Having been a child raised on packets of Hamburger Helper, boxes of Jiffy muffins, and canned green beans, it took a long time to be exposed to foods in their... you know... natural states. 

It wasn't until I moved back to California in my mid-20s that I first experienced avocado in its natural state. The very first time I got one, I sliced it into thin strips and ate them with scrambled eggs and coffee as a spur-of-the-moment Saturday brunch. Every bite was a revelation; a delight. From that day forward, I was utterly smitten. Now I regularly carve one in half and chop it up to toss on top of dinner or lunch, or simply spoon scoops of it into my mouth as a snack.

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My friend's Vegas bachelorette party has come and gone, and was I glad to see it go. Not because Vegas treated me poorly -- not this time, at least -- but because Vegas and I don't exactly see eye to eye on all the issues.

Vegas wants to stay out until daybreak; I like to go to sleep when it's still dark out. Vegas wants to get trashed on Goldschlager shots and slushie margaritas in phallic neon vessels; I prefer not to be able to actually feel the air hitting my eyeballs with tiny hammers the next morning. Vegas wants me to pour all my money into slot machines and blackjack tables; I enjoy keeping my cash so that I can huffily complain about having to spend $17.99 on a damn hamburger. Vegas wants lights and music and people and entertainment and go, go, go; I need space and quiet and thoughts and real unfiltered experiences. Vegas wants to rip my clothes off right now; I'm inclined to put on some Al Green and take things slow. 

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So, I've never republished a post of mine before, but special circumstances warrant it this time. Namely, a special kind of insanity brought on by:

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SO. It's been, what. A month? Yep. A month. A very interesting one, at that.

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First of all, I need to tell you that "announcement" was initially the title of this post until I realized that it might trick some people into thinking I was announcing my pregnancy, and I didn't feel like instigating a kerfuffle and then jumping through hoops to disprove it. She says while taking a swig of bourbon.

God, womanhood just keeps getting weirder. 

Anyway! I wanted to tell you things! Magical things! Wondrous things! About my blog! That you probably don't care about! Oh my gracious, look at that. I've already used up my exclamation point allotment for the day.

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I get asked a lot about married life. People always want to know how it is. “Have you got him trained yet?” they inquire.

And I laugh and say lands, yes. Training was my very first order of business. Seconds after we said, “I do,” I laid down the law. He’s had one or two accidents, but these days he mostly he uses the toilet like a Big Husband.

I’ve got him cooking now, too. People are amazed at his progress. They ask me how I did it. Well, it’s no big secret, really -- just your standard system of rewards for good behavior. Every time he responds correctly to my commands, I shove his face in my chest. Boobies are his favorite treat.

Next I think we’ll tackle expanding his vocabulary from one- to two-syllable words.

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So we were at a friend's wedding.

Fine, it was technically the night before the wedding, and we were at a hotel. Details.

I don't know what your friends are like, but mine are generally drunkards. I imagine most people have very dignified ways of going about socializing. I imagine most people sitting up very straight while drinking tea, the corners of their mouths curling demurely around their cups as they exchange warmhearted pleasantries with dear pals, laughter as gentle as the tinkling of a spoon in a saucer. Then it's to bed by 8:30 p.m. sharp because goodness, one needs one's rest. Doesn't one?

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I feel like I need to tell you about the worst roommate I ever had. So. I'm going to... just go ahead and do that. If that's okay with you.

***

Like almost everything else in my life, it started with a Craigslist ad.

Room for rent in a two-bedroom apartment downtown. $500 per month.

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I hate foundation. I hate powder. I hate how every time I scratch my itchy face while wearing foundation and powder I end up with it caked under my nails. Little half-moons the color of my skin.

I hate how I only ever put it on when I'm feeling like I'm looking my worst.

I hate  how every time women post pictures of themselves on the internet, they have to make squeaky noises about how sorry they are for how awful they look. A picture of a woman's face, for example, is unfailingly prefaced with OMG please ignore all the crow's feet and those dark circles and don't even think about looking at the state of my brows!!!

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