Regular Person Jasmine Bella Thinks About Eating A Lot

I've always enjoyed reading The Grub Street Diet (I'm a foodie, what can I say ;), so I decided to write one for me, as if I am someone.

Friday, March 9
I'm home with a baby. My baby. Mine and my husband's. I'm a temporary SAHM, though I'd love to continue the SAH part whenever I'm ready to go back to work. The first few weeks of keeping a baby alive were both easy (he mostly slept) and very difficult (depleted hormones + being AWAKE = that upside down smiling emoji which I've taken to mean a few things but in this instance means "I'm a lunatic"). But now that he's 6 weeks old, he sleeps ever so slightly less and needs my attention seemingly extremely more. Or maybe I stare at him too much. How many times are you supposed to make sure your baby is breathing at night?

Anyway, I've spent most of today thinking about eating. As the hours have ticked on and my belly has gotten emptier, I'll think "I still haven't eaten" and then I'll play Animal Crossing Pocket Camp whenever I have a free moment. Eventually, around 2 o'clock or so, I toy with the idea of ordering in (two of my favorite restaurants in the next town over offer delivery through DoorDash), but I quickly nix that idea when I remember I'm going to force myself to nap the next time the baby does. He's falling asleep now, but I'm hungry, so I bake up an entire bag of Gardein Seven Grain Crispy Tenders. I'm not sure how many were in the bag - 8? 25? - but I dip them in a giant cup of Musselman's Apple Sauce because regular dipping sauces taste weird to me now. The second I finish my last bite, the baby wakes up. C'est la vie.

We need some things from the store, so I finally muster up the energy to leave the house. It's colder than I anticipated and I feel like a bad mom, despite how bundled my baby is. The sidewalks in our neighborhood are hell, so I usually push the stroller in the street, but it snowed, so there's plowed snow in the street. Following an obstacle course-like walk to the store and back, I arrive home with four boxes of tissues; a box of Cheerios and a carton of milk; and, instead of the things we need, some cookies. Chips Ahoy! Chunky cookies to be precise. After putting the baby to sleep for the night, I crack open the cookies, eat maybe four or five, feel guilty, put the cookies back into the doubled-up CVS bags, put those bags into the trash, take the trash bag out of its can, tie it up, and take the trash bag outside.

Saturday, March 10
It's 9:44am. The baby has eaten four times today and I have eaten zero times. I decide to pour myself a bowl of Cheerios, but not the Cheerios I bought yesterday, the Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheerios that I forgot were in the cabinet. Given the choice between boring and unhealthy, I almost always choose unhealthy :(

Unrelated to unhealthiness, I'd been thinking about Chipotle since sometime yesterday or the day before, so I casually, as if the thought had just come to me, bring it up to my husband while we're in line with almost $200 worth of groceries. Why would we eat any of the food we're buying? I order a burrito with white rice, black beans, sofritas, queso, corn, and cheese, and we share chips and guac. (Later, I have a bad time in the bathroom and decide not to eat Chipotle anymore, but I can't imagine I've convinced myself.)

Tonight is my friends' engagement party. I want to go, if not because I really like them, then so that I have cool foods to add to this, but last week I put my baby in his swing and then sat on the couch and felt sad because he was far away. Which isn't to say I haven't been away from my baby since we've been home - I've gone to the store twice and to one doctor appointment - but Brooklyn is practically on another planet. I'm just not ready to leave him alone with anyone but my husband yet, and even then I've only done so for, like, forty minutes. ONLY I KNOW HOW TO CARE FOR THE BABY lol jk kind of jk.

I turn on The Go Off Kings and eat a few spoonfuls of my husband's Americone Dream that I bought him with his money. I drink so much Canada Dry Black Cherry Seltzer I truly believe it's the reason my lips are dry. I sprinkle some catnip on the kitchen floor and watch the cats go wild. It's 9:31pm, a time I don't usually see because I've been asleep for an hour.

Sunday, March 11
I'm starving. It's late, but with Daylight Savings Time, it's kind of early, and yet, I'm starving. Unfortunately (and fortunately), I'm trapped beneath a sleeping baby. I wait until he wakes up and then, somehow, three more hours go by before I finally manage a breakfast. The bananas we bought yesterday are too ripe so I throw together another bowl of Cheerios (of the chocolate peanut butter variety). We have plans to visit my in-laws today and I'm looking forward to snacking. And seeing family, of course.

I don't drink enough water lately, so I fill my 48oz Nalgene bottle with some sweet, sweet H2O before we make the trek down to Milltown, eating a box of the Belgian Famous Chocolates my husband brought home from the engagement party last night on the way. We arrive to my in-laws' house and the snacks begin trickling out. There's Chester's Puffcorn, 3 Seed Sweet Potato crackers and homemade red pepper hummus, Savoritz Thin Wheat crackers and some kind of cheese (not sure what kind, but it's cheese, so I eat it), and coffee cake that my father-in-law baked. Everyone takes turns holding the baby and I stare, longingly, wishing I was holding him, too. For dinner, there are sweet potato french fries, regular french fries with a homemade cheese sauce, and my mother-in-law's "famous" homemade veggie burgers. I think about texting my friends who love the burgers that I am eating the burgers, to make them jealous, but I forget. I have two, one with just ketchup and one with cheese, relish, and avocado (what is wrong with me?). For the ride home, I take a little bottle of Poland Spring Sparkling Raspberry Lime (I finished my forty-eight ounces of water hours ago).

At home, my husband cracks open his Americone Dream and I think about sharing, but go to bed instead.

Monday, March 12
You won't believe what I have for breakfast (Cheerios (chocolate peanut butter (I've been awake for 7 hours))).

I meet my friend Tammi at Target around lunchtime. I buy some baby things, she buys some things to cover up a murder (Windex, disinfectant wipes, paint brush). I also make sure to pick up a bag of Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs because I always buy the holiday versions (and regular version) of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. On the way out, I drop by the little Pizza Hut cafeteria area and order breadsticks. I think about eating them in the car, but I have to stop at PetSmart for cans of cat food before it's time for the baby to eat again. On the way home, I stop by Wendy's and order a large french fries and a medium chocolate Frosty.

We arrive home and I change the baby, feed the baby, put the baby on his tummy and take some pictures and videos of him doing such a great job using his little neck to lift up his big ol' head, put the baby back on his pillow for another nap, and eat my cold breadsticks and soggy french fries while watching episodes of Friends on Netflix.

For dinner, I eat two Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs and drink a can of Schweppes Original Seltzer Water. I've thought about giving up chocolate for literally even one day for a while now. Maybe I'll do it tomorrow. Can I go one whole day without chocolate? Stay tuned.

Tuesday, March 13
I feel bad about the way I've eaten the past few days, not only because of my health, but also because remember when we bought so many groceries? I eat a banana and some plain-ass Cheerios for breakfast. I'm not even thinking about chocolate. Especially not the Reese's Peanut Butter Easter Eggs on the coffee table. Or the other box of Belgian Famous Chocolates also on the coffee table.

Tammi and I made plans for the baby and I to come to her house. I secretly hope she has chocolate so I can have a good (?) excuse to put off not eating chocolate for one day (literally just one day!), for one more day. Unfortunately, she does not have chocolate (or at least doesn't offer any), but she does have Snack Factory Everything Pretzel Crisps and Whole Foods brand Chipotle Cheddar Dip. I want to eat all of it, but there's a baby on me for the majority of our visit, so I only eat most of it. I feed the baby his dinner and we head home before he falls asleep for the night.

After putting the baby to bed, I make myself a dinner. I cook some brown rice, microwave some Morning Star Buffalo Wings, and mix them together in a bowl. I think it might be too dry, so I put blue cheese salad dressing on it (please help me!) and dig in. I just remembered the Reese's Peanut Butter Pink Hearts that have been on the kitchen table since Valentine's Day, but I'm not thinking about them. I go to bed before I eat chocolate.

Pinecone, the Christmas Whore.

It's been 6 months, 3 weeks, and about a day and a half since my departure from Santa Land at Macy's Herald Square in New York City - er - I mean, The North Pole. The reason I applied for and ultimately accepted the job (after an initial mistakenly-sent rejection letter) is because of David Sedaris. (Much like the reason I trekked to a store somewhere in another part of the city during this time was because of his sister.) I've tended to always want to find myself in the people (real or fake) I see on television or in books or films. I've wanted to be all manner of things When I Grow Up because maybe Amy Adams played a crime scene cleaner in a movie or because baking pies and solving crimes using your powers to bring people back from the dead for a minute seemed fun or even because an author was crazy once. (I very much wanted to be crazy as an adult and, luckily, I think this wish came true.) But because of Santaland Diaries - full stop - I wanted to fill my favorite author's pointy shoes (we didn't wear pointy shoes) and see if I might have an experience like his. And, truthfully, I can't really remember if I did!

Though I kept a meticulous account of my tenure with Santa and his elves (and the Mrs.! (but only on weekends)) throughout my time there, these notes have been lost to time. Or, more likely, I typed random things to myself in an email to myself and, myself, an idiot, after many months of doing nothing with those notes, deleted them. And, as we all know through our Gmail accounts, "messages that have been in Trash more than 30 days will be automatically deleted." Gmail is a harsh friend. The dirt I can remember, I can't tell you (I've been feeling the magnetic pull of the Pole and think I might, if they'll have me, try my hand at Elfing again this upcoming holiday season); maybe, in a year from now, if I don't delete my future notes, I'll have a more in-depth exposé on the seedy underbelly of the third happiest place on earth (the first, of course, being Disney World and the second being bed). What I can remember that isn't dirt, is that I don't and never did know the real names of any of my coworkers (aside from my now-Internet-friend Lauren - What's up, Juniper!) and that, despite long days, impatient "guests," and the frenzy that you can encounter at any given time during any given shift, everyelf and every Santa (jk, "there's only one True Santa!") and every manager really, really, really, really, really, rrrrreeeeeaaaallllllyyyyyyyyy loves Christmas. And it's debilitatingly contagious.

I've always liked Christmas just fine. Probably more so as a child (before my parents' divorce, we'd all hop in the car and drive around town to look at the house lights and lawn decorations, and every Christmas Eve, my family would get together with the ever-extending family on my mother's side and all of the grownups would give all of the children all of the presents), but as an adult, I saw Elf in theaters three times, I usually have all of my shopping done by November (after spending all of late summer adding potential gifts to bookmark folders named for each family member and friend I'm buying for that year, and then all of early fall buying those gifts), and the lights and decorations and songs and mood are just fucking great, man. I love Christmas! But when you work at Christmas, and only know everyone around you by their elf name (or "Santa"), and you look like this, and every morning meeting of every shift ends with you having to scream "Merry Christmas!" at the top of your lungs in unison with the aspiring actors and Bronx Zoo employees who work alongside you, you come to realize, after typing all of this, that, when you really think about it, you might've actually been in a little bit of a cult for a month.

I'm a Charlotte if Charlotte were a Miranda.

On Sunday, October 18th, at around 11am, I was abducted outside of the Plaza Hotel, taken against my will onto a bus, and forced to endure two and a half hours of the Sex and the City tour, all for the low, low price of $47 (+ $8 for Priority Seating).

The morning was just like any other: after leaving the house too late to catch the bus to The Bus, I waved down a taxi to bring me to 5th Avenue and 58th Street. Traffic was New York City on a Sunday, but I eventually made it to my destination and found ~the woman holding a blue umbrella~ and proceeded, unwillingly, to my pre-purchased VIP (aisle :/) seat. Next to me was a woman in a red coat. I thought she was like me, alone (and scared), but she wound up being mother to the two Australians seated behind me who "aww"d and arthouse-theatre-laughed along to the various Sex and the City clips shown to us on tiny televisions and at maximum volume throughout the day's tour. Across the aisle sat a man in a hooded sweatshirt. I would eventually speak to both Red Coat Woman and Hooded Sweatshirt Man (even going so far as to asking the latter to pose for a dick pic), but for now, I sat, motionless and emotionless, until the woman holding the blue umbrella climbed aboard, and the door closed behind her.

She introduced herself as Elyse our tour guide, and the man behind the wheel as Conrad our bus driver. Elyse had a Carrie vibe about her, while she described Conrad as being "30% Charlotte, and the rest Samantha." I was terrified.

After getting through the initial introductions and pleasantries, the tour officially began. I felt my stomach fall through my feet as the bus shifted into drive and my hopes of a normal life were left behind me. The familiar scenes were blasted into our eyes and ears as the bus drove past relevant filming locations. Carrie being stood up in her wedding dress at the New York Public Library (the movies were also included in the tour); Miranda telling Carrie that she's pregnant at the corner of 23rd and I'm in Hell; Elizabeth Taylor getting gangbanged at a dog park. The other passengers shifted in their seats to get a good look or a good picture. I just shifted in my seat. Like how people shift in their seats when they are uncomfortable, or readying themselves to tuck and roll out of a large, moving vehicle.

Eventually, Stockholm Syndrome set in. I raised my hand when Elyse asked the bus who lives in New York; I even took a picture (of two men who were very mad at Conrad for accidentally turning onto a small street and then backing back out of it (they're the ones with hands in pockets, staring angrily at the bus)). Nightmarish visions crept through my brain each time Elyse mentioned all of the drinking we'd eventually do (were the others going to hold me down and pour cosmos down my throat?), but mostly a numbing calm swept over my person as I gave into the experience. And then we pulled up to The Pleasure Chest and Conrad turned off the bus.


(click for larger/nsfw)
As she reboarded, I heard a fellow captive say, "I think I lost my body." I knew exactly how she felt. While much of my walk through The Pleasure Chest is a blur of Rabbits and lubes and just, like, a set of balls(??), I vividly remember a mousy man in an ill-fitting, light gray suit trying to return something at the front counter. If I hadn't run, screaming, from the store at the sight of mannequin heads in various leather masks lining one of the walls, I would've eavesdropped further to hear what it was this man was returning. Instead, I refueled with a slice and a Snapple from the pizza place next door. Do Snapple caps have facts on them anymore? I forgot to check. I miss the Snapple Lady. I hope she's doing well.

More driving, more clips, more dread.

Our next stop was Bleeker Street. Here, we were set loose to shop at places like Marc by Marc Jacobs, Michael Kors, and other successful white male fashion designer stores. I contemplated using this freedom to obtain actual freedom. To escape. To duck out of the crowd, slink into another crowd, and onto a train. But Elyse promised cupcakes upon our return. And although I found a little bit of myself in this caged dog and this caged baby as I walked by windows of mildly expensive shops, I couldn't shake the cupcake anticipation. And sure, the original Magnolia Bakery that was featured on an episode of Sex and the City (the one where Carrie tells Miranda about her crush on Aidan) sat just a measly block away from where Conrad parked my mobile jail cell, but the Elyse cupcakes were free of charge. That didn't stop me from purchasing a brownie and a hot chocolate from Magnolia, however!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm so bad ;)

QUICK REVIEW OF MAGNOLIA BAKERY: The brownie wasn't very good and the hot chocolate jumped out of my lap and onto the floor of the bus in an effort to escape before I'd had a chance to try it. ✮✩✩✩✩


me not knowing my angles in front of Carrie Bradshaw's brownstone / COSMOS, LADIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Anyway, the free cupcake was as delicious as it was easy to shove into my mouth so that I could free my hands to slop up my spilled hot chocolate with a roll of toilet paper. The rest of the tour was much of the same: pointing out of filming locations; playing of Sex and the City clips. We stopped at Steve and Aidan's bar and the brand new bartender's ratio of lots of grenadine + a splash of 7 Up made my Shirley Temple taste :/. I sat alone, looking through the pictures I'd taken, still embarrassed from the hot chocolate spill. The knowledge that I might never see my family again washed over me. These people were my family now. Elyse was my mom, Conrad my dad. Hooded Sweatshirt Man might very well become my husband, even though he would much rather have had a husband of his own.

We were herded back onto the bus, filed back into our respective seats. I took my place next to the same Red Coat Woman. I glanced out of the same windows. There was one final stop: the HBO flagship store. Our tour was coming to an end. I steeled myself as we approached Bryant Park. I was ready. Conrad pulled the bus to the curb and opened the door. No one moved. We all silently glanced around at the outside, at one another, as Elyse drew our attention to the tip envelopes included in our brochures. I was the first to stand, and the first to flee. Without looking back, I flew across 6th Avenue and into Times Square. I narrowly avoided being mauled by a Tigger as I continued to sprint toward the nearest train. I didn't stop until I was in the Port Authority ACE station. I don't know if anyone had followed me. Maybe they did. Maybe Elyse is outside of my apartment building right now, waiting to throw me onto a bus and yell more behind-the-scenes anecdotes about her time as a background extra on the first movie at me.

I look forward to a time when hearing the Sex and the City theme song doesn't send my body into violent, panicked fits. For now, though, I'm safe. And with a broken elevator, I don't plan on leaving my apartment anytime soon (I refuse to live in an eight-story walkup!). But I do worry about the others. Are they still on the bus? Maybe they're halfway to Los Angeles now, gearing up for a tour of those episodes. I hope Elyse brought extra cupcakes with her.

Leo and me.

We arrived at the restaurant just as my Oma and Opa were walking up the steps to the door. They noticed us and waved.

"Oh, man. They beat us!" Leonardo DiCaprio said. "And your Oma's outfit is amazing."

Leonardo DiCaprio was right. My Oma was wearing the leopard print button-down shirt that my Opa once said was too young for her. It hurt her feelings then, though she never came right out and said so. She only relayed Opa's comment when she took me to her bedroom closet to show the shirt to me, but I could sense in her otherwise jovial retelling of the story that she didn't appreciate it. "I'll just save this to wear for a special occasion," she'd said. "When I'm even older than I am now."

That special occasion was today. Leonardo DiCaprio and I had planned a dinner with our respective Omas and my Opa, and everyone's schedules finally worked out. We chose Applebee's Neighborhood Grill and Bar®, mostly for my Oma and Opa. They like that the menu features pictures of what a lot of the plates are. It's easy to imagine eating something when you know exactly what it'll look like! I'd wondered if Leonardo DiCaprio would feel weird eating at such a popular chain restaurant, but when I sheepishly suggested it, he mentioned splitting an order of Green Bean Crispers :)

I helped Leonardo DiCaprio's Oma out of the front seat of his car (I rode in the back because manners). My Oma and Opa were still outside of the restaurant, waiting for us at the door.

"Guten Tag!" Opa said, to which Leonardo DiCaprio replied with his own German greeting and a follow-up. A full-blown German conversation started up from there as we entered the establishment, and I suddenly felt silly being the only member of the party who hardly spoke a lick of the language. Seemingly sensing this, Leonardo DiCaprio put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer. "You've got a great granddaughter here, you two."

We slid into our booth - Leonardo DiCaprio, his Oma, and I taking one side; my Oma and Opa taking the other - and began the daunting task of looking over the 174-page menu. The pictures might've helped my Oma and Opa, but for me they added an almost manic feel to an already overwhelming selection. Between the Shareables, Lunch Combos, and Have It All sections, I felt my eyes glaze over. I flipped to the desserts and mentally settled on just ordering a Triple Chocolate Meltdown® as a meal.

"I might get the Fiesta Chicken Chopped Salad," Leonardo DiCaprio announced to the table. My Oma and Opa looked up from their menus with concern on their faces. "Just a salad?" my Oma asked. "What are you, a rabbit?" my Opa teased, laughing at his own joke. Leonardo DiCaprio's Oma smiled and touched her hand to his. "You sure that'll be enough, dear?"

Leonardo DiCaprio mulled it over and nodded. "I mean, Jazz and I are sharing an appetizer, and I can already tell she's chosen a dessert," he winked at me. "I think a salad will be okay." I smiled. How did he know?

Sometimes You Get Dumped by Your Middle School Boyfriend Over the Phone While Watching Desperately Seeking Susan the Day Your Youngest Sister is Born

July 8th, 1996

I smelled like Sun-In and finally started to fill out my training bra. I'd graduated from the 6th grade a month before and turned twelve a month before that. 6th grade was a welcome school year for me after the tumultuous 5th I had in a new school that was a mile walk from my new home in a new town run by losers who would steal our laundry (even my velvet gymnastics leotards). My parents had separated at the end of 4th grade (I log each moment of my life by what grade I was in), and it didn't make me sad. Not because I was mature enough to recognize that they were better off apart; I think it was more that I am just sometimes too chill? I don't really remember having much feeling about it at all. I could've shrugged at the news.

Dad kept the house and mom, little sister, and I moved to a worse neighborhood. The one we had lived in wasn't inherently bad, but bikes were stolen and I'd been flashed by pseudo-adults on two separate occasions (one was just an innocent teen mooning, but the other had the police involved and I remember describing the penis I'd been shown as looking like "a duckbill turned down," I literally could not stop describing it that way). But this new town was even worse than the neighboring neighborhoods I wasn't allowed to explore in my old town. Aside from the long walks to school and stolen leotards, the mutant children of the neighborhood trapped me inside of my mom's van, threw dirt and trash into our front door mail slot, and one girl even choked me in the laundromat for I'm not sure what reason. (I'd randomly have her as a classmate in German III years later, in my old town, and she'd act like we were old friends. (And I let her because I don't like confrontation!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)) Eventually, our apartment was robbed while the whole neighborhood watched (mom was at work and little sister and I were with our cousins for the day). I was the first to notice something was wrong when I glanced at my first love (the tv) upon entering and saw it wasn't there. So we moved in with the man who would become my ex-stepdad, and my mom agreed to take me to my old house, where my dad still lived, each morning so I could catch the bus to my old school and my old friends, none of whom would ever choke me in a laundromat. And that's where I met Chris. (I think his name was Chris?)

We met through a note my classmate wrote to him. She and he were friends who exchanged notes (you know how we all exchanged notes) and I added a little "hello!" type of thing in the upper right corner of the page. I think I probably signed it "Love, Jasmine" because I was a tween and how else do you end notes to friends/strangers, but Chris (?) took this innocent sign-off as some kind of declaration and asked our mutual friend, through another note, if I'd like to be his girlfriend. My multi-year crush on Steve DePrince was continuing to go nowhere, so I agreed to have my first boyfriend, who I would come to meet only one (1) time. It was in the hallway, and his class was on its way into the gymnasium. I'm not sure why I was in the hallway, but we met, face to face, talked about who knows what, and never met again. We might've written each other some notes, and I don't know if I ever talked with him on the phone. I do remember talking regularly on the phone with a boy from one of those bad neighboring neighborhoods about The Fugees during this time. Why wasn't he my boyfriend?

That summer was a lot of something. Dad's new girlfriend was surprise pregnant with his third and her first child. She liked to tell anyone new about how doctors had told her, years before, that she wasn't able to conceive and now here she was, mid-30s, baby on the way. Karen was a lot of fun until she wasn't anymore. I was never the kind of child-of-divorce who immediately and without reason disliked her parents' new "friends." I welcomed them as new adults in my life because of my reliable chill factor, and was especially excited about them when they wound up joining in on our regular living room wrestling matches. I'm not sure when it started, or how or why, and maybe I was getting up in age to be wrestling with family, but dad and sister and I, and then Karen, would wrestle all over the living room on our every-other-weekend visits, getting trapped in locks and holds and getting bruised all over. Dad was large, sister was a tiny noodle, and I used my gymnastic ability to stretch and roll my way in and out of play. Karen would tie a bandana around her head and call herself Sonya. She would speak with an unplaceable accent, and she would growl and snarl and rescue sister and me from dad's grip. It was fascinating.

And then she got pregnant, and she was a big baby about it. She would wail and howl in agony during every contraction or whatever that happened, and enlisted the help of her bewigged, muumuu-wearing mother from Chicago to kick me out of my house during my summer vacation because my sitting around somehow made too much noise. Karen was no longer the Sonya I knew. It was because of her I'd be banished to the streets where I'd open an iced tea stand because there was nothing else to do and I didn't have lemonade. (I made no money.) This was also the year I got my period for the first time, on Memorial Day, so I was afraid to go swimming, for fear it would just show up again. My next period didn't come until Labor Day. I wound up being afraid to swim all summer for no reason.

But July 8th!

Karen had an inducement scheduled. With her mother and my father at her side, and her groaning taken all the way to the hospital with them, I was finally able to enjoy my summer vacation from the confines of my own home. I could stay inside all damn day and drink as much iced tea as I wanted as I watched Madonna dry her pits using a bathroom hand-dryer (plus other scenes) in Desperately Seeking Susan. The phone rang during the end credits and I ran to answer it, ready to hear the news that another little sister was born. But the voice on the other end was Chris (or whatever his name was)'s. He asked how my summer was going. I don't remember if we'd talked since school ended. I probably told him that I had a sister being born that day in the way that I always relay too much information to people who don't require it. With the smalltalk over, his voice turned into a mixture of nerves and sincerity. He mentioned that he still had one more year of middle school left, and that he was likely going to private school for junior high. He mentioned that we never saw each other or talked. He mentioned that we should break up, in whatever words he used. And even though we'd never gone on a date, and I'd only met him once, and we hadn't talked all summer, I could feel my face tingle with embarrassment, and I cried after we hung up.

I'm doing great.

I started this blog to tell you about Neko Atsume (or, ねこあつめ). It is an app in which you, essentially, collect cats. You lure them to your backyard (and eventually* your den) with food and toys and, in return, they gift you with gold and silver sardines that you use to buy them more food and toys!

There are 41 cats in all. They come and go or come and stay, depending on when you check your scene (sometimes you miss seeing a cat or few in the time you have the app closed). And, according to Annette at Welcome to Wonderland, some of the cats are rare enough to only swing by when certain items are left out for them! (That post is also basically a tutorial on how to even use this app, given that everything in it is written in Japanese.)

As the cats play with a ball of yarn or sit in a bucket, you can take their picture and give them a name. I’ve named all of mine after Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters (above you’ll find sleeping Andrew, Xander with the ball of yarn, sleeping Buffy, Darla playing with the baseball, Willow on the tree stump, Oz in the overturned carton, Ben in the bucket, and Cordelia between jumps at the butterfly) because what am I doing with my life. That’s pretty much it! They just play and you look at them!

I have no conclusion to this! I’m pretty much obsessed with collecting cats now and laughed very hard when the chubby cat came and ate all of the food (she left me lots of sardines to make up for it (I named her Drusilla)). All day I think about getting gold sardines and hoping Spike shows up to wear the plastic bag on his head for a while and how Cordelia must really, really like me since I’ve seen her the most of all of the cats.

Thank you Kim for ruining my life re: showing me this game!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*The game starts with only the backyard but, after earning 180 gold sardines (or spending $2.99 because earning gold sardines is so hard, cats are so ungrateful?????), you can expand your space to put more things to trap more cats to make more sardines to buy more things! (Or you can do literally anything else, like read a book or go outside or put your mouth into the opening of a bottle for a really long time until your lips are plump as hell, etc.!)