Lazy Girl Swag

I’m gonna go ahead and preface this by letting you guys know that this will definitely be the most useful DIY/Lifestyle post I do, because, as you know, I’m pretty much terrible at DIY anything and don’t even get me started on fashion photography.

I first had the idea for this post over a year ago, when Austin and I were Gchatting about various ways I keep myself looking ‘fresh’ and I could basically hear him having a heart attack on the other side of the chat when I explained one of my favorite tricks to him. He’s very clean. As with many post ideas, I am a lazy POS and I forgot it or started watching TV instead of working every time I sat down to write it, but in the advent of summer, I’m finding myself relying on an arsenal of time-tested tactics I have for making myself look like I haven’t just rolled out of the glorified laundry hamper I call my bedroom.

It really comes down to planning:

Every night before I go to bed, I feel a little nagging voice in my head that’s like, “Hey, don’t people who have their shit together know what they’re going to wear in the morning?” and then I completely ignore that voice and pass out with my makeup still on (pretty sure washing your face at night is just a conspiracy to sell more face soap anyway). But when I’ve hit my snooze button for like the fifth time in the morning, I make sure to inject outfit planning into my semi-conscious dreams and more often than not I come up with something by the time I’m awake. Every so often I wake up and realize that I don’t own the onesie Feist wears in the 1,2,3,4 video, and that’s the start of a really sad day, but most of the time I’m good to go.

Face wash conspiracy theory: Foundation is just tinted moisturizer anyway.

Of course, the most fashionable know how to improvise:

Half-asleep Tiffany is usually too busy trying to escape Miley Cyrus, who has been hired to murder her with a single, tiny razor blade in a giant field next to a Denny’s (why MILEY? I’m always the first to defend you!), to realize that half of the pieces of clothing she’s planned on wearing for the day are either 1.) at her real apartment uptown, nearly an hour away, 2.) stained/smelly/wrinkled/hiding in the crevice between the bed and the wall and she will never find them in the five minutes she’s allocated to getting ready.

So there I am most mornings, half-dressed, make-up smeared down my face and cursing as I try to figure out whether or not I can cut the sleeves off a t-shirt I got at some random event and make it look like a suitable tank top to go under the only cardigan I can find. But somehow, it all works out.

Case in point – An outfit I wore this week constructed out of thin air like a motherf$&king criminal mastermind:

My selfie face is generally a reaction to my being disgusted by myself for taking a selfie

 

I’m not expecting to be awarded best dressed or anything, but someone at the office did say, “Awwww. You dressed up today!” Successful trickery at its finest!

This outfit, to the unsuspecting eye, may actually seem planned out, but it was actually inspired by the following thoughts:

#1 – “I forgot to put shampoo in my hair last night”

#2 – “I don’t have eyeshadow, this bronzer will probably work”

#3 – “Pretty sure the top half of this dress is see-through. I wish the sweater that matched didn’t have a wine stain on it.”

#4 – “If I wear this wine-stained sweater backwards maybe people will think I didn’t know about the stain”

Seriously, I’m shocked I’m not the CEO of something yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And on the note of improvising, here are some magic tricks I’ve discovered over the years: 

#1 – Sharpie + vaseline/lipgloss/leftover grease from that pizza I ate last night = lip stain. 

Once every few years I decide I’m going to be the type of person who wears lip color. I buy like four different types, lose three of them within a week and then let the other one live in my purse until it usually explodes inside my purse and ruins everything living in there (wallet, keys, phone, broken pen graveyard). I then come to my senses for a few years until I have some random memory lapse and buy lip gloss again. During my periods of lucidity, if I feel that I require some lip color, I will grab the nearest sharpie (in pink or red, but if you’re into the goth stuff I’m sure black works too), dab it on the center of my lips a couple of times and then put some vaseline on it. I actually learned this trick from Jane Magazine back in college, so I am hereby absolved of all guilt if you accidentally poison yourself doing this. Seriously, I’m not even gonna feel bad about it so use this tip sparingly.

#2 – The ponytail beehive for day after dancing hair.

Lots of sweat + bobby pins/ bent out of shape paper clips/ probably a chip clip I found on the floor = the 1950s!

One of the most frustrating parts of going out dancing — other than loud music, too many people, having to dance, it being hard to hold a drink while dancing, really the whole act of “going dancing” — is that I generally spend like 2 hours getting my hair ready only to have it get sweaty and disgusting within two minutes of entering the disgusting, terrible dance-establishment. If I’m going to put two hours of work into my appearance, I should at least get two nights of enjoyment out of my labors. I’m pretty sure that’s like the whole basis of economics. Enter the ponytail beehive(patent pending, or some fancy sounding equivalent). After trying and failing like every DIY hairstyle I could find on Buzzfeed one day, I got really annoyed and threw my hair into one of those mushroom ponytail bun things that the popular girls in 6th grade used to be able to pull off but I never could. As I was trying to figure out why I still couldn’t figure out the mushroom bun (haven’t I blossomed since middle school?), I realized that if I pressed the abominable bun against the back of my head and threw some bobby pins in it, I could actually create something resembling a Mad Men-era hairdo.

#3 – Just. The best life hack ever. Please believe me. Lysol = deodorant and cures razor burn. 

This is the tip that made Austin lose his faith in all that is good in the world, but I swear to you it’s amazing. Once Christmas break in college I had a job at The Gap that kept me pretty busy. The was a gym right by the mall I was working at, so I’d often workout, shower and hop in my car to drive straight to work. Because I was no better at planning my outfits back then, I would throw a bunch of random stuff from my floor into a gym bag and rush out of the house in a fury, often forgetting basic toiletries like my toothbrush and deodorant. At the time, I smoked cigarettes in my car because I apparently was really into depreciation and I kept a giant bottle of lysol in the backseat so I could spray a bunch of it around in case a family member wanted a ride somewhere. This ruse was unsuccessful, obviously, but one day when I was desperately searching my car for deodorant, I came across the lysol and thought, “couldn’t hurt” (keep in mind I was already smoking cigarettes in my car, so spraying chemicals directly onto my arm pits seemed reasonable).

The lysol not only worked amazingly, but it also cured some gnarly razor burn I had from being allergic to my metal razor. While again, I take no responsibility if you develop some weird disease from doing this on the regular, it’s pretty fantastic in a pinch. Plus, I’ve already got my celebrity scent idea ready for the day that I become famous:

Suck on that, Katy Perry

K, now that I have confessed to almost every disgusting habit I’m feeling like you guys are probably getting pretty judgy and feel like I need to do some nail art or something to overcompensate. If you have any lazy girl (or boy) lifehacks, I’d love to hear them.

Peace, love and Lysol, 

BWCE

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You can get the things you want

I’m writing this on a flight out of Chicago after attending my first programming conference. The experience in and of itself deserves an entirely different kind of blog post, but to say the least it was wonderful, inspiring and so so much fun. The reason I’m even talking about it is because about a year ago was my first time in Chicago. I was also at a conference, but on the sales side trying to attract new business. I didn’t get to see any of Chicago, so en route to the airport, I promised myself that one day I’d come back and get a proper Chicago tourist trip in.

At that point, that simple promise was just another thing I was adding onto an overwhelming and ever-growing list of shit I promised myself I was going to do:

To-do: Quit writing angry to-do notes to self

That was hardly the beginning of my list, because it had only been growing since my teens and it seemed as though the only things I’d accomplished ended up being the things I didn’t even want after all. I felt doomed to live in uncompleted to-do list limbo, spending countless sleepless nights thinking about all of the ways I was failing myself. Or at least I was having weird dreams where my guinea pigs were somehow multiplying like that Fantasia cartoon with the brooms and I was failing to take care of all of them. How’s that for symbolism?

The best part of making this pic was knowing how much my mom is going to like it.

But for once, I had a plan. After several years of throwing shit against a wall and having pretty much none of it stick, I had developed a hypothesis that learning how to program was the thing that was going to stick.

Why programming, of all things?

  1. Good salaries, lots of job openings, past positive experiences working with people in that field – you know, logical shit.
  2. Lots of funny things come from the internet – to be honest this reason may have been more influential than it should have been.
  3. If coding jobs sucked as much as regular business jobs I could eventually freelance and work on whatever creative endeavor I’m into at the time which, let’s be honest, by the time I’m 32 it’ll probably be making Cronut performance art in a warehouse in Poughkeepsie.

So the plan was to learn how to code, but how was I going to do that? I wasn’t all that sure yet. I was knee-deep in applying to the Flatiron School and that path seemed a hell of a lot more likely to be successful that buying lottery tickets and hoping that one day my dad would decide that supporting me for life seemed like a cool idea.

Added bonus: I’m better at grammar than Google spell-check!

Having a plan like that was terrifying. I was more terrified than when I moved to New York with no money or when I quit my job at the Flower Company or every night when I’m taking a shower and there is definitely a murderer on the other side of the shower curtain and if I close both eyes at once he’s going to get me so I just have to let the shampoo burn one eye while I keep it open or else I’m totally dead I’m sure of it and don’t you try to tell me otherwise. The nightmares about not being able to complete the to-do list through the symbolism of ever-multiplying guineas transformed into nightmares about tornadoes and the apocalypse and my teeth falling out while the guinea pigs STILL kept multiplying and for some reason my grandmother was there and I had to get this really expensive block of cheese through Penn station which is basically impossibly because Penn Station. Ew.

But then, almost before I had time to register what was going on, I got into Flatiron School. And I went there and didn’t fail. And I got a job, and I love that job, and the past 8 months have been the happiest of my adult life. Possibly my whole life because not being equipped to properly deal with sticky hands really ruined childhood for me. I get to walk around every day and feel a little like, Fuck yea. I did this shit.

The funny thing, that I didn’t realize until maybe even today when I played hooky from the conference to later finally get my Chicago tourist experience, was that crossing that one thing off my life-long to-do list was only the beginning.

I solved this one piece of the puzzle in my life (at least for now) and all of the sudden the routes to accomplishing the other goals are starting to become clearer. Since the beginning of this year, I’ve been checking things off left and right. I’m getting things I hardly realized I wanted. When did I become the type of person who actually gets what she wants? Normally I can’t even get a decent pad thai off of Seamless.

So this morning, when I played hooky and wandered through Chicago, trying to figure out how a lake could be so damn big, I started trying to think about what has happened to me in the past year. My takeaways might not be funny (I’m trying here) but I hope they’re at least helpful:

Lake version of those stupid photos with peoples’ feet and the ocean. Does not capture the massiveness of Lake Michigan.

It really comes down to making sure you know, deep down inside, that you *can* get the things you want. 

I think the reason learning how to program changed my perspective was because I stepped completely out of my element. It felt like I was growing this new appendage(creepy analogy, but I’m sticking with it). That type of experience happens so rarely in adult life. In contrast, most of the things we want are only slightly out of reach. We live under the assumption that one day we’ll have them while never really getting any closer to getting them, and for the most part we’re ok with that.

Programming was different. As I vented on here last fall, the simple act of telling people I was going to learn how to program was a trial in and of itself, because I don’t seem like the “programmer type”. I, along with 40 other awesomely driven human beings, took a huge leap. I allowed myself to feel the thing that is probably the third most uncomfortable feeling in the world — starting over (FYI #1 is moving and #2 is carrying your jacket in a bar. #4 is what my f-ed up tailbone feels like right now because this airplane seat is the worst). So once I’d been through starting over and not failing and realizing that really it’s not that bad being that kind of uncomfortable, it put everything else into perspective. I wanted to get better at running? So start running. I wanted to freelance? So start freelancing. Would I rather be laying on the couch watching How I Met Your Mother for the 87th time? Hell yes!

Onto the second point – I finally realized the distinction between thinking I could HAVE the things I want and knowing I can GET the things I want. 

As you know from constant lamenting, Karmin-hating and various other thinly veiled insecurity fueled blog posts, the single point of failure in my life to date was not leaving music school as a musician. I have analyzed and justified and reanalysed and I think I’ve done all of it while John Mayer was just playing on a loop so it’s probably getting pretty annoying to my neighbors by now, but I think I finally figured out the root of that failure. We grow up expecting we’ll HAVE things, which makes sense as we are all born with some natural talents. I used my talents to coast through school, without ever really having to try too hard and by the time I hit college I had let my natural talents form my identity. The problem with not having to struggle, was that I didn’t understand what working hard felt like. Once my competition expanded beyond a small subset of people just like me, I no longer could coast by.

That jarring realization hit me at music school and I didn’t understand how I couldn’t just HAVE the life I wanted. And at the very least, if it wasn’t going to be given to me on a silver platter hand-delivered by Justin Timberlake, my future husband, then everyone I ever met should have been standing alongside me, cheering me on and clapping for me every time I made even the tiniest bit of progress.

I didn’t magically HAVE that success and I didn’t HAVE everyone rooting for me, so I gave up. For almost every reason I’m glad that happened, but when I think about it too long and hard I get sad for baby Tiffany because I know how badly she wanted music to be her life and I almost can’t fault her for not really understanding the different.

You can get the things you want if you just work for shit. And I don’t mean the work all night don’t sleep lose your life be a non-human human so you can get things, because that’s a pile of crap. I mean work slowly, realistically, dedicated-ly(not a word, apparently, but it should be) towards the things you want. I will never pretend and say to you that I stayed up all night working on something because I have a vested interest in getting our society to admit that sleep is good and we should all get a lot of it because I am a very sleepy person and I’d really like to bring the Siesta to America (FYI that would totally be my presidential campaign platform if I ever got into politics. So smart).

Ok so how does this really apply to you, the person reading who feels lost and has read a million of these type of posts on FastCompany and none of it has really helped you?

To start, you’ve gotta know what you want. 

I can’t remember if I’ve ever blogged it before, so I’ll blog it again, but a couple years ago when I realized that I was very unhappy and didn’t know how to fix myself, my boyfriend said, with the best of intentions in mind, “Why don’t you write a life plan?” So I went to a quiet little bar after work, I pulled out a note pad, I started googling “How to become a famous blogger” and then “How much do famous bloggers make” and then “How much do bloggers/yoga teachers make?”, and finally “How to get a job for 100K or more if you hate working and/or want to blog.”

As I tried to take notes, my pen died. And I had no more pens. And so I showed up at my boyfriend’s doorstep, sobbing because how could I come up with a life plan if I couldn’t even keep a second pen on me?

It seems as though there’s no magical formula to figuring out what it is you want in any area of your life, but I spend a lot of time thinking about if and how we could create a formula for that(that isn’t one of those personality tests that always tells me I’m PERFECT for customer service). If I ever do figure it out, you better believe I’m gonna make a bomb ass website that like shows you a cool puppy gif the second it identifies exactly what will make you happy.

To-do: Figure out how to make WordPress like gifs


So in light of my not knowing what to tell you while also feeling all of your feels, I will tell you this and what I think of my not-knowing period now that I’m no longer in it –
I’d liken the way you feel to be most like how you feel in a breakup. Because you’re kind of in a breakup with your life in its current form. There’s something magical about the period after a breakup, once you’re no longer there and can look back, because all of the moments where you felt relief were so heightened.

I think it was like that for me when I hated my job and didn’t know how not to. The glimmers of hope I found through getting a blog post on Thought Catalog or thinking maybe I could become this totally different type of employee were the only things that pushed me forward. I look back now and romanticize the first time someone emailed me about the Flatiron school. I have an epic story in my head about how I was at a business meeting in the diamond district and had to sprint down the street afterwards under the guise of “leaving for a doctor’s appointment” when I was really rushing to find reliable wi-fi connection for my admissions interview.

And all of the failed attempts, like music school and customer service, to find what I want gave me a wealth of experiences and a lot of new friends. Also, I’m an expert at bathroom/stairwell/subway crying. That’s a resume worthy skill… right?  

If you feel like the Jackson Pollack of trying out careers, or relationships, or even trying out different kinds of Yoga but you keep ending up in the one that’s just about breathing and not even a workout, that’s ok. Do you see what I did there with the Jackson Pollack thing? Throwing stuff against a wall? If it was a good joke I’ve completely ruined it now. 

My whole point is that the most productive thing you can do is break emotionally. More people than not are going through what you’re going through in some form. And if they’re not going through it right now, they will be at some point in the future because that’s life. Even Beyoncé’s gotta have bad days (Is it weird that saying that about Yoncé makes me feel blasphemous?).

So I’ve just preached at you for too long, but now it’s time to level up

One of the things I want is to have this blog alive and well and I’ve been avoiding that for some time. Because of all the reasons I stated above:

  • What is this blog even about? (Late night food ordering, I think?) What do I want it to be? It’s been three years and I still have no idea.
  • Sometimes I find writing on the Internet really, unbearably scary. Especially once I got the tiniest bit of attention via an eBook it got way scarier because I was worried I’d fuck it all up or say something dumb on twitter like, you know, everyone else ever?
  • It’s really hard to think of something to write every week and there are so many episodes of Scandal I haven’t caught up on.


But having it, for scarier or for less scary, is something I want because the conversations it lets me have with people make the Internet (and in turn my life) a friendlier, more connected place for me… and hopefully all of you.

So I hereby declare that I will post on here once a week again, and that if I don’t PleaseI’mBeggingYou harass me via social media or comments or call up Seamless and tell them to blacklist calzone serving restaurants until I post again. Because we can get the things we want. And we absolutely should.

Peace, love and I’m back bitches,

BWCE

PS – I recognize that I totally owe you all a post about how I lit my hand on fire or something to balance out all the touchy/feely-ness of this post.

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Dispatches from the Land of the Sober People, pt. 1 (maybe)

Dear wine friends,

Any of you who know me in real life (so like, all of you right?) know that I can A.) drink you under the table and B.) probably will fall asleep under that table with a calzone shortly thereafter, so I understand if the title for this post makes little sense.

BUT. Now that I successfully changed careers (what up!) I am moving onto the long laundry list of things I’d like to at least attempt to achieve before I hit my oh-so-quickly-approaching 30s. The first time I typed that, I accidentally typed ’20s.’ Le sigh.

Anyway, that list involves stuff like “have a savings account that doesn’t charge you money every month for being a savings account with no money in it” and “develop a morning routine that doesn’t consist solely of rolling out of bed, grabbing the first semi-non-smelly thing off the floor and buying a diet coke on the way to work” but as both of those sound pretty difficult, I’ve decided to tackle the seemingly easiest thing on my list which involves partaking in a lesser-known New York City ritual known as The Dry Month.

The first time I heard about The Dry Month was my first winter in the city, and I think my head damn near exploded when I was like, “hey [coworker], we’re going to happy hour because Tuesday” and he was like, “oh, no, I’m cool. I’m doing a dry February.” At first I was like, “oh is that a new workout craze how many calories does it burn?” and then it hit me. He was not drinking for an entire month, likely as a means to reset his body back to a level of health somewhere between hanging-on-by-a-thread and feeling-ok-but-I-have-these-weird-rashes after the massive amount of damage that can be done when you combine the holidays with the fact that no one here has to worry about driving.

And then I was like “ohhhh February makes sense because it’s two less days.”

Since then, I’ve heard of Dry Month participants on occasion, but it’s usually more like someone making a sweeping declaration that he/she is going to do so and then immediately failing because New York.

When it comes down to it, I’d liken the idea of not drinking for a month to that of a juice cleanse, signing up for unlimited hot yoga, or getting one of those body wraps that makes you look like a mummy for ten minutes but then somehow compresses your body so that you “lose three inches”. We all say we’re going to do it one day. We all resolve to do it at the beginning of most weeks and fail before we’ve even told anyone we’re going to do it, and we’re all terrified of those who actually accomplish it because that means that we could probably do it too but it sounds really fucking annoying. Or, in the case of the body resizing mummification, it simply sounds terrifying.

I’ve been holding the dry month over my own head for the three years I’ve lived here, but it was hitting a weight that I dare not speak of post-this-holiday-season that made me realize I am being a fat, drunk, lazyass who needs to prove she can do something more than drink a bottle of skinny girl margaritas for dinner and still remember why bodega has the best candy selection on Seamless(kinda a point of pride but I digress).

As I’m writing this, I have officially begun day 7 of my dry month (which I have named Sovember because it technically started mid-January and ends on Valentine’s Day) but really it’s just midnight of day 6 so no biggie. The only remarkable thing about tonight is that it’s the first Friday night since– I don’t remember the last Friday I haven’t gone out to some capacity. I am about to go to bed (so I can sleep and edit this post tomorrow), and while I fully intend to report back as Sovember progresses, I figured I’d leave you with some of my initial impressions of what it’s like not drinking in the Functionally-Alcoholic Apple(maybe we should start calling it the Big Cider?).

  • Easiest diet ever. Holy shit you guys. Did you know how many calories are in alcohol? I totally did because I track my calories unless chicken wings, Saturdays, mimosas or candy are involved (ie. I track my calories on Mondays, sometimes) but SERIOUSLY. I feel like I can eat anything and everything and still be under the calorie limit my fitness app gives me every day without seeing skinny bitches on the train and wanting to start screaming “IT’S BECAUSE OF YOU THAT I FEEL THIS WAY.”
  • I have a lot of free time. I’ve developed a theory that the nail art movement was invented and is wholly maintained by sober people, because that’s really the only non drinking/eating activity that I can come up with for when I want to shut off my brain while I’m watching TV. My nails have never looked so good, y’all.
  • I think I’m less sleepy, but I still have all those nightmares. I’m hella anxious, but as I’ve learned to manage the constant fear of impending doom in my waking life, most of it has flowed over into my subconscious, leaving me with vivid, ever-changing and chronic nightmares. I’ve heard from science (or Distractify, can’t remember which) that alcohol interrupts your sleep and as my sleep is constantly interrupted by basically every type of nightmare mentioned in any dream journal thing, I had started to almost hope it was alcohol-related so that I don’t have to plan for eventual deal-with-my-anxiety therapy or whatever. On the bright side, I wake up refreshed! On the not so bright side, it’s usually the dreams about creepy murderers or my teeth falling out while I’m flying through space and I’m naked and I totally forgot to drop that one class and now it’s finals time and I’m gonna fail that is waking me up in a quick jolt of panic so I can subsequently feel refreshed.
  • I hate the gym slightly less. But still a lot. I still hate the gym so, so much. I guess what else am I gonna do with all this free time, though? Hell, I might even try cardio hip hop one of these days.

All in all, I was pretty sure by now I would be curled up in the fetal position holding an empty bottle of rosé while whispering the lyrics to “I Will Always Love You” through by tears, but given that I was able to eat a bag of jelly beans tonight without exceeding my calorie limit, I’m no worse for the wear.

More to come probablyIguessunlessIgetbored.

Peace, love and take a shot for me, 

BWCE

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All I want for my Christmas is a 2 Chainz Christmas Album

Seriously though. I’ve been Googling for a solid 5 minutes and it seems as though 2 Chainz has yet to capitalize on the Christmas season. 2 Chainz, if you’re listening (you’re not but a girl can dream), I’m as full of ideas for you as I am homemade Chex Mix and soy nog – 

  • The birthday song revamped could go two ways – You could like, sing about Jesus’ birthday and all he wants for his bday is to save mankind or something OR you could change it to being about all you want for Christmas is a big booty HoHoHo. It’s too easy, 2 Chainz.
  • It’s Christmas. Yeah. It’s Christmas.
  • CAN YOU PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD USE A MARIAH CAREY SAMPLE. The only use of “All I Want For Christmas(is you)” in a rap song is this So So Def remix. Criminal.
  • 2 Chainz Christmas Cookbook along with the album. We know 2 Chainz can cook. So really, what else is there to say?

You’re welcome, 2 Chainz.

P.S. – If you feel like going down a Christmas-themed rabbit hole, start with a Google image search of “Santa Big Butt” and let the magic happen. You’re pretty much guaranteed to end up in “Santa Butt Plug Statue” land somewhere along the way.

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#latebloomer

I guess it’s fitting to write a post about my birthday that is late and have the word ‘late’ in the title, but I promise it was wholly unintentional. For the past week I’ve been trying to write my annual birthday blog post, but you guys, my heart is so full of love and gushy and wonderfulness that everything I write is crap. I know, wah, what a terrible problem to have. Last year I wrote this blog post about turning 27 and somehow it transformed into my magical spirit animal (other than Tilikum, the serial killer whale, who will forever be my actual spirit animal) and led me through the best, most action-packed year of my life.

I’ve been trying to write about that, and about letting go of anxiety and just living and how all of the things will happen to you when you do that (including bed bugs, so get ready) but the thing is that you guys already know all that stuff that happened to me – ebook, going back to school, fighting the bed bugs and winning in a triumphant blaze of glory, so like… why should I tell you again?

But then yesterday, I was standing in my apartment, failing at whatever it was that I was trying to do (probably make coffee using paper towels as a filter because that happened) and I heard the voice of either a school counselor or someone I made up in my head say to me a phrase I haven’t heard in a while –

You’re a late bloomer. That’s all.

Remember when that was adults’ answer to everything? What, you haven’t gotten your boobs? You’re physically a late bloomer! What, you haven’t slow danced with a boy and you’re in college? You’re just a late bloomer! No worries! It’ll be adorable to tell stories about later!

Thing is – I was legit a late bloomer and I was SO aware and upset about it as a teen. I wish I could scour my old Yahoo! account and find the email I wrote to my friend Jessica in 8th grade about how everyone else had gotten their first kiss and how the tipping point for me was watching this episode of Charlie Brown where even Charlie Brown got his first kiss and what grade was he even in anyway? But all of that would involve me logging into Yahoo! and ew.

So eventually, as late bloomers do, I blossomed or wtfever. Or started doing all the things normal teens/20-somethings do and the worries about late blooming faded away for some years. It wasn’t until this year, when I found myself doing some of the grown up things I was supposed to start doing upon college graduation and for the first time they happened naturally, instead of throwing myself into some weird multiple personality thing where I feel like I’m my mom but also my own child and I’m trying to convince myself to pay bills but my child self is like “whatever I’m just gonna lock myself in the bathroom and pick at my face” and my adult self is like FINE THEN YOU CAN’T GO TO THE PARTY LATER AND ALSO THAT LEAVES SCARS YOU IDIOT.

A few weeks ago I realized that I’d not only Spring cleaning-ed, but also Summer and Fall cleaning-ed (that’s the official conjugation y’all, I swear) and it felt really nice and not at all like someone was removing my kidneys to sell on the black market, which is how cleaning usually feels. There are other things too, but I don’t want to sound braggy about actually paying that doctor’s bill from three years ago so I will stop. Point is – I’m pretty sure the things I’m experiencing are about 4 years delayed, and it’s got me kinda concerned.

I don’t think people talk about late bloomers after high school because no one wants to be like, “hey, you aren’t going to want to have babies until you’re too old to have babies and that is probably going to suck” or “you’re not going to get your shit together financially until you’re 39 and, honestly, you should have been putting all that money you spent on booze and sandwiches in an IRA like 10 years ago. Seriously, you’re gluten intolerant. Stop with the sandwiches.”

I think I’d feel better if I knew that one upstanding citizen was also a late bloomer, but the closest I’ve gotten is all those BuzzFeed articles that are like “Ten Famous Actors Who Didn’t Get Famous Until Their 40s” and like yes, it does make me feel better that Jon Hamm had a rough start but I’m pretty sure that’s not the outcome I’m headed towards. So because it was my birthday last week and also because I’m procrastinating schoolwork, I’ve made up some things that could TOTALLY be true about some famous people we all look up to.

cooltext1311743296

look guys, I learned how to use .gifs! UPDATE – apparently I did not learn how to use gifs. It works in my editor I promise.

Ok here goes –

Hillary Rodham Clinton, Former First Lady, Secretary of State, Bill Clinton’s Handler and probs gonna be President. Also star of TextsfromHillary.tumblr.com, the biggest of all wins. Imaginary late bloomer.

Hillary avoided routine gynecological visits and her annual physical until 33.

George Washington. Father of our nation and professional hair model. Imaginary late bloomer.

George refused to make his bed because that’s where his laptop lived too and it didn’t seem to mind, for god’s sake.

Jane Austen. Wrote stuff. Imaginary late bloomer.

Jane changed her major at least 6 times. She finally decided to do “that writing thing her dad wouldn’t shut about” so she could take a victory lap as a super senior.

George Soros. Finance guy bf talks about. Imaginary late bloomer.

George spend his mid-20s working as a Starbucks Barista. His band hated on him for selling out.

Jackie O. Rich person and style icon. Imaginary late bloomer.

Every time Jackie would get a phone call from an unknown number, her friends would be like “yo Jackie, you gonna get that?” and she’d roll her eyes and be like, “whatevs, it’s just TimeWarner telling me they’re gonna shut off my internet again if I don’t pay my bill.”

Katsuaki Watanabe. President, Toyota. Very good at looking serious. Imaginary late bloomer.

Katsuaki never outgrew the desire to play Edward 40 Hands.

Joan of Arc. Milla Jovovich played her in some movie I watched at Catholic school once. Imaginary late bloomer.

Joan’s roommates often complained that she never contributed to the house toilet paper and cleaning supplies fund.

________________________

Don’t you feel marginally better? I do and that’s all that matters because this was supposed to be my birthday blog post so I am extending birthday rights to today.

Peace, love and I’m considering changing my age to 24 because then I’ll be normal, 

BWCE

P.S. –

Miley Cyrus. Paid lots to stick out tongue. Early bloomer.

Blooming is overrated anyway.

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Stuff I Hate More Than Will.I.Am

1. The fact that his newest album is named #willpower.

Honorable mentions –

  1. War
  2. Holding my jacket in bars

I dunno guys, I get SO angry every time that I think about Will.I.Am. Even the spelling of his name makes me all rage-blackout-y.

Anyway, this title was just a clever ruse to get you to pay attention for a minute. School has taken over my life (in a super good I like learning and life seems to have meaning kind of way), but for the interim I won’t be blogging that much. When school is over I promise to come back in full force (and hopefully with lots of computer skillz to make things even more fun. I’m imagining 90s gifs that steal credit card numbers or virtual puppy hugging sessions).

Meanwhile, please excuse my twitter being taken over by stuff about programming and if for some reason you have any interest in that type of stuff, you can read my school blog here. I still don’t really know what’s going on with even the basics of programming, so you’re not allowed to judge my mistakes, etc. K???

K!

Peace, love and lovelovelovelovelove(unless you’re Will.I.HATEYOU), 

BWCE

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So This is Why They Pay Beauty Bloggers the Big Bucks

For all of the time I spend reading beauty blogs, I only attempt to execute the things I read about once in a blue moon. Last winter, I discovered the sock bun (late, I know) and as it was one of the first DIY things I was actually able to do myself, my DIY confidence overinflated almost immediately.

The sock bun opened up a whole new world of beauty blog possibilities. Fuck, if I could take a sock and turn my generally disgusting, curly/wavy/I-don’t-really-know-what’s-happening-but-usually-I-can’t-brush-it hair into a perfectly sculpted little circle on the top of my head, then bring on the braids! Since then I’ve been reading every DIY hair article I found and vowing that I would one day purchase bobby pins so I could try it out.

So today, while upgrading my operating system (forced time away from the internet) I decided that I was going to try a simple updo I found online.

Taken from LoveMyHairstyle1.blogspot.com. “So easy you won’t even believe it! Makes you look like a delicate porcelain doll!

I was totally ready to have the best hair at the coffee shop today.

Step 1 seemed easy enough: Give your hair some texture. OH. DONE. I have got this motherfucker. The thing I didn’t take into account was the fact that I have the wrong type of texture. Remember those Garnier Fructis ads where the chick has crazy bad hair and then Garnier transforms it into super sleek, perfect hair? Yeah, this is what I look like AFTER using their hairspray:

Also, no one starts singing that “Woo Woo!” song in the background when I use the hairspray. Sadness.

Ok, so confession time. The texture issue is only exacerbated by the fact that I haven’t had a professional haircut in over a year. Earlier this year I bought some professional scissors and gave myself a haircut with the idea that, “Hey! If Beyonce can cut her own hair, then I can too!”

What were you thinking, March 2013 Tiffany? BEYONCE IS A GODESS AND YOU ARE A MERE PAUPER. Anyway, after my attempt and several months of after growth, I have something that I can only imagine are split split ends. The ends of my hair have split so many times that they’ve rejoined each other and created some sort of spider web ends.

Here you go:

This is freshly brushed hair. Sometimes I find pieces of lint fused into the hair. Also, check out my double chin. How does anyone take a cute selfie? 

I figured, I’m sure it will look good if I put it up in a messy bun. So I proceeded to roll the bramble into a bun and hide it with a bunch of pins.

I’m pretty sure this is NOT how the top of my head was supposed to look. I’m not even sure what part is the front or the back. 

To add insult to injury, the blogger’s hair is about two feet longer than mine, making her braids long enough to wrap all the way around her head, while mine ended precisely in the center of my head, their tiny, ragged ends jutting up like antennae.

I took down the hair, tried again and failed even harder. BUT, my operating system was still installing so I trudged onward, attempting a simple spiral top knot.

From A Cup of Jo. So not as easy as the sock bun.

Luckily, my ends weren’t the issue for this style. Unfortunately, my hair positioned itself in a shape that distinctly resembled the pile of poop Emoji.

Maybe if I got some googly eyes I could make it cute?

Next up was the one where you can turn your hair into a bow, but that looked a lot like Mini Mouse ears on me –

I also realized that I get a super creepy, intense face while focusing on taking a selfie.

And so I landed on this bizarre, made up side bun. I put makeup on to make myself look more professional, but since I don’t have a statement lipstick I’m pretty sure I failed at that too.

Seriously, this is the best thing I could do. I wish I had a sock right now.

In order to make it seem legit, I added a braid.

A FISHTAIL BRAID TO BE EXACT.

So here’s what I have learned from this little experiment:

  • Selfies are hard.
  • Beauty bloggers are super humans with hair that’s at least 6 feet long and naturally super straight.
  • I need to get a real haircut.
  • NEVER, NEVER, NEVER attempt something because you heard Beyonce can do it. That’s how people get killed.

Peace, love and I’m going to go back to doing something I’m not 100% terrible at now, 

BWCE

PS – Back before the days of DIY hairstyles, I was obsessed with the Olsen twin’s TV show Two of a Kind. It was a period where we’d just moved and I had no friends, so having a twin with whom I could swing dance and have awesome adventures sounded ideal. I was obsessed with twins for half of 7th grade. Anyway, they had some CRAZY hairstyles and I once attempted to mimic one on a trip to the mall with my new friends. The weird side buns I created looked like something Miley Cyrus would wear and my friends later told me how much they made fun of me. Hairstyle fails and I go way back.

 

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All Over the Place

The other night I was sitting at a bar and the song “Changes” came on. The bartender, who was otherwise working silently, yelled out “CHCHCHCHANGES!” At the top of his lungs along with the chorus. It was weird and also I didn’t know people did that in real life (at least after 1975).

That’s really neither here nor there, except that whenever I talk about changing gears in life I think about this song because, whatever. You get it.

So yeah – changing gears. In a couple weeks I’m going back to school for web development. I am super excited about it and also constantly super nervous to tell people about my future plans. Telling people that you are making a big change in your life seems to invoke some sort of unsolicited-advice-giving beast within all of us, wherein they more often than not begin dissecting your choice and question the rationale and potential outcomes.

You hope their reaction will be something like – 

other people's approval

I was really hoping for a puppy to help me as I embark on my new life path…

And instead, 95% of the time it is something like – 

no puppy for you!

And now back to your regularly scheduled existential crisis.

And that’s why you don’t talk to strangers in line at the Starbucks…

JK. I wish it was strangers. The fact of the matter is that it is often well-intentioned acquaintances, coworkers, long lost friends, rando family members and all of the other people who you don’t want to bore with the details of all the years of trying to figure out who you are and/or how you are going to pay for your existence without fantasizing about throwing yourself onto subway tracks every Monday, Tuesday and — if it’s a really bad week — Wednesday through Friday. Ok, that’s a little dramatic. But I have fantasized about moving to Long Island City and I think that’s basically the same thing.

The worst reaction that I have received, however, is not adamant disapproval or slight, questioning jabs at my intelligence or competency. It’s one simple phrase-

“Hmm. Well you’re all over the place, aren’t you?”

Usually said in jest, I don’t think anyone who’s ever said this to me has given it more than two milliseconds of thought, but oh man, is it the worst. Telling someone they’re all over the place — whether it be referring to a college Junior who’s changed his major a bunch of times or a person who’s moved more times than they can count on one hand over the course of their 20s — undermines their act of searching for whatever it is they’re searching for. It calls to the forefront all of the chances someone has taken in his/her life and recognizes them as past failures. Personally, it has made me feel like I’m perceived as disorganized, lazy, weak, crazy, fearful or uncommitted.

I usually start backpedaling, justifying shit or simply caving in on myself like a dying star… insecurity-filled phrases bursting through my mouth like explosive gases in a deep dark space where for some inexplicable reason, no one ever interrupts me to make it stop. [In space no one can hear you make an ass of yourself]. I think of “Mean Girls'” word vomit as I hear myself trying to go through my life expectations versus reality and then I throw in some weird business terms I learned. Sometimes I reference a new hobby. It usually ends in “BUT IT’S OKMARGIN, I’M I RECENTLY TOOK UP POTTERY AND FIND IT FULFILLING OKBUTI’MOKIT’SRETURNONINVESTMENTFORTHEBESTANYWAY.”

It’s embarrassing. Caring that much about stupid, tiny things people think or say is a character flaw of mine. At this point I anticipate my reaction to other people’s reactions more than I even think of what I’m going to tell that brings about the initial reaction.

SO I MADE SOME PICTURES FOR YOU. TO AVOID THE WORD VOMIT.

Like most 18 year olds, I was totally positive that I knew my life plan. And, like most humans, my life did not go according to that obviously flawed and delusional plan. At 22, when I started to realize that I wasn’t going to be the real life version of Rachel Berry on Glee (luckily that show wasn’t on when I was in college because it would have further fueled my dementia), I realized I didn’t have a backup plan. As it turned out, my father, in particular, was right about the whole ‘having a backup plan is good’ thing. Damnit parents, I hate when you’re right.

Expectation: EVERYTHING YOU WANT WILL HAPPEN BECAUSE YOU’RE A GOOD PERSON AND THE WORLD IS YOUR MOTHERF*&KING OYSTER.

Seriously, I could have written for Glee when I was 18.

Reality: YOU ARE JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE, YOU IDIOT. REAL LIFE IS CONFUSING AND WEIRD AND OFTEN BORING. 

FYI, Wallace Shawn is this guy: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001728/

BUT IT’S OKI’MOKNOREALLYI PROMISEALLOFITIS OK.

No really, I’m not word vomiting now- it has been more than OK. My real life experience has been so much better than what 18 year old Tiffany wanted for herself because in between all the disappointments above I ended up in a bunch of different cities, getting to experience life as a bunch of different versions of myself, and through some serendipitous shit ended up in the city I hoped to end up in surrounded by most of my favorite people ever (Hibben and family, you are too far).

Of course, maybe I wouldn’t be saying that if I was so famous that all if took to get the whole world talking about me was rubbing my butt on Robin Thicke, but I think I’m good.

I’m going to get preachy for like two seconds. I’m sorry, it will be quick: This is why I hate the phrase, “All over the place.” The process of getting to figure out very slowly, and often uncomfortably, who you are is a freaking luxury. Getting to sit around and drink wine and be like, “Gee, I wonder what will make me feel fulfilled and ALSO let me buy shoes on the regular?” is an awesome problem to have. It’s why I’m determined to see all this thing all the way through, and if that means I will one day run out of naiveté-fueled energy and accept that fact that life is a meaningless, never-ending cycle of working for the weekend I will at the very least have less reason to wonder what could have been.

Ok, preaching over you can start listening again. I’ve got more posts coming up on this topic, so come back soon y’all.

Peace, love and CH-CH-CH-CHANGESSSSSS, 

BWCE

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A Few Thoughts on the VMAs

Ok, I’ll bite. I haven’t really paid attention to the VMAs since 2007, but with all of the fuss over well, everything, I spent some time yesterday watching the recaps.

I have some thoughts: 

You could tell who was just a little to young to enjoy the *NSYNC reunion. 

Example: Members of One Direction (~19) vs. Taylor Swift (23). Either that or One Direction was jealous, I mean even Chris Kirkpatrick still had those moves down.

How much do the other members of *NSYNC hate JT? 

Like, so much… right? I was grinning like a school girl watching the reunion, but seriously that was basically just an excuse for Justin to get a few breaths in after all that dancing so “Suit & Tie” would sound good.

I think I’m supposed to say something about Lady Gaga, but I simply can’t bring myself to care. 

I liked her mermaid thing?

How come no one is talking about what Robin Thicke is doing… to fashion? 

Yesterday morning my inbox was filled with all my favorite clothing sites boasting their “hip black and white pants.”

No. Clothing companies. Just. No.

I know everyone was harping on the Beetlejuice thing, but this getup reminded me of the girl in the popular group (there’s one at every school) who doesn’t fit the quiet, blonde, cheerleader mold. I spent the greater half of middle school and ninth grade trying to figure out why exactly she was allowed into the group and all I could come up with is that she was really good at volleyball and she was a team manager for JV Basketball. Remember that girl? Remember her statement pants? Robin Thicke got those pants from that girl.

Please, NastyGal.com, don’t make us go back there.

YOU GUYS, KANYE WAS TOTALLY NORMAL.  

Kanye didn’t do anything crazy. He performed, interrupted no award and probably went home to his baby. Is this a new leaf for Kanye? I really hope not, because I sure as hell love Givenchy-Kilt-Relationship Kanye.

And then of course, there was… Twerkpocalypse:

miley cyrus, twerking on big ben. scary dinosaur included.

I threw the dinosaur in there because he seems like he and Miley have a lot in common.

Feminism, slut-shaming, our nation’s morality is in shambles, blah blah blah. Everyone’s covered that stuff and I’m sure their opinions are more informed either way. GOOD. I don’t want to use big words.

Things I noticed/ thought during the performance and its aftermath:

  1. The Furry community is remaining eerily quiet.
  2. Which came first: The Miley Cyrus nude bikini or the American Apparel nude bikini?
  3. My working list of potential Cyrus/Thicke-themed Halloween costumes: The obvious couples costume is going as the pair — bonus points if the guy dresses as Miley; solo acts can go as Miley’s tongue; groups can include the furries; even larger groups can go as MC, RT, the furries, Taylor Swift and Selena Gomez, and The Parent’s Television Council.
    I call dibs on Billy Ray Cyrus’ tweet about Syria.
  4. All of this could have been avoided if someone had just taught Ms. Cyrus how to dougie.

Peace, love and I’m still listening to “Blurred Lines”, 

BWCE

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Let Them Eat Kimchi

Last Sunday I went to Brooklyn for a friend’s birthday party at a beer garden. The Crown Vic in Williamsburg has a pig roast every Sunday, the theme of which on this particular Sunday was Korean-style pig roasting.

picture of a rib and some weird sauces

Apparently this is what makes up Korean style roast: Big ol’ rib of pork and a bunch of weird bean sauces and pickled veggies. And of course, jars on jars of kimchi.

Eat your heart out, Ramen burger enthusiasts.

picture of a menu that is too expensive for brooklyn

Apparently Bon Chon and Banchan are different things. Everyone in line was confused.

I take issue with a lot of Manhattan beer gardens because they are usually too crowded for me to be able to hear anyone around me, but this place we delightfully unpacked and filled with lots of neon colored tables. And as always with Williamsburg, I love examining all the hipster wear going on around me.

Pretty fence. #withafilterduh

picture of my clutch and the wine that lead to my demise later that evening

My one attempt to seem like an artsy blogger this summer.

The best part of the day, however, was the super spicy kimchi eating contest sponsored by Mama O’s Kimchi. If you’ve never had kimchi, I hate it with the fire of a thousand flames (is that the phrase? I think it’s something like that), but people like it, and also I think a couple of the people who signed up had never had it before so they didn’t realize what crimes they were about to commit against their bodies.

At least someone got that big trophy?

I greatly enjoyed watching 10 people try to stuff jars of super spicy kimchi into their mouths over the course of three minutes. The one other person who seemed to be as into it as me was Asian John Cusack — this Asian guy who looked like John Cusack in any of the movies where he wore a leather jacket and big sunglasses. AJC was drinking beer straight from a pitcher and yelling things at all the contestants. I kind of wish we were best friends.

After that, we tried to go to a free comedy show, got bored waiting and ended up stuffing our faces at The Meatball Shop, a place that I’m sure will soon take the rest of the country by storm because it’s way too good.

Peace, love and banchan, 

BWCE

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