Jen Lancaster Quotes

I can't believe anyone would voluntarily run 26 miles. Sometimes I sit on the couch cross-legged because I don't feel like walking to the bathroom.

I'm not lazy. I'm simply judicious about excess movement.

You want to change? Lose the bitch. Be nicer to people. Stop telling them to "bite you" and threatening to kick them until they're dead.

Owning a dog is slightly less expensive than being addicted to crack.

Kiss the fattest part of my ass

If you're anorexic, you're doing it wrong." I swat him with a dish towel. "No, no, I mean anorexics look in the mirror, and even if they're eighty pounds, they still see a fat girl. I'm a hundred pounds heavier than I was in high school, my veins are full of creme fraiche, and yet I look in the mirror, take in the hair and makeup, and think, Damn, baby, you fiiine.

I don't mean to get all religious here, but I'm pretty sure key lime martinis (with a graham cracker & sugar rim) are proof that Jesus loves us.

I still believe in the Holy Trinity, except now it's Target, Trader Joe's, and IKEA.

Some people are destined to be deep thinkers. I am not one of those people.

This is terrific! What fun! Maybe tomorrow I can go to the prom with my brother. The day after, perhaps I can wear white pants and unexpectedly get my period.

Despite my best efforts, I'm not quite perfect. Let's just say I'm like one of those Hopi blankets where they leave a tiny flaw so as to not affront the Lord.

You know what it was like? It was like thinking I was heading to a surprise party and instead it was a surprise pap smear.

In other words? The bitch had it coming. And I am that bitch.

I yearn to be a woman of more depth, but I'm not so fond of the path I'd need to follow to get there.

As I examine my life through this book, I can't help but wonder if my mother was right. Maybe I really was what I ate. And maybe if she'd let me eat a little more sugar, I'd have come out sweeter.

For the record? I have never been her baby. In fact, I reject the notion of coming out of her body. I prefer to believe I was hatched, or perhaps purchased.

Cost to clean deeply soiled rugs: $200. Cost to replace shiny, black, stack-heeled, pilgrim-toed boots: $185. Cost to fix every single delicious table and chair leg in the house: $490. Life with two shelter dogs: fucking priceless.

Ambien might have mentally just tossed my salad. WITH CROUTONS.

I would rather receive a Pap smear from Captain Hook than venture out on New Year's Eve.

Fletch then kisses me on the forehead before opening the cabinet under the coffeemaker to grab placemats and napkins. Retrieving these items is his job because I kind of don't like to bend. I also refuse to carry anything heavier than my purse.

But ever since I made the decision to drop a few pounds-way less easy than it sounds, by the way-I've become obsessed with my size and in so doing I've inadvertently allowed my inner critic to have a voice. And you know what? She's a bitch. Like now when I see my underpants in the laundry, I no longer think Soft! Cotton! Sensible! Instead I hear her say Damn, girl, these panties be huge.

Maybe I've moved to the dark side, but it's clean and nice and we never run out of toilet paper.

When I hug her, I notice she's still wearing yesterday's false eyelashes. Mom? You know those come off with a little makeup remover and a cotton pad?" I'm not taking them off." Why not?" I spent $180 on that makeup job and I refuse to wash my face until I get my money's worth.

You think you're so cool just because you can walk!

Point? Maybe you aren't a Carrie or a Samantha or a Charlotte or a Miranda. Maybe you're just you.

Amen,' I exclaim, accidentally spitting out a Raisinet. I pick up the chocolate with a Kleenex and stuff it in my purse. Ten bucks says a month from now I'll have forgotten about it and will finally have said heart attack when I assume a rat shat in there.

So now I'm getting my gown made by an exclusive seamstress, and all thos anorexic whores on Michigan Avenue and Oak Street who made me feel like the Goodyear blimp can kiss the very fattest part of my ass.

I stuff another handful of Raisinets in my mouth. What gets me is the 'pretty face' bit. 'Cause I won't mind being reminded I'm fat as long as you water it down first. Why not say, Hey I'm going to insult you, but first I will congratulate your fortunate genetics and appropriate appliclation of Bobbi Brown cosmetics to prevent you from hitting me. Sh*t; I kind of prefer being called a 'fat bitch.' At least it doesn't pull any punches.

I've determined the ideal job for me is one where I can write clever essays about my life and my employer will give me enough money not only to live a comfortable existence, but also to buy many, many new pairs of shoes.

No, it's not a 'corpse thing.' I feel I lack the emotional capacity to deal with those in mourning...

Seriously, our nation is never going to be on the same page on issues like gun control, welfare, the economy, the environment, etc. I doubt we'll ever come to terms on tastes great or less filling and hybrids versus Hummers, and there will always be Yankees fans and Red Sox fans, and never the 'twain shall meet. Fortunately, all it takes for us to be of one mind is some buttercream frosting.

I want to change my life...except I sort of like it. I mean, I couldn't be more delighted every Monday night after Fletch goes to bed when I come downstairs, pull up the Bachelor on TiVo, drink Riesling, and eat cheddar/port wine Kaukauna cheese without freakign out over fat grams. I'm perpetually in a good mood because I do everything I want. I love having the freedom to skip the gym to watch a Don Knots movie on the Disney Channel without a twinge of guilt. I've figured out how to not be beholden to what other people believe I should be doing, and when the world tells me I ought to be a size eight, I can thumb my nose at them in complete empowerment.

When did the cell phone become a license to be rude? And why must I be subjected to your personal conversations?

Hell hath no fury like a middle-aged woman in a fuzzy pink robe, hopped up on a winning combination of allergy medicine, Alias reruns, and anger.

Over the summer we chatted one night while Angie stripped a bed, changed wet sheets, comforted and repajamaed a toddler, and chased down a car of speeding teenagers while shaking a brick at them, never once interrupting the conversation or setting down her margarita. The only reason this woman isn't president of General Motors is because she's chosen not to be.

Were I forced to describe this woman in one word, that word would be...herpes.

Although I get a lot of specialty services like wraps, scrubs, and mustache removal, my favorite is the simple manicure/pedicure. They work on your hands and feet at the same time while you sit in a vibrating chair. I call it the sorority girls version of a threesome.

Life is unfair and there are winners and losers, regardless of how much overprotective parents attempt to shield their offspring from reality.

I never sleep on the plane. I have to be awake and using my mind power to keep it in the air

Really? If I could hate my trainer? That would be ideal. I'd prefer to despise this person with the fire of ten thousand suns. So when I walk - nay, crawl - out of here at the end of my workouts, I want to lull myself to sleep by picturing my very talented and inspirational trainer getting hit by a bus. A bus that I am driving.

When she gets rattled, the South really comes out. Once when Daddy tried to cancel our country club membership because he said the dues were too high, she went from zero to Atlanta burning in zero point five seconds.

If you're in the midst of a midlife crisis, you could buy a convertible, have an affair, or upgrade your cup size. But you'll probably be happiest if you save a dog's life.

The living room is a monument to my impulsive spending habits. I've got more than two hundred DVDs, including cinematic greats such as Monkey Bone, Corkey Romano, and A Night at the Roxbury, leading me to believe not only do I have awful taste in films, but I also have a Chris Kattan fixation. What I don't have is $4000 earing intrest in a money market account.

Money talks but wealth whispers.

Fletch is back from Austin, and turns out what sounded great on paper didn't match up to reality. He says its so hot down there, I'd spontaneously combust the second I stepped off the plane. Plus with humidity turning the air as thick as oatmeal, my hair would always be a disaster. So, Austin's out.

As I paddle along, I slowly become aware that it's been fear keeping me out of this pool for so many years. I never came here before because I was afraid I'd make a fool of myself by not having the endurance to complete a lap. The swimming wasn't what scared me; failure was. My fear locked me in a state of arrested development for so many years. Fear kept me from tackling my weight, which I understand has simply been symptomatic of my greater fear, growing up. I glide down the lane on my back and reflect on how good I feel right now. It's not because I've lost more than thirty pounds. I feel incredible because I've stopped being afraid.

I mean, six years ago my electricity's being cut off and my car's getting repossessed and I'm being evicted from my apartment, and now I'm all "Yeah, havin' dinner with Rudy in the Hamptons, what of it?

Forgive the cliche, but friends are truly the family you choose.

But there's always a chance she's hiding a flask and a Nixon-esque Enemies List in her pinafore apron, which is exactly why we're such good friends.

Except for thinking up reasons I’m allowed to skip the gym, my schedule is almost totally empty. (Today’s reason is because I have a cold. Yesterday’s was the dogs seemed sad.

I tried, it was hard, I quit, the end. Story of my life.

I feel like my takeaway from tonight is that it's okay to love shitty television, provided that you make an effort to appreciate other kinds of entertainment.

Yeah, I'm over forty, flighty, and fluffy- I'd say I'm not ideal bouncer material.

What's funny is the act of cleaning out my desk takes an hour, yet I've been dreading it for so many damn years. How much time have I wasted in fretting about organizing this instead of actually organizing? I kind of don't want to know.

I’m busy sorting through our new collection of rhinestone jewelry. Should anyone be in the market for sparkly accessories the size of a hubcap, this is the place to get them. Earlier today, a customer picked up one of the enormous chandelier-style offerings and asked, 'Do those be genuine rhimestones?' I couldn’t even begin to explain everything that was wrong with her sentence, so I simply replied, 'Yes. They do be genuine.

This is a Lucent PBX with Audix voice mail, right? I used this kind at all of my old jobs, so I'm pretty familiar with them." Completely ignoring me, Pat continues to demonstrate every single one of the phone's features, half of which she describes incorrectly. I don't bother taking notes because I've used this system a thousand times. I have no need to transcribe an erroneous refresher course. "Hey, you should be writing this down." Like I said, I've used this system extensively and--" WRITE IT DOWN," Pat growls. "If you screw up the phone, Jerry's gonna be on my ass." No problem." I'm slowly learning to choose my battles and figure this isn't the hill I want to die on. I pull a portfolio out of my briefcase and begin to take notes. When the phone rings and Jerry isn't there to answer, you pick it up and hold it to your mouth like this. You say, 'Hello, Jerry Jenkins' office.'" I write: When phone rings, place receiver next to your word hole and not your hoo-hoo or other bodily aperature, and say, "Shalom.

I don't care how happily married you are or how deeply enmeshed you are with your children and family and career -- every woman needs a couple of chicks who'll break out the sangria just because you need to vent.

Everyday I feel more and more like a full-fledged adult. Even though it was (metaphorically) only yesterday I was sloshing in the door at four a.m. after Dollar Beer Night, I find myself with a mortgage, four types of insurance, and a non-laundry-quarter-based retirement fund.

Today, we’re a beeper generation in a smartphone world.

You know what? We need a recession in this country, because that would finally weed out all the subnormal, underdeveloped, stupefied, puerile people in this workforce.

You know what? We need a recession in this country, because that would finaly weed out al the subnormal, underdeveloped, stupefied, puerile people in this workforce.

Fortunately, all it takes for us to be of one mind is some buttercream frosting.

Ultimately, my goal in life is to arrive at the finish line without having regrets.

At my age, I feel like I’m halfway to the finish line and life’s too short to do what I’m sure to hate.

If I were a lesbian and had a thing for narcissistic ex-sorority girls? I’d totally do me." Bitter is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, or Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office: A Memoir

I love the French and Italian church paintings from the Middle Ages. But I'm also interested to learn more about who was the first to make the leap from religious art to secular. That couldn't have been a small feat. Who was brave enough to say, " You know what? Enough of Jesus. I'mma paint me this here bowl of fruit and then I'mma paint my girlfriend... naked!

You know why I love HGTV? It's not just that I get a peek into other people's lives. It's that everyone's always thrilled with the end result, whether they're redecorating an unfortunate room, selling a house, or cleaning up another contractor's mess. I love for a happy ending, and HGTV is perpetually upbeat and optimistic. The shows are all about problem solving, not drama creating.

The second prong in my revised Trinity is IKEA, the Swedish home store monolith. If you're unfamiliar, they carry every single thing you could possibly ever need to fill your home and garden at low, low prices, but in obscure Swedish sizes so those items won't coordinate with anything else you own, like, say, if you want to put a regular Target lamp shade on your IKEA lamp. Fletch thinks it's Sweden's master plan to make Americans so busy trying to construct furniture with Allen wrenches that we don't notice they've invaded us. (Personally, I think it's payback; the Swedes are pissed that we aren't buying ABBA albums anymore.)

Actually, I believe there are only two kinds of women in this world: Martha people and Oprah people. That doesn’t mean one can’t have an affinity for both of them, but my theory is that every chick is more firmly in one camp than the other. The typical Oprah woman is all self-actualized and best-life-y and Eat, Pray, Love. The Big O seems like the kind of gal who’d insist we all spend the afternoon wearing jammy pants. And how fun would that be?! But Martha? She’s not putting up with that nonsense, and that makes me adore her all the more. She’ll tell you what to eat, where to pray, and who to love, and I appreciate the guidance.

In Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand stated that there's no such thing as real altruism. She espoused the principle of ethical egotism, meaning that a person's moral obligation is to promote their own welfare. Translation? I still have the musical sensibilities of a teenage girl and I kind of want to see a shitty pop concert in the guise of doing something nice for my pal's kid, so I need to find a way to make it happen.

...Ever since I made the decision to drop a few pounds—way less easy than it sounds, by the way—I’ve become obsessed with my size, and in so doing I’ve inadvertently allowed my inner critic to have a voice. And you know what? She’s a bitch. Like now when I see my underpants in the laundry, I no longer think Soft! Cotton! Sensible! Instead I hear her say Damn, girl, these panties be huge.” “Your inner critic has terrible grammar.” “I know, it’s the only way I can take away some of her power over me...

If I had a family crest, it would read Please Don’t Make Me Be an Asshole.

The thing about mass transportation is that it transports the masses.

I would rather receive a Pap smear from Captain Hook than venture out in New Year's Eve.

Reality television gave me an amazing feeling of moral and intellectual superiority without actually requiring any effort past moving the dogs to find the remote.

I'm the person who says every single thing she thinks, sometimes to others' amusement, and almost always to my detriment.

I bet if I spent less time with the television and more time pursuing activities that enhance my life and expand my knowledge, I won't freeze up in business or social situations.

(Sidebar: Mindy Kaling describes “best friend” as being a friendship tier and not a singular person. Mindy Kaling is wise beyond her years.)

Butterflies are a lot like rainbows: They’re phenomenally beautiful in real life, yet no graphic representation can do them justice; ergo, it’s best to forgo.

I have to pause the video while I corral the dogs in the other room. They howl in protest, and I tell them they are harshing my mellow and Yogi Beef Jerky’s going to be pissed." Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest To Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, Or Why Pie is Not The Answer

eBay is a fine place to unload your Prada bag when you're in a desperate situation and it's exactly what the doctor ordered when searching for a specific item, say an authentic 1965 edition of the game Mystery Date. eBay is a very, very bad place to go if you're a hypercompetitive asshole with a penchant for spite bidding.

I used to have to hunt for hard-boiled eggs when I was a kid. What was the point of that? Was I supposed to be, 'Yay! I found them! Egg-salad sandwiches for everyone!' I was seven! I wanted chocolate, not bioavailable protein.

When I’m able to slough it off, when it’s not causing physical symptoms or putting me on edge, my anxiety still pops up out of nowhere to spoil nice moments. I fear good things happening because I believe something bad is sure to follow.

(At a health and fitness fair) Though normally superconfident, I am not prepared for the judgmental stares of the ultrafit. They don't know me and have no idea of my prowess in the boardroom. They're unfamiliar with my shoe collection and unaware that I live in the Dot-Com Palace. And they didn't notice me pulling up in the Caddy. All they can see is how much space I occupy. With each step I take, I feel cellulite blossoming on my arms, my stomach, my calves. Stop it! I think my chin just multiplied and my thighs inflated. No! Deflate! Deflate! And I'm pretty sure I can see my own ass out of the corner of my eye. Gah! Cut it out!! Am I imagining things, or do my footsteps sound like those of the giant who stomped through the city in the beginning of Underdog? And how did I go from aging-but-still-kind-of-hot ex-sorority girl to horrific, stompy cartoon monster in less than an hour? My sleek and sexy python sandals have morphed into cloven hooves by the time I reach the line for the race packet. While I wait, the air is abuzz with tales of other marathons while many sets of eyes cut in my direction. Eventually an asshat in a JUST DO IT T-shirt asks me, "How's your training going?

With two pit bulls in the house, we have a responsibility to make sure they’re always under control. I mean, we’re well aware of how sweet and harmless they are, yet the fact that they even exist intimidates others, so we train for our neighbors’ peace of mind. As an added bonus, the dogs love it!

If I may, I’d like to take a moment to praise Mark Zuckerberg’s parents for not procreating sooner. Praise be to all that is holy that Facebook didn’t exist when I was that age and the Internet then was but a Usenet group for Star Trek fans. I feel like the luckiest person in the world to have grown up when cameras used actual film because the only thing that stood between infamy and me was the clerk who developed photos at Walgreens. Thank God for him.

(Jen gets completely sloshed and it's not her wedding) I was supposed to meet Carol and her family at the aquarium the next morning, and somehow had the presence of mind to leave a voicemail apologizing in advance for not being able to make it. I was please at myself for being so responsible and considerate. After I left the message, I blissfully headed off to bed, wearing a face full of makeup, all my grown up jewelry, and a relatively restrictive girdle. Suffice it to say, yesterday was rough, what with my apartment spinning and all. But today I felt better. That is, until Carol played me the voice mail I left for her at 1:03 AM. Somehow I thought I had been able to hold it together on the phone. Following is a transcript of the message I left: 30 seconds of heavy breathing, giggling, and intermittent hiccups (At first Carol thought it was a 911 call.) Oh, heeheehee, I waassshh wayyyting for a beep. But noooooo beeeeeeep. Why don't you hash a beep on your, your, ummmmmm...celery phone? Noooooo beeeeeeep, hic, heeheeeheee. Um, hiiiiii, itsch JEENNNNNNNN!! It's thirteen o'clock in the peeeeeee eeeemmmmmmm. Heeeeeeeellllllllllloooooooo! I went to my wedding tonight and it wash sooooo niiiiiiiiiice. Hic." More giggling and the sound of a phone being dropped and retrieved Nannyway, I am calling to telllll you noooooooooo fishies tomorry...no fishies for meeee! I hic, heeeee, can't smake it to the quariyummm. Maybeeee you can call me so I can say HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII later hich in the day hee hee hee. Call me at, um, 312, ummmmmmm, 312, uummmmm, hee hee hee I can't member my phone, Hic. Do you know my number? Can you call me and tell me what it isssch? I LIKESH TURKEY SAMMICHES! 10 seconds of chewing, giggling, and what may be gobbling sounds Okay, GGGGGGGGooooooodniiiiiiiiiggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhttttt! No fish! Um, how do I turn this tthing off? Shhhhh, callllls' over. Beeee quiiiiiiietttt, hee hee hee." 15 more seconds of giggles, hiccups, shushing, and a great deal of banging Perhaps this is why most people only have one wedding?

Shout long enough in capital letters and, eventually, people start to tune you out.

The paradox of living in the safest possible time is that those who suffer from anxiety aren’t hardwired to take the win; we panic when things go too well.

the confluence of arrogance and ignorance

Yet I can’t help relating to that quote from the old movie Clerks: “This job would be great if it wasn’t for the customers.

For a while, I thought maybe I’d meet a better class of guy on CatholicConnect.com, but when my most recent date said, “Do I have to feed you, or can we just bang it out in my car?

if she chooses to be happy now, I’ll support it until she’s ready to be unhappy, and then I’ll be there too. That’s what besties do.

donut can give you the kind of hug from inside that celery just can’t muster.

NOTE

That which went wrong, and that which went right, would have been made easier if I were more focused on my goals.

you know that peanut butter’s now considered a hate crime? Because it totally is.]

In terms of being smart, Libby is very, very pretty.

I’ve always feared growing older because I thought I’d run out of interests, but what this project has taught me is that I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I could try next.

Although they’re doing manual labor, they’re both wearing tailored slacks and dressy leather shoes, which

Dessert is my reward for having met my goals during the day. Really, dessert is an event rather than a specific item.

This way, when I do have something like special-occasion engagement cake, I can enjoy the whole damn thing without a twinge of remorse. I

milk, powdered heavy cream, and powdered butter.” “Didn’t know a lot of these products existed,

No one gives out Congratulations on Not Being a Douche-Canoe medals, because good behavior is part of the social contract.

photo developers everywhere are likely the reason my entire generation didn’t devolve into total chaos.

I’m not one of those folks who have to face death to live life. I

and World Cuisine educations are on temporary hold since I’m on my way to

During this crisis, I’ve discovered that I would thrive under house arrest. So there’s that.

bundle of nerves, swaddled in a blanket of panic.

While I’m happy for everyone who wants a family, I look at the notion of having kids the same way I look at people who get tattoos on their faces, like, “Hoo-boy, that’s permanent.

I can’t state this clearly enough: basic needs are a bitch and a huge anxiety trigger.

We aren’t happy by accident. This is a conscious choice, one that takes daily action.

Now, if there’s a Hell–and my actions are predicated in anticipation of this–my version, my eternal punishment includes thirty local eight-year-olds dancing the Tarantella.

Sometimes compromise tastes like caramel macchiato.

all it took to succeed was to stop listening to my internal critic and to just start doing.

Anyone who grew up in a household where carob passed for chocolate and apple pies were actually filled with zucchini will feel me here.

What about my Girls Gone Mild life leads you to believe I’m a body shot shy of debauchery? Is it the pearls?

This toffee tastes like war or Lucifer’s tears. This toffee is a molten pool of broken Christmas promises. If sadness had a flavor, it would be the contents of the Pyrex.

Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to say yes, only to have my plans fall through at the last minute and I can take off my regular-people clothes and redon my paint-splattered yoga pants.

Or how about when a person publishes something along the lines of, “This has been the worst day EVAH,” but then gets all closed-lipped about why it’s been so bad. This is attention-seeking at its worst.

amusement park posted a notice about the dangers of expressing your fears aloud, due to the possibility of spraying droplets. The sign read Please scream inside your heart. I scream inside my heart a lot.

Until he started watching The Walking Dead. Yeah, AMC. Thanks for that. He keeps telling me that I’d enjoy the show, but judging from all the screaming, shooting, and breaking glass I hear from my office every

Presently, Mary Mac—that’s what we call her for short—has churned out more kids than I can count. It’s like she’s a hoarder, only for children. In terms of personal achievement, she’s pretty much the patron saint of minivans and stretch marks. What is that meme I’ve seen about the prolific 19 Kids and Counting mother? Ah, yes, “It’s a vagina, not a clown car.” Add one persecution complex, stir, and, boom! Meet my older sister.

This quick foray onto the toilet has been no different an endeavor than any other time I’ve used the restroom in my adult life. Try then to imagine my surprise when instead of the waste going down the u-bend like the thousands of times previous, the bowl’s contents go not gentle into that good night. Instead, they shoot directly up at me . . . at approximately 80 miles an hour. As I leap backward, slamming into the glass shower door, the only thought going through my now-banged head is, When did I eat corn?" Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or, the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomanical, Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase

With the mere click of a mouse, I can be put in my place but good via Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Pinterest, or Google+, just to name a few. (But not MySpace, which has been a ghost town since 2008. I hope Tom’s okay.)

Couple this discovery with the realization that my things shouldn’t own me and that life’s meant to be lived, not displayed on Pinterest, and my sense is I’ve finally achieved something close to balance. I feel excellent about actually having

The trick to reducing my overall panic and worry about weight hasn’t been about starving myself into a form that will satisfy whatever arbitrary societal norms are coming down the pipeline. The key has been finding a way to be happy with myself, regardless of what the scale says.

Let me phrase it like this—do you want to live in the kitchen for the next four days, sweating your ass off while you make a meal it will take twenty minutes to eat? Do you want to attack a pile of dishes for three hours afterward? Do you want to spend a week eating old turkey and cranberry sauce because

But how come no one says anything to my face? I do dozens of events per year and I’ve met thousands of readers, and every single person I’ve ever encountered has been lovely. Why is that, I wonder? Am I more charming in person, or is it that face-to-face blunt-force-trauma honesty requires a modicum of courage?

The difference between social media and a social life is the difference between eating a marshmallow Peep and dining on a tomahawk-cut rib eye: one is substantial and nutritious; the other is just a momentarily satisfying puff of sweetened air, offering no long-term benefits. I can enjoy the fluff, but I can’t subsist on it.

You know what else I haven’t seen? Home stores. I’ve not passed the equivalent of Restoration Hardware or Crate and Barrel or Pottery Barn, so I get the feeling that no one’s killing themselves working double shifts so they can consume stuff to make their homes Pinterest-perfect. Maybe the Roman message is to not let your stuff own you.

We are middle-aged. This is what happens. All the same nonsense that comes with puberty occurs again during perimenopause—the hormone surges, the moodiness, and the hair appearing where there wasn’t hair before. Except instead of filling in under the arms and on nether regions, these coarse follicles of hate are showing up on our freaking faces.

I’ve always wanted to take a swim wherever it is they snap those screensaver photos—Fiji? Bora Bora? The Maldives?—and sleep in a hotel room that’s more of a hut built on a dock over the water. After reading The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, I’m dying to see the sun set in Botswana. I want to visit Indian temples and volunteer at an elephant sanctuary.

Can I tell you something about Seattle? Everyone there is a filthy liar. They're all, 'Don't move to Seattle—it's so rainy!' And yet every time I've been there, a tiny amount of rain falls before the whole sky explodes into rainbows and sunlight. Seattleites mean to hog up all the stunning vistas and good coffee and flowering bushes for themselves. Bet on it.

You don’t have to be a writer, though, to know that making fun of yourself is a good way to deflect being made fun of. Like many people, I am hypercritical about myself so that I beat the haters to the punch. When I acknowledge my foibles first, no one else can use them against me. I’ve taken away everyone else’s power to make me feel less about myself by doing it first.

My whole life I’ve harbored a resentment toward those who could ride no-handed. To this day, I can’t even sit on an exercise bike without clinging to the handlebars with a serious G.I.-Joe- kung-fu grip. Every time I see someone on the road, all smug and well-balanced, using their cell phone and gesturing while they talk and ride, I secretly want to bash them with my car door. It’s

I’ve come to realize this isn’t “real” and there’s no substitute for actual interaction. The difference between social media and a social life is the difference between eating a marshmallow Peep and dining on a tomahawk-cut rib eye: one is substantial and nutritious; the other is just a momentarily satisfying puff of sweetened air, offering no long-term benefits. I can enjoy the fluff, but I can’t subsist on it.

worry that younger women are striving so hard to present a compelling story via images that they’re ignoring the substance that makes the story true. Ultimately, they’re going to end up really bitter later in life (and not the good kind of bitter that sells books). My message to these women is this—if you want to avoid regrets later, give yourselves a break now and just be real. Enjoy the mess. Revel in the imperfection.

This should be easy because I’ve fallen out of love with Facebook. First, I want to be the kind of friend who hears about others’ milestones in person. I hate learning about major life events buried in a timeline between photos of fresh pedicures and pictures of lunch. When someone close to me has a baby or goes through emergency surgery or suffers a loss, they deserve more than a “like.” A click should never take the place of real interaction. Plus, I almost never visit anyone else’s page

lives are meant to be our lives, and not a facade presented for the consumption of others; or, WE ARE NOT A MAGAZINE. I worry that younger women are striving so hard to present a compelling story via images that they’re ignoring the substance that makes the story true. Ultimately, they’re going to end up really bitter later in life (and not the good kind of bitter that sells books). My message to these women is this—if you want to avoid regrets later, give yourselves a break now and just be real. Enjoy the mess. Revel in the imperfection.

Though I’ve not taken anyone’s drink order in a quarter of a century, in my stress dreams I’m always sweating through my oxford shirt and poorly tied tie, deep in the weeds, having been triple seated with eight tops, thanks to a clueless seventeen-year-old hostess. The bartender’s taking forever to mix a single Rusty Nail because Sergey Brin hasn’t yet invented Google. Empty plates are stacked tall as skyscrapers on the tables, which is confusing. Why would a party of four dirty up twenty-three plates apiece, even if I were serving tapas? There’s no busboy in sight.

I HAVE to stay here. I simply have to. To be honest, too much of my identity comes from possessing this space. As my job used to define me, living here’s all I have left. This apartment makes it OK that I can’t buy Prada’s newest anymore. I can be content going on lousy interviews and begging for positions that pay half of what I used to earn as long as I know at the end of the day my glorious penthouse awaits. The minute I climb into my Jacuzzi tub, all the day’s unpleasantness is rinsed down the drain. When I step onto my deck and survey the city, I feel like anything is possible. This apartment keeps me centered; it keeps me sane. Without this place, I’m just another nobody from Indiana with a worthless state college degree. Before

Taking a look at the last decades, it stands to reason that feeding our fears has made us easier to lead, saddling us with only black and white choices on issues nuanced by fifty shades of gray. Divide the people and conquer. Calming down the masses may not be on any leader’s agenda, in any party.

Although a toned body was important in the 1980s, the nation was again distracted by even more ridiculous hair and clothing. I was at my thinnest at this point in time. Also, I’d gained four inches in bangs height. And yet, I squandered my small, perky ass on oversized khaki Bermuda shorts, loafers with argyle socks that I pulled up to my knees, and crewneck wool sweaters with tie-on lace collars. Comedian Karen Kilgariff, of My Favorite Murder, described the 1980s aptly as a time when young girls dressed like they were doing middle-aged secretary cosplay. Barbara had become my style icon.

It’s a process, but take those little steps toward treating yourself fairly, embracing body positivity, and celebrating what is unique and wonderful about you, and I promise you’ll feel a break from all the tension.

Of all my own fears—and, oh, there are plenty—social media tops the list. Admitting that it is my chief worry causes me more distress, knowing people in other nations face daily threats to their safety and well-being. I’m terrified that one offhand joke, one out-of-context remark, will set into motion a public shaming, because I see it happen every day.

What’s so scary is that mob rule has displaced due process. The faceless masses are America’s new arbiters of justice. I’m so fearful of the court of public opinion that I’ve stopped saying anything of value online, stopped unpacking what’s important in my life, stopped trying to forge any kind of understanding over social media. I mostly post shots of my pets and complain about the weather. It’s edgy stuff.

Since 1990, British hospital admissions for food allergies have increased more than 500 percent, and one of the causes is that our diets have changed and expanded to include more processed foods.

Per Ehab Shouly, director of the Tea Terrace on Oxford Street in London, “Today’s dining experience is no longer just about having great food and drink. It’s all about creating unique experiences that our customers can document on Instagram and social media.

The brain’s fear circuit works very quickly, and it doesn’t always pause to differentiate between good anxiety and bad. So, when something good happens, the physical symptoms you feel are similar to those that you associate with panic or fear. But even when you are able to distinguish between feelings of excitement (good stress) and panic (bad stress) following a dose of success, the climb down from Mount Euphoria can be an anxiety trigger in itself. When your body becomes accustomed to a chronic state of anxiety, the positive physiological changes that happen after good news can, paradoxically, trigger the sense that something isn’t right—simply because you’re not used to feeling good. As a result, your body never fully lets go of its hypervigilant state.”73

High stress causes a fight-or-flight reaction, releasing adrenaline and cortisol. These hormones can suppress immune, digestive, sleep and reproductive systems, which, if sustained, may cause them to stop working normally.

What’s funny is that everyone’s so appalled by the notion of hitchhiking now, yet it’s totes fine if we pay five dollars for the privilege of riding in a stranger’s Lyft.

Like me, if you’re already predisposed to anxiety, positive or negative stimulus on social media can make you feel worse, largely because of the algorithms. At its advent, all updates on apps such as Twitter were delivered chronologically and per our preferences. But now our usage data is measured and monetized, and algorithms put more emotionally weighted events in our timelines, such as engagements, births, and significant accomplishments.

On the upside, social media can make us feel less alone, providing a crucial shot of dopamine when we need a physiological pick-me-up, for example, when the whole world’s reacting to Game of Thrones at the exact same time.

If we could just pour that same enthusiasm and competitive élan we use for accumulating things, renovating, or attaining better sleep into our savings accounts and FICO scores, we might start to undo that toxic connection.

If we don’t want to self-destruct as a nation, black lives and blue lives mattering can’t be a binary choice.

Every time there’s an incident, there’s a barrage of misinformation, and suddenly some asshole from my high school who dropped out of junior college considers himself a constitutional scholar.

Ideally, our public opinion should be based on established facts. Would we feel less ill at ease if we allowed the whole story to unfold, waiting a beat before becoming judge, jury, and executioner? I suspect yes.

If I identify with anything, it’s being an American, which is why I despise how badly we’ve splintered as a country. The divisions between us aren’t new, but the ways we deal with them are. We’ve lost the social norm of civility. I suspect what’s changed is the attitude that we’re all in this together. Now it’s a me-against-you mentality, and we’ve turned into a country of aggressively poor losers and bombastic, graceless winners.

People who don’t agree with you aren’t inherently evil (generally). They just have a different perspective. Instead of filling your high school acquaintances’ and extended family’s Facebook feeds with links to articles that support your personal platform, you can choose to have an in-person conversation about how the view/right/need in question has impacted your life. While your chat might not change that person’s mind, it could engender some mutual understanding.

The media is just as complicit in highlighting our discord. I imagine that reporting on a nation at peace would be boring to cover twenty-four seven, so there’s no impetus to bring us together—again, unless there’s an alien attack. There’s nothing exciting about nothing happening. Ad buyers want eyeballs on programs. Harmony doesn’t sell; concord isn’t sexy. For example, Forbes reported on the Institute for Economics and Peace in their Global Peace Index ranking Iceland as the most peaceful country in the world—quick, tell me one thing you know about that place. Wrong. Iceland is green and Greenland is ice.

In my three-pronged approach to worrying less about politics, step two is to stop reading political news on social media and to absolutely stop reacting to it.

Per Mother Jones, “Nearly 70 percent of American adults say they get some of their news via social media.”134 That equals a metric shit ton of misinformation being disseminated every second, which means a metric shit ton of livid tweets and comments and angry-face emojis in response.

do you want Zuckerberg’s algorithms telling you what to think as they tailor your timeline to their predictions of what will prompt a response? Do you trust him? Did you even see his haircut while he was testifying in front of Congress? Why did no senator ask him to explain the ’90s goth-girl baby bangs?

In a speech at Stanford, Chamath Palihapitiya, Facebook’s former VP of user growth, told the audience, “The short-term, dopamine-driven feedback loops that we have created [at Facebook] are destroying how society works—no civil discourse, no cooperation, misinformation, mistruth.”135 When asked about his children’s online habits, he added, “They’re not allowed to use this shit.

If it doesn’t cost anything, you are the product.

Of everything parents must worry about today, should “keeping their children’s looks fresh” be at the top of the list? How about this—maybe get them vaccinated for measles before fretting about the sell-by date of their ensembles. Why don’t we operate on the premise that at age six, kids don’t need to establish a personal brand?

The shot that won me over completely was of Coco clad in a pleated army-green skirt, with a matching military sweater, a tiny strand of pearls, a beanie, and wild-print knee socks, all by Gucci: it’s like my id and my Girl Scout uniform hooked up in a fitting room at Bergdorf’s.

For all the precautions parents exercise now, all the helmets and booster seats and sunscreen, wouldn’t toddlers be safer without one million followers on Instagram? If nothing else, how can we keep our nation’s kids from becoming assholes when thousands of strangers tell them how great they are every day?

Comedian Maz Jobrani said kids are running the show now, as when he was young, he was forced to play with his parents’ friends’ kids. Now, as a parent, he’s forced to play with his kids’ friends’ parents.

I never felt a biological tug looking at children. It’s not that I’m missing maternal feelings, it’s more like they apply only to cats and dogs, possibly small monkeys. While I’m happy for everyone who wants a family, I look at the notion of having kids the same way I look at people who get tattoos on their faces, like, “Hoo-boy, that’s permanent.

As adults, though, many of us default again to buddying up with those in proximity to us at home or work, which can be great, provided we like each other. If we don’t? We’re stuck with them anyway and every interaction becomes a master class in passive aggression.

None of my friends live closer than a forty-five-minute drive from me, and the rest of my tribe lives in different time zones, but distance doesn’t matter. Whenever we get together, it’s like no time has passed.

Another study compared fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds who had close friendships to those who were popular, with larger friend groups but fewer close relationships—so the cheerleaders and partiers on the A-list. The study found that at age twenty-five, those who had fewer but closer friends had higher feelings of self-worth and less social anxiety and depression than the cool kids. 174 The lesson here is you should never peak in high school.

worry that the way we connect now is both bringing us together and driving us apart. Dear friends are throwing away their long-standing, deeply satisfying relationships in the current political climate, tired of seeing opposing posts, each too swept up in the movement to remember that there’s someone they love on the other side.

Prior to the last episode, InsideHook explained it best: “No matter who wins the Iron Throne, it’s clear that Game of Thrones has conquered not just the kingdom of television, but the continent of American culture in a way few other cultural touchstones can in these divided times. It’s a show that’s watched by Republicans and Democrats; discussed in nerdy fan forums and The New Yorker; watched in dive bars and corporate boardrooms. Maybe the only thing that unites us in 2019 is a TV show about fictional warring kingdoms, evil ice elves and winged lizards.

Were we happier when we had only three channels? We all have the opportunity to consume solely the shows and news broadcasts that align with our views. Everything is so specialized now that we’re given the ability to actively shield ourselves from anything that might challenge our set thoughts. What if we’re less likely to consider opposing viewpoints because we can simply choose to isolate ourselves from them?

Recently, Howard Schultz, former CEO of Starbucks, came out against the term “billionaire,” instead preferring to be called “a person of means,” as though he’s now ashamed of what he’s built.

Being six is the closest most of us will ever come to understanding what it’s like to have a butler.

I decided to bypass parenthood. In the 1970s, only one in ten women was childfree; today the number is one in five.169 Yet when I mention my choice, I’ve had moms look at me like I’m defective, or a unicorn, or a defective unicorn. Keep your pity; I don’t need it. I knew early on that children weren’t in my plans.

When you were in there, I thought, ‘I would take a bullet for her. I would lay down my life for her. I would kill for her. But if she needs me to, like, clean her, she’s gonna have to go ahead and die in there, because I can’t. I cannot.

I found that the fuller and richer my life became, the less I looked to food for comfort and entertainment.

Well . . . like Raskolnikov said, ‘Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.

Chicago, I quickly learned, was an insular town, a sorority that I was not invited to pledge, with a population as icy as its winters.

had my own wealth, my own pedigree; I was legitimately an heiress. But who cared for the truth when the opportunist narrative was far more scandalous?

Slow down! You’re going to lose all the Kardashian in your ass,” Ariel tells Sofia. “You’re burning way too much fat.

Housemothers are all things to the girls—we’re therapists; we’re friends; we’re nurses; we’re short-order cooks; we’re tailors. Sometimes, we’re even plumbers.

friends from high school turned up their noses when they found out about my job, yet they’re the ones who fill their Instagram feeds with half-naked shots of themselves at the shore. Such hypocrites.

Cool, cool, cool. So, do you think he’s bringing his millions here tonight? And that he’ll buy enough private dances to cover your son’s tuition at the gifted and talented school I keep telling you about?

I’ve been falling more and more behind ever since, waiting for him to pay me back. Of course, he’s vanished again. Even if I could locate him, I’m sure he’d have more excuses.

When your body becomes accustomed to a chronic state of anxiety, the positive physiological changes that happen after good news can, paradoxically, trigger the sense that something isn’t right—simply because you’re not used to feeling good.

Mine was an era of children having to accommodate, rather than being accommodated. No parents put their children’s tastes and proclivities first. That’s a relatively new development.

if you’re going to be a jerk about something, make sure you’re funny.

I’m terrified that one offhand joke, one out-of-context remark, will set into motion a public shaming, because I see it happen every day.

I learned to stuff my fears deep down until they form a little ball, keeping the feelings buried under liberal handfuls of cheese and glasses of moderately priced Chardonnay.

tsundoku: the act of buying so many books that they begin to pile up in a delightful mess.

What is unforgivable is how instead of facing the music, he ran off with all my foundation’s cash. I guess that part was easy because Alexis was a signatory on the accounts. They’re both missing, as is the money. It’s just so scandalous, I can’t believe it’s not a podcast.

We can pick right up when you get back.” The nice thing about staying with my cousin Marcy is it’s like having a built-in therapist, twenty-four seven.

That’s the thing about this place—it’s a way station, on the way to better things. Everyone intends to be the next Lady Gaga or Cardi B or Channing Tatum. All of whom got their start stripping. No

father probably doesn’t even realize I’m no longer around. It’s ironic that for once, I’m the person who just disappears for no reason. Will he miss me when he notices?