5 Tips for Your Overnight Bag

On TV and in books I noticed that sometimes, women just fall asleep at mens' apartments/houses without any essentials! I was watching Trainwreck the other day with my boyfriend, and I couldn't believe that Amy didn't have some sort of overnight bag! Does this actually happen? How lazy are we, ladies, that we have forgotten the overnight bag?

Now, some girls might not want to carry overnight bags because they are bulky and too-obvious when walking home the next morning, which is why I decided to write down some must-haves for when spending the night at a guy's (or girl's) place!

1. Toilet Paper

If you are a lesbian, this might not be applicable, but guys never have enough toilet paper. And if your guy has a roommate, there's an even greater chance that the toilet paper is actually being used as paper towels, pillows, or holiday decoration. Or maybe they are competing to see who can go the longest without caving and buying toilet paper. I don't know why guys do these things, but you should be prepared.

2. Hand Towels

No matter how many times I ask, my boyfriend (of over 3 years) does not keep a hand towel in his bathroom. It's a miracle he has soap, honestly, so ladies, bring your own hand towel. Or do what I do and just wipe your hands on your boyfriend's roommate's things in their shared bathroom. Or wave your hands around the room until everything is covered in dabs of water. That's fun too.

3. A Tiny Trash Can

This is where you can store all your overnight items! And afterwards, when carrying it home with you, everyone will just assume you're a trash man! Or homeless, whatever, but the real reason the trash can is important is if you have any items (tampons, pads, skin care items) that you might need to throw away the next morning. Because some guys may not have a trash can in their bathroom (which I have seen), or, if they do, it is completely full with pizza boxes. You will need to dispose of your necessities yourself.

4. Your Retainer

Don't forget that retainer you have had since middle school, ladies! Do you want your man (or lady) to see that you no longer care for your teeth? No, so along with a toothbrush and toothpaste (again, in case the guy doesn't have any toothpaste), after being intimate with your date, make sure to have your old, crusty retainer, and make sure he sees you put it in your mouth! Not only does this tell him that you will make sure your teeth are straight forever, but it also hints that you are done and it's time to go to sleep!

5. Sleeping Pill

The younger the guy, the worse his bed is. My boyfriend still lives at home, so the options are his lumpy futon or his old bunk beds (which are too small for just one grown adult, and he tries sharing the bottom bunk with me.) You will need to find something other than a comfortable bed to put you to sleep.

Almost Losing It to My Best Friend

*Note: I change names to protect the innocently stupid.            

            Now, it wasn't my original plan to lose my virginity to my best/worst friend. In seventh grade sex ed, I was one of the few, proud students (I think there were 3 of us) who raised their hands when the guest speaker asked that day if any of us planned on waiting 'til marriage.

            Personally, even though at the time I, who hadn't appealed to any guy since grade school anyway, wanted to wait, I didn't like this guest speaker. She spent the first half of the class calling up six students and giving them cups of water. One boy had flaky, orange Cheeto remains in his cup. She then had the students pour water into each other's cups, "proving" that if you shared fluids (had sex) with six people, you would get a STD for sure (Cheeto flakes were the STD.) She then spent the other half of the class telling us how jealous her daughter's roommates are of her virgin, college daughter, who was waiting until marriage to "sleep with" (mom language for bang-bang) her wonderful, virgin boyfriend.

            I sometimes wonder if that actually worked out for our guest speaker's daughter, or if she eventually had sex with six different partners and got a case of Cheeto-flaked herpes.

            Maybe her virgin boyfriend cheated on her, causing the perfect daughter to have sex with a rebound, leather-wearing, Cheeto-eating new boyfriend.

            This was my take-away from sex ed. That, and a day when a random short, slightly pudgy man with a small bald spot on the top of his head came in and expressed his disgust for women who put out. Really, I don't know what this little, 30-something man's qualifications were for talking to impressionable kids with budding hormones about intercourse, but there he was.

            This speaker told us about how he had a girlfriend who actually agreed to have sex with him! Sounds like he was just trying to brag, right? No, instead of being grateful, he slept with her until he married someone else, a good, virginal girl!

            "Never marry the girl you sleep with," was this random, one-day educator's advice, and I wondered why he would say that to a room that was 3/5ths female.

            Don't worry, I was always very liberal and didn't take his nonsense seriously. I only wanted to wait and wear a purity ring because the Jonas Brothers wore purity rings, and Nick Jonas was hot. It was my goal to meet Nick at a concert, fall in love, wait until marriage in our early twenties, and then sit on his face.

            But then, my $6.95 faux-diamond purity ring designed by Bitten by Sarah Jessica Parker turned my finger green a few weeks later, and a few of the stones fell off. I took that as a sign. I'm big on signs. More recently, while I was reading Jen Kirkman's I Can Barely Take Care of Myself, half the flowers my current boyfriend bought for died, only one day in my care. Super sign. (P.S., I'm thinking Super Sign will be the title of my first book, or The Rectum is an Exit, Not an Entrance, and Other Negotiable Things.)

            What does this have to do with my story? Did I see a sign that I should sleep with my best/worst friend, Dallas? No, I was just kinda horny. And my mother was always accusing me of sleeping (see, mom term) with Dallas. The nerve of her! I couldn't have one guy friend, freshman year of college!? She was just an old school, out-of-touch prude! Why couldn't a guy and a girl JUST be friends!? I was so f*ing outraged about this, that I immediately went to Dallas' house and made the f* out with him!

            I also learned that every square inch of your community college is really a kissing-zone. Dallas and I made out in the common TV area, the cafeteria, outside the cafeteria, did upstairs-outsidies in the courtyard, and grinded in the stairwell.

            The stairs were actually built for this. They were ideal! Between floors, there were two sets of stairs separated by a short platform, with very obnoxiously loud doors at the top and bottom of the stairwell. Not only could we stand in the middle platform, leaving enough time to walk up or down the stairs if we heard footsteps either way, but the doors made a loud, Chewbacca-like roar whenever we were about to be interrupted.

            In conclusion, community college stairwell make-out sessions are awesome, and you should all try them sometime (unless you're a Harvard or Yale snob. Bleh.)

            Not in conclusion actually, because I have to tell you about deciding whether or not to lose it to my best friend.

            The Pros:

            1. He had experience. A lot of experience.

            2. If I didn't like the actual act, at least I knew I would like the stuff that led up to it (cause we already did the stuff that led up to it.)

            3. My mom was accusing me of having sex with him anyway (like she accused me of having sex with everyone), so why not? If I'm a slut, I might as well actually get the joy out of being a slut!

            But, then, there were The Cons:

            1. Dallas was an idiot.

            2. Dallas was an idiot who slept through all his classes and couldn't keep a part-time job.

            3. Dallas was my best friend, and what if I lost my best friend?

            4. Dallas was an idiot who had been hit by 11 cars.

            5. 11 CARS. ON HIS BIKE. AND HE KEPT RIDING HIS BIKE. WITHOUT LOOKING BOTH WAYS. I PULLED HIM OUT OF THE WAY OF A CAR ONCE. HE WAS SUPERIOR TO AND STUPIDER THAN A REALLY STUPID CAT.

            And so I didn't lose my virginity to my best friend, the 11-car-miracle-wonder boy. How did this boy never get in the local papers?

            In case you are wondering, I also never met Nick Jonas, fell in love, waited until marriage in our early twenties, and sat on his face. I did go to a Jonas Brothers concert for my fifteenth birthday, though. That is another story.

When I Had 2 Roommates, II

When I had two roommates, I realized that I wasn't good at being a girl. I set my alarm at 6am, and I told myself that I was doing this so all three of us would have time to get ready in the morning privately. First me, I was the early bird. Then Roommate 2, who usually had to go to work. Last but not least-amount-of-time-taken (not by a long shot), Roommate 1, who usually woke up late to purposely skip her first class, every day.

In my head, this made sense-for me to get ready at the crack of dawn (exaggeration) and let the two other girls take over the bathroom, but really, I was avoiding them. I was avoiding fighting over the bathroom, true, but I was also avoiding eating breakfast with them. At 6am, I brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, applied a thick double-layer of chapstick, shaved my unibrow (to make myself feel fancy), and grabbed my cereal from the shared kitchen to take to my own single bedroom. I also tried avoiding the cats, who would hopefully be sleeping on the floor instead of grabbing at the bottom of my pant leg (since I am short and normal pants are not.) One of the two cats was a girl, so I still consider this me avoiding girls.

I liked Tristan, the boy-cat, better. I thought he had more character. My boyfriend liked Tristan's sister best. My boyfriend is a moron. His judgment doesn't matter.

Back to the story: I was avoiding the girls I chose to live with for a whole year. Sometimes, out of curiosity about that elusive female-species, I would watch Roommate 1 finally get ready before the class she chose to attend, after I came back from my first class. She did up her hair, and put on eyeshadow. Then she put on eyeliner. Then she might clip her nails or paint them. She painted her lips and brow as well. She applied something to her cheeks to make them a glowing red (I don't know what this something is, because I am bad at being a girl.) And I would just stare at her, taking 3 hours to get ready for the day, while she talked about yesterday. I wondered how she even had time to enjoy yesterday. When did she even finish applying yesterday's make-up!? Who the fuck has time for this!? I am not famous, I don't have a stylist who can do this for me while I do my homework or anything.

One day, Roommate 1 was driving me in her car. I was in the passenger seat, and my boyfriend was minding his own business in the backseat. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe he was playing his Nintendo. Maybe he wasn't there and I didn't notice the difference because I am bad at being a girl-friend as well. Whatever, a different story.

Roommate 1 was telling me about her day, while retouching her make-up in the car mirror. She could multi-task (which I learned in college isn't actually a thing. Perhaps she would've learned this too if she attended her classes.)

Roommate 1 was complaining about her mom favoriting her younger sister again (which her mom did often), and about how another guy just stopped texting her out of the blue (which happened a lot. I never understood why this actually happened so much. Not only was Roommate 1 better at being a girl, but she was better at being a girl-friend. She would sew and knit her boyfriends custom gifts. For her last serious boyfriend, she bought a polo and sewed Darth Vader in the corner, and she was in the process of embroidering a shirt with an image of his favorite Dr. Who for his birthday when they broke up. I just don't have the time for that shit.)

Then, she told me, on top of that, her Aunt Flo was in for a visit. Roommate 1 rolled her eyes.

Me: "Oh, do you not like your aunt?"

Roomate 1 shot me a glance. "What?"

Me: "Your aunt."

Another glance. I wished she would watch the road.

Me: "Do you not like your aunt?"

Roommate 1: "My Aunt Flo!?"

Me: "Yeah. Is she a bitch?"

Roommate 1: "My period?"

Me: "Oh. Oh. . . . I thought you had an aunt named Flo. Like the Progressive lady. Like she was your aunt."

Apparently, I am so bad at being a girl, I don't know how to name my periods. Thanks a lot, stupid Progressive commercials, for making the name Flo a thing!

Why I Am Not Disgusted By (and Actually Support!) Miley Cyrus's Nipples

Can I just say that it's weird so many people care about one woman's nipples? Are her nipples made of gold? Do they squirt the fountain of youth? No? Then shut-up with your obsessing, while I write this blog post about my obsessing over Miley Cyrus's nipples.

Dear Miley Cyrus,

You started out as a "good girl" (quotations used to mark the fact that I don't like this term, not that I don't believe you were and are a good person) on Disney channel, making millions spreading joy through your songs, cute outfits, and humor.

What happened to these cute outfits that used to cover your entire body like an Amish young lady? Why is it that people who loved your songs and humor when you were fully dressed can't enjoy it now that you aren't? Was this stripped off you as well?

Or is it the Female Nipple Factor?

The Female Nipple Factor (FNF, a term I think I made up, but I am probably wrong, and someone way smarter than me actually came up with it decades ago) is when a woman's breast is either almost-completely exposed or completely exposed to the general public. String bikinis, breast feeding, bras, clothing malfunctions—all of these can lead to the Female Nipple Factor. The Female Nipple Factor causes conservatives to immediately spread abstinence programs and cover their daughters in sweaters for the summer. The Female Nipple Factor leads to articles, news stories, blog posts (like this one), and random comments from people far away from the exposed nipple taking a stand about it.

Which is funny, because I don't hear many criticisms over Channing Tatum's or Zac Efron's exposed nipples.

Personally, I love that Miley Cyrus is wearing, and not wearing, what she wants, because men do this all the time. Men walk around streets, beaches, and sometimes malls completely topless, especially in the middle of summer.

Which is ridiculous for these reasons below:

1. Our nipples are more valuable than boy nipples.

If Miley and I, and every other woman, choose to have a baby and choose to breastfeed, our nipples serve an actual purpose. We could bring nourishment and life to babies through our nipples. Men, what can you do? Even Bill Nye said that male nipples are just residual when he was on The Nightly Show. Topless boys on the sand, your exposed nipples can never do any good to society. Your nipples will never amount to anything. Sorry. Miley's and my nipples are more important than yours. Our nipples are just flat-out BETTER than yours! Women have super nipples!

So, shouldn't we be able to keep our nipples comfortable in the summer heat, instead of covering them in a layer of bra and a layer of top? You shouldn't force our cherished nipples to get sweaty and overheated! Think about the future babies, feeding off practically-burning skin.

2. The male body is JUST as sexualized as the female body,

so DON'T give me crap about not wanting to distract males with our flesh. Have you not seen Magic Mike? Have you not seen the many, MANY movies were the camera slowly pans down a man's oiled torso to that year's sexiest pop song? Not only is this shown often, but it is accepted. It is so accepted that panning the muscular male torso can be done in PG-13 movies, so children are exposed to the sexualization of the male body, while simultaneously getting the message that the female body is too unclean for the same movie.

The media is not shy to show how male chests are sexy. I should know, I had a giant poster of Jesse McCartney's on the wall closest to my bed around the time I got my first period. To this day, I blame the overexposure to Jesse's pale, hairless body and beautiful voice. (I don't really. I know this is a natural part of my life as a female. I do not blame Jesse McCartney or the pre-teen magazine that created an enormous poster of his naked chest by combining six pages of their magazine.)

3. Nobody knows if breastfeeding in public is acceptable or not,

which is ridiculous! Let women feed their damn babies if they choose to breastfeed! You gonna make a baby starve? Besides, if you are SO terrified of that nipple, the baby's mouth covers it! If I decide to have a kid one day, and if I decide to breastfeed, I'm gonna breastfeed wherever and whenever my baby wants to be fed.

I'm probably not going to breastfeed, though. My nipples are very sensitive, and I blame you, society. If you would just let my nipples be exposed to the treacherous, blistering summer, maybe my nipples would be more prepared for having a human suck them dry. Yeah, if I can't breastfeed my hypothetical future offspring, I'm pinning it on you.

4. Equality

Everyday, young girls have to decide what kind of girl they want to be—clean or unclean—because their bodies are not respected by the media or laws. Being a woman is now the same as being dirty, if you are not a virgin. If you are a virgin, then you are considered momentarily clean, until you lose your virginity and become like all the other dirty, dirty girls.

Girls debate their clean vs. unclean identity before school each day while guys can rest their minds knowing that the only big debate they will have this morning is whether or not they can get away without taking a shower. (This statement is not an opinion that all boys smell. Just all boys of a certain age if they do not properly wash.)

An Atheist and His Pagan Daughter Walk into a Bar,

with a priest, a rabbi, and a duck. They all get drunk on PBR, and then the atheist decides to order a REDD's Apple Ale. He points it to the priest as he drinks.

The atheist says, "Do you remember this apple?"

The priest says, "Go to hell."

The atheist laughs and says, "You keep playing with that 'hell' toy until it breaks and no one believes you."

The priest puts down his bottle and raises his arms to the heavens.

He says, "How can you not believe in Jesus!?"

The rabbi mutters, "Jesus was just a bad Jew."

The priest says, "You take that back!"

The rabbi turns to the priest and yells, "He threw us under the bus!"

The priest yells back, "You threw him on a cross!"

The duck, while slurring, interrupts, "Quack. I much prefer the god Poseidon, quack."

The pagan cheers, "Yeah!" and high-fives/high-wings the duck.

The priest, in disgust, pleads, "Why can't you see you're wrong?"

The atheist turns it around, "Why can't you see you're wrong?"

The duck says, "Quack. I need to get back to the pond, quack."

The pagan has an idea. "I'm going to pray to the God of War that you all stop fighting!"

The atheist, the duck, the rabbi, and the priest look at each other.

"Then who will we persecute?" they all wonder.

"You can go back to the Muslims," the duck offers.

Everyone high-fives. "Yes!" they cheer. "Them!"

The atheist says, "But I'm still going to hate all of you."

The priest and the rabbi nod.

The atheist and his pagan daughter leave the priest, the rabbi, and the duck at the bar.

The priest turns to the rabbi, "Jesus was right, you know."

The rabbi looks at his bill. "$7 for a beer!"

The duck says, "Quack."

Short Blog on How Selfless My Boyfriend Is, & How Selfish I Am Part 2

Setting: This late evening in my bedroom. We just finished watching 50 First Dates, my boyfriend for the first time and me for the 50th time, and I was getting ready for my pre-SNL nap.

My boyfriend: I have a question for you, Jordy.

Me: (Silence, because I am trying to train my boyfriend to continue with his stories instead of taking unnecessary pauses)

My boyfriend: (After a pause) If we had a situation like you and I just watched—

Me: I'd dump you.

My boyfriend: You didn't even let me finish!

Me: I'm guessing.

My boyfriend: Anyway, if we had a situation like in the movie we just watched, where one of us lost our short term memory—

Me: I'd dump you. Look, I guessed right! Yay, me!

My boyfriend: What!? So, I would wake up in the morning, and not remember the days before, and think we were still together. . . .

Me: And I would get married to someone else and have kids, but I would continue to text you. If you wanted to hang out, I would just say I was too busy with work that day, and suggest the next day.

My boyfriend: What!? I would take care of you! I would support you and love you, and you would leave me?

Me: (Shrugs) You wouldn't know.

My Childhood Hamster Had Balls!

    When I was ten, I wanted nothing more than a cute little hamster that would follow me to school and around the house in a hamster ball. On my eleventh birthday, I thought this wish finally became a reality when my father took me to the pet store to pick one out!
    “I want that one!” I said, pointing to the smallest, most delicate looking hamster I could find. This hamster was like the pet-equivalent of me, but better—this hamster was a redhead! I had selected a tiny orange, black, and white one just so the hamster would match my favorite new name, Ginger.
    I don’t think I wanted a hamster so much as I wanted a Ginger. Really, the whole point of getting a hamster, for me, was to name it Ginger, because I love names. As Told by Ginger was the best cartoon at the time, in my humble opinion, and naming inanimate stuffed animals, dolls, and even select corners of my house was not good enough. I got a child-sized guitar, named her Maddie, and never played her. Then I got a normal-sized guitar, same thing happened, named her Sally. Sally is covered in dust in the basement, and Ginger is dead.
    But back to the story:  I needed to give a living thing a name. I needed that type of power, to mark a living thing forever. “You!” I’m sure I yelled like a dictator in that pet store, “are now Ginger forever! To everyone! And you can’t argue about it!”
    (On a side note, this is why I don’t want children. I only think I want a house full of children so I can name a house full of children and force their first hobbies on them. I just want to force a girl to forever be called Carolina and spend her early years playing soccer, and a boy to forever be called Troy and spend his early years learning the art of dance. And then resent me for all these decisions. And they wouldn’t be able to do anything to take these early decisions back!
    I’m a tiny, tiny, fragile little girl. This is my Napoleon complex.)
    At the pet store, the part-time employee in an oversized blue polo stupidly gave a tiny eleven year old (who looked seven) the box of live hamster to hold, while my dad helped me pick out a cage and accessories. In the end, I got a large, clear tub to stare at my hamster at as long and as often as I cared to.
    I couldn’t wait to make the hamster love me, as all pets do! We took Ginger home, set the hamster up in the tank, and I ignored the new edition to my family for the next several hours as my dad took me to a birthday hockey game.
    I think this neglect so early in our relationship is why Ginger got fat. That, and I stopped taking Ginger out to roll around in the hamster ball. It was fun at first, making Ginger roll around and around as long as I wanted in a tiny room, until I noticed that little brown pellets rolling around the ball, which could fall out the ball’s cracks for breathing (why do hamsters need air? Why?)
    Shortly after this, Ginger started plotting a hamster-sized escape. We put the large tank on my tall dresser, which Ginger learned to crawl up and down out of, and into my closet. There, Ginger nibbled on the feet of my oversized stuffed animals. Because it’s not like Ginger was fed enough (over-fed, ungrateful hamster.)
    When Ginger got very obese-ly fat, I saw my first pair of balls. Being eleven and prematurely narcissistic, I assumed my hamster was whatever gender I wanted the hamster to be. Nope, oops. Ginger was a George, and I learned about male anatomy (which was good, because my parents never got around to giving me the talk after my first period. I needed this lesson in biology.)
    I also learned about death. One day, when I got home from school, I did the normal routine:  cross the hall to my room, put the backpack on my bed, turn to head back out for a snack, but as I turned my head this day, I noticed Ginger/George’s tank was missing.
    “Ginger?” I asked the air above my dresser. I still always called George Ginger.
    “Dad?” was my next thought.
    “Yeah?” he asked, nonchalantly ducking his head in my room.
    I pointed my little finger to the naked dresser.
    “Oh, yeah, I had to take that out,” my dad stated. “The hamster died.” Then he left my room to go to second shift at work, having already had a productive day of letting his daughter know that death ultimately meant nothing. Life moved on.