I Can’t, Vol. 24

Forgive the very minimally belated content of this “I Can’t” post. You see, I wrote it Monday, fresh off the short-lasting high of the SAG awards and when my Facebook feed was blowing up with unavoidably conversation-starting content. But, for whatever reason, I post-poned it until now. You have to forgive me. YOU HAVE TO FORGIVE ME.

you-have-to-forgive-me-o

For my newer readers who may not be familiar with these special posts and even for the ones that are familiar, but maybe need a refresher just because, allow me to explain where my “I Can’ts” come from. 

You see, over the years, many on fleek phrases come and go (my only hope is that “on fleek” goes and never, ever comes back). Generation Y is just full of word-savvy individuals who are all about coining phrases to define our every mood, emotion, and reaction. But the best one – the one that won’t ever die because it never won’t pertain to everything ever – is “I can’t.” Or “I can’t even.” Or, to get super intense about it, “I literally can’t even” which leaves no room for question about the legitimacy about the statement.

What some of you may not know is that I COINED THE PHRASE IN COLLEGE. I have absolutely zero evidence of that declaration, but I know in my heart of hearts that I for sure originally uttered the phrase “I can’t” back in Lawrence, Kansas between the years of 2005-2009.

So, this past week, there were some things I couldn’t and that you probably can’t either.

I can’t…

with Carrie Fisher’s electroshock therapy induced introduction of her mother, Debbie Reynolds, at Sunday night’s SAGAwards. At one point, my boyfriend left and re-entered the room, screaming, “Is she still talking?!??” Princess Leia was Princess Maybe Let’s Sit This One Out, Ok?

rs_560x415-150125182826-1024.Debbie-Reynolds-Carrie-Fisher-SAG-Awards-Winner.ms.012515_copy

I can’t…

on that same note, with J. Aniston’s titties at said awards show. And yeah – I said titties. Because when you let them just sorta hang there like that, with no bra or support, that’s what they deserve to be called (I know — they’re still great boobs, I just know they can look better than this. I’m disappointed, really).

 250FA18900000578-2926150-image-m-45_1422262357145

I can’t…

handle the blogger that damned yoga pants to hell, claiming that as a good, Christian woman, she can’t have men checking out her ass and having “lustful” thoughts because of said yoga pants. I can’t so hard with this, that I’ll just quote my good friend’s husband on the subject:  “If you read the old testament, it clearly says that Adam at first refused to eat the apple, but then Eve put on yoga pants and thus we are forever cursed with original sin.”

enhanced-16790-1422292969-15

(click on her face to read the story)

I can’t…

with Tess Holiday, the size 22 model whose story of saying FUCK OFF I’M DOING ME to basically everyone ever and actually succeeding at it went viral yesterday via the internets. And I can’t for not the reason you’re probably assuming I can’t. I can’t because why does modeling have to be so extreme? It’s either impossibly insect-thin girls or extremely large, HEAR ME ROAR, “plus size” women. What about every other woman in between? You know, like, the majority of the female population? Show me a 5’4”, 140-pound girl showcasing some casual wear and looking impossibly adorable. Show me a 5’6″ gorgeous girl with a little bit of a tummy but killer boobs frolicking along the beach in an amazing bikini. SHOW ME SOMETHING I CAN RELATE TO. I WANT “AVERAGE.”

(click on her tattoo to read the story)

(click on her tattoo to read the story)

I can’t…

with this Kanye quote: “I saw this book from the 1800s and it was velvet-covered with brass and everything…I looked at all these people’s photos, and they look so real, and their outfits were incredible and they weren’t smiling. … When you see paintings in an old castle, people are not smiling cause it just wouldn’t look as cool…not smiling makes me smile.” Samesies, Yez. Because, I too, am a psycho with sociopathic tendencies. See how cool I look?

cool kanye

I can’t…

that one of my friends went to see Cabaret in NYC this week and Emma Stone just, like, wasn’t there that night. I mean, how dare she? My friend is a hilarious, beautiful gay man who deserves to see who he paid to see. Not some no-name understudy. I haven’t even said any of this to my friend yet — this is the first time he’ll be reading it (hi, Ben!). But, really. It upset me! Don’t be there any other night, but not on a night this innocent fawn bought tickets to enjoy your singing. I’m so sorry, little Benji.

I can’t…

stress enough how important the “Thug Life” video series is. If you aren’t familiar with it, please stop everything you’re doing, click here, and be entertained for a good two hours by sassy toddlers and perfect one-liners. This is, by far, the best animal one I’ve seen:

I can’t…

that I just came up with the best new term: EWTF. A super efficient way to say “GROSS, WHAT THE FUCK!” I didn’t even mean to. My fingers just slipped on the keyboard. Genius finds me — I don’t find it.

xox,

emma

Pin It
Share on Tumblr

Dove Loves Your Curls and You Should, Too.

Obviously as a gal with genetically out of control curly hair, I’ve seen and been told by a handful of people in the span of just this morning to watch Dove’s newest self-love campaign since it’s all about curls. And now? I’m going to push you to watch it because I’m a pusher. That’s what I do.

Not only that, but it’s mainly about instilling self-confidence in little girls about having “different” hair from a very young age, which no one can be mad at. I battled with my curls for a long time; my sister can also attest to how much we despised our curls. They made us feel goofy, weird, and not nearly as pretty as the straight-haired girls in school. Every morning, our poor mother would both willingly and begrudgingly slather and spray on gel and hairspray to the tops of our hair, creating a rock hard, hair helmet that could probably better serve our troops in war.

I struggled and struggled, finally giving into the warm comfort of a straightening iron come 7th grade. Of course, it took me about a solid half-hour every morning to deal with this process and the results left a lot to be desired, proven by my lack of any and all male attention once I hit puberty:

Screen Shot 2015-01-21 at 11.02.43 AM

I know. It’s horrible. But I didn’t know any better. I was lost when it came to my hair — battling my curls was impossible. WTF was I supposed to do with that mess? The only answer at the time was stripping it of its only unique feature by torturing my natural curls until they lay flat and frizzy against my skull. 

Then, the eve of my 8th grade graduation, I did something bad enough to piss my mom off to the extreme (literally can’t remember what it was — with me, it could’ve been an endless number of things). My punishment? NO STRAIGHTENER FOR GRADUATION. No, I’m not kidding. That was her punishment for me. Perhaps it was her plan all-along to get me to embrace my curls but guise it as pointless discipline. So, the night of my 8th grade graduation, there I sat, with a bushy, curly, confused ponytail:

Screen Shot 2015-01-21 at 11.23.07 AM

Hard to tell what with early 2000’s camera technology, but the curly pony was back there, in full-force, just behind my black choker, charm bracelet, and strapless (SCANDAL!) BP dress. But it was okay. It really was. I didn’t hate it as much as I thought I would; plus, my parent’s gave me the “Billy Elliot” DVD as a graduation present, so the night couldn’t’ve possibly gone better.

And after that, after the monumental moment of being prohibited from styling my hair the only way I had learned how, I began embracing my curls. It’s true — my mom’s twisted method really worked. Suddenly, I was experimenting with mousses and gels until I found creams and never looked back. Come high school, there were even days I felt really pretty when it came to my curls and had my dad take awkward pictures of me, using our lush greenery in the backyard as a #nofilter backdrop:

1928830_531458361189_6911_n

 

Once I passed that initial “what do I do with my hands/hair?” phase, I truly fell in love with my hair. Yes, every single day I have no idea what it’s going to do or look like. And yes, it causes me major anxiety around any sort of “event” (i.e. a wedding, a party, some sort of important function wherein pictures will be taken). But, besides all that, I love how unpredictable it is. I love how easy it is to “get ready” (apply leave-in conditioner, apply chosen hair cream, let dry, slap Moroccan Oil in to get crunch out. Party on, Garth). I love that it is capable of looking completely insane but somehow works. I’ve gotten totally used to it now and can’t imagine dealing with any other type of hair. And the best part? It’s a built-in accessory. No matter what else is going on with my face or outfit, I’ve got my hair. So that’s a win.

Now, watch Dove’s new “Love Your Curls” campaign and go spread the word of curls. 

 xox,

emma

Share on Tumblr

To All The Girls Who Just Love Shopping So F*cking Much

Ladies,

We have issues. Not you and me — you, me, and it. “It” being that special thing we all do almost every day in some form or fashion (pun definitely intended). That dirty little thing that makes us feel so good, so right, so whole.

Shopping.

Girls like us can’t get enough of it. And it doesn’t even have to be big ticket items and investments, because any shopaholic knows even the smallest purchase is capable of the strongest temporary high. When it comes to us, a day without some purchase of some small something is a bad day.

giphy

Time and time again, we’ve made resolutions and promises to pull back, save more, really question the pieces we buy and if they’re worth it. And some of those times, we’ve succeeded for a brief, surreal moment. We vowed to not buy one more thing until the 15th of the month, not even a soap refill for the kitchen sink since we can’t be trusted to not buy an adorable new soap dispenser along with it. We’ve punished ourselves over and over, trying to teach ourselves (and our poor, degraded bank accounts) a lesson. But none of it works, because the heart wants what the heart wants and our hearts want something every day, even if it’s a little something.

I’ve been addicted to shopping for a long time, and not officially addicted — not diagnosed addicted. It’s my own self-proclaimed, insatiable craving. It started in my childhood, flourishing into a hideous, uncontrollable monster by the time I was 15, working my first retail job at Nordstrom. Paycheck? What’s this “paycheck” of which you speak? Oh, you mean the couple hundred dollars I get every two weeks that I’ve already spent on a handful of items I’ve been eyeing in the BP section and maybe even have hiding on hold in the back under a code name? From there, I went to a small, local Dallas boutique, always stocked with the early 2000’s hottest fashion trends (e.g. Von Dutch, any and all designer jeans, off-the-shoulder peasant tops). Again, paychecks were spent immediately on the store’s array of trends. The worst, though, was Anthropologie. Any girl reading this needs no other explanation. With a 40% employee discount, I was literally only working there to buy $198 blouses I would otherwise never, ever be able to afford.

Screen Shot 2015-01-19 at 7.26.34 PM

So you see, the bigger part of my life has been surrounded by enabling situations. I’m a victim of my surroundings! It’s not my fault!

Girls who love to shop like we do don’t need much. It takes next to nothing to get us going. In sex, we might be ovens, but in shopping, we’re the full-blast setting on a microwave. We come by it honestly. We may be aimlessly clicking around the internets, perhaps catching up on our favorite blogs or innocently checking the 5-day weather forecast (in order to plan our weekend outfits, duh). Suddenly, before we even know what’s happening, we’re browsing ASOS or XXI or Piperlime. “Today only!” this, “Ends at midnight tomorrow!” that. We can’t take it. We literally can’t say no. The fact that it’s on sale and may not be there tomorrow is reason enough to BUY! BUY! BUY!

And the packages – OH! the packages. I’ve never done hard drugs (unless Chipotle counts as crack?), but I can imagine the high a heroin addict feels being eerily similar to the feelings that go through a shopping-lover’s body when she sees delivered boxes and packages on her doorstep. A delivery very well may be the most beautiful sight to our kind, happy tears-inducing even. Not to mention tracking said delivery’s route to our door. Bless you, UPS/USPS/FedEx/every other trackable shipping service that has made it possible for us to stalk our package’s whereabouts and obsess over the exact time and day it will finally enter our lives.

Untitled

Don’t underestimate this obsession either. It doesn’t always have to be clothes. In fact, most of the time in order to get a quick fix, it’s anything but. Our people are perfectly happy taking our addiction to Targets, Wal-marts, all major drugstores, and almost any grocery store. There, let us loose and watch us find endless unnecessary items to buy: nail polish, three varieties of chap stick, mascara we probably don’t need, replacement closet fresheners, and an adorable Nate Berkus basket for our couch blanket — it’s just so perfect! There is literally nothing we can’t rationalize when it comes to shopping.

The onslaught of most online retailer’s free shipping and free returns policies have done nothing but perpetuate this issue. They think they’re helping by making it cheaper for us to feed the beast, but in reality, they’re hurting. But damn – it hurts so good.

Amazon Prime gives us chills. Bath and Body Works 3-wick candle sales send us into a frenzy. Just driving by our favorite local boutique causes us to break into a post-coital type of sweat. A day without buying one small something is no day. Okay, fine. Maybe, like, every two or three days. We’re not that bad.

Or are we?

Just remember, fellow shopaholics: you are not alone. When all else fails, at least you have your things and some fun new nail polish. At least you have that.

Pin It
Share on Tumblr

The Worst of the 2015 Golden Globes

“Disappointing” is the only appropriate word that comes to mind re: last night’s Golden Globes show. 

As a girl who grew up on these award shows (literally making that entire designated Sunday all about it, awaking that morning with a familiar excited feeling in my stomach much like what a child feels on Christmas), the tradition of sitting in front of the E! channel for hours on end, brutally criticizing celebrities from the safety of my own home as I shove copious amounts of junk food down my throat is my thing. And, sadly, last night didn’t deliver. 

I mean, where the fuck were Tina and Amy? This was their last time hosting and instead of pulling out all the stops and essentially making the show just a string of their impossibly perfect one-liner deliveries, they had a monologue and just a few other appearances (including that painfully awkward situation with Margaret Cho dressed as Kim Jung Ho ::shudder::). It was upsetting, especially since I plugged their hosting skills via Instagram at least twice this weekend — how embarrassing for me, amirite?

The scarcity of the hostesses was, by far, the biggest downfall of last night’s show IMO. Besides that, it was just… boring. George Clooney won a lifetime achievement award, which I guess is deserved but also hilariously ironic sitting next to his new, highly accomplished, internationally revered, young wife. Tina and Amy hit the nail on the head there:

“Amal is a Human Rights lawyer, who’s worked on the ENRON case, was an advisor to Kofi Annah regarding Syria, and was selected for a three-person UN commission investigating rules of war violations in the Gaza strip. So tonight, her husband is getting a lifetime achievement award.”

Screen Shot 2015-01-12 at 9.48.00 AM

Clooney died laughing. Amal just sorta sat there, tight-lipped, internally laughing maybe? I think she’s probably way too smart to laugh, TBH.

An easily-missed but hilarious screw-up was Salma Hayek’s trouble with presenting. Girl got all sorts of tongue-tied last night. She definitely pronounced “starring” as “staring,” and made a horrified face at herself when she tripped up some other lines a few seconds later. She was struggling (and also looked like she was heading out to her quinceañera after the show).

golden-globes-2015-red-carpet-salma-hayek

Of course, the funniest part of the night was during John Legend’s acceptance speech for original song. Let’s be real — wives and husbands of winners know that the camera will be focused solely on their face at one point or another during an acceptance speech. So once it’s been announced who won, it’s best to just sit there and look as happy and casual as possible. Now, don’t me wrong — I love Chrissy Teigen. She is gorgeous and hilarious (two wonderful things to be as a woman). But what in the actual fuck was her face doing during John’s speech?

IMG_3014

That’s not a face. I don’t know what it is. It’s like the most awkward, painful, confused, frozen-in-time, I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-my-hands expression. Almost as though right before he got up to accept the award, he said “Bitch. Don’t fuck this up for me while I’m up there. Act right.” Or maybe Chrissy realized at this exact moment that she was about to have some serious bathroom trouble. In fact, she very well could’ve lightly shit her pants given this reaction. Yeah, that’s it — she sharted.

Up until “The Imitation Game,” I’ve never really liked Keira Knightley. Her jaw jutt always got to me. However, I like her now, so I was highly disappointed to see she chose to wear one of her costume pieces from “Pride & Prejudice” last night. 

1421022858_keira-knightley-zoom

JLO’s look made me want to pull her partly-fake hair out while yelling, “WE GET IT. OK? WE. GET. IT.” Yes, Jennifer — we know you’re 45. We know you look how you do for 45. We’re aware that you know how good you look for 45. Please do yourself and all of us a favor and put your legs, crotch, boobs, and hair AWAY. 

jennifer-lopez

Just — why? She dressed like a newly developed teenage girl who just got curves and isn’t sure how to show them off without showing everything off all at once. This look was far too reminiscent of her P. Diddy days. Every step you take, every move you make, JLO, we wince at almost seeing your vajay.

And then we have the other Jennifer — America’s sweetheart most of the time. She’s our Rachel: our 40something, still can’t quite figure out the man thing, go-to single gal. She’s also one of the most inexplicably fittest, in-shape, enviably taut women in Hollywood and has been for a while now. Both women and men look forward to seeing her, no matter the occasion. So last night was a total and complete letdown from Miss Aniston:

jennifer-aniston-241113

Yes, your legs are always on point. And yes, overall, you’re not ugly. But WHAT is with this look? The tight prom-esque bun updo? The thin-strap halter dress? What is this — 2003 Homecoming??!!? I just couldn’t with her last night. It was a letdown. You’re so much better than this, Jen. You know it, I know it, everyone who has even the slightest inkling of fashion sense knows it. 

Lastly, and most horrifically, is Giuliana Rancic. I mean. What is there to say? It’s just awful. It’s one of those things that has gotten worse with time. I know she’s been through a lot — trust me, I don’t discount that. But her thinness isn’t okay by any stretch of a legging or imagination. It should not be aspired to nor celebrated, because it’s just wrong.

Screen Shot 2015-01-12 at 11.36.14 AM

If the camera really does add 10 pounds, what does that make Giuliana? Like 90 pounds on film? It’s unnerving and no wonder she had trouble getting pregnant for as long as she did. Even with all the thin standards of Hollywood, there are healthier ways to go about it — I fully believe that. It’s truly just upsetting to look at.

gi

That’s my GG recap, guys. All pretty hateful, I know. But what’s the point of award shows if not to sit around with your girlfriends, eating bullshit, drinking crap, and tearing down celebrities mercilessly? That’s what America is all about.

xox,

emma

Pin It
Share on Tumblr

27-Year-Old Dances To Beyoncé and KILLS IT

I’m getting a little burnt out on all these viral videos of 11-year-olds, 7-year-olds, and have-yet-to-be-born-fetuses “crushing,” “killing,” and “nailing” dance routines. It was cool when Charlize Glass was the first 12-year-old to remind us of how terribly untalented the majority of us are and how we’re going nowhere in life when she busted the most moves to Beyoncé’s “Partition.” And it was equally as cool when Taylor Hatala did the same to Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda,” because what else would an 11-year-old white girl ever dance to besides the most inappropriate song of late 2014? 

BUT I’M SICK OF IT. Cool! You’re young and still only have nipples where your boobs will one day be and you can dance really well and have your entire lives ahead of you to make something of that. So allow me to parody this new viral video craze of young dancers with my own interpretation and slightly angry dance to say HEY! 27-year-olds and the like can “crush” “kill” or “nail” it, too!

I give you the random dance routine video to end all random dance routine videos:

xox,

emma

Share on Tumblr