Category: Uncategorized

Girls can get away with being bad at so many things. Like how it’s endearingly cute when a girl loses her debit card for the twelfth time. Or how, when girls are less-than-adequate drivers, it’s written off as an adventure with associated risk rather than a concern. Not to mention, it’s actually borderline hot when a girl’s car is a mess – with Chick-Fil-A bags strewn all over the backseat. I don’t know if any of these examples are cool or uncool to bring up (in the sense of, do they fly in today’s world or do they not?). All I’m asking is that we add cooking to the list.

I can only offer around five different meals to those I care about in my life – most of which I’d consider snacks before anything else. But in a pinch I can pull out two stops: boxed macaroni and cheese and cheesecakes. Vastly different, because one literally has the word “instant” on the packaging while the other takes two-plus hours and requires a level of commitment in the kitchen that I don’t often like to exert. I also have to Google a cheesecake recipe every time I make one.

Anyways, I’m somewhat of a boxed macaroni and cheese celebrity within my friend circle. At high school parties, it wasn’t uncommon for people to offer up my services around 1AM to those who simply would not leave our house in a fashionable manner. My brother and his friends would be anxiously waiting for people to leave, so they could go outside and grill their homemade burger patties stuffed with garlic, onions, bacon, and shredded cheese. Meanwhile, they’d throw everyone else off the scent by being like, “Kels makes the best macaroni and cheese!” And look: I, too, would have rather eaten a homemade grilled burger over boxed Kraft. I’m just saying that I had a role to play within the construct of our friend group, and it was one that I played well. So well, in fact, that I once found myself in a “Macaroni and Cheese-Off” at a post-college bachelorette party, because another girl also said she was the best at making it. And despite the immense pressure, I won the popular vote and retained my title.

A few years ago I switched it up and went on a pie-making kick. Main reason being: I bought a $500 KitchenAid with all the attachments and had to make good use of it, otherwise people would file it away under, “Kelsey’s online shopping addiction purchases.” I was peeling apples and spiralizing spaghetti squash like you wouldn’t believe. Coincidentally this was during the pandemic, but I’m not going to say it was during the pandemic. I’ve lived my entire life going through phases, so this one was bound to strike regardless of what year it was. Ipso facto, I became pretty good at making pies until an injury forced my pie career to come to a halt. I burnt my wrist taking two little blueberry numbers out of the oven the night before Thanksgiving, and now I have a little white scar from it. At the time, I was also talking to a guy who made a big fucking deal about how we were going to get the pies from Point A to Point B, so sometimes the pie scar reminds me (that the past is real) of that and further deters me from wanting to ever make one again.

The only upside to the pie scar incident is that now I can hang my hat on being a girl who’d be open to tattooing someone else’s name on me. I’m not saying I would want to do that, I’m just saying that it honestly wouldn’t be any worse than the pie scar. And it could actually be a more manageable future fix depending on its location, since you could just get a cover up. Instead, I’m stuck trying to figure out what kind of tattoo I should get on my wrist as a pie scar cover up. It has to be something basic, something that won’t start too much conversation: like a butterfly or a Capricorn symbol or something. Otherwise it will just lead to the pie scar tangent, which is fundamentally the same as just keeping the pie scar visible.

So yeah. I can’t cook. But I can provide either boxed macaroni and cheese or tattooing your name on my body. Your call.

Sometimes harsh criticism is the only way to make things stick in my brain – especially regarding appearance and health-related situations. You’re really not going to like this example, but I distinctly remember watching an episode of Tosh.0 back in the day where he made fun of an overweight person and just said, point blank: “Stop eating, Fatty.” And at the end of the day, it’s relatively valid. You will lose weight if you just don’t eat as much. Someone also once told me that, “Back pain means you have a weak ass,” which sadly might also be true because my lower back pain magically disappears if I start doing more lunges and deadlifts.

Anyways, in high school for like – maybe a week – my brother and his friends thought it would be funny to go, “Look at Kelsey’s mustache!” when in fact I did not have a mustache. But they knew that it would bother me, so they’d all inspect my face before agreeing with additional commentary such as, “Wow, that is a dark one!” But what you have to understand is that this joke was just kind of the flavor of the week, and the more you seem bothered by a joke, the longer it would persist. So really, credit to me for not making it a bigger deal. BUT IT DID REALLY BOTHER ME. And like most fleeting snippets of high school, I just internalized it. Until it resurfaced probably a year or so ago at my skincare place in Boston.

I refer to it as “skincare” and say I have “skincare appointments,” but the reality is that I mostly go there to get 40 units of Botox in my forehead twice a year. Which would be irrelevant to the story if not for the fact that I need to paint a particular picture regarding the type of nurses who work there. Have you ever met a girl who thinks: doctors are misguided, the government is against you, and insurance won’t cover anything you actually need??? It’s basically an entire staff of nurses like that – with overfilled top lips.

For a long time, I had this awesome girl named Kim who used to work at Boston Children’s and was very down-to-earth and normal. She gave advice based on what would look most natural for me instead of just, like, suggesting that I should get 2 syringes of filler for fun. But then she ended up moving back home to Buffalo to start a family and stuff, so I became somewhat of an Injection Orphan who was passed around by the other nurses.

So one day I go in for some sort of facial or chemical peel, and I’m with one of said ‘other nurses.’ When all of a sudden she goes – exactly in these words – “What’s up with these chin hairs?”

Immediately, this statement both 1) set off my deepest insecurities, and 2) sent me into an oblivion of self-hate. After responding with a variety of, “What do you mean’s” and “I don’t know’s,” she followed up with, “You should go get your hormones tested.”

Keep in mind, this advice is coming from someone with acrylic nails and 24-inch black hair extensions. But in the moment, I was too embarrassed to evaluate the credibility of the source. So like an idiot, I listened to her and went and got my hormones tested. And if you thought I felt embarrassed before, imagine how dumb I felt when I had to rehash this entire story to my Primary Care Provider only for her to look at my blood panel and say, “Everything’s normal. You’re fine.”

I guess I don’t know what the moral of the story here is. Sometimes harsh criticism has some truth to it (weight, back pain) and other times you’re just being gaslit (mustaches, chin hairs). Develop a radar that will help you identify the difference. Then continue to internalize your high school trauma. Enjoy the photo of pop sensation Britney Britney from Fairly OddParents.

I once deeply disturbed a bartender at the 99 over a conversation my dad and I were having about marriage. Basically I was spinning a hypothetical scenario like, “What if I had a wedding someday, but I didn’t actually get married, and you guys all just assumed I was married because there was a wedding?” I could tell I was actually getting somewhere with my argument: the cheap bar venue, the lack of formal paperwork, the single-parent FAFSA, the eventual savings in divorce lawyer fees. Frankly I think I should be compensated for even sharing this idea with the public – I mean, we could take down Big Marriage. All until my dad invited the bartender in on the debate, who struck it down by saying it’d be disrespectful in the eyes of God or something virtuous like that.

But for the record, it could really be as simple as just changing your Instagram name and no one would be the wiser.

When I was 18, my dad said he would buy me a boat if I never got married. But now that time’s more on my side than his, he has yet to fulfill that verbal contract. Instead, we have 12 vintage snowmobiles, 1 mini snowmobile, 1 vintage mini snowmobile, and a weird four wheeler thing made by the same company as the vintage snowmobiles. So the Great Boat Dilemma might never reach resolve. As in: I might never get married, and we also might never have a boat. But we could look SO sick riding as a 12-person squad on snowmobiles that go 25 MPH.

I think my dad wants to get rid of me so he can discontinue being my primary male caretaker. For example, I told him that I haven’t put windshield wiper fluid in my car since I bought it back in July 2023 and he’s had to ask me about it three different times on the phone. I feel like it’s the same as when I graduated college and there was all this *~pressure~* on me to get a job. Now you want me to get a boyfriend, too? When does it end? Why can’t you just fly to Minnesota and put windshield wiper fluid in my car for me?!

See: I need you to continue putting windshield wiper fluid in my car because I am not a stable person at the helm of my romantic life – especially when it comes to the “choose your character” part. You are talking about a girl who once had to block a guy on Strava, a RUNNING app, because he started commenting on my runs to say that “[his] dog was dying and [I] didn’t even care.” His dog was, in fact, not dying. He also proceeded to type me a letter, written from the POV of “everyone in [my] building,” saying that I should go home to New Hampshire because nobody wanted me there. So like any dignified woman of the 21st century would do, I posted the letter on my Close Friends story and it became kind of like a running joke slash ‘solve the mystery’ bit for all of our neighbors. And maybe this makes me a villain, but it was incredibly hilarious. Especially because when he tried to tell everyone he didn’t write the letter, I was like, “Guys use your logic: who is the ONLY person in our building with a printer…” Well, his roommate did some investigating and coincidentally the printer had magically thrown itself into the abyss of his closet. Case closed.

Okay, so not only am I interested in dog death liars, I also go for guys who have a total disregard for Greek mythology: arguably the worst quality one can possess. This one in particular told me he wanted a painting of Sisyphus for his room. When I questioned why, he responded with admiration for Sisyphus, saying that he worked hard even though he knew he would never succeed. I was like, “You do know that Sisyphus did that because he was condemned to eternal punishment, right? He’s not, like, willingly pushing the boulder up the hill…” It felt like – in his hockey brain – he was equating it to putting in reps at the gym when you know the highest you’ll ever go is the ECHL. Safe to say my side didn’t resonate. Which is sad really, because Greek mythology rocks. I have this tan trench coat, and sometimes when I wear it I get comments like, “You look like you’re selling something.” And all I can think of is the Greek god guy in Hercules who’s just slingin’ sundials on the streets.

I don’t think anyone actually cares to hear about my dating endeavors, but there’s lots happening behind the closed doors of Single Person World. And maybe at a subconscious level, I don’t want to get married because I would miss it. One fatal flaw still exists though: I’m going to run out of windshield wiper fluid at some point. So I’d better get my ducks in a row. Or my wipers in a line. Or my free car wash at Tidal Wave Auto Spa compliments of the second period Shiny Shutout. My dad used to wash my car. Or make my cousin do it. Great, now I’m sad. Who wants a sundial?

I’m not a huge fan of St. Patrick’s Day. Or maybe I’m just not a fan of holidays. But St. Patrick’s Day specifically is one of my least favorites. With Christmas and Thanksgiving, it’s implied that you might travel to go see your family. So if you don’t end up traveling, it’s justifiable to go to the movie theatre by yourself and see Wicked or A Complete Unknown after sneaking in a Sausage McMuffin with a hash brown and two ketchup packets. Theoretically.

But on St. Patrick’s day, there’s a social obligation to have drinking plans, or else you seem like you have no friends. Which makes me want to double down on both the not drinking and the not having friends. At least with the 4th of July, there’s a higher expectation around activities. People seek out fireworks and desperately try to find a friend of a friend of a friend who has a boat. St. Patrick’s Day is kind of like a vacation is Nashville, in the sense that every bar will offer you the same experience. Green beer. Corned beef and cabbage. Contracted teams of 8-year old Irish dancers performing for 40-year old divorced men.

I often wonder what percentage of people who go to the bar are actually enjoying it. Because to me most people are there for one of, or a combination of, these two reasons: trying to meet someone, or distracting themselves from the stress and monotony of their every day life.

“Looking to add fulfillment to your dull, dull life? Then become part of the greatest musical sensation ever to hit Bikini Bottom partake in St. Patrick’s Day.” I’m titling this post after this scene btw.

I myself prefer a combination of the two above-mentioned reasons, but more-so lean towards the first since I’ve written off Hinge in Minnesota. Some people just perform better out in the field and on the frontlines. For example, I’ve made the recent discovery that a Harley Davidson jacket I thrifted from Poshmark has the power to make a bartender attempt to flag me down for discounted drinks (though unsuccessful). And then, later on, tell me the story of how he tried to flag me down because he remembered my coat. Haven’t really continued experimenting with the jacket, but full disclaimer it might only work on divorced men over 40. Which ironically might make it the perfect St. Patrick’s Day fit. It’s a shame I will not be making an appearance.

If you need me this SPD weekend, I’m going to an 11am showing of some Robert Pattinson and Mark Ruffalo space movie. And speaking of Mark Ruffalo, no one ever talks about the fact that in 13 Going on 30, Jennifer Garner wakes up married to (and I’m quoting the movie here) the New York Ranger with the hottest ass. Like, you’re not even gonna go to MSG for free ONE TIME before you start having a full-on existential crisis? Okay.

I definitely don’t wish I had the personality to do stand-up, but I am very intrigued by the joke-writing aspect of it. To the point where, right before I left Anheuser-Busch, they actually paid for me to take an eight-week class at the Comedy Cellar. And even if that is the funniest professional development endeavor I’ve ever had to expense, I still sort of wonder what that would’ve been like (undoubtedly terrifying in many ways, shapes, and forms due to the end-of-session showcase they required).

But once I was officially enrolled in the class, I started writing down little starter bits in my notepad. Because I was afraid that by the time I got to the first session, I’d have no material: meaning I’d have to force shitty material in order to satisfy the course requirements, which of course would not be very funny-person of me. So here are a few of those:

• Going to a record store with my grandmother and having to debrief her afterwards that, while it was very nice of her to compliment the acrylic nails on our male cashier, dragging out compliments for too long can seem insincere and become misconstrued as sarcasm.
• Life is like the aisle you have to stand in at TJ Maxx while you’re waiting to checkout. All you want to do is leave the store (die), but instead you have to wait forever and look at all the stupid shit you’re surrounded by in the meantime. “Sure, I guess I’ll get this Math degree, even though I don’t know when I’ll actually use it.”
• Why are couches always so intricately placed on the side of the highway?
• 75 hard people are the worst.
• I hate when guys act like meeting my parents is a big step. Because what they don’t realize is that, on any given day, they could be five margaritas deep at a Mexican joint talking to a complete stranger about how kids shouldn’t have to write essays on George Floyd at school. They will talk to anyone about anything, and will probably struggle to remember you tomorrow.
• I don’t have a fear of missing out, I actually have fear of going out. Fogo kind of sounds like pogo. Does your inner monologue ever remind you about death in weird ways? Like, “I probably won’t ever jump on another pogo stick before I die.” And then it makes you want to prove yourself wrong, like, “Fuck that. I’m buying a pogo stick tomorrow.”

Per the above, I will stick to blogging.

But I felt hyper in-tune with everything I saw or heard or thought, which was very New York of me. Or at least, selectively in-tune. I opted to block out the fact that I saw a pedestrian get movie-scene hit by a Prius while walking 5th Ave to my very first day of work. Like, flips in the air and all. Or also the time when I thought I was having heart palpitations, so I went to a walk-in clinic on a Saturday just for the doctor to tell me I was having an anxiety attack (fun). Other than that, I adored my 50-minute MTA ride where I listened to Harry Styles and contemplated what I would someday make of myself.

Now that I’m in Minnesota, the only thing that hits the same is scrolling on my phone for an hour with an iced coffee in the parking lot of a Lifetime Fitness. There’s not much to ponder about here – which I like! Maybe all of us in the MSP are the true city-slickers for choosing a city that’s relatively undesirable for regular city folk. Maybe.

Whenever I hear a Bowling for Soup song, I always think about one of two things:

1. The screenshot where someone DM’d them asking if they were bowling on behalf of soup, or to earn it (they confirmed it was to earn).
2. The fact that they do the intro song for Phineas and Ferb.

And if there are other people around when either of those cross my mind, I almost always verbalize it.

I was never really a huge Phineas and Ferb girl because it made me mad that their sister could never catch them. I was also, like, fifteen years old when the show was in its prime – at which point I should’ve graduated to watching shows with human actors like The Real World. But Phineas and Ferb was practically the only thing on Disney Channel past 10pm on weeknights, and I needed to fall asleep to Disney Channel because Paranormal Activity had convinced me that I’d be killed by a demon in my sleep. My rationale was: is a demon really going to attack me while Disney Channel is on? How embarrassing would that be for the demon?

My point being, I’ve seen a fair share of episodes despite not being a fan. So now there are just random Phineas and Ferb-isms that live inside my head. For example: “So peanutty you won’t even taste the chicken,” which a friend in my math class and I used to whisper to each other out of context and giggle over. We did the same with, “That’s my horse!” from Ed, Edd, and Eddy but that’s a different, equally-past-our-age-range cartoon that we won’t explore today.

One time an acquaintance of mine got a bad haircut and I referred to it as the Doofencut, for no reason other than to seek revenge for the time years ago when I went to Super Cut and let the hairdresser convince me into getting bangs – leading to the guy I was with to refer to it as, “THE Super Cut.”

I’m afraid of the day when people realize that half of my personality is quoting cartoons, and the other half is just recycling bits from past talking stages. One of my favorite bits includes WWE culture. Which I don’t really ‘recycle’ per se, but love to reference.

I put myself on record admitting that I enjoy when men reenact the WWE with their friends, although I’m not sure how common of a thing that actually is. Like imagine you’re at a house party and someone takes over the bluetooth speaker, plays the Triple H walk-in song, and then starts spraying a High Noon out into the air in the same fashion – proceeding to fake wrestle with their buddies. It’s funny and I hate it. Because NOW picture the Triple H spray routine (if you can call it that) happening at a Bruins game with a Dr. McGillicuddy’s nip. I witnessed it, it really happened, and I’m sad to report that it was a crowd pleaser for the two rows behind us.

People forget that the muse for “The Girl All the Bad Guys Want” by Bowling for Soup watches wrestling, by the way!!! It’s in the lyrics. Hey – did you know that Bowling for Soup does the intro song for Phineas and Ferb?

I want so badly to enjoy Tate McRae’s new album, but I can’t because I don’t understand any of the words she’s saying. Picture your grandma hearing rap music for the first time and going, “this sounds like a bunch of racket,” and that’s me trying to decipher Little Miss Hair Flip’s lyrics. Why are the beats so overproduced? And why are people not causing more rackets these days?

I heard once that when you turn thirty you stop listening to new music: an allegation I’m now actively trying to beat. Sadly I know there’s some truth to it, because I no longer naturally retain full verses of Drake songs. Or maybe it’s just that I have adult obligations preventing me from putting the same energy into learning them. I’m a grown up, I can’t be wasting two hours of my day in the Sun Tan City parking lot, drinking my little iced coffee and restarting the same song over and over.

And not for nothing, but we are ELEVEN iterations of iPhones past “my side girl got a 5s with the screen cracked, still hit me back right away,” and no one realizes how much that hurts me inside.