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GoT Recap: Episode One is Winter AF


Just chillin’

For the “last” season of Game of Thrones, I’ll be doing a recap/review of each episode because this is America and I do what I want, at least until it turns into The Handmaid’s Tale and I become a professional birthing mule. Spoilers ahead!

We begin with revenge-genocide at the hands of a child, and here is why I love this show. 

Arya the Many-Faced Homicidal Tween exacts her alcoholic, genocidal revenge on the Walder Frey clan: in disguise, with poison, in the same hall where her family was ambushed and killed. Red Wedding revenge for the win. Every time she pulls a mask off her face, I think ‘Are we all really falling for this idea that Arya is a skilled death mask magician who has the time, resources, and energy to create these masterpieces in the woods?!’ I can’t speak for anyone else, but a resounding yes is my answer. I want to believe.

Whenever Arya pulls her mask off, my Game of Thrones amnesia kicks in because I always shriek like these are new to me, when really she spent an entire season in that creepy death palace with Killer Bitch and Hipster Jesus.

“When people ask you what happened here, tell them the North remembers. Tell them winter came for House Frey.”

When Arya dropped that medieval mic, I heard it hit the ground the world over. YAAAAAAS BIIIIIITCH, y’all were screaming; I heard you, don’t deny it. Everyone loves an underdog. Everyone loves a Stark. Everyone loves a strong girl #LivingHerBestLife in this unforgiving landscape.

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Drunk With Flower Power


Just heading to the grocery store

What — oh, this old thing? I practically forgot I was wearing it. Like Beyoncé, I just woke up like this: hair blown out, make-up on, dressed like Mother Earth’s mother in a Tyler Perry movie. Someone at the grocery store (more on that later) asked if I’d been swarmed by bees, and I said no, bees like flowers, not 30 pounds of hot glue and polyester.

This is the story of a hat.

A few weeks back, the fox and the catbear threw a Frida Kahlo party for their magical Aunt Lala – who had journeyed from an exotic, faraway land called Central Florida – so I made Frida-inspired floral headpieces for everyone to wear. The summer party was everything one hopes for in a gathering: lovely friends, weather, rooftop deck, laughs, unibrows. Sous vide pork and sweet sangria. A solid group selfie no one openly hated.

Aunt Lala kept her flowers and I took the rest home. The next day I got up, donned a large floral headband, and did the dishes in my pajamas. The absurdity of that tiny moment – the two-second pause right before thinking, ‘Well – why the fuck not?’ and then adorning myself with a crown of flowers like some kind of living Snapchat filter – made me grin all day until my cheek muscles hurt. Doing chores that day was fun. Out of the blue, I actually chortled, something I thought was reserved for really old British academics.

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A History of Cake


The first mention of cake appears in a Shakespearean sonnet in 1592.

Shall I compare thee to a summer cake?

Thou art more lovely and more decadent.

In 1755, the Earl of Earlingstone-Hamshire-Winthropp (nicknamed “The Earl of Earl,” for obvious reasons), on the eve of his 100th birthday, received a lovely layered dessert made of boozy pound cake, whipped cream, and sweet brandied plums. Baked by Mrs. Eleanor Peavey, longtime cook of the Earl and his family, it was cake‘s first public appearance in 150 years. The centenarian clapped his hands in surprise, knocking over a candelabra; within seconds, the brandied plums burst into flames over six feet tall, overtaking The Earl of Earl before engulfing the room completely. Everyone at the residence perished that night.

Two cake traditions from that tragic evening continue to this day:

1. Providing flame-retardant sweets for every special occasion.

2. Adding candles to birthday cake to raise awareness for the aristocracy.

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Forty & Fatuous!


Bossy jewelry = best jewelry

Against all odds, I managed to survive the first 40 years of life, like some kind of walking girl power anthem circa 1978. In the days leading up to my birthday, I realized I haven’t done much with this life – in terms of what I wanted to accomplish, anyway – besides holding on with both eyes closed and hoping for the best. I’ve been more talk, less walk – but I want to change that.

So I ordered a custom-stamped necklace (pictured) from my friend Tiffany at Geisha Creations. I wanted a visual call to action, something to keep my eyes open; a reminder of what 40-year old me wants out of life that 39-year old me was too afraid or lazy to attempt. Sure, I balked at how cliché it all was: Turn 40, freak out, stare critically at self in mirror, give up, marathon Game of Thrones, then make list of things I should’ve done when I was 22. Still, it’s better than no list at all, or being dead, or listening to One Direction.

I don’t know what the next 40 years will be like, but hopefully this bucket list will keep me busy for at least the next year.


40th birthday brunch on Alki Beach

#ThisIs40 Bucket List:

-Acquire three dragons through trial by fire and an army of slaves/horse enthusiasts.

-Learn to throw lightning bolts like some kind of white­-privileged, hammer­-wielding god.

-Purchase an Invisibility Cloak for those days I don’t want to be seen, which lately has been every day that has the word ‘day’ in it.

-Slay a Minotaur or, alternately, become one. Terrorize whole cities.

-Give birth to a shadow monster in a cave for political reasons.

-Fulfill burlesque dream of performing in a giant champagne glass filled with soy sauce and potstickers.

-Turn my closet into Princess Mombi’s closet using the KonMari Method.

-Jump from a helicopter onto a moving train onto a penny-farthing.

-Wear the Sovereign’s Imperial robe and royal crown to my next Pap smear; bring the Archbishop of Canterbury to make the process more austere.

-Train a pack of Direwolves to mush as new main mode of transportation.

-Get certified and start throwing shade at the competitive level. Throw it far and wide.

-Learn to braid hair so I look like a shield maiden who permanently lives at Coachella.

-Write television series modeled after Muppet Babies starring the Game of Thrones White Walker winter-babies. Hilarity and deadly shenanigans will follow.

-Double my cheese intake.

-Make more lists.


Wanted: Life Internship

Forget lemons. If I was Life, I’d hand people durian fruit or a mushy tomato — something disappointing, more reflective of the challenges we face every day. Maybe a brown banana, or a bag of donuts dipped in motor oil? Honestly, you’d be lucky to get a lemon out of me.


The only good lemon

I rode into 2016 with all the fanfare of a 2015 survivor, but here’s the mortifying thing: I’m still me (insert heavy sigh, eye roll). I take the stairs when I’m with people but the elevator if I’m alone. I rearrange everyone’s home in my head, from the furniture to how the cups are organized. I secretly want Blake Lively’s hair while publicly hating Blake Lively, or any girl with professionally-tousled white privilege hair. I crave French fries 362,000 times a day. And sometimes I hang in my car at Rite Aid, a block from our house, just to get some much-needed alone time.

The things I worry about are pretty standard for a person: kid, money, health, husband, the death of creativity forever. I’ve also worried about falling into a boring Trojan Horse routine, where hiding inside the horse is – gasp – another boring routine. So this year, I wanted to look back on 2016 and say I did something different. I don’t mean perfect, that’s not possible, unless you are Beyoncé. Hey, she birthed an on-trend color upon a haystack made of gold with the undisputed King of America. If that’s not perfection, I don’t know what is. What’d you do, give birth in a hospital and then go home like a person?

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