your parents can stop assuming your gay with your roommate/s.

The sunshine is here and it’s like a slap in the face that you’re alive and things are amazing, but what the hell have you been doing for half the year? What are you going to do about it? How the fuck are we possibly going to get a decent ass in time for river float season, and oh my god it’s almost my birthday again and I’m getting so olddddddd.

But now. really now, for reals-reals we are doing it. We are going to be a better person from now on and create allowances, and learn self discipline and not be such an emotional basket-case.

I’m really bad at not letting myself have what I want. If I want to go camping, I will get in the car and go and spend all my money on $7 IPA’s and grass-fed hot dogs and the best condiments money can buy. Chipotle flavored mayonnaise? You would be a stupid idiot to think you don’t need that in the wilderness. I thought about wanting a hammock for 5 minutes yesterday before ordering one online. I am essentially the best boyfriend to myself ever, (Which is why I don’t need one okay Aunt Cheryl?! God. Lay off!)

Summer is an especially hard time for my impulses. Margaritas at 6 p.m. on a Monday? Um, yes. I’ll take 4 please.

Formulating positive solutions based on the present and what I can do right now is something I strive for. It’s all about that balance between letting myself do whatever I want, and being so hard on myself that I’m incapable of feeling happiness. Making it to the gym and also fitting in some homemade margs at the end of the week. Skipping a couple nights out to afford my improv classes. etc. etc.

It’s not something that comes to me easy. I can be having the best time in the world with my best friends and instead of enjoying it, and being in the moment. I’m thinking about how sad it will be when we get older and one of us dies. Really, I think about my friends and family dying all the time. Sorry guys.

Being morbid comes easier to me sometimes than being a super-chill  girl who like, totally loves life, and bright colors, and disc golf and shit. And being hard on myself is way easier than being proud of myself. I could be on the beach with a drink in my hand and not be able to get my mind off when I’m ever going to be able to have the money or the means to do something that fun ever again.

But  this behavior isn’t doing anyone any good. It’s time to start feeling decent about enjoying today. Right now.

Sometimes it’s hard to take a breath and tell myself that I’m only 25 and everything is really going to be okay. And this moment is okay. And this time in my life is okay. And the fact that I forgot to put on deodorant is maybe okay, as long as I don’t get too close to anyone on the MAX.

Deep breaths, baby steps, cheesy positive mantras, a decent tan, and blended alcoholic beverages with tiny umbrellas. This is my Summer Time M.O.  That and getting a killer set of abs. Also I apologize for not having humor be the forefront of this post, but not all weekday hangovers are going to be a walk in the park. Amiright ladies?!

Plus, if anyone else is feeling a little blue, message me, call new, comment on my post. I’m totally hear to commiserate with you and hear you out. Us humans haves to support each other in this bat-shit world where it is 90 degrees in April, so I’m calling it Summer.

Xoxo,

TWH

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aftercollegelife comedy lifestyle pacific northwest pdx

The Offspring 

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If anyone else is a 90’s, late 80’s child like myself, I’m sure you’re noticing the insanely high percentage of your graduating class that have been blasting out children lately.

That shit is all over Facebook, and while I feel like the normal reaction should be something along the lines of “aw cute,” and “good for them,” I find myself repulsed by the thought of growing another human inside me. Not to mention those wack ass comparisons that people share like, “my fetus that I’m feeding through my inside tubes is currently the size of a butternut squash.” Fucking gross. Thanks for ruining most fruits and vegetables for me preggos.

Example here:

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The most frustrating thing about having an aversion to creating a new life form is that people always tell me, “Oh, you will want one some day.” Or worse, “When you meet the right person you will want to give him the gift of children.” No way! If I meet the love of my life, I’ll want to give him a nice watch, a trip to the Bahamas, maybe an old fashioned every once in awhile, if you know what I’m talking about ladies.

I am 99.9% positive I’m not going to want to grow something inside of me, and then pop it out and hand it over like it’s a god damn toaster strudel.

Here are the reasons why I’m opposed to baby-making:

1) Investing thousands of dollars into something that grows up to hate you. I would rather spend my disposable income on Whole Foods and weed, because it’s never going to slam a door in my face and call me a bitch when I take away its cell phone away.

2) Realizing that you don’t really like it either. Do you know how crushed I would be if my sweet little angel grew up to be a conservative Christian? Like no matter how hard I tried to force my Atheist  and liberal free love ideals on it, it begs me to spend my hard-earned money on sending it to bible camp?

3) The insane responsibility that comes with raising a child. If my microwave didn’t beep every 5 seconds to remind me my frozen burrito was done, I would literally starve to death. Once, I went home for the weekend and on the third day remembered that I had a rabbit, and that someone should probably feed it while I was away. I most likely shouldn’t be responsible for a little human’s well being.

4) My shitty DNA. I’m sure by reading a number of my posts you can probably tell that I’m riddled with anxiety, depression, and a terrible body image. Why on earth would I want to pass on this complex to a poor, unsuspecting child? If I had a kid, it would come home from Kindergarten sobbing because it isn’t as good at finger painting as the other kids, and because the teacher didn’t value its opinion that duck,duck, goose is an extremely alienating recess activity.

All of these above points, combined with the fact that I don’t see any near future that involves a life partner, are the reasons why kids are probably not in the stars for this old gal. And that’s okay. I realize this post is probably extremely offensive to those of you who have children, but I just want my decision to not have kids to be just as socially acceptable as your decision to have them. Plus, all my blogs are offensive so you know, you better get used to it.

Seriously though, props to you ladies and gentleman that can welcome little kiddos into the world. Just because I don’t want to do it, doesn’t mean I don’t respect the hell out of you and think your little tike is a god damned miracle of evolution. I will still support you from afar…. while I’m in the Bahamas, eating toaster strudel and giving the love of my life a hand-job.

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aftercollegelife comedy lifestyle pacific northwest pdx

A.S.L.

no more hugging

*I bolded the important shit because this is a long post*

Dating in 2016 kinda sucks. 

I mean, let’s be real, I’m out of college and all my friends are in serious relationships or married. They don’t want to wingman me while I take tequila shots at some dive bar down the street from my house, in order to muster up the strength to talk to some guy with a bald spot playing pinball.

I work in a small office with 9 women. Not only is there literally no one straight or single to even flirt with, but even if there was, I think if I worked with someone I dated, it would be a praying mantis situation where we hook up once, and then after 40 hours in the office together I would dismember them. 

This leaves only one alternative. Dating strangers you meet on the Internet. This is literally the worst, because you have no idea what you are getting yourself into. It’s not like you can call references and be like, “Hey, I’m about to go on a date with Jeremy, is he a registered sex offender or currently married?” No. You walk into that shit, date one, with only 3 pictures to go off of, with the hope that they haven’t aged 10 years, gained 50 pounds,or decided to do meth since those snapshots were taken.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wasted Saturday nights with men who are just 100% incompatible with me.

This one time I went to meet this cute guy from Tinder at a bar, and we were both hungry so we ordered some food. He got the tomato soup but didn’t want the grilled cheese. So he just wanted hot tomato liquid with no carb vessel to dip in it. Red fucking flag. But it gets worse. He got the soup and realized there was cheese in it, so he proceeded to SCOOP the melted cheese out of the bowl. He then said, “I don’t hate cheese, I just prefer not to eat it.” Yes. You read that right. This dude when given the option of cheese, chooses to opt out. What. the. ever. loving. fuck. I immediately said that I was ill, pounded my drink and ran to my car.

This is just one example of the mishaps of dating total strangers. I also had one guy who asked me if I’ve ever tried being married, but that’s another story.

So you have to weed through some bad dates to get to the better fish in the sea. Once you find that grade-A tuna, that diamond in the rough, it should be smooth sailing right?

No. This is not the case, dear readers, because even the seemingly good guys, even then 4th or 6th daters will ghost the fuck out of you. No remorse. No questions asked.

What is ghosting? It’s like the equivalent of hitting a car trying to parallel park, and then driving away and parking somewhere else. The only difference is instead of hitting a car, you’re rubbing your junk all over a stranger.

Ghosting is when you spend time with someone, and you usually text back and forth on the regular and/or sleep together, and then all of a sudden you get no response back and you never hear from them again.

This happens a lot in Internet relationships, and in any scenario where the person you are seeing is a little bitch and doesn’t have the common courtesy to let you know it just isn’t working out.

For me it’s like, we are both adults. I met you on Tinder. If you just want to have sex and never talk to me again that’s cool. I assume that’s the usual haps, but don’t hold my hand dude. Don’t like, try to impress me by playing acoustic guitar, because I totally fall for that shit, or tuck my hair back behind my ear or anything else that reminds me how awesome it is to not sleep alone.

In fact, don’t even look me in the eye or use my first name if you aren’t interested in getting to know me for longer than 24 hours. I prefer a strict no big spoon policy when it comes to night-men unless they also plan to be day-men. Do you catch my drift? Am I just being clingy as fuck? Dudes reading this, you are probably thinking, “Bitch you are looking way too far into this shit.” Hear me out here.

How hard is it to do a little PR bullshit and say, “It’s been really great getting to know you, but I don’t think I’m in a good space to be dating.” I just made that shit up and typed it out in 2 seconds. Grow a pair and lie to my face, please.

This post may make my love life seem sad and pathetic, which don’t get me wrong, it totally is, but I am taking one for the team in order to give a PSA to the ladies and gentlemen of the Internet and lay down some sexual ground rules:

  1. If you want to bone down, and bone down only, be honest about it. There’s nothing wrong with telling someone you aren’t looking for a relationship and just want a bit of fun. The thing about this is, now I’m aware of the situation, and can make a decision if that’s something I want to do with you. It’s now not something you trick me into by holding my hand and telling me what a cool girl I am. If I had a dollar for every time someone told me I’m a “cool girl.” Jokes on you guys, because I know I’m not cool. At. All. So I can see right through your act of trying to get in my pants you stupid idiot.
  2. Some of you may say, “Well, I wanted to pursue something, but after a few dates it wasn’t my jam.” That’s totally fine! Shit doesn’t always work out. We are all aware that the world is a cruel place, and we all die alone. Just say it’s not working out for some vague reason (please god don’t be so specific as to point out my annoying habits to my face) and thank the person for their time.  Don’t just snooze those texts because we may think you’re dead at worst, and an asshole at best. It’s also just not  a courteous thing to do to the person who just let you see them naked.

So, to sum it up:  Be honest about your intentions, don’t fake more serious affection if your just looking to knock boots, and  break it off with decency if need be.

Also if you don’t like melted cheese, you’re a freak bitch and should die alone before wasting anyone else’s time. That’s right Brian. You heard me. Don’t ever call me again.

XOXO

Kaylee Noel

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aftercollegelife comedy lifestyle pacific northwest pdx

Boys and Booze 

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I once had a coworker, who I love dearly, who watched me in my many stages of figuring life out. I was his receptionist from age 17-23 so he saw a lot of tears, breakups, get-back-together’s, and although he never let me off without a scolding, he would always get me a cup of coffee when I looked “too puffy” on a Saturday morning.

After seeing me boy crazy, heartbroken, and hungover all those years he came to the solid conclusion that I am “allergic to boys and booze.”

At age 21 I was pretty sure he was right, but at age 25 I’m positive that man is secretly a gypsy warning me of some grave danger if I don’t change my ways.

In light of this I’m deciding to turn a new leaf, go off the sauce, take a hiatus, whatever you want to call it, from men and flavored vodka.

Don’t get me wrong, I love them both so much, but isn’t it the old saying if you love something let it go?

It’s going to be hard to knock the habits. I’ll have to start calling the end of the week Friday instead of Wine Friday and Sexy Sunday’s will be a thing of the past. (No, I won’t go into detail about Sexy Sunday’s, I’ll leave that one up to you). Let’s just say now I’ll have Sleep Alone Sundays.

Now my friends won’t be able to vicariously live through me as a single person out in the “big city” (The three blocks of Southeast Portland I spend my time in) and “dating” (having drunk, unprotected sex with strangers I met on the internet).

So why? Why put myself through all the torture of denying myself  the comfort of semi-attractive strangers and a bottle of wine-before-bed rituals?

Well, wouldn’t you like to know you nosy little shits.

Sorry, I’m at the irritable stage where I haven’t smelled men’s deodorant in my hair for over 24 hours. That’s not the only thing missing from my hair either.

Wink wink readers. Wink wink.

 

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aftercollegelife comedy eating lifestyle pacific northwest pdx

Summa Summa Time 

Summer is my favorite time of year. I will fight to the death against the shit attitudes of every pale North American who wish the frigid cold of winter upon us as soon as it gets over 70 degrees. I get it, it’s hot, but have they never felt next-day rug rash from a drunken slip and slide session? Have they never assaulted an ice-cream man for not stopping long enough on their street? These are some of the blissful memories that can only happen during the magical months of July and August. Here are the reasons why I love Summer:

1) Boys in Jorts.

jortspen bagely jortscute boy jorts

I’m infatuated with everyone right now. Something about the warm weather reminds me of dating boys and them being adorable, and going on beach trips and shit. My hormones are unstoppable this time of year. I had to tell my roommate to stop wearing her Old Spice deodorant because it makes me too aroused and I keep objectifying the cute guy down the street, who is affectionately known as “the guy with the broken leg and the dog.” He has nice jorts and I’m seriously considering asking him out as soon as he can walk again.

2) BBQ food.

mac salad

Summer is the one time of year you can eat a hotdog and a cheeseburger in the same day and not be judged for it. Also, every salad at a BBQ has mayonnaise in it, and I am 100% down to fuck with that. So here’s what you do: Get a “dollop” (or you know, however you want to portion, you’re an adult) of potato salad, macaroni salad, and egg salad. If you are one of those freaks who doesn’t like their food to touch each other you are not going to like what I’m about to say. I suggest cramming as much of literally everything (especially if you just showed up and not hosting, because free food tastes better) as you can on the plate. No room for utensils? Good! Utensils are for chumps. Use your Lay’s chips as mayo-salad shovels  because this is America, land of the free.

3) It’s My Birthday

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Birthdays are the one holiday where you can get gifts, and not have to give anyone else gifts. Yes, I am turning 25 and yes, I still expect presents. If you don’t know what to get me just check my Amazon wish list, because there is nothing more satisfying than looking at shit you could never afford or justify buying for yourself and then unashamedly putting the link on Facebook and emailing it out to all your relatives.

Birthdays, like BBQ’s are another excuse to eat like shit and drink forever. I’m not really one for sweets, but a dear friend of mine promised me a white bread Bologna sandwich with yellow mustard as an homage to a cake. I’ll probably have to get a cake anyway though because if people show up to a birthday party and there is no cake, American culture will shit its pants and Paula Dean will start sending me racist hate mail.

Birthdays are also an excuse to be kind of a dick. Example A) I ate your  fries and drank all your beer while you were in the bathroom because it’s my birthday. Example B) I made out with your brother because it’s my birthday.  Example C) I drank everything and made out with everyone, because I’m old now and I hate everything….and it’s my birthday. Do. Your. Worst.

birthday

4) Nature is happy.

oregon nature

Usually when it’s Spring, winter or fall,the Northwest looks like one big, gray, drizzly shit hole. We Portlanders put up with soggy bike rides and Vitamin D deficiency so that when June rolls around we can take our dogs out to roll around in the grass that is green as fuck and swim in lakes and do other social outdoor activities.

The moral of today’s blog is to not let the haters get you down, or better yet, hate on your haters harder

Again, people who don’t like Summer are most-likely processed-meat circle hating, anti spiked lemonade, non bare-thigh sporting freak shows. . So enjoy your A/C, and your GOT reruns losers, I’ll be getting basic-bitch wasted on sangria, harassing ice-cream men, and hiking off my mayo weight.

Categories
comedy eating food

5 second rule

I was raised by a 35 – 45 year old male stoner so the five second rule is very lax for me. If a macaroni noodle falls on a bar table. It’s fair game. It doesn’t even have to be my noodle.

Does the five second rule apply to birth control pills? I always drop mine on the floor but can find them very quickly. I feel like that is my drunk super power. Some people can make it to the bathroom in time to throw up, others can hail a taxi like nobody’s business. Myself, I can always find a birth control pill on the floor and manage to get it into my mouth.

I don’t really understand germs. You can’t see them, so therefore I just live my life pretending this don’t exist. Like ghosts, the suffering of the masses and my repressed memories from childhood. If you can’t see it, it’s probably nothing to be worried about.

If I pick something off the ground and it has a hair on it of course I’ll throw it away. I’m not an animal. Unless of course the hair can be easily picked off, then it’s kosher.

I have a lot of fears: never getting married, waking up with a giant tattoo I don’t remember getting, being eating alive by a large animal, you know normal shit. I just don’t think I have the capacity or understanding to add bacteria to that list. Plus I think there are some benefits to being a little bit, well let’s use the word “dirty.”

1) I get sick less often because I’m building an immunity to bus people germs, bar germs and all the other germs out there. Bird flu? I would let a bird eat out of my hand then eat the rest of the food in my hand. Boosh. Bird flu avoided.

2) I don’t waste food. Half a granola bar fell out of my pocket? That’s my breakfast homie, what do you think I’m made of money? Pick that shit up and eat it. Think thin bars are like $2 each.

So, I can only think of two benefits right now. I might come up with more after a few glasses of wine but I think I have established a pretty solid argument. So rejoice in the 5-second rule and don’t be afraid to cross contaminate. It grows hair on your chest, or whatever.