Tag Archives: anecdotes

A Brief Open Letter to the Woman at the Dog Park

Is your name Starlight? Or maybe Rainbow-serenity? Let’s go with Starlight. I hope that’s okay, Starlight. When I was little I’m pretty sure I dreamed of your free-spirited ease of being and penned a song about you entitled, “Why can’t the world be free?” More than anything, I think the song scared my dad into fearing my future liberal political and social endeavors. I have a few confessions, Starlight, and since you’ve shared with me that you’re moving to “the new high rises downtown” I feel like it’s a good time to get them out in the open.

First, my fiance saw your boobs. I know! I know! Do you also feel a lot closer now? I do. I feel great getting this off my chest, (see what I did there?!?). He didn’t comment much about them which inevitably means they were impressive and I can see that, Starlight. Like, literally I can see the outline of your breasts because you’re never wearing a bra — the nipples too. And that’s okay! Bras are just a cagey nuisance of underwire and female suppression. And you know, if only all of us women could be so open as to share our boobs with the world via our patios maybe, just maybe we’d be a freer place.

I just found out this is called "African Style" and I'm left wondering... why does everyone hate Americans so much?

I just found out this is called “African Style” and I’m left wondering… why does everyone hate Americans so much?

When did you have your adorable baby, Starlight, and do you also think he has the head of Rob Reiner? Like, not in a bad way, he just has the biggest baby head I’ve ever seen. And this concerns me, as the level of shape your body is in would put Cosmopolitan’s “How to lose (insert area of body that any women has ever complained about)…” section out of business.  Is it because you are constantly carrying that nugget on your back using a tie-dyed sheet and a few overhand knots? Wait, did you secretly grow up in Laguna Beach, CA where your father taught you to sail and do things like tie knots properly? Now that I think of it, your red hair did not seem all that natural (because women born there can only be blonde. And rich. You know, because, Laguna Beach). Were you friends with LC? How about her and that Kohl’s deal, amiright? I’m sure you’re happy for her. Because, you know, karma and good vibes.

I have to admit that I’ve often thought about the nature of your family, like in the way that I could’ve sworn your baby daddy was a homosexual male. And it’s obviously none of my business, except for the times he yells “hi!” when I’m out on my balcony which is an obvious open invitation to examine your personal lives. It’s just, his hair is so perfectly unkempt and also that time I swore he was holding hands with a man. It’s confusing! Are you guys pulling an The Object of My Affection starring late 90s Jen Aniston and Paul Rudd? Because who wouldn’t want to raise her child with gay Paul Rudd? If so, no judgment here!

Because wouldn't we all marry gay Paul Rudd?

We’d all marry gay Paul Rudd.

Mostly, I just want you to know I’m thinking of you and how much you look like Jenny Lewis and how jealous that makes me. Oh, and I also wanted to know if all of your friends also look like a combination of the Lost Boys from Hook and members of an up-and-coming indie band or is that just you? And also sure, your baby is a pretty fucking loud crier (But still totz adorbz!).

Apparently, the Lost Boys may have actually formed an Indie band already...

Apparently, the Lost Boys may have actually formed an Indie band already…

Enjoy your new home in downtown Austin, Starlight! (Remind me again how you mysteriously make enough money to live in downtown Austin yet could pass for not having a shower in your home…)


Your nosey neighbors! xoxo

About that Time I Met Mindy Kaling

Did I wake up that morning thinking I’d meet her? No, I did not, but there was a chill in the air from the North and I was having a good hair day, so you could say there were some signs.

If you haven't watched clips of this play yet while then I actually don't want to hear from you...

If you haven’t watched clips of this play yet while then I actually don’t want to hear from you…

And of course I had imagined it the way I still imagine sitting front row at the off, off Broadway production of Matt and Ben (curse my high school self’s sense of social importance for preventing me from seeing this work of gold!.) I’d walk up to her majesty and pretend like we had met before. I could see it all now. I’d call her red jumper “bold” and she’d tell me she liked my new Zara coat — “classic yet current,” she’d say. Soon enough we’d be chatting about her time playing Ben Affleck, the writer’s room at The Office, and the struggle of being a woman in comedy.

Somebody would snap a picture of us assuming I was also a celebrity because of the comfortable and candid nature of our interaction. The picture would get retweeted endlessly by the like twelve followers I have till it inevitably ends up on Perez with the caption “Mindy and her new bestie, Aly, a writer currently living in Austin” and then he’d say something cheeky like, “watch out Mindy, that new bestie has some serious styleZz” or “this girl gives writers a GOOD-LOOKING name.” Seriously, I could be like Karlie Kloss to Taylor Swift, except for the whole me not being a supermodel thing.

Chic, right? Right?!?!

Chic, right? Right?!?!

The day it happened as I said, I was wearing my new Zara coat because I recently decided Zara was super chic and also so it wasn’t obvious that I was not in possession of a festival badge. (SXSW Hierarchy breakdown: badges get you in to everything, wristbands get you into almost everything, having neither gets you in a line for three hours to see some random indie band from fifty yards away.)

So as I approached the Austin Convention center with Matti, badgeless save for the press badge I consistently imagine myself wearing, I readied myself. Sure, even existing in the same building as Mindy Kaling was enough to brag about for days but I needed to actually see her, breathe in her full-bodied, female talent or whatever. When we entered the building it was clear that security was ready for me — every possible entrance to upstairs, (or heaven as I came to see it) was guarded by some volunteer who’s only job was to shame people without badges into not asking if they could go upstairs. I eyed my target by the elevator, an innocent looking young man who reminded me of the skinny Conor Oberst fans I used to make fall in love with me in middle school — so, I had this in the bag.

“How do I get upstairs?” I asked the the fifteen-year old guarding the elevator.

“Probably by using that elevator.” Well, that was easy.

I liked his style, direct, to the point. As I hopped on to the elevator, Matti was caught by the Connor Obersty looking temple guard as he exclaimed, “Badges, only, people, badges only!” Apparently, the boy had turned in to an angry Newsie after I entered the elevator.

I felt unjustifiably avenged as I rode the elevator to my ultimate destiny while Matti was left behind in the figurative dust. “Female comics unite!” I repeated over and over under my breath like my own personal Captain Planet mantra.

The older, badge-holding woman standing next to me in the elevator chimed in, “he’s not going to get up here without a badge.” and then as the statement left her lips lined with a magenta pencil, she started to look me up and down, “wait do you even have a badge?”

“YOU WILL NOT RUIN THIS FOR ME,” I loud whispered at her as we exited the elevator.

The closest I got to Perez Hilton stardom was a mini photo shoot Matti took of me posing with a signed picture of Mindy. Things could be worse..

The closest I got to Perez Hilton stardom was a mini photo shoot Matti took of me posing with a signed picture of Mindy. Things could be worse..

And then I saw her. Doves flew from under the table she was signing at and I could have sworn I heard Beyonce live-singing “Who run the world? Girls!!!” in the background like I was slow-motion-walking into my future or some shit.

After waiting in line for about 30 minutes the devil dressed in a “Volunteer SXSW” t-shirt came up to me and the others in line, put his hand straight out in front of me and said, “this is where the cut off will be to meet Mindy, but you’re welcome to stay and see if she has more time!”

I immediately hated him and all of the decisions that led him to this exact moment, denying me access to the my idol, my future writing partner and best friend. Of course I stayed and waited. And as we inched closer and closer in line she was right there in front of me. Her teeth were more imperfect than I had imagined which only made our bond stronger as I like to brag that my teeth “have character” that way people are less inclined to poke fun at my snaggle tooth, you know, because I choose to like it.

True to the devil’s word, the lucky rotund seventeen-year old with a badger her daddy probably bought for her (or I just have to imagine this to make myself feel better) was the last person in line to have a converstaion and picture taken with Mindy.

He's even sassy in black and white!

He’s even sassy in black and white!

“Not so fast!” I said to myself, apparently audibly. I ran out in front of the table where Mindy was signing and started to bow. For some reason, bowing was the one thing that came to my mind to do. Do I regret it? No. I regret nothing. (Except for that time a couple of days ago when I saw Daniel Esquivel from Project Runway at the local food co-op and I didn’t tell him how much I loved his purse).

“Mindy…I just… wanted to…”

“INTERACT WITH HER!?” Some blockhead yelled from behind me, as if this were her moment with the queen (of course, her instinctual completion of my sentence was completely accurate but that’s beside the point).

“Hi!” Mindy mused, like an angel, “well it was a really good interaction.”

And then I bowed again because apparently that’s my thing when faced with overly exciting, fabulous situations. I just bow it out.

I was not lying about the jumpsuit...

I was not lying about the jumpsuit…

I then convinced Mindy to sign her remaining head shots to give out to the rest of us mere mortals. She thought it was “the best idea!” so you could say we’re friends now. I may still be waiting for that whole Perez Hilton story thing but at least I came away with an almost friend in Mindy and a new found confidence in wearing loud jumpsuits. So, win-win.




P.S. – I also met Stephanie Beatriz and Melissa Fumero from Brooklyn 99 after. They told me “they liked my whole outfit I had going on.” Despite not really knowing if that was a compliment I’m pretty sure they’re going to look me up when they’re back in town. brooklynn99

What’s in an Age?

me pup

“This is 25” — Hit me up, Judd Apatow

Basically what they tell you in general about age and experiences is you have more of them when you are older, you know, like cumulatively. Which would mean that by the time you turn say, 25, or a quarter-of-a-century-old for us obsessed with their own mortality, you’re just wiser than the average 18-year-old punk because you know, you’ve experienced more. Which if we’re boiling it down, means basically, you’ve now been able to drink legally for four years, and you’re body stopped being able to tolerate heavy drinking, say, 3.75 years ago.

So what makes up 25 years, you ask?

It’s mostly vague memories of every time you forgot something at the grocery store.

It’s 25 reasons why you should have stuck with that whole “science career thing” because I guess science was cooler and more lucrative than you thought in 7th grade. (Bill Nye on Bill Maher, anyone?)

25 means paying your own cell phone bill but still being on a plan with your brother and being extremely judgmental to friends whose parents still pay their bill (I’m looking at you guy-at-work who thinks buying things from Groupon automatically thrusts you into adulthood).

You probably cook for yourself and someone else at this point and you’re probably massively in debt and completely ignorant to how massively in debt you are but at least you’ve started complaining to your friends about how in debt you are (which is better than avoidance, right?).

25 years means you’re actually pretty impressed that you haven’t lost that “child hood spirit” which allows you to still skip in public.

adult25 years is 9131.05 days of not accidentally dying on a treadmill or hopping a fence or using a fork to get your bread out of the toaster, which, let’s face it, good for you. (Side note: Want to be intimately and immediately aware of your own mortality? Google how many days you’ve lived and enjoy.)

25 is the amount of years it has taken you to buy shoes that cost more than $10 a pair.

25 is the age your mom was when she married, had two children, and a mortgage and you still can’t sew on a button.

25 is the age you are when your fiance buys you adult things like a fabric steamer for Valentine’s Day and it’s the best present you ever received in your entire life.

At 25 you have bunions like your Grandma but you still hold out hope that your retainer from Junior year of high school will fit.

At 25 you are no closer to buying a Lumosity subscription to work out your brain but at least you contemplated searching for an exercise ball on Groupon.

At 25, brushing your teeth qualifies as leaving the house.

At 25, the Olsen twins are 2 years older than you but you still watch Full House.

At 25, you’re old enough to tell Miley Cyrus to put that dirty tongue back in her mouth.

In 25 years, you’ve established a larger collection of half-filled diaries and Forever 21 receipts than you’d like to admit (But good times, right?).

In 25 years you’ve learned that paper towels are a luxury for the well-to-do.

At 25 you’ve stopped self-deprecatingly pointing out your grey hairs, because now it really is just sad.

But mostly, at 25, you feel the same as 24 except you’ve just realized you have a year less to show the world how awesome you are. And less time to be famous with your youthful breasts and mostly even complexion (‘sup Loreal anti-wrinkle eye, tone evening cream, I see you on that shelf). So I mean, in the omniscient words of B. Spears, “you better work, bitch.”

Why Don’t You Go Out More?

tumblr_mbjru9OW4L1r426i4o6_250I don’t go out much but when I do I like to envision myself as that person that you look at and say to yourself “why aren’t I having that much fun?” Like, I want you to watch me twerk it and try to get equally as low. Usually I can manage to balance between twerking it like B and ironically giving my best Maya Rudolph angry dancing face.

And if you’re like most girls my age, you’re a sort-of-recent College graduate playing Sex in The City on the weekends while you make almost enough money to pay your student loans each month. But if you’re like me, you go out once a month to some place that can be construed as a “bar” to socialize with the other children and still can’t pay your student loans. Asking me to “go out” on the weekends is too often akin to a child being asked: “I was thinking we could go buy that third Ipad you’ve been wanting so badly but then I thought hey, why not take you to the dentist instead?”

Lately, however, I’ve been trying to make an effort to be more social, like, not just talk-to-my-friends-on-the-internets social.

My first brush with the harsh reality of why I don’t go out was when we decided to go into a random bar on sixth street. You guys, we were the oldest people there. Granted, we should’ve judged the place accordingly when we saw the beer pong tables set up at the front, but my competitive mind only sees games as opportunities to win at something. Then I saw them. Two blonde girls wearing the same high-waisted, tribal patterned, Harem pants with identical black tank-tops tucked in. And they were best friends (obviously). And then I thought of the dialogue between them before coming to this very bar:

harem pants“I wish I could wear these pants out,” says Thing One.

“Why can’t you? They’re SO cute. I have like, basically the exact same pair,” says Thing Two, thinking to herself, I really wish I could wear mine out too.

“I just, like, don’t really know if I can pull them off, you know?” Thing One is surprised by her outburst of vulnerability, she never lets Thing Two see her insecurity, specifically because her life up to this point has been in competition with Thing Two.

“My mom always said the first step to pulling it off is putting it on.” Thing Two’s mom never said this. Thing Two’s mom would have told her not to wear the same exact pants as her best friend at the same time at the same place. “You know what?” Asks Thing Two. “Let’s BOTH wear them. Who cares? YOLO, RIGHT?”

“You’re right!” Thing One says as she pulls up her Urban Outfitters Harem pants, “We look HOT.” She thinks to herself, And at least mine aren’t from Forever Twenty-One.


At Barbarella, the dance club that introduced me to Austin, we ran into that girl who isn’t aware of her personal space or of how much her dancing looks like a chimpanzee’s mating dance. (Do chimps have mating dances? I always imagined they did in my head and I can’t look it up in fear of my hopes being dashed.) She’s cute in the way Zooey Deschanel would be if she wore the same clothes but was twenty-five pounds heavier and had blonde hair — just as long as she’s wearing that “steal” of a vintage dress she found at Goodwill that looks more like the dress you wore at your brother’s First Communion than a vintage find. She’s dancing like no one’s watching, literally. And this is coming from someone who spent most of the night looking like this:


The most accurate portrayal of “The Maya Rudolph Dancing Face” caught on camera (Or, just how I dance and look normally)

Last but not least, there’s that group of guys that are all wearing the same brand of flip flops. They are either wearing polos or t-shirts with the name of the pool they used to lifeguard at written across the back. To state the obvious, they call each other “bro” in lieu of ever learning first or last names so their brain space can better be utilized memorizing the scores of all the sports games.

As I sit in the only available chair and wait for Anna, Rich and Chris to get scrumptious drunk food I can’t eat, Bro One approaches.

“You’re not eying my sub are you?” He had Ron Howard’s face in Happy Days mixed with some Matt Saracen from Friday Night’s Lights. I immediately willed him to disappear as I blinked. He wouldn’t, so I got up and joined friends in the pizza line. But as we all walked back over to a table, friends with pizza in hand, Ron/Matt reached out and placed his douchey little hand on the space between my right shoulder and breast. This is the worst pick up line ever, mainly because it’s like, sexual harassment. I immediately had flash backs of being drunk in high school at a St. Johns dance, getting into an almost fight with another girl as my boyfriend of the day tried to “hold me back.”

“Don’t touch me, creep,” I said, only to be heard by Big Bro, a six-foot-five mess of a man with sauce stains all over his lifeguarding tee from the meat-filled sub he was chaotically shoving down his un-shaven gullet.

“He didn’t touch you,” said Big Bro, apparently suited to chronically being on the wrong side of every argument.

“Tell your friend you touched me!” I demanded of Bro One, my integrity hanging in the balance. He instead took it as a public outcry for a public apology to which Big Bro pretended not to hear.

“Yeah, I’m like sorry, that was totally an accident,” said Bro One, his eyes lighting up as he discovers Anna for the first time. It would have to do.

I felt satisfied enough when Anna, meaning to give Bro One her old cell phone number, actually gave him her mom’s number. You guys wonder why I don’t go out more.

Wait, People Actually Live Like This?

littleprincessEver since I saw The Little Princess as a girl I dreamed of sitting atop an Indian idol, being splashed by an elephant with magical people painted blue surrounding me chanting my name. Needless to say, this never happened. The closest I ever got was a trip to Mexico with an old best friend and her family — to be fair, I did have a canopy bed for a while as well. My dad would castigate me later, holding the pictured proof in his hand, that I did indeed ride an elephant in Maine once, though this memory, like most happy, childhood moments were repudiated in favor of the more painful, gritty reflections that would provide better writing material in the future.

I was sixteen years old, a little bit squishy, with fake black hair and braces. So, I had a lot going for me (essentially just boobs). The trip was intense to begin with, mostly because my friend’s mom was the manicured fingers, Bebe-bejeweled rhinestone studded shirt, I-spent-a-thousand-dollars-just-shopping-for-this-trip type of woman. But she was super fun! I spent most of the trip in an awkward state of not wanting to get in the middle of Mary and her mom’s intense tiffs about who got to wear the most bedazzled Guess shirt. My mom had me when she was forty, so we never really had the sharing closet luxury (or curse), although I do now have an extensive collection of her vintage leather boots, shoulder-padded blazers and one kick-ass pair of high-waisted, checkered, pleated pants so, I win.

me-hotel-cancunWe stayed at the Omni hotel in Cancun. I thought it was so fancy that I would see a celebrity but imagine my dismay when instead, I learned the time-honored lesson that there is more than one type of rich person in the world. In Mexico, you can drink at 16, or I’m making that up to feel better about fact that I drank on a family vacation at sixteen. Either way, me and Mary had margaritas on the beach while Mexican men ogled our underdeveloped goodies (‘sup puberty?). We even danced like no one was watching.

Then the adventures began. You know what’s not the funnest thing in the world when you’re paralyzed by heights? Parasailing. Do you know what they frown upon when you’re parasailing? Peeing in the air directly into the water. We only went on one parasailing trip.

If people said YOLO back when I was on this trip I would’ve spent most days saying YOLO (to be ironically non-ironic). Next on the Kardashian summer getaway, were were to go four-wheeling and then finish off the day horseback riding into the ocean. Just like any middle class American family desperately holding on to their Bill Clinton wealth would do.

“Will my personal assistant meet us there?” I thought out loud, to the amusement of no one except Ian, a friend of Mary’s family who would later invite me to his senior prom because I was “the type of girl who could burp in front of guys.” I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I had game even with braces. Mona, Mary’s mom, was complaining about the heat and her hair, which consistently looked better than mine, when I saw the machines we would be riding.

We took the bus to the spot where our day adventure would take place with the help of my high school spanish and false sense of gumption.

“Are we going sand-duning?” I asked. Our safety instructor, a mix between Antonio Banderas and Beaker, was not amused.

“What about racing? Can we race?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Let’s pick teams. Can I be the captain?”

“Everyone ready to go?” Asked Beaker, clearly practiced in the art of debbie-downering.

I can make it through most days without feeling pathetic and insignificant by saying out loud to myself “I four-wheeled in the Mexican jungle.” But that’s also because I leave out the part where I’m a complete asshat:

My interpretation of how I looked attempting a wheelie

My interpretation of how I looked attempting a wheelie

We had been wheeling through the jungle for a while when I wanted to kick things up a notch, you know, YOLO and all. Carl, Mona’s fiancée was behind me, rounding out the troops, being a typical man. Until I fooled myself into thinking I was trying out for the X-games, attempted a wheelie, and tipped over while still on my four-wheeler as me and the machine both rolled off the track and into a Mexican mud pile. Carl raced to me like any adult chaperoning an underage child that is not his or her own would.

“So, horseback riding should be fun?” I said, assuring everyone I was fine and no I wouldn’t be suing them when I got home.

At the end of the trail we arrived at the spot where we would hop on horses and ride into the sunset. Just without saddles and all that other stuff that makes riding a horse safe, enjoyable, and not feel like your hoo-ha is being assaulted by bony, four-legged beast.

Mary hopped on her horse first only to have it immediately buck her off and start naying incessantly as Mary curled into a ball screaming “Get it away! Get it away!”

This isn’t me but it is how I imagine I looked minus the clothes and dignity.

But I was promised a kodac moment of me gracefully entering the water, barebacking a horse with my new blue Quicksilver bikini. I did not anticipate the reality of me being in the sitting position for the picture — the kryptonite to any self-aware stomach-conscious teenage girl. And although I relish the memory of my horseback ride into the Mexican ocean, the superfluous amount of times my mom exhibited the picture of squishy-stomached Aly for any and everyone to see was more painful then holding in my poop all vacation for fear of the boys hearing me.

It’s always fun going on trips with other families because you get to see a new brand of dysfunction completely different from your own. Your brand is comfortable, familiar, but for everyone else it’s an episode of Intervention without the hope of someone going to rehab at the end. Whether conscious or not, I was never invited to another one of Mary’s family vacations.

Did you ever travel far with a friend’s family? How’d it go? What about vivid memories of family trips gone wrong?

Spit Out Your Gum and Bend Your Knees, We’re Going to Skateland!


This is the women’s “fast skate” otherwise known as, “how the hell do they not crash into each other”

Welcome to adult skate night at Skateland in Austin, Texas. Walking in, I immediately like it better than my old hangout Rollerworld, because it seems more likely to be the setting of a movie starring Jessie Eisenberg – he and a Kristen Stewart type actress would work together at the ticket booth and share a cigarette outside on their break which is okay because the film takes place in the 80s. The walls are all primary colors because this place wants to be taken seriously, playfully serious. The crowd is a mix of teenage girls in high-waist booty shorts with a false sense of retro style and what appears to be retired drama teachers, wannabe thugs and very old men in the same shorts the teenage girls are wearing.

The rugs are just like my at my old digs, a black background with neon pops of stars, what appears to be the planetary system, and a myriad of other unidentifiable shapes; the mood is definitely beckoning for a simpler, more tubular time – a time where one would associate Sean Penn with Fast Times instead of Milk. And I’m totally in it — also because Anna looked like she was about to roller derby some bitches to the ground when she picked me up:


Watch out Ellen Paige…

Anna described the friend from work I was about to meet as someone I would like because she’s just like me, to which I replied, “I don’t like people who are like me.” Turned out her friend from work is exactly like me if I were a super cute tiny blonde with perfect skin and a perky disposition. (OKAY, I do have really great skin). But I was immediately grateful for her presence when she told me that she liked my hair and I looked like a rockstar — flattery is the only main route to my heart.



We head over to pick up skates and for some reason, whether it be the effect Anna and my beauty have on the sweaty, clumsy, roller skate attendant — who is a mix between Christopher Mintz-Plasse and The Brain (from Pinky and The Brain) — or the fact that we have on ridiculously colorful, badass long socks, we are immediately labeled as the girls that have never been here before (which I was sort of okay with). Putting on the skates didn’t help. Remember people, I was born in the 80s but just barely so the only objects I have ever put on my feet starting with the word roller are blades. For me, the rollerblading scene from Mighty Ducks was the ultimate aspiration. (Don’t even get me started on the Disney movie, Brink).

To be fair, we tried skating. We put on our “quads” and made our way, slowly, to the practice area. For a second before we put the skates on, I had fooled myself into thinking I did this before — like it was one of the many activities in my distant childhood my dad bitches at me for not remembering. But no such luck. There was no foreseeable way to turn in these things, the only thing I could think to do was walk carefully and briskly. With the skates on I morphed into awkward Gumby Aly, all limbs and no balance. Although this sultry picture may convince you otherwise:

me skates

…or just confirm the obvious.

Within minutes I looked at Anna and mouthed “rollerblades” because although I had a lot of fun bonding with Tatenda, the only one that appeared more uncomfortable than me on the kiddy rink, I am really bad at not being good at things. Anna said she knew I’d want to come with her because I’m into things like bowling, and by into she means I was in a bowling league in high school because in my high school that was the coolest activity to do on a Saturday morning (besides every other thing teenagers my age did). Really I’m just super competitive.


Rollerblade robot meets the fast-paced human world

We’re pretty sure the roller skate and blade attendant charges us more than usual for the rollerblade upgrade (yes, I consider it an upgrade) but we’re immediately no longer the worst people at the rink so all is good. It seemed like the retro mystique of the roller skates made a lot of people more comfortable with themselves than I was comfortable with. Like for instance, the referee that looked like a sausage coming up and asking Anna to dance during the couple’s skate. No thanks, it’s girls night and we’re fine sipping contraband vodka mixed with the dollar cokes we had to wait an hour for because Marjorie the fifteen-year-old concession stand attendant decided to close up shop to take a shit right as we were entering. And of course we get mobbed with the skate gang as we wait for our cokes, one of them even ended up going behind the counter to get a cup just to show us how much skater clout he  had.

I liked to think we looked pretty natural on our blades, now that I was able to turn and all. That was until an old man in short shorts zig-zagging backwards through everyone told me I needed to bend my legs and relax. First of all sir, my legs are bent so I’m sorry you cannot handle my awkward body proportions but I promise you I go most days without falling on my face. And also, don’t tell me to relax! This is like when an old or middle-aged white man interjects a “Smile, why don’t you!” as you’re walking down the street and what you’d really like to do is pick up the nearest shovel and show them what a genuine smile looks like.


My best “what the fuck, man” face to a weaver brushing past me.

I was in a groove on the rink for a while, especially after I passed Tatenda and gave him a thumbs up as he clasped his friends hands tightly while they slowly circled the main rink. He told me I looked great, so, I’m definitely taking his word for it. And they were playing the same songs from my Rollerworld days — Some Shaggy mixed with Kung Foo Fighting and other oldies. Oddly enough this was more exciting than worrisome. What I would’ve liked to have done before we left, however, was to sabotage one of the many “weavers” on the rink — you know, the speed skaters that get boners off of almost making you fall every time they pass. That and I wanted to join the wannabe thugs in the middle of the floor to see if I could still drop it like it was hot.

By the time Anna and everyone wanted to leave I was in the groove, literally and figuratively — I had finally found a way to almost dance when “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk came on as all the regulars looked around like, “Who turned off Destiny’s Child?” I finally made my way off the rink, barreling toward the edge to get off because I never learned how to use the breaks, and just barely stopping myself without face planting.

“Nailed it,” I said to the guy who seemed to be more into the spectator aspect of the sport.

We took off our blades, leaving us with the weird feeling of no longer being able to glide on the carpet, and said our goodbyes. As we walked out an old man on buttoning up his leather jacket and approaching his motorcycle stopped us.

“This ya’lls first time?” He asked, and I was resigned to the fact I could never fit in as a regular here at Skateland without actually becoming a regular. But was I ready?


Clearly, I’m more than ready…

What Does Mindy Kaling’s Hips, Bob Marley’s Teeth and the Best Women Farters All Have in Common?

The is my first search terms post and I’m really excited to exploit my misplaced sense of self-importance. People have stumbled on to my blog from a lot of silly search terms like “girls+poop”, “all men are boob guys” (really?), “how do i reverse seven years of bad luck from breaking a mirror”, “the best women farters”, “how wide are Mindy Kaling’s hips?” (leave her hips alone, a-hole) and let’s say a lot more terms regarding pooping, farting, and women, which is totally kick-ass.

Why, yes, please tell me again about how sexism no longer exists..

Why, yes, please tell me again about how sexism no longer exists..

I am especially honored to fit into the category “women farters,” because as we all know, this is an exclusive club for wild, unabashedly raucous women who have no moral values, especially not being lady-like. I mean, the first time I farted I had to look around the room and then at myself in the mirror to make sure my lady bits didn’t fall off from the mere unrefined act of flatulence. Wait, no, that never happened. I’ve been breaking wind since 1989, suckers! But yes, I do consider myself among “the best women farters” — it’s an honor I believe I have rightfully and dignifiedly earned. Just ask my first boyfriend.

tv-once-upon-a-time03To the person who wants to reverse the bad luck they struck after breaking a mirror, I hope you are under the age of thirteen. If not, here’s some advice: sit in your living room staring at the television. Turn on a show like say, Once Upon a Time and imagine everything that happens in this show is real. Now walk over to your television and sit down in front of it — remember, you must believe that the town of Storybrooke and Rumplestiltskin are real (as the show predicates). Try now to reach into your television with your hand. Remember, you must believe. Now try sticking your head up in there. Did that not work? No? Okay. Well then try holding your hand up and turning it around so that your palm is now facing you. Now bring your palm to your forehead. Do it again. One more time. Okay, your luck should now be reversed.

On to you, person who is too concerned with the width of Mindy Kaling’s hips. Do you actually measure your own hips? What is this piece of information worth to you in a dollar amount? And why do you think the internet should have this particular statistic? Please do me a favor and go buy a book and then actually read it instead of wasting all of our time on your celebrity appearance-oriented inquisitions.

But the real reason for this post is this gem: “want a redo on growing up.” Finally, my soul mate finds me. Let’s talk fellow wannabe redo-er, we’re all friends here. What about growing up do you want to do over? All of it? If you’re like me, you would go back in time and not make fun of David O.’s power ranger undies in first grade because you  could tell how embarrassed he was after. You also would’ve started reading books before 8th grade. Aw, man, if I could do it over, I’d write more stuff down (says the girl with 30 childhood journals sitting in her closet) that way my dad couldn’t use my lack of childhood memories as a favorite personal anecdote at family get-togethers.

What else? I would’ve rehearsed more for my audition for You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown in 5th grade and maybe not have used “Hit Me Baby One More Time” as my song choice — Britney always let me down. I would’ve been such a good Snoopy.

I would’ve quit soccer WAY sooner. soccer

I would’ve spent more time in bouncy houses because they don’t tell you once you reach a certain age it is no longer appropriate to jump around in bouncy houses. Something about “letting the kids have their turn.”

I definitely would’ve shown Mickey some more respect at Disney World instead of running away, crying. That mouse has been through a lot.

I would’ve embraced the mean-spirited nickname Aly Dicky as a potential anecdote for my future famous self. Actually, let’s just pretend I loved the nickname from now on.

I definitely would’ve worn my retainer more, that way I could smile freely as an adult without worrying about which angle best hides my snaggle tooth.

I would’ve spent more time playing tricks on my parents, like switching the sugar with salt, so I’d have more funny childhood stories to write about.

I would play with legos ALL the time.

I would continue my Harriet the Spy venture for way longer since my invisible decoder pen was everything, but this time I’d disinvite my next door neighbor, Ashley because she thought she was sooo cool because we both had the same bedroom set but she had the matching wallpaper AND the book shelf.

dressmeI would’ve worn this outfit every day. (C’mon that’s adorable).

I’d make my family perform the plays I wrote as a child and record them so I can use them later as blackmail.

I would’ve applied for a job at Blockbuster instead of wasting all my time there for free.

I’d definitely go back in time to our family vacation in the Bahamas and tell my 11-year-old self that no, you really don’t need to get your entire head braided because no, you do not look good you little white girl, you look like when Monica from Friends got her head braided except wholly more frightening. But at least now I know how much I could never pull off being bald.

I would’ve never thought this was an acceptable Halloween costume. What the hell are those lips?


Our perception of being old ladies was apparently women sitting in bathrobes doing their hair and getting facials. Definitely accurate.

Let’s stop there for now before I end up curled into a ball shaking back and forth, regretting all my past decisions as Tengo licks my face in awful doggy delight.

What would you redo about your childhood or about anything? College major maybe? Going out with that guy with the weird mustache? Forgetting to shave your armpits before that time at the beach with all your friends? Spill it, redo-ers.

When Will I Feel My Mouth Again and How Did You Become a Dentist?

scumbag-dentist_o_656833When it comes to going to the dentist, I am a seven-year-old boy — I have at least three new cavities every time I go and I’m loath to admit how scared I am of power drills being inserted into my mouth.

The receptionist, however, never misses a chance to call me ‘sister’ and treat me like Kourtney Kardashion (‘cuz Kourt’s the hip, grounded one) — today is no exception. As I sit in the waiting room I wonder if it’d be weird to invite her to my wedding, mostly because I like her blue framed glasses and feel like she’d be the type of friend to monitor my bad dental habits without being too naggy. My BFF daydream is interrupted, however, by who I can only imagine is an ex-reggae star turned dental hygienist. He is way too talkative, and in case you were wondering, he’s from Florida, has two crowns, and his grandmother also has digestive problems.

The dentist comes in and I recognize him as the one who doesn’t believe I brush my teeth. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE when a dentist gasps and then adjusts his tone to say, “wow you actually have kind of white teeth.” It’s super confidence-boosting. I have prepared for him today, however, by brushing my teeth before entering the room, scrubbing my tongue of all coffee residue.

I start exercising my mouth like I’m trying out for the lead part in Dentistry Training Video: When a Patient Has a Grape-Sized Mouth, when I realize I forgot to put on the stunner shades Ziggy Marley handed to me before Doctor-I’m-a-real-Dentist walked in.  I slide them on.

So regretting not

Do you think the dentist will take a picture of me in these will my mouth pried open if I ask really nicely?

“Do I look like I’m in the Matrix?” I ask the two uneasy men who now look at each other, their eyes screaming “there’s ALWAYS one.”

“Yeah, definitely,” says Ziggy Marley and I’m immediately grateful for all the life decisions that brought him to this moment.

Doctor-real-dentist is now sticking needles into my gums and shaking my lip like I’m being shot up with heroin and I’m thinking hey, buy me a drink first, guy.

Halfway through the procedure, doctor-dentist chuckles to himself and says, “Girl you are a saliva factory.” I’m sorry, sir, is the spit filling up in my mouth crowding the four hands and twenty drills that are currently occupying my grape sized pie-hole? My mouth can barely fit around a hot dog and you’re stretching my lip to my ear while complaining about my overproduction of saliva? Were you not here three minutes ago when you pumped my gums full of the tinglies? Do you realize half my face is paralyzed?

Do dentists need to take a course in condescension to graduate? There’s no place that more adequately reminds you of the consequences of your poor life choices than the dentist. Me, eat too many sweets? No way. Oh, you found pieces of cookies in my teeth? Well, okay, I guess you’re right.

“You need to rinse your teeth after you drink coffee,” says the dentist devil as he spears my gums.

legitimate attempt at smiling while mouth is temporarily paralyzed. This wasn't the first take incase you were wondering how I get my beauty to transfer so gracefully

legitimate attempt at smiling while mouth is temporarily paralyzed. This wasn’t the first take incase you were wondering how I get my beauty to transfer so gracefully

I immediately spit out the gauze pad soaking up my drool and look at Ziggy to back me up, “you saw me brush my teeth before I came in! Didn’t I?” He barely nodded. Clearly there was a dentistry code being played out here. Finally, my third and final cavity is filled and I am set free by sir-judges-a-lot. Of course, I receive no lolly pop or treasure box like the other kids, just a ridiculously hefty bill and an ultimate case of lazy mouth.