Childhood Failed Me.

Anyone who has met my parents would attest to the fact that they are in the top 90 percentile of parenting (right above Prince William & Kate, just below Queen Bey and Jay*). My mom and dad did the best they could with a bratty kid whose only passions were eating Oreos and spending their money. But the fact of the matter is, despite their efforts, childhood failed me. It left me woefully unprepared and misinformed about the harsh realities that accompany life out on your own. A few childhood favorites that set me up failure:

The Sims
A good job, a live-in boyfriend, endless amounts of cash, and a mansion… all in a matter of a few hours? Sure, I stayed up all night on some sort of Hi-C fueled bender designing my new pool, but who cares? I was the Donald Trump of Simsville. Thanks for nothing, Sims. I can’t even afford an apartment building with a pool, let alone have my own. Setting the standards a little high for a 12 year old, dontcha think? And don’t get me started on the whole “rosebud;!;!;!;!” cheat…

Apparently The Sims has gotten a little more advanced since I last played…

Barbie’s get a lot of negative media attention for setting unrealistic body images for young girls. And they do. But not for the reasons you think… Can we just take a second to acknowledge that Ken is way hotter than basically any guy I know?? Twenty minutes on Tinder will remind you that you’ll likely never find your own real-life Ken. On top of that, Barbie taught me that all it takes to be a doctor, a businesswoman, or a rock star is an outfit change. Not quite. PLUS, WHERE THE HELL DO I FIND A PINK CONVERTIBLE?! God, Barbie, you are the worst.

Remember when all it took to make a friend was sharing your cerulean colored Crayola (the best color, no contest) with your classmate? The grown up version is basically the same, except in this scenario the classroom is a bar during happy hour, and the crayon is a beer, and it’s a lot less fun than coloring.

Disney Movies

"Forget men—Disney movies have given me unrealistic expectations for my hair."


90s Sitcoms
I thought life in your 20s would look like Friends. Turns out, I spend exactly 0% of my day gossiping in a coffee shop.

Growing up, a standard lunch involved a pb&j, chips, a Capri Sun, a couple of baby carrots, and it was considered “healthy.” I didn’t even know how to spell ‘preservatives’ until like, 2011. Pizza rolls. Cocoa Puffs. Fruit Roll ups. Chocolate pudding. Sure, why not? Years later, some smart people were like, “Hey parents, sorry, this is awkward, but you’re actually feeding your kids highly-addictive poison.” Wait, what? So, no more pizza rolls? This announcement was actually very timely, because soon after, I was taught new words like “metabolism,” “calories,” and “please stop eating.” Can’t eat like a nine year old forever. Queue the kale and quinoa. Yum.



*This is American Twenty Nothings. It should be no surprise that I am slightly more fond of our royal family overthe UK’s.

Underratedly Terrible Grown-Up Problems

Sure, there are plenty of well-known atrocities that accompany growing up: debt, wrinkles, ineligibility to order off the Kid’s Menu… But there are quite a few that I was simply not prepared for.  Silly as they may seem, these #GrownUpProblems pretty much the worst.  


I used to have keep track of 3 passwords—one for Gmail, one for my bank, and one for Facebook (priorities).  And if we’re being honest, I obviously used the same password for all of them.  Now, I have passwords for my passwords.  Passwords for work, passwords for Comcast, passwords for my water bill… It’s excessive.  And to top it off, all my accounts are making me change my password for the sake of “security.”  I forgot my Instagram password recently (because who logs out of Instagram?!), and I basically had to sell my soul to get back in.  When our selfies are more secure than our airports… We’ve got an issue.  And don’t get me started on the “’Forgot my Password’ Security Questions.”  They are not helpful:

“What is your favorite food?”  

The only true answer to this is: “pretty much everything” and I didn’t put that, so I guess I’m just never going to log back into this account again?


Lunch has recently become more of a hassle than anything else, which is really upsetting because food is basically what gets me up in the morning.  If I pack my lunch, it means I have to get up 10 minutes early (mm, nope).  If I buy my lunch, it means I’m going to end up telling myself to buy a salad, but actually buying something tragically bad for you.  And then I have to eat it. Where? At my desk? With a friend? What if I don’t have time? What if I don’t have friends? Stressful.

Grocery Shopping

I have a long-standing hatred of grocery stores.  I think it’s a combination of the fluorescent lights and the smell of the bakery aisle (I gain weight just by smelling donuts).

 Anyway, the real issue is when you get home. No matter how well-intentioned I am, nearly half of everything I buy spoils.  It’s a big waste on all accounts.  Save yourself some time (and money): that Pinterest recipe? Never gonna happen.


Simply put- they get way worse.


Checking the mail used to be exciting: care packages, the occasional catalog, even junk mail seemed cute when you’re younger.  Well now junk mail has gotten a lot less adorable, bills have gotten a lot more prevalent, and the only “care packages” are sympathy Valentine ’s Day cards from Mom.


Thank God for Twitter, or else I would be seriously unaware, but… I’m finding it more and more challenging to keep up with important, hard-hitting news as I get older. For example, I didn’t watch the TMZ video of Solange punching Jay Z until two days after it was released.  TWO DAYS.  What’s next? I start saying things like “The Facebook” and eating dinner at 5:30??



Basically my reaction to Solange v Jay

Questions to Stop Asking Your Twenty-Something Coworker

What are your hobbies? / What do you like to do in your spare time?

It’s a fan-favorite in interviews, but will occasionally come in up in general office banter. This question takes a close second to “so, why are you single?” for my least favorite question of all time.  First of all, what is spare time?  I don’t know what that is…? I’m genuinely confused on how so many people have children…Most days I’m barely functioning past 7pm, so I can’t imagine coming home to someone who needs me to like, feed them or something. But on days where I manage to find a free hour that doesn’t involve sleeping, working, eating, or working out (NOT to be confused for a hobby), it usually DOES involve large amounts of pinot noir and E! Network. I mean, you can’t really expect me to answer this question honestly.  So I have to give a watered-down PG version that sounds something like:

“Um, I like to read my twitter feed…and books 12 years below my reading level like The Hunger Games, I like to meet new people at the club after 4 vodka sodas, and I enjoy traveling to the mall and spending money I don’t have… just normal stuff I guess!

Got any plans this weekend?

My weekend typically goes one of two ways.  It’s kind of like a “choose your own adventure” novel. I either take the anti-social route, or the social-butterfly route. It generally depends on a few key factors like weather, potential amount of fun, whether or not I’ll have to wear heels, level of exhaustion, etc. Either way, to talk about it with you would be uncomfortable.  There’s a 50% chance I watched the entire season of some show you’ve never heard of, only leaving the couch for the occasional snack. I’m not proud of it, but it happens. If I opted to throw caution to the wind, and embrace my youth… I probably abused my liver. Definitely NSFW.  So each week I’m usually forced to say something like “no plans yet.”  You definitely think I’m sort of weird cat lady, but it’s just safer this way.

What’s the point of Instagram (or any social media site)?

I can’t help you.  If you have to ask, it’s too late for you.  I commend you for trying, but there is not enough time in a day.

What are you working on right now?

This is a trap. To answer it would require me to reveal that I have no idea what I’m doing. It’s best to be as vague as possible and throw in some corporate buzzwords (or your industries’ equivalent).  My personal favorites are: “synergy”, “move the needle”,  and “game changer.” Works like a charm.

My computer’s not working, what’s wrong with it?

They don’t pay me enough for this.

Dear Checking Account, I’m Sorry.

Every week I make a resolution to stop spending so much money on the weekends. I’m failing miserably. It usually goes something like this:


Late afternoon, a coworker stops by my desk… “Hey are you coming to Happy Hour?!”

Um, yeah… Sure!”

 I deserve this. Right? I mean, I could stay here for another hour and respond to emails, but… Mojitos.  Okay, just one drink. Emails will have to wait. Regards.

So I go.  And for a moment, I think I’ve got at all figured out.  Look at me, being an adult, and socializing with other adults.  See, I don’t need spend a lot of money to have fun…or whatever this is. One drink, seven bucks. Perfect.

Our painfully perky waitress stops by to ask if she “can get us anything else?!,” but before I can say “No actually, I’m headed home to watch re-runs of Full House until I pass out,” Bob from marketing utters five words that  change the fate of anyone’s night:

“Yeah I’ll take another one.”


“Me too,” says the intern, a little too eagerly.

And it doesn’t take long for the little game of round robin to circle around the table, and it’s my turn. Looks like everyone is going for round two, and I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t order. “Yeah, okay, sure, thanks.” Jesus, I haven’t felt this much pressure to drink since the entire ninth grade class piled into Chris McAdam’s basement while his parents were vacationing in Bermuda.

Whatever, it’s seven dollars, who cares?

But I quickly realize that two drinks are about all it takes for my filter to lift, and I’m tempted to call out everyone for violating my workplace pet peeves, “Bob, you hum too loudly…Cindy, please stop bringing pad thai for lunch….” Yeah, that’s a bad idea, I need to get out of here.

I think about heading home, but I’ve already invested a few hundred calories, so I might as well “go all in.”  No need to waste a decent buzz. I text a few friends and find myself at a pregame for an hour or two before we decide to take a cab to bar across town.  “Why is this happening?” I think to myself, wondering if it’s too late for some Full House.

SHOTS,” shouts someone, and I oblige.  I head to the bar, toss the bartender my Visa like it’s a Black Card and I’m one the Kardashians, and he asks yet another fateful question…

“Keep it open?”

It’s important you understand that I suffer from sort of drunken personality disorder, where after a few drinks, I am convinced I’m rich, and want to treat all of my friends to a night of my luxurious lifestyle.

“YEAH, duh.”

Within seconds…”Hey, do yall need drinks? I have a tab!” It’s usually the last thing I remember saying.


Sometime around 9am: Oh my god, is the apartment on fire? Why am I so hot? Why am I wearing a dress?

It takes a second for it all to become clear. Oh. Not again. I grab my phone, which somehow managed to make it to the charger, and log into my bank account.  Time to assess the damage.

$18 for happy hour, $30 bucks in cabs, $45 bucks at the bar, and a $20 Dominos charge. I ordered pizza?

Over $100. Not great. But, I need to get rid of this hangover, so I mass text “Brunch?!?!” to everyone I know within a 10 mile radius, and wait til I get a response.

Brunch is lovely as always, but it’s only noon, and I’ve got time to kill.  I’ll just go to the mall and look.  I won’t buy anything.  And that’s a great game plan until I find the most amazing pair of shoes I’ve ever seen in my life.  I don’t need them.  But they are so perfect.  I text a picture to a few friends, and all it takes is one “cute!” text, and I’m done.  Okay, one thing. That’s it.  It’s not the end of the world.

I drive home.  When am I supposed to eat next? Brunch is confusing. It’s 4:30. I’m not-not hungry… Chipotle is up here on the corner.  But I think I have a Lean Cuisine or something at home.

“..Brown rice, black beans, chicken… guac..”

“It’s extra-“

“I know.”

Saturday’s total: $85. Winning.


I decide that if I just lock myself in my apartment, I can’t spend any money.  Netflix, here I come.  Pour some cereal.  Go to grab the milk.  No milk. No food, really.  The fridge is looking pretty light.  Okay I’ll go to the grocery store, then straight back home.

Have you ever been to the grocery store when you’re hungry? I wouldn’t say I’m generally the picture of perfect self-control, but if I’m hungry at the grocery store, all bets are off.

Dried acai berries? Sounds kinda gross, but I probably need them.  What’s the difference between steel cut and rolled oatmeal? I’ll get both.  Zebra Cakes? They still make these? Yes, please.

I walked out of there spending just under $100, which I’ll take as a victory, because it could’ve been way worse.  I hobble up to my apartment, carrying four times my body weight in groceries because I refuse to make two trips from my car.  But cooking after all of that heavy lifting seems out of the question, so I grab a Zebra Cake and go back to bed.

So the weekend cost me about $300 (and my dignity, and probably any chance of maintaining healthy blood sugar levels).  It isn’t the first time, and won’t be my last.  And for that, I am sorry. Kinda.

Probably should just cut these up…