So my mama is like, wayyyyyy Type A. Always has been. She’s a supermode perfectionist, planner, doer, attention to detail kind of girl. It’s really quite endearing. I wish I had these qualities for myself. I mean, okay, I’m a bit anal about neatness and organized drawers and color coded closets and logically arranged school notebooks, but that is the extent of my meticulousness. I can take a vacation and not plan a single activity and be completely happy. I can come home from work and do absolutely nothing with the pile of laundry that has been needing to be folded for 3 days, even though there are no pairs of clean socks in my underwear drawer. I can go to the grocery store with no idea of what I’m going to get. I’m okay with that stuff. Rest brings peace. No plans, no worries.
I realized the extent of my Mama’s OCD on a recent trip home to Louisiana to spend a little time with the ol’ fam. It was a chill visit with nothing much to do but hang around the house and fuck off. I was lounging on the sofa when I looked down and noticed these lists….. As I looked closer, I realized what the lists were detailing. Take a look.
Continue reading “Comedy Hour: My Mama is BONKERZ”
Here’s the thing. I don’t cook for myself. When you’re single and live alone, a girl will find any excuse to nix cooking off the to-do list. My excuse is I’m lazy, I love yogurt and granola and cereal and fruit with a passion (Yes, this is how I eat. It’s embarrassing), and I’d rather be doing other things besides cleaning the fucking kitchen (I will say here that I LOVE cleaning things–I find it therapeutic–but dishes annoy me to no end. And how does the kitchen get so messy even when you don’t go in there?! I’ll never understand)
Men bring something out in a woman. We southern women turn into this Nurture Goddess at the first sign of any masculine attention. It’s a phenomenon, really. Or it’s just pheromones/hormones/general lack of sexual activity playing mind/body control. That’s probably it. Anyhow, this past weekend I was lucky enough to have a visitor spend a few days with me during my birthday. The type of visitor that you want to feed well and impress with your Betty Crocker skillz and Good Housekeeping technique. A male visitor–insert “hubba hubba’s” and cheesy hearts and eggplant emojis* So I met this guy online. What better way to spend the first weekend of my 30’s than with a man I’ve never met in my mediocre apartment with two cats, multiple Spotify playlists, and….. other things?!?!?!?!? I don’t know if there is a better way, honestly. YOLO. Listen, ANY man who is willing to travel thousands of miles to spend time with you is deserving of a nice fucking breakfast. “Don’t screw this meal up, Bailey. You know how your eggs usually turn out. You’ve GOT this.” So anyway, preceding his arrival I made an elaborate (for me) breakfast menu for myself and this special guest.
Continue reading “I Cook For Men, Not for Me”
I have turned 30. The newness of life slowly wearing away and leaving smears of lethargy, achy bones, repetition, and a general apathetic disposition in its place. At least more so than in my past. I’ve always been a bubbly, excited about nothing, obnoxious laugher who can charm the pants off most any man (or woman–yes that happened, BUT a story for another day) and live easy without plan or worry or fear for tomorrow. When I get gifts for birthdays or Christmas, I get so excited I cry. Again, I’m a feeler. So this turn of events into disinterested, unenthused funk makes me confused. This isn’t me. How did I get here?
(No one explains the absurdity of life better than the one and only David Byrne, man) Continue reading “Year 30: We Can Do This”
How, might you ask, does one who is surviving paycheck to paycheck afford to get a meaningful Father’s Day present for the men in your life?? Fear not, for I have MASTERED the art of gift giving on a dime, y’all.
I’ve never had money. I take that back, I’ve always had some form of income. I’ve been a slave to the service industry or sales jobs, or commission based bullshit for my entire “career.” There’s never been lack of a flow of moolah. The problem lies in the amount of money I made, the habits I had, and the bills. Oh, the bills. First of all, when you work shit jobs like these, you just don’t make enough money. HOLLA POLITICIANS, HELP US LIVE ABOVE THE POVERTY LEVEL!
Secondly, drunks and drug addicts CANNOT save money. Not a thing. I used to work at this fine dining restaurant a few years back. The kind of restaurant where warm hand towels soaked in rose water had to be given to every guest, and a palate cleansing sorbet served before the main course. Shit was fancy. Tips were sufficient, for sure. Every night I stockpiled my earnings, changed out of my tuxedo shirt and bowtie in the backseat of my car, and drove straight to the pub where I proceeded to drink too much Rolling Rock and buy too many rounds of Jameson for “friends.” Usually people I didn’t even fucking know. I would wake up the next morning (every morning after a shift, to be exact—I want to be clear about my drinking habits. They owned me) with a few ones or maybe a 5 dollar bill here and there. Do you think a girl like that had money to buy her Daddy a fancy new golf club for Father’s Day? Fuck no. He got a phone call and well wishes.
Continue reading “Dad on a DIME”
When I was a little girl, my Mama always taught me that life could unfold however I dreamed. I could write, I could act, I could do comedy or become a fucking surgeon if I wanted. Early on I knew that life’s potential was a garden that needed to be nurtured and fed, and eventually beautiful buds of success would appear in bright colors. I would get multiple degrees from prestigious universities and marry a rich man, drive a Volvo, and have glowing golden-haired children with pink bows in their hair. I would exercise for fun (because that’s what rich, successful people do, right?), have a constant tan and perfect skin, and be able to travel the world with the never ending prosperity and high cotton-ness I would experience. Little did I know in those younger years how life would ultimately tar and feather my ass and drag me through 4 states until I was left broke and alone with a drinking problem and no direction whatsoever. Funny story, huh? Continue reading “For Starters”
Today I was flipping through Facebook reading all the same shit that’s there every day. I came across an article commemorating the 10 year anniversary of Regina Spektor’s release of the album Begin to Hope. I was flooded with memories of the time in my life when Regina changed everything for me. Continue reading “Begin to Hope”