Thursday, April 10, 2014

what i learned about romance from creepily hate-watching couples during brunch.

2:17 pm they get up really fucking early to beat the crowd they will inevitably become. and before you even get started don't worry, the overly judgmental host said it for you, "getting a late start eh, ladies?" he mused as em and i dragged ourselves and our big sunglasses to a cozy table in the back of the cafe. to which i say, IT'S NOT BRUNCH IF IT HAPPENS BEFORE NOON, YOU ASSHOLES. you're not eating brunch at 930 in the morning, boo. you are straight up having BREAKFAST. don't be cute, just because you're still drunk and there's eggs on the table that doesn't mean you're eating brunch. i know you want an excuse to put vodka in your oj before the sun is even all the way up, and that excuse is just going to have to be "alcoholism" unless you wait until at least eleven-fucking-thirty. i hate being sneered at rolling into the jam spot with no underwear on under my sleeping pants just because the barista has already made 942 pots of coffee for all of the jerks who are totally doing sunday wrong. what is it about having a manfriend that catapults you bitches out of bed before the rooster even has his first latte? last thing i ever want to do after i get laid is get up. FOR THE NEXT THREE DAYS. usually because i dislocated a hip and felt my spine slip out of alignment a couple times, but who gives a fuck about that. besides, isn't that the buttery shit about being in a goddamned relationship? that homeboy could just unstick his dick from where it glued itself to your back in the middle of the night and roll out to doughnut vault for a couple of buttermilk old fashioneds and the sunday times while you just lie there thinking about chlamydia!? WHAT THE FUCK IS THE POINT OF LISTENING TO YOUR STUPID PROBLEMS ALL THE TIME IF I STILL HAVE TO GET UP HELLA EARLY AND PUT SHOES ON TO GET BREAKFAST, BRO.

2:23 pm sometimes they eat across from each other without saying a motherfucking word for, like, seventeen real minutes. i'm like a gremlin, man: no direct sunlight. and no loud voices either, because mommy was out late having fun with your new "uncle" and her head hurts so please play quietly in your room until the sun goes down and this bromo seltzer kicks in. em and i were shown to a cozy little table tucked in a corner behind the NO. NOT TUCKED. THEY SAT US RIGHT IN FRONT OF AN ENORMOUS PLATE GLASS WINDOW ON A BEAUTIFUL, SUN-DRENCHED DAY. i could feel my horns and scales start to melt beneath my eating hoodie the minute we sat down. a couple of those "put a bird on it" type of people were sitting next to us: you know, a couple of thirty-year-old graphic designers who just finished a kickball match with thrifted dad sweaters and "woodworking" scars. i try to never make eye contact with anyone lest they think i want to exchange pleasantries with them, but i inconspicuously glanced over to see if what they were eating looked like i needed to copy it. they were sitting there in silence, both looking at their plates, the only sounds coming from the faint clink and scrape of fork against plate. "IS THAT THE CASSEROLE?!" em squawked in their direction, which prompted them to look up briefly then immediately look back down at their food. i have been to funerals more lively. this is why i can't be jealous of your relationship, dog. because sure, i would like someone else to pay my phone bill and put his jacket over puddles i need to walk through (that's how that works, amirite?) but if he doesn't have shit to say to me after six months WHAT IS THE GODDAMN POINT. i'ma need you to tell me the consistency of the last poop you took, bro. have you read any books lately? get yourself a pair of new shoes? talk to me about basketball statistics, or about how you dressed up like captain america when you went to see the new movie last weekend. of course i love xbox! i am absolutely interested in that pop punk grindcore string quartet show you're going to! comfortable silence is only comfortable when nosy bitches ain't watching our every move. DON'T MAKE ME WRITE YOU A SCRIPT. (omg, doing that.)

2:42 pm deciding what to order, vs deciding what your boyfriend should order and allow you to pick off his plate, is a really stressful decision. i like to order one of everything. i mean shit, it's three in the afternoon and i'm dehydrated and full of unbuffered aspirin: BRING ME ALL OF THE FOODS. i decided that i needed a ginger beer, a giant water, a chai latte, and a neat vodka. em ordered coffee, and we asked for a plate of chocolate croissants because it's hard to know what you want to eat when you aren't already eating something. "i'm getting the casserole," i announced confidently, to no one, spitting tiny croissant flakes everywhere. "i'm going to get the griddle cakes," em replied, with an equal amount of certainty and assuredness. "THE CASSEROLE HAS TWO MEATS, BRO," i countered, and it was settled: we would both be ordering the breakfast casserole. i looked around for the waitress, convinced she'd be proud of our decisiveness so close to the end of her shift. and then i realized the couple on our left was having a fight. i love watching people in love argue about dumb shit, because listening to bitches yell at each other about dirty socks or whatever makes me feel way better about being a lonely, hateful spinster. you broads need to try it! next time you're feeling like the dogshit scraped off the bottom of your ex-boyfriend's timberland, take yourself on a date to red lobster and ask the hostess to seat you next to two people who have obviously been together for a while. then put that book you're pretending to read away and enjoy your cheddar biscuits, soothed by the lullaby of other people's misery.

first they were bitching about laundry (snoozapalooza) and then it was as if someone lit a fucking match. "WHY WOULD YOU GET THE CHILAQUILES IF I SAID YOU SHOULD GET THE OMELET SO I CAN SPLIT IT." the waitress stood by uncomfortably while i halted my selection of homely dudes on emily's tinder to devote my full attention to this woman's imminent meltdown. she shout-talked him down every single one of his substitute while he helplessly scoured the menu for something as delicious as those chilaquiles were going to be, a single bead of sweat rolling down his forehead as he withered under her gaze. homie tried to defend himself, to no avail; girlfriend even rebuffed his compromise offer of scrambled eggs and bacon. he wanted anything other than that goddamned omelet, which would surely arrive at the table tasting like fear and sprinkled with his dignity. finally he sighed and ordered it, hold the scallions, and slumped down in his chair sighing in defeat. "HE WANTS THE SCALLIONS ON THE SIDE," girlfriend yelled, and emily and i high-fived each other then went back to swiping left.

2:57 pm girls still do that thing where they fight to do something nice for a dude and even though he won't let her she keeps trying to do it anyway and when he eventually does it for himself we all are left feeling uncomfortable and dissatisfied. having grown bored with the tables on either side of us, i turned my attention to the happenings on the other side of the glass in sunny lincoln square. white people were lazily kicking soccer balls around barefoot (SON) and setting up picnic lunches in the melted piles of garbage masquerading as early spring grass. there was a young pair of lovebirds canoodling (ew) on a park bench directly across from us. carefully tucking hot sausage-wrapped bacon (word) and arugula and coddled eggs into my good cheek, i watched them spoon-feeding each other chocolate gelato and burned with envy. not because i would enjoy being awkwardly poked in the face with plastic cutlery, but BECAUSE GELATO. that shit is hella delicious. anyway, when they finished eating they decided to get on their tandem bike and head to the used vinyl store next to their favorite co-op, but NOT BEFORE THEY DISPOSED OF THOSE CUPS IN AN APPROPRIATE RECYCLING BIN. upon locating one, babygirl jumped at the chance to show old skinny jeans how into him she is by reaching out to collect his refuse, which he yanked just out of her reach. "my low self-esteem and inflated value of your worth in my life needs to show you that i care by carrying your empty cup approximately eighteen inches to your left!" she begged, although i am a terrible lipreader and might have missed a word or three. but he wouldn't make that tiniest of concessions, because everybody knows that once you let a woman recycle for you the next thing you know she's leaving tampons and bobby pins in your bathroom and taping cathy comics to your refrigerator. they wrestled back and forth over this little scrap of plastic for two real minutes before he dragged her, sobbing while clinging desperately to the hem of his slender trousers, over to the bin. "kobe!" he whispered to himself as he banked it in. (i think? like i said, i suck at reading lips.)

4:12 pm going back to bed alone and sleeping until it's time to go to the game of thrones party you were invited to is perfectly reasonable when all you've done all day is: sat around with your sunglasses on inside texting yourself snippets of other people's conversations, purchased two "smart person books" at the book cellar, and drank half a bottle of walgreens wine while eavesdropping on the dude across the hall making loud-ass plans with his LARP-ing friends. THE DREAM, I AM LIVING IT. boyfriends: what's the point.

buy my book, it's the motherfucking jam.

Thursday, March 13, 2014

stupid shit that terrifies me.

1 the hot food bar at whole foods. i know what you're thinking: "there's a sneeze guard for a reason, asshole." but that's not it. okay, some jerk's gross, influenza-splattered hands are kind of it. but what it mostly is are the prying eyes of everyone else hovering timidly over the blackened fish swimming in coconut curry silently judging how much overpriced food i am placing in my bowl. i am a firm believer in the restorative power of the hot bar at whole foods which, in times of gross desperation, has served as a suitable replacement for my absent mother's unconditional love. i eat dinner at whole foods at least once a week, because it's pretty much my only chance to have a balanced, nutrient-rich meal after a stress-filled hellday spent being harangued and derided while sobbing incoherently and shoving fistfuls of potato chips into my face. and i like eating there. it's fucking peaceful, okay? enjoying my nine pounds of organic salad surrounded by the soothing drone of the first world problems being lobbied around by the 1%,"god, are these really the only brands of agave nectar you carry!?", and enya. but before i can get to my bliss i gotta survive the one or two pinched old ladies who select each fajita vegetable one green pepper at a time pausing only to glare at how many scoops of wild rice i'm putting next to my honey wings. no need to roll your eyes at me: THEY WILL BRING OUT MORE, GLADYS. but i sheepishly put that second spoonful back anyway, withering under her watery gaze, and then add another helping of kale.

2 comment sections on the internet. I NEVER READ THEM. never fucking ever. and i refuse to fucking host one. you want to get a bunch of mouth-breathing trolls together to talk about how much i fucking suck? COOL, MAN. but you're not about to do that shit on my fucking shit. you better take your ass to gawker with that. jesus fucking christ, people are goddamned terrible. i am a marginally hilarious human who tries to write funny, self-deprecating things about myself on the internet for the sole purpose of bringing some giggles to others, and the number of times fools straight COME FOR MY SCALP is motherfucking staggering. a couple months ago i wrote some hilarious shit about hiding your leftover chicken wings from the dude who just banged you over the back of your couch for xojane; jezebel republished it and bitches were either trying to snatch my weave or taking pity on how sad and lonely i must be. because commenting for free on some internet jokemaking is somehow superior to getting paid to make those jokes!? oh yeah nawl. FUCK YOU, BITCH.

3 pedicures. after work one temperate day last summer laura and i decided to go get manicures and pedicures as a reward for spending the entire day lounging in comfortable chairs while eating delicious snacks and letting all of the calls go to voicemail. LIFE IS SO HARD. anyway, we went to this place that i can only describe as a, like, sweatshop of nails. rows of neatly lined up tables and chairs each with a masked person dressed in all white seated in front of it. stadium rows of pedicure chairs, two deep, lined up behind them on either side of the room. bright fluorescent lights illuminated the gleaming white floors below; no gross fake flowers gathering dust in the corner of the room, no disgusting vats of lukewarm wax congealing on chin-hair stubbled surfaces, no dried-out separated bottles of old-ass nail polish. this was the kind of spot where they remembered that while you loved having your toes painted pompeii purple but would choke a bitch out if she dared approach you with a bottle of miami beet. THIS IS THE APPEAL OF THE SUBURBS, leaving your car in a strip mall parking lot you don't have to pay for while waddling from starbucks to the beauty supply to panda express and fanning your nails dry.

it's the vibrating chair that got me. that and the fact that i'd opted to have my nails done first and then totally fucked them up trying to roll up my jeans so they wouldn't get soaked. homegirl looked at me like "YOU DUMB COW" and it wasn't even worth arguing with her that i was really the inconvenienced one who was going to have to spend an afternoon picking red nail polish out of denim. so i was already flushed and embarrassed and conspicuous and then that stupid vibrating chair made my pants slide halfway down my ass and all i was trying to do was scoot them up a little, all i was trying to do was not shit my pants as she forced my knee up into my chin over and over again, all i was trying to do was not further destroy the nails she'd already had to fix twice. i kicked half a gallon of water into that poor woman's unsuspecting face. and then we sat there as time froze, me praying for death while she just sat there with her hair dripping onto her shirt scowling at me. she dried herself off and finished while i felt more white guilt than any person of color ever should. then i tipped her twenty bucks. i have not been back since.

4 what my neighbors hear when they are waiting for the elevator outside my apartment. the other night my flimsy paper bag from trader joes fucking disintegrated right in front of my neighbor's apartment door. 1 i have bought approximately 6,328 of those $1.99 reusable shopping bags, yet i never fucking ever have one on my person when i find myself in a grocery store. why is that? why don't i ever know when leaving the house that i might mind up buying three boxes of fish sticks before the day is over? and 2 why they gotta look at you like a motherfucking child pornographer when you ask for a double bag for your six containers of hummus, two packages of those mini pot pies from the frozen section, and a bottle of that cheap-ass wine!? DUDE, I AM TAKING THE BUS. would i much rather be tossing this 1-ply bag of shit in the back of my prius? of course. but since i'm about to karate chop my way through the other snarling poor people crammed onto the 201 just trying to get home in a snowstorm after a grueling sixteen-hour workday, i need to make sure my gluten-free jalapeno puffs survive the trip home intact.

so i'm crouched on the floor picking up my apples and i hear this couple on the other side of the door start to have an argument. it wasn't loud, and it might not have even been an argument, but the end of the woman's sentences kept turning aggressively up, like questions that are questions but they're not really questions they are more like inferences, and i did what any courteous person would do: stopped what i was doing and paid acute attention to every single thing they were saying. from what i could tell dude was getting in trouble for responding to a text from his ex-girlfriend, and that was calling their entire relationship into question. because men who are happy don't waste time talking to sluts. LEARN SOMETHING NEW EVERY DAY, MY DUDE. it went on like that for at least five more minutes, at which point i got a leg cramp and had to crawl to my apartment like an asshole. "hi helen," i whispered to the cat. "go get me some rubbing alcohol and a towel."

5 being reprimanded for sitting in a coffee shop all day using their internet. is that shit illegal? or just frowned upon? i bought three coffees and a donut, shit! LET ME TYPE.

6 taking a shit in a toilet with a weak flush. I COULD BE A FUCKING PLUMBER. i did a reading once that was held in this tiny, sweltering cafe that specialized in vegan baked goods and running out of everything else, and three readers in i knew i was going to have to take a shit. and not a normal one. no, this was the kind that feels like boiling oil sliding through your belly at breakneck speed. and i know the rules: you gotta walk in the stall and test-flush immediately, especially if the toilet has one of those little home handles. you know, the ones that look like a horizontal comma. usually i don't even fuck around with a bathroom like that, i go look for a starbucks or whatever because i already know the heartbreak that lies in wait at the end of that delicate flush. but it couldn't wait. and as i stood there sweating with the lid off pouring water into the tank so that i could activate the siphon and manually work the flush valve i promised myself that i would 1 never eat solid food before a show ever again and 2 call the number for that trade school that always advertises during maury because goddamn i am hella good at this.

7 making small talk with a cab driver. this might actually be the biggest fear i have in life for real. bigger than butt cancer, bigger than runny eggs when i asked for hard scrambled, bigger than realizing the SVU marathon i woke up special on a sunday to watch will feature only pre-ice t episodes. NOTHING ON EARTH IS WORSE THAN TALKING TO A CABBIE, and i was once in the back of a cab that stopped to solicit a prostitute on the way to my crib. i'm sorry, but i can't make conversation at two o'clock in the morning. I'M DRUNK, DUDE. or i just ate a huge dinner. or i'm sleepy. and it's taking every last bit of energy i can muster to send this five word text message, so please stop asking me which road i want you to take. and turn down that euro house mix playing on B96, but not so you can ask me "where the party is happening at." i'm just trying to watch these porn vines with my headphones on, my dude. i don't want to keep pulling the left one out so you can ask me how long i'm finna be where i'm at so you can come pick me up. SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET ME DIE BACK HERE.

8 being out in public without my headphones. there is no greater punishment for being too poor to afford a car than having to ride public transit without protection from the banal chatter of regular humans provided by a pair of decent fucking headphones.

9 HANDING YOU MY FUCKING PHONE. omg we need to come up with a name for the stomach falling out of our butts feeling that you get the minute someone reaches for your pocket-sized dirtbag sinning machine. holy god, i had lunch with eve the other day, and halfway through the meal she asked if she could use my phone to make a call. hers had died on the way to the restaurant and we weren't seated near any outlets which didn't matter because she doesn't carry a charger with her anyway, WHAT.
my first thought: who the fuck lets her phone die in public?
my second thought: WHO THE FUCK STILL MAKES PHONE CALLS!? and if you do, whose number do you have memorized? if my phone died right now i could call work, empire carpet company (588-2300), and the police. totally fucked. my hands went clammy as i reluctantly handed that idiot my phone and watched her fumble around trying to figure out how to make a call, my stomach threatening to fall right out of my butt the entire time as her clumsy fingers grazed dangerously close to the camera and text message icons. i stared at her for the entire two minutes she chattered at her dumb boyfriend, a cold sweat forming at the base of my spine, my cheeks pink. when she finally finished i reached for the phone and she pulled away saying, "let me just look at it for a minute." and then my brain exploded.

-don't read my fucking texts. i sext a lot of people, b. and you don't deserve to read that. except that really isn't true. the real gag is that i don't want you to read how much nasty, hateful shit my people and i talk. screenshots of your stupid facebook posts, forwards of that dumb-ass email you sent. NOT NICE.
-don't check my goddamned email. 4,637 unread messages, all causing me shame as they glare up at me from that teeny illuminated screen, most from directv reminding me that my shit is totally about to get disconnected next week. i have so many drafts, so many half-started emails that i have every intention of finishing if i could just stop sleeping through my lunch break. unless you're a secretary, don't look at that shit.
-don't try to browse through my motherfucking pictures. unless you like big titties. AND PICTURES OF YOUR FATHER'S DICK. 
-don't look at my goddamned voicemails. omg i have a bunch of voicemails that if anyone knew i had them shits saved and occasionally listened to them when i am bored or sad i would fall over immediately and die. also there are 37 that i refuse to check and that makes me look like a terrible person i'm totally sure.
-don't click on my internet. here are the windows i have minimized at 3:47pm on 3/13/14, hand on a stack of bibles realness:
1 CTA train tracker.
2 julep nail polish virtual store.
5 that xojane fat black lady in yoga article.
6 chicagoist 18 best brunches in chicago.
7 that weird lil jon/lazytown remix.
8 a kid mero article from complex magazine.
9 xvideo mature lesbian pajama party.
10 xvideo kinky MILF fantasy.
11 xvideo bbw loves big dick.
12 youtube dmx sings rudolph the red-nosed reindeer.
13 at home booty.
14 but i have a wife!

so bring a charger, bitch.
buy an extra battery, bitch.
here are some quarters for a payphone, bitch.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

young dicks, rotten teeth, and free fried chicken.

before i retire my vagina completely i gotta fuck a young dude for real. just one time, maybe two. i'm nursing a couple of unrequited crushes on humans my own age that i don't foresee panning out, which is killing what is left of my heart one minute at a time. love hurts. but before i abandon them entirely to instead lie about my age to try to fuck your uncle on, i'ma get a couple steroid shots and get my hip brace reinforced and then i'ma jump the shit out of some undergraduate bones, son. AND THEN I WILL DROP DEAD. seriously, my heart would probably explode in my chest. so my girl julia is a professor at columbia college and, because she obviously hates her students, she forced them to read a salty book about diarrhea and being bad at sex for class credit. then she invited me to talk to them about it. BECAUSE I WROTE IT.

i'm not even going to front, knowing that my stupid butthole book is being taught in real human classrooms makes me want to send one of those holiday update letters to everyone i hate with the words HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW in 72-point bold font printed on neon green eyeball-melting construction paper. or print that shit on a t-shirt: "right now there is a grad student writing an essay about my pubic hair so fuck what you think about my choices." i was nervous to go talk to them because, let's be honest, young people are fucking terrifying. i don't understand all of their piercings and cellphone apps and i don't care to. but that fear was 100% forgotten when some dumb asshole tried to fistfight the driver of the cab i was getting into downtown because she was sure i had "stolen" it from her. first of all bitch, this isn't iowa. seventeen empty cabs blew by in the time she spent shrieking and trying to SNATCH MY GODDAMNED BAG while i kicked at her in my snow boots. the cabbie (a nigerian astrophysicist, no doubt) got out to pull her off my shit and she immediately turned to sucker punch him which was so shocking and hilarious that i almost forgot to keep trying to claw her fucking eyes out before i kicked her in the back and slammed the door. the best part? my favorite: dude was clearly a fresh little baby american, and listening to people swear who know the words yet don't quite have a grasp on how to use them is an absolute fucking joy.

so i was late. and i hurt my ankle.
but at least i had a good story for those little fuck fuckers.

so how can i trick a dude between the ages of 21-26 into rubbing aspercreme on my shoulder a couple nights a week? all of that swooning adulation was goddamned INTOXICATING, and that is a feeling i should be feeling all the motherfucking time. what i gotta do to make this happen!? the biggest difference between me and a college kid, besides the amount of cartilage in our respective knees, is that 1 i have a regular paycheck. my refrigerator is full of fourteen different types of artisanal cheese from whole foods and at least a dozen bags of vegetables in varying degrees of decomposition. I CAN BUY ALL OF THE CHIPOTLE. and guess whose new mommy has a costco membership? COME MAX THIS ECONOMY SIZED BOX OF POP TARTS, MY GUY. i could totally chip the ice off of the gross lean cuisine flavors i’m saving for the apocalypse to make room for some totinos pizza rolls and chicken nuggets or whatever the fuck young people eat. not trying to holler at that mushroom risotto i just meticulously prepared? I UNDERSTAND, BRO. who needs to throw out her elbow sweating her mascara off over a beautiful 5 quart le creuset braiser trying to make an impressive dinner when she could just run to walgreens and buy some gatorade and cereal!? NOT FUCKING ME. and 2 i can go to bed at whatever time i want. and i don't share my bathroom with nineteen other people. the one year i lived in a dorm my roommate and i lived next to the RA, which means if we were watching the episodes of young and the restless i had recorded while we were at biology lecture too loud after midnight on a tuesday we could expect an irritated knock on the door from our acne-ridden, trumpet-playing neighbor telling us to turn the tv down and get some rest for class. which was weird because the only reason i even went to college was so that i could stay up late watching mtv and falling asleep in my jeans. then get up and wear those same jeans to breakfast. i didn't borrow $16,000 from the state to have a dude my own age with a howard stern tattoo tell me when i had to take my ass to bed. so i dropped out to "join the workforce," ie, "eat tuna salad footlongs at 3am while doing the laundry."

two tiny examples of at least a dozen things i must learn to use to my advantage when selling these used goods to unsuspecting grad students. in addition to their lack of basic skills knowledge (i know how to write checks!) and incredibly low standards when it comes to snack foods, give one a wifi password and a pair of headphones and it can keep itself entertained for hours at a time. EASIER THAN A PLANT. but they are poor. and unreliable. ugh and messy. i'ma keep you posted.

after impressing the future of america with my sparkling wit, effervescent charm, and my uncanny ability to sweat through three layers of clothing in a temperature-controlled environment, julia and i fled a campus full of skinny jeans and fake plastic glasses (they're still doing that, omg) and went to a preview for this new chicken restaurant called leghorn. WHY THE FUCK HAVEN'T I EVER THOUGHT OF THIS. i write a blog called "bitches gotta eat," son. i should be on every restaurant publicist's list in the city, amirite!? they don't have to know that i write about banging sluts and vomiting into my handbag on the train until after i've already consumed my glamorous free meal.

we rolled up to the spot and i immediately panicked because all of the girls i could see while squinting through the windows were tiny and adorable. "this is a place that serves biscuits and chicken thighs, right?" i side-eyed julia. she reassured me that she wasn't leading me into a motherfucking kale smoothie spot and i was surprised to hear mf doom bumping at a deafening level from the speakers. i still felt like a fucking fraud, tho, because i didn't have the prerequisite expensive shoulder satchel or jaunty fashion hat. how can you be a food reviewer if it doesn't appear that you actually eat food? straight up like, where the fuck are you going to put that chicken thigh, amy.

what a total goddamn treat it is to eat food without having to wait in line or get smacked in the face by the six layers of winter clothing the bitch at the table next to yours has to take off before she can fit into her chair, FUCK CHICAGO. somebody put me on every foodie publicist list in this godforsaken hellscape, because if the shit was free and served in the kind of place where bearded hipster bartenders wear unironic suspenders then i would probably eat dog food on communion crackers and then write a glowing review. i had a super-delicious pickle-brined chicken thigh on a buttered biscuit with hush puppies and fries and i posted that shit on insta and the twitter machine, and so begins my new side hustle as a fancy and important restaurant critic.

EXCEPT. two more of my teeth are now rotting out of my head. WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK, UNIVERSE. i swear to god that i grew up in america, with access to toothpaste and fluoride in my tap water. and when i was in my early 20s i did what i was supposed to do: i saved every nickel and dime i could scavenge and instead of getting a cell phone from cingular or a giant bag of opiates i was responsible and paid this dentist in a real office with real magazines in the waiting room and real equipment to root canal several of the teeth my disadvantaged childhood had left to die in my skull. i took the antibiotics and sat at my freelance job with bags of frozen peas propped against my jaw and spent weeks taking the bus back and forth to this crumbling medical building as she took apart and cleaned out my gross teeth. and then last summer a couple of them broke in the middle of the goddamned because the roots within hadn't been properly cleaned and my upper jaw had spent the last seven years filling up with raging bacteria. so i went to a new dentist, and then an endodontist, and then an oral surgeon, and now i have a gaping hole in the top right side of my mouth. it cost $4,319,623, most of which i still owe my goddamned boss, who i'm pretty sure at this point officially owns me.

and i had the come to jesus moment, i promise. i started flossing more than once a season and burned the top layer of my fucking tongue off rinsing with listerine twice a day and my reward for such diligence was TWO TEETH BREAKING IN MY BOTTOM LEFT JAW LAST WEEK. do you know what it's like to hear your teeth break inside your head? the jagged stalagmites immediately lacerated my cheek and i got blood all over my shirt before stuffing a paper towel in my mouth and leaving work to go get it looked at. SAME SHIT, DIFFERENT DAY was my official diagnosis, as the last of those back door root canals reared its ugly head, this time with nine years worth of bacteria causing the fracture. my dentist was out of town, so the on call dentist shaved the sides of the broken teeth after pointing out the new cloud of blood-poisoning infectiondeath hovering gloomily over the left side of my mouth on the xray. two more weeks of antibiotics, and i'm going in next week to talk about a "treatment plan," which translates to "you need to get a kickstarter to raise money for me to wrestle out two more of your disgusting teeth."

so yeah, i need a young dude. especially one with a few extra teeth. bridges is expensive.

Thursday, February 6, 2014

hilarious party games for drunk girls.

who has slept with the most weirdos and/or dirtbags and/or idiots? let's start right off the bat by clarifying that this list is at least four dudes short. blame the vodka, or my vagina's selective memory, but i was washing the dishes the other day and was like, "oh shit, that dude who worked at best buy." then, "omg that chemist with the southern accent who couldn't keep the, ahem, wind in his sails." carly and alicia and i were at five star sucking down tecate and buffalo wings when one of us had the bright idea to make lists of all of the dudes with whom we'd had full penetration. don't be shy, hooker. the rules: no makeouts, no hand- and/or blowjobs, no dudes we met on craigslist and only let go down on us three or four times because he seemed really depressed and we wanted to be nice and make him, um, feel better? I LOST THIS ROUND, but only because adding "homies i've sent pictures of my tits to" and "men i have laid next to with all of my clothes on but not touching sexually" got me disqualified. JERKS.

what will cheese fries taste like mixed with hot wings plus a room temperature pork tamale and the half of a milky way i found at the bottom of my purse when i vomit them into a public trash can during the walk home? what is this. why do we do this. why in the fuck do we drink so much that we can neither form coherent sentences nor resist going home with the dude wearing knockoff gucci shades in the club then decide to chase those bad decisions with as many delicious greasy snack foods as we can fit in our tiny party purses. as if all that champagne wasn't reason to vomit enough, we gotta go housing bacon double cheeseburgers after pouring bottles of it over our heads. i can't even count the number of times i have been slurring into the speaker of a drive-thru from the back of a cab. or, better still, teetering on foot in some jeans i probably pissed in arguing at the window about how unfair it is that my body is not considered a car. the rules: throw a party or holler at a disco or maybe just sit alone in your bathroom in your good bra and get tipsy, then EAT ALL THE FOOD IN YOUR HOUSE. bonus points if the food is takeout that is more than five days old or is eaten directly from the garbage.

how many beers does it take before i send a dumb ass ill-advised text to some asshole? so i'm really good about deleting numbers i shouldn't use. if you piss me off and i charge you to the game i delete your number immediately, partially so that when you inevitably reach out to me again i'm not a total fucking liar when i ask "WHO DIS" in my response, but mostly because i know what an emotional nightmare i can be when i'm totally fucking hammered and can't be sure that i won't text BITCH WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME to everyone who has ever rejected me yet is somehow still taking up space in my phone. what is it about slumping half passed out in the back of a cab that turns us into weepy romantics all of a sudden? why can't we just fall the fuck asleep and asphyxiate on our vomit like normal humans!? the rules: BE BORED AND ALONE AND HAVE MORE THAN 12% BATTERY LIFE LEFT ON YOUR PHONE AND AN UNLIMITED TEXT PLAN. then start reminiscing. you should probably also grab some kleenex, put on some mary j blige, and bring that bottle of red wine to bed with you. getting up a dozen times is exhausting.

can i make it to the toilet and get these tight ass jeans rolled down before i actually start to pee? one time i went to the darkroom (RIP, welp) for reggae night and thought it was a jam idea to wear super high heels in tandem with the tightest jeans known to the lane bryant clearance rack. corona was on special for $2 a bottle which means a lot of dudes in badu headwraps were buying my beers that evening, and i probably had 137 before the DJ even got to "heads high." FUCK, I LOVE DANCEHALL. 1 it is basically the sexiest music ever and 2 it is the easiest music to dance to while drunk. all you have to do is sway, my dude. just move your butt back and forth in time to the beat and you gwine look di fred astaire of kingston, gyal. also: jamaican dudes love a big ol' healthy gyal cocking it up pan dem. seriously, the more deathfat, the more bashy. ALL FRUITS RIPE. anyway, i waited too long to go pee. i didn't factor in the tightness of my sweaty jeans or the type of bathroom line TWO DOLLAR BEERS WOULD CAUSE UP IN A BLACK CLUB, and by the time i tiptoed in those awful shoes over to the group of pissed off bitches in their pum pum shorts i knew it was already over and just bolted outside and peed my pants while standing in the middle of the goddamned street, fucking dummy. THEN I WENT BACK IN THE CLUB. because "murder she wrote" came on and that is my jam. buk buk buk! the rules: 1 drink too much watery beer. 2 tempt fate.

which one of us gets to talk to the one hot dude in this bar? the first time i heard a girl hiss "dibs on the guy in the dark plaid" or whatever while waiting for a bartender to line up our shots i thought, "WHAT. are we about to get into some lord of the flies type shit up in here?!" because i have no problem killing and eating a dude if that's what circumstances call for. but she wasn't talking about sacrificial murder, nor was she referring to the scientific system chicagoans use to hold parking spaces we've dug out after a snowstorm. no, that bitch was laying claim to the virginity of a young man who had entered the drinking establishment we happened to be patronizing one evening this past fall. i had no idea that this was even a fucking thing, that you could tell bitches to fall back off a man you hadn't so much as introduced yourself to yet. AND THEY COMPLIED. i was fucking dumbfounded, bro. that is some chivalry the likes of which i have never before seen and vehemently refuse to participate in. if i see a gentleman whose face i'd like to drape my tits over while lazily shifting my hips around on top of him and you call dibs on that motherfucker then you'd better get your best jokes ready bitch because we are officially at war, and I AM A COMEDY GENIUS. the rules: man, fuck this game. if you're funnier than i am and your tits are equally jamming then we should approach this dumb ape together and let darwin sort the shit out. either that or do it motherfucking hunger games style. may the odds be ever in your favor.

be a love and buy my book.

Friday, January 24, 2014

at what point are you comfortable enough to stick your tongue in a dude's butt?

i haven't had sex in 500+ days. and it's cool, man. like, for real. i have read HELLA BOOKS. my apartment is spotless. i made a perfect carbonara. i started thinking about my next book. i brushed helen a few times. i bought a lot of nail polish. i watched every single beyonce video ever made, plus: the most recent season of sons of anarchy and all of the movies nominated for best picture oscars this year. my male BFF (oxymoron, i know, but work with me here) carl called me from DC the other night to make fun of both my new haircut and current life choices, and eventually the conversation wound up at the dead end of whether or not i would ever want to have sex again. "with a human?" i asked. "ugh, kind of. but after all this time i'm not even sure i would know how." and i probably don't. it's been long enough and i have so little practical experience that i'm not even sure how dating works. (are you kids still calling eating overpriced sushi with a veritable stranger a date? also, what the motherfuck is a tinder?) which warranted a handy guide, DUH. a guide written in red lip pencil on the back of an overdue electric bill, but a handy guide nonetheless. i'ma keep this shit in my purse, just in case i ever get back on

1st date: innocent cheek kiss. i'm only saying this because i feel like this is what you should say. i don't have any goddamned impulse control, man. like, if you get anywhere near my face you might have to forcibly restrain me from trying to put my lips on the corner of your mouth or whatever. a couple weeks ago i was at heartland with my girl julia and she gave me one of those extralong heartfelt hugs, the kind you give while placing your hand on the back of a bitch's head and shit, and ten seconds in i swear to god i had my eyes closed and some of her hair in my mouth. if i'm out with someone i like RUL RUL BAD i spend the entire time just watching his mouth and teeth move while he's talking about some shit i don't care about (probably) and no that isn't creepy or disconcerting at all. i guess what i'm trying to say is that there is no way i can stare at your lips for two hours and not attempt to hoover them off your face while awkwardly ensnaring my soft meat in the complicated seatbelt in your car. what a fucking asshole. tentatively going in for the kiss and before being violently slammed back into my seat because i forgot i have that stupid belt on. ugh fuck safety.

2nd date: maybe some open-mouthed kissing? if you're me? YOU ALREADY DID THIS SHIT ON THE FIRST DATE, BRO. but here's the tricky thing: where is this tonsil hockey supposed to take place? because if it's at my spot: we're fucking, my dude. and if it's at your spot: i'm surreptitiously going through your medicine cabinet, i'm maxing that leftover papa john's and drinking that last lagunitas, and then: we're fucking, my dude. and by fucking i mean "making love like we both have hip dysplasia." 

3rd date: on-top-of-clothes groping. unless you're naïve to the game you already fucking know that this is my preferred method of all the way sex. i am not fucking kidding when i say we can just stop here for the rest of our lives and i would be fine with that. seriously can't we just make a bunch of pina coladas in the blender and touch ourselves in silence? a couple years ago i placed a craigslist ad in the "miscellaneous sex" personals that read: MARGINALLY-ATTRACTIVE HUMAN WITH FEMALE PARTS LOOKING FOR A GIANT MEATBEAST WITH WHICH TO ENGAGE IN SOME ON TOP OF CLOTHES SEX. nothing else. i received easily a hundred responses, 99 of which were some queried form of "what does sex with clothes mean?" or another and 1 that was just a picture of an old playa in a crush velvet suit holding a pitbull in the type of living room that still had plastic on the couch. yeah, no.

4th date: oral +/- a handjob. so sometimes i do triceps curls. my upper arms, man: GROSS. and who cares because cap sleeves are a liar and i always wear real shirts even in the summer. but i keep these bitches strong in case i ever have to give an emergency handjob. same reason i keep up my CPR certification, on the off chance that someone faints in front of me and i can get my shit together for long enough to save a life. HJs are tiring so i usually go straight to the B, especially since i'm 33 and 3/4 and i still have no idea where i am supposed to goddamned look while jerking a dude off. staring into his eyes is creepy, turning my head to watch the television is rude, so where in the fuck am i supposed to put my eyes!? i'll tell you where: on that little thicket of man grass just above his wang. because handjobs are the worst. and my arms aren't that goddamned strong yet.

5th date: vaginal sex and/or the homosexual equivalent. right out of the gate i gotta say that i don't have a real rule about this. i'm one of those "whenever it feels right" fruitbags, which is definitely an excuse to be as slutty as i please because i am a grown ass lady and i do what i want. 

6th date: toe sucking, biting, nipple clamps, buttplay, poop. when do you scat queens introduce all of your weird fetishes and kinks? and once you've decided when, how do you go about having that discussion? in fifty shades of grey when dude drew up that sexcontract i was like, reading about potential sex > having actual sex. and you know how much i hate getting busy. i would much rather we both pull our kindles out and hold hands while jimmy fallon is on and then sleep on separate sides of the apartment. or maybe just talk about vomiting on one another. my typical style is to just blurt "USE YOUR TEETH FOR THAT" in the middle of the, OMG DID I EVER TELL YOU GUYS ABOUT THE DUDE WITH THE KNIFE!? homeboy liked his steak a little bloody in the bedroom and okay, i guess? but you have to ease a girl into that kind of shit. dude pulled out a switchblade for me to use on him with zero warning and i was like, "fuck he's about to use my skin to make a coat" before totally wetting the bed. i legit thought i was going to die, friends. from now on, let's all learn to use our words.

7th SMORG-ASS-BORD. now according to carl, if you are the “receivee” (dude really said that shit, i can’t make this up; i think this motherfucker’s parents might be brother and sister, BECAUSE THIS DUDE REALLY SAID RECEIVEE LIKE IT'S A REAL GODDAMNED WORD) you can demand this shit anytime you want, but i think you gotta be RUL CONFIDENT that the person you're fucking with is ready to split a checking account and go adopt a cat with you if you're just going to bust out a knife and fork while pointing to your butthole with no warning after the second time you jerks meet for coffee or whatever. i got my ass eaten out by accident once, and i spent the entire time it was happening holding really fucking still with my entire body clenched tight as a fist. i couldn't even enjoy it, i just kept thinking, "what if i taste like poop, what if i taste like poop," while lying stiff as a board until it was over. then i immediately had to take a shit and that was awkward. i'd like to think that while i haven't yet, i am progressive enough to toss some dude's salad. i've stuck my finger in any number of butts, and every time it always ends the same way: with me covertly sniffing my finger on the bus ride home. but i know that when the time comes i'm going to be foraging around back there thinking, "please don't shit on my face, please don't shit on my face" with my eyes squeezed shut. but if i meet a gentleman worthy of possibly sharting on my tongue i'll try it. AND THEN WE ARE GETTING A MOTHERFUCKING PUPPY.

i love you. click here and buy this thing i made.

Friday, January 17, 2014

you need to stop fucking dudes who don't understand that you've finally reached your lovemaking years.

¡feliz 2014, compañeras! how many resolutions have you already completely fucked up? all of them!? ATTAGRRRRL. 2013 was my motherfucking jesus year, and we should probably see how the lion of judah and i compare and contrast, amirite? PARTYTIME:

jesus turned water into wine.
samantha turned whiskey and champagne and bourbon and vodka into urine and sometimes vomit.

jesus healed the official's son.  samantha let her friend's kid eat a box of glazed and infused doughnuts while watching reservoir dogs.

jesus healed at the pool of bethesda. samantha went to the pool at the YWCA a handful of times as part of physical therapy for her shattered nerves, and doesn't bother shaving her pubes or armpits anymore so yeah.

jesus fed the five thousand. samantha bought your homeless uncle a three-piece on her way to au cheval and not only got two sides but also came out to ask him what drink he wanted with it even though she already knew the answer was going to be "fruit punch."

jesus walked on water. samantha got her period unexpectedly while walking from barney's on oak street to the wit hotel and somehow managed not to ruin her underwear.

jesus healed the man born blind. samantha wrote a book about sucking her thumb and shitting the bed and killing her parents and basically her vain, desperate attempts to find proof that she is a worthwhile human being despite not ever having had a boyfriend.

jesus raised lazarus from the dead. samantha tried to nudge a pigeon she thought was dead off the el platform into the path of an inbound train and just as her foot grazed it that motherfucker sprang to life and almost pecked her succulent eyeballs out.

i guess what i'm trying to say is that we're BASICALLY THE SAME. except jesus never wrote a book.

i'm working on myself, tho. no shit, i'm trying to get my act together a little bit. i've been working with a life coach and i'm getting bodywork and i got a full astrology workup for the next six months and YES I CAN HEAR YOU LAUGHING. but one of my for real resolutions was to pay my bills more regularly than i have in the past and that doesn't leave a whole lot of money left over for licensed professional therapy and a membership to the kind of gym that has a massage room and snacks. like i said earlier, sometimes i leave my eyes for a second too long on your mom as she's struggling to get that 1987 swimsuit over her hips in the locker room. my other resolutions: use a datebook for something other than writing down what attractive people at restaurants are ordering; drink more la croix to stay hydrated because plain water is DISGUSTING; give away all of my clothes other than the three pairs of soft pants i rotate and the cropped jacket i wear basically every day; clean the toilet more especially now that i discovered kaboom is a motherfucking miracle. i also resolved never to pay more than $12 for a cocktail but omg who are we kidding.


1 please don't be weird about your dick. i know it's all funny-looking and discolored and small and speckled with granulated smegs because you aren't circumcised and don't wash thoroughly and you know what, babycake? that's totally fucking fine. dudes who are weird about their bodies make me weird about my body and once we both start sobbing uncontrollably while apologizing for our bulky thighmeat and nonexistent baby toenails (seriously, i don't have them i'm an alien) there's nothing left to do but button our sex cardigans all the way up to our chins and order a pizza. and while that sounds like a party, especially since there's pretty much nothing i love more than eating pizza with my shirt off, that's not what i hid all my good bottles of wine to do. 

2 enjoy watching the mindy project. well no, not really. that might be kind of moist. so just don't talk too much while i'm watching it, okay? i know how to just BE ON MY PHONE when a game i don't have money on is blasting out of your 2,768" television, my dude, so is it too much to ask you to sit quietly in the corner while the good wife is on!? i need will to fuck alicia like my very life depends on it, and it won't be nearly as enjoyable for me if you are in my ear talking about some shit i don't care about. I THOUGHT MEN HATED TALKING. when i said, "let's communicate" i meant, "right after this episode of the bachelor goes off." these sobbing 24 year olds are all i have to live for right now, bro. shut the fuck up.

3 cook me something, right meow. second to rebuilding a car engine slash putting together all of the furniture in my tiny apartment slash choke-slamming anyone who so much as glances my way on the bus, COOKING SOMETHING DELICIOUS is easily the sexiest thing a grown ass man could ever hope to do. not grilling, because fire is terrifying, i'm talking about elbow deep in a quiche or whatever. my undying foreverlove to the man who arrives on my doorstep bearing a pot of freshly-made crab bisque. it's just so nice when someone cooks you something, isn't it? also, it has to be good. and from scratch. but not not a salad. boxed macaroni and cheese is cute and a pile of kale with lemon juice on it is healthy but they will not get your dick sucked, sir.

4 hold up let me finish, kanye. you are probably less interesting than i am. unless you are more interesting, which i will gladly concede once you've unequivocally proven that fact to me. I AM NOT A HATER. if your life is more exciting than mine i will gladly smile and nod as you regale me with tales of all of the glamorous parties you attend and all of the private jets you've rented and what was that? you interrupted my story about how the love of my life forest whitaker retweeted one of my dumb jokes to tell me that you think baby ducks are born with fur that somehow turns into feathers!? you may have all of the seats.

5 make room in the bed for the cat. SHE WAS HERE FIRST. and she doesn't growl and complain when i stroke her belly like you do. plus she doesn't really understand what "it's only going to be a few minutes go wait in the other room" means. when helen keller was a wee lass i was dating this cool dude named john who rode a skateboard (true story) and burned backpacker hip hop cds for me that i could tell he had really put a lot of thought into. like, it was obvious that he had really thought about the track orders and shit. but the most perfect thing about him was that whenever we were about to get busy he would pause mid-foreplay to allow helen to find a comfortable position from which to glare scornfully at us. fucking dreamboat, man. and he didn't even get grossed out when she would shake her head in disapproval while purring, "you're doing that wrong." take notes, gentlemen.

6 delete your instagram and shit. or just pretend you don't have one. never tell me what your twitter handle is. please don't tell me how to find you on the facebooks. i think we just have to agree to never be social media friends with anyone we ever date because JESUS CHRIST HOW THE FUCK DID YOU HAVE TIME TO GET A BEER WITH YOUR "FRIEND" WHEN YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE IN THE OFFICE ALL AFTERNOON AND COULDN'T HANG OUT WITH ME. stop checking in, stupid. I CAN SEE EVERYWHERE YOU GO. STOP POSTING DUMB MEMES. WHO IS THAT BITCH WHO KEEPS COMMENTING ON YOUR STATUS AND SHIT. WHY HAVEN'T YOU LIKED MY HILARIOUS POST. UNTAG YOURSELF IN THAT HOE'S PHOTOS. ugh it's motherfucking exhausting, keeping track of your crush's various internet presences. just fucking unfriend me already and save me from my goddamned self. the internet is a crazymaker.

7 separate beds. I AM DETERMINED TO BRING THE SHIT BACK, YO. and if that means i have to die unloved and alone so be it. i am not a cuddler. as a matter of fact, cuddling is a lie. unless you're sleeping next a vampire, snuggling right up next to two hundred pounds of 99° heat as it farts and kicks and grumbles incoherently is the worst shit ever. i snore, i have to get up to poo and pee half a dozen times, i hate the top sheet, i need a sound machine, i keep books in bed, THE CAT HAS HER SPOT: sleeping with me is kind of a nightmare. even if you don't mind all of that you're going to be irritated by the three or four remotes and extra pairs of glasses and possibly a knife and/or fork tangled within the blankets. also i'm going to drool on you a little bit. and then in the morning, after 6 or 7 hours of fitful, oft-interrupted sleep, you are going to wake up groggy and annoyed, scraping cat hair off your tongue and picking bits of my shed skin and fingernails out of your eyelashes. you will spend your day intermittently falling asleep at your desk and nursing the black eye i unconsciously gave you while ignoring my bright-eyed, bushy-tailed text messages because i got a full night of sleep and am filled with energy to blow up your phone. and by the time night falls again? YOU WILL HATE ME. not if you're in your own bed, tho. from your own bed you can wave goodnight to me before putting your earplugs in and turning to masturbate against the opposite wall. no more duvet tug of war! no more kitten fangs buried in your testicles! no more wishing i would die in my sleep!

8 your booty getting playlist better be the motherfucking jam. and no, you cannot just put that one sade record on repeat. first of all, you're going to be mid-thrust in my asshole and i am totally going to pop your dick out and turn my vibrator into a microphone and wail that part when she screams, "my love is wider than victoria lake, taller than the empire state; it dives, it jumps!" with my full lung capacity. then i'ma recover real fast and whisper "is it a crime? that i still want you?" breathlessly into the tapered end of my lelo while you wonder why i'm not looking at you while i sing that shit. and second, i need to know that your music choices aren't 100% stupid. and i know, i can just flip through your dusty record collection, but making mixtapes is fun. plus you get hella insight into exactly what type of maniac you're about to show your pubes to.*

9 understand that i have finally reached my lovemaking years. on the phone the other day this dude said to me "I DON'T WANT TO FUCK YOU." and at first i was stung, because i am not a sexless robot and it hurt my one feeling that this nice, unavailable gentleman has no desire to stick his honey bee in my flower. but then i thought, "I DON'T WANT TO FUCK YOU EITHER, SON. THESE ARE MY LOVEMAKING YEARS." yeah, i said it. fucking is for young, healthy people. i'm not ever getting rode hard and put away wet ever fucking again. no more punching me in the face. no more elbowing me in the kidneys. no more running me over with a lawnmower. from now on, here's what i'm going to do: lie comfortably on my left side, making sure the brace i sleep in isn't awkwardly poking me anyplace soft, prop up my right buttcheek to ensure a smooth entry, and grind against dude's nuts until it gets boring. and then when it's over we're going to put my handicapped placard in your car and get the good parking spot at target. I NEED SOME MORE KABOOM.

*click here and listen to my bootymix.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

the joy of sex cooking.

this guy i'm dating has never made breakfast for me in the mornings. i think he just expects me to leave when i wake up. is that a bad sign or is morning breakfast just a cliché?

BREAKFAST IS A GODDAMNED TRAP. may 2012, morning: i woke up in the bed of my newest paramour, cotton-mouthed and irritable, forced to shield my eyes against the blinding sunlight streaming through the uncurtained (fuck it, that's a new word now) window. outside birds chirped, bees hummed, dew glistened, small woodland creatures tapped at the window pane, anxious to come in and set about their day making the bed and tidying up. homeboy wasn't next to me, and i briefly wondered if maybe he was dead before dismissing thoughts of him entirely to luxuriate in the 3,271 threadcount sheets on his massive california king. just as i was settling back in for another nine hours of sleep he burst into the bedroom and purred, "come downstairs when you're ready. i made you breakfast." HOLY FUCKING FUCK. that's some next level shit right there, bro. 1 the fact that this motherfucker even had a downstairs and 2 there's some freshly-prepared breakfast in it!? JACKPOT. this dude just won the mister samantha irby pageant, uncontested. i grabbed the fresh towels he'd laid out (yes) and the new bars of soap he'd left on top of them (hells yes) and went to take a shower in the spotless bathroom he'd obviously cleaned while i was sound asleep in the next room (hells motherfucking yes, also SEX IS EXHAUSTING). when i finlly went downstairs before me was laid a sumptuous spread of blueberry pancakes not from a mix, bacon, freshly-grated hash browns, scrambled eggs, and fancy juice from a goddamned juicer. i was like, this dude totally loves me. i ate that meal radiating the glow of burgeoning love. homeboy dumped me a couple weeks later in a text message a few hours after i banged him. like, his semen hadn't even absorbed into my body yet. (ugh, where does that shit go!? scientists, help!)


easy, basic frittata for easy, basic bitches.

4 eggs
1/4 cup liquid (milk, tomato juice, broth; WORK WITH WHAT YOU GOT, HOOKER)
1/4 tsp dried thyme leaves or herbs of your choice (if this is the kind of dude who stocks "herbs" you can't smoke)
salt and pepper
cup filling (see below)
tsp butter or vegetable oil
filling: okay, so you can use the datenight leftovers or whatever non-moldy shit homeskillet has sitting in his refrigerator or whatever. be resourceful, b. you can use any delicious-sounding combination of meat, seafood, poultry, cheese, vegetables, and cooked pasta/grains.
IMPORTANT: adjust the filling, liquid, seasonings, and pan size proportionally to the number of eggs used. eg, for 2 eggs, use a 6-inch pan; for 6 eggs, an 8-inch pan; for 8 eggs, an 8 to 10-inch pan. filling ingredients should be cooked, not raw. pieces should be cut fairly small and drained well. god, i hope dude has frying pans and shit. ugh just do what you can.

1 beat eggs, liquid, herb and salt and pepper in medium bowl until blended. ADD filling; mix well.
2 heat the butter or oil in a 6- to 8-inch nonstick omelet pan or skillet over medium heat until melted. slowly pour in the egg mixture and cook over low to medium heat until eggs are almost set, about 8 to 10 minutes.
3 remove from heat. so the original recipe says to cover and let stand until eggs are completely set and no visible liquid egg remains, 5 to 10 minutes. but i will die if my tongue touches any soft-ass eggs for real, so i leave the pan uncovered and stick it in a warm oven for a few minutes to firm up. if you know what you're doing (and dude's oven doesn't look grimy and fucked up) you can stick it under the broiler for a second? cut into wedges and eat in his bathroom while you wait for your plan B to work.

do men consider things like cooking ability when deciding to marry? i’m not precisely traditional, but i’m a hell of a cook, and i’d like my guy to see me as wife material. i know i can’t make him want to marry me, but is exposure to my great food (not to be conceited) valuable information in the decision making process?

marriage is a business deal. if being almost-34 has taught me anything, it's that relationships start off being about how you like to watch all the same shit on tv and rapidly devolve into a series of contract negotiations and risky investments. i feel like women are the first to forget that, that you and this dude are forming a mini corporation and shit, that's it not totally about whether or not you microwave hotdogs for dinner every night. at least it shouldn't be, if you're going to get married for real and file taxes and own property or whatever. i am at the age where passersby on the goddamned street are like, "DAMN HO, ARE YOU GOING TO EVER SETTLE DOWN!?" and my response is always, "well gentleman on the bus, i have yet to meet anyone i wouldn't feel nervous giving my ATM pin number to." and that would just give a motherfucker access to a couple thousand dollars, at most. let alone meeting anyone whose debt i'd feel comfortable taking on as my own.

i did an interview recently in which the (MALE, OF COURSE) interviewer asked me what my most attractive quality to a potential lifemate would be. and i said, straight up, "i don't have any fucking debt." and then he sort of laid into me about that answer being the death of romance or whatever. and maybe it is? but i know that in real life the fact that i don't have any student loans makes me way more appealing as someone whose taxes you might want to file jointly with yours than "cooks good." because for sure, who doesn't want to fuck someone who can roll out of bed and hook up some falafels and shit? but you can't just go into business with every bitch with a mean grilled cheese game. oh, who am i kidding. MEN LOVE CAKE AND WILL TOTALLY MARRY YOU IF YOU CAN MAKE ONE.

moist devil's food cake
(adapted from the homie martha stewart)

1 1/2 cups (3 sticks) unsalted butter, plus more for pans
3/4 cup dutch-process cocoa powder, plus more for pans
1/2 cup boiling water
2 1/4 cups sugar
1 tbsp pure vanilla extract
4 large eggs, lightly beaten
3 cups sifted cake flour (not self-rising)
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup milk

chocolate frosting (make this ahead of time):
24 ounces nestle semisweet chocolate morsels
4 cups whipping cream
1 tsp light corn syrup

okay boo, this is really easy. place chocolate morsels and cream in a heavy saucepan. cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a rubber spatula, until combined and thickened, between 20 and 25 minutes. increase the heat to medium low; cook, stirring, 3 minutes more. remove pan from heat. stir in the corn syrup then transfer frosting to a large metal bowl. chill until cool enough to spread, about 2 hours, checking and stirring every 15 to 20 minutes. use immediately.

1 preheat oven to 350 degrees. arrange two racks in center of oven. butter three 8-by-2-inch round cake pans; line bottoms with parchment. dust bottoms and sides of pans with cocoa powder; tap out any excess. sift cocoa into a medium bowl, and whisk in boiling water. set aside to cool.
2 in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream butter on low speed until light and fluffy. (i assume you have these things, with all this banging ass food you be making) gradually beat in sugar until light and fluffy, 3 to 4 minutes, scraping down sides twice. beat in vanilla. drizzle in eggs, a little at a time, beating between each addition until the batter is no longer slick, scraping down the sides twice.
3 in a large bowl, sift together flour, baking soda, and salt. whisk milk into reserved cocoa mixture. with mixer on low speed, alternately add flour and cocoa mixtures to the batter, a little of each at a time, starting and ending with flour mixture. this shit seems tedious, but i do it. martha knows best.
4 divide batter evenly among the three prepared pans. bake until a cake tester inserted into center of each layer comes out clean, 35 to 45 minutes, rotating the pans for even baking. transfer layers to wire racks; let cool, 15 minutes. turn out cakes, and return to racks, tops up, until completely cool.
5 remove parchment from bottoms of cakes. reserve the prettiest layer for the top. place one cake layer on a serving platter; spread 1 1/2 cups chocolate frosting over the top. add the second cake layer, and spread with another 1 1/2 cups frosting. top with third cake layer. cover outside of cake with the remaining 3 cups frosting. eat while listening to your future wedding bells clanging in the distance.

*pet peeve, sidenote, whatever: store it covered on the counter, under a glass dome or in plastic wrap so the shit doesn't dry out. this will keep well for a few days. refrigerated cake is the grossest.

my boyfriend can cook and i can’t. this just feels wrong. i mean, i love eating, i just couldn’t make a decent meal to save my life. is this a horrible girlfriend quality? how do i make up for this?

what on earth does "i can't cook" mean? because for real, if you can read you can fucking cook. I REFUSE TO ACCEPT THIS. so let's make something so easy a monkey could do it. people who say that can't cook shouldn't cook meat or any real sort of meal their first time trying to make some shit for another human you want to love you afterward, so how about a nice hot dip? ps, suck his dick more. GIRLFRIEND OF THE YEAR.

warm goat cheese dip with artichokes and roasted tomatoes
(adapted from sugar and grace) 

1 pint grape or cherry tomatoes, halved

1 tsp olive oil
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1/2 tsp balsamic vinegar
10 oz goat cheese
4 oz cream cheese
1/3 cup artichoke hearts, drained
1/4 cup freshly grated parmesan (optional)

1 preheat oven to 400. spread halved tomatoes on the bottom of a glass baking dish, and drizzle with the olive oil. sprinkle with 1/8 tsp each salt and pepper, and toss with your hands until the oil is distributed. place in hot oven and roast until tomatoes are blistered and bubbling and slightly brown along the edges. remove from oven and, while hot, drizzle balsamic vinegar over the tomatoes. mix with a spoon, and set aside to cool.
2 in a food processor put the cheeses, the drained artichoke hearts, and the rest of the salt and pepper. (or mix by hand if you don't have a food processor, because what kind of non-cooking bitch has a motherfucking mini prep!?) blend for a few seconds until the mixture is mostly smooth and has taken on a whipped appearance. a few chunks here and there is okay. spoon the cheese mixture into an oven-safe bowl.
3 when tomatoes are cool enough to handle, remove them to a large cutting board and coarsely chop. spread a layer of the tomatoes over the cheese mixture, and top with freshly grated parmesan. return the bowl to the oven for 10-15 minutes until cheese is bubbly. serve with flatbread, toasted baguette, fancy crackers, whatever you got. or just eat it out of the pan. no need to be fancy.

what do you think is the homemade food weakness for men?

intricate, labor-intensive recipes are wasted on most dudes, as many of them have the refined palette of your average four-year old. couple that with a general disinterest in listening to you describe how you spent an entire afternoon perfecting the water bath you made for the cheesecake he wolfed down in two bites without tasting it, and you will find yourself sobbing over the remnants of the most beautifully-risen soufflé ever produced outside of the French laundry's test kitchen as your manfriend farts on the couch with a bag of chips because even though he demolished your hard work his ass is somehow still fucking hungry.

FUCK ALL DAT. okay so yes, there are actual dudes who will appreciate that you painted delicate layers of phyllo dough with clarified butter after shelling and grinding pistachios to make homemade baklava. there are nice men who frequent nice restaurants who understand how much work it was for you to break down that rack of lamb, and there are men who would be perfectly satisfied to eat shake and bake every single night until they die in their recliners, bathed in the blue light of the television. aka 99.9% of them. don't waste your time.

frito pie, for motherfuckers who don't appreciate nice shit.

1 large bag of fritos original corn chips
1 15 oz can of chili with beef (with or without beans), heated
1 8 oz bag of shredded cheddar cheese
NECESSARY: chopped onion, tomatoes, lettuce, jalapeños, and/or sour cream

1 in an oven-safe serving dish, pour in the fritos and spread evenly. stop eating the crumbs for a minute, piggy.

2 heat chili and pour evenly over corn chips. add additional ingredients like onion, tomato, lettuce, and jalapeño as desired. (the original recipe says these things are optional. i wholly disagree, because vitamins).
3 sprinkle cheese all over and place in a preheated 350 degree oven until the cheese is a little melted. serve immediately, with a giant dollop of sour cream on top.

don't front. i likes me a linen napkin just as much as the next guy, but I WOULD EAT THE SHIT OUT OF THIS.

help! i want to thank this awesome guy by cooking him his favorite meal: steak. i’m a chicken/fish kinda gal and know nothing about beef. what is a good cut of meat that is hard to screw up? rare, medium-rare, medium? how do i know?

i bristle at this whole "i'm a girl! i don't know anything about meats!" business. it's so gross and counterproductive. okay, so a steak is basically any piece of meat that falls under the category of "fast-cooking" cuts, and the difference between a steak and a roast essentially comes down to size. because size matters, ahem. the ribeye is one of the easiest cuts to pan sear, especially since it's so fatty that on the grill you run the risk of the shit exploding into a fireball in your gorgeous face. you need some fat on it, because the fat is where that super rich beef flavor comes from. so when you're at the butcher remember that the more marbling there is, the better.

(adapted from the pioneer woman)

2 pieces (about 8 oz each) ribeye steak, FROM A BUTCHER (come on, now)
1 tbsp lawry's seasoning salt
3 tbsp lemon pepper seasoning
1 tsp kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp butter

1 mix the seasonings all together in a small bowl to create a rub and massage into your steaks. really work that shit in there.
2 bring a skillet to a medium heat and add olive oil and butter. get them nice and hot until the butter is beginning to brown. with tongs, set the steak right onto the sizzling butter/oil mixture.
3 cook for about 2 minutes on the first side and then flip and turn the heat down to a medium-low to finish off the cooking. cooking it for about 2 1/2 minutes on the second side will result in a medium-rare piece of meat. alter your cooking time a little to achieve a steak that is less pink in the center. let steak rest for a couple minutes before picking it up with your bare hands and gnawing at it with your teeth, blood and gristle splattering your bare chest and dripping from your chin. like a man.

my boyfriend loves to cook, but his food tastes terrible. should i tell him?

gentlemen, A SUREFIRE WAY TO GET THE PANTIES: cook your loverperson a meal that doesn't make her vomit. i'm not even playing. if your woman sees you preparing a meal with groceries she didn't have to buy using a recipe she didn't have to give you, she will fuck you with the lights on the minute you finish loading the dishwasher. if a dude cooks some shit for me and i don't die i'm on the phone that night or early the next morning like, "WOW O WOW JESSIE HE FRIED ME SOME CHICKENNNN." and jessie will already know that my call was made while standing awkwardly in dude's kitchen trying to find some postcoital snacks not wearing any pants, because if a man makes me chicken and has more than four books on his shelves then sex is being had, sister.

(adapted from my mama)

2-3 lbs frying chickens, hacked into manageable pieces
2 cups buttermilk
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 tsp lawry's seasoned salt (or to taste)
1 tsp black pepper, freshly ground (or to taste)
1 tsp paprika
1/4 tsp garlic powder, if you want
1/4 tsp onion powder, if you want
vegetable oil (for frying)

1 wash chicken pieces thoroughly and pat dry, then place them in a long, shallow glass baking dish.
2 pour the buttermilk over the chicken, cover and refrigerate for a least 4 hours, turning once or twice. in a clean plastic or brown paper bag combine the flour, salt, pepper, paprika, and, if desired, the garlic and onion powders. helpful hint: DESIRE THAT SHIT.
3 drain the chicken and place two or three pieces in the bag and shake well to coat evenly. repeat until all chicken has been coated with seasoned flour mixture. 
4 in a large, heavy skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat until hot, but not smoking. add chicken (in batches if necessary) and brown on all sides, about three minutes per side. place browned chicken on a warm platter until all pieces are cooked.
5 when all the chicken pieces are browned, crowd them into the skillet, turn heat to medium-low, cover and cook, turning occasionally, until tender, about 35-40 minutes.
6 remove cover, turn heat to medium-high and cook six to eight minutes more or until skin is crispy.