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Life & Other Drugs

The Funny Gals Give Thanks

November 27, 2014

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This Thanksgiving, the ladies of the night Rib would like express our gratitude for our readers’ continued support, and our parents and university for letting us write inappropriate things on the Interwebz. We are also thankful for…

I’m thankful that my Netflix doesn’t judge me after 5 consecutive hours of Gilmore Girls. – Dana
I’m thankful for the existence of NPR’s Serial so I can tell people I’m getting into podcasts. – Gabbie
I’m thankful for the relatives who agreed to give me room, board and access to a shower with actual water pressure. – Annie
Pinot noir, burritos and birth control. – Lani
I’m thankful for my two dogs who make me feel important since they are the only living beings that get so excited when they see me that they pee themselves. – Allie G.
I’m thankful for Bagel Gourmet. So, so thankful. – Sarah
I’m thankful for the Ben and Jerry’s on Thayer being just far enough away that I’m too lazy to walk there and stuff my face with Phish Food every night. Thanks for saving me about 15 pounds of weight gain, B&J! You’re bae. – Ali
I’m thankful for carbohydrates, modern medicine, and knitwear. – Emma
Beer, weed, ketchup. – Cox
I’m thankful for ripped jeans, my cool mom, and hangover shits. – Hannah
I’m thankful for people who have the decency to wait until AFTER thanksgiving to play Christmas music. it reminds me that not all hope for humanity is lost after all. – Allie T.
I’m thankful for naps intended to be thirty minutes, but that turn into blissful 3 hour hibernations. And Christmas socks. – Cameron
I’m thankful for avocados & eggs (so versatile), the existence of the Laundry Club and its friendly employees, my ~*family*~, and my Rib writers!!! – Sydney 

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Life & Other Drugs

Dear Yoga Farter

November 15, 2014

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Dear Yoga Farter,

I wasn’t going to say anything the first time you let one slip during the evening vinyasa flow class. I wasn’t even concerned the second time it happened. Exercise-induced flatulence happens to everyone! Moving from a swan dive to chair pose to a side twist is a recipe for disaster if you’ve eaten the wrong thing that day.

But we’ve been in a handful of classes together this year, Yoga Farter, and it’s time that I finally address your habit of cutting the cheese with reckless abandon. The final straw came that one evening when you dared to toot over ten times. There were only five of us in the studio, and you had specifically chosen to lay your mat next to mine. I can only imagine how many of the other yogis assumed the sound was coming from my own intestines. When I gave you a sideways glance upon your third excretion, you showed no embarrassment, no remorse. I was at once struck with admiration and annoyance.

How dare you continue to expel your smell throughout the 75 minute class without even an apologetic glance in my direction?! Are you doing it to antagonize me? To throw me off balance? Are you intimidated by the stability and grace of my tree pose?

I read that book “Everyone Poops.” I know that flatulence is just another glorious product of the human body. But for the sake of my chi, and the inner peace of our yogi peers, please consider Gas X before our next class. My ujjayi breathing (and my nose) will thank you.

Namaste,
Sydney

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True Life: I Have Travel Anxiety

October 24, 2014

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I’ve just spent the weekend relaxing in New York with my family. Sunday has rolled around all too soon, meaning that it’s time to take the train back to campus. I wake up that morning with a knot in my stomach – not because I’m sad to be leaving my mom, or stressed about the week of homework ahead (although both statements are true), but because I know it’s time to face the Penn Station Scramble.

I arrive at Penn Station 30 minutes before my train is due to depart. I descend on the escalator into hell with my wheely bag in tow, preparing my game face. My armpits begin to sweat in anticipation. Due to my early-ish arrival, I have exactly enough time to purchase a Dunkin Donuts ice coffee and prowl around the departure board, calculating the most tactful positioning. I scoff at the travelers posted up in the seating area. Amateurs.

I finally locate some prime real estate – close to the board, and as centered as possible without blocking the escalator – and take a seat on my wheely bag. I scope out the competition and look at the clock. Roughly ten minutes until my track will be announced. I make guesses as to which one it will be – 10 East? 12 West? Please don’t let it be 7 East.

Five minutes. More people begin to crowd around the board, and my stomach churns every time the massive machine updates itself, flapping as wildly as my heart inside of my chest. I position my purse across my body, raise the handle of my bag, and clutch my phone so tightly in my hand I think it might bend. (Too soon, iPhone 6 users?)

Three minutes. I break out in rage-sweats.

The track is announced after what seems like eternity, and, blinded by anxiety, it takes me a minute to orient myself. As soon as I have, I run towards 10 West like a mad woman, dragging my bag over people’s feet in the process. I slide into the left side of the slightly-formed line, glaring at those who silently accuse me of cutting in front of them, and scowling at those who try to do the same to me. I square my shoulders as if preparing for battle (which I sort of am). The brisk walk down the escalator and onto the train is a blur.

The sweats and beating heart don’t subside until I’m in my seat, bag above my head, jacket off, and headphones in. The Penn Station Scramble has taken yet another two years off of my life.

Unfortunately, this sort of travel anxiety isn’t limited to the train variety. My teeth clench at the thought of going through airport security, even though I have TSA Pre-Check and always arrive 2 hours before my flight. As soon as I know that I have to travel over 30 minutes via public transportation, I go into survival mode. And while I’m a somewhat anxious person in general, I think this type of travel anxiety effects all people, to some extent. When’s the last time you showed up to Penn Station and just la-di-da’d your way over to the track five minutes after they’ve announced it?

I clearly am no expert on how to conquer this anxiety once and for all, but here are some tips that would probably subdue the rage-sweats:

  1. Make a mental or physical list of all the reasons behind your stress.
  2. Take an objective look at said list: realize how trivial all of your worries are.
  3. Arrive at the train station/airport/bus station inordinately early. A prepared traveler is a sedated traveler.
  4. Take deep breaths. This does not mean hyperventilate.
  5. See long line. Forget previous tips. Cry.

Safe travels, and may the odds be ever in your favor!

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1, 2, Barbecue

September 21, 2014

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I regret to inform you that this post isn’t about cornbread, ribs, or coleslaw.

At the start of my freshman year, I was lucky enough to find an awesome group of guy friends. Like the kind that you start flirting with, but then two weeks later they’re audience to a conversation about shaving your armpits, and soon they’re giving you guy advice and acting as your wingmen. These friends are crucial, because they always tell it like it is (“No, that top isn’t too slutty” or “Yes, you need to shave your legs”), and even let you in on secret guy code – like the infamous 1, 2, barbecue.

That saying has stuck with me for four years. As defined by the friend who taught it to me: “1,2, barbecue is when you hook up with a girl once, then again another night. After the second night, you never talk to her again to make it clear that a third time won’t be in the cards.” Or, you hook up with her a third time, in which case this hook up becomes less of a random ordeal. “It’s essentially a two-night stand,” another friend added.

I was taught the terminology in reference to one of my girl friend’s first “college guy” experiences. She texted the dude after their second encounter, interested in getting to know him further, and was met with radio silence. Our guy friends informed us she had been thrown onto the grill, baby-back rib style, and that she should set her sights on someone new.

As soon as I knew how to identify the phenomenon, 1, 2, barbecue was everywhere. During my first year of owning this information, visions of numbers and saucy chicken wings floated behind my eyelids every time I made out with a boy. It was beneficial in that I wasn’t taken off guard when the texting petered out after a couple of rendezvous’. But at first, I was deeply disturbed. Could guys get any worse? I complained to my friends.

But then I started to recognize my own barbecuing – was it I who had subconsciously put the kibosh on any of my two-time hook ups? Was this less of a gender-specific anomaly than I made it out to be?

The answer is yes.

In surveying my friends about their experiences with the 1, 2, barbecue, one girl friend said it had left her feeling guilty: “I felt like I knew that this person was still interested in me, but I just couldn’t get there mentally. And so I tried to end it amicably, but I knew that there was animosity.”

Another common occurrence is the mutual barbecue. One friend recounts: “I made out with a boy on Halloween my sophomore year, and we had fun, we went back to my apartment, fooled around a little bit, didn’t sleep together, and that was it. And then what seemed like was for good measure, he asked me out on a date, and we went to Abyssinia and had a horribly awkward dinner over which we got very drunk off of wine and didn’t eat anything, because how are you supposed to eat food with your hands on a first date? And then in what seemed like doubly for good measure, he invited me to his house one night soberly, and we were hanging out, we didn’t have anything to talk about, and the fooling around was really uncomfortable. He drove me home and we never spoke after that. It seemed like a mutual, unspoken agreement that whatever we were trying to do wasn’t going to work.”

In the age of “hook up culture,” is 1,2, barbecue becoming the norm? Are we fated for endless rounds of two-night stands, in which the lovers involved are too lazy / scared / restless / confused to even consider a third tryst?

Rest assured. “I don’t think anybody sets out to 1, 2, barbecue,” a guy friend pointed out. “There’s nothing good about it. The 1, 2, barbecue is a representation of failure. A one-night stand happens for a bunch of reasons, but a 1, 2, barbecue happens if you guys agreed that you were attracted to each other – or you were blackout, and you just forgot you hooked up already – and you were like, ‘this was a good idea, we should do it again.’ And then someone came to the conclusion that it wasn’t a good idea to do it a third time.”

“I definitely barbecued a girl sophomore year and still regret it today,” one friend admits. “And there was a time junior year when I didn’t [barbecue], and I regret that too.” So, readers, proceed with caution. Don’t be afraid to utilize the 1, 2, barbecue – no one is forcing you to continue things with the guy who gently slaps your face with your own hand and tells you to “stop hitting yourself” like a child – but don’t shy away from a situation that could blossom into something beautiful.

image via Wendy Ginsberg

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The Yogurt Analogy

April 1, 2014

My good friend Wendy bestowed this wisdom upon me a couple of years ago and it blew my mind. This will forever change the way you discuss your significant others and love interests. You’re welcome.

Plain Yogurt

Plain Yogurt

This guy or gal is pretty “meh.” They’re perfectly nice, and totally inoffensive, but they don’t have much flavor or substance. Very palatable, but very boring. Next.

Fruit-Mixed-In Yogurt

Fruit-Mixed-In Yogurt

This significant other is really the total package – just an all around great person. You know exactly what you’re signing up for from the get-go: flavorful and fun. The fruit-mixed-in lover is a keeper.

Fruit-on-the-Bottom Yogurt

Fruit-on-the-Bottom Yogurt

This is arguably the most exciting type of man or woman – although it takes a little digging to reveal their true, delicious colors. This person may initially strike you as a “plain yogurt,” but as you continue eating them – er, getting to know them – you’ll be pleasantly surprised by what you find beneath the surface.

Expired Yogurt

Expired Yogurt

Ew. The Expired Yogurt lover is the person that you know you’re not supposed get involved with, but you still do it anyways. This yogurt/person is bad news, but you turned a blind-eye to its expiration date and decided to dig in anyways. You will always regret this decision! It goes without staying that expired yogurt will leave a bad taste in your mouth and probably make you violently ill. There are other, fresher yogurts in the dairy aisle.

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