It is a tragedy, to spend so many hours working, and have none of them matter to you. Why would we ever do this? Why wouldn’t we do something we care about, fiercely? Maybe we just aren’t sure what that is. Maybe that’s the real problem.
What if I told you I was giving you your very own daily column, where you could write about anything you wanted? What if I told you I was giving you your own TV show, where you’d be the star? What if I told you I was putting you on the radio, where you could talk about the things that mattered to you every week? And what if I told you that we were going to do fancy photo shoots,
Mediocre questions for figuring out what you should do with your life: What type of industry should I go into? Which career path should I pursue? What kind of job should I get? What kind of business should I start? What services should I offer? How should I price this? What do I write? How do I do it? HOW CAN I BECOME A RICH, SKINNY BITCH WHO LOOKS FLAWLESS ON INSTAGRAM AND EATS CHILDREN FOR BREAKFAST? A better one: What
Yesterday I talked about change—and it’s no coincidence. I’m making some big changes myself, given that a lot of things are coming to an end, right now. Because iteration is what we’re all doing, every single day, even if it blows by us going 100mph down the freeway. (In a red Ferrari, sming a cigar, with a license plate that reads: TOOFAST4U.) We iterate as we breathe; we iterate every time we exercise; we iterate every time we learn something
Change is fucking messy. You’re effectively molding yourself, and re-molding yourself, the way a sculptor would a piece of clay. And yet, nobody says to the sculptor: Shame on you, butter fingers, for not having it perfect the first spin. Rather, there’s an expectation of process. Of trial, of error, of slow transformation; of forming, fashioning, shaping and smoothing. Nevertheless, we—masochistically enough—don’t allow ourselves the same courtesy. We expect flawless perfection, right out of the box. We beat ourselves up
So the other day, it happened. There was one person stubborn enough to finally coerce me into doing the one thing I’d promised I’d never do. I’d hedged for many painful weeks. (Okay, fine, months.) I’d squirmed and I’d squithered (new favorite word) and I’d writhed and I’d wriggled. And yet, she kept asking. “Today at 5:30!” “Are you coming today?” “A little birdy told me today is the dayyyyyy.” And every time I’d try really hard to talk
You know what’s the absolute worst? Waiting in at the doctor’s office. There’s a lot of anxiety around that, am I right? Nobody likes waiting at the doctor’s office because we all secretly think that the doctor’s just sitting behind a closed door somewhere, doing wheelies in an office chair, watching the minutes churn past with glee as they browse the latest in cutting edge gardening techniques while the rest of us waste away huddled together in
Can we talk about the fact that today is February 2nd? How is it February the 2nd already? Am I eighty hundred years old yet? Because time seems not to be going my way. (Though a friend did recently compliment me on my skin, however that was only because she didn’t see my neck. Is this the decade in which we slowly descend upon a dysfunctional, passive-aggressive relationship with turtlenecks?) Speaking of time, you ever notice that when you’re away
So today I placed my boobs into a giant, hospital-grade George Foreman grill and held my breath as the nurse to the X-ray. Let me tell you what, there is nothing quite like hoisting the flesh of your nipple onto a cold metal surface while a stranger watches. I mean, they’re definitely judging you. If not the size of your areolas, your dexterity. They’re there tapping their foot while you’re fuddling along with some necklace that never effing clasps when you want
Hang onto your pumpkin loafs! (By which I mean, eat all the pumpkin loaf and then get yo’ glasses on, because there’s big news in the house today.) My brand-new business mentorship program has just rolled up in a Cadillac and is currently swigging vodka before making its debut onto the red carpet. It’s called UNF*CKWITHABLE BOSS, and it’s here to change the face of modern work forever. Unconventional name? Check. Unconventional purpose? Double check. If you’ve been thinking about striking
Once upon a time, I to Home Ec in high school, which is hilarious, because based on tweets like these, I must have failed: I tweeted that out a couple of days ago after Googling “How to trick your mother-in-law into thinking canned tomato sauce is homemade,” which inevitably led me into chopping, like, four fucking onions with a butter knife and spooning an entire cup of sugar into the pot, because if a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine
Can we all just stop, already? Stop apologizing. Stop saying sorry. Stop shrinking into some small little ball-less version of yourself—you know, so you don’t make all the other ball-less twats feel uncomfortable. Or risk offending somebody. Or do something controversial. Or doing all of that and then totally screwing it up and feeling stupid. God forbid. I’m sick and tired of it. I’m sick of seeing you hesitate. Second guess yourself constantly. Smile weakly. FUCKING WILT. You’re wilting away
It’s hilarious, really. You spent the first twenty years of your life worrying what the f*ck you were suppose to do on this planet—with your ONE BIG PRECIOUS LIFE that every other poster won’t shut up about—only to spend the next twenty years wondering if you did it right. Because, did you? Was this what life was suppose to lo like? Did you do it right? Pass the test, check the box, score the A? Like, is your life
We’re on a transatlantic flight to London. I just bite into the kind of sausage one should never bite into, and now that we’re exactly 552 miles away from our destination, I realized that my eyes were less than sprightly and my hair loed like Fiona fucked a bird’s nest. So I did what any resourceful woman on a transatlantic flight to one of the most fashionable cities in the world might do: I brushed it. With a toothbrush.
I’m going to England tomorrow. By which I mean I’m stepping inside a long metal torpedo and sitting my fat ass down on some murky blue pleather for an exact distance of 5,429 miles across a cold, dreary ocean that always makes me wonder things I shouldn’t ever wonder. Like: Would I actually remain calm in case of THE BIG EVENT, like I think I would? Would I place my oxygen mask a top my bouncy little cheeks, knowing exactly
New life rule: If your mother is dead, DO NOT GET ON FACEBOOK ON MOTHER’S DAY. Not that it’s not pleasant to see the resemblance between every friend I’ve ever made and the woman that birthed her (THOSE EYES! THEY LOOK LIKE SISTERS!), but when you don’t have anyone to celebrate, and you’re not a mother yourself, you can end up feeling like everyone is having Christmas without you. In other words: Where the f*ck are my banana pancakes? Which is
It’s 2:42 in the morning and the reason I’m awake is called CHARDONNAY. People talk about getting old—buying crock pots, nonchalantly cutting your spouse’s armpit hairs, relating to The Golden Girls than The Gil Girls—but they do not prepare you for the one thing that will change your life even than tiny packets of GrillMates: Insommeliernia. Which is obviously an evil-adult-spelling-bee hybrid of “insomnia” and “sommelier,” which if I’m being honest I still really don’t know how to pronounce. (Note to
Picture it: Your d ones are sitting around roasting chestnuts on an open fire, while you’re hunched over the (pumpkin-pie-greased) keyboard, biting your fingertips and worrying whether or not you’ll have enough money to pull through to January. But what if you didn’t have to run some humongous holiday sale? What if you didn’t have to put ALL the pressure on yourself? What if you could make a few small changes and have it double your revenue in December-so January
So, I’m standing there at this bakery in Costa Rica, trying not to order the things one orders at a bakery, because if I order bakery-like things from this bakery, I might as well give my stomach pooch full on permission to never, ever fucking go away. And then what will become of me? Forget the fear of becoming a cat lady; I’m far terrified of becoming an angry, bitter old wench who could never stand to lo at
“Just to let you know,” the massage therapist warned over the phone, “I’m blind.” She arrived to my house by taxi, and as she pulled up, she loed out the glass toward me as if she could see me…even though she could not. The art of the gesture stunned me. “Hello!” I greeted, wanting to be helpful without being condescending—a I wasn’t sure how not to cross. As she exited the car, the taxi driver—a shy, round thirty-something man
I like the term scrappy. I’ve always pictured some femme fatale bobbing and weaving and diving and into any number of ways to get the one and only job done that she’s there to do: Win. It reminds me of my favorite Will Smith quote (oh, you don’t have a favorite Will Smith quote?) “The only thing that I see distinctly different about me is I’m not afraid to die on a treadmill. I will not be out worked, period. You might
I used to know how to dress myself. Or at least, I used to know how to put on pants before putting on my shoes, because apparently when you make the decision to PUT A SHOE WITH A GIGANTIC SPIKE on your foot before you put your pants on, you spear a giant hole right through your pant leg. Remember when life was easy? Because I don’t. Because this is just one example of how I’m old now. And ain’t
I come from what you’d call a humble background. I grew up in rural poverty in the poorest county of Pennsylvania, where we hung out at stone quarries and had the first day of hunting season off from school. We lived in a gold and white trimmed mobile home I was horrified of, and I would purposely walk the long way around the block to the bus stop so the other kids wouldn’t know where I lived. (They did.) My mom
There I was, minding my own business, going about life as usual: Wondering how to substituting vodka for water, telling lies to small children (actually the boogieman will beat your ass) and thinking horrible things about other people. And then I flew to Guatemala last week. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Guatemala, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you probably haven’t thrown on a poncho and andale-ed on down recently.
The phrase is simple: Goma moral. Here, where I am in Costa Rica, it translates into “moral hangover,” and you’ve got one if you stayed out too late, drank too much, said something you regret, or acted in any way irresponsibly the day before…and you feel guilty as sin. Forget the physical hangover; the moral one is the one that’ll get you. The one that hijacks early-morning positivity and manhandles it right into the trunk of a Caddy, causing you to wonder
“Land of the free, home of the brave” should really have some fine that reads, “as long as you stick your tail between your legs, binge drink at baseball games and lo the other way.” As a population of people horrified with the slave practices of the past, it’s a bit ironic that most go through life participating in a slave practice of the present. As a society based on ‘time is money,’ they’ve got you by the balls.