Monthly Archives: January 2014


Something magical is happening this week. Something that I haven’t experienced since moving into this cavernous duplex with my lovely roommates. No, it’s not sex. My roommates have nothing to do with the lack of that in my life, sadly. It’s alone time. Alone-alone-alone-alone (as it echoes across the empty space). Ariel is away on a week-long babysitting job and Jasmine is working overnights at her job so that means I’m all by myself until Thursday. I’m free to act as though I still live alone and that means several things:



First, a love affair with my electric blanket. I refuse to wear pants when going solo at home (yes, I realize that sounds masturbatory). It’s freezing in this old, drafty house but that won’t stop me. No roommates means no pants and I must stand strong. My electric blanket is there to offer solace and toasty warm knees and it doesn’t force me to make a decision about where to rest a waistband. Under the floppy belly? No. Over is surely better. Putting a waistband over your belly fat all but makes it disappear (into an old lady’s “fupa”). My electric blanket just hangs out over my thighs and gently warms me like I pretend all that extra hair on my legs does.

Second, I barely leave my cave of a bedroom. It’s a complete disaster area save for maybe the two foot area immediately surrounding the door. I don’t spend a ton of time in there when my roommates are home because I run the risk of them coming to my door in search of my company or advice and having people in my hoarder-bedroom makes me uncomfortable. Before you recoil in horror, just know that the hoarder-status mainly speaks to clothes and shoes. I don’t think I’ve hung up a clothing item since the weekend I moved in. There are baskets with clean clothes, baskets with laundry, jeans and tights strewn about the floor and an entire wall stacked with boxes I haven’t unpacked since I moved in at the beginning of August. I’d love to pretend they’re still there as a result of some sort of failure to commit to this house or the roommates, but in truth I just don’t feel like unpacking them. I haven’t needed anything in there yet, so what’s my motivation? Aside from not looking like an insane person. Since nobody is here to wander into my physical manifestation of mental unrest, I feel completely comfortable lounging in bed with Netflix and eating Cookie Butter out of the jar with my finger (I did that last night).



There are many other things that I would do if I were alone all the time that I don’t do when my roommates are here. I use the bathroom with the door open, sing the entire RENT soundtrack loudly in the shower, see how far I can slide on the floor of the second living room and automatically think every noise I hear is a Raderer. Which is a rapist/murderer, of course.

*Clap* *Clap*

*Clap* *Clap*

I made the mistake of watching “The Conjuring” the other day and although I’m not religious and don’t believe that there was an epidemic of demons taking hold of really ugly families in the 70s, the shock-cuts and sheer creepiness sort of got under my skin. I’m a little on edge and this is an old house. Old houses make noises and so do my neighbors when they do ridiculous things like walk softly from room to room. I can hear it. And I think it’s trying to kill me or eat my soul. Since I know for sure it’s not the clip-clop of high heels in the hallway, and both of my cats are sitting at my feet, I’m obviously going to be radered before Thursday.

I’ll use this as an opportunity to say my goodbyes. Please keep the image of my hoarder-bedroom and pantsless body in your hearts forever.

Someone please clear my browser history. I was home alone, after all.

Hashtag Clean Eating

When it comes to lifestyles, there is no greater disparity than between my roommate Jasmine and myself. On any given day, we pass each other like two vastly differently shaped ships in the night, nary a trait to be shared.

Jasmine lives an extremely clean life. Her body is a temple. Not one of those inner city churches with graffiti all over every surface and AA Meetings in the basement. A pristine Catholic Basilica with a highly paid janitorial staff and a really perky butt. She does juice cleanses and runs daily no matter the weather. She is a part-time yogi and I’ve legitimately never seen her wear anything but yoga pants. I’m not even mad about it. She just doesn’t have time to change outfits in between healthy life choices. Once, she stood on her head in the living room for a really disconcerting amount of time. She has more than one pair of athletic shoes and buys scarves that absorb sweat. On purpose. Because she needs that sort of thing.

Cleanliness is next to godliness. And dat ass.

Cleanliness is next to godliness. And dat ass.

My body is more like a corner diner. It’s full of surliness, coffee, greasy food and sometimes rowdy drunk people. I am all round edges and french fries dipped in chocolate shakes. My biggest gripe about our home is that the bathroom is on the second floor and it gives me no choice but to exercise for short bursts on the reg. I own twenty pairs of sky-high stilettos that I’ve barely worn and I may have bought a pair of athletic shoes once upon a time, but made no effort to keep track of their whereabouts. One time on a visit to California, my friends decided last minute that we should go camping in the mountains so due to my general lack of preparedness and different size and shape than most people, I rocked a skin-tight skirt and plastic flip flops for the duration. Including while climbing up large piles of boulders and blaming my wheezing on the thin air.



Right after Christmas break, Jasmine returned from a couple weeks at her parents’ house with a drink carrier holding three different colored cups. It was a three day juice cleanse. She explained that she was so full of grossness after eating treats during break that she really needed to flush her system and get back to that whole temple situation. The juices were composed of raw foods that contained garlic and other noxious flavors and she had to drink them cold and could do no chewing for the duration.


Whenever I feel like I’ve been eating badly for a long period of time (usually when my digestive system loudly lets me know) I come to strange conclusions like, “I should eat a burger. I haven’t had red meat in like two weeks. No wonder I feel weird!” Today at lunch, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything green all week so I decided to get a salad. A Cobb salad. Doused with bacon bits, ranch dressing and black olives. Mostly bacon bits, ranch dressing and black olives. And boy did I feel better. Clean eating.

When I got home from work, I was busy in the kitchen, slaving over a gourmet meal of boxed spiral Macaroni and Cheese when Jasmine got home from presumably running a marathon for Greenpeace. I was spicing up my dish with some grated Parmesan cheese and tiny black flakes scraped from the bottom of the pan while she prepared her standard meal of steamed vegetables and rice, doused in a gallon of Sriracha. Then she opened the refrigerator and squealed in delight at the prospect of an addition to her dinner. I assumed she’d pull out some sort of cheese product, as cheese tends to make me squeal, but instead it was a bag of mixed greens. She poured most of the bag onto a large plate and drizzled an essence of vinaigrette around the perimeter. She was legitimately excited about a plate full of leaves.

Come to the fried side.

Come to the fried side.

We ate dinner together in the living room while I chose the TV shows to watch. She only catches bits and pieces of storylines because she’s typically busy making sure her 21-year-old heart pumps literally forever instead of cultivating a butt-groove in the faux-leather couch. We laugh at punchlines on “New Girl” and I explain the backstory of Coach as she spears the last of her salad and bolts out the door to voluntarily walk her friend’s dog.

That was two hours ago. I’m still stuck in my butt-groove trying to figure out if I need to use the bathroom badly enough to get up and walk up the stairs.

Flaca y Gorda. Limpia y Sucia. Jasmine and Bettie.

I need to get on her level. Or at least a few floors down. And I might take the elevator.

Internationally Nerdy

Sometimes I’m a huge nerd. I enjoy doing nerdy things like playing Scrabble, doing crossword puzzles (and timing myself), reading for fun and writing letters by hand to pen pals from across the world.

You remember pen pals, right? There was that boy in Wisconsin who was assigned to you in 5th grade during the unit on professional composition. You inquired thoughtfully about his favorite color or food and became his girlfriend for a month after exchanging wallet-sized school photos. There was the long-lost second cousin in Ohio who you met for the first time a week before your 16th birthday. You became inseparable for the three days you were together and wrote gushing letters about making out with Backstreet Boys or forming an all-girl band for the following six months or so. There were the eight random Finnish teens you inherited from a friend who researched her genealogy in 7th grade and got in over her head, stamp-wise. You learned about Finnish Death Metal and realized that language barriers are tedious so you let that peter out pretty quickly. Or there was that time you were bored with your suburban life and saw a TV show about Prison Pen Pals, so you immediately got online and contacted two death row inmates, wrote them each a letter and got nervous upon receiving replies so you abandoned that as quickly as you started. You should never have googled their crimes. Hindsight.

Uh. Get it.

Uh. Get it.

Pen Pals. You know, standard fare.

I’m a little older now, and my attention span is at least slightly larger, so I thought I’d take another whack at it and re-open the international lines of hand-written communication. The first thing I did was buy accessories. The most fun part of a hobby is collecting the necessary (or superfluous) accessories. I ordered a box set of delightfully vintage postcards that scream “Americana”, bought a pretty shoe box in which to store the piles of letters and postcards I receive and invested my life savings in a roll of stamps. Once the important work was done I started trolling for potential snail mail buddies.

Surprisingly enough, there are few people on the internet who are interested in finding a pen in that cluttered “junk drawer” and spending loads of money on postage. Most of them are from Turkey, Morocco or Algeria and would like to marry me and teach me all about living in the glory of god. And also, they really like my breasts. After wading through those messages and blocking an entire continent from being able to contact me, I was able to nail down a couple of potential pen pals.

The Finnish girl, while giving me flashbacks of 7th grade, does makeup for a living and has a really crazy talent for it. I look forward to trading tips, tricks and hopefully some domestic makeup every once in a while. Until I get bored or run out of stamps, that is. The Brazilian would prefer not to be addressed with a gender-based pronoun, as they identify as both and neither male and/or female. This may be a lasting letter-friendship as I suspect I’ll never run out of questions to ask. Lastly, an adorable woman from a ridiculously gorgeous (and terribly deadly, I’m sure) part of Australia contacted me and assured me she’ll send the first letter. I am really glad the entire world speaks English. If I had to copy everything from google-translate, I wouldn’t be so pumped to embark on this ancient communication joyride.

So Retro. 'Merica.

So Retro. ‘Merica.

Because I’m extremely impatient and nobody contacted me immediately about being international BFFs, I joined another site to speed things along. is dedicated to the random exchange of postcards around the globe. I sent out five postcards, the required amount to get started, to Belarus, The Netherlands, Germany, Russia and Ukraine and soon, I’ll start receiving random cards from wherever is lucky enough to be randomly assigned my address. Belarus and Netherlands have already registered my cards, but I have a hunch Russia will be awhile.

These are the kinds of things that happen when I get bored and restless. I can’t jet across the world so I suppose I’ll settle for awkward pleasantries in hard-to-read handwriting. At least the mailbox will offer more than Sallie Mae statements for a while.

Baby, I’m a Wanderer

I need something. Something to harness and focus my energy. I’m going a bit stir-crazy this winter and no wonder! I’m completely devoid of anything to champion or look forward to and I can’t survive on work alone.

It’s no secret that I’m a fangirl. Not just for New Kids on the Block but for anything I really like. I get all giddy and go to a happy place when there’s something I’m really excited about on the horizon. Right now, however, there is nothing.

In my fangirl travels, I’ve met some really cool like-minded people. Especially the Blockheads. I know, I know…nobody wants to hear me talk about NKOTB again. Well, too bad. I’m doing it.

2013 was the year my NKOTB fandom got serious. I joined the fanclub, traveled to Boston to attend their album release party and saw three stops on their summer tour. I filled the lulls with Twitter-fests, blogging and forums on the site, getting excited for upcoming stuff with other blockheads and just discussing our common interests in general. I planned outfits, travel, activities, witty banter…anything. I was consumed.

So now what? There is no planned 2014 tour for NKOTB. In fact, I have no plans to attend any concerts so far. This is unusual for me. There’s ALWAYS an artist I’m waiting to see or an event I’m super-pumped to attend. But not right now. Nothing. I’m stagnant.

If I have to exist merely in my own present life, there are going to be some issues. I need excitement! I need to be around interesting people and do interesting things. I can’t be left to my own devices or I’ll end up getting stuck in the butt-groove I’ll no doubt create from all the sitting and watching TV.

What do I do now?! I need to fangirl about something in a very real way. Give me something. Now.

Who else is touring? Any old gems from the 80s or 90s? I like those the best. I’ll travel (as long as someone else drives…my car doesn’t do that). I’ll provide witty commentary and I’m willing to do a lot for a little adventure. In a non-illegal or sexual way. Mostly.

Let’s wander. Let’s get weird. Let’s just go.