For the Love of Slob, Stop Heckling.

When my mom was up against the toughest battle of her life after being diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer on her birthday last year, these are the pants she wore:Screen Shot 2015-07-30 at 2.56.12 PM

I’d recognize¬†them in my sleep. There was always at least one pair in every load of laundry, and every mall trip included a stop at¬†Eddie Bauer for another pair. She lived in these sweat pants for the last 6-months of her life. They kept her tiny, shrinking, body warm and the draw string enabled¬†enough flexibility to¬†still fit the next week. So, it was the memory of these sweatpants that sparked my unease¬†with¬†an article I read yesterday.

It was¬†written by one of my favorite writers, John Jannuzzi, who wrote his post after reading¬†a rant post in the NY Post,¬†by¬†Elisabeth Vincentelli¬†(who’s maybe one of his¬†favorite writers?! Thus,¬†completing¬†the circle of life!)¬†This chain may sound confusing. Basically, both¬†writers post pros of dressing for success in order to be taken seriously, (because this is such a new thing!) I respect these two¬†writers immensely,¬†and they¬†make lots of valid points… But…¬†I have a big BUT¬†and I cannot lie:¬†their words read like those belonging to v. fabulous¬†New York¬†City people, who’ve never set foot in a¬†small-town suburb and walked among its native people. Most definitely, the¬†writers¬†have never¬†once braved the¬†glorious lands of the netherworld, aka WalMart. (The prices there amaze me!) It’s not a bad thing.

I’m not here to tell anyone right from wrong, shame the fashion elite, or¬†try a¬†dramatic appeal to their emotions. I’m smart enough not to give myself authority where I haven’t earned it. But. Really,¬†y’all?¬† Your standards¬†for dress are a galaxy far, far away from¬†what is most important¬†on¬†the list of priorities many people carry with them every day.

My mom, while wearing saggy sweatpants, was facing a 5 percent chance she would be alive beyond a year. And, despite these¬†impossible odds,¬†as well as¬†her oncologist’s too honest prognosis of 6-months, she 100 percent had not “given up” on herself.

In fact, she was overly positive, and I still sob every time I go back and read her last Tweet.

Never give up. You don’t know what’s right around the corner.”

Her Eddie Bauer sweatpants were worn to as many places possible: dark movie theaters, the mall, neighborhood parties, the cancer hospital, visits with family, Christmas dinner, and even church. It was a blessing when a day arrived where she physically could leave the house, sweatpants or *not. (*It was v. much encouraged by my family that she wear pants.)

Plus, do you know how not¬†fun it is shopping for a cute chemo outfit? It’s not fun. My mom¬†and I tried before¬†her first treatment to find a great new “power outfit” that really set the tone (for a miracle) because, as Jannuzzi writes, “Those who look their parts and places project authority, confidence, and an undeniable sense of self-awareness.”

The truth is, though, there are some heartbreaks in life that squash¬†us no matter what we¬†wear or will buy, how much money we have, if¬†we’re attractive or not, or whether we¬†are super¬†successful and always look our¬†part in the world.

I’m sure both writers would argue they, of course, weren’t suggesting sick people need to dress better– but they don’t know that. One quick and dirty glance isn’t enough to know what someone’s got going on beneath¬†sweatpants, pjs and cargo shorts– even, if you’re wearing Google glasses, you still can’t tell. It could be a really, super bad day. It could be a big deal¬†someone got out of bed. It could be the nicest clothing that person owns… Something¬†you can learn by shopping at WalMart: the majority of people in our country are just trying to pay bills, stay healthy (enough), love their kids (enough), make a living, and be happy (again, enough.)

The crowd of unsuspecting people who’re standing outside a theater¬†in the creepy picture used¬†by the NY Post, well, maybe they’re¬†just¬†really happy and thankful to be seeing¬†exciting, live¬†theater in NYC. And, maybe despite, Vincentelli’s¬†disgust, the men running around with their¬†jiggly¬†man boobs flapping in the wind are just plain happy as can be. Maybe these “slobs” are happier than the people¬†who judge them. There are days since my mom’s death where I fight every demon to¬†feel happy. So, if “happy” is setting the bar too low, well, sorry.

After reading the articles I did think, well, maybe I do need to dress nicer because I don’t have cancer. I want to honor my mom’s¬†memory, not look like I’ve given up on life. Before her cancer,¬†my mom dressed extremely well– stylish and age-appropriate — and¬†sweats never, ever, left the house.¬†Her visits to my college attracted¬†tons of gushing sorority sisters, all saying¬†how gorgeous she was and they’ll dress ‘just like her’ later in life, (when they’re old.) But despite my genetics¬†for¬†shopping, I’ll be damned if the way I honor my mom is with how I dress… this woman went a month without food and over 15-days without water before she had finally “given up.” That’s some rad shit.

I understand I do need to be realistic about how the world works because there are different types of people. Some types can be super snobby and judge you harshly. I usually don’t notice it while I’m bopping in my stretchy yoga pants listening to Weezer and daydreaming about WalMart, but it¬†happens. Maybe my opinion on dressing will evolve¬†with maturity, like my music taste, or maybe I’ll forever dress and act like a child, as Vincentelli says. I gotta say, though, after being her caregiver, kissing her when she died, planning her¬†funeral and then burying my mom, I don’t feel very childish¬†in anything I wear.

I’d be careful what you label¬†people, esp. if¬†using Grandpa Jannuzzi’s term, “subhuman.” Think about what defines people. And, if¬†there truly¬†is a¬†need for better dress… then there’s a need for better¬†understanding, too.

10 Things to Ditch for a Sweeter Life!

Yesterday marked 3-months since¬†my mama left this carnival we call life. I want to share what it was like being with her that day,¬†but I’m not ready yet. My mind is still a little foggy from grief and is like, WOAH.¬†HOLD¬†your horses, COWGIRL and chill a little while we compartmentalize our¬†shit.

Instead, I will inspire you and impact your life in a GREAT WAY. Yes, GREAT WAY.

I am your new life coach. I’ll start by giving you a list of ten things to eradicate¬†from your life in order to: live better. Yes, liveeee better. Did you know you were being alive¬†wrong? You’re welcome. Send all checks to my P.O. box.

Here are 10 things that are absolutely USELESS in this life: 

1. Fabric furniture. More specifically, coffee tables made of fabric. My mom and I¬†bought¬†a fabric coffee table for my couch at TJ Maxx— and we were so excited! The couch, too! It really wanted one. But as warm¬†as this¬†sentimental Maxxinista memory is to¬†me,¬†it is fucking ridiculous to construct¬†a TABLE out of CLOTH. You cannot¬†set¬†your drink down, i.e. coffee on cloth is a¬†don’t. It will fall and spill. You can’t¬†eat takeout on it, either. Your strawberry milkshake will topple¬†over and that will mean¬†your milkshake brings all the bugs (and mice) to the yard. A cloth¬†coffee table is¬†essentially¬†unusable¬†unless you place¬†a nice¬†tray on top, but even then, it will¬†sag,¬†and then sink into your furniture. Meaning, your coffee table drinks all your coffee and you finally understand why it’s called a coffee table.

2. Non-strechy pants. Let’s all be open¬†w/ one another and admit wearing anything other than yoga pants and leggings sucks the life out of our souls. Plus, it’s really not comfy.

3. I’m going to suggest¬†eradicating dresses too. Although,¬†technically,¬†a dress is comfier than non-strechy pants, I don’t like wearing underwear. I have enough to worry about without adding “flashing people” to the list.

4. Friends that we don’t like. I’ve been thinking a lot about this after reading something on GQ the other day. It was really¬†about¬†whether or not more sex makes for happier couples, interesting. But the part I keep thinking about is when the writer goes about¬†that friend we all have and¬†we don’t like, (she named hers Jenna.) I don’t have a friend named Jenna and I also don’t have¬†that friend,¬†who I don’t like or speak well¬†of either. because Why would I make friends¬†AND¬†also share details about my sex life with someone I don’t respect? Everybody has flaws, (I’m a collector of¬†many), but I love my friends. I love raving¬†on and on about how ammmmmazzaaazzing my v. different, but v. great, GFs are! It’s annoying. But I wouldn’t be okay w/ my friends talking shit about me for this or that¬†and I don’t think they’d like it,¬†either. Good friends like you for you despite you. And if not, maybe we just shouldn’t be friends. Fine then, loser. Your mom. Whatever. Wait, did I just lose all my friends? (That I made up.)

5. Cats. American should be forced by the government to give up their¬†cats. I would be v. sad, of course. So sad, not having my cat around at all times of day and night… watching me, waiting. But as a law a-bidding citizen, I understand. I’ll start¬†getting her things ready.

6. Floppy hats. WTF¬†do you need that funny¬†floppy hat for? Every girl in Soho.¬†It’s factually impossible to buy¬†foundation, face lotion or BB cream without built-in SPF. So, your hat is redundant if it’s being worn to protect your face¬†from skin cancer, and it’s just redundant.

7. OMG, COINS… as in loose change. You know the fuckers: pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, the BIGGER quarters w/ the picture of an¬†old lady¬†and the golden pirates booty lookin’ quarters w/ the¬†other lady. These villains roam loosely along our sidewalks, as well as, on the insides of washing machines and the noses of toddlers. They hide¬†between paper bills handed back to us when we pay in cash (fools)… only to fall everywhere possible. And, these lowlifes, called coins, live rent-free in every pocket of every purse hanging in my closet. Nobody likes using them. We all just dump ’em¬†in the tip jars at Starbucks, anyways.

8. Cancer and all other diseases. All bad stuff in general should go, Mondays included.

9. Hulu.

10. The amount of time (if any) you have now spent reading this list— ha! It’s gone, sucker. Hopefully you enjoyed reading,¬†otherwise that sucks, and you obviously did not do a good job at reading it because you didn’t pay attention to #8 on the¬†list. AKA, no more bad stuff.

I hope you see fast, positive changes erupting from within, like gooey, chocolate lava cake, thanks to MY coaching. If not, please do not beat me up or troll me on Twitter. Maybe instead, you can look inward, right down¬†to¬†your chocolate lava core, for a second and realize no one can 100% tell anyone¬†how “to live better” because what the hell does that even mean, anyways? It’s YOUR call how you live this carnival called life, for better or for worse.

P.S. I need chocolate lava cake, now. I also want to live the carnival life.

Good News/Bad News. 

The bad news, first. The bad is that sitting on the ground in the grassy wilderness of washsq park is v. uncomfortable. I researched “how to write a book” on the Internet, and according to the wiki how¬†page¬†on”How to Write a Book (With Examples)” the instructions go: finish reading the page about¬†“How to Write a Book (With Examples)” on wiki how, do a little dance on the keyboard and that’s all. BOOM. You just landed¬†yourself a NYT bestseller, followed by a big studio movie deal, and maybe one day, you’ll get paid in advance to¬†write sequels, which will lead to mad stardom that is topped with the cherry of obtaining¬†an Amazon Prime account. The Internet also says most writers set¬†deadlines for themselves, and are disciplined (ha, what’s that?) about writing XYZ¬†# of words, during a v. consistent time of day, while always plopping their creative butts in the same spot. Most pick a place¬†where they don’t do other stuff, so that way, when their butts get plopped there they know it’s on like Donkey Kong. So yesterday, my dad called me to ask when I was going to write a book. (Which, is really an odd question. It’s like asking someone, so when you gonna do your NASA training & visit outer space?) He and I agreed that¬†a perfect plan would be for me to go sit in the¬†park and write every¬†evening– we based our perfect plan solely on the fact I enjoy sitting in parks. ¬†But, the sad reality is: working on a laptop while sitting on the hard, yet kinda-mushy, ground w/ no lumbar support is NOT even a halfway decent¬†plan. I may need someone to carry me home, now. But let’s wait until my leg wakes up, so I stop crying from the pins/needles feeling and I won’t get mascara on your shirt. Thanks!

The good news, (I’ll leave you on a positive note, duh!) NOT ONE PERSON¬†annoyed me at the park this evening! There’s been an epidemic of random men interrupting my snapchat focus, which totally throws off my caption game, and then it gets worse: they are talking to me while I’m wearing HEADPHONES IN MY EARS TO WARD OFF MY ENEMIES, (AKA HUMANS.) I think I finally look scary & mean– ARGGGg! Or maybe, I’ve achieved my dream of being invisible so I can go rob a Sephora, totally undetectable. Hell. YES.¬†Truthfully, I know it’s my new scare tactic keeping people away from me… I’ve started dancing a little and visibly bopping around to the beat of the music pumping through my headphones. I do this, (yes, in public), hoping any onlookers will assume I’m crazy and I be trippin’ on something-something, ya know what I mean… I do it just like I’ve seen the homeless men doing it: dancing around while wearing old velour¬†track suits and grooving like nobody’s watching, but a proud, moonwalking Michael Jackson in heaven. I’m v. convincing, too. It helps that every now and then I giggle out loud, (this isn’t on purpose, unfortunately!) And, if things maybe look a bit hairy, like a guy named Harry may be approaching me, then I act quickly! I lay down in the grass so it looks like I’m already in my bed, (darn!), sleeping away at the public park where I live… Maybe come back tomorrow at a decent hour, Harry.

So, basically.

Bad news: I’m not writing a novel in the park. Also, there’s population of New Yorkers who think I’m homeless.

Good news: Nobody talks to me. Erm. Well, that’s weird news. But I’ll take it!

I’m Strongest When.

#ImStrongestWhen is trending today on Twitter. This is awesome.

Unfortunately, for a woman like me who all too often¬†speaks more words per minute than an auctioneer… (sorry not sorry), 140 characters ain’t gonna cut it. So, here I go.

#ImStrongestWhen… I am at my weakest. Because then I am strong.

No¬†one has the right to judge the amount of iron willpower it took another person to get out of bed today. Some of the strongest men and women among us are resting on couches, sitting in wheelchairs and still laying in their beds today– worn down from a round, or multiples,¬†of chemotherapy. Or maybe radiation treatments kicked their butts last¬†week, or another surgery, or biopsy, or a bad-news-bearing CT scan has got ’em knocked down again.

My mama fought for her life while¬†stationed on our family room sofa. It crushed my family to watch our mom¬†who was notorious for never sitting down grow¬†confined by her illness. On her “good days” she would go¬†to our¬†local gym and walk a mile on the indoor track. Seeing her headscarf circling lap after lap often moved onlookers to¬†stop my dad and I and¬†gush in¬†admiration of her strength. But despite how much I hated the site of her on the couch, with her body battling cancer as well as the side effects from her chemo; high-fevers, severe pain, cold sweats, warm sweats, exhaustion and depression… This incredible woman was just as strong to me on her¬†“bad days” as she ever was on any of her¬†best.

There are warriors who are at their strongest today while checking into rehab centers, waiting at hospitals, living in shelters, leaving abusive relationships and starting their lives¬†over again, convincing themselves to get out of bed… Let’s not forget them? Strength is more than working up a sweat at the gym or¬†eating a super healthy salad for lunch.

No matter your flaws or trials, I really hope you’re at your strongest today. Don’t give up.

P.S.¬†Here’s some sexy-strong women who’ve shared their stories w/ the now-up-and-running-again, NY Magazine, and they deserve to be heard… damn it!

Home Is Where I Am Worth It.

The cat and I have had a rough weekend. Not boozing and partying… this time.

We’re homesick. We’ve come¬†to the undeniable conclusion that moving to NYC was maybe a horrible mistake, ( we both had sobbing meltdowns), and it’s just never going to happen.

Home just doesn’t exist for us.

It’s starting to feel impossible:¬†a¬†life,¬†getting settled, friends, living in an apartment that feels like a safe place¬†not a bomb shelter, a job, friends, meeting our neighbors who don’t exist, just like even one friend would be plenty, buying new bedding, hanging my mama’s piggy dishtowel holder, and all the other missing ingredients that¬†make a place, home.

BREAKING: My girl, Eleni, (if you give a name it sounds less like a lie), just called me & she wants to stop by to see my pad aka take a tour of my two rooms. I do have one friend, kewl.

My place is¬†a mess, AGAIN. I was finally kinda settled¬†but¬†our family¬†home sold in a day, which is awesome! Being there is sad now without my mama. Her v. loving touch and chic sense of style is¬†everywhere you look in every room of our¬†house. It’s a nightmare. I went back for the¬†last time and to celebrate my dad’s birthday as well as what should have been my mom and dad’s 31st wedding anniversary.

But really, I went back mostly because I¬†wanted to pack-up¬†boxes of more stuff (than ever before) and then relive the¬†fun of moving into a 6-floor walk-up, all over again! Again, again! This time without the movers. My dad is still raving!! He had such a blast…!

I’m nervous my friend, Eleni, will think I’ve begun hoarding and I live like this all the time, but then I remembered we’ve lived together before, and so she already knows I’m a hoarder.

I've developed a plan to distract her from the mess, though. I've set up a beverage, or as Eleni would call it, "bevy!" bar. I stocked it with: a variety of tea bags, Keurig K-cups, a Keurig coffee maker...(bc only giving my guests a K-cup would be sorta cruel, and plus, they'd feel all obligated to drink it to be a good guest, obviously,& I'm pretty sure snorting Donut Shop grounds is a gateway to harder drugs, like shooting up expresso or liking Dunkin' Donut's coffee), bottled water, and also a little, teeny-tiny, bottle of red wine. I don't drink, however, I thought it would be nice to offer my guests a bevvy so they can relax aka get drunk enough to not remember the mess. Eleni will never know.
I’ve developed a plan to distract my friend from noticing the chaos covering my apartment. I’ve set up a beverage bar, or as my friend¬†would say¬†it, “bevy!” bar. It’s stocked with: a variety of delightful tea options ranging from mellow to tantalizing and sensual, Keurig K-cups, bottled water, a Keurig machine (*bc giving my guests just¬†the K-cup would be a little mean¬†and then they would feel all obligated to be a good guest, obviously, and I’m pretty sure snorting Donut Shop coffee grounds is a gateway to harder drugs: like shooting-up expresso or truly¬†liking the taste of Dunkin’ Donut’s coffee), little¬†wine glasses, and finally,¬†a teeny-tiny, bottle of red wine to match. I don’t drink, which is v. unfortunate bc if I did, I could become an alcoholic,¬†&¬†then I’d hangout at the nearby bars from start to finish, so at least I’d have something to do all day. But,¬†I want¬†to be able to offer my guests alcohol. They¬†can relax, kick back, and¬†drink to not remember how messy my apartment is… perfect plan.

I really want to make a home. That’s organized and feels right, where all the furniture fits, and the tile floor doesn’t look scary to walk on without socks AND shoes.

And, it’s hard. The¬†truth is I miss life a few months ago, which means I’m crazy for real. The month¬†of my mama’s life was¬†like a¬†sci-fi, horror, thriller, dark comedy, family-drama by Stephen King. The plot was about life’s hardships testing what, at first, looks like any other happy family, (JK. My mom had terminal cancer– shit was obviously not okay.) The storyline takes viewers on a ride of what it takes to truly¬†break people¬†into v. tiny, little pieces,¬†smashing them a little more¬†with an anvil, followed by an hefty¬†sumo wrestler who jumps up & down repeatedly, just to make sure every one gets really, really broken.

There were so many circumstances¬†during the end of my mom’s life where I found myself thinking: Okay, okay. Focus, Doan… What did Katniss do¬†in the Hunger Games?¬†

I remember how much pain my mama was in… when she was first diagnosed the oncologist started her immediately on 15mg of morphine taken twice a day, so 30mg, (I have a super-duper, hi-tech calculator.) She and I freaked. We say hugs not drugs in our family, and my mom would rarely¬†give my brother and I even so much as an aspirin as kids. One time, my brother broke his arm and my parents didn’t believe him. (IDK why, and also, is insanity genetic?) Finally after a day or two, my dad gave-in and took him to the DR who was like: No, it’s not going¬†to heal on it’s own. It’s broken bone.¬†By the end of her life my mom¬†was on a continuous¬†cycle of almost 200mg every other hour through an IV hooked-up to a pump. The pain was cruel, and so was the course of this becoming so normal to us.

What sucks is the reality that most pancreatic cancer patients start even higher, at 60-120mg upon diagnosis. I’ve read bone and pancreatic are the most painful cancers, but: we know the truth is that every kind of cancer is a pain in the ass. (*BTW, is donating to charity.)

The comfort I miss is knowing my purpose. Back then, it was v. clear: Wait for mom to die.

Plus, I had a blowout memorial service to plan. I started carrying around a (totally normal) binder setup with v. serious dividers and those clear sheet protecter thingys holding: notes, inspiration pics, infographics, checklists, contacts, 5 Wishes, common funeral terms. I studied everything to do with death way more than I did for my SATs. I learned the types of services to learn the difference between funerals, memorials and celebrations of life. And, I found websites with names that should NEVER EXIST, like: & & of course, Pinterest.

I would seriously consider checking out the 85 percent off casket sale! Those suckers are super expensive. Maybe the even carry designer? Gucci, gucci, gucci.
I would consider checking out the 85 percent-off casket sale, for real! Those suckers are pricey.

Yes, there is a shit ton of stuff about funeral planning¬†on Pinterest. Some of it was super helpful, like the info graphics showing all the stuff you’ll need to after your loved one dies. Most¬†of it was super scary. There were pins of black dresses, where the pinners¬†had saved it saying crap¬†like: just in case!¬†OR, ¬†hopefully I won’t need this!¬†(P.S. If a¬†loved one starts pinning shit¬†like this out-of-the-blue, I would definitely consider it time to start sleeping w/ a machete under your pillow. Just in case!)

I drove our family and friends, the hospice team, my ex and my GF’s moms, nuts¬†by following them around with¬†pictures of¬†super sad memorial setups¬†and bugging about color schemes, flowers, photos, poems, etc., and do we have the list of music she wants? (Carly Simon to perform.) I was a neurotic funeral-planning-zilla, which really added to the ambiance of my mom dying. But all our visitors put up w/ me and even entertained my planning antics, because well… my mom was dying.

My brother and I learned that a real-life, true-blooded and ancient, 90-yr-old lady who was an¬†organ player¬†came with our funeral package (not to keep, just to rent unfortunately.)¬†We spent the following days trying to convince my dad to let her play while the pastor was walking into the service to begin… to the song¬†In A Gadda Da Vida.¬†It was a no, but we doubted she had the serious chops, to play it anyways.

While I was home, my ex finally relinquished¬†my dad’s flask. It has a Raider’s crest on it and also his name engraved onto it. Luckily, my ex said¬†I’d gotten it back¬†just in time, because he was two-weeks away from legally changing his name to “Brent” so coworkers¬†would stop looking at him funny¬†every time¬†he uses it at work. (My ex is actually¬†super¬†fun. I’m not here to make him¬†a monster. Besides, it’s usually not the clueless¬†dude’s fault anyways– it’s jsut that the chick is a major, crazy bitch.) We talked and kissed and laughed outside his car for over an hour. He held me tight, pulling me in close for minutes at a time, as if¬†he could absorb from my skin and soul¬†everything he’d skipped out on after my mama died.

He kept saying,”I’m sorry” & “I regret.” Me too. I’ve learned in the past year that it’s not worth holding things– you’ll always cause¬†yourself¬†more pain than that person ever could.

There were signals, like in a¬†500 Days of Summer montage, that I wasn’t his girl. But, I was a little distracted by my mom dying. Truthfully though, I knew I didn’t mesh¬†with him too many things,¬†like: eating fancy food, moving to Arizona, letting our kids try out every religion so they decide what to¬†believe (But IDK about this, bc what if they choose something weird and kill us?), Kings of Leon, the reality that¬†it doesn’t really matter whether or not he goes to work and makes money bc there’s going to be a¬†civil war soon when¬†people turn on¬†the government bc Big Brother (like the book, not MTV) won’t¬†let us¬†grow our¬†own food, saying we were just a¬†case of good chemistry with¬†bad timing, and that everyone has trials in life & my mama¬†dying is just another hard thing… like moving.

At age 24… I can assure y’all: hanging out in chemo centers, screaming¬†at doctors, riding in ambulances, sleeping in hospitals, wiping poop off my mom’s face (1x thing), calling hospice to come help bc my mom is screaming from her bed as if God is trying to beam her up and she’s pulled out the damn cord on her morphine pump again, and just the whole overall shenanigans that came along with¬†watching my mom dying… is not like moving.

He tells me he wants to come visit and see Brooklyn, like in the Newsies. And, maybe, he’ll move here. I say okay, sure. We say g’bye. I may not hold a grudge– but I won’t forget. (That sounded kind of Kill Bill, & super bad ass!!)¬†He had also said: he’d make bone broth for my mama when that’s all she could digest, he’d love to cater the lunch at¬†her memorial, he’d help me with the three-tier, disaster cake I’d promised for family friend’s baby shower, he’d understand, he’d be there… he’ll move to New York, which I’ll add this new one to the collection of stuff he doesn’t mean.

It took a while for me to get here. But I now know: I’m worth it. Everyone is.

Susan, Julie & Julia.

Some of my mama goose’s cooking literature. My v. best friend, Big V, & I took her to see Julie & Julia on her birthday 6 years ago.


We did it up right, with peanut M&M’s to put into the jumbo movie theater popcorn tub, Redvines & giant-sized Diet Cokes. The entire day was spent laughing, giggling, gossiping & eating: things my mama taught me so well.

I was going through my mama’s jewelry after she passed when I found the movie ticket from that day tucked into one of the drawers along w/ #1 Teacher pins and her starter wedding bands, which got upgraded every few years. But the most precious gem in I found was the faded, old movie ticket.

This Is Me. Waiting Around.

Here’s a scary glimpse into what it is like to be me.

Pictured below is: well, me. But not JUST ME. Erm, I mean, it’s only¬†me alone in the picture… I’m not that nuts as to think there’s a ghost or invisible friend posing with me, and/or you’re not having vision problems caused by a rare disease that edits people out of photographs, whoa¬†freaky deaky.

But, so basically, this is a picture of: me with full makeup and hair in the process of being set with hot rollers. (Men: hot rollers are kinda like hot wheels but the lady¬†version. They’re a fun toy that¬†makes¬†us pretty.) You’ll notice, I look super cute, but in a casual, I-just-woke-up-like-this-Beyonc√©¬†kind of way… if you’re wondering why I am showing this please read.

P.S. I am not quite sure why my arm is popped in such a weird position that makes my back/shoulder look funny… I may have been trying some kind of Victoria Secret model arm move from one of the Angel’s photos, which their body positions are impossible for us normies. Or, my horns may have started to grow in finally and will soon be popping outta my flesh. Like I said… not quite sure about this. xoxo, Steph

AND, if you want to be amazed Beyoncé-ond your wildest dreams: watch and learn. (It also features my favorite: Niki Niki Niki)