Ginger design major seeking twenty something male with job / wealthy parents, unafraid of basements with no mutual friends I will lose after our break-up. Must love burping in public and the Boston Red Sox. Cannot scold me for refusing to recycle, but must accept scolding for using improper grammar and therefore sounding like a dumbass. Needs to be a morning person to make sure I go to class on time / go to class at all, and not wear sweatpants in public. Yes, the gym is considered public- even if you’re paying an absurd amount for a gym membership to a place with the name of a comic book caption, like crunch! or ka-pow!. Excessive knowledge of video games is frowned upon, as well as an unnecessarily long Starbucks drink order. Lets me pay for my own shit but still sends me flowers, on occasion, just because.
I have ten dollars in my bank account, forty below the minimum of fifty ( 10 + 40 = 50, get it?). Chase Bank sends me low account balance text messages more often than guys who actually like me do. If I were to ever get another boyfriend he would go through my text messages and be like, “Who the hell is Chase as why is he texting you so much? Why are all of his texts after midnight?” To which I would say “It’s my bank account because you don’t pay for my shit and I like to grocery shop at night like celebrities do, damn it!”
Between applying for job positions I started making this list to determine if it would be easier to get a job or get a boyfriend. Because really, what is the difference between snagajob.com and match.com? I can’t decide which is worse, being unemployed or being single.
Eight hour shift = a job , Five to twenty minute job = boyfriend, depending on how drunk he is. Point boyfriend.
Employees wear name tags to prevent calling your boss the wrong name, call your boyfriend by another dudes name and you’re single. Point job.
You can either spend eight hours a day on your feet or eight hours a day on your back. Point boyfriend.
There are not days off in a relationship. Point job.
Pretending to like your co-workers or pretending to like his friends. Tie.
For a job you can make cash tips, from a boyfriend you get tips like “baby use both hands.” Point job.
It’s easier to juggle two jobs than two boyfriends. Point job.
Lunch break vs. dinner date. Point boyfriend.
Holidays at work means a paid vacation, holidays with a boyfriend means a Christmas present you pretend to love- or breaking up. Point job.
You have to reference every time you’ve been fired on job applications, you don’t have to tell a new boyfriend how many times you’ve been dumped. Point boyfriend (and if you do…just lie)
Slutty clothes to job interview = unemployment, slutty clothes on a first date = you’re getting laid, but not a boyfriend. Tie.
A job means being able to buy your own drinks, having a boyfriend means choosing not to. Point boyfriend.
You can pick the radio station at work, change the radio station in the car and you’ll end up fighting about how you don’t trust his female friends. Point job.
Spending your day answering phone calls, or spending your day staring at your phone waiting for him to text you. Tie.
At work you’re assigned a position, with your boyfriend you get to decide- multiple ones. Point boyfriend.
It takes an hour to fill out an application and an hour interview to apply for a job; it takes playing hard to get and consistent texting (without being clingy) to get a guy to talk to you for more than a week. Point job.
Drinking at work is frowned upon, drinking on a date is encouraged. Point boyfriend.
You have to wear an ugly gender neutral uniform for work, your boyfriend thinks you look hot in everything (and if he doesn’t then HE. SHOULD. LIE.) Point to good boyfriend.
I wish I could just apply for a boyfriend, then again I rather receive a rejection “we found someone more qualified for this position” e-mail from an employer than a dude. Point job.
If you’re sick for work you get the day off, if you’re sick with your boyfriend you have to watch Sports Center all day. Point job.
Boyfriend = 8
Job = 9
Tie = 3
Looks like I will be spending my Friday night applying for jobs instead of at the bar, oh well, at least I don’t have to shower now.
Two things (neither of them are questions by the way): 1. You're hilarious and I love this blog. 2. Every time "Trashin' the Camp" by *NSYNC and Phil Collins comes on my Pandora Disney station, all I hear is "vagina." It's like the time when someone told me that Britney Spears' "If U Seek Amy" song was supposed to be "f-u-c-k" and not actually "if you seek Amy," except I'm not sure if I appreciate it that much this time.
1. YOU THINK MY LIFE IS FUNNY? THIS BLOG ISN’T SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY. IT’S MY LIFE. I joke I joke, thank you thank you for laughing with me / at me.
2. Thank God I am not the only one who has managed to retain the mentality of a middle school boy. I had to give a presentation of natural gas once in high school and couldn’t say it with a straight face. I prefer Phil Collins over Britney because she was doing it on purpose, and I’d like to think NSYNC wasn’t.
So I am casually creeping on Facebook before there is anyone online to harass / guilt trip into picking me up and going to McDonalds, and the last guy I hooked up with is now in a relationship. You’re probs like, girl why you be trippin, totes normal- dudes get in relationshits all the time (for some God awful reason unknown to me).
I think my ancestors committed some serious wrong doing and some asshole cursed my family, “your daughter’s daughter’s oldest ginger daughter will meet many a man and none of them will be Facebook official with her but they will forever commit to the next rando who’s less attractive, and that’s not just her friends saying that because it’s just true, and for her lifetime she will carry the weight of knowing she will be the girl before the girlfriend.” I know I’ve mentioned this before, and I am sure there is a Comso article out there somewhere, but let’s be honest we all just subscribe to that magazine for the steamy reads we claim not to read, but soon I am going to be the girl before the wife. Because I am a twenty-something now, and people get married, people who are not me that is.
Should I start making this a service? Something like, “Looking for the one? Hook up with me and the next girl you meet is your soul mate, or at least someone you can consistently wear sweatpants around without consequences!” I didn’t even like the guy, but there is something in this idea that irks me. It’s almost as if they realize shit, girls like me exist and they need to lock it down with someone normal. Basically I am the relationship equivalent of the ugly friend.
Perhaps I should advertise this service to chicks. Something like, “Want your man to commit? Introduce him to me and he’ll be running to you faster than someone runs to the bathroom after eating a McRib!” But maybe not that analogy.
Whatever, I’m going to see that Mark Wahlberg movie I keep unintentionally calling “Contraception” instead of “Contraband.” BY MYSELF. Because I am happier that way, or at least if I tell myself I am enough times maybe it will become true?
Honestly, I give out my number more often than you hear groups of underage sorority girls scream “SHHHOTS” at the bar. If you listen closely over the sounds of pastel pants dry humping painted on skinny jeans, “SHHOTS” (pause) “WHOOOO” is a bar staple more common than that mid-life crisis man in button down shirts you always see carrying around a pitcher of beer. WHICH I AM NOT MAKING UP, he is real and he is everywhere you don’t want to be.
But like I was saying, I give out my number a lot- and now it’s all over the interweb because of my Walk of Shame Shuttle flyers. By “give out my number a lot” I mean I have this really bad passive aggressive drunk habit of being like, “so are you going to ask for my number or not?” I wish I was kidding on that one because I am actually wincing at the thought. Then they are like “oh yeah, right sorry” *gets out iphone* and in my head I am doing the facepalm that Homer Simpson does, but I’ve never seen. Are you squirming as much at reading that as I am at writing it? Needless to say I do not expect to hear from that group I more or less sexually harass. My favorite is when they stand there and call me so I have their number too / a few like to say “let’s see if you gave me the right number”. At this point I have forgotten said male’s name and enter his first name as his most obvious physical trait, and last name as the bar I met him at.
Guys also always ask for my last name. I thought girls were the ones that did the Facebook creeping? Or is it so you know who to make the full restraining order out against? So then I am sitting there glaring at my phone for a text message that says “hey nice meeting you last night” / “who is this??” AND a friend request. Neither of which come and for some reason when I search “fangteeth ricks” no one comes up. My personal favorite is the one that texts me Tuesday night, and only Tuesday night, as if I turn back into a pumpkin at midnight / every other day of the week- which you think would be preferred over crazy drunk girl.
But even more puzzling than the ones who never call me, but keep my name in their phone so their friends can be like woah brah you have so many numbers, are the ones that will text you everyday for a week then disappear. This has never happened to me so I don’t have much to say about it, I just hear this kind of thing can happen. Not the disappearing part- the texting for consecutive days part.
I guess it’s a simple case of “he’s just not that into you,” that is easily complicated by gal pals saying things like “he’s intimidated by your independence and men don’t like powerful women,” getting your hopes up in a hopeless place. Not to be confused with finding Dove in a soapless place. So I am gonna call bullshit on him ever calling- he was hammered, you were hammered and chances are you’re the only one who thought there was a spark, he just thought he could walk you to a taxi eight hours later, or if you’re lucky a Walk of Shame Shuttle.
I am a sophomore day walker (?) at umich and just stumbled across your blog. SO fucking happy that I did. You are hilarious. Just wanted to show my appreciation in some capacity.
If you ever see me on campus say hello, better chance of running into me at The Jug on Sunday nights though. Thank you’s via internet feel so lame, but messages like these mean the world to me. So muchass graciass!
If you are ever in search of a fake ID…. you know who to contact. (Can I say that on the internet? I mean I pretty much say everything else that comes to mind.)
I am always picking my roommates (well just one, I made it plural so she won’t feel singled out) from their men’s houses in the wee hours of the morning. My mom told me I need to get another job if I want to continue to go out five times a week, but I am a Michigan student- why apply for someone else’s job when I can make up my own?
Call or text me anytime after 6 AM (for those that like to sneak out) and I will pick you up anywhere in AA, assuming you know where you are. Starting at $3 for the first trial week starting 1/23.
Why stride of pride when you can get a ride! Okay, still working on the tagline for this one.
Girls have three jobs when it comes to the opposite sex: being crazy, the “I am slowly reaching for my wallet but you better pay" for thisdate drink, and being clingy. Guys have one, to contradict themselves in literally everything they say. But there is nothing worse than a little Freaky Friday role reversal.
Now I am just writing this to kill time before my family goes to bed and I can pour myself a glass of white wine and play Just Dance 3 for Wii until I burn off the Thin Mint girl scout cookies I found in the back of the freezer / a couple of gal pals are experiencing the not-as-rare-as-you-think clingy hook up male type.
Do you know a guy like this? Theres a mutual attraction, you hang out a couple times, start texting while the sun is still out, you drunkenly sleepover one night and the next morning after he drives you home you get a “we need to talk” text. Aka he thinks you want to date, be exclusive, hop on the fast track for Facebook official. NEWSFLASH COLLEGE MEN, most girls don’t want to be exclusive and chances are she’s texting a couple of guys at once. Key word there being TEXTING not fucking, so calm down. When she starts acting “coupley” that usually just means she’s comfortable being sober around you and doesn’t need to chug her roomate’s Sminoff Ice before she comes over.
Guys pull this whole “I am not looking for a relationship, but I have fun hanging out with you” card. So girls take this card, let go of the dream Friday night photobooth photoshoot with you, and continue to accept free diet cokes and whatever / boner back massages on the dance floor. That works out fine for a month or so, a semester if you are lucky.
Sooner or later one of you is going to find out the other hooked up with someone. The girl response is ask all her friends if she’s cuter than the other chick, get really drunk, lose some shit, and continue to hook up with you. She will ignore her friends calling you (the dude) “such an asshole” who is “using you” because after all, you were friends first, she knows you. She will put up with you because, well, someone is better than no one and there are only so many nights you can order chinese and watch The Notebook by yourself.
The guy response is to flip a shit. Chances are he will call the girl a whore / ask her to get tested / refer to her going out clothes as a “costume”. Maybe he will even tell his mom everything you have said to him. He will text some non-specific insults like, I thought I knew you / you’re not the girl I thought you were / I was beginning to change my mind about relationships / I can’t believe I trusted you. Because if you’re upset, if his knocks at your self-esteem worked, then you won’t go out and guys don’t like competition.
Remember what he fails to. He was the one that didn’t want a relationship, he is the one that ended things before you even thought about it (okay that’s a lie, because I have planned my life with literally every man over the age of eighteen I pass on the street). I don’t think guys understand that “we’re note exclusive” means girls can “see” multiple guys.
If you’re not together, he has no right to flip a shit. But it’s a two way street; girls, you can’t flip a shit either- guys that don’t want relationships don’t change their minds, so stop asking him to come over and watch a movie before you get too attached.
The only upside to this drama is your girlfriends will feel bad for you and buy you Red Bull Vodkas, and defending yourself against the novel length texts from him tends to kill one’s appetite. What I really want to know is where were those grammatically correct messages two months ago when I was just getting “k” ?
Maybe gingers are so angry all the time / have quick tempers because we put up with this shit. A simple case of nature vs. nurture. You don’t ask a group of blondes if they are all related to each other. Why are gingers any different? I am going to make this a video at some point, but let’s just keep a running list, shall we? If I had a dollar every time I heard these phrases I would be able to fund my own army of gingers to take over the world. We are not a peaceful people.
Is that your natural color?
You are so pale.
Are your parents gingers?
Does the carpet match the drapes?
You face gets so red!
I wonder what you would look like tan.
Oh my gawd, you used to date a ginger?! Did people think you were related?
Are you irish?
You don’t have a soul.
Have you seen that one YouTube video?
Ginger guys are so unattractive.
You have such a temper!
I would look so bad with red hair, but your color is pretty. It’s not like, super red.
What’s a day walker?
Why don’t you have freckles?
You can’t wear red.
Would you ever dye your hair?
You’re going to be extinct soon.
You have to marry someone Irish.
You kind of look like the girl from Pretty in Pink.
Is that a spray tan?
Put on sunscreen.
You kind of look like you glow in the dark.
I thought you were wearing socks but you’re just that white.
But that’s not what this entry is about. I don’t have enough fingers to count how many “I just pulled a Kellyann last night!” texts I have received. You see, as show in the above sepiaout images, I tend to fall / slip and slide off the slip and slide onto the sidewalk. One could say I am a little clumsy. Every time one of my friend’s falls she needs to tell me. You fell? Honey, that’s a rug burn from the interior of what I can only assume to be a shady ass car.
"Jesus KAnn it looks like you were thrown out of a car on the highway."
Story time boys and (mostly) girls! I was running across campus from a friend’s house party back to my own abode. I was running in heels, texting an ex-boyfriend, had just passed the cube on my left, when a huge pile of absolutely nothing caught my foot. Karma maybe? Was some higher being looking down like, oh shit she’s gonna say something stupid and the only way I can make sure she doesn’t is if I take her down.”
Now the rest of this tale is a collage of what little I remember mashed-up with what I was told the next morning. Think of it as one of those songs on Glee, back when Glee was still good. After I fell I just laid there for a while yelling “I can never give a blowjob again!” Why that would make me cry more, I do not know. Friends said I was just running / being obnoxious / skipping when I just ate shit and collapsed. So that’s cool.
I proceeded to proclaim my blowjob sentiments the entire way from the cube to Jimmy Johns, where my friends cleaned me up in the bathroom and a nice employee who wanted me the fuck out of his establishment all bloody and shoeless, gave me some Neosporin. Naturally I was being a dramatic drunk girl so I wouldn’t let anyone touch me and when they did cried even harder.
The next day I went to UHS to make sure there wasn’t any Ann Arbor hippe stuck in the scabs. Having a doctor who resembled my father ask what time this happened could be classified as embarrassing. I had to get x-rays because my right knee area was swollen. Have you ever known anyone who had to be on cruches for a drunk fall? Well, now you do. I did something to a muscle and couldn’t put weight on my leg.
But having my friends give me piggy backs and buy me McDonald’s Happy Meals was delightful.
Not so delightful, having your sorority mock award be “Most Likely to Have Scab Knees.”
Remember those necklaces that were popular in middle school where you could get your name written on a piece of rice and then it floated in a little glass tube you got from a shady kiosk at the mall and everyone wore them?
I want to find mine now and bring back that trend. Who’s with me?
When you’re running and drop your blackberry / iphone / sidekick? on the treadmill and it hits the wall behind you. Then acting like you were never listening to music in the first place.
I think it’s a sign from the spring break gods I should quit trying to workout and just stop eating. Just kidding I am having Outback for lunch and Cracker Barrel for dinner. (I will drive anyone to the airport for the small fee of a chicken n’ dumplin platter. The dinner size. Come on now, even I have standards.)
Daw, you’re makin me blush. Thanks for watching / reading, keep on keepin on, I really appreciate it. There’s a difference between like and love. I like my Sketchers but I love my Prada backpack. But I love my Sketchers? That’s because you don’t have a Prada backpack. Ohhh.
I haven’t angry ginger blogged in awhile, since my parents (hey mom) and men of relationshits past (though you will never admit it, will you?) have started to read this blog “not all the time…I haven’t in awhile actually”. Okay, yeah right. So I was like, yeah- let’s go ahead and bring back the sass. I doth dub 2012 the year of me disregarding men and acquiring currency.
A particular sentiment has been weighing heavily on me for quite some time now, and I am not talking about all the post break weight I have gained that has decided to move in around my hips. I am really hoping I am not the only one who thinks this, because then I am just a horrible friend. But I have a hard time believing the following phrases when courting a gentleman heads south:
It’s his loss.
I’ve always thought he was an asshole.
You can do so much better than him.
You’re too good for him.
He will never do better than you.
He didn’t deserve a great girl like you.
So then here is what I think, um hello, why didn’t you tell me this in the first place. Oh, you did and I just ignored you because I was too busy planning an ultimately disappointing life on Pintrest because my future will never measure up to my boards? Sounds about right. Us women are a delusional species we are.
Chances are though, his friends are telling him exactly the same thing, or more likely minor variations of the following, depending on their emotional depth and maturity level:
She was a bitch.
You ex is crazy… lets blackout.
Want to try and get our friend’s younger sister’s friends to ask us to prom?
She wasn’t right for you.
She was too controlling.
Now you can be fun again.
In both scenarios each side of the failed (duh) duo are hearing the same things. But they both can’t be right, can they? Can both sides actually do better? Is he really an asshole and is she really a crazy bitch? Then maybe they belong together.
Makes that feel like a total waste of time. I have never thought anyone I have had real, sober, feelings for to be an asshole. Except for one… you know who you are. So when my friends tell me such things, it makes my heart cramp up like I tried to run home after eating an entire Taco Bell 12 taco box. And if I was so great, why does every relationship end like a scene from Final Destination? If I thought you were great, how could I possibly do better? But heres the thing, we do (usually) do better. Except for those few in between when we decide that this time “best way to get over someone is to get under someone else” will work, which it never does.
Sometimes I think I rather here supportive things like “better luck next time” or “one man down closer to finding the right one” maybe even an overly cheesy “you can’t hurry love”. But then I think about it and it’s like, who the fuck wants to hear that? We much rather blame it on the person, insisting we are right, they are wrong- classic battle of the sexes. To which I say, “hey besties, you’re right. He was a dick. Let’s blackout.”
Deep down I know though, you see the signs after, then it all makes sense. Neither of you were wrong, things just don’t always work. We can’t all be compatible with each other, if we were, the planet would be a giant (and literal) clusterfuck. And who wins with that? Only the companies selling STD meds, thats who.