#gingerambition

If you don’t know me, I’m assuming I’m your favorite ginger you’ve never met. If you’re reading this and you have met me however, you either have a huge secret crush on me, you’ve dated me and you’re looking for a subtle reference to yourself, or you recite my name each night as part of your Arya Stark–esque murder list. Honestly you’re more than welcome to my face, it takes an hour to put on before a first date anyway and is almost immediately ruined by excessive heat and pouting. You’d really just be saving me time at this point.

 Anyway, before I can publish my drafts about receiving dick pics in my late 20′s (FUUUUUUCK), Tinder dates that result in me either A. bailing him out of jail or B. ending up at a bar that is actually a wake, and being a proud member of the girls still blacking out in Ubers while everyone else is getting engaged club, I have to get some things off my (perky) chest. It’s kind of long but typing it out will be like losing 20 pounds of emotional weight. 

It’s been eight months since I got dumped. Two hundred and forty days later (I haven’t been counting I just did 8 x 30 on my phone) and I am still getting the same questions, so to avoid prolonging the graduation party effect (answering the same 5 questions on repeat the way I’m currently listening to “Look What You Made Me Do”), I am going to just put it all on the table. 

I got dumped at the end of December. It was days after celebrating Christmas with his family and attending my best friend’s 90′s throwback party where everything seemed normal AF. In fact I hear he’s up for an Oscar for his portrayal of communicating, loving boyfriend. So no, it was not mutual. He had his reasons. (Sidebar: the self-control I just showed in resisting the urge to put air quotes around the word, reasons, is similar to how I felt the other night when this old dude who was buying me Coors Lights was texting Taylor Kitsch, YES – THE ACTOR, and all I wanted to do was spider monkey across the table, grab his phone, and get the digits of a B-list celeb).  I felt the breakup was out of the blue.  I’m sure him and I will never see eye-to-eye on it, and that’s because he’s way taller than me so it’s physically impossible.  If I’ve told you “my story” in person, just skip this post. If you’ve been curious, here it is . . . 

I Ubered to our apartment from the San Francisco airport (he couldn’t pick me up because he was drinking), and he was on the couch. He hadn’t unpacked from being home for Christmas yet. He got back to our apartment a day earlier. His shoes were on. I made us mac n’ cheese. I started nagging that he wasn’t eating his and it was getting cold, I even put the pepper out for you. I was snuggling our cat and asking him how much he missed his girls. He turned off the TV and said, using my full name, we need to talk. Every part of me between my throat and my belly button knotted together and tasted like acid and pennies, my limbs felt distant and heavy, I moved to him, but I felt more like I was watching myself. After we spoke (he whispered, I cried), he took his still packed bag, I tried to kiss him (I got his cheek), and I watched him walk down the hall as I so often did in the morning when he left for work before me. That was the last time I saw him. After 2 states, 4 apartments, 5 years, countless "babe, you need to double flush after that,” kitchen slow dance parties, and putting our mattress in the living room for pizza fueled sleepovers, it was done. And it is done, because I don’t believe in second chances when it comes to ex-boyfriends. At some point they always come back. Of that I am certain. It could be 5 weeks or it could be 15 years, but it always happens and I take comfort in that.

I called my best friend, she didn’t answer so I texted her husband. I called my mom. I called my sister. My best friend called back. I told my college best friends. I texted a few more girls. I told everyone I wanted to hear it from me, and gave them permission to pass it on like a shitty game of telephone, so I wouldn’t have to live it over and over. I cried myself to sleep wrapped up in a nest of blankets, pillows, and dirty clothes I made out of things that smelled like him. I woke up every hour, realized where I was, cried, fell back asleep, repeat. I left the TV on to feel less alone. The small studio, that I couldn’t wait to return to less than 24 hours prior, felt less like home and more like stumbling upon a movie set or the apartment of a stranger I follow on Instagram. I had an idea of who had lived there, how they felt, how I should feel, but I was suffocated between collections of crap full of memories I could imagine but not grasp, and inside jokes I could make an outline of, but not see. In 12 hours I had aged 5 years. Everything felt fresh, and sharp, and distant, and numb, and a thousand other emotions all at the same time and I didn’t understand how that could be. 

Then I did something I never thought I would do, I just left. I took a red eye flight back to Michigan, where I was just 24 hours prior. I left all of the apartment lights on, the TV, and our Christmas tree. I cut up our favorite t-shirt then refolded it and put it in his drawer. I snapped my Harry Potter wand in half (from our 4 year anniversary trip) and put it under his pillow. I took everything of his I could see from my bed and put it in the corner. I tore every Uno card in half and left them in a pile. I wanted to break all of his Legos and throw out the directions but my mom said no, and for some reason I listened. I pulled the felt monogram I made off his nightstand lamp shade. I deleted my wedding Pintrest board. I deleted all of our pictures together from my phone. If you don’t want me anymore, I don’t see the point in lingering. If I said doing all of that petty crap didn’t make me feel better, I’d be lying. It was better than drunk Taco Bell after a sorority date party. 

I took as many sweatshirts and yoga pants as I could fit in a carry on, my large suitcase, my purse, cornered our cat into her carrier, and I left the rest for him to ship. Here’s an old school story problem to give you a break from brown out figuring out how to tip and write your number of a bar tab at the same time, 1 sobbing ginger + 2 suitcases + 1 purse + 1 cat that weighs like 2 cats = this blog can write itself. But wait, there’s more! The Titanic soundtrack was playing at my gate and my Uber driver almost killed us. He didn’t understand English, so when my cat started clawing to get out of her soft side airplane regulation carrier, and I pleaded with her to stop (when it rains it pours), he slammed on the breaks - on the HIGHWAY - and said “stop? stop? stop?” I yelled, KEEP FUCKING GOING. Not a moment I’m particularly proud of, but it happened. I put in my 2 weeks notice and worked remotely, wrapping up projects, and apologizing in emails. I tried not to burn bridges. Hurt has a ripple effect not always immediately evident. 

The worst part for me is knowing one day, every adventure, every nickname, every private moment we shared together will be forgotten, will disintegrate, and I will be reduced to, “that ginger I dated for like 5 years in my 20′s and had a TV show no one watched.” I will be become one of his two truths and a lie options. I won’t even have a name. He will tell some Cliff Notes version of “our story” to the daughter he has with someone else who isn’t me when it’s her heart that is broken and craves assurance there’s someone out there for everyone.

I slept on and off for the next 4 days, a very Carrie in the “Sex and The City” movie when she’s on her honeymoon with her friends instead of Big, of me to do. I never said I wasn’t dramatic. I didn’t drink. I made myself shower. I went on long walks with my parents’ dog and listened to a “Guys Are The Wooooorst” Spoitfy playlist I made. Everyone was so proud of me and impressed by how I kept it together, how I’m still keeping it together. Friends were happy to have me home, to have me so close to them. I felt wanted again. It’s not hard to act fine when he’s on the other side of the country. I wasn’t going to run into him. He never drunk dialed me, never texted. As much as distance can make things hard, it can also make things easy. 

My first breakup with my first boyfriend when I was 19 was horrible. I lost a ton of weight (not in a hot way - in a, “her head is too big for her body” kind of way), I didn’t go to class, I passed out on porches, I took my anti-depressants on and off sometimes with whatever shot was on special or being handed to me. This time, simply put, I would not allow myself to be that girl again. I was like nope, too cute, too sassy, too many people who love me to go back to that. (Although it would be nice to basically fit my American Girl doll’s clothes again.) I received so many cards and presents in the mail from best friends, girls I hadn’t talked to in years, and old co-workers that I almost wish I got dumped sooner, preferably around the time of a Kate Spade Surprise Sale. 

While you were in The Hamptons enjoying your last weekend to wear your white supremacy, I was smacking murses butts and gearing up for a sexual harassment case. Just kidding, the only butt involved was my own, at an urgent care, getting 2 shots because, “well, technically you should be in the ER because we don’t do IV antibiotics here, but we’re gonna give you a couple shots and hope that works.” Mad respect for the blatant medical procrastination and pure laziness approach, very ballsy, which I’m usually all about - like that is my healthcare aesthetic to a T and my personal recommendation to replace Obamacare - but it didn’t work. I should’ve known since it typically takes about 4 shots for me to feel anything, including joy.

I spent three days and two nights posted up in a twin size bed at the hospital with a kidney infection. It was like the world’s shittiest sleepover party where instead of staying up until 2 AM playing 20 questions with boys over AIM asking boxers or briefs, a nurse is drawing your blood in the same spot for the 8th time. Hand to God, not the first time I’ve half-asleep said, “try another hole.” The nurses kept trying to get me to walk around the halls in my anti-slip crew socks with my IV poll and I was like F to the no am I walking around braless and hunched over like the evil queen in Snow White. If I can’t at least duct tape my tits together I am not leaving my bed. (Yes, that is an actual thing I would do in college when mesh back bodycon dresses were trendy, and apparently still are if your last name is Kardashian. Nice little duct tape bridge across the mosquito bites does the trick every time. Easy to take off when you’re drunk, hard to explain in the morning when it looks like the dude robbed a Home Depot.) 

This all started Tuesday AM when I began having some aggressive back pain. At first I thought oh my god, are my boobs big enough to complain about my back hurting?! But then I looked down and could still see my feet, so no. From there I assumed, and my primary care doctor agreed, I just inflamed some muscles unpacking boxes of my literal relationship baggage Monday night because my ex finally shipped my stuff and I was thrilled to go through 3 boxes all labeled “wine glasses.” 

Skip ahead like my parents watching “Game of Thrones” to Friday night, and I’m puking, shivering under a blanket wearing an off the shoulder top so I legit look naked, and taking a bean bag to the face for being lame at a pregame. Obviously I didn’t make it out. The following urgent care details, ER visit #1 Sunday AM, and ER visit #2 Sunday PM, are boring and nothing like Seattle Grace, but it was basically multiple male doctors mansplaining a UTI to me. 

Just for a little background info I’ve had an unusually high number of these in my lifetime, probably close to 30, and if you’re a girl you fucking KNOW when you have one. No part of you is like, “Mayyyyyybe it’s a UTI? Idk, I’ll finish my Panera you-pick-two, chug a La Croix and see if I feel better.” No, if you’ve had a UTI your only thought is, is this urge to pee legit or nah. When you finally get to squeeze those two drops out it feels like birthing a thousand hot steak knives like you’re the dishwasher at a god damn Outback. But yes Dr., please go on about “vaginal irritation” after I’ve already told you I’ve had both a UTI and a kidney infection before. 

One of the tests they did was an ultrasound to check out my lady tubing and the doctor must’ve referred to me as a “unmarried young female” like a thousand times. “We run this test on unmarried young females . . . avoiding radiation on unmarried young females . . . paints a really clear picture for unmarried young females . . . “ Fairly certain I involuntarily rolled my eyes every time he said it too. I must’ve looked as crazy as I actually am.

I don’t even known how I got the kidney infection in the first place. Certainly not the fun way of forgetting to pee after drunk sex. Haven’t been chilling in any wet bathing suits or sitting spread eagle in a bubble bath lately either. The last time I had a kidney infection was 2012 while was dating my ex and I thought, if that dick can put me in the ER, that is the dick for me. I legitimately had that on my list of reasons why I thought he was “the [first] one.” I sure know how to pick ‘em, huh?

If you gathered the small group of guys I’ve been in relationships with you’d quickly realize they don’t look anything alike, and personality-wise I’d say the only thing they have in common is being very smart, but annoying drunks. I’ve been in Facebook official relationships with a ginger who had varsity letters in five sports, a West Point grad who wanted an industrial bar piercing, and an introverted software engineer. 

Apparently the guys I’ve been attracted to the past couple of years tend to look younger than their actual ages. I realize how super fucking creepy that sounds, but before you call Benson and Stabler, picture actors in their mid to late 20′s that play like college students, that’s what I mean. Maybe that’s from years of flight seatmates asking which colleges I’m applying to, years after graduation, or how prone my fair (read: super pale) skin is to beard burn. Regardless, the “hot” guys I literally point out to my friends look like they could be running for homecoming court or proofreading their valedictorian speeches. I’m talking tall, stick figure like builds, skin so soft they must only watch Jennifer Aniston’s Aveeno commercials, topped off with a full head of boyband-esque hair and a curfew I assume is 2 a.m. Now I’m really trying to treat single life like one big opposite day.

I’m also trying to lower my standards. Not like slutty college peak where I’d sleep with guys for their air conditioning in the summer, low standards. I used to live in a third floor glorified closet that was legally not allowed to be leased as a bedroom. So it was whoever maintained eye contact with me even after they’d seen me dance, or I would sleep on the fire escape half-naked. Either way someone was seeing my boobs whether they wanted to or not. Maybe I should phrase that as expanding my standards. When I was younger (I know I’m still young, by the time I’m 80 we’ll all just be half robots anyway) I thought smoking or too many tattoos would be a deal breaker. Now I think my only deal breakers are maybe not be a devil worshipper or one of those guys that dances with glow sticks in parking lots.

In terms of physical type, I don’t think I have one. Just be taller than me and have four limbs. I don’t have a hair color or eye color preference – you know, all the stuff you decide with a custom American Girl doll. Glasses? No. Freckles? Maybe, if I can connect them with a marker. Prior to my prom king flub, I just preferred guys with what I call, “that baseball player forearm muscle thing,” where if a dude rolls his sleeves up any further the seams would bust open romance novel style. (This is where I have to remind myself to breathe.) Also if your jeans are tight on me, that’s kind of a bummer. Luckily I only wear leggings now, so if I pick up your leggings instead of mine, I think we have a bigger problem. 

Traditionally, I avoid facial hair after a bout in college where my skin would get so red it looked like I sucked face with a box of cherry popsicles. I have recently discovered a bizarre attraction to 80's-inspired police officer mustaches – not the real gun toting cops that let me out of speeding tickets when I cry, I mean the kind in porn (I’ve heard) or most Will Ferrel movies. At first I was worried that something happened in my childhood and I needed to seek professional help. After much soul searching and La Croix cut with white wine, I think I’ve just fallen asleep to so many episodes of Blue Bloods on Ion that Tom Selleck has replaced the good decision making portion of my brain. 

My parents have always thought I’ll ultimately end up with someone older. Apparently I've always erred on the side of being “a bit much” for guys my age. I had wanted to be married before 30, but change that to “just before I die” sounds like a far more realistic and obtainable timeline. When it comes to men and marriage I think it’s a lot like musical chairs. They all kind of dance around and when the music stops some random morning, whatever chair they were inside last is who gets a ring. I think I’ll backslide into my childhood dream of having a boyfriend in every country and just travel, while also being world a famous artist / professional volleyball player. Personality wise my lineup is longer than the Duggar’s grocery shopping list, so let’s leave it at asshole with a heart of gold. I need wit, I need ambition, I need passion, and I need to be able to take a guy places without feeling like I’m rushing him for a sorority or I’ve just adopted a puppy. 

Allow me a brief departure from my usual pessimistic and overall negative outlook on, well, most things, and let me voice a small starry-eyed and hopelessly romantic fantasy I cling to late at night when I’ve convinced myself I have restless leg syndrome and can’t sleep. This may sound crazy, but I do have a heart that craves more than vodka sodas and writing hilarious Yelp reviews. I want someone who finds me indescribably fascinating, who never stops asking me questions, who has the most infectious laugh, and looks at me like he’s trying to remember every thing about every moment. A mutual affinity for Taco Bell is also preferred. And now back to your regularly scheduled biting wit and sass.

I’ve downloaded Bumble, and not like the first time I downloaded Bumble when I wanted it for the BFF side to watch Bachelor with someone other than my cat. I ended up getting rid of it (the app, not my cat) after a girl asked me to get coffee after we mutually complained about skinny jeans for only two minutes. Idk about you, but we have to agree on hating at least five different things before we meet up IRL. If you dislike 5 of the following then maybe we can be bestie sans testies: skinny jeans, thick ranch dressing, dick pics, sushi, Guitar Hero, movies that take place in space, guys in sweatpants, drivers that don’t use turn signals, animal adoption commercials, and women that push strollers in the road when there’s a sidewalk. 

Call me a hopeless romantic, but I still have my fingers crossed I meet someone the old fashioned way. Like I adorably rear-end his car at a red light because, silly stereotypically female me, I have poor depth perception and I suck at driving. In this scene I get out of the car all flustered and apologetic, our eyes lock, we live happily ever after, and he rear-ends me till death do us part. But that’s not real life, that’s a 90′s movie starring Freddie Prinze Jr. with a soundtrack featuring The Cranberries and Sixpence None The Richer. (Swearing and near constant radio station changing aside, I’m actually a great driver). But instead of 1996 it’s 2017, year of the rooster, which is hilarious considering our president is a cock, so these things don’t happen any more, hence Bumble. You may come across my gingerness among the sea of girls using five year old pictures from college and filling their “about me” section with booze emojis. 

I haven’t been on Bumble very long, but I’ve already learned quite a bit. For example, HOLY SHIT, the mirror selfie is alive and well. I thought that died with MySpace, it should have, but it did not. Also, if I see one more pic of a guy holding a fish or a deer I may ask to borrow his hunting rifle and just shoot myself. Pictures of dead animals do not get me going. Maybe it’s a guy’s way of showing he’s so GD masculine that he can hunt, he’s a provider, to appeal to some subconscious hunter-gatherer-era female desire. This might just be me, but my inner cavewoman would find a guy holding a $20 in front of a McDonald’s Dollar Menu, suggestively wiggling his eyes at chicken nuggets, significantly more attractive. 

Now if a guy doesn’t have a mirror or hunting pic, he has a picture of himself as a groomsmen. Love a guy in a suit, so no complaints here. Wait, one complaint  – if, from the million professional wedding pictures you’re in, you pick the one holding up your pant leg to reveal “crazy socks,” that’s fucking stupid. Left swipe. It’s just such a forced reaction. The only people that excited to see socks aren’t people, they’re house elves. 

WHY DOES EVERY GUY’S BIO INCLUDE THE WORD “OUTDOORSY.” I fucking hate that word, like I enjoy the three minute walk from my car into Nordstrom, and sometimes I look at the clouds without taking a picture, does that make me outdoorsy? Are you outdoorsy in that you have apartment roof access and a two-story beer bong, or outdoorsy in that you’re so obsessed with nature you’re trying to be on Survivor? FYI I will keep my air conditioner on until it snows, I do not do heat. Sweating is only acceptable during or after seeing a “50 Shades Darker” commercial. Also, something about guys who say they're wine drinkers makes me think their favorite position is missionary. 

Bumble is a lot like a High School graduation party. Everyone just keeps asking where you see yourself in five years, your goals, and about your family. My current about me section is, “Every time I follow my heart I end up at Taco Bell.” I am about to change it to, “Recently moved home, one sister in Chicago, parents are still together, freelance but looking to work in an entertainment related field, I like baseball, and yes I can cook.” But I’m not sure that will fit. One of the first guys I talked to opened with, “What’s your best and worst Bumble story?” To which I said, “This conversation, and also this conversation.” Then he unmatched with me.

When I was in a relationship I would “play” Bumble for my single friends. I would swipe right on guys that looked like Draco Malfoy or went to art school (out of solidarity). Needless to say they did not let me pick guys for them after that. Now that I am the one ridin’ solo (thank you Jason Derulo, I have listened to that song so many times on my “Single Bitch Anthems” Spotify playlist I may get the lyrics tattooed down my rib cage in fancy script and tell people it’s a Bible verse), I let them play Bumble for me. I ended up matching with a bunch of guys holding guitars or standing on boats with their arms out like the cover of a rap demo CD sold out of a dude’s trunk in a Kroger parking lot. 

My girlfriends said I should always swipe right on a guy that owns or has access to a boat, or any guy that attended Harvard or Yale. I don’t care if you went to Harvard, own the yacht from “Below Deck,” love Stevie Wonder or check any other perfect dude boxes – if the glass in your mirror pic is dirty, boy bye. Sack up and buy some Windex, take your elbow deep arms out of your pants, and clean. Speaking of dream man, maybe I am meant to be alone. In middle school I determined the perfect guy for me would be an Irish firefighter, Boston accent, and a borderline alcoholic that takes care of his mom. Yep, that’s what 12-year-old, Limited Too pajama pant wearing me prayed to God for each night at 8:30pm.

I have been traveling by plane a lot lately - home for Thanksgiving, home for Christmas, back to San Francisco, then immediately back home the next day because the future I thought I had disappeared faster than guacamole put out at an office holiday party. But that’s not the point of this post.

The point is, I’ve learned a lot while racking up all those meaningless miles I can trade in for a $20 Amazon gift card - like wait to buy the $2 airline headphones from a flight attendant instead of splurging on same-quality but $30 headphones from a Hudson News. I’ve also realized I rather sit next to someone deathly afraid of flying, a therapy animal I am allergic to, or someone transporting a beating organ, than 90% of men.

Now you may be thinking, “You wanted to be a flight attendant, you love every aspect of flying!” That, or you’re sitting on the toilet at work reading this because there’s nothing new on Reddit and you’re out of Candy Crush lives not thinking much to begin with. Either way - totally fine, I’ll take my readers where I can get ‘em. But news fucking flash, my Pan Am era dreams of flying have been ruined for me by MANSPREADERS. 

What is a manspreader? Urban Dictionary says it’s word feminists use, and I’m thinking maybe, idk? Bust mostly it’s a word normal decent carbon-based lifeforms use to describe a man that sits with his knees set so wide apart that it looks like his grundle is trying to consume the seat in front of him. Other side effects of manspreading include a man’s knee and upper thigh sliding onto your faux leather seat, warming your metal seatbelt like a little testosterone powered microwave. This often results in girls (like myself) having to squeeze their legs together so hard they get off the plane with thighs that look like they belong to an American Ninja Warrior, all to avoid some unwanted Banana Republic khaki to leggings contact. 

I get it, you all have huge Mangum wearing dicks, that require feet upon feet of space to hang so your precious sperm full of big-dong-carrying DNA aren’t squeezed to death. But at the same time, guys basically spend the first 25 years of their lives with 2 goals - stay out of jail and don’t get anyone pregnant. So shouldn’t you want to squish your fleshy stress balls just a wee bit? If you need that much space to sit comfortably, sell your dick pics to the Smithsonian, and use the ticket sales to sit first class where there are little walls between seats to prevent thigh spillage. Boom, everyone’s happy, you, me, and most importantly - your balls. 

Being the passive aggressive ginger gem that I am, I’ve found ways to combat this growing epidemic. First, always pick an aisle seat. You’ll feel less pinned to the wall in the least sexy way possible like you would with a window seat. Plus, you have Instagram - you know what a plane wing over a sunset looks like. Also, you’re gonna want to be able to get up to go to the bathroom, because you’ll need to go often with tip two. That tip being, DRINK! Stick to wine or like, vodka ginger ale. Sometimes the flight attendants give you 2 mini bottles for the price of 1, but then you have to sit there with a cup of melting ice for thirty minutes. Wine is nice, although lower in alcohol content, but you can sip it without a plastic cup, twist the lid back on, and stick it in your sleeping neighbor’s seat pocket. 

Next, pick one of those random emergency rows where there is no immediate row in front of you, so the trays fold out of the armrest. That way, no man can slowly move the armrest up, allowing for additional leg space. The divider is like a little Trump-esque wall, only it’s actually effective and not a horrible waste of money. Make your grandma roll over in her grave by sitting spread eagle the moment you sit down.

There’s a second, less obvious, much sneakier, manspreader species as well. This kinda of fellow sits so his feet are touching, but allows his legs to flop wide open like opposing magnets are embedded in his knees, pushing his thighs open like a pervy butterfly stretch. Eradicate this level of oh-hell-no by un-hinging your tray table so it hits his wandering knee. 

Or there’s always the more direct route of asking a man to move his leg because you feel it’s entered your personal space. I have tried this route. I put on my best 5 AM flight smile and asked ever so politely, ever so sweetly, that if you were eavesdropping you may have thought I was Snow White summoning woodland creatures to help me craft artisanal soy candles for a charity farmer’s market. To which he promptly responded, “I think you’re on my side.” And in that moment I was the murderous woman on Dateline from the sleepy backroads town where “nothing like that could happen here” and everyone still has a landline, who tells the police she was so angry she saw red. Now let me tell you, I am the girl that has put duct tape down the middle of a shared room and I went to art school, I basically majored in coloring inside the lines. I know where my side ends, and your side begins. 

So you know what I do then? I reach over you and turn my reading light on and off so often you think you’re at a God damn rave hosted by Lena Dunham. If you so much as think you’re going to get away with using your jacket as a blanket, draping it across the entire row like we are telling spooky ghost stories around the fire at sleep away camp, you have another think coming. And if you happen to outlive me, so help you God, I will make it my mission in the afterlife to haunt your ass from whatever low staffed Forever 21 purgatory my soulless carcass ends up in.

I moved to Palo Alto a couple months ago, and now that I can drive to Taco Bell without Google maps I consider myself a local. I would describe PA as the most overpriced and underdressed city in America. Pitcher of Bud Light- $18. You don’t know if the 30-something with the 90′s boyband haircut walking towards you is a barista or the CEO of Linked-Goo-Face-Bit. If you are allergic to gluten, attractive men, and four wheel transportation, this is the city for you. People here seem to love their casual work attire and worship their $8, takes 15 minutes to make, drip coffee.

Moving from Michigan’s upper peninsula where you are so far north that Canada is below you and the residents take on Southern accents, to California I thought I was going to lose hot girl status. In Ann Arbor I was a 6- maybe a 7 if I wore an outfit I haven’t had since 8th grade, in Northern Michigan I was a 10 smoke-show-dime piece-Victoria’s Secret-Angel, but LA I’m a 4 in head-to-toe Spanx and a smokey eye. So I anticipated NoCal matching it’s SoCal counter part. Not even close to being true. I am closer to a 10 here than I was in Ann Arbor. My main competition is Siri.

It’s very strange here, everyone eats healthy but no one works out. You can’t find a kale-free salad or fast food within a twenty minute radius of downtown- which makes my drunk binge eating very difficult. I go to start-up house parties with my boyfriend all the time and when I tell party-goers I have a TV show for a living 9/10 people tell me they don’t have a TV. Maybe that’s why everyone here has glasses because they insist on watching “Myth Busters” on a 8.5 by 11 screen. 

Besides glasses the standard PA uniform consists of New Balance sneakers, a free laptop bag, and a black American Apparel track jacket. I kid you not, every company has the same black jacket with a company logo on the left side. During these parties I keep attending (idk why- they never have enough beer) I sit in the garage, waiting for ping pong to turn into beer pong, and watch the tech gangs arrive. It’s one of the funniest things you will ever see, 5-7 guys get out of the same Uber, refresh their work email even though everyone they work with was just crammed in the same back seat, all dressed in head-to-toe company gear, and make eye contact with no one as they enter. They all assume parties serve dinner as well, like its an orientation mixer. I haven’t seen that many people in American Eagle jeans since my 6th grade Valentine’s Day dance.

Once I saw an asian girl empty a Sam’s Club size case of Skittles into her backpack, put on her bike helmet, and pedal to whichever Garage startup she escaped for a Cinderella night. 

Better than that I swear to God I saw a guy in cargo shots snort a line of coke off a mousepad when I was looking for an iPhone charger. If you’re an 18-year-old from Minnesota who takes apart toasters for fun, refreshing Mark Zuckerberg’s coffee for the summer, why the hell do you need drugs when you still regularly order 2% milk at sit down restaurants. 

But I’ll give engineers this, what they lack in sense-of-humor and conversation holding ability, they make up in alcohol tolerance. I get it, they have a lot to stress over. The weight of your nudie snapchats reaching your crushes newsfeed without the application closing before time runs out, rests on their keystroke speed. They know it. The competition here is fierce. If you’re not on a Mountain Dew fueled coding binge creating a version 15.7.2 of your revolutionizing app, there is a more than willing 8-year-old in India who’s already smarter and faster than you. When your company caters all your meals, washes your clothes, and drives you to and from your nap pod, drinking is the only thing you can call your own. 

If I don’t like my hair at my wedding, I’m not getting married. End of discussion. Leave your toasters on the gift table, box up the steaks, and hit the road. You will have to soak a tampon in Bacardi 151 and pull some backwards ass 50 Shades of Grey shit and shove it up my butt if you think I’m letting anyone take my picture with Hermionie level frizz and Little Mermaid size volume. 

My hair controls my mood. Some guys are like, “I can’t believe Britney Spears went crazy and shaved her head, that was nuts,” but I’m like, “Nope, I completely understand.” At least once a week I consider shaving my head so I don’t have to deal with the literal headache, that is having girl hair. Boys used to throw paper airplanes into my hair and hook mechanical pencils in my ponytail like I was a human Christmas tree. I saved a ton on school supplies in middle school. Silver lining assholes.

The happiest girls have short hair. Have you realized that? Like the first time Emma Watson smiled with teeth was after her haircut, and when people should have unjustly hated Anne Hathaway even more after “Les Misérables” they didn’t because she had short hair. Nobody effs with Ellen DeGeneres. Girls with long hair are always angry because they are balancing an additional 5 pounds of “Game of Thrones” styled hair. I know my mood improves after I get a haircut because I’m like oh cool I’ve lost weight, lets splurge and get the 10 piece, maybe go crazy and get a regular Coke. 

If I could donate my shower drain every morning to locks of love every bald child in the world would be walking around wearing wigs of my hair. Like I have naturally very thick, curly, red hair.  If some straight haired girl is reading this thinking, “omg I wish I had curly hair,” you can shut up now. See, you can do the sexy pull your hair out of a ponytail and it falls around you like chocolate fountain while everything goes in slow motion and “Cherry Pie” plays. If I’m pulling out my ponytail it’s because my hair has claimed yet another hair tie victim, snapping and devouring it’s rubber band core. But I’m not going to realize for at least 5 minutes because my copper wire hair will retain it’s shape with such a thick dent that rain water can pool there and birds perch on my fly aways for a drink on a hot summer’s day.  

I don’t care how my hair looks, if I even feel like I’m having a bad hair day, my mood has gone to shit. The only thing that makes me more mad than a NCIS marathon when I was expecting SVU, is when someone says, “hurry up, your hair looks fine.” Fine? FINE?! If I was going for FINE I would have put my hair in a ponytail with a headband, the safety school of hair do’s. But that means I can’t wear earrings, I am a strictly 1 accessory from the chin up kind of girl. I’m not trying to look like a 90′s yearbook picture in my 20′s. 

I never go to the gym for “arms day” because any time I straighten my hair is like three sets of a billion push-ups. When I schedule a blowout or haircut my regular stylist ditches her acrylic platform heels for head-to-toe Under Armuor. Crossfit should add a station where guys have to brush my hair when I get out of the pool. Flip some tires, now set a new PR detangling my knots with a comb. 

I go through shampoo and conditioner they way McDonald’s burns through ketchup. I need to talk to a concession stand and see where they buy their huge condiment pumps and see if I can have them order a couple extra for me to use in the shower. Pantene need to offer products in keg size. 

I’m having a hard time finding the line between messy bun chic, and messy bun homeless. I actually have a Pintrest board for messy buns. I don’t understand how some messy buns are unacceptable for a college dining hall, but others you can add red lipstick and wear to work and everyone thinks you’re “on fleek,” (I had to Google that, I thought fleek was getting high on allergy pills mixed with axe body spray or something). I also hate man buns, not because I find them unattractive but because I am jealous. I’ve been a girl for almost 25 years, how do Thor and Orlando Bloom freaking do it. Double. Standard. 

But if I am having a good hair day I feel like I can do anything- except most things that require time because I already spent 75% of my day washing, brushing, combing, drying, styling, straightening, curling, and spraying into place the high maintenance monster that is my hair. I aspire to be one of those old ladies that gets her hair done three times a week and never raises her arms above her shoulders ever again.

Scroll down to what you’re drinking, or usually drink, for your alcohol whore-o-scope. If I didn’t list your go-to beverage just pick the closest one or an ingredient in your usual.

Champagne

Bravo is your favorite network. You justify every purchase by telling yourself how much you deserve it. You want to Honeymoon in Greece. It’s not that you don’t like salad, it just never makes you feel full. You grocery shop with reusable Lululemon bags. You never leave the house without putting on mascara first. You’re constantly talk about how stressed you are. You only wear Essie nail polish colors. You use the word “chic” too much. 

Gin and Tonic

Your favorite show is “Mad Men.” You saw one episode three seasons ago, but you want your 612 followers, mostly high school friends’ younger siblings, to think you have a smart sense of humor. Your clean clothes are never hung up. You’re really bad at keeping pets alive. You have to set 5 alarms to wake-up. You drink everything with a straw.  

Vodka Soda

You graduated 3-5 years ago but lost your alcohol tolerance the second you moved out of college housing. You purchase shoes from a “members only website” (ShoeMint, ShoeDazzle, JustFab) that makes you take a personal style quiz. Your drunk crying is the reason Uber drivers carry kleenex. You prefer dry shampoo to actually washing your hair, and still use your .edu e-mail address. You applied to Law School because you heard they have school dances. Everyone you went to high school with is engaged. 

Vodka Soda Splash of Cran

You get UTIs if you drink too much

Red Wine

You have a career job, which means lots of new blazers from H&M and no more shopping the teen section of Target where you’ve convinced yourself you still fit a size small. The “culture” of where you work is important to you. You tell people you really like your signature. You dinner bill, including tip, *has* to end in 00. You’re really high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance. You love staycations and BYOB painting classes. IDK Olivia Pope?

White Wine

You’re wearing yoga pants right now, aren’t you? You participate in at least two Bachelor brackets. You list “social media” as a proficiency on your resume. You played three sports in High School. Gillian Flynn novels are your favorite and you’re really into nail art right now. You’ve attended a boy band reunion concert and consider you mom one of your best friends. You rather buy new underwear than do laundry.

Canned Beer

You talk in the third person when you’re blackout. You’ve participated in “celebrity doppleganger week” on Facebook. You wear sneakers when you go outlet shopping. You tell people not religious but you’re spiritual. You have a ringback tone. You own a pair of Old Navy Bermuda shorts. You have unpaid parking tickets from a city you no longer live in. You listen to Pandora during work. You say “hashtag” too much.

Bottled Beer

You’re really passionate about telling people to adopt rescue pets. You love taking Buzzfeed and Zimbio quizzes, but you never post your results. You hate girls that wear heels to sports games. Your car has a lot of bumper stickers. You’re really into posting and reading Yelp reviews. You still owe your parents money for a drunk related hospital visit in college. You’ve seen every episode of Friends. 

Hard Cider

You’re a dog person. You were really upset when Groupon got rid of shooting range offers. You never started a college paper sooner than the night before it was due. You’ve stolen an inflatable pool from someone else’s yard. Your favorite restaurant is Taco Bell. You own, but never wear, a Fitbit. You’re asleep by 10 PM. You think you’re better at doing accents than you actually are.

Fireball Shots

You’re in a relationship but love playing Tinder with your friends’ phones. Your primary goal when you go out is to take a new profile picture. You own a “COLLEGE” sweatshirt but never saw Animal House. You own a kindle but only use it to read “50 Shades of Grey.” You cut other girls in the bathroom line. You have a regular babysitting job. You’re constantly correcting other peoples’ grammar. 

Red Bull Vodka

All of your friends are younger than you. You’ve had huge boobs since 5th grade. You minored in Spanish to impress people on spring break. You think Taylor Swift is writing about your life. Black Friday is your favorite day of the year. You saw all of the Harry Potter movies at midnight. You still go on Chat Roulette. You go to IKEA for the food.

Anything with Tequila

Your family used to go on a lot of cruises. You’re the slightly less attractive half of twins. All you’ve ever wanted is a princess wedding. You never remember how you got home. You have a hot older brother and feel insecure about your female friendships. Good Will Hunting is your favorite movie. You’ve participated in a club’s sexy Halloween Costume Contest.

Mojito

You’re a stay at home mom with an internet boyfriend. You went to nursing school. You’re really proud of yourself for voting for Obama. You consider Olive Garden fine dining. You’re afraid of heights but your dream proposal is in a hot air balloon. You start listening to Christmas music the day after Halloween. You’ve tried a juice cleanse. You’re always cold- it can be 80 degrees out and you still wish you had a sweater.

Rum and Coke

Your last name on Facebook is actually your middle name. You want your bachelor or bachelorette party to be in Las Vegas. You’re still in love with your first boyfriend or girlfriend. You really don’t want kids. You can’t tell the difference between Sandra Bullock and Julia Roberts. You intern at your dad’s company. You change the song at parties when it’s only halfway through. You sing Green Day at karaoke night.

Whiskey

Most presents you receive are from Brookstone. Your favorite accessory is your reusable water bottle. You work at a standing desk. You call movies, films. You take pictures doing yoga on mountains. You know someone really good at coffee froth art. You’ve named your future children, but prefer unisex names like Ryan or Sam. You like the idea of gambling more than actually gambling. You never remember to take out your contacts before bed.

Long Island

You know all the words to every Nick Minaj rap, but can’t remember your home phone number. You like to tell guys you used to be a gymnast, but don’t tell them that was only during 3rd to 7th grade. You have multiple e-mail accounts so you can get a new subscription discounts at your favorite stores. You bought a homecoming dress from Bebe in High School. You drink a lot of Diet Coke. You request the Cupid Shuffle at weddings. 

Cosmo