The Kind-Of Care Bear 




I miss not caring about stuff.

I miss the days when I didn’t know or care which Greek island my yogurt came from. I miss not thinking about how it was made, how the ingredients were sourced, how the workers who packaged it were treated. I miss not caring about how the yogurt CEO voted in the last election or how his deputy made a racist remark on Twitter in 2008. I miss not caring about what gender that CEO was, or if she was being paid the same as her male counterparts. I miss not caring about which store I was going to buy that yogurt from, preferably a store as ethical as the yogurt company, which leaves expensive health food stores and the local farmer’s market. I miss just eating something because it tasted good and not worrying about how the packaging would be recycled or if it was giving my family cancer. I miss not caring because now I care about every goddamn thing, from how organic the uniforms are at the factory to how much money a CEO donated to NAMBLA. I miss not giving a shit.

No one ever tells you as a child that giving a damn is exhausting (see also: caring about politics and the world). You just look up one day at the health food store (probably reading a passionate mission statement from the back of a gluten-free vegetable wash), and realize how seriously tired you are — of reading labels; of farm-fresh, grass-fed, locally-sourced, shamanically-blessed everything; of always holding space for outrage; of yogurt that can’t just be fucking yogurt.

Not caring is a privilege, but caring can feel like an extra uphill battle sometimes. I just want to buy some yogurt, not do the mental gymnastics it takes now to feel good about the yogurt I buy. I guess I miss the privilege of being ignorant or willfully blind to these issues. Where I spend my money matters and who I support in business matters — it can’t be 100% perfection all the time (best example of how we collectively fail: our cell phones) — but once I know something, I can’t un-know it. Now that these things matter to me, I will never not give a shit. I just miss the carefree days when it didn’t even occur to me to care – childhood, I think it was called.

GoT Recap, Ep 2: So Many Storms, Links


How you doin’

Welcome back to my Why Did I Think This Was A Good Idea Game of Thrones recap! Now with moar links! This one took so long because of scheduling and also a summarizing fail – clocking in at 2,000 words, I don’t think this is really a recap (plus I fell down so many GoT link holes) – so maybe next week the entire recap will be written in Buzzfeed headlines. Spoilers ahead but more importantly, links on links on links. Go!

We open in the lair of my dreams during a storm at Dragonstone. The guys are like “You were born during a storm like this” and Daenerys Stormborn (HEY, GET IT) is all “Sorry, this place sucks.” She gets into a truthiness bitch-off with Lord Varys that would make Mama Tits proud, which ends with both of them bemused by her idle threat to burn him alive. Har har! FRIENDSHIP IS SO FUN.

Bzzzt, there’s someone at the front door and that someone is Melisandre, everyone’s favorite 300-year old sexy red witch and noted child killer. She’s all “Jon Snow!” and they’re all *gasp, who* and Missandei adds her linguistic two-snaps and they decide to make contact. I am beyond excited for Jon and Dany to meet even though I wanted them to hook up way before I knew they were related.

On to Winterfell: IT’S COLD, Y’ALL but they’re decoding Tyrion’s invitation outside, anyway. Does anyone ever go inside? Do they all just love extreme-camping? Bring on the war talk, war talk, war.

Cersei does some doom-and-gloom Fox News fearmongering from the Iron Throne to her confused lords and nobles. Dark horse lords from afar threaten the safety of your virginal white daughters! Lord Tarly asks – and rightfully so – what the plan is to address that whole dragons thing Daenerys has going for her. Qyburn rubs what I assume are his extremely clammy hands together and implies that he’s cooking up something. Last time he was cooking up human experiments, so hopefully this is better.

Next up at The Citadel: Jorah faces a grim greyscale diagnosis but Samwell has that twinkle in his eye. Oh god, this can’t be good. (Surprise: it’s not.)

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The Dealbreakers of Adonis



This supremely hot friend of mine once listed off what he looked for in a girl. At the time, we were on my bed and he was getting a secretly-erotic-but-totally-platonic massage from Yours Truly. Did I mention the supremely hot part? The man was a living Adonis rising from the ocean right into my bedroom. No matter how many cheap beers I’d had, I was not going to fuck this up.

Definitely someone down to Earth. Sense of humor. Loves dogs, the outdoors, cooking, travel, also football. Wants a big family. Enjoys exercise and staying fit. Equal parts girly and tomboy. Great laugh. Easygoing. 

Besides ‘sense of humor,’ I resembled none of these things. That was fine, as we were better as friends, but I was curious what men like him – the shiny, top shelf standard in America – looked for in a life partner. So far, the list held zero surprises.

No smokers, no drug users, no Atheists, and definitely no pancake boobs.

Here was a list that was even less achievable for me. I was most surprised by the Atheist thing since I’d never known him to be religious. “You can’t believe in nothing, you have believe in something – and if you don’t, that’s just crazy!” he sort-of explained. This side of him was new to me, and not that interesting. I found it ironic that he couldn’t date some cancerous, godless druggie with delicious tits, when here he was getting a free massage from that exact woman.

“What the hell are pancake boobs?” I asked, picturing actual pancakes where breasts would normally be. If it was bad, it was probably something I had, and if I did have it, knowing that information wasn’t imperative. I always thought people said “Ignorance is bliss” in this condescending way, but really they meant it as discovery. It was a shout-out, an invitation, a proud bumpersticker. In that moment before he answered, I realized ignorance was a real-life solution to real-life problems.

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GoT Recap, Episode One: 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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