I get to my usual handicap stall about 3 minutes before I actually have to pee. That’s just enough time to take off my spanx and my hot pants (these wetsuit like shorts that are supposed to burn your off your ass dimples but in reality make you sweat so much you think, and smell, like you peed yourself) and get in a round of Fruit Ninja. So I am sitting there, emptying my bladder to make more room for diet coke and refreshing my Instagram feed when I spot a black speck on the inside of my Spanx. It was a dead spider. I thought, holy shit, it probably laid eggs inside of me, they are going to get fertilized, and I am going to produce some sort of creepy offspring that is half insect, half Harry Styles look-a-like. (I like to think my boyfriend looks like a 23-year-old version of the One Direction front man)
How the hell did a spider get in my pants. I don’t remember witty banter that avoided the topics of politics and religion over steaks, then asking to come upstairs for an adult sleepover. There is a chance it fell from my ceiling fan and landed on my clothes, but I thought spiders pooped web thread that would have served as a bungee cord. Maybe the spider jumped because it was tired of looking at my “Newsies” poster and listening to me practice Ice, Ice, Baby for karaoke nights. Chances are the spider was just chilling in my underwear drawer and died once coming into direct contact with my thighs, if not from just looking at them. I don’t have a thigh gap like 99% of girls pictured on Pintrest, and I was trying to wobble in the car, so there is no chance the spider would have survived my morning commute. On second thought, if I am not alert enough to notice a spider in my pants at 8 AM, I probably should not be operating a vehicle.
In about a month a fresh slew of twenty-something’s will be spit out of college and into whatever Midwest fringe city they are hired as “ office / research / account / sales + assistants.” Now that March has come to an end, my world of 1,274 internet friends have shifted the center of their universe toward graduation and I quote, “senioring the fuck up.”
At first I thought their anxious statuses “What am I doing with my lyfeeeee?!?!?!?” were just newsfeed advertisements for anti-depressants or Daily’s. Like the question, “what’s actually in a long island?” we have to accept these are questions to which the universe has no answer. College graduations are a lot like the New Year. Everyone makes these grand speeches about the future and losing five pounds. For that day everyone just loves each other and has these super deep conversations about their moon signs. Newsflash dumbasses, the only reason you feel so indestructible on New Year’s and graduation is because you are being served a shitton of champagne. In reality we are just reminded of all the stuff we said we were going to lose or figure out by these societal self-inflicted deadlines. Every day I could make my status, “What the hell am I doing with my life,” and it would genuinely be how I feel 99% of the time. That other 1% of the time I am so hungover that looking at my computer screen would be like having a staring contest with a lunar eclipse.
This is what I would like to do with my life. I would like be paid to eat lunch at Olive Garden and drink Bellini’s with girlfriends who all wear one jean size larger than me. I would like to have the kind of closet where strangers take pictures of my outfits for their street fashion blogs, and I pose with one bent leg crossed over the other without my thighs touching, all while drinking a latte and browsing my iPhone calendar I figured out how to sync with my Outlook calendar. But no, apparently all of that is impossible and completely unattainable at 22. Instead I spend 40 hours a week showing old people how to wirelessly connect to a printer.
All you seniors freaking out, who, I don’t know if you just put it together that undergrad is only 4 years and you’ve finally sobered up long enough to realize it’s spring, but calm the fuck down and stop posting “what should we call me” gifs about realizing graduation is in a month, and you’re the only one in your group of friends that doesn’t have an unpaid internship. It’s not entirely your fault though. You saw my class do it, and we saw the class before us do it, and so on. So let’s do the one thing we are good at and just blame our parents.
PINK by Victoria’s Secret is the reason I do not want daughters. I’m not saying that to be relevant to the whole dads fighting undies that read “wild” on the ass or padded bathing suits for their moldable minded daughters. I am saying that because girls that shop at PINK are annoying as shit. They are literally the worst specimen of unprotected sex babies. If you knew that your egg was going to help create that thirteen-year-old girl dragging her Hollister thermal clad Facebook official boyfriend around, you would have wrapped it up. You would have wrapped it up like that one relative that tapes every corner of your Christmas present.
I can say this because my mom never dropped me off at the mall with my friends for an afternoon so she could drink with her friends at California Pizza Kitchen.
I don’t know about you, but I for one cannot resist a good 4 for $26.50 thong sale, so we went to the mall on Saturday. Unbeknownst to us, it was the first day of Spring break for the kids in my area. I was looking forward to a nice afternoon of avoiding the hair straightener kiosk, and wishing I had the balls to get my makeup done by a woman old enough to be my grandma at Lord and Taylor. Instead I was welcomed by a swarm of push up bras, oversized high school soccer sweatshirts, and liquid eyeliner, whose only mode of transportation was walking in rows of 5 at pace slow enough for them to take selfies.
Naturally my reaction was, if I can’t walk around with a 40oz then someone better get me a damn coffee. Apparently, every girl that wasn’t trying on yoga pants was in the Starbucks line to get a Frappuccino. Walking around the mall with your Coach wristlet sipping a chocolate chip Frappuccino does not make you look older, or cooler, or whatever it is you are going for, you failed. While we are on the topic of walking around the mall, I don’t know if the whipped cream from your stupid coffee drink is going right to your fat feat, but you are dragging your Ugg boots around like Shrek. I don’t know what JV basketball player you are trying to get the attention of but clearly it’s not working, because if it was, the two of you would be in PINK.
According to my recently turned twenty sister, I don’t belong in PINK either. I was looking at a pair of rhinestone shorts where she looked at me and told me they are too young for me. I was going to say she made a face, but her face always looks like she is giving a somehow offended look, so basically we just made eye contact. In my defense I was looking at them because I have been doing this Pintrest wall workout for my thighs that I think is actually working, and my goal is to wear shorts this summer without having to get drunk enough to forget I am wearing shorts. Regardless of my waist down situation, I really want a bathing suit top from PINK. Unlike the shorts, this is an acceptable purchase because my boobs will forever be small enough to fit into a child’s XL. Hopefully this horizontal growth stunt is temporary until my boyfriend coughs up the cash to buy me a boob job, or until there is a Groupon for plastic surgery, whichever comes first. His only request being they are filled with squeaker toys, which I was open to, until I saw my dog’s vicious reaction to a toy with a squeaker in it. My boobs concaved in fear.
In other news the mall I frequent is getting a Cheese Cake Factory, I expect the entire building to spontaneously combust. Surrounding neighborhoods will be finding green straw shrapnel and surprisingly hard bra padding in their yards for years.
Anonymous asked: Can you talk more about anything but being a post-grad, please... You're losing your humor..
I would love to! Funny thing is, and it’s not really funny, it just so happens I am a post-grad. So it’s going to be kind of difficult to blog about finals and frat boys when I am doing neither.
I have this future version of me, in my head, and it’s not about the kind of career I want, but more the way I want to look “working.” I imagine myself as one of those girls who wears broaches without looking matronly, has time to eat salad seated in iron cast patio furniture, and drinks Starbucks all day without getting caffeine shakes or pooping every hour. I feel like I am good at alot of things, but not great at one thing.
TMZ Reporter – In case you never wrote a book report, or your parents wrote them for you ( I see you Annette), and therefore you have no concept of what an “overarching theme” is, a repeating trend of my writing is, more or less, stalking. Whether it be my friend’s Tinder match whose back is featured in a UPS commercial, or those Gap skimmer jeans I need on my body more than a whale needs blubber (also known as Christina Aguilera), I am good at finding shit. If anything I am overqualified to harass B-listers in airports after many winters of accusing strangers of having herpes in outdoor bar lines.
Kate Spade Print Designer – How hard can it be to draw some polka dots? Trace a fucking quarter. If an 11-year-old with a YouTube channel and a front row seat at NY Fashion Week decides polka dots are not in this season, pick something else children enjoy and make a print of that, like bows or ice cream cones. If it’s a job that sounds like I can do drunk, it’s a job I want.
Columnist/ Author/ Writer- Is it possible to get paid to write anymore? At one end of the spectrum we have writing for the Times, and at the opposite end we have the girl that writes the “What’s in Her Bag” for US Weekly; neither of which interest me. I don’t think I could ever write a book. I’d be too tempted to kill off every character I create and therefore unable to complete a series. Series are all that sells, i.e. Twilight, Gossip Girl, those murder mysteries my mom reads where each book starts with a letter of the alphabet… You should probably stop being an author when you have to make commercials to sell your books.
Movie Critic – Attending a private Catholic school for 12 years, and a single sex school for 4 of those years, I believe I possess the ability to backhanded compliment and make passive aggressive insults necessary to review any movie. For example, “While Alfred Hitchcock’s film ‘Birds’ is a psychological masterpiece, the only thing flighty about the otherwise visually stunning effects, was flaunting Tippi Hedren’s prematurely receding hairline.”
Executive Assistant- I could be the Anne Hathaway to your Meryl Streep. I already look better with bangs, and although my mouth to face ratio is also slightly off, it will never be a deciding factor if I deserve an Oscar (which I never will). There are only two problems with applying for executive assistant positions; they all require 5-7 years of prior executive assistant experience, and they all sound like they will either result in crippling substance abuse from years of taking daily pulls of your boss’s liquor stash, or an affair. The only person I would consider assisting executively would be Chelsea Handler. I believe she would at least encourage both end results, if not already making them job requirements.
Personal Trainer –Lol I have no idea how this got on here.
Basically my Big Fucking Asshole (BFA) is good for nothing. When my parents framed my diploma for Christmas I asked if they could return it for a Kate Spade wallet. Still waiting on that wallet. I now understand why so many girls have kids at 22. After dissecting the career boards for hours, well like fifteen minutes- but it felt like hours, getting knocked up sounds more appealing than lying to CEOs that look like my friends’ dads and telling them my greatest weakness is a well written piece of literature and anything I can super-size. Both of which are not true.
I am having one of those days where I keep tucking my shirt into my thong instead of my jeans. I don’t know if that’s like, a common thing you can relate to, or if that’s one of those things I think happens to everyone, but in reality just happens to me.
I know you have been sans Ginger Ambitions since Thanksgiving, and it really was my New Year’s Resolution to start writing again. Well that’s a lie, my New Year’s Resolution was to do the splits by the end of the year, the last time I did them was in 8th grade when I got my period at a basketball game. I feel like I can be honest here, because I trust you guys. I will trust you until the day one of you asks me for my IP address, like one time when a fellow Slytherin, aka a middle aged man, asked me for it on a Hogwarts Online School message board when I was in 7th grade.
Real girl talk, I have been seeing a therapist for a few months now for anxiety and some OCD shit. I don’t count things or have hygiene rituals that turn my hands into elderly ball sacks. I’ve seen “Silver Linings Playbook” and my therapist is nothing like that. But I like her well enough because she has a bottomless dish of York Peppermint Patties and a beautiful engagement ring. She keeps trying to find out what triggered my retrospective self-deprecation, and I am like, “Well maybe it’s because I am basically a receptionist with a BFA who lives at home a year after graduation, when I always pictured myself waking up in a rich man’s apartment in Chicago about to catch a flight to Spain instead.” Apparently that only happens if you go to the kind of clubs that are featured in episodes of CSI: Miami or graduated from NYU. Both of which I have not done.
I shop online a lot. I like to stalk what I order. It fills the void that trying to find restaurant servers on Facebook via their name tags left. I also like to pretend my room at my parents’ house is actually an apartment, and the house is a co-op with no other residents besides my parents. I have nightmares about having a job with bad benefits where I have no vision plan. I genuinely enjoy Good Moring America, it inspires me. Worst case career scenario I end up on that show, since apparently anyone can do it.
I have been asked to make a series of short videos for my 5 year High School reunion. I don’t know who began the stereotype that all the hot girls from High School get fat because the ones I know just got prettier. In the meantime I still play Sims and basically reinvent every menu item I order because I have maintained the taste buds of a toddler who only eats three things. Instead of peas, carrots and squash, I eat bacon, grilled cheese and vegetable spring rolls.
I have completely lost the ability to day drink, and glout at my twenty-year-old sister who takes shots without chasing and falls off tables, only to announce, “Don’t worry everyone, I am a gymnast.” Most people I see on TV that I want to grow-up and be like is actually younger than me. So that’s pretty much off the table.
On the plus side, things are still going strong with my main man. We plan on moving in together in the fall where neither of us will cook and we will have a pet hedgehog named Taters. I also learned brunch is more fun when you arrive sober and get drunk, instead of arriving still drunk and trying to sober up. Basically the highlight of my current existence is having a song about my age written by Taylor Swift and following all of The Bachelor chicks on Instagram.
My 9-5 routine. “Till I slowly drift off” still applicable.
(Source: disnerddreaming)
I was bored on Sunday, so I went to Target. Like 99% of Target shoppers I went to get one or two things I needed, and left with the entire Kardashian nail polish collection. Target is my reason to get out of the house; it gives me a sense of purpose. Afterwards I feel like I accomplished more in that hour of shopping than I did my entire senior year, which is also probably true.
I have always enjoyed my afternoons spent at Target, besides the rare occasion when I grow irrationally angry that the Target on my way home from work is not organized exactly the same as “my” Target by my parents’ house. Opting to peruse with a coke slushie over a chai tea latte, I stay true to my Target roots, recalling with deep nostalgia the days when they used to have a Taco Bell Express. Rejecting a cart or basket because I can carry the sole dress I intend to purchase in my iPhone free hand. Half hour into wandering the white tiled floors, I give in to a forearm toting basket filled with Middle Sister Wine, fake eye lashes, and a rose gold colored watch that looks just like the one Michael Kors instragrammed. The basket has left parallel pink lines engraved above my right wrist, like the engraved Christmas card set I didn’t know I needed until just this second, and it’s not crazy at all because if nine months is long enough to make another human life, then eight months is perfectly long enough to send a Christmas card with my boyfriend and I holding our stuffed animal children. In that moment it doesn’t feel crazy at all, the only thing that feels crazy is why didn’t I think of this in the first place and scour the website for an hour at work looking at them before I arrived?
Being the alcohol aficionado you think I am, one would assume I love that Target now sells vodka. I hate it. It dumbs Target down to Walmart, and I hate Walmart. Does Walmart have collabs with designers? Mary Kate and Ashley’s line of pastel preteen handkerchief inspired crop tops does not count. Target is the only store of its type where I walk in and think, “hey, I wonder what they are going to do with that large pencil suspended from the ceiling, what are the chances they would let me have once back to school shopping ends?” What the hell am I going to do with a giant fucking pencil? Nothing. It will sit in my parents’ basement, with all my high school art projects, and every time my mom tries to throw it away I will say I am saving it for something. Which we all know is a lie. But that’s not what I am thinking about at that moment, all I know is I have to have that massive cardboard pencil. Nobody wants the roll back signs at Walmart. Smiley faces stopped being cute when Joe Boxer exploited them. I do not think any item of clothing has been more obviously designed by a man than boxers with a massive hip wide smiley face complete with tongue sticking out, right over the junk. What Joe should have done is made the smiley face really small, so everything else appears larger by comparison.
The only thing I hate about Target is everyone loves it. Let me rephrase, that sounded too hipster and I came dangerously close to saying “mainstream” and sipping a Pabst Blue Ribbon on a stranger’s porch, I hate everyone. Shopping carts encourage the presence of children. Children should only be allowed in Target around Halloween to try on small person costumes because that’s adorable. Most costumes also constrict children’s movements so that also prevents them from running in front of my cart of door hanging mirrors, where my nostrils momentarily flare at my instinct to push faster, but then I swerve at the last second because I probably can’t bring my Kardashian nail polish collection to jail.
I participated in my first 90 minute hot yoga class last night. I thought that meant it was the yoga equivalent of flirty girl fitness, like it was yoga for hot people. I’m not hot, but I thought hey, if people begin to look like their spouse over an extended period of time, maybe I can look like the attractive people in my hot yoga class. The only thing hot about it is the hundred something degree room.
I got a Groupon for 10 Bikram yoga classes while I was briefly hypnotized after hearing Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” on my morning drive and thinking, “That’s right MJ, I do need to make a change. I need to work out,” and then I grabbed my crotch and said eeee. Later at work I opened my confirmation e-mail and thought WHAT EVIL HAVE I COMMITED. To add to my dilemma my boyfriend said that every time I went to yoga he would take me out to a non-fast food dinner (score), but for every class I did not go to I must perform a sexual favor (boo). To him I replied, “I am going to get so in shape and eat so many different kinds of fancy chicken nuggets.” But was outsmarted by the lesser sex when he said, “I don’t see how you’re going to get in shape from one yoga class and nine blow jobs.”
Last summer it tried spin class and the cabbage soup diet, briefly followed by the master cleanse. Perhaps you recall my post about spin class, where my vag was so numb I couldn’t tell when I was or was not peeing myself. (Kind of like when my friend blacks out) I don’t know if my instructor had been cheated on or just really liked Alanis Morisette, because we basically listened to “You Oughta Know” on repeat. Maybe that’s why I always have to pee when I listen to my 90’s Pandora station. Bikram had a similar effect. You’re supposed to drink double the daily recommended water intake before class, so you’re sweating all over, and you can’t tell if it’s your knees sweating or if it’s dripping down your legs, and its all clear.
Bikram makes me do the two things I hate most: drinking water and showering. Vodka is my preferred clear liquid carried around in water bottles and why shower if you’re just going to do yoga again the next day? I don’t see how it’s any different from the make your bed vs. why, you’re just sleeping in it later, debate.
Let me walk you through my class. I got there early, had my cheap version of Lululemon yoga outfit on, the lights in the room are off so you just look for a spot on the floor. It looks like the morning after of a frat house. It’s a bunch of half-naked people laying there with their eyes closed, other people are just stepping over them to get out of the room, bitches aren’t wearing shoes and it smells like sweat.
I roll out my mat, tag still on it in case I hate yoga and need the six bucks, lay my towel on top, then myself, only thinking ”shit now I have to buy a second towel since I never do laundry.” I got bored jus laying there so I looked to my left and realized I was perfectly aligned with this guy’s junk. Like straight up, I turn my head to look in the hallway and there is this little hill on the horizon. At that exact moment the male instructor with a woman’s name walks in, turns on the lights, and here I am staring at this dudes black spedo wrapped package. Once the lights were on I realized I had managed to wedge myself in the man corner. The only three men in the class were forming a wall of back hair around me. I felt like Psy in the Gangum Style music video when he’s singing every English speaking person’s favorite line, “Ey, sexy lady” with an ass in his face. The only difference is I am the chick and the butt in my face is that of a middle aged man. I saw crack.
On the bright side I am very proud of myself for completing the class solo. I am also proud of myself for not farting because God knows that shit would linger until they cleaned the carpet.