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How-to: Win the Breakup

Courtesy of Shutterstock (clearly)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.

Courtesy of (clearly)
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?

Courtesy of

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:

Courtesy of Me! and BuzzFeed


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.


I’m Basically the CEO of Awesome

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?

Courtesy of

Jimmying a Jimmy

Courtesy of

I have my fair share of “duh” moments on a daily basis, but last night’s will make it into the Hall of Fame.

Proud to support (and heckle) my office softball team, I met up with some fellow fans to watch the team practice. As self-appointed GM, it’s vital I be there to ensure Team Where My Pitches At? performs.

What I forgot to ensure, however, was the location of my keys. Distracted and a bit ditzy, I placed my keys in my purse — but it’s softball, I thought — better stow that purse under the passenger seat.

Practice went well; we laughed and made light of a rare chilly evening in Florida. Set to celebrate with post-practice dinner, I realized my keys were nowhere in sight. Stellar.

Thankfully, our self-appointed Owner had an emergency kit to jimmy open my … Jimmy. Those GMC engineers knew what they were doing in 2001, because that thing was a bitch to crack. One of our IT guys MacGyver’ed it, and the whole debacle only took about an hour away from drinking time.

I’ve got 11 days left with Jimmy before he goes to Daytona to be with Slick Rick, his proud new owner. Lord, beer me the strength to get through it.

Courtesy of @daniellebelle

Murphy’s Law Monday

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.

Oh, the Weather Outside Is Weather

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?

Your options:

  1. 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.
  2. 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.
  3. 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!
  4. 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.
  5. 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.

Oh, shit.

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.

A Girl Named Grace

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.

A Toast to the Train Wrecks

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.