Like, The Rules of Feminism

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Every now and again I go on a genre tear. I’ll flood my eye balls with Wes Craven “bloody topless virgin final girl” films or comfortably numb by brain with all 257 Fast and Furious movies.  But there is no time that I’m not in the mood for chick flicks.  Ever since my mom dragged me to see Mean Girls when I was 14, no other movie genre shaped or influenced me well into my semi-functional adulthood.

 

But before I was getting army pants and flip flops because I saw Cady Heron wearing army pants and flip flops, I was thinking about whether I’d be able to use legal jargon in everyday conversation like Elle Wood’s, would I kick ass in a bandage dress like Gracie “Lou Freebush” Hart, or be as good as a friend even while riding the crimson wave as Cher Horowitz.  Go on Instagram for two scroll flicks and try me if you don’t trip over a meme or a caption or a tee shirt referencing a chick flick from the good ole 90s/00s.  As cliche and basic as they can be, don’t lie to my face that these slumber party staples didn’t seal how you date, make goals, interact with your gal pals, or choose like grabbing Instagram captions.

Chick flick main character archetypes are basically “the popular blonde has a brain and is more than her hair, boobs, and wardrobe!?!?!?” and “golly gee that brunette is actually pretty when she takes off her glasses and un-clips her hair in slow motion”.  But like…I love that.  We all needed that, especially when prior generations had Sandy channeling her inner leather daddy to impress Danny, even though he’s a weirdo narcissist chain smoking 16 year old.  And Rizzo, the OG head bitch, was painted as some slutty villain even though the worst thing she did was sing a song about how annoyingly innocent Sandy was. Hardly a Burn Book.

“That’s just like…the rules of feminism” – Gretchen Wieners

Raise your hand if you have ever been personally victimized by this movie.  Yes my mom did drag me to see it.  In my defense, the only info I was given is that it’s loosely based off the book Queen Bees and Wanna Bees.  So, I naturally assumed it would be a sad documentary used to teach me that yes, high school will be as bad as middle school and catholic school.  So buckle up those low-rise boot cut American Eagle jeans ’til college, kiddo. Then you can wear black lipstick like you’ve always dreamed; and boys that  have that crunchy bleached tipped hair will like-like you, because it’s 2004 and you don’t know what the fuck you want.

Unlike Cady (LiLo, we miss you, we love you, we need you…to explain your new accent) the only thing that totally shocked me was the concept of sexually active band nerds.  Because only the popular kids hook up right?  Oh, no no no my sweet clarinet.  Those step-in-time squirrels were getting a crash course in anatomy in the back of the away bus.  Annnnnyyyyyywhhoo.

And when I say nothing shocked me I mean that for the previous 2 years in middle school, the cool girls would all wear their matching Old Navy zip ups on the same day. In high school, God forbid you wear Converse All Stars and not even know who the Ramones are.  I definitely remember whose mom wan’t a “regular mom”.  Hell even the “cool Asians” were a thing.

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In light of all the super jacked up things I remember, what I remember most is how much I changed from summer to fall before freshman year.  I shed some baby fat, learned how to use a straightener and that eye liner isn’t just for your lower waterline.  And as we saw from Cady (seriously LiLo…when did you bump English to your second language?) all that an push up bra can seriously change your self image.

The Instagram caption:  “Stop trying to make fetch happen!!”  We mostly use this movie to call each other out on cunty bullshit and LOL at all the bullshit we all *mostly* grew out of.

“Whoever said orange is the new pink was seriously disturbed!” – Elle Woods

I rule this one a game changer.  I was fully aware of what I was getting into with this movie and was so freaking excited.  Even when I was 12 I loved the idea of bucking expectation.  I loved a pretty blonde showing everyone that she was capable and standing up for herself even when her scummy prof straight up solicits her.

Here is the best fucking part though:  For all the snap judgement, she never doubts her own abilities.  She wants a thing, she does what’s required to get the thing.  She watches CNN  and reads her texts book while getting her cardio in.    She chooses the types of friends that support her when she has to study for the LSATs during Greek Week.  She outsmarts the cunty shop girls when they try to trick into paying full price for a dress that was for sure in last year’s June Vogue.  Why? Because Elle Woods knows her shit.

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Speaking of the boutique scene…12 year old me was like “Okay, this bitch does her home work”.  I was genuinely impressed…and relieved.  I would flip through my scary Russian piano teacher’s Bazaars and Vogues getting to know models and designers by name.  I wanted to be fabulous for knowing the Pantone colors for 2002 and for being able to memorize a handful of concertos.  Until Elle stomped her little last season Prada shoes, I thought I had to choose.

As a semi-fully functioning adult, this has translated to debating the pros and cons of permanent eyelash extensions then getting back to my online class so I’d know how to properly palpate a fundus on my first day of labor and delivery.  Very much because of characters like Elle Woods, Millennial woman def embody the phrase “Get you a girl that can do both”.

Elle is never presented to us as dumb.  We’re in on the joke.  She has a different value system than the stuffy fuckers around her and for that, they don’t take her seriously.  Instead of letting that set her back, she rises to the occasion.  Unfortunately, that’s a battle us chicks know all too well.

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The Instagram Caption:  “What? Like it’s hard?”  We use this movie to remind ourselves (and the haters) not to let the underestimation of small minded assholes get in our way.  And when we push by them, we do so with a smile and a hair flip in a pair of our favorite shoes.

Next time I’ll over analyze Miss Congeniality and Clueless.  Promises to my 5 subscribers that I won’t go another 5 months or whatever until another entry.

Stay fab. Stay weird.

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Instagram @emilymsisco

 

ZEN AF

You what a super fun place to be in your life is?  Relating to the Narrator from Fight Club.  Watching Fight Club a few times.  Listening to podcasts about Fight Club.  Reading Fight Club.  Not because you relate to having an imaginary friend that is the personification of the hot to crazy ratio, but because your sleep deprivation is getting pretty out of hand, and you’re wondering how long until you start posing at coping groups.

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Literally no idea, thank you sooooo much.

I wasn’t sleep deprived because I was losing meaning in my consumerist, corporate life style.  Far from it.  The ball got rolling when my apartment was being shown nearly every day I had a shift; which meant waking up 2 hours earlier than normal.  AND I couldn’t fall asleep because I was worried I’d miss my alarm and my landlord would show a very nice couple into the main bedroom with my passed out self poking out from under the duvet.  Add on to the stress heap, trying to keep the apartment super clean and super cute, all-the-fucking-time.

So it was half a bottle of wine to fall asleep, 2 quadruple espressos to wake up.  Always 3 steps behind on my charting.  Not being able to string together two sentences during shift change.  I felt like I was losing my damn mind.  It all came to a head with what I think was a panic attack, but like, I’ve never had a panic attack before, so I’m not sure. My stress belly was as tight as a drum, I could pass for 5 months preggers from stuffing it with margarita mix and Lean Cuisines, and my sinuses were closed off because of seasons ch-ch-ch-ch-changin’.  I finally was just like…I need to go to a doctor.  I need to GET a doctor.

I chose my doc after researching years of practice, prescribing patterns, patient reviews, and area of expertise. Kidding, I found a guy under 50, who I could schedule online, and could see me within the week.  Long story short he wanted to check my thyroid and send me for a slept study.  Because learning how to sleep with my eyes open at work was not going to happen and nearly bouncing off a guard rail driving on 2 hours of REM…I was like:  yes, probably good.

Dream skill right here

I still felt like a garbage heap.  I hate the concepts of cleanses and “detoxing”, because they’re all bullshit, but I needed to re-calibrate.  So I have reluctantly decided to have a 2 week “reset”, I “started doing yoga”, and “abstained from alcohol”.  Going from the Narrator to Namaste.

First off, making my self go outside and see the fucking sun once a day is a start.  Instead of downing my quad espresso in my kitchen hunched over Instagram, I was relaxing on my porch downing my quad espresso leisurely scrolling Instagram.  The no alcohol concept came to me after sticking to lemon and water at a happy hour because it was the first time interacting with humans that weren’t co workers and parents in a hot minute.  I was like “Meh, this isn’t too bad.  And I’m still having a lot of fun”.  Then I just didn’t get around to having a beer on Memorial Day (how v unpatriotic of me, I know).  Having a Florida trip in 2 and half weeks and a fuck ton to do in the mean time, I was just like “k, no booze ’til Florida”.

I wasn’t making it to my beloved Zumba (the Jazzercise of our generation) thanks to the fucked up sleep schedule, but needed something I could do.  Taking time on my porch turned into walking in my neighborhood.  Then yoga happened.  Thank fuck for Pinterest and YouTube (not just for make up tutorials and animals videos to my shock and awe).  I have done yoga in the past but now I could barely touch my toes and downward facing dog was a challenge.  A week went by and I’m chaturanga dandansana-ing like a mutha fucka.  Switchin’ it up between Vinyasa, bed time flows, and “Detox” (still hate that word, but good for a de-puff and gettin’ the gut to do the damn thang) I’m feelin’ better.

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I’m not about to post any mat time on the ‘Gram.  Not that thirsty, and frankly not that skilled.  But I’m not locked into an hour class, I can chose the sweat level, and can deal with the people that think that hospital means “Hilton Double Tree” with all these fucking endorphines and zen shit.

The best thing about taking a stroll in my hood or rollin’ out in my living room is that it’s fucking free.  Doing some research, I’m not about to shell out the money that’s required to have someone twice my age and twice as fit “correcting” me while I’m holding Warrior 3 in 80 degree heat.  That being said, I’m trying out my first “suggested donation” (free) class this weekend.

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Can we keep it going for the air quotes, please?

I didn’t wake up from one of those hangover that have us like “I’m never drinking again.  I’ll eat baby carrots and hummus and start doing yoga and drink pressed green juice.” No.  I tried something, it worked.  Then I tried another thing, and I liked it.  Everything else in my life was whipping me around like Willow’s hair.  I needed a little me time that also may or may not help me feel a little better in a pair of shorts.  As much as I love Fight Club and could watch Edward Norton and Brad Pitt locked in a psycho homoerotic anarchist conflict on the weekly, it was all getting a little close for comfort.  This is working for me and I’m looking forward to a glass of champs and shramps with a beach front view.  You gotta shake it up when you start relating to “I am Jill’s left nipple” more than “YAS KWEEN”.

Give me a follow on Instagram @emilymsisco.

Stay Fabulous. Stay Weird.

 

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“Adulting”

Watching “Steven Universe” and “Vanderpump Rules” on my Ikea couch that easily turns into a double bed,  I “accidentally” let the neighbor’s cat in the house again and she’s not mad about the head scratches.  Got my favorite robe on, fuzzy socks on my feet, and a glass of rose in my hand.  My laptop is open to the various forms I have to fill out, print off, mail, and punch my bank info into, so I can get my nursing license transferred to California  in time for the move.  It’s a fucking drag, but at least I’m comfy.

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This is a pretty dream adult life so far.  I get to get my busy shit done while I get a little toasted with some TV on the side, then I’ll go to bed listening to a podcast where someone tells me a story.  I could be a little more organized, sure, but my bills get paid and I’m not living off mac’n’cheese and Oreos (not for lack of trying).  I honestly don’t get where this “adulting” accomplishment bullshit came from.  When did doing laundry and paying bills and grocery shopping suddenly became more anxiety producing than going to an actual job.  When I hear the word “adulting” I hear “mildly annoying life stuff getting blown out of proportion”.

I’ll say it myself, I can get a little internally misanthropic about my Millennial status.  There are pros and cons of every generation and I tend to be critical.   Whatever.  However, for some reason my generation has taken to doing life stuff, (keeping a clean house and answering e-mails) like self inflicted chore torture that deserves a prize at the end.  Have the fucking glass of wine whether you mopped your damn kitchen or not.  I don’t need to see your ripped off Instagram meme about it.  I love being melodramatic but this is BORING.

Procrastination in my middle name, folding laundry sucks, I can’t hear my music when my vacuum’s running, and I wish I could eat Chinese food every night.  But when I look up and my bills are late, I can’t find my favorite top, my house is fucked and I’m bloated until the next election, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.  And that is worse than stubbing your toe and knowing that you are literally emotionally enraged with a chair leg.

I get it.  We’re a generation of new adults entering a workforce with seemingly useless degrees and debt up to our ears at the same age our parents were birthing us and buying houses.  Cool.  Who gives a fuck.  My parents got married at 23 and bought my childhood home at 26.  Think about the guy you were dating at 23…husband material or no? And as far as buying a house, do you live in a place where you want to be locked in like that?  News flash:  Our parents had no idea what they were doing either.  No one does.  Just because we’re not hitting the same giant “milestones” doesn’t mean we’re not qualified to complete a mundane “to-do” list.  It doesn’t make us less “adult”.

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And since the fuck when did we hold to convention anyway?  We’re the generation that made it possible for people to out make the rest of us by being really, really, really, ridiculously good looking (and using FaceTune) on Instagram.

I like having a clean house, I like my closet organized, and I like being able to cook a dinner from what’s in my fridge. I like watching “Steven Universe” and seeing what shimmery nail polish looks like with a matte top coat.  Sometimes I won’t put on pants all day, but there won’t be any dishes in my sink.  And even if there are, I’m having some ice cream and champagne anyway.

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Stay fabulous.  Stay weird.

 

Weird Body. Fab Body. Every Body.

I don’t care how body positive you think you are, when someone says “beach trip” or “shorts season” you’re going to wonder if can  shed a few inches before that scary day is upon you.  I’m not asking to be Kate Moss or even have an Ashley Grahm moment.  But for the love of Christ on a cracker, if you ask me to wear anything other than maxi dress I WILL have to supress a panic attack.

I’m physically strong  and I love my wardrobe from September-April, but I am not what you call a “summer body”.  I UNDERSTAND why the kaftan was invented.  And I refuse to wear one…because I would never take it off. Hello, Kyle Richards.

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So to my excitement and horror four things are happening this summer that will probably shatter my body image to the point of literally wearing nothing but scrubs ( you’d be surprised how often people just assume I just left work).  But…fuck me, I’m going to suck it up and attempt fabulous.  Either way I’m going to be sweaty and self conscious, so I may as look like I give a fuck.

Florida mid- June

It was literally the only week my boyfriend was not going to be traveling for business and my cousin isn’t hosting company.  Did I mention my cousin has run the NYC Marathon and literally snapped back into a six pack after having her child?  Even if we’re not hangin’ on the beach every minute, I do not feel like walking around with my hair sticking to my neck, getting under-boob sweat, things ridingwhere they shouldn’t….UGH…I can barely handle the humidity in Ohio.  I want to enjoy the time with my cousin and her kid, not freak about whether or not I look like the Blob rolling down the board walk, consuming everything in sight.  Thank God I can sleep naked.

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4th of July  Family Reunion

Again with the beach and the good looking family.  I am the least attractive person in my family, and on my mom’s half by a landslide.  Speaking of snapping back after kids, my mom’s approaching 60 with a six pack.  This is probably the least panic inducing event of my summer because north east Ohio on the lake can be unseasonably cool.  I’m hoping to get away with a black sundress with a slouchy sheer duster for when the sun goes down.  One thing I love about my family (other than the fact that they’re fabulous) is that no one bats an eye if you wear black in the dead of summer.

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Giant Coastal Beach House

Actual in-laws, potential in-laws, a baby, a dog, and a case of rose.  I super can’t wait to be in the center of all of it; and all with the September weather in the Carolinas being fickle as fuck.  I’m not to the point with my potential in-laws where I can let my freak flag fly.  They usually see me as a littl square on Skype twice a month.  And although I would love this week to be anything but athleisure…I think that’s what’s gonna have to happen.  I’m not going to take a gamble in a bell sleeve romper with this much family time going on.  Well fit tees, leggings, chambray, low top Chucks, sports bras…no bras.  I think the biggest risk I’ll take that week is a pair of linen shorts I have for emergency cases.

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Moving to LA

This is what is making the rest of my summer super stressful.  Every bead of sweat, every fat day, every zit, is filling me with dread about the town where terms like “LA fat” and “LA 6” are dead on.  On one hand I’m stoked to explore a new city and for my boyfriend to enhance his resume, on the other I’m writing down the math of losing 50 lbs.  Technically we’re going to Pasadena, where the brainiacs of NASA and CalTech reside, so hopfully it won’t be that bad on a day-to-day.  But I don’t want to feel like jumping off Mount Hollywood after hitting a WeHo bar.  But as stated before, I don’t want to live my exsistence in an exciting place insecure to the point that I don’t have fun.  I’m going to atleast be at Mia Thermapolus level of self conscious at all times so I may as well look like Julie Andrews’ glam squad got to me.

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My brain is going to have to buckle the fuck up this summer.  Lots going on.  Luckily I have spring to ease into exposing my skin to outside air and do some shopping.  Poshmark and Marshall’s betta be ready.

Stay fabulous, stay weird.

Gator Aide

Gator Aide

 


Heidi Klein striped dress
$365 – mytheresa.com

BA SH rayon shirt
$145 – the-dressingroom.com

Print shirt
everlane.com

Bondi Born neoprene bikini
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Pink romper
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M Co boy short swimwear
$31 – mandco.com

Swimsuits bikini
rosegal.com

Swimsuit cover up
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John Robshaw beach towel
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Beach towel
belk.com

Cotton beach towel
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Basic Beach

Basic Beach

 


J Crew chambray shirt
$105 – jcrew.com

J Crew j crew t shirt
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High waisted swimsuit
bonadrag.com

Express
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River Island pajamas
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Pajama top
etsy.com

Schutz beach sandals
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Converse white sneaker
$56 – johnlewis.com

M&Co gold shoes
$27 – mandco.com

Mykita cat eye sunglasses
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Victoria Beckham sunglasses
$345 – forwardbyelysewalker.com