Cheddar is way better on tuna sandwiches than provolone.
Cheddar is way better on tuna sandwiches than provolone.
I wanted to temporarily disable this account, on account of the fact that I’m job hunting. But they don’t allow that. So I’m left with three options: keep it up in all its glory, sift through and appropriately filter out any potentially incendiary or unprofessional content, or totally delete all of my content and lose any record of my humanity for the past three years.
I guess employers don’t want humanity. They want carefully calculated droneism. Which makes sense. If I was a wacky entrepreneur, I wouldn’t want a bunch of loose cannons out there writing psychedelic hullabaloo and then linking to their facebook profiles that say, Exectuive Assistant to the President at Hayly Amelia Productions. That would suck. And then I’d be remorseful that I was signing their check, and that by signing their check I was actually paying them my money. I think all family and employers should be banned from my social media life. Because sometimes I eat mushrooms and wander around museums, and that’s just me being me.
This morning it struck me that feeling sad and terrified and lonely, and reminiscing about the loss of someone that you can never get back—for whatever reason— is the emotional equivalent of gluttony. Letting sadness wash over you as you think about what you miss about someone is like eating an entire pint of Ben & Jerry’s by yourself. It feels good—but it is terrible for you. It makes you fixate, it keeps you in the past, and it distracts from now. So when you feel that way, walk away. When the idea of indulging in a hundred tears seems like the only thing that will make it all okay, just say no.
Pick up a book, or a project, or a skateboard. Get free, and get down to investing in you instead of indulging a loss.
No gluten, no dairy, not much sugar. There’s about half an hour of prep to this, but you can make a nice big 4-portion batch to last you the week, all at once. Enjoy.
-Quinoa cooked (1-to-2 quinoa to water ratio, bring to boil, reduce heat, cover with lid until water is visibly gone)
-Sweet Potato, cut in dime-sized wedges, sauteed in Red Palm Oil
-Andouille Chicken Sausage (cut into coins, thrown into cook at the end of the sweet potato sauteing process)
-Green Beans; fresh, blanched 1-inch long pieces
(blanching means throwing them in boiling water for 45 seconds, until
bright green, then taking from heat, draining, and plunging into ice
water until cool. They’ll have a nice crunch this way.)
-Chunked green apple (wedges the size of a button)
-Arugula (thrown in when everything is warm to wilt it a bit)
Juice of a lemon
1 T Maple Syrup
1 T Olive Oil
Cracked Pepper to taste (put in an old jam jar and shake it up with the lid screwed on, oh so tightly)
Toss dressing over desired constitution of aforementioned dry ingredients. The sweetness of the sweet potatoes and dressing is a nice contrast to the peppery sausage and arugula, and the walnuts, green beans, and Granny Smith apple give it crunch and bite.
**I think it’s nice with a little glass of cold, cold Sancerre, and a cantaloupe salad for dessert.
I’m a huge fan of this song….
And with the addition of the little known, recently discovered fact—that this song was originally written for @badgalriri--and the juicy implications of that little factoid, I can’t help but listen to it in a 4th dimension; that dimension where Rihanna owns this: the arguable “Song of Summer.”
The slightly disconcerting effect of listening to this song as is—is that it actually sounds in many parts like it could be Rihanna, but with an equally intangible but ever pervasive Miley attitude. AND I CAN’T DECIDE WHOSE ATTITUDE WILL WIN IN THE SEXY POP DIVA FIGHT TO THE DEATH.
The digital sign off: Sincerely. Best. humbly. Cheers. Cordially. Kind Regards.
Long a talisman of droll corporate types and pantsuit-clad realtors, it’s a signal that essentially encapsulates the entire tenor of an email, generally signifying submission and a search for approval from the intended recipient. If you are worried about wrapping up an email thusly, then you are most definitely kissing some bland Midwestern ass, and may suffer a lack of faith in your hierarchical usefulness.
So what did we Angelenos do to tell the world that we’re different? How did we decide we’d ease out of our obligatory emails to would-be collaborators, volunteer note-givers, and thrice-cancelled first dates? We borrowed from the Brits, from the poison bottles, from the love letters. After all: drugs, sex, and rock n roll is in our scatter plot DNA. We chose x.
"We’ll catch up for a drink sometime."
"Darling I can’t make it I’ll be in the studio."
Or my favorite:
"Something’s come up and I have to reschedule."
As terrible as it sounds (and it is terrible), I’ll never forget my love affair with x. From the moment I received my first brush off email from a painfully cool love interest, to the second I realized what x stood in for symbolically, it was a whirlwind. I felt like I’d been let in on a little secret of the rich kids. Does that make sense?
What I ultimately discovered on my ever evolving misunderstanding of Los Angeles culture was that x. is a power move. Like those sappy submissive sign offs of middle America, x. encapsulates the entire tenor of your email. It says, silently, THE CONTENTS OF THIS EMAIL ARE SUBJECT TO INSINUATED RESCISSION AT ANY TIME, GIVEN THE ALTERNATIVE IS A BIGGER, BETTER DEAL. Because naturally, x. is an extension of the BBD—a favorite credo of Angelenos. It says: I’m cooler than you, I’m cooler than most other people, and I prioritize chicness over reciprocity in my human correspondence.
Welcome to L.A. y’all.
I really love this song.
Partly because it’s a beautiful song about a love that’s unexpected, and mostly because it’s about knowing a person in a way that the world simply does not. That said, it also moves me because as a lifelong JM fan and unwavering advocate, I feel like Katy Perry’s lyrical testimony to his shine in the lines of this song is vindication for the tiny delusion I’ve always harbored; that I actually knew just what type of guy he was all along.
(Daniella, Meredith, and Nicole: see, I wasn’t crazy.)
I’ve thought this for months now, but let me now go on record and say I believe he’s finally going to settle down, and marry Katy. That’s my silly little prediction for 2013.
Good vibin’, y’all. xo.
“What’s your greatest struggle right now?”
“Building a fence in my back yard.”
“I’m serious. I married my best friend, I live on the Atlantic Ocean, I’ve played music my entire life. But this fence is giving me trouble!”
Someone’s finally got it right.
Feeling so creative that I can’t even get up to turn the lamplight on. Though on second thought, the twinkle lights with the lamp on lowest setting seems warm and sublime. I wonder how I got so lucky to control my life as such. Electricity, friendship, and fresh vegetables—what more could a cephalopod girl ask for?
I was ruminating on escape earlier today. Whether it’s in the face of natural disaster, or the more plausible personal crisis, the tools necessary to do so seem quite exotic to my mind. Take the latter situation for example, and keep in mind that as a Year of the Rabbit baby, I’m wont for luxury.
I picture a car whose prowess is such that rapid acceleration and rail-like handling make the closest approximation of disappearance possible. I picture a passport with false credentials, and a supple leather vintage briefcase filled with cash. I picture a really nice wig; shiny black hair and a playful yet reserved style. Definitely one of those prosthetic noses, and a compound in the hills of Mexico City, waiting with a key under the mat.
Disappearing is hard work.
So I’ll work for that, but today, I was thinking about a much more feasible escape. Was wondering what stone I’ve yet to upturn in this city and it’s surrounding enclaves. Wondering where I could go and sit and bring a journal and feel that simultaneously free and heavy feeling where your thoughts are clear and concrete and of such quality that as you think them your mind scabs over with the lesson they are teaching you and slowly you take another heaving step forward in the path to enlightenment.
I needed a “yelp” for introspection. Though I must point out and feel joy in the fact that such a terror doesn’t quite exist; for that is the beauty of arriving at such a spot, it’s a melange of inexplicable forces that bring you into those exact coordinates, and it’s hard to do and difficult to find, but once you’re there, you’re not merely sitting on a park bench, or in a vivacious garden, or on the shores of the Pacific, you’re powerfully rooted to infinite possibility, if only you will be receptive to the coordinates the universe is plotting for you.
Car shopping when you could be writing. Snooping when you could be reading. Drinking when you could be learning. The vices of youth and indecision.
Of course you’ve had one of those days like mine today. When the shoes of the negative eclipse the footprints of the positive. When your answer to “but what about that awesome __________?” is :((((((((.
Worries and doubts squash the lovely cosmic energy that normally radiates out of you in waves of “Yes please, more, thank you.” Fatigue or exhaustion, premonition or dismay, there’s a reason for it and you don’t really care what it is.
So here I am, at my fortnight’s rock bottom, redeeming myself by planning monthly expenses, investment opportunities, and travel. Hoping to start the rolling stone (which will gather no moss) again towards positivity and radiance.
And I’m not going to go deeply into this, because I’m not going to sound like a drama queen, but being skinny really does make everything easier. See, I shouldn’t have even said anything. Even the way it reads is dastardly. But it’s true. And when you don’t feel that way because you’ve been having the time of your life drinking expensive wine and some cheap wine, and creamy rich cheeses and breads of warmth and crustiness and staying out until all hours of the night but then you realize your pants are starting to fit just a bit tighter and your arm flaps just ever so slightly more in the wind, then you forget about the tannic love letter of the wine and the sweet saltiness of the cheese and the cool spring breeze of the night and you wonder why everything in life has to be so hard because all you want is happiness and joy but it’s elusive damnit, it’s elusive.
lovely convenient how modern technologies allow you to so cautiously detail a temper tantrum.
Usually this is where I’d come to a somewhat sloppily wrapped but heartily intentioned moral of the story, as all great writers do, but as someone once told me, I’m a better restaurateur.
So peace out party people and don’t catch a case of the Mondays.