Last week I turned 26, which means that within 14 days, every person who I have ever met will be married except for me. This is fine! I love weddings, because I love love, my friends, and when other people pay for me to drink champagne until I cry.
Lately, I’ve been using Rent The Runway for my formal dress needs. It’s an incredible service; I’ve paid a fraction of the retail price to wear gorgeous designer dresses for the weekend. But, in typical Carly fashion, I’m starting to Catholic-guilt myself out of paying $40-ish rental fees for a dress that I’ll never get to wear again.
I’ll be attending a beach wedding in 3 weeks, so I’ve been on the hunt for something short, fun, and that makes me look like I’ve been on the GOOP diet since I was 2 years old. With these criteria in mind, I made my way to several non-RTR dress purveyors.
There comes a time in every person’s life when he or she looks in the mirror and sees this:
Wait… Really? Not everyone??? Alright, fine. But know that if you’ve never sobbed in traffic while texting your significant other that you wish you weren’t “built like the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s inbred cousin” (actual words- I checked), this post may not be for you.
For as long as I can remember, my relationship with food has been plagued by more drama, bathroom-sobbing, and overall emotional breakdowns than all 20 seasons of The Bachelor combined. Name any diet plan you can think of- South Beach, Atkins, Weight Watchers, low carb, no carb, Cabbage Soup, Master Cleanse (aka the Lemonade with Cayenne Pepper Diet), Major Depressive Episode, Weekly Chipotle Colon Cleanse, Poking At Your Stomach To See If It Goes Away, Just Cigarettes, Crying A Lot, Hungarian Tapeworm Implantation- and I’ve tried it, sometimes with disastrous results.
**Carly’s Into That Official Disclaimer: Do not, under any circumstances, participate in the Master Cleanse. You will cry; you will shit your brains out; you will cry WHILE shitting your brains out; you will experience visual hallucinations; you may or may not fantasize about eating non-food objects like your desk chair. I definitely didn’t! Not at all! Haha!**
It was the summer after I’d turned 16 and I still didn’t have my driver’s license. This was mainly due to the fact that my parents are the only two people who have ever read the Florida “Jesus Christ, Your Kid Is About To Start Driving” Manual, which recommends that each teen complete 50 hours of supervised driving before becoming licensed.
RECOMMENDS. The manual actually uses the word “recommends”, as in, “our chef recommends the 2007 New Zealand Pinot Gris as a pairing for the salmon” or “ma’am, we recommend that you put your pants back on or you’ll need to come down to the station”. In no place does it say that a parent will need to provide a signature or even a verbal statement that they’ve followed the recommendation- “I solemnly swear on my life that I have allowed Asjhlaiie to chauffeur me around in my Chevy Malibu for 50 hours”- but all of my well-planned arguments about recommendations versus requirements fell on deaf ears.
That’s how I ended up in a week-long Driver’s Ed course at my high school, taught by the girls’ basketball coach, who went by Coach (of course). We spent our days driving Coach in lazy circles around the parking lot; driving Coach and 3 of our peers in lazy circles around the slower parts of town; and, when it was too hot (in Florida, this is every day except select occurrences of January 11th), watching Coach’s bootlegged version of “Anaconda: Hunt For The Blood Orchid” in a musty portable classroom.
As jobs go, I can’t complain. I am inside and seated; I am secure in my employment; my interactions with feces are limited. I don’t make a lot, but I can pay rent, buy wine, and purchase ~700 new toys a week for my dog, who is precious yet destructive (just like her mom!). I am grateful.
That said, working in an office comes with a particular set of unspoken rules. Aside from the obvious (“on your first day, find the biggest guy in there and punch him right in the mouth”), I’ve compiled a quick list to help us all make it through the 5 worst days of the week. Read More
I listen to Pandora a lot- in the car, at my desk, in the shower, at the gym. Despite the fact that it’s essentially my sole music source, I refuse to pay $4 a month for a service that will not allow me to permanently opt out of any and all songs that are sung, collaborated on, or in any way touched by Ellie Goulding. She could sing a heartwarming rendition of our country’s national anthem and I would still throw up. Give me a “No More Of This Bitch” button and I’d pay $8 a month. YOUR MOVE, PANDORA.
Because I am cheap and somehow under the illusion that I am sticking it to Pandora by continuing to use the free version of their service rather than the paid one, I hear approximately 2 ads per 4 songs. I am confident that by 2016, Pandora will be solely an ad-streaming software, with paid members receiving up to 4 songs per hour. The ads are targeted based on your age, gender and music taste. Pandora has (correctly) pegged me as a basic-ass bitch, because the only 3 stations I listen to anymore are Third Eye Blind, Beyoncé, and Rihanna’s “Birthday Cake”. Over the last month, I’ve been hearing the same ad for Palm Beach Tan roughly 4x per day.
(Don’t worry, ladies. Only half of this post will be spent gently teasing you for your wedding board.)
In 2010, I was a sophomore in college in the early stages of my psychology coursework. For me, this translated to long nights at the library/at my desk/in my bed, sitting on the computer, trawling for anything to do other than study. Just when I thought I’d perused the entire corner of the Internet reserved for slacking assholes like myself, someone invented Pinterest: a haven of easy, fun, instantly rebloggable internet garbage (I use this term lovingly) that one can categorize and display in any way she sees fit.
I was in trouble. I didn’t even pretend to study for weeks. I was losing friends, alienating family, and sacrificing all meaningful relationships that threatened to jeopardize my constant perusal of “Easy!!! Chocolate Chip Cookie Ice Cream Bowls!!!” After the intervention (in which my loved ones disguised themselves as Homemade 3-Ingredient Rosemary-Lavender Skin-Soothing Aromatherapy Footscrubs, crept up behind me, and set fire to my computer with a blowtorch), I am now able to see Pinterest for what it really is: the most unintentionally hilarious social media site out there. At any given moment, you will find all of the following posts on your Pinterest homepage: Read More
Last night, for the first time in over a month, my #WineWednesday partner-in-crime was too busy with work (what’s that like?) to help me celebrate our favorite weekly holiday. Instead of crying about it (I totally cried about it), I’ve elected to channel my pain into a celebration of wine. O Sauvignon, O Sauvignon, how grapey are your glug glugs?
Let me begin by saying that I often take greater pleasure from a solid hatewatch than I do from genuinely enjoying a good movie (e.g.: Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus; the complete works of M. Night Shyamalan; my homemade pornography (KIDDING) (sorry mom)). Thus, I was incredibly excited by all of the terrible reviews of the 50 Shades of Grey movie. I built it up in my head; I imagined how embarrassingly bad some of the scenes could be in movie format; I soaked myself in the internet’s outrage like a hot bath. I brought my boyfriend. I purchased a shotglass of Sauvignon Blanc from the movie theater bar for $37. I was ready.