Halloween Costumes You Can Do By Tomorrow

So today I couldn’t stop thinking about alternative Halloween costumes. (I am being Ja’mie from Summer Heights High – if you don’t know who that is you don’t have a funny bone…)

Anyway, if you don’t have a costume in mind yet…you’re in luck! I’ve got your back.

1. *If you have red hair* Find a blank white shirt and write Roger all over it and be “Ginger Rogers”

2. Tie a ring to a string and pull it around all day and be a “Ring Leader”
3. Wear a crown and put a lot of rings all over yourself and be “Lord of the Rings”
4. Find like a fur vest and then bring in a pot and be “Hairy Potter”

What Girls Really Do On “Girl’s Night Out”

This past Friday, I really felt like having a girl’s night out.

I called up some of my girls and asked if they were interested. They were. So it was all set.

The plan: Hit up SF’s final Off the Grid. Grind some delicious food from those oh so delicious food trucks then head back to my pad to get girl drunk.

What is girl drunk you ask?

Put away your whiskey (though this is my usual drink of choice). Put away your brewskies.

We will drink one drink and one drink only.


Nothing makes you feel more like a Grown-up than a nice glass of vino.

Deep-down we all know we’re kidding ourselves. Come Saturday night we’ll have reverted back to our true selves. We’ll have bought a bottle of Svedka and we’ll be throwing a mini-tantrum when we realize that we’ll have to wait in a line to get a slice of pizza at 2 a.m.

But this is girls night. This is a night to get drunk together while pretending we actually know what we’re doing with our lives.

“Yes, I can totally taste the Oak in this Pinot Noir.”

So last Friday, I am extremely happy to announce that we made it to Off the Grid (though because of our pit-stop at Harrington’s we missed the bus and had to shell out cold, hard cash for an UberX UGH). The food was great and there were so many BABIES to look at!

*Another quirk of a girl’s night is that we are totally and completely infatuated with babies…It’s sick. We especially love babies dancing to live music. It’s the twentysomething girl’s equivalent to crack. In order for any girl’s night to be complete, someone has to scare at least one mother into thinking their child will be stolen.

ANYWAY, Off the Grid was supposed to be the precursor to the night. It was supposed to be followed by some wine and girl drunk shenanigans. We were supposed to end up watching Twerking videos and trying to imitate the dance moves we just made fun of.

But did that happen?


Here’s the true sign that you’re a grown-up. It’s not that you know to hold your white wine by the stem of the glass to avoid a rise in temperature. It’s not the fact that you paid for said wine with your own paycheck. It’s not even that you went on 3 separate dates with the same guy this past month (though pat yourself on the back for that one).

It’s the fact that come 10 o’clock, you’re ready for bed. No matter what your plans were or how excited you were to do them, as soon as you’ve been fed and the thought of your bed enters your head…you’re as good as dead?

Okay, but really. In spite of that horrendous rhyme, what I said is the truth.

Seriously, when we all got to my place we could no longer fathom the thought of doing anything other than sleeping. So, we cleared our throats, puffed out our chests, and tried not to loose any of our pride as admitted that we’d rather go to sleep than stay up and get girl drunk together.

SO what really happens during girl’s night?


We turn into meow kittens and sleep.

And let me tell you. NOTHING is better than that.

How I Used Cremation as a Passtime

So the other day I was walking downtown to meet a friend. I get done with work a little earlier than her so I figured I’d sit down for a while and do some reading before we caught the bus back to the Richmond district.

BUT on the way my brain returned to one of my crowning, freak childhood moments.

If you think I’m a weirdo now, picture me 12 years ago. I’ve spent the last dozen years shaping myself to pass as a run-of-the-mill twentysomething. BUT back in the 4th grade I did not have such self-control. So, when my teacher asked us to choose a poem to recite for the class, can you guess my reaction?

I was thrilled.

No one should be thrilled about that assignment.

Seriously, I think it’s a form of torture in some countries.

ANYWAY, I probably could have saved myself a little humiliation (and a whole lot of time) by choosing the standard Shel Silverstein poem. Shel’s poems were fun, clever, and spoke to us 11-year-olds. He really got us. Shel was the way to go.

But did I choose him? Oh, no. I chose a 15 stanza poem by Robert W. Service called “The Cremation of Sam McGee.”

Yes, I spent an entire afternoon / evening sitting with my Alaskan Poems book (just wait till I write a post about my brief Alaska obsession) and memorized this enormous and totally twisted poem.

Ok, so it’s one thing for me to be a little freak and memorize this poem for fun (it’s a great poem and I would not look down upon my 11-year-old self for that), but it is quite another to make an entire class of 11-year-old boys and girls sit through my recital of a 12 stanza poem about a guy during the gold rush cremating his friend…

I just don’t even understand how my mom didn’t think hey…maybe I shouldn’t be proud of her for this. Maybe I should be a little concerned…

But she didn’t think that. And she was proud. And I recited it. And my class had to sit there and listen to it. It’s truly is a miracle that I had any friends in school.

So now back to the present day here in San Francisco.

As I’m walking to meet my friend, this poem just flashes into my head and all of a sudden I’m reciting it to myself as I walk. Now, it’s been 12 years, but I’m still able to remember like 8 of those stanzas and I’m going crazy trying to remember the rest.

So when I get to the place where I was planning on waiting and reading my book, I whip out my phone and google “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” by Robert W. Service instead. Then I start memorizing the parts I’ve forgotten until my friend shows up.


I often find myself reciting it whenever I’m walking alone. Down to the bus stop. On the way to Safeway. Going to get coffee.

The only other time this has happened was when there was a model named Katarzyna on America’s Next Top model. Tyra couldn’t pronounce her name and she got really angry and made Tyra repeat it a bunch of times. For like a week after that episode I couldn’t stop saying Katarzyna like an angry model when I had to walk places by myself.

BUT SERIOUSLY that can’t happen anymore.

And while I’m strangely proud that I can still tell you about the Arctic Trails and their secret tales that would make your blood run cold I am also very aware of the how embarrassed I truly should be.

How I Accidentally Exposed My Secret Freak at Treasure Island

I know very well that I’m a pretty big freak. I also know that there’s nothing I can do to change that.

BUT what I have worked hard to do is hide it. It seemed to have been working, too. Like, a lot of people thought I was a pretty normal girl. I painted my nails, watched Hart of Dixie, and spent hours dreaming about what my life would be like if I were Lorde.

Then this weekend happened. I waved one of my biggest freak flags at a music festival for any and all to see. And let me tell you, there are no take-backs in life.

I can’t just be like, “Haha. That was such a funny joke. Remember how funny that joke was? You guys thought that was real-life but I was just joking!”

Nope. That doesn’t work. Trust me, I tried…

So sadly my story continues down the path of absolute and utter shame for me. YIPEE! Let’s keep reading.

Before this weekend, there were only a select few people who knew about the way I sleep. Why don’t I want anyone to know about my sleeping habits? Because they’re super freaking creepy, that’s why.

I am definitely no Sleeping Beauty. In my hypothetical love story no man will lean over and think “oh my, doesn’t she look so lovely as she dreams.”

Instead, he’ll lean over and be like “What the f#%$??” Ah, a romance to span the ages.

So, why would my potential lover have such an abhorrent reaction to my resting figure?

Because. I sleep. Like a mummy.

Wondering what I mean by that? Oh, let me tell you. For some reason the only way that I can fall asleep is on my back with my arms crossed over my chest like I’m about to be put into a tomb. I don’t know why. I don’t know if there’s a way to change it. But that’s the way I sleep. Like I’m preparing for death…


This weekend I decided to do a little day drinking. Day drinking always ends in me needing to nap. Like NEEDING to nap. Like move over homeless man because I day drank and that street corner is mine.

Luckily this weekend I was in a park so there was an entire field for me to fall asleep in. AND luckily this weekend I had a hero of a best friend to shield me from being stepped on. Kudos to her. Seriously, I owe her lots of pizza.

UNluckily I fell asleep like I was about to be loaded into a Hearse…for EVERYONE at the festival to see.

To quote my friends’ boyfriend, “I just remember Kellen sleeping like a mummy and you looking really angry at everyone.”

Yep. Looks like I’ll be spending a lot of time trying to train myself not to sleep like a Twilight enthusiast…

Wish me luck?

Why I won’t Be Touching Diamond Rings

So first of all I’d like to start this post out by saying I’ve definitely been out-freaked on this night-of-nights.

I was walking home from what may or may not have been THE most annoying bus ride of my life. As I was stomping like a grumpy troll through the crosswalk, there was a woman with a rolling suitcase coming from the opposite direction, so I moved a little to the side. But then she moved so that she was in front of me again and her face was looking right into mine. Did I forget to mention that I LOATHE forced eye-contact? Slash most eye-contact in general (but we’ll get to that another day).

Okay, so let me just describe this lady so that you can understand where I’m coming from when I tell you- I now fear diamond rings.

She was SUUUUUPER skinny and you may be saying, “yes, Kellen, it’s called crack-cocaine,” and I’m like, it’s called being a fucking witch-demon. ANYWAY. She had this long gray hair that went down to her waist and usually I would commend her on her steezieness, but for some reason this hair looked like it was going to eat me.

So, to continue with the story, this woman leans forward into my personal space, looks straight at me, and says,

“Get ready to be killed for touching diamond rings.”

And her voice was so happy saying it…

So here’s what my thought process looked like:

1. Fuck that.

2. Wait…Do I look like the type of person who has been looking at (I’m not even going to bring up touching) diamond rings?

3. I’ve never seen a diamond in the fleessshhhh

4. OMG I’m gonna die

5. We’ll never be Roooyyaaallllssss

6. Wait. Is she warning me not to get married?

This last one hit me just a little bit ago and I was like OH! I get what she’s saying. Nice old lady was just warning me to stay away from any sort of legal commitment binding me to another person. Thanks, girl! You got my back.

Just another reason to enjoy living in the city. There’s always nice people to give you great advice when you need it.

Sex-less in the City

There were only two things on my “To-do” list for this Sunday.

1. Go for a run

2. Write a lil something for this blog

I woke up, and though there was a bit of sleep at the corner of my eyes trying to convince me to snooze for a second or two longer, I forced myself to stand up and shake off my covers.

Everything seemed to be going pretty well. I somehow avoided stuffing my face full of waffles so that there would be no pesky side-ache to ruin my exercise goal. I was already in my running attire, hydrated, and ready to go until…

Sex and the City marathon on the television caught my eye.

What is it about this show that can make me stop everything and sigh as I fall further and further into my sofa? I may have moved to a city, but I sure as hell am not sexing this city. Single pringle – that’s me.

Not that the offers haven’t been flowing in.

Over the last five months I have been propositioned by

A homeless man who, after shouting at me that I was “Lookin’ GOOOOOOOOOD,” and that he “like that clothes on you, girl,” went back to digging through the trash. Then looked back up and shouted, “hey girl! I talkin’ to you!”

The neo-natzi young gentleman tweaking on the corner of Haight street with a splatter of tattoos across his face asking me if I wanted to “kick-it.”

And the two men who stood outside the bus and repeatedly shouted “HEY” at me through the window.

Still, surprisingly I cannot seem to find my way into a San Francisco love affair. Other than the slices of pizza I have for Pizza Fridays, I really don’t have a love. I’m not even sure I’m looking for one.

I can’t even imagine liking someone enough to want to talk to them every day. OR somehow managing to find a way to remain attractive to them by resisting the temptation to sit on the couch for 48 hours watching Real Housewives of Miami and then proceeding to talk in a Latina accent for the next day and a half. OR (perhaps my biggest concern) is having a toot time. No, I’m not talking about a train. I’m talking a good ol’ fashioned fart. How am I supposed to do that when I’m interested in someone???

How am I supposed to get past any of that? Is it even worth it? Do I really feel enough of a pull toward someone to go through all the worries that are attached?

Maybe that’s why I enjoy the show so much.

I mean Charlotte literally shits her pants AND found her hubby through “ugly sex.” What’s more comforting to a girl with major bowl and emotional issues than that?

As for icing on the cake, not only is the main character a writer, but she is making an incredibly fictional salary that allows her to saunter around Manhattan in Manolos and Chanel.

AND it gives me hope that there will someday be someone out there worthy of my concerns over toot time. Someone who is worth re-considering my reality TV watching, hoop-wearing, accent talking days (though I probably won’t give them up).

Until then, I’ll just watch the show and fantasize about an unreal salary for my ramblings as well as a man to figure out fart patterns for.