We need to talk

There you are. I've been waiting for you.

I need to ask you a question. Tell me the truth now.

Does this nail color make my butt look fat?


‘Cause I don’t think it’s bright enough, do you?


What about now?



Thanks for being you. I’m glad we had this talk.

Me and Alexander

Remember this book?



Yeah, me either, but a friend told me about it and today, Alexander is my homeboy.

First, I ripped my bought-on-sale-such-a-great-deal-cant-believe-it's-so-cheap-and-cute dress. Right at the seams. Right under the bust. Right at work.

I fixed that with some staples.

Then, me and my coworker walked outside for a break and my sassy-flirty-sparkly-casual-friday flip flops tore. Right between the toes. Right when we were a block and the half from the office. Right on a filthy city sidewalk.

After I cringed and hip-hopped on one foot up the sidewalk, I fixed that with some hand sanitizer, then some hot water and then some soap to the bottom of my violated foot. I'm convinced I contracted Ebola.

And, now I'm wearing grungy, dingy, funky gym shoes at work. And a floral dress with staples in it.

Have a better weekend than me and Alexander y'all.

Now Serving: Mimi, Party of 1

I have issues, people. Food issues, to be exact.

You may recall that my dining habits are….quirky….to say the very least. And while I should be ashamed to admit that I once ate meatballs and M&Ms as a meal, I’m not. Not ashamed at all. Those little chocolate buttons taste good dipped in marinara sauce. (I may or may not be kidding about this.)

I am happy to report that things (including my waist line) have gotten better. Well kind of. I eat out more. So that means I eat foods that sort of match and meals that involve vegetables. Oh, and my pal over at Life in Dishes takes pity on me pretty often. She’s a bona fide, certified, dignified personal chef now, so her meals guarantee that I don’t develop scurvy.

The issue is not that I can’t cook. I can. The issue is that I can’t cook meals that are perfectly portioned for the singleton in me, who--by the way--doesn’t like to eat leftovers.

What I know about cooking, I learned from my Bigmama. And meals for our family usually involved serving 15 to 20 people at a time. On a random Thursday night. And I’m not kidding.

Now bring those lessons home to my own kitchen and I always end up with a mighty big pot of just about everything. Which is why I might hate spaghetti forever. I’ve tried using a half-pound of ground meat. A handful of noodles. A half jar of sauce. But I always end up with more than I can eat. Once for dinner, maybe twice for lunch, but after that I’m done. And yet, the pot will still be full. Which is why we had to break up.

The other thing is bread. I like turkey sandwiches. I like PB&J. You know what I don’t like? Buying an ENTIRE loaf of bread. Why can’t they make loaves with exactly 8 slices, including end pieces? That’s all I need. Any way you slice it, though, I’m toast when it comes to meals at home.

So tell me, all you single ladies, how do you do it?

Rise and Whine

I am a genius at finding reasons to stay in bed in the mornings. I try to outsmart myself with tactics like putting the alarm clock across the room so that I have to actually get up to turn it off. That worked for about three days before I realized that if I just keep my eyes closed, I never actually wake up. 

This morning, I got up with the alarm at 7 a.m. but then, I decided that I could lay down again while the water warmed up in the bathroom. The water ran for an hour while I slept. Help me, please.

Also, I have old lady feet. And before you all try to convince me otherwise, tell me that my feet are fine, just take a look at this:

See? Old Lady. (Wait, why is it so quiet. Why aren’t you all trying to convince me otherwise? You agree with me, don’t you?)

Part of the problem is that I’m having a tiny problem with my ankle. It’s nothing major, but the treatment makes my feet swell and I’m forced to wear flats while it gets worked out. 

The result? Old lady feet. And since I was not prepared to deal with this, I don’t own any cute flats that aren't flip flops. 

I guess that means these foots are made for shopping this weekend. But not until after I host an Easter Egg hunt at my house (cause that’s what old ladies do, even when they don’t have kids). 

P.S. Do old ladies get a discount at the nail salon?

Happy Resurrection Weekend, y'all.

EDITOR'S NOTE: For the reader who wondered, the green carpet is at my work not my house. Though I can understand why you'd make the assumption, given the old lady feet on top of it.