The Day I Dressed Like Hitler

I'm pretty awkward. I'm the person that can't control what I say around other people. For example, I'll be around an extremely overweight person and can't stop accidentally pointing out less-fat fat people and talking about how that 300 calorie smoothie was sooo bad for me. So I knew that it was going to be a matter of time before I did something inappropriate over here. Little did I know that it would be my first full day here, and that I would be dressing like Hitler.

 The wake up call
I had it all planned out. I was about to fall back to sleep at 4 a.m., I wasn't even tired, and would sleep til 5:30. Then wake up, go work out, solve the world hunger crisis, take a shower, and be on my way for the day at 8. So no one was more surprised then I was to wake up to a call at 8:11 am asking how much longer I was going to be.

This is actually an exact replica of what I look like when I wake up. With lip gloss on. This chick is a phenomenal actress and is going places.

Here's the basics of what I'm working with. I haven't washed my hair since the day I left the states. A full 2 days ago. My hair has so much dry shampoo in it from previous attempts to not wash it that it's one solid unit. No more strands, just a block of grease-hair. So that gets schlicked back into a ponytail. And yes, I mean SCHLICKED. Then I take a damp wash cloth and wipe down. Super effective. I'm going to smell amazing today. Grab my pants, grab my flats, grab my makeup, out the door.


Once in the parking garage I realize two things: 1. I can't wear flats. My feet are still ruined from the day before. 2. I needed to apply more dry shampoo. So to add to my cleanliness I bolt back to the hotel, up 3 flights of stairs, barefoot, to grab my boots and can of PSSSSST (shower replacer). Then bolt back down and finish getting ready in the car.


When I hop out of the car at work I get a look at what I've created today. The intention of the khaki pants and my brown riding boots was supposed to make me kind of look equestrian. It's Europe. However, the size-too-big work pants I purchased on a day I must have gone shopping right after a visit to an all-you-can-eat buffet were pretty much ruining my life. They just puffed out right over the sides of the boots, sort of like a Nazi uniform.


The picture below is only being published to inform and prove how disgusting and evil-dictatorlike I looked today.

I encourage you to compare to the first picture. Twins. So the flats go back on. I pull myself together and make it through the day in my jumbo pants that I fortunately bought in every color. I'm going to do my best to not look like Stalin tomorrow. We'll see.

My Life in Crazy Town - Travels to the Netherlands

OK so insta-corretion: the Netherlands isn't specifically crazy town. My life is. And by removing myself for 2 solid weeks from participating in my real life to do work over here, I'm able to subjectively assess how insane things actually are. Turns out going to the Netherlands is equivalent to having an out of body experience where you hover over yourself, fueled by jet lag, a language that half the time sounds like English being spoken backwards, and blisters. Screw you, flats.

**no image here... i google-imaged "foot-blister" and have no one to blame but myself for that one**

Scene 1:
I'm doing this in scenes because I want this to be appropriately chronicled when they make a Lifetime Original Movie about my life. Cut to it being 2 am here, and against all my will power I fell asleep the night before at 7:30, ip so facto, mamma's wide awake. So I drink a full calorie Pepsi that I'll never admit to again, fire up the laptop, and creep on Facebook for a solid hour. There's nothing more labyrinth like than Facebook roaming. You click on a friends profile, then click click click, you're staring at a photo of 5 people you've never seen in your life.

I  literally know none of them

This is how I came across my ex's profile. Now I'd like to clarify that I literally never think about this person. Ever. His name unfortunately comes up whenever I have to explain the most retarded 9 months of my life (See my DMV blog post for further explanation). Not to mention I'm currently dating the antithesis of that creature, so no reason to ever dwell. But the 80g of sugar on top of a prior warning from a friend who loves me enough to keep tabs on my past-crazy but doesn't know me well enough to not tell me things like "don't look at his profile... it's really creepy" equaled me going in...

And there it is. A facebook album that should probably be named "I'm extremely creepy and post pictures of my ex girlfriend WAAAAAYYYY after we've broken up... like weirdly long after". And I'm not talking pictures of me and him. I'm talking like solo pictures of me. Just me. Being me. Ew. I hate solo pictures. What WHAT am I supposed to do with my hands.

So that's not the creepiest thing on the planet, thanks only to M. Night Shamalamading-dong's slew of movies, spear-headed by "The Sixth Sense".

For the life of me I can't figure out why he did this. The only thing I care about quite frankly is the obvious lack of stability when someone publically makes a facebook album shrine to someone else when that person thinks they're disgusting in every way. Silver lining- I now have at least 30 pictures of myself from my early twenties that are going straight to my "See! Your mom used to be attractive before you ruined her" photo album for my future children.

Double silver lining - the blocked list for facebook creepers just got a new addition.

Scene Two

I have a weird collection of the best living things in the world. My family, friends, boyfriend and trillion cats that I own are proof that God felt really bad about plaguing me with migraines for eternity and is balancing it out. Totally worth it. All of this would reduce in quality 10-15 percent if I didn't have the dobbs. The dobbs is the 80th iteration of the name of my cat, the Black Dahlia. She a baby panther that is as old as Yoda, and if we could harness the power of her love like they harness will power in the Green Lantern, we could probably fix all the problems in the middle east. And find a way to eat cheese everyday and not get fat

So the dobbs is perpetually trying to make a jailbreak from the house. Mostly because she's a wild animal that belongs with her kind in the jungle and also because she probably noticed that our backyard needed some love. The night before my trip over here, she made a break for it. She bolted. And didn't come back for a solid 2 days. Which resulted in us having to explain to a majority of our neighbors that "The Dobbs" is a totally respectable name and "Yes, she looks like a baby panther with a halo of love around her".

Those two little growths off the back of the Dobbs are the only two things that love her more that Ryan and I do...

Her being gone for 2 days and my leaving a day after she left equalled one plane flight of me being convinced she was getting mauled by the bears that roam Towne Lake. So there I am, leaving my boyfriend for 2 weeks, not able to talk to my mom (who also fills the roll of therapist/personal shopper/cheerleader, so a pretty big hit) except over email, and my spirit-animal is missing. Top it off with watching "The Five Year Engagement" and you've got yourself an inter-continental break down in row 19.

Never watch this movie unless you were looking for something to push you over the suicidal edge.

Now I'm off to run on the treadmill and burn the full-calorie beverage off. It's 3 am. Screw you time-zones and screw you again flats. I still haven't forgotten what you did to me today or the google image search.

1990 > 2012... From a Dork

Everyone knows that the 90's were quite frankly the best decade on the planet. But my experience of the 90's was slightly different, given what a gigantic dork I was. Those 10 years encapsulated my dorkery, sealed the deal on who I became today. So I'm now listing things that I thought were totally appropriate and might have had an influence on my social standing.


Butterfly Clips
Every girl wore these, but I considered it poor form unless you looked like your head was being swarmed by a flock of rabid plastic moths. There's no way I was leaving the house without having at LEAST 26 plastic clips scattered throughout my hair. As if I needed one more thing to make my forehead look like a five-head, let's pull back all my hair, 5 strands at a time, and expose my scalp in the process. Also, some girls made this classy by at least having a rhyme or reason as to where they placed the clips. I was utterly uninterested in this concept.

My mom actually pulled the car over one day on the way to school and was like "I cannot do this, you look like a lunatic" and took them all out.


Magic Eye
This was exactly what I needed, given my constant battle with a lazy eye that I "corrected" when I was about 3. Why don't we put a bajillion dots in front of Ainsley, have everyone say "OH MY GOSH I SEE IT!" and then turn to me, with my right eye going haywire and me saying "Is it a castle?!". First off, lesson learned, it was always a fish of some sort. Second, if you just looked at the bottom of the page in tiny writing it said what it was. To this day I've never seen the pictures people are referring to. Also, I'm not dying to bring back the eye patch to correct my lazy eye because I tried to see a dolphin in 3-D.

Dancing
Um, the last thing my awkward body knew how to do was dance. But the 90s knew that, and decided "Let's throw Ainsley a bone and choreograph everything for her". Mission accomplished. I was FAN-TASTIC at the macarena. Also, mambo #5 and the electric slide? Come on, I was set in 3 genres of music. To better expand my skills when those three specific songs weren't on, my friend Nicole (who embraced and supported my dorkiness) and I would video tape Backstreet Boys and NSync and learn every single move.

At no moment in my adolescence did I ever consider how extremely awkward it was to be doing a group choreographed dance by myself. I was practically Michael Flatley, Load of the Dance, and I was simply doing just way more complicated moves than everyone else around me.

Fashion
Every decade of fashion is embarrassing 10 years later. I feel flat out victimized by the 90s fashion. I trusted that if it was available to be purchased and worn, then it should be. For starters, I wore shoes that likened the type of orthopedic support people with one short leg require to walk without tilting- but I wore those on both feet.

Skirts - super girly and pretty, you run the risk of a crotch-shot. Solution? Slap a pair of shorts underneath and attach them as 1 unit. Skorts. I found my home with a skort. When I wanted to impress a boy but simultaneously cross the monkey bars, I knew EXACTLY what I was wearing. How it still never impressed anyone was beyond me.

Slap bracelets- these were like contraband in school. Apparently one child that single-handedly disproves Darwin's survival of the fittest theory broke their arm completely off putting these on one time and after that you'd be in less trouble if you were caught with crack cocaine than if they found a slap bracelet on you. Lucky for my coolness, my sister could MAKE slap bracelets. No clue how, but my sister being cooler and older than me was my social saving grace.

Overalls- I got it in my mind that this was the most popular thing you could wear. a bag made out of denim that would support you if you doubled your body weight. When we had a talent show in 4th grade, I was rudely kicked out of my original group - doing the dance from the Brady Bunch Movie. It's like these girls didn't know that choreographed dancing was my passion. So instead of letting it get me down, I did my own talent at the show. Unfortunately, I had also happened upon Star Wars with my dad earlier in the year and was convinced everyone else loved it as much as I did. So why question it - I played the theme song from Star Wars on the piano and rocked my overalls in the process. No one got it - I was ahead of my time, I'm convinced.

Kids in School

It doesn’t matter what elementary school you went to. As long as you weren’t homeschooled, you most definitely had at least one of each of the kids I’m about to mention in your class. And if you’re reading one of these descriptions and thinking “I don’t know anyone that was like that in elementary school” then guess what… it was probably you and you are in denial. Note: the names I’m about to use have not been changed.

The Kid that Peed Her Pants

I’m not talking about in preschool. I’m talking about an 8 year old just letting it go on the carpet. It was a rarer than rare occasion to get to be in this kid’s class. And it wasn’t like he/she did it all the time. Kind of like an eclipse. But when it did happen… no one ever knew what to do. One kid heads to the closet to get the barf sand, because what do you put on pee stains!? I usually sat there utterly baffled as to how that could sneak up on the person with no warning. How did they not just run to the bathroom? And then they were on water fountain restriction for like a month like dehydration is the solution to lack of bladder control. This person in my class was named Mary, or “pee pants”. I ended up going to college with pee pants and when I saw her on campus my freshman year all I wanted to do was be like “I hope you’ve gotten your bladder under control”.

The Mustard Face

Billy was the child that always, ALWAYS, had crusted mustard on his face. And no, not after hot dog lunch day. I’m taking about in the morning, and on days where it was pizza for lunch. And you just kept thinking “what were you eating with mustard on it for breakfast?” and “how do you not feel that on your face?!” I suspect child abuse, because feeding mustard everyday to a 3^rd grader is borderline torture.

The Kid that Could Actually Pull off Nap Time

Let’s face it. We took nap time for granted in kindergarten. Besides the fact that we were expected to sleep on vinyl, quarter-inch thick mats on the floor in the middle of the day, we were only given like 20 minutes to fall asleep. Because most 5 year olds can pull that off. Except there was always one kid that was out like a light every time. His name was JP. And when the lights would come back on there would always be two constants in our classroom. 1: My name would be on the board for talking during nap time and I’d have to be in time out for 5 minutes and 2: JP was in a deep REM hibernation-style slumber. The teacher would always “let him rest” like he’s had a harder day than the rest of us with finger painting and macaroni art, and this basically was her way of creating 26 5-year old watch dogs. If JP even THOUGHT about opening an eye we’d yell “faker” and he was out of there. Get up and learn the alphabet JP. Just because your name isn’t actually a word doesn’t mean you don’t have to learn to read.

 

The Kid With the Awful Snacks

This kid’s name was Ainsley. And no, there was never another person in my school named Ainsley. I always had the DUMBEST snacks on the planet. Not because my mom hated me. But because we shopped at a farmers market and she didn’t want me eating processed foods. So while everyone else got  gushers, goldfish or those chocolate chewy bars, you wanna know what I got? Fruit leather. It’s literally a leather-like form of fruit compost that took so long to chew that I was starting to show signs of early onset TMJ.

I remember Mandy had the BEST snacks ever. And her cubby was right below mine, so every time I’d go to get something out of mine I’d see her awesome cookies or sugar-packed treat. One time I just couldn’t take it anymore, and I swapped our snacks. So when snack time came, yes I ran to my cubby and slammed all 3 feet of fruit by the foot into my mouth, in a wad. And when she pulled out the baggy of trail mix (don’t act like it was the kind with M&Ms either), she somehow was on to me. I was so floored that they instantly knew it was me. Hindsight, do I feel badly about it? No. Lesson learned: don’t leave your stupid trail mix next time, like a calling card.

band vs orchestra. They're both gross.

Was there anything more polarizing in middle school than the choice between playing an instrument in band or orchestra? I only give these as the two options since the third option, the one that involves not playing an instrument at all, wasn’t really a “choice” was it… those kids were the ones that were insta-pegged as not being able to handle reading music since they could barely read actual words. Sad.

So for the rest of the literate sixth grade population, you were staring down the barrel of what felt like the rest of your life. Let’s start with band:

If I had to use a noun to describe playing an instrument in the band it would be “spit”. Everything in that entire room was absolutely covered in it. To the point where I would compare that experience to simply playing a retainer for an hour a day. Question: what was with that valve on the brass instruments that they would open up, blow real hard into the mouthpiece and just drain out what had collected thus far. Onto the carpet. Because THAT carpet was getting cleaned all the time. That was the carpet that we would sit on too… and I vividly remember thinking “why is this carpet so wet?!”. 

I played the flute. Mostly because I was slightly aware of how disgusting a majority of the instruments were in that class and the flute was one of the least offenders. Also mostly because my sister played the flute and I could just use her old one for zero dollars. I could never wrap my brain around the people that chose clarinet “because I already know how to play one”. You know what they were referencing? A recorder. That was the basis for their instantaneous talent at the instrument that sounds like it has a sinus infection at all times. Also, what, WHAT was up with the fact that they would have to suck on that weird stick for like a half hour before they played. Spit, yet again, a requisite to band success. And they were never scared to just pass that spit stick around. How cold sores weren’t a raging epidemic at this point is beyond me. 

Maybe we were all distracted by that weird round mouth rash all the trumpet players had. WHAT. WAS. THAT?!

My flute wasn’t exactly the spit free option however. The only spitless option was the drums, but since I didn’t play softball competitively and didn’t want to cut all my hair off and wear baggy jeans, I wasn’t going to lezzo out and play the drums. 

I remember one time whilst practicing the flute at home I started to play right after eating a bowl of golden grahams. How I got my hands on golden grahams is the glaring plot hole of this story because my mom would never allow that in the house, but I digress. Regardless, the reason that I still to this day know what cereal I ate before I practiced that fateful afternoon is because every single day after that, all I smelled in band class was golden grahams. I mean I can’t even look at a bowl of that cereal now without thinking “I need to practice my scales”.

There were always the same types of people in band. One being the neck strap kids. These were the kids that weren’t capable of simply holding their less-than-5-pound instrument to their mouth for an hour. Band was the best thing that ever happened to them. They are in some adult version of a marching band right now. Still with a neck strap and a lame excuse. 

Another main group was the gender confused group, namely the guy that played the flute. Jesus. How was this kid oblivious to the fact that he just came out of the closet by accident? How was this kid’s dad not like “NO! I don’t care if he wants to play the flute Debbie, we’re not letting our son do that to himself”.  I remember the dude in our band class. Vividly. I would stare at him in disbelief that this dumber than dumb instrument was worth the absolute crap-load of ridicule he got daily.

Here's this picture of a rando band class, with the guy right up front. There's one in every band.

So let’s move on to the other option. Orchestra. Was there anybody in this class that was not of Asian descent? Were the Asians the only ones who were aware of the saliva situation in the room next door?

I would actually argue that instead the kids in orchestra were super geniuses. Hi, most confusing instrument in the world that I have to play from behind. Nice to meet you. You’d have to be the kid from “The Computer Who Wore Tennis Shoes” just to know how to hold those instruments.  And remember the girls (it was always a girl) that would get LIVID if you said she played the violin when she played the viola. It’s like a one-eighth size difference between the two, chill out. I had spit in my eye from band class and couldn’t tell from afar.

It's inevitable. I will try to write blog posts about various topics, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and there were just too many gems from my childhood to not take another walk down memory lane. Like playdoh oozing out of Mr. Playdoh's head, These various items helped shape and mold our childhoods.

Pound Puppies

We all had beanie babies. But the precursor to those $5 nightmare "collectables" was a pregnant basset hound. This gift came with an added bonus of "How many mutt babies is your dog going to have!?" None of the puppies in the litter ever looked alike, which was a casual way of showing that mamma was a bit liberal with her morals. Also I vividly remember that if you got a premature puppy or 5 puppies you'd virtually won the pound puppy lottery. God forbid you just get 2 puppies in your litter. As for the absentminded friend that forgot to put all the puppies back in the mother's velcro womb, and one got lost? Insta-uninvite from my sparkles roller skating party. That was my favorite puppy Jamie. Now I'll never find it.

God forbid it if a child nowadays is called anything other than perfect. The Anti-bullying movement is going too far. Yes don't push someone over the edge with it, but forgive me if maybe I told a certain someone I grew up with that he had noodle arms and now he's a personal trainer, you know what I mean? Bullying to a certain extent wasn't only funny, it was required for a hit sitcom. Lest we all forget Clarissa's snotty red-headed brother Furg-wad. Killer name. Or the chunky freckle-faced Donkey Lips. Did anyone ever actually know donkey lip's real name? You didn't see him lose his mind over it. Or really the whole purpose of the character Urkel in general. You know what it taught us? How to take a hit. All three of these characters never gave up. My nickname was Anus-ley Fartwright. I made it though.

Everyone I know that is my age knows A) how to make a fortune teller and b) that whatever MASH says, goes. I literally just played MASH with a coworker at a meeting. She is staring down the barrel of having a pet giraffe and 16 kids, driving a "rape van" and living in a mansion. Real mixed bag she's got headed her way, but to be fair, if she'd stopped me on the swirly thing a second sooner, things would have been different. Also, sign of a best friend: rigging the MASH game so that your BFF lands on the guy she likes to be her husband. Or if you weren't that smart, simply skipping sections or making up impromptu rules so that she really DOES end up with Brandon. And then screaming with joy and saving the paper as later proof at the wedding.

I remember taking my SWEET time making fortune tellers in class. Color coding them, thinking of eight whole fortunes someone could have... In the end did anyone hide theirs well enough to even fully finish a round before it got taken up? Still, worth it.

Irrefutable comebacks. The 90's really started the movement on shutting people down. Someone says something obvious. Response: "doi". You say something stupid and you'd like to pretend you didn't mean it. "Sike". And the quintessential comeback is when someone even feigns over interest in ANYTHING: "If you love it so much why don't you marry it". At no point was anyone's answer "that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard". My recollection was that 100% of the time that landed the recipient of this question in utter defeat. The only, and I mean ONLY possible comeback to this was "I'm rubber, your glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you". Game. Over.

Pogs

Who did this. Who was like "let's take cardboard disks and slam coins onto them to flip them over". It was a revolution. It wasn't even about how many you had really. As long as you had a full sleeve of them you were fine, but it really mattered how cool your slammers were. And this game required clean up every round. Your slammer would fly off into oblivion, pogs flipping every which way. My mom, understandably, wasn't interested in investing in paper-themed toys or fads of any kind so I had the minimum amount to even form a stack really, but one day in the Kroger parking lot fate shined down on me. I found on the ground someone's pogs complete with a grateful dead slammer. Yes I felt torn about taking it into the store and dropping it off at lost and found or not. Yes I absolutely kept them. I utilized the rule "finders keepers". Haunts me to this day.

Candy that actually hurt

There is no doubt in my mind that the painful candy I ate as a child has done permanent, irreparable damage to my mouth. War Heads were so good but would actually make me cry, and my my mouth cramp. My mouth would literally cramp in the back.

Also need I remind about fireballs (appropriately named). As in keeping with making a game out of everything, we'd see who could put a fireball in their mouth the longest. No you can't hide it under your tongue either, so don't even try. You always knew when I'd eaten one because my hand was also red from spitting it out every 5 seconds. Sometimes you'd try to wrap the gum from a blow pop around the fireball to create a buffer if you will. That gum was never big enough. Also did anyone enjoy the blistering, Lysol-themed pain of a lemon head? Sick.

When I think back on these experiences, the underlying theme here is "where in the world did I get access to this many pieces of candy simultaneously?" and "Did my mom ever let me go back to this person's house?". There must have been an underground ring of torture-candy drug lords running Addison Elementary.

Unnecessary Causes

There are some causes out there that directly affect people. They change lives and make the world a better place to live in. One such cause is the “don’t wear white after labor day” cause. Things like this are critical to distinguishing ourselves from absolute hooligans. But there are also causes out there that drive me crazy. Mainly for how unnecessarily passionate they are, but also for how much they blow up my facebook feed:

Waiting on Christmas

I’m sorry that I’m not sorry that Christmas is most definitely the most wonderful time of the year. Once Halloween hits, like clockwork, people start moaning and complaining that other people are celebrating Christmas too early. “Thanksgiving is next, people!!! Stop decorating for Christmas already!”. Oh, how silly of me! I should apparently dedicate the next 4 weeks to singing all the festive Thanksgiving songs and start decorating with turkey legs and gravy. Sick.

Thanksgiving isn’t a real holiday. If it’s a day that is solely celebrated by eating, it’s not a holiday for real. Also, I’m pretty sure this “shout out to Native Americans” every year by us eating to the point of needing a nap really soothes the sting of the trail of tears. Were all these haters traumatized beyond belief by premature carolers? Where is this passion for anti-Christmas coming from? It’s real band-wagoney is what it is. Stop trying to be sassy and hate Christmas for the next week or so. Also, don’t deny yourself the pleasure of listening to “All I Want for Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey. You’re only hurting yourself.

Kickball

Stop. It. How in the world did this sport take off?! Besides the fact that I’m playing pretty fast and loose with the term “sport”, this was the red-headed stepchild of activities in elementary school even. Now war ball… that brought the heat. I can’t believe that everyone is blithely allowing people to claim that they are in kickball leagues without simply calling them out for what they are actually doing. Trying to find a spouse. I’m sorry, this whole concept is a hop skip and a jump away from Events and Adventures, “It’s Just Lunch” and Match.com. The teams are always co-ed and include at least 3 girls that will never EVER catch a pop fly ball. Ever.

Thus proving it’s not meant to be competitive. Everyone’s drinking when they play, proving it’s not athletic. It’s a meet and greet dream come true is what it is. And everyone that plays is in such raging denial of their intentions, it’s got a real Jonestown feel happening.  The best part about this cult-like activity is when people meet their significant other on the kickball field they feel the need to be supportive of you, their single friend, by saying “The right person will come along for you when you least expect it. When you’re not even trying”. Right. Like what happened for you? Zip it.

Peanut Allergies

If I had a real allergy to peanuts, like carry an epi-pen around and maybe have to wear a bracelet I’d be ticked at the sudden take off of this allergy. I refuse to believe that so many people are all of the sudden allergic to a nut. If this is the case then our species is weeding itself out and we’ll become extinct eventually. To the point where we have nut free schools? Peanut allergies are the new ADHD. I hope the sunlight allergy is the next one to take off. It’s making the Seinfeld episode with bubble boy not so far fetched.

Twilight

I don’t even know where to start. First of all, if you’re going to acknowledge twilight for what it is, then by all means, yuck it up with vampires and werewolves. It’s a 7^th grade reading level, double spaced series of books that people are capable of reading in 1 sitting and I have a feeling it took just about the same amount of time to write as it did to read. So if you’re going to be like “it’s a guilty pleasure of being silly and using imagination” then you do you. But do not, DO NOT say things like “Don’t knock the movies until you read the books! I thought it was going to be dumb but I read the books, and they are great”. Jane Austin rolls over in her grave every time you act like this is a literary work of art. And no, Kristin Stewart isn’t amazing. She’s a pinched faced broody teenager.

The hardest part of this series for me to wrap my brain around is how are 2 guys fighting over her? All they ever do is have to save her stupid ass at every moment of the day. Exactly what are they fighting for? Someone who wears flannel non-stop and never has a scrap of makeup on her face? It’s beyond comprehension. And worse its teaching our youth that you can completely give up on your looks and still have guys lined up for you. Good luck. You’re staring down the barrel of multiple kickball leagues in your future if this is your approach.