This morning I woke up to an email from Sephora notifying me that I am $104 dollars away from Rouge status. And I thought, oh yeah! Rouge me up right nice, baby. And then, while… More
I just spent an hour and a half reviewing makeup on Sephora’s website. Turns out when I’ve had a glass or two (or three) of wine at 2pm in the afternoon, I really like to give my opinion on all the things. If you’re wondering, YSL’s Touche Eclat brightening pen did nothing for my under-eye circles after a night of drinking. Nothing.
Aside from that, I’m having quite a miserable day of unyielding allergy symptoms, and I’m torn on wanting April to pass to get rid of these allergies and wanting to remain in a month in Atlanta that isn’t unbearably hot. I don’t do well with sweltering weather and humidity. It’s bleak for me. But then again, I used to really like winter temperatures, and now I can’t even handle that. If I’m snowboarding or skiing–yes. If I’m minding my own business trying to get to work at 7am–no. Guys–just give me 65 degrees year-round, okay? I think that’s comfortable.
Oh, man. I’ve had so much wine that I don’t even know how I’ve reached the topic of weather. Onward.
At the top of the year, I made a goal to read forty books this year. That’s ten books per quarter. That seems ambitious, right? But that was after I talked myself down from fifty-two books for the year. One book per week. I mean, that’s pretty unrealistic, right? And then I had the argument with myself that I used to churn out book after book when I was ten years old. A book per day or every other day when I was in fifth grade. On summer break. This is how irrational the conversations I have with myself are. Like…I’m holding myself to practices I utilized when I was ten? Maybe I want to make sure I store my Barbies away really neatly, too.
Guys…I don’t have Barbies anymore. I also don’t have unlimited time to read books, though I’d like to! So forty per year is what I believe is a fair but challenging goal. Currently, I’m on my twelfth book: T is for Transformation by Shaun T. I love Shaun T. I wouldn’t say I’m a Stan. But I am a fan. See how good I am with the slang, still? Hashtag: young.
I typically don’t like books about people’s personal accounts of abuse and trauma. I still don’t. To be honest, I kinda skip the parts that are too heavy. I’m a lightweight about those things. I mean, it’s hard enough to deal with my own baggage and not become entirely hardened without reading about someone else’s. I consider this a personality flaw. I should be able to take in others’ life experiences without becoming angry or depressed, I think. Sometimes I’m able to. Other times…I’m working on it.
I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m reading Shaun T’s T is for Transformation, and I’m really inspired by it. I’ll let you know how it goes.
You know what’s weird? How you get really used to autocorrect while texting, and then you write on a blogging platform that doesn’t correct your mistakes. Apologies in advance. Maybe learn from my mistakes and don’t have three glasses of wine at lunch.
Do you know how much a toilet costs? No–a good toilet. A lot more than you’d expect to pay for something you poop in, let me tell you. My feeling is that the only toilet worth five hundred dollars is a toilet that I don’t have to clean–a self-cleaning toilet, if you will. But according to the folks at Home Depot, “that kind of toilet doesn’t exist,” and according to Lowe’s, “You’re probably thinking of a housekeeper, girl.” But am I? I’ve had a lot of wine, but I think I still know the difference between a self-cleaning toilet and a housekeeper. One of those options a housekeeper doesn’t have to clean. Also–me. I don’t have to clean it either.
Anyway. There is such a thing as a self-cleaning toilet, but it costs more than $500, and I don’t really trust that it’s self-cleaning. Like…am I really not going to clean my toilet? Ever? That sounds like a set-up.
You know how you’re twelve and you’re lounging in the backyard daydreaming of all the ways being an adult would be amazing? Then twenty years later you actually become an adult, and you spend a good portion of your weekly paycheck on silk pillowcases to prevent crow’s feet AND come to the realization that the rest of your paycheck will have to eventually go a self-cleaning toilet that you will still have to clean?
No one prepped me for this part of adulthood.
Also, it’s been more than two years and I still don’t know all the French words. WTF.
Here’s a little-known fact about me: I make the best breakfast burrito in Georgia. I know that I don’t know everyone in Georgia, so I can’t really say with certainty, but—I MAKE THE BEST BREAKFAST BURRITO IN GEORGIA. Maybe even in the southeast. Also, Chicago.
Most people don’t know this about me because I only make breakfast burritos for certain people and at certain times. Like when I want to impress men’s family members with my cooking skills. Or when I want to spoil loved ones on their birthdays with unforgettable, perfectly seasoned deliciousness. Or on Sundays when I invite people over for brunch and want to appear to be a fully functioning adult.
As a teenager, I had a friend, Valerie, who was of Mexican ethnicity. When I would sleep over at her house, I always helped her make breakfast in the morning, and she taught me how to make what is the best breakfast burrito you’ve ever put in your mouth. Seriously, it’s the best. The only reason I don’t say that I make the best breakfast burrito in the United States is because Valerie makes the best ones. And her mom. And her sisters. Even her brother. But then me. They taught me everything I know. Aside from her family, I also make the best Mexican hot chocolate and huevos rancheros.
Guys… I hope all of this bragging didn’t mistakenly lead you to believe that I was going to share Valerie’s recipe with you. Because…no. It’s mine. I can’t give up the “best breakfast burrito in certain parts of the U.S.” throne. I can’t and I shan’t. If you did think that, though, thank you so much for believing that I’m capable of such selflessness. It’s been a while since someone has had that level of faith in me. Anyway, you guys have your fancy lasagnas and family mac and cheese recipes. LET ME HAVE THIS!
It ain’t Valerie’s, but this recipe from Chowhound will get you very close. Enjoy! And only make it for those who deserve it!
Unless you’ve spent the days leading up to Christmas with me, it’s impossible to grasp just how much I love this holiday. I love buying and wrapping gifts. I love going to Christmas parties. I love Christmas decorations, watching Home Alone, being around friends and family, eggnog (and Bailey’s!), snow, trying to cook, Christmas music, playing games, everything! I. Love. Christmas.
I’ve been to five holiday parties this month. That’s five times I’ve put on real clothes and makeup and left my house. Willingly. That’s huge for someone who spends January through November weekends like this:
And those five times don’t even include my birthday party, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and New Years Eve! Guys…December is my month.
I hope all of you have happy, laughter-filled holidays rife with cocktails, cookies, loved-ones, and Kevin McCallister.
Joyeux Noël !
Joyeuse Fête de Hanoucca !
- Decide the day before that you’re adept enough with this dish that you can whip it up the day of (Thanksgiving, in my case).
- Wake up early on Thanksgiving morning with an attitude because you stayed up the night before binge-watching shitty Netflix horror movies that Netflix warned you that you wouldn’t like, but you don’t like it when people/computers tell you what to do so…
- Stumble into the bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, and silently lament the audacity of your loved ones to expect you to contribute to Thanksgiving dinner. Then remember that they begged you not to make anything for Thanksgiving dinner because you suck at cooking. But…no one tells you what to do.
- Defiantly shut off the water and stomp into the kitchen. Decline to gather the needed ingredients in one place ahead of time because you don’t cook enough for that good idea to even pop into your head.
- Grab six eggs out of the fridge (which should be room temperature, but you forgot that part and now there’s no time) and separate the yolks from the whites. Crack open the first egg and get the disgusting surprise of a bloody egg yolk.
- Throw the egg into the sink.
- Lie down on the couch for fifteen minutes trying to recuperate and pledging to be a vegan fo’ life.
- Remember that there will be mashed potatoes infused with juicy, flavorful bits of bacon at dinner, so this vegan lifestyle isn’t going to work out.
- Woman up and stomp back into the kitchen. Disinfect the sink.
- Unwrap the chocolate (bittersweet baking chocolate) to melt it. Realize that you only bought 100 grams, but the recipe calls for 200 grams.
- Resign yourself to halving the recipe, and if you don’t have enough for everyone at dinner you’ll just blame the guests who were able to have some for eating it up from the others.
- Place the chocolate into a double boiler and let it melt.
- Time to brave the eggs again. Now you’ll only need three.
- Become really cocky when you separate the first two eggs like Chrissy Teigen, then accidentally drop the third yolk into the bowl of egg whites.
- Try to spoon out as much of the yolk as possible. Think about starting over with new eggs, but ultimately decide that a little yolk in your egg whites is pas de problème (i.e. no big deal).
- Mix the egg yolks and set them aside.
- Dig out your electric mixer, because it’s time to whip the egg whites into a meringue.
- Turn the mixer on high and submerge it into the bowl of egg whites.
- Scream when they fly everywhere.
- Clean up the mess, while cursing silently to yourself.
- This time submerge the mixer first, then turn it on high to whip the egg whites.
- Become concerned 5-7 minutes later when they are just as liquid as they were 5-7 minutes ago.
- Remember that you’re melting chocolate, and breathe a sigh of relief once you realize you haven’t burned it. Take the chocolate off the stove to let it cool.
- Go back to whipping the egg whites. Curse aloud when they are still liquid seven minutes later. “What the fuuuuccckkk?!”
- Google “how to stiffen egg whites”. Add cream to the egg whites and watch nothing happen.
- In frustration go back to the chocolate—which has now started to solidify again.
- Curse your family for teasing your lack of cooking skills, resulting in forcing you to prove them wrong.
- Melt the chocolate again.
- Once the chocolate has melted pour it, bit by bit, into the egg yolks and mix. You don’t want to do it too quickly or the heat from the chocolate will curdle the eggs.
- Watch in disbelief as your egg yolks begin to curdle.
- Walk back to your egg whites while repeating to yourself, “This is not happening. This is not happening.”
- Beat the egg whites another five minutes. Still liquid.
- Throw up your hands, yell “Fuck it!” and pour the egg whites into the bowl that is now chocolatey scrambled eggs.
- Try to mix. Nope.
- Dump the mixture into the garbage.
- Lie on the couch for fifteen minutes trying to recuperate.
- Search your pantry for something (anything!) to bring to Thanksgiving dinner. Rice? No. Black beans? Why on Earth?
- Find one single, solitary box of Trader Joe’s coffee cake mix. Shout hallelujah!, do a praise dance, and promise God that you will no longer use the word fuck again (unless shit gets real).
- PAY VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE INSTRUCTIONS AND MAKE THE COFFEE CAKE.
- Pat yourself on the back for single-handedly saving Thanksgiving.
And if, by any chance, you still want to brave making mousse au chocolate, here’s a great recipe.
For the past two and a half weeks, I’ve worked an absurd amount of hours and have slept a fraction of the time a normal, functioning person is supposed to sleep. This weekend I was finally able to catch up on sweet, sweet sleep. Also on Chicago P.D. and Law & Order SVU. And maayybeee The Kardashians.
The entire time I was working, I kept thinking to myself how much easier would this be if I had been eating spinach instead of chips or continued running three miles a day like I used to? I mean, four hours of sleep is not enough no matter how you slice it, but I probably wouldn’t have wanted to kill myself as often if I had gone into the last two weeks in tip-top shape.
In between (beautiful) sleep and moments of consciousness yesterday, I reaffirmed my commitment to fitness and health and looking good in my leather leggings. Then this morning came and I wanted to cry when my alarm went off. How is it that I can be so motivated and firm one moment, then eight hours later I have to be dragged out of bed by my ankles? Le sigh.
I did manage to keep my promise to myself, though, and I went to a Pilates class this morning and played tennis afterward. It wasn’t as satisfying as lying in bed and watching YouTube videos, but…what is?
If you’ve ever thought that Trader Joe’s wasn’t as busy at 9am on a Sunday morning as they are at, say, noon on a Saturday, then you were WRONG. And so was I.
I like to make a special breakfast on Sundays. Well, not special. But something requiring more effort than a fried egg. Sometimes French toast. But usually this or this:
Of course, I didn’t have everything I needed, so I had to go to the store where I had to navigate a bunch of people who leave their carts in the middle of the aisles, who stop walking abruptly causing me to almost crash into them, who stand directly in front of items while trying to decide what they want thus blocking anyone who knows what they want and is trying to get to it. These things are not okay! I should write a book on supermarket etiquette.
I know it doesn’t sound like it, but I really like grocery shopping. At 10am on a Wednesday.
What else, what else?
Oh! They removed Everybody Loves Raymond from Netflix, and I am DEVASTATED. What do I watch now when I’m making breakfast? Or when I’m cleaning the house? Or when I’m procrastinating? Gah.
Now I’m going out to rent bike and enjoy a leisurely bike ride. And hopefully find a brunch place selling bottomless bellinis on the way!