62 Hours In The City That Never Sleeps (And Neither Did I)

Life’s all about second chances (ok maybe that’s not what it’s all about ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ but here we go). Five years after New York City chewed me up and my spat my sad, defeated tush all the way back to California where it belongs, I decided to give it another go—just for the weekend (62 hours to be exact) this time.

With my posse—aka my boyfriend and my parents in tow, I felt ready to take on the city with all of the adult gusto I didn’t have when I was just a naive, newly graduated tater tot.

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Me, circa 2014 (and honestly also me present day).


With less than 72 hours to spare and the fuel of cheap ho-tel coffee flowing through my veins, it was game. on.

Friday night we landed at JFK Airport (home to not one but FOUR Dunkin’ Donuts) and made our way into the big city. I’d like to report that our first order of business was sipping fancy cocktails at the Algonquin Hotel like sophisticates, but it was not. That was our second order of business. First, we scouted out some sub-par slices like the true pizza rats we are.


Our stomachs duly coated with $2.75 pizza grease, we made our way to the Algonquin Hotel—home to one very plump feline named Hamlet. Cool cats aside, in the 1920’s the hotel served as a rendezvous to a coterie of gossipy elite (kind of like Mean Girls, but more drunk off of bathtub gin). They dubbed themselves “The Vicious Circle”, which is a very good name for a clique of any era, IMO.


The next morning, bleary eyed and and bushy tailed, we set off to Chelsea for mile-high pancakes at Bubby’s followed by a morning of ~culture~ at the Whitney Museum.



We chased our museum visit with a brisk walk on the Chelsea High Line, a former railroad turned linear metro-park, and chased our brisk walk with a pit stop at the Chelsea Market, mostly to raid the shelves of the Fat Witch. 

A chilly, post-market stroll around Chelsea led us straight into the warm, ricotta-stuffed arms (much like those of a large, hairy Italian uncle) of Eataly. After eyeing the specialized panini, charcuterie, pizza and pasta stalls of the mercato gastronomico, we settled on a hot, peppered bowl of cacio e pepe and DIY cannolis.


I’m going to recap Saturday in the way that my now 8 year old niece learned the difference between the words “fortunately” and “unfortunately”. Ready?

A trip to the Big Apple isn’t complete without a Broadway play. Fortunately, our unofficial travel guide (my mom) snagged us prime tickets for a Saturday evening show. Unfortunately, these tickets admitted us to The Band’s Visit, which contrary to its numerous Tony accolades, was no good at all. In fact, it was quite literally about nothing. Sorry, Tony.

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Having tackled a famous hotel bar, a museum, one park, two gourmet markets, a broadway show, 8 miles of city blocks and approximately 600 carbs, we decided we hadn’t quite done enough. Thus, we chartered on.

We taxied through the rain to Sarabeth’s, a Central Park adjacent brunch spot, for stacks of the fluffiest french toast known to man before visiting some of the greats like Monet, Matisse and Miró at MoMa. Below is a smattering of the art that didn’t resemble something a 5 year old made.

After wandering into Rockefeller center to see larger-than-life Diego Rivera murals (MORE! ART!) , we rounded out the evening with buns n’ n00ds at Momofuku Noodle Bar…


followed by a leisurely (and spooky) walk through Central park…

…and finished strong at Serendipity with a pie-stuffed sundae. We asked the waiter to roll us out the door. He politely declined.


In typical New York fashion, we were anxious (I could just end the sentence there and it would be oh so accurate) to make the most of our last few hours in Gotham City. Why is it called Gotham, by the way? Don’t worry, we’ll get there.

We waited in line with all of the other carb-seeking tourists at Best Bagel & Coffee to get our bagels n’ schmear on.


After single handedly keeping Uber afloat over the course of the frigid weekend, we opted to navigate the subway to check out Canal Street Market and the likes of SoHo. We combed through stalls of indie artists, racks of vintage collectors and finally we hit up…

…wait for it…


I don’t have any words for this one. I was quite excited.

We’ve reached the end of my 62 hour return to NYC, and if you were exhausted just reading this, then congratulations—you got the gist of the trip. And if you made it this far, here’s how Gotham City got its weird, Batman name.

I’m Baaaaack

Hello from the other side of 2018! It’s been a while, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that WordPress is only lightly password protected and I was able to wiggle my way back in here without having to pay some kind of bogus fee or create three extraneous fake email accounts. So, hi, hello. It me.


Are you even still writing this blog? Yep, still here.

A lot has happened since I’ve last been here, which leaves me with almost too much to write about. Some cliff notes—My boyfriend lost his cat (RIP Simon) who was memorably brought to fame in this one. I haven’t worn one single pair of face-plant-guaranteed kicks to the office, or anywhere else really, since writing this one. After my trip here, Isaac and I saved our pennies to jet off on a Euro-adventure where I stuffed my pants—figuratively and literally, with oodles of buttery vienoisserie goodies, did all of the shopping in a feeble attempt to hone in on my French girl style and essentially got in with the Royals during a short stint in London. I also wound up with a new job where I get to write on the daily, which is why this page has been left to collect a lil dust. Sorry ’bout that, blog.

Although all of the aforementioned would be interesting & worthy places to pick up where I left off, there is no better time than summer (or, “summer”, if you live in grey-as-Gandalf San Francisco), to write about…ice cream. Yep. This is the one about ice cream.


Live action footage of me.

If you know me, you know I have a full fledged addiction to the stuff. Is there something wrong with me? Maybe (yes.). Do I feed off of it for survival like some kind of foodie vampire? Maybe (yes). Will I eat my way into self-induced lactose intolerance? Probably…but TBD, my friends.

My first San Francisco ice cream experience took place on the very day I moved up to the city. Some would cite my discovery of the Ice Cream Bar as fate, others would call it an extreme case of obsessive determination + the power of Yelp. The old school ice cream bar and soda fountain is complete with soda jerks (although I’d say they are very polite jerks) and is nestled in charming Cole Valley—which serendipitously became my ‘hood. The wood-paneled parlor boasts unique flavors like morello cherry, butterscotch and caramelized honey. On a particularly good day, you can catch a scoop of roasted pineapple or my personal favorite—carrot cake. One should also not miss out on their brownie sundae, which could cure the worst of no good, very bad days.

I would also not-not recommend the brownie sundae at Birite. Just sayin’.

Birite is slotted as my second love in my little black book of San Franciscan ice cream shops. The storefront was too conveniently located just blocks from my first apartment in the city, so it was only natural that I accrued a stamp card or two. Their famed flavors include ricanelas (read: if a snickerdoodle cookie and buttery, cinnamon ice cream loved each other very, very much…), roasted banana, brown sugar with caramel ginger swirl and honey lavender. I can tell you right now that I have no idea how I would score the honey lavender, because lavender tastes like straight up potpourri and has no business in an ice cream cone. But hey, that’s just me and Birite seems to be doing pretty okay. If you’re not a fan of long lines like my boyfriend, scoot over to their adjacent soft serve window which offers a rotating trio of flavors and is highly underrated. I repeat, highly underrated.


I’m getting hungry writing about all of this ice cream but alas, number three on my list is Loving Cup, which doesn’t really qualify as a true ice cream shop, but nonetheless holds a special place in my heart and in this blog post. Loving Cup is the “healthy choice”—the true kale of the ice cream landscape. This sweet spot offers probiotic-packed fro-yo blended with any mix-in your heart could desire, and ~fancy~ rice puddings studded with fun things like oreos and toasted coconut.

By the way, did you know rice pudding isn’t just for old people who lack teeth? Not that there is anything at all wrong with old, dentured folk, but I’d never looked twice at rice pudding until Loving Cup introduced me to the stuff. It. is. good.

And then there was Salt & Straw—praaaise be 🙌. I don’t even know where to start with this place. Salt & Straw is the kind of ice cream joint that smacks you in the face with the sweet & toasty smell of buttery, homemade waffle cones (and it’s none of that manufactured shit being puffed around at Disneyland, either—this is a whiff of the real deal). An exceedingly cheerful ice cream barista, who in all likelihood has incredible benefits and a 401K in true San Francisco fashion, will offer you samples of every flavor (depending on how many flavors you sample, you could really get to know a lot about your scooper).

The shop boasts an impressively long menu of rotating monthly & signature flavor combinations, which were likely named by an unsupervised 10 year old in a test kitchen or evil laboratory. I.e. salted, malted chocolate chip cookie dough, ooey gooey brownie and the pièce de résistance—pots of gold and rainbows, which involves vats of Lucky Charms cereal being dumped into some sweet, milk flavored ice cream. Tou-fucking-ché. Their recipes adhere to an 80% 20% chunk-to-ice cream ratio: 80% chunks to 20% (admittedly delicious) ice cream, which has the sole purpose of binding the chunks together and serving the cause as a whole. If the ice cream base had a name, do we think it would be Offchunks?


Which flavor today?


In a moment of “in conclusion”, treat yourself to some ice cream this weekend and don’t forget the Lactaid.

Desperately Seeking Cool Girl

*WARNING* This is a shameless girl power blog.

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Last night for the nth time, I watched Gone Girl (not sure what this says about me, but keep reading), a disturbing psych thriller starring the lesser molesty of the Affleck duo and Rosemund Pike, my ultimate chick crush. Other than being a total sociopath, Pike’s character Amy Dunne is 10/10.

*SPOILER ALERT* The climactic turnaround of the film is Dunne’s revelation that she has not been kidnapped, but that she has strategically framed her innocent husband for her disappearance and supposed murder. Then, like the creepy snake she is, she sheds her Cool Girl skin– the calm, cool, and collected facade she’s worn for the duration of her relationship. She puts on 10 pounds by way of vending machine snacks, chops her polished blonde locks, and Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Good Men– I’m really happy for you, but this sociopathic female proceeds to deliver one of the best film monologues of all time. One of the best film monologues of all time.

“Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer…and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want…I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. 
[They’re] not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, [but believe me, he wants Cool Girl]”

Aside from the fact that this narcissistic beezy is 50 shades of craaazy, she brings up some well founded points. No person on the face of this planet loves seitan, a food that was likely created by its namesake. When is the last time you heard of someone really craving some seitan?



OK, I digress, but I admire this sociopath (yep, said that) for shedding some light on a truth that most of us ladies would never admit– well, second to admiring a sociopath.

We’ve all tried on Cool Girl (or Cool Guy for sake of gender equality) for size. Don’t believe me? I present Exhibit A, the box office bomb, Along Came Polly. Remember when poor Ben Stiller scarfed down some salsa-dancing-emoji-girl-status-spicy Indian food to impress Jennifer Aniston because she wanted a totally cool and fearless dood who did not give a frick about his digestive system?

If that sounds familiar to anyone else out there, then you too, have been Cool Girl (and  maybe even suffered the repercussions).


A classic case of cool guy turned “clogging the toilet-guy”.

So what happens if the object of your self-transforming affection cuts out of the picture, Cool Girl? Are you left with a toilet clogged full of regret? A Spotify playlist of his favorite Freakbeat songs that you secretly always skipped over? A spare tire from all of the chili dogs that you so enthusiastically wolfed down at all of those baseball games you didn’t give a shit about?

To be Cool Girl always, rather than when you’re consciously coupled, shed the man-pleasing facade in favor of the wo-man you want to be. I can’t speak for all of the ladies, but in my eyes, real Cool Girl is woke.

woke (adj.) /wōk/

Although an incorrect tense of awake, a reference to how people should be aware in current affairs. [As in, "While you are obsessing about the Kardashians, there are millions of homeless people in the World. STAY WOKE.]" 

Many thanks, @Urbandictionary.com

She knows wussup in the news before she knows the score of the game, because being a citizen of the World tops being a member of the Boy Scouts. Real Cool Girl does what real Cool Girl wants. Not for the benefit of a dude-man, or anyone else for that matter, because dude-man should just feel pleased to be graced with her real cool ass presence. Real Cool Girl is confident enough to pass up seitan in favor of a cheeseburger (likely with a side of animal fries), if that’s what she wants. She’s self-assured enough to turn down invitations, and knows that being easy-going is not synonymous with being liked.

Real Cool girl has qualities that are unwavering regardless of the company she keeps, because being someone else’s idea of Cool Girl will exhaust you, lead you to a mental breakdown, and cause you to frame your husband for murder.




Hey, have you heard? Portland is weird. Really weird. Said weirdness began almost immediately at the airport, when I experienced two coffee-toting mishaps that ended in one coffee-scented scarf and one very mortified boyfriend.

By the time we touched ground in the River City, I smelled like a bonafide Stumptown Roastery and was anxious to get on with the whole *getting weird* shebang. It didn’t take long to make note of the first characteristically Portlandian specimen. Along the highway to the hotel, we pulled up next to what looked like a reject member of the Alaskan Bush People. As Bear Grylls 2.0 zoomed ahead, I saw that his car was dressed in a series of pro Obama bumper stickers. Our local chauffeur explained that this unique breed of liberal redneck, a being whose beard is as thick as thieves, but is no match for his love of $400 field jackets and small batch bourbon, is a species native to Portland.

Approximately an hour off the plane and out of the automobile is when I experienced my first Powell’s Books sighting. I’d heard that this mega book hub was a biggie, but tbh nothing could have prepared me for a bookstore that channeled the likes of Gringotts Bank.


It was vast and confusing and intriguing, and gave me a fair dose of anxiety while I attempted to A) find a shallow book perfect for unwinding in the ho-tel bath, and B) find a flannel-clad librarian who could direct me toward said book. Had I actually managed to find this elusive librarian, I would have proposed that someone should really consider hooking up a fancy underground railroad to shuttle around the very damp, very lost, and very knowledge-hungry plebs.

After losing some dollaz and gaining some IQ at the never-ending bookstore, we continued on our shuffle through Portland’s signature torrential rainfall to hit up the donut mothership. Although I’d tasted the sweet nectar of a Voodonut before (rather than a “someone in Portland loves me!” souvenir tee, my parents had stowed away a box of the precious treats for me after their own Portland experience), experiencing Voodoo in the yeasty flesh was a whole new ball game. This place was not fucking around. Multi-tiered glass cases of vibrant donuts crusted in sugary cereals and neon candies danced in orderly rotation. Feeling intoxicated by diabetes’ signature perfume, I was distracted from picking my poison before my confrontation with the register. Panicked, I jabbed my finger toward three heavily frosted, deep fried doughs. WTF was I thinking, was my exact thought about two hours later, when I flung the hotel room window ajar and graced the city of Portland with my undressed, profusely sweaty, nauseated bod.


**Disclaimer**- I imagine I looked at least slightly less Beyonce-like when dangling my dry heaving-self out from the hotel’s seventh story.

After my full recovery from the donut effect, we hit the town with some native Portlandians who introduced us to the joys of fancy tots, a straight up lumberjack lounge complete with an overgrown yeti totem pole, Lyft cars fully stocked with novelty snacks such as MoonPies (expiration date not pertinent to this story), a fifth-meal that would make even Taco Bell jello, and…a spooky dessert house. I’m not confident that I can do justice to the…spooky dessert house…so I’m just going to leave this here and moooove along.

Our big night out on the town led to a hazy morning spending spree of things I needed at the time. Cue ooey gooey brownie ice cream, a book of Hilary Clinton haikus, and an $18 bottle of truffle-infused salt that measures roughly the size of a toenail. For the record, each grain costs approximately 1 cent and makes for a very tasty bowl of truffle parm popcorn.


The moral of the story is that if you’re going to Portland, don’t wear some flowers in your hair, but do prepare yourself for some surrrrious weirdness…and for the love of God, don’t get too close to the donuts.




Makin’ Up Is Hard To Do

When I was thirteen years old,  my mom reluctantly allowed me to start wearing makeup. Two years prior to pledging her support, I had already begun. My contraband collection of makeup from the ages of 11-12 included crumbly black eyeshadow, a whittled down nub of kohl eyeliner, and ancient samples of Clinique mascara. I was waging a dangerous game of Russian Roulette with Pink Eye (ye ole stink eye didn’t win until I was 18, by the way). Between the all black errything makeup and my Abercrombie wardrobe, I was a walking coming-of-age story about a raccoon.


In an effort to change my near-goth ways just in time for my impending Bat Mitzvah, my mom took me to the nearest Claire’s store to introduce me to *glitter*. I enjoyed my new five-tier loose glitter compact, but deep down I knew it was nothing more than a gateway cosmetic. Somewhere between the powder blue shimmer and the lilac sparkles, my nudie face became restless and I relapsed back to my old raccoon ways. By the time I was 14, I collectively had about 30 eyebrow hairs after discovering the thrills of the tweezer. Each pluck was filled with the same exhilaration of flooring the gas of a go-kart at the local mini golf park. At 16, I dyed my hair black. I fondly look back at that time as the Age of the Wig Hair. At 18, I picked up my first tube of liquid liner and tried to give that Cleopatra character a run for her money. It only took a rough decade for me to get my act together. At 24, my eyebrows have mostly resurrected themselves, and I don’t plan on returning to my wig tendencies for at least another six decades.

This fall I plan to play with makeup in a way that makes me look less like an angsty woodland creature, and more like a subtly enhanced version of myself. I am brushes-in-hand ready to take the season’s emerging beauty trends for a test drive, leaving my tweezers behind this time around. Oh, and to my thirteen year old self– glitter is baaaaack.


If I were to curate a fall 2016 makeup playlist, these would be my tunes of choice:

Bold brows. This one really has me wishing I had never discovered a pair of tweezers in my natural born life, or I would still be rocking c00l eyebrows à la Groucho Marx. What remains of my brows from the massacre of 2006 is supplemented on the daily by Anastasia Diprow, my savior in all hairy situations.

Luminous skin. Glow, baby, glow. Channel your inner JgLow by highlighting the tops of your cheekbones and T-Zone. My highlighting tools of choice for achieving total luminescence are NARS Illuminator in Copacabana, or if you prefer a powder, MAC Mineralize Skinfinish in Soft & Gentle.

Glitzy lids. Yasssssssss. Diva-glitter graced the lids, lips, and cheeks of models on fall runways, proving that glitter is awesome and that my mom is a legitimate prophet.


A berry good lip. Tried and true, the dark berry lip is back again. Stain, matte stick, and gloss were spotted strutting across all runway plains this season. Personally I am restraining my lil fingers from pulling the trigger on this sheer finish stick by NARS.

Flutterin’ lashes. I got ’em from my…daddy? Thankfully I have minimal need to supplement my lashes with much other than this drugstore mascara (which I swear by, btdubz), but on a particularly fun n’ flirty night I’ve never been one to pass up a pair of falsies. If you’re thinking of reaching for a pair, think Twiggy goals. These spidery guys are supamodel approved.

On the Walking Block

Not until the day I die (ok, maybe not the day I die, but not for a veeeery long time) will I forget the time I slid, slow motion and all, down a sticky, dank, staircase at my first collegiate date party. Donning my tallest polyurethane stilettos- my very finest baby prostitute regalia, I remember thinking I had nailed it. In my mind, I looked like the perfect combination of Beyonce and Michelle Obama- two real lady sophisticates. I suppose that’s what I get for relying on a dollar bin floor mirror and drinking Solo cups-worth full of cheap red wine.


Each thud down that flight of stairs was loaded with resentment for my choice in footwear + immense love for pizza and the hundreds of jars of peanut butter that cushioned my fall. Never underestimate the power of the Freshman 15.

With age, I did not grow wiser. When I began my first San Francisco job over a year ago, I threw on my sky-high pumps and teetered into work every day, wobbling my way up the stairwells, swaying down the narrow halls behind dense racks of performance fleece, skillfully balancing my way all the way back to the bus when the clock struck 5. After work I continued in my teetering: up the stairwells of BART, up and down the hills of San Francisco to meet friends, to make a pit stop at the corner store, teeter, totter, teeter, totter. And occasionally, splat (which is something one really aims to avoid when living in San Francisco).

The bottom line is that there was a lot of teetering happening, and I will tell you it was not as pretty as I imagined it to look.

It was about the time I wrapped up my gig at my first job when I also decided to wrap up my inadvertent career as a stilt performer. I purchased my first pair of block heeled shoes to celebrate my newfound life as practical human being rather than a circus performer, and let me tell you, it was like God himself had dropped them down unto me. Why weren’t babies born with these things on their feet??


And now, I can run my errands looking like this!Image result for hyperbole and a half fall

(Idk, even in block heels this errand still kinda sucks.)

Rather than, well…this

Fast forward six years from my unfortunate tumble down frat row, my shoe closet has practically suffered a stiletto genocide. It is on a very rare day and only with Lyft in my back pocket that I will teeter into my office, and only for outfit’s sake. Below are my fave block heels to prevent any falling in…you know…Fall.

I couldn’t wait for Fall to pull these puppies out of my own closet

For taking a walk on the wild side


For taking a moon walk (PS on hot sale, here)


If you’re into playing peekaboo

A blue suede shoe


The Cat’s Meow

Lately I’ve taken up a new hobby, and it would take just a single click into my browser history to uncover it. I’ve developed a serious, unhealthy, fascination with cat behavior.

Not because I’m going to be the Cat Whisperer 2.0 when some cat from Hell finally gauges the poor dude’s eyes out, but because I’ve made it my mission to analyze the dark crypt that is the brain of my boyfriend’s feline*.

*For the sake of anonymity, let’s call him the Cat.

I am quite positive this is who’s actually operating that lil pea brain of his.

But until I can build my case, I have decided that continuing to decode my beau’s fur baby is my best move. This research has been totally fruitless and completely covered in cat fur.

To his defense, the Cat is a nice-enough rescue cat who is probably weighed down by some baggage, understandably, from his days being Straight Out of Compton (or at least straight out of Potrero Hill). Feeling genuinely sorry for him for being born a cat, for a while I tried to befriend him– I really did. But I’ve come to learn that a cat does what a cat does, which includes, but is not limited to:

  • Bumping and grinding the pillow I rest my head on
  • Presenting me with his tummy to scratch, only to repay the favor
  • Yowling hysterically like a child lost in Target when left alone in a room with me
  • Using my iPhone as a teething device (also, Cat, you’re like eight years old…get over yourself, I know you aren’t actually teething at your geriatric age)
  • Sending your static-pumped fur to my house and the parts of my closet you haven’t touched personally by way of boyfriend

…and although I’ve been assured many times that it’s “nothing personal” I’m convinced this thing has masterminded a scheme to suck the sleep and soul out of me, Death Eater style. Par exemple, one of the first memorable nights (and nearly every one afterward) that I spent at my man’s pad went something like this:

12a: I kicked off bedtime feeling snug as a bug in a rug, making mental note that this guy must be some kind of mac daddy to be sleeping on a cloud in lieu of a mattress.


3:30a: My deep REM was sharply interrupted as a cinder block, or something, violently slammed against the door.


*  THUD….rattlerattlerattle @%$&*#  THUD…rattlerattlerattle @#*&$# *

What the….

3:30a: The door continued to reverberate in an aftershock of trauma well after the thrashing came to a final thud, and after seconds of lingering silence, a “click, clack, click, clack” slinked its way across the wood floorboards. Surely, Black Phillip was click-clackin’ over my way to drag me to Hell.

Cloaked by the darkness of the room, a black mass hopped onto the foot of the bed and strutted slowly up the length of my blanketed body, making its way toward the headboard (this is the shit nightmares are written about– M Night Shyamalan you best be takin’ some notes). Ragged and distinctively asthmatic breaths assaulted the back of my head, and deciding to meet my tormentor, I turned over to,





I flipped over faster than sizzling bacon, hoping the night-creature would forget all about me so long as I remained stiffer than a board and lighter than a goddamn feather. Eventually, my own neurosis rocked me back to sleep, where the screeches of my cat-filled nightmares drowned out the Cat’s IRL purring (which actually sounds nothing like “purr”, by the way, but exactly like Speed 2 of a Kitchen Aid stand-mixer. Purring, however, does not result in delicious brownies.)

5am: I woke up to the sounds of Speed 4 (at least) and this view:



(I can tell that we are gonna be friends, Cat.)

The Cat has made its way over my head to the other side of the bed– the side that smells like the hand that dispenses the Meow Mix.




And that’s the real story about why cats are not, in fact, the cat’s meow.

Also, thank you Allie Brosh for your magical, dead-on illustrations. You are a Queen and also a mind reader.

Into the Fray

On the night my model-behavior nephew was born, a family member of a family member asked why my parents couldn’t afford to buy me pants that didn’t have holes in them.

OooOOoh, GOOD one!!!


In a fit of fashion angst, I made sure to inform every human in that hospital waiting room that my über distressed black jeans were cool, because I looked like I had never given a single fuck in my natural born life. Channeling all sorts of Lara Croft Tomb Raider the next morning, I pulled on my zero-fuck pants and managed to snag my toes in the left knee-hole– a hole roughly the size of a football. I proceeded to step down into the Grand Canyon opening to sever my cool pant leg from the rest of my cool pants, leaving me with a half-pair of really uncool shorts. My left side had crawled out of Old Navy’s big Bermuda Short campaign circa 2008.

The murder of my favorite pair of ripped jeans did not mark my last tango with distressed clothing. In fact, my entire spring closet cries of distress, as I’ve fully embraced the trend against my better judgment (mostly for fear of having an entire closet full of half-Bermuda shorts).

My second-circle relatives would not have much ammunition to attack my ripped pantalones this season, as not giving a fuck actually looks pretty pulled together. Ripped and frayed-hem digs take their form in feminine silhouettes and a crisp, breezy color palette, offering a more polished rendition of the formerly edgy trend.

Aaand here are a few of my fa-vo-rite buys this spring.

Linen Cami Dress ON

This breezy linen number that screams for a colorful raffia clutch…

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…like this pom-pommy thing I scored from Stitch Fix!



This square-neck top that is bound to be a hot ticket real quick.

Mid-Rise Rockstar Distressed Jeans - Bright White

When I pull these on, I sit on my bed and point my toes Black Swan-style. True story.







Sweat, Pray, Run: One Woman’s Trifold Account of Bay Area Rapid Transit

Chapter 1: (Don’t) Sweat It

There has not been a day in the past 8 months I’ve walked into work not looking exactly as such:


Every morning more or less begins the same.

7:45am: I make myself up and am feeling pretty damn proud for passing myself off as an adult-looking human.

8:40am: I arrive at Bart and inevitably, one or the other of my allergy-plagued eyes begins to leak uncontrollably. To the rest of the World, I appear to be crying maniacally for no particular reason. Most excellent.

8:42am: Two minutes and one travel pack of Kleenex later, I’m wedged between a character who looks a whole lot like Mama June and something cold and metallic. “Danger, do not lean against doors,” it says. Ok.


8:50am: Pulling up at Powell I’m hunched over in T-Rex formation (which I predict to be the next big Beyo hit) to sheepishly hide the perspiration resultant of my eight minute bump-n-grind with Mama June. I’m spat through the train doorway, presumably by Mama J herself, and scurry up the escalator faster than that thing in The Grudge.

8:54am: My company’s doorman, Jerome, smiles at me as if nothing in the whole world is out of place. We must pay him well because at this point I’m well aware that I look like a box of melted crayons. He keys me into the elevator, probably hoping I will find my way to the basement to live out the rest of my life with all the other swamp goblins.

8:56am: I perform another high-speed horror crawl into the ladies room to plow through a tree’s worth of paper towels, hoping to dry the puddle where my face used to live before I am spotted by my Vogueish coworkers.

9am: I’m situated at my desk sipping on medium-gritty coffee, windblown by my Beyonce fan, as if I had in fact woken up like that. Ta-da.

Chapter 2: Pray You Don’t Catch the Cootie

Let’s play a game. It’s called “How Many Sick Days Can You Avoid Dipping Into After Touching All of the Grimy Bart Things?” I’ve gotten pretty good at this one- how about you? Here’s a cheat code: PuR3LL. You’re welcome.


P much every other person walking on to Bart.

Fact: in one single commute on Bart, you are susceptible to more diseases than in an encounter with Bobo the Clown in the beer-marinated laundry room of a frat house (this sadly sounds…almost exactly how it sounds, and ends with one Goatman and two frozen burritos.) Forgive me father, I was young, wild, n’ free. Needless to say, the day my fancy water bottle took a nose dive onto the crusty floor of a Bart train and rolled in slow-mo under all of the turd-coated soles of the people, water boiled hotter than the seventh circle of hell could not salvage the Little Water Bottle That Could.

Chapter 3: Nowhere to Run.

There’s something stanky and not so mysterious ripping across on Bart trains around the Bay. For lack of channeling my inner boy scout, it’s known as…the Bart fart (this is the part where I lose all of my five readers, goodbye!) This ungodly phenomenon is a thing, I swear. Look it up, educate yo’self. Have you ever been crop dusted? *Confession: my boss explained this gnar concept to me just last week. For those concerned, he refrained from a demonstration.* Now imagine the culprit laying his crop and having NOWHERE TO RUN! Imagine being stuck in an eternal dutch oven, counting the seconds on your fingers, toes, fingers of strangers, toes of Mama June, every appendage of Davey Jones, until you can Mission Impossible your way out of the train to rediscover some uncontaminated airspace.


I bet Jason Voorhees never smelled a Bart fart in his life and I’m not above taking a page from his protective gear book.

The City That Never Breaks Fast (But Always Brunches)

What’s in a brunch? A brick of chichi avocado toast crafted at cockadoodledoo’clock would taste just as pretentious. A carafe of sugary mimosa at any other hour would leave one just as hungover. A round of gossip and tales of last night’s glory and misfortune would be just as shameful…would it not?


But why!!!??? (Plz advise)

We can all agree that breakfast and brunch are different beasts with uniquely redeeming qualities, kind of like the sisters Kardashian. I myself am a firm proponent of the extinct meal we once called breakfast. After my move to land of brunch’n’booze, I quickly learned that I would not be beating them* anytime soon (unless I planned on kicking it Nighthawks style at the breakfast counter), thus I joined them* in transforming brunch from a noun to a verb.

*Them: The UnitedYucciesofAmurika.

Although I am a self-admitted conformist, a mid-afternoon mimosa and free-range egg-stuffed traitor, under the floppy brim of my brunchy sunhat I firmly believe that this Frankenfeast makes for a better Instagram photo than a meal. #bringbreakfastback


Why we should rediscover breakfast, a meal sponsored by bottomless caffeine:

  • First pick of the slim ‘n’ sugary pickin’s. You may wake up so early that you PTFO in the queue for the latest Frankenstein pastry craze, the snuffin (muffins carefully aged in a gym sock…wait, you haven’t heard of it?) but by the apron of the Muffin Man will you get your hands on a fresh one.
  • Please, feel free to eat like an unsupervised five year old at a birthday party with no fear of judgment. Because guess what?! No one’s around. It’s the b-crack of dawn. Eat up, mothereggers.
  • Unlike brunch, you can expect breakfast time to really mean breakfast time, sharp. By the time you make it to your brunch table at 2pm, however, you’ll look somewhat..maybe even exactly (if you’re anything like me), as such:




Fucking murderous. Because you’re hangry. Because there are 39,430,289 and a half brunch spots in a two mile radius of San Francisco. Because it look you an hour and a half to weed out the viable Yelp reviews of just one of aforementioned spots. Because brunch is an asshole!

With hotcakes on the brain, below is a short stack of my fave breakfast spots. At this medium ungodly hour, benedicts are still in abundance, Carl the local chicken will still be laying down some phunky phresh eggs, and you’ll know who your real #homefries are if they’ll rise to the b-fast occasion.

Mission: St. Francis Fountain do it for the spud thing / Tartine do it for the almond croissant

Nob Hill: Jane on Larkin do it for the fancy toast

Cole Valley: Zazie do it for ALL THE THINGS!!!

Noe Valley: Savor do it for the tour-d’Europe-toasts (the v fancy french toast concoctions)

Pacific Heights: Sweet Maple do it for the dolla signz candied bacon

Western Addition: Brenda’s Meat and Three do it for the cream biscuits

The Haight: Bacon Bacon do it for the bacon burritos

Downtown/Union Square: Sears Fine Foods do it for the buttermilk pancakes and skip the Swedish ones