Rosie Glow Wellness

Mind body health for the deeply fabulous


On Inner Children. Or something.

Long time, no #realtalk, Sweet friend. Truth: I am working very dilligently on a secret mission that has no business being on the internet (Truesdale. Rose Truesdale.) BUT I STILL HAVE A LOT OF THOUGHTS, and lately, the ones worth sharing have been all about inner children. Look. I am clearly no one’s mother (though I am perpetually surrounded by babies) and I have no real aspirations to test my maternal instincts. Ever. But teasing out your creativity entails becoming reacquainted with little you: shaking her tiny hand, complimenting her tutu and light up sneakers, and asking her what she wants to do today. Sometimes Baby Rose wants to collage:


This is the beginnings of a shrine to me, my roommate and my cat.
Meow mreeeeeow more to come.

Sometimes she wants to bedazzle sh*t:


#blurryphonephoto. Let’s call it intentional.

And, sensitive girl that she is, sometimes life gets her down. Sometimes she kicks and screams with her scrawny legs and squeaky voice and all of her horrific might (#kidsareterrifying) and desperately needs an exorcism some kindness and understanding from her cool older self (that’s you.) Now, I may not want to physically expel another person from my own personage because gross. But I do know how to talk to children: I have a Disney Princess air about me, which goes a surprisingly long way with the three feet and under set; and I respect imagination. I respect the meaningful use of imagination so much more than I respect displays of power or efficiency or whatever witchery people use to keep their houses clean. Adults: you’re boring and you need to re-prioritize. But kids. Kids, we have a mutual understanding. Props, young grasshoppers.

Here’s how to talk to your creative self:

It does her no good to hear how pretty she is. Compliment the picture she drew:


By the mother-daughter combo Busy Mockingbird. Read about them.

Marvel at her fusilli noodle and Elmer’s glue ferret statue. Compliment her goddamn blog. An aside: whenever someone tells me they read my blog, I instantly love them. Boys, take note. ANYWAY, my mom used to go to these seminars when I was wee, in which she was instructed to focus on my talents instead of my looks. As a result, I grew up joyfully geeky. I could have been a mean girl! But I was, and still am, too busy drawing  pictures and writing terrible poetry and reading about awakening my artistic spirit to remember to wear pink on Wednesdays. If you can remember to put on pants in the morning and brush your teeth sometimes, no one cares what you look like and every second you spend worrying about your appearance is a second you COULD have spent painting portraits of your ex boyfriends as cats. Get on that. Your hair’s fine.

Don’t criticize her either. Quit it with the negative self-talk, Homie. If she’s terrible with numbers, help her pass her calculus test, sure, but acknowledge that her real skills lie in English. Or if she loves math and science and hates glitter and craft glue… I mean, I can’t personally relate, but you do you! Don’t tear your inner child down: build her up. Don’t call her stupid. Don’t call her ugly. DON’T call her fat. My (wacky, weird, wonderful) mother would never call me fat. She tells me that I need to wash my hair more often, and throw out my disintegrating shoes, and stop wearing spandex crop tops and high waisted shorts in the winter (with TIGHTS, Mom! With tights!). But she accepts me as is and probably knows that advising me to look a little less grungy just makes me wanna be grungier. The 90’s are back, yo. WOAH, TANGENT. Anyway, you wouldn’t call a child names unless you are #theworst, so don’t say that sh*t to your inner child either. Unfair judgement kills creativity. Kills it. Nourish and flourish, baby!

Let the girl wander. Your creative soul can’t do sh*t if you keep her on a leash… and there are those parents. Give her permission to explore! Go for a walk! Wander around a museum by yourself! Window shop! Volunteer at a gallery space or a farmer’s market or a concert venue or a community garden! I love you, but you have no excuses. Get out there. Unless you’re busy making something. Then you can stay in. (Aside number two: I “volunteered” for the Comfort Station last night. A.k.a. I listened to live music and took advantage of the photo booth and free PBR and handsome hipster boys while I worked registration, and today, I’m positively buzzing with creative energy. Thanks Emily!) Carve out creative space for yourself, but don’t, you know… live in space. You can only relate to the world if you’re part of it. So take part and take heart! #rhymezone

Happy Friday, Babygirls and Babyboys. Take care! Treat yo’self! There are exciting things to come.

What do you say to your inner child? I want some taglines. Best one wins a batch of cookies and a hug from yours truly, so lay it on me.



Brain Dump No. 5?


Fernando Vicente. Love him.

The numbers are arbitrary. Also I can’t count. So! Some sweeping brain trash for this sunny? snowy? apocalyptic? (it’s still dark outside… our future is a beautiful mystery) Thursday!

On love. Here are all the reasons I keep falling in love with baristas:

They have all the coffee. Readers, I don’t drink espresso by the 60 ml shot like a chic Euro lady. I guzzle iced coffee by the Big Gulp like the ugly American that I am. Need that hit!

In my daily life, I seem to meet a lot of baristas and bartenders and NO OTHER BOYS. And when I’m in the midst of bartenders, I’m generally too preoccupied falling in love with everyone else in the room to bother with them. #whiskeyme #whyaminotintheserviceindustry #ohrightcuzofcreepslikeme

I think barista-men are contractually obligated to NOT have ZZ top beards. Despite my Intelligentsia-junkie status, I would turn my nose up at stringy facial hair in my soy latte, much like I turn my nose up at otherwise attractive men with 3 foot long chin frizzies. It must be a Logan Square thing. And if I can wear harem pants and furry sweaters, dude can be a lady repeller. That is justice, whether I like it or not.

On money. Oh hello. I am a poor little yuppie. Please never listen to my advice on budgeting/saving/responsible financial practices. Read this article, in which I am quoted as saying “What is a budget?” You can however heed my counsel on being fabulously penniless.

Find a fabulously penniless role model. Mine is Girl is always sparkly and always fly and always repping some incredible sequined schmatta from Village Discount, perfectly beat up chucks and a threadbare plaid shirt that Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love probs swaddled Francis Bean in. Tori makes it look cool to have no money… or to spend that money on craft cocktails and cabs to and from the various glamorous corners of one’s life. Might as well get comfy with your fiscal status, G.

Twitter contests! Look, if non-profit work has taught me anything, it’s that events are big business. If someone is throwing an event, they want people to come. Ideally, they want people to buy tickets – but if it looks like there will be an embarrassing number of bodies present, they want your broke ass there. If there’s an event you want to go to, you can probably get in for free. I bet you know someone who knows someone who’s involved: ask if you can volunteer. And almost every event has a parallel social media contest where you can score free tickets by retweeting a concert venue’s tweet or posting a Facebook comment re: how much you love cat fashion shows. Or whatever. Be resourceful, young grasshopper!

On health. That’s all I have time for this morning because I’m going to go run. Bullet point victory!

Thoughts, gf? What are you up to this weekend? Wanna hook me up with your barista bud, knowing full well that I have ulterior motives?



On Burning Bridges

"Burning Bridges" by Lily Padula

“Burning Bridges” by Lily Padula

Hey there, Internet. Of late, I’m full of silent rage. Like a ninja. I know it’s snuggle season and the sky is sh*tting ice fluff and everyone’s excited, but I want to talk about ANGST. So.

Every wise man worth his beard will tell you not to burn your bridges. It’s tough stuff, forging connections — it takes a lot of toothpicks to build a deck that will span the divide between yourself and another person; not to mention you have to keep that catwalk anchored on common ground, and engineer it so that it’ll give (and give and give) in wind and rain and general chaos, but it won’t break. Don’t I sound like I know what I’m talking about? Metaphorically?

I have some homework this week (LYFE homework, homie), and it is this: write a letter to a person I no longer want a relationship with, explaining why I don’t want a relationship. It’s a letter that’s been living inside of me for a long, long time, and teasing it out will dredge up all sorts of uncomfortable memories. Once it’s on the page, though, I don’t have to carry it with me anymore. I don’t know if I’ll send it… but that’s the thing with burning bridges: you only need to burn down one end. If I take a flaming wrecking ball to that sh*t, the person on the other side of the split can’t reach me. And if they can’t reach me, they can’t hurt me. What they can do, however, is suck it.

Some connections just aren’t worth keeping. You all know me well enough to know that I’m pro: love and sparkle dust. I don’t want to expend energy hating on anybody… but if a relationship isn’t serving you, you ought to burn that mofo down. You don’t have to win a public wrestling match or engage in a twitter war or storm out of your office in spiky Louboutins, shrieking “NEVER AGAIN!” as you thrust your whole self against the revolving door. Just decide to yourself: this is over. Explain to yourself: this is why it’s over. Write it down if you have to. Then get to work on a new connection… because you’re too valuable to align yourself with someone you don’t admire. Respect yourself enough to start fresh.

That’s all. You can enjoy the snow now.


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Friday Inspiration!

Happy Friday, boos. Had sort of a week. In my dreams last night, my dad was in cahoots with my coworkers and my apartment flooded so I had to move into the clock tower next to my school… like the lady-Hunchback of Notre Dame. And then my dad was tryna make me join the basketball team… which basketball team, I’m not sure. (Let it be known that if I were to join a basketball team now, we would be called the Diva Squirrels.) And then all of my teeth fell out. So that was a look.

I promise to never recap my dreams for you again because that sh*t’s lame, but I think it’s obvious that I’m struggling in multiple life-arenas right now, including but not limited to general dentistry. So, obv, the only remedy for all that ails me — aside from daily flossing (I’m sorry, ain’t nobody got time for that) — is an inspiration list.

Here’s one. Here’s another one. And here’s today’s:

Don’t waste a sh*tty situation. Usually when I’m feeling desperate for a life makeover, what I actually need is a brain makeover. I’m not saying you should pretend there isn’t a problem — insincerity gives you pimples. Plus, peeps can sniff out a phony… so you’re left delusional, pimply and friendless. Wootwoot! Sounds like a Friday night! The way to milk a sh*tty situation is to be honest and ask yourself what you’re getting out of it. Is there a lesson in there somewhere? Because family illness happens. People will tear you down to build themselves up. Sometimes your roommate will find you sobbing in your bathtub with a bottle of wine. But these experiences can teach you that life is fleeting, or that you need to stop taking crap from everybody, or that Merlot pairs better with tears than Malbec. Live openly and listen. There’s nothing more valuable than the wisdom you earn when you overcome. Give those sh*tty situations a point, you know?

– Celebrate others’ victories. You can’t win all the time. I mean, you’re great, but you’re human. Here’s how to ensure that there’s reason to rejoice every day: be happy for other people. It’s like if you and all your friends and coworkers and loved ones were holidays, and you were stuck with Flag Day. Or like, Boxing Day. Are you only going to party it up on Boxing Day? Or are you going to kill it on Halloween and Christmas and World Peace Day, too? You can be cranky and jealous and self-centered if you want, but I’m going to get myself a slice of World Peace Day cake. Makes life a little richer, don’t it?

Make a little love list. They’re the best. This one’s more of a love cluster: this song over and over and over; GAY MARRIAGE IN ILLINOIS (and the wedding of two handsome men I’m attending tomorrow); writing at Reno cuz… coffee/whiskey/cute boys; EVERYONE’S birthday (Happy birthday Amy! Happy birthday Nicole! Happy birthday Claire! Who did I miss?); Friendsgivings; and my brilliant, beautiful Grandma, for whom I have endless love and admiration.

Also, face paint. Everywhere, all the time.


That eye. That evil eye.

What’s inspiring you? How was your week?



On Writing Again

Oh hello again! Look at me, bloggin’ on the reg like a CHAMP/creep. APPARENTLY, telling women to smile is an even more widespread epidemic than I thought. One sassy Facebook commenter led me here… I’ll have that response in my back pocket next time, Emily!

Anywho. RG readers, you are too good to me. My presence around here has been spotty at best in the past few months — basically ever since I announced that I am writing a book. I’d love to tell you that I’ve been spending all of the time I haven’t been blogging writing my millennial manifesto, but that would be a lie. Not an unobtrusive white lie, but… like… a ten foot tall, radioactive-chartreuse, super sparkly lie that sings show tunes. Like that lie personified would be a musical theater kid. Or Rupaul. You know? I wrote about my book-writin’ struggles a bit here, while simultaneously imploring you to be first readers. I had loads of brilliant, enthusiastic volunteers and I still haven’t delivered. Because…???

Because I’m #theworst. Because I fell off the proverbial writing wagon (which is a converted station wagon covered in quill pens and chauffered by Sylvia Plath, FYI… not some Oregon Trail sh*t. This is MY blog, mmkay?). That’s why. Because for many, many months I committed to waking up at 5:00 a.m. to pour my guts on paper and then I just stopped.

As you all know by now, figuring out how to live my best, most balanced life and sharing my findings with you guys is my ultimate passion. Thus… I’ve spent some time questioning whether or not devoting myself to a craft and possibly missing out on friend stuff/boy stuff/bar stuff is “worth it”. Newsflash: Tuesday night party people HATE it when you leave at 10:00 p.m. Boyfriends HATE it when you wake up at 5:00 a.m. But I have determined the following:

I don’t want a boyfriend. I want a book deal. 

I’d rather have a book deal than another Whistler drink. I’d rather be a square… with a book deal. I’d rather come across as too intense and too disciplined and terrifyingly over-caffeinated (true… true… TRUE) than not have a book deal.

So, obviously, I have a plan. As of today, I have reinstated my morning routine (write/coffee/run) and intend to alternate between blogging days and book days. Soooo that’s what I’m gonna do and I’m pretty pumped about it. Can I get a holla from my fellow nerds?!

What do you need to recommit to? Tell me in the comments! Um, also, Christian Slater and Steve Zahn  are totes filming a T.V. show in my office today and I hardcore creeped on my way to lunch. Just sayin’.



Stop Telling Women To Smile

You guys. YOU GUYS, I MISS YOU! I had a magical weekend full of love and #deepthoughts and rhinestones. There were so many social engagements that they (they being the Eremite Society, obv) are threatening to revoke my hermit card. Halloween happened: I was a pineapple.


Just pineapplin’ around with Daria. #normal

There was also hardcore nesting: living room feng shui; paintin’ of peg boards/wine racks/dressers (This was mostly Katie. She’s an inspiration!); bedazzling of quinoa cannisters… urgent projects. We don’t have a mail key, but we have an EXTREMELY sparkly quinoa cannister.

I didn’t get to do much writing in between nesting/pineappling/wrestling with children/coffee-dating/face-painting/tribal dancing/WHOMPING the other suckers at Whistler trivia, but I accomplished a little pre-blogging a.k.a. wandering down Milwaukee Ave. with all of my thoughts and an unintentional frown — the by-product of focused contemplation, natch —  on my generally beaming face. When bam! (thwap? kerplop?) I was carelessly ripped from my Lisa Frankian dream state by the (metaphorical) hands of AN ASSHOLE.



Has this ever happened to you, lady-friends? You’re out in the world but not necessarily grinning like a lunatic at everything you happen to see therein, and some creepy guy approaches — often with a second creepy guy so as to bolster the first’s confidence in creepin’ — and instructs, nay COMMANDS, you to smile?!

THIS HAPPENS TO ME ALL THE TIME, despite the fact that when I’m not being ordered to manipulate my own face to satisfy the needs of every meandering douchebag in Chicago, people love to (sometimes earnestly, oftentimes condescendingly) marvel at how happy I am, as though I must be completely ignorant of the world’s problems. YO, I got 99 problems, and this douchebag is one!

Telling women to smile (thank you for your artful/political papering, Logan Square), is problematic in several ways. Listen up:

1. Dude, YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE. Maybe I’m having a legitimately sh*t day, or a sh*t year. Read this.

2. These are MY zygomaticus major and minor muscles. I will decide what I feel like doing with them, thank you.

3. There is also the implication that I should be A. grateful to be alive, B. grateful to be in this assclown’s presence, C. grateful that said assclown is not physically threatening me in any way so that I may continue to enjoy being alive in his presence. My third point may seem a little extreme, but when someone you don’t want to talk to attempts to force you to do something (smile), or tries to force  you to feel guilty for your lacking appreciativeness… that’s an initiated demonstration of power. That’s a “whatchu gon’ do about lil’ lady?” manifestation of all his inner woman-related turmoil. Are you guys reading me here? I think this sort of behavior is… let’s call it pre-rapey. And maybe you’re the nicest dude in the world and you simply wish everyone would smile all the time: you should know that I’m interpreting your actions as pre-rapey. You should know that I feel threatened by them. And you should stop.

That’s all for now, babes. I’ll see you again real soon, and in the interim, I hope you’ll use your facial musculature however you want.