my very own abbreviated quirky list of vices

Based on the quick write from the phrase guilty pleasure- enjoy!

Guilty pleasure. I have many the guilty pleasure. Who doesn’t? It doesn’t matter if you were trademarked with catholic guilt or the woman’s need to be accepted and liked and not rock the boat. We feel guilty in doing what we want, sometimes. Others we glow in it the bask of pleasure and let go of the guilty. For a moment or a second the rays of pleasure permeates into our core until the self talk babble bullshit and rationalization takes us for another round on the merry go round. Here you go.

An excerpt from my guilty pleasures include:

1) A sweet at least once a day- dark chocolate preferred, half a croissant, a full if I get crazy, morning bun, ice cream, chocolate cream pie, frozen yogurt. I just found dark chocolate gogi berries they might the death of me.
2) I buy a coffee out once a day. Even if I have coffee in the house.
3) A drink. At least one most days. It takes the edge off. But where it really gets interesting when I multiply that by a higher number. Pleasure I feel until the guilt seeps in.
4) Chips and Fries. I love those salty things. I have started on the baked kettle train. That might be my saving grace for me and my ass.
5) When I drive. I make sure to turn up the sound too loud, sing off key and for some reason snap my fingers. That might be my dad or whiteness coming out.
6) I know how to find a public bathroom anywhere. And I can get in it and use it no matter what the signage says. Only for costumers doesn’t apply to me. Every fucking time. With our without the kids in tow.
7) I know how to smile and turn up the nice when I have too. I took note when my father told me vinegar didn’t work as well as honey. Works best with men. But I love the accomplishment of stealing that extra chair or getting in on someone’s plug at a café. No one usually denies me. So I feel accomplished in the feat.
8) I sometimes do things like judge someone unmercifully in my head. Like the girl last night with the glitter on her face and fake blonde wig and flight attendant uniform who kept talking about how free she was and how burning man changed her life. The guilty pleasure of talking shit in my head. I don’t feel like a bitch but only for a moment.
9) The play with kids. To know I can play with them and forget what is happening in the craziness of my head or heart or around me in this world. I press pause and we play. Play and I forget. Play and I remember. Remember why.
10) Telling a know it all they are wrong. When they are. Except when I am that said know it all.
11) Saying I love you. Sometimes I say it more for myself to hear the words. For the person to know. I might say it too much. I do feel guilt for not saying it. I do feel pleasure for saying it.
12) I love walking around without a bra in my house. My boobs are just too big to rock outside the confines of my home. But in sf maybe I should. Should tomorrow.
13) Talking to someone I shouldn’t. But still doing it.
14) The guilty pleasure of getting dressed up or wearing yoga pants. Just feeling good in what you are in that moment.
15) Sometimes when I’m in a crowd and can’t exit. I fart and pretend it wasn’t me.
16) Trashy mags and tv- I need junk food for my brain. Not everything can be heavy and these things are not.
17) I flirt when I can. Even if I don’t know if I have any intentions behind that moment. I like listening to people’s conversations and finding a spot in. A spot for me.

there is no crying in chocolate croissants

another ten minute quick write from the prompt the particular sadness of lemon cake. enjoy and hope you had a great weekend! in sf it actually became summer. . .

The particular sadness for me in a lemon cake is that it exists. I feel like it is a waste of space, sugar, butter, flour, and love wasted on a beautiful cake. Cake of lemon. See I don’t despise lemons all the time. I am fine with them taking up real estate in my water or ice tea or squeezed over my fish or on top of my salad. But in my cake, in my dessert, in my little piece of heaven, I would have to say thanks but no thanks. See as I walk into a bakery one of my favorites like tartine or sand box- the lemon cake, the lemon tart, the lemon anything doesn’t exist for me. I am addict of chocolate, my solace is morning buns, I would probably give up a good conversation for an almond croissant. I love these. They bring me nothing but happiness, pure- bliss- pure- joy.

So the particular sadness I have lemon cake isn’t for the lemon cake itself but for the sadness I feel for it not being what I love. What I truly love. Love that complements my day, my hour. I love the feeling when the bakery smell hits my face. Eyes glisten in anticipation. It smells like home. It smells fresh. It smells new. It smells nothing of lemon.

The sadness I feel for the lemon cake is it doesn’t complete me like the others. You sign up for a long night of dancing and drinking and fun and instead are sitting at a group dinner table arguing over who owes what on the bill. The lemon cake tartness reminds me of the lemons, the lemons, the lemons I thought were lemonade or belonged it my water or ice tea. I thought they were like me. I thought they would make me happy. Make me happy. But alas it wasn’t the chocolate of my dreams. My dreams. It just was lemon cake and there I sit again alone reminiscing on what was, what could have been, what I did wrong. What I did right. I try to forget the memories of the morning buns the cinnamon and citrus perfectly perfectly blended together. But it doesn’t last long, long before it’s gone again. Gone again. I try to remember the memories of the good sweet stuff without feeling the urge of running to my nearest bakery to revenge these feelings for what was. My desserts idealized into, into, into the beginning. The sweetness of the beginning.


The sadness I feel for lemon cake is sadness I feel for the end. The end. Because at the end of it all I’m always eating something I hate. I hate. But I force down each bite, each bite like an anorexic being watched by her support group or family at dinner. I swallow it done. I mourn for the loss of the pastries and cakes that completed my soul. My soul in the moment in the day, in the months, but never does it stretch to the years. Lemon cake for me is mourning. Mourning what was, mourning the walk into the bakery. Mourning, mourning, mourning. I hate it but I still eat it. But there is also the lining of my chocolate croissant of the future. The commingling of the almonds and pastry dough does exist for me. The future that will make me feel complete again. Again.