Rule Number One: Never Tell the Spin Instructor Your Name

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I made a not so luxury choice. I signed up for quite possibly the bougiest of spin/yoga studios (they had a month deal, I'm my mother's daughter) and now I can't feel my who-hah. No, seriously. People should tell you that. Spinning hurts your who-hah. But don't get me wrong, the high after a class is BRILLIANT! A post spin class Bligh feels like she could hammer out an entire book, let alone a lil entry! Post spin class Bligh wants to go on a run! And not just to the Dunkin and back! A real run! That all being said there seems to be this sub-culture of spin that ties the class itself to goals and personal intentions. I love this shit. BUT honestly while other forms of exercise pull a more retrospective and zen side out of me, spin does no such thing. In spin class my whole body is screaming, "WHY ARE MY THIGHS ON FIRE? IS THAT LADY IN FRONT SPINNING AT DOUBLE SPEED? IS SHE LIKE, FIFTY? I HATE HER!" Spin does not make a kind, Christian woman out of me. But I continue to go because this month was only $90 for unlimited classes. And because I'm trying to be more goal oriented. And because it was $90...I felt the need to mention that twice.

I get into class and immediately look around lost and confused until someone comes over and readjusts the bike seat and height for me. I do not understand the bike. I respect the bike, but as far as the mechanics go I am a bewildered biddie. So naturally this points me out to the teacher as a newbie to her class. She asks me my name and here is where I make the first mistake. "Bligh," three diet cokes in me exclaims! See, now she knows. She knows me by name and therefore I am now the focal point of her class questions/announcements/goal coaching. I am her example. She is my nemesis and I am the brunt of her torture.

"Bligh! turn up your resistance I need everyone in this room at 85/90!'

"Bligh did you fake turn your resistance up? I saw that girlfriend!"

"Bligh! Remember your goal!"

....Okay so here's this whole goal thing. A bunch of women in a room on bikes spend the first few seconds of class being told to visualize a goal/personal dream so that you have something seemingly tangible to spin for or towards. I dig it. But what I don't so much prefer is that in this class the goals moment was not so much a personal intention but a declaration to the entire room. That seems excessive. I am all about a personal moment to give your workout a bigger meaning, but must it be shared as a family? When I spin, all I am spinning towards is the goal that one day my thighs will be smaller. And that my butt will be a bit perkier. And that I can get away with a few faux resistance dial turns in the next 45 minutes to an hour. These are my paltry goals, no need to share.

Mid-way through class the drill sergeant or "instructor" starts to scream over the club mix of Gavin DeGraw's "Best I Never Had" that it's goal time. I'm half-listening because it's the first moment she hasn't singled me out by name as a slacker. My legs hurt. My arms hurt. My who-hah has officially fallen off, I can no long feel it. I'm sweaty. How many more minutes is this class? Will I have time after to get Chipotle? I'm in this frame of mind when I realize the spin-nazi is asking us all to go around one by one and yell out the goal/intention we set at the beginning of class. "That's rather personal," I think to myself while trying to decide if I'll be honest and say I'm spinning towards a smaller ass or if I have time to up the stakes and come up with something more eloquent. At this moment the VERY hard working woman next to me is asked her goal and she yells, "I'm spinning towards my unborn baby!" WHOAH! That is beautiful and forthright and inspiring and also, A LOT. I'm feeling this for her! So much so that, by sincere accident, when the instructor next yells for my goal I respond with, "ME TOOOO!!!"...WAIT. Did i just steal that nice, hardworking woman's spin goal? Am I now spinning towards HER unborn baby? OR MY OWN? Wait, no no no no no babies in 2013/2014. No no no. May I take that back? Is it too late? She's staring at me and so is the instructor. I can't tell if their physical expressions read as disbelief that I, too, would be spinning towards a future babes or if they're impressed or disappointed. But the moment to fix has passed. I shall now spin towards a baby...for whomever so needs or wants one. Goal proclaimed. Baby, I spin for you.

After class, I'm trying to leave as fast as possible (mostly to avoid the teacher but also because I have definitely earned a burritio and have to book it to Chipotle and back in time for work) when she catches me. Not the teacher, but the lady working out for her baby. "Thanks for the support," she says quickly before sprinting up the stairs. I think two things:

1.) Ok so maybe it wasn't exactly MY personal goal for class, but I think it made this woman feel less alone, that I was also spinning for her to get that baby. That's cool as shit. People supporting other people is cool. I feel good about that. Maybe spin isn't so horrid after all.

2.) I really can no longer feel my vagina.

What I choose to take away from this: don't tell the spin instructor your name. She'll remember it. And she will single you out. But maybe that's alright because someone in that class might be spinning for a baby and you faux turning up the resistance and getting caught might make them laugh. Maybe the'll be a little less stressed. Keep spinning biddies. We got this.

5 Reasons to Date a Real Man: a Rebuttal

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Listen. If you know me, you know I have a little bit of a mouth on me. I was raised in a house with a luxury, strong Irish-Catholic mother who really does treat the word "fuck" as just another choice verb. The one thing she would not tolerate was telling someone to "shut up" as that was the most demeaning way to tell another human that whatever they had to say/feel/express was an unnecessary share because no one cared. My father on the other hand HATES swearing of all shapes and sizes. "Bligh you are so smart," he would say, "Why use crass language when you have such a broad, intelligent vocabulary?" Which is why it's taken so long to write and edit this entry, my lovely readers. I had to edit out a lot of language....But I've decided to treat this story and the decision to post just like I do shoe shopping: if you try shoes on and you want them and you do NOT purchase in the moment and you wake up the next day thinking about those shoes, you have to go back, Jack.* You have to go back and get those damn shoes. Well, I can't stop thinking about this. I wish I could namaste, not my pig not my farm, you, Tuthmosis and your article "5 Reasons to Date a Girl With An Eating Disorder.**" I cannot. This is my pig, this is my farm and I'd love to rebuttal with some feelings I'm feeling. So here is:

5 REASONS TO DATE A REAL MAN

1.) He likes that you eat.

-I love food. Anyone I have ever dated is gonna tell you the same. I love cooking, I am a great baker, and I don't think anyone enjoys a luxury meal out more than I. Real men like women who eat. What's sexier than a woman who can put away a bacon-wrapped filet and a loaded baked potato whilst wearing a killer outfit and making you laugh? Nothing I tell you. Nothing. I have worked at too many restaurants and bars to not appreciate and intelligently speak on truffle oil risotto and the differences between my favorite bourbons and rye whiskies. So I talk about food. I enjoy food. Food makes people happy. Happy women want to have sex with you. Real men like women who eat. Boom.

2.) He exudes confidence.

-There is a difference between a boy and a man and it goes by the name of confidence. Men are confident with what they bring to the table. They know who they are and what they want and they also seek that out in a partner. Real confidence attracts confidence. And it certainly doesn't hide behind a pen name. I believe this. Of course confidence is in constant flux: human nature is to question if what you are doing and the direction your life is going is "correct." Confidence wains. But that's why real men and grown women compliment one another so well. They have the foundation of confidence built to a degree that when self-doubt rears its ugly head, they don't crumble and attack one another. They support each other.

3.) Your success does not threaten his success.

- This is something I have seen first hand from some badass actor couples who live this adage. I've seen men become the stay-at-home parent because their talented and SUCCESSFUL partner is going from show to show and booking consistent work. EMBRACE THAT. Real men do. What about a woman's success deters from your own? If you are confident (see Number 2) in your own success, how could ANYONE else's take that away from you? Success is subjective and cannot be negated by a partner who produces her own.

4.) He doesn't prioritize money over you.

-Women, hell, PEOPLE like nice things and the feeling of being cared for. I love being taken out to a nice dinner or a 3-part date (I'm going to break that down in another post, don't even worry bout it) but you know what else I like? A handwritten letter. A walk somewhere nice. A beer. Fuck, you bring me a medium hazelnut coffee from Dunkin with skim milk and I'm good. Effort is good. Money and effort are not synonymous. And any REAL man wants to exert effort, regardless of if it costs $2 or $200. Real men get that.

5.) He knows how to take care of YOU.

-And yes, I am ABSOLUTELY referencing sex. Men make YOU a priority. They aren't sitting back, preying upon "your insecurity, neuroses, and daddy issues" so that they get off and you don't. Nope. That't not how that works. Uhhh usually they want to take care of you, first. That's how a man acts. If you're a male and you don't prescribe to this approach to sex, I suggest getting a blow up doll. SHE WON'T EAT AT ALL. Or have, you know, opinions or talk or cost you any money after the original $19.99 plus shipping and handling. Can you spare that, Tuthmosis? You need to borrow some money, boo?

I dislike that I felt compelled to respond to this article. Giving this air only prolongs your infamous notoriety and your paltry excuse for journalism. So, please Tuthmosis, let's clear some things up now. I don't hate you. I waste no energy harboring ill will towards you. I do worry about you. In this country you have the right and privilege to free speech, however ignorant and chauvinistic it may be. But it's your apparent infatuation over female bodies which lack healthy weights, curves, or womanly figures that worries me. I worry that you seek out "girls who are fragile and vulnerable." ....What you define as your ideal girl really does scream "girl." No, it screams 13-year old CHILD. And FORTUNATELY there are laws where that's concerned. But, who am I to speculate and judge? I'm just a WOMAN with a healthy appetite and thick thighs, raised by two awesome parents who taught me to choose men, not boys. And I hate to disappoint them both right now but Ma and Dad, there's just no better way to say it. Tuthmosis, shut the fuck up.

*that's a LOST reference. Get into it.

**I refuse to link the writer Tuthmosis' article to my blog, but please feel free to look it up yourself if you feel so inclined.

I Mean, You Wouldn't Really Want to Write or Edit Today Either...

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I Mean, You Wouldn't Really Want to Write or Edit Today Either...

I gotta say: last night I had a few ideas brewing for some posts I've been working on and some that need a bit of loving (read: re-writing or intense editing because writing whilst drinking is not my friend...) but then I decided instead to show you why I will not be posting a new blog entry today. Because I'm hanging out with this dame. We are learning the importance of accessoring, mixing vintage and contemporary clothing into your everyday look, and how to gigigle on command. It's just been a busy morning and as much as I'd like to tell ya'll about my adventures in Charlotte, it will have to wait till Friday! Thank you and Namaste! Love, Bligh and Willow-girl-cat-Starshine....we're working on the nickname...

Home, I Want You Back

in

I love the New York of Cities. I really, really do. It's the first place outside of home that I feel at home. But New York, you are not my girl, the District of Columbias. You just aren't. And so, Washington DC, I'd like you to read this love letter, reconsider letting me back into your life. Because I am coming for you girl. I want you back. Dear DC,

Hey girl. How have you been? I've been thinking about you a lot lately. Especially now because it's Fall. Nobody does Fall like you do, slow and steady, giving me time to prepare for the impending cold. You always looked so good in your oranges, and reds, and bright golds as we'd walk from Potomac Ave to the theatre where you'd drop me off for work. I liked when you'd give me a little extra time to stop into Lincoln Waffle Shop for a bacon-egg-and-cheese with a side of scrapple. You know how much I fucking love scrapple.

Do you maybe wanna go out, just for the day? I'd like to take you to E St Cinema to catch a foreign film and ponder how the hell this place is open because NO ONE IS EVER THERE. And hey, if you wanna be outside, let's walk the mall, or ice skate at the sculpture garden? They'll be too many damn kids there, but I'll body check them for you girl, get them out of your way. Then let's sit in the atrium at the Portrait Gallery after...eat soup and talk quiet and watch the sun set through the glass ceiling? You down?

If you wanna chill into the evening, for old time's sake, let's go to Stoney's for a bud lite lime and a grilled cheese with bacon. I hope we get an angry Eastern European waitress who throws saucy glares for no reason so we can laugh about it on our walk to Mr. Yogato to cap off our meal. Girl, I don't even care, I will order like Bill Cosby AND get a damn stamp on my forehead just for the measly 5% discount, and to keep you laughing. What's the trivia question today? I'll try that too.

Hey, also, it's Thursday so I just got paid and I feel like a mill-trillionaire. Howsabout a bougie night after work at Poste? We can sit outside under the heat lamps, wrapped in those fur blankets, drinking that rosé you proclaim every time, "has changed your life." We can even pretend we're staying at the Hotel Monaco, just two brilliantly attractive lobbyists having a torrid love affair? Maybe play a little Scandal??

...okay okay sorry that was too far. I don't mean to be forward. I just, want to spend a day with you. I wanna wake up on a Saturday and stop at Jimmy T's for pumpkin pancakes and cheesy bacon grits and drink all the cups of coffee. I wanna walk down East Capitol to point out the row houses we should live in someday and stop by Eastern Market so you can spend hours looking at EVERY jewelry stand, and yet, buy nothing. I want that perfectly crafted cappuccino from Pound and I want to people watch while we drink them, making up strangers' names and back stories. I want a midday nap, I want to grill something for dinner we bought from Mel's, and then I want to take you to Tunni's for many a bourbon drink from that bartender with the lazy eye! Because, girl, you are my home and I wanna treat you right! Say the word: I'm all in.

Love,

Bligh

Ps- I love your clean, clean metro more than all the things. Keep it up.

To My Boos (not a Halloween reference, I hate that shit)

in

20131028-122357.jpg Listen. I really dislike Octobers. They don't do right by me. This one (honest times) has been particularly abysmal, as hard as I've tried to make it positive. But it is almost OVER and I couldn't have done it without some pretty fantastic people. My Ma, my Dad, Whitney, Josh, Eri, Piggles, Alex, Mike, Vish, Ricky TC, Michelle, Shay, Raquel, Katie-face, Westimes, Robbie. If I could send you all an avocado filled with good fatty fat, I would. I love you.

Why I'd Prefer You Not Call Me a Bitch (to my face).

in

Hey. America. Lately, in the great New York of Cities I've noticed that a lot of men seem to think it's ok to call women derogatory names. Is that okay? Did I miss something? Was there a PSA that was all, "Hey ok everyone! The government shutdown is DONE! And additionally, please feel free to call any/all women a bitch to their face!" I can't likes this. So, I did what all well intentioned sisters do, and I called my 18-year old brother and I yelled at him for no reason. (Discussing why EAMON was "let go" from a job...it's a Voth family tradition to be fired...) EAMON: ...yeah so and then the woman at work who makes the schedule was like, "You can't just leave to go to the doctor when you have a shift." I mean, what a bitch. ME: Excuse me? You don't know her! You don't know her life ! You need to take that back right now! EAMON: Why? ME: A man should never call a woman a bitch! EAMON: I call men bitches too. ME: That doesn't make me feel any better. EAMON: It should. ME: Why? Because I should be grateful my younger brother thinks calling anyone who is annoying to him or has a dissenting opinion or holds him accountable a bitch, and that's fine? EAMON: Bligh, I don't know what you want from me. ME: I WANT YOU TO STOP CALLING WOMEN BITCHES. EAMON: Okay. I will. Please stop bitching at me.

...he means well. And you know what? I can be a bitch. So can everyone, on an off day. But please, don't call me that to my face. The only person who can call me a bitch is probably my mother, and that's really just because from the ages of thirteen to nineteen I was actually a terror. I was a terrorist. I was the Sargent Brody of bitchy terrorism. And she somehow managed not to kill me or ever call me a bitch (to my face). Even that time I kicked in a cabinet in the kitchen, she didn't call me a bitch. Although, it was Christmas Day and it would've been uncouth of her to do so.

Moral here is: men of NYC. If a lady doesn't give you the time of day, or ignores your advances, doesn't respond when you whistle at her, or tell her you're going to "make her your baby mama" that doesn't so much mean she's a bitch. It means she's not interested, she has better things to do, she probably already has dinner plans, and she's not trying to get an STD from you in 2013. Respect that. And if you have one, call your younger brother and tell him to shape up now and learn from your mistakes. Oh, and stop being a lil bitch .

An Open Letter to the Baddest Bitch I Know

in

Dear Sallie Mae, Listen...I don't how this happened but Whit, Alex, Katie and I decided it was time to tell you. And it needs to come from me because I owe you the most money. But...ugh..ok, I have something to say and I want to just be super honest with you. So here goes.

...We don't like you. Ahhh I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER! Not to be whatever, but you are a difficult girl to hang with. We feel like, we get this text from you that's all, "PAY DAY! Drinks on me, ladies night out!" We'll go to meet you, and next thing I know, I'm holding your hair back while you vomit all over the bathroom of Beauty and Essex (ruining Katie's shoes) while Whit and Alex are left to figure out the bill. This has happened so many times, it's ridiculous! You're a grown woman! Yeah, maybe I had an over-served day myself at that bottomless mimosa brunch in the Village, BUT I APOLOGIZED via our group message and our Voxer thread! And I know you talked shit about me behind my back about that. Know this Sallie, my gays are loyal to me. If you talk bad on me I. Will. Find. Out.

Now, this hasn't been a one-way street. I get it. There have been some not luxury things you have had to deal with too. You weren't invited to book club. But to be fair, I don't know that you can read. You are so busy harping on everyone all the damn time, and calling and calling and asking when you're going to get your money back how can you possibly have time to read the latest chick-lit? Which is FINE. It's just...you're behind.

Now. I might as well get personal with you. I don't trust you. Haven't trusted you since girl's night at Alex's and you didn't know a SINGLE LYRIC to "It Makes Me Ill." Who are you? And then I got bangs. And then you got bangs. Fine, biddie. Imitation is the sincerest form, yes? But then I did the center part and lo and behold there you are all over the Insta with your center part. And whatever, don't cite me. But I saw.

To end this all, you're a great girl..we just...don't want to hang out with you anymore. Whit thinks you're a killjoy, Alex doesn't trust anyone without a Pinterest, and you aren't even invited to Katie's wedding. And me? I think you're pretty fair-weather. You offered me the world and I took it, and now you WON'T STOP CALLING ME asking for the world back. You'll get it biddie. You'll get it when you least expect. And it will be a one-time payment because I'm about to get all kinds of famous. So stop calling. Stop texting. Stop asking me to sign your name up at Equity for ECCs. Get your ass up and do it yourself.

xx ps I know your Dad pays your rent. I know.

A Short Lesson in Taking Pics that Make Life Look Fancier Than It Is

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A Short Lesson in Taking Pictures that Make Your Life Look Fancier Than it I

1.) Make sure you are the only blonde friend in your group. 2.) Try and "Beyonce" the picture. That's what I call weaseling your way into the center of a group of women. Seriously. Look at ANY picture of Destiny's Child from 1999-2006. Who's in the middle??? 3.) TAN THAT PICTURE UP! Growing up with a mother who called the visible blue veins on my neck/chest "the map of I-95" has made me...a lil sensitive bout how pale I am. So. Tan any and all pictures. Just do it.

Do it On a Tuesday

in

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. 

Molly is Not For Dogs

in

How do these people find me? One minute, I'm just a blonde girl in a sequined crop top coming back from a Lucky Cheng's midnight drag show with a hankering for a pizza and the next...a drug mule. But not in a sexy way a la Orange is the New Black. Nope. Not so lucky. Here's a transcript of how a stranger-danger, my dear bunny friend Alex and I made a new acquaintance. ME: Hey! Buddy! You better not buy that last slice of pepperoni when you've got two hungry women with their eye on it!

STRANGER DANGER: I'm getting cheese.

ALEX: That's fine. Continue, and have a quality life.

STRANGER DANGER: What did you girls do tonight?

ME: WE WENT TO A DRAG SHOW AND I HAD A LOT OF DRINKS THAT WERE NAMED AFTER NICKNAMES FOR VAGINAS! And it rained a lot! But we rallied! Because we are fun! This is a puke and rally group of girls I tell you what! ALEX:  Mr. Stranger Danger, what do you do?

STRANGER DANGER: I'm a chef at Mission Chin---

ME: MISSION CHINESE!? I want to go there more than all the things but there is always a damn line! We hate lines!

ALEX: We hate lines.

STRANGER DANGER: You girls should come tomorrow with your bachelorette group and I can hook you up with a table.

ME: YES! We'll be there!

ALEX: No.

STRANGER DANGER: Well, whatever you guys end up doing have a great night, great weekend, enjoy that pizza, and here's a little something to keep it fun. Open your hand. And don't look at what I'm putting in.

(SD puts small molly pill wrapped so cute in my hand. I obviously look directly at it.)

STRANGER DANGER: I said not to look.

ME: I know I'm sorry...what is this?

STRANGER DANGER: ...molly...e....

ME: Oh, um. Thank you so much this is incredibly generous of yo---

ALEX: We're going.

Now, I don't write about this experience to share with you my personal feelings about recreational drug use. I share because, in that one exact moment I felt very cool. Like, high school Bligh that spent most of her free time singing "We Do Not Belong Together" into a mirror practicing the Bernadette Peters single-tear technique felt very, very validated. I'm cool! ...kinda!

You know what's not cool? When you come back to your apartment and retell this story to all your friends and lose the molly. And then the next day you half-heartedly look for it, and decide maybe it got thrown away? You don't give it a second thought. Until your dog starts acting kinda weird...at first he's so lovey and running from one side of the apartment to the other being like, "Let's go to the clubs! I love my life!" And then he gets really, really sweaty and dizzy and he keeps having this totally fictional conversation with NOONE about how the government is spying on him and how he is secretly married to Rachel Ray but that we can't tell anyone. And then he sleeps for like, four days. I don't even know what that's about. But it's definitely not my fault.

If you need me, I'll be in line at Mission Chinese. Namaste.

Christmas in October biddiesssssss!

in

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

in

...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

in

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.

in

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.