Monthly Archives: October 2014

Anecdotes of a white girl’s birthday

They say every day is a holiday. Sites like this will confirm that notion. What most people don’t realize, is that every day, somewhere in the world, is a white girl’s birthday. Every single day, dare I add “literally” to that statement.

As a white girl, I’m forced to attend a lot of events to celebrate said occasions. It’s despicable. I’ve decided to capture real-life, anecdotes, and life lessons events that happen when  you celebrate a white girl’s birthday. Prepare yourself.

The different types of “late” that white girls run.

Oh, you thought there was only one type of running late? You’re so glad you have me. Allow me to list the types of late that it is actually possible to be on any given night with a white girl.

  1. The standard “just running 30 minutes behind” late. A common kind of white girl. Always tell this girl the party is 30 minutes earlier than it actually is.
  2. The “I’m sorry I was at XX” late. This white girl is barely fitting you in her busy schedule. This might be her 3rd stop of the night, and it’s not her last. There will be other places she has to go before the world ends at 2 A.M. Plan on said person showing up HOURS late and having to text you 5 times while she’s on her way there to make sure you haven’t bar-hopped.
  3. The “Where are we going again?” late. There’s nothing like someone who doesn’t read texts or Facebook events.
  5. The “You guys started early!” late. Some people have a hard time drinking between the hours of 6-9 P.M. Because that blurs the lines between day drinking and night drinking, and those gray hour areas are why God invented Happy Hour. If your party starts between 6 – 9, most people won’t know what to do with their hands, and won’t show up until 11 P.M.

You’ll meet other girls at the bar who are also celebrating a birthday.


One of them will be wearing a matching sash and crown.

Taking pictures doesn’t require a masters but it should.

HOW many white guys does it take to get a non-blurry, decently centered photo, worthy for a white girl’s instagram? I’LL TELL YOU. A FREAKING MILLION.  Nothing causes a bigger scene than asking a stranger to take 17 photos, all on different iPhones, all different poses. Bless everyone involved and may he who labors bear the fruits of his work.



The HAPPY NEW YEARS!/Kim Kardashian circa 2006 girls.

Spotted: 8 long sleeve sequin mini dresses in skyscraper heels. Don’t get me wrong — I’m ALL about the power of a #GNO outfit that makes you feel fabulous and fierce. But it IS possible to be fab and fierce without cross dressing.


You will scream at the top of your lungs when a new friend arrives, like you haven’t seen them, or breathed, in  years.

The surrounding 20-30 people will hate you but you love attention of all kinds, you Basic you.

white girls seeing each other at a bar

Everyone will have obnoxious spirit for their alma matter.

Blessed is he who begins a successful RAIDER POWER chant in public. That happens often, but those WOOP Aggie people are also infamous for disgusting things like this.

Someone will be drinking a skinny margarita.

(spoiler alert: it was me last time). Is this a Mexican food restaurant? Is there a mariachi band around? No? THAT WON’T STOP A WHITE GIRL FROM ORDERING A “SKINNY MARG,” I TELL YOU THE TRUTH. Even if it’s the LEAST south of the border bar in Dallas, this is Texas, and almost everywhere serves freaking margaritas.

I really didn’t learn how to drink to match the environment until after college. Which is weird because basically everyone in my family is an alcoholic, so I don’t know how that life lesson hit me so late. I vividly remember sitting in Triple J’s, in Lubbock circa senior year of college, and ordering a vodka cranberry. AKA the undergrad white girl drink of choice. I look back at that and think “Okay then.”


You’ll meet actual Benjamin Button.


So you’re at the bar. Where you’ve been for what seems like seventeen years. And you meet a guy about your age, who looks pretty cute, even in his flat bill hat. wait, am i into flat bill hats? you ask yourself.

After talking to said guy for a bit, he inevitably tells you his age, and he is 33. EDITORS NOTE: THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING 33.

But your mind is blown because he doesn’t look a day over a young-looking 24, so you’re convinced this man is aging backwards, and in a few years he’ll be in his 40’s but look like a teenager. Also, only GOD knows what’s under that flat bill.

You’ll meet a stranger who you have mutual friends with and your brain will explode.

This is real life. Dallas is a small, small, small little tiny place, full of people who all know someone who knows someone who dated their college roommate on Tinder recently.

“Pretend you’re my boyfriend!”

Ahh yes, there comes a time in the night when a white girl gets hit on (GASP!!!!) by “a creeper” and has to pretend to be grossed out, and  needs another white male within the friend-group to “be my boyfriend pls!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

This tactic is uncannily flirty, however said fake boyfriend is usually gay.

People will tell you their names but you’ll name them yourself.

Also known as people I’ve met recently:

  • Beard #1
  • Beard #2
  • Beard #3
  • Beard #4 (yes I met 4 bearded men in one night recently, it was exhausting)
  • Kendra Scott girl
  • Lesbian motor-cycler
  • Really wants to wash her hands girl
  • Don’t block her view of the TV lady
  • Man with baby
  • Guy from Not Somewhere In Texas
  • Spiked hair
  • He has a girlfriend guy

good luck and happy birthday to all the white girls today is ur day good luck sky’s limit

images via:,

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Filed under basic things, dallas things, life things

What It’s Like To Be a Girl and Shop For the Office Christmas Party Dress

This post is originally from my old blog, Fashion Food Frivolity. I’m repurposing it for this new blog because I think I’m hilarious. 


It’s 5:01 P.M.
Your coworker/roommate comes up to you.
Talks you into going to a boutique.
You had plans to work out and cook a healthy dinner.
And read a book series that was cool five years ago.
But you’re easily persuaded into spending money you don’t have on clothes you don’t need.
You drive to the boutique, solely to be support and not buy anything.
You try on 18 dresses.
Everything makes you look like a hampster in a prom dress.
You try on the boring white sequin dress.
This dress says I’m twenty something and I’m going to a Christmas party. 
You try on the hot pink dress.
This dress just says I’m twenty something. 
You sigh.
You just need a dress that says I’m young, sophisticated, sort of, but mature, but still enjoy spongebob, but can keep that on the DL, unless someone else admits it, which is usually a guy, and by the way I’m single, but not like desperately single, just casually single, but not needy, unless I like you, these sequins are not trying hard right?
But they are. The sequins definitely are trying hard.
Sequins scream, it’s the holidays! I’m a white girl! 
And then the sales associate breaks the news: “Everything in the store is 20% off in 30 minutes.”
“DONE AND DONE,” you exclaim to your roommate. And the whole boutique.
Or do I want this dress?
Now comes the self doubt and indecisiveness.
If everything is 20% off, now you need to see everything.
You try on seventy nine more dresses.
There is a line of annoyed twenty somethings and moms that think they’re twenty something wearing smaller sizes than you behind you.
Waiting on you to finish trying clothes on.
The store is playing really stressful, fast Christmas music.
Do I like the clothes or am I just trying to get away from “Santa Clause Is Coming to Town–the remix”
The sales associate says she LOVES you in that dress.
Of course you do.
Then your roommate brings you the “Tuxedo dress.”
You think YES.
You try it on.
It’s everything you could never want in an office Christmas party dress.
Politely, you ask the associate, “Hi how the hell do I wear this.”
“Oh, the owner of the store has it on, she’s right over there.”
The owner of the store is a Victoria’s Secret model.
The music gets louder.
You don’t want to buy the sequin dress but you don’t want to wear what you own.
[insert scene of Maude Apatow in the closet screaming expletives at her clothes, which has apparently been deleted off of the internet because I can’t find it]
You try on the burgundy maxi dress that you die for.
You’re not Rachel Zoe.
It won’t make sense at the office party.
Sequin holiday dress it is.
You still want the tux dress.
Maybe it can be your plus one.
You buy two jackets.
Everyhing is like a thousand percent off.
You still spend over a hundred dollars.
It’s okay you tell yourself.
It’s like a Christmas present to myself from myself you tell yourself.
You get a free gluten free cookie from the sales associate before going to the register.
Except it’s not free.
You’ve been to this boutique at least twice just this month alone.
You more than paid for that freaking gluten free cookie.
You exit the store.
A guy is walking in as you’re walking out.
Your car is right in front of the store door.
He comments on how bad you parked.
Awkward laughter.
You drive home.
It’s now 7 P.M.
Enjoy your sequin dress.
And everyone else’s.

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Filed under life things, tragic things

Truths about blogging

Any blogger will admit to feeling the following things. Or they will feel it, but not admit to it. Or I’m the only blogger in the world who feels these things and I’ll die alone.

  1. I’m embarrassed about 98% of my blogs.
  2. Self-deprecation (or self-sabotage?) is required.
  3. Hearing “I’m the biggest creep, I like all of  your blogs” never gets old, and it’s not considered “creeping.”
  4. It’s awkward saying “Thank you” when someone says they love your blog. thanks i love my blog too, i’m rly obsessed with me.
  5. You don’t forget it when a guy tells you he “fell for you through your writing.” This is not often, because get real, but it happens.
  6. Asking certain friends (you know, the ones who get it) to read your blog and make sure it’s actually funny before posting it is a common, insecure, and encouraged practice.
  7. You automatically bond with other people who blog.
  8. A friend who likes your blog on Facebook is a true friend and many blessings will rain upon them.
  9. Blogging takes a really really really long time, and then once it’s published, I read it 10 more times.
  10. I read my old blogs when I can’t sleep. And I laugh. And I cringe. And I go to sleep.
  11. When a friend you haven’t talked to in months texts you asking for a link to an old blog, it’s like you talked yesterday.
  12. You don’t want everyone to read your blog (parents, grade-school teachers, mom’s friends, current/potential employers, ex-boyfriends, crushes, gyno, neighbor, cashier at Kroger), but you still somehow want to go viral.
  13. You’ve thought about contributing to BuzzFeed but it sounds exhausting and if you’re not famous after your numbered list of gifs after the first two attempts, there’s no hope. It’s all rigged. Blame public relations.
  14. You both put a lot of scrutiny on other bloggers, but also avidly support them, because you get it. youjustgetit.
  15. All of your friends commonly tell you, “DON’T BLOG OR TWEET THIS,” because you are that girl and you know it.
  16. You blog and tweet things you know you shouldn’t, whether for the sake of a career or sheer embarrassment  but you do anyway, because the story is just that funny.
  17. You do questionable things solely because “it could be good blog material.”
  18. Everything inspires a blog post. And by everything, I do mean everything. Literally. Everything.
  19. You’ll be inspired to blog at inconvenient times. IT’S 11:33 PM BUT I JUST THOUGHT OF A BRILLIANT BLOG AND I CAN’T SLEEP UNTIL IT’S DRAFTED.
  20. You’ll wrestle with Google Analytics and try to bribe your 46 closest friends with a job in anything remotely-advertising related. (coding is hard help).
  21. There is no such thing as being satisfied with the design/template/color palette, but your blog ideas can’t wait on your poor design skills to be published.
  22. You semi live in fear of being sued for using a gif/photo from the internet without properly giving credit. You use the gif/photo anyway.
  23. A boyfriend isn’t a boyfriend unless he reads every single blog and worships it and you and you writing it.

23 seems like a fitting place to stop. Be on the lookout for a new blog bye.

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Filed under dallas things

How To Become a Texas Resident. No, but really.

Becoming a Texas resident is simple. Just follow these tried-and-true steps from someone with firsthand experience.

Step one: Vehicle registration and inspection.
Gather your relevant paperwork and Google maps your way to the nearest sketchy auto shop that will rip you off by doing something Texans call “inspecting your vehicle.” Your car will ALMOST be able to pass this test. But as it turns out, you won’t. You definitely won’t. Why? You’re a gangster. You ride dirty on the streets in your less than 25% window light transmission tint.

Non-Texas residents rolling around Dallas without having their windows inspected.

Step two: Pay four thousand million dollars de-tint and re-tint your windows.
You will have to take off work for this. Then spend a Saturday afternoon there. Because de-tinting means re-tinting and it takes too long to do it all in one trip. Also, this will be a hundred thousand dollars out of your weekly Mint spending allowance. Not that you follow it anyway.

Step three: Go back to get inspected and not have Texas insurance
OH YEAH LOL you didn’t know you were supposed to have Texas auto-insurance??? Lolz like duhh who DOESN’T know that???? WHO doesn’t KNOW that???????? Now you can call God knows who to get your New Mexico insured vehicle transferred to some Texas policy. This is exciting because it gives your parents another opportunity to ween your financial needs off of their payroll. ENJOY ADULTHOOD!! AUTO INSURANCE IS $65-100 PER MONTH!!!

Step four: Get auto insurance in Texas and print out a crap ton of papers to prove it to everyone throughout the following steps

Step five: go BACK to the FREAKING auto place 
The staff of this establishment OFFICIALLY HATES YOU. But at least your inspection is complete and you finally have all the necessary paperwork needed to follow the next steps.

Step six: Lose the necessary paperwork needed to follow the next steps.
The kind woman on 500 Elm street breaks the news to you. You’re missing the “out of state” inspection paper. Okay. Ok. O. K. ok. k.

Step seven: Go. Back. To. The. Inspection. Shop.
They claim they gave it to you. YET WHY DON’T YOU HAVE IT. That’s okay because the auto shop inspection car place and vehicle registration office are both downtown. After retrieving the correct paper from the auto shop, you go back to the registration office.

Step eight: Check your glove box and find the paper you needed all along.
It’s fine.

Step nine: WTF is a lienholder???????
I graduated a four year college and managed to scrape by without being properly taught the definition (or existence) of the word “LIENHOLDER.”

You will be asked this by the kind woman at the registration office.
You’re so close to getting your vehicle registered, you. can. almost. taste. it.

You call your mom. You call your dad. No answer. No answer. The lady is looking at you with sympathy. Oh, poor spoiled newly grad white girl. Lienholder, lienholder, if you know if you’re a lienholder, good for you, if you know if I’m one, THAT MAKES ONE OF US.

Step ten: The registration lady decides it’s not that big of a deal and tells you to get in line.
Pay another unexpectedly high amount for two Texas metal plates.

Walk out of the office feeling elation. Tweet that you’re almost done with the New Mexican turns Texan process.

You’re not a New Mexican, not yet a Texan.

Step twelve: Put them in your car and never actually get to putting them ON your car

Step thirteen: Ask off work to go to the DMV
Now here comes the exciting stuff!!! Getting the ID!! It’s finally happening IT’S HAPPENING!!!

Step fourteen: Enter the wrong location in Google maps
How did that happen? No really. How. Did. That. Happen.

Step fifteen: Parallel park and use all your quarters to pay for an hour and a half of parking
Quarters lost a little of their luster after leaving the dorms freshmen year and not having to pay for laundry BUT STILL. $1.50 DOWN THE DRAIN.

Step sixteen: Realize it’s the wrong address.

Step seventeen: Put the right address into your Google maps.

Step eighteen: Sign in online to the DMV
I’m so on the ball! You tell yourself. Score!

Step nineteen: Get UNCANNILY lost driving to the right location.

Step twenty: Lose your spot in line at the DMV.

Step twenty-one: Find yourself in an exit only lane to Houston.

Step twenty-two: Curse to Siri out loud alone in the car and finally arrive to said destination 48 minutes later
Whatever. You made it. You’re alive. You’re free. World peace.

Step twenty-three: Go through the ID process three times
Congratulations! A colonial woman has time-machined her way into 2013 and landed in your local Department of Motor Vehicle office. She will be assisting you with your final steps to becoming a Texas resident today. She has never used electricity, but she will DEFINITELY be entering your data into the computer program today.

Okay, I’m a patient person. I am. Or at least I hate confrontation, don’t have a backbone, can’t stand up for myself, especially to strangers, and often times that’s just as good as patience. My personality is so laid back and care free, I practically invite people like this to screw up, just because they know I won’t say anything.

But what KILLS ME is the picture that is my future ID. Now, I’m a girl, so I’m obligated to be a little vain when it comes to the face that will have to be inside my wallet every day for the rest of my young life.

The first time my picture was taken, it was as if the Texas resident angels looked down upon me and shed their goodness and light.

What my first photo for my Texas ID looked like.

I did the awkward machine signature, did the thumbprint thing, ya da ya da. The woman prints out the ID with my first name as my last name. It’s fine. Process round two.

The second time I took my photo, it wasn’t as great, but whatever.

My second picture taken for my Texas ID. Not my best, kind of quirky, but whatever.

Whatever. whatever. Signed the machine, thumbprints, colonial woman enters the data, lalala okay. okay.

NAMES. STILL. WRONG. Three-four seemingly colonial women are now crowded around the computer technologies in efforts to order the names right.


The third picture taken for my Texas ID. This is only a fraction of an exaggeration.

After the lady shows you your picture, you shudder, but you don’t have the heart to make her take your picture AGAIN. You deal with it internally.

Step twenty-four: Become a Texas Resident

You’re finally a TX resident. Bask.

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Filed under dallas things, tragic things