Dispatches from the Land of the Sober People, pt. 1 (maybe)

Dear wine friends,

Any of you who know me in real life (so like, all of you right?) know that I can A.) drink you under the table and B.) probably will fall asleep under that table with a calzone shortly thereafter, so I understand if the title for this post makes little sense.

BUT. Now that I successfully changed careers (what up!) I am moving onto the long laundry list of things I’d like to at least attempt to achieve before I hit my oh-so-quickly-approaching 30s. The first time I typed that, I accidentally typed ’20s.’ Le sigh.

Anyway, that list involves stuff like “have a savings account that doesn’t charge you money every month for being a savings account with no money in it” and “develop a morning routine that doesn’t consist solely of rolling out of bed, grabbing the first semi-non-smelly thing off the floor and buying a diet coke on the way to work” but as both of those sound pretty difficult, I’ve decided to tackle the seemingly easiest thing on my list which involves partaking in a lesser-known New York City ritual known as The Dry Month.

The first time I heard about The Dry Month was my first winter in the city, and I think my head damn near exploded when I was like, “hey [coworker], we’re going to happy hour because Tuesday” and he was like, “oh, no, I’m cool. I’m doing a dry February.” At first I was like, “oh is that a new workout craze how many calories does it burn?” and then it hit me. He was not drinking for an entire month, likely as a means to reset his body back to a level of health somewhere between hanging-on-by-a-thread and feeling-ok-but-I-have-these-weird-rashes after the massive amount of damage that can be done when you combine the holidays with the fact that no one here has to worry about driving.

And then I was like “ohhhh February makes sense because it’s two less days.”

Since then, I’ve heard of Dry Month participants on occasion, but it’s usually more like someone making a sweeping declaration that he/she is going to do so and then immediately failing because New York.

When it comes down to it, I’d liken the idea of not drinking for a month to that of a juice cleanse, signing up for unlimited hot yoga, or getting one of those body wraps that makes you look like a mummy for ten minutes but then somehow compresses your body so that you “lose three inches”. We all say we’re going to do it one day. We all resolve to do it at the beginning of most weeks and fail before we’ve even told anyone we’re going to do it, and we’re all terrified of those who actually accomplish it because that means that we could probably do it too but it sounds really fucking annoying. Or, in the case of the body resizing mummification, it simply sounds terrifying.

I’ve been holding the dry month over my own head for the three years I’ve lived here, but it was hitting a weight that I dare not speak of post-this-holiday-season that made me realize I am being a fat, drunk, lazyass who needs to prove she can do something more than drink a bottle of skinny girl margaritas for dinner and still remember why bodega has the best candy selection on Seamless(kinda a point of pride but I digress).

As I’m writing this, I have officially begun day 7 of my dry month (which I have named Sovember because it technically started mid-January and ends on Valentine’s Day) but really it’s just midnight of day 6 so no biggie. The only remarkable thing about tonight is that it’s the first Friday night since– I don’t remember the last Friday I haven’t gone out to some capacity. I am about to go to bed (so I can sleep and edit this post tomorrow), and while I fully intend to report back as Sovember progresses, I figured I’d leave you with some of my initial impressions of what it’s like not drinking in the Functionally-Alcoholic Apple(maybe we should start calling it the Big Cider?).

  • Easiest diet ever. Holy shit you guys. Did you know how many calories are in alcohol? I totally did because I track my calories unless chicken wings, Saturdays, mimosas or candy are involved (ie. I track my calories on Mondays, sometimes) but SERIOUSLY. I feel like I can eat anything and everything and still be under the calorie limit my fitness app gives me every day without seeing skinny bitches on the train and wanting to start screaming “IT’S BECAUSE OF YOU THAT I FEEL THIS WAY.”
  • I have a lot of free time. I’ve developed a theory that the nail art movement was invented and is wholly maintained by sober people, because that’s really the only non drinking/eating activity that I can come up with for when I want to shut off my brain while I’m watching TV. My nails have never looked so good, y’all.
  • I think I’m less sleepy, but I still have all those nightmares. I’m hella anxious, but as I’ve learned to manage the constant fear of impending doom in my waking life, most of it has flowed over into my subconscious, leaving me with vivid, ever-changing and chronic nightmares. I’ve heard from science (or Distractify, can’t remember which) that alcohol interrupts your sleep and as my sleep is constantly interrupted by basically every type of nightmare mentioned in any dream journal thing, I had started to almost hope it was alcohol-related so that I don’t have to plan for eventual deal-with-my-anxiety therapy or whatever. On the bright side, I wake up refreshed! On the not so bright side, it’s usually the dreams about creepy murderers or my teeth falling out while I’m flying through space and I’m naked and I totally forgot to drop that one class and now it’s finals time and I’m gonna fail that is waking me up in a quick jolt of panic so I can subsequently feel refreshed.
  • I hate the gym slightly less. But still a lot. I still hate the gym so, so much. I guess what else am I gonna do with all this free time, though? Hell, I might even try cardio hip hop one of these days.

All in all, I was pretty sure by now I would be curled up in the fetal position holding an empty bottle of rosé while whispering the lyrics to “I Will Always Love You” through by tears, but given that I was able to eat a bag of jelly beans tonight without exceeding my calorie limit, I’m no worse for the wear.

More to come probablyIguessunlessIgetbored.

Peace, love and take a shot for me, 

BWCE

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All I want for my Christmas is a 2 Chainz Christmas Album

Seriously though. I’ve been Googling for a solid 5 minutes and it seems as though 2 Chainz has yet to capitalize on the Christmas season. 2 Chainz, if you’re listening (you’re not but a girl can dream), I’m as full of ideas for you as I am homemade Chex Mix and soy nog – 

  • The birthday song revamped could go two ways – You could like, sing about Jesus’ birthday and all he wants for his bday is to save mankind or something OR you could change it to being about all you want for Christmas is a big booty HoHoHo. It’s too easy, 2 Chainz.
  • It’s Christmas. Yeah. It’s Christmas.
  • CAN YOU PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD USE A MARIAH CAREY SAMPLE. The only use of “All I Want For Christmas(is you)” in a rap song is this So So Def remix. Criminal.
  • 2 Chainz Christmas Cookbook along with the album. We know 2 Chainz can cook. So really, what else is there to say?

You’re welcome, 2 Chainz.

P.S. – If you feel like going down a Christmas-themed rabbit hole, start with a Google image search of “Santa Big Butt” and let the magic happen. You’re pretty much guaranteed to end up in “Santa Butt Plug Statue” land somewhere along the way.

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#latebloomer

I guess it’s fitting to write a post about my birthday that is late and have the word ‘late’ in the title, but I promise it was wholly unintentional. For the past week I’ve been trying to write my annual birthday blog post, but you guys, my heart is so full of love and gushy and wonderfulness that everything I write is crap. I know, wah, what a terrible problem to have. Last year I wrote this blog post about turning 27 and somehow it transformed into my magical spirit animal (other than Tilikum, the serial killer whale, who will forever be my actual spirit animal) and led me through the best, most action-packed year of my life.

I’ve been trying to write about that, and about letting go of anxiety and just living and how all of the things will happen to you when you do that (including bed bugs, so get ready) but the thing is that you guys already know all that stuff that happened to me – ebook, going back to school, fighting the bed bugs and winning in a triumphant blaze of glory, so like… why should I tell you again?

But then yesterday, I was standing in my apartment, failing at whatever it was that I was trying to do (probably make coffee using paper towels as a filter because that happened) and I heard the voice of either a school counselor or someone I made up in my head say to me a phrase I haven’t heard in a while –

You’re a late bloomer. That’s all.

Remember when that was adults’ answer to everything? What, you haven’t gotten your boobs? You’re physically a late bloomer! What, you haven’t slow danced with a boy and you’re in college? You’re just a late bloomer! No worries! It’ll be adorable to tell stories about later!

Thing is – I was legit a late bloomer and I was SO aware and upset about it as a teen. I wish I could scour my old Yahoo! account and find the email I wrote to my friend Jessica in 8th grade about how everyone else had gotten their first kiss and how the tipping point for me was watching this episode of Charlie Brown where even Charlie Brown got his first kiss and what grade was he even in anyway? But all of that would involve me logging into Yahoo! and ew.

So eventually, as late bloomers do, I blossomed or wtfever. Or started doing all the things normal teens/20-somethings do and the worries about late blooming faded away for some years. It wasn’t until this year, when I found myself doing some of the grown up things I was supposed to start doing upon college graduation and for the first time they happened naturally, instead of throwing myself into some weird multiple personality thing where I feel like I’m my mom but also my own child and I’m trying to convince myself to pay bills but my child self is like “whatever I’m just gonna lock myself in the bathroom and pick at my face” and my adult self is like FINE THEN YOU CAN’T GO TO THE PARTY LATER AND ALSO THAT LEAVES SCARS YOU IDIOT.

A few weeks ago I realized that I’d not only Spring cleaning-ed, but also Summer and Fall cleaning-ed (that’s the official conjugation y’all, I swear) and it felt really nice and not at all like someone was removing my kidneys to sell on the black market, which is how cleaning usually feels. There are other things too, but I don’t want to sound braggy about actually paying that doctor’s bill from three years ago so I will stop. Point is – I’m pretty sure the things I’m experiencing are about 4 years delayed, and it’s got me kinda concerned.

I don’t think people talk about late bloomers after high school because no one wants to be like, “hey, you aren’t going to want to have babies until you’re too old to have babies and that is probably going to suck” or “you’re not going to get your shit together financially until you’re 39 and, honestly, you should have been putting all that money you spent on booze and sandwiches in an IRA like 10 years ago. Seriously, you’re gluten intolerant. Stop with the sandwiches.”

I think I’d feel better if I knew that one upstanding citizen was also a late bloomer, but the closest I’ve gotten is all those BuzzFeed articles that are like “Ten Famous Actors Who Didn’t Get Famous Until Their 40s” and like yes, it does make me feel better that Jon Hamm had a rough start but I’m pretty sure that’s not the outcome I’m headed towards. So because it was my birthday last week and also because I’m procrastinating schoolwork, I’ve made up some things that could TOTALLY be true about some famous people we all look up to.

cooltext1311743296

look guys, I learned how to use .gifs! UPDATE – apparently I did not learn how to use gifs. It works in my editor I promise.

Ok here goes –

Hillary Rodham Clinton, Former First Lady, Secretary of State, Bill Clinton’s Handler and probs gonna be President. Also star of TextsfromHillary.tumblr.com, the biggest of all wins. Imaginary late bloomer.

Hillary avoided routine gynecological visits and her annual physical until 33.

George Washington. Father of our nation and professional hair model. Imaginary late bloomer.

George refused to make his bed because that’s where his laptop lived too and it didn’t seem to mind, for god’s sake.

Jane Austen. Wrote stuff. Imaginary late bloomer.

Jane changed her major at least 6 times. She finally decided to do “that writing thing her dad wouldn’t shut about” so she could take a victory lap as a super senior.

George Soros. Finance guy bf talks about. Imaginary late bloomer.

George spend his mid-20s working as a Starbucks Barista. His band hated on him for selling out.

Jackie O. Rich person and style icon. Imaginary late bloomer.

Every time Jackie would get a phone call from an unknown number, her friends would be like “yo Jackie, you gonna get that?” and she’d roll her eyes and be like, “whatevs, it’s just TimeWarner telling me they’re gonna shut off my internet again if I don’t pay my bill.”

Katsuaki Watanabe. President, Toyota. Very good at looking serious. Imaginary late bloomer.

Katsuaki never outgrew the desire to play Edward 40 Hands.

Joan of Arc. Milla Jovovich played her in some movie I watched at Catholic school once. Imaginary late bloomer.

Joan’s roommates often complained that she never contributed to the house toilet paper and cleaning supplies fund.

________________________

Don’t you feel marginally better? I do and that’s all that matters because this was supposed to be my birthday blog post so I am extending birthday rights to today.

Peace, love and I’m considering changing my age to 24 because then I’ll be normal, 

BWCE

P.S. –

Miley Cyrus. Paid lots to stick out tongue. Early bloomer.

Blooming is overrated anyway.

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Stuff I Hate More Than Will.I.Am

1. The fact that his newest album is named #willpower.

Honorable mentions –

  1. War
  2. Holding my jacket in bars

I dunno guys, I get SO angry every time that I think about Will.I.Am. Even the spelling of his name makes me all rage-blackout-y.

Anyway, this title was just a clever ruse to get you to pay attention for a minute. School has taken over my life (in a super good I like learning and life seems to have meaning kind of way), but for the interim I won’t be blogging that much. When school is over I promise to come back in full force (and hopefully with lots of computer skillz to make things even more fun. I’m imagining 90s gifs that steal credit card numbers or virtual puppy hugging sessions).

Meanwhile, please excuse my twitter being taken over by stuff about programming and if for some reason you have any interest in that type of stuff, you can read my school blog here. I still don’t really know what’s going on with even the basics of programming, so you’re not allowed to judge my mistakes, etc. K???

K!

Peace, love and lovelovelovelovelove(unless you’re Will.I.HATEYOU), 

BWCE

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So This is Why They Pay Beauty Bloggers the Big Bucks

For all of the time I spend reading beauty blogs, I only attempt to execute the things I read about once in a blue moon. Last winter, I discovered the sock bun (late, I know) and as it was one of the first DIY things I was actually able to do myself, my DIY confidence overinflated almost immediately.

The sock bun opened up a whole new world of beauty blog possibilities. Fuck, if I could take a sock and turn my generally disgusting, curly/wavy/I-don’t-really-know-what’s-happening-but-usually-I-can’t-brush-it hair into a perfectly sculpted little circle on the top of my head, then bring on the braids! Since then I’ve been reading every DIY hair article I found and vowing that I would one day purchase bobby pins so I could try it out.

So today, while upgrading my operating system (forced time away from the internet) I decided that I was going to try a simple updo I found online.

Taken from LoveMyHairstyle1.blogspot.com. “So easy you won’t even believe it! Makes you look like a delicate porcelain doll!

I was totally ready to have the best hair at the coffee shop today.

Step 1 seemed easy enough: Give your hair some texture. OH. DONE. I have got this motherfucker. The thing I didn’t take into account was the fact that I have the wrong type of texture. Remember those Garnier Fructis ads where the chick has crazy bad hair and then Garnier transforms it into super sleek, perfect hair? Yeah, this is what I look like AFTER using their hairspray:

Also, no one starts singing that “Woo Woo!” song in the background when I use the hairspray. Sadness.

Ok, so confession time. The texture issue is only exacerbated by the fact that I haven’t had a professional haircut in over a year. Earlier this year I bought some professional scissors and gave myself a haircut with the idea that, “Hey! If Beyonce can cut her own hair, then I can too!”

What were you thinking, March 2013 Tiffany? BEYONCE IS A GODESS AND YOU ARE A MERE PAUPER. Anyway, after my attempt and several months of after growth, I have something that I can only imagine are split split ends. The ends of my hair have split so many times that they’ve rejoined each other and created some sort of spider web ends.

Here you go:

This is freshly brushed hair. Sometimes I find pieces of lint fused into the hair. Also, check out my double chin. How does anyone take a cute selfie? 

I figured, I’m sure it will look good if I put it up in a messy bun. So I proceeded to roll the bramble into a bun and hide it with a bunch of pins.

I’m pretty sure this is NOT how the top of my head was supposed to look. I’m not even sure what part is the front or the back. 

To add insult to injury, the blogger’s hair is about two feet longer than mine, making her braids long enough to wrap all the way around her head, while mine ended precisely in the center of my head, their tiny, ragged ends jutting up like antennae.

I took down the hair, tried again and failed even harder. BUT, my operating system was still installing so I trudged onward, attempting a simple spiral top knot.

From A Cup of Jo. So not as easy as the sock bun.

Luckily, my ends weren’t the issue for this style. Unfortunately, my hair positioned itself in a shape that distinctly resembled the pile of poop Emoji.

Maybe if I got some googly eyes I could make it cute?

Next up was the one where you can turn your hair into a bow, but that looked a lot like Mini Mouse ears on me –

I also realized that I get a super creepy, intense face while focusing on taking a selfie.

And so I landed on this bizarre, made up side bun. I put makeup on to make myself look more professional, but since I don’t have a statement lipstick I’m pretty sure I failed at that too.

Seriously, this is the best thing I could do. I wish I had a sock right now.

In order to make it seem legit, I added a braid.

A FISHTAIL BRAID TO BE EXACT.

So here’s what I have learned from this little experiment:

  • Selfies are hard.
  • Beauty bloggers are super humans with hair that’s at least 6 feet long and naturally super straight.
  • I need to get a real haircut.
  • NEVER, NEVER, NEVER attempt something because you heard Beyonce can do it. That’s how people get killed.

Peace, love and I’m going to go back to doing something I’m not 100% terrible at now, 

BWCE

PS – Back before the days of DIY hairstyles, I was obsessed with the Olsen twin’s TV show Two of a Kind. It was a period where we’d just moved and I had no friends, so having a twin with whom I could swing dance and have awesome adventures sounded ideal. I was obsessed with twins for half of 7th grade. Anyway, they had some CRAZY hairstyles and I once attempted to mimic one on a trip to the mall with my new friends. The weird side buns I created looked like something Miley Cyrus would wear and my friends later told me how much they made fun of me. Hairstyle fails and I go way back.

 

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All Over the Place

The other night I was sitting at a bar and the song “Changes” came on. The bartender, who was otherwise working silently, yelled out “CHCHCHCHANGES!” At the top of his lungs along with the chorus. It was weird and also I didn’t know people did that in real life (at least after 1975).

That’s really neither here nor there, except that whenever I talk about changing gears in life I think about this song because, whatever. You get it.

So yeah – changing gears. In a couple weeks I’m going back to school for web development. I am super excited about it and also constantly super nervous to tell people about my future plans. Telling people that you are making a big change in your life seems to invoke some sort of unsolicited-advice-giving beast within all of us, wherein they more often than not begin dissecting your choice and question the rationale and potential outcomes.

You hope their reaction will be something like – 

other people's approval

I was really hoping for a puppy to help me as I embark on my new life path…

And instead, 95% of the time it is something like – 

no puppy for you!

And now back to your regularly scheduled existential crisis.

And that’s why you don’t talk to strangers in line at the Starbucks…

JK. I wish it was strangers. The fact of the matter is that it is often well-intentioned acquaintances, coworkers, long lost friends, rando family members and all of the other people who you don’t want to bore with the details of all the years of trying to figure out who you are and/or how you are going to pay for your existence without fantasizing about throwing yourself onto subway tracks every Monday, Tuesday and — if it’s a really bad week — Wednesday through Friday. Ok, that’s a little dramatic. But I have fantasized about moving to Long Island City and I think that’s basically the same thing.

The worst reaction that I have received, however, is not adamant disapproval or slight, questioning jabs at my intelligence or competency. It’s one simple phrase-

“Hmm. Well you’re all over the place, aren’t you?”

Usually said in jest, I don’t think anyone who’s ever said this to me has given it more than two milliseconds of thought, but oh man, is it the worst. Telling someone they’re all over the place — whether it be referring to a college Junior who’s changed his major a bunch of times or a person who’s moved more times than they can count on one hand over the course of their 20s — undermines their act of searching for whatever it is they’re searching for. It calls to the forefront all of the chances someone has taken in his/her life and recognizes them as past failures. Personally, it has made me feel like I’m perceived as disorganized, lazy, weak, crazy, fearful or uncommitted.

I usually start backpedaling, justifying shit or simply caving in on myself like a dying star… insecurity-filled phrases bursting through my mouth like explosive gases in a deep dark space where for some inexplicable reason, no one ever interrupts me to make it stop. [In space no one can hear you make an ass of yourself]. I think of “Mean Girls'” word vomit as I hear myself trying to go through my life expectations versus reality and then I throw in some weird business terms I learned. Sometimes I reference a new hobby. It usually ends in “BUT IT’S OKMARGIN, I’M I RECENTLY TOOK UP POTTERY AND FIND IT FULFILLING OKBUTI’MOKIT’SRETURNONINVESTMENTFORTHEBESTANYWAY.”

It’s embarrassing. Caring that much about stupid, tiny things people think or say is a character flaw of mine. At this point I anticipate my reaction to other people’s reactions more than I even think of what I’m going to tell that brings about the initial reaction.

SO I MADE SOME PICTURES FOR YOU. TO AVOID THE WORD VOMIT.

Like most 18 year olds, I was totally positive that I knew my life plan. And, like most humans, my life did not go according to that obviously flawed and delusional plan. At 22, when I started to realize that I wasn’t going to be the real life version of Rachel Berry on Glee (luckily that show wasn’t on when I was in college because it would have further fueled my dementia), I realized I didn’t have a backup plan. As it turned out, my father, in particular, was right about the whole ‘having a backup plan is good’ thing. Damnit parents, I hate when you’re right.

Expectation: EVERYTHING YOU WANT WILL HAPPEN BECAUSE YOU’RE A GOOD PERSON AND THE WORLD IS YOUR MOTHERF*&KING OYSTER.

Seriously, I could have written for Glee when I was 18.

Reality: YOU ARE JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE, YOU IDIOT. REAL LIFE IS CONFUSING AND WEIRD AND OFTEN BORING. 

FYI, Wallace Shawn is this guy: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001728/

BUT IT’S OKI’MOKNOREALLYI PROMISEALLOFITIS OK.

No really, I’m not word vomiting now- it has been more than OK. My real life experience has been so much better than what 18 year old Tiffany wanted for herself because in between all the disappointments above I ended up in a bunch of different cities, getting to experience life as a bunch of different versions of myself, and through some serendipitous shit ended up in the city I hoped to end up in surrounded by most of my favorite people ever (Hibben and family, you are too far).

Of course, maybe I wouldn’t be saying that if I was so famous that all if took to get the whole world talking about me was rubbing my butt on Robin Thicke, but I think I’m good.

I’m going to get preachy for like two seconds. I’m sorry, it will be quick: This is why I hate the phrase, “All over the place.” The process of getting to figure out very slowly, and often uncomfortably, who you are is a freaking luxury. Getting to sit around and drink wine and be like, “Gee, I wonder what will make me feel fulfilled and ALSO let me buy shoes on the regular?” is an awesome problem to have. It’s why I’m determined to see all this thing all the way through, and if that means I will one day run out of naiveté-fueled energy and accept that fact that life is a meaningless, never-ending cycle of working for the weekend I will at the very least have less reason to wonder what could have been.

Ok, preaching over you can start listening again. I’ve got more posts coming up on this topic, so come back soon y’all.

Peace, love and CH-CH-CH-CHANGESSSSSS, 

BWCE

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A Few Thoughts on the VMAs

Ok, I’ll bite. I haven’t really paid attention to the VMAs since 2007, but with all of the fuss over well, everything, I spent some time yesterday watching the recaps.

I have some thoughts: 

You could tell who was just a little to young to enjoy the *NSYNC reunion. 

Example: Members of One Direction (~19) vs. Taylor Swift (23). Either that or One Direction was jealous, I mean even Chris Kirkpatrick still had those moves down.

How much do the other members of *NSYNC hate JT? 

Like, so much… right? I was grinning like a school girl watching the reunion, but seriously that was basically just an excuse for Justin to get a few breaths in after all that dancing so “Suit & Tie” would sound good.

I think I’m supposed to say something about Lady Gaga, but I simply can’t bring myself to care. 

I liked her mermaid thing?

How come no one is talking about what Robin Thicke is doing… to fashion? 

Yesterday morning my inbox was filled with all my favorite clothing sites boasting their “hip black and white pants.”

No. Clothing companies. Just. No.

I know everyone was harping on the Beetlejuice thing, but this getup reminded me of the girl in the popular group (there’s one at every school) who doesn’t fit the quiet, blonde, cheerleader mold. I spent the greater half of middle school and ninth grade trying to figure out why exactly she was allowed into the group and all I could come up with is that she was really good at volleyball and she was a team manager for JV Basketball. Remember that girl? Remember her statement pants? Robin Thicke got those pants from that girl.

Please, NastyGal.com, don’t make us go back there.

YOU GUYS, KANYE WAS TOTALLY NORMAL.  

Kanye didn’t do anything crazy. He performed, interrupted no award and probably went home to his baby. Is this a new leaf for Kanye? I really hope not, because I sure as hell love Givenchy-Kilt-Relationship Kanye.

And then of course, there was… Twerkpocalypse:

miley cyrus, twerking on big ben. scary dinosaur included.

I threw the dinosaur in there because he seems like he and Miley have a lot in common.

Feminism, slut-shaming, our nation’s morality is in shambles, blah blah blah. Everyone’s covered that stuff and I’m sure their opinions are more informed either way. GOOD. I don’t want to use big words.

Things I noticed/ thought during the performance and its aftermath:

  1. The Furry community is remaining eerily quiet.
  2. Which came first: The Miley Cyrus nude bikini or the American Apparel nude bikini?
  3. My working list of potential Cyrus/Thicke-themed Halloween costumes: The obvious couples costume is going as the pair — bonus points if the guy dresses as Miley; solo acts can go as Miley’s tongue; groups can include the furries; even larger groups can go as MC, RT, the furries, Taylor Swift and Selena Gomez, and The Parent’s Television Council.
    I call dibs on Billy Ray Cyrus’ tweet about Syria.
  4. All of this could have been avoided if someone had just taught Ms. Cyrus how to dougie.

Peace, love and I’m still listening to “Blurred Lines”, 

BWCE

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Let Them Eat Kimchi

Last Sunday I went to Brooklyn for a friend’s birthday party at a beer garden. The Crown Vic in Williamsburg has a pig roast every Sunday, the theme of which on this particular Sunday was Korean-style pig roasting.

picture of a rib and some weird sauces

Apparently this is what makes up Korean style roast: Big ol’ rib of pork and a bunch of weird bean sauces and pickled veggies. And of course, jars on jars of kimchi.

Eat your heart out, Ramen burger enthusiasts.

picture of a menu that is too expensive for brooklyn

Apparently Bon Chon and Banchan are different things. Everyone in line was confused.

I take issue with a lot of Manhattan beer gardens because they are usually too crowded for me to be able to hear anyone around me, but this place we delightfully unpacked and filled with lots of neon colored tables. And as always with Williamsburg, I love examining all the hipster wear going on around me.

Pretty fence. #withafilterduh

picture of my clutch and the wine that lead to my demise later that evening

My one attempt to seem like an artsy blogger this summer.

The best part of the day, however, was the super spicy kimchi eating contest sponsored by Mama O’s Kimchi. If you’ve never had kimchi, I hate it with the fire of a thousand flames (is that the phrase? I think it’s something like that), but people like it, and also I think a couple of the people who signed up had never had it before so they didn’t realize what crimes they were about to commit against their bodies.

At least someone got that big trophy?

I greatly enjoyed watching 10 people try to stuff jars of super spicy kimchi into their mouths over the course of three minutes. The one other person who seemed to be as into it as me was Asian John Cusack — this Asian guy who looked like John Cusack in any of the movies where he wore a leather jacket and big sunglasses. AJC was drinking beer straight from a pitcher and yelling things at all the contestants. I kind of wish we were best friends.

After that, we tried to go to a free comedy show, got bored waiting and ended up stuffing our faces at The Meatball Shop, a place that I’m sure will soon take the rest of the country by storm because it’s way too good.

Peace, love and banchan, 

BWCE

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All My Pets Are Dying

Party Animal
May 5, 1998 – July 23, 2013

Recently, my two favorite pets died. Our 15-year-old Golden Retriever, Skye, was put down last month and last week I came home to find that one of my two pet guinea pigs, Symphony, had died during the day. I think it must be one of those getting older things – just like the fact that all my (at least Facebook) friends are getting married or having babies, all my pets that have been with me for so long are dying. It’s awkward to harp on about your pets, but I want to tell you guys a little about them both.

I’ll be the first to admit that my obsession with animals is borderline weird. As a child, the only thing that mattered (other than my My Little Pony collection) was getting more pets. Over the course of my life, I’ve had turtles, every type of fish you could find at a suburban pet store in the 90s, sea monkeys, hermit crabs, two bunny rabbits, over 15 guinea pigs (that is another story for another time), 4 kittens, at least five birds and two dogs.

I hit the highlight of my scamming-my-parents-into-getting-me-pets career in 6th grade. My dad’s job relocated us to São Paulo, Brazil. Air Bud had just come out, and my little brother and I were obsessed with Golden Retrievers. At some point we came up with the idea that if we were to move to a foreign country, we required a puppy.  And sure enough, we got us a puppy.

Not quite Air Bud, but look at that flexibility.

The litter was born on Cinco de Mayo, which seemed fitting, because it would make sense that we’d get a dog with a little pseudo-Mexican flair. The owner allowed us to come over and choose our puppy before the litter was even able to open their eyes. Claude and I were taken with the tiny little puppy who had a white diamond on her forehead.

We waited the five painstaking weeks until we could take her home, and in my memory of that time, the idea that the puppy was coming lessened the pain of packing up our home, saying bye to our friends and planning to move somewhere far, far away.

Aeropostale sweater tee, WWJD bracelet, chipped blue nailpolish. Yup… it was 1998.

Some other important facts about Skye: 

  • She was a fast learner: She brought new life to Amadeus, who was arthritic and near death, but never missed an opportunity to hump her. I guess she thought it was a game, because once she was large enough she would jump on him and start humping him.
  • We thought adding the ‘e’ to Sky was super hip: If you remember, the momma dog in Babe is named Fly, and then there was this girl on my bus named Skyler who I thought was really cool.
  • She had a hot boyfriend: We were about to get Skye spayed when our minds were changed after watching an episode of “Full House” where the family golden had puppies. Somehow, we convinced our parents that this would be a good idea for us, and set up a date with a neighbors dog. Buddy was a pure bred Golden Retriever, so I can only assume that in dog standards that means he was HOT. Their baby-making attempt was unsuccessful, but I did learn a lot more about dog sex than I ever needed to know.
  • She was not the brightest/ loved cars: We were pretty sure that Skye was eventually going to get run over because she LOVED cars. Not chasing cars, or barking at cars… just, cars. She’d run right up to them as if expecting them to be humans who would pet her. It was terrifying.
  • She provided the entire family with endless entertainment: For example, this video of my brother carrying old, limping Skye around the kitchen so she could chase after this piece of meat my dad was holding.

  • She was a party dog: She really liked licking beer off the patio whenever it was spilled during parties.
  • While she didn’t age gracefully, she didn’t seem too upset about it: Here’s a video I took of Skye the last time I saw her. She had a cone and weird booties, as well as a limp and was completely deaf… But she was as happy as ever.

Seriously… endless entertainment.

_____________________________________________

After a few years in college, I started to really miss having pets.Not having a furry something to cuddle felt wrong. During my senior year of college, my little brother lived with me and we started to plot the purchase of pets again. As a child, I’d had at least 15 guinea pigs so they seemed like the natural go to when we started talking pets. Before I knew it, we’d purchased two baby guineas and named them Symphony and Professor Commonwealth, after nearby streets in Boston.

AKA Pat and Vanna, if you’re calling from Wheel of Fortune

While guinea pigs are nowhere as exciting as dogs, they have provided me with a lot of entertainment in the past 4.5 years, and holding Symph’s poofy little body comforted me during a lot of my quarter life crises.

Some facts about Symphony:

  • She was definitely the leader of the pack: I don’t think Professor ever walked anywhere that wasn’t directly behind Symphony’s butt.
  • She got around: The guineas have lived with me in Boston, Atlanta and New York. That means they’ve been on a plane and in a Uhaul for a cross country trip.
  • She might have been a bit of a stoner: Back in my college days, as the scent of pot smoke waft through the floors of my music school apartment building, Professor would sneeze and hide in the corner, while Symphony would walk up to the front of her cage, place her paws on the metal bars and sniff as vigorously as she could. I think sometimes it made her paranoid though, because she started some pretty nasty fights with Professor.
  • She was my favorite, but we had our differences: During our New York move, a few bars on the guinea’s cage came off, creating a tiny little window out of which they could stick their heads. I thought this was adorable, until I realized Symphony would sneak out the cage during the night and poop on everything under my bed.
  • There must have been something in her hair: Because Professor ate so much of it that I took her to the vet TWICE thinking she had mites-induced hair loss.
  • I buried her at sea, like the fucking sailor she was: Is it sailors they bury at sea? Anyway, whoever it is. The awkward part of losing a pet in the city is that you don’t really know what to do with it. All my previous guineas were buried in my backyard, with proper little guinea gravestones. This time, I wasn’t sure what to do so I decided the most romantic thing would be a burial at sea – er, river. I brought her down to the tip of Manhattan so I could put her shoebox coffin in the Hudson, near the Statue of Liberty. As it turns out, finding a break in the fence and throwing something into the river isn’t so romantic, because I was pretty terrified someone was going to See Something and Say Something. Either way, her tiny body will forever lie at the bottom of the Hudson, close to Lady Liberty.
  • Yes, the means I brought a dead rodent on the subway. She was in a box, and a bag, and concealed and it was a grief thing, ok guys?!

In light of all this, I still have one pet left. Professor Commonwealth and I are bonding over our mutual feelings of loss (that I assume she also has) and now at night she sits on my chest and eats my hair while I watch TV. It’s pretty creepy/adorable.

Peace, love and hug your pets, 

BWCE

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All Energy Everything

Checkout this total product development fail I found the other day –

Cracker Jack, why you gotta give us coffee too? You already give us prizes!

Whenever I see stuff like this, I like to imagine all of the steps it took for this to go from an idea to an actual product in Duane Reade, during which no one was like, “um. Hey, guys? This is a terrible idea.”

There were at least this many steps, in some sort of order like this:

  1. Person had idea, decided it was good.
  2. Person edited presentation, decided to keep caffeinated Crack Jack idea on list of ideas.
  3. Person gave presentation, likely involving graphs and charts about how much people like ‘energy’ food.
  4. Other people decided this was a good idea, passed on to team of food engineers/ robots/ factory in china.
  5. Food is manufactured, taste-tested, moved on to packaging.
  6. Packaging (including the name “Cracker Jack’d”) was created and no one said anything about this being an AWFUL idea.
  7. Product presented to supermarkets/ stores everywhere. Product is purchased by these stores.

Either that, or there was a massive chocolate/coffee incident at the Cracker Jack factory and they decided to cover their losses by creating this. If that’s the case, I have tons of respect for them. Otherwise, WTF dudes?

I get that suddenly everything is supposed to magically energize us, even though it’s crap that’s giving us toe cancer, hair arthritis or, at the very least, lots of belly fat, but a line has been crossed. Coffee in my candied popcorn product? Or, whatever the hell those weird brownie things on the bag are? Java nougats?

I know that there have been some really important things happening in the news with civil rights, and coups and whatever, but THESE ARE THE REAL ISSUES, PEOPLE.  It’s like that old saying –

First they wanted to add a shot of espresso to my coffee,

and I didn’t speak out, because that seemed kinda nice.

Then they came for my diet soda,

and I didn’t speak out, because ‘ginseng’ and ‘guarana’ are fun to say.

What’s next? Is any junk food sacred anymore?

Will make it even more marketable to college students, although I assume the price may go up… Gives new meaning to ‘speed reading’?

What about the great American breakfast staples?

This may prove that I don’t know what color meth is… unless it’s green. I promise I have never seen nor done meth, guys.

And can you imagine how much Pizza Hut is going to go to town with all of this? They LOVE stuffing things into crusts. Don’t think they’ll stop at things that raise your cholesterol…

That blue and white thing is supposed to be a pill #powerpointfail

Little Ceasars is probably going to have to change their slogan to make it seem more energized –

THERE IS NO END TO THE MADNESS AND I HAVE TO MONITOR MY CAFFEINE INTAKE OTHERWISE I SLEEP POORLY.

Also, what will energy drinks do? Start adding food to their drinks? Our hearts are going to explode, guys.

Stop the madness. Quit buying ‘energized’ food. 

Peace, love and crack-infused ketchup, 

BWCE

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