Rosie Glow Wellness

Mind body health for the deeply fabulous


2:120 A Brief Explanation Of Why I Never Hang Out With You Anymore


It’s Tuesday Wednesday, so space outfit.

Hiya Crybabies. Remember me? Your fearless (cheer)leader? Your lil’ internet pal who wants us all to find and trust our guiding sense of purpose and embrace every opportunity to polish our shiny, happy souls? That weird chick you sort of know who walks around with a gallon of swamp water in a mason jar and a paper straw? The disjointed blogger who used to check in almost daily to rail against Robin Thicke/convince you that homemade beet cake could be more delicious than traditional V-day fare/implore the world to stop telling us to smile… but is APPARENTLY too busy/sheepish to show her face around here of late?

Guilty. Ish. Here’s what’s up:

I want to be a writer. By that, I mean, I would like to occasionally get paid for my writing. I’ve been trying and failing a lot this year… what was our mantra? 2014: Year of the Perpetual Lemon? Year of Slightly Unattainable Goals? No? Anyway. My book isn’t written yet… big surprise there. Related aside: do you all read Choosing Raw? Gena is a force to be reckoned with in the blogging community, and she’s been so supportive of my puny efforts… I legitimately love her, and she’s classy as sh*t! She wrote a book without telling anyone, and then announced it when the publish date was nigh!

All this to say: I am NOT classy as sh*t and I like to gather enthusiasm around my efforts before I manifest them into successes. You know, so we can all be disappointed together… but also maybe celebrate together! Solidarity in all things! And, as usual, I’d love you all to rally behind my latest decision: I’m going to up my freelance game. Right now I do a lot of writing/marketing work for free, I do my work-work for moneyz and I keep this blog up because it makes me happy. I haven’t given myself time to ferociously pursue the freelance market, plus a lot of my thoughts wind up here on Rosie Glow before they can be published elsewhere on the internets. And, in case you’re unaware, my Rosie Glow salary is like… a weekly green juice and a patronizing pat on the head. SO.

To be honest, I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen with this space. I have a deeply unrealistic vision that I’ll get the hang of freelance writing and continue to use Rosie Glow as a (regular!) outlet for everything that Jezebel/HelloGiggles/RookieMag/etc. doesn’t want to know about me… forever and ever until I die. But my presence may continue to be spotty around here for awhile – so thank you in advance for sticking around!

That’s it, Buds. What sort of magic are you up to this week? I saw Amara Enyia speak last night at Comfort Station, and she is SUCH a boss #amaraformayor2015. Tonight I’m gathering with some delightful biddies to watch Empire Records/the most meaningful film of all time. I’ve also got a date, an occasion to wear a dirndl, a marathon bachelorette party, brunch planz and the ANGEL OLSEN show; which my own personal angel scored me sold-out tickets for. No shortage of fun… near-constant shortage of sanity. That’s the Rosie Glow way.



2:112 Human Contact

By the insanely talented and appallingly young Leah Reena Goren

By the insanely talented and appallingly young Leah Reena Goren

Most humans grow up cognizant of the fact that they need regular contact with other humans. Not this girl! I need my mom, of course, to love me and scratch my back and point out that most of my problems aren’t legitimately problems… like the emotionally reactive puppy that I am. I need to have friends and family and know that they’re peripherally out there in the world; occasionally considering whether or not I’m still alive and what I’m up to. I’m even described as a “people person.” I talk to strangers; I like crowds; I run into people I know everywhere because I know everyone, which seriously impedes my ability to wear my favorite outfit (velour leopard pajama bottoms + cats against cat calls t-shirt) outside of my apartment. And although people literally cramp my ramshackle style,  I scored a 7 out of 65 on Buzzfeed’s How Much Do You Hate People? quiz, which means that I only 11% hate people; which means I 89% like people, so if I’m grading on a curve because, hello, the internet is to cynicism what my bloodstream is to caffeine and my fingers are so damn twitchy that I’m having trouble typing; I get an A in tolerating, nay – APPRECIATING – my fellow bipeds…

…from a distance.

The past few years have been about carving out creative space and learning how to say “thanks for the invite to your improv marathon or your friend’s parents’ lakehouse or your whiffleball league, but um…no,” without apologizing for my lack of interest. The should-be-obvious byproduct, however, of narrowing my field of distraction in the interest of finding myself is losing everybody else. Relationships take effort. This was a revelation to me, I sh*t you not. I was recently awoken in the night by a stampede of dreamy electric sparkle-horses of PURE ENLIGHTENMENT – which I don’t remember even a little bit, but I know it happened because I discovered this in my bedside notebook the next day:



Connecting is easy maintaining hard like horses… There is no inherent wisdom in dreams.

It probably means that I should stop eating bananas before bedtime, but I’m going to interpret it like this: being a “people person” is not an accomplishment in and of itself. The real work is in building and maintaining relationships. So now that I know how to take care of myself — through making and writing and running and eating plants — I can get back to the business of taking care of other people. I can do a better job at letting my friends know that I love them. I can take advantage of family time more often — maybe I’ll use the commute to day dream! Maybe I’ll finish my book on a Metra to the suburbs! Because The Universe has given me this baller family, and this posse of boss-ass bitches, and while I do ask that the people in my life respect my need for space in which to overshare on the internet or glue rhinestones on things that don’t require rhinestones, I’d be nuts to let my bonds get busted just because I’m perpetually annoyed with myself for not completing all the projects, every project. My ambitions for a faux flower wall will wait for me — but maybe people won’t.

Also: horses.



2:105 Our Intention Creates Our Reality…?

By the very lovely Jen Corace

By the very lovely Jen Corace

Sweet Friend! Greetings from my months-long state of limbo, which as it turns out, has nothing to do with doing the limbo — although imagining myself in stupefied reverse hunchback seems illustrative of my current plight: my back-achey, self-focused, unable to effectively move forward because aerodynamics the Goddamned (beautiful, don’t hate) Universe appears to be testing me… still… plight. Less in a Job way, more in a Season 2 Marnie Michaels kind of way.


That’s not to say my life hasn’t been rich as sh*t. This weekend alone involved a burlesque opera performance by moi and the rest of Lingerie Lyrique at a fundraiser for {she crew}. THEY HAD A PATRIARCHY PINATA THAT WE COULD LITERALLY SMASH and obviously I was excited about it. I also had the honor of participating in a Comfort Station Logan Square community forum about gentrification and generally bettering my hood, which, it so happens, was attended by really important political figures (state rep, alderman, chamber of commerce guy, etc.) and impassioned community members of all stripes… not just the young, hip Comfort Station staff as we had all feared. And I went to a garage band festival and drank a lot of PBR and floated around in the lusty spring air and swung on swings meant for babies in the nighttime like a bonafide wildewoman #YOLO

I’ve also been yoga-ing it up, and you can laugh at me if you’d like, but I make all sorts of life connections on the mat… even if I can’t do crow pose. Yoga asks us to set an intention to begin each class — at least my kind of yoga does; that is, the kind wherein we talk about pranas and chakras and spend more time chanting than we spend on ab work because, I’m sorry, Tibetan monks did not participate in anything called “crunch time.” It occurred to me that maybe I should set more intentions for, you know, LYFE, so that I can make something of all my disparate activities. So that I can stand erect, turn off the Harry Belafonte, and take in my surroundings from the vantage point of a tall, proud, perpendicular person. So that I can be present enough to ask myself at any given moment: am I honoring my intention right now?

My intentions for today are to enjoy myself, to live openly, and to learn something about my purpose… so methinks blogging is a positive start! Join me in setting an intention for the day, for the hour, whatever… and tell me in the comments! I, ahem, intend to get inspired by all of you 🙂




2:100 The Unicorn Manifesto

Dahlings, I don’t mean to brag, but I’m, like, the weirdest. Always have been. Always will be… just FYI. And following periods in which my future and I are metaphysically shat upon by The Universe over and over again — the downswing, if you will — I tend to spend a lot of time reading about magical people, manifesting our dreamiest dreams, higher purposes, etc., because I believe in all of the aforementioned hippie crap. And you should, too. Below, LYFE, as defined by yours truly.

1. You can will things to happen. When you take the time to figure out who you are and what you want, and then you ask for what you want, you usually receive it. Consider it a reward for doing the work that comes with self awareness… except:

2. A lot of times it turns out you didn’t want what you thought you did … because you don’t actually know anything. As far as I can tell, The Universe doesn’t want to make things easy for you. The Universe wants to expose truths — gradually, and as you grow ready for them. Maybe the closest approximation to a cosmic end goal is a wholly philosophical populace armed with the necessary experience to do and make some game changing stuff. Maybe. But I don’t know anything either.

3. Pay attention and The Universe will whisper your purpose to you. When you drain your brain of mental effluvia (i.e. How do I continue to fund my groovy lifestyle? Am I allergic to mangoes? Should an adult woman own more than one bra? Who is Juan Pablo? Etc.), you make room for the aforementioned truth. You could meditate, if that’s your jam… but that’s just extra. To properly assess what you’re supposed to be doing, you have to engage. So I write. And I run and I paint Juggalo cats. And then I process all of my doings – maybe through meditation… but more likely through more writing or in between episodes of The Mindy Project while I simultaneously eat cookies off of my stomach #glamour. There’s no right way to live presently and mindfully, but when you find what works for you, things start to make sense. That said, …

4… We don’t have any control. Even if you’re the sparkliest, unicorn-y-est person, you’re still just a person, and The Universe could squash you at any moment. Sorry guys. BUT there’s always a point to the squashing: a major lesson to be learned so that you can best navigate your path, once you’ve scooped up and reassembled all of your recently flattened unicorn guts. The trick is to keep paying attention, keep doing your thing (Juggalo. Cats.). And once you have an understanding of what your purpose is, you can always come back to it… as long as you don’t get distracted.

5. BECAUSE JEALOUSY GIVES YOU METAPHYSICAL PIMPLES. Comparing yourself to others serves only to clog your truth-receiving pores. We’re all in this together, and your path is just as valid and necessary as everyone else’s. So some people were born with trust funds and Kardashian/West genes and diamond encrusted everything: those people have sh*t to deal with that you’ve never even considered. Stop worrying about them

6. … Judgement gives you pimples, too. I get a lot of side eyes. Maybe you wouldn’t wear thigh highs to an apple orchard #projecting. That’s cool. But when you judge me for my choices, fashion or otherwise, you’ve lost your path. You’re off-roading, basically, but it’s not fun if YOU’RE not fun, you know? Joy comes from within, and wiggly, amorphous blobs like myself can hold, like, way more joy than squares can.

Biddies, tell me your manifestos! How do you find meaning in this lovely mess? This is either the start of a wholly enlightening conversation or a super scary cult, and I would just like to say that I am unwilling to shave my head at this juncture.



2:99 Happy. Hungry. Vain.


Hello, little gremlins. Spring has (almost barely not quite) arrived; speedy and surefooted as an octogenarian marathon runner, and just as alluring in bike shorts . Though surely fecund with inspiration beneath the dusty layers of…old… this winter’s been a tough nut to crack, eh?


I owe you all a legitimate confession re: why I appear to have become a fatalist as of late — but not today. Today we’re sitting in the shallow end of the baby pool where we babies are permitted to discuss three things and three things ONLY:  boyz springtime food, beauty and sunshiney doings that could put the proverbial spring back in our collective step. As such, I am hereby instituting the Happy. Hungry. Vain Series.

Happy (aforementioned sunshiney doings):

  • I am blessed with art. Everywhere. In the past week, I’ve played cultured groupie to a Swedish Gypsy Rap Band; a ballet that half-served as a reinterpretation of Edward Gorey illustrated stories, half-served as an ode to Freddy Mercury; artist in residence at Comfort Station, Renee Robbins…  and Ann Patchett. As a result, I’m inspired to channel my inner Muppets Chef/Macklemore, don my pilgrim-goth cloak, and write the next great American novel.
  • I’ve been making again. With the advent of spring, my twitchy fingers tromp my inherent sloth. Amidst the pictorially alluded to flower crowns, sketches and Barbie ™ Carcass Couture that I’m always kinda workin’ on, I’m painting couple portraits of all of my friends who are marrying one another. I’m 26. There’s an engagement epidemic… if you’re newly infected, I can tell you right now: you’re getting a charming couple characterization (oil on canvas) by Rose. OH, and I’m working on a burlesque revival piece on the women’s suffrage movement with Lingerie Lyrique. Normal.  (You can see us at the {she crew} Sadie Hawkins dance on Friday!)
  • New friends. Blooming the world over like loamy dandelion fluff. Smooch.


  • Feeling rawful. If you’ve been reading for a while, you know that I eat very healthily and very vegan-ly… but this past winter; somewhere between “I can’t feel my ears” and “All of my loungewear is crusted in cat hair…. meh,” I got a little heavy handed with the oil/salt/nuts/other necessary hibernate-y evil edibles. I also succumbed to buying a LOT of meals out because… convenience and cold… so now I’m broke and craving raw food. I’ve been carting a liter of homemade green juice in an air tight mason jar to work every day, and pretty much exclusively feasting on raw fruits, veggies and (cooked) quinoa — simultaneously simplifying things at the grocery store and making me feel like a rawk star. There are no Draconian regulations to my little “cleanse”. I will keep it up as long as I feel like keeping it up — but if you’re cute and you want to treat me to a taco or a whiskey sour: yes. A thousand times yes.


  • I’m really gonna do it. I’m really gonna dye my hair lavender, and you can’t stop me! (Said the tween rebel.) Like a matte platinum – lavender. Sometimes I pin about it.
  • Grease lightning. I mentioned this here, but oil pulling truly is everything it’s cracked up to be. My teeth are dramatically whiter, which makes sense… but also, my skin is clearer. Like way clearer. My understanding is this: your mouth is an open wound/a makeout party for feculent, fecund young microbes/a fermenting orifice of scum and rot #kissme. Oil pulling cleans the surface area of your mouth (i.e. NOT your gum’s crevices. You still gotta brush and floss that sh*t out, ya dig?) really effectively, so your body has time to remedy your second coming of puberty skin situation, and all of your other… situations. Swish for 20 minutes then spit it out in the garbage can. Voila. You’re perfect.
  • Treat yo’self. I’ve been to two beauty events this past week, for Sephora and Sun Times Splash, and was reminded that some amount of pampering is good for the soul. I might allocate some portion of my tax refund to pedicures… and massages! And blue mascara! Anyway, we’re babes. Never forget it.

Post your own Happy. Hungry. Vain list! And gimme your thoughts in the comments! More to come from me, lovebugs.



2:90 Unsettled


This reminds me that I am out of toilet paper.  Hope Gangloff.

This reminds me that I am out of toilet paper.
Hope Gangloff.

Hello Sweet Friends. I write today to express a wish you may not expect from the likes of me, what with my (once daily) preachings of EMBRACE CHANGE! Blithely create space amidst the chaos in which to make creepy things and say creepy things; space in which to let the process of unleashing your foamy-mouthed innards — your FEMINIST RAGE/your youthful obtuseness/your many-headed complexes/ your skittish, salivating, teeth-gnashing GUTS — keep your beauteous brain above in aqua pura. And while doggy paddling along in a tsunami is a necessary life skill requiring keen self awareness and bravery and absolutely every other character trait that I value… my arms are tired. I want a nap and a vegan ice cream cone. I haven’t published anything honest in weeks and my guts have essentially gnawed themselves to muculent nubs. Yeah, that’s right. Muculent. Nubs.

I’m sick of coping, sick of hustlin’. I am sick in general. I want to be settled — not in a married old lady kind of way, but in a wholly self-content, boss-ass bitch kind of way… just for a little while, you know? Since I started this blog, it’s become more apparent to me that I’m on a path. Reflecting on my interests and the ways I choose to spend my time have clarified my next destination, and I’m grateful for that. But for a while now, I’ve been stranded on the side of the road with the curbside litter and miscellany and a flat on my theoretical Schwinn. I’ve learned, in this limbo, that the frustrating part of finally figuring out what you want is living without it for an unknowable length of time. Now the question is “when?” When will Diddy roll up in his four-doored Fiat? When will a plaid-clad Logan Squarian come at me with a gleaming bike pump? When will I finally toss my helmet over my shoulder and declare “I’M WALKIN’, BITCHES!”?

Time will tell, homies. Time will tell. Truesdale out.