My Six Months on the Wagon


Let me start by describing what scientists have deemed “The Fear.”


Ahh, The Fear. A feeling most of us are all too familiar with. It’s that feeling you get when you abruptly awake from the nightmare that was your previous evening. This untimely wake-up call is usually accompanied by your head in your hands and your decision to never drink again. The Fear is brought on by the distant memory that you’ve done something… to someone… at some point… somewhere… But you don’t know who, what, where, when or why. The appropriate response to this is being scared of running into anyone. The Fear.

Then there’s me. Who got so deeply intoxicated one fateful night in LA last April, that I was beyond waking up with any fear. Just a deeply misguided recollection that last night was normal. The only distant memory I had was from the drink that pushed me over the edge. You know the feeling. You can’t taste it on your lips or smell it in the air, but the flavor and scent of your last beverage is forever ingrained in your throbbing brain. For me it was some sort of grape disaster. I had managed to make it upstairs to the loft where they only served cocktails (so LA) opposed to the bud light I so classily attempted to order, so I told the bartender to surprise me. Mistake. He brewed up grape liquor, banana peppers and sadness into yellow Koolaid that I regrettably downed. And then I woke up.


Needless to say as I rolled over on the mystery tiles I had clearly spent my coma on, my first thought after where am I and where are my sunglasses, was that I’m never drinking again.

And apparently I had a hint of brain power left because I realized that everyone always says it and no one ever does it. So I wanted to put my money where my mouth was and actually go six whole months without drinking. Which I proudly did. My six months ended on Friday without having a single drop. I responded by ripping shots of tequila at 6pm, but that’s besides the point.


What I learned over the course of my six months sober was that I’m a thousand percent cooler and have a million times more fun when I’m not drinking.

Sober Sally

Sober Sally

Sober Sally

My game was absolutely on point. I stayed out later, and felt so much better waking up alive and being productive over the weekend.

Productive Saturday Sober Sally

Productive Saturday Sober Sally

I lost weight and kept it off, my mood dramatically improved. Overall, my quality of life became that much better.

The only negative result I found from this experience were peoples’ reactions to me as the sober girl at the party. A lot of people assumed that since I wasn’t drinking I wasn’t partying on the weekends, but actually my social life was really busy and fun-filled.

Sober Sally & Friends

Sober Sally & Friends

Oh ya gotta have friendsss

Oh ya gotta have friendsss

The worst part was when people felt uncomfortable around me because I was sober and they felt awkward like I was judging them – and that really made me sad.

Aside from running into that kind of thing every now and then, I think it was honestly the best 6 months of my life. We’ll see how I move forward, but after 6 months having it not be a priority it’s a little bit off my radar. Plus who has money to drink in New York?

#Yolo #Yesjustaredbull


In Memoriam of Breaking Bad… Bitch


I’d just like to preface this post by saying that my life will never be the same again. And that I never thought I could love someone as much as R.Gos until Aaron Paul’s stunning face made an appearance in my bedroom one fateful Sunday night.


Do you people follow his social media feeds? He calls his equally perfect wife pretty bird.


Pretty bird. AKA she’s a bird. AKA if she’s a bird he’s a bird.


He is literally perfect.

A perfect man for a perfect role on a perfect series. I could not have been happier with the finale of Breaking Bad. I thought the way it ended was positively romantic.

I just can’t believe it’s over.

And what the hell else was I supposed to do tonight? The first Sunday I am without Walt, Jesse, and the rest of the miserable gang. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry so that option was off the table. So instead of sitting around with my thumb up my you-know-what I just need to sit here and reminisce with you about the best series that ever lived.

I can’t even watch Malcolm in the Middle anymore, and for years I maintained that it was the best show on television. Well B. Crans. You’ve outdone yourself. Although now that I know your depth as an actor I just can’t look at Malcolm’s silly, unsure, freak of a father the same way anymore.


I was behind a bald man in the elevator the other day and nearly shed a tear for Mike and he was gone a whole season ago… It just feels like it was yesterday.

Thank AMC Walking Dead comes back next Sunday, I don’t think I could stand another Sunday night un-entertained with this kind of loss still so fresh in my heart.

My Worst Enemy


Let me tell you people about a little something I like to call my worst enemy.

Every time I am forced to partake in involving myself with my worst enemy I swear it’s the last time. But it never is. I’m still poor and therefore must be reunited with my worst enemy on a regular basis. Because I’m also 23. And I like to party. My worst enemy makes me nauseous. It’s unsteady. It smells like a mixture of Burger King and the people who eat at Burger King plus 25 year old carpet. Which means I now smell like that. When I finally get away from my worst enemy I will forever smell like that. I will feel filthy until we meet again which I swear will be never – but it’s usually about a month.

I’m talking about the bus people.


The dreaded, evil, “coach” Peter Pan, goddamn bus. Peter Pan flew to Never Land first of all. And I’m pretty sure that’s not fairy dust in that guys pocket. Every time I buy another bus ticket I die a little inside. I took it every freakin’ weekend in college and I swore that once I graduated I’d never take it again. It’s a hard knock life because I spend a lot of time in New York but I live in Boston with my Ma and I like to keep freshly manicured nails and an updated wardrobe… So you better believe there’s no $200 to splurge on the Amtrak.

So here I sit in the Devil’s lap. Stuck in traffic and trapped in Hell. And you know the first thing you do when you get on the bus is take a seat and offer the one adjacent to your bag and or feet and stick your headphones in to look as uninviting as possible but someone always sits next to you.


“Is this seat taken?”

“Uhh yes it is. You can tell by my menacing stare and the size of my carry on, thanks!”

And it’s funny too because on a full bus what do you do? You look for the seat next to the most non-threatening person you can find – which is usually not much of a selection. So here I sit, all 115 pounds of white meat with my clean blonde hair and Macbook and the fat smelly guy looking for a seat just hit the jackpot. I’m doomed. And what the hell is that smell by the way? Because I’ve never smelled anything more horrific than the smelly guy on the bus and I’ve been to the bathroom at Six Flags.

The guy sitting next to me now is ok though. And I’m not just saying that because he’s reading over my shoulder…


But since you are… Hey…


Hard Fruit


What’s everyone’s deal with hard fruit? If I hear one more person ask for a hard pear I’m going to start throwing patio furniture into the pool.


Pears are supposed to be succulent, and juicy, and luscious – all adjectives that are not meant to accompany the word “hard”. Supple, perhaps. Tender, even. Hard, no. Hard = you’ve got yourself an unripe pear. I suppose next you’ll ask me for a green banana? It’s called a plantain get a clue.

It’s the same with peaches, plums, and nectarines. Which, by my standards, all may as well be the same fruit but regardless, are not meant to be eaten hard. Pitted fruits are meant to be svelte; with just enough give when you press gently on the skin to sink in and spring back slightly but never mush! And it should smell so sweet and watery that it makes you want to bathe in it. If it smells like rubber and bounces off a brick wall keep looking.

Orange Throwing Festival in Italy

Orange Throwing Festival in Italy

The only fruit that should be hard is something with a rind. Example: melon, coconut, that’s it. I’ll go firm for you if you want. I like my berries firm – but that’s where I draw the line. There’s nothing worse than a soft berry. You know why it’s soft. It’s because a worm has been or is currently living there. Inside your berry and or grape. I want the peel on my grape to crack when I bite into them and explode like a gusher – save the soft grapes for Welch’s.


My Type…


For a long while I was unaware that I even had a type. “Boy is my type” I’d say. I heard Pamela Anderson say it back when she was Pamela Anderson Lee and they still aired new episodes of Bay Watch and I thought it sounded cool – she saved lives on TV it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Anyway, I always had a general sense of what I was attracted to: broad shoulders, scruffy chin, athleticism, Ryan Gosling – the usual. But it wasn’t until the past few years that “my type” fully emerged.

Let me begin with a brief description of myself in high school… Remember how in junior high there were two types of kids? One was kind of chubby and a little bit big for their age and the other was the saddest, scrawniest thing you’d ever seen?

I was the latter until I was about 18, but with huge sunken eyes, braces, and eyeliner with no mascara.

Here I am 1st Day Sr. Year

Here I am 1st Day Sr. Year

Needless to say I was the pick of the litter in those days, and had to beat the dudes off with a stick.

...And on my 18th Birthday...

…And on my 18th Birthday…


But it’s no surprise that my type bloomed as late as I did, and now that I’m about three and a half years out of my awkward stage it’s becoming clearer and clearer… My type…




I love them.

I love the fiery armpit hair they have to offer, the one skin tone on this planet that’s paler than mine, and the fact that they freckle in the sun instead of tanning. They always have something else weird going on too like a speech impediment or a short thumb that I find adorable.

Now if you ask me, only three out of five men in my life worth mentioning were honest to God gingers but I guess the other two are grandfathered in on a count of their reddish facial hair and their:

A) freckles, or

B) Irish skin.

Potato, tomato – My mom never lets me live it down…

As a halfling, (they call me strawberry blonde but, in truth, I was a ginger baby)


DivaTotal DivaTotal Diva

I feel as though I need to stand up for my people and love them the same as if they weren’t a genetic abnormality. I honestly feel that I’m drawn to them as if fate brought our similar hair colors together. Either that or God really is playing the Simms with us and is purposefully trying to mate me with a pure bread so we make Him more little baby cupids.

Boom. Berry Blonde.

Boom. Berry Blonde.


Either way, here’s a list of hot gingers I’m throwing your way so you can catch my fire:

Jessica from True Blood

Jessica from True Blood

Owen from Grey's Anatomy

Owen from Grey’s Anatomy

Gettin' Some Ginger Lovin'

Work It.

Emma Stone - Duh

Emma Stone – Duh

Isla Fischer

Isla Fischer

Prince Harry

Prince Harry

Ron Weasley

Ron Weasley

Louis C.K.

Louis C.K.



The Cutest Irish Setter You Ever Saw

The Cutest Irish Setter You Ever Saw


And the list goes on my friends… The list goes on…








Writer’s Block and How Sand is the Worst


I can’t think of anything funny to embarrass myself with on the internet. I often find that writing about my lack of inspiration/motivation usually gives me something…

I got nothing.

I was going to write about how sand is the worst – which is really is – but I couldn’t think of how to start.

The towel made no difference.

I wanted to write this long visual about how you’re on the beach in your favorite chair (navy blue, canvas, from the 1970’s never fails me – except sometimes gives me heat rash on my back but YOLO). Anyway you’re on the beach juicy girl chillin’ in your chair and you tip your head back and sink a little deeper into relaxation. You close your eyes and alert the rest of your senses. You start to notice a cool breeze awakening your skin, making your hair stand on end. The warm sunlight on your face and in your hair. The sounds of the gentle waves rolling up the beach and the seagulls hovering in the sky above you. And finally, the sand on your feet. And as you rub your feet back and forth in the sand and dig a little deeper into the coolness of the grains that have yet to be warmed by the sun, you realize…

It’s. All. Over you.

A boy covered in sand on Bamburi beach, Mombasa, Kenya

It’s forever trapped underneath your toe nails.

All that sand is still stuck to my feet

All that sand is still stuck to my feet

It’s wrapped in the one day old leg stubble that’s grown in because the breeze is freezing. Its in the crease behind your knees sticking to the sweat from the beating heat of the sun. It’s in your belly button somehow, even though you have yet to lay down in it and be completely consumed by its wrath (yet somehow you already are). It’s under your fingernails and in between your fingers where it will sit until the end of time.

It’s in your armpits and elbow creases, again sticking to the sweat from this desert heat. It’s climbed it’s way up your body and sits in the sand-bowl perfectly engraved into your stupid collarbone. It sticks to the sun tan lotion on your face and worst of all it’s in your mouth.


Somehow, it’s found it’s way into your once refreshing lemonade that you ever so gingerly placed in the cup holder of your retro recliner 48 feet above sea level so this would stop happening. But it won’t.

The ice cubes are melting and turning into sand that you are now drinking; and the next time you close your mouth you will find the most unpleasant, out-of-nowhere, shutter-inspiring crack and slide and crumble between your teeth. And once it happens, you’re doomed. No matter how many time you swish and spit, brush your teeth, shower, eat, swallow, this feeling will never escape you. You now have sand in your mouth for the rest of your vacation even if the first day at the beach with the sand was so traumatizing and you don’t go back the whole time – there will still be sand in places you now know you have, and there will still be sand in your mouth.


I can only hope that beverage companies start making screens to go over your drinks – but I’m sure the sand will find it’s way through the minuscule spaces in the screens, or just sit on top to give you the same effect. Although, it doesn’t even matter if you have a drink on the beach, you still will wind up with sand in your mouth and no solution.


*crack, slide, crumble*

Don’t Tell Mom There’s a Serial Killer in My Office


There is a woman in my office building who is silent. Dead. Silent. I’ve never heard her speak. I’ve never heard her foot steps. Her hair doesn’t move. I have no reasonable assumption to conclude other than the fact that she’s a serial killer.

This is not just because I’ve been watching reruns of Dexter. Although, he has given me some valuable information on what to look for in a sociopath… I bet she has blood slides hidden in her air conditioner too.


Serial Killer Lady arrives at the same time I do every single morning which means she’s clearly stalking me as her next victim. Probably because I stare at her with awe and terror every day while she rides the elevator up a single floor. She’s probably saving all her energy to cause blunt force trauma to someone’s head.

Each morning she wears the same dark sunglasses, trench coat, leather gloves, and structured, square Kate Spade bag that would hold its shape in a tornado. She’s probably hiding crazy eyes and any bodily signs of a struggle.



Sometimes she brings unidentifiable objects in plastic grocery bags which I assume are her murder weapons. And her hair always looks the same and it never moves. It either doesn’t grow or she trims it every night before she goes to bed and then lays down in a pillow hair mold filled with extra hold hair spray. This woman’s appearance is meticulous. I bet she has Patrick Bateman’s morning routine down to the tighty whities – and his evening routine for that matter. She’s probably returning some video tapes right at this very moment…

american-psycho 2654151-patrick_bateman

One day I’d like to follow her home. I can only expect to find eerie neatness and an alphabetized medicine cabinet. Of course this is all probably what she’s wanted all along, and will already have a kill room waiting for me when I get there…


Pray for me…


An Ungodly Affair…


After much deliberation with the voice in my head on whether I was going to be a productive member of society and run after work today or be true to my American heritage and catch up on Dexter while eating potato chips; I decided that being skinny during beach season sounded like the best option. I begrudgingly covered myself head to toe in Lululemon and off I went.


I’m pleased with my decision for several reasons:

1. Beach season

2. An old lady fell and I was there to help her

3. I was faced with a religious statement to ponder

As I rounded the corner of my first half mile and threw up in my mouth I saw her go down. I ran as fast as I could to get to her and took her hand to help her up. While this was going on a man driving by saw a seemingly capable young woman struggling for dear life trying to lift a tiny old lady. He pulled over and together we helped her get up and she was ok and on her way. Once she carried on, Mr. Man explained to me the proper way to lift someone up off a couch and the difference between helping someone off the ground. Thanks. Then instead of making small talk or simply shaking my hand and leaving like a normal person he left me with these words:

“Just because you’re a good Samaritan, doesn’t mean you’re going to Heaven.”

That’s a really weird thing to say to someone you just stumbled across doing something nice for someone else… A “God bless” would have worked… Perhaps a Mazel Tov or Lachaim, or good yontif would have also been accepted.

I was baffled by this statement so much so that through the entirety of my run I was deep in thought.

What does this man know about me to make such a statement?

  1. I selflessly help strangers
  2. I exercise
  3. I wear black eyeliner/mascara to signify the devil
  4. I wear spandex to lure men into the depths of my loins

I think the only reasonable conclusion I can draw from such a statement is that Mr. Man was questioning my virtue and purity as a woman.

Since when does wearing breathable, un-inhibiting work out apparel make me the modern day Mary Magdalene?


I’m sorry kind Sir, but I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what being a good Samaritan means, and questioning someone’s biblical purity is certainly not what’s going to get you into Heaven either.

So I guess I’ll see you in Hell bro – Maybe I’ll be the Siren that lures you into the depths of Hades.



The Shame of Being on the Domino’s Email List


Ladies and Gentlemen, readers of my beloved rose, I am ashamed to admit what this title has already revealed: I am on the Dominos email list.


I know, I know. It’s sad but it has been something I’ve needed to face for some time now. I’ve unsubscribed before and I wish I could say there was a glitch in the matrix that somehow caused 2 of my emails to now be subscribers, but really, I just made more online orders.


Louis C.K. feels my pain, only his vice is the dreaded Cinnabon. Everyone has one Louis…

…And by the way, Dominos Cinna Sticks come with the same hot syrup… I think…

“You’re a man if you’re eating a Cinnabon. In that moment you’re a man… What you think I have integrity? I’m buying a Cinnabon right now. I’m buying a Cinnabon at the airport I arrived at… I’m 20 minutes from my house where I’ve got bananas and apples and shit. And I’m sitting on my luggage just fuckin’ eating a Cinnabon… With a fork and knife.”

The worst thing about Dominos is that the next day when it’s cold and hard and still on my floor because I’m too disgusting to get up after and properly dispose of it at a nuclear waste facility – I finish eating it. All of it.

And like how bad are your eating habits when your delivery guy has a third means of contacting you? Henry and I are practically dating based on all the intimate details he knows about me. He knows my cell, my address, what time I usually need my midnight snack, and just how I like it hot and fresh out the kitchen. All he needs is my social and we’re as good as wed.


One night a few weeks ago we saw him delivering to an apartment near the bars.  He gave us a ride home and Susan Freedman’s large cheese and a 2 liter of Fanta. He didn’t even need directions to my mom’s house he’d been there so many times before. When I got out I felt like I should thank him for dinner and kiss him goodnight.

Plus Mrs. Freedman is probably pretty ticked off that she never got her tasty late night treats so it’s the least I could have done given that I’ll probably never see him again once she writes her angry letter and he gets fired. And then I’ll have to forge a relationship with the new delivery guy, who you know won’t be nearly as good of a listener as Henry, and will probably be seeing other late night pizza eaters on the side.

Damnit Henry, Why!?

…Well… You have my information

UsTrendy and the Return of the T-shirt

Sam Sisakhti, Founder & CEO of UsTrendy

Sam Sisakhti, Founder & CEO of UsTrendy

I recently sat down with Sam Sisakhti the founder of UsTendy, a local fashion e commerce start up. Sam could not have fit the entrepreneur role better if he was molded out of clay. He was unconventional in that he quit his first job out of college after only 4 days. I don’t know about you, but if I tried to do that my parents would sit me down and talk about the downward spiral I was on and how the next thing they’d know I’d come home covered in tattoos with a baby.

Not Sam – he came home with a company that had experienced exponential growth in the last three years and a damn near household name. I asked Sam how he acquired connections such as London Fashion Week and his answer was among the best I’ve ever heard: “I just asked. I reached out on Twitter and people got back to me.”

Sam having had so much success in getting people to give him a chance was equally as helpful in giving me one. I guess successful people see success when they look it in the  beautiful blue eyes.


The second I told him I had a blog an opportunity arose (pun): “We can send you some clothes and help promote The Rose if you’re interested.”

Uh – yeah!

Thanks Sam!!

Upon this offer, I immediately set up a photo shoot with my brilliant director friend.

Stylist: UsTrendy & Skinny Bitch Apparel

Stylist: UsTrendy & Skinny Bitch Apparel

Which brings me to my next topic:

The Return of the T-shirt

UsTrendy Product Number: 50775

UsTrendy Product Number: 50775

Ever since I went to LA I’ve been getting deeply in touch with my inner glam rockstar; and nothing says rocker chic like the right T-shirt and an office-inappropriate shade of nail polish.


The first time I sported a T-shirt for anything other than gym-going was just two short months ago when I had an appearance to make in WeHo (that’s what all the cool kids call West Hollywood.) I borrowed a friend’s muscle T and felt like the biggest badass on the planet. Everyone there sports the T-shirt; it’s so LA to show up somewhere underdressed and over-fabulous.

Now I know why all the girls that rock boyfriend-jeans are so magnificent. It’s not that they’re hot it’s that being able to rock the care-free dude style creates the illusion and swagger of hotness.

So to glam up my muscle T I added a bright turquoise, layered statement necklace and I was good to go. I fit right in with all the beautiful people.

But now that I’m home, I think it’s even better… No one here rocks the T like they do in LA – so I’m the only one. And thanks to Mr. Sisakhti and Skinny Bitch Apparel – I’m bringing sexy back.

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