Thrifting Tips from a Non-Pro

I’ve been frequenting thrift stores since I was 14. Value Village was a block away from my high school and my friends and I often ditched class to spend hours trying on polyester dresses and sequined blouses with shoulder pads and would usually walk out of the store with bags and bags of loot. Those were the golden days; the fount of decent thrift finds was plentiful and, at least for a short while, our obsession with cheap vintage clothing was funded by our weekly allowances. By the end of high school our cherished Value Village as well as Tucson’s other thrift store goldmines were getting picked over by out-of-towners who would take our precious wares to Austin and sell them for ten times the original price at vintage shops. My taste in fashion also changed and I started preferring cheap and easy-to-shop-for Forever 21 clothes over one-in-a-million candy-striped button-ups and puffy-sleeved party dresses. These days, my wardrobe seems to be made up evenly of new apparel and Goodwill finds. I recently found a fantastic thrift store buddy though, and I feel like I’m reliving my high school days in some ways. I’m by no means a vintage expert, but I’ve picked up some pretty good techniques over the years for making a trip to the thrift store worthwhile. Here are some basic rules I follow when I’m in the mood to hit up second hand stores.

Have an idea of what you’re looking for

Before I go thrift store shopping, I look through my closet to get an idea of what I need and what I have too much of. That way, I can keep an eye out for a specific item I’ve been craving and avoid adding to my collection of high-waisted velvet skirts (I honestly don’t understand how I’ve accumulated so many). It’s always good to gather some inspiration before you shop. Look at your favorite fashion blogs or the websites that you shop at and pick an item or two to look for. Is winter approaching and you need a comfortable cardigan? Are you on the prowl for a simple black dress? When you have something specific to look for, it’ll give you a starting point when you walk into the store and start feeling overwhelmed by the endless lines of racks and people pawing through them. Having a direction to head in right off the bat will help you avoid feeling like you’re wasting your time.

Donate often

I believe that if you give, the universe will give back in some shape or form, so boost your thrift store karma by donating your clothes on a regular basis. The process of cleaning out your closet will help you gauge the types of clothes that consistently get unworn and neglected, as well as help you rediscover some items that you forgot about. If you start donating your clothes regularly, you’ll find yourself buying less crap that will make you question your sanity when you find it lying on the floor of your closet months later. It’s a win-win for you and your local thrift store.

Try on everything

Instead of debating whether you or not you love something while you’re looking through the racks, grab everything that appeals to you and make your buying decisions in the dressing room. Just because something looks drab on the hanger or not quite your size doesn’t mean that it won’t look awesome when you put it on. Be indiscriminate as you thumb through the racks and save your eagle eye for the fitting room. You’ll probably end up finding something that surprises you.

Don’t fall in love with something before you try it on

If you find the absolute best article of clothing you’ve ever seen (and God knows you will), don’t start planning your happy future together until you see how it looks on you. Murphy’s Law dictates that you’ll find the dress of your dreams in one size too small. I know this tragic situation all to well: everything about the article of clothing is perfect, except for the fact that it won’t button up or cover your butt or allow you to breathe properly. But since it’s the BEST THING EVER and you never want anyone else to wear something as awesome, you decide that you can tolerate the way it flattens your boobs into an awkward square shape. You tell yourself you’ll wear it after you lose those ten pounds you’ve been trying to get rid of. It’ll be inspiration, right? WRONG. Seriously, this mentality is the #1 reason why so many girls have the cutest fucking things hoarded up in the back of their closets that they never wear. If something doesn’t fit you, it isn’t meant to be. You can do better things with it than never wear it, like put it back on the rack and let someone else die of happiness when they bring it to the fitting room. Maybe if we all stopped hoarding the best items in the thrift store, we’d all find our perfect clothing matches more often.

If you can’t decide whether to buy something, give it some time

Sometimes after trying an item on, you still can’t decide whether to dish out the cash for it. Maybe the price is higher than you’d like or there is a small stain in the fabric. Maybe it’s amazingly flashy and incredible but you’re not sure if it’s quite your style. Even if the article of clothing is $1.99, it can be tough to resolve to purchase something if you aren’t fully sold on it. If you’re unsure, walk around with the item. Look at other racks and knick-knacks, and eventually work your way back to the fitting room and put it on one last time. As you try it on, imagine what you already have in your wardrobe that you’d pair it with. Does it need a belt or blazer over it? What is it missing that’s preventing you from loving it? If you’re shopping with a friend, ask her to try it on. You might just need to see it on someone else to realize how awesome it is. If you still can’t decide, imagine how you’d feel if you put it back on the rack and left it. Would you come back to the store fifteen minutes later and frantically search for it? Would you be upset if someone else picked it up and bought it? If not, fuck it. Don’t buy something you don’t want or need. You can buy a beer with the money you save. Although thrift store finds feel like one in a million, there are plenty of items out there that you’ll love. You just need to find them.

A Love Letter to the Internet

I am at what I would call a pivotal time in my life right now. At 23 years old, I’m past the busy-work of childhood, the insecurities of adolescence, and the indignation of early adulthood. I’ve learned most of the facts, numbers, and definitions that I’ll ever know, but some would say I have close to no experience. I know things but I don’t know things, you know? I don’t think this is too different for most twenty-something Americans. A lot of us occupy a nebulous grey space that lies awkwardly between being nothing and being something. A bunch of us also spend a lot of time on a nebulous grey space that is both nothing and something: the Internet. The Internet defines my generation and I’m okay with that.

My generation is unique because we can barely remember a time before the Internet. Unlike our parents, we don’t see the Internet as an innovation but a fact of life. We’ve also watched it expand and evolve. We remember Yahoo! chat rooms (remember Yahoo with the exclamation point?), Geocities, and Hamster Dance, unlike the generations who have come after us. Children growing up with the Internet today can’t imagine ordering pizza using the phone book, life before Facebook, a time when the noun blogger wasn’t in Webster’s, or, most recently, reading things on fucking pieces of paper. My generation has seen the scope of the Internet firsthand, and we know that it will always get better. It’s the one childhood friend we have that hasn’t had babies and become totally lame and we actually still talk to. The Internet is important to us.

Looking back on my use of the Internet, I can see a trend. As a kid, I obsessively searched for Sailor Moon pictures and printed them at my mom’s office, which was the only color printer I had available to me at the time. I loved making collages of whatever I was into and websites were my main source for images. I also tried to make and maintain my own blogs, but would always get bored and neglect them within a month. When I was a teenager, I probably had ten LiveJournal accounts and loved lurking on a multitude of communities. Whenever I found a photo or drawing that I liked, I would drag it into a folder on my Desktop titled “Good Stuff.” Now, not much has changed. I have a collection of blogs and news websites that I keep up with daily and my Tumblr neatly contains an assemblage of text and visuals that appeal to me. And I still try to put my own writing and art out there when I can.

As a college graduate attempting to find my place in the world, I now realize that what I’ve been doing on the Internet for years has influenced the tangible things I do in “real life.” The photos I have saved on my computer have inspired many of the designs I produce for my graduate classes. The images I expose myself to inspire the articles I produce, and the bloggers I follow online motivate me to be a better, funnier, more coherent and straightforward writer. The bottom line is that I know what I like, and I think that's helped me figure out what I want to do. John Waters said, “Without obsession, life is nothing,” and it’s so true. Our obsessions shape our identities, for better or for worse. And no obsession seems too strange or silly when you can find people across the world with the same one. The Internet lets us to cultivate our obsessions, to create virtual sanctuaries, shrines, and altars to all that we adore. The Internet allows us to create communities based on our obsessions, and expand those obsessions in accordance with what we are exposed to within these communities. Have you ever re-watched a favorite film or flipped through a book you hadn't touched for years and, days later,  serendipitously saw stills from the movie or quotes from the novel popping up all over Tumblr? That happened to me a couple months ago after I re-watched Edward Scissorhands for the first time since my childhood. We have somehow managed to create a collective unconsciousness centered around our obsessions, a kind of sixth-sense. And the tangibility of our obsessions wholly depends on how we translate them into our day-to-day lives. When we allow our obsessions to crossover into our writing, our art, our outfits, our conversations, we can put them to use. Our generation will, without a doubt, be defined by our obsessions, including our fixation with the Internet, so why not embrace it?

Man-Made Monsters

She cooked eggs when she couldn’t sleep because it reminded her of her father, and his memory comforted her. When she was young, he often prepared breakfast late at night. She would be slouched over homework, watching one of the four channels that worked on the family’s TV, or even bundled in bed reading, and he would call out from the kitchen, asking if she wanted eggs and coffee. She always refused the coffee due to her sensitivity to caffeine, but he asked every time regardless. They sat at the dining room table at 11 or midnight, sometimes even later, and ate their eggs with toast. Always sunny-side up, the toast for breaking into pieces and dipping into the yolks. “Dip-eggs,” he called them, as if that moniker was universally recognized. They usually had school in the morning; he taught a class at the community college and she was in high school, but the eggs and his coffee felt like a necessary bedtime precursor, like the Shelley and the Atwood he had read aloud to her when she was younger. She fell asleep listening to the stories of monsters and handmaids, the gloomy visions of women uneasy with the world, and he didn’t find that unusual. Just like midnight dip-eggs. Breakfast before bed was natural, even essential, and she held onto it, claimed it as her own long after she had bought her own Teflon pan and wrote essays about Frankenstein for her college English classes. The smell of fried eggs and buttered toast made her feel safe and contained, like she was not floating aimlessly but rooted to a constant whose presence was sometimes faint and unseen, but always felt, like electricity or thunder in the distance.

New Year, No Fear

Most of my memories from college are fleeting and blurred from intoxication or sleep-deprivation, but one of the few specific moments I can remember is from a 1 am fire drill in the dorms when I was a freshman living with my best friend. It was a school night, probably a Thursday, but Amanda and I had some friends in our dorm room drinking forties and watching Fantasia clips on YouTube. We hadn’t been the only people still awake in our rooms that night, but it was apparent that most people had been asleep prior to when the fire alarm went off. Some walked out into the November night wrapped in their comforters, which they obviously stripped off their twin-size mattresses along with their bodies, and other people were wearing only their boyfriend’s boxers and an old shirt, shivering in the cold-for-Tucson weather.

An image from that night that stays with me today is of a girl whom I made eye contact with on the stairwell as we descended out of the building into the street. She was shoeless, wearing a Christmas-themed fleece pajama set and glasses, with white spots of Clearasil scattered across her face like freckles. Looking at her, I was grateful to be in fully dressed with makeup and styled hair to counter my drunken demeanor. I was thankful that the fire alarm hadn’t woken me up because I knew that if I had already been in bed, I would’ve looked exactly the same as her. The glasses, the childish sleep clothes, the tired face free of makeup and riddled with anti-zit cream—these were all aspects of myself that, at the time, I considered to be extremely private and embarrassing. I know that no matter how urgent the fire alarm sounded, even if there actually was a fire, I would have slapped a bra on, changed into something presentable, wiped the crusty white dots off my face, and patted some powder and blush on my face before rushing out of my dorm room. I would have done these things because for as long as I could remember I truly believed that it would be shameful and humiliating for other people to see me in my most unprepared states. That’s why, prior to this point in my life, I never wore my hair in a lazy bun or left the house wearing anything but clean, well-fitting clothes. I wanted everyone to think that I never looked sloppy or careless or anything but perfect because that’s how girls are supposed to seem, right? At least, that’s what I thought other people expected of girls, including myself. Especially myself.

I remember this moment so distinctly because the sleepy smile the girl flashed my way struck me as so fearless and unapologetic. She might not have realized she had fallen asleep with white blotches on her face, or maybe she did; the point was that she didn’t give a shit. Her smile seemed to say to me, “I might not look put-together right now, but so what? I was sleeping. What do you expect?” The only word I choose to use to describe this girl as is brave. I hope that someday, someone else will secretly think of me as brave. At the turn of 2012, I originally opted to avoid resolutions, but I think bravery is something I would like to see in myself this year. I think that’s the only New Year’s resolution any of us should try to stick to. There are a lot of ways to define bravery and act as such, but for me it means being capable of smiling at a stranger with a dime-sized white splotch on the tip of your nose. Let's all strive for that, if anything at all, shall we?

Embracing Narcissism (Or Not)

Like a lot of women, I’ve been battling self-hate for what feels like my entire life. Whether it’s my body, my clothes, my attitude, or my intelligence, I constantly feel sub-par and inadequate and like everyone knows it. On top of that, I’m a perfectionist, so embracing my flaws has never really been a viable option. I underestimate myself in everything I do, and the thought of loving myself grosses me out. I am the anti-narcissist.

As a feminist, it’s especially hard for me to reconcile my feelings of self-loathing with my fuck-societal-standards-mentality. I know that when I scrutinize my weight or frown at my complexion in the mirror I’m falling victim to the sexist expectations of femininity that are perpetuated by the media and society in general. Sometimes I hate myself for being a bad feminist because of my self-hate. It’s a vicious cycle.

While I believe that acknowledging the conflict between my self-hate and feminism is a step in the right direction, self-acceptance is my ultimate goal. That’s why I’ve been really fascinated with the fat acceptance movement, specifically its effect on global communities of women via Tumblr and LiveJournal. I was familiar with the concept behind the movement for years before I watched The Fat Body (In)visible and started reading some of the blogs of the women who made/are featured in the documentary. Following Jessica, Margitte, Majestic, and other fat acceptance bloggers Tumblr has really shaped my views on the movement because their blogs illustrate fat acceptance in action. They prove that accepting and appreciating bodies of all sizes isn’t as ridiculous as society, science, and the media have made it seem. These blogs have also created communities of readers and activists alike who participate in a constantly-evolving dialogue about bodies. I think it’s safe to say that these blogs have helped numerous girls struggling with eating disorders and self-hate, as well as helped to further the fat acceptance movement as a whole.

           

Despite my gratitude for these bloggers and the movement itself, I can’t get behind the idea of self-love fully due to my anti-narcissist attitude. You don’t have to be terribly perceptive in order to catch-on to the self-centered undertones of the blogs I listed above. It seems like in order to love your body, you need to be obsessed with yourself and use the word “I” at least in every sentence. I can’t get behind that. Why can’t we maintain a consciousness and respect for ourselves as well as other people? What if my self-love starts with accepting other people first and foremost? After all, Narcissus, the boy who dies after falling in love with his image reflected in a pool, isn’t the only person who is harmed by his narcissism. In Ovid’s story, the nymph Echo pines for Narcissus in vain because he is too occupied with his own image to notice her.

Fuck Me Gently with a Chainsaw

Who says that guys are the only ones who get hard-ons for films with lots blood, guts, and violence? It’s fine for women to want bad boys, but what about bad boys (and girls) with other people’s blood splattered all over their faces? I don’t know about you, but I get a serious goreboner for violent characters in films. I’d totally jump Norman Bates’ bones and I’m not ashamed to admit it. The combination of a ridiculously attractive actor and blood-spurting badassery really gets me. I call it ultraviolent beauteousness, “gorgeousness and gorgeousity made flesh,” to quote my all-time favorite Kubrickian sexpot, Alex DeLarge. I can’t be the only girl who swoons over a foxy film character with a bloody past, so I’ve compiled a list of my top three ruthless, ass-kicking pussy-throbs (that’s a word, right?). P.S. There are spoilers. You've been warned.

Alexander DeLarge

A Clockwork Orange (1971)

It’s too easy to fall in love with Alex (Malcolm McDowell) in Kubrick’s brilliant adaptation of Burgess’ novel A Clockwork Orange. First of all, he’s beautiful, especially if you’re into Brits (which I so am). He totally rocks those iconic falsies, bowler hat, and codpiece like no one else could. He also looks good in tighty-whities and his butt is wonderful (gratuitous ass-shots are very much appreciated). Alex is the perfect combination of boyish adorableness and ruthless aggression, and his arresting stare with which the film begins is emblematic of this. He is at once cold and inviting, relaxed yet intent, alluring yet frightening. He masturbates while listening to Beethoven and beats a man while performing the classic tune “Singin’ in the Rain.” Alex is as passionate about art as he is about violence, and I can’t help but find that charming as hell. He’s a lout and a murderer, but he isn’t a mindless criminal. Alex is a disturbingly sympathetic character, and I think that might partially be due to his pretty face. He looks overwhelmingly good with blood dripping from his nose, and his weapon of choice – his cane rigged with a bowie knife at the tip – complements all of his ensembles nicely. Alex is an aesthetic feast for the eyes and ears, and his appeal relies on the balance between his need for violence and his love for art. After experiencing the Ludovico technique, Alex loses his allure. He wretches at the thought of physical violence and crumbles upon hearing his once-beloved Ludwig van. He’s so boring and pitiful. It’s at the height of his virility, passion, and aggression that Alex is, in my opinion, his most attractive. And boy is he attractive. No other film character has captured my heart like Alex. 

Black Mamba/Beatrix Kiddo

Kill Bill: Vol. 1 & 2 (2003 & 2004)

Tarantino has always been one of my favorite directors because he writes badass female characters and casts smoking hot ladies to play these roles. I practically worship Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction (and have consequently adopted her hairstyle), but I have to admit that her role as Beatrix in the Kill Bill series is the bloodiest and therefore best. Beatrix is set on revenge, and she gets it by slicing off arms, legs, and heads, plucking out eyeballs, and making a dude’s heart explode with her hand. Kill Bill is an absolute bloodbath, and at the center of all the slaughter is the incredibly strong, fast, talented, and fearless, “roaring and rampaging” bride-to-be, Beatrix, codename Black Mamba. And she’s hot. Beatrix is coated in sweat, blood, and/or dirt for the majority of Kill Bill yet she still looks better than most girls do after a jog. Part of Black Mamba’s appeal is definitely her iconic black and yellow jumpsuit, but I find her determination the most attractive. Beatrix endures a shot to the head, rape, being buried alive, and numerous samurai-sword showdowns and hand-to-hand combat in order to stop being an assassin and become a mother. In order to do so she must kill Bill, which repeatedly seems and almost proves to be an impossible task. Most of the action of Kill Bill is unbelievable, but Beatrix’s character is surprisingly relatable and realistic. Her feud with Bill is an extreme representation of something that causes great pain for any person: heartbreak. Beatrix is a symbol for humanity’s ability to endure and carry on, and while that concept might not turn me on, it’s an idea I can get behind. And the excessive amount of blood and gore and sexy, ass-kicking women in Kill Bill helps to drive that message home.  

The Driver

Drive (2011)

It’s really rare for me to walk out of a movie theater and not want to kill myself for having wasted upwards of ten dollars on some bunk blockbuster. Seeing movies is expensive and often not worth it, so I was thrilled after seeing Drive in theaters a few days ago. Drive has everything that I’m crazy about: a great soundtrack, a slow-paced yet exciting plot, HOTTIES (Ryan Gosling and Christina Hendricks, anyone?), and just the right amount of gore. Before I talk about how charming and beautiful Ryan Gosling is as the Driver, I have to admit something. I never found Ryan Gosling attractive prior to seeing this film (I know, the horror!). I have an extreme aversion to vanilla celebrities and I always found Ryan Gosling a little too vanilla for my taste. But then I saw Drive. Gosling’s portrayal of the Driver is flawless. He’s a man of few words (very few words), which makes him soft and childishly adorable yet mysterious and brooding. He maintains a straight-faced and calm persona even while being pursued by cops or driving backwards down a highway at 80 mph. But sometimes he loses it, and when he does, it’s fucking scary. He transforms from his persona as the shyly-smiling “kid” to an unnamed man of mystery who doesn’t think twice about staining his white and gold Scorpio Rising-inspired jacket with a another man’s brains (and continues to wear it! Dreamy!) right in front of his love-interest. The Driver’s character hinges on the balance of his paradoxical traits. Just as he maintains his double-life as a getaway driver and a stuntman, he similarly balances his innocent tenderness toward Irene and Benicio with his blood-thirsty brutality toward those that threaten the people he loves. Did I mention how good the Driver looks with blood all over his face? I squealed when he walked out of the motel bathroom after killing Cook’s men with a shotgun. That’s a really good look for Ryan.

To My Dear Readers and Aficionados (All 2 of You)

I apologize for the lag in posting. School, work, and a social life (what??) have left me with very little time to write this week. I am currently working on a post, but it requires some research aka movie-rewatching (FILM POST, WOOT!), so you can expect that to be published in the next few days (unless I'm afflicted by an ungodly post-birthday hangover). 

Acting Like an Adult via Twitter

Maybe I’m old or just bad at social networking, but I don’t get Twitter. The only time I’ve come in contact with it is on Tweet Beat, and from what I’ve seen it seems that the main purposes of Twitter are to confirm my suspicion that celebrities are illiterate and to broadcast Coco’s ass. And while I thoroughly appreciate gratuitous booty shots, I can’t justify signing up with yet another social media outlet in order to view them (and I get more than my daily dose of ass from Tumblr, thank you very much). I’ve already unsubscribed from so many of my friend’s posts on Facebook that it feels like I don’t have Facebook anymore (which is, of course, ideal). I think people are annoying and I get annoyed really easily and I just think that Twitter is a bad idea for me. That’s simple enough, isn’t it?

As it turns out, nothing is as simple as it seems because today I made a Twitter account. I did it because I had to. Apparently if you want to be involved in the publishing industry you need to be “connected” via Twitter, so as soon as I made my account I started following all of the comedians I could think of, Hunx, my favorite blogger (Karley Sciortino of Slutever), and Ru Paul. I threw Powell’s in for good measure (and hopefully coupons or something) but all the publishing-related Twitter accounts I’ve seen are pretty boring. So I basically got into Twitter for school and career reasons but thus far have not used it for any productive purposes whatsoever. 

So check me out on Twitter and/or help me understand it!

 

I Swear I'm Not an Alcoholic!

Zach and I are kindred spirits.

Ben Franklin once said that “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy,” and I totally agree with the man. I don’t believe in God but I believe in alcohol. I know it’s bad to start out a sentence with, “I’m not an alcoholic, but...,” but I’m not an alcoholic, but booze makes everything better. Everything. Better.

Figuring out how much alcohol you should consume in order to improve certain situations is definitely an art form and takes years of fine-tuning. I now know that drinking a Bud 40 improves my academic essay-writing skills tenfold and taking upwards of ten shots of tequila over a 3-hour period gives me superpowers like the ability to twerk. Of course I can’t twerk it, but damn does it feel like I can. That’s the whole point of alcohol, anyway. There’s a reason why social anxiety medication makes you feel a little tipsy. Inhibitions are important and necessary but very boring, and sometimes they stand in the way of your ability to have fun. Knowing how to rid yourself of certain inhibitions while retaining crucial motor skills and basic abilities (aka not acting like anyone on the Jersey Shore when you’re drunk) is key. I’m not telling you to become an alcoholic, I’m telling you how to put your already latent alcoholism to your advantage. You’re welcome.

There are so many things that a drink or two can vastly improve. This includes but is not limited to grocery shopping, working out, having coffee with someone you haven’t seen in years, waiting at the DMV, work (if you work a shitty service industry job), and getting dressed/ready to go somewhere. I’m such a huge advocate of the latter. Picking out an outfit or putting on makeup whilst tipsy is the best idea ever because everything looks awesome when you’re buzzed. I like to think of a shot or a tallboy as a mini ego-boost and a few drinks more than that as a skill-improver. Being legitimately drunk turns everyone into a better dancer, singer, conversationalist, and cook. It’s just the truth. But once you pass the threshold of being awesomely drunk to hopelessly wasted, you’re done for. The only thing that being black-out drunk helps is your ability to lose all of your belongings and sleep like a heavily sedated zombie. Know your limits! Never take shots upon shots in a row because you’re desperate to be drunk as soon as possible; you’ll just end up puking on the dance floor at your high school formal. I’m speaking from experience, guys. Be safe, have fun, and don't be a douchebag.

You Really Don’t Have to Give Him Your Number

Plenty of girls are too nice. They apologize when something isn’t their fault and they feel bad about stuff they shouldn’t. For example, they for some reason feel obligated to give out their phone number to every dude that asks for it. We’ve all been there – you’re at a bar or a party talking to a guy who you’re not particularly interested in and when he asks for your number you begrudgingly give it to him. Then you put his number in your contacts as “DO NOT ANSWER,” block his calls, ignore his texts, and wish you had originally told him that you were already in a relationship or a lesbian or a leprechaun. We go through a lot of trouble because we don’t want to be honest and reject the guy to his face. For some reason it’s much more easy to offer a piece of personal information to a stranger than admitting that you’re just not interested, and I think that should change.

Some people might say that women give their phone numbers to guys that don’t stand a chance because they like “leading men on.” I hate that term. Waking up to 8 text messages from a clueless guy is not something that most women relish. Women don’t give out their numbers because they like the (unwanted) attention, they do it because they feel like they don’t have a choice in the matter. And they’re just too nice so they’d feel bad for saying no. Fuck that! Just say no! Tell the dude that he’s creepy or not your type or that you have a boyfriend, and then walk away. Put an end to the awkward situation right then. You can even tell him “you’re welcome” for not wasting his time. You’re doing both parties involved a huge favor. Promise me you won’t give out a fake phone number again. And if your courage wavers, just remember the wise words of TLC: “No, I don’t want your number. No, I don’t want to give you mine.”

On Faking It and Making It

I’m a pretty big advocate of the phrase “fake it ‘til you make it,” mostly because that’s what I’ve been doing for years now and it seems to be working pretty well for me. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not fooling anyone on a daily basis in order to get ahead in life; I’m fooling myself every second of the day so that I can go about normal everyday things without succumbing to an anxiety attack. Hi, I’m Miranda and I’m painfully awkward (with a little bit of social anxiety on the side).

I know many people feel awkward as often as I do, and most of them have an anxiety disorder like me. Many of them completely avoid social situations because they can’t handle the jitters or can’t bear to face the impending discomfort of interacting with other people. Sure, it can be rewarding to meet people and connect, but those fuzzy feelings are bound to go to shit as soon as they say something that’s met with an awkward silence. Those with anxiety are the flakiest people on the planet, and for good reason. The burn of humiliation is one of the worst feelings a person can experience. I mean, can you really blame them?

I’m not perfect, but I pride myself in being a pretty un-flaky human being. You see, I’m better at lying to myself than to other people, which technically should be pretty tragic, but in the spirit of “fake it ‘til you make it,” I really rock the shit out of it. Instead of dwelling on an embarrassingly awkward conversation I had with a coworker, or that time I accidentally threw a full can of beer at someone’s head at a party, I convince myself that these things didn’t happen. You can’t feel shitty about something that never happened, dummy! I can tell myself that I’m a confident, interesting person and then act like one. It’s pretty cool. It might be an indicator of some other underlying psychological disorder, but it’s cool.

That's Racist: Excuses Are For Noobs

Meeting people is a pain in the ass. Whoever first said “just be yourself” deserves a punch in the face because that shit’s impossible when you’re trying to make new friends. You usually can’t crack the same jokes that make your best friends laugh to a stranger because different people have different boundaries, and you can never be sure of those boundaries until you get to know the person. This seems like a simple fact to me, but it’s surprising how often people you’ve just met cross the line and say something that makes you uncomfortable. It especially sucks when they say something prejudiced. If you happen to find yourself in the awkward position of deciding to whether or not to address the situation and point out the bigotry in an acquaintance’s statement, I encourage you to say something. Be concise, straightforward, and non-judgmental, and if you’re met with any of the following excuses, be prepared to debunk and demolish them.

“It was only a joke!” The thing is that jokes are supposed to be funny and racism is not funny. Period. Anyone who relies on offensive and ill-informed statements to get a laugh isn’t worth listening to.

“But its true!” It’s amazing that some people actually believe stereotypes, but that’s because they don’t know about self-fulfilling prophecies. Any given stereotype doesn’t exist because it’s a truth, it exists because some idiot made it up and patted himself on the back every time a person did something the reinforce the stereotype. Every time you see a woman get into a car accident, it will remind you of the stereotype that women are bad drivers, but you won’t think anything when you see a man get into a car accident because that stereotype doesn’t exist. Generalizing groups of people through stereotyping is just really uncreative and boring, to be honest.

“I work with/am friends with said group of people!” This is an embarrassingly tired excuse for racism, but people still rely on it. There just isn’t any logic behind it. Being around people whom you are prejudiced against does not qualify you for the Nobel Peace Prize or some shit. It’s called life and it would be a whole lot easier for you if abolished your bigoted views.

“But I identify as said group of people!” The bottom line is that women can be misogynists, minorities can be racist, homosexuals can be homophobic, and the list goes on. Being prejudiced against yourself is extremely harmful.

“You’re just too sensitive!” This is a great way to shut a person down, and it’s a bigot’s knee-jerk reaction to criticism. Many people who are prejudiced consider themselves to be hardened and knowledgeable in ways that other people (ie you) are not. When you criticize something that they say, they will divert the blame to you, saying that it’s your fault that their racist comments hurt or disturb you. That’s bullshit and they know it. Speaking up against prejudice doesn’t make you overly sensitive and therefore not worth listening to; it makes you a logical and rational human being. It’s not your other people are such idiots.  

That's Racist: Friends Are Family That You Choose

Today’s installment of That’s Racist is about responding to prejudice in your friends. Friends are people that you presumably know well and have willingly chosen to surround and associate yourself with. Your friends are a reflection of the beliefs, values, and passions that you all have in common, but what often makes friendships so fulfilling are the nuanced perspectives that each person has to offer due to his or her upbringing and personal experiences. This is why so many friends can be so different and yet so alike. Because your friends are a reflection of what you believe in, it can be shocking and disturbing when one of them slips something discriminatory or intolerant into a conversation. Instead of backhanding your buddy, take a deep breath and follow these steps. 

This form of addressing prejudice is not condoned by Mean Bones, unless she's talking shit about your cat.

See if she checks herself before she wrecks herself. Shit happens, and sometimes people say awful things on accident. If this is the case with your friend, she’ll hopefully be as shocked as you are as to what just came out of her mouth and she’ll swallow her words. A mere “Whoah, there!” on your part will suffice. Don’t harangue her for an innocent mistake that she probably regrets.

If she’s completely oblivious, holla atcha girl. See if she meant what she said, and tell her that you’re not comfortable with that kind of talk. Instead of calling your friend a transphobic whore, try saying something like, “girl, you did not just call that person a tranny in front of me.” Then drop some knowledge! Prejudice stems from ignorance, and the most valuable thing you can do for your friend is educate her on the matter. Many people aren’t aware of the etymology of the word “faggot” when they throw it into conversations. Plenty of young people grew up saying the word “retard” without considering it ableist or offensive. And, unfortunately, many people consider racial stereotypes to be truths instead of the self-fulfilling prophecies that they are. Since people like talking about themselves a whole lot more than being lectured, ask her about her upbringing. Was prejudiced language allowed or encouraged in the household she grew up in? If you try to understand her experiences, it’ll help her understand your beliefs. Chances are she’s not an evil closet-racist, just confused and maybe a little brainwashed.

If all else fails, tell her to get a clue or get lost. If your friend can’t respect your beliefs enough to abstain from using prejudice language around you, she’s not a friend worth having. Remember that your friends are a reflection of what you believe, and if you’re with one person who has narrow-minded views, that can reflect badly on you to someone who may not know you. Take a break from the friendship. When you’re ready to try hanging out with her again, maybe she’ll have missed your company enough to rethink her worldview.  

That's Racist: If All Else Fails, Give Grandma the Finger

This is the first segment of a several-part series I'm working on titled That's Racist: How to Respond to Prejudice Without Loosing Your Cool. We've all experienced an uncomfortable situation when a family member, friend, acquaintance, coworker, or schoolmate says something racist, sexist, homophobic, ableist, or just plain offensive. And we've all had to make the decision to pursue the issue or simply drop it. It's a shitty position to be in for sure, and hopefully the next time it happens to you you're able to fight the good fight without popping a vein. 

It's important to remember that at the root of prejudice is ignorance, not pure wickedness. All the worst -isms you can think of are merely the knee-jerk response and defense mechanism of a person who is confused and wishes to assume a false sense of superiority. But prejudice is also physically, emotionally, and socially harmful to all people, and needs to be addressed. Pointing out the flaws in other people's thought processes can be enlightening and beneficial to everyone, but not all people are receptive to criticism. You need to choose your approach and words wisely in order to avoid coming across as a critical asshole, so I've divided this series according to the difference groups of people you know. Today we'll look at those who hit closest to home: family.

Your family is made up of people that you don’t necessarily have to be around and enjoy the company of all the time, but sometimes, maybe even for just a short amount of time (if you’re lucky), you do. And that can really suck if a family member (or all of them) harbors prejudiced views and feels the need to share them. Nothing can ruin the mood like grandma throwing around a racist term or Uncle Don ranting about “queers” and “faggots” at a family gathering. Trust me, we’ve all been there at some point, and it can be one of the most infuriating and frustrating things to have to sit through. You don’t want to ignore that kind of intolerance while passive-aggressively shoveling your mashed potatoes, but you also don’t want to ignite an all-out family feud at the dinner table. So how does one stand up for her beliefs while respecting her elders and her kin? 

Say something, but choose your words wisely. Instead of saying, “That’s racist, grandma!,” try to tell her that not everyone would agree with her views, and neither do you. Tell her that that sort of language is offensive, and ask her to try not to say it around you or other people in the future. If you’re greeted with hostility, confusion, or apologist language, assert yourself and then simply try to change the subject. Seriously. I know it’s hard, but sometimes the most you can do with family members is just try to avoid talking about certain things (ie most things) with them. It sucks, and it’s boring, but if it gets you through Passover or a 4^th of July BBQ, just take one for the team and talk about your job or a funny cat video you saw online. You can do no wrong with cat videos (unless you decide to read the YouTube comments, which never fail to be as offensive and asinine as possible). 

Ultimately, remember that friends are family that you choose. Some people are just stubborn, especially people who feel that they have superiority over you due to age, or due to the fact that they raised you. That’s why family time can really suck sometimes. Although they may not have an ounce of tolerance, you kind of have to tolerate them, but don’t feel bad for ranting about the fiasco with a friend or significant other, or giving your family the finger behind their backs. Honestly, just flip them off when they aren’t looking. It feels really good.

The Problem with Boobs, or Why Being a Teenage Girl Sucks

Middle school wasn't the best time for me. I spent half of it lanky, awkward, and unpopular, and that wasn't even the worst half. I didn't care about other people's opinions of me because nobody had an opinion of me to begin with. I was invisible but I was happy. But then I grew boobs. I grew boobs overnight and they changed everything for me. 

Having boobs gave me a self-image for the first time in my life. I had never looked at my reflection with scrutiny before. It was like a revelation. I couldn't believe that I had looked in the mirror my whole life without noticing everything that was wrong with me. And I couldn't un-see any of it. I was getting wider and rounder and softer and I wanted it to stop. So I did something that I had never once thought of doing before in my life: I stopped eating. 

Having an eating disorder in middle school while going through puberty is just the worst idea ever. I lost what should have been an innocent and care-free time to a mental illness that I wouldn't recover from until the middle of high school. I would throw away the lunches my mom packed for me right after my dad dropped me off at school. I stole laxatives and diet pills from the grocery store. I told so many lies so that I could control my body, which had started growing and changing and fucking up without my permission. I can remember one of my happiest memories at the time was after I had gone a week-long fast and a boy I had a crush on told me that I had a "hot body." I think I wrote my name with his last name about 800 times in my math notebook right after that happened. 

That's the other thing that came with having boobs: in addition to seeing myself in the mirror for the first time, other people started seeing me as well. I was suddenly popular. Boys started talking to me for the first time ever, and girls invited me to hangout out the mall and sit with them at lunch. I was freaking out. But getting boobs and popularity overnight was a really tiring combination. There was so much going on that I thought I needed to maintain. It was fucking stressful, and anorexia eats stress for dinner. I wasn't lanky, awkward, or unpopular anymore, but I was miserable and mentally ill. And let me tell you, I much prefer the former to the latter. 

About ten years have passed and I am completely recovered from my eating disorder. Luckily, my shitty experiences in middle school haven't followed me -- they've stayed put in a period of time that I consider to be the worst time of my life. I still have the boobs, however, and they still give me trouble. Honestly, I think I'm bitter at them for coming during a time when I just wasn't ready for that kind of commitment. Because, in case you didn't know, boobs are a fucking huge commitment. Especially big ones. It takes fucking guts to walk around with gazungas the size of your head, and I just wasn't ready for that at 13. I don't think any 13-year old is. Being a focal point, a target for the male gaze, is a shitty task, and I hope that young girls realize that it's one that they don't have to take on. I wish I had given the middle finger to the concepts of "normal," "acceptable," "contained," "stable" bodies, but the desire to conform was ingrained in my brain and subsequently controlled (and ruined) my life. I can't blame myself, and I won't. I won't blame my boobs either, because they kind of rule.

Love, Hate, and Tavi

I love Tavi Gevinson. Sure, I went through a weird stage of coming home drunk and leaving ambiguously rude comments on her blog, but I’m over that. Which is good, since, you know, our age-difference is roughly 8 years and I really should know by now not to pick on people on the internet, especially when drunk. I truly enjoy reading her blog, The Style Rookie. It’s one of the few blogs I follow that I’m actually excited to see updated, and it’s been fun to watch it evolve and grow over the past few years. I checked it out for the first time a couple years ago when Tavi’s name began floating around the internet in connection to “13-year-old fashion blogger.” I checked it out because, as I said to myself, “holy shit, a middle schooler has a blog that isn’t Blingee’d out* or resembles the Expage I made when I was a pre-teen? What has the world come to?” When I realized that Tavi was actually smart and obviously rich, I added The Style Rookie to the roster of mindless fashion blogs that I was into following at the time, because that’s kind of what it was. And that’s what I was into for some shitty reason. But right about when I started getting over fashion and style blogs, Tavi did too. (This post is seriously awesome and marks the moment when I began truly respecting this girl). And she started hanging out with Kathleen Hanna, and stopped posting runway photos. She got into ouija, My So-Called Life, The Virgin Suicides, The Heathers, and Sassy. I mean, she’s me when I was a pre-teen/teenager, but with a better vocabulary, better hair, more money, internet access, and, you know, experiencing these things nearly ten years later in 2010 or whatever. Tavi reminds me of my boyfriend’s 15-year old sister who is so much cooler than all of her stupid tiny friends. Sure, there are a lot of things about Tavi that can be criticized (this article has some good points, and there’s a lot more criticism that can be found online that’s actually pretty lame), but who is truly perfect on the internet? Basically, I like Tavi because she’s smart and writes things that I enjoy reading, and I dislike her because Courtney Love sends her awesome dresses and Kathleen Hanna gives her awesome sweaters and she’ll never have to have a shitty service industry job and struggle to pay for her rent and schooling. Yeah, I’m jealous of a 15-year old. And that’s silly, but that’s not what this post is about. 

* Tavi's blog does have some Blingee's, but they're not immature because they're IRONIC, OKAY?

Yesterday the website Rookie was launched, edited by Tavi and featuring pieces written by famous indie-boners like Zooey Deschanel, JD Samson, Fred Armisan, and Miranda July, and a bunch of hip-looking young people from the only cool cities in the US (aka N.Y.C. and L.A.). It’s an online magazine for high school girls, which is great because young people need more websites that aren’t flooded with weight-loss ads and hair-removal tips, but it also sucks because I’m not a fucking teenager any more. I wish Tavi would tell me how to be a “back-to-school beauty” for my first day of grad school, which is quickly approaching. I really was born a decade too early. Regardless, you should know that I’m going to hit up Tavi’s new site like I’m still in high school, partly because I kind of wish I still was, and partly because I’m curious as to when the whole “back to school vibes” thing is finally going to die. I really am done criticizing Tavi, though. I’m sure there are a bunch of English majors complaining about how they got a college degree, spent years in the publishing industry, and still haven’t edited anything that has gotten to a larger audience than Rookie will, but they’re just old and whiny.

Having an online presence doesn’t mean the same thing to me now that it did fifteen years ago. In middle school, when the concept of the internet was mysterious and exciting due to both its novelty and my never-ending boredom as an only-child, my ultimate goal was to become e-famous via my Expage called Tabby Kat’s Hideaway (R.I.P.) and my “website”/“company” on which I “sold” (to no one) pixilated fairies created with MS Paint and customized Html codes. As I became more angsty, internet stardom meant having over ten friends on Livejournal whom I didn’t know in real life. Now, my online presence primarily involves untagging pictures of myself on Facebook and reblogging vintage smut on Tumblr in hopes of gaining over than 50 followers (I’m almost there guys...ALMOST E-FAMOUS). Having just graduated from college and now beginning to pursue a career in publishing, I have finally decided to go through with creating and maintaining a blog featuring my own writing. Writing has always been an important activity for me, whether it’s in the form of journaling, poetry, or academic papers, and blogging has been something that I repeatedly take up and eventually neglect every few years or so. I blame partying, my own laziness, and Netflix streaming. But now I guess I’m finally growing up, and being an adult includes getting dressed before 3 pm and sticking with creative projects longer than just a couple months. (I also just moved to a new city where I know very few people, so my social life is currently nil.)  

 

I’ll be writing here, and maybe you’ll read it. I have a penchant for all-caps interjections, parentheses (lots of them), and downing a forty of Bud Light before sitting down to write. I’m not a classy lady but I do have impeccable grammar. I don’t claim the rights to any of the images I post, unless they’re my own, and I try to link the source if I can. Anyway, I think firsts are super awkward, don't you?