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Flavor of the Week: Prom (It’s Good Advice, Trust Me)

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Tis the season, ain’t it?

Prom is like Valentine’s Day: girls will either look forward to it more than they will their own weddings, or they’ll give less than two shits about it. No matter how special prom is for some, there will always be those that feel like the lone soldier in 90s teen movies, wearing denim on denim and fighting against the patriarchy that is high school.

Reeeeeegardless, the time of year is upon us. I was one of the girls that had been obsessed with prom since evacuation from the womb. It’s a collection of all of my favorite things: girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes and dancing all night ’til my blood sugar crashes. That was my poor attempt at referencing The Sound of Music, but you get the picture: prom, to me, seemed like a million-in-one package.

I did the prom thing twice. My junior year of high school, I went with my then-boyfriend of three years. It was really, really nice. The second time I went was my senior year. I was thinner, and, this time, all of my best friends would be there with me. I planned the night–picked out flowers and votives, lighting and entreés, so my OCD was completely in check.

My prom experiences could not be more different from one another, but I love them both because of it. I felt it all; I did all the things. This is the cream of the crop, the diamond in the rough of prama (prama = prom + drama). Don’t lose your marbles yet, ladies.

Here’s some advice. Take it, please.

1. Make sure you love your dress. But you don’t need to love it, either. I use the term “love” lightly: you don’t need to marry it, but you do need to feel good in it. Like your first real boyfriend! It should be tight in the right places, loose others. It should be something you can dance in. It shouldn’t be too short. If you like to dress like a slut, then totally run with that. But at prom, there are limits. Make it “slutty meets Betty White.”

2. You don’t have to love your date. Yes, you will always remember who you took, or who took you, to prom. You can laugh about it, though. It can be a funny thing in fifty years, like “Haha #tbt prom!” No sad emojis here. Just because your dream guy is taking someone else does not mean that your prom is wickedly cursed.

3. On that note, the only person who can ruin your prom is you. (Trust me.)

4. Don’t get too drunk. Really, I don’t think you should get drunk at all. Ask yourself this: do you need to be drunk? No. Are you going to be surrounded by illegal substances for the next three days? Yes. I think we’re clear on that one.

5. Pay all of your expenses on time. Your friend is working really hard to find the tackiest party bus company possible. Respect that.

6. Take lots and lots and lots of pictures. But…

7. Leave your phone in your bag, put your bag on your chair, and C YA! Don’t be that girl: do not mupload during prom, do not Instagram on the way to prom. It will scare your mother that you have time for social media but none to answer her text.

8. Eat a good lunch the day of. If you’re going to cleanse, do it the week before. You aren’t going to consume much of anything at prom aside from the teeny weiners passed around at le hour de cocktail. Hopefully, you’ll be dancing too much to want to sit for dinner. But you’re gonna need energy, so eat! I promise, your dress will still fit after a salad with some grilled chicken at 12pm. If you’re so crazy worried that it won’t, see piece of advice numero uno.

9. If prama erupts, stay out of it. Stay as far away from it as you possibly can. (~~Good vibes, people. Good vibes.~~)

10. Be smart. It’s a night that holds a high standard for everybody, whether you realize it or not. The build up to prom is pramatic, so the downward spiral will be belligerently deranged. Do yourself a favor, then: avoid the downward spiral. Everyone has high expectations for what the night holds. If you’re like me, it’s something you’ve been waiting for since kindergarten. Prom is a celebration of you, your friends, and what you’ve done together. So go with the flow, but not too much with the flow. Do something crazy, but nothing that puts vomit in your hair three hours later. Feel beautiful and fabulous, because YOU! ARE!

There are going to be things you can’t control. Your hair is going to fall out and frizz, your makeup with smudge and run. Your feet are going to KILL. But smile, smile, smile. Somewhere out there, Cady Heron is breaking off a piece of her crown and tossing it to you.

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How a BIC Pen Is Saving My Life

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This is a Sponsored post written by me on behalf of BIC 4-Color pen. All opinions are 100% mine.

My mom refuses to write in black pen. In sixth grade, my Language Arts teacher refused to write in red pen–she said it “reminded her of the devil.” My best friend was always much better at doodling than I was, and she liked to write in all the pens. In seventh grade, my LeSportsac case of twenty felt-tip marker pens was stolen from my Social Studies classroom. Things were never again the same.

As I got older, I has trouble deciding what kind of pen girl I wanted to be. Some people changed colors for every paragraph of notes, and that just seemed very ambitious for me. The OCD in me was bothered by an imbalance of black and blue. But the writer in me who didn’t give two hoots about how something was written but just wanted to write didn’t mind the scribbles and multicolored tender love and care my college ruled pages received.

Today, I only care about one thing: carrying as little as possible. So when I discovered the new BIC® 4-Color pen, my trendy little heart skipped many, many beats. I could essentially carry four pens, but in one pen. Stellar. V stellar. 4 Inseparable Colors in 1 Pen, who would have thought?

On days when I want to feel skinnier than I actually am, I use the black. It’s flattering with everything.

When I feel like taking out my aggression on my own writing, I’ll print out a couple pages and rip it apart with red. I’m sorry for being a rude editor, and I’m sorry for talking about it now.

Sometimes, I want to feel eco-friendly, like I work for a sustainable fro-yo company based out of a Brooklyn loft. That’s when I use green.

And blue. Blue is classic and chic. Blue Ivy got her name for a reason, obviously: because I write in her color with my sick pen.

This vid makes me nauseas because I have anxiety-induced motion sickness, but it’s absolutely hysterical so you should watch it:

This vid involved yoga, which is what I would do if I lived in LA and could survive a juice cleanse, so you should watch it, too:

You can follow BIC on Facebook and Twitter for more information about the revolutionary pen that is literally changing the lives of thousands of split-personality writers everywhere. Also, def buy the BIC® 4-Color at Staples or on Amazon. Trust me, you’ll love it.

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On Meeting Face(Time) to Face(Time)

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Last week, I walked into a quiet room carrying my laptop in one arm and my anxiety in the other. Two people were inside, working diligently on laptops. I guess my auras were screaming, “I have something to say” because they looked up from whatever they were doing at the same time with the same glare. The worst part of it was that it was one of times where everyone knows they’re about to hear is a “something” they won’t really like.

“Do you mind if I Skype in here?” I felt bad asking, but YOLO.

Actually, the situation was much worse for me than it was for them. I wasn’t Skyping my best friend or my step grandma in Boynton Beach. I wasn’t about to get frisky in front of the camera or have a conversation with my dogs at home, either. I had a “date” set up to Skype with a professor, whose schedule was not very fond of mine. We needed to meet, had to meet, and it turned out that Skyping was our last and only option.

The clock struck 8. I was fumbling to download some sort of upgraded software before our Skype began when he GChat-ed me: “Have you ever done this before?”

Was I Skyping with my professor to properly analyze a red Pierre Balmain suit, or was I on the episode of Degrassi: The Next Generation when Emma succumbs to an online predator? (Also, was it Emma? Not positive–sorry, it’s more difficult to fact check Degrassi  than one might think.)

I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea: my professor is a great, great guy. Of course, the conversation went smoothly and safely in the comfort of a quiet-turned-unquiet lounge where I made sure I wasn’t alone. But still, it felt weird–almost unnatural–to have a real conservation on a platform like that. Why is it that in one of the most indirect ways we rely on for communication, I felt so exposed?

We just lo-o-ove that indirect communication: arguing over text instead of over the phone (or even better, to the face), subtweets, and passive aggressive boycotts against Instagram posts that have allowed our generation to become the most impersonal ever. That being said, it’s strange to meet over FaceTime, and even stranger how we can still feel so prodded when a shitload of bandwidth lies between us.

I don’t remember the last time I was afraid to meet someone in person. I’m very personable (maybe probably too personable). I’ve never been afraid to raise my hand in class nor have I been to open my mouth for all the right or wrong reasons. When I speak to someone, regardless of our familiarity, I’m putting myself out there to be perceived. While thinking about my nerve-wracking Skype, I realized: you never have a clue what you actually look like while you’re engaged in candid conversation, aside from the rare occasion you and your little brother are exposed on the kiss cam at a Knicks game.

When you FaceTime or Skype, how many times do you look at your reflection in the corner? Have you ever changed the angle of your phone–holding it higher or tilting it downwards–to create the perfect lighting to contour your cheekbones? Elongate your face? Are you judging yourself, too?

They say ignorance is bliss. If I’m unaware of how my fresh, no-makeup look just gives me the under-eye bags of a sixty year old, but can have a conversation all the more better because of it, fine. I’ll take it. It’s sad, in a way, but I’ll take it.