Last time I look to this crowd for a pat on the back.


(Insert hours of absolute dead radio silence)



Last time I look to this crowd for a pat on the back.


(Insert hours of absolute dead radio silence)



Last night I went to a club.
No, not a country club.
A club where the music is loud, the crowds are abundant and sweaty (me always being the sweatiest) and everyone is super drunk.
Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t even understand what clubs are, much less go to them. I don’t even like leaving my Upper East Side neighborhood, and on the rare occasion I do make it downtown, it’s to pursue a buzzed-about meal of bacon, or because I fell asleep on the subway and got lost.
But last night I made the exception for a friend’s dad’s birthday party. Yes, you read that correctly. My friend’s dad, David, the coolest 60-year-old on earth, decided to celebrate his birthday by clubbing in New York City. And it just so happens that the only way you’re going to get me to go to a club is if you tell me that a 60-year-old man and all his 60-year-old friends will be at a reserved table with bottle service.
I’m not being sarcastic. That is my ideal club situation.
So I went with bells on, and we had a blast! David is cooler at age 60 than I ever was or ever will be at any point in my life. And his wife doesn’t look a day over 35. (They also happen to be the loveliest people ever, but I feel that is secondary to how fucking great they look). #lifegoals
So we all partied until 3am, when David decided it was time to call it a night, and the rest of us didn’t really see a point in being there without him.
At 4am I went to bed thinking to myself, “Huh, look at me! I totally CAN do this club thing!” and I gave myself a soft little pat on the back as I drifted into a self-satisfied slumber.
At 5am I projectile vomited. EVERYWHERE.
In the bed. Across my nightstand. Onto the wall. All over my iPhone, alarm clock, and various electrical cords. Then again, at 6am, in the toilet.
David woke up this morning feeling great.

(This was the best selfie we managed to take last night. #notgood)
“Trump said ‘bigly.’ That doesn’t even make sense. How can he be president if he doesn’t make sense?” — 4th grader
Kid, I ask myself that every damn day.

Me and a friend (a new friend who doesn’t know me or my family that well), discussing the idea of large families:
Friend: “I can’t BELIEVE your mom had four children. That is so many!”
Me: “I completely agree. I mean, it’s great now that we are all adults. But as young kids? Four is too many. My mom had to live in her car for like 15 years.”
Friend: “Wait, what?! She LIVED in the car? Why? Where did the rest of you live?”
Me (laughing): “No no, I’m sorry. I meant that she had to spend all of her time in the car. Driving us to all our activities and carpooling.”
Friend: “Oh my god. I thought you meant like because of having so many kids, there wasn’t enough room in the house, or enough money or something, so she had to live alone in her car.”
No. But to be honest, she probably would have preferred that arrangement.

This one goes out to the supportive loved ones of people who struggle with mental illness– friends, family, significant others– ALL of you who stick with us through the ups and downs.
We know we’re not always easy. But you love us anyway, listen when it must be unbearably hard to listen, and check in even when you know the response will not be positive.
And most important, you keep us laughing.
Thank you.


If Trump becomes president, I’m moving to 15 Yemen Road, Yemen.

Eric: “You realize I’m pretty much fully moving in tomorrow, right?”
99% of me: “I know, I’m so excited!”
1% of me:
