A slight break in writing, but don’t think it was due to laziness.

OK, it started off as laziness, then became prolonged sickness, work travel, my 30th birthday, and being dumped by my boyfriend. In that order. It was an eventful laziness.

Needless to say, none of these events were all that fantastic (well, with the exception of my birthday), but the breakup really takes the Crap Crown. It didn’t exactly come out of nowhere – we were having some difficulties, for sure – but I still didn’t expect it. I thought we were having a hard time that we would work through; he thought it was the beginning of the end and decided not to prolong the inevitable. Just rip it off quick, like a Band-Aid. Like a ripped-off Band-Aid that took a clump of arm hair and some skin off with it.

Honestly, there is nothing I can write about being heartbroken that hasn’t been written a hundred million billion times before. Having your heart broken is like having a dream – it’s happened to everyone and not really interesting to anyone else unless they were one of the main characters involved. I’m sad and I miss him; I’m angry because I tried so hard to make the relationship work and had no control over its ending; I’m glad to not have to deal with all of the troubles we had anymore but still miss the good bits.

Overall, it’s been OK – rather than collapsing in on myself like I had with past breakups, this one has been more constructive. I’ve been working on putting together a group date with all the awesome ladies I kinda know, but want to be friends with, I immediately rearranged and deep-cleaned my living room (shoving around a gigantic couch across the room a couple times is pretty damn cathartic), signed up for a new gym down the street that focuses on more one-on-one training. The things I’ve been wanting to do, but didn’t. There is a melancholy sense of freedom now: I can do whatever I want because I don’t have any ties to anyone else. Sometimes the thought makes me excited for what can happen, other times it takes all the wind out of me to think of what will never happen again. It sucks and it’s hard.

But, it will be OK.


The Sleep People

So, there are Morning People – the kind of folks that get up before most of us and accomplish a whole mess of things before heading off for work/school/lifestyle of the independently wealthy.

And there are Night People – those who stay up until the long hours of the evening while most of the world is in bed.

And then there are my kind of people. The Sleep People. The people who go to bed early and sleep in late because they know just how amazingly butt-slapping fantastic sleep is.

As I’ve gotten older, the available window for sleeping has become smaller and smaller, which just makes me value it all the more. Sure, I could probably wake up an hour earlier and get all sorts of things accomplished before my day actual begins, but…why would I? I can totally do those things later, and this bed is warm and cozy now. And, of course, those friends with kids always go off about how, since hatching their spawn bringing bundles of joy into the world they haven’t had more than 20 consecutive minutes of sleep and NEVER WILL AGAIN. And I feel bad for them. I also don’t have kids. Win/win.

Because of this, I have managed to hone the amount of time I need to get ready in the morning to about 15-25 minutes, if need be. Do I look like a well-put-together young professional and walk out the door completely equipped for the day? Not really, but I’m presentable and can worry about the details later. And sure, on the mornings when I do wake up a little earlier, my outfit has a little more pizzazz, I usually have a lunch packed for the day and have had at least some sort of caffeinated beverage before heading out, but on those mornings when I just don’t wanna get up, I have my helpful skills:

  • Shower at night – I generally do this anyway, because the thought of going to bed with the day’s grime on me grosses me out. But it’s important to make sure your hair is completely dry, otherwise you’re going to end up with some wicked bedhead. If I was a super-cool-hipster-gal, I could probably pull it off as some intentional affectation, but on me, it just looks like I have a mental illness. Which is a good lead-in to…
  • Bobby pins – I own approximately 15667832 bobby pins, and yet have to buy them multiple times throughout the year. I’m pretty sure I leave a trail of them where ever I go, like breadcrumbs.  My boyfriend has texted me, “I found more of those fucking hair things of yours at my place. Where do they all come from?” But as someone with shorter hair and who lacks all ability to use hair styling products and tools (see future posts: “Failing at being a girl”), they are a necessity. With enough bobby pins and hair elastics, I can get my hair tamed into something that says, “Hello, I am a full-functioning adult” rather than, “Hello, I have lost all motivation in life”.
  • Wrinkle-Release Spray – I own an iron. I also own a fire extinguisher. Doesn’t mean I use them. I’m not sure what’s in the spray stuff, but I know it works and doesn’t require me having to set up an ironing board.
  • Crockpot – Packing myself a lunch is the hardest thing for me to do, ever, ever. I hate it. I can’t even think about food in the morning, and I know whatever I pack at 7:00 will make no sense at 12:00. At least if I cook something with a crockpot during the night, all I have to do is scoop some into tupperware (and by “tupperware” I mean, “reused pudding containers”) and it will be tastier/healthier than some of my past lunches, one of which consisted of a sleeve of saltine crackers and a granola bar.
  • Acceptance of the snooze button – There is seriously no greater pleasure in life than hitting the snooze button, rolling over, and snuggling back into bed. I dare you to find it. And I know exactly how many times I can hit the snooze button until I absolutely, no joking, I’m serious, have to get up. Seven times.

Of course, none of these things work if you oversleep your alarm by an hour and a half because you were up late the night before watching Winona Ryder movies on Netflix*. That’s when you run around your house in a blind panic, throw on clothes that you hope aren’t that covered in cat fur and chase after the bus.

*Mermaids is so freaking awesome, am I right? Baby Christina Ricci AND Cher?**

**Though I’m pretty sure Reality Bites is primarily to blame for my poor dating choices during my twenties. Yeah, dump the good, dependable guy with a job for some slacker who spends his days playing in a band, quoting philosophy, and not washing his hair.

P(A)D 7- Something you Wore


The cost of putting together my new office chair.

Hey Jose.

On the mornings when I actually get out of the house early enough to take the bus, I try to avoid sitting towards the back. Or, if I do, I try to make sure I’ve brought my headphones so I can blare out the pack of high school boys that are there every morning. They’re teenage boys, so the back of the bus is filled with their cacophony of bragging, jokes, cursing, and heavy-handed application of cologne. But that’s not the reason I try to tune them out. The reason is Jose.

Jose is the only one whose name I know, because everyday I hear, “Damn Jose, you are so fucking stupid”; “Wait, wait…Jose tell them what you just told me, you guys have to hear this, it’s so dumb”; “Shut up Jose, I’m not talking to you.” It’s excruciating to hear a group pick on one of their own. It’s also incredibly familiar, those vicious dynamics of adolescence, when pecking orders are being established and people are beginning to see just how much they can get away with. I was once Jose and I was once part of the group. And at times, I still feel like I’m both, despite being within viewing distance of 30.

I want to tell the boys to cut it out, that tearing another down doesn’t make them any better. I want to tell Jose to stand up for himself, to tell his friends to fuck off, hop off that bus and go find people who don’t treat him like a punchline. But I know how that will end. “Dude, did you guys see that? Jose had to have some woman fight for him. Not just a woman, a nerd.”

And really, it’s not the boys or Jose who needs to hear it. It’s me. I’ve been pulled into those types of friendships – the kind where you bond over gossiping about another, knowing deep down theyre gossiping about you when you’re out of the room. Being the person who takes everyone else’s shit and keeping quiet, in the name of friendship, not knowing when to tell them to fuck off. And what’s worse, I know better. While Jose and his friends have their youth as an excuse, I do not. And there comes a point where you have to choose what you’ll accept in life and what you won’t.

Now is that point for me. I’m hopping off the bus.

P(A)D 6 – 5pm


Closer to 6pm, actually

Idle hands.

Mod Podge and some flat marbles are pretty fun things to play around with on a hungover lazy Sunday.





P(A)D 3- Neighborhood

Gorgeous weather + an apartment that needs to be cleaned = procrastination, a long walk, and lots of photos.









Photo (Almost) a Day

In a fit of total jealous of all you iPhone users out there who ALL take amaze-balls photos with Instagram, I went on a mission to find a decent Droid app that was somewhat compatible. So far, I’ve found a few that aren’t bad, but nothing that seems to match. So, while I wait for Instagram to stop being such an Apple snob (I mean,c’mon! You already have most of the market of cute phone cases!), I’ll be experimenting with various camera apps.

As for the subjects, I’m using the March Photo-a-Day challenge prompts from Fat Mum Slim (which I discovered by way of Teen Granny).

March 1 – Up


March 2 – Fruit


Well, shit.

So, we all need to quit our office jobs and go work out on a farm all day.

The hippies were right.
Work Is Murder
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