About a month ago I made two new friends while running around in my underwear through a warehouse filled with vintage dresses. I’d tell you that it’s not what it sounds like, but really? It’s exactly what it sounds like.

Not surprisingly, shopping at Shareen Vintage is one of my favorite activities. If you live in LA or NYC, you should stop reading this post, grab your credit card, and head over there right now. If you live anywhere else, then all I can say is that I’m truly sorry that you’re missing out and I promise to shop there in your honor next time.

Now, to understand Shareen Vintage, just picture an enormous warehouse in the middle of a random street, with a “no boys allowed” sign posted in the front, and row upon row of vintage dresses lining the walls inside. Seriously, it’s like a sea of rainbow amazingness that dates back to at least the 1920s, sitting there all glamorous and shit, just begging you to try everything on. There aren’t any changing rooms, so you just strip down wherever you want and try on one pretty dress after another. In fact, you’ll try on more pretty dresses than you can count, because everyone who works there is as helpful as they are maddeningly adorable, and as they bring you an unlimited amount of dresses you’ll realize that their helpfulness is even enough to distract you from the fact that you’d give up one of your kidneys in exchange for their effortlessly cute & stylish ways.

[No? Just me?]

So anyway, about a month ago I went down to Shareen Vintage to find a dress for the Bloggers in Sin City Mad Men party, and I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that I probably tried on every dress they had that even remotely fit that style. Luckily, there were a few other girls there who were searching for Man Men-esque dresses of their own (to wear on an episode of their interactive online cooking show, Cinema & Spice, that creates TV & movie inspired recipes), so it was really just one big 50s & 60s strip fest with dresses being passed back and forth until we each found the perfect one. And by “perfect” I mean “except for the fact that it’s a few inches too short and will totally make me a Vegas labia flasher if I bend over or make sudden movements or take overly deep breaths,” but who has time to worry about details like that??

Which is to say: I bought the dress. I mean, of course, right? What’s a little exposed labia in the name of fashion? (JUST KIDDING, MOM. WELL, KIND OF. THE DRESS REALLY IS TOO SHORT BUT TONIGHT I BOUGHT BRIGHT ORANGE BOY SHORT UNDERWEAR AT TARGET SO NOW EVERYONE WHO SEES UP MY DRESS WILL JUST SEE A FLASH OF BRIGHT ORANGE INSTEAD. SEE, MOM? I DO HAVE STANDARDS.)

While I was looking for the boy shorts at Target, though, I started thinking about how weird vintage clothes really are. Like, this dress was made, owned, and worn in the actual 1960s. And because people weren’t magically shorter in the 60s, I’m pretty sure the previous owner of this dress had an equally frustrating labia exposure issue. I mean, did they even make boy short underwear back then? If not, did Original Dress Owner give someone an accidental peep show? Did the peep-ee like what he saw? DID SOMEONE WHO MIGHT NOW BE OLD ENOUGH TO BE MY GRANDMOTHER HAVE SEX WHILE WEARING A DRESS I JUST PACKED FOR A WEEKEND IN LAS VEGAS??

Like I said, vintage clothes are weird, man.

But wait, back to Vegas and Bloggers in Sin City for a second. I honestly can’t believe it kicks off this Thursday. I’m driving to Vegas tomorrow morning, and after months and months (AND MONTHS) of planning, it’s just now starting to sink in that I’ll have four whole days to spend with 59 other bloggers who are flying in from all across North America to tackle-hug each other in person. Even though this is the fourth annual BiSC event I’ve hosted, the magic hasn’t worn off. I’m continuously blown away by how belligerently amazing the attendees and sponsors are, and I really hope that anyone who wasn’t able to make it this year can grab a spot at next year’s 5th anniversary event. I even promise to get my exposed labia under control by then.

Or rather, I at least promise not to use the word “labia” 6 times in one post right before you’re about to fly to Vegas to meet me for the first time. That’s probably not the best first impression.

Labia

Shit, 7 times.

(I MISS YOU TOO, MOM.)

Can you believe I’ve gone almost 27 years without reading erotica? Oh well, don’t worry, that shit has been more than remedied because I just took down all 1500+ pages of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy in, like, A WEEK.

And just in time, too, because I feel like everywhere I turn, someone else is talking about these books. From casual mentions on Twitter to serious editorials detailing how contemporary women fantasize about being sexually dominated, people everywhere have been whipped into a frenzy over these deliciously smutty novels. Now, I’m not going to get into the overly analytical side of things, because frankly I don’t give a shit about whether contemporary women want to be sexually dominated or not. All I know is that these books are like addictive sex candy and once you start, you fall into the deep hole of obsession that has you staying up way past your bedtime because you “just have to read one more chapter,” except one more chapter turns into ALL THE CHAPTERS because fuuuuuck, these books.

Initially, I ordered the first one out of curiosity. I was deep in my post-Twilight depression, desperate for something else to read, and I kept hearing whispers about Fifty Shades of Grey and how it was originally written as Twilight fan fiction, with the two main characters based loosely off Edward & Bella. Now, if you’re sitting there thinking that I should have better things to do with my time than chase down a dirty version of Edward & Bella, I honestly don’t know what to say to you other than dude, YOU DON’T KNOW ME AT ALL.

So, I read the first book. And let me tell you, it’s absurdly hot. And I mean, you can see the similarities to Edward & Bella, but they only go so far. This is definitely its own inescapably seductive book, and as soon as I finished it I jumped on Amazon and ordered the other two. I then spent the rest of the day lost in thought about where the first book left off, wondering where it was headed, fantasizing about what I wanted to happen to these two new characters that I was suddenly obsessed with.

At Target later that day, still obsessively thinking about the delicious smut, I suddenly found myself in the book section, staring hungrily at the two books I had just ordered on Amazon, wondering if it was too late to cancel my order and buy them here instead.

“Calm down, Nicole,” I thought. “You can wait a few days to get the books in the mail.”

Oh, inner voice, how little you know me. In fact, why I ever thought I’d be able to wait in the first place is a mystery. Clearly I should have been standing outside Target the second they opened, credit card in hand, demanding that someone fetch me parts 2 & 3 of my smutty addiction.

Which is how I found myself back at home, two books richer, trying unsuccessfully to cancel an Amazon order that had already been processed. When I told James Bond the story later that night, he – unlike my misguided inner voice – wasn’t at all surprised. “That’s standard Nicole procedure,” he said. And, like always, he was right.

So then, seeing as how my impatience meant I had extra copies of Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed, I figured that the only logical next step was to order an extra copy of Fifty Shades of Grey as well, and then give the trilogy to one of you guys. (If you want them, just let me know in the comments and I’ll pick someone to send them off to next week!) Because really, these are the kinds of books you’ll force on your friends just so you have someone to discuss them with. I’ve already done that to 4 people, and my copies of the books are currently making their way through a handful of peer-pressured friends.

I mean, friends don’t let friends miss out on wildly inappropriate and sexually explicit novels, right? Isn’t that how the saying goes?

[Update: the smutty smut book winner is... @norahcarroll!]

Well, let’s see. I haven’t blogged about my vagina in a while, so I figure that now is as good a time as any to get back to that for a second.

(HI MOM! HOW WAS CHURCH YESTERDAY??)

So, here’s the deal. I recently joined up with Lucky Bloke for Mission: Great Sex! – a one-of-a-kind global condom review initiative where men and women in every possible demographic will test and (anonymously) review the world’s finest condoms.

When I first heard about this, I was all, “Uh, dude, I already have plenty of condoms.” But Melissa, the founder of LuckyBloke.com, was like, “Did you know that there are actually three different sizes of condoms and that guys can figure out their perfect size using an empty toilet paper roll?” And I was all, “What do you mean three sizes? Aren’t there just, like, regular condoms and then those magnum condoms?” And Melissa was like, “Aw, sweetie…” and then she educated the hell out of me about all things condom. Which was awesome. (THANKS, MELISSA!)

Even better than the personal education and the fact that Lucky Bloke offers everything from one-time purchases to monthly condom subscription services (with 10% of sales going to humanitarian causes!), is what she’s offering with Mission: Great Sex! If you’re selected, you’ll get to participate in the most comprehensive condom review in history, helping Lucky Bloke to determine which condoms really are superior to all the rest.

If you want to apply to be spoiled by the condom fairies at Lucky Bloke, just click here and mention that you came by way of this blog so they know you’re ready to offer up some bullshit-free opinions about latex love. Ooo, and if you’re selected you have to let me know so we can gossip about our favorite condoms – unless you think that’s weird, in which case, uh, I was obviously joking.

::shifty side-eye::

But wait! There’s more! Well, not more about condoms since we already covered the condom thing, but like, more random news about my life in general. Most importantly, I finished the final Twilight audiobook and had to deal with the horrible first-world-teenage-girl-esque problems of desperately missing Edward and having ALL THE DEPRESSIVE SADS. Seriously, you guys, I’m so distraught that there’s no more Twilight. What the fuck are you doing, Stephanie Meyer?? FINISH MIDNIGHT SUN, PUBLISH IT, AND THEN GET TO WORK ON WRITING THE OTHER THREE BOOKS FROM EDWARD’S PERSPECTIVE BEFORE I LOSE MY ACTUAL FUCKING MIND. I mean, c’mon, is that too much to ask?!

Then, in the midst of grieving the loss of Twilight in my life, I cut 8 inches off my hair & dyed it dark red. (WHAT? Don’t look at me like that. Drastic haircuts are a good way to manage the grieving process. HAS FELICITY TAUGHT US NOTHING??)

After chopping all my hair off, I added two new pages to my blog: one where I’ll be posting my favorite comments and one filled with links to books & articles I love from around the web. Then, I sent out my first Runner’s Brain newsletter (!!!!), made a lot of bad food choices (GIVING UP SUGAR IS SO HAAAARRRDDD), and re-watched an embarrassing impressive amount of Dawson’s Creek on DVD, a show I’m somehow totally hooked on again even though it’s so mother angst-ing terrible that I spend half of every episode cringing and the other half wanting to stab Dawson in the throat with an ironically sawed-off VHS tape.

Also, I spent 5 days in Arizona for my mother’s birthday where I learned that she’s deep into her self-described “purple period,” a phase in which her nails are constantly a dark, sparkly shade of lavender and her outfits/accessories aren’t too far behind.

Sigh.

PLEASE TELL ME THIS HELPS YOU TO UNDERSTAND WHY I AM TWO DEGREES AWAY FROM CRAZY AT ALL TIMES.

PS – How did we go from the very adult & responsible topic of condoms to the belligerently adolescent yelling about Twilight, Felicity, and Dawson’s Creek? What the fucking fuck is happening to me?!

Sometimes, you just have to give in to temptation. You have to look your better judgement in the eye and say, “Catch ya later, man, I’m headed in the other direction on this one.” And sometimes, when you do that, it turns out to be the best decision you could possibly make.

Which is to say, I caved. After SEVEN YEARS of resisting the hype and allure of the Twilight saga – seven years of making a huge fuss about the bad writing and the bad example these books set for young women and blah blah lots of other up-on-my-literary-soapbox shit – I caved. I gave into the sweet, delicious, vampire-y temptation, and oh glorious hell, it sure feels good over here on the dark side.

Ooooh yeah, this is going to be one of those posts.

Gentlemen, get out while you still can. Ladies, if you’ve read the Twilight books and don’t think you’ll be able to keep plot spoilers to yourself, then this is me kindly asking you to get the fuck away from my blog. Seriously, put the blog down, back away slowly, and disappear for a while. Do you hear me? NO SPOILERS. I’ve somehow managed to go seven years without finding out any of the important details about these books, and you don’t want to be the one to ruin that for me. Seriously, check the fine print of the How To Be A Kickass Woman contract; there’s a clause in there about the special place in hell that’s reserved for women who fuck with other women’s Edward Cullen fantasies. You’ll find it right between the section about how it’s okay to have a raging crush on Neville Longbottom and the paragraph warning you that no one in the world will ever be as sexy as Tim Riggins, ever, no matter what.

These rules, they’re put in place for a reason, ladies.

But, back to Twilight. In all honesty, I blame running. Now that the Crazy Running Bug is permanently lodged in my brain and I’m running 5 half marathons over the next 6 months, I’ve gone into audiobook overdrive. That’s my holy grail secret to being a runner, by the way, listening to audiobooks, and I’ve been devouring book after book during my training. A few weeks ago, at a momentary loss for what to listen to next, I stumbled on Twilight and figured, “what the hell, right?” WHAT THE HELL, INDEED.

I’m now only an hour or so away from the end of the first audiobook and, predictably, I’m fucking obsessed. So obsessed that I wake up sad on non-running days because it means I just have to live my boring regular life, free from ravenously inappropriate thoughts about Edward Cullen. And, listen, I know these stories put sick and all-consuming love on a pedestal and probably aren’t the best message for young women (or grown women, for that matter), but I’ll be the first one to say that even pitted against my more rational thoughts, sick and all-consuming love is still just so damn appealing. I mean, I’m as much a feminist as the next girl, and yet all I want is for Edward Cullen to hold me against his perfect white skin, exhale his sweet, cold breath against my neck, and tell me that I’m his entire life. Ugh, I KNOW.

Is this the part where I beg James Bond not to leave me?

And is this the part where I find my 12th grade AP English teacher and talk her down from the small ledge at the top of the very tall building that’s reserved for teachers whose model students turn out to be rabid Twilight and Gossip Girl lovers? Oh god, don’t even get me started on Gossip Girl.

Oh well. Sorry, James Bond! Sorry, Mrs. Novak! THE OBSESSIVE AND DELIRIOUS HEART WANTS WHAT IT MOTHER EFFING WANTS, OKAY??

This past weekend, James Bond and I celebrated our two year anniversary by driving down to San Diego, getting up at 5:45am, and running a 15K race.

Well, actually, our real anniversary is on Tuesday and I’m the only one who ran the 15K race, but I did manage to convince him to a) come with me, b) wake up in the pitch black dark, c) run the 5K race that was happening that same morning, and d) do it all in the name of an “anniversary celebration.”

I WIN. Or, wait, maybe he wins because he’s the one doing the nice-y nice things for me while I’m the asshole who’s all, “LET’S DRIVE 120 MILES TO PAY SOMEONE TO TIME US WHILE WE RUN AROUND AT THE CRACK OF DAWN WITH A BUNCH OF PEOPLE WE DON’T EVEN KNOW. YEAH!!! HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BABY!”

The race was fucking awesome though. I mean, the race itself wasn’t anything special, but I had this crazy out-of-body moment around mile 8 where I was all, “holy shit, LOOK WHAT MY BODY CAN DO” and it made me remember what Gretchen brilliantly dubbed the “Nicki Minaj moment,” which is basically any real life version of that line in Nicki Minaj’s song that goes “Yes I did, yes I did, somebody please tell him who the eff I is” that in my mind loosely translates to, “YOU BEST BELIEVE I’M DOING THIS CRAZY ASS THING. BAM!” Which is why you’ll see Gretchen and I occasionally yelling “NICKI MINAJ” at each other on Facebook and Twitter as a new go-to mantra for things we maybe don’t think we can do but are totally going to do anyway because bitch please.

So yeah, I ran 9.3 miles (NICKI MINAJ!!) and am now desperately in need of a Thai massage – even though I’m pretty sure getting a massage when I’m this sore could KILL ME DEAD. God, will you listen to me and my first world problems? “How soon is too soon to pay someone to rub my sore muscles after finishing my expensive and equally first world recreational activity?”

Yeah. THAT.

So, no massage for me. Instead, I got to come home from San Diego and have one of my biggest and most irrational fears realized, and honestly, I almost don’t want to tell you about it because there’s absolutely no way you can say that you’re not judging me and also that you’re not a liar in the same sentence and have both of those things be accurate. Seriously, even I judge me for this one.

Here’s the deal. I’m scared of alarm clocks. Actually, no, that’s not quite right. I’m not scared of alarm clocks, what I’m scared of is the possibility that something horribly annoying, like an alarm going off, will start and then just never stop. It’s why I hate when people say the same thing over and over again, like “Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole” if they’re trying to get my attention, or why I freak out when people repeatedly tap me on the shoulder or something, because WHAT IF IT NEVER STOPS? Think about it. What if your alarm went off in the morning and then it just NEVER STOPPED. EVER. EVERRRRR!!!

I’ve always known that this is an irrational fear, which is the only thing that’s kept it in check. I mean, of course the car alarm and the radio static and the blinking lights are going to stop, right? WRONG. Last night, James Bond put a pizza in the oven and set a timer on his iPhone for when to take it out. Then, just before the timer went off, the screen froze – we couldn’t click anywhere, couldn’t turn it off, couldn’t do anything – and then, of course, the timer went off. Loud, incessant, beeping, vibrating, with NO WAY TO TURN IT OFF. It just kept going off and going off and going off and I thought, “Oh my god, this is it. I’m going to have to listen to this sound FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE,” because that’s totally how I feel when repetitive noises get started. That’s where the fear comes from, the brain-eating belief that, no matter what, I’ll be subjected to whatever the thing is from now until the end of time forever and ever amen.

So there we were, trying to turn the phone off, trying to unfreeze it, plugging it into the wall, plugging it into the computer, pushing every button, smacking the screen, EVERYTHING, but it wouldn’t stop. Cue mild hysteria that ended with me burying the phone under a pillow to muffle the sound, closing the bedroom door, and hiding in the living room until it died or faded or gave up or did whatever the hell iPhone alarms do when they realize you’re not paying attention to them anymore because you’re LOSING YOUR MOTHER EFFING MIND OVER HERE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Damn it. Why am I telling you about this?! It’s bad enough that James Bond has had to put up with me and my quirky shenanigans for the past two years (HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BABY!), but now I’m voluntarily sharing it with everyone on the entire internet? SMOOTH, WOMAN.

Although, really, I don’t think the alarm clock thing is my point here. I think my point is that even though I’m out of my mind at least 96% of the time, James Bond still loves me and never even threatens to abandon me in a warehouse filled with blaring car alarms and smoke detectors, even though I’m sure that sometimes I totally deserve it.

That’s what love is, I think. Finding someone who looks at you when you’re at your craziest and says, “Fuck it, I’m in.”

(HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BABY!!)

The best thing about working from home is the part where you get to, you know, work from home. The worst thing about working from home is the part where all of the sudden you realize that spending so much time alone has made you really fucking weird.

Maybe it’s a “chicken or the egg” thing. Maybe it’s not that working from home makes you weird, maybe it’s that people who are already weird are drawn to working from home. Either way, we’ve reached the point where I have to confess that I’ve started eating vegetables in the bathtub in the middle of the day.

This is when I’d love to be able to interject and tell you that it’s not what it sounds like, but really? It’s exactly what it sounds like.

It started as an exercise in time management and efficiency. I was really cold (HOW IS IT ALWAYS SO COLD IN THIS APARTMENT? AREN’T WE IN LOS ANGELES?), and all morning while working I kept thinking that the best way for me to finally get warm would be to take a bath. A few hours passed, and no matter what additional clothes I put on, I couldn’t get warm. I started to feel like the only way I’d ever be warm again EVER would be to submerge my entire body in super hot water, so I gave in and started running a bath. While running the bath, I realized that in addition to being The Coldest, I was also The Hungriest. “Okay,” I thought. “Maybe I can eat first, and then take a bath.” But my crazybrain was like, “YOU’RE TOO COLD FOR THAT.” And then I was all, “Well, maybe I can take a bath first and then have a snack.” But my crazybrain was like, “YOU’RE TOO HUNGRY FOR THAT.” Which is when I decided that that only possible solution was to eat a plate of baby carrots in the bathtub.

As I was doing it, I knew it was totally fucking weird. I kept thinking, “IT’S 3PM. YOU’RE EATING CARROTS IN THE BATHTUB. YOU’RE THE ONLY PERSON IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD TO DO THIS.” But I mean, hey, I got out of the bathtub about twenty minutes later and I was both warm and not-starving, so overall I’d have to say it was a win.

That afternoon, I figured the Bathtub-Vegetable Situation would be a one time thing. But then, a few days later when I was putting on socks and a sweatshirt and wrapping myself up in a blanket at my desk, I remembered how warm it felt to be in the bath. “Oh, what the hell,” I thought. “I’ll just take one more bath.” As the water was running, I found myself absentmindedly cutting up some cucumbers to take in there with me. “GOD, YOU’RE SO FUCKING WEIRD,” I thought. “THIS ISN’T ANY LESS WEIRD THE SECOND TIME AROUND.” But, whatever man, I was hungry and cold.

And so it went, different combinations of bath + vegetables, until one weekend afternoon when I realized that the only thing missing from my warm, wet, relaxing snack time was TV. Which is how I wound up laying in the bathtub, eating truffle oil green beans, and watching Friday Night Lights on a laptop perched on top of the toilet. Do you hear that, Mom? Your adult daughter’s new hobby is preparing fancy green beans and eating them in the mother effing BATHTUB while watching high school kids play football on Netflix Instant. Also, while we’re on the subject, how did I just start watching Friday Night Lights?! I’m only about halfway through season 2* but I’m already obsessed. I mean, THIS SHOW! Honestly, I’m legitimately proud of the fact that, since starting the show, I’ve still managed to complete my work, go outside, interact with three dimensional people, and do other seemingly normal activities, because ALL I WANT TO DO IS WATCH TIM RIGGINS PUSH HIS HAIR OUT OF HIS EYES FOREVER AND EVER, AMEN.

*NO SPOILERS. IF YOU TELL ME ANYTHING ABOUT WHAT HAPPENS I’LL COMPLETELY LOSE MY MIND AND HAVE TO PROGRESS TO EATING CHICKEN PARM IN THE BATHTUB FOR COMFORT. DO YOU WANT TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR A TRAGEDY LIKE THAT?!

Over the past two weeks, I read the entire Harry Potter series for the first time. I’m now recovering from the severe eye strain caused by reading so many books so quickly – and in particular, from reading the 759 pages of the final book in just under 10 hours straight.

(Pro tip: 10 hours is too many hours to read without stopping unless your goal is to never be able to open your eyes again ever.)

For those of you who have long since finished the Harry Potter books: I know, I’m extremely late to this party. For those of you who haven’t read them yet: Ha, I win! But also, what are you waiting for?

You’re probably waiting because there are so many books, and some of them are so long, and it’s such a big commitment to read a series that’s guaranteed to be a giant time-suck. But I finger crossie promise you, it’s worth it.

If you’re like me, though, you aren’t so great with the moderation. This means that once you read the first sentence of the first book, you won’t have much of a life outside of Harry Potter until you finish the last sentence of the last book, because you’ll have to know what happens next and next and next. The upside of this is that Harry Potter makes your heart feel good. The downside is that you’ll quickly realize how boring your stupid ordinary life is, and you’ll be very sad when the books are over and no one around you is making cars fly or spontaneously morphing into a dog. See also: cooking dinner by bewitching knives to chop the ingredients, disappearing from one place and immediately appearing in another, regrowing broken bones, and fighting dragons. Nothing gives you street cred like fighting a fucking dragon.

In the hours after finishing the final book, I did a lot of crying – both about the overall emotional impact of the story and about the sadness of not having any more Harry Potter books to read.

(Yes, I’m very, very cool.)

I then proceeded to obsessively watch JK Rowling interviews online and cry even harder at the thought that she spent 17 years writing these books because a) how is it possible for someone to be that committed to anything? and b) how is it possible for someone to be that insanely talented??

Clearly, I have realistic aspirations and goals for my life if I’m overcome with crippling amounts of jealousy toward THE MOST SUCCESSFUL WRITER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD.

I just, I can’t imagine what it would feel like to spend 17 full years working on something incredible enough to touch the lives and hearts of millions and millions of people. Not that my life’s work (or your life’s work) should be judged on a scale from one to JK Rowling, but the reality that there are people like her out there who can create something so astronomically stunning gives me a wicked case of the crazy eye.

And I guess that’s the takeaway for me in all of this; my experience of reading the Harry Potter books isn’t just about the passion and the whimsy and the fun of the story, it’s about being in awe of the person who created it. And really, it’s about being in awe of the creative process itself, and of the fact that we – each and every one of us – has the potential to create something that can change other people’s lives.

(Cue the uplifting and motivational soundtrack!)

Clearly I’m still having a lot of feelings about all of this, and I don’t really know what to do about it. The only thing I do know is that everyone should get the chance to experience the magical Harry Potter-ness for themselves, so I’m doing my part by giving away the complete series of books this week.

If you haven’t read the books and would like to win so you can commiserate with me over fantasy fiction induced eye pain and billionaire writer career envy, let me know in the comments. If you’ve already read the books and would like to win for someone else and do a double pay-it-forward, that’s totally okay too. I’ll pick a winner on Friday, and in the meantime I shall try very hard to resume a normal life in which I don’t randomly chant spells under my breath while feeling around the room for people covered in invisibility cloaks. Ahem.

{And the winner is… @KatharineS84!}

Let’s take a poll. Do you think it’s racist to make declarative statements about a certain group of people even if the statement you’re making is a nice thing?

If your answer is yes, you should definitely stop reading this post because it’s racist as shit. If your answer is no, then OH MY GOD WHY ARE ASIAN BABIES SO MUCH CUTER THAN ALL THE OTHER BABIES?*

Whenever we see a baby like this out in public, I always tell James Bond that I’m going to put it in my purse. He thinks I’m kidding, but the truth is that at any given moment in my life I’m approximately 7 seconds away from going all Angelina Jolie on these super cute Asian babies, taking them home with me, and tattooing their birth coordinates all over my body.

(Don’t look at me like that. Of course I know that stealing other people’s babies on the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica isn’t the same thing as adopting needy children from other countries. BUT STILL.)

Anyway, the other night when Drea was over I started a Pinterest board dedicated solely to pinning photos of cute Asian babies, an activity that has now replaced “sleep” and “water” and “real life three-dimensional friends” on my list of important things to do.

When I first showed Drea the big-glasses-small-Asian-child photo, I made her close her eyes. I’m all, “No seriously, close your eyes, I have to show you something SO AMAZING.” So she closes her eyes but then she’s like, “Dude, this is really weird. Don’t put anything near my face. What’s near my face?!” because I have the computer screen really close to her so that as soon as she opens her eyes it’s all CUTE ASIAN BABY, right fucking there, but I’m laughing so hard at being the kind of creepy motherfucker who makes her friend CLOSE HER EYES prior to being shown a close-up photo of someone else’s child from the internet that I’m basically wetting my pants. So she opens her eyes and looks from the photo of the baby to the tears streaming down my face to me crossing my legs so the pee won’t come out and then she starts laughing hysterically and we’re both collapsing on the couch in our almost-pee laughter tears and James Bond is looking at us and shaking his head like, “WHAT IS MY LIFE” and then we clicked over to the page that shows you all of the photos that have been added to Pinterest from the same website as the photo you’re looking at, but instead of finding a collection of photos that included our cute Asian baby photo, we found page after page of people who had all pinned THIS EXACT SAME PHOTO, which made me realize that, overall, the world is a very good place.

Except wait, actually, a little later that night we also found an online shop that sells “life-like baby replicas” and hey, guess what, on a scale from one to that super cute baby with the glasses, these dolls are like a negative eleventy billion.

SEE?!

Like, what the fuck? WHO’S BUYING THOSE? Especially because they’re priced at like two thousand dollars on Ebay.

TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS.

FOR A SCARY FAKE BABY.

FROM FUCKING EBAY.

I mean, if people are seriously spending that much money on dolls from the internet, we’re all in the wrong business. Especially because they don’t have any cute Asian ones, which would clearly be worth so much more.

*Non-Asian mothers of the internet, please don’t yell at me. I’m not saying that your baby isn’t cute. I mean, I guess I might be saying that because not all babies are cute (WHAT? THEY’RE NOT), but yours probably is. It’s just not as cute as this baby. Or this baby. Unless, of course, the baby in either of those two photos actually is your child, in which case, CAN I PLEASE COME OVER AND FUCKING BABYSIT FOREVER?!?

If you’ve never had a Thai massage and are curious about how it feels, you can probably just hire someone on Craigslist to beat the shit out of you instead. It’s basically the same thing.

It all started when I wanted to do something nice for James Bond after our move. He handled so much of the heavy lifting, and I thought going to get massages together would be the perfect way to unwind. (Thai Massage Tip #1: do not expect to feel at all relaxed at any point during your massage.)

The place I picked had wonderful Yelp reviews and was right around the corner from our new apartment, so I made the appointment and off we went. When we got there, they brought us straight into our two little rooms, each filled wall-to-wall with a platform bed and separated from the other rooms by curtains. We were given a pair of very baggy pants and told to “take all things off, put on pants, and lay face in mattress.” So I did. (Thai Massage Tip #2: The pants will be way too big for you. Yes, you. No matter what. So you should probably keep your underwear on if you want to avoid showing a strange Thai lady your genitals.)

When my masseuse came in, she wasn’t fucking around. There was no soft and sensitive chit chat to make sure I was comfortable, warm enough, feeling good, etc. She just asked me if I like the massage strong and then climbed onto my body on her knees and started jumping around. What? Yeah. (Thai Massage Tip #3: Research the type of massage you’re getting before you go, so you’re not terribly freaked out when a woman you don’t know at all is crawling all over your body and digging her knees and elbows into your ass muscles.)

But here’s the thing about the hour-long massage: it worked. I was sore the next day, but overall it was the only massage I’ve ever gotten that did its job of seriously releasing tension for days and days afterward. Usually, I’m relaxed during the massage and it’s a nice, enjoyable experience, but I don’t feel any real benefit. With Thai Massage, you feel the benefit. The problem with feeling the benefit, though, is that you have to get through the part where some chick is walking on your back with her full weight and you can’t really breathe and you’re thinking, “If this goes on for more than 10 seconds, I’m going to black out,” and you’re having a full-on debate with yourself, thinking, “Just say something. Tell her it’s too much pressure. Ask for less pressure.” but the other part of you is all, “What the fuck, you’re such a baby. Just take it. Breathe through it. YOU’RE FINE. Just a little more. You can take it. You like it hard. Come on!” (Thai Massage Tip #4: You’re basically going to talk dirty to yourself in your head the whole time. That’s okay, it’s the only way to get through it.)

The final few minutes of the massage were the best though, if “best” means “most awkward ever,” because you’re sitting up and she’s doing all these weird stretching things to your arms and neck, but since you’re topless, sitting up also means that your boobs are flying everywhere because even though she tried to tie a tiny little towel around your chest it obviously didn’t stay tied because you don’t have the same ridiculously small Thai bone structure that the makers of these towels were envisioning when they decided to use them as cover ups when beating unsuspecting women into “relaxation.”

And yet, despite paying to flash someone my boobs during a massage in which I mostly thought I was going to die, I really did feel so much looser for the next week. Not “looser” in the slutty way where I showed my tits to a stranger, although come to think of it, I suppose that applies as well.

Oh, and Thai Massage Tip #5: If you’re going to pay someone $45 to beat the shit out of you while they stare at your nipples, make sure you choose a place with an adjoining restaurant so that you can take advantage of the punchcard that lets repeat experiences of naked suffering earn you some free Thai noodles.

The best part about moving to a new city with your boyfriend is that he takes on the responsibility of loading and unloading all of the really heavy shit and therefore winds up too exhausted to protest when you order this decal for the bathtub:

Right now, I’d like to say that the thing I’m most excited about is that my birthday is a week from today, but no, the thing I’m most excited about is Bathtub Decal Arrives In The Mail Day. And then after that, the thing I’m most excited about is having people over to our new apartment who will eventually have to use said bathroom so that I can yell loudly at them while they’re in there and demand that they tell me if they’re naked or not.*

(God, how excited are you to come over to my apartment!!)

We’ve been here for six days now, and the bad parts of moving (where you want to kill yourselves and each other and everyone on the roads and everyone at Target and basically just anyone ever) are behind us. We’ve unpacked all the things, assembled all the new furniture, and are now working on the fun part of actually decorating, which is really just a lot of James Bond being worried that I’m going to throw his things out and me assuring him that I won’t even though he’s basically a hoarder.

(This is where he insists that I clarify that a) he only hoards cool shit but b) he’s not even a real hoarder at all because he couldn’t qualify for that Hoarders show on A&E and if you don’t meet the criteria for the reality TV show that’s related to your particular issue, it *totally* doesn’t count.)

Ahem.

Anyway, here’s the weird thing about moving: The place is unfamiliar, and you’re not in a routine yet, so it’s basically like you’re on vacation, only it’s a vacation in which you’re surrounded by everything you owned in the old place as well as a bunch of Swedish shit from IKEA with labels you can’t pronounce because the Swedish apparently think it’s awesome to have no vowels and eleventy thousand combinations of “sjk” in every single one of their words.

So it feels like we live here, but not really. I mean, I know that this is “home,” but it’s not home yet, you know? We’re in the in-between. Tomorrow though, we’re fulfilling my decorating wet dream of painting the entire wall above my desk with chalkboard paint, and we’re also using a magnetic primer which means that in addition to now being adult enough to purchase primer, I’ll soon have an entire wall that’s not just a wall but also a fucking ninja-ass MAGNETIC CHALKBOARD.

A magnetic chalkboard wall and a bathtub decal that demands immediate nudity; if that’s not the recipe for home sweet home, I have no idea what is.

*NOT YOU, GRANDPA. THAT DECAL ISN’T FOR YOU.