gingerambition

[gingerambition]

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

[gingerambition]

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

[gingerambition]

Stefan On Halloween

Stefan: Looking for a real scare this October? America's spookiest attraction is Tinder. Don't be thrown off when it's not a haunted house at all, just a phone that connects you to "hot, local singles" like the 19-year-old stoner who works from Domino's and sells pot to your public school cousin who touched your boob one time at Thanksgiving dinner. Not your type? No problem! This apps has everything: single dads named Gary, med students with secret Anime fetishes that you overlook because they're 6'2", and guys with Nike beards that could be 18 or 37 – you have no idea . . .

Seth: Wait, wait wait . . . what's a Nike beard?

Stefan: You know that thing, where it looks like guy put a Nike swoosh on his cheek and shaved around it so he looks like Seneca Crane from The Hunger Games.

#snl #saturdaynightlive #seth meyers #bill hadar #stefon #weekend update #tinder #bumble #dating #single #match.com

[gingerambition]

Every Guy’s Dating Profile Ever

“Football / baseball / soccer / basketball. Kid in the pic is my nephew. Homeowner. Not here for hookups. Outdoorsy. Into traveling. My dog is my best friend. LOL. Happiest chillin in the woods or on my boat. We can tell your mom we met through mutual friends. 5'10" because apparently that matters”

DID I NOT JUST COMPLETELY NAIL IT OR WHAT

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. Labor Day Weekend

While you were in The Hamptons enjoying your last weekend to wear your white supremacy, I was smacking murses butts and gearing up for a sexual harassment case. Just kidding, the only butt involved was my own, at an urgent care, getting 2 shots because, “well, technically you should be in the ER because we don’t do IV antibiotics here, but we’re gonna give you a couple shots and hope that works.” Mad respect for the blatant medical procrastination and pure laziness approach, very ballsy, which I’m usually all about - like that is my healthcare aesthetic to a T and my personal recommendation to replace Obamacare - but it didn’t work. I should’ve known since it typically takes about 4 shots for me to feel anything, including joy.

I spent three days and two nights posted up in a twin size bed at the hospital with a kidney infection. It was like the world’s shittiest sleepover party where instead of staying up until 2 AM playing 20 questions with boys over AIM asking boxers or briefs, a nurse is drawing your blood in the same spot for the 8th time. Hand to God, not the first time I’ve half-asleep said, “try another hole.” The nurses kept trying to get me to walk around the halls in my anti-slip crew socks with my IV poll and I was like F to the no am I walking around braless and hunched over like the evil queen in Snow White. If I can’t at least duct tape my tits together I am not leaving my bed. (Yes, that is an actual thing I would do in college when mesh back bodycon dresses were trendy, and apparently still are if your last name is Kardashian. Nice little duct tape bridge across the mosquito bites does the trick every time. Easy to take off when you’re drunk, hard to explain in the morning when it looks like the dude robbed a Home Depot.) 

This all started Tuesday AM when I began having some aggressive back pain. At first I thought oh my god, are my boobs big enough to complain about my back hurting?! But then I looked down and could still see my feet, so no. From there I assumed, and my primary care doctor agreed, I just inflamed some muscles unpacking boxes of my literal relationship baggage Monday night because my ex finally shipped my stuff and I was thrilled to go through 3 boxes all labeled “wine glasses.” 

Skip ahead like my parents watching “Game of Thrones” to Friday night, and I’m puking, shivering under a blanket wearing an off the shoulder top so I legit look naked, and taking a bean bag to the face for being lame at a pregame. Obviously I didn’t make it out. The following urgent care details, ER visit #1 Sunday AM, and ER visit #2 Sunday PM, are boring and nothing like Seattle Grace, but it was basically multiple male doctors mansplaining a UTI to me. 

Just for a little background info I’ve had an unusually high number of these in my lifetime, probably close to 30, and if you’re a girl you fucking KNOW when you have one. No part of you is like, “Mayyyyyybe it’s a UTI? Idk, I’ll finish my Panera you-pick-two, chug a La Croix and see if I feel better.” No, if you’ve had a UTI your only thought is, is this urge to pee legit or nah. When you finally get to squeeze those two drops out it feels like birthing a thousand hot steak knives like you’re the dishwasher at a god damn Outback. But yes Dr., please go on about “vaginal irritation” after I’ve already told you I’ve had both a UTI and a kidney infection before. 

One of the tests they did was an ultrasound to check out my lady tubing and the doctor must’ve referred to me as a “unmarried young female” like a thousand times. “We run this test on unmarried young females . . . avoiding radiation on unmarried young females . . . paints a really clear picture for unmarried young females . . . “ Fairly certain I involuntarily rolled my eyes every time he said it too. I must’ve looked as crazy as I actually am.

I don’t even known how I got the kidney infection in the first place. Certainly not the fun way of forgetting to pee after drunk sex. Haven’t been chilling in any wet bathing suits or sitting spread eagle in a bubble bath lately either. The last time I had a kidney infection was 2012 while was dating my ex and I thought, if that dick can put me in the ER, that is the dick for me. I legitimately had that on my list of reasons why I thought he was “the [first] one.” I sure know how to pick ‘em, huh?

Anyway, I briefly moved into the hospital, watched a shit ton of TV, ate my weight in cubed citrus jello, and stole a mug because if I am going to pay 10k for this weekend and not leave the state I want a souvenir. Didn’t meet a single attractive nurse, doctor, surgeon, urologist, or food services employee. I barely slept because CT scans after midnight are apparently a thing and if I did fall asleep it wasn’t for long because sleeping with your IV hand under your head fucking hurts. Now I’m home, unable to drink for 9 more days (not that I have a countdown like its Christmas) and have just enough energy to stay awake but not enough to be productive. Good thing I drunk bought a dart board on Amazon last weekend. Until next time tacos and hot dogs.

#kidneyinfection #UTI #Hospital #emergencyroom #labordayweekend #LDW #kellyannwargo #gingerambition #vh1 #walkofshameshuttle

[gingerambition]

Ginger Ambition Update

If you don’t know me, I’m assuming I’m your favorite ginger you’ve never met. If you’re reading this and you have met me however, you either have a huge secret crush on me, you’ve dated me and you’re looking for a subtle reference to yourself, or you recite my name each night as part of your Arya Stark–esque murder list. Honestly you’re more than welcome to my face, it takes an hour to put on before a first date anyway and is almost immediately ruined by excessive heat and pouting. You’d really just be saving me time at this point.

 Anyway, before I can publish my drafts about receiving dick pics in my late 20′s (FUUUUUUCK), Tinder dates that result in me either A. bailing him out of jail or B. ending up at a bar that is actually a wake, and being a proud member of the girls still blacking out in Ubers while everyone else is getting engaged club, I have to get some things off my (perky) chest. It’s kind of long but typing it out will be like losing 20 pounds of emotional weight. 

It’s been eight months since I got dumped. Two hundred and forty days later (I haven’t been counting I just did 8 x 30 on my phone) and I am still getting the same questions, so to avoid prolonging the graduation party effect (answering the same 5 questions on repeat the way I’m currently listening to “Look What You Made Me Do”), I am going to just put it all on the table. 

I got dumped at the end of December. It was days after celebrating Christmas with his family and attending my best friend’s 90′s throwback party where everything seemed normal AF. In fact I hear he’s up for an Oscar for his portrayal of communicating, loving boyfriend. So no, it was not mutual. He had his reasons. (Sidebar: the self-control I just showed in resisting the urge to put air quotes around the word, reasons, is similar to how I felt the other night when this old dude who was buying me Coors Lights was texting Taylor Kitsch, YES – THE ACTOR, and all I wanted to do was spider monkey across the table, grab his phone, and get the digits of a B-list celeb).  I felt the breakup was out of the blue.  I’m sure him and I will never see eye-to-eye on it, and that’s because he’s way taller than me so it’s physically impossible.  If I’ve told you “my story” in person, just skip this post. If you’ve been curious, here it is . . . 

I Ubered to our apartment from the San Francisco airport (he couldn’t pick me up because he was drinking), and he was on the couch. He hadn’t unpacked from being home for Christmas yet. He got back to our apartment a day earlier. His shoes were on. I made us mac n’ cheese. I started nagging that he wasn’t eating his and it was getting cold, I even put the pepper out for you. I was snuggling our cat and asking him how much he missed his girls. He turned off the TV and said, using my full name, we need to talk. Every part of me between my throat and my belly button knotted together and tasted like acid and pennies, my limbs felt distant and heavy, I moved to him, but I felt more like I was watching myself. After we spoke (he whispered, I cried), he took his still packed bag, I tried to kiss him (I got his cheek), and I watched him walk down the hall as I so often did in the morning when he left for work before me. That was the last time I saw him. After 2 states, 4 apartments, 5 years, countless "babe, you need to double flush after that,” kitchen slow dance parties, and putting our mattress in the living room for pizza fueled sleepovers, it was done. And it is done, because I don’t believe in second chances when it comes to ex-boyfriends. At some point they always come back. Of that I am certain. It could be 5 weeks or it could be 15 years, but it always happens and I take comfort in that.

I called my best friend, she didn’t answer so I texted her husband. I called my mom. I called my sister. My best friend called back. I told my college best friends. I texted a few more girls. I told everyone I wanted to hear it from me, and gave them permission to pass it on like a shitty game of telephone, so I wouldn’t have to live it over and over. I cried myself to sleep wrapped up in a nest of blankets, pillows, and dirty clothes I made out of things that smelled like him. I woke up every hour, realized where I was, cried, fell back asleep, repeat. I left the TV on to feel less alone. The small studio, that I couldn’t wait to return to less than 24 hours prior, felt less like home and more like stumbling upon a movie set or the apartment of a stranger I follow on Instagram. I had an idea of who had lived there, how they felt, how I should feel, but I was suffocated between collections of crap full of memories I could imagine but not grasp, and inside jokes I could make an outline of, but not see. In 12 hours I had aged 5 years. Everything felt fresh, and sharp, and distant, and numb, and a thousand other emotions all at the same time and I didn’t understand how that could be. 

Then I did something I never thought I would do, I just left. I took a red eye flight back to Michigan, where I was just 24 hours prior. I left all of the apartment lights on, the TV, and our Christmas tree. I cut up our favorite t-shirt then refolded it and put it in his drawer. I snapped my Harry Potter wand in half (from our 4 year anniversary trip) and put it under his pillow. I took everything of his I could see from my bed and put it in the corner. I tore every Uno card in half and left them in a pile. I wanted to break all of his Legos and throw out the directions but my mom said no, and for some reason I listened. I pulled the felt monogram I made off his nightstand lamp shade. I deleted my wedding Pintrest board. I deleted all of our pictures together from my phone. If you don’t want me anymore, I don’t see the point in lingering. If I said doing all of that petty crap didn’t make me feel better, I’d be lying. It was better than drunk Taco Bell after a sorority date party. 

I took as many sweatshirts and yoga pants as I could fit in a carry on, my large suitcase, my purse, cornered our cat into her carrier, and I left the rest for him to ship. Here’s an old school story problem to give you a break from brown out figuring out how to tip and write your number of a bar tab at the same time, 1 sobbing ginger + 2 suitcases + 1 purse + 1 cat that weighs like 2 cats = this blog can write itself. But wait, there’s more! The Titanic soundtrack was playing at my gate and my Uber driver almost killed us. He didn’t understand English, so when my cat started clawing to get out of her soft side airplane regulation carrier, and I pleaded with her to stop (when it rains it pours), he slammed on the breaks - on the HIGHWAY - and said “stop? stop? stop?” I yelled, KEEP FUCKING GOING. Not a moment I’m particularly proud of, but it happened. I put in my 2 weeks notice and worked remotely, wrapping up projects, and apologizing in emails. I tried not to burn bridges. Hurt has a ripple effect not always immediately evident. 

The worst part for me is knowing one day, every adventure, every nickname, every private moment we shared together will be forgotten, will disintegrate, and I will be reduced to, “that ginger I dated for like 5 years in my 20′s and had a TV show no one watched.” I will be become one of his two truths and a lie options. I won’t even have a name. He will tell some Cliff Notes version of “our story” to the daughter he has with someone else who isn’t me when it’s her heart that is broken and craves assurance there’s someone out there for everyone.

I slept on and off for the next 4 days, a very Carrie in the “Sex and The City” movie when she’s on her honeymoon with her friends instead of Big, of me to do. I never said I wasn’t dramatic. I didn’t drink. I made myself shower. I went on long walks with my parents’ dog and listened to a “Guys Are The Wooooorst” Spoitfy playlist I made. Everyone was so proud of me and impressed by how I kept it together, how I’m still keeping it together. Friends were happy to have me home, to have me so close to them. I felt wanted again. It’s not hard to act fine when he’s on the other side of the country. I wasn’t going to run into him. He never drunk dialed me, never texted. As much as distance can make things hard, it can also make things easy. 

My first breakup with my first boyfriend when I was 19 was horrible. I lost a ton of weight (not in a hot way - in a, “her head is too big for her body” kind of way), I didn’t go to class, I passed out on porches, I took my anti-depressants on and off sometimes with whatever shot was on special or being handed to me. This time, simply put, I would not allow myself to be that girl again. I was like nope, too cute, too sassy, too many people who love me to go back to that. (Although it would be nice to basically fit my American Girl doll’s clothes again.) I received so many cards and presents in the mail from best friends, girls I hadn’t talked to in years, and old co-workers that I almost wish I got dumped sooner, preferably around the time of a Kate Spade Surprise Sale. 

So it’s been eight months. I’m 27-years-old and I’m starting over. I’m living at home. I bought a new old car. I thought 2017 was the year I’d be planning a wedding. Now the extent of my planning is what I’m wearing to work tomorrow and what city I will visit next weekend. But you know what? I’m happy. I’m loved. I’m done settling. 

#boybye #GingerAmbition #Breakup #KellyannWargo #Single

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. Nice Guys

To paraphrase Elizabeth Warren, I am sick and tired of guys justifying their asshole tendencies with the misinformed perception that women rather date douche bags than nice guys. So that might not be her exact train of thought, but it’s definitely not a sentiment too far off from from having to constantly explain to Republicans how funding for Planned Parenthood doesn’t go toward abortions. But back to the current white girl issue at hand. While I haven't been in the modern dating game long, I was under the impression that the "be mean to her if you like her" mentality stopped when lunch was no longer followed by recess. "I'd hide all the chairs in the world so the only place you could sit is my face," is the way a 29-year-old college educated man introduced himself to me on a dating app. Now don’t you dare sit on the other side of this screen and think, “Meh, she should expect / deserves that for trying to meet guys on an app.” I am doing my fair share of meeting shitty dudes IRL too. Case in point, in the past month I’ve had my arm grabbed at a bar hard enough it left a finger print bruise. Moral of the story, low self-esteem toting men do exist beyond a profile sporting a series of pictures with ex-girlfriends so poorly cropped out from 2013 and yet another bio that says, “Likes football, pizza and fast cars, home owner, my dog is my best friend.” So give girls a fucking break on riding them for posting a picture with a Snapchat filter.

Now I consider my sense of humor my strongest and single most attractive personality trait. I love a good dirty joke, ask me the difference between jelly and jam (after at least learning how to correctly spell my name) and I'll marry you on the spot. Hell, this entire blog / my life is essentially a "that's what she said" punchline – but develop a sense of how to read the virtual fucking room, dude. Against my better judgement (lol what better judgement) I responded. Anyways, I was like, hmm, maybe this guy isn’t a horrible person and he will correct himself and I won’t have to drop some girl power knowledge on yet another upper middle class white male. WRONG. I tried to seriously explain the below to him, but he just laughed, mansplained to me what I actually want / need in a guy, and that’s when what little patience I had ran out faster than my friends and I to the dance floor when “The Wobble” comes on. Now if I’m the one unmatching, it’s saying something. My standards in the opposite sex are like Trumps filter on social media, nonexistent.  Decent women don't dislike nice guys, they dislike pushovers. When or who decided that being "spineless" was synonymous with being "nice" is beyond my comprehension. You can be nice while still maintaining and defending your own opinions, interests, and sense of humor. Obviously you're going to agree on some things (hopefully the major life shit like kids, pets, whether or not ketchup is good on eggs - which it is), but not everything. If you agreed on everything you might want to invest in Incestry.com to make sure you’re not actually related. Or like wave your hand in front of a mirror to make sure you haven’t been dry humping your reflection in sweatpants.

From what I’ve gathered, this alarmingly large group of guys who believe the mortal enemy to getting pussy is being "the nice guy" think that means saying yes to everything a gal wants, agreeing with her every opinion, and lets her make all of the plans. That's not being nice, that's being boring. Ladies define a nice guy as a fella who makes an effort to get to know her friends and family, remembers a couple of her favorite things, asks how her day is going, and just like, doesn’t kick puppies or key cars for fun. BUT ALSO (this is where some guys get super confused and think the light is green to be a douche) challenges her to be the best version of herself, to expand her worldview, and to never settle. News flash brosidens, kings of the brocean, it is possible to positively impact someone’s life without using fear tactics or insults. 

At the same time women need to stop confusing a dude's mean streak with confidence. The loudest person in the room isn’t always the kindest. We (dick & vagina owners) also need to accept someone cannot be forced to change. People grow at their own pace and in their own direction. You can try to steer but it’s not your route to determine. I for one know my outgoing smartass net catches more assholes than nice guys, but it’s worth it because the nice ones it does attract, a few I have actually gone out with, have resulted in some of the wittiest, most hilarious conversations of my life - and some not so bad backseat finger blasting.

Now I could end this by taking the easy road and insulting their penis size or their glaringly apparent belief that women belong in the kitchen, but that would be a shot cheaper than the American Eagle graphic tee I assume they are wearing while hiding behind a computer screen stringing together whatever Urban Dictionary words they just learned in the comment's section of a stranger's YouTube page to make themselves feel more masculine. 

I’m honestly just running out of ways to say don’t be gross, listen, gluten isn’t the enemy, try new things, share your wifi password, people who get pineapple on their pizza aren’t evil, and save the face sitting jokes for post actual face sitting. Until next time.

[gingerambition]

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

[gingerambition]

Exchange In a Crowded Bar

Me: Pardon me, could I get get by?

Man: You can get whatever you want *high fives laughing buddies*

Me: *Stops, looks him over head to toe* Oh yeah?

Man: *Silent*

Me: That's what I thought. *Walks away*

#men are the worst #girl power

[gingerambition]

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.

#pole dancing class #pole dancing #dancing #ginger ambition #walk of shame shuttle #woss #kellyann wargo

[gingerambition]

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

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. Bath Bombs

I told some friends I didn’t like using a bath bomb and the way they reacted you would think I told them I enjoyed watching videos of sea turtles who get stuck in six pack rings and their shells grow around the plastic. It was almost as bad as the time I told people in California I don’t like avocados. 

Sharing a van with my mom means I’m alone a lot. Sometimes my girlfriends take turns driving out to my neck of the woods to take me on little trips. Not so different from when my Grandma started driving with her blinker on instead of her headlights, so I would take her to Target so she could walk up and down every aisle only to learn 90% of things were made in China and she wanted none of it. Anyway, they took me to the mall. I put on real pants. It was a big day for all involved parties. 

Being a woman and having absolutely zero self control with a credit card, I had to buy something. I had just finished watching an Insider video about how Lush’s stores are supposed to resemble a deli. Blocks of soap and other pro-bathing goodies are displayed so deliciously, so delicately, you’re afraid your small child or buzzed friend would stick a product in their mouths. Not gonna lie, I was tempted, and I wasn’t even drunk (yet). We’ve all seen the viral videos of glittering rainbow bath bombs being dropped into water and mushrooming like a fabulous atomic bomb that would make even Jack from “Will & Grace” speechless. If you haven’t seen the videos, you’re probably one of maybe ten people in the world that actually puts their phone away after saying “good night” to your day’s Tinder matches. Side bar, if I’m saying “night” to you it’s so I can scroll through Instagram’s popular page and favorite screen grabs of Christian Grey without notifications interrupting my deep dive for another 2 to 5 hours.

I left the store with three bath bombs. Something about them having an essential oil with a calming scent that also helps produce serotonin in the brain. I wasn’t really listening, I was too busy thinking, “I am going to snapchat the shit out of these little fuckers.” They could have been made from crystal meth and the crushed souls of Whole Foods employees but as long as they looked cute I would’ve bought them. Anyways, baths aren’t really my thing. I hate half laying, half floating there trying to not to get my hair wet or pee. The last time I enjoyed taking a bath I had a mermaid Barbie doll whose fin changed color in the water and I was legitimately afraid a shark would come up through the drain, and that was just like ten years ago. But this is the year of me trying new things! Like bath bombs and having a guy stick his thumb in my asshole. 

By no means am I a laid back kind of gal. My friends would say I have more in common with The Zodiac serial killer before they would describe me as chill. I have a hard time relaxing as is, so this whole bath bomb experience was going to be an uphill battle. I filled up the tub, dropped it in and it just kind of bobbed like anytime I’m super drunk trying to give a BJ without puking all over the guys dick. In addition to being high strung I am also impatient, so I kept breaking it apart into smaller balls to speed the whole thing up. Didn’t my bath know I had season 3 of Lifetime’s timeless Canadian hit series, “When Calls The Heart” in my Netflix queue to finish?

I was in the water for maybe five minutes. I took the mandatory suggestive legs in a bathtub Snapchat, listened to one song on my “Guys R The Woooorst” Spotify playlist, and picked out a few floating dog hairs because when you have a yellow lab everything is always covered in a dusting of albino water-resistant porcupine threads. Then I was outta there faster than Catholics running to their cars after communion at Christmas Eve mass. Hot water doesn’t relax me, it makes me feel like I’ve been roofied. I started sweating like when an interviewer asks about my Spanish, which I’ve listed as a “special skill” on my resume after only 4 years of taking it in high school. When I got out of the tub I’m pretty sure I resembled Leo in “Wolf of Wall Street” trying to get in his car after doing all of the quaaludes. I didn’t even put on my bathrobe right away. My heart felt so slow that I just laid on the bathroom floor like a CSI murder victim. 

Consider me team hot tubs. I spend enough money on bathing suits I wear maybe twice a year now that I don’t have a spring break to go on. Plus isn’t drinking in hot water the same as drinking on a plane, you get drunker faster? Drinking alone in a bathtub is too Allie in “The Notebook” for me, maybe if an ex builds me a house I’ll give that one a go, but consider me a skeptic. Then again I probably have unrealistic expectations of what should and should not happen in a hot tub after years of making my Sims “woo-hoo” in the heart-shaped one. All I’m saying is, if I have to sit in a human-size bowl of water at my ideal Panera soup temperature, I better have a glass of champagne in one hand and a boner in the other. I may or may not be describing my dream date on The Bachelor sans Seal singing “Kiss From A Rose,” stage right. 

Now I have 2 bath bombs left and zero desire to use them. Unrelated question, what happens when a bath bomb is dropped in a pool? Asking for a friend, obviously.

#ginger ambition #KellyannWargo #WalkofShameShuttle #WalkofShame #bathbombs #lush #lushcosmetics

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. Do I Have a Type?

If you gathered the small group of guys I’ve been in relationships with you’d quickly realize they don’t look anything alike, and personality-wise I’d say the only thing they have in common is being very smart, but annoying drunks. I’ve been in Facebook official relationships with a ginger who had varsity letters in five sports, a West Point grad who wanted an industrial bar piercing, and an introverted software engineer. 

Apparently the guys I’ve been attracted to the past couple of years tend to look younger than their actual ages. I realize how super fucking creepy that sounds, but before you call Benson and Stabler, picture actors in their mid to late 20′s that play like college students, that’s what I mean. Maybe that’s from years of flight seatmates asking which colleges I’m applying to, years after graduation, or how prone my fair (read: super pale) skin is to beard burn. Regardless, the “hot” guys I literally point out to my friends look like they could be running for homecoming court or proofreading their valedictorian speeches. I’m talking tall, stick figure like builds, skin so soft they must only watch Jennifer Aniston’s Aveeno commercials, topped off with a full head of boyband-esque hair and a curfew I assume is 2 a.m. Now I’m really trying to treat single life like one big opposite day.

I’m also trying to lower my standards. Not like slutty college peak where I’d sleep with guys for their air conditioning in the summer, low standards. I used to live in a third floor glorified closet that was legally not allowed to be leased as a bedroom. So it was whoever maintained eye contact with me even after they’d seen me dance, or I would sleep on the fire escape half-naked. Either way someone was seeing my boobs whether they wanted to or not. Maybe I should phrase that as expanding my standards. When I was younger (I know I’m still young, by the time I’m 80 we’ll all just be half robots anyway) I thought smoking or too many tattoos would be a deal breaker. Now I think my only deal breakers are maybe not be a devil worshipper or one of those guys that dances with glow sticks in parking lots.

In terms of physical type, I don’t think I have one. Just be taller than me and have four limbs. I don’t have a hair color or eye color preference – you know, all the stuff you decide with a custom American Girl doll. Glasses? No. Freckles? Maybe, if I can connect them with a marker. Prior to my prom king flub, I just preferred guys with what I call, “that baseball player forearm muscle thing,” where if a dude rolls his sleeves up any further the seams would bust open romance novel style. (This is where I have to remind myself to breathe.) Also if your jeans are tight on me, that’s kind of a bummer. Luckily I only wear leggings now, so if I pick up your leggings instead of mine, I think we have a bigger problem. 

Traditionally, I avoid facial hair after a bout in college where my skin would get so red it looked like I sucked face with a box of cherry popsicles. I have recently discovered a bizarre attraction to 80's-inspired police officer mustaches – not the real gun toting cops that let me out of speeding tickets when I cry, I mean the kind in porn (I’ve heard) or most Will Ferrel movies. At first I was worried that something happened in my childhood and I needed to seek professional help. After much soul searching and La Croix cut with white wine, I think I’ve just fallen asleep to so many episodes of Blue Bloods on Ion that Tom Selleck has replaced the good decision making portion of my brain. 

My parents have always thought I’ll ultimately end up with someone older. Apparently I've always erred on the side of being “a bit much” for guys my age. I had wanted to be married before 30, but change that to “just before I die” sounds like a far more realistic and obtainable timeline. When it comes to men and marriage I think it’s a lot like musical chairs. They all kind of dance around and when the music stops some random morning, whatever chair they were inside last is who gets a ring. I think I’ll backslide into my childhood dream of having a boyfriend in every country and just travel, while also being world a famous artist / professional volleyball player. Personality wise my lineup is longer than the Duggar’s grocery shopping list, so let’s leave it at asshole with a heart of gold. I need wit, I need ambition, I need passion, and I need to be able to take a guy places without feeling like I’m rushing him for a sorority or I’ve just adopted a puppy. 

Allow me a brief departure from my usual pessimistic and overall negative outlook on, well, most things, and let me voice a small starry-eyed and hopelessly romantic fantasy I cling to late at night when I’ve convinced myself I have restless leg syndrome and can’t sleep. This may sound crazy, but I do have a heart that craves more than vodka sodas and writing hilarious Yelp reviews. I want someone who finds me indescribably fascinating, who never stops asking me questions, who has the most infectious laugh, and looks at me like he’s trying to remember every thing about every moment. A mutual affinity for Taco Bell is also preferred. And now back to your regularly scheduled biting wit and sass.

Luckily I’m basically a pass / fail kinda gal, so as long as a dude has a more pros than cons I can temporarily overlook things like cocaine or describing hiking as spiritual. You could always slip me a $10 and everyone’s a winner. Wait, does that count as prostitution? Kinda into that. Christ, time for another Coors Light fueled and Sherlock Holmes level self-examination. Until next time. 

#gingerambition #tinder #bumble #online dating #app dating #dating #20-something #kellyannwargo #walkofshameshuttle

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. Bumble

I’ve downloaded Bumble, and not like the first time I downloaded Bumble when I wanted it for the BFF side to watch Bachelor with someone other than my cat. I ended up getting rid of it (the app, not my cat) after a girl asked me to get coffee after we mutually complained about skinny jeans for only two minutes. Idk about you, but we have to agree on hating at least five different things before we meet up IRL. If you dislike 5 of the following then maybe we can be bestie sans testies: skinny jeans, thick ranch dressing, dick pics, sushi, Guitar Hero, movies that take place in space, guys in sweatpants, drivers that don’t use turn signals, animal adoption commercials, and women that push strollers in the road when there’s a sidewalk. 

Call me a hopeless romantic, but I still have my fingers crossed I meet someone the old fashioned way. Like I adorably rear-end his car at a red light because, silly stereotypically female me, I have poor depth perception and I suck at driving. In this scene I get out of the car all flustered and apologetic, our eyes lock, we live happily ever after, and he rear-ends me till death do us part. But that’s not real life, that’s a 90′s movie starring Freddie Prinze Jr. with a soundtrack featuring The Cranberries and Sixpence None The Richer. (Swearing and near constant radio station changing aside, I’m actually a great driver). But instead of 1996 it’s 2017, year of the rooster, which is hilarious considering our president is a cock, so these things don’t happen any more, hence Bumble. You may come across my gingerness among the sea of girls using five year old pictures from college and filling their “about me” section with booze emojis. 

I haven’t been on Bumble very long, but I’ve already learned quite a bit. For example, HOLY SHIT, the mirror selfie is alive and well. I thought that died with MySpace, it should have, but it did not. Also, if I see one more pic of a guy holding a fish or a deer I may ask to borrow his hunting rifle and just shoot myself. Pictures of dead animals do not get me going. Maybe it’s a guy’s way of showing he’s so GD masculine that he can hunt, he’s a provider, to appeal to some subconscious hunter-gatherer-era female desire. This might just be me, but my inner cavewoman would find a guy holding a $20 in front of a McDonald’s Dollar Menu, suggestively wiggling his eyes at chicken nuggets, significantly more attractive. 

Now if a guy doesn’t have a mirror or hunting pic, he has a picture of himself as a groomsmen. Love a guy in a suit, so no complaints here. Wait, one complaint  – if, from the million professional wedding pictures you’re in, you pick the one holding up your pant leg to reveal “crazy socks,” that’s fucking stupid. Left swipe. It’s just such a forced reaction. The only people that excited to see socks aren’t people, they’re house elves. 

WHY DOES EVERY GUY’S BIO INCLUDE THE WORD “OUTDOORSY.” I fucking hate that word, like I enjoy the three minute walk from my car into Nordstrom, and sometimes I look at the clouds without taking a picture, does that make me outdoorsy? Are you outdoorsy in that you have apartment roof access and a two-story beer bong, or outdoorsy in that you’re so obsessed with nature you’re trying to be on Survivor? FYI I will keep my air conditioner on until it snows, I do not do heat. Sweating is only acceptable during or after seeing a “50 Shades Darker” commercial. Also, something about guys who say they're wine drinkers makes me think their favorite position is missionary. 

Bumble is a lot like a High School graduation party. Everyone just keeps asking where you see yourself in five years, your goals, and about your family. My current about me section is, “Every time I follow my heart I end up at Taco Bell.” I am about to change it to, “Recently moved home, one sister in Chicago, parents are still together, freelance but looking to work in an entertainment related field, I like baseball, and yes I can cook.” But I’m not sure that will fit. One of the first guys I talked to opened with, “What’s your best and worst Bumble story?” To which I said, “This conversation, and also this conversation.” Then he unmatched with me.

When I was in a relationship I would “play” Bumble for my single friends. I would swipe right on guys that looked like Draco Malfoy or went to art school (out of solidarity). Needless to say they did not let me pick guys for them after that. Now that I am the one ridin’ solo (thank you Jason Derulo, I have listened to that song so many times on my “Single Bitch Anthems” Spotify playlist I may get the lyrics tattooed down my rib cage in fancy script and tell people it’s a Bible verse), I let them play Bumble for me. I ended up matching with a bunch of guys holding guitars or standing on boats with their arms out like the cover of a rap demo CD sold out of a dude’s trunk in a Kroger parking lot. 

My girlfriends said I should always swipe right on a guy that owns or has access to a boat, or any guy that attended Harvard or Yale. I don’t care if you went to Harvard, own the yacht from “Below Deck,” love Stevie Wonder or check any other perfect dude boxes – if the glass in your mirror pic is dirty, boy bye. Sack up and buy some Windex, take your elbow deep arms out of your pants, and clean. Speaking of dream man, maybe I am meant to be alone. In middle school I determined the perfect guy for me would be an Irish firefighter, Boston accent, and a borderline alcoholic that takes care of his mom. Yep, that’s what 12-year-old, Limited Too pajama pant wearing me prayed to God for each night at 8:30pm.

Not that I am having a hard time finding matches on Bumble. I mean if you make your age range 18-80+ and max out your distance range 100 miles, you too can find the single dad of your dreams, or at least attend another prom. 

#kellyannwargo #bumble #blog #gingerambition #ginger #dating #datingapps #loveandsex

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. Manspreading

I have been traveling by plane a lot lately - home for Thanksgiving, home for Christmas, back to San Francisco, then immediately back home the next day because the future I thought I had disappeared faster than guacamole put out at an office holiday party. But that’s not the point of this post.

The point is, I’ve learned a lot while racking up all those meaningless miles I can trade in for a $20 Amazon gift card - like wait to buy the $2 airline headphones from a flight attendant instead of splurging on same-quality but $30 headphones from a Hudson News. I’ve also realized I rather sit next to someone deathly afraid of flying, a therapy animal I am allergic to, or someone transporting a beating organ, than 90% of men.

Now you may be thinking, “You wanted to be a flight attendant, you love every aspect of flying!” That, or you’re sitting on the toilet at work reading this because there’s nothing new on Reddit and you’re out of Candy Crush lives not thinking much to begin with. Either way - totally fine, I’ll take my readers where I can get ‘em. But news fucking flash, my Pan Am era dreams of flying have been ruined for me by MANSPREADERS. 

What is a manspreader? Urban Dictionary says it’s word feminists use, and I’m thinking maybe, idk? Bust mostly it’s a word normal decent carbon-based lifeforms use to describe a man that sits with his knees set so wide apart that it looks like his grundle is trying to consume the seat in front of him. Other side effects of manspreading include a man’s knee and upper thigh sliding onto your faux leather seat, warming your metal seatbelt like a little testosterone powered microwave. This often results in girls (like myself) having to squeeze their legs together so hard they get off the plane with thighs that look like they belong to an American Ninja Warrior, all to avoid some unwanted Banana Republic khaki to leggings contact. 

I get it, you all have huge Mangum wearing dicks, that require feet upon feet of space to hang so your precious sperm full of big-dong-carrying DNA aren’t squeezed to death. But at the same time, guys basically spend the first 25 years of their lives with 2 goals - stay out of jail and don’t get anyone pregnant. So shouldn’t you want to squish your fleshy stress balls just a wee bit? If you need that much space to sit comfortably, sell your dick pics to the Smithsonian, and use the ticket sales to sit first class where there are little walls between seats to prevent thigh spillage. Boom, everyone’s happy, you, me, and most importantly - your balls. 

Being the passive aggressive ginger gem that I am, I’ve found ways to combat this growing epidemic. First, always pick an aisle seat. You’ll feel less pinned to the wall in the least sexy way possible like you would with a window seat. Plus, you have Instagram - you know what a plane wing over a sunset looks like. Also, you’re gonna want to be able to get up to go to the bathroom, because you’ll need to go often with tip two. That tip being, DRINK! Stick to wine or like, vodka ginger ale. Sometimes the flight attendants give you 2 mini bottles for the price of 1, but then you have to sit there with a cup of melting ice for thirty minutes. Wine is nice, although lower in alcohol content, but you can sip it without a plastic cup, twist the lid back on, and stick it in your sleeping neighbor’s seat pocket. 

Next, pick one of those random emergency rows where there is no immediate row in front of you, so the trays fold out of the armrest. That way, no man can slowly move the armrest up, allowing for additional leg space. The divider is like a little Trump-esque wall, only it’s actually effective and not a horrible waste of money. Make your grandma roll over in her grave by sitting spread eagle the moment you sit down.

There’s a second, less obvious, much sneakier, manspreader species as well. This kinda of fellow sits so his feet are touching, but allows his legs to flop wide open like opposing magnets are embedded in his knees, pushing his thighs open like a pervy butterfly stretch. Eradicate this level of oh-hell-no by un-hinging your tray table so it hits his wandering knee. 

Or there’s always the more direct route of asking a man to move his leg because you feel it’s entered your personal space. I have tried this route. I put on my best 5 AM flight smile and asked ever so politely, ever so sweetly, that if you were eavesdropping you may have thought I was Snow White summoning woodland creatures to help me craft artisanal soy candles for a charity farmer’s market. To which he promptly responded, “I think you’re on my side.” And in that moment I was the murderous woman on Dateline from the sleepy backroads town where “nothing like that could happen here” and everyone still has a landline, who tells the police she was so angry she saw red. Now let me tell you, I am the girl that has put duct tape down the middle of a shared room and I went to art school, I basically majored in coloring inside the lines. I know where my side ends, and your side begins. 

So you know what I do then? I reach over you and turn my reading light on and off so often you think you’re at a God damn rave hosted by Lena Dunham. If you so much as think you’re going to get away with using your jacket as a blanket, draping it across the entire row like we are telling spooky ghost stories around the fire at sleep away camp, you have another think coming. And if you happen to outlive me, so help you God, I will make it my mission in the afterlife to haunt your ass from whatever low staffed Forever 21 purgatory my soulless carcass ends up in.

#micdrop 

#gingerambition #girlwithablog #angrygirls #manspreading #manspreaders #traveling #travel #planes flights

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. Rompers

Rompers are the clothing equivalent of Pizza Rolls, they look really good in the picture but just making you feel shitty. You wear one to bottomless mimosas with some random girls you met on Bumble BFF that remind you of everyone you hated in High School, just to prove to your mom with a Facebook that you leave your apartment and occasionally wash your hair. Fast forward five hours later and you’re peeing half naked in a Chinese restaurant you bribed your high Lyft driver to stop at, with the romper’s left leg in some weird puddle that’s probably been there since the place used to be a Pizza Hut. 

Rompers are like ex-boyfriends. You see your romper hanging up in the back of your closet next to your Jessica McClintock prom dress, and you can’t remember why you stopped liking it. Then you put it on, or remember it has a large ombre roman numeral ten on its pale stupid thigh, and immediately say, “well 100% fuck that.” Then you forget about it until you’re halfway to blackout going through your old Facebook albums at 2pm on a random Thursday you took work off as a “mental healthy day,” and the process starts all over again. 

If I started wearing rompers in college I would still be a virgin. There’s no sexy way to take off a romper. Rompers are the new chastity belt. Taking the thing off would have lasted six time longer than losing my virginity, and that’s me rounding up. Rompers make adult women look like slutty toddlers. If a stripper wore a romper her song would have to be Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.” Your top and pants should only connect if it’s Halloween and you’re dressed as Sandy from “Grease,” or you’re Channing Tatum in a Velcro police uniform.

Rompers are formal onesies that professional drunks wear so they don’t “break the seal” too early at the bar. The amount of effort it takes to take off the fucking thing and put it back on after peeing pure Pino Grigio at happy hour requires Oprah’s-favorite-things-episode level energy. They are just jumpsuits an Old Navy exec decided to up-cycle in a conspiracy to make every woman who loves a good deal, look like sassy background actress on “Orange is the New Black.”

I just made the mistake of wearing one to work. It was an even bigger mistake than the time in told coworkers at my San Francisco office that I don’t like avocado toast. I woke up feeling like Christmas morning. I felt Olsen twin level skinny after my morning coffee shit and having fasted for eight hours, aka sleeping. One La Croix ten minutes into my workday and my carbonated water engorged fupa turned my adorkable romper into full-blown maternity pajamas. I looked like the unwanted child of the Michelin Man and a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon- I was just folds and yards of brightly colored fabric. People could have played pin the waist on the Ginger without their blindfolds and they wouldn’t be able to find my middle. I was Aunt Marge in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban floating off to print my Anne Taylor Loft return label. 

If you haven’t peed yourself just a little in a romper and been so self conscious other people can tell, that you considered ripping your thong off with your teeth and throwing it out in wall mounted feminine sanitary products dispenser, you’re a fucking liar. 

#rompers #ginger #ginger ambition #personal blog #walk of shame shuttle #kellyann #kellyann wargo

[gingerambition]

Wax On, Wax Off

I got my first bikini wax. Co-workers, family members, and anyone who would like to maintain their ability to look me in the eye - you can stop here. 

Unlike most major decisions in my life, this one was made both sober and impulsively- two adjectives rarely used when I am described. At 11:00 AM, after coffee but before I started to get hangry, I made a 1:30 PM lunch appointment. If it was any later in the day I would have person-ed out. (Refraining from using phrases like “chickened out” and “pussy” as not to upset my vegan and cay lady readers.) Overall it really wasn’t that bad. Like, I rather get a bikini wax than watch another “Bourne” sequel or anything with Tom Cruise. 

I believe women have higher physical and mental pain tolerances than men because idk child birth, periods, mansplaining, the ability to read anything about Brock Turner without immediately vomiting, etc. So yeah, I think we handle pain a little better than guys who call in sick to work claiming a cold after sneezing more than twice in a day. 

The stinging, burning pain of a bikini wax is similar nicking ankle while shaving your legs. The kind where you sort of peel the skin on your ankle bone like a lemon twist in a cosmo. Meaning, it hurts a split second after the damage has already been done. The sting of a fresh pore opening wax lingers like a college guy after hooking up in your twin size dorm bed- there’s no room for you now, please leave, like this is uncomfortable and you’re still using my wifi. 

I know you’re not supposed to drink before an appointment, because it thins your blood and makes your skin sensitive- which is strange to me, because I usually drink to feel nothing. If after three glasses of wine you can bite your lip and feel it, you’re doing it wrong. So yeah I drank before it, but it was the only way I could calm my mind. I was more anxious about what the aesthetician thought of my vagina. I want her to see a Georgia O’Keefe painting, not Leatherface’s mouth. What if I fart? What if I queef? What if I get turned on? What if I didn’t wipe well? Was I supposed to use a Summer’s Eve wipe first? Can she smell it? Does it smell? The aesthetician didn’t like dry heave or plug her nose, no office plants wilted as I walked by, stray cats didn’t follow me around, she never said anything like “you should get that checked out,” so I’m assuming everything looked fine and not like the Titanic after an iceberg ripped a hole in it’s side.

I’ve had a second and third waxings since, and when people tell you, “it hurts 50% less the more you have it done” it’s actually 100% true. I still see the first woman, sans pregaming appointments, and I’ve gotten significantly more comfortable. She knows my situation, so there’s no build up to some big reveal like at the end of Extreme Makeover Home Edition. I no longer imagine Tye Pennington yelling “MOVE THOSE LEGGINGS!” to a crowd of cheering volunteers, and a Walmart employed family sobbing, while I get half naked. 

The benefits of waxing are I shaved off about five minutes of shower time, numerous sneaky public crotch itches, and I could crash a Victoria’s Secret beach shoot and straddle that sand with the best of em. Additionally you can’t workout for 24 hours after, so that’s basically a direct order to eat pizza and Lyft everywhere. I don’t think I’ll ever have the balls to get a full Brazilian. Unless my dream diet of being in a medically induced coma, hooked up to an IV of the master cleanse, while members of the WWE make me lift weights “Weekend At Bernies” style, can add waist down waxing to the line-up, it’s not gonna happen.