2. Prick open a capsule of Nyquil. Squeeze out the liquid and spread it onto your cuticles because hey, why not?

3. Let dirty dishes pile up until a family of raccoons moves in. Then provide shredded newspaper for them to build nests and raise babies. Remember to keep your Theraflu out of reach.

4. Brainstorm titles for your reality television show. My working title is “1,000 Cats Later.”

5. Have conversations with commercials. “No, I don’t need another reason to call.” “Yes, your ‘Jumbaco’ idea was moronic.” “Wow, that is reasonably priced.”

6. Open a can of soup. Pour it into a microwavable dish. Slurp it up cold because it’s been days since you ate anything besides Hall’s and you just can’t wait any longer, god damn it.

7. Use your arms to drag your limp, phlegm-soaked body to the closet in search of a pair of clean underwear. This should take the better part of a day.

8. Have lucid nightmares about the Snuggles fabric softener teddy bear. You’d think there’d be a lot less blood, for his size.

9. Run a bath, and light some nice-smelling candles nearby. Forget you had done that and fall asleep on the rug. The bath water will act as a natural extinguisher of the inevitable fire.

10. If you do make it into the bath before the water gets cold or your house burns down, put your face in the water and inhale. If it doesn’t clear your sinuses, it will make your situation more comfortable.

SF bay area craigslist > san francisco > for sale / wanted > bicycles

very old bike, probably not fixable – $50 (downtown / civic / van ness)

Date: 2011-11-01, 11:24PM PDT
Reply to: your anonymous craigslist address will appear here

i got this 1976 aquarius bike in 2009 from a shady person wearing a wifebeater in walnut creek. it’s become very hard to ride, and the guy at mike’s a couple weeks ago was all, “they don’t even make parts for this anymore, plus it’s not your size, n00b,” and i was like, “okay, please sell me a new bike.”

Sadie likes having me around more.

Related to that, I need a job! I’m available for literally any job that requires mastery of the English language: full-time, part-time, freelance, contract. Please send your unwanted recruiter calls and job openings my way.

You can follow my unemployment adventures here. It’s been a fun two weeks, but I’m ready to have an income again. I’m impatient and freaking out. Thanks for reading!

xo,
s

I was thinking about his hands and how cold mine were, and then I realized I was just watching a rerun of CSI: Miami. But they were really soft in the park in the sun as we drank unemployment away. That didn’t last long.

“You’re really hard to get a hold of,” I said. He shrugged. “The past two weeks have been so busy.” I called a baby an asshole; he told his friends we had sex. Neither was true, but I laughed anyway because our collective dickishness seemed charming for some reason.

I got sick of it and dragged us to another bar, one where we didn’t have to sit outside and wonder who might pass. Secondhand smoke entered my nostrils. I wanted a cigarette but didn’t say anything. I wanted more to drink but didn’t want to come off like a lush. I wanted some drugs, but that’s always the way. I told him about a dream I had, but he was on the phone.

“What do you want?”
“Orange juice.”
“I am NOT getting you an orange juice. You need a drink.”
“Ugh, but I really want orange juice.”
“Too bad. I am the one with the money right now.”
“Fine. Miller High Life, or PBR, I guess.”

He needed a drink to calm the fuck down. So I brought the cold can back to the table by the door and dragged him over to the jukebox. I still wanted him, needed him to want me. So I let him pick some jams, and then I picked a few. He drank less than half of his PBR. I didn’t argue; the stuff is vile. We left just as our songs started.

The next bar was all sweat and bodies and beautiful, freaky dance stench. I wasn’t dressed for it. Neither was anyone else. I tore off some clothes and tried to make the best of it. Sometimes I dance and lose my balance. Sometimes a clueless fuck stomps on my foot. But I sweat balls and persevere, and sometimes I think I look sexy. I needed more drinks but was out of cash.

Somehow he ended up at my house eating an apple and my pussy, tucking me in, apologizing, and leaving out the back. My brain and my body buzzed for hours.

Hello, I have been busy to the point of illness! Here’s an update, as if you care!

First, my new job is great. The office and location are beautiful and well-appointed (I hate that phrase). I actually can get things I need to do my job here, like batteries, pens, notepads, business cards, chairs that aren’t broken, bathrooms that aren’t out of order every two weeks, canned air, and more! My coworkers are cool, too, even though my totally rad new boss just left the company. So now I’m the boss, or something? Not really, but we’re working on hiring someone!

However, the two hours of commuting every day are running me ragged. Imagine all the hats I could make and sleep I could get with just an extra FIVE hours per week! I tried bicycling, but the hills along the way are just too much for me. So I’m going to buy a scooter! I have to wait till after I take the safety course in July (at the earliest), but I’m looking forward to scooting about town on the cutest (more likely cheapest) little bike you’ve ever seen!

Once I’m out of credit card debt (ideally by the end of this year or sooner), I’m looking at moving. I love my apartment, and I enjoy being close to so many transit lines, but that doesn’t make up for my immediate neighborhood’s lack of things to do. I can go to a yummy restaurant or low-key bar if I walk five blocks from my house, but that’s a little more inconvenient than I’d like. Other neighborhoods — such as Upper and Lower Haight, Hayes Valley, Panhandle, Inner Sunset, Inner Richmond, and Pacific Heights — have more neighborhood bars and eateries than you can shake a stick at. Plus I’m tired of being hassled every time I leave the house. Just last week I was walking to the bus stop in the early morning rain when I passed a group of dingy-looking older folks, possibly on a smoke break from the halfway home down the street. A guy ducked down to stare at me under my umbrella and said, “I see you under there!” and then, after I picked up my pace, “Come back here!” Oh yeah, and do what?! Am I the only person who doesn’t like to talk to strangers? Don’t tell me to smile, random dude; if I had a reason to smile, I would, and your demanding one of me makes it infinitely less likely that I will. I’m happy to talk to people I don’t know at events, at social gathering spots, at work, at someone’s house, +c., but I prefer to be left alone rather than be talked at for no reason but to get money, intimidation, or ass. </rant>

I’ve also been writing quite a bit outside of work, so much that I rarely have time, inspiration, or energy to write here. You can catch me more frequently at Broke-Ass Stuart and VeganSaurus! (N.B. There is a significant amount of cursing on these sites, so don’t go to them if you’re offended by four-letter words.)

xo,
s

Sleep. I just wanted one night without jolting upright at 3:30 in the morning. For weeks my REM patterns had been punctuated by frequent awakenings and difficulty returning to sleep. My mind raced from one song’s lyrics to another’s, to projects I had going at work, to what I wanted to make for dinner that week.

So I sat in the bathtub, propped my feet up on the faucet, and ruminated again over buying one of those waterproof tub pillows with suction cups. I wished for some wine but didn’t have any. “I could make a cocktail,” I thought, but that would take too much effort.

Nightmares. He would meet me at the Starbucks where we had our first date and beg for forgiveness, and we’d reconcile. His mother would say she missed me and gush over his new commitment. Then we’d go out for a date, and he’d tell me I wasn’t pretty — not ugly, just not pretty.

Juno dipped her paw deep into the bubbles, past them into the water. She’d never been so brave before — and probably wouldn’t be again. She squealed and withdrew to the black bathmat, where she shook and gingerly wiped her paw against it to wring out the soap. I watched to make sure she didn’t lick it. “That could be poisonous,” I explained. She stalked out of the room.

The suds melted, and flakes of soap scum floated in the water as I waited for it to get cold. I took a pill. “He isn’t coming home tonight.”

Sadie is already exhausted by the prospect of a five-day week.

It’s official: I’m leaving the Academy of Art University, effective 3/18.

I’m going to miss quite a few things about this job — the job security, my coworkers, that Mondays-off thing — but I’d like to feel like my work carries more weight and enjoy a less-silent office culture, so I’m heading over to NextAdvisor.com starting 4/4. I’ll be writing reviews and blog posts as the company’s Associate Editor, and I have faith that my role will evolve to have a great deal of responsibility.

Thanks for reading, for your support, and for your patience with any flakiness that may occur as I transition!

xo,
s

I’ve been doing a lot of things. Let me update you:

• I landed a gig at Broke-Ass Stuart. I basically write about cheap things to do. You can view all of my posts (past, present, and future) here.
• I’m taking burlesque lessons with Dottie Lux of Red Hots Burlesque. The art has a fascinating history, and it can incorporate so many fun aspects of a performer’s personality. I missed fan dancing on account of being sick, but I suppose I can learn later, right?
• I started volunteering at the SPCA at the end of January. I’m working with dogs, which means I get to train, walk, pet, and play with the likes of Palermo, Roger, Chiquita, Tiger, and Arthur (pictured below). IT IS AWESOME.

• I went to the dentist for the first time in, like, two years. Like most people, I have a bit of dread about the dentist. I blame friend of my parents, fellow parishioner, and Coast Guard Reserve member Dr. Dentist (name changed). He used to bark orders at you like you, too, were in the Reserve: “OPEN! BITE! SPIT!” Come to think of it, maybe those aren’t the best verbs to use out of context, but anyway… Then he’d poke at your gums with one of those sharp metal things — not around them as he scraped the plaque from your teeth, but actually poke into them — and scold you for bleeding. Well, I’m sorry, sir, but generally when people get stabbed, they bleed. You could never floss enough for him, and since you couldn’t really answer his constant interrogation about your personal and professional life and your flossing habits, you just had to sit there while he yammered at you and assaulted your mouth. When I was diagnosed with TMJ, he made a mouthguard for me to keep my teeth from grinding that promptly broke within a year. Finally, he convinced my parents and me to let him extract my wisdom teeth, which were PERFECTLY FINE and caused me no problems — until after they were taken out. This is one of the things in my life I wish I could undo. In contrast, my new dentist is nice, gentle, and honest, plus he put a little filling on one of my teeth that had been hurting and sensitive because it lost enamel due to grinding, so that made a world of difference right there.
• Until two weeks ago, when I stopped on account of all the rain, I had been making good on my 2011 promise to myself to bike to work more. I rode my bicycle to and from work almost every day! Then when I got home, I would do some kettlebell swings and maybe some pushups and ab exercises on the stability ball my parents got me for Xmas. On days I didn’t bike, I’d do one of several workout videos I’d downloaded. Even though all this has fallen by the wayside once the weather went to hell, it seemed like an accomplishment I wanted to share with you.

And that, without getting too intimate, is what I’ve been doing. What are you up to?

xo,
s

In my younger days, I could scarf a baker's dozen of these babies in one sitting. No lie.

I know a guy whose friend’s small child refers to him as “The Food Man.” This young boy also refers to another of his parents’ friends as “Uncle Muffintop,” but that’s another story.

One could nickname me “The Food Woman.” I love food, so much that I can never diet, fast, or cleanse for any meaningful length of time; I inevitably crawl back to the falafel sandwich with cucumbers and tomatoes, the baked tofu, the macaroni and vegan cheese, and the black bean burritos.

Much of my life has revolved around food. When am I going to go to lunch? What should I make for dinner this week? What new things do I want to try at the grocery store? When I went vegan, that only intensified. I had to think more critically about my food choices and be more careful with the grocery list I’d taken for granted. But I had fun planning my menus, going to specialty shops, and ordering vegan marshmallows and cheeses on the Internet. I also delighted in cooking new and complicated items: samosa twice-baked potatoes, homemade gnocchi, fondue, and couscous cake.

Bet on me at this sporting event. I'll make you rich.

I even tend to become obsessed with certain food items. For a month in college, I ate only buttered toast — not because it was all I had or could afford, not because I was trying some kind of weird diet, but because I loved it. It started when I was sick for two weeks; buttered toast was really the only thing that sounded good. Once I was better, it was still the only thing that sounded good, so I pounded buttered toast three times a day until I felt like I was severely nutritionally (and fiber-ally) deficient.

I’m in a similar rut now, except, sadly, nothing sounds good. Sure, I get hungry, so I manage to choose something to eat despite having no opinions on my options, and frequently I like what I’ve chosen while I’m eating it. What concerns me is that the cravings I’ve dealt with and even enjoyed for most of my life seem to have all but disappeared. All that’s left is an occasional hankering for fried spring rolls, but even that’s on its way out. No amount of salt, sauce, or coconut frosting makes any vegetable, curry, or cake more appealing to me.

As someone who has long loved food, this is distressing to me. I just can’t get excited about my lunches (they might as well all be salad nowadays), my dinners (I have some frozen stuff, but who cares?), or my cooking in general (the fewer dishes I have to wash, the better).

I want to love food so much again that I think it's perfectly acceptable to wear it.

The moral of the story: I need help. How do you pump yourself up about your food?

xo,
s

I want this year to be better than the one before. I have to say that 2010 was something of a low point for me.

The year was full of mistakes and perhaps a few minor victories. Some things I did:

• Dated, maybe too much, with loads of accompanying bad decisions
• Ate too much
• Drank too much
• Started therapy
• Traveled!
• Started volunteering at SPCA
• Made a couple of new friends (and enemies) and reconnected with a couple of old ones
• Lost Grandpa
• Welcomed a whole mess o’ visitors, some more gracious than others
• Got a promotion and a raise
• Had my first bona fide party at my apartment
• Discovered Groupon
• Got a Roomba (life-changing)

Here is what I want to do this year:

• Adopt a second cat
• Do one creative thing every day (this blog post counts as today’s; yesterday I did some coloring in a coloring book)
• Exercise regularly
• Travel again!
• Make better decisions
• Improve my self-esteem to a point where I don’t hate myself (sorry, this one’s a downer)
• Take burlesque lessons (Red Hots Burlesque, want to join me?)
• Not incur any more credit card debt
• Make new friends and no more enemies
• Switch cell providers and phones
• Get more freelance work
• Improve my Photoshop skills

Lofty goals, to be sure. But if the Mayan calendar overreactionaries are to be believed, this is the last full year we have before the world ends. Let’s make it count. What are your goals for 2011?

xo,
s