Dear Snarky – Does Wingman Duty Include Pretending to Be Married?

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Dear Snarky,

My girl friends and I like to go to the bars a couple of times a month. I usually act as my best friends “wingman” and help introduce her to guys. Last week, she asked if I would start wearing a wedding ring, when we hit the bars. (I’m not married or even really dating anyone seriously.) Her reasoning was that if guys thought I was married than I would be a better wingman because the ring would make me approachable yet still off-limits.

 I don’t know what to make of this. I’m not into picking up guys at bars so I have no problem being a wingman for a friend. But wearing a wedding ring when I’m not married not only seems wrong I feel like I could be jinxing myself from getting married.

 Am I overreacting by saying no to my friend? Please help.

 Signed, Confused

Dear Confused,

 You are not overreacting by saying no to pretending to be married. Seriously, how desperate is your friend? And I don’t know a lot about being a wingman, but I think wearing a phony wedding ring goes above and beyond the call of duty for that job description.

 As for the jinx thing – throw that out that window. Here’s some AMAA for you – Advanced Maternal Age Advice. The world is very small. What happens if you’re wearing your fake wedding ring at a bar and you ran into someone you work with or a friend of your family or even your boss and all of sudden you’re faced with the awkward explanation of why you’re pretending to be married?

Trust me you don’t not want to go there. At best people will think it’s weird and worst case scenario “you be crazy.” I don’t think any friendship is worth you sacrificing your credibility and a true friend would never ask you to do that. 

*If you have a question for Dear Snarky – 21st Century Advice With an Attitude 😉 – email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com or PM on my Snarky FB page.

The Uhaul Years

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Twenty-one years ago I thought being what the doctors called an AMA mom was no big deal. I admit to being a little taken aback when I was first referred to as “Advanced Maternal Age.” It was one of those “Who you talking about?” moments.

How could I be on the cusp of being too old to have a baby? I felt fabulous. So fabulous I was ready to throw down with any non-AMA mom to prove it.

Today, I couldn’t throw down with anyone or anything because I can barely get out of bed.

Being an older parent forces you to reflect on a lot of things. There’s the really depressing stuff as in you’ll have less time with your children because you’ll be dead. But, I always worked that to my advantage.

When my husband would freak out over the toys and other goodies I would buy I would pathetically reply, “It’s not like I’m going to live to see grandbabies. I have to spoil them because they’re twofers – kids and grandkids.”

That personal pity party worked for a while until we had problems walking through our home due to all the Thomas the Tank Engine trains. Finally, I had to acknowledge that my excuse was lame and quite possibly life threatening because those trains created dire tripping hazards.

Other worries being an older mom range from vanity to losing your youthful zeal. I was mistaken for being my children’s grandmother enough times for it to sting. Of course, this only happened in Texas where the average age of having your first child is 17. (Okay, I made that up, but it’s not 35 I can tell you that and there are people I want to high school with that have grandkids my daughter’s age. So there’s some empirical evidence for you.)

As for youthful zeal that was never much of a concern. I’ve always been high energy until a couple of days ago when being AMA finally bit me in the butt because there’s one thing missing in the all documents your doctor gives you to read concerning the downsides of being an older parent and it’s this: You’ll be moving a child in and out of dorms and second and third floor college apartments and it might kill you.

I consider myself a strong-ish person. Not to brag, but I have mad skills as in I can bench press a 50 pound bag of dog food and by that I mean haul it out of my car. So, I wasn’t that concerned about my son’s latest move out of one apartment and into another.

This was a fatal mistake.

I blame the stairs. They were deadly. The steps at apartment #1 were mountain goat steep and they were also crumbling. This upped the degree of difficulty because not only were you navigating basically the side of a cliff you were also perilously close to wiping out on concrete rubble. Now imagine walking backwards down these stairs holding the end of a desk that felt like it weighed as much as a Ford F-150.

Once you completed that strength and agility course it was on to apartment #2. Here wooden stairs with a plethora of nails sticking out greeted you. It was as if they were chanting, “I hope you’ve had a recent Tetanus booster.” Having to lug a full size mattress up and up the stairs while leaping over nails made the journey seem like you were playing hopscotch with one of Satan’s minions.

I cursed. I almost cried and then I did cry when my health app on my phone showed I had walked 103 flights of stairs. The next day I had the mobility of a Popsicle stick. I felt like I needed a new hip.

Next year my daughter will be going off to college. This means double the move ins and outs. I hope I survive it. If you see a woman walking while hauling a mattress on her back it will be this AMA cross training for the fall of 2018

 

Dear Snarky – Mean Moms Are Taking Over the Pool!

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Dear Snarky,

 There are a group of mean moms that have taken over the pool. They have one mom stay after morning swim practice and save 16 pool lounge chairs. Then when the rest of the moms show up they hang out for hours at the pool gossiping and judging all the other moms that aren’t them.

 I’m so sick of it! They don’t even care if anyone else can hear them making comments about so and so’s swimsuit or cellulite. It’s making me not want to take my kids swimming and we paid for a pool membership that was sort of expensive so please don’t tell me to go somewhere else to swim.

 How can I get these women to back off and shut up?

 Signed, Sad Summer Mom

Dear Sad Summer,

 Sigh, It seems like I get a letter like this every summer. So, here comes some vintage advice. As in any hostile situation with enemy combatants you need to take a direct attack. No wishy-washy maneuvers will get this job done.

I strongly suggest you begin a campaign of cannon balls off the side of the pool that will create a tidal wave worthy splash back on these moms. Then make sure to invest in some XL Super Soakers and engage in a very robust game that results in all of you accidentally on purpose hitting the not so charming ladies with water. Finally, enjoy teaching your children and their friends how to master their flutter and butterfly kicks and smile proudly as they joyfully churn epic amounts of water out of the pool and onto these catty lounge lizards.

 Will all this make the mean pool moms cease and desist? Probably not, but you’ll be happy and that’s exactly what I was going for.

*If you have a question for Dear Snarky – 21st Century Advice With an Attitude 😉 – email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com or PM on my Snarky FB page.

Arts Teachers Are The Real Masterpieces

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As the school year closes I want to give a shout out to some of the unsung heroes in education – the music and art teachers. For those of you who think that the arts don’t matter or that teaching music and art in the schools is a colossal waste of time and tax payer money (because it should be all about STEM, STEM, STEM) to that I have two words for you – Betsy Parsons. This music and dance teacher was my children’s guardian angel.

More than a decade ago my family moved from Texas to Reno, Nevada. My son was in the middle of 3rd grade and the move was hard on him. Everyday I would pick him up from school and the first words out of his mouth were, “Can we please go back to Texas?” It was so heartbreaking that I actually told my husband I think we need to move back. He got so sad I feared when we were reaching a tipping point.

Enter Betsy Parsons, the music teacher at Roy Gomm elementary. This magnificent woman is gifted with a sixth sense when it comes to children. She saw my little boy and took him under her wing. Choir became his happy place and like many other kids during recess he gathered in the choir room and hung out.

My son didn’t have a stellar voice and he might not have even liked singing in public that much, but he loved Mrs. Parsons and she slowly brought him out of his shell. She made him feel liked he belonged and that enabled him to start flourishing.

This keen teacher even noticed his love of technology and at the age of 10 paid him to design a website for her dance studio – Scene Stealers. The boy, to use a Texas term, was in high cotton. This spurred him on to start his own web design business and by fourth grade he had the swagger befitting a mini mogul.

It was at that dance studio where my daughter found her passion. She did the traditional elementary school sports like soccer and many a Saturday was spent watching her play. But you could tell she was in it more for the Capri Suns than anything else. Then Mrs. Parsons, sensing something in our daughter my husband and I couldn’t even begin to see, introduced her to dance.

It was as if a new child was born. She fell in love with the art form. Dance became her reason for breathing. She still can’t get enough of it.  Today, as a teenager she dances at least 20 hours a week. It defines her. To think what her life would be like if someone had never recognized her innate talent scares me.

This is why the arts are so important for every child. On one hand you have my son with no real zeal for music, yet music and more importantly his music teacher lifted him up and gave him a refuge. A place where he could grow.

Music and arts education isn’t just for the students who have a talent for it. It’s for every child because every kid will take what he or she needs from it. Some will walk out a little more knowledgeable about the arts and some will be saved by it.

For other children, like my daughter, an arts teacher will discern something in them that nobody else does and will unearth a God-given gift that will influence every part of their life.

Arts education in schools is so much more than learning to play an instrument, reading music or picking up a paintbrush. It’s about allowing children to expand their universe and to find beauty in the world.

It’s also about teachers like Betsy Parsons who rescued a family.

 

Welcome to JFF – Jerk Free Flying

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I’ve got a good story to tell you. It’s kind of one of those tales from the “olden days.” But that makes me sound like I’m working a Little House on the Prairie vibe and who wants that?  So, I’m going to call it a throw back. Oh yeah, saying throwback is sooo much better. I may even be feeling kind of hip.

Now before I begin my throwback I must warn that what I’m about to share may shock and even frighten you. Perhaps making you question everything you thought you knew about the world, especially if you were born after 1979.

Ready because I’m about to blow your mind? Here goes, people,  as in bipedal mammals, scientifically referred to as Homo sapiens, used to dress up, as in donning one step below evening wear to board a plane.

Are you still with me? I know that was a lot to take in. If you’re feeling faint there’s no shame in sitting down and doing a couple of cleansing exhales.

Better now? I hope so because I want you to join me on a journey back to 1972. Mark Spitz was swimming up a storm to Olympic Gold Medal glory, Watergate was getting juicy, the hand-held calculator had been invented and my mother was having a nervous breakdown.

The stress from the extensive clothing and grooming required for her family of six to fly on a 747 Boeing Jumbo Jet was this close to stroking her out.

There were haircuts for everyone, new outfits were purchased, shoes were shined, clothes were starched and lectures on good manners were given repeatedly (along with threats if those good manners weren’t used). My mother’s favorite refrain during the pre-airline boarding time was, “I want all of you to act like you’re about to be at Buckingham Palace taking tea with the Queen of England.”

When my eldest brother (bravely I thought) asked, “Why the Queen of England and not the President?”

My mother pursed his lips and hissed, “Because no one wants to take tea with Richard Nixon.”

Being the youngest I could care less who I took tea with all I wanted to do was admire myself in my smashing new sailor dress with nautical navy and white stripes, a jaunty collar with embroidered anchors accessorized with a red hair bow and patent leather Mary Jane shoes that I had polished with Vaseline (Don’t ask why. It was a thing.) I was the epitome of 70’s styling.

In fact, my whole family was fancy. My brothers had on seersucker suits and my dad was working a bow tie. My mom’s look could best be described as aging Texas debutante the maternal years. She even had on white gloves.

When we boarded the plane there were 400 more passengers dressed exactly like use. Looking back it was as if the entire cast of Mad Men had been on the jet. There wasn’t a speck of denim  or a  tennis shoe in sight. Air travel was something “you didn’t disrespect with common clothes or common behavior.” (Again, words from my mother.)

I never would have imagined all those years ago that in the future flying would have soared right by common and taken a sharp, whiplash inducing detour to ugly, really, really, ugly. With the beat downs, drag offs, baby strollers being brandished as WMD’s and all the other assorted melees we might as well attach wings to an outlaw biker bar.

I feel like something has to be done. Being worried about terrorism when you fly is stressful enough. We shouldn’t have to live in fear about a crazed flight attendant or a passenger “that’s not afraid to mix it up.”

This is why I feel we need to kick it old school and in homage to my mother (and all the cotillion and etiquette classes I was forced to attend) establish a mandatory manners class for anyone who steps on a plane – pilots, flight attendants and passengers. I’m thinking if you’re going to be fastening a seat belt and putting your tray table in an upright position you’re taking this class. We could call it Air Etiquette or something more to the point like Jerk Free Flying. Hmm, I like that and the acronym is snazzy – JFF.

JFF would be offered in two separate classes – one for airline staff and one for passengers. The airport staff class would be taught by kindergarten teachers. Is there anyone better and more qualified to teach a class on crowd control, using your inside voice, sharing is caring, playing well with others, getting the best out of an uncooperative, hyper humans and turning around a tantrum?

Heck no.

I daresay if some flight attendants had the happy, persuasive, demeanor of your kid’s kindergarten teacher a lot of the recent incidents would have never happened, been nipped in the bud or solved with a cookie. Included in the airport staff class would be a lecture on “Your Word Is Your Bond.” Any staff that has problems understanding that concept would be forced to watch special episodes of Barney where the purple dinosaur explains and sings about such fundamental moral issues.

As for that passenger JFF class it needs three areas of focus. 1) You’re not that fascinating or special so please follow the rules of the airline and common decency. 2) Silence is golden especially at 50,000 feet. 3) And although your seat can go back does it really have to go all the way back?

An exam would also be given to test passenger’s spatial relationships skills. For example, you have a “carry on” the size of a baby hippo. The overhead bin has room for a something the size of a Chihuahua. How do you think you’re going to stuff your hippo into the bin?

A) By recklessly taking out other items already in the bin because your stuff is more important.

B) By repeatedly jamming your hippo in the bin and not caring if the bin doors won’t shut because that’s not your problem

C) Throwing a hissy fit because there’s not enough bin space for your hippo?

D) None of the above because you’re not crazy

If you answered anything besides D you’re not allowed to board a commercial aircraft – ever.

Just imagine a plane full of passengers who have graduated with honors from the Jerk Free Flying School and airline employees who radiate sunshine and have the problem solving skills of the very best kindergarten teachers. Can you say hello to fabulous?

Sure, there would still be fools who would think Family Guy fleece pajama bottoms are suitable day wear for boarding a plane. Plus, I don’t think there’s anything we can do about folks wearing flip-flops with toe nails so long they’re curling under the rubber sole, but at least they wouldn’t recline their seat all the way back.

I call that a win. So come on let’s do this! Who’s with me on starting the Jerk Free Flying School?

 

 

 

 

Dear Snarky – A Greedy Grad Has Me Steaming!

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Dear Snarky.

 I’m in the middle of a very awkward neighborhood situation. Recently, my family was invited to a high school grad party for our neighbor’s daughter. On the invite it said, “in lieu of a gift please bring $50 for Emily’s dorm fund.”

 First, what is a dorm fund? I’ve never heard of that. Secondly, who spends that much on a graduation gift for an 18-year-old? Third, who requires a cash donation to get into the party?

 Because that’s what happened my family showed up at the party with not $50 in cash, but a $15 Target gift card and we were TURNED AWAY and by that I mean the grad asked us to leave because we didn’t bring the “right present.”

 I want to know how to handle this situation. Do I go have it out with my neighbor and demand an apology?

 Signed, Greedy Neighbors

Dear Greedy,

You are going to do absolutely nothing. Think about what can you really do? Your neighbors are crude idiots. If you believe you’re going to go over and talk this out and get an apology you’re sadly mistaken. They will never admit that they were acting grotesquely greedy and that their actions were at the best mean-spirited and at the worst disgusting.

If I were you I would wear being asked to leave the party like a badge of honor. You were like Superman fighting for truth, justice and good manners.  No one hosting a party should ever demand cash at the door and have guests bounced unless they’re running a nightclub.

So girlfriend just own it and be proud. Also, go treat yourself to something nice with that Target gift card.

*If you have a question for Dear Snarky – 21st Century Advice With an Attitude 😉 – email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com or PM on my Snarky FB page.

I’m Going To Tap That

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It’s not an exaggeration when I tell you that I’m the least coordinated mammal ever to roam the grassy plains of the Midwest.  I’m not even ashamed of it. Sure, getting picked dead last for every team in every sporting discipline was not one of my fondest childhood memories, but I’ve learned to own my physical awkwardness.

That doesn’t mean that participating in an adult tap class didn’t have me recently hyperventilating. Usually, as an act of kindness, I would have spared the general public from seeing me partake in any endeavor that would require foot coordination beyond putting one hoof in front of the other, but the tap class was a fundraiser for charity and I would be among friends so I gave myself a pep talk and signed up.

The evening of the tap class I was nervous. The fact that I was wearing men’s size 11 tap shoes didn’t help. Well, that’s a lie the “clown shoe” did provide some comic relief for my fellow tappers. What these women didn’t know was that sadly my foot was snug in a dude’s size 11 shoe. (Hey, I’m tall. I need big feet to be in proportion)

Lucky for me the tap class was being taught by my daughter’s tap teachers at her dance studio. This meant they had seen me in action and by that I mean attempting to walk upright, so I felt certain they wouldn’t expect much from me. I also hide myself in the back row so I could sort of disappear.

And really I thought how hard could this tap class be. Everyone there was a mother with probably limited skills and I was in the beginner class. I couldn’t imagine we would do anything beyond stomping our feet, marching around the room and making some boisterous clickety-clack sounds.

Yeah, I was wrong about that. Say hello to tap teacher extraordinaire Teri Day. To her we weren’t a bunch of moms escaping our families on a Friday evening we were women she was going turn into tappers. There was no messing around. Thirty seconds into the class and she’s got us step, ball changing and then she’s taking us right on over to something called a paradiddle.

Sure paradiddle is fun to say. I could say it all day long– paradiddle, paradiddle, paradiddle, but my men’s size 11’s were not having it. It was hard.

You had to dig your right heel and whack the floor and then do what’s called a spank where you brush your foot back and finish off with stepping down on the ball of your foot. Were we dancing or doing algebraic equations with our feet?

Add in that this woman would not let up. Next thing I know she’s got us attempting to do toe stands and that’s scary the whole tippy toes in tap shoes thing. And before I could even have a solid freak out about that we’re doing a whole routine.

Jesus take the wheel because I was tapping, as in paradiddling the heck out of it. Me, the girl who can’t walk and chew gum.

No doubt, I was the worst tapper in the history of dance, but in my mind I was killing it. I left the tap class like I walking, no tapping, on sunshine.

When I told my daughter about my tapping triumph she was not impressed. “Mom,” she said, “It’s less about you tapping and more about Teri Day being a tap God. There’s no one she can’t turn into a tapper.”

So, I guess you’re saying she’s got the mad skills not me.”

“Exactly,” was my daughter’s succinct reply.

Whatever, in my mind I’m still a tapper. So paradiddle on that.

 

 

 

Dear Snarky – My Ex Husband Brought A Date To Field Day!

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Dear Snarky,

 My ex-husband hit a new low last week. We have been divorced for 6 months and for our son’s sake have tried to keep everything friendly. I thought we both were doing a decent job of that until my ex brought some random chick to my son’s elementary school field day.

 This girl, because she looked about 19, had on shorts that left nothing to the imagination and a bra top. My husband was all over her and it became the talk of Field Day. I tried to ignore it and focus on my son, but as you can imagine I was ready to walk up and punch both of them in the face.

 Because of what happened during Field Day I want to tell him that he can’t bring this girl to our son’s 5th grade graduation next week, but I’m afraid that might blow up in my face.

 Signed, Divorced Mama

 Dear Mama,

 First, I want to applaud you for keeping your emotions under control during Field Day and ignoring your jerk of an ex and his groping Olympics. By doing so you totally derailed his plan of getting a reaction from you. Because you see that’s what he wanted. His main reason for bringing a scantily dressed date to Field Day was to mess with you.

 This is why you need to say nothing to him about bringing a date to the 5th grade graduation. It will only embolden your ex to up his game. The best way to shut down this kind of behavior for good is to act oblivious to this idiot’s attention seeking antics.

 So go to your son’s graduation, enjoy your day and high five yourself for acting like a grown up. Your son needs that from you because it’s obvious his father doesn’t have that skill set.

*If you have a question for Dear Snarky – 21st Century Advice With an Attitude 😉 – email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com or PM on my Snarky FB page.

Selfie Spree

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God help me I’m following advice from a Facebook meme. It wasn’t even one of those funny memes with cats and goats playing hopscotch or even an adorable meme with cuddling baby bunnies. No, the meme that burned into my very soul was one that said, “Take the picture.”

Well, that was just one-third of the meme. I think the whole thing said, “eat the cake, buy the shoes, take the picture.” And since I always eat the cake that part of the meme didn’t apply to me because cake is a constant in my life and has, to date, never let me down unless it has the horrible whipped topping icing. That should be a culinary crime, you know, the whole non-butter cream-icing thing. Note to the world – buttercream is the only cake frosting that matters.

As for buy the shoes I must be low on estrogen or have an inferior X chromosome because not only have I never understood the female shoe fetish (I can’t imagine owning more than a dozen pairs of shoes), but I also refuse to ever wear shoes that hurt my feet. A stiletto masochist I am not. This doesn’t mean I’m a flip-flop free ranger, because I firmly believe that sometimes full foot coverage is very good thing. (Please people get over your naked toes.)

What did call out to me was “take the picture.” Now, I know that “take the picture” probably means document the beauty in your life, but to me it meant take your picture, like actually be in a picture. Getting my photo taken is something I avoid with a vengeance. I hate it.

I know this makes zero sense because one of my past times is wearing my reading glasses while I gaze into a lighted 10X magnifying mirror and look for rogue chin hairs. Go ahead and laugh, but it’s not like your family is going to say, “Hey, when did you start growing a beard?

Here’s what happens, one day you’ll walk out of an important meeting, get into your car, look into your rearview mirror and see a chin hair that’s so long it deserves its own name and perhaps a monogrammed pillowcase.

This is my way of saying it’s not like I don’t look at myself, but for some reason I hate any documentation of my personhood. But, after I read that meme I did some deep thinking. So what, if I’m old-ish? I should take my picture more. I should celebrate me.

I decided the perfect way to kick off my picture taking enterprise was to go on a selfie spree while on vacation with my family. Now, up to this point I was very anti anyone taking selfies. I thought of the selfie as one of the surest signs that society was headed straight to the narcissistic dumpster. And the selfie stick, that ridiculous piece of hardware that makes it easier to take a picture with a crowd or let’s be honest here, get a more flattering angle of your face, was an instrument of Satan.

But I flung all that aside in a quest to celebrate my aging visage. I was going all in. I was going to selfie so hard it would even make a Kardashian blush.

I started my selfie journey at the airport. Nothing says glamour photo like the fluorescent lighting by Southwest gate 36 at KCI. Sure, I looked horrible, but I looked happy. Never mind that my teeth looked yellow and I’m not going to lie that almost took the bloom off the selfie rose because, damn it, I’ve been using very expensive whitening toothpaste.

I choose to ignore my flaws and my jowls. What’s up with jowls sneaking up on your face? It’s like overnight I was suddenly related to Jabba the Hut. Last time I checked the beast was not on our family tree. Maybe ancestory.com doesn’t track relatives from other galaxies.

Whatever, I gave myself a jowl pep talk and after taking 20 more selfies discovered an enthusiastic smile was like jowl camouflage. Call me happy face because this girl’s going to be smiling a whole lot more and it will have nothing to do with my mood.

It didn’t take long for my family to notice that I was becoming Mrs. Selfie. My husband and son could care less, (full disclosure my son did ask me if I could be a little less obvious) but my teenaged daughter was mortified.

Breaking news – mothers aren’t allowed to take selfies.

I tried to explain to her that she needed to think of it as not so much her mother taking a selfie, but that I was entering an era of deep self-exploration.

Her reply to that was, “I didn’t think it was possible, but that creeps me out even more.”

This time I got to roll my eyes at her. As the vacation continued I became a flagrant selfie taker with absolutely no shame. It was liberating. I took selfies in the car (I got a really good one with my head out the window. Not to brag, but the lightening was excellent.) selfies on the ski slopes, selfies on the couch, selfies in front of a fireplace, selfie on top of a snow mound, selfies on a ski lift.

Sometimes I could even cajole my family to take a group selfie, but only if no one else was around to witness it. According to my daughter the only thing getting her through my selfie surge was the fact that I wasn’t posting any of them to social media because that would be “so wrong.”

I knew I had reached the selfie summit when I proudly announced to my family, over dinner, that I was going to publish a selfie coffee table book of our vacation. (I told you I was going full Kardashian). Two out of three family members began choking, another sat there, mouth agape. I can confess that publish maybe a misnomer because all I plan to do is make one of those photo books online that you can then print. Who cares, if all they were processing was selfie and publish. Their bad.

At the end of my vacation selfie splurge I felt invigorated. I had crushed it! I had taken the picture and then some. And now as I now scroll through all the selfies on my cell phone I don’t see a woman aging. I see a woman having a blast annoying her family.

What’s not to love about that?

 

Dear Snarky – Makeover Madness

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Dear Snarky,

 My girlfriends and I are really angry over how a friend treated us. This friend dresses like a nun and as a gift to her we wanted to treat her to a surprise make over. She thought she was coming to my apartment for a movie and wine, but instead we plucked her eyebrows, fixed her hair, applied self tanner and put make up on her which she never uses. We also introduced her to a Spanx push up bra.

 When all this was going on she seemed okay, but then she started ghosting us. She didn’t answer our texts or phone calls. Finally she sent us a group text saying that we made her feel uncomfortable and hurt her feelings by criticizing her appearance

 Umm, really because we were trying to be good friends and now she’s being ungrateful. Should we tell her off or apologize to just get the whole mess over with?

 Signed, Make Over Madness

Dear Make Over,

 I get it. You and your friends think you have great taste (emphasis on the word think) and because of your stylish swagger believe that everyone should embrace your fashion aesthetic. But maybe you look like Snookie from her Jersey Shore days (sorry it was the self tanner comment that took me in that direction) and your friend has a very traditional appearance like the Duchess of Cambridge. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t look good. She just doesn’t look like you.

 Also did you ever consider that your friend maybe happy with her appearance? That she has no problem rocking the no make up look and that she likes to keep her chest, shall we say, a little less perky.

 You showed zero regard for what your friend wanted and were more about what you wanted – an ambush makeover. That’s good for a reality TV show, but no so awesome for maintaining a friendship. So yes, you most definitely need to apologize. And the next time you want to give someone a makeover fight the urge and take your next victim, oops sorry I meant friend, for a mani-pedi instead.    

*If you have a question for Dear Snarky – 21st Century Advice With an Attitude 😉 – email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com or PM on my Snarky FB page.