A Text Conversation with our Mother.

The following is a conversation between Jeffrey and our mother. It has been transcribed in its entirety and all spelling errors are original to the text.  Our thought process is- if we have to live with this-so shall you. Also, welcome to posts authored, or co-authored, by Jeff.

Text Messages 12/16/2011

Mom: How are you?

Jeff: I’m good. I’m writing jokes.

Mom: For what?

Jeff: For laughs

Mom: I think you will be able to do that. What do I have so far?

Jeff: (not wanting to respond seriously because I am playing video games…) I just can’t stop drawing monkeys

Mom: Monkey see monkey do

Mom: How about this.

Mom: I never met a monkey that wasn’t monkeylicious.

Mom: Are monkeys mans best fiend?*

Mom: How many monkeys does it take to screw in a lightnulb?**

Mom: The answer is. enough.

Mom: funny. I just made that up!

Mom: Why did the monkey go to the zoo. Answer. To see the chimps. I just made that up.

Jeff: Those are hilarious. I can’t believe you thought of those yourself

Mom: you are mocking me aren’t you?

Jeff: Very much so. Those jokes make no sense.

Mom: They do to me, and I bet you laughed too. What are your monkey jokes?

. . . . .

Mom: Lets talk about Christmas.

*we believe this should read “friend” but Jeff belives bonnaboo monkeys are actually man’s best fiend, as they are evolving at a rate that is dangerous to humans. Is she a secret genius? Or just lucky?

** If we knew what a lightnulb was, an answer may be within our grasp. Unfortunately. We may never know.


Crazy as the Day is Long 1.0

The funny thing about being crazy is that it makes you interesting. There is harmless crazy and harmful crazy and I love me some harmless crazy. Though the “less” part may be debatable, I love Nancy Grace because she is what I believe to be, a harmless crazy.

Soothe me with your lovely voice, Nancy. Soothe me.

(If you kill yourself based upon a 15 second interview with Nancy Grace…then I have to believe something else in your life has gone horribly wrong.)

I’m crazy. I’m okay with it. I think everybody sort of is. Or, at least, everybody I would ever want to spend any amount of time with. The crazy is what keeps things interesting, and funny, and by golly, keeps me on the edge of my seat.

This is a poster I have above my bed. No. It isn't. I'm not a fucking loser. Who made this and why do they hate life so much, that they would subject their fellow humans to a fucking panda kicking us in the face with this horrible message?!? This is only appropriate to be sold in gift shops at insane asylums. Seriously. For real.

The older I get, the more types of crazy I see.

Personally, I don’t do “anger-crazy.”  I don’t yell. I don’t slam doors. I have never raised my voice to any boyfriend I have ever had. (And if any of them stumble across this, they will verify that….or else). I just don’t get crazy-angry. I don’t see a point in yelling, and on a purely psychological and physical level, I don’t get angry like that. (except at kittens. watch yourselves…baby cats.) (just kidding, guys.)

While I wrote this post, I ate two orders of this. Crazy bread is my muse. Along with cheesecake, guacamole, and Alf.

But I’m food-crazy. Oh, how I’m food-crazy. Aside from my very obvious unhealthy relationship with food, that alternates between rapist-victim, to mother-child, to ex-boyfriend-with-a-new-hot-fiance-and-old-girlfriend-who-has-a-major-breakout-happening-at-this-mutual-friend’s-holiday-party.

I figured since nobody ever reads this blog..."fuck it" I'm just gonna post a pic of my tummy. Took 8 hours and 300.00 bucks to do that, guys. Worth. Every. Penny. They don't call me "Chicken & Biscuits" for nothin'

It is a complicated and disgusting relationship that all too often involves 6 trips to the grocery store a week, binge eating blue corn chips dipped in pesto, and then crying in the shower afterwards. Jealous? Yeah you are. Turned on? You’re fucking gross. Get out of here.

Why is Little Ceasars trying to make mental illness fun again? Let it go, Ceasar Pequeno. Let it go. But keep the dipping sauces.

So speaking of grocery stores-here we go. The crazy.

I lived in a dorm freshman year at Arizona. I had no cell phone, as I have previously mentioned, and so we had a nice land line phone with a great answering machine. Jealous? Yeah you are.

The dorm assigned us a phone number. For Christmas, freshman year, I received a cell phone from my dad. Hooray! No more land line.

But I had started over in Arizona, and as my only phone number, I had given the land line number out to a million places.

Like Safeway. To hook up my Safeway club card.

I have little to add to this gem. But...offer accepted.

Everybody knows Safeway club cards are altruistic measures taken by grocery stores to ensure their very loved customers are getting the absolute best discounts available and not over-paying for groceries.

Just kidding. Its a way to ensnare, track, and hunt you until you are so exhausted from playing their  “this is 9 cents less with a plastic card” game that you curl into a ball below a palm tree and pray for a swift death. Death comes, and you are mummified in long receipts and your body turns into garlic salt. This is all true. I saw it once.

Fuck. I'm hungry.

So when I moved, I still had the one number connected to my Safeway club card. I never carried the actual card around…I’m not a plebian, for Christs sakes.

But I always used that number. Safeway cashiers would always say, at the end of our interaction “Thank you Ms. _______, have a lovely day”

But whomever had gotten that number after me had switched over her name.

Her name was Amy Bernal. To be precise.

So for years, they’d say “Thank you, Ms. Bernal, have a lovely day.”

Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nall. Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nail. Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nawl.

One day. A full four years after I got a new number and never changed over my Safeway card, I was checking out of Safeway, and the cashier said “Thank you, Ms. Burr…nail?” and before I even realized it, I said in a authoritative voice “Its Burr-nawl” and corrected her pronunciation of a last name I don’t even have.

I caught myself and stopped breathing. Realizing just how deep I had gone down a crazy hole.

I had assumed somebody’s Safeway identity and had the audacity to correct a cashier on my fake name.

I lived in Arizona for 5 years after I got rid of that original phone number. I never did get a new Safeway card. I lived as Amy Bernal, buying oatmeal and produce under an assumed identity for years before I left. So, wherever you are, Ms. Bernal, however you say your name…I apologize for being absolutely insane and boosting your coupon output, but probably lucky for you—I’m a harmless crazy.


Marry me. I thank God you exist, good sir.

$3.99 Worth of Eternal Shame

Hi friends. (again- I know this is just me and trolls reading this-but let me pretend. I paid 18.00 for this website and I’m going to pretend all fucking 18 dollars worth.)

So. Here we are. It is story time once again. For those that have heard this story (anybody who has ever encountered me) I apologize. (But in that way that isn’t really serious- I’m sort of like “Sorry you’re a jerk who wants me to apologize” about it all.)

Dead Behind the Virtual Eyes- the true, virtual tale of DQ Franchise ownership.

As many of you know, I lived in Tucson, Arizona (Nationally known as:  “Worst Place on Earth, 1999, 2003, 2008, 2009, 2011!) for six long, trying years.

During that time I frequented a street (a single street) that locals called “downtown.” when in fact, it was just a single street where a bunch of Mexican teens hung out sometimes. Great.

On this street was one of the only Dairy Queens I ever saw in Arizona. Now, when you grow up in a small town in the Midwest, you don’t treat DQ like a restaurant. There is never a cold, blustery January afternoon where you say “Lets go to Dairy Queen and grab some sundaes!”

No. It is closed. It closes for winter and it is too cold for sundaes, idiot children. But in Arizona, it is always summer, and you are always getting skin cancer (seriously) and DQ is always open.

DQ terror

I have nightmares that these three are gang raping me while a churro films it.

So one evening, driving around in my pajamas, I decide to go get a DQ blizzard. I was driving around in lounge wear because I felt like it. I worked two jobs, like, a gazillion hours a week, and I wanted to go drive “downtown” to spend 4 dollars on shortening my lifespan. So off I go, to the DQ which, at 8pm on a weeknight is crazy busy.

So I pull into the “drive thru” window-because I’m in pajamas, and like the sad and morbidly obese white girl I am, I like to order my food with the least amount of human interaction.

This is also the name of the home-made porn I'm currently shopping around.

So the drive thru is packed. The drive thru has begun to spill out onto the street and people are milling around all over and its just a crazy orgy of people all trying to get dilly bars. (Nobody. I mean, NOBODY was ordering dilly bars. This isn’t 1979, and nobody, not even in Arizona, is that fucking hard up for an ice cream bar-that they would order that shit)

Though I have never been associated with DQ...I was awkwardly driving this around when cravings struck

So I finally make my way up to the drive-thru window and I order a large Oreo Blizzard, and they’re in there- whipping it around, scooping delicious oreos into aerated ice cream, and all the sudden, my car sort of..shifts..and sighs…and turns off.

I try to re-start. Nothing. I look in my rear view mirror and see, like, fifty cars all waiting to experience the hot-fudge orgasm that is a Pecan mudslide*

My car will not start. I’m stuck at the window of a drive-thru Dairy Queen. This is my life. These are my choices. I’m wearing Target pajamas and I am a sitting duck at a fucking Dairy Queen order window.

So I do the only thing I can. I tell the sweet high school student making minimum wage to serve me a large blizzard that my car just broke’d down in her drive thru lane. To her credit, she doesn’t really blink an eye. She runs out and asks the various Dad’s in the crowd to help push me.

This is where things get really sexy. I try to get out to help push, but all the dads take one look at me and are like “get back in the car. we’re good out here”

I sit on my fatass in my 2007 Chevy Aveo** getting pushed through a Dairy Queen drive-thru lane to an adjacent parking space. In my realization that all I had to do was steer- I start binge eating my blizzard.

That is correct. As 6 Dad’s were pushing my obesity in pajamas, I was blatantly enjoying my ice cream treat going 1 mile per hour through a parking lot, while small children felt embarrassed for me. I am a complete animal, with absolutely no shame.

Here is the best part. My car was not broken. I had run out of gas. Completely run out of gas. Because I had about 5 dollars to my name- and I wanted a blizzard more than I wanted a working vehicle. Is there anything more American than this story? I doubt it.

So I call my ex boyfriend who is pissed. He drives from work, to the DQ parking lot (Where I have my feet up, and I am still enjoying this blizzard) and puts gas in my car-and gives me my dog, who he brought for some reason.

So I go to a gas station to fill up my tank- because, ha, guys-that was sort of embarrassing. And I come back to my car and my seats are all wet. My dog had climbed inside the blizzard and was prancing around with melted oreo ice cream on his paws. It was a great ending to a very uplifting, empowering day.

So that’s me. I have sunk so far below decency that I let my car run out of gas, and had to be manually pushed through a DQ drive-thru while I started eating my oreo blizzard in front of my rescuers. You’re welcome-America.

Oh. So...just because there was a double homocide here, now you're choosing to close early and make ME a victim too? Where does the pain stop?

*I’ll do this for you for 50 bucks or a JCrew giftcard. Find me on Craigslist.

** Jealous? I was on a waitlist for like, 18 months to score these wheels. (No, no I wasn’t)

Pickle Ornaments: Getting kicked out of Epcot: Germany.


There are a lot of sad things in this world. A lot of pain, a lot of anger and hurt and suffering. Disease, natural disasters, heartache, lost love, unfair situations, bad timing, addiction, etc.

But there is a lot, a lot, a lot to laugh about. Here is a story that makes me laugh. Followed by a clip that makes me laugh.

“Pickle Ornaments” or… “How my brother and I were asked to leave Epcot Germany”

There are two things you should know:

1. I have a very, very, very dysfunctional family. In fact, I don’t even think the word “functional” should be in there. Nor “family” really.

That being said, we all have great senses of humor. My family is fucking hilarious. My brother Jeff is very funny. He is a different sort of funny than me, but very complimentary. We are the closest age-wise in our family, and during trips, we were always in a room together.

2. At Disney World, my absolute favorite part- is the World Showcase- where you get to walk around miniature versions of other countries and eat their food and buy their shit. I could walk between France and Japan forever. For. Ever.

So. 2004. My father gets us a trip to DisneyWorld for Christmas. We are leaving on January 2nd, 2005 and I am flying back to Arizona from Orlando. I am 19 and Jeff is 16. Bryan is 12.

The trip starts off on a great note-in that I schoolyard a bottle of champagne in my friend Nick’s basement with my ex-boyfriend a half hour before going to the airport with my Dad-where I drink a latte and take sleeping pills for the flight.

You guessed it-those combined to make a great cocktail of meth in my stomach. I wake up and vomit in secret, and spend the next 11 hours shaking uncontrollably and having to lie about why I’m not interested in maxing out at the Disney brunch buffet. I think I pulled it off-but then again, my father knows I don’t turn down mini french toast shaped like animals for anything short of death.

I've eaten 14 of these in one sitting

Don't even ask what happened to me in their soda shop. A story for another time.

We stay at the Yacht Club-or whatever it is called. An amazing hotel that allows us to walk right over to Epcot’s World Showcase and enjoy the pleasantries of Canada World! or Mexico World!

Homeland* Unless you ask one or two "frowned upon" questions

But this was an interesting time to go to Disney World. It was so soon after the holidays that there is literally nobody there. But it is nice because all the Christmas stuff is still up. So, of course, at all the nations in Epcot’s World Showcase-they have trees and ornaments, and holiday decor up. Except, of course at the Muslim nations.

hahahahhahahaha just kidding. There aren’t any Muslim nations at World Showcase. What’s wrong with you?

Enter: Jeff and Nikki Ulrich.

See that last name? It is 200% German. See those two kids? They were once screamed at by British police for shouting “We did it then-we will do it again-Revolutionary War 2002!!!!!” In a crowded British airport.

The train is on the tracks people- it is heading for a crash.

"Please take your brother and leave"

So at some point Jeff and I are out on our own, and we’re perusing the merchandise at Epcot Germany.

A lot of large German Steins, some carved with the entire history of Germany…sort of.

A lot of marionettes, German figures, leiderhosen, clocks, and historical German items

Then there are the trees- the large trees decked out with ornaments. A lot of glass pickle ornaments. A lot.

Because this is normal behavior for a master race of people.

So I’m looking around and I’m a little perturbed. I consult with Jeff-who shares my ideology.  Listen, if I wanted a fucking glass pickle ornament I would have driven twenty minutes and picked one up with a sauerbraten to-go. Okay? I came to Epcot Germany for a FULL FUCKING GERMANY EXPERIENCE.

And we weren’t getting it. Here’s a hint- there was a very specific time period missing on the “History of Germany” items.

Hitler Youth?

So after talking with Jeff- we approached the counter. You know, at these places-they import people from the actual countries to work there. In case you didn’t know this-you only see people from Germany at Epcot Germany. It is a Disney Scholarship program. It is a great idea, and lends to the authenticity of Epcot! Malawi! (a kiosk hut outside of Epcot Mexico)(Seriously.)

So we approach the Germans working and we utter what will seal our fate: “Where do you keep the good ornaments?”

blank stares.

“Uh, ya know- the ones from um…war time”

confused stares that are quickly turning into looks of horror

Jeff– “Listen I’m looking for some Third Reich ornaments. Okay. Are they behind the counter? Or… Because I checked in all the little wicker baskets under the trees and all I can find are glass pickles”

The girl whispers to another worker. They both stare. A manager comes out and Jeff repeats his question.

“We don’t carry any memorabilia of that nature-and I think you two should find your way out, and not return for the remainder of your time at Disney”

I really love what they've done with the glitter.

I mean-that’s fine, but now my “Genocide through the ages” Christmas tree theme continues to be incomplete.

And, for your viewing pleasure-

Pro Thunderball from the best sketch comedy show in history: Matt Besser is the best part.

Pete and Nikki

Nikki and Pete.

Friends for life

I’m not sure which one of us would be Larry and which one of us would be Jeff. While Pete has a family and obligations that make him much more like Jeff, I dare to say that I am much more grounded in reality and would probably say, despite being less hilarious-that I am Jeff.

But certainly, beyond both loving the show-my Peter and I embodied these characters, and their relationship quite well.

Odd couple

So, to keep things brief, I will tell a short story that lends itself to my claims here.

In case we don’t know- Peter is my best friend in Arizona, who was a co-worker and mentor of mine for two years. For almost all of that two years, I sat at a desk that faced his desk and spent more time with him and Greco than anybody else on this planet. For most of two years, I ate forty meals a month with him, spent over 50 hours a week with him, countless happy hours, and probably thousands of text messages and about a hundred midnight phone calls.

I owned his old furniture, I drove his car, I was often his alibi, he took me to buy my first bike, he picked up our morning lattes with cinnamon, he introduced me to udon noodles and albacore, he fitted my helmet, I taught him yoga, we sang Old Dirty Bastard to each other, quoted Gangs of New York, I paid his vet bills, he paid mine, and we were often each other’s first-call when something funny happened a mere twenty minutes after leaving the office. We literally were and are partners in crime. There was never even a moment of romantic chemistry between us-and I know both of us wouldn’t have it any other way.


Cheryl: I thought you didn’t like talking to people.
Larry David: I don’t like talking to… to people I KNOW, but strangers, I have no problem with.

(neither Pete nor I were nice, normal enough people to be Cheryl)


To this day, I truly believe he is one of a handful of people I was meant to meet in this life. He is also probably one of the only human beings I will ever meet that I can love unconditionally. (See: non-romantic) He is the Mario Batali to my Gwyneth Paltrow, the Leonardo DiCaprio to my Kate Winslet. The Gayle to my Oprah. For those who have never experienced a relationship like this, I really, really hope you do.


On to a story I remembered yesterday:

Pete is small. He is a smallish human. I am certainly taller than him in flats, and tower above him more or less in heels. No matter, he certainly hasn’t lacked for female attention in this life. Anyway- we were both leaving our job, we had spoken about it many times and in order to fully maximize our health insurance, we decided to schedule a bunch of appointments before we quit.

So I scheduled a physical. I get to the office and right away they weigh me so I can feel like not eating for the rest of the day-and get my height. Now, ever since high school I’ve been under the presumption that I was around 5’7 or 5’8. In talking about this with Pete, he was comfortable with the notion that he was around 5’6.

This doctor’s office measures me and tells me I’m 5’4. I freak out. In my head-my first thought is that my BMI basically now means I’m morbidly obese. My weight-to-height ratio is totally motherfucking fucked if I’m THREE TO FOUR inches shorter than I thought I was. That’s a lot of height. Gone. Boom. I look at the nurse and she jots down 5’4. I didn’t have time to argue but I drove back to the office depressed.

You know who else was going to be depressed that day? Peter. I get back and tell him the bad news. Not only am I actually 5’4, but he is now around 5’2 or 5’3. Five feet and motherfucking two inches.

He freaks. He’s enraged by this doctor and demands a recount. I don’t know what to tell him- I say- I’m upset too. I’m very upset. He is turning red now. He will not stand for this. He knows that I’m at least 5’7 and he is not taking this lightly.

The long and the short of it is- (see what I did there?) Peter makes an appointment for the next week at my doctors office to “settle the score.” He goes and demands to be  measured twice. Five feet, six inches.

If that story isn’t ripped from Curb, I don’t know what is.

Larry: He insulted me. He implied that I was lying about my stepfather!
Jeff Greene: You don’t have a stepfather.
Larry: I know, but I didn’t like the implication!

You’ve Got The Love

My favorite email of the summer- or at least one that sticks with me, each and every day.

Nikki, you’re seriously so much smarter than you think you are. But thank you. You shouldn’t feel inadequate ever. And by “you shouldn’t feel inadequate” I mean— I know you know you’re good at it, but I don’t think you even realize what a singular and enviable talent your people skills are. It’s admirable and intimidating how naturally it comes to you. And it’s not a consolation prize, it’s a real and formidable intelligence.*

*Like, as long as we’re getting real.

Warning: Everybody Here is Crazy Pt. 1

This post will be the beginning of what I believe will be a beautiful series of short stories. That series will be called “I survived Arizona, where every thing and everybody is fucking insane and racist and scary and stupid and there is a lot of sand.”
Or- in the shortened version, it will feature the “Arizona Crazy” tag, and the “Como Que?” category.

So, to make a brief introduction to my 6 years in Tucson, Arizona-

I went there for my undergraduate education.

I received monetary incentives to attend.

I visited for two days before accepting.

I wanted to get out of the midwest and far far far from my family.

After school, I moved in with my then-boyfriend.

Because of him, and the economy, I took the first job I was offered and worked for 2 additional years.

I purchased furniture, trips, a dog, a great bike, and a lot of food and makeup to fill the enormous void in my life.

That void was called “any emotion other than depression.

I decided to go back to school-and I escaped to the north in the dead of night. This is exactly how the slaves must have felt.

* * * * * * *

So lets begin-

To set the scene- this is the first forty minutes I was in Tuscon, Arizona. A forty minutes that would literally set the tone for the next 6 years of my life.


You may think-that if you got that message-LOUD AND CLEAR….

Note RV full of crazies.

That you’d heed the warnings, and turn around and go back to where you came from.

But we can’t all be that intelligent- and so just to clarify a couple of important points:

1. I had no cell phone during this time. 

2. I had never flown into Tucson “Int’l” before this. I also had no idea of how Tucson “worked.”

So here I am- 18 years old and traveling to school out of state on my own for the first time ever!

I went by myself, as nobody from my family could go with me- and because of ticket scarcity, I ended up being slated to arrive in Tucson at about 1:30am the day before I was officially supposed to check into my dorm.

I emailed the school, and was promised that they’d have a human being waiting at my dorm for me- even at around 2am which was when I estimated I’d arrive. I’d be shown to my new room-and would be able to check in the next morning when everybody else did.

Great! I thought– this is a crazy adventure that will be scary but awesome too!

So I boarded my plane after a lot of tears- and I flew off to Tucson Arizona-land of milk and honey*, with like six full suitcases full of stuff. This was of course,  before the economy tanked and we could assume that paying 400.00 to fly uncomfortably one way to a shit-hole entitled us to fucking CHECK SOME SHIT FOR FREE.

Oh-everything is grounded and closed? Must be a holiday weekend.

So I land in Tucson- and I get all of my bags, and something is…off. It is 1:30am-but I am literally one of four people in the entire “international” airport. One other person was on my connecting flight-one person is mopping a floor and one person is homeless asleep on the baggage claim. ( I claimed him- and he makes a mean pancetta mac&cheese. He also talks to fences. #tradeoffs)

I had an uncomfortable feeling about the total lack of humans, but I gathered my things and went outside to look for a cab. It was easy to find one…as there was only one. Only one cab.

This is actually the exact cab I entered. I recognize the plates.


So I pull all my stuff to the cab, and the driver jumps out  and helps me-asks where I’m going, I say the University.

He starts loading my bags, and I open the back seat. It was a van cab- so the seats are higher, and I go to step in-and there is a wallet sitting on the seat. Oops.

So he hops in the cab and before he even starts the car, I say:

“Oh, hey there is a wallet back here, somebody must have lef—”

“Oh. Give me it. Give me it right now. Oh. I know who left it. My last customer. What a fucking chink. I mean-okay-I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t–but this fucking chink. What a fucking bitch.”

I’m silent

“Okay! So-the university! Great. Here for school? That’s great. I’m trying to remember where the University is…”

Note: if you live in Tucson and cannot find the University of Arizona, it is tantamount to living in Orlando and claiming you forgot where DisneyWorld is. Its everywhere. It is the fucking anchor of Tucson.

At this point, we are on a road and out of nowhere-he whips around and starts manically beeping his horn.

Try roughly 2190 days in Horrorland.

He screams at me “More pretty girls in Tucson!!!! woooooooooooooottttt! WhoooooHooooooo!!!!!”


At this point I’m hoping I survive this taxi ride. I’m hoping even more that my virginity (waiting for marriage) survives this taxi ride. I’m also hoping he turns around and watches the road, stops honking and doesn’t think my skin would look good as a suit.

He begins to question me intently about my dating history and my plans to find a husband in Tucson. (I’d rather find a husband on To Catch A Predator)

This has nothing to do with anything. But come on. Come. On. Like you don't want to look at this.

Precious quotes like

“You know, I could be your personal cab driver-we could hang out. I’m just saying. We could hang out and I could drive you around. Do you have a boyfriend? Are you a virgin?”

“What do you want to study? Oh-you want to learn how to be a politician?”

Yes. Sir. Political Science teaches you how to blow anybody for a campaign donation while fucking your driver’s daughter. (If head doesn’t work, appoint more judges.)

I resent my parents even more for denying me a cell phone at this moment.

He then goes into a soliloquy about his life and “some drama” and “some fucked up shit” he has going on with HIS WIFE and finally he turns the corner that my dorm is on.

I pay him- with the little cash I have on hand, and he starts to unload.

But something is not right. It is 2:30am and there is not one light on in my dorm. No human being waiting for me. I start to have an uneasy feeling once again about my life, and my odds of avoiding being a Nancy Grace topic.

So he unloads, gives me his “card” (he’s a cab driver. Seriously?) and his cell phone number. Asks to hang out. I shudder. I sort of chuckle. Tell him I’ll call. (we’re married now)

I'm the inspiration for this game. I'm in this photo-but my lifeless mutilated body is under the front wheels.

I drag my bags up to the door and he is staring at me from the street. He knows I’m not getting in. It just hangs there. The panic I felt in that moment made it feel like an hour. How would I get him to leave? Where would I go?

These things would never-ever happen now. Now I’d just book a hotel before I traveled. I wouldn’t rely on an RA to do anything. Now, I’d just use my Evo to fucking call the police. Or the dorm. Or my parents. Or a hotel.

But I had nothing. I would have had to leave all my shit at this dorm and wander around a campus alone until I found a payphone. To call whom? My parents would not answer and they would not help. I resigned myself to just sleeping outside for the night. Until somebody left and I could make it into the building.

But he was still watching me. I ran back down-and he, of course, asked if I could get in-and wanted to wait with me.

“No, No, I just texted a friend and she is coming to let me in. Thanks so much-nice meeting you.”

He stared. But- luckily I think he was tired and he got in his cab and left.


But I was still stuck outside a dorm with 6 bags of crap, extremely tired, alone, with very little money, and no way to get into my dorm room.

And then- God answered my increasingly frantic prayers.


An SUV pulled up less than a minute later. A tiny girl hopped out and ran up to the stoop.

“Oh- hi.” she said and I told her the situation.

“Oh, you can sleep in the extra bed that is in my room. Come on, I’ll help carry your stuff up.”

He name was Bree. She was a tiny cheerleader who was a Tucson native- had moved in early and was getting home from a friend’s house. She helped me carry my stuff up, let me use her cell phone to call my parents and let them know I was still alive (barely) and her computer to email my friends. She talked to me until 3am when we both went to sleep. The next morning, she helped me check in and told me all about her boyfriend and friends when we grabbed coffee.

And here is the punchline ladies and gentlemen—-

She never. acknowledged me. again.

Never. In the elevator-she’d look down. In meetings, she’d introduce herself each time.

Is it me? Or is everybody here fucking nuts?

What a surprise.

* leche and shit.

Things I May Sell My Eggs For:

Part of me thinks it is silly to post a blog of material things you want to buy. That part of me attempts to be a normal human every day. That part of me is the only reason I’m not in sweat pants eating biscuits and gravy and a milkshake right now.

Okay. Fine. I am in sweatpants eating biscuits and gravy and a milkshake right now. Are you happy?

Just kidding. I’m eating laxatives and wearing heels.

I can't feel my feet. But they look great.

The larger part of me spends a substantial chunk of my week looking and pondering things I want to buy. What can I say?

I thought we were being open.

So in the spirit of open-ness…I like shopping. I like new shit. I like pretty things. I like biscuits and gravy before bedtime.

I may never buy any of these things-but if I could, I certainly would. Enjoy.

******None of these places are endorsing this, or me,  or know about me…. I wish I knew something, anything about the law and could write a better disclaimer….******** 😉


So here I go- in no particular order… things I want right now:

Biella satin high-heel loafers

These are shoes that  may be overpriced but are definitely adorable. My concern is that they will rip on the heel mere moments after I place them on my feet.  JCrew also has a lot of nerve charging so much for shoes.

They aren’t a brand known for shoes. Somehow they need to set themselves apart from actual shoe brands. The way they  choose to do so, should involve making their shoes under 100.00. Think about it Mr. and Mrs. Crew.

But since I’m writing about things I want- let me tell you why I want them.

They’re pretty. But not too pretty. They’d look great with all my office clothes, they are masculine, with a feminine fabric and are in a color you almost never find anything in. Plus- I’m trying to absolutely destroy my feet by the time I’m 30. I mean really, really, fuck them up beyond recognition. I think these could help.


Moving on:

Anthropologie will burn for its sins.

I love this dress from Anthropologie. I yearn for clothes from Anthropologie. I check their website every morning for new additions. I don’t know why-I  simply adore their aesthetic.

Of course, Anthropologie clothes (and I’ve collected a couple at this point) are the gift that keeps on giving. They are almost always dry clean only and so each time I wear them I get to spend more money. Thank you for giving me something to live for, upscale Urban Outfitters.

I love this dress because I feel in my heart it will look good on me. Cinched waist, nuetral color. Can wear to dinner or the office. Leifsdottir, which is a great brand. Be still, my heart.


Raptim Ad Sidera Tollar

Ambition Wax Seal Necklace

This handmade wax seal necklace seal reads Raptim Ad Sidera Tollar: I Would Go As Far As The Stars.

And here we go with the Pyrrha necklaces. These are featured in a store right by my house. For some reason-and I don’t know why (psychosis) I like jewelery better with a narrative.

I like almost everything better with a narrative.

I like weird jewelery and I like it to really mean something. If you haven’t heard of Pyrrha , you should check it out. Unless you aren’t into that. In which case..uh…what else are you doing right now?

Nothing. Yeah, I thought so.

But seriously. I hate common jewelery. The hearts. The Tiffany’s bracelets. Everybody can have those. What is that sayin about you? That you like what everybody else does? That you enjoy cubic zirconia? No. No. No. NO.

Should someone ever feel the strange urge to put a ring on it- I hope it isn’t a big rock and I hope it is unique. (and a canary diamond. K. Thx.)

So the first necklace I want- I will probably buy. I have included the description immediately below each picture.

I think I’m a pretty ambitious person. At least when I want something. I. will. get. it. Let me be clear: If I want it. I get it.

That’s called being a socio/and/or psychopath in most circles. But in America- we call it ambition. Truth be told: if something I wanted was on the stars…I’d be researching how to go as far as the stars right now. Instead, I’m writing a blog post that will be featured in my museum exhibit someday. (please turn the flash off on your iphone 34, sir)

Second: I want this bad boy

Crazy like a fox

Gold on Silver Fox Head Wax Seal Necklace

This handmade wax seal necklace features a fox which represents someone who will use all of their wit and wisdom in their defense.

I think it is clear to most that know me that I use all my wit in my defense. I try and throw in wisdom, but its hard when you’re being asked to explain how all those pictures of children appeared on your desktop. Wisdom doesn’t help as much in that situation… so.

But I do love it. I do think of myself as crazy like a fox. Cunning, witty, sort of always skittish. Hunting and eating voles. Similar.

Last, but not least-

Unique Quoique Deux

Rare Birds Wax Seal Necklace

This French handmade wax seal depicts two lovebirds and reads Unique Quoique Deux which means Unique Though Two. This represents two unusual types who have found each other.

This is all I want out of life. Unique Quoique Deux. Partner in crime.


But now that I have talked about two months rent in pyrrha necklaces…moving on:

The cameras are coming

I love this bag. I hope it will fit all my makeup. I hope it will look nice in the museum dedicated to my life. It is from the Chicago museum of contemporary art.  Thank you for sending a message that we all needed to hear MCA.

On that note: to this day I regret not wearing makeup the day I was hit by a car. I should have put on makeup when I got home, but instead I was all “Drive me to the emergency room-my arm is broken” and the whole ride there I regretted going “bare faced.” Vanity will lead to my demise. I already want to just go “gestational carrier” and save what is left of my youthful figure. I’m sorry, God.


$14.00 pints. Makes sense.

Speaking of vanity- lets eat ice cream!

But seriously. I have long championed Jeni’s ice cream as being the best ice cream out there. I shipped my brother 4 pints for his birthday, and he confirmed my suspicions. Since then, I’ve tried their wackiest flavors when I can. Jeni is absolutely worth the time, money and caloric intake. Her ice cream is absolutely amazing and I’m sure her book is beautiful. Who else will teach me how to make violette meringue ice cream?




Last, but certainly not least for today- this is by an artist on the 20X200 website. I was told about this website when I helped a co-worker hang a framed picture of a bird. It took us 20 minutes. After 15 minutes we realized there were hangers already on the other side. I am not smart.

This piece is by artist Mike Monteiro. My apologies, sir-if you don’t want this on my blog. But I love your art. Trust me-when I actually get paid, and get my loan money…I am purchasing this. Not only this, but another piece for my friend Amanda.

This sums it up. I don’t want to be a bridge-burner…but I sort of don’t give a goddamn.

If you cross me-and you aren’t one of a handful of people who have earned a “bullshit” pass…I will just drop you like its hot.

I really will. Life is too short. Trust me-there is somebody else out there who would love to hang out with me until they burn their bridge. If not- then I’m still sitting pretty. I have a great life- a lot of bridges burning to light my way….

and according to webmd…a lot of eggs to sell to buy this shit.

Over and Out


Making Sushi is Exactly Like Handjobs

And not just because both make use of julienned cucumbers. (Right?!)

Okay so my title may have been a little broad. (I know what else is a little broad)

What I mean, of course, is that you never slice against the grain of the penis, and you use a small bamboo mat to achieve the “roll” shape you are going for.

I can’t believe I’m single. 

The realism of the testicles astounds me.

Welcome to a post in which I talk about what I want to( but don’t) cook.

I spent the better part of last year really learning how to cook. I’ve always been an avid baker (See: 10 years of holiday cookie parties) and an avid eater (See: large ass, firefox bookmark “recipes” folder) but I rarely cooked anything you could gain nutrients from. Like mozzarella sticks, or lasagna noodles in cream sauce.

You know its good when a white glove with a clown nose likes it!!!

A combination of living in a small town with two restaurants (Okay- one restaurant and a place with a microwave and a business license), changing my eating habits, and curiosity led me to start really cooking. Since I dove into the “cooking” pond, I’ve made anything and everything that sounded interesting and edible.

This bitch.

I will elaborate more in another post-but I’ve made mussels, Caesar dressing, shrimp bisque, chicken parmigiana, mushroom parmesan lasagna, asparagus pancetta hash, fried mozzarella sticks,  three kinds of stuffing, corn spoon bread, tempura tofu, chicken tikka masala, a mushroom crepe cake, cream of cauliflower soup, coq au vin, fennel and carmelized onion flatbread,  mustard chicken, etc. etc. etc.

Mussels and grilled bread. The shell is the best part. (That is a lie.)

I’ve always enjoyed it immensely. Seriously.

Once, in Arizona- I made 11 people  Thanksgiving (14 items) completely on my own- from scratch-including bloody mary’s and kept everybody’s drinks full. I started at 3am and was fully dressed and looking hot for dinner at 5pm. That’s another story-but don’t hesitate to clap in the comfort of your own home.

I slaughtered and plucked this myself. (No, I didn't)

Drinking my own tears. Or wine. Probably my own tears.

All this aside- there are corners of the cooking universe I’ve yet to explore.  Thus, the title of this post. I think I should admit:

There are just some things I know somebody else can do better.

Sushi is the big one. Because-think about it. I could go out and buy sashimi, the cucumbers, the avocado and make the spicy mayo…but for what? To make myself dinner? So much would go to waste and it would never be as good as the $9.00 roll from whole foods. (endorsement. please, pay me WF.)

It is like a handjob. I can do it-sure. And I will, if anybody (literally-anybody. Don’t be afraid to ask for an HJ homeless guys…I’m a giver) asks me to…but come on.

This is not my body. I would eat it before they could set this up.

You didn’t buy me two drinks and take me to your Moms cousin’s  basement to watch me try and make sticky rice. Am I right?

I am right. You didn’t take me to that basement.  Because I would never go to that basement after what happened the last time. I still have dried blood and cat hair under my fingernails.

Indian Food is also straddling this category. I can do it- and I make a good chicken tikka masala…but what of the samosas? What of the buffet? I can’t set up an Indian food buffet in my kitchen.  No one would ever see me again.

The only other thing in this category is high-level pastry. I’m talking chocolate croissant, Kouing Aman,  and of course the elusive macaron.

As if I would eat it in more than one bite.

I think I’ll attempt to tip toe into these categories…because as we all know- at any moment you could meet your soulmate and they could have no arms and no hands and NEED you to give them handjobs…and what happens if you have been walking three blocks and paying 25.00 for somebody ELSE to give out handjobs while you drink sake?

Always better to be prepared.

–off to service some homeless guys and make tomorrow’s baked goods—

Oh Hey There

Oh. Hey guys*. I’m pretty embarrassed that I haven’t posted in so long. I’ve been really, really busy-as indicated below.

Saturday night-big plans. Talking to my dog in the other room on the phone

But really. I do other things besides surf the internet and eat food. Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I go to the dog park. It is hard to lead the rockstar lifestyle I do and maintain a blog.

Took the words right out of my mouth...as I was saying them over some ceviche

So since the last post- which I don’t recall making- I’ve finished my first year in school**, moved, started a new job, and a bunch of other stuff that can be summed up as being both shitty and awesome…and then shitty some more, and maybe more awesomeness. For a short time, my best school friend was in Chicago– touching down briefly between Asia and Boston***. During that time I watched more HBO than I care to admit-but seeing as though it is not tv…it’s HBO; I will count it as educational.

From that I can give you the following information:

I don't know how to rebuild after Mildred Pierce

Mildred Pierce needs to be watched….absolutely never—or, in the alternate- absolutely intoxicated or during a bi-polar period of mania. Unless you get excited by 7 hours of shitty things happening to Kate Winslet. But then your name would probably Sam Mendes…(burn notice)

Watching Mildred Pierce with even the slightest bit of depression or anxiety is like when I took a road trip with 60 munchkins. There are just some  inevitable truths.

At the end of the roadtrip I had consumed 60 munchkins.

At the end of Mildred Pierce I was incredibly depressed.

But as we’ve all had to learn the hard way: HBO giveth, and HBO taketh away.

For the remaining weeks of this summer, I have worked. I took my last final on a Wednesday, and I started my new summer job on the following Monday. I’m not one for “weeks off” and I really enjoy working. I really enjoy having a monotonous daily schedule. Even at the job-that-shall-not-be-named****, I rarely took vacations. I really enjoy my job now. For a multitude of reasons, but the most important is that everybody is awesome. I’m sure not everybody (I know not everybody)-but almost everybody. Funny, charming, silly, and a few are incredibly, unbelievably nice. I feel blessed to have been asked to intern for such lovely people.

In turn (see what I did there?), I’ve tried to infiltrate to the very core the best way I know how- by making people laugh, and baking them high caloric food that I hide addictive substances in.#

The meth folds right in.

It is pretty clever! Thanks for saying so! You see- each Monday, I bring in baked goods, and everybody flocks over and gobbles them. I then start cracking jokes and between the extremely addictive hallucinogenic drugs I put in the baked goods, and my C level humor… I start to seem like a really good employee who absolutely knows what she’s doing.


I’m thinking of starting a “consulting” firm for this sort of thing. (don’t steal my idea 2-to-4 people who stumble across this blog)

Anyway- that is what prompted me to update today. I had two yearnings today. One, was to cook. I absolutely adore cooking and baking. It has been so hot this summer, and so gross that I’ve been out of commission and lazy. My Sunday night office-baking happy hour is the only time I have been forcing myself to cook. But today, raining and dreary–I was absolutely possessed to make soup. (I didn’t-I ate a turkey burger from Whole Foods. The cycle continues)

I also had a hankering to write. Maybe because I slept more than 4 hours last night for the first time in a long time.

In any event- I am back-for all my fans (my mom, my brother, and me re-reading this 40 times). I’m hoping to make a post devoted to all the things I’ve been baking for work, and all the recipes I’m hoping to bake for work.

So far I’ve been keeping things pretty middle-of-the-road. But I’d like to step it up and make some high-level shit. Like a giant layer cake, or a crazy cheesecake, or donuts, or maple bacon frosted pancake cupcakes. (But who’s counting?) So. I’m not going to say surviving- I’m going to say thriving.

Maybe tomorrow, during baking happy hour-

I’ll write a post that most people always dream of reading- what is it like, you ask-to bake something from a recipe, while drinking white wine and listening to Fleet Foxes?

I know, I know- you’ve always wanted to know. To get behind the music and see what the fuck goes on during that type of shit show. Let me tell you friends- it’s wilder than you can even imagine.

Until then, signing off-

I use oxycontin instead of butter.

*myself reading this tomorrow, my mom, my friend Nick who added this to google reader. Thanks.
**literally my first year; kindergarten my mom is typing this for me.
*** oddly now referred to as the proscuitto-xanax trade route.
****for litigation reasons. Not really. But I am suing them. So, Really.
#Not intended to be a factual statement. Have you tried the butterscotch blondies? Yeah- yeah they’re tasty. Now what’s your pin number?