Resolves to:


– stop using her driver’s side door well as an ashtray.

– resist the urge to eat blueberry muffins every day of the week.

– get back to the gym.

– continue enjoying turkey sandwiches with coleslaw and russian dressing.

– remove the two trash bags of empty Diet Coke cans from the trunk of her car.

– keep on keepin’ on.


@Kate Dixon, this one’s for you.


Back in the day, I used to visit my sister at college in DC. She’s five years younger than me, and we’re different as sunshine and rain. My college days involved Simpsons and Phish concerts, while hers involved… clubbing. And not the type of clubbing where people offer you little white pills.

It was quite common, on such evenings, for me to be the only legal drinker, and I would gamely swill vodka while fending off heavily-perfumed men. They all wore dress shirts, it seemed, and sweater vests, and medium wash jeans. They would appear out of nowhere, taking form on all sides, and coax you, in a heavily-accented voice, to dance with them.Β Now, number one, I’m not a great dancer, and, number two, I prefer to dance alone. So I grew quite adept at extricating myself from such would-be advances.

One night, at a bar called Hawk n’ Dove (“It’s a MARINE bar!” squealed my sister, as though this should be meaningful), I was approached by a large, heavily perfumed black man. He asked me if I’d dance.

“No thanks,” I replied, “I’m gay.”

“You WHAT?”

“Gay. Lesbian. Sorry!”

“You mean, you don’t like DICK?”

“Not really. No offense.”

He was so intrigued by the notion that a woman might actually NOT LIKE DICK that we wound up spending a good twenty minutes talking about it – much longer than I would have spent dancing with him. And then, in the end, he asked me if I’d like some cocaine. So maybe my sister’s ‘clubbing’ *was* the kind where people offered you drugs, after all.

Actually had this happen to her.


So I walk into the post office the other day, and the guy behind the counter makes a smoking motion. “You just had one?” He asks.

“Um, yeah,” I reply, a bit offput. I mean, seriously, I kind of just want to mail my package.

“You gotta get off of those, start going to the gym!”

“I do, actually,” (I do, really!) “Every morning,” (almost!)

He looks at me, perplexed. “You smoke cigarettes, AND you go to the gym?”

“Yup. Actually – you’ll think I’m bizarre – right after I leave the gym, I’m totally CRAVING a cigarette.”

This makes him laugh, so I continue.

“… and then I go to McDonald’s”

He’s doubled over, absolutely. I love telling stories to strangers.

“No, seriously though, I don’t go to McDonald’s,”

“Yes you do.”

“No, I don’t! I could, though, I mean, it’s right next door to my gym.”

And now we’re both laughing.

End scene.


Hates being reminded.


Although I’ve never had any cash to speak of, I’ve always been incredibly interested in finance. I had a subscription to Money magazine when I was making Burger King wages on my first doc job, and I aspire to one day put my knowledge of mutual funds to good solid use. With the start of my production company, I got even more religious about tracking spending and fell in love with! You’re totally free! You have unlimited categories! You generate your own reports! YOU ARE SO MUCH BETTER THAN QUICKEN!

At least, that’s what I thought. starts off easy, like a waltz. One-two-three, ONE-two three, one-two-three, ONE-two three, and you’re halfway across the dance floor when it accidentally steps on your dress. And, instead of apologizing, it tells you you’ve been charged an ATM fee of $2.00.

Next thing you know, it’s telling you all KINDS of crap you don’t want to hear at ALL kinds of inopportune times. Just after my computer dies is not the time to let me know that my credit card bill is overdue, and if I think I’ve been tightening my belt by not going out to dinner, please do NOT lecture me about how I’m overspending on groceries. It’s gotten kind of depressing over there at, really, and I’ve stopped coming around so much., you are on notice. I’m totally turning off push notifications.


An anecdote


Driving home from work today, I heard something behind me that sounded like a cross between a garbage disposal and a poorly-made hairdryer. The noise got louder and passed me on the left: a road-worn red Mustang piloted by the largest woman I’d ever seen. Her passenger was no less corpulent. As they pulled their way ahead, I noticed that the rear tire was a spare, and that the rear chassis of the sled was decorated with twee flower decals, chipped away from years of gravel.

Try as I might, I COULD NOT get away from this car. The whole commute, I was confronted with this monstrosity of a vehicle and its interminable, grating roar. Even so, I started to feel bad about being so judgemental. I mean, maybe they were happy, this pair, in their tank tops that remind me of a dollar store in Fargo. Maybe they were just joyriding down 1A at sunset, taking a break from their husbands and their kids, enjoying a smoke and some girl talk.

As I finally pulled by them on the left, I took one last look.

They were both eating double cheeseburgers.

There’s nothing bitchier than an eating-disordered girl who sees other people eating double cheeseburgers. A sick combination of jealousy and horror, marked with a hearty side helping of despair.


We still have some work to do, I guess.

%d bloggers like this: