Will it blend?


I recently got a blender and it’s making grocery shopping easier. Now i just ask myself, “Will this blend?” By the way, who’s up for turkey sandwich smoothies later?


Broccoli, mama!

“Broccoli mama like a wagon wheel, broccoli mama any way you feel” – if Old Crow Medicine Show did a healthy-eating themed kids’ album.



One week from now I’ve scheduled something I’ve never done before: a massage.

It was a birthday gift from a friend more worldly than I. “It will change your life,” he promised.

And while I’m looking forward to it, I’m also a little nervous about it. I like having my back and shoulders rubbed, but generally by people I know and like. So the thought of paying someone to touch me makes me uneasy.

My friend must have must have sensed my hesitancy in March, three months after my birthday, when I was yet un-massaged.

“It’s been a whole season, girl!”  he said.

And I promised him I would schedule it. But I still managed to put it off another three months. Now, in June, he gave an ultimatum: schedule it my June 15 or he’d re-gift it to a friend of ours.

“I should have gauged your massage-phobia before I gave it to you,” he said.

This blog post is part of my dealing with my massage-phobia. I have lots of unanswered questions, which is really all fear is, isn’t it. The unknown.

What kind of small talk do you make with someone who’s being paid to touch you? I have awkward conversations with my hairdresser, with waiters, with just about everyone, so I’m expecting this to be no different.

Are pleasure noises OK?  Talk about awkward.

Will I have to be undressed? Worldly friend told me I can have on as much clothing as I want. I picture myself waiting for the masseuse, alone in a room with candles and soft music .(That’s the way it always is on television).  Only instead of being naked under a sheet, I’m putting on more clothes than what I came in with. That’s OK, right?


Father’s Day

Happy Father’s Day to my dad, who doesn’t know about my blog and will probably never read this. Dad, ever since I was a little girl, you….
Wait, I’m just gonna call him.




The other day, when I looked at my cat from across the room, she shot me a look so hateful I’m convinced she was judging me. Cats are so uppity sometimes, ammiright?! With their prissy walks the way they stand and stare blankly when you call them.

judgy cat


I have no way of knowing exactly what terrible thoughts her cat mind thinks about me everyday, but I can guess.

So here, in no special order, are some reasons my cat might be judging me on any given day:

  • “Dinner” was saltine crackers with peanut butter. And I ate it over the sink.
  • I haven’t done my dishes in so long there’s mold growing on one of my cereal bowls
  • I liked Twilight so much that I’m re-reading it
  • I’m dancing around my apartment to Ke$ha
  • I kinda like Ke$ha’s new song
  • That second (ok, third) cookie
  • I didn’t finish “The Great Gatsby” before I watched the movie
  • I slept in instead of going running (again)

The divide



“Hey sports guys.” – how I recently addressed some colleagues of a year and a half because I wasn’t sure of their names. The invisible divide between news and sports is like a journalistic Berlin Wall.