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


Me vs. the Big City: A Lesson in Humility

This is my home now

This is my home now

I’ve never met a challenge I couldn’t spin some way or another into me coming out on top. That is, until now. And I’m sure that’s only because I’m too tired to be over confident… At least I hope that’s why…

Whelp! I’m officially a big kid! I finally moved away from the comfort of mother’s breast and into mine and Frank Sinatra’s city of dreams New York, New York. And with this dream come true came a level of humility neither I nor anyone who’s ever come within 6 degrees of separation of me could have ever imagined.

New York is kicking my poor little rich ass straight back into reality. I got a low key job at a financial product start up along side of the two co-founders and – no one. I wanted the start up life and good Lord Jesus I got it. The three of us work side by side in a 9×9 white-washed closet 11 stories above Madison Avenue. I know what you’re thinking – Madison Avenue! Fancy right? Not fancy. We’re sandwiched in between a pawn shop and an oriental rug warehouse, across the street from a brothel, down-wind from what I can only imagine is somebody dying a thousand deaths after eating Taco Bell for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I casually make an appearance in the office 10 hours a day and then bring work home most nights and weekends… Apparently this is the real American way… Although for the longest time I held on that free-loading off my good looks and charming literary wit and maintaining hope that under the hot garbage juice and asphalt the streets really were paved with gold, and that I would make it by doing absolutely nothing. Sadly no. Reality came a’smackin’. Which makes me even sadder that Kimmie Kardashian is the exception and I am the rule. I could make a sex tape with a black man and get someone to propose to me and then divorce me probably… And if I can’t, well, then I just don’t belong in society.

So here’s to you Kimmie K, New York City, and the job I am surely about to lose!


I’ll just be here… Collecting unemployment. At least I’ll be skinny…

Xoxo a very hungry, poorly dressed, not-so-gossipy girl

An Ode to Magnolia Cupcakes…

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Dear Sweet, Playful, Cupcake,

What trickery your invisible peel can be. It’s almost cruel to have something so time-consuming blocking something so scrumptious, yet serving such a special purpose. As I peel you from your paper cup I notice the tiny detailing in your very being: your sugar daisy placed ever so gingerly atop the peak of your mountain of frosting. Such luscious, decadent frosting that has generously smudged onto your perfect, white baker’s box for me to flick a taste with my finger. What heaven the first taste is, as I release you from your papery prison and send you to my lips – pausing just long enough for your perfume to fill my nostrils. Then my teeth sink in to your frosting swirled top and down through your perfect soft vanilla core and release it in a bite so satisfying, I can hardly wait to take one more.

I know I just posted an Ode but this had to be done. I’ve tried desperately to talk about things other than food in this blog, but I can bear it no longer.

I went on a trip to NYC this past weekend and no trip to the big city is ever complete without a nice big cupcake from Magnolia Bakery. None of that Baked by Melissa stuff. I always feel so ashamed when I go there and I get a dozen cupcakes for myself. I don’t care if they’re bite sized I’m still cramming a dozen cupcakes into my face hole. I much prefer one nice light, fluffy, perfectly iced cupcake from Magnolia.

Magnolia is such a New York staple they should start calling the city ‘The Big Cupcake.’ I have yet to see an apple that can measure up…

I went to New York for a few reasons… Firstly, it’s the best city on earth. Second, the Belmont Stakes horse race was this weekend and you can’t call yourself a true fake Southerner unless you dabble in betting the house on the ponies (also wearing big hats.) And lastly, my incredibly talented Director friend and I planned a lovely photo shoot to showcase my 5’4” cupcake loving model bod, and get some fun pictures for my blog.

I thought that as a ‘thank you’ there was nothing better to bring him than a six-pack of Magnolia’s finest.

I was right. There was nothing better because he’s on his way to LA and has already crossed over to the dark side of cutting out carbs and wouldn’t eat them. I enjoyed three Magnolia treasures; one red velvet and two vanilla, while my hungry director captured World War Cupcake on film.

Here’s lookin’ at you cupcake! Let the montage begin…

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