How To Survive Christmas Away From Home

This year will be the second year I have spent away from home. The first time was years ago and I was working retail at Best Buy and HAD to work Christmas Eve. (I took Thanksgiving off, so it was only fair that I work Christmas. I think I was taking cellphone sales pretty seriously at the time, so I took it on the chin). In retrospect, I could have just flown home late that night or Christmas Day, but I don’t think that thought ever occurred to me (again…cellphones called, Mom! …Pun intended). Anyways, I was lonely and miserable, and sobbed as I opened my gifts my parents shipped me. (Who knew mittens and a new PJ set from Kohl’s could drive me into hysterics?) This year, I just waited too long to buy a plane ticket and by the time I was ready to pull the trigger, tickets were $1,000. I love my family, but not that much. And apparently they don’t love me that much, either, because when I told them the price, they were like “well, we’ll miss you. At least I now know my parents love me a lot, but less than $1,000 worth.

So with my bountiful experience being away from family on Christmas, here is my list of ways not to cry over jammies and feel sorry for yourself:

1. Watch Made-For-TV Movies

I like to do this all-day-every-day leading up to Christmas, but for some, that’s a little much (I’m just saying, this year Hallmark had TWELVE all new made-for-tv movies premiering, ABC Family is good for at least five newbies, and then there are the classic ones you just have to watch every year, who even has the time!!!!)

I don’t care what anyone says, I think Christmas made-for-TV movies are what the holiday is all about. They’re fluffy, they’re fun, they’re packed with actors you thought either died or quit the business, and they all make you think you need more decorations and holiday-themed outfits. And when you’re away from home, the feel-good vibes and Christmas spirit will just radiate from the TV and into your heart, like that Poltergeist did to that little blonde girl in that movie. But more festively, and less satan-y. The added bonus to watching these all day is that when you see an unemployed Melissa Joan Hart with a bad perm kidnap Mario Lopez, then handcuff him, ensure he has no access to a phone, and force him to pretend that he’s her boyfriend so her family doesn’t think she’s a total loser in the ABC Family original Holiday in Handcuffs, you just feel good about where you’re at in life. And I think I can definitively say that, because I’ve watched it at least 10 times. (Only twice this year, relax!) May I also suggest: The Mistle-Tones, Let It Snow, Christmas on the Bayou, The 12 Dates of Christmas, Christmas Cupid, and Santa Baby 1 through 3 (Because one movie about Santa’s daughter just isn’t enough).

2. Find the Other Orphans

Odds are, you aren’t the only one here for the holiday. Find the other Christmas Orphans in your extended circle of friends who also chose to stay in town and make plans with them. And hopefully find someone who can cook and will cook you a fancy, Vegan-Gluten-Soy-Free Christmas dinner, or whatever you guys are eating these days. Even if the only people staying in town are the ones you don’t like that much and they’re like a Tier-C friend, now’s the time to bond! Disliking someone’s personality comes second at a time like this. It’s better to spend the day (even a few hours, just to do something festive like ice skate or look at the local Christmas display) with someone, anyone, then be by yourself wandering the streets, wistfully looking at smiling couples, like you’re in a David Grey music video. I don’t care how independent you think you are, if you spend the day alone, looking at happy families making memories together, you’re going to be that person sitting in the corner at Starbucks crying into your Grande-Skinny-Peppermint-Mocha-with-extra-whip for no reason and they’ll ask you to leave. Which will upset you even more, because now where will you go??

3. Do a Family Tradition

Does your family always watch A Christmas Story? Do an Advent Calendar? Then do that! When I was a kid, my grandparents would always send us a big box in the weeks leading up to Christmas with our gifts – but more importantly – a huge tin of homemade cookies. My favorite were what I called the “Puffy Cookies with Sprinkles.” As an adult, I discovered they were Ricotta Cookies and got her recipe. It would be more interesting if it was an old, super secret family recipe, but she coughed it up pretty easily and I’m pretty sure the same recipe is on a hundred different websites. But let’s pretend it’s a secret recipe for the sake of the story.

The first time I made them was my first Christmas away from my family (that sounds so depressing, but let’s remember, this is very much a First World Problem). At the time, it almost made me feel like I was home. Until my sister called me, telling me how much fun they were having playing Bananagrams and drinking Hot Toddy’s. This problem can be easily solved, if you…

…Make Your Family Video Chat With You All Day!

When in doubt, just insert yourself into your family’s plans and make them take you on a virtual journey throughout their day. Obviously, waking up and opening presents is still the most fun part of the day. Adults try and pretend it’s not, but it totally is (have you seen those Kay Jewelers commercials?! Those bitches are thirsty for that gift box). I’m 29 and still can’t wait to rip open that wrapping paper and see what I got. (Nothing says “Happy Birthday, Jesus!” like Consumer Capitalism, amiright?) So, as soon as you wake up, grab that cup of coffee and snuggle up by your laptop and open your gifts with your family! It’ll be just like when you were a kid, and your parents would film you opening your presents and constantly yell at you to “HOLD IT UP AND SHOW IT TO THE CAMERA!” I mean, really, the joys of modern technology.

And now that you can video chat on your phone, there’s no reason you can’t go ice skating with your family, play in the snow, watch a movie simultaneously and do your usual commentary, and eat dinner together. It’s a lot like that movie “Her,” only you don’t fall in love with your cell phone and think Siri is a real person and also your parents are there.

Remember It’s Just One Day

I know it’s a special day, so it feels like the worst thing to be spending it away from your family. But if you did fly home, you’d probably be so annoyed that your parents are treating you like you’re 15 again that by the end of the day, you wished you booked an earlier flight home. So relish the few more days you have of vacation, and do the stuff YOU want to do – like, sleep all day and watch 3 seasons of “Game of Thrones” on someone’s HBO Go account that you stole the password to. That’s really what the holiday break is all about.

The Word Fiance Makes Me Dry Heave

Relationship labels suck. When you’ve been dating for more than 2 ½ years, the word “boyfriend” seems too small. Then you get engaged, and all of a sudden you have to refer to your guy as something different, which is already weird, but the word fiance seems so douchey! I find myself avoiding using the word and have just started saying “sig other,” “my guy” or sticking with “boyfriend.” (Which is worsened when squealy girls say “noooo, he’s your FIANCE!!!)

People also love to ask “what is engaged life like?!?!” The answer is: the same? Maybe it was romantic for the first two days, then I feel like we both kind of gave up and stopped trying a little bit since we were already locked in. Now is the time to start peeing with the door open and only showering three times a week! You can’t leave me!!!

I hate telling people I’m engaged because they all want to know the story. But they don’t want to hear a boring story. They want to hear how he took me to our favorite, celebrity-chef-owned restaurant, then started his prepared, perfect, rehearsed speech about all the different ways he loves me, arranged for all of our best friends to be there (flew in my family from Denver, natch) and suddenly materialize holding sparklers as he drops to one knee, then our dogs would run out from the kitchen, inexplicably so well-trained all of a sudden that they held “Will You Marry Me” signs in their mouth and present a ring to me that is tied to one of their collars. Then champagne came out and we all partied until dawn and my dogs didn’t pee inside.

This is not my story. My story isn’t not romantic, but it does revolve around a poop. It was the night before my boyfriend’s 30th birthday. At around 11:30, I decided I was tired and wanted to go to bed. He begged me to stay up until he turned 30. I said okay. 11:59 rolls around and I’m waiting to yell “Happy Birthday Goodnight!” when he says “wait hang on, baby, I have to go to the bathroom. Annoyed, I asked him if it was going to be fast (i.e. just a pee) because I really didn’t want to wait the 20 minutes just to say Happy Birthday. I could do that half asleep from under the covers. He assured me he’d be out by 12:01.

At 12:10 he comes out, all excited. I say happy birthday, then start going to bed. He says he’s going to open all his gifts NOW, and runs to where they were “hidden.” (They weren’t hidden well – I tried to get them under the bed, but one of the boxes only half-fit, so it was jutting out. I’m going to be the laziest Mom-Santa ever, my kids will never believe in him). I grabbed his hands to stop him and in his hand was a ring (cue “awwws” from single girls). He didn’t do a big speech, and started it with “well, you knew this was coming…” which I did.

The day before, he was talking to a friend on the phone and not-so-cryptically said “yeah I bought it last week. (pause) I’m going to do it very soon” – and I was sitting next to him. And minus the waiting for him to poop, I do prefer the way it happened. I appreciated the heads up so I could get a manicure the next morning (I chose the color “Let’s Get Engaged, because if he’s not being slick, why should I). I also don’t like anyone enough to have them present at life events, so I liked that it was just us and our two dogs, who were very curious about the ring we were holding and tried to eat it. Although that might have been a better story if they ate it and I had to wait for them to poop it out. It would have been more of an adventure and would fit in with the whole “waiting for someone to go #2 so I can get my damn ring” theme. I haven’t started wedding planning, but that would be a tacky wedding theme, yes? Whatever, I’ll put it on the list, right under “running away to Cabo to get hitched and not telling anyone” theme.

Crazies on a Plane

The two most crazy sects of travelers are: bus people and the lesser-discussed plane people. Bus People are known for being disheveled and always having a “I’m currently contemplating strangling myself with my headphone cord before I get across town” face on. Plane People are a whole other animal. They’re generally not as messy (I mean, you have to be at least Upper Middle Class to fly anymore with these prices, amIright?!), nor as suicidal. I personally think flying from NYC to LA is less painful than trying to cross Manhattan to get to the West Side Trader Joe’s location for decently priced frozen meals. But Plane Peeps are crazy as hell. Or at least the ones I sit next to in the cattle-call seating that Southwest Airlines insists on doing. (As if flying wasn’t classless enough anymore, you have to play “Hunger Games” just so you don’t get the middle seat?) My most recent flying companions have been especially…memorable:

Denver to NYC, November 2014:

I got the middle seat (but the first row, front of the plane, so I thought I was in good shape because there’s all that extra leg room and you’re not face-to-face with a reclining seat-back), and learned within 5 seconds that I was seated between Stickler-For-Rules Karen and a roly poly woman who who talked to people no one else could see and also looked exactly like the baby from that show, “Dinosaurs.” As soon as I sat down, Stickler-For-Rules told me: “you can’t have your bag here. You have to put it up top!” I told her “I know that, I’m just trying to get situated and not block the aisle.” She didn’t care and urged me to get my shit together faster. It was like my mother and a no-nonsense Air Marshall had an old love child and she was it. On my right, there was Baby Dinosaur (“I’m the baby!” and “not the mama!” were on a loop in my head the whole flight. If she said either one, I would have shit myself and died, right there), who was talking to someone – it could have been me, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying, so I can only assume she was speaking to the spirit of her dead pet chinchilla.

Everyone was pretty quiet for the flight, until Baby Dino tried to use the restroom. Big! Mistake! Stickler-For-Rules immediately scolded her, saying “Someone’s already IN THERE. You can’t just STAND IN THE AISLES.” Obviously with the language barrier, this caused quite a confusion and no one cared except Stickler-For-Rules. (I held it the whole time just to avoid getting yelled at again. I saw “Con Air,” I know how airplane squabbles go down – one wrong move and you end up locked in a cage strapped in a Hannibal Lecter face mask and Nicholas Cage’s stuffed teddy bear gets ruined.)

Stickler-For-Rules and Baby Dino later made amends when Dino told Stickler the powers of this amazing, magical, “African lotion” called “Shea Butter.” Stickler-For-Rules obviously knew exactly what Shea Butter was, and made that known, but then let Baby Dino talk about how she slathers it all over her body to combat winter dryness (not an especially sexy visual, so…you’re welcome!). But then Baby Dino cut the conversation short when she turned to look out the window and started talking. At first I thought she might be praying, because we were about to land, but then she put her hand up as if she was whispering to someone. So probably not praying, but maybe there was someone standing on the wing, talking back, and my mind just wasn’t elevated/drugged enough to see him.

NYC to Denver, August 2014

On this day, my favorite pair of row-mates took me on a roller coaster ride of emotions, in addition to putting up with the turbulence that always comes with flying to Denver (fucking mountains). At first glance, they appear to be a midwestern mother-daughter combo. Some eavesdropping told me they were flying to Denver, then driving to Utah to meet “Daddy” for a good old fashioned family vacay. SIDE NOTE: I feel strongly that adult women shouldn’t refer to their fathers as “daddy” – you sound like you’re referring to your 30-years your senior boyfriend and moreover, can thus create confusion for eavesdroppers.

Daughter speaks in baby voice, although she appeared to be in college. A few very conspicuous glances at her day planner confirms this, based on her neatly-written schedule (I have no shame and would have asked her to decipher her handwriting, if it hadn’t looked sickeningly perfect, like a preschool teacher’s). It also looked like she had a part-time job on campus (“Work, 10-3 smiley-face-doodle!”) Just to give you a mental picture: I wear my headphones and don’t turn on music, but bob my head a little bit so it looks like I’m listening to music. I usually close my eyes so it looks like I’m napping, then steal side-eye glances when I need a visual. If I need a good look, I’ll pretend I need something from my bag so I have more snooping freedom.

Then it got weird. While engaging in some boring chit-chat, the daughter pulls something out of her bag. A book? Homework? Nope. It was….a coloring book. But not an adult one – an Ages 6-10 Disney characters coloring book. It was already half colored, so you know this is not a one-time thing, but a steady hobby. This might go without saying, but I was put further into a shocked confusion when she pulled out a box of crayons (8 pack, if you were wondering. But I’m assuming that’s just her travel set and she’s got the huge box with the sharpener in back at home). So she starts coloring while they chat (she stayed in between the lines, if you were curious) and then Mom asks her about her boyfriend! The plot thickens!

Daughter…whilst coloring, tells mom about the SEXTS she sent the beau to “tide him over” while she was gone. Mom GIGGLED and asked if she was naked. Daughter – in baby coo – says “oh gosh no, just my underwear!” I did wonder if she chose sexy undies, or if her undies were a cotton panty/undershirt set with prancing bunnies on them to match the baby voice, but no one clarified this for me. After they talked about her boyfriend’s apparent voracious appetite for sexual contact and undie-selfies, they each buried themselves in a book and a coloring book, respectively, and I sat in a confusion coma, trying to wrap my mind around who exactly I was sharing this 4 hour flight with. Over-sexed baby? Normal gal who just loves to color? I don’t know!!! All I’m saying is, if you are reading this, Baby Voice, I’m sorry. But also, let’s get coffee because I really need to hear your whole life story stat. I’ll bring the crayons!

Thankgiving Reflection: That Time I Ran An Illegal Baking Service

Guys, I don’t mean I sold pot. But I did intend to sell my wares to those who were using pot.

It was years ago, and an entrepreneurial friend of mine came up with the idea to start a late-night dessert delivery service and asked me if I wanted to help. I said sure. (Okay, fine, I totally wanted to date him and thought this was my chance. Whatever, get off my back). The idea was to bake desserts at his apartment, then be available to deliver them to Williamsburg-ers from 10pm-3am. (I really don’t need you to tell me how dumb this was, I knew it then. I know it now). Not only is it illegal to sell food made in a non-commercial kitchens, why I thought delivering desserts to strangers at 3am would be a great way to start a successful bakery business with zero knowledge of baking from scratch is beyond me. Maybe I didn’t watch enough “Shark Tank.”

We came up with some recipes – half we Google’d, some I’m pretty sure we winged (oatmeal-flax-chocolate-chia cookies? Again…Williamsburg. I don’t know), and one recipe we definitely stole from someone who said they’d bake for us, then bailed after one night realizing how non-profitable this was. I think we had 6 menu items total. This required us to bake pretty much every-other night (we might have been illegal, but dammit, if we weren’t fresh), then stay up all night holding the burner phone we bought as the business line. My astute business partner also paid $200 for promotional cards that we handed out in the afternoons, trying to drum up business. (I DID have a job during this time, by the way, which makes this whole charade even more ridiculous). I think we called it “Foodie Call” or something equally pun-y and derivative. Again…knocking it out of the park.

I think the business (and I use this term loosely) only ran for a month before we called it quits. We probably only made 10 deliveries the whole time, I didn’t even make more than $20, let alone get a boyfriend out of it. Total waste.

As it happened, Thanksgiving fell right after our shoddy business closed it’s apartment door, but I was ready to show off my “new found baking mastery” to my family. I’m the youngest child, and obviously the slightly-forgetful-doesn’t-really-contribute-much sibling. Well…I was about to show them! We made a plan that the night before Thanksgiving, my sister would make dinner, and I – the baker! – would do dessert. Even though I really hadn’t improved much during my stint as an Underground Dessert Pusher, I thought I was a regular Dominique Ansel (“The Cronut Guy” for you non-bakers), so I decided to make the most convoluted dessert I had sort-of learned to make, but by no stretch of the imagination perfected: a Peanut-Butter-Banana Chocolate cake with Peanut Butter frosting. I sent my parents the list of ingredients I needed, which was an obscene list that included semi-sweet chocolate chips, unsweetened chocolate chunks, and god-knows what else, but my sister told me it cost like $60 to get everything. Whatever, Mom, this cake was going to be SO worth it!!

I spent about an hour and a half in the kitchen whipping up the cake batter, melting the chocolate, prepping the frosting, and making a huge mess. But don’t worry, family-who-looks-terrified, I’m your newly grown up daughter and I’m going to blow your socks off so hard you’re going to offer to send to me culinary school, so it’s going to be SO worth it!

Well, you see, the thing was, I never figured out how to bake banana chunks INTO the cake without them becoming rock hard…but I figured that would magically work itself out. But then there was also the small detail that I could never remember if I was supposed to add baking soda or baking powder. I think I used baking soda. Although I don’t know. Who can remember such things. Again…lessons very much not learned.

I put the batter in the oven and kept yapping about how good this huge cake was going to be. About 15 minutes in, I go to peek at my cake and see how she was doing. The following happened in slow motion: I turn on the oven light. I look in. The cake is bubbling up like a goddam active volcano. Huge dollops of my precious cake that was supposed to prove years of worthlessness wrong were just plopping onto the bottom of the oven. The cake on the bottom of the oven was beginning to smoke and burn. the cake was still bubbling over. My cake was ruined. I tried to think of how I could save this cake, but then it started to really smell. I walked over to my dad and said: “I think I fucked it up.”

I still don’t remember which was the wrong one, but I THINK the baking soda was wrong. I think that’s what makes it explode. Or I was supposed to use both? I don’t know, I have never tried to bake that fucking cake again because it was totally scarring to have to tell my family – as a 22-year old ADULT – that I messed the cake up and the majority of that $60 worth of ingredients now had to be scraped and burned off the oven floor.

I think what made me the most upset wasn’t that I screwed it up and there would be no dessert/redeeming of myself. It’s that my family didn’t seem at all surprised that the cake literally blew up in my face. Why did I tell you this story as I prep to go home for Thanksgiving again this year? I guess the lesson I learned that year was…if you’ve never been the one to help in the kitchen, don’t start now. Don’t try to impress anyone. Just offer to roll up those Pillsbury Crescent Rolls and call it a day. Holidays aren’t for showing your parents how much you’ve grown. They are for you to revert to your 14-year old self and whine all weekend, then try and sneak out after your parents fall asleep so you can meet your friends, get drunk, and spy on the loser who still works at the local Pick N’ Save.

Gobble, Gobble, underachievers!

“Customer Service”? More Like “Customer Ser–WHY AM I SO MAD”?

Some store, somewhere, definitely has my photo in back with a sign that says “This lady is a bitch, don’t help her.”

It’s not that I’m “mean” to those in customer service, it’s just that they refuse to serve me in the manner in which I would like them to, so I’m forced to go ham on them to try and get what I want. Which might be counter-intuitive, but…eh maybe there isn’t a “but” here. There’s just something about dealing with customer service that makes me immediately tense up and get preemptively angry, like an abused dog thrown into a cage of pit bulls. I know they’re probably going to tell me they can’t help me, so I just go in like a pitbull. Maybe this is something I should talk to my therapist about (Napoleon complex? Who’s to say).

Most recently, I have been in a bitter, bloody battle with AT&T, the likes of which haven’t been seen since “Braveheart,” except I was screaming “Early Upgraaaaade!” I would like to preface this story with that fact that I used to sell cellphones, so I know what a fucking racket this business is. I also know that if a manager thinks you, the representative, are cute…they’ll authorize whatever the fuck you want, because cell phone contracts are such bullshit. This isn’t Homeland security. Mama’s just trying to get the coolest phone sooner.

I was trying to help my fiance get an early upgrade on his phone, because the iPhone 6 just came out, and he decided that his phone “wasn’t working properly” (it was) and that he “refused to live one more day with a malfunctioning phone” (he really could). Not wanting to fight the man I believe the book “Mr. Impossible” was based on, I called AT&T to get the scoop on how we could get around this “you have to wait 2 more years” rule. After being connected to 4 different people in 3 departments (are your jobs that specialized?!), a lovely lady tells me she’ll do it for me (I was nice to her…maybe that’s why. Lesson learned. Briefly) and noted our account. Like a kid on Christmas, we frolic into the store with dreams of big screens and a retina camera in our heads (WTF is a retina camera?). I direct them to the note in our account. They see the note. They will not honor it. They tell me to call AT&T and figure it out. Not to have the Christmas wish crushed, like the year I asked for a Barbie 4-Wheeler and got a scooter, I call AT&T…while standing in the AT&T store (am I the only one who thinks this is ABSURD?). I talk to a new person who says the note on the account is invalid.

I proceed to go Twilight-New-Werewolf CRAZY on the phone representative and store employee, simultaneously. Was this the best course of action? Definitely not.And I’m pretty sure everyone in the store was watching me curse two people out at once – and they probably had me on speakerphone in Guam or wherever the AT&T call center is located (I know for a fact the man I was talking to was not actually named “John.” John from Guam? I’m not buying what you’re selling). How can I be dealing with two people from the same company, who are just passing the blame back and forth from the Upper East Side to – was it Bangladesh? Aren’t you on the same team? Does AT&T not do team-building ropes courses? Or just even a company lock-in at HQ? After refusing to back down and accept “no” as an answer, or worse – get transferred to someone else “who may know more about this situation”…I did eventually get the upgrade.

I feel like I go through the same battle every time I deal with customer service (if you have Time Warner Cable, I KNOW you feel me on this one). The idea that we have to sign bullshit contracts to have a cellphone or get cable TV and we’re locked into these arbitrary rules is mind-boggling to me. We all know they’re totally made-up and don’t matter right? It’s like “girl code” or rules like “on Wednesdays we wear pink” (I don’t subscribe to those rules, either). I long for the day when threatening “I’ll just cancel my service and switch to Verizon” was the magic word, and you’d get whatever you were asking for. Now, you say that and they’re like, “okay I can cancel that now.” Do I have NO leverage? It’s like arguing with my mother…I have zero bargaining chips.

Maybe I’m just high maintenance and I’m the “Little Miss Impossible” (okay, I know that part is totally true), but why can’t a girl get a little help? I don’t want to curse people out. I’m actually a really nice person…who has a fuse shorter than a T. Swift relationship (rim shot). And trust me, I know throwing a fit makes me look waaaaaay worse than it does you (it’s one of those times you think you’re powerful like Miranda Priestly in “Devil Wears Prada,” but you actually look like newly-bald-Britney-Spears wielding an umbrella).

But if calling you and your supervisor a twat and refusing to hang up gets me 6-months of HBO and Showtime for free, I have a whole slew of other nicknames in my arsenal. Although I’m no longer welcome at the AT&T Store on 86th and Lexington.

How To Behave in a Public Restroom: A Friendly PSA

While I have many pet peeves (loud eating, messy people, aggressive typing, incorrect stapling, etc), one of the things I get annoyed with constantly is the missed social cues in a public restroom. In my opinion, going to the bathroom is an individual sport and users should act accordingly. Somewhere in the history of restrooms women decided it was a group activity and one cannot urinate without the moral support of her gal pals. All of a sudden it’s a pants down social event. But for a multitude of reasons, I think this goes against all logic. I have compiled a list of social rules I believe you should abide by when using a public restroom.

1. Don’t Answer Your Phone

Listen, we all play with our phones while in the bathroom stall. In fact, that’s where I’ve written my best tweets. And probably where I’ve “liked” all of your Instagram photos. But answering your phone is a no-no. I’m all about eavesdropping on other people’s conversations, so if you’re talking about something saucy, I will get emotionally invested…. Okay so now that I’m thinking about this, maybe I actually love this. However, the connotation when talking in the bathroom is that your phone is now very unsanitary. And you probably DON’T want everyone in the restroom to hear that your man might have gotten some other bitch pregnant.

That being said, if you’re the only one in there, go for it! Just put them on “mute” when you’re peeing or flushing so they can’t tell you’re in a restroom, because it’s uncomfortable to think you’re someone’s bathroom soundtrack. Unless it’s your sister, in which case #nofilter.

2. Don’t Talk to Anyone

Especially while in adjacent stalls. Unless you need TP. I really hate when people try to start conversations with me while washing hands. I understand you’re probably just trying to be nice and friendly when you ask where I got my Birkenstocks, but now we’re trapped by the hand dryers, in a conversation about the comfort of sandals outweighing being fashion forward. Who the fuck cares, I’m just trying not catch herpes up in here.

This situation is even worse in the dreaded “work restroom.” In a public restroom, you don’t know anyone in there, so if you accidentally fart, you’re never going to see these people again, so no harm, no foul. But you know everyone at work, so that person who just heard you fart? They’re sitting next to you in that pitch meeting 5 minutes later, and how can you possibly make eye contact??!!! I try to avoid eye contact or greetings and pretend I don’t know anyone. I think it’s better for everyone involved.

3. Don’t Use It As a Conference Room

This is mostly in reference to a work restroom. People always seem to remember they have to ask you that important thing as you’re making your way to the handicap stall (because we all love the leg room!). This makes me supremely uncomfortable. Just make a mental note and hit me up at my cubicle later.

I also hate when people do the old “water cooler” conversation in there. It’s called “water cooler” for a reason. DO IT AT THE FUCKING WATER COOLER. I have a shy bladder, and trying to coax it out while people talk about the epic “potato cooking fight” on “True Tori” gives me PTSD.

4. It’s Not the Olympics of Hand-washing, People

Have you ever noticed that when two people are washing their hands at the same time, it becomes a contest to see who can lather up the most suds and disinfect the most thoroughly? I understand the Ebola scare is real, but you’re not performing major surgery later. Just wash them normally. There is no need to scrub up to your elbows and under your fingernails. It just makes you look like you dropped something in the bowl and had to go elbow deep to retrieve it if that’s how you have to clean yourself.

5. Don’t Act Like a Human Sprinkler

Don’t worry this isn’t a “if you sprinkle” announcement (I hate those stupid rhyme signs. Only okay if you are in a preschool). This is referring to the post-hand washing routine. Don’t be a dick and shake your wet hands out over the counter. It gets all wet, then when I lean against it to squeeze my pores my crotch gets all wet, then I have to walk out of the bathroom looking like I didn’t get there in time.
I’m sure you didn’t realize there were so many rules for using the bathroom, so I won’t hold it against you. This was not part of the potty-training process. But I think we need to kick it old school and have some decorum in public. Or at the very least, if you see me in an airport bathroom, just avoid eye contact and by no means draw attention to the fact that I commented on your Instagram photo 20 seconds ago.

That Time I Made Up The Worst Diet Ever, and Other Tips

Growing up, I was always super skinny. My friends who had already started puberty sprouted hips and in their jealousy of my scrawny size 000 bod asked me if I was anorexic (which is basically the best compliment a girl could ask for. Unless she’s actually anorexic, then you probably don’t want people to notice you only eat Altoids). When I hit high school, I was still under 90 pounds. But since I played ice hockey, that became a disadvantage. Which sucked, because playing hockey was already a disadvantage socially. No one wants to take a girl who can kick your ass to Homecoming. And that’s even assuming there was a boy who didn’t think I was a les. Although, even if I wanted to go, I was away most weekends playing 4 games in 2 days and trying to pack on the pounds like a college wrestler trying to up his weight class. My mom force fed me things like peanut butter, avocados (it has good fat!) and beef stroganoff (yeah probably just regular, bad, fat) to try and bulk me up. I got a personal trainer to pack on muscle. It didn’t work. This also made me feel like one of those poor little Chinese kids who are sent away to mean, Communist trainers to become Olympians, only I couldn’t do the splits. And I don’t think those kids are allowed to eat.

That was until I started my Junior year, then I got the world’s tiniest boobs puberty could give someone, but then all that beef stroganoff started settling into my midsection and all of sudden I wasn’t being asked if I had an eating disorder anymore. I remember visiting NYC that summer with my family, and seeing photos of me and my little spare tire squeezed into my Old Navy t-shirts that were baggy the summer before. Then I saw all those skinny bitches walking around in designer clothes clip-clopping around me. So this is what low-esteem feels like. Shit. I refused to eat that night at dinner (I insisted “I wasn’t hungry.” Classic teenage move. In hindsight, I’m a little disappointed I couldn’t think of a more colorful excuse, like screaming “MEAT IS MURDER!” in the middle of the crowded restaurant…or claiming I wouldn’t eat until gays could marry). But then, obviously, I was ravenous by the time we walked back to our hotel room, so I made my dad buy me a Snickers bar for dinner. Which…was clearly much more nutritious than just ordering a fucking salad.

After accepting the fact that I did not posses the necessary willpower to pull off anorexia – nor did I have a good enough gag reflex to be bulimic – I searched for other get-skinny quick fixes, like all teenage girls do (and if you don’t cop to doing this, you’re either a dirty liar or your metabolism hasn’t slowed down yet, In which case, you can go fuck yourself).

I tried all-fruit, which only worked the day my mom went grocery shopping. By the next day, I’d eaten all the good fruit and I was back on real food. I tried all-liquid, South Beach, the Power Bar diet (which ended up being an “eat a PowerBar then a full meal 15 minutes later” diet). All failed due to the previously aforementioned lack of willpower. So one day I came up with the “I can’t eat until I poop” diet. This was incredibly ill-conceived for two reasons. One, I went like four times a day. Two, it made no fucking sense to begin with. In case this needs further explanation or you want to steal my nonsense diet tips, it meant I would only eat after I produced a bowel movement. The logic here (and I use the term “logic” loosely) was that I had just made room in my body and expelled fat (I probably needed to take a nutrition class, because you generally do not poop pure fat). Clearly I saw zero results and adopted a weird eating schedule.

Years later and more diets later (I now consider myself a PescaVegan), I can tell you the best diet is having an undiagnosed colon problem. I started losing a ton of weight almost two years ago for no apparent reason. Which was amazing not only because I wasn’t trying, but I also had a 6-pack for the first time since that sad day I hit puberty and looked the best I’ve ever looked. Compliments and tight yoga pants galore! Shopping was so fun. It was like a movie montage where everything looks amazing and you’re asking the sales lady if they have anything smaller than a 0. This was the only time in my life I enjoyed those small, inconsistent European sizes H&M insists on making. These are the sizes that mean if you are a size small anywhere else, you’re an H&M 12 and then you slit your wrists.

After months of slowly dropping weight and finally having skinny thighs, I started feeling really sick. I went to a few different doctors and was eventually diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis. And unfortunately, it got under control. And I put 15-lbs back on. I know, I know. Beauty comes from within. Unless you have a flat stomach, then who the fuck cares what’s not working inside (hint: proper nutritional absorption).

Whenever I think about this, I think about that part in “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion” when Lisa Kudrow says “mono was the best diet ever.” Which…is true, because she was so skinny and pretty by the time Prom came around.

So I guess my advice to you, reader who wants to lose 20-lbs before you go home for holidays and run into hopefully fat people from high school…pray for a gastrointestinal issue and not seek medical attention. Maybe also give up dairy. That will at least cut down on the farting.

How To Survive Halloween as a Childless Semi-Adult

I fucking loved Halloween as a kid. When I was four I wore the dog costume my mom sewed me for the whole year (and was thoroughly taken aback when people had the audacity to stare at me while I walked around the Pick N’ Save). When I was 10 I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be a bunny or a princess, so I went as a Bunny Princess. It always seemed to happen that our suburb’s designated Trick or Treating afternoon fell on Daylight savings and I thought it was a great injustice that it meant I had to wait a whole additional HOUR until I could run out with my pumpkin pail.

And then you turn 16 and it’s not socially acceptable to go Trick or Treating. And then you turn 21 and everyone gets dressed up specifically to go out and get shitfaced, but as a slutty “Game of Thrones” character. This I do not care for. Is barfing while dressed as a slutty Dinosaur more fun than barfing as your slutty self? Even if you choose to not be a slutty version of something, it’s just too much pressure to come up with a good costume. The thrifty midwesterner in me also doesn’t think it’s smart to spend money on something you‘re just going to wear once.

Plus, years ago someone told me that in NYC, Halloween is when gangs have initiation nights. According to this rumor, prospective members have to slash innocent bystanders to prove their worth. I’d prefer not to get stabbed just to go out to a sweaty bar so someone dressed as Count Chocula can try and feed me roofied Mallomars. Perhaps more importantly, I find masks terrifying, so Halloween is just a landmine for possible panic attacks.

But then staying in can be just as awful. As you may have deduced, I am a wuss and don’t like scary movies. I watched “The Ring” 10 years ago, and sometimes when I close my eyes I still that bitch’s face. Last year I realized I could be the one passing out candy, so I went out and bought all the best candy so I’d have the reputation as being the good house to stop out. The only huge, glaring problem with my plan is that I live in an apartment building, and no one trick or treats there. I think I got a grand total of 5 kids stop by and I ate the huge bowl of candy myself over the course of the week (which could have still lead to barfing. Dammit!). Plus I’m already treating my fiance like a domineering ballet instructor in an attempt to get us both into scary-skinny shape for our wedding – candy is definitely on the “eat and you will never be a Prima Ballerina/acceptable groom” list.

This year, I was determined to have a good, safe, semi-grown up Halloween. Here are my tips for how you can enjoy a healthy, not-scary, almost-an-adult Halloween at home:

1. Carve a pumpkin!

Remember how fun that was! Unfortunately, now that you’re a grown up, your dad won’t carve the guts out for you. But now that your motor skills are fully developed, you can go for something beyond the classic smiley face, like a howling wolf or a portrait of Lindsay Lohan when she was going off the deep end.

2. Save the seeds and bake ‘em

Okay this is a lot of work, but since you’re staying at home all night, let’s be real, you have the time. Just separate from the guts, and rinse in a colander. Boil in salt water for 10 minutes, then drain and pat dry. Toss them with 1 tablespoon of Vegetable oil and ½ tsp sea salt, then roast for 20-25 min at 400. SO easy, you can do it totally buzzed!

3. Wait for the 5 trick or Treaters to Come

You know passing out candy is fun and you really don’t want to start your adult life as the mean old lady who never passes out candy, or worse, still answers the door for Trick or Treaters, then rifles around the house for a rotten banana to give (this actually happened to me), or even worse, passes out those gross peanut butter taffies wrapped in orange and black wax paper. Just buy a small bag of fun sized candies so you aren’t left to eat the 12-lbs bag of Almond Joys by yourself while you look at the Instagram photos your friends are posting at their “awesome” Halloween party.

(IF YOU PASS THIS OUT, NO KIDS LIKE YOU AND YOU JUST SINGLE0HANDEDLY RUINED HALLOWEEN.)

4. Pop in a Safe Movie

Thank God ABC Family airs “Hocus Pocus” on a constant loop for the month of October. I usually DVR all the good Halloween movies they air all month, then watch a couple on Halloween night. It’s festive, but Kathy Najimy and Bette Midler probably won’t haunt your dreams. But I do recall that cute boy who saved Halloween or whatever totally haunted my dreams as a kid. But in an age-appropriate sexy, “I’ll hold you hand” kind of way.

(SWOON)

5. Get drunk at home

Because you’re an adult and you’re mom’s not there. You can do whatever you want. I plan on making my fiance mix me an uber-festive Whiskey cocktail with grenadine blood and gummy worms hanging out. Like I said, you’re a fucking adult, and this is how grown-ups deal with emotions. Get on board.

However, if you have a friend that will lend you their child for the night and you can take them trick or treating, just do that. Seeing a kid so pumped to say “trick or treat” 100 times to get some stale candy corn is really what this Pagan holiday is all about.

I Wasn’t Allowed to Watch Anything Cool in the 90s

What do Beverly Hills 90210, Friends, Melrose Place and Dawson’s Creek have in common? They all coaxed major hormone levels out of junior high girls and taught us the hottest 90s fashions (remember carpenter jeans?!). Also, I wasn’t allowed to watch them.

I wouldn’t say I was sheltered, but they definitely made sure I didn’t get any ideas about the glamours of teen pregnancy, drinking, or staying out past 10pm. Instead, we stayed home as a family and caught “Nick at Nite” reruns of I Love Lucy, Happy Days, and The Munsters. Listen, I had a nice childhood, but the fact that I couldn’t watch any “cool” shows or wear strappy tank tops like everyone else did was a real struggle no guidance counselor prepares you for. I can deal with my impending menses, but not being able to describe why James Van Der Beek would be the ideal husband? I might as well have joined Theater Tech.

Showing up to 8th grade and not having any fucking clue who this problematic “Jen” was that everyone was talking about was my Vietnam. Did no one catch that hilarious debacle Richie Cunningham got into last night? Good luck that the Fonz was there, am I right? No one? This damn crick (was it an actual creek? A metaphor? Does anyone even know???) was all everyone talked about – for like four years! My locker didn’t have pictures of Joshua Jackson or James Van Der Beek plastered all over my locker. I had a poster of Karl Malone and Kermit the Frog’s “Got Milk” ad.

I did what any other no-boobs, trumpet playing 8th grader would. I just acted like I watched it, too. It’s shocking how far generic statements like “yeah, I was surprised, “OMG, right?” or “that would be so romantic to lose my virginity in an empty cabin on a school trip” will get you. I was pulling the wool over my junior high contemporaries’ eyes until I was asked the question of all questions: Pacy or Dawson?

I don’t fucking know! Yet feeling cocky with my ability to skate by with a smile and a nod, I threw them a curve ball and said “neither. I like Joey.” So while everyone thought I just accidentally outed myself during third period band, I quickly backtracked and said I was joking. I’m just saying that if you don’t want to be convincing people all through high school that you are NOT a lesbian, keep your mouth shut about must-see-TV programming you don’t know about.

When I became an adult and realized I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, I watched 5 seasons of Dawson’s Creek (after they all went to college and Joey slept with her professor, (played by Ken Marino?!!?) I was over it. But, I get it. I guess). I bought the entire “Friends” series on DVD and watched it during an extended unemployment stint. So THIS is what everyone was talking about! Rachel was so pretty and had the best clothes! Chandler was classic comedy! Monica is like that crazy person we all have inside of us that we try to hide until we get married and it’s too late to get dumped! It was glorious. Plus, there was another Joey, but this one was a guy (twist!). Never mind that I was walking around 8 years later, saying shit like “we were on a break!” and singing “Smelly Cat.”

So you can imagine my delight when Melrose and 90210 were getting a reboot. I could be one of the cool kids now and actually watch (and it would save me weeks of binge watching the originals). Unfortunately, everyone else was already over those ‘90s shows and no one else watched them. Now I was the loser who actually watched 90210?

The moral of the story is that I should have just stuck to being my own rainbow and watching The Brady Bunch. Because you all might pick up on way more cultural references than I do, but the memory of sitting with my parents and watching Marcia Brady get rocked by that football before her date with Doug Simpson is priceless. Okay yeah, I don’t believe that either. I’m totally watching all of Twin Peaks before the new one comes out.

The One That Got Away…Thank God.

Everyone – except those Mid-westerners/Southerners who adorably married their high school sweetheart – has a story about a love lost that could have been the greatest love they’d ever known. Which I think is kind of bullshit.

It’s easy to highly romanticize every relationship you have, because we expect the flowers, the dinners, the gifts and the proposal that can only happen when the producers of the “The Bachelor” orchestrate the whole thing. If we’re being honest with ourselves, the real romance is sitting at home, sharing a box of Trader Joe’s wine and a plastic container of olives, watching “Couples Therapy” on VH1 and getting through an evening without bickering. But just like we strive to create this false sense of elated euphoria in the relationship we have, we create the same gauzy-filtered idea of a lost love.

My “lost love” was my college boyfriend. He was my first real boyfriend (I’m not counting Joey, my 7th grade beau, whom I fell desperately in love with during our run as Mr. and Mrs. Zubritski in a 7th grade production of Neil Simon’s “Fools.” After a double date to see “Titanic,” it somehow all fell apart. It was probably because my boobs hadn’t come in yet and I couldn’t compete “I want you to draw me” Kate Winslet. I was still trying to work up the nerve to kiss him.) We met at the college TV station, where we both spent 5 nights a week pretending we were delivering news that our peers actually watched. We dated for 2 years, then it was that delicate time where he graduated and I had one more year. But obviously, we were meant to be, so he did what every dumb-ass college kid would: he got a job at a sporting goods store to wait for me.

After about 9 months of peddling reasonably priced jockstraps and camping tents, he had enough and started applying for jobs with minor league baseball teams to operate the jumbotron (very flashy, I know). As he applied for jobs, I abandoned all my dreams of becoming a TV personality, and started telling myself I’d be happy being the game-day reporter for whatever team he landed with. I mean…running through the stands asking fans trivia questions and leading “Roll Out The Barrel” is almost as good as being the face of E! News, right? No ma’am. But we had already decided we were going to get married, so what choice did I have? This was my first wifely-duty: stand by your man.

If I may digress for a second and give you youngsters some advice: do not discuss marriage while in college, you are doing both of yourselves a disservice. It not only puts pressure on you to do something that you’re probably not ready for, but forcing yourself to make decisions based on an idea will only lead to resentment. Which leads me to…

He got a job in a small town in Michigan, where the only two things they had were a nuclear power plant, and a minor league baseball team. I visited him a couple times, he came back to Wisconsin to see me. At first, we both believed I would move there to be with him. Then I started applying for internships in New York, and the plan changed to him moving to NY and working for the Mets. I think we both knew at that point no one was going to move. We were both starting out, and both found our own – very different – lives in – very different – separate places. We clung to each other for about 8 months, then had a teary breakup over the phone. At the time, I thought we’d take a few months off to “find ourselves” as adults, then get back together. We still texted often and he echoed my sentiments that we’d get back together eventually. I ate it up, in all of it’s “The Notebook-esque” glory (I guess living in Michigan next to a power plant is kind of like being shipped to WWII?).

Then 2-months later, I saw on Facebook he was dating his chubby, skunk-striped-highlights coworker – even though he had once claimed he “would never” when I expressed concern over his close friendship with a female colleague. He gained about 50 lbs and a year later, they were engaged (which…is really all you hope for when an ex moves on, so that was kinda fun for me). I was on a work trip and my sister called to break the news to me. I immediately burst into tears. He was the one that got away. I would never love again. No one would ever love me the way he did. Then I saw their engagement photos and realized a dodged a horrifying, plus-sized bullet. Choice photos included: them on a bridge…on a children’s playground; frolicking in the leaves; and my personal favorite: them facing each other in 3-point position, like they were 2 offensive linemen facing off.

Was it a good first love? Absolutely. Was he the one that got away? No. In no alternate universe would we have been happy together. We want different lives. He wants to get radiation poisoning while running a giant screen, I want to live in NYC and become a writer and performer. He wanted to flirt with Type II diabetes, I wanted to flirt with handsome men with dreams bigger than mine, and hopefully an apartment bigger than mine.

Maybe the one that got away from you has a glossier life that you think you could fit into. But, in reality, I think there’s a reason they get away. Maybe the love you had was great and right at the time. But you broke up; they didn’t slip away in a “he went to jail for 20 years after he accidentally killed someone while trying to protect you” plot line. You didn’t fit into each other’s lives and that’s okay. I think looking back through that gauzy, romantic filter only makes future relationships harder. You should look back on previous relationships the way they were: flawed. So it’s not “the one that got away,” it’s the one that didn’t work out. To quote my man Jigga, “on to the next one.” Hopefully one that doesn’t go to jail before you can trick him into marrying you.

Working Title: how long has this poop smudge been on my shirt?

a mom who knows no one else cares that her kid turned 9 months or can now use a fork.