Time for a little bit of honesty

A few confessions to cap off this week:

  • I use Pinterest to document all the stuff I’m going to buy on Old Navy, and about eighty versions of a coffee table I’m never going to build.
  • I try to pretend to know how to cook, but really what that means is I like to go out and have other people cook for me, while the apartment is a memorial to un-used cookbooks.
  • I once subtitled an old blog “Faking adulthood one wine cooler at a time.” But that was stupid, because out of all of the awful things I do drink – Mike’s Hard Lemonade, the occasional Smirnoff Ice – I have actually never had a wine cooler. It’s one of those things that you hear referenced on sitcoms and “To Catch a Predator,” but in all my years, I don’t think I’ve ever had one. It’s just a testament to the fact that quite frankly, I can be a bit of a phony sometimes. I’d like to say, “But who isn’t?” But I fear that no one else would admit that they also know what it’s like to be a bit of a phony.
  • I love grocery shopping at Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s, which is a weird thing to say, but I just really, really love it. Grocery shopping, especially at yuppie grocery store chains, gives me a sense of control in a world full of chaos. Though I never remember my reusable grocery totes. Ever.
  • I’m still in my pjs. But I’m supposed to be meeting people shortly, so I should probably change that. In full disclosure, I’m probably going to keep the same black tank top on though. Which I wore out yesterday, in addition to also wearing to bed last night. But I’ll throw on a cardigan and some deodorant, so it’s totally cool.

I was going to say that the sunshine that is out today was giving me a moment of clarity, hence the need to confess. But the real reason is I like talking about myself, and it doesn’t need to be sunny for me to feel the urge to do so. And I think that’s something every blogger should be okay with admitting.

Oh, one last confession. I’m hoping over the next year or so to amass an expansive, amazing collection of Toms shoes. My love for them is overwhelming and confusing, but steadfast. At least in the least 48 hours.


“Wow, why did he order so much food?”

I had one of those moments last night. I was home alone. I wasn’t going to be a lazy, fat asshole and order in pizza. Again. For the third time in a 7-10 day period. I was going to be good and watch a classy movie and make the fish filets I picked up from Trader Joe’s. Maybe even asparagus! I was dreaming big.

Yea, that totally wasn’t happening. The fish filets just mocked me from the fridge, when I opened the door.

“Haha, what the hell do you think you’re doing? You? Cook me? Don’t let the fridge door hit your ass on the way out.”

So yea, I ordered in instead. As much as I hated to admit it, the fish was totally right. But I justified my gross behavior by ordering a salad and deciding to take a nice shower and put on clean jammies.

Okay, so I did order the salad like a good girl. And tiramisu. And a 2 Liter of Diet Pepsi. And some jalapeno poppers, because those things are just fucking tops, am I right? Oh, and the shower and clean jammies? That didn’t happen. It was a night for no shower, no pants, and no class.

Anyway, here’s where this gets a bit embarrassing. (No, I don’t consider any of that embarrassing. Whatever.)

The order delivery guy shows up with two huge, heavy bags. One for the soda, and one for the eight billion pounds of food I ordered for just myself. Seriously, I don’t know what they made my food with, but the boxes were large and bizarrely heavy. And when you top it off with a giant soda, I looked like I was on a one-way train to Fatty-Boo-Boo town.

Now a normal, reasonable person would realize that this delivery guy was a stranger, and it didn’t matter what he thought of me. But nope. Not me.

“Wow, why did he order so much food?”

The question just hung in the air, like it was the verbal equivalent of a drunk chick who just vomited on someone at a frat party.

There was no he. I ordered the food. I was home alone. In an apartment where I used a rolled up sweater as a pillow last night when I fell asleep on the couch. I even punctuated the stupid declaration with an awkward laugh and smile. Like that was going to make it better.

“You should ask him,” he replied.

It wasn’t said in a mean way, but we both knew. I was that girl. He was the delivery guy trying to punch another notch on his Good Deed card by validating the lie. I should have been wearing pajama jeans just to make the whole tableau of that exchange that much more pathetic.

So I finally get back to the apartment. I turn on “The Carrie Diaries,” because at this point all of my self-respect is completely gone. I might as well. Plus, in full disclosure, I have an inexplicable love for that show.

Then I look at the salad. I look at the tiramisu. I look at those sassy jalapeno poppers.

I ate the tiramisu first. I got around to the salad about… two hours later. And if we’re being completely honest, I ate just a couple bites of it, so I could say that I didn’t only have tiramisu and fried goodness for dinner.

But ultimately that’s always been my rule. When in doubt, tiramisu first. Always. And hey, I didn’t order pizza!

I either never learn, or I don’t want to learn…

How’s my Tuesday going? I’m wearing sunglasses at my Big Girl Desk at the office as I type this. That’s how my Tuesday is going, and thank you for asking.

It seems that no matter how many times I tell myself, “I can’t party the way I used to,” I keep pushing. Now I’m the ridiculous 30 year old who has a hangover at work on a Tuesday, and I just thank my lucky stars that I have awesome coworkers with an amazing sense of humor.

When I was 23 years old, that was just a regular Tuesday, as I was sterling example of Rule #76. Karaoke, sports bars, late night dance parties, and many nights up and down the East Coast… those were the days.

I think. It’s all a bit hazy.

Now I’m pitiful. I’m not a kid anymore. I say things like “I don’t get music today,” with no trace of irony. And a crazy Friday night for me often consists of Arrested Development re-runs, pretentious craft beer that I document religiously on Untappd like the good white yupster that I am, and using either Boy or Girl Dog as a pillow.

I try to keep this at the front of my mind, because dammit, I’m an adult. And now I have awful, alcohol-related physical shenanigans like getting hangover headaches within two drinks on the same night. It is the WORST.

But there are external triggers and key phrases that blow all of those rational thoughts right out the window. They include:

Half-priced wine bottle specials.
Why would you do that? Are you just THAT hard-pressed to have a bunch of gaggling women talking loudly for HOURS about men, shopping, and bras in your establishment? Because half-priced bottles of wine is a straight up guarantee that my ass will be planted at one of your tables for at least two hours. And I’m loud.

“Have you tried our new Bloody Mary?”
I used to hate Bloody Marys. Now I love them. That was the worst thing that could possibly ever happen to me. Ever. And it’s like the Pokemon of drinks, too. There are so many different variations that I’m now on this “gotta catch ’em all” quest for Bloody Marys.

On a similar note, any sort of bottomless brunch special.
Actually just brunch in general. Brunch is a terrible, awful cult in Washington, D.C. that will suck you in until you’re a lifeless husk craving some slammin’ frittatas the way zombies crave brains. “COME TO BRUNCH. BE ONE OF US.”

“Let’s just go for one night cap.”
This phrase is a death sentence, as it guarantees lots of regret the next morning. Lots of regret. And wincing. And then more regret. And the tireless refrain of, “Did I really say that? Oh no, I really said that.”

Craft beer tastings, beer-pairing dinners, or growler hours anywhere.
Somehow I justify it because it’s “craft beer,” or something. Or “supporting a local business,” because that’s a big thing us white people LOVE doing. It gives us an undeserved, snooty sense of satisfaction.

Basically I suffer from the fact that I’m a dumb white girl who is big enough to admit (under the cloak of anonymity on the internet, of course), that I love things like picking out beers at Whole Foods and then drinking them all until I’m stupid.

And I’m not the only one.

If you think I’m kidding, grab some popcorn, go to Whole Foods on a Saturday, and plant yourself in front of the beer case. You’ll see all of us there in droves. Ladies in leggings, big ridiculous wrap cardigans, and flats. Men in jeans, loafers, maybe a worn-in Polo, or a t-shirt of a band in the 90s. We all stand there, pondering the selection of beers available. Occasionally we’ll chime in if we see someone looking at something we know we like, because it makes us feel good about ourselves.

“Oh yea, that’s a great one. Perfect for chili… or a great filet of salmon if you can believe it.”

These types of interactions make me smile. The kind of smug smile that would probably earn me a punch right in the lady junk. I am that asshole at Whole Foods, and sometimes I just enjoy it.

But I can never be too smug. You know why? Because all of these “adult” notions get me in trouble.


I can’t party the way I used to anymore. At least until the beer-pairing dinner I’m going to next week.

If it’s in our bed, we’re going to eat it

Sometimes you have friends who just get how the world works.

Veronica: I found a Swedish Fish in my bed last night. No idea how it got there.

Me: I would consider that a win.

Veronica: I think so. Because you know what I did? I ate it.

Me: I’m so proud of you.

Veronica: Fuck everyone who says that’s wrong.

Me: The children in Africa thank you.

Veronica: Fucking Swedish Fish. Mama didn’t raise no fool! 

And then we snuggled over our understanding of Swedish Fish supremacy over all things. Okay, that’s a lie, because this is an internet conversation. Whatever.

I’ll solve that problem over there instead

When I don’t feel productive at work – like today – I’ll hyper-organize my Big Girl Job desk and make a list of things to do in my pretty planner. Like that somehow justifies me getting absolutely nothing done.

“Congrats, self! You’ve now made a list of things you were supposed to do a week ago. Way to go! You’re on your A-game!”

I also do this at home.

“Hrm. I should have done laundry, taken out the trash, and done dishes… two weeks ago. I know! I’ll organize this ridiculously small pile of month-old mail that has nothing to do with the disaster of an apartment I live in. I’m such a good, responsible adult.”

I’m a problem solver. It’s just that I’m consistently solving the wrong problems.

I should probably clean up the bottles by my bed

I hate Twitter in the morning, because it is a constant reminder of my ineptitude.

You see, all of those romantic comedies are a complete lie. Women seem to have these perfectly structured morning routines — even if they’re endearingly flustered — set to perfectly chosen songs like KT Tunstall or some other motivating song. They give themselves enough time to get ready, they have somewhat organized closets, etc. These movies give annoying portraits of adulthood, and how we’re supposed to be marginally responsible now. If there was a romantic comedy montage about my morning, a good majority of it would be watching me aggressively tap “Snooze” on my iPhone at least four times, with “What’s My Age Again?” by Blink-182 playing in the background.

When I finally do get up, I don’t actually get up. I stay in bed, continuing to use Boy Dog as a pillow, because he’s fluffy. The bedroom? Looks like a bomb exploded in it. Honestly, you’d probably mistake it for the room of a middle school boy who is somehow allowed to drink beer in bed.

So yes, when I stop hitting snooze, I just pull my iPhone into bed with me and catch up on the internets.

This is where my Twitter hate comes in.

While I use Boy Dog as a pillow, with an empty Dos Equis bottle to the right of me on the nightstand, I read tweet after freaking tweet of people either going out for a run or having just come back for a run. Or some morning yoga class. Or even better, those automatic tweets where some fitness app tells me that Jane Whatsherface ran 5 miles before 8am.

Get bent, Jane Whatsherface.

I may not run in the morning. I also may have had a handful of dark chocolate-covered almonds for breakfast instead of the orange I brought from home, which is now mocking me on my desk. And yes, I straightened my hair at my desk this morning and then repaired an earring with super glue.

But… hrm. Well whatever. I have steady Big Girl employment. And I look somewhat put together. I’m just going to put that in the win column.

I got out of bed this morning, world. So yea. WIN FOR ME.