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.
Remind me to read more female literature. Novels with strong female protagonists. Essays about feminism. Biographies about strong women.
But also remind me to watch movies where the women are nothing but caricatures. Not real breathing people. Remind me to watch films where the women are only girlfriends, bodies, sex. Remind me this is how we are seen.
Remind me to notice the prudes and the sluts. Compare them side by side. Notice what makes them different. Remind me I am both a prude and a slut.
Remind me to expand my vocabulary. To look up words in the dictionary. Remind me to buy a dictionary. Remind me to use the right words. The right phrasing and knowledge and language that will allow me to participate in the conversation.
The conversation about my gender. The conversation about the experience of being a woman. Remind me I have something to say.
But also remind me that other women have something to say. Women who aren’t given the time or space to say. What they need to say. Remind me to hear them. Remind me I am them and I am not them. At the same time.
Remind me not to feel trapped in my body. Remind me that I am not my body. I am more than my body. Remind me to respect my body.
Remind me I do not need to be likable. Remind me I do not need to smile more. Remind me that I don’t want you to sit next to me, or I don’t want your drink. Remind me to be honest. Not mean. Sometimes mean. Remind me to be a bitch. A cunt. A twat. A tease.
Remind me that I don’t have to hate men. Remind me of my jealousy. Remind me of my envy. The envy to make mistakes I can’t make. Remind me I am the brother of the prodigal son.
Remind me that my rage is understandable. Remind me that I’m not crazy. Remind me that it is 2018. Remind me again. It is 2018.
Remind me that I am not an imposter. That I do not need a degree in women’s studies. Remind me that all I need is myself. And her. And him. And them. And us.
Can you procrastinate when you don’t have anything to be truly responsible for? Well, either way I procrastinated today so instead of a full post I bless you with my very own awkward family photo.
That’s me in the bottom left at age 13. You can tell my age by the posture that says, “I have no self-esteem but I think the lace on this shirt makes me sexy”.
The photographer’s choice of sepia was the cherry on top to this masterpiece.
Of course none of us kids knew the collage we were signing ourselves up for. We were just told to look to the heavens. No one knew we were to be modge-podged into forced sibling adoration.
I needed a featured image for this post and when I searched “beautiful kidneys” no stock photos would appear. So I made my sister take a selfie with me. She’s too cool for me in her leather jacket and I just want her to love me. Also, the title of this post is going to rock my SEO game and possibly lead to an arrest.
When talking to children about their sickness symptoms always use extensive metaphors and personification.
For example, my sister’s kidneys were hurting. Usually, this would be cause for alarm. Possibly a kidney infection, etc.
Me: Your kidneys are just mad at you
Abigail: What are they mad at me for?
Me: You don’t pay them enough. They’re on strike.
Abigail: How do I pay them?
Me: Well, they’re just threatening you with the possibility of a strike. Really they’re just grumbling about their unfair pay. Eventually, they’ll get a raise but with a raise comes a higher workload. That’s just life.
Abigail: …
Me: To be honest I got lost in the middle of the metaphor. Drink some water. If that doesn’t work I’ll give you one of my own kidneys.
And this is why I didn’t become a doctor. It’s all about the lack of English composition skills.
And no I didn’t take her to the doctors because I believe in 19th-century medicine and covered her in leeches.
And no you can’t take her out of my custody because she wasn’t even mine in the first place so jokes on you Child Protective Services.
And yes you should ignore everything I said because we both realized she was just experiencing period cramps. Being a woman is new to her, she only hit puberty this year.
I think it may be against some kind of sister code to talk about her period on the internet.
I feel giddy with this much power. Everyone should talk about their sister’s period.
Sidenote (like total sidenote, like this is barely related to anything and you should probably turn around now): Today I realized I want to one day write a movie just so I can film one specific scene.
You know how in most* comedies there’s a scene where a guy’s penis is revealed. I’m hesitant to Google this for you because honestly, I’m scared of what will pop up on my screen in this busy coffee shop.
*I use the word ‘most’ loosely. Maybe not the majority of comedies result in a mail/male package being delivered.
Oh jesus, I typed in “comedies where a guy whips out his ween” into the search bar and this photo showed up.
These kids and their parents look way too eager. I hope it’s their parents.
Anyways that took a strange turn. I simply wanted to say that instead of Seth Rogen walking around in a way-too-small robe with his penis flying around for a few laughs, all I want out of life is to write a scene where a woman walks around with her cat hanging out with just a full bush. Is that too much to ask for?
I am amazed I could so easily find a picture of Seth Rogen in a kimono.
I asked my sister and she said it was way too much to ask for. Also to close my robe when I walk around her bedroom.
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.
I almost got stuck in the bathroom today. I had been wandering around all day waiting for something embarrassing to happen to me as it usually does. And then it hit me.
I locked myself into a one person bathroom in a “coffeeshop” in Amsterdam so thankfully everyone was too high to notice a panicked woman stumble out of the bathroom after MINUTES of clicking the lock back and forth unsuccessfully.
What I really wanted to talk to you about is drug dealers. (This is called a segue.)
Tonight when my brother, Nick and I were walking home after a night at an Amsterdam local food festival we had the joy of approaching a group of men. Don’t you love that feeling that crawls all over you when you see a group of territorial-looking guys who are too old to be hanging out outside fast food restaurants but too young for old men bars?
Anyway, we eased through them and one (the peacock) spoke to us in English, “Welcome to Amsterdam”. I didn’t realize we had ‘tourist’ written on our foreheads but apparently it was evident we weren’t from around there.
Of course, Nick and I used our ‘ignore everything’ technique but I soon realized my brother was no longer with us. I looked back to see him and the peacock essentially circling each other, similar to boxing or Pokémon battles.
My first thought, “How will we carry the body of a 19-year-old, 6’7” man back to our place when this guy knocks him out?”.
Just kidding my first thought was, “rape”. I calculated every possible way it could end at that point. There were 6 grown men vs us. Does anyone else immediately go there?
I feel like as a woman we immediate calculate the chance of rape in any given scenario. Maybe that’s just me. I tend to selfishly think about my well-being.
Once we pulled my brother away he wouldn’t explain what the guy wanted. As we pushed into the Airbnb, the peacock drove around the corner in a neon green Vespa. It was the most European moment I’ve experienced so far in Europe.
This man followed us in his tiny green Vespa. That means if his friends all had multicolored Vespas he’d be in a biker’s gang. But with neon Vespas.
It was intimidating as hell.
We locked the door behind us but my brother refused to follow us into the apartment. He wanted to go out to this guy.
Nick and I went upstairs to look out the window and waited for my brother to join us. After what felt like forever he came back.
“What did that guy want?” I yelled.
“Oh, he just wanted to know if I wanted to buy drugs,” he said.
Was I in the “what not do” part of a DARE video?
Kids, when a drug dealer approaches you don’t interact with them, especially if they drive a green Vespa. If they were any good at being a drug dealer, they’d be driving something better than a green Vespa.
I waited be the window and prayed I wasn’t going to be part of Taken 4. Partially because I think Liam Neeson is slightly overrated.
The peacock hasn’t shown his face or his green Vespa since. So naturally I’ll just lay in a puddle of anxiety all night.
Oh the good all days when the most exciting part of my day was almost getting stuck in a toilet.
I didn’t post yesterday because I was packing for my trip to Amsterdam with my brother and Nick so stop yelling at me guilty conscience and let me live my life!
The key is organizational piles.
The “fun mom” pile wouldn’t be complete without responsible but cute shirts typically from Old Navy. Then you’ve got your “I’ll need this to cover up my erotic vibes” which consists of cardigans and black tights. Then there’s the “when did I become a person who wears leather?” pile which only holds a leather jacket I stole from my 12-year-old sister and a scandalous/business casual leather skirt my grandma bought me.
Did I mention I’m cool?
Anyways that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. We arrived at the AirBnB we’re staying at and two cats stared back at me from the couch. That’s when I vaguely remembered that to get such a cheap place in the city I agreed to petsit the host’s cats. I was confused too.
I took the list of instructions including a recipe for their dinner! Cat pâté! Freaking cat pâté.
Nick is allergic so we’ve been keeping him in a corner. Allergic to cats, not pâté. That man loves a mean pâté. And nice pâtés too.
I feel like I usually get paid with free housing when I pet sit but instead I’m paying her to take care of her cats. I’m great at negotiations. This explains my fear of car dealerships.
Anyways we spent the evening doing what people do in Amsterdam. When in Rome, amirite?
We both know I’m talking about walking in the bike line? Man, they love their bikes here. And they do aim.
When we came home last night we weren’t the most sober we could be. We probably could’ve been more. Just a little more.
That’s what I told myself when I woke up this morning and realized I mixed kitty kibble with hot water and then instructed Nick to mash it together with a fork to make “cat pâté”.
I found the actually pâté in tin cans this morning. I also found that the mush had hardened over night so the cats laughed at me silently while I scraped it out. #budgettravel
You know what they say. When in Rome, make cat pâté?
Update: So I assumed we were taking care of these cats because the hosts were going on their own vacation/they were staying with a friend/ living in a cardboard box while we rented their place.
Wrong.
We walked downstairs and as we were about to walk out, the door to the apartment on the ground floor opened and our host stepped out.
“Have a great day, guys!”
I was flabbergasted.
“You mean to tell me that you are living downstairs and I’m taking care of your cats upstairs?! Are you and your cats on a break? Should I drop off your cats later? I’m sure you guys can work it out over some pâté,” I said.
Except I only said that in my head because I’m a pussy.
Yes, that was a cat pun. Excuse me while I go feed the cats.
When your 19-year-old brother refuses to watch a stand-up comedy special with you because he’s not “in the mood” for a female comedian you realize why you undertook this project in the first place.
Reasons he listed for why he doesn’t like female comedians:
“They’re so sexual”
“They’re too feminist”
“They talk about things I can’t relate to”
Now I know some may think I’m overreacting because my brother doesn’t want to watch female comedians. I think I’m reacting just enough. Because after some badgering he more or less admitted that he thinks girls aren’t funny.
I know many people feel this way. I’ve experienced it firsthand and I’ve talked to many women who’s jokes aren’t laughed at until their male peers retold the joke. Some might say their delivery might have been wrong but we know the truth. This is the first time someone has directly admitted to me that they believe girls aren’t funny.
It became crystal clear when he said: “They talk about things I can’t relate to”. This makes sense. As a woman, I’ve sat through stand-up comedy shows, movies, music on the radio, all talk trash about women. Women are crazy, women are dependent on their male counterpart, women eat dick for breakfast, women are this, women are that. But because you have the privilege to decide whether you want to listen to someone else’s experience you can decide girls aren’t funny.
Women talk about having sex, about our periods, our body image, our ongoing fight to choose what we do with our body. And it’s fucking hilarious. It’s goddamn beautiful that in the midst of all the bullshit women deal with, we can still make people laugh. We can laugh together, at each other, with each other.
Of course, I love my brother and of course that hasn’t changed. I just immediately made him watch Sarah Silverman. However, this moment reaffirmed why I started this website.
My dream is that one day this website can retire because the idea that Girls Aren’t Funny is an archaic concept. My dream is that we can start with each other. Each time we make each other laugh we move a little in the right direction. We need to tell our stories. Our hilarious stories.
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
This picture is of the first day of ski school. Look at that naive son of a bitch smiling away without a care in the world. Let’s just say the last day of the program I found myself in a full-blown panic attack slowly making my way down a mountain with four very uncomfortable people. The trainer mistook my raspy breathing as asthma rather than anxiety. I thought I’d have to fight off CPR.
Unsubtle sports segue.
I am terrified of team sports. I think it has something to do with people expecting my height to somehow assist me in my coordination.
You’re probably thinking, “Oh no, now she is going to talk about how her long limbs got in the way of her athletic ability”. Or you are thinking, “Can I eat this Chinese food if it has been in my fridge for two weeks?” If the first question, you are wrong, I am an amazing athlete. If the second, yes you can eat it, I have already tested the theory for you. You’re welcome.
Soccer: When your parents don’t realize you’re American
At the ripe age of four, I was enrolled in soccer. Maybe if I was born literally anywhere else in the world I would enjoy this sport but… no.
Who didn’t have to go through this experience? Parents try to make sure their kid doesn’t get type II diabetes so they enroll them in shit like soccer and gymnastics.
(Pro tip: Thank god for childhood obesity because I can buy cheaper clothes in the plus-size section of Gap Kids.)
Well, did you have a dad who stood on the sidelines yelling at the coach’s lack of ability as a coach and as a man? This only started my career. At every game, my dad would stand farther down the field and give me opposite advice to what my coaches were saying.
“Melanie! Head back to defense!” yelled the coaches.
“Melanie! Don’t listen to them! They’ve never played a day of soccer in their life! Go for the ball! Aggression is key!” screamed my father.
Understandably, soccer games became a huge source of anxiety for me. So did tennis, kickball and for one summer, fencing. Naturally.
Over the years I racked up some pretty gruesome injuries. Including the time I injured my ankle, was strapped into a boot and then put in the goalie box to keep me safe, to be then injured by my own teammate. Oh did you want me to tell you that story? Don’t worry, here it goes.
My dad was really big on the concept of supporting your team no matter what, so with my new ankle boot I hobbled onto the soccer field to wish my team good luck before the game. We were missing our goalie and so in their desperation, they asked me to stand in goal. I learned two things from that moment:
1.) Never show up to anything injured or sick, because people will still find ways to put you to use when you don’t want to be, and 2.) Always negotiate for an extra snack when being asked to perform a dangerous service, especially when Sarah’s mom brings orange slices.
I accepted the new position and tugged on the neon, smelly vest that comes with the glory of the goalie. I planned to stay rooted in my safe little box until I realized I was actually standing in the target zone.
I wrapped my arms around the ball to look up and see two figures speeding towards me. I felt an intense pain and blacked out. My response is best told through my mother’s interpretation, “You were sprawled out on the ground and then you shot up with a scream of pain. It was kinda funny like when you giggle at a horror movie trailer.” Very relatable.
The arm I broke was on the same side of my body as my ankle boot so for weeks after the injury, I hobbled around with the right side of my body heavier than the other. The most flattering nickname I received was ‘bionic woman’, and that was from my dad. The least flattering was ‘cripple’, which was from my mom.
Good times. At least I can say I was allright!
Volleyball: Oh you’re tall? Get the fuck on this team
My mom encouraged me to try out for the volleyball team in eighth grade and when I say encouraged I actually mean she refused to pick me up after school until I called her sweaty and out of breath from the excitement of the experience. If I called her sweaty and out of breath for any other reason, it was just another day in middle school.
The last bell rang and I stayed seated on the locker room bench as a gang of girls came through to change into athletic gear. I tried some small talk like, “Hey! I have never played this sport before and it would be swell if you could explain every rule in the game and also never pass me the ball,” or some casual locker room banter such as, “No worries, I am no threat to you as I will not be making the team. Please just let me live through this.”
Some girls gave me weak smiles of pity, while others laughed as if I was joking. One, in particular, sprayed me with perfume and whispered to me, good luck. I took it as either a superstitious ritual or a hint that I needed to find my deodorant again. I trudged out onto the court where the volleyball net had already been erected.
The coach came up behind me and slapped me across the back, “I’m so glad you came, Whyte. We can finally put your height to good use.”
What does that mean? Did she think my height had been of no use so far for anything but the godly athleticism of volleyball?
“I can reach things on the top shelf,” I mumbled. She looked at me for a beat too long with a concerned look on her face.
The same look she gave me when I was put on the discus team for track and field, then realized I had no strength, moved me to the sprinters, realized I’m not fast, then moved me to long-distance running, where I perfected the technique of lifting your knees in an exaggerated motion so that from the other side of the track it looked like you were jogging in slow motion.
I’m not sure where I was going with this, but needless to say, I had a bad track record!
Basketball: If I was shorter would you still love me?
Eventually, I found basketball, where the shorts are baggy and the girls are… tall. Did you think I was going to say saggy? Because they are not. They wear sports bras.
I made my middle school basketball team and after the initial relief of accomplishing a tryout without injuring someone else, I realized I would actually have to play a game with people watching.
The crowd at my first game could be described as human, maybe with a few service dogs mixed in. I was sent out on the court with my white skin shiny under the gym’s fluorescent lights and my limbs swinging nervously by my side.
My coach screamed, “defense!” at me as I made small talk with the other team’s players. It was important to me that everyone liked me so this was the natural position for me to be in. In an effort to please the coach, I broke the girl’s nose.
Oh wait, I skipped some details.
As I was having a lovely conversation about how I don’t particularly enjoy being sweaty, the basketball bounced off the rim and ricocheted towards us.
In an effort to protect her (i.e. defense) I reached out to grab the ball and my elbow came crashing down on her fragile cartilage. I promised to be right back and made a shot for my team, but she didn’t want to exchange chat-room information after that.
You win some, you lose some. I say I won on several accounts, one of the bigger reasons being that I was diagnosed with scoliosis at the nurse’s the next day and no longer had to participate in team sports.
You know what they say, back surgery is a bitch but nothing is worse than enforced team spirit.
