Mazel Tov

Yesterday my mother made me commit a sin known to most people as "spring cleaning" I only refer to the woman that birthed me as “mother” instead of “mom” when I am extremely upset. So it’s safe for all of my fan club members and blog-readers out there to assume that I am at an all-time low right now.

It all started with clothes hangers. You’re probably wondering- how can something as banal and trivial as clothes hangers start such an avalanche of fashion tragedies? Either that or you’re wondering why you are still reading this blog when you could be doing something much more productive and interesting. Like having a lemonade stand or watching paint dry. But anyways, 30 seconds after I told my mother about my hanger problem, she marched up the stairs to my bedroom, peered into my walk-in closet, and declared that I had “too many clothes”. Now at first I thought she was joking. Too MANY clothes?! Is that a real thing? Does the average person get to the point where they feel the need to throw away some of their very valuable fashion pieces? As I started to laugh, mother dearest decided to inform me that she was, in fact, very serious about this situation and unless I cleared out the clothes I never wore, I would not be going shopping anymore. Needless to say, I was in shock.

There I stood amidst my beautiful clothes, wondering which of my fabric friends I would have to sacrifice first. At first it wasn’t too difficult. Of course the maroon sweater with the huge embroidered orange flowers could go- in fact, why was it still here? But as time went on, it only became more and more difficult.

You know those stories about people who get stranded on an island and start to hallucinate? Think along the lines of Cast Away. That was me. I was stuck in the sandy dunes of my clothing, and was starting to make up ridiculous excuses about why I needed to keep the things I was keeping. Obviously I couldn’t get rid of the V-neck lavender sweater- never mind that it’s three sizes too small! I wore that to my neighbor’s half-sister’s mailman’s third son’s bar mitzvah! Now by this point, I can feel the judgmental vibes oozing from the dry skin of all of you out there in cyberspace. You think I’m a crazy lunatic clothes-hoarder. And here’s what I learned about myself from this fateful day: I am! After hours of holding back the waterworks while stuffing my best friends into black garbage bags, my mother made me deliver them to Goodwill. She said it would be therapeutic but frankly it was just cruel.

           Many tears and a tall cup of chamomile tea later, I came to the conclusion that I am a packrat in denial. I was literally and figuratively “in the closet” about my magpie-like tendencies. On the bright side, the only clothes I have left are the ones I might actually wear in the next 20 years. On the dull side, I now have a couple thousand empty hangers that hang there rattling like bones- the skeletons in my closet. On the even-duller-extremely-gloomy side, there’s probably a little twerp out there wiping her snot all over my lavender bar mitzvah sweater. Mazel tov. 

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Momzilla

Mothering is no joke- take it from someone who babysits little devils on a regular basis. If you are planning on mothering a child (or, god forbid, multiple children), you better know how to do the damn thing. There are seriously days that I’ll go to the grocery store and see frosted-hair mothers in tight fitted Juicy Couture sweatpants yakking away on their cellular devices about their latest manicure/pedicure/shoe-shopping-trip, completely oblivious to their rowdy kids as they happily knock down soup-can towers and paint masterpieces on themselves with ketchup. The worst part is that the store clerks, who sometimes try to jump in and handle the situation, can never quite get control. Before they can even say “Excuse me, miss” momzilla has already whipped out her freshly sharpened claws and is preparing for attack.

One of the most irritating things is seeing the moms who yank their kids around on a leash. I don’t mean that figuratively. There are, quite literally, children who wear backpacks with a leash attached to the back. Their freshly-manicured mothers then hold on to the leash and drag their screaming children around wherever they please. The whole situation can all get very messy if the aforementioned ketchup body-paint hasn’t been cleaned up by this time. These mothers most likely also have electric chips inserted into their children’s heads that shock them every time they try to leave the house. The poor children probably get fried every time they accidentally walk into an electric fence (which most likely happens a lot, seeing as dogs do it unintentionally all the time, and little kids are much dumber than canines).

To be fair, I will give these mothers the benefit of doubt. I don’t know their lives. I don’t know what they’ve been through. Maybe they’re suffering from childhood angst. Maybe daddy never bought these mothers the puppies they wanted when they were younger. While this seems like a logical explanation for dragging around the fruit of your womb on a backpack-attached tether, I feel that someone should probably buy these troubled mothers a pet or something, so that they don’t have to treat their children like animals. Which leads to other questions- do these children eat out of doggy bowls? Do they lap up water from the toilet? The whole situation is a little confusing, and more than a little disturbing.

               In the end, the mother you've been given is the one you have to deal with. There’s really not much you can do about being stuck with a momzilla, except for running away from home. And in the end, running away will most likely result in a complete electrocution, brought on by the deathly combination of an implanted electric chip and your neighbor’s invisible dog fence. My advice would be to just keep away from the razor-nails and buy your mom a yorkie. Good luck, ketchup-kids. 

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I'm Not Promoting Bullying

Is there anything worse than a group project? No. No there is not. Regardless of who’s in your group or how hard you try to get along with everyone (even the weird girl who sits behind you in class who only wears baggy Wal-Mart sweatpants and hasn’t showered for months), there will always be some sort of conflict. Either you’ll end up being the person who does literally everything for your thankless group of misfits, or you’ll end up being the person who gets blamed for not doing anything at all. There is no basically no in-between, and you’re always wrong, no matter what what you do. Always.

The most difficult part of the whole fucking situation is that there are no “perfect partners” for group projects. If it’s a randomly assigned task then you can’t be assertive since you’re dealing with complete strangers who may or may not own guns at home. If you get to pick your partners you’re obviously going to pick your friends. Which is a huge mistake seeing as you still can’t be assertive because you need people in life to make you feel loved and have Netflix marathons with on the weekends. So you’re basically screwed either way. Basically the best kind of partners for a group project would be extremely intelligent people with no opinion whatsoever. Like an Asian scarecrow, for example. Or ideally, someone younger who you can bully around.

Just for clarification, I’m not promoting bullying. Not in the least. In fact I am really truly very adamantly against any and all forms of harassment. My apologies for giving you the wrong idea, I really hope you’re not judging me too much. But I’m sure we can all agree that life would be much easier if everyone would just listen to all of your ideas and let you take charge of everything. Without you having to do much work, of course, since you’re a lazy bum just like the rest of us.

Which is why group projects, which teachers think are supposed to teach students teamwork and endurance and how to get along with your useless classmates usually just end up teaching us that the best way to do a group project is to pick the smartest people in your class and sit back while they do all the work and you supervise and make executive decisions. Kind of like being in the real world, isn’t it? I guess teachers taught us some sort of life skill after all.

WordCount: 418

Man Card Reinforcement

Alright guys, listen up. I know you all think you’re super masculine and macho and mega tough. I understand that you can eat an entire pizza in under two minutes and like lifting heavy iron at the gym. I've seen you walk around flexing in your skin-tight spandex shirts, regardless of whether or not there's anything there to flex. You're all brave and strong and big-I get that, really, I do. But really that doesn’t mean you can’t take a break from all of that damn testosterone every once in while. No one’s going to revoke your man card for just a few deviations from the norm.

         Case in point- watching chick flicks. Now granted, if you spend most of your time in front of the television watching Brides of Beverly Hills and still claim to be straight, you might want to reevaluate your life decisions. But every now and then its more than okay to kick back with some quality cupcakes and The Notebook. In fact, it's almost a requirement that each guy watch a certain number of chick flicks before he gets into any type of relationship with any type of girl.
         Another thing you're totally allowed to indulge in is bubble baths. Okay guys. Face it: you've either taken one, want to take one, or are taking one right now as you're reading these goddamn words. All you really want is to put on some classic jazz music and soak for hours and hours on end. Maybe you even want some Nicholas Sparks action. No shame! Technically, there's nothing that's really "feminine" at all about taking a bubble bath. You're just getting clean, maybe lighting a few gender-neutral candles, and relaxing. In piles and piles of deliciously scented bubbles. In my humble (and always accurate) opinion, it should be totally and completely socially acceptable for guys to do this, just like girls do.
         It's also totally and completely socially acceptable for guys to bake. Cakes, cookies, muffin baskets, custard, flan, panna cotta, crème brûlée, whatever your Y-chromosome carrying heart desires. And you should be able to frost your delicious creations and top them off with eighteen different types of sprinkles and strawberry fondant if you so choose. There is absolutely no shame in being a good baker. None at all. In fact, women will flock to your edible creations and pretty soon your tough macho masculine friends will be wondering how you get all dem bitches. Its not man card withdrawl- it's man card reinforcement.

WordCount: 425

Moving Statue

1 Hades' sweaty hands
2 Grip my body tightly,
3 An angry serpent choking its prey.
4 With rough fingers he creates, forcing me to move.
5 With rough fingers he moves, forcing me to create.
6 With rough fingers he envelops me,
7 A moving statue of his imagination.
8 He'll take every part of me.
9 Starting with my feet, he'll turn me into a mop,
10 To wipe up his mistakes and clean up his sins.
11 He'll move up to my head
12 Where he'll brutally crush me, time and time again,
13 Just to produce more of his false truths.
14 I am branded by the markings on my body
15 Which continually remind me I'll never be his first
16 Only his #2
17 But this is my legacy, as was the legacy of my ancestors
18 A legacy as old as time itself
19 Thou hast manipulated this legacy from olden days,
20 And forevermore this legacy shall continue.
21 It is the eternal fate
22 Of the powerless pencil.

Line 1 is a mythical allusion referencing the Greek god Hades of the underworld. Alluding to Hades gives the impression that these hands holding the pencil are unnaturally hot or hellish in some way.

Lines 2-3 are a metaphor, comparing the sweaty hands to an angry serpent that forcefully chokes his pray. Utilizing this metaphor gives an accurate idea of how tightly this pencil is being gripped, thus contributing to the mee-like tone.

Lines 4-5 are an antimetabole, a reverse order of the same repetitive words. This draws attention to how helpless the pencil really is when it is being used to "create", in additon to drawing attention to the similarities of the pencil's actions and the fingers' actions.

Lines 4-6 are anaphora, a repetition of the phrase “With rough fingers” at the beginning of multiple sentences. Using anaphora emphasizes the fact that the rough fingers controlling the pencil manipulate it to do multiple things.

Line 7 is an oxymoron, since “moving” and “statue” are contradictory terms. This phrase makes you stop and think for a second as to how something rigid and firm can be “moving” in any sense.

Line 13 is another oxymoron, seeing as “false truths” directly contradicts itself. The idea of these false truths is a side reference to the idea that not everything one writes is completely pure or genuine.

Line 18 is a hyperbole, an over-exaggeration that is effectively used in this poem to emphasize how old the legacy of the pencil really is.

Line 19 uses archaic diction (old-fashioned and outdated language) to lend credibility to the fact that the poem references “olden days” in which language such as “thou hast” might actually have been used.

The entire poem is a personification of the pencil. Using words like “my feet”, “my head”, “brutally crush me”, and “markings on my body” give the impression that the pencil has humanlike characteristics and feelings, which gives the reader a different perspective on an ordinary practice. 
 

Survival Of The Fittest

Girls cry. A lot. It’s not like we can control it, and it’s not like we choose to let our emotions loose on purpose. It’s just a response to random occurrences in our lives. One minute we’re jogging down the sidewalk trying to get a good workout to burn off the slice of chocolate cake we had for lunch, when we happen to run past a dog that looks just like Marley, and suddenly the next minute Niagara Falls is pouring down our carefully makeup-clad faces as we have a minor flashback to when we first watched that adorably depressing movie. It’s almost a medical condition.

Honestly, sometimes I just wonder if females are all just a little bit bipolar. Like maybe there’s something about having two X chromosomes that just makes us all drastically more susceptible to mood swings and a tendency to change our disposition at the drop of a hat. Anyone who’s ever had contact with a woman (which I would hope is everyone in this world) knows that all it really takes to change a girl’s mood is a few goddamn words- whether that be for the better or worse is entirely up to the context of the situation and the woman in question.

You would think that by now this gene for emotional instability would have died off. Natural selection always favors the strongest members of a species to pass on their genes to the next generation, so that the offspring have the highest chance for survival possible- it’s the survival of the fittest (welcome to your crash course in evolutionary theory). So maybe there is some kind of evolutionary advantage to being moody and weepy.

If I had to guess, I’d bet it has something to do with the fact that temperamental crying women terrify anyone and everyone around them. In the past, any annoying woman who burst into tears every four damn minutes probably scared away everyone around her and most likely exhausted all options for a second relationship after her first husband divorced her unstable self. So here’s this woman who’s already passed on her emotional gene to her daughter, but is now safe from any stress since she’s no longer married. Boom. How’s that for an evolutionary advantage?

This isn’t to say that every woman ever is emotionally tipsy. Just most of us are. Obviously there are some exceptions to the rule, such as female politicians, who are stone-faced and have zero feelings whatsoever, and sorority resident assistants, whose perpetually perky attitude would suggest they only have good days and better days. The rest of us girls, however, are wonderfully and abnormally emotional.

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A Message From Your Wing-Woman

          Here’s the thing. All you boys out there think you already know all there is to know about getting girls. For some reason you're under the extremely unfortunate and terribly misguided impression that you know everything about anything there is to know about how females think. You apparently have all the damn answers about how to behave and what to do and just the right things to say. Reality check: you couldn't possibly be more wrong. Seriously. All you guys out there are just tripping over your own two feet trying to get some, and you’re failing. Miserably. It’s almost comical, really.

         But don’t worry too much. Take a deep breath. As funny as it is to see your failures, it’s getting kind of old and repetitive. Being the wonderful, caring, beautiful, angelic, intelligent girl that I am, I’ve taken it upon myself to give you the inside information on what women really want in life. I’m your wing-woman. Yes, you’re so welcome. Really, I’m blushing. The best way to really thank me is by implementing all of my advice the next time you go for a girl.

         To begin with, keep in mind that all that women want in life is food. Spare us the romantic starry-eyed poems and cutesy pick up line bullshit. We don’t want to hear songs titled with our names or nod our heads while you spill your guts about how much you adore us. Just feed us dammit! Preferably something chocolate and high-carb. Give us food and candy, please and thank you.
         Next, don’t be offended by the fact that we do, and always will, love our pets more than we love you. Sorry, but you’re not extremely soft and pet-able. You don’t wag your tail at us when we come home from a long and tiring day or purr when we rub you under your neck. Really you just don’t even have a chance against our four-legged friends. Just accept the fact that you’re always going to be second in line and move on with life. 
        The most important thing to know about women is that we never mean what we say. In fact, we usually mean the opposite of what we say. If we tell you to leave us alone, don’t actually leave, you moron. Come cuddle with us and tell us how beautiful we are. If we tell you that you don’t have to buy us that gorgeous necklace we saw at Kay Jewelers yesterday, you better go get it for us tomorrow. Actually, you should already have it with you. If we tell you it doesn’t matter at all that the slut from your math class walks with you in the hallway, you better get a goddamn restraining order. Good luck. 

WordCount: 461