The Night I Almost Cooked And, Almost Killed a Cat

•July 29, 2014 • Leave a Comment


The last time I attempted to cook was in 2010.  Besides putting in 12-16 hours of work most days, I am absolutely uninterested in cooking for several reasons: One, I eat like a kindergartener. Two, I don’t understand spices, sauces, seasonings, basic cooking terms, or basic cooking techniques. I tried to cut a mango at work the other day and failed so epically that I almost cut two fingers off, got no actual edible portions out, and then had to throw the whole thing away. Three, I detest messes of any form. Four, I have no patience, like in all of life, for anything. When I’m hungry, I need to be fed almost immediately or I turn into a veritable demon and lose all control over anything that comes out of my mouth.

Anyway, back to 2010, a time when I allegedly had a glimmer of hope that I could be late to this cooking party and still get down a few basics. It was an ordinary night when I decided that I would take charge in the kitchen and prepare myself a decent meal. I set out on a mission to cook teriyaki chicken with the full knowledge that I had never successfully cooked a piece of chicken before. Actually I don’t think I had cooked any meat up until this point ever, unless microwaving bacon counts.  I don’t know what I was thinking. I am actually not even capable of cooking popcorn without burning the shit out of it, every time. This is obviously not something to be proud of as a (then) 25-year-old woman, so I set off on this mission alone.

Within five minutes of turning on the frying pan (if that’s what you call that thing I used), I had charred the shit out of my chicken breast and full throttle set off the fire alarm in my apartment. The smoke detectors my building uses are no joke. The cacophony of terror they emit is literally so awful that it’s not possible to remain in the general area without plugging your ears. I needed this sound to stop immediately, so I abandoned my poultry challenge, promptly opened my first-floor balcony door, and started rapidly whipping kitchen towels around the room in a frenzied effort to clear out the smoke.

Several minutes in, alarm still sounding, I had a blood-curdling realization. BANKS. THE. CAT. My roommate has a cat that she loves more than almost everyone on the planet. This is not just any housecat. It’s basically a small, very expensive and very curious tiger. And this little tiger does NOT venture outside the apartment, ever. Unfortunately for me, the balcony door was wide open, and Banks was nowhere to be found.

Amid the chaos, I flew out of that apartment so fast you would have thought my ass was actually on fire. Misstep number two is that I immediately realized the door had locked behind me and my keys were definitely not on my body. I didn’t know what else to do so I ran to our 80-something-year-old security guard, Charles, in a state of absolute calamity. Bless his heart; he stood behind me with a flashlight as I began to crawl through the shrubbery around my building. My apartment at the time was situated near the entry gates into my building, so that cat had an opportunity to strut out to the busy intersection outside the gates upon any arrival or departure of any car in my complex.

I felt like Ned Stark, digging through the foliage.  If I found the cat, I could keep my head, otherwise a Lannister was definitely going to appear in the night to sever my head.

After what seemed like forever, I found that silly son of a bitch hiding near a bush, ready to dart, but unsure of whether a life outside those gates was a life he truly wanted to explore. I waited for my moment and propelled myself at that thing like it was my last task on this earth. I caught him, but Banks does not like being held and was incredibly pissed that I had foiled his big boy breakaway. Problem solved.

Problem number 400: Charles did not have the ability to let me back into my apartment. So there I stood, locked out, flailing around with a livid cat that weighs as much as a fat toddler, but comes fully equipped with 20 unmitigated claws which he was very actively sinking in and around my body.  I channeled my inner Kevin McCallister. I had to save the day. Charles shined that flashlight like a pro while I death gripped the cat that was death gripping me with 20 angry nails in unison and used one arm to grab on to the balcony and hoist one leg over. It took quite a bit of struggling, but eventually I was able to swing my second leg over and return the cat to the plush life he had foolishly considered walking away from.

I spent the rest of the night scrubbing a charred pan, smelling the sweet smell of burnt chicken, and patting alcohol-soaked cotton balls into my battle wounds.  If that is not a message from the universe that I’m not cut out for cooking, I don’t know what it is. Since then, it has been said that I can merely “assemble” food. I can put turkey and cheese and mustard on bread and cut it down the middle, and that is probably the most extensive thing I’m able to throw together. Even still, I don’t think I’ve made a sandwich in years. It’s too involved. There is no time for sandwich making.

Four years later, I have yet to attempt a meal involving a stove or oven. Life is hard you guys, but four years of soul searching later, I’ve found the answer for anyone who shares my inability to embrace adulthood in the kitchen: pizza delivery. Specifically from Lucifer’sif you live in Los Angeles. You can thank me later.



Hottie with a Sweaty Body: Hot Yoga Is Hell

•July 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Yesterday was a very normal day for me. By that I mean I started it off with healthy-eating intentions and got completely derailed by 11am, as it always does. Frosted Mini Wheats spiraled into a red velvet cupcake in a sad amount of time. I tried to recover with a healthy lunch from Whole Foods, but again, my intentions of carrying out a kale salad and soup fell apart when I walked by a giant slice of cornbread. First of all, why do they even sell this? It’s not normal. But it is very delicious. Second of all, what kind of self-respecting professional woman walks to the checkout line with a half-pound chunk of cornbread? I have no shame. It’s fine. I love cornbread. Judge me. I’m already judging you. Unfortunately, the corn bread catalyzed a “there goes today” attitude and by 3pm I was 1.5 more cupcakes deep (or two if we apply the honesty policy).

At that point, I decided it was time to take charge of my life and rear-end and hastily signed up for a month-long unlimited yoga pass at a studio walking-distance from my house. I even reserved a spot at a 7:15pm class that same evening. The website had notes on studio etiquette and what to bring (a reusable water bottle, a mat, and two towels). You also have to arrive 15 minutes early to ensure you will have a space in the studio. Of course I sped home from work not leaving enough time to walk to the studio, quickly changed, grabbed a mat and one towel (seemed more reasonable than 2), and forgot my water at home. All in all, pretty status quo.

Problem #1 was that the studio is on one of the busiest streets in Los Angeles, and you cannot stop in the far right lane or use the parking meters till 7pm, the approximate time I must arrive and claim my spot in the studio lest I lose my space. All other street parking is permit only and I don’t have a permit so I hung out on a corner, ready to take a swift right turn at approximately 6:59pm to claim my spot right in front of the studio. Genius! When I went to execute this plan, it became clear that 52 people had my same brilliant idea and had already taken every meter on the block. These yogis are ruthless and tactful and clearly a step ahead of me. Panic ensued. This studio is so LA that they have valet, but based on principal I refuse to valet my car unless I’m under extreme hunger-related desperation and it is literally my only option. I circled around again, considered giving up (sign from the yogaverse!), but then I found a spot about a block away on the opposite side of the street, made an illegal U-turn and pulled in. I rushed out of my car with my belongings and fed every last quarter I had into the meter before reading the sign that you don’t have to pay these meters after 4pm. Excellent.

Dare I interrupt someone’s chakra flow with my impending death.

My next hurdle was that there was no time for me to walk to a crosswalk. As soon as I had my yoga mat under my arm, I felt a sudden and super unwarranted sense of self-importance and chose to walk through 6 highly-congested lanes of traffic to get into the studio.

Upon my arrival, a woman at the front desk asked me if I had ever been to hot yoga before. This is when s**t got real. I failed to realize that I had signed up for a HOT yoga class. I have never attended one and I had no intention of doing so. I don’t tolerate a lot of things well, one of them being excessive heat, and I certainly don’t pay money for that kind of torture. My concerns of sudden death were real, so I asked the woman what to do if I didn’t think I could make it through the entire class. Her response? “You should lie down on your mat and try to stay as still as possible.” As in, she would rather have me die alone on my yoga mat, sheathed in my own sweat, than have me so rudely interrupt a course by politely excusing myself during a possible heart attack. Dare I interrupt someone’s chakra flow with my impending death. Nevertheless, I had committed myself to face this journey. I set down my things in a very naked locker room and stepped into the studio. It was not just sort of hot, it was like sauna f**king hot, worse than Palm Springs, worse than Chicago in August, worse then hell itself;  these yoga people are actually trying to reach nirvana or die. As soon as I rolled my mat out and claimed my space, I immediately removed my shirt. There were all sorts of bodies there, so my cupcake-generated curves were in good company. The spacious studio was filled to sardine capacity by the time the class began, and by that time I was fully ready to leave.

Now, both the instructor and the music were radical. But you know what’s not radical? A 105-degree room filled with bodies in motion. Within three minutes the very limber and advanced-looking yogi man directly to my left looked like he had literally just ascended from the ocean. I was doing yoga next to Poseidon basically. This man was dripping in perspiration. I guess three minutes of heavy breathing really got him going, since that was all we had done up until that point. It took about 10 minutes until his sweat began to form a puddle next to his mat, and this puddle started creeping in my general direction. At this point I began thinking a lot about germs and the fact that I was stuck in the middle of a possible cesspool of illnesses. I knew at that moment this class could kill me in more ways than one.  Next to Poseidon was a remarkably furry man, particularly in the chest region.  When I became fixed in some sort of tilted position with my neck craned in his direction for about a minute, I spent every second of that minute watching a sweat waterfall cascade through his sprawling metropolis of chest fur and fly off his nips like some sort of coruscating man-fountain. By this I mean he looked like he was lactating uncontrollably.

I’m certain at least two people were having orgasmic experiences during the course of the class based on the endless and gratuitous verbally hyperbolic exhales they emitted. You have to literally give no sh**s whatsoever to make the kind of noises I heard that evening.  These are the kind of  noises that belong only A. in the bedroom,  or B. in the audience at an Oprah’s Favorite Things taping. I believe at least two other people were, like me, on the verge of passing away due to heat exhaustion based on their grunting and general inability to breathe in and out without making struggling noises.

This class went on for what felt like hours. When it finally ended I flew out of there sopping wet and in a state of mental disorientation. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not mad at yoga. I grew up dancing so yoga comes pretty naturally to me, and I have had more medical professionals recommend I take up this practice than I can count (anxiety, anyone?). I’m just simply incapable of focusing. I don’t understand meditation, channeling my thoughts, deep breathing, or anything that requires a modicum of patience. So the yoga struggle is more of a personal problem than anything else. And a heat problem. And a lack of hydration problem. I detest water. I have no idea how I even sweat because I live like a desert camel who loves dessert and consumes water only by accident if it happens to be part of another beverage I enjoy. I couldn’t spit on the street if you paid me. Nothing there. So it’s actually a miracle that I attended this class without drinking any water before, during, or after the class, and am alive to write about it.

Anyway, I was elated to make it back across all four lanes to my car alive. Just as I approached my vehicle, someone pulled up next to me and asked if I was leaving. I was holding my shirt, keys, phone, a heavy mat, MY ONE towel, tugging on the car door in a repeated/confused/half-naked manner. I WAS indeed leaving, but thanks to hot yoga, I did not know where my vehicle was. I’m not sure how I found my car or made it home without a DUI, but I did, and the first thing I did was go back to the studio website to confirm that not just the class I attended, but the entire studio, was hot yoga only. And I had no cupcakes to share the news with.

Then my boyfriend mysteriously missed my call and I texted him immediately, threatening to light him and the Staples Center on fire, assuming he avoided my call due to a sports-related telecast. Namaste/Love and Light/FML. Maybe next time I will learn how to read a website before throwing down a credit card, but I have my reasonable doubts.

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Gag Me: 33 Bites from Hell

•July 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Let me start by saying that my boyfriend Mike is the most wonderful man in all of the seven kingdoms, who has the sort of superhuman patience uncommonly found yet absolutely necessary to date a pain in the ass of my caliber. I’m not mean or combative or prone to causing scenes in public, but I am the type of girl who’s constantly apologizing for things I say or do when I am hungry (otherwise known as “hangry”).

After months of gathering data, science has decided that my pain-in-the-ass-ness reaches its weekly apex on Friday nights. Here’s why: by Friday I am usually highly physically and emotionally drained, and all I typically want to do is assume a supine position on a soft piece of furniture and fat load like a bear going into hibernation for winter. Relationships are about compromise, so many Friday nights I find myself driving from deep in the valley where I work to Mike’s place in Manhattan Beach. This is about a 30-mile stretch of combined 101 and 405 freeway purgatory. When I say that I would rather do repeat root canal sessions at the dentist for hours on end than sit in this hot gridlocked mess for 1.5 hours on Friday nights, I am dead serious that I would choose the former on any occasion.

A month or two ago, Mike invited me to go with him to a progressive restaurant that serves 25+ course meals with a different menu at every sitting down in Orange County. I warned him in advance that I may not be the best candidate for this sort of situation, but he assured me that when he went it was mainly a fun twist on food, like fancy PB & J. I’m not mad at peanut butter or jelly, so I obliged. By the time I made it to him I was already suffering from LBS (low blood sugar) and had another hour in the car before we could eat. Now, although he is aware that I subsist mainly on Chai Tea Lattes, muffins and other bread products, we haven’t really been in a “scary” food situation yet (meaning, before this night out he was not aware of the extent of my unwavering and expansive food phobias). By the time we made it to the restaurant, I was hangry as all hell and on the penultimate edge of being able to remain pleasant and behave myself during a classy and expensive meal.

As soon as we sat down, an invisible IV drip of sheer panic started to permeate through my veins. The 20 or so diners sat at a long, curved bar, and the restaurant was intimately laid out so the chefs would prepare each course right in front of us, meaning we would be served face-to-face and everyone in the kitchen basically had an up-close and personal vantage point from which they could watch diners revel in their food creations. I had a napkin, a small, rustic wood plate/slab/platter/thing and tongs – end story. Food was to be consumed in whole as it was given out; there was no “clearing” of plates after each course.

When they introduced the theme of the night, I knew it was over for me before it even began. “I FOUND THE WORLD SO NEW” was the theme of our not-25-but-33 course meal that would last approximately three hours (you read that correctly). I quickly surveyed the room for a mea culpa sword to fall on as it seemed easier than putting myself and Mike through the next three hours. I didn’t find one, so I considered torching myself with one of the chef’s instruments, but that seemed hard, so instead, I sat in silence and waited for my first of 33 courses.

The rest of the night went something like this:

1. MIYAZAKI A5 WAGYU – This was described as a very expensive cut of marbled Japanese beef. People were visibly excited. The second it hit my fancy wood slab I promptly clamped it with my tongs and dropped it in front of Mike. He was a little concerned that I wouldn’t eat a cut of beef, but was also excited because that meant more for him.

2. ALAN BENTON’S BACON – Again, instead of a delicacy, I simply saw a fat blob of fat. I took a “bite” mainly to appease Mike and flung the rest of it into a nearby bowl for discarded food items. Strike 2.

3. AKASHI OUTSIDE SKIRT STEAK – I don’t remember this course other than Mike asking me, “Do you not eat steak?” When I replied I do NOT, the color started to run out of his face. All it took was 3 strikes for him to realize he was dating a monster. Onto his plate my food went.

4. PICKLED BEET & PICKLED PLUM – Finally, a vegetarian option. I am not a fan of pickled anything, but I also did not want to get dumped on the spot and stranded in Orange County for being an ingrate, so I shoved this in my mouth, swallowed and smiled. I can do this!

5. OCEAN TROUT BELLY – Absolf**kinlutely never f**king ever would I ever put this in my mouth. Not even for money. Yet another nutriment gift for Mike. At this point, I was getting increasingly anxious and embarrassed, and the woman sitting to my right turned to me and asked if I ate seafood. I replied I did not. Then she asked me if I ate meat, and I told her “not really.” She started laughing and replied, “This is going to be the best/worst meal of your life”. Excellent news.

6. FANCY NORI MICROSPONGE – This was described as some sort of cake, but unfortunately it looked like cake you would only feed to a literal sea monster. It was basically seaweed sponge cake, so F*** everyone. I smelled this several times and determined I could not eat it despite its vegetarian nature. This is the first item I dropped into my lap when no one was looking.

7. BINCHO LAMB BELLY – Again with the damn belly. WHY GOD! I don’t do lamb and I don’t do belly! I don’t care if bacon is back fat (which some of it apparently is), just call it bacon and feed it to me because bacon is delicious but I don’t need the details. TMI. No lamb. No belly. Ever. I don’t know what I did with this but it disappeared all right. Course 7 had me almost in tears, and I think Mike knew this would all end poorly if he gave me any sh*t, so he began coaching me through the meal at this point along with my newfound friend to my right. I knew I had 26 more courses of mostly terrifying meats ahead of me; I was already starving, and had nowhere to run. This was supposed to be a romantic evening and instead I felt like I was on one of those messed up Montel Williams episodes where they force people to face ridiculous phobias like q-tips and cotton balls and they all run away shrieking in fear.

8. MAX’S CARROT FRITTER – Finally, another vegetarian course. I am so NOT afraid of carrots that I ate Mike’s carrot too. Just to show him how good of a sport I can be.

9. A MORE INTERESTING PIECE OF HALIBUT – In case you’re wondering, this was a fancy title for the Halibut fin. Absolutely not.


11. DUCK DUCK DUMPLING – This was the course when the chef and sous chefs began to catch on to my tricks. Mike’s friend to his left at the bar ate his dumpling and thoroughly enjoyed it, so Mike passed his dumpling to his friend. I reached down and grabbed the friend’s empty dumpling serving spoon, placed it in front of me and shoved my dumpling in front of Mike to make him look bad for once in his life. Unfortunately, several sous chefs witnessed my action and were not amused to say the least.

12. DUCK DUCK BREAST – Duck ducked into my napkin.

13. THE BEST PART OF THE CHICKEN – …FINALLY!!! Something I can wrap my brain around eating. Chicken. I got this…until I saw it. There was something amiss here. When I asked WHAT this “best” part of the chicken was, the response I got was that “it really gets your blood pumping,” followed by a nefarious chuckle. These Sick F**ks pulled twenty-something chicken hearts from twenty-something chickens and skewered them like it was no big. The chef walked right up to me and asked me to eat it. I don’t really know what I said. I was so nervous I wasn’t speaking clear English but I was trying to tell him to stop pressuring me and I couldn’t do it when he was looking. When he turned around, I also shoved this under the bar into my napkin but it didn’t even matter because one of the sous chefs was watching anyway and I’m pretty sure he wanted to remove and eat my heart after that.

14. SHROOM-SCHLAGER CONSOME – This was pretty much a lukewarm, liquid mushroom shot with gold flecks mixed in. I tried to sip it down but my throat began to close and I thought I might die, so I swished the tiny glass around to make it look like I had done some damage (brilliance epitomized) and shoved it to the edge of the bar.

15. BORA BORA TUNA BREAKFAST – Another present that landed itself on Mike’s plate. He’s a lucky boy.

16. BEEF TENDON CHICHARON – I don’t recall this course, probably because I was drunk on humiliation at this point in time.

17. TYLER’S TINY EMPANADAS – These tiny empanadas were filled with curried apricot, so I ate both mine and Mike’s, as he was nearing maximum capacity.

18. RUDE AND UNREASONABLE CHICKEN WING – Again, I thought I could take this one down even though I hate chicken wings, because I was desperate. If you’re wondering where RUDE and UNREASONABLE came into play, it was because they pretty much sautéed these wings in fire ant sting poison before serving them to us. Cue coughing, watering eyes, and audible complaints. Always a lady.

19. CACIO E PEPE CHURROS – Another thing I did not want to eat, but I was willing to eat almost anything vegetarian just so the night wasn’t a total fail.

20. RISOTTO MILANESA CHIPS – See comment above. These were like rice cakes make out of risotto. It felt weird and wrong, but I ate it anyway.

21. HOKKAIDO UNI AND LARDO CROSTINI – I was running out of room in my napkin about the same time Mike was running low on his ability to eat double of every course, so I dropped this into my jacket pocket with the decision to deal with that hot mess later.

22. FANCY GIRL POTATO – This was covered in caviar. Death by napkin.


24. MARGARITA AIR PIZZA – This was also kind of curious, despite my steadfast love for pizza, but it was vegetarian and had a bread component so I ate my air pizza along with anyone else’s I could reach.

25. ANTS ON A LOG – This was described as celery root, peanut butter powder and bbq raisins but I have no recollection of this course probably because I was actually dead at this point.

26. ALAN BENTON’S COUNTRY HAM – Zero recollection. Clearly blacked out on self-abasement. I am sure this ended up in my napkin, my purse, my jacket, OR Mike’s jacket that I was wearing. Maybe even the woman’s jacket next to me. Nobody’s anythings were safe.

27. SUNCHOKE CHIPS – I don’t know what the hell these were but I ate them.

28. FORBIDDEN FLATBREAD – So, this was fun. The chef had clearly had enough of my presence, and told me specifically that this was a “pear butter and cocoa crumb” mousse on flatbread. I don’t know why I believed a word of this, but I took a bite and instead of pear-chocolate it tasted like demon vomit. Those dirty, lying bastards fed me some sort of foie gras mousse on a piece of flatbread. Pretty good revenge on someone viewed as basically desecrating your entire night of work I guess. If only I could have exorcised that demon right back up my esophagus into his face, I would have.

29. SHRIMP SCAMP A LAMP – Cute. I don’t remember this either.

30. MAX’S PISTACHIO CUP – Dessert. Tears of happiness. Swallowed whole.

31. CHESTNUT SOFT SERVE – F**k chestnuts. I don’t even like them. But I ate all of the chestnuts within reach.

32. PINK GRAPEFRUIT DESSERT – I ate both mine and Mike’s.

33. CHOCOLATE BUDINO BLAST – Took it down along with everyone else’s I could reach, just so I could finish strong.

We finally left with my head hung low, and I also stole my napkin for obvious reasons, which I had to discard into a public trashcan upon our departure. In conclusion, I basically got an A in desserts and an F in 29 other categories, which is pretty much how I live my life day-to-day. Sugar and simple carbs.

At least I’m consistent.

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Crypt Keeper in Training

•May 9, 2013 • 1 Comment

For the last year or so, I’ve developed an obsession with aging, mainly how to avoid it. Last April I went to a baby shower and the gift bags included a product called Boob Tube that allegedly aids in bust firming. It’s supposed to make your boobs look “firmer, fitter, glowing, more dewy and youthful” to be exact. This product’s mere existence was enough to make me believe that I must make Operation Dewy Breasts a lasting routine in my daily life, but after applying this product two to three times a day for several months, the idea of continuing it for the rest of my life was too much to handle. That and my breasts were not A) defying gravity or B) as glowing as the product suggested, which is simply misleading.  


Most recently, I’ve had a heated internal debate about whether I was born with eyelids not ideal for winged eyeliner and I never knew it, or if I have developed droopy eyelids due to old age.  And if some professional tells me there’s nothing wrong with my eyelids, I take that person for a liar who’s just saying whatever is necessary to spare me the weight of the truth. My parents as my witnesses, my capacity to obsess is something to behold. I can remember plotting to find money to buy Vita-K treatment cream for what I perceived as spider veins at the age of thirteen, and sitting by a lake applying/applying/applying it in hopes of making it go away.  As of late, my obsession with finding the Fountain of Youth and making it my bitch has become my nightmare. Unfortunately, it’s not found in cheese fries or using baby oil in place of sunscreen, which I learned from my friends in Florida and is about as effective as using tinfoil as a sun deterrent. Behaving like a responsible adult who wants to take measures to fight the harsh blow of time is just one of several major struggles in my life, including my inability to eat healthily or exercise in the absence of force.


Anyway, back to old age.  Even though people who follow me on social media constantly ask if I am an intern (nice), this train is heading straight for the big 2-8. Sometimes I think hitting puberty at the ripe age of eighteen has its benefits, although my boob-less/menstruation-less sixteen-year-old self will always beg to differ.


So what’s the big deal, you ask? Given my lifestyle, I have many qualifiers as to why I should look like the guy from Tales of the Crypt by the end of the week.


Below is just the shortlist of reasons why I’m totally fucked:


1. I detest water.  I don’t think I have actively finished a bottle of water in three or more years.  I’m not even sure how I’m alive to be honest. Water makes me angry.  Not only that but Diet Coke makes me happier than all the babies, tiny animals and rainbows in the world combined, yet it contains things like methanol which allegedly metabolizes into formaldehyde. That cannot be good for an aging woman.


2. I hate washing makeup off my face and didn’t even do so consistently till I turned 26 and got all-white bedding and I thought I could wash my pillows less if they weren’t covered in glitter and mascara. You could probably find China at the bottom of my pores after digging out all the dirt that’s been backed into them for the past decade.


3. This is old news but I prefer to get by on a diet mainly consisting of candy, French fries, cookies, pizza, and Yogurtland (yes this is its own category).  So, by this I mean grease on grease on sugar on carbs and I don’t think this ever did anything good for anyone.


4. I make faces constantly that involve furrowing my brow. I know there’s Botox for this but my 6th grade teacher scarred me for life with death-by-Botulism stories that resulted in an unnecessary fear of canned sodas and food for several years, and I don’t really want to voluntarily fill my face with it if at all possible.


5. I rub the shit out of my eyes in the shower, because how do you not?


6. I spent five months in Florida in 2011, during which I laid in the sun approximately 6 hours a day, 11 days a week, hating on sunscreen, because what else do you do in Florida? Melanoma fail.


In addition, I’m a woman who likes instant gratification. With antiaging products, how in the hell are you supposed to know if your antiaging method is working until you’re actually OLD? So I spend money and make decisions now and hope that I can thank my 27-year-old self for choosing the right regimen 27 years before I’ll know whether it worked? I also resent how complicated and involved of a process this is. I don’t want to give a shit about things like free radicals. It sounds more like a band than some rogue intangibles I’m supposed to fight with vitamin c. 


The news just keeps getting worse; I thought that because I spend most of my time in an office staring at a computer screen that SPF was not a necessary morning component. I’ve recently come to learn that harmful rays can penetrate windows and ALSO computer screens and lights contain rays that can ruin your face. On top of that, apparently daily sunscreen needs to go all down the boobs too, and it needs to be reapplied every two hours. I’m sorry, I just didn’t envision a time in my life when it would be necessary to slather on SPF in a dark office every two hours because my computer has become a threat to the longevity of my face. I’ve also been told not to sleep on my side recently, which about ruined my day. Excuse me but I thought sleeping on your back was for old men and pregnant women. The woman who does my eyebrows demanded that I put castor oil on my brows before bed because apparently we have a finite amount of eyebrow hairs in our lifespans (who knew?), and I don’t go easy on it.  Pair that with several types of lotion and a generous dab of retinol and I roll into bed looking like I’ve just dipped my face in a vat of bacon grease on the nightly.  


At this point, if some professional told me that the secret to looking 21 forever was sleeping with a taco salad on my face, I’d do it proudly.  Anyway, I’m currently researching sunscreen on right now so I gotta hit the road.


Talk soon.


Mrs. Havisham



Things I Learned from Game of Thrones

•May 4, 2013 • 2 Comments

Even though I was the last one on board, I finally committed to watching Game of Thrones. Now that I powered through the entire series thus far like a BOSS in about two weeks flat, I’m in a true funk, struggling to find a purpose in my life. I despise being restricted to weekly programming. It makes me feel like a peasant. Anyway, I learned things:

1. If someone annoys you, it is acceptable to kill that person using a variety of methods.

2. “Cunt” has been a popular female compliment for ages.

3. You can be a dragon mom without actually having to birth a dragon from the vagina.

4. If you conceive a child with your brother, it may not be mentally challenged, but it may be a very bad boy.

5. Dead people walk, they don’t run, and sometimes they spare fat people.

6. Brothers and sisters do it from behind.

7. When people you like die, you cry a little and then go kill more people.

8. Cremation is the way to go if you want to see your homies again.

9. If your brother is an asshole, you could be gifted to a giant man-horse and forced to have frequent public intercourse.  You may start to like this man-horse.

10. Attempted murder is forgiven by follow-up sexual advances in caves.


I’m Back! And I’m On A Diet

•April 1, 2013 • 3 Comments

If you’ve ever read this blog, you’re aware that I’ve been known to exaggerate from time to time. It’s not actually my fault, as the “Pinyan Exaggeration” is a very real trait that was passed along to me by my mother’s side of the family. Anyway, this has been building for months on end, but I’ve reached a point where my food consumption has actually been more or less limited to three things: bread, cheese and candy (not necessarily in that order). Last weekend, I had pizza for dinner Friday night, pizza for lunch Saturday afternoon, followed by pizza for dinner AGAIN that night (and lots of cookie snacks in between). Sunday was basically a fat assery free-for-all that involved an unmitigated bread basket plundering, chased by various types of candy and probably two pounds of macaroni and cheese.

I decided last night (or at some point between slices) that I needed to remove the poison from my diet and do a little “reset”. By this I mean I’ve begun to feel the sting of a diet fit for an unrestricted six-year-old, and it’s weighing heavily on my spirits (LITERALLY). In knowing that I won’t want to be alive if I have to make it through an entire week without pizza, I tried to be reasonable and challenge myself to five days without bread, cheese or candy. This seemed simple and not too restrictive until I realized donuts are probably a bread product and therefore not a suitable breakfast choice.


DAY  1

7:47am – I verbally communicate a desire to my coworker Jaclyn to eliminate bread, cheese & candy for the week. She, In turn, expresses concern about what I will eat without my only known food groups as an option.

9:06am – I greet our intern, Matthew, outside the office. He is holding some sort of a cheesecake/meringue surprise from a neighboring office. I reiterate my intention to cut out the aforementioned products. His response cuts deep: “But it’s raining. Diets don’t count when it’s raining.” He says this dryly and walks away, leaving me feeling like if I don’t start my new diet then nothing is really lost (pun intended). I’m still full from yesterday’s feast(s) so I decide to keep on truckin’.

9:39am – Confused and not sure what I am supposed to eat, I attempt to make a pot of coffee fit for four people even though I will be the only one partaking. Terrifyingly I find we are out of coffee filters. I make a desperate sprint across the hall to another office and ask if I can PLEASE borrow an emergency filter for my emergency situation. Happily they comply, but their coffee filter looks different from the ones we use. I am more or less a fraudulent coffee drinker; I’ve only ever made it at this office, and I will drink it usually for a week or two at a time, remember I hate it because it tastes like shit and it makes me an angry person, and move on to something else (like Diet Snapple). Anyway, I’m desperate so I shove the filter in and do my thing.

9:53am – I begrudgingly drink my coffee with probably like 11 tablespoons of Sugar Free French Vanilla creamer and 3 Splendas (although quite possibly carcinogenic, I deem Splenda exempt from candy category). My hope is that the hunger suppression this coffee brings me will be of more value in my day than the anger I will inevitably feel as soon as I’m done drinking it.

11:00am— After swinging by my boss’s house for a quick meeting, I take one of her daughters to Noah’s for a bagel. I feel sad about this. This may actually be my Hell.

11:05am — We also go to Jamba Juice. I recognize that I don’t want it but it feels safe. I consider a nondairy option but I feel peer pressure to commit so I get my usual: Caribbean Passion Light (cause I’m healthy like that).

12:05pm — I am bored and possibly hungry so I eat a mango snack from Trader Joes (the actual fruit, not the bullshit dried mango pieces that might as well be just actually sold in the candy section).

12:30pm – I place a sensible lunch order of a fancy salad consisting of lettuce, carrots, sunflower seeds, mozzarella cheese, avocado, cucumber & shredded chicken. Will power is my bitch!

1:11pm – I realize halfway through tearing up this bad boy that I’ve already failed to meet my goal for even half a day. I ORDERED A SALAD WITH A CHEESE TOPPING. AND I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IT. I feel cheated. By me.

1:25pm – I ponder whether “cookies” fall into the “candy” category. I decide yes, they do. Life seems hard.

2:14pm – I consider eating a cookie anyway. I then realize the only person I am hurting is myself.

2:29pm – I purchase a giant fountain Diet Coke with lemon to fill the void. My happiness level peaks at this point in time.

3:25pm – I vocalize a strong desire for a cookie or multiple cookies (again) to my coworker Liz. I decide (upon her approval) to take a handful (make that two) of peanut butter filled pretzels. I let this one slide after careful consideration solely because the bag came from Trader Joe’s and I think somewhere on there it said the word “natural”.

4:40pm – I’m aware that I hate life. My Diet Coke is gone by now and I have nothing to look forward to.

5:15pm – I am already contemplating how to get through dinner. My typical move is to threaten to not actually eat dinner, which I then usually succeed at doing for several hours. Then, when I am starving and unable to make an informed decision, I do something counterproductive like eat four pieces of toast or six popsicles or like two apples and a handful of miniature cookies. It’s fine. Anyway, I’m nervous.

7:00pm – I narrow it down to Whole Foods or Starbucks for dinner. Whole Foods seems hard, and most importantly, dangerous. I’m a loose cannon. I don’t trust myself in a buffet situation.  Not for one second.

7:15pm – I purchase the one and only thing I have ever ordered to drink at Starbucks: Grande Soy Chai with sugar free vanilla, as hot as it can be legally made. And a banana for good measure. I’m feeling hostile (otherwise known as “hangry”) and my boyfriend is being fresh, so I remove my banana from the peel and attempt to hit him in the face on two separate occasions with the banana peel. (Bonus information: he is terrified in a truly phobic way of fruit, which makes it even more fun to use fruit as a fear-inducing tactic when necessary).

8:36pm – I complete my usual wind-down routine of taking a dramatically long bath during which I continue to work from my phone and Instagram my ass off since I only break into my feed during the day to post various animal photos. I am aware that I am still hungry, but I’m not feeling like a problem solver. I am no hero in the kitchen, and the only food assembling I am capable of usually boils down to snack packs of Ritz crackers and string cheese, neither of which are safe as this point in my journey. I recall that I purchased turkey at some point, so I go to the fridge to investigate. I open my deli turkey bag, put a small amount into my mouth, check and see that I purchased this turkey seven whole days ago, deem it unsafe to eat, and cough it back out like a regurgitating mother bird into the trash can.

8:49pm – I decide I’ve had enough. I brush my teeth and even throw down on a little mouthwash so I’m not tempted to lose control and go for the Milton’s Multigrain (which makes a superb slice or nine of toast). At this point I realize as per usual, I have not had a sip of water today. Rather than do anything about it, I instead employ my typical irrational justification, which is that water is obviously involved in the making of both coffee AND Diet Coke, and therefore trace amounts have surely entered my system.

Is this my darkest hour?

More to come.

Peace, love and pepperoni.


Extremely Justifiable Bitch

•July 27, 2012 • 1 Comment

Twice this week, comments in observation of my “serious” expression came my way. First, after parking my car in the garage at my apartment, I walked to the elevator and was told by a complete stranger that I look “very serious behind the wheel”. I told him I had a seriously long day, a serious commute home, had seriously not eaten anything but candy in at least three weeks, and in all seriousness, have killed men for less-serious comments.

The next day, my boss’s chef asked me why I always look so serious when I charge into the kitchen, and compared my demeanor to a “drill sergeant” looking to “bust people doing something wrong” although I “look really good today”. So basically I’m a culinary gestapo, only lip glossed and on heels. I’ll be sure to add that to my list of qualifiers for socialization.

Anyway, I’ve been a real bitch this week but after realizing that it’s completely justified, I am ready to begin thinking about the healing process. In the past few weeks, Meg (roommate) and I started noticing some suspect stray bugs; then, as if overnight, we had a full throttle infestation. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a pervasive, bang-happy breed of roaches who apparently do nothing but f*** and eat all day long. Thus, I have been living in a veritable roach brothel. Wednesday night, Meg and I removed every single item from every single drawer and cabinet in the kitchen and stacked everything in the living room in preparation for round one of exterminator execution. I came home from a long day of work on Thursday to a graveyard in the kitchen and note that read, “Please allow 10-14 days for maximum results. You may notice more insect activity after the service is performed”. OH, so basically it said “H.A.G.S in the trenches taking grenades alone because your roommate has taken the pets and abandoned you during this difficult time. PS, for the next 10-14 days, F*** YOUR LIFE”. Our building management also said we would need to do this once a week for a month, which means I will be wearing protective gear and sleeping in a capsule for up to six weeks.

In the last 24 hours, I have successfully killed five roaches IN MY BEDROOM because as expected, they are running for their god damn lives, conveniently directly into my personal space. Two of them have narrowly escaped my unrelenting hand of judgment. And I have a message for you two wise guys: HEAR ME NOW. I will annihilate you and everything you have ever loved. I will kill your wife, your children, your cousins and your pets. I will laugh as you expire and I will wear an array of upbeat colors to your funeral (which will be your long journey from the dustpan into your final resting place at the bottom of a trash bag with all of your closest fiends). You are dead to me. No, really. PSS LOL. Sincerely, The Undertaker’s Stepmother

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go engage in a shower scene not unlike this:



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