Wine Will Fix It

The day I realized I had two good friends in California

2011-06-22T16:58:00.001-07:00

It was a six hour drive to Mammoth. In the “perfect for road trips” kind of car. A large SUV with big open windows where one could watch the land change from urban sprawl to snow. The car was lived in enough to contain treasures – happy meal toys, scratched cds of bands we hadn’t heard from since the 90s, sun faded magazines and smashed granola bars.

We left Los Angeles as early as we could force ourselves to get up on a Friday. The “we” was Ashley, Mike and I. Although we never call him Mike, he’s a last name only kind of guy. Ashley and Mike lived together in college in New Hampshire. In some kind of enginerd uber house. Ashley is sharp and no nonsense. Mike is funny and for lack of a better word, laid back. All of us had left the East Coast for some reason or another for California. We had bumped into each other’s lives like buoys in the ocean. Rising and sinking together against new tides.

On the way to Mammoth, we stopped at Costco to pick up food and beverage. With churros and hot dogs in hand, we grabbed everything we saw. How many peanuts can hungry skiers eat throughout a weekend? Despite three masters degrees between us, we couldn’t figure it out. So we just kept buying. Large bags of meat balls. 12 cans of green beans. 5 carbon tubes of parmesan. Beer. More beer and liquor. And a case of wine. It’s better to be starving than suddenly become thirsty.

We were giddy and playful when we couldn’t fit our purchases in the trunk of Mike’s car. It’s fun to play Tetris with ski poles, overnight bags and the ingredients for ham sandwiches. And after we failed to pack everything, I happily sat in my seat with a case of beer on my lap, clutching bags of snacks with my sweaty palms.

Yep. This is actually what we bought for the weekend.

While on the road to Mammoth you may discover that you’re thirsty, perhaps for a bottle of beer that’s warming in the case stuck on your lap. The problem with smart people who are incapable of planning is that they tend not to remember beer openers for the car. Ashley got desperate enough to attempt to open beer bottles with seat belts. I considered smashing the bottles open against oncoming cars. Finally Mike pulled over to a gas station where we could purchase an opener. Inside the station, I saw a craft beer in the refrigerator case that caught my eye from Mammoth Brewing Company. There were two styles – “Epic” and “Paranoid” ale. I grabbed the Paranoid. Mike found me at the cashier and said “wait a minute, this could be an omen for the weekend – you should really grab the Epic instead.” Ashley and I popped open the Epic beers in the car. Mike’s hipster tunes circulated our vehicle. His grins could be detected behind his wayfarers.

When people commit to spending a weekend with you then you can safely assume they like you. That or they really think you are fun when you’re drunk. Sometimes a friend and a drinking buddy are the same thing. And long road trips up the coast solidify that bond.

The only IPA for an EPIC weekend.

The most delicious of miracles

2011-06-20T14:00:00.001-07:00

There’s only one place to wash away your sins when you’ve abandoned your holier self. And that is Chipotle. Never has one restaurant been more of a comfort to me in the bowels of the worst hangovers of my life.

It was there for me after my 22^nd birthday. That night three friends, a bouncer and a cabbie had to put me down while I was shouted at hot boys and waived my princess wand. Then there were uncomfortable levels of nausea in my friends’ converted one bedroom apartment and eventually the glorious sleep of a woman who should have been declared dead. The only thing that motivated me to leave the couch the next day (besides relief from the putrid odor of vomit) was that there was a Chipotle down the street from my friends.

When you are dragging from the previous night of heavy drinking, entering Chipotle is like crawling back into the womb. You know you’ve failed as an adult and it’s time to give up. Grab a barbacoa burrito and hang your head in shame. Don’t attempt to shower. Don’t even put on pants. Your mother’s womb and Chipotle serve the same purpose – to feed you at your most vulnerable. And whether you are covered in glitter or embryonic fluid – you will be filled with love in your state of nakedness and disgrace.

I consumed too much rum and beer this past Friday. Or maybe the rum and the beer consumed me. And so I slept until well after most of the living world had finished their triathlon practice and I drove myself to the walkable Chipotle. I stared at the board of delicious choices and resigned myself to a 1,500 calorie solution to a 2,000 calorie mojito problem. And I hid in a shady spot in an outdoor courtyard and consumed my tortilla of humiliation. And ever so slowly, with forkfuls of chipotle lime rice – I felt like Lazarus. I found my powers of speech, color returned to the landscape around me and my body could move in predictable ways.

That is to say – Chipotle is my Jesus. As it has the power to raise the dead.

We're all really just beginning

2011-06-16T20:06:00.000-07:00

I like to take beginner's yoga. It might seem strange considering that I've been at this whole yoga thing for a little while. Besides me, everyone in the class is new. They're usually scared and confused. They don't want to look stupid. They're really afraid to fail. The teacher takes things slowly and thoroughly explain each asana. She is patient and never scolds. Beginner's classes require a lot of acceptance - about yourself and where you're really at. You're encouraged to take breaks when your body reminds you that you need them. You're often encouraged to smile.

I like beginner's classes because it reminds me from where I started. A girl who could barely touch her toes. A girl who thought sanskrit was useless. A girl whose chakras were pretty closed. I'm always surprised when I stumble in beginner's class and my instinct is to chastise myself. Haven't I been at this for five days a week for months? Shouldn't I have mastered everything there is to learn about yoga's first steps? But unfortunately even master guitar players stumble on a few chords. And there will be tree poses that I won't hold.

In life there is always room for you in the beginner's class. Circumstances may force you back to the starting block. And that's not the time to panic. Just start at the beginning with the basics. Figure out if you need to be where you are currently living. Decide if the relationships in your life are genuine. Find a job that doesn't choke you. Breathe. Give up the need to control.

And one more thing - I highly suggest you try smiling.

The magic timer that lives inside of every man

2011-06-13T20:31:00.000-07:00

I spent a good two years trying not to care anymore that my college boyfriend cheated on me and subsequently broke my heart. The first six months post break up, I tried to ignore the feelings of utter despair and madness through drinking heavily and flinging myself at every available man roaming Lake Shore Drive. I also buried myself in my grad student work. This led to some low moments, such as falling drunk in a guy's bathroom and inadvertently peeing in his bath tub and high moments like kicking every single person's ass in class. It was during this time that I kept telling myself that it was a great thing that College Boyfriend had run away with his student and I was now single and alone. I even made a mental list of the positives in case reality sunk in on the train and I had nowhere to hide and cry.

I didn't have to worry about the frequency of which I had to shave my legs
I would never have to hang out with his evil friend Charlton
I would never again be forced to go snowboarding
I no longer had to admit I was dating a Republican
I was free to revenge sex his old roommate (I never claimed to be a saint)

But regardless of the clear and evident perks, I still spent every night wishing he would magically appear in my sleep and all of the sadness would evaporate. Some nights he would call but nothing would ever materialize. Every conversation led to one of us remembering why there was an end. And then the calls became less frequent, my drunken escapades calmed down and I took an awesome job. I used the one trump I have for getting over failed relationships - I moved to a state my ex didn't live in. I started building my career, forming new friendships, figuring out what my hobbies looked like when they weren't shared with someone else. I attempted running and knitting. I spent far too much money at the mall. And somewhere between expensive denim purchases and long car rides listening to Ben Folds, my attachment to that old relationship melted. And I started to see myself as independent from the "we" that we used to have.

And one day, whilst living in HIS dream city of Boston I got a call from College Boyfriend. He was coming in town on a business trip. He asked if he could see me for dinner. I think I gave him all of 4 minutes to talk to me on the phone. I had friends to see that weekend. I didn't have time for him. But the plans with friends fell through and I thought, what the fuck might as well see him. I knew the heart strings he once monopolized could no longer be pulled. And we spent all evening out in the city together. We went from cocktail bar to wine bar, to late night hot dogs in the South End. And at the end of the night he stayed over. Sleeping on the cold side of my bed while I was curled up on the other side and refused to touch him. I was finally immune to his charms.

That was the last time that I ever saw him. And in two short years times had really changed. I went from a needy girl who missed him to a woman who didn't think he deserved the time of day. And yes - to answer your next question he kept calling. And I stopped answering.

There is a magical device that lets men know to the second the day that you no longer care about him. This also marks day one of when he typically decides to come back into your life. Women also have a timer - it's the day that they give up on you and decide to move on and live their dream life. And if you're lucky, really lucky - you may make it before the buzzer goes off and find some space still in her heart that she's willing to share.

Life's little checklists

2011-06-06T20:30:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure who was watching and who was taking score, but for a significant portion of my life I wanted to impress the judges. I wanted to hit those major life milestones by all of the appropriate ages. I wanted to hit my career stride by 25. I wanted to live in New York and have a nice rent controlled apartment. I wanted a boyfriend with a serious financial type job. I wanted to like jazz and get invited to exclusive parties. I've always been a good student. And in life, I don't like turning in incomplete assignments.

But this year I've realized that none of the deadlines that I've imposed on my life are real. Where I'm at is pretty much where I'm going to be and since I don't want to measure myself against the usual statistics I'm trying to figure out a new way to measure my growth.

There are things I've done this year that are probably pretty impressive professionally. And things that I've done this year that are disappointing personally. And when I look at the changes that I've made in my life I can't help but remember that I used to fucking hate mustard. Mustard was the enemy. It appeared everywhere on all of my favorite foods, even when I didn't ask for it. There is a pro-mustard agenda in this country. There is only one brand of ketchup and literally thousands of mustard companies. It is everywhere, infiltrating our picnics and our company barbecues. And one day they will figure out a way to preserve our dead bodies with it. Just to spite me for a lifetime of hating the yellow goo the rest of you seem to fucking love.

But the universe has a sense of humor. And one day this year I was at a nice beer bar with friends and ordered a plate of delicious sausage. And it came with an accoutrement of mustards. And I thought since I'm abandoning some old views of who I am I might as well go ahead and give the old bastard a try. And I shit you not, it's delicious. And I can't really explain why I hated it my whole life.

There have been so many changes in my life this year. And there are areas where I continue to stumble. And I'm not married and I don't have kids. I don't live in New York and I'm not that cool. But the fact that I've learned to like mustard after all of these years must mean something. Because I think I'm starting to look at the world with fresh eyes.

Anatomy of a friendship

2011-06-01T16:50:00.001-07:00

I have a friend Matt who is both younger and smarter than me. I met him in high school. We weren’t supposed to be friends. Back then I was an ambitious would be East Coaster and Matt liked to write plays. The road to corporate ambition rarely interacts with the high school theater crowd. But we met and shared a love of witty banter. I guess it’s a good enough reason to become friends.

It isn’t easy to be friends with Matt. Mainly because if you really want to get a hold of him there is no reason to call. He is someone who has managed to live his entire life without picking up the phone. So I’ve recognized that if there’s anything important to discuss with him, its best done in person. He’s the oldest young person that I know.

I worry that I am a bad friend to Matt. Bad because once when I visited him, I told him that he needed to grow up and realize that life is about money and staying ahead of your peers. And since Matt was pursuing his passion in theater that makes me a pompous ass. And unfortunately he never forgot my long tirade about capitalism which years later he can quote back.

Sometimes I can be a good friend to Matt. Like when he’s too nice of a guy to tell off a girl who treated him poorly. I have found myself on his college campus letting a 20 year old girl know my unfiltered thoughts. Whenever I sense Matt has been wounded, I’m happy to play mother bear. And to the wayward girls that hurt him – know that you break more than just his heart when you hurt my friend.

Matt and I spend the majority of our time together arguing. We always argue about the same thing. I am cynical about everything. He believes in the power of man. When I visit Matt I show him the scars on my heart and ask him to examine them. I want him to see what the world has done. I want him to show him evidence that the game of thinking positively is a sham. The problem is that when you’re around Matt the scars seem shallower, the wounds start to heal over and your evidence disappears.

It seems profoundly simple to suggest that I have someone in my life who believes in me. And it seems crazy to suggest that having him in my life helps me become better at who I am. But that’s the thing about friendships. They’re rarely measured by phone calls or birthdays. But by the intent of the person sitting across from you when you’re there.

Into The Tea Leaves

2011-05-18T11:05:00.000-07:00

I taste cinnamon.

Oh yes, there’s cinnamon.

Anise?

Hmmm. I don’t think so.

It tastes like black pepper.

You may be getting close.

Syed stared at a powder blue cup through the lens of his reading glasses. Each time his mind settled into steady concentration she’d ask another question.

Did you know that coriander is the seed of cilantro?

Yes, I knew that. I’m surprised you know so much about spices.

Well, I like to cook.

I don’t know if I’d be able to pick them out after all this time.

Syed didn’t move his gaze when he answered the questions. He was tired. Eight months of living in California and his bones had not adjusted. His muscle memory knew the humidity of India. His skin was cracking in the dry heat of LA.

You know California is not America, Jennifer.

What’s America?

Michigan. The Midwest. This is not America. Chicago. That’s the greatest city in the US. Los Angeles is something different. I don’t think I will ever get used to it.

Syed lived in India until he was 17. A month before he moved to the US an older cousin coerced him into borrowing the family Jeep. He had told white lies to his parents to escape for the afternoon. Syed and his cousin went joy riding on a muggy road, dirt and gravel jumping like frogs in the path behind them. Muffled American songs playing on their rusty radio. Behind his silver sunglasses, Syed watched the moving land in the rear view mirror.

I think maybe when you grow up with this food you begin to lose perspective on it. To me, it tastes like chai.

It tastes complex to me. Each sip and I catch something different. India is so lucky to have their spices.

Syed tasted his drink. The sweet silk liquid trickled over his tongue. With more years of road in his rear view mirror, it had been a long time since he’d had to think about Indian food. He wondered how one can see a familiar world with babe eyes.

Jennifer, did you know the British promoted chai in India? To compete with Chinese tea.

I didn’t know that. How much of Indian food is influenced by the Brits?

It’s hard to tell. It’s hard to know what is Indian anymore.

Syed tightened his face and tried to look inward.

You know I made my parents very angry right before I left India.

Why?

I was with my cousin. He was the cool one. He asked me to drive him somewhere. So I took my dad’s car.

That doesn’t sound like you.

My cousin was always taking chances. Once we got about 10 miles down the road he asked if he could drive. I think that made me sick to my stomach. But he was older so I could not say no.

How did your parents find out?

He was driving like crazy. He was so dangerous. I asked him to slow down but he crashed the car. I was surprised that I didn’t die.

Why did you think he was so cool?

I don’t remember. Your mind changes things when you look back. Now that I think about it I may have been wrong.

Wrong about what?

I think he was jealous that I was moving to the US. I think he was angry that he would be left behind.

Syed opened his eyes and smiled.

Cardamom. That’s what you taste, Jennifer. Cardamom.

A thing or two about fine arts camp

2011-05-11T17:43:00.000-07:00

I learned some special things about life when I was 11. That year I met a boy at fine arts camp. I think he played trombone. He had a nice smile and a head full of bushy hair. Which made him an objectively attractive 12 year old. And somehow he had big enough balls to ask me out.

Getting asked out when you are 11 is a big deal.

1) Because everyone envies the girls that get asked out and
2) because none of the kids going on dates have any idea what’s going on

At 11, I quickly learned that dating meant you had to constantly remind the world that you were taken. When girls get boyfriends at summer camp they are required to turn their name badge upside down. And when you are one of the badge upside down girls – everyone expects that you are a girl who makes out.

The easiest way to traumatize a little girl is to ask her if she has French kissed. And if you’re never met catty 13 year olds – know that they revel in making you feel like shit. So they pestered me every day about which base I had gotten to with the Boy with the Trombone. At that time the thought of making out had me breathing heavily into brown paper bags and flinching at the sight of brass instruments.

I spent most of the summer paralyzed with fear that my new boyfriend might try to kiss me. But I was equally worried that I would be an old lady before I ever made out. So a part of me wanted the bushy haired 12 year old to seduce me.

Growing up involves a lot of small terrifying decisions where you wonder if you’re really ready. And you’re also concerned that saying “no” means that you’re far behind. As an adult you watch your friends get married and buy condos. And you’re worried that if you don’t jump in, life will pass you by.

www.nataliedee.com

There's a couple things that I took from my summer at fine arts camp. Life doesn’t punish you if you don’t make out at 11 or don’t get married by 35. And it’s important to recognize when you’re not
"there" yet. And a fear of a "big deal" type kiss corrects itself over time.

Playgrounds, work crushes and accountability

2011-05-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

My friends get cringing reflexes whenever I tell them that a guy I work with his hot. And more specifically when he is both hot and married. Despite the fact that my life has significantly improved since leaving my old job – they’re worried about recidivism. I understand that alcoholics stay away from bars to make it easier to resist temptation. But it is very difficult to avoid hot married men when you have to go to work. And the problem is two fold. On the one hand I have an affinity for older, powerful men. On the other hand, they have an affinity for young, ball busting women. And given my line of work, the powder keg and the match have frequent interactions. Thus the “here we go again” look in my friends eyes whenever I mention an interaction.

Last year I was driving a good friend to the airport and I told him “it was starting again” with guy at my new job and that I could see where things were headed. My friend told me I had to own up to my own decisions. And I told him he didn’t understand – that this just KEPT HAPPENING to me. And he was concerned that I’d have to quit my job again. I spent the whole car ride trying to get him to understand how hard this was for me. How the men who were my intellectual equals I tended to meet at work. And the men that I spent the most of my time with tended to fall head over heels for me. These attractions felt like an engine on a runaway train where no one could find the breaks. And he shook his head in frustration and got on a plane. I'm not the easiest person to try to help.

He came back to me a few weeks later and told me to be careful when I was alone with the new coworker. I told him I’d be fine because he was "just a friend." And then he said – well if he’s truly your friend you won’t make it hard for him to stay faithful. And I argued that faithful husbands aren’t tempted. And he said “trust me; just make sure you’re acting like a friend.”

I used to tell a story about my kindergarten years to male executives. When I was 5, I paid a boy to kick me. And then I ratted him out to the teacher for kicking me and got him in trouble. When a boy kicks a girl after she’s asked him – who is to blame? Deep down inside shouldn’t he know that kicking little girls is wrong? On the other hand – asking a boy to kick you isn’t being a very good friend.

I’m starting to learn that very few things in life “just happen.” It’s easier to veer off onto the wrong roads when they’re well paved. And as a counter measure – whenever I find myself being too attracted to said coworker I pick on him. Because truly I’ve evolved very little after 1st grade.

What to do when you’re ready to leave (your job)

2011-05-04T15:26:00.000-07:00

Don’t let anyone convince you that your reasons for leaving are stupid. Whenever you’re thinking about jumping ship at your current company remember that everyone around you has made the decision to stay. If you tell people at work why you’re fed up this will piss off most and irritate some. This is like trying to tell a room full of Catholics that you’ve stopped believing in Jesus. Don’t expect a lot of sympathy from them. They will try to guilt you into staying.

www.nataliedee.com

Take some time off. I prided myself on working weekends until the day I left my job. This was stupid. I wanted to prove to everyone that I was still loyal to the cause until the bitter end. And in the end I handed over my badge and got my last week’s pay check just like everyone else who had ever left. My company got the better part of that deal. They squeezed more work out of me and the last piece of my soul. I lost valuable time that I should have spent with family and friends. And in the trade off between the people you care about, your soul, and a Fortune 100 corporation you should think long and hard about which choice you make.

www.nataliedee.com

Don’t take the first thing that you’re offered. When you’re in a shitty work situation you’re like a starving man at a buffet. You’re going to run for whatever will fill the hunger void, no matter how delicious it is. Naturally you’re not going to want to wait in line for the prime rib because you’re freaking starving. But once you’ve got a mouthful of soggy grilled cheese regret will settle in. Recognize that literally anything is going to sound better to you when your work sucks. I had moments before I quit my company where I would dream of packing up my car, driving back to Chicago and working at Starbucks. It seemed like a fantasy but it wasn’t a bad idea. Instead of giving myself some time to figure out what the hell I wanted, I dove head first into a nicely titled job. Never mind that it wasn’t the industry I wanted to get into and it wasn’t the type of environment I typically thrive in. It was an escape from my current shitty situation. Now I realize that if I packed up my civic and headed home the world wouldn’t have ended. Time would have marched on. People would have helped me get my life back together. And my mind would have benefited from a month unplugged from a blackberry, a boss and a deadline.

http://explodingdog.tumblr.com/

Tell your mentors how much they meant to you because you’ll probably never see them again. The one smart thing I did on my exit was set up a face to face with anyone who had ever given me sound advice. And for those that weren’t in the area – I sent them a card or an e-mail. I wanted to make sure that they knew just how much they had helped me in my career and how much they had shaped me as a professional. Some person from Monster.com or Yahoo! Hot Jobs will tell you to do this because it’s smart networking. I’m telling you to do this because it shouldn’t be optional. People get rewarded in their careers for all kinds of crazy crap. Rarely do people get recognized for the work they did on building the next generation. Take the time to let people know the value of their wisdom and while you’re at it send emails to old teachers that you loved as well.

Figure out what you did wrong. Because nothing is ever one sides’ fault. Allowing myself to get to a point where I was well beyond miserable meant that I was a participant in my own demise. For a long time I had refused any help from anyone. And in the end my friends and mentors rushed to get me what I wanted to stay at the company but it was too late. Had I let them help me much earlier in the game, things may have improved. When you’re miserable, recognize that you were involved in some choices along the way.

My very own Buddha belly

2011-05-03T15:50:00.000-07:00

I have spent a significant amount of time hiding from my own body. I don’t shriek in horror after every mirror I pass. I do, however, think about how to distract you from my burgeoning midsection when I’m out in public. I have (for better or for worse) an hourglass shape. This comes with some genetic gifts (hooray boobs!). But with my child bearing physique came the hard cold truth that the universe has blessed me with a tummy.

I have had a flat stomach thrice in my life. Once when I was Illinois’ (and the world’s) worst female water polo player. The second time was when I had lost the will to eat (the key to the perfect body is having the love of your life fly off to Argentina for the summer). And the third time was when I had a maniacal obsession with everything that I ate. And as my water polo career ended, boyfriends moved on and my relationship with food improved I learned a thing or two about the trade offs that come with life.

I believe that learning to love yourself the way you are is a life long goal. And not an easy one considering the constant pressure on both genders to look a certain way to achieve happiness. And as a one woman experiment – I can tell you that I have not been happiest at my skinniest. Back then I was a miserable person to be around. I was the girl at the fancy restaurant in Vegas pushing mixed greens and balsamic vinegar around my plate as my friends happily chowed down on beef and guzzled beer. It was a skinny life but it wasn’t life at all.

I’m generally happy somewhere in the middle of the depravation/gluttony spectrum. The middle is where I have the general health to move around in the ways that I want (i.e. downward dogs, high kicks on the dance floor, long walks around Santa Monica) and the emotional freedom to enjoy the food and beverages that I like.

This past weekend I found myself living “in the middle” at a yoga work shop. The teacher had the class start off by rubbing their stomachs in a circular motion. For what felt like 20 minutes. Halfway through the process I realized that I almost never touch this part of my body. Not only that but I try not to even look at it. So I decided that this was not the time to launch into a self induced “you are fat and ugly attack.” It was probably the time that I had to grow up and put things in perspective.

So I decided to rub my damn buddha belly and meditate on a few things ....

Flat stomachs don’t define you.

Body parts don’t disappear if you avoid them.

And the body you have is the body you take to the grave so now is as good a time as any to be grateful for it.

The year of “The Crazy”

2011-04-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

Psychology undergrads shouldn't enter into therapy. Especially if they’re undergraduates like me. My junior year of college I started to feel crazy. Crazy because all of the people who used to make me happy were starting to irritate me. Irritate me to the point that all of the sudden I started to hate them.

So enters into my life, my poor grad school therapist. Let’s call him Dan. Dan the therapist was a graduate student at my university (working in the exact department I spent most of my time). He came free with the student health package. It’s hard to reveal your soul to Dan when you’re consciously aware that he’s only a few courses of study away from you. This is the attitude I had in talking to Dan which is why therapy with Dan didn’t really work.

Dan wanted to talk about why I was feeling crazy. I wanted to talk about everything I knew about psychology. I wanted to talk about how much I wanted to be a therapist. And so I talked a lot about my research on sexual abuse in kids. And I blurted out that all of the sudden I was starting to see male/female interactions through the lens of abuse. And that I was becoming hyper aware of the guys that would use alcohol and pressure to get girls to sleep with them on campus. And laughable fraternity traditions my boyfriend engaged in, weren’t really so laughable anymore. And that when I tried to talk to my boyfriend about the things I saw that bothered me, he didn’t have the language or emotional capacity to understand.

I told Dan that I was starting to hate the boyfriend that I loved. And that I wanted to stop that because he was perfect for me. And also that I was starting to hate all of my boyfriend’s fraternity pals. And how that wasn’t going to work because if I hated them AND my boyfriend, things were going to fall apart. And that I was starting to care a lot about the guys in my psych classes who were sensitive to emotional pain. And since I’m a nice loyal girlfriend, this was also making me feel crazy.

One evening a boy from psych class told me that he was starting to care about me as much as I was starting (but trying not to) care about him. And then I ran straight to my boyfriend, crying, telling him I was starting to fall in love with someone else. And he looked at me and said “ok.” I told him I loved him and I didn’t want to fall for anyone else. And he said “ok.” And then the boyfriend never brought it up again. And I had to tell Dan because these are the things you tell therapist. He wanted to know why I had feelings for one boy over my boyfriend. And I kept getting angry because he was focusing on the wrong thing.

The funny thing about therapists you don’t respect is that you tend to end up unannounced in their office when your boyfriend breaks up with you. Which is what happened a few months into therapy after telling my boyfriend I had feelings for someone else. I wanted to get advice from Dan on proper methods for winning back boyfriends. I told Dan technically it was a “break.” My (newly) ex boyfriend explained that a “break” meant we could both “hook up” with whomever we liked. And that if I hooked up with anyone it was ok and he didn’t care. To which Dan, the barely a therapist blurted out “he’s fucking lying.” And when your therapist says “fucking” and “lying” in one sentence it is very jarring. Jarring enough that I said “Hey Dan, aren’t you NOT supposed to say things like that.” Dan shook his head and said “why don’t you go back to him tomorrow and tell him you slept with someone else and see his reaction.” And this was the first time that I ever really listened to Dan.

I’d like to tell you that the sun parted that day and all of the Dan wisdom seeped into my brain. I’d like to tell you that I didn’t continue to chase after the wrong boyfriend for another two years after the year of crazy. I’d like to tell you that I became a therapist. But I didn’t. I can only tell you is it’s really hard to get anything out of therapy when you don’t want anything to change.

Glazed Ham, Zombie Jesus and Natural Disasters

2011-04-25T16:01:00.000-07:00

In my former life as a Bostonian, I got tipsy at cocktail bar in Cambridge and had a vision. I saw everyone I knew in pastel, feasting on Easter ham. It didn't matter that practically everyone I knew was Jewish, that asking your friends to color coordinate is ~~kind of~~ silly and that I had never in my life made ham. A part of me needed to play the role of my grandmother and tend to meat in the oven for hours for a room full of people I loved. And that first easter, despite my friends' lack of Easter celebrating experience, everyone I asked complied.

The tradition continued when I moved to LA and I collected a new assortment of transplant friends. The first LA Easter was punctuated by an earth quake. My friends were on the top level of an apartment building, eating matzo ball soup (everyone I know is still Jewish) when the earth moved unpredictably. We did nothing mainly out of lack of knowing what the hell you’re supposed to do. We just sort of sat there, clutching bunny clad napkins hoping that we’d all be ok.

The irony is that I had ruined the prized Easter lamb cake the night before. Ironic because I had ruined the structural integrity of the lamb by transferring the cake to a plate. And the next day the earth was shaking and all of the food stayed perfectly in place. But my friend performed her own kind of Jesus miracle. She had stayed up long after I had gone to bed to work on my unnatural disaster. (The key is frosting and strategically placed coconut flakes). And on Easter I opened the door of her apartment to the sight of resurrected lamb. She had a special gift for putting the pieces of her friends and cakes back together.

This Easter I woke up to an earth quake. Although, I’m really not sure how real the earth quake was. I had gone to sleep hoping to experience one and probably imagined it. I wanted an earth quake because it would mean it was a tradition. That certain things in life can be counted on every year. So I woke at 4am feeling the earth moving beneath me and it made me ok. It made me wonder about why after years of living my life independently I began to grab people and seat them around my non religious Easter table. And how much comfort it brings me to know that people will ring your door in pastel when you ask them to. And that earth quakes, lamb cakes wrecks and loneliness can be survived.

Hey there, I’m just going to eat food

2011-04-25T15:59:00.000-07:00

There are two types of people in the world that I trust

1) Those who love to eat food

2) And those that love to cook food

And in general if you believe in the joy of cooking you believe in the joy of eating. But not everyone is skilled in the kitchen. So the two types remain separate like the egg and its yolk.

On principle, I do not like people who dislike food. I’m sure you’re thinking “HEY MISSY, everyone loves food.” But you’re wrong. And because the concept of true love of food is confusing I’ve provided a handy list of signs that you may in fact hate food.

Your refrigerator is full of lean cuisines. You can spend all day talking me about the virtues of 400 calories lunches stuffed inside a cardboard box. But that crap isn’t food. And does anyone LOVE lean cuisines? Oh sure, the ladies who get to the mall at 6am to power walk think they love lean cuisines. But really they love donuts. Warm, mouth watering donuts. And they aren’t really walking in the mall, they are running from their love of all things fried. Every time they pass a krispy kreme they turn up their nose smugly and pat themselves on the back for slaying that dragon one more time and resisting deep fried temptation. Ladies, do yourself a favor and walk outside. And grab cute boys butt cheeks as you sprint around the neighborhood.

Your industrial sized whey protein powder container is almost empty. Guys, I get it. You want to look like body builders to get chicks. Chicks are hot and they smell nice. I actually know a body builder and let me tell you, the quality chicks were afraid of him. And despite the fact that he was kind of a gentle giant, his tanning bed and freezer full of chicken breast scared them off. And even if they did venture into his “stabbin’ cabin’” they eventually got sick of the fact that he could not actually have fun. What with his insane work out regiment, inability to have a beer and needless hours of shaving his balls. To be fair – there is protein powder on my counter. And it is 99% full. Because it tastes like balls and is not real food.

You have completely eliminated an element of food from your diet. This is one of the true downsides of LA. We have given up carbs, fat, meat, sugar and adding temperature to our food. What you are left with is a pile of grass and a case of depression. Please, I beg of you. Eat what you want. If you want fried chicken today I swear you won’t want it every day for the rest of your life. You will eventually want something else.

You are unwilling to try anything new. Do yourself a favor and peace out of life if you feel this way. Something slimy that may or may not smell like feet can rock your world. I swear. Just put that deer testicle in your mouth once. Just for me. And take pictures. But seriously - one day you’re going to come running back to me when you realize that you love wine that smells like diapers. And you know why? It’s a sign that it’s really rgood wine. Wine so good it will make you better at sex. See? Now you’re interested!

Here’s the thing. I get that there is danger lurking in everything we eat. Everything is going to kill us. And the nice thing about that is that WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE ANYWAYS. So every once in awhile I am going to love on a giant burger. And you may or may not want to be around because noises will indeed be made. And you know why? I’m going to love that thing like it’s my child. And then the next day I will be eating grilled artichoke. Because that’s also fucking good. And since I’m a functioning adult I can comprehend that if I eat hamburgers every day I will get fat and if I eat grilled artichoke every day I will tap into my urge to kill.

Capiche?

I'm Buying

2011-04-24T21:39:00.001-07:00

You wanna drink?

I'm fine.

Come on, I'm buying.

I don't even know if they have a wine list here.

They have wine here. It's for the wives.

Well, I'm not one of the wives.

God, you just need to relax. You wanted to see what it was all about. Weren't you the
one saying you can handle strip clubs?

Oh, I can handle strip clubs.

I can see that. Let me get you a bottle of white wine.

God, these girls are gorgeous.

There you go, see. Now you're having a good time.

They're everywhere. It's like the playboy mansion.

It's a mans heaven.

What is it for women?

A place where I'm going to buy all of your drinks. You're getting drunk tonight.

How could you want to have sex with a normal girl after all this?

What do you mean?

I mean, it must be a let down. Jesus. I don't look like that.

It's just a bit of fun. Come on. This is Vegas, the whole thing is a fantasy.

I don't feel too fantastic.

Look. The most beautiful women in the world are here. Can't you drink to that?

I like the night clubs better. I like it when men are competing to buy me drinks.

So basically you like it when the shoe is on the other foot?

I guess you're right. I like having the upper hand. I like feeling like I have a shot in hell
of getting picked out of the crowd.

You'll get picked out of here. Men love women who go to strip clubs.

What's the point? I'm the runner up to whoever is on stage. I'm just a projection of that
girl they paid to see.

You're always a projection of whatever a guy wants you to be.

That's comforting.

That's life.

I can't believe you told me I was attractive.

You are.

Yeah but you spend so much time here.

I don't.

Well you spend enough time here. Your bar for attractiveness is pretty high.

These are girls at a strip club. You're a girl from the real world. You're attractive. All
guys everywhere want to fuck you.

No, they want to fuck her.

They want to fuck both of you. I'm sorry men are pigs. We have reptilian brains. We
like to fuck. You said you wanted to come to a strip club.

Well I'm here, aren't I?

What are you getting worked up over? This is all fake. The women, the booze, the
lights. Vegas. This whole city isn't real.

I'm real. You're real.

You and I. We're trying not be real tonight.

So I'm going to pretend that I'm the girl that goes to strip clubs. You're going to try to be
pretend that you're not my boss.

Once we cross state lines, honey, I'm not your boss.

I think I'll take the chardonnay.

What?

The wine. I'm sure they have it. I bet the wives who come to strip clubs get chardonnay.
How many of these girls have had sex?

All of them.

I don't mean fucking, I mean sex. You know, with someone who cares about them?

A couple of them, maybe. Probably none.

So then I guess I have one leg up on the strippers

You have more than just one leg up.

Well now she has her legs up.

Ha. See there's that wit. You haven't given up on me yet.

Given up on you?

Yeah. Given up on me because I'm a dirty old man.

Well right now you are. Why did you want me to come here?

You said you wanted to see Sapphire.

Oh. I get it. This was all for me.

No. It's obviously for me because I'm a pervert. I'm everything you think guys are. At
least I'd admit it.

Doesn't it weird you out to be here? I mean, you had to come to Vegas for a funeral.
Isn't that a little weird? There's someone in a coffin and there's someone in a g-string.

There's always someone in a coffin and someone in a g-string. I'm in Vegas. I like
strippers. Monday I'll mourn.

What about your daughter? She's about the age of these girls.

How many drinks do I need to buy you before you stop asking these fucking questions?

13.

Alright. Here's $200. Get whatever the fuck you want.

Thanks Daddy warbucks.

Don't spend it all on one girl.

I'll stick to the wine.

You can get wine all over California. Have a little fun. Get a lapdance. You're not dead
yet.

Neither are you but you're acting like you're going to die tomorrow.

We're all going to die tomorrow.

We're all going to die. We're all going to end up in a pine box. What the hell is the point, Mike?

Only you would ask me about the meaning of life at a strip club.

You invited me.

I thought you'd be drunker. I thought you'd have fun.

Why did you bring me here?

I wanted to see you.

You always see me.

I wanted to see you outside of work. I wanted to see you having fun. Why are YOU
here?

Same. You really think all of the guys in this room would want to fuck me?

Yes.

All of them?

Yes. You're the office girl by day. And at night you're the one taking off your clothes on
top of a bar. You like to pretend to be an angel but you're not.

You like to pretend to be the devil and you're not. Maybe we need shots?

Whiskey shots. Everyone thinks I'm the devil, might as well be the devil.

How many girls has the devil slept with?

Wait. Sex or fucking?

I don't know, I'm getting drunk.

16. No. 17. And the angel?

6. Any strippers?

No. I think one was a dancer but it's hard to tell. Women say things when they drink.

So do men.

Who was that guy you were talking to before?

Which one?

The one at the bar.

I don't know. He was from Australia. I was just being friendly.

Friendly. Was he your type?

No.

Point to a guy here and tell me which one is your type.

I don't think my type of guy is here.

Oh he's here. Every type of guy is here.

Do you think the Australian would have bought me a drink?

I know he'd buy you a drink. What do you need drinks for? I'm buying.

Maybe I don't want to get drinks from my married boss.

Ouch. Sometimes you can be so mean.

I'm not being mean. I'm telling the truth.

I don't want the truth tonight. Do you?

How much are these girls going to make tonight? More than my salary for a week?

Probably.

I should just quit my fucking job. Become a stripper.

Well we can put you on tonight for amateur hour.

You wouldn't be able to handle it.

Neither would you.

This isn't my first strip club, you know.

Who took you to your first one?

Took me?

Yeah. I assume you didn't walk in by yourself and fill out an application.

I actually took my ex boyfriend to one. At the end of our relationship. I thought it would
help to save it.

How's that?

I don't know. I wanted to be the girl who was cool enough to take her boy to strip clubs.

Did he buy you a lap dance?

No, he bought me drinks.

Why did it end?

He cheated.

DId you cheat?

No, never. Have you ever cheated?

No. It's hard enough to keep one woman happy. Let alone two.

You may be the angel after all.

I know. I'm hoping you're the devil.

What does the angel want the devil to do?

Nah. I'm not going to tell you. It will spoil all the fun.

We're having fun?

Your empty empty wine glass tell me we are.

Your empty wallet tells me we are.

Your ex boyfriend, he had good taste.

Oh, you know that girl he fucked?

No, I know the girl he had sex with. The girl he fucked. She was just easy. Low self
esteem. No fuss.

And the girl he had sex with?

She was intimidating. Smarter than him. Beautiful. Gave him a hard time for
everything.

She only gives people she loves a hard time.

He loved her. He was just young. He wasn't ready to settle down. Once he was ready he
begged to get her back?

He did. But she had moved on.

She doesn't think about him anymore?

No. How does her story end? When all of the guys are going for the girl to fuck?

No. She doesn't need to worry about that. She's amazing.

She's drunk. I forget which one she's supposed to be. The angel or the devil?

Whichever one she wants.

For you WWFI fans. This is a follow up to this.

Ways to celebrate 420 (for non stoners)

2011-04-20T16:48:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel like you are missing out on life by not being a complete waste of life pothead? Well you too can feel the joys of being stuck in another world, losing your ability to focus and complete tasks! Just complete the following steps

Consume hot dogs like you’re jabba the hut. Eat one and feel immensely proud of accomplishing something. Then completely erase the taste, texture and feeling of satiety from your memory. Repeat hot dog eating cycle until you’ve determined “whoa dude, I’ve eaten too many hot dogs.”

Lay down on the floor. Wiggle your ass back and forth on the ground and pronounce “I’m a mushroom. I live in the ground.”

Think about how fucking crazy the concept of e-mail is. Words that don’t actually exist in the physical form are floating through space to your friends on other parts of the globe. Instantaneously. Think about this idea until it has consumed the entire part of your brain devoted to understanding the concept of paying rent.

Know, instinctively, that the cops are on their way. Even though you’re an upstanding, tax paying adult – they will bust you. Even if you live in a state where marijuana is legal, they’re going to find a reason to club your ass and send you to jail.

Tell everyone you know “how fucking high” you are. Really, do it. Because everyone is curious and dying to know.

Discover an unnatural love for jam bands. Don’t know what a jam band is? Just ask yourself “does this song have a 20 minute guitar intro” … if the answer is yes, you’ve got yourself your fucking jam band. And if you actually realize that 20 minutes have gone by, know that this is a sign that you are not actually high.

Scrunch up your face really tight to see if your brain explodes.

How did I get here?

2011-04-19T20:20:00.000-07:00

This Sunday I felt like I was in the “Once in a Lifetime” Talking Heads video. I was quite literally looking around and thinking “well … how ~~the fuck~~ did I get here.” One day you’re drowning in unlimited mimosas on the beach and next thing you’re at a nature center, listening to a dude named Davinicus bang a gong during savasana.

Let me back up. The transition from beach trash to yogi did not happen overnight. And it pretty much happened despite my best intentions to never become “this kind of person.” People who sit on rubber mats in the middle of the woods, listening to a yoga teacher from Iowa preach eastern philosophy – seem pretty ridiculous. I get that.

But I’ve had first hand experience with “these people” before. My first job out of college was a summer internship in DC. My boss introduced me to a young couple she knew that needed a tenant for their extra bedroom. Mandy and Rob offered me a place to call home. They were kind, sweet, loving hippies. They had a compost heap in the backyard; ate an abundance of soy products and would stare at photos of Jupiter projected on their basement wall. They would get stoned and eat all of my groceries. But they were the idealist brother and sister that I never had. They were the kind of landlords who spring for a keg of Yuengling for your birthday and lend you their car to pick up your boyfriend from the Baltimore airport. And they were the kind of friends who listened endlessly, loved unconditionally and believed in all of the hopeful possibilities of my life. They challenged me to think about all that I wanted to get out of life at 22 – an impressive career, fancy home and revenge against all of my enemies. They raised an eyebrow at a boyfriend who left me in tears on my more days than I care to count.

On my last day of residence in their home, they hugged me goodbye and told me that they had seen my soul emerge. And despite their “summer of love” jargon, I believed them. I trusted their vision of me more than I trusted my vision of myself. (Theirs being by far the kinder).

And so it seems that years later I found myself on a yoga retreat, surrounded by the West coast versions of Mandy and Rob. And I think I'm at the same cross roads that I was years ago - I have done some hard work on the inside. I've paused a lot and listened. I've stopped trying to prove that the world is out to get me. And I've tried (really hard) not to judge those with a happy outlook on life.

So bring on your gongs, your feathered hats, your raw food dogma and your tantric love. I'm "here" and I'm not fighting it.

The only people in the world you want to knock on your door

2011-04-15T11:20:00.000-07:00

Handsome ex boyfriends: with ~~flowers~~ a 6 pack of craft beer, begging to take you back – only if he’s gone to therapy, gotten his shit together and took it upon himself to start washing his pants. Cue the rest of your life in happy marital bliss.

A crazed kidnapper – sure, those twelve hours trapped in the bottom of a sea faring vessel chained to a heater will suck but every once and awhile the romantic notion of someone …. Anyone …. Taking you against your will away from it all is appealing. Until you get thrown into their van full of McDonald’s wrappers and you think “not cool bro, I want my fancy apartment back.”

My parents, carrying cleaning supplies, wads of cash and endless praise.

The “you’ve been served” dude – no one likes getting a subpoena. That is unless the alleged crime involves “being too sexy.” I’ll gladly take THAT slip of paper from the court of law and walk around the neighborhood triumphantly in my underwear.

The pizza guy – bringing enlightenment to millions with his heat sealed bag of delicious meat, melty cheese and tomato goodness.

A fairy godmother – finally! Haven’t we all been waiting for Angela Lansbury to arrive at our doorstep and allow us some fucking wishes? The only downside is that in my excitement I would probably blurt out “give me unlimited amounts of cheese” and the world would be stuck without me wishing for the end of hunger and suffering. Although, technically I could solve their hunger with my cheese.

Dave Grohl – he’ll just be wandering around Los Angeles one day, hear his new album on my mac book and decide to knock and say hi. He’ll share his deep dark inner secrets, forging an impenetrable bond with me forever.

A walrus in a Hawaiian shirt looking for a luau – coo coo ca choo.

Oh I'm sorry, was I supposed to stay perfect FOREVER

2011-04-06T15:30:00.000-07:00

I was a good kid. And not the – I only stole my parents car a few times, smoked a few joints and got drunk twice in high school kind of good. I was like Leave It to Beaver good. I know this wasn’t because I had a reverence for parents and authority figures that other kids didn’t have. It was because I pretty much believed that I was smarter than everyone else around me including those who had raised me.

My reasons for being “good” were complicated … a) I was obsessed with going to college and leaving my home town forever b) all of the cool kids had sub standard IQs and c) I really was full of myself. Of course, we all really wanted to be cool in high school but I wasn’t and my defense tactic was to be holier than thou. I treated school like a coveted middle management job – taking on ungodly amounts of “highly visible” projects and eschewing having a life. It didn’t bother me too much to miss out on nights of passing around a bottle of Hooch and letting a 15 year old boy with frosted tips put his hands down my pants. I was keeping my eye on the long term prize of getting the fuck out.

But once I got into my top college I didn’t really need to have laser focus on the future. And all of my smart friends were starting to let loose and enjoy what little we had left of our senior year. And that’s when my all too naïve parents decided to go out of town for a week. Up to that point, I’d been a saint and they had no reason to believe that I wouldn’t continue to behave like one. But now that my fate was sealed at Northwestern, I wasn’t anxious anymore about being perfect. And now, it seemed, was my chance to get drunk and grope someone.

So I decided to “let it be known” that my parents were out of town and just see what life would hand me. No one in my AP classes really cared because for my most part, those boys were still waiting for their balls to drop. But the guys in my mandatory physical education class (whose life long aspirations were to get stoned and listen to Phish) seemed very intrigued. And all of the sudden kids who had never even blinked at me were giving me advice on stealing kegs, bribing local police and stock piling on contraceptives.

The story burst like an adolescent ejaculation throughout the school. My AP Calc teacher confronted me at one point in the hallways with a “scared straight” talk about how his buddy threw a party in high school and ended up destroying the chalice of Jesus Christ himself (which was hidden in the basement) in the fury of party rage. “Don’t do it” he said. “You could be destroying not only your future, but the future of the world as we know it.”

And that’s the funny thing about high school. At any moment kids are foaming at the mouth to destroy your family heirlooms and anxious adults are trying to convince you that life as you know it could end if you make one bad decision. I’m here to tell you kids that I broke a rule and survived. And to be honest, the parties were MUCH better in college.

The Grandma Diet

2011-04-04T14:49:00.000-07:00

One of the preeminent healthy eating mantras you hear is “eat what your grandmother would recognize as food.” Obviously these well meaning health experts never met my grandma.

My grandmother was a woman whose body ran off a strange mixed bag of food ideas. Her diet was the hallmark of a woman who was extremely busy, extremely stressed out and consistently thin. And since we Westerners pride ourselves on one day achieving enlightenment through jobs that stress us out to the point of heart attacks, schedules that permit little to no time for deep thought and bodies that could barely withstand a gust of wind …. I present to you – the real estate tycoon Grandmother’s diet:

A bath tub of diet coke every day

If I close my eyes and try to picture the woman, she is most likely in her Cadillac racing from one appointment to the next, clutching a large diet coke container from McDonald’s with her lipstick imprinted on the straw. She firmly believed that bottled or canned sodas were the wrong flavor – she would only swallow that which came from a soda fountain. This meant that she spent at least 15% of her day waiting in line at McDonald’s to get her $1.09 fix. She thought McD’s food was actually disgusting but never mind applying that logic to her favorite drink

Solve all of life’s problems with Vermouth

To say my grandmother knew how to drink is like saying the Dalai Lama knows a thing or two about Buddhism. I realize this means I’m basically saying my grandma was the Dalai Lama of martinis (which is probably true). She was the kind of woman who was infinitely more excited about my grad school graduation after learning that there was a cocktail reception. Considering the weight of the world on her shoulders (family, business, diet coke addiction) I’m not surprised she decided to escape the stress of every day life in a high ball glass. And despite her consumption, her high tolerance meant that I never really even saw her drunk. Although I have heard legendary stories about my grandma dancing on tables at a weddings and playing poker until 6am. Suffice to say, that the woman knew how to drink and have a good time.

Opa! It’s Greek salad time

In case you were wondering – you don’t need to be Greek to enjoy the Mediterranean diet. And by Mediterranean diet I mean iceberg lettuce, chopped olives, feta cheese, liberal use of salad dressing and a small chunk of bread. While my grandma knew her way around the kitchen, the business kept her away from home for 90% of the day. This meant she raced to the nearest restaurant (because fast food is disgusting) on the way home to pick up dinner for my grandpa and herself. And since she wanted to maintain her physique, she would eat the only salad on the menu (almost all of the restaurants in the Chicago suburbs are run by Greek families) and sip her martinis in until Grandpa’s steak was ready for her to take home.

And lastly, to maximize calories the grandma’s diet does call for exercise.

She was (literally) a master gardener (certified by my Alma Mater) and cultivated zucchini’s that would make a virgin blush. If you are a city dweller without a backyard, I recommend that you spend all of your weekends on all fours crawling through dirt to simulate the same experience.

Please note, any resemblance to the author (her granddaughter) is coincidental. I can’t keep a basil plant alive, I’ve only ordered a Greek salad once in my life (I hate olives), and I have never danced on a table at a wedding (yet).

What I know for sure

2011-03-29T11:39:00.000-07:00

The happier you are, the more embarrassing dancing and uncontrollable karaoke you are willing to showcase. If you can’t flop to the ground and show off your impression of a hump back whale in front of your friends – you either don’t trust them enough or your friends fucking suck.

Good bosses are like good romantic relationships. Don’t fuck that shit up. If your boss is nice, fair and likes the work that you are doing – don’t take that for granted. A head hunter or two may call to entice you to work for some name impressive place (Google, GE, Playboy Mansion) that is willing to pay you wages only Satan would approve. Know that there’s a more than decent probability that your new boss could relish in destroying your life.

College friends are like the Beatles. You may not see them/listen to them all the time, but when you do you are reminded at how fucking awesome they are. And unlike the Beatles, your college friends are most likely still alive.

The last 25% of a Chipotle Burrito should not be consumed. First off, it looks like a sagging diaper. Second off, you have already consumed all of the delicious meat which tends to hover in the middle portion. You are left with a sad lump of bread with a few bits of lime rice and sour cream. The sad lump will try to seduce you into consuming it but, beware my friend; it does not come with a complimentary side of pepto bismol.

Mo’ money. Mo’ problems. The whole time I was a cheap ass college student, I couldn’t wait for the day that I could swim in my giant pile of money once I got a “real job.” Then I got a real job and missed the days that I could skip class to hang out at the pool all day with my boyfriend. And then you get promoted, a bigger salary and everyone expects that you won’t be driving around town in your crappy old Honda Civic and living in a 380 sq ft apartment. Beware of the salary envy. If you’re in a good job that isn’t making you a baller but lets you leave early and enjoy your life – you’re doing fine.

No one knows how long it’s been since you last washed your pants. But don’t abuse that privilege, chump.

WINNING! A guide to Vegas (and life)

2011-03-22T16:01:00.000-07:00

Treat Vegas like a case of premature ejaculation. Many a strong soldier has fallen by 6pm Friday night. With the excitement, hysteria, and road sodas on the drive to Nevada – you may arrive in Vegas 3 (high thread count) sheets to the wind. Put some thought into when you are going to allow yourself to get absolutely hammered so you aren’t passed out in the hotel while your buddies are knee deep in Perfect 10 models at Tao.

Understand the unwritten law that if you make an ass of yourself, this will not actually stay in Vegas. If you are dumb enough to throw a bag of vomit outside of a moving vehicle in front of an officer of the law, you deserve the ridicule and mocking of all of your friends. Furthermore, know that if you try to justify your stupidity, this will only result in a life scarring nickname.

Don’t be a cheap bastard. And I say this with love. Yes, bottle service and acid trips are outrageously priced. But son, this is why god invented credit cards. Every time you think about passing up on an opportunity in Vegas, remind yourself of your complete contempt for your boss and your children and suddenly $500 for a pool side cabana seems reasonable. And if you’re still worried about your potential financial ruin, just remember to …

Win free money. Going to Vegas without gambling is like reading Playboy for the articles. Just think of it as giving a donation to the poor crippling state of Nevada. And for your donation, you will get to throw back cheap chardonnay until you’re ready to throw up and preach to strangers that clenching your butt cheeks helps you hit 21.

Don’t take sleeping arrangements seriously. About a week before the actual trip, people are going to start making all kinds of wild accusations about where they will pass out in the hotel room. Know that no spot is safe (unless you are the one that arranged the hotel room – then you get your bed of choice). Chances are you will a) wind up in a stranger’s room naked and cold or b) wake up on top of the entertainment center surrounded by crushed pretzels and Oreos. And to be perfectly honest, the fact that you will be sleeping at all makes you an amateur.

Remember that corpses are easier to get rid of than tattoos and unwanted pregnancies. So when the urge to copulate, defile yourself or kill another human being surfaces – take the easy route.

If you don’t like yoga, you’re probably an asshole

2011-03-16T10:34:00.000-07:00

So there was a point in my life when I thought yoga was a giant waste of time whose sole purpose was to affirm the life choices of ambitionless hippies. The gym was like a production floor to me, churning out calories at a maximum rate. I wanted efficiency, predictability and results. I would sporadically take yoga classes because everyone was doing it but I wasn’t quite sure what the fuss was all about. At my first yoga class I remember those last 5 minutes of silence and rest were the worst five minutes of my life. Who the fuck has the time to relax? I thought. Instead of letting go, I ran through my long list of “must do’s”( who I was thinking about fucking) and mentally revising my list of enemies. When my dad (a long time yogi) asked me what I thought about class I said “umm, was that a work out because half of those people were asleep.” And then I judged them HARD and basically gave up on the whole idea for many many years.

Spring forward 5ish years and I’m now taking at least two yoga classes a week. Sitting in tree pose last night I thought about the ~~woman~~ girl I used to be. When yoga seemed like a joke I was:

More concerned with winning than really anything else.

Thought relaxing, vacations and leaving work at a decent hour were concepts designed by the lazy.

Buying a shit load of expensive clothes. Hoarding is probably the better verb.

Aligning myself with people who lived a lifestyle I believed I wanted to have.

Drinking a lot.

Anyone see a pattern? Clearly I didn’t until last night. I’ve intentionally made a lot of changes in my life this year and it’s terrifying to see that I’m become the laid back hippie my parents always wanted me to be. I literally have to stop and ask “who the fuck am I?” as I watch myself baking, going to church and passing up on opportunities to drink my face off.

But back to yoga – last night I got incredibly excited as I realized how flexible I was becoming. I literally caught myself thinking “dude, I need to go back and do the sit and reach for my old gym teachers, I would ROCK that.” And lest you think I’m a physical anomaly, I was thinking all of this while next to the most flexible tiny asian man in the world. He could literally sauté a nice ahi tuna whilst upside down on one arm. But his ethereal skills didn’t pressure me or get me down, I just thought “wow” and went back to concentrating on my own small victories.

And that, my friends, is what yoga is all about.

Things that could entice me to leave Los Angeles

2011-03-09T14:08:00.000-08:00

The Onion comes a calling. This satirical newspaper is conveniently headquartered in my hometown (Chicago). In my future blissful reality, the editors get a hold of Wine Will Fix It and stop at NOTHING to get me on staff as a writer. Then I spend the rest of my life making up news and stuffing myself with free chips and pop in the writer’s room. They pay me just enough to afford to live in Andersonville where I will drink imported beer at the Hop Leaf and share recreational drugs with my musician friends. I will end up supporting my artist boyfriend who will eat soy cheese. I will complain for approximately 10+ years about how much better the weather is in Los Angeles.

University of North Carolina decides I’d make a decent therapist. In this scenario I get off my ass and apply for a PhD in counseling psychology. I work 80 hours a week and get paid slave wages in order to achieve three nifty letters after my last name. I live in a basement apartment in Chapel Hill because it’s all I can afford. I don’t see sunlight for approximately five years. My doctoral work will pale in comparison to my dad’s. I feel like a failure. I die frustrated and angry surrounded by Duke fans.

Villagers in a small island off of Thailand worship me as their God. I sleep on palm fronds and eat exotic fruits. I smoke their peace pipe and espouse my views on the connectedness of the universe. I interpretive dance my feelings. I give up make up and shaving my legs. I end up pregnant. My child does not speak English. No one I know now hears from me for years.

My power hungry competitive self gets a job where personal assistants and Lincoln town cars are required. I live in some place even more expensive than LA like San Fran or NYC in a loft. You can see my kitchen, my claw foot bath tub and my mattress from every point in my overpriced room. I am waifishly skinny because I don’t have time to eat. I can inflict pain on my employees just through staring at them. I run on adrenaline, caffeine and illicit extra marital affairs. I wear fabulous high heel shoes and pay all of my bills early.

Justifiable homicide lands me in San Quentin. Finally, my love of the HBO hit Drama “Oz” comes in handy. I learn to quickly assimilate within the social hierarchy of the prison system. I am forced to do hours of laundry and go to confession. I attempt suicide once. I write my memoirs with my free time and pick up lifting weights. I get a bitching tattoo.

“They” choose me. I’ve already said too much.

Thoughts I have while taking a group fitness class

2011-03-07T11:54:00.000-08:00

I am the ugliest person here

There are different kinds of gym go-ers. There are the girls who wake up at 6am and carefully chose their coordinated spandex outfit and artfully twist up their hair to properly bead off their sweat and make them look fantastic. Then there are girls like me who wake up late, chug coffee and wear ugly t shirts to spin class. Because of this, I devote the first five minutes of any exercise class to telling myself I really need to get my shit together because I am the ugliest person here.

The pregnant instructor is in better shape than me

Some days this motivates me to work harder but some days this cues self defeating thoughts about how I’m lazy and should crawl in a hole and die.

Is that cute guy single?

You there – boy in the back row of yoga. You look ~~hot~~ smart. I bet you have a stable income and like to watch well made movies. Perhaps you like to eat? Well you are in luck because I want to feed you. You look like you want to cuddle. Cuddle me specifically. Let’s just forgo the dating process and get married.

Oh the humanity, your music sucks

Spin class is basically like a club. You want loud pop/hip hop music with simple lyrics and a beat that will distract you from the pain in your thighs. Many spin instructors understand this simple concept. But there are a few who insist on killing you slowly with their wordless techno music, James Taylor, Pink Floyd B sides and Chumbawamba.

If they don’t turn on the fans, I will kill a bitch

You may love the feeling of sweat dripping over your disgusting flesh. I do not. When the instructor asks if he/she should crank up the industrial bambi killing air conditioners, you shout NO and allow your sweat to bounce off of you and onto my eye ball. For that, I will knife you in the parking lot.

Blog posts I haven’t written (and probably never will)

2011-03-02T14:39:00.000-08:00

Every once in awhile I come up with a great idea for a blog post, fall in love with a clever title, start to write and stop.

Here are the brilliant ideas that I haven’t found the strength to finish.

To my faithful readers - if any of these half-baked ideas are something you actually want to read – please let me know. That's right YOU get to chose your own wine will fix it adventure. You have the power!

Zen and the Art of Hair Maintenance

Chicago Bulls, Ahmad Rashad & clinical insanity

Annie Potts, suicide & crying in your apartment alone

Isn’t it time we all came out of the closet?

No matter how much I try, Bob Dylan won’t leave my life

Doobie Brothers – are all of you dead?

I don’t want to wear my big girl pants today

Hey there hangover – why don’t you do yourself a favor and die?

We aren’t human and we aren’t dancers

Jazz hands and wind instruments – the saga of my smothering stage grandparents

Thoughts on Oliver Cromwell after 3 glasses of wine

New Mexico …. What the fuck?

Why is no one talking about hotel bars and hookers?

Barely cooked & barely legal – the sushi strip club

Jobs that I secretly dream of

2011-02-28T16:41:00.000-08:00

Haberdasher – primarily so I can use the word “haberdashery” more often. The major obstacle to realizing this dream is the fact that I care very little about ribbons, buttons and almost anything related to sewing. Although, I really could find it in my heart to care more about this if I could refer to myself as a “dashing haberdasher” with a straight face.

Lipsmackers historian – Don’t you want to know more about the lip gloss we all know and love? What secrets does Bonne Bell hold?

Intoxicated lounge singer – At the height of my singing career, I will have a fifth of vodka a day habit. I will wear a run down glittery dress that falls off my shoulders and reveals my right nipple. Horrified customers will have to point this out to me, since I will to be too drunk to notice. I will only remember 50% of the lyrics and show up late to work 25% of the time.

Palm tree enthusiast – the core duties of this job would be to roam around the west side of Los Angeles and get tourists extra excited about seeing plants. At every opportunity I’d scream “OOOOH PALM TREES” and pee a little in my pants.

Founder and President of Snazzle Pants in Akron, Ohio –The target audience would be the discerning women of Ohio who yearn to be free from the shackles of regular pants. What are snazzle pants, you say? The sky is the limit as long as it involves made-to-order lycra and fuchsia. Oh the fuchsia.

Living dream catcher – perhaps the most dangerous career of my dreams. I’d have to creep around people’s bedrooms at night and steal their thoughts. As karmic punishment, I’d be forced to watch their dreams and I’d die a little every time I realized I had stolen a dream about ponies.

Drummer for the Foo Fighters - You win this time, Taylor Hawkins. But I will see you in another life!

The (depressing) facts of life

2011-02-25T14:01:00.000-08:00

There will be Friday after work traffic for the rest of your life.

You will never be as cool as The Fonz.

It’s really hard to find the book you want in the library. It’s easier to go to Borders.

Someone somewhere is scratching themselves right now.

Your friends don't take you seriously.

Every time you leave home, your plants attempt to commit suicide.

You are not lactose intolerant. Lactose is intolerant of YOU.

Oops, you didn’t do it again.

When you are crying alone in your apartment, prettier people are out drinking mojitos and getting laid.

You cannot give birth in a hot tub.

Everyone can tell you are wearing your ugly underwear.

Your parents never took you to see Bozo the clown.

Jason Segel will never be your boyfriend.

My (brief) musical theater career

2011-02-23T15:49:00.000-08:00

When I was about 9 I attended a fine arts summer camp in Blue Lake, Michigan. This was one of many early signals that I would never become prom queen. I was intensely curious about summer camp at that age. I had read every book concerning sleep away camps at my local library in preparation. These were actually pretty shitty books. But I needed a way to vicariously get my fix until the day I arrived in Michigan. I read the Blue Lake brochure approximately 400 times and could recite, word for word, the litany of amenities and programs the camp had to offer. Picture cabins in the woods full of band geeks, acapella singers and soon-to-be-unemployed thespians.

I went to camp with my best childhood friend. She was a ridiculously talented pianist and I fancied myself as a ridiculously talented actress. We signed up for our respective crafts, piled into her family station wagon and headed north. Leaving the bubble of Chicago can take forever – partially because of the distance and partially because staring out a car window at rows of corn makes the trip SEEM longer. In those long trips, you almost wish a knife wielding bum would jump in front of your car – just to stir some action in the front seat.

I arrived in Michigan, ready to reach the heights of pre-teen theater. The first thing you do when you get out of the car (besides change into a cult-like blue uniform and write your name on everything you own) is to head to auditions. This is where the wheat would be separated from the chafe. I had vigorously prepared my monologue for weeks and was ready to dazzle my camp leaders. I grabbed my map of the woods and skipped excitedly to the audition stage. And since this was the Midwest, where cheese and land are in abundance, it was actually pretty fucking confusing to figure out where I needed to go. When I arrived (I think about 20 minutes late), I saw a group of about 20 kids singing and dancing on stage.

Shit! I thought.

There were two options for Blue Lake theater campers – musical theater or contemporary acting. I *thought* I had chosen the summer session for contemporary acting (given my limited singing and dancing abilities, this was the right choice). I watched the sea of bodies move in choreographed motion and wanted to cry. I suddenly realized that I had signed up for the wrong session – musical theater was my future. And apparently I was late to the audition because I was the only one who had missed the choreography session. So I dug deep into the pit of my competitive soul and decided I needed to leap on stage (literally!) and make the most of things.

I sashayed into the middle of the stage to show the director that I was fearless. I watched the group and mimicked their movement. A tall blonde boy started the chorus and the rest chimed in. I hummed along loudly and gave a big flashy smile. I added my own flair to the dance with dramatic dips and spins. I think I attempted to break out into an impromptu solo to show off my voice.

The Director moved towards the stage and was staring directly at me. Clearly, he had an eye for talent. He stopped the action and asked me what I was doing.

I stammered “Sorry, I was late. We were stuck in rows of corn.”

The Director looked bewildered. “I’m sorry about your traffic but we’re in rehearsal here for Guys and Dolls and we need our stage.”

“Isn’t this the Blue Lake theater audition?” I asked.

“No, we’re the Mid Michigan Theater Troupe.”

Woops.

The worst people you’ll ever meet

2011-02-22T12:25:00.000-08:00

….. are (hopefully) ones you meet in high school.

Property lines and city taxes determine where you go to high school. In my case, I spent four years with the dredges of society. And despite what teachers and parents tell you, high school behavior continues well into adulthood. While there aren’t cheerleaders and football players after you turn in your cap and gown, there are mean girls and assholes. And ultimately, if you look around the brunch table in your late 20s and see a bunch of catty angry women that you call friends – well, my dear, you asked for it.

And, I admit, I have indulged my need to be popular. As a former nerd – a part of me was curious to see what life was like on the other side. I dove head first into social circles where friendship was measured by what I wore and who thought I was hot. I’ve met the popular girl criteria of being a cheerleader, sorority girl and eventually a Boston socialite. I checked my brain at the door and picked up a straightening iron. I surrounded myself with people who only cared if I met the criteria for their image. And as expected, hot guys wanted to be in near me. But then I’d get disappointed that these oafs of men didn’t care to see the side of me that was witty, intellectual and downright sweet. The truth was that I was the one who needed to grow up. It was like showing up to a hockey game and hoping that the boys would eventually put down their sticks and write me a sonnet. I have only myself to blame for not striking boyfriend gold in those years.

But back to high school – I was reminded this weekend about how difficult life as a sophomore can really be. I was at a writing workshop, sitting next to a teenage girl who wore a raccoon tail pinned to her leggings and Chanel sunglasses indoors. She carted around an oversized pink designer purse (which only held her smart phone) and spent the entire day not paying attention. I both hated her and wanted her to think I was cool. It was a sentiment I had often felt in high school. The rational part of me knew that this young Beverly Hills girl’s future would involving dabbling in modeling, taking up coke and eventually confiding to strangers in bathroom stalls that she wanted to die.

I thought a lot about what it means to envy the ridiculous and to want their approval. When you don’t have the cool kid’s approval, you scheme desperately to get it. When you have it, you can’t figure out why you’re so miserable. And even after years of growing up, there is still temptation waiting in the forms of VIP sections in Vegas and executive golf outings.

The tricky part of graduating high school is that now the choice of which road you take is up to you. And as a soldier who has seen both sides of the battle I leave you one piece of advice. When you eschew the cool and the beautiful for the weird and the quirky – you’ll find happiness and love on the other side.

The One About News Years Resolutions (a month and a half late)

2011-02-17T12:55:00.000-08:00

Here are the things that I told myself I needed to do this year (in ascending order of difficulty to implement):

Stop letting TV rot my brain – One of the most intellectually stimulating times in my life is when I was an obituary editor (just let that thought sink in) who could not afford cable. My boss at the time was also a part time movie critic. He’d load me up with suggestions every week and I’d watch them on my portable DVD player on the hour train ride to grad school. So off I went, cancelling cable this year and left my entertainment choices up the capable hands of Netflix. The results are mixed. I do not recommend attempting to watch The Diving Bell and The Butterfly at midnight when you’re already half asleep. However, if you have not seen Freaks and Geeks, you haven’t lived.

Eat something interesting for breakfast – Cereal and I had needed to break up for over a year. But laziness and inertia had kept me from cutting the cord and finding a better option. One day I hit the cheerios wall and decided to start scouring food blogs for ideas on healthy breakfasts. This lead to …

Learn how to bake – I have been an avid cook for many years. For those of you who have had my home made hummus, you’re welcome. But I had always snubbed my nose at baked goods because it requires precision, adds more calories into your life and makes a mess out of your kitchen. Now that I have a dishwasher and an aversion to everything I used to eat for breakfast, it seemed like it was time to start making some morning muffins. And this has led to the inevitable – hundreds of dollars thrown at Target and Trader Joe’s acquiring exotic flours and muffin tins. (No word yet on what it has done to my waist line).

Really LIVE in Los Angeles – Now that I’ve moved, I have whittled down the list of the excuses that kept me from enjoying the rest of the city. I look forward to wonders beyond my West LA bubble which will lead me to sleeping overnight on Skid Row, punching hipsters in Silver Lake, vomiting in Beverly Hills and conceiving a child in Pasadena.

Be a better daughter – this one is tough to work on when you live thousands of miles away. But I’m also getting to an age where I realize that geography is not a valid excuse for not being a participant in your family’s life. I’ve given a critical eye to my stance that my life choices reflect my independence when they often may just reflect my selfishness.

Work out before work – one of these days I will admit to myself that this will never happen. I will always and forever work out after work.

And as a side note, apparently my blog goal was to either make a joke about suicide or incorporate Jason Segel into every post.

Awkward things I did in high school for boys I liked.

2011-02-14T15:58:00.000-08:00

In honor of Valentine’s Day, I present to you the awkward things I did in high school to get boys to love me.

Moved into the locker next to him. He was a junior, in a band and had nice hair. His locker was next to one of my best friends. I innocently asked her one day if I could store my stuff in her locker, which was closer to my chemistry class. I chatted him up in between classes. He gave me a mixed tape. We went to a high school dance. And that was the last time I’ve ever spoken to him.

Made a t shirt out of a nickname he gave me. There was one boy in my Spanish class who liked to tease me. He was a giant stoner so of course I was in love. He called me Kenny. My cheerleading coach gave us the option of putting our nicknames instead of our last names on our cheerleading tees for the basketball season. I came up with the brilliant idea of putting “Kenny” on the back of mine. And then I wore it to class on multiple occasions and he never noticed. In retrospect, I assume that’s because he was completely stoned.

Attempted to turn down a trip to Costa Rica. Another giant stoner and I were starting to hit things off at the tail end of my senior year in high school. My parents had paid for a summer abroad in Costa Rica as my graduation gift. As the departure date grew closer I started freaking out in the way only a 17 year old girl could. I refused to renew my passport; I skipped the orientation meeting and faked a mysterious illness. I worried that if I went away I’d miss my opportunity to have my first real boyfriend. Luckily, my mom drove me to downtown Chicago for an emergency passport and shoved me onto a plane. And to her credit- I forgot about the boy and made out with everyone in Costa Rica.

Bought way too many J Crew sweaters. He was tall, dark, handsome and on his way to Yale. And now that I think about it, probably gay. He worked behind the register at the J Crew at the Woodfield Mall. Each time I paid $100 for a boxy, lifeless wool sweater I had a chance to stare into his dreamy eyes. And now those sweaters are collecting dust in the back of my closet in California.

Valentine’s Day – a good time to remember why you should be alone forever

2011-02-11T11:27:00.000-08:00

St. Valentine – a day we all look forward to as an excuse to overeat, well mascara tears, make irrational decisions with bartenders and get one nice card from our parents.

These are the days that you look fondly on failed relationships and ask

Where did it all go wrong?

And in this yearly state of confusion and vodka, I find myself grasping towards one memory.

This is the memory of the love of my life. We were two young, attractive people. In love. Holding hands. Fucking at regular intervals between classes at college.

We had a nice romantic dinner planned on Valentine’s day in downtown Champaign, Il. At a restaurant that loosely met the criteria for both romantic and dinner. He was handsome and had nice biceps. I was smart and had a big rack. We were a match made in fraternity heaven.

The one downside to courting anyone in college is that nearly 80% of your interaction with that person involves alcohol. Valentine’s Day is no exception. My boyfriend had his typical 5-6 cocktails at dinner. We drove back to my apartment for the ‘rest of the evening’ where I’d down a bottle of Boone’s farm and attempt to seduce him while he was handcuffed to my computer desk chair. My emotionally scarred roommate was only separated from the theatrics by a thin wall. She should be lucky she did not witness the flailing arms, wonky eyes, and eventually a boyfriend begging to be unhandcuffed because his arms were losing circulation.

After the boyfriend was unhandcuffed, he consoled himself with more mystery liquid in his 80 oz plastic cup. It looked like Sprite to me, and I assumed he was thirsty.

I swear on Jason Segel’s hotness, that I had no idea how much he’d been drinking. I was too focused on the pomp and circumstance of Valentine’s Day. But after we both fell asleep, lulled with the belief that we were meant to be together forever … I was awoken by a strange sound. And I saw a dark figure standing very tall in the corner of my room. I realized this was my boyfriend. I shouted at him but he didn’t respond. And then the sweet sound of rushing urine falling onto 3 week old clothing. Boyfriend got so hammered he was too blacked out to realize he was peeing in my laundry basket. On Valentine’s Day.

What is a girl in love to do?

I shoved my naked boyfriend out of the room and into my bathroom. Then I took all of my urine soaked clothes and put them in a grocery bag. And sat in a corner, clutching the bag and waited. And waited and waited until he woke up (which was approximately at 4pm the next day).

I shoved the bag into his hands and let him know that HE RUINED VALENTINE’S DAY (editor’s note: he eventually ruined my soul as well) and he was going to feel very embarrassed in a few minutes dragging urine soaked women’s clothes to a dry cleaner.

And so as February 14^th rolls around every year and I find myself with even less dating prospects than the year before … I look back to the fond moments of bliss with the one I wanted to marry and realize I’d prefer to have dry clothes.

California makes you crazy

2011-02-09T16:46:00.000-08:00

This morning I was reading one of the many food blogs that I follow and got a little too excited to see a recipe for “Kermit Muffins”, aka muffins with avocados. At lunch I made the 6 mile trek to Trader Joes to purchase the ingredients (and some Prosecco on sale) and on the ride back, in my convertible, listening to the new Cold War Kids album, I realized I am a fucking Californian.

How many late 20 something girls in the Midwest are driving around in 70 degree weather contemplating making avocado muffins? And even if they are (due to some diet that Jillian Michaels told them about), how many can say with all honesty that their friends would be all over it? I sent the avocado recipe to my old roommate and she peed in her pants at the mere suggestion of them. This is what it means to be a Californian.

We love our avocados here. To an unhealthy degree. One of the signs of “making it” here in LA is finding your dealer. If you still buy your avocados at the grocery store, you are a chump. The key is to find someone that hand delivers you fresh avocados from the tree in their backyard. And if you live in a place with easy access to an avocado tree – share and share alike. Because the more avocado love you put into the universe, the more likely some red headed girl will make you a 10 gallon vat of guacamole for the Super Bowl.

A tip on ingratiating yourself with a group of Californians is to explain the bizarre way in which you use avocados. We are fully aware of caking your face with the mashed substance to clear zits, warts and general ugliness. But if you talk about that one time at Coachella where you used a non ripe avocado to play hacky sack with Citizen Cope, well you have earned our love and respect. Double points if you cured any STD you received that weekend by placing your junk into the hole left by removing the pit.

All hail our vagina looking fruit!

7 Surprising Side Effects of NOT Being Hungover

2011-02-07T14:41:00.000-08:00

1) Improved dental hygiene. When you’re stumbling home drunk at 2am you are typically spending your last few awake moments searching for pizza, removing shoes by throwing them at the walls or crying hysterically. This is not conducive to remembering to floss, brush your teeth and use mouth wash. Since cutting back on the sauce, I’ve found that there is actually time in my life for me to be kind to my teeth.

2) You don’t have to struggle to remember who you pissed off the night before. When you’re drinking, it feels like a good idea to tell people what you really think. The morning after, the laws of human decency kicks in as you struggle to remember what you shouted to a crowd during karaoke. Maybe you told everyone “heyyyy these ladies here (point to friends) are single … are we surprised?” as crickets chirped and your friends shot you the look of Satan. Or maybe you dropped the bomb that you were recently fired? It’s all a little hazy the next day.

3) You know the whereabouts of your debit card. It’s in your wallet! Same thing with your shoes, your earrings, your copy of the Brideshead Revisited DVD, your drum sticks, your sink tequila and your dignity.

4) Hassle free grocery shopping. You know why the grocery store is as empty as a wine bottle on Sunday mornings? Because everyone else in the world is hungover. Capitalize on the American right to booze and find yourself skipping gleefully down the frozen aisles, not bumping into creeps and homeless people. You can buy those blueberries in 3 minutes or less. Fuck yeah!

5) You can be (slightly) more honest to your primary care physician. When he/she asks you how many drinks you typically drink in a week you can actually throw out a number that is marginally closer to reality. You have now closed the gap by 10 drinks.

6) More money to buy other useless, random crap. Outside of college towns, bars are expensive. Bars in LA, even more so. At $14 a martini, you can shift those funds to more practical things such as new running shoes, flour sifters, overpriced almond butter, herb plants for your balcony, organic pain juice, leather vests and lottery tickets.

7) You can devote more time feeding your inner loser. Less time boozing means more time available for watching Open Yale courses, baking, fantasizing about your life with Jason Segel, and blogging. Let your freak flag fly!

Things learned from binging on Self magazine

2011-01-30T16:19:00.000-08:00

I just moved into a new apartment. During the move process, I had to purge all of the old magazines I'd collected over the past few years. I hung onto all of the Self magazines that I hadn't gotten around to reading. I decided to read 6 in one sitting. This is what I learned:

Self wants you to give up something, anything - month after month countless articles of suggestions and helpful tips on how to quit a behavior that has become part of your life. They weren't tackling the hard hitting behaviors like crystal meth or shoplifting (I'm talking to you, Winona Ryder). No, there was a lengthy piece about the dangers of every once and awhile going into Starbucks. Apparently instead of getting sucked into the power of that seductive mermaid logo, you should breathe, think about your kids and walk away. And then you will never again spend the afternoon self-flagellating because you spent $5 on a latte.

Models give shitty advice - Heidi Klum gave the advice that looking too thin makes you look bad as you get old. I'm sorry, Heidi Klum, is this advice? From a super model? When I look in the mirror and feel like a tub of chunky monkey I think the last person I want encouraging me that it's ok not to be stick thin is Heidi Klum.

Every issue will attempt to solve the "boredom in the bedroom" problem. Why does a health and fitness magazine have article after article about sex? Well, because it's apparently the only reason to be healthy and thin - to give you the adrenaline and confidence boost to fuck a loved one until the wee hours of the night. And if you aren't having fun on the 19th hour of the fuckathon, you need serious serious help. Self is there to pat you on the back and offer helpful tips like how you should smear boiled carrots on your boyfriend's chest. It's organic and cruelty free!

Healthy girls worship at the alter of Jillian Michaels. I live in a place where straight up loving a woman is embraced. If you live in the middle of North Dakota, you can channel your lesbian energy into the pages and pages dedicated to the Self proclaimed goddess Jillian. You can tell everyone you love her because she teaches you to be "healthy." But I am not fooled. I realize that Self is just your porn.

Living outside of SoCal sucks. There are whole issues dedicated to fixing your cracked, bleeding winter skin, how to not get frost bite on your nipples while running outside, how to do yoga poses with snow men and ultimately how to make love to your frozen boyfriend (burns calories, people!).

Limit yourself to one glass of wine. A week. No, Self. No!

5 things that I shouldn't like (but I do anyways)

2011-01-28T17:11:00.000-08:00

The Counting Crows - Let's all put on an album and contemplate suicide.

Sure, every one of their songs sound exactly the same. And Adam Duritz is probably a complete tool. (Why would a grown man willingly look like Side Show Bob?) But once I hear the "sha la la la" intro to Mr Jones intro I'm transfixed.

Chipotle - Giving millions of Americans food babies every day.

Chipotle is the oasis in the desert for the hungover. Once you prop yourself off of your hardwood floor and take a good look at yourself in the mirror ... head to a Chipotle and stuff yourself with that sweet sweet barbacoa. Feel better champ? Sure, they'll charge you $12.99 for guacamole. And yes, there will be 20 skater punks ahead of you in line. And yes, they're owned by the giant suckhole that is McDonald's but just this once, for this one hangover, hold the diet and get yourself a burrito.

Tim Tebow - Literally the poster child for the pro-life movement.

Where do I start with poor Tim? For one, Tim was home-schooled. I imagine the results of this upbringing render Tebow's social skills akin to the wild boys in The Lord of the Flies. Also, Tebow appeared in a pro-life advertisement during the super bowl. Tebow is "saving himself for marriage" as I'm sure we all imagine that Heisman trophy winners are capable of. But one look at Tim Tebow's delicious biceps and all is forgiven. Hell, I'd even go to church if it meant Tim and I could be together. Forever.

Old School - let's give up hope that men ever grow up!

I pride myself on being an intellectual career woman. But damn, give me a 5 minute gag about a petting zoo, a dart gun and a children's birthday party and I will gladly give up an evening of watching Masterpiece Theater.

The smell of gasoline - yep, you heard me.

No one would ever argue the merits of craving the scent of industrial fuel. I have nothing to say for myself.

The liability organ

2011-01-26T13:35:00.000-08:00

I wanted to love him in a way that no one would notice. Notice the heart muscle that pulsated a little too rapidly, the speech that was nervous. I wanted to shove that all down to the basement of my psyche. To the overpriced storage closet that doesn't get opened.

I wanted to choke the words that were begging to leap from my tongue. Like a gold fish on a suicidal jump out of its glass bowl. There was no rational reason to release a heart that had been methodically covered with protective gauze, stopping the generous bleed of an old wound.

I wanted to love him in a way that protective layers would stay in tact. I wouldn’t have to unbundle years worth of winter preparation. To de-layer means you aren’t protected from the next inevitable emotional tide. It's easier to maintain an amber alert on all feelings. Early detection is best. Find the feeling. Identify it. Kill it.

But there are some people who eschew the obvious route to your heart. With each chuckle. Each reveal of intimate secrets. They take their time unbandaging you. Until one afternoon, I realized that was a slight shift in the platelets beneath me. The earth had moved long enough to allow a crack of light to shine through the floor.

He came into my life, sweet like jelly beans. Candy coated dimples. The ticking train schedule of my life placed on hold. Lullaby thoughts of him in my sleep. He was a world of bear hugs and saccharine grins. My heart's temperature rising. Desiring to capture his lightning bug in my jar before summer was over.

Recovery

2011-01-25T16:50:00.000-08:00

I don’t like being helped. I pride myself on being self-sufficient, a one stop shop for all material and emotional needs. I want to be so good at this that I don’t need you for anything. You are the cherry on top of my life cake. But if you dropped out of my life, I’d survive. I’ve always felt the only person you can rely on is yourself. People, at any given moment, are liable to let you down. I, however, am a guarantee.

This philosophy is annoying to anyone who has been in my life when I’ve been sick. Weakened, with immune systems on strike, I become even more convicted to do everything alone. A few years ago, I was awoken with a sudden feeling that I was going to die. I walked a mile (not in the snow but it was damn cold) to the emergency room at 4am. Everyone who loves me cringed when I told them this. Why didn’t you call me? They asked. I could have come to pick you up. What if something serious happened to you? The answer, of course, is that I would have figured it out myself.

That fateful ER trip led to the diagnosis that an organ needed to be removed. I argued with the surgeon, asking if there was anything I could do without his help. He offered that changing my diet could produce nominal results. I set off on changing everything I ate for two years, trying to ward off the inevitable. I’d have painful, debilitating attacks every now and again. People at work would inquire. Concerned for the situation, seeing that it was getting worse. Wondering if I would ever bite the bullet and get help. I don’t remember the final attack in great detail, other than at some time in the witching hour I finally concluded that this was insane. We shouldn’t go through life fearing everything you eat, stubbornly refusing medical advice. I scheduled the surgery.

My parents wondered about the surgery – how long I’d be out, how long the procedure took, who was my doctor. I answered all of their questions except for their last one – who will take care of you. In my mind, I had already solved the problem. I’d take a cab back and forth from my apartment to the hospital. I’d take a week off work and rest. To parents, half way across the country, this was a suggestion that did not sit well. What if something goes wrong? What if you’re too drugged to hail a cab? Who will be there to help you eat?

Despite my objections, they flew out for the procedure and my recovery (each taking half of a week long shift). It seemed silly for two people to spend $500 each on a plane ticket to watch me sleep for 18 hours a day.

I woke up from the surgery in unimaginable pain. (I later asked the surgeon about it and he said “well if I would have told you how bad it would be you never would have gone for it” … touché surgeon, touché.) There were strangers poking at my limbs, I had an unnerving need to go to the bathroom and no control over any part of my body. Nurses kept telling me to relax. It was foreign and clinical – like a butcher surveying a cut of meat.

The only thing that distracted me from the pain (before the morphine kicked in) was the sight of my dad. He watched medical professionals from a respectful distance, keeping an eye on my pain. Letting me let go of the situational control and power I had become accustom to. He wheeled me into the recovery room. Patiently listening to my incoherent speech as drugs kicked in and my sanity was released. He knew it was time to take me home and let me sleep. Checking in at precise intervals. As my dad took the plane home my mom arrived. She took the second shift with zeal. She drove my car, while I was sedated in the passenger seat, on scenic routes past palm trees and peekabo ocean views. She listened to me plead that I was well enough to go back to work and ignored it. How often does a mom get to hit pause on her life and come out to California? Delay work. Delay stress. Enjoy the ride. She saw it not only as an opportunity to mend my wounds but my spirit as well. I was grateful in those few days for last minute plane tickets and parents who knew better than to listen..

There was an organ in my body that stopped working. I tried to fix it and failed. It took an ER doctor, nurses, a surgeon, and loved ones to heal me. Inside and out.

You'll never know unless you go

2011-01-24T17:42:00.000-08:00

I had my first break up in a long time. It was the classic "it's not you, it's me." I just said goodbye to my trusty beach apartment and to a community I'd happily called home for 3 years. My place was like a steady boyfriend. We had grown out of the honeymoon phase long ago. It had been years since I walked into the front door and felt giddy that this place was actually mine. It had slowly but surely become a part of who I am. I knew all of the quirks. Which electrical outlets controlled which lights. Which marks on the walls had been strategically covered up with art and design. I knew that the oven knobs were misleading gauges of temperatures in the stove. It was a place of memories. Of dramatic kitchen failures. Of spilled wine and vomit. Where seductive dresses of dates past hung in the closet. A place that knew my tears and my joy. It saw friendships bloom and relationships fail. But it was mine. My little space in the city of LA.

At some point in the course of our courtship, I started to get that uncomfortable tick in my brain that whispered it was time to go. My apartment and I were on an unending spin cycle. Churning along with no conclusion.

Financially, there is never a rational reason to move. Moving is a sinking hole of credit card receipts and pieces of furniture that you will never use again. I knew this. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't meant to be sleeping in that bedroom anymore. Like my boyfriend in college, we had grown apart. It was time to part ways.

I went through the exhilaratingly miserable process of searching for a new place. The process is tough, mainly because you instantly compare everything to what you already have. I suppose this is what makes dating tough. There is no objectivity - only comparison. Sizing up value and fit. There were a few times I got to the point where I thought I'd give up on the whole venture and live in my current apartment forever. My landlord hadn't raised rent in years and I had amazing neighbors. Part of me wanted the search to fail. I wanted to put up with the old beau even if he was holding me back.

And then on an uncommonly rainy Sunday I found a match. It takes about .5 seconds to realize when you've found the right place. Something inside you knows that it feels like home. I imagine/hope this is what it's like when you meet a person who is supposed to have a significant impact on your life. You don't need hours of careful study, you just know. You know you will love and care for your new place. You know there will be highs and lows. But you take the risk, the giant leap and sign. Signing on the promise of a better tomorrow and saying goodbye to today.

Carlo & The Gunman

2011-01-23T07:54:00.000-08:00

Carlo has never met a bong he didn't like and he used to go by the name Charlie.That's exactly what you'd say if someone were to put a gun to your head and ask you to describe him in one compound sentence. If the gunman pressed for more one more detail you'd say he's one of those boys whose passion for celluloid film seduced him away from his european homeland to LA.

More, the gunman would say. He's fascinated by Carlo.

Carlo has sustained 3 successful relationships with striking Moroccan girls. Proof that he is not only charming in America, but he's charming everywhere. His talents are many. He takes 5 hits from a bong named Bella and creates a meal that forces you to question your ability to cook.

Be careful what you tell Carlo, you'd warn the gunman. You may chose to share an anecdote about the mental instability of Pasadena with him. But Carlo choses to take it. He pitches the anecdote to a man who controls movies. Carlo wears a scarf and orders a cappucino at this working lunch. He casually mentions the many ways in which Americans have ruined the art of espresso. Carlo sells the man on the idea that being Italian makes him a better director. This sell is easy because of the global insistence of Italian superiority. We love Italy so much that we cram Little Italy's into every city where real estate space is precious. We love Leonardo DiCaprio because his name means more than Brad Pitt's. Carlo(who used to be known as Charlie) indulges the voracious thirst of the Italian envy machine. Each revolution ensures that one more gelato shop will open up somewhere in Toledo. He will be whatever you romanticize. You will be whatever he needs you to be.

If you've ever met him as Charlie you will note the striking similarities. In fact they're basically the same person except that Charlie will be seen with you in public. Charlie was a guy you knew in college. Carlo's name is listed on IMDB. You are not sure if it was Carlo or Charlie who cried at the documentary about the dolphins. It all depends on if there is a self serving reason to weep over porpoise. You know that one day you will die 5 seconds too early because you wasted precious mental energy on this thought. In the crowded real estate of your brain, Carlo/Charlie takes up too much space. He's the virus of charm and good chianti.

You wonder about the chicken and egg syndrome of Carlo/Charlie. Did we force the idea of Carlo upon him or did he thrust the idea of Carlo upon us? The idea that one day Carlo may become a global celebrity is frightening. The impending uprising of Italian hipsters in West Hollywood must mean doom for all. Say goodbye to your plastic yellow American cheese. They will torch every last frozen lasagna, insisting that Italian food is very light. You turn your back for one second and fresh basil has appeared in your instant coffee.

Beware boys named Carlo, you'd warn the gunman. And the gunman would let you walk away.

The 8 non negotiable duties of (girl) friends

2011-01-13T13:24:00.000-08:00

1) Provide booze and distraction immediately after a break up. Any time you get “the phone call” from a dear pal you have one duty and one duty alone – show up at their place with a bottle of grain alcohol and let them lead you on an evening journey of tears and irrational behavior. I don’t care if you’re taking your bar exam the next day, the first and only obligation you have is to your friend. Why? Because in this crises scenario you are the only thing keeping this woman from taking a knitting needle to the eye of her former beloved.

2) Present your friend in the best possible light in front of their suitors. You know the scenario – they’ve been chatting up Mr. Wonderful Coworker for a month and you’ve heard every excruciating detail. Then you meet Mr. Wonderful out at a party. Your sole purpose for existing is to be a one person PR rep for your friend. Never mind if your friend has never done anything of notoriety. Make shit up if you have to.

3) Throw down the douche card (as gracefully as possible). We have all found ourselves in a scenario where we are giving someone our undivided love and attention that absolutely doesn’t deserve it. We are also very clever at lying to ourselves about the many ways in which this is OK. I have found myself pleading with a close friend about all the reasons why I should continue an emotional affair with a married man. She (luckily) pulled the douche card on me. She wanted more out of life for me and didn’t stop until I recognized it myself.

4) Take a vow of silence on all nights when you turn into a drunken wildebeest. The hilarious stories of your drunken antics are free to be passed around like a joint at a Dylan concert. But good friends know where humor stops and tragedy begins. For example, it’s ok to remind a friend that she went on stage, grabbed a mic from the band and announced she was going to take her clothes off in the parking lot and everyone was invited. Refrain from telling your friend that literally no one followed her outside to see her naked.

5) Help her prepare for her meeting of the ex with the vigor of a wedding planner. Once you know that your dearest will be seeing HIM in a month you must go into full coordination mode. There will be outfits that need to be selected, questionable choices about tanning products and several lengthy discussions about what he will say. If the evil gods of relationships force her to see him at a plus one event, you will hunt down the hottest available man you can find. She will show up with enviable arm candy, a dress she can’t afford and a hair do that is so taut she will not be able to cry.

6) Remind them (as many times as needed) that they’re a special snow flake. Since you’ve already done your friendventory, you know this is a kick ass friend. You see all they have to offer but they see a portly monster staring back at them in the mirror. When it comes to friends, you must be the endless fountain of positive reinforcement. (Unless they are crushing on a total douche, then you can boldly go back to Step 3).

7) Thou shalt not judge when she enters the next stage of her life. Of course, your first instinct is that she will be leaving you behind to wallow in the misery of singlehood. But try to remember that first dates may lead to marriage, knocking boots can lead to pregnancy, and dream jobs can move friends around the world. You love her, you’re there for her. Repeat your mantra.

8) Be the kick ass person that people want to be friends with. People don’t tend to want to hang out with bitter, miserable women who fight about petty shit.

30 things I did before I turned 30

2011-01-11T21:43:00.000-08:00

1. Went to a gay bar. Felt humbled by the awesome calves of drag queens.
2. Defied my parent's expectations. Spent a year obsessing over my dream college. Got in. Told them I was transferring after less than year.
3. Was undeniably uncool. Wallowed in the misery that no one liked me. Spent Friday nights at used record stores pretending the voices on the other end of the album were my friends.

4. Became insanely popular. Joined the right sorority. Shared a mattress with the right guy. Wielded the awesome power of the wealthy, young and beautiful. Became the asshole I hated when I was a loser.
5. Got the fuck out of this country. Drank absinthe. Declared I was never coming back to the US.
6. Pumped my own goddamn gas
7. Conducted a friendventory. Not everyone is a special snow flake.
8. Figured out how to feed my friends something they wouldn't choke on. With pre chopped vegetables and premade everything at Trader Joe's you're out of excuses, asshole.
9. Had a spectacularly explosive break up - one that dragged on for two years where both parties were so miserable that homicide seemed like the only way out.
10. Changed my appearance radically.
11. Got so drunk I cried in public. I let my emotional Mt St Helen erupt.
12. Quieted my inner demons by drinking a bud light in a lazy river.

13. Realized that my parents were once young, cool and care free.
14. Pregnancy scare. Bonus points since my gynecologist was a family friend.
15. Gave up on the dream that I was going to be a professional athlete
16. Spent an entire wedding analyzing the reasons why I'm single. Ended up alone next to a bag of sour patch kids.
17. Lived alone. Played the game of "what's rotting in the fridge" on a weekly basis.
18. Figured out how to get off of a chair lift on a snowboard without taking out a pregnant woman and toddlers.
19. Spiced up a failing relationship with a trip to a strip club.
20. Took care of someone's bloodthirsty cats.
21. Made a celebrity uncomfortable. (Thereby disobeying the only rule of Los Angeles).
22. Spent too much on an ill advised purchase. Wrote off everyone who judged me for doing so.
23. Missed my flight. Three times. Due to the World Cup, Irish car bombs, and sex.
24. Shared a house with someone I've never met before. Was shocked when they turned out to be trust-fund-baby swingers. Learned to love them anyway.
25. Became a master black belt of parallel parking.

26. Got fired from a job in a blaze of glory.
27. Joined a political campaign that failed.
28. Declared my undying love for someone who would eventually break my heart.
29. Figured out a way to accept me for who I really am.
30. Made a list of 30 things I did before I turned 30.

Brainy is the new sexy

2011-01-11T10:55:00.000-08:00

There is a psychological study (The Pratfall Effect) that I’ve never been able to get out of my mind. The study concludes that people are drawn to individuals who are (a) attractive (b) are competent and (c) have visible flaws. Basically if you saw a hot girl at coffee shop you’d be attracted to her. If that same girl dropped a cup of coffee in front of you you’d be even MORE attracted to her. You will find her minor faux pas endearing. She will seem more accessible. You will become more comfortable. On some level women get this intuitively. This is why I’ve met hundreds of Jessica Simpson wannabes who like to display their foibles on purpose. They pout with puppy dog eyes that they can’t figure out how to use a remote control. They’re trying to get you to love them, flaws and all. And most men fall hook, line and sinker. Who doesn’t want to be a hero to a fragile creature? (Especially if they’re blonde and busty). There is something undeniably adorable to men about this. Granted, I’ll say “certain men” because I know a few for whom it would annoy the shit out of them. These are the guys who put a premium on intelligence.

But back to our Jessica Simpsons … I believe that there is something kind of sad about a grown woman who can maintain a professional career but can’t figure out how to use a remote. If you’re not technically savvy, fine. Some remotes are over engineered. But if you have the means to figure it out and you pretend you don’t … well that’s just sad. My mom had a good friend who called her husband to come meet her at a gas station because her tank was suddenly on empty. Her husband left work and met her about 30 minutes away because she did not know how to pump her own gas. It boggles my mind that a woman in her early 30s could drive to work every day and not have the desire to figure out a skill that is basic to adulthood. And furthermore, that she relied on her husband to swoop in like prince charming and save the day. It’s a manufactured damsel in distress situation.

I really hope to live in a world where women strive for self sufficiency. Where women feel encouraged to show their competency to the opposite sex. Where the easy route is less elusive. Where no one downplays what they have to offer. Because trust me, we all have foibles. We’re all going to drop the coffee. It’s just far more endearing when it’s real and not manufactured.

What wine will fix

2011-01-07T14:13:00.000-08:00

Transatlantic flights – Because nothing says celebration like sitting next to strangers in a small chair for 6 hours. When the captain turns off the seat belt sign, it’s time to adjust your travel pants and throw back some $5 chardonnay. When the person next to you gives you the evil eye after your third or fourth, just keep drinking until it looks like they’re giving you a sexy wink. Be careful about going to the bathroom – turbulence, drunkenness and narrow walk ways do not mix.

Sporting events you have no vested interest in – don’t care about the Clippers? Neither do I. After a bottle of wine I can and will become their biggest fan. Sporting events provide your inner drunk with the excuse to shout suggestive and inappropriate statements to a crowd of people. Phrases such as “TAKE IT OFF” seem to make sense to everyone in the heat of the moment. Some sports stadiums do not serve wine. No problem! The solution is always wine in a can. Smuggle wine in your lady parts and pour it into an empty diet coke can.

Hangovers – Wake up feeling like the undead? Point yourself in the direction of a champagne bottle. Add a splash of OJ or two and you’re only 15 minutes away from getting drunk again.

Getting fired – While this won’t help you get your job back it will temporarily dull the pain. Just call everyone you know in a panic, force them to your apartment and drink until you wake up clutching your laptop with flights to Italy on your web browser. Be sure to never clue them into why you need to drink so badly as to make the experience exciting and fun.

Karaoke– Belting out Lady Gaga to a crowd of beach tourists never felt as good as when it’s done on a belly full of Shiraz. Karaoke bars are infamous for dim lighting and ugly clientele so your purple wine teeth are guaranteed not to raise any eye brows. Bonus points for dedicating your song to “you … you there” and pointing to anyone in the crowd you’ve never met before. Then give them the wonky eye and blow a kiss. You’re only a few more sips of wine away from making out with a man twice your age.

The crushing realization that we’re all going to die – You can’t think about the end of humanity when you’re looking for a discreet place to vomit. Any time your brain wanders to that place where the gentle river of life flows, grab some Merlot because it’s business time.

Shakespeare ruined my freshman year of college (and how black holes could have saved it)

2011-01-06T12:58:00.000-08:00

My freshman year of college I was part of a university which required everyone to take writing seminars – mainly to make sure chump engineers had enough writing skills not to be embarrassing in adulthood. Since I was a badass juvenile journalist I assumed this would be two slam dunks A’s on my transcript.

Of all of the writing classes to choose from, I went straight for the jugular – “Fantastic Shakespeare!” Notice the use of punctuation, it HAD to be fantastic. On my first day of class an angry short German man instructed us to buy the complete works of Shakespeare. Now, it’s not often you hear someone bragging about reading every single comedic play Shakespeare ever wrote. That is because it’s the kind of thing that a) makes you a pretentious wind bag and b) means you have subjected yourself to reading 16 plays about men cross dressing.

This was the gist of all 16 stories:

· Boy dresses up as a woman and meets his dream girl.

· Boy’s real identity is revealed and dream girl embraces him with open arms. (She was obviously reading a lot of Dan Savage).

Now imagine that you have to write 16 papers about those two bullet points. It’s like being forced to watch 24 hours straight of romantic comedies. The mindless repetition of plots eats away at your soul.

To add insult to injury, the Angry German believed that my writing skills were akin to that of a wild animal. He tried to tame me (like a shrew) through forcing me to read everything another girl in my class turned in. I hated her. I hated her writing style. I hated the German and eventually I hated Shakespeare.

I decided that since my Shakespeare class made me consider drinking arsenic and cross dressing viable future plans that writing in general was not for me.

Now lest you think that all freshman writing seminars suck I give you an alternative example. Picture a class titled “Black Holes, Neutron Stars, Pulsars and All That.” On average a class about black holes would lead one to contemplate suicide. But no! This class involved sitting in a drum circle talking about the stars and not having to write a goddamn thing. Everyone got an “A”, everyone made out with someone from class, everyone left feeling like the world was full of wonder. I know quite a few people from that writing seminar and they have all gone on to live successful productive lives. I submit it’s because their dreams were not thwarted by fantastic fucking Shakespeare.

* In a cruel twist of fate, I ended up working for an aerospace company after college,

surrounded by black hole nerds.

5 tips on how to have a shitty year

2011-01-03T08:51:00.000-08:00

1) Pick the most implausible thing in the world that could happen. Experience it and resent it.

Right out of college my company sent me to Indianapolis. I cried on the phone when they told me this. I had taken the job with the expectation that I would be living in Boston and DC. Even though I was born in Chicago, I'm not a fan of the midwest. I dreamed of east coast cities the way little girls dream of their wedding dresses. The day I moved into Indianapolis I felt like shit. I continued to feel like shit until I moved to Boston. I spent as many weekends as possible driving back to Chicago or visiting friends in other cities.I made minimal effort to make friends because I did not want friends who lived in Indiana. And at the time my doctor prescribed me with Ambien to help me sleep so basically I was experiencing a chemically enhanced Indianapolis. The neat thing about expectations is that they come true. I was determined to have a shitty experience there and I did. Then I found out I was moving to Boston and spent the next month researching, dreaming, anticipating that move. When I got to Boston I fell in love with everything I saw. Looking back at those two times in my life I realize I had shitty times in Boston and good moments in Indianapolis but the script I wrote for both determined the outcome.

2) Start drinking and touching everything you see.

I love stats. I trust them. This is probably because the most influential man in my life works as a psychological statistician. When the number of people you have slept with in three months is 400% more than the number of people you've slept with in the previous two years there is a problem. Tell yourself that men aren't interested in your brain or what you have to say. Tell yourself that this is normal. Convince everyone else your behavior is normal. Drink more to make the convincing of yourself and strangers easier.

3) Overachieve at work as a way to ignore everything else in your life

Workaholism is just as painful to your body and your mind as alcoholism. The former is not only socially accepted but it's rewarded. Start finding reasons to work until 8 or 9 at night. Start getting to work earlier. Find reasons to have to work on the weekend. Stop engaging in conversations because there are work emails to send at dinner parties. Conveniently tell everyone else in your life you cannot be there for them because you have to work. Convince yourself this is normal.

4) Pick the one thing you are truly passionate about and stop doing it

I am a natural writer. I have a point of view. I have a writers brain. I wrote voraciously for the first 20 years of my life and then I stopped for an entire decade. Tell everyone it's because writing is self indulgent. That you missed the boat on your journalism career and there's no way to recover your talent. Tell good friends that they are crazy when they say you're a gifted writer and should get back into it. Stop reading because it reminds you of writers.

5) Hang onto one way relationships

Let someone have the best of you. Keep giving it to them. Let them off the hook when they give you nothing in return. Let them convince you that you are crazy, that you need to change everything. Change everything to make them happy. Ignore how unhappy you are. Tell yourself you want to be snow boarding in Colorado when you really want to be at a museum in New York City. Give up your hopes and dreams for the other person. Tell yourself their happiness will make you happy. Ignore how miserable both of you are.

How I signed my soul over to Satan

2010-12-30T10:47:00.000-08:00

Catholicism. Something I was blessed/cursed to be indoctrinated into when I was born. Literally, there was no choice. You’re a baby in a satin white dress being held by your mother in front of a crowd of people and then you’re dunked into a bath of water by a strange man in a robe. And tada. You’re Catholic!

There are few things that I remember from my earlier/church going years. One, my real estate tycoon Grandmother believed God understood she was too busy to go to church on Sundays (Dear Lord, I have a sale to make!). Two, that it instilled an unhealthy worry that Satan was lurking in the corners for me like a pedophile on Halloween.

The devil’s powers were mystical to me. Around the age of 7, I was convinced that you could literally sign your LIFE away to the devil simply by stating it in your head. Trust me, I tried NOT to sign my soul away to the devil. But because children touch hot stoves and open presents before Xmas, I could not get the idea out of my head. And that thought was so compelling that one day, in the middle of my bedroom; I decided to say out loud “I sell my soul to the devil.” I had no preconceived notion of what was going to happen next, other than that I was going to die.

Days went by without me being possessed or having an urge to kill. That didn’t soothe me, it only made me panic. I decided this meant that the devil would wait until I was complacent and then suck my soul through my ear hole. Most days I could work through the logic that saying something out loud doesn’t make it true. But other days, I’d be sitting alone in the back of my Grandma’s Cadillac, clutching My Little Pony and start crying because the devil was eventually going to come find me.

In retrospect – I missed the entire message of the “sell your soul to the Devil” tale of Christianity. It seems everyone else in the Bible had actually gotten something out of the deal – wealth, eternal life, Gisele Bunchen. I had actually just given up my soul for nothing. Which makes my soul akin to an easy lay in high school.

And if, in his generosity, he just gave me everything I subconsciously wanted - thanks for the beach, the convertible and the good friends. And if Satan is going to take me - take me while I'm stuck on the 405.

How Dan Savage ruined my sex life (aka the Savage effect)

2010-12-28T15:36:00.000-08:00

I started reading sex advice columns before you did. And not the Carrie Bradshaw kind – the out of the closet/angry at heterosexuals column written by Dan Savage (of Savage Love infamy). His column was in the back of The Onion when it was still a tiny hard copy newspaper published in Madison, WI. I started reading every column he ever wrote at the age of 13. (This was mid-1990s when HBO’s Real Sex was the main source of pornography for teenagers.)

In my early teenage years Dan was my window of choice into adult sexuality. And what a weird effing window it was! His appeal is his ability to simultaneously criticize readers if he feels their concerns are bullshit but also give sound advice if you ever discover an elderly parent touching a pet parrot in an extra curricular way. Every week there was a different, off the wall concern from a different gay or straight couple living a very modest life publically and inwardly getting their jollies off wearing animal costumes.

Now, truthfully Dan has helped the world over discover that they’re not alone in their love of latex and balloon animals. However, for a young Midwestern girl I perhaps took the message too literally. Cue my first boyfriend. After months of sucking face in public and declaring our undying love to one another I felt it was only appropriate to share our inner secrets. When two teenagers fall in love it seems only right that you would share EVERYTHING, no matter how repulsive. And I was determined to be the open, non judging girlfriend, ready to share and partake in whatever that boyfriend was “into.” (Dan Savage had taught me so).

So throughout the course of my first relationship I’d lie in bed, next to boyfriend and try to ferret out his darkest sexual yearnings.

Me: So do you want to pee on me?

Him: No.

Me: Maybe you are bisexual?

Him: No.

Me: Tie me up?

Him: Maybe.

I’d stay up all night worrying he was withholding. What could it possibly be? Water sports? Massage parlors? Then I thought, maybe he’s into something Dan Savage hasn’t even DISCOVERED YET. A humiliating attraction to phone booths?

Over the course our entire relationship I kept searching, convinced that with enough prodding and unconditional love, he would reveal all. There would be Valentine’s Day, tears and my constant plea “just admit it you love ball gags!” The less he had to reveal, the more I was convinced that he didn’t love me enough to speak the truth.

Tragically, the relationship ended. But my quest to determine his sexual deviance is unwavering. Because after all, strap ons aren’t just for breakfast.

A Guide to a Happy/Albeit Chaotic Life

2010-12-27T09:27:00.000-08:00

A defining moment in the life of (some) adults is the moment they pack up their belongings and move away from everyone and everything that they know and love. For most rational adults – this occurs in college when you move away from home for the first time. And then you move back to the closest “big city” to where you grew up to start your first job. And then you meet your sweetie, move out to the suburbs and raise children who will eventually abandon you for a college that’s at least 2 hours away and the cycle continues. The whole process normally looks like this – adolescence, abandonment and then back to the mothership in less than 10 years.

I fall in the extreme outlier for humanity. I started off going to college literally DOWN THE STREET from my dad. Then I transferred to a large university that was the preferred 2 hours or more away from my parents. And then – ON PURPOSE – I packed up everything I knew 7 more times as I lived around the country (and outside of it). I haven’t lived in any city longer than 2 years. And consequently I also haven’t lived in an apartment for longer than 2 years nor had the same group of friends near me for longer than two years. I have reinvented everything over and over and over again. The absence of routine, familiarity and stability has been my comfort. I assume to most rational people this sounds like their version of hell – living a life where the only certainty in your life is yourself.

Out of the chaos and instability there are a few takeaways I am grateful to learn:

You don’t really know who you are until you find yourself alone, in a new city, in an empty apartment with no friends. You will quickly find that who you “used” to be was a lot of behaviors you picked up from your upbringing and who you “grow into being” will include choices that you make outside of the expectations of your parents and high school friends. You’ll radically change some things and diligently follow others but the only way to test who you are is to throw out the book and start from scratch.

There is a balance and cycle to those who orbit in your life. It is scary and daunting to consider leaving life long friends for career dreams but I promise you, you will make new friends. And the “old” friends who drop out of your life weren’t meant to be in your journey for the long haul. The ones that stay with you will surprise you and usually are not the ones that you would expect. There are high school friends who you will talk to every other day and college roommates you talk to a few times a year and always pick up where you left off. And there are those kindred spirits who fall off completely. But in all my moves I’ve always seen a new friend enter where another took the off ramp.

The places you dream of most may be the most disappointing. The jobs and projects you fought hard for may be the most lackluster for your career. The boys (or girls) that seemed perfect for you may turn out to be the least compatible. Predicting your life is a rocky science – expect the trial and error to repeat.

At some point you will find a place in the world where you want to pause, soak it all in and sigh. This is probably the place you should be living in for longer than two years. For me (to my utter disbelief), this is Los Angeles.

And lastly, to quote my friend Jerry Garcia – what a long, strange trip it’s been.

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The awful truth about hooking up

2010-12-22T10:12:00.000-08:00

I’ve come to the conclusion that literally no one enjoys the constant parade of bodily fluid swapping known as the hook up. Despite what we keep telling ourselves “it’s an ego boost!” “I don’t need a boyfriend” “sometimes you just need to get a piece” … we know deep in our hearts that we’re lying. And I’m not morally against lying per se but against lying when it comes to yourself. Human beings are crafty at many things (yay opposable thumbs) but craftiest by far at convincing yourself of something that you don’t really believe to be true. (Like my constant attempts to appear to be less of the yuppie than I really am – more on that later).

Hook up patterns start primarily in college where alcohol and mattresses are prominent. You can kind of get a pass in that period of your life because none of us knew what the eff we were doing – we didn’t really know who we were or what we wanted out of life. But as we grew older, we packed up our belongings at college and brought them to new and interesting cities …. We also decided to pack up our hook up lifestyle and spread it like cancer. As we upgraded our careers and living situations we forgot to elevate our expectations of the opposite sex. It was still OK to meet a boy at a party and take him to your bedroom at 25. And the tale ended in never speaking to that person again or staying in relationship limbo where nothing is defined, there are no expectations and no one is satisfied. (There are people who transitioned their hook ups to full fledged relationships but by in large these are the exception, not the rule).

Yes, there are days when a hot make out session gives you everything you needed in life. But I believe on average, the pattern gets old. There are days you wake up and wish there was a person to actually TALK TO lying next to you as opposed to a person you are wishing will leave your apartment sooner rather than later. You start wishing that there was someone in your life who wanted to share more than your body. Maybe someone who would enjoy long days watching college football, eating your appetizers and drinking craft beer (P.S. if you are said gentleman who enjoys this - for the love of god FIND ME).

The awful truth about hooking up is that it gets old and starts to suck. Physical intimacy is a poor substitute for emotional intimacy. The former fizzles like a quick flame on a stove, the latter grows and intensifies.

And since I have close friends on both the male and female side of the camp – I can assure you that there are representatives on both sides that agree. Despite our repeated attempts to hook up and convince ourselves it doesn’t matter, in the end I have heard men and women alike say they’re looking for love and friendship over groping strangers at a club in West Hollywood. The problem lies in the fact that it’s easier to get the quick fix and harder and more risky to wear your heart on your sleeve. To all of my friends (boys and girls) – I hope you find a way to put the heart back out there. I know you will all make wonderful boyfriend/girlfriends/husbands/wives to someone special.

My work spouse can kick your work spouse’s ass

2010-12-21T09:45:00.000-08:00

For those of us who work under the crushing pain of corporate America, you have most likely come across a situation in which you were a member of a “work marriage.” This person is handy when you want to share juicy work place gossip or talk in long tirades about the ills of your manager, the carpet in the conference room and the poorly executed holiday party. There is an intimacy between the two work parties due to the high level of confidential information sharing which leads to a sense that “this is the person who understands me.”

I don’t know what work spouses say about our work culture? Maybe for the young singles this is pre-training for real relationships? Maybe it’s a mild form of cheating (if either party is hitched)? Maybe it means we work too hard and need a beacon of hope/motivation to come to work every day (yes!)?

There are many downsides to this work arrangement. One (obviously) is that at some point the urge to bone may tip the balance in favor of doing the (morally) wrong thing. WARNING: hormones – not just for teenagers anymore. Another is when you get to a spot in the “friendship” where you align yourself with this person so much you start to believe that it’s “Bob and I against the world” … this is a dangerous place where feelings develop and are hard to shake. This leads to crying in the Starbucks bathroom before work every morning when Bob announces he’s engaged and you have to live with the crushing reality that Bob really didn’t see you as the only person in the world he could talk to.

One of the toughest days in the life of a work wife is when you meet your work husband’s REAL WIFE. For some reason you wish to know everything about them but none of the information means anything really. If they’re EXACTLY like you, then what? Your work husband just tends to attract similar kinds of women. Is that comforting? If she’s NOTHING like you, then what? Are you just filling the void that the REAL WIFE isn’t providing? But at the end of the day he married the REAL WIFE and you’re just the girl who can entertain him with supportive texts in a long meeting. None of it means anything at all. And in the end this also means that your relationship with this person means nothing at all. Your work spouse relationship is the equivalent to a model home. It looks and feels like a real home but it is just a display. There can’t be a real “break up” or “divorce” in this situation because the foundation isn’t real. I imagine that this is why the work spouse relationship is so attractive to men – they can justify the ease of which they leave this relationship because on pure facts alone it isn’t real.

So the real question is: are our spouses/significant others supposed to fill that work spouse void when they have no real context for what’s going on at your work and/or would be bored to tears by the minutia of your inner office politics? And if not, what are our spouses supposed to do for us? If we spend 75% of our time at work and our spouses are outside of that time, what the eff is their role in our lives?

Relationships outside of the catalogue

2010-12-11T17:53:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in a J Crew. No, I'm not sitting. I'm standing in the middle of the cashmere sweater aisle. The waif behind the register is staring at navy blue ties with gold boat anchors. My heart/mind is racing. I'm going to see HIM in 10 minutes.

I'm standing in the J Crew because I'm the preppiest former new englander living in Los Angeles. I'm the cardigan twin set. I'm the pearl earrings. I like the order and calm that comes with a matching set and the promise of tennis in the afternoon with a boy from New Haven. But no. I'm living in Los Angeles on the beach and my date tonight is with my married ex boyfriend. That's not true. Well the married part is. But I don't know if you can call him an ex boyfriend? He was married when I met him. There is no label for what we had. There is no standard placement in the store for the outfit that was our relationship. We were not summer wear; we were not evening glamour - we were hidden in the back dressing room. Away from public. Underground. We were not ready made catalogue material.

I don't know where he is right now. He's not J Crew. He's Ferrari. He's Porsche. I don't know if the fact that I can't think of a clothing store that defines him means something or nothing at all. I don't know if he's as nervous to see me 6 months after the undefinable as I am or if he's succumb to the neatly prescribed Orange County married life. There is, of course, an option for mid life crises affairs in that lifestyle. But that option comes with more sex and less emotional connection than he and I had.

Of course my first worry this moment is about what I'm wearing and what I look like. As if that would ever be his first concern. There isn't a cocktail dress in the world that will change any of the realities. He's married. He was my boss. He's 20 years older than me

J Crew does not promote relationships that are outside of the pre-determined seasonal collection. There's winter boyfriend. Summer boyfriend. Fall boyfriend. Summer boyfriend is my favorite. He puts sun tan lotion and a six pack of beer into your pink beach tote. And ironically his greatest asset is his six pack. Fall boyfriend is the most serious because there's a chance you met him at university. You can take your time with fall boyfriend - there is no pressure to rush into sex. Winter boyfriend has the best cable knit sweaters and most eclectic itunes collection. Spring boyfriend kisses you in the rain underneath a madras umbrella. Spring boyfriend break ups are the most amicable. Mainly because of the ease of transition from spring to summer clothing.

The J. Crew catalogue ends where real life begins. Real life is a young woman in a flattering purple dress panicking in a well known retailer. Wondering if there is any meaning at all to a relationship where there is no answer to the question "was he your lover?"

The year of the growing pains

2010-12-08T16:16:00.000-08:00

I remember when I was in grade school/junior high that the adults in my life believed that kids experienced growing pains. The basic premise was that your body was growing at such a rapid rate that it caused you physical pain. I also remember that there really wasn’t a treatment for this – you had to just suffer through the growth and hope you were a svelte beautiful teenager once it was over.

This year has been the adult equivalent of a growing pain. The cause of this pain is not due to the physical growth but rather rapid mental and emotional maturity. The catalyst was probably leaving a company that made me who I am today, hitting some bumps on the road and ending up at a new company that is a match for where I am heading. And there was some major drama with a man who I had no business having feelings for. But he too proved to be there when I needed him the most and was a positive influence on my life. I had to work through losing him (because it was a bad idea for both of us) and trying to recuperate from the loss of a true soul mate. (Hint: no matter how many people you surround yourself with afterwards, you walk away feeling very alone for some time after it ends).

But the most difficult aspect of the adult growing pain condition is that it is impossible to diagnose. It sort of looks like depression, a quarterlife crises or psychosis to your closest friends. And as the patient – you were a bouncy, happy individual and then all of the sudden things don’t feel right. But what’s going on mentally is important (albeit frazzling).

That’s what I’ve been feeling this year. And as an unlicensed practitioner of a condition that I’ve just made up – I’d say I’m getting closer to the other side. I’m feeling wiser and more in tune with the adult me. I’m more at peace with things that have happened in my life. I find that it’s much easier to sweat the small stuff now than it was just two months ago (for example – I damaged my new beautiful convertible and it didn’t so much as cause a bad day). I think that means that (eek) I’m getting ready to be a full fledged/beautiful-on-the-inside 30 something?

And as a graphical representation of my current feelings I've enclosed a photo of my happy disembodied head.

The Human Experience

2010-12-05T22:53:00.000-08:00

You have two choices.

1) Everything you have ever experienced (emotionally) was felt by a mass majority of people. Each heartbreaking experience could basically be understood by the strangers sitting next to you on public transit. When you begin the start of a painful story, generations of people could finish the ending because it seemed so familiar to them.

2) All of the key moments of your life were 100% unique. Your closest friends could not even fathom what you've been through. There isn't a message board for your experience. You are essentially alone in your human experience.

What would you choose?

Passive Aggressive Break Up Strategies

2010-12-03T16:27:00.000-08:00

For those who want to break up but don't have the fortitude to do it themselves .... here are ways to ensure your partner will break up with YOU instead:

Invite Sarah Jessica Parker to live with you and your sweetie
Wax your girlfriend's eyebrows in the middle of the night
Wear carrot scented perfume
Let David Crosby impregnate you
Serve glow worms for breakfast
Start growing dreadlocks
Hide drugs in your girlfriend's purse - call the cops as she heads to work
Pay Tom Brady a large sum of money to propose to your girlfriend
Pterodactyl noises. In bed.
Keep goldfish in the toilet bowl
Make fruit loops part of your grooming process
Eat dinner with a letter opener
Blow a rape whistle every time he tries to touch you
Get a tattoo of your ex boyfriend's name
Stop, drop and roll in front of their coworkers
Show your love through pinching
Kick your boyfriend in the teeth
Tell your partner that watching The Never Ending Story controls your mood swings

So, you still live in LA?

2010-12-02T20:28:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about this bizarre phenomenon ever since I got back from my trip home for Thanksgiving.

Without fail, whenever relatives or random acquaintances strike up a conversation with me outside of this state there seems to be a theme. That theme lies in their to desire to have me defend why California is so fucked up.

A sample conversation follows:

Aunt: So you still live in LA?

Me: Yep.

Aunt: So why is your state going bankrupt? Why can't they figure it out?

On principle I understand why California as an entity is intriguing for people who don't live here. I also get that the politics of this state are fascinating. We'll put those thoughts in the "seemingly rational" pile. What I don't understand is why it's assumed that I am expected to a) speak on behalf of 36 million people who live here or b) have any insight into the situation at all. ("irrational" pile thoughts)

Given the fact that I've only lived here for a few years it's like asking me to defend the cereal selection at Target because I shopped there for 60 minutes.

I don't know where one makes the insane leap of logic that a citizen of a body of land is also an expert on that land? By that logic I should walk around Boston and ask people "tell me everything you know about Paul Revere."

And lest you think I'm some apathetic loser, enclosed is a list of things that I am more of an authority on than Cali politics:

Throwing up in a moving vehicle
Buying a quarter life crises convertible
The Foo Fighters concert at Wembley
The laws that govern happy hour in Boston (hint: there is no happy hour in Boston)
Wine (for obvious reasons)
Big ten football
Winning the hearts and minds of 40 year old executives
American Airlines exit aisle seats
Homemade pumpkin spiced lattes!
Groupies of The Killers (more on that later)

Stages of Vegas

2010-12-02T07:07:00.000-08:00

Apologies to all of my friends who received this in an e-mail the first time I wrote it after our Fall Vegas trip. Upon review from the booth, it's worthy of a blog post.

Secondly, my apologies for the fact that this is all true.

Stage One: YAY, we’re going to vegas

Stage Two: Dread. I’m going to spend too much money. I’m going to drink too much. I’m going to make bad decisions. Ugh. I am a wasteof life.

Stage Three: I’m going to make a power hour dvd for Vegas

Stage Four: My life is going to get in the way of making said dvd and it’s going to be a power 46 minutes because I don’t have time to do this

Stage Five: Morning of Vegas. YAY I’m excited for Vegas again

Stage Six: High five the TSA guy at LAX because you’re going to Vegas!!!!

Stage Seven: Arrive in Vegas, in hotel dance party ensues

Stage Eight: Ridiculously expensive night club? Check

Stage Nine: Dancing your face off.

Stage Ten: Limo ride around the block!!!

Stage Eleven: Questionably wandering home alone and passing out whilst friends eat pizza on your limp body

Stage Twelve: Morning gambling!!!! Also discover that your friend is in a wheel chair. Lose money. Realize you have an amazing rack.

Stage Thirteen: Drinking all day at the cabana. You realize you are awesome. And all of your friends are equally awesome.

Stage Fourteen: Very drunk girl finds out her boyfriend cheated on her. She continues to cry awkwardly in the pool and you have no idea what to do because you don’t actually know her.

Stage Fifteen: Beatles + Cirque De Soleil = Tears of joy and fist pumping in the audience

Stage Sixteen: Dancing your face off AGAIN

Stage Seventeen: Bears Sunday and downing a pitcher of beer by yourself. Learn your friend is engaged!!!!!

Stage Eighteen: I NEED A TATTOO.

Stage Nineteen: TATTOO IS TOO EXPENSIVE

Stage Twenty: Let’s gamble instead! Win free money! Drink ALL THE WINE.

Stage Twenty One: I don’t feel so good. Wine in my stomach is starting to dance and make me ill.

Stage Twenty Two: PUKING IN THE CAR. Puking on the side of the road. Puking in the bathroom at random road stop. Puking again FOR GOOD MEASURE.

Stage Twenty Three: Passing out.

Stage Twenty Four: Revival. Feeling like a person again. Then sitting in the car for another 7 hours to get home.

Stage Twenty Five: Day after. Ugh. Vegas killed me. I need to re-evaluate my life.

The end

The ultimate question(s)

2010-11-28T22:59:00.000-08:00

My apologizes ahead of time to anyone who basically has felt like a normal part of the fabric of society. I would suggest that a) I am not your friend and b) you will not find what I have to write very interesting.

When you are single you spend a lot of time alone. And the more time you spend in your aloneness the more time that you have to ponder the ultimate question:

What the fuck is wrong with me?

And I don't mean this in the suicidal rock star kind of way but more in the ... am I a complete freak show kind of way?

And these thoughts are not all consuming and overwhelming. It's just that one day, on the way to work you're at a red light and it suddenly occurs to you that deep down inside you may be a complete psychopath. And then you spend your entire day at work staring at the humans around you, dissecting inside and out how you can walk talk and speak just like them but deep down inside you know you belong on the fringes of society. Some random engineer chats you up about their kid's soccer game over the weekend and you realize that you spent some of the weekend wondering why professional sports even matter when we're all essentially molecules floating through space.

Side note: Have you ever caught yourself in the mirror and stood there freaking out that the thing staring back at you is ACTUALLY YOU???

And I assume that these scary introspective single thoughts are why everyone around you wants to find you a significant other. Because once you've entered into the relationship zone you become focused on an entirely different question. And that question being:

What the fuck is wrong with my boyfriend?

Where before you could spend time wondering who controls the thoughts in your head, you can now devote hours to wondering why your boyfriend can't muster up the energy to buy full price toilet paper. These are probably more healthy productive thoughts that lead to showing said boyfriend the way towards normalcy .... all the while keeping your mind off the fact that you may in fact be living in your own personal truman show .....

Things that make life better

2010-11-19T15:13:00.000-08:00

I am at the admirals club in LAX sipping on a glass of wine that I did not have to pay for.

There is a nice older man sitting next to me talking shop about betting on college football.

LIFE IS GOOD.

Packing = a necessary evil

2010-11-18T12:43:00.000-08:00

Packing is unofficially my least favorite thing in the world to do. And since I a) chose to live far away from home and b) love to travel I am forced to undergo this process quite often.

In order to make the experience more enjoyable I decided a long time ago that the only way to truly live up the packing experience is to DRINK while PACKING.

A typical packing night looks like this:

6pm

The night starts out great – you open that first bottle of wine. Put on your iTunes playlist and start making dinner. At this point you are not actually packing, you’re just prepping your mind and stomach for the packing experience.

7pm

You see the wine bottle is half empty. You decide that you cannot leave the rest of the bottle to waste, sitting in your refrigerator while you are miles away from your apartment.

8pm

Oh hell, why not drink ALL THE WINE left in the apartment?

9pm

You have a strong urge to listen to some Elton John and sing at the top of your lungs. And high kick in your living room.

Packing seems like the last thing in the world that you want to do.

2am

You start texting your friends because THEY NEED TO KNOW HOW AWESOME YOU ARE.

Your voice is a mythical sound that all neighbors everywhere need to hear. YOU SING THE TRUTH.

5am

Wake up bleary eyed, throw underwear and tooth brush into luggage and hope for the best. Jump into cab.

Arrive at Chicago. Rush to open up front door and realize you’ve left your parents house keys in Los Angeles. Cry tears of failure.