If your quarantine is losing its thrill, here is a list of fun activities to try to invigorate it:

• Start a new job, especially if you’re prone to anxiety. You’re getting too comfortable. You’ll never achieve greatness if you don’t keep pushing yourself. And don’t sleep either.

• Take a pregnancy test. Whether you’ve had sex recently or not. I mean hear me out. If you humor me and see a negative result, you’ll automatically get that signature surge of dopamine, boosting your mood, leaving you floating around your apartment in a fog of bliss for at least two full hours. If it’s positive, well then that would also be exciting just in a different way.

• Do something dumb with your funds. I’m not spending money on all of the usual things so I might as well pay much, much more to do something like sign up for a monthly flower delivery, or pay for a dance class subscription that not only have I never used before but I never intend to. Get the $12 pint of ice cream from the grocery store. Wildcard, bitches.

• Sew your own face mask: I went all fancy because even in arts and crafts I feel the need to beat other people. It has a floral trim and it’s pleated so it contours nicely to the curvature of my adorable face. I don’t wear eye makeup on my daily morning walks just so the neighborhood doesn’t get even sicker from the sheer sexiness.

• Go all in on baths. I’ve always had this picture in my head of what a bath is supposed to look like, mostly pieced together from movies and TV. There are supposed to always be enough bubbles to camouflage the presumably naked body underneath them. You need at least six candles, and the lights need to be out. You need to have a towel under your neck that’s somehow weirdly is the perfect size for this purpose. My baths usually start by me filling the bath halfway up accidentally with scalding water and then trying to cool it down by turning it to ice water for JUST long enough. When it works, you have that optimal temperature for about 7-9 seconds before it hops on the lukewarm bullet train to freezing (incidentally my band’s first album title will be Lukewarm Bullet Train to Freezing.) And then you think, do I run new, scalding water into it AND turn on the drain for a minute? I mean it sounds wasteful but at that point I realize I already used two full bottles of bubble bath because that’s what Jennifer Garner implied that I should be doing and I don’t want it to go to waste. At some point, I stopped chasing the long bath. Instead, I embraced the shorter bath, a one-shot deal, where you fully enjoy those 7-9 seconds and then accept your fate. Either way, let me tell you- bath oils. You’re welcome. They’re like bath bombs, but they don’t do the whole fizzy thing. And I know what you’re gonna say, the fizzy thing is one of only two fun parts, right? The other one being that it turns your water a fun color? You’re right. But bath bombs are showy, they’re the guy you’re casually sleeping with. Bath oils are your boyfriend who you met at work, but he’s in a different department so it’s perfect and also he makes a respectable amount of money but still less than you. Perfect. My skin, severely, perpetually, neglected, soaks up all the amazing smelling (if not fizzy) oils and when I get out, I legitimately just sit on the couch in a towel smelling myself for like five full minutes. I highly recommend it. In conclusion, as you dim the lights and turn on the latest episode of your fav podcast where they smoke weed and talk about 90 Day Fiancé, and go to light your candles, just be careful. It only took two to burn down Britney’s home gym.

• Make cupcakes and frosting from scratch, and freeze them individually so you can always have eat a cupcake as an option of what to do next in quarantine.

• Don’t edit yourself on Netflix. Really get in there. Whatever tags you want. Foreign dramas, shows featuring a strong female lead who gets a rebellious haircut, rom-coms from the early aughts. Pick a hot actor from the era of Freddie Prinze Jr (or even FPJ himself) and watch everything he’s ever blessed with his participation. Put your shoes on and go outside for five minutes so you don’t forget the whole concept of the sun. Come back inside and watch Zach Braff’s oeuvre in its entirety.

• Poke an earring back through the second holes in your earlobes, and then one in the cartilage on your left ear. Now your ear is going to turn red and feel like it’s on fire for a few days, but eventually, your body always remembers that they were once holes (poetic, I know) and the pain will subside, probably. Now look in the mirror. You look so cool.

• Stew about your extended family’s insistence on being misinformed by some of the most transparently fake news articles on Facebook even though there’s nothing you can do about it.

• Develop a crush on anyone who says a single word to you via any platform.

• Take a spin through a bunch of people on Instagram you have no business stalking. Exes are really good for this, beautiful people you don’t actually know with amazing apartments are even better. Just pick whatever feels most emotionally crushing and drop a pin. I’m on my way.

• Spend one full afternoon using a lint roller to clean your largest area rug. You may question the choice of tool for the job but listen you might as well do everything the slow way these days.

• Take advantage of your programmable coffeemaker. You probably don’t use it nearly enough. There’s something outright magical about waking up to a full pot of coffee and not having to deal with whoever made it.

• Read about blue-chip investments and put a hilariously small amount of money into buying a minuscule stake in a $200K vintage Birkin Bag.

• Set new Google alerts for “student loan forgiveness” and “Andrew Cuomo girlfriend." Start checking your existing alerts again, which of course are “Fyre Festival” and “Anna Delvey” and “Amanda Bynes pregnant” and “Amanda Bynes face tattoo."

• At 7PM each evening, open your window and listen to other people clapping and cheering. It’s ok if you don’t join in. The whole thing is kind of embarrassing and you’re pretty sure the doctors would rather we just stop going outside for a while as thanks. But it’s always impressive when more than two people who don’t know each other manage to coordinate a group activity.

• Take a cupcake out of the freezer and let it defrost on the counter for an hour. Remind yourself that you’re a genius.

• At around 1PM each day, put one tablespoon of decaf instant coffee (trust me you’ve had enough regular today) one teaspoon of sugar, eight ounces of milk and one tablespoon of heavy cream in a martini shaker. Put a bunch of ice cubes in it. Shake it up. Pour it into a cute cup. You are basically European.

• You’re gonna want to embrace your hair as it is right now. Do not take a pair of scissors to it. It can be done well, but let’s be real- probably not by you. Order some bandanas online. Use this time to create a Pinterest board with pictures of all of the celebrities you’ll unrealistically ask to emulate in the future once your hairstylist gets her hands on you again. This is a time of thoughtful consideration and planning. This is not the time for bravery, people.

So a lot of you have been asking me about my skincare routine so just kidding literally no one has ever asked me that. But now that I think of it, why not? My skin is great. It was a bit touch and go when I was a teenager but now when I get a pimple it’s so unexpected and upsetting that I work from home. I take pictures of it and send to my closest friends for sympathy. 

My skin didn’t just get good. It didn’t just happen naturally. I spent years trying different cleansers and toners and whatever else but I was never fully satisfied. The ones that smelled good did jack shit, the best ones smelled like aged moss, or nuclear runoff (not sure how that smells but there’s no way it’s good.) And even if you could get over the smell, you couldn’t actually afford any of them. It’s funny that in the end, I ended up with a single, fragrance-free cleanser and a single moisturizer. I never got into the habit of wearing makeup to perfect my skin. I always suspected that if I put something on top of my unfortunately imperfect face it would almost definitely accentuate whatever I was trying to cover. Or, it would kind of work but I would look like how hot people always look like up close. You know what I’m talking about. No one wants that. So I just use Kiehl’s at night and sunscreen in the morning. That’s pretty much my skincare routine. Glad you asked.

Seriously, THOUGH, people have been asking a lot how I am. This makes all the sense in the world. Asking people how they are has gone from being just the thing you say to people as you try to remember who they are and why they seem to know you- these days, we mean it. I ask everyone, and I genuinely listen, and I have genuine sympathy for everyone. It’s almost a little much. I told our HR woman today that I was just “so glad to know that you’re safe.” What a weirdly intimate thing to say someone who is just trying to schedule your exit interview (more about that later.) But I want to know, I really do. A lot of it is because I want to compare to how I’m doing and make sure what I’m feeling is correct. To be honest, though, I don’t really have a good answer to the question myself... I definitely don’t have a concise one. But that’s why the internet exists. Lots of water and Kiehl’s, thank you.

I am… fine. I am a lot of things.

I am not really lonely yet. My apartment, whom I love, is not the biggest of spaces, but as an introvert who finally had enough money to live alone, I sort of feel like I trained for this. The fact that I love people so much and love spending time without them so much has always been hard for me to reconcile, but this situation is really confirming the validity of the Rose Paradox©.

I am thinking a lot about my relationships. There’s some distance right now that I’m trying to take advantage of. And I have to say, I’m feeling pretty proud of my rigorous selection process. Right now there is no one in my life who’s not making me happier/smarter/generally better on SOME level. A few may be people for me to just laugh about, but I count those as wins.

I am baking a lot (because I’m a girl and that is what we do)(so men will want us.) I haven’t been eating very much, definitely not more than before I was stuck here. But it is almost all butter and sugar. I’m pretty sure this very moment is the onset of my diabetes.

In my last venture out for supplies, I impulse purchased a small container of heavy cream. What the fuck do I need heavy cream for? A lot of things, it turns out. Whipped cream, chocolate mousse, some fancy-ass scrambled eggs. The assembly of food really has been a reliable activity for my hands while I half-listen to 90 Day Fiancé, or 90 Day Fiancé: Before The 90 Days or 90 Day Fiancé: Happily Ever After? [sic] or 90 Day Fiancé: The Other Way.

I am not doing a lot of hair washing. Having a pixie cut usually gives me some extra space to play when it comes to hair care. I’ve always known that my hair looks generally better when I don’t wash it however I’m realizing now that there is a very clear moment around the two-week mark when I go from Jennifer Lawrence to the oily itch monster and no one can look at you in a video chat situation because it could burn their eyes. I’m experiencing some minor superficial anxiety about my lack of access to hair cutting services as I don’t have any intention of trying to give myself a trim. I have a drawer full of bandanas that are already getting a lot of exercise.

I am disappointed that some things in my life can’t happen right now. I know I’m supposed to worry about the people directly affected by this and OF COURSE I do, but there’s also a part of me that’s just sad that I don’t get to ice skate, and go on dates, and hug people. If the last couple of weeks has taught me nothing else it’s that I can feel an alarming number of things at the exact same time.

I am starting a new job a week from Monday as Director of Creative Ops for Conde Nast Entertainment. I’m from a world where job offers are not offers per se, they’re just sort of life rafts, saving me from drowning in the sea of unemployment or the estuary of problematic bosses. 

For the first time, I received an offer without actually asking for one. I am flattered, and terrified. It’s an amazing opportunity and I’m so excited but I’m leaving the group of people I’ve seen every day for four and a half years. I am devastated about that, and I have moments where I feel kind of crazy for leaving. I know I’m doing the right thing, but it’s the first job I’ve left on good terms with absolutely everyone. There were bad parts at my current job, bad enough that I took a new offer seriously, but I always knew that none of the disorganization and frustrating level of opacity originated from anyone who was purposefully trying to be antagonistic.

I am particularly nervous about starting remotely, which is obviously not ideal, and my imposter syndrome is raging. In my head, I’ve convinced myself that I somehow tricked them into hiring me and that I’m not capable of doing the job. And then that makes me angry, because guys don’t ever seem to think things like that. I cycle through comforting myself with the following affirmations:

• If you’re not good at it, you don’t have to stay

• If you don’t like it you don’t have to stay

• Nothing means anything just chill out

• You have experience now

• You could maybe do this to a satisfactory result

I am a little worried about what this whole thing means for my mental health. I haven’t had any particularly bad flare ups of my anxiety in a while now. Those flares usually consist of fully debilitating fear that doesn’t let up, and let me tell you, I have not missed them. 

I think that part of this was getting to a point where I’m so comfortable at work that even when things are stressful there’s still just a general feeling of balance on a daily basis. I have to give my current company, eko, credit for that- some of the most amazing people I’ve ever met work there, and in such a cool range of ways. There are funny people, similarly neurotic people, movie buffs who get mad at you because you've seen like four movies but it’s like your thing now. People who will pay you to rabbit sit for them. Some of them have seen you cry. Some have seen you cry more than once. They were there when you stopped drinking two and a half years ago. People you can play music with. People who are incredibly good at a shocking number of different things (software development, animation, guitar, poetry, data science, writing…) People you can fight with and know that it will be immediately forgotten once you’ve hashed it out. They’re a family to me, but in a way where it’s not weird that I’ve dated some of them.

I am a little worried that without this group of people constantly uplifting me that I won’t be able to do it.

I am spending a lot of time on FaceTime, or the ever-popular Zoom. I have two friends who I check in with most mornings. I’m always wearing the same sweatshirt, my morning sweatshirt. I sleep in a deliberately freezing room so when I get out of bed in the morning my entire body seizes up. It stays that way for like a full ten minutes so I keep this sweatshirt, the softest one I’ve ever owned, close by. I gave the two friends the same sweatshirt for Christmas, so inevitably at least 2 of the 3 of us are wearing it. We’re all handling this thing in slightly different ways, though the general breakdown is about the same: 20% structured hobbies, 30% doing dishes, 10% naps, and I genuinely have no idea what any of us do with the other 40% but somehow we fill it. I put it in my calendar as executive time.

I am impressed with how creative the world is getting about converting in-person activities to a remote version. Last night I attended a live streaming comedy show. I mostly tuned in just to see how they could do this- I pictured an awkward, one-sided performance with short pauses after a joke during which the comedian can only wonder if it landed. And you know what? That’s exactly what it was like. I stuck with it for an hour during which I was in a full cringe. But the attitude and the work that it took to set something like this up really reminded me that people generally respond remarkably well to limitations.

I am exercising in weird ways, and probably not enough. Every few days I’ll google “30 minute HIIT workout” and randomly pick one. I’ve also been taking streaming hip-hop classes on a site called Steezy because I’m awkward and the whitest and can’t actually shake my ass without explicit instruction. But the inside of my apartment is a safe space, and after I have to push all my furniture against the walls (gaining three extra inches in all directions) I can usually get through combinations successfully and with only minor bruises to the shins.

I am mindlessly swiping on the apps a little bit. I guess the point would be to do some early-bird shopping, but people suck at apps, myself included, even when things are normal. If you take the possibility of meeting face to face any time soon away it really becomes a huge bummer for all involved.

I am making things. Yesterday while I was on a conference call I was listening intently, of course, but also I was sewing my own face mask. I tend to work my through sewing projects extremely slowly. I’ve been trying to force myself to pay more attention to the little details and not just accept that what I make will look a little shitty in the end. And if you’re not coordinated, that means slowing to a snail’s pace so that you don’t mess up something like cutting in a straight line.  For someone so type A in so many ways, I’m surprisingly open to the concept of mediocrity, and it’s a conscious goal of mine to hold myself to a higher standard of crafting.

This was my first exercise in pleats, and I gotta say it was a total success. Per the above, if I had messed it up, I would totally fine with whatever I ended up with as long as it covered my nose. So I was extra proud of myself for reading the directions and then scrolling up and reading them again. And it looks pretty amazing, especially if you’re about six feet away.

So I guess I’m good. No, better than that. I’m really good. I’m healthy (though I’m pretty sure a got a touch of the rona a couple of weeks ago) and my family is all fine. In a world where some of my close friends are facing lay-offs and widespread canceling of freelance gigs, I have two jobs. My rent is paid, and at my current rate of consumption I will never actually run out of 90 Day Fiancé franchise content. And my skin, as always, is looking great.

How are all of you?

I’m honestly kind of surprised that I made it to the end of this decade. I mean I’m generally healthy, low levels of the bad cholesterol and no chronic conditions that can’t be addressed with a regimen of prescription drugs and therapy. I’m also smart enough not to get killed in a dumb way. Like if someone who knew me tangentially were to read that I stepped off a cliff trying to use a selfie stick at the very least they would probably set down their paper and say to their spouse, “Huh” with genuine, if not overwhelming, surprise, before continuing on with their day.

But this fucking decade. The third full decade that I’ve been alive for, has been particularly… intense. In my life, but also in the world around me. Did you guys notice all the stuff happening? So much stuff.

So here I am, standing on the other edge of the chasm of the teens, far from unscathed but verifiably still alive (stick a mirror under my nose. I did.) Some of the crazy has been normal growing pains, some have been charmingly specific to my set of circumstances and choices, but either way I want to take a sec to catch my breath and share some of the things that I’ve learned between the ages of 21 and 31.

• Just dress warmly enough. Notably I learned this one AFTER I graduated from college in Boston, the Siberia of the eastern United States. I look back at my layering habits that, at the time were a series of misguided sartorial choices mixed with a stubborn streak. Now, as I layer scarves like a crazy person for the ten minute walk to the subway each day I’m happy to concede some of the range of motion of my neck to be able to move about in the outside world without all of my muscles locking up in anticipation of my imminent hypothermia.

• Other people feel things as much and as deeply as I do and that I have a responsibility to consider that. Technically, I knew this one well before 2010. I went to Sunday School every week (not happily, but I checked the box) I had parents who insisted we not become shitty people. But as someone who spends a lot of time trapped in her own head, I don’t think I really realized how much my words and actions could affect other people for an inexcusably long time. For so long I felt like my suffering was trapped inside myself, bouncing off the walls of my head and multiplying within the safe confines of my body. I was concerned with how I felt, because for a lot of my life it was terrible. And on some level I was under the impression that I couldn’t possibly be capable of causing other people the level of upset that they, and the world as a whole, caused me. I said some really insensitive things, inserted myself where I didn’t belong, didn’t insert myself when I should have, and generally put a version of myself out into the world that, while not completely evil, didn’t meet the level of integrity that I should have insisted from myself. It took me torpedoing a couple of relationships with extremely good people for it to really sink in that I was capable of making significant waves in other people’s lives. I can’t say it won’t happen again, but I do feel a step removed from that period in my life now. It feels like progress.

• Sincere apologies are really important, and modified behavior moving forward is even more important. (see above)

• People generally don’t actually want to hold a grudge. (see above)

• My financial situation has been a significant part of my anxiety disorder: The proof is in my anxiety slightly tapering off in the last couple of years as I finally started to make enough money to live like a normal person here.

• My financial situation isn’t all of my anxiety disorder: The proof is in me still having it.

• It’s “mother lode” not “mother load”.

• Doing it yourself isn’t always cheaper. In the last ten years I’ve lived in… actually I just started trying to count how many different apartments I’ve had in the last ten years and I keep getting bored and losing count so that should say something. In that time, the internet has expanded and presented to me myriad apartment decorating blogs, all promising to make the most of my small space #onabudget. And to be fair, I’ve gotten some solid tricks out of the constant bombardment. But not all of them actually save you money. And sometimes, you don’t realize that until you’re spray painting a drawer pull three different shades of gold and it’s looking really fucking wrong so you check to see what you can get online and it turns out Amazon is selling a set for less than the cost of the cardboard you spread out on the floor.

• It’s “burying the lede” not “burying the lead".

• If, at your core, you don’t actually want to be doing something, you can’t be really good at it and you won’t stick with it for any real length of time. Like editing Foley, or woodworking, or dating guys you’re only kind of into.

• I’m going to be about the same size for the rest of my life. I have been fluctuating within 10 pounds this entire decade and at this point I expect to do so until I die. It’s nice to count on things.

• I am not going to be tan. Any amount of tan I’ve ever been could’ve been accomplished with SPF 90 and some strategically applied bronzer and will be achieved moving forward thusly so as to avoid skin cancer and minimize shriveling.

• Sexism is still really bad. This one is sad. The 2010s was when I moved into the Career World where you’re supposed to cultivate a Career and be a Career Woman, and I was really hoping that sexism wouldn’t be as potent by the time I got here. But no luck. I’ll immediately check my privilege and say that I am not bearing the brunt of this. People of color are still fighting an unacceptably steep uphill battle in the world (same with the queer/non-binary community, and basically anyone else who is at all interesting.) But over the years even I have been overwhelmed by how often and how carelessly I’m talked over, how many men took credit for my ideas, and how many MWM (*mediocre white men*) have succeeded for no discernible reason around me. We have work to do.

• Not everyone wants the same things out of life. Success looks extremely different for everyone. People who I may have quickly judged as “settling” are often living very deliberate, extremely happy lives while I hyperventilate into a paper bag on the daily and avoid wearing open toed shoes on the subway for fear of rat borne illnesses.

• I look best with really short hair. I’ve known this in my soul for a long time. The whole concept of a pixie cut waltzed into my life in the form of Samaire Armstrong appearing as Anna on The OC. Or maybe it was Rachel Leigh Cook’s PSA where she smashes an egg with a frying pan to get kids not to do drugs. Either way, a seed was firmly planted in my scalp in the early 2000s. But before I could be absolutely sure that this was my ultimate destiny, I had to spend some serious time fighting it. Now I live blissfully in an Eden where every six weeks I pay a suspiciously reasonable price for an extremely cool hairdresser to do literally whatever she wants, which is always a variation of Very Short Hair and I’m here for it.

• “I Will Always Love You” was originally a Dolly Parton song, and she wrote it the same day she wrote “Jolene."

• I am a financially responsible adult. I was hoping this would happen but also ugh it’s so boring.

• You can live a really full, fashion-conscious life without wearing heels. I’ll do a wedge, or a super chunky one on occasion but life is too short for foot pain.

• Making people laugh will always be an important part of my personal and professional life.

• I am an ESTJ, Type A minus introvert, and my love languages are words of affirmation and acts of service.

• Your company doesn’t owe you anything. This is not a dig at the specific companies I’ve worked for. In fact, it’s not a dig at all. It’s just a reminder that jobs are jobs. They have a mission, and you are there because they think you can contribute to that mission. You have to look out for yourself and if you find yourself giving to much of your heart and soul to a gig without a clear path to adequate compensation (prestige/money/creative fulfillment/whatever compensation means to you) then it’s probably worth taking another look at your priorities.

And finally…

• Life is not fair.  This one sounds depressing, not to mention overly simplistic, but I stand by it as a mostly positive affirmation. Life isn’t fair. But it also isn’t unfair. It’s not a set of carefully recorded transactions, there are not scales being tipped in one direction or another. The only thing you can control is what you put out into the world on a daily basis and a lot of the time that’s enough to make mostly good things happen around you. Sometimes it isn't, and often times it’s through no fault of your own. The deck isn’t stacked against you specifically, and people who seem lucky aren’t endlessly so. It’s not a popular opinion, but as far as I’m aware, we nudge things as best we can in a certain direction and otherwise spend most of our lives reacting to the randomness. Embrace it. Know that if things seem bad, chances are they won't be that way forever.

With that, we’ve reached the end of both this list and the decade. Nicely done everyone. Let’s do it again.

OH and- I got a letter board for Christmas (my sister-in-law was trying to do a good thing, she’s sweet) and it’s got an IG account, so follow away: @thedraftnewyork

I’m sitting on the porch at a coffee shop in Belize called Ice and Beans. This country has charmed me, mostly with it’s uninhibited embracing of the pun as a lingual flourish.

The iced coffee I got tasted like a bottled Frappuccino, which tastes like me being 12 years old. I used to drink them in the beach with my mom every summer. They were my gateway drug, the first unfortunate step towards becoming the caffeine fiend (caffiend?) I am today.

This place offers you a coffee shot when you walk in. I think it’s a cute touch and it saddens me that would never fly in New York. People would steal the shot glasses, or crack them against the counter and use the jagged glass as a weapon, or at the very least exit and re-enter multiple times wearing different mediocre disguises to try to drink the equivalent of what they would have hypothetically ordered were it not free. This place is adorable. I bet no one has even shat on the floor of their bathroom. #paradise

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking during the last few weeks about being alone. I like traveling alone. I like not having to match someone’s pace, to consider other people’s preferences. Alone is my most comfortable state, and it has been for as long as I can remember. This has had a mostly positive impact on my life. I can handle my shit without anyone else. I can mount a TV to a wall, negotiate the terms of my lease agreement, and wander around a new country on my own. But I do want to make sure I’m not avoiding any potential friend/partner or community out of fear, or insecurity, and upon very little reflection it became clear that I do that, a lot.

I was much better than this in college. I knew I needed to make friends so I powered through the discomfort. But at 31, I’ve got plenty of friends and my TV has been successfully mounted if you know what I mean 😏 I even hid the cords, if you know what I mean 😏 and set up my Roku by myself (eh ok that one doesn’t sound nearly sexual enough) sooooo I’ve been able to get by without too much external participation in my life.

As I flew between Miami and Belize City, I felt a tiny wave of anxiety wash over me. Some of it was due to the next to zero planning I had done for this trip. I had five dollars in my bag and it never occurred that maybe I should have at least a couple more, probably in a different currency. But most of it was definitely due to the guy sitting next to me who smelled like old cigarettes. This was not the eau d’an occasional smoker. This was someone who had been chain-smoking in the womb, someone who deliberately eschewed modern washing machines as they didn’t fit in with his lifestyle, that lifestyle being Margaritaville-meets-methhead. I breathed through my mouth the whole flight. As we landed in Belize, he leaned over me in the middle seat to look out the window and whispered to no one, “there she is.” Like Belize was a boat that he had lovingly built one summer with his dad, who left the family shortly thereafter and whose only communication has been a check for $20 in a card each year since on his birthday. I was so relieved when the wheels hit the tarmac. I really didn’t want to die next to this guy. I didn’t want my last smell to be old Birkenstocks and halitosis.

Landing in Belize, I promised myself that I would try to make at least one new friend, and was pleasantly surprised when I crushed that goal and met way more. Two of the people I met were two guys from Seattle who were staying in the same hotel for the first night. They’re friends who just travel together sometimes, which I found adorable. I’m not sure why. Girls go on trips together all the time, but it felt unusual for dudes. Either way, they were a great friend couple. They have personalities that are different enough to be interesting but similar enough to not be a disaster. They’re both the type of guy who would challenge a bunch of 20-year-old Belizean guys to a game of pickup basketball.

I’m gonna take you on a bit of a tangent now, apologies, BUT can I just say that the universe really loves fucking with me. One of them was cute, funny, has a legit job that’s interesting that he seems to be good at. He clearly found me cute (I don’t know how you know but sometimes you just do, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.) But he just bought a house in Seattle and almost definitely has a girlfriend. Everything goes to shit when property and existing relationships are involved.

It’s like this trick we’ve played on my mom a few times over the years, not telling her we’re coming home and surprising her with our presence. It was cute the first couple of times but now it’s just really tired. The universe needs to come up with a new joke for me. Every single solid guy I meet being unavailable is getting really old. If you need ideas of alternative ways to mess with me, I can help you come up with some ideas. You could get me audited or you could break one of my bones. Give me a surprise gluten intolerance. As much as I love bread I’d still prefer that to having impossible men constantly dangled in front of me, especially when I struggle so much with the whole idea of letting anyone in the first place.

In my more magnanimous moments I can convince myself that this is actually what my life is meant to be, that I should just embrace it. Little vignettes saved in my memory of short periods of time with interesting people. I can say I’ve learned cute little life lessons from each of them before releasing them back into the wild. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll even teach them a thing or two. It’s a fucking shame Garry Marshall’s dead. Netflix could pick up this series, and I could sleep with the resulting piles of cash in my bed as a proxy boyfriend. Cash is easier to understand, and it doesn’t have a house in Seattle, if you don’t count Bill Gates’s house in Medina, and I don’t.

I went on a snorkeling trip, the one thing I had booked online beforehand. As my mother would attest to, I’m not big on booking things before I take trips. I say that it cramps my style but the truth is that it’s boring when it’s hypothetical and the fact that I would usually be trying to do it in between answering emails at work makes it just feel like too much of a chore. I realize that is the most obnoxious sentiment in the world, but we’re in this together. No backing out now.

The upside of this, of course, is that I don’t have to expend any additional energy. The downside is that sometimes I don’t get to do some shit. I’ve never ridden a horse in Ireland, for example, and that is my fault.

This time I decided (the day before I arrived) that I would sign up for a snorkeling trip. I figured that being out on a boat would never not be a good call, and so I googled “snorkeling Caye Caulker Belize” and booked the first one that came up.

I’m really glad I did. One of the charming parts of this island is that as you walk down the Main Street (there’s really only one of them) you are loudly encouraged by multiple friendly men to take THEIR snorkeling trip. There are easily 15 tour operators in a half-mile stretch. They also comment on your butt if you’re me.

I had no problem with this conceptually (the guys in New York yell much less enterprising things) but in all likelihood I would have been overwhelmed and would have choked under the pressure, ultimately deciding that snorkeling was not for me, even though I’ve done it multiple times in my life and always loved it.

I ended up on a boat with two other American girls, both of whom are nurses in Southern California. They were nice and friendly and had done expert things like resuscitate premies and bring waterproof cameras on vacation, both of which were very impressive to me.

The boat was amazing, I don’t need to tell you guys that. It had everything: sunburn despite all of my best efforts, new friends, coral reefs... this is not a travel blog. You get it. The highlight was probably the fact that we saw what I’m sure were all of the sharks in existence gather around the boat to be photographed (and also fed but I knew their real motivations, they wanted to be #stars.)

I did bring waterproof mascara for this trip, thinking I was a genius because #theocean but it backfired terribly. I think the last time I bought waterproof mascara was at least 10 years ago and I’m pretty sure it’s gotten stronger. Like drugs. For those who aren’t familiar, it’s generally a really bad idea to fuck with, ever (...like drugs) and it’s definitely not something you should wear on the daily. It clumps immediately and then dries, making it impossible to adjust. I knew this. But for whatever reason I expected to still be able to remove it, somehow, maybe with just a little extra eye makeup remover and a positive attitude. No luck. It is permanently affixed to my eyelashes and I’m just going to have to move forward like this. I accidentally pulled out like three eyelashes trying to get off before I threw in the towel. So my eyes are surrounded by permanent spiderwebs now I guess. It’s a look.

On our way back in to the dock, our tour guide Oliver cut the engine and pointed to a school of huge grey fish swimming alongside the boat. He told us that they were called tarpon, and they were protected etc. I don’t know. I don’t do fish.

He pulled out some much smaller fish from a cooler and passed one to one of the older men on the tour who I believe had not spoken the entire time. He instructed him to hold it out by the tail about a foot above the water. After a second or two, A huge tarpon jumped out of the water, pulling the food from the guys hand. Everyone clapped politely for Mr Doesn’t Talk, like our plane had just landed in the midwest. The captain asked if anyone else on the boat wanted to try.

This isn’t the type of thing I volunteer for, the things that I feel are just as interesting if I watch someone else do it. One of the nurses however boldly jumped at the chance.

She held the little guy she was handed over the side of the boat just like the other guy. All of the sudden, the fish jumped out of the water AND CLAMPED ON TO HER FULL FIST. It let go almost immediately and disappeared back into the water but as she pulled her hand back in to her body you could see that there was blood everywhere.

Then I got to see a study in proportionate, measured responses that you rarely find within the contiguous United States. Oliver didn’t even blink, he just sort of poked one of the other crew members and asked him to see if the first aid kit was where it was supposed to be. The girl whose hand was bleeding just said “ah” and then asked her friend if she could pass her a Clorox wipe. She wiped her hand down, and then wrapped it in her towel and that was the last we heard of it, even as the towel starting sprouting bloodstains. I kept waiting for someone to start screaming, even if it was me, but everyone else regarding it as not a big deal made me feel silly for even suspecting that it might be.

I did ask if Clorox wipes were how you were supposed to treat flesh wounds. Turns out it’s “not the best option but it’ll work in an emergency.” I was glad to at least hear them refer to it as an emergency, though their energy level didn’t reflect it. I suspect that it’s all relative.

Leaving the island, I stopped to take a picture of a sign I had walked by countless times over the previous six days, that said “go slow, but keep moving.” It was referring to a spot on some stairs where they were imploring the public to not sit. But I know myself, and I know that that pic, even out of context, is something I should keep close by.

I spent the last four months working. And not the normal amount of working, where I give it a solid 8.5 hours then go home and eat half an organic frozen pizza with kale on top that I cooked separately. The normal amount of working is intermediate level problem-solving at a brisk pace, occasionally taking a bit more initiative than necessary and trying not to be a dick to my coworkers. It’s the amount of working that generally leads to regular-enough praise from my boss, which is as sustaining as frozen pizza for me, if not more.

Recently though, I was put in a position where I was really Working. My work email, normally toggled off on my phone at night and on weekends remained on for a full quarter of a year. I had Sunday calls and 7PM meetings, and a general feeling of thrilled dread took up residence in my stomach. It was a period of extremes. I was overwhelmed and nervous, working towards a goal that was objectively impossible. But I was also exhilarated. This is what I’m good at. My insides could be a wreck but I will step up and act like I couldn’t be calmer in the name of successfully docking the ship of a project. And this project was an aircraft carrier, or another example of a large boat. A cruise ship. An abnormally large catamaran.

In August, in the middle of the madness, I promised myself that as soon as the project was over I was going to take some serious time off. The last vacation I took that was more than two days off was in 2017, when I went to Ireland with my mom and sister. So at the end of last week, I scrubbed down my apartment, put fresh sheets on my bed, Swiffered (with the wet cloths!) because my anxiety prevents me from leaving any sort of mess for more than four hours and picked up a Hyundai Accent at the Advantage Rent a Car in Jackson Heights, Queens.

Driving, I found, did come back, but merging sure as fuck didn’t, and neither did changing lanes. I reserved the car in a cocky moment when I viewed the blank canvas that was the entire month of November on the calendar and I realized in order to do a writers retreat in Bumblefuck Massachusetts I would need to get there somehow. I had a brand new New York driver’s license and plenty of time between now and then (to what, practice?)

Suddenly, it was Sunday, and I was on I95 North, windows up, with the music turned off for safety reasons. Luckily, the first car I drove regularly (not mine, never mine, which was always fine with me) was a Hyundai of approximately the same size. Ours was an Elantra, which was like the snooty version of the Accent. We pronounced it “E-lahhhn-trahhhh” and rolled the “r” and always wore a beret when we said it which was weird because French people don’t roll their “r”s. But it was basically the same car.

I have four full weeks off. Four weeks. When I got home from work on Friday I actually cried I was so relieved.

This week is being spent in a tiny town in Massachusetts called Ashfield at a place called Wellspring House. The entire town consists of seven buildings, four on one side of main street and three on the other. When I drove into town, my cell phone immediately ceased to work. They had warned me about this. I don’t particularly care about cell service, especially now that the internet has made it almost entirely redundant. It was a symbolic moment. I had reached the end of the world.

I told myself that as I write for the next ten days I would only hold myself to the standard of trying to impress my former seventh-grade teacher. I don’t actually have access to her at this time but I feel fairly confident about her expectations. I have what I’m sure is a classic problem. I unintentionally edit while I’m writing, which can make my progress slow and painful. So I asked myself, what level can I confidently reach without putting any undue pressure on myself? And the answer was: a seventh-grade creative writing exercise.

My essays in middle school were always exactly good. I varied my sentence structure, peppered them with PSAT words (but not too many) and developed my own style of prose. At the time felt like 100% original Rose, but was definitely an amalgamation of the types of writers I had read the most- Lois Lowry, Ann M. Martin and the occasional author whose work was probably beyond my comprehension but made me look smart reading. It was during this time that I read the first quarter of The Brothers Karamasov three times. Incidentally it was also during this period when I learned to hate Hemingway, based on the first ten pages of The Old Man and the Sea. I have never given him another shot and I have no intention of ever doing so.

My homework would be praised by my teacher, often read aloud to my classmates who luckily were only bored and did not grow to openly hate me. In a group of 26 12 year olds, I was the best writer. Now at 31, I still feel as though I am the best writer in the average group of 26 12 year olds. This a manageable yardstick for me. Aiming for this gives me permission to be pretty terrible, at least with my first drafts, which is the only way I can still get words out onto the page.

The house where I’m staying is old and run down. There are four rooms where other writers can stay, three of which are occupied right now. It has a white exterior with royal blue trim. Each of the rooms is named after a writer. I’m staying in the Phyllis Wheatley room. The mattress of the twin bed I’m sleeping on is hard, but the room is warm and cozy, so warm in fact that I have to leave the window wide open. It’s monk-like. I’m into it.

There are people in three of the four rooms right now, but people come and go. The most interesting so far are the couple in the room next door to mine. I met Robert on Monday morning when I went downstairs to make coffee. He’s an extremely friendly older man who’s a professor, around 70, very chatty, clearly smart and a little eccentric. He laughed at something I said very shortly after we started talking so I decided right away that I liked him. He was saying his wife was coming to join him the next day. Fast-forward to Wednesday afternoon, when I run into a woman while I’m making coffee (I’m very predictable when I’m procrastinating.) She was probably mid-thirties, MAYBE 40, and she was cute and nice in a Midwestern sort of way. She tells me that she’s here with her husband and then ROBERT APPEARS AND HE IS HER HUSBAND AND HE IS AT LEAST 30 YEARS OLDER THAN HER. Blew my mind right open. Look, I obviously don’t have to approve of their relationship, but I have to say they seem great together. He made her pasta with squid ink and then they both tried to describe to me how it tasted. It was adorable, but also let me tell you if you ever need to kill an hour or two just ask two academics to describe how something weird tastes.

The place is located in the foothills of the Berkshires. Everything is brown and red and orange around the town, it’s almost boringly pretty. I drove to another small town nearby called Shelbourne Falls earlier this week in search of coffee (note the pattern.) Everything was closed except for the bakery, where I sat in the quiet and ate a pumpkin muffin while reading. The town has a waterfall running through it, just a perfect New England postcard. It’s also where they filmed The Judge. I don’t know what movie that is but there was a plaque.

It’s just so quiet here. The others in the house are around, and everyone is friendly, but ostensibly we are all here to write, so everyone is also very respectful of each other’s space. Lots of asking each other if we’re bothering each other and assuring each other that we definitely aren’t. Lots of whispered apologies for walking by someone. There’s a large living room with well over a thousand books, placed haphazardly in stacks. Fiction to the right of the fireplace, non-fiction to the left. There are house rules, posted strategically throughout the house. When to do laundry, where to put your milk in the fridge, and a reminder to leave 40 cents for any call on the landline to cover the cost (guys the old-time phone still costs money)

In between writing, and coffee, I’ve been going through this list of prompts I make myself answer towards the end of every year. It almost never happens at New Years, it’s more or less yearly and usually aligns with the onset of my seasonal depression, but it’s the same idea. I started doing it three years ago and each year I’ve refined it a bit. I basically wrote down all of the things I knew I needed to face sooner rather than later in my life and then organized them into a proactive format that didn’t make me want to jump off a roof.

I thought I would share it with you, with a bit of explanation, just in case this sounds like a fun afternoon activity to you. So without further ado…

ROSE’S GENIUS MEGA-LIST OF SELF DISCOVERY PROMPTS AS FEATURED IN DOMINO MAGAZINE

Fill out the below.

How do you feel right now? Like, for real. No one else is going to read this. This part is hard, take your time. Here. Take a Xanax and an Emergen-C packet.

What is your biggest challenge and why? E.g. passing science, not being such a cunt to your mother-in-law, major surgery, being unable to accept love

If you could have one wish for the next year, what would it be? FYI your wish can be kind of crazy, but if you’re expecting actual magical wish-fulfillment you are going to be extremely disappointed and honestly I just don’t even want to hear about it.

General goals

• My body: Which part of you are going to exercise regularly this year? Fingers crossed it’s not just like a single bicep

• My love life: How long will you make yourself stay in relationships this year?

• My career: Maybe this is the year you’ll figure how to do a career plus anything else at the same time.

Affirmations There has to be a better word. More like just a list of reminders for and about yourself to keep yourself on track and make yourself feel better when changing is hard and you hate it so much.

Specific goals This is the part where you look up what SMART stands for every year because you’ve forgotten since we did this last even though it’s a really great

Bad habits to stop You definitely have them, probably a lot. If this isn’t your longest list when you start doing this then you are not telling me, and probably not telling yourself, the truth.

Good habits to start It’s really easy to volunteer in New York but also flossing is really just not optional people and it’s even easier. Of course, those are just a couple of ideas of good habits to start. There are lots more you can do. Make it your own.

Current good habits to keep: Like looking so fucking fly all the time

Spend less money on: cortados, your appearance aka the British jewelry maker who sold you every pair of earrings you own on Etsy

It’s ok to spend money on: socks, batteries, the fancy Irish butter, the medication that actually stops you from jumping off the roof, the occasional bath bomb

Action items: what now?

Love to all.

xo

R

Once again, let me take you back in time, to the moment when I wrote this about three weeks ago…

Guys. GUYS. I packed an entire California vacation experience into a single day. I’m in LA for the week but my free time is pretty much limited to today so I went to bed at 8 last night, got up at 7, and started crossing things off my activity list.

I’m staying on the West Side, in a super random neighborhood. I’m in a tiny “suite” that’s basically a walled off portion of someone’s house that is really nice but missing really weird stuff like a trash can and I had to download an app to adjust the temperature. I’m barely going to be here, I have a shoot starting tomorrow so I’m assuming it’ll be long-ish days. Luckily we’re shooting kids and kids aren’t allowed to work until they physically pass out (fucking pussies amiright) so we probably won’t have 14 hour days.

This morning I got up and put on black leggings and a black sports bra, looking like the New York-ist bitch with my pale stomach and perma-squint in the bright, oppresive sun. I jogged from my situation down to Venice, about 4 miles. Now 4 miles is usually on the high end of what I’ll do but I can do it. But THE HILLS. I complained about this in my first LA trip post about a year back and I just want to take a moment of your time to do it again- there. are. so. many. hills. And they’re steep, only a few degrees south of a right angle. There were beautiful houses all around that had a Brady Bunch meets Nancy Meyers movie starring Diane Keaton vibe. The really nice ones were perched at the very top of the hills, looking down at me, judging my apartment dwelling, rom-com averse self. A few times, I forced myself to try to sprint up a stretch of the incline. I’ve never been so off about judging the level of my fitness. I would get about 5 steps then I would have to stop, doubled over, wheezing, knowing that if I fell down I would roll down the hill into the ocean and drown and that would be the end of The Draft and I’ve already paid for my domain for the year so that would be wasteful.

I got breakfast at a place called The Rose, which the internet told me about. I didn’t go there completely because it was named after me, which weirdly enough it was (it wasn’t) but, you know, it didn’t hurt. I sauntered in, chest puffed, ready to dine alone, which is the ultimate example of my brand, which I like to call Power Single. I sized up everyone up around me, evaluating whether I could take the hostess in a physical fight should it come to that. Nothing left to lose. She showed me to my chair, and slid a menu in front of my face. Unceremoniously she grabbed the second set of silverware across from me that was clearly not going to be used and whisked it away dramatically, which I took as her basically slapping me in the face with a glove. Ever the adult, I rose above it and didn’t leap across the table to take her down.

I looked down to see a special call out on the menu that a Brooklyn cafe was doing a pop-up at this restaurant. The BK spot was a place that I’d never been to, but had been following on Instagram for months and for a second I considered ordering the praline pancakes that have been clogging up my feed, which I hadn’t actually tried before. I instead I chose something native to this extremely foreign country, some eggs with a side of kale and extra gratitude. There was a “wellness drink” section of the menu. The culture shock was staggering.

After brunch I went to a nail salon, just the closest one to where I was standing on the corner, and had a really bizarre mani pedi experience. When the guy finished painting my toes (by the way having a man paint your toe nails is the most pure form of patriarchal revenge, I highly recommend it) he dropped my foot and looked at me and said “Ok goodbye” and then gestured towards the door. I sat there, assuming I had misheard him, because both my fingers and toe nails were nowhere near dry, and then he dd it again. So I stood up and looked around, wondering where the dryers were. From what I could see, they just didn’t have them. And I’m sorry if this makes me sound high maintenance but not having dryers at a nail salon is like ordering ice cream in a cone and the ice cream guy just depositing a glob of ice cream directly into your hand. Of course, you’d figure out how to eat it, but something about it just isn’t right and everything would get covered in sticky liquid. Half of the reason why I get nails done at a place is so I can wear nail polish without actually having to sit still for too long.

So instead of continuing to stand there figuring out what was happening with no clues at all I decided that I would leave, wet nails and all. I decided that the inevitable smudges I got from opening the door were worth not being in this awkward non-conversation anymore. The problem was that I had been wearing sneakers. I treated myself to a pedicure, which I do about once every three years, and it had been entirely spontaneous. I didn’t leave the house this morning thinking “damn my toenails need my attention today.” But as I was sucking down coffee number 2 walking down the street, I just thought to myself, “You know what girl? You deserve to treat yourself” and then I cut out my own uterus for thinking that sentence and went in.

Now, faced with wet toenails and socks I didn’t know what to do. I panicked, and started pulling one of my socks on, like this was not going to be an issue. A lady from across the room lunged at me in slow motion, yelling “Noooooooooo” and snatched the sock out of my hand. I literally was out of options. So finally they got me a pair of those foam disposable flip flops, which are meant to be on your feet for about 30 seconds so you can shuffle from the chair to the DRYER. They weren’t going to work in the outside world. But I needed it to be over. So I walked, slowly, duck-like, out the door and about a half block before I rounded the corner and found a sunny patch to stand in until my nails were dry enough and I could put my shoes back on and walk away like a normal person. Somehow I came out of this harrowing ordeal with unsmudged toes. Miracles do happen.

From there, I went to the beach. The distance from the pavement to the ocean in Venice is about twelve leagues. I walked across the sand like I was going to see the Baby Jesus. The sand was so hot that I had to pretend that severe heat is actually severe cold which is a weirdly effective way of managing the feeling of burning alive. I honed this method during my laser hair removal sessions. Eventually I did make it down to the water, and wandered up the shore at the bit. Then I cut back up the beach, imaginary ice cubes beneath my blistering feet.

Then it was SHOPPING TIME I bet you can’t wait to hear about my shopping on vacation. Mkay so I bought this bag I really wanted and got a free monogram thrown in. I got coffee at three different coffee shops. I wandered up and down Abbot Kinney and gave myself a sunburn and a caffeine headache. If you’d like more details on this just let me know but I’m boring myself writing about it.

(four hours later)

I’m eating dinner at a gastropub located in a strip mall. A really nice one strip mall. I guess it’s more of a shopping center but regardless it feels weird to be eating outside with an expansive view of a freshly paved parking lot and a fancy faucet store. I just ordered a club soda with bitters and the guy looked like he would do it because I asked him to but that this was definitely the first time he had been asked to. There’s nothing more awkward than having to explain to a bartender that the thing you ordered is actually a thing and lots of sober people drink them because they look fun and they taste pretty much exactly like one of those $12 cocktails but cost 3.

This place has a strict no substitutions policy printed on their menu which I think is so depressing. Hear me out- I’m definitely not endorsing being gastronomically picky. Naturally, I think that if you’re the kind of person who requests substitutions then generally I fucking hate you. But I don’t want to need a rule, you know? I want those people to whom this rule is directed to turn inward and recognize that what they’re doing is wrong.

I mean who are you to know what exact combination of ingredients is going to be delicious? What I just took a bite of was perfect. It has fucking arugula. I see you strip mall burger.

Earlier I had a really novel experience at my first legal dispensary. Honestly I could not handle the fact that it was all above board. The guy who checked my ID was super nice and just the absolute highest I’ve ever seen someone in a legitimate workplace. He lost his place twice while trying to look up the woman in front of me’s rewards account. They only let groups of about 6 people into the sales area at once. It felt like waiting for a roller coaster, or waiting in line to get a mystery package you weren’t expecting at the post office. You know the feeling, when you’re not sure it’s going to be worth it but you’re resigned to waiting in a line to find out.

If have to declare an opinion: this was worth it, if only to experience the bizarro world of legal weed.

While I was waiting in line to be released into the room full of glass displays manned by the crew of budtenders, I started chatting with the woman with the frequent buyer status. She could have been 60 or 85, all I could be sure of was that she was an extremely friendly pothead. She had a lot of questions for me about Brooklyn, all slight variations of “but isn’t it just so loud there all the time?” After a while, she started telling jokes, all of which I loved, a few of which I remember, but only one that I will probably tell out loud myself one day. I can’t wait for that day.

Somehow, when the nice man with gauged ears and a mustache went to ring me up, I was shocked by the amount of sales tax. This is especially pathetic because I have stood in multiple Brooklyn living rooms at multiple parties talking to other privileged white people about how New York should make pot legal and just tax the fuck out of it.

I picked up some edibles, which seemed like the best bet. I wasn’t going to risk flying back to New York with a couple nugs in my carry on, I thought some chocolate and mints would be more discrete. Besides, I kind of like the thing I’ve got going with my delivery service at home. I’ve literally never seen the same messenger twice so I imagine either the turnover is pretty high or just that there are tons of people who looked at the job of dealing drugs and said yeah that feels like what I should be doing. Either way, it’s fast and friction free. And I save a lot of money on the tax.

After the initial shock wore off, I stoically paid for my drugs and left.

The woman at the table next to me right now is reading everything off the menu out loud to her friends. She just gushed over an appetizer (“oh my gooooooooood. Smoked eggplant fritters.”) And I just instinctively looked around for someone to roll my eyes at. This is the real struggle of singleness when you’re a piece of work.

Oh god so now she’s ordering the fritters and her whole table has now said the word fritter too many times and it doesn’t sound like a word anymore.

What a day. The only thing that could have made it better would’ve been running into a Real Housewife. Even one of the less interesting ones, like Alexis.

I am not on vacation at the time of posting this. I did however kind of go on vacation and wrote this blog post then. So let’s all travel back in time. The year? 2019. The day? July 6th. The mood?

I am on vacation(ish) at a lake house in the middle-of-nowhere Poconos, with 13 other people, almost all of whom I hadn’t met before Wednesday.

My friend Phil, the one who actually invited me to this lake situation, was talking this morning about how he’s having trouble sleeping in the house. I always feel really bad when people can’t sleep. For whatever reason, I can always sleep. My current theory is that my anxiety makes my whole body vibrate so intensely that by the end of any given day I’m exhausted from keeping still in front of strangers. Whenever anybody postulates that maybe the mattress firmness index (MFI) is not quite what would be preferable to them and that’s why they aren’t sleeping, I feel like a tiny bit of a freak. I don’t even notice what most mattresses feel like. It’s a mattress, so I guess I mostly notice that It’s nicer than sleeping on the floor. I feel like it might be because I grew up in a small house with a million siblings and no say in the mattress selection. The only mattress firm enough for me to even notice was the bed I slept on in Thailand, but I’m pretty sure that was a slab of concrete covered with pink Hello Kitty sheets.

He was saying that he thinks that maybe it’s a combination of his mattress the fact that it was so quiet. Which it really is. It’s the kind of quiet that makes someone who listens to a lot of murder podcasts nervous. I went running today without earbuds and it was so silent that I started getting worried. Someone drove by in an old pickup truck and I wondered how helpful my dental records would be in identifying my dead body. It really escalated fast.

This configuration of people at a house together has been really solid. Everyone seems to genuinely like each other, and the thinly veiled manliness competitions have been kept to a minimum. And I know that it's been hard for this group of dudes. Because there’s a gas grill, a fire pit and a canoe, and those are all un-pass-up-able opportunities to act like you know more than you do for no one’s benefit.

It’s a chatty group, and I found myself really comfortable pretty fast. To the point where I worry if I’m talking too much? Either way, I’ve made it through multiple board games, boat trips, meals and s’more making seshes without seeming to make too many waves (except in the lake HEY YO). But this morning, I woke up without an alarm, which is the state in which I will always be happiest, and grabbed a cup of coffee that someone else has made (+10 happiness) and wandered out to the back patio. I got scattered “good mornings” but mostly just a lot of silence. When I took a seat, I noticed that all of them were on their phones. It was actually noticeable now that we’d spent a few days with an unspoken agreement to not have them around at every moment. Felt good.

This group of people are incredibly talented when it comes to drinking. My specific group of friends just isn’t a partying crowd, so this has actually weirdly been a nice change of pace. There’s something so entertaining about binge drinking when you don’t have to be the one doing it. Their particular poison is spiked seltzer, which wasn’t really a thing when I was drinking, which is for the best, because that could have been my jam. One of them had never done a keg stand, so at 3PM yesterday we hoisted a grown man up feet over head and essentially waterboarded him on his own request. We played multiple rounds of Kings, which I hadn’t played since college, and even then I had maybe participated twice ever. I played along, pounding civilian seltzer in place of beer. As people got progressively drunker, my skin started glowing more and more as my body hydrated.

Last night we (one of the other girls, and me) built a fire and once again did the traditional marshmallow toasting with a bunch of insanely long sticks that someone had bought. One of the best parts of this trip has been the complete lack of need for my participation in the planning. They just sorta... got it. Planning HQ was an extremely active Facebook messenger chain and my contributions were limited to suggesting that we buy fruit for snacking (because I was tryna RAGE obvi.) But all of the meals were planned (without me) and the place was picked (without me) and the keg was procured and the marshmallow sticks were purchased and it all happened without me. This is the third year they’ve had this trip and they’re a relatively well-oiled machine.

We had run out of chocolate, so someone recommended using a peanut butter cup in its place. Let me tell you- it is not a good substitute. As someone who has pledged fealty to the gods of Reese's over the years, I hate to admit it, but it just doesn’t make any sense. There isn’t enough chocolate in the equation, and the peanut butter just feels like an unnecessary addition. I admired the chutzpah of the suggestion though. These are vacation improvisers and I respect it.

After the fire died down, around midnight, a couple of us jumped in the lake, which looked completely black at night. Once we were completely frozen to the core, we made the run from the lake to the hot tub. The spirit of it all just felt like college, but not the college I went to. A different college. Maybe one with a quad. And frat houses. With actual college students in it. It didn’t seem to matter that we’re all in our 30s.

It’s raining now, which is good because I want to do exactly nothing today. We were up until two AM asking the hard existential questions (including my favorite question of all time: “What celebrity would you sleep with but then be ashamed about it?”) The trip has been just long enough to start feeling my physical magnetic pull to New York ease off, but it’s not gone completely. I’m pretty sure that would take at least two full weeks away and that hasn’t happened maybe ever. 

I’m leaving tonight, early, so I’m back in the city for my rowing lesson tomorrow, and as much fun as I’m having here I like when I realize that I have a home that I get excited to return to.

This week I went to a barre class for the first time. If you aren’t up to speed with the barre thing, it’s like ballet, but imagine if ballet wasn’t ballet at all and instead it’s a fitness class that costs more than your biweekly grocery budget where you do a lot of things that make you look alien-pretending-to-be-a-human level awkward. Oh and the floor is inexplicably carpeted.

I’ve been hesitating recently when it comes to agreeing to join work crowd extracurriculars. Luckily the last company-sanctioned one was basketball, which I am legitimately terrible at and feel no guilt in skipping. I try to stay for a drink at our weekly happy hour but I’m the only one not drinking and I’m always a little afraid everyone standing around me will realize that I’m not particularly cool now that they’re seeing me not in the middle of giving an above-average presentation.

When I’m talking to a group at work, about work, I go into this zone where I just know what to say. I open my mouth and I’m all jargon and supporting examples and little jokes so I stay relatable. Even the presentations I give on a regular basis that are exactly the same, I’ll always be trying out a new little bit. I am legitimately good at it. But the second I’m in a neutral, non-work-related situation with my coworkers, there are inevitably moments when I forget how to be a social human. I think (I hope) I do a pretty good job of hiding it but inside I’m doing a lot of thinking about if the way I’m holding my arms is weird and how quiet and peaceful it probably is at my apartment right now.

I was at a work dinner this week and the CEO of one of our partners was across the table and someone mentioned mentioned true crime shows and I said, and I quote, “Yeah I like mostly really fucked up TV shows.” Like, what? Even if that’s true (and it was) why on this crazy spinning marble did I vocalize it?

I have stretches in my social life when I actually find myself in the communication sweet spot. I’m really grateful for these. But at the first sign of trouble, my ability to speak English immediately fails. There’s this cute new guy at work and I just haven’t been able to think of anything to say to him. I’ve had like three conversations with him, good ones, but I abandoned them as quickly a possible because my natural instinct is less “fight or flight” and more “quit while you’re ahead.”

So I’m mostly just doing my work like I always do and then just double and triple checking that I don’t have anything in my teeth, which is totally pointless because I would have to be standing within a foot of him for him to notice either way.

A couple of my coworkers asked if I wanted to take a class with them after work, and said yes because I can never turn down a fitness craze. There are only two things that could come from a class where you do upside-down situps and whisper your deepest secrets out loud while a very specific type of instructor walks around “adjusting” you (wait but also about that- they always tell you that if you don’t want to be touched, you can just let them know when they walk over to you, but at that point, it just feels so awkward. Like if she’s already put her hands on whatever the part of your body you just happen to feel is the fattest, doesn’t it feel like it’s too late to ask? And they totally sneak the fuck up on you) ANYWAY the two possible outcomes are 1) you get a great workout or 2) you get an experience you can make fun of forever. And I just can’t choose which one of those I love more.

This one was both. First of all, you wear socks only, no shoes. The fancy women at the front of class have special socks just for the activity because you don’t want to slip (on the carpet?) From across the room I could see the teeny tiny Lululemon logos embroidered on their gunmetal gray, grown-ass-lady socks. I was warned about the sock thing, so I brought a pair of my tried and true running socks, white, with pink details, which I wore, boldly. My affordable, grip-less socks screamed “Yeahhhhh I don’t have enough money to be here”. The lady at the front desk was noticeably less excited to see me once she got a look at the socks. She knew this was most likely a hit it and quit it situation.

Barre classes, I learned, are all about super small, isolated movements that you do a bunch of times. I couldn’t help but think of my Irish ancestors, who were actually starving to death, while I watched my coworker pretending to hump a ballet barre (BARELY a parody of the move we were just instructed to do) all in the name of staying trim. I had a great time, and I couldn’t walk properly for multiple days. I accessed butt muscles I never knew existed. Honestly I never would have thought that I would be 30 years old and still being introduced brand new parts of the body to stress about.

This particular group of women was extremely cool. After the class, we went up to one of their buildings’ roof decks, with this unreal view of the Brooklyn Bridge. One of them, who’s based in Arkansas and travels to be at Eko four days a week, told us about how every week when she comes home from New York she and her fiancé have “closet time.” They put a bunch of pillows and blankets in one of their closets, smoke some weed, and then just hang out with each other in there.

I loved that so much. She talked about how she used to do that as a kid. I definitely did it too when I was a kid but it never occurred to me to try it as an adult. To be fair, I also have never had a closet in New York that I would fit in, but I didn’t even think about how cozy it would still be as a grown up to just pimp out a small space and stare into space for a bit with someone you like.

Honestly maybe I should just invite the new guy to hang out in a closet with me. He’s gonna find out I’m crazy eventually.

I lost my ring today, the one that I saved up for and bought for myself for my 30th birthday last October.

There’s a part of me that is really devastated, it was expensive (at least, by my yardstick) and I feel like an idiot- it was ever so slightly too big for my finger, and I kept meaning to go get it resized, but like most things in my personal life, I put it off for no reason. So I was just careful with it, at least I was until today. The last time I remember having it was when I was playing with it, twisting it around and around on my finger while I sat catching up with a friend in Fort Greene Park this afternoon.

I ran a few errands before I realized it was gone, I had thrown out an empty plastic cup, I was pulling things in and out of my bag… when I did notice, my heart sank. I backtracked slowly, but of course, no luck. I half heartedly left my phone number at the grocery store in case they found it. I’m not holding my breath.

Now that it’s been a few hours, that feeling in the pit of my stomach has mellowed a bit. I’m mostly just pissed about the money I spent, but the ring itself, with all of the symbolism it was supposed to have… it turns out it was just a ring. A ring with diamonds, something I’d never ever had before and felt a little weird wearing the whole time I did. It was beautiful, and I liked the routine of wearing it every day. But the vision I have of myself is of someone so overwhelmingly plain that having something sparkly felt like I was playing dress up with my mom’s jewelry.

I woke up this morning feeling like yesterday was the end a phase of my life. I don’t know why. It was like when I woke up one morning and decided to never drink again- totally unexpected and hard to explain. Losing my ring kind of makes me feel like the universe was telling me that I wouldn’t need it anymore. The ring was supposed to be this thing that I wore on my right finger, a show of my love for myself. But it was never really that.

Growing up, I always knew what I wanted. I wanted to be best cellist in elementary school, I wanted to be president of my 7th grade class, I wanted to go to school outside of the country. I wanted to settle neatly into that social group that vacillates between popularity and utter normalcy which ultimately results in me making not much of an impression as a teenager with my peers. I wanted to live in a big city.

As I got older, I started to slip when it came to identifying the things that I want. And lately it’s been pretty bad, me not taking inventory of my hopes and dreams. Instead, I cling to what everyone around me seems to want. And 8 year old Rose, the one who wore two different colored socks every single day of elementary school, who was a total badass, is screaming at adult Rose.

I woke up this morning feeling like I was ready to do what I wanted again, and like I was ready to figure out what that was. And, I mean really, I don’t need a fucking ring to prove to myself that I’m self sufficient.

Here is what I want, today:

• To have fun. Actual fun, dumb fun… I want to do things that are maybe irresponsible that are fucking fun. I want to say yes to things again. When did I stop doing that? Speaking of stopping things:

• I want to stop dating. The truth is that I hate it. I hate it so much. I hate the apps, I hate that in the real world I am always the one who has to do the asking because I’m “intimidating” (also, what the fuck does that mean? multiple people have super helpfully told me this about myself) and in the end I never ever like the person the same amount that they like me. It makes me feel terrible about myself like 85% of the time, and a 15% chance of not wanting to gouge my eyes out is not enough. It’s not that I don’t want a relationship, I’m a human (despite my best efforts) it’s just that I obviously can’t handle anything that would get me there and it’s making me feel like I’m crazy.

• I want to get my own apartment. I’m currently hiding money from myself to make this a reality in September. I’m cultivating the dopest of Pinterest boards and I. Am. Ready. To. Go. But yeah if you think living in New York is expensive, try moving in New York.

• I want to start my own small business. Currently I’m thinking it’ll be an old trailer that I convert into a bar that has kombucha on tap that people can rent for their weddings because it’s Instagrammable AF.

• I want to take three weeks off and go to Maine by myself and write the whole time.

• I want to organize a trivia night at a bar with questions that are all about sex and I want to donate the proceeds to Planned Parenthood.

• I want to get published somewhere. Which means I have to suck it up and try harder.

• I really really want to be a good friend. Like an exceptional friend.

Here is what I don’t want right now:

• I don’t want to change jobs. I have figured this one out, more or less, and my first instinct when I’m feeling restless is always to be seeking out the next job, but I need to stop. My career ends up being a crutch, an excuse not to be focusing on anything else. I have the vibe down, and I know where we keep the snacks. I’m staying, for now.

• I don’t want to keep dwelling on the decisions I made in my 20s. I need to give myself a clean slate, it’s the only way this whole having-a-happy-life is going to work.

• I don’t want kids right now. Until recently I’ve been really sure I wanted to have kids in the not-so-distant future. Lately, I’ve been reconsidering. I’ll probably end up popping a couple out eventually but that feeling of certainty has been missing, and I don’t want to feel bad about that.

The list is a work in progress, but at this moment I feel good about going forth with this list and without the ring.

I’ve been going through a really emotional time lately, but I can’t complain too much, because I absolutely brought it on myself.

Last week, after 3 months of watching it on my commute, I finally reached the end of the hit TV program “Weeds.”

I hear your groans. I know that I really should have seen Weeds already, or accepted the fact that I never would. I’m sorry. These are the life choices I made. I have been faithfully skipping over Weeds as an option of what to watch for years at this point. I was almost tired of the show just from disregarding the Netflix thumbnail so many times. But there came a moment a solid quarter of a year ago where I found myself clicking on it. I don’t know what motivated me. Probably the devil.

Feeling generally shellshocked and frankly dehydrated from watching Mary Louise Parker suck down iced coffee from a plastic straw over a dramatically accelerated 8 years I have recently emerged from an aggressive fog of THC-laced entertainment.

My specific flavor of anxiety disorder hugely effects the way I watch entertainment. I find myself watching TV and movies through the lens of how anxious I would be if I were in the situation I’m seeing unfold in front of me. Weeds was not created with me in mind.

I marvel over the anxiety I would have in the situations that are written for the characters. The first dude (of many)(spoiler alert) who dies because of Mary Louise Parker 3 episodes into the series is tossed aside like, welp, what’re you gonna do, people die. I think of how if I caused someone’s death, even accidentally, I would immediately curl up in the fetal position on my bed and suffer a ginormous heart attack, or just rush to the police station to throw myself in jail. Mary Louise just slurps down her coffee and shrugs it off.

The way the characters handle money on the show is upsetting. They are regularly broke, owing thousands of dollars to other drug dealers and random people they’re pissed off. Even when they don’t have gangsters on their tail, they are always one bad deal away from needing to sell their house and live… where exactly? M.L., why isn’t this freaking you out as much as it should?

Even when the stakes are way lower I still feel so much anxiety watching any character dealing with predicaments. I see someone on TV being lightly chastised by her boss and I full-body cringe. I project like no one has ever projected ever before. I wonder if she’s worried about getting fired. Is she super distracted, and won’t sleep tonight because her boss gave her slightly negative feedback? Because god knows that would be me.

But time and again, people seem to just… not mind. The character is always in the office kitchen the next morning joking around with her boss like nothing had happened. Like their honor hadn’t been stripped unceremoniously just hours before by The Man. Where was the weird shame that would hang around for a few days? Where was the staring at the ceiling replaying it in your head and looking like shit the next day and people telling you you looked tired?

Where others can suspend disbelief, I am forever looking for true portrayals of reality, which made watching Weeds an experience full of frustration and morbid fascination. And I ingested it all mid-subway ride. Not an ounce of it felt possible, the only thing that felt real was my acute transferred unease.

Anxiety aside, I experience TV and movies in a way I’m convinced very few other people do. I often lose the main narrative completely in the name of obsessing over little details, most of which probably don’t matter.

I’m constantly noting while watching TV that characters are drinking and then getting into their cars with no explanation and no consequences. Every once in a while you’ll get an extremely satisfying DUI or accident, when the writers are more firmly rooted in reality. But most of the time the story just moves along. It’s always seemed like such a huge oversight to me. I watch a character have three shots of tequila and then it cuts to her behind the wheel, all ten and two. Maybe we’re just supposed to fill in the two hours while she was waiting to sober up with our imaginations? If that’s true, they’re asking a lot.

I notice when food at a restaurant arrives way too fast. I notice when the leading man says “I’ll pick you up at 8” and walks away, never actually getting her phone number or address. I resent these gaps. I like to think that if I wrote TV I would hold myself to a higher standard. But honestly if I were a TV writer, I wouldn’t be particularly great with deadlines, let alone doing quality work. That shit is hard.

Speaking of my writing- I’m struggling a bit these days, the good kind of struggling I think. I’ve been working kind of intensely on one piece, which isn’t something I do often. My comfort zone is firing off quippy, half baked dispatches, like I do on this blog. But I’m trying right now to actually write and rewrite and get notes from people I trust and then rewrite again. The idea is that I’ll end up with a couple of pieces that are worth people who aren’t in my immediate friend group reading. I’m in the airport in Houston right now, on my way home from a trip I took for a friend’s 30th. While I was here I spent hours on something I’m writing about a very specific period in my life. I have wanted to abandon it about 100 times and I’m still banging my head against a wall on the daily over it. But it’s cool seeing it slowly become better. I think. I’m writing about myself and my life in a way that makes me uncomfortable. I’m hoping that’s because I’m succeeding in showing a raw side of me, and not because it’s just not very good.

TBD.

Like many NYC residents, and drug traffickers, who are often also part-time NYC residents, I put a lot of faith in coffee. The last week has left me exhausted, and I’ve just been searching for motivation in the bottom of cup after cup of overpriced coffee. But it’s left me still exhausted, now with an intermittently twitchy eye.

It’s cold here, because it’s winter, which is my favorite season, because I can wear so much clothing at any given time and I am a sartorial maximalist and a fiscal liberal, but only with clothes. On my epic commute home, I was wearing a scarf, but by scarf, I mean blanket, around my neck.

This is something I picked up from one of my best friends when we lived in Boston, circa 2007. We worked together at Starbucks, which weirdly has yielded some of my closest friendships (Schultz 2020?) I had just transferred from my petty, dysfunctional suburban store, to a petty, mostly functional urban store and started college. I remember meeting her really well. I remember being struck by how pretty she was, in this unique way- she wasn’t wearing an ounce of makeup and she had these enormous eyes that were unreal.

That day, she was late. She lived a bit outside the city and I was told that it wasn’t unusual for her to be a little bit late for a shift. After a few years, I learned to tell her she needed to be somewhere 45 minutes before I actually needed her there. My first day at the Boston store, she swept in, wearing HEELS and some amazing vintage jacket with no less than three scarves draped around her neck and shoulders, all apologies, at 5:19. In the morning. Incidentally, by the time she unwrapped the scarves it was 5:24. From that day on, in the cold, I gravitated towards the biggest scarves I could find, and every time I wrap myself up, I think of her.

I feel like maybe I’m making it sound like she’s dead. She’s fine, guys. She’s in India and posting regularly to Instagram. Which is how I know people are ok now, I guess.

So I was semi-sleepwalking down the stairs at Fulton St, the steep ones, and I realized, between the obscenely big scarf and the specific angle of my body on the stairs, that I couldn’t see my feet. Let me tell you, when you’re walking down stairs and you realize that, for whatever reason, you can’t see your feet, your brain goes fucking bananas. All of a sudden, I forgot how to walk. I basically stopped short, trying to gingerly place one foot at a time in front of me, carefully adjusting my body to balance as I shifted my weight forward, envisioning myself tripping and skidding, face first, down the subway steps.

I thought about what kind of illnesses you can contract by having an open wound anywhere near an NYC subway. Then I wondered when the last time was that I got a tetanus shot. And then I realized I wasn’t focusing on walking down the steps and I did that thing where you go to step and the step just isn’t there and I had horrifying moment in which I was certain it was all over for me. I did catch myself, right before I did accidental parkour. Maybe if I had just let myself fall, I would fallen right into some bad boy with a heart of gold’s arms. I have been told that I should let people feel more needed by me. I think about it a lot, but in this moment my reflexes decided for me that it wasn’t the right moment to test it.

True story: I am having a rough few (several) days. If still drank, this week might have driven me to temporarily become the person I hate, the one who drinks rosé because that is what you drink to get lady drunk and cry. My attempt at trying to feel better while suspecting that I’m not actually aware of everything that’s bothering me has made me feel like I’ve been tripping down the stairs off and on for days.

I also lost my keys yesterday, which to most plebes is not the actual end of the world. But to me, a mere vessel for anxiety and La Croix, it was harrowing. I am fallible, arguably very to extremely, but I do not lose my keys. They're either in my purse, or in the dish on the dining room table. That’s it. If they ever come out during my day, like when I’m handing over my keys over to the Foodtown cashier so she can scan the little plastic tag, which I’m not convinced does anything, I immediately snatch them back protectively and quickly deposit them safely back into my bag.

But I went to leave yesterday and my keys just, weren’t there. I tore the house apart but eventually I had to leave for work without them. Over the course of the day, I racked my brain over where they could be that I didn’t already check. Around mid-afternoon, I started to stress about dealing with coordinating my return home that night so that one of my roommates was there. At what point should I stop looking and just make copies? And where was I gonna make copies??! Is this who I was now, the kind of person who straight up loses her keys? I felt like things were colossally out of control. I mean, I was the only one who had the mailbox key. We might never be able to receive mail ever again.

When I got home last night, I stood outside my apartment and texted my roommate to ask her to come let me in, which she did immediately and without any complaints. I slept shittily, and continued to feel crazy today, until my other roommate found my keys. On her desk. At her office.

I just feel like everything is a little harder right now. I’m knocking on random doors, my face completely covered by scarves, yelling about how I’m having hard time seeing and breathing because of the scarf situation and that I need some help to whoever is inside, through the tiny keyhole.

I was talking to a friend of mine about the eye surgery we both had when we were kids. We commiserated about not being able to properly open our eyes for about a week after. I remember how painful it was, how weak the muscles felt and the stray bright red tears. But when I resigned myself to being patient, did nothing, just kept them closed, when I opened them again, my eyes were strong enough to ditch my glasses.

I’m motivated to do nothing right now, which is convenient because I don’t know how much more I can flail around before my limbs, already traumatized by the stair incident, give up and lie still.

There’s an enormous, monster Toblerone on our kitchen island right now, mocking me. I don’t know which roommate it belongs to (I sent a text and started it with “URGENT”, haven’t heard back yet) so right now it’s just sitting there. It’s open already but barely any of it has been eaten. I want to eat it so badly.

I’m not sure I even like Toblerone. I’ve asked what’s in it hundreds of times and I forget immediately. Chocolate definitely. Toffee? Or do I just automatically think it’s toffee because Toblerone starts with a “to".” I wanna say there’s something unpleasant but minor enough that you’re going eat it anyway, like marzipan, or fingernail clippings, or a raisin.

This one is enormous. It clocks in at about a third of the length of the island. We’re lucky enough to live in NYC and have a totally respectable, open plan kitchen, but it does mean that we need a proper butcher block to use the space. And at some point in the history of this apartment, it acquired one. I couldn’t tell you who got it. I was not responsible, and it wasn’t either of my roommates.

But luckily one of my forefathers spent the funds on a nice, big, solid island that we can hang pans on, with enough space underneath for us to keep an alarmingly large assortment of alcohol that none of us drinks and vitamins that none of us take.

I’ve lived in this apartment for four years now and I have had such good times around the island. We’ve thrown so many parties, I’ve had so many friends over for dinner. I’ve had some really dumb and some really serious conversations around this hunk of wood. I’ve spilled so many things on the island. I’ve burned it. I’ve left rings of wine and coffee on it that will probably never come out.

And now it’s staggering under the weight of a Toblerone that is, let’s just say it, unnecessarily big. This Toblerone screams money. It’s ostentatious. It wears it’s gold lamé coat proudly. It gives zero fucks. I want it so badly.

My mom had a coworker once who had a sign that said “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” on her cubicle. I’ve since learned that that little gem can be attributed to our voice for the voiceless, Kate Moss. I remember hearing it for the first time when I was young and feeling part of my brain physically click into place as I realized just how fucked up it was going to be to be a woman in this world.

In the midst of all of my now totally resolved food issues (jk they’re still more or less bubbling below the surface) I developed this tendency to compare every piece of food I eat to the feeling of being skinny. I’ve been doing it for years. The summer between freshman and sophomore year of college, I stopped eating any sugar, ate 1200 calories and ran every single day. By the end of the summer, I was legit skinny. And now, 20 pounds heavier, I still remember that feeling surprisingly well. It would feel great, almost euphoric, at very specific moments… like when you were trying on clothes. I guess, to be fair to Kate Moss, that’s what being a model is (I always try to be fair to/about supermodels in case I meet one one day who can get me free stuff) But for the most part, it was just kind of disappointing. I felt like I had won some award no one cared about. I knew as I was talking about my weight that I was talking about it too much. I still didn’t date anyone seriously, I still had to write papers at a music school that I will be paying for for the rest of my life. I still had all of my OG, signature Rose Insecurities.

So now, I’m constantly asking the silent question of each item of food that goes anywhere near my mouth- are you worth being fat for? And to be honest, most of the delicious things that exist absolutely are.

I consider the Toblerone. Honestly, this guy probably isn’t worth being fat. But sometimes, when a giant candy bar appears in front of you, you just have to take it as a direct instruction to eat it. The candy gods have spoken, we have no control over our own lives.

NEW DEVELOPMENT: My roommate just came down the spiral staircase and, without any prompting, told me the story of how the Toblerone appeared in our home. Apparently, her boyfriend had been coming back from a trip and needed to give a gift to someone who he needed to deter but also stay cool with SO he just got him a giant Toblerone because it was the most impersonal gift he could find. And so then another friend, after hearing this story, thought, correctly, that it would be hilarious for them to bring my roommate a giant Toblerone as a gift. I love it so much more knowing it exists as a joke. She also (BOOM) gave me permission to eat it.

But now that I know I’m allowed to, I’m not sure I want to anymore. That’s the thing about giant Toblers-one. Once you have one, you don’t really want it anymore. I mean I’m definitely still gonna eat it.

A couple of weeks ago I was on Good Morning America.

Lemme back up.

A couple weeks plus three days ago, I was on a call with a couple of my colleagues and a potential new production partner to talk about what kind of content we’re looking for. At the end of the call, the woman mentioned that she was going to be in New York the next week to break a world record on Good Morning America. Then, she asked if anyone wanted to join.

Looking back at this, it occurs to me that she may have been kidding, inviting total strangers to join. But at the time, all I heard was “world record". Frankly, if I had really heard the “Good Morning America” part I would likely have put two and two together and realized that i would have to get up at the ass crack of dawn to participate and I would’ve immediately declined.

But I didn’t. I enthusiastically volunteered, the only person from my team who did so. Because honestly, how many times do you get asked to help break a record in your life? I think usually zero and only sometimes one, and I wasn’t about to pass this up.

I didn’t find out what the record was until Monday of the next week. On that Monday, I received a hefty email full of details, clearly written by a really talented but really obnoxious GMA producer. It gleefully announced that we would be “Racing Against The Clock to break the record for number of cookies frosted in a hour!”

I’m not gonna lie, I was relieved. I had agreed to participate before I knew anything about the actual record, and in previous four days I had managed to convince myself that whatever it was was spider-related. Number of spiders on a human body, number of spiders you can eat, amount of collective pain caused at one time by spider bites… whatever it was, it was gonna be fucking terrifying. It was a welcome update. Cookies tend to bite way fewer people than spiders.

I woke to my vibrating alarm clock at 4AM. I have a vibrating alarm clock now so as not to wake my long suffering roommate who shares a wall with me. I also have my normal alarm, which goes off at 7, but this has become sort of a backup measure. Now, I shove a little plastic thing under my pillow and then wake up thinking my mattress is attacking me. It works really well.

Of course, It was 4:30, so the subways were fucked up. You can’t even be too angry when the subways aren’t running properly this early in the morning. This was the time when they were supposed to be free to fix the signals and clear the garbage on the tracks and change the subway oil (I dunno what subway maintenance entails.)

I shared a remarkably full shuttle bus. I managed to get on the A at Jay St. Metrotech, transferred at some point, and found myself sleepwalking through Times Square under the freakishly convincing manufactured daylight.

When we all walked into the studio, it was decorated like crazy for this thing. Big cutouts of gingerbread men were everywhere, stations were set up for decorating. On massive screens hung all over was a big graphic of a round cookie with clock hands, with a headline that read “Race Against The Clock.” Of course the typography made it look like “Rage Against The Clock” which is how this 90s child read it in her head multiple times before, eventually, her brain caught up.

We went through a quick rehearsal, most of which involved me sitting on a chair, waiting to be told to move to another chair. The highlight of the rehearsal was the camera guys, wide awake at this ungodly hour. They spent most of the rehearsal giving each other shit, loudly, and making crass comments about “frosting someone’s cookie.” The mothers in our group did not look pleased. I, on the other hand, felt a deep camaraderie with them and was disappointed to be whisked back to the greenroom post-rehearsal.

When it was actually time for the show, they came to the greenroom to herd us back in to the studio. I had tried to lose the costumer but I didn’t make it out the door without him forcing a Santa hat onto my head, squishing my hair, which to be honest I’ve become really vain about lately.

I took my agreed upon place behind one of the six tables that had been set up.

On my left was a group of three girls who were clearly the popular girls from their respective high schools 8-10 years ago. Somehow they had managed to sneak past the costumer and got to make their television appearance WITHOUT a Santa hat. I was extremely jealous.

On my right was a guy who hadn’t been at the rehearsal. It seemed like he was a last minute addition, so I smiled and gave him the quick rundown of what we needed to do.

The director counted down, then gave us the signal that we were live, and, right on cue, our newest table-mate began humming.

It wasn’t a song, it was just a low volume humming. Every four minutes or so he would stop to take a breath and I would pray that it wouldn’t start again, but it always did. The intensity of the humming would ebb and flow, but it was always there.

The other thing about this guy was that he couldn’t ice a cookie. And look, I’m not a snob about decorating cookies, but this guy was hopeless. It turns out the Guinness Book of World Records is really strict about these things so only cookies that were frosted all the way to the edges were counted towards our total. The proceedings were all overseen by two Guinness adjudicators, who wore fancy blazers and looked like they regularly got the crap beaten out of them. I referred to them as the Guinness Debate Team and got a few laughs, which, frankly, is all I’m ever looking for. Throughout the hour, they were reviewing each and every cookie and rejecting the gingerbread men that were not positively struggling to hold the weight of a snowdrift of frosting.

My table buddy was not reaching the edges of his cookies, if you know what I mean. We had to keep giving the cookies he handed to us back so he could put more icing on it. It happened enough times that it blew my brain. And while the explosion in my skull happened, it was accompanied constantly by the humming. I don’t mean to be dramatic but it was, frankly, apocalyptic.

In the end, the whole event really wasn’t that glam. Leslie Mann showed up for a minute, not sure why, and we got a quick glimpse at Robin Roberts, which was thoroughly underwhelming. I was hoping she’d be a bit tipsy (isn’t GMA the show where the women drink wine in the morning?) but she seemed like she was as sharp as ever.

By the way- are all just not commenting on her name? Robin Roberts? I feel like her parents should get a lot of grief for that. I feel like the kind of parents who name their daughter Robin Roberts would name their son Robert Roberts. But I just did some quick research, and her brother is named Lawrence, Jr.. So it’s really just her that was christened with a dumb first name.

Long story short, we beat the world record to a bleeding, diabetic pulp. I ended up in an apron absolutely covered in frosting. And then, to celebrate, I went to work. Because, after we raged against that clock, it was still only 9AM.

I am not in this picture.

In the past couple of months, every time I went to write something for the blog, I suddenly found myself watching episodes of The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina and eating leftover Halloween candy instead, which is a clear sign that I am feeling a lot of things and having a hard time herding them into something that makes sense to write about.

When I slam into one of these emotional brick walls, I find myself doing a lot of Googling “industrial live/work loft spaces, Gowanus” and “why does cheap jewelry turn your ears green” and otherwise burrowing into the internet with no real purpose.

A few months ago, a friend and I saw a poorly designed flyer proudly scotch taped to a pole in the East Village, advertising a cure for “brain fog.” The URL on the bottom was http://michaelalexis.com/brain-fog/ which had a real ring to it (it didn’t.) I, of course, interrupted my friend to stop and take a picture of it so I could look it up later.

In my recent pointless wave of internet exploration, I found myself revisiting his site, and it is everything I remembered it to be. The site reads like a sales pitch given by someone who is just a little… off. It’s classic New York. Enough of the sentences makes some semblance of sense, so you feel as though an actual human person wrote it, but the points made in between can only be described as batshit crazy.

Our telephone pole prophet, it turns out, is preaching the virtues of a “self-designed treatment plan” for clearing your "brain fog.”

He writes:

“Disclaimer: I’m not a doctor, and if I was then other doctors would consider me a quack. This article is a personal account of what worked for me to clear over a decade of brain fog, neck pain, digestive issues and other symptoms.”

Long story short, he got a parasite in China and it made him sick so he came up with plan based on what appears to be absolutely no real logic/knowledge to make himself better. As an added benefit to curing his tummy worm, this regimen also enabled him to, uh, think more clearly, I guess?

Before detailing his plan, he offers the following parable:

“A lady I worked with was famous for making awesome cakes. She would give the recipe to people and then they’d come back and say it didn’t work for them; they always made substitutions like whole wheat flour or weird sugar. You can be a great recipe borrower or a terrible one.”

I think I speak for all of us when I say 🤯

I really did love reading his detailed instructions, which played out loud in my brain as I read, in the voice of The Girl You Wish You Hadn’t Started A Conversation With At A Party. A few gems:

• No liquids with meals because it dilutes enzymes

• “Chew everything a lot. Seriously, if the only thing you do from this article is chew more it will help.”

• Try to keep electricity away from your body.

• Pay attention to hygiene, cleanliness, posture, sexual restraint, emotional control, having a positive outlook, while avoiding grudges, resentments and stress (NBD)

Also, he wants us to go through something he calls “lymph cleaning” which was a hyperlink I ultimately did not choose to click.

This site confirmed what many of you would probably suspect. It turns out that you can actually put pretty much anything on the internet. And I will read it, obsessed, literally eating popcorn so fast that I’m barely tasting it. The world is a hot mess, and I’m just hanging on for dear life.

Yesterday I was listening to one of my favorite podcasts called Sawbones. Basically it’s a very lighthearted chat between a doctor and her comedian husband about all sorts of medical topics. It’s extremely low key and I’ve fallen asleep to it on many occasions, but the episode I listened to last night was horrifying enough to keep me wide awake and prompted a subsequent Google dive. It was about “Jilly Juice.”

For those who don’t know, Jilly Juice is a gross-ass concoction invented by a 100% out of her damn mind lady named Jillian Eberly. Her whole thing is centered around this drink, which you have to make yourself. You mix water, an OBSCENE amount of salt and cabbage, then you let it sit at room temperature for three full days to let it ferment. THEN YOU DRINK IT. And you drink a lot of it. And you don’t eat or drink anything else. You do this constantly. And by all accounts, it leaves your body quickly, violently, and from both ends.

Where Michael Lewis and his brain fog teachings feel relatively harmless (as far as I know, I didn’t click that lymph cleaning link) Jillian Eberly’s movement is just straight up dangerous. She makes Michael Lewis and his brain fog look almost Goopesque in its prescription of supplemental vitamins, tai-chi, and “snuggling with your honey bunches [sic]”

Jillian has a few especially bonkers tenets, including:

• Cancer is a fungus

• Exercise is bad for you

• You can regrow a limb

• Humans could live until 400 if they drink her swamp water

This information gathering expedition on my end was punctuated around 1AM by several clips from the Dr Phil show, showing segments wherein Jilly (of Juice infamy) vehemently puts forth a host of insane alternative facts. Dr. Phil eventually falls mostly silent, shaking his shiny dome in disbelief. You can tell that he’s cursing his booker and longing for a nice, unhappily married couple that he can tear limb from limb. A couple who, while not bright enough to turn down the show’s invitation, at least wouldn’t expect those limbs to grow back.

TBH, all of this would make me want to start a blog, which I’ve already done, or a cult, which is on one of the more freeform drafts of my bucket list.

Much like my current jury duty responsibilities are actually making me think about what it would be like if I went to law school, these case studies have opened the door to the realm of medicine for me. I mean obviously I don’t have the time or money for a medical degree, also blood makes me uncomfortable, but if these true pioneers have taught me anything, it’s that it only takes one, great, unproven idea to break the medical field wide open and save humanity. Science be damned. I’m going to start brainstorming, and for now I guess imma steer clear of electricity just to be safe.

Some weeks the world just feels wobbly. Not bad exactly, but fuzzy.

On Wednesday, I made it to 10:30AM wearing the wrong shirt. There was nothing actually wrong with the shirt I had chosen but I was yanking at the sleeves from the moment I put it on at 8:12.  My arms, much like every other part of my body, are on the short side, which means almost every top, every jacket I buy has sleeves that are too long. For some pieces, like my winter coat, I’ll hem the sleeves so they end at a reasonable place, but for the majority of them I end up either pushing the sleeves up so they bunch over my forearms, or leaning into the cozy, past my fingers cocooning that is only intermittently in style.

On Wednesday, I pushed and pulled, folded them up, unfolded them. I had worn this shirt at least fifteen times already over the last year and never had a problem with it but on Wednesday I couldn’t handle it. At 10:30, seeing the solid block of meetings I had that afternoon, I abandoned the cup of coffee I had just poured, grabbed my bag and ran to a store across the street. I grabbed the first shirt I saw that met my two default criteria- gray, and roughly my size.

Ripping off the tag in the bathroom, I slipped it on and it felt like the first gasp of air after holding my breath past the point of comfort. The material was warm and soft, and miraculously, the sleeves ended right above my wrists.

It was World Mental Health day, which somehow I wasn’t reminded of until much later that day. Somehow, in all of the residual excitement about the annual American honoring of the Italian dickwad who showed up where he wasn’t invited, I missed this other, equally American holiday. I was reminded when I was scrolling through Instagram in bed that night. I saw countless posts from celebrities, sporting perfect “no makeup” makeup, reminding me that it was ok to be mentally ill. It's a really nice sentiment but for me, it never really helps. I passed the point of feeling ashamed of my mental struggles a long time ago, but I still have to deal with the actual symptoms. The stiff, constant vigilance required to monitor my feelings at all times. Trying to be one step ahead of myself and, mostly, failing. The low level anxiety (read: fear) that is permanently coursing through me. I try to balance it by being extra daring. It rarely works, but the task keeps me busy. I add a little bit to each scale, back and forth, trying to make them level. At the end of a lot of my days, I curl up, exhausted, sleeves past my fingers, and attempt to detangle, so I can start it all over again tomorrow.

I got out of bed at 8am today. I just opened my eyes, and I was immediately wide awake, which has happened maybe thrice in my life.

Weekend mornings have been consistently better since I stopped drinking (almost a year ago now.)

I hear myself telling people about how I quit drinking pretty often. It has to be extremely annoying to my closer friends who are usually nearby when it happens. It’s just been a life changer for me. I stopped, and it was this moment where I finally gave myself permission to move on from all the questionable things I’d done in my adult life, alcohol-related or not. And while I’m incapable of actually letting anything go, it was a really nice moment with myself.

When you quit drinking, weekend wake-ups become the most enjoyable activity in your life. You roll over around 7 from the sound of your phantom alarm, hit your phone to check the time, and feel a wave of pleasure wash over you as you realize that you can continue sleeping for as long as you want, and when you wake up, you’re going to feel the same age that you were when you went to bed, if not 6-8 months younger. I call it a snorgasm #nailedit

People ask me how dating is when you don’t drink. Here’s the thing- it’s a thing. I obviously don’t want to end up dating someone who isn’t cool with me not drinking so YES, I have dodged a few bullets by disclosing to Tinder guys early. But it’s something I wish we didn’t always have to talk about so early. My openness with sharing the story of my completely unprompted, wholly voluntary decision to be the least fun person at every party does not extend to guys that I maybe want to sleep with twice a week for 4-6 weeks.

To be fair, most of the guys I talk to are drinkers, and most genuinely don’t seem to care when they find out I’m not. And they almost always decide not to drink on our dates, to be respectful. I like the sentiment but if I’m being honest, I want them to drink. If one of us can’t drink, I feel like the other one has a responsibility to drink twice as much and then go home and send the sober person embarrassing texts. One of us has to. Take one for the team.

But seriously, you acting like a normal human and having a drink in front of me just makes me feel like we can be cool with each other being real people. You drink, I don’t. You’re going to Burning Man, I will not. I like The Office, and you had better fucking like The Office.

One unfortunate side effect of this self-imposed corner-turning is that I find myself saying the word “mocktail” every so often without doing it in a hilarious pretend douchey voice. I’m not thrilled with this development.

In other news…

The other day while getting on the train at Fulton St I experienced the most concentratedly stressful 8 seconds of my life. I walked up to take my place amongst the gaggle of commuters pressed against each other, ready to shove each under onto the tracks at the first sign of budging. I was fumbling with my motherfuckingearbuds and when I looked up, I saw that the woman in front of me was wearing her shirt inside out.

I have never experienced the level of conflict within my own head that this elicited. Cute, if uninspired, illustrations of a devil and an angel character appeared out of thin air and perched on my shoulders. I should tell her. But then it might seem weird that I was looking at her shirt. But I would want a stranger to tell me. Or would I? I would definitely want a friend to tell me but maybe it’s not cool coming from the woman currently breathing down her neck. I mean to be fair the tag is the same color as the shirt and most people won’t be standing this close to her. This all played out over 8 seconds, tops. Then, finally, I made up my mind. I would tell her. And right at that moment the subway doors closed in my face and she disappeared forever.

The next day, I was walking down Park Ave. on my way to work and I saw a woman walking towards wearing. hand-to-God the coolest shoes I have ever seen. They were blue suede flats, with a lip of the front of the foot hole (technical cobbler terminology) that was kind of pointed. And yes, I realize you can’t picture them, because that was a terrible description. So as I continued walking, my brain, ever so slowly, registered that I was obsessed with these shoes. But by the time I realized I should’ve asked her about them, she was long gone.

And now, I can’t find the shoes. They are not on the internet, I can tell you this because I looked at every webpage that exists to try and find them (shut up, what the hell did you do this afternoon that was so great?)

Foiled by my natural urge to never interact with strangers once again.

Writing this in the backyard tonight, the first day of fall (!!), I’m wearing a sweater out of both average fashion sense and absolute necessity. I’ve got hot chocolate mix and a shit ton of ground cinnamon in my kitchen. Let’s do this fall.

Despite my inexplicable but extremely real hatred of Halloween, I still love the fuck out of fall, the clear Best Season. I moved to New York in October 2011 and it took me no time to fall deeply in love with this city. The air gets crisp, the subway smells better, and people put their clothes back on (by and large a good thing.) And this year, the first day of fall serves as a reminder that I’ve only got about a month of my 20s left.

So I’m gonna go watch TV.

If you ask me (you didn’t? huh.) the way you announce that you're planning on legally binding yourself to another person says a LOT about your relationship.

Photos: Pics taken In the middle of a city street. The couple is lifeless in the eyes but you know just milliseconds before they were dodging cars at the behest of an eager young, up-and-coming (read: works for beer) photographer. Three inch heels make her three inches taller than him.
Facebook post: "Kayla and Matt. December 12, 2018."
Translation: Let’s just do this before Nana dies.
Verdict: There are worse reasons to get married.

Photos: Impromptu Costco photo shoot
Facebook post: "We’re getting married AND 48 rolls of toilet paper. Can’t wait to marry this dork."
Translation: We’re being ironic, but we're totally relatable because we both buy in bulk and are fake mean to each other.
Verdict: I’ll allow it.

Photos: Engagement shoot in a field
Facebook post: "I just can’t wait to begin forever with him."
Translation: We love nature, each other, and Mumford and Sons.
Verdict: Sure! Nature is lovely and they look sweet in a gluten-sensitive kind of way.

Photos: Cap and gown and ring
Facebook post: "OMG. Graduated AND got engaged this week!"
Translation: We truly believe we will be in love forever, and when we get divorced, we will not spend one second trying to convince our kids that we still respect each other.
Verdict: You know weddings are expensive, right?

Photo: One poorly-lit selfie
Facebook post: Just the ring and upside-down face emojis
Translation: We will not be contacting you all individually.
Verdict: Efficient.

Photos: Posed pics from a what looks like a JC Penney portrait studio, emailed to you by the bride’s mom.
Email: Dear Rose. Josiah finally popped the question. Sarah is thrilled. How are your mom and dad? Ok well good to talk to you, Love, Mrs. Wilson
Translation: They're second cousins with a mall nearby.
Verdict: They’re second cousins, so.

Photos: Wearing mouse ears and a ring at what is unavoidably Disney World
Facebook post: "On our yearly trip to the Happiest Place on Earth, Erica made me the happiest man on earth! #sothisislove”
Translation: We act out scenes from Aladdin in the bedroom and we don’t have to explain ourselves.
Verdict: A little anecdote: when my sister and I were at a music festival in London we saw a guy and a girl in over-the-top costumes and I said to her, “I love it when people find each other.” and she said “I’m pretty sure they came together."

Photo shoot: Popping the question at the finish line of the New York Marathon
Facebook post: "The couple that runs 26.2 miles together stays together."
Translation: We’ve seen each other lose a toenail and we’re still sexually attracted to each other.
Verdict: God bless.

Photo: Someone else tagged them in their own wedding photos. This is the very first time their relationship has appeared on social media.
Facebook post: N/A
Translation: They’re outside rn.
Verdict: If someone on the internet makes fun of you and you never see it, did it even happen?

You found me, Tinder guy. You were given at most two to three basic facts about me and my first name and somehow you hunted me down. And let me tell you, you've hit the motherload.

In a world where I've gone out with someone and made it 35 minutes in before he started telling me about how "technically legal" Trump's actions are, I feel like we're all allowed to Google the people we're going to meet so that dates like that don't have to last the full 36 minutes (I needed a minute to recover from the shock.)

I like knowing what I'm getting myself into, or at least arming myself with a modicum of information. Also let's be real, it's like a really fucking fun internet puzzle.

But during my very best reconnaissance missions, I've emerged with no more than a last name, and/or an article about your high school football team winning all-state (did you know there's a football position that's just called "kicker"?) and/or the LinkedIn page you haven't updated since you worked as a Sandwich Artist at Subway in 2004. Armed with this valuable information, I can go on a date and know which state I shouldn't talk shit about, what my married name would be (is it better than Seyfried? (probably) would I maybe hyphenate? (probably not)) and that I should double check your employment situation. Not exactly deep intel.

But you. You really got lucky. Because this is a place where I have promised, before Our Lord Jesus Christ and my triple digit FB following (COUNT 'EM)(no brag) that I would be as candid about myself as possible.

So as a reward for you hunting me down, I'm going to do some of the work for you. Because you know what? Men need to be rewarded more.

I've gathered a list of info that you might find interesting, most of which I normally wouldn't just offer up to a stranger. But you're not a stranger anymore, are you. By this paragraph, you've already fallen in love with me. So I'm right on time to go ahead and burn it all down.

• I am gonna be REALLY confusing to you about all of the following:
  • My feelings towards marriage
  • My feelings towards staying in NYC forever
  • If I spend too much time with you I might start getting really annoyed but instead of saying that I need time alone, I'll just be annoyed. For the record, if this happens, just let me disappear for a couple of days and the clouds will part. Unless I was annoyed for a different reason.
  • Which Evan I'm telling a story about (somehow I have like 15 Evans in my life)
• I've either been in love three times, twice or never depending on my mood when you ask me.
• I love James Blunt. And not in an ironic way. The person, the music, all of it...
• I stopped drinking a little less than a year ago. It was mostly for health reasons so I can still go to the bar with my friends, and I actually feel weirder about it if people are choosing not to drink just because I'm around.
• I'm terrible at team sports. Please don't make me play them. If you push me I'll do it because I'm trying to seem chill and cool but please don't ask me.
• I'm on anti-anxiety medication to combat the high anxiety job I chose, notably without a gun to my head.
• I was kind of a piece of shit between 23-26 so I really try to be a really decent human now.
• I can do pretty hard crossword puzzles but they take me forever to finish.
• After a week of work, there are only 3 acceptable planned activities allowed on Saturday mornings. I won't do anything else, and I'm 100% serious. I will CONSIDER going on a run with you after 2PM.
  • Sleeping in
  • Brunch
  • Occasion where I get a present of some sort
• I may try to dress you by repeatedly complimenting you on individual articles of clothing you already own and hinting that something you don't would look good on you when we're out.
• I will buy tons of stuff online and return almost all of it.
• Sometimes while I'm washing off my eye makeup I stop in the middle and I pretend cry with makeup running down my face because for some reason I think it's the most hilarious thing ever and I think at this point it's never gonna get old for me.

So yeah. Text me.

There are a lot of people who decide what to do based on what they think is written in The Bible. As a lapsed Lutheran (the most lethargic AND attractive religion of that particular scatterplot) I know my way around The Bible, and by that I of course mean : Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, David and Goliath, Christmas, Easter, Loaves and Fishes, Almost Cut A Baby In Half, Technicolor Dreamcoat, The Rapture.

It took me the better part of 16 years to develop that understanding. To be honest I’m just impressed by these pious, focused and determined Christians who know about every single time the Bible contradicts itself, and has a direct line to God, who tells them which directive should prevail. Hearing them preach about how righteously they’re living their lives makes me feel less than, which seems to be totally on brand. So I think maybe it’s time to take a quick spin through The Bible* and see how my life stacks up.

1 Timothy 2:9 Likewise, I want women to adorn themselves with proper clothing, modestly and discreetly, not with braided hair and gold or pearls or costly garments.

I’m in the negative off the bat. While I'm not a pearl gal, I’ve been known to French braid some three day hair. Modest and discreet I guess I can usually get behind but I find the term "proper clothing” a bit problematic. It’s like when you’re online shopping and you can filter by “work shirts.” That designation means something completely different for a figure model (0 results) or a tech start-up employee who can, and does, wear literally anything with zero reaction/consequences. I started wearing glasses at work six months ago and one of the Product Managers asked me yesterday if there was something different about my face (“Not BAD different…”)

Leviticus 19:28 Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you: I am the LORD.

I’ve done this, twice, but one of my tattoos is hilarious and the other one is pretty, so I stand by them.

I understand that the frequent all caps “LORD” in translations of The Bible is a stylistic choice and was not to indicate that Jesus walks around yelling his own name. But when I come across this in 2018 I can’t help but picture Jesus as some sort of ancient DJ introducing himself, arms raised, to a crowd in the olden days equivalent of Ibiza.

Proverbs 23:2 . . . And put a knife to your throat if you are given to gluttony.

Once again, guilty. I’ve eaten more than 5 and less than 400 bacon egg and cheese sandwiches in my life and haven’t killed myself even once.

Leviticus 18:22 Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.

You know who isn’t around to explain himself anymore? The dude who transcribed Leviticus right from the mouth of God. So when I choose to interpret the word “lie” to mean “not tell the truth” I don’t anticipate much pushback, at least not from anyone actually reading this blog.

That said- I do not lie the same way with men as I do with my girlfriends. I do it a lot more, and there’s usually some sort of complicated endgame.

Exodus 31:15 Six days may work be done; but in the seventh is the sabbath of rest, holy to the LORD: whosoever doeth any work in the sabbath day, he shall surely be put to death.

The other day I was sitting with my two roommates and Megan said to us “I think Gisela is the coolest of the three of us.” and I agreed. Then I said Megan was definitely the cleanest out of the three of us. And then they both sort of examined me for a few seconds and finally Megan said: “You’re the best at sleeping in on the weekends.”

Rose Seyfried, ladies and gentleman.

Exodus 20:13 Thou shalt not kill.

I kill literally every day.

Deuteronomy 22:8 When thou buildest a new house, then thou shalt make a battlement for thy roof, that thou bring not blood upon thine house, if any man fall from thence.

If I ever buildest a house, I’ll do my best to make sure no one falls off.

Exodus 21: 33-34 And if a man shall open a pit, or if a man shall dig a pit, and not cover it, and an ox or an ass fall therein; The owner of the pit shall make it good, and give money unto the owner of them; and the dead beast shall be his.

Same here #coveryourpits

Ephesians 6:5 Slaves, obey your earthly masters with deep respect and fear.

Ugh, we were doing so well for a minute.

2 Kings 2:23-24 From there Elisha went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, some boys came out of the town and jeered at him. “Get out of here, baldy!” they said. “Get out of here, baldy!” He turned around, looked at them and called down a curse on them in the name of the Lord. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the boys.

I’m extremely polite to my sister’s boyfriend, because if you make fun of a bald person, you will get mauled by a bear, literally. Also because I like him.

John 15:13 Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

Let’s have a moment of sincerity (just one, promise.) I have the best friends on the planet. When my therapist tries to ask me anything about them, I immediately get really defensive and make it very clear that they are saints and are not responsible for a single one of my issues before changing the subject back to something relevant, like my job, or my love life, or my inevitable demise.

Proverbs 18:13 To answer before listening — that is folly and shame.

My long-suffering sister dealt with a lot as the youngest member of our family. By the time they got to her, my parents had done it 4 times already. They had gone through literally everything and made it out the other end already so they didn’t have that hyper-obsessed, nervous parent thing that newer parents tend to have. She was extremely self-sufficient and mature so a lot of the time she kinda flew under the radar. One of the most frustrating things in the world for her was to sit at dinner and be constantly interrupted by her four loudmouthed siblings or two loudmouthed parents.

This is something I actively try to work on, actually. I’ve done a lot of interrupting in my life, and 95% of the time it’s because I’m so excited about what the other person is saying and I want to contribute something and not because I can’t wait to hear the sound of my voice, but it IS shameful, answering someone before listening. Good one, Bible.

James 5:16 Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.

A long time ago, I decided to be the kind of person who tries to let as few people as possible know when I do something wrong.

Philippians 2:14-16 Do all things without complaining or bickering with each other, so you will be found innocent and blameless.

Anyone wanna argue with me about how much this one sucks? 

John 21:25 Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.

This isn’t really relevant for this post but I thought I’d share it because I’m calling it now- Donald Trump will definitely steal this for the first two sentences of his autobiography.

*selected excerpts from

I'm in LA! Yesterday I overheard someone saying "Oh, yeah, he's clutch. I just saw him when I was grabbing a crepe on Hollywood Boulevard." Hollywood Boulevard, I've learned, is in LA! Also, people just grab crepes here like it's NBD! Wow.

I've done a pretty solid job on my very own game of LA Bingo. I saw the piece of the sidewalk where Trump's Walk of Fame star was destroyed. I had my schedule disrupted by a rattlesnake. I ate legitimately healthy breakfast food that I didn't personally cook. I had a Lyft driver who gave me his very subjective, barely abridged history of the Yankees, his opinion of the beach ("overrated"), and the elevator pitch for his dad's Alien Vs. Predator augmented reality game that "has a lot of potential, we just need to find the right financier" all in a cool 28 min (4 mile) drive.

We've been shooting on location at a place called Golden Oak Ranch outside of the city. It's owned by Disney, and it's basically a small, fake suburban town. There are beautiful houses along a street, most of which are just empty shells. The one we're using for the main character's house has been completely transformed. Walls were built and wallpapered, curated furniture was added, a fake bathroom was built, and there are family photos of the cast strategically placed.

Writing about that level of detail, I suddenly feel really self-conscious about the fact that, due to poor planning and a scosche of laziness, I'm wearing two slightly different black socks. More glaring evidence of my Type A-minus-ness.

It's been cool being involved with this level of production. I've been on very few film sets, and the ones I have experienced were the kind of indie/low-budget situation where everyone is there as a favor to someone else, there is always a missing memory card (DUDE I had it a second ago) and there's a designated spot for the PAs to go take a (SHORT) break and cry. This shoot has fancy things like fire extinguishers, and trailers, and people who are being paid enough that they aren't miserable from the very beginning.

All of this said, I'm still way more interested in the tech side of what I do for work. I feel like I'm way happier communicating with developers and UX/UI designers. The people in the film world tend to either intimidate or exasperate me. Even when I like them, it's a constant struggle to match the level of energy they seem to all have. I just don't do well with earnestness, overt attempts at networking, or obvious cosmetic dentistry.

Yesterday I went on a run, arbitrarily picking a route that somehow consisted only of insane hills. Every few blocks, I had to stop, double over, and just sort of stand there, wheezing, focusing on not falling over. When I finally made it to the top, the view was amazing. It felt like Seattle- totally beautiful, but not for me.

I'm heading home on Monday, and I'll be really happy to land at JFK and get into a Lyft with a driver who may have face tattoos but will almost certainly also be silent.