I Am Katie’s Maid of Honor And I Guess The Only One Who Cares About Her Bachelorette Party??

An imaginary email thread.

To: Abby H, Grace, Kels92, +11 others
From: Janie
Subject: KATIE’S BACHELORETTE!!!!!

Hey, ladies!

I can’t believe Katie’s Big Day is a short 18 months away 🙀 As Katie’s maid of honor and oldest childhood friend, it is my sworn duty to get us cookin’ on her bachelorette party, aka KatiePalooza!

I know we’re all busy, so I want to make this process as straightforward as possible. That said, when you get a chance, please fill out the survey (link below) and the spreadsheet (attached).

Yay!

xx
Janie

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To: Abby H, Grace, Kels92, +11 others
From: Janie
Subject: SURVEY REMINDER!

Hey, girls!

Shoutout to everyone who completed the survey. Some follow-up questions:

Grace: Is March 13-17 a HARD no for you? Just wondering if whatever conflict you have might be moveable.

Abby: Why, specifically, don’t you want to do Mykonos? If you could elaborate, that’d be great!

Kelsey: Friendly reminder to complete the survey 🙂

xx
Janie

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To: Abby H, Grace, Kels92, +11 others
From: Janie 
Subject: KELSEY ARE YOU ALIVE LOL

Hi!

Circling back on a few things:

Grace: Is your HARD no on March 13-17 at all flexible?

Abby: I get it, money is tight these days! Luckily, we’ve got plenty of time to save. Have you considered a budgeting app?

Kelsey: If I do not hear from you in the next two days, I will be forced to call in your replacement, Laura, and I’m fairly certain sure no one wants that to happen.

xx
Janie

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To: Abby H, Grace, Kels92, +11 others
From: Janie
Subject: CONFLICTS

Me again.

Grace: Are you SURE there’s nothing you can do? March 13-17 works for everyone else so it would really suck to have to move things around for one person.

Abby: I really think cost is a non-issue, here. Running the numbers, if you were to cut back on lattes (~$30/week), the gym ($70/mo), and dental insurance ($25/mo—and a total scam, IMO) you could save almost $600 by March! Also, does Miss Frizzle really need fancy cat food? Have you considered letting her feast on the supple bodies of rats, instead?

Kelsey: Thanks for finally filling out the survey! Under the “Allergies” tab of the spreadsheet, I see you’ve written “horse.” Are you allergic to RIDING horses, or EATING horses? Please clarify, as I do want to take everyone’s allergies seriously. 

xx
Janie

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To: Abby H, Grace, Kels92, +11 others
From: Janie
Subject: RE: HORSE MEAT

Just wanted to send out a quick note to say no, I do not plan on serving horse at KatiePalooza. It was simply a clarifying question. If I did, however, book us a Horse Eating Experience, I’d like to think you all would be a little more open-minded than what I saw in the group chat, especially since the whole point of this is to celebrate Katie. 

Thx. Janie.

sent from my iPhone

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To: Abby H, Grace, Kels92, +11 others
From: Janie
Subject: FINAL PUSH

Morning!

Sorry for snapping last night 😔 I just really, really want this bachelorette party to work for everyone!

Grace: Yes, I know what “vacation blackout periods” are. I was just asking if you could call your supervisor to see if they’re willing to make an exception. KatiePalooza is March 13-17, and we’re not moving it.

Abby: Yes, I know Miss Frizzle is an indoor cat. I was simply pointing out that Chicago rats are 1.) free, 2.) filling, and 3.) seemingly willing to lay down their lives, based on what I saw behind your building last October. Also do you not have a savings account?

Kelsey: Please confirm specifics around horse allergy.

xx
Janie

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To: Abby H, Grace, Kels92, +11 others
From: Janie
Subject: CALL ME KYRA SEDGWICK….

…because I am THE CLOSER.

First, thank you for clueing me in on your financial ruin (Abby), and your cowardice at work (Grace). This whole thing has brought us closer together already.

That said…PROBLEMS SOLVED!

Grace: I called your supervisor pretending to be you and you were right: those dates are non-negotiable. Unfortunately, your boss did fire me (ergo, you) which sucks, but tbh you never really struck me as an “architect,” anyway. When we get back from Mykonos, I’ll help you look for something more your style.

Abby: I created a GoFundMe campaign in your name. If anyone asks, your childhood home fell into a sinkhole days after your entire family perished at sea. Don’t be too proud to accept help! Also please send recent, hi-res (300 DPI is best) photos of your family at your earliest convenience. I will need these for the virtual “memorial.” More details to follow.

Kelsey: Since you never provided clarification around your allergy, I took the liberty of releasing an equine virus into the area around our Airbnb that will, fingers crossed, significantly cull the population of horses and donkeys by March. Locals aren’t stoked that we did this (womp, womp) so we’ll have to keep a low profile when we’re there. (Wig party, anyone?!?!)

xx
Janie 

P.S. When we land in Mykonos, please call me “Rachel.” I have been doxed.

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To: Abby H, Grace, Kels92, +11 others
From: Janie
Subject: quick regroup 

hi so weird the police are here arresting me on charges of wire fraud and terrorism if the charges stick i could potentially be in jail march 13 thru 17 which really puts a wrench in things im really sorry girls i hate to be this person but if we could maybe look at rescheduling this trip that would be great if not no worries ok yikes they’re taking my phone i 

sent from my iPhone

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To: Abby H, Grace, +10 others
From: Kels92
Subject: New thread 
 
Do you all just want to go to Charleston or something?

Kels

sent from my iPhone

Bumble for Beginners

For Mom, and for my coupled friends with questions.

Bumble for Beginners: How to Swipe Your Way to Marital Bliss  

First, you redownload the Bumble app. You deleted it last week after a string of anticlimactic exchanges. But you’re halfway through a glass of wine and your cats are ignoring you. Your fate is sealed.

You open the app. You see the face of a nearby man who likely falls into one of three categories: The Weightlifter, the Wanderer or the Young Republican. If you like him, you swipe right. If you don’t, you swipe left. You swipe left on nearly everyone until Bumble casually tells you, “Keep this up and you’ll die alone.”

Frightened into submission, you swipe right on the next viable subject — Steven, we’ll call him. He seems decent enough. And it’s a match! You celebrate for .075 seconds before you realize what this means: now, you have to talk to Steven. An actual conversation. It seems too much to bear. It’s all happening too fast. You’re not ready for that kind of commitment. You panic. You throw the phone facedown on your coffee table and rewind the movie you’ve been half-watching for the past 10 minutes.

-15 minutes later –

You miss Steven. I mean, did you even give him a chance? You pick up your phone and return to Bumble. You send Steven a GIF – a safe and easy first-move. He responds. It’s overwhelming. Stop smothering me, Steven!

You take a break from Steven and return to swiping. Every so often, Bumble throws in a fellow you’ve already thrown to the wayside. This feels very condescending. Like somehow, Big Bumble is spying on you. Watching you heartlessly sift through men, as you yourself sit cross-legged and pant-less on your couch. “Are you really in a position to be this picky?” Bumble says.

Me Bumbling IRL.

No. You’re not. And so you vow to do better. You agree to a date with Steven. You decide to go for beers because God forbid you spend an entire meal with this nut job. I mean, you don’t even have any mutual friends.

….

You don’t even have any mutual friends.

What if he’s a serial killer?

You ask him if he’s a serial killer. He says no. Which is exactly the thing a serial killer would say, you knowingly tell yourself.

Date night comes. You try on forty different outfits. Why do you even care? It’s just Steven. For all you know, he’s only in it for the kill.

Regardless, you land on something cool and casual. Coincidentally, it is the same outfit you wear on all your first dates. You dab on bug spray the way most women would perfume, and you head out the door to meet Steven and potentially your own demise.

You walk inside the bar. You see a man that might be Steven. As you approach him, you tell yourself, “Be cool. Be cool.” You wonder if people around you know that you’re on a Bumble date. They don’t. Until you yell, “There you are! Wasn’t sure if I’d recognize ya from your profile picture!”

He blushes. You hesitate – do we hug? You barely even know each other. You go in for a one-armer. He goes in for a full-body. Somehow, you end up patting his back like a 50-year-old rec league coach. He says you look nice. You say, “Thanks. I didn’t brush my teeth because I don’t want my beer to taste weird.”

He laughs. But it’s a sad laugh.

You never see Steven again.

 

The Many-Faced Girl

If I ever need a good laugh, I think about a story my sister Jessie told me years ago:

Me, Jessie, and the infamous running hat. I had this photo framed. It is currently hanging in my office.

She was in a bar. She’d just gone for a run, so she was wearing her running hat. A gaggle of North Carolina sorority girls stood between Jessie and her friends, giving her no choice but to part the pastel sea and walk through them. In doing so, she gave one of the girls a polite “s’cuse me” smile.

This girl turned to her friend and said, “Ew. That man’s smile is scaring me.”

To this day, that story brings tears of laughter to my eyes. Jessie still laughs about it too (which is one of the many reasons I love her so very much). It didn’t break her spirit. And it certainly didn’t keep her from wearing that God-awful hat.

But it got me thinking about the smiles I give people. If Jessie has The Scary Man Smile, what smiles do I have?

This is what I’ve concluded:

The Go-To Smile: A haunting toothless grin most often seen behind the windows of unmarked vans. I certainly don’t want to think of this look as my go-to smile, but the photo evidence is overwhelmingly grim. The truth, as they say, is not always pretty.

The Solar Eclipse: When I contort my face and body in unnatural ways to appear naturally beautiful. Accomplishing this look is no small feat, which is why I only do it when I’m in the market for a new Bumble picture.

The Solar Eclipse is a slippery little devil and can only be captured under the most perfect of circumstances (hence, the name Solar Eclipse). You see, it involves a complete alignment of the stars: when one is photographed doing “the skinny arm” from one’s good side, all the while maintaining a dazzling – yet natural – smile and appropriate degree of back-bending sternum protrusion. Like a real solar eclipse, it’s incredible when all goes according to plan. But on the flip side, should all fail, you wind up looking like a complete and utter fraud. (Exhibit A).

Exhibit A – Failed Solar Eclipse. Reason for failure: excessive sternum protrusion. One degree further and I’d be folded over backwards at the waist.

The Obligatory Smile: A decent shot at a smile, but completely dead behind the eyes. Most often used in group photos or in the presence of children.

The “Pizza Plz” Smile. A horrible facial affliction that knows only one cure.

When it is time for pizza.

When it is well past time for pizza.

The Come Hither Smirk. And now, an anecdote: In college, I would circle the University of Kentucky Men’s Basketball team like a hyena herding its prey. It was easy, really. Every Friday night, they congregated in the same spot, against the same wall, at the same bar. So I’d take laps around them, each time yelling out, “Devinne?? Devinne?!” as if I was desperately looking for my friend. With each passing, I’d deliver a powerful performance of mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was deeply concerned for Devinne. But on the other, I was cool and confident –impossibly glamorous even in a time of great distress.

I’d orbit them time and time again, dramatically tousling my mane as much as my Bumpit would allow. I pretended not to know or care who they were. “John Wall? What’s that?” In my (arguably delusional) mind, I assumed my aloofness would intrigue them. “Who’s that little girl?” They’d say. “The one with the immaculate spray tan and mischievous smirk? Why is she so upset? Why is she so out of breath? And – by Jove! – why is she so indifferent to our fame?!”

Did any of this work? Of course not. But my Come Hither Smirk – resting bitch face with a chilling side of crazy – is alive and kicking.

Beauty 101

I made an unimportant decision that I am certain no one will care about. Thus, it seemed only natural to post it on social media.

But first, some background:

I’ve worn thick black eyeliner since the seventh grade. I remember the very day I debuted this edgy look – it was at a beginning-of-the-school-year picnic. I came to get my books, pick up my schedule and decorate my locker with pictures of Vin Diesel. I was excited for the new school year. You see, sixth grade wasn’t exactly my best look. I was soft. Meek. My favorite pair of jeans had an airbrushed panda bear on them. I didn’t quite scream, “cool new girl,” so seventh grade was going to be my year to prove otherwise. I was going to be tough. I was going to start wearing Hollister, and, by God, I was going to wear eyeliner.

Why do I remember this day so clearly? Because my crush took one look at my face and asked if I’d been punched in both eyes. (And yet, it never deterred me.)

Here I am testing the Kylie Jenner over-lined lip technique. This was before news broke that her lips were, in fact, surgically enhanced. Who knew!?

Today, while my makeup regimen varies by occasion, it most often involves the same thick application of eyeliner, a heavy masking of my forehead vein and a half-assed attempt to make my lips look less like mealworms. To transition my look to nighttime, I double up on bronzer and brush blush over my collarbones for a faux sunburnt glow.

I know what you’re thinking – this girl sounds like a professional beauty blogger. A real threat to the Kardashian Empire. And you’re absolutely right. However, I recently coined a makeup technique that goes against everything we big-time beauty bloggers stand for. I call it: The Underwhelmer Whammer.

The Underwhelmer Whammer is a strategy based on the controversial business mantra: Under-promise and over-deliver. What does “under-promise and over-deliver” mean? It means setting the bar very, very low and then – surprise! – blowing it out of the water. It means promising to have a project turned in on Friday and delivering it on Wednesday. And it means never, ever bringing home a man whilst wearing a padded bra.

For years, I’ve applied this technique to my wardrobe and hair. The first time I curled my hair for work, a male coworker told me I looked “nice,” and like I “gave a shit” that day. Now, I’ve decided to take it one step further. I’ve decided to, as they say, “give less shits” about my face.

Here’s how it works: Monday through Friday, I will remain mousy and makeup-free. At first, it will be shocking.

“Oh, JoAnne!” they’ll say.

“What’s wrong?” they’ll say.

“Did you just give blood?!” they’ll say.

“Oh no, is it Joan?!?!?” they’ll say.

“Bronzer-less pallor.”

But as time wears on and my coworkers’ eyes adjust to my natural plainness, they’ll become more comfortable at the sight of my veiny eyelids and bronzer-less pallor. They may even forget I ever had eyebrows. That is, until…

WHAM!

I decide to wear makeup one day, and I roll in looking like an airbrushed goddess.

The Underwhelmer Whammer: a new beauty vlog coming to YouTube this fall.

 

 

Things I tell myself

Things I tell myself when I’ve had a drink:

I’m going to pick up the piano. You know, get a keyboard and some sheet music on Amazon Prime. Start cranking out some classic jams – Bach, Beethoven, Andrew Lloyd Webber, the usual suspects. It’d be my signature party trick. Something I’d whip out unexpectedly to surprise my friends and woo nearby men with my digital dexterity.

I got very serious about this new musical venture. So serious that I went over to my parents’ house to practice on their piano. But when I sat down to play, I realized that despite seven years of choir and a brief affair with the trumpet, I still had NO idea how to read music. And the thought of learning was – and clearly always has been – just too much to bear.

I’m going to get some miniature life vests and teach my cats how to swim in the bathtub. This was a particularly passionate pipe dream of mine; it burned bright, but it burned fast. In the end, it was a traumatic flea bath that squashed my plans. Joan was so scared of the water that I had to strap on my old swim team one-piece and spray-tan swim-cap and hop in with her. It was – quite literally – a bloodbath.

Bathtime with Wolverine.

I’m going to become a sommelier on the side. I’ve always had a great sense of smell. A unique ability to detect and describe even the faintest of scents. I think it’s an inherent survival trait of being asthmatic. I mean, think about it: the ability to identify an airborne threat is absolutely grounds for a right-swipe from the big D. (D being Darwin, mom.) If my ancestors were being picked off for wheezing, they had to develop at least one redeeming quality.

Anyways, as taste and smell are so closely related, I figured I’d be a shoe-in for sommelier school. So I ran the idea past my dad and sister. My dad was pretty supportive. Not a huge surprise, since our favorite bonding activities include blind bourbon taste tests. He did, however, tell me to back off the hot foods. One burnt tongue and I’d be out of business, he said. My sister was the voice of reason. “Jo. That shit costs like thousands of dollars. And it takes years of studying and practice. You can’t just become a sommelier as a hobby.”

And that was that.

I’m going to redownload Tinder. I have a love-hate relationship with Tinder. I hate it most of the time. Until I get a match. Which, for about five minutes, makes me feel DAMN self-important. But the feeling quickly wears off (see image below as to why). And when it does, I’m reminded of just how shallow the whole exercise is.

My profile said I loved cats. He thought I meant the Wildcats. Rookie mistake, my man. Also, ew.

Every time I redownload the app, I ask myself, “Why am I even doing this? Why do I keep doing this? Why are all these men holding children? Why would they think I’d be into that? What’s the swipe etiquette for friends? Friends-of-friends? God I hope none of these matches actually message me.”

And finally, when I’ve once again reached my Tindering limit, “I’m just going to find a man the old-fashioned way. Go to a bar, down some liquid courage, hit on some non-threatening randos and hope something sticks.”

I’m going to write a blog post about things I tell myself when I’ve had a drink. The end.

The Great Escape

A few days after I published my Mother of Cats post, I found myself (quite ironically) missing a cat. Joan stepped out on me. I suspect it was in protest to my public acknowledgment of another feline, though I can’t be sure. She’s a fickle creature, my Joan.

People have suggested I write a post from her point of view. Where she went, things she saw, raccoons she met. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I feel like the father of a teenage daughter. It all goes by so fast. One day, she’s reading Animorphs to her pet rats. The next, she’s wearing velour pantsuits and dating a boy with an Astro Van. Much like my dad must have felt during this time, I don’t want to know the intimate details of Joan’s escapades. All I want to know is that she made it home relatively unscathed.

So instead of giving Joan’s account of The Incident, I’ll give my own.

Re: slithering.

It happened when some men came to install a new AC/heating unit in my apartment. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay home to supervise them, though they assured me it wouldn’t be a problem.

The day before they came, I called to give them the rundown: two indoor cats, both of whom would perish in the wild (I’ve raised them on a strict grain-free organic diet. The fault lies with me). Keep all doors closed, and leave the baby-gate up in the hallway in case Joan manages to slither past the first round of blockades.

 

The next morning, I called them to go over Joan’s security detail one last time. I then taped a huge reminder note on my door and left for the day.

Fast forward to 7 p.m., when I came home to find another note taped beneath my own.

They left this note at 10:30 a.m. and made no attempt to call me, even though they knew I’d be at work until later that evening.

I ran into the first floor apartment. She wasn’t there.

Cue my complete and utter mind loss. Tears, screaming, sweating, the works. To make matters worse, I had a date that night. And he arrived not five minutes into my tantrum (to his credit, he stayed to help me look).

After an extensive sweeping of the grounds, I determined that Joan was nowhere to be found. Thus, I opened my first-ever missing persons investigation. First order of business: assemble the witnesses and begin the interrogation.

I called the owner of the AC company and did my best to crack him. When did you last see her? Where did you last see her? Did you actually see her run into the first floor apartment or are you just assuming that’s where she is? Have you always hated animals or do you also kidnap children?

I should note that at this point in time, I was days deep into a Serial binge, which meant I thought myself something of an investigative reporter. It also meant that everything he said sounded suspicious, inconsistent. So by the end of our conversation, I’d convinced myself that he’d orchestrated the whole thing just to cover for an employee, who’d stolen Joan for himself. (It’s a valid concern. She has a beautiful coat.)

The guys at work made this awesome yard sign for me. Unexpected bonus: she’s now a potential gubernatorial candidate.

Four days I looked for her. Night after night, I crawled around the neighborhood, rummaging through people’s backyards, gardens and tool sheds. I contracted such an assortment of bug bites I was certain they would kill me, if grief didn’t do me in first.

And then one dark and rainy night, she returned. Just like that. She just showed up at my door, crying and howling, though it was soon impossible to tell where her yowling ended and mine began. It was a miracle.

To this day, we haven’t discussed her whereabouts. The things she saw, the tool sheds she pooped in…nothing. Not a word. I’m confident that she’ll tell me when she’s ready. But until then, I’m just glad to have her home.

 

Three friends and a forehead vein.

“Give us a moment, will ya?”

Reunited at last.

 

Friday Night Bubbles

This winter, I started a bit of an embarrassing Friday night habit. To be totally honest, I only call it “embarrassing” to save whatever bit of coolness I have left in this world because, in reality, I kind of love it.

After a few brutal weeks at work, I started thinking about how nice it would be to throw myself an ultimate relaxation party, a night to pamper myself like the Bravo! Housewives I know and love (knew* and loved*, really, as I can no longer afford a lavish life of cable). I decided that a bubble bath made the most sense, particularly as my apartment didn’t seem to be getting any sort of heat at the time (or ever, for that matter).

But I didn’t want this to be just any kind of bubble bath. No, it needed to be something special. Something fancy. And perhaps most importantly, something that would look good on Instagram.

So I splurged on organic bubbles, face masks, hair masks, candles, single barrel bourbon and a closet full of cleaning materials to properly prepare the tub. Had Kroger sold kitty life-jackets or swimming trunks, I would have certainly added them to my cart. Only the best for m’Lady Joan.

The day of my inaugural bath, I went to yoga (again, keeping up with the whole Real Housewives theme) and came home ready to soak like a true elitist. I scrubbed the tub until it fit my personal health code, and filled it to the brim with hot water and nearly a 2-liter of bubble bath solution. I poured myself a stout glass of bourbon, slapped on my face and hair masks, lit the candles and – for perhaps the worst and most embarrassing part of my tale – switched on the Enya Pandora station (which, for the record, is basically a Lord of the Rings playlist. And that’s more than fine by me).

Deliverer of said tooth marks.

As I slunk into the tub, I felt any remaining shred of street cred slip from my bones, like I’d just performed my own baptism into the lonely Church of Catladydom. I sipped my bourbon – gripping it carefully with my dry, winter witch hands – as the water gently stung the tooth marks on my wrists and shoulders. It was at that moment that I knew – I’d never be cool again.

– End Scene –

The Whole “Silver Linings” Thing

I’ve recently discovered that I’m not a fan of the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.” Not only is it cringe-worthy in both text and tatt form, it’s perhaps the most unhelpful way of cheering someone up. I’m sure the phrase originated from a place of love and good intention, but after years of abuse and whimsical iterations in wall art, I believe it has been reduced to a semi-PC way of telling someone that shit happens. And that their situation is in fact so shitty, that you honestly can’t think of anything else to say.

To be sure, I’m not knocking anyone who believes everything happens for a reason. Who am I to judge someone or something when I can’t see the bigger picture or what lies ahead? All I’m saying is that it’s become a blanket consolatory statement that’s used too often for too many kinds of situations, both trivial and life-changing. I know this because I have been both the deliverer and receiver of this message many, many times.

And yet, to further contradict myself, I must say that there is some truth to the general idea of the phrase. No, I’m not sold on the fact that every single thing happens for a reason, because there are far too many horrendous, devastating and inexplicable things that happen in this world; insinuating that there’s a specific reason behind every catastrophe and tragedy is both insensitive and impractical. But when you look at the phrase from a different perspective—from more of a doors-closing-windows-opening angle—it starts to look more like the whole “silver linings” idea. And that I can get behind.

I started to realize this a few years ago when I was mercilessly rejected from every single job I applied for. Looking back, I now see that emailing a Chicago ad agency a PowerPoint file for my “creative portfolio” was a bit of a stretch, but it felt appropriate at the time. For what it’s worth, I even included a disclaimer that read something like:

“No, I don’t have the tools or Adobe products I need right now, but give me a job or a Mac Lab and I’ll do these print ads again…but better.”

But other than that particular instance, I couldn’t understand why each and every company would reject me. I mean, wasn’t I a catch? My pet-sitting clients seemed to think so. As did my mom. What better references could you ask for?

Attending a Battlestar Galactica exhibit in Seattle was perhaps one of my nerdier moments in life. Here I am, modeling a bonafide Colonial Viper.

I fell into a pretty dark hole for a while, one that consisted of Battlestar Galactica, a brief stint in the power-washing business, and many nights spent coercing my first love, Buster, to name me his favorite family member. At my lowest point, I began stuffing cat nip in my pillow to trick him into sleeping with me. I started house sitting more frequently and—in between useless job applications—poured myself into becoming one of Greater Louisville’s most prestigious pet-sitters. For a time, I considered taking it up professionally; I have an unusual connection with animals, and I am incredibly comfortable using other people’s expensive kitchen appliances and entertainment systems. Sure, it wouldn’t be the most lucrative career, but in the off seasons, I could pick up a side gig as a dog-walker. College tuition well-spent, indeed.

Buster and his catnip pillow (in my former bedroom/parents’ home office).

But as you might have guessed, tending to other people’s critters only fulfilled me for so long, and so I decided it was time to do something different. I decided to start documenting my post-grad progress (or lack thereof) so that rising college graduates would be better prepared for what was to come — a commencement speech ripe with ridiculous proverbs, promises and plugs for alumni donations, followed by a humiliating beating from the job market and a bed in your parents’ office. I wrote about moving back in with my mom and dad (and their bearded dragon, cat, rat, bird and meal worm colony), because I wanted people to stop calling my generation lazy and unmotivated. I wrote about all my crazy (often gruesome) adventures in pet-sitting, my forehead vein and my somewhat unsettling obsession with cats. I wrote about everything, and I came to realize that I loved it. And that I wanted to make a career out of it.

So what I’m trying to say is that being rejected from all those jobs was really, really painful. And scary, to be sure. But it also opened a lot of doors that I didn’t even know existed. It helped me rediscover my love of writing, and it led me to a lot of really amazing people and self-discoveries. I grew closer to my family, I fell in love, I stumbled into an awesome job and I got to be with Buster in his twilight years of life.

So no, I still don’t believe that every single thing happens for a reason. Instead, I think that—at least in my case—a shitty situation created new paths and new possibilities that I hadn’t otherwise considered. And that’s something I’ll try to remember in 2015.

A Costly Milestone

I recently reached another adult milestone. I’m calling it a “milestone” because I want to reassure myself that this happens to other people, and that this is indeed some sort of way of life in adulthood.

Or, as my dad would tell me, “I’m rationalizing.”

A couple of weeks ago, I woke up and checked my bank account only to find that I had exactly $0.00 to my name. Now, I’ve never been good with numbers, but I couldn’t help but marvel at my ability to have selected such a perfectly priced item. How often do people bring their bank accounts down to exactly $0.00? Surely that was some sort of feat. Thank goodness I’d gotten two beers instead of one the night before! I patted myself on the back for a job well-done and logged into my mobile banking account to transfer some funds.

As the page loaded, I took a moment to reflect on how mature I was being in catching a near costly mistake. “How responsible of me!” I thought. “How adult!” But when my account balance finally appeared, I saw a strange charge for “overdraft protection,” and all sense of accomplishment, pride and maturity vanished.

I began to freak out. Overdraft protection? What does that even mean? And how could I have so little money? Surprisingly, even after a slew of unpaid internships and lasting commitment to organic produce, I’d never seen my account balance so low.

I then realized that this could only mean one thing: I was a delinquent, an Overdrafter. And I’d wronged the Man. I started to contemplate what my life would look like as a newly anointed criminal. Oddly enough, my likelihood of surviving in jail comes up in more conversations than you’d think (the general consensus is that I wouldn’t do well, unless gluten-free snacks and Eucerin Cream make it into our prison systems).

Interval training with m’Lady.

I pushed the thought of jail far from my mind and considered the other possible consequences. With imprisonment out of the picture, surely this meant that someone would soon come to repossess my belongings, the most valuable of include Lady Joan (my cat) and my Keurig. My Keurig I could do without, but Joan? Joan would never survive without me. Nor I without her. She–not unlike her mom–is a very delicate creature. She requires organic, grain-free food, a finger to nurse on, and gentle yet regular interval training. Who would be able to support such a regal lifestyle? I cursed myself for not having named a Godmother. Now, it was up to the bank to decide her fate.

The Lady and her keep.

Perhaps I’ll get a side-job to recover some funds, I thought. I used to be a fairly decent lawn mower which, like golf, is a skill fit for any stage of life. It’s sustainable, it’s active, and it’s engaging — no two lawns are the same. I decided to start slow and pitch the idea to my parents. After all, they were my original clients. I used to charge them about $20/mow, plus an additional 25-cents per dog poop scooped. Considering inflation and the influx of animals in their yard, my 2014 rate would come to about $75/mow. $100 extra for animal carcass removal.

While I’ve yet to pitch my parents on becoming their landscaper, I am confident that I’ll emerge from this trial a better person. And if not a better person, perhaps a more fiscally responsible person. Although secretly, I’m writing this blog post in hopes that my parents will read it and send me some money. (Mom —  if not for me, do it for Joan.)

Ms. Delicate

I am hands down the worst person to take on a date. Not only am I morally opposed to chain restaurants and establishments under a 99% health rating, but I require a menu diverse enough to accommodate my dietary restriction du jour. It’s no secret that I’m picky. But — a true rationalizer through and through — I believe that I am picky in a good way. Picky in a way that prevents me or any of my loved ones from eating at questionable restaurants or, God forbid, at a Cheesecake Factory.

If you knew me as a child, my current state of judginess would shock you. I grew up with a particular fondness for bologna and my favorite restaurant (using the term a little loosely here) was Taco Bell. Yes, Taco Bell. “Two soft chicken tacos no tomatoes” was a phrase heard all-too often in my household. At one point it was even my birthday dinner of choice.

So what happened, you ask? When did I turn from a Taco Bell lovin’ gal to a completely unqualified food critic? The first–and certainly most memorable turning point–happened when a girl at elementary school carpool told me that Taco Bell meat was actually dog food (an early whistle blower, if you ask me). As this girl had more LTD2 outfits than I had pet rats, I considered her an authority on all things important, and so I began to more thoroughly inspect my food for signs of foreign elements, including–but certainly not limited to–kibble. I began to question ingredients, food preparation and sanitary guidelines, and I no longer yearned for my favorite breakfast: the Hampton Inn continental buffet.

The red flags followed me well into my young adult life (the Mad Cow scare of the early 2000s, a live butterfly in my sister’s pre-packaged salad, Food, Inc., etc.), all culminating in one completely life-altering moment that set me over the edge: my first job as a server. I’ll spare the details, but it was at that moment I realized that I was truly alone in this world. No one shared my steadfast commitment to frequent and vigorous hand-washing, and no one understood the importance of cleaning lemons.

I should also note that at some point between my Taco Bell days and now, I became a vegetarian of sorts. I say, “of sorts” because I’m actually a pescetarian, but that just sounds way too pretentious. Now, I have nothing against meat eaters. Clearly, I’ve enjoyed my fair share of meat. And dog food, it would seem. And if a pepperoni were to sneak its way into my mouth, I wouldn’t throw a fit. It’s happened before. And–considering I once broke a tooth while demolishing a slice of Goodfellas– it will probably happen again.

But here’s the problem (yes, there’s more). Without painting too vile a picture, I can say that my digestive system is something akin to Mel Gibson –unstable and inflammatory. It’s not a new issue — I once went to the ER with a suspected case of appendicitis, only to come home with a formal diagnosis of gas. But since college, I’ve been plagued with an array of stomach pains and problems that have truly infringed on my quality of life, most notably on my favorite weekend pastime, Quesadilla Sunday. My doctor diagnosed me with IBS so, I kid you not, my chart now reads, “Anxiety, asthma, IBS” (I’m a catch, to be sure).

Quesadilla Sunday. Based on my sickly complexion and generally offensive appearance, it’s likely that this was my last-ever Quesadilla Sunday.

A few months ago, I decided it was time to do something about digestive misgivings. And–with at least one Pure Barre class under my belt–I felt I was ready to go full-on aristocrat and diagnose myself with gluten intolerance. Now, I realize that unless you’re a 40-something-year old white woman, you’re thinking that “gluten intolerance” is totally BS. And you’re probably right. But can you blame me if I want to have a backhand like Djokovic? Or abs like Bill Clinton? Or, at the very least, the ability to enjoy an afternoon without writhing in pain?

If you’re keeping count of my confessions, you’ll now know me to be a germaphobe, vegetarian, gluten-free* date with incredibly high-standards. To say that I am “delicate” is an understatement, as my frailty extends to all aspects of my life. Particularly traveling. Perhaps one day I’ll blog about how difficult it is to take me on a car trip. Or on a vacation, for that matter. But as I’ve now revealed my somewhat embarrassing health record, I think I’ll leave my soul bearing at this for the time being.

*After months of living on hard cider and overpriced ginger beer, I decided my love for beer (and pizza, when I’ve had too many beers) outweighed my desire to live up to a Gwyneth-like standard of gluten freedom. So I’m now drinking beer (and eating pizza, when I’ve had too many beers). It’s all very scientific. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.