Tag Archives: white girl problems

I Will Leave Bobby Pins On Everything You Love

Some people are interested in what walls would say if they could talk, but I think it would be much more revealing to interview my bobby pins.

I think Matt O’Brien may have captured my terrible habit best here, in “What it’s Like Living With A Girl”:

I would love to give a more moving account of my life and travels, but bobby pins are probably the only consistent artifact I’ve ever left in every state I’ve lived, and mine are scattered across Texas, Arizona, Tennessee and everywhere in between. Besides styling my lion’s mane in all sorts of styles from calm to crazy, I’m sure some are still littered in airports, sunk to the bottom of lakes and rivers and rusting on the side of old dirt roads.

Oh, the stories that these tiny brown hair sidekicks could tell.

There’s always going some at the bottom of every purse and suitcase I’ve ever carried that I’m sure could tell you tales about the varied and sometimes embarrassing cargo they’ve been stuffed alongside.

A portion are mixed onto other girls’ bathroom counters, from times where my hair accessories crossed theirs in a free-for-all at a sleepover makeover session. Several hundred were lost in the shuffle after being bought to get ready in a crammed bridal suite filled with girls in breezy pink dresses and one in white, coating them in hairspray and accidentally dropping one in a champagne glass right before we were to walk down an aisle. Some are under dirt by now in the Texas woods because I truly didn’t and still don’t understand how “camping” is supposed to be “low maintenance”. Too many ended up shoved to the side after a hairstyle that promised to be ‘easy’ on the internet did not fare so easy in my hands and on my head. A few may have ended up in cheap hotels, boat cupholders, guitar cases, and escaped being packed up again for my return trip from the homes of people I’ve loved in New York and Seattle and California, to Houston and beyond.

There’s still some probably along the baseboard in old musty apartments that I miss living in. A few are still lingering between couch cushions in residences that I haven’t been back to for good reason, or still clinging to carpet under the seats in the cars of ex-boyfriends, no matter how close the vacuum attachment at the carwash tries to get. There’s some bent ones in dressing rooms attached to productions and performances of my youth that I swore would eventually put my name in lights. One or two may have slipped out of the most-polished-hairstyle I could manage at a fancy office building while at a job interview that eventually disappointed me when they hired someone else. I irresponsibly left some especially terrible ones in my clothes pockets and tore up clothing during a high-energy spin cycle in many a washing machine.

At this point they very well may have poked someone’s foot, contributed to a moving-out cleaning fee I had to pay, held the hair back of both a close girlfriend or a stranger or even snapped in half, and I suppose we’ll never know.

But with a lot of hair comes a lot of responsibilities- and a lot of flyaways. So, consider this my formal apology for my carbon footprint of bobby pins, and my promise that if you ever invite me over, you might end up with a straggler.

But hey, if you can handle little brown hair pins, you’re going to be just fine with all the glitter I continue to spread everywhere I go.

We’re Never Getting Enough Text Messages

If I’m being honest, which I usually try to be on this blog, (hence why so many posts are about Ryan Gosling and/or postgrad complaining), sometimes 160 characters can make or break my entire week.

What is it about text messaging that makes it simultaneously the best and worst thing on the planet? My heart still seems to skip an occasional beat when my phone beeps or buzzes, waiting to tell me that someone has sent me a sentence, an emoticon party, a picture message, or better yet, a moving gif (thanks, iPhone!) and it’s stupid how much I rely on that sound to make me feel loved.

You know those moments (or weeks) when your phone just doesn’t make a sound and you start pricing options for a new one online because clearly it can’t just be that your friends are not responding or sending you every detail of their lives? Please tell me you have those? Please? Because embarrassingly so, if I had a dollar for every time I had why-am-i-not-getting-text-messages-anxiety, I’d be rolling in the green and not even writing this blog because I had to go spend all the money I’d made.

Pick a crowded place and watch how many eyes of all different people- multiple ages and types- are on their phones. Whole conversations are had half-way now and it seriously doesn’t depend on the circumstances. It doesn’t matter what else is happening – if there was a meteor storming to Earth and Bruce Springsteen was atop that meteor playing a guitar solo and simultaneously offering me a hot fudge sundae, I would still probably look down anxiously at my phone to see the message count.

Sad? Very.

Even writing this post took longer than it should because I simply HAD to pick the perfect emoji of an ice cream cone to send to a best friend. Clearly my priorities are in order.

At the core of this whole texting thing is that we prioritize the smallest tiniest details of our lives, and even more so, life is so frustrating when your texts go unanswered. How many times have I thought, “Oh, I see you can instagram that sunrise but you can’t send me a y/n to ‘wanna grab iced coffee later?’ ” At the very core of texting’s convenience is the fact that the text message system is impersonal, and as easy as it is to send, it’s just as easy to ignore. As much as you can alert someone of important information, you can just easily as respond with one insignificant word. And so the cycle of clutching our phones tightly for no reason continues, as if the next message delivered could make or break our lives, when in reality, it could very well be a picture of a cat wearing a bee costume.*

So maybe this is the great equalizer of our generation. No matter how cool you are, no matter how much fun you’re having or how fabulous everything around you is, you’ll still pause what you’re doing when a little boxy device makes a  sound to tell you that you have, indeed, received a text message.

And for all our sakes, I solemnly hope that said text message doesn’t just read- “K.”

*been there, sent that.

I Will Never Be Tan

There are battles I have fought for years in my life, but some were decided from the start.

It’s time that I face the cold, pale facts – I will never be tan.

White Girl Problems are my burden, literally.

My Grandmother is adopted so I tell everyone with certainty that I could really be any number of races, but I’m not fooling anyone with my exotic claims. In fact, I am pretty sure my ancestors quite possibly lived in caves most of their lives and/or underwater, because my skin is not suited for the open-air sun-shining outdoors. (Also, I sometimes think I might be a mermaid, but that’s another post altogether.)

I practically get a sunburn just from thinking about the sun. My skin is what you’d call “white with a tendency to turn red in 5 seconds” as a result of, but not limited to: sun exposure, excitement, nervousness, embarrassment, flattery, karaoke, allergic reactions to jewelry, allergic reactions to LIFE, etc. There is no middle ground – I’m red or white, always, like a delicious candy cane! (Okay, maybe not like a delicious candy cane, but I am all about seeing the bright side of things. Except, of course, the bright side of the sun, because I burn! Get it?!?!?!)

Now, I’m not the palest person you’d meet. I mean, I’m no Snow White (even though I do rock a red bow headband pretty fiercely). However, when the rest of my family can somehow achieve a little perfect summer bronze with no sweat, I stick out like a black sheep. Or rather, a very white sheep.

I was always the child at the neighborhood pool with my floaties on that attracted the attention of any mother within a 5-mile radius, including my own, making sure I was wearing sunblock. I’ve been lathered up more than once by strangers concerned for my epidermis’ well-being. Are you ever in the store by the sunscreen and see a ridiculous one marked with SPF 90 and wonder who is buying something with that much protection? Hint: it’s me, I am that crazy person.

Yep, I am the one who packs enormous sunglasses and a hat and an umbrella for a beach day and uses all three.

On a serious note, I completely believe that being tan is not at all worth the risks of skin cancer and sun damage to your precious complexions, so I’m not overly bummed out about this, but still, there’s that little twinge of jealously having grown up in one of the hottest and sunniest states in the free world and never matching everyone else’s obsession and achievement in being brown.

Self-tanner? I’ve flirted with it before.

Bronzer? I may own a few different shades.

Using my high-quality editing skills in MS Paint? I’ll let you be the judge.

oh that? it’s totally natural.

But really, I’m just ready for pale to come back in style. I know the world wishes they all could be California Girls, but let’s agree to let the cast-mates of Jersey Shore be a bad example of physical perfection and cheeto-colored skin. I mean, no one wants to turn into the lady that basically tried to tan her 5-year-old and whose face resembles a Cocoa Puff.

I am a young and carefree bohemian twentysomething who frequently wants to rebel against common practices and question authority, but sun protection and SPF is one of those things where I think responsibility isn’t so constricting to my creativity, and it keeps me looking (somewhat) more normal and healthy.

If you naturally tan, I’m not mad at you, just know your limit and don’t forget to at least pack some sunscreen, even if it’s a socially-acceptable coverage like SPF 15 or 30. Bask in your color, no matter the hue. (And if this post was a movie, “True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper would play right now. You’re welcome.)

So, if you’re pale and you know it, don’t be afraid to show it!*

*(Just make sure you throw on some 30 before you go outside, especially in the next few months, because, we don’t want that time you went to Schlitterbahn with your middle school choir and hung out with the olive-skinned girls who used tanning oil and pretended that “oh yeah, I don’t even wear sunscreen, usually!” wasn’t a lie to make you seem cool and then you became a lobster to happen again.)

Photo Credit: 1

Some Nights.

Some nights, I :

  • online shop and order shirts with eagles on them, heart-shaped sunglasses and Holly-Golightly-inspired sleeping masks
  • eat a giant slice of chocolate cake (#noshame)
  • delete 100 people from my phone contacts
  • become reminiscent about the past and work myself into this little crawlspace of emotions
  • bookmark and pin a bunch of craft d-i-y projects that i know i will be too lazy and impatient to actually ever make or do-it-myself, but that look so cute and practical
  • watch The Princess Diaries and High Fidelity on a neverending loop
  • have 3 intense crippling moments thinking i will forever be alone
  • have 24 intense crippling moments thinking i will never make it in the working world and music industry
  • cry while reading my bible
  • send picture messages of: baby sloths, corgi puppies and kittens
  • laugh so hard at the dinner table with my parents about our fear of the slow checkout lady at hobby lobby that i start crying
  • actually remember to moisturize twice a day like every magazine has told me for years and feel like a total rockstar because of it
  • paint my nails with OPI’s “The One That Got Away” from the Katy Perry Nail Polish Collection and feel like a total rockstar because of it
  • play guitar and ukulele for the first time in two months and sing until i’m hoarse
  • spend 20 minutes trying to get my brother’s pug to love me, and fail
  • make obsessive and ocd-esque playlists on Spotify for hours on end
  • think about Coachella and assume that since I’m not there, it’s probably not very good, I mean like, Gotye and Beirut and Bon Iver and The Black Keys all in one place? I’m not jealous or needy for live music. Nope. Totally fine. (ish)
  • go out and am the quintessential twentysomething social butterfly with loud music and trendy beverages and dancing, only to be wishing for my bed and its 7 pillows, all comfortable
  • sit on my bed with its 7 pillows, all comfortable, and yet wish i was out on the town like a quintessential twentysomething social butterfly with loud music and trendy beverage and dancing
  • look forward to getting home just so i can put on my moccasins
  • watch the latest episode of Mad Men and discuss it in depth with my best friend via text message and consequently, become so thankful for stupid things like text messages and technology and writers of wonderful television episodes
  • miss my friends and college so much that it hurts inside my very soul. like, inside and out, my whole body just seems to say “i miss you, i miss you, i miss you all.”
  • try on my entire shoe collection and, really, applaud myself on my great taste
  • tell myself i should read more books and end up reading the internet for the next 3 hours
  • read The Frenemy and feel less alone
  • make long list blog posts that might borrow their format from The Frenemy a little bit
  • eventually sleep, but, at least tonight, not before I listen to Some Nights again. (see what I did there?!?!?)
  • (goodnight.)

Mustard Yellow Life-Affirmation

In such a celebrity culture, I think my generation for the most part feels so much pressure to make every single minute of our lives EPIC. We want to upload fabulous instagrams to twitter and write captivating instantly-liked status updates and make everyone want in our crazy shiny well-lit photographed lives!

But sometimes that’s just not reality.

I’ve admitted to struggling with feeling like I’m not having enough fun or living my life as crazily as I should be and I know that this is the ultimate white girl problem in the history of the world, but if I’m being honest, it’s not easy to get rid of! I love the life I lead, but sometimes my little heart has moments of jealousy. Mindy Kaling’s new book is entitled “Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns)” and I cannot tell you how much I identified with the title alone. (Also, the book is amazing and I cannot recommend it enough and I identify so much with it and it makes me laugh out loud literally. Buy It!)

Is it sad to live in fear that my life is not as ‘insaaaaane’ as everyone else’s on my Facebook newsfeed?!

The biggest exciting point in my life today was getting a mustard-yellow scarf that was originally $25 on sale for $9. And it is a huge scarf! A big huge mustard-yellow fashion-forward scarf! AND I THINK I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO BE EXCITED ABOUT THIS SCARF!

This scarf represents so much more than a article of clothing scored for little cash. This scarf really did make my day wonderful. Seeing it on the rack, I pictured it making all my outfits full of sunshine. I got to throw it across my shoulders dramatically like an old movie star when trying it on. My roommate bought a matching one in red so that we look like mustard & ketchup! And you know what? I will proudly wear this scarf and document its existence and not feel bad about the fact that it dominated my afternoon.

I’m all about celebrating the simple things. If my life isn’t always one big outlandish party, that’s alright! Some days may seem more exciting than others, but today, let it be known that mustard yellow trumps everything else.

P.S. Guys, Ryan Gosling was in Austin, Texas this weekend. I live near Austin. I work in Austin. Obsessing over a celebrity is juvenile and spilling details over the internet is tacky, though, so in order to paint myself in the best light, all I will say is: he is beautiful (really).

P.P.S. Also, in 10 years when Terrance Malick finally releases the “upcoming project” that RGos was filming, I will be looking for my name in the credits…even if my credit is “Girl staring at RGos“.

Dear ‘Rachel Zoe Faux Fur Long Vest’

Dear ‘Rachel Zoe Faux Fur Long Vest’,

We’ve never officially met, but the love I have for you is overwhelming. I know that online window-shopping is one of the worst things to do when you’re currently operating on a college-girl budget, and I know the dangers in typing “Nordstrom.com” into my web browser’s address bar, but today, I just couldn’t help myself.

Upon seeing you, my heart skipped a beat. The way you hang effortlessly so and could add a little bit of dramatic flair to all my outfits? Adore it. Your warm perfectly-tan color with white leather accents and furry softness that makes me want to curl up in you? Can’t get enough. The fact that you were designed by one of my not-so-guilty pleasures, Rachel Zoe, whose show I am addicted to and who I consider to be one of my major style icons? Just makes me DIE (in the best way).

I know that, at times, people would look at me funny for wearing you. I know that you might seem to be “too much” for traditional collegiate fashion crowds to handle and the general public might think I am trying to become Mildred Pierce. I know that there is no way I can add you to my online cart, since you cost quite a few pretty pennies. I know that I wouldn’t get to layer you as much as I wanted because living in Texas, it’s October and the temperature is still in the 90s. But even despite these obstacles, I just had to share my undying love for you.

We may not be able to be together now, but maybe someday in the future our eyes will meet across a crowded room at a clearance rack and I’ll scoop you up in my arms and take you home with me. Until then, stay fabulous.



Soul Music > Studying

It’s the last full week of classes and motivation in this Lion’s den is at an all-time low.

Also, I should mention that I am completely obsessed with soul music, especially that of the 1960s.

I should not be let anywhere near a computer at 1 AM after having at least 4 cups of coffee in rapid succession, but let’s just say that combined insomnia and horrible study habits have lead me back into my caffeine-fueled haze where nothing that I am attempting to read over is sticking in my temperamental brain.

What is sticking, however, is a certain melody you may have heard called “Hound Dog” and consequently, how much I adore Big Mama Thornton. No, seriously, this woman is FIRE. She wrote the book on rockabilly, has a voice that can command a room and if she was wonderful enough that even Elvis, the KING, stole a single from her, you know that she has something insanely good wrapped up in her soul.

Here’s a little something for all you visual learners-

See what I mean? Magical. Yes, Elvis made the song his own (as evidenced by this attractive video, seriously, the 1:03 is dangerously good) but I can’t get enough of how much she tears it up like it’s no big deal. Her emotion is effortless but so felt. It’s normal for me to dance along with my Spanish notes in hand, right? Can’t help it!

You know, I may have days where I’m distracted, but give me a toe-tapping rhythm and you’ve got my entire attention span from the first beat to the end. People write a million essays, books and thesis prompts on the science of sound and the transcendental qualities of chord progressions, but I think it’s simpler- satisfy my ears and you’ve got everything else. My focus, my conversation, my voice singing along, my interest and my dancing feet all are yours! No seriously, I fear I might just sign away my life if a good band was playing at the time.

So, you see, it is incredibly difficult to learn the subjunctive and imperfect verb tenses when my record player is right across the room- Aretha Franklin vinyl all ready to spin!

Is this a white girl problem? Naah. Too much soul to be one of those!


I think I just must be allergic to “crushes”.

I realize that writing that sentence is the closest to Carrie Bradshaw that I’ve ever sounded, but I’m feeling that it is true. I don’t write this blog from a sappy doe-eyed girl perspective on relationships, (although I have been there once or twice) but I just feel like admitting it- I find it hard to just ‘like’ someone all of the sudden. And I don’t say this from a temporarily-scorned-i’ll-never-love-again point of view, I really mean that if my history shows anything, it’s that I don’t get all jumpy jittery and crush-crazy over boys. Not notably often, at least. We can call this a white girl problem, but hey, this blog is my tiny corner of the internet, and so I will illuminate it with whatever is on my mind, and today it’s this predicament.

I know people who say they get this “crush” feeling too often or just accept it as a part of life, but I feel like I’m neither or like I’m doing something wrong for not constantly having a beau to talk about or steal gazes from or dream of. However, feelings can’t be manufactured, and so I’m stuck being somewhat comfortable on my own.

I mean, I do love people; I do have feelings, I swear! My family takes up a huge part in my heart, my friends make me sing happy-go-lucky songs about them, and most of my favorite songwriters evoke feelings of attachment. Heck, I even write little love letters to SONGS. But for some reason, I happen to lack the crazy butterfly-like rush, or at least its popular frequency.

I feel like I’m supposed to be more boy-crazy. Does this sound crazy on its own? DOES THAT MAKE ME CRAAAZY?

I can count my so-called past ‘crushes’ of my short 20 years on one hand.  I’d go as far to say that I feel like I relate to Cady Heron and her African love ‘Nfume’ in this sense. Take that as you may.

So, now that you’ve made it this far into this post, you must be wondering- why am I jumping all over the place with my words and emotional run-on sentences? Two words: The Wombats.

Yes, I’ll blame this fantastic song by The Wombats that has been on repeat for days for bringing it out of me, so, internet, turn up your speakers and let me lay it on you-


Maybe I was spoiled by movies and tricked by tv shows into thinking I should have my own complicated love triangle happening by now. Maybe it’s because I’m at the age where I’m apparently supposed to have my five-year plan mapped out, including my picturesque wedding and marriage. Maybe it’s because for years I wanted to have someone to giggle about at 7th grade sleepovers but lacked a muse. Maybe it’s because I have to keep promising myself that I’m not a freak for not giving my little affections away so easily.

But all I have to say is that-


Because, honestly, I just have to think that it’s not about ‘crushes’ and mind games and that I’m NOT weird for not constantly having someone I dream about.

When and if this whole stomach-butterflies-flapping-and-crushed -to-the-ground event happens, I’m serious when I admit that you’ll find me with my eyes glazed over, listening to Ella Fitzgerald on my record player and sighing and giggling like a lucky sap should, but for now, I’m not there. And after all, I’m sure you’d much rather read coherent sentences rather than “OMGHEISSOHOTANDPERFECT<3<3” over and over again.


(And internet, I promise you that when this rare crush feeling stumbles upon me, rest assured that I do turn into a bumbling idiot. Did that happen this week unexpectedly and maybe prompt me saying all of this in the first place and remaining confused? Ehh, I’ll let you decide, internet. But aren’t you glad you read the small text? So illuminating, I know.)

Idle Hands Are So Last Season

I have a horrible habit of not being able to keep my hands still. They’re always moving along in some weird rhythm while I speak to emphasize a point I’m talking about, playing idly with a necklace or bottom hemline of my sweater, spinning and sliding my four rings off and on and twirling my curls. I tap my nails on tabletops endlessly, drum little patterns with my fingertips on my collarbone and constantly fold and unfold my hands. Add all of this to the fact that I’ve been told that I carry my arms up high sometimes like a T-Rex and I am one scary dinosaurlike lion.

I can’t be the only one of this species, right? I know I’m not alone in this, but recently I’ve become acutely aware that my little t-rex arms and hands are taking up a sizeable portion of my communication, so, now that I know I’m attempting to not look half as ADD. However, why couldn’t I at least direct and channel all the haphazard nervous movement to something magical like THIS?!!?!

I’m now auditioning for someone that can A). teach me how to do this or B). pull off a mean blue striped tee while sitting next to me. Applications welcome.

(T Rex photo source: here)


(Preface: Sometimes I have white girl problems, or problems that don’t really matter and are silly and not life-threatening in the slightest. Also, someone on twitter has this field covered completely. If you need to learn more- click here. Genius.)

Ultimate White Girl Problem of my life: I don’t know why I don’t already have a professional photographer following me and my friends around paparazzi-style and documenting our everyday existence!

Seriously, there are so many moments that, I think, when captured on film, might just change the world.

Well that, and I’m a little selfish and I like looking at my friends and having cool vintage-y deeply focused shots of every little thing I do. I blame this visual now-generation I was born into. I also blame you, blogosphere. I mean, really, there’s so many blogs that exist simply to put richly-colored 3x5s out there for the viewing public to admire.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, this little blog will never be that way. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE photos and try to take as many as I can, but I’m no professional. I adore photoblogs and google image search obsessively, but when it comes down to it, I am most often a woman of words. That, and I’m a college student, so expensive cameras evade me. However, I will try my darndest to mix both mediums! Collaboration is key.

Anyway, this dream of being followed by multiple Canon EOS 5D Mark IIs (she’s a beauty) and getting every little stoplight reaction, walk to and from class, fill up at the gas station, dollar store run, high five, nap, and all the rest captured in high definition is still a work in progress. For now, a photo booth at our good friends’ wedding a few weeks ago will have to do the trick in capturing just a little snippet into the life I feel beyond blessed to have.

Thanks, Central Texas J-Booth! And psst…wanna start following us around? Just thought I’d ask.