TueDuesday: Dress Up Your Digits: The Tuxedo Manicure

Welcome back to TueDuesday: A Weekly Series on Self Improvement (and Self Preservation), where I’ll share some of the hard-earned tips and tricks that have made their way up my sleeve after well over a decade of living alone in the city. 

TueDuesday goes out to all of you who have ever bravely moved into your very own apartment, only to encounter a cockroach the size of a well-fed hamster.  Barefoot.  In the middle of the night.  To all the ambitious drinkers who ever wanted to score the bartender’s number (and to the many of us who have failed, only to bravely try again).  To the pasta fiends.  To the Facebook lurkers.  To the happy, the hopeful, and the possibly hung-over guys and gals like me, navigating the city streets – or the country roads – without benefit of a map or a significant other.  Whether you’re chronically single, newly separated or happily coupled up and just looking for a way to make the occasional table for one a little more fun, there’s something here for you.

Like what you see?  Pass it along!  Strongly disagree?  Say so in the comments!  (Respectfully, please; after growing up with the last name Blewett, my ego can only take so much.)  Have an idea for a future TueDuesday post?  Send it over!  And keep in touch, via Twitter @LeahKBlewett and Instagram @leahkblewett.

Happy TueDuesday!

TueDuesday, June 9, 2015

Dress Up Your Digits: The Tuxedo Manicure

With deadlines pressing down on me from all sides, this week’s TueDuesday is a true twofer: I need a manicure, and I don’t have any damned time to get one or money to pay for one.  Instead, here’s one of my favorite tricks to make your fingertips look lovely with surprisingly little effort: The Tuxedo Manicure.  James Bond-style martini optional (but strongly encouraged…just wait until they’re dry!)

First, let’s talk supplies. 

You’ll need…

*** An emery board.  Maybe your natural nails are less unruly than mine, and to that I say, lucky you.  But mine get jagged if I so much as think about touching anything harder than my pillow, so I always give them a quick file to smooth out the edges and even out the length before I start painting.

*** A light, solid color for your ring fingers.  They’re the ones suiting up, so neutral pink or beige is a good choice.  White makes for a dramatic contrast.  I myself am a fan of unusual colors, so that lavender you see?  That’s the dress shirt to my fingernail tuxedo.

*** A second, contrasting color for the rest of your nails.  You can always paint them all the same color, but a subtle contrast here is a great way to tie the look into the rest of your outfit (or match your pedicure without being all Barbie about it).  I’m using the same shimmery gold currently adorning my tooties.  If you chose white as your background for the tux, consider going all-out and painting the rest of your nails drop-dead red.  You’ve just earned that martini, girl.

*** A black nail art pen.  Mine is Sally Hansen, because I am nothing if not frugal (the glamourous life of abject writerly poverty that I chose has its drawbacks), but you can just as easily use any brand you like.  You can also opt for a paint marker from any arts-and-crafts store, as long as you choose an ultra-fine point, or even a black Sharpie in an absolute emergency.  Keep in mind that these will tend to bleed more than nail pens when you apply your topcoat, and this manicure won’t last a minute without one, so it can’t hurt to spring for the real thing.  And while black is definitely the tux-iest looking color, feel free to play around!  I love my metallic paint markers, and no one ever said you couldn’t contrast your bowtie with your buttons and cummerbund.  It’s a manicure, not a mandate.  Let’s have some fun.

*** A quick-drying topcoat.  The Sally Hansen “Dries Instantly” really does, and it doesn’t get goopy the way other topcoats can, so that’s my move. 

On to the action!  The only really critical part here is letting your nails dry before attempting to draw on your tuxedos, then letting the designs dry before sealing them in place with topcoat.  I’ll be tempting fate and multi-tasking by typing while they dry, but if you’ve been waiting to binge-watch 30 Rock, fire up Netflix and kick back for an hour or two while you complete this process.

Another quick note before we begin: it’s likely that you’ll eff this up at least once.  No worries – it’s just nail polish!  Remove it and start again.  That’s why I start with the ring fingers: they’re the most difficult, and if I need to do over, I don’t risk ruining all of my other nails with polish remover.

Hand steady?  Martini fixins at the ready?  Polishes selected?  Nail pen acquired?  Let’s do this.

Start with your light, solid color and paint each of your ring fingers.  I’m assuming most of you know home-manicure basics, but it bears repeating that you should aim to get the color as close as possible to your cuticles without touching them.  If you do, take the polish off and start over; otherwise, it will dry connected to the cuticle, creating a ragged edge that will peel up as your nail grows away from the nailbed.  This will probably take at least two coats, but I try to avoid going up to three, if I can, in order to save myself from spending the rest of my day and night waiting for the final product to dry.  Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Once your ring fingers are painted, the fun really begins: bust out your nail pen.  I find that mine gets a little ornery about how long I tend to wait between uses, so maybe try out the tip on a paper towel until it’s running smoothly.  Then, give yourself a black French manicure.

If you’re worried about the steadiness of your hand while doing this, start with a very narrow line at the absolute tip of your nail and draw backwards from there.  You’re only doing one nail per hand, so they needn’t be absolutely the same width, anyway.  People are going to be way too captivated by your clever nail art to notice.  You will also probably get some ink on your skin.  This is totally okay, especially if you went with a nail art pen: once you paint on the topcoat, it will seal the ink onto your nails and allow it to wash right off your skin like nothing was ever there.  Next, draw an X near your nailbed.

Easy, right?  You’re doing great.  Now, close off the two triangles and color them in. 

Hard part: virtually over!  Now, just draw three little dots between the center of the X and the French tip.

Your nails look so adorably formal!  Now let them dry, then seal in your design with topcoat.  Finally, paint the rest of your nails with your second, contrasting color.  Check you out!  Your hands look playful and colorful, perfect for a summer wedding or a night out with friends.  You’d never know, looking at my nails, that I spent this entire sunny summer TueDuesday indoors typing, would you??

I’ve got to get back to the deadline grind, but in the interest of keeping you coming back (and myself on my self-imposed weekly schedule), here’s the first-ever TueDuesday Teaser…

Next week: get ready for DIY wine slushies (it’s way easier than you think) as we learn How to Pack a Picnic!

TueDuesday: Dancing with Myself: On Attending a Wedding Alone

Welcome back to TueDuesday: A (Mostly) Weekly Series on Self Improvement (and Self Preservation), where I share some of the hard-earned tips and tricks that have made their way up my sleeve after well over a decade of living alone in the city. 

TueDuesday goes out to all of you who have ever bravely moved into your very own apartment, only to encounter a cockroach the size of a well-fed hamster.  Barefoot.  In the middle of the night.  To all the ambitious drinkers who ever wanted to score the bartender’s number (and to the many of us who have failed, only to bravely try again).  To the pasta fiends.  To the Facebook lurkers.  To the happy, the hopeful, and the possibly hung-over guys and gals like me, navigating the city streets – or the country roads – without benefit of a map or a significant other.  Whether you’re chronically single, newly separated or happily coupled up and just looking for a way to make the occasional table for one a little more fun, there’s something here for you.

Like what you see?  Pass it along!  Strongly disagree?  Say so in the comments!  (Respectfully, please; after growing up with the last name Blewett, my ego can only take so much.)  Have an idea for a future TueDuesday post?  Send it over!  And keep in touch, via Twitter @LeahKBlewett and Instagram @leahkblewett.

Happy TueDuesday!

TueDuesday, June 2, 2015

Dancing with Myself: Attending a Wedding Alone

Welcome to Wedding Season, and happy TueDuesday!  It has been entirely too long, and clearly my TueDuesday on “How to Stop Procrastinating” still needs some work, so let’s pour one out instead for all of those lucky June brides and learn How to Attend a Wedding Alone.

At this point in my life, I’ve attended nearly a dozen weddings as a full-fledged adult (read: as a wedding guest who isn’t shooed dismissively away from the open bar), most of them alone.  It’s not that my friends are cheap or selfish and wouldn’t spring for a date; most of them offered (exceptions to this statement: you know who you are).  But the truth is, when RSVP time came, I just wasn’t seeing anyone special enough to ask my newlywed pals to buy him dinner.  Or else I was so steadfastly single that the prospect of limiting myself to a BYO-date at an event full of men in suits sounded about as appealing as the mysterious “mixed seafood” option on the reply card. 

[Places check mark -- and several exclamation points -- next to STEAK; pats self on back; chooses dress that will not burst at the seams from copious consumption thereof]

Attending a wedding alone is a lot like doing anything else alone, except that it generally costs a lot more money and is way more likely to stir up suicidal tendencies if you’re anything less than happily uncoupled.  You’ll be surrounded, not just by the couple of the hour, but by generations of other couples: their adorable grandparents, their clique of friends half-jokingly asking each other who’s next, the flower girl and ring bearer, the wacky aunt and Husband Number Four (or Is It Five?).  You’ve got to be made of some pretty stern stuff to stare all of that sap right in the face and then politely order a glass of champagne instead of a double gin martini, hold the olives, if you please, they’re just going to take the edge off of my buzz and I need every precious nerve-dulling bit of it, ok, barkeep??

The fact is, I’ve actually had a lot of fun (and a few flings) attending weddings alone.  Beyond an iron constitution, here are a few other things you’ll want to pack to guarantee yourself the same success:

Your Morning After Purse.  Sure, cocktail purses are adorable.  They’re also the territory of women whose dates have pockets.  You’re flying solo here, Earhart, so bring whatever you think you’ll need, whether that’s breath mints or clean undies or condoms or lip gloss or a flask or all of the above.  (...it’s all of the above.)

Singles.  Not, like, “all the single ladies” (though, yes, you can expect to be forced to dance to that song with all of the nearly engaged women and their promise rings, all the while thinking to yourself: These bitches don’t know what single IS.  Talk to me when you’re the only one in your apartment staring down a spider at 2 a.m.!)  I’m talking about dolla dolla bills, y’all.  Because when it comes to making a friend at a wedding, Target Number One is the bartender, and tipping generously is the way to do it.  I like to start with a $5 or a $10 early in the night, so he remembers me, then slip him a couple of singles for every subsequent drink.  Come last call, guess who’s the only one getting topped off while the caterers break down?  Hint: it’s not the bride’s Uncle Diamond Jim who talked a big game all night and never left a dime on the bartop.  Plus, it is a known fact that bartenders are hot.  Like, a disproportionate number of them.

A Topiary Worth Watering.  Even if you’re not planning on getting lucky, you’d be amazed at how often hastily cobbled couples slip upstairs between the first dance and the cake.  Whatever it is you do to your private parts to make yourself feel enticing, do that.  Who knows who might want to take a stroll through your garden after dark?  I myself once successfully landed a groomsman strictly on the confidence of my post-vacation bikini wax.  Fun fact: we couldn’t figure out how to make the clock radio work, so we ended up boning with Fox News for ambiance.  If you’re a liberal, and he is, too, this is a great way to make sure that you both make enough noise to drown out the commentary.

A Conversation Starter.  And I’m not talking about “How ‘bout them Yankees?” (though you’d be surprised how well that actually works at New York-area weddings).  Know something about the location, whether it’s your hometown or a destination.  Chances are you’re going to be seated with at least a few people you’ve never met before, and the location of the wedding is instant common ground.  Google is your friend here.  On a lake?  Know its name and a fun fact about its history.  In a city?  There’s definitely a major sports team you can reference.  Down in the tropics?  Bust out your home remedy for sunburn or mention the cute café you visited for a coffee before the ceremony.  Being the fun guest that people remember is as simple as being able to talk to everyone without bringing up religion or politics.

A Hotel Room.  Non-negotiable.  Sure, it’s expensive, but having a room of your own when it’s all over – whether you have company or not – transforms the night from a sullen meal among strangers into a playful prelude to the real vacation.  Which could just as easily be a frisky all-nighter or a soak in the tub and a sprawled-out night’s sleep among high thread-count sheets.  Stock your room with a bottle of booze (instead of raiding the costly minibar), and you’ve just guaranteed that the after-party, should you so choose, will come to you.

A Disposable Camera.  Everyone will be focusing on the photographer, and you’ll be snapping cute candids of the bride’s mother dabbing her mascara in the restroom after the ceremony or her little cousins stealthily pocketing everyone else’s favors when their tables are called up to the buffet.  It will give you something to do while everyone else is slow-dancing, instead of the ever-appealing “sitting here by myself, trying to look bored” routine.  And if you find yourself a bedfellow, you can shoot an album to remember them by; if not, you’ll have a brilliant first anniversary gift for your friends.  

TueDuesday: "I'm Wide Awake": Make Yourself a Morning Person

Welcome back to TueDuesday: A Weekly Series on Self Improvement (and Self Preservation), where I’ll share some of the hard-earned tips and tricks that have made their way up my sleeve after well over a decade of living alone in the city. 

TueDuesday goes out to all of you who have ever bravely moved into your very own apartment, only to encounter a cockroach the size of a well-fed hamster.  Barefoot.  In the middle of the night.  To all the ambitious drinkers who ever wanted to score the bartender’s number (and to the many of us who have failed, only to bravely try again).  To the pasta fiends.  To the Facebook lurkers.  To the happy, the hopeful, and the possibly hung-over guys and gals like me, navigating the city streets – or the country roads – without benefit of a map or a significant other.  Whether you’re chronically single, newly separated or happily coupled up and just looking for a way to make the occasional table for one a little more fun, there’s something here for you.

Like what you see?  Pass it along!  Strongly disagree?  Say so in the comments!  (Respectfully, please; after growing up with the last name Blewett, my ego can only take so much.)  Have an idea for a future TueDuesday post?  Send it over!  And keep in touch, via Twitter @LeahKBlewett and Instagram @leahkblewett.

Happy TueDuesday!

TueDuesday, May 12, 2015

"I'm Wide Awake": Make Yourself Into a Morning Person

It occurred to me recently that I haven’t talked a lot here about my recent career change.  I’m not sure how much any of you really want to hear about the decade-plus process of removing “-slash-waitress” from my job description, but I’ve learned a few lessons along the way that relate to more than suckering strangers into paying you for your words.  Today’s TueDuesday, then, is dedicated to one of the most important adjustments in my day-to-day life: here’s how to become a morning person.

Some of you are already bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when the sun rises.  This post is not for you, and kindly am-scray, because you’re making the rest of us feel lazy.  Overachievers.  You can come back next TueDuesday.  This post is for the restaurant warriors, the college seniors, the touring musicians (Hi, Dad!), and the copyeditors.  For all of us who, for one reason or another, have had to forego traditional sleeping habits and who are now struggling to reform them.  If you’ve ever found yourself on your couch at 3 a.m. watching Planet Earth for the umpteenth time, unable to sleep even though you know you have to be up in four hours, this post is for you. 

Those birds of paradise are SO COOL.

I’ve been mostly successful at rehabbing my sleeping patterns, mostly, although my many friends in the hospitality industry have done their level best to thwart my evolution from nocturnal to normal (you know who you are).  Without further ado: here are a few of the sneaky, self-sabotaging tactics I turned to when it was time to start waking up with the day-jobbers.

Pick a song you Capital-H Hate and make it your alarm.

For the price of a one-time download from the App Store, you, too, can be jolted violently awake by Katy Perry hooting “I’m wide awake!”  (See what I did there??) 

I will FLY out of bed to make this stop.

There’s a second critical step to this trick, though:

Put your phone somewhere that demands you get all the way out of bed to shut it up.

Tapping the snooze button is a lot less appealing once you’re already vertical, so move your phone as far from beside your head as the confines of your domicile (or the cohabitants thereof) will allow.  Best case is putting it in the bathroom, which gets you critical steps closer to another favorite tactic of mine:

Get in the shower, and get your hair wet.

You and I both know that you’re not going back to bed with wet hair.  You’ll feel clammy, and when you do finally get up, it will have dried into something resembling a sea plant from the giant kelp forests off California’s coast.  If you shave your head, well, lucky you – this one won’t work.  But this will:

Buy a coffee machine with a timer, and set it for 10 minutes before your alarm.

The sweet, sweet smell of coffee brewing is God’s little reminder that mornings aren’t entirely hostile, after all.  

“But Leah,” you whine, “it’s summertime!  I don’t want hot coffee!”  To which I say: put today’s pot in the fridge, take out the pot you put in there yesterday, and BOOM: iced coffee.  God, I’m good.  Still, even this entire sequence doesn’t always do it, in which case:

Bribe an early-rising friend to call you and wake you.

And change their name in your phone to “The Boss” or “David Duchovny” or whatever name will make you most inclined to answer despite your foggy morning brain.

As for getting to bed the night before, well, that can be even more of a challenge.  My brain still thinks it’s supposed to be entering tips and logging sales at 2 a.m., and I stopped waiting tables five months ago.  The most important start is to get up early (um, see above), so that you’re tired at your new bedtime.  Failing that, have a glass of red wine or chamomile tea.  No judgement; and either one will help lull you back from the insomniac edge.  This next one is tricky, but it really does work: stop staring at lighted screens.  Yes, that includes your phone (which should be in the bathroom with the alarm set by now anyway; are you not listening to a word I’m saying??), your computer, and your TV.  Pick up a book.  Open it.  Consider reading it.  Finally, make your bed your favorite place to be.  Pick out new sheets, or wash your favorite set and put them on fresh.  Choose pillows that suit your sleeping habits.  Get your partner a Breathe Right (or yourself a set of ear plugs).  Splurge on air conditioning on hot summer nights, and a humidifier in the dead of winter.  Some people are averse to strong smells, but to my mind, sweet-smelling sheet spray is a necessary luxury.  Try to set a bedtime routine and stick to it.  On evenings when I know I have to be up for work, I have a glass of wine, then wash my face and brush my teeth (and leave the phone in the bathroom, plugged in and alarm set).  Next, I feed the cat so she’s not all up in my business at 5 a.m.  I take the decorative pillows off my bed and use one to block the bright “on” light on my computer, arranging the other three at the base of my window to thwart the sun’s earliest rays as they crest the buildings outside.  And then I tuck in and hope like hell I’ll be able to sleep, because that goddamned alarm is not going to shut itself off in the morning, and I have had just about enough of Katy Perry, coffee or no coffee.  

Skirt Collective: Woman of the Week (!!!)

7. Regardless of beliefs, if you’ve existed before this lifetime, what do you think you might have been?

I’d like to think I was someone awesome, like a professional baseball player or Hemingway's second wife, but I was probably something more along the lines of a hyperactive squirrel or someone's extremely feisty pet hamster.

Holy crap, you guys, I'm the Woman of the Week (how's that for a #WCW??), via Skirt Collective...

TueDuesday: Hangover Helper, in Honor of Drink-o de Mayo

Welcome back to TueDuesday: A Weekly Series on Self Improvement (and Self Preservation), where I’ll share some of the hard-earned tips and tricks that have made their way up my sleeve after well over a decade of living alone in the city. 

TueDuesday goes out to all of you who have ever bravely moved into your very own apartment, only to encounter a cockroach the size of a well-fed hamster.  Barefoot.  In the middle of the night.  To all the ambitious drinkers who ever wanted to score the bartender’s number (and to the many of us who have failed, only to bravely try again).  To the pasta fiends.  To the Facebook lurkers.  To the happy, the hopeful, and the possibly hung-over guys and gals like me, navigating the city streets – or the country roads – without benefit of a map or a significant other.  Whether you’re chronically single, newly separated or happily coupled up and just looking for a way to make the occasional table for one a little more fun, there’s something here for you.

Like what you see?  Pass it along!  Strongly disagree?  Say so in the comments!  (Respectfully, please; after growing up with the last name Blewett, my ego can only take so much.)  Have an idea for a future TueDuesday post?  Send it over!  And keep in touch, via Twitter @LeahKBlewett and Instagram @leahkblewett.

Happy TueDuesday!

TueDuesday, May 5, 2015

Hangover Helper, in Honor of Drink-o de Mayo

Happy TueDuesday!  I missed you last week, but I hope my feminist ranting re: Meghan Trainor and Bud Light were a sufficient Leah Fix.  If you missed them, click the links above or head over to Skirt Collective and dose yourself with a little self-righteous indignation.  It’s the breakfast of champions.  And speaking of Bud Light (see what I did there??), this week’s Cinco de Mayo TueDuesday is all about something else that turns my stomach, in the most literal way: let’s learn how to beat a hangover!

Perhaps you over-did it at Sunday’s season-opening softball game in Central Park.  Maybe it was your buddy’s birthday and howling along to Toto’s “Africa” at the bar at 3:30 a.m. sounded like a good way to celebrate.  Or could it be that Friday’s happy hour with friends turned into Saturday’s wee hours heart-to-heart?  No matter the cause, we’ve all been there: you drank too much, went to bed too late, didn’t hydrate, or all of the above…

First things first.  If you’re drunk enough to be hungover, chances are you’re going to sleep like a rock for the first few hours, blissfully drooling away, and then wake up with a start about five hours before you’d actually like to get out of bed.  It feels like hell (probably because it’s the first thing you’ve actually felt in hours), but: this is a good thing. 

Get out of bed.  Just do it.  It’s only temporary, I promise.  Good!  Now, make your way to wherever you keep your ibuprofen, aspirin, or other painkiller of choice.  (No judgement.)  If you’re waking up in a strange place, this can be more of a challenge (again, no judgement!) but the bathroom is probably a good place to start.  In a hotel?  Call room service.  Still at the bar?  Send a coherent friend to sweet-talk the bartender into letting you raid the first-aid kit.  Whatever you do, get your hands on a couple of pills and, at minimum, a pint of cold water.  Consume them with all available speed.  Now, as promised, you can return to bed.  This is what’s known as a pre-emptive strike.

You’re going to wake up again.  Maybe it’s when your alarm goes off; maybe it’s when you startle yourself with a juicy ol’ snore; maybe it’s when the setting sun makes it way beneath your blinds and reminds you that you’ve let the entire day pass you by.  Whenever it is, you’ll know it’s time to get up.  You’ll probably feel alternately famished and nauseous, and it’s likely that your tongue will taste like a tampon soaked in muddy puddle water and left to dry in the August sun.

You’ve never looked lovelier!

If you don’t have to leave your house, skip these next few steps, but if you need to make yourself presentable to other humans (even just the clerk at Duane Reade, the counter guy at your local slice joint, or – hell – the deliveryman dropping off your breakfast sandwich), you’ll need to do something about that smell.

Oh, come on, you know that smell.  You’ve noticed it wafting off both your college-aged niece and your well-pickled uncle during the holidays.  The smell that says, “I overdid it last night, and possibly this morning, and the alcohol is now beating a hasty exit and evaporating from my very pores.”  Eau de Two Dollar Liquor Cabinet.  It’s coming off your skin, and probably out of your hair.  Only time will truly make that smell go away, so for now, you have two options: rinse off in the shower (which can be daunting in your fragile state) or camouflage it with whatever’s on hand: body splash, mouthwash, chewing gum.  In a real pinch, even a wedge of lemon or orange will do the trick: discard the fruit, bend the peel backwards towards itself, and swipe the oils that emerge from the skin behind your ears and through your hair.

There, now.  That’s a bit better.

The next step is controversial: you’ve got to eat, but opinions diverge wildly about what makes the best hangover food.  I’m partial to white fluffy carbs and dairy fat, but then, I’m always partial to white fluffy carbs and dairy fat.  This can be anything from a bagel with a tennis ball-sized hunk of cream cheese in the middle to a bowl of elbow noodles with butter and grated parmesan to a diner grilled cheese sandwich (no artisanal bird seed bread or luxe imported cheese here: we’re talking Wonderbread and Kraft singles, with bonus points for margarine instead of butter on the grill).  I have friends who swear by Gatorade, but there’s something about the lingering saccharine-citrus aftertaste that reminds me of Robitussin, so I steer clear.  

Remember that pint-plus of water you drank before?  Do that again.  Twice.  Has it been at least four hours since you woke up and dosed yourself with painkillers?  Do that again, too.

Eventually, you’re going to stop feeling like you swallowed a hyperactive guinea pig and the fiberglass installation between your brain and your eyes will dissipate and you’ll start to feel almost like yourself again.  This is the perfect time to have another drink.  Mimosas and Bloody Marys are traditional hangover fare, but the crusty old Italian nonna that lives inside me prefers inexpensive white wine on ice, ideally out of a box, possibly with canned peaches in the glass. 

Whatever your morning-after beverage of choice, once you’ve had a meal, it’s time to pour one down the hatch.  This not only takes the edge off your hangover, it reminds your uppity liver just who the heck is in charge around here.  By the time you finish your cocktail, you’ll be ready for your day – even if “your day” consists of going right back to bed and trying again tomorrow.

Note: The author is not a doctor, or even an especially proficient provider of first aid.  Readers assume full risk for their actions, including taking her advice or giving themselves hangovers in the first place.  Now get off my lawn, ya crazy kids with yer music.

Skirt Collective: Objects in Mirror Are Exactly as Large as They Appear: On #dadbod

"Men get #dadbod, and women get the spectacularly offensive "FUPA," an acronym that I will not dignify with an explanation (ask Google, if you must, but at your own risk)...

"Then, I had another thought: 'What if I'm looking at this all wrong?  What if #dadbod is just about doing exactly what I've always professed to do: loving your body for the amazing things that it can do, instead of punishing it for the way it looks -- or doesn't look?'

"If #dadbod empowers the lovably less than cut men in my life to feel the same appreciation for their bodies that I have for mine, well, hell: I'm Team Dadbod.  And what's more: other women [and men!] should be, too."

I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours...

Now *that's* a #dadbod...

Show me your #dadbod, via Skirt Collective...

Note: I'm serious!  Post a photo of your own #dadbod -- or just share what you love about it -- via Instagram or Twitter and tag me @LeahKBlewett and @SkirtCollective for a chance to be a part of our forthcoming #dadbod collage.

Seth showed James his #dadbod, and look how well that worked out!

ProTip: The Grass is Greener at Spargelfest and Maifest, This May at Brauhaus Schmitz

"You know what we at love about Germany?  (Besides the delectable quads of their World Cup-winning soccer team and their eagerness to mark every possible occasion with a beer?)  They know how to party, and they’ll throw a festival for just about anything."

Get your green on with Spargelfest (and your beer on with Maifest) at Brauhaus Schmitz, via ProTip...

Mmm... Seasonal vegetables...

Skirt Collective: Just Say No to Bud Light, "The Perfect Beer for Removing 'No' from Your Vocabulary for the Night"

"Adults of legal drinking age are responsible for their actions, sure, but give me a break, Bud Light: 'removing "no" from [my] vocabulary' is not the way to convince me to order up a cold bottle of Inability to Consent.

"...[As of today, Bud Light] is 'Now Hiring FOUR Marketing Communications Managers' (emphasis mine).  I can’t imagine why?  Maybe because someone – anyone – in their Marketing Department should have kept 'no' in their vocabulary when reviewing this label copy?

"Here’s the next time I hope to have to say 'no': the next time someone offers me a Bud Light.  Turns out I’m not #UpForWhatever after all."

Taking on Bud Light's rapey new label tagline, via Skirt Collective...

Olivia Benson says 'no,' Bud Light.

Skirt Collective: I'll Be a Perfect Wife: A Response to "Dear Future Husband"

"Don’t have a dirty mind; just be a classy guy. The two are not mutually exclusive, Meghan! Some of my favorite classy guys have deliciously dirty minds. (Hey, fellas. You know who you are. [winks])"

Apologies to Ms. Trainor and her Bass (seriously, girl -- I'm all about it) but there are probably a few more critical things my "future husband" should know, via Skirt Collective...

Dear *actual* "future husband," SWOON. Love, Leah

TueDuesday: "Fly Me to the Moon," In Tune: On Karaoke

Welcome back to TueDuesday: A Weekly Series on Self Improvement (and Self Preservation), where I’ll share some of the hard-earned tips and tricks that have made their way up my sleeve after well over a decade of living alone in the city. 

TueDuesday goes out to all of you who have ever bravely moved into your very own apartment, only to encounter a cockroach the size of a well-fed hamster.  Barefoot.  In the middle of the night.  To all the ambitious drinkers who ever wanted to score the bartender’s number (and to the many of us who have failed, only to bravely try again).  To the pasta fiends.  To the Facebook lurkers.  To the happy, the hopeful, and the possibly hung-over guys and gals like me, navigating the city streets – or the country roads – without benefit of a map or a significant other.  Whether you’re chronically single, newly separated or happily coupled up and just looking for a way to make the occasional table for one a little more fun, there’s something here for you.

Like what you see?  Pass it along!  Strongly disagree?  Say so in the comments!  (Respectfully, please; after growing up with the last name Blewett, my ego can only take so much.)  Have an idea for a future TueDuesday post?  Send it over!  And keep in touch, via Twitter @LeahKBlewett and Instagram @leahkblewett.

Happy TueDuesday!

TueDuesday, April 21, 2015

“Fly Me to the Moon,” In Tune: On Karaoke

Last week’s TueDuesday was more for the ladies (though, fellas, I hope at least a few of you reconsidered what you stock in your bathroom and added, for example, a towel).  But this week, I’m going all-inclusive.  Men and women alike.  Dogs and cats.  Living together.  Mass hysteria!

This week, we’re answering the age-old question, something that gets asked at least as often – and is usually of far greater importance – than “What can I do to make my lips look like Kylie Jenner’s?”  (Seriously, don’t do this) 

That’s right, kids: “What should I sing?”

If you know me at all, you’ll recall that I’m something of a connoisseur of karaoke.  Blame any number of factors: an especially musical parent; back seat childhood sing-alongs to Fraggle Rock; 21-year-old Leah’s penchant for fruity drinks poured by attractive men at a friend’s barbecue joint during Tuesday Night Rock’n’Roll Karaoke.  (Come to think of it, these are all probably equally responsible for my tendency to break into song with the barest whisper of encouragement, pitch be damned.)  So as a seasoned Karaoke Junkie, I’m here to help you do it right.

Successful karaoke demands only a few things:

1. Know your voice.

Nothing’s more painful than listening to an alto struggle through “Love on Top” (something I’m not proud to admit that I found out the hard way), and if you’ve never successfully rapped before, I can’t recommend making your maiden voyage happen in a room full of drunks who probably know the words better than you do.  Surely, there are a couple of fun songs that are within your range.  Stick to those and leave the vocal exercises for your shower.  Your neighbors might not thank you, but your fellow bar-goers will.  (Incidentally: this goes double in New York, where the odds that there’s at least one Broadway performer at the bar are actually better than the odds that the bartender hates his fucking job on karaoke night with the fire of 1,000 burning suns.)

2. Know your audience.

Speaking of ways to make the bartender hate you: there are some songs that need never be sung at karaoke again.  We’ve all heard them, we’ve all hated them, and we’ve all rolled our eyes when their titles flash up on the screen.  You probably already know the songs I’m talking about, but lists are all the rage – and frankly, it bears making this moratorium absolutely clear – so:

   - “Bohemian Rhapsody”  This has never sounded good at karaoke.  Ever.

   - “Paradise by the Dashboard Light”  Cute for about 3 minutes.  Miserable for the other 17.

   - “Don’t Stop Believing”  I HAVE STOPPED BELIEVING AND NO AMOUNT OF COORS-SOAKED CATERWAULING WILL CHANGE MY MIND.

   - “Rehab”  You are not Amy Winehouse.  And honestly, even Amy Winehouse never sounded especially good singing this song.  If you absolutely must: “Valerie.” 

   - “Nothing Compares 2 U”  Nothing compares 2 the pain U are inflicting on everyone’s ears.  Quit harshing our mellow, man; this is a karaoke bar, not a solo showcase.

   - “Piano Man”  My own unnaturally capacious love for Billy Joel notwithstanding, this is not a karaoke song.  It is meant to be sung loudly and badly by 18,000 New Yorkers in Madison Square Garden, and that is all there is to it.

3. Commit.

I cannot overstate the importance of this:  Sell.  Your.  Song.  Not sure you can hit all the notes?  Throw in some sweet dance moves.  Fuzzy on the lyrics?  Make something up.  Sick of everyone at the bar singing over you because you picked one of the songs I forbade you to pick above?  Out-sing those motherfuckers.  You’re the one with the mic, you’ve waited your turn, and for the next 3 minutes, you are the star of the bar.  Now there’s a title for the ol’ resume.

Geez, you still want more help?  Okay.  In no particular order: Karaoke Troubleshooting

I gave the DJ my song an hour ago, and it’s still not my turn!

Was your song a) awful, b) illegible, or c) already sung tonight?  Can’t help you.  But my buddy Andrew Jackson can usually increase your chances of getting your mitts on a mic.  The person running this shitshow lugs heavy, expensive equipment from bar to bar and then lets drunk people use it all night.  They’ll still be at the bar breaking down long after you’ve stumbled into the subway.  Throw a little cash their way, and Whoa!  Hey!  Would you look at that? I’m next!

I really want to sing a duet, and none of my friends will join me!

Come on, karaoke night is made for making new friends.  Pick a singer who sounded good and make ‘em an offer they can’t refuse (read: buy them a drink if they’ll be June to your Johnny).

When I signed up, my voice sounded great, but now I’m hoarse / drunk / shy!

Choose a quiet moment at the booth and ask the DJ to change your song.  If you honestly know that you’re too drunk to sing, save everyone involved the trouble and pretend not to hear your name when it’s called.  As for shy, all I can say is: sack up.  This is karaoke, kiddo.