Honey, Honey

I am tired of shaving. I am tired of buying new razors and razor burn and ingrown hairs and being embarrassed at the pool when it’s been a few days (okay, a week and a half) since I’ve shaved.

So I decided to get my first Brazilian. Before you get too proud of me, I did sugaring, not waxing, which I’ve heard is gentler. I also had it done by the lady who has been doing my eyelash extensions all year, so we’re practically besties.

The process starts with removing your pants. So there I am, laying on my back on the table, wearing nothing but my work polo and a grimace. I have a travel pillow wrapped around my neck, and I am gripping it like it’s a shoulder restraint on the Top Thrill Dragster.

She starts talking to distract me, which works pretty well, until she pulls the first strip off and my hips shoot up from the table like a firework on the Fourth of July.

“Okay,” she says. “We learned you’re a jumper.”

“I’m sorry,” I whimper. “Am I the biggest baby you’ve ever done this to?”

She assures me I am not, and then asks me to butterfly my legs and relax.
. . .
Go ahead and try that right now, and see how well you relax. I’ll wait.

Fun, right? Now try butterflying your legs while naked from the waist down while someone removes your hair. But do that on your own time, I’m done waiting.

So the process continues, she compliments my mermaid tattoo, and in the middle of her compliment removes the worst piece and I yelp, my hips jerking spastically.

Then she goes, “Okay! It’s time for the bum!” She says this in the most chipper voice, not the voice of someone asking you to show off your bumble on a Thursday afternoon. (Fun fact: my browser autocorrected bumhole to bumble. Do you think it will catch on?)

I am left with no choice but to pull my legs into my chest and hold them as she continues her sugar attack.

And then I paid her for her time and unflagging optimism.

And I did all this so I can spend the next week on the beach without having to shave. What a time to be alive.


Addiction or Hobby

I wrote a post a while back about not being able to stick to things. And I’ve actually gotten better! I’ve been doing yoga five or six times a week for months now. I’ve been keeping a bullet journal. I put on retinol face cream at night (and oh my god, my skin looks amazing).

So I decided it was time for a new challenge. I like to joke that it isn’t worth drinking if it doesn’t have alcohol or caffeine, but after drinking until 3am a few Saturdays ago and coming home feeling sober, I realized I might need to stop saying such fate-provoking things.

So Lover and I decided to give up drinking for two weeks. It’s been 9 days, and surprisingly, easier than I thought. I have been genuinely surprised by how much I use drinking for entertainment. Nothing to do on a Friday? Stay in and drink. Nothing to do on a Saturday? Go out and drink! But alas, I had to find a real hobby last weekend.

So, I stayed home playing video games because it’s too hot to go outside. Sunday I woke up at 6:15am WITHOUT AN ALARM CLOCK AND I WASN’T TIRED. It was incredible. I went to the pool and read books until I got hungry.

But, being the stubborn Cancer that I am, this wasn’t enough of a challenge so I decided to cut back on caffeine. (I am not a certified lunatic, so I didn’t give it up entirely, I just decided to drink less.) Going cold turkey on caffeine would probably end up with me being fired for either crying from a migraine, not showing up at all, yelling at a client, or all three.

Now, this is hell. (What a surprise, to learn that the vice I thought I had was only a hobby, and what I thought was my morning routine is a legitimate addiction.) I felt like I had the flu for the better part of a week after cutting down to one cup of coffee a day. I snapped at Lover and Ithaca. I growled when approached and fell asleep early. I would not recommend this to anyone.

But the quest for self-improvement goes ever onward. Wish me luck!


I’ve been yawning all day. I’m so tired that I tried to pick up the splatter guard for the chicken I was making, grabbed the handle of the pan instead, and yelped because I thought I had melted the splatter guard to the pan.

It’s because last night at 2:45am Lover woke me up because I was hyperventilating in my sleep from a nightmare. And he held me and let me explain the dream until it sounded stupid and when I told him I couldn’t sleep anymore, he told me to turn the lights on so things would be less scary. And I read, with all the lights on, until sunrise when I snatched another hour of sleep in his arms.

And I thought, oh. So this is what love is.

No Such Thing

I have this theory that everyone has a “real” age that they always stay at, no matter the date on the calendar. For me, I have never stopped feeling 17. I’m still this pessimistic, reckless daydreamer who makes her bed every morning (except when I sleep until the afternoon). I’m still struggling with religion and belonging and never being tan. And this is why I think there is no such thing as growing up — and if you’ve met a real adult, please let me know, because I want to prove you wrong. (Oh, yeah, and I’m still super competitive.)

I was just talking to Minerva this week, catching up with her after the birth of her son (!!!) . I’ve known her half my life (!!!) and it was amazing that this thing I’ve been hearing about since we were in middle school has finally happened and she has an actual human baby that is going to grow up and learn to read and make friends and be a real person is just blowing my mind. But, despite the fact that she is married with a house and a baby and has a full time job, we still gossip and joke just like when we were young. We just don’t play MASH anymore. Ah, MASH.

It’s both comforting and terrifying that there are no grown ups. On one hand, I don’t feel bad getting so high on Saturday that, despite my sister’s repeated insistence that I definitely ate birthday cake, I have no recollection of any such thing. On the other hand, WHO IS GOING TO SAVE ME FROM MYSELF.

But that’s a problem for future me.

Things I’ve Learned from Phoenix

I’ve been living in Arizona for just over a year now. Desert life is a thing that has consumed me more fully than my profession ever could, and I’m going to blame this ridiculous place for my lack of posts.

Drinking things:

  • Brunch is not a meal, it’s a lifestyle.
  • If the bars close but you still want to party, go to the casino. You still can’t get served after 2am, but you probably should stop drinking anyway.
  • Even if you only plan to have one drink, call an Uber. One drink isn’t worth the DUI and we both know you aren’t going to just have one drink.
  • Pool party = beer brought to you in the pool, famous DJs, smoking in hotel rooms, followed by impossibly fancy dinners and falling asleep with your shoes on and chlorine-curly hair.
  • How to use a charcoal grill and not get in trouble for taking shots at the pool.

Friendship Things:

  • Labor Day is friendship day.
  • Why it is important to have lots of girl friends.
  • How to get used to your friends sleeping on your couch and trying to remember in the morning where everyone left their cars.
  • How to smoke a cigar at a marble table while wearing glow sticks in your bra.
  • How to bully your introvert sister into having fun.
  • How to let your introvert sister bully you into getting some actual sleep for a change so your Fitbit sleep charts aren’t so appalling.
  • How to go to Las Vegas with six other friends and manage to leave with an unbreakable bond and no visible scarring.

Work Things:

  • How to work from home.
  • How to deal with chill West Coast people instead of uptight East Coast people without clawing your eyes out.
  • How to travel alone.
  • How to make your own fun in every city, whether that means finding a great sushi place or staying up all night drinking and singing karaoke and looking at the stars with new friends.

Love Things:

  • How to survive a long distance relationship.
  • How to survive the end of a long distance relationship.
  • How to fall in love with yourself.
  • How to start falling for someone new, a feeling you never expected to have again.

How to Get out of Jury Duty

Once upon a time this blogger had jury duty. I showed up at 8am, drank some coffee, read Christopher Moore, watched the video about civic duty, and chuckled to myself at the fifty-something man in a three piece suit snapchatting his lady that he didn’t want to be there.

In the courtroom, the potential jurors answered yes or no questions like “Do you drink” and everyone said yes. (I love Arizona.)

When it was my turn, they brought up that I had said yes when asked if anyone close to me had a DUI. “Um, yeah, like several of my co-workers?”

The prosecution’s lawyer asked if that made me hate cops. “Naww,” I said. “They deserved it.” He grinned at me and I smiled back. The defense lawyer looked ill.

“What do you mean, deserved it?” he asked carefully. “Oh, they told me what they blew,” I said lightly.

“Did that surprise you?” he asked. I laughed and said no. I was briefly worried he was going to ask me out.

The defense asked if I remembered the charges. I recited them back to her. She asked if that gave me an opinion on the matter. I responded affirmatively, as the charges were significantly over the legal limit. The judge told her it was a stupid question and she needed to ask a better one.

“Do you have any bumper stickers on your car?” she asked.

I couldn’t figure out why she asked this. Was she trying to determine if I was cool and hip? I didn’t know what the cool and hip answer was so I settled on the truth. “Um, no. Well, kind of? I have a window cling.” She looked excited and asked what it was.


“This is kind of embarrassing,” I said with a breathy laugh. “You know those decals of like families, with the husband and wife and the kids and the dog?”

Here she nodded encouragingly.

“Well, my boyfriend got me one for Christmas that is a guy and girl and bags of money because we don’t have any kids.”

The entire fucking room lost it. Even the judge was cackling. Once he caught his breath he asked if anyone had any other questions.

They didn’t.

And I was free to go.


I’m bad at sticking to things.

I haven’t written here in months. I am bad at exercise. I am worse at dieting. My least favorite part of fake nails is having the same color on my hands for two whole weeks IT’S SUCH A COMMITMENT.

The only things I’m really good at sticking to are reading, drinking, and Liebling, and that’s because those things require no effort. They are a part of me, like breathing or tattoos or ankle bones. (But not a part of me like my boobs, because I hate those, or my hair, because I can’t decide on that either. Just so we’re clear.)

But I’d like to be the kind of person who can stick to things. To be able to say that I exercise five times a week — and mean for more than just this month, and know I will keep it up. I’d like to go out and do things and stick with them and not be so desperately unsatisfied by my skin and my hobbies.

So here is step one. Write again. Write more. Tell a story. Keep a promise to myself.