Romantic Comedies Starring Blonde Women Or Generic Colloquial Sayings?

1. That Over There

2. If It Is

3. Rumor Has It

4. Love Happens

5. Ah-Ha!

6. Sorta Like That

7. Huh?

8. Just Go With It

9. That’s That!

10. Life As We Know It

11. One For The Money

12. That Over There

13. Lucky You

14. It’s A Thing

15. Everybody’s Fine

Answers:
Romantic Comedies Starring Blonde Women: 3, 4, 8, 10, 11, 13, 15
Generic Colloquial Sayings: 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 9, 12, 14

Common Stages Of A Young Affluent White Person’s First Year In New York City

 

  • You buy your first hammer to put together a shelf for your Blu-rays.
  • You are impressed with the ethnic cuisine that was delivered to your start-up for lunch.
  • You make a joke on social media about how your life resembles one of the following fictional characters: Carrie Bradshaw, Jamie Conway, Hannah Horvath, Andy Sachs, Holden Caulfield, Millie Dillmount, Sal Paradise, Ruth Sherwood, Eileen Sherwood, Nick Carraway, Holly Golightly, all of the above.
  • A person who has lived in New York City exactly three months longer than you condescends to you about all the big city offer and how much learning is in store for you.
  • Heavy sighs produced from the current WiFi availability situations increase 400%.
  • A person you hate gets on a house team at an improv theatre.
  • You discuss Serial in an attempt to bond with a new co-worker.
  • You give money to a homeless person singing on the subway and post on social media about how it contributed to your “perfect day exploring!!!!”
  • You pretend that college was far more meaningful an experience for you than it was.
  • You carefully conclude that it will be a good idea to wear a shirt that has a classic book cover image on it.
  • FOOD TRUCK FESTIVAL!!!!!!!!!!
  • You make a joke about how you hate Times Square even though being there secretly fills you with raw childhood glee.
  • You write about it.

Other Aspects of Her Life That Sarah Palin Blames Barack Obama For

Goddammit. My phone battery shows 15% and then just DIES? I swear, it happens every time. It’s no coincidence, ladies and gentlemen. My handy iPhone 6S right here arrived to my doorstep already damaged. Damaged not by the folks at Apple – no, no. This goes all the way to the top. The phones are being boxed up and shipped to us by workers in foreign countries. These people don’t know American values and they don’t know how our high-end technology needs to be treated. Our current liberal government has done quite the piss-poor job of keeping industries in America. If my phone had been made right here on our home soil, it would have a chance a better battery life. But Barack didn’t give it that chance.

I guess I have to address the elephant in the room. I won’t shy away from the fact that my flight here was delayed today. Those extra 45 minutes on the ground were really necessary, huh, JetBlue? I think we need to address the real problem. Healthcare reform has given medical attention to lower-middle class families everywhere. Now they’re well and free to be out and about, traveling all over the place, and weighing down our planes! I can’t help but believe to my core that planes would have less problems if the poor weren’t joining us on our flights. I would have been here on time today if it weren’t for the man in the White House right now.

I always get an everything bagel with butter in the morning. I get it toasted. This morning, it was a soggy, floppy, buttery mess. Not toasted. I could tell the new employee behind the counter had barely listened to my order. Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen. This is the product of a Congress divided. If the young man behind the counter hadn’t been inundated with that hope-y change-y stuff over the past 8 years, we would have a very different situation right now. This young man would not have delusionally believed in himself and majored in art history at Vassar, and he would not be bitterly doing his post-college part-time survival job so poorly. I would have a correctly toasted bagel in my stomach right now if it weren’t for this current administration!

Is it just me, or did it take far too long for winter to come this time around?! Now, let’s not forget that the man at the top is from Hawaii. Yeah, that’s right. He probably loves this topsy-turvy nature hullabaloo. Let’s just say that things would be a little different if a Republican was in the White House, and if I didn’t ruin John McCain’s entire political credibility eight years ago. Drill, baby, drill!

New Nobel Peace Prize Categories

That I deserve to win.

Giving Guys The Out On Cancelling Plans

Enjoying Guy’s American Kitchen And Not Being Ironic About It

Uncrossing My Legs On The Subway When My Foot Is In People’s Way

Fake Laughing At Harmless Yet Impossibly Stupid Bros Quoting Parks & Recreation

Not Screaming At Rich People

Letting The Gchat Sit There For A While

Keeping Thought Pieces In My “Draft” Folder

“Liking” Your Embarrassing Headshot

Not Mentioning The Mutual Friends’ Hookup Even Though It’s All Anybody Can Think About

Nodding And Smiling At Old Racist People Who Mean Well

Not Burning Down The Laundromat At Sunday At 1PM

Remaining In Contact With You Even Though You Once Used The Word “Flippant” In Earnest

Not Blowing Guys When They’re Vulnerable To Make Them Confused About Our Friendship

Seamless Meal Additions

Qty – 1 – Grilled American Cheese Sandwich

Meal Additions (*Optional – Select as many as you like)

* _ Another pair of hands. Ones who won’t text him eight times in a row.

* _ 2 Liter Pepsi

* _ The Pet Edition of Resolve carpet cleaner. It’s the only kind that will get vomit out of the carpet next to your bed.

* _ The capability to feel shame or embarrassment at work functions involving alcohol.

* _ Mozzarella Sticks

Qty – 1 – Chicken Caesar Wrap

Meal Additions (*Optional – Select as many as you like)

* _ Garlic Knots

* _ The sensation of male approval.

* _ Gatorade (Call the restaurant for flavor options!)

Qty – 1 – Martha’s Panini

Meal Additions (*Optional – Select as many as you like)

* _ New York Cheesecake

* _ Getting invited to those things that you see people doing on Instagram.

* _ A depressant that doesn’t make you send sexually aggressive Facebook messages.

* _ Mozzarella Sticks

* _ A guy to cuddle and play video games with. (Call the restaurant for flavor options!)

I’m Not Here For My Daughter. I’m Here To Watch Melinda Fucking Destroy This Jazz Recital

I am a 44-year-old woman, and not much excites me anymore. I like it when they get into fights on The View and I have re-read the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy six times. My day is taking the girls to school, then Lindsey to dance practice, and making food for the household. I get it, I chose this life.

But this is the winter jazz dance recital. It comes once a year. So if you could get your camcorder out of my view, Janice, I would really appreciate it. Because this is my inspiration. I’m ready to be floored.

No, I’m not here for my daughter. I’m here to watch Melinda fucking destroy this jazz recital.

Melinda D. is a nine-year-old dance powerhouse and veritable force in the entertainment industry of Overland Park, Kansas. Her confidence gets me through my worst days. The days when I can’t bring myself to write another diary entry (that will hopefully turn into my memoir! Or a blog maybe.), or when Idina’s ballads just aren’t doing it for me anymore (she, like, got divorced! We can all fall.), Melinda’s kick-twirl -touch combo from the Spring ’12 recital flashes before me, and I feel like a woman again. A strong woman. Who can do things. Who can change things. I have power.

Melinda is my Oprah.

When I took my nine-year-old daughter, Lindsey, to Sue’s Dance Studio in the strip mall for her first modern jazz dance lessons, I had no idea what sort of wake-up call that I was in store for.

My life is fine. It’s normal. It’s better than living alone. But Jesus Christ, I just need some inspiration to get through the day! I’ve never felt so empowered as a female creature than when Melinda steps out in her Capezios onto the stage to that song from Hairspray. She performs as if she’s been through some shit.

Melinda is my Beyonce.

Yes, my daughter, Lindsey, is in the mix up there somewhere on stage, but Melinda has something. The “it” factor. An unexplainable confidence that reminds me that feminism is alive and well. I bet she goes home and fucking writes. I bet she shows the other girls at school who the fuck she is and that they better follow or die. Did you see her unitard after practice last week? IT WAS YELLOW. No one can pull off yellow. She walked around like she didn’t give a shit. I want that.

Lindsey is kind of good at math.

Mr. Clark, if you could please move one seat or two over, so that your head does not obstruct my view of Melinda’s solo finale number in the cafetorium, I would REALLY appreciate it. No, that’s not mine up there. But look at that hair. Look at that essence. Just let her fucking destroy “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” with her jazz leaps and then you can move back in front of me.

I’m not here for my daughter. Tell her I’ll be outside warming up the car. I am fulfilled.

I’m good.

I Am Thinking About Doing A Cartwheel At This Office Happy Hour

My boss laughs with me and we clink beer glasses. All walls of superiority are broken down and my brain is buzzing with a defiant confidence that only $3 Coors Light pitcher beer at the bar across the street from our office building at 6PM on a Tuesday can offer. I don’t think the people here quite know my fun side.

I am thinking about doing a cartwheel at this office happy hour.

Sure, we put our heads down all day and run this toiletry marketing company effectively. We make decent salaries and do a damn good job of getting hair gel out there in front of the people. But do they ever get to see me as myself? No, not as the print copy queen or as the one who always gets the breakroom cakes secretly ready for birthdays. As the real me. As the kind of woman who had some light dance experience from being Lily St. Regis in “Annie” in high school. As the kind of woman who  enjoys attention from people who I must present an impressive version of myself to on a daily basis. As a woman who has read far, far too many self-help books and inspirational blog posts about third-wave feminism. As a woman who tweets about “sometimes just taking chances<3”.

I should totally do a cartwheel at this office happy hour.

“Swing, Swing, Swing” just started playing and Allan – the cute and confident guy from creative who is usually soft-spoken but really blossoms at happy hours – has been totally looking at me. He wants me to do something. He wants the unexpected. Oh, you’ll get it, Allan. You will get it.

I’m a star! I’m the center of this company! My 14-month tenure has really solidified my place as a social “queen bee”, if you will, of the team and they deserve some classic “me” action tonight! They all say hi to me when I walk in in the mornings. It’s like, guys, there’s one of this sassy, city lady to go around! Come on!

Oh God. Here it is. This is that moment they talk about in those Toni Morrison books. I have to do it. I am a heroine. I am here only this once. My mid-level career at a mid-level company marketing mid-level products is peaking right now, and goddammit, how else will I express it?!

Move that fucking chair, Shannon. Hold my shoes, Ellen.

Hey everybody. It’s me. It’s fucking ME.

Daily Routine

7:00am: Wake up, remember employment, sit in wonderment.

7:30am: Accept inevitability of roommates seeing you without bra, walk to bathroom.

8:15am: Ride subway. Contemplate infinite paradox of machines v. man v. time v. nature v. bystander phenomenon, eat bagel.

8:50am: Arrive at office, fill communal Keurig water, feel indebted by everyone rest of day.

11:00am: Plan passive-aggressive remarks to button emails.

1:00pm: Walk out into world, realize not much better than indoor world.

2:00pm: Return indoors, delude self.

6:00pm: Ride subway, reminded of poverty.

8:00pm: Dinner, feel guilt for not writing, watch movie.

11:00pm: Feel guilt for not writing, watch other movie. Sleep after listening to “Titanic” score on loop.

I Am The No-Reply Email Address

But I DO want people to reply. I just put up defenses.

I am lonely. And it’s hard for me to really be myself around people. Let my guard down, ya know?

So, here I am. I’m here to tell you that I never mean to offend. I’m just scared.

When my beckoning all-caps message to the world sits at the bottom of an email, warning intruders of the dangers of even thinking about replying, I am really screaming to be loved.

I am a misanthrope. There is nothing I want more than attention, and yet, I thwart the very possibility of it. MailChimp and ConstantContact inform me of my uselessness. I can never please them. Father is angry. Nobody knows what to make of me.

Sure, I get the word out. Sure, You see the message.

But do you see me?