I’ll check out your blog if you Re–Snoop Bloggy Blog this post.
I’ll check out your blog if you Re–Snoop Bloggy Blog this post.
Cliffnotes: My skin has been a trainwreck since my boobs were in that weird pre-pubescent nub stage. Well, that’s not true because they say trainwrecks are beautiful because they are so intense that you cannot look away. My skin, unlike trainwrecks, was much easier to look away from on account of its spotty, goopy, greasy nature.
I have had short periods of good skin followed by long periods of disaster skin for upwards of 10 years. I routinely cycle from baby-ass smoothness to endless months of bumpy terrain. This happened again upon moving to NYC about a year ago— where the air is filthy and muggy, and my skin is sensitive and susceptible. I had like (no exagg) upwards of 200 blackheads on my cheeks for the summer of 2012. My cheeks had always been my safe zone, guaranteed to stay smooth even when my forehead and back were having tantrums.
After pushing the last of what I still believe was a cheese cube out of my pores, I decided to get a dermatologist in the city. My insurance is pretty solid so I went to a place that sounded fancy near Columbus Circle.
Imagine my glee/horror when a tall, dark, handsome, doe-eyed, long eyelashed, strapping man entered the room to introduce himself as my dermatologist. “NO!” I screamed internally, realizing that all hopes for a happily ever after with this man would be dashed against the rocks the moment he looked deep into my…erm…pores.
After the routine visit where I was showered with prescriptions and those little sample sized creams, I called my unsupportive male friend.** This friend laughed outright and then explained why it, “sucks to be me” and “oh man, your life should be a tv show.”
So if you’re ever having a bad day and need to feel better about yourself, just know that there are only a handful of things worse than having a hot dermatologist.
**I think every girl should have an unsupportive male friend to put things into a perspective that their lovely supportive female friends simply can’t.
I am not a morning person. As you can see by my alarm titles, I have luke-warm messages of encouragement or vague threats to entice myself to get up. I just can’t do it! If I have to be anywhere before noon and I am not getting picked up by a car or cab, suffice it to say I’ll probably be late.
I guess I always assumed that hating mornings would change as I got older. In elementary school, waking up was hard because it was still dark outside when the alarm went off. I remember for about a solid month, my sister Lanie would throw our pet rabbit on top of me and it would claw me awake because otherwise I’d hold up the whole house.
High School was the same issue // the internet and texting were a thing so I couldn’t get to bed at an early enough time not to be a zombie. Luckily for me, my school gave up our dress code pretty quickly after I started there, so “sweatpants, chillin with no makeup on” was my go to look.
College empowered me to schedule classes in the afternoon and only on two days a week. Let’s be real: I slept more in those 5 years than I did in my entire formative years as a baby. I would have a class at 11, nap through lunch, class at 1:30 and then 3, and then nap til 7. I actually avoided the freshman 15 solely by sleeping through most designated meal times at food service.
Which brings me to now—-oh terrible adulty now. I want desperately to wake up with a spring in my step. I have a friend who wakes up and immediately starts writing, and drawing, and planning, and generally being too good at adulthood. I hit snooze for roughly 1.5 hours before I emerge from my blankets and wander to the bathroom at a snail’s pace. I sit on the toilet for an extra 25 minutes after I’ve done my duties, just lamenting the bright overhead lighting and the germs I will encounter on the train at any minute. Maybe getting a more annoying alarm would wake me up, but I can’t be certain, and “Africa” by Toto is relaxing enough that I don’t punch the closest noun available when it interrupts my dreams.
Are there any suggestions you might have to make getting up easier for me? Do you have any skill sets you thought you would have gained as an adult that just never seemed to materialize? Lemme know.
After I made the cab journey from LaGuardia to Brooklyn and crash-landed on my friend’s couch, I did the hard work of finding some Craigslist randos with which to live. I met with a few apartments, but the dream apartment—the one with the most space, light, and affordability chose me and I moved in. By all objective accounts, I lucked out. My roommates are smart, interesting, respectful, and (mostly) clean. I even get to share a nice couch, a flat-screen tv in the living room, and dishes! So this is just sort of general complaints one could have about their roommates, if they have any at all:
1. Ain’t No Damn Chip-Clips. Growing up I never had the luxury of using a “chip-clip” to seal open food containers. My family was big on rubber bands. As an adult I really do see the appeal of the chip-clip. For starters, it’s two steps: fold bag, clip bag. It also is cost-effective, being probably $5 for a set of 8-10 in different sizes and colors. How do you not have any chip-clips? I don’t eat chips anymore, but I do have qualms with open food containers summoning the insect creepy-crawlies from the depths of unwashed Brooklyn. Too often I resort to using whatever fuzzy hair-tie I can find on the floor to secure the bags. Not okay!
2. The Thermostat War. To quote my mother: I’m not payin to heat up the outside! The weather has been slowly cooling down since October, and the moment I noticed it, I undertook the arduous task of removing the A/C unit from my window. It was dangerous—I put a garbage bag on my bed to shield it from whatever muck adhered to the bottom of the exposed unit. It was heavy—I am a small woman with no muscles to speak of—but somehow I got it done. I’m not saying I’m the busiest roommate, but I do think that if I can find 15 minutes to remove and store my a/c unit to encourage a maximum apt. temp of 68*, then I think you can too! Until then, I guess I’ll just keep waking up in the middle of the night to molten temperatures and moist skin. Yikes.
3. Boys…Just…Face Hair!!! I get it, being a boy is tough. Having an inexplicable condition where your face transforms into a werewolf overnight is inconvenient at best. It’s almost as inconvenient as me puking in my mouth when I’m about to brush my teeth because I see the beard homicide that has replaced my once sparkly bathroom. I should not be tempted to pet the sink! We’ve gotta do something about this face-fuzz issue. Perhaps a plastic grocery bag can catch the hairs before the sink does? Maybe we can all put a few bucks towards a dust-buster? I’m just riffing, but any suggestions would be appreciated. (also: this is not my sink, omg if this was my sink I’d jump off a cliff)
4. Drunk Binges. Not to be confused with “Binge Drinking,” drunk binges consist of getting utterly shipwrecked and proceeding to eat all of my cheese out of the fridge. I should probably thank you for keeping my diet in-tact, but I was really looking forward to that grilled cheese all day and now I have to settle for a mustard and mayonnaise sandwich. Tragic.
Is it horrible that I can’t even think of another problem? That’s how good I’ve got it. But yeah, do you have roommates? What gripes do you have?
One of my most vivid early childhood memories is being woken up before dawn by my mother. She would always turn on the 13” tv at the foot of our bunkbed to Woody Woodpecker. After that cartoon, Garfield and Friends (and that show about the farm animals? The one with the duck with the floaty that looked like that same duck and had the same facial expressions? And there was an egg with feet?…. Anyone?) would come on.
For those of you that got flashed Men in Black-style/those of you who aren’t getting my awesome 90s references, Garfield is an orange cat that is fat, lazy, loveless, and happily so. His day-to-day life included binge eating pasta while simultaneously being bothered by his borderline sociopathic owner, John Arbuckle, a seriously infatuated grey cat named Nermal, and Odie, the only animal character that I’m positive was an animal.
One month (years after my interest peaked in Garfield and Friends), I was chosen as student of the month. What in hindsight seems to be nothing more than a school’s way to fill up an extra bulletin board with construction paper, student of the month was a huge source of pride for young Akilah. The survey questions for my profile might as well have been an exclusive interview with Vanity Fair.
When I reached the portion of the Qs that asked what my favorite hobbies were, I had a dilemma: Do I just write down “Barbie car-washes and Snick” or do I go with the Garfield answer, “Eating. Sleeping. And Watching TV?”
Like any reasonable child, I just put down both, requiring that my student of the month sheet be 2 pages rather than the typically allotted 1.
As an adult in the 2000s, I guess my more accurate hobbies list would include:
-Going to the Gym to Counteract Eating
-Coming Up with
Good Convincing Excuses for Oversleeping
-and Watching Netflix or Hulu Plus
I’m not sure that Garfield didn’t become a self-fulfilling prophecy for me, but I do think there is a part of every 20-something that relates to different aspects of the show. Like perhaps Garfield’s “lasagna habit” which I’m now realizing was just a thinly veiled metaphor for being an alcoholic. Or maybe the simple truth that cats do not want you to have a successful love-life. Regardless, I’m just pointing out similarities where I see them.