New Year’s Resolutions

Ten percent of all New Year’s Resolutions fail, according to some magazine I recently leafed through. New Year’s Resolutions are like trendy clothes–you’re crazy about them at first, start to get a little tired and bored of them, and finally, you ditch them. Let’s face it, challenging yourself to start the Insanity workout the day after the year’s biggest binge-drinking fest is not exactly a stellar idea.

Which is why you should just resolve to do easy stuff! Exercising, diets, doing that whole no-shampoo hair thing–these are all great, but they’re lifestyle changes, and they need to be contingent upon a real desire to change, not a drunken promise you made on December 31st. In my humble opinion, New Year’s Resolutions should be fun. Now, I personally don’t make any, because I’m not a nerd, but if that’s your thing, I’ve compiled a few you might try. Ditch your new gym membership, put down that lean salmon, and listen up.

New Year’s Resolutions Anyone Can Actually Stick To!

  1. Try a new hairstyle once every week. All year. It’s going to be hilarious (after the usuals, you’re going to have to get creative–hope you look good in cornrows!) and a great excuse to spend tons of money on hair products.
  2. Invent your own signature cocktail (and then teach it to the bartenders every time you go out). When the “[Your Name Here]” becomes a thing, and all the sorority girls are ordering it at the pub, you’ll thank me.
  3. Get a pet. Animals are extremely funny and do weird, entertaining things all the time. If you hate animals, get a cat–they’ll hate you too, and they’ll still be entertaining!
  4. Learn a stupid skill that will get you laid. You know what drunk people love? Stupid tricks. Not everyone can do a cartwheel or spit sunflower seeds into a shot glass–these are life skills! 2013 is your year, baby.
  5. Eat a food you’ve never tried every month, for all 12 of ’em. And I mean never. Here comes uglyfruit, zebra meat, and caviar (for those with a previously unsophisticated palette). You’re welcome!

Ok, go!

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Hostess With the Mostess

Okay, considering that the holiday party season is in full-on swing, I’m here to help (as always). So I present to you…

The WildHearts Guide to Entertaining: How to Be the Host(ess) with the Most(ess)

  1. Stock up. A good host/hostess has enough of everything. And I mean everything–yes, Mr. or Mrs. Mostess should ensure everyone’s cocktail glasses remain filled and the h’orderves are a-plenty, but that’s not all a good host thinks of. Band-aids for the clumsy guest who manages to slice herself with the cheese knife. Vicodin for your friend with anxiety issues (or yourself–parties get stressful, and no one likes a snappy host). Extra toilet paper and tampons hidden discreetly in reachable tins in the bathroom–trust me, no one wants to ask for that accouterment, and they will root around in your stuff.
  2. Be flexible. Your best friend shows up with her gross, loud boyfriend? Greet him with grace. A snooty vegan refuses to eat the vegetarian options you thoughtfully prepared (see Rule 1)? Offer to run down to the corner store and grab that bitch some lettuce. Your power goes out? Why, a candlelit dinner would be ever so fun! No matter what catastrophes threaten to ruin your big night, you are the best host ever, damn it, and your feathers won’t ruffle.
  3. Look stunning. I don’t care if it’s a casual margarita night (although, come on, it’s Christmas or Chanukah or Kwanza–pizzazz your get-together up a little). No one wants to go to your house to find you still wearing the outfit you tossed on to clean the house–a good party should appear effortless. Your sweaty gym-bun and flour-dusted sweatpants are just a gross reminder of how much work you put into your fiesta, and then everyone feels guilty and weird and over-compliments your canapés.
  4. Make plans (but don’t be afraid to break them–see Rule 2). Now, most people are content with sitting around in your pretty house and drinking, but sometimes a little more effort is required. Maybe you’re having a weird mix of guests who don’t know each other well enough to dive right into dinner-and-drinks chitchat, or maybe your friends just suck. Either way, if you’re afraid your party is going to fall apart like a badly-baked souffle, you need some backup plans. We’re adults here–Twister is not an option. But nobody said you had to leave drinking games at college–card games are a classy means of getting your guests wasted, and no one will be bored.
  5. Outsource. If you want to do everything yourself, fine. There is nothing wrong with that. Make sure you get extra of everything, clean your house like a madman, and have a fabulous outfit hanging on the back of your closet to pop into. But if the host task seems a little daunting, well, that’s only because it is. And the bigger the party, the more stressful your Lone Ranger routine becomes. So outsource! Caterers are by far the most helpful resource–mmm, delicious food that you slide into homey-looking pans so it looks like you did all the work, et voila! But if you’re really lazy, a maid can come in handy, and you can even hire sous chefs or servers to make yourself look like Donald Trump (with better hair, let’s hope).

So, that’s it! Now you can host a great party in 5 not-so-simple steps! I could drone on about location and presentation and why trying to make everyone lobster solo is sure to be a tragic failure, but really, I have better things to do. And for those of you who aren’t having a bash this year: here’s how to be the perfect guest! Arrive a little late, look great, pretend you love everything even if you don’t, try not to incite any arguments, play your host’s childish game of Kings, and above all, look like you’re having fun.

Saturday Thoughts

Kevin Spacey looks like he rapes people. But in a kind of sexy way. Maybe.

I’m attracted to old guys. Like really attracted, and I don’t even have daddy issues. I dated my high school teacher after I graduated–I met him by grabbing a book he was reading at his desk out of his hands and going to read it, then bringing it back and making fun of him for a dirty poem about a mountain that was in it. When we got together like four years later, he admitted he wanted me as bad as I had wanted him the whole time. Lolita problems?

Whenever I lie facedown on my bed, I bounce my booty. Like I’m doing right now. It’s weird but I kind of hope it’s accidentally toning my butt or something.

I just watched the entire 2011 Victoria’s Secret fashion show and Nicki Minaj looked so fat and short compared to the models she was performing next to, and she looked kinda pissed about it. She’s also a really, really bad lipsyncer.

Chipmunks should be household pets! They’re cute and I wanna see one in a hamster rolly-ball.

I secretly dislike girls who don’t know how to wear makeup and think it’s funny. You are a LADY. Your looks are a part of life, which is short. Why not enjoy them? Plus it’s so dykey to be hold up a tube of mascara and whine, “Where does thiiiiiis go?”

I was just about to type that I’ve never had sex on a washing machine, and then realized I totally have–and some dryers, too. Funny how quickly you forget your exes.

And th-th-that’s all for my random Saturday thoughts, folks! Nope, not thinking anymore on this day!

Why Kids Suck

Okay, let me preface this by saying I love kids, which might seem totally at odds with the title of this post. What I mean is, having kids sucks. Kids, themselves, the actual human units known as “children,” are pretty great. They’re cute and they say stupid hilarious things and they’re more honest than any adults I’ve ever met (for better or worse).

BUT. But but but but but. Kids who aren’t just human units and happen to be your human units, whole people for whose lives you are entirely responsible, suck. And I know that they are miracles, and they allegedly turn one into a giant love-machine, and “you don’t even know yourself until you have a child,” and blah blah blah.

That’s all great, but I would rather just not know myself if I have to have a child to do it. For people who want kids, that’s great. But for people who don’t, child-havers, please stop judging us as sub-par humans ’cause we’re just not into it. There are plenty of reasons to have a kid, apparently (I’m pretty sure I’m missing any and all maternal/desire-to-carry-on-the-human-race genes), but all I see are reasons to not have a kid. Such as:

  1. They are a 24/7 job. You can’t just shove them away and say, “Well, fuuuuuck this! I’ve had enough of screaming and puking and pooping, and I just want to relax.” You can’t just not take them to school, and listen to their horrible teenage attitudes, and suffer through their ridiculous girlfriend/boyfriend choices. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, you are saddled with responsibility that you can never, ever shake, unless Child Protective Services gets involved.
  2. They are expeeeeensive. Money money monn-ay…all gone.
  3. They ruin your body. (Men, fuck you.) They rip up your lady parts, make your flat stomach scarred and saggy, drag your boobs to the floor (haha I typo’d that as “boops” at first…can that be new slang?), etc. You can always tell a mom from a non-mom unless they had that sucker when they were 15 and bounced back like a rubber band.
  4. They never care about you as much as you care about them. Sure, they love you as much, but they don’t worry about you every second of every day and think about your well-being all the time and how their everylittledecision might affect you. That kind of sounds like having a boyfriend who’s just not that into you, except you can never break up.
  5. If you fuck them up, you fuck. Them. Up. They will be in therapy forever, crying into a couch cushion, just because you scared them with a Bobo doll or had a fight in front of them. They’re like little sponges that you have to squeeze ever-so-gently, or you’ll leave them dried up and bent out of shape forever. (Damn, I’m proud of that analogy.)

And those are just the negative reasons! The positive reasons go on and on and on:

  1. Hot young body for years longer!
  2. Tons of extra money to spend on yourself! Trips, clothes, wine, cars, trips!
  3. No one to look after–more alone time!
  4. More sex!
  5. More drinking!
  6. More motivation to take up a cool hobby when you’re older–salsa dancing? Pottery? Windsurfing?
  7. More of ANY-FUCKING-THING YOU WANT, BECAUSE IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU!

That’s the general idea, you see. The all time, number-one reason I don’t want kids is because I am selfish. To have a child, you give up a huge part of yourself, a huge piece of your life, and a world of possibility you might never get back. It’s the most selfless thing you could ever do…and, ladies and gentleman, I applaud you. And I’ll keep on applauding you when I’m 35, sitting in a comfy living room painting my nails and admiring my new expensive clothes, with not a binky or a bottle in sight. Cheers!

A Work of Living

Jobs are a bleak dreary horrible thing. If you are some kind of freak who likes their job, then you can just go sit in the corner with some construction paper and scissors and cut yourself some confetti. Otherwise, you are probably a normal person who wants to die for 8 hours a day.

Cats make the wanting-to-die thing a little better.

Do you know that movie The Island, where everyone lives on a secret hippie commune island and they all pitch in for food and shelter and get to live in a beautiful paradise together? That is what life should be. Instead, people work all day to survive, but they are wasting their lives at work. It’s a paradox, or a circle, or something smart-sounding: you work to make money –> you make money to enjoy life –> you can’t enjoy life because you’re working.

But what if you could have any job ever? What would you be? I never really gave this any thought because the obvious answer is “independently wealthy.” I am not at all ashamed to admit that I would gladly sit around and shop and drink tea and travel to exotic places and do nothing of value to society if I had the G’s. But if I had to have a dream job not titled “rich bitch,” I’ve figured out what I would be.

  1. A stylist. You get to shop for a living. And hang out with celebrities. And if you hated them and they were obnoxious and self-absorbed, you could put them in something hideous and call it “cutting edge.”
  2. A magazine editor. You get to put together a book full of shopping ideas. Plus, you get to make Anne Hathaway do your bidding, and I don’t care for her so I would make her do stupid things like fetch me lattes whilst on a unicycle.
  3. A museum curator. You get to shop for art for a living. And, you can help up-and-coming artists become the next Andy Warhol but less creepy and rude.
  4. An artist. I can’t think of a quip for this one because I would absolutely love making art for a living.
  5. A blogger, which if you get paid for it, is just like being independently wealthy while taking lots of pictures. (Hey there WordPress, wanna pay me?)

Rich and famous people always say you should “be what you love” and all that shit, and I am for chasing your dreams like a My Pretty Pony prancing through a field of daises, but in my opinion that only applies if you love garbage removal or difficult math. “I love to shop” doesn’t exactly translate into a stellar job.

So, the best I can hope for is the zombie apocalypse (totally not influenced by The Walking Dead playing in the background right now) so that I can steal all the clothes I want from abandoned malls and then go live in some former stylist’s mansion.

Wow, They Really Straightened Up the Place

Last night, I went dancing at a fine establishment known as a gay bar. Now, for any girl who likes to dance and doesn’t like 400 horny guys trying to rub their dicks on her, a gay bar has always been the perfect solution (gay girls are a lot less pushy than straight dudes). You get to dress up, break it down, and have fun with your friends without having boners shoved everywhere.

Or so I thought, because apparently, some giant asshole TOLD STRAIGHT GUYS. Yeah, that’s right. Some giant douche decided to spill the beans and whisper, “Psst! Pass it on! Tons of straight girls go to gay clubs–it’s the perfect place to meet the ladies!”

I mean, clearly, if I am a straight girl at a club with rainbow flags everywhere and bouncers who look like they just walked off a gay bondage porno, I am there for a reason. And the reason is not that I love listening to gay icons blare through speakers at 5,000,000 decibels. The reason is that I want to dance all night without having to awkwardly reject people. Nothing against guys who mack on girls at clubs–I mean, it’s a club. That’s like going to an opium den and being like, “God, what a bunch of drug addicts!” But come on! Sometimes, I just want to dance like a slut for me, you know?

Instead, I was assaulted last night by 387 straight dudes asking me to dance and following me around the club and totally trying to rub their creepy penises on me. And I’m not a bitch–I didn’t say, “Fuck you,” I said, “No, but why don’t you dance with all of us?” and gestured to my lovely friends. At which point the straight-man infiltrator would then proceed to shake his head to that request and then superglue his crotch to my butt.

This happened the entire night, including guys who just kept. Coming. Back. I would let them do their exciting little boner grindy dance for about two seconds, and then very smoothy lift their hands over our head and twirl around so we were all dancing together. Which worked for a while, until the Ted lookalike (of How I Met Your Mother fame). But I’m pretty sure he was gay (maybe? Do gay guys get boners when they dance with girls, because that was not a wallet pressing on my ass), so I just went with it.

On one hand, I can’t complain. They were all actually totally decent-looking, and three of them could even be classified as something approaching “hot.” And they were all, with the exception of a seriously misguided lil’ dude, taller than me. On the other hand–listen, dolls, if I was single, I would rub against you like a kitty cat and then do something a little naughty outside the club, BUT I’M NOT. So go back to a straight bar where one of the girls you dance with might actually sleep with you (but she probably won’t).

Shoes That You Could Wear Instead of Uggs

It’s winter. Your poor little feet are cold, and you want some adorable boots that go with everything. There’s snow on the ground, and you need to buy some shoes, stat. So what do you do? You snatch your mom’s credit card, bop on down to the Ugg Emporium, and spend $150 on these things.

Now, there are worse shoes. Crocs, for example. Or those boots made out of denim that JLo used to wear back when she was Jenny. Uggs are actually kind of adorable, like little fluffy puppies you shove your feet into, only without the animal abuse. (Unless you count all the dead sheep used to make le Uggs.)

This might be abuse-ish if no one takes down their laundry, but awwww!

But. $150? $150?!!?!? I have a friend who owns about ten pairs of the things, and you aren’t supposed to get them wet, apparently, because it ruins the outside (unless you buy their $20 Care Kit!). She said hers came also with a slip that told her not to wear them with socks, because it’ll wear out the fluffiness of the inside. So, in summary, Uggs are $150-$350 winter boots that you can’t get wet or wear with socks?

WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY. Why. I don’t understand. They are casual and comfortable and you just plop your tootsies in there and go, and the colors are nice, and from what I understand they’re fairly well made. These things all make sense. But there are so many better options! If I’m going to spend $150 on shoes, I’m going to spend them on shoes that don’t look like a 5-year-old girl’s galoshes.

Here are some great alternatives to making your feet look like fat sheepskin pillows buying Uggs: these Steven Madden boots ($150), these gorgeous heeled ones from Mod Cloth (only $50!), these classy J. Crew boots ($350), these two-toned platforms from Clark’s ($210), or these Guess boots ($105).

Pick any of them! Just, for the love of God, if you’re going to spend some people’s weekly paycheck on shoes, at least make them beautiful boots that will make you look sophisticated and sexy, instead of I’m-a-fashionless-drone-whose-Uggs-perfectly-match-my-ripped-Abercrombie-jeans-and-hoodie!

See, Sophia Loren can rock a pair of boots.

 

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