SCENE:

It’s a random day in April. The unpredictable New England weather has provided a respite to some sunshine, so you’re sitting on the porch reading A Love Story About Vampires Or Some Shit (at least this is an explanation of what’s on my current reading list…don’t judge). You’ve been stuck at your parents house for almost 50 days, unable to leave. You’re day dreaming about the day when you can get within 6 feet of your friends again. Or work *at work*. Or pass a stranger on the street without everyone rushing to opposite sides, glances quickly averting to the ground so as not to look at each other. Just in case.

“Hey buddy!” the 40-something “hip” neighbor shouts at your dad who’s doing yard work, distracting you from your pre-apocalyptic musings. “Crazy times, huh?”

“Yeah, for sure! Like a movie!” Dad responds.

The neighbor nods and immediately walks away, not daring to cross the invisible grassy threshold that separates your yard from his. Just in case.

“WELCOME TO TWO-THOUSAND TWENTY!” an over-zealous announcer shouts from the abyss, introducing the latest reality show. “WHO WANTS TO BE IN QUARANTINE?”

______________________________

It’s easy to say that no one could have seen this coming. That we were all caught completely off guard, unable to stop the fire once it started. But the truth is that scientists have been fearing a global pandemic for years. The response of those “in charge” was simply inadequate.

*EVERY DISASTER MOVIE STARTS WITH THE GOVERNMENT IGNORING A SCIENTIST*

However, this isn’t a let’s-debate-politics-until-we’re-red-in-the-face-and-nothing-else-matters blog post. What Kate Told Me is back (for the first time in two years) because we need to set the record straight:

There’s no RIGHT way to deal with the tumultuous emotions you’re probably feeling right now.

In my mindless and aimless scrolls through social media (you do it, too!), I’ve seen post after post of friends and acquaintances, strangers and celebrities living their various new realities and coping with the upheaval of their previous lives. And it looks different for everyone.

Many of us have lost jobs. Some of us have had our school years cut short. And some of us are, or live with, essential workers who must put their safety on the line every day.

I’ve seen many posts about using this time in quarantine to work out, learn a new craft, bake banana bread (MORE banana bread?!), or learn a language (seriously?). These are amazing things to do with your time and if this is what you’re doing, I applaud (and envy) you.

The reality for many people, however, is that coping with pandemic anxiety and depression may not look like this. Scrolling online, I found myself looking for validation that not being super productive was okay. I couldn’t find that validation (or did I think I needed absolution?) so I stopped looking. I took a nap, woke up, ate some Cheez-Its, and started writing this.

But that IS coping. Today, right now, that is what my body needed. It’s been what I’ve needed a lot lately: quiet time spent reading, napping, or listening to music. We are just so conditioned into thinking that giving anything less than 110% all the time is unacceptable. We find some pseudo-comfort in our 50+ hour work weeks. Being hyper-busy and always “on” is akin with being in a constant state of survival mode — it’s protective.

But our lives have been upended. I lost my job. I haven’t hugged a friend in almost two months. We’re constantly being fed different information between the news and social media. We’re encouraged by the President of the United States not to trust the media. We are being fed information at an alarming rate in a time where support is stretched as thin as it can go.

So if coping for you looks like it does for me — napping, reading, listening to music — then I think you’re doing pretty damn well.

At the end of the day (I hate when people end shit like that but here we are), this monstrosity of a situation is our current reality. The hard part is the uncertainty. We went from knowing what the next day would hold to cringing whenever a news alert pops up on our phones. We went from dates and weekend plans to fearing close proximity to other humans. Our current reality is that of a Stephen King novel - but the book isn’t ending.

It will though. We will some day, somehow, emerge from this with the fibers of intense change woven into the fabric of our society. And maybe that’s a good thing. 

Until then, go enjoy your nap.

XOXO but from 6 feet away,

Kate

P.S. Margs when this is over?

Me: So I met a guy!!!!! Me, two days later: Never mind

Sometimes (particularly when I’m overtired or have had too much Cabernet), I contemplate the reason I was put on this earth. Was it to battle evil? To prevent shoulder pads from making a comeback? Both?

While I wait for my letter to arrive in the mail informing me of what my destiny is, I’ve accepted the fact that most of us (definitely me) are just lolling around, trying to figure out this corn maze called life that we’re placed in. Some of us go through life with grace and poise, while others (I’m talking to you, Trump) seem to have misplaced their heads up their asses.

I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know a few of these asses, have even been lucky enough to date a few of them. For the sake of your pleasure and laughter, I’m going to share some of my not-so-favorite awful dates. Grab your popcorn and draft your sympathy cards, because my dating life is sadder than my exercise regimen (which doesn’t really exist).

*Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent even though they don’t deserve my mercy (**sips wine and cracks knuckles**)

Dick Pic Dave

It was a Tuesday evening in June and I was starving. “Dave” and I made a plan to meet for dinner at a local restaurant. I was borrowing my dad’s new truck for the day, and I whipped into the parking lot in the black pickup like my middle name was Chevy. I had on a new pair of pumps, tastefully ripped jeans that slightly gave off the “I can rip you, too” vibe, and my hair was curled and tousled to perfection. 

“Yeah, I’m like, wicked broke,” Dave sighed as he readjusted his Apple watch. “So we’re not getting dinner, okay? We can get drinks I guess.” We sit and order beers and begin the inevitable back-and-forth game of “where did you go to school? What did you study? Do you have siblings?” when Dave excused himself with a mischievous grin to use the restroom.

Five minutes later and my phone alerts me to a new Snapchat. Not realizing that there’s a family of 5 with small children and elderly grandparents behind me, I absentmindedly open the Snapchat to an in-your-face, poorly lit, is-this-a-date-or-a-prostate-exam photo of 

Dave’s Dirty Dick

I wish I could tell you that I left or waited for him to come back to the table so I could live out my fantasy of pouring my drink in a deserving douche’s face. But alas, I was too shocked to do much of anything but finish my drink, feign interest in our awkward conversation, leave, and never speak to him again. 

Breathalyzer Ben

It was my first date with “Ben,” but we had grown up in the same town and knew the same people. Because of our familiarity, I let him pick me up at my house for our date - he lived 3 minutes away. Ben picked me up at 7, as the stories go, and we were off to the fancy restaurant he specifically chose for us. All was Nicholas Sparks-esque -- until his car started beeping.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, checking to see if my seatbelt was unbuckled or if maybe my eyeliner was so lit it was overheating the car. 

Ben reached into the center console and pulled out a device. “Yeah,” he said with a cocky I’m-such-a-bad-boy laugh. “I got a DUI a year ago so I need to blow into this Breathalyzer or else my car will idle.” Ben looked over at me whilst blowing into his contraption as if my panties would have immediately dropped upon hearing how much of a delinquent he was. 

At this point, we were already close to the restaurant and I had little time to contemplate an exit strategy. We sat down for dinner and shared semi-amicable conversation but I couldn’t erase Ben Blowing The Breathalyzer from my mind. After dinner, Ben requested that we split the bill - even though his meal was significantly more expensive than mine. The best part? Ben was too drunk to drive me home, so my dad had to come get me. 

Pill-Popping Pete

“Pete” and I went on our first -and last- date on a chilly autumn evening. We met at the restaurant and chatted while waiting to be seated. The hostess was a tall, lithe creature with golden hair and I-know-I’m-a-goddess eyes. She was hotter than a Tom Brady and Gisele sandwich. She walked us to our table and I smiled and thanked her, hoping I at least looked like a sweet potato and not just a regular potato compared to her. 

We sat at a high-top table and I reached for my menu - but not before seeing Pete wiggle his abundant eyebrows at the everything-I-wasn’t woman in front of us. Miss Thang left us and Pete, noticing I was watching him mate with our hostess via eyeball intercourse, gave me a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” he snickered. “I snorted some Xanax before this, so I’m a bit hyper.” 

I ordered the most expensive glass of Cabernet on the menu, played hard-to-get-because-you’re-not-gonna-get-me, ate my dinner, and left. Rumor has it, Pete is now in a committed relationship with Xanax and Hostess cupcakes - ironic. I wish the trio luck.

As you can see, I have met quite a few frogs and not many princes. But this isn’t a story about my desire for a happily ever after (which would be great someday). This is a public service announcement to individuals of all ages and identities - whether you’re using Bumble, Tinder, Grindr, or good ol‘ fashion face-to-face human interaction (imagine??), be wary of the Xanax-popping, dick pic-sending, Breathalyzer-blowing frogs out there. They come in all shapes and sizes and often are wrapped in a seemingly tempting package of muscle and Gucci cologne. 

So maybe my inherent purpose on this earth is to share my sorrows and woes - and save you from yours (although I wish my purpose had more to do with pasta or pizza). Either way, let my mistakes serve as your lessons. No matter how many frogs you date, no many how many dating apps you download, delete, and download again, remember:

You are a BOSS, you deserve to be looked at like YOU’RE hotter than a Tom Brady and Gisele sandwich, and no one (and I mean NO ONE) can replace or minimize the importance of dating, knowing, and loving yourself. 

Maybe someday I’ll learn to take my own advice. 

“Haha yeah honestly you’re the only girl I’m talking to.” -Every Tom, Dick & Harry

It was late summer in a kingdom near the Nile River. The year was 900 B.C. and the setting sun was beating down on the land. Sixteen-year-old Amisi, the village chief’s daughter, was watching the burning ball of fire melt into the landscape. 

She was tending to her younger siblings but her mind was elsewhere; she couldn’t get her mind off Raia, the seventeen-year-old son of one of their villages farmers. Amisi’s name meant “flower” and for 14 sunsets, Raia had left blue lotuses - her favorite flowers - near the entrance of her home. Why hadn’t he left the flowers for the past two sunsets? Was he upset with her? Was it Bahiti, the other chiefs’ daughter? Was she not beautiful enough?

Flash forward through the ages of tight corsets, bad mullet haircuts, and Britney’s ‘09 meltdown, and the unfortunate truth is evident:

nothing. has fucking. changed.

Our hearts go out to Amisi and those freakin’ lotus flowers. WTF Raia? Why the sudden silence? I, for one, am all-too-familiar with this fun little ghosting game boys seem to love. So, rather than bitching and moaning about the cruelty of man (because LOL, we’re not dealing with men here...), I’ve decided to break down the dating game and its players - who’s the player now, boys?

Casper The Unfriendly Ghost (Ghosting)

We’re all familiar with Casper The Friendly Ghost but in the land of dating and dickheads, Casper’s not so friendly. No longer do we fear the ghosts that go “BOO” but the ghosts that call us “boo”. “Casper” will talk you up, take you on a nice date, maybe even leave blue lotuses at your doorstep. But suddenly you get nothing - no text, no explanation - nothing. Casper’s now MIA, there are no more blue lotuses and nice dates, and you’re left wondering if maybe you had spinach in your teeth during the whole date.

Hansel & Gretel (Breadcrumbing)

I don’t know about you, but the story of Hansel & Gretel never sat well with me. Quick synopsis - H & G are abandoned in the woods by their father and evil step mother (boring cliche) but Hansel tries marking the path with breadcrumbs so he and his sister could find their way home.

"Hansel” is your master breadcrumb-er. He’ll throw you a like on Instagram or hit you with a “wyd” or “u up?” text at 12 a.m. on a Tuesday just so he stays within your realm of awareness. Hansel may be leaving you crumbs here and there to occasionally pique your interest but he has no actual intention of having a relationship with you. Yeah, you’re right. It’s pretty...crummy.

Bernie & Phyl (Cushioning) 

There’s nothing quite like flopping on the couch your parents got at Bernie & Phyls after a long, exhausting day. Sinking into those soft cushions is always a good idea - unless you’re the cushion. 

“Bernie” sees you as a cushion. He might take a page out of Hansel’s book and sprinkle some breadcrumbs in your direction - enough breadcrumbs to make you think that maybe he really does want to take you to his lake house over the summer. But Bernie has another plan in mind; he tends to several “cushions” in case the relationship he’s in doesn’t work out. If Bernie’s main bae decides to ditch him, he’ll have plenty of other girls to sweet talk. I don’t know about you, but I ain’t no side cushion.  

Casper’s older brother (Haunting)

If you dislike Casper, wait until you meet his older brother. Casper’s older brother has already mastered the craft of ghosting - now he’s on to haunting. 

Casper’s older brother has a repertoire of lady friends that he’s ghosted over the years. Whether she’s an old fling from study hall or a former co-worker, his iPhone is jam packed with names and numbers. 

Casper’s older brother haunts his ex-lady friends. Perhaps Kelly was a hot romance from summers’ past - Casper’s bro will send her a text after two years of radio silence. “Miss me?” he might say. Maybe Molly and him had something real going between them but he cut it off with no explanation. Why not throw her a like on an Instagram picture from last Christmas? Or what about Shannon, his ride-or-die coworker for a summer - until Football season came around. Casper’s big bro will toss Shannon a “poke” on Facebook, just when she was finally getting over him.

Now, before the streets erupt in protest, I know that not all guys are like this. I understand that there are also female versions of all these characters - Gretel’s no walk in the park, either. But the four types of dudes mentioned above are the kind of guys that ladies deal with on a daily basis - this is coming from a place of frustration and exasperation. 

Google Translate is great when it comes to translating “you’re sexy” into Greek to impress the hot dude from Athens who Super Liked you on Tinder. But unfortunately, the secret language of dating has no translation. We live in a time in which we communicate our mutual attraction for one another by right-swiping them on an app that we use when we’re peeing or trying to kill time. We show our affection by tagging each other in memes (which I LOVE, don’t get me wrong) instead of actually making each other laugh face-to-face. 

This post is in no way an attempt to change the current climate of dating. Mostly because you better believe my ass is mature enough to handle a relationship, so I’m not the issue here (*puts salt shaker away bc I’m already salty enough*). So boys, think of this as a public service announcement:

get your shit together.

And ladies - hang in there, and don’t settle for anything less than a guy who gives you blue lotuses after every sunset. 

http://www.history.com/topics/ancient-history/ancient-egypt

https://www.bostonglobe.com/ideas/2017/06/01/ghosting-breadcrumbing-cushioning-america-swipes-right-dating-lingo/gRaVU21aldAi9abT6ffbMM/story.html

http://www.ancientegypt.co.uk/time/explore/main.html

http://www.touregypt.net/featurestories/flowers.htm

http://maditsmadfunny.wikia.com/wiki/Casper_the_Friendly_Ghost

"College is cool because if you relax for 5 minutes you’re suddenly failing 11 classes...even though you’re only taking 5.” -Everyone

I sit at my laptop, fingers poised over my keyboard, unsure of how to reintroduce myself to the world. I'm Kate, I'm a blogger; a connoisseur of wit if you will. So why has it been so difficult for me to write?

I think a lot of my recent writer's block is due to the looming cloud over my head. This cloud isn't your typical, fluffy white cloud. Perhaps this cloud has a silver lining somewhere, but at times its hard to find. I call this cloud "College Graduation" and it's threatening to explode with precipitation.

I started my blog in September of 2012 when my worldly knowledge was at its infancy stage. It can be argued that I am still, at 22, an infant of knowledge but I feel I have come a long way since my sweet sixteenth birthday party (which, to go on record, was subpar and not MTV-worthy). 

But alas, it's this damn cloud that's been following me everywhere I go - to class, to the bar, to the bathroom (like, can I have 5 minutes please?). Like many of my peers, I've tried the senior-approved methods of coping with my pending graduation. I've ignored it (didn't I just move into my freshman dorm?), embraced it (I can't wait to be Carrie Bradshaw and have a cute city apartment!), and dreaded it (I have more loans than friends...). But throughout the whole process of getting my undergraduate degree, I have yet to question WHY this graduation cloud is so ominous and heavy with precipitation. What am I afraid of? 

Well, to be completely freakin' brutally honest, I'm afraid of everything. I did as I was told - go to college, get good grades, make lasting relationships, and don't get pregnant. Four years and $200,000 later, here I am, and what I have to show for it is a cracked iPhone and more questions than answers. 

College is (was?) great, don't get me wrong. My experience at a small private university in costal Rhode Island was likely much different than John Doe's experience at Beerpong State University in the midwest but college is college and regardless of size, athletic teams, or ability to drink in public without the threat of immediate expulsion, we're all in the same boat. 

I often find myself trying to find answers to life's complex Sudoku games. But this time, instead of attempting to answer these ominous questions, I'm going to ask them. If High School Musical taught us anything (besides the horrifying fact that Troy Boulton's father is more attractive to us now than 16-year-old Zac Efron is), it's that we're all in this together. 

^(But really, look at that smirk. Zac looks like he raided the guy from Blue’s Clues’ wardrobe and had a fight with a bottle of Jergens self tanner.)

So without further ado, here is a comprehensive list of 22 things that we, the "sensitive Millennials" constantly have on our minds in recognition of our looming graduation. 

(Note to fellow Millennials: you're not alone).

1. How am I supposed to get a job if entry-level positions require 10 years of post-educational experience and 7 PhDs?

2. Why do we pay upwards of $50,000 a year for a piece of paper that basically pats us on the head, throws our tennis ball, and says "who's a good boy!?"

3. Why am I STILL being tested on my ability to regurgitate information from an overpriced textbook?

4. How in God's name do I go through socks SO. DAMN. QUICKLY?

5. Do calories count when I'm overwhelmed? No, right?

6. We have a gym at school????

7. (Someone says 'graduation') "YOU HAVE TO TAKE A SHOT YOU SAID THE G-WORD" *twitches*

8. Shit, I have to find a dress/suit/flask for the g-word ceremony.

9. Is it too late to drop out?

10. I know I'm not Catholic, but can I just give up for lent?

11. (At the bar and it's actually fun for once) OMG I LOVE COLLEGE I DON'T WANT TO LEAVE.

12. (Gets screwed over by ANOTHER guy) OMG I HATE COLLEGE I NEED TO LEAVE.

13. Why do all the boys here look like extras for a commercial on preteen acne?

14. Why do all the girls here act like extras for a commercial on friendzoning?

15. Why do I look like an extra for a commercial on Xanax?

16. I think it's time for a change. Maybe I should cut my hair 10 inches. Or no, maybe I'll just shave. Yeah, that's change.

17. Does it count as drinking the entire bottle of Riesling if I use a straw?

18. Why can't someone just stroke my hair, rub my back, and feed me pizza?

19. What in GODS NAME is a KALE CHIP and why am I so ANGRY about it?

20. Shit I need to get in shape for commencement ball. Can I burn calories by crying? How about napping? 

21. These freshman have no idea what this shit is actually like.

22. (Watching cat stress over red dot) My cat is so lucky. _________________________________________________________

We bitch and moan about college (are you actually in college if you don't bitch and moan?), but we really need to give ourselves a massive pat on the back because college was hard. We discovered SO much about ourselves (maybe too much at times) and we conquered countless obstacles.

People always liken things like college graduation to "turning a new page," or going on to the "next chapter" in life. But I think we're going to a completely new book. The setting has changed, the plot has thickened, and characters come and go.

For my proverbial post-college book however, the heroine remains the same. *flips hair, cues Diva by Beyonce, then instantly takes a nap*.

“Can you get me a 750 bottle of raspberry Burnett’s?” -Me, freshman year

Approximately 4 years ago, I was diligently stuffing unnecessary amounts of clothing into Space Bags that would only expand once they were packed into my Hyundai. Around that same time, I chopped 11 inches off my hair and decided that the girl who walked around campus in college was to be different than the girl whose long brunette hair swayed as she navigated the halls of high school.

Four years ago, I was convinced I wanted to be journalist when I graduated. I was contemplating picking up a dance minor and immediately applied to write for the school newspaper. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I was prepared to dance on rooftops and sleep on an XL twin mattress while visions of red solo cups danced in my head. In the back of my mind, I secretly cursed my inability to hold a handstand during my cheerleading career in high school. How was I going to do keg stands?????

*record screeching sound*

Now I’m a college senior. An overtired, cynical, cheap wine-drinking college senior. I have yet to do a keg stand (primarily because beer has gluten and gluten and I don’t get along) and I prefer my $2.99 long stemmed wine glasses from Home Goods to red solo cups. I still dance but want nothing to do with majoring or minoring in it. After working as Opinion’s Editor of my school newspaper for two years and writing an anonymous sex column under the pseudonym Racy Stacy for the same newspaper, I have ended my career in journalism with no desire to go back.

But senior year really isn’t all that different than freshman year. Sure, fake IDs are a thing of the past, we get tired around 9 p.m. on Friday nights, and getting ready for our 9 a.m. on MWF consists of throwing on a baseball hat and we’re out the door. But really, college has done an entire 360-degree revolution.

Here’s how:

You feel like you don’t know anyone again.

Who the hell are all these kids and why are they ALL wearing lanyards around their necks?

You don’t know what to do with your life. Still.

*Sits in 2 p.m. marketing lecture and wonders what life would be like if you tried to become an architect or maybe a biochemist*

You want to party

It’s your last year and there are still SO many Smirnoff shots to take and cheap bottles of Andre champagne to pop. You’re salty because maybe college wasn’t the rooftop dancing, body shot taking, beer can crushing experience the movies told you it would be. A part of you wants to curl up in your twin XL mattress and catch up on HGTVs House Hunters and part of you wants to get as much out of the next few months as you can.

*Unlocks iPhone and texts fuckboy from freshman year*

“Hey wyd tonight?"

You’re confused about new policies and changes

Since when does that parking lot only allow for 30 minute parking? Why did the dining hall hours change? And why the hell is the street outside my apartment suddenly named after a benefactor of the school?

*rolls eyes and wishes wallet could buy you a street name, too*

There are so many attractive new people but now you’re four years older than them

Boys! Girls! There’s no way that guy is only a freshman and WOW that girl’s contour/highlight is on fleek. Some of these new faces are so attractive and part of you wants to stand in the center of the dining hall handing out slips of paper with your number on it. But the other part realizes that these people are at least four years younger than you. You were 15 when some of them were 10.

*realizes implications of above statement, washes eyes out with soap, and goes to church*

You feel old but now it’s not because you’re finally in college but because terms like ‘401k’ and ‘mortgage’ will soon be a part of your daily vocabulary

The day you were accepted to your first college was a pivotal moment in your young adult life. Teachers would become Professors and PhD holders, mom and dad could no longer enforce a strict curfew (usually), and you had the world (a dining hall full of decadent carbs) at your fingertips. Saying “I’m a college student,” used to have an exciting ring to it. Like shit I’m so old and educated *flips hair*.

But now you’re a college senior. You’re old, jaded, and you find yourself wondering if you should start buying osteoporosis meds or perhaps a cane. Despite the very realistic fact that as a college senior, your life is JUST beginning, you feel the weight of your college experiences on your back like a 30 rack of beer. It’s heavy.

You feel anxious in the dining hall not because you don’t know where you’re going but because there are crop-top wearing 18 year olds everywhere. And it’s 10 a.m. on a Wednesday.

The dining hall has always been it’s own type of jungle. It’s like that scene in Mean Girls where Lindsay Lohan envisions everyone acting like the wild African animals she grew up with. Only now, people aren’t screeching like monkeys and roaring like lions - they’re dressed like they’re going to Day Glow right after their 9 a.m. stats class. Spandex booty shorts and multicolored crop tops with phrases like “it’s lit” and “I literally can’t rn” litter the dining hall jungle. Bellybuttons and lower back tattoos are abundant and you watch as professors stop into the dining hall for a bite to eat and can’t help but wonder what they’re thinking:

What are these kids wearing? I wish I could pull of a crop top like that... Maybe I should get my belly button pierced. What the hell does “lit” mean?

_____________________________________________________________

So long story short, being a college senior really is a bit like a funky acid trip back to freshman year (not that I know anything about acid trips. Seriously, mom, I don’t). A lot of the uncertainty of freshman year creeps back into our senior year lifestyles and while we’re confident AF in a lot of ways (we run this school, duh), we’re also shaking in our overpriced Nikes because the only thing between us and real life is a few months filled with subpar bar nights and morning-after makeup smudges.

As painful, exciting, terrifying, and surreal as the end of undergraduate education may be, it’s important we don’t lose sight of how crucial every moment - good and bad - was in shaping who we are today. *recalls shot of raspberry-flavored Burnett’s from freshman year and instantly regrets education*

Smile at the good memories, recognize the shitty moments, invite new experiences with open arms, and take as many shots photographs* (sorry, typo) as possible. Be proud of yourselves. You did it baby - you’re a big kid now.

Pictured above: me, freshman year of college

Pictured below: me, senior year of college

“Make sure my Old Fashioned is extra strong, okay honey?” -Older man, approximate age: 55

When I was younger, I always had a fascination with waitresses. They were always so pretty and it was so cool how many drinks they could balance on that tiny tray and hold it with one hand. And when they came around the corner, somehow carrying 4 steaming hot plates of food, it’s like they had all the power. They were the only thing between me and my mashed potatoes. They were angels. 

Twenty-one years into my exuberant small-town life, I’ve become one of those drink-balancing, mashed potato-delivering angels. I like to think I’m a charismatic person (*toots horn loudly*) so I was excited to start my journey as a waitress. 

Because I now rely so heavily on tips (and because some of you don’t understand the concept of 15-20%), I have a few tips, suggestions, and stories for the next time you decide to dine.

Don’t wink at me.

I get it: I’m the one who’s delivering your precious medium rare steak tips and your 20 ounce of our locally brewed draft beer so you want to be nice to me. But winking at me while your much younger wife sips her gin and tonic is not the way to go about it. 

Hello! How are you folks doing? My name is Kate and I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I get you started off with some drinks? I must recommend the peach sangria, it’s amazing.

Every server has a memorized, tried-and-true opening line that they use when approaching a new table. Sometimes I embody the cheerleader I once was and introduce myself with great enthusiasm and smiles. Other times, I keep it peppy and polite but brief. In these moments, I’m either tired, hungry, or I can’t be bothered to act excited about bringing your table 5 waters with lemon and crayons for your sticky child. 

Just because I’m supposed to be nice and friendly like a “good waitress,” doesn’t mean I want to giggle dumbly at your degrading jokes.

If I ask if I can get something started in the kitchen for you, it’s in lieu of phrasing the question how I really want to ask it: what the fuck do you want? There are only so many times I can listen to middle-aged men say “Uh, yeah honey you can get something started in the kitchen, that’s generally why people go out to eat.”

As a general rule, don’t call me honey.

Unless you’re ordering a steak with a honey glaze, the word “honey” shouldn’t come out of your mouth. Maybe there’s some waitress fantasy I wasn’t warned about or maybe the idea of your sizzling sirloin has you feeling sexy, but calling me honey doesn’t make me want to jump for joy as I refill your bottomless Diet Coke.  

Teenagers: Go to McDonald’s. 

I look back with fondness (and occasional horror) at the memories of my early teenage years but rarely did I ever go to an actual restaurant with 6 of my equally-pubescent friends. After you order a round of complimentary waters and one kid’s mac & cheese to split, I’m dedicated to your table regardless of your $8 tab. Maybe I’m not the mashed potato-delivering angel I once though waitresses were, but countless split checks and eleven-cent tips will do that to you.

The next person who asks me for seconds is required to pay my tuition bills.

I mean seriously. You just ordered a larger-than-average portion of chicken picatta on a bed of fettuccine that could feed a Guatemalan village and you have the audacity to ask me for “a little more for free” before winking like it’s our little secret? I’m sorry, ma’am I’m not sure if I can do that but let me double-check with my chef. 

Update: “My chef isn’t allowed to give second helpings, I’m sorry about that ma’am. Can I bring you over a dessert menu?”

P.S. Your broach is ugly.

_____________________________________________________

Perhaps I’m overly cynical, but there is SO much to be cynical about in the restaurant industry. Veterans of the job would roll their eyes at me and tell me I have no idea how bad it gets-and they’re right, I don’t. But there’s something about food and fine dining that brings out the savage sides of people. Maybe being hangry should be an actual psychological diagnosis because some restaurant patrons are saltier than their honey-glazed chicken wings.

Every once in awhile, a post about waitresses or waitressing goes viral on the Internet. Whether it’s a server commenting on a positive or negative experience they had, or a customer arguing why they don’t tip, the posts always spark huge arguments. Some people argue that they shouldn’t have to tip their servers because their job is so easy. Maybe they’re right, except

Table 2 needs a new fork because they dropped theirs on the ground. Table 42 is wondering if we have barbecue sauce and would also like some fruit for their 6 month old. Table 20 is a party of ten and they’re all anxiously awaiting their second martinis when they decide to inform you right before their food is ready that Sally is highly allergic to shellfish, wheat, tree nuts, sesame seeds, and dairy. 29 has been waiting “too long” (10 minutes) for their quesadilla appetizer and would like it to be “on the house” and taken off the bill. The man at 95 is aggressively chastising you because his salad was brought out too close to his entree and there wasn’t enough fresh mozzarella. The 3 fiftysomethings at 85 are cackling with glee after you recommend the peach sangria because “you can’t possibly be over 17!” when table 43 snaps at you to come to their table because they’re annoyed at the crying 6 month old at table 42. All this has transpired in a matter of 5 minutes while you were on your way to the kitchen to beg your chef to whip up a well-done bacon cheese burger ASAP because 92 “changed their mind”. Once you think you’ve finally sorted everyone’s issues out, your manager comes up to you with a tired, disappointed expression and says, “Table 2 is not happy that they had to wait so long for their new fork. You need to stay on top of these things.” Shit.

Next time you rally up the troops for a dinner pow-wow at your favorite bar & grill, keep these tips and stories in mind. Waitresses may rely on your 15-20% tip, but remember: we still hold the world (your steak) in our hands. 

“So does being gluten free mean you’re on welfare?” -Allison, 16

I went to a sweet sixteen birthday party this past weekend to celebrate my beautiful cousins’ journey into womanhood. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was excited. Excited because I was no longer sixteen and excited because I was older and wiser and I remember how cool I thought the older girls were when I was sixteen. I wasn’t prepared, however, for what the night held.

The sweet sixteen was held at a function hall. I went with my mother and my best friend. We were itching to get to the place because there was a bar next door to the hall. *Angels sing*

I looked good. I set my curling iron to the “Victoria’s Secret effortless waves that actually take so much effort” setting. My winged eyeliner could be considered the sharpest of lethal weapons and my heels were higher than my cumulative GPA. Screw all my friends from school who were taking pills in Ibiza and sipping sangria in Santorini: I was going to a SWEET SIXTEEN birthday party. Bitch.

We arrived at our destination fashionably late (by 3 minutes). We said our hello-s, kissed the birthday girl, hugged my aunt, and ran to the bar faster than the lifespan of a fruit fly. After ordering a round of vodka cranberry’s with extra lime, we sauntered back to the party room with our icy drinks clutched in our no longer sixteen-year-old hands. It was exciting walking into a room full of teens who only had paper learner’s permits in their Michael Kors wallets when I was already becoming an established twentysomething year old adult. I’d been driving for years, I was of the legal drinking age, and I could take a shot faster and smoother than you can say Junior Operator’s License. I was cool.

Every girl has her fantasy that she’ll walk into a room and all eyes will be on her. In her mind’s eye, men will stop holding the hands of their wives, waiters will spill martinis, and hostesses will furrow their eyebrows in jealousy at the lithe creature standing in the doorway.  

Breaking news: this is not what happened at my cousin’s sweet sixteen birthday party.

As my eyes scanned the room and I stirred my mixed drink that was already beginning to dwindle, it began to happen. My palms became sweaty, my knees grew weak, and my arms got heavy. There was no vomit on my sweater (S/O to Eminem) but I could feel the color creeping into my already blushed and contoured cheeks. The giraffe patterned thong I got at Wal-Mart began riding up and suddenly my black Forever 21 dress didn’t seem as glamorous as it did when I put it on. I met the eyes of the sixteen-year-old girls as they walked past me with their teeny tiny body-con dresses and nearly choked on an ice cube when I came to the chilling realization: 

I was sixteen again.

Suddenly every girl was out to get me. I was being scanned by every pair of eyes and I just KNEW that Miss Pink Braces was whispering to Miss Unfortunate Haircut about me. My best friend and I made desperate eye contact and I knew she was being plagued by the same realization as me. We made our way to the bathroom to sip the remainders of our drinks and give ourselves a pep talk. That’s when Becky With The Good Hair walked in. 

“Oh. I remember when my mom came to my prom and drank with us, too,” she said upon seeing the twenty-one year old wrinkles on our faces and the invisible canes clutched in our hands. Was I that mom? What had I become? Where was my life going? Why was I having an existential crisis in the bathroom at a sweet sixteen birthday party? 

I was eventually able to restore myself back to a less-paranoid, non-sixteen-year-old version of myself as the night went along. My giraffe patterned Wal-Mart undies returned to their intended position and my knees regained their strength. But during my existential crisis, I came to the important realization that it’s easy to be consumed by other people’s opinions at any age, not just sixteen. Whether I’m sixteen and angry because Linda unfollowed me on Instagram or eighty six and angry because Linda hid my dentures, there’s always going to be something. 

While I wouldn’t refer to my realizations at the birthday party as life-changing epiphanies, I think the momentary paranoia that every girl is familiar with (whether sixteen or sixty) was a crucial step in my truly growing up.

But, I will admit: it is pretty sweet not being sixteen. 

“If on her finger you wish to put a rock, do not show her your dirty cock.” -Unknown 

To the finest of male friends, foes, and fuck-buddies:

The noble steed you sent to rescue me from my lava-surrounded tower must have had a really screwed up GPS signal because here we are. It’s 2016, I’m 21 years old, and I can hear the clicks of the second hand mocking me from the clocks’ stationary position on the wall.

You’re single. You’re single. You’re single. You’re single.

Are relationships made of gluten or something? Is that why I seem to repel any and all forms of commitment? Perhaps relationships are Kate-intolerant. I could blame it on things my body doesn’t agree with like gluten or Donald Trump, but I’m starting to think that maybe it’s me. Am I the problem?

But really, I’m not the problem. The problem is the importance we place on relationships. It seems like everyone wants the American dream: a house with a white picket fence, a golden retriever, a hardworking husband or an apple pie wife, and 2.5 children. I consider myself a pretty independent chick but to be honest, sometimes that’s all I want. It’s the long-awaited happy ending to all the shitty blockbusters we don’t want to admit we watch.

If I’m going to be quite honest, though, I think the fine gentlemen of my generation could use a refresher on how to not steal a woman’s heart, but how to share it with her. Open your textbooks to page 69 and we will begin our lessons.

*Readjusts glasses and erases chalkboard*

Lesson #1: Don’t send me dick pics

One would think our first lesson would be a no-brainer but it seems as though some dudes prefer to think with the head that’s not attached to their neck. I implore you, gentlemen, to abide by this dear old nursery rhyme:

If on her finger you wish to put a rock

Do not show her your dirty cock.        -Unknown (JK, it was me)

Lesson #2: Tell me what you want, what you really really want

The Spice Girls’ hit “Wannabe” reverberates through the souls of millions as we simultaneously tap our feet to the beat and silently curse Victoria Beckham for getting to see David Beckham naked.

Now, I don’t know about you but I’m very much over the guessing game. While I understand that saying, “Do you want to shove your tongue down my throat or introduce me to the extended family?” isn’t very Nicholas Sparks-ish, there is some merit to the question. If you’re just interested in having a late-night lover, be up front about it. “I’m not really looking for anything serious right now,” is a shitty thing to hear, but it’s much better to hear that right away than after the wedding color scheme has been picked out.

Lesson #3: I’m just as afraid as you are

All joking aside, commitment can be terrifying, particularly in an age where we woo our crushes with Facebook pokes and Instagram likes. How are we supposed to create real connections when the highest form of flattery is Super Liking someone on Tinder? But, dear gentlemen, it is possible. It seems as though we’re all so afraid of the vulnerability surrounding relationships and romance that we involuntarily reject any and all forms of it.

But bare in mind - we are all afraid. No one wants a broken or hurting heart so we do drastic things to prevent that from happening. A lesson you can take from this is similar to the old schoolyard saying, “treat others how you wish to be treated,” - cherish another’s heart as you would cherish your own.

Lesson #4: Revive chivalry - use CPR, the Heimlich maneuver, something

Don’t get me wrong - I’ll be the first in line at the Strong Independent Boss Ass Bitch convention. I’m fully capable of opening my own doors and carrying my own books. But in the name of Steve Harvey and all things holy, I wish men would show some of the classic chivalry that now only seems to be an anecdote of the past.

If I should ever have a son, I hope he’s like my father. My dad knows all too well that my mother is capable of ruling the world while simultaneously painting her nails and saving pictures of cats on Pinterest but he still brings her coffee in bed every morning like he has for the past 30 years. He understands her fierce independence and ability to kick ass without breaking a nail but he choses to treat her well because, for lack of a more eloquent term, he’s the shit and he knows what he’s doing.

There are dozens of other lessons I could throw at you fine gentlemen, but I’ll leave you with those for now. Earlier I mentioned that your noble steed failed to rescue me from my lava-surrounded tower but I want to let you know, on behalf of all boss ass women out there, that we don’t need to be rescued.

We deserve to be treated with respect (as do you) and we should be pampered in all the right ways but with the broken hearts we’ve had, it’s crucial that we learn to rescue ourselves regardless of your noble steed’s screwy GPS signal.

You can expect a test on lessons 1-4 by next week. Good luck, study hard, and remember - don’t be a dick and don’t send me pictures of your dick.

XOXO,

Kate

“These girls are just totally nuts. They’re train wrecks.” -Bill, eating disorder specialist 

This morning in my psychology of adolescence class, we had a guest speaker come in to speak about eating disorders. The fifty-something year old man came into our class in his Men's Warehouse button up and outdated Lens Crafter glasses and proceeded to present on behalf of his 20+ years of experience in the field. 

I would just like to respond to Bill regarding some of the points he made during his 50 minute presentation:

Girls with eating disorders are not "train wrecks". Throughout middle school and a good portion of high school, I struggled with an eating disorder that left me at 98 pounds at my sickest and in extreme shame of my body. Yes, I suppose I understand how it may be hard for some people to fathom my thought process at that time but as a professional with "20 plus years of experience in the field," I would think you'd have the presence of mind to not say to a classroom full of twenty-something year old girls that “these girls [with eating disorders] are just totally nuts." 

When referring to the behaviors of anorexics and bulimics, do not compare them to toddlers. Do not suggest that an anorexic’s tendency to push food around on her plate instead of eating it is of the mental caliber of a toddler. Do not laugh and wonder out loud whether girls with eating disorders pretend to sneeze just so they can hide Mom’s mashed potatoes in their sleeves. Do not shake your head and laugh in disbelief at the idea that a size double zero is desirable for some. That double zero label on my overpriced Abercrombie & Fitch jeans consumed me when I was 15. It wasn’t simply a matter of materialistic concern; to 15-year-old Kate, the small cotton label that read “00″ was the determinant of my worth and value. 

You were right when you said that holidays like Thanksgiving are extremely difficult for people with eating disorders. But you were wrong when you scoffed and said “why the hell would someone not eat all that great food?” On Thanksgiving four years ago, I had a Fiber One bar. The growling of my starving stomach was a not-so-silent victory for me; I was hungry, which meant I hadn’t eaten enough, which was good. 

The concern of my caloric intake was somewhat superficial but I found myself wondering how many calories were in my Crest WhiteStrips. Bruises decorated my hips where my hipbones met my skin and on my back where my spine was as prominent as the spine on a book. You ask why the hell someone wouldn’t eat all that food? Well Bill, perhaps because my body got to the point where I physically could not put food into my mouth without gagging. Maybe because to eat the simplest of snacks was an exhausting and daunting task. Because to put a piece of food in my mouth felt like I was putting a shoe in there instead - it didn’t belong. That’s why the hell I didn’t eat all that great food. I couldn’t.

In response to your ideas that all girls with eating disorders have wealthy mothers who are prim and proper and put together and like to ignore their daughter’s issues, and idiotic fathers who have no idea what’s going on: that is simply not true and quite frankly, your stereotypes are grossly insulting. My parents are the only ones who knew right away what was going on with me. My father held my hand when I couldn’t stop crying. He made me strawberry smoothies when that was the only thing my body wouldn’t reject. Not once, as you stereotyped, did my father place a pizza in front of me and promise me a BMW if I could eat the whole thing. Is that what you did to your daughter?

Yes, eating disorders have a strong correlation to conditions like anxiety, depression, body dysmorphic disorder, and post-traumatic stress disorder. I know this because I have or have had all of these disorders. But no, you’re wrong in saying that being a pretty, wealthy girl from a divorced and broken family is also a prerequisite for anorexia. I must not have heard about that course requirement before my body weight dropped into the double digits.

I implore you, Bill, to reconsider your presentation techniques. Perhaps you could refer to your “20+ years of experience” for some material that doesn’t make a “nutty girl” who’s recovering from her eating disorder want to cry at 9 a.m.

Sincerely,

A recovering train wreck

"Your writing voice is the deepest possible reflection of who you are... In your voice, your readers should be able to hear the contents of your mind, your heart, your soul.” -Meg Rosoff

I don’t write anymore. I haven’t written in over seven months. I’ve tried to tell myself that my pencil is broken but really it’s me that’s been broken. It’s been too close to a year since my parents have heard the telltale rapid fire of keyboard clicks or seen the shadow of a triumphant, prideful smile after watching me read something I’ve written.

Weapons are powerful. My words are my weapons. In moments that we need weapons the most, sometimes we forget how to use them. Words and sentences have evaporated before my eyes time and time again and something within me has changed. The simplicity of a gentle touch puts a lump in my throat but no I can’t help but think. How dare I overreact like that?

On my first day of high school I was given a map. I photocopied that map and put it in all my binders, pasted it into my notebooks and planners. I taped it to the inside of the locker that I would never end up using. But that map helped me. It showed me where I was going, illustrated the shortcuts and the easy ways to get to class. They don’t give out maps anymore, the cynic within me thinks grimly.

Sometimes I wish I could hold the hand of that girl on her first day of high school, her maps perfectly taped to her binders, her innocent mind ready to navigate the white waters of high school. I wish I could tell her things I know now, give her hints on lessons I’ve learned the hard way. I wish I could give her a map that guided her way to more than just her classrooms. There are things I would have told that girl, myself, if given the chance. I would tell her secrets I’ve learned but I would explain them more gently than the natural course of life would. I would hold her hand in her saddest of moments and I would so desperately want to tell her that it gets better. And in many ways it does. But more importantly, I would want her to know, she’ll get stronger.

Holding the hand of my fifteen-year-old self, I would tell her to love herself, love herself fiercely. I would tell her to vehemently disobey the unwritten rule that dictates she should curse at her reflection and memorize her imperfections. I would tell her to eat, eat a lot. I would take the granola bar from her hand and gently but firmly tell her that it wasn’t a sufficient Thanksgiving Day meal. I would cut the double-zero tags off the labels of her jeans, tell her that she’s worth more than the numbers on a scale.

I wish I could hold the hand of that girl during her first times. Her first kiss, her first “real” boyfriend, her first “real” heartache. I would tell her to ignore what everyone else tried to tell her. That what she felt was love, regardless of the false belief that she was too young to know what that meant. I would try to teach her to know when enough was enough, that she didn’t need to defend her seemingly “perfect” relationship just because it was exhibited on the glossy pages of a magazine. I wouldn’t undermine her fear or her anger. I would validate her, telling her she deserved a love that wasn’t possessive or scary.

As that girl grew older, I would have still held her hand. I would tell her that it’s okay to cry, that no one’s dad deserves their fourth cancer diagnosis, let alone their first. I would have sat in the passenger seat of her first car, checking right as she looked left. I would go with her to college, all the while painting the picture of freedom she’d been dreaming of. I’d tell her blurry stories that I’d try to remember about nights that I couldn’t forget.

I’d tell that girl, the once-innocent girl with the high school maps, the importance of her words. I would remind her that her words were weapons and I would pray that she would never forget how to use them. But I would still hold her hand after her sinking realization that sometimes words weren’t enough for drunken college boys and university administrations. I’d hold her hair back when she started drinking too much, drinking to feel like a normal college girl who didn’t cry when she was kissed or wince when she was touched. I would tell her that no, what happened wasn’t okay. That she’s not overreacting. That it was a big deal. I would tell her that she’s not a lying monster, despite what the girls she trusted with everything she had may have told her.

I wish I could hold the hand of that girl. That I could teach her that she’s fiercely brave, braver than I’ll ever be. I would show her that she should love herself without the permission of the rest of the world. That she should never stop writing, even when the words evaporated before her eyes. I would teach her how to be graceful and fearless, how to embody the strength she sees in her parents. I would tell her she deserved a man who loved her mind not a boy who just loved her body.

I wish I could teach her the importance of friendship, how crucial it is for her to love herself before she lets anyone else love her. I would tell her that she deserves to love and laugh and smile with an unguarded heart. I’d remind her to sing in the shower, sing louder than she should. To dance like people are watching. That her words do matter, they are powerful, and to use them for good.

Above all, I wish I could have told myself, the girl with high school maps and naïve mind, to hold her own hand and to never let it go.

"Piglet noticed that even though he had a very small heart, it could hold a rather large amount of gratitude." -Winnie-the-Pooh

When most of us were little, we were taught not to chew with our mouths open and how important it was to say "please," and "thank you."

Because we learned these basic rules at such young ages, they’re practically engrained into our subconscious memories. Now we seldom even realize how many times we say “thank you,” in a given day.

So what are we thankful for? We typically express our thanks and gratitude for material objects: cell phones, lap tops, infinite-loop kitten Vines. But what if we took the time to express our gratefulness for the little things? What would you be thankful for? I’m thankful for many things. Here are just a few:

The Little Things

I'm grateful for hot chocolate on a cold day and sturdy mugs made of clay. Nail polish of any color and cheap jewelry that looks expensive. I’m grateful for the soft glow of a reading lamp and the smell of my mom’s perfume. I'm grateful for creamy lipstick and Nivea body lotion. I find gratitude in the crunch of autumn leaves and the melodic sound of Christmas music in department stores the second Halloween is over.

I’m thankful for 90s music, old books, and Keurig K-cups. For “Fun Sized” Snickers and Nike Airs. I’m thankful to live in a world where I can type away on my laptop and occasionally check Instagram on my iPhone. For the soft purr of a kitten and the laughter of a child. For the sound and smell of rain and the silence of snow.

I’m thankful for color, music, and the soft bristles of paintbrushes. I’m thankful for gluten free cookies and Ricola cough drops. For sea glass and seashells, cardinal birds and greeting cards.

The People

I’m thankful for my mother and father for an infinite number of reasons. For professors, teachers, and Joe the custodian from Cedar Hall (I wrote this last weekend. On November 26, 2014 Joe passed away. Thank you Joe, may you rest in peace).

I’m thankful for Mariah Carey’s five-octave voice and Tina Fey’s great sense of humor. I’m thankful for Justin Beiber for his entertainment and Orlando Bloom for punching Justin Beiber. I’m grateful for Robin Williams, may he rest in peace, for being a huge part of my childhood. I’m thankful for Alice, the dear woman who works in the dining hall and always has a smile on her face.

I’m grateful for family, even if we’re not blood-related. I’m thankful for friends. For police officers and firefighters and all those risking their lives for my freedom. I’m thankful for Malala Yousafzai for her beautiful passion and Stephen Hawking for his wonderful mind. I’m thankful for nurses who hold your hand to remind you that everything is going to be OK and I'm thankful for the doctors that found and obliterated my dad's cancer four times.

I’m grateful for Christian Grey and Channing Tatum and for that guy I always make eye contact with in the dining hall (you have beautiful eyes). I'm thankful for mean girls, bitches, and misogynistic pricks who validate my strength despite their misconception that I'm weak.

I’m thankful for fairies, sexy vampires, honest politicians, and other make-believe creatures. 

The Big Things

I’m thankful to live in a place where my opinion is (supposed to be) as valid as a man’s opinion; where my voice matters regardless of my gender. I’m grateful for the right to vote, despite the shocking number of women who don’t. 

I’m thankful for the roof over my head and the table of food that awaited my family on Thanksgiving. For clean drinking water and for any water at all. I’m thankful for my education; for the tests and quizzes I complain about and the essays I don’t want to write. I’m thankful for Kim Kardashian’s butt and Kanye West’s ego (Get it? The “big” things…).

I’m thankful for words, language, and the universal dialect of love. I’m thankful for the right to say “no,” and for the people who fight when that right is taken away. I’m grateful for my right to choose, because it’s my body, not yours.

I’m thankful for religion and spirituality. For love, hate and jealousy and knowing the difference between them. I’m thankful for betrayals and life lessons for making me stronger.

I’m grateful for the ability to walk, skip, dance, and sometimes fall. For my First Amendment rights and for the professor who taught me what they are. I’m thankful for my country, my flag, and my freedom.

I’m thankful for gratitude itself; for words and for blogs. I'm grateful for the fact that you’re taking the time to read my thoughts.

I'm thankful for you. Thank you.

"I hate when I think I'm buying ORGANIC vegetables but when I get home I discover they're just REGULAR donuts."

                                        Want to stuff your face with 10-12 cinnamon sugar donuts? Want your mouth to water at the doughy goodness that awaits you?

SAME.

Stonewall Kitchen came up with a "Certified Gluten Free Cinnamon Sugar Doughnut Mix" (I just can't bring myself to spell donut that way) and I'm pretty sure I'm in love to the point of no return. The mix is a bit pricey for a yield of just 10-12 donuts ($9.95 per box) but I mean, they're donuts. Case closed.

So here is a list of ingredients and directions for these absolute manifestations of heaven. 

Ingredients

For The Donuts

1/2 cup milk

1 large egg, beaten

1/3 cup unsalted butter, melted

For The Topping

1/3 cup unsalted butter, melted

Directions

For The Donuts:

Grease or spray a donut pan. Preheat oven to 400-degrees F. Pour donut mix into a bowl. Add milk, egg and 1/3 cup melted butter. Beat on medium speed about 30 seconds to combine. Pipe or spoon batter into donut pan, filling each cup 1/2 full. Bake 9-10 minutes, or until lightly browned.

For The Topping:

Pour topping mix (kit comes with package of cinnamon sugar) into a small bowl. Melt butter in separate bowl. Remove donuts from pan while still warm. Gently brush each with melted butter then roll in cinnamon sugar mixture. Serve immediately.

These directions can be found on the back of your Stonewall Kitchen "Cinnamon Sugar Doughnut Mix" box. You can find these mixes at your local Stonewall Kitchen store, all-natural baking shops, or during your morning stroll through heaven. Enjoy and save one for me.

"Surrounded by people

Alone I still stand.

It's like rape doesn't exist

Unless it was planned," -Kate Murphy, One Drink Too Many

Thursday night & Friday night outfits in downtown Philadelphia. 

Blazer: Anne Taylor (similar)

Gypsy dress: Boutique (similar)

"Don't worry, be happy." -Bobby McFerrin

I find it almost comical when someone without an anxiety disorder tells me to "relax," or "don't worry, it's not that big of a deal". When people say this to me, I try to stay calm and collected on the outside but the frazzled worry-wort within me gets flustered and frustrated and begins to blink rapidly. I can't help it! My inner worry-wort tries to scream. Chastise my serotonin levels, not ME! 

Worrying is a very real part of our society. We worry about mortgage payments, relationships, classwork, exams, hangnails, our pets, projects, bad hair days, whether or not that girl actually glared at us or if she just had something in her eye, friendships, jobs, our futures... and those are just the basics. If someone tells me they have no worries about anything I'm simultaneously overcome with feelings of intense jealousy (you mean it doesn't freak you out that Sasha told Mary that you slept with Judy's boyfriend?!) while also worrying that said person may, in fact, be a sociopath with no feelings. 

I worry about everything but not just because I'm a typical adolescent with typical adolescent worries. I have something called Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) which, according to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, basically means I have persistent, excessive, unrealistic, and often debilitating worries about everyday things. But I don't think this definition does people, like me, who suffer from GAD or other anxiety disorders justice. A textbook definition doesn't even begin to describe what it's like to live as an otherwise normal college student with an intense anxiety disorder. 

So I'm going to break it down for you.

We worry about what you think about us.

Do you think I'm a freak because I have something called an "anxiety disorder"? Are you wondering if my brain is "disordered"? Why are you staring at me like I'm a lab rat? Why do labs test on poor rats?

We're not just informed about global issues, we're legitimately worried about them.

It is crucial to remain aware and informed about topics pertinent to society such as the political protests in Hong Kong or the global warming crisis. But while your average student will flip open his tablet or spread out the New York Times to read about the latest ISIS developments or about the fact that the first case of Ebola was diagnosed in the U.S., people with anxiety disorders will react (sometimes just internally) as if the issue was happening in our backyard. 

"Don't look at me or touch me, you might have Ebola."

We worry about not worrying.

If an hour of our time goes by without us experiencing legitimate anxiety, we are first pleasantly surprised then immediately concerned. Was I supposed to be worrying about something? Sometimes the very state of "worrying" for someone with an anxiety disorder is more comfortable than being content and happy because we aren't used to it. 

Sirens freak us out.

I have dreams of living in a brownstone apartment overlooking New York City with a golden retriever puppy and a fluffy white kitten. I'm not sure how this is going to work when the mere sound of a siren stirs up every worst-case-scenario in my mind. Was there an Ebola outbreak on campus? Do I need to seek immediate cover?

Mom, are you OK? I just heard an ambulance. Where's dad? How are the cats?

Kate, we're fine. We're two states away.

Don't even think about coughing near us.

That kid you saw that one time at that one party sits across the dining hall from you and begins to sneeze and cough himself silly. We can immediately picture the outline of the Bath & Body Works hand sanitizer in our North Face backpacks and begin to wonder if the fact that we were at a party with Sneezing and Coughing Kid once upon a time means that we will soon begin to sneeze and cough too.

Don't tell us you don't feel well.

Outwardly, we will express our deepest sympathy and condolences but inwardly we will spontaneously remember every drink we've ever shared with you (that sip of your iced hazelnut coffee a few weeks ago) and suddenly we won't feel well either.

My anxiety disorder frustrates me beyond belief 99.9% of the time. Instead of worrying about "normal" things like boys and nail polish color, I worry about sickness and life and unintentionally think of worst-case scenarios every time. I'm a positive and social person: I don't sit in the corner of my dorm room rocking back and forth like society so often stereotypes people with mental "disorders". I go to parties, I have friends, and I like to think I'm well-aware of what's "cool". But my worries, whether they be "normal" worries or products of my anxiety disorder, are all-consuming and sometimes seem paralyzing. It's no longer a matter of "calm down, it's not a big deal," or "just chill out and go with the flow". Anxiety disorders are a different monster entirely: it's like being bullied by yourself. 

While I could very easily continue my spiel by saying that my anxiety disorder has made me a stronger person (which it undoubtedly has), it really sucks. People with anxiety disorders over think things to the point where they begin to worry about over-thinking. It's just the way we are. I can't help but worry whether or not you're sick before letting you have a sip of my caramel macchiato (so I suggest not even asking).

I find myself feeling sad and frustrated because my anxiety seems so selfish at times but I'm truly a selfless person. Because I'm so sensitive and hyper-aware of everything, I make a great listener and will always be a friend if you need one.

Just don't tell me to "chill out". I can't.

"Dress shabbily and they remember the dress. Dress impeccably and they remember the woman." -Coco Chanel

I can vividly remember what my closet looked like roughly ten years ago: my acrylic and polyester poncho hung in solitude next to a bedazzled pair of faded bell-bottoms. What the hell are bell-bottoms? The fashion-conscious generation of 14-year-olds stares at me wide-eyed and confused. Hands on their Gap jean-ed hips, their Alex & Ani bracelets casually dangling off their lithe wrists, the 14-year-olds envision jeans with bells attached to the bottoms. "Bell-bottoms? I can't even right now."

A wise author named Oscar Wilde once noted that "fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months." My dear friend Oscar may have been on to something, because just like scrunchies and high-waisted shorts are steadily making their way back into popular mall stores, ponchos are finding their way on clothing racks as well. Unfortunately these ponchos don't mirror the one that hung next to my bell-bottom jeans (which are hopefully not making a comeback anytime soon). And perhaps, still, these newly "in-style" ponchos carry the brand name Gucci, consist of pure black cashmere, and bare a casual price tag of almost two thousand dollars. But is all hope lost for my polyester poncho? What about the Keds that sit at the back of my closet?

These are questions we always ask ourselves. Can’t we take the seemingly “outdated” items from our closets and have a community of fashionistas create brand-new stylish outfits just for us?

The answer is yes. Simply download the stylish and innovative smartphone app closetremix available at the App Store.

                                               closetremix (one word, all lowercase) is a free downloadable app in which users take photographs of the items in their closets - shoes, shirts, scarfs, skirts, etc. - and upload them to their closetremix virtual closet according to the type of item. A community of stylish lads and ladies who have also downloaded closetremix will then mix and match the photos you have uploaded into unique outfits you never even thought of (who knew that polka-dotted dress would compliment those nude heels so well?). Users can vote for successfully remixed outfits and can connect with other users through social media channels like Facebook and Twitter. The more outfits a user mixes and matches, the higher their ratings will be and they can eventually earn themselves a spot as a “Featured User” or “Master Remixer”. 

Basically, I highly recommend downloading this app and uploading snapshots of those old Chuck Taylor’s and that chiffon backless dress that you don’t know what to do with. A fellow closetremix-er could very easily find your items and transform them into hot outfits you may not have thought about before.

You’ll thank me later when your fashion expertise is wanted by designers on all the Milan runways.

(https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/closetremix/id787195559?mt=8)