Hilary Duff does everything right. She stayed away from the Hollywood partying scene and survived a childhood of Disney stardom. She brought my alter ego, Lizzie McGuire, to life from 2001 – 2004. Then, she stole our hearts again in Cheaper by the Dozen (after which, every girl wanted a summer internship at Allure post-high school graduation) and in Agent Cody Banks. She dresses like a normal human being. She maintains a normal human figure. And, best of all, she named her son “Luca Cruz.” 10 points to Gryffindor.
In case you didn’t know, I am the go-to resource for all things Hilary Duff and Lizzie McGuire. I may or may not have hoarded Lizzie McGuire Valentine’s cards from third grade that I still have in my desk drawer.
Apparently, we’re not the only ones who feel that Hil kills it in her patched denim and crimped hair. Earlier today, People.com threw up a post about everyone’s elementary school crush, Aaron Carter, wanting to get his girl back. Hilary separated from her husband, hockey player Mike Comrie, earlier this year. Lizzie’s back on the market. And this time, she isn’t looking for a bra.
“Don’t be that stupid d*** that loses the love of your life forever. Like me…” Aaron Carter is having another party, and he wants Hilary to come get it. (See what I did there? Lolz.)
A fan tweeted back to Aaron, asking him if he was talking about Hilary. His response? “Sure am.”
What are we more jealous of: the classic red and silver outfits Lizzie and Miranda wore during the “I Want Candy” (read: Aaron wants Lizzie) video shoot, or the fact that Aaron still has a sweet tooth, ten years later?
Aaron, just letting you know, I also look cute when I’m wrapped in a sweater. In case you’re interested.
Read the People.com article here.
Everyone loves to just walk around saying “Ugh, I’m literally so stressed out right now.” Stress is everywhere, embodied in every kvetching student, in every mother of three children, and in every girl who breathes. It is the symbol of our generation that thrives on espresso, that doesn’t really sleep at all, and that has to deal with the most competitive job market and higher education system in the world.
The worst thing about all of this isn’t even how suckish being stressed feels; it’s that everyone is stressed, so no one’s really stressed, and it’s become an acceptable and normal thing to constantly feel like you’re swimming in a kiddie pool with Tilikum (Tilikum, for those of you who are unaware, is the killer whale in the focus of my fav documentary, Blackfish).
Because I’ve been stressed out since I, as a wee newborn, witnessed my mother birth my placenta, I thought I could offer a few tips in dealing with stress.
Do: drink coffee. It’ll keep you going.
Don’t: talk to other people. Because you’re just going to take all of your stress out on them and then you’ll look like a bitch. Of course you probably are a bitch, but it’s best to hide that at all costs and whenever possible.
Also, don’t: talk to your boyfriend. He will inevitably piss you off.
Don’t: be around people who chew and/or breathe loudly. They will also piss you off. And distract you.
Do: yoga. Cliché, yes. But it’s a great way to kind-of work out and kind-of take a nap during shavasana.
Don’t: smoke a cigarette. No matter how cool you think they make you look, they just don’t. They also don’t actually make you less stressed. Post-boge, you still have an overwhelming amount of shit to do so it makes more sense to stop wasting time taking years off your life and instead just like, work!!!
Do, but also don’t: stress eat. Stress is great for binge eaters. If you say you’re stressed while eating a piece of cheesecake at 3pm (ya know, just an afternoon snack!) or while eating an alfredo pasta, pepperoni pizza, and a giant snickerdoodle cookie at 1am (a.k.a. me last Tuesday night #sorrynotsorry), then everyone is like “Oh, ok, you’re off the hook for not trying to mimic Kendall Jenner’s chopstick-like frame at this moment in time.” However, stressing can be a great way to be like “Ahhh my tummy is in such knots! I cannot seem to stomach a thing!” and shed a few pounds.
Do: go to bed early, and do something for yourself before you go to bed. I’m not saying go to sleep at 10pm, but don’t go to sleep at 2am. I usually work until 10:30ish, then whip off my bra immediately (remember, ladies: no bra, no problem), and then get in bed to watch an episode of Girls. Glass of wine, optional.
Though stress is the most chronic illness of ever, it is something that we can combat together. One last tip: cry. Cry a lot. But stay positive! You will get through this! (Ha. Ha. Ha.)
The concept behind karma is that you ultimately get what you deserve. Sometimes you deserve something good, and sometimes you deserve something bad. But whatever you deserve, you’re going to get because that’s the way the universe works.
So you sometimes want karma to exist, and sometimes you don’t. You hope you can get away with silly misdemeanors without any repercussion. And then the one time you do something wholeheartedly kind, you pray you get something equal in return, perhaps in the form of a Balenciaga or a free bottle of wine. If you’re really lucky, the frog you kiss could become a prince. With karma, who really knows?
As a very anal micromanager, I obviously believe in karma. Knowing–or hoping–that something will come out of something else is reassuring. Just the productivity itself is reassuring. I believe in karma. I also believe that me believing in karma makes me kind of a bad person.
For example, if I’m ever holding a piece of trash–like paper, or a wrapper, or something like that–and I accidentally drop it in the street, I chase after it, pick it up, and throw it away. I know my mom hates it when I don’t turn the fan on while I’m in the shower. So, I try to turn the fan on as often as I can when I’m showering at home (which really means turn it on whenever my mom is home while I’m showering). If I finish a roll of toilet paper, I replace it. I turn off the lights before I leave the room. If I forget to and then remember after I’ve already left, I go back in and turn them off.
Whenever I think about all of the bad things I do, I always feel like I should do a little good to counter them out. It’s like a self-regulating karma. If I do too much bad, I’ll be a bad person, and I don’t want to be a bad person so I do some good stuff to make it all even. When I replace that roll of toilet paper, I think, “Good. Now you’ll get good karma.”
Yeah, I care about the environment and keeping the paint nice on the bathroom walls while I shower and all that other good stuff. But I will admit that I primarily do all these little deeds in the hopes of getting some good karma in return. This, I’ve concluded, is kind of bad karma in itself… or is it?
Who regulates karma? Who decides what gets put on the good list and what gets put on the bad? Do they care about my intentions? Or are they just glad that whoever uses the bathroom after me won’t have to sit on the toilet for half an hour, hollering for someone two rooms over to come give them more toilet paper?
A while ago, I did something pretty bad: I snooped on someone else’s Facebook. I’m sure everyone is judging me for this, and I’m sure everyone is thinking, “wow, what a low blow” right now, but I’m also sure you’ve all done it at least once. Don’t worry though–I learned my lesson and I can promise you that I will literally NEVER do that again. You know why? The whole next day, I was sick to my stomach with the worst diarrhea I’ve ever had in my entire life. I went to go visit my high school teachers and found myself running to the bathroom every 10 minutes, rudely excusing myself on behalf of “my little brother waiting for me” or “this phone call looks really important.”
I have always believed in karma. But since then, I’m more hyperaware of it than I ever was before. You’ve probably heard a bunch of times that “karma’s a bitch.” Well, I can vouch that it’s pretty shitty, too.
This has been going on for far too long and has been flying under the radar far too quietly. I feel as though I must take the liberty of exposing Jaden Smith’s Instagram account to the public.
Jaden Smith looks like The Weeknd and spits godly phrases like Yeezy. He acts on screen like Taylor Lautner circa The Adventures of Shark Boy and Lava Girl. And that about sums it up.
I have a really strange talent for finding semi-famous people’s social media accounts and then obsessively following their lives until I know almost everything about them. I tried to make Jaden Smith one of my stalkees, but it just didn’t work. His guard is too raised; his thoughts too deep. As I attempt to deconstruct the Instagram photos shared by @iputthesocietyonmyback (something Jaden really does, especially valued at $8 million at the age of 15), you’ll hopefully see what I mean.
Here, Jaden turns geometry into something trippy as balls. I am wondering if he is implying that this is just the start of his passion for paper pyramid building. Will he be building more pyramids? Will he be gifting those pyramids? Will Jaden Smith send me a paper pyramid? I am v excited to see where his paper pyramid endeavors take him.
In other words, “selfié.” Jaden freestyles in this caption, revealing a passion for the Twilight series, which he wants to watch in a light blue room. He’s lucky that he has enough money to paint a room light blue just to watch a Twilight movie in it. Jaden comes to terms with his ridiculousness, warning others not to end up like him, “Young Black And Delirious.” Don’t ignore the second stanza, either. BTW, I think you mean *too, Jaden.
Oh, cool. Thx 4 the update.
Yes, yes. Enchant them with the White Silk Pants. Those are always a winner. Also, I do not see any young dumb scamps in this black and white photo of LA!!!! I wonder if his fingers ever get tired of typing with capital letters. Eh?
Ready for Hawaii or ready to become a dementor? I’m kinda into this one, though. Super ironic.
Yes, Jaden, you protect the Kardashian sisters and their pretty blonde friend in an Iron Man suit. Jaden posted this to remind us of his inability to blend into society–the society that is, after all, on his back. I wish I was the privileged child of a celebrity. Then maybe I could look cool pretending every word is a proper noun, too.
That’s all for this week. Check out Jaden Smith: the philosophical poet of our generation on Insta to gain more wordly insights.
As women, we’re taught to say “no” to things like mean girls, scary men, and carbs. Obviously, some have more difficulty saying it than others. Just as obviously, I’m not one of the girls that does.
My seventh grade year consisted of 400 panic attacks–one daily, and the occasional two-a-day. Food, along with many other things, made me anxious. This is mostly because it is very hard to chew, swallow, and hyperventilate at the same time. I hated this; if there was one thing I wanted, it was to be able to go out to eat and not worry about not eating. My parents tried to ease my stresses by telling me that I never had to eat if I didn’t want to. If I was hungry, I should eat, and if I wasn’t hungry, I shouldn’t eat, and that was that. I would never have to make an excuse to anyone, and I should never feel bad about anything. This is my first recollection of learning how to say “no.”
A more relatable example may be that of the typical haircut. You’re sitting in the chair, and a woman who smells really good but also borderline like the depletion of the ozone layer by hairspray asks you how you want to get trimmed. A little face frame? A little side bangs? Some layers? OK! OK! OK! Suddenly your hair becomes this crazy thing that you have the ability to change however you want to. But you also know that the change isn’t permanent, so a risk wouldn’t hurt. It sounds like the perfect storm–and it usually is.
Suddenly, you look in the mirror and realize how closely you now resemble a poodle with hair that awkwardly falls RIGHT in the middle of your boobs (you all know what I’m talking about). You didn’t want your hair this short and you just asked for a trim, but here you are, looking like Slash. And couldn’t it all have been prevented with a little, “no”? With a little “that’s short enough, thank you and please stop killing the polar bears with your beauty products”?
I’m still kinda bad at directing my hair stylist, but other than that, I’ve gotten good at saying “no.”
It’s a Saturday night, and I’m having a heated conversation with a guy who told me to relax because I wouldn’t dance with him. I didn’t want to dance, I didn’t want to kiss him, and I didn’t want to lead him down either of these undesirable paths. At first, he playfully teased me for having a stick up my ass. But then the tone changed, and I found myself being reverse slut-shamed. I was being prude-shamed.
“Look,” I told him, “I just don’t want to go there. I just don’t want to kiss you.” And it was true–not a bone in my body wanted to. I liked him, but not enough to go there. Not enough to go anywhere, really.
Then, shit hit the fan. He penalized me for saying no, telling me that he read my blog and he knew what I was “all about.” Then, he went on to say that my expectations of men were unrealistic, that I thought I was Taylor Swift, that I needed to relax, that things would never work out in my favor if I continued to believe in love the way I did, and ended the argument with a really solid closer: “If you just peck me you might feel something that you don’t even know exists right now,” essentially dissing every aspect of my being and then trying again, after all of that, to get me to kiss him.
In the most unintentional way possible, he proved all my theories true; I’ve never been happier about saying “no.” He made me realize that when I act with my own opinions and beliefs in mind, I win. So yeah, I’m still going to be a “relationships-girl” and I’m still going to not want to kiss you unless I actually want to and I’m still going to have high expectations. Because I woke up this morning not feeling like a shithead, and isn’t that the goal?
To people like that, we say “sorry-not-sorry.”
As we’ve come to know too well, the times are a-changin’. What once was nice and traditional has now become outdated and prudish. Girls bare more skin at Bar Mitzvahs than I do on the beach. Hell, they don’t even wear dresses to Bar Mitzvahs anymore. Now, it’s all about the crop top and shorts combo. I commend the trend, but when I have a daughter of my own I’ll make sure she relies on other “in” pieces… like oversized turtlenecks, for example.
My grandparents met through a mutual friend. My grandfather called my grandmother, introduced himself, and asked if she would “marry [him] this afternoon.” It was classy. My grandma wore white gloves on their date to the zoo. I’m all about it.
My parents met in standards more era-appropriate–on a college street corner on Halloween. Later that night, my dad serenaded my mom by playing her righty guitar upside down (he was a lefty). Slightly more edgy, but as charming as ever, to say the least.
I thought I’d share some ways for you to tell your children in ten or fifteen years from now about how you really met their mother–likely a story neglect of white gloves, potentially containing a good serenade (but only if one of you was, like, on molly at a rave or something like that).
1. “We liked the same @JewBoyProblems tweet. Then, I stalked her on Twitter and she seemed like the perfect balance of Long Island and sleepaway camp-cool for me.”
2. “As soon as I found out that he was @JewBoyProblems, I knew Bubbe would approve.”
3. “So, son, there used to be this thing called Tinder…”
4. “We were both waiting on line at Juice Generation and she complimented me on my desert boots.”
5. “We didn’t go to the same co-ed camp, but we had socials…”
6. “She made a naked video of herself and somehow every thirteen-year-old in the Tri-State Area got a hold of it. I used it as a conversation starter when we met in college.”
7. “My mom was her SoulCycle instructor.”
8. “I know you wouldn’t think that the Boca West club pool could be a romantic spot, but…”
9. “I was ZBT, she was SDT, and the rest was history.”
10. “We were on the same Westcoast Connection Europe teen tour!” (Funny sidenote: I went to the Westcoast website to find a photo to pair with this, but I recognized too many of the kids in all of the promos and didn’t want to make them feel super awk when they heard their face was plastered across The FYD)
11. “I held her hair back for her at a tailgate. She thought I was the nicest guy in the world.”
12. “We had friends in common and I kept liking all of her #tbt’s.”
13. “I was standing behind her in line at Pinkberry and offered to pay for her fro-yo.” (My husband to my child)
Do you believe in the complete equality of men and women?
If you answered yes to that question, then according to AmIAFuckingFeminist.com, you’re a fucking feminist.
This simple question is meant to eradicate the stigma involved with feminism. If you answer “No” to this question, you look pretty stupid.
Last night I was talking to a guy who called me out for being a feminist. I don’t even think I was wearing my “feminist hat” at the time, but I must have said something about not wearing a bra. He asked me why I was “such a feminist,” even though I don’t consider myself to be “such” a feminist. I always thought I was more of just “a” feminist.
My reply: “Do you believe that men and women should have equal rights?” He paused.
“Not really,” he said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said. My jaw dropped.
A long conversation ensued. It contained utter disbelief and pure resentment on my part, and strong defense on his. I asked what he thought about a potential female president. I asked him about abortion and birth control. He agreed with me on all of these matters with little to no hesitation whatsoever.
“So… you’re a feminist.” He still insisted he wasn’t.
There is a problem with the definition of feminism and with the idea of what a feminist looks like and what she (or he?) believes in. Traditionally, we believe feminists are 70′s hippies that don’t shave their body hair. We believe feminists think that women are better than men, and that they should reign supreme in what is currently a male-dominated society. The modern movement rooted in websites like Jezebel and in media forms like episodes of Girls attempts to alter this preconceived notion. Now, feminism is all about the idea that everyone should be a feminist, because if you’re not, you sound like a huge asshole. It’s about proving how easy feminism is to understand and believe in as we strip its definition down into its skimpy Victoria’s Secret lingerie.
By doing this–by making feminism relatable–are we devaluing the concept? Should we be changing the ideas of feminism to accommodate a stubborn society, or should we be focusing on changing the stubborn society to legitimize females?
To me, it seems silly to try to encourage people to put a label on themselves that they historically haven’t been comfortable using. Because of websites like Am I A Fucking Feminist, people know what feminism is. But at the same time, I feel like we’re settling.
There’s a pretty good chance I sound really stupid right now. The chance to spread feminism? Why not take that by the reigns and run with it, right?! Any good girl lover would surely do that! It’s just that throughout my entire life, I was under the impression that I should feel proud to be a feminist–to be one of the few who are knowledgable about what women deserve and appreciate my role in society as a female. Maybe I’m being selfish. Maybe I’m just a victim to feminism, which, after all, is really just a word.
This nuanced-feminism would reply to my thoughts by saying that we aren’t changing the movement at all–that the stigma has always existed and has always been incorrect from its inception. But just because the stigma is incorrect does not mean that we cannot ignore it. The argument that movements like Am I A Fucking Feminist are trying to make is that feminism isn’t a “big deal” and it never has been; it simply stands for the respect of women that men typically always receive. I agree with this new perspective on feminism and I think it’s pretty cool. But if you don’t want to be considered a feminist, then I don’t know if I want you to be one, either. Does the point diminish when we have to change the outward nature of the movement to appeal more to the masses?
I also don’t know why we even use the word “feminist” anymore. Isn’t it more of an equal-ist? An everybody-ist?
The guy I was speaking to last night said that there are definite differences between men and women that we can’t ignore. We just aren’t smart enough as a society yet to figure out how to let that respectfully reflect in every day life. Interesting. Interesting, indeed.
Thoughts on feminism? GO!