Body Language: How to Flirt!

Ladies, your relationship woes are HISTORY.  Here's how to attract the perfect man:

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On Fulfillment, Depression, and Buying Paper Towels

I must have made a pretty depressing image, tottering down the street toward my office building carrying a gargantuan 24-pack of  “HUGE ROLL!” paper towels, the receipt clutched in my sweaty, balled-up fist.  Or maybe it wasn’t depressing.  Maybe no one noticed at all.

But I found myself thinking, “This would be the most depressing time ever for me to get mugged.”  Waddling along the sidewalk, just a pair of legs beneath the massive and unwieldy package.  It wasn’t heavy, it was just broad, and I found myself hugging it against my chest, my arms stretched around it like a beach ball or a pillow or a child.  I imagined a thief, desperately in need of some cash, lurking in the alleyways and thinking, “I’ve gotta do this.  I’ve just gotta hold up the next person I see.”  But then he would see me, a vulnerable oversized woman-child plunking across the pavement, and a giant lump would form in the back of his throat.  “Not her,” he would think.  “Oh god, not her.  It’s too depressing.”

Me with my paper towels.  Depressing.

As I turned the corner, I saw a pretty little girl in a private school uniform, reading a book outside the beauty supply store where her mother shopped.  “Your life will not turn out how you think it will,” I suddenly wanted to tell her.  “Your life will be tragic and hard.”  But that wouldn’t have been very nice.

I can’t explain why it was so depressing, you see.  Why feel sorry for myself for carrying paper towels?  Do I think I’m entitled to something better?

No.  It was just that I looked at that little girl and thought—someday she will be me.  And when I was that age, when I was her age, I never would have pictured myself as I am now, lumping along hugging a package of paper towels.  I’m sure I used paper towels, but I never would have even thought about how they appeared in their place.  I wouldn’t have imagined walking to Rite Aid to buy them.  I wouldn’t have thought that they’d be $13.07 and my reaction would be, “JESUS, that’s more than I make in an hour.”  I wouldn’t have pictured myself picking out just the exact right amount of change and handing it to the cashier, before asking for my receipt so I could budget the transaction properly.  And I wouldn’t imagine myself just waddling steadily away.

I don’t remember exactly how I pictured my adult, grown-up life.  I don’t think I thought it would be very glamorous.  But I just didn’t envision myself with these paper towels.

How silly.  As though “myself with these paper towels” is who I am now, all I am now, what I do.  I realize that’s reductive, as though instead of being a person completing a task, I am a person defined by this single, inconsequential moment in time.  But when you think about it, for the people who drove by me during my walk, that’s really all I was.  A barely-visible girl walking down the street.  To nowhere.  From nowhere.  Just cuddling those paper towels.

But I wasn’t going nowhere, I was going back to work, which feels like home to me now.  And when I arrived, I wheezed up to the penthouse floor, tossed a few rolls into the kitchen, and stuffed another 17 into the bathroom.  And then I saw—there, in the corner—a roll of paper towels.  That had been there all along.  And my heart just about broke.  It just about goddamn broke.

But this story isn’t about paper towels, or my work, or money.  And I wasn’t upset about the walking, because I really wanted to walk, and it was a really beautiful day.  It was just that in that moment, I realized that I was dissatisfied with my life.  That nothing in my life had gone wrong, and everything was normal, and that I was still unhappy, because this life just wasn’t how I’d imagined, it wasn’t what I’d dreamed it would be.  Because I’d thought my life would be different, maybe just because I was naïve.

You can say that I was depressed because I chose to see things a certain way.  Instead of focusing on the beautiful day, or the many things in life I have to be grateful for, I chose to feel sorry for myself and be cynical and sad.  And I finally remembered what people mean when they say that happiness is a choice.

But choosing happiness isn’t easy.  It’s not like flipping a switch or skipping dessert or asking for paper instead of plastic.  We can’t always wake up in the morning and say, “Today, I will be happy.”  We have to work for happiness, by finding what makes us fulfilled.

Being fulfilled is about utilizing passions and pursuing dreams.  Being unfulfilled is like being trapped underwater, screaming.  You go through the monotony of your day with something festering inside of you, smiling and laughing while you rot from the inside out.  You go to work, you come home, you turn on your TV, you go to sleep.  You try to immediately satisfy your needs—maybe you drink too much or eat too much or buy shit you don’t need—you find diversions and distractions to drown out the voice in your head that says, “This life is not enough.”  But these are just Band-Aids for broken people.

When I graduated from college, I came to LA and began a new life.  It was about working and moving to a new apartment and figuring adulthood out.  But happiness isn’t sold next to shower curtains at Target, happiness comes from doing what you love.  For me, that’s writing and performing comedy.  When I do that, when I practice what I love, I feel fulfilled.  And then little mundane tasks, like buying paper towels, are so utterly forgettable, and even the really awful shit in life is manageable, because I have this precious little key to happiness, and that is my passion, and it is how I am sustained.



Author's Note:  Hi!  Hi friends!  Was that weird for you?  Do you feel cheated out of a laugh?  I'm sorry if that's the case.  And I PROMISE that my next post will be funny and just straight comedy--no depression involved.  In the meantime, you can look at this to feel better:  kittehroulette.com
xoxo, Annamal

Love Me Tinder Love Me True

Welcome to "dating" in the 21st century!  Surprise, it's a NIGHTMARE.  But could there be a cure?

Watch as my sister and I review a phone app called Tinder, and learn about our soul mates (or deeply seated emotional issues) in the process.  Then decide for yourself:  Are YOU a Tinder Heart?

Epilogue:  Ernie finally responded to my message, saying something like, "Cheese is important to me, too.  As is wine.  How about we take both on a picnic under the stars?"

We were married the very next day!!  We now live in the suburbs of Virginia and are expecting our fourth child.  ERNIE + ANNA 4 LIFE!  <3 <3 <3

For more laughs, don't forget to 'like' Annamal Crackers on Facebook and follow @AnnamalHalligan on Twitter!

GOSLING: It's What You Do

Fun fact:  A gosling is a baby goose.

Even More Fun Fact:  A gosling is also a shmexy actor-man named after a baby goose.

And according to the interwebs, "Gosling" is also a family name of English origin.  It's derived from the Germanic given name Gozzelin, which means "little God."  As in... Ryan Godling.  If you google it, you'll find that this, apparently, is the Gosling Arms:

But that just goes to show that you can’t believe everything you read online anymore, because I happen to know for a FACT that THESE are the Gosling Arms:

Hi arms

"What??" you're asking yourself.  "This blog post doesn't even have any writing in it!  What the hell is this?"  

I get it.  That's fair.  Maybe you just came here to read, and for all I know, you might not be attracted to men.  (Looking at these photos will be a good test!)  I ought to explain myself.

There are three main reasons for this blog post:

1. I could potentially be the next Mrs. Gosling, so I should know all about goslings.
2. I haven't been sleeping much and am kind of losing my shit; looking at photos of Ryan Gosling is therapeutic for me.  And--
3. I majored in English Literature in college and genuinely like words, names, and meanings.  I was taught that most words ending in "-ing" are verbs, and am therefore absolutely convinced that "gosling" must be a verb, too.  As in, I've been gosling a lot lately.  I really like to gosle.  Last night, Ryan and I gosled all night long.

So I ask you:  IS gosling a verb?  And if so, can I do it?

Potential definitions for GOSLING:

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: giggling in the cutest possible way

Example Sentence:  “I made a joke and saw Ryan gosling!"

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: earnestly pronouncing one's own name

Example Sentence:  “Look at Ryan gosling as a little boy!"

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: utilizing the slow single blink as a classic tool of seduction

Example Sentence:  “I saw Ryan gosling and blacked out for several seconds.  Now I cannot find my clothes."

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: showcasing the family jewels

Example Sentence:  “This should be uncomfortable, but instead it's just Ryan gosling."

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: turning women into creepy cougars

Example Sentence:  “I'm kind of afraid I'm a pervert, but it might just be Ryan gosling."

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: defending one’s right to be a hipster

 Example Sentence:  "I heard Ryan gosling; turns out he really dislikes mainstream  bands."

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: inviting others to objectify and possibly molest you… but in a sexy, consensual     way.

Example Sentence:  "How could I resist Ryan gosling?"

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: congratulating someone on their somewhat gratuitous compilation of Ryan     Gosling GIFs

Example Sentence:  "It may have just been Ryan gosling, but I think he really enjoyed this blog post."

For more laughs, don't forget to 'like' Annamal Crackers on Facebook and follow @AnnamalHalligan on Twitter!

Go Team Sports and Stuff!

In first or second grade, my school librarian introduced me to a book called Shaq and the Beanstalk, and I remember LOVING it.  I was already a big fan of fairytales, and here was one with a modern twist and a protagonist I could relate to—Shaq was super tall, just like me!  I checked the book out and read it again and again.

A few days later, a boy in my class said his dream was to be like Shaquille O’Neal.  “I know who that is!”  I burst out excitedly.  “The author!”  I had somehow missed that Shaquille O’Neal was a famous basketball player.

Maybe it’s because both my parents are artists, and I grew up never having tasted a buffalo wing.  Maybe it’s that while every other kid in America was playing AYSO, I was singing, dancing, and basically just training to be a Broadway star.  But whatever the reason, I never learned to care about sports.

We never watched the Super Bowl at my house, or any other sporting event, for that matter.  It always confused me that one little game could attract so much attention and excitement.  I’d throw up my hands in exasperation: “The way people are acting, you’d think it was the Tony Awards!”

Hey, sporty people:  Yes, YOU, in the colorful jerseys, tweeting about double faults, no-hitters, and goal line stands:  Do you know how the rest of us live?  Do you know what it’s like to get picked last in gym class and know more about Quidditch than golf?

87% of the time, we have no idea what you’re talking about.  ESPN.com might as well be written in Chinese.  We claim to like going to baseball games, but really we just like peanuts and beer.  We wish “Fantasy Football” was just another name for “Game of Thrones.”

I have so many questions for you, sports fans.  Like, what is a bracket?  Do you use it in tennis?  Why does one minute in football-time actually last much longer?  Are football minutes the equivalent of dog years?  Why do people throw up jazz hands during basketball games?  Why are you so passionate about who wins?  Isn’t Kobe Bryant a rapist?  And also: what is a hockey?

Occasionally I begin to wish I knew more about sports.  I wish I could watch a game on TV with you and do more than occasionally shout “Team!” and “Sport!” and “Balls!” whenever you seem enthusiastic about something.  But as soon as you start trying to explain the rules to me—really, elaborately, explain them—I stop caring, and suddenly have an overwhelming desire to hide under the bowl of bean dip.  Because really, I’ve seen Air Bud and Rocky and Moneyball and Mighty Ducks.  ISN’T THAT ENOUGH FOR YOU?

My dear, darling sports fans, I suppose it’ll just have to be.  And if you can forgive my ignorance and apathy, I’ll excuse you for spamming my Twitter feed with your unbridled passion for athletics.  Like that time thousands of you all started tweeting at once about Larry Bird.  For the record, I’m not totally uninformed and out of the loop: I looked up Larry Bird online.  I know he’s that actor from Space Jam.


For more laughs, don't forget to 'like' Annamal Crackers on Facebook and follow @AnnamalHalligan on Twitter!

Gray's Annatomy: Also, I'm Dying

I don't mean to brag or anything, but I was born to not be a doctor.  It's almost like God specifically crafted me to be the perfect non-physician.  And it's not just that I'm a squeamish hypochondriac who giggles whenever she hears the word "sphincter," I'm also kind of an insensitive jerk.

A few years back, I accidentally stepped on my sister's toe AND BROKE IT.  "It hurts so bad," she whimpered quietly, hobbling to the freezer to get some frozen peas.  "Are you calling me fat?" I replied.

The moment I truly realized that I had no bedside manner, however, was during my freshman year of college.  It was the dead of night, and my darling roommate, Carrie, was having some kind of violent cough attack.  I didn't wake up--so to be honest, I don't actually remember this happening--but apparently I thrashed about beneath my blankets and bellowed, "SHUT THE F*** UP!"  Two minutes later, I actually woke up.  "Are you okay, Carrie?" I asked, my voice full of concern.  "Can I get you anything?"  She looked at me with fear in her eyes.  "I don't trust you at all," she replied.

I don't remember much about the rest of that night, because I, being the sweet, loving person that I am, went immediately back to sleep.  This was rather particularly horrible of me, because Carrie ended up being taken to the hospital that night.  I must have opened my eyes briefly during the wee hours, because I remember noticing that she--and my blanket--were gone.  "That bitch took my blanket," I murmured dreamily, drifting back to undeserved sleep.

The good news is, Carrie was fine, she just had Swine Flu or something, and she, for whatever reason, actually still chooses to be my friend today.  But the point is, when confronted with other people's sicknesses, I am emotionally unmoved.  Which just means that, if there is any sort of poetic justice to this world, I deserve to be the MOST SICK person of ALL.  Which is great, because I am also, as previously stated, a semi-hypochondriac.

This is a completely undoctored photo of that time I was on Grey's Anatomy.

I have been waiting my entire life to be told that I'm dying.  First, there was the weird lump behind my ear, which they told me was probably nothing, but I still think contains a piece of my unborn twin.  Then, I started randomly collapsing--which, it turns out, is fairly common for people like me who "don't like the taste of water."  But they still had to run a bunch of tests on my heart, which turned out to be healthy despite having an irregular beat.  "Your heart is weird," my doctor told me, "but it won't kill you."  Funny, people have said the same thing about me.

Recently, however, my only health concern has been this horrible asthmatic sea lion cough.  I've had it on and off for 22 years, but only now have my doctors decided to figure out why.  Naturally, I'm assuming the worst.  If having a PhD from WebMD has taught me anything, it's that if you think you have a paper cut, a cold, or a sore muscle, what you probably actually have is cancer.  It doesn't matter if my cough is just a temporary thing that happens when I'm around dust and smoke.  It's probably still Bubonic Plague.

Which brings me to where I am now, coughing spastically and convinced that bad karma has doomed me to a short and germy life.  A coworker just stopped by my desk to ask if the doctor has determined what's wrong yet.  "Nope," I told him before also blurting, in my paranoia, "it's probably a terminal disease!!"  The coworker nodded distractedly, drifting away toward the kitchen.  "At least you're not contagious, then, right?"



For more laughs, don't forget to 'like' Annamal Crackers on Facebook and follow @AnnamalHalligan on Twitter!

Post Grad Purgatory

I remember being in third grade, and my teacher giving me the multiplication problem 12 x 4.  “You can’t just keep adding four over and over again,” she told me, “you have to actually learn how to multiply.  My job is to prepare you for fourth grade!”  

New teachers said the same sort of thing every year.  Middle school was about preparing us for high school.  High school was about prepping for college.  And by the end of college, they told us we would be ready for “the real world.”  

But, they skipped a step.  No one prepared us for—or even told us about—Post Grad Purgatory. 

“The real world,” or so I’ve been told, is a place where people have careers and apartments and can pay for insurance with their own moneys.  Once upon a time, I believed that right after graduation, I would move there.

But finding a job was really difficult.  I majored in English Literature and Theatre Arts.  If that doesn’t scream, “I have 1 million marketable skills,” I don’t know what does.  Everyone assumed I’d be analyzing sonnets for the CIA within weeks after graduation, but as it turned out, it wasn’t that easy.  

I started applying for jobs in January, and by “applying for jobs,” I mean that I emailed a bunch of people who never emailed me back.  As graduation grew closer, I became sad and desperate, which mostly just means that I ate a lot of ice cream sandwiches and listened to a lot of Taylor Swift.  Her song “22” began to feel terribly distant from my own reality.  “I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU!  BUT I’M FEELING 22!  NOTHING EVER TURNS OUT RIGHT!  THIS APARTMENT SMELLS LIKE POO,” I’d sing to my empty living room.

It was around this time that I finally applied for a job as a dog walker, despite having no particular passion for walking or dogs.  The qualifications didn’t include a college degree, but that didn’t matter—I just wanted something to put on my LinkedIn profile.  Unfortunately, I never heard back.  “THAT’S IT.”  I told myself.  “Prostitution it is!”  But for some reason, my parents thought it was a better idea for me to just move back in with them.  

It’s not a bad deal, moving back home: you get free housing, access to a fully stocked pantry, and occasionally, when your mother is feeling particularly generous, laundry services.  Regrettably, you also have to sleep in a bedroom that looks like a shrine to your 15-year-old self, and… you’re living with your parents.

When I first moved back home, what with not having a job or many friends in the area, I suddenly had an outrageous amount of free time on my hands.  I thought it would be a great time to take up new hobbies, like sleeping and playing Candy Crush Saga on my phone.  But when I rediscovered Netflix, I started wondering why I had ever bothered with friends or hobbies at all.  I started partying all night with my new best buds: Walter White, Lucille Bluthe, and the entire cast of ‘Lost.’

Henry and I break bad together on a crazy Friday night.

By week three of summer, my life revolved around two main goals:  Getting a job, and never having to change out of my pajamas.  Because despite my surplus of free time, I didn’t dare leave the house—it was dangerous!  Just going to the market was like attending a hometown reunion.  “Nope, I still don’t have a job!” I’d awkwardly confess to various old acquaintances while purchasing several bottles of wine.  “Why yes, I am still living with my folks!  Be sure and tell that law school son of yours I say ‘hello!’”

The good news is that I actually ended up getting a job, and not as a dog walker—I’m exactly where I want to be at this point in life.  I have a desk and a file cabinet and a phone, so even though I’m pretty sure my office has asbestos, I get to spend every day pretending to be a real grown-up human being.  And at the end of the day I get to walk through my door, throw down my bag, and exclaim, “Another day, another dollar!”

Because literally.  Starting salaries are $1 per day.  Farewell, post grad purgatory, and welcome to… what?

Don't forget to 'like' Annamal Crackers on Facebook and follow @AnnamalHalligan on Twitter!

Most Inspirational Graduation Speech Ever

Congratulations, Class of 2013!!!

I made you something in honor of your achievements.

Share this with your friends, and don't forget to 'like' Annamal Crackers on Facebook!
Follow @AnnamalHalligan on Twitter!

Cast Me as the Best Friend in the Movie of Your Life

You know how in that movie ‘The Holiday,’ the little old man tells Kate Winslet that she should be the leading lady of her own life?  And she’s all like, “YEAHHH!!  I should!!”

That always hit home for me a little bit, maybe because I don’t think of myself as the leading lady in my own life.  And that’s not depressing for me.  Because I happen to think of myself as a very good supporting character in everyone else’s life.

Which is why I think I should be cast as the best friend in the movie of your life.

A movie best friend is a very specific type, and being that type has both its pitfalls and its perks.  A movie best friend should be less attractive than the leading lady, but should still not be painful to look at for a few hours.  She should be the kind of girl men describe as “cool,” and “funny” versus “hot” or “sexy.”  Guys in bars should playfully punch her on the arm and say, “You’re a real cool girl, you know that?” before turning to buy someone else a drink.

Because a movie best friend should never have an exciting love life of her own.  If your movie is about a 20-something working woman in search of her one true love, you need a best friend who has an untiring ability to listen to you whine.  And when eventually you need her advice, and ask her, “Should I marry Rupert, the dashing British doctor, or Todd, the funny photographer who saved my cat’s life,” she will comfort you in your troubles and not throw a glass of red wine in your face.

That’s the part I’m less excited about.  I can’t promise that I’ll never throw wine in your face, and I might even send you some passive-aggressive text messages if you complain too much.  But a movie best friend gets to do a lot of fun stuff, too, that I think I’d really enjoy.  While you, the leading lady, probably have a “cool girl” job as a journalist, no one will really know what I do, so I might just run an orphanage for stray cats.  I’ll harbor some slightly radical political ideas, write a blog, and shamelessly perform my dorky dance moves in front of crowds on karaoke night.  I’ll lecture you about your shopping addiction and probably tell you hilarious horror stories about my blind first date with “Glenn,” the taxidermist with the handlebar mustache.

Because the greatest part about being a best friend in a movie is that I’ll be allowed to actually be funny.  Leading ladies are rarely allowed to be funny, because people are afraid they’ll lose their “cute factor” or sex appeal.  If a leading lady is supposed to be considered “funny” and “quirky,” the most she can do is accidentally burn mini muffins or get stuck in a telephone booth.  Boring!

But if you’re a straight male, you’re probably thinking this post doesn’t apply to you.  You’re thinking that maybe you shouldn’t cast me as the best friend in the movie of your life, and that maybe you should go with Zach Galifianakis instead.  WRONG!  I could be the best buddy in your buddy cop movie.  You can be the hot one and I’ll be the chubby one in aviator sunglasses. Or maybe your life is a musical.  And instead of being the delicate little blonde soprano you fall in love with, I’ll be the brunette named “Eponine” who’s in love with you and wanders around in the rain singing songs about being in the friend-zone.  (Your life is 'Les Miserables.')

My life is so hard

The fact is, whether or not it’s featured on screen, the best friend in movies must actually have a life of her own.  She’s not a perfect cookie-cutter person, and she doesn’t fall in love with Josh Duhamel, but she has a lot of freedom to do what she wants.  She can make a lot of wisecracks and drink a lot of chardonnay and generally just be a badass supporting character.  So when they make a movie about your life…which they will obviously, inevitably, do... cast me as your best friend.  I promise I won't let you down.


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Facebook: Honest and Uncensored

Honestly, I'm a pretty happy person.  My life has been blessed with opportunities and love, and most of the time, I remember to be grateful.  I never want to take what I have for granted. 

But sometimes that's hard.  Picture this:

It's late at night on a Friday, and I'm home alone.  It's dark and it's cold, because I'm too damn cheap to turn on the heat, and I'm dressed up like a homeless person, cocooned inside a blanket, camped out at my kitchen table.  I stare vacantly at my computer screen.  I stayed in tonight in order to get some work done, but I feel completely uninspired.  I can't focus.  I keep snacking.  I'm bored out of my mind and beginning to flounder in self-pity.  I contemplate the ethical repercussions of stealing my roommate's bottle of wine, but ultimately decide against it.  Feeling sorry for myself, I navigate away from a blank word document and log into Facebook for the umpteenth time tonight.  Resigned to the idea that I won't actually achieve anything this evening, I allow myself to casually drift across the Facebook profiles of friends and acquaintances.  To me, in this moment, all of them look like this:
Click HERE to enlarge picture!

"How can this be?" I wonder as my immobile body slowly molds to the shape of my seat.  "How are their lives so effortlessly perfect, when I am alone, freezing, craving chocolate cake, and stalking them because I have nothing better to do with my sad excuse for a life?"  I relish this moment of tragedy, luxuriating in gloriously gratuitous self-pity, until, of course, I decide to take a look at my own Facebook page.

And believe it or not, it looks exactly like the others.  My Facebook profile does not tell the tale of a sad little girl alone at her kitchen table, it paints the picture of yet another perfect person who is confident, happy, and in control of her life.  Who is that person?  Can I be her?  Because it certainly doesn't feel like me. 

It's not that I--or anybody--actually means to LIE on Facebook.  It's just that we're selective about what we share.  We post news when we're excited or proud, "check-in" to restaurants when we're out celebrating with friends, and post pictures of our most thrilling adventures.  We're self-censoring, to an extent, and grooming our images like self-trained PR professionals.  Facebook isn't an honest depiction of life, it's an idealized snapshot of it.

Which is why I've decided to take one for the team, and really go public with an HONEST, UNCENSORED look at my life.  This is what my Facebook page would look like if it actually represented me:
Click HERE to enlarge picture!

It's a scary idea, being honest, and it's kind of overly personal, too.  You might not want to know that I dress like a homeless person, and I certainly don't want to see forty-five Facebook statuses about your recent break-up.  So I'm not demanding that we all stop censoring ourselves on the Internet.  But I guess I just want you to know that... I don't have my life figured out just yet.  I'm not perfect.  In fact, I'm wildly imperfect, and I'm willing to share that with the world.  Because it's honest.  And honestly, we're all kind of in this together, aren't we?


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Twitter @AnnamalHalligan

Lifestyle Blogging: An Easy, How-To Guide!!

I’ve been surfing the web a lot lately, and I’ve discovered a wonderful new source of inspiration: LIFESTYLE BLOGS!!!  They’re not fashion blogs.  They’re not travel blogs.  They don’t specialize in comedy, politics, or food.  Truth be told, they don’t really specialize in anything—except telling you how to live your life!

Which begs the question: Do YOU have what it takes to be a lifestyle blogger?!?  Because it could be SO MUCH FUN!!!

Ask yourself:

1.     Am I alive?

2.     Do I have at least one working finger, allowing me to type?

3.     Do I have Internet access?

If you answered “Yes” to all three questions, CONGRATULATIONS!  You are 100% qualified to start a lifestyle blog that tells other people how to live their lives.  Think that sounds presumptuous and egotistical?  Think no one really cares what you have to say?  THINK AGAIN. 

You’re about to enlighten people with completely important, original ideas they could NEVER have dreamt up on their own.  For example, if it weren’t for lifestyle blogs, I would never have heard of such things as “green tea” or “springtime.”  I would never have learned how to spend the perfect rainy day (movies and hot chocolate) and I’d have NO IDEA who Ryan Gosling is!!  

 Scared to get started?  DON’T BE!!  :-)  Just go on Pinterest and see what girls are into these days.  Maybe pick a quote by an author you’ve never heard of and ramble about whatever it inspires.  Dish out some juicy metaphors and have FUN! 

…Still struggling?!?  Don’t worry!  Your best gal-pal Annamal is here to make this even easier for you.  Here’s the basic outline for a blog post.  Follow it, and you’ll be a lifestyle guru in no time.

1. Introduce your subject!  Throw in some questions to really engage your audience.  You want them to know that you’re their buddy!  Here’s an example:

My newest obsession is daisies!!!!  Have you guys heard of them?!?  Aside from being so cheerful, bright, and beautiful, they come in tons of glorious hues, and they symbolize new growth!!!

2.  Find a way to relate this back to your life, to make your post meaningful and potent and deep!

I’m so glad that daisies remind me of new growth, because right now, my life is FILLED with new beginnings!!  I’m getting ready to graduate from college, so this is a scary but exciting time for me!!! 

3.  Now begin imparting your infinite wisdom to the lesser vessels reading your blog!

Are you, too, facing changes in your life?  What are you ready to begin?  Challenge yourself to a fresh new lifestyle… as fresh as a daisy, bursting into bloom!!!  LOL!

4.  If you haven’t already, now throw in an inspirational quote superimposed on a pretty picture!  Honestly, the quote doesn’t even have to relate to what you’ve been talking about.  Just having it there will show what an artistic and inspiring human you are, in touch with your reader’s needs.

I don't know where 'somplace' is, but I guess I should go

5.  Keep giving your readers random bits of advice before finding some finagled way to relate it all back to your original idea.

Take on a new goal this spring.  Eat more kale.  Go on long walks.  Take time to meditate daily!  If you dwell on what you’re grateful for, be it your family, Jesus, Greek life, or something else, you will be FILLED with JOY and HAPPINESS and you, like a daisy, will brighten any room!!!  

Good luck, future bloggers!!!  Start spreading inspiration!!  And always remember:  LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE!!!!!!  <3

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How to Lose Friends and Isolate People

That’s right: It’s time for a SELF-HELP blog post, where I lift you up, inspire you, and act like I’m somehow totally justified in offering you advice! 

But before you get too excited, you should know that this is different from your standard self-help guide.  First, it doesn’t include any photos of me gazing pensively over the ocean, and second, I’m really just here to teach you how to lose friends and isolate people.  All of the following basic conversation points, especially if used in combination and at maximum frequency, will cause people to “forget” to return your text messages.  It works 100% of the time some of the time.

8 BASIC TIPS FOR LOSING FRIENDS AND ISOLATING PEOPLE:

1.     Assert your intelligence by preaching to others about their television habits. 

Whenever anyone mentions a show they like, just smugly reply, “I don’t believe in television,” or, “Oh, no… I don’t watch reality TV.”  Your subtext should be: I am your superior.

2.     Protest against Facebook in order to seem both social and important.

“I almost never go on Facebook.  I’m such a busy person, I’d rather use what little free time I have to, you know, hang out with real people.”

3.     Health is important.  Make sure your friends know you care about their health by not letting them eat something until you’ve commented on it.

“Look at you, eating a salad!!  Good for you!!”

“Do you have any idea how many chemicals are in that?”

4.     Also, if you’ve ever worked out, you’re completely justified in advising your friends on their fitness regimens.  You’re basically a certified personal trainer.

“You went on a run?  Good for you!!!  So proud of you!!”

“You shouldn’t do that, it’s really bad for your knees.” 

5.     Keep the conversation rolling by never actually allowing your partner to speak.  Interrupt with non sequiturs.

“Guess what!  My sister just adopted a baby fr—”

6.     Show other people you care by attempting to relate to their problems.

Person A:  “I’m really nervous.  The doctor says my EKG and breathing are abnormal, so I have to see a cardiologist.”

Person B:  “I know how you feel.  My dog gets out of breath really easily.  I think maybe there’s something wrong with his heart, too.”

7.     Make factual observations about your friends’ clothing choices, but don’t go so far as to actually compliment them.

Note:  If a girl isn’t wearing makeup, be sure and ask if she’s sick.

8.     Friends help carry each other’s burdens.  It’s important that your friends know that your burdens are heavier than theirs.

Person A:  “I broke my ankle!”

Person B:  “Really?  I have several broken ribs and only one ball.”

The key is to make it clear that you don’t actually care what the other person is saying.  You’re not remotely invested in how they spend their time, feed themselves, or survive the petty tribulations plaguing their meaningless lives.  You just want to hear your own sweet, melodious voice, dripping with condescension, imparting wisdom to lesser vessels.  So these pretentious lines I’ve fashioned for you, these unsolicited, advisory remarks, will flow from your tongue onto the poor, unsuspecting ears of the person who, in .5 seconds, will decide they don’t want to be your friend.  And you will have mastered the art of how to lose friends and isolate people.

PS:  I lied.

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My Froyo Brings All the Boys to the Yard

Why do all frozen yogurt shops have such ridiculous names?  Based on some pre-existing knowledge and extensive Google research, I have found that “Frutti Yogi,” “Cherry Berry,” and “Swirlicious” all actually exist, to name a few.  There’s even a frozen yogurt place called “Dream Cream.”  Seriously. 

Why do they do this to themselves?  It’s like they’re putting signs in their windows that say “Hey, don’t respect our frozen dairy treats.”  And such was the case at Bubbly Penguin Frozen Yogurt.

You see, I know this because I worked at Bubbly Penguin for exactly six weeks during high school.  Why only six weeks, you ask?  Well, until now, I’ve always told people that I quit because I wasn’t built for hard manual labor.  But that’s not exactly the truth…

I learned two things during my tenure at Bubbly Penguin: how to meticulously swirl frozen yogurt into a perfect eight-ounce mound, and how to become invisible.  I’d be standing at the register in my matching apron and visor, stripped of my humanity, when a gaggle of kids from my high school would pop through the door.  “Hi!  Welcome to Bubbly Penguin!  How are you today?”  I’d inquire.  “Small chocolate with strawberries,” would come the reply.  A visor is an invisibility cloak for Muggles.

Nevertheless, talking to customers was actually the best part of the job—because the rest of my pastel pink work environment was terrifying.  There were secret hidden cameras on the walls, and I constantly felt like I was being watched.  The phone would ring, and I’d answer it to a deep and gravelly voice saying,  “Stop touching your hair.”  Then, the line would go dead.

My boss exacerbated the situation, because I was always vaguely afraid he wanted to murder me.  He was a large, hulking man, weighing approximately 300 pounds of pure froyo gooiness, and he was always inexplicably soaking wet.  He tried to be a “cool boss,” ordering pizzas and inviting all the female workers over to his home, but every time I looked at him, I could only ever imagine him hacking me to little pieces with an axe and shoving me in the freezer next to the smoothie supplies.  He often reminded his employees to avoid teenage pregnancy, and he once advised me that I should “tastefully display the titties” more often.  

Here's a photo I took of him one day at work.

Needless to say, we never really became friends.  Instead, he wheezily threatened to fire me for “not invitin’ the customer to return,” and forced me to work alone with him long past closing time.  He would tell me odd, fantastical lies about his life in intricate detail, and then, while slowly slipping small cubes of moist banana into his mouth, would stare at me and say, “You an’ me are the same person.”  The day I finally got fed up and quit, he told the other employees I’d been working there for two years and was the first person he’d ever hired.  I remember being terrified that he was going to cry.

So why did I quit Bubbly Penguin after only six weeks?  Officially it was because I wanted to direct a play, and scheduling rehearsals around work shifts was too difficult.  But there may have been some other contributing factors.

Epilogue:  For those of you concerned about the implications of sexual harassment in this story, you should know that my boss was eventually fired for that very reason.  Someone else must have gotten fed up with his “mango” jokes.

Disclaimer:  The place wasn’t actually called “Bubbly Penguin Frozen Yogurt,” but I’m trying to not be sued.  Its name really was stupid, though.

PS:  I still possess the keen wrist technique for preparing perfectly swirled frozen yogurt, so if you take me to Yogurtland sometime, I’ll happily prepare your froyo for you.


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