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That Whole Looming Job Search Thing

October 25, 2011

Senior year has begun. Consequently, so have a seemingly endless number of “What are you doing next year?” inquiries. Oh. Here. We. Go.

As normal conversations with friends start to devolve into lamentations about the job market and the importance of networking, I can already feel myself becoming more annoying. Because I’ve begun, as I like to call it, my new “Personal Campaign for Eventual Employment”.

It all started with the nose bling. A few weeks ago, I was looking at myself in the mirror, as I often do (just being honest), and decided that my cute little CZ stud (which I used to adore) was not “job interview appropriate”. I took a deep breath and ripped the little bugger out, promptly disposing of it. This makes me sad, not because of the nostril jewelry but because of what it symbolized to me: youth! fun! spontaneity! a hint of crazy! But no longer.

Then there’s my consideration of the ol’ Facebook name change. Every year around this time, there’s a whole bunch of switching-out-the-last-name-for-the-middle-name sneakiness, so that those risque party pics can’t pop up on the Google machine. Hah, future employers! You can’t find me now! Some opt for nicknames, or make up entirely new last names. I question the effectiveness of the name change, because anyone with even the most basic Facebook stalking skills could probs find you if they took half a minute.

My tagged photos are disappointingly mild, but I’ll probably change my name just for funsies. Instead of Steph Saxton, I’ll be Steph Sabertooth or Steph Sapphire. Oh wait, that’s too porn-y. Okay, got it: Steph Sandwich. That’ll throw off ’em off for sure!

Now, to give you some perspective, it’s not like I have any interviews coming up. But I’m coming to that point in my nearly-completed college career (gah!) where I can’t help but constantly reevaluate my behavior, social media presence, professional appearance, and–oh yeah, that pesky resume. Because I know I’m the fabulously ideal candidate my employer is looking for, but how do I put all my awesomeness on one measly page, you know? Impossible! Too much awesome!

FYI: Next time you make a blog, make your URL as inoffensive as possible. Because, surprisingly, having “” on your resume does NOT impress your career counselor. Oops. Thankfully, my resume-reviewer eventually decided it was okay for me because, in her words, I’m “special”. Not sure how to feel about this. Regardless, my future employers could be looking at my site at this very moment. (If so, hello there! I love you?) But my blog link is kind of sequestered at the bottom of my resume in the hindmost “Skills & Interests” section which most employers probably never bother with, so it’s doubtful.

The week before senior year commenced, I told my mother that I was no longer going to grad school right after graduation. The convo was essentially a sales pitch, as I assumed my best car salesperson voice, and presented her with all the facts and figures. I assured her that working instead would be better given my field of interest (media!). She seemed to take the news well. That is, until, she started dropping hints in subsequent conversations the next week. “I hear Sarah’s going to law school,” she would quip. Or, “I hear John’s got his first med school interview, isn’t that just great?”

NO MOM. ACTUALLY, THAT ISN’T GREAT. I do not need one more reminder that my pre-med and econ major friends are going to be making hella bank while I intern my (unpaid) way to oblivion.

To illustrate my frustration, here’s a pie chart I made up about what I think my friends will be doing after graduation:

Post-Graduation Workplace Demographics (Or Lack Thereof) for the Pomona College Class of 2012

This is absolutely 100% not factual. But it might as well be.

Oh, what a coincidence: as I am writing this, my mom just called me to tell me she hates my LinkedIn profile picture. Apparently I look “plain”. Sigh. She even offered for me to go take some Glamor Shots at the mall, so that means she must really hate it.

Moral of the post: in the next month or so, I will probably spend more time with my resume & cover letters than with my bed, which is all sorts of messed up (also all sorts of hyperbole, but whatever). It’s okay though…what’s that saying? “This too shall pass”? Yeah, let’s go with that.

For now, I have more pertinent things to worry about. Like, what am I going to eat for lunch? And ooh, what am I going to be for Halloween? In honor of my new fake social networking identity, the answer to both of these questions might very well be “sandwich”.

UPDATE (10/27/11): I have been informed that my pie chart adds up to 102%. Just so you know, that was totally intentional.


Best Makeup Tutorial EVAR

October 17, 2011

My roommates went out of town this weekend. I got really bored and took the opportunity to make a ridiculous video. I hope this is still funny once I sober up.

Betches Love This Post

September 29, 2011

There are two types of bitches in this world. First, there are your average run-of-the-mill bitches, like myself. We are often perceived as such because of our fierce self-confidence and outspoken nature. These are great traits to have…if you’re a man. If not, you’re pretty much confined to infernal bitchdom.

Then there is the other kind of bitch. No, not female dogs. I’m talking about the betch. The betch takes bitchiness to a whole new level.

The betch is the kind of girl who washes her Plan B down with chardonnay. The betch has never heard of Kazakhstan—but dammit, she’s fluent in Kardashian. The betch thinks getting her “PhD” means landing the father of her future children, or her “Potential husband/Daddy”. She is highly knowledgable in all things Pregaming, but hasn’t the slightest idea why her blow drier didn’t work that time she went “abroad” to Italy. She has a black belt in talking shit, and a black Beemer to match. She is a caricature; she is a Regina George; she is a betch.

Vapid though she may seem, the betch is actually a complex character. To adequately understand the betch life, direct yourself to Betches Love This, a site which will make you laugh, cry, scream, and vomit–all at the same time.

If you’ve never heard of the site, imagine if Stuff White People Like and Total Sorority Move had a baby together–a spray-tanorexic, vodka-drenched baby. That baby would be Betches Love This. As the Daily Truffle so aptly put it, “if you have ever felt like there is too much positive influence for women in our society today, this site is your new best friend.”

On the site, the Betches describe themselves as the vagina-owning version of the Bro. This is most likely due to their thematic connection to the equally disturbing Bros Like This Site, which parades posts like “Poaching Bitches” and “Calling Girls Sluts”. Omg srsly, I am going to castrate somebody. Hmm…I guess Betches and Bros really do go hand in hand, because together they comprise a group that is utterly despised by most of the population.

I have a love-hate relationship with Betches Love This. I want to laugh. Really, I do. Because, even for all its wickedness, the betchy authors are consciously satirical. The posts are clever and well-crafted, and seem self-knowing despite all their ridiculousness.

For me, one of the biggest problems (and there are lots) lies with the comments section. The site has a huge following among actual betches, some of whom are completely oblivious to the humorous satirical elements. For instance, if the post is about dieting, there will always be at least one commenter who says something like, “Getting mono was the absolute best diet ever. I was sooo small for prom. Totally recommend it!” If it wasn’t for these dumb-as-shit commenters, I might be able to stomach the site.

If you don’t know whether or not you’re a betch, you’re probs not. But, just in case, I’ve created this handy diagram below to help you figure your shit out:

Betches Love This Diagram.

Congrats, now you know for sure.

Unfortunately, it’s time for me to go wash my mouth out with soap now, because writing this post has made me starting using phrases like “It’s like, whatever” and “Fucking duh”. Oh dear Lord, it’s contagious. I need to do something un-betchy STAT like read a book or, you know, have feelings.

Bad Vibrations

September 25, 2011

Earlier this week, my friends and I got into a heated discussion about the acceptance of sex toys. This is a topic far too sticky for a single blog post, so I will attempt a hard and fast condensed version in a mere 1,000 words. I’m sorry in advance for the heteronormativity of this post; I’m even sorrier if you don’t know what heteronormativity means. But our main debate, and thus the focus of this post, centered around the following: is it okay, we wondered, for a girl to use a vibrator, if her boyfriend does not have access to an equivalent sex toy?

Before I get all Carrie Bradshaw on you, let’s take a few steps back. I’m going to go out on a limb here and make a bold claim: our generation is generally accepting of vibrators. When I say “accepting”, I’m not talking about the Michelle Bachmans of the world, who probably think dildos make you go retarded. I’m talking about most well-adjusted, sex-positive young adults who grew up on a diet of Britney, Bachlorette, and MTV Spring Break.

Vibrators and dildos seem almost mainstream these days. (The keyword being almost. I sometimes forget that the liberal arts environment in which I am so deeply entrenched is not the real world.) But even pro-vibrator people still have reservations about the sex toy’s male-oriented counterpart, the fleshlight. For those of you not familiar with this fine product, it’s essentially a masturbation sleeve named for its flesh-like feel. Looks like a flashlight (get it?), feels like a vagina.

The inner-sleeve textures come in Original, Super Tight, Wonder Wave, and the one above, Speed Bump. Or, as I like to refer to it, “Genital Warts”.

I first heard about the world’s number one male sex toy in the news. After the Seal Team 6 succeeded in the Bin Laden mission, the Fleshlight company extended their thanks to the soldiers by sending them each a complimentary pocket pussy. Not only was this a great publicity stunt for the company, it is also interesting because, while porn is forbidden on American military bases (aka. Operation “Don’t Ask, Don’t Swell”, anyone? Nope? Ok.), there are no restrictions on gadgetry. Even terrorist-bashing heroes have to wank off every once in a while.

Initially, the idea of the fleshlight made me a little uneasy. It just seemed so…dirty. Not like perverted-dirty, but like straight-up-problematic-hygiene-dirty. Upon further research, it is now exceedingly obvious that the manufacturers had these concerns in mind when they built the thing. This “pink torpedo of fun” is relatively easy to clean, and just as hygienic as many other sex toys on the market. The how-to video instructs the viewer how to prepare the fleshlight for use. To warm it up, you place the sleeve in a bowl of warm water. According to fleshlight enthusiasts, this process is known as “heating up dinner”.

Popular versions start at $55 and escalate quickly from there. They can be purchased in a variety of orifices (vulva, anus, or mouth) and in an array of flesh-like colors. The fleshlight does not discriminate. Yay diversity! Even for that special somebody who got just a little too into the Avatar sex scene, there is a special-edition Na’vi blue. Yay diversity?

Do aliens masturbate? James Cameron would say yes.

Even though the two toys essentially perform the exact same function, the fleshlight is far more stigmatized than the vibrator. This could stem from the fact that technology is simply lagging behind. Dildos have been around for centuries; in fact, the oldest one is thought to be an object carved out of antler bone (um, ouch?!) from the Stone Age. By contrast, the fleshlight creator was granted a patent for his product, a “device for discreet semen collection”, in 1998. Technology has finally caught up, where it is now possible to produce a realistic (fake) cooter. In Japan, they have taken it a step further with the disposable canned vagina, which is all kinds of problematic. Not to mention just plain wasteful.

I would like to note that it is fascinating (-ly predictable) that the phallic-shaped sex toys are so well received, while the vagina-shaped ones aren’t. Most likely, vibrators are more fully accepted because our society loves associating everything with the phallic. Skyscrapers! Rocketships! Popsicles! Pencils! Guns! The list goes on and on. But what is vagina-shaped, aside from the sexually suggestive flowers in Georgia O’Keeffe paintings? Clams, oysters and tacos aren’t nearly as prominent or distinguished as skyscrapers and the lot. Sigh.

Gatorade’s not fooling anyone with their tagline: “Is It In You?”

Another source of stigma comes from the fact that many people fear that the fleshlight can promote unrealistic sexual expectations among men. The idea of a guy shoving themselves into a prosthetic vagina—one that is hairless, odorless, and bodyless—makes many women fear that they might end up preferring fake vag to the real thing. Quotes from the website only exacerbate these worries:

  • “The Fleshlight will last you a lifetime. If only it were that easy with real sexual partners.”
  • “Some say it’s even better than the real thing!”
  • “The ‘shoe method’ is a style of hands-free Fleshlighting. Stick the narrow end of the Fleshlight into a shoe, on a flat surface…[for] the missionary position.”
  • And from (countless) testimonials: “It was way better than the real thing…”

Nobody seems to be worried that women run the exact same risk with a vibrator. For some reason, we have it engrained in our thick little heads that women and men masturbate for different reasons (they don’t), and therefore vibrators pose less of a threat. I am sure there are women who also prefer toys to boys–but when a woman uses a vibrator, she is commended for embracing her sexually empowerment. When a guy uses a fleshlight, he is often depicted as a sleazy hornball. Its deeply unfair, but its one of the few gendered double-standards that actually troubles patriarchy.

At its worst, the Fleshlight seems like a cheap, fantasy replacement for the real thing, made for guys who can’t get real women. At its best, its actually just the inverse of a vibrator, essentially performing the same function. Perhaps the fleshlight will become more normalized with time.

The ideas here have not been fully penetrated, but my self-imposed word limit just came too quickly. I could go on and on about the ins-and-outs of this topic; maybe next time I’ll get a firmer, more well-rounded grasp on the base of the problem. For now, it’s time to wrap it up. In conclusion, we should all take a long, hard look at the way we think about sex toys and the …okay dammit, no more sexual innuendos, it’s time to retire my cunning linguist skills. I’m finished.

Mobile Uploading Muppets

August 2, 2011

It’s official. I am the last twenty-something in the first world without a smartphone. Woe is me.

Isn’t stock photography just the best?

This means I am lame. This means my walkie-talkie phone shakes violently when receiving data text messages, only to discover that it’s too moronic to retrieve the data anyways. This means I’m still playing Snake, when everyone else is beasting the umpteenth level of Angry Birds. Most importantly, this means I cannot mupload.

Muploading is, to the modern world, what owning a large flock of cattle was to the Middle Ages. Thirteenth century dudes with a mad flock of cows were all, “Prithee, dost thou pay morrow to mine stock”—which is basically today’s equivalent of “Check me out, I’m the freaking shit!”

Smartphoners love to mupload. It’s like a status update, except more obnoxious, because you can see it. A casual night out with the girls? Mup it up! A funny sign at a trendy eatery? Mupalicious! Somebody made a hilarious face? Mup is whasSUP!

Unfortunately for me, my inability to “tag” myself at local bars/restaurants/parties is really hampering my social life. There are times when I’d love to post a simple group pic with liquor drinks in hand and appropriately tipsy expressions, but nooooo, my phone is too dumb. How am I supposed to remind all my Facebook friends that I have IRL friends too? HOW. HOW, I ASK YOU!??!? IHAVEFRIENDSTOOISWEAR.

It’s a real problem, as you can see.

But if I had the power to mupload, I would choose a picture like the one below. It’s almost totally perfect, in that it really gets across a point that all muploads strive to achieve: “LOOK AT ME RAGING! I am having a bitchin’ time, while you’re at home alone on Facebook. HAHA.”

Let me tell you a story. It’s Friday night; you go out. You feel the need to let others know you are out. You are too cool to make entire Facebook albums; it’s better to let less fortunate souls catch a fleeting glimpse of your glamorous outing. Before the pic is even taken, you’ve already thought of a caption (eg. “Margarita niiiiight!”). You post the pic.

You get the necessary self-esteem boost, while other persons viewing the mupload immediately feel bad about themselves—because they’re not out raging like you. Most likely, they have been sitting on the couch with a computer in their lap for two hours. Probably longer. In fact, they’ve been sitting like that for so long, the heat from the bottom of the laptop has roasted their scrotum/ovaries, so they won’t be able to have babies ever and will be forced to die alone. But YOU. You are the life of the party. And now they know it.

That is the tale of the mobile upload. Use the mup wisely, my friends.

Sidenote: If you’re not having a crazy night on the town, but still wanna get mup-tastic, don’t worry! You can simply opt for Hipstamatic, Instagram, or one of those other yuppie apps that turn even the most mundane photos “artsy”. These apps are more for taking photos of things rather than people: a stray Starbucks cup, an eerily-lit window or, hell, even your own frikin’ shadow. You might not have friends, but dammit, you’re one artsy sonofabitch.

I’m not sure what’s in the toilet, but it doesn’t matter cuz OMG look how grainy and retro it is!!!

Now, my tune may change soon, as I have recently inherited a CrackBerry. I’m going to activate it real soon too, post a whole slew of mups, and then all of my Facebook and Twitter friends will know just how cool I really am. I am about to be a mothermupping rockstar.

The Ultimate Showdown: Google+ versus Facebook

July 30, 2011

Google me this: How many fabulous status updates does it take to make it look like I’m a fun, popular person who leads an interesting and colorful life?

Because I just joined Google+, and it’s stressing me out. I already have to concoct witticisms for Facebook and Twitter and my blog for chrissake. That means I’m about one Foursquare login away from transforming into a massive social netdoucheing tool. The last guy who put his friends into circles was kind of a douche too:

So, what’s the deal with Google+? For those of you interweb illiterates, it’s the newest wannabe Facebook murderer. It’s just like ol’ Facey, but with Skype-, group SMS-, and Twitter-esque features (named “hangouts”, “huddles” and “streams”). CNN described this networking medley as the “combo-plate approach”, calling it “Taco-Bell-Meets-KFC”. Without the heartburn, I presume.

Early stats on the site show that there was a ginormous gender gap, with roughly 80% male membership. I always enjoy breaking up a good sausage fest, so I decided to join the party.

Google+ is a mere month old and there are already over 20 million members trolling about. To put this in perspective, Facebook has roughly 750 million. But 20 million is nothing to scoff at, since G+ is still technically in the testing phase. Previous Googleventures, like Google Wave and Buzz, have proved ill-fated—maybe third time’s a charm?

The real question is, are the G+ members actually using this new product? Because my “stream” is a total snooze cruise right now. If someone has anything really juicy to say, they’re almost definitely gonna post it elsewhere. Popular excuses include: (a) “But everybody’s on Facebook!”, (b) “But I spent three years trying to get Twitter followers!”, or (c) “But MySpace is gonna have a Second Coming, I just know it!” I swear someone recently said that last one to me, verbatim, so I had to bitchslap some sense into them.

G+ also has a strong emphasis on sharing news links (“sparks”), so all your well-read friends can make you feel like an uninformed bag of shit. Apparently, you can even earn “badges” for keeping up with various news sites. But “badges”? I mean, c’mon. What is this…Girl Scouts? I, for one, am not in the market for badges, as I retired my badge-boasting, cookie-prostituting days long ago.

The biggest draw of Google+, supposedly, is that you can categorize your friends into “Circles.” This allows you to easily share certain things with certain people. It’s true that you can do this on Facebook too, but it takes a lot more dicking around. So far I’ve made circles for friends and for non-friends (the latter includes groups like: People I Hid on Facebook, People Who Watch Fox News, People Who Enjoy Two and a Half Men, etc).

The circle-loving networking infant is giving the folks over at Facebook a run for their multi-billions. No doubt FB will keep rolling out innovations to try to one-up G+. Just this week, the site added an “I’m expecting” option to profiles (yep, not even fetuses can escape the ubiquity of the ‘net)—so now you know Zuckerberg & Co. are ready to declare war. They were certainly not amused when this sidebar advertisement ran for a few hours, before the Zuck’s minions noticed:

Honestly, I think Google+ is here to stay. Maybe that’s just because I’m so jaded with my current news feed, and I only use FB for virtual rubbernecking (stalking) old high school friends—who, by the way, need to start popping out babies or something (you guys are like so effing boring!).

Which reminds me, does anyone need an invite? ‘Cuz I can hook you up. But which Google+ circle you’ll be put into…well, that’s another matter. It will be directly related to how obnoxious I deem your Facebook etiquette.

This Is My Jam

July 30, 2011

Every so often, when the mood strikes us, my sister and I make embarrassing video parodies. At the moment, my personal favorites include a sloppy Ke$ha parody with our own homemade lyrics, a True Life episode about the horrors of denim-obsessed teens, and the Real World audition tape which scored me an MTV callback at a Hooter’s in Burbank.

Nevertheless, the video du jour contains the most WTF moments of them all. You’re welcome.