I wasn't always the sex symbol of my generation: Confessions of a chubby pre-teen

I was never an especially beautiful little girl, even though my grandmother might tell you otherwise.  I was a chubby, only child who grew up in a house with a single dad, and occasionally visited with a sometimes-mom who thought putting on a leather jacket and running gel through her hair was "dressing up".  Because of this, my feminine influences were limited.  Luckily, when I was a little kid I didn’t really know the difference.  Plaid shirts and jeans worked well enough for playing in the backyard, and that was pretty much the extent of it until I reached middle school.

Yes I am wearing a unitard, and apparently I also think I'm John Lennon reincarnate.

My father worked his ass off to juggle a career and take care of me.  He could barely make it to my after school program on time to pick me up, let alone assuage every childhood insecurity of mine.  My mother was always in the middle of some financial or relationship crisis of her own design, so she certainly wasn't going to be the guiding light that would help me navigate through the dicey waters of puberty either.  I entered middle school as an awkward, chubby, blond tomboy, blissfully unaware of what obstacles lay waiting for me on the horizon. 

   I wasn't completely hideous, but I wasn't a looker by any stretch of the imagination either.  Despite not looking like a Disney star, I was clever, quirky, and liked to have a good laugh.  The freedom of childhood allowed those better qualities to flourish, and as a result I luckily made some good friends, played sports, and did well enough socially.  Thankfully, I would be spared the turmoil of being a complete social reject, but being somewhere near the top of the middle, or the bottom of the top had its own unique pitfalls.  As I reached 7^th and 8^th grade, boys, crushes, and the faint blushes of sexuality began to flourish around me.  Boys & girls began to flirt, kiss, and even"date"; sometimes for weeks at a time.  Despite my desires to join in, I was more of a yearning spectator then an active participant.

Yes, that's me in a cat shirt. I blame my father.

I remember obsessing over the same boys everyone else did, and being friends with the girls they liked - who always seemed so perfect, and also so boring.  I remember heartbreaking little scenes, like the time I went to a Halloween party in 7^th grade.  I had decided I would be a diner waitress, and my dad and I spent the entire day driving around trying to find the perfect costume for the girl/boy party I would be attending later that night.  Matt was going to be there and I had been hopelessly, utterly in love with him ever since the 5th grade.  When I wasn’t busy drawing pictures of him & I running off into the sunset in my notebook, I was gazing endlessly at the back of his perfectly gelled head from the desk behind him in math class.

In my mind this Saturday night Halloween party might as well have been the Met Gala.  My dad went so far as to drive me to a factory where they made & sold uniforms so we could make it look authentic.  I ended up in a mint green button up diner dress, with an apron, fully equipped with fake kitchen equipment.  I brushed my hair back into a pony tail and looked myself over in my new dress (something I had barely ever worn before) and I think I remember feeling a little bit pretty.  One thing I definitely was, was very, very excited.  Maybe this was the outfit that would finally get Matt to notice me, and who knows, maybe we'd even play 7 minutes in Heaven; a girl could dream.

                I arrived at the party, a pretty big to do in my 7^th grade world.  Unfortunately, nothing went as I had planned it in my built-up, little imagination.  Matt didn’t look at me 'like that', although he may have laughed at a couple of my jokes.  He did however notice Nicole; probably without her even trying.  Nicole was pretty and had mastered the quiet giggle accompanied by an adorable side glance long before I had even realized there was a complex and subtle art to femininity.  An art which conveniently, no one had remembered to tell me about.  I remember when I told my dad I wanted to start shaving my legs, he had to ask a lady at work what kind of razor to buy me and how often I would need to change the blade. Looking back now, I never stood a chance.  I spent the whole evening watching him flirt with her. A broken-hearted preteen rage grew inside me.  I remember looking down at the stupid fake knife, in my stupid fake apron, and wishing it was real so I could take it out and stab stupid fake Nicole for stealing my stupid fake boyfriend.  Teenage hormones were so fun, weren’t they?
 

                Another time, I went to a birthday pool party at a girl named Kristen's house, who was of course effortlessly pretty & popular.  I was worthy enough to get the invite, but my bikini wouldn’t be earning me any suitors this day either.  I remember watching all the hot, popular boys chase the girl’s around the pool and “jump-start” them.  Jump-starting was when a boy would run up behind a girl and grab her hips a couple of times to surprise her, otherwise known as “I would totally bang you, but my balls haven't dropped yet.”  Other girls would laugh about how annoying it was, but I was always about 3 seconds away from stapling a sign to my ass that read “Jump-starts are cool by me, seriously GO FOR IT.”  

"Leave me alone, I'm an angsty teen girl."

                   Anyway, I was meandering aimlessly around the pool when I noticed a group of boys sitting down in lawn chairs.  They were laughing like pre-pubescent hyenas.  I listened in to hear what all the commotion was about, and I slowly realized they were calling all the cute girls over in their little bathing suits, and then asking them to bend over and get them a soda from the nearby cooler, while they gazed at their asses with the same smug grin that would probably later get them into the fraternity of their choice. 

 

                   Desperately, I yearned for Dan to call me over and exploit my happily willing ass to his chairmates (imagine a 12 year old lumberjack with a dangerously sexual glimmer in his eye; at least that’s how I saw him).  All of the sudden I heard my name being called “Hey Krissy, come over here for a second!”  Could it be, was it finally, really happening to me? I waited for a second until they called me again, just so I could make sure it was real.  “Krissy, get over here!”  I eagerly sauntered over with the calm demeanor of a dog in heat, “Yeah, Dan?” I replied coolly (in my mind).  “Could you go over to that cooler there & grab me a soda?” he pointed, gesturing to a cheap red Coleman, which held the contents of my sexual destiny. "HOLY SHIT, HOLY SHIT, HOLY SHIT," I suppressed myself from screaming out loud, but my excitement would be short lived, because in the very next breath, Dan looked back over at me.  I saw his eyes look me up and down with the exaggeration of a Charlie Chaplin film, then he turned his head slightly back towards his cronies and slyly said “You know what?...Never mind, I think I'm all set.” as they all erupted in a cacophony of laughter.  I walked away holding back tears of humiliation.  I didn't have the tools yet to stand up for myself, but I did learn how to hate myself & my body image in a brand new way.

                   In retrospect, Dan was a little douche-bag unworthy of my attention, but he probably didn't know any better.  I imagine he had some beer drinking, misogynist of a father who modeled that behavior for him all too well, and to be fair it probably was kind of funny from the literal & figurative place he sat during that time in his life, but it sucked for 12 year old me.

                    When I graduated high school some years later, I had gone through puberty, grown some boobs, boys had noticed, and I had figured my shit out a little.  I remember sitting in the Senior Courtyard and seeing Dan and his annoyingly similar, sexy, brutish friend Jon stick their heads out the window and yell down something to the effect that I should come up and see them for some implied sexy time, except this time they weren't joking.  I wasn't the chubby, androgynous, little 12 year old I used to be, but some weird part of her was still in there seeking their validation.  I won't lie, it felt good to know they finally saw me that way, but it was more empowering that I no longer saw them the same way I used to; as the gate keepers to my self-esteem.  

 I didn't end up meeting them in the hall to bang in case you were wondering.  I talked my 12 year old self off that cliff pretty quickly, and let the more self-assured 17 year old version of me reply with something witty and go on with the rest of her day.  It would take me many years, and many more incidents of a similar nature (good, and bad) to learn how to find myself inwardly instead of through the viewpoint of others, and to be honest it's still a work in progress. Now as I sit here at 25, having been the chubby girl, the funny girl, the sexy girl, the popular girl, the snarky girl, the broken-hearted girl, and everything in between, I reflect back on the childhood version of myself who saw things with a unique sense of humor, who liked to write and be creative, who cared about others, who laughed without abandon, and I'm trying to give her the acceptance and nurturing I didn't know how to then, because that 12 year old girl kicked serious ass.



"Being weird's the new cool."

"Stop making that face 12 yr old me, J/K play on playa."

Why dating a guy with a beard isn't as cool as it looks

"Thanks for the upper lip exfoliation babe."

 Why Dating a Bearded Guy Isn't as Cool as it Looks
(click link above for article)

I was lucky enough to write a piece for the awesomely funny irkitated.com about my experience dating an epically bearded man.  From fending off hipster girls, to wading through a jungle of mustache hair for a kiss, it's all chronicled on the link above for your viewing pleasure.

Thanks,

-Krissy

How to tell if someone is an asshole: The comprehensive guide

Everyone wakes up in the morning, looks in the mirror, and believes that they are a good person.  Unfortunately, this is bullshit, and I have more than enough anecdotal evidence to prove it.  I encounter way too many Douchey McDouchenstein's out in our 'civilized' world, for this to possibly be true.

If they can't be polite they're probably a dick. 

Here are several common scenarios that will help you identify a huge pompous jerk (or figure out if you are one).

People that don't say thank you when you hold the door, are probably assholes.

• This one drives me fucking insane.  Unless you are a dementia laden old person who isn't sure I am a figment of your imagination, say 'thank you'.  Easy fucking peasy.

• Conversely, you are 2 steps behind someone, and have been for at least half a block. SO close, that if you had your eyes closed, you could still sense that another human was near you, and yet when you enter the same building, guess what she doesn't do? Good job, that's right: Hold the fucking door.  Apparently they had calculated her daily schedule down to the second, and they just didn't have the 1 second to spare; otherwise they totally would have!!

PS.  The universal exception is the awkward distance scenario, see picture below:

                         

J-Walkers are assholes. Drivers that don't let you cross in the crosswalk are also assholes.

• Dude, we all live in the same country.  The rules of the road are pretty universal, you don't just run across the street (especially when there is a cross walk within your field of vision).  Yet, you chose to, and I politely obliged even though it causes an undue and dangerous flow in the traffic pattern, and I could have justifiably ended your life instead, and you can't even give me the 'thanks hand'?  Bro, not cool.  Not cool at all 

• Conversely, if I am a law abiding pedestrian beginning my trek across the well marked pedestrian cross walk, and you see me, and then simply keep driving - you sir, are an asshole.  This happens to me all the time, and would be lying if I said I am not often tempted to pretend I have been struck to teach them a tough, but well deserved lesson.

Anyone who acts like a douche on the highway, is an asshole.
 

(Yeah, there are a ton of them, so I'll just touch on my 2 least favorite.)

#1.  The merging asshole.

• I am often stuck in 5 o'clock stop and go traffic from hell, we have all been there.  Nobody likes it, it sucks, but it is what it is.
• It does not suck more for 1 person than it does for all the rest of us poor schmucks who would rather be anywhere else after a long day of work, yet there is inevitably that 1 guy who feels he is entitled to not have to sit through it like the rest of us.
• Situation:  The lanes are merging.  Everyone knows they are merging because the highway is a fucking parking lot.  You have the opportunity to watch every car in front of you merge for at least 10 minutes because you are stuck going 5 miles per hour and have nothing else to do. 
• When it is finally your turn to complete the sacred dance called 'le merge', the dude who has been behind you in the other lane that's merging gets the sudden urge to pass  you at the last minute and cram his car in front of yours, so he can sit in front of you in the endless traffic, rather then behind you.  WHY was that so important to you; it defies my logic.

#2.  The cuts you off asshole.

• You are driving down the open, relatively traffic-free road, doing the damn thing, when all of the sudden a rusted out 1998 Honda Civic from a cross street to your left whips out in front of you like a bat out of hell, forcing you to hit the brakes and swerve.
• Once you have regained your composure, you check your surroundings.  There were no cars behind you, yet this guy could not wait the 0.008 seconds it would take for you to drive by before they nearly ended your life, so they could get to McDonalds for a fucking Shamrock Shake.
• The 'coup de grace' is when they immediately afterwards, become the most speed limit abiding citizen in the world and go 5 mph under the speed limit for the remainder of your ride behind them.  It is as though you went from not existing when they pulled out, to transforming into a goddamn state trooper.  You already screwed up dude, keep going nuts so I can get to work on time.

People that are rude to wait staff, are super huge assholes.

Common Scenario:

Friendly Barista who deals with a million self-entitled yuppies all day (approximately 100/hour) all while making virtually no money:

 

"Good Morning, how are you?"



In a hurry, sunglass-inside-wearing, specialty coffee ordering S.O.B:

"Grande White Mocha, extra foam, 2 shots, no sugar." 

Translation: "I do not acknowledge you, you are only here to assist in my completion of consuming very rich, overpriced, and decadent caffeinated beverages.  Hurry along plebian."

Familiar scenario number 2.

 

Bubbly waitress who has a kid, goes to school full time, and works weekends to get by: "How's your steak?"

Asshole with smug look on their face: "Awful. I asked for medium rare.  Does this look like medium rare to you?"

Waitress:   "Oh, I'm so sorry, let me get that taken care of for you."
Asshole:   "Yeah." (it goes without saying they will also leave a measly/no tip)

They are not your slaves, you do not deserve to treat people however you want just because you have a credit card.  You're an asshole.

So that is the guide, at least now you can try to avoid these people, or start being an asshole back and see how they like it.  And if you're reading this and thinking to yourself, "Hey, I kind of do a thing like that sometimes", the good news is, it's not to late for you.  Refer to the chart in the beginning of the post, & you'll be back on track in no time.

I will leave you with these motivational pictures I found on the internet.

 

Is everyone really as happy as they look on Facebook?



"Hi, I'm being a nice, normal person friend and checking in on you."

I am having a shitty week, no month, no...season; I'm having a shitty summer.  Looking at my personal life from the outside is similar to pulling up next to the scene of an accident 5 minutes after it happens, there's smoke coming from the engine, and you're not sure if the people in the car are even alive.  You think about helping for a minute, but you're scared that if you get too close you might see a decapitated head staring at you, or that the car is going to blow up and claim you as it's next victim; so you just keep driving and feel really glad it isn't you.

One of my good guy friends could tell I was in a funk so he called me to see how I was doing. 

The whole conversation (although well intended on his part) felt a bit obligatory because A) I'm not a phone person and B) I wasn't in the mood to discuss anything unfortunate going on with me.  Because we don't talk much, and he had taken the time to reach out, I felt like blowing him off wouldn't be the right thing to do, so I forced myself to talk.

"Thanks for calling.  I'm going to reward your kindness with horrifying, undeserved judgement because I'm nuts."

Sometimes venting can be energizing, and other times discussing things that are wrong does the opposite; it drains us.  In this case, it was the latter. I filled him in on my recent trials and tribulations, and he was very kind, and nice, and complimentary of me, which all almost felt too perfect.  I thought to myself, enough, "I'm great, I'm fantastic, blah, blah, blah", thank you, except I'm not, I'm wildly imperfect, and right now I'm stressed, and melancholy, and ready to go to bed for at least the next week and a half.

"I am not a good friend and person, you asshole, how dare you!"



(Cue Bad Idea: The part where I decided to compare my friends relationship to mine while I was in a bad mood.  Sometimes I like to learn the hardest way)

I asked him to change the subject and talk about himself, so he did.  We discussed the normal things, what he's been up to, his job, and one other thing.  He has been with a girl for a little over a year now, and it seemed like an appropriate thing to discuss, so I asked how it was going.  I think in that moment I needed to feel some reciprocal sense of chaos, to feel like my life isn't the only one that feels out of control, confusing, or difficult at times.  It was probably unfair of me to expect to solicit a specific response, but in my head that's what I wanted.  I wanted to hear, "You're not the only one going through shit, you're not the only one who doesn't have all the answers, I'm fucked up sometimes too", but that's not what I got.  I got, "Things are really great!" 

"Oh, things are perfect, you love each other every second, and you never ever fight? That's awesome, well la di fucking da, how sweet.  Sometimes my relationship is like that too, and sometimes it's like this, because we've been together for over a year and I'm not a fucking Stepford Wife."

I sensed myself having this ugly reaction inside, that I can't quite explain.  Okay, I can explain it, but I'm not sure I can defend it.  It's not as though I wanted to hear that he was unhappy, he's my friend for Christ Sake, but it didn't feel realistic.  They have been together for about a year, they just moved in together a few months ago; I mean we're friends give me the dirt!  I didn't want him to say it was crashing and burning, but I wanted to hear something that felt more human than, "things are awesome, she's the best."

So I pressed.  I said "Come on, you guys have been dating for a year.  You must have some fears, or doubts, or little arguments.  I know I do, and they suck, but they usually result in something productive, or help us understand one another."  His response was, "No, not really.  One time we got in a fight because she was dieting and it made her moody because she was hungry.  We definitely learned something about dieting.  Hahaha."  I felt my blood starting to boil.

 

"Boy, she sure was moody that day! Now I make sure I have snacks on hand so we never have to bicker again!"

Are you fucking kidding me? The biggest argument you've ever been in is the equivalent of the fucking Snickers commercial where some guy on a long car ride turns into Aretha Franklin because he needs a snack.  WOW, what is this, 'Leave it to fucking Beaver'???  At this point in the conversation I was feeling like either I'm totally fucked up because I occasionally get in an argument, or he was the world's biggest liar.  And then I felt TERRIBLE for feeling that way.  I'm sitting there thinking, this guy was nice enough to call and be a friend, and now all I can think about is how annoyed I am because he's happy.  That's brilliant, someone just put me in the straight jacket and haul me out of here, because I'm a demented, horrible person.

(Cue WORSE idea: Comparing your relationship or life to people on facebook)

"You're happy, we get it."

I think this speaks to a greater issue we can all relate to though.  Although, I don't know if my friend has really only gotten in 1 fight about some vanilla bullshit issue with his girlfriend, I shouldn't be comparing myself and my relationship to his.  I've never met this girl, there could be a thousand reasons he isn't disclosing things, a few being - he's a boy (no offense, but they aren't usually huge drama dwellers), I've never met her and maybe he doesn't want me to think bad of them,  maybe he just doesn't feel like talking about things like that, or maybe they really have only ever gotten in one "fight."  Whatever the case is, it doesn't serve me at all to compare myself to them.

"Oh really John Smith?  Well guess what I'm in a relationship with?  This carton of ice cream & box of wine, AND IT IS SERIOUS!!"

We see this on facebook all the time, and if you haven't related to anything I've said yet, maybe you will on this.  On social media we see the most edited, spruced up, cropped images of other people's lives.  Nobody* is going to go on a social platform and willingly air the things that aren't right, or could be better in their lives.  Why would they?  Instead we see the highlight reel - the birthday outing, the relationship status, the family gathering, the engagement. Social media can sometimes create a view of other people's lives that feels unattainable, but yet there it is, in spades, happening to almost everyone we know, so how can we separate ourselves from the endless inundation of filtered reality? 
*Almost nobody, there is always that one person on facebook who uncomfortably airs and exaggerates every conceivable drama in their lives for public consumption.

Think about social media like a Selfie fail.  What we see at first glance looks pretty great, but upon closer inspection things are not as perfect as they appear. We have to take the information with a grain of salt, compare it with the evidence we see in real life, and stop holding ourselves to some impossible standard. What your 1,000 FB friends, twitter celebrities, and lifestyle bloggers are leaving out, is the fight they had with their mom, the job they didn't get, or the girl they adore who doesn't want to be more than friends.

I started thinking about my friend for evidence I was not the only idiot who hasn't found out life's cheat codes yet.  He has had plenty of relationships that haven't worked out in the past.  Then I started to think about my best friends, they have tons of shit, good and bad going on in their lives, but if you looked at their FB profile, you'd think they're just hiking mountains, jetsetting to LA, and drinking craft beer all day. Just because the people around us aren't advertising their problems (and might even be doing a bit of work to hide them) doesn't mean they don't exist, myself included. 

"We're fun, fashionable, and constantly having a blast! PS, we don't care what anyone thinks, that's why we took, edited, and posted this picture for you to see."

I have a terrible habit of not being able to feel like I can relate to people who seem too perfect, too happy, too together.  But maybe I am being unfair to them with that assessment.  Maybe if we all admitted we're a little fucked up we'd have a lot more compassion for one another, and ourselves.

"Rainbows, puppies, and best friends forever!"

Party Fouls & Party Fails

The other day I was out with some hilarious friends; way funnier than me, and they said some shit that killed me, which in turn inspired this post.  Therefore, I take no credit for what I'm about to share with you.

"I have it all; no seriously, I do."

Allow me to try and develop these characters for you:

Picture a group of buddies, late twenties, functioning in the adult world, normal jobs, copywriting phrases (literally), yet they still get housed every weekend like it's college. We call this living the dream.

On top of their awesomeness, they are remarkably hilarious, just coming out of the woodwork with novel quips about any arbitrary topic you toss their way.  Banter with them is almost intimidating, even by my standards.




"Just 3 straight drunk dudes having some late night drinks; nothing gay going on here."

So we were at a little concert/beer festival having a grand old time and they started telling me a story about this friend of theirs that came back to their place after a night of drinking pretty shitfaced.


Eventually, after a few nightcaps, everyone passed out respectively, and when they awoke in the morning they found their friend lying on the couch with his shirt and NO pants on.

Did you really think I was going to put a picture of pantless man on here? Use your imagination for Christ Sake. (Actually I would if I could find one, I couldn't. I failed you.)

Picture that for a minute.  Aside from being completely disgusting, (Flaccid penis just rubbing up on your furniture and all in your face), it is also startling, and confusing.  Like, how did that combo happen?  I assume some sort of bathroom debacle, but I either didn't get the deets or forgot (I'm sorry, maybe I'll find out and add a post script, because now I'm curious all over again).

Where did the PANTS GO? What happened to God Damn PANTS???

After seeing their friend like this, they coined a term that so accurately portrays what they saw that when I heard it I almost broke a rib, and have repeated it in every possible semi-related conversation I can work it into since.

"Donald Duckin it"

This is without a doubt, the most offensive non-clothing/clothing combination one can do; especially as a dude.  Just absolutely 0.0 things flattering about it, no matter the body type.  Even as a female, that combo isn't really working, something inherently gratuitous and awkward about a bare crotch and a covered torso.

So if you're one of those guys who bangs his girlfriend, but is a little overweight, and takes off his pants, but leaves his shirt on (you know you do this guys); you're DONALD DUCKIN' IT, and it needs to stop, or it needs to catch on like wildfire so I can hear more Donald Duckin' it Tales.

DONALD DUCKIN' IT 4 LYFE!

Unemployed job hunter goes postal

My friend works for an ad agency and they recently posted an opening on Craigslist of all places (see prior posts for my unabashed love for this site). What they received, was perhaps the best response of all time. 

"Oh look, there's hundreds of ads, this should be easy."

Below is an excerpt of my conversation with her...enjoy.

My friend: "So my company posted a craigslist ad for a web developer help and this was a reply we got..."

"Oh look, we got a response!"

"You know, I email prob 30 employers a day and never get any reply, although

Im far more than qualified.  Your asking someone to do a task any PC

enthusiast could do. I can do this kind of shit with my eyes closed. But that

doesn't matter to you idiotic employers cause you'll end up hiring some dumb

fuck college kid who got drunk 24/7 while his daddy paid for his whole tuition in

cash. Fuck off and fuck your company. I hope you go out of business next

week."

"I got my 1st real job bro, let's go get hammered on my dad's AMEX to celebrate."

I honestly can't knock the guy for feeling this way, and I think he lent a pretty honest voice to the frustration many people have felt at one time or another.  Who hasn't been on the sending end of seemingly endless job inquiries, bullshit cover letters, and mind numbing hours spent sifting through and applying to jobs we know we would rather wipe our asses with then spend our lives doing, only to be sent back auto-replies or worse, nothing at all. 

"How about you take your amateur hour, piece of shit, underpaid job and shove it up your @$$!"

Going through that, especially for extended periods of time, compounded with the stress of unemployment, could make even the sanest person feel like they were about to snap.  The anonymity of the internet plus feelings of frustration between what this guy wanted and those who he perceived to be keeping it from him, finally pushed him over the edge, and in a way, I'm glad they did, mostly because it was fucking hilarious, but also because I think we can all relate.