Almie Rose is a writer from Los Angeles. She has a blog, Apocalypstick. In addition to Dating & Hookup she also writes for Hello Giggles, The Frisky, Thought Catalog, and Genlux Magazine. Her book, I Forgot To Be Famous, is out now. You can follow her on twitter @apocalypstick. Her favorite pastime is eating and drinking and sleeping and then eating again.
Found this photo with this description, ‘Actress Salma Hayek showing off butterfly tattoo on her back at MTV Video Music Awards.’ That is choice vintage ’90s right there.
I’ve been considering a tattoo and thus have been researching everything I can about it, having graduated from the Rory Gilmore School of Thought. This is how I found the tattoo blog Angry Ink and the post, “The Four Tattoos You Need To Stop Getting Right Now.”
Well this should be fun! I settled in to read it, but for a guy all about aesthetics, his blog is hard to read. The kerning is warped, which drove me mad, but okay, let’s try and move past it. Then I read this:
Mostly, and I hate to be selective, this list is aimed more at the ladies than the menfolk. I hate to be selective, but, girls, you are the worst offenders.
Oh. Okay. I mean clearly, he really hates to be selective but he’s going to be selective (because this isn’t selective).
I can almost guess which of these images you’re about to show me when you pull out your pink, blingy iPhone and start scrolling through the images. And I wait and wait as your squared-off plastic french manicure thumbnail taps the screen repepatedly while you search through all the duckface pics you made in the ladies’ room at Chipotle.
What a lovely generalization.
I have a feeling that what I am going to say is going to piss a few people off, so I may as well not mince words and just be blunt: if you do not give everyone invited to your wedding a plus one, you are a total fucking asshole.
Whoa, right! “How dare you, whatever the fuck your name is! [It's Almie.] Fuck you! Do you have any idea how expensive weddings are?”
I do. I read wedding blogs like it’s my job, and it’s not my job, so it’s actually a little sad. A lot of people, rightfully appalled by how much weddings cost, especially in this economy, are doing a lot of DIY. If you don’t want to do that, then maybe try not buying a thousand dollar wedding dress. Seriously, what the fuck is that? By all means, I love fashion and expensive things, so if you want to spend your own money on that, that’s fine, but don’t get all surprised when you realize your wedding bill is adding up faster than the Sesame Street Count.
I have a confession. I am one of those people who drunk texts. And by “drunk” I also mean “lonely.” And “sorrowful.” And “pitiful.” And “bored.” And “on lots of pills.” I am feeling one or more or all of these emotions before I attack my friends with texts. Please tell me I’m not the only one.
Aside from the crazy texting, I’m a good friend. I like to help my friends. If there’s anything I can do for a friend I’ll do it. Want me to read your screenplay? I know shit about screenwriting, but sure! Want to meet up and talk about boys or girls and how they hurt you? I am so happy to. And if you’re struggling or even just casually looking for work, if I know someone who can hook you up, I will introduce you. So surely that’s worth the price of being my friend, right?
Texting in the 1940′s, or as they referred to it, “calling someone.”
I don’t intend to wake you at 3 AM asking you, “Why do I keep getting friendzoned?” I don’t write it in my planner. It just happens. And yeah, I definitely took things too far when I told you, “I hope you die and I hope your cat is raped in the worst possible way.” As if there’s varying degrees of cat rape. And yes, reading that, that is a horrible thing to say to someone. I didn’t mean it that way. Even when I added, “No, seriously, I really hope you die” I still didn’t mean it. I’m like Judy Garland except for the whole being famous and having talent thing. So I guess what I mean is that I am also a loud, short, dramatic woman who wears red lipstick.
Texting is a great thing and a horrible thing, and I know this isn’t news to anyone, but sometimes you look back the next day at what you texted and it’s just shocking and shameful. It’s like, how am I allowed to have access to
Hillary Clinton could kick my ass and I’m not even ashamed. I’m honored. Clinton is 65 years old and yet possesses more stamina than I have and I am in my mid 20′s. And I ain’t even mad. According to this article by The New York Times, Clinton was, ”over the past four years, on the road for 401 days and spent the equivalent of 87 full days on a plane.” And I freak out when I have to drive to Santa Monica.
How the hell does she do it? Especially having to deal with rumors that she is going blind and that she is “giving Bill a heart attack.” (I’m not even going to link to that statement, just Google her name and one of the things you’ll find at the top are stories of her being a shrew.) She has that resolute image of her in sunglasses staring at her mobile phone with a look of utter, “I can’t fucking deal with this shit, I have important shit to deal with.” I hear a rumor that someone thinks I’m fat on the Internet and I think, “WAIT EVERYTHING MUST STOP SO I CAN COMMENT ON THIS.”
How does she do it? That’s one of the phrases women are always asked, isn’t it? From moms to politicians, they’re all asked, “My gosh, how do you do it?” And in a way it sounds condescending. But I don’t mean it to be. It is a genuine question on my part. With so much to do and so many places to be, how does she actually do it? I want to believe that there is some secret formula for success and productivity that she has and I don’t. I have a feeling that the answer isn’t anything new. I have a feeling that the answer is, “I just fucking do it because I have no other option. Because I love and respect my job and the people I work for. Because I care.”
When men say that they like, “a woman with curves” what they mean is chest curves and ass curves. They don’t mean, “Yes, please have a little tummy that spills over the top of your underwear.” They mean, “I love big boobs.” They don’t mean, “Girl, I love it when you gain 10 pounds and look 5 months pregnant.” (Well, some men want that, but those are not the men I’m referring to. That’s a festish, not the norm.) They mean, “I don’t like a flat nonexistent ass” not “I love it when your thighs ripple and wobble when you walk.” Curvy means a large chest and a tiny waist and a rounded butt. Curvy does not mean a curved lower tummy and armpit fat. Next time you hear a man say he likes a woman with curves, ask him for an example. He’s going to say Kate Upton, not Melissa McCarthy. And I hate that.
There’s so much bullshit out there. Everyone loves to say, “Marilyn Monroe was a size 16.” Yes, that’s in 1960s sizing which has changed over the last 40 years. Today she would be a size 4. Have you seen that girl’s tiny waist? And as she got more famous, she lost more weight. (She briefly gained some when she was pregnant in “Some Like It Hot” but then miscarried.) Look at every film she’s ever done and you will realize that everyone is full of bullshit. She was the “right” kind of curvy. That’s just how sizes were marked. Then vanity sizing was invented creating a generation of confused fucking women.
“Oma” is what my brother and I called our mom’s mom. I think it’s German. Could be Yiddish. And my Oma was a tiny little force of badassery. Growing up in Germany she had to flee when Nazis invaded and were total dicks. She got married at 18 and had my mom at 19. She was married 3 times. On her third wedding, in what I can only hope was with a jolly attitude of pure, “Fuck it” instead of wearing a wedding gown, she wore a T-shirt that said, “BRIDE” and had tees made that said “GROOM”, “BEST MAN”, “MAID OF HONOR,” and “BRIDESMAID.” She reminded me a lot of Lucille Ball. It was the voice, the sense of humor, and the attitude. Simply put, she didn’t put up with any guff and she didn’t fuck around. Here’s three pieces of advice she passed down.
ON SMOKING: “Michelle. If you’re gonna smoke, smoke right” she said to my mom, relenting and buying her a silver cigarette case engraved with an “M” for her birthday. (It was the ’70s! They had smoking sections in high schools!)
Kate Middleton’s official royal portrait was unveiled to the world and was met with pure snarkiness. Uproxx labeled it “unfortunate.” Jezebel titled their article, “Do You Think Kate Middleton Cried After Seeing Her Official Portrait?” (You know I love you, Jezebel, but that bummed me out. Are you really tearing down women for how they look? Why?) BlackBook magazine called it, “terrifying.” What the hell?
I think that at this point, we’re so used to seeing overly photoshopped images, the kind where actresses are so digitally altered that they look like mannequins sliding into the Uncanny Valley, that Middleton’s painting came as a shock. I hate to describe Middleton as brave, because it’s pathetic that showing famous women with wrinkles and minor flaws is a brave thing to do, but she is.
People love to declare that romance is dead. I don’t think it is. I think it’s alive. It’s just changed. Instead of taking someone to the sock hop and giving them your pin, you declare that you’re “in a relationship” on Facebook and surprise them with a Starbucks latte. Maybe I have low standards for romance though. If you don’t believe that romance still exists then google “wedding blogs” and come face to face with smiling young couples wearing fake mustaches in their wedding photos and take your cynicism elsewhere.
I demand a new law for attractive people: if you are attractive, and you are alone, and someone comes up to you and starts talking to you, and it gets past the polite conversation stage, it is your obligation to stop and say, in a truly friendly manner, “I have a boyfriend/girlfriend.” I just think that this makes sense.
Yes, it is also annoying to speak to someone at a bar or party or zoo to have them say, 45 seconds into the conversation, “I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND.” But it’s even worse to talk to them for 45 minutes without knowing. 45 minutes is an exagerration. 5 minutes. 5 minutes is insane. Think about how long 5 minutes is. That gives you enough time to listen to all of “Call Me Maybe” and then blow a monkey. If you’re into that. I don’t give a fuck. Just tell me that you and the monkey are involved before it gets anywhere.
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