Cryotherapy: Being in a useless human meat freezer

I didn’t really know anything about cryotherapy before going in for a session. And I’m happy to report that I still know nothing about cryotherapy after having it done to me. A few weeks back, a company slid into my DM’s to offer a complimentary session, and I, like all humans, love free things. I excitedly accepted their offer and quickly forgot all the little people I knew because I was now clearly an Instagram influencer.

Before the appointment, my research consisted of asking friends who had done it before “if it hurts.” Everyone just said it was really cold and very quick. (Just like all my ex-boyfriends). I was on my way to the place and ended up being 20 minutes late. I ran in and started apologizing profusely and laying the charm on real thick. There were three people manning the front desk, all dressed in the same workout attire. I love me an athletic cult.

One of the uniformed men started asking me if I had done cryotherapy before or knew what it was. “Nope!” I replied. He had me sit down to fill out a form and probably sign my life away while I was pounding back cups of water. I briefly asked if you were allowed to go into this thing with a hangover, and he nodded in approval.

Once I returned the form, the man – let’s call him Chad – told me he had to take my blood pressure and heart rate. I stuck out my left arm and he noticed the little tattoo on my wrist. “Are you a writer?” he asked. “Kind of. I don’t get paid for it, but I have a little blog.” I started telling him about all 6 of you wonderful people that actually read it, and that my last post was about a strip club. He looked at me and told me my heart rate was too high to go into the ice chamber. It was 106 and had to be under 100. “You need to calm down first,” he told me. “I know, I get that a lot,” I said. My resting heart rate always thinks it’s going sky-diving and is naturally pretty high. We chatted a bit longer, and when he took it again, I got it down to 90. “Alright, let’s get you in!” he said.

He started talking about all the benefits of cryotherapy while I was half-listening, and half wondering about how much money he makes and what I would eat for lunch. He put me in a changing room and told me I could take my clothes off and get in the little dress-robe. (But, like, take me to dinner first?) Here’s the ensemble:

I’m just now realizing that I left the door unlocked????

You have to wear mittens and thick, boy socks so you don’t get hypothermia. I came out of the dressing room looking the hottest I’ve looked in a while, and he asked me how long I wanted to be in this little meat freezer for. “I think, let’s do whatever a normal person would do,” I said gracefully. He laughed and gave me a knowing “you’re not normal” glance. Which song would you like to listen to? “Mambo Number 5, please,” I said. “What?” he asked with a confused look on his face. I didn’t realize Chad was this uncultured. “I know all the words and all the girls’ names,” I explained while he looked for it on his iPad. He told me I could come out whenever I wanted, but that the timer was set to 2 minutes and 30 seconds. The icebox looked like a sauna, but for cold weather. I briefly planned to Spartan kick the door down when my time was up.

Chad left me in the ice sauna for 2 and a half minutes at a temperature of negative 150 degrees Fahrenheit. The first thing that came to mind was my time in New Jersey. “This isn’t even that cold,” I thought. LA people are wimps. I used to walk to bars in my hoe clothes with this kind of cold. I didn’t really know what to do while I was in there. There’s enough room to walk around a bit, so I started to pace and think about what to think about. “A little bit of Monica in my life, a little bit of Jessica by my side,” rattled along in my ears and I started to sing and bust out small dance moves. I didn’t do any of my good dance moves because no one was around to see and it would’ve been a waste. My eyes started to tear up by the time I was done. I walked out and Chad noticed my cold cries. “Aw you missed me that much?!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I’ve grown very attached to you,” I told the stranger. He walked me back to my room and I looked at myself in the mirror. I was more awake now, and my skin was cold, but that’s about it. I already knew I’d never come back and pay someone to do this to me when I could easily just book a flight to Wisconsin.

I came out, and Chad wished me well and asked me to write down the name of my blog so he could check it out. I wrote it down, and he wrote his cell phone number on his business card and handed it to me. Chad, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I forgot your real name and lost your business card.

The time I kind of got recruited to be a stripper

I’ve always been intrigued by strip clubs. I think they get a controversial reputation, but there are probably bigger issues in the world that people can put their energy into. Strippers have always seemed so alluring and fun to me. It blows my uncoordinated mind that they can DANCE in heels and hop on and off the stage, all while pretending to pay attention to dudes!

The first time I went to a strip club, I was with my boyfriend, Lenny, his friend, and one of my girlfriends, Alex. Whenever Lenny gets too drunk, he insists on going to the nearest strip club to give his money away like it’s on fire. We ended up going to a charming place called “The Body Shop,” one night in December. Lenny and his friend walked in ahead of us to get cash out of the ATM.

I walked up to a half bald, heavy-set man behind what looked like a ticketing booth. A transparent screen separated the two of us. There was a half-moon shaped hole at the bottom of it where I put my arm to be stamped. I was jittering with nervous excitement. He looked at me, held my wrist and started asking questions while attempting to twirl me around. “Do you dance?” he asked excitedly. “No, but I used to play tennis,” I responded while slowly completing the twirl and trying to untangle my hand from his. “You should dance! Here!” he suggested. I was super flattered immediately and was ready for my new career, but Alex was having none of it. She made him stamp our hands and ushered us into the main stripper room while he shouted “You both get in for free next time!” after us. A charming new boss I had. 

Alex and I walked in. She looked horrified and I probably looked like I was getting ready to meet Santa Claus. I was fascinated by the mysterious and glamorous life of a stripper and desperately wanted to talk to one. We walked in further to see a big platform that was shaped like a lazy river, wide and long (that’s what she said). Two pretty girls in neon bikinis and platform heels approached our table, and one started to touch my back. They give massages here?! This was the place TO BE! They chatted us up a bit and walked away after we gave them a few dollars for being pretty and standing near us. 

I stood up to go to the bathroom and realized my dress had been unzipped in the back. Even the strippers were in on trying to recruit me! They wanted Thotiana, not Tatianna, and they were making it loud and clear. Alex and I walked in and realized that this was also the strippers’ bathroom. I started chatting up one of them while I waited for Alex. She told me she was from Vegas and had dreams of becoming a pediatrician. Big boobs AND a big heart. 

When we walked back, the guys had moved toward the front of the stage for prime views into a blonde stripper’s uterus. She was a really good dancer and was also completely nude except for her heels. A few minutes later, another stripper came by and politely asked to dance on Lenny. I agreed and tried not to stare. I didn’t mind it, but it felt like I was watching him do something private so I wanted to give them their space. I turned to Lenny’s friend who was answering all of Alex’s questions about why guys enjoy strip clubs. I didn’t hear the answer, but I already knew the answer. This is the only place where a guy gets to feel like a girl with all the attention they get. And if you’re anything like me, attention is oxygen, and at strip clubs, you get NAKED ATTENTION. I threw some dollar bills on stage and cheered for the two girls gyrating on each other. It was a peaceful experience, and I hope the stripper from the bathroom gets to medical school so I can take her job.

A Fish Named Fred: The story of how a dramatic woman made her bf agree to getting a fish

On the way to my apartment, there’s a sizeable Petco. Occasionally, they lure you over there by putting a bunch of dogs up for adoption outside of the store. My boyfriend was driving past it when I yelled, “Pull over! I need to pet the puppies!” Usually, he ignores me when I shout commands at him, so I was pleasantly surprised when he pulled into the parking lot.

There were about 6 dogs lined up in cages; the pups all equally sad and jaded looking; on the verge of giving each other prison tattoos and quietly making shanks out of chew toys. There was a rambunctious black lab mix that barked at anyone who came near her little jail cell.

“Don’t mind her, she just wants attention,” one of the adoption people told me. I looked at him and said, “Oh, I do the same thing when I want attention.”

I looked at the dogs and explained to Lenny that I had connections with all of them. “…and in conclusion, we have to adopt each one,” I said. “No,” he answered, “Let’s go get Luigi a new toy.” Luigi is his unruly 6-year-old Vizla. He’s big, beautiful, and has a nice combination of energy and anxiety.

There were more dogs inside, but I made an effort to avoid them. It would’ve been unfair to make more connections with other dogs that Lenny prevented us from getting.

I was headed for the Lizard aisle when I stopped to look at the fish. They were held in tiny, clear containers stacked on top of each other, like some cruel game of fish Jenga. Their little homes couldn’t have held more than a cup of water. I was surprised by how pretty some of them were. And now, I needed a fish.

I called Lenny over and started aggressively complimenting him. “You’re like, ridiculously handsome. And your biceps…just wow.” He looked at me and then looked at the fish, and replied, “We’re not getting a fish.” Phase one of project manipulate-Lenny-Into-Getting-A-Fish was failing quickly.

“Ok, hear me out,” I said, “You’ve got these beautiful white countertops at your house, and how nice would a vibrant, red little Betta fish look?” He knows I step up my vocabulary game when I want something. He looked at the fish a little longer.

That’s when I saw it in his face … a small door had opened. He was slightly receptive to what I was suggesting. So I gently kicked that door down, and continued, “And your Airbnb’s! You could put fish in there! Think of all the cool reviews you’d get.” He cocked his head to the side and was seriously thinking about it. “Okay, let’s…I’ll think about it,” he said. We left with a toy and a seed that I planted in that big, beautiful brain of his.

The next morning, we were both a smidge hungover, and I made a feast for breakfast. This is when I realized I should always ask for things after he has just eaten. “So…have you thought about the fish? For names, I was thinking either Fred or Bartholomew since the little red one you liked is a boy.” I was ready to put phase four through ten of my manipulation plan into motion when he answered, “Okay, we can get him. I like Fred better.” I was stunned. I thought I’d have to wait WEEKS to get a fish together. I beamed and pushed my luck – “Today?! Can we go back today?!” I asked. “Yeah, sure… let’s go today.” I jumped on him and screamed in his ear.

“But…since this will be our first child together, we need some rules,” he informed me.

“Okay, let me draft up a quick contract,” I responded.

We drove to FedEx to laminate the contract. I was so excited, he could’ve gotten me to sign anything, and I almost never read what I’m signing. I could’ve been handing over a real human child for all I knew. Luckily, I wrote this one myself, and it was just a simple raising-a-fish-together agreement.

After making it official, we went back to the Petco to rescue a red fish named Fred. Lenny stopped me from purchasing 8 toys and 20 sets of decorations for his tank. We got back in the car and I held his little container as still as possible, for fear of traumatizing or dropping him. The whole way back to his house, I thanked Lenny and expressed excitement over purchasing our first son together.

Lenny parked the car. I exited slowly and methodically to protect my new, scaly baby. When we got inside to adjust him into his giant new fish-apartment, I’ll admit, I clumsily dumped him into the tank and could’ve been more graceful. As a new mother, I’ve learned to be more gentle with him over time. Now, he lives in a 3-gallon mansion by himself on Lenny’s countertop. How Fred affords that type of real estate in Los Angeles, I’ll never know. I love my little sushi, and I hope he never learns to read. 

All the horrific things I witnessed on my cruise

There are a lot of unique things that happen when you and 4000 other people are sharing a floating hotel for 7 days. You’re on a cruise, so you have relatively limited mobility. There are only a certain number of things to do and places to go. Picture endless amounts of food, too many children, and piña coladas to drown out the children. Anyway, here’s some crazy shit that happened on the cruise. 

My eating habits

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner all started to blur together and immediately spiraled out of control. Food is part of the cruise package, so aside from the expensive shit reserved for the glorified Ruby Tuesday’s on board, everything was ‘all you can eat.’ And nothing tastes better than food that appears to be free. There was a big buffet that served various cuisine at almost all times of the day, a sandwich bar, a 24-hour pizza place, an Indian food shop, and room service you could order at any time if you couldn’t get your lazy ass to one of the feeding troughs. Out of all the glorious and horrifyingly high caloric options, the absolute best thing that they served on the cruise, was the lava cake with vanilla ice cream on the side. Crack in a cup! Unfortunately, I’m not used to eating giant meals every hour, so this all had consequences for me. By the third day, I was throwing up what was initially a delicious, greasy grilled cheese and bacon sandwich. But I would do it all over again. It was worth it.

Lenny eating for 4

 This 8-year-old boy and the ice cream machine

Along with all the buffets and restaurants, there were ice cream machines every 10-feet that pumped out swirls of vanilla and chocolate ice cream, or cocaine-for-children as they say. The ice cream itself tasted like ice that was trying to whisper its flavor to you, but it’s free and in front of you. On the second day of the cruise, I watched an 8-year-old boy stick his meaty hands under one of the machines, holding out a cone ready to be filled. By the time he realized he overshot how much vanilla swirl he could fit into his cone, it was too late. In a last-ditch effort, he stuck out both of his chunky little arms like he was catching a football. He caught the ice cream in his hands, and proceeded to smear it onto the tray underneath the machine and walked on to try his luck at another.

My drinking habits

There was one drink package available, but as with everything on a cruise, they’re outrageously overpriced. My frugal boyfriend decided we could sneak some alcohol on in tiny plastic flasks. He hid them in his checked suitcase in various compartments and underneath articles of clothing, but then he did something strange without my knowledge. He attached a zip-tie on his suitcase to ensure it stayed closed. To this day, he argues that this is a perfectly normal thing to do, but if I were a cruise security person, this would clearly raise some red flags if not all of the red flags. Just as Icarus flew too close to the sun, Lenny fucked up our master plan. All of our alcohol except for two bottles of red wine had been confiscated when the bag got to our room. We agonized over the idea of being sober on a cruise for a week. After going through all of our limited options, he ended up getting the drink package for us, which amounted to 15 drinks per day PER PERSON. Lenny took this as a challenge and generally started drinking early in the day, and encouraged me to do the same. I don’t want to think about the amount of alcohol I ended up consuming, so this paragraph is going to have to stop here.

All the money I lost

There was a casino on the boat. And I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.

The hairy chest contest

On cruises, they have all sorts of competitions and shows for maximum entertainment. I got really into the hairy chest contest in particular because it involved regular, random, hairy guys that were either hand selected by the host or brave volunteers that were ready to strut their fluff. There were three female judges seated on the main deck, and about 7 bare-chested men. The host had the men perform an array of tasks one by one for the judges. First, they had to take their shirts off in a sexy way, then they had to twerk for the judges and finally do their best tiger crawl and roar on all fours. Lenny and I watched from the second deck, cheering and waving our arms frantically for our favorite performers. After each little show, the host took them aside individually and analyzed their chest hair, noting any major bald spots, discolorations, or extreme wooly mammoth situations. Then, he would name them accordingly. One man was named Mr. Fluffy for obvious reasons. Another, he called Tree of Life because his chest hair took on the shape of a hair tree. It was the only time in my life that I was both horrified and wished I had hair on my chest.

The Great Eyelash Crisis of 2018

I don’t really have a beauty regimen. I usually just slap on some foundation, eyeliner, mascara and call it a day. My maximum effort is getting manicures and haircuts semi-annually. Lately, eyelash extensions have been very much on my radar and seem trendy, even for people who aren’t the Kardashians. I had been wanting to try them for a while, and decided to take the plunge. I spoke to one of my girlfriends who had them, and she said, “I just roll out of bed, and go to work. I don’t even wear makeup anymore.”  WHAT?! You mean I could be putting even LESS effort into my beauty routine? Sold, bitch.

I perused Yelp for less than 10 minutes, found a place near me, and called to schedule an appointment. I was ready for my new life.

I arrived at a small space that was maybe the size of a semi-wealthy person’s closet. I was greeted by two pretty girls about my age. They were friendly enough and the one who was doing my eyelashes asked me a few questions about what I wanted. I showed her a picture from her website of a set that looked rather mild and told her I was going for a more natural look with some volume. “Like yours, yours look nice,” I said. She nodded and had me lay down on a table with a little grey travel pillow under my head. “This is great,” I thought. “I get to lay down, power through this hangover, and wake up with basically a new face.” The girls talked to each other a bit. Mostly about boy problems, some small talk about traveling, and one lecture about the danger of riding motorcycles.

After about two hours, the girl – let’s call her Karen – told me to open my eyes. I felt like someone had just given birth to me and I was seeing the world for the first time. But with more eyelashes than an infant might have. Karen put her face over mine and examined my eyes. “How do they look? Am I pretty yet?” I asked. She told me to go over to the mirror and check them out for myself. I got up, eager and ready, and looked in the mirror. This is one of the few times in life that I’ve actually seen myself look horrified in real time. My eyelashes were now 8 feet long and capable of creating a local hurricane. I was worried that if I blinked too quickly, I would spontaneously start flying into U.S. airspace and be detained for not having a license. I was no longer Tatianna. I was Cinnamon – a young stripper trying to make ends meet.

I tried not to panic, and said, “They’re…a little long.”

“You’ll get used to them!” she explained. “Let us know how you feel in a few days.” I didn’t want to offend Karen. This was her job, and honestly, if I actually was a stripper, these would’ve been great for my career. I left, and tried to hide my face on the way back to my car. “Shit, shit, shit.” I got in the car and looked at myself again in the mirror. “I can’t go to work like this. I have a regular person job.” I said to Cinnamon. I started calling everyone that was close to me to see what my options were. Here are some of the reactions I got after sending around some close-up pictures:

“Oh no.”

“You look like you have a Snapchat filter on.”

Laughter. Followed by more laughter.

“They’re not THAT bad.”

“You look like an insta model. You just need a spray tan.”

And it’s not exactly something you can hide – sure sunglasses inside are always a good option – but that really isn’t my style. Just like these lady-of-the-night lashes weren’t my style.

I called Karen back almost immediately and asked what I could do to “dial these puppies back a bit.” After some back and forth, she had me come back in to see the other girl that was there. Let’s call her Becky. Becky looked me straight in my ready-for-take-off eyes and lied. “They look soooo good.” She commented. “Just wait until tomorrow! You’ll get so many compliments once people see them.”

“I’ve already shown them to people and the reactions were NOT complimentary.” I informed her.

“Okay, well we can take some of them off and see how you feel.” I laid down on the tiny bed and calmed down a little. After a few minutes she held a mirror up to my face. “There that’s better, I think.” She said.

I looked at myself. Cinnamon was staring back at me. I turned around and looked her dead in the eyes. “I look like a porn star.”

She laughed and did a poor job trying to convince me that they looked good. “Can’t we just cut them or something?” I asked.

“Oh my God! Nooooo!” She said. “Here, let me show you what would happens. I love educating my clients!” Becky was nice, but she wasn’t the brightest bulb. She didn’t seem to realize that I would never be her client.

“Let’s just take them all off,” I said. She looked a little petrified, briefly tried to talk me out of it, and eventually agreed. She had me lay down, and put what felt like soap directly into my eyes. It burned, but I didn’t care. I just wanted these little wind turbines off my face. I listened to Becky as she tried to offer me a new free set. “Fool me once!” I thought. I thanked her and apologized for erasing all their work. I looked in the mirror one last time. Tati was back in all her makeup-less glory.

Swimming with Sharks in Belize

It’s never really been a goal of mine to swim with sharks. I’ve thought about the concept briefly and kind of decided ‘maybe not a great idea’. I mostly just don’t want to die that way or lose a limb…normal people concerns. But, when I went to Belize, one of their main activities/attractions is something called “Shark Ray Alley,” a designated area in the ocean where boats pull up with bait and humans (two separate things in their minds), feed the sharks, and let the humans get into the water with sharks and stingrays. When you’re on vacation, the ‘yes effect’ takes control. You just start agreeing with whatever your group wants to do, so I put my big girl swimsuit on and agreed to swim with these a-holes.

These two super awesome dudes took us out on their boat, gave us gear and were our instructors for the couple of hours we were out at sea. We drove about 20 minutes out, and as soon as the boat pulled up to this one specific spot, 30 nurse sharks showed up quicker than I show up to wine tastings. Apparently, they know that boat = breakfast. One of the instructors started tossing little bits of fish off the left side of the boat and the sharks were swimming over one another to inhale the food. The other instructor told us to get into the water on the right side of the boat and to stay about 5-8 feet away from the sharks. No, we weren’t in cages. The only gear we had on were snorkel masks and flippers.

I plopped into the water ready to die. “I’ve done a lot of things,” I thought. “I regret not buying that bouncy house though. And I regret not doing more drugs. And I regret not doing both of those things at the same time.” I swam in the water for a bit and dipped my whole face in so I could see what I was working with. I saw all the sharks congregating on the left side of the boat, trying to get a good snack in before their entree (us). There were four of us adults and about 20-80 nurse sharks just 10 feet away. They reminded me of what my dogs do whenever I’m eating…just kind of stay in one spot and stare at me until I give in (immediately) and throw them some chicken.

Before all of this, my boyfriend promised to stay next to me and hold my hand the whole time. He’s pretty muscular and was in the military for like 6 years so I had every intention of not leaving his side during this experience. In my mind, I had nothing to worry about. When the sharks attacked, he’d sacrifice himself to save me and I’d write a little paragraph about him at the end of my memoir, and adopt his dog and take his house. This is not what happened. Instead, he kept getting water in his mask and was too busy drowning and inhaling all of the ocean water to be my protector. I was on my own and made a mental note of how useless he is underwater.

I swam back to the boat in a super elegant way (similar to a mermaid). But, I’m not very bright, so I tried to climb the ladder with giant flippers and my snorkel mask still stuck to my face. Not only could I not see well, but didn’t think to take these things off my feet. And there’s nothing really to hold onto except for the boat which was all lubed up by the water we’d been dripping onto it. So, I rolled back onto the boat (picture a whale rolling around on the sand). “Do they not attack people?” I asked one of our boat-men. “Nah, not unless you mess with them.” He said. “Do you want to feed them?” I need everyone and everything to like me at all times, so of course, I wanted to feed them. They were cute now that I was hovering above them.

After I got home, I Wikipedia’d ‘nurse sharks’ and according to the interwebs, they’re ‘ranked fourth in documented shark bites on humans.’ It says this might be because divers aren’t as cautious around these guys since they don’t have a reputation for attacking people. So basically, the take-home lesson is that I swam with the deadliest sharks in the ocean and lived to blog about it.

A Totally Unrelatable Account of What It’s Like to Live at Home

I want to make it clear from the beginning that I have a unique set up at my house. And by house I mean two bedroom apartment with 4 adult humans and 3 animals. No matter what – I’m extremely fortunate. I live in an incredible city that’s two blocks away from a CVS with wine, half-baked Ben and Jerry’s, and adult diapers if it ever comes to that. But still, it’s strange.

I live with my mom, my sister and my mom’s best friend Islean. Living in a relatively small space with so many beings gets chaotic, dirty and often mirrors a “Lord of the Flies” vibe. It’s every man for himself with a, “I’m here for you if you absolutely NEED me to be and if I’m not busy” kick. But, there’s never a sober moment as they say. Dull! I meant dull moment.

Me, my Mom and Islean

Our apartment was looking particularly disheveled one day when my mom’s husband stopped by. I’m already being dishonest. Our apartment is always disheveled – it wasn’t just that one day. When you live in a two bedroom apartment with too many people that don’t thoroughly enjoy cleaning, it gets messy. My mom’s husband walked in, took a quick look around and said, “I feel like I need to wear a hazmat suit every time I come here.” For those of you who don’t know, a hazmat suit is impermeable protective gear – you know for people who encounter poisonous, radioactive chemicals on the reg. After he made that reference, the idea kind of took off and spiraled out of control. We began calling our apartment “Hazmania” as if it were its own country.

My mom falls somewhere between Julia Roberts in ‘Pretty Woman’ and Sarah Conner in ‘The Terminator.’ Except she’s not a prostitute and is only a smidge homicidal. She’s intelligent, funny and totally charming when she feels like being charming. She’s got the attractiveness of a model combined with the wit of Bill Burr or any other middle-aged male comedian.

Mom’s motto

“I wish I was the type of person who enjoyed traveling, but I genuinely regret it every time I go anywhere. I’d rather stay home and watch tv pantsless.” My mom has been saying every version of this sentence ever since I can remember, and all I can say is that I really admire how well she knows herself. Most well-adjusted 23-year-olds don’t want to live with their mom – but I’m not well-adjusted so I don’t fall into this category. In an ideal world, I’d live with her for forever. Or until my future husband tells me it’s time to maybe move out of my mom’s house “since we’ve been married for 8 years now.” She’s my best friend, my confidant and the Queen of Hazmania.

Islean moved in with us a few years ago mostly for entertainment value. When I say moved in, I mean he showed up here every other day unannounced and slowly started leaving all his shit here. Islean and my mom met at the gym, which is where they both live when they’re not here. If I’m remembering correctly, my mom was very into Yoga at the time and Islean was teaching her meditation techniques.

Islean on a good day

I feel it’s better to leave these photos here without any explanation.

Pregnant Islean

Islean is a big, buff personal trainer and he’s funny as hell. He comes from a theatrical background and studied acting at NYU back in the day. Just picture a big, buff dude… who occasionally bursts out into song. And puts up with three unpleasable women. In Hazmania, he is the entertainer, the comic relief, and the one who trains us for free.

Doing our best

Have I not mentioned my sister yet? She’s like me, but I’m better in every way. And she’s also very different from me. Growing up, Bri was the athletic one and I was a book nerd. In other words, she beat the shit out of me and I retorted with a very mean and robust vocabulary. Bri has the emotional intelligence of a 70-year-old woman who has SEEN SOME SHIT and, like our mom, could’ve been a model. She’s often the one who brings us all together because she doesn’t just want attention; she demands it. If one of us isn’t paying enough attention to her, we get tackled. And we all must accept the fact that if we make food, she’s going to eat it.

“Okay so here are our options,” I said. “Hazmanians. Hazmatians. Hazmatters. Hazmats. If we’re going to be our own entity, we should definitely have a name and probably a fun uniform, but that’ll come later.” I enjoy taking things too far and thought our Hazma-society needed more than just a name. There was some discussion and then we took it to a vote (apparently we’re a democratic society). We are now the Hazmanians of Hazmania.