Sass & Bite

"If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you" Oscar Wilde

Category: How I Know I’m Old

Signs Your Life is Noticeably Depressing and You Need an Intervention or Oprah or Something

My family friend helpfully forwarded this to me yesterday:

Netflix and Drinks


She said it popped up in her sidebar and she immediately thought of me. How’s that for infamy?

She also said, “here you go, it’s all thought out for you!”. Little does she know I don’t have to think of a drink, I have a go-to already — it’s called a bottle of whatever  happens to be lying around.

And a straw if I’m feeling fancy.



I Really Shouldn’t be Trusted to Answer People’s Phones, but It’s Possible I’m Developing Some Impulse Control?

A guy just called who was referred by Alexander Quest, and I almost said, “is he related to Johnny?”

I didn’t, though.


Freud Would Have a Field Day with Me

For a lot of reasons. Most of which are probably more pressing than this, but whatever.

I’ve recently come to a conclusion: I am regressing.

As in, to when I was a child. Admittedly, my normal state is generally fixed somewhere between 70 year-old grandma and 15 year-old boy. But now I’m slowly working my way backward.

How do I know this? For the last few months — you know, since I graduated from college and moved back into my parents’ house and onto their couch for several months until I upgraded to squatting in my little brother’s room and settled into the funemployment lifestyle — I’ve had cravings for various kid foods, namely:

-graham crackers
-gummy candy
-tuna sandwiches
-Ritz crackers and cheese
-PB & J
-Kraft mac and cheese, but only in cartoon shapes

If you’ve ever met me, you know this is somewhat alarming. Like, I had literally never eaten a tuna sandwich in my life until I was 19, and even then it was an accident. And today I made one for lunch. A more adult version, in my defense, but still. A tuna sandwich.

I went through a phase a few months ago that I didn’t tell anyone about where I was super into graham crackers. I ate them as a snack. That, combined with my desire for fluorescent orange noodles shaped like Power Rangers or whatever the devil these kids are into these days, briefly had me considering I was pregnant, despite the fact that the last guy to pay any attention to me is currently doing time in a San Antonio Correctional Facility and got my number by accident. It was the only possible explanation.

Until I realized that, hello, I’m just suffering a mental breakdown and becoming a five year-old again. Obviously.

Also, I’m finding myself unusually fond of the color pink.

Send help.

At My Age, Lauren Bacall had Already Modeled for Harper’s Bazaar, Starred in Several Movies, Had a Torrid Affair with Humphrey Bogart, and Got Him to Put a Ring On It

This is just a quickie.

I really have nothing for you people — I’ve been working at least nine hours every single day for the last week and it will not end for several more days, followed by coming home and doing more work. This is not a complaint, this is merely an explanation for my silence.

The point is that I am only here because today I came to the startling realization that Girl Scout Cookies are now being sold.

This is significant not only because they are the tits, but because it is proof that I have yet to switch to the adult method of measuring the year, which I assume is just a blur of responsibility and unspeakable boredom punctuated by the occasional 3-day weekend.

This is opposed to my life-long habit of thinking of the year in terms of school, which puts Girl Scout Cookies on Sale as the signal for Basically-February.

Last Basically-February, I was mercifully close to graduating college.

Which I did in March.

Which means that as of this date — when someone, somewhere, is able to purchase cookies from a small girl outside of Trader Joe’s who is really only in it for the prize beach towel — I finished college nearly one year ago.

Which seems like a very long time for someone who has accomplished as little as I have.

And I didn’t really realize it had been that long.

And despite the length of this little rant, all of this went through my head in the space of about 2.7 seconds today.

Also, I would just like to share with everyone the fact that when you google-image Girl Scout Cookies, like 43% of the pictures are of weed. So.

Trophy Wifery is a Legitimate Career, and Other Job Things I Tell Myself

I heard in the last couple of days that I was passed over for yet another Big Girl job. The chances that I will end my days as a middle-aged spinster who lives with 13 cats in a room in her parent’s house that she has decorated with her collection of cats-wearing-hats figurines that she purchased with her Target cashier salary are increasing every day.

But I am an optimist and a fighter at heart. I will not be defeated so easily. So I have compiled a new list of jobs that I want. Yes, want. Because clearly they exist. Someone out there is getting paid to do these things.

And I will take their job.


What does that even mean?

What does that even mean?

Why I’m Qualified: I’m very clever and I enjoy puns. Also half of them don’t make sense or are cheekily inappropriate, and if I’m good at one thing, it’s being nonsensical and inappropriate. Lemme throw down some examples:

  • Riding Bareback : a tasteful nude
  • Jelly Donut-Touch-My-Man : a sassy berry color
  • Pink Cheeks : a lovely light pink
  • Make It Rain on Dees Hoes : an eye-catching blue-green


2. RIDICULOUS MEANS OF INCOME: Ice Cream Flavor Inventor/Tester


Let’s not forget, I brought THIS into the world

Why I’m Qualified: I am an ice cream enthusiast. I would fucking excel at eating ice cream for a living. It’s truly turning a passion into a career.

3. RIDICULOUS MEANS OF INCOME : Color Trend Determiner

I'm declaring a muted shade of chartreuse the next big thing.

I’m declaring a muted shade of chartreuse the next big thing.

Why I’m Qualified: I literally have a list of palettes in my little inspirations/lists notebook. If that isn’t enough for you, consider the fact that I carry an inspirations/lists notebook.


I'm also really good at making bullshit flow charts that look insightful but actually make little-to-no sense

I’m also really good at making bullshit flow charts that look insightful but actually make little-to-no sense

Why I’m Qualified: I give good advice (even though I generally ignore it), I’m usually right about stuff, I’m good at bullshitting my way through even when I’m not sure I’m right, I have great taste, and I keep up a constant running monologue in my head about how I can improve everyone around me.

Upon further consideration, I have decided to combine all of those things and just become a Professional Arbiter of Taste. Like Gwyneth Paltrow and Goop. I will just sit from a position of privilege and tell everyone what’s cool and exciting and what they should be doing/buying/going into debt for to become cool and exciting.

I’ve found my path, guys.

Inappropriate Things I Didn’t Notice in Movies as a Kid

I want to give a shout-out to the makers of children’s movies. Thanks for throwing in some off-color double-entredes and sometimes downright dirty jokes in there for the grown-ups. And now that I notice/understand some of them, I want to give a shout-out to my parents for letting me watch that smut.


They’re laughing at all the jokes I didn’t get

1. The “climax” scene of Dumbo. I watched this movie obsessively as a child and I’m 99% sure I thought it was funny at one point to whisper in sleeping peoples’ ears, “climax! climax! get to your climax!”. How am I not a sex offender?

2. Michael Jordan’s “performance issues” joke in Space Jam

3. Mt. Wannahockaloogie in Finding Nemo. Not inappropriate, but it definitely went over my head the first time I saw it. Classic.

4. When the condom breaks in Grease (“It broke. . . . I’ve had it since the 7th grade”).

5.   — Rizzo: “What’s up Kenicky?” 
      — Kenicky: “One guess”.  (Grease)

6.  — Danny: “Bite the weenie, Riz”.
     — Rizzo: “With relish”.  (Grease)

7. On the car in Grease: “The chicks’ll cream / it’s a real pussy wagon / she’ll have to put out before she even gets in”, etc. etc. etc.

7. Basically the entire screenplay of Grease.

8. When Alfalfa wakes up “soaking wet” after dreaming of Darla in Little Rascals.

Mourning Lisa Frank and the Death of my Childhood

Kitty Kats on acid trips: educational staples

Kitty Kats on obvious acid trips : educational staples

So, it’s that weird part of August that I don’t like, where it’s still basically summer but you’re starting to think about fall — which is cool because fall is great — but it’s also like no, wait! hold on to summer! Sunshine and heat and bikinis and water and drinks outside. Conflicting [Side note: I felt that “confliction” was the only appropriate word here. But spellcheck informs me that it is not a word. I swear it is. No? Well, it should be. Executive decision: confliction is now a word].

Anyway, the way to get through this tough time used to be school supply shopping, but I don’t have that anymore. The kids are all getting ready to head back to school (also: why the hell does school start in August now? This goes against nature. School starts in September, everyone knows this. How will calendar companies decorate that page now?). In my aimless, hours-long, what-unnecessary-but-entertaining-random-shit-can-I-purchase-today wanderings around Target I have seen all the displays. And it fills me with excitement, followed by crushing disappointment. Because every time I idly think about how I should start packing soon and getting school supplies, it very suddenly occurs to me: never again.

Never again will I get color-coded college-ruled spiral notebooks, with the ugliest color reserved for math, the worst of subjects.

Gone are the days of agonizing over the choice between puffy plastic binders, in signature Lisa Frank neon-rainbow-vomit palette, with the golden puppies Casey and Candy (who is clearly a future doggie stripper), or the pink and blue gender-normative dolphins entwined in the shape of a heart.

No more buying my favorite pens of the moment, destined to be lost or loaned out or “borrowed” within two days of opening the package.

Buying school supplies was the tits. Kids don’t even have Lisa Frank these days — they just have that little shit Justin Bieber or whoever on all their notebooks. They can’t even understand. I considered consoling myself by approaching children in the street or at the store and offering to take them shopping. But my lawyers have insisted that I not.

And you know what the worst part is? Every single time I mention this, usually to my friends, they nod wistfully and agree — and then someone just has to say, “until we have kids”.

Every damn time.

Reasons I Can’t Be an Adult

Apparently I’m at that stage in my life where I’m supposed to get my shit together and be a responsible, mature adult or something. Evidently a lot of people have faith this will happen. And it’s kind of bewildering. Despite accomplishing supposedly mature things like graduating from college, living on my own in a foreign country for a year, and, mystifyingly, being given a driver’s license, I think I’ve made it pretty obvious that that’s not going to happen any time soon. Here I’ve compiled a (not even close to exhaustive) list of reasons I can’t be an adult:

1. I have the impulse control of a rabbit. I’m notorious for declaring that I’m getting one drink at the bar, or no drinks at the bar, because I’m driving or I’ve had enough already (more responsible people tell me), only to immediately order a Jack & Ginger upon arriving, and decide to figure out how to get home later. I buy beautiful but functionally useless things I have nowhere to store, because they’re pretty and I want them. I will eat obscene amounts of ice cream even though I’m not hungry and don’t even particularly want it, just because I saw it in the freezer. Don’t even get me started on my heroine binges.

2. Even when I do try to exercise some self control, I am very easily persuaded not to. Really all it takes is one person to say, “oh come on, just one”, or “well you’re not paying rent right now, so what else would you spend it on?”, or my personal favorite, and the most effective: “come on, it’ll be fun!”.

3. I find notes to myself that say things like, “use the word ‘twat’ more”.

4. I play with my food. Like, people have to take it away from me.

5. I don’t understand wine jokes. I mean, I don’t understand wine either, which I think also disqualifies me from adulthood, but yeah, I just don’t get them. I tend to just stare blankly when everyone at the table laughs at the one about the merlot and the chardonnay — is that a race joke, or what?

6. I find wearing coats draped over the shoulders, while chic in a Parisian business-woman way, inconvenient.

5. I do things like put on SPF 30 and then lay out for two hours, congratulating myself on managing to both get a tan and take care of my skin.

6. When my aunt says “I don’t like pulling it out” about her Keurig or whatever, I snicker.

7. I found Space Jam on HBO GO the other day and it was basically the highlight of my week.

8. I see pink lawn flamingoes as an opportunity to make a beer bong.

9. I spent a good 20 minutes at a party this weekend running around trying to see how many people I could get to almost drink from a margarita that had a cricket in it. Again, someone had to take it away from me.

10. Last week I accidentally set a dish towel on fire. Twice.

I Guess This is Growing Up?

Apparently I’m in a transitional period of my life. And I’m struggling with it a bit, which I tell myself is both fine and expected, but then again I’m also really good at rationalizing. I can justify a lot of things to myself, because I am very clever and I was raised by lawyers. So who knows.

Anyway, I’ve hit a few stumbling blocks. For example, I’ve spent the last four years justifying my poor decisions, ill-considered plans, and childish behavior with the vindicating expression “fuck it, I’m in college”. Those five handy little words cover(ed) a multitude of sins: go to a Thursday 9am class so hungover/borderline still drunk you spend the entire time praying for a swift death? Fuck it, I’m in college.
Eat cookie dough out of a bowl and wash it down with a bottle of wine while watching 5 straight episodes of Law and Order: SVU with your roommates? Fuck it, I’m in college.
Use having a final paper to write as an excuse to spend obscene amounts of money you don’t have on coffee from places other than your house because they can make it way more fancy? Fuck it, I’m in college.
The stripper you hired for your friend’s birthday shows up late, unshowered, on coke, and middle-aged, and hangs out afterward hitting on all the girls and drinking your beer? Fuck it, I’m in college.

Except the problem is that I am no longer allowed to use that excuse. I managed to stretch it out for the last three months even though technically I graduated in March, because I was still living at college and hadn’t walked yet. But I’ve now been home for almost three weeks, living on my parents’ couch, and I’m willing to face the music and admit that that excuse is finished for me. Except not really, because I’ve just replaced it with “Fuck it, I’m in a transitional period of my life”.

Bought two dresses, a skirt, and a pair of silk and lace shorts when you only intended to get denim shorts? Fuck it, I’m in a transitional period of my life.
Skip working out because you don’t want to have to wash, dry, and straighten your hair again? Fuck it, I’m in a transitional period of my life.
Go out with your friends fully intending to not drink at all and instead accidentally getting hammered and bursting into tears when your brother yells at you for making him pick you up at midnight before you’ve even gone into the bar? Fuck it, I’m in a transitional period of my life.
Find yourself unable to focus on any book, TV show, movie, mindless internet shit or project for more than 30 minutes at a time even though you have absolutely nothing else to do? Fuck it, I’m in a transitional period of my life.
Use the phrase “cunt-punt” frequently and at inappropriate times? Fuck it, I’m in a transitional period of my life.

And for the record, I know I’m not the only one doing this. I can think of at least one other person who does nearly exactly the same thing, sometimes.

I’d like to think that I’ll improve with age, buuuutt at this point it’s not looking promising. In all honesty, I will probably always replace the last cover-all justification with a new one. “Fuck it, I’m 25, my youth is behind me”. “Fuck it, I’m almost 30”. “Fuck it,  I’m 30 and my youth is really behind me and I’m showing every sign of dying a crazy cat lady”. Etcetera, etcetera, all the way until I’m 80 and saying “Fuck it, I’m 80. I can do, say, and eat exactly what I feel like at any given moment. Cuntpunt”.

Acceptance is the first step. Or so I hear.

Things I Once Firmly Held to be True


Children are ridiculous. Hysterical, but ridiculous. Their little minds are so odd and literal and all over the place and they just come up with the most random shit and you have no idea where it came from. And neither do they. Or even if they do, it came from a thought process you couldn’t possibly begin to follow. I’ve being seeing a lot of entertaining things from the mouth of babes — from apology letters they’re clearly not convinced they need to be writing, to those AT&T commercials to Jimmy Kimmel’s Truth Fairy tests –and it got me thinking about some of the baffling things I used to think. So now, a list of things I once firmly held to be true:

1. You could ride on a Golden Retriever. In fact, this was the whole purpose of owning one, and I begged my parents to get me one. Which they did not.

2. Band-aids were magical pain relievers.

3. There was a secret passage in the side of the pool with a shark in it that came out sometimes. If you swam in the shadows it would totally eat you.

4. The $82 my mom let me keep from my first communion money was a vast fortune.

5. The LegoLand driving school ride basically qualified me to operate a vehicle.

6. Limited Too and Abercrombie were the epitome of stylish. I mean, skintight polos with random animals, phrases, and sports numbers emblazoned on them in glitter, paired with layered cotton skirts or booty shorts with the name of a sport you may or may not even participate in written on the butt? Expressive and tasteful.

7. Bright pink lipstick and blue eye shadow were a classy match made in heaven. They look best when applied liberally. 

8. Getting a blue slip (a bad-behavior note to your parents, basically) was the end of my future. I would probably be grounded for at least three months, and no high school or college would have me.

9. Having my picture taken was basically the most inconvenient, unfun, unnecessary thing my mother could ask of me. Hence the photo above. Like seriously, I’m at Disneyland. Christmas Disneyland. What about my life at that point warrants that face?

10. Looking at the sun would result in immediate blindness. In kindergarten my friend Blair told me at recess that she had just looked at the sun and her eyes hurt: I helpfully assured her she would go blind, probably within the hour, and she spent the next two hours in the nurse’s office, inconsolable and in hysterics.

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