Drive-bys

From the title most of you are probably thinking this is going to be a very hood and gangsta blog post–clearly because I embody both of those so well.  But no, I am not talking about the drive-bys that killed Biggie and other various people on the street, but rather the kind that all girls do but are afraid to talk about.

Drive-by (drahyv bahy): the act of driving or passing by the presumed location of a guy or girl one finds themselves interested in (see: mild stalking).

We’ve all heard the phrase: “There are two kinds of people in this world: people that piss in the shower, and dirty frickin liars.”  The same is true of girls and drive-bys.  If a girl says she’s never participated in a drive-by, she is a compulsive liar and borderline schizophrenic (clearly her other personalities did the drive-by and she just has no recollection of it).  Either way, probably not someone you want to get involved with.

Drive-bys begin at an early age.  It is a common misconception that the earliest a drive-by can occur is when a girl reaches legal driving years, but that’s what I’m here for–to explain things to you otherwise not so bright and cultured individuals.  Remember on the playground when you hated the monkey bars but that boy with the bowl cut was always hanging around them so you were all, “Hey, let’s play tag by the monkey bars!” to your friends?  Drive-by.

Ever taken the hall pass for a little stroll to the opposite side of the school to glance in another class’s window to see the love of your 12-year-old life?  Drive-by.

But when a girl gets her hands on a license and a car–this is when drive-bys can border stalkerish tendencies and should never be done within a 5 mile radius of a police officer or state trooper not chugging syrup (points if you get this reference).  For some unbeknownst reason, a girl can achieve high levels of euphoric bliss simply by driving by the guys house she likes.  It’s the combination of the butterflies in the girl’s stomach and the thrill of knowing if you’re caught, you’re in big trouble because you’re likely never to get a date again the rest of high school.

I recall a time in 11th grade when a certain gay best friend and myself both had a crush on the same guy and decided to do a drive-by.  Here’s where the lunacy deviates from it being a standard drive-by: we didn’t know where he lived.  We knew what neighborhood and what kind of truck he drove, but not the exact location.  So we spent 30 minutes driving around trying to spot his truck to give us a giggle.  Clearly we could have just looked up his address in the school directory, but we were fun loving teenagers, not obsessive stalkers.

I guess my point of this post is to say that drive-bys are fun and, if done less than three times a night, relatively harmless.  Do not be ashamed–embrace them.  Take it as a compliment if a high school girl or starving college student is spending their precious summer job money on gas to simply take a glance at your car and not even you.  It’s not a big deal–stop freaking out.  In fact, it’s the opposite of seriousness: “Oh I swear to you, I’ll be there for you, this is not a drive-by.”  So, by Train’s standards, drive-bys are for people you don’t care about…  Well there went my whole attempt at helping you better understand it.

An Ode to Pretty Little Liars

In honor of the spring finale of Pretty Little Liars (“NOOOO!! THE BACHELOR AND PLL BOTH END WITHIN A WEEK OF EACHOTHER??  HOW WILL I GO ONNNNN?!”), I’ve decided to dedicate this blog to one of the most gripping shows on television.  Pretty Little Liars has taught me more than all of my schooling (kindergarten-college and school of life/hard knocks), and gosh darn it, deserves a frickin’ Emmy.

An ode to you, Pretty Little Liars, for you have taught me what it means to be brave.  I used to think bravery had something to do with courage, but now see it has to do more with stupidity.  Why on earth waste precious time getting help when you could be risking your life?  Also, in order to be brave, you must remember to go to every dangerous situation by yourself or with only a few other helpless girls.  And make sure it’s dark, or it doesn’t count!

An ode to you, Pretty Little Liars, for showing me how important fashion is.  Every girl now knows, thanks to you, that the best offense AND defense is a killer wardrobe with nail polish to match your outfit.  The reason Mona hates Allison and all her friends is obvi because they dressed better than she did.  And Mona will never be able to take down the PLL crew in that black hoodie when they’re traipsing around in five inch heels they wore to school that day!  Yes, the show really does drive home the fact that fashion trumps all–just look at Red Coat!  No one’s been able to pull off a coat like that since Little Red Riding Hood herself, and because of her exquisite taste she’s the one calling the shots.

An ode to you, Pretty Little Liars, for showing me that true love is not a mutual respect and longing for another, but rather an illicit relationship between student and teacher.  When no one understands your love of Hemingway, don’t give up–just date a teacher with a pretentious name.  And if you’re worried about statutory rape, fret not, because people are more concerned with teacher-student relations and not that you’re 16 years old (because getting grades because your pretty is so unfair).

An ode to you, Pretty Little Liars, for showing me that the world really does care about swimming.  Large masses of fans rush the pool deck to cheer on their favorite swimmers, complete with fan signs and costumes.  Why did this never happen at the swim meets I attended?  Was it because I wasn’t wearing a cloth swim cap and a grandma-style swim suit?  Or was it because people only care about high school swim meets, and not the national level ones I attended (though to be fair, we did not have a large crowd at those swim meets either).  Obviously my experience with swim meets is the exception that makes the rule, because clearly swimming is the biggest sport with the most dedicated fans.  Thanks for making me believe again, PLL.

Last night, we said goodbye (until June 11th) to a great show, and I think we should all take some time to dedicate a moment of silence to the PLL coma we must wait out.

What girls really want

Obsession.  Boobs.  Two words that will likely spark both interest and captivating conversation.  However, put them together and most of you are thinking that’s something you’ll only hear 13-year-old boys talking about.  Wrong.  You know who’s more obsessed with boobs than teenage boys, plastic surgeons, and thirsty babies combined?  Flat chested girls.    

For members of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee (name patent pending), boobs are regularly discussed.  It’s part of their every day nature and routine:

1. Wake up.
2. Put on Victoria’s Secret Bombshell bra.
3. Attempt brave face and go out into the world. 
4. Stare at people who naturally (or surgically) have what you’re pretending to.
5. Begin talking incessantly about boobs.

“This shirt is awesome because it makes me look like I have boobs!”

“I love dresses that have built in bras that make it look like I have boobs.”

“Seriously, is a B cup too much to ask for?”

“My boyfriend has bigger boobs than me.”

“BOOBS! BOOBS BOOBS BOOBS BOOBS BOOBS!  I WANNA BE CALLED TITS MCGEE!”

 

You get the picture.

The obsession stems not from lesbianic tendencies (so to the aforementioned teenage boys, if that was what you were hoping for, go find your dad’s Playboy stash), but rather the common female desire to want what you can’t have.  It’s not a desire to put their hands on someone else’s rack, but the hopeful dream of one day being able to have a full handful of boob for themselves.

They’re envious of almost all bazongas: the short girl who’s A cup looks voluptuous by body proportion, the girl who’s boobs are just a sign of excessive weight gain, mannequins at the mall… the list is goes on.  For most girls the obsession begins in middle school (for those late to bloom, anyways).  Mine started a bit later.  In middle school it was socially acceptable to be flat as a board, and I was fortunate enough to be one of the chosen ones who developed early and for a while was actually in the “busty” category.  Unfortunately, at the time there were many other outlining variables that did not allow me to bask in the glory of my mosquito bites (such as being a giant at middle school dances in a sea of pre-pubescent, sub 5 foot 5 boys).  At least I had my bust, right?  Sadly, all good things must come to an end, and once high school hit, suddenly an “A” cup wasn’t as impressive, and merely owning a bra didn’t earn you a “curvaceous” description.  And though puberty had hit with full force (acne, hormones, periods) it seemed to forgot the one perk of it all: boobies.

And those boobs have been playing hard to get with me ever since.  Even going on birth control didn’t result in even the slightest bra change.  You mean to tell me that the only thing I’m getting out of this is a greater chance of avoiding pregnancy?  I want my money back.

Of course, there are other solutions to ease the flat-chested ones.  Some have been brave enough to go under the knife in Nip/Tuck fashion to get themselves a nice pair of sweater puppies.  Sadly this won’t work for me, as even the thought of an IV makes me want to pass out.  Also, talk about costly.  If ever I get the courage to go under the knife, I’m going to go halfsies on a boob surgery with one of my best friends.  The plan is simple: purchase a pair of Double D’s, and have them split them in half between the two of us (because silicone is obvi the most expensive part of the surgery, right?). Now clearly you’re thinking to yourself, “But if you’re going to have the surgery anyway why not go for the gusto and end up with breasts so big you’ll have back problems?”  Because we’re trying to save money, idiot, and any amount of additional cushion to our chests would be both noticeable and appreciated.

There are also several herbal remedies and supplements designed to increase bra size.  After weeks of careful research, there seemed to be way too many mixed reviews for me to spend my little savings on a pill that might make my boobs bigger, but will most likely result in excessive weight gain, acne, hemorrhoids, world hunger, schizophrenia, and joint pain.

The simplest solution is the push-up bra, and gosh darnit do we flat girls love the push-up bra.  I think even my sports bras include a little bit of padding and shaping.  And don’t think we don’t spend many nights praying to the Victoria’s Secret gods for mercy on our chests (I came this close to sacrificing a lamb once).

To all you busty babes out there: be patient with us.  If we tell you you look like a whore putting that cleavage on display for the entire world to see, it’s only because we’re envious that we don’t have a place other than our purse to put our phones at parties.  While you struggle to keep your boobs from falling out of your bras, we’ll stare in awe and amazement and hope that one day we too will have the ability to say to a creeper at a bar, “Bro, eye’s up here.”