How Would You Like Your Christmas Calories?: Soy Sauce and Ice Cream

Ingredients

• (what feels like) 1 million f-ugly Buckeyes made, upsetting to all involved except your stomach and taste buds, yeaahhh!
• 2 Jewish friends who share your sensitive stomach but not your love & knowledge of "A Christmas Story"
• An entire pew to yourself at Christmas Eve Midnight Mass
• 1 nine-month-old maniacal cat
• 11 hours
• 1 fancy Italian restaurant open on Christmas
• 11 hours
• All of the New Zealanders in NYC
• 4 stolen petit fours leftovers stashed in coat check, like bread in "Aladdin"
• 1 very sexist man who wears a coat
• 11 hours
• 1 puking man
• Circling back to my Jewish friends, 1 (affordable) restaurant open on Christmas: Chinese food 

Instructions

I lied. CVS is also open on Christmas. It's 24 hours, bitches, 365 days a year. There, I purchased my first-ever pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream that wasn't their fro-yo and also bought in a dorm using my college meal plan points. No, this was the real deal: an entire pint of normal Ben & Jerry's Half Baked Ice Cream at the original, non-sale price. Chocolate & vanilla ice cream with fudge brownies & gobs of chocolate chip cookie dough. And Chinese food. At 11:00pm on my orange futon.

Now, how did I end up here, eating legit not-dietarily-modified-at-all chicken and broccoli with white rice out of a giant styrofoam container until my sides burst, only to follow up with half a pint of full fat, overpriced ice cream-- on Christmas Day? Have I mentioned I was alone? (Sans the maniacal cat I'm cat-sitting, of course. His name is Anton.)

My Christmas Story is a funny one. It's not rather interesting. It's funny maybe only to me. Perhaps it's simply sad, and nothing else. Or it's just... nothing, and nothing else. But I'm going to recall it to you in the form of a classic Christmas poem, pronounced "pohm". That way, after you read it, you shall rest your head down, dream of dancing candy, and receive gifts under a plant in your home, which was broken into by an old man.

Light your fires, or turn on Yule Log on Hulu:

'Twas the year without Christmas, and all through NYC

No one cared you were here. No one bought you a tree.

So your garland was hung on the wall with pushpins,

Your ornaments, too, except those forgot in the box, like shut-ins. 

The Buckeyes were made with such high expectations,

As no one outside Ohio has any inclination

Of what majesty they bring to your mouth and your Christmas,

Even when your first-time-alone batch is semi-ambitious.

As the Ohioan sou chef of a highly acclaimed restaurant understood,

"They were good. Visually, not so good." 

For from an old brownstone in Bushwick they came,

Where you melted dark chocolate like one dumb and lame.

Alas, my first sans-mom Buckeyes look dreadful,

Making their appearance and tasting at this fancy restaurant stressful.

But everyone working there's strangely from Ohio,

How else would you get this job, checking Burberry coats like there's no tomorrow?

Showing high business clients to their tables so swiftly,

Ignoring sexist "can you handle these two coats on your arm?"-- No, really.

Alas, this is the reason why you weren't home for Christmas,

For when you apply for a job in December, you clearly missed

The underground agreement that you'll work on the holiday.

That's fine, though; you didn't want to fly home again anyway!

It's helpful your mom flew in the weekend before--

Her "I-haven't-flown-in-thirty-years" record no more!--

And that you'll be flying home soon for a colonoscopy. 

Anyways, who's left in New York for a Christmas Eve party?!

Two of your best friends, who happen to be Jewish, (other) Anna and Melanie!

Every dish you make to accommodate gluten-, dairy-, & FODMAP-free

Turns out to explode, burn the oven, or not be real tasty.

In accordance with what your dad advises for a Christmas Eve bash, 

"Good food good friends good movies", you didn't do too bad!

Because of work, you won't have time for mass the next morning,

So you head to your first Midnight Mass to find your Prince Charming.

(That's your mom's response to your first trip to any new church--

That you'll meet a nice Catholic boy to help you out of your lurch.)

At 1am, your walk back home, you pass drunken reindeers at bars, 

Fellow holiday orphans who, instead of an 8am start, get cigars.

"Now, Mother! now, Father! now, Sister! now,-- KITTEN!"

You Skype with each parent, and with your temp. cat they're smitten.

But, alas, fifteen minutes with each is all that you get,

For a train you must catch to your Christmas Day hosting minuet!

11am to... whenever! That's the shift you will work.

There are so many others battling this here with you, you can't help but smirk.

But just as you do, you know it won't last;

You predict a moment where you will all break-- you see it in a flash.

You try to ignore it as folks start to arrive,

Until you notice a dreadful trend that simply won't jive.

Jive is a horrible word in this context, merely used to rhyme--

What I mean is THESE PEOPLE WERE ALL FOREIGNERS WHO WOULDN'T TIP A DIME!

No, not a dollar for coat check! On Christmas, of all days!

A marathon shift, all you had going was hope of high pay!

How could you be so naive, thinking they'd take pity on the hostesses?

The considerate family-minded are at home with their families on Christmases!

Who else would be at this restaurant, paying for a Christmas pre fixe

But overseas tourists whose native custom is not to tip?

New Zealander after Brit strolled in with puffy coats through the door,

Even though it was sixty degrees out, there came more and more and more and more...

The key sexist man, the only truly offensive guy so far:

When you returned with two coats, he refused to take "the lady's", so you stood silently by the bar,

You holding her mink until she returned from the restroom,

Only to be met with another demand, from which you looked to fellow hosts for rescue:
"Help her into it." Help her into it?! Say it nicely, at least!

This was at Hour 8, by George, you were gritting your teeth. 

Oh, sir, we are not your servants; coat-checking is not our CAREER.
Apparently, to you, sir, our life's calling is hosting your fine dining-- sorry, to us, that wasn't clear.
The muscles in your face tightened ever so,
And this wasn't even that breaking point, ohhhh, no no no!
Finally, after a knock-down, drag-out professional discussion of who got to leave and who got to close,
You left second (yay!), and could finally, ruthlessly blow your nose.
Now began your true Christmas, your extremely deserved celebration.
You hadn't planned on eating after work, but your bitter exhaustion had a better response to starvation.


"What's open at 10:15pm on Christmas night?" was a question you were excited to answer,
As you knew, from "A Christmas Story" and your Jewish friends, that Chinese food was standard. 
Why there were tourists outside taking pictures of the Lord & Taylor windows
And the New York Public Library at this hour on Christmas, you'll never know; 
Or why a young man projectile vomited onto the subway tracks 
Right next to you and, for whatever reason, you didn't even react; 
Or why you were sweating in December instead of dodging stray icicles--
These Christmas mysteries exist alongside Christmas miracles. 
Yes, that one Chinese place around the corner from your apartment
That you swore to never get was open, its old, weathered picture menu lit up and ardent.
You waited maybe four minutes for your food; man, that was fast.
Though usually it'd make you sick, you enjoyed it with Netflix, at last!

SNL, duck sauce, and Half Baked Ice Cream;
A cat like a dog on Adderall, to whom every ten minutes you scream.
So you didn't eat your mom's cookies, your gifts shipped too late to your family;
You missed your cousin's engagement and Marr-famous dinner rolls from Aunt Sandy.
This Christmas belonged to you, and you alone--
Your first New York Christmas, your first away from home.
You got to share Christmas Eve with friends who don't know it,
Though you didn't have the clam dip, lasagna, tenderloin, and trifle to show it...
And, let's be honest, you missed your cousin's wedding engagement--
It literally happened on Christmas, your mom was there, important situation.
But still! The fugly yet delicious Buckeyes do freeze in your freezer,
A cat is asleep on your futon, and you ain't no Ebenezer.
You are off on New Year's Eve-- well, except for 8am to 3...
But who the hell cares! You make cash, nap, then PARTY.

Let's all now exclaim, ere you sneak out of sight--
"Happy Christmas to all, and don't puke near me New Year's Eve night!"

Buckeyes, & Other Ohio Nuts

 *WARNING: Actual Recipe Included*

Ingredients

• 3 unnecessarily humungous supermarkets in 3 days (that's 1 a day), voluntarily 

  

  Our regional grocery store is "Giant Eagle." Picture, if you, will a giant eagle. And how that might possibly relate to food.

• Your wallet's magnetic draw towards Kohl's (at least twice), where everything appears basically free
• An evening with your best friends catered entirely by Aldi's Supermarket, which excites you almost as much as learning about Aldi's new products every time you come home
• 1 elevator ride in which an old man tells you that you look like Taylor Swift
• A sip of your very first Great Lakes Brewery Christmas Ale, treated like an initiation into adulthood

  

  No, I didn't have the ice cream. We all know I would've preferred that.

• A very "costly" restaurant with unexpected "steep prices." Like $24 for an entree. Hahahahahahahahaha. Oh... (Did I leave my $17 cocktail in New York?)
• 40°F when you enter your aunt's house for Thanksgiving dinner
• 20°F, 2 feet of snow, and a legitimate doubt of your ability to drive to your home 2 minutes away when you leave your aunt's house from Thanksgiving dinner
• 60°F and sweating 2 days later
• Black Friday Shopping including 2, and only 2, stops: The Olive Scene and Swan Creek Candle Company (olive oil & candles, respectively)
• 1 library card that NEVER EXPIRES, which you "lose" about once a year and instead present your ID and thus  NEVER have to replace (Said library is not part of any library system; totally isolated; you'll be a member forever.)

  

  So old.

• A surge of comfort, togetherness, and confidence as you look among the other women standing in the security line at the Cleveland Hopkins Airport
• The feeling of dread as you roll your 12-year-old, army green children's suitcase down the terminal toward the gate boarding for New York City, where, awaiting you, are women decades older and yet decades thinner
  *If for some reason you don't notice this, um, it really should be very obvious due to their casual plane attire of $100 patterned yoga leggings and baggy/strategically drapey black sweaters.
• A fall Sunday in Cleveland, which one can identify by wondering whether the large amount of people in the airport is due to all of these people flying or all of these people watching the Brown's game in the airport bar
  *There are a lot of Browns jerseys and not a lot of movement towards flight gates, so you should lean Browns Backers. 
• Flying on the same airplane as you: 1 couple with a 5'5 man in an oversized & dwarfing Browns jersey and a tiny woman carrying a French bulldog who is also wearing a Browns jersey. Though they zip him into a tote bag that reveals only the dog's head,  you can still tell he's a Browns fan just by the way he's sitting there... waiting for something good to happen... fairly confident it will, but knowing that, in all reality, he could be in this bag forever...

Instructions

As we walked in the 30° cold at 10:30 in the morning on an un-iced and unpopulated sidewalk in Vermillion, OH, my mom exclaims, "Isn't this fun? This is so much fun!" Yeah, right, I thought. But then I realized, counter-arguing my internal monologue: Heck, yeah. Heck yes this is fun, Mother. Because this is how we spend time together. This is how we spend our Black Friday. This is how we shop for fine olive oils and soybean wax candles. This is HOW WE DO.

Not only did I receive my free hand-painted olive branch salt cellar and spoon, having been one of the first 100 customers (we woke up early to get there at the 10am opening; my aunt and cousin weren't far behind us; we were the only ones in the store), but, the next day, I got to walk around historic Main Street Amherst for Small Business Saturday with my step-mom and witness which stores have kept their integrity and which have gone down the Pandora Vera Bradley Switch-Flop wormhole. I'm telling you, we know how to have a good time. 

And the next day, before my 2pm flight, before our 12:30pm departure from Amherst, after I woke up at the ungodly hour of 8am solely for this particular activity, my mother and I made buckeyes. Buckeyes. Glorious, chocolate, peanut butter, soft, hard, delectable, traditional, so little understood Ohio buckeye candies. Or cookies. I consider them a Christmas cookie, but these morsels are... Well, truly, they're in their own category. 

Tell me you don't know what this is, especially since I've mentioned it once already in a previous recipe:

Oh. Woops. Sorry, my mistake. Wrong buckeye. That's Brutus. He's... yeah... he is a "buckeye"-- his head is a buckeye. He's the OSU mascot, and clearly a little bit forced. Anyways.

Woah, woah, woah! No! Is that-- Is that still Brutus? Sheesh, Brutus, buddy, you've had a rough past. Then again, you are from Ohio, so, understandable. We've all been there-- feeling, maybe looking, like poo. It's OK, because look at you now! A big star for a big team in the Big 10. Congratulations, Brut. Now, can you please leave us alone, so I can get on with explaining my favorite Christmas non-cookie?

Mmmm. There we go. Let's take an more in-depth look.

Yesss. There it is, that buttery, semi-soft, ridiculously rich peanut butter center. 

What about these balls is not appealing?

[Clear nod to one of my favorite SNL sketches of all time, Schweddy Balls, and it's reemergence at this time every year. Merry Christmas, Alec Baldwin.]

This holiday season, my first of, I'm sure, many gifts to enhance the greater good, is the recipe to make your very own traditional Ohio Christmas Buckeye. You have no idea-- You're welcome. 

They think Reduced Fat Jif, stationed next to an entire box of butter, is going to make a difference.

I give to you, shockingly, 52 Recipes of Disaster's first ever real recipe:

The *Best Part About Being from Ohio
1 1/2 cups Jif® Creamy Peanut Butter 

  Or 1 1/2 cups Smucker's® Natural Creamy Peanut Butter

  Or whatever high quality sugar-infested peanut butter goodness you want to include (PEANUT butter. That's    right, no almond or soy or whatever fake nut you want to mash up-- PEANUT.)
1/2 cup butter, softened
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 to 4 cups powdered sugar
2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips OR DARK CHOCOLATE, can you guess which is better?
2 tablespoons Crisco® All-Vegetable Shortening 

  Or butter, or any type of oil. Anything that can stop your heart, really. 

- Combine PB, butter, vanilla and salt in large bowl. Beat with an electric mixer on low until blended. 

- Add 2 cups powdered sugar, beating until blended. This is when you're going to begin to doubt me. Don't. 

- Beat in additional powdered sugar until mixture, when shaped into a ball, will stay on a toothpick. This is a legitimate measure. 

It really does get tough here, but you have to persevere. Your electric machine is probably not game enough to beat all of this powdered sugar into your peanut butter mixture, but that's OK; you can handle it. Get a wooden spoon. Finish it off yourself. 

- Shape into 1-inch balls. Refrigerate. For, like, however long your patience will remain in tact, but at least for 20 minutes. 
- Place chocolate chips and shortening in microwave-safe bowl. Microwave on medium for 30 seconds. Stir. Repeat until mixture is smooth. Reheat as needed while coating peanut butter balls. 

- Insert toothpick in peanut butter ball. Dip 3/4 of ball into chocolate, leaving top uncovered to resemble a buckeye**. Place on wax paper-lined tray. Remove toothpick. 

- Smooth over holes. (Yeah, you're gonna have 'em, 'specially as a first-timer. Major gouges call for major sampling, though, am I right?)

- Refrigerate until firm.

* Besides Cedar Point

**Jif trusts that all readers know what a buckeye looks like. I'd like to say the fine folks at Jif are a smart people, but I know, sadly, from experience, that I'm educating quiiiiite a number of individuals on what a buckeye even looks like right now. 

Variation
SPICY BUCKEYES: Add 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon and 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper with peanut butter mixture in step 1. Continue recipe as-- WHAT. I HAD NOT SEEN THIS. THIS IS PURE BLASPHEMY-- GO AWAY JIF, STOP SPREADING HATE! 

So there you have it. And you better soak it in-- this may be the one and only time that I openly praise anything from my home state. It's the holidays, people. Makes you feel things.

Two things I love? Buckeyes and, now, newly, Great Lakes Christmas Ale. Ohioans-- and some Midwesterners in other states-- stock up on cases upon cases of Christmas Ale as soon as it's released in the fall, because it only comes around once a year. Especially in Cleveland, there is no other beer than Great Lakes. And especially for Anna, there is no other beer that I will drink than one whose glass's rim is dipped in honey and coated with brown sugar. I should've said that first. 

Forever changed.

I encourage everyone, from those in Midwestern suburbs of suburbs to my friends who grew up in Beverly freaking Hills, to call upon what they love about their home state. Clearly easier for some more than others, but it really does help to have even a little pride. Oh, you heard me-- don't think I don't have pride. If you make fun of Ohio and you aren't from Ohio, Imma throw some OSU-Cedar-Point-Rock-'n-Roll-Hall-of-Fame-War-of-1812 shit down. 

Happy Holidays!

The Big Apple: Caffeinated & Full of Fiber

RECIPE 26
26. FOLKS, WE ARE HALFWAY THROUGH THIS BEHEMOTH. LET'S NOT TALK ABOUT HOW DISCOURAGING THAT SEEMS.

Ingredients

• 1 day off of school in NYC
• 1 Giant Sour Patch consumed by your babysitee at 10:15am, meaning you're off to a great start
• 1 celebrity businesswoman (and playdate mom) with a Park Ave. apartment full of bubble wrap strapped to the floor
• 4 exceedingly hyper 9-year-olds
• 1 "Come back at 1pm. I've got this."
  *Note: As you're being slowly backed out of the apartment, you must contemplate rushing back in to use the bathroom. But you're already in the foyer with your shoes on and you don't want to poop-and-dash in a millionaire's apartment. So you don't.
• An unexpected and idyllic late-morning walk across Central Park in its fall bounty
• A gorgeous plan to use your suddenly free 2.5 hours enjoying the new Broadway exhibit at the New York Performing Arts Library
  *Note: You must sacrifice your need to poop in order to wait for this gosh-forsaken albeit classy library to open in a half hour, as if it's normal for libraries to open at noon on a Monday.
  

  

  Actually, the entrance of this building is really unbecoming.

• Veteran's Day = the libe's CLOSED
  *Note: Mmm ok, HONESTLY you just wanted to poop, and you though it'd be a good two-fer to go to the Performing Arts library, too. However, you have now wasted 45 minutes of your day getting here and you still haven't pooped. 
• Starbucks
• 1 piece of accompanying reading for today's adventures: "The Nanny Diaries"

  

  Alicia Keys is also in this movie?

Instructions

You know when you read or watch something long enough that you start to talk, think, or write in its "voice?" I used to dream spec episodes of "The Office," for example. Well, today has felt like an unwritten excerpt from my prime choice of reading for the last month: Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus's darkly accurate satire of New York nannying, "The Nanny Diaries." 

Inspired deeply by these warrior women who poured their Upper East Side sippy-cup confessionals into a captivating piece of literature, I welcome you into one particular day in my babysitting life-- not because it's any more unusual or confusing than others, but because it isn't. 

It started with a Fiber One Bar. (Doesn't it always?) Now, I know I needn't tell you why that's important; you've all read my ingredients. But the fact that I had to poop, seriously all day, is what makes this story universal.

Anyways.

The day also started with a mad dash to CVS, where, after being basically asleep for a month, I finally picked up my government-controlled substance stimulant prescription. I take this for my narcolepsy, aka to stay awake during the day.  I don't take it to feel like I've drank a cup of coffee (which, for the non-caffeinated like myself, is like 3 cups of coffee) and a bottle of uppers. Regretfully, this is what happens when I haven't taken it in over 2 weeks. This is what happens on days like today.

SO. I'm Hyped up, gotta poop, and skatin' through Central Park on the phone with my dad, gabbin' like a giddy school girl gossiping to her BFF. I'm now sittin' outside the NYPA library, crossing my legs, bopping my foot, speedily playing with those addictive rubber tabs on the outer layer of my Otter Box, and waiting patiently (only due to my stimulant) for the library to open. Then, I'm briskly walking to the nearest Starbucks, the last place my stimulated body needs to be, where I march straight to the bathroom and proceed to drop my coat on the floor (ahk), but ALAS-- sweet charity.

I do not relax in the now 20 minutes I finally have at the Starbucks. I cannot. I have the strength of a million men in me and I somehow still have to poop. (I know.) Damn you, Fiber One. I think my heart is going to burst, partly from my medication and partly from the fear of being late to a celebrity millionaire's home after she's had 4 feisty children in her employ for 3 hours.

Here's a little lesson about New York City: You can leave on time, you can leave early, you can give yourself all the time in the world, but if you are planning on traveling from the West to the East side and then moving even remotely north or south, you will not be on time. I? Am not on time. These damn busses are the worst option always, leaving the only other option-- walking-- always a better option that no one takes. It's 12:56 and I'm 14 blocks and 2 avenues away, so I hop in a cab. I'm sweating and rushing in a cab to pick up a 9-year-old from a playdate on her day off of school. What is, why is, where will I ever find life?

Of course, I'm the first of the reliefs to arrive. Naturally. And the kids are lounging, eating pizza and drinking-- [INSERT SCREAM PAINTING FACE HERE]-- POP! SODA! SODA POP! 

I've given up.

And this is after I learn that they've had a pie fight in Central Park.

Bubble wrap, pie fights, and pop. This woman is not only a savvy businesswoman-- she's a genius. And I still have to poop. 

Thankfully, my charge (they say that in "The Nanny Diaries", and I hate/love it) has a doctor's appointment that we head to, where I have time to use the swanky Upper East Side reception bathroom, which hosts a white rose in a small vase of perfume to cover up what I'm sure we're all supposed to pretend I didn't do. After the appointment, we bus back to the West Side for two episodes of TV, about nine more trips to the bathroom for me, and two dinner-fed, alive children, and my day is over before it has begun. I don't understand how one person's day can involve shmoozing with the coolest famous mom, doing awesome things she's never allowed to do, while another person's is overtaken entirely with an unearthly need to poop. This is not a diagnosis of a digestive issue on my part. This is a commentary on the insane, insanely different daily lives of the mutts who call ourselves New Yorkers. 

But most importantly, it's because we've all been there-- and Starbucks is always there waiting for us. 

Things You Eat By Yourself for that Whole Episode on Netflix

Ingredients

• 1 Facebook engagement announcement by the boy who took you on your first date 
• This conversation:
  Girl You Babysit: "Do you have a crush on anyone?"
  You: "No."
  Girl You Babysit: "No, no, like, right now. You don't have a crush on anyone, right at this second?"
  You: "Nope, not right now."
  Girl You Babysit: "Nobody?"
  You: "Really, no."
  Girl You Babysit: "Do you want to get married?" 
• Your adult twin-sized bed
• 1 friend response to your Halloween costume choices of Kit Kittredge v. Shari Lewis: "Last year you were a Beanie Baby. Right?"
• Supplies for Friday and Saturday Date Nights, Fall 2014: a bottle of red wine, a quart of sugar-free ice cream, and 3 episodes of “Parenthood”
• 100+ hours of “Parenthood” ruining your acceptance of your love life because Sarah Braverman goes on a date with a new man seriously every episode, it's insane— plus, some character said "He goes through women like cotton candy" and you have no idea what that means

Instructions
I'm not throwing a pity party. In order to feel sorry for myself, any one of the above ingredients would have to be a departure from what my life is typically like. This is simply recognition of my chaste, single life in an "I'm OK with the way I am, even though I'm not OK with the way things are going" way— a way that highlights the triumphs of adorable doll-involved Halloween costumes and single-sized umbrellas at every turn. 

When my ex gifted me his umbrella as he packed away his things, he said, "I'm sure you won't mind, but, just so you know, this is a single-sized umbrella." 

No response from me. He unnecessarily clarifies, "As in, it only covers one pers—" 

"No, I get it. I'm sure that won't be an issue."

I'm my best self-advocate. Last week, I had a babysitting interview with a beautiful Israeli family who was floored to hear I'd be not only willing and available but also be overjoyed to work evenings. After minutes of shock, the mother asks, "Are you sure? You don't have to go home and make dinner?"

No response from me.

She clarifies, "You don't have anyone waiting at home that you need to make dinner for—"

"Nooo. No, that won’t be an issue.”

Recently, I  my friends at a housewarming I was throwing that went a little something like this:

Friend A

You should totally hook up with #**@ tonight! 

Me

I... You know, I'd like to, but I really don't think... Hey, here, let's talk instead about people I'd hypothetically hook up with who aren't here!

Friend A

OH MY GOSH, YES, you HAVE to tell $!&!$ that you want to hook up with ^**^ and he will TOTALLY make that happen! You HAVE to. HE WILL DO IT.

Me

Well... Actually, that probably wouldn't work... I mean, ^**^ is so busy, and I haven't even seen him in, like... months, so...

Friend A

No, if ^**^ wanted to hook up with you last year and now he knows you're single and interested, then it doesn't matter how much time has passed, ^**^ will literally jump on that instantly. Any day.

Me

I'm not sure I'm comfortable with jumping?

Friend B

But what about this guy here, huh?

Friend A

Oh, YAAASSS. DO ITTT.

Me

Honestly, you have to tell me exactly every single move I must take to make that happen. Or else it won't.

Friend A

(Passes down life's deepest wisdoms)

Me

I'm not doing any of that.

Friend A leaves. 

Friend B

Sooo...?

Me

No.

Friend B

Yeah.

Me

I have morals. I have integrity. I don't have a Senator Wendy Davis banner on my Facebook, but I consider myself a feminist. You know?

Friend B

Totally. You're so strong.

Me

Thank you so much. I'm just not into—

Friend B

Playing games?

Me

YES. You get me. You GET ME.

Friend B

(Crying face) (Strong face) You just do you.

Me

I'd like to have fun and "be wild," but I'd just feel so uncomfortable, you know?

Friend B

Totally uncomfortable, absolutely, you just be yourself, act like yourself, truly, no need. No need. If you're not feelin' it, it's not you, you do you.

Me

Let's go get a cupcake.

Ah, simplicity: there’s nothing much left to say about my “evenings in,” every evening, now. I yam what I yam (subtle celebration of Thanksgiving, Happy Thanksgiving everyone) and I'm cool with school. Thus, I thought it'd be fun to look through my favorite website of all time, Pinterest (actually, dressupgames.com is technically my favorite website of all time), and see what self-aggrandizing memes or classic single-chick pics I can find that will make us all want to vomit.

Wow, I didn't even have to scroll down on the results for "Being single" to find this gem:

Let's talk about everything wrong with this. I'll go point by point:

1. I have a twin-sized bed.
2. What? Where?
3.  Sure, those are FUN. Also, I'd do that regardless of my relationship status.
4. OK, honestly, we're all fooling   ourselves if we don't admit that "what-if" is code for "unwanted and regretful rebound."
5. That's hilarious; you think I have money.
6. I won’t hang out with anyone I don't like ever.
7. I’m too lazy to refute the obvious.
8. About...?
9. ... Always?
10. OMG are you buying me a television?!
11. Hold on, what are you doing when you're not single?
12. Thanks. 
13. What.
14. Really.
15. Suck.

That was too easy. Let's find another!

Well, I'm not even going to click on this article, because what the hell does Miley have to do with this? Miley with no shirt on is the best part of being single? All I see is cleavage. Could that be one of the Best Things?

Oh my goodness! Here it is again! New picture, but SAME CLEAVAGE!

I don't know. 

It's funny when you think of the "single person" as a single person. Hah.

One last one, roundin' it out:

Yesss, that's a lot of judgement and unrealistic expectations for the win! Unrealistic because we can't ALL be doctors, Meghan Elizabeth. But if you're right, Meghan Elizabeth, I'm so desperately behind and you've finally let me know. So, thank you.

Listen, though, guys— we don't have to be behind. Like Friend B said, you don't gotta be anyone you don't wanna be, you special precious human. If you're single and you want to mingle, then jingle, babe! I wish I could, sometimes, I really do. But if you're single and you'd rather eat a Pringle than casually intermingle, eat that chip. Please remember, though, that once you pop, you can't stop. 

Additionally, in looking for the correct Pringles slogan wording, I came across THIS crazy fact: Fredric J. Baur, the inventor of the tubular Pringles can, asked his children to honor his request "to bury him in one of the cans by placing part of his cremated remains in a Pringles container in his grave." Now, if that doesn't make you feel just a little better about yourself, in no way offensive to Mr. Baur...