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 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.

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.

January 13


Did you know that if you get hot pepper in your eye the best remedy is milk?

These are things we are finding out in our apartment tonight.

I was sitting on my bed eating some corn after the gym (two days in a row! I know!) when all of a sudden Roomie starts howling in pain from the kitchen. She’s as terrible as a cook as me, which makes me think she has amputated her hand or similar. Rushed to her aid and she is hysterically screaming and crying because I guess she got juice from a hot pepper in her eye and the whole side of her face was on fire. This kind of pepper was the super super hot variety, evidently, a few million Scoville units past anything I could handle. I danced around for a few minutes because I didn’t know how to help her so finally I went to Google remedies.

Five minutes later she was laying on the floor of our living room while I poured whole milk into her eye and The Cat judged us from a corner.

It’s no wonder we’re single to be quite honest.


Firing up the egg cooker again. Karlie Kloss probably eats egg whites all the time. A dozen a day. No nachos tonight. I already brushed my teeth to avoid temptation of eating anything else but it will probably not work if I had to guess.

Waiting to speak to a promising OkCupid boy, who has asked if he can call me (which my friends think is odd and not in line with standard protocol). We started texting last night and he seems very sweet — he described his teenage sister as “beautiful and complex” and asked lots of nice questions to me. From extensive internet stalking (oh, right, they can see when you look at their LinkedIn) I have deduced that he is considerably taller than me and has a nice smile. I’m coming around to the idea of a phone call because I will be able to tell if he has an effeminate voice or not without having to put on makeup and go sit in a dive bar for two hours.

It is 8:30. Obviously I have other fabulous plans, I am not simply sitting in my apartment tonight awaiting phone calls from mysterious strangers. Also, it doesn’t do to call after 9, I learned this in manners school. Tick tock my dear.


January 3


Official first day of following resolutions, as all day yesterday was spent on an airplane back from home and did not count. And nobody ever counts the first. In the words of Bridget Jones, everyone is too hungover and cranky.

When alarm went off at 9:30am, hit snooze until 11:30am, when I was awakened by my cat poking my face with her paw and wondering why I was still comatose.

I was supposed to go to the gym today. That’s alright, probably best to ease into these things. Besides, it’s good to get some really high-quality sleep on the weekends. I’m back at work on Monday and I will have plenty of time to go to the gym after that. I will not, however, have time to sleep till 11:30am when I have to be coherent in front of a classroom of children at 8:00am.

Things to accomplish today:

  1. Unpack suitcase from vacation. Do not live out of suitcase like bag lady until February.
  2. Grade 90 five paragraph essays submitted to me by my middle schoolers for evaluation over Winter Break. Plan of doing ten per day for nine days over break failed miserably so therefore must be wildly productive and get through them all today. Oh, also, there are 120 unit exams. Those should be done too.
  3. Clean temper tantrum cat hairballs off of everything while trying not to dwell on the fact that your cat is punishing you for having to suffer the indignity of an excellent cat sitter who cost $17 per day.

Best get going.


Well, I did not grade the scary stack of student work that I promised myself I would look at today. Which means that all of tomorrow will be spent in a state of frenzied, coffee-fueled grading. Things to look forward to.

I did, however, unpack my suitcase, which is a big accomplishment for me, as I usually do not do this for several weeks following my trip. In fact, over the course of these few weeks, I usually shove MORE things into my packed suitcase off the floor when I am “cleaning,” which makes the final unpacking event much more… involved. I was surprised at how well it went when I did not encounter a layer of random receipts, hairbrushes, batteries, cat toys, and other debris before getting to the main event. Clothes are now hanging nicely in the closet and I’m feeling very proud of myself.

Currently waiting on roommate to get back to apartment from her Christmas on Long Island and enduring malevolent stares from The Cat. She tends to forget that I rescued her from certain euthanasia in September, when I chose her half-blind, toothless, yowling, 7-year-old self over dozens of frolicking kittens at the shelter. Even the adoption ladies were all, “This is not an easy cat. This is a SPECIAL cat.” But, because I am a sucker for a sob story and they told me all about her previous abusive homes, here she is. She tolerates me, and I think sometimes we might be approaching love.

I have been idly browsing OkCupid but I am thinking I might delete it. I’m noticing that everybody has one big flaw that you cannot see when you look at their profile, but becomes immediately apparent as soon as you decide to meet them in person. They’re usually dealbreakers for me. Thus far, I have encountered…

  • A good looking, well-educated engineer with a voice like Minnie Mouse
  • An Ivy-League educated banker who SAID he was 6’2″ but was actually more like 5’2″ (and I towered over him let me tell you)
  • A guitarist for a band who must have photoshopped his pictures so as not to include his cystic acne
  • An actor with glorious sculpted eight-pack abs who turned out to be a pretentious womanizer

All of this makes me wonder if I have some huge dealbreaking flaw as well that I am blissfully unaware of. Do they meet me and be like, oh man, what a freak that one is? Since I stopped texting them all back I guess I’ll never know.