A Man's POV: Lessons from Paternity Leave

In October, I returned to work after 12 weeks of paternity leave and I just can’t WAIT to be king. Oh, sorry, that’s Will’s favorite song. In less than three months, it overtook Faith Hill’s “Where are You Christmas” and Megadeth’s “Holy Wars” to officially become the most played track in the history of my iTunes. I had the song permanently queued up so that I could ambush any fussiness before it could gain enough momentum to achieve total core meltdown. This is my most important parenting tip. However, there’s now a small part of my brain that’s on permanent safari.

So, yeah, I was paternity-leaving before Mark Zuckerberg made it cool. It’s so trendy now. Parental leave is a hot topic in this country because somehow it’s surprising that raising your child is a good idea. I love that we even need to reference studies to “prove” this fact because, unfortunately, you can’t just scream, “The Europeans are smarter than us!” and not come to work for 365 days. The total destruction of traditional gender roles has left American companies falling over themselves trying to understand the new workplace landscape in case they ever meet Ronda Rousey. Women want to work AND have babies, men want to raise the babies, and this is all good for profits? Fortunately, I work for a company that gets it.

But there’s nothing like dad’s first eight hours alone with a baby. It is an entirely different experience than being the slapstick entertainment between nursing sessions. When Julia sprinted off to work and back into a world of adult conversations and people who don’t potty in their pants, and left me alone with Will, I looked at him with probably the same expression that my dog saw on her first day with me: “Well, I guess you’re mine now. Wanna go play or something?” I didn’t read many parenting books because I have instincts. The result is that I learned A LOT on the job.

1. Babies are hilarious
Hospitals only tell you the facts that’ll give you nightmares and fail to mention encouraging things such as, “Babies are our nation’s most underrated comedians.” Will’s reactions to every new experience made a trip through the kitchen feel like we stumbled into Fantasia. The look of pure wonder and excitement on his face when he saw the microwave open for the first time was so spontaneous, bizarre, and fun to witness that it might be the best joke I’ve ever heard.

Will is also a human laugh track, which is a self-confidence booster when I’m trying to make him laugh but the opposite when he giggles 10 times harder when the dog casually walks into the room. But despite the total lack of a coherent sense of humor, a happy baby is an easy baby. This was such a relief because I always assumed that a child was just a chore until they learned how to play catch.

2. Enrollment in the underground Cool Dad Club
I probably shouldn’t even be talking about it, but the Cool Dad Club is a silent support network where other dads can low-key let other dads know that their effort (and, sometimes, suffering) is respected. Let me be crystal clear, it is not bro-ish. There are no “whattup” head nods. Recognizing a fellow member in good standing is communicated by AT MOST one second of consensual eye contact. That’s all that’s needed to convey empathy, appreciation, and solidarity. I say “good standing” because there is a standard to uphold and a hint of judgmentalness in our behavior.

For example, when I would head out for our morning walk around town, I knew I’d be encountering other dads, so I always made sure to have my shit wired tight and not be the guy who couldn’t get his act together and was making men look like Homer Simpsons. It’s one thing if Will was having a rough moment and I was handling it like a calm professional, but it’s quite another if I was unorganized to the point where my inattention to detail was causing the meltdown.

Not coincidentally, our club’s rules for taking your baby to a grocery store are the same for surviving a crisis situation: act confident, don’t disgrace your family, and bring plenty of diapers. The morning walks were a good barometer for the rest of the day because if I earned eye contact from another dad, then I knew was making the grade and everything was going to be smooth.

3. Release the inner child
At least once a day, I get mad at the fact that the ’80s are getting farther away by the minute and, no matter how hard Hollywood tries to Jurassic Park the Ninja Turtles, they’ll never be rebooted successfully. I suffer from whatever the disease is that gives you nostalgia. Man, being a kid was fun, right? But have you tried it recently? Our paternity leave agenda was: play with toys, experience new places, take naps. AND IT WAS DIFFICULT.

It was not the Calvin and Hobbes life that I remembered. I was equal parts bored, busy, and annoyed for five days before I realized that I was trying to fit my adult life into a baby’s schedule. I learned that if I was going to enjoy paternity leave, and not just survive, I had to channel my inner Calvin’s carefree attitude where time isn’t a thing and playtime is the purpose of life. It took a serious mental adjustment, but once I abandoned the idea that I’d be able to squeeze in emails or sneakily stay in touch with current events, I found that I could go to the park with Will for three hours every day or read the same book about hippos 50 times and feel like that was the extent of my world.

The best moment was the first time Julia got home from work and I hadn’t been counting down the minutes to her arrival. She just showed up, and I could barely speak conversational English because I had spent too many hours mimicking barnyard animal sounds. Although I’m clearly Hobbes at this point, it was fun to act like a kid again, once I remembered how.

4. Who’s your mommy now?
My biggest fear of paternity leave was that Will would take one look at me and scream forever, only taking breaths long enough to fill his diaper. I’m not his mommy, his giver of milk and life, and that’s not an acceptable thing to be. But, surprisingly, once Julia was out of sight, Will didn’t even notice. And like most men, he’s a different person when his favorite boobs aren’t around. He didn’t cry for milk ONCE, so the lack of mommy actually gave us some flexibility with his schedule and activities.

While Julia only left the house four times (not joking) in his first four months of life, Will and I were out the door with the dog and on the move first thing in the morning and only returned when we got bored of having too many awesome adventures. Paternity leave taught me that dads aren’t ill-equipped substitutes for moms. I got to have my own special, unique experiences with Will that brought out new qualities and tricks in him.

In the three months since my leave, much has changed, but nothing will ever replace the bonding time I had with my son. We grew closer, and that time gave me the skills and confidence to play an equal role in the daily chores. Aside from the outfits we choose for Will and our views on GI Joe, Julia and I are basically interchangeable. Also, being back at work sucks all the way to the moon.

Fortunately, I’m still able to channel my inner Calvin for the limited amount of time Will and I do get together each day. There are no more three-hour trips to the park after breakfast on weekdays, but I’m able to be perfectly present for at least one good play session and that’s (hopefully) enough to remind Will that I’m still a #cooldad. I’ll miss the paternity leave days, but I’m glad I took every single last minute that I was allowed. If anyone suggests that’s a bad idea, tell them sorry but you can’t hear them over your child’s hilarious toots.

A Man’s POV: The First Three Months of Dadhood

As you’ve noticed on social media, Julia and I are parents. We post more pictures of our son, Will, than we did of our dog. We were “those” dog people and now we are “those” parent people. And I’m never going to stop. Just unfollow me now. Roll your eyes and groan when your angry thumb zooms past my posts in your News Feed. Then go fall in your toilet because I think my child is handsome and funny. I get such a boost of pride when someone “likes” a picture of Will that Julia is understandably concerned. I am also keenly aware that these posts are going to ruin his life when he’s a teenager and his friends “friend” me on Facebook (which they will because I’m a #cooldad) and scroll through my pics. But those friends of his sound like bad news if they’re laughing at his adorable baby pics so, good riddance tweens.

However, being a dad is more than being a social media manager. It’s equal parts rodeo clown, bullpen closer, and Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada (except my boss wears onesies accessorized with spit and his only language is screams). I’ve learned to despise every cliché about fatherhood while also accepting that exactly 50% are frustratingly accurate. Here’s the stuff I thought was interesting from the first three months:

1. There’s really a baby in there. When Will emerged, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’m not sure what I was “expecting” (sigh) but, despite a thorough understanding of biology and the overwhelming evidence presented by Julia’s body over the previous nine months, I was entirely unprepared for that moment. Pregnancy becomes such its own journey that it’s difficult to comprehend that it’s only the beginning of everything. Like when you watch Part I of The Hobbit, then your wife cries because there are two more. Unfortunately, my first words to Will were, “Oh my God, you’re a real baby!” Never in my life will I experience something as bonkers as a tiny alien who is equal parts me and the one I love basically materializing out of thin air into my life.

2. Diapers are a joke. I always imagined that diapers were going to be the biggest deal in the world. This is probably a symptom of being 33% raised by 90s sitcom dads such as Tim “The Toolman” Taylor who believed that parental responsibilities were the shameful opposite of testosterone, America, and prediabetes. I’m sure diapers will get considerably worse and more colorful once Will starts to eat real food but, so far, they’ve been the most low-effort, high-reward thing a dad can do. Diaper change? I got this, honey. Forty-five seconds of work and, boom. Dad credit. Of course there is the occasional did-you-crawl-to-Chipotle? mess, but those are more impressive than frustrating.

3. When your baby smiles, you will die. I never really understood why babies are born only to spend the next six weeks trying to recreate the womb experience on the outside. Grow up already, right? The best moments of the early days are like a good day hiding from the undead: There were no loud noises, everyone looks alive, and the only thing trying to gnaw on you has no teeth. To be honest, at that stage, babies are just hyper-realistic dolls. But everything changed the first time Will smiled. It was the most pure and honest display of affection. It was as if he was saying, “I still don’t know that I have feet but I recognize the general shape of your face and I have made a connection between said face and the feeling of comfort and safety. Also, I love you.” Even more surprisingly, his best smiles came the instant after waking up. When was the last time you smiled the moment your eyes opened in the morning? When do we start becoming such jerks?

4. Motherhood is a marathon, fatherhood is a sprint. The biggest disappointment of the first 12 weeks was that I thought I would get to play a bigger role in this thing. Mom is food and life and Dad is a rodeo clown between meals. For 10 minutes every hour, I was on. It was my job to come in after a major meltdown or frustrating feeding session and do my best minion impression while Julia recovered. Then I was the lights-out closer who put Will down for bed because, apparently, moms smell like milk and that scent to babies is like midnight ice cream to pregnant chicks. Finally, like a scene from a WWII movie, Julia would hand me a crumpled piece of paper, whisper “just go on without me… you can make it,” then collapse dramatically into a heap of burp cloths on the bed. These Enigma-machined grocery puzzles contained essential, cryptic notes such as “NEED Peepee Teepees” and “nipples falling off, find cure.” I relished these opportunities to contribute but after being nothing better than the cheerleader in the delivery room, I felt almost guilty for not being a miracle-of-nature milk-dispenser.

5. Trust your instincts. Parenthood is a full-time, constantly evolving science experiment in a science where there are no equations or unifying theories, and all of the data is wrapped in hyperbole, cuteness, condescension, and subjective anecdotes from friends and internet strangers. It’s really disappointing that 108 billion babies have been born on this earth, but we still don’t have the formula for raising a normal child. I’m confident there’s even a pediatrician behind a shed at a preschool who insists that male babies be raised by wolverines. So, good luck trying to feel prepared when there are libraries of books and they all contradict each other. “Want to co-sleep just once? Do it! But here’s a coupon for a tombstone.” “Put your baby in a crib. It’s the safest option! Also, his feeling of abandonment will be an insanity defense at his trial someday!” (Books written specifically for dads are hateful in their inefficiency and stereotyping. “Explaining parenting to men” is the same literary style as “Michael Scott talking to black people.”) It’s always convenient and wonderful to hear, “Do some research, but trust your instincts!” When there’s a tiny human relying on me for survival, my instinct is to buy the sharpest sword and breed dire wolves. It’s a fun game to ignore the monsters in the corner of every non-organic, deathtrap crib however, it’s much healthier to chill and not see how much you can worry before your body shuts down. Much like deadlifting and running from tigers, caring for a child is in our DNA. And, according to our pediatrician, “It’s hard to break a baby.”

A Man’s POV: Can A Cool Dad Be An Amazon Mom?

Despite the best efforts of non-existent scientific experiments and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s least best movie, basic anatomy still dictates that women have the babies. Fortunately, that’s where traditional gender roles can begin and end. Today, men and women are encouraged and expected to Lean In and share the joys and challenges of all child-rearing tasks. Men can even breastfeed with the aid of a truly nightmarish device that was conceived in the mind of the wardrobe guy for Leatherface in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. And to all of the less than progressive women who believe that men can’t really share in the more uncomfortable parts of the childbirth miracle, it sure looks like they make up for it later. Go to YouTube and search “dads getting hit in the balls.” There is a seriously concerning number of results, especially considering that I’ve already volunteered for tee-ball coach and Ninja Turtle fight choreographer.

As an upcoming parent, I’ve found that it’s important to embrace non-traditional roles early and often. Then I tried to buy diapers on Amazon and Jeff Bezos spanked me with a spatula and told me to get out of the kitchen.

Amazon’s membership program for prenatal to toddler products is called Amazon Mom. It’s not called Amazon Parent, there isn’t a companion program for dads, and I’ve given Amazon zero reasons to think I’m a woman (I checked my order history). I had heard that Amazon had a diaper-buying service that was the “Amazon Prime of diaper buying” and I can’t resist buying things and having them shipped to me rapidly. But I’m not a mom and the rules are super clear.

Initially, I was thrilled! “Hey Julia, guess who LEGALLY can’t do diapers?!”

But then I felt sexism. And it really stings! Is that what this is? The feeling of being left out and confused, like, how could a charitable (Amazon Smile donates 0.5% of eligible purchases to charity) and creative (drones, lol) company be so insensitive and ignorant? It’s hard enough to reject traditional gender roles without your favorite delivery service calling you a sissy lady:

So when I’m operating on no hours of sleep and I’m up to my elbows in weird baby poo and I reach over for a fresh diaper and, much to my horror, there are no diapers and I yell to my Amazon Fire phone (again, lol), “Need diapers STAT! Send your fastest drone!”, Jeff Bezos is going to reply, “Ha! Nice try, DAD. Should I throw in an apron too, Marilyn? Try not to get any shit on your poodle skirt. I hope your casserole turns out ok. Give your husband a kiss for me.” Jeff Bezos is always such a jerk in our imaginary arguments.

Unless Don Draper is running the Marketing and Branding Department at Amazon, this has to be a clever joke that turns the, like, neutron-star-heavy levels of sexism associated with the term Amazon Mom into some kind of irony that the Hubble Space Telescope hasn’t detected yet.

I’ll give the guys (come on, like they’re not) behind Amazon Mom the benefit of the doubt and assume that they’re just 100 years old AND jerks. But even stupidity should never be half-assed; it needs to be full-assed. So I thought I’d help by launching a companion program called Amazon Dad and keep the “asinine stereotype approach” rolling.

It’s like BirchBox for husbands who want to carve the largest possible canyon between their parental responsibilities and the happiness of their spouse. So once a month, fathers will get a delivery crammed full of featured products that scream, “I’m a #cooldad, but I’m also one Coors Light away from being the most rejected person on Tinder.” There’s no point in allowing a mom to change all of the diapers if the dad doesn’t use that free time to buy things which cultivate a special resentment that will be the foundation of their infant’s future relationship issues.

The commercial on ESPN Radio almost writes itself: “We subscribe to offensive theoretical constructs involving a set of laughably outdated social norms. You subscribe to … Amazon Dad.” If your adult (and NON-coed) softball team doesn’t think you’re the most “Amazon Dad” at the bar, then clearly you don’t have a sweatpants provider who specializes in misogynist rage. Ironically, Amazon is tempted to hate that word just because it has “gyn” in it.

Let’s not live in that world. Here are three steps to avoid a remarkable social regression:

Well, first, I need to find a way to clear my Amazon search history because Ashton Kutcher just bought the rights to my “Related to Items You’ve Viewed” list and now it has its own laugh track.

Second, sign this petition. I wish I could say I was “FIRST!!!!111 trollololol” but thousands of other manly Mr. Moms also hate this product’s guts and want to change (dot org) it. My favorite Amazonian Mom Warrior is this guy from BloggerFather.com. He told Amazon Mom that he was a dad and Jeff Bezos sent him this apology:

That’s amazing. I’m almost jealous because I’ve never been burned that bad and I wonder what it feels like. But much to Amazon’s delight, I’d be even more bummed out if I received this as a mother. Thanks again, Jeff Bezos, for reminding me that an audiobook is the perfect companion to my anxiety about not having Gisele’s post-baby body!

Third, use Google Express. It’s faster and costs exactly the same as Prime. So if you really need a diaper and it’s a serious baby bottom emergency, you’ll prefer the same-day delivery as opposed to the two-day eternity of Prime. Disclaimer: I am a Google employee so my opinion is biased dogshit but our drones are far superior.

Fourth, Jeff Bezos…

A Man's POV: Why I'm Better at Pinterest than a Girl

Well, hello. It’s been a while. I have plenty of excuses for my seven-month layoff though: I was busy getting a new job, making a baby, and writing about things that you would all hate for a mixed martial arts and video game site.

But, unfortunately, now it is autumn (worst word), and Julia has too many reasons to Pinterest. While Pinterest has the reputation of being for girls, that’s only because they’re abusing it, using it wrong, and simply making it hard for guys to find useful stuff. Julia has pinned a thousand things. I’ve pinned approximately three. My first pin was of a cool tattoo design, and I got it drawn on my body in forever ink the very next day. My second pin was of a Grinch-themed Christmas party decoration that led to the most successful event in our four years of marriage. My third pin was a baby announcement photo idea that turned into the most adorable thing ever (again, this). I’m batting 3000%. I’m good at Pinterest.

Girls don’t insist on efficiency. They want a place to categorize their dreams in a worse version of Google Images. I thought Pinterest was supposed to keep your inspirations organized, but Julia’s boards have become a landfill for a slaughterhouse-amount of wasted food products. It’s gotten to the point that when Julia finally attempts a Pinterest recipe, I rely on my 1989 San Francisco earthquake experience and hide under a door frame until the blender goes off. Here’s a recap of her worst (this list is not comprehensive) Pinterest failures:

1. Cauliflower crust pizza. Trying to make a “healthy” pizza is a terrific way to put yourself in a bad mood before you call Round Table. This crust has the crispiness of a bag of wet sand and will conveniently crumble off the pizza stone and onto the floor so that you can treat your neighbors to your favorite profanity. Dog tip: When I say “Pinterest” in front of Daphne, she runs to the kitchen and starts sniffing the floor for disasters.

2. Lavender ice cubes. These are perfect for Halloween (timely!) but not for a refreshing summer beverage. Why? Because pieces of lavender in ice look like frozen spiders. After screaming “kill it, kill it!” to a mason jar of lemonade, I furiously spilled this whimsical idea (again) all over the kitchen floor. The tile was beginning to look like a crime scene at Williams-Sonoma.

3. Gluten-free snickerdoodles. I’m not only mad that I have to relive this, I’m mad I have to hear the word snickerdoodle in my brain as I do it. SD cookies are delicious and SIMPLE, so when Julia pinned a version that was slightly less indulgent, I was willing to participate. As expected, somewhere along the way from pin to oven, something went haywire. I blame poor translation software on this one because I have to believe there’s no way that Julia would see “almond flour” and read “hamster cage bedding.” Once, in second grade, I ate a baseball card and that tasted like a more on-purpose cookie than the pile of crumbs Julia offered me for dessert.

4. Raw brownies. I should have seen this one coming, but the ingredients were basically just dates and walnuts, and I have a vivid imagination. Put a date in one hand and a handful of walnuts in the other, pop them in your mouth, delicious. Put them in a blender with some other basic ingredients and something unholy happens. I can’t explain it and neither can science. At least I now know why our Vitamix screams like the bad guy from Roger Rabbit when he’s melting.

5. Banana-egg pancakes. I can imagine a person eating regular, glutenful pancakes with banana slices on top. That concept sounds bogus but I’ve seen them on a menu at Denny’s, so I assume that they’re not just a joke that the fruit industry is playing on fast food junkies. In another episode of “Let’s Take Something Decadent and Ruin It By Trying To Make It Healthy,” Julia attempted these two-ingredient pancakes and they were…great? They tasted exactly like normal pancakes should except the consistency was a bit…off. I don’t know. Maybe it was because they looked like she poured a chunky smoothie onto a griddle and tried to pass it off as breakfast. If that wasn’t enough to trigger your gag reflex, it’s exactly how normal pancakes would look if you went straight from Denny’s to a Gravitron.

6. Metallic letters. Julia did some arts and crafts and made letters that spell “T E A.” Tea! I love tea. All types. Earl Grey is my favorite. But, no. According the Julia, the letters spell “E A T” and that is what is on our wall by the dining room table. Eat. Eat? Ok? You’re right, that’s what we do here. She didn’t appreciate the suggestions for other obvious verbs in all other rooms of the house.

I sound way disgruntled, but I’m mostly happy that Julia is attempting creative food and household experiments. To be fair, there have been numerous success stories—like the Oreo cookies baked in chocolate chip cookies Inception-style that Julia made for my birthday—but that’s not funny. So, before you pin something, ask yourself the hard question: Will I ever put in the effort to bring this abstract vision to life? Otherwise you’re just “liking” pictures of food in yet another app and that doesn’t seem productive. Go ahead, make those sugarBOMB cookies for dessert tonight or go get that tattoo tomorrow. Don’t give yourself a creative space to catalog the dreams that you will never achieve because that’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever written.

Also, forget trying to make healthy versions of things, especially if you have a husband. Just eat the thing that looks good, then go for a run.

A Man's POV: Shopping Like a Detective

Blogging sure is great. Julia bothers with things like grammar, editing, photoshopping, real shopping, interviewing, and Pinteresting (both a verb and an adjective, e.g., “oh, that’s so Pinteresting!” when you see an unexpected mason jar filled with something not food), and then, at an entirely unpredictable moment, I’ll upset all of that and vandalize her blog with some words. I’m not exaggerating when I say that my process is less defined. I have two sources of inspiration: irrational anger and pretty girls. My anger-based ideas begin with a pitch to Julia that goes something like, “I was just the victim of some grave offense to humanity and I need to use your cute blog as a platform to seek justice and vent my petty frustrations.” They are vetoed immediately. That’s why they’ll never see the light of day until I start my pissy bad mood online rage journal. I’ve already written my first piece, “Cupcakes and Communists,” a rant about the ineptitude of spam posts that originate in Eastern Europe in the comment sections of fashion blogs.

My successful ideas come from my muses. These pretty girls can be real people, fictional characters, or those girls who exist along with ghosts and dark matter in that mysterious extra dimension between earth and hell called popular culture. Thanks to the Large Hadron Collider and creeps in the bushes with telephoto lenses, we can detect celebrities’ presence in the physical world but science still can’t explain the physics behind their existence. Now that I’m married and loosely affiliated with a fashion and beauty blog, I see all women as mannequins for potential blog posts and Christmas presents for Julia.

My new favorite muse is fictional New York City homicide detective Kate Beckett. She’s the no-nonsense, kick-ass babe from the TV show Castle played by actual babe Stana Katic. I know a thing or two about smart girls with long legs and awesome hair (see: wife), so in episode 301, “A Deadly Affair,” when Kate Beckett was solving a murder case while looking straight-up smoking in a purpley pink Burberry shirt I immediately thought, “I confess! Julia would look awesome in that!” Fortunately, I have some sick amateur detective skills, which must be of a caliber comparable to mystery-novelist-turned-NYPD-homicide-consultant and Kate Beckett’s love interest Richard Castle (played by Nathan Fillion from Firefly, the show that produced this iconic beanie) because I know how to use Google. There I uncovered a site completely dedicated to documenting all (ALL) of Kate Beckett’s outfits (reminder: a fictional character) into a monumentally helpful virtual wardrobe. I almost went on my first shopping spree. “Hey! Those are the leather boots Kate was wearing when she chased down the perp from the Soho triple-murder crime scene that would be perfect on Julia for a San Francisco date night!” and “That’s the leather jacket Detective Beckett wore during the arsonist’s autopsy that Julia can pair with her new ankle booties.” The internet is so useful and powerful. And I need to figure out how to join the NYPD because either detectives are shockingly well compensated or most of Beckett’s wardrobe comes from the Upper West Side precinct’s evidence locker.

Luckily, I discovered this site right before Christmas and tracked down Beckett’s Burberry shirt just in time to put it under the tree. Julia loved the shirt and the real-life detective work that went into it. Also, she doesn’t mind if I have a muse if it means new clothes.

An interesting thing about Stana Katic, other than the fact that she can swear super offensively in her native Serbo-Croatian language (gracias, Google Translation), is that she’s an ambassador for the Alternative Travel Project. I’m mostly sure this is the effort to not drive a car for one day every week, but on Twitter it seems to be the movement in support of taking pictures of your shoes. Julia is already an expert at that, so I’ll just go ahead and ride my bike to work every Friday. So, thank you, Stana, and you’re welcome, environment.

Now that I’m done buying women’s clothes until next December, for my next post I can focus on menswear, so be sure to tune in and find out what happens when I catch a man wearing dress shoes with no socks!

Burberry shirt and bag. Rag and Bone jeans. Latigo booties. Valentino sunglasses. David Yurman necklace and bracelets. Michele watch.

A Man's POV: Hosting Christmas Eve

Yeah, I love Christmas. We've established that. You've also been led to believe that I'm some present-grubbing greedy Scrooge-monger who just wants some ridiculous S-H-I-T waiting for him under the Griswoldian tree every year. While that's hilarious, it's 50% misleading. I love Christmas because it's the time of the year when the childish, magical spirit of Yuletide joy and wonder is not only allowed but EXPECTED. What's special about the month of August? YAWN. Exactly. December is fantastic.

My enthusiasm for Christmas was put to the test when Julia and I were tasked with hosting Christmas Eve dinner. My initial response was "Let's have a Austrian-themed meal!" because two weeks ago I heard Arnold Schwarzenegger say "schnitzel" in an interview. Then I remembered that sausages are for stadium parking lot gutters and Christmas belongs to the Who's. Who? The Who's down in Whoville. And no place on Earth represents Christmas like Whoville. And I love them. How the Grinch Stole Christmas! was my favorite Dr. Seuss book when I was a kid. So, manly men reading a woman's blog, if you have to host a party, own that shit and give it a theme that excites your holiday (or whatever) spirit and while you're at it, you should also stop rolling your eyes at me and being so casually apathetic about everything, Judd Nelson. And get a haircut. And tuck in your shirt. This stuff can be fun.

So, where do you go when you need to plan a party? Pinterest. Specifically, you create a secret board and share fun little pins with your wife. Actually I juuuuust realized that my entire Pinterest identity should be a secret. But seriously you can find ANYTHING arts and crafty on Pinterest. There are enough oddly specific party themes pinned on Pinterest ("Sexy Hunger Games" what?) than there are cat ladies at Michael's so, chances are, you're not alone with your ideas.

Then, you physically go to Michael's (sorry, so so sorry about that subtle foreshadowing) and you gather your resources. The best part about Pinterest is that the cat ladies do most of the work for you. They create printable things and give you all of the recipes. If you can read a list and know the location of a Safeway, you're almost a certified wedding planner. However, there's still some stuff that will require you to suspend all judgement and hate and delve into the parts of your brain that help you make breakfast when you're out of eggs. Need some material that looks like a Grinch beard? Thank God I found these green feather boas in the party aisle! Need a background for a photo booth? A plastic tablecloth could solve that! See? Ugh, not gonna lie, it was tough. I honestly couldn't get out of that place fast enough. But, mission accomplished.

So now that you have the resources and the very specific and exact list of instructions from your new Pinterest friends and pen pals, put it all together BUT don't go overboard because, at the end of the party, the FOOD is the most important ingredient. I can cook one thing at a time but I get MOTHER LOVING stressed when I have to coordinate four different dishes. Who Hash, Roast Beast, Whoville Farm Veggies, and Mount Crumpet Martinis sound cute but I could feel my subconscious Gordon Ramsay's disappointment breathing down my neck as I fumbled meat and potatoes around the kitchen (much to the dog vacuum cleaner's delight). That's the part that demands the most planning and attention. The decorations will be a wonderful distraction if you place them directly above the toilet so that your guests have something to annoy them while they're suffering from food sickness and confusion. So, have a plan.

OUR PARTY WAS AWESOME! Parents and other parents loved it. Then we reused most of the decorations, cocktail ingredients, and photo booth materials for a party with friends a few days later. TOTAL SUCCESS. Nailed it.

One of the best things I did was download the Grinch font so I could write like Dr. Seuss.

Julia handled the craftier of the crafts, like making Grinch-themed props for our photo booth. She found an assemble-it-yourself props kit filled with mustaches and spectacles but tossed most of the hipster garbage. That's the Grinch's beard and hat, a heart that grew three times its size, the dog Max's antlers and nose, and one of Cindy Lou's crazy hair bows.

To make the photo booth, we hung this plastic tablecloth so guests could pose in front of a festive background instead of a boring white wall. Pro tip: Don't come skipping in from the garage with a staple gun and expect to use it on your wall when your spouse is home.

According to Dr. Seuss, the Who's eat Who Hash which, like Christmas, doesn't come from a store. To find Who Hash, Pinterest led to me to the printable labels on this awesome blog. We taped them on mason jars because mason jars are the duct tape of Pinterest; when a party needs to be fixed, just put some stuff in mason jars and you're MacGyver.

Our dinner menu was based on the Who's famous feast feast feast. I also shamelessly plagiarized from this blog post.

Everyone had a Grinchy name to let them know where to sit at the feast.

If you don't recall the Holiday Cheermeister from the original tale, it's because this character is in the 2000 movie remake with Jim Carrey and that chick from Gossip Girl before she went all Hot Topic.

These are Grinch kabobs. I can't take credit for this brilliance. See the original recipe if this picture is too much of a puzzle for you.

Here's my own original contribution to the Pinterverse: the Mount Crumpet Martini. That'd be one part vodka, one part Peppermint Schnapps, half part creme de cocoa, and two parts eggnog. Notice the candy cane rim? I put some candy canes in a ziplock bag and threw it against the wall fives times then smashed them into smithereens with a meat tenderizer until I felt happy. Then I daintily coated the rim of the glass with a thin layer of honey and dipped said glass in those demolished canes. FOR THE LOVE OF CHRISTMAS someone please pin this so I feel validated.

I was forced to imagine that Who Hash is simply potatoes covered in cheesy bacon because that would explain why the Who's are always happy.

The Who's also ate Who Pudding, so for dessert, we had a pudding bar. Julia whipped up the pudding while I narrowly beat out another Christmas Eve procrastinator for the last package of dark chocolate chips. Okay, it was actually a Who Pudding and ice cream bar in case the pudding turned out weird. For the record, it was great.

The photo booth was fun for the whole family. Even the dog was kind of okay with wearing antlers for approximately 30 seconds to be my Max.

Yes, that's a Grinch shirt. Like I said, commit to a theme and go all out. Merry Grinchmas!

A Man's POV: Lululemon 2.0

WHAT? Did Lululemon and I just become best friends?

My original post about the man crush I have on my Lululemon shorts went viral in a very limited way. Instead of a zombie virus outbreak that quickly spread across the globe, it was more like I had the sniffles and two coworkers came down with runny noses that cleared up after a cup of tea. However, my words did reach the eyes of Lululemon himself and one of the guys in his marketing department (what’s up, Ben) sent me a care package.

Inside were pants, a long-sleeve shirt, a new pair of (upgraded) shorts, and a vest (sold out online but check your local stores .... or don’t, I don’t know what to tell you). I put them all on at once (shorts over pants, Superman-style) and immediately sent a picture (sext?) to Julia because I knew it would make her completely jealous and slightly angry, and those are the immature types of things I do that remind me I’m a shitty oversized human child.

I looked at myself in the mirror and I was ashamed at my behavior (again). Then I examined the clothes and I was ... confused. These weren’t workout clothes. These were normal clothes. I mean, PANTS?! People who exercise in pants aren’t allowed on airplanes. I was being tested. Except for the upgraded shorts. Those are clearly only for exercise but these, as opposed to my first and favorite pair, have a bit of an underwear/tights liner. Now, that invention is remarkably well past due because it keeps the disgustingly white and oddly hairy thighs of most all males unexposed when performing squats or really anything with lower body movement, but can someone just tell me if I’m supposed to wear underwear with these things? I can’t figure it out. I’ve tried it both ways and avec underpants, it feels like too much material that bunches in terrible ways, but sans underoos, I feel wrong on a more emotional than physical level. This is where I need another male Lululemon buddy who can teach me what is right (secret handshake).

Anyway, I was being tested. Mr. Lululemon sent me normal clothes in order to push me out of my comfort zone. Well, CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. I wore that shit to work.

Bottom line: It felt like cheating. I felt like a spy in a wizard’s cloak. All of my coworkers had no idea that I was clad in pure comfort while they were toiling away in their monkey suits. A stylish girl told me she liked my vest and once she was out of sight, I punched the sky in triumph and validation. I realized that Lululemon had cracked yet another code. In my first post, I wrote about style without sacrificing function in the gym, but now they’ve managed to create products that are functional without sacrificing the necessary style for the office. These fashion prophets are also enabling a new generation of workers who care just as much about health and mobility as they do about their productivity and money.

I don’t have one friend who enjoys being a sedentary trashbag of diabetes, yet most of my civilian sector colleagues have their assess stapled to chairs in front of Microsoft Office for the best parts of the day. If functional fitness is the codeword for 2010s fitness, then the solution to this somewhat necessary 9-5 lifestyle is activity. Nike Fuelbands, FitBits, standing desks, Bike to Work Day, and exercise ball chairs are wonderful intentions, but what good is any of that if you have to constantly remove all of your clothes to knock out a set of mobility exercises for ten minutes every hour then report to HR for a chat about workplace hygiene? Answer: Buy some Lululemon secret workout office pants! AND, as a special bonus, you can give all of your cycling friends the biggest middle finger as you confidently strut into your first meeting without changing outfits. And if Lululemon represents anything, it is class and sportsmanship.

Did you notice that it is winter now? A bit cold are you? Is that wool peacoat not convenient? Are you in George Washington’s Army? Buy this Lululemon vest and random babes will tell you how good you look. It’s also the perfect balance between too sweaty inside and hypothermic outside. Too hot after running or chopping firewood with a tomahawk? It’s still appropriate attire because as you cool down, it won’t leave you with sweat icicles on your impressive beard. Winter is great because Christmas, but the price we must pay is the awkward cold air between the car and the gym/office. That ends now. I’m currently wearing this vest indoors and I’m not even uncomfortable. It’s like it knows what to be. Pro tip: Wear it without a shirt and you’ll feel like Bane.

I can’t be any more clear. When I saw that Lululemon was making clothes for activities other than intense fitness, I felt like, “whoa, let us not be silly.” But now I’m the one being fed my words. From now on, at the start of every season to simplify my shopping, I’m going to take a fairly thick stack of money, walk into my neighborhood Lululemon, throw it at the cashier and walk out with the mannequin that’s modeling the new line. I’m sick of being wrong. They’re obviously professionals who know exactly what they’re doing, and I’m just an immature man-child who needs a timeout. My new favorite word is Lululemon still Batmobile.

_____________________________________________________________

DISCLAIMER: Lulu f’in Lemon. I’m trying my best to help you but you’re making my job difficult. Granted, I am a part-time blogger/smartass with AT LEAST one hundred Facebook friends, but my PR skills pale in comparison to your founder’s ability to put his foot so far in his mouth that he can still use it to walk.

To you, my beautiful reader: I wrote this article two weeks ago so please don’t think I condone what that guy said about pants. Basically, earlier this year, Lululemon had a $50 million quality problem in which some of their super popular yoga pants were also super see-through. Instead of just fixing it, the founder of the company thought the problem wasn’t big enough, so when asked during an interview, he said that it wasn’t a quality or design issue but, rather, due to some women having large thighs. I know. That’s pretty bad. As a guy with the SAME PROBLEM, I feel the sting. However, I think the words of one guy represent the thoughts of only one guy, so my high opinion of this organization is still intact but gosh the timing is just not ideal for me.

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A Man's POV: Supermodel Scallops

As a kid and very amateur paleontologist, I understood there were two types of dinosaurs: meat-eating dinosaurs and boring dinosaurs. You can bet every time I bite into a steak I think, “Yep, just like an apex predator Tyrannosaurus would.” However, I’m married to a boring dinosaur. That can’t possibly be misinterpreted. Julia claims she isn’t a vegetarian, but I have two eyeballs and her lies look a lot like plants for every meal.

Normally this doesn’t cause conflict but with Julia busy learning the ropes at her new job at thefacebook.com, I’ve had the opportunity to “Lean In” to the kitchen instead of just “peeking in” and asking when dinner is ready. Unfortunately, since Julia’s dinner is usually my dinner’s dinner I had to find some common ground. So I went to the only person I knew I could trust: a supermodel who I stalk on the internet.

You probably know Chrissy Teigen from the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue aka, “Oh, what? Honey, no, this is sports.” Chrissy Teigen is like Weird Science (IMDB: 1980s geeks use floppy disks to make perfect 1980s woman), but there’s nothing weird about it because that technology exists and she’s real. Here’s a list of things she is:

1. Better than me at Mario Kart and the F-word;
2. Hilarious on Twitter; and,
3. A supermodel-looking person who cooks awesome meals and blogs about it.

For Julia, supermodel + blog + food = credibility. Also, is it weird that I read a swimsuit model’s blog for the FOOD PICTURES? These are recipes that look so good, I have to constantly check over my shoulder because I feel wrong. But sometimes wrong is delicious and in this case I found the recipe that is the perfect compromise between my eating habits and Julia’s: Chrissy’s scallops.

Not only do the scallops taste like a pescetarian’s taste buds went to heaven and forgot to be boring, but Chrissy’s post is one of the funniest things I’ve read in months. As I began to read the recipe, I was prepared for a basic set of instructions, but I was totally unprepared to go on a brief journey of feelings from hunger, to sadness, to empathy, to humor, to shame for laughing at sadness, back to hunger, and, finally, to satisfaction and pride.

I won’t repost the entire recipe here because you NEED to go on that journey yourself. However, I will show you some pictures as evidence:

Oh Jesus, she also has a bulldog.

These scallops are the perfect dish to satisfy both the boring dinosaur and the biggest, baddest, warrior Tyrannosaur on the block. The best part is that if you can follow some simple, profanity-laced instructions, then they’re really low risk while still sounding impressive. I think Julia is really proud of me, so it’s safe to assume that Chrissy’s blog will be my go-to cookbook when I want to eat like a swimsuit model.

(Photo of Chrissy Teigen via So Delushious)

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A Man’s POV: Victoria’s Secret

This is the fourth installment of A Man's POV, by my husband Nick.

Shopping at Victoria’s Secret is never the experience I once imagined it would be. Instead of strobe lights and runway models, it’s bored boyfriends and bins overflowing with underpants in the most overwhelming way possible. Victoria organizes her displays like she’s trying to get revenge on her mom for making her clean up her room when she was a tween. Those exotic and delicate garments just don’t look the same as they do in the commercials when they are equipped with enormous security devices and being handled by the dozen by some dude as if he’s training to be a magician.

Best case, Julia knows exactly what she wants and we’re outta there in five or thirty minutes. Worst case, I’m sent in on a solo mission to “find” something for her. Fortunately there usually are other stores into which I can escape. That was my strategy during one particularly exciting trip to the mall last year. Julia wanted to browse so I wandered off. This is normal and not usually a cause for concern, but after 45 minutes in the Apple store, I began to wonder why she was trying on all of the bras.

Ring ring.
Julia: Hi.
Nick: Um, are you trapped in the dressing room? What is taking so long?
Julia: Yes.
Nick: That’s your real answer?
Julia: No. Yes, I’m trapped in the dressing room.
Nick: Haha, ok, can you just wrap it up soon?
Julia: Nick, I’m actually stuck! The lock broke and I can’t get out!
Nick: Oh my God this is a wannabe superhero’s fantasy I’ll be right there.

Much, much slower than a speeding bullet, I rushed over to the store and, yes indeed, the door was very, very jammed. If heat vision existed, Julia would have been in luck because the employees did nothing but stare at the door. The mall cop jiggled the lock a dozen times then gawked at it like it was calculus. I asked what their plan was and the manager said, “We called the fire department. They should be here soon.”

*Light bulb/strobe light*
Nick: Can I just kick the door open?
Manager: I guess, the fire fighters are probably just going to...
KA-BOOM! Roundhouse kick!
Nick: You were serious, right?

I made a good dent in the wood but failed to break the bolt. I made the best of it and thoroughly enjoyed kicking the door ten more times before it became clear that everything I learned in straight-to-DVD Van Damme movies was a lie.

Finally I just leg pressed the shit out of the door and blasted it open while Julia took cover in the corner. What a scene. The aftermath looked like a SWAT team thought Victoria's real secret was a stash of drugs. In that moment when the frame and part of the wall exploded into splinters, I knew that I loved shopping. What started off as a mundane errand turned into the best and most violent underwear experience of my life. I rescued the beautiful girl from extreme peril (sorta) and didn’t even have to pick out a bra.

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A Man's POV: Tory Burch Flats

This is the third installment of A Man’s POV, by my husband Nick.

Julia and I are married. We have a house and a dog. We both have full-time jobs and we like to exercise. We try to eat dinner together most nights. Once a month we like to put on fancy clothes, suspend all diets and budgets, and go out on a nice date. We get restaurant recommendations from friends, read reviews, and sometimes even take a calculated risk with a new hot spot (who knows!). Everything is great. Date night arrives and then, usually as I'm buttoning up my shirt, I hear Julia's voice from the vicinity of her closet, "Hey, I hope you chose a restaurant that's within 200 yards because I'm planning on wearing shoes! Yay! Date night!"

Allow me to be perfectly clear: If life were a cartoon, shoes would be snickering little terrorists that hide in girls' closets and come to life to steal fun and use it as currency in some kind of drug ring.

For the sake of my own sanity, I need to know that Julia doesn't go to Nordstrom and say, "Hi! If you give me some things I can strap to my feet which will render me totally immobile and inflict such physical pain that I can't stand for more than six minutes, I'll give you a bunch of cash as long as they're cute."

Once I carried Julia ten blocks through New York because her snazziest heels tried to eat her toes. I'm constantly carrying Julia—even around the house—and that's mostly ok. She can't help it that her body's response to any combination of food, TV, and wine is to go comatose and require transportation to bed. I'm cool with that. It's the best way I know to not have to watch Mad Men. But when I have to wear a human backpack because she puts her trust in fashion and in return is betrayed by ruthless design, I start to lose patience.

I can't handle the fact that people buy uncomfortable shoes. In the last year alone a man-made object left the solar system, a guy named Felix bungee jumped from outer space, and Arrested Development aired a fourth season. Humans can do anything. So why are we settling for ruined date nights and blisters?

Dumb shoes are the last major stronghold of those who never want to evolve but fortunately there's a warrior princess who means to defeat them and her name is Tory Burch.

A few years ago, Julia and I were walking through the shoe section of a store on one of her yearlong missions to find a certain kind of boot when she saw a pair of Tory Burch flats and said, "Those are supposed to be the best flats ever." That struck me as odd because flats, as I understood it, meant cheap, comfortable, and as fashionable as a fanny pack. If you want Miranda Priestly to notice how functional your shoes are, they're what you'd be wearing when she makes you cry. While Julia was in the dressing room, I circled back and tracked down the mayor of the shoe section to get some clarification. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but these are NICE flats? I'll pay anything."

Those shoes have opened up the world to us and while that sounds like pure hyperbole you must not have noticed that I never exaggerate. Imagine a day in San Francisco during which you can walk around freely for hours in a stylish outfit, shop in all of your favorite boutiques, and have a nice dinner all without the logistics and hassle of needing multiple shoe changes and coordinating a resupply. If you're smiling knowingly at the screen, you've already met my best friend Tory. If my magical day sounds too good to be true then you need to go shopping and be prepared to eat your ignorant words.

And to Tory, a big thank you from me and my lower back.

(Photo by Meg Perotti; see more.)

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A Man's POV: Lululemon

My husband Nick knows a lot about fitness. He only knows a little bit about fashion. Here, he shares his thoughts on both. (As evidenced by this picture, he does not actually practice yoga, but his workout attire might suggest otherwise.)



My least favorite word is Lululemon. All of my favorite clothes are from Lululemon.

Except for this.

Because I hate money, Julia and I used to have a membership at the swanky, spa-bathroomed gym chain Equinox. In the Marine Corps, we exercised with crates of used ammunition in caves we stole from Al Qaeda so when I saw a gym with a functioning shower and seven on-duty masseuses, I had a moment of weakness. 

On my first day, I showed up ready to do fitness but it wasn't until I was standing in the locker room (or was it an Enya music video?) in my underpants that I realized I had forgotten my shorts at home. Redressed, I found the "boutique" (of course) in between the front desk and the espresso bar and picked out the most un-neon shorts I could find in five seconds. The cashier politely said, "Did you find everything alright? Greaaaat, that'll be $140." 

First thought: "That's hilarious, but I'm kinda running late sooooo..." 
Second thought: "You're not kidding. How dare you. (Profanity x 10)." 
Third and final thought: "Sweet mother of life these feel like heavenly clouds across my loins." 

I looked around to make sure I didn't see anyone who would tell my friends they saw me wearing my new yoga chick uniform and commenced a life-changing Crossfit workout. 

Lululemon has solved the decades-old dilemma of: how do I look and feel good while working out without sacrificing functionality for style? 

I judge the SHIT out of people in the gym. If you show up with a priority higher than exercise, it's safe to say we've been enemies. The problem is that we live in a society and, frankly, it's polite to look good. However, until recently, there hasn't been a fair balance between functional athletic clothing and style. Five years ago, if you were working out properly, you had to change clothes ten times before you could reemerge in public to buy groceries. But, if you had style, you couldn't Jazzercise for five minutes without toppling over in a mess of stilettos and hairspray. 

The Call On Me video changed all that. Whoops. Lululemon changed all that. Sure, the clothes are pricey but that's because capitalism rules and they're worth it. Before that fateful day at Equinox, if you had told me I'd own eight articles of clothing from Lululemon, I would've admitted to being a MILF. But now, I'm openly, proudly, and literally doing laundry right now so I can wear my favorite shorts again tomorrow. 

My lovely Julia wears 100% Lulu to the gym and it's one of the main reasons why we have a happy marriage. Those black yoga pants and brightly colored tops are super hot. I also know that a Lulu-clad Julia is feeling as posh as she is sporty, which gives her the confidence to venture into the "boy section" (her words) of the gym and squat her weight without flirting with a wardrobe malfunction. 

I'm glad the trend has caught on. Every time I see a girl sporting the Lululemon logo (what is that thing? A mustache?) at the gym I think, "Wow, that girl has perfect taste." Whenever I see a man in Lululemon I want to go give him some kind of a secret handshake I haven't invented yet that says, "Pssst! Me too! We're awesome. Let's be friends?" But, you know, "guy code" and all. 

So, whether you are a guy, girl, runner, cyclist, yogi, Crossfitter, power walker, or power lifter, you now have the most no-brainer, no-worry choice in the world when it comes time to suit up for the gym and beyond. It's the best outfit that you'll love to sweat all over. If you or the man in your life has gone Lulu, let me know so I can give you a virtual secret handshake.

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A Man’s POV: Pink Lipstick

The numbers are in: the most viewed post on my blog is not about fashion, beauty, or a recipe that keeps you in your skinny jeans, but a story I wrote about my husband’s questionable shopping habits. So, I figured I’d turn it over to him for this next post.

Hi, I’m Nick. You may know me from such blogisodes as “Shit My Husband Buys” and “Husband Who Is Still Learning How to Use a Camera and That’s Why Julia’s Feet Are Cut Off and There’s a Dumpster in the Background.” When Julia approached me about writing a guest post, I was happy. When Julia told me it was about pink lipstick, I experienced fear. I like to think that I could be a successful internet writer/unsuccessful novelist so I hesitated to consent to having my columnistic debut coincide with the revelation that I care about makeup. However, I support my wife and I’m not afraid of exposing this side of me as long as it means I get 51% of the movie voting rights on Friday. 

The Dark Knight was released that Friday. 

Here goes! 

Like I said two sentences ago, I support my wife. Now that she spends hours a day living in the blogosphere (is this the right term? It doesn’t feel like a real word but I’m sure it is), two things have happened: 
1. I can watch Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead without harassment while Julia’s eagerly Pinteresting away at the other end of the apartment and; 
2. With all of the magazines, photo shoots, bloggy-type Google Chrome tabs left open on my laptop, I have accidentally absorbed a shocking amount of fashion, style, beauty, and (non-zombie related) pop culture knowledge.

The effects of these are: 
1. Julia doesn’t have to watch these shows because she hates “medieval stuff,” and; 
2. I occasionally have brilliant beauty ideas (for HER) and enough accidental knowledge to spot fashion trends six months out. 

For example, last year I noticed that purple was trending before it was a trend. 

This year, it’s lipstick. 

But not just any lipstick. If you’re like me and have to pick up enough fashion mag(azine)s from the foot of the bed, you know that bold, bright lips are all the rage right now. Julia was so focused on boots and stuff that I began to fear she was going to miss this major shift in trends. So, in order to save her from some kind of ugly beauty blog faux pas, and to earn major marriage points, I went out on a twig of a limb and expressed an opinion: Pink lipstick is cool. 

Then Julia asked so many questions. “Look, I’m right about this; trust me” didn’t count for much because I have exactly zero street-style cred. How about, “Well, it’s f---ing HOT”? Can that be a reason? Also, regardless of the fact that it is totally in, pink lipstick is edgy enough to give her a fun new look without much effort. It’s like the time she got bangs. I knew it wasn’t going to be her 100% new forever look BUT it was an exciting change for a couple months (“Hey, new wife!”). Besides, lip color was my idea so I was bearing all of the risk if she walked outside and babies cried and dogs howled. 

All I knew was that bright, Jessica Rabbit/Chastain red was last season’s color (but still a good, conservative one) so with winter and the Oscars behind us, we hustled over to the mall to find the perfect shade of pink to match the playful colors of sunny weather and spring fashion (I swear I’m writing this by myself and I’m more scared than ever but it’s too far to turn back don’t judge I’m sweating and super nauseous). 

This wasn’t easy. Since I was controlling this adventure (and since you’ve already read about my shopping style), I was hoping that we would have been in and out of Sephora in 15 minutes. Not happening. I guess part of the problem was that I couldn’t even articulate what the shade of pink in my vision looked like. “Umm, it’s kind of a Katy Perry, neon post-it note, bubblegum color that I hope Nicki Minaj wouldn’t wear but probably does.” The look on the Sephora girl’s face made me feel awfully ridiculous for not being better prepared but there was a twinkle in her eyes that said, “This is going to take forever but it’s cute that you’re here.” Presumably, I was already supposed to know which shade of pink lipstick is the best. What a fantastic and absurd question. Isn’t “pink” enough? In my childhood box of crayons there was at most one pink crayon and it was always in perfect condition because no one ever used it because it was pale and shitty and not good for coloring at all. I could see my big idea was quickly becoming a regret. 

It actually took a thousand (three) trips to the mall to find the exact type of pink I’d been envisioning, since apparently you can only try on 40 (or so) lipsticks until your lips turn permanently pink and you can no longer tell fuschia from magenta or Red Velvet Sprinkles (shopping fuel). 

Too light.

Too dark.

Too goopy.

Getting closer.

Getting bored.

Just right!

YSL Rouge Pur Couture #27

Moral of the story: As a guy, shopping is like diving for treasure; if you think you can do it in one dive and hold your breath (literally—the smell of Sephora gives me a headache) then you’re gonna die. My best advice is to choose your battles wisely, be prepared, and be patient. Then recover by watching the new season of Arrested Development (and all the old ones) and forget everything you’ve learned. Try again next year. Repeat. (Because she’s worth it).

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