Plant Killer

I’m a plant killer. The evidence is now irrefutable.

I feel wronged by this reality, because the recipe for keeping a plant alive seems so simple: pour water onto dirt.


I always thought I would be a plant person because my mom is a plant person. Growing up, I loved watching her garden — the pride she took in it, how she’d dream for weeks about which flowers would bejewel our yard that year. I loved going to the nursery with her to pick them out — petunias, pansies, snapdragons, marigolds, day lilies. She taught me their names, as well as which were the toughest, which needed special care, which the deer liked to eat. Of course I became less interested once it was time to actually plant the things. But I loved watching as she removed each precious flower from its plastic carton, cradling the dirt pods with their fledgling roots as she transferred them into a little hole in the earth, a home prepared just for them.

Having lived in an apartment for the entirety of my adult life, I don’t exactly have access to a garden, but I’ve still tried to cultivate my green thumb.

When a recipe called for fresh basil, I bought a basil plant instead. I daydreamed of being a person who knew which dishes could do with a dash of fresh basil, plucked right off the stem. I saw myself casually tossing it into my gorgeous, sizzling pan, to the delight of all who would taste some signature dish.

The basil plant died after one use.

I tried to decorate with cute mini succulents in trendy little pots, but within days they inexplicably withered.  I thought succulents were cactuses? Aren’t they supposed to survive anything?

For a while I made a habit of picking up a potted plant from Trader Joe’s — a mini rosemary bush or poinsettia at Christmas or springy baby roses, before killing them all and finally moving on to cut flowers instead.

And then a few months ago, Scott and I bought a house plant. A 5-tiered Dracaena that would prove, once and for all, that I am not the angel of death. When we brought it home, it was like the entire apartment was transformed. There was life! Inside! It was green, it was cleansing our oxygen, why I had gone so long without knowing the simple joy of a house plant?! We bought a tool to measure the light and soil, we Googled how to care for this species. We filled a big pot full of water and let it sit overnight just like the internet said. We watered until we saw drainage.

We drowned it.

The shortest tier died first. The leaves went droopy and then flopped completely flaccid and finally in a moment of rage, I pulled them all off. The next tier followed, and the next, but I told myself the top two might still make it! They had to make it.

Now, the top two tiers have started drooping. I avoid walking by the plant, because to touch it, even gently, is to cause a cascade of falling fronds. I should throw it away but it’s heavy. Which is a metaphor for it being super depressing.

I’m a plant killer; there’s so much proof. It’s making me sadder than it should.

The 7 Stages of Working from Home


You wake with the clear knowledge that you have pulled one over on the world. Today you will not commute. You will not put on makeup. You will not even look at a bra. Your poor co-workers at their desks in their outfits, mwahaha what fools!


You hunker down at your laptop for the next two hours. You get more done in this time than your entire last week in the office. You’re on a roll, unstoppable, can’t fathom how or why anyone, no everyone, is wasting their time going in. It has begun to sound like a backwards, lowly thing and you will never do it again.


You dial-in to the conference call but put it on mute so they won’t hear you doing dishes. Or breathing heavily while riding the stationary bike at the apartment gym — how clear your mind is while your heart is also going! Maybe you spend the meeting in repose; double pigeon or legs up the wall pose, closing your eyes to rest them from that harsh computer screen. Whatever you do, it is something that would never be done in the office.


Look at this image. The internet is an amazing place.


All that efficiency goes to your head and you decide to take it up a notch. Why not throw in a load, free up your weekend? Plus it will get you out of the house (apartment living yall) and doesn’t take long. Ooh! And if you time things just right, you may even be able to be folding the laundry by the time your next conference call rolls around!


It’s hard to know how it started. You came back from laundry and had every intention of re-entering Productivity but are now five pages deep in a Google image search on Chris Pine. It’s just that you always thought he was only a rom-com guy but are confused after watching Hell or High Water because he was legitimately great and yet all those superhero movies. You learn that his fans call themselves “Pine Nuts.” You hate this very much, and click away quickly lest you become one of them.


You look at the clock. It’s been an hour since entering Distraction and you are suddenly flooded with guilt. But but but, you were on such a roll this morning, why has your brain forsaken you now? Why will your fingers only type FACEBOOK.COM? How many hours per day are you productive when you’re at the office?

You attempt a rough calculation: there’s the necessary socializing/team bonding time, meeting time, time spent finding the right dongle in said meetings, lunch time, texting time, rooftop time — what do we even do when we’re at the office? You tell yourself you’re fine, in fact your co-workers are probably watching RuPaul’s Drag Race this very moment.

Plus, you can work late if you need. You could work ’til midnight, you could work forever, you’re at home where there are no parameters to this workday it never ends it might never ever end

7-Existential Crisis

 What even is a job? JOB JOB JOB what a strange word, it gets stranger the more you say it. But really how do you measure a job that’s an idea job where so much is intangible, and there’s intellectual property, plus the gig economy etc. etc.

You practice handstands against the wall. You are terrible at handstands. You put on Green Light and dance around the apartment. I’M WAITING FOR IT! THAT GREEN LIGHT! I WANT IT!

You return to your desk, a little embarrassed, despite the fact you’re alone. All alone. Maybe you should talk to someone today. Yes! That’s what you need, you should text someone. But who? Do you…have friends…?

You force yourself back to some semblance of reality. You read your email and make a to-do list of whatever your brain refused to accomplish today.

All traces of smugness have evaporated. You can’t wait until tomorrow when you can go into the office.

Five Songs To Listen To If You Like Songs That Are Good

All are newish. All are good.

1: Sampha // Timmy’s Prayer

Sampha pulled a Sia and went from vocalist to soloist and the results are A++.


2: Arcade Fire // Everything now

I didn’t love Reflektor except for the stuff from the Her soundtrack, but this one is prettttty good.


3: Liv // Wings of Love

Liv is a hybrid of Lykki Li, Miike Snow, and Peter, Bjorn, and John. What?? I have Jason Bentley to thank for this one, and many others.  Thank you Jason for making my mornings so very eclectic! (And don’t mind the very uh, Georgia O’Keefe-ness of this album art.)


4: Frank Ocean // Chanel

So I didn’t love Blonde as much as Channel Orange. I know. Did I just not get it? Was I expecting way way way way way way way too much? It’s likely.


5: HAIM // Want You Back

When did this song come out and how did I not know until yesterday? I was so scared to listen because I was so afraid of them having a sophomore slump. BUT THEY DIDN’T. IT’S SO GOOD. NOT EVEN BEING IN T-SWIFT’S CLIQUE CAN MAKE ME DISLIKE THEM.

P.S. I’ve Lived In Orange County For A Year

livin that billabong life!


Recently a friend asked how close I lived to Marina Del Rey.

Me:         Uh, an hour. Without traffic.

               We moved to Orange County, did I not tell you?

Friend:     Wait what? When? 

Oh just…it was only…it was last July.

It’s been eleven months and I’m still not telling people. It’s like I’m dating someone who is super hot but dumb.

The idea behind the move was that it was maybe time to settle down a bit. That we were nearing our thirties (super old) and thinking about a family (all current joys will cease) and it was time to leave the hustle of L.A. for the beautiful, boring suburbia that lies beyond the Orange Curtain.

At first I said, it’s just temporary! And it was. But I really settled into that word — “temporary” — telling myself we would never live here long term. We were city people! We went to museums! I mean, sometimes. We sometimes went to the museums and ate the food and saw the movies that hit theaters a week earlier in our neighborhood than the rest of the nation. But whether we actually did those city things or not, we were cultured through osmosis.

After I found not one but two (!) possible OC jobs in offices on the beach, I gave up both for a gig in DTLA. And now I drive an hour both ways on the dusty 5 freeway behind behemoth semi-trucks to a warehouse off Alameda that I would not walk around alone at night. It’s a good job, and I like the work. But it was also the city fix I needed when temporary became permanent.

I tell myself I am still an Angeleno – I can access city life whenever I want, I have the same friends. And then I meet up with said friends after work and am livid at the traffic. I am enraged at the existence of a parking meter and I grimace at the questionable smells wafting up from sewers along the cracking streets. I go floating down to my ocean-side bubble and must resist admitting that what I feel is deep relief.

I don’t want this change to happen, this settling into some idea of suburban life. I am scared of it – of my dwindling tolerance for city grit, of the possibility that I may be getting boringer.

I don’t care to live in Surftown, U.S.A. I don’t need famous shopping malls. I am dead on the inside as evidenced by being immune to the “happiest place on earth.”

I don’t tell people I live here, and yet it’s becoming home.

I don’t know what that means.


More Time, Please.

Somewhere in my brain there exists a sticky note with thoughts I want to write on this blog. Or another blog, or anywhere really. It feels like they are festering in there, tapping my skull like HEY! LET US OUT! They are not ideas that will change the world or maybe even be read by anyone but me, but I still need to write them.

It feels like a bad thing, letting ideas die. And yet where does one find the time?

“Protect the time and space in which you write,” says Zadie Smith. “Keep everybody away from it, even the people who are most important to you.”

I feel like I’ve spent the last three years fighting to make time to write. I’ve altered my career to support it. I’ve said no to family and friends. I’ve spent countless hours toiling inside my apartment while the beach lies 15 minutes away, all on ideas that have a good chance of never being read. I think if I quit everything and never slept, I would still want more time.

What torture, this thing we call writing. What absolutely life-wrecking joy.

Great Songs with Terrible Messages

It is difficult when you are raised and generally still believe that songs with bad messages are bad songs. What happens then, when said songs are so catchy that to hear them is to love them immediately and against your will?!?!

Here are five of my guiltiest pleasures.

#1: Katy Perry, Teenage Dream

“LET’S GO ALL! THE WAY TONIGHT!” I shout-sing in my car, with the windows down and the wind whipping my hair. Then I cringe — can my parents hear me? Can God? Surely this is not the message teenage girls should —  “NO REGRETS! JUST LOVE!”


#2: One Direction, Perfect

I was sure I’d outgrown my “Backstreet Babe” phase, but then one day I got curious and listened to a song, which turned into an entire album, which turned into a deep dive into all five singers’ auditions for Simon Cowell when they were 12 years old, which turned into more terrible shout-singing in the car.

I might never be your knight in shining armor
I might never be the one you take home to mother
And I might never be the one who brings you flowers
But I can be the one, be the one tonight

Is it any wonder we females have to unlearn the habit of loving terrible men? I mean, it’s not even subliminal, or attempting any subtlety — this message is OVERTLY TERRIBLE and my daughters can never know how much I loved it.


#3: Usher, I Don’t Mind

Plot summary: Usher’s girl is a stripper. And yet he has generously, magnanimously decided that since “her body rock and her booty poppin,'” he will give her permission to continue in this profession. He’s not one of those old-fashioned types — no, he’s open-minded, progressive in supporting her dream of twerking in the splits!

I despise this message, and yet ten seconds in find myself doing involuntary body rolls.


#4: Lady Gaga, Do What U Want

I know this album was a flop, but THIS SONG IS AWESOME. It has the best beat and is almost sort of somehow feminist — I think?

You can’t have my heart and
You won’t use my mind but
Do what you want with my body
You can’t stop my voice, cause
You don’t own my life but
Do what you want with my body


#5: Next, Too Close

What a delightful, beautiful classic that in the seventh grade I thought said, “Baby when you’re cryin’ I get so excited,” and was thoroughly confused. The maturation clinic said nothing about this “grinding.”


What are your favorite songs with terrible messages? Let’s feel guilty about liking them together.

Sad About The Internet: Barnes & Noble Edition

I think I was meant to be born before the internet. I feel this every two weeks when I remember that Snapchat exists and open it to find long-forgotten snaps, to which I dutifully reply although their jokes are so dead.

I felt it today when I tried to go to Barnes & Noble. I was out running errands and realized with delight that one of said errands would take me next door to the book store. I had cozy visions of wandering the shelves, the air buzzing with literacy and proof that people do get books published.

I wasn’t planning to buy anything, but I did need to check on a few things. See, I’ve been listening to audiobooks (hi, endless commute!) and though they are rescuing me from certain misery, they leave me just a teaspoon unsatisfied. I recently finished The Underground Railroad. It was so brutal and yet so poetically written, I felt I needed to see the words, as though somehow my ears’ attention wasn’t adequate respect to the author. Before that I listened to Hillbilly Elegy, which was fascinating but left me with a nagging question — how does the author spell his wife’s name? He pronounces it “oo-shuh.” Usja? OOSHA? I have googled to no avail. And suddenly, although she is among the most minor of characters, she is the only one I’m left thinking about. My eyes needed answers!

And so I walked out of errand #1 with much anticipation, approached Barnes & Noble to find a horrifying sight: closed doors with ugly white stickers spelling, “NEW RETAILER COMING SOON.”

I stood there for a solid minute, not wanting it to be true. Was there some sort of misunderstanding? Had they merely switched locations? It’s the year 2017 and I’ve had what, a decade to get used to book stores going under? It’s not like I haven’t seen You’ve Got Mail, but what happens when The Shop Around The Corner AND Fox Books go down?

Image brought to you after 20 minutes of reading You’ve Got Mail quotes. What a classic.

I felt genuine sadness. I wanted to hold Cora’s story in my hands and I NEED TO MAKE SENSE OF YOU, OOSHUH!

The worst part was knowing that I am complicit in Barnes & Noble’s demise; I had no intention of purchasing anything today — I already did so, through the internet. The internet made it possible for me to not only purchase both stories without having to leave the house but listen to them, while I drove. Without the internet I likely wouldn’t have had (read: made) time to read them. Without the internet I couldn’t be complaining to you now!

And yet the internet has taken away my cozy, neighborhood Barnes & Noble. It has filled, but not satisfied my yearning to read books. It has made life easier and yet so much less.

I pulled out my phone to snap a photo of the closed book shop to my Story (crying emoji, angry emoji, book emoji), but decided against it.

I hate you, I love you, dear Internet.

The Apartment Cost Your Landlord Won’t Mention

It isn’t the pointlessness of spending gobs of money on rent. No, it isn’t the fact that you may as well drive down PCH with a stack of $1’s and let them fly.

It isn’t the vertical blinds, with their endless clickety-clack — the way they come crashing to the floor if you touch them ever so gently, the way one decides to get stuck on another and the whole system refuses to twist.

It isn’t the silverfish, with their alien exoskeletons and their astounding speed, the way they vanish into dust when you squash them, the way sometimes you think you squashed them but you pull the paper towel away to find there is no trace whatsoever, and they are now running amok muahahaha in your closet.

It isn’t that your designated parking space is a whole five minutes’ walk from your door or that the air conditioner only cools a three-foot radius.

No, the most devastating hidden cost no landlord will tell you about is how often you will interact with stranger’s underpants.

That’s right — the actual, already-worn, underpants…of strangers.

I first discovered this last year when one fateful night Scott retrieved a load from our apartment’s shared laundry room. He dumped it on the bed, we began folding, and it was all very average everyday monotony until he pulled out a massive pair of white panties with purple polka dots. We eyed them in silent terror for a moment before I yelled, “those aren’t mine!” and he flung them into a corner, where I guess we both hoped they would vanish?

Maybe he had aimed for the trash and missed? I don’t know, I just really thought they were gone. But then a few months later we happened upon them again. There was squealing, and perhaps a minute or two of throwing them at each other, before one of us scooped them up on the end of a pen and transported them gingerly to the trash. For a week afterwards, every time I saw anyone walking around the complex I had no choice but to picture them in purple polka dotted panties.

For your visual reference.

Fast forward to last weekend, now in a nicer apartment still plagued by vertical blinds and silverfish and shared laundry. I was moving a load from washer to dryer, trying to gather each bundle carefully so nothing would fall on the ground. I was on my last bundle, when I heard an, “Excuse me — miss?” I froze and turned to face a middle aged Indian man pointing nervously towards a tiny pile at my feet. It was specifically the item’s tininess that made it so offensive; I almost wished it was big and white and polka dotted. We locked eyes for a horrible moment before I scooped it up, threw it in the dryer and scurried away.

The man lives in the apartment below us; we now share unpleasant hello’s while bringing up the groceries and I pray for his having a terrible memory.

There was a time during our apartment living when Scott and I would go on awe-filled walks with Zillow in hand. I can’t bear to do that anymore. Someday we’ll move away to some Utah/Texas/Colorado-ish place — we will leave the vertical blinds and silverfish and underpants behind, but for now…the beach?

New Electric Guest

Did you know that one half of Electric Guest is Asa Taccone, whose brother Jorma is one third of Lonely Island??




THE WORLD IS ENDING — What Will You Wear?

This post is neither sponsored by nor affiliated with Madewell or The Fabulous Report. But check out both, I am sure they have great outfits.

Good morning, everyone!

So we understand the world is currently ending, and that can be a super stressful way to start the week.

But like, let’s think about how we could use this to our advantage! People are on their phones more than ever these days, searching for the latest hashtag that will tell them which tampons to boycott and what app is on the right side of history. How could we enter that conversation?

Thought starters for social posts:

America might be over, but our Spring collection is only just beginning.

Get yourself retweeted (wearing our brand new Protest Pant!)

When everything goes up in flames, make sure you look smokin’.

We totally get that you’re feeling anxious and losing sleep and like don’t even know what to do bc the world is a tragic mess rn but the thing is — the slip dress! You guys it’s so cute. It’s great for layering, whether you wear a graphic tee underneath or a slouchy sweater over it for that thrown-together, oh-so-effortless blogger look!

Gina, we know you asked about having fashion lover, wifey, and mama to two littles, @BombshellBecca wear our Spring line to the next protest, but she said, and I quote, “These pants don’t make my butt cheeks pop,” so we might have to move on from that. But it’s okay guys, this is where your creativity comes in! You’ve. Got. This.

Even though like you can barely string two sentences together because you have End of The World A.D.D. and you are texting friends about how you could do something that matters, and anytime you look at your phone there’s another horrifying news story, and every day you wake up it is not in fact a bad dream, and every joke you want to tell now feels petty — no — irresponsible, and how will you ever think about or write about anything else? And how, could you somehow fashion a time machine and maybe kidnap a few people for the sake of the greater good?

It’s a lot, but we know you’ll power through. Know why? Because we are women. And when we march for unity, only half of us are able to find some reason why it was actually a hugely controversial, terribly destructive, anti-feminine idea.

Now let’s sell some handbags!