How You Know When You’re Over Your Ex

My most recent breakup was good for a lot of reasons. While the best thing to come out of it was the fact that I dodged a huge fuckin bullet, a close second was that it gave me a bangin bod. Sure, I may have wanted to crawl under a rock and die, and 97% of my time for a solid 3 days was spent in the fetal position under the covers feeling dead inside, cuddling a Kirkland-sized bottle of Merlot with Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” on repeat, but when I came out of my post-breakup hibernation and had stopped crying long enough for my face to return to normal from looking like the Michelin man, I looked smokin hot. And that’s all that matters. Ladies and Gents, if you’re looking to lose weight, I highly recommend the breakup diet.

I moved past my most recent breakup pretty quickly, and it got me thinking: At what point do you know you’re over your ex? Here’s a scientifically proven list:

  1. One morning out of nowhere, you put on your pants and you’ve got muffin top. A full on fuckin inner tube just chillin above your waist.  All of a sudden all of that post-breakup weight you lost from crying so much that even your body fat melted into tears is back with a vengeance.
  2. You no longer need activities to distract you like Mommy and Me Paint Nite with your dog, or working out at the gym. Which is also why you’ve gotten so fat.
  3. Your thoughts are no longer dominated by your ex. Instead, you are consumed by moral dilemmas such as deciding whether to stay out at the bar with your friends until closing time, or making it home in time to order a large Rusty’s pizza for one. Or how to get your cat to keep the Reggae hat you bought her on long enough to get a video for your Snap Chat story. Or wondering how late is socially acceptable for a grown ass woman to sleep in on a Saturday, then remembering that you don’t give a fuck because you live alone.
  4. You’ve severed the social media cord with your ex and all of their family. Even his super hot cousin who you secretly wanted to bang.
  5. You see an engagement photo shoot on Facebook and remember the time you and your ex went engagement ring shopping. Then you roll over and high five your no-strings-attached FWB, thanking God you don’t have to go visit their mom with them on Mother’s Day.
  6. You’ve added a few necessary bullets to your ever-growing list of Dealbreakers, such as, “Must not have a vagina” and “Must not choose World of Warcraft over sex”
  7. No longer do you flirt to get attention to make yourself feel better. You now flirt for free drinks (and if you’re lucky, free Chipotle).
  8. You no longer envision your wedding day with your ex. Now you envision 7pm at Trader Joe’s, picking up a bottle of their finest Two Buck Chuck and drinking the entire thing by yourself while binge watching Game of Thrones. Sunday Funday has never been more responsibility-free.
  9. You’ve stopped using hashtags like #strong and #independent and started using hashtags like #ilovemycat and #howearlyistooearlyforwine
  10. When you think of Halloween you think “Slutty Pirate” or “Giant Taco”, not “Mario and Peach” or “Britney and Justin”.
  11. You delete all their family’s birthdays from your google calendar. Good luck remembering them now, you son of a bitch!
  12. Instead of dwelling on the fact that you don’t have a significant other to buy you gifts for holidays, you rejoice over the fact that you don’t have to buy a significant other gifts for holidays. Oh, and you can have meaningless sex with strangers if that’s your thing.

Deuces, fucker! ✌🏼️🖕🏼

How You Know When You’re Over Your Ex

An Open Letter to my True Love

Signing into Facebook this morning, I was bombarded with what I’m naming the Boyfriend Challenge. I really shouldn’t knock it, because as I looked through the updates from new couples, couples who had been together since high school, and everything in between, my heart melted a little and I may or may not have had a few tears of joy well up in my eyes at the sight. After all, I am a red-blooded woman with copious amounts of estrogen streaming through her veins, off my case.


Here’s what it looked like:
“Come on ladies, the Challenge is ON! If you have a man in your life who helps bring balance to your world, who isn’t perfect but is perfect for you, who works hard and would do anything for you, who makes you laugh but drives you crazy, who is your best friend and sometimes your only friend, who you want to grow old with, who you are thankful for and truly adore, let him have his moment and put this as your status along with a picture of him to let him know! ❤”


My heart was so overjoyed that I felt the strong desire to write an open letter to my one true love, the one that got away. Here goes nothing:


We met for the first time when I was a wide-eyed college sophomore, when the world was my oyster. I was in my second year of college and adulthood, (if frat parties, eating hot dogs and cereal for every meal, waking up at noon and wearing onesies paired with Uggs to every final while listening to “Lose Yourself” by Eminem on repeat can be considered adulthood…then sure, I was in my second year of adulthood). I had matured a whole year since high school, but you were so much more mature than I. You made me feel so sophisticated, so sexy.


I saw you for the first time at a friend’s large dinner party. At first I wasn’t interested. But you kept looking at me from across the room, you were so persistent. Our gazes locked, and I could no longer deny the intense chemistry we had. I started my way across the room, weaving in and out of the dinner party guests, only to watch you get swooped in on by another girl right in front of my eyes. And then you were gone.


I wrote off the night we almost met as just some dumb crush most likely initiated by one too many Franzia bag slaps, because that’s what you do at a classy dinner party when you’re 19. But I couldn’t help but continue to be intrigued. A few weeks later, a girlfriend and I were at Trader Joe’s. “Isn’t that the guy from the party?” she asked. And there you were. Standing silently near the front of the wine section with an air of dignified confidence, almost as if you were in deep thought.


I mustered up to courage to walk over to you. I couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear at the thought of running into this man of mystery I thought I would never see again. You seemed happy to see me too. You came home with me that night, but you were such a gentleman. We sat on the couch watching How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and eating chocolate, and you never once made me feel uncomfortable.


From then on, you were by my side at every gathering. My friends grew to love you. We fought the time I went to a bottomless mimosa brunch with my girlfriends and you weren’t invited. You were so hurt. But you eventually came around and understood that it just wasn’t the appropriate time and place for you to be.


You helped me grow up and showed me how to be an adult. It was you who taught me to enjoy the finer things in life like artisan cheese and Chris Harrison, and that bringing a box of Franzia is not an appropriate apartment-warming gift. I was in love with you.


We were together the rest of college, but as with many things in life, all good things must come to an end. We tried making it work after graduation, but I needed to move on. My work friends didn’t take to you as easily as my college friends had. Things just started getting awkward wherever you showed up with me.


You gave me so much, but I needed so much more. No longer was it acceptable to pop into Trader Joe’s and grab you for Bachelorette viewing nights, as appealing as your $1.99 price tag was. I had moved on to the $12.99 – $14.99 price range, and I couldn’t look back.


So thank you, Two Buck Chuck, for everything you’ve given me. I will never forget our time together (although if I’m being honest I don’t remember most of it anyway, I blame you for that).


As the great Garth Brooks once said, “I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance.” You’ll forever be in my heart ❤


Yours truly,




An Open Letter to my True Love

Flipping the Bird and Socking it to Your Sister: The True Meaning of Thanksgiving

The great Benjamin Franklin once said, “In this world nothing can be certain, except death and taxes.” (Thanks, Googs)

While that may be true, there are other less-certain certainties in life that we can count on year after year. One of these such certainties are holidays. Specifically, Thanksgiving.

I’m not gonna to lie, I don’t know much about Thanksgiving other than what I can gather from its name, my mislead childhood learning of pilgrims and Native Americans, and the fact that I celebrate it year after year.

So why the hell do I celebrate it year after year? As a kid it made sense. Someone threw you in a car on Wednesday night and drove your sleeping ass to your grandma’s house three hours away. You slept in Thursday morning and spent all day playing Mario Kart and Diddy Kong Racing with your sister and cousins. (You didn’t actually own Diddy Kong Racing, but your dad let you rent it from Blockbuster just this one time to get you to shut the fuck up about it for the rest of the year)

You ate everything in sight in seconds, and even thirds, with zero remorse. Afterward, while the men were drinking beer and watching football, you slipped out the front door with your favorite cousin to climb and hide in some trees down at the park before your aunt could get a hold of you and make you help all the other cousins with the dishes. “See ya, sucker,” you mouthed to your dickwad sister as you ran past the kitchen window, flipping her off. Teach that bitch to hit you with the red turtle shell a mere seconds from victory.


Isn’t that what Thanksgiving is supposed to be about? Flipping off siblings and not giving a shit about anyone but yourself and occasionally your fun cousin? Not anymore, not in the adult world.

Now, instead of sleeping in the backseat, dreaming of Stove Top Stuffing and Reese’s No-Bake Dessert Bars (our Thanksgivings were what my dad liked to call “budget-friendly”), you’re now driving said car, arguing with your boyfriend about why he had to wait until you were completely ready to walk out the door to take his morning shit, and how he thinks maybe if you didn’t have the makeup routine of a circus clown, you could have made it to your destination prior to his morning shit. Whatever, you’re still late.

Luckily, anyone and everyone in the history of Thanksgiving has never served Thanksgiving dinner when they said they would. So you walk in the front door just in the nick of time.

You load your plate with delicious food. But you can’t even enjoy it because your anxiety grows in conjunction with the mountain of dirty dishes filling the sink. But at 27, running out the front door and flipping off your boyfriend’s grandma to avoid doing dishes is no longer acceptable by normal societal standards. So you down your third glass of red wine and hope it kicks in long enough to make you forget you’re doing the dishes, but not so long that you insist on everyone following you out to the pool for a polar bear plunge, which turns into a polar bear plunge party of one. And an invitation to never return to Thanksgiving dinner.

But with age and wisdom inevitably comes responsibility. So what is Thanksgiving all about? It would seem that every year, Thanksgiving proves to be symbolic of all of life’s experiences and emotions:

Elation at the fact that we don’t have to see our bosses for four whole days.

Excitement when you see your cousins that you haven’t seen since last Christmas.

Orneriness as you gossip with your sister and pick apart your older cousin’s skanky new girlfriend in the crop top. Unless you’re the skanky new girlfriend, then this falls under anxiety.

Anger when, even at 29 with two children of her own, your fucking asshole sister won’t STOP HITTING YOU WITH THE GODDAMN RED TURTLE! LET ME WIN ONE FUCKING ROUND OF MARIO KART FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE YOU DICK!

Impatience as you smell the turkey cooking in the oven.

Entertainment when you hear your stubborn aunt and your stubborn father argue over whether the can of yams is supposed to be drained prior to going into the oven.

Culture when your aunt does it her way anyway, and you become the only family on Thanksgiving to have Yam Soup with floating marshmallows.

Happiness as you sit around a table with all the people you love.

Anxiety as you calculate the amount of time it’s going to take you to get through the dishes when all you want to do is sneak out to your car for a little cat nap.

Satisfaction when you find your grandma’s key to the bathroom and unlock the door in the middle of your sister’s post-Thanksgiving poo, for all the family to see. Revenge has never smelled so rancid.

Embarrassment as your dad and uncle ask your boyfriend if you’ve ever told him about Uncle Johnny who’s about to get out of prison. Whose favorite niece happens to be you.

Sorrow as the holiday comes to an end, and everyone says their goodbyes.

Anticipation for next year’s Thanksgiving with everyone sitting around the same table again.

Heartache when a family member you assumed would always be there, sitting at the head of the table, won’t be next year. Or any years to come.

Bittersweet as you cherish the holidays with loved ones a little more, and hug everyone a little tighter than you did when you were a kid. Because when you were kid, you and everyone else was invincible. And now we’re not. (But they still deserve to be flipped off and put in their place every once in a while, *cough* Maddi *cough*)

Faith that the newest little shithead additions to the family table will carry on the torch, and hope that younger siblings everywhere get sweet revenge on their older siblings on Thanksgiving, and everyday after.

So this Thanksgiving, I encourage you to put on your big girl panties, let your boyfriend take his morning shit whenever he wants, and pack a pair of yellow dish gloves. Because trying to get at the marshmallows in your Yam Soup might make you feel like you’re bobbing for apples, and doing dishes fucking blows, but at least you’ll be in good company, making memories to cherish when the ones we love may no longer be around to make memories with.

And for the sake of your sanity, I beg you, please spike the egg nog.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Flipping the Bird and Socking it to Your Sister: The True Meaning of Thanksgiving

Signs You Might Be a Future Cat-loving Spinster

I recently had an emergency situation and have been MIA as a result. This was a life-threatening, drop-everything-you’re-doing, cancel-all-plans, type of emergency situation. The kind of emergency situation that makes you hug your loved ones a little tighter at the end of the day, you know the kind.

I finally mustered up the courage to update my 406 Facebook friends of this treacherous journey I was on, but as I typed the words, “kitty chemo” and uploaded a picture of my fatass cat who doesn’t give two shits about anything but eating and the occasional ass scratch, I couldn’t help but think to myself, “Am I batshit crazy?” (The answer is obviously)

I stepped outside of myself for a moment and took a good hard look at my life. While it felt like everyone was posting pictures of their adorable children or their smiling husbands, here I was uploading a picture of myself playing with my 11-year-old cat (who is just as fucking adorable as your children, mind you).

It got me thinking, am I a future cat-loving spinster? I’m already a kitty-lover, so does that mean I’m halfway there? What are the other criteria that need be met prior to becoming a crazy spinster? Let’s dissect this ever important question.

  1. Must love cats. Check. Kitty
  2. Must love wine. Check.Wine
  3. Must love cats and wine. Check and check.Kitty and wine
  4. You’re the type of person who loves shopping for office supplies.
  5. You have a drawer in your apartment devoted to notebooks with inspirational quotes on the cover. Because the last time you touched a pen to a paper was when you learned cursive in second grade, but just in case, you better have enough notebooks to get you through until the second coming of Christ.
  6. You never call your pets by their actual names. Instead of “Lucy” you call them things like, “Lucifer” or “Kitten Mittens” or “Goose-tato” and instead of Maya you call them “Maya Papaya” or “Needy Gonzales” or “Puppy Princess” or “Stop Shitting in the House, you Fucking Dickwad”
  7. Once you’ve walked through the front door after work, not even an act of God can put your bra and pants back on or pry the glass of wine out of your hand.
  8. Does the fact that you’re wearing a full length robe and men’s slippers help? Probably.
  9. You don’t hate going to movies, restaurants or bars by yourself. But when things get awkward, you make the few friends you do have feel sorry for you…
  10. …until they finally give in and let you be #thirdwheelextraordinare on their Friday night date. *SAKE BOMBS FOR THE NEWLYWEDS (and me!)*
  11. You flirt with the bartender in hopes of scoring an extra side of ranch dressing for the plate of hot wings you ordered. By yourself.
  12. The Thai restaurant around the corner knows you by name, and puts two packages of plastic silverware in your to-go bag just to make you feel like you’re fooling somebody.
  13. Your family asks when you’re going to be married. Now that you can’t use the excuse, “I’ll get married when the gays can!” you tell them you’re still “finding” yourself. And homes for your 27 foster cats.
  14. You’ve googled “How to give self Heimlich maneuver” at least 6 times in the past year just to be safe.
  15. You get through an entire season of Gilmore Girls in one sitting. You chalk it up to a Friday night success.

While spinsters come in many shapes and forms, if the above describes you to a tee, your chances aren’t looking that great. Just know that you’re in good company, although you’ll likely be too busy guiding A&E’s Hoarders crew around your cat piss soaked newspapers and human feces filled diapers to care. Cheers!

Signs You Might Be a Future Cat-loving Spinster

Call Me a Basic Bitch Because I Fucking Love Starbucks

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Ahh the Basic Bitch. A girl who loves all things fall, wears Uggs with leggings and over sized sweaters, spends hours watching YouTube makeup tutorials and scours Pinterest for the perfect ponytail. Labor Day is her official mark for when it is appropriate to begin listening to Christmas music. She loves Disneyland, wine, puppies, and Instagram filters. Above all else, however, the Basic Bitch loves Starbucks.

We all love to point and laugh and make fun of the Basic Bitch, and we all think we’re not that girl. So what if I’ve had a new pair of Uggs every two years since 8th grade, or that today I’m sporting Lauren Conrad’s “Twisted Sister” bun, a tutorial which I may or may not have watched 7 times on her blog (you don’t know me).

I know the dishonor of being a basic bitch doesn’t discriminate, but being white automatically increases your chances of basic bitchness by 762% (look it up, it’s science). But I’m a quarter Mexican (thanks, Mom!), so I can’t possibly be a basic bitch! Right?

This morning as I sipped on my Grande Iced Caffè Latte with Non-fat Milk and laughed at a funny video of a bunch of blonde sorority girls taking selfies of themselves and their food for 5 fucking minutes straight at a baseball game, I thought Thank God I’m not like one of those girls. 

I got to the end of my ice cold beverage and almost had a panic attack because I really wished I had savored it a bit more, or perhaps I should have gone with the Venti instead. I threw the plastic cup with the recognizable green, naked mermaid (what the fuck is that, Starbucks?) in the recycling bin where my empty October Birch Box also lay. I put on some Sweet Pea hand sanitzer from Bath and Body Works, followed by my True Blue Spa Paraffin super softening hand lotion. On my way to put the lotion up in the cabinet, I knocked over my Kate Spade pencil holder and out fell all my multi-colored gel pens and my stainless steel Nate Berkus gold scissors. And that’s when it hit me.

I’m as fucking basic as they come.

I grew dizzy, looking frantically around my office. My chalkboard-style calendar from Paper Source which once screamed “I’m chic as fuck” suddenly screamed “BAAAAAAAAAASIC”. My $1 IKEA vase with a single white, daisy stared scornfully at me from beside my computer monitor. You fake, white bastard, I thought. I could almost hear the daisy taunting me back, “You’re as fake and white as I am. You are a basic bitch.

[Ok so the daisy wasn’t pure white. It was a little off-white, like maybe it had a quarter Mexican daisy in it, so it became a tanned daisy pretty easily which was convenient for the mostly white daisy. But I couldn’t deny the fact that it was, in fact, a fake daisy and three-quarters white, and so was I.]

Part of me wanted to throw everything away, pack up and move somewhere like Seattle or Portland. Somewhere where drinking coffee is hip and I could hide my leggings and over-sized sweaters under my rain coat.

No, I thought, you’re bigger than the basic bitch.

What the fuck do you mean bigger? I thought back to myself

Oh my god, staaaaaahhhhhppp. I mean bigger like how Julia Roberts was bigger than the ladies at that boutique on Rodeo who wouldn’t let her shop there in Pretty Woman.

Go on…

Or bigger like how when Cookie Lyon got out of prison she set out to get what was hers from her hip hop mogul ex-husband Lucious on Empire.

I’m listening…

Or bigger like JLaw addressing the hack that exposed her nudes in the November 2014 issue of Vanity Fair. That kind of bigger. You’re like a Julia Roberts meets Taraji P. Henson meets Jennifer Lawrence kind of big.

Oh, ok good. Because I thought you were calling me fat.

No, but since you brought it up, if you don’t lay off those peanut butter filled pretzels from Costco we might need to talk.


My world slowly came back into focus. So maybe I like a lot of things basic bitches like and do a lot of things that basic bitches do. Maybe I am a basic bitch from time to time, like from the time I wake up in the morning to the time I fall asleep at night, but who’s keeping track?

I love my Uggs, and when my big ass toe pokes another hole through my current pair of Uggs, I will replace them with the same, new pair of Uggs. I love Bath and Body Works lotion and pumpkin patches and scented candles. And I fucking love Starbucks, God dammit.

So color me basic and call me a bitch, because if the Ugg boot fits, I will fucking wear it.

We’ve all got a little basic bitch in us, and if Dr. Seuss has taught us anything, it’s that it’s ok to settle for being a mediocre human who is the antithesis of unique. We can’t all be winners in this game called life, so I’m going to enjoy my Christmas music in the middle of fucking July if I want to, I’ll savor every drop of my pumpkin spice latte, and I will continue to make fun of other basic bitches and live in denial that I am not one of them.

Peace out, bitches! ✌🏼️

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Call Me a Basic Bitch Because I Fucking Love Starbucks

Fantasy Football: A Female’s Perspective


It’s that time of year again, when regular season football is underway, as is the social phenomenon known as fantasy football. For those of you living under a rock, fantasy football is where a person, usually someone overly obsessed with fantasy sports so much so that they regularly listen to podcasts on the subject, invites you to join a league where you draft some players, play against the other people in your league and some money is usually involved. I realize I’m doing a piss poor job of explaining this, but that’s the beauty of fantasy football. It requires little to no understanding of what the fuck is going on.

Now, if these “league commissioners” are struggling to find enough men to join the league, they will very reluctantly resort to ladies. (Disclaimer: I know a lot of ladies who know their shit when it comes to football. I apologize in advance for giving women a terrible rep in the “giving a shit about sports” arena.)

Once you’ve received the prestigious invitation to join a fantasy football league, you have a draft, either live or by yourself in front of a computer. They both have their pros and cons. Live is fun because it’s with a group of people and copious amounts of Michelob Ultra are involved. But if you’re a lady who knows jack shit about football (Hi, my name is Cass), then this type of situation might get you roasted once or twice. The first time being when you choose a backup defense in the 6th round just to be safe, the second when you choose a backup kicker in the 7th, just to be even safer. But that’s neither here nor there. Moving on.

The second draft option is nice, because you can still have copious amounts of Michelob Ultra, only this time it’s by yourself in front of a computer screen, and people are making their picks so quick that they don’t have time to roast you when you choose your Quarterback based on level of attractiveness (I’m looking at you, A-Rod). It doesn’t hurt that the hottest QB in the NFL also happens to be the #1 QB.

Now you’ve got your dream team which you’ve taken the liberty of ranking based on how perfect their bubble butts look in their football capri yoga pants (you don’t actually know the word for those, but let’s just call them what they are). Now it’s game time.

The good thing about fantasy sports, is you can know literally nothing about the sport and still do well. Even during the draft, each player is ranked by people who are paid to know their shit far more than you or any other person in the league. Although half the men in the league will still claim to know all the secrets from their fantasy podcasts and intensive research, while the other half of the league secretly don’t give a fuck just as much as the ladies.

Every week, each player on your team is projected to earn a certain number of points based on a plethora of factors. Who gives a shit what those factors are, put in the people that are projected to get you the most points. Sometimes they will underperform, sometimes they will overperform. But in the end, you have no fucking idea so just enjoy your beer and do what the smart folks at ESPN tell you.

Every once in a while you will get a little red notification, something about trading. Just ignore that. You might even get a follow up text that reads, “Cass, check your trades you fucking moron.” Ignore that too. Trades are for people who actually give a fuck.

Now that we’re in the season, us ladies only care about winning based on the people in the league we’re playing against. Sure, it would be nice to win the whole thing. But we’re realistic. So long as that cute guy from the elevator beats us and feels guilty about it, but we fucking annihilate that douche who slept with our best friend and never called her back, then all’s right in the world of fantasy football.

So to the ladies, gays and heterosexual men who hate sports but are too afraid to admit it: when someone invites you to join a fantasy football league, don’t shy away. Not only do you get a reason to day drink on Sundays (as if you needed one), you get to pretend you give a rat’s ass about what’s going on in front of your boyfriend while staring at men in tights for hours. Ok, so maybe that last part doesn’t pertain to heterosexual men, but I’m sure there will be scantily clad cheerleaders. Whichever team you bat for, there’s something in it for us all. And if nothing else, it’s always fun to fuck with the people who take it way too seriously 😉

Jonah 1                      Jonah 2 Jonah 3

Fantasy Football: A Female’s Perspective

Life’s Too Short to Not Get Buck Naked in the Gym Locker Room

Growing up, I was one of the many kids who absolutely loved cold weather season. Not because it meant I was able to wear my knock-off Costco Uggs or that the holidays were right around the corner, but because it meant I could put on my swishy pants over my jeans for second period PE without having to strip down to my unmentionables. Because in my book, if my panties flashed in the locker room for more than 3 seconds before I could hastily get my bright red PE shorts on, I might have had a heart attack and died of embarrassment.

Fast forward to adulthood, and I found myself having the same thoughts when I saw women in the gym locker room stripping down to their birthday suits, boobies dangling in front of my face while I quickly threw my gym bag in a locker and got the fuck out STAT.

Was it not as awkward for them that I was seeing them naked as it was for me? How could two totally different realities exist in one fucking locker room?

During my 3-year tenure at an entertainment studio in LA, I started using the gym on the lot regularly. I would pack up my shit for the day, get a morning workout in, get ready for work, then be a whopping 200 feet from my office when I was done. If I was a lazy ass one morning (many a morning), I could pop in the gym at lunch for a quick workout. It was insanely convenient.

I started becoming friends with the women in the locker room as I got ready in the mornings, most of whom were full on buck-nakeders. We’d be chatting as we were changing into our clothes for the day, me awkwardly putting on my undergarments blindly beneath the confines of my towel. But the person I would be chatting with would be au naturel, free as could be, doing their regular post-shower routine, while I looked like a mangled bird trying to get a shirt over my head without anyone seeing my tits.

One particularly busy Monday after a particularly eventful Sunday Funday, I crawled into work late, missing my AM gym routine. I was unbelievably stressed by work that day and even more unbelievably hungover, and since a little hair of the dog was out of the question as a remedy I figured a lunch time gym sesh was just what I needed to put a little pep back in my step.

I got my workout in, and by the time I was done I looked down at my phone to see two texts and a missed call from my boss. I needed to get back ASAP to do some dumb report for someone who had some big dumb meeting, or something along those dumb lines. I had calmed down and relaxed thanks to my workout, but suddenly my stress-level went from 0-100 REAL QUICK.

Would anybody notice my BO if I didn’t change? Fuck of course they would, I smell like a fucking sock.

I threw my hair up in a bun, rushed into the showers, quickly lathered and rinsed, wrapped my towel around me and ran back to the lockers. I threw my clothes on the bench and grabbed my bra to try to maneuver on underneath my towel. My awkward, scrambled attempts to strap down my tits wasn’t working. I thought, I don’t have time for this shit! And then I had an epiphany:

Life’s too short to not get buck naked in the gym locker room

It was true. These women whose sanity I had questioned my whole life were really the ones who had their shit figured out. Why the fuck did I care if my nakedness made somebody feel uncomfortable in a place that was MADE FOR WOMEN TO BE NAKED?!

And that’s when it happened. There were clouds above me that opened up, a glorious ray of sunshine hit me like a spotlight. My hands turned into fists as if I had just conquered the unconquerable, and as I moved to rest them on my hips, my towel fell to the ground. I stared out into the full length mirror in all my naked glory, Christina Aguilera’s Can’t Hold Us Down playing in my head. Until I heard a valley girl voice behind me say, “Um, excuse me, can you, like, mooooove?”

It was then that I realized I had made my way to stand directly in front of a girl who was using the mirror to do her makeup, my bare ass staring her in the face. I quickly moved out of her way and profusely apologized, but in my head I thought Bitch, Lil’ Kim and Christina Aguilera got my back. 

As I rushed to throw my clothes on, I glared, mad-dogging my defeated towel on the floor and singing in my head, Never can, never will, can’t hold us down!

While I wish I had had this existential epiphany sooner, I’m happy to say that I’ve been a changed woman for over three years now. So ladies and gentlemen, if there’s anyone as awkward as me out there who hasn’t gotten buck naked in the locker room, just do it. You’ll thank me later. Bear in mind, though, under no circumstances is it ok to make eye contact with anyone while naked, that’s just fucking weird.

Life’s Too Short to Not Get Buck Naked in the Gym Locker Room

Craigslist Fridays: Vol 2


Many of us can relate to being piss poor at some point in our adult lives. Perhaps it was during the ages of 19-22, when college, bars and Forever 21 sucked every last penny you earned out of that shitty Roxy wallet that your high school boyfriend got you for your 6 month anniversary.

Perhaps it was because Daddy finally refused to fund your seventh set of acting headshots, forcing you to go to work at that new organic-vegan-gluten free joint that just opened up in Culver City.

Whatever the reason, many of us have been there and as a result, many of us have become far too familiar with surfing Craigslist for free shit.

Like this free couch, for example. Not only will this 70s chic gem put you out ZERO dollars, it’s been conveniently placed in a dumpster for you. Don’t mind the bed bugs and human feces it’s come in contact with at its new home, it looks good, and that’s what truly matters. So come pick it, and a free case of head lice, up today!

Craigslist Fridays: Vol 2

The Stages of Dieting

My sister recently had her second baby. Being that she’s 5’4 and was a whopping 113 lbs prior to baby #2, she has been determined to lose the baby fat. So, being the wonderful, supportive sister I am, I decided to help her get back down to her goal weight by agreeing to partake in body fat loss competition with her for a month.

Fun fact about my gem of a sister, she is a ruthless bitch when it comes to competition. I thought I was competitive. This bitch ate chicken and brown rice for every meal for a month just so she could say that she beat me. Every meal. EVERY meal. The intensity in her desire to destroy me in every competitive and non-competitive task in life makes me realize she needs some major therapy, or a swift kick in the ass by yours truly. But let’s be real, she could probably kick my ass as well 😦

Long story short, I lost. My punishment was to post my results on all social media for the world to see:


While my sister’s diet regimen was met with the tenacity and willpower of that a Buddhist monk, mine went more like this:

  • Day 1: Screw this bitch, sitting here all smug, thinking she’s gonna beat me. Bitch is going down. *Goes to store and buys 5 lbs of kale and 60 cans of tuna.*
  • Day 2: Kale shakes for breakfast and lunch, tuna for dinner. I am healthy AF, the poster child for “clean eating”. Why can’t everyone else in the world be as healthy as I am?
  • Day 3: DAMN I am looking FINE. I should audition to be a Victoria’s Secret model.
  • Day 4: Live Fantasy Football Draft with unlimited beer? I got this, willpower baby! Oh, someone told me I age well? My life is over. *Shotguns five beers then calls Taco Bell to make as many Chalupas as they can in the amount of time it takes to run there.*
  • Day 5: Whoops. Fell off the wagon, nothing a little morning jog can’t fix. Oh wait no I still feel like shit and am going to lay in bed and eat Red Vines all day. Tomorrow…we’ll get back on it tomorrow.
  • Day 6: The kale is starting to smell like sewage, but I can’t not eat. How else is my metabolism going to burn all this fat? Guess these Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and Twinkies I forgot I had in my cupboard will have to do. Also red wine has antioxidants which I hear are good for you, sooooooo cheers to metabolism!
  • Day 7 through Day 28: Forgot I was on diet.
  • Day 29: Sister texts in the morning, “Weigh in first thing tomorrow morning!” *Realizes been on diet for the past month. Eats nothing all day, and drinks a gallon of coffee before bed to try to poop out the poor choices of the past 29 days. Googles: “Does lack of sleep help with weight loss?”  Fuck you WebMD, you don’t know what you’re talking about.*
  • Day 30: Weigh in. Might as well die, will never beat sister at anything.

I learned the hard way that starving yourself the day before a weigh in clearly will not work in your favor when you’re up against the fucking Dalai Lama of willpower also know as my sister. So fuck you, Maddi. You beat me again. ARE YOU HAPPY? You can find me in the fetal position in the kitchen with a jar of peanut butter and a spoon, trying to cry my body fat away.

In the end, after your sister is done shoving you down to rock bottom and making you feel like the worthless scum you are, she’ll always be there to show you the silver lining:

Thanks, Maddog 🙂

The Stages of Dieting

5 O’Clock Frost Bite


As I sit in my frigidly-cold office with a horrendous but cozy hoodie, my space heater on full blast, and my zebra-print Snuggie draped over my legs, I can’t help but daydream about the sun’s rays kissing my skin, warming my body to feel like I’m sunbathing in a tropical paradise.

Then I remember that I live in a fucking desert and it’s literally 107 degrees outside and someone in this godforsaken office doesn’t know how to properly work a thermostat. It is fucking freezing.

So here I am, debating whether to contribute to the demise of the environment by wasting all this excess energy, or whether I want to suffer a long, slow painful death that turns the sexy toned legs I’ve been working so hard for into shriveled up, frost-bitten nubs. I didn’t finally squat 135 lbs last weekend for nothing. The space heater stays.

According to the internet, men are apparently the ones to blame for cold workplaces (as with most things in life – golf, the toupee, children, etc.). So, what can you do to make your environment slightly more comfortable than the inside of a penguin’s asshole?

  1. Don’t be a woman under the age of 50. If you are, you’re probably shit out of luck. If you’re not, you’re probably not reading this.
  2. Dress like Michelle Duggar. No man’s hands are reaching those ta-tas, and neither is that frigid office air. Strap on your full-body underwear and your best button up polo, and you might actually be golden.
  3. Get pregnant. I hear pregnant women get hot easily. That will probably help.
  4. Quit your job. You didn’t like it anyway, and at your shitty roach-infested LA apartment, you’re the queen of the castle and can set the thermostat to whatever your heart desires. Until your roommate from hell gets home with her awful boyfriend who is constantly sweating a smell that can only be described as Axe and Jägerbombs. You’re better off being homeless anyway.
  5. Set all the thermostats in the office to 78 degrees, and leave sticky notes on each one that reads, “Whoever changes this, I will fucking murder you” I can’t confirm that this will actually work nor can I confirm that this will not get you fired, but it might release some pent up anger caused by Deborah and her awful fucking face. No, Deborah, I don’t want to hear you tell me “Good morning, sunshine!” at 8:30 in the morning before I’ve had my 5th cup of coffee. Don’t fucking look at me.
  6. Ask. Maybe you’ll get lucky and your boss will take care of the situation for you. Chances are they will give you some bullshit answer alluding to the fact that the world, the office included, does not revolve around your needs. Bitch, please.
  7. Cry. When asking doesn’t work, resort to crying. Especially in work places, this usually makes people so uncomfortable that they will give you whatever it is that you’re crying for just to get the fuck away from you STAT. Ask for a raise while you’re at it. You’ve put up with way too much of Deborah’s shit not to.
5 O’Clock Frost Bite