Times I Failed and Everything Turned Out Fine

Hello sugar bugs, how are you? What’s happening? What’s your life look life? I’m currently eating oatmeal, chilling on my couch, with my cat is on top of me ‘cause he is literally oBseSSed with me.

I just finished up working on One Day at a Time season three. CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE IT?! THREE WHOLE SEASONS of working on this delight of a TV show. And you can watch it sooooon! Season three is coming out early 2019, I think. I don’t know.

Also people have been asking me about The Bold Type. Though I left to return to ODAAT and did not get to work on season three, there IS a season three that will be coming out!!! But I don’t know when. No one tells me any premiere dates. Also did you like that I said “People have been asking me” Like what a stud, right???! (1 person asked)

Anyway, this means that I am off of work and free to work on anything I want before the next project comes along. At first, this was insanely exciting. I mean, FINALLY! I can write new scripts! I can blog! I can learn a new language! I can walk down the street and when a salesperson asks me, “Do you have a minute?” I can say “I sure do!” Then run away!

But in the past few weeks that excitement has worn thin, because I learned something pretty terrible about myself: I’m absolutely terrified of failure.

Turns out— it’s my kryptonite. Anytime I want to start a new script, new project, new blog, new hairstyle, new Trader Joes location, I find myself frozen because I am so utterly afraid of failing.

What if it’s not good? What if no one likes it? What if lowlights don’t suit my coloring? WHAT IF THE TJS DOESN’T HAVE FREE COFFEE TO SIP AS I PERUSE CAULIFLOWER ALTERNATIVES TO EVERYTHING!?

Honestly, it can be debilitating. Sometimes even the thought of failing feels like failure enough. I’ll think: I should get out there and run a marathon this year. Then I’ll think about the training… And what if the long runs take up too much time? What if I get hurt? What if I get shin splints!!! What if a big party or wedding falls on the night before the marathon that I cannot miss! Then I’ll be too tired the day of and all the preparation I did was for nothing!!!!!! Nah nope never mind woof that was exhausting just thinking about it.

Fear of failure has held me back from so much. It’s the reason I would always get off dating-apps. If I was swiping everyday for a year and didn’t meet anyone worth a second date, did that mean I failed at dating? What if I did end up liking someone… but then they ghosted me? Did I fail at finding my cul-de-sac loving husband?? WHO is going to hold my hand while I die?? This freakin’ cat????!

Speaking of, I was so afraid of failure when I bought this feline sitting on top of me. I thought I would mess up at some point and kill the thing.

I texted my friend Tayler-Anne, who had a cat of her own, and said “HOW DO I CAT?”

She wrote back: “Um… just feed it.”

I was so unsatisfied with that answer. Mmmmm but Tayler-Anne, you don’t understand. WHAT IF I FAIL?!!!! What if I forget to feed it one day or let it out accidentally and it runs away! Then I am a big fat cat-owner failure and all I have left is the painting I commissioned of his face:

Frank Painting

(to get one of your pet go to my friend Emma’s page!! On Instagram @paintedcatsanddogs)

Two years later, the cat is still very much alive. I didn’t fail. But guess what? I have failed — a ton of times.

And everything is fine. Great, even. I really, really love my life. 10/10. A+. Double stuff Oreo.

So, in order to remind myself and anyone reading why the fear of failure is the worst reason to not do something, I’m revisiting some of my failures. Things that felt like my world was ENDING and have had little to no real effect on my life. Things I feared I would never get over. Then I did.

1.) National Honor Society

When I was in high school, I was in the National Honor Society. Yes, I must capitalize every word in National Honor Society. Yes, I would like you to believe I am extremely smart. Yes, the requirements were pretty low and it is not as prestigious as I am leading you to believe.

You know what IS prestigious? Being the PRESIDENT of the National Honor Society. I set my sights on this goal and decided that I would be the NHS prez and accept my award wearing a gorgeous navy Juicy track suit with matching Juicy stud earrings or die trying.

I can’t remember the finer details, but somehow I did not properly plan this campaign and I was away in Florida on a family vacation when the candidates were to make their campaign speech.

I pleaded with the very strict math teacher who was assigned to lead NHS for an exception. Couldn’t I just make my speech when I got home?? I would bring in donuts! Even Krispy Kremes!! I would wait for the HOT NOW sign to appear and then get dozens of donuts and make it rain glazzzzzze at our 6am NHS meeting!

But I was denied. The NHS waits for no one. (I should have known.)

So I LEPT out of my Florida pool paradise, tossed my virgin Strawberry daiquiri aside, and spent a ton of my hard-earned (my mom’s) money to go home early to give this speech and take what was rightfully mine. I think my speech was literally “I SHOULD BE IN FLORIDA RIGHT NOW WEARING A SUNHAT BUT I AM HERE — UR WELCOME.”

I lost. I ugly-cried in the school cafeteria and my football player boyfriend at the time ate all my donuts and said, “What’s a National Honor Society? That like a Scout’s Honor thing?”

2.) LMU’s Hip Hop Team That I Forgot the Name Of

I was a part of the dance team at my high school. The sense of community, the rush of performing, the Fridays where we wore matching uniforms to school which were wildly uncomfortable and made everyone else feel weird and left out? I lived for it.

When we all went off to college, a bunch of the girls from my team ended up joining their university’s college cheer or dance team. They would post pictures from their auditions where they were wearing tiny shorts and tinier sports bras with little numbers attached to their hip with a caption that says “NEWEST MEMBER OF THE TEAM! CAN’T WAIT TO ROOT FROM THE SIDELINES! GO PICKLES!” I can’t tell you how much I wanted to post a picture like that. I mean, an excuse to wear spandex short shorts???! You get it.

LMU had two viable options: The cheer team, which was mostly gymnastics-type cheer and not pom-dance cheer (VERY DIFFERENT, MY FRIENDS) and a hip hop team that I have since forgotten the name of. There were probably other options but these were the fruits of my Freshmen year research when I typed into Google LMU, LET ME DANCEEEEEE (AND LOOK CUTE WHILE DOING IT).

I walked into the hip-hop team auditions and was given a number. Immediately — It. Was. ON. A number to put on my hip?? They were full-on handing me the tools for the perfect post to prove to all my mates back home once and for all that I was CRUSHING it in college!!!!

I got cut the very first round.

I ugly cried myself to sleep and never auditioned again. It wasn’t shocking, I was so clearly not on the level of the other dancers. Most of them were studying dance in college and have gone on to be professional dancers on cruise ships and at Disneyland.

As for me? I became one of the masses. Like everybody else, I had to wait until Halloween for an excuse to wear spandex short shorts. I was devastated.

3.) Sorority President

This is my pride and joy when it comes to any story about failure.

My junior year of college, I once again set my sights on the position I was axed out of four years prior: PRESIDENT. This time, of my sorority that I held so near and dear to my heart.

I really can’t even remember all the specifics, but I do remember that I was soooo sure I would get it. I thought — this is why I didn’t get NHS president all those years ago. It was because my presidential duties were being SAVED UP for this moment. My true calling is to be the PRESIDENT OF MY SORORITY.

I filled out a power point deck that my fellow sisters read, alongside the other, not-going-to-beat-me candidates. I was sure. I was in. I was determined.

I lost.

4.) Sorority President, again

I was so positive that I was going to win this election, that I demanded a re-vote right then and there. That’s right. I HAD THE SORORITY RE-VOTE.

This isn’t like the next year or anything, it was the SAME NIGHT. Or the night after. Who can remember. You know what I do remember?

I lost. Again.

How hard are you cringing right now?

Want to know what’s worse?


I went home. Turned on Adele. And ugly cried.

5.) That That I Took Up Knitting

Two years ago, I decided to take up knitting. I thought it would be the perfect hobby for the holiday season. I watched holiday movies, ate gingerbread, and knit headbands for all my friends as their Christmas gifts that they were sure to donate to Goodwill the following year and then tell me they “misplaced” it.

I tried to knit a blanket. It was to look like this:

cream blanker


Aaaaaaand this is what I got:


I entirely failed. But did I ugly cry about it?




I’ve always loved this passage from “Motivational Quotes to Get the Blood Moving” By Markus Almond:

“Here’s the thing about mistakes: No one is paying attention. No one knows you’re making mistakes but you. Call attention to them and everyone will call you a fuck up. Move on and no one will know the difference.”

I have found it so true. So why then, am I doing the exact opposite and point all of you to some of my failures? Because I love them, and because they do not matter at all.

I would have sucked as NHS president. I was no where good enough to be on that dance team — I really just wanted community, which I found in other places. I had a blast as a VP in my sorority and my re-vote is actually my most favorite story ever. I have no idea where that washcloth/scarf/blanket is. (Probably Goodwill.)

At the time, I felt like such a big fat failure, but now? They are trivial and silly and funny to look back on. I thought they meant so much. And they actually do — but in a different way than what I thought.

Now, their meaning is to remind me to always be that girl who runs for things, tries out for teams, and demands re-votes no matter how vulnerable they make you and how hard you might crash and burn. Because you know what I can’t count and list for you here? The amount of times I took a big swing and it WORKED and it led me to this Double Stuffed Oreo life I get to live now.

Like when I said “fuck you” to the fear of failure, stayed on dating apps and met my cute boyfriend. When I moved to LA and made a life for myself. When I went after a “never going to happen” writing career and have the best job in the universe.

So I hope you guys will take some more big swings with me and vow to stop letting the fear of failure get in our way.

Orrrrrrr maybe I’m the only one who feels this way. OMG, is this post un-relatable? Am I alone in this? Will people not get it??? UGH!!!! What a fail.


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My Dentist Appointment

It took me much too long to find a dentist in LA. Like I just found one, and I’ve been living here for almost eight years. I would always just make appointments when I would go home to Oregon. I put off finding an LA hairdresser, doctor, car repair shop, eyebrow threader. Finding good service people is just as difficult (IF NOT MORE) as finding a boyfriend or girlfriend. You have to make sure you vibe, be sure to take things slow, and feel as though they don’t just like you for your money. It can go south very quickly. But, just like a boyfriend, when it goes well you RAVE about them to your your friends and family and make them promise you’ll always be their favorite.

Speaking of friends and family, you remember Joe, my boyfriend? I’ve always been very adamant that he is Caroline’s boyfriend I am not Joe’s girlfriend. So much so that, when I introduce myself to his friends, I say, “I’m Joe’s girlfriend, but I am so much more than that.” Typically, the other person then stares at me as if I am an insane person. Because only an insane person would say that.

Joe is an Australian who has been visa-challenged for the past year or so. He’s been in and out of the country on short-term visas ever since I’ve known him. To his credit, on our first date, he told me this was the case. Then I said “Okay” and “You have no visa? You should try MasterCard!!!” Because it was a first date and I’m FUN and CHARMING.

Then we started dating, I had to quit with the jokes (lol never), and my new boyfriend was in and out of the country.

Back to the dentist, because I ended up finding the perfect one. Her office is right next to my place, it’s clean, and… MOST importantly, it is open on Saturdays. That was a must. As a writer, I always feel like I shouldn’t ask for time off for things like dentist appointments. Show-writing gigs last around six months so the feeling is always: Get your appointments done before and after you’re working. You’re not here for very long, there’s no need to take time off for anything non-time sensitive when you’re gonna be done here soon anyway. But, if you’re lucky enough to work on shows back to back, you’re in a pickle. I was in a pickle. And my teeth were getting fickle. (lol kill me)

But my dentist office is only open one Saturday a month. Which means that all of us patients are fighting to the death for those appointments. I’ve been trying to get an appointment for so long. October had no openings. November? No go. December? No go. January? One spot open. I TOOK IT, obviously. And celebrated. With red wine and popcorn, because I wasn’t headed to the dentist for a very, very long time.

Joe thought that his visa was going to come through early this month. He was in Mexico, so I was going to drive down to snag him and drive back up together. That’s right. We were gonna do a ROADTRIIIIIP! MUSIC! SUN! SNACKS! GAS! PRICES! HOPEFULLY! DON’T! GO! UP! I called to cancel my dentist appointment. But, before they even answered, I decided to just wait and see. With my and Joe’s luck, something was going to go wrong and our plan was going to fall apart. After all, this appointment was harder to get than my college degree. (This is me reminding you that I’m smart and have a college degree.)

If you saw me in the past year while I’ve been with Joe, I probably bitched about immigration to you, because it just felt like it was never going to happen. Things always went wrong. And it did this time, too. His visa didn’t come through and my Mexico road trip was cancelled. Yep. CANCELLED. I mourned the loss by going to Cabo Catina on Wilshire and drinking 16 margaritas to dull the pain. Don’t worry. I was not alone. My friends were gonna meet me there! But they never showed up, because I never invited them.

I was so fed up with him not having his visa that I started to tell him and everybody else that we were just going to have a green card marriage. I mean, I love him!!! I’m in it!!! I am determined!! I am doing this for my man!!! But then… his three-year artist visa FINALLY CAME THROUGH!!! Thank God. I was so happy for him. For us. Truly. I only shed one tear when I deleted my Pinterest page of wedding dresses. 

So Joe completed his interview and was to pick up his passport from the embassy on a Thursday. He had a flight booked back and everything. It was happening. I was ready. I hadn’t seen him in a month. I was going to pick him up from the airport right after work. In a dress, so that he would remember that his girlfriend is a ladylike bitch. With kneecaps!!

I wanted to spend the weekend with him without interruptions or early morning appointments, so I called my dentist to cancel. A dentist visit in the middle of our romantic weekend!?! Hell no! But could I get another appointment in the next few months? Hell no! Turns out, my dentist’s door is truly the hottest spot in LA. I remembered that my mom had a sign in our bathroom growing up that said “take care of your teeth or they’ll go away” and my teeth were about to run for the hills if I didn’t get in soon. I told the receptionist that I would keep my appointment. I would just have to leave my newly American boyfriend for a few hours. It would be fine. Maybe I’d even make him come hold my hand while I lied about how much I floss.

Thursday came and I got more ready before work than I ever have in my life. We’re talking perfume. It was a BIG DAY. The dress was on!!!! My boyfriend was coming back into the country!!!!!!!!

Then Joe texted me while I was at work. He said that the embassy didn’t have his passport ready and he was told to come back next week. Without a passport, he couldn’t fly. Without flying, he wasn’t coming back to LA. Without him coming back to LA, my perfumed kneecaps were to be enjoyed by nobody.

I was pretty devastated, understandably. On the bright side, I didn’t cancel the dentist appointment, so I still had big weekend plans.

That next night, I was going to a Shabbat dinner with my new Birthright friends. Joe was invited, too, since he also went on the trip. But of course, after the recent set back, he couldn’t make it. He went to the embassy in Mexico on Friday hoping he could get the passport back earlier than they originally thought, but texted me that it didn’t work. Instead, he met some guy and they were going to go to a circus show at a castle. I didn’t ask a lot of questions because wtf kind of questions do you ask about a circus show at a castle. It was weird. But also, Joe’s weird. (FYI, I’m not.) (Meow.)

I went to my dinner with my prepared dish. I had attempted to make potato kugel. By attempt, I mean that I did in fact make it but also nearly sliced my thumb off in the process. I put a bandaid on it and then sat on my hand all night to make sure nobody noticed that part of my thumb was missing and the kugel tasted vaguely of it.

I put my purse and coat in a closet. The only person I would be texting that night is Joe. And he’s at a circus at a castle. Cause he’s weird. I figured it would be fine.

We ate dinner. We sang songs. We gossiped about Ellen Pompeo. Then around midnight, someone asked me where Joe was. I told them, then proceeded to explain that in my relationship, Joe is the “reacher” and I am the “settler,” when…



I was so shook. Clearly. Because, as we all know, I HAD A DENTIST APPOINTMENT THE NEXT MORNING THAT I COULDN’T MISS!!!!!!

Yep, he surprised me. Do not worry, I still made it to the appointment. And Joe is back in the country for at least three years!!! He got his passport that day like he hoped would happen, went to the airport, go on the first flight to LA, and Ubered to the dinner where he knew I was.

Also, we’re not engaged. My friend Jay S took those videos and was also clearly swept up in the moment. AS WE ALL WERE. DID YOU SEE ME LICK MY TEAR?

The most upsetting part of this whole thing was that the circus at the castle was all a lie. He could have either gone to a circus at a castle OR surprise me and make me so happy that I cry? Dunno if that was the right call. I mean, there could have been a trapeze act.



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2017 RECAP


You guys. WHAT is happening with you!? I haven’t been on this blog for a year. A full year. Longer than a year. It was middle of December 2016 when I last posted. Cardi B was still stripping. What a whirlwind it’s been. For both me and her. I just looked down through my posts and realized that a lot of photos on my old posts don’t even show up anymore. This is because I was charged a yearly fee that I used to pay to keep this blog a .com and not a .wordpress.com and I was like yeah nahhhhh and I think that by stopping that, I lost all the image mapping. I think I lost my e-mail follow list, too. Or that’s totally wrong. Is “image mapping” even a thing? I have no idea, I’m literally making things up. Sounded smart tho.

I felt like I should pop in and update you guys with what went down in my life in 2017. Some of you were really riding dirty with me on this journey of life and then I bailed when I stopped blogging. You were like “Caroline, what’s happening?” and I flipped my hair back and said “Mmmmm I’m super busy!” but listen I lied I’m not really that busy I mean I’ve literally never missed an episode of The Bachelor, who am I fooling here.

For most of 2017, I worked on this little gem of a show called One Day at a Time. If you have somehow missed my incessant posting, it’s a sitcom on Netflix that I’ve been lucky enough to write on for two seasons now. The second season, that we spent most of 2017 writing and filming, is premiering THIS MONTH! JANUARY 26TH! Get out your phone and set yourself a calendar reminder because what else are you doing that day? Oh, you got a date? You got a party? You got chili to make? TOO BAD you’re watching the show and texting me your thoughts.

That job ended in September so I spent September and October sitting in my apartment, staring at the wall and organizing my nail polish drawer. The most structured part of my day was when I would do a face mask mid-afternoon. It was very exciting when it would dry. Because I would then have to wash it off, which was something to do.

Buuuuuut I got another job in November that I’m still doing. I’ve been writing on a show called The Bold Type!!! It’s this amazing female-empowered show on Freeform and I’ve been lovvvving working on the second season. I don’t know when it’s coming out yet but you’ll have to cancel your date/party/chili then, too. I’ll let you know ASAP so you can plan accordingly. Watch the first season on Hulu!!

I also got a boyfriend. As you all know, I was crushing my single Carrie Bradshaw life. I would go on dates with all the expectations that I was meeting my husband, it would go horribly, and I was then free to complain to anybody that would listen about how men everywhere were a disappointment. It was an artform and I was a artiste (with an e, that’s how good I was). I then went on a Tinder date with a guy. He was easy on the eyes and had quick wit. He never called me back, and then I met Joe, my boyfriend.

Just kidding. Joe’s the witty cutie. On most days. A few hours into our first date, karaoke started. He asked me if I wanted to sing. I told him that I would rather cartwheel into quicksand while lit on fire. He left for the karaoke stand (which was of course the DJ, who doubled as the bartender, with a laptop). Joe came back to announce that he put his name down… and mine. Not one to ever turn down a challenge, I ended up doing the one thing I hate – karaoke – in a dinky dive bar in front of a bunch of toothless hillbillies and this one really charming guy, all while on our first date. MUCH to my demise, I actually had so much fun.… I know. It sounds like the worst romantic comedy ever. 2% on Rotten Tomatoes. At most.

But I totally fell for it. I really like him. We actually have this weird origin story where we’ve been in the same place 70 million times and had each others number before we met, but I’ll tell you more later. I don’t want to bombard you with stories because who wants to be the person who only talks about their — Did I mention he’s Australian??

But really, he is. So we barely speak the same language, which is why I think it’s worked out this long. He says colour, I say color. He says g-day, I say hello. He says Americans are not very well educated about the rest of the world, I say but is true that your toilets flush the other way!?!!???

This winter I went on a Birthright trip and spent ten days exploring Israel and made 50 new friends. To answer your next question, my dad is Jewish. To answer the question you didn’t have, I got Bat Mitzfahed there!!!! My Hebrew name is Shalva. I’m getting it embroidered on towels soon. You CAN’T use them when you come over, as they will be my show towels. With tassels.

I still own a cat. He has not turned into a dog yet. And he does this thing where he sits on my chest so I can’t see my laptop whasliel I’ms typiinjdng.

That’s the gist of my life. I just checked my instagram to see if I missed any highlights. Oh, I started experimenting with red lipstick at the start of this year. I always HATED lip color when I younger because it felt dry and I didn’t like the way it looked. Then, in college, I actually was curious about it but still never used it because I had made such a point of hating it before. You know what I mean? I couldn’t just use lipstick now and give up this important facet of who I am as a person!!! This is actually how my brain works.

Anyway now I try it out once in a while. I think I will master staying within the actual lines of my lips by the end of 2018. If I take until 2019, fine. Self improvement is a JOURNEY, people.

How was your year??




Hi doodles!

How are ya. How is your Chrismahanukkwanzalaborgroundhog whatever will not offend you season going?! Great, great. Mine, too.

If we’re friends on ye ol’ Facebook you probably saw that the show I wrote for this year is now coming out with promos! You can watch the trailer, see the opening credits, and even obey Brit + Co who says it’s gonna be the show you binge next year. I don’t know who Brit is but I like her and her Co. Click on these to check them out!!!!!


Opening Titles

Brit & Co, my new close friends

The show officially comes out on January 6th. Wee!

So, last week I get a call from my sister, panicked and worried, on Tuesday night. This call is usually the other way around.

You see, I like to use my sister as a reference point for normalcy at any age. Because she’s seven year older than me, I view her like I view Australia. I always trust that everything’s going to be fine as long as everything is fine in Australia, as they are always a day ahead of us. So, if the world was gonna end, it would have already hit those Down Under (I’m sorry, Aussies. You’re the bottom bunk of the world.)

In the same vain, I call my sister with my trials and tribulations and all the stupid mistakes that I make and when she says, “Oh, I did that when I was your age, too.” I know it’s no big deal because if my world was going to end from that mistake, hers would have ended seven years ago. And it didn’t. She has a beautiful life. Thus, if I’m on the same path as my sister, I’m gonna be just fine. And maybe even have two cute kids named Kendall and Luke.

I know none of this logic actually makes sense. But neither does the fact that traffic is called “rush hour.” So … THERE.

Anyway, where were we? My sister called me freaking the F out. Some background information: She and Allie (her biz partner/bff/my GIRL) started a fabric business this year. They now have an online business and community where people buy fabric from them and then sew things and post it on their Facebook group page for all to see with a caption saying “JUST SOMETHING I WHIPPED UP WHILE MY KID SLEPT FOR 8 MINUTES” and it is perfectly tailored Lululemon-equatable leggings. That I’ve paid $150 for. And 6 matching ones for their entire family. Seriously, these chicks are insanely talented.

Some of her Christmas-themed (AND NON-DENOMINATIONAL WINTER PRINTS, CALM DOWN) rolls of fabric got caught up in international customs and had finally arrived in a factory in Downtown LA. It would take another week to ship them to Allie’s house. It could take another week to cut, package, and ship. It would then take however long to arrive to customers. By the time all this happened, it would be Christmas morning. Santa would have already stopped by. Kids would be waking up early. Quiche would be cooking. I would have an extreme eggnog-induced hangover and be yelling at my cat to bring me Advil. And there would be no matching family sets of perfectly tailored Lululemon-equatable leggings under any tree. NONE.

Is your heart breaking? ‘Cause mine was.

When your sister calls you with this sort of problem (and you live in LA), you have a few choices:

  1. Hang up and claim your cell phone cut out ‘cause your service sucks in your apartment and you aren’t planning on venturing outside anytime soon so srrrrry.
  2. Tell her that Downtown LA is too scary and that you’ve only been there a handful of times and it’s really only whenever you’re dating a new guy and have tried to impress him by saying “DUH I LuV bAsKeTbALL!” and then he inevitably takes you to a Laker game around date 3 or 4 and you begrudgingly agree to go hoping you’ll see a Kardashian.
  3. Ask her when and where she needs you to be. ‘Cause… what are sisters for? Also I need her because who else is going to make fun of Mom with me at Christmas when she says insane things like “‘This is Us’ is this great new show about families that have nothing to do with one another!”

The next morning at 9am… I was among the factories of LA.

My job was to get to the huge rolls of fabric and cut them into whatever people length had ordered (1 yard, 2 yards, 3 yards, 4 yards, 5 yards aka DO YOU REALIZE HOW MUCH THAT IS AND ARE YOU MAKING A POOL COVER?!), put them in boxes that I hijacked from two separate USPS stores, put the shipping labels on them, and ship them out. Sounds simple right?

IT’S NOT SIMPLE. There were about 100 orders, 25 rolls of fabric, and over 500 yards to be cut. I have never sewed anything in my life. I thought fabric came in “soft” and “not soft.” I have thrown out very expensive sweaters when a button falls off instead of figuring out how to sew it back on. I sit in a room and tell jokes all day. I cry when people don’t laugh at my witty puns. This is NOT. MY. THING.

I walked in and had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I was extremely intimidated. Needless to say, I’ve never worked in a factory before. I met Sean, the owner, and he showed me the TOWER OF FABRIC ROLLS that my sister’s company ordered and needed to be cut. He said I could use their table, scissors, and anything else I needed. He even offered that if some of the other workers were free, I could recruit them to help. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had Sean. He would show me the way. He could clarify everything for me. But as I began saying, “So okay what the hell is ‘double brushed polyester’ fabric–”  Sean answered a call on his bluetooth ear-piece in the middle of the conversation and walked away yelling “GREG HELLO THERE, HOW’S CHINA” leaving me in his dust.

Marcos, one of the factory workers, began helping me. He showed me how to measure out, cut, and fold the fabric into different pieces. He and Francesca, another worker, became my best friends for the next two days. Marcos spoke pretty good English and Francesca claimed she couldn’t speak any. Though, I am weary about that, ‘cause every time I said “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK I AM DOING, FRANCESCA” she would giggle.

My home for a few days. That’s my boy Marcos. He didn’t look up because he doesn’t want the fame this blog will surely bring him.

I had my sister on FaceTime the entire day. She would tell me what to cut, and with the help of Marcos and Francesca, I would measure, cut, and fold it. I stayed at the factory until 5pm when Marcos told me that it was time for him to go home. He said he lived like twenty miles away and BIKED BOTH WAYS. I take the elevator when I leave to go to the gym.

My car, full of the fabric cuts. That red fabric in the bottom photo is “red snowflakes” which is different from the “small snowflakes” “white snowflakes” “blue snowflakes” “ivory snowflakes” and I don’t know “snowflakity snowflakes.” There were SO MANY different snowflake prints because apparently my sister took the saying ‘every snowflake is different’ TOO LITERALLY.

I took all the fabric home that night to continue to FaceTime my sister until midnight as I boxed up the first round of orders. I spent hours and hours with these prints and orders and the names of these customers. It got to the point where I felt I knew them: “Another yard? Theresa does love her floral prints.” “Carly, what are you going to do with all this snowflake fabric? You live in Florida, girl!” “No no. Recheck that. Pretty sure Suzy prefers red reindeer to white reindeer.”

The next morning, I dropped off the first round of boxes at my local post office. The woman was so angry with me for giving her so many boxes to ship out. When she asked, “What the hell are you sending to all these people?” I shrugged and said, “Sex sells.” and walked away just to shake up her day.

When I headed into the factory the next day, it was like returning home. Me and Marcos high-fived. Francesca and I perfectly executed the handshake from the Parent Trap. We got to work.

At around 3pm day 2, we FINALLY finished cutting what needed to be cut. When I left that day to spend another night packaging, Marcos said, “See you tomorrow?” and it pained me to tell him that no, Marcos, you will not see me tomorrow. I was going to sleep for 67 hours straight after this ordeal. I spent two day doing what Marcos and Francesca do every single day and bitched about it pretty much the entire time. To say I have a new appreciation for them and what they do is an understatement. They are so hardworking and wonderful.

Overall, it was quite the experience. But I will say that seeing those perfectly tailored Lululemon-equatable leggings come up on the Facebook group from fabric that I cut and shipped out DOES feel pretty cool. Except Sharon. Sharon, of course, made a dress. (SO her.)

If you guys want to see my sister’s company, check them out here: https://www.vinegarandhoneyco.com/

Their Facebook group is here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/197524133984227/231156720620968/?notif_t=like&notif_id=1474784281409388


My Jury Duty actually didn’t suck


Obviously, the election. I’m going to spare you guys on my rants. I can’t say the same for my poor mom and sister, who received all my backlash that had nothing to do with them on election night. I was 56 margaritas in and 600 texts in before my mom wrote: “Stop texting us. I can’t turn my phone off because I have an alarm for a flight in the morning. So stop texting us.” But did I stop? Did I tell let them go to sleep? Did I tell her there’s a Do Not Disturb feature where she didn’t have to turn her phone off but would stop receiving the notifications of crazy texts from me? Of course not. I did none of the above. I kept texting and then I went out on the town. Because it was my birthday.

Yes, people. I turned 25 the day that Trump got elected.

I woke up the next day to realize that the unthinkable was very thinkable. I mean I, quite literally, broke up with someone earlier this year because he told me he would vote for Trump. But here I was: On November 9th, at 7am, severely hungover, 25 years old, with Trump as my president. 

Also it was like 90 degrees out that day. It felt like I woke up in hell.

So today, I’m going to tell you a story I heard a few weeks ago that continually reminds me that really cool things happen in this world and will continue to happen no matter who the prezzy is. I had thought it was going to be a horrible day and it turned out pretty okay. I was proved wrong. Which, with this election, I hope to be again.

I had jury duty a few weeks ago. I showed up at 8am to the Santa Monica courthouse to do my due diligence of being a United State citizen. When I first walked into the jury room, it was completely empty. There was no one there to check me in or tell me that I looked great in the slacks and blazer I haven’t worn in 6 years and had rummaged out of the back of my closet. So far I was doing my part and the court system was NOT doing theirs.

I took a seat at one of the tables and waited for more of my jurors to arrive. A dude walked in who was probably in his 50s and sat right next to me. He told me that he had done jury duty there before and they usually open the door to check everyone in at 9am. Which is frustrating because they told us to arrive at 8am.

Needless to say, I was annoyed. I hadn’t eaten breakfast and just wanted to climb back into bed. But this guy was a talker. You know the type. Who keep talking and talking, no matter how little or irrelevant your answers are. They say, “What’s your favorite TV show?” and you say, “No,” and they say, “Interesting, I’ve never heard of that one. Tell me more about it. Is that on HBO??? I don’t get HBO. Do you get HBO?” After about ten minutes, I realized I had no exit route and decided to just lean into the conversation.

We kept talking and, as the hours passed, we learned a lot about one another. We started off small. He asked me what I did for a living and I asked if he preferred to load toilet paper coming from the top or bottom. What I ended up walking away with, however, was the most amazing story ever: How he met his wife.

Back in the day, he wasn’t in much of a hurry to meet someone. His friend kept trying to set him up with his girlfriend’s best friend. He said that at one point he had even agreed to go on a double date and realized a half hour before that he really didn’t want to go. He told his friend, “Hey, I’m not coming.” And continued to play video games. Or chess. Whatever it is dudes played before Fifa existed. Other than with themselves.

As a perpetual single man, he enjoyed his alone time and never really asked girls out. He said he didn’t even “know how to date.” Which, in my opinion, is such a crock of shit. Guys who say “I really like you.. I just don’t really know how to date!” are the bane of my existence. Ummmm, YOU HANG OUT WITH SOMEONE AND SAY NICE THINGS TO THEM AND SEND THE OCCASIONALLY EDIBLE ARRANGEMENT TO THEIR WORK SO THAT THEY CAN BRAG ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY ARE LOVED AND HOW MUCH THEIR CO-WORKERS ARE NOT. Watch a Rachel McAdams movie and get back to me.

He was going to college at Santa Monica community college. One day he arrived early to class and saw this really gorgeous girl walking to class. The next day, he arrived at school on time and didn’t see the girl. He deciphered her class must be a little earlier than his. So, he started arriving early everyday to see her. Eventually, he asked if he could walk her to class. She said yes.

Let me just interject here by saying I am weary of ANYBODY that looks gorgeous while walking to class. Remember how back in college and in the beginning of the semester, girls would get ready and look good for class? Then once the semester was about half-way through, they would decide no one in their 8am stats class was actually worth the straightener burns so they’d start arriving looking like a piece of garbage? I always skipped that first part. I embraced my garbage looking lifestyle from day one. Once I wore a bra to class and my professor said, “Someone’s dressed up!” A bra, people.

So he was walking this girl to class everyday. A couple weeks in, she asked, “Are you going to ask me out or what?” and he said, “Is that how these things work?” And instead of vomiting on the floor immediately at his ignorance like I would have done, she said, “Yes. You’re gonna take me out to a restaurant this Friday. Somewhere nice. With a candle on the table.” LIKE THE BALLER THAT SHE IS.

Obviously we all know where this shit ends. They fall in love and he invites her to his family dinner on Sunday night because this sort of story only happens to people who have family dinner on Sunday nights.

When she walks in the door, she sees his grandma and says, “MARLA?!”

Yep. She already knew his grandma. She volunteers at Marla’s retirement home in her free time because she’s a SAINT. Marla was her favorite resident. She was Marla’s favorite volunteer. Marla had told him about this girl before. She had tried to set them up. But, as we all now know, he was a die-hard bachelor and didn’t listen to his granny.

When he ended up bringing this girl to a party with his friends, guess what they learned? Of course, this was the ORIGINAL GIRL THAT HE BLEW OFF. His new girlfriend was his friend’s girlfriend’s best friend that I told you about like seven paragraphs ago.

RIGHT!?!?!? It’s. All. Bananas.

He said that he’s always taken it as a sign that they were meant to meet each other on their own. Not through his friend, or the friend’s girlfriend, or even sweet granny Marla. Now, they’ve been married for almost thirty years and have two daughters in their twenties.

By the time someone opened up the jury window and checked us in, it was 10:30am and we had been talking for two and a half hours. The lady at the counter was very angry because there had obviously been some miscommunication on their end about who was going to check in the jurors that Monday morning. She gave us a slip that said we completed our year’s worth of jury duty and sent us on our way.

This annoying-turned-sweet man walked me to my car in the parking lot and, after he left, I realized that we never even exchanged names. He is just a random stranger at jury duty who gifted me his story that I haven’t been able to forget. I loved it. It confirms my belief that there must be a plan and a method to this madness that we call life.

Did I just talk about politics and religion in the same post? Whoops. I hope this isn’t our first date.

Everyone have a happy and thankful Thanksgiving! Go lean into conversations and situations that seem like they’re going to suck. Give them the benefit of the doubt. I hope you’re proved wrong.

Mister Tinder

I was debating writing this post.

Mostly because I thought, “Ugh, I just wrote on this blog about dating.” Then I realized that my last post wasn’t actually about dating. It was about my cat. The one before it was about dating. So by taking this plunge, I have officially turned my blog into a site about being single and having a cat. This was not on my vision board.

I met a guy on a dating app. No, I don’t remember which one it was. Yes, it was Tinder. I guess “met” is the wrong word, right? “Matched” also feels a little wrong. Matched feels so formal. Like as if this was 30 years ago and I went into one of those old school video match-making places. I would meet a woman named Judy who would tell me, “Just be yourself!” My video would be me with a perm yelling a little too loudly, “HI I’M CAROLINE. A 24-YEAR-OLD CAUCASIAN FEMALE SEEKING A 24-34 YEAR OLD NONSMOKER MALE. OK YOU CAN SMOKE A LITTLE POT WHATEVER BUT I’D PREFER IF YOU AT LEAST IDENTIFIED AS A NONSMOKER.” And on my way home I would call my friend on my carphone and fret over the fact that I said “pot” when I know that the cooler word is “weed” and she would assure me that nobody would notice. Just then my call waiting would beep in and it would be Matchmaker Judy. She’d give me the news in a campy way like “I have good and bad news. Bad news, you’re about to fall in love because GOOD NEWS YOU ARE MATCHED!”

It didn’t happen like that.  I was watching TV and my phone buzzed. I looked down to find that someone who I swiped right to on my last tipsy Tinder binge had messaged me. It said:


Nobody has ever called me Caro in the history of my life, but I’ll take it. Back home, there was this one other Caroline in town and everybody called her Caro so I always felt like it was her territory. Instead, I claimed the second half of the name to assert my individuality and urged people to call me Line. Nobody did, but that’s beside the point.

After a little bit of banter back and forth, I felt comfortable giving Button Man my number so that we could text. And boy, did he text. He texted a lot. I mean: a lot, a lot. Maybe too much. Definitely too much.

I’m going to continue to show you real texts. Why? The better question is WHY NOT. The ridiculousness of it all is just too fun not to.

We moved into pet names. Well, he moved onto pet names.


We even celebrated holidays together.


And one time he asked me for a selfie. Which was weird.


These went on and on and on. He told me about his favorite spots in the city and what his favorite holidays were and his family structure and how he broke his first bone and how much he wanted to watch scary movies with me.

I thought: This is weird. I am learning way too much about this dude over the internet. We haven’t even met yet. I should stop writing back. But, let’s be honest, I’ve seen “You’ve Got Mail” way too many times to stop writing back.

One major complaint I have about any guys I’ve met online is that, as much as they are willing to message all day long, they don’t seem to have any urgent desire to actually take this shit offline. And I don’t have time to text. I’m busy.

I actually have a lot of time to text. But I would like them all to believe that I have no time to text because I am BUSY. I can fit you in next Wednesday. Or any day up until then or any day after that. I am BUSY but I will make time for you because I have no time to text.

But on we went, texting. I sent a screenshot of the conversations to my very supportive friend Natasha to see what kind of vibes she was picking up. Did she think it was too much? Too intense?


Natasha wasn’t super sure about it, but did not provide a clear answer on what she thought I should do.

Eventually, he asked if I could get drinks one night. I said I could try to make it work because, as we all know, I am super busy. When deciding on a place to meet, I offered a place. To which I received this response:

Version 2

There he goes. Calling me Caro. She doesn’t live here, buddy. Last I checked, she and her half of the name are in Oregon working at Nike. Me and my half of the name are down here writing about being single and owning cats. Keep up.

But, alas, I answered:


And then… Nothing.




I’m assuming now that he lives on the East side. And if you don’t live in Los Angeles, you might be wondering what the distance is between the West and East side. Excellent question. Allow me to use a map to answer that question:


20-28 minute drive is a stretch. It’s gonna take you at least 30 minutes.

It’s gonna take you roughly 8.5 songs.

About half a podcast.

Maybe 1/3 of a conversation with your mom.

A full episode of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.

What I’m trying to say here is…


I get it. Cause I sure as hell wasn’t making that drive.


Frank’s Birth Story

I’m a dog person, but I got a cat this week.

It all started one 99 degree “fall” morning in Los Angeles, when I announced to my friends that I really wanted to get a hairless cat. I was met with contention. They all thought I was insane and wouldn’t even listen to my reasoning. But I really wanted one because, on the feline spectrum of reference, I identify most with hairless cats.

Hear me out.

Hairless cats are undoubtedly uglier than all other cats and still require a LOT of work and maintenance. You have to wash those things all the time to make sure that their skin doesn’t get infected and clean their ears and smother them with a lot of attention and companionship or else they quite literally shrivel up and get depressed. 

You guys. That’s me. I’m a hairless cat.

This isn’t some woe-is-me I-think-so-low-of-myself type of statement. We all know I think I’m awesome. I have a blog which, quite literally, means I think so highly of myself and my thoughts that I believe people should take time out of their day to read what I have to say. And I don’t think I’m ugly. I’m always convinced that my waiters have crushes on me when, in reality, it is just their job to be nice to me. I think they’re a little extra nice to me, though. Because they have crushes on me. Because I’m awesome.

But, this? What you see here, people, requires WORK. It’s not effortless. And you know girls who are effortless. I can get to their level, sure, but I need time. If an event is coming up, I book out a full week for preparations which involves avoiding carbs and getting my nails done and plucking random hairs and buying a new dress and booking a blow out and texting exes “Miss you” so they text back “Miss you too” to prove I still got it.

I will then arrive at a friend’s house to pick her up, she’ll say “oh shit I forgot that was happening,” throw on an old dress and instantly be at (or above — usually above) my 7-day-prepped level. That bitch is effortlessly pretty. Nobody can deny the beauty. She’s like a Persian kitten.

I’m a hairless cat.

Back to my day. On this particular morning, I found myself surrounded by my Persian kitten friends who don’t understand what it’s like to be a hairless cat. They didn’t get why I wanted to bring something so off-beat and ugly into my home. This only made me want the cat more. Me and this hairless cat were going to teach these Persian kittens what it is like to be one of US! It’s tough work!! It’s not effortless!!! We walk around the house naked NOT because we want to, but because none of our clothes fit/we were born without hair!!


You and me against the world, buddy.

I was a determined woman. I wanted my hairless cat and I wanted it now. Well, actually, I wanted breakfast first. It was 10am. I look forward to breakfast starting at 6pm the night before. I get out of bed solely for the promise of food. And coffee. And the Today Show. But after my pesto egg sandwich with delicious 12grain wheat bread and a side of Matt Lauer, I WANTED THE DAMN CAT.

We went to our local Adopt & Shop rescue adoption place and I truly felt like there was maaaaaaaaaybe a 5% chance I would leave with an animal. First off, I am a dog person, but I know that I could not handle a dog right now. Only one of us in the apartment can eat the scraps that fall off everyone’s dinner and I’m not giving that luxury up.

Secondly, I asked the lady right when we walked in if they had hairless cats and she said no. She said that hairless cats are actually super in demand and expensive so they don’t typically end up in shelters. I turned to hiss at my Persian kitten friends and said “TAKE THAT, BITCHES!” but they were confused and the lady was confused so I pretended to be confused too. Who just said that? Weird.

We played with a few cats. Word to the wise – don’t go play with kittens if you aren’t planning on taking one home. If you aren’t convinced by how adorable they are, you will be convinced when you watch their small bodies be put back into the even smaller little cages that they live in. Me and my Persian kitten friends even traveled to a “Catty Wagon” truck at a local farmer’s market where the shelter was trying to get people to take kittens home with their free-range olives.

And that’s where I saw him. My mind went foggy and the next thing I knew, I was signing a bunch of papers to take him home. I loved him. And you know how they say people look like their pets? It’s true. We look alike. Mostly because we’re both super white.


He also has these two different colored eyes which I thought was cool and off-beat and, if I couldn’t have a hairless cat, at least I could have a cat with something off-kilter about him. I realized on the car ride home that his deformity was not something that made him ugly or weird, it actually made him cooler. Like Megan Fox’s bum thumb.


Anyway, I now have a cat. His name is Frank. Or Frankie. Or Fr-awwwn-k. Or Bosworth. Or Buddy. Or NO DON’T EAT THAT. And about 50 people I’ve told have said to me: “That’s cool, but I don’t like cats.” I agree. I don’t like cats either. Nobody actually likes cat. But, I like him.


Any tips on when it’s a good time to break it to him that he’s adopted, let me know.

Dating in LA is so much fun

Hello juicy burger patties!

I figured that you guys have SURELY missed hearing my successful dating stories. So why not start off with a fun, uplifting quote.

“Dating in LA is so much fun.” – Nobody

I try not to relapse. I really do. But, sometimes, I do. By relapse, of course, I mean sign onto online dating apps. I’m not sure why, because I have NEVER EVER had good experiences with them. Yesterday, for instance: This guy (who specified he was 6’6” in his profile, so soulmate material) told me that he had “standing karaoke nights” on Tuesdays and Thursdays that he simply cannot miss and that, should I want to get to know him better, I could come watch him sing.

Ummmmmmm, what? Come watch him sing? What kind of first date is that? How could that possibly be a good time? Did he think I would be so swooned by his voice while he sang something old school like Sweet Caroline just at the moment that I walked in and we would have one of those eyes-meet-across-the-room moment and experience love at first sight and regret everyday leading up that we hadn’t met? Okay now that I’ve typed it out that would be a killer first date story but IT WAS WEIRD OKAY.

Having said all this, on a particular tipsy weekday night while watching a particularly good Sex and the City episode, I often find myself opening up that yellow Bumble app or, if I’m feeling particularly frisky/lonesome, the red flame Tinder app. I don’t think I’m really looking for someone, as I never agree to actually meet, but rather I just need something to do with my hands. I mean, in that moment. I mean, swiping on the app. I mean, not with… You know what? Take the sentence as you will.

Instead, I’ve been committed to meeting guys the old fashioned way. Which, as we all know, is carried out in 4 simple steps:

  1. Plan a night out with your friends. Shaving your legs is optional, but encouraged during summer months.
  2. Go to a bar and spot some cutie from across the room.
  3. Stare at them and hope they approach. Then watch them leave.
  4. Wonder what’s wrong with the MALE POPULATION because didn’t he see your HAIRLESS LEGS they don’t just COME THIS WAY, BUDDY.

Of course sometimes you’ll do steps 5-8 where he’ll track you down Cinderella style because he somehow has your headband that you didn’t even wear that night and, when you realize it fits over your insanely large head (I have an abnormally large head to keep all my brains in), you fall in love and get married and live happily ever after. These last 3 steps I have yet to experience myself but I assume is how all those engaged Facebook couples started.

The other night I went out to Hollywood to celebrate my writing partner Michelle’s entrance in the world 24 years ago. I decided I would break the steps I just laid out and, instead, simply walk up to any guy I thought was cute and make my move. I do this sometimes: decide that I’m going to be bold and approach anyone I find attractive and start up conversations. And by “do this sometimes,” I do mean: I have 4 too many drinks, walk up to random strangers and say, “Heyyslkdjlakjcnoiuhk you’re cute HAS ANYONE SEEN MY PHONE I SWEAR I JUST HAD IT DID YOU TAKE IT OH MY GOD YOU’RE A THEIF I KNEW IT YOU HAVE A CRIMINAL FACE OH WHOOPS I’VE BEEN HOLDING IT THIS WHOLE TIME LET’S MAKE OUT.”

This particular guy that I had my eye on had tattoos all over, which was only adding to my need to bombard him. I’ve been in a guy-my-mom-will-never-approve-of phase. So I waltzed up to him, chatted him up, and… he actually turned out to be a pretty nice guy.

Of course I went down my usual rabbit hole of thoughts. This guy is so nice. We look great together. Our complexions really vibe. I wonder if he owns a dog. We’ll get a dog together. He’s probably a secret cat person. That’s why he’s so sensitive. I don’t actually know if he’s sensitive but I’m assuming and I assume I’m right about my assumptions.

Much later in the night, I learned the truth about this tattooed-probably-a-cat-guy guy.

He pulled out his phone to get my number when I noticed that he had a picture of himself as his background.

I’m all for self confidence, but this was a little much. It was a photo that was taken with PhotoBooth’s cartoon filter on a Mac computer. It also looked like it was taken inside an Apple store. So, using my lightning fast Nancy Drew skills, I concluded that this dude went into an Apple store by himself, parked at a display computer, shopped the filters, landed on the cartoon filter, threw up a peace sign, put on his sunglasses, took the photo, e-mailed it to himself, and then set it as his phone background. I know I’m being quick to judge. Maybe he had friends with him… That he pushed to the side for this photo.

I told him that his background was lame. He told me that he thought the cartoon filter was cool and that he liked it because he doesn’t do social media. But — he’s been thinking about getting on it for his baby boy.

For his… baby. boy.

Eeeeeeeeeh yeah I’m not really down to be an instant-step-mom anytime soon. I love my niece and nephew. I also love that they are not my children because I am still a child myself. I get irrationally upset when my 4-year-old niece takes a slobbery bite of my apple and ruins the whole thing for me. I consider Kraft macaroni and cheese a nice meal because it requires the stove. I take vitamins in gummy form because it’s just a nice feeling to have Fred Flintstone proud of you every morning.

I confirmed with him, “You have a baby?” And he responded with: “Well, I guess he’s not a baby anymore. My son’s 18.”

I wasn’t much of a math/science type of learner in school. I was much more of a recess/lunch kind of gal. But let’s say the youngest you could be to have a kid is 16, if his kid was 18, he would have to be 34 or older. Which isn’t insane. I’ve dated guys in their 30s. But it would mean that, in the best possible case scenario,  I was 10 years younger than him… and 6 years older than his kid. Logistically, it would make more sense for me to be his son’s prom date.

Soooooooooo yeah things did not pan out the way I would have liked them to that night, but I did receive this super nice text from him later:


Because, as everyone knows, calling someone “big head pretty girl,” is how you land a 24-year-old step mother to your 18-year-old son.

I’ll leave you guys with a fun, uplifting quote.

“DATING IN LA IS NOT FUN.” – Big Head Pretty Girl

CHECKING IN! & How a Writer’s Room works…


How are you? How’s your mom? How’s your job? Did your roommate stop eating your eggs? Is your wrist still hurting? Did you ever end up checking out that new restaurant? Did your lisp go away?

I hope one of those questions applies to you so that we can feel like this is a private conversation between the two of us, as it should be. I have been M.I.A., I know. But, I did warn you that this would happen. It doesn’t mean I didn’t feel the distance growing between us, because I did. Sure, distance makes the heart grow fonder… but sometimes, given too much distance, the heart will get bored and walk down to the neighborhood bar to find a new body with a larger chest to live in. I know this. It’s been done. AND I’M NOT OVER IT.

But, let’s catch up. What’s new in life? In about two weeks, we wrap on season one of the show I’m writing on. Which is INSANE. The show airs on Netflix on January 6th, which means YOU have got some weekend plans with your bed. I’m HIGHLY encouraging everyone to Netflix & Chill that first weekend of 2017. Find a good mate on NYE and then use me as your excuse to see them again. I’ll even provide the first move. Text them this around January 3rd: “Hey, I know we JUST met but this weird chick is making me lay in my bed all day this weekend and watch this One Day at a Time show. Maybe you’d want to join? We can pick up some some chocolate covered strawberries. She’s making me do that, too. Also, I have to wear silk pajamas. UGH she’s so demanding.”

I guarantee results. Except anytime the “Chill” part takes over, pause the show, You may unpause it once you’re back to the “Netflix” part. I can’t have you miss some key story points and prime jokes.

Anyway, I thought I would check in. Because I miss you. I was stewing on what exactly I should check in with, until I realized that most all of my recent conversations with my Trader Joe’s cashiers have been the same. Once I tell them “I’m a sitcom writer now!” completely unprovoked, they ask: “Cool. How exactly does that work?”

So, I thought, why not write a post dedicated to the basic idea of what it means to write on a show, given what I’ve learned in the five months? Will I regret this in six years when I realize that I really don’t understand the business at all at this early point in my career? Is my personal experience vastly different from the experience of everyone else in the industry? Am I going to regret this in years to come, possibly hours after posting? Probably! Let’s get started!

Again, disclaimer. Everything I’m about to say is just my own experience. Like how, growing up, I thought cops were just dudes that handed out cool badge stickers. Or how I thought flannels were made to keep your arms and chest warm. After I moved to LA, I learned that their real purpose is just to be tied around your waist in 90 degree weather. Silly, silly me.

Being a sitcom writer is usually all about the writers’ room. If you ever perused the television career book section of Amazon you would see selections entitled “GETTING INTO THE WRITERS’ ROOM” and “THINGS TO SAY IN A WRITERS’ ROOM” and “WRITERS’ ROOM: A ROOM TO WRITE IN.” These titles are real books. I know this because they should all be arriving to my home in 5 to 8 business days.

Our writers’ room is essentially a conference room with a long table in the middle, many chairs surrounding it, dry erase boards covering every wall, a desk in a corner with a computer, a big TV that the computer is projected on, and more sweets than the inside of a piñata.

Who sits at the table in the room? Great question, Kathleen. It’s the writers. Though there are different titles that affect pay and rank, everyone essentially has the same job: to pitch ideas for the show. The titles ranges from low (staff writers) to high (executive producers). The big bad boss the room is called the “showrunner” because they RUN THE SHOW. They’re badass and the hardest working people in the world. They deal with not just the writing, but everything. Literally, everything. What are the main titles like? What about the font for the posters? What are the characters eating for dinner? What do they wear in every scene? How should their hair look? Should their bowls be yellow or red? Where should we place the clock in the apartment?

Fun fact: There almost never is a clock in a set because it would be so annoying to try to always make sure it’s entirely accurate. The character would be like “Good morning!” And you’d be like “WTF, WHY DOES IT SAY 2PM THEN, HUH CAROLINE?!” cause you’re rude and detail-oriented and like to kill any good vibes.

One confusing thing is that the showrunner’s credited title is “Executive Producer.” So, by just looking at the credits on a show, you can’t tell who is truly the showrunner of a show, because there are also other types of EPs. You also don’t even know whether someone with a title of “producer” is a writer in the room or is a different kind of producer. Maybe they’re the post producer, who deals with the editing? Maybe they’re the line producer, who deals with budget and hiring? WHO KNOWS!? NOT US! Basically, the credits are super unhelpful to know exactly what somebody does. You can use some contextual cues (if they’ve written something on IMDB and are also a producer, they’re most likely a writer-producer, not another kind) For the most part, though, we’re all in the dark.

Are you confused yet? Good, because I always am.

All the writers sit around the table all day. A writer’s assistant job is to sit at the desk and type the notes into the computer as ideas get tossed around. I haven’t had this job but I know you have to be mindful of what is relevant and what the showrunners would want to look back on later. What if, when pitching on different ideas for a meal in the show, I pitch that they should eat bagel bites dipped in grape jelly? (Ew) Then laugh REALLY hard like it’s the best idea I’ve ever had? The writers’ assistant would decide whether it’s worth the 5 seconds it would take them to write that into the notes. Essentially, they decipher whether anyone would want that idea to enter their minds again. Clearly in this scenario, because my idea was SO great, the answer is yes. Sometimes it’s not so clear.

When dealing with an episode, everyone pitches on what the story should be. What if the main character goes to the mall for a Beyonce t-shirt but they’re out of her size? THEN has to go to the other mall, across town and where her ex-boyfriend works, to get the shirt? AND the concert starts in 20 minutes! AND her water just broke! AND Jay-Z is the father!!! (I know, guys. I’m a well of innovative ideas.) The showrunners decide whose episode it is, (who it says “written by”) and then that bitch (or bitches, if a team like Michelle and me) goes off and actually writes down the episode to look like this:


So, do you have a medium or not?


Why is the floor wet? Did… your water just break? Are you pregnant?


No, I’m just fat.


You’re totally pregnant! I knew you and Jay-z weren’t just ‘going fishing’ 9 months ago!


We really did go fishing! It just gets super boring out there! Gosh! (SHE TAKES A BITE OF HER BAGEL BITE DIPPED IN GRAPE JELLY)

I know what you’re thinking: That is genius. I do not disagree with you. Truly, it needs no work. The entire town will fight for it. But, writing is re-writing, so all the writers would take this masterpiece to work on in the room and make it even better that whatever I just vomited up.

That’s it. That’s all I know so far.

I mean, there’s more to my current job, like hearing the episode multiple times at table reads and run-thrus and re-writing like crazy and joke pitching and eating so much free food all day then wondering why my pants don’t fit, but this is the general gist of how a writers room works. I hope that makes a little more sense than when someone heard I’m writing on this show and asked if I wrote, by myself, all 13 episodes. Definitely not the case.

So the next time someone asks me, “How does your job work?” I’ll groan and direct them to this post and say LEAVE ME ALONE.

That’s 100% a lie. I like to talk. I’ll most likely just tell them everything right then and there and in more detail than they ever hoped to know. Cuz that’s the way I roll.

Thanks for checking in and not forgetting about this here bloggy!!! I’ll be back soon with some tragic tales that have been left untold. Which is, in and of itself, truly tragic. 

My First Ever NYC Trip

Hiii there pretty pudding pops!

Warning. This is going to be a long post. This is because I want to remember everything myself as much as I want to share it with you guys. CUZ GUESS WHAT… I spent last weekend in New York City!

I know what you’re thinking… Wait, where? Well, it’s this big city on the East Coast where approximately 703 million people live, give or take. I know this because I personally brushed shoulders/ran into/was yelled at by 700 million of them. Pretty sure I would have hit that last 3 million in our short 50 hour trip but Makenzie and I were too hungover to use the subway the last day.

Makenzie, one of my oldest and dearest friends, took the train up from her residence in Washington DC to meet me for a weekend of galavanting in New York. I absolutely ALWAYS have fun with Makenzie, so I knew I was guaranteed a good time. This is the same girl who, in high school, announced that she wore her bangs to the sides during the week for a more school vibe but would be wearing her bangs straight across on the weekends to alert others that she is ready to party. She has since abandoned this tactic but our bangs were both going to be metaphorically straight across all weekend.

This was my first trip to New York.  My mom and I have planned to go forever but, since I’ve never really had a lull in between school or working, a time to go has never fully presented itself.  Knowing that I was to start my new job in March, I leapt at the chance to take a Friday off of my current job (what is he gonna do? FIRE ME?!) (JK plz don’t fire me) to check out the Big Apple and eat everything but apples.

I realized quickly that everyone has a thousand recommendations when it comes to visiting New York. Suggestions and reviews from our friends and family helped build Makenzie’s beautiful minute-by-minute itinerary that provided us with such a good time. So, to outline the way my trip went and to help others, I decided to post my reviews of almost every single place that we went in New York to Yelp. Here I have screenshot them for easier access for my reader(s?) here.

Why not tell the story of our trip AND help others on their first ever trips to New York?! I know, I’m such a good person.

Keep in mind that any time between these places were simply filled with subway rides and miles of walking where I asked my vegetarian friend Makenzie, “Do you wanna get a hot dog? We should probably get a hot dog. Wanna split a hot dog?”

new hotel






today show


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empire state





central park


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butchers daughter








brooklyn 4

brooklyn 5

brooklyn 3

brooklyn 2



brooklyn pizza


gansevoort 3

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high line



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