Last year we wrote about Halloween. This year, however, we’re writing about Halloweek, because let’s be real. Halloweek is a hella-week, and I’ve just calmed down from the annual crisis it creates about an hour and a half ago upon purchasing an orange wig. Who would’ve thought that an orange wig can solve all of my troubles? Well, it can. Anything orange or with a dangerously high amount of sugar can solve your troubles right now. I did the sugar last night, did the orange today, and now, I feel great.
I love Halloween. I always have, and I always will. Regrettably, I do not have an overload of embarrassing photos in which I am posing in awkward and/or ridiculously large cardboard Halloween costumes. My Halloween photos are generally no more awkward than the rest of the pictures that chronicle my childhood. In fifth grade, I went as a “hobo” to the school Halloween dance. Today, if I dressed up as a hobo, I would be ridiculed and told to check my privilege (my privilege being my ability to dress as a “hobo”) and then I would be shunned from the community for using the word “hobo” to begin with. Fifth grade me totally did understand that it was not politically correct to dress up like a “homeless person” on Halloween. So that’s why I decided to go as a hobo.
The reason why I’ve always loved Halloween is because of the costumes. I love to play dress up. I used to believe that dressing up for Halloween was something that got better as you got older. When we were little, we were all just princesses, pop stars, pumpkins, zoo animals, movie characters, or whatever Party City costume our parents were willing to pay for that shipped free in five to seven business days. When we hit third, fourth, and fifth grade, we started to get more creative. I was a hobo. And I always imagined that as I got older, I would mature into this worldly being whose costumes would only get smarter and sexier.
Here’s my question for the girls who dress up as policemen, nurses, French maids, princesses, boxes of Franzia, clowns, skeletons, hippies, and the occasional alien: do you buy these costumes every year? If you’re a sexy nurse this year, and one of your friends was a sexy nurse last year, and another friend was also a sexy nurse the year before that, do you just hand the costumes down and pass ‘em all around? Or do you each acquire, over your four years of college, a collection of 20 – 30 costumes? Don’t get me wrong – I have no issue with showing some skin on Halloween. It’s just a genuine question of logistics, definitely legitimate when Halloween is celebrated the five nights before October 31st and the night after.
It’s a lot harder to be creative than it looks, so I would never judge someone for being a sexy nurse. Hey, I wish I could pull off the sexy nurse! But if I did, then I would probably be wearing something too tight and would surely asphyxiate and then would have to go to the hospital, where I would be confronted with a real nurse, who would have to cut my sexy nurse costume off of me in order to increase the blood flow to my brain, and she might get offended by that whole affair, so I better just avoid it to begin with.
Also, I would like to make a statement, and it is that Cady Heron is completely wrong when she says that “Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it,” because in reality, girls dress slutty on nights other than Halloween, and if a girl does choose to dress like a slut on Halloween, other girls certainly can and will say things about it. We all know it’s true. I mean, why would we think we could trust Cady’s judgment anyway? She went as as a zombie bride to a house party. Come on, Cady.
Today I conducted an experiment. I’ve tediously recorded my social media usage via a shitload of iPhone notes. Here is a true account of what it’s really like to be me, social media addict, member of SMA (Social Media Anonymous… SMA also stands for the name of an African Mission in my hometown, and I would really prefer you not to confuse this with that).
9:08am – I’ve just woken up in my little brother’s bed. Okay, so that sounds a lot weirder than it was, but my family is really into snuggling, and I was home for the weekend, and I didn’t want to sleep alone, and I thought I would go back to my room, but I woke up and there I was. So I walk back to my room, where my phone lies at the edge of my bed surviving on a mere 17%. I check, in the following order: email (open two, read neither), Instagram (check feed, check overnight likes), Snapchat (2am Snapstories are usually great), Facebook (check notifications, scroll down my News Feed to realize there are lots of tailgate muploads to catch up on, stalk one person). I don’t even attempt Twitter. Sunday mornings are too overwhelming.
9:22am – After getting back in bed (my own this time) for a few minutes, I reach for my computer, and head straight to Facebook. I thought I had a specific intention for doing this, but I don’t really recall what it was. I start opening up some things on some other tabs, doing my morning googles (yes, that’s a thing I often do), and then I go back to Facebook because I do have an intention this time. However, I’m unsure if it was the same intention I had when I originally opened my laptop, which I may have done just to be like, “Oh, time to start the day! Time to open the computer!” but really had no true intention at all.
9:33am – I’ve just read something on my phone, and exit out of that and then go, like clockwork, to click on the little blue F as if anything life-altering has potentially happened on Facebook in the last 11 minutes. Then I remember that if I did click on Facebook, I would have to catalogue it, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do that so I decided not to check Facebook, but figured I should take note of this occurrence anyway.
10am – I receive the ping of a Facebook message. It’s from one of my best friends, who’s responding to an article I had messaged her earlier in the morning re: the different types of workout clothes people wear to the gym. You should read it too. (Here it is.)
10:01am – Check Instagram. Mindless scrolling.
10:16am – Check Instagram.
11:22am – Check Instagram.
11:25am – Can you guess? HA, no ya can’t, because this time I checked my Snapchat, losers.
11:36am – I get out of the shower and leave a trail of wet footprints on the trek back to my room like some sort of woodland critter. I check my phone, which waits on my bed for me like a hopeful suitor or a male stripper. I’ve received an Instagram tag, a text, and a Snapchat. Must check all.
11:57am – I was going to check Instagram. But I didn’t.
12:27pm – I checked Instagram here. Guilty as charged.
12:59pm – Someone added three photos of me to Facebook, claims my iPhone lock screen. So I check them immediately, out of a wicked combination of self-indulgence and self-consciousness, and, as it turns out, they really weren’t terrible! Huzzah! It also gave me a good excuse to stalk more tailgate muploads.
1:32pm – My entire family is sitting in the car waiting for my mom, who is still in the house, to get her shit together so that we can go to a petting zoo. Don’t ask. But, I checked Insta.
2pm – I’ve sent a funny Snapchat from the petting zoo. Now, I’m going to be tempted to check Snapchat obsessively for the next two minutes to see if it was immediately opened. If it wasn’t immediately opened, then I may as well just wait another hour or so to check it. You know there’s a difference between a Snapchat opened two minutes after it was received and one opened 15 minutes after.
2:20pm – Check Instagram.
3:27pm – I’ve settled on my train, and my heartbeat has returned to a normal rate after the conniption fit I had when I got to Penn Station at 3:01pm and my train was scheduled to leave at 3pm. I find that catching up on Snapchat and Instagram will help to relieve the last bit of lingering travel anxiety.
4:53pm – I’ve been writing for over an hour, and I need a break and a snack, PRONTO. Never has a Quest Bar been better paired with an Instagram and Snapchat check.
5:25pm – After a few weeks of hiatus, I take the muploading plunge.
6:20pm – Still muploading. The wifi on the train is TERRIBLE, and I have not, I promise you, have NOT been distracted by anything else at all!!!! No, that’s definitely not why this process is taking an hour!!!
6:22pm – Check Instagram because my phone is working great on LTE but this Amtrak wifi is being straight up re-ject-ed by my laptop.
7:25pm – I’m home. I’m on line to get a chopped salad, so I’m really home. Must do a big Instagram catch up. I changed my profile picture on the train, which was mad risky with those bad wifi vibes. That, on top of my muploads, and the fact that my mom was tagged in some of the stuff I posted means that I am starting to get a steady flow of notifications over ten minute intervals. Now, I have to be conscious not to check Facebook even though it begs me to. Everyone knows it’s more fun to go through your notifications all at once.
Once, a close guy friend told me that, according to Facebook chat, I’m basically always online. He may have used this as an excuse for messaging me even when I’m like, “Can we please text like adults, here?” But in reality, Facebook likely doesn’t lie. It probably says I’m always online because I always am. This deluge of the truth was, and will always be, a scarring moment for me.
7:41pm – I pull up Facebook on my computer. Then I remember that I have to eat my chopped salad, and I feel better for being on Facebook. It gives me an excuse to eat my chopped salad.
Once, a guy friend told me that, according to some scientific research, “girls who go to the bathroom with another girl feel a sensation similar to that of doing cocaine.” And that’s my reasoning for never doing cocaine. Why risk your life when you can “literally” save it because you “can’t even” without dragging your main bitch into the bathroom with you?
Ever since he told me this fun fact, I almost can’t go to the bathroom without contemplating how akin to doing cocaine my pee might feel. You definitely get more of a rush from certain pees more than others depending on who you’re with, how badly you had to pee, how badly you BOTH had to pee, if you’re squatting, and so on and so forth. On that note, let’s talk about bathroom etiquette! Wahoo!
It’s sometimes difficult to figure out how to be a lady in the ladies’ room when your brain tells you one thing, and your bladder tells you another. The girls’ room is a sacred place. So let’s make sure we pray to the gods of tequila, tampons, cat fights, poop emojis, crying, and, of course, cleanliness properly.
First object of discussion: entering the stall with a friend.
Is it kosher? Yes.
When should/can it happen? Should happen at bars, music festivals, and places where you don’t want to be alone–places where even the bathroom isn’t a safe space. Or places where there’s a line that you’ve probably cut.
Will people judge you? Honestly, no. You can pretend to have the two second deliberation where you’re both like, “Um, can I just come in with you?” or the more assertive, “I’m just going to come in with you,” which is a discussion that usually happens after you’re both locked inside the stall, anyway.
Second object of discussion: checking yourself out in the bathroom mirror.
Is it kosher? Yeah, because the feeling you get when you realize you do look gross but you can make yourself look better is almost as relieving as the sisterhood of the traveling pee. Four girls, one stall, friends forever.
Will people judge you? If you enter the bathroom and someone is standing there washing her hands, and you do a hair flip and then walk right back out the door, yes. She will judge you. This woman–the one who sees all–is always older than you, shorter than you, and has a much less-dramatic outfit on than you do. Her job is to make you feel ridiculous. I don’t know why, but this is who that woman always is, and this is who she always will be, and she will always judge you.
In my opinion–go for it. Once, I walked into a bathroom where one girl was inside alone, singing very loudly at the mirror, and we both apologized awkwardly for no reason. So just don’t do that.
What should you do if someone catches you checking yourself out? Pretend they don’t exist.
Third object of discussion: the courtesy flush.
Is it kosher? yes.
Will people judge you? You have two options: people will judge you for the smell emanating from your stall, or they will judge you for the courtesy flush.
In the mood to play a round of “would you rather?” Okay… Would you rather flood the bathroom and/or clog the toilet, or add an extra flush in there? So fun, right?!
Takeaway? Be courteous. Do the flush.
Fourth object of discussion: lack of toilet paper.
Number one rule? Always check for TP before releasing any and all bodily fluids.
What to do if you read that line right after you’ve peed? Shimmy a little bit, pull up your jeans, and call it a day.
What to do if you read that line right after you’ve felt the effects of your morning coffee? Been there, done that. Pull up your pants halfway, pull down your shirt as long as it goes, and waddle to the stall next door. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Number two rule? Always go to the bathroom with a friend, and if you do not share a stall, you must go to neighboring stalls so that she can pass you TP when you need it.
Fifth object of discussion: peeing with the stall door open.
Is it kosher? More kosher than yo momma’s kugel. More kosher than a bris.
Will people judge you? Well, you just have to hope to god that no one walks in, or you just have to have cat-like reflexes to close the door when someone does, which I luckily am blessed with.
Why do we do it to begin with? You obviously came to the bathroom with a friend, and you’ll have separation anxiety if there’s a wall between you for too long. And then you’ll die, and that would be terrible. We also hate feeling claustrophobic, which is a rule of being a girl.
Does it still seem weird? Yeah, well it’s the kind of thing you only do when no one else is in the bathroom. Then it’s not weird at all.
If you follow these guidelines, you’ll undoubtedly dominate the girls’ room. And if you’re like me circa 2003, this is a very big deal. Because no one wants to be like Debby, who, as we know, only likes eggs, and is not very popular.