"I have work. Then a dinner thing, and then I am busy trying to become who I am." - Hannah, Girls

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

True Life: I'm Addicted to Hummus

Last night, my sister and I made this:


Man, it was good. So good, that it was my entire dinner. I scarfed down the entire bowl with pita chips and called it a night.

Anyone who knows me knows that I love hors-devours. The only thing I love more than hors-devours before dinner is hors-devours for dinner itself. (I say hors-devours instead of appetizers for the sheer pleasure of incorrectly pronouncing it like whores-devores.)

Anyone who knows me also knows that I also love roasted vegetables, specifically brussels sprouts. I crave vegetables more than I crave pizza. But I also cave to mounds of peanut butter and consume a generous amount of alcohol and random drunk eats. So, I'm not thin, but during the weekdays, I seem like the perfect picture of health.

Freshman year,  I had more than one person ask me if I was vegan or vegetarian. I always had fruits and vegetables on my plate. This past year, people asked the same question. But instead of fruits and vegetables, I always had hummus and vegetables on my plate. I'm not vegan or vegetarian, but with my dining hall eating habits, I can easily go a week and realize that I've accidentally turned into a herbivore ignorant of the wonders of pasteurization like a Brachiosaurus or something.

I love cheese and meat. I could easily go to the sandwich line and get a wrap with turkey, cheddar, tomato, spinach, and onions with pesto mayo. Sounds divine. But for some reason, every time I've entered the cafeteria so far during my college career, auto pilot has clicked on. I've gone straight for vegan cuisine. Freshman year, I made a point of staying away from foods the workers made. I had gained the boarding school 22 and was not going to gain a freshman 15. So, I avoided the oils and sauces and stuck to raw items. I managed to maintain my weight while girls on my hall gained. So, sophomore year, I stuck to the same bland food, but added in hummus because it started to be served daily.

Last summer before sophomore year, I managed to lose a lot of weight, discover a love for running, and admittedly, develop an unhealthy relationship with food.

During sophomore year, hummus became a staple in my life. I love hummus, but I hate how dependent I became on it for dinner night after night. In the dining hall, most people had a burger or chicken as the main component of their meal. Instead, a giant glob of hummus took up a third of my plate.

I'm done with sophomore year. I'm home now, and luckily or unluckily for me, my kitchen does not come with a trough of hummus with a giant serving spoon. I've undergone a humus detox, and have been having salmon or chicken for dinner.

Last night's hummus was wonderful. It was salty with feta and had that familiar texture of dependency I know too well. I'm glad I had it for dinner. But the last time I had that much hummus sitting it my stomach was weeks ago. Granted, the last time that much hummus resting in my stomach it was plain hummus nestled alongside vegetables. This time it was a much more involved hummus cuddling with pita chips.

Hummus and I have a heated love affair. I fall head over heels for the dip and get lost in its creamy consistency. It's simplicity makes me feel healthy, strong, and proud that I am able to resist other temptations. But hummus can also leave me feeling stuffed and full of regret. It can fill me with self-hate and make me feel abused and weak.

My relationship with hummus is complicated. We're figuring things out.

But in the mean time, try the carrot siracha flavored hummus. Impressive.

Monday, May 23, 2016

The Devil Went Down to the Triathlon

In my last post I said I would rather run 6 miles outside than run 1.5 on the treadmill. The morning after that post I did just that. And yes,  that 60 minutes was better than 15 minutes on a treadmill.

After I was done with my run, I went to check out the triathlon that people were setting up for. The next day, I walked my dogs, came home, and then went to watch the race with my family.

Watching the race made me realize that while I like running outside, I will not do a triathlon. Or a half triathlon. Maybe an olympic triathlon. And possibly a mini triathlon.

I saw a guy propose to his girlfriend after they finished the race. I also watched a man literally fall on his face right in front of the finish line. He held on to the wall lining the last stretch of the race and dragged himself along. Then he got to the end. He fell on his face, broke his glasses, started bleeding, and literally crawled across the finish line.

My sister and I couldn't stop laughing about it. A person falling right before finishing a race that has taken them 7+ hours is insane. Insane. Dually sad and hilarious. That's the kind of thing that you joke about happening, but never actually think will happen. Well, I saw it.

My sister and I are probably going to hell for laughing, but we agree that hell doesn't sounds too bad. The people going there are more fun anyways.

"There’s a guy named Fred and he’s got a pair of slacks.
Oooh Fred’s got slacks!"

Friday, May 20, 2016

"Bow Down Bitches." - B̶e̶y̶o̶n̶c̶é̶ Queen Me

Earlier in the day, this post was going to be an ode to running outside. Over the past few hours, however, this has turned into something very different.

This morning I went to Orange Theory with my sister. My mom loves the classes. I enjoyed it and was happy I went, but it confirmed what I already knew: I hate treadmills. I would rather run 6 miles outside than 1.5 miles on the treadmill to be honest. But I'm not getting into that right now.

Today was a rainy day. After I got back home form working out, I didn't leave the house again. I showered, put on my pajamas, and plopped myself down on the couch. It was a day of reality TV and pointless Candy Crush. Nothing interesting happened until a few hours ago when my mother casually mentioned how my family has a castle.

Well, we don't really have a castle. A few weeks ago, my mom and her siblings researched our family tree. As it turns out, we have a direct line to a castle and a dope country home overseas.

Deep down, I always knew we were of the aristocracy. It's no coincidence I pranced to perfection to Mambo 5 during cotillion classes. There's a reason I passed manners class in elementary school with flying colors. You should see the way I gracefully put my elbows on the table and secretly drink milk straight out of the carton. It's obvious that I'm basically royalty. I mean, ever since I was little I knew that my mother's pointy nose meant that we were high class. My brother has the same sharp nose. I have my father's nose, but am more than fine being a average-sized nose girl related to slender, long-nosed family members.

As far as I'm concerned, today I learned that I am a queen. Or a princess. Or at least a dame? A duchess? A something.

I googled countless pictures of my relatives and the town that my family lived in once upon a time. I hope to visit the area one day. But in the mean time, I'm happy with the knowledge that yes, mom, I am the Queen Bee.

Thursday, May 19, 2016

Can you pass the salt? No, the white rock salt. Not that bourgie, pink Himalayan shit.

This morning after my sister and I went to the gym, I made myself a salted caramel protein shake. The shake itself isn't worth writing about, honestly. But the coarse salt I added in is worth writing about.

Salt is damn good. You can put it on chocolate or brussels sprouts. You can put it on shitty dining hall food and make almost anything worth eating.

I love salt. The coarser, the better. But when it comes down to it, I prefer sweet over salty. Though. when I'm on a health kick, salt is the winner. And so protein shakes with salt, vegetables with salt, chicken doused in soy sauce, and diet cokes with 40mg of sodium is the answer now days.

I just followed an insane amount of celebrities on Snapchat. From Kim Kardashian to Bob Saget. I'm most excited about John Mayer. I look forward to hearing his disgustingly good voice every night as I lay in bed clicking through stories.

After I'm done, I close my eyes, try to sleep, and think about my workout in the morning. I wonder how long it will take for me to lose weight. I ask myself how I could be so stupid and gain back everything I lost. I debate the comfiest sleeping position. My questions are never resolved, but my questions don't matter anyways.

The real question is who is the next John Mayer. Because I want to marry him. Or even date him and be dumped, that's more than fine with me. *bonus: I may get a song written about me.

Speaking of music, this is my new ringtone:

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Baby Steps

Today I cut myself shaving for the first time ever. I've been shaving my legs for nearly a decade. You would think by now I would have nicked myself.

I've slipped and lost my footing while holding a razor. I've held razors with soapy and slippery hands. I've shaved both legs in under 30 seconds, haphazardly scraping my calves and thighs. And not once have I caused myself to bleed.

It seems most women have cut the backs of their ankles or knees countless times. I don't know why I have a perfect track record. Whatever the reason is, I don't think I'm proud of it.

When I was younger, I used to smirk and say, "I've never broken a bone." I don't tell people that anymore. It doesn't feel like bragging, but like I'm admitting an embarrassing secret.

I haven't needed a cast, gotten stitches, had a cavity, or even cut myself shaving (until today). My ignorance in these departments once felt like an achievement, and now I feel ashamed. These things have become indicators for my immaturity and lack of expierence--a word that attempts to describe the impossibly quantifiable moments that someone cooler than you has had.

I think I missed some sort of handbook between high school and college. Everyone else seems to have had it on their required reading list but me. I've never laid eyes on it, but I know the handbook isn't a set of rules. It's a list of instructions and checkpoints I should have reached by now, and I'm getting more and more behind as I get older.

My freshman roommate told me I'm "socially immature." And I agree with her. Becoming socially mature has been on my to-do list for over a year now.

I still don't know how to talk to boys. I get nervous in large groups of people. I worry about what other people think more than I should. I don't know shit about make-up. I don't get in trouble with my parents. My heart hasn't been broken. I haven't broken anyone's heart. I don't regret much. I follow most rules. I haven't made many mistakes.

I want to be upset or angry about bad things happening in my life. Instead, I'm upset and angry that bad things don't happen, which I realize sounds like a nonissue.

My life has been on cruise control for forever. I've tried to switch it off, and the button is stuck.

But today, I felt a sharp sting of pain on the outside of my left leg. I saw blood decorate my bathtub in streaks of red. I applied pressure with a Bounty paper towel for about an hour. I ended up with tiny scab that won't even leave a scar. But I've been going 60mph in a 70mph. And in the shower this morning I may have broken the speed limit, if only for a few seconds.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Dear People We Bump Into While Running Errands,

Dear People We Bump Into While Running Errands,

Please stop asking my sister what she's "going to do." It's making her feel bad and is stressing her out. It's also really fucking annoying.

My sister just graduated college. She doesn't know what she wants to do with her life. She isn't going to graduate school in the fall. She doesn't have a job yet. She's not starting out with a whopping salary like our brother did. She doesn't have a plan right now. But she'll figure things out.

I realize when people ask my sister "what's next," they aren't trying to upset her. (God I hope it's just out of curiosity and not out of a desire to condescend).

My sister is funny, nice, and smart--but most of all funny. She'll be fine. I know it, and she knows it. I think we can all agree that the future sucks. Let's stop asking about it. And don't drill someone with questions before congratulating them on their degree.


This is my first blog post. It happens to be rooted in love, anger, and humor. The second emotion is my favorite. The third is the most important. The first is unavoidable, but is still mostly foreign to me.

Hopefully this blog goes somewhere. Maybe it won't. Please don't ask about my plans for this corner of the internet. Because I don't have any plans. And that's okay. Congratulate me on having the courage to start writing instead.