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Because I live in a liberal bubble where everyone is respectful of one another, I rarely ever run into people who are blatantly rude af. I mean, occasionally, I let someone enter traffic with a hand gesture and they don’t wave back “thank you”, but that’s about the worst of it.

However, I live next to a retirement community (pictured below) and occasionally I get a sexist comment about my ability to parallel park and sometimes I see a few people standing outside who look generally miserable or lost.

But today, dear readers, I had the audacity to park in a designated parking area and this lady (also pictured below) who was walking her dog and forcing it to wear an embarrassingly out-of-season holiday sweater on a 60-degree day decided to totally. bug. out. on. me.

I saw her when I parked and was going to say that her dog was cute, not because it was, but because that’s the nice thing to do, and she got the first word in. She exclaimed, “You’re really going to park right there?”

I froze because as I mentioned, these situations are foreign to me. Thankfully, I was with a person equally as reasonable as myself who had my back on this one. Most of the dialogue was probably spoken by her cool-headed self as I stood watching it unfold in the through-fare. I was unable to comprehend what demon speak was frothing from this undesirable person.

“It’s a totally normal parking spot. We’re allowed to park here.”

“Oh, so you think it’s just okay to block the sidewalk”

“Well the entrance to the sidewalk is right there, and there’s plenty of space for people to walk by.”

“You think it’s legal to block the sidewalk?”

“I really don’t see the problem here but if it bothers you so much I can move my car.”

And then I walked towards my car to appease this spiteful war-god of a woman and then I realized, that I will not let shame win. NOT TODAY DEAR READERS. I shut my car door, didn’t move the car, and walked into my home where I took an angry, hot shower and then proceeded to talk shit about her on the internet.

In case any of you know my driving record, and are doubting the validity of my statement, I acquired this court sketch of the incident:

I hope that today if you are having a trying time, work customer service, or encounter a vengeful gypsy with a bone to pick, that you take a stand, not be afraid to speak up, and do not appease your oppressors. You park that car baby, and you walk away.

 

“You’re skin looks really nice.” 

“Thank you, I rub it with samples of very expensive oils and creams.”

“You look like you’ve lost weight.”

“Thank you, I appreciate the compliment because I have been working really hard, but also feel it contributes to my beliefs on beauty standards in society that trigger my body dysmorphia and negative self-esteem. “

“It seems like you really like your new job.”

“Yeah, I have a parking spot.”

“Do you want to try some of my snacks?” 

“No, thank you.”

“I like your blog” 

“I like writing it, but my grandparents always find access to it and then I feel deep shame.”

 

Dear Readers,

Getting older sucks ass. It does. It’s scary. You know when you see pictures of older people when they were young, and then you look at them now as just skin sacks of their former selves? Yeah, that is TERRIFYING TO ME.

I have logged a lot of hours trying to figure out how to not be a skin sack.

Shit, I’ve been wearing under-eye cream since I was 19.

Sometimes it’s nice to have the perspective that although one day my decollate might feel like a knock-off Coach bag, that at least I’m not dying my hair burgundy and spending my free time trying to learn the intro to Green Day’s Basket Case.

The best part about getting older is getting to be a better version of yourself because over time (if you really put the effort it) you can slowly, but surely learn to be less of an asshole. And boy, dear readers, was I an asshole. Sometimes to other people, definitely to my parents, but also a lot to myself. I’m still guilty of it sometimes, but I like to think that each year I get a little better at cracking the code.

Here’s a list of reasons why aging can be kinda cool:

1. Friendships

When you’re in your late 20’s you sort of weed out the bullshit people in your life. I once had a friend in elementary school that made me drink an ENTIRE GLASS OF HALF AND HALF.

2. Handling your shit (sort-of)

I go the gym. I cook and eat chicken that is shaped like chicken, not like a dinosaur. I throw my tights away when they rip. I am a woman.

3. Eating vegetables

Broccoli? Why not. Brussel Sprouts? Sure. I’ll throw spinach in my smoothie and not give A FUCK.

4. Being broke isn’t forever

Because you get paid again. Usually twice a week or once a month. You don’t have to hang on to your $20 that you got teaching your elderly neighbor how to check her email like it’s the last $20 you will ever have.

5. Doing what you want

I used to not be allowed to eat breakfast cereal after 10 a.m. I had to be home not at a specific time, but before the street lights turned on which accordingly to Google was at “dusk.” Whatever that means. Don’t get me wrong, I still have to pay bills, do a good job at work, be a respectful roommate and send my rent out on time. BUT if I want to stay up until 2 a.m. watching Youtube videos of soldiers reuniting with their dogs and cry myself to sleep then you bet your ass I’m going to do it. Because I can. And it’s adorable.

In conclusion, although I miss being a size 0 without even trying and bleaching my hair until it fell out in clumps, and I’m scared that one day I’ll wake up a gray slumpy skinned old lady and wonder where my life went, I’m thankful for the little freedoms and the ability to keep working to be the best version of myself.

XOXO,

Milky

 

 

I’m sitting in the living room with the oven on so that I can cook 2 chicken breasts and feel like I’ve done something with my life.

I’ve been sick. And before I was sick I was sad, and cold. My hibernating skills are on lock. I managed to accrue a new record of La Croix cans in my attic bedroom. 14.

I’m also sick of getting shit for liking the coconut flavor. If you think it tastes like suntan lotion there is clearly something wrong with your pallet.

I quit my former after work hobby so I could focus on what really makes me happy. The problem is,  I’m not quite sure what that is yet. I found that I enjoy both making a relaxing home and feeding myself and also being outside and having new experiences. As of late, I’ve had 0 motivation to do either. Hence the collection of water cans and why baking a single protein is the accomplishment of the week.

Is anyone else in a rut? When I daydream I picture myself the host of lavish dinner parties, wearing lipstick and playing thrifted records on my cheap generic Crosley while drinking fancy whiskey cocktails. Maybe with orange zest. That sounds right.

I imagine myself walking down popular well-lit areas of town, popping into shops and browsing as I please. Participating in the classes I pay for at the gym, sitting lake-side and reading a good book while proving to everyone I am capable of a tan.

I picture my life being full of experiences and memories. And right now. Well, it just feels empty. And it’s got me thinking that I must be doing this thing wrong.

So how does one get out of a rut and surround themselves with laughter and love instead of a mound of recycling and dirty/clean/maybe dirty clothes?

I’d like the blame a harsh Oregon winter for the majority of my problems. Perhaps my vitamin D is a little off. A tad more B-12 will do the trick. Maybe I spend too much money on flavored water and not enough on going to go see that new movie I’ve been wanting to go to. Maybe even though I just biked home from work in the pouring rain I should just man up and get my yoga pants on and go to that damn Pilates class already.

What is the artful balance of doing things? Enough to where you feel full but not so much that you are constantly too overwhelmed to do the dishes? Where you’re taking care of yourself but not to the point where you slam through a season of Top Chef in one night?

My funnest times used to be getting all my girlfriends to pile up on a patio, chain smoking flavored cigarettes and talking shit over a bottle of $5 Andre’s ultra-dry.

Now we’re all trying to be sober and healthy and vegan. (or some version of the three) but does that mean I have to sit here in flannel pants all night waiting for my oven to finally reach 425 degrees so I can have a chef salad for lunch tomorrow?

I say-eth no. And it is my new mission to figure out how to have fun while maintaining the integrity of my lungs and liver (or what’s left of them).

Stay tuned.

XOXO,

Milky

When you have anxiety, it never really feels like you have a rest day. Every free minute could be spent volunteering, or reading up on politics, or fucking doing jumping jacks.

My knee hates it when I run. Yesterday it swelled up to the size of a genetically modified orange. But I do it, because when I run, I’m incapable of thinking about anything else. Which is actually a really good thing.

If I have a day off I have to spend it cleaning the house, doing chores, exercising, meal prepping, counting calories. That’s right. Even the things I eat get calculated and thoroughly planned out and then logged into this little device that tells me whether i’m being “good” or not.

When you have anxiety, self-care goes out the window and it’s all about self-improvement. How can I be better? How can I possibly speed this process up a bit so I can get to the good part. Relaxing just isn’t really an option.

And I’m happy. I really am. And with myself too. I’m really proud of everything I’ve accomplished. The key is to fight the voice that’s always saying that I shouldn’t be. That says I’m not good enough, and that this life I live, shouldn’t be enough for me. The voice that tells me I have to wake up at 6 a.m. and get an hour work out in every day. The voice that tells me I’ll never make it in comedy. Etcetera, Etcetera, the list goes on.

So then, how you do you fuck it? How do you take the life-lemons and squeeze the shit out of them? How do you keep yourself from doing 500 jumping jacks at 6 a.m. and thoroughly pissing off your downstairs neighbor Deborah?

Well, dear readers, I don’t have it all sorted out yet. But I think it starts with realizing that you don’t have to do x, y, z, to get to the good part. That this is the good part. That wanting to be healthier and smarter and better is good, but so is watching cartoons and eating Dominos and drinking $4 red wine. You can do both. (but not at the same time. I’ve drunk wine while doing a Jillian Michaels workout DVD before and it did NOT end well).

Life is always going to be weird and hard and messy, so why make it tougher on yourself right? I know, I know. Easier said than done. But think about it terms that not everything has to happen right now. You can have a hand-tossed delivered pizza tonight and make a salad for tomorrow. (seriously, Dominos’ hand-tossed crust is the shit you guys.) If you’re tired and you just want to find a way to illegally download Jurassic Park, but you need to vacuum your room. Don’t vacuum your room. Watch dinosaurs. You can vacuum your room tomorrow, or never. Who even goes into your room?

What I’m getting at, dear readers is that it’s okay to cut yourself some slack. That self-care is even more important than self-improvement, and that can come in the form of meditation, a decent run, or pizza, but try and get a rest day in. Even if your anxiety tells  you don’t deserve one. Because you do. You are a beautiful wood nymph. Go watch T.V.

XOXO

The Weekday Hangover

 

I used to think that at some point, in college, I was a social person, and that as I grew older I became jaded about the world and that’s when I turned into a crotchety old woman who preferred needlepoint to house parties and has a strong difference to loud noises. But I think when I was in college, I was just drunk. Like. All the time. And when your constantly under the influence of Mike’s Hard Lemonade and outside chain smoking Camel No.9’s, your just numbing your inner self. Trying to force yourself to be in a situation to which you feel at your core, uncomfortable.

I didn’t meet the love of my life, make long-lasting friends, or even long-lasting memories at these parties I used to go to. I just stumbled around trying to represent a cool-looking person. I played beer pong, even though I hate beer, and always have. I took shots, and then proceeded to puke in my mouth, or sometimes on the floor, and even sometimes on my friends shoes. (Sorry Ashley). All the while I was convincing myself that this was what was supposed to be the time of my life. This is what everyone else was doing, so this is what I have to do. I peed outsite. A lot, you guys. Stumbling home, with my fake leather jacket and my knock-off Chanel bag. Then I would wake up looking like the crypt keeper, and order Dominos even though I knew, even though I didn’t want to accept it at the time, that gluten, and Dominos specifically, made me very, very ill.

The truth is, I was NEVER a “cool”, social person. My best memories involve 1-5 people, not 50. I like to make flower patterns out of yarn for fuck’s sake, not drink gin out of plastic cups. And let’s just get it out of the way. Gin tastes like PINE NEEDLES YOU GUYS. I don’t want to go to Vegas, or strip clubs, or even the bar down the street if it is a Friday and I know it’s going to be busier than normal. I just want to watch The Office for the 10th time and pet animals. I would rather feed a goat tiny goat pellets than listen to some guy hash out his past relationship while waiting in a bathroom line.

And I like SLEEP. You guys. Like, a lot of it. I would rather fuse my skin into my flannel long-johns and get a solid 10 hours in, than stay up until 2 a.m. waiting for an Uber and the delivery guy.

I think you catch my drift by now, but it’s just nice to be at the point in my life where I don’t have to feel bad about being authentic to myself. I don’t have to feel ashamed if I want to leave early so I can read a chapter of a self-help book before I go to bed, or if I don’t want to go at all because I want to watch The Breakfast Club for the 78th time and avoid underwire.

The point is, once you stop doing what you feel like you SHOULD do, and start doing what you really, deep down, want to do, it’s such a relief. And the people who get it, will get it. And the people who don’t will call you a flake, and anti-social, and whatever other things mean kids come up with these days, but that doesn’t mean you would have more fun if you were joining them. You’ll have the most fun doing whatever the fuck is fun for you. If that’s vomiting all over your friends and doing hard drugs than great! Do it up. But if that’s listening to NPR and petting barnyard animals than that’s okay too. You’re cool in my book.

XOXO,

Milky