Author Archives: joanna

You Win, Bravo

I watch too much Bravo. It wasn’t always this way. When I lived alone, I couldn’t afford cable, so I stuck to Netflix, Amazon Prime and Phantom of the Opera. But now that I have Bravo, I find myself completely invested in the lies and lives of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.


My dad, the reluctant Netflix provider.

I hate myself for it, really. There are so many good shows out there — smart shows I tell myself I *should* be watching, books I *should* be reading, or comedians I *should* be studying. But when I come home from a long day of dog walking and find myself hangry beyond the point of return, all I want is a tall glass of wine and 30 minutes of women screaming their truths.

I’m a total mess when I watch the show. The kind of person you absolutely hate to watch TV with. The kind of person who criticizes everything about the show, self-righteously huffs and puffs at the hypocrisy of it all, and then calls you up at 8:00 next Tuesday to do it all over again.

I tell myself it’s educational. That I watch this so I know how to be a good friend. So I know how to conduct myself – and how NOT to conduct myself – in public. A few weeks ago, I turned to my roommate and said, “You know, if there’s one thing this show has taught me, it’s to be really careful with my words. Like, never say anything you wouldn’t want repeated.”

And then I went out and called someone a “lil bitch ass.”

“Maybe if I read more,” I tell myself, “I’ll lose interest in this smut and grow into the pretentiously well-read person I’ve always wanted to be.”

So, I started reading Anna Karenina. I think it’s a cool name, and I’d like to keep a copy by my bed to intimidate people.

“My God! A Tolstoy fan! How impressive and also arousing!” my male suitors will say.

Jim Jam

My current bedside set-up. It’s neither impressive nor arousing. 

Apparently, Anna Karenina (did you hear? I’m reading it) is one of the greatest books ever written. Which is why I want to like it – I really, really do. But alas, Bravo, has ruined me. Where I’d hoped to lose myself in the intrigue of times gone by, I am instead judgy as shit. Anna Karenina, to me, is a no more than an unabridged season of Housewives:

“Will new-girl Kitty ever find her voice? Can Anna – former fan-favorite and Housewife veteran – survive her most dramatic season yet? Will Vronsky stop being a lil bitch ass and move the f on? Find out this season on Anna Karenina.”

See? I’m ruined.


Carpool Karaoke

I don’t know what kind of person I am. I don’t think I’m a morning person, but I’m definitely not a night person. I like to be in bed by 10:30 but have been known to sleep well past noon. Also, I do not function without coffee. Like, at all.


Not quite morning people. Not quite night people.

I paint you this picture to illustrate my mindset the morning of Saturday, December 23. I had an early flight home for Christmas, so rather than take the train (which typically involves a few wrong trains before taking the right one), I decide to hail a Lyft.

At approximately 5:45 a.m., my driver pulls up, and, within seconds, I know I’m in trouble. He’s the chipper sort, and I can smell the sickly sweet remnants of Red Bull on his breath.

I sit in the front seat, not as to engage, but as to avoid vomiting all over his backseat. “I get carsick,” I tell him, setting the bar as low as humanly possible.

He asks what I do, where I’m going.

I tell him I’m a dog walker, and that I’m going home to Kentucky.

He asks if I’d like to start driving for Lyft. I say no, I get car sick. That I don’t like driving. And I don’t like driving with other people in the car. So, all around, a terrible fit.

He tells me it’s fun. That you get to talk to people – all kinds of people! – all night.

I cannot conjure a more perfect vision of hell, I think, so I nod and say, “Yeah, that must be interesting.”

He tells me I never asked him what he likes to do for fun.

I ask him what he likes to do for fun.

He says karaoke.

I ask him where he likes to do karaoke.

He says he’s never done it in public before.

I wonder how much longer I have until he abducts me.

He fiddles with some dials, and soon, his entire dash turns into a karaoke screen.


The proof.

“This one’s my favorite,” he says, cuing up Shania Twain’s “Man I Feel Like A Woman.”

I laugh politely. He’s so happy. And I’m so tired.

He asks me to sing along. I oblige, barely – talking the words rather than singing them.

He notices.

“Come on!” he says. “You know it!”

I tell him I’m tone-deaf.

He tells me it doesn’t matter.

I give him my worst.

He loves it.

“Right there! See, I heard it! You DO have a good voice!” He’d say whenever I’d land in the general vicinity of the note at hand.

Soon, he drops out of the song all together. I’m singing solo. He’s backing me up with the chorus. Aside from a few “Oohs,” “Ahhs,” and “Let’s go girls,” I’m totally and utterly alone. I’m so very embarrassed. Which is odd for me, really. I love karaoke. But this feels different. It feels vulnerable.

I look around the car to see if there are any cameras. Surely there are. Surely this is some sort of prank. And, if so, surely I can refuse the use of my footage, right?

I decide the best way out is an honorable decrescendo — a slow descent into silence. I begin to soften my voice until it becomes no more than a whisper. I then sigh heartily, as if I’m pleased with our work, and I’m eager to end on a high note. I clap my hands on my thighs for a final touch – a nonverbal “Well! That was fun! I must be off now! Ta-ta!”

It doesn’t translate.

“You don’t like this one? We’ll find another.”

He finds Spice Girls. Then Christmas songs. Then Mariah Carey, which becomes the climax of our carpool concert.

Every time I stop and try to strike up a conversation, he sings at me. He looks at me, locks eyes, and sings right into my soul.

This continues for the entirety of our 35 minute trip. By the time I arrive at Midway, I’m hoarse, exhausted and car-sick from reading the lyrics on the screen. I’m a little annoyed, honestly, until I realize something: I’ve been strugging to come up with blog topics, and this guy just gave me a gem.

So, thank you, dear Lyft driver. I hope you get more willing passengers in the New Year.



Anything but write

I’ll do anything but write.

I’ll clean my room, brush the cats, reorganize my closets.

I’ll do anything but write. Because writing is terrifying.

Of course, I love to write. It’s why I moved to Chicago. But in doing so, I put something out into the universe that I can’t take back. I went after a fantasy of mine that’s never seen the light of day. Something that, until recently, lived as a picture-perfect daydream in the back of my mind. What’s going to happen when I drag it out? When I tear it from its safe place and say, “Here, World, is my most precious dream. Please discuss.”

That’s why, today, I’ll do anything but write. I’ll get a flu shot, I’ll buy some running shoes, I’ll stare at my cats — anything and everything to put off what’s most important.

My sketches need rewrites. My blog needs an update. But my face needs a fucking dermatologist. And that’s something I can tackle in a phone call.


Tonight!, I tell myself. Tonight, we write! But first, isn’t it Harry Potter weekend? And shouldn’t I watch something happy — just for a minute! — to get myself out of this crotchety headspace?

I turn on ABC Family and trick myself into forgetting how Harry gets Slughorn’s memory juice. Then, I genuinely forget who dies at the end of the series (everyone), and, 30 minutes later, find myself balls deep in a Harry Potter internet wormhole.

I did the same thing last month, only with Straight Outta Compton.

I’ll do anything but write, because being creative is uncomfortable. “What if I suck? I probably suck. And if I suck, what’s the point?”

I do my best to ride out these thoughts. I imagine what my old therapist would say. “Who cares if you suck? You’re taking classes to get better.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. So, in an effort to quash my inner demons, I gave myself a goal: I’ll write for an hour, and then I’ll stop. I’ll blog about something (anything!) for 60 minutes, and then I’ll publish it without obsessively editing it for weeks.

So, my hour is up. Dog walking calls. Which means by the time you read this, I’ve already picked up some poop.


A Freelance Writer’s Style Guide

After making strides as a beauty blogger, I’ve decided to try my hand at fashion blogging. It’s a logical move for me. People always ask about my wardrobe. In fact just last week, my roommate opened my closet and said, “Jo, where are all your clothes?”

I’ve decided to launch my fashion empire with this: Dressing for Success: A Freelance Writer’s Style Guide. But before I show you what a successful freelance writer wears, I’ll tell you what she does:

I start my day the way any go-getter would: at 9:30 a.m., with a cup of coffee, a protein shake and 1-2 episodes of Jersey Shore.

Once I’m good and caffeinated, I open my laptop and get to work. I respond to emails, apply for jobs, work on freelance projects and harass people for more of them.

I check the clock. It’s nearly lunch time. I break from work and dedicate the next 45 minutes or so to my studies. Last week, I taught myself how to French braid. Yesterday, I researched Jersey Shore: Where Are They Now? Today, I read up on sporadic incontinence in cats.

Around 2:00, it’s time for lunch. I make a beautiful spread. As I eat, I pretend the cats are my coworkers and the kitchen is my canteen.

After lunch, I consider showering. I decide against it. Dirty hair is easier to French braid, anyways. So I wash my face and brush my teeth as a make-good to the hygiene gods. I change out of my day wear and into my active wear. Sometimes, I go for a walk. Sometimes, I go for a run. The variety is, without a doubt, overwhelming.

And with that, I present my day-wear or, as I call it, My 4-Point Uniform for Freelance Success!



Lounge pants (from my sister), “virgin” t-shirt (from my mom), open toe Ugg boots (from high school), and an oversized cat sweatshirt (custom-made).

You’ll notice I like to mix patterns and textures. My lounge pants are a fine, silky blend, whereas my sweater is a mix of felt, cotton and googly eyes.

I also employ a mix of blues and greens. I find that cooler hues make my four-day-old hair pop in a way warmer colors can’t.

Finally, on my feet, I don a trade secret we in the industry have kept hush for years. They’re called Uggs (but you didn’t hear it from me 😉 !) Everyone styles them differently – over the pants, under the pants, rolled and then pulled over the pants – but I find them most comfortable with a little hole just above the left big toe.


Toe flow.

Zoo Lessons

It’s a beautiful Friday morning in Chicago. My friends are at work. The cats are napping. So I decide to go to the zoo. After all, it’s free.

I download a podcast and hop on the bus. I’m very proud of myself. I take out my phone to brag to my friends about my super cool city-cred, at which point I realize I’m on the wrong bus.

I’m not sure what to do. How will it look when I get off after just one stop? What will the bus driver think? I wait for a stop that seems like a plausible intended destination and I de-board. I’m scared to get on another bus, so I walk the mile or so back to where I began.

I board the correct bus and arrive at the zoo some 30 minutes later. I have a wonderful time. I spend a few hours there, taking my time with each and every animal. I do a few laps around the camel. I show some kids where the sloth is hiding. I buy some postcards and chocolate and decide to wrap up my tour.


I find a bus stop, which I’m 80% certain is mine. I double check the sign. As I do, an older woman – who is also waiting for the bus – asks me if I need help. I tell her I’m new to town and want to make sure I’m on the right bus. I already got on the wrong bus this morning, I explain.

She confirms that I am, in fact, at the right place. Then she starts asking me questions. Where I’m from, what I do, where I live, how old I am, etc. She asks if I’m single. I say yes. She pulls from her wallet a photo of her son.

“You should meet my son,” she says. “He’s 28 and single, too.” She winks.

I laugh politely, wondering if my mom pulls this same trick.

“I’m going to set you up. He’s very handsome, no?”

I nod.

“He’s 6’3″. Only has two daughters.” I nod again, this time more frantically. I’m not ready to be a stepmom.

“Let me give you my number,” she says.

I freeze. This is starting to feel weird. I take down her number and decide this is the best case scenario. At least she doesn’t have mine.

“What’s yours?” she asks.

I use the next millisecond to weigh the pros and cons of giving her my number. Pro: I give her my number to avoid hurting her feelings. Con: I give her my number to avoid hurting her feelings, but she kills me anyways.

I decide to give her my number.

We board the bus. We sit together. She alters her route so we can talk longer. She starts telling me how she’s going to show me the city. Take me around town. What am I doing the rest of the day? What am I doing next weekend? We’ll go out. She’ll have me “bouncin’ from the hood to the suburbs,” she says.

At this point, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake.

“I’m getting car sick so I have to stop talking,” I say.

I look forward pointedly, hoping she’ll take the hint.

She does.

We get off at the same stop. I speed-walk the opposite direction of my house.  I walk a mile or so out of my way until I’m confident I’ve lost her.

I circle back towards home. I’m pissed at myself. Disappointed in how quickly I broke down and gave out my information. This was supposed to be my big zoo day! And now I’ve spoiled it.

I text my roommates. They make me feel better.

“Always, always bring headphones,” they say. “No one talks to you when you’re wearing headphones.”

And thus marks Chicago Lesson #1.

The Arrival

I rolled into Chicago with a cooler of crab salad, a car full of cat poop and the pitiful tear-streaked look of defeat.

It was not how I imagined my grand arrival.

TheMoveNo. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be magical. A sappy, happy-tears filled trip with my parents I’d never forget. There was supposed to be laughing. And bonding. And champagne. And by God, at some point, there was supposed to be Kanye West’s “Can’t Tell Me Nothin’.”

Instead, the tone was unmistakably set when James pooped himself 30 minutes into the drive.

To say the $60+ I’d spent on cat-calming oils was a waste is an understatement. Joan was losing fur at a rapid pace, so I didn’t move, eat or drink the entire trip for fear of disturbing her. James’s mess was impossible to remove from his crate without risking his escape, so it traveled the remaining 280 miles with us. I was stressed to tears about my cats. And my mom was stressed to tears about me stressing to tears about my cats.

In short, the ride was bad. But the goodbye was much worse. As we were driving to dinner (my mom and I in my car, my dad behind us in the truck), we learned that my parents’ Air B&B fell through. And so instead of going to dinner, we were forced to pull over and say our goodbyes from the side of the road.

I’ll paint the scene:

“Just go, just leave!” I wailed from the front seat of my car.

“I can’t leave you like this. Joey, please! Eat this sandwich!” My mom begged, pushing a peanut butter and butter sandwich into my hands.

“I don’t. I can’t. Not now. Not like this.”

It went on like this for a few minutes. Me, wailing incoherently. My mom, shoving the remaining car snacks she’d packed (crab salad and deviled eggs) into my arms.

The most embarrassing part was that a few weeks ago, I was excited at the thought of starting over. Of moving to the city with nothing but my cats and a pending Medicaid application. I was uncharacteristically calm in the days leading up to the move. I’d laugh when people asked me about the new job I didn’t have, or the money I hadn’t saved.

I guess it was funny until it was real.

But I suspect homesickness is to be expected. Even from cold, dead-hearted folks like me. So, I’m taking it day by day. And every day gets better.

Plus, I’m now living with two of my dearest friends and, most important, a third cat.


Our new house consists of three girls and three cats. 


A Valentine’s Day Tumble

It’s February 14. Valentine’s Day. The time is 8 a.m.

I’ve decided to look nice today. It’s V Day. I’m not normally a romantic – far from it, in fact. But I need an excuse to buy this $22 bottle of wine I’ve been eyeing. So I decide to make a day of it.

I curl my hair, paint on some eyeliner and don my finest red shirt.

I throw down my morning vitamins, gather my things, and head downstairs to put on some underwear before leaving for work.

Once in the basement, I take off my boots and pants. I reach into the dryer to pull out a fresh pair of underwear – and it hits me. I’ve made a terrible mistake. The same mistake I made during the bowl-cut reversal of 2013. I took too many vitamins at once. And now, I am going to vomit.

I panic. What do I do? Where do I go? Do I have time to put my pants back on? Can I even make it upstairs?

Horrified at the thought of a housemate finding me pantless and puking in our laundry room, I yank on my jeans and sprint upstairs.

But I’m in socks.

Thick purple socks. For Valentine’s Day.

So I slip.

And I fall.

I careen down the stairs at a breakneck speed.

My body crashes into the door (which I’d shut behind me), splintering the wood and busting the lock.

I emit a long, tearless wail.

And then another.

My knees are broken. My door is broken. And I have no choice but to lie down to die.

I imagine the paramedics finding my body.

“28-year-old female. Caucasian. Covered in vomit and knee bones.”

“Man, is she…”

“Yeah. Dressed for Valentine’s Day.”

“How horrible. Think she had a fella?”

“Nah. Neighbors said she was single.”

“Christ. Good thing we got to her before the cats did.”

A few minutes later, I regain the use of my limbs.

I poke my kneecaps. And I am surprised to find them intact.

I unfurl my body from the heap I’ve formed at the foot of the stairs.

I email my maintenance man to tell him I might need a new door.

I email my boss to tell him I’ll be late – I fell down the stairs.

He responds, “Do you need a Life Alert necklace?”

I smile. It’s Valentine’s Day. And a man just offered me jewelry.