New Year’s Vision Bored

I’m not a huge “Secret” person or anything, but I guess I should at least TRY to begin the new year with good juju — making literal room for a man in my bed so maybe I’ll create figurative room for one in my head.

At least the laundry’s clean?

Happy new year, all!

Weight Loss, Crypt Keeper, Trainwreck, Lipstick, and “La-di-da”

A while back I asked y’all to come kick me if I didn’t lose some weight, because my clothes didn’t fit anymore and I hate shopping.

Turns out all I needed was a (prescription) drug that fucks up my appetite and makes me so thirsty I drink tons of water and always feel full, plus family, friend, and boy issues. I’m running on bananas, almonds, and kettle chips because that’s all my body is accepting.

I feel like hell, I get wobbly, and my face looks like The Crypt Keeper, but I lost 5 lbs in one spectacular shitshow of a week.

I spent most of the past 2 days in bed (took a sick day yesterday), but eventually getting up, cleaning my house, then cleaning ME. It’s remarkable how an irresponsibly hot shower and clean sheets can improve your outlook. (Plus watching “Trainwreck” again.)

I am going to be fine.

We’re good, now, right, Brain? My family is still fucked, but you’ll let me pine for just the ONE guy (the one who’s actually worth even a passing thought)? And my friends are OK? And we’ll be more mindful of eating at least enough that standing isn’t so challenging and daylight doesn’t hurt our eyes?

Right, then. Onward. Lipstick. Sushi. Power song!

Instant bravery: just add beer. 

I haven’t been buying things unless I absolutely had to, because I was going to be moving, so the less stuff I had to pack, the better.

Except I ran out of alcohol.

This would be fine ordinarily, but I’m down to the last bits of packing, which means I have to confront the Boyfriend Box — a bunch of relationship remnants I’ve had tucked away, out of sight and mind in the closet, for more than 2 years. Like everything else in the apartment, I’m going to go through it and see what needs to be kept/tossed/donated. 

So I picked up a six-pack of Dogfish Head Namaste beer. For, um, inner peace. Yes. 

Bonus: I won’t have to pack the beer if I drink it all. But worst case, I move a few bottles to the new place.

Namaste, a quiet night at home, and all of Fiona Apple’s albums on shuffle. 

Let’s dance, feelings. I ain’t scared.

The Life-Changing Magic of Shutting the Hell Up

The other day I finished reading that super-trendy “tidying” book. (The book is insufferable, but I like the overall concept.) I came across this passage, and will try to bear it in mind when I start making the big “stuff” decisions:

“If you are keeping [things] because you can’t forget a former boyfriend, it’s better to discard or donate them. Hanging on to them makes it more likely you will miss opportunities for new relationships. It is not our memories, but the person we have become because of those past experiences, that we should treasure. The space in which we live should be for the person we are becoming now, not for the person we were in the past.”
— Marie Kondo, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up 

I’m still not talking to my socks, though. Sorry, lady. (Not a joke — she wants me to thank my socks for their service. Out loud. I’ll pass.)


I’ve spent the past few months paring down my possessions, making sure I know, love, or use everything I have. (“All the right junk in all the right places.”)

I don’t care about a lot of THINGS anymore. I’m not sure if that’s age, or moving so frequently, or seeing people drift into and out of my life. Maybe all those aspects just came together, but it’s been a lot easier to stop holding on to stuff. (Plus, some stuff just has bad juju on it.)

When it comes to ex-stuff, I understand it’s time (likely long past) to at least START dealing with it. I’m not talking about those random interlopers I tried dating; that stuff is long gone. But the Big Ex is another story. There’s a box of stuff I’m not ready to go through yet, and I probably won’t even try until I’m done with everything else. 

But obviously when you spend that much time with someone, it can’t all be contained in one box and buried in the back of a closet, so I keep finding remnants of the relationship among other things. It’s sort of insignificant stuff like CDs, t-shirts from vacations “we” took. And I know I CAN let these things go. I’ll never use them, so they’re getting thrown out or donated. Someone else can enjoy them, or throwing things out is healthier than being reminded of him every time I pick up a “Boston”-emblazoned pen he brought me from a work trip.

But goddamn, it’s still daunting. Happily, there is wine, and clearly that needs to be decluttered as well. So cheers, y’all.

The PistachiNO Ice Cream Hypothesis

Some of you might remember, when I was “dating” Old Young Man, that I’m such a girlfriend by nature I bought a pint of his favorite ice cream and put it in my freezer, so after he had sufficiently pleasured me, he could have snacks. (Ice cream: the glutton’s gold star!)

Except that was 6 months ago, and we “broke up” when I realized yet again that I am damaged and unlovable. (Ahem. Or that we didn’t have anything in common, even sexually.)

Anyway. I’m cleaning my kitchen, and I noticed the ice cream in the back of the freezer. While it pains me to throw it out (Ben & Jerry’s, bitches — only the finest for my concubines!), it’s been 6 months. So there’ve been six menstrual cycles and countless feelings-eating days, and not once have I been desperate enough to eat this ice cream. (Maybe pistachio ice cream is my rock bottom?) Also, not one person who’s been in my apartment since Christmas has wanted this ice cream. You know why? Because fucking terrible people eat pistachio. I will use it as a future boyfriend barometer.*

PistachiNO, people.

*It’s a joke. Don’t ruin it.