Lennon’s Birth Story

It’s been two weeks since I received the greatest gift of my life, my beautiful daughter, Lennon, and I think I’m finally ready to talk about how it all went down.

As many of you know, our baby was due on May 9th, 2017, but that day came and went. So did the day after that and the day after that. With each day that passed, I got a little more anxious and worried. My doctors were talking about inducing me, but I was very reluctant. From what I had read, induced labors are much more intense and painful than natural labor. More importantly, I wanted to trust my body and I wanted to have a natural childbirth, though I always planned on doing it at the hospital, just in case something went wrong, I wanted to be in the safety net, but I was hoping it would all just happen the way it was supposed to, without interventions.
So, I waited and waited for her to come on her own. My doctors told me that I could wait until Monday, May 22nd, as long as I got non-stress tests twice a week. After that, they strongly recommended I stop waiting and get induced.

The waiting was very hard for me. I wondered if I was doing the right thing, aware as I was that the risk of having a still-born baby goes up after week 41, and that an induction would bring risks as well. I just wanted a healthy baby. That’s all I cared about. I simply didn’t know the best way to get her.
On Tuesday, May 16th, I started having some mild cramping in the evening, and by Wednesday, May 17th, the cramping started to feel more like contractions. I started timing the contractions around lunchtime on the 17th and by late that night they were so intense that I was doubling over to get through each one. I had been told to go to the hospital when the contractions were 2-to-4 minutes apart, but when they were around 5 minutes apart, I felt a strong urge to head to the hospital. I talked Matt into going a little bit early and we headed to Sutter Amador.

When we arrived, I told the nurse that I might be a little early. I also told her that I knew they might send us home, but this was my first time and I felt safer at the hospital. Both of the nurses on duty that night were very nice and agreed to let me stay there to progress through my labor. They checked my cervix, looked over my birth plan, and agreed to do everything in the most natural way possible. At this point, it was about 1 a.m. We were just going to wait through the night and see how much I had progressed by about 6 a.m.

Around 3 a.m., during a fairly strong contraction, the heart monitors they had on the baby and me started going crazy and I felt the baby moving around a lot — I’m talking more movement than I had ever felt before — frantic movement. The nurse came running in the room and asked me to move into a few different positions as she moved the baby’s heart monitor around on my belly. She seemed scared, so I started to get scared. She pushed a button that was attached to her shirt and said “Code C.” An alarm started sounding. She told me to get on all fours, put on an oxygen mask and try to stay calm — that the baby’s heart rate had dropped significantly and she was trying to find it again. At this point, a bunch of other people, doctors and nurses, started coming into the room asking what they could do. I heard my nurse say that we needed to get my doctor there asap and prep for surgery. I heard her telling the team that if my doctor didn’t get there fast enough, we needed to have the ER doctor perform an emergency C-section, because something was wrong and we needed to get the baby out.

As I propped myself up on the hospital bed on all fours, ass in the open air for whoever to see, face in an oxygen mask, I thought about what would happen to me if I lost this baby. It was one of the darkest moments I’ve ever been in. I thought about how far we’d come together, me and my baby Lentil, and how badly I wanted her to be OK. I thought about how if she didn’t make it, I didn’t want to make it, either. I thought to myself over and over, “Please let her be OK. Please let her be OK. I want nothing more than for her to be OK, I’ve never wanted anything more than for her to be OK.”

The nurse came over to me and said, “Ginger, something is wrong. We won’t know what it is until we get you into surgery, but if you continue with this labor, we think it will end in the demise of your baby.”
Can we talk about the word “demise” for a moment? That word carries so much doom and gloom for me. When I heard that word is when I knew I would do anything the doctors told me to do, because baby demise was the last thing I wanted. Baby demise was my worst nightmare. Baby demise would ruin me.

When my doctor arrived, he looked as if we had awoken him from a deep sleep. He performed an ultrasound on me while I was on all fours. He said he’d never done an ultrasound upside-down before, but he found the baby’s heart beating on the screen and saw that she had switched positions in the womb, another sign of distress, seeing as she had been engaged and head-down for months before this.

Within minutes, they were wheeling me down to surgery. Matt was there by my side the whole time, telling me that everything would be OK. I don’t know how he stayed so calm, but I needed his kind, patient energy so badly and he gave it to me lovingly. As the surgery began, I just kept thinking, again, “Please let her be OK.” Then I heard her cry. It was the most beautiful sound, like nothing I’d ever heard before, a cry that was unique to her and let me know she was alive, even though I couldn’t yet see her.

As I lay on the operating table completely numb and in a very odd headspace, I heard the doctors talking about how things looked on the other side of the sheet. They were talking about my body, my insides. They were saying things looked “different” than usual.

Matt got to see the baby first. He came over to me with the biggest smile on his face, with a look I’ll never forget, a look of relief mixed with love mixed with hope. Luckily, baby Lentil passed all of her tests and they were able to let me hold her pretty quickly. She was perfect.

After surgery, the doctors and nurses explained to us that the umbilical cord was abnormally short. When the baby attempted to descend through my birthing canal, her oxygen supply was reduced and her heart rate dropped. The average umbilical cord is 50 to 60 cm long, but the cord connecting me and Lennon was only 17 cm. The doctors and nurses said she wouldn’t have survived labor. They also said she wouldn’t have survived an induction. One of the nurses even told me when I saw her a week later that it was one of the scariest days she’d ever worked.

The fact that my baby is here with me today makes me feel so fortunate. It also breaks my heart to know that if one tiny part of this story were different, like let’s say I didn’t go to the hospital when I did, or let’s say a different nurse was working and didn’t hear the heart monitor, then my baby wouldn’t be here with me today. It’s so scary to know that I could’ve easily lost my baby. And my heart goes out to all the women whose birthing stories ended differently. I wish I could hug them and tell them how brave and strong they are.

These past two weeks have been tough, because recovering from a C-section is no joke and being a new mom is no joke, but doing both simultaneously while also trying (and kind of failing) to breastfeed is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s also the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. And when my baby is sleeping on my chest or looking into my eyes or making a bunch of silly faces, I know that I’m exactly where I need to be. I didn’t get here the way I had hoped, but at least I’m here. More importantly, at least Lennon is here. Someone or something was looking out for us that day and we are all so lucky.


Lessons I’ve Learned from Pregnancy – Part Three

3. I can survive without self-medicating.

Let’s talk about a very touchy subject for a moment, shall we? Self-medication! It’s one of my favorite pastimes! I can’t really recall exactly when I started using alcohol as a crutch/self-soothing tool/anti-anxiety medication, but I can tell you that it was a very long time ago. For years and years, I used alcohol to help me cope with all of the hardships of life. Or so I thought. In reality, it never really helped with anything. If I had a stressful day, I’d have a glass of wine. If I liked a boy and he wasn’t giving me the attention I craved, I’d have a cocktail. If I got into an argument with a friend or family member, I’d have a drink. If I did something I wasn’t proud of and didn’t know how to deal with it, I’d just have a drink and forget about it. If I got depressed about being a waitress in my thirties, I’d have a drink. If something terrible happened to me and I didn’t know how to process, I’d go to happy hour.

One drink always turned into many drinks and it got to the point where I was using alcohol to actively try to shut off my feelings, desires and thoughts. The only problem with doing that is that alcohol can only shut things off for a short time. I would still wake up the next morning with the same thoughts, the same feelings, the same desires…and all of them were tired of being ignored and pushed under the rug. If I had had too much to drink the night (or day!) before, which I often did, I would also wake up with very heavy guilt and shame about drinking — guilt and shame about not being present; guilt and shame about not being myself; guilt and shame for dimming my own light. I was intoxicated probably 50% of the time, which means I wasn’t myself about 50% of the time, which is a lot! That’s half a person, half a personality, gone!

A few years ago, I somehow found the strength to admit to myself and a couple of other people that I was doing this. I was self-medicating. I wasn’t just a “social drinker,” like I had always wanted everyone to believe. I was drinking with purpose. I was drinking to try to hide how unhappy I was, from not only those around me, but also from myself. Unfortunately, admitting I had a problem with drinking was only the first step. Actually stopping the habit was a whole different can of worms. And even though I knew I wanted to stop self-medicating, I didn’t want to stop all the way. I associated fun with drinking, and I wasn’t ready to give it up.

So, I started trying to cut back. I would set goals for myself, like, “Tonight, I’m only going to have two glasses of wine (unless one of my customers buys me a drink). Or, “Tonight, I’m not going to black out.” Or, “This week, I’m only going to drink on my days off.” Most of the time, I wouldn’t share these goals with anyone, but I wouldn’t meet them, either. I thought it wasn’t that bad, because the only person I was letting down was myself, right? I was so wrong! Letting myself down over and over and over again is the single worst thing I’ve ever done to myself and my self-esteem. I know that now, but I didn’t then.

Anyway, the whole point of me telling you about this nasty, nasty habit I had is that I finally feel like I’ve been able to break away from it! I attribute that in part to my unborn baby. Before I got pregnant I was already starting on my journey away from self-medication. I had recognized the problem; I had learned to accept my feelings better. I had decided my feelings were there for a reason…they were usually trying to show me something or teach me an important lesson and I couldn’t learn the lesson if I was drowning the feelings in alcohol. I had successfully cut back on drinking and convinced myself that life without it wasn’t that bad. But, I would still slip up. I would still go back to my old ways and every time I did I would wake up with the same guilt and shame.

Then I got pregnant, and I stopped drinking immediately. Now I had this very important reason not to drink, the most important reason ever, growing inside of me. In the last nine months, I’ve gotten to know myself, and my anxiety, so well. I’ve had to feel all my feelings; I’ve had to worry all my worries; I’ve had to fear all my fears and cry all my tears. When I feel happy, I feel truly happy. When I laugh, I’m truly laughing from somewhere deep inside my belly. And I’ve done this all without medication, without alcohol and refreshingly, without much shame. And, guess what? I’ve survived! I’m even a little proud of myself. I’ve found that all the bad things aren’t really as bad as I imagined them to be, as long as I don’t run away from them.

My baby forced me to get to know my true self, an unadulterated version of myself, and for that I will forever be grateful. I can’t wait to enjoy a glass of rosé with friends, but now I know I don’t need it to survive. Now I know that I’m strong enough to feel any feeling and fight any fight and I’m strong enough all on my own. I don’t need any substance to help me. Thank you, baby Lentil. Thank you so much. I hope you never lose yourself as much as I did. But, if you do, I’m here to help you find yourself again. I can’t wait to be your present, vulnerable, flawed, ready-to-face-anything mom.

Lashing Out

A couple months ago, I got some eyelash extensions. At the time, my boyfriend didn’t want to be with me and it was pretty obvious. I was feeling ugly and shitty and confused and I thought that my face wasn’t pretty enough. I thought that if my face could just get a little boost, maybe things would be better. If I could just be a little prettier, maybe I would have a boyfriend who did want to be with me. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was clinging for dear life onto something that was broken and failing. Maybe I wouldn’t look so exhausted all the time. Maybe I wouldn’t look so sad, and in turn, maybe I wouldn’t be so sad. So, I got some beautiful, long, black lashes applied to my eyes. And oooooohhhhh-eeeeeeee, they looked GREAT! I felt SO much prettier. I even sort-of liked my face when it didn’t have makeup on it.

I was batting my eyes at strangers. I was taking selfies right out of the shower. I was getting compliments from servers in restaurants, and compliments from friends who would ask, “What mascara are you using!?” It was great!

But, you know what, it didn’t save my relationship, so my eyelash extensions and I had to go through a breakup.

On top of that, I’m a crier. Sometimes, I cry while watching commercials. So, when I’m going through a breakup, the tears are a-flowin’. So many tears. A river of tears. And eyelash extensions aren’t really supposed to get wet! You’re also not supposed to wash them. And they feel kind of like a caterpillar is taking a rest on your eyelid. Between the tears and the not being able to wash my face and the breakup feelings, I started to hate the eyelash extensions. They were itchy and felt foreign and fake and they started to look a little wonky, with some of them going in all different directions. I decided I wanted them off of my face, I needed them off.

So, I did what any savvy gal would do — I looked online for advice about how to remove eyelash extensions. Now, mind you, the woman who had put them on had told me, “DO NOT TRY TO REMOVE THEM YOURSELF.”

However, the Internet made it sound simple enough — just steam your face for 15 minutes and wipe your eyes with coconut oil. I had some coconut oil and some time to kill! Perfect!

The hour and a half I spent trying to get those things off was brutal. It could be considered abuse in most states. I think I steamed my face about four times, and used about 100 cotton balls, just rubbing gobs and gobs of coconut oil on my face and applying far more pressure than anyone should apply to an eyeball. If I pushed hard enough, one or two eyelashes would rip off, but most of them would take my real eyelashes off with them. It was terrible and very painful. After I was finished, my eyes were red and swollen and almost all of my eyelashes were gone.

There were a few really long extensions left that I couldn’t get to come off. Other than that, I was eye-bald. I stared at myself in the mirror and felt uglier than I’d ever felt before.

Now I was 32, single and had no eyelashes. I fell to the floor and had an actual breakdown. The thoughts going through my head were, “Why do I never feel good enough? Why did I get these stupid things in the first place? I got them because I didn’t think I was pretty enough, but now I’m less pretty than ever before, what a huge backfire! Why didn’t I pay someone to remove them? What am I going to do now? How can I go about my day, my week, my year without eyelashes? Why do I care so much about the way I look? Why do I feel like I have to be attractive to be worthy of love? Why do I live in this fucked-up world, where beauty feels more important than honesty, and integrity, and intelligence, and kindness? Why? Why?”

Reluctantly, I picked myself up and I told myself that there are people with far larger problems in the world. Then, I went to work — feeling hideous. But, you know what, no one noticed. I told all of my co-workers about it, because it felt so obvious to me that I felt I needed to explain the way I looked. Every single one of them said that they would never have noticed if I hadn’t said something. Since then, I’ve been walking around feeling self conscious and just hoping my real lashes will grow fast. The moral of this story is, eyelash extensions won’t save you from your problems. In fact, they might make all of your problems worse! And you’re beautiful just the way you are.


Eye-bald and OK in Pasadena


Waiting Tables

Being a cocktail waitress is kind of like being the host of a bunch of little parties. The guests come sit at the table (the party). I greet them; I ask them how they are doing; I offer them something to drink; I bring them food when they are hungry; and I clean up their messes. And I do this because I want them to have a good time at my party — every last one of them. I want them all to have a great time! Sometimes, too many guests show up to the parties at once and I can’t get them all drinks and food as fast as I’d like and it makes me feel like a bad host. Sometimes, one of the guests acts up, or pees in the sink or makes another guest uncomfortable and I’m like, “You’ve gotta leave this party immediately!” Sometimes, an asshole shows up to one of the parties and it’s really hard to make sure they have a good time and it makes me feel like a bad host and a bad person. I often wake up the next morning thinking about the parties from the night before and hoping they had a great time — every last one of them. So, if you are someone who likes to go to the little parties that waiters and waitresses are throwing at restaurants and bars across the nation, please be kind to your host. They care about you and want you to have a good time!

What’s the Deal with??

Girls Buying Cars

I’ve been doing some car shopping lately, because the lease is up on my VW. I was in the market for something more economical…smaller, better gas mileage, lower monthly payment etc. After doing lots of research (lots=a few google searches), I decided I wanted a Prius C. On Sunday, I talked Zack (my boyfriend) into going to look at them with me. We went to the Toyota dealer in Downtown LA and I walked in and told them I was interested in buying a car. Immediately, the man in the showroom escorted me to a booth outside, where all the salesmen were waiting for their prey. They all stood up and shifted their energies when they saw us approaching, I could hear them saying, “Whose turn is it!?” in loud whispers and then a short, chubby man in a blue shirt stepped forward. The greeter man from the showroom told him that my name was Ginger and I was interested in a Prius C. The salesman totally ignored that fact and greeted Zack, who was standing behind me, by shaking his hand and saying, “How can I help you, sir?” Seriously!? You’re gonna greet my boyfriend instead of me simply because he is a man and I am a woman? Let’s just say, I hated this salesman from the get-go. He continued to talk down to me and talk up to Zack the entire time I was there, saying things like, “What does she want? Just tell me what she wants, sir, and I will make it happen.” When I would ask a question, he would address Zack with the answer instead of me. At one point, I asked how they calculate the monthly payments, and he told me, “It’s just simple math.” He was terrible and condescending and chauvinistic, and I left there without buying anything and in a fit of rage.

However, I didn’t let that guy get to me! I ended up going on Tuesday to two different Toyota dealers — by myself. The first dealership, Hamer Toyota, treated me very nicely, even though I was a woman, car shopping alone. Unfortunately, all they had to offer me was a great deal on a very-bright-yellow Prius C. I politely declined, because I despise yellow cars, and went to another dealer.

The third dealership, North Hollywood Toyota, kept me there for hours! It was all this back and forth about all sorts of things. But, the salesman had kind eyes, and they had the car I wanted, in the color I wanted, so I stuck around. At one point, the gentleman helping me said, “It’s very rare to see a girl like you, car shopping alone, so all the guys are asking me if you are here by yourself. I told them you are a strong woman”. Um, really?? I left that day without a car, mostly because I had to get to work. Since I knew the deal I wanted and they weren’t really giving it to me, I told them I would be back at 11am the next day to do more negotiating. When I went back at 11am on Wednesday, I had the paperwork from VW that spelled out exactly how much it would cost to turn in my Jetta and I told them that I wanted them to pay it. Guess what? They did! They actually decided to give me exactly what I asked for. And they told me that they were impressed that I showed back up, at the time I had promised, with the paperwork I had promised them. Why were they impressed? I guess because I’m a woman. This brings me to my point…do women not go car shopping? Are we stuck in 1950? Is it strange that I didn’t have a man holding my hand when I walked in? Why was I met with surprise and awe at every point of the car-buying process? If I’m the one who is signing the papers and I’m the one who will be driving the car and I’m the one who will be making the payments, then why would I need anyone else to come with me to the dealership? I know what I want. I know how to negotiate what I want. I know how to keep appointments. I know how to drive. I have a good credit score, and I know how to sign paperwork. Is any of that more or less impressive because I’m a woman? I don’t think so. But, apparently, in the world of car sales, it makes me a “strong woman”. The way I see it, all of that just makes me a responsible human being. So, what I have to say to all the car salesmen asking if I was car-shopping alone is, “Why would I not car-shop alone?” I am woman; hear me quietly start my new Prius C with the push of a button.




What’s the Deal with??

Bread on Salads

I love salads. So-o-o much. I order them at, like, every restaurant I go to. Seriously, if I don’t get an entrée salad, I usually get a starter salad or a side salad, because I just don’t like to go a day without it. That cold, crispy, crunchy deliciousness brightens up even the darkest day. Lately, however, I’ve been noticing a new problem in the world…restaurants all over the place are serving salads with a slice of bread! Automatically! Even when you don’t ask for it! They just put it on your salad like you need it or want it or deserve it or something. There are a few reasons this bothers me…

  1. I don’t eat bread
  2. Bread makes me uncomfortable
  3. I could have celiac disease! (I don’t)
  4. Simple carbohydrates are hard to digest
  5. Salad is amazing! It doesn’t need a sidekick
  6. Things that aren’t listed on the menu shouldn’t be on the salad
  7. I’m now forced to be wasteful

A couple of times recently I’ll get my salad, see the bread, not want to be wasteful and say, “Oh, you can take that bread back, I’m not gonna eat it and I haven’t touched it.” And then I watch them take it from my plate and throw it in the trash. There are starving people in the world! You just forced a piece of bread on me and then when I politely tell you, “No thanks!” you just threw it in the trash!? Now I look/feel like an asshole! What just happened? #nobreadplease


What’s the Deal with??

Short-Hair Haters

I somewhat recently chopped my hair off. Not all of it, just a lot of it. It wasn’t a rash decision. I didn’t break up with my boyfriend. I didn’t have a death in the family, and I didn’t experience a major life change that led me to cut my hair as a desperate cry for attention. I just wanted short hair. That’s it. I was tired of having long hair, and I thought it looked bad on me. Also, long hair was way too much work! I hated brushing it; I hated washing it; I hated styling it; and, I hated when it tickled my back in a certain way that made me think there were bugs crawling on me. I would sometimes look at photos from the past and think, “Why do I have long hair?” I looked better and felt better with short hair. So, I cut it off! And, I’m pretty excited about it! However, since cutting my hair off, I’ve discovered a sub-group of people I never knew existed — the short-hair haters. These are the people who see me and say things like…

“Oh WOW! You cut your hair? You cut it REALLLLLY short. Wowwww!”

“So, what made you decide to cut your hair? Is everything ok?”

“Sooooo, what does your boyfriend think of your hair? Or did you guys break up?”

“Did you cry when you cut your hair?”

All of these questions seem to be asked while they are staring at me with dead eyes, and in a tone of voice that would be appropriate for asking about a car accident or a recent amputation. Well, you know what I have to say to these people? Yes, I did cut my hair! And yes, everything is ok! And I’m pretty sure my boyfriend likes it, but the important thing is that I LIKE IT. And no, I didn’t cry when I cut it, I smiled (although I cry for lots and lots of other reasons). Listen, I get it if you think long hair is attractive, so do I. I even (kinda) get it if you think long hair makes a woman more feminine, but, I disagree. I think some of the most beautiful women in the world have short hair! And, if I like my hair better this way, what the hell do you care!? Also, did anyone ever teach you to keep your opinion to yourself if it might hurt someone else’s feelings? Now, more than ever, I understand the desire to use the hash tag: #shorthairdontcare.

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What’s the Deal with??

Opening Doors

Last night, while I was working my SUPER GLAMOUROUS job as a cocktail waitress I overheard some ladies talking about guys. I should start by saying; I do a LOT of eavesdropping. If you are ever out and you wonder if your server or bartender is listening to your conversation, assume they are, especially if I’m in the building. I’ve found that in my years of eavesdropping, girls talk about boys pretty much all the time. Girls also talk about TV shows, the occasional book, the girl/guy they hate at work, the girl/guy they love at work, the girl/guy that smells funny at work, kids, plastic surgery, delicious recipes, etc. But, if there is a group of girls out for a girl’s night, there WILL be at least some talk of boys; I can pretty much guarantee it. So, last night, I was doing what I do and I heard a lady telling her friend about how she had to get up the nerve to talk to the guy she had been dating about something that had been bothering her. I lingered around their table, taking extra time to clean the table next to them, just so I could hear what it was that was bothering her. Turns out, she was upset that he hadn’t opened the door for her on TWO separate occasions. She said that he argued with her, said he thought he had opened the door for her every time they had gone through a door, so she had to tell him specifically when and where he had missed the mark. She continued, telling her friend how it had made her feel disrespected and like less of a lady. As I heard this, I wondered, is this what confident women feel is necessary to bring up to their guys? Is this really something that matters to anyone? I mean, say you end up wanting to marry this guy, are you going to decide not to because he forgot to open the door for you a couple of times? Call me crazy, but I don’t care if a guy opens the door for me! If he does, I guess it’s a nice surprise, but I often go to open it before he even has the chance. And, I feel like there are so many things that matter more than door opening in a relationship… like cuddling style and conversations and whether or not you like oysters. When I talk to my boyfriend about things that bother me, I always make sure it’s something I REALLY care about and I end up feeling bad about it afterwards — like, I might have been too hard on him or hurt his feelings. But, when I heard this lady talking about the doors, I decided maybe I shouldn’t feel so bad! Or maybe I just don’t have as much respect for myself as she does! What about you? Does door opening matter in your relationships?

What’s the Deal with??

Masking our Real Emotions on Social Media

Social media has to be one of the most fascinating things to come about in my lifetime (followed closely by iPhones and Juggalos). Every. Single. Day. I’m excited to log onto Facebook, Instagram and Twitter to see how other people are presenting themselves on the Internet. Who had a baby today? Who’s engaged? Who’s being funny? Who’s newly single? Who looks skinny? Who is wearing too much makeup? What kind of music are people listening to? What are people writing? What events are they going to? Who’s super proud to be drinking Starbucks? But, if I’m having a bad day, logging onto social media can be the worst idea ever! Why? Because no one ever gets sad on social media! So, it makes me feel like I’m the only one in the world who’s bummed out. And I just don’t get it. Personally, I get sad, a lot. And sometimes, bad things happen to me. But, you probably wouldn’t know that from social media, because I’m constantly editing myself online. Sometimes I feel like I should post pictures or stories of what’s REALLY happening in my life, but I quickly decide not to, because I don’t want to bring anyone else down. Or creep anyone out. But, the truth is, we all get sad, we all get embarrassed, we all get angry. It’s a part of life. And, maybe, if we shared a few more of those moments, we could all relate to each other a little more. If you’re having a bad day and you log onto Facebook, all you see is happy people and that can make you feel like even more of a bummer. So, l say, let’s start sharing some sad, bad, weird stuff! Let’s start posting ugly photos of ourselves; let’s start sharing embarrassing stories, or photos of us crying, or photos of us in the hospital. Let’s get REAL. And I’ll start…I had surgery yesterday. There was nothing glamorous about it. I feel like it’s a big deal, though, and so I’m gonna post some photos of me in the hospital. Because I want to be real and honest and raw. And, I think a surgery is much more important than what I ate for dinner last week, or the foam art on my cappuccino. Hopefully, anyone who reads this will share some rawness with me as well! By the way, I’m feeling much better already.


What’s the Deal with??

Being Awoken by Words

I often wake up with a word in my head that keeps repeating itself to me, as if it wants me to acknowledge its presence. It’s kind of like getting a song stuck in your head, but it’s just one word — on “repeat.” And the word doesn’t just whisper to me, it repeats itself LOUDLY, so that I can’t ignore it, as if it’s saying, “PAY ATTENTION TO ME, I’M MORE IMPORTANT THAN THAT DELIGHTFULLY WARM COFFEE YOU ARE ABOUT TO DRINK!” Most of the time, it’s a word that I’ve heard before, but am not 100% sure of its definition. The only way to get the word to stop repeating in my head is to look it up, commit the exact definition to memory, and use it in sentences for the rest of the day, which often results in me sounding like a crazy person. Some of the words I’ve woken up to lately are (click on the word for the definition)…




My stomach is feeling a little catawampus, so I’m gonna go to the shawarma shop before I head over to the cotillion. 

Does this happen to anyone else? If so, what are some of the words that have been stuck in your head lately?

What’s the Deal with??

Waitresses on Blast 

I, like most people, spend lots of time thinking about what I do and do not like about my job. For example, I love the flexibility of being a waitress and the fact that I get to walk home each night with cash in my pocket. Who doesn’t love cash? But lately there’s been one huge gripe that I can’t get outta my head. It’s not really a gripe about my job per say, but more with the general public. WHY do STRANGERS (or almost strangers) feel comfortable making comments about the physical appearance and life goals of their waitress!? I am your waitress, it’s true, but I’m also a real, breathing, human person who has feelings and emotions and good days and bad days. If you happen to notice that I look tired or I’m wearing more/less makeup than usual or I’m dressed in a casual fashion, you don’t need to tell me! Chances are, since I’m the person who got myself ready, I already know that. I take the things people say seriously, so if you say something negative about me it’s going to hurt my feelings. Simple as that. I mean, what if I came to your office and stood above your desk and said, “You know Jim, that shirt makes you look a little wide and lumpy, you should consider smaller stripes next time”? How would that make you feel? I’ve been trying to think of other professions that open a person up to the scrutiny of the public, but I can’t think of many. And, the ones I can think of seem to pay a lot more! Just for fun I’ve included some REAL quotes from customers in the last few days…

“Oh, you’re wearing makeup today, you never wear makeup!” (I always wear makeup.)

“It’s really weird for a 30 year old girl to not be married”

“You’re like the most attractive girl in here, surprisingly”

What’s the Deal with??


There are so many people who get in the most INTENSE fights on Instagram. I just don’t get it. Often, when I see these instafights, they are battle over celebrity or company photos, which I think is so rude, not to mention pathetic. Do you really think Kim Kardashian cares that you think her makeup looks too cakey? I honestly hope she and all the other poor celebs don’t read the comments because some are very hurtful.  And what does it say about you when you are posting hateful comments directed at complete strangers? Just today, I saw people getting ultra-heated in the comment section of a photo that Free People had posted. Free People is a brand. They make tons of money. YOU’RE GETTING IN A FIGHT WITH A BRAND! Does that make any sense? Why are you clogging up their feed with a bunch of religious and political arguments? Don’t you have any REAL people in your life you can fight with!? If not, call me, we can yell at each other over the phone.

What’s the Deal with??

Unsolicited Penis Pics

What’s the deal with unsolicited penis pics? I mean, seriously guys. If I didn’t ask you for a picture or video (yes, I said video!) of your member, then why would you send it to me? Perhaps you WANT me to forward it to my most open-minded friends so we can have a good laugh on your behalf? And the worst part, one of the most recent videos I received was in the shower! I mean, isn’t that bad for your iPhone? Those things aren’t cheap and I don’t think it’s safe to have it that close to water.