Flailing into Adulthood


I’m not really one to rag on Mondays. Frankly, any day at work feels like Monday feels to the rest of the world so, I’m an equal opportunity hater when it comes to week days. And that’s just where I’m at right now.

But as far as Mondays go, today really embodies the innate essence of Monday.

1) On my way to work this morning, I was thrilled that there was no traffic until I realized that the reason there was no traffic is because the rest of America has the day off today. Not me, though. Not me.

2) This is, word for word, the weather report I heard this morning:
"Good morning! Hey, it’s raining, but at least it’s early, and it’s Monday. Temperatures will be dropping gradually over the day, leaving us with lows in the mid-20’s tonight!"

3) I smacked the everloving dog shit out of my head getting out of the car on my way in to the office.


5) Saw a box of doughnuts on the break table, thought my Monday was turning around. Walking back to my desk, magically grew a clubfoot and tripped twice in twenty seconds, losing my doughnut on the second falter. Did not go back for another doughnut.

But, no one, and I do mean no one, is having a worse Monday than my mother’s cat:

— 1 year ago
Monday Moment of Silence

One of my dearest friends on this planet Earth got engaged this weekend (Note: “got” engaged sounds fine to say out loud, but looks wretched in print. “Became” engaged sounds pretentious, though, like when people say “utilize” instead of “use”. Just know that I am, at present, in a grammatical conundrum and I really don’t know what I should do about it. Likely to do nothing at all).

Her brilliant fiance pulled off perhaps the most epic of proposal surprises, inviting sixty friends and family members to a “surprise birthday party” in her honor, and surprising everyone when they found out they were actually at an engagement party. Needless to say, it was a really beautiful evening, filled to the brim with happy feelings and good, good things (like, this to-die-for buffalo chicken dip that I ate approximately six pounds of).

At one point during the celebration, I was engaged in conversation with a really lovely group of women, which is, in itself, something to note: The sexes still segregate at these things, giving life a nice, seventh grade feel. The difference is that, now, we segregate to avoid each other because we spend too much time with the opposite sex, as opposed to too little. Spending every free moment with a dude (though you may love said dude immensely and boundlessly), really leaves a girl needing a little vapid chatter about nail polish.

So, here I am, standing with this group of women, most of whom I have known since college. In fact, I have probably stood in this same group many times over the years, discussing things I can’t even say out loud now. And as I am mulling over those conversations, I am suddenly all-too-aware of this one. 

Sewing machines? I start to panic.

Wait, I’m sweating. Is that what we’re talking about? Sewing Machines?

My thoughts are racing. What can I contribute, here? I almost never overcook my Ramen, I could throw that in somewhere. But I’m snapped back to the reality of my ignorance.

Oh, my God, I think. What in the HELL is a bobbin?

"Time out," I finally say to the group. "Can we just take a moment of silence for what we would have been talking about five years ago?"

The walk-of-shame talk, the “how many drinks did you have?” talk, the sorority talk, the “what do you think he meant by that?” talk, the VAPID NAIL POLISH CHATTER is suddenly a thing of the not-so-distant past.

Suddenly, we are in our mid-to-late 20.s. Suddenly, most of us are married (NOT ME THOUGH THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE LOL), and some of us are even somebody’s mother, which is fucking horrifying. And not that we don’t still engage in vapid chatter because, of course, we do; no less than fifty times did I touch my friend’s flat tummy and try to wish a fetus into it (That’s how it works, right?).  But, apparently, just as I was getting good at nail polish chatter, we have a shiny new set of vapidities (I just made that word up, and I’m keeping it) to discuss, like baby blanket fabric.

It’s not for better, and it’s not for worse. It just is. But, still, I think the vapidities of yesteryear deserve a moment of silence. So, while you’re on your way to Crate & Barrel to get that new crock pot your friends have been raving about, take a moment to bid a fond adieu to the girls we used to be.

— 1 year ago

As long as we’re being honest, 20.somethings, some weeks I have to set aside some daily time to sit in my car and cry. This morning I spent thirty minutes fantasizing about sneezing as hard as I can in a co-worker’s face. The point: in the wake of mental breakdowns and passive-aggressive daydreams, I have little left to give in the way of creativity.

My professional life is ruining this blog. And while it provides egregious potential for material, it’s all extremely self-incriminating. In recent months, I have not been able to come up with a single coherent post idea that would not get me fired.

And that’s the truth.

— 1 year ago
Over It: Shabby-Chic Weddings

The amount of “over” I am about the “it” of the Shabby-Chic wedding trend can not be overstated. If you are a middle class suburbanite, there is no reason your save-the-date should picture you and your fiance flirting on top of a distressed dresser in the middle of the woods. You might as well just send a post-it that says, “We’re paying a wedding planner $20,000 to shit hay and wrap it in a burlap bow.”

The likelihood that such a save-the-date picture is reflective of your actual life together is - and I’m going out on a limb here - zero. I can say this with utmost confidence, because if it was reflective of your real life, you wouldn’t want a “shabby-chic” wedding, because you’d know that “shabby-chic” is cousin Jessup building an altar out of rotting lumber and a tarp. 

Also, this just in:
Things that have a place at your wedding: Your groom, your marriage license, an open bar.

Things that have no place at your wedding: Cowboy boots.

I really hate to be a traitor to my generation, but this simply isn’t right. You’ve chosen to walk into the rest of your life wearing shoes whose innate purpose is to allow us to trudge comfortably through piles of shit. What kind of tone does that set for the rest of your marriage?

P.S. The next Mason jar I see at a wedding is getting puked in.

— 1 year ago
"Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence."
Desiderata, Max Ehrmann
— 1 year ago
Humans of New York →

This blog puts the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart—WHERE?! Down in my heart.

Thanks to Brandon Stanton for fearlessly documenting the magnificent ordinary.

— 1 year ago
Five Reasons Today is Alright

1) This is Moxie. I guess, technically, she is my boyfriend’s dog, but I have been allowed significant involvement. Today, she looked at me like this:


Today is alright.

2) One of my mother’s truest life joys is the very existence of the Oscar Mayer Wiener Mobile, so the significance of a weeniemobile sighting cannot be overstated. It’s a little nod from the Universe, an encouraging cosmic pop on the ass— Go get ‘em, Tiger!

Here’s our girl, living her dream:


Today is alright.

3) My main squeeze has a birthday tomorrow. I won’t tell you exactly how old he is because he’s a little sensitive, but he was born in 1986 and that was 20.six years ago, so you do the math. I can’t thank him enough for being born.


Today is alright.

4) In two months this week, I will be on my way to Orlando to visit the happiest place on earth. In celebration of my 20.fourth birthday, my mom has planned a magnificent trip, complete with jaunts to Disney World and Universal Studios (more specifically, to “Hogwarts,” as she calls it).

Here is a picture from my last trip to Disney World. Take note of the man in the background’s fetching racer back, prehistoric lime green norts, and fanny pack. Do not take note of my scrunchie:


Today is alright.

5) My friend, Alicia, went to Italy and brought back a stick of Italian lip balm that is absolutely everything to me right now.


Today is alright.

— 2 years ago

This is the third time I have re-written this post in the past few days. I really can’t quite get it right so I’m just going to cut to the chase.

The bottom line is this: No one is in as unique a position to make you regret dating them as a musician.

I would know, and I do know; there’s not a single guy I can be linked to who did not, at one point or another, fall into this category—trumpet players, guitarists, singers, engineers, drummers… and drummers… and drummers…

Dating a musician is great in just as many ways as it’s not. He’s sweet and poetic and he serenades you and, oh my God, you both love Almost Famous, and THAT is destiny.  And that is all well and good, but let’s fast forward to the part where it ends, which, nine times out of ten, it will, because you will run out of responses to How do you like this song? and I wrote this just for you, and  What do you think about this chord progression? And, Listen to this and Do you think this riff is, like, Clapton-esque or closer to Dylan? And WHATEVER WHATEVER WHATEVER. WHATEVER, MAN, WHAT . THE. FUCK. EVER. Can’t we just eat or something? [Side note: No. You probably can’t. Another thing to remember: the starving artist thing is only cute when you’re not actually starving. ]

The first thing you’ll regret, is the fact that everything you walked into the relationship loving, you now hate. If you decide to date musicians, be prepared to retire scads and scores of once-beloved songs into the abyss of yesterday. They’re not yours anymore; you donated them to the “we”, to the “us”. You will never hear them the same. You will never get them back. And your car radio will most likely take a few beatings in the fray of trying to forget.

“Try” is the operative word, here. Most breakups happen, presumably, because each party wants to get away from the other. If you date a musician you will never be able to get far enough away. Upon a breakup with a musician, your relationship is no longer a relationship. Those fights you had, those annoying things you do, everything you said and didn’t mean are simple memories to you. But what is better fodder for a song than a love lost? Nothing, that’s what. And that’s exactly what you’ll be:

A love lost.
A sad chorus.
A not-so-subtly-named song on an album.

There could be a million miles and a lifetime between you, but that doesn’t stop your phone from ringing off the hook when the album comes out— the album you didn’t know about, didn’t willingly contribute to, and will never listen to. It doesn’t stop your dirty laundry from being aired to everyone you know, or stop them from asking questions, or forcing you to remember things that you have every right to forget if you want to. A million miles and a lifetime doesn’t save you from experiencing a new level of humiliation every time someone hits “repeat”.

Do you know that Delilah met the Plain White T’s guy on a subway ONE time? Delilah is probably married to some stockbroker, cringing every time she hears the song some random creep wrote for her. It doesn’t matter who she actually is, or whether or not she ever wanted to be the sad song that put him on the map. They only met once. She was never even his, and he claimed her with a song. There is nothing romantic about being immortalized on someone else’s terms.

 Musicians always get the last laugh because they have the means to strip you down to a bare, simplistic memory, and put you on display.

The bottom line is this: No one is in as unique a position to make you regret dating them as a musician

except, perhaps, a writer.

— 2 years ago with 1 note

Happy Summer, 20.somethings, and welcome to the ninth circle of Hell! 

I’m not really, like, a summer person. I like sunshine and all that, I suppose. But I also really love a good scarf and a pair of blue jeans. Also worthy of mention, is the fact that I produce FAR more sweat than will ever be acceptable for a woman to produce. All this to say that in the summer, I generally just give up. My summertime style looks something like, t-shirts meets no makeup meets the hairdryer can go fuck itself. Makeup melts, hair wilts, and any outfit besides a t-shirt just looks pretentious when you’re sporting a sweat ‘stache.

However, this season I have made a few resolutions in an effort to cultivate a better relationship with summer (Every few months, I come up with some resolutions that will only be relevant for a short amount of time, so that I can be sure to accomplish them…aim small, miss small). I feel like a pretty general self-improvement resolution is to stop cursing…I’m also here to tell you that this will never happen. I can assure you, I am a much better person when I curse, no matter the season. So, firstly, I hereby resolve never to resolve to stop cursing.

Secondly: There is not a summer in the history of summers that I have not given up on the guy I’m dating. From, like, 2002 until now, I have broken up with some poor man every. single. summer. That’s the damn truth, 20.somethings. I guess the heat of the summer just makes me realize what a prick they are…or, more often, what a prick I am. Either way, I will be breaking the trend this summer. My boyfriend is super rad and isn’t a prick and doesn’t make me a prick. Also, he buys me Cheetos and drives a Jeep with no doors, so this isn’t really a resolution at all since a resolution is something you have to work at.

For a few summers in college, I worked at a tanning salon, which meant free tanning, which meant — BROWNCHICKENBROWNCOW — I was rolling bronze goddess style. This summer, I am once again, making an effort to be devoted to my tan. I have already acquired a few seriously wicked sunburns, so now that I have that nice leathery layer of precancerous cells, I am in a solid position to baste and bronze like the old days.

Something I mentioned a few weeks ago in I Saw You At the Buffet, and have heretofore failed to revisit, is my resolution to implement No Makeup Mondays. No Makeup Mondays do not exist to give me a day off, but rather to force me to make myself presentable the other six days of the week, which, as previously mentioned, is a huge undertaking during the summer months.

If you run into me this summer, I will most likely be holding one of the Harry Potter books. I had an insatiable urge to re-read the entire series as a fun summer activity, and so far it has proven to be just that. I’m experiencing a resurgence of longing to actually be at Hogwarts, so if I speak to you in a British accent and wave a stick in your face, for God’s sake, join in.

Happy Summer, 20.somethings. Here’s to cookouts, fireworks, summer lovin’, and to you.


— 2 years ago

"Time stands still best in moments that look suspiciously like real life."
-Brian Andreas

— 2 years ago