I blame my bleak and very unpromising coing skills on Thanksgiving, you know. You’d think I would have gotten better from helping my mom prepare such a yearly feast for me, her and my dad. (Mashed potatoes were my sworn duty. Probably because they’re mashed, requiring heavy amounts of manual mashing child labor. Not to be confused with child mashing labor.) But since my dad to it upon himself to be all Pennsylvania and go and shoot the turkey himself,
Where’s Your God Damn Pineapple?
There’s always a reason why you shouldn’t. Shouldn’t spend the money. Shouldn’t be so frivolous. Shouldn’t miss work. Shouldn’t be irresponsible. Shouldn’t act so hastily. And a million other reasons why you shouldn’t do what you’ve been wanting to do. The real question, of course, isn’t whether you should or you shouldn’t. Because when it comes to something you deeply, ferociously want–shouldn’t doesn’t exist. The real question is: How? This past weekend, one of my dearest, bestest, I’ll-distract-the-waiter-while-you-shove-the-bread-in-your-purse friends decided
I Need Help. (Not That Kind of Help, Jerk.)
In preparation for my upcoming trip to Costa Rica, Panama & Colombia, I spent $258.92 at Zara Chile yesterday. I walked out with three new pairs of daisy dukes that I will inevitably think lo better on me than they actually do, as well as a ripped up white-washed jean skirt, and a top or two. (Hey–if you’ve ever been to Central America, you know that YOU CAN’T WEAR PANTS. YOU JUST CAN’T. It’s a no-pants zone, folks.) But despite
How to Be a Human.
I sat in a plaza yesterday, behind La Moneda–Chile’s version of The White House. Diagonal paths come from all directions and meet up in the center, before darting off in opposite directions. People walk gruffly, generally ignoring one another–cell phones, busy faces, stern los, fast paces. And just like in plazas everyday across the world… …And that would be the way I would begin the story if I were poetic and fluffy and really liked cliches and other happy horseshit.
Calling Bullshit: The More You Fear Something, The More You Should Do It. Who Came Up With This Garbage?
I’m a pretty laid back gal. One time, Steve Patterson spit in my face in the 9th grade, and even then I wasn’t overly upset about it. (Come to think of it, what the hell?) But, like any human being, I have buttons. The most obvious is clearly when anyone mixes up “affect” and “effect,” because, you know, ONE’S A VERB AND ONE’S A NOUN. Another thing? This whole “I’ll shoot you an e” trend. No no no, actually, you’re
What To Do When You Hate Your Life: An Interview I Gave: Featuring My Man Voice
Hi, it’s me. I’m drinking wine. (Shooocccckkkkeeeer!) I’m also listening to my sweet, sweet man voice in an interview I recently gave that addresses that big, fucking looming question we’re all wandering around asking ourselves: Is this it? What do you do when that question pops up? What do you do when it’s not what it’s cracked up to be? What do you do when you feel like a big, naked butthead of an orangutan? (Officially the only place on
Time Doesn’t “Get Away From You.” Your Dignity Does. BE SOMEBODY, DAMMIT.
Can we talk about the fact that I dislocated my thumb this weekend while trying to pull up my pantyhose? Who does that happen to? Surely Princess Di never had these types of problems. But me, certainly, and I’ll tell you why: Because those pantyhose were way too fucking small for that thing I got back there called an ass. Pair some stubborn pantyhose with an even stubborn wearer, and you’re bound for injury. Despite saggy pantyhoe syndrome (you
Are You Going To Be Someone Who Does? Or Doesn’t? (Warning: Contains Least Amount of Swear Words Ever Written On TMF)
It’s 5am. I’m checking out of my hotel in Buenos Aires, and I’m hoping the $80 eye cream I bought is ACTUALLY HELPING ME NOT LOOK LIKE I JUST CRAWLED OUT FROM UNDER A MOSSY, EARTH-STENCHING, FUNGI-COVERED ROCK. Mostly because I knew Andrés would be checking me out–hopefully in ways than one. Andrés isn’t actually his name, as far as I know, but I’ve secretly dubbed him that because I imagine that if he were on a soap opera, THAT WOULD BE HIS
Are They Telling You You’re Crazy?
My best friend since the first grade (a brilliant graphic designer) just surprised me with this ever-so-cool poster, out of a post I recently wrote titled, “Battle Cry of the Crazies: For Anyone Hustling For More.” Had to share. And now, it’s Tuesday afternoon. I have a meeting with Miss Lit Agent (big plans coming up with the memoir–to be shared soon!), and I’m drinking champagne at the moment (which is the best idea I’ve had in a while.) Tonight
Do Everything. Apologize For Nothing.
Wear every strand of pearls you own. Put on your brightest red lipstick. Have fun than everybody else. And make no apologies for any of it.
Worried You’ll Suck?
Don’t defy the odds. Manslaughter ’em.
Be Selective With Your Energy. In Fact, Be Downright Arrogant.
I’ve stopped checking my es every day. Before that, I shut down my Behind Closed Doors program. And this past Saturday night out with the girls? I drank…sparkling water. Yet, I can confidently confirm that I am not pregnant, suicidal, dying of cancer (at the moment, anyway) or just having such great sex that I can’t be bothered. (Again, at the moment.) So why the drastic changes? Well for one… …vodka was making my neck appear larger in real life–not
Stay Foolish. Stay Wise. Have CONFIDENCE.
Rules–particularly the dogmatic variety–are most useful for those who aren’t confident enough to make their own damn decisions. For the rest of us, there’s vodka–so we can cope with the decisions we were foolishly wise enough to make. So help us, Grey Goose. Amen. -Excerpt from my forthcoming bo, The Middle Finger Project You didn’t think I forgot about my 2012 resolution, did you?
Would We Have Known These Were The Best Moments of Our Lives?
“She’s so proud of your traveling. She wants you to live the life she was afraid to live, but always wanted. You were always her greatest work of art.” Those were the words she said to me. She was my mom’s friend back in the moments of white Mustang convertibles, flirty bell bottoms, heart-filled hopes and dreams laced with determination. At a time when my mother, a free-spirited artist and renaissance soul, first began to lose who she was. At a
A Tearful Birthday
Yesterday was my birthday. I flew from Ecuador to Chile on Friday so I could spend my birthday with my best girl friends in the whole wide world. Sure enough, they surprised me in the airport with glittery welcome back posters, prompting me to scream like a hyena. I had no idea they were coming. Champagne followed in the taxi, of course, but then I, however, had a surprise for them: I had hired one of Santiago’s most talented hair
The World’s Most Unscholarly Summary of Quito, Ecuador, Ever. (Oh, and Photos.)
Like: Cobblestone Dislike: Heels + hot coffee + cobblestone (oops) – Like: Free wifi in every plaza Dislike: Thinking I should work in cafes in every plaza, and then getting hopelessly distracted by shirtless soccer players on TV (oops again) – Like: The equator Dislike: Forgetting the bottle of wine to drink ON THE EQUATOR – Like: Kissing Dislike: Kissing Ecuadorian men I, ahem, shouldn’t – Like: Safety Dislike: Car alarms that make me want to hurl myself out a
YOU F*cking Press Two! Or, 26 Reasons Humans Are Doomed.
26 Reasons Humans Are Doomed: Pet Peeve Edition Those heathens who stand on the left side of the escalator. What are we, savages? What the fuck is airplane mode? Socially illiterate jack offs who don’t pick up on the verbal cue that I WANT TO GET OFF THE PHONE. Unauthorized double dippers. Forms that make you fill out personal information than when running for President. Speaking of which: All passwords must end in the letter J, contain at least
On My Red Hot, Sinfully Sexy Affair.
I’m currently gnawing on a big, squishy, ripe red tomato. Right now. As I type this. I’m forking salty chunks into my mouth as I hope (but not pray–I’m pretty bad at that) that tomato seed juice doesn’t dribble all over my keyboard. Before my current lusty, red hot tomato affair, I was getting a massage. I we up at 5am to write, like I do every day, worked all morning until 2pm, and then showed up at a
Evidence I Shouldn’t Be Allowed to Have a Blog (Also: Calling All Aspiring Copywriters + Wordsmith Sexpots)
I like lists. Don’t you like lists? I mean, who doesn’t need a good list in their lives? That said, in the name of honoring their holier-than-thou nature, today is officially list day on TMFproject. Dun dun dun DUN! Sound the alarm! Cue the horns! Signal the ponies! There’s really just one problem with list day, however, which I quickly discovered when I sat down, coffee in hand, to write aforementioned (and highly academic) list: What to list? A troublesome
Fuck Shit Balls I Didn’t Finish Those Edits, Yet. And Other Stuff That Doesn’t Matter. (In Memory of Enrique.)
So I’m not sure what you did yesterday, but I, for one, witnessed somebody drown. You’re probably thinking I’m jing, because who mentions something like drowning so nonchalantly? But I am not, unfortunately, jing. And while I’m calm now, yesterday I was anything but. It was sunset, and I was with my Costa Rican girlfriends at a rustic beach front restaurant, slurping margaritas. They had coconut flakes. It was ightful. Here is an extremely blurry, non-professional photo I snapped with
An Open-Handed Slap On The Ass
Darling – I just wanted to send out a dirty little note telling you that YOUR WORK IS HOT. YOU ARE HOT. AND YOUR LIFE IS ABOUT TO GET HOTTER. Blind faith is sexy. Get some. BE SOMEBODY. Love and a Tuesday slap on the ass, Ash
Need a Quick Laugh? Here You Go. (Open Me, Jerk!)
Before I explain the origins of this remarkable photo, I’m pretty sure we should think up some awesome captions together. I’ll go first. Anything but Donkey Kong! Too many boobs! Stop tickling me, Rudolph! Father Time eats his first pot brownie. Protesting razors since 1000 B.C. Don’t ask me why I have the need to torture us all with this kind of stuff. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the 5th grade, when Mr. Martin, the guidance
Potty Mouth Ambirge Strikes Again: Reporting Live From Costa Rica, Hot Poker In Hand.
So this past week, I to a motherfucking vacation. And do you know what? I’m going to take vacations all the time! It’s been decided! Vacations are just way too great to not take! Why aren’t people vacationing all the time? I hereby declare every last week of the month vacation week. Not only do you get to drink (obnoxious amounts of ) fruity umbrella drinks without an ounce of guilt, you also get to do cool things like burn
How to Lose Your Dignity in 10 Minutes Flat.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Costa Rica, but contrary to what you may think, one of the greatest things here is not the beach. Oh no. Definitely not. Nor is it the men. Or the fishing. Or the pineapple that I bragged about eating the other day. In reality, quite possibly the greatest thing about Costa Rica is–—bongo roll—-the shot. Contrary to what I know you assholes are thinking, I don’t mean “the shot” as in a
Why Moderation is for Losers.
Growing up, my dad’s favorite used to be, “Everything in moderation.” What a riot. One would assume that, after having those particular words-o-wisdom jack-hammered into my brain at least once per week, that I would have turned out, well, moderate. I’d think moderately, I’d travel moderately, I’d moderately, and I’d live moderately. And I definitely would have drank less tequila at the football house that one night in college. Ahem.– I’m not entirely sure at what point the
Blow Off Work Today. That’s An Order.
I’ve been thinking about joy lately. I don’t particularly care for the word; every word has its own personality, and the word joy seems to conjure up an image of an old lady with dentures and pearls. The word just feels outdated. Mothballesque, if you will. Nevertheless, the concept remains. It’s stuck in my mind ever since a One Night Stand client was telling me about her business, and commented that the reason that people (her clients) gain weight isn’t because
The Gap Between Intention + Success. Your Mission: Ride ‘Er Buck Wild
Relax. I’m not going to start this post with, “Happy Thanksgiving–turkeys and corn and pilgrims blah blah blah.” That would be far too predictable. I’m also not going to talk about giving thanks, either, because you and I both know you’re reading about that on every blog ever made today, and I certainly don’t want to be the one responsible for you blowing your brains out during a family holiday. Or ever, really. <insert the voice of the most annoying