The Frenemy.

A Short List of Things I Do Not Understand

Sun, 16 Jun 2013 16:40:00 -0400

When a dress you really like has one of those stupid thick elastic bands underneath the boobs and your body immediately looks like dogshit in the dress.
Also: Surprise! The dress is actually a romper
Why Facebook keeps putting dieting ads and engagement rings as ‘suggested posts’ for me NO THANKS
Hot avocado
You’d think that with 2 jillion movie and television options on Netflix, I would find something I want to watch in under 6 hours
How to keep nail polish from chipping—it’s not like my job is to run my hands in a sander or dip my hands into acid, which is what you’d think if you saw my nails
I do not JUDGE you, but I do not understand people who say things like “I like getting up early” “I don’t really watch television” “No, just one drink for me” and “no more pizza, thank you” because if there was unlimited pizza I would eat it till I was dead.
Why I cannot just waltz into any McDonald’s and get an Egg McMuffin at 11pm like I’ve wanted to do ALL MY LIFE
Every innocent sandal that feels like it will be comfortable and then rips my skin off with its gladiator teeth halfway through my walk
T-shirts with long messages on them worn outside of the house with say, pants.
Why I cannot remember where I have put my phone but I still remember the lyrics of Mulan’s “I’ll Make A Man Out Of You” after 15 years
Like, I get it, the ’90s were great but jesus slow your load a bit on that
Music that portrays clubs as fun and exciting and don’t mention the words “sweat” “profusely” or “Ed Hardy”
The older generation for their unwavering belief that chain e-mails are hilarious, informative, and should be sent out 40 times a day
Why I mostly always dread getting in the shower but when I get in I find it to be one of the top moments of my existence
A successful messy bun
The person that decides to GO THERE and makes an insane racist comment or sexist comment on a Youtube video about cats or something

This is to show you despite slathering on SPF 100 like it is...

Sat, 15 Jun 2013 15:28:00 -0400

This is to show you despite slathering on SPF 100 like it is cream cheese and you are a bagel, if you tan near the Equator and your dad is a white-lobster-Irish-Wall Street Journal Reader-John Smith mofo-white-man, you will burn. You will burn so much despite your mother’s Puerto Rican Pocahontas caramel skin you hope you have inherited. You didn’t inherit her caramel skin except, oddly enough, on your feet. Ah. Instead, you will peel out like a getaway car. You will peel like a grape although you have never peeled a grape. You will look a tomato wearing a very cute polka-dotted bathing suit. You will get blisters on your head and wake up at 4am, convinced you will lose your hair from the blisters, and actually cry real tears to your bf “but I don’t want to look like The HOOUNNND” (GoT)

You will burn. Happy Summer! At least there is 1,000 Pina Coladas to drink. Summer 2013! You will burn, fools! All of you!

Vacation Tips

Thu, 06 Jun 2013 22:48:00 -0400

I’m going to Aruba next week with my borgfriend, a man who I love but also really wanted to see “After Earth” in theaters. Now, I’m not telling you this to a)encourage you to rob me (all I own is dirty underwear and an original copy of The Declaration of Independence) or b) brag about my amazing life. I do not have an amazing life. I have gas and a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I am telling you this because I have been preparing for this trip for approximately 86 months and I feel I have some tips to impart to the masses so you can get ready for a vacation, too. It’s summer! Go get the hell out of here, go slug around in your friends dad’s beach house for fuck’s sake, stop being on the Internet and reading my moronic bullshit and sad reactions The Red Wedding. So. Here are those tips:

1. Shave in Two Parts: I have been pumping myself up for the day when ultimately, I will have to look death in the face and tackle my shaving routine. No amount of Skinitimate Cupcake Raspberry will make this any easier for me. No catchy Venus razor commercials will fix the fact that I’m climbing up a Chewbacca mountain with only five blades and an iron will to get myself through. Yo. If you don’t want to shave I am so jealous and so proud of you but also as a feminist it is my preference to be clean-shaven 2 days a year and then hairy-patched for the rest. SO. If you wanna be shaved in the bikini line and legs and all that jazz, do it in two parts. Do like, the legs and half the bikini line first and all the weird tummy hair first. This will be gross: there are so many weird angles you will do in the shower and you will see parts of the body you don’t know existed. But power through it. Lay on the ground for six hours pouring beer on yourself like honey afterward. And then tackle the rest the next day with clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.

2. Be the kind of person who doesn’t think their plane is gonna crash: A great part of traveling for me is my constant, dreadful fear of my plane crashing into water and killing me before I get to try a cronut. Why? I don’t know. Blame the news. Blame Castaway. Blame Serious Eats for making a cronut sound so goddamn delicious. Either way, I have devised a plane: Xanax, for one. For two, I will be listening to Big Pimpin’ the entire time. I don’t think anybody has ever died to Big Pimpin’. It’s foolproof, until the plane moves and I shit my pants.

3. Buy these shorts: These shorts look like dog crap on this model and they are from Charlotte Russe, which is a place I believe my old middle school jewelry was reincarnated. But they are honestly the most comfortable shorts I have ever put on and I can move around without cheek exposure. They are borderline pushing it with the style and might even be for kids who think they are “hipsters.” I fucking love them so much.

4. And this lotion: This is also the real shit. It’s lotion you spray on, and if you think this is a sponsored post you are out of your goddamn mind. Who would pay me for this, ‘specially because I usually think Vaseline lotion sucks. But this kind is the greatest. It goes on like bug spray and smells like pastries and you don’t get the gross stuff all over your hands. I’m as soft as a baby’s undeveloped skull now. I am beach ready, except for..

5. Keep relatively low expectations about the bathing suit: I was VERY sure I was going to go into ONE store and find a vintage one-piece polka-dotted high-waisted bikini and automatically I would be good at red lipstick and posing for pictures. Nah. I went to Target and found out some bathing suits made my boobs go east-west. But who cares! It’s TARGET. Target is like Trader Joe’s: Fuck how good it actually is, it’s just automatically cool cuz you got it there. So baby, I got my bathing suit at Target and it looks okay and I’m gonna have fun in the sun no matter what cuz I ain’t a celebrity and they are not documenting this whole thing.

6. Don’t try to lose 5 pounds before vacation: Try that taco place I’ve been meaning to try and tell me about it. Drink light beer if you have to, but for gosh sakes plz get the fried thing it is summer get the fried thing.

7. Get a pedicure and manicure: Don’t do that shit yourself, girl. Lord knows what happens when you DIY that.

8. TSA flight rules for liquids are actually pretty annoying: Okay. Mascara is a liquid. Liquid eyeliner is a liquid. Quart bags are very small, like the size of the Ziplog bag you put your pita chips in. You can’t bring enough sunscreen or enough shampoo, so go with the sunscreen. You can bring a razor. You think you have enough to fit travel-sized things until you realize you need stuff for your hair and moisturizer and face wash, too. Choose two of the three.

9. The book you want to read exists, it just takes forever to find: I want a strong female lead in a fantasy role that is also a murder mystery but not in a stupid way and it’s a funny memoir about dating in New York City. I’m still deciding what I want to buy. If you are NOT me, you can *cough cough* get my book (Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse) because I got really guilty that I didn’t mention Pitbull but I DID mention Pitbull in this book. Did I tell you guys it is actually in Cosmo Magazine this month? I had nothing to do with this but fucking WHAT that is a SURPRISING ODDITY. I’m digressing. Get a good book. Don’t get a book that will make you cry on the beach.

10. HERE IS A PICTURE OF MY DOG HUMPING A COUCH

BUT if you are going on vacation do the following: don’t get too nervous about losing your flip flops. Bring a towel. Lay off your phone. Pack two days before and think about what’s in there. Don’t care about what your hair looks like. Plan to eat things with your hands and also eat whatever you want. Take pictures. Take mental pictures.

Wherever you are, vacation or not, have some fun. FROYOLO, okay?

A Reminder

Mon, 03 Jun 2013 23:13:00 -0400

Wearing a bathing suit should not be scary. You would not rather eat cat food than find a bathing suit. You have a stretch mark or two or three but nobody gets arrested for that shit. That shit is okay. I like your thighs. Take care of your feet. You do not have to transform into Lana Del Ray because it is summertime. You do not have to have the flattest stomach. Dance sexy in your bedroom wearing your bathing suit. People are not looking at you as much as they think you are. You will not shape yourself to a lingerie ad. Bikini season is not what it’s called. Other people (even the ones with the bodies you want) are worried about how they look, too. You are an educated young person who knows better and will teach confidence and poise and being a motherfucking boss to those who will soon be ready to release their bossness, too. You will do that in your cute bathing suit. You look nice in your bathing suit. Your body is not your value. You are having fun at the beach. Fuck that noise. You do not have to wear coral lipstick and find a big floppy hat if you don’t want to. You will not waste your time with this self-pity nonsense. You have to wear sunscreen. You are beautiful and you are nice except in the morning. Being beautiful is not the most important thing. Tummies are fine. Get melted ice cream on your tummy. You are having fun AT THE BEACH. Have a good fucking summer. Wearing a bathing suit should not be scary.

TMI Tuesday

Tue, 28 May 2013 22:09:19 -0400

1) I’ve been staring at pictures from foodporndaily and I think that I would subscribe to a late night channel that only had slow scenes of cheese being pulled apart/avocados being sensually smushed/poached eggs popping (over the sounds of sexy porn Cheesecake Factory music)

2. Here’s an article I wrote for the Hairpin!

3. My friends Shane (who designed my sweet book release poster) and Brooks have some music out today with their band Octopus Mask. You should listen to it. I’ve also been listening to a lot of Selena Gomez music and that song “Come and Get It” is actually just a very threatening song. She’s like “once I get you’ll I’ll never LEAVE you” and sheesh Selena. Sheesh!

4. TMI: I have tweezers that I don’t just use for my EYEBROWS

5. I’m announcing this so you can hold me to it—The Frenemy is gonna be a vlog! This summer, I’ll be doing weekly vids that cover bad advice/songs I hate/beauty products I bought and hate/shitty clothes I buy and hate at Forever21/cheese. Lemme know via my ask or my ass what things you might wanna see on it and what questions you might want me to answer.

6. I love dresses with pockets so I can secretly scratch myself whilst walking down the street

"I want nothing more than to be the Angela to someone’s Shawn; to be the cool girl who makes..."

Sat, 25 May 2013 10:52:39 -0400

“I want nothing more than to be the Angela to someone’s Shawn; to be the cool girl who makes the bad boy realize that love is possible and worth it. Looking back, I wish I had just watched The Brady Bunch as a kid and looked for guys with resilient attitudes towards divorce, but no-go. Boy Meets World set me on a warpath to falling for men who would never call me, and I could not assume it was because he was hanging out with his elderly principal.”

- A quote from Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse about how Shawn Hunter fucked up my dating life, cuz if you’re doing nothing this weekend/on the beach you could do me a solid and pick up my book. That would be nice! Now excuse me, I’m going to put on a sweatshirt cuz it’s fucking cold out. Happy Memorial Day!

*Nothing pisses me off more than people romanticizing the Great Gatsby quote “I hope she’ll be a...

Wed, 22 May 2013 13:41:00 -0400

*Nothing pisses me off more than people romanticizing the Great Gatsby quote

“I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” Oh, great! Love seeing this picture over Instagram photos of lipstick and flowers and shit. Daisy Buchanan was a flowery weed in flapper sequins. The best thing a girl can be in the modern world (where some psycho bazillonaire with great hair and an anger problem isn’t pining after her like a golden fucking ice cream cone) is a tough warrior. A smart cookie. An empathizer, a pirate, a time-traveler, a sweet nurturer, a rebel, a hard worker, a UNICORN. Not a fucking fool who is totes pretty.

Great book, though!

*currently. Yesterday nothing pissed me off more than the 6 train

Seen in Astoria. Learned in college.

Mon, 20 May 2013 20:32:00 -0400

Seen in Astoria. Learned in college.

To People Who Have Graduated College A Couple Of Years Ago

Thu, 16 May 2013 22:26:00 -0400

A couple of years ago, (around this time although I do not remember the day nor does it warrant looking up) I, too, graduated college.

That’s right, you fresh crop of Facebook photo albums, I ALSO once carried a smart phone while frantically looking for my parents post-ceremony, lost in a sea of light cardigans and Ann Taylor mom pants. That’s right, you group shots of bright cheeks and “it’s weird that I hooked up with him and he got in this picture anyway!” I was there once. I held the diploma and then stuck it on my wall instead of burning or eating it. I did it as well.

Time, you devil. I look at these Twitter statuses, ye throngs of faithful social media mavens, displaying optimism and fear and all that lies in between—and I feel old. Well, not old in the way Rose was SO old she deemed it perfectly fine to drop a bajillion dollar necklace in the sea. Old in the way that my bread feels old: moldly, but still potentially usable.

In dark moments, I look at those Bambi babies, tassels hanging jauntily in front of their faces, covering their eyes to the real world beyond it, and I feel pangs of jealousy. Just that moment of pride, with all those moments of Jane Eyre knowledge and some finance textbooks to build a canoe that navigates these choppy waters. I wish I could re-grab that feeling of newness and accomplishment and wonder at the possibility of it all. I’m old hat, baby! I’m the god’s honest truth. Just another crusty millenial declaring her lack of direction while wearing wine-covered thighs at an age where that is getting a bit concerning. She’s adept at LinkedIn! She relaxes at home to the Shawshank Redemption and glossy Essie Topcoat! Reality has hit her like a ton of bricks she will one day build a house to mortgage. Re: having a job is: hard and tiring and you pay your bills and then you get more bills. Living on your own is: hard and tiring and you make food for yourself and it still eventually spoils. Remembering to wash your towels on a daily basis. Getting the smell out of your living room. Money falling out of your hands and you don’t get a reward for complaining and nobody cares that you are COMPLAINING. Sure, there’s a pinch of glamour aka you can buy see-through shirts and leave the house without your mother getting mad at you, but huh. A couple of years later, and the freshness has worn off.

I’m not a new graduate anymore. I don[‘t feel like one. I’m an adult and I know Starbucks is a luxury. I don’t get to make the mistakes I made when I was 21.

“Oh new starts, where are thou?” I think wearily in the same large t-shirt I’ve had since college, eating cereal by the handful and contemplating bed at 10pm. My new start milestones are growing far and farther in between—get a job, get a career, get married, have a kid who will stick an IV into your bank account, watch Lindsay Lohan have a triumphant comeback, follow your dreams and die. Maybe rent a car at some point. Start falling asleep earlier.

I realize this is all very self-absorbed. I am very aware every time the Justin Timberlake meme pops his”It’s gonna be MAY” head up, I don’t deserve a parade of drinks and cards and money and stern speeches by various alumni authors and scientists. I am also very aware that my childhood is over. I don’t write papers and complain about my refusal to do write down my cites sourced until the very end. I don’t sit on the rough carpets of dorm rooms, or drink melted fro-yo in a cafeteria that is celebrating Mexican culture with a “Taco Tuesday,” or skip class and lay in the park. I don’t buy binders. And sometimes I miss it so much, like the way I miss Rugrats or jelly sandals or recess. Sometimes I miss it so much I can’t think straight.

But mostly, I don’t. This is important: mostly, I don’t.

The girl who put on a graduation gown was deeply insecure, still drank Four Loko and bit her nails and didn’t know what she wanted to do or how to balance a checkbook. Now, she knows things. How to weave through a crowd of tired people at 9am to get the best seat on the subway. How to read a book for pleasure instead of going out. She doesn’t wear a leather jacket with short shorts because she checks the weather channel. She knows that love is important but not the only thing. She has had a Negroni. She has paid off a credit card bill without her parents help. She has burnt the fuck out of a quiche. She has made friends and lost them. She has watched CSI go into it’s, like, 50th sesaon.

I have learned things in the last couple of years. Things I didn’t learn in a CLASSROOM, sure, but things I couldn’t have possibly learned when I was young and a little bit dumber.

See, oh youth? I have more to go. YOU have more to go. I will fail more and then subsequently. I will one day wear white pants without staining them and travel on a budget and deal with loss gracefully and let go at appropriate times. I will one day take hardships standing up. I won’t get a gold star for it, but hell, I’ll have my own life. Cuz the real heart of it is this:

We’re still learning, baby. Come this May and the next, we’re still learning.

And here I am in what I now know to be the brightest and loudest outfit I own. The Kraft Singles to...

Sun, 12 May 2013 22:16:20 -0400

And here I am in what I now know to be the brightest and loudest outfit I own. The Kraft Singles to a Eugene Mirman/Stephen Colbert sandwich. I’d say this be a good fuckin’ week.

P.S. I played LIFE the board game this weekend for the first time in years. It’s a lot more sobering now, although a lot easier to find a job (Cop: 100,000 a year) and a lot easier to purchase a house (split level: later destroyed by tornado).

Party Tonight!

Fri, 10 May 2013 11:06:00 -0400

I am very excited for the party tonight. So excited, I’m actually listening to Pitbull right now. It’s VERY humbling (after all, you can see him in Times Square with a Kodak).

Here’s the Facebook invite again.

And if you can’t make that but still want to hang, OR if you’re coming and want to continue to hang out:

AFTERPARTY IS AT TEN AT WHISKEY WARD (121 Essex Street) IN THE LOWER EAST SIDE.

It’s a whiskey bar. I saw Millie from Freaks and Geeks there. SO excited about tonight—I want to meet you and also I want to drink.

Thought of The Day: Facial Scrub

Thu, 09 May 2013 10:43:00 -0400

Sometimes, a girl just needs to slather shit all over her face.

I bought this Avocado/Oatmeal/Olive Oil/Condiment Facial Mask (masque) and put a thick layer all over my mug last night. Now, a true evolution of my character happened when I stopped thinking facial masks were a way to make stepmothers seem scary in children’s movies. Now I treasure them. I love clay ones, too. Dirt. I would put dirt on my face if it would make my skin glow. Alida: 0 Commercial Magazines: Infinity!

So I left it on through most of the movie GHOST with Patrick Swayze, and I should point out I almost always thought his best friend Mr. Murdery Guy who is now on that show Scandal was cuter than Patrick.

But that’s not the point. I put that stuff on my face and my face felt like a baby’s ass, a very accurate description that makes me uncomfortable almost every time I use it. I’ve used it maybe twice. I haven’t had the opportunity to change a baby’s diaper, thus be exposed to its ass, in years.

My face felt great and I even put this expensive Aveeno moisturizer on it that smells like peaches and costs more than 6 drugstore nail polishes. A vertiable fortune.

AND I woke up with a huge pimple on my jawline. It’s throbbing. It’s alive. It speaks to me like Audrey II the plant. I tried to deflect my face by wearing a cute floral outfit, but nobody’s buying the snake oil I’m sellin’. So it goes, I say. So. It. Goes.

I’m never putting anything on my face and I will continue to dry it out and destroy it with booze. Lesson learned, Universe!

Daily Thought: My Dream Fridge

Wed, 08 May 2013 12:43:00 -0400

Instead of posting less because I have a book (the annoying curse of blog-to book), I have decided to post more. It usually takes me a couple of days to form the cohesive thoughts of a big ole post, which I won’t stop doing about [feminism! Body image! Lists about summer!] Now, I want you guys to kind of peek into my life a bit. If you think this is a shitty idea, let me know via compliments and praise.

Today, I’ve been thinking a lot about my desire for a real adultfridge. I went on a mini-vacay last weekend, to my BFF’s hometown, and I was quite impressed with her mom’s fridge. Now—my fridge has evolved in the past few years, but is nowhere close to being perfect. In college it was beer and mustard and three-week old leftovers. Now it’s ginger ale and three-week old leftovers and cheese of questionable age. To create a vision-board post of sorts, in the hopes I can one day obtain perfection. here is my perfect dream fridge. One must start from somewhere, and for me, that somewhere cannot be grocery shopping.

List:

-One correctly saran-wrapped hunk of parmesan. Totally real. Not even powdered.

-A gourmet Dijon mustard, followed quite closely by a mustard made with some sort of exotic ingredient like whiskey or diamonds or human sweat

-Fresh, not even close to moldy cream cheese. Whipped NOT stirred. See also: a delightful and creamy French soft cheese, the kind of cheese with rind and granules, perhaps a mozzarella?

-My bistro leftovers from last night—perhaps a salmon encased in a heavenly dill sauce or seasonal vegetables in a truffled potato whip

-An unopen jar of butternut squash pasta sauce. Gourmet and goes SO well with the various fresh-and-thus-refrigerated raviolis

-Age-appropriate arugula. Non-wilted, standing at attention.

-A variety of fresh herbs: parsley and basil and the like, of course, but also thyme, which I never know what the fuck to do with. But I will!

-A six-pack of dark beer and a bottle of champagne for my next “celebration with friends!”

-Raspberrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrries. Let it roll off your tongue like a rich person rolls in royces.

-Would you like to try my chicken stock/homemade soup? I have a little bit leftover.

-Sparkling French Pink lemonade in preparation for my next delicate hangover

-A beautiful carafe of New York Tap Water with crisp slices of cucumber and lemon inside of it

-Pesto sauce, usually a million dollars a bottle for about one teaspoon

-What the fuck kind of person has capers and cornichons available at ALL TIMES? Two thumbs, pointed right towards THIS GIRL.

-Olives from the OLIVE BAR.

-Creamy hummus that has some sprinkling of herbs and TAHINI that I took from my own

-An eggplant I plan on using, garlic that I will slice so thin it will melt on your greedy stinky mouth, an onion that hasn’t grown another onion family upon it. A non-mealy tomato for my next mealy.

-Extra-firm tofu without the gross tofu water leaking out all over my fridge. For use with a spur-of-the-moment stir fry!

-A crusty loaf of artisanal bread. Crusty for sandwiches or even a naughty grilled cheese!

-Actual, tangible, 100% real salad dressing. Something ridiculous sounding, ie Champagne Vinagrette From The Iron Throne, Raspberry Vinagrette with Gold-Plated Almonds

-Milk. For once. Milk.

Bonus—Freezer Section: One pint of decadent, artisanal, local organic ice cream, with sea-salt caramel or raspberry jizz. Freshly square and perfectly made ice cubes. The BEST frozen food the world has to offer (Kashi or Amy’s). Meat I have locally butchered. Veggie burgers that aren’t rock hard and freezer burned. Some sort of frozen sauce I can unthaw because I am INDEPENDENT. HONEY WHISKEY.

Price: One million dollars, a grocery store that doesn’t exist in any neighborhood I can afford drinks in, and more emotional maturity than I will ever have.

So today is the day my first book comes out. “Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse” can be purchased at all...

Tue, 07 May 2013 11:26:00 -0400

So today is the day my first book comes out. “Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse” can be purchased at all the book stores I used to go to and wish in.

I am wearing an uncharacteristically colorful dress and I am getting cheese fries for lunch because I don’t truly know how to celebrate this. It is a dream. I do not know how to celebrate when dreams come true, when dreams are made of late nights and nerves and a hill you can’t see over yet.

But I do know this—we are all made of potential and possibilities. Things do not just happen to those lying in wait of those things. We must be more than those dusty blankets we wrap ourselves in: pain, fear, history. Your life is ready to start when you emerge. Your life is ready to hear you speak out loud.

But now! All the words I can form are thank you, thank you, thank you, onward!

Winner of the Giveaway

Mon, 06 May 2013 21:55:56 -0400

Congratulations to coercedintoobsession for winning a bunch of crap from MEEEEE. Thanks to everybody on Fbook and Tumblr for preordering and entering.

Lady, all you gotta do is email me at IAmTheFrenemy@gmail.com with proof of preorder and your address, and I will FIND YOU. Or mail you stuff. Doooo it by tomorrow by 3pm or I’ll choose again.

For everybody who didn’t win, I’m sorry. I’ve never won anything, but I also haven’t entered a lot of contests.

What I Learned When Writing A Book

Mon, 06 May 2013 10:36:00 -0400

So it’s the dawn of my book release and I am feeling many things. Nerves. Excitement. A stomachache because I decided to get a Dunkin Donuts breakfast wrap this morning. An ungodly Monday decision.

[Note: Wanna buy a book early? Links are on the side of the page. Read the post below and learn how to be involved in a pre-order giveaway, which ends tonight!]

I was going to write a post, something along the lines of “ten things I learned when writing a book,” because I learned a lot of things. The short list: don’t let Red Bull get warm, nobody is entitled to success, wash your pajamas. The longer list: the worst part of writing and life are the times you have to delete/let go of a part you really love, but oftentimes this process makes you stronger and better. And seriously, just because they are pajamas doesn’t mean you should let them get SO DIRTY.

However, on the dawn of my book release, I realize that I’m feeling VERY On Golden Pond nostalgic, so I decided the thing I really wanted to say.

I came to the Frenemy three years ago without any real mission. Correction. Three years ago, I had no real mission or purpose or cause in general/in life. I was the kind of floating algae at the top of the pond, slapping down margaritas and trying to become obsessed with a new television show and working so I could buy new shoes I could scuff in like a week. So I sort of bought into a lot of things. I believed my self-worth was in my stomach abs. I believed that beautiful women were the ones who looked strong but “were broken inside,” whatever the fuck that means. I believed that I was one of the guys. And when I started The Frenemy, that was generally how I felt.

Three fucking years later, and I have my mission. Maybe I am calling it a mission because I am reading The Hunger Games right now and it makes real life seem pretty banal. But if I had one thing that I wanted to teach one person before I die, it is this:

Girls should not be taught to break. We are not a sea of broken women, who read into things like “inside I am crying and fragile and ripped” and believe that there is beauty in that, that there is nobility in being hurt by a man or by life and letting it destroy us a little. Girls should want love but not be defined by it. The heart is a muscle. It is meant to grow stronger as it gets used. The heart is a metaphor. We are blood and bone and the strengths of our mind. We are strong.

Girls should be taught that they are born in bodies that aren’t defined by imperfections. Stretch marks do not make our bodies less useful. Bigger noses or thighs or butts are marks of our individuality and they do not make our bodies any less useful. The lie that you are not beautiful is the biggest lie you’ll ever be told, and you’ll be told it every day till you die. You do not have to believe this lie. Treat the body like a tool and a temple. Take care of it and make it smell nice and work it and refuse to submit to the idea of somebody else’s perfect architecture for it.

Girls should be taught to be allies. Little boys are put on sports teams and are told to work together, give each other high-fives and pats on the back, grow older to call each other Eskimo brothers and drinking buddies. Women go into bars and stare at each other like “hey, I’m pretty too, bitch.” We are small islands, put together in packs of 1 or 2 or 5, clinging to the idea of “my girlfriends are the greatest” and “the rest of them are the enemy.” We fight over nothing bullshit like tall men and tall shoes and whose nonfat latte is more nonfat. Weak is in lack of numbers. There is strength in sisterhood, in learning who somebody is before dismissing them, in starting off with a white flag, a handshake, a surrender to the feelings that women are our sole competition. Girls should realize there is a world out there built on letting us down, and that this is not the world we will choose to live in.

Girls should embrace their decisions. Girls should be proud of what they wear, of their choice to have sex or abstain from it, of their choice to be a girl or to not be a girl, of their choice to marry or not to marry. Girls should learn from their mistakes of eating pizza at 2am or not taking that job. Girls should choose who and how many people they sleep with. Whatever their decision is, girls should embrace it. They should embrace and celebrate their choices, their free choices. May they no longer be chained and condemned to what they SHOULD do. May they only feel the freedom of seeing how their choices shape what they COULD do.

Girls should be taught that being a girl means being however they choose to define what being a girl means, because we are smart and strong and together.

This is what I really learned while writing a book while growing up. May you and I learn much more in the years to come.

That being said, I can’t fucking wait till tomorrow.

Preorder Giveaway!

Thu, 02 May 2013 11:08:00 -0400

So I’ve been yapping my face off about this for forever now, but my book comes out May 7th. In fact, I just finished buying my outfit for the book party yesterday. Hint: I am going to break my ankle in leather wedges, and I am now in debt thanks to TopShop jewelry. Is it better quality than Forever 21’s? Probably and definitely not!

Are you coming to my partaaaay?

Anyway, the book comes out on Tuesday but if you want to pre-order it now you should do so. The Kirkus Review says, “This book, like one of its myriad cocktails, is dry, dirty and surprisingly refreshing.” So I think it’s pretty okay to read! And for extra incentive, I’m having a preorder giveaway.

Here’s what you do: You comment on this post OR The Frenemy Facebook Wall if you don’t have a Tumblr. Say something like “hey, bitch, I preordered!” Do it by Monday at 5pm and I will choose a winner at random (I have a very archaic way to do this that involves an Effie Trinket-esque fishing of paper out of a bowl). That winner will be contacted; you’ll have to show me proof of pre-order and BAM! You get:

-A personalized letter written by me

-A Penguin Books goody bag, delightfully chosen by my awesome editor Kate

-Frenemy-esque knickknacks of my choosing which COULD include but are not limited to: tights that will rip immediately, neon nail polish, cheapo jewelry, and pickle chips.

SO there you go! This is book week, baby dolls, and I am so pumped I am going to chew my own knuckles off.

Chest Talk

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 12:37:00 -0400

Trigger warning here!

I went dress shopping the other day. I went dress shopping the other day and brought my breasts with me. This proved to be a minor issue, and I believe I should have left them at home.

Dress shopping, for me, is a montage of large-breasted issues. 99 Problems and my D-Cup is 97 of those in this particular situation, the other two being my issue with zipping and my intense hatred of fluorescent lights. For one thing, I actually have no real dress size. It is either “oh look, my breasts are crying. That’s interesting. I assume it must be because I am choking them to death. Better go a size up!!” or “I went a size up and now this dress is baggy around my shoulders.” I am 4’11 with a large chest, and I think it is because this is evolution’s way of allowing people to identify me as not a child. Truth: I get carded at all bars anyway, because I look like a 13-year-old with large breasts. So.

Anyway, I went dress shopping and it reminded me, as always, of the breasts I truly want. I’ll give you a hint—they are small and a B-Cup and they are perky as hell in a crop top, no bra. These are my dream breasts, the dream breasts that have continued to be my dream even after all of the other body-structure issues dropped away. I have (Cosmo encouraged, I’m afraid) finally embraced my curly hair. I have decided that although my nose is not strong like Ashlee Simpson’s, I can still smell out of it just fine. Still, every time summer comes along and girls start darting around like gazelle in summer sundresses, I wish to have smaller breasts.

I get that they are useful in many ways. I store all kinds of cookie and chip crumbs there. I can grab them lazily on the couch or while I am in pain at the dentist’s office. I can put things in between the cracks of them. I appreciate them in the confines of my apartment, layering bras to make them perky, swagging around the house for my roommates or boyfriend or my mirror. But here’s a small truth: I’ve never worn a bikini in a public place. Now, granted, many of my bikini-wearing years were plagued with curl-up-in-a-ball-wahh-I-weighed-myself-barf-barf-bullshit. But as I get older and bitch-slap my demons and stand on the top of my dead demons, carrying a sword of feminist justice, I still don’t really want to wear a bikini. I know that I would like myself in a retro-looking high-waisted number. I would feel like Esther Williams and pose on a beach chair. But I have issues with wearing one to the beach, and I still don’t really want to wear: tank tops when it is super-hot out, breast-exposing tops, tops that make the cartoon animals go AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGA and have their eyes fall out. Catcalls! I don’t want catcalls! I don’t want people to talk about my breasts.

This, in truth, has absolutely nothing to do with my breast size. You can have invisible breasts, huge breasts, and medium-sized breasts and there’s another issue here.

Listen, there are nights when I go out and put my breasts in their nice, little push-up number, skin-tight and body-hugged and smoky-eyed. And there are Sunday afternoons when I want to put on a little mini-skirt and go brunching with my cleavage. There are times I want to look attractive and sexy and wowza.

I’d just prefer to have a choice on when to do that. Sometimes, having breasts (large or not) are annoying only because you don’t get to choose when you will be sexualized because of them. And yes, wanting to be considered sexy isn’t a crime, but it should be a choice. Some people really lose their cool at the sight of like, a girl in a shirt. Sometimes, I want to wear a tank top when it’s 90 degrees out and I’m just worried about somebody talking or pointing at my breasts. I still haven’t decided if “nice breasts” is a compliment, even though sometimes it makes me feel okay. But sometimes it makes me wear a Henley—choosing my outfits carefully, making sure I won’t go on the subway and get leered at. Believe me, I don’t get it—-they are just balls of fat that sometimes sweat on the bottom. But people seem to like them SO much, they are featured in mostly every perfume ad in the entire nation. They are very sexy, the world says! And sometimes I wonder why. Mine are kind of blobby, as I think all are.

This, really, is why sometimes I don’t like my breasts all that much. And the cup size isn’t greener on the other side, either, it’s just that when mine are out I feel self-conscious. And sometimes, they don’t. It’s a very complicated world we live in, here—-we are allowed to like and show off the parts of our body we love, but we are also allowed to like/not like the attention we get from them. Contradictory? Kind of, if you’re the kind of person who invades personal space and is an asshole. Don’t be an asshole—don’t touch paintings in the museum just because you think the artist really loved the work he created.

I guess I started writing this with the idea that I’d go “rah, rah, wear your breasts out anyway!” and sometimes I do, but I can’t tell you to do what I don’t really feel comfortable with it. I still feel nervous, even though I’ve spent a million years crafting new-workable-happy ways to feel good about my body. No matter how rah rah I feel about my breasts, you see, if I wear them out, somebody’s gonna say something stupid and nasty. If I wear something IN, somebody’s gonna say something stupid and nasty. The hard shit about all this is—you can change, but you can’t always change the way the world acts. Right away.

So I guess I really wrote this for a couple of reasons: I can’t find a dress, still. Dresses are hard to find, people! That’s a different lesson. I need to find a corset, maybe. Or a bandage dress!

Also: Wear what you want and carry a big stick when you leave the house, but a big stick is your voice, your confidence, and your conviction. Do your thing. I’m putting this out there so it is out there in the world, in the hopes that the tiny ripples of change begin with the vibrations of our voices. And I think our voices are saying things like “Stop. Collaborate. Listen,” and “Get the fuck off our breasts if we’re like, eating ice cream on the sidewalk with our friends.” Don’t be an asshole, either, people of the world!

Also: I’m gonna wear a bikini this summer, anyway, I think. Even though, sadly, this piece has no real ending.

American Girl Doll Ideas

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 10:29:14 -0400

Daenerys Targaryen

Hooker With A Heart of Gold (would not be 12-years-old) (best for Barbie? Research)

Radical Feminist (comes with zine)

Body Positive Fat Acceptance Rebecca

Body Positive Thin-and-Healthy Morgan

Roller Derby Girl “Lana Del Rat”

Drew Barrymore (kid)

The Ones You Design To Look Like You But Actually Look Like You (covered in marinara?) And Not Just Like Molly

Early 2000’s “My only discerning characteristic is my GAP denim jacket and love for AIM”

I think an American Boy doll would be kind of nice, it’s okay for boys to play with dolls (plus, if Felicity identifies as straight she could use a bf her age and stop crushing after that other guy. Paul Revere? Maybe)

Hillary Clinton

American Mean Girl Doll (not to just cash in on trends here, but yes!)

Lil Wayne Life Sized Doll

Hi all! Come to my book party on May 10th. Come meeeet me when...

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 11:18:00 -0400

Hi all!

Come to my book party on May 10th. Come meeeet me when my hair is did and get a book signed and drink free wine and party afterwards:

RSVP to my Facebook event

I would love to see you guys, as you guys are pretty much the reason this shit is happening. Bring friends, friends of friends, and Frenemies HAR HAR HAR BARF.

Flier made by Shane Moore