“First. She tried poisoning us with the Glade PlugIns. But, luckily she is a kind beast and removed them all. However, guy-across-the-hall could not convince her to attempt washing her cat. He even offered to give her lessons in cat bathing…
But now, if she’s not sobbing, she’s moving her damn furniture around. (Seriously, though, it’s not a big apartment, how much room could there possibly be for heaving manmade objects, AKA: couches, dressers and a bed? LOTS, is the answer we’ve gathered from hearing her accidentally knocking stuff off the wall and breaking it as she curses madly at the furniture gods.)
The worst, though. Is that she finally figured out how to use her Amazon echo, Alexa. And it has been a hell filled with the voices of Kelly Clarkson, Blink 182 and v. loudly blasted Avril Lavigne Pandora stations. (I know, right?! Who knew there are people who still use Pandora?) Odd. She is v. odd.”
The good news– nobody talks to me!
P.S. The BEST news, however, is that a part of my front door fell off… (baking accident.) I think it’s called, like, the door strip? IDK, but now that its gone, the gap under my door is even bigger: SO ALL THE MORE AVRIL I can share, and I’ve got the Avril to share. You’re welcome, neighbs.
P.P.S. If anyone complains about Avril, I’m not afraid to bring back the PlugIns in full ‘Mystic Tropical Island Staycation’ scented force. Try mehhh.
“I went from relationship to relationship and needed a break. Every woman should have a period of time where she is unencumbered and free to focus on herself. I never had that. There was always someone in my life from 16 on.” –My Mama in a journal she wrote to me
Me too, until just recently. During the last 8-months of my mom’s life, while our family was fighting cancer around-the-clock and facing never-ending drama, I dated three different men. THREE DIFFERENT MEN. My mom was dying and suffering through terminal cancer, and yet, I found the time to be in three different relationships. I also went through my Instagram pictures… I started my Instagram account during my junior year of college… which was, erm, lemme get the calculator or text somebody, H/O. I got the account less than four years ago and there were pictures of four different boyfriends scattered throughout my feed. If I’d married every serious boyfriend I’ve had in the past four years, I would be hella mormon, but with drinking coffee still (lots of coffee), so I would just be a **polygamist.
So, when my last relationship crumbled like a badly burnt cookie into thousands of crunchy, little pieces, I put my foot down. I deleted all my past boyfriends from my Instagram and from my life. I have no desire to date anyone again, for a while, maybe forever.
A few days ago, my only bed companion, Tyga (my dog… not the rapper. Calm down, Kyle Jenner!), and I headed out for an evening at the “small dog” park. En route, a man jumped out friggin’ of nowhere to talk to me. (And yes, I was wearing headphones. Dude interrupted my Slow Jamz mix.) He said I was pretty and really stood out (on the not very crowded street, for real, I think I was the only person passing by at the time.) He asked where I was from, and trying to be kind and polite, I answered him. He unfortunately took this as an open invitation to walk with Tyga and I. When we neared the park, he said he had to go meet a friend and would take my number. I was like, um, no you won’t… but I said it nicely.
Then, shit went down. Here’s our convo:
Stranger Danger: Listen, I’m running to meet a friend but what I’m going to do is take your number!
Me: Oh, okay, have fun. And, sorry but I can’t.
Stranger D.: Why can’t you?
Me: I just can’t. I’m sorry! K, bye now!
I began making my great escape by crossing the street. BUT, he followed me.
Strange D.: What do you mean you can’t?
Me: I’m sorry, bye!
He continues following and refusing my answer. At this point, I’m v. annoyed and stressed.
Strange D.: Will you just tell me why? Why can’t you?? Tell me. Just give me a reason!
It was very clear I wasn’t interested in this man’s questions. I was being hassled. He was being a dick. However, after all the shit I’ve trudged through over the past year, I am no fucking damsel in distress. I’m the last women in the world who needs rescued. Ever. Kapeesh?
As we arrived at the park entrance, I turned on my heel and yelled at him:
“MY MOM JUST DIED THREE MONTHS AGO. AND I’M REALLY NOT IN A GOOD PLACE RIGHT NOW. SHE HAD PANCREATIC CANCER AND FOUGHT FOR 8-MONTHS, AND THEN, SHE DIIIIIIIED.”
He said sorry so many times and backed away so quickly onlookers probably thought I had a gun on me. Good.
I realize this makes me sound crazy. What was I supposed to do? I realized afterward I could have just given him a fake phone number like a normal person. (Call me, babe! It’s 555-5555!) But, it irked me how he just wouldn’t let up. I don’t NEED A REASON to say ‘no’ to men. That’s something I wasn’t fully aware or confident of prior to my mama’s diagnosis.
I’ve made a lot of poor decisions in my life based on my desire to be in someone else’s.
But you learn. You live through the worst and you live through so many lies from the people who love, and then you learn. When my world was falling apart, I was stuck in this constant pain, which is beyond what’s imaginable by those who haven’t lost the person they love the most. My biggest nightmare in life became my life’s reality. And so, I cried on the floor, and I sobbed until I couldn’t catch my breath every night in my bed, and I pricked tiny cuts up and down my arms using steak knives, and I manically baked a new batch of cinnamon rolls everyday… I was pretty much outside of my mind and overwhelmed with my mama’s dying.
And, he didn’t care. There’s nothing my ex could have done to stop me, of course, or to make my pain go away, but he didn’t care either way. I’d spent the past weeks living off his perfectly sweet words of love and his promises that our love would last forever, and then, it stopped. His words crashed and it broke me.
He told me I needed to be strong– I needed to be strong by myself. I needed to pick my body off the floor. I needed to find the courage to find comfort, while being alone. He didn’t have the time or the positive energy to deal with me, (he was always talking about his ‘chakra’ which I was like, um, not in front of family, dude!) He couldn’t be around 24/7, even though, that never felt like what I was asking him… but I guess to him it did.
There were nights when my body shook with panic and I felt like I’d pass out or worse, (or better), like I was dying too. Sometimes, I just wanted him just to hold me. And so, I’d get the nerve to ask him, only to hear him frustrated and saying ‘no’ he was tired from work. He wanted to work on his trade– nothing more. His friends were in town and he was busy entertaining and he didn’t have a minute to call or text me to see how I was doing… for two days. He was angry. He was doing his best. He always me fit into the time he had to spare– between building bicycles and not paying his taxes this year– and if I wasn’t going to fit his schedule, it didn’t work for him, and if it didn’t work, then he’d always known that to mean goodbye. In the end, I was told by my love who was so different and unexpected, who held me and stared into my eyes, who got me so high… sorry, I didn’t fit. I wasn’t his girl. His words dropped me so low. Luckily, though, I was already lost in a hole so deep, being guided by my grief I was falling into the core of hell farther and father, the pain of it couldn’t touch me.
My family and friends who’d visited during my mama’s last weeks had all loved him. Me too. But when things fell apart (and did so quickly) everyone blamed the timing for us falling in love. It makes sense I would want someone good to cling onto during the end of my mama’s life. I didn’t totally buy it, though, saying over and over, “Yes, but I really, truly did believe it was the most perfect love. I thought I’d gotten way too lucky, and I’d met the love of my life.”
He looked at me and held me and loved me like I was the only true-love-of-his-life. I guess in retrospect, I’m a huge dummy. After our crash-and-burn breakup (on the day before my mama’s memorial service), I told my *guy-bestie about it. I went on about how much my life sucks, how much I miss my mom, how I wish my ex still loved me and how I was still lost on what the hell happened. But, when I told my guy-bestie how my ex had said “I love you” after two weeks of dating, or really, even meeting me… he (not so) nicely reminded me of something. THAT’S BATSHIT CRAZY. Adummy is on the extremely logical, AKA smart, side of the spectrum, and he said seven or eight months is ideal (if not early) for an I love you.
He was right. He was so totally right. Maybe, not about the seven to eight months thing, but my ex telling me he loves me after two weeks was just so… not anything but complete shit.
He didn’t know me. It’s impossible to know someone after two weeks let alone two years. On the phone the other day, my big brother was saying how he and his GF had just hit the 2-year mark, and even living together, he was still learning new things about her. TWO YEARS LATER AND THERE’S STILL NEW SHIT. Ha, even my mama and my dad were, for better or for worse, still learning new things about each other, together, 30-years later.
Thank God for all of this. Because, my ex? He still doesn’t know me.
He’d promised me he would understand and he would love me through my grief– even a couple weeks ago, while I was in town for my dad’s birthday, he made promises again– I found myself being held and kissed by him again as he said we’re so good together and he cares so much about me still, and he maybe wants to move to New York to be with me. And then I found out, via internet stalking (duh), he’s had a new girlfriend for a goodlongwhile.
Oppsies. I win. I win so big by not being with a guy who has a girlfriend and still kisses other girls and makes plans with them. And honey, you didn’t know me. You wouldn’t know me now, either. I’m stronger than a woman you “knew” and loved back then.
One last thing: The man I do marry, (Lord help him!), won’t be in love with me after two weeks. We’ll barely know each other after two months– we’re in no rush— we take things slow. He’ll see I have bruises, and down the road, he’ll find out I have scars. I’ll let him feel my heartbeat and how it still stops at the ache of losing my mama. It always will. His kisses will feel great, but they won’t heal anything. I’m sure he’ll be a bit beat up, too. That’s life, man. And most importantly, It won’t matter to him that while my mom lay unresponsively in the hospital bed setup in our living, I cried on the hardwood floor alone and terrified. He won’t be concerned as to whether or not I needed someone, of if I was strong, and he won’t think less of me for feeling alone in those crushing moments bringing me to my knees, because what matters most to him is that I wanted someone.
I’m not looking for a relationship, right now. But weirdly, deep down, I know that when I’m ready for one, I’ve learned so muchthat the next time I fall in love I’ll be sobadass at it.
xoxo.
*Every, every, every gal needs a guy-bestie. Guy-besties rock because they have kick-ass taste in music and they don’t ever wanna talk about the Real Housewhoevers of any county. Plus, they give you honest (TOO HONEST) no-frills feedback on shit. I’ve maybe only (ever) gotten two compliments from Adummy, but they are the most sincere, meaningful compliments in my whole collection of ego-boosting flattery!
My dad let both my big brother and I share a short something in my mama’s honor before he gave the eulogy at her memorial service. My brother told a great story– he has an awesome gift of being able to make people laugh, insanely, despite life’s darkest moments– it moved the audience and also, of course, had them chuckling. The big guy, who’s now a software developer by day and stand-up comedian by night, credited my mama for buying him his first comedy magazine, Mad Magazine. He was home sick one day as a kid and she returned home from errands with medicine, soup and the magazine that sparked his love for comedy. She rocked at the doin’ the mom thang. I chose to read a part of a script from my mama and I’s favorite TV show, Gilmore Girls. Weird… I know. It was a segment from the speech given by the daughter, Rory, at her character’s high school graduation. And, it perfectly describes my mom. I’d used it before in tons of captions for pictures of us on Facebook and Instagram.
It felt right to read this in front of a church full of people who knew and loved my mama.
“But my ultimate inspiration comes from my best friend, the dazzling woman from whom I received my initials and my life’s blood, Susan Maynard Doan. My mother never gave me any idea that I couldn’t do whatever I wanted to do or be whomever I wanted to be. She filled our house with love and fun and books and music, unflagging in her efforts to give me role models from Jane Austen to Eudora Welty to Carole King. As she guided me through these incredible twenty-four years, I don’t know if she ever realized that the person I most wanted to be was her. Thank you, Mom: you are my guidepost for everything.”
A photo posted by stephrosedoan (@stephrosedoan) on Feb 12, 2015 at 2:47pm PST
Happy Birthday, Mama Goose! I’m so v. thankful we were able to talk you into the silliness of celebrating your “Halfy Birthday!” Not only was it the day you turned a 1/2 year older but it also marked 6-months of fighting cancer like a bad Mama Jama. I am so proud of you! Thank you for being my world, my moon, my guiding star and my entire galaxy for 24 years.
“Last night I remembered an incident from my childhood and the memory made me cry.”
For #ThrowbackThursday, here’s a story written by my mom. I stole it from her diary… Um, are ghosts like a real thing to worry about? I think she’ll be cool with it. Maybe.
“It was about a time when I was about 8 or 9, and I was with my (older) brother, Steven. Some kids rode by us on their bikes and called him a retard and started making fun of him. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. But, I remember Steven saying to me, “Sissy, me different.” He looked so sad! And then, I felt so sad, because he was so sweet and innocent and he couldn’t be sheltered from the cruel ignorance of the outside world that could hurt him so much. I hate that!”
My mom was in school to be a teacher when I was a kid– it kind of looked like to me that she was always in school through my entire childhood… so, you can understand my confusion when my own college days ended. She started out her career teaching fourth graders, but her true passion– which I’ll bet had a big something to do with she had love for my Uncle Steve– drove my mama to get her masters degree in special education. The number of parents who reached out during her cancer battle, plus the many more who contacted us after her death, thanking her for impacting, and literally changing, how their kids did in school was endless. At the memorial service, we watched as parent after parent stepped up to the mic to share stories about how their child was failing– grade levels behind– in school. Their kids had rosters of previous teachers who’d either given up on them or couldn’t spare the extra time on students with learning differences. But then, my mom came into the equation. Many called her “an angel” who was amazingly patient and who understood there are many different ways children can learn. Her teaching was not only effective, but also, (and the kids would even admit it) fun. She had a special gift for helping her students to regain their confidence, and eventually, to also love learning.
Here’s another one:
“I feel angry at Brent (my dad/her husband) right now because when I called him he didn’t want to talk to me– he said he’d call me back due to last seconds of a football game. This makes me feel hurt knowing a football is more important than me to him. I hate him sometimes for allowing him to control my feelings– why do I let him do that?! But, I care that a football game is more important to him than me– it’s like, I’ll always be there but the football game won’t. It makes me think and want not to always be there– so there! Hah! Feelings: resentful, worried, angry, hurt, sad, and fear. Fear is usually behind anger, and the fear is that he doesn’t care and if he doesn’t care then our relationship won’t last.”
It lasted. My parents were married for three decades, and it was about a week after their 30th anniversary that my mom first went into the ER because of bad, bad, stomach cramps. Another week passed, and she was at a follow-up appointment when her primary care doctor first discovered the tumor on an ultrasound. A week later, my was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer, which is hopelessly terminal, on her 59th birthday. It was 28-years since she’d jotted down her anger over my dad watching that football game– she had no way of knowing, back then, not only would her marriage last, it would survive through so many imperfect life things. A couple months after her diagnosis, my dad left his job, (which ironically, he ended up being an exec at a sporting goods company. Maybe, all that OT watching football paid off… Mama sure did enjoy the heated seats in her Lexus.) He knew I needed help caregiving and also my mama just plain needed him. And he was there. My parents got into a habit during the last months of my mama’s life that was so heartwarming and sweet. They’d both end up waking up around 3 or 4am every night, my dad said, like clockwork. My mama would put her head on his shoulder and let him hold her, and then they’d talk, and they’d remember all the crazy stories from their lasting marriage. (Maybe even the one where my mom almost killed my dad bc he wouldn’t stop watching football.)
RORY: All I could think of the minute you left was “I want my mommy.” I haven’t thought that since I was two.
LORELAI: That’s natural.
RORY: I’m eighteen. I can sign contracts, I can vote, I can fight for my country. I mean, I’m an adult. Adults don’t want their mommies.
LORELAI: Yes, they do, honey. I’m not a good example, but –
RORY: Everything’s so foreign. I have to share a bathroom. I’ve never shared a bathroom with anyone but you. So I’m gonna be running into people in the bathroom, we’re gonna have to make small talk. I don’t know any bathroom small talk.
LORELAI: Um. . .gee, your hair smells terrific?
RORY: You didn’t socialize me properly. You made me a mama’s girl. Why don’t I hate you? Why don’t I want to be away from you? It’s going to be very hard to be Christiane Amanpour broadcasting live from a foxhole in Tehran with my mommy. I guess you’re just gonna have to learn how to operate a camera ’cause I’ll need you there with me.
LORELAI: I would do that.
RORY: And how did I end up at Yale? I mean, I let Grandma and Grandpa manipulate me right out of Harvard and into Yale. That’s how strong-willed I am. I know nothing about Yale.
LORELAI: Not so – you’ve memorized its entire history.
RORY: How can you be so fine with this? You left here without a care in the world.
LORELAI: That’s not true.
RORY: You couldn’t wait for me to get out of the house. What were you doing when I paged you – turning my room into a sewing room? I should hate you, not miss you. Do something to make me hate you.
I couldn’t agree more. Life just isn’t fun without Mama. It’s just not. I feel robbed. So many others, too, feel robbed. My Aunt texted me yesterday, saying how she feels robbed of spending retirement visiting, shopping and knitting (well, my Aunt knitting while Mama pretends) together, my dad is robbed not only of growing old along with someone but also of the only person who remembers all the stories they’d collected during 30-years together, my mom’s besties are robbed of decades together spent aging gracefully (and disgracefully, bc it’s them, ha) while giggling through it all, my big brother is robbed of having the mother who– despite not sharing an ounce of DNA and completely by choice– raised him and loved him and lit up outer space laughing at his jokes, my brother and I’s kids (not, like, our kids together… like, kids w/ our spouses… this isn’t GOT… also, I feel like I have to explain this abnormally often in conversations) will be robbed of a Nana who couldn’t wait to spoil them and who wanted nothingmore than to be a grandma to her very lucky (and not inbreed) gran-babies, my future husband (or cat) will be robbed of meeting the woman who made me… me and will never know the person who has filled the most space in my life, and I am robbed of the many, many more words we would’ve spoken and the tons of fun adventures we would’ve found, together.
My new plan of attack to ward off park peeps from talking to me: My stellar reading material.
The C.S. Lewis book is from my amazing aunt, who was the definition of blood is thicker than water by the love and care she showered my mama with during the past year. C-Dawg wrote this after losing the love of his life, his wife. Writing honestly about how sucky life felt helped him get through his “mad midnight moments” of grief. So. It looks like a perfect read for a gal like me!
The other book, “Motherless Daughters” is super famous. It’s still studied and referenced on the reg since Hope Edelman wrote its first edition 20-years-ago. They hand it to you when your mom dies and then you get sworn into the club… That no one wants to be in.
Ain’t nobody got time for that baggage.
P.S. OMG, that coffee drink is like heaven is my taste buds. We’re getting married. One look at that caramel syrup swirl, and I was drooling-over-the-drizzle in love w/ this sweet little guy! We’re thinking a winter wedding, bc as you’d guess, his blended family doesn’t do so well in the heat! Xoxoxo xoxoxo love love love love!
I write this not because I think I’m totally right, at all– I write it because I read, for hours, in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, while I watched the world around me catching fire—burning and smoking and leaving nothing but a crisp, dark memory of what my life was like before grief— I read what was written in most likely the same state I write what I write. And I hope people read. Not because I’m super vain and begging to be heard, but because I don’t know any other way out of that fire in the middle of the night without getting burned. It was the power of knowing I wasn’t alone, while in a house full of people who came to ‘be there’ for us, and that there were other people who’d lost mom or dad, brothers and sisters, and worse than I can ever imagine, there were parents who’d lost a child. These were the broken people who I made my friends—we were all shattered, but together. And if, while still in pieces and surrounded by slivers with sharp edges pricking their scars, they could continue to live again, well, then… me too. What I read was sad and hard and made me sob, but it’s the only comfort I felt– just knowing they were still writing.
One thing I recently read, which really nails shit on the head, says grief makes you lose your filter. It’s so true. There are so, so many things I don’t care about anymore— and most of them have to do with what other people think of me. It’s scary and wrong, how little thought I give to what other people are thinking while reading my writing or scrolling through my posts on social media. But it’s the truth: I don’t care. I don’t care because I’d rather have one person, or one follower, who reads my blog or an Instagram caption, or a lonely late night Tweet, and feels a little comfort from it… over getting thousands of views from people reading pure bullshit and liking everything I do in life. This really isn’t realistic for anyone, of course, but we hella wish it was. And there are so, so many things grief takes away from caring about… ‘what people think’ is so, so very low on my list of things worth ever caring about again.
When my mom was up against the toughest battle of her life after being diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer on her birthday last year, these are the pants she wore:
I’d recognize them in my sleep. There was always at least one pair in every load of laundry, and every mall trip included a stop at Eddie Bauer for another pair. She lived in these sweat pants for the last 6-months of her life. They kept her tiny, shrinking, body warm and the draw string enabled enough flexibility to still fit the next week. So, it was the memory of these sweatpants that sparked my unease with an article I read yesterday.
It was written by one of my favorite writers, John Jannuzzi, who wrote his post after reading a rant post in the NY Post, by Elisabeth Vincentelli (who’s maybe one of his favorite writers?! Thus, completing the circle of life!) This chain may sound confusing. Basically, both writers post pros of dressing for success in order to be taken seriously, (because this is such a new thing!) I respect these two writers immensely, and they make lots of valid points… But… I have a big BUT and I cannot lie: their words read like those belonging to v. fabulous New York City people, who’ve never set foot in a small-town suburb and walked among its native people. Most definitely, the writers have never once braved the glorious lands of the netherworld, aka WalMart. (The prices there amaze me!) It’s not a bad thing.
I’m not here to tell anyone right from wrong, shame the fashion elite, or try a dramatic appeal to their emotions. I’m smart enough not to give myself authority where I haven’t earned it. But. Really, y’all? Your standards for dress are a galaxy far, far away from what is most important on the list of priorities many people carry with them every day.
My mom, while wearing saggy sweatpants, was facing a 5 percent chance she would be alive beyond a year. And, despite these impossible odds, as well as her oncologist’s too honest prognosis of 6-months, she 100 percent had not “given up” on herself.
In fact, she was overly positive, and I still sob every time I go back and read her last Tweet.
“Never give up. You don’t know what’s right around the corner.”
Her Eddie Bauer sweatpants were worn to as many places possible: dark movie theaters, the mall, neighborhood parties, the cancer hospital, visits with family, Christmas dinner, and even church. It was a blessing when a day arrived where she physically could leave the house, sweatpants or *not. (*It was v. much encouraged by my family that she wear pants.)
Plus, do you know how not fun it is shopping for a cute chemo outfit? It’s not fun. My mom and I tried before her first treatment to find a great new “power outfit” that really set the tone (for a miracle) because, as Jannuzzi writes, “Those who look their parts and places project authority, confidence, and an undeniable sense of self-awareness.”
The truth is, though, there are some heartbreaks in life that squash us no matter what we wear or will buy, how much money we have, if we’re attractive or not, or whether we are super successful and always look our part in the world.
I’m sure both writers would argue they, of course, weren’t suggesting sick people need to dress better– but they don’t know that. One quick and dirty glance isn’t enough to know what someone’s got going on beneath sweatpants, pjs and cargo shorts– even, if you’re wearing Google glasses, you still can’t tell. It could be a really, super bad day. It could be a big deal someone got out of bed. It could be the nicest clothing that person owns… Something you can learn by shopping at WalMart: the majority of people in our country are just trying to pay bills, stay healthy (enough), love their kids (enough), make a living, and be happy (again, enough.)
The crowd of unsuspecting people who’re standing outside a theater in the creepy picture used by the NY Post, well, maybe they’re just really happy and thankful to be seeing exciting, live theater in NYC. And, maybe despite, Vincentelli’s disgust, the men running around with their jiggly man boobs flapping in the wind are just plain happy as can be. Maybe these “slobs” are happier than the people who judge them. There are days since my mom’s death where I fight every demon to feel happy. So, if “happy” is setting the bar too low, well, sorry.
After reading the articles I did think, well, maybe I do need to dress nicer because I don’t have cancer. I want to honor my mom’s memory, not look like I’ve given up on life. Before her cancer, my mom dressed extremely well– stylish and age-appropriate — and sweats never, ever, left the house. Her visits to my college attracted tons of gushing sorority sisters, all saying how gorgeous she was and they’ll dress ‘just like her’ later in life, (when they’re old.) But despite my genetics for shopping, I’ll be damned if the way I honor my mom is with how I dress… this woman went a month without food and over 15-days without water before she had finally “given up.” That’s some rad shit.
I understand I do need to be realistic about how the world works because there are different types of people. Some types can be super snobby and judge you harshly. I usually don’t notice it while I’m bopping in my stretchy yoga pants listening to Weezer and daydreaming about WalMart, but it happens. Maybe my opinion on dressing will evolve with maturity, like my music taste, or maybe I’ll forever dress and act like a child, as Vincentelli says. I gotta say, though, after being her caregiver, kissing her when she died, planning her funeral and then burying my mom, I don’t feel very childish in anything I wear.
I’d be careful what you label people, esp. if using Grandpa Jannuzzi’s term, “subhuman.” Think about what defines people. And, if there truly is a need for better dress… then there’s a need for better understanding, too.
You’re probably thinking AS IF right now, but before you roll your eyes and click away, I actually have 20 very legitimate reasons! So, in honor of the 20-year anniversary of the way awesomest, totally best movie ever, here’s some like very solid reasons as to why I really, totally am the real-life Cher Horowitz! Just listen, okay?
Photo: Deskblog.com
1. Well, we both have blonde hair.
2. Unfortunately, we’re also both in the dead mom club.
3. I’m also half-Jewish, but to be fair I’m pretty sure Cher gets her jewish heritage from her dad’s side where as mine comes from my mama’s side. BUT STILL, it’s totally NOT way common or anything!
4. I also was super head-over-heels in love with a super cute guy in high school who turned out to be gay, which I was totally soclueless about. He was the lead in all the school musicals, had the nicest group of girl friends to hangout with, and was the star of our high school choir. I could not for the life of me figure out why he wasn’t way into me. I was sure my hair had fallen flat or something. But then, in college he started wearing way tighter pants and came out to the public.
5. I didn’t drive a jeep, so I can see why I like totally lose points for this one, but I was a terrible driver and DID FAIL my first driving test. But luckily, while wearing my most serious-looking outfit, I eventually passed (third times a charm, #amIright?!) and got to buzz around town w/ my besties in my Harvest Moon colored VW bug.
6. I also had my car before I had my real driver’s license. It was actually my boyfriend who took me out for driving lessons most of the time… which might explain why it took me a couple times to pass my driving test.
7. When I feel, “impotent and out of control, which I really HATE!” I head to the mall and do some major shopping… I guess you can say I totally shop my feelings.
Photo: Paramount Pictures
8. I am a major Jane Austen fan– seriously! I did a book report in the fourth grade on my long-time favorite novel, Pride and Prejudice… it was a really good school.
9. I was ALWAYS TRYING and sometimes even totally succeeding in giving my friends makeovers… and yet, I still, for some reason, had friends believe it or not! (Oppsies! Sorry, guys!)
10. Whenever I see people with their legs crossed toward each other I always, always, think about how that’s an unequivocal sex invite.
11. I really did (and still do!) want to be 5’10 like Cindy Crawford. I’m still hoping.
12. Lots of people at my dad’s company (he just retired recently) were super afraid of him. My guy friends working in his stores would tell me about how even their managers would run and hide in the back when he walked into their stores… but, like Cher’s dad, he totally continues to argue with me for free, even into his retirement!
13. I wore high heels allllll four years of high school, and to this day, my bestie will NEVER LET ME LIVE THAT FACT DOWN… I even had two pairs of the same style but different colors so I could wear one of each on spirit days. It totally rocked… (please disregard ANYTHING my bestie has to say in regard to this!)
14. I waited til I was 16, like Cher, to have my first kiss from my very first real boyfriend… I had to make sure he was perfect, duh!
Photo: Marie Claire’s Best Clueless Quotes (these totally rock)
15. I wasn’t robbed at gunpoint or anything but one time someone hacked my debit card, which can be just as scary really if you think about it. Like, the NERVE! Luckily, thanks to my dad’s super secure bank, I was able to be like AS IF credit card frauds and totally get my money back! Crisis averted.
16. For better or for worse, I love crop tops.
Photo: Pinterest via Lovelyish blog
17. I never argued or pleaded for better grades in high school… BUT I did enter a plead bargain to graduate and receive my college degree, which is kind of like a huge deal. I was failing Comm Law for like the second time, and so, I had to go in the day before graduation and beg my teacher to bump up the grade on a late paper so I could graduate. In my defense, you had to have like a C or above to get credit for the class! And I’d tried super hard but I can’t help it if media laws just aren’t my thing?! You know?! Luckily, she totally took pity on me, and let me pass so I could start at my new job the following Monday.
18. I am like a totalmatchmaker… In fact, one of my very best friends from college is now engaged to the absolute best guy because I pushed her (on purpose, duh) into him at a bar. He offered to buy her a drink and the rest is total, romcom-worthy history!
19. I had a dress copycat incident, too… but at prom. I just really can’t even talk about it, still, years later…
20. Finally, in case you can’t tell by reading through this list of ridiculous and totally silly reasons: I’m still a little bit Clueless. (But aren’t we all!?)
THIS BABE BAKES 