This Just Gets Me To Normal

WEIRDOS!! Jesus, you know what I’m really bad at?  Follow through.  Never again will I promise a two part post because I tried like 10 times to write the second part of the Chick Flick post and seriously it just wasn’t happening.  TBH it’s why I haven’t posted since early November.  So we’re moving the fuck on.  Keep it rolling.

The other day my long term boo-thang admitted he thought I was a whole year younger than I was…for like several months (If you’re under 25, trust me, it mean a lot when you’re over 25).  If he wasn’t the most forgetful human on the planet I would have chalked it up to perfecting my skin care/ personal care situation.  (PS Having acne doesn’t make you look like a blossoming youth, it makes you look like you need to add a spot treatment to your night routine.  ANYWAY.)

I’ve written before how I’m completely over the whole “OMG I’m a barely functioning adult.  I hate working out and grocery shopping and washing my face at night and…omg I’m such a mess isn’t that cute and relate-able?!”  PASS.  Also most of the people writing those posts go to refromer pilates 3x a week and can afford grocery delivery.  SO, us mere peasants have to figure out how to keep it tight and right even if we don’t think we have the time or monies.  So like, here’s what I do.  Most of this comes from my ever long winding path of figuring out how to take care of my self.

ROLL ‘EM!

Rollers are everywhere.  Ice rollers, micro needle rollers, even chakra crystal rollers.  Why do we roll?  Because everyone over the legal drinking age has woken up, looked in the mirror and thought “How even the fuck does that much water accumulate in my orbital socket (or so I assume your inner voice sounds)”, or if you’re me “I had some cutting edge cheek bones like 8 hours ago…I demand answers.”

I would leave the first time you micro needle to a professional dermatologist, BUT for puffiness the ice roller is a game changer.  You can feeeeel the demon retained water drain from your gorgeous face.  The coolness is a def plus, it wakes you up and is super fucking refreshing, even in the depths of winter.

How to:  Roll it up, roll it up! Watch it all fall out.  Roll it up, roll it up! That’s how we ball out! (spoken by the poet goddess Rhianna).  But seriously, roll that thing in a upward and outward motion.  Your first instinct might be to drag down, BUT you’re only helping gravity fuck up your shit.  Do that upward motion for 2-3 min like 2-3 times a day.  There are a bunch available on Amazon  buuut my favorite is…ice roller  Esarora Stainless Steel Ice Roller 

Broke Ass Hack: If you don’t feel like throwing down for a roller, or frankly there’s more important shit you have to spend money on, just throw a spoon in the freezer before bed. In the morning, hold it against your palm for a few seconds then do the roll up and out motion moving the spoon in circles. You just saved $10.99; you’re welcome.

Mask On, Mask Off

We all remember those creepy mask packets from the pharmacy with models with giant ass plants for eyes.  A sleep over staple.  But instead of experimenting with how much you can peel off in one try, now you actually have to figure out what they fuck they’re for, and if they even work…

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I strive for a Patrick Bateman level of self care.

I have combination skin, which means I get the joy of both super dry patches on my cheeks and oil slicks on my T zone.  This basically means a never dying colony of black heads on my nose.    Pore strips were my life for a while, until I discovered the charcoal mask.  Now, I’m not talking about the ones from those terrifying YouTube videos where they peel off the first 3 layers of skin to get it off.  I’m talking about the fun kind that drys and cracks when it’s ready to be washed off.  My favorite is this one by Origins.

Next Level Shit:  Use you favorite pore strip after the charcoal mask.  That’ll take care of any of those stubborn SOBs still hanging on.

I Mustache You A Question

…But I have to go fuck off for making that joke.

oooooooKAY!  Some of us have heritage from parts of world where APPARRRRENTLY it was necessary for survival or whatever-the-fuck for women to have upper lip and stray weird chin hair.  Like 100% of my heritage, lucky me.  I have the combined upper lip protection the Austrian/ Hungarians, Italians, and Russians have to offer.  Like 1000 years ago I’m sure it let a mate know our offspring would survive the winter and I could grow a mean turnip.  Great.

For 13 year old Emily, it meant getting the ever living shit burnt out of my lip by a salon girl that was “afraid of hurting” me.  WELLLL, bitch what didn’t hurt so much was the hair removal, not my first rodeo.  What SUCKED was 2 inch symmetrical burns from her over rubbing the wax/ paper, skiddish of making a 13 year old girl tear up.  Sweetie, I was already a new teen with a mustache…like…there’s not a whole more that can fuck me up.

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I just had to face I couldn’t pull off a Salvador Dali like Max.

So I swore off waxing to this day.  LITERALLY for the past 15 years I have only used one thing for my unfortunate situation.  I wash my face, brush Sally Hansen hair remover on my upper lip, kill 5 minutes, then wipe it off with a tissue.  I have pretty sensitive skin and it doesn’t bother me.  It also costs less then a lip wax and lasts like 6 months.  I get a warm pride feeling when I think about all the money I’ve saved.  Buuut….

If You Wanna Get Fancy:  As with all unwanted body hair, you can get rid of it permanently with laser hair removal.  I’ve given it a shot with my bikini line and the pain wasn’t worth it to me.  But I also know people who swear by it.  If you have the time and money (and pain tolerance)  I more than recommend it.

Nothing Days

I cannot stress enough the importance of nothing days.  When you have literally nothing planned.  No brunches, meetings, house keeping, grocery shopping, NADA! This used to be like every Friday through Sunday for most of us through college and a few years beyond, but life has a funny way of fucking you side ways.

Nobody relies on me to keep them alive, so if you have tiny humans or like a puppy or something I get that this is like…not fucking possible.  But if have a partner or a co-owner, or other semi-responsible person in sight range, hand over the obligation for 30 minutes to an hour and just do nothing.

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None, not one.

I have a horrible habit of spreading my self too thin and get so stressed out that I just take a nap instead of getting shit done.  Having 2 or 3 nothing days a month has done wonders for my sanity and gives me something to look forward to.

Get All Buddah Zen With It:  There are a few really good free apps with guided meditation.  Put on a sleep masks and your favorite head phones and let someone else help you clear your brain.  Some say if you fall asleep you’re not really meditating, but I say if what you need is for your brain to completely shut off for a few minutes, it fucking worked.

All of this isn’t even my version of pampering, it just gets me to normal.  When I don’t take the time to take care of myself it ends with desperately attempting to spray the last of a dry shampoo can onto my greasy/ fried hair 20 minutes before I’m supposed to clock in at my job; praying that the quad espresso kicks in before the sleep deprivation.  If you don’t take care of yourself, you can’t take of anything else.

So, go get rid of the hair you’re confused by, de-puff what’s not supossed to be, slather on your fave mask, and just do fucking nothing for once.

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Follow the fab weirdness @emilymsisco .

Stay Fab. Stay Weird.

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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I Choo-Choo-Choose You

 

Oooooohhhhh Valentines’s Day.  It’s so easy to say “Fuck off”.  It’s a holiday that has nothing to do with the dude that’s it’s named after, it puts pressure on couples to have a good time just because the calendar say 2/14, and it makes single people feel like shit.  Hallmark sure knows how to jazz up a dry spell.

1bc6b4b6-38b8-458a-a187-f8c2d0a675bf-5479-00000a16f5d9650d_tmpNo one ever got chocolate and laid for Presidents’ Day.

What’s worse than the commercial holiday concept, is the people that get unreasonably upset by the holiday.  We GETTTTT it, you’re not blinded by a fake holiday.  But you’re probably are the same type of person that get unreasonably excited around Christmas time.  In the words of great Countess Lou-Ann “Be cool!  Don’t be like…uncool.”  Have some fucking chill people.  It’s just a day.  If you have a person, throw on your favorite undies and given ’em a show.  If you don’t, go buy yourself some kick ass flowers or those expensive chocolates from the ma
rket’s candy aisle.  Or here’s a thought:  don’t!  Do whatever the fuck you want on 2/14, and for the love of fuck don’t judge those who celebrate, or not, differently than you (unless there’s an Instagram collage and inspirational quote followed by “Thank you for being my best friend and partner-in-crime *various emojis*”.  Then judge away.)

cbd6d449-a3e2-470b-b424-4c15a1e1dd0f-5479-00000a16d97ce156_tmpHow  dare you!  I was rooting for you! We were all rooting for you!

Getting weird and judgey about Valentine’s Day is the adult equivalent of judging people’s taste in music when you’re in high school.  What’s the point?  You’re the only one feeling bad!  We as a generation need stop pretending it’s okay to be love with pepperoni pizza and our pets and maybe actually suck it up and have some human contact.  Although eating pizza while petting my cat is the closest thing to heroin I will probably ever experience.

So grab brunch with the girls, have a date night, watch horrible rom-coms, make-out with someone, yell “LIAR!” and throw a box of chocolate at your TV.  Do.  Fucking.  You.

I won’t say Happy Valentine’s Day, I’llsay have a fabulously weird February 14th.

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The Basic Bro, and You

Hello my Fabulous Weirdos!  Today I am going to take a break from all the Halloween fun and talk to you today about a very modern problem of a modern weirdo :  The Basic Bro.  Who doesn’t love a good pigeon hole?  Of course everyone is a special individual with independent thoughts and feelings (except maybe…the basic bro) but this legion of Sperry wearing, Harambee loving (dicks out), Kanye crushing, Ken dolls sticks out like a sore thumb.

Don’t get me wrong.  These guys are overall tempting.  Usually pretty hot, everything from the gym rat to the dad bod depending on your taste, he’s down to buy you and your friends a drink or 5, he’s funny and up to date on pop culture.  Some have “small town values”, some can’t shut up about how “progressive” they are.  It can all be a little overwhelming; especially mixed in with the labyrinth that is millennial dating culture.  Hopefully this can be a weird little road map, to help you spot a deal with a basic bro.

The Pack

The pack of bros in a unavoidable spectacle.  It’s a wedding after party, a happy hour that turned into a night out, the big (or any) game is on.  Who can tell?

There’s probably a bit a of a uniform going on.  It could a hipster flannel/ hennely situation, oxfords and chinos, skinny jeans and V neck tees…there’s a bit of variety, each as potentially douchey as the last.  When talking to a guy who travels in a pack, always bring back up.  A wing girl can distract the louder, drunker, douchier friend, while you get some face time.  Here’s the thing though, if he tells you where his pack is going that night or you run into him while you’re out (totally  on accident, of course) and it takes everything you’ve got to get his interest, or he corners you but won’t involve you in the group, get the fuck out of there.  He’s just not that into you, honey buns.

Dicks Out For Harambee

At one point I thought the “Dicks Out for Harambee” fad was limited to basic bros in training and some early college goers.  How terribly fucking wrong I was.  More than a handful of guys I graduated with (one basic bro I had the experiencing of “dating”) have Tweeted, Snapped, Facebooked something linking their dick to Harambee.  One basic brought it up at work…not ironically. Then he went back to watching cross bow demos on live deer on YouTube.  Charming.

Don’t deal, just avoid.  Fucking run.

Update:  1,500 write in votes for Hamarbe as if 11/09/16.  Thanks not quite alt-right bros.

 

Da Cluuuuurrrbb

In da club, we all fam.  No.   Go away.  There is one reason guys go to clubs:  drunk sluts in bandage dresses and rompers that show some under melon and heels they can handle.  That’s fucking it.  No one likes to stand 4 deep to get a $5 BudLight.  Literally no one.  Only the probability of tail makes that tolerable.  Just don’t go to the club.  They are only acceptable for bachelorette parties and even that’s a little thin.  I went to a club for a friend’s birthday and couldn’t drink because I had a shift at 7am the next day.  She twerked her way into the VIP.  Guys stand one of two places in a club.  1) on the periferal or high vantage point and observe…creepily.  2) In the center stabbing chicks with their denim cocks.  If the guy you like frequents da clurb, he’s not looking for anyone he wants to have a conversation with.  If you’re looking for a fuck buddy, go for it.  But if you want that boyfriend material…head to the microbrew.

White Knights

“Grab Her by the Brain”…Uh no, thank you.  “A Woman’s Place is in the House and the Senate”…Ahh!  I see what you did there!  I was really looking for your validation of my independence, thank you soooo much.  I don’t experience many of these out in the wild and that’s because they mostly live online.  They ride up on their social media platforms, defending women in the comment section, or worse, fill their Insta feeds with posts with rhetoric along the lines of the “Free the Nipple” campaign.  Have you seen Matt McGorry’s Instagram feed…it’s a white knight wet dream

It’s great to find a guy that genuinely respects women and doesn’t think twice about how your independence effects him.  But shilling out an opening line about gender roles or bashing men in general is just pandering for pussy.  Buy me a drink, tell me I’m pretty, and leave your “I’m With Her” shirt at home.

Menenist

On the surface this could look pretty great.  He has a job, he’s masculine, he’s smart.  They can take a while to spot.  But after a date or two he’s telling you how to do your job, explaining simple concepts to you, throwing shade about women in general.  Yawn.  Personally, I wouldn’t bother with the argument, you don’t have time for it.

There’s also the menenist that parades around like a white knight in a flannel but some how every break up he’s even been through is because his ex was too dumb, a smart ass, too slutty, too coy, way vain, wasn’t effortlessly adorable at all times, or disagreed with him on any topic.  And he’s all too excited to talk about it.