Dairy turns me into a bloated whoopie cushion on legs. Beef presses my autoimmune’s buttons. Gluten makes my skin feel as silky soft as sandpaper. Apples, whole almonds and chocolate make me, well, we don’t know each other well enough for that kind of talk. As for nightshades, I have my suspicions. I don’t even want to talk about wine.
When I first found out I had food allergies, I thought surely I’m on an episode of Punk’d. So what if it was 2012 and Punk’d, much like Ashton’s obnoxious trucker hats, was long over. I was still expecting Ashton to jump out from behind the curtain, with camera crew in tow, to tell me it was all a big joke and hand me an enormous piece of extra velvety red velvet cake. But nope, there was no Ashton and no cake, just a plate full of gluten-free shit pie. This news made me grieve. And it went a little something like this: Continue reading
Graphic credit: Helen Jane Hearn
If I’ve learned one thing from Keeping up with the Kardashians, it’s that a little self-promotion never hurt anyone. With that in mind, I’d like to share my latest for Tue/Night, a little ditty about a bowl of fruit salad, some bacterial dysentery, and one of the world’s biggest pop sensations. Enjoy!
Bad Street Food Nearly Killed Me Until Celine Dion Saved my Life
I’m turning OLD this year. But I’m taking it all quite well, really. There are benefits to aging of course. Social benefits, for example. And one in particular I find quite tantalizing.
Since I’ve always been a tad socially-reckless — over-sharing, stirring the pot, making listeners squirm — what I’m most looking forward to with turning old is my newfound license to I-Don’t-Give-A-Shit (IDGAS). Surely you are already aware there is an entire fleet of IDGAS behaviors that growing old affords, whether it’s IDGAS driving, IDGAS dressing (or undressing), IDGAS civic involvement, IDGAS bodily functions and so forth. For now let’s focus on the latter, specifically the kind that derives from one’s mouth. Continue reading
My darling K,
This note will start out kind of depressing, but I promise that, as in every good piece of writing, there will be a turning.
My memories of my early life are murky, but I think I was about six years old when kids started teasing me by calling me fat. That would have been first grade. Remarkably, I wasn’t particularly fat; big-boned, my mom called me, and that was accurate. I liked to eat and was more bookish than athletic. I had a round little tummy and probably had to wear clothes from some embarrassing fashion line called “Sturdy Gurlz” or similar. But kids can be mean, and this particular group of mean girls figured out that the word FAT held a lot of power over me. Continue reading
…at least until the humidity drops below 75 percent.
Here’s a little something about running, motivation and energy that I wrote for TueNight. It was picked up by Huffington Post. The best part about appearing in HuffPost was the bizarre amalgam of ads and suggested stories that ran beneath my piece: 7 Ways to Find Her Clitoris (sponsored); 26 Hottest NFL Wives; Python Swallows Crocodile Whole.
Do they know my demographic, or what?