Do You Guys Have Hot Sauce?

Jaime writes things. Find joy in the little things. Travel when possible. Always ask about hot sauce. Pet dogs. Use curse words and hyperbole prodigiously. Write it down. 

[jaimejoshi]

2018 Travel Wish List

- Ireland: I don’t understand how Irish food has a reputation of being awful. They’ve got amazing farms and the fish that comes out of the freezing waters of the North Sea must be amazing. And holy shit, can we talk about the magic that is bread and butter? I want to go to Ireland and eat well, read poetry and make best friends with every damn bartender in town. 

- Memphis, TN: Because Tennessee is the only ten I see, because Stax Records, because it’s where the blues and rock and soul and country all came together, because even though I’m a vegetarian - I love BBQ joints. Guys, seriously. BBQ sauce on mac and cheese is pretty goddamn amazing. 

- Denmark: I live in my life in pursuit of being hyggeligt. 

- Austin, TX: It’s one of my favorite cities in the United States and I miss it. I want to eat migas and wear cutoffs and listen to great music in tiny dark spots while sipping margaritas. I want to see Stevie Ray again and hang out with good friends and just revel in the fact that this amazing city exists in this world and I am allowed to go there. 

- Asheville: It’s already on deck and I can’t wait to go back to the mountains with the people I love. We’re gonna drink beer and hike and eat at White Duck Tacos and celebrate a birthday with cake and champagne.  - Munich: But that might just because I’ve got a serious yen for vegan currywurst again/always. I love you forever, Gute Nacht Wurst. 

- Barnsley Resort, Northwest GA: Roxy knows what the word ‘vacation’ is and I want nothing more in this life than to take Roxy and Indiana to a dog-friendly resort where Roxy can be pampered and Bones can hike in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. 

- Pacific Northwest Roadtrip: Vancouver to Seattle, Seattle to Astoria, Astoria to Portland, Portland to Redwood National Park and then, to San Francisco.  This one is going to take some serious planning as well as some serious time off so I’m guessing it’s not going to happen this year but one day - we’re going to rent a Jeep, pack some rain gear, hold hands and explore the country together. 

And I cannot wait.

[jaimejoshi]

songs for thirty five: a mix

A hair under five years ago, I slid a mix CD across the table at a shaggy-haired charmer.

Some girls make cookies, some girls make passes and I make mixtapes.

As far as seduction moves go, it’s an ace but the advent of new technology has rendered it utterly antiquated.

Hell, it was probably antiquated back then but I’m pretty goddamn charming myself so I managed to pull it off.  This was a birthday/first date mix, so I wanted to impress him. 

Definitely Stevie Ray Vaughan and probably She’s Got You High by Mumm-Ra because I am many things and subtle isn’t one of them. 

He made me a mix in return.  It was good. Fuck. It was so good. Pedro the Lion covering Mazzy Star, Van Morrison, MGMT, this Charlie Mars gem that got stuck in my head for weeks afterwards…

And during those first couple of months, we traded mixes back and forth - he gave me a great hip-hop mix and I made him a mix for his trip to Norway entitled Built Fjord Tough. 

Home feels like so many things - watching a movie (read: dozing) on the couch with the dogs, the smell of fresh basil, Saturday morning “Bagel time? Bagel time.” - but home most feels like standing in front of a stage with John’s hands firmly on my hips as I shimmy and sing along. It feels like the crackle and pop of vinyl floating through the house and it feels like listening to Kings of Leon’s Radioactive in the shower for the hundredth time. 

So, in honor of that first mix and all the mixes and kisses that have followed, here is a new one.

Here’s to thirty five, baby. Hope it’s the best year yet.

Tangerine - Led Zeppelin Tupelo - Jason Isbell Desire - The Gaslight Anthem Is This How You Feel? - The Preatures Smooth Sailin’ - Leon Bridges  I Wanna Be Yours - Arctic Monkeys Monkey Man - Toots and the Maytals  You Are The Best Thing - Ray LaMontagne You’re It - Halloween, Alaska

Bonus Track: On Call - Kings of Leon Always ours // Always yours. 

Holy shit, I love you. 

[jaimejoshi]

Cooler than a cucumber in a bowl of hot sauce. We can be heroes just for one day. Darling puppy.

[jaimejoshi]

My bagel is a total Monet. It looks great but I’m basically chewing on a Goodyear here. Also, homemade veggie cream cheese with scallions and carrots or GTFO. And here’s the thing - if you’re slinging Everything Bagels and you’re not loading them up with onions, garlic and caraway seeds - literally, why did you even get out of bed this morning? TLDR: I am a big dumb dummy for getting bagels anywhere but Makeb’s.

[jaimejoshi]

Holy Shit, I Love You

Thomas Hobbes was right - life is brutish and short.

I'm recontextualizing to a degree and I’m certain that all of my historian friends are gritting their teeth right now and hissing, “No. Go ahead. Be more wrong.”

But the point remains.

For as long as it feels between seasons of Game of Thrones, life is short and it is fucking mean.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot over the past few days and while there are a million things I am utterly unsure of, I know this much to be true: 

The onus is on us to ensure that we soften the edges and make sure that the people we love know they are loved.

Not in a diaphanous, ephemeral sort of way but rather in an HBCU marching band performing Motown hits all over your soul kinda way. 

Write it on a wall (during the dead of night when there are no cops around. Love might make you stupid, but there’s no reason for you to be a goddamn idiot), send a card, an email or hell, a text. 

Cook a great meal or buy a cup of coffee that’s more cinnamon and whipped cream than coffee, just the way they like it.

Or, you know - just say it.

But, don’t be Lloyd Dobler. 

I love Peter Gabriel but if you blast him at 5:30am and make my dogs go all nuts, I’ll eat you. 

There are a million things I want to be to be a better, more well-rounded person - yoga and eat more kale and read more and travel and cook and learn how to speak better Spanish - but all of them pale in comparison to making sure the people I love know they are loved. 

In a way that would make The Ronettes proud.

So, that’s my plan for 2018.

Love hard and love loud. 

Because honestly, nothing else matters.

[jaimejoshi]

A Day In The Life

All I want for Christmas/All I ever wanted. 

[jaimejoshi]

The Year In Review

January

Celebrated J’s birthday in Islamorada and ate a cheese plate on a boat. 

Celebrated J’s birthday in Boston where we saw Kings of Leon, ate a shitload of Italian food and walked around in freezing weather. 

Trump was inaugurated as 45th president of the United States. Like his administration and family, he remains to be goblin shit.

February

Did yoga in the sunshine at Meyer, served dinner at Quantum House, bought some bad-ass new furniture that looks like it could belong in an Andalusian villa, ate amazing gnocchi at Cafe Boulud and wrote about my favorite cover songs. 

March

Celebrated my 34th birthday and awoke the next morning to literally the worst hangover I have ever experienced in my life. Holy shit, guys. Do not mix red wine and champagne and vodka and gin and whatever the fuck else I was stupid enough to drink that night. 

Yeah. Yuk it up, Giggles. You’ll be praying for death (and soup) tomorrow.

Celebrated the four year anniversary of coming home and celebrated the four year anniversary of being with J. I didn’t actually do anything for these events but quietly acknowledged how much better my life is as a result. 

Became a card-carrying member of the ACLU and Planned Parenthood. 

Discovered My Favorite Murder, came up with an excellent idea for an Indian fast casual joint where I can roll up and order saag paneer wrapped up in garlic naan, watched Martina Hingis play tennis and listened to a lot of Arctic Monkeys.

April

Watched good friends get married, hung out with friends from PA and introduced them the straight-up magic that is West Palm, brunched a lot and discovered charcoal masks. 

Went to Colombia. Rode a horse in the goddamn jungle, tubed down a lazy river to a secluded beach, hiked to a waterfall, ate lots of maracuya y platanos and tacos on the beach at sunset and realized once more that I want to spend the rest of my life traveling with J. 

May

Sunfest: Flo Rida, Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals, The Naked and Famous, Blink 182, St. Paul and the Broken Bells, Weezer, Snoop. Drank lots of blueberry lemonade, got seriously tan, don’t know how I survived. 

Watched Sally Yates testify before a senate subcommittee. Watched The Handmaid’s Tale. Realized this is true:

Watch more good friends get married in Nashville and listened to Gregg Allman’s Ramblin’ Man in a barn during a thunderstorm. Introduced J to pani puri at Chauhan’s Ale and Masala House, stayed in East Nashville and drove around in a big-ass pick-up truck. 

Decided mole nachos need to be a thing, cried a lot because I was tired, watched Hasan Minaj’s Homecoming King and wrote about #NewBrownAmerica.

June

Took Roxy to the beach, discovered great huevos rancheros at Hurricane Cafe, threatened to destroy the universe if a local establishment no longer had bean burritos, broke my laptop, cried and found a great spot to fix my laptop and ate so much cheese.

July

Game of Thrones. Game of Thrones. Game of Thrones.

Murica’d at the appropriate level by setting off a shitload of fireworks and listening to a lot of Bruce Springsteen.

Watched even more good friends get married in Colorado. Hiked around a national park, went to the top of Flagstaff Mountain, drank tea at a teahouse built in Tajikistan, experienced altitude sickness for the first time, fell even more in love. 

August

Went to St. Thomas to celebrate the life of J’s Nana and to say our final goodbyes.

Fed dog biscuits to fish, stayed on top of a mountain, drank banana daiquiris and bushwhackers, swam in turquoise waters and ate a truly delicious chocolate-chip cookie. 

Learned how to make beer bread, had my car broken into, drove up to Melbourne to watch the Game of Thrones finale with J. Finally watched it at 11:30pm, woke up four hours later to drive back home to go to work and went to see Coldplay in Miami that night. 

September

Survived Hurricane Irma with little property damage and little power failure. Realized just how damn lucky we were. 

Became a mom to Indiana Bones.

Went to goat yoga, saw Jay and Silent Bob live but most important is my boy...who is currently 52lbs and sitting next to me while noisily munching on a bone. 

October

Watched yet more good friends get married and joined them as a bridesmaid, went backstage at Kings of Leon, worked a lot, slept a little. 

November

Wore a sari and heels and didn’t break my ankle, had literally the best Thanksgiving ever because Mom is a phenomenal cook/human woman, cuddled with puppies, more goat yoga with two of my favorite people and discovered my favorite lipstick. 

December

New Orleans for Birthday Celebrations - walked over eight miles on day one, visited the WWII Museum, ate a lot, drank a lot, wore masks, sang Christmas songs and visited my favorite bar with my favorite person where I drank a Southside, tasted a Dark and Stormy that tasted like the world’s best gingerbread cookie, met a great dog and watched a dude give the bartender three tabs of acid as a tip.

Created truly excellent Christmas cards, aimed to create a hygge Christmas experience, toured gorgeous homes in Northwood, found out Indy Bones is a German Shepherd/Mastiff/Great Dane/American Bulldog mix, drank lots of hot chocolate with Amaretto and made plans to watch Scrooged and Kiss Kiss Bang Bang because they are my favorite Christmas movies. 

I believe in celebrating the good shit, so this rundown is filled with the things I love most - travel and good food and dogs and hanging out with truly excellent people. 

But 2017 was also filled with a tremendous amount of stress. RA flare-ups, concern about what the medication is doing to my body and gasping sobs over whether I can have children. A palpable sense of fear over the policies put into place by a kakistocratic government. Stress over the everyday life stuff - bills and work and juggling schedules. Not getting enough sleep. 

I’m not a new year’s resolution kind of girl but in 2018 - I strive to be more politically engaged. To do more to support causes that matter to me. 

I strive to go to yoga more often and barre when I can afford it. 

I want to travel more - Denmark, a trip to Philly with J, Portland, Seattle, a road trip to the Georgia mountains with the dogs, Ireland...

And I’m seriously considering blogging about learning how to cook Indian food.

I’m going to make sure that the people I love know they are loved, I’m going to kiss the hell out of J, I’m going to write, I’m going to listen to live music, send more cards and read more. 

I am going to live my best life - brimming with hope, kindness, mischief and really fucking good food and cocktails.

I hope 2018 plays out the same way for you too. 

P.S. - And Impeachment because seriously - Trump is an asshole. 

[jaimejoshi]

Hygge Christmas

Trimming the tree while listening to Harry Connick Jr., hot chocolate with amaretto and sleepy pups. 

[jaimejoshi]

What happened at the New Wil'ins?

New Orleans is the girlfriend you can’t keep up with.

She’s a holy trinity of French, Cajun and Creole. Eclectic and electric and awake and always singing. Her voices rumbles like a street car, whispers like a barely-perceptible breeze through boughs of oak and it wails like brass horns during a summer storm. 

And she tastes so good. What is that taste? It’s like seventeen flavors hitting your tongue at once. Spices fresh arrived from the Silk Road, alien seafood and I don’t know what the hell chicory is but fill up my cup. 

But you can’t keep up.

Stay up. Take it straight up Turn up. Wake up the next morning without feeling like you’re gonna throw up. 

So you break up. 

She isn’t the one who got away. 

She didn’t leave. You did.

She stayed. She played. She loved you. 

Post-NOLA, life is muted. Is it even really life or is it getting through one day and then, the other and then another? 

The Crescent City haunts you. Like the priest in the alleyway who haunts the rain or Julie of Royal Street. 

So, you go back. 

She hasn’t been waiting. Of course not - life to be lived, not endured. 

Besides, she didn’t come to play with you hos. She came to slay, bitch.

Upon your return, she’ll embrace you tight and tell you that she missed you. It’s warm and damp. All drowsy heat and magnolia sweet. 

You know you can’t stay. That your time together must be temporary because you aren’t sure if your soul is equipped to survive this much fever dream euphoria. 

But that’s OK. 

Because you know you can always come back and when you do - 

New Orleans will be there for you - calling you ‘baby’ with a plate waiting. 

[jaimejoshi]

Thanksgiving with Real Indians

“like the fox I run with the hunted and if I’m not the happiest man on earth I’m surely the luckiest man alive.”

Charles Bukowski. 

I’ve got a lot to be thankful for and let’s face it, any holiday that’s predicated around eating ridiculous amounts of starches is a holiday I want to celebrate. 

Seeing as we’re a bunch of Hindu/Agnostic vegetarians, we don’t really get down with the traditional turkey and sides thing. 

Sidebar: I will, however, go to town on some stuffing. And yes, it’s stuffing even though it’s not stuffed into anything because dressing is for salad and stuffing is for shoveling into your gaping maw as if you’ll never eat anything again.

So, every year - Mom, my sister and I plan a big-ass Indian feast. And it is glorious because every year, it’s a little different. 

Last year, we made malai kofta and mutter paneer.

Sidebar #2: Malai Kofta Sliders need to be a thing and the fact that I’m not BFFs with the Badmaash boys will forever be a failing on my part. 

This year’s menu:

Dum Aloo Rice  Gobi Manchurian Crispy Kale fritters Samosas Kachori Tapioca-Potato fritters with peanuts and green chilis Garlic naan Veggie chili Garlicky kale chips served with feta and pomegranate seeds Cilantro chutney, red bell pepper chutney and coconut chutney

You know that piece about dating a girl who reads?

Yeah, that’s great and all but dude, date a girl with an Indian mom. Because they are equal parts magic, spices and insistence that you eat just a little bit more. And that’s pretty much the best of all things.  

Right now, I’m sitting on my couch with J and two sleeping dogs. We’re dozy and cozy and Michael Corleone has just married Apollonia and I am so happy and so grateful for every moment of this day, for every moment of my life. 

And I hope you are too. I hope you had an amazing meal today and shared it with the people you love. I hope you got a chance to sneak people food to a dog and the chance to raise a glass to good health and fortune. 

Here’s to a peaceful holiday season filled with gratitude, grace, good fortune and better food for us all. 

Happy Thanksgiving/Thanks Obama. 

[jaimejoshi]

Multicultural, multicolored States of America.

We celebrated Diwali yesterday with Indian food. We drove home blaring Beware The Boys by Punjabi MC and Jay Z.

Tonight, we drink beer, eat potato pancakes and chicken dance at Oktoberfest.

And Saturday, we’re hitting up Greenmarket for Cuban coffee and empanadas.

This isn’t just what America supposed to be.

This is what America is.

Anyone who believes otherwise is wrong and fighting a losing battle.

P.S. - I love you, Gainesville. So proud of you for standing up for love and what’s right.

[jaimejoshi]

#MeToo #YesAllWomen

"Hold your keys like a weapon, maintain situational awareness and if some shit goes down, scream your lungs out and scratch like you’re a rabid cat because you need to escape and you need to get some DNA under your fingernails just in case.”

These are the thoughts I had when I went to the bank at 6:00am this morning.

I should have been thinking about coffee or how excited I am to hear Preet Bharara on Pod Save America, but instead - I thought about how I would react if I was attacked. 

(The DNA thing comes from my love of My Favorite Murder and watching shitloads of Law and Order: SVU)

And pretty much every woman I know would have the same thought. 

Sure, it might not have been at the forefront of their minds but it’s there. A continuous loop of anxiety because you know the world wants to do you harm. It becomes the norm. Something you live with, something you joke about because holy shit, if you sit down and dismantle the concept of it - it’s fucking terrifying.

Every 98 seconds, an American is sexually assaulted (source). 

That’s what? A minute and a half. 

And they wonder why we’re weary and scared. 

When the hashtag #MeToo started trending, I was surprised to hear people expressing shock at the response. 

Dude, have you ever met a woman? Any woman? 

I can assure you that literally every single one of us - gay, straight or trans - has been harassed at best and attacked at worst. 

A skeezy guy at a concert who “accidentally” grabs your ass when squeezing past you, a grown man’s hug that lingers too long when you’re just a child, some schmuck yelling about your breasts from a car window or telling you to smile, a partner who coerces you into sex.

Or in one instance - the shithead guy at work who brags about how much he makes, comments on your legs and then at happy hour surrounded by your new co-workers, loudly asks you when you last got laid.

I wish I would have gone to HR and said something, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to rock the boat. This was a new job and I was the sole breadwinner in my family and he was this big deal at the organization and I was just a lower level employee and....and....and....

This is a typical response for a lot of women. 

We don’t say anything. We keep calm and keep on. We grit our teeth and smile because we don’t want to jeopardize our jobs, our situations, our futures. We avoid and evade and make light and make nice because when we refuse, we die. 

Women are commodified and made to feel as if our bodies are not our own but public property to be groped and judged, enjoyed and defiled. 

It has been this way for aeons and it stops now.

To the women who have been harassed and assaulted. Who have been made to feel as though they don’t have agency over that which is wholly theirs. Who have felt shame and terror and so fucking angry - I see you.

I see you and I respect you and I love you.

You’re not alone.

Me too. And not just me and you, but pretty much every woman we know.

I have a voice and I’m going to use it to speak out. 

And I encourage you to do the same. 

Not because we’re mothers or daughters or nieces or grandmothers or aunts. 

But because we’re human beings.

And if you don’t understand that?

Well, I’ll let Georgia and Karen do the talking for me: 

[jaimejoshi]

Bub Street Diet 2

Life lately: Teaching Indy his own name (nope), teaching Indy not to poop and peep in the house (nope-ish...but he’s getting better), workworkworkworkwork, discovering how much I like Gainesville, starting Outlander and listening to Last Podcast on the Left’s series on Jack The Ripper. 

Wednesday:

Trivia at Due South. 

In the words of my sister, “You don’t play trivia to have fun! You play trivia to win!”

We come from the Monica Gellar-Bing School of Fun.

Dinner usually comes courtesy of whatever food truck is in the parking lot and it can be a hit or miss gambit. 

The Wonton Nacho Incident of 2017 still brings me to tears (paid $8 and waited an hour and 45 minutes for six measly wonton chips with mango salsa) but Cucina Bambina delivered tonight with a Caprese Panini.

Crunchy bread, paving slabs of tomatoes and mozzarella, balsamic glaze and pesto.  

The cheese to tomato ratio was perfect. 

The side of Ruffles sprinkled with truffle oil and parmesan? Ehhh, not so much. 

Our team name was Tillerson and the Fucking Morons and we ended up winning first place. It was a good night. 

Thursday:

Woke up at 5:45am. This is considered sleeping in now and God, I loved every moment of it. 

Today is Writing Day which is alternately awesome and awful.

Awesome because I love to write and it is pretty much the only thing I know how to do.

Awful because literally why the hell did I ever think I could write? I have no idea what I’m doing, I can barely string a sentence together and I hate everything. 

Writing Day means stress-eating.  

I grab coffee with cream and light sugar from Dunkin. This is a mistake.

The best thing I can say about it is that it is served in a cup as opposed to splashed directly in my face. 

Boston, please explain why you love this chain. Also, please explain why you love other things that suck. Like Brady, Belichick and all of the Pats (except Gronk). 

I also get a blueberry donut. Yeast donuts will always be a better option than cake donuts, but this thing was pretty good. 

I snack on some Vanilla Almond granola from Trader Joe’s, a teeny little apple and some sesame sticks while I write and when I look up, it’s noon. 

It’s pouring rain and I’m fantasizing about spicy Indian food. Namely, malai kofta or raghda patties with a shitload of raw onions and pomegranate arils on top. 

Bucket List Item #36: Go on street food tours of Mumbai and Delhi. 

However, a torrential storm really dampened my desire to jackass out to Indus, so I ended up having a bean and cheese quesadilla for dinner. 

Bean and cheese quesadillas are a perfect comfort food and like pizza, even when they’re mediocre as hell, they’re still pretty good. I inhale mine before realizing I forgot to add coconut-habanero hot sauce. Goddamn it. 

I chase it with lemonade mixed with cherry seltzer. Why isn’t this a thing? This should be a thing. 

Looking over my choices for the past couple of days, I realize that I really need to start eating more leafy greens. 

Hopefully, the next post about Bub Street Diet will feature way more kale and way less Dunkin. 

I mean, probably not but hopefully. 

[jaimejoshi]

In Which Every Day, We Move A Little Closer To The Handmaid’s Tale Becoming A Hellish Reality

When I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis and started taking Methotrexate, my doctor sat me down and asked what I was using for birth control.

“Um, Ortho-Tri-Cyclen.”

“Good. You have to stay on that.”

“Uh, OK. I will.”

“No. Listen to me. You need to be careful. You can’t get pregnant while you’re on Methotrexate. If you do, you will have to have an abortion. If you don’t and you don’t have a miscarriage, your baby will have serious birth defects. If the baby survives at all.”

What kind of birth defects? Serious ones that affect the immune system. The skull and face. The ribs and the spine.  

I used to think that the phrase, “blood runs cold,” was just a poetic idiom. 

It isn’t.

I sat in a hard plastic chair and I swear I felt ice crystalize and crack in my veins.  

“This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair.”

When I decide to have a child, I have to tell my doctor and detox off the Methotrexate for at least three months before I even start trying. I have to take blood tests to make sure all traces of this medicine are gone. I have to monitor everything and I have to be careful. 

I have to be so careful. 

I’m 34-years-old and I’ve always wanted to be a mom. 

It’s why I stayed in a toxic relationship. I wanted a family so badly and I naively believed that if I stayed and we had kids, he would be nicer to me. 

I’m not naive anymore. 

My opinion of the Trump Administration is no secret. 

I am a proud American and I respect the office of the president of the United States.

But how can I respect a man that brags about grabbing women by the pussy and getting away with it because he’s rich and famous? That mocks the pain of a Gold Star family and tells a POW that he likes heroes who weren’t captured. A man that says those who march alongside Nazis are, “very fine people.”

Today, I found out that the administration is undermining the ACA mandate of covering birth control with no co-pay as it is a preventative service.

Organizations could stop offering contraceptives as part of their insurance plans and millions of women would be affected by this utterly callous measure.

Not only does birth control significantly lower the rates of unintended pregnancy, but it is also prescribe for a litany of other health-related issues which have literally nothing to do with pregnancy prevention. 

No-one’s employer has the right to make medical decisions for them. 

No-one’s religious beliefs should dictate anyone’s right to care. 

This measure will affect women’s health, maternal mortality and economic stability for women and families.

The administration claims that this measure is to defend religious liberty but come on. 

Do you really believe that Donald Trump is a figurehead of piety and morality? Really?

I am a card-carrying supporter of Planned Parenthood and I strongly believe in the work they do to serve and empower women. 

And I ask you to support them now. 

The Trump Administration doesn’t care about women but there are millions who do and we can’t let this go without a fight.  

[jaimejoshi]

Death Becomes Her

I’ve been writing my obituary for a few years now.

I don’t plan on dying anytime soon but shit happens and I’m a writer and I swear to God, I don’t even want to think about the things they’ll say about me when I’m dead.

Obituaries are nice. Nice. Milquetoast, even. They’re mild and placid remembrances of the deceased. but I want mine to crackle and fizz with life I lead. 

She was filled with hope. Fucking brimming with it. Hope and curse words and the mad electricity of life. She loved gin cocktails with a lot of tonic, fluttering fake eyelashes and if you’re here right now - she probably loved you too. 

To those she leaves behind - She’s sorry. She is so sorry that you’re not together, sharing a meal. But the next truly great meal you have? Add a little hot sauce and think of her. No Tabasco, though. I mean, come on. Honor the girl’s memory a little. Yucateca, man. It’s a game day player. 

To her parents - No parent should ever have to bury a child. It’s not the natural order of things and she is so sorry that you’re suffering this way. Please be strong. Please remember how much she loved you. That she was a perfect amalgam of the both of you. That she was stubborn like Paps and clever like Mom and that both are responsible for everything good that she was. And when you remember her, do so with ambli. Actually, no. Don’t do that. It’s probably super bad for your health and doesn’t Paps’ shoulder get all messed up when he eats too much of it? 

To her sister - This is the actual fucking worst because she loved you the most. You’ve been the light of her life since she can remember and she can’t remember a time without you. Why would she want to? You were the best thing that ever happened to her. You were her strength and her solace and the only person who understood gossip and good pizza toppings. She lived her life in the hopes of being smart and brave like you. 

To her friends - She knows you will come out en masse. That you will wear black and cry and she asks that you please don’t shed any tears. Feel free to wear black, though. It makes everyone look so suave. You created a home for her within you and you made her feel as though she belonged to something so much greater than herself. And she did. 

And to John - She loved you. Holy shit, did she love you. The way she loved the gravel and honey in Springsteen’s voice. The way she loved that apocryphal story of Charlie Watts punching Mick Jagger in the face. The way she loved your hands on her hips at every concert. 

She loved you the way she loved breathing. She did it without thinking, it was constant and it kept her alive. You were elemental. Essential. As much a part of her as white blood cells and oxygen and the firing of synapses. 

Being your girl was the greatest honor of her life.  

And if she leaves behind her beloved Roxy, Indy and Che - be sure to tell them every day that Mommy loves them. She will always love them. That she doesn’t believe in the afterlife but that she does believe in physics and that energy cannot be created or destroyed and that she will always be with them. And to everyone who sees them from here on out - give them treats every time you do. 

She was born in England and raised in Palm Beach County. Her formative years as a teenager and her formative years from 30 onward when she returned to the sunshine where she belonged. 

She believed in the work she did, she wrote and meant to write so much, she had dreams - she wanted to be a mom, she wanted travel the world, she wanted to learn how to make kachori - and she didn’t get to accomplish them all but no matter. Because she loved and was so fucking loved. 

Do not offer your thoughts and prayers for she was a girl who knew words and wore them like a second skin. She knew their power and their futility. Instead - drink a gin cocktail, eat some Indian food or some tacos, donate money to Planned Parenthood, baby-talk to dogs or rhyme all of Juicy by the Notorious B.I.G. 

She is survived by the people who loved her, a shitload of books and songs she will never hear but hopefully feel in the vibrations of the universe. 

People died in Las Vegas today when a terrorist opened fire. Hundreds were injured and thousands have been traumatized.

And we won’t do anything about it. Because we never do anything about it. Because we didn’t do anything about it when a classroom full of children were gunned down and we won’t do anything about it now. 

If I die in a mass shooting, I want my loved ones to send letters to Wayne LaPierre, Dana Loesch and every single elected official who got paid off by the NRA telling them that they are complicit in my death and that my fear and anguished screams should haunt every moment of the rest of the lives. 

I want them to send pictures of me - as a child with my toys, playing with my dogs, the one at my birthday where I’m smiling at John, ones with my family and friends. 

And then, the last one. The crime scene photo. The cold, cruel reality of what happens when someone dies of a gunshot wound and bleeds to death. The kind of base and brutal imagery used by the anti-choice nutjobs when they harass women outside of Planned Parenthood.

Send them these pictures and tell them that blood splattered on the concrete, my blood? It is on their hands and that they can choke on their mindless thoughts and disingenuous prayers. 

[jaimejoshi]

We Named The Dog Indiana

Meet Indiana Bones. Also known as Indy, Henry Jones Jr., Doctor Jones, Junior, Cinnamon Bun and a litany of other ridiculous names that I will invariably give him. 

You can call him Indy. 

He’s two month old German Shepherd who punches Nazis, recovers historical artifacts and naps a lot. 

He joins his sister Roxy Shenanigans and brother Che the Murder Gato. 

Welcome to the family, buddy. You’re going to be so happy here. 

[jaimejoshi]

Question

Woke up (at 3:00am - thanks Universe!) to a series of text messages from J featuring pictures of him singing karaoke.

Q: Are you considered a groupie if he's your boyfriend?