I Am the Last Single Girl in My Pride* of Ladyfriends

Or: Change Happens and Sometimes Makes It Weird to Talk about Dating

*Yes. Girls roam in prides, like lion(esse)s.

I’m not the fastest at making female friends, but the ones I have are pretty out-freakin’-standing. (Note: Earlier, autocorrect decided I wanted to say my ladyfriends were “commonplace.” This is not true. Autocorrect is a hurtful liar who does not want you to know the truth. My friends are AH-MAY-ZING.) And when we were younger, the vast majority of us were single at the same time.

Meeee-yow. Riiigghtt?

I think I should mention very few of these stick figures look anything like my friends

Over time, things began to change. Some friends began to get married.

Duuuun-dun-dun-dun-duuuunnn-dun. Dun, dah-dah-dah-duuuunnn.

Yes. I do picture all brides in princess dresses and tiaras. Because tiaras.

Others began to pair off into unified “we” relationships.

Prepare for a hell of joint apartment hunting!

I am going to lose “serious boyfriend doodling” privileges, I just know it.

And if you move around a lot, like I do, you also get to meet all new friends that are already couples.** It’s two friends for the price of one!
**Bonus life fact: If you make friends with people who are already married, you never have to buy them a wedding present!

But you also may just discover, quite suddenly, that you are the only single person you know.


This pose just looks silly without other people around. And, well, with other people around.

One by one, my ladyfriends became coupled. I am ecstatic that they’ve found such incredible partners, and have moved into the exciting, couple-y phase of life. But it’s weird to be the last single one. For one thing, my dating problems become “cute.”

Awful. Just...awful.

And awkward. It was also awkward. Because this really happened. He told me I should “give them out to my friends.”

And sometimes it is hard to understand couple-ed person problems, because it’s been a long time since I’ve been part of a serious couple.

This is a valid problem

Not that I would ever leave dishes in the sink, or anything. My life is super clean and organized. Definitely. Just, uh. Call before you come over.

We’re friends, but we’re in different phases of life. Like flowers. Or bananas. Or people.

Or upside down. I possibly watched a special on bananas so I could understand banana spiders, and am playing dumb here.

I clearly have no idea what banana tree-bushes look like. That’s how those grow, right? Also, I am not implying that “splotchy and gross” or “missing petals” is the couple/married phase of life. It’s just as likely to be the single phase because people are not bananas or flowers, but they are fun to draw,

I love my pride of ladyfriends as much as always. They’re awesome. But it’s super hard to gossip about the ridiculous issues of being single in your (mid) late 20s…when you’re the only one being single in your (mid) late 20s. Because, well, they can be pretty ridiculous issues.

Honesty is the best medicine. Also, fight-starter

At least we can all talk about how silly we are.

But they’re also kind of important issues, too. So just remember: Let your friends rant. Whether they’re single, or they’re couple-ed. Because that’s what it means to be a pride***.
***I know, I know. If ladies form prides, what are groups of guyfriends?
Wolfpacks. Duh.

I Am Not in Favor of Filled Sugar Products

When I was a child, Gushers were new. Or, at least they were a very big deal. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. These tiny hexagons of sugar were my first introduction to “sugar objects filled with goo juice,” and it was not a pleasant experience.

Ew ew ew ew

These are Gushers, if somehow you missed the mid-to-late 80s and all of the 90s.
Click for source!

Now, as a sugar-addicted child, one would assume that I would have jumped at the chance to eat anything filled with EXTRA sugar. And I did. After begging my parents profusely*, they humored my commercial-driven need to try these tasty treats.

*Marching behind them in the grocery store chanting “MomDadMomDadMomDad” at full volume. I’m a polite and effective beggar.

Only, they weren’t tasty. The filling was TOO sweet, and also oddly textured. The way it sort of squashed and then leaked fruit-ish flavor all over my mouth was disconcerting. It was a horrifying surprise, like going to hug your doctor and ending up getting a shot**.

On the other hand, I didn't get the measles.


**THAT WAS A DIRTY TRICK, DOCTOR KNICKERBOCKER, you mothersneezin’ trickster.

I have hated all goo-filled candies ever since. Whether it’s sweet or sour, fruit flavored or chocolate, I am just not a fan. In fact, if Wilford Brimley REALLY wanted to stop me from getting diabetes***, he’d stop volleying for Liberty Medical to deliver drugs to my door, and just ban all candies that didn’t have some sort of gooshy filling.****

***Sorry. I mean Diabeetus.
****While I am medically aware that this is not how one gets diabetes, and that there are other types of diabetes that people are born with, this does not stop me from propagating the scientifically inaccurate belief that eating sugar directly results in diabetes. Because rumors are fun and never problematic.

But I have learned I am alone in this.


How did these ads not scar all of us for life? I really don’t want to turn into a raspberry. I saw Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory.
Click for source.

All my friends, and apparently the Internet, are nuts for sugar-with-more-sugar-inside. How do I know? Well, the Internet includes directions for this:

More Ew Ew Ew

Seriously. This is a thing someone made. And presumably ate.
Guys. This HAPPENED to someone.
Click for source and instructions. You’re welcome.

This left me speechless. Until my further Googling led me down the rabbit hole. The rabbit hole apparently leads to a place called “Fruitsnackia.” And it is disturbing.

I do this for a living

Because these days, we need to clarify to children that giving fruit snacks names and a homeland doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat them. It’s just advertising.
Click for source.

And IN Fruitsnackia lives Larry.

This has scarred me for LIFE.

Meet Larry. In the introduction animation, he taps his side and then drinks his own delicious gooey insides.
Click for source. I dare you.

I don’t even…I…he…but…that isn’t even ENGLISH. I’m not sure whether “gush” is a threat, a come-on, or a state of being. It’s pretty concerning though. And what’s more concerning is that people keep buying filled candies. No matter how gross or creepy they get, there are other candy makers out there waiting to add options to the market:

Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew

I stole this picture from my friend who enjoys these probably-poisonous snacks. I am sharing it with you out of concern.

This picture unsettles me for two reasons. One, we all know that the only real red licorice is a Red Vine, and two, Twizzlers is expanding the filled-candy market further. I am growing more alone in my stand against inner-candy-goo by the second.

But don’t worry. There’s still hope for future generations. Because the terrifying land of Fruitsnackia yells at your children***** to take a break and go outside and play.

*****And me.

Hurray for health!

I still don’t know what “gush” means in this context.

Because if you’re on a website that brings to mind a cannibalistic acid trip, chances are. you need a breather pretty frequently. Apparently.

I Really Miss the Impractical Wishing of Christmas Lists

Yesterday, a friend of mine shared this glorious, glorious piece of Internet with me through Facebook.

Click me!

This image is just basically a link to go to the article. Click it and giggle. Thanks, Deadspin!

Click here to read the amazing thing, right now, in another window so you can come back and read this RIGHT AFTER.

Before that very moment, I had never actively considered parental responses to Christmas Lists. I sort of let all those badly-written, pleading letters to Santa drift away in my brain. Surely they were not a source of entertainment for my parents*.

*In hindsight, I think maybe I’ve been sort of dense.

In honor of this revelation, I have decided to recreate some of my childhood Christmas lists, as I remember them, with my parents’ respective responses as I imagine them. Because I believe in sharing.

Letter to Santa, Age 6:


Terrible handwriting recreated for effect and realism. And no, “GIJOs” does not mean I was asking for giggalos. 

Parental Reaction:
Awww! She wrote a letter to Santa! Precious!
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: And honey, she wants Star Trek!
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: We should get her a kitten.
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.

Letter to Santa, Age 11:

Kiss kiss, Santa

I was not above buttering up Santa. Or dotting my i’s with hearts.

Parental Reaction:
 Awww! She wrote a letter to Santa! Precious!

Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: And honey, she wants world peace!
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: We should get her a kitten.
Dad: She cannot have a kitten. 

Letter to Santa, Age 14:


I was really not going to give up on Santa. Or a kitten. Even though I already had a cat.

Parental Reaction:
 Honey, I’m concerned. She wrote a letter to Santa!

Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: Does she still believe in Santa?
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.
Mom: We should get her a kitten to help her feel better.
Dad: She cannot have a kitten.** 

**Point of fact: I got a kitten for my 15th Birthday. PERSISTENCE, people. It pays.

Growing up and giving up Christmas Lists is something of a tragedy. You lose your hopeful, unreasonable gift optimism. Now, when crafting my Amazon Wish List (the closest thing to a “List for Santa” my adult life offers), I pause to think about the feasibility of someone actually getting me that gift.


For example, I have not even once put this on my Amazon Wish List. And you know I want it.*** 

***In case you’re shopping for me, Stepney’s makes it. Click the image for a link!

Nowadays, there isn’t even one kitten on my Wish List. The magic is dead, people.

Also, You Should Know I Have Opinions About Santa

So, until I reached my full-and-independent-adult-life*, I didn’t really think the whole “Santa” thing was optional for Christian** families in America. My parents did it, and Santa is everywhere. There was clearly an undeniable math formula.

Is this not how magic works?

Is this not how magic works?


**Or agnostic. Or atheist. Or just capitalist-supportive.

But now that I’m older, I know different parents make different choices for various reasons. And all that’s just Jim Dandy and delightful. However, I*** am a huge fan of Santa. Even when I found out that Santa happened to be Mom and Dad staying up really late and eating all the cookies, it still floored me that there were two people who were willing and able to make the world a magical place for me.

***Totally childless, non-parent me.

So basically, by reading my blog, you’re running the risk of being exposed to lots of nostalgic, Santa-inclusive stories. You have been warned.

Also, Target has bananas again.


Just in case you were worried.
I know you were worried.