Friday, June 19, 2015


the idea of spending the night at other people's houses is totally revolting. i'm not talking about rolling up on some hobo's refrigerator box posted up on lower wacker and asking him to scoot over a little, i mean your house. the place where you live. i don't want to have awkward conversations about where you keep your extra toilet paper rolls or worry about you getting grossed out by the drool marks and slime i left on your navy blue pillowcases. (why do people have dark bed linens ever.) i would rather risk catching bedbugs at a shady hotel than try to pick my pubic hairs out of your bar soap while freezing at the back of the shower, thanks.

new york city always makes me feel like a goddamned hillbilly. which is hilarious, because i live in a sprawling metropolis and i regularly get plebeian items like advil delivered to me. I ONCE WENT TO A RESTAURANT WITH A SALT AND BUTTER FLIGHT, OKAY. cosmopolitan as fuck. but the minute i get off the plane i'm fucking thunderstruck, gazing in awe at flaxen-haired models sipping $14 green juice and scowling at my customized orthopedic shoes from behind oversized black sunglasses. it's all so painfully glamorous. i had to go to finally meet my editor and charm her into forgiving that i haven't turned a full manuscript while also buying me dinner, and to hang with my rad city friends and also fancy brunch duh.

omg the nightmare i just lived through. so i still don't know shit about new york. and when, at the suggestion of many many white people i no longer consider to be my friends, i booked a reasonably-priced airbnb for my recent trip to nyc, i had no goddamn idea that there are easily HALF A DOZEN MOTHERFUCKING BROOKLYNS. so when i found a listing for a 1 bedroom luxe apartment in brooklyn close to the subway, i assumed it was that cute shit: 27-course tasting menus featuring sunchoke purees and coconut semifreddos; overpriced boutiques filled with carefully selected doll-sized clothing for human adults; bulging curbside sacks of artisanal street trash. "he even supplies shampoo!?" i thought giddily to myself as i clicked a link to book the newly renovated one bedroom private, clean, open-concept apartment. THIS IS TOO FUCKING GOOD TO BE TRUE. why had i previously been glaring down my snooty nose at the magical opportunity to stay in some regular-ass person's dirty-ass real apartment? was i nuts!? luxurious accomodations included: air conditioning, wireless internet, and a carbon monoxide detector!? i would never have to stay in a fancy hotel ever again!

mavis and i stepped out of laguardia into the yawning dog mouth that was new york city last friday and my heart immediately sank. i always forget how much i hate being a person until confronted with the fried bologna smell of chafed inner thigh meat on a sweltering summer day. i texted our host to let him know we'd landed and received radio silence in response. thank the 2014 toyota corolla gods that our uber was air conditioned, and i reached out to homeboy again from the refrigerated confines of the cushy back seat: hey we're on the highway en route to your crib. still okay to meet you to get the keys? again nothing. twenty more minutes of dodging bikes and old ladies in housecoats and the car eased to a stop in front of a row of crumbling brownstones in varying states of disrepair. rusted iron gates jutted from the cracked sidewalk like crooked teeth; a mangy dog limped past with a human limb dangling from its mouth. "i'm sorry," i said, extending my phone with an episode of the cosby show paused on the screen over the seat, "but we were supposed to go to brooklyn. where are all the cheese shops?" he heaved a long, exasperated sigh.

mavis, brimming with the clueless enthusiasm of every horror movie white person bludgeoned to death by the ax-wielding maniac after jumping head first into some bullshit, bounded like a puppy from the car to go check things out while i stood sweating on the curb with the one t-shirt and handful of underwear i packed for a fucking business trip. our host emerged from a car down the block where he'd been watching our tragicomedy play out on the street while ignoring my texts and let mavis drop the bags inside, then we were whisked off to manhattan where one bored, surly waitress after another would make me feel like a total asshole for trying to order a cocktail with some goddamned bubbles in it.

after having been vigorously frisked between my thigh meats by the TSA before dawn and spending $4,762 in uber rides and ordering drinks served by a bitch who was pissed off i don't know what the fuck peychaud bitters are and a beautiful dinner with a lovely woman tasked with the unfortunate job of having to inform me that "in the book we're going to have to be strategic about the use of caps lock" (WHY DO YOU HATE ME, GOD) all i wanted to do was crawl into in the back of a cab and pass the fuck out for the duration of the long-ass ride back to Not Cute, Brooklyn. "we're here, we're queer!" i shouted, waving a rainbow flag as we crossed the threshold into a steamy railroad apartment that had clearly been strategically photographed. the "bed," twin cots that had been bound together and placed atop feeble-looking plastic risers, was directly opposite the front door; connected to the room the bed was in (but was definitely NOT a bedroom) was a dining but maybe living room?, complete with a makeshift table + chairs and a luxurious pleather settee. i flipped a switch and the ancient window unit grumbled to life, groaning ominously as it tried to cool an entire apartment roughly the same temperature as hell.

mavis called out something about the bedsheets from across the room, but i was too busy trying to wedge myself into the six inches of space between the dull roar of the air conditioner and the sticky plastic couch that ripped the skin off my thighbacks to fully comprehend what she was saying. but i figured it out twenty minutes later when i groped blindly through the dark, muggy apartment and ran my hands over what felt like soggy muppet fur atop the glorified prison cots on which we were supposed to get a comfortable night's sleep. "what the fuck is this," i demanded, nudging mavis in her visible ribs. my hand felt so gross, like i could feel the last person's shed skin cells crawling all over it. "i was trying to tell you," she groaned. "this dude wrapped a dirty fleece blanket around these beds instead of a fitted sheet."

WHAT. now i'm sure you dudes are all "fuck you, sam. shoulda read the goddamn reviews." but the thing is, I MOTHERFUCKING DID. stacey from canada wrote, "the apartment was super clean, bright and airy. the temperature of the apartment was very cozy at all times and the bed was large and very comfortable!" WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR IDEA OF COZY, STACEY. sylvester from chicago raved, " located on a quiet secluded brooklyn block moments from the subway and seconds away from all the amenities new york city has to offer. the fresh shellacked floors added a sweet southern appeal that complements the color coordinated eclectic furniture choice. this home away from home is a must stay when passing through brooklyn." DO YOU KNOW WHAT ECLECTIC MEANS, SYLVESTER. denzel from florida "would stay again with out hesitation." how do these people live in real life? how could my idea of cozy (quilted shit, shit with cross-stitching on it, shit that is both quilted and covered in cross-stitching) differ so much from some random internet stranger's!? does stacey from canada live in a rundown sro? i promise i'm not a fucking asshole. THE WATER WAS WHITE WHEN IT CAME OUT OF THE FAUCET, YOU  GUYS.

speaking of mavis, get this shit. the other day i was in my happy place: folding freshly-washed laundry while watching old episodes of shark tank on my phone, stacking pair after pair of neatly folded panty squares on my kitchen counter. i reached blindly into the basket of warm clothes expecting to pull out yet another pair of flag-sized sassy cotton high-leg briefs when my fingers closed around something small and frilly and foreign. i opened my hand expecting to find a misplaced baby sock someone had abandoned in the dryer or a handkerchief i'd accidentally stolen from work only to be confronted with a pair of size 2 adult human panties that had obviously been snuck into my dirty clothes hamper the last time homegirl was at my crib. it's officially official: WE ARE TOTALLY LESBIANS.

nevermind that i've been eating her booty like groceries for the past year+ and that we share an expensive-ass amazon prime membership, all that shit is fun and games until there's a bunch of barbie clothes mocking me from the dank interior of the frontloading speed queen down at the old washeteria. one by one i extracted tiny crop tops and capris (I HAVE THE DECENCY NOT TO SHOW MY CALVES IN PUBLIC WTF) from a warm pile of what should have consisted of soft inside pants with faded nacho cheese splatters across the well-worn inner thighs, not moisture-wicking lulu lemon running bras the circumference of a beer can. so yeah fine, whatever, i have a ladyfriend. if you stalk my insta you already fucking know there's a skinny yacubian with solid boobs grinning in a whole bunch of my photos and that, my dudes, is my motherfucking scissor sister. except we don't actually scissor because that is some porn shit i'ma just keep letting your dad fantasize about. but of all the potential hiccups i anticipated (synced lunar cycles, clashes over styling products and/or lipsticks, arguments about channing tatum) i wasn't exactly ready for "feeling like a giant hideous beast due to new girlfriend's tiny halfpants." gross.

while i was busy ordering a plus sized strap-on harness and party packs of hitachi attachments slowly but surely this asshole has been sneaking her dirty activewear in with my lounging clothes and filling up what precious freezer space i save for diet hot pockets and old batteries with ziploc bags of chopped turmeric and organic frozen mixed berries. WHY DO I HAVE SO MANY MASON JARS ALL OF A SUDDEN. this is just like that episode of sex and the city when carrie tried to leave her hair dryer in mr. big's apartment. before i know it she'll be asking me to sign a wedding card with her or take her with me when i move to france for an unspecified period of time for my mysterious-sounding "job."

so being in a relationship with a woman is weird, and not just because we could accidentally show up to the same place wearing the exact same shit. first of all, i had to increase the number of anytime minutes on my fucking phone. omg i have to hear about what she does EVERY FUCKING DAY, even if it's the same fucking thing she did yesterday. i feel like a sitcom dad, hand stuck in my pants with the game on mute while i nod distractedly into the phone. "yes, honey. that pie recipe sounds delicious, honey. okay, honey. you and amy have fun at book club, honey. chia seeds are on sale for how much!? wow, honey! everything you say is so interesting!!!" i also had to learn how to get good at sex. the first time we got busy i was like, "DO I HAVE TO DO THE MAN STUFF BECAUSE MY UNDERPANTS ARE BIGGER OR WHAT." but lesbihonest: the best part of this goddamn relationship is that there is no motherfucking man stuff. no longer do we have to sit around held hostage by the predilection of a jiggly sack of flaccid dickmeat, chanting and rain dancing and praying to the gods of sex to grant us a long-lasting erection on which to writhe awkwardly up and down nor are we forced to withstand its sawing away at our delicates for twenty minutes as a dude with maybe $17 in his checking account actively drips sweat into the smalls of our backs. hip hip hooray for our double-ended dildo!

mavis was pawing at me trying to get the party started but i was like, "REALLY DUDE!? ON THIS HOT KERMIT FUR?" and shrugged her off. the next morning she woke me up early, banging around the kitchen making cafe bustelo from the bodega around the way, getting ready to go for a run in an effort to preserve her thigh gap. "don't get murdered," i warned and immediately rolled over (carefully avoiding the fault line between the two beds, of course) and went back to sleep. a few minutes (or a few hours, who the fuck knows i was asleep) she burst back into the apartment, red-faced and sweating and bordering on hysterical. apparently the door to the street (the same one that had sat open upon our arrival, the same one with no interior doorknob and a keypad entry system that looked like it had been broken off with a hammer) had swelled in the doorframe during the night and was now impossible to open. "THIS PLACE IS A FIRE TRAP!" she screamed, rifling through the near-empty kitchen drawer looking for a tool to help pry the door open. armed with a dollar store spatula she went back into the hallway and hacked at the door to no avail.

WE ARE GOING TO DIE IN AN APARTMENT THAT HAS ONLY ONE WASHCLOTH, i thought gloomily, not moving from the bed to help her in any way. i couldn't stop thinking of that beastie boys lyric off paul's boutique: "not like a roach or a piece of toast, i'm going out first class ain't going out coach." i was about to die like a roach in a balls hot apartment in No Cold Brew Pour Over Coffee, Brooklyn and i hadn't even made it to dylan's candy bar yet. mavis flung the spatula in the general direction of the kitchen and yanked open the window closest to where i lay praying for the angel of death to descend upon me and tried to climb the fuck out. then the window fell in on her goddamn back. "THIS IS SO COZY," i sneered, shoving the window back into the frame as mavis desperately tried to get the attention of passersby to come free us. "SAVE ME, I'M WHITE!" she cried (i think?), frantically waving her arms. a burly young man trotted up the stairs and first tried pushing the door open before attempting a running karate kick. it absolutely refused to budge. "take tiny sips of air to conserve oxygen!" he advised through the door, a single tear rolling down his cheek. finally the woman upstairs came down and used some sorcery to get the door open and i thanked her then immediately spent $9,243,537 booking a same-day hotel on my phone. WORTH IT. i should've done that shit in the first fucking place. then our flight back to chicago two days later was delayed. i mean, we actually had to get off the goddamned plane. and now i'm never leaving home again. if you ever want to see me again, you better come to my apartment. i will tell helen to make room for you on our pastel floral sheets.

when i told him i'm a lesbian my boy jay was like, BUT ALL YOU WRITE ABOUT IS DICK. *squints eyes* first of all, patently false. i write about 1 eating snacks 2 hating: new things/going outside/human garbage in general and 3 luxurious face creams. second, i can still absolutely do every single one of these things in between these extensive feelings talks mavis is always trying to have and listening to this dar williams playlist over and over and over while my bra burns. another of my friends was all, "are you worried you're going to lose your audience?" and really guys, i kind of am? but then i think if i can write "pussyhole motherfucker" 17 times in one post without alienating anybody cool then what's the fucking problem? i haven't dated a man in over three years, and before that i was fucking midgets and dudes who work at foot locker and shit, so it's not like anyone was hanging around here for heartwarming stories of heterosexual love anyway. if you hate it, kick rocks. you won't be missed. bitches gotta eat bitches out.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

spring beauty tips for the gross and apprehensive.

i gotta stay the fuck off youtube. can we talk about how many LITERAL HOURS i have wasted transfixed by beautiful, expertly-glossed 23-year-olds in their softly-lit powder rooms, smiling with all of their teeth while putting on seven different layers of eyeshadow to achieve a "natural, everyday look?" makeup tutorials are like fucking hypnosis, man. i could be lulled into a stupor watching nicole guerriero and jaclyn hill talk about eyelash glue for days, yet i will never buy or apply any of my own because i'm really fucking impatient and allergic to almost everything that goes around your eyeballs. am i the only asshole sitting inside on a sunny day listening to a bitch talk about hydrating neck creams while everyone else is out enjoying being a person!? I CAN'T BE ALONE IN THIS. a month ago i had no idea youtube could be used for anything other than cat videos and drake songs, and now i'm subscribed to, like, twelve beauty channels. because i'd rather watch tiarra monet describe how to apply a sun-kissed glow (never doing that) than leave my apartment to actually get one (really never doing that). anyway, here's a list of super expensive shit i bought out of shame or desperation or some incorrect attempt at self-care that i will likely never use and definitely throw away in a fit of rage sometime in the near future. enjoy.

my gross ass skin is going positively apeshit lately. it's red and peeling and awful and i want the glowing baby butt cheeks of my youth back, goddamn it. i used to think that "changing mature skin" was some sorcery dreamed up by the faceless demon overlords who run cosmetics companies, but there might actually be something to that horrible shit. i bought every single cerave cleanser and moisturizer i could find on because my friend jessie swears by them, but i really think i might be going through early menopause or something because my face is finicky and irritated and it's never been like that before, even when i was eating fritos every night for dinner and never drank water. I HAVE HAD BRUSSELS SPROUTS THREE TIMES THIS WEEK, SKIN. what the fuck. then i read about almond oil cleansing so now i'm doing that. basically you rub your face with almond oil (i bought this one from life flo but who cares), rinse with lukewarm water, swipe thayers cucumber witch hazel over your face and neck, then rub some more almond oil into your skin. i can't decide whether or not i hate it. i'll report back.

i fucking forgot that i even bought the philosophy purity made simple oil cleanser, but i'm going to give this almond business a couple weeks and see how it goes. i still like an occasional scrub, and i rotate between lush dark angels and lush herbalism depending on my mood. i'm also a big fan of disposable cleansing cloths, because i'm lazy and hate getting up to wash my face when i inevitably fall asleep with makeup on at 730 and wake up in a panic at midnight. my new jams are the ole henriksen grease relief oil-free pore refining cloths, which i keep right next to the bed because i am not kidding I AM NOT GETTING UP. they smell sort of oddly medicinal but these bitches workkkkkkk. i bought glamglow supermud because keila uses it and i wanna be her, and also because bitches talk about that shit like it gives you a whole new face. so i bought it and watched a tutorial (guys i need a hobby) and i used it but the whole time it was drying to an asphalt-like finish on my face while i sat very still trying not to ruin my shirt i was wishing i had just used some noxzema instead.

foundation feels like too much work, especially to a person who works with dogs and cats all day. but i enjoy feeling like a fancy lady sometimes, and what better way than slathering some off-colored greasepaint onto my oily, scratched up, rapidly aging visage? i learned from the internet that first you gotta spackle on some primer, and the cheap one i like best is the nyx pore filler and my fave expensive jawn is the make up for ever step 1 hydrating primer. let's be honest: i don't have a clue whether or not these actually work. but they feel nice on my skin and everyone says you need to use them so shut up and do it. i have hella walgreens points, so i used a ton of them to buy a bunch of liquid foundations to play with. i got l'oreal true match because that's the one beyonce wears duh; maybelline fit me matte poreless because you could for real dip your toes in the pores around my nose; and l'oreal infallible because, again, i'm a helpless sheep who sits nodding at my computer screen while writing down everything a twelve-year-old sitting in her bathroom with a video camera tells me to buy. i think i like the true match the best? but then again the infallible is smooth and velvety and seriously i don't know what the fuck i'm talking about. i let a sephora salesgirl pressure me into this bottle of nars sheer glow foundation back in september, and it's probably the wrong color and i bet i'm not even putting it on right but i'm using every last drop because it was forty-five real dollars and LOL THIS IS WHY I HAVE NO SAVINGS. the truth is that i don't really like any of these hoes and keep going back to my first wife mac studiofix because i hate looking like a wet, patchy wax figure and who are we kidding i put base on maybe once a week and that's only if some asshole is aiming an iphone camera in my general direction.

i am obsessed with anastasia liquid lipsticks. i know bone dry baby powder lips aren't for everyone (WHY THE FUCK NOT THEY LOOK AMAZING) but these anastasias are the holy grail of lips you can't drink or speak or eat a motherfucking thing in. my lips are starting to get all elderly and creased so the clock is ticking on how long i can get away with wearing these without looking like the joker, but i am in love with them. buy all of the colors. so fucking good. also amazing: too faced melted lipsticks. the polar opposite of that dry-ass shit i usually wear (ruby woo! flat out fabulous!), these are like wearing liquid vinyl on your lips. don't wear it if you are wearing white or have to engage in conversation, though, because you are going to look like a bloody savage if you say hello to someone. no bullshit, if you so much as smile your entire teeth will be covered in streaky redness. but, as is my way, i bought all this new shit and still either use 1 ruby woo or 2 nothing but chapstick. are there any financial advisers reading this shit who want to give me some real talk about what my savings portfolio could look like if i bought stocks instead of orange lipsticks i for real am never going to wear!? (whyyyyyy do i keep purchasing them!?) email me, i'm not kidding.

leaves. i have an awful lot of hair shit for someone with less than 1/2 an inch of it. (update: i recently shaved my head because it's about to be hot and my scalp is vile.) first on the agenda, BLACK GIRLS WITH GROSS SCALPS LISTEN UP, MY QUEENS: head and shoulders moisture care co-wash is now a thing. somebody's auntie must've gotten a promotion at procter and gamble, because finally these dudes came out with some shit for "textured hair." i was just about to reach for a bottle of my tried and true 2in1 dry scalp care while waiting for the pharmacist to fill my ativan at cvs when my eyes landed on a new player in the "what's that flaky stuff in your eyebrows?" game in the shampoo aisle. "HEY SISTA!" the glistening coconuts shouted to me from the bronze foil-embossed bottle that indicates a product is made specifically for african-americans. "WE UNDERSTAND YOUR COMPLICATED CURL PATTERN! WE, TOO, HAVE SICKLE-CELL TRAIT." i snatched it up immediately. but i like options when blindly groping around my shower at six in the morning and, as we have previously discussed, my quest for the perfect hair product is a dream that will never die. so i also keep a bottle of aveda shampure + conditioner around, as well as some jason dandruff relief because i'm a sucker for hippie shit and feel bad that i don't recycle as much as i could. 

so i rolled up in the salon a couple weeks ago with a scaly, oozing patch of skin on the side of my head like it wasn't a big deal and kiona, my barber, was like "no fucking way, you asshole." SIDEBAR: the salon where she works is really fucking fancy. like, let me take your coat and pour you a glass of champagne fancy. i never in life feel fatter or more cheese-scented than when i am there, surrounded by flaxen-haired pixies who wear high heels to get their hair done and pull up khloe kardashian's instagram to show the stylist their color inspiration. then here i come lurching in in my crocs and daytime pajamas and bad credit, scowling at everyone for being so fucking pretty. every time i walk in the horrified girl behind the desk is all, "sir? the homeless shelter is around the cor--" and i have to interrupt her like, "HOMEGIRL USED TO CUT MY HAIR IN HER KITCHEN, OKAY. I DIDN'T CHOOSE THIS. MAKE ME A KEURIG." anyway, kiki washed my hair with this kerastase bain exfoliant hydratant and it hooked my shit right on up. it smells luxurious and has little microbeads that whisper to your dandruff in french or whatever and i shame-purchased 6 ounces of this shit for 39 motherfucking dollars because i didn't want the dude charging me out to think i was poor. what an idiot.

you know i loves me a leave-in, and my faves right now are: oyin hair dew, mixed chicks leave-in conditioner, and paul mitchell the conditioner. i had a giant mohawk a couple months ago, then i had kiona give me a little baby one, and to define my curls i used eco styler styling gel (the clear one!) or proclaim professional care curl activator gel (i buy it at sally's for, like, three bucks). i've been natural for 19 years or so and i still have no fucking idea what my official hair type is. 3c? maybe 4b!? it grows out in spiral curls and is relatively easy to manage, and gel activators have long been my secret weapon in the fight against dry-ass dusty curls. i've tried carol's daughter hair milk and miss jessie's jelly soft curls and i keep coming back to inexpensive beauty supply activators because i like shiny, defined hair that doesn't look like a tumbleweed halfway through the goddamn workday. when my hair is short i just use a little pomade like aveda brilliant or moisturizing cream like lush r&b with a wave brush (YES, I AM YOUR DAD) or rub a little coconut oil on my head after i'm done greasing up my body.

i was at merz apothecary last weekend after independent bookstore day and holy shit does that place drive me fucking nuts. BUT they have so much jam stuff like diptyque candles and marvis toothpaste that it's worth having a complete panicky meltdown to get at all that goodness. you have to be strategic, tho. here's how it usually works for me: attack the candle section first because it's so tiny; snatch up everything i like on the right side counter while trying to avoid everyone congregated in the middle section; begin hyperventilating because i've already been accidentally groped nine times and i've only been in there three motherfucking minutes; fight my way to the register to pay, +/- frustration tears; distressed squeezing through people to get to the front door while gazing longingly at the counter on the left that i never have the stamina to get to. this is why i'm on fucking klonopin. anyway, i'm always in the market for new ways to clean my stinky vagina, and i found this glorious nivea intimo natural feminine waschlotion and a packet of intimo natural fresh intimpflege-tuecher which is german for "sweet smelling disposable pussy wipes." boy do i love a squeaky clean booty in the springtime!

my crohn's has been relatively mellow lately? but before you throw me a parade, last week i had fiery torrents of diarrhea shooting out of me and that reminded me of my year round favorite: a healthy squirt of desitin multi-purpose ointment applied liberally to a chapped, sore butthole. it feels like a miracle, not kidding. and speaking of products made for cutie pie little guys that you can repurpose for your own disgusting adultbody use, johnson's baby oil shea and cocoa butter formula is still a goddamn champ. it smells v v nice and leaves your skin so silky and soft, plus you know it's safe for black people, because it has a brown cap! THANKS, OBAMA.

roots. i gotta get a pedicure, man. except i read that piece in the new york times about nail technicians sleeping in makeshift barracks and earning $10/day to clip snotty girls' cuticles so yeah i'm never doing that ever again. i don't know, i didn't think they had 401k's or whatever but goddamn that's some ruthless shit. three months of no pay only to make less than minimum wage when you finally do collect a check!? um, nawl. so i'ma keep using that amope pedi perfect i bought during the winter to grind the calluses off my heels and slathering shea butter from the african shop on my block on these dogs at night before i roll my compression stockings on. i get too fucking impatient to paint my damn nails, but if i do it'll be with one of these: deborah lippmann in weird science and walking on sunshine; orly polishes in passion fruit, beach cruiser, and melt your popsicle; and chanel tapage and holiday. but then i just read another thing about the chemicals in nail polish and while i'm not really THAT GUY (i often fall asleep with my head on my cell phone, for fuck's sake, and i take LOT of pills) i am really dumb and will probably throw all these bitches out. probably while drinking a liter of diet coke and eating a non-kosher hot dog.

BOY DO I LOVE BODY WASH, THO. i have at least a dozen, in varying states of used up-ness. my drugstore move is dove pistachio cream and magnolia which, if i'm being totally transparent, i bought because i thought it sounded like a most delicious pastry. when i'm sluggish in the morning i use bliss soapy suds in lemon+sage because it wakes my ass up for real for real. my homie akilah's shop kissed by a bee organics makes a banging head-to-toe wash that is perfect for lazy motherfuckers who can't be bothered to reach for more than one bottle (efficiency is sexy). and i just got this l'occitane almond shower oil that is just so goddamn good. and don't worry, i took one for the team and asked the saleslady at the mall if i was going to bust my fucking teeth out using an oil-based product in a wet bathtub, and she assured me that it turns into soap as soon as you squeeze it on your brightly-colored mesh thingy. i haven't broken my nose yet. go get you some, it's amazing.

dirt, bugs, etc. i have been spending a lot of time sitting at my desk staring at my computer and calling it "working on my book," and a bitch likes to create a little ambiance while writing these stupid butt jokes. it makes me feel real classy and stuff. i bought a sony iphone/ipod speaker dock because i have this 2nd generation ipod with a fucked up headphone jack and now i finally have access to all my 2007 jams! i like to burn candles while i work, and i'm obsessed with the tobacco barn scent from the southern firefly candle company. mavis found it at a little gourmet grocery in nashville and i already burned through the whole thing and had to order another. i'm also really into archipelago botanicals stonehenge candle, which makes my crib smell like a sexy old black dude. yes, that is a good thing. [insert uncle denzel meme]

click here for my spring jam mix, you gorgeous thing.

Friday, April 24, 2015

we used to be cool.

dave chappelle is a goddamn miracle. BUT FIRST, NASHVILLE. in the interest of having something heartfelt and engrossing to put in this goddamn book i'm tirelessly working on, i can't divulge all of the details of my trip in this dumb blog. listen, i'm an asshole on a deadline. if i could dream up other poignant, interesting shit to put in this book before my manuscript is due june 15th i'd tell you in explicit detail how i 1 mistakenly called some gnarly old perv's house in a fruitless attempt to locate my oldest brother 2 hung out with and got tattooed by a couple adorable slick-haired rockabilly dudes in west nashville who told us the best places to get drunk and eat chicken and 3 how, after sneaking onto a snooty golf course on easter sunday and waiting for the motherfucking wind to die down while anxiously checking over my shoulder to make sure the police weren't coming to arrest my trespassing ass, i picked what i thought was the perfect moment to tip the canister containing my father's ashes into the gently lapping waves of the river when a hateful breeze whipped around a corner and rewarded my efforts with a mouthful of my dead father's old incinerated skull and butthole. HALLELUJAH CHRIST IS RISEN.

i am no longer doing any more things. i am officially too old for concerts, shows, festivals, and special events. if you said to me, "hey sam, would you like to go see dave chappelle do stand up?" my answer would be "HELL YES, MY DUDE. ASK IF THEY HAVE DISCOUNTED HANDICAPPED SEATS." but if you were to instead say, "hey sam, would you like to put on a real shirt and actual pants to be herded like cattle in a single file line into a steamy theater with a malfunctioning bathroom where a gentleman wearing a bluetooth in all earnestness will shout threats about confiscating your phone if you so much as check the weather on it as he forces you to throw your leftover meatloaf sandwich into the trash, only to then be shown to an expensive-ass section of bare wooden church pew on which you must suffer the indignity of the call-and-response dj playing 50 cent asking 'where my 90s babies at?' (FUCKKKK I WAS A BONAFIDE ADULT WHEN IN DA CLUB CAME OUT MURDER ME PLS) while people who intentionally selected seats in the center of the row sprinkle half of their $9 budweisers in your lap as they squeeze past a dozen times coming to and from the bar to see ashy larry do his best impersonation of magic johnson's son while waiting for your comedy hero to grace the stage?" i'ma say "NO THANKS" and quietly delete your number out of my fucking phone. then i'ma use some scissors to cut the elastic waist on my inside pants and watch "killin' them softly" on the stolen hbo go on my ipad.

and oh, i hear you. stay the fuck home you bitter old herb. and you're right, i should. I WILL. i'm smart enough to know that the list of shit i hate is getting longer while the probability of any of those things being fixed is dwindling to nothing. is it too much to ask the people who are going to be up and down all goddamn night, awkwardly shimmying past bitches in their church clothes to choose seats at the end of the motherfucking row? i bore easily and have to shit all the time, so i always buy a goddamn aisle seat because i don't like it when people hate me. YOU KNOW IF YOU ARE A BEER DURING A SHOW GUY. i'm not, because even though i'm not cheap stadium prices are fucking staggering. and now i'm old and crabby enough to notice that the buzz from expensive-ass, lukewarm beers (or worse, expensive-ass, flat mixed drinks) < the blissed-out euphoria of an expensive cab ride home so you don't have to deal with rude drunks that you can actually afford since you didn't waste any money on expensive-ass, watered-down drinks. also i don't want to miss anything, and listening to the show over shitty speakers while shifting awkwardly from foot to foot in the pee line is the absolute worst.

i can faintly remember a time when everything wasn't so goddamn irritating. i was young once. i didn't always require 27 advil with a vicodin chaser to get through social events. one time in 2001 i went to a de la soul show that started at 11pm! I USED TO BE COOL. it used to not make me want to dig my eyeballs out of their sockets to be pressed butts to nuts with other drunk, sweaty concertgoers. nowadays if there isn't a waitress and a comfortable chair i'm not fucking going. mya and i saw bilal a few months ago and there was grown up stuff like table service and unnecessarily complicated flatbreads and a wine list and my swollen left ankle and i were like YES GAWD. we chased handfuls of aleve with expensive pinot grigio before blocking the exit row with our bulky walkers. living the fucking dream, man. you couldn't pay me to go to pitchfork. stand around glistening in the unobstructed heat watching bands i'm too old to have heard of? nope. i can't go to things that aren't temperature-controlled and accompanied by a sturdy chair anymore. remember when you reached that age in childhood when your mom was content to watch you on the swings from a shady bench on which she sat filing her nails while you "used your imagination" instead of wrinkling her high-waisted jc penney jeans chasing you up the slide and shit? THAT'S WHERE I'M AT, BRUH.

i want dave chappelle's rider next time i do a goddamn show. how fucking famous do you have to be to ensure that no one in the building has even the slimmest chance of taking a blurry iphone shot of your spotlighted cellulite and jowls!? that dude is not playing. some monster tweeted me a horrendous photograph of myself doing a reading in your grandmother's cardigan that she obviously snatched off google and i spent the entire afternoon rethinking every single one of my life choices. WHY DO YOU HATE ME, LISTENING AUDIENCE. jesus, it was one of those pictures that reminds you of every single calorie you ate the year you decided ice cream > therapy. fuckkkkkkk. anyway, if dave comes to your town you need to drag your old ass out to see him. i haven't laughed so hard since the first time i saw black bush (mars! red rocks!) or maybe at that one bit about how white people will never tell you who they're voting for. but keep your blood pressure meds handy, you old fuck. because despite the many posted signs, PA announcements, and warnings from various ushers and security-type personnel, some asshole is going to think that HE is the special snowflake who can check in on facebook so all his friends know how cool he is and then a security guard is going to roughly escort that crying young man out of the auditorium and eject him from the premises. and yes, grandma, you will laugh smugly to yourself for being such a law-abiding goody goody whose phone sits silently in airplane mode inside the purse at her feet, but yours will be a hollow victory as you watch 19 year old after 19 year old attempt to send one last snapchat as off-duty cops chug painfully up and down the stairs plucking them out of the crowd and tossing them into the street. without a refund.

at first the shit was hilarious. but after the fourth or fifth one i just started benjamin buttoning the fuck out: my skin melting like a candle as stiff porcupine needles sprouted from my craggy old chin. i started daydreaming about slipping out of my shoes and unhooking my bra, scrubbing my makeup off and liberally applying unscented aspercreme to every joint on my body before crawling into those creamy fresh hotel sheets in my scratched-up night glasses and my CPAP mask to read a few chapters of that nonfiction bestseller that NPR suggested people read so they can sound smart at parties before the opening comic had even come on stage. i longingly wondered what i was missing on the good wife. by the time dave ambled out i remembered that i'd left a box of fresh donuts in our room and i nudged k in the ribs and was like, "if we leave before he finishes are you cool? i'll pay for the uber." she tapped her arthritic rain-sensing knee and nodded, stifling a yawn. old ass bitches.

we were back at the hotel by 1045 from a show that started at 10 and i regret nothing. not glaring at the dude juggling six real beers who broke my second toe as he stepped on it trying to get back to his seat (I AM NOT AN ASSHOLE, I FUCKING STOOD UP);  not laughing on the inside as a girl had her fancy phone snatched by security like a kid with some forbidden candy; not even missing the last ten minutes of dave's set so that we could get the bathroom and elevator to ourselves and get first dibs on a cab. i am thirty-five and i now officially know my fucking limit. my feet need to be elevated by the time the evening news comes on, and i am not ashamed. i'm taking myself out of the game before it gets embarrassing. you kids enjoy your standing room only shows and your late night comedy. you know he's going to put out a dvd of the shit anyway; it'll be like we never left. and besides, like i said, we fucking had donuts.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

i'm taking my dead dad on vacation.

this is my dad. well not really, because my dad was this little chubby guy with a weird sense of humor who smelled like murray's pomade and wore paisley polyester shirts with exaggerated collars. this is a box containing his incinerated cremains, and they have sat in a bag in my closet for the last six years while i have avoided the subject of figuring out what the fuck to do with them. it took eleven years after he died for me to even summon the courage to pick them up from the funeral home, and even then i made my sister do it because i was too chickenshit. i was 18 when he died and 29 when my sister came to my job carrying a blue shopping bag with this dusty fake wood box in it and the first thing i thought after peeking inside was, "BITCH HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO TAKE THIS HOME ON THE MOTHERFUCKING TRAIN." she couldn't just swing by the crib? i gotta drag this heavy box of dust around yawning brooks brothers suits and teenagers twerking for change on the red line!?

when i die i want to be cremated and sprinkled on the breakfasts of my enemies. or whatever works for whoever is around. last thing i ever want to do is stress my homies out from the grave. i don't know whether or not SB had a death plan, but if he did he didn't tell that shit to me. the last time i spoke to him i was in my dorm room at northern illinois and he had just suffered a brain-frying stroke and was describing to me these hallucinations he was having that he truly believed were real. i'm not even sure he knew who he was talking to as he described riding a bicycle through the morgue to check on the dead bodies. LOLWUT. his funeral was heavily attended by evanston's finest assortment of drunks and degenerates, his closest friends, which means there were actual men in salvation army suits circa 1973 smoking kools and tipping out brown-bagged fifths of cheap vodka in remembrance of their fallen comrade onto the street in front of the funeral home minutes before his homegoing service. it was kind of exciting.

our family tree is so goddamn sparse that if you shake it you'd probably start a fire. my dad is from mississippi but spent his formative years in memphis where he fathered two sons before promptly abandoning them to move to chicago and eventually meet my mother, who already had three young girl children of her own. they were black people married for eleven years before finally deciding to do it the white way, and they celebrated by deciding to create a new human life using a dusty old egg and a doggy paddling fifty year old sperm. in case you can't really put together what that means today let me lay it out for you like this: ALL OF MY SIBLINGS ARE NEARING SIXTY AND EVERYONE ELSE IS DEAD. my sisters are going through motherfucking menopause. think about that next time yours is bugging you for twenty bucks or your netflix password or whatever.

i haven't seen or spoken to either of my brothers since they attended my mom's funeral in june of 1998. that's part of the reason i've never done anything with our old man, because it's just my luck that the minute i decide to dump this asshole in a barbecue grill or sprinkle him outside the shady men's hotel he lived in for a while one of them will turn up and be upset that i hadn't included him in the decision. my sisters don't give a shit; he was the kind of jerk stepfather who yelled a lot about nothing and nailed the windows shut after they'd snuck out of them at night to go meet their boyfriends. hell, he punched me in the face when i was in high school over a frying pan. he wasn't always the nicest person. carmen has our mother because she's the oldest and super responsible and she knew her the longest so cool. i ended up with SB on a technicality. the thought of transferring them to a nice container grosses me out, plus i ain't got no fireplace. where is he supposed to go? should i, like, display him? NOT DOING THAT. but isn't it wild disrespectful to just, um, throw him away? is there no discreet disposal service i could use? WHY DID THEY MAKE ME HIS GUARDIAN I HATE BEING IN CHARGE OF THINGS. i've had a million opportunities to do something with him, but if andre or cedric wanted to take part in getting covered in microscopic bits of our dead father as an inevitable breeze blows him back in our stupid faces who am i to deny them that experience?

THE PROBLEM THO: i can't fucking find them. these are not men who "facebook." once every couple of years i do some google sleuthing and call the first handful of phone numbers i come across, but so far they have all been dead ends. i have a couple addresses? but who the fuck knows if they live there anymore. the last time i was in memphis i was 15 and spent the entire time taking pictures of women in blue eyeshadow sobbing at graceland. i'm not sentimental; i don't save birthday cards or baby pictures or newspaper clippings, i have no real traditions, i throw everything away the minute it stops being shiny and new. this dusty box that's full of my dad's ground up bones and brain has been sitting in my coat closet between the cat carrier and a bag of hats + mittens for seven years and i am not moving it to another apartment ever again. it's time for this dude to get free, ie stop creeping me the fuck out every time i need a goddamn jacket.

so today mavis and i are renting a car and driving to tennessee where i am going to engage in two potentially dangerous things: 1 trying nashville hot chicken for the first time and 2 knocking on the doors of some unsuspecting strangers who probably wear gun holsters to ask if the residents within know either of my brothers. it'll be just like that book "are you my mommy?" with fewer teeth and more n-words. basically what i'm trying to say is that i'm probably about to get murdered. helen is enjoying a spa week at the kennel, i cleaned the stove and mopped the kitchen because that seems like a smart thing to do before leaving town, i made the craziest playlist ever in the hopes of staying awake on the road, yet i still have not: packed my clothes, gathered all of my medications, decided whether or not to take a full bottle of good shampoo or travel size bottles of a mediocre one, purchased road snacks, or PICKED A PLACE TO DUMP THESE STUPID ASHES. some ideas:

1 liquor store. we had those 12 step books all over our goddamned house. i'm not sure why, because even though he drained the family savings on three separate attempts at inpatient rehab, that dude just loved to drink. E&J, grain alcohol, nyquil: you name it, he drank it. most of the people in his professional life had no idea; he saved the shoe polish drinking for those of us he loved the absolute most. try as he might he could not shake that demon. i am a tenderheart when it comes to addiction. life is fucking terrible, and if you reach for a bottle of pinot gris or a cheeseburger when you feel bad i get it. shit, i am it. i don't judge, because you can look at my body and see just how awful times in my life have been. look, i'm happy for those of you who have no emotional attachment to food or booze or pills but fuck you if you can't cut the rest of us a fucking break. drink your water and eat your carrots and have some goddamn empathy.

2 someplace that sells lottery tickets. every christmas i would get a fistful of scratch off tickets. my dad would play $50-60 a day: 3-digit, 4-digit, dollar straight, dollar box. does anyone under the age of thirty know what the fuck those words even mean? he used to hang out at this place called ramy's and every fucking day would exchange thick wads of cash for a handful of flimsy tickets. and that motherfucker couldn't catch a cold. he never won shit. yet every day he dutifully played his numbers, a grown man whose wife had put him out and was so broke that he was living in a rooming house with a communal fucking bathroom at 60+ years old still found fifty bucks a day to spend on his birthday, my birthday, his anniversary, our old address, the last four digits of his first phone number, and so on.

3 a restaurant with pig feet on the menu. my dad ate, like, six things. TOTAL. kidney beans, potted meat, hot water cornbread, pigs feet, fried chicken wings, and black walnut ice cream. i lived with him my junior year of high school and i am not kidding, he never deviated from that super-nutritious diet. i would go to the store with him and gaze wistfully at all of the fresh vegetables and cheese while he loaded up our cart with vienna sausages and cornmeal, longing for the day he would let me at least smell the warm bread in the bakery. "but you live in the north now!" i would plead, shaking a box of tuna helper under his disapproving nose. "we like pizza here!" occasionally he would go to KFC and i could get some goddamn cole slaw and corn, but if i ate a vegetable in 1996 that motherfucker came from 1 school or 2 your mom's house.

4 at a dice game. once my father hit a dude in the head with a hammer on our front porch because, as legend has it, that gentleman tried to cheat the old man during a vicious game of click clack. A REAL HAMMER. can you believe that old country ass shit? how much could a bunch of broke motherfuckers possibly bet on craps that justifies a goddamn brain injury?! (ps, my dad was the best.) SB was also incredibly proficient at bid whist, a partnership trick-taking game that is very popular among african-americans. i told you this dude loved gambling more than he loved his children and/or pets, and one time he let me sit in on a spades hand and we got set because i overbid and he for real would not feed me dinner that night. I WAS NINE, FAM. he was for real, like, "goodnight, samantha" at four in the afternoon. i have little joker nightmares to this very day.

5 outside of al green's church. SB was not religious, but come on. how cool would that be!? i know the words to "my god is real!" that whole "livin' for you" album is a jam. that's how it works, right? instead of preaching he just sings a medley of his greatest god-related hits? my body is ready.

so i'ma try not to fall asleep on the road and order hella room service in this swanky hotel for a week and listen to some country music and work on my book which is due in two months holy fucking shit and maybe reunite with my brothers and watch that show nashville on hulu to be ironical and instagram some obnoxious meals and see dave chappelle at the ryman and probably drop SB in a river or something. and pour a little out for my homie.

Friday, March 20, 2015

the seven types of bitches you run into at the club.

1 the bitch whose feet are fucking killing her. THANK YOU, BASED GOD, FOR OLD NAVY ACTIVE COMPRESSION PANTS. i decided a long time ago that i would just patiently wait for high-waisted underpants and threadbare cardigans to come in style, and until they do i'm not really gonna try that goddamn hard. i never want to go anywhere or do anything, but it's kind of hard to be a person if you don't. i just want to eat ribs in my jammies and text my vote for that one girl on the voice 137 times, not spend my rent money on tequila and cabs while wearing uncomfortable shoes and pants that dig into my soft meat. which is why i fucking don't anymore. i went to the club this past weekend and, you know what? SHIT AIN'T CHANGED. dudes will still elbow you in the jaw to beat you to the 1/2 inch of empty space at the bar into which they must wedge themselves to order a drink, and ladies are still tiptoeing through the used condoms and discarded needles in too-small fake louboutins. not me, though. fuck a stiletto. i wear crocs and compression stockings because i'm one of those people who is good at learning from the mistakes of others. that's why i wear my pajamas to the disco, because i like to let my shit hang. my discomfort has never been appropriately rewarded. every fish i've ever dragged out of the sea was caught tangled up in a pair of support hose, because my ankles are swollen. BUT MY FEET FEEL FUCKING AMAZING.

2 the bitch who really did come for the food. this is me, at your company party: hovering suspiciously close to the crab dip with my belt unbuckled, nibbling directly from the assorted snack trays while trying to avoid getting locked into an excruciating conversation with someone boring. the nightlife landscape is changing: no longer are you forced to leave the party spot to hit up the tamale cart or dank shawarma hole to soak up all those appletinis you let someone's recently-widowed dad buy for you! never again will you have to eat a bowl of rice, six fig newtons, and half a peanut butter sandwich while doing your makeup trying to fill up your stomach before pouring a bunch of overpriced beers into it! i don't know how it is where you live, but chicago is fucking full of these places all of a sudden, and it's the goddamn best. especially if you're one of those people who like to look occupied so no one in the bar will suspect how lonely and terrible she is in real life. CAN'T TELL THAT THESE FEELINGS ARE SAD IF I'M BUSY EATING THEM CAN YOU, BRO. um, what. anyway, food is good. shit what am i even talking about anymore.


4 the zooey deschanel bitch. i do not believe in whimsical humans. bjork? whimsical human. amelie? whimsical fictional human. YOU in a too-small cupcake printed modcloth dress and messy pigtails turning cartwheels in the middle of a disco? ANNOYING REGULAR PERSON WHO HAS WATCHED 500 DAYS OF SUMMER TOO MANY GODDAMN TIMES. you've seen her: the bitch with a live bird in her purse who skips through restaurants and signs for the fed ex delivery with a teeny little adorable heart. or the one with an entire potted plant in her hair doing public cartwheels with her shoes off while hurling confetti at passing cars. the baby voices and the ladybug cupcakes and the getting glitter all over the place: EXHAUSTING. and they're everywhere. k and i were at 3 dots a few months ago and, after approximately 37 banana daiquiris and a bunch of shrimp, i decided i had to pee aka vomit. and the one thing standing between me and the safety and comfort of a tiki-themed bathroom was an asshole with pastel fairy wings affixed to her back. and she was doing this arm-waving dance with her eyes closed that made it nearly impossible to get around her without accidentally getting an eye clawed out. she was whirling and swirling to a beat i couldn't hear; when i went left she swerved left, and when i tried right she pirouetted right. listen, i don't give a fuck if you want to wear pinafores with puppies printed on them. i really don't. but i for real peed a little bit in my one good pair of outside pants because a chick with white people dreads was pretending to be some sort of wood nymph in the middle of a goddamn disco. and i'm mad about it. everything is goddamned terrible.

5 the bitch who throws up. speaking of, i have vomited in so many amazing places! this is the unfortunate byproduct of all of those newfangled hotspots what with all of their complicated craft cocktails and elaborately-styled appetizers: hey bro, how the fuck am i supposed to resist both and plate of deviled eggs and a drink with no fewer than seventeen handpicked, locally sourced ingredients!? I AM ONLY HUMAN, OKAY. so let me get that venison hot dog with the asian pickled slaw on top and three, no i mean four, roman holidays. and yes i will take that shot of patron greg just bought for the table, thank you very much. what was that? you want me to dance real fucking hard and potentially dislocate a hip because this bearded hipster DJ in a librarian sweater just put "murder she wrote" on to be ironical? DON'T MIND IF I DO. nah, i don't need a water, just hand me that half-empty champagne flute i'm not really sure belongs to me. hold up they have ice cream brownie m&m caramel doughnut profiterole snickers cake here!? JAM.

6 the bitch who is spoiling for a fight. i have been in two bar fights in my life. #1 like the champion i am, i ripped my shirt off hulk hogan style over my rippling chest and muscular abs before proceeding to break the jaws of every single motherfucker in the room without so much as smudging my eyeliner. #2 SEE NUMBER ONE.
just kidding, my dude. the first time i wanted to show how tough i was by breaking a bottle of corona on the edge of the bar and threatening to stab this bitch who had just rudely yanked my friend from the adjacent barstool by her ponytail with the jagged remains, but what really happened was i busted that shit, sprayed my friend and only ally in the face with flying shrapnel and lukewarm beer, then opened my bloody hand to find a giant shard of glass embedded squarely in the middle of my palm. horrified by the sight of my life line cut neatly in half and the alcohol-thinned blood pooling rapidly around the wound, i put my head down on the bar while my girl tried to use her car key to dislodge it. the second attempt my homie and i were executing a perfectly synchronized reenactment of the kid and play dance from the first house party movie and i'm not even really sure how things devolved, but one of us might have ended the night trying to catch a cab with a black eye and someone else's shirt on. ahem.

7 the bitch who gave birth to you. hells yeah, baby: KAREN FINALLY GOT A MOTHERFUCKING DIVORCE.


Thursday, March 5, 2015

how to survive the death of a friendship.

it's like taking a motherfucking bullet. worse than the cancellation of your favorite tv show, worse than a heart-shattering romantical breakup, kicking your icecreamcryingpajamafriend to the curb (or finding yourself choking on gutter water because she's sick of you and your shit) is the most painful thing a girl could ever go through, and i'm an orphan who has tried to remove her own skin tags with dental floss. i know from severe emotional and physical pain. and i know what you're thinking, "WHO WOULD EVER WANT TO STOP BEING YOUR FRIEND, SAM" and the answer is: three or four dummies i had to search through my gmail contacts to delete because i got hacked and the thought of spamming that one jerkface with phony weight loss URLs and uncashed nigerian royalty checks was motherfucking excruciating. i couldn't let her know that my password choice was weak, I AM TRYING TO BE THE WINNER OF THIS BREAKUP. because i'm petty.

i'm not even really sure that "getting over it" is something i'm even good at yet. my friendships are too goddamn important for me to just shrug and walk away and erase them from my mind forever. i'm proud to say that despite my shitty disposition i haven't lost very many friends, so i haven't had a lot of practice going through these motions and turning up cured and happy on the other side. frankly, i might be kind of crappy at this. and i don't know whether or not it's healthy to be good at it? i've gotten over romantic relationships in the time it takes to get that tricky plastic ring off the lid of a pint of ben and jerry's, but i still wake up in the middle of the night haunted by that one person who doesn't speak to me any more because of the thing i didn't mean to do but couldn't convince him of otherwise. I AM STILL VERY SORRY, STEVE.

a couple days ago i was scrolling through the cemetery that is my linkedin profile when a skeleton clawed its way out of the shallow grave i'd buried it in and was like, "CONGRATULATE ME ON MY PROMOTION, YOU BITCH." first of all, what is linkedin really for. i've been at the same job for almost thirteen years and all my motherfucking endorsements are the same as your 8th grade sister's: "good at social media!" "knows how to make columns in microsoft excel!!" (kind of) "can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while texting!!!" i only have that shit so i can look at all the lies bitches i went to high school with are telling. anyway, i was surprised that the skeleton hadn't wiped me clean from all of her internet platforms. that asshole must really want me to know that red lobster has no glass ceiling. "good for you, whore," i mumbled to myself as my mouse hovered over the remove connection button. and then i felt sad.

sometimes the shit is a relief, like when those convenience friendships you make on the job where you hope that bitch quits or gets fired before you have to figure out how to tactfully leave her off the invite list for your baby shower dissipate when she suddenly has to move out of state. and other times it feels fucking amazing, like when you get to charge a particularly egregious bitch to the game in a spectacular goddamned way after she's wronged you. but mostly it's just HELLA AWKWARD, like when you ghost after an unresolved text fight or block a bitch on facebook while hoping that she knows you get custody of that brunch spot with those bourbon drinks.

you could think about apologizing, but i don't. because forgiveness is a slippery slope into indentured servitude and man fuck that. if you fucked up, say sorry like you mean it and hope for the best. just be ready for her to tell you to hit the goddamn bricks. and if she does? pack your shit and get the fuck out. but if she toys with you and makes you beg while she "thinks about it" and you dangle at the end of her rope you gotta bail on that, too. remember that one dude you took back after he fucked your sister and stole thirty bucks out of your pants in the middle of the night? for the next [insert laughably short amount of time here] it took him to fuck up again, i know what you did: BROUGHT THAT SHIT UP EVERY CHANCE YOU GODDAMN GOT. that's what i would do.
bruh: "i can't pay for dinner."
sam: "but remember that time you cheated?"
bruh: "i'm too tired to bang you." 
sam: "but remember that time you cheated?"
bruh: "i'll take the garbage out tomorrow." 
sam: "but remember that time you cheated?"
bruh: "i'm sorry, boo. i cheated again." 

not me, homie. i refuse to spend friendship 2.0 curtsying and paying for all the snacks. either we retreat to our respective corners to lick our wounds for a week then forget all about it, or we set it on fire and move on. i'm for real trying to have my life be like steel magnolias, but people are shit and life is terrible and sometimes it just doesn't work out the way i want it to. here's how i cope:

1 you get one day to be the heidi montag to her lauren conrad. this is hard with ladyfriends since, because they aren't shitty, emotionally reckless dudes, i tend to be more generous with the benefit of the doubt when they do some greasy shit to me. i'm more likely to torment myself for hours on end wondering what i did wrong and how i could've made it better. when i get dumped by a dude it's like, "okay: small dick, didn't go to high school, one of his car doors is a different color than the others, made fun of me for trying to get into green juice, couldn't pronounce nuclear, always snickered when he referred to wednesday as 'humpday,' balding." but with my homies it's like, "um...enviable lipstick collection, killer taste in music, always knows the best happy hour on any given night, SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHAT I DID TO FUCK THIS RELATIONSHIP UP." 

usually it's nothing. you've grown apart, you're making different choices, you're team adam and she's team christina, WHATEVER. even if you did something horrible and malicious how long do you have to beat yourself up for? i say one goddamned day. then you gotta let it go. she's 50 cent, you're young buck, life goes on.

2 don't talk public shit about her to your mutual friends. your tried and true soldiers? BY ALL MEANS, especially if you can devise some sort of litmus test to ensure that they are actually on your side. you don't need any double agents snitching on your hurt feelings. you're trying to look like a g. that one bitch you know just asked you to lunch to try to get you to skulldrag your old roommate so she could post everything you say on twitter? you better stop by the corner store on your way to brunch and grab a new york times or something. you are going to need some current events, sister. you gotta have those cat reflexes ready to deflect even the most innocent-seeming name drop or personal inquiry. it's a trap, b. DO NOT ENGAGE.
her: "hey, did you hear [evil bitchface from hell] got engaged to that ugly guy?"
your ass: "hey, did you hear what benjamin netanyahu said yesterday?"
AWKWARD PAUSE. then start digging in your salad like there's buried treasure at the bottom of it because you don't know shit about world politics. but that bitch doesn't read! eventually she'll get the hint and bring the conversation back around gel manicures or bruno mars or whatever it is young people talk about and then you dudes are all good.

3 unfollow her insta. in twenty years i'ma read this old shit and be like, "unfollow her what the what!?" while adjusting my moon goggles, but until then SORRY BITCH BUT I MUST REMOVE YOU FROM MY NEWSFEED. here are two things that you won't anticipate happening but totally will: 1 the sight of her face is going to make you want to throw up every fucking time you see it and 2 even the smallest of her life's accomplishments will mock you endlessly until some dummy you went to high school with starts reposting that privacy warning that rears its ugly head and clogs up the newsfeed every few months. just block her already. her poorly-lit selfies are of no interest to you anymore.

4 call that one broad you've been meaning to chill with. i am not an "other fish in the sea" type of person. like, if your romantical partner tells you to kick rocks in a real bogus way, i'm the one you want to call to 1 wingman a bad choice for your vagina down at the local watering hole or 2 strip the gears on that motherfucker's car and put dog shit in his mailbox. want a pep talk about how your soulmate is still out there? you probably have a mom for that. need help faking a pregnancy and tricking dude out of a few bucks? i'm already in an uber, sister. BE THERE IN TEN. so i'm not going to lie to you and tell you there's another rainbow out there with with your next best friend sitting underneath it. because there probably isn't. plus you're feeling all touchy and betrayed anyway, and who needs empty platitudes when there are skinny girl pina coladas to be consumed? which is why you should holler at that one broad who keeps instant messaging you on facebook to make plans. stop ignoring her, she could be just the distraction you need. ol' girl was pretty cool in high school, right? from what you can remember!? she never hit on your boyfriend and she let you cheat off her biology final in sophomore year, why not buy her a beer and project all of your newfound rage and insecurity onto her! relationships have been built on less, trust me.

5 juice that lemon. the beautifullest thing about friendships past is that you know all about how silly motherfuckers are in real life, and those are stories you can use to entertain yourself once they've shown you the goddamned door and you're alone in your crib crocheting an afghan out of cat hair while watching every episode of girlfriends you can find on netflix. the hardest thing about being a good friend, for me, is biting my tongue while my friends do and say the stupidest shit ever. have you ever had to keep a straight face while pretending the woman across the table from you is a smart, rational human being as she describes why the items she found while digging through her boyfriend's trash have led her to believe he's cheating on her with a co-worker? no!? WELL I FUCKING HAVE. i basically had to superglue my eyes to keep them from rolling into the back of my head. i've also sat in a car outside an empty apartment building with binoculars trying to catch a friend's cheating lover, because it's what one does when one is a good friend. (turns out we were on the wrong street but whatever.) everyone is dumb and terrible. what was desperate and sad a few years ago is now a hilarious story to tell at cocktail parties. thank you, ex-BFF! at the time i didn't judge that gay man you were talking about getting engaged to, madam, but now that you've dismissed me and i'm the life of the party BAHAHAHAHAHAHA THAT DUDE HAD A BOYFRIEND.

6 be cute at all times and never go to any places you might run into that bitch. a dude is not going to notice your recent experimentation with turquoise eyeliner and harem pants, friend. but you know who will? the one woman in town who has seen your natural hair color. and, unfortunately for you, YOU GUYS AREN'T SPEAKING ANYMORE. remember what i said about custody of brunch? unless you can be sure she will never crave that brisket hash ever again, find a new goddamn spot. 99% of the time i'm sure that your cruel god hates my guts, except for that 1% of the time little baby jesus spends protecting me from running into any of my enemies in awkward public spaces. even though chicago is the largest incestuous small town on the map, i have been fortunate to never have been stuck on a subway car or at a sporting event with anyone i had to pretend not to notice. that shit is exhausting. which is why this frienddeath is the perfect opportunity for you to get out and see some new shit. take that new haircut to a neighborhood you know that bitch would never go to. oh, you're into orange lipstick now? GOOD, why not show it off at the cupcake emporium (that's a thing, right young people?) or at the reggae spot? take this opportunity to explore new surroundings and play with your look and maybe even reinvent your goddamned self, all while trolling for a new best friend who accepts your newfound interest in art and won't remind you every five minutes of that time you peed yourself in the fourth grade.

7 it's okay to be sad sometimes. even years later. a song will come on the radio or something hilarious will happen and you're going to pause mid-text and feel like shit for thirty seconds. it sucks, man. thank god you now have cool hair.

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

easy human meals to make in your tiny joke kitchen.

yesterday morning i had a lunchable for breakfast. don’t worry, it was the bologna and cheese kind so it was v v healthy. here’s the thing, though: I REALLY LIKE TO COOK. the problem is that 1 cooking for myself is kind of boring and 2 it kind of sucks when you threaten to knock mixing bowls and shit off the counters of your miniscule galley kitchen every time you turn a goddamned hip. i used to housesit all the time for wealthy people and their snooty purebred dogs and the best part of that life, hands down, was spending a week or two in a big ass top chef kitchen. i’m talking: gleaming pasta makers, towering walk-in pantries, every tool to be found in the sur la table catalog. it was like living in a tv show, but without a red-faced british dude yelling about what a donkey i am because i accidentally double-dipped my tasting spoon. (lol "accidentally.") THIS IS MY WEALTH OF COUNTER SPACE, Y'ALL. well, half of it. the other half is across from it and has a dish drain and all my tax documents and shit i gotta return to zappos and boxes from nutrisystem piled on top of it. i don't have room to make a goddamned thing. except for a mess.

i keep trying, though. ugh it’s still kind of the beginning of a new year, which means we all gotta pretend we care about ourselves until it’s warm enough to wear a bathing suit in public then realize it’s not worth it anyway and go back to eating cheetos for dinner because fuck it. and nothing goes with a brand new maybe this is the year i get skinny gym membership like trying to cook your own balanced meals. at the end of every december i start feeling bad about having spent the eleven months prior getting 99% of my calories from carbohydrates, and this guilt propels me into relatively-healthy eating for at least the first three months of the year. but 1 i'm kind of lazy 2 i hate grocery shopping and 3 i work all the goddamn time and just want to watch tv with my water-logged ankles propped up on a wedge pillow when i get home, not burn calories chopping vegetables for a wholesome dinner. but in case i drop dead i want whoever finds my body to know that sometimes i go to whole foods. i mean, they'll have to kick a lot of dusty slim-fast boxes out of the way first, but once they do? EXEMPLAR OF HEALTH.

so every now and again some humorless drone is all WHY YOU AIN'T GOT NO FOOD ON A BLOG ABOUT BITCHES EATING and i'm like, uh well i sometimes do? but it's more about the jokes and stuff? and then we stand around awkwardly shifting feet without making eye contact while trying to figure out a way to gracefully end this painful interaction, after which i go crawl into a guilty little hole to rethink my life choices. so this is a post about food. all made in my tiny-ass kitchen while i texted fools and kept leaving the room to watch tv.

nutritious, grownup ramen-type bowl.

cooking oriental foods is always terrifying to me because, other than a couple raggedy old packets of soy sauce left over from delicious takeout meals, i don't keep a lot of asian spices and shit around the casa. occasionally i'll buy calrose rice in case i throw together a ghetto stir fry or whatever, but i don't regularly have turmeric or kaffir leaves just lying around in case i all of a sudden become inspired. i have a general idea of how much basil is too much basil or when to lay off the cumin, but i don't really know shit about star anise. (wtf is that even.) this noodle pot is an easy way to feel learned and cultured without the danger of seriously fucking your tastebuds up if you measure incorrectly or fall asleep while the shit is cooking.

you need:
miso paste
tom yum paste
chili paste
solid chicken bouillon paste
soy sauce
noodles of your choosing (i use medium-sized flat noodles)
assorted vegetables (i used pre-cut trader joe’s broccoli carrot slaw and pea shoots because i’m fucking careless and don't want shaved-off bits of my fingertips in my broth. you could also use shelled edamame, napa cabbage, baby corn, spinach, or whatever you have the patience for.)
tiny frozen shrimp (or: cooked shredded chicken, cooked sliced sausage, fried tofu, whatevs)

here's what to do with it:

bring some water to a boil in a both a saucepan and a kettle.
while you wait, scoop a teaspoon of each of the pastes+bouillon+soy sauce+sriracha into a little bowl, add a splash of hot water and mix it together with a little whisk.
the pot noodles i use cook in two minutes, so i drop them into the water once it's boiling, hover impatiently while shifting anxiously from foot to foot, then dump them out under cold water and drain them. once they're mostly dry i put the noodles in a mason jar BECAUSE I AM ADORABLE, add my defrosted shrimp (to defrost: rinse under cold water until rubbery then pat dry), pour over the paste/soy sauce mix, and top with vegetables. then i pour water from the kettle i set to boil at the beginning of this whole thing (remember that?) over all of it, stir a couple times, then let it sit for a few minutes with the lid on before maxing all the noodles and meat then getting mad at myself when all i have left is salty broth and bits of cabbage.

egg muffins.

i don't always love eggs? but they're cheap and they last for-fucking-ever and you can't make cookie dough to eat straight from the mixing bowl without them, so i always have a couple hanging out in the back of my refrigerator. breakfast for me is always the hardest because i need to leave my crib at 645, IN THE FUCKING MORNING, and i can barely get a stretch and a shower in between the alarm clock and the train which means i definitely am not cooking shit before work. i envy you coffee and newspaper in the comfort of your own home people. the last time i ate breakfast in my own crib was never. when i still had the taurus i was that bitch trying to smash a bowl of milk and cereal at every red light, but now with no ride i have to, like, be prepared. or spend $17 every day at starbucks.

so these aren't really muffins as much as they are portable egg clumps with cheese and shit in them, but they are easy and delicious and you make them in a muffin tin so whatever. i just throw in whatever old meats, cheeses, and vegetables i have dying a slow death in my produce drawer, then bake and freeze them. and since you make a bunch in advance you have ready to go breakfast options all week.

you need:

assorted chopped vegetables. i am partial to: spinach, onions, bell peppers, mushrooms, asparagus, zucchini, corn, green onions, and broccoli. but for real you can use whatever tastes good to you.
chopped tomatoes
grated or crumbled cheese, whatever you got
green chilies or jalapenos
fresh coriander, whatever herbal shit you're into
you can add chicken or other lean meats or tofu
6 eggs beaten with 2 tbsp milk, black pepper to taste

here's what to do with it:

preheat the oven to 400 and grease your goddamned muffin tin. (i use pam, the coconut oil kind) add vegetables of your choice along with cheese (if you choose, and why wouldn't you?) to each cup, then pour the beaten egg mixture into each cup.

place the muffin pan on the center rack of the oven and bake for 20-25 minutes or until muffins are light brown, puffy, and the eggs are set. let those bitches cool for a few minutes before removing from the pan. loosen gently with a butter knife if they seem to be sticking. eat immediately or let cool completely before storing them in plastic bag in refrigerator or freezer. they can be reheated in the oven or microwave and eaten in the shower while trying to catch another depressing weather report on the morning news. or so i've heard.

curried tofu.
i adapted this one from the homie martha stewart. i don't like to cook a lot of meat at home because it's messy and a ton of work, also because achieving the perfect sear on an expensive cut of grass-fed beef is not what i want to come home and do on a random fucking wednesday. there are basically fifty-eight minutes between the time i peel off my eight layers of winter outwear and the time empire starts, and i refuse to spend a single one of them tying up a fucking chicken.

you need:
1 container (14 ounces) firm or extra-firm tofu, drained
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 small onion, halved and thinly sliced
1 tablespoon curry powder
coarse salt and ground pepper
4 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 cup lite coconut milk
1 box (10 ounces) frozen green beans, defrosted
4 plum tomatoes, halved lengthwise and cut crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces (3 cups)
cooked calrose rice, for serving (optional)

here's what to do with it:
halve tofu horizontally; then crosswise. (GOD I HATE GEOMETRY; also, you should have 4 equal squares). cut each square diagonally into 2 triangles. arrange tofu in one layer on a baking sheet lined with 3 layers of paper towels; cover with three more layers. place another baking sheet and a bottle of wine or something heavy on top. let tofu drain until towels are soaked, about 20 minutes. so this part is kind of irritating on paper but it really isn't as hard as it looks. you can slice your onions and mince your garlic while the tofu is draining to save time.

heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. add tofu and cook, turning once, until golden-brown, maybe 10 minutes. remove from pan to a plate then reduce heat to medium. add remaining tablespoon oil, onion, and curry powder. season generously with salt and pepper. cook, stirring frequently, until onion is soft, about 5 minutes. add garlic; cook until fragrant, about 1 minute.

reduce heat to medium-low. add coconut milk and 1/2 cup water; bring to a gentle simmer. return tofu to skillet. add green beans and tomatoes, cover, and cook until tender, about 4 minutes. serve over rice if desired. (true story: i always desire the rice.)

sausage and kale stew.
soup is kind of depressing to me. like if i order a cheeseburger at a restaurant and my companion across the table orders a bowl of soup for dinner it's like, "bro...? are you sick or something? should we leave? why aren't you getting any goddamned food!?" and then you gotta sit there and watch that motherfucker eat SOUP, one of the least appealing to foods to watch being consumed. insult to injury: pretending that that gross, wet slurping isn't killing you a little bit on the inside. especially since most soups taste like the flu. but at home you can make stew, which is the perfect remedy to both bullshit ass weather and the gaping hole of starvation left in your gut when you try to pass off soup as a real goddamned meal.

you need:
1 tablespoon olive oil 
1 12-ounce package fully cooked chicken sausage links, sliced 
2 cloves garlic, thinly sliced 
1 19-ounce can cannellini beans, rinsed 
1 box of low-sodium chicken broth 
1 14.5-ounce can diced tomatoes 
1 bunch kale leaves, torn into 2-inch pieces 
kosher salt and black pepper

here's what you do with it:
heat the oil in a large pot over medium heat. add the sausage and cook, stirring once, until browned, 2 to 3 minutes. stir in the garlic and cook for 2 more minutes. try not to eat handfuls of sausage directly from the pot.

add the beans, broth, and tomatoes (including the liquid) and bring to a boil. then lower the heat and add the kale and ¼ teaspoon each salt and pepper. simmer, stirring occasionally, until wilted, 2 to 3 minutes. THEN IT'S DONE. super quick, right? i like to eat mine in a bowl the size of a cauldron with a heap of shaved parmesan on top, but i am a human with minimal self-control. seriously, every time i make this i can barely get it all cooked before i start "tasting" the hell out of it. eat yours how you see fit. i wouldn't judge you if you just got in bed with the pot.

i get rul tired of people talking to me about water. snoozapalooza. it's boring and it tastes like crushed dreams, but bitches is always trying to tell me about their supple, luminous skin and hydrated muscles and healthy kidneys. YAWN. but i will drink it if there's vegetables and fancy grass floating in the shit. bottle of evian? no thank you. glass of filthy tap water with a withered sprig of mint and half of a decrepit old lime? JESUS GOD MORE PLEASE. every time i take a sip of water my dry ass hair whispers "thank you" while praying for rain, yet i only drink it because michelle obama told me to. and even then there better be some dandelions floating in it.

here are some delicious flavor combinations you can try, according to people who get paid to think about that kind of thing:
strawberry, basil, and lemon.
blackberry and sage.
pineapple orange and mint.
grapefruit and rosemary.
pear and ginger.

i am on day three of the 96oz of water a day challenge. i cannot stop peeing. my skin looks the goddamned same.