After finishing my two cups of tea this morning and picking my lips for approximately seven minutes, I looked to complete the ritual by reaching into my bag and searching for my lip balm. But it was nowhere to be found. So I’ve been substituting with lipstick all day like a dummy.
My life has never been worse than it is in this moment.
I guess I could ask a friend to borrow their chapstick or go to the daggum Walgreens like an adult and buy some. But pouting and wearing too much lipstick is more fun.
I don’t freak out often, but when I do, I do it big and pull everyone down with me.
Like the time my cat Midnight (RIP) who, unbeknownst to us had kidney failure, was trapped in my room for an entire day and proceeded to poo and pee all over my room, namely my suitcase that contained basically all the clothes I cared about. When I opened my door and discovered the literal shit storm that had taken place in my room, I threw the biggest hissy fit in Hudson family history that led my mother and sister to flee the house to “go grocery shopping” and forced my poor father to lock himself in the living room to avoid my wrath.
Needless to say, I know how to have a good freak out.
So when I cut my hairs this past August and was uncertain about the results, I got a little fittified. I raced the apartment where poor, sweet Eliza was greeted with a full on hissy fit that had been brewing the whole subway ride home. She foolishly tried to console me with compliments and “reason,” and when she could take no more of my shrieks and foot stomping, she suggested, “Why don’t you call Millie?”
A brilliant suggestion!
I FaceTimed my mama to show her my new ‘do and explain why I was so distraught. She stopped me mid-hysterics and in true buck-up fashion said, “Sarah, honey, you look fine. But you may want to put a little powder on your nose.”
She was right.
After I took a quick shower, tousled my hair with pomade, and threw some makeup on my face, I LOVED my hairs. There really are few things in life that a little makeup won’t fix. Thank you, mama.
The relationship between a lady and her shows is a very special one. There are few things in this world that bring me joy like a brand spanking new episode of Girls or Breaking Bad (RIP), or a lazy Sunday of garbage marathoning Mob Wives or My Cat From Hell. My shows—my stories, if you will—take up a good bit of my life. And not in a depressing way, like I haven’t bathed and Seamlessed breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past two days. No these shows give me things to talk about at parties, distraction from the stresses of being a career lady, and bonding time with my beloved roommate.
And this is why I have a very strict do-not-share-your-shows-with-your-boo policy. Mad Men will live on forever (in our hearts and on our Netflixes anyway), but you and your boo will likely not. With breakups happening on nearly every corner in LES and marriage practically equating divorce these days, boo-love is not a safe place to share a show.
This doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy Sunday night HBO time with your man, but for heaven’s sake do not make it y’all’s thing. Because what happens when you break up? Your life is left a stupid rotten mess AND you can’t watch Game of Thrones because it was ooooouuurrrrrrrrr showwwwwwww?! Um no. You keep watching GOT, girl. A lady should never have to sacrifice her sacred bond with television because one time she used to watch a show with some boy who would steal all the pot stickers and force her to eat sesame chicken against her will.
You and cousin Matthew got a special thing going on, baby. Don’t let your boo come between y’all.
RuPaul is my daily inspiration. Duh. And if you follow her on the Twitters, then you’re familiar with her #FeelLikeAWoman declarations. Today’s inspired me to make up my own, so here you go. Thanks, Ru.
#FeelLikeAWoman make seven month pregnant Jemima Kirke your iPhone background.
#FeelLikeAWoman don’t wash your hair for nobody.
#FeelLikeAWoman wear a crop top to brunch.
#FeelLikeAWoman take your birth control in public and wash it down with a vodka soda.
#FeelLikeAWoman eat cookie dough and watch I Love Lucy in your undies.
#FeelLikeAWoman insta-stalk without shame.
#FeelLikeAWoman take an Uber home from your boo’s apartment.
Particularly those that end with something something “and a red lip!”
It’s like DUH you need a white t-shirt and jeans. HOW THOUGHT PROVOKING. But no, I do not need a trench coat. I hate trench coats. If it’s raining I will just use an umbrella and wear some inappropriate footwear and be sure to complain all day that I am soaking wet. But I will not wear a dumb trench coat.
Also blazers. Blazers look so dumb on me. And I’m not the only one. But everyday people go traipsing around wearing blazers because for the past 100 years magazines have been telling us, “Every woman simply must have a black blazer in her closet! It’s the ’90s, Bill!” Stop wearing blazers just because you think you should. You’re probably picking one that doesn’t fit properly and giving yourself robot arms.
If you Google image search “wardrobe basics" (which I advise against because you’ll likely die of BOREDOM), you’ll be bombarded with a thousands of sensible trousers, ugly pumps, and about a million sheath dresses. I am here to argue a woman could live a very full life and never have to waddle around in an a-line skirt.
Wear whatever your heart tells you and makes yo body feel good inside. Except maybe these.
I like to think I invented the thing of snapbreaks, but honestly we live in such a rotten world (CONGRESS! Am I right!?) that likely people are getting dumped every day on Snapchat.
Well if you’re one of these savages, then boy did your life just get awesome! With the recent launch of Snapchat Stories, you can bring your boo-thing to a screeching halt, AND all your friends can be witness to the disaster for 24 hours!
Like maybe you snapbreaked your boo, but he was drunk when he opened it. So he woke up the next morning oblivious to the fact that he’d been snapped to the curb. Maybe he texts you and asks for brunch. “NOOOO,” you think. “I thought this break was supposed to be a snap!” Now with Stories, your boo can’t blame the booze because your snapbreak will be there the next morning, taunting him and letting your friends know the good news. Honestly, this is an improvement, I think. Think of all the “Yeah, I ended things with Bradley…” texts you’ll save!
Apologies for the two days in a row of snap selfies.
If there is one thing I hate, it’s eyeliner without mascara. If there’s another thing I hate, it’s when boys say something something, “I got scared.”
You know… you’re dating a boy and things are pretty good and you’re doing a bunch of boo-loving and SDOAs, etc., etc. Then one day he freaks out and falls of the face of the earth. Why, he tells you?
"I got scared."
Scared of what, you idiot boy?!
Being scared is when a robber comes in your home in the middle of the night and points a gun at you and steals your Roku and 3D TV. Scared is when a crazy man on the subway nearly pushes you onto the platform. Scared is closing your eyes in the shower and when you open them a bug has appeared out of nowhere.
Scared is NOT when someone tries to have a meaningful relationship with you and shower you with affection and treats and time and sex and dinner and drinks and attention.
What you’re actually feeling is a classic case of the I-want-to-sleep-with-lots-of-people-who-aren’t-you. Or perhaps the common I-still-kind-of-have-a-thing-with-my-ex-going-on. Or maybe even the crowd favorite I-hate-commitment.
Whatever you got going on, boo, it’s not fear.
Grow up and learn how to use your big boy words, ya dummy.