Rosie Glow Wellness

Mind body health for the deeply fabulous

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On Love and Diffidence

The Weather Girl 2, by perennial favorite Alexandra Levasseur

The Weather Girl 2, by perennial favorite Alexandra Levasseur

Last Valentine’s Day, I wrote a step by step guide on how to be your own damn Valentine. This year I’d rather highlight the flaws in our collective consciousness as they pertain to love and self-actualization, meanwhile owning up to my own foibles. Because times they are a changin’, mama, and I am chock full of foibles. Also feminist rage. … Also coffee.

First, I take issue with the idea of self-love as a checkpoint en route to “real” love, involving two people. Or three people — I’m not here to judge. The belief that one cannot fully love another human until one loves herself, while likely true and wise and well-meaning, still identifies romantic love as the end goal. And though I’m not anti-relationship (at least not currently), I think slapping the onus of completing you on someone who, while lovely, is not you demonstrates blatant disregard for all of the work you’ve already put into becoming your best self.

Further gumming up the works, there’s the “kiss enough frogs” mentality that grotesquely suggests every partner we mount, each supposedly less amphibious than the one before, teaches us a subtle lesson about what we really need in a relationship. But what about kissing frogs for its own sake because making out is the best? What about kissing frogs as a means to personal achievement; connecting with others as a means to further solidifying your own autonomy?… Not so you can more effectively love your soulmate when said soulmate finally floats by on his/her resplendent lily pad, but so you become unsinkable on the murky pilgrimage to your own place of peace.

The thing is, relationships come and go, but the focus will always come back to you and your opportunities for growth. Or, because this is my blog, ME and MY opportunities for growth. One such opportunity: I am a deeply self-conscious soul. I always have been. I was not a rascally, bed-headed tomboy running amok through the neighborhood. I was an abnormally precocious indoor kid: easily embarrassed, with early onset OCD and the obsessive need to prove that I was smarter and more talented than the boogery masses surrounding me. I think most creative people suffer from a similar paranoia that simultaneously keeps them from being present and gives them an impetus to make. I write to remind myself that there are valuable thoughts scurrying around in my cerebellum, along with some truly insipid thoughts, i.e. I am adding nothing to this conversation, my arms feel chubby today… my nail beds suck. Whatever. Self-consciousness is a little shadow succubus I have trained to serve me. It’s just one example of a hangup, and relationships are really great at shedding light on hangups.

Relationships can be really great in other ways, too: friendship and sex and closeness are all terribly important life components. And for the record, I am very much pro-love. But personal growth shouldn’t stop when you find someone you adore. Romantic relationships should be another channel to your aforementioned place of peace, another mechanism for working through your hangups. Because you’re enough, all by yourself. And every day, you’re better.

Just two cents from a wizened cat lady, one day too late. Happy February 15th, everyone!



2015: I want to be a goddamn mermaid

Hi Darlings.

Screen Shot 2015-01-17 at 11.04.30 AM

Impermanence by Laura Berger


So this is 2015. I haven’t quite given myself the space to reflect on what it means that the universe is one whole year older until this moment. Back when I blogged almost daily, I did a sh*t ton of reflecting. Now, not so much. I think that’s okay for now.

There are moments in life — sometimes year-long moments — wherein everything you’ve learned about yourself thus far does not seem to apply at all. Of course, that’s not the case. I’ve been collecting life lessons and vital means of self-preservation all this time, but figuring out how to apply the wisdom I’ve earned to new challenges can be so tremendously overwhelming that I don’t “waste” any time in conscious thought. Without mental preparation and foresight, I move to the next thing. I face my demons with an entirely inadequate amount of chutzpa and perhaps a limp balloon. No one is convinced, least of all myself, and I forget that I possess any wisdom at all.

Let me tell you, IT FEELS WEIRD to swim through transitional phases of life this way. When you abruptly find that you’re a little fish in a school of very large fish, it’s easy to dismiss all of your little fish acumen up until that point, and thus approach new experiences without recollecting your old experiences. To reference a cinematic masterpiece that is no longer culturally relevant but fits nicely with this paragraph’s vague sea theme; during said transitional phases, our innate response is to “just keep swimming.” If you’ll recall, however, the fish who said that was the dumb fish (voiced by Ellen DeGeneres who’s the antithesis of a dumb fish, IMHO) and I don’t want to be no dumb fish. I want to be a fish who knows my intelligence and my worth. I want to be a goddamn mermaid.

To achieve mermaid status, or goddess status, or functional 27 year old human being status, a person has to have confidence. And to gain confidence, one occasionally has to call to mind all of the terribly valuable knowledge one has already accumulated so that one is made aware of how ready one is. As usual, one is me. Hi. We’re talking about me. Here’s what I’ve learned this past year, and how it will help me going forth:

Vulnerability is powerful sh*t. I feel very lucky to be part of Generation Overshare (I coined this term just now, it is not a thing, but IT WILL BE) because I think I’m awfully brave when it comes to sharing my story, or offering up my personal battles in the hopes of helping others open up. A lot of women I look up to in almost every way are less forthcoming than I when it comes to shedding light on the dark stuff. I think these women admire me for expressing my truth, when honestly, I don’t know any other way to behave.

– It takes effort not to be a bullsh*t person. One of my resolutions this year is, simply, “no bullsh*t”. I don’t want to take it. I don’t want to give it. But a lot of bullsh*t practices, namely avoidance techniques I’ve developed to close myself off, are deeply engrained in me by now. E.g., I don’t acknowledge acquaintances I see in public when I’m not feeling particularly good about myself; I ghost potential suitors whom I don’t have the courage to outright reject; the first thing I do in the morning is mindlessly peruse Instagram because I’m afraid to face the blank page and write. It. Out. Bullsh*t practices are fear-based, and if I’m thoughtful about my actions, I can refrain from being a bullsh*t person. The struggle is real, but I’m getting there.

If I’m not open to good things, they won’t happen for me. Here’s a really lame thing that I do: I claim that I have no interest in love partially to justify the fact that I’m not in love. It’s true that I haven’t been making room for love — I’ve been focused on work and my family, and that’s all right with me. But it’s absolutely not true that I don’t want love. Because I do when the timing is right. Same thing goes for financial stability and general comfort and those kinds of markers of adulthood. I don’t need to carry on the facade that I’m thoroughly enjoying the life of an impoverished bohemian any more than I need to carry on the facade that I’m too independent to give a fig about dudes. Because I do. I give multiple figs.

– Perfection is unattainable. Duh. One lie that I continue to hold dear is the possibility of a “perfect day”. A perfectly productive day wherein I wake up feeling incredible after a perfect 8 hours of beauty rest and tackle everything on my list and more… which happens sometimes. But if I only manage 5 hours of beauty rest and I’m too busy and headachey to go to yoga and all of my clothes are covered in Elmer’s hair and I happen to be fresh out of those sticky lint roller thingies… is my day ruined? No! I can accept the less than stellar, and know in my heart of hearts that planning on perfection is futile.

– Family is the most important thing. My family had a tough year, but we’re stronger than ever. I love you, Mom!

– Friends are family, too. And mine are beautiful, inspiring and 100% there for me. Holler.

– I know what’s best for me. Sometimes I need to disconnect for a little while so that I can come back and CRUSH IT. I’m a grown up and my creative and professional output is better on my terms. I don’t think anyone ever doubts that but me, but… boundaries are hard.

– Sticking up for myself is hard, too. It comes back to confidence and being a little fish. Or a tall, skinny fish. Whatever. I’m worth sticking up for, and I need to remind myself of that until it sticks.

– There is so much to be grateful for. I’m working in exactly the obscure art-y, fashion-y, plant-y, female entrepreneurial world I want to be working in, and I’m so blessed for it. There are people in my life who weren’t there a year ago, but I can’t image how I ever lived without them. There are some things that haven’t quite clicked for me yet, but they will. Personal growth is my priority, as it should be, and I’m well on my way toward becoming a badass b*tch fish. Or something.

XOXO. Happy belated 2015, Friends,


2:332 Wrinkles

Discovered on Pinterest

Discovered on Pinterest

I never gravitated toward the phrase “I have to get a couple of things off my chest,” largely because it always sounded a little dirty to me in that there are exactly a couple of things on my chest #womanhood Rather, when I’m overwhelmed, I feel it in my chest, like I have hummingbird-heart. Like my innards collectively palpitate at 2000hz and the cells of my marrow chatter like so many novelty teeth. Bones made of teeth. Or something.

Right now, I’m struggling to iron out some truly spectacular wrinkles as they pertain to the fabric of my life and career and so on. Since I can’t resist a metaphor, I’ll have you know that I typically only wear polyester knits that are 100% un-rumple-able and if the extraordinary happens, I just steam my problems out in a hot shower. I don’t even own an iron. In fact, I’m fairly ill-equipped when it comes to matters of practicality. All matters of practicality. And I can’t fend for myself if I don’t have the tools or the experience… or the confidence to believe that my case is a case worth smoothing out.

I’ve always been resourceful. I’ll learn how to do something and do it myself before asking anyone else for help. I feel the oppressive need to prove myself before I ask for anything… ever. The heels of my boots look gnawed on, and my winter coat is a hand-me-down from my sister’s ex-boyfriend. I’ve successfully fooled everyone into thinking that unkempt glamour is my thing, when, in reality, I’m just terrible at asking for what I need. I’ve always been resourceful. I’ve never been good at sticking up for myself, and I need to work on that.

For a long time, this blog served as a way for me to express myself without having to fight. I’ve poured a great deal of trust out into the universe. Sometimes it feels like I’m pouring out wine; like I’m throwing away something precious. Because when real catastrophe happens — the kind of sh*t that is far beyond the dilemmas of a young, broke lass — I want badass women in my corner. I want women who don’t care if they offend anyone or embarrass themselves or ask too many questions or ask for too much, themselves. I want women wielding hot irons who don’t wait for nature to run its course, and I feel very lucky to be surrounded by women like that right now in regards to one such catastrophic thing. One private, catastrophic thing.

It’s odd that we can be bold in some ways but not in others. It’s odd, but it makes sense that our personal histories seem to repeat themselves until we learn our lesson. And life, apparently, is trying to make a badass out of me.




2:272 How to be a Person


“Dancer”, by my girl, Alexandra Levasseur

This Sunday night, I attended my Grandma Muriel’s 92nd birthday. For those of you who have never had the honor of meeting my grandma, she’s a baller. Just by virtue of the fact that she was born in 1922, she’s original, original gangster — plus, as a young mother in the 50’s,  she started a one room library in the rear of the Union Hotel that grew, under her watch, into this library. She’s an insatiable book-eater, she makes a mean egg pancake, she will annihilate you in Scrabble — and she is equal parts kindness and sass. She’s a real lady, and I’m insanely lucky to be swimming in her matriarchal gene pool.

Longtime readers know I’m blessed with a tight-knit family. My uncle balks at my dietary restrictions (but always orders me a baby pizza sans cheese, nonethess). My godson and his sister each glom onto one of my legs and pummel each other while shrieking with glee, then abandon that game to pummel me and call me a pumpkin butt or a dolphin head. It’s basically the Kennedy Compound, but more than that, it’s emblematic of the balance I’m always seeking — all of these people in one room who ferociously love each other despite their differences; whose differences combined create stasis; consistency in chaos; a flashing, neon reminder of what matters and what doesn’t. Family matters, for example. Relationships matter.

Work matters, too. Lately, I’ve been all work, and I love my work, but when I don’t make time to diversify, my whole perspective becomes skewed. I start to forget how to be a person — how to be a friend, how to take care of myself, how very much my well-being hinges on my ability to express myself in a way that I’m proud of. It’s nice to have this blog as a reference, when I legitimately consign to oblivion the basic truths that I like to write personal essays and also make stuff; I need contact with humans who know my wild-woman roots and humans with whom I can put down new roots; I need a venue in which to be noisy and mischievous but still understood, as well as a venue to retreat to, to ponder and create and sleep sometimes and still be understood. Also, I need to remember to eat meals… which has never been a problem for me in my entire life leading up to this point, but I’ve learned that a hangry Rose is an unproductive, cantankerous, joyless Rose. See? Basic.

I’ve also learned that being a whole person takes practice, even if you’ve done the work and you know what makes you you, you actually have to keep at it. Forever. No matter what.

Sooo… that’s me. Say hi so I have reason to believe that this lil blog ain’t dead yet. Namaste.



2:246 Oh Hai


Unwitting portrait of Rose Truesdale found here.

Darling. It appears that summer’s crusting over with tangerine-lit foliage as I write this. Do me a favor and don’t Google “crusting over.” But envision it: our wet hot American selves papier-mâchéd into a festive autumnal pinata, baked into a pumpkin pie, blanketed in dry, yellow lichen. Sort of nice, yeah? Nice and seasonal.

Before I look very forward to the black capelet/opera glove/combat boot combo I hope to rock with my pink hair this fall, and the absurd amounts of squash I plan to eat until I’m tangerine-lit, myself; I’d like to acknowledge the fact that I haven’t been here all summer. In fact, I haven’t been to summer all summer… I feel like someone “forgot” to invite me. To summer.

I haven’t been to the beach. I haven’t tripped around Logan Square, rosé drunk and sticky and ready for love… I mean, I’ve done less of that than is my usual practice. Rather, I’ve been hustling, but I’ve been hustling with purpose. I find myself constantly surrounded by people who inspire me and look to me for inspiration. Just yesterday, I met with a health coach who specializes in women with disordered eating — who’s grateful for her own ED experience because it means she’s better able to counsel others. I met with a young female entrepreneur who left the corporate world to build her own business around wellness and I had the privilege of hearing her story over kale salads. I planned three upcoming events with a printmaker who’s obsessed with alchemy — a pop-up gallery, a dinner wherein chefs and local artists are creatively paired, and an  exhibit featuring delightfully creepy art inspired by our wares. I prepped for a pop-up shop featuring local artisans, I brainstormed article ideas for a plant-based column I hope to start, I looked ahead to a plant-based book launch we’re helping with… and this was all yesterday. It was just a Wednesday, like the Wednesday before it, where I got to focus my vitality on all of the things I love and obsess over. And I get to do that again today.


That’s not to say this summer has been without its challenges — it’s been a transition, to be sure, and when I’m surrounded by so much newness and so much less time, it becomes all too easy for me to lose myself… to be eaten alive by all the ways I’m not enough. I have to perpetually check myself, say “Yo Girl. Be consumed with joy. Be consumed with ideas — focus your freak outs on how very you your life is becoming. No more I’m not experienced enough or glamorous enough or well-connected enough.” What I have is exactly enough, and I keep coming back to that. We’re enough, chick. You and me. We good.

So hai. I’m here and I love you. Who knows when I’ll be back… maybe soon! Maybe winter 2015. But in the meantime, I’m geeking out over all the stories I’ve been privy to with my new gig — stories of how so many boss-ass ladies have become themselves. I’d love to hear about your becoming you, or any stories you’ve got lately. Email me at rosetruesdaleATgmailDOTcom, leave me a comment or 4. Be in touch. Fill me in.



2:186 New Life

Courtesy of The Thought Studio

Courtesy of The Thought Studio.

Good morning, Sweet Friend. I missed you.

I’ve been ghosting you all for about a month — by far the longest I’ve ever gone without fluttering in to smother the internet with the rotundity of my feelings — and in response to the concerned emails I’ve received from many of you in recent weeks, it’s confirmed: I am alive. In fact, not only am I alive, but I am well. I am high-vibing, clear-headed and whole. Thank you so much for asking.

My roommate and I are on a Julie Delpy kick (we are always on a Julie Delpy kick), and as I am a movie-Philistine, I just watched Before Sunrise for the very first time. Ethan Hawke’s character, who I’m altogether certain will turn out to be a big baby but no spoilers pls/thx, voices his problem with the idea of reincarnation: our planet houses billions more living souls than it once did, so if we’re all reincarnates of ancient hearts, we’re fractured people simply because there aren’t enough ancient hearts to go around.

I’ve been feeling like a fractured person, myself, for about six months. Not because of reincarnation — this isn’t 1995 and I’m not a neo-Buddhist with an erratically sprouting upper lip — but because I’ve been deeply unhappy in my work, I’ve been looking for new work, and I’ve had to pour all of my creative energy into playing the part of someone wholly content with their day-to-day. Call it acting. Call it lying. It’s exhausting and I very much dislike it.

Honesty is freedom, though, and that’s why I have this blog. Aside from my recent struggle, I can usually speak my truth here — identify it and try to make sense of it and find others with the same truth. We, Sparkle Sisters, feel the same heartbeat: we’re part Frida Kahlo, part Sylvia Plath, part bowlegged baby giraffe — we’re the harmonious sums of so many recycled souls. We’re not fragmented for sharing parts of ourselves: we’re more complete than ever.

So Ethan Hawke and my past life can suck it. So I am thrilled to announce that I start my dream job tomorrow. It marries health, community and art in a smart, stylish way and I’m so grateful that I found myself in this position, with the skill set necessary to do the job with vigor and guts. This is what has been humming in the cells of my marrow. This is where I’ve followed the trail of curbside litter and miscellany. This is where I’m at… and I’m stoked!

I truly cherish the friends I’ve made in the past five years at the same company, and I trust that the Universe will take care of my enemies (wut?). I’m beyond thrilled to sport a career that fits and, more than anything else, I’m so relieved that I get to be myself again.


P.S. I finally have my very own Instagram account! Follow me if you’re feelin’ it!
P.P.S. Did I mention I missed you fools? I did!


2:141 A Body at Rest


Just me on a tiger skin rug, nbd. By Rachel Levit

It’s all happening, Sweet Friend. There are signs of a thaw after this fall/winter/early spring of malcontent — we’ve got chirpy little wrens dangling fat and reeling worms from their bills as though fishing for their own babies… which is a better bird situation, in my book, then the frozen, knifelike crows with their RAVENOUS EYES (that want to eat my eyes, I’m telling you); all of Logan Square has adopted my daily uniform — crop top, high-waisted shorts, wedge sneakers what uppppppp; and opportunities are finally, finally starting to open up for me like so many emboldened roses.

And I feel… dubious? Lightly terrified? Spazzy beyond your wildest dreams?

Last night I went to an art opening (for Kate McQuillen!) and en route, our bus hit a cab. When we eventually arrived (all bones in their appropriate bone sockets: no one was hurt) at the space way out in a west, West Loop industrial corridor, we couldn’t find her studio. And when we eventually arrived at her studio, an editor who I’m interested in writing for asked me what I write… and I was hot and my upper lip was sweaty and I already knew I was going to be late TO MY THERAPY APPOINTMENT later that evening and I sh*t you not, I said “I don’t know? All the things? Girly stuff?” and promptly spilled some of my white wine on myself.

And I was… late to therapy.

The thing is, I don’t trust that these particular emboldened roses won’t shrivel up and clamp their petals closed like an oyster or the corpse of Tallulah Bankhead’s long-dead fingers crusted around a lowball bourbon glass. This year has presented me with so many almost opportunities that never came to fruition and I’m just trying to be and process and LIVE MY LIFE, you know? You do know. You read this blog. Good for you. So if you can stand another anecdotal something, I think I can make a connection to benefit us all.

I’ve been yoga-ing on the daily, of late. For titillation’s sake, you should know that I recently fell on my head while attempting to Salamba Sirsasana, and the practice does not come naturally to me in the slightest. But I am passable at shavasana: corpse pose… deceased Tallulah Bankhead pose, the pose where you don’t do anything because you’re meant to rest in shavasana and absorb the benefits of 90 minutes’ worth of focus and effort. And of course my mind meanders. Of course, my tailbone hovers above ground due to my having somewhat of an ass and I shift from cheek to cheek for 10 minutes, frowning all the while… it’s only natural. But I do very consciously attempt to slow down my breath and absorb the aforementioned benefits, which could very much translate to life and limbo-land if I would only let it… if I would only acknowledge the focus and effort I’ve been putting in as I attempt to pursue my (treacherous) path (of undisclosed geographical location), and absorb the benefits of learning all that I’ve learned about myself in the process.

So to mix metaphors for just a moment, which I never, ever do — I’m going to stop, sniff these roses, and be glad that my eyes aren’t being pecked out by beak-shivs at this very moment. Namaste.





2:138 On Balance, Tattoos and Gertrude Stein


A portrait of me (not really… but… right?) by Neryl Walker

I’ve written lots of posts on balance. Really, all of my posts are about balance in some right: balancing healthful vegan eating and a whiskey-fueled social life full of sparkle-friends who sometimes eat animals; harmonizing with the voices at odds in my punchy, flummoxed frontal lobe  (FYI, one voice is sort of raspy and sexy, if not a little lispy, and belongs to the Rose wearing a fringey minidress and platform combat boots, vice-gripping a bedazzled flask of her signature drink — Champagne mixed with gin — which is NOT a real thing, even though she’ll tell you that it’s almost a French 75; and one voice exclusively expresses itself via inflected meows and Twitter, but still manages to convince me not to leave my apartment a great deal of the time. You’s a persuasive bish; Emily Dickinson recluse-Rose.) But then there’s the third voice, thank you, Universe, who mediates: who sings mezzo soprano to their Macy Gray/mewling coloratura situation.

That voice belongs to me.

Several years ago, I promised my mom I would never get a tattoo. When I went to college, the rules were as follows: inking my unadulterated derma and putting myself in a position to EJECT ANOTHER PERSON FROM MY PERSONAGE/become a young mother were equivalent grounds for being yanked out of academia. I didn’t test this threat, and while I’m certain that my marvelous mom would rise to the occasion if I had prematurely become a mom, myself… I know she’s damn serious on the tattoo front. So. I don’t have any tattoos BUT, and I promise there is a point to follow… I’ve wanted the same tattoo since I was 17. It’s two stanzas from a Gertrude Stein poem called, of course, I am Rose.

I am Rose my eyes are blue
I am Rose and who are you?
I am Rose and when I sing
I am Rose like anything.

As a blue-eyed human named Rose who majored in opera performance and likes to meet other humans and gather tiny, self-defining truths about them, this incidental piece written by a literary genius (named Gertrude, i.e., not Rose) resonates with me — enough that I’ve forever dreamed of scribing “I am Rose and when I sing I am Rose like anything” in courier font on my left inner forearm, positioned horizontally 3-4 inches in from my elbow crease (not that I’ve given this any thought). However, a few years after I graduated with my dual degree in OPERA and POETRY (killin’ me, Gertrude) and relegated outright, literal singing to my hobby box… rather than, you know, my life’s work box… I decided that maybe Gertrude had steered me wrong; Brunhilde horns and an addiction to Mucinex did not make me “Rose like anything.”

It turns out, though, that singing in the abstract does make me the most me. Expressing my voice; my honed and balanced voice; above those of the opposing Roses — because through years of trial and error, I know what’s best for me and I have opinions about what’s best for the world — has, indeed, made me Rose like anything. Cutting through the choir of black and white with a sound that is lush and gray and wiggly with vibratto: that’s balance. That’s how one becomes a person, at least that’s how I’ve become a writer who sings; a vegan who doesn’t judge you for your bacon habit; a lush for green juice and tequila; a lady who likes to pen personal essays while her cat sits on her stomach as much as she likes to mack on boys in plaid in her hip, hip hood as much as she likes to paint strange little portraits in the company of friends making baubles out of raccoon bones and teeth (um, craft day was yesterday.) I know who I am because of all the extremes I’ve been at times too intimately familiar with, the experiences I’ve gathered like so many raccoon vertebra, the siren calls of identities that don’t quite fit. That’s how I found my voice.

So anyway. Balance. And Mom, can I get a tattoo?



2:131 The Ultimate Make


I dare you to nurture something. Etam Cru Collective

It’s May and I’m making couple portraits  and raw brownies and tiny paintings on tiny canvasses with tiny easels and peanut butter banana granola and dents in all the freelance articles. I’m also making messes; I’m making discoveries, and today I’d like to make a point.

If you’ve been a longtime reader, you’ve sensed this year that something’s been up. And you’re right — we’re less than a third of the way into 2014 but I’ve tearfully started over — armed only with the unwanted wisdom one acquires through perpetually surviving those unrelenting cycles of frustration and defeat that we hapless humans usually stumble upon when we try to honor ourselves — over and over and over again. And sure, I’m a little bit pummeled and chewed up. My guts are bruised and fermenting fruit, missing lateral incisor-shaped chunks wherever the Universe has torn off a piece of me. I’ve spent more money on Anthropologie candles and Two Buck Chuck than is fitting for a person who has no money, and I’ve been violently oscillating between two character tropes: “girl who goes out all the time and subsists on attention and whiskey sodas” and “girl who sees only her roommate and her roommate’s cat and doesn’t own shampoo.”


Yet I can say, and every filament of my battered being will flutter in agreement, that this year has been invaluable.

The number one takeaway from all of my travails is this: I will be fine. And that, friends, is the foundation we all need to live, really live: to take risks; to give people the benefit of the doubt; to remain positive despite one’s tentative position as crap receptacle for the cosmos. Because I know that deep within my soft and rotten intestines, there hums resilience — I can take the sh*tty and continue to expect the extraordinary. I can trust myself to carry on, despite adversity, and so I can trust in the unknown. I can handle bad news — with expensive candles and cheap wine, maybe — but I can handle it, nonetheless.

And it’s in this way, this evermore fearless way, that I’m gradually making something of myself.



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.