I disappeared a few weeks back for reasons you'll read below - worry not, they were more pina colada-flavored than medically related - but my leave of absence wasn't intended to be a long-form sorta thing. Truth is, I had reasons for being preoccupied with other gigs, happenings, people and places, and just kind of put reporting nuances of my daily life on the back burner.
Only problem is, those weeks and weeks of keeping things quiet is starting to translate itself in me taking up permanent residence in Schpilke-town*. So, I'm here, and I have way, way, way, way too much stuff to share. My tiny updates - like how I pooped an entire kelp noodle?!?!?!??!??!?? - is on Twitter, because that's where that shit belongs (heh), but it was time to bust a move and break down exactly what's been happenin'.
Long story short: ife is completely different than it was a few weeks back. The only things that have stayed the same are my place of residence, the face I'm lucky enough to wake up to every morning and my pants still — still — not fitting.) I have weird new hobbies? And employers? And clothing? It's like that one chapter of The Secret I read fourteen months ago finally kicked in, and I'm not quite exactly sure how.
Be warned: this is the most glamorous my life will ever look, because choosing pictures delicately in long-term albums allows me to omit every time I had a panic attack for running late. Though that might actually be a fun future post.
Anyway, on with it. Get ready for a load of shit. (Well…you know what I mean.)
My boyfriend and I went on a secret vacation. No, it was not a sex retreat nor a nude beach nor a yoga festival, just a regular vacation in a warm place of which the details we kept to mostly ourselves. We unplugged massively, and I enjoyed not telling people every time my toes touched the end of a lounge chair so much that the social media lockdown actually caused this long-term blogabsence. But, I can't keep everything about jetting off for a weekend away from you guys, so that blob up there is a fresh mango, picked from the ground, on a random i-wish-i-went-more-than-once trip 'round the hotel's mini farm. Also not pictured: jungle biking. Harrowing, scary, but ultimately more rewarding than having Charlee yell at you to push to the top of the mountain in the dark cavernous room at ye olde SoulCycle.
Oh yeah, I'm a stand-up comedian now. I know. Remember that secret class I referenced way back when? Well, I intended to take it to learn how to formulate humorous writing (since my background is actually writing obituaries and news stories for newspapers - thanks college!), and I wound up on a stage seven weeks later, mic in hand, opening for Todd Barry. Whack, right? I'm keeping it on the DL for now until I have a solid ten minute set (ok ok, but really until I get better at memorizing things 'cuz my brain is mush), but let's just say any sort of awkwardness I had about groups of people staring at me all at once (a great fear) is gone, and I'm stoked about it. Current topics I'm testing out: television, exercise, how life sucks for ladies. Up next: tampons, and pooping kelp noodles. (I know, I said i was done with it, but that's how hard i'm trying to get my act together. Being a female is never-endingly rough.)
Oh right, and just before I went on, a bird shat on my favorite dress. That I had just taken out of a dry cleaners back. Luck be a lady and that lady be me!
Oh yeah, SNL! Twice! This is truly the only time I will ever say anything along the lines of "life is a gift", but I have no idea how I've been so lucky to meet my favorite business-expert-slash-party-person on earth and swing through those studio halls together so often that I know my way around. I know, and i cherish it so much for being nothing short of a miracle. There's really nothing to say, besides everything. And nothing. Round one was for Of Monsters And Men's show, which was impeccable (who plays well on SNL?! those Icelandics are gems), and the second was the season finale, where we stayed more tame than usual, save for that one weird conversation with Lorne Michaels. Top moments: Dancing in the rain to The Killers next to Seth Meyers and a canoodling Kanye and Kim (!), seeing my childhood love Owen Wilson in the hot white flesh broing down with a circle of comedic geniuses, bumping into my adult ladylove Sierra and being able to bro down in the middle of a celebrity circus, and discovering a secret late-night snack bar of tater tots and chicken fingers. (Obviously, that was tops.)
Low moments: Filling my jacket pockets with cookies so I had a reason to dilly-dally around the dessert table while accosting John Mulaney, then leaving them in there for a full month and having to pay $23.67 link to have a dry cleaner remove the grease stains.
Oh yeah, Refinery29's 30 Under 30! I wasn't a nominee, no no no, but I did write a whole slew of 'em, and this pastel-tinged beauty going live a couple weeks back really felt like I had a virtual baby. And Refinery29's editors were my co-parents. Or something like that. Some really interesting, under-the-radar people are nominated this year — they did an incredible job with casting, so it's a million lightyears from 30 Harley Viera-Newton clones — and it's worth parsing through, trust.
Oh yeah, MoMA Rain Room! I refuse to wait in lines - which is why I wrote this with a full bladder and a pending bowel movement on the LIRR and will wait for another hour like this - but my best pal Alex was in town, and it seemed like it was worth a shot. Sure, the irony of waiting in potential rain for a room filled with rain is weird, but it was quite interesting. I was really, incredibly impressed. With my line stamina, that is. The whole Moses-parting-the-sea-of-museum-water thing was cool too.
My incredible friend Brittany Asch, florist extraordinaire, who I post about all the time, brought me a bouquet when we had lunch recently and it made my week, I shit you not. I didn't even know nature was capable of shit like this. Mind blown.
Oh yeah, Hurricane Governor's Island! (I'm fairly certain that's a picture of Young The Giant performing. Fairly certain.)
My boyfriend told me no less than four times not to come, which I obviously took as a plum opportunity to prove him wrong. Ends up, oh holy god was he right, since the world legitimately exploded from every direction like those showers in fancy resorts you have to cover your nippies in. We spent the rest of the evening glass-eyed and poor company, having been emotionally raped by the weather and suffering from temporary PTSD. I shit you not, it felt like we were in a documentary about a festival disaster that thank the lord didn't happen. I didn't get to sneak into a Followill's dressing room, but, there was an Organic Avenue tent backstage with free thimbles of coconut water, and I easily drank a gold mine worth of their grapefruit jooze and whiskey. It was great, despite the whole tent getting knocked over thing.
Oh, and for the record:
Not bikini weather.
Oh yeah, I had a birthday! Another day closer to death, I always say. My loved ones knocked it out of the fucking park when it came to gifts this year — which, since I'm not divulging the embarrassingly indulgent restaurant I ate at, will be my sole presentation of becoming an old hag. Ya know that tiny bean necklace at Tiffany that one cool girl got for junior high grad instead of the heart bracelet? My mom had this vintage version of it, that's fixed and fucking gigantic. I've wanted it forever ever ever ey ey ey, and now that I'm a "woman" or something, my mom up and SURPRISED ME with it. Oh, and my brosef sent me bacon spread, BiRite cookbook and my favorite favorite favorite Punch Brothers song on vinyl, and I woke up from a nap to those jammin' P. Love jewels above from the man who puts up with my daily shit. All in all, pretty great.
No need to dive into the $$$ I spent on new makeup at Saks because it was my vagina-exiting anniversary. No need! No neeeed, but carrying three gigantic bags through Midtown Manhattan is a bit of a massive Treat Yo Self moment I don't plan on forgetting anytime soon.
I gots me a real job! Goodbye, life of threadbare Juicy terrycloth pants as a work uniform, hello, constantly being late to an office. And — surprise — I just got back from two weeks in London absorbing all the brilliance at company HQ. Stay tuned for updates on just how much food I ate, prawn-flavored chips I brought back and why breaking the bank on a food-themed manicure was the wisest decision I've made in a while.
(And trust - this time? I actually will be updatin'.)
*(Shpilkes, v., "when one's self cannot fucking contain the ants in their pants)