Slow, Fast, And Everything In Between: A Piece About Commitment

In this day and age of Netflix and chilling, ghosting, breaking up over text, having heartfelt conversations over text, flirting via Instagram likes and comments, and God-knows-what going down in the DM, dating has gone from being annoying to downright depressing. Even with easy access to the opposite sex via dating apps like Bumble and Tinder, no one’s actually willing to commit. They treat the apps like games, swiping left and right with next to no intention of acting on anything. They’re window shopping at best, which is why you don’t hear back from your matches half the time, and that, my friends, is the bleak reality of the dating situation today.

HOWEVER (and that’s a big however hence the all-caps), every once in a very blue moon, someone on these apps does have intentions and good ones at that. They’re not banking on anything; in fact, they’ll most likely be flabbergasted if they’re to meet anyone of superior quality. But the point is they want to. They desire to. And, sometimes, they do. 

HOWEVER (another big however), if they do meet someone worthwhile and things seem to be going so well, they still have the big C to deal with. No, not that big C. The other big C — COMMITMENT. Just because this person was on this dating app to maybe meet someone by no means insinuates that they’re any different from the rest of our generation when it comes to actually pledging to take responsibility for something they very most likely started in the first place. That’s something we struggle with and will most likely continue to struggle with for the unforeseen future because we’re selfish assholes but at least we admit it.

Commitment. Fucking commitment, man. The idea seems simple yet implies so much and can so easily scare off the best of them. My personal belief is something Aziz Ansari actually wrote about in his book, Modern Romance. I don’t have the actual quote on hand because I don’t tote the book with me wherever I go, but he spoke to the idea that we almost have too many options. That these apps, with their seemingly never-ending line-up of potential matches, might actually be doing our generation more harm than good by bombarding us with choices. I think, by nature, humans are easily overwhelmed. Before these apps, you didn’t know when or how you’d meet your next romantic prospect. It was more of a mystery, which made the mere idea of it more exciting. Will it be the guy buying carrots and jarred minced garlic (gross) at Kroger? Or perhaps that cutie in the baseball cap you ended up sitting next to on a plane ride? Of course, that never actually happens. Before apps, you were probably meeting people via work or of friends of friends of friends of cousins of friends. Now, with these apps, you can sit at home in your rattiest fat girl clothes with 4-day old hair and go through potential mates like water because, if you don’t match with this one, you’ll probably match with the next one. 

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But the kicker is that having more options via these apps haven’t provided us with any greater results with finding love. In fact, it’s made it worse! And more complicated! And HAS CAUSED SO MUCH MORE SWEATY, TEAR-FILLED ANXIETY (no? just me?). 

HOWEVER (they just keep coming, don’t they?), let’s say you get past all the anxiety and upset and end up finding someone you really hit it off with. You’re going along, dating, kissing, sexing. You’re owning the new, butterfly stages of this courtship — basking in the glow of where it might go and what it all could mean for your (up until this point) abusive relationship with dating. 

Then, commitment comes up. Committing. You want to commit. You want them to commit. You want the god of commitment to rain down upon whatever-the-fuck “this” is and get it on lock. Someone needs to commit to something soon because you’ve realized… you don’t DO “slow.”

And that’s the entire point of this post (I realize it’s taken me about 650 words to get there, but I got there). I’ve realized over the past few months that I can’t go slow with dating. But I’ve also realized what that means to me; that is, what it looks like. And it’s probably different than what you’re assuming. Because when I state that I don’t do “slow,” I mean that when something as miraculous as meeting a great guy with whom I click with on all levels happens to me, I can’t act coy. I can’t be blasé about it. Sure, I can play that card for the first little while as I’m trying to figure out whether or not this guy is spongeworthy, but once I’ve decided I’m in it, I’m in it. In it to win it. I’m committed because I don’t know how else to be.

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I bet you read that and think “Oh, so she gets needy, attached, falls too hard, thinks he’s the One, and expects marriage by year’s end.” No. That’s not at all what I’m saying. I’m simply stating that, as someone who has been through the ringer with dating and knows how very seldom you meet someone that makes you stop and go “Oh,” I find it very hard to be casual. But not being casual doesn’t mean being so serious that we’re getting engaged tomorrow. It simply means just being committed to finding out what this could be. It means not wanting to play the field or continue to keep my options open because why would I want to if you have my attention? It means that slow is casual and casual isn’t enough when you like someone a lot. Moving “slow” is just another way of avoiding commitment. I move fast because all fast means to me is we’ve committed to commitment. No more, no less. 

Commitment doesn’t have to be scary, but our generation has made it as such. It doesn’t insinuate “for life.” It doesn’t imply any sort of guarantee. It doesn’t even mean we’ll make it a solid six months. It just means that, for now, you’re in it and willing to see how it pans out. We can talk slow, have slow sex, kiss slow, take our time having dinner — I might even let you be slow to text if you’re a busy person. But slow is just a copout for the terror of committing, and we’ve all got to GTF over it.

xox,

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2 Girls, 1 Closet Episode 7: “Into It, Vol. 3”

In case you missed it on SoundCloud, here is the direct track from last week’s podcast episode. Whitney and I took about a month off, but I think it did our bodies good because we were ready to get in that closet and get to sounding off about what we are or aren’t INTO. To make this episode even more special, we asked YOU (my readers/our listeners) to leave a comment on my Facebook blog page about what you’re into or not into and riffed on the ones we related to the most. So, two favors: hit my facebook page I just linked with a “like,” and listen to the latest and greatest from 2 Girls, 1 Closet!

28 Things I Took Away From Being 28

I do a birthday post every year, so forgive me that this is a day late (I had things to do and people to see this weekend and didn’t prepare ahead of time. SO SUE ME). In keeping with the tradition of writing about the age-specific number of things being a specific age taught me, I’m going to continue the pattern with hitting you all with the 28 things I took away from being 28 for better or worse and for serious or funny, because you know I love a healthy balance of both.

1. Sometimes, all it takes to bring a group of friends together is a group text chain so lit, no one gets tired of it, opts of out it, or remembers what their life was before it (#Whataburger for life).

2. Snapchat is the shit. It’s pointless and fruitless and often times dumb, but also the best time-waster out there. 

3. There is no certain age at which you HAVE to be married, engaged, with the “one,” or seriously dating your next serious person. This is a daily struggle to remember with the overwhelming societal pressure and unwarranted Facebook posts that live to remind you that you seem to be the only female out there without a wedding, husband, or baby on board to show for yourself, but it doesn’t matter. You have to do you and, when you do (like really do you), good things will come.

4. On the subject of LURVE, dating someone who’s nice isn’t fun, fulfilling, or lasting. Nice is fine but they have to be 100 things on top of being nice. If “nice” is all they bring to the table, you’re going to get bored real fast. Unless you’re into kid’s cups of just plain vanilla — no sprinkles, no chocolate sauce, no nothing. If that’s your thing, then by all means. But nice is safe and safe isn’t fun. If you need to date “nice” in order to take a much needed break from “fucking asshole,” fine. But don’t stick with it too long.

5. Just because someone looks at you weird at work or your boss calls a short meeting with you doesn’t mean you’re getting fired (where all my overly paranoid peeps at?!).

6. Challenge and consistency are the only things that will get you in shape and keep you there. Consistency because nothing substantial will come of working out super hardcore for a few weeks sporadically, and challenge because once you get the consistency part down, you’re going to need new moves and circuits to test you and keep you pumped up. 

7. BBG is, honest to God, the best workout program out there. Maybe not for everyone, but for most. It’s the only program I’ve ever tried (I was a stubborn “I can workout on my own, thanks” type forever), and it showed me that a focused, centered, and reliable program can take you as far as you’re willing to go with getting in shape and growing strong. Proof pictured below.

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8. Chemistry is a weird thing and you literally cannot fight it or mistake it. It’s either there or it isn’t, and when it is, WHEWWWWWWWIE! Buckle up for either the best ride of your life (physically) or maybe the worst ride of your life (emotionally) or both or neither or one but the not the other or something.

9. Being ashamed of being on mental health medication isn’t a thing, er, shouldn’t be a thing anymore. People are messed up, man. It’s hard being a human. Some people are lucky enough to be more level-headed and even keel, but for those of us who were blessed with a messy, anxious, overly-analytical, neurotic, never-quiet brain, it’s okay to embrace it and HELP it. Seriously. We’re the normal ones. All those other people who seem to cope just fine… they’re the abnormal, weird ones. Sometimes medicine helps and there’s nothing wrong with that. I mean, shit — Advil helps your headaches, Pepcid helps your early onset heartburn, and sometimes anxiety medication helps you function like a person who can take normal breaths and think more clearly and THAT’S OK.

10. Podcasts are the tech world’s greatest gift to humans and should be treated as such. Subscribe to them all, listen to them all, love them all. PODCASTS ARE LIFE.

11. Flossing is so annoying, but so imperative if you don’t want to have disgusting breath and poor gum health. I swear I’m not a dentist (for real, I’m not), but floss. Yes, it will look like a graphic, slaughterhouse, murder scene in your mouth for the first week or so, but that’s because your gums were literally begging you for this and you hath forsaken them all this time.

12. That one person you thought you’d stalk via social media forever? You’ll stop. It’ll happen suddenly and without warning, but one day, you’ll realize you haven’t perused their page in a while, and you’ll feel proud and somewhat less crazy. It’s a great feeling. Own it.

13. Getting used to eating cleaner is a rocky road, but you can do it if you put your mind to it. And just because you decide to start this new, healthier lifestyle doesn’t mean you’re going to starve to death and never get to indulge ever again. Your body just needs some time to readjust to what it feels like to not be so full you want to kill yourself, and that takes a second. Learn to love vegetables so queso tastes even more rewarding.

14. If nothing else about me is on fleek that day, my eyebrows will be and that’s really all I need. A life without eyebrow filler is one I lived for a very long time, and now, they’re the first thing I make sure are on point before anything else. Get your eyebrow game on lock and reap the benefits of newly founded confidence. 

15. Quest bars are disgusting.

16. Prescription drug companies suck and I hate dealing with them so, so much. Mail order is the bane of my existence.

17. The only constant is change, and that’s something I definitely struggle with when change comes up. I like routine and I like patterns, so change (BIG change, too. Not small stuff) throws me for a loop/kicks my anxious nature into high gear. Of course, it always works out but it can be hard to remember that when you’re in the thick of a change-induced panic attack.

18. Curling natural curls is a thing and makes your curls even better. I’ve struggled with my natural ringlets for years, literally never knowing how my hair would look from day to day. But, this year, my sister introduced me to the most magical curling wand and changed my approach to bad/questionable hair days forever. I still let my natural freak flag curls fly, of course. But it’s nice to have options, amiright?

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19. I can’t tell you how many times someone has referred to me as Ilana from Broad City. The frequency at which it happens is now bi-weekly. Even my own father said I’m her. At first, I was like “But why? I don’t smoke weed.” But the more I watch and love the show, I understand. Plus, on top of being hilarious, her body is LIT so I’m not even a little mad.

20. Threading is legit. You know, like, getting your eyebrows or misstache threaded rather than waxed or plucked. I’m not sure it’s better than either or more effective, but it’s cheap and fast and the results are the same so I’m about it.

21. You can enjoy “private sessions” on Spotify if you’re too embarrassed to let your followers see that you’re jamming out to Britney Spears or Life House, but why? Just own it. We all listen to shitty stuff from time to time. Sometimes the urge to sing along to throwback songs that should’ve never been produced is an itch that needs to be scratched, and you shouldn’t have to hide it.

22. In my opinion, Twitter is the hardest platform to be heard or seen on which makes me hate it, of course. I have so many 140-character nuggets of gold that are wasted in the deep abyss of that social media medium, and it’s sad. Twitter and I just don’t do it for each other.

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23. I fucking hate cottage cheese. I dared myself to try it this year and validated my life-long sneaking suspicion that I would detest it. NEVER AGAIN.

24. Bulleit Bourbon is my favorite whiskey. You should try it.

25. Tide Pods suck. I mean, they don’t suck, but I don’t like them. If you were contemplating trying them out, heed my advice and stick to liquid detergent. 

26. It’s hard to live by, but TRY (just TRY) to not be inexplicably mean to strangers. I know the saying is cliché, that you never know what someone might be going through so to treat everyone with kindness, but it’s so true. Yeah, maybe theyre the one who was throwing you shade, but maybe they just broke up with someone or put their dog down or find out a family member is sick. I know it’s only natural to want to be an asshole when someone is an asshole to you/when you see someone or something you don’t like, but practice the level to which you’re an asshole in those moments.

27. Those really big bugs that LOOK like mutant mosquitoes, aren’t. They’re Crane flies, and they actually serve to eat mosquitoes. So. I’ve killed several thinking I’m saving myself and my dog from Zika, but really… I was doing no such thing. I’m just a monster, and I probably have Zika now.

28. God is super lit (Rihanna taught me that).

xox,

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Indisputable Signs You’re Getting Old

I can’t with “adulting.” I just don’t like the term. I’m not sure why I have such a visceral reaction to it — perhaps it’s the kitschiness of the word. How the “ing” is supposed to make it seem quirky and cute, resulting in making the sayer of the word sound young and immature. Regardless, I’d rather just simply state that getting older is hard. 

My 29th birthday is right around the corner (literally, it’s in about a week and a half), and I’m feeling a lot of different things about going in to the last year of my 20s. Namely, being terrified but equally as relieved that I’ve almost made it through the worst/weirdest decade of a person’s life. That said, I was an early bloomer in exhibiting behaviors older than my age. Emotionally and mentally, not so much. I still cry at the drop of a hat because it’s how I’ve always expressed myself. I’m a crier. But when it comes to interests and how I like to spend my time, I noticed all that taking a turn for the older around my mid-20s and now it’s just glaringly apparent that, well, I’m getting old.

To me, the following are all indisputable signs that you’re getting older and it’s time to just throw your arms wide open and embrace it in a hug that goes on a little too long and makes both hugging parties feel a little awkward.

You forgot what it is to be a night owl.

There was a time in your life not too long ago, that going to bed before midnight was child’s play. You considered a good night’s sleep a solid five hours. You could run on fumes. It wasn’t always ideal, but you powered through because you were young, fun, and had a seemingly never-ending stockpile of energy. Staying up late to do basically nothing was a privilege you felt you need to capitalize on. Now, as you lay in bed with your lights off for the night by 10, you wonder how you ever survived on that schedule? Seven hours of sleep is on the low-end of the scale. Typically, you’re aiming for somewhere between 8-9 (which rarely happens, but what a dream!). A sleep like that makes you feel as though you can conquer the world. The twilight hours of binging on Netflix shows or aimlessly scrolling through your social media feeds in hopes of finding something worthwhile seem so wasted. So young. So fruitless. You want to be in bed, reading a book or filing your nails no later than 9:30 or 10, and asleep by 10 or 10:30. And that, to you, is what a perfect weeknight looks like.

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Your hangover lastS 2 days.

“OMG I FEEL LIKE SHIT LOL,” younger you used to text to your woes the morning after a night out. “I’m dead, dude. What the fuck happened last night?” It was all a joke back then. Drinking copious amounts of booze meant a night of low-level debauchery, maybe some late night drunk eats, and at most, a soft purr of a headache the next morning that could be instantly cured with Advil, more alcohol, and a small mountain of food laden with grease. Now? You have to commit to being hungover. Like, you have to mentally prepare yourself WEEKS in advance for a night out that will most definitely end in next-day agony. Dealing with a 24-48 hour hangover is something that requires careful planning and precision, and in-advance acceptance of knowing what you’re in for. Sure, you could get a wild hair and just go for it. Act like 25-year-old you, drinking all the drinks and saying “yes” to shots you know you shouldn’t take. No one’s stopping you. But don’t be surprised when all the other adult-like, responsible plans you had for the weekend are shit upon by your inability to function as a whole human being after revisiting this collegiate behavior. In short, the late-20s to early-30s hangover isn’t worth it. Once every few months, maybe. Or maybe just a few times a year. Or maybe once a year in which you burn over 500 calories from dancing non-stop for two hours at a bar on St. Patty’s day, end up throwing up in a bar’s bathroom for the first time in your entire social career, and leave not just your credit card but entire wallet at vomit-bar (that may or not be a direct anecdote from my past weekend :D). The morning after all that looks something like this:

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YOU STOP BLAMING YOUR EXTRA WEIGHT ON JUST BEING YOUNG AND FUN

This is probably the most appalling realization of getting older. Lavish brunches dripping in fried chicken, waffles, and mimosas, late night pizza deliveries, hilarious drive-thru stories at the local watering holes (Whataburger or Taco Bell), all suddenly cling to your body for dear life. All of the wonderful, so-good-but-so-bad-for-you meals you’ve treated yourself to for years turn on you in a nasty way. For a while, you guys had an understanding of what this relationship was. Nothing serious, just having fun. You would meet up at all times of the day. You weren’t trying to sneak around. You even posted things about each other. You weren’t ashamed of this courtship. You figured everyone was on the same page: that this wasn’t going to be an on-going thing. That, at the end of each rendezvous, you’d part ways and go back to feeling normal and thin and start over the next weekend. It was casual. But food turned on you. It became a stage-5 clinger, wanting to hang around. You woke up — it was there. You tried on clothes — it was there. You hopped on the scale — it was there. You realize, FUCK. I’M OLD. Suddenly, you’re an advocate for the “It’s not a diet; it’s a lifestyle” way of life. You buy a Spiralizer (seriously buy one though), train your tastebuds to halfway enjoy the taste of raw zoodles over angel hair pasta, and actually start saying no to the onslaught of cookies, brownies, cupcakes, and general sugarsex food that seems to live in every corner of your office. Congratulations — you’re getting older.

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Staying in on weekend nightS is PREFERABLE

Just because you’re getting crotchety and more easily irritable doesn’t mean you don’t love your friends and being around them. In fact, you probably cherish them that much more because, in your old age, you’re realizing how badly the majority of human beings suck. #nonewfriends. But, something weird happens. Your FOMO disappears. That acronym that plagued you throughout your 20s suddenly drops off. You don’t… CARE anymore. You don’t really give a shit if you’re missing out or what everyone else is up to. I mean, you do to an extent. You hope the friends you care about are out there having fun if that’s their prerogative, but it in no way affects your mood that way it used to. A few years ago, you might’ve sat on your couch on a Friday night, feeling impossibly sorry for your planless evening, emotionally cutting yourself by skimming through Instagram to see how much “fun” everyone else was having. Now? Give you a couch, a worn-in pair of sweatpants, a blanket, your dog, a delicious order-in or homemade meal, some wine (or maybe just some water if you’re being extra old), and FIRE UP THAT NETFLIX, SON. Life is busy and stressful and it only gets more so the older you become. So you learn to love quiet weekend nights. Weekends are sacred, and choosing to waste them by being out of commission because of a hard night of partying is just not something you’re into anymore. You’ve got too much to do; to many little errands you’ve been planning to CRUSH this weekend. So you’re gonna do you, let others do them, and meet them somewhere in the middle if you feel like it.

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Because I had next to no control over my verbosity on this post, I’m going to revisit this topic soon with more indisputable signs of getting older. Right after I get my car washed, have a solid grocery shop, get my oil changed, and meal prep.

xox,

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Using Your Dog As A Scapegoat (Or That One Time I Threw Up A Bottle Of Wine)

I don’t create great stories; great stories create me.

It was early December. I had been very, very casually fraternizing with a guy who I won’t refer to as a gentleman because he doesn’t deserve the title. At the time, though, he seemed magical (don’t they all?). Learned, cultured, put-together, and had more on the ball than most. The fact that he opened our first date with broadcasting to me how many outfits he had gone through before deciding on what he had on was overshadowed by his overall charm. The fact that the following list was what he shared with me in regards to what he first notices in a girl was also overlooked because I’m dumb: eyebrows, teeth (not smile), denim, shoes, and presence. In that order. I don’t know, guys. Sometimes I’m just blatantly unsmart.

On our (what I didn’t know at the time to be but was) final date, poor decision after poor decision was made. No dinner, just drinks. But not just any drinks either — wine. Two bottles of it. That’s one bottle per person in case you needed clarification. All this lightly coated with a meek artisan cheese board. If you’re reading this and scoffing at my weakness re: finishing one bottle of wine to myself, I apologize for not being more of a lush but one bottle of wine ingested into my system is enough to give me the spins while out in public with my eyes wide open. And that’s exactly what happened.

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Spins. Across the table from this guy. In public. Completely conscious, sitting in the upright position. These are the moments in which I thank whoever’s in charge of my reaction to copious amounts of alcohol because whoever’s in charge blessed me with the ability to not be an obvious drunk. At least not to someone who’s only been out with me a few times. 

So there we sat. Me spinning. Him probably fine because I picked up on some low-key alcoholism from this guy early-on. I breathed a quiet yet heavily-coated-with-wine sigh of relief when he asked for the check and wondered to myself how the hell I was going to not die or embarrass myself between getting up from the table and going home. And there was no way I wasn’t gonna make out with this guy, so feigning a functioning level of drunk was imperative.

We get back to my home. I let Cece out to pee while he makes his way inside to settle in for what he doesn’t know is going to be one of the most drunken necking sessions in United States history. Things ensue. Sexy things. Said sexy things come to an end. Him spending the night is an unspoken mutual decision. Goodnight’s are said. Lights are turned off. Bodies are laid down to rest. And that’s when I realize…

HOLY SHIT I’M GOING TO VOMIT.

 

And not your expected, run-of-the-mill vomit either. It was one of those waves of nausea you know is going to end really poorly for you and anyone witnessing. It was the type of nausea that overtakes your soul, seizing you in its unrelenting grip and letting you know who’s the captain now. 

It was I-just-drank-an-entire-bottle-of-wine-on-an-empty-stomach-then-engaged-in-low-level-cardio-activity nausea.

Remembering that this douchelord had once lamented about having a weak stomach for anything blood, vomit, or injury related, I bolt upright realizing there’s no way I can make out with the porcelain throne since he’s within earshot. My bathroom vent is weak and barely muffles farts and no amount of running water is going to cover the noises that are about to explode from my body. Thinking on my brown-out feet, I throw on my robe and initiate operation: USE CECE AS A SCAPEGOAT TO GET OUTSIDE, NOW.

“Cece! Cease!” I panic-whisper into the black hole of darkness that is my bedroom.

Nothing.

“Cece. Outside? Pee-pees?” My whisper is growing more panicked as I feel the wine and Manchego start to creep their way upwards.

Still nothing.

“I think she’s passed out,” offers Sir Idiot.

“CECE. OUTSIDE. NOW!” I barely get out the “now” as the vomit enters my throat, full throttle. She hears the desperation in my voice and snaps to, jumping off the bed.

We run to the front door together. I throw it open, Cece trailing right behind me.

“MOVE!” I demand of Cece. This isn’t about her and going pee-pees. It never was. 

I fling my body off the front porch, landing on all fours in the grass. The scene that follows is what I’m sure inspired “The Exorcist” in another lifetime. What makes the situation even better is the fact that underneath my robe was nothing but me. So there I was, a young woman at 1am, crouching down on all fours in the dead of night, in front of her house, spewing vomit, with her entire backside and all that comes with it hanging out for any neighborhood night owl to behold. It was a scene, man. 

Of course, once it’s over, I feel almost sober and like a woman rebirthed into the world. Cece (who, by the way, never actually peed) and I head back into the house. I wash out my mouth and clean the streaks of wet mascara off my face and re-enter my bedroom business as usual.

“You okay?” Prick Face asks. 

“Yeah! Cece just had to go.” Good girl, Cece, I think to myself. Good girl.

The morning dawns. Life is brighter. The world is sober as am I. I awake refreshed, ready to forget the horror of just hours prior. As Shit Head redresses himself and sits down in my living room to complete the ever-exhausting male task of putting on his shoes, I take Cece out to actually pee. Her and I head outside, not a care in the world before I spot last night’s incident staring at me in the light of day.

A PILE of neon pink. Neon. Pink. A miniature mountain of it. Just sitting expectedly in the grass where I left it, waiting to be dealt with. 

I gasp as if I forgot last night happened or, at the very least, it did but the wine-vomit had somehow cleaned itself or been eaten by a stoned Raccoon overnight. I panic. The guy is right behind the front door of my home and could walk out any second once he’s gotten his shoes tied right.

In a moment all-too-similar to the previous night, I’m back down on all fours (this time fully-clothed and at least half-sober) and begin to tear up the Earth. Dirt, grass, twigs, leaves — I yank it all out of the ground with my bare hands like a rabid caveman trying to hide his hidden treasure. Except this isn’t treasure I’m covering up — it’s a small pile of neon pink wine vomit. My hands are covered in dirt and my fingernails resemble those of a miner, but the evidence is buried and that’s all that matters. I collect myself, walk back inside, casually wash my hands acting as if it’s just something I do every morning before I leave the house, and it’s all over. We’re safe. 

The moral of this story? Eat before you drink and always remember: your dog is your best scapegoat.

That’s all she wrote.

xox,

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