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Wow, I have been so bad at not hitting the shiny little publish button, and keeping these gems to myself. Please proceed. 

Everyone warned me I would cry on the subway, I took it a step forward and walked around the city cursing at the sidewalk like I had turrets. Then I got lost and blamed the universe for my problems.

I forgot my phone, which usually isn’t the worst thing in the world, but apparently, unless you carry around maps the size of your mother’s linens then you will need Google Maps. (Or Apple Maps if you want to be told to drive into a river.)

I was meeting a friend at The Wing, a women and non-binary people coworking space. If I had my phone I would’ve taken many photos. But then I wouldn’t have this darling story for your viewing pleasure.

I realized I didn’t have my phone when I stepped off the subway. I was meeting my friend ten minutes from then and couldn’t turn around. I rushed into the nearest coffee shop to steal their WiFi because luckily I had my laptop.

I thought I was a genius, I thought I had hacked the system of forgetting your phone at home. I was deeply proud of this and scorned all of the articles about millennials and their lack of #streetsmarts.

I tried to memorize the map on my laptop before closing it and running down the street. I vastly underestimated how hidden offices can be, tucked away between retail spaces. Construction crews lingered in the sidewalk. I continued to walk up and down to no avail.

This is when the cursing began. Close to tears I sucked it in and used it as fuel for my rage. Strangers gave me a wide berth on the crosswalk as I spoke loudly of my horrible turn of events as if someone would stop and ask if I needed help.

I was lost and sweaty and in a business skirt.

After many runs back and forth to steal WiFi from unsuspecting business owners, I found the entrance. It really was a utopia. Mainly because no one gave a shit that I simply couldn’t have worn enough deodorant to mask my defeat. I stank. All was good again as I sipped water from my personal carafe only an hour late. Not bad.

***

Except, that wasn’t the end of this tale! I managed to get lost ON THE WAY HOME! Because it wasn’t my home, it was one of the many AirBnBs we were crashing at while awaiting board approval for our apartment. Therefore I didn’t remember the address and used landmarks to retrace my steps like I was on the Oregon Trail, with less disease and more WiFi hotspots.

I still didn’t cry though. However, this shame is probably deeply embedded in my skin and will appear in the form of a mole 20 years from now.

The End.

I haven’t posted in a while because I’m forgetful like a parrot with amnesia, and I’m just telling the same story about crackers until someone puts a blanket over my cage. True story. I wrote this little nugget a weekend after arriving in NYC. I guess I should wait until a Sunday to post it but then I’ll forget again. *Insert parrot noise* Please continue. 

Last night I was invited to a rooftop party. Someone I barely knew invited me to someone I definitely didn’t know’s birthday party.

When I got there I felt like a total dweeb because everyone was salsa dancing like a total pro. I’m not kidding. Half of the invitees were dancers.

When I dance I look like a chicken pecking, just a lot of neck movement back and forth to the beat. If the rest of my body gets involved it’s more aggressive arm movements. My feet tend to stay in the same place.

The party was both magical and intimidating and a woman yelled at me about touching her chair (which I will hold as a grudge for the rest of my days).

Oh, you want to hear about the mean woman and her chair? Let me tell you.

So salsa dancing takes up a lot of space and the dance floor was tiny so I moved a chair an inch, not for me, but for the dancers! I was trying to be helpful! I’m incredibly defensive!

This woman looks at me and says, “Don’t touch the chair.” I smile back at her waiting for her deadpan to break and we’d laugh together, become best friends and braid each other’s hair. No. It wasn’t like that.

Her boyfriend then got involved.

“Yeah, don’t touch the chair. I reserved that chair.”

I am standing there grinning like a madman hoping they will laugh soon because this is a very specific and ridiculous moment. But they continued to stare at me until I moved away from the chair with a look of both “I hate you” and “you’re boring me”.

Did I let it ruin my night?

Of course, I did! Who gets up in arms about a chair! For the rest of the night, I purposely moved around the room to avoid them until they left. Then I went and touched the chair. Because I’m five, apparently.

On a more positive note, the people there were incredibly interesting. The woman who invited us talked about her travels, how she had two different racecar driver friends, how she sips tequila and scotch, she loves a good cigar, and she casually took up tango and salsa dancing later in her life.

Also, she only parties Sunday to Wednesday night because that’s when the locals come out. Who parties on a Sunday? My worldview was flipped.

I am overwhelmed by the coolness level of these people. I hope some of it rubs off on me because right now I’m experiencing serious imposter syndrome.

I just packed up my things and moved to the city on a whim. I’m having a hard time feeling like I deserve to be here.

I guess whether I deserve to be here or not, I’m here and I might as well make the most of it.

Apparently making the most of it means making a hit list for angry chair keepers.

P.S. I might be taking up salsa dancing lessons. Baby steps?

My featured image couldn’t be a picture of my nipple. It just couldn’t. I’m sorry. So I give you a picture of kitties instead, because it rhymes with titties.

This week has been a week of growth. I went to a networking event for Girls Aren’t Funny and confirmed a cohost for our podcast.

But I don’t want to talk to you about growth. I want to talk to you about my damn mosquito bites.

I don’t know what kind of hell I’m living in where it is both 110 degrees AND there’s mosquitos. Are these mosquitos hyped up on post-apocalyptic fever? (I recognize that sentence made no sense, I am just too damn itchy to care).

Today is different. Today, one mosquito went too far.

I have a giant bug bite on my nipple. Yes, I’m about to go into detail about my nipple because I need your sympathy, not your judgement.

No bug should be anywhere near my nipple. Only lovers, handsy doctors and babies should have access to my nipples.

Well, not all babies. Just a few. Like my future babies if I was to have babies.

That is a whole other conversation that I don’t have to dive into, Mom!

#defensive #freethenipples

This morning, my lover, Nicholas, walked in on me in the bathroom slapping my boob around in the attempt to numb it.

#sexy #donttrythisathome

I then started to worry about cancer because in elementary school there was this myth that if you get hit in the boob too hard it gives you cancer.

So I started to research cancer.

Then I started yelling, “I need cream!”. For no apparent reason.

Then I thought, “What if this isn’t a bug bite and I’m growing a third nipple?”

I went back to researching and found an article titled, 18 Surprising Third Nipple Statistics. This intrigued me as I didn’t know there were that many nipple statistics, let alone 18 unpredictable ones.

Here are a couple ones that stood out to me:

1. 27.2 million Americans are believed to have an extra nipple somewhere on their body – so get looking!
2. There are no specific guidelines for taking care of extra nipples – we’ll have to make our own, starting with cream.
3. No two nipples look alike – so that third nipple will be just as special
4. A third nipple will naturally secrete oils that help to fight bacteria – I read this as “secret” oils which made me excited with the possibilities for my possibly very special third nipple that has a community of people who could overrun the essential oils industry with our secret secreting

So there you have it. Excuse me while I go roll around the bathroom floor.

Xoxo,

Funny Girl

I’m working on a big project I hope to share soon! But for now I’m eating baked goods.

That is all.

Xoxo,

Funny Girl

I’ve been feeling guilty lately because I promised myself I’d always post daily but that was a hefty goal so instead of posting I just swirled in a toilet of guilt. Is that visual enough? A toilet of guilt.

Nick and I’s amazing European adventure extravaganza has come to an end. We arrived in Phoenix, Arizona on Wednesday night. We’re staying with Nick’s parents while we figure out our lives. It’s just as terrifying as it sounds.

Arizona. In the summer. With no concrete plans.

On the plane home a guy in front of us had snuck a bottle of vodka onboard and almost finished it off before it was confiscated. He was so drunk he tried to get off the plane while we were still in the air.

Luckily he was so drunk he did a nose dive into a row of four people so he never actually made it to the door.

It felt like he was the physical representation of what I was feeling.

I’m trying to find my new normal. I feel like I’m in an indie film where the main character wanders around with indie theme music in the background while she feels indie and judges normal people doing normal things because she’s too damn indie for you. Except I’m way more judgmental.

I signed up for various gym classes. That’s a lie. I signed up for a free trial that I plan to cancel. I thought going to the gym would get me out of the house.

This morning when I couldn’t sleep due to jet lag I drove to the gym class I signed up for. It was a class based on pretending to surf. I’m not shitting you. They have surf boards glued to the floor and you paddle on them.

No one was there. I stood outside disappointed because I wasn’t going to get to pretend to surf. Then I went to the grocery store and bought smoothie supplies. I’m trying to be healthy or something.

I walked around and the store’s music was similar to elevator music and the old woman at the self check out yelled at me about not having a loyalty card. Everything felt surreal.

I feel like a dickhead. But I’m working on it.

It’s hard being funny when you just want to punch old ladies who work at grocery stores. It’s not her fault.

It’s hard being funny but I decided it’s better to post than to not post. This website is to prove woman are real, well rounded humans with flaws and all kinds of other shit.

So here I am. Naked and afraid*.

*Great show btw

If anyone else is out there feeling lost or confused about next steps for the love of god reach out to me*. I’m not too much of a dickhead to think I’m the only one who feels this way.

*Also if you have a job opportunity feel free to reach out to this witty writer. I heard she makes great smoothies.

I’m currently sitting in the airport waiting for my delayed flight to no longer delay. While I wait I’m scrolling through the LinkedIn app searching for jobs.

That. Is. Amazing.

I swear this is not an ad but I feel it is incredible that I can click “easy apply” and my resume will be sent to the company.

I usually spend hours on one job application at a time. Now I can see a job and say “yeah that looks like a good fit” and click a freaking button.

I can feel old people roll in their soon-to-be-graves. Like, their freshly dug graves are just ready to be rolled in. These old people had to walk up a hill both ways to go to school and all I had to do was click a button!

Literally one of the requirements for a job position was to be a “digital native”. I just checked off a job requirement because I just happened to be born at the right time. Incredible.

I’m loving the job descriptions now-a-days. You know, as a digital native, it was pretty hard having to fill out online applications on the computer next to the manager. I had to beg employers to hire me because my sweat would get all over their keyboard. No one wants that.

Now I see postings that start with, “Do you want to work in a place that feels like home, has hilarious coworkers and basically pays you to watch YouTube videos?”. Well, sign me up. I feel like talent acquisition has become the new car salesmen.

I’m tempted to make a social media but for a dog. Not my dog, I don’t even own a dog. I just want to see if it gets any recruiters. Maybe I’ll apply to a couple of places just to see if I get any bites (or barks).

I’ll get back to you on this. But if I do make a dog LinkedIn profile I need a professional name. Maybe Buddy Barker. He’ll need a headshot.

Though I don’t have a dog of my own when Nick and I were looking for a golden retriever puppy we stumbled upon a website where apparently a cult was selling them.

All the photos were hazy and no one’s faces were in them. Just their necks down complete with women in braids and long floral, pastel gowns and the men in overalls.

The main photo is of the owner’s face shoved up against a golden retriever while it’s being forced to smile. It looked like it had a gun to his head.

Maybe I’ll take a few pointers from them and have an equally creative headshot.

Wow, one second I was applying for jobs and now I’m threatening golden retrievers for headshots.

Someone hire me.

I’ve always been a big fan of visions boards where you cut all of your vulnerabilities, your hopes, your dreams out of magazines and paste them on to a poster. I think it’s therapeutic but it may be a waste of resources.

Sidenote: I once ate Elmer’s Glue on a dare but when I picked up the bottle my thumb covered the “non” in the word “non-toxic” and I nearly passed out from the fear of dying/becoming a teenage mutant ninja turtle.

So I thought what better place to do that then a freaking community for women supporting each other. So support me, bitches (and my male bitches too because penises are always welcome as long as they’re not dicks).

Basically, this is what I envision for Girls Aren’t Funny in the future. Almost a Chicken Soup for the Soul meets Vagina Monologues. It’s already killing it on the bestseller list [in my head] (I may be insane or incredibly crafty).

Book reviews coming out the gate:

“Girls Aren’t Funny has been breaking glass ceilings with their bare hands and it is a messy business! The publishing industry, not the blood. Why are we talking about blood when we should be talking about this book!” – The feminist next door

“Get back in the kitchen.” – President Trump

“Without Girls Aren’t Funny I’d still be involved in cockfighting.” -The local priest

This book is like a new friend you don’t feel comfortable asking for money yet. But you will. – Your mom

Stay humble.