Eating Disorders, Adoption, and Why I’m a Semi-Happy Size 6

My binge eating disorder is this weird, omnipresent thing. It’s always lurking about in the shadows, but that doesn’t mean I’m binge eating every opportunity I get, but THAT doesn’t mean I don’t have it during the off-season. I mean, it’s like other mental illnesses in that way — I have clinical depression, but I’m not plagued with the sads and the “I-don’t-want-to-exist”s 24/7 (thank goodness).

So I guess that’s my way of explaining why I don’t discuss it all that much. I’m not ashamed of it so much as I’m either blissfully unaware that I’m in the throes of major binge eating till one night I’m laying in bed with the worst stomachache of life because I ate when I should have stopped five meals ago OR I’m eating just fine. Until I’m not.

Binge eating disorder is the one no one talks about and the majority of people don’t believe is a real issue (“You’re just eating because you’re bored,” “Everyone snacks before bed,” “You don’t look like you have an eating disorder”). Do we all binge from time to time? Totally. We have seratonin in our stomachs that reacts more strongly than the seratonin in our brains, and when carbs hit, we’re euphoric, and that feels awesome, so we have more. It’s not complicated. But the whole disorder — eating alone so others don’t see you, lying about what you’ve eaten, feeling such an incredible sense of shame nearly all of the time that you start to wonder if purging is actually as bad as it sounds. (I’ve never tried. I’m not one for throwing up.) It has nothing to do with the food — nothing at all.

Mine can be supposedly traced back to my days in the womb, little Fetus Mary just chilling in some amniotic fluid in the belly of a woman who starved herself to hide her pregnancy (which she successfully did all the way to the day of my birth, where I emerged feet first at 5 1/2 lbs.). As it was explained to me by both a Dietetics major and my psychologist, when I did get food — any food at all, which we can assume was infrequent and lacking in basic nutrition — I gobbled it up. I yearned for food, and when it arrived, I snatched up as much as I could because I knew it might be awhile before I got more. And my brain developed with the fear that perhaps the food wouldn’t come, that I had to eat what I could when opportunity arose, because it may be the last chance.

So here I am, 32 years old, with the occasional penchant to eating and eating and eating and eating and eating bread followed by chips followed by fruit followed by cheese followed by popcorn followed by a salad followed by a sandwich because deep down in my heart, I am afraid I won’t get another opportunity.

It’s perfectly illogical, so you’re preaching to the choir if you want to tell me all about that. I wish I didn’t have it. But when it is late at night, and there is a cookie in my pantry (or six or twelve or an entire package), there is nothing anyone can do or say that will fully convince me that it will still actually be there tomorrow. And then, because I am so stressed by my stress that I wanna up and vomit, I’ll eat some more to self-comfort. That I am not morbidly obese by now can only be chalked up to my Korean genetics, a strand of DNA that ensures I will never be fatter than around 140 lbs., even while binge eating, even while living a sedentary lifestyle. But please, whatever you do, don’t tell me I’m lucky because I’d take being fat over being mentally ill any day.

Lately I’ve been counting my calories in a non-obsessive, curiosity piqued sort of way through my Fitbit and exercising almost daily in hopes that at the end of the day, I will be able to have a small ice cream sundae or some McDonald’s fries or a glass of lemonade or some small treat — a reward, really — that tells me I’ve successfully achieved my daily goal of not overeating. Thus far, I’ve been able to indulge a little bit every night for the past week without going over a 500 calorie deficit except for this one night where I did, but I still ate less than I expended (and I’m very proud to inform you that I ordered a Medium fry at McDonald’s tonight, and I didn’t even finish it all). It’s been kind of liberating, taking charge of my eating habits rather than letting them take complete and utter control over me. I’ve been trying to make peace with the fact that I am no longer a rail-thin size 2/XS who can tuck her blouse into her pants and not look like sausage, that I am allowed to have new clothes, that I am allowed to look cute, and that it is perfectly acceptable for me to go up a size or two as needed because the clothes just look better (have you ever seen a woman who simultaneously muffin-topped and camel-toed? It’s tragic.). I am working on being happy. I mean, isn’t that all anyone wants? Just a general sense of happiness with his/her own physical, mental, and spiritual well-being?

But I know this may not last forever. We’re going on a cruise this Saturday, where an all-you-can-eat buffet and free room service will be my nemeses, where we won’t have internet service and I won’t want to log my calories anyhow because what a mood killer, and I’m a little worried that I’ll snap mid-way through and wake up one morning to make the unfortunate decision to have fifteen strips of bacon for breakfast, followed by hashbrowns, eggs, pancakes, toast, and fruit (I’ve done something similar, I really have, and yes I felt awful afterward). And I know, I know, I can start all over again and I shouldn’t consider it a failure as much as a lesson learned, but ideally I’ll just be a normal person who doesn’t lose her mind when presented with unlimited food. (Having my husband shooting me warning glances will probably help, and before you think, “Oh my gosh he’s a tyrant!”, know that he’s just doing what I need him to in order to survive through this life.) Ideally, there will be no self-loathing on this trip.

Perhaps even if my birthmother had been the peak of physical health and nutrition while she was pregnant with me, I still would have been struck with an eating disorder. It’s not really off the table. But sometimes I wish things had gone differently, that she’d felt comfortable confiding in a family member or a friend before it was too late, that she had a maternal instinct kick in that told her she needed to give me the best she possibly could because I was trying to survive in there and I’d need to survive, even longer, out here.

Sometimes I wish.


The Worst Flight of My Life

Before I get started, let me just say that when you’re in a tube devoid of fresh air and ventilation at 35,000 feet, with a nose that rivals only a bloodhound or a pregnant woman, Bubble Yum is one of the most wretched scents in the world.

Not that I’d know or anything, Vivian. Yeah, I’m talking to you.

Image courtesy of

Image courtesy of

To be fair to the airline, the flight itself wasn’t actually that terrible. The flight attendants were nice, the captain didn’t crash or get us killed, and at no point did I have to discover whether those little oxygen masks actually have oxygen in them or not, even though they may not inflate. I even had a window seat, which at the time was my absolute favorite thing (it was a combination of boredom and motion sickness that led me to want the window, despite there not being a whole lot to look at during most of the flight. I’ve since changed my mind and determined the aisle seat in the first three rows, opposite the door side, are actually the best because you can get off that plane right quick.)

Photo courtesy of

Photo courtesy of

The problem with the flight actually occurred before I even stepped on the plane, eating a quick dinner with my mother in a restaurant of the John Wayne airport, which has since gone out of business for what I can only imagine are obvious reasons. I ordered a blue cheese burger, and at the time it was really rad. It was good enough, in fact, that I determined I needed to take the rest with me on the plane to finish there. But I was tired, and there are some instances in which tired trumps beef, cheese, and bread (they’re rare, trust me), so I decided to slip into a quick airplane nap, though not before turning to my mother and saying “I want cranberry juice.” About a half hour later I awoke to, not surprisingly, cranberry juice on my pull-down tray, and I took one sip and suddenly realized I was going to be remarkably ill. And instantaneously.

Here’s the thing. I don’t do sick people things in front of strangers, and I especially don’t do them on airplanes, so the wait for one of the rear lavatories to become available was a particularly terrible one, during which I began to sweat profusely and probably freak the passengers sitting in the back of the plane out something fierce. You can indicate with hand gestures that you don’t intend on puking on them, but that generally doesn’t really appease them much.


Photo courtesy of

Photo courtesy of

I won’t go into detail about this foray into food poisoning at 35,000 feet, but I will say the airplane lav is even smaller than you think when you’re using it like a normal person and not on your knees, I made about four visits to it during that not very long flight, I upset a few women in the PDX airport restroom outside the baggage claim, I made my dad feel sick on the way home, and I woke up a couple times that night just to finish what was only the worst evening I’d had in a very long time. It took me a couple of years before I could eat beef again.

The only thing I might fault the airline for was not letting me stay in the lav for the remainder of the flight after making it abundantly clear that one trip wasn’t going to be enough (particularly since there was a second one for people to use, so it’s not like my being there kept them from peeing or anything, and anyways, who wants to use a tiny bathroom after someone doing what I was doing? No one, that’s who. But despite all that logic, the flight attendant kept rapping on the door, telling me I had to get out.

We’re not friends, she and I.

I’m Back

I’ve been depressed lately — the clinical type — and that’s a low point that’s not funny. Plus I’ve  been busy makeuping and, um, sleeping because that’s what we depressed people do.

But things were starting to turn a corner, and I woke up this morning really feeling like today was going to be super rad. I only had two things on my schedule: a haircut, which was sorely needed and rehearsal 10 1/2 hours later, which meant hanging out with really funny, awesome people and singing songs.

I love singing songs.

That left oodles of time for me to drive around the area and buy stuff with Husband’s money, and that naturally got me pretty excited. I was going to be productive. I was going to buy things and do stuff that had been on my to-do list for ages but had been neglected because depression/sleep. And then I was going to come home and make yet another real, actual dinner with real, actual food for Husband and me, and we were going to play video games in our sweats, and then I was going to head off to rehearsal and he was going to snuggle with the cat, and going to bed, I’d think pleasantly upon the day, with a half smile on my face, like they do in the movies. I might have even chuckled to myself WHO EVEN KNOWS. There was a lot of promise.

I feel like the best way for me to illustrate how today went is through a series of selfies you’re welcome.

I got a great haircut this morning. This isn’t abnormal because my stylist is kind of a goddess, but in growing my hairs out, I’ve slowed down on the regularity of said haircuts and only visit her once every two months or so. I was growing out my bangs. But then I got cast in a show where I’m a child character, and we all agreed bangs would really make it better. So the bangs, they came back. And guys, they’re, like, super cute.

If you live in Utah, go to Shep Studio and visit my girl Siara.

If you live in Utah, go to Shep Studio and visit my girl Siara.

I wanted shorter bangs because I make my eyebrows look rad these days and didn’t want bangs to cover them up. Also, it’s inevitable that I’m going to get little kid bangs above my eyebrows for the show (I get into character, people) and didn’t want to shock people too much on April 1st when suddenly I looked ten. I felt great about this haircut. This was the kind of haircut you get and then plan out a full day of being in the public eye so everyone can enjoy it with you.

I might have a small problem with narcissism.

And then it was off to all the fun stores to buy all the fun props for my birthday party photobooth. Not to give it all away because at least one person who’ll be coming will probably read this blog post (incidentally, more strangers read my blog than friends/family — is that cool? Is it sad? Hmm), but WANDS AND A BOA. ALSO A COWBOY HAT AND PINWHEELS. I should have know, however, that the day was going to turn when I was going down the aisles and found artificial butter flavoring.

Artificial. Butter. Flavoring.

I don't ... think that's a good idea.

I don’t … think that’s a good idea.

Look, I get it. There are women in the world who desire pristine white frosted wedding cakes that are pure as the driven snow and are willing to DROP THEIR MORALS and let their bakers use clear, artificial butter flavoring for their buttercream. These women are grossly wrong. Grossly, grossly wrong. They should be smacked.

But I was buying photobooth backdrops and a birthday tiara for myself, and that felt like a little tiny blip. Insignificant — we’ve got nothing to worry about here, everyone, the day is going to be great despite making a rather upsetting discovery.

And since we’re talking birthdays, we might as well announce right now that mine is coming up in a mere five days (four if you are willing to agree with me that my being born on the 23rd in Korea = my actual birthday being the 22nd in America … Husband remains unconvinced, but he’s probably just jealous). And with that comes a lot of free food. No seriously — all the restaurants want to give you free food for your birthday whenever you want, and it’s fantastic. I pulled into the parking lot of my local Noodles & Company, pulled out the ole phone to bring up the coupon FOR A FREE NOODLE BOWL, NO BIGGIE, and was met instead with a bunch of messages from Gmail essentially saying “You literally have no emails from anyone with noodles in the name or about noodles or your birthday or free noodle bowls, give up on life now.” And trust me, I looked really, really hard. I searched all the terms. No dice.



Yes, it was too much to ask, in fact, so I drove away, quite dejectedly, to go to the Walmart Pharmacy, at which I’d already had a fairly heinous experience in the past. Note to self: just because the pharmacy is close to your house doesn’t mean you should, like, use it. Go to another state if you have to, just avoid the Walmart Pharmacy like the friggin plague.

I stood in line. I stood in a line of only one other person and myself for a really long time. I posted two pictures to my business Instagram page. I texted a friend. I checked some notifications. And finally it was my turn. (Yay! It’s the little things! And I’m going to get my anti-depressant and take it and be happyyyyyyyyyy!) So the crabby man asked for my name, misspelled it once, and said, “You have to go to the drop-off desk. They have to talk to you.” Not sure why they needed to talk to me, I headed on over, where I stood in front of a woman on the telephone, looking at a computer screen, and not actually indicating that she was aware there were other human people around.

I waited for her to get off the phone.

I waited for her to talk to the pharmacist.

I waited for her to talk to the other pharm tech.

AND THEN VICTORY WAS MINE and I gave her my name, and she said, “Your medication was recalled. There was something wrong with the batch, so we’re not dispensing it. But we might get it in tomorrow? So … just call tomorrow morning?”

In case you’re wondering, anti-depressants/anti-anxiety medications are literally the worst to recall. We’ll risk it. Just give us our drugs.

Figures. First no noodles, now no meds.

Figures. First no noodles, now no meds.

But, like, they’d called me twice about my prescription being ready. No one said anything about a recall or not getting meds, and IF THEY HAD, I would have probably had the prescription transferred to the Rite Aid AT WHICH I’D USED THE RESTROOM A COUPLE HOURS PRIOR.

The drive home was a somber one. I can’t even remember if I listened to the radio because all I could really think was “No noodles, no meds.” over and over again because, you know, OCD.

I parked, I opened the trunk, I discovered the half gallon of milk I’d purchased (whose safety seal was perfectly intact, so how any of this went down I have no idea) had leaked in the bag all over and into the upholstery of my car. Which is rad because milk gone bad smells awesome. I ran to get it inside. I had a little incident with a couple bags and my keys and the cat ran outside (don’t worry, she does this thing where she runs immediately and then freezes like she has no clue what to do). Milk on the entryway floor. Milk on my favorite suede boots.

Dear God, Are You There? It's Me, Mary.

Are You There, God? It’s Me, Mary.

In case you’re curious, when I pulled up my email on the computer, I totally found this beauty within seconds.

Happy birthday indeed, Noodles and Company.

Happy birthday indeed, Noodles and Company.

And this is what lunch looked like instead.

The ratio of mayo to sandwich was pretty on point, though.

The ratio of mayo to sandwich was pretty on point, though.

Let’s Talk About Paulatics

For the record, and I say this with all the love in my heart, I’ve never liked Paula Deen. It was a combination of her accent and personality, which were pretty unavoidable, and I rarely, if ever, watched any of her shows. This didn’t stop me from finding her recipes online and praising her for her regular use of butter by the pound, but Paula Deen, TV Personality left me wanting. A lot.

Photo courtesy of

Photo courtesy of

As a regular viewer of the Food Network and regular eater of the butter, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about her most recent antics that got her essentially nixed and why I totally stand with the network.

Officially, things really started to decline for poor Paula when it was revealed that, due to her eating habits and supposed lack of exercise, she’d ended up on the Type II Diabetes bandwagon and then hid it for as long as she could while encouraging the rest of America (specifically those of the homemaker variety, I’m assuming, although that’s more speculation on my part because I’m not that interested in finding the statistics online. But really … I feel like that’s who she was really aiming for) to add an extra stick of butter just to show them you care. When the news broke, she underwent an immediate and nearly overnight transformation that took her from lard lover to healthy substitute maven, and something about that felt kind of like — how shall I put this — a ploy. I mean, I felt for the gal — after all, FDR went his entire presidency without anyone knowing he had polio, so I can see why she’d hoped to escape the press, but when you live in the 21st century and have a household name, it’s inevitable. Some sort of crash will occur.

But that didn’t deter America or the Food Network, and they pushed forward, re-branding her, re-sizing her, and creating an all-new empire for the Deen family that included healthy recipes that tasted like the real thing and a lot more vegetables not poached in butter or, you know, animal fat (which, if we’re going to be really honest here, is how I like them). And that was pretty much fine. Three cheers for a healthy casserole. So it didn’t seem like the crash was all that bad, and the lady bounced back in an almost weird way (to me), and it seemed like everything was going to be good for eternity.

And then that deposition happened.

Now, we’ve all read every Buzzfeed about it, I know we have, so I’m not going to bore you with yet another internet recap, so let’s go ahead and break this thing down.

1. I don’t see why it’s okay to use the word, whether an individual has just attempted armed robbery (and do we have proof this occurred? I mean, I’m just saying) or is just walking down the street being his/herself. I’ve worked in the restaurant industry, and I can nearly testify that the skeeviest, most offensive and foul people seem to work there. Racial slurs coming out of blue-eyed Paula’s mouth? Yeah, I can see it.

2. So she grew up in a different generation. I totally get that — I do. I’ve stopped counting the number of times an older person (who probably served in either WWII or the Vietnam War) has made some sort of racial comment that was probably not malicious but nevertheless there and really awkward. [And while we’re on the topic guys, THE ORIENT HASN’T BEEN A PLACE FOR A REALLY LONG TIME. SO LET’S STOP CALLING ME ORIENTAL.*] But you let that one slide with Grandpa. You don’t really let it slide with people who are constantly in the public eye.

3. This leads to her generally cavalier attitude about it when she was first caught red-handed. It was like, “Well yeah, hasn’t everyone? Duh,” and I’d say that’s ultimately what really offended people. Like when good old Mitt strapped his sick dog to the roof of his car — certainly we were all really dismayed that happened, but then we were even MORE upset when he said he wouldn’t do it again because people didn’t react favorably to it. Like if it wouldn’t affect his running, he’d totally do it again.

4. And then she cried and cried and cried. Like Jason Mesnick on “The Bachelor.” While I should probably feel pleased that she made several (and I mean SEVERAL) attempts to ensure all of the world knew how sorry she was, I mostly feel all cringey inside. *shudders* One Youtube apology is probably enough.

5. Let’s set something really, really straight right here, right now. Paula Deen wasn’t actually fired from the Food Network. They simply made the smart business choice to not re-up her contract, which is entirely within their right. And let’s look at this from a business perspective.

  • There are several famous chefs on the Food Network who are not Caucasian, and it would feel kind of fishy and hypocritical (and awkward — let’s not forget awkward) to have all that housed under one umbrella together. Although I imagine, late late one night/morning, someone at the network considered making a show with Paula and, I don’t know, Sunny Anderson, to show how utopian the food world really is. That was probably dropped after a few seconds.
  • At the end of the day, the Food Network is a business. Nothing more. They want to make money, they want to be successful, they want people to like them. A situation like this will inevitably lead to an enormous divide — if they’d kept her on, people would have protested, had they decided to part ways as they did, people would have protested. It was ultimately a real lose/lose situation for them, which they probably didn’t love all that much. But it’s probably easier to deal with the protesters who are in favor of using the N word because (and I swear to you, this is paraphrasing what dozens of PD fans wrote online) “They call each other that, so they shouldn’t be offended when we do.”
  • . . .

6. Not all minorities use racial epithets casually. I know there are some that do, but there are also some Democrats who hunt and some Republicans who are gay, so that argument is pretty moot in my opinion. And I can say pretty firmly that there’s a pretty big group of us who don’t care for them one bit.

7. I don’t think this was a harsh decision to be made. Although they have a well-documented love for Bobby Flay and Guy Fieri (it’s almost embarrassing, you guys), there are several Food Network stars who have come and gone over the years, so Paula Deen can join the pity party with them. And it’s not as though the Food Network is the only place where she can continue her probably world-wide fame. I’m sure another network will pick her up as soon as her Food  contract is up, and even if they don’t, the woman can just keep on cranking out cookbook after cookbook after cookbook. It’s not like we should feel that bad for her. Think of it like an NBA player whose injury has led to his athletic demise. Dude’s still living in a mansion.

So move onward and upward, Paula Deen. Learn from those really bad mistakes you’ve made again and again, avoid frozen hams, get a new PR manager (and then another for good measure), and keep on keepin’ on. And Food Network? Really, when those people say they’re never going to watch you ever again for the rest of eternity because you dropped her, they were just kidding. I’m sure of it.

*Things that are Oriental: fine tapestry rugs, Top Ramen, a famous trading company that sells cheap, plastic toys in bulk.

The Pity Party

Guests include: The World’s Smallest Violin, Cheese and Whine, One Container of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream from the Vending Machine, and Yours Truly

BYU Creamery Ice Cream

Sometimes you just need a pity party for yourself. You just do. People will tell you to buck up or be resilient, and those are reasonable expectations for a grown-up adult who’s married and pays bills and has a Princess Fluffybutt kitty at home who relies entirely upon her to stay alive and clean.

I got a little rejection this morning — these things, they do happen, so if you’re a teenager and you think once you’re an adult or you’re married, you won’t meet the ugly face of rejection, I’m sorry to say that’s just not true. However, it won’t look like a teenage boy, which is a brilliant upside.

What makes said rejection even more depressing, however; what has forced me to throw the World’s Greatest Office Pity Party is that I am simultaneously printing, stuffing, and mailing out rejection letters to eager applicants hoping for a financial break.

Not all these are bad news, but you know. A lot of them are.

Not all these are bad news, but you know. A lot of them are.

I want to throw in a little personal note like, “But seriously, guys, I totally get it. I totally get it.”

My assumption, however, and I’m 99.9% positive that I am right in this instance (heck, I think I’m right in all instances) is that boss man would not appreciate my attempts to connect with our applicants on a more personal level. Although he is in Hawaii right now, so perhaps he’s feeling more magnanimous than usual.

Take a Hike

There’s really nothing like a straight uphill hike on a dusty, austere terrain, devoid of living plants that reminds you how out of shape you may be.

Yep. Utah is this lush.

Yep. Utah is this lush.

For our anniversary, Husband decided it would be fun to take time off work and spend the day together and go on a hike. The upside of doing something like taking a hike at the hottest point of the day, in long pants, without sunscreen, is that you can easily eat frozen yogurt and pizza and candy thereafter without feeling particularly bad because you’ve just burned so many calories.

Domino's wasn't kidding - when they said they used to suck and are better now, they meant it.

Domino’s wasn’t kidding – when they said they used to suck and are better now, they meant it.

But back to the hike.

We decided to try something new – we’d originally planned on a hike we’d done previously that was in a beautiful locale, covered with trees and had spots to rock climb, but I’d heard a lot of students throwing around the words “hike the Y,” and I thought, “Hey we should do that.”

Things that are wrong with the above assessment: Just because all the students are doing it doesn’t mean I should too. College students are full of energy and stamina and are capable of singlehandedly eating pizzas with little to no consequences the following morning, like upset stomach, diarrhea, or extreme weight gain. (I’m not saying that’s what happened when we ate our pizza, btw. We’re smart and old and we saved most of it for a later day.)

I hadn’t realized hiking the Y was more like a rite of passage than an actually enjoyable experience, and it is, as it turns out, straight up. Just straight up. On a dusty, lame trail, without any foliage at which to stare upon. When we finally arrived at our destination (a large, concrete Y plastered on the side of a mountain), we took a couple pictures and then headed back down because … there wasn’t a whole lot else to do.

Yep. This is it.

Yep. This is it.

Back down sucked almost more than up because we are old and have crappy knees. *cue Baz Luhrman graduation speech/song now*

Also, something newlyweds should consider: You hit a point in your marriage when taking time off work to celebrate your anniversary includes a trip to the DMV to remove a lien off your recently paid off car and a stop in a mothball-scented stamp shop because Husband collects stamps. Also a visit to Petsmart to buy nail clippers for your cat, who has taken it upon herself to make teeny tiny scratch marks on your rather expensive leather recliner.

Personally, I think she should be able to scratch whatever she wants. She's so damn cute.

Personally, I think she should be able to scratch whatever she wants. She’s so damn cute.

Yep, the night of our anniversary, in between rounds of “Black Ops II,” we trimmed our cat’s nails. It was a wild night, kids.

A Bevy of Low Points

I’ve kind of had a low point drought, to tell you the truth. I mean, we know this happens to me – I’ll have a perfectly fine life and then suddenly I will get hit with a ton of horrible things. I haven’t actually been hit with a ton, nor have they been all that horrible, but here goes anyways:

1. I’m not what you’d call a homemaker or housewife (so it’s funny that’s all I ever want to be). So … dishes pile up. Counters get sticky. Floors get hairy (look I shed OKAY. IT’S NOT A BIG DEAL, GUYS). And for the most part, Husband and I tolerate it. But the other day, enough was enough, and I decided to clean the bathroom counter and sink.

Used a Clorox wipe. The bathroom may still not be clean, but darnit, it’s disinfected and lemon fresh.

Image courtesy of

Image courtesy of

2. Spider in my bed. Heart attack. I no longer feel safe at home.

3. Last night, whilst sprinkling some delicious pre-shredded, bagged bulk cheese into my quesadilla, I burned my arm on the pan.

That's probably a 5th degree burn. My skin has melted away. My left arm is actually gone now.

That’s probably a 5th degree burn. My skin has melted away. My left arm is actually gone now.

Harshing my mellow.

4. Over the weekend, I had Arby’s and McDonald’s in one day. It’s really a huge low point that I had McD’s in the first place, and then that I went there around 8:00 pm so I could try their new fish nuggets, and then that I would totally go there and eat them again.

Photo courtesy of and my deft cropping abilities in Paint

Photo courtesy of and my deft cropping abilities in Paint

5. My new BFF and fellow blogger/Tweeter/Asian went to visit her home in New Delhi FOR, LIKE, THREE YEARS WEEKS and had limited internet. Something about being in a third world country or spending time with family. Bunches of nonsense. I was devastated, to say the least, but luckily she is back in New York, and I can bother her essentially any time I want. (Btw, Puneet, the musical assault is still coming — don’t think I’ve forgotten. I’ve just been busy what with having two jobs and two blogs and two Church callings and two husbands — wait, what?)

6. Husband saw a fluffy black kitteh in the parking lot of our complex and he didn’t snatch it up and bring it inside for me to love. He lost points with me, I’m not going to lie. His argument? “But we can’t have pets anyhow. Our landlords won’t allow it.” A likely story. That fluffy black kitteh was going to be mine and I was going to love it.