HELP, I Need an Adult!

If you had told me when I was 18, that on my 33rd birthday I would be drunk slip-and-slide-flip-cupping in a friends backyard, I would’ve never believed you. Back then, I was under the impression that at a certain age you turn into an adult and no longer cry into a bowl of ice-cream when you get your heart-broken, or have an all-night laughfest trying to imitate Chewbacca. Thankfully, I was wrong. Sure, I’m more a little more responsible now and I have things like a 401k plan and Godkids, but there are still a few things I will never outgrow. 

Enrolling for benefits – Truth be told, I’ve had my mom do this for me (or at least check them) each time I’ve gotten a new job. It’s not that I don’t understand it, I just don’t want to deal with it. HMO, PPO, deductibles, flipfluctuals – whatever. You might as well be speaking a different language. I spent 10 minutes just this morning trying to figure out if I should enroll for HMO or PPO, come to find out my job only offers PPO. 

Visiting the dentist. Every 6 months I go to the dentist, and every 6 months I’m scared of the big, bad man with the teeth gun! 

Being my mother’s daughter. I could be 50, and my mom will always be my mommy. I will never be too old to cry in her arms, ask her for help, bring over my laundry, or request my favorite homemade meal. And I’ll always be too young to talk about sex around her. Ew, that’s just yucky!

Now click after the jump to read about 3 ways I’m kinda adulting!

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‘Sposed to be.

I remember being young and in love. And lucky for me *insert sarcasm here*, I’ve been agonizingly in love more than once. Each time was different. The first time I didn’t even like the guy initially. The second time, I was in love with him before I knew I was in love with him. And the last time, happened unexpectedly. Despite the differences, they all shared the same inconveniences. The same butterfly riots in my stomach. The same obsession of his name in my mouth and spilling out my ears. And ultimately, the same tears ridiculing me at the end along with a broken heart.

I remember Jey asking me once how things were with the guy I was seeing. I replied, “Good”. Good? I questioned the integrity of it immediately.  Good. I waited. But no glitter fell from the sky. I didn’t abruptly get up to run on top of a hill to scream how much I loved him, and there was no butterfly riot in my stomach. I proceeded with, “I feel like I’m supposed to say more than that”. Then, he told me I wasn’t supposed to say anything. 

He was right. And just like that, it was –  good

I kept thinking my new relationship was supposed to be a certain way. Thinking it was supposed to be fireworks on the 4th of July right after winning the war. It was supposed to be “premature ventricular contractions”. It was supposed to be texting my best friend all the emoticons I could find that resembled anything close to the “glitter and gay”. The roof was supposed to be on fire, and I was supposed to let the motherfucker burn. But I was right. It wasn’t any of those things. Continue reading

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The Only Acception.

Gym. Yoga. Babies. Those were my go-to’s during a bad break up. They kept me distracted or entertained just long enough to pretend that my soul wasn’t stolen from me. One summer I went to bikram class M-W-F, ran or went to the gym T-Th, and made sure to pack as many dinners and happy hours with friends in between. Because that’s what you were supposed to do. That’s what everyone else said to do. 

When that didn’t work, I did what I thought I did best – write. I dotted the I’s of my sob stories with my tears, and wrote about the pain. With the pain. Through the pain. At the pain. Until my eyes stung, vision turned blurry, and the screen was nothing but a jumble of letters and fonts as messy as my fucking life. 

And when that didn’t work, I just let the sadness overcome me. Like, I let it stay in my apartment for free. Didn’t even ask it to pay utilities or take out the trash. I cried, and cried, and burdened my friends, and cried, and worried my mom, and cried some more. I stared in the mirror and picked apart everything that wasn’t enough. I looked within myself and tore that to shreds. 

I tried new things, I tried old things. I tried ALL the things that I could think of to make myself better. I hated who I was – never mind the fact that I had a distorted vision of who I was. And that was just the thing. You can’t improve yourself if you can’t accept yourself first. 

Improvement should come with the intent of being a better version of yourself, not being a completely different person. It should be based on accepting who you are to begin with – flaws and all, and embracing them. Then, working on them. Otherwise, you’ll never be satisfied. You can take all the self-improvement classes you want to, but if you think nothing of yourself to begin with, there’s nothing there to improve. 

 

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Wifey 4 Lifey

Last month I planned a surprise, luau-themed bridal shower for everyone’s favorite day of the week and I loved how everything turned out. Hawaii is my mom’s absolute favorite destination, so there was no question that it was going to be island themed. Below is the dessert table/mimosa bar. Click after the jump to see more deets from the event!

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Alerhurrr.

Last week, me and a few of my favorite people went to Hawaii to celebrate 3 birthdays. Although I’ve been to Oahu 4 times, Hawaii is always a good idea. It unfortunately rained a majority of the time but if there was any group of people you’d want to be stuck in a beautiful house on the North Shore with, it’s US. Eat, beach, sleep, repeat. That was the theme of the trip, and I have the pot-belly and sunburn to prove it. Below are a few photos from the trip, as well as a video made by the homie Pat. Check it out to have a taste of the islands this Aloha Friday.

 

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Why So Single?

There are a few things you should never ask a woman. There’s a lot of things actually, but at the very least do yourself a favor and don’t ask us the following:

  • How old are you? (Following up with “OMG you don’t even look that old!” does not negate the question)
  • How much do you weigh? (Following up with “OMG you don’t even look like you weigh that much!” does not negate negate the question)
  • Wow, are you tired? (Bitch, I will cut you with my tired ass)
  • Why are you single?

The only thing worse than “Why are you single?” is “Why SO single?”

Like DAMN. I’m not just single, I’m SO single. What on Earth could I have possible done to deserve an adverb like that? See it’s hard to talk about this without sounding bitter or in denial, but trust I have fully embraced my singledom for good and bad. I’ve heard every explanation and have given almost just as many. And as a former wannabe cynic, I know that those who reject relationships tough, secretly want one even tougher. But SO single? In the words of the great Ed Lover, “Come on son!”

It started off innocently enough with a random follower on IG asking how the Wu-Tang concert was. I replied, and he then took a left by asking about my relationship status. It’s not the asking that’s rude, it’s the inference I know he’s probably not even aware he’s making. 

First of all (breaks out Power Point presentation and laser pointer) …

YOU.
*clap*
DON’T.
*clap*
KNOW.
*clap*
ME.
*clap*

Otherwise, you’d know I’m not so single after all.

Secondly, why’d you have to ask it like that? As if I’m crying on the curb with my head in my hands and you’re coming in to save me? In his defense, I’m sure he was just asking an innocent question and meant no harm by it … except I know it wasn’t innocent because HE SENT THE SAME EXACT MESSAGE TO MY ROOMMATE *insert face palm emoji here*. I’m not upset because he asked me this question. I’m upset because the only correct answer to the question would’ve been one that gave him the go to holla. Nothing else would’ve sufficed, not even the truth. The point is, being single is not a death sentence and #HoeIsLife dammit!

So before you ask a random female you don’t even know “Why so single?” first ask yourself “Why so presumptuous/why so unoriginal/why so corny?” 

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Man, it feels good to be a motherfucking gangsta.

When the world celebrated #adaywithoutanimmigrant I had no qualms about coming into the office, which may be surprising to some because I am an immigrant. Even more surprising might be the fact that I didn’t become a citizen of the United States until 2009. However, I made the personal decision to work that day, because my company supports immigrants. I am lucky to be a part of an organization that although isn’t perfect, looks at talent before the color of your skin – a company that also makes having a prayer and nursing room a priority.

Today however, I am blogging from my best friends living room in solidarity with #daywithoutawoman, which happens to fall on International Women’s Day. And again, I feel lucky. Lucky to not have ever felt knowingly discriminated by an employer because I am a woman. Lucky to have never known of a man that got my position simply because they had a dick, and lucky that I’ve never known of a man in my position that got paid more just because he owned a pair of balls.

Then I realized that I don’t actually know any men in my position to begin with. While I know they exist, I don’t personally know any male Office Managers because it is a role that mostly women apply to. It is a job with very little accolades, but very big impact on a day to day basis. It is a job that many men are unwilling to do even though it is such an integral role to an organization.

I do realize that I’m saying this on a good day, a day where men and women are celebrating Goddesses around the world. But I won’t lie, on a normal day as I’m doing menial tasks like restocking Cheez-Its or putting dishes in the dishwasher, I think to myself “I did not graduate from college to do this shit”. Then, on a day I’m out of the office I’ll check my phone and see the numerous messages about how the office is falling apart without me and feel validated.

It doesn’t take a specific gender to be an Office Manager, it takes a specific person to be an Office Manager. One that is patient, empathetic, nurturing, selfless, and resilient amongst a plethora of other things. Things that are associated with being a women. Things that I have to remind myself to NOT be embarrassed about the next time my job calls for me to sweep the front of the building or clean out the refrigerator.

Everyone has their own definition of what it means to be a woman. Just as they have their reasons for acknowledging or not acknowledging International Woman’s Day, and participating or not participating in #adaywithoutawoman, which is – GREAT.

Today is not about equal pay for me. Nor is it about being better than men. After all, my blog is called Girls Are the New Boys, not Girls Are Better Than Boys. It’s about being equally extraordinary, and reminding everyone including ourselves that we are not to be taken for granted – today or any day. 

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