There there, stock photo girl.
Down in the dumps after being dumped? Dry those mascara tears and listen up: This step-by-step guide guarantees* you’ll win the breakup (which should obviously be your top priority).
Step 1: Get dumped. If you must do the breaking-up, fine, but know you won’t win any sympathy points if you’re the dumper. On the flip side, bonus sympathy points if you’re dumped the night before a couples’ trip for your birthday.
Step 2: Debate internally about posting a public statement. Decide not to, then regret it every time yet another friend asks about your (ex) significant other. Feel like a total dick until you finally post a public blog about it.
Step 3: Feel like a total dick for posting a public blog about it.
I think I just found my Halloween costume.
Step 4: Say “yes” to all social activities. Join local organizations, such as Junior League or your sorority’s alumnae board. Volunteer. Go to the gym. Attend concerts. Get out of the damn house.
Step 5: Create a girl-power playlist. Yes, even if you’re a dude. If you’re too lazy to create one — like you’re sooo busy now — borrow one.
Step 6: Watch “The First Wives Club.” Watch it again. Put on a white skirt- or pantsuit. If you haven’t sashayed and belted out “You Don’t Own Me,” what kind of monster are you?
Step 7: Take this BuzzFeed quiz to see if you are, in fact, winning the breakup. No matter the result, you can pretend you got this:
Step 7a: DO NOT POST YOUR QUIZ RESULTS.
Step 8: Try your damndest to be genuinely happy for them and find happiness in yourself, too. Understand that your time will come — or it won’t — but feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help anyone, least of all you.
Did I miss any crucial steps? What are your tips for surviving a breakup, let alone “winning” one? Let me know in the comments below!
*Oh, honey. No guarantees.
We’ve been working on a high-priority project, and I’m naturally rocking it like a hurricane. My Creative Director needed copy for a mock-up of different sales we offer, including one with the (fake) promo code TREAT.
My Parks & Rec inspired suggestion? TREAT YO’SELF.
It’s been weeks, and I still say it like they’ve never heard it before.
Because it’s hilarious.
And you gotta celebrate small victories in the workplace.
At least I’m not getting kicked out of the MTV Movie Awards for these antics, right?
We already know that I’m not graceful, nor am I skilled at transporting food from plate to mouth without a pit stop onto my clothes. But, today’s Case of the Mondays was truly dreadful. I’m surprised I’ve even managed to type this without somehow screwing it up.
The day started with my best frenemy, the snooze button, winning (again). I woke up 23 minutes before I was supposed to be at work, giving me 13 minutes to get ready and out the door. I was down, but not out.
That is, until I dropped my intended shirt for work INTO. THE. TOILET. You heard right. I was pulling jeans off my shower-curtain rod, and I inadvertently dragged the shirt off as well — allowing it a perfect flight into the porcelain bowl.
I found a backup blouse and put the other into the sink to be dealt with later. Rushing out to my car, I cursed myself for not packing a lunch last night. I’d have to spend my lunch hour fighting the crowds, instead of running errands like I planned …
… After finagling a parking spot and ordering my food, I reached into my purse for my wallet. With it nowhere to be found, I stammered like an idiot and fumbled for cash — but I knew full well I didn’t have enough on me to pay. Luckily, my angel Rachel was with me, and she covered me so we could get the H outta there.
The rest of the day hasn’t proven as miserable, but I’m no fool. I’m waiting patiently (for once in my life), for the next disaster to take place. And, considering it was one of my many nicknames in college, “Murphy’s Law” and I appear to be biffles. Joy.
If you’ve spent 10 seconds in Florida, you’re already aware that nobody here should have a license. And if you haven’t had the distinct honor of visiting God’s waiting room, then shorely you’ve read my rant about it and are well-informed.
This problem only grows progressively worse throughout the summer as storm clouds roll in. They establish residency quicker than Elian ever could, and they make everyday travel a real pain in my ass. What’s a state full of geriatrics and idiots to do?
- Go slow. Too slow. Do less. You might as well be going backward. If you approach the 20 MPH mark, come to a halt immediately. Don’t you dare allow the stumbling homeless man’s speed intimidate you.
- Tailgate. I’m not talking grilling brats and drinking brewskies, I’m saying to follow so closely that you can read the back of my Spice Girls shirt. And judge me for it.
- Stall out. While this one can’t always be avoided, I highly suggest you think before driving your MINI Cooper through streets with 3 feet of standing water. Oh, you flooded the engine? I, for one, am shocked!
- Frantically change lanes every 5–10 seconds. The left lane is moving, so you move over. Dammit, now the right is zooming … guess you’ll have to switch back. Ack, the guy on the left is turning; hurry! Why bother staying in one lane? Amateurs.
- Swerve without looking. Similar to changing lanes like a tard, you’ll need to swerve around puddles — but only do so without checking for cars around you. Really, you didn’t see my tank of an SUV? That’s because you’re too busy with your head up your sphincter.
I’m not saying gun it to 88, Doc Brown. I’m just saying I’d like to reach my destination sometime before I hit retirement — and in one piece, no less. Based on this week’s forecast, that’s not likely to happen.
I’m alive, people. My mom — shout-out to Magz, I know you’re reading — insisted I write a new post, so you can thank her for the following narrative … I am the clumsiest person I know. Present me with any modern-day situation, and I will sure as hell find a way to make it a hot mess.
If there’s a sharp corner, my leg will find it. If there’s something hanging above, my head will bump it. How I’ve made it to nearly age 24 without a broken bone (knock on wood) is a sheer miracle.
It isn’t easy being this awkward. For some time, I was (lovingly?) referred to as “Murphy’s Law.” Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. And Amanda will be happy to figure out just how to get there. What’s more is, I’ll do it all with the timeless “Why-does-this-stuff-always-happen-to-me?” confused look on my face.
I fear that my wedding day will be some monstrous catastrophe … just as previous milestones have been in my life. I took a tumble into the town center lake on my 10th birthday, then glow sticks exploded in my hands in the car —all over my new white overalls too! I slipped and fell in the rain the day before senior prom, ruining my fresh pedicure and busting my knee beyond recognition.
Notice the recurring theme here? I fall. A lot. Tripping UP the stairs happens on a regular basis, not just at my National Junior Honor Society induction in 8th grade. For the amount of shiners and scars I carry with me, you’d think I was part of Fight Club. Don’t be fooled — I’m no badass, just a serial klutz.
Someday, I will overcome my incredible knack for “embarrassing” myself. In the meantime, at least I can laugh through the bumps and bruises along the way.
The American public is obsessed with train wrecks. We live for the recap of Lindsay’s sentencing. We can’t wait to see what dumb thing Mel will say next. We eagerly consume all of the TMZ and Perez accounts of seeing Britney’s … well, Britney.
What is it about these people that is so fascinating? Maybe it’s because we crave the real-life entertainment value. Reality television isn’t enough, nor are the inconsequential details of our everyday lives, so let’s all gather ’round and watch the A-Lister crash and burn.
Or is it because we can’t wait to see famous people fall (figuratively and literally)? I think that most people are good at heart; but I can’t help and wonder if we love to see “idols” knocked off their pedestals, reminding us that everyone is human.
All of this ruckus around Charlie Sheen especially, has made my head want to explode. I can usually take about 10 minutes of celebrity gossip before I want to asphyxiate myself. When it comes to Sir Douche Canoe, I can take approximately 10 seconds. As a wagering enthusiast, I know that’s not a great over/under.
Not only does he “star” in one of the worst television programs I’ve ever witnessed, but he is just plain self-destructive. Did Martin not pay him enough attention as a child? Was he jealous of Emilio’s success in The Mighty Ducks: 1, 2 and 3? These are understandable setbacks, but for fuck’s sake Charles, it’s time to grow up.
Don’t get me wrong; I’d be thrilled if his demise continued until he was shoved out of the spotlight forever. I just don’t want to hear about it.
But seeing as how unlikely that is for our society, a toast is in order. A tip of the hat to you train wrecks everywhere. Good luck and may God have mercy on your soul.
Valentine’s Day has come and gone. As a single gal, I sure am sad — mainly because I don’t get to hear other girls bitch about what their boyfriends did or didn’t do this year.
Let me put it to you straight: I haven’t been in a committed relationship on VD Day since I was in first grade. That’s right, I peaked romantically at age six. Am I sad about it now? Not really. I had a lovely dinner last night with a good friend, and wine calms me and quiets me regardless of the occasion.
What I’d like to see, just once … ONE year on Valentine’s Day, is for everyone to just chill out. There’s so much pressure tied to the sweeping gestures, the size of the presents, the will-he-or-won’t-he-finally-pop-the-question? Take a breath, then a swig of whiskey, then a step back. Now, repeat after me: It’s not that serious.
Love and affection can be shown in so many ways. Do what you feel is special and romantic, if you want. Or don’t celebrate at all. But for fuck’s sake, there’s no need to post a 100-picture album of the roses, or tweet the exact contents of the card he sent.
And if all else fails, at least you’re not this guy:
Happy hangover, kids! My advice still applies, especially the day after … wrap it before you tap it.
Allow me to preface the following with the admission that I am no domestic goddess. I like to bake, am a decent cook and can craft like nobody’s business. But I can’t sew or fix the plumbing and as I’ve recently learned, am the last person you want to call if you have a construction need.
I bought a new TV last fall, which required a TV stand to sit upon. I should have just brought the guy from the store home with me. Even with an apprentice, we built the unit upside down. Then after flipping it, we still hadn’t learned our left from our right. To say the 32 nails that required installation were a nightmare would be an understatement.
Last weekend, I bought some shelves to you know, hold things. After settling on a set of three cubes of varying sizes, I thought, “How hard could this be?” Oh, how I should have known better. When it comes to construction, Barbara the Builder I am not.
The first challenge came immediately after opening the box. I had to find a place on the wall to hang these inevitable cubes from Hell. I set my sights on a high position and went to town. Did I use a ladder? Pish posh. I didn’t even use my bed for support. No sooner was the hole made, that I realized I had already fucked up the wall.
I went to a different wall. This one was going to be more cooperative, I could feel it. I began to carve a hole again, with more success than the previous attempt. Feeling a little too confident, I “measured” how far apart the corresponding hole would need to go in order to hang the first cube. Measure once, cut twice I say. And so I fucked up again.
Not quite far enough apart, I tried to wedge the cube’s nails into their respective places. After a few labored attempts and a handful more curse words, I gave up in frustration. It was dinnertime and I had bottles of alcohol with my name on them.
After returning from dinner, I decided that six glasses of sangria were precisely enough fuel for me to finish the job. I hung the largest cube sideways to form a diamond. Sure, it wasn’t going to hold much. But it looked pretty, in an avant garde (fancy for “weird”) kind of way.
I successfully hung the other two cubes the same way … mainly out of necessity, as I’d ruined a few of the plastic nails already. This mishmash of diamonds on my wall were edgy compared to those bare white walls and I was even able to fit a trophy into one of them. For those playing at home, it was NOT a trophy for my handiwork.
In all honesty, I’m not even surprised that the home-improvement job didn’t go as planned. The surprise instead came after I didn’t bleed or cry.
I haven’t always been like this, but it appears I will be a lousy handyman for some time.
I can’t figure out where I went wrong in life that I can’t handle the most basic of home-repair tasks. In my Girl Scout days, I eagerly participated in workshops where I got to use my hands and make birdhouses and coin banks. Now the only screwdriver I enjoy in my hand is two parts vodka.
And hard hat or not, I can still wear a utility belt to carry my flask.
I am a follower of Jesus, both in faith and on Twitter (shout-out @jesus, what up?) and as such, feel obligated to celebrate his birthday the normal way — buying him last-minute gifts. I pondered and debated yet one question remained: What do you get the guy who possesses all?
Using social-media prowess, I polled the magical worlds of Facebookland and Twitterverse. The Twats had little to say. The FBetches were marginally more helpful.
Suggestions from Facebook “Friends” aka People I Know But May Not Have Seen in Five+ Years:
- Socks. This one’s out since Jesus tweeted NOT to give him socks. Picky, picky.
- Big Top Cookie. I like the idea but have recently developed a problem giving away anything that I secretly (or not so secretly) want. Selfish, yes. Smart, yesser.
- Chocolate. The quintessential catch-all when you’re in a bind, my main issue with this is that I give Him chocolate every spring to commemorate his death and resurrection. It’s also much cuter in egg and bunny form.
- Good children. Clearly, my mother meant SHE would give Jesus good children. Who isn’t pregnant and won’t be for quite some time to come? This guy.
- Singing at Christmas Eve mass. This gift is plausible because it’s free and only involves me attending church, which I do at least twice a year anyway. However, is it much of a gift if it sounds like cats dying combined with a car accident?
- Frankincense and myrrh. Albeit a copycat choice, this one would have been a wonderful selection. Only problem is, Bath & Body Works did not have them on sale as promised and I am not made of money.
So where does this leave me? Back to square one. The only silver lining is that I’m not Jewish and thus am not responsible for eight gifts a giving.
I ended up settling on some song (and dance) during Christmas Eve mass and behaving myself as best I could at the family’s annual Chinese Auction. NOTE: You may know it as a Yankee Swap or White Elephant Exchange, but PC people we are not.
It’s not much of a gift but it’s the thought that counts, right? Yeah, the only people who believe that are the same people who think Christmas isn’t all about presents. Talk about self-righteous.
As far as I’m concerned, me and the J-Man are still good. I know I’m going to have to step up my game next year and really make up for my procrastination. I wonder if He’d like a lovely selection of fine wines and bread? The stuff they serve every Sunday just doesn’t please my palate and he probably feels the same.