#WalkofShameShuttle

[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.

[iamkennygillett-blog]

Best snapchat of the day! @vh1 #walkofshameshuttle

[whipclip]

Vegans, Vegs, and Paleos this is a bridge too far!!! @WalkOfShameVH1

[arrolynhow]

#WalkOfShameShuttle I'm Dying!!!! #HeALifeCoach

[jazminesheri]

walk of shame shuttle

Is freaking HILARIOUSLY!!!!

[walkofshameshuttle]

“I told him he was my only one...what I didn’t mention was that he was my only one that night.” - Anonymous

[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.

[blazianazian]

Early morning rocking with #‎vh1‬ with the #walkofshameshuttle activation. Come to the summit and have some fun and get some swag and hit the beach. ‪#pcb ‪#springbreak2015‬ ‪#springbreak‬ ‪#panamacitybeach‬ #confess‬ ‪#bestreps‬ #promolife (at The Summit # 1119)

[iamkennygillett-blog]

#TBT to being on set of @vh1 #WalkOfShameShuttle with @viktorv28 Aleks and the creator of it all Ms @kellyannwargo Check her show out in VH1. #FunnyAsHell

[whipclip]

Fly for the bus driver! Oh and new term "beat to capacity." #getthisgirlashow @WalkOfShameVH1

[saintfelony]

Need a ride? #walkofshameshuttle #walkofshame #longbeach #morningafterpill #woss #impregnant

[kmjohnsonn]

SOURCE: youtube Walk of Shame Shuttle - Mock Commercial (by gingerambition12)

[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]

Girls and Their Hair

If I don’t like my hair at my wedding, I’m not getting married. End of discussion. Leave your toasters on the gift table, box up the steaks, and hit the road. You will have to soak a tampon in Bacardi 151 and pull some backwards ass 50 Shades of Grey shit and shove it up my butt if you think I’m letting anyone take my picture with Hermionie level frizz and Little Mermaid size volume. 

My hair controls my mood. Some guys are like, “I can’t believe Britney Spears went crazy and shaved her head, that was nuts,” but I’m like, “Nope, I completely understand.” At least once a week I consider shaving my head so I don’t have to deal with the literal headache, that is having girl hair. Boys used to throw paper airplanes into my hair and hook mechanical pencils in my ponytail like I was a human Christmas tree. I saved a ton on school supplies in middle school. Silver lining assholes.

The happiest girls have short hair. Have you realized that? Like the first time Emma Watson smiled with teeth was after her haircut, and when people should have unjustly hated Anne Hathaway even more after “Les Misérables” they didn’t because she had short hair. Nobody effs with Ellen DeGeneres. Girls with long hair are always angry because they are balancing an additional 5 pounds of “Game of Thrones” styled hair. I know my mood improves after I get a haircut because I’m like oh cool I’ve lost weight, lets splurge and get the 10 piece, maybe go crazy and get a regular Coke. 

If I could donate my shower drain every morning to locks of love every bald child in the world would be walking around wearing wigs of my hair. Like I have naturally very thick, curly, red hair.  If some straight haired girl is reading this thinking, “omg I wish I had curly hair,” you can shut up now. See, you can do the sexy pull your hair out of a ponytail and it falls around you like chocolate fountain while everything goes in slow motion and “Cherry Pie” plays. If I’m pulling out my ponytail it’s because my hair has claimed yet another hair tie victim, snapping and devouring it’s rubber band core. But I’m not going to realize for at least 5 minutes because my copper wire hair will retain it’s shape with such a thick dent that rain water can pool there and birds perch on my fly aways for a drink on a hot summer’s day.  

I don’t care how my hair looks, if I even feel like I’m having a bad hair day, my mood has gone to shit. The only thing that makes me more mad than a NCIS marathon when I was expecting SVU, is when someone says, “hurry up, your hair looks fine.” Fine? FINE?! If I was going for FINE I would have put my hair in a ponytail with a headband, the safety school of hair do’s. But that means I can’t wear earrings, I am a strictly 1 accessory from the chin up kind of girl. I’m not trying to look like a 90′s yearbook picture in my 20′s. 

I never go to the gym for “arms day” because any time I straighten my hair is like three sets of a billion push-ups. When I schedule a blowout or haircut my regular stylist ditches her acrylic platform heels for head-to-toe Under Armuor. Crossfit should add a station where guys have to brush my hair when I get out of the pool. Flip some tires, now set a new PR detangling my knots with a comb. 

I go through shampoo and conditioner they way McDonald’s burns through ketchup. I need to talk to a concession stand and see where they buy their huge condiment pumps and see if I can have them order a couple extra for me to use in the shower. Pantene need to offer products in keg size. 

I’m having a hard time finding the line between messy bun chic, and messy bun homeless. I actually have a Pintrest board for messy buns. I don’t understand how some messy buns are unacceptable for a college dining hall, but others you can add red lipstick and wear to work and everyone thinks you’re “on fleek,” (I had to Google that, I thought fleek was getting high on allergy pills mixed with axe body spray or something). I also hate man buns, not because I find them unattractive but because I am jealous. I’ve been a girl for almost 25 years, how do Thor and Orlando Bloom freaking do it. Double. Standard. 

But if I am having a good hair day I feel like I can do anything- except most things that require time because I already spent 75% of my day washing, brushing, combing, drying, styling, straightening, curling, and spraying into place the high maintenance monster that is my hair. I aspire to be one of those old ladies that gets her hair done three times a week and never raises her arms above her shoulders ever again.

Needless to say I wear a lot of baseball hats. Alex Mack had it right all along.  

[whipclip]

Lady, what did you just say? #walkofshameshuttle @vh1

[whipclip]

Sadly, I like to call it "reverse 1950's syndrome." #exhausting #backlash @WalkOfShameVH1