Girls Aren't Funny, Author at Girls Aren't Funny

Bathroom Breaks: Don’t Drink the Complimentary Mouthwash

You’re probably thinking, the title of this lead me to believe I was going to be given proper life advice involving minty fresh breath. Or you’re thinking, “I thought I clicked on porn but why are there so many words.” Well, if the latter, I am terribly sorry for the disappointment. When you click on Girls Aren’t Funny it can only go one of two ways.

Anyway back to my Listerine anecdote, I was on a date. One of those good ones where you’re wearing comfy shoes and the kitchen accidentally makes an extra dessert and suddenly there’s twice as much cheesecake on the table.

By the time the check came my bladder had decided six glasses of sweetened ice tea is too much for it to handle, and my pancreas has decided I may have given myself diabetes, and Nick has realized he’s paying for dinner. So I leave.

I glide over to the powdered room in my dainty, feminine, on-a-date like way and realize I have the bathroom all to myself. Now this is a nice restaurant so of course there are couches outside of the stalls because we all know the best place to wait for a table in fancy restaurants is the bathroom (pro tip).

I pick my stall and relieve myself, and when I say relieve I am so relieved that I let out a low guttural sound to express my relief. I had a whole ice tea pitcher waiting to come out.

I open the door to find one of the employees quietly cleaning the sinks. In my attempt to avoid tension I struck up a conversation to show her that I was not ashamed of the noises I made while expressing gratitude for not peeing my pants (Well, I was wearing a dress, does that change things? What was the phrase ladies used when they couldn’t socially wear pants? I guess ladies didn’t talk of such things. This is why I should have gone to cotillion. At least I would’ve learned what fork to use).

I noticed small glass bottles filled with blue liquid.

“I just love when restaurants supply mouthwash. So thoughtful! I mean not all dates like the taste of those caramelized onions after you’re done with them, if you know what I mean?”

She just smiled and continued wiping.

“Well personally I think it’s a great idea. It looks like you’re out of little cups though. I guess I’ll have to do the hand scoop method.”

Again she smiled and cleaned.

“Oh, thicker than I thought.”

Then I proceeded to lick this blue liquid in my hand.

It was soap.

You probably already gathered this.

Good for you.

Do you want a medal?

I want mouthwash.

I left the bathroom and moved to sit down across from Nick.

“You don’t want to know the disgusting thing I just did in that bathroom.”

A confused and slightly intrigued older man stared back at me.

I calmly exited the situation and found Nick at the table next to him.

“We should go.”

DARE but for Catholics

So as I’ve mentioned before, I’m currently in Dublin, Ireland, visiting my family. My sister is attending a Catholic school (as you do in Ireland) and she’s being fast-tracked through the process of becoming as holy as possible.

She asked me to be her sponsor for her confirmation (a ceremony for being “confirmed in the Catholic church”, it’s not as cult-like as it sounds) and I said, “Does that mean I have to give you money or something?” No one exactly explained what my role was other than show up for the ceremony but I didn’t have to write a check so I agreed.

As part of the ceremony being run by her school, they decided to take the opportunity to scare children away from drugs and alcohol. The whole family was invited down to the church to light a candle and listen to kids chant about not touching the good stuff until they’re at least 18.

We, of course, arrive about 20 minutes late in the middle of the sponsor’s oath. A decent amount of the crowd was standing but we didn’t understand whether we were to sit or stand so we bobbed up and down for about a minute in confusion with one hand up like we were boy scouts. I almost put my hand over my heart for the pledge of allegiance.

Once we settled into our seats a priest got up to tell us all a story.

“Now children, have you heard about American Indians? I mean Native Indians, I mean Native American Indians…”

It went on for a while until he settled on the most politically correct term he could muster.

“Well, do you know the happiest place in the world? I’ll give you a hint, it’s in Florida.”

Kids squirmed with excitement, “Disney World!” they said in unison.

“Exactly, well that beautiful theme park is sitting on what used to be the home of thousands of Indian Americans (he still didn’t understand the concept).”

Where was he going with this? Well, he proceeded to tell the story of how Disney basically stepped on the necks of Native Americans and how you can’t assume everything beautiful is without flaw. I think. I think that’s what his metaphor was. I got lost and couldn’t find my way back.

But that was only the first of three Native American metaphors. Apparently, it was a theme for the night.

Then he starts talking about a Native American paddling in a canoe down a river but he’s surrounded with plastic bottles but with one teardrop all the trash disappears. This may have been related to Earth Day but no one questioned him.

The last one he spoke of a Native American boy who climbed a mountain, met a rattlesnake who asked to be carried down the mountain because he was cold. The boy was like, no you’ll bite me and the snake was like, “Nah”. So he carried the snake down the mountain and it bit him. The boy was like, “Ah! You promised!” and the snake was like “Sorry kid, you saw what I was. You knew what you were getting into.”

The snake was a representation of drugs the whole time. Or maybe the boy was on drugs. I forgot the metaphor already.

The priest then listed out a bunch of alcohol brands, like almost all of them. Like, he sounded hella thirsty.

“Yeah, marijuana, speed, cocaine, all beautiful stuff. But not until you’re 18 okay?”

They then all chanted together not to touch this beautiful stuff and lit candles. The wax was dripping all over Abigail but it was in the name of God and meth so it was fine.

“OK, let’s wrap this thing up. If we leave now we can catch the second half of the game.”

Afterward, I needed a drink.

Vulnerability is sexy: GAF’s first press coverage

Can I be honest? I’m freaking out a little and Oprah told me vulnerability is sexy.

Ok maybe she didn’t say that verbatim but you can’t quote Oprah directly or your soul will explode from too much goodness. Can you tell I’m freaking out?

I feel like a giraffe birthed from its mother. I fell five feet just to look up and stare into the heavens/vagina. And I’m like, what the hell just happened? And now everyone expects me to just stand up and walk around like everything is ok. It’s not ok! I was just metaphorically birthed out of a very tall vagina!

Nick said my metaphor is hardly helpful and this is why San Diego Zoo won’t hire me.

I started this blog a couple of weeks ago and I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like an old person when it comes to social media and all my friends are graduating soon and getting real adult jobs. I was clicking through a job search earlier and I had the option to apply to a company called, “Crazy Racoons” or “Dog & Rooster”. What is with all of these animal omens?

Being 22 is scary. Where’s my romantic comedy soundtrack that is lighthearted and makes the movie funny and not tragic?

My sister, Abigail, saved the day of course. She had to choose a famous person to write a biography on and she chose me. I was surprised mostly because the only thing I’m famous for is the one time I triple-dog-dared my crush in sixth grade to lick an ant pile. It’s never in your interest for me to be hot for you.

Straight from the interview packet itself:

What was their first job? Her first job was at the local grocery store where she was sexually harassed incessantly. It was like the ‘what not to do’ version of an HR video.
Did they marry? Did they have any children? Who are you, my mother?
Where did they live? All over the freaking place, it was annoying and she never got her mail. But she was fine. Kinda. Except for that time when she may have lived in an illegal shack in someone’s backyard. Lots of cockroaches. Lots.
What was life in their hometown or country like at this time? Pre or post Trump?
How did they feel about life in their hometown or country? Pre or post Trump?
How did they first become interested/involved in this area? Well, she owns a vagina. So… yeah. And she’s funny. Melanie is. Not the vagina. Well, maybe the vagina too. Those things get into trouble.
When did they first become well known? I’ll keep you updated.
What were the most difficult times? This interview.
Life at the moment (if this person is still alive) Yes, she’s alive and kicking.
Where is the person living now? Currently, couch surfing but in a glamorous way, not in a homeless way. There’s a difference.
How old are they now? 22, but who’s counting? Taylor Swift. She’s always watching.
What is their life like now? A hot mess. But more hot than messy.
Later life (if the person is no longer living) I’m still alive. You’re scaring me.

Anyway, I’m proud to say Girls Aren’t Funny has had its first press coverage (in a sixth-grade classroom) (I’m expecting a call from her teacher):

Melanie had an idea in college and was hoping someone else would do it. No one did. So she stepped up and created a safe place on the internet for women. But sexier. So, Girls Aren’t Funny, a submission-based blog for humor essays, was born.

Melanie said, “I noticed from a young age only the boys got to be the class clowns. There was this unspoken agreement that girls aren't funny,and this blog is here to combat this”.

Melanie has been traveling around Europe with her boyfriend Nick, and writing about those… embarrassing moments such as when she started speaking broken Spanish to a Polish woman. In my opinion, these relatable stories (kind of), make her unique. So, right now she’s collaborating with other women who want to submit their own work. 

Here are a few things I think about Melanie. In my opinion
Melanie is so full of energy and truly takes action. Nick said, “I think Melanie is very brave for starting this blog.She’s very passionate about her work and puts a lot of effort into
it”.

If you believe girls aren’t funny Melanie must be a guy.

-Abigail Whyte

Ode to my vagina

Let’s talk periods, baby. Let’s talk about you and me. Let’s talk about all the way we bleed together, yeah, baby. Let’s talk about, periods.

Wow, I totally sound like that sex ed video we all had to watch in 5th grade where the boys and girls were put in separate rooms and the boys emerged holding deodorant sticks and the girls emerged with the realization that they’re literally baby making machines.

Did your video have a sleepover where the mom made pancakes in the shape of the female reproduction system (like the whole thing, the whole thing)? I think she may have been their school nurse and/or pancake competition winner because that thing was detailed and looked delicious.

Anyways, well while I’ve been traveling for the last few months I had to take on a new approach to my special time of the month. Drinking alone. Oh and my period.

Before I left on my trip I was having dinner with some friends and someone brought up her Diva Cup (was I accidentally in a commercial?). Another friend agreed she loved hers and we all leaned in to hear their magical experience with a menstrual cup.

First of all, I had a weird problem with the name. Diva Cup. I absolutely hated that feminine products were constantly trying to come off as princess and sparkle themed. I wanted a tampon that had flames printed on the side of the packaging. Fire crotch! Yeah!!!

Enough of that.

Anyways, as my friends discussed the benefits of the Diva Cup I was brought back to the time I first used a tampon. I must’ve been around 12 or 13 and my friend really wanted to go swimming. Goddammit, why do kids always want to go swimming?

I was on my period at the time and didn’t want to see my pad try to absorb anything else. She basically told me to grow up and shove in a tampon. So after that pep talk, I snuck into my mom’s bathroom and stole a tampon. I looked at it, looked at my crotch, looked at it again and gulped. Audibly.

Five minutes later my mom was drawn to her room because she heard her daughter running (more like waddling) around screaming, “I’m never having sex, I’m never having sex!”. (Naturally, I assumed anything shoved up there would be painful and awkward. That’s what I call effective abstinence-based education.) Once she calmed me down I went back into the bathroom to remove the tampon that was half hanging out of me.

Like a bomb squad, both my friend and mom talked me through the process from the other side of the door. I emerged triumphant with the string dangling between my legs like a freaking pull-string doll.

Did we go to the pool? God, no, my friend moved on to apple slices and peanut butter. Did I finally enter into the world of womanhood? Hell yes.

Now, I was looking down the barrel of a very long trip, traveling to countries I didn’t speak the language of. I was still embarrassed to buy tampons at the local pharmacy. I make strange small talk and the cashier frowns at me with concern.

But I decided to do it. I’d buy a Diva Cup, it just made sense. However, I did pack an entire box of tampons as a back up in case I chickened out. Well, I basically used the whole box the first period so my back was against the wall. Also, it cleared a bunch of space in my carry-on.

I took the cup into the bathroom and stared at it for a while. I looked at it, looked at my crotch, and looked at it again. Gulp.

But I did it! I squeezed that sucker in there and it worked like a charm. Plus, I didn’t have to change it for like 12 hours (I really pushed it to its limits) which meant I only had to change it once in the morning and once before I went to bed.

I won’t lie, the first time I removed it, it was like a horror scene. But I’ve gotten the hang out of it since. Now I never have to be that girl who’s wandering around asking people if they have a tampon with desperation in her eyes (that was me, that was always me).

It felt like a hefty investment but it will save me so much in the long run. This isn’t an ad, but seriously give it a try. Then please send in a story of how it went down for you because I bet it was hilarious. Please include the curse words that rang out from the bathroom.

Or don’t send in a story, but research wonderful organizations like Femme International and their Feminine Health Management Program. Or donate because everyone loves money and you get to feel like a good person and everyone will hate you at the dinner party because you’re the cool kid who supports women.

We’re so Catholic, you already know

First off, did anyone sing the title of this post to the tune of Fancy by Iggy Azalea? Because go back and do that.

It was the morning of my sister’s first communion. (I’m about to give all non-Catholics a crash course in this religious rite of passage.)

It’s basically an opportunity for seven-year-olds to get crazy rich. Imagine bar-mitzvahs but for Catholics. (I may be offending a lot of people.)

Basically, you eat a wafer that is supposed to symbolize the body of Christ and drink wine, that symbolizes the blood of Christ. It’s basically symbolic cannibalism. But not as creepy as that. I used to think of it as eating a wafer-size Jesus who takes care of your insides. (That’s also why I wasn’t selected for anyone’s team during Bible Bingo).

It’s a big deal in a Catholic family, especially an Irish Catholic family, and I was excited to be in Dublin to see my sister do her thang. It was a small affair because, like most families with their last kid, they don’t try as hard. So she missed her first communion with the other seven-year-olds but five years later she’s going to a Catholic school in Ireland and was put on the fast track through confession and communion.

The local priest agreed to squeeze her in before her Catholic school had their confirmation. (Wow, there is so much backstory here. Maybe this post is only for Catholics. I’ve decided to be uninclusive in the name of God.)

Look how the holy spirit blew through her hair. The hair I spent a decent amount of time styling.

FINALLY, we’re at the actual story of the day. I curled Abigail’s hair all pretty and she had on a lovely white dress and we realized this 12-year-old doesn’t own a strapless bra. (Neither do I, and I’m a grown woman).

I encouraged the no-bra, possible band-aid, technique but she wasn’t having it in front of a priest. So when my mom left the room we dug through her drawer to find an old bra we could cut the straps off.

We were running late to mass and everyone yelled for us to come down. Without scissors in sight, we used an Exacto-knife (she’s into crafts) to shred through. We emerged triumphant. Screw you, Victoria [Secret].

There was too many of us going to the church so we separated into two cars. My brother, my aunt, Nick and I took off ahead of them and arrived at the nearest church within minutes. Since we arrived early we used our time luxuriously. We chatted in the car, we strolled across the lawn, we even took our time finding a seat.

No one else was there.

Mass was starting soon and then it hit us all at once. We gathered our jackets and pride and ran past a confused usher.

“Where are you going?” he shouted at our retreating backs.

“We’re at the wrong church!”

Churchgoers watched us trip over ourselves back to the car.

I yelled back at them,”Sorry, we realized we’re Jewish!”

On the way to the right church, we listened to a radio host discuss a dating site for married people to cheat on their spouses. (Finally something relatable, right? Farmers Only has had its time in the sun.)

“You know, Dr. Seus cheated on his terminally ill wife,” my brother said as we sprinted from the parking spot.

“Stephen Hawking cheated on his wife too,” Nick said as we approached the doors.

“And he was the terminal one, the bastard,” I said as we walked directly into the front of the church.

Silence. The congregation stared at us.

I crossed myself and joined my family in the front row. I thought I would be slowly forgotten once the service started. I soon realized my family was in the front row because it was Abigail’s special day.

“Abigail’s sister is joining us today all the way from the states,” I waved meekly.

Then it was the big moment. We lined up behind Abigail as she swallowed a little bit of Jesus and we each took our own turn. When it was just the priest and I he said, “You’re definitely sisters”.

What was the emphasis for? Did Abigail also call a brilliant recently deceased physicist an illegitimate child in front of the whole congregation?

I had never spoken directly with a priest before, except through the small holes of a confession booth (another Catholic thing) and I panicked.

“I did her hair,” I stuttered and ran back to my pew like a good Catholic.

Thank god (no pun intended) the rest of the day all of the attention was on Abigail. People from the church flocked to her to wish her well.

Two little old ladies looked at her fondly and said, “You’ll never be as holy as you are on the day of your first communion.”

Well, isn’t that nice. I don’t know, is it?

Going home, well, not really

We’re staying with my family in Ireland for a month.

My parents moved back to Ireland after over 20 years in the states with my younger brother and sister. So now that they’ve rejoined the Whyte clan (Wow, that sounded bad, Whyte is my last name. Crisis avoided?) I’m the only one with a permanent address in America (well, not exactly because I’ve been traveling but I’ve definitely been using my boyfriend’s parent’s address. I have my life together I assure you).

ANYWAYS! I rejoined the group to stay with them for a few weeks. Things I’m looking forward to when you live with your parents and grandma:

Pain medication – We ran out in February because apparently, we’re over-the-counter drug addicts. Is that a thing? Am I going to die soon?
Conditioner – We were convinced conditioner would only weigh us down and our hair could survive without it. It couldn’t. My hair is crying as I type.
Free laundry – Not that laundromats aren’t a great way to get rid of your precious, precious coins.
Food – A full fridge? Are you kidding me? Living the dream.

In that order.

It wasn’t until I wrote this list how much I was scraping by on my budget travel. All worth it of course. I may be malnourished. Can you survive on small pastries alone?

As we approached the flight to Dublin I thought about all the small differences between being raised as an American kid in an Irish family. I was often caught in between the subtle differences of the slang, such as when my mom exclaimed at a sleepover, “We’re going to have a load of craic”. Pronounced crack. Like the drug. She simply meant we were going to have fun, but my sleepover guests were excited by the prospect.

“My mom never lets me smoke crack at home.”

And of course, there were the differences in the food.

I preferred American snacks after school – perfectly toasted Pop Tarts, Goldfish that misled me to think fish was a dairy product, and if I was feeling healthy, I’d take a walk to the store to buy candy.

Of course, another staple was the ever important pudding cup. Jell-O, Snack Pack, it didn’t matter the brand, only the chocolate flavor, and texture only to be described as… wet. Pudding was held high above the other snacks, literally, it was on the top shelf, and it was given out as an award for good behavior.

My parents, born and raised in Ireland, would tell my brother and me horror stories about dinners involving liver with veins bulging and salty cabbage. We prayed to the American gods we would never have to experience this barbaric food. When we would visit our extended family in Ireland we preferred dinner from the traditional Indian food vendors that are so popular in Dublin. Curry over fries was Ireland’s attempt at uniting cultures.

As a special treat for Easter, one year my Irish Catholic parents ordered a traditional full Irish breakfast from a company specializing in delivering Irish breakfast to ex-pats. It arrived at our house Sunday morning. My brother, six, and I, nine, were overjoyed and helped carry the box into the house to inspect our goodies.

My mom took out what looked like black and white hockey pucks and squealed with excitement.

“We have black and white pudding!” she said.

“Pudding!” is all I could exclaim back at her.

My eyes narrowed in on the black pudding, assuming this was simply a hardened version of my chocolate pudding cups.

“You can have the vanilla pudding,” I said to my brother like the brat I was. He pouted but agreed he’d take the second best.

The rest of the box was emptied and we soon had bangers, rashers, Irish soda bread, beans, and eggs. Living in America there were a handful of items my parents missed most about home.

These high-quality items were smuggled often by visiting relatives as the laws to carry meat across the U.S. border became stricter. I used to think Irish sausages had to be carried by drug mules, or my grandmother.

The sausages were spicy and were gone quickly, the beans were wolfed down by my father and my mother ate her medium eggs as the yellow leaked from the center. My brother and I bounced in our seats as we saved the pudding for last, assuming it was dessert.

“Can we eat the pudding now?” I said with a desperation to my outburst.

“Sure…” my mom said.

We didn’t wait for her to finish her sentence and stuffed the hardened circular objects in our mouth.

“I just didn’t know you’d be so excited for blood sausage.”

With the word ‘blood’, I started to taste the salty flavor and realized it was not chocolate. I had heard rumors in the school cafeteria that pudding packs were made from ground bones, but I refused to believe them.

“Black pudding is made out of pork fat, oats and… blood, I believe,” my mother said. Like it didn’t ruin my whole morning.

My brother giggled next to me as I swallowed with a gulp.

“The vanilla pudding isn’t half bad,” he said, munching.

Language Barriers: Psychic anxiety & Knight Bus rescues

While we’ve been traveling I’ve been horrible at keeping up with the news. Maybe I wanted a break from good old Donald’s hilarious tweets. That guy just cracks me up. Just cracks me. Cracks me right in half. Oh, the pain he causes.

Anyway, we’re waiting on the platform for a tram in France and I was getting a weird vibe (I have horrible anxiety that likes to pretend it’s psychic). An announcement from a human (not a robotic pre-programmed message) says something somber in French and some people leave. My weird vibe mixed with my lack of terrorism knowledge (the news) put me on edge, you could say.

We board the tram anyways, while aboard the driver makes another announcement and a lot of people get off at the next stop. At this point, I believe we’re riding into Hell (with a capital ‘H’), but I didn’t want to prove to the universe my superstitious nature (huh? that must be the anxiety talking).

We arrive safely and everything is fine, but when we try to go back home that night the tram stop is blinking a message in French and there is no timetable. We walk along the tracks to the next stop and it has the same message.

People at the stop began to gather and discuss in French (my eavesdropping skills were of little use, so were my Spanish skills…).

Just as we were about to give up and walk home a bus drove down the tram track and pulls up like the freaking Knight Bus in Harry Potter (go watch it, for real, you are so behind on everything) and brought us home. Anyway, we still don’t know what happened but no one died. The end.

Update: The Knight Bus returned the next night! This time we knew what we were doing and waited “patiently” at the tram stop to be whisked away.

A woman approached me (everyone in the world freaking approaches me, more on that here) and starts speaking to me in French. I detected a light accent (what the hell is a light accent? Idk, you said it) and said “Angles?” in my attempt at a French accent (so many accents flying around). She said yes in an American accent and then we chuckled wholeheartedly at our idiotic attempts to talk to each other in another language (you had to be there).

Anyways I was feeling pretty superior when I told her the situation about this magical bus that would appear when it felt like it. She returned to her family to relay my expert knowledge. (Her husband couldn’t have bought a more realistic ‘tourist’ outfit at a Party City, he had on a khaki cargo vest and a camera slung around his neck, I thank him for the Halloween costume idea, I call dibs.)

My time in the sun (not literally, this was at night, you see how I set the scene there?) was over quickly as an actual French woman approached me and didn’t trust my information because I wasn’t from around there. Then an older gentleman from Armenia tried to hold a conversation with us completely by miming.

Duran Duran, who sang Hungry Like the Wolf. I felt weird explaining that. Photo Credit- Mark Weiss/ Angles

He danced around and patted his stomach like he was hungry and then pretended to fall asleep. It was pretty effective if he was trying to tell me he was hungry like the wolf. The sung was stuck in my head all night.

Burning bras is bad for the environment, but good for my soul

I was trying to put on a bra this morning (wow, it sounds like I’ve never done that before), but I got distracted and was walking around with one strap on my shoulder and the rest dangling like a purse (as you do).

And that’s when I realized how much more I’d enjoy my bras if they were multi-purpose. What if my bra actually had a pocket instead of shoving dollar bills in there willy-nilly? Also, and this is a stretch, what if I had a dildo protruding from my chest, but, and this is crucial, it’s not a dildo, but a hanger for my jacket (or a dildo, if you prefer). Besides, bras already feel like a strap-on, amirite ladies? No? No one?

Then I’d have a unicorn bra or a uni-boob! Wait, that’s something entirely different.

On another note, now that we’re on the topic of bras (No, Melanie, you were the only one talking about bras), can we break down how easy that lady who is a construction worker by day, dancer by night, who has big dreams, was able to remove her bra in that one scene from that one movie that one time?

When I googled the name of the movie, all of these images of construction workers working a pole came up. Here you go, you’re welcome.

FLASHDANCE! That’s the movie. Well, do you know that scene where she takes her bra off under her sweater? And it’s sexy and cool and totally unrealistic? Let me break down what happens when I try to do that.

I get stuck, I basically just get stuck. Like every time.

Oh wow, I looked up the scene name and its called, “Alex gets comfortable”. That’s amazing. So relatable.

I HATE WEARING BRAS! I just had to put that somewhere. Below all the fun stuff about a woman following her dreams. It feels like you’re going into battle when you start the day selecting a bra.

Bralette – Will I be cold today and my nipples will spring out and possibly poke someone in the eye?

Sports bra – Will I be running (maybe from something?) and my boobs will become out of sync and one will stray from the usual rhythm and slap me in the face?

Razorback – Why is this an option? Bras are already hard enough to get on. Now I have to wiggle my way through this contraption just so my racy straps won’t be seen by the public eye under this complicated tank top.

Strapless – Should I wear this knowing this bra will slowly slip down and eventually land around my belly button giving me the “You have a tumor” look which will lead to the “You have a tumor” talk. Not again, my friends.

The Seducer – That’s what I call any bra that isn’t really functional but is what you wear on a date or when you run out of other bras because you never do laundry so you lounge around the house sipping martinis and feeling like a Bonds girl.

The Push-Up – Did anyone else covet this bra in middle school because Sarah had huge breasts and tissue stuffing wasn’t cutting it? Now I hate them because I feel like I’ve strapped foam-based weaponry to my chest. Someone cut me out of this thing.

The Classic – Just your run of the mill bra. The bra you wanted when you walked into Victoria Secret before someone from the sales team convinces you that you need one that sparkles and shoots fireworks from your nipples. You love to hate it but at the end of the day, it protects you from chaffing and wandering eyes.

Someone invent something better. We’re literally one step away from the corset and breast bags. That was actually a thing. Breast bags. Look them up.

I don’t have time to, I’m still trying to put on my bra.

Dream Journal: What kind of apocalypse is this?

I’m on a school bus with some people that are supposed to be my family. I have a strong attachment to the little girl calling me mommy so let’s assume she’s my cousin. We drive the bus off a pier and into a marina to escape the danger no one has explained to me yet (seems like a major plot point).

But get this, there are other buses and trucks who threw themselves into the water to safety. So not only is this a stress dream on an apocalypse level but I’m also stressed about the traffic.

My brother suggests opening the windows so we can escape when it begins to sink, but we all agree no one wants to get wet.

This then shifts to another dream (stay with me people). I’m at a friend’s family home for Easter weekend (my internal calendar is a little off) when tons of people start piling through the front door.

I’m trying in vain to introduce myself to them but I can’t seem to shake their outstretched hands. (You know when you rest your arm behind your head to prop yourself up, or when you’re going for a nice overhead shoulder stretch? Visualize with me.) Well, my arm was stuck behind my head and all I could do was wave to them from around my ear. I wasn’t making any friends with this move.

Soon enough I realize we’re all piled into this house because it’s the end of the world (plot twist) and apparently they have a hell of a lot of food. Some bitch asks if we had any fat-free products and we throw her out of the house. We throw another guy out for wanting a protein shake.

Someone goes crazy at the idea of being stuck with us losers for the end of his days and charges at the front door breaking the glass and his body. People trample over him to freedom to find that the sky is blood red and mutant ninja turtles are running rampant. (Were they the good guys or bad guys in this situation? We’ll never know.)

This dream has way too many pop culture references.

We all go back inside to some kind of prayer circle and I become Katniss from the Hunger Games. Naturally, I go to the lingerie store inside the mansion to pick out my leather outfit.

While I’m getting fitted this lady I met in the prayer circle (who thinks she’s my friend but I actually can’t stand her) approaches me with a small posse and tells me they’re witches. (This apocalypse is doing too much.)

Anyway, our minds descend to a new realm where smiley faces are drawn on the ground but they’re actually wizards. The top dog (the smiley face with a beard drawn on it) tells the others they need to steal humans’ eyes. One smiley face with googly eyes drawn on it (named Greg) is called out.

“Greg, hand over the eyes, we all know you have a pair,” bearded face said.

“What? Eyes? Psh! I can’t see what you’re talking about,” Greg said.

“Greg, you are literally making ‘seeing’ references. You only do that if you have eyes,” bearded face said. (He made a good point.)

I was then brought back down to Earth/Katniss’s body where I was struck blind by the witches. They then mess up my hair like high school bullies. It wasn’t out of character for them.

Then I woke up.

And guess what? My arm was asleep under my head while I slept and the whole awkward encounter in the middle of my dream made sense.

Thank god, I thought I was just weird.

Trip to fairytale land but with more cardio

Because Nick and I are so spontaneous and fun (not bad planners who sleep in) we decided last minute (late afternoon) to take a couple trains a few hours to basically the border of Germany and Austria.

We had a purpose, we wanted to see the Neuschwanstein Castle, the fairytale castle Walt Disney based Sleeping Beauty’s palace* on.

*Sidenote: I was trying to brainstorm a synonym for ‘castle’ because that sentence repeated it too many times (brilliant writing skills) and my brain went, “Oh, pastle!” instead of the word ‘palace’ because I’ve been drinking too much (actually quite the opposite, I think I’m dehydrated) (where is this going?). It then autocorrected to “pastry” which was even less accurate and slightly offensive because yes I use that word in my vocabulary a lot more than I would like to admit Google!

After hours of travel we arrived and to our dismay were told the last train going back to Munich was in two hours. This meant we only had two hours to make it up the mountain and down to the station for the LAST TRAIN FOR THE NIGHT. I didn’t know what to emphasize in caps because it was all very dramatic. So the countdown began.

We hiked up the hill, nay, mountain, and soaked in the views. And it was magical.

Not exactly.

I wanted to take the shuttle because I despise sweating but Nick didn’t want to waste time waiting for it. Naturally, I complained all the way up for good measure.

It’s the small things in life that matter – like this splinter here.

Children with their grandparents passed me. At some points, I’d take breaks and say, “Look at the view from here! Honestly, it would be dumb to get any closer.” Yet, we prevailed.

Well, I crawled.

Not only did we hike up to the castle but continued past it. We hiked to the bridge so we could take picturesque photos like this one for your viewing pleasure. (Anything that pushes me physically is usually Nick’s idea) (that sounded dirty).

While we were on the bridge I was finally able to ask someone else to take a photo of us. I felt glorious, maybe even superior, as you know if you’ve read ‘Stop approaching me, I could have rabies‘. The bubble burst when she asked me to take a photo of her. We said goodbye and soon realized we’d overstayed. We only had 30 minutes to get back down the mountain, catch a bus to the station to make the last train.

This, of course, led to Nick and I fighting over whether to wait for the shuttle back down or run all the way down to the bus stop. Did we wait for the shuttle? Did I think I was going to die in that beautiful Bavarian forest? Are Emma Stone/Watson magical people? Yes, by all accounts.

Let me make it clear my hatred for running. When I was in school and we’d have to run a mile for gym class I’d run next to the slowest person on the track and speak loudly when we passed the coach,”You’re doing so well! Don’t worry I won’t run ahead and leave you behind.”

What. A. Star.

I bought running shoes because they were cute, not because I thought I’d do any running in them. (Do you do running?).

I was wearing those said running shoes as I fought against tumbling down the hill. I’d stop every few feet convinced I had appendicitis, or an ovarian cyst or a grumpy tourist stabbed me as I ran past. It was just my body reminding me I shouldn’t be running. It’s bad for my health.

I cursed Nick all the way down (because you do that when there’s no one else to blame) and begged God for Pringles. Fellow tourists stared and thanked their lucky stars they paid out for that fancy tour group. Tour guide Nancy would never make them run back to their bus. Screw you, Nancy.

We saw the bus in the distance and sprinted. It hissed and readjusted with the weight of the last few tourists. We reached out our hands in prayer and/or to wave down the attention of the bus driver. Whoever would respond first, I guess.

But we made it.

We walked into the train station triumphant with five minutes to spare. We bought a full canister of Pringles to celebrate.

We walked by the girl who took our photo on the bridge (she obviously took the shuttle down because there weren’t any leaves and twigs in her hair). I waved at her but she hesitated. I definitely didn’t look like the same woman she met on the bridge. That woman was confident, this woman looked like a sweaty lobster.

Travel tip: take the damn shuttle.