I hate being a girl...

I hate the moments when I realize that why  yes, in fact I am a girl.

…like when I can’t open a pickle jar without one of those old lady finger pad thingies…or when I realize that I have no clue how to properly use lighter fluid…OR when I look down at my legs and I don’t see a penis dangling in between my hairy legs….

Side note: Dude, if I had a penis…I’d play with that shit all day long. I’d jerk it…do card tricks with it…turn it into a lasso, and try to…um…lasso shit…hit people with it (in a nonsexual manner of course.) Oh god…the list just goes on forever.

Any who…I’m a pretty independent person…and I intend to keep it that way…so when these little nuances…like not having a penis…or upper body strength…pop up…this bitch gets pissed.

And I know I could probably fix this situation, by doing a couple of push-ups…and reading directions.

But where is the fun in that? There isn’t any. It’s fucking work. I don’t like work.

It’s a catch-22 really. I want to stay independent….but I'm cute so don’t want to do any of the work.

Look, I’m good at three things…writing…straightening my hair…creating perfectly timed black jokes….you don’t need upper body strength for these skills…unless the black joke goes awry.

I’m okay with that.

I know some of you feminists out there are not. You guys annoy me anyways…so I don’t really care if

I piss that lot off.

So all in all…even though I'm annoyingly pissed off about that fact that I’m a girl, I have to admit that there will be moments where I can’t be a 100% independent, which made me realize a huge flaw in this logic. What if I was just dependent on someone (Matthew) for a change? What’s the harm in that shit?

It’s a win-win really. I don’t have to do any of the work…and I get to lie around half naked while someone tells me I'm pretty while still calling myself independent.

Did I just grow up a little?

 Whatever, I’m pretty. Don’t contradict me.

Two years after graduation...

It has been two years since I graduated from college, and I can’t decide how much of an emotional wreck I should be.

I like to think that I’ve grown as a person in the last two years, but quite honestly on paper that doesn’t seem to be the case…

1 year after graduation

-didn’t find wearing pants as an adequate use of my time

-sprayed icing on mini-donuts on a daily basis

-cried into mini-donuts with icing sprayed on top of them on more than one occasion

-didn’t know how to properly show affection in public

-consistently wrote in a blog that is going to be big one day! Big I tell you!

-worked as Supervisor of a summer camp-and yeah, I never fucking want kids

-afraid of birth control

-only have taken Plan B once in my life

-didn’t leave my bed because, well because…it was really fucking comfortable.

-sexually fantasized about Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon 4…I don’t want to talk about it.

-lived with my parents

2 years after graduation

-still don’t seem to find wearing pants as an adequate use of my time

-consistently eating reece’s ice cream at 8am/10am/12:34pm/2:30pm/7:30pm/12:00am

-cried into a tub of reece’s ice cream on one occasion

-still don’t know how to properly show affection in public

-every time I see “Push” and/or “Pull” on the Duane Reade door… I hesitate

-still consistently writing in a blog that is going to be big one day! Big I tell you!

-I’m a nanny- and yeah, I never want kids

-still afraid of birth control

-only have taken Plan B two times in my life

-don’t leave my bed because I’m doing freelance work

-sexually fantasized about Donald Glover in Community…I DO want to talk about it

-live with my best friend matt in NYC, which is basically like living with two nagging parents (LOVE YOU MATTHEW)

I love you, Mom. No, seriously, I do.

I can never find my mother the perfect Hallmark card for Mother’s Day. Believe me I tried. But none of them captured the essence of my mother. Yeah sure there was the:

“I love you mom, you’re the bomb!”

And the never fail:

“You’re beautiful inside and out, let’s go fishing for some trout!”

But never:

“You’re racist and an ex-hippie, now let’s go shopping and scream profanities at assholes who can’t drive!”

Not even,

“Remember that one time you asked if I bought you and dad porn for your 31st anniversary? Next time I promise!”

Come on Hallmark! What the fuck? Whose the one mom you are writing all these God damn cards for? My mom was never the cookie-cutter type, Hallmark. Time to expand your rhyming schemes.

Why can’t you write a card about the lies our mothers tell:

“I have the two most beautiful children ever.”

“Really? Cause I’m fat and Nathan’s ugly.”

“Go watch The Simpsons.”

With my father an officer in the Army, often spending months overseas, I became very dependant on my mother. We’d go everywhere together, hand in hand; unless I was being a little demon, which, not going to lie, was often.

“Remember, when we are in the grocery store, call me Sharon. Not mom.”

“But Sharon!”

Sharon has always been there for my brother and I. Even willing to die for us. One time when I was seven there was a chillingly scary noise outside of our front door. Dad was in Bosnia. Nathan and I crept out of our rooms to find my mom clutching a rifle, ready to shoot, in one of my dad’s oversized shirts and no pants.

“Stay in your room.”

It was the most beautiful display of white-trashness, I had ever seen.

She’s beautiful, hilarious and classy. She’s not a Jackie O. She’s a Gilda Radner. Free and beautiful; without that whole bulimia thing. A Madonna gap between her two front teeth which as she likes to say, “You’re father finds it sexy. Don’t you, my big man.”

Discretion is always key with her.

“You probably shouldn’t give head until your married,” she said nonchalantly one summer day by the pool.

“You’re generation is too fixated on oral. Just have sex.”

I was 15.

Her only two rules for my brother and I have been: 1. Don’t lie. And: 2. Don’t drink and drive. Sadly, I have broken both, too many times than I am willing to admit. And every time she discovered the “slightly bent truth” the sparkle would leave her piercing green eyes. 

But like any great mom, she has always forgiven and always continued the previous conversation before our epic screaming battles.

“Now if you do do ‘shrooms. Do not do them in the woods. You will think there are bugs crawling all over you.”

“I love you, mom.”

we all knew i was weird one...but come on subconscious!

We all know that I’m a weird one. But my dreams seriously take it to a new level of, “um…what the fucking fuck is going on in your head?!? Stop smiling at me like that, you crazy sociopath, you!”

And it’s not even that the dreams are that fucking weird (well… they are), or the fact that they in no sense resemble thoughts lingering within my head the few minutes before I passed out. (Or maybe they do? In that case… I may need to get some professional help…)

What’s freaky about them are their vivid details leading to a beginning, middle and end, with a few plot twists scattered around.  It’s as if I’m literally writing my dreams while I sleep, but I know I’m not…I’m too lazy for that shit.

Case in point, let’s dive into my latest dream:

I’m walking into a hospital parking lot. I’m frantically crying on the phone to my mother, for some reason I’m having a panic attack but I don’t know why (probably about accidently buying a case of Miracle Whip or some shit like that). Up ahead I hear a woman screaming, but I’m more invested in my problems to take notice of this raging lunatic of a woman screaming like a banshee…. well, I’m not interested until I realize this crazy lady is Beyonce holding a bloody knife.

“Mom, I’ll call you back.”

At this point Beyonce is being surrounded by like ten men in white jackets and she is screaming, “It was an accident, I swear to god! I stabbed him in the knee by accident!”

They don’t seem to believe her.

Miraculously, my panic attack has subsided at this point but I walk into the hospital anyways.

“Who did Beyonce stab?”

I’m a nosy bitch.

“Jay-Z.” The waiting room says in perfect unison.

“That makes sense.”

“Are you here for the bad left knee seminar?” The lady behind the desk asks me.

“…Why, yes. Yes I am.”

Side note: I do actually issues with my left knee. It has dislocated on me too many times to count (which fucking hurts like a bitch, might I add). I’m supposed to do old lady exercises for it, but I never do, because they are old lady exercises.

Back to the dream. So I tell the lady I am here for the bad knee seminar, but only because I want to see how this whole Jay-Z stabbing thing plays out.

“So is Jay-Z dead?” I ask while nonchalantly perusing a People magazine.

“Oh, god no,” the nurse behind the desk says. “He got hit in the back of his knee. He’s in surgery now, so no one is allowed down that corridor.” She points down a dimly lit hall that smells slightly like Taco Bell.

I want to go to there.

But so does everyone else. Hundreds of reporters have now gathered in the waiting room, trying to find the location of Jay-Z.

“He is in surgery! He is not to be disturbed!” I screamed in my futile attempt to scare off the competition. The nurse behind the desk did not seem pleased with this outcry.

But then! Five masked assailants burst in. “We will get our interview! Or everyone will die!”

“Fine!” The nurse screams. “But you can’t go in, it will have to be her.” She points to me.

“Uh…what do you want to know?” I ask the masked assailants.

“Here.” They hand me a plate of enchiladas. “Ask him if he likes the beef enchilada or the chicken enchilada better.”

 “Uh…okay.”

Needless to say, the plate didn’t make it to the interview.

I walk into the room sans enchiladas, to see Jay-Z and Beyonce laughing and playing pool.

“Girl get over here.” Beyonce motions to me. “You ate all the enchiladas didn’t you?”

“…Yes.”

“That’s okay, their enchiladas are shitty. Want a beer?”

“Why, yes. Yes I do.”

And then my alarm went off.

Yeah…I’m going to go see a shrink now.

Black ladies...

Why do you love me so?

That is all.

Girls, Girls, Girls

I feel like the show “Girls” is getting a lot of unnecessary hate.  First of all let me just say that this is definitely not a show for men, unless you want to watch the lead character get a pap smear and talk about her fear of contracting AIDs, then by all means gentlemen, watch away.

That being said, this show is fucking brilliant and yes, the show is not “Sex and the City” but you know what that show was bullshit, what 35 year old ladies have fucking bodies like them?! And this is coming from a true lover of “Sex and the City.”

Seven hundred and fifty a month on the upper east side, Carrie Bradshaw, in a rent controlled apartment? BULLLLLLLLSHHHHHHHHITTTT.

Yeah, two girls living in Green Point, Brooklyn in a shitty apartment is way more fucking believable.

With “Girls” this is my life. I live in fucking NYC, I am a “writer,” this is the shit I deal with, and not going to lie, I am not looking forward to the call I get from my mother once she finally watches the pilot and goes, “Woah. Woah. Woah. Is this what your life in NYC is like?”

“….little bit.”

But it’s so true! I have had that conversation about AIDs (and pregnancy) with my friends on a million different occasions only to get the response, “Well, Natalie if anyone were to get pregnant… it would be you.”

Granted, maybe I shouldn’t have had unprotected sex those two times, but whatever, you take Plan B, feel really sick for three days, straight and you move on with your life.

I feel like people hate the show “Girls” because 1. Either  you think that this is not your life at all as a 20-something girl. Or 2. because this is your life and it’s a little fucking scary to see on a TV.

You hate the characters because either you are that character or you know that character. You know that dumb fucking girl. You used to live with that dumb fucking girl. You have talked shit about that dumb fucking girl while drunkenly peeing in the bathroom with your friends.

And don’t pretend like you haven’t talked shit about that girl before. If you have a vagina you are genetically predisposed to talking shit about other people with vaginas.

Stop looking at the show as a group of four entitled princesses and embrace it for it’s brutal honesty and how these girls aren’t fucking perfect.

I do not have a six-pack. I will never be tan. I will never not have a little bit of cellulite on my ass and to see Lena Dunham basically naked, and she’s kind of chunky, which is totally fine, it’s amazing to see someone finally has the balls and the gall, especially a lady, get up there, and fucking go for it. Naked that is.

Can we just all admit that if you are a 20-something lady in this day an age, that we do not have our shit together, yet we are grasping on so tightly to make all this shit make sense? And whether you like it or not, that is what this show is about, highlighting the absurdity of our young 20-somesthing need to constantly make everything in our lives make sense.

I just don't get it...

I really don’t get my life. It’s confusing, it’s weird, and quite honestly it always smells slightly like beef lo mien.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Well, I’m not complaining at this particular moment, but I just have to know… am I alone in this situation?

For example, the amount of male attention I attract just does not equate with my physical features. Okay, maybe it does a little , I’m pretty fucking cute, god damnit! Then pair that cuteness with some assholey snarkiness and a well-tailored lime green mini-skirt sans underwear and that shit has the gentlemen douches coming out of the wood works.

But I’m a dick. A lady douche some might say. Yet, this always seems to have the adverse affect on the unwarranted attention from the male specimen I seem to constantly attract.

My favorite part of this situation is how this never happens when any normal human being would expect it too. Oh, no. no. no. no. no. Why should I be hit on in a normal situation? Like that one time I had that great conversation with that hedge fund analyst at that bar? That would have been a perfect opportunity for some normal hitting-on occurrences to well…occur. But, it didn’t.

Oh. No. no. no. no. no. I don’t get hit on in normal social situations, why should I? That luxury is left for the normal ladies of our society, and we alllllllll know I don’t exactly fit into that category.

So instead, I get hit on at seven in the morning while waiting for my manager to open the store by this ridiculously drunk dude telling me how he’s an “artist” and how his brother (or brother in law? I don’t remember honestly) produces the show Jackass, but of course, he had to ask me first if I had even heard of the show.

“Have you ever heard of the show Jackass?”

“Yes. What asshole hasn’t heard of the show Jackass? Jackass.”

Oh, how he laughed and laughed while simultaneously staring at my tits.

Maybe I should just stop talking altogether in social situations. My mouth seems to be part of the problem, well that and these dudes inability to not say something unbelievably douchy and retarded for me not to come back with some asshole comment.

“I just wish I had a magic carpet to take me home.”

“They ‘re called taxis.”

Maybe it’s not me. Maybe its my surroundings. I do live in New York City. This isn’t exactly a “normal” place to live and I fit in a little too well in this “not normal” place. Or maybe I should just lower my standards and start giving these drunk douches a chance.

Oh, and what happened to that seven am drunk douche you ask? Well he tried to get my number after my manager finally arrived, obviously I said no. But I told him I’d take his website, and supposedly he wasn’t lying about his “artist” shit. But I’ll let you decide.

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