Running is for Crazy People

People are going to try and tell you running is fun and I'm here to tell you that those people are full of shit. Okay okay! Maybe that's just my opinion. There appear to be a great many people who enjoy running, as if regressing back to the cavemen era when we ran away from giant mastodon's trying to make us their dinner is EXACTLY the way they prefer to spend their free time. I don't so much not understand those people as much as I sincerely believe we live on different planets. Because, to me, running is the worst. And here's why:

1.) You can't talk while you are running. Not only does the constant movement make it difficult to catch your breath long enough to formulate a sentence but apparently, talking while running is a legitimately unhealthy physical practice. 

2.) You get cold-sweaty. Cold-sweaty is the name I give to that feeling when you get underground at a subway stop and you're all bundled up and you feel so grateful to be out of the cold winter chill and then about two stops in you realize you are sweating and wearing so many layers that the effort to take off even one on this crowded godforsaken machine would be futile. I hate cold-sweaty. I have a really bad cold-sweaty problem when I run because, well, I'm probably not doing something right...maybe I don't warm up enough (read: at all.) 

3.) My whole body turns bright red. Ahhh the joys of being a pale, Irish girl are innumerable! As if it wasn't already DELIGHTFUL ENOUGH to spend most of the summer wearing kaftans and floppy hats, covered in SPF 100 praying I don't get burned, even in the colder months while running outside I develop big, red splotchy marks all over my face, neck, and hands. Which should definitely come in handy for my fit model career.

4.) You can't eat while you're running. You can eat before, and you can eat after. But you can't eat during and that's a problem...for me anyways. 

I despise running. I hate the elitist running culture, the run clubs that come out of NOWHERE and seemingly never end, and I hate the way my hair looks after it's been in a sweaty running pony tail. Now that you know all that, you should also know that this weekend I signed up to run my first half marathon, the Women's Central Park Half Marathon on April 19th. So, with the assumption that I'll start my training today, February 24th, that means I have a little over 8 weeks to train. I wanted to officially start training yesterday but I was over served at an Oscar party the night prior and my best life choice was to sleep in and eat crackers for the better part of the morning. Why am I doing this? I don't really know. I'm not doing it to lose weight, or impress anyone, or achieve some deep, burning desire to be a runner. Everyone I tell has been confused as to why, too. But my favorite response thus far was from my Nike Training app which straight up said:

...the app has a valid point, and I'm thankful for the honest opinion. Eight weeks is definitely pushing it, in regards to a feasible time frame to train within. But at least the app is lookin' out for a girl. When I told my mother I was running a half marathon the conversation went a little like this:

ME: Ma! I just signed up for a half marathon and it's a women's half marathon! And it's in Central Park in April! And it's all women, the whole race! Just women! Running! ...cool, huh?

MOM: Honey great, why are you doing this again? 

...alright so yes, I don't have a reason per say but does it really matter? I thought she would think it was pretty cool, or empowering or inspiring? Maybe that's the crux of the reason why people enjoy running? Perhaps that's the secret! That when you run long, great distances you come out the other end of a finished race with all sorts of clarity and passion and inspiration?? Or, maybe, I'll be able to bounce a quarter off my ass!

The first race I ever ran (not including the Presidential Fitness Test in 8th grade heyoooo!) was the St. Patrick's Day 10k in Washington, DC in 2011. My life felt like it was falling apart. I was drinking too much, and dating too many different men, and spending most of my bi-weekly paychecks from Lululemon at Lululemon. I was desperate to move to New York. And I needed a challenge but I didn't know where to start. I don't even remember how I found this race, but I did, and I signed up mid-January and then promptly trained to run it approximately zero times. Zero. Then, come race day, I got on my all matching Lululemon outfit, had a banana, and tried not to vomit while waiting for the stupid thing to start. I brazenly put myself in the nine minute mile group. "You're young, you're fertile!" I thought to myself as I faux stretched with other young, fertile men and women. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a man, mid-thirties, in a wheelchair ahead of me. That's right. Ahead of me. As in the eight minute mile group. Well. Fuck. "If a man in a wheelchair can do an eight minute mile, I can do an eight minute mile!" I remember silently (dear god I hope it was inside voice and not a declamatory statement) saying. I WILL NOT WIN THIS RACE, BUT I WILL BEAT WHEELCHAIR MAN.*

That starting gun went off, and I simply decided to keep moving. I didn't stop moving, and I also did not stop listening to Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" on REPEAT because, motivation. I made sure to keep wheelchair man in my peripheral, always clocking him. If I hadn't lost my mind at some undocumented moment in my life prior, this is most assuredly the moment. I felt like he was taunting me. I developed an entire narrative about how wheelchair man had it out for me. Because that seems like something a healthy person does. Right? On the last two miles I significantly slowed down and was at what I'd like  to call a lady trot** and he passed me. He passed me. Uhhhh. Something inside me erupted like a wronged woman on an episode of the Maury Povich Show when she finds out he IS the father. I think there might have been lil flames in my eyes. I dug deep down and realized now was fight or flight time. I pretended there were turbo rockets attached to my shitty running shoes and I picked up the pace. I picked up the pace until I saw wheelchair man less than 50 feet ahead of me. And then, I turned Whitney on a few notches louder and I RAN RIGHT PAST WHEELCHAIR MAN. The exuberance! The moment of pride when I realize, I have passed him! Pure, unadulterated bliss! 

What is the takeaway?  Well, I'm a crazy person. I'm highly motivated by competition, even in unfair, highly dramatized scenarios with faux enemies like wheelchair man. I still hate running, but I need a challenge. I need something to be competitive about. I need to realign my priorities and my decision making. I need to know that I'm still alive. You know? Just a reminder that I'm here and I'm working towards something. I need to say I said I'd do it, and then I fucking did. I need a win. And what better way to hold yourself accountable than tell some people in a very public setting, like, say, ya blog?

A little warning: I'm going to be writing about running. A lot. I'm sorry. I can't always promise it will be inspiring or insightful. I can promise it will be humorous and honest and another h-word that I can't quite put my finger on at this moment. In conjunction with needing a goal, sometimes I need a little motivation to write more, although the play I'm writing about the time I got MRSA and bed bugs in the same week as Hurricane Sandy is coming along quite well, thank you for asking. Point is, this writing assignment will keep me constant, like coffee does. 

The lovely sounding Nike app woman told me I have a six mile run tomorrow. It's currently nine degrees. I can't wait to let ya'll know how that goes.    

*Just for the record, I think this man is a badass.  

**a lady-trot is the same as fast running in heels, but when you are at a lady-trot in sneakers, then you're just lazy.  

Right after I finished the St Patrick's day 10k, my first race...I take no responsibility for what symbol I'm trying to make with my hands.

No One is Alone

I've spent my fair share of time alone on Valentine's Day. And you know what, that's all kinds of okay.  I confess I'm not alone this year, so maybe my thoughts on the subject are rendered obsolete. It's certainly nice to have someone to do nice things for, but I also feel that should be an everyday occurence. My bozo* and I won't be spending this day wracking up debt and stressing over how this day should mean more. For one, both of us have more money in the Mexican currency of pesos than we do tangible dollars. We're basically gonna get all "Gift of the Magi" on each other, buying treats for each other we don't need but refuse to buy for ourselves. It'll be romantic, in that way that poor things are.  

Valentine's Day always gets me thinking about what this day was like in years prior, where I was, or who I was with, or what I was feeling. But you know what? It also gets me thinking about all the things I had (and YOU, sweet reader, have) that mean a whole lot more than one day where you might feel a tad bit lonely. So, I compiled a list of awesome stuff that I had/have as a quick reminder that we all tend to "have" a lot more than we think we do. The things we have--and bits of our lives we share--keep us from truly being alone. And if, after reading this list, you still feel alone then you can call me and I will find you wherever you are within the five boroughs and we will drink coffee (read: Irish coffees) and giggle (read: maybe cry) for a few hours, together. But let's try this first? 

WHY (MOST PEOPLE) AREN'T REALLY ALONE (Or, A List of Awesome Shit We Take For Granted) 

1.) Netflix

2.) Legs that walk you places

3.) Arms that pick things up

4.) A place outside to walk

5.) Pizzabagels  

6.) A friend to call

7.) A mom/dad that chooses to listen to you when you need to talk  

8.) the entirety of the movie, Up

9.) Double stuffed dark chocolate Milano cookies

10.) Oysters on the half shellllllll (get one right now, I can't stop and they're only $3) 

11.) Whistling  

12.) Skipping

13.) An animal pet that loves you (perhaps only because you feed them, but let's choose to be positive here) 

14.) A pair of jeans you look like a sexy motherf*cker in

15.) Warm socks

16.) Hand written letters  

17.) Coffee

18.) People in your neighborhood who recognize you/know you by name

19.) Tropical flavored Starburst  

20.) An old picture of your grandparents when they were in the love

21.) Ben and Jerry's Milk and Cookies ice cream

22.) ANY AND ALL MUSIC. The ability to hear and appreciate music

23.) Skin (Your skin is actually so badass, it's awesome, even when it's very see-through pale.) 

24.) Comfy beds

25.) The ability to read

26.) Libraries and small bookshops

27.) A job where someone relies on you

28.) Instagram (yeah, I'll admit it. I'm addicted and grateful.) 

29.) Brothers and sisters

30.) That new Rihana and Kanye and that other guy's new song  

31.) Water

32.) A photograph or a piece of art that reminds you of something/someone 

33.) Fresh (freezing cold) air

34.) The choice to go anywhere else (if you really put your mind to it) 

35.) A corner to write in

36.) An itchy item of clothing someone has knit for you

37.) Someone that worries about you

38.) Someone you worry about

39.) Incredible (and free) street/subway performances daily

40.) Your retainer box

41.) A place that you get to call home

Some years on Valentine's Day I didn't have all of these things, or even ten. Some of you might not have all of these things. Some of of them are just that: things, and funny items that made/make me feel safe. Some are less tangible, some are relationships and moments that make us feel taken care of. But here's the real thing: if you read this and have five, or twenty, or even one, you're going to be okay. If you make your own list, you'll get to look and see how much you really *have.*  Yes, perhaps Valentine's is a silly contrived holiday and yes, perhaps others don't care about it as much as you or I do. But if the only positive action that comes out of this seemingly lonely or bleak or underwhelming or cheap holiday is that you take a minute to see all that you have, then it's most assuredly worth it.

*that's my messed up pet name for my boyfriend derived from a crazy man on the subway because, love.  

Top Five Places to Cry in NYC

When did crying in public become cool again? I think it must've happened right around the time we started sharing viral proposal videos. You know, the kind that start with some sort of very determined, generic classical piece (heavvvyyy on the stringed instruments) that drums up excitement while the malefiancé  tells a story about how he's known Jenny* for seventeen years but four years ago he went to Bonnaroo and got SUPER lost coming back home and she was dating someone new when he returned and it took months of playing a painfully mediocre, yet heartfelt version of Mumford and Son's "I Will Wait" on his uke outside her window to win her back? Those ones. This is why it's cool to cry again. So, I guess, I'm cool biddies. 

I love a good cry. My very favorite cry is when I can get into pajamas, drink wine from a coffee cup, open my iPad and watch each and every sad looking trailer at http://trailers.apple.com/. Also, soldiers coming home and their dogs freaking out. Those are my jam. My dearest friends enjoy a solid cry, too. One friend indulges in a quick "get it all out" cathartic cry while watching the last ten minutes of Step Mom. Seriously, google "last ten minutes of step mom." It'll come up. I love the internet so hard.

People think New York City is the best city in the world for so many obsolete reasons. The REAL reason New York City is the best is because of the plethora of perfect places you can (if the spirit moves you) publicly cry. There are a few places you shouldn't cry (anywhere in Times Square) but everywhere else is fair game. I would like to share with you, if I may, some of my very favorite places to publicly cry. I foster the idea of a luxury public cry, not because I want you, dear reader, to be wrought with sadness and the need to cry. But more because a quick cry in a sweet setting never hurt nobody. And, like a tape worm, better out than in.

TOP FIVE PLACES TO PUBLIC CRY IN NEW YORK CITY

                                                                                            1) Central Park

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Change "macaroons" to "can of dark chocolate frosting and a spoon" and this man/woman and I are most assuredly soul mates.

People are always like, "Oh my gosh Sheep Meadow! So much fun! Frisbee and shit!" but the best part of Central Park are the benches. Have you read any of the dedications on the benches? THEY ARE DEVASTATING. One time I didn't even have to cry and I made myself by reading some of the bench dedication plaques. You can sit, put your sunglasses on (please be in the park crying during the day, at night it's no longer cathartic as much as it's dangerous) and let it all out. The wonderful part is there are benches EVERYWHERE so there's bound to be a subway stop that takes you to the park and helps you publicly purge. And when you're done you can grab a big pretzel or a hot dog and live in your truth.

2) Any Greek Cafe/Diner 

Baklava= my anti-drug.

It's a Greek belief dating back to the first Olympics that hard crying for twenty minutes steadily is the emotional and physical equivalent to running a marathon.** See, now you won't miss that answer on Trivia Crack. You're welcome. I think Greek diners are awesome. Sometimes a lady needs four to five pieces of baklava and a release of emotion in the form of crocodile tears. You might've  deduced that the Greeks are comfortable with tears, based on their loud, emotional conversations and passionate hand gestures but they are actually very stoic people. If you cry in their establishment they will most likely leave you alone until they send over another piece of baklava, on the house. 

3.) Port Authority 

A picture I took for you guys of Hell.

Port Authority is the worst place. Port Authority smells like dashed dreams and Cool Ranch Doritos that someone urinated on and left in a corner. It feels like, maybe, it's not a real place at all but perhaps a movie set from the 1970's that someone forgot to break down after filming wrapped. The florescent lights leave nothing to the imagination. If you are tired, Port Authority knows and will expose you so hard. I caught myself crying at Port Authority recently trying to catch a Peter Pan bus (because I am LUXURY) to Massachusetts to see a therapist who believed he could cure my tension by playing Tibetan singing bowls.*** I was at that seventh layer of hell disguised as the the Authority of the Ports at 7am, on time, but was denied a seat on the bus because they overbooked. It was a perfect storm of frustration and exhaustion and it most certainly all came to a teary halt. But, here's the beauty of Port Authority crying: it never lasts that long. It's not a place that facilitates a comfortable, glamorous cry. It's the quick, dirty release that it needs to be, and then you buck up and you get your ass on the next bus to somewhere vaguely near your desired destination. You get a big Snapple and a trashy magazine and you COMMIT to being a part of that gross place while chalking over the money for your Amtrak ticket back home. 

4.) Fancy hotel bars

The Ace Hotel or, Fancy-Town.

The exact opposite of Port Authority, the fancy hotel bar gives you a comfortable, plush, crushed velvet couch that you can call your own while you sit with whatever poor girlfriend is stuck listening to you cry about having too much work, not enough work, too many men, not enough men, too many credit cards, not enough credit cards, and various other fake problems that can only be shared over drinks where at least one of the ingredients are muddled. I love a fancy hotel bar, like that library themed bar in the Ace Hotel because everyone is trying so so hard. If you're the woman/man (because ya'll cry too) crying at the Ace Hotel bar, the facade gone. You might as well unbutton your jeans and let the mascara run free, your walls are down and the pressure is off and you can ACTUALLY ENJOY what a nice place it really is. Also, ain't nobody gonna ask to share that crushed velvet couch with you crying like that, so spread out and stretch and live your life!

5.) 59th and Lexington Subway Stop

Crying when I took this picture because, life.

This one might just be my special place so, please don't take it from me. Go find your own subway stop to cry at, this one's mine, I've cried all over it. For some reason, anytime my feelings are being felt it's at this exact station, most specifically in the underpass from the uptown to the downtown trains. It's so gross there, the rats outnumber humans 3 to 1. I think it wants to be glamorous, what with the Bloomingdale's and all, but somewhere between 1950 and today, the charm has been lost. But here's the thing: that charm and glamor are still alive within every single commuter passing through that station. Crying Bligh has been handed tissues, given seats on the bench, and even been gifted a free water from the bodega. Whenever I needed a bit of kindness it was always readily given by a person at this station. Maybe those people spent their fair share of time crying at 59th and Lex too, and they get it, and they want to pass along a good deed or two. I'd like to believe that because it makes me happy but maybe my pale blotchy-skin cry face are wicked scary and people are trying to avoid me. Whatever the reason may be, I implore you to find your own special train station where you feel free enough to cry. Just make sure it's a stop accessible during your regular commute and that the people (and rats) are kind. 

*Because all the women are usually named Jenny, and I'm sorry if that sounds rude of me I actually think Jenny is an awesome name.  

**This is a boldface lie.  

***these bowls are awesome. I'm sorry, but they're way more awesome than the name Jenny.  

Likes This Status

Hello, my name is Bligh and I am addicted to likes. It's been...36 seconds since I last liked something. I think about liking things all the time. Like, I* like everything mostly. There's just...so much to like. The things I want to like the most usually include, but are not limited to are the following: babies, anything related to Chipotle, anytime anyone mentions Beyonce, pictures of babies wearing sunglasses, love, witty comments, and any documentation of babies wearing sunglasses eating in a Chipotle while saying something witty and executing that lil handshake bit from Beyonce's "Single Ladies" video.

I'm trying to like less as I'm aware it's just a manifestation of the bigger addiction to social media. But the LIKES man! I need to click the like. It feels so good. It makes me feel like I've done something worthwhile with my day, regardless of the fact I'm still in pajamas youtubing "how to cornrow" ad nauseum. I've liked shit. I'm spreading love, one like at a time! And mayhaps, I'm like, the Buddha of Likes. I'm an Enlightened Liker! (This is now a thing. You should probably like it.)

And there's the word like. It's completely perfect. So many different, distinct meanings and phrases wrapped into such a wee, overused, generational trend of a word! Sometimes a like is all, "thank you." And then you see a friend's funny quip and you want them to know, "good one" so you LIKE all up on it! Another friend is with child? Fantastic! I LIKE that so much for you! Not for me. I'm good. But YOU. Namaste to you and your babe in the womb! Sometimes, a like simply means, "I saw that." I'm trying to avoid these likes...but...the temptation to make sure I catch every single thing every single person I've met once at a Wicked ECC says/documents/does is just...too much for this addict.

I know I like too much. In order to work on this little problem of mine, I've devised a plan of action. For each impetus I have to "like" something on social media a friend of mine has posted, I take a deep breath, and if applicable, I call their number. The first victim? My younger brother and Draco Malfoy impersonator, Eamon Wall Voth. Our interaction went something like this:

ME: HEY! Eamon! What's going on in your life today? How're things? How's that girl you met on OkCupid who manages that froyo store at home I like?

EAMON: ...that's over...

ME: But it just started?

EAMON: Yeah, she wasn't the one.

ME: ...Okay. And ALSO, I want you to know that I really like  your new profile picture.

EAMON: Thanks, it was taken on a rooftop.

ME: I LIKE THAT. I LOVE roofs! Awesome Eamon, really great.

EAMON: Are you doing alright? Go get a Dunkin, you'll feel better...

Based on the above interaction, I think it's time to find a different way to combat the addiction to like. I can't like it all. No one can. That's just silly. And there are things outside to do! And air to breathe! And books to read! And hair to cornrow! And human beans* to truly interact and connect with. I know this might not change overnight. Addiction is a strong and rude biddie that will vomit on your favorite pair of shoes and not even apologize. But we keep trying, every day, a little bit more. And the dream? The dream is we'll all "like" ourselves enough to not feel obligated to like or be liked by anyone else. That's the dream. I fuckin' love it.

*"human beans" is a reference from the awesome awesome book The Borrowers which I read at least three times while part of my Catholic school's elite (read: dorky) Battle of the Books Club right around the tender age of 11, and I think you should take a minute and read it, too, if you haven't already. Boom.

You Don't Just Talk About An ID and Not Share It

...I mean....you're welcome? Auditioning for OITNB before I even knew! So, technically I'm a prophet.

Hashtag Perspective

Today, I lost my ID. This might not seem like a big deal to you, dear reader, but my ID was the only article that I've SOMEHOW been able to keep ahold of for the last ten years of my life. I've lost two cell phones, a half dozen clutches, my favorite romper EVER en route to the dry cleaners on a windy day, and years of my life and brain cells to the Real Housewives franchise. But I've never lost my ID. I took pride in that. It was always like, "My dignity has been lost in Bethesda, Maryland but I STILL HAVE MY ID!" And now? Now I can't even brag about that menial success. I was feeling pretty poorly about myself, about how I'm a shoddy excuse for an adult and I will probably die alone surrounded by empty containers of chocolate frosting and 17 cats, still sans ID, when I realized: this is ridiculous. There are real problems. This surely cannot be a real problem. I mean, yes it is, because it's an inconvenience. And I guess I'll have to bring my passport to Trader Joe's Wine Shop now. But it'll be fine. And there are PLENTY of things I haven't lost in my 25 years on this earth! Like, important things that make me happy! That matter more than a picture of me that had my weight (which I DID NOT sanction) and height written underneath a shot which made me look like I was in women's prison. Let me tell you something. The secret to being a happy person? Lists. I swear to you. Make em biddies, they will never let you down. So without further ado, here is:

A LIST OF 7 THINGS I'VE MANAGED TO NOT LOSE AT ANY POINT OF MY LIFE

1) My last name. -Still got it! Not married! Still mine! And it's scary to look at, so the fact that I've never discarded it is nothing to scoff at. Voth. It's strong, it makes a guttural sound when spoken aloud, and people pronounce it two different ways which gives me an air of mystery...in my head...after wine.

2) My grandmother's gold charm bracelet. - I love that thing, but that thing has also been a great many places it shouldn't have. Like Cabo. And college. Aside from any monetary value, that charm bracelet makes me feel very elegant and lady like and genteel and it reminds me of my grandmother. It should come out on special occasions like Christmas and the day Peeps become seasonally appropriate to carry in your local CVS. Not for girl's trips to Mexico. No.

3) My Shoe. -I have never ever been THAT girl who's like, "I lost a shoe somewhereeeeeelikkeeeeeat like, Bowery and Houston?!?" She says this when you are absolutely nowhere near Bowery and Houston. I have never been that girl. I've done silly (read: moronic) things LIKE this, but never this.....please let me claim my small victory.

4) My IPad. -Now this is a true triumph because many a many a MANY a time I have left my iPad places but I always remember where it is and quickly retrieve! Just mere months ago I left my iPad on a Megabus and the minute I realized, ran through Union Station like Holly Golightly trying to save that cat in the rain! (Side note: I had to google "top ten famous romantic movies" to find a reference I liked most. And like, A LOT of romantic movies end with a run-back-to-the-one-you-love scene! Except for A Walk to Remember....so...there's that.)

5.) My keys. -Boom. That's a big one. Lots of people lose their keys! NOT ME MOTHERSSSSS. I mean, they're impossible to lose because I carry a key to almost every place I've ever lived, everyone I work for, and at least three copies of my home key in Virginia. Daddy Voth likes to make spares for me because I tend to lose them and well shit I guess this doesn't really count now.

6.) Bobby pins. -Listen. Bobby pins are like a modern-day girl's calling card. I leave these things EVERYWHERE. Bligh's been here. Look. There are those annoyingly blonde bobby pins. (SECOND Side note: WHY HASN'T ANYONE INVENTED BOBBY PINS THAT HAVE A BIT OF A BRUNETTE ROOT?!? You know, just inquiring for a friend.) Yes, I leave bobby pins all over the place but I always have the necessary amount with me. Always. Every time. And I can't remember buying any new bobby pins since 2006, so either I'm stealing them and blocking it out or I've managed to retain a large quantity through osmosis and prayer.

7.) My credit card(s). -Many many moons ago a younger, smarter me decided to get a credit card that depicted one of those creepy/annoying Anne Geddes portraits of a baby dressed as a strawberry on a pepto bismol pink background. I love that credit card. I have NEVER lost it. The original intention behind getting one of these Anne Geddes homage credit cards was twofold. 1) She did that HYSTERICAL and uncomfortable photo shoot with Celine Dion (my spirit animal) holding babies disguised as fruits and vegetables that really spoke to me. I equal parts love and hate those photographs. I'll never forget the Anne Geddes coffee table book in my gynecologist's office that (I believe) single-handedly prevented me from being a teen pregnancy statistic. 2) THE CARD WAS OBNOXIOUSLY PINK. I thought it would always be easiest to find in a pile of cards. And, my sweet biddie readers, I was right.

I'd like to end this post by coming clean and saying it was originally intended to be a list of 10 things I had managed to not lose. But the truth is, I can only think of 7. And you know what? That's enough. I'm tired of beating myself for not being perfect, or having all the things all the times, or making sure everything is just right. Sometimes you lose things. And that's ok. Things can be replaced. Life is about the silver lining, no? So here's mine: no longer will I have to endure that almost ten year-old picture of me with flat ironed hair and sparkle glitter eye-shadow. See? Perspective is a beautiful thing. And I have no intention of losing that.

How to Deal With This Winter and Stop Binge Watching Netflix/Crying

I'm not one for profanity. That's a lie. Well, now I might as well tell you. I'm a liar with a penchant for profanity. And this weather....this winter...deserves a gigantic "fuck you." Some will read this and think, "Bligh! It's winter! It's a cold season! Don't be so overdramatic!" And to whoever is thinking like that, know that I would LOVE to give you a solid "fuck you" too, but I won't because I'm a lady. And because I might've gotten kicked out of cotillion but I remember that a lady doesn't swear at strangers. Yesterday whilst cleaning my closet I found a box of sun dresses and started crying. This is a true story. I wept tears for sun dresses yet to be worn and appreciated. I can't anymore. I can't bundle up like I've willingly chosen to move to the Ukraine. I can't continue to eat all the bread and excuse the behavior as my "building a protective layer against the wind." I want to wear my transitional coats*! I want to do that thing white people do where we wear shorts way before it's acceptable to do so! (#86 on Stuff White People Like) I want to live!

It might be getting warmer soon, who's to say really. I stopped checking the weather on my phone four weeks ago when I realized my morning lookup for the day's temperature coincided with time in line at my Dunkin and I was throwing unnecessary anger and sass at the people I love the most. Now I just dress exclusively in layers and large swatches of colorful fabric. I look like a retired high school theatre teacher in head to toe Chico's 2013 fall/winter line. And you know what? That's FINE! I've embraced it! And I've also developed some habits to fight this winter and think/live positively for the impending spring. Please, let me share with you:

HOW TO DEAL WITH THIS WINTER AND STOP BINGE WATCHING NETFLIX/CRYING

1) Secret It. -I've never read "The Secret" but I have heard it works. Or maybe it doesn't. Maybe it's just bullshit New Age spiritual philosophy that we all pretend to believe because Oprah says we should. I DON'T KNOW. Let's just try it? The process of "secreting" (to me) involves singing a simple jingle written by three luxury ladies and I five years ago in a dressing room. I wish you could hear it, but the video no longer exists. Just sing, "the secret works!" I suggest a vowel modulation for "works" so that it comes out more like, "weurks-uh!" I also suggest getting a few friends together and singing this jingle in a three part harmony. But, you do you.

2) Get an obnoxiously happy nail color. -See below. This is annoying mostly because no one feels like this is a color that exists anymore. But the sky used to be this color. Remember? It did. And every time you look at your nails, you'll smile. Promise.

3)Drink like it's the summer. -This one is so easy! Eschew your dark liquors and Hot Toddys! Drink something that needs a wee umbrella to be considered properly garnished! And, although I call tequila "wanna know my secrets" I have warmed up to it again. Life is too short to not actively pretend you're on a tropical island, ten pounds lighter, drinking an unnaturally colored drink served in a fish bowl while making friends with a small monkey who you caught trifling through your beach bag. So order that Mai Tai and drink like it's the summer!

4) Lie to a stranger. -Okay. I do this a lot. But recently, I do it more because I've been walking less and taking more buses (read: cabs) and there seems to be more opportunity to socialize with humans you will NEVER meet again. People on the bus are chatty! They want to know about about ya life! They do not want you to be talking on your phone, but they would like you to engage them in conversation, especially the ones over the age of 95. I've been doing this for years: making up elaborate stories about myself and my background and what I do for a living. It used to be exclusively an airplane practice. Whomever was lucky enough to be my assigned seating partner on long plane rides would hear about how I graduated high school at sixteen and was taking a few years off to travel the country searching for a long lost aunt who had joined a cult in 1973. But now I do this ALL THE TIME. The other day a lady on my bus ride heard about how my lucrative hairdressing career was about to propel me to young entrepreneurial status as I was just about to open up a salon. My cab driver last Tuesday thought I was an opera singer. Just try it! You will never see that person again, and it'll keep you on your toes. You might colossally embarrass yourself and get caught in a fib, but then you'll probably blush and get heated and then it's kind of like summer, no?

5) Go on a very short, brisk walk. -The trick here is to walk far enough so that you might not feel your fingers, but your lungs don't hurt from the intake of frigid air. It's a fine line, but the exhilarating feeling that you are ALIVE is worth the gamble. It's also a nice moment to look around and acknowledge no one is smiling. SO smile at them! They might smile back, or they might tell you to "fuck off," I don't know I'm not in charge of that.

The end is near. It's got to be. I don't mean the end of the earth, although an old man did tell me it's all over for us in 45 years. But even if that is the case, that means we're looking at approximately 44 more winters like this until life as we know it ceases to exist. So, let's practice some positivity, let's drink something infused with an exotic fruit, and for all that is good and true in this world let's lie to a stranger.

*transitional coats: light jackets that you buy with the intention to wear for the three and half days every fall and spring where the weather is really lovely but there's a slight, chilly breeze.

To Grand Plié Is One's Personal Choice

My friends are fantastic. I think everyone must think that about their friends, but, my people are the real deal. They are smart, funny individuals. They listen when I talk. They've learned to tell me all social events start hours before they actually do so I am on time. They stick up for me. And they have inspired me to write about topics that move me, that I find pertinent, that I emotionally connect to.

 So now let me tell you about the cleanest, safest, most luxurious places to use a public restroom in New York City. No no no, let my friends and I tell you. Below is the direct transcript from family dinner a few weeks back, after I made my friends Tarragon, Epiphany, and Hashtag* this fannncyyy desert, from scratch: 

 

ME: Alright. I'm recording this. Favorite places to pee in NYC. Go.

HASHTAG: So I'm super horny---

ME: Focus please, this is business. Tarragon, go.

TARRAGON: My favorite place to pee is Eataly. 

ME: Why Tarragon, why? 

TARRAGON: Because it's cleaned every hour.

ME: Do you know that to be true?

TARRAGON: Yes, positive. Every time I got they're cleaning. And I've seen the check list. They clean every hour. I know this. You also don't feel any pressure to buy anything because it's really big and there's lots of stuff. There are three different entrances. And, get this. Best part? TEN stalls. Ten. All of them cleaner than the last. 

ME: Yeah. I hear you. I'm taking in this information and your passion. Love and light to you but...it's not so so luxury in there. I want like, individual rooms and eucalyptus towels and--

EPIPHANY: Champagne. You want Beauty and Essex.

ME: Yes I do, thank you Epiphany.

EPIPHANY: Yes, but Tarragon means in a pinch, where would you go when you're in Flatiron.

ME: Ok ok ok. So where do you go then in Midtown?

HASHTAG: The Marriott. Everyone chooses the Marriott. 

EPIPHANY: The Marriott is so standard. 

TARRAGON: The Marriott is tricky though because their bathroom's have closing hours. 

HASHTAG: No they don't girl.

TARRAGON: Yes they do. The second floor Marriott bathroom has closing hours. The ones near the box office.

HASHTAG: You're talkin' about the second floor. I'm talkin' about the lobby. I do the LOBBY girl. I get in and I press 8J or whatever and I go to the 7th floor--

EPIPHANY: 8th floor. Obviously the "8" stands for the 8th floor. 

HASHTAG: OKAYYYY 8th floor. And I go to the 8th floor and I use the fancy bathrooms and...sometimes...I get a drink. 

ME: Before or after you use the bathroom?

HASHTAG: Same. Time. 

ME: Epiphany, favorite place to pee in New York City and why?

EPIPHANY: I would have to say...Bloomingdales...

EVERYONE: MHMM. Yes. But of course!

EPIPHANY: Oh. I know. The one on east 59th or whatever. That one. And let me enlighten you as to why.

ME: By all means, please. 

(at this moment, all discussion stops as a wee little puppy does something so cute that we can do nothing but make noises of sheer delight and revel in her adorableness.)

 

EPIPHANY: Ok. sorry for the break. The reason why I choose Bloomingdales is for its cleanliness, its proximity to Forty Carrots, and its location on the bedding floor so when you're looking for new quilts you ca---

TARRAGON: Why would we be looking for new quilts?

EPIPHANY: YOU KNOW! For winter, and things like that....Beauty and Essex really does have a great bathroom though.

(The group murmurs agreements whilst EPIPHANY dreams of quilts.)

ME: You know what I'm over? This like, fancy town restaurant or bar experience where there are only small, tiny mirrors with some antiqued shit on the corners so you can't REALLY see anything. Over it. How're you supposed to check your eye-liner? Or tease your hair? You can't. I'll tell you what. You simply can't. Rant over. Also, I like that nail color.

TARRAGON: Thank you. I forgot what it's called.

EPIPHANY: Wicked?

HASHTAG: NO ONE MOURNS THE! 

ME: Stop. This cannot go further. Ok, what's the name of the brunch place I got kicked out of?

EVERYONE: Co-Op! 

ME: Yes, Co-Op. I'll tell you why I don't care to return to that establishment anyways, they have those silly co-ed bathrooms. What is that???

EPIPHANY: UGH CO-ED BATHROOMS ARE SO DARK! 

ME: You feel strongly about this!

EPIPHANY: Well I can't SEE! And I like to clean a toilet before I go in, is that so much to ask?

TARRAGON: You sit down? Like, actually sit down?

EPIPHANY/ME: Yes, yeah. You clean it off, and then you put some toilet paper down and you sit. It's very simple. Straightforward. 

TARRAGON: Oh no. I never have time for that.

HASHTAG: Nervous you never have time.

ME: Tarragon, so you hover? 

HASHTAG: She does like a grand plié. 

TARRAGON: Most women do this, yes.

EPIPHANY: No. 

ME: Not most women.

HASHTAG: Why don't ya'll just sit down. Like why don't you just---(at this point Hashtag gets cut off because he's in a room with three opinionated women and a lady pup who, even at the mere age of six weeks old is demonstrating opinionated tendancies. He might have had really useful information or suggestions, but the world will never know. This is his plight.)

ME: I FEEL like, the grand plié style is torture. Like a barre class after a big-night-out. Just seems like a lot of work.

TARRAGON: IT IS. You use your core. Your balance. And you have to hold the lock too. 

ME: This has reached a level of paranoid peeing that I will not stand for or engage in conversation any longer. 

TARRAGON:...I do have a really good power squat. 

ME: Now you're bragging. 

HASHTAG: Wine's out. 

EPIPHANY: Let's open another bottle and I'll teach you all how to pee in a leotard.

 And what an informative night it turned out to be! What I want ya'll to take away from this nonsensical entry is: 1) Alcohol and a tub of chocolate frosting do an evening make! 2) The crux of friendship could possibly be finding people who have their own, specifically beautiful definition of a pleasurable public restroom experience. It's important to surround yourself with people who grand plié and sit through life. 3) Going to the bathroom in a leotard is not for the faint of heart. Namaste.   

 *Sometimes my friends request a little anonymity. And that's ok, so long as I can give them horribly trendy, children-of-west-village-independently-wealthy-artist-parents pseudonyms.  

5 Amazing Awe Inspiring Ideas That Actually Aren't All That Revolutionary and Have Nothing to Do With Beyonce OR Cats Making Silly Faces

You see that title there? That's a title of an article I would probably click on. And it states, quite clearly, that it is:1.) not that great 2.) not about Beyonce 3.) there aren't any cute cat pictures

....but I would still click on it. Because I'm a procrastinator. And because I am product of a generation that's petrified of what they truly have to talk about if we haven't clicked on, "read", and shared the latest Buzzfeed article depicting all the Disney princesses with unibrows. Why do I know and/or CARE about the opera singer who can't stop farting and lost her job? And, most importantly, should I actually be living in Chicago? The internet says I should. But what does Jennifer Lawrence think and--- the fuck is wrong with me?

Do you remember when you were little and your mother would tell you to go out and play? I grew up in a city where the teenager at the end of the block had his nose cut off in a gang fight...we still went outside every day. My neighborhood friends and I would play wiffle ball between the hours of 3pm and 4pm, as that was when General Hospital aired and Mama Voth could not be bothered to parent while the saga of Luke and Laura played out. Who was Lucky's real father?! And would the evil Cassadine family be returning from their private Greek island to Port Charles this season? These questions deserved answers and therefore, took precedence. So I got real good at wiffle ball. Not that cheater's red bat wiffle ball either. Old school, yellow bat, big white plastic wiffle ball, wiffle ball. First base was a fire hydrant. Second base was oncoming traffic. Third was the old Toyota Corolla that our hoarder next door neighbor had NEVER driven in, as far as I was aware. And home was right back where you started. Your best shot at a home run was to aim for the second story window of any row house to the left or right because then the defense would have to hop a wrought iron fence and dig around in a bush or a flower bed to retrieve it. If you were really lucky, the house had a planter out the window and you could aim to lob the ball into that. Remember how you smelled after playing all day? Like a cross between sweat and an open scrape on your knee, mixed with dirt and triumphant exhaustion? Maybe you even smelled like a wet dog, or old towels that didn't quite try dry correctly? No? You didn't? Yeah, me neither.

Buzzfeed thinks I should know about "35 Strange Doritos Flavors From Around the World (But Mostly Asia)", Upworthy wants me to know that 300,000 people die each year eating ONE of those flavors, and gosh darn it's time we ban together for the sake of mankind and address that problem, and Huffington Post just wants us to take them seriously (insert picture of HuffPost sad-eating a large bag of Cool Ranch Doritos because they're depressed we know they're fake.) I can laugh and judge this type of journalism all I want, but the truth is, it's successfully sucking me in and keeping me invested. I rarely read anything not entitled with the following equation:

"(Ambiguous Number) Types of (Over the Top Adjectives) (Noun) That Leave You saying '(INTERJECTION)!'"

WHAT HAPPENED TO OLD BLIGH? Old Bligh used to be brazen. Old Bligh used to walk into bars with her expensive fake ID and proclaim, "Who's going to buy me a drink?" That girl was fun! She wasn't binge-clicking through pictures of a slow loris eating a rice ball! She was LIVING.

I'm nervous times. I'm nervous that we are becoming accustomed to bits of news and information, and we are losing the capacity to retain information in any other form besides captions and laundry lists. I'm nervous because "apparently" I've spent 32 DAYS on Facebook since 2006?!? And I'm incredibly nervous at how long it takes me to finish my guilty pleasure teen literature lately. I spend so much unnecessary time taking quizzes, watching videos, and reading lists that I've forgotten how much I used to enjoy living my goddamn life, making a bit of mischief now and again.

Do me a favor? Tomorrow morning, wake up whenever you damn well feel like it and try not to reach for the phone, or computer, or Ipad to scroll a newsfeed or read an email or check your favorite "news" sites. Maybe, instead you wake up and chug a cup of coffee and poop and then go outside? Go try a new breakfast place? Read a real book? Go converse with friends? The Halal Guys on the corner of 14th and 3rd are some of the kindest new friends I've made this week. Go out, let a stranger buy you a drink with your real (or fake) ID? And, PLEASE do not hesitate to call if you're in the New York area and you'd like to do me a solid and play a pick up game of wiffle ball.

The Color of the Pepper is Inconsequential

Winter is a tricky biddie. This winter has been the trickiest biddie of them all. For whatever reason, I cannot stop eating. I'm eating because it's cold, that much is understood. But I'm eating like it's so cold and I'm preparing for a reality television show "The Donner Party Revisited" and I must put on the necessary weight so as to avoid eating my grandmother. Or getting gangrene. (Do not google image that.) ...you google imaged gangrene, didn't you. WHY DID YOU DO THAT? I told you not to! No matter, the problem I was getting to is that for a woman with an insatiable appetite for all food, I lack the required cash monies to support the habit. And it's causing me to do a lot of...questionable things. Like, last weekend at my home in Virginia, I may or may not have "borrowed" roughly $20 in quarters from a jar labeled, "Father Cosmos' Kids." That's right. I stole money being raised for orphaned children in Africa. And for the record, I am NOT proud of this. I'm horrified. But I have every intention of paying it back. AND my favorite guilt-ridden lapsed Catholic friend Rob told me that all is well if I pray the Sorrowful Mystery of the Rosary on the next Friday or Tuesday. He knows things. He also has the special knack for locating a Croatian mass that DOES serve coffee and donuts within a five mile radius. Which is truly, a lost art.

So I have nothing to eat. Well, that's not true I have this:

That's a picture of basmati rice, spaghetti, one red pepeper, one onion, one tomato, an egg, garlic tomato sauce, 5-layer dip from Trader Joe's, and this magic asian remedy syrup I swear by called (I think) Nin Jiom Pei PA Koa. Here it is, expertly staged, up close.

...So you can get this at most Asian markets. Just ask for "family size honey loquat" and see what happens. If that shit costs more than $5.50 and they DON'T offer you complimentary acupuncture in your right foot, you need to leave, and fast. I wish I could tell you more about Nin Jiom, but the entire packaging is in another language and the ingredient list is just a picture of herbs that, I assume, are in this concoction. Just buy it. Take it. And thank me when your skin starts to glow as bright as the sun and you sing like Jesus.

I digress. Back to my hunger. These are the things I can cook with tonight. My ginger bunny roommate and best friend Whitney has decided to make us chocolate chip cookies so I return that kind gesture with a BOX OF WINE. Yes, that's right. Only the best for my friend.

The man at Trader Joe's said that it was the best boxed wine he'd had all day. And who am I to argue with that? So we each get a healthy pour, save for Jackson, the dog, as he was really going through it a while back and spent most of 2013 in this wicked, alcohol-induced stupor. Bless his heart.

I found this website supercook.com where you put in the ingredients you have in your kitchen and it spurts out what you can cook. It's kinda awesome. Apparently I could make Spanish Rice?!? Well isn't that something! And it gets better because I can ALSO make over 199 recipes with my paltry pantry. God is real.

As I click on the recipe for Spanish Rice, I first hone in on the "1 hour cook time." Nope. No. It takes approximately four minutes door to door to get dollar pizza. But I guess if Donna Moore says, "I've had this recipe for awhile. It is very easy to make," then I can suck it up and wait patiently. We get it Donna, it's easssyyy for you to cook. Good for you! As I go in for my second glass of the wine that is boxed, the following conversation transpires:

WHIT: Hey, um, I see you're busy with the wine, but would you mind if I just prepped the cookie dough mix for us?

BLIGH: Ohmygodno! You do you!

WHITNEY: Also, why are you procrastinating?

BLIGH: I think I need a green bell pepper instead of a red and I have to be very quiet and mediate on that right now.

'Twas true. I was becoming increasingly stressed about the color of the pepper. Whitney dismissed it as a non-issue stalling tactic (which it was) and so I made her cut the pepper. And then I made her cut the onion because I have sensitive eyes.

All ingredients cut, oven pre-heated to 400-degrees and not the prescribed 350 because ain't nobody got time for that when I realize...I don't have enough tomatoes. I didn't even USE canned tomatoes like they asked! Will a teaspoon or two or three of tomato sauce suffice? Why not, it's worth a try! Let's add that egg in there too, for good measure.

I then added red pepper flakes and garlic powder because I do what I want. And then I prayed. Here is the before:

And what I busied myself with in between for forty or so minutes:

And here is the after.

And here it is being all presentational and fancy times with a baby bed of mixed greens and a homemade white wine vinegar/dijon mustard/garlic dressing.

It was good. But you know what was GREAT? The seemingly unnecesary (at the time) 5-layer dip purchase at TJ's earlier in the week. Because Donna was right, it was an easy recipe, but it lacked spice! Or it did until I put allll the 5-layer dip on top of it. There was a TJ's seven-layer dip option which I abstained from because five is a luxury unto itself. And as Jo March says as she gives the rag money to silly Amy for that damn orange, "We are not destitute, not yet anyways." So get your dip, however many layers your heart so desires! Use what you have in your pantry! Cook with and for the people you love! And never hesitate to accept a glass of boxed wine from a friend, even if they are gangrenous because I looked it up that shit's not contagious.

How I Got a Faux Boyfriend at Trader Joe's

I don't know if anyone has told you, but this week in the New York of Cities was a cold one. No one's been talking about it, so, in case you were wondering. It was cold here. But that's alright because Downton Abbey is back on, I'm a wanted woman in the state of North Carolina due to a reckless driving ticket and failure to appear in court (exciting!), and my mother gave me a Trader Joe's gift card. That's right. I'm 25 and I got a gift card. Gift cards are the nucleus to living the most bougie life possible in NYC. I know this in my heart to be true. I'd like to preface by saying that while I wanted to spend the entire card at the Trader Joe's Wine Shop, I refrained from doing so. A lady has to eat once in a while, and how does one even BEGIN to entertain without a fridge stocked with a variety of cheeses and cornichon? I fucking love those little pickles. So to Trader Joe's you go. With your gift card. At 5:30pm on a Monday. In 5-degrees. Fahrenheit...that's the measurement scale that's supposed to be a big number.

Now the thing about the Union Square Trader Joe's is that, once in a while, you have to wait to get inside. Like it's some hip speakeasy that you shouldn't "know" about but was written up in TimeOut, so everyone does. And the thing about waiting outside on a Monday at 5:30pm when the temperature is in the single digits is that you start to lose your mind. Or any semblance of sanity you had possessed earlier in the day. And it was at this precise moment when I proclaimed to the entire line, "This is Russia. We are in Soviet Russia I think." "Yes," says an elderly woman in front of me. She knows because she was probably there. The NYU student behind me just giggles, but I know she agrees. She's probably hiding her copy of Animal Farm in her backpack and trying not to create waves, I get it.

We wait. And we wait some more. Four come out, and two are let in. What is this fuzzy fucking math going on here?!? It's FREEZING. I hallucinate how I need to rush home to care for my ailing grandmother. She needs new shoes, she needs a new coat. I must provide. In my mind, my grandmother sounds like Angela Lansbury and we are playing with this little music box. She tried to catch my hand and hoist me onto the train, but I hit my head and OKAY I know this is now embarrassingly historically inaccurate. But again, it was so cold.

Finally, I get allowed in. It is warm! I can start to feel my toes again! Life is so good. But then, I see the line. It's easily distinguishable because it starts forming the minute you enter. And then it wraps around the circumference of the entire store. Men and women carrying large flags that read, "LINE STARTS HERE" in obnoxiously bubbly font want you to join the line. I don't want to join this line! Where is my choice? I want to wander around the aisles searching for those dark chocolate covered marshmallows! I want to grab four packages of Inner Peas, not because I NEED THEM but because everyone else is grabbing them and they might be gone and then when I do WANT them the moment will have passed me BY. I think about revolting and joining the damn line when I'm good and ready...but I'm not trying to be in this Trader Joe's for the next four hours of my life. So I join. Reluctantly.

As we wind at a turtle's pace in and out and around each aisle I start to notice a common trend. Couples. Couples in Trader Joe's are killing the game! They start together, as a family, by joining the line at the beginning of the store. Then, one stays with the cart while the OTHER ONE GETS TO WANDER. The cart person collects the groceries easily accessible from the line and gets to check their Facebook and send emails and read Buzzfeed articles. This is some brilliant new-age hunter/gatherer shit and I want in. I noticed a single man behind me. Would me maybe wanna...I don't know...couple up with me in this Trader Joe's? A biddie doesn't know until she tries. "Heyyyy," I say while smiling and displaying my good dimple, "I don't know what your plan is in here today, but what say you to sharing a cart with me and you tell me what you want from those middle aisles and I'll go run get it for you? Before we make this commitment to one another I think it's fair I warn you: sometimes I run, sometimes I hide, sometimes I'm scared of yo---" "Omg!" handsome man shrieks, "I'm so gay stop quoting Britney lyrics to me! Let's do this!"

Something magical happened to me during this Trader Joe's excursion. What originally appeared be an inescapably long night, alone, fighting for the last Spinach and Kale Greek Yogurt Dip turned into a beautiful partnership. Shawn has long-term boyfriend and a fancy-town apartment on Irving but that didn't stop me from dreaming about our adopted Asian daughter who we would name Perestroika, but call "Roika" for short. She would take tap on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but if it got in the way of her Suzuki violin training, we would pull her out. Every Monday night we would go to the Trader Joe's in Union Square, all three of us, shopping together in perfect harmony. Taking only what we need, leaving what we don't. The reality? I may never see Shawn again. But what we shared, the camaraderie we felt will never fade. We'll always have Roasted Garlic Hummus. Do svidaniya, my love, until we are back in the U-S. Back in the U-S. Back in the U-S-S-R.

I Spent Two Hours In a Hot Tub, And Now Everything Makes Sense

In 2008, I did a show that changed my life. I got to tap dance whilst singing about lesbians, dressed as Jerry Springer. But more importantly, that show became my impetus to stop people pleasing to the extreme. I decided to be honest. Or, at least try. That summer, with the help of some of the most brilliant friends, Honesty'08 was born. And so was a summer where I was fucking infallible. No, really. Without going into humble brag detail, I did mostly everything and anything I wanted. Like, I had a day job where I watched True Blood from my desk....AND GOT PAID FOR IT. I did a show that I was/still am proud of. I produced and directed a cabaret that I cast all my friends in. I had ridiculous calf definition (thanks bougie desk job gym membership!) Life was good. And it was incredibly honest. I love my ridiculous yearly mantras. I love how people have been contacting me about what 2014's will be, and therefore I've decided to do a lil recap of each mantra since then.

2009: GO GREEN '09 ....This one. This one was riding the coattails of Honesty'08 like a lil biddie. It was not thought through. But I was unsettled by the state of recycling in this country. I think I had read an article while heavily medicated...To this day my three most irrational fears are 1.) I'll die without being remembered 2.) I have a mustache that no one's telling me about and 3.) The earth is destroyed beyond repair. So...I still believe in a more "green" form of existence, but perhaps not as a full year's mantra.

2010: ORIGINAL PROJECTED COLLEGE GRADUATION YEAR '10 Well, when you do two freshman years, you can get prickly about when you "were" supposed to graduate and when you "did." This year had a lot of mantras actually, but this is the one that has stuck with me. Honesty '08, this is the year I started to get a bit lost.

2011:..... Did 2011 even happen?!? I can't remember! There seems to be some thought that, perhaps, the mantra had something to do with love. "Lovin' in 'leven?" Who's to say, really. This was the year I got fired from like, four jobs. Let's just forget it, as a family.

2012: TICK TOCK '12 The Mayans ya'll! Remember that? The world was supposed to END in 2012 and, like sand through the hourglass, so were the days of our lives! 2012! I loved 2012. Even though it was the end of the world, I did a lot of excessive, passionate living. Thanks, bullshit Mayan doomsday for helping me up the stakes.

2013: RISKY '13 This last year has certainly been a risky thing. My favorite blonde-secret-time friend Mike and I were the only two who actively referred to Risky'13, so perhaps it didn't quite catch on as we had hoped. But it did live up to its name. I took a LOT of risks. Not like, scary times active things (although I did watch my brothers jump out of a plane and by sibling default I feel like I did it too) but risky things nonetheless. The riskiest thing I did? I fell in love with my goddamn self.

Last night in a hot tub at 4am, a few dear friends and I figured out all the things over ONE Mike's Hard Lemonade and questionable eggnog. We discussed our plans and hopes for the next year and expressed how much we mean to one another. There was no talk of grandiose New Year's resolutions that will go unfulfilled. There was no guilt or remorse for the past year. Just fantastic conversation. Today, I can't stop thinking about what made last night with them so lovely. And what made this last year so beautifully brilliant? I think, all of a sudden, I have an undying sense of self-belief. I think I have found people who also have undying self-belief. And it's pretty fucking wonderful. So, my biddie readers, whether you care or not, I urge you to take what you loved from last year into the next, leave what you don't. Let it go, do the next thing. Work towards and keep that undying self-belief. And then, in 2014, lock it up.

I Have Always Depended on the Kindness of Strangers

Sometimes a lady pursuing luxury must endure some not so luxury things. Like, for example, the MegaBus. Don't even get me started. Even after the time (read: every damn time) the WiFi refused to work, to the time the AC refused to work, to the time the outlets (shocker) refused to work: I always decided to try once more. The MegaBus is like taking a jaeger-bomb, or going outdoor camping: it seems like the ONLY idea worth doing/committing yourself to in the moment. And then the next day you're like, "I'm an indoor cat! Where is my shower! And also, my body feels like bad choices and I smell like second Freshman year of college!" But once in a while, you bite the bullet and ride...that's what she said. Last week I decided the very best of ways to get myself and two months worth of clothes from NYC to DC was the MegaBus. Actually to be fair my bank account decided that, but, bygones. So I downsized and arrived at 34th and 11th (beaauutiful country over on that side of the island) with four suitcases, two Lulu bags, a hat box, and a prayer. Yes that was for two months. You guys, I really like hats. I get in the line that (I pray) is marked correctly going to Washington DC. Well, you know, DC and White Plains. Wherever the hell that is. I'm sorry native White Plains-ers, everyone going all the way to DC resents you like a Baldwin brother bringing down the family name. But I digress.

I get in the line and begin to wait untill my bus decides it's time to arrive, angrily and quickly shuffle people on, and perhaps leave at the designated time. It's right around now that I realize there is NO WAY I'm getting let on this bus with as many suitcases as I have in my possession.Time to make friends and play a little game called "Blanche it Out." That's when you Blanche DuBois your way into meeting strangers, and HOPING one of them likes you enough to perhaps show some kindness and pretend one of your suitcases is theirs. Always rely on the kindness of strangers at a MegaBus stop. You will not be disappointed. I scan the line. The girl behind me is crying. "Girl, you good?", I ask, genuinely concerned. "Yeah I'm just saying goodbye to my sister for six months while I travel to Portugal ." "Why do you only have that one bag?", I ask, genuinely concerned. "Well," she says, "I am backpacking."...blank stares back and forth as we begin to understand that we do not understand one another. Silence. "Would you maybe pretend this gray baby suitcase is yours?", I say. "Yes of course," she answers. One down. Three to go.

"Hello sir, would you mind pretending this cheetah print suitcase is yours while we board this bus?", I say to a small Buddhist monk feeding a hotdog to a one-legged pigeon. Now , at this point I should've remembered Buddhists live a humble life void of many earthly possessions. But all I could think was he didn't have a suitcase of his own, he could feasibly take mine, and a pigeon eating a hotdog was silly. He obliged though, and I felt certain I would get on this bus!

That's when the line started moving. The bus was here. Well, not my 2pm bus but the 1:40pm bus. And since it was now 2:15pm someone decided to just join both buses together. Time was running behind, but out, simultaneously. WHAT IS A BIDDIE TO DO!?! My dear friend Derek from college had been waiting for the 1:40pm and we had been chatting. He could now take a suitcase. Boom. Done MegaBus, you saucy minx! You can't rain on my parade!

I proudly show my ticket to the MegaBus employee, gesture towards my ONE suitcase and three bags with pride beaming from every part of me. "Ma'am," he says, "You have too many carry on items. You can only take one suitcase and one carry on bag. You'll have to pay an extra $40 per extra bag."...how dare you. How dare you MegaBus when I am so close to a triumph of preposterous, over-packing feats! "Wait over on the side ma'am. We'll figure this out after everyone gets on." Sweet sweet Derek boards the bus and saves me a seat. "Will you get on?", he mouths through the window. I do not know, my friend. But I do know it's time for the big guns. Blanche needs to become a Stanley for a minute. "Sir," I say in my sternest don't-mess-with-me voice, "I don't mean to be a bother, but I don't think I I even have $40 in my checking account. Additionally, most of those people on our bus are running drugs and therefore not traveling with a suitcase. I think I can bring these on without a big problem, don't you?"...silence. He winks. I wink. He turns his back to me, no more discussion. I BOARD THAT BUS.

What is the moral here? There isn't one really, aside from the fact that I need to learn how to pack less. And maybe that the MegaBus sometimes isn't all that bad. They people one can meet are fascinating and kind, the workers hate the process just as much as you do, and apparently pigeons eat meat. If that's not enough of a moral I don't know what is!

I'm Hungry, Let's Plan a Dinner Party

Tonight was a normal Sunday night. My roommate Josh and I went to a luxury bar and had a peach situation drank that did the trick and tasted like the best parts of high school. Then we went home, but not before stopping at the Trader Joe's Wine store in Union Square. Or what we call, "Church." Two hours later we've finished our soup and skinny cow ice cream sandwiches..and the first bottle of two buck chuck. We are still hungry. But the goal is to NOT spend any more money so that I can save for a fancy time birthday celebration tomorrow at Apotheke! So Josh and I do what we do best to deflect from the sadness of hunger. We plan a faux dinner party. ME: Josh, where are we with the guest list? JOSH: Ok. Oprah is confirmed. ME: Who else is confirmed? JOSH: Gayle. ME: Ugh, ok. Who else we got? JOSH: Lena Dunham is coming but only if we serve your Coq au Vin that she likes so much. ME: Josh, she's a vegetarian I think. JOSH: News to me! She's out. Oh, and Barbara Walters is confirmed IF she can sit by Nora Ephron becau--- ME: Josh, honey, Nora's dead. God rest her so hard. JOSH: That goes to show how little you know. She's confirmed. She's RSVP'd Bligh. And this is a fake game. Let me have this. ME: Ok ok ok, fine I'm sorry. JOSH: It's fine. Don't do it again. ME: ...can we continue? JOSH: Yes, now let's talk about the Andy Cohen issue... ME: Issue? JOSH: Well here's the thing. Andy said he would LOVE to come to the party but only if he could invite Rosie of RHONJ as his plus one, but Oprah wants to deflect lesbian rumors with Gayle and therefore will NOT attend if Rosie is present. ME: Wait, Josh, I actually don't follow that. Why would Oprah care if Rosie was there? She hasn't been rumored to be in any kind of relationship with Rosie I really don't foll--- JOSH: BLIGH! WHAT DON'T YOU FOLLOW??! If Rosie is there and the press finds out (which they invariably will) then they connect Rosie to Oprah and Oprah to Gayle and ugh, this is so ridiculous you can't follow a train of thought here but just know she can't come! So Andy is out. Which is cool because then it'll be ok to invite Mike. ME: Mike hates Andy. JOSH: He doesn't hate him. He just thinks he's gotten shady. ME: Isn't that the same thing? JOSH: No. Drink ya juice Shelby.

Here are the basic rules of planning a fantastic faux dinner party: 1.) There are no rules. 2.) You must have enough knowledge of current events to create a guest list that will be interesting and eclectic. All the guests must have enough differences to keep the conversation flowing. So like, watch Hot Topics on THE VIEW and pick the first three people they discuss. 3.) Spend a great deal of time thinking about what cheeses you will serve. 4.) Do NOT even attempt to go on Gwyneth Paltrow's sassy-times and aggressively Type-A blog "Goop" and think you can replicate any aspect of any party she has thrown. She's better than you. She will always be better than you. She doesn't eat bread. 5.) Drink wine.

This game. This game my biddies will keep you occupied fah days! Well, not so much days but for a few hours at the very least. You'll get to giggle with a friend, drink a bottle of wine you purchased with laundry quarters, and forget for a bit that perhaps you're not where you wanna be with your life quite yet. But you're getting there. And when it all happens to fall into place, you'll be one step ahead because you'll know President Barack Obama is left-handed so don't sit him next to right-handed Barbara Walters. They'll bump elbows too much as they eat your gazpacho. Also, Nora Ephron might be dead, but she also hates a dull floral arrangement. Plan accordingly.

Do it On a Tuesday

Whenever my family stalks me via the Facebook, their stock comments are, "You and your friends look like you are having so much fun and doing so many things! Why aren't you ever working? Do you work?" Firstly, family, that's a wee bit judgmental! I am CONSTANTLY working on my first solo business venture, an app called gaybitch.com but it is DIFFICULT to get a solid group of backers for the innovative ideas! Fret not though, for I will not give up. 

But seriously. I think something needs to be addressed as it holds true for myself and most other honest biddies that I aspire to emulate. Ready? All social media is covered in the Instagram filter of your choice. What I mean is, what you see as the observer is (most likely) not any completely truthful depiction of that person or their lifestyle. It's just not. It's pretty, yes. And in my case it's been tanned up and edited to the high heavens of deceptiveness, but it's not completely real. And that's ok. Because I believe the quickest way to becoming who you want to be is pretending to already be that way. Real life? Real life is not as glam as we'd all like it to be. Real life is being stranded at Grand Central Station at 6:30am trying to get out to Larchmont and ugly crying into the latte that caused you to go negative in your checking account, which is why you can't afford a train ticket....That was a hypothetical, by the way. That never happened. 

Here's the thing about the luxury fake life: IT'S EXPENSIVE! But the secret bout that is that it's not AS EXPENSIVE if you do it on a Tuesday. What does that mean Bligh? Well if you want to do fancy town things, it will always be cheaper on a Tuesday. And if it's not actually cheaper, you WILL be treated like a luxury biddie because apparently on Tuesday's most people are doing work related things. Example: one time my friends Juniper, Tarragon* and I decided we wanted to know what all the fuss was about strip clubs. And clearly we aren't going to go to just any strip club. We're gonna go to that fancy Scores on 28th! And we're gonna get in for free because it's 8pm on a Tuesday in the dead of summer! And we're going to get free drinks from a businessman named Rob all night because he's a regular there, approximately 112 years old, and he's loving our "breath of fresh air" presence. And for the record, YES it was sad! But not because of the female exploitation and feeling that every surface might be covered with a thin layer of semen. No. It was sad because the girls told us we had just missed their 2nd Anniversary party and there had been a HUGE buffet spread FOR FREE! With two-bite shrimp and everything! 

Another chichi thing to do on a Tuesday? Go to a psychic. Friday is still far away, and no one is happy or optimistic enough at this point of the week to want to know a damn thing about their future. BUT my girl Tiffany on the corner of 13th and Ave A will hook. it. up. Seriously. She has probably not seen anyone all day, so when you walk through her door she's going to give you a 30 minute reading for half-price. And she's only going to tell you positive and uplifting things about your future spouse/career because she's also going to try and sell you a healing crystal. Don't buy that crystal. Just enjoy the Tuesday night positive reading. 

This very recent Tuesday my closest biddies and I went apple picking and NO ONE  else was there! The cons were that the alpaca farm and the winery were closed (my two goals for the trip.) The pros were that we got a free bag of apple donuts for no reason and there wasn't anyone else there to ruin the aesthetic of our perfectly staged and expertly edited picture of FUN! So moral here is: do be  bougie and live the life you want. But, if possible, do it on a Tuesday. Oh, and slap a filter on it first. 

*the names of my friends have been changed to names of spices so as to sound as fake/trendy as my real name is. And to protect their identity because not everyone wants to admit to missing a killer buffet at a strip club. 

Christmas in October biddiesssssss!

Aghgh! Yesterday I got the loveliest package in the mail of PERFECTLY RIPE AVOCADOS from my friend Joe! Joe and I met in DC at this awesome bar called The Passenger which I was working at at the time...before I got fired. But that's OKAY! Because I met fantastic people like Joe! And now I'm making guac and contemplating a mid-day "it's great to be alive" tequila shot whilst wearing a "Miss Baltimore Crabs" tee! Life. Is. Good.

That Time I Got Molly From a Stranger in a $1 Pizza Joint

...bet that title grabbed your attention, didn't it? YA WELCOME! It's a great, and very true story. And by true I mean as true as the first night of an epic bachelorette weekend remembers itself to be. BUT FIRST: the precursor to this story are more helpful hints on how to stay in NYC and give off the social media impression of a glamorous/hipster/"No, my Dad does NOT pay my Netflix account"/well-adjusted city girl lifestyle that we all so covet! It's easy! The secret? Make the right friends. THE TOP FOUR RELATIONSHIPS YOU NEED TO CULTIVATE IN NYC:

1.) Your tailor.

-Doesn't seem so necessary at first, but then I started to realize people who wear clothes that fit them always look chic. I'ma tell you a secret. Anything I buy from the Burlington Coat Factory (and there are a great many things) goes straight to my tailor. Because then it looks legitimately fancy. And it fits. And my guy is CHEAP. Yeah, he told me he's from Argentina and yet he speaks with a strong German accent. And I could choose to worry bout it, OR I could not question it, smile everytime he tries to pronounce my name, and he could fix my grandmother's luxe mink swing coat for half-off for no apparent reason!

2.) The Woman/Man Who Works at Your Train Stop Counter During Rush-Hour

- ....I feel like this needs no explanation. These people are not happy humans. But that's because everyone is always yelling at them! Smile biddies! Smile at your MTA station workers! They are the ones who will break that $20 bill "just this one more time Bligh" and they are they ones that will tell you that the L train, indeed, is not ever coming to the 1st Ave stop...ever. So walk your ass to 8th Ave and smile because you have a Subway hookup.

3.) Your Local Liquor Store Owner

-If I write about this man for too long I'm going to get emotional. I call him "My Friend" and he calls me "Bubbly" (a la Champagne). We get each other. He has met my mother. He has met both of my brothers. I will take my next serious boyfriend to meet him. He never ever ever lets me pay full price for a bottle of wine. Actually, he usually just asks what I can afford this week (read: day) and he grabs my favorite rose and GIVES IT TO ME ANYWAYS. He says he does this because he has a daughter who wanted to be a dancer and he wouldn't let her go to college for dance. So she went to pharmaceutical school instead, and now he says she is sad. Thank you, My Friend.

4.) The Dudes at your $1 Pizza Joint

- Did you know that at a certain hour of the night they start giving away pizza? The good places do! 2 Bros is not as good about this, so I suggest finding a smaller, independently owned (read: sketchy) $1 pizza chain nearest to you. Make sure you ALWAYS make this  your drunk food stop numero uno! You will meet the most interesting people! For my good biddies, this, this is where a stranger gave me molly.

...this post is wicked long. I need more coffee. Stay tuned for the incidental molly story. Thanks much and namaste.

Roots Make Me Angry

Listen. I think it's important to be honest. My hair is not naturally blonde. As a matter of fact, it's a boring, mousy brown color. When I have no cash monies, and my roots are visible, I am evil. I do not exhibit the kind, Christian woman attributes that my girl, Dolly Parton has so graciously taught me through outward example, strong girdles, and prayer! Fortunately, I have refined a few "lady on a budget" tricks to staying bougie as you save the necessary nickels and dimes to dye ya weave! And I'm going to share them with you! Because the imaginary conversation I had with Dolly Parton this morning after my third cup of coffee told me that was the right thing to do! Here goes:

HOW TO STILL LOOK LUXURY WITH ROOTS

1.) Hats.

-Biddies, hats are your FRIENDS. They cover up the roots. They are so in right now. You do not (I repeat) DO NOT have to wash your hair but instead just spritz a little fancy product (read: AquaNet) into the ends for texture and live ya life!

2.) Wear a fur.

- Yup. Even if it's summer. No one will look at or care about your roots if you're wearing a fur coat/stole/swing jacket. They'll be like, "Who is that Eastern European mail order bride and why is she wearing a fur in August?"

3.) Get on Pinterest and learn how to tie a turban.

- ....Now I gotta get fancy and break this down into a few more sub-points.

HOW TO TIE A TURBAN VIA A CRAFTY WOMAN MOST LIKELY LIVING IN UTAH

A.) Go on Pinterest, and search "turban" and realize this is far too broad a search word.

B.) Search "How to tie a turban" and settle on the best picture of colorful scarves and NOT the easiest tutorial. You got this.

C.) Open a bottle of wine preemptively. Let that shit breathe.

D.) Start with the scarf you probably took from your mother's closet and fold it in half, making a triangle.

E.) Try and place the halved scarf on your head and flip it back WHILE trying to successfully do this really tight wrap of the ends at the nape of your neck, all the while thinking that perhaps the incredibly glamorous ethnic girl in the tutorial picture would be laughing at your struggle to be as cool as her...and then start stressing that perhaps turbans are IN FACT just for ethnic girls and that you're going to look like a damn fool trying to hard.

F.) Have one to two glasses of wine.

G.) Try again biddie! Try until you get it right. Or until you have to leave so as not to be late for a dinner with a dear friend! Slap  some bobby pins where it counts, say a prayer, and go out! Because you look good...ish.

...I have just re-read this entire post and would like to personally acknowledge how superfluous this entry is, in a world of very serious and real problems. My suggestion is to read it again, but with the Thomas Newman "Newsroom" opening theme playing underneath.  http://youtu.be/mkMAcWu0lqA

You're welcome. Now it's important.

The Beginning.

This week is a "Dear-Lord-baby-Jesus-in-the-manger please do not tell me October 1st is Tuesday" Kinda week. This week is a "eat half your sandwich for lunch and the other half for dinner and contemplate attending an AA meeting for free coffee and donuts to supplement your diet," kinda week. This is a "no avocados for you, poor girl" week.

Because you see, my sweet biddies, avocados are most assuredly a food for rich people. Think bout it. Whole Foods displays their perfectly ripe avocados prominently at the front of the fresh produce, under a faux kitschy chalk board sign covered in bubbly font that says, "Organic Avocados $5."...Five dollars for a bushel? Five dollars for however many you can carry at once? Nope. Five dollars for one. But that one avocado has enough monounsaturated fatty acids to keep your heart healthy for the rest of ya damn life. And that avocado speaks conversational french.

I kind of like no avocado weeks. I like the scrimp and barely make it weeks. I'm good at it. Being poor makes me funnier. At least that's what my Mom says. In his new book Let's Explore Diabetes With Owls, David Sedaris says we need poverty as proof we are truly creative. You should read his book! But don't buy it because he publishes most of the essays first in The New Yorker WHICH you can borrow (read: steal with a small intention to return) from my bougie dry cleaners on the corner of 14th and 2nd. See? I know what I'm doing. 

I'ma teach you things. I'ma teach you how to live in the New York of Cities and still do all the things, and cut all the monetary corners, and still live like the fanciest poor person that you can be. So read my blog. And if you don't read my blog, that's fine too. You're probably excessively wealthy and enjoying pleasant small talk in broken (allbeit, charming) french with your very favorite $5 avocado. Or what I like to call, living the dream. 

Avocados Are For Rich People: The Beginning

Welcome, sweet biddies.