#Kellyann Wargo
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Sprang is Hurr
I hate spring almost as much as I hate summer (sweating, sunburn, frizzy hair, lakes made of 75% pee, and an abundance of youths flocking to the air conditioned mall’s Starbucks). While I realize I hold the minority opinion here, I am not taking this stance to be some sort of season hipster who chooses to dislike something simply because the majority enjoys it.
The only reason people love spring is because it’s not winter, and loving something for what it’s not, instead of what it is (a gloomy soggy mud dumpster littered with travel sized plastic Popov bottles) is fucking stupid. It's the same reason we have an orange hormonal tween whose parents' won't monitor his social media, for president. People voted for Trump just because he wasn't Hillary. AND LOOK WHERE WE ARE NOW. Amber Wooster said it best, “I’m just thankful that Syria didn’t bomb us for poisoning the children of Flint or gassing natives at Standing Rock.”
Politics aside, we can all agree on one thing– hating the word "moist.” (Personally, I think “discharge” is worse.) Moist is only acceptable when describing the flavorful layers of an angel food cake. Sorry to deflate your spring boner, but it’s THE DEFINITION OF MOIST. Every surface you touch, walk or drive on from April to June sounds like a clapping puke covered toddler - just a bunch of brown squishy smacking. That palpable moisture in the air is the earth sweating, the pits of our pubescent planet working overtime to detox after the holiday binge. I don’t know about you, but I’m not trying to hydroplane in my heeled boots walking from my car into a Cracker Barrel.
But cuter outfits! I feel my cutest when I'm wearing so many layers my body shape is just “rectangle” and even the silhouette of Big Foot has more wasit definition than I do. The harder it would be to describe me for a police sketch, the better. That is my style. Which is why at least my first wedding will be in the winter. But here we are, knee deep in engagement parties and bridal showers. Good luck wearing heels that won't sink into the shit colored depths faster than my tanking credit score. Don’t even think about wearing anything white or pastel, unless you’re trying to be a walking example of the “before” outfit in a Tide Pod commercial. I too have been tempted to break out a seasucker skirt, having seen enough Old Navy commercials spreading spring positive propaganda to have me temporarily believe spring isn’t that bad. Then I look outside...
But all of the snow is gone! You know what that crispy, deep, sound buffering, white blanket was covering? All of the garbage our morbidly obese country won’t walk five extra feet to throw into a trashcan. Once the snow has melted the state of Michigan looks like a post-apocalyptic fairground sprinkled with used napkins, plastic utensils, and one flip flop that always has me thinking, who threw just half a pair of flips out the window? Like in what scenario is that the appropriate response besides, “Bet you won’t throw one flip flop out the window.” I like snow. Snow means leggings, and slippers, and replacing vanilla flavored coffee creamer with peppermint flavored vodka. Melted snow means clear roads suburban moms treat like massive sidewalks to jog down with their leashed children. But when I honk, I’m the asshole? JK I don’t honk! That’s rude. I blast some v sexually explicit rap.
But nature! You mean the crusty leaf buds dotting tree branches like my unshaven legs after wearing my fancy going out leggings for a week straight? Wake me up when the leafs can provide a function, like shade or musical festival crown materials. Don't even get me started on flowers. People lose their GOD DAMN minds over these little uncircumsized petal dicks popping out of the soil. But I have news for you, know what's better than flower buds? FULL. ASS. BLOOMED. FLOWERS.
It’s just a super confusing time in the year because I want to wear flannel under a quilted vest, but I also want to drink iced coffee and paint my nails Bikini So Teeny by Essie, and those are two aesthetics that should never be paired together– like drinking Coors Light while nibbling on cucumber tea sandwiches. Anyways, I’m now emotionally drained. Rant over, time to take a nap. Wake me up when I can drink on a patio without a jean jacket.
#Spring#Kellyann Wargo#Walk of Shame Shuttle#Walk of Shame#Ginger Ambition#Redheaded Blogger#Redhead Blog#Winter
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17 delicious foods you can thank immigrants for.
<br>
Immigrants are in the spotlight lately. And not in the good, Patti LuPone/Audra McDonald duet kind of way.
LuPone (left) and McDonald (right). Photo by Drama League/Flickr.
As promised, the Trump administration is advancing its plans to boot millions of immigrants from the United States — and reviving its order to stop them from coming here in the first place.
To hear all your Sean Spicers, your Stephen Millers, and your Kellyanne Conways tell it, the measures are necessary to stop, well, pretty much everything bad currently happening in America — from job-stealing to crime to terrorism.
Convincing Americans that immigrants are more than the sum of their worst stereotypes means winning back some hearts and minds, but these days, it can feel futile to appeal to America's heart or its brain.
But perhaps — perhaps America's stomach is still willing to listen.
Immigrants don't only make America great; they make it delicious. The people who risk their livelihoods and occasionally their lives to come here are often more than happy to share their secret recipes with us. Without them, we'd have nothing to eat ... nothing good, anyway.
Here are 17 of the top contributions to America's culinary scene by refugees, ex-pats, and immigrants.
Try not to drool on the keypad.
1. You wouldn't know about pretty much all the Chinese food you like if it weren't for refugee-turned-immigrant-turned-master chef Cecilia Chiang.
Chang and kung pao chicken. Photos by John Parra/Getty Images and Sodanie Chea/Flickr.
Chiang, who survived the Japanese invasion of China before immigrating to San Francisco in the 1960s, introduced America to the delicious, umami, stir-fried meat pile known as kung pao chicken at her restaurant, the Mandarin.
2. This giant paella wouldn't exist if chef Michael Mina hadn't moved here from Egypt.
Today was one for the books. #MinaMoments
A post shared by Michael Mina (@chefmichaelmina) on Sep 24, 2016 at 6:26pm PDT
Mina, the guy with the oar, was born in Cairo, immigrated to the U.S. and settled in Washington state, proceeded to open over a dozen restaurants in cities across the country, win a Michelin star, write a cookbook, appear on Gordon Ramsey's "Hell's Kitchen," launch a media company, and, in this photo, somehow managed to combine rice, shellfish, and nautical equipment into something so appetizing you would probably win a free T-shirt for finishing it.
3. Without lax 19th century immigration laws, America would have been denied its birthright: the Bud Light Straw-ber-Rita.
Anyone who watched this year's Super Bowl just for the commercials knows that Adolphus Busch was a hardscrabble German immigrant who trudged through miles of mud and ominously high grass to found the all-American beer company that makes the U.S. the perennial world leader in drunken high school reunion softball games.
4. You'd have to travel to an Eastern European war zone to enjoy these perogis.
Photo by Veselka/Facebook.
In 1954, Ukrainian refugees Wolodymyr and Olha Darmochawal came to New York City and founded Veselka in the East Village, serving these soul-altering fried meat, cheese, and potato pouches by the crock-load to NYU students who have crushed one too many Bud Light Lime Straw-ber-Ritas.
5. This ridiculous pulled turkey burger with Indian spices, candied bacon, and masala fries wouldn't be available in Elvis country.
Maneet Chauhan and the turkey burger. Photos by Theo Wargo/Getty Images and Chauhan Ale and Masala House/Facebook.
One great thing about being alive in 2017 is that you can find South Asian-Southern fusion sandwiches for less than $20 in the middle of the Bible Belt like it's no big deal thanks to immigrants like Indian-American chef Maneet Chauhan (you might know her as a frequent judge on "Chopped"), who opened Chauhan Ale and Masala House in Nashville in 2014.
6. We wouldn't know the gastronomic perfection that is surf and turf served over two cheese enchiladas.
Richard Sandoval and surf and turf. Photos by Neilson Barnard/Getty Images and La Hacienda/Facebook.
Before Richard Sandoval was a "Top Chef Masters" contestant, Bon Apetit Restaurateur-of-the-Year Award winner, and international food star, he was just a Mexico City kid with a dream. That dream? To put fried onions on top of steak on top of enchiladas with some lobster tail and risotto getting freaky on the side, as his La Hacienda in Scottsdale, Arizona, did on Valentine's Day 2017.
7. Anything with Huy Fong sriracha in it would have to be seasoned with a far lesser hot sauce.
Photo by Steven Depolo/Flickr.
Thanks to erstwhile humane values of decades past, America's hottest condiment was given unto us by a refugee — David Tran — who fled his native Vietnam on the ship Huy Fong in the 1970s. Had he come four-and-a-half decades later, it's likely he would have wound up in Canada and invented spicy maple syrup or whatever. (Actually, to be honest, that sounds pretty great. Please, immigrants from tropical climes living in Canada, invent spicy maple syrup.)
8. The Swedes might have chef Marcus Samuelsson's La Isla Bonita all to themselves.
Samuelsson and La Isla Bonita. Photos by Gustavo Caballero/Getty Images and Red Rooster Harlem/Facebook.
With all the problems in Sweden that are totally so real that everyone knows about them, it's no wonder that Samuelsson (who was born in Ethiopia and is another frequent "Chopped" judge) skipped town for New York City, bringing his brand of soul food to Harlem's Red Rooster — including this otherworldy mashup of tres leches cake, rum, passion fruit, and banana.
9. Detroit would be bereft without its iconic chili-onion-mustard dogs.
Photo by Steven Depolo/Flickr.
The precise origin of the Michigan-favorite Coney dog has been debated for decades, but pretty much no one contests that it was invented by Greek immigrants, notably brothers Bill and Gust Keros around 1919, when they discovered — after millennia of flailing by the best chefs in the world — that the ideal condiment for meat was goopier meat.
10. You wouldn't even be able to dream about Jose Andres' ibérico bacon cristal bread uni.
Jose Andres (L) and tapas (R). Photo by Larry French/Getty Images; Jaleo/Facebook.
It's also known as coca con arizos de mar — or "expensive ham 'n fish pizza" — and Andres serves this magical creation at his D.C. tapas restaurant Jaleo. The award-winning chef, who hails from Spain, was one of several dozen who closed his restaurants on Feb. 16, 2017, in protest of the Trump administration's immigration policies.
11. Vending machines, bodegas, and gas station convenience stores nationwide would be thousands of dollars poorer without Flamin' Hot Cheetos on the shelves.
Photo by Calgary Reviews/Flickr.
More than "The Great Gatsby," more than "Rudy," even more than Katy Perry's "Roar," the story of Flamin' Hot Cheetos is the story of the American dream. Working full time as a janitor at a Cheetos factory (!), Mexican immigrant Richard Montañez took home some defective, un-dusted Cheetos after an equipment breakdown, sprinkled some chili spices on them, and presented his creation to corporate bigwigs, who promptly put them into production. The tangy corn tubelettes quickly became the company's #1 selling snack, and Montañez was promoted to executive vice present of multicultural sales and community activation, having successfully pulled himself up by his sticky-dusty bootsraps.
12. Cronuts would not be a thing.
Dominique Ansel and a cronut. Photos by Noam Galai/Getty Images and Chun Yip So/Flickr.
Assuming you could get a cronut, you would be first-born-child-level indebted to Dominique Ansel, the French-born chef who debuted the monstrously scrumptious croissant-donut hybrid in New York City in 2013. Unfortunately, four years later, you still can't get a cronut.
13. Your airport layover would be 1,000% less tolerable without this margherita pizza from Wolfgang Puck Express.
Puck and pizza. Photos by Michael Kovac/Getty Images and Jeff Christiansen/Flickr.
Stuck in Downtown Disney World or delayed getting back to Milwaukee? You could do a lot worse than this gorgeous bubbly cheese pie by Puck, Austria's greatest gift to America since the toaster strudel.
14. You'd have to eat this mouthwatering soft-serve in a cup instead of a cone.
Photo by Mark Buckawicki/Wikimedia Commons.
If there's one thing certain cable news outlets will never fail to remind you, it's that Syrian immigrants are very, very, super-duper scary. Perhaps nothing in history illustrates this better than their most terrifying invention to date, the ice cream cone. The edible frozen treat vessel was created by Abe Doumar, who debuted his creation at the St. Louis Exposition in 1904, the culmination of the Middle Eastern migrant's dastardly plot to improve mankind and delight children of all ages around the world forever and always.
It's not just that immigrants invent food we like to eat. They pretty much cook everything we eat too.
Roughly 20% of restaurant cooks are undocumented, and an even greater share are foreign-born — up to 75% in some cities. That means that immigrants are responsible for feeding you even the down-home comfort food you enjoy, including...
15. This cheeseburger from Hardee's...
Photo by Mr. Gray/Flickr.
16. ...this stock photo apple pie....
Photo by mali maeder/Pexels.
17. ...and this American flag sheet cake.
Photo by Eugene Kim/Flickr.
Immigrants deserve a place in America. And not just because they fill our tummies with tasty victuals.
They enrich our communities and keep our culture varied and interesting. They do the jobs most of us don't want to do. They pay hundreds of billions of dollars in taxes and contribute to our economy in countless measurable and immeasurable ways.
Immigrants and refugees don't come here to get Americans fired, steal our wallets, or blow us up. Most of them come here for a better, safer, more secure life.
They make all of our lives richer — and more delicious — in the process.
<br>
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17 delicious foods you can thank immigrants for.
<br>
Immigrants are in the spotlight lately. And not in the good, Patti LuPone/Audra McDonald duet kind of way.
LuPone (left) and McDonald (right). Photo by Drama League/Flickr.
As promised, the Trump administration is advancing its plans to boot millions of immigrants from the United States — and reviving its order to stop them from coming here in the first place.
To hear all your Sean Spicers, your Stephen Millers, and your Kellyanne Conways tell it, the measures are necessary to stop, well, pretty much everything bad currently happening in America — from job-stealing to crime to terrorism.
Convincing Americans that immigrants are more than the sum of their worst stereotypes means winning back some hearts and minds, but these days, it can feel futile to appeal to America's heart or its brain.
But perhaps — perhaps America's stomach is still willing to listen.
Immigrants don't only make America great; they make it delicious. The people who risk their livelihoods and occasionally their lives to come here are often more than happy to share their secret recipes with us. Without them, we'd have nothing to eat ... nothing good, anyway.
Here are 17 of the top contributions to America's culinary scene by refugees, ex-pats, and immigrants.
Try not to drool on the keypad.
1. You wouldn't know about pretty much all the Chinese food you like if it weren't for refugee-turned-immigrant-turned-master chef Cecilia Chiang.
Chang and kung pao chicken. Photos by John Parra/Getty Images and Sodanie Chea/Flickr.
Chiang, who survived the Japanese invasion of China before immigrating to San Francisco in the 1960s, introduced America to the delicious, umami, stir-fried meat pile known as kung pao chicken at her restaurant, the Mandarin.
2. This giant paella wouldn't exist if chef Michael Mina hadn't moved here from Egypt.
Today was one for the books. #MinaMoments
A post shared by Michael Mina (@chefmichaelmina) on Sep 24, 2016 at 6:26pm PDT
Mina, the guy with the oar, was born in Cairo, immigrated to the U.S. and settled in Washington state, proceeded to open over a dozen restaurants in cities across the country, win a Michelin star, write a cookbook, appear on Gordon Ramsey's "Hell's Kitchen," launch a media company, and, in this photo, somehow managed to combine rice, shellfish, and nautical equipment into something so appetizing you would probably win a free T-shirt for finishing it.
3. Without lax 19th century immigration laws, America would have been denied its birthright: the Bud Light Straw-ber-Rita.
Anyone who watched this year's Super Bowl just for the commercials knows that Adolphus Busch was a hardscrabble German immigrant who trudged through miles of mud and ominously high grass to found the all-American beer company that makes the U.S. the perennial world leader in drunken high school reunion softball games.
4. You'd have to travel to an Eastern European war zone to enjoy these perogis.
Photo by Veselka/Facebook.
In 1954, Ukrainian refugees Wolodymyr and Olha Darmochawal came to New York City and founded Veselka in the East Village, serving these soul-altering fried meat, cheese, and potato pouches by the crock-load to NYU students who have crushed one too many Bud Light Lime Straw-ber-Ritas.
5. This ridiculous pulled turkey burger with Indian spices, candied bacon, and masala fries wouldn't be available in Elvis country.
Maneet Chauhan and the turkey burger. Photos by Theo Wargo/Getty Images and Chauhan Ale and Masala House/Facebook.
One great thing about being alive in 2017 is that you can find South Asian-Southern fusion sandwiches for less than $20 in the middle of the Bible Belt like it's no big deal thanks to immigrants like Indian-American chef Maneet Chauhan (you might know her as a frequent judge on "Chopped"), who opened Chauhan Ale and Masala House in Nashville in 2014.
6. We wouldn't know the gastronomic perfection that is surf and turf served over two cheese enchiladas.
Richard Sandoval and surf and turf. Photos by Neilson Barnard/Getty Images and La Hacienda/Facebook.
Before Richard Sandoval was a "Top Chef Masters" contestant, Bon Apetit Restaurateur-of-the-Year Award winner, and international food star, he was just a Mexico City kid with a dream. That dream? To put fried onions on top of steak on top of enchiladas with some lobster tail and risotto getting freaky on the side, as his La Hacienda in Scottsdale, Arizona, did on Valentine's Day 2017.
7. Anything with Huy Fong sriracha in it would have to be seasoned with a far lesser hot sauce.
Photo by Steven Depolo/Flickr.
Thanks to erstwhile humane values of decades past, America's hottest condiment was given unto us by a refugee — David Tran — who fled his native Vietnam on the ship Huy Fong in the 1970s. Had he come four-and-a-half decades later, it's likely he would have wound up in Canada and invented spicy maple syrup or whatever. (Actually, to be honest, that sounds pretty great. Please, immigrants from tropical climes living in Canada, invent spicy maple syrup.)
8. The Swedes might have chef Marcus Samuelsson's La Isla Bonita all to themselves.
Samuelsson and La Isla Bonita. Photos by Gustavo Caballero/Getty Images and Red Rooster Harlem/Facebook.
With all the problems in Sweden that are totally so real that everyone knows about them, it's no wonder that Samuelsson (who was born in Ethiopia and is another frequent "Chopped" judge) skipped town for New York City, bringing his brand of soul food to Harlem's Red Rooster — including this otherworldy mashup of tres leches cake, rum, passion fruit, and banana.
9. Detroit would be bereft without its iconic chili-onion-mustard dogs.
Photo by Steven Depolo/Flickr.
The precise origin of the Michigan-favorite Coney dog has been debated for decades, but pretty much no one contests that it was invented by Greek immigrants, notably brothers Bill and Gust Keros around 1919, when they discovered — after millennia of flailing by the best chefs in the world — that the ideal condiment for meat was goopier meat.
10. You wouldn't even be able to dream about Jose Andres' ibérico bacon cristal bread uni.
Jose Andres (L) and tapas (R). Photo by Larry French/Getty Images; Jaleo/Facebook.
It's also known as coca con arizos de mar — or "expensive ham 'n fish pizza" — and Andres serves this magical creation at his D.C. tapas restaurant Jaleo. The award-winning chef, who hails from Spain, was one of several dozen who closed his restaurants on Feb. 16, 2017, in protest of the Trump administration's immigration policies.
11. Vending machines, bodegas, and gas station convenience stores nationwide would be thousands of dollars poorer without Flamin' Hot Cheetos on the shelves.
Photo by Calgary Reviews/Flickr.
More than "The Great Gatsby," more than "Rudy," even more than Katy Perry's "Roar," the story of Flamin' Hot Cheetos is the story of the American dream. Working full time as a janitor at a Cheetos factory (!), Mexican immigrant Richard Montañez took home some defective, un-dusted Cheetos after an equipment breakdown, sprinkled some chili spices on them, and presented his creation to corporate bigwigs, who promptly put them into production. The tangy corn tubelettes quickly became the company's #1 selling snack, and Montañez was promoted to executive vice present of multicultural sales and community activation, having successfully pulled himself up by his sticky-dusty bootsraps.
12. Cronuts would not be a thing.
Dominique Ansel and a cronut. Photos by Noam Galai/Getty Images and Chun Yip So/Flickr.
Assuming you could get a cronut, you would be first-born-child-level indebted to Dominique Ansel, the French-born chef who debuted the monstrously scrumptious croissant-donut hybrid in New York City in 2013. Unfortunately, four years later, you still can't get a cronut.
13. Your airport layover would be 1,000% less tolerable without this margherita pizza from Wolfgang Puck Express.
Puck and pizza. Photos by Michael Kovac/Getty Images and Jeff Christiansen/Flickr.
Stuck in Downtown Disney World or delayed getting back to Milwaukee? You could do a lot worse than this gorgeous bubbly cheese pie by Puck, Austria's greatest gift to America since the toaster strudel.
14. You'd have to eat this mouthwatering soft-serve in a cup instead of a cone.
Photo by Mark Buckawicki/Wikimedia Commons.
If there's one thing certain cable news outlets will never fail to remind you, it's that Syrian immigrants are very, very, super-duper scary. Perhaps nothing in history illustrates this better than their most terrifying invention to date, the ice cream cone. The edible frozen treat vessel was created by Abe Doumar, who debuted his creation at the St. Louis Exposition in 1904, the culmination of the Middle Eastern migrant's dastardly plot to improve mankind and delight children of all ages around the world forever and always.
It's not just that immigrants invent food we like to eat. They pretty much cook everything we eat too.
Roughly 20% of restaurant cooks are undocumented, and an even greater share are foreign-born — up to 75% in some cities. That means that immigrants are responsible for feeding you even the down-home comfort food you enjoy, including...
15. This cheeseburger from Hardee's...
Photo by Mr. Gray/Flickr.
16. ...this stock photo apple pie....
Photo by mali maeder/Pexels.
17. ...and this American flag sheet cake.
Photo by Eugene Kim/Flickr.
Immigrants deserve a place in America. And not just because they fill our tummies with tasty victuals.
They enrich our communities and keep our culture varied and interesting. They do the jobs most of us don't want to do. They pay hundreds of billions of dollars in taxes and contribute to our economy in countless measurable and immeasurable ways.
Immigrants and refugees don't come here to get Americans fired, steal our wallets, or blow us up. Most of them come here for a better, safer, more secure life.
They make all of our lives richer — and more delicious — in the process.
<br>
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It is official Kellyann Wargo is who I strive to be. Walk of Shame Shuttle is my new guilty pleasure show.
#kellyann wargo#walk of shame shuttle#we went to mercy high school together#her sister Kaitlyn was in my grade#we were theatre buddies together#we had bizare inside jokes with veronica#we were weird
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A huge shout to out Kellyann Wargo on having herwebseries picked up by VH1!! She's a hilarious performer & writer and can't wait to see more people discover it!
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I’m Back Like Herpes
Let me start off by saying how deeply and sincerely apologetic I am for leaving you all so suddenly without so much as a "brb." I'm sure you've thought of me, summoning my witty repartee during your longest of mid-day work shits. Where have I been you may ask? Well back in Mid-September a former West Coast co-worker approached me about joining her team as a remote part time video producer – which I obviously jumped on faster than a 47-year-old bottle blonde divorcee clad in Victoria's Secret PINK at a Thunder Down Under show that just asked for participants to join them on stage. Between my full-time marketing gig, and the additional 15-hours a week pumping out viral unicorn/millennial pink/glitter hair parts/J. Law and Emma Stone is our spirit animal BFF goals content, I barely have time for my CSI marathon Wednesdays on Oxygen, let alone time to complain about men and old people, young people, and everything else in-between.
Professional progress aside, my BFF and I are living in a 2nd story suite owned by a kind older couple that only watches period dramas on BBC with full volume because they can't understand the accents, but instead of turning on closed captioning they just jack up the sound. AKA still living at my parents' house with my cat, and I purchased a truly life changing Amazon Fire Stick to combat the sound of Harry Potter rejects going on walks in the rain. Apparently every road in the UK in unpaved and the kitten heel trend is alive and well.
Oh, and I have a boyfriend. No assholes, it's not "too soon." I didn’t try to nail down the first dude I met back home for some guaranteed trips to Olive Garden so I could slink back into my comfort zone of wearing oversized sweatshirts as lingerie. Prior to my darling PharmD I went on an alarming number of first dates, and a truly surprising number of second dates. I'm not a fan of Yankees fans, or people whose advice on being single is, "fall back in love with yourself first, you know, really figure out what you want, focus on you, stay busy, pick up a hobby." Sweet strangers, I love me. I never stopped loving me. My relationship with myself has always been, and probably will always be, my priority. How I feel about myself sets the stage for how I feel about everyone, and everything else. Plus I have no free time and more blank adult coloring books than connections on LinkedIn, and I accept everybody. Oh the joys of being annoyingly self-aware.
I wholeheartedly believe when it comes to dating the only way to figure out what you want in a partner is to figure out what you don't want. Process of elimination. How do I know I don't want a boyfriend who wears a handmade necklace made from the teeth of his dead dog? Because I went out with him. Live and learn. I also dated a divorced firefighter, a Jewish Repblicanish lawyer, a classic rock loving lamp-builder, the older brother of a girl I went to high school with whom I had to bail out of jail (him, not her - she's a lawyer, ironically enough), a guy who called me "aggressive and not flirty" to my face but still kissed me, a baseball coach with a New York? accent despite having never been there, and a carless cat owner– just to name a few. Throw enough shit at the wall and eventually something's gonna stick. If this boyfriend happens to be the one that sticks, that’s awesome. If it doesn't, I'll be okay then too.
To the men of 2017, the shit you put me through - the shit I put you through - each and every one of you deserve your own posts. I learned a lot about what I want, what I deserve in a relationship, and a hell of a lot about what I don't want. Unfortunately my insane work schedule does not allow much time for creative writing aside from captioning videos about thicc AF puppys. I In fact the only reason I have time to write this longer than intended update is because I'm on an Amtrak on my way to Chicago for my sister's 25th birthday and I forgot to download the iTunes "Girls Trip" rental I purchased before hopping aboard. Won't make that mistake again on my way home Sunday. That's all for now hot dogs and tacos. Until next time.
PS. I'll try not to ghost you again, I know how shitty that feels. ISN'T THAT RIGHT, ADAM.
#ginger ambition#kellyann wargo#yes i still tag that#no its not pathetic#university of michigan#lol#whatever#drunk on a train
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Ginger vs. I-U-D-Day
Thanks to my trusty uterus I have a new point of reference for answering the question, “Rank how you’re feeling on a scale of 1 to the worst pain you’ve ever experienced.” I’m all about girl power, but getting my IUD inserted was the *only time I’ve wished to be a dong-swinging member of the white man club (*with the exception of every other day since Trump has been elected). During the procedure all I could think was, “God if you exist, you will turn my axe wound into a sack, shrink my already non-existent boobs, and give me really strong uninformed opinions about what women can do with their bodies.” Alas that did not happen, and I walked out with the same flesh bag of organs and girly name Siri still cannot pronounce, with which I entered.
Ladies and fellas in the know, you can skip this paragraph, I’m just providing a little background on what an IUD is and does. So IUD stands for intrauterine device, and it’s a form of long term birth control. It gets pushed through the vagina, past the cervix, and resides in the upper part of the uterus where it can hang out for like 5-10 years, depending on which kind you pick. There’s some little strings at the end so when you’re ready to add something besides cats to your family, your doctor just pulls it out. It’s allegedly painless, like taking a command strip off the wall. No guys, you can’t hit it or move it with your dick. It’s so far up there you’d have to stop and ask for directions, and we all know you’re not going to do that. I could go into further detail, like how copper IUDs differ from hormone IUDs, but I’m not a doctor. Hell, I’m barely a functioning 26-year-old woman. It’s fucking absurd to me though, that someone invited this little sandwich garnish looking thing to prevent pregnancies, but Diet Coke slushies still aren’t a thing.
A few of my girlfriends who already have them told me that getting an IUD will feel like a really intense pap smear (the test for cervical cancer). For those of you who don’t know what a pap smear feels like (male readers), let me explain it in terms you will understand. Remember middle school when you would put two Pringles in your mouth to look like a duck beak? Imagine those deliciously salty Pringles are made of the world’s coldest metal, and instead of being placed between your lips, they are cranking open your vag like it’s the goddamn Chamber of Secrets. Then the doctor pretends your cervix (that wall your Hulk-like dick can bump during drunk sex) is a cotton candy machine, and furiously swirls a cotton swap around like it’s closing time at the State Fair.
The thing is, pap smears have never bothered me, so I thought this spawn-preventing installation was going to be easy as reciting the intro to “Law & Order: SVU.” My body has endured tattoos (*tattoo, if anyone in my family is reading this), Brazilian bikini waxes, and a few college hangovers so severe I prayed the grim reaper from Sims would show up at my door, leaving my spirit to haunt the frats who told me dancing on tables was only for hot girls. All of this resulted in the self-inflicted impression that I could stomach what looks like a weird Colgate flosser, being shot into my vacant (sigh of relief) baby apartment. I haven’t been so wrong since making my March Madness bracket and guessing who murdered Megan in “The Girl on the Train.” It’s like the physical personification of getting your cable and internet setup in a new apartment.
It’s a different kind of pain, because it’s not topical like scraped knees from a blowjob on cement. It’s so deep inside you that it’s hard to tell what’s happening where. You just lay on your back with so many tools in one hole you feel less like a woman and more like a pencil holder. You’re not like, “Oh yeah, there it is, my cervix is being slowly pulled apart like the gooey center of a Chips Ahoy commercial.” You just feel general reverberating echoes and intense pressure in the form of knotting, burning, hard to exhale, cramping pain below your belly button but above where a porn star’s landing strip would end. In all the whole completely worth it affair only takes about 15 minutes, but not one of those minutes passed without my near certainty I was going to shit myself and pass out – not necessarily in that order.
Gynecologists should take a page out of European Wax Center’s book and have their offices blast some Justin Beiber top 40′s bullshit to muffle the inevitable screams, or in my case repeatedly yelling “FUCK” at progressively louder volumes. It took all of what little self control I possess not to fold myself in half, cradle my womb like I’m Mary in a Christmas Eve nativity play, and sob apologies to my lower half. Your lady lining can get snagged, scratched, and scabbed resulting in some Boston Massacre-esque stains. They give you a pad so thick it looks like the nurses are just ripping out parts of the hospital’s insulation and telling girls to stick it in their underwear. So don’t wear leggings to your appointment unless you want to walk out with such an aggressive diaper booty it looks like you’re on your way to a Pamper’s audition. There’s also this super fun game you get to play for the next 48-hours that’s called, “Am I peeing iodine or did I shart?” Obviously take the day of the procedure off, and the next day if you can because 1. you deserve it, and 2. you can cry in the shower without time restraints.
Horrible in-the-moment-pain and dramatic analogies aside, making the switch from the pill to an IUD was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. It’s been three days and I’ve already probably saved at least $100 from no longer stocking up on Plan B during my weekly grocery runs. Bread - check, eggs - check, milk - check, Option 2 (the cheaper Rite Aide brand morning after pill) - check. But seriously, jokes aside, it was liberating AF to delete my daily “no baby time” pill alarm clock. Plus, as an added bonus, I’ve already learned a lot more about what I’m capable of and how far I can push myself outside my comfort zone. For example, I can stick an entire heating pad in my pants. Until next time.
#birth control#planned parenthood#IUD#morning after pill#plan B#option 2#safe sex#ginger ambition#kellyann wargo
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What Your Favorite Candle Scent Says About You
Anything With Vanilla
You have an ex who shares a name with one of the 12 disciples (Matt, Mark, Luke, John, etc.). The first time you got drunk was the summer before your sophomore year of high school when you chased vodka was an Arizona Iced Tea you bought from a gas station. You hate talking on the phone. Your favorite book was written by Jane Austen and your celebrity crush is Liam Hemsworth. You consider yourself the “Carrie” of your friend group, even though no one else does. Your most used emoji is the cat face with heart eyes. Growing up you weren’t allowed to listen to rap music.
Flannel, Linen, or Another Fabric
You’ve definitely had anal. You want your future husband, whose zodiac will be compatible with yours, to propose in a planetarium. You’ve never been “the hot one” in your group of friends. You only listen to the Hamilton soundtrack, even though you’ve never seen it. You've captioned an Instagram picture with, “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” You’re really into letting people know you’re a weird balance of both left and right brained. Your American Girl letterman jacket was, and probably still is, your most prized possession.
Sangria, Champagne, Pina Colada AKA Boozey
You’ve made or purchased matching t-shirts with your girlfriends for a concert. You have no idea who was president the year you were born. The idea of having sex in a hot tub grosses you out, but you’d totally still do it. Your friends would describe you as passive-aggressive. Instead of cable you have Netflix and Hulu. You’ve tried the master cleanse. You were the first one in your class to have braces. When you’re told you have a resting bitch face you take it as a compliment. You think your best friend’s dad is super hot. You buy most of your clothes online from shady websites in China that advertise on Facebook.
A Location: Lush Amazon, London Fog, Etc.
You’ve taken Hydroxycut gummies. You don’t like to get your hair wet when you go swimming. The only black actor you can name is Morgan Freeman or Denzel Washington. You’re currently wearing the wrong bra size. You tell people your favorite book is “Eat, Pray, Love,” even though you’ve only seen the movie. You taught all your girlfriends how to sext, and you hate receiving dick pics. Your perfect Sunday is a spin class and brunch. You majored in communications. You can touch your tongue to your nose. Ariana Grande is your girl crush. You’ve never lived outside of the state you were born in.
Candle Supposed to Smell Like Food
You still watch American Idol, Survivor, or America’s Next Top Model. For spring break your senior year of college you went to an all-inclusive resort in Mexico. Your first AIM profile listed the initials of your best friends, which you insisted were in no particular order, but they totally were. You’re a dog person. You still wear your ex-boyfriend’s sweatshirt to bed sometimes. Your favorite food is ranch and anything you can dip in it. You’re an only child. You believe Angeline Jolie filing for divorce from Brad Pitt is the ultimate karma. You want to go to Greece for your honeymoon.
Something About Water, Rain, or The Ocean
If someone’s favorite season is anything other than fall you take it as a personal insult. Your parents wouldn’t buy you pink velour pants with “JUICY” embroidered on the ass, so you wore some plain black ones from Old Navy your mom got on sale. You wear makeup to the gym. You hate movies that take place in space. You fell asleep first at sleepovers. Breakfast is your favorite meal of the day. You’ve been in a long distance relationship. Your cell phone is still part of a family plan. Sometimes when you get drunk you like to try on the dresses you’ve kept from high school dances.
#candles#candle scents#quiz#walk of shame shuttle#kellyann wargo#ginger ambition#woss#what your candle scent says about you#favorite#bath and body works#yankee candle
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Ginger vs. Pole Dancing
You read that correctly people, yours truly attended a pole dancing class over this past weekend for a bachelorette party. However what I did or, or wholeheartedly attempted to do, is in insult to all levels of professional dancers and any sort of vertical support beam. I feel the need to send an Edible Arrangement to apologize for the dumpster fire that was me drunk body rolling. Now if the class took place in my freshman year dorm room, with my twin XL bed-in-a-bag setup from Bed Bath & Beyond, I’d be significantly more in my element for some good ole’ fashioned dry humping.
My plan was to look at pictures of the studio on Yelp and wear whatever color the walls were painted so I could blend in as much as possible. My friend wore a halter top with a built-in-bra that she chose because, “It will be easier to take off.” To which I said, “Jesus Christ, it’s a pole dancing class not a stripping class.” She seemed disappointed. We were supposed to wear heels, it was honestly the only time I’ve ever regretted throwing out my wedged Target sneakers, but we all ended being barefoot anyway. Almost every girl in attendance had years of tap, jazz, or ballet behind them, if not all three. I still struggle to pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time, that’s what I’m working with in the coordination and rhythm departments.
There were six poles in the room - two rows of three, and nine of us including the teacher. (Side bar - how much did that sound like the beginning of the best story problem ever? Brb becoming a math teacher.) Anyway, the instructor, a 45-year-old woman so fit and perky she could pass for a waitress on Vanderpump Rules, taught from the middle front pole. Had she spent the 90-minute class showing us how she glued on her fake eyelashes without multiple breakdowns, I would have learned something. Instead I left with so many bruises, which she called “pole kisses,” it looked like a toddler’s birthday party used my calves and inner thighs as a pinata. Before learning how to spin we had to pick stripper names, encouraged to make it dirty. Most of the girls chose their first pet’s name and the street they grew up on, pretty standard. I on the other hand, decided to go with, “Three-Hole Wonder.” Then we split into two groups, group one made up of five girls, and group two had the remaining three. Obviously I opted for group two so I could chug some more liquid courage in the form of Barefoot Pinot Grigio. I’m 99% that’s what my church uses for communion, but I won’t be able to confirm that theory until the next mass-required holiday I'm dragged to.
So group two, or “the B team” as we affectionally dubbed ourselves, had a much tougher time with the choreography than the wildly talented group one. At one point my friend (who opted to go by ”Butt Princess” for the day) stopped and said, “Nope, my body doesn’t do that.” Maybe it was the excessive pre-gaming we did in my childhood room that resulted in my mother DDing us to the class in her red minivan, with only one functioning automatic door, but that’s just a guess. Insider tip, the pole actually spins on its own, so you just grip and lean into it to gain momentum. The hard part is keeping yourself up using just your hands and the back of your knee. I was hoping for some sort of pulley system like you you get strapped into when you go rock climbing, and a possibly a spotter or two. At this point I was sweating pure vanilla vodka, so the instructor put some chalk shit on the pole like I’m Aly Raisman about to do a bar routine, and not a petrified ginger with zero upper body strength who immediately slid down before getting a full spin in each and every time. My arms day is any time I try to pick up my increasingly large cat, okay. I think my biceps saw the “Fantasy Fitness Studio” sign and said, “Oh fuck that, we cannot hold up this ass,” and dipped into the neighboring pizza place in the strip mall.
Once we learned the individual moves and got a couple practices twirls in, one by one we had to show off what we had learned. Most of the gals received praise from the teacher in the form of cheering or yelling encouraging phrases that could be lines from a rap song like, “Get it girl!” or “Work that pole!” What did I get? A monotone, “I’ll take that,” “Stop jumping into it,” or “Someone get this girl a shot.” Fuck man, the Three-Hole Wonder was really trying here. It’s the only time being too wet has been a bad thing. Then our busty mentor put it to music (I had some serious boob envy). I made everyone else look like Magic Mike in leggings. At one point I thought I had the hang of it, and I got really into the hip swings, but then I turned around and made eye contact with the maid of honor who just shook her head at me. Luckily we ran out of time before the B team had a chance to do the full routine to the music. Better yet, we were such a train wreck that no one in group one took pictures of us because they couldn’t look away long enough to get their phones. I even got to sleep in on Sunday because I didn’t need wake up early and untag myself in any Facebook pictures. Oh, I did like one part though. We laid on our stomachs with our hands under our chins and did this little kick, I felt like the little mermaid taking senior pictures. That is until we had to follow it up with this move where you stand to the left of the pole, hold it with both hands, and kick your legs into a V - I fell literally every time. My knees look worse than the window where I was single in college. I can’t even make a V with my legs if I lay on my back and the jaws of life are pushing them apart.
If I ever try to pole dance in public I’m pretty sure people, including the other dancers, would throw dollar bills at me to make me stop dancing. The only thing I learned that day is I am past my pole dancing prime, and peaked back in middle school. If your basement had vertical pipes while you were growing up, you know what I’m talking about - or maybe I just had an exceptionally slutty group of childhood friends. It has been almost five days since the class and I am just now able to raise my arms above shoulders again. I’ll leave you with this, if you ever decide to take one of these classes at least stretch first. And maybe drunkenly try out, and successfully complete on, an American Ninja Warrior obstacle course to make sure you can support your own weight. Until next time.
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NEW EPISODE of Walk of Shame Shuttle tonight at 9:30 + Vh1 - this is me being subtle
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Spin Wars Episode 2: Attack of My Thighs
My summer shorts don’t fit. Luckily I live in Michigan so there is a pretty good chance we are going to skip summer as a whole and belly flop right into fall, so my strictly leggings uniform hasn't been an issue. But in the off chance the weather is ever above 40 degrees for more than a day, I would like some apparel options.
With an hourly “job” I can only afford to buy either new shorts or enough wine to casually drink 5 nights a week. Casual drinking of course refers to drinking boxed white wine with 2 ice cubes, in yoga pants, usually by yourself, trying to guess your neighbor’s Wi-Fi password so you can sync your iPhone Candy Crush to your Facebook Candy Crush. When I get drunk enough I ride the elevator for an hour trying to make friends with people in my apartment building. If I learned anything in college it was that the easiest way to make new friends is doing alcohol together, followed up by an insincere compliment on an obvious physical trait like shoes or hair color. Needless to say I have made no new friends in adult life.
Right across from said apartment is one of those pretentious downtown gyms where they only offer spin, Pilates, and $10 organic smoothies with some hormone free, grass fed, fruits and shit. I am also pretty sure all the trainers model for Athleta (Gap’s half-assed attempt at Lululemon) on the side. Which I usually hate, but I stole a ton of free class fliers from the lobby, so I am going to put my feelings aside like a single girl at midnight on New Year’s Eve and just fucking go for it.
The last place I took a spin class was Powerhouse Gym down the road from my parents’ house. It was one of those awkward summers in college where one house’s lease goes up in May, and you can’t move back to campus until your new lease starts in August somewhere else. I was the youngest one in the class, everyone else was a fat dad or MILF looking to lose the baby weight and kill some time before she could get back to drinking nine months’ worth of missed white wine. Once you get over feeling of sweating so much you feel like you’re peeing yourself, spin can actually be fun.
When I walked into the spin studio I felt more left out than I did in 6th grade when boys snapped girls’ bras, and a boy went to snap mine but I wasn't wearing one. All the girls had on trendy spandex tank tops with straps more complicated than a 90’s friendship bracelets. I am also pretty sure none of them had gained a pound since their original weight of 8 pounds 10 ounces back in 1992. I understand that some girls are just naturally super skinny, with crazy metabolisms that make them poop 12 times a day, but I am just not one of those girls.
If I wanted someone to call me skinny I would have to eat only turkey sandwiches with lite mayo every day for at least 2 months, which I actually did senior year for spring break. But after college there is no week long all-inclusive finish line in Punta Cana to look forward to. Now, the only motivation to get you through the Master Cleanse and 60 minute elliptical workouts is a family history of alcoholism and fear of diabetes because you get dizzy at 2:30 PM without a snack. So I have given up eating like a pigeon in Central Park during the recession, where the little old ladies have no bread crumbs to throw because Obama took away social security to make a RoboCop statute or whatever.
From now on I am working out just enough to enjoy guilt-free the occasional endless soup, salad, and breadsticks lunch at The Garden. Just enough to make sure my shorts fit, in case a tornado rips through Ann Arbor and Ryan Gosling visits to do disaster charity work and the only clothes left in the rubble are my shorts because all my sundresses got sucked up like the cows in *Twister.
*Great, great film.
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The Walk of Shame Shuttle mock PSA.
#walk of shame shuttle#FlimMic#Ann Arbor#Kellyann Wargo#University of Michigan#PSA#jokes on jokes on jokes
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