seems fitting that i forgot i even HAD a blog

so i was walking along a brooklyn sidewalk the other day and heard a 20something girl say to her two friends, “i can tell you guys.. but i couldn’t tell anyone else about the shit i fuck up.”

my three subsequent thoughts:

1             oh fuck. I forgot I have a blog

2             eh, I’ll write for it later..

               WHY CAN'T YOU (random girl) TELL ANYONE? 

so I’M BACK. with this shame-free zone, i'm starting a movement to liberate people everywhere from holding on to the shit they fucked up, starting with me! 

get ready for a comprehensive series of shit I fuck up AND other brilliant rants that are soon to come.

lastly, i'm aware i’m addressing some fictitious grand web audience like i have one (when the reality is i'm just emailing this to my 5 friends) i assure you, it will make sense when you're older.

black market babysitting

in my near decade of babysitting in both cali & NYC, getting paid has always been the most awkward moment of the night. parents slip you a wad of cash without making eye contact and then you thank them and run. (the run is mostly because I want to be far out of sight by the time they notice the dent i made in their supply of snacks.) but they’re just as bad.

what..?

did i just sell you some drugs or something?!

we’re in YOUR living room. it’s fine. this is obviously why i am here. i’m not babysitting out of the joy of your child. i’m here for this exact moment. i’m a young, good looking (i mean, sorta, till I gained 10lbs eating an undetectable but significant amount of goldfish crackers and m&ms that you actually use to reward your kid for using the potty) but the point is, I SHOULD be out on a Saturday night being all single and drunk and stuff, not watching the food network and sneaking a single gram cracker from an already open box because i don’t want you to notice.

really. the snacking i do is significant. don’t think i haven’t perfected my photographic memory to exactly remember how your cupboards are packed so i can dip into the good stuff and stack it right back...it's called babysitting.

but lets get back to this money thing. chasing your kid around with a diaper then magically securing it to their teeny little butt while they’re doing olympic level gymnastic moves  may be all runofthemill for you,  but it ain’t for me, so where’s my money? maybe you’re embarrassed because you somehow know that even though i charge you cab fare, i sill take the subway? or maybe you feel weird when you realize i’m almost as, if not more, educated than you but still babysitting? OR maybe you just noticed that the diameter of the hole in my left sock is equal to the diameter of the diamond ring on your finger? whatevs, so:

PARENTS, PAY YOUR SITTERS WITH SOME DIGNITY. or i mean, just try to tone down the awkwardness, like one degree.

well I mean lets be real.. even if you knocked it UP a notch, i’d still come watch your kid and eat your snacks.

probably shouldn't walk into a yoga class during shavasana

let me first explain how this blog came to be:

i have been urged to start a blog for some time by friends who have have inflated my self esteem, saying my "writing voice" is funny enough to share (writing voice? is like like a face for radio? they did say it after i was done working out, and i do sweat a lot. i took it as a compliment.) and have received hundreds of "hahahahahaha" (and sometimes "HAHAHAH" in caps when they hit that amount of "ha"s that autocorrects into caps) texts as replies to something genius i've shared, but it was not until today, when i walked into a yoga class in the middle of shavasana, or what non-yogis call the "nap at the end of class", did i realize that getting myself into weird situations is not uncommon for me and must be finally be shared.

before i explain my fabulous mishap of the day i want to set ground rules that may or may not be directed to a good friend of mine. any and all grammar, punctuation, and spelling errors are my own right in this space. if you feel the overwhelming compulsion to correct me, then write the correction on a piece of paper, and then burn the paper. or of course just tell me later over gchat, since i know you will anyway.

another great rule when dealing with me is: don't take anything i say too seriously. i joke about everything even when it's not appropriate.

ok i know the shavasana story is tantalizing but last little bit about me to lay the ground work for this incredible adventure you're about to partake with me:

i'm in my early 20s, living in brooklyn with my amazeballs roomie and her cat Taz (important because taz will inevitably make numerous appearances, especially if i decide to write a special taz-photo-shoot post, which wouldn't be that hard since i'm already logging at least a photo a day of her sweet little face). back to me. i'm a yoga teacher and teach at a swaggy fitness studio that i couldn't even afford to go to if i wanted and i'm in graduate school getting my masters in social work and working as a therapist with children (also important so there's some background for when i detail the chilling truths about how incompetent student therapists really are). i love parentheses (a lot). i'm from california. i ride a bike. i follow celebrities on instagram and just admitted that for the first time ever (whew glad my instagram friendship with tswift can be out in the open now. feels good)

ALRIGHT ALRIGHT
(too much build up now, it won't even be funny)

so i went to the ritz-carlton of yoga studios today (to remain unnamed because i honestly would teach there if i had the opportunity). it was like walking into a 5 start resort. their shoe cubbies alone were nicer than my entire bedroom! of course tho instead of soaking in the luxury, i have a visceral disgust overcome me. ew, who needs free lotion in the bathroom. yuck these people are so fucking rich, dripping with lululemon gear. how could they even let me in here with my forever 21 yoga pants, massimo top and converse sneakers. whatever, i tell myself, they're all probably good people. they're all  PROBABLY good people. they're all P R O B A B L Y good people. i stopped trying to talk myself into that when i walk passed these offices, like literally 8 of them, with a sign on the door saying "yoga advisor". so my smart ass self asks the chick at the front who looked down on me when i asked to rent a mat and she had to inform me mats are included.....sorry chick.. i'm here on a COUPON, i don't know the rules of the paying folk. anyway "yoga advisors" apparently help people find the right class for them. finding this beyond ridiculous i puff out air between my sealed lips to laugh as if i were an actor on your favorite sitcom spraying out the big gulp of water i just took when i found out surprising news. oops.

thinking i couldn't possibly embarrass myself anymore. and by embarrass i mean just flaunt my lack of affluence, i decide to get into to that yoga room and chill out. so i walk in and, of course, have my purse  even though there are lockers cuz i'm paranoid or something. like these people could really use my Aldo bag that's cracked on the handles, or my crazy expensive Target sunglasses. no, maybe they want my iphone, to give to their 3 year old or something. ok ok, so i have my bag and walk into this class. there are about 5 people on mats sitting cross legged and the teacher is talking. whoops! i think, i'm late! i creep in, set my bag down and take a mat. the second i sit down i hear "namaste" the universal closing word of class.

look around.

what the fuck?

people get up. class is over

what the fuck

i just walked into the end of the other class.

ok so i survived that, and the class that was held at the appropriate time, taught by a guy that sounded like he was narrating an old spice commercial only to leave the studio with a voicemail from none other than who.. my very own yoga advisor.