Hello from the other side

Hello, it’s me. For the first time in… over a year. Long absences aren’t infrequent in the world of blogging, and sitting down to write this post already has me feeling a little cliche. I hope you will understand, though, because I think I did have a good reason for disappearing.

The thing is, shortly after my last post on my blog, my mother passed away unexpectedly. We knew she was sick, but I guess you always think there will be a little more time, especially since my mom was only 49. Losing my mom quickly split my life into two parts, the before and the after. And the after has sucked for a really long time. But now it’s starting to get a little better.

I haven’t stopped writing during the past year, but I stopped sharing things. I think I’m ready to get back to that now. I hid pretty much all of my old posts from my site, though. I’m not sure why. Maybe I felt like the things I was writing about were no longer relevant, or silly in the context of my mother’s passing, but I am ready to start fresh.

As soon as I posted this (originally under the title “Testing”) I was surprised to have views and comments (shouts to Michelle for being awesome) so I know you’re still out there, and hopefully still the amazing community you were a year ago!  I’m sure it will take me some time, but I’m ready to begin again.

Thanks for reading. 🙂

February 23


First Monday after break. Coming in hot. Made some questionable life decisions this weekend but I am eating fried chicken in my bed and I am ready to face reality. The fact that I have no sheets on my bed is only a minor setback. I slept on my bare mattress last night because it’s laundry day and I’m not adult enough to own multiple sheet sets.

So I went out on Friday with Roomie and all her college friends, who are absolutely wonderful and always treat me as one of their own. I don’t often drink myself into oblivion but they had the genius idea of going to a BYOB Thai Restaurant, where I proceeded to order only an appetizer and drink two bottles of prosecco.

After this, we went dancing. After two more vodka sodas I grew overemotional about the beauty of the music and was placed in a cab. Upon my arrival home, I made the intelligent decision to strip down to my underwear and draw all over myself with magic markers.

Just like this except I'm 24 and decided to use my own body as a canvas.

Just like this except I’m 24 and decided to use my own body as a canvas.

Being teachers, we have markers all over our apartment. It’s an occupational hazard. By the time Roomie came to take the markers away, I had covered my forearms with…

  • The word “OK” about 20 times
  • A Game of Thrones quote
  • A picture of a giraffe

At this moment, one of my cuter exes texts me. Let’s make his blog name…Cam. He’s a cameraman for a TV show. Adorably scruffy blonde hipster. I stopped calling him back when I got serious with Sam, but then immediately started drunk texting him the second Sam and I broke up. Ain’t that always the play?

So, despite everything, Cam wanted to catch up. I was into this idea but also had a magic marker giraffe drawn on my arm. I leaped gazellelike into the shower (an impressive feat after laying on the floor and demanding snacks for the better part of an hour) and began scrubbing my artwork off.

Anyway, Cam ended up staying over. He (tactfully) did not comment on my technicolor arms (but that does not mean he did not notice). The Cat did not like him any more than she liked the last boy, and yowled piteously at my bedside all night, inspiring Cam to ask me how much longer she is supposed to live.


Not having any sheets on my bed last night means I have clean sheets tonight and it is miraculous. I have suffered and am now in the promised land. I even shaved my legs just for my clean sheets. Ladies out there will back me up on this one: there is no better feeling than clean sheets and shaved legs. It’s like a big silky cloud. Chances of me getting up for work on time tomorrow are officially slim to none.

February 20


Well, it is after midnight, and Roomie and I have just returned from the Miami adventure. The sixty degree temperature change was a lot less fun in reverse, but overall we had an amazing trip filled with palm trees, sunburns, Tequila, a 911 call made at 1:30 am to report a crime at our sketchy hotel, and boys. More on all that later.

So I walk in the door a half hour ago ready for a shower (nothing makes me feel grosser than a plane). I start the water and get in. My hair is halfway wet when all of a sudden a huge cockroach runs out from the folds of the shower curtain at my feet. I screamed, jumped backwards into the shower shelf (knocking over everything precariously perched on it) and ran out into the hallway.

We don’t see cockroaches often, but Sam once mentioned to me that if you see one cockroach it means there are 100 more living in the walls. Is this true? If so, maybe don’t tell me. I cant afford to move. Anyway, Roomie and I have seen about 5 in our two years of living here, and we are 5/5 at killing the supposedly invincible beasts. Thus far, we have…

  1. Drowned one in the sink
  2. Trapped one under a plastic bowl and left it there until it suffocated
  3. Sicced The Cat on one (who somehow killed and ate it despite having no teeth)
  4. Smashed one by waiting for it to run out from beneath the sofa and dropping one of our students textbooks on it

And now…

5. Sprayed one repeatedly with a mixture of bleach and carpet cleaner until its legs stopped moving

Now I am in my bed with my hair half wet and I’m just gonna sleep like this. The shower mood has been ruined.  Nothing says welcome back to Brooklyn like vanquishing a cockroach in a towel.

February 13


It’s the eve of my big Miami girls trip that we’ve been planning for months and I’m in my bed crying.

Sam broke up with me in October, but he still makes appearances in almost all of my dreams. I was just cleaning my room and I stumbled across a book he loaned me. All his t-shirts are at the bottom of my dresser because I don’t want to give them back but I can’t stand wearing them. It’s been five months and I just caught myself in my bed with The Cat, actually whispering out loud to myself “I miss him so much. I miss him so much. I miss him so much.”

It’s not that it’s the day before Valentine’s, because I don’t really care about that. It’s not really even that he’s leaving this week for a trip Costa Rica and I was supposed to go with him. It’s that I miss him so much as a person that it actually hurts. I feel like I’m drowning in it. Everyone keeps telling me that it was a terrible relationship and cites the many times he didn’t text me back or rolled over and went to sleep without saying goodnight. The time where he went and had drinks with an ex and didn’t tell me about it. All the hidden texts, all the shadiness. The fact that he never wanted to go on dates or even hold my hand.

Maybe they’re right, and maybe it’s cliche, but they don’t know him like I do. And I still love everything about him, from his mismatched sheets and prized salt water aquarium to how much he does for other people. He holds so much inside him and is so closed off, but we had so many wonderful moments while we were dating. We completed each other, even though it might have been more fire and ice than yin and yang. He made me happy like nobody else ever has. It’s something that nobody on the outside could ever really understand. I know that’s what everybody says. I know this is classic textbook bad relationship and I know I’m not any different.

My life's a freaking Taylor Swift song.

My life’s a fucking Taylor Swift song.

I’m just sitting here thinking of all the ways things could have gone differently. Our issue was timing more than compatibility, and maybe if we tried again things could be different, but I know that decision, if it ever happens, has to be his. If I drag him kicking and screaming into a relationship, it will never make me feel fulfilled and safe. I know I deserve more than what I was getting from him, I’m trying to hard to move on but all of these dates and all of these distractions just aren’t doing it for me.

Thinking about all of this has just exhausted me. I’m a puddle of tears listening to my breakup mix for the umpteenth time. I just wish I could let him go.


ALRIGHT DUMB BUTT THAT’S ENOUGH. Have another Oreo and move the hell on. Get excited for Miami.

It is 10 degrees in NYC and 70 degrees in Miami and I could not be more stoked about the impending 60 degree temperature jump. Have not packed or mentally prepared The Cat for her abandonment.


Packing is going…well. I have currently packed ten pairs of shoes which Roomie has deemed excessive for a six day trip. I love shoes. I love shoes the way some people love crack. I cannot bear to leave any of them behind. I’m already traumatized because my favorite TYPE of shoe is boots, and I am not bringing any of my 14 pairs. South Beach is not fit for boots, Roomie says.

I have no room in my suitcase for my arsenal of hair care products. Need bigger suitcase.


February 10


I sometimes feel as if I am the only woman in America who has not read Fifty Shades of Grey. With the movie coming out it seems to be all anyone talks about. My little freaking sister has read it, and I want nothing to do with it. Does this mean I am not normal? Does this mean I am boring and bad at sex??

I don’t know, but this is the funniest thing I’ve seen today. Enjoy.

Three more days of work before Miami. Lately, work hasn’t been too bad, though. Everyone is in a post-quality review stupor.  I’ve been teaching chemical and physical changes to the kids, which means lighting things on fire and calling it science. Try this at your next party: take a dollar bill, dip it in water, and then dip it in isopropyl alcohol. You can light it on fire and the isopropyl alcohol will burn right off and turn a really cool color, leaving you with a mostly unharmed but soaking wet dollar. I can promise you that your dollar bill will be okay at least 70% of the time… and if not, singed money is still money.

At least i didn’t mess up the $20 I tried on a dare.

In other news, Roomie and Friend-from-home (let’s call her Izzy) and I have all been prepping for Miami by attempting to drink a gallon of water a day. This goal was born after I read an article from an internet source of dubious reliability that promises more water equals beautiful skin and a flatter tummy. It is now after 8:30pm.  I still have at least 40 ounces left. I consumed most of my water today during my second period prep, and then I had to teach four in a row with a full-to-bursting bladder. I have peed a dozen times and I have a new zit blooming on my chin. Additionally, I ate butter and noodles for dinner. I should just accept that I will not be quite to Karlie Kloss standards for Miami and begin again effective tomorrow.

Doorbell has been ringing intermittently for the past minute and a half. Am reluctant to go answer because last time doorbell went off this much it was Roomie’s ex. What if he is back? She is in bed fragile with a migraine. Maybe it will be one of my exes (hopefully a good one) coming to tearfully reunite with me.


Was delivery food for downstairs neighbor, they had the wrong bell. Que sera sera. Someday, my prince will come.


February 5


Have just finished destroying my kitchen in the name of education. My students have complained that we don’t do enough hands on activities (we do as many as I can! they’re expensive!), and since we are doing states of matter right now I thought I might as well show them Oobleck. Oobleck is a non-Newtonian fluid, which means it does not obey the normal laws of Physics. It is cheaply made using cornstarch and water, but for having only two ingredients it is messy as hell.

I was originally going to let my children make the Oobleck in the classroom. I was saved from this by a naptime vision of the bell ringing and my next class coming in to find mass anarchy and cornstarch everywhere. I decided to make the Oobleck myself. This decision has rendered my freshly purchased and non-returnable $30 dollars of measuring spoons and bowls effectively useless. I originally was going to make one big bowl of Oobleck, but then realized that, being a non-Newtonian fluid, scooping it out to distribute it would be quite difficult.

Therefore, I threw myself on the mercy of the Japanese women at my local sushi restaurant for takeout soup bowls. I spun them a sob story about the state of education in Brooklyn and wailed I would buy ten miso soups if I had to. They looked at me like I was insane and gave em to me for three bucks. A bargain.

This became my kitchen:

Oobleck assembly line.

Oobleck assembly line.

Then, The Cat sensed she was not the center of attention. She grew distressed. She emerged from her lair under Roomie’s bed and came to investigate.

Deceptively cute even when covered in cornstarch.

Deceptively cute even when covered in cornstarch.

Now, hours later, I have neatly assembled eight bowls of Oobleck, ready for my kids to wreak havoc with tomorrow. I actually wrote on the worksheet that they were not allowed to…

  • Eat the Oobleck
  • Put the Oobleck on another student’s hair or clothing
  • Put the Oobleck near another student’s hair or clothing
  • Throw the Oobleck
  • Rub the Oobleck on their faces
  • Put foreign objects into the Oobleck

I think I closed most of the more disastrous loopholes, but I have no doubt they will find whatever loopholes are left.


Have been cleaning up my kitchen and lost track of time. Have second date with Likes to Talk at 7:30. We are going to Chinatown for soup dumplings. Everybody who knows me finds the idea of me eating soup dumplings hilarious. I am extraordinarily clumsy and awkward and have never eaten such a thing but have heard they are large and messy and exactly what they sound like.

This picture comes from an article entitled "How to Eat a Soup Dumpling." The fact that this article exists is not reassuring.

This picture comes from an article entitled “How to Eat a Soup Dumpling.” The fact that this article exists is not reassuring.

It is basically a pocket of boiling water, what could go wrong? I really hope they aren’t spicy. I don’t do spicy.

Having lost track of time, I am now in the unpleasant but common-for-me situation of having to choose between dirty straight hair or clean curly hair. My hair does not curl nicely naturally and without a curling iron. It forms a halo of frizz around my head unless I put on enough gel, and then it is crunchy. I am polling my friends and kicking myself for not having time for clean straight hair which is obviously the best option.


Roomie said curly/clean but after I already got my head wet Sister finally texted back and said dirty/straight because boys don’t notice dirty hair. Emotional turmoil. Maybe the soup dumplings will distract him from my hair.

February 4


I have disappeared from blogging for a week, as I knew I would. Today was the dreaded Quality Review at my school and for days I’ve thought of nothing else. This big event also happens to correspond with report card grades being due, so basically I haven’t had time to breathe, let alone blog.

The Quality Review appeared to go alright, though. At any rate, we will not fail and be closed, which is the worst case scenario I have been convinced is the truth for days. My work friends and I made bets on which of my coworkers would fake sick to get out of it, and I hate to say it was enough that we had to call in additional substitutes. Also, one of my coworkers wore jeans and another didn’t have a lesson plan to give in to the superintendent. Are you kidding me? I spent a week planning, bribed my students and wore control top tights (the biggest sacrifice, undoubtedly, especially due to recent slide into obesity. Still have lines on my hips). Anyway, I’m exhausted from all this drama.

I’ll properly write something in the next few days but I didn’t want to take a whole week off without touching this thing. This blog is not my first blog attempt, and I find that the longer you go without posting, the harder it is to motivate to come back. Anyone else agree?

In other news, 10 days till Miami. Officially dream body crunch time. All clean eating attempts thus far have failed miserably after half a day or whenever I saw a bag of Cheetos but now I am determined. There are no snacks in my apartment. When I want to eat I will drink an entire bottle of water and then do sit-ups until I am a fatigued puddle on the floor in a room that is not the kitchen.

Also, I must stop attempting to hold The Cat before I parade around South Beach in a swimsuit. My students have asked me why I have cuts and scratches all over my chest and forearms. I’m fine, kids, it’s just my cat is the antichrist.

January 29


Today was a bad day for two reasons. First of all, when I was on cafeteria duty with the eighth graders I somehow got ketchup all over my butt. Don’t ask me how. Maybe someone stepped on a packet on the floor and it squirted up. Maybe I backed into a ketchup covered object. Maybe the ketchup was subtly placed on my butt by a malicious 13 year old. The world will never know.

Regardless,  I didn’t realize I was covered in ketchup until my assistant principal walked by and pointed it out. I cannot decide what the worst repercussion of this incident was. Was it the fact that 300 8th graders witnessed my boss dabbing my ass with a paper towel trying to remove ketchup that I could not see because my booty is just that big? If not that, then it was definitely trying to teach about elements and compounds while my immature middle schoolers screamed period jokes at me every time I turned around to write on the board.

“Miss, miss, is it yo period? You gonna have a baby now miss??” (My middle schoolers do not really understand how periods work.)

I was explaining to Roomie how now I am an adult and therefore capable of handling these incidents (most of the time). I cannot imagine how traumatizing this event would be if it had happened to me when I was actually in middle school.

The other thing that happened today was I accidentally butt-texted Sam on the Snapchat app. Do not ask me how this is possible, for I do not know. My butt was having a busy day.

The worst part is, it being Snapchat and all, I do not even know what my butt said to Sam in this text. He just responded and was all “I think you butt-texted me, haha, how are you?” Turmoil. I flipped out and just responded, “Oops, the new Snapchat update is weird! Sorry!” and did not respond anymore after that. I think the fact that I cannot even handle seeing his name on my phone screen is a pretty good indicator that I am not ready to attempt to engage in normal conversation.

This is all I got. THANKS TO MY BUTT.

This is all I got. THANKS TO MY BUTT.

Anyway. I am attempting to rally because I have another OkCupid date tonight. I used to think online dating was weird and impersonal until I moved to this godforsaken city and discovered that almost everybody under the age of 30 does it these days. Out of my four closest friends who are in relationships, three of them met their significant others online. It’s just statistics. You increase the size of the pool of potential boyfriends when you online date. Anyway, these are all the things I tell myself when I am trying to convince myself I am not weird for having an OkCupid account.

I am just not feeling very winning and charming tonight though. My stomach is upset and I have hat hair, but I will trudge out into what’s left of the snow in search of my one true love. I’ll let you know what this one’s fatal flaw is.

The only thing motivating me is this guy cannot possibly be worse than Snakespeare. I seriously doubt there is a weirder guy in all five boroughs.


Was backing up admiring how good my hair looks in my full length mirror when I tripped over one of The Cat’s five fifty dollar scratching posts.  I forgot I put it in the middle of my room and covered it in catnip…my gorgeous expensive blue rug is the item of the week for clawing and shredding. The Cat has an appetite for destruction.

Fell on my butt like some comical representation of how people actually fall with arms flailing and an audible thump. Will likely have bruise the size of Brazil on my thigh for the weekend.


Well. I have returned. I had a really nice time, actually. We went to a cool place and had beers and listened to a band. He was very sweet.  There was a fatal flaw, though, everybody. And it was that he had a “philosophy” for everything. “My philosophy about drummers is that…” “I think when it comes to cars a good philosophy is…” I’m no philosopher. I took one class of it in college because I had to and that was more than enough for me. Why does anyone sit around and philosophize about anything anyway? I don’t know. I really have nothing to complain about with this dude other than his philosophies, which isn’t that bad to be quite honest. He’ll text me tomorrow. He wants to take me to dinner. We’ll see.

I’m beginning to think that the fatal flaw for all these guys is that they are not Sam. And that’s a fatal flaw that seven billion people have. There’s no fixing that.

Even though he was always indifferent to me, even though he slept with other girls for most of the time he was with me, even though I tried so hard to just be enough for him, I was never enough. But still, when I’m out and I’m dressed all nicely and wearing my new Mac lipstick, all I want is sweatpants on his couch. And I just don’t understand this about myself.

I always looked at people in bad relationships and wondered why they didn’t just leave. He’s cheating on you, I would think, don’t you value yourself more than that? He told me from day one he didn’t want a relationship and he couldn’t be that for me. And he never was. So why didn’t I walk? I have no idea, honestly, and crying and wine night and therapy and four months hasn’t gotten me any closer to understanding. Maybe it’s because he challenges me more than anyone ever has. Maybe it’s because I think that when he tries he really understands me. Despite what a shitty person he is, he always felt like he completed me. Like he was my other half. Does this mean my half is shitty too?

I don’t know. I cried on the subway the whole way home.

In positive news, I was sitting on my futon feeling sad when all of a sudden The Cat comes up and scratches her expensive scratching post right in front of me for the first time ever. Please note the fact that she did not scratch my door frame or my expensive rug or my sofa… she scratched the post. This has never happened. The cardboard of the scratcher is pristine except for the two square inches she deigned to scratch this evening. I took a video and showered her with treats.

Sometimes animals just get what you need.

January 26


Blogging at you live from within the snowy grasp of Winter Storm Juno. Hey, when you’re The Weather Channel, every blizzard needs a good name.  I guess they don’t have that much to get excited about.

That’s one big beautiful snow day!

I still maintain that two feet of snow is not that much. However, I come from a state far snowier than this one. The main difference is my state’s infrastructure is ready and waiting for storms like this, so something as pesky as two little feet wouldn’t faze us. NYC, though, is freaking out. As is my school community. We have a snow day tomorrow, which they announced during the day today. This led to many of my fellow educators having a pissing contest over the size of their winter storm emergency kits while we waited to go home.

Now, call me crazy, but growing up I’d get snowed in for a week without all this stuff and somehow manage to cling to survival. This idea did not go over well in the teacher’s lounge. When they realized I did not have anything to contribute to their conversation about emergency generator strength and “one gallon per person per day” they all pounced on me in concern. They urged Roomie and I to assemble the following list of items on our way home from work… “trust us, you’ll be glad you did.”

  1. A gallon of clean drinking water per person per day
  2. Batteries
  3. Flashlights
  4. Three day supply of non-perishable foods
  5. First Aid Kits
  6. Blankets
  7. Rope
  8. Battery powered radio
  9. Whistle
  10. Are you bored yet?

Roomie and I realized our home was missing a few critical things and got to work. After one hour of texting back and forth about who was going where as she commuted from her school and I commuted from mine, we have assembled the following winter storm emergency kit which only varies slightly from the original.

  1. Glade Air-Freshening Candles in Honeydew Melon and Lilac scents (All our flashlights are at school from when we did Phases of the Moon with our students)
  2. Two large Burger King combo meals (Cheeseburger for me, chicken nuggets for her)
  3. Wine
  4. Toilet Paper
  5. Canned Soup (we did something right)
  6. Cat food
  7. Eggs
  8. Cheddar flavored Goldfish

We were already home when we realized we forgot the clean drinking water. Thankfully, we have two empty tequila bottles and a sink.


Did you know this type of snowstorm is called a Manitoba Mauler? Yes, it’s a much lesser known cousin of the Alberta Clipper and apparently there are people who devote their days to studying the difference between the two.  I am currently reading the Wikipedia page and learning all about how warm Pacific air travels over the mountains and becomes a big scary Chinook wind before getting “entangled with a cold air mass” above the Canadian prairie.

Am unsure about this map but it uses official sounding vocabulary.

Why are the Clippers an LA sports team? Canada dropped the puck on that one.

My mother (who I have not spoken to in weeks but is now the epitome of parental concern) was very excited to use the term “nor’easter” on the phone. I think she thinks it sounds cool. I hate to shut you down, Ma, but this one’s from Canada, eh?

January 24


Well THAT date was a disaster to the umpteenth degree. I am now in my bed semi-drunk and recovering while waiting for my frozen Trader Joe’s Tikka Masala to cook. Do I know how to live, or what?

We went to a bar where after 20 minutes of forced conversation I determined that my semi-concerned and freaked out opinions of this guy were right. After he invited me to his family’s cottage in Michigan (review: this was date number 2) I told him I only wanted to be friends. At this point he asked me to go to one more bar with him. I was too polite to refuse. We were just friends, after all.  He took me to a Speakeasy with fifteen dollar cocktails. I paid. Then, I had to run an errand to another bar to buy a t-shirt for a friend (long story) and he just kind of followed me there. He kept touching me and telling me how hot I looked even though “we’re just friends.” Finally, I got the hell out. I told him I was going home and I went to use the bathroom before saying goodbye. When I got back, I saw he had gone and bought another beer so that I would have to stay another five minutes (and he said this to me). He wanted to buy me one, but I said no, I really had to go, at which point he tried to kiss me and I just NOPE-D on out of the West Village.

Due to the amount of vodka I consumed to tolerate this date from hell with the psycho-clingy snake man, I texted my ex. No, not THAT ex (Sam). Another ex. Good for you, Allie.

Now aforementioned ex thinks I want “monkey business”(his words, NOT mine), The Cat is eating my brand new socks, and I have just spilled Tikka Masala red sauce (impossible to remove) all over my bed.

What the fuck ever, let’s watch Netflix.


These sheets are toast. I’m drinking milk with what’s left of my Indian food. Is that allowed? I’m somehow thinking that’s not allowed. The Cat is on the prowl for some Tikka but I think it will upset her already delicate digestive tract. Watching The One Where Eddie Won’t Leave (one of my favorite Friends episodes ever).

These are the updates from Brooklyn.


I awakened at 7:05am to my cat prodding my face with her paw, wanting breakfast. I stumbled out of bed to go feed her and when I got back I saw on my phone that I had FIVE texts from Snake Man.

We got a Snakespeare over here.

We got a Snakespeare over here.

Please excuse my hungover hasty blurring out of sensitive information. That aside, just reading it makes me uncomfortable. Does anybody have any idea what he’s even talking about?

This is only three of the five texts, mind you. I don’t swear a lot, but what the actual fuck. Is this guy going to come kill me in my sleep, or what?

Roomie was also up and prowling around because of our internal teacher alarm clocks. She came and laid in bed with me and we discussed. We think he will probably text me again when he wakes up in a while. Or — god forbid — another phone call. I probably won’t answer. Do I even have to pretend to be nice to this guy anymore? I’m all sorts of done with this entire situation and really creeped out. RIP, Snakespeare, and I really do hope you find a girl someday who can match your… intensity?

At least we found his OKC flaw. Now that I know my theory is still in tact we can be at peace.

Snow in Brooklyn which means my chances of going to the gym are less than zero. I am trying to make myself get excited about eating only Greek yogurt for breakfast but I can’t. I just want bacon and not to be fat for Miami.


Went shopping with Roomie despite the snow. Roomie continues to torment me with a drunk voicemail I left her three months ago in which I am home alone and laying on my rug pretending to be The Cat. Am now exhausted from my five hours of consciousness and am preparing to nap.

Nothing from Snakespeare, thank the lord and all his baby angels.