On WTF Summer Fashion Trends


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When it was February and I was a walking icicle sporting perpetually blue lips and what my boyfriend affectionately referred to as “corpse feet,” I couldn’t wait for the day when it would be warm and I could gracefully saunter (in this dream, I was coordinated) on a warm beach in nothing but a flowing dress and a very dark tan feeling the sun’s rays envelop me in their warm glow.  I could finally shed the “homeless chic” look I had grown accustomed to where the only rule was “you can never layer too many sweaters…or socks” and I might even be able to stop sleeping in gloves (the new lingerie!)

I guess you have to be careful what you wish for because with summer comes summer trends and some of them, I just can’t understand.  Before you get all judgy, I do understand that the world right now is full of war and death and destruction and it just happens to be without Robin Williams, which completely and totally sucks.  These are definitely bigger issues than chunky man sandals being worn on otherwise well-dressed women (ugh) but seriously, if there was nothing to laugh at, we would all just be perpetually upset lumps of sad and I, for one, am not going to let that happen.  So please take your judgements and kindly place them in a pocket of your ultra high-waisted shorts that you cut yourself.  You know the one…it’s right by your rib cage.

I actually tried to like high-waisted shorts.  I even thought they might be flattering.  But when I was in the changing room and the zipper took approximately five days to fully zip up, I knew that they weren’t for me.  I could have made a long-distance phone call on a rotary phone in the time it took to zip those shorts.  I could have rappelled off a 90-story building (using the zipper!) in the time it took to zip up those shorts.  Why are we doing this to ourselves?  Surely there must be a middle ground between boob-strangling shorts and low-rise monstrosities that allow strangers to see into your deepest crevices and I’m definitely not talking about your soul.  The women before us suffered so we wouldn’t have to!  Say no to the high-waisted shorts!  Or don’t and keep wearing them with crop tops at music festivals.  Express yourself or whatever.

And then you have normcore, which I think is a trend where it’s cool to dress like a 90’s mom or a character from Seinfeld?  Never have I EVER watched an episode of Seinfeld and wondered to myself, “Hey, where did Elaine get that ravishing floral maxi dress?  Do you think the white t-shirt worn underneath came with it or would I have to purchase it separately?  And aren’t those square-toed chunky black shoes darling!  I thought you could only get those in the nursing home…on the day of your funeral.”  Why, guys?  WHY???  I mean, I sort of get it.  You went to the thrift store and you found those amazing peg-legged Jordache jeans and you thought, “This will prove to everyone that I don’t care at all.  I am so edgy by dressing like a dad.” And maybe you are.  Maybe it is edgy and fresh to dress like a middle-aged dude mowing his lawn on a Saturday.  Do you or whatever.

This brings me to my final “WTF” summer trend and I must preface it by saying that I was proven wrong.  I wanted to hate the romper.  I really did.  It seems like it would be so easy to hate it.  It’s a onesie for an adult.  Sometimes it looks like a sagging diaper from the back.  It’s annoying to pee completely naked, especially in drinking establishments that don’t believe in working bathroom locks, which happens to be around 90% of them. But I tried one on and it didn’t look terrible.  It made my legs appear longer and it looked amazing with wedges or heels.  It was a silky material that could be dressed up or down.  It could be worn to a myriad of different events and it looked completely polished and flattering.  But because it shouldn’t work in theory, it gets to stay on the list!

So in conclusion, is it sweater weather yet?  I’m ready to layer some socks!


A very accurate portrayal.

A very accurate portrayal.


On being Nina’s bitch


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“Hey babe, can you get the swiffer?” My head is under the couch and my arms are desperately flailing as Nina whines loudly in the background sounding like a cross between a broken, wheezy harmonica and a tween on YouTube doing her best Mariah Carey impression.  This is pretty impressive for a German Shepherd.  Also extremely annoying.  I continue to grab at nothing while Nina conveniently steps on my hair.  What has caused this emergency situation?  An unfortunate fall from a notoriously clumsy soul? A new and exotic cleaning technique?  No, nothing that exciting.  Nina has just rolled her best friend under the couch.

Andrew walks over with the swiffer and I get to work.  As I not-so-attractively try to balance my body against the coffee table, I reach under the sectional abyss with the long end and start poking at… nothing.  The ball is lodged too far back so I have to contort my body and pray that I don’t get a foot cramp because at the senile age of 26, I have to worry about things like foot cramps. Finally, I get to it and as I violently hit it with the sweeper so it rolls out, Nina happily dances in circles around me while stepping on my head.  As soon as she sees the bright orange sphere, she leaps towards it and starts chewing rhythmically.  It makes a “thwap, thwap” sound in her mouth as she continues to bite into it.  After a few delicious, drooly minutes, the ball is still intact which is incredible considering the graveyard of half-eaten toys Nina has amassed.

The orange ball can survive hours of vigorous chomping and to be safe, we even bought her four more identical balls to ensure that she would always have them.  Currently all four have been shoved under the couch.  It is my job to painfully retrieve them to the delight of Nina who then makes it her job to push them back under the couch and stare at me with big, brown eyes that seem to convey, “YOU NEED TO GET THIS FOR ME NOWWWWWW OR I’M GOING TO DIEEEEEEE!”  This is a form of torture so elaborate and dreadful, I’m surprised someone’s military hasn’t adopted it.  Even while writing this post, I have been forced to go ball hunting four times.  If I refuse to get up immediately or ask Nina if I can just finish one more sentence, she starts yelling at me with such a high-pitched fervor that it hurts my teeth.  This brutal abuse typically lasts until Andrew comes home from work at which point Nina magically calms down and reverts back to her perfect puppy self.

I’m pretty sure I am Nina’s official orange ball bitch and that doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should.  If I’m upset, it’s Nina who frantically jumps near me and on me and swats me with her paws to make sure I’m alright.  It’s also Nina who is there, right in my face and ready at any moment to take a piece of cheese or a chip from me when she thinks that I just shouldn’t  have anymore (such a sacrifice!).  Nina is the one who will dutifully sit and watch “Blue is the Warmest Color” with me (even though she was probably too young for some parts… holy sex scene!) because Andrew would rather pluck his eyelashes out one by one and then eat them before watching a sad and super long romance film.  So if she needs me to occasionally (read: always) put ladylike class aside and live by the old adage, “Face down, ass up/ That’s the way we like to awkwardly search for dog toys under the couch,” then dammit, I will do it!

Nina casually lounging next to my great enemy.

Nina casually lounging next to my great enemy.


On Moving


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It Begins:

There are few things I hate more than moving.  There’s genocide, homeless dogs, Facebook activism and, of course, Jenny McCarthy opening her mouth to speak words but really, that’s it.  Moving your stuff from one location to another location is a form of torture that is not for the weak…or the hungover, so when we decided to move to a larger house last month, a lot of shit went down, you guys.  At this point it is basically an established fact that I have the strength of a drunk infant.  My boyfriend loves to do the impression of me carrying (empty!) boxes down the stairs on my back like a limping, albeit stylish, hunchback because I can’t lift them properly.  There were three separate instances of me giggling like a maniac while running into walls and threatening to drop boxes filled with fragile things because my muscles were giving out.  I kept imagining Andrew getting mad at me and that just made me giggle more until my arms felt like jello in the sun and he had to rush over to save me from my 20-pound hell.  I do not consider myself to be a damsel in distress by any means but when boxes filled with stuff get involved, I might as well be a Real Housewife who, instead of digging for gold, requires help lifting heavy things.

We were fortunate enough to have my big Russian family help us move and this was extremely helpful because going from a one-bedroom sardine tin to a three-story townhouse is an ordeal.  My brother and Andrew loaded up the Uhaul at our apartment, while my family packed up the stuff that I had been storing at their house.  My job was to sit in the empty townhouse and wait for our IKEA delivery and for everyone else to arrive.  I’m not saying that it was done to get me out of the way but I wouldn’t be shocked if it was done to get me out of the way.  Of course, logic dictates that if IKEA is supposed to deliver furniture any time from 2 to 6 pm, the furniture will be delivered at 6:30 PM.  I bet you are asking yourself why we didn’t just pick up all the IKEA furniture ourselves when we went to buy it.  Well assholes, there are two reasons.  1.) We don’t drive a school bus and 2.) IKEA is actually the worst for nurturing healthy relationships when you have to buy more than one thing.


I would like it to be known that I came prepared.  I spent weeks before our move scouring the IKEA website for the perfect furniture and compiled a long list of stuff we needed, the price of each item, the link to said item and the color options.  I sent all of this to Andrew who replied with a solid, “Yeah, whatever” and I knew we were ready to go.  We took the day off and went to the College Park IKEA around 10:30 AM to avoid the stampedes of college kids looking for their dream wine rack.   We were walking the entire showroom and I started to get the feeling that Andrew was getting impatient.  What tipped me off were the loud sighs…and the unintelligible grumbles.  I finally found a sales associate who explained the process of delivery and I gave him my compiled list of furniture so that he could input everything.  I silently congratulated myself on how prepared I was.  Next, we were off to the marketplace which, as you might know, is a wonderland of tchochkes that no one can be prepared for.  I started getting overwhelmed because I saw so many jewel-toned “gypsy treasures” that I wanted and as I’m perusing the Mrdundraferzh lamps that would look just darling on our nightstands, I sense that Andrew is done.  At that point, I am tired and I have run out of patience so I turn to him with a death stare and through clenched teeth say, “Listen, I watch football with you!  Can’t you at least just care a little bit about this stuff?!  This stuff matters!!! THIS IS IMPORTANT!!”  A random observer would assume that Andrew had just insulted my mother or attacked my cooking skills but they would be wrong.  I just don’t fuck around with lighting options.  After my stern, but brief, lecture, I flipped my hair and turned around in the most dignified way possible but of course, I tripped over my feet because I have the coordination of a drunk girl dancing her heart out while drinking 25-cent rails (Sound familiar)?  We get to the register and pay for everything and as we venture towards the exit doors and sunlight, we start to feel calmer and when we get to the car we are laughing about how much IKEA sucks and how good it feels to be done.

Building IKEA Furniture: A Study in Zen

I was, yet again, a silent observer and I can only say that while my brain is not wired to comprehend tools going into other tools to connect parts and things, I am certainly glad that my boyfriend has this ability.  As far as I could tell, he was looking at some sort of hieroglyphics and then was comparing them to the random, tiny pieces of wood and metal strewn on the floor.  With the patience of a Buddhist monk, he worked tirelessly and when he accidentally broke an important piece, he had no problem MacGyver-ing the shit out of it.  I knew that if I were put in a similar situation, I would have just cried and then proceeded to read a book/watch a movie/sit for a while and accept that I would have a half-built dresser and that’s just how life would be.  Andrew does not give up and a few hours later, we had a beautiful bedroom and office.

Observations A Month Later:

I.LOVE.OUR.HOUSE.  I love everything about it and even though it’s a 2-year rental, we have absolutely made it our home.  We have more space than we know what to do with and even though Nina still follows us everywhere, I know that she enjoys having room to run around.  Andrew has also been able to get over his fear of aimless shopping and even suggested buying more throw pillows for our sectional.  Have sexier words ever been spoken? I think not.  After multiple trips to HomeGoods (Unoffical Tagline: Oooh, I need that.  That too…wait, babe, there’s one more aisle!! Do we need sequin toothbrush holders?) and more purchases than I care to count, we are all settled in and it feels good to be done…at least until we/I decide to re-decorate.  KIDDING…maybe.

Pretty accurate.

Pretty accurate.

The Anxious Mind: A Tutorial


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This weekend my brother called to tell me that he wanted to go to Bonnaroo, a sweat-soaked, four-day music festival in Tennessee, and he wanted to know what I thought. Now, my brother is the musically-inclined one in the family. As much as I want to believe that I am an incredible singer, I do understand that belting out Adele lyrics in the car and pretending to sneeze when other drivers go past is not necessarily the start of a beautiful music career. Jesse taught himself to play guitar, bass and drums with one tool: YouTube. I, however, primarily use YouTube for baby animals and eyeliner tutorials. The latter is truly a waste because if 13 year old Brittney who has “OMG been wearing makeup for, like, EVER” can’t teach me a basic cat eye, I might as well stick to my current strategy, which is close one eye and hope I don’t end up looking like the “before” photo on a Jenny Jones makeover show.

But, as usual, I digress. When Jesse called, I was super excited for him and said that he should definitely go. A normal person would have left it at that but I don’t think I need to state the obvious here. I am clearly not…good at eyeliner. I decided that I needed to list all of the dangers of going to a four-day festival in the middle of nowhere. Below are just some of the completely valid and rational points that I made:

-You’re going with good friends, right? I mean, people die at these things. Oh God, Jesse. Don’t be the one person who dies at Bonnaroo. That is so lame. No hipster band with poor leg circulation is worth losing your life over.

-Oh, Elton John will be there? Elton John slumming it in a tent sounds hilarious. Do you think he’ll be in line for the loo…to take a poo? (me giggling to myself).

-Are you okay with using the port-a-potties? You’ll be lucky if all you have to deal with is smeared shit. Seriously, bad stuff happens there. My friends told me all about it.

-If I find out that you tried ecstasy or dropped acid, I will literally murder you. Like, not kidding. I will literally cut your face off and step on it. And then I’ll tell mom. No, actually I’ll tell mom before I kill you. You’ll be begging to die.

-People will lace the pot with death drugs that will make your heart stop. Don’t do it!

-Don’t make a bonnaroo baby. Please. Just don’t. I don’t need a bearded newborn in skinny diapers and tortoise-shell glasses the size of his whole face telling me that my music choices are shit.

-If you’re drinking, you’re going to get super dehydrated and you could die so bring Gatorade and make sure that you have plenty of snacks. Don’t let anyone steal your snacks!

-Dude, bring your inhaler. You never know when asthma will strike.

-Doesn’t it get cold at night? Bring sweatpants and a warm hoodie but not your good sweat pants because people just shit wherever and you don’t want to step in it.


After Andrew told me that I sounded just like my mother and Jesse confirmed his theory, I stepped back and really thought about why I was so worried. And then I thought about it some more. And then I over-analyzed those thoughts and came up with some new ones. And then I thought about mortality on a grand scale and how we are all just here for a brief period of time so that made me sad and then I realized that I forget to tell him to bring an umbrella. But really, all I meant to say was, “It sounds like so much fun, Jesse. Have an amazing time!”


On Not Writing


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I have never had such bad writer’s block in my entire life.  Even in the third grade I was able to craft a short poem that compared unique snowflakes to unique people.  Now, while it didn’t go on to win any fancy writing awards, I think it was able to stand on its own among other third grade poetry.  If anything, I didn’t write in in feces or anything so I was already feeling pretty accomplished.

When I went to Carver Center for Arts and Technology for high school, I was writing constantly.  My boyfriend (who went to a strict military school where being beaten up was akin to shaking hands) calls my high school Carver Center for Arts and Feelings, which isn’t too far from the truth.  If I wasn’t jotting down my incredibly important feelings on just about everything in my personal journal (so. many. feelings), I was working on screenplays, poems, fiction stories, essays and newspaper articles for class.  I wrote some of my best pieces and also some of my worst during those four years.  Seriously, there might have been a freshman year poem that compared the holocaust to a burlap sack but in my defense…no, there is no defense.  It was actually that bad.

Then I majored in Public Relations and English language and literature in college so I was always writing papers on topics including but not limited to victorian pornography, the plight of the Shakespearean actor and why your business needs a good crisis management strategy.  I graduated in 2009 when the economy had plummeted and few people had any use for my vast victorian porn knowledge (which is truly a shame), so I started this blog to provide a distraction for myself.  It allowed me to vent about the day-to-day malaise that went hand-in-hand with living at home sans job, car and dignity.  I was really getting the hang of blogging when I found my first full-time job.  The excitement of having a place to go every morning slowly diminished when I realized that I was working on dental, hearing and vision insurance proposals for companies and municipalities.  To be honest, shredding paper for a living would have probably felt more enthralling and enriching.  However, I was grateful to have the opportunity and while I wrote sporadically, I couldn’t keep a consistent schedule.  In the few years that followed I was too busy with life events to write.  I moved several times, got into a relationship, got out of that relationship 2 years later, found an amazing new job, met an amazing guy, moved in with said guy and now we are planning to move yet again.  I was always able to find excuses to avoid writing because all those seasons of “Breaking Bad” were just not going to watch themselves and staring at a blank screen can be extremely intimidating.

However, I started to realize that I needed to write and I needed to create.  This realization didn’t come in a peaceful dream or during a beautiful sunset.  It came about during a particularly intense bout with anxiety when I felt like I was bursting.  I don’t need tons of people to read my work (although it would be nice one day) but I do need to write.  So that is why I am sitting here, writing a piece about not being able to write and I must say that it feels pretty damn good.


This is true…but you don’t need to have such a pretentious pen.

Happy 19th Birthday, Jessica Markisha!


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I’m seven and I come to the very mature decision that I want a puppy.  My parents, however, decide that they would rather have another child.  Guess who won that one?  No really, guess.  When Jesse Mark Averbukh aka Jessica Markisha Edna Gertrude Beatrice Bartholomew came into this world at 3:06 AM on August 17, 1994, I was naturally very confused by the squishy and perpetually red-faced bag of tears that was taking away all of my attention.  After all, I was a much-loved and seriously spoiled only child and I was in no mood to give that up.
I’m eight and Jesse is a one-year-old toddler with blonde ringlets that are almost white and blue/green/grey eyes that could sink ships.  He is often confused for a girl at the grocery store because he is that fucking precious.  I, however, am puzzled by his features because my eyes and hair are brown…plain brown.  Obviously, I come to the conclusion that Jesse was adopted and I continue to tell him this for the next ten years…roughly.
I’m twelve and Jesse is five.  He proceeds to cut his own hair with safety scissors and looks like a mental patient.  This would be hilarious but my dumb ass decides that I want bangs so I, too, cut my own hair.  Clearly, it looked amazing and by “amazing” I mean that I looked like an Amish man having a bad hair day.  Let’s just say that my mom reacted as though this was a national tragedy.
I’m thirteen and Jesse is six.  He is constantly tucking his shirt into his pants because my grandfather taught him to do it that way.  He looks like an adorable dork and I totally would make fun of him but my awkward years have gripped me by the neck so I am really in no place to judge.
I’m fifteen and Jesse is eight.  I watch him after school everyday and Jesse calls me his second mom.  While we still have our arguments and fights, he somewhat respects my authority and he MOST DEFINITELY enjoys my Celine Dion concerts that I perform.  And by that, I clearly mean that my brother will need therapy one day.
I’m eighteen and Jesse is eleven.  I’m amazed at how smart and witty my little brother is becoming.  He’s a math genius and makes it his mission in life to tell me how much I suck at anything related to numbers.  This might be a true story because even writing this blog post is proving to be a challenge with the constant addition and subtraction.  I wish I was kidding.
I’m twenty and Jesse is thirteen.  I tell him that a lot of college guys are douchebags and I make sure he knows how important it is to be nice to girls.  I am so proud of him for getting into Carver Center for Arts and Technology (even though he’s in the business prime…womp) and I sincerely hope that his high school experience is just as awesome as mine was.
I’m twenty-four and Jesse is almost eighteen.  I am at his high school graduation and when I see him walk out with all of his classmates, I get choked up and blubber like an asshat.  When they call his name, my entire family goes batshit crazy and we yell and scream because we want him to know how proud we are.  Jesse hates excessive attention (what a weirdo) and pretends he doesn’t know us but even from 20 rows back, I can see the smile on his face.
I’m twenty-five and Jesse turns 19 today.  I honestly can’t tell you which of us is the older sibling.  There have been many times when I have called him seeking advice and he never fails to put things in perspective and make me feel better.  Whether he is being helpful or simply telling me that I need “a bitch slap through the phone,” which he can provide at no charge, he has always been there for me and I promise to do the same.  I look at my brother and can’t believe that this tall, handsome, loving, funny and super smart dude was once a tiny blonde baby whose only real hobbies were drooling and shitting his diaper.  I can’t wait to see what the future holds for you, Jessica, because I know that you can achieve anything.  So to my older/younger brother, I just want to say happy birthday and I love you, dude.
Sup ladiesssss

Sup ladiesssss

Insert blonde joke here

Insert blonde joke here

The Book of Faces…this was seriously the best title I could come up with


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I don’t remember how people lived before Facebook.  I mean, I know that I, too, somehow got by before I met the blue screen of life featuring Mark Zuckerberg’s punim but it all seems so long ago.  I recall talking on the phone and I think I sent a few letters back in the day.  To the young readers, a letter (pronounced leh-tur) is a piece of parchment that has writing on it which expresses thoughts, emotions, feelings etc and does NOT typically rely on the use of emoticons or abbreviations.  Here, let’s use it in a sentence: A letter is a totes awesome way 2 B cool + retro + xpress ur thoughts.  Anyway, back to Facebook.  The Facebook I use today is definitely not the exclusive club that I joined with my exclusive University of Maryland email address in 2005.  The user’s information is now lost in the shuffle and has been replaced with endless gifs, articles and Marilyn Monroe quotes.  As the wise Henry David Thoreau once said, “A lot of quotes on Facebook were not said by the person they are attributed to.”  I sincerely wish more people knew this because “I can’t handle this shit anymore” (Fyodor Dostoevsky, duh).  This, however, was not the case in 2005.  The layout was a clean canvas just waiting to be filled with my hobbies, interests, and favorite music.  The first order of business was the profile picture.  I knew that this image had to stand out as if to say “Hey guys, you should totally be my friend because I am laid back but also super deep and shit.”  After locating a photo that said all this and more (a pensive photo of me laying on a pier with the San Francisco bay bridge in the background…my friend Rob later said I looked like a douchebag), I felt ready to embark on the next great adventure: the actual profile.  This was the first thing my future college friends were going to see and it had to be good.  I don’t remember everything that I wrote on my Facebook profile Vol. 1 but I do remember the feeling of pure elation every time I received a friend request notification (give me a break…I enjoy the little things in life). 

Through the subsequent college years, Facebook was my homework helper, date screener, night remember-er, stalker vessel and soft news reel.  It was the sidewalk upon which I spewed my drunken (and thankfully incoherent) thoughts as well as emo song lyrics (depending on how the night went) and it was the place where inside jokes were cultivated and obnoxiously shared.  The biggest red flag in the world was meeting someone who didn’t have a Facebook.  Whether they did it to be ironic or were just not interested, the overwhelming consensus was that they were “fucking weird and hella shady.” 

Now that I’m in the “Real World” with its early wake-up calls and commutes to work (sans hangover), Facebook is no longer the life scheduler it once was.  Now that the website has gone under the e-knife and is virtually unrecognizable, it’s just a place I visit when I have a moment of boredom and I desperately need to see cat gifs, Someecards and those fucking Marilyn Monroe misquotes.

My first Facebook photo. I clearly have no shame so enjoy this relic from the past.

Juice Fast, Day Two: The Shaming


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It is with a heavy heart that I inform you all I ate solid food last night.  After realizing that walking was becoming an arduous task that required holding on to things, I felt that I needed the nourishment.  Before you get all judgy and holier than thou, please ask me what I ate.  Did I binge on random bags of chips while filling my face with cookies and french fries?  No, dear friends.  I had a carrot.  It was glorious.  After a day of pureed bullshit, there was nothing more mouth-wateringly delicious than taking a crunchy and satisfying bite of…a vegetable.

In my defense, I did not do this “fast” to lose weight.  I just wanted to see what would happen.  What I learned is that vegetables are way more filling when they haven’t been pulverized and I am way more awesome (and nice) when I’ve had my coffee.

How’s Eric doing, you ask?  Well, he’s still staying strong (with the exception of a very minor slip-up that may or may not have included noodles…WHOLE WHEAT THOUGH…AND I PORTIONED THEM!!!) and I think he’s gonna make it.  Waking up at 6 am to help him make juice for us is something I could do without but, you know, I love him and shit so I guess it’s okay.

At this point, I think I’m still drinking juice for breakfast because I can’t stand spending money on something and not using it (Why yes, I AM Jewish!  How did you know?).  So despite the horrendously messy kitchen and bits of kale strewn all over the apartment, I think that this one-day journey has been a great success and I learned a lot.  Now pass the cheetos!

It Tastes Like Barf: The Joys of Juice Fasting


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Lately, there have been a lot of people talking about the documentary “Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead” (currently streaming on Netflix) and Eric and I decided to see what all the hype was about.  On a cold Thursday we watched Joe Cross go from being a portly mcChubster who had a auto-immune disease that required daily medication, to a trim marathon runner who was able to live his life sans meds.  How did he accomplish this tremendous feat?  He drank juice for 60 days.  Now before you get all excited, steaks do not go in the juicer…neither do french fries (bummer, I know).

Seriously inspired, Eric and I trudged to our nearest Bed, Bath and Beyond to purchase a juicer on Saturday and we decided that starting Monday (that would be today) we would embark on our own 10-day journey to see what happens when you live on juice and water alone (first world problems, I know).

The first thing that we noticed Sunday night when we started making the juice is that this little endeavor is going to be hella expensive!  We each need to drink around 50-64 ounces of juice daily and a carrot produces like a teaspoon of juice and a shit ton of kale?  Like, one cup.  After using a garden’s worth of vegetables and fruits, it was time to go to bed in anticipation of Monday’s adventure…and after three long episodes of some other documentary series (Netflix is addicting!) we did just that.  I mean who needs adequate sleep before a long fast?  Clearly, not us.

So this brings me to today, which is Monday.  I have decided that the only way I am actually going to get through this is if I document it daily.  So here goes…

8 am (after consuming the first 16 oz.): Hey!  This isn’t so bad.  I feel energetic since I usually have fruit for breakfast anyway.  Whoo-hoo!  Day one, you are MINE bitch!

8:15 am: I want to punch someone and take their coffee.

10:30 am: Ugh just one and a half more hours until lunch.  What’s for lunch??  FUUUUUUUUUCK!

12:00 pm (second 16 oz. cup): Mmmm, juice!  I call Eric to see how he’s doing: “It’s alright…it definitely looks like barf and I’m really hungry for solid food but we can do this together.”

2:25 pm: Research fasting online and realize that some people call it “juice feasting.”  These people are clearly idiots.  Decide that I will write a blog post to document these ten days.

So there you have it.  I’m hungry, kind of lethargic, I’ve pee’d like a million times (at least), I’ve had to drink water, which I hate (seriously, clean drinking water is soooo overrated…well, except in Africa), I’m planning to go to the gym tonight AND I’m not looking forward to dinner.

Next time Eric and I should skip documentaries about fasting…especially when we’re eating copious amounts of snacks while watching them.

It all looks so innocent...

A Starbucks Story


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First an explanation about why I am in Denver and spending my day rotting at a starbucks:  My boyfriend Eric is taking his Muscle Activation Technique certification exam (feeling weak?  have any aches?  feel muscle tightness? Interested in your overall health and well being? give me a call.  I’ll refer you!) here and I decided to tag along.  His two-day, super grueling and intense exam is over tomorrow and we will spend the rest of the week vacationing in downtown Denver.  In the meantime, I have been spending the last 7 hours glued to an uncomfortable wooden chair listening to the most horrendous renditions of Christmas songs imaginable (I can perfectly recite lyrics to most Christmas songs on demand but “dreidel, dreidel” is a toughie.  Such a bad Jew).

Despite the fact that my ass has been asleep for the majority of the day, I have certainly been awake and alert due to the intensive people-watching I have done so sit back and enjoy as I walk you through the plethora of pithy people who will pay $4 for a cup of poffee (I had to keep the alliteration going, sorry).

7:50 am– I order my tall soy sugar-free vanilla latte hoping that because it is such a unique order, no one will steal it when it’s called.  Eric gets a practical breakfast sandwich.  Note: I get soy milk because I am lactose intolerant, not because I’m an asshole.  However, I AM an asshole because I paid $4 for a cup of coffee, absolutely.  Also, I didn’t mean to say sugar-free but the woman in front of me did so I decided to go with it (yes, I would TOTALLY jump off a bridge if my friends did).

8:00 am– Some chick swoops in OUT OF NOWHERE and steals my tall soy sugar-free vanilla latte when it is called.  I retract my former statement.  I knew I should have gotten it with real sugar!  I kiss Eric goodbye and wish him luck.  Find a table that is close to an outlet, plug my computer in, and pretend to do work.  The morning rush is picking up and my ears are ready, willing and open.


9:00 am– Get approached by a dude who wants to know if there is anyone sitting two tables away.  I don’t know but I decide to say that no one is in anticipation of some dramatic exchange when the actual table patrons return.  UPDATE: no one was sitting at the table.  Serves me right.

10:00 am– Another business professional interviewer man says to me, “Excuse me, are you Karen?”  No, sir.  I am not.  I’m pretty sure interviewee Karen wouldn’t be sitting at a table in jeans looking at fashion blogs, reading “Allure” and skimming “The Girl Who Played with Fire” simultaneously.  And if she were, then I would hope the interview would be canceled.

12:00 pm– Eric picks me up for lunch.  We go to Noodles and Company AKA his Mecca.

1:00 pm– I’m still here.

3:00 pm– Yup stiiiiiiiiiill here…and I’m pretty much the only one.