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
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.
Today would have been her 70th birthday. I’m wearing her gold aquamarine ring. I’m wearing it to remember to be gentle, to slow down, and to offer every stranger who ever sets foot in your house the biggest Italian bread sandwich known to man. To garden always (or at least try), to worship tomatoes, and to write fancy sick notes for my future children (complete with pressed flowers and calligraphy pens). To see the best in the cranky gas station
“People need to understand what the fuck BUSINESS HOURS mean. I’m not 7-eleven, folks. I am not. If I wanted to be, I’d just run a 7-eleven. Big Gulps all the fuck around.”– Got that e from a frustrated business owner yesterday. I laughed so hard I almost spit wine on my bed. (I said almost. You know I wouldn’t be that wasteful. And yes, I DRINK WINE IN BED.)– Raise your hand if…you’re running yourself ragged trying to please fifty
The year I tried to juggle 1,407 balls in the air and still be nice to strangers in the super market taught me an important lesson: Busy isn’t a synonym for happy. Full doesn’t mean fulfilled. And people are pushy assholes in at the i counter. All of us are busying ourselves to death—sometimes quite literally—and the parade has got to stop. Are we really so strapped for time we need to be composing es on the toilet? Dear
I wonder about people. Specifically about the 50-something woman speaking softly at the table next to me, telling another woman how she desperately wants to go abroad—because, verbatim, it would be the opportunity of a lifetime—but… And her words trail off. JUST LIKE HER DREAMS. Kidding. Dramatic doesn’t lo good on me. But, really. What are all these buts holding everyone hostage? I want to start a business but… I know I need to end the relationship but… I know
My mother had severe anxiety disorder. Diagnosed. Verifiable. Psychiatry level. She’d sit in the living room, what iffing life as it passed her by out the window. What if that check doesn’t come? What if that bill is high this year? What if I can’t go? What if it snows that day? My 16-year old go-to response was always, “Mom, everything’s going to work out. Everything always does in the end. Don’t worry.” And at the time, I truly believed it. Whether
There’s a strong possibility I’ll be diagnosed with systemic lupus on August 15th. (Update: I didn’t. In fact, I’m healthier than ever. Blood tests are crafty little fuckers, huh?) My latest bo proposal was rejected. I had to fire an employee yesterday because she neglected to get a client contract signed. I ignore friends and people I care about because I don’t have the mental energy to keep up with everyone. In fact, I have 64 unopened personal messages–and
Success is shit. (Hang on – the punch is not what you think it is.) We’re always working toward it. (Are you rolling your eyes?) Listing out goals. (Inevitably on some overpriced moleskine.) Sweating. (A lot.) Hustling. (As much as we can before insanity sets in.) And pushing people out of our way to achieve it. (Violently. With tattered red heels.) Success. As if it were this tangible thing you can reach up, grab with your hands and cradle like a pudgy little
There are a few things we need to get straight. Shall I make a list? Because lists seem to be in. And lists also mean I don’t have to figure out creative ways to transition paragraphs and actually think COHESIVELY. Because who does that shit on Fridays? Not me. Thinking cohesively, I’m pretty sure, is only reserved for Tuesdays. The rest of the week is some amalgamation (I actually spelled that right on the first try – na na na
1. Gawk. Learn a thing (or two.) Get inspired. Giggle like crazy. And size up the raw beauty that is humanity–in all its patterns, glory, weirdness, cracks, eccentricities (can’t believe I spelled that right), and unpasteurized honesty. Go here to do all of that ——> www.humansofnewyork.com– 2. Someone needs you to believe in them right now. Because we’re humans. And we need one another. And just maybe? Believing in yourself isn’t always enough. We need the support of others. Give some.