I’ve lived 31.458 gorgeous años on this planet. That makes me a qualified life-liver—and therefore, I make the rules.
These are my 31 rules. May they save you from yourself, and more importantly, from annoying me.

1. Tailor your clothes. Even sweatpants. Especially the sweatpants.

2. Don’t get a visible tattoo unless you’re extroverted and/or actually want to discuss the meaning behind it (or lack thereof).

3. Don’t tell someone something negative another person said about them. And if you have to say “no offense” before you speak—don’t.

4. Have your wedding filmed like a reality show. One cinematic highlight reel, one chaotic docu-style cut with little conversations, glances, reactions, and confessionals. You’ll want both.

5. Use a tongue scraper.

6. Put AirTags in your luggage.

7. Don’t bring up something someone did or said online in real life. We’re all living double lives and we reserve the right to do so in peace. Same goes for blackout behavior: if they don’t remember, it’s none of their business.

8. Have a BM (bad mood) depression/anxiety folder on your computer or phone: happy pics, serotonin TikToks, that breathing video you never want to search for mid-panic, the song that regulates your nervous system. Emotional CPR, ready to go.

9. Buy it nice or buy it twice.

10. Don’t put it down—put it away.

11. Low-maintenance is cute until it becomes self-abandonment. Ask for the lemon wedge, just don’t throw it. Don’t be a brat, but do speak up, own your quirks, laugh at your stupid preferences and take up space—without making it anyone else’s problem.

12. Don’t go to the grocery store when you’re hungry, and don’t go shopping for clothes when you’re having a great hair day.

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The seasons are seasoning, and spring has unleashed its pollen-fueled fury on my respiratory system. I am — and always have been — an allergy kid. A certified legend in the histamine community. I’ve got air purifiers (AirDoctor, my ride-or-die) blasting like jet engines, so my apartment now sounds like a regional airport. Tissue boxes decorate every surface, and there’s always a balled-up Puffs Plus Lotion in my clenched fist like a 90-year-old woman — one of the many things I have in common with the elderly. (I also always have candy in my purse.) I’m out here fighting for my life with a chapped nose, a post-nasal drip, and a dream.

In a valiant attempt to escape the pollen, I went to one of my best friend’s bachelorette parties — in Miami, where I went to college — with some of my favorite college friends. And I’ve gotta say… we held our own. Was I the last one out? Far from it. But I didn’t wear white, I played nicely with others, I talked to strangers, and I stayed (mostly) vertical. Mama’s proud.

I also accidentally discovered that Sudafed is basically government-issued meth. If taken too late in the day, it doesn’t just keep you up — it turns you into a motivational speaker/zumba instructor hybrid at 3AM. I was lying in bed wide-eyed and vibrating. I fear I may never return to baseline.

But nostalgia hit me like a freight train. Being back in the city where I met Dylan, surrounded by the friends I fell in love with at 19, cracked me open in the best and worst way. I spent the flight home (when I should’ve been working) listening to “Twilight Zone” by Ariana Grande and scrolling through old photos from 2012–2016 — back when we were all on the same page, had the same job (go to class), the same friends, and the same group chat with a constant stream of 29 unread messages. Back when every text to a hookup was a group project, and every errand — from grabbing Plan B to getting a McDonalds Diet Coke — was a team sport.

You’d think that after almost a decade of being a grown-up, the ache of not living in the same city as all your best friends would fade. But it doesn’t. I do live in the same city as many of my friends now, and even then, we have to schedule dinners three weeks in advance (that we’ll probably cancel), coordinate around bedtime routines for ourselves (not kids), or reschedule because we’re spiraling over a hard conversation at work.

It’s just different now. Still good — in some ways, even better. But still... different.

now for a littleeeee…Learned <3 Fourned <3 Burned !!!!

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I’d like to let you all know that I have a cold. Yes, God does, in fact, give his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers. But in all sincerity, this illness has been especially brutal because I, the youngest child of four, married another youngest child of three.

Now, being the babies of the family has its perks: we’re easygoing, oozing charisma, and the undisputed favorites of our respective families. But when sickness strikes? It’s a disaster. We both expect to be babied, and neither of us is willing to step up as the adult. Usually, I win this battle through sheer dramatics, but still—it’s an uphill fight.

I have officially rewatched every season of Shark Tank and Desperate Housewives (a perfect double feature, if you ask me), so now I turn to you, my loyal friends, to dump my thoughts while I waste away in bed.

Oh, and did I mention I’m also coming to you LIVE from the luteal phase? So yeah, things are going great.

Now, onto something new I’m trying: Learned, Fou(r)ned, Burned — a little section where I share what I’ve learned, what I’ve found (read: bought), and what I’ve metaphorically (or literally) burned to the ground. Will I do this once and immediately move on? Maybe. But let’s pretend otherwise.

So let’s start with things I’ve learned. I thought we’d start out with some things I’ve googled recently:

Is your neck part of your face or part of your body? (if you’ve never googled this you’ve clearly never taken an edible before getting in the shower) 

Does my dog know I’m sick? (looking for more beings to feel sorry for me at this trying time)

How do you measure a room? (don’t ask)

What is cashmere made of? (do yourself a favor and don’t Google this one)

Additionally…I’ve learned:

How to use my G7X: after two years of owning this gorgeous camera, I finally know how to use it thanks to a guide someone made on TikTok. DM me if you want it. It's very helpful. Now of course I'm being told I need this camera instead for even more “effortless” looking (shitty?) pictures…help I hate it here. 

Never trust how you feel about your life after 10 pm. Period. 

Helped, Heard, or Hugged: When someone trauma dumps on you, and you’re too struck to speak, it may be helpful to ask if they want to be “helped, heard, or hugged” and just pray it’s not “helped.”

Women reach full emotional maturity at 32 men at 43 …That’s not even a joke; that’s just science being deeply unfair.

When you meet someone new—and you already know who they are—do not (!!) I repeat, do not say, “Oh, I know so-and-so!” (insert mutual acquaintance you both barely know) or anything that hints at prior research.

Why? Because it instantly shifts the power dynamic. Now they’re the main character, and you’re just some eager fan who did homework on them. It’s physics. It’s psychology. It’s social survival.

If this concept is confusing, please see me during office hours.

Things I’ve Fourrrned (...found but I had to add an ‘r’ to make it go with ‘learned and burned’ okay?) 

This Toaster: BLESSSSSS. 

Loafers: Ok, so I’ve been looking for an incredible, life-changing, soul-improving pair of loafers that will solve all my problems. But turns out that took much longer than I anticipated. It’d be easy to assume that all loafers are made equal–but they are not. Anyway, I bought these, these, and these. I pray now I’ve scratched the itch and can move on with my life. 

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And while I have been thoroughly enjoying lighting a fire every morning, referring to my holiday gift-shopping as “mood management,” and manically rearranging the ornaments on my tree every night like it’s a part-time job, I can’t shake a small pang of ugh. If you listen to the show, you know I’m Daylight Saving Time’s #1 fan—a deeply controversial title I usually keep under-wraps, especially around people with small children. Yet this year, DST has betrayed even me. It’s got me feeling jet-lagged and chronically disoriented. I’ve broken more promises to myself than I can count, I feel like I’m constantly begging for 5 p.m. or the weekend to save me, and honestly, I’m crawling toward the end of the year like a student avoiding eye contact with the teachers whose homework I definitely didn’t do.

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Woof. The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind. Nephews have been born, relatives have died, my sister’s wedding is this weekend, I’m obsessed with lymphatic drainage massages, I’ve gone a bit overboard with home security and the exterior of my home now looks like a Tesla Cybertruck mixed with a haunted house, and Taco, the love and light of my life, is happier than ever but definitely losing his hearing. But let’s start with New York. I headed there for a wedding (because, of course), did The Kelly Clarkson Show, and even found my way back to church… by that I mean Watch What Happens Live. On day two, I turned to Dylan and said, completely sincerely, “New York requires me to be brave.” And honestly, I stand by that sentiment. Between the constant noise, how “people-y” the streets are, the frantic pace, the blisters, and, of course, live TV—New York demands a certain level of ‘get out of bed’ I find exhausting. 

After a week there, I was more than ready to return to the cozy, squishy embrace of LA. Don’t get me wrong—I actually adore my New York trips. Lord knows I love a hotel bed, a room service margarita, and the fact that you can order a chocolate chip cookie on Caviar at 3am while everywhere in LA closes at 8pm.

Anyway, here’s a roundup of things I’ve read on the internet recently, plus a few of my latest existential musings.

• People who avoid THEIR feelings will neglect YOURS.

• Diet Pepsi is and will always be better than Diet Coke. I’m hopelessly devoted to both but that is the truth, I fear. 

• This one hurts. Your “yeses” mean nothing if you don’t know how to say “no.” 

• My least favorite sounds are leaf blowers, cars with loud engines, and “shhhhhh.”

• WHY are we still asking people to share fun facts about themselves as icebreakers? Nothing is more humiliating or induces more anxiety.

• PMS and early pregnancy symptoms are way too similar—someone fix this.

• I read that a woman’s relationship with her father shapes her relationships with others, and her relationship with her mother shapes her relationship with herself. Still not 1000% sure it’s universal, but in my case? Pretty spot on.

• Never go shopping when your hair is done—it’s like grocery shopping when you’re hungry. Everything looks way better than it should, and that’s dangerous.

• And finally—take up space. That’s my new motto. You’re not too much. You’re not asking for too much. You’re not hogging too much oxygen in the room. TAKE UP SPACE, and make no apologies for it, baby.

Dylan was out of town a couple weekends ago which meant I had full reign over the streaming schedule. I starfished in bed, ate Girl Breakfasts, Lunches and Dinners, and had a full marathon of what I realized is my favorite genre of television: demented women. Housewives, both Desperate and Real, Snapped, There’s Something Wrong with Aunt Diane etc. Naturally, I also threw in some shows and movies outside that genre... but let’s be real, they all fell into my true favorite category: things I’ve watched at least twice before, there’s nothing more heavenly than watching something for the eighth time. This was the Saturday lineup + some other things I’ve watched and loved recently: 

• Fyre Fest on Netflix will never not shock and thrill me. 

• Ali Wong’s new Netflix special: Single Lady

• Season 4 RHOBH (iykyk) 

• The Girlfriend Who Didn’t Exist

• Shiv’s wedding episodes of Succession. For the culture.

• EVERYTHING MENENDEZ related. The new Netflix doc with interviews with Lyle and Eric from jail is phenomenal. 

• Inside Out 2 (for what it’s worth, I think Joy counts as sort of demented) 

It’s raining babies, weddings, and birthdays in my life, and I feel like I’m buying gifts CONSTANTLY and am still, somehow, always behind. Here are some I bought recently:

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HEY babes, bros, friends, colleagues,,,,

I know I’ve been MIA, and it’s not just because my Summer body comes in the Winter. I’d like to use the excuse I’ve been using since the end of June– I got robbed. Of mind, body and spirit, honey. But no, really, I did. Three men broke into our house and took every handbag and piece of jewelry I owned and scurried away. BUT fear not, since then, my house has turned into The Pentagon. When I was at a wedding last weekend friends would show me pictures of their babies and I would respond by showing them a picture of my newly installed panic room, or the metal spikes we installed on top of our gate. Because I’m turned on by home security, I’m less concerned with spending money on replacing any of the stolen items and am more keen on turning my house into a fortress that looks like a Tesla Cybertruck externally. But alas, perspective is fleeting and I’m back to my old product-obsessed ways. Buying shit I don’t need, and shit I REALLY do need, all from the comfort of my little panique room pied-à-terre. Admittedly, this list took me FOREVER to make. Mostly because I don’t want you, my precious ones, to buy shit that doesn't work or that you don’t need. These are the products I will say are 10000000% worth it, ones I’ve repurchased or will repurchase, the stuff I could live without but would prefer not to.

Let’s start off strong. I was in Paris a couple weeks ago and stocked up on allllll the French pharmacy goods that TikTok told me to. Some were great, some were not-so-great. But THIS, this was worth it all. All of Nuxe’s body oils are amazing but this gold one is an absolute game changer. It leaves you with this non-sticky, glowing, bronzed, highlighted skin that makes you look like an Amalfi Coast mermaid. My best friend got married last weekend and I rubbed it on her shoulders, arms and collarbones before she flew out the door and she loved it. Get it, get it now. BUT I’d get it from FrenchPharmacy.com because I can’t promise the formula is the same over here in the U-S-of-A.

Ok, ok, I hate to tell you to buy something that is probably sold out, but this is a hill I’m willing to die on. The Rhode pocket blush is that girl. I’ve never loved my makeup more than when she came into my life. My #1 favorite shade is toasted teddy , followed by a combination of Spicy Marg and Freckle. Your life will forever change, thank me, and Hailey, later.

Since we’re talking about makeup let’s talk about this baddie. All of us have been pitched a product that’s supposed to look like “your skin but better.” The products people promise will make you look like you’re not wearing makeup and are instead just hit with a glowy filter that looks like you drink tons of water. Needless to say I was extremely skeptical about products that promised that because none have ever made me look like that, but I had FOMO and reluctantly marched my tush to Sephora to try it. Turns out she’s that and so much more and I wear it on days I don’t wear makeup and days I do. My favorite is the bronzed shade and I put it on first even before my primer (which probably isn’t right). I have to say I have an all-star lineup makeup team right now and it’s been a lonnnng time since I felt like that. The routine: Saie Glowy Super Gel, YSL primer, Anastasia Brow Freeze, Dior Glow Foundation, Saie Bronzer, Cle de Peau Stick Concealer, Fenty Setting Powder, Rhode Blush, Chanel highlighter, and Thrive Causemetics BROWN Mascara (which I’ve been using for at least eight years).

I’ll probably say this multiple times but I may be most excited to tell you about this toothpaste than any other product. SO I bought mine while I was in Europe and the link I’m providing you guys is from French Pharmacy so you can get the full effect. Want white, sparkling teeth from just one brush? Look no further. I don’t know what magic is in this stuff but it WORKS and seems to almost reverse any damage done on your chompers. I’m never going back to the toothpastes I used to use. ME + MARVIS SMOKERS TOOTHPASTE FOREVER. Ignore the smokers part I think it’s just for le drama but it’s great.

Myyyy precious. As much as I love my products I hate wearing makeup. Makeup and dresses both make me feel like I’m wearing a costume I’m itching to get out of. And after years of sun damage and reckless behavior (bed-rotting) I truly thought I’d never be in love with my no-makeup skin again. That was until three products came into my life and changed absolutely everything. I have NEVER in my life gotten more consistent compliments on my skin, no bullshit. Alastin A-Luminate Brightening Serum, Ialuset Hyaluronic Cream, and Embryolisse Moisturizer (I use them in that order). I could talk about each of these products for hours but I’ll spare you and urge you to take your own skin needs into account before purchasing. You’ll have to pry these products from my cold, dead hands because thanks to them I barely wear makeup anymore.

Let’s take a quick break from things you rub on your face. First of all, your girl loves a uniform—if you’ve seen me in the past two months I was probably (definitely) wearing this skirt. You know I love you because I’m willing to tell you about her—my secret weapon, my best friend. I wear this Frankie Shop black mini skirt more than I care to admit. it elevates any outfit and is cute, youthful, sexy, and playful. gravitate toward clothing items that take little to no extra effort, and are, on their own, a hit so I can just wear a white or black shirt and (my favorite!!!!!) loafers with ruffle socks or THESE boots that I just bought and am in love with it and still look like I tried.

My husband (the man you all know and love as Dylan Satin) called me from work the other day to tell me about a rule he thought of for our home. “Ok, so when people come over, they can have MAXIMUM three chocolates’ he said sternly. The aforementioned chocolates are Marchesi Chocolates. Let’s keep this little secret between us and whoever is going from Milan or London to LA soon and can smuggle a couple boxes over for me because you can’t buy them in the US. I’m a chocolate professional and I have NEVER in my entire life tasted anything as light, delicious, creamy, perfectly sweet as these chocolate, hazelnut gems. I bought 5 boxes intending to bring some back for friends and family and quickly changed my mind and kept them all for myself. Marchesi was bought by Prada which makes them even cuter. PRADA CHOCOLATES?! Say less. Candy dish and coasters are Ralph Lauren, and the ducky candle is from Western Disco.

These bad boys are the flip-flops to end all flip-flops. There are so many options out there right now because I guess flip-flops having a come-back (I didn’t realize they ever left) but look no further, these are the only ones you need. I can confirm I wore them on 12,000 step days walking around Europe last month and I never blistered or whined…okay maybe I whined but not about the shoes—which is HUGE. They go with nearly everything, they’re simply perfect. I have them in the clear and the brown and I wear the clear slightly more but they’re both amazing and deserving of a spot on this list.

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As we all know, bed is the higher-power I worship; it is the gravitational center of my universe and the place where I take shelter when life starts to feel like a dumpster fire, and I no longer wish to be perceived. It’s my favorite place to do everything: dread, dream, dine, and disassociate. I love being able to vent to all you Bed Heads from the comfort of my comforter, but lately, things were starting to feel a little lonely, a little shouting-into-the-void-y, even for this borderline-agoraphobic. After every episode, there were always so many nuggets (help I want chicken nuggets now…) left on the cutting room floor and so many of you guys reaching out to continue the vent-sesh. That’s why we’ve decided to build a new home at Substack. Here, we can grow Live from Bed 2.0. Think of this as our Commiseration Station, where we can socialize and connect without having to put on pants. 

LFB is a home for misfit toys, for all overthinkers and oversharers, where Bed Heads can unite, indulge our blabby impulses and skip the subsequent spirals of regret. Family feuds, romantic nightmares, SSRIs. You name it, we’ll be cringing about it together. 

Under these new Substack sheets, you can:

• Join the LFB group chat, where you can talk with me and fellow Bed Heads directly

• Access *ad-free* audio episodes/FULL-length video episodes 

• Read my private newsletter, BedCrumbs 

• Get behind the scenes snippets, bits that don’t make it into the episodes, and other stuff that I’m too afraid to share on Instagram aka the graveyard of my friend’s ex-boyfriends, would-be-friendships that never did “get dinner sometime,” and my former elementary school teachers

Subscribe now

So if you have a Saturday night alone at home and your long distance best friend has left the last ten (hilarious) TikTok’s you sent them on read, we’re here for you. Get the intimacy and the relief of venting to friends without the scheduling conflicts, without having to leave your emotional support animal, and with all the amenities of your shamefully cluttered nightstand in arm’s reach. Allow me to be your fucked up cruise director, here to remind you, and myself, that other people are as shitty at life as we are. That we all drunk-text our exes, shop too much, tell a secret we shouldn’t have, forget to take our meds, have mixed feelings about our friends’ babies and boyfriends. Those of us who count social blunders instead of sheep.

This is a place where we roll around in the stuff you wouldn’t file under a success story, that you probably wouldn’t post without immediately deleting and praying no one saw. The zit-picking swamp monster you leave at home, the bad habits, the stuff you lied to your therapist about, the stuff that keeps you up tossing and turning, the stuff you’re convinced no one thinks, feels, or goes through but you. The gritty, real, spicy part of life. It’s where connection is born. It’s the better story. 

Who knows? You might enjoy it even more than “accidentally” reading your partner’s text messages. 

TODAY’S EPISODE:

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That’s all for now! Love to love you, babes.

Oh! And let me know if you’re liking these little screenshot dumps!

Talk to you next week xx

Dearest BedHeads,

Welp I guess real life has officially started again. We can run but we can’t hide. Since we last spoke, I officially turned 30, and I took a minute to take stock of where I’ve been and where I’m going, the things I’ve learned and, more importantly, the things I’m still unlearning. Perhaps 2024 is in fact, as the prophet Kylie Jenner once said, ~‘my year of realizing things’~. 

Growing up is painful primarily because it is, quite frankly, humiliating. There’s nothing more humiliating than a past-self. In fact, a past-self is a prerequisite for humiliation to even exist. We do something in the moment, and that version of us that did the something immediately calcifies into a past-self that will forever haunt our present-selves, taunting and reminding us about what a moron we once were. Hell, I’m even embarrassed of the person I was one week ago! What was that outfit? Why did she confide in that person she just met? Why did she think that third glass of wine was a good idea? Why did she lie when it was completely unnecessary, why did she talk shit about that person she loves, why did she stay home when she could have shown up, why did she post that badly Facetuned picture, why didn't she appreciate how cute she once was? I could go on forever. I wholeheartedly believe that if you don’t have a visceral gag reflex when your past-self comes up, you’re not doing enough self-reflection. 

That said, I admit the line between self-awareness and narcissistic self-annihilation is fuzzy. How do you stay open to honest feedback and criticism but not let it swallow you entirely? Often I become paralyzed by the regret of it all. Being my own biggest fan one day and harshest critic the next gives me whiplash. But being haunted at three in the morning or in the shower by our youthful humiliations seems basically inevitable, doesn’t it? It’s so easy to fuck up out there, on average I humiliate myself at least once a day, and what’s worse is that they still haven’t invented a way to wipe our former faux pas’ from people’s memories after they happen. They can’t even wipe them after we’ve learned from them, grown past them, atoned for them, have no further use for them, etc. Once again, we can run but we can’t hide. I sense a theme emerging. 

Given this frankly ridiculous arrangement that is life and growing up, I’m often resisting the urge to batten the hatches and hide for all of eternity: nobody moves, nobody gets hurt, vibes. But when I sat down to retrospect upon turning thirty, I realized that lately I’ve been having more and more days where I feel like I might actually know and (even scarier) like who I am. I remember not too long ago sitting in therapy, crying because my identity felt so unstable. I felt like my depression or sheer humanness made it so I was a different person every day. I either hated myself or loved myself, I was a good friend or a bad one, I talked too much or didn’t talk at all, I was honest or a liar. 

Something that helped me was learning not to hate but rather to embrace the and. AND, more importantly, I learned the beautiful and occasionally infuriating fact that two truths can exist at the same time, that we’re all a mess of dichotomies spinning on a giant rock. Despite how humbling it can be, working on myself was and is the best investment I made in my twenties. Learning to stop trying to change people, work around other people’s less-than-stellar attributes and how to modify my expectations is the greatest gift I’ve ever given myself, and for the first time I’m starting to feel my years in therapy might be paying off…some days. I think I know who I am, and more importantly, I know who I’m not. And knowing that has been just as if not more freeing. Finally I can stop chasing the things that are out of reach for me and start cultivating what’s really mine. It is with a great feeling of joy and surrender that I can report — I no longer even want to be the woman I used to wish I was, back in the depths of that treacherous decade we call the twenties. I wouldn’t trade places with that naively idealized version of myself for all the money in the world. 

I leave you today with a few of the tidbits of knowledge I’ll be keeping with me as I move forward into my thirties, and if there are any BedHeads out there who are still adrift in the seas of self-annihilation, deep breaths, babies. In the meantime, here are some lessons that cost me ten years and a pretty penny to learn in therapy, for free, just for you. Take’m or leave’m. 

• Feelings can be just feelings. You don’t always have to do something about them. You don’t have to react, fight, fix, think somethings wrong with you, or confront someone just because you feel something uncomfortable. 

• Don’t buy into trends. Especially if that trend is those studded Valentino heels or thin eyebrows

• You have to wet a Mr.Clean eraser before using it (you’re welcome)

• Mean people are unhappy people. Hurt people hurt people.

• Gifts work.

• People show love in the way they want to receive it

• Everyone goes through at least one friendship breakup that still haunts them. Outgrowing a relationship doesn’t mean somethings wrong with you.

• As my dad says, when the shit gets bigger than the cat, get rid of the cat. (can apply to friendships or any relationship)

• A weekly, guilt-free-bed-rotting day is a necessity (emphasis on guilt-free)

• Combat avoidance whenever/however you can.  

• You can’t do anything right with the wrong person, and you can’t do anything wrong with the right person

• Sometimes our outer world and inner world have nothing to do with each other. Even if everything is going “right” in your life, you’re still entitled to feel sad, lonely, numb, or angry

• “I’m sorry if…” or “I’m sorry you felt that way” aren’t real apologies

• The only person worth comparing yourself to is your past self. Fuq that bitch.

• Coziness is next to Godliness

• Be grateful your parents are still here to drive you crazy

• Binary thinking and labeling (good or bad, right or wrong) is dangerous and should be avoided 

• Two glasses of wine is great, three not so much 

• The pain you feel today is the strength you feel tomorrow

• Sometimes you should go to bed angry; wait to see how you feel in the morning after you’ve slept a little

• The days/weeks/months of your life that feel the most uncomfortable are often when you learn to find comfort within yourself

• Nothing gets you further from cool than chasing it

• What’s meant for you will not miss you

• Ask yourself if you like a person before you spend several hours wondering if they like you 

• Most of the time people are too consumed thinking about their shortcomings to pay attention to yours

• Rejection IS protection, period. 

• There is a huge gap in the market in the shape of a humiliating-memory erasure device

I’ve come a long way, but still have so much road to cover. Maybe this year I’ll learn to send thank you notes in a timely manner, and maybe even send those friendly, post hangout texts. “That was fun! Let’s do it again soon! Xx” But I’m not holding my breath. 

On Monday you’ll get a brand new screenshot dump so stay tuned for that and have an amazing weekend, hopefully doing nothing with no one.

Godspeed,

Jade 

If you’re anything like me, you take about 6,000 screenshots a day. Wishing, hoping, praying that someday, somehow you’ll actually go through the gallery full of past versions of yourself screaming, "pay attention to this!" and finally follow through on their demands. I thought it was an ADHD thing, but turns out a lot of you neurotypical baddies are guilty of this digital hoarding too. 

Let’s face it, no one ever actually sifts through their screenshot treasure-trove. That skirt you wanted? That quote you're convinced holds the key to enlightenment (if only you could remember it…)? That perfect blanket earmarked for a friend's birthday nine months in advance (screenshotted three times for good measure)? All these things will slip away into the ether, never to be bought or even pondered, ever again.

I’ve been a compulsive screen-shotter for years, (I have exactly 22,588 of them on my phone right now) and about two thirds of my collection reads like a humbling time capsule of my 20’s. I still have a humiliating, millennial-pink screenshot from June 2014 of a quote that says, “it’s all messy: the hair. the bed. the words. the heart. life…” (send help). Also, Kendall Jenner’s haunting For Love and Lemons Coachella outfit from 2016…fml…  

With another year of screenshots almost over, I began to feel that this addiction of mine was destined to serve some purpose other than to make me retrospectively cringe. SO I decided to reach back into the garbage and turn my digital landfill into something you all might enjoy. A tour de screenshot, if you will. Also, yes my phone is always on the verge of death, thank you for noticing.

I could go on forever but I must allow you to go about your day now. Let me know if you like this screenshot dump idea—I’m thinking of doing it weekly.

LOVE U BIG TIME.

x Jade

This one goes out to bed. My beloved, my one and only. Oh yeah, and you guys my precious bed bugs. 

The other day I read a startling fact—that the average normie only spends about 7 hours per day in bed, and of these 7 hours, most are squandered on trivialities like sleep! That’s about 229,961 hours in bed per lifetime, and if you ask me, this is nowhere near enough. People who only use bed for sleep are a breed my duvet-covered brain can’t comprehend. I, my cherished ones, am not just a visitor to bed. I’m not a fair weather friend; I am a permanent resident. A born and bred citizen and patriot. I am local traffic. I don’t just sleep in my bed—I conquer, I rule, I multitask. I work from bed, I eat in bed (oh no call the police, nerds), I write thank you notes from bed, and I spend quality Facetime with my best friends in bed. Bed is my favorite escape, my favorite cocoon of comfort, warmth and safety, and the perfect place to agonize over all the sharp and funny retorts I could have used in conversations that have long since gone extinct. Bed is my confessional, my ruminative sanctuary. It is my cushy, cozy rock in this chaotic, frightening universe.

Haters are always urging me to go outside and get this thing the kids are calling “fresh air”... but why would I do that when bed is the OG cure for anything that ails you? Historically maligned, bed has been unfairly branded as a refuge for the lazy, the sick, and the allegedly "mentally unstable,” when really, bed is the site where things heal. It is the mecca of well-being. There are very few places on Earth that you are drawn to when you’re both happy and sad. Ever been depressed at the beach? On vacation? It’s horrible! 

Suffice it to say that my love of the horizontal life started way back. My mother is a gorgeously mentally-ill queen herself (after all, the apple doesn't fall far from the depressed-shaped tree) who worshiped bed and taught me to do the same. All joking aside, she was famous for her bed-making. She would pile on ingredients like sheepskin and featherbeds until every room was a paradise of comfort. As a result, my parents' house was sleepover central. Every friend I had wanted a piece of the action, all thanks to my mom’s dedication to her craft. (Keep scrolling to find her secret bed recipe…unveiled to the public here, for the first time.)

While the beds of my childhood and early adolescence were places that offered me so much solace and so much joy, I still somehow also felt a deep and internalized shame. People would call me or knock on my door, and I’d shoot out of bed like a French aristocrat caught in a rendezvous with his mistress, pretending I hadn’t just spent the entire day creating a 5 inch deep, Jade-shaped crater in my mattress. 

And look, I know there’s been a lot of hype around “bed rotting” as of late. Am I relieved that my feed has traded morning routines for the Mental Illness Olympics? Sure am. At last a competition I can actually win. And let me assure you, if Apple added a ‘time-in-bed’ metric like they have for screen-time, these depressive e-girls wouldn’t hold a candle to me. So while I’m pleased with the increase in bed-head representation in the media, all of these very hot, very suspiciously productive girly pops online who claim to be in bed all the time aren’t exactly helping my inner 14-year-old reach a healthy level of self-acceptance. 

The depression that emerged in those early years, in tandem with my love of bed, (real chicken or the egg question there…) would prove to be of the sort that can’t be reshaped into a cute publicity moment. It does not take well to Instagram. You know the vibe: the crown of unwashed hair, the scepter of general apathy, the missed calls, the profound feeling of being Velcroed to my mattress. It took me years to fully understand what was going on with me, but in retrospect I can see that as long as I have had my comfort zone to lean on, sleep on, and depression-sesh on, the stigma of unproductivity has been there too, lingering in the background, and for a long time I felt there was no way out of the bad feelings without leaving my beloved bed behind, too. 

Thankfully, when I went to college, my relationship with my bed-self began to shift. I met friends who also adored bed, although none of them had a bed-recipe quite like mine, and soon enough the days were melting away in my college apartment, four girls to a comforter, to the tune of SVU on a loop and a general aura of hangover. My bed was our thinktank where we came together and meticulously crafted every flirtatious text like it was a group project. My bed was the UN for college girls on the brink of romance and mental breakdowns (see below).

Then I graduated, got engaged and married, and I hosted my wedding in Maui at my favorite hotel in the world. This place has earned its stripes in many ways, but above all, it is the beds, which I’m convinced must have actual drugs in them, that truly set it apart. After the first night of our wedding weekend, no one could shut up about how well they’d slept, and I swear to you, no exaggeration, about 30% of my mom’s speech at the reception was about the Four Seasons’ beds. All of my friends said they’d never slept better, and everyone wanted to know how we could recreate this magic in our lives at home. A few days later, my brilliant and gorgeous and very online friend Emma unearthed the wholesale site where the Four Seasons gets its bedding. Because I love you, I’ll share it with you here. PS she claims they’re always having some sort of sale. RUN to buy their featherbed and thank us later. 

At the start of any new relationship, whether it be with a new friend or colleague, I always tend to hide my relationship with bed, terrified that my new social commitments will force me to sacrifice time in the bed zone. When it came to new boyfriends? Forget it (how men live their lives on rock hard mattresses with one prison pillow on them, I’ll never understand). Little do people know that Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide is actually an ode to bed: “I’ve been afraid of changing ‘cause I’ve built my life around you…” 

Praise be to God, I married someone who loves bed and more importantly understands and respects my devotion to it. I also single handedly gave birth to a dog who’s happy place is under the covers. For the program of our wedding ceremony I had my friend Aidan Romick paint a portrait of the three of us in our happy place. Radical acceptance, baby. Then I fell in love with Lexapro. The fog of my depression finally lifted, and the same thing happened–I feared that my relationship with bed would change now that I’d become a functioning human adult. But that shit is rooted in my programming, at least two generations deep, and no amount of SSRI’s can change that. Turns out, stabilizing my mental health meant I finally felt free to fully lean into the thing I was always certain made me weird. In the end, I hacked the system and even built a career around it and met all of you. And isn’t that so often the case? It’s fucked up really, that the things we are most ashamed of are actually our greatest assets. 

So that’s the story of my bed-centric existence. It just occurred to me that even this newsletter is bed-written, a little detail of meta-bedness that gives me so much joy. 

The Famous Iovine Family Recipe for THE Perfect Bed (in order): *disclaimer: my mom is fahhhhncy pants so most of her choices are $$ but as you can imagine I firmly believe the one thing you should invest in is your bed so go with God, break the bank, buy one piece or all, and thank me later <3 

• Mattress with pillow top (preferably sewn onto the mattress): people rave about this Nectar one and this Helix one.

• Mattress pad: My mom raves about this Tempurpedic one.

  • You can also opt for a:

  • Featherbed: here is the aforementioned Four Seasons Hotel’s featherbed.

  • Sheepskin (real): she buys hers from New Zealand, and says they’re listed as rugs most of the time. This one is good depending on the size of your bed. Alternatively she also loves this wool topper. 

• Fitted Sheet: (My mom and I have fallen in LOVE with the SDH Legna Classic Collection for all bedding: sheets, duvet cover, pillowcases, etc.) 

• Top sheet: I also love this brand’s printed bedding.

• Comforter/Duvet: this Scandia down comforter is her favorite, I have this Parachute one that I love, and this Boll and Branch one is amazing for people that want a down-alternative.

• Pillows: I have this one and this one from Casper or Hastens if you like a smushier, more luxe vibe.

• Shams: these Frette ones with the covers are the best of the best. 

• Lastly, a blanket/quilt at the foot of bed: I didn’t think this ingredient was necessary but my mother insisted I include it. This one brings me joy. As does this one on sale. 

Also here is the best gift for your friend who has chosen her bed over you…

Love from Bed, 

Jade

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Dearest Bedheads, 

Aaaaaand just like that my Christmas decorations are up. Ho, ho, ho. I tried to hold off, I really did, but alas, the siren call of decking the halls took over and I gave in. I went to CVS for Halloween candy, blacked out, and left with two Santas and a nutcracker. I have a problem. 

I’ve also started trying to look like I have my shit together (without having to get my shit together) by wearing matching-set pajamas. I bought these and they’re so wonderful, even for people who, like me, sweat their way through the night. I also am crushing so hard on this toxically expensive and unavailable Phoebe Philo skirt. I wish I’d never seen it but now I’m showing it to you so we can mourn its unattainability together. Misery loves company...and clothing with feathers.  

In other slightly disconcerting seasonal news, I’ve started planning my 30th birthday. Some of my best friends are flying to LA for it, and I’m already sad about it. You know the phrase–don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened? Well, I’m more of the cry-because-it’s-going-to-happen-and-therefore-also-going-to-end type. Anyone else get sad about the happy thing before it’s even begun knowing it will soon be over? Just me? Cool. 

Ever since college, I get the same melancholy feeling whenever I leave my friends or they leave me. I go into mourning over the fact that we can never return to those simpler times, when friendship meant running errands together, getting ready side by side, sharing clothes and nursing our collective hangover. We’ll never live in the same house, sit next to each other every night, watching a movie whilst staring at our phones in silence (my love language). It’s brutal to learn your late twenties/early thirties are not going to be one long episode of Friends, which I of course haven’t stopped watching since the Matthew Perry news, and maybe this has also been contributing to my friendship ennui. I always fantasize about the woman I’d be if all my best friends lived in LA with me. I’d probably be funnier, smarter, more pleasant, leave my house more, all the things.

The truth is, from here on out, our lives are going to continue to get fuller, which means our calendars will get more and more crowded, which means we’ll see each other less and less. This problem is compounded by the fact that most of my unbelievably wonderful best friends (16 bridesmaids worth to be exact) live thousands of miles away. I perpetually owe someone a text, a Facetime date. I’m always losing track of who’s it in the ongoing game of phone tag, setting reminders to send birthday flowers, and coming up with excuses to avoid bachelorette parties from afar. Who has time for hobbies when you’re in ten long distance friendships?

So yes–on the one hand, distance sucks. But then there are the friends who do live in the same city as me, who I still haven’t seen or spoken to in days that turn into weeks, which turn into months, and suddenly I’m sitting around wondering if we’re in a fight or just both terrible at keeping in touch.

No matter where we live, my friends and I are all in different places in our lives, hurtling headfirst in different directions. Each friendship is now unique in circumstances and requirements. In the same week, I’m celebrating the baby’s first steps with one best friend and sending an ‘sorry you have HPV…again’ care package to another. It used to be that we were all going through the same things at the same time, but now it sometimes feels impossible to keep up with everyone’s Saturn Return-altering lives. Everything takes effort and planning–two of my least favorite things. 

In the midst of this new chaotic phase, surface-level friendships inevitably disintegrate (COVID dealt a death blow to a lot of those), but there is also a more complicated untangling going on. Suddenly friendships I’ve had for years feel like they aren’t fitting right, like a pair of jeans I try to convince myself must’ve shrunk in the wash. Have you ever left a lunch-date with a friend, checked in with your nervous system and realized that you haven’t taken a full breath in two hours? Maybe the dynamics you once found charming suddenly make you livid, or you have a sneaking suspicion that that look in their eye as you vent isn’t sympathy but schadenfreude…You know the vibe. The steal-your-man, blow-out style friendship breakup has gotten more than enough air time, but what about these quieter types–the drift-aparts, the resentment buildups, or the slow-ghosts? 

As someone who has been on all sides of this scenario, I know how painful it can be for everyone involved. One side is left feeling inadequate or abandoned and the other stewing in a sundae of guilt and resentment...with a secret cherry of relief on top. Friendship breakups really are like romantic ones (sometimes they’re even worse). Sidenote: the song “Now That We Don’t Talk” on the new 1989 (Taylor’s version) album is so much better if you relate it to your ex-best-friendships. 

Once the friendship is over, a negative connotation hangs in the air; you avoid running into your ex at all costs, and maybe you hear through the grapevine that they’re still, six years later, kinda mad at you about how it all went down. People see the friend breakup and want to know why? What happened? Who did what to whom? Closure conversations are suggested and suffered through, and you move from watching the milestones of their life unfold from the VIP section to the nosebleeds. It’s natural to feel that there must have been some grand failure in order for things to have come to this point, but the sobering truth is that friendship breakups are an unavoidable part of life. I’m sure you’ve looked through our mom’s wedding album and seen not just guests but bridesmaids you’ve never even heard of… 

So that’s my call to action of the week–let’s dispel the myth that friendships need to last forever in order to be valuable. We’ve all been tricked into taking the last F in BFF too seriously, and truthfully, I don’t trust a girl if she’s never endured a friendship breakup–full stop–they are a natural and essential part of growing up. Dare I say, that’s life.

You don’t necessarily need to bend over backwards, scheduling facetimes and phone calls up the wazoo for friendships that make you feel like shit, and you don’t need to remain loyal to a group just because you once were. Let’s honor our friendships that have dissolved, our girls we once loved but have little in common with anymore. Those relationships meant something, they carried us through hard times and were important, but so is moving on. It’s okay to pick and choose who we give our time to because life is short, soul-connections are rare, and small talk kills.

That said, I’ve also learned that not all friendships that are feeling out of whack or distant need to be discarded. Friendships go through seasons, they eb and flow, and this could just be a brief out-of-sync phase where you have to pretend to like that guy she’s dating or that you their babies that won’t last forever. Your experiences may align again in the future, and if your friendship is meant to last, it can and will withstand these awkward inflection points. No need to hold on so tightly or to let go so quickly. Your friendships will naturally go through phases: there will be times where the balance is uneven, that one person is investing more than the other, when your friend has a crisis, needs to vent and forgets to ask you how you are. Friendships are supposed to make us feel nice and safe–they’re supposed to give you the benefit of the doubt, survive periods of less communication without a guilt-trip, and welcome the ways you’ll inevitably evolve and change. This is the type of friend-love I believe in and stick around for.

Finally, let’s circle back to love languages. If you’re like me, a gift-giving girly pop with a words of affirmation rising, you might be in need of a few recommendations to remind your friends how much you appreciate them for not disowning you when your last depressive episode made you disappear for the two months…without further ado, I leave you with a quick gift guide to cover all your friendship bases. 

For your friend who just had a baby and can’t answer your texts: I planned on gatekeeping this and keeping it secret until I spawn offspring. But to show how much I love you I’ll share it with you. Baby Bode is even better than regular Bode. I also love this outfit to send to newborns. This is my all-time favorite gift to give kids/babies.And for the friend-turned-mom, this frame is a great gift.

For your friend who just got fired: Nothing says fun-employment like pants that can be worn in bed or on a job interview. These Donni ones are perrrrfect.

For your new friend you don’t know that well and don’t want to come on too strong: Fancy hand soap is always a winner. Everyone wants it, no one thinks to buy it for themselves. Everyone has a sink.

For your friend going through a breakup: These slippers to aid in her never-leaving-the-house-again era. This luxe tissue box cover that I have in every room of my house. This mini skirt for when she’s ready for revenge.

For your friend who just got engaged to that guy you hate: The best gift I got when I got engaged was custom stationary with both our names on it. Nothing can prepare you for the shit-load of thank you notes you have to write. This is my favorite brand. Also matching Uggs for your friend and her partner is a great, untraditional gift they’ll actually use.

For your friend who you haven’t seen in months and only communicate via sending internet findings back and forth: I love these socks so much. The viral TikTok office chair also sparks joy.

For the friend whose birthday you forgot: I love this bubble vase. This Hourglass palette changed my life. As did this Chanel glow stick. Speaking of makeup, I love this travel case set by Cuyana. If you’re feeling really generous, this fancy keychain is perfect.

For the friend whose bachelorette party you can’t go to: This initial bracelet by Jen Meyer has been my favorite gift forever. Get their new last name initial or partner’s initial. This is also fun. A fancy ring dish also goes a long way. This one’s a little less $$.

Love to love you. Have a perfect weekend,

Jade

Ok so things are very much not normal right now. There are a lot of big emotions to process and people yelling at each other on Instagram. I skipped last week’s letter because it all felt too heavy. But here we are, back in the saddle. In the form of this humble newsletter, I’m here to whisk you away for a brief, sweet escape. Protect your peace. Be nice to each other. The horrors persist, babes. 

First, a special shout out and heartfelt thank you to the woman on TikTok who accidentally swallowed her airpod thinking it was a large vitamin. She claims she had both the vitamin and the air pod jingling around in her pocket, wasn’t paying attention, and boom, Airpod down the hatch. This woman must be protected at all costs—she is a national treasure, and the comment section on her video single handedly reminded me what joy feels like. Apparently the Airpod stayed for two days inside her stomach. Cheap thrills, indeed. 

I normally cringe when people say that who you marry is the single, most important decision of your life…no pressure. But last night as Dylan and I lay awake trying to find something–anything–to watch, I realized it was true, choosing your life partner is crucial, particularly when it comes to choosing what to watch, which is, let’s face it, how we modern humans spend a ginourmous chunk of our lives (God bless). 

Between you and me, my taste in TV and movie choices is a tad…limited? One of my many charming quirks is that I find unwavering joy and comfort in watching the same thing over and over again. You can blame it on any of my smorgasbord of mental illnesses, take your pick. I’ve seen Gone Girl 57000 times, and my go-to google search is ‘true crime documentaries like ‘There’s Something Wrong With Aunt Diane’ because I firmly believe in fearing for your life before you fall asleep. I don’t like dusty movies, i.e. True Grit, because they make me feel dehydrated, and I don’t like movies in other languages because I can’t pay attention long enough to read the subtitles. I’m out like a light within the first five minutes of any movie that has a British accent, and I categorically refuse to watch movies I’ve arbitrarily deemed are ‘for boys’ i.e. The ‘Bourne’ series or anything with Clint Eastwood. 

Dylan, on the other hand, is a living embodiment of open mindedness and he approaches every tv and movie choice with the following unshakable philosophy: “someone must have liked it enough to make it.” It’s worth noting that these contrasting approaches to entertainment also mirror our general outlook on social interactions. Dylan is the Ellis Island of friends. He will take your tired, your hungry, your huddled masses. He’ll attentively listen to the most boring story, enthusiastically ask how your daughter’s clarinet recital went, he’s genuinely interested in people that most (me) would (should) avoid at all costs.

Most nights go like this: he meticulously combs through lists of Academy Award-winning movies, and I weave a web of deceit by claiming to have seen all the options he suggests–“oh my god you don't remember? we saw that last year!” (We most definitely did not). Then, with a sigh of defeat, he hands me the remote, and I spend the next hour watching TikTok videos in which people excitedly recommend their most suspenseful, psychological thrillers–most of which receive a solid 54% on Rotten Tomatoes. By the time we finally pick something we’re both exhausted and never make it to the end. 

Even though it appears we’re doomed to spend the rest of our life only making it twenty five minutes into a movie, I’m grateful that Dylan meets my pickiness with ease. Even though he technically has veto power, he’ll still let me choose the Fire Festival documentary for the 91st time. What can I say? There’s something soothing about watching Billy McFarland try to string sentences together. My one issue is that he usually falls asleep later than I do, so when we start watching something and I inevitably fall asleep, he keeps watching. Then he has the audacity to tell me I need to watch what I missed before he gets home so we can continue our shared viewing experience. The man is issuing homework assignments in our own house! Satan! 

But in all fairness, he knows the ‘Real Housewives’ universe better than most Bravoholics, he can recite Teresa Guidice’s daughter’s names, and he’s seen every nanosecond of ‘Vanderpump Rules’. I, in return, transform into a human emoji with crossed eyes when he turns a football game on. Give and take, baby.

ANYWAY, on the off chance this might help you and your partner decide what to watch before 11pm, here is a list of some of my favorite documentaries to watch for your dissociative pleasure. Be warned, I’m a twisted soul, so most of these are not what you’d file under ~feel good~ options. 

1. There’s Something Wrong With Aunt Diane (the aforementioned great)

2. The Woman Who Wasn’t There (trigger warning: 9/11 content)

3. Dear Zachary 

4. Fyre Festival (The Netflix one)

5. Operation Varsity Blues: The College Admission Scandal

6. I Love You, Now Die

7. Abducted In Plain Sight

8. Mommy Dead And Dearest

9. Killer Inside: The Mind of Aaron Hernandez

10. Allen v. Farrow

11. Long Shot

12. The Staircase

13. Surviving R. Kelly

Buckle up for next week’s letter. Since it’s spooky season, we’re nose diving into hair-raising tales of friendship breakups and what I’ve titled ‘The Awkward Phase of Friendship’. 

Love to love you,

Jade

Well, well, well look who decided to show up. It’s October, the queen is here. Praise be to God we’re out of that hellish inferno you all refer to as Summer. Time for all my bends, curves, and shoulders to go into hiding, and time for all the sociopaths who insist on rolling down the windows when they drive to shut the fuck up for a few months. Let the procrastination and the “let’s circle back in the New Year'' Olympics begin. It’s officially time for me to shine in all my horizontal glory.

As you might be able to tell, I harbor an almost hysterical fondness for the Fall/Winter months. I have a toxic amount of Christmas spirit and daydreams of launching "Fall-Back Daylight Savings" merch, and I absolutely thrive in the collective depressive episode we nosedive into as we spend the money we don’t have and become suddenly nostalgic for our ex best friends. 

This morning I had the genius (read: really dumb) idea inspired by a Tiktok to transition my wardrobe from Summer into Fall/Winter. Sweaters and jeans would be given VIP status while all things flimsy and revealing moved to the nosebleeds. (I should interrupt this story for a quick admission: every morning, I watch Good Morning America, sue me, bitches.) ANYWAY, as I was piling my arms full of crop tops and a collection of jean shorts I know Gen Z would roast me for, ready to banish them to the depths of a hallway closet, I heard the weatherman say that LA is supposed to sizzle at a scorching 100 degrees this weekend. I nearly collapsed. Pure, unadulterated BETRAYAL.

Surely when God created Autumn she intended for me to don cashmere. LA is notorious for its seasonless existence, and while I'm a pro at keeping my house shrouded in eternal darkness and the thermostat set at a frosty 63 degrees–DIY Fall–for the very first time in my 29.8333333 years on this planet, I thought maybe just maybe it’s better to be an East Coaster at this time of year. These vagabond shoes are longing to stray!

Two weeks ago I spent a solid 48 hours in New York, and it got me thinking about the age-old rivalry between the adorably named "City of Angels'' and the horrifyingly named "City That Never Sleeps." I’ve lived in LA my entire life and while I know it’s cool to hate on your hometown, your girl just can’t get enough of this silly city, hundred degree October and all. Listen, I’m admittedly, quintessentially LA. I started dabbling in Botox and other face-needles as a teenager (ok fine, 24), I’d rather pluck my eyelashes out one by one than forgo valet parking, I eat sushi 5 days a week (don’t @ me, mercury levels are the least of my problems), I have an inexplicable affinity for $30 smoothies and $6 bottled water, I’ve been in therapy since I was a mere embryo, my parents are in the entertainment industry and divorced, and when someone suggests we walk somewhere I briefly consider homicide.

New York to me feels like a relentless–albeit kind of chic–assault on my nervous system–and hair. It slurps up my already waning will to live, as if the city itself is as dehydrated as it makes me feel and quenches its thirst on human energy. I don’t walk fast enough, I’m too passive to hail a taxi, too directionally-challenged and olfactory-sensitive to ride the subway, and I rarely derive enjoyment from human interaction, let alone interaction with those who are chronically yelling. But my genetic makeup is actually equal parts LA and New York. My dad and his side of the family hail from Italian roots in Brooklyn and Staten Island, and my mom’s side proudly claims six generations of Californians. So, despite its brutality, precisely half of me has a soft spot for New York.

There are even some ways that New York might, dare I say, outshine LA. You, my sweet, chronically-suffering New Yorkers have better bagels and pizza, you have access to a flavor of spontaneity I find utterly terrifying but that undoubtedly makes singlehood or at the very least your twenties more entertaining. Your people are wittier and less inclined to shove their ‘morning routine’ down my throat, you have more restaurants per square foot which just might equate to better food (except sushi), and your Christmas decorations make my heart sing. While I can’t fathom how any of you can get groceries up six flights of stairs or maintain a blowout for more than thirty seconds, if I squint really hard I can grasp the appeal. Every time I visit I fall a little bit in love with the frenzy of it all, but after a few days, my aching feet (see picture above) and pounding headache remind me that I am, at my core, an inside dog and must return to my squishy LA life immediately, even if the wind feels like it’s coming straight out of a hair dryer during Gilmore Girls season (seriously how dare you).

Also, as the depressed little bitch I am, I often think about which city is a better backdrop for us mentally ill queens…sound off in the comments. 

Ok… now that I’ve ranted, I want to reward those of you who made it this far and give you my list of things I maybe could live without but would rather not and just some things I want for my birthday/Christmas…in case some relative/secret admirer of mine (Dylan) is reading this. 

1. That lip stain you’ve seen on TikTok might be the best purchase I’ve made all year.

2. High Frequency zit zapper that unlike zit stickers actually works. I’ve had mine for like six years and she still works great. 

3. These wine glasses that are too expensive but that I would like my husband to surprise me with. 

4. These jeans if you like to have enough money to pay rent. These if you don’t. 

5. Magnesium spray that makes me sleep like a bebe and isn’t a pill. And this glutathione spray because I’m turning 30 and my body is failing me. (and yes, it’s supposed to smell bad).

6. These Sandy Liang ballet flats that I’m telling you about because my therapist says I shouldn’t gatekeep. (I have them in black leather and red satin) 

7. A cute slutty-thanksgiving set that I haven’t worn yet so don’t post it on Instagram before I do. Sidenote: I'd get married again just to wear this veil.

8. Everyone already knows this one but the Drunk Elephant D-Bronzi stuff so you (I) don’t startle people with your (my) ghostly-ness.

9. I’m somewhat makeup-challenged and look like Toddlers in Tiaras when I even put foundation on, but this eyeshadow saved my life. 

10. Another hint for any relatives or spouses of mine. 

11. I wear this skirt every day. 

12. Amazon socks. Get them before they sell out again. 

13. I think this list just turned into a Christmas list for Santa. But I love this.

14. The dry shampoo that is ten times better than any other. Trust me on this one I’ve tried all the shitty ones and I hate showering.

15. This hair brush I’ve used for the past 25 years and now all my friends use. 

16. One of these candles. Disclaimer: I’m married to the co-founder but these are objectively the best gifts to give.

17.  I love this necklace. And this one.

18. If you’re not already using a copper tongue scraper take this as your sign. 

19. The love of my life: AirDoctor Air Purifier 

Love to love you,

Jade 

Dearest Bedheads, 

Last week your girl came down with the bubonic plague (RSV) and she (me) has spent the last eight days residing in the fiery pits of hell. I apologize for starting our pen-pal relationship out on a bad foot and being a Frosted Flake with my lack of correspondence last week. But guess who’s back, back again… If you don’t get that reference…it’s an Eminem song. You’re welcome for the culture. But it’s Friday, the weather in LA is shit (just how I like it), I’m eating a donut from a Portuguese bakery down the street, I had a glass of wine last night that woke me up at 4am, and life’s good. 

Yes, RSV is most well known for being a virus only babies and old people get, but given that I resonate deeply with both of those demographics, it didn’t come as a surprise. But let’s be real, getting sick has never, ever come as a surprise to me. My M.O. is to catch every virus known to Western man like an outfielder, something I’ve been doing professionally since the tender age of two, when my ENT (ear nose and throat doctor…again, culture) recorded my first official upper respiratory infection. Since then, if there’s something going around, you can bet your ass it’s going to come around to me. 

I thought I had accepted this about myself, had made peace with the fact that no one was attracted to me in middle school because of my perpetually red nostrils and the snotty tissue I kept clenched in my fist. I thought this was just what it meant to be alive, but then I met my husband. Last week, I’m lying there, dying of RSV like a zombie with hair extensions, and this man is not even a little bit worried about coming down with something. 

“It’s a mentality,” he says to me, while I’m on my back seeing Christ and slowly passing away. “If you think, I’m not getting sick, then you simply won’t get sick.” 

If I had been physically capable of screaming at that moment, I would have. His cockiness in the face of illness is absolutely maddening. Obviously I’m not a germaphobe with a germaphobe ‘mentality’ because I want to be, I am this way because I have to be! Because my immune system is shot to pieces from all the antibiotics I was spoon fed as a child (thanks Mom), and also because of my tendency to isolate from the rest of society (rendering me extra vulnerable when I do venture out, as I did one time last week, to Sugarfish, where I happened to sit next to a woman with an ominous cough…the rest is history).

“Wrong,” says my dutiful husband, tapping his head, “it’s all up here!” Keep in mind, this is a guy who doesn’t know shit from Shinola when it comes to nursing someone back to health, bless his heart. His only contribution this past week was to put a wet washcloth in the freezer and then let it melt all over my bedside table. As two ‘youngest children’ playing house together, we’re always vying for priority over who gets to be taken care of, so I guess I have to be thankful…Can you imagine how quickly we’d be in divorce court if we were sick at the same time? That’s one thing I don’t have to worry about. Dylan is literally never sick, and neither is anyone else in his family. When I first met them, I was like, who is this Ashkenazi LA family who never catches a cold!? Maybe it’s because they’re from the valley? And people from the valley have been hardened by the commute? Or maybe they’re too hot over there to even notice when they have a fever, so they power through instead of butt chugging penicillin like the rest of us. 

Even though I’ve long since enmeshed myself into this tribe of never sick in-laws, I still vividly remember the growing pains when I was first trying to squeeze and contort myself into their family culture nearly a decade ago. So many of my friends complain to me and so many of you DM me about this particular flavor or drama, and I fully understand why absolutely hating your in-laws is the it-girl of all relationship problems. How could it not be? It’s a tale as old as time: Melissa and Teresa, Megan and The Royals, vintage-Scott Disick and the Kardashians, etc., etc., etc. 

When two people start dating, they bring two entirely different sets of banged-up baggage to the table. Once they’re at the table, love can begin, and by love I mean peeling your skin off to expose every nerve, and then letting your partner pour salt on the nerves (albeit sometimes accidentally) all while constantly resisting the urge to sew yourself shut. Love is making room for your partner’s flawed past while still reeling from your own and becoming responsible for a pain you had no part in creating. Maybe even more perilous than that, entering a new family is like walking into a Zumba class a half hour late and trying to keep up with the choreography of dynamics and history, only the Zumba class lasts the rest of your life…But as someone who has grown to annoyingly love my in-laws, I’ll leave you today with some thoughts I have for how to gracefully mesh (car crash into) another clan.

1. Understand your partner’s childhood was totally different than yours, and be open to his or her family’s way of life, no matter how different it might be from your own shit-show. Chances are there’s something there you can learn or benefit from among all the garbage. For so long I rejected the parts of Dylan’s family that were different from mine, because I firmly believed that my family’s way of doing things was the right way. In reality, I was starving for many of the things that made up his family’s constitution, like being part of a birthday family. You know, the kind that from the moment you open your eyes on your birthday, everything is about celebrating you. I’ll take it further by telling you Dylan comes from a HALF birthday family. I’m the youngest of four, and my birthday is the day after my sister’s (9 months after my dad’s birthday..ew). It’s not that birthdays were a non-event, but the world didn’t seem to stop on our special day. We celebrated with a family dinner and gifts, but otherwise everyone went about their day as pretty-much normal. Although I ~live laugh love~ attention, I never thought I needed to be celebrated, and in fact birthday families always struck me as a bit too indulgent, but the first time Dylan’s grandma sent me a half-birthday card with a long letter and a check inside or his dad left me a half-birthday voice note (see below for actual evidence of this sweetness) I have to admit it felt pretty damn good. Sometimes it feels better to convince ourselves we don’t need something when we’ve never had it, but it can also feel really good to open yourself up to something your inner child missed out on.  

2. Avoid glorifying the dysfunction of your own family and get your partner to do the same. For example, I constantly find myself saying “neglect is good, it shows your kids there are things more important than them…” aaaaand while there might be a grain of truth in that, it’s also why I’m in therapy twice a week. Do as I say, not as I do. 

3. Let your partner hold the reins with their fam. Only THEY should ever confront or argue with them even if it’s on your behalf. Your job is to just deal with the annoyingness, vent to your therapist about it, talk shit on the way home from the BBQ, write a scathing letter, and then throw it out. Because the bitter truth is, you don’t have the same right to be an asshole with in-laws as you do with your own family. Part of loving your partner is forgiving them for their family’s shortcomings and hoping they do the same. 

4. Having and pointing out issues with your partner's family MOSTLY means that you are causing your partner to suffer even more than they already would when exposed to those childhood triggers. Let them realize the ways in which their family sucks on their own and then, when they inevitably do, revel in it. 

5. Soften yourself, give your partner a safe place to heal from familial traumas, and let them do the same for you. The idea of fully healing yourself before you enter into a relationship is bullshit. No one emerges from childhood unscathed, and letting your partner show you the ways in which you are totally fucked up, i.e. lead you to self-awareness, no matter how painful, is one of the most beautiful and miraculous things a relationship can do. This brutal process is happening in every solid relationship, even if those perfect anniversary Instagram posts would like you to believe otherwise. 

6. Focus on healing the future instead of the past. If your sister-in-law says something scathing, ask your partner if they agree. If your mother in-law parented in a way you find less-than-appealing, ask your partner if there are any parenting patterns they want to break from when they have a kid. Most of the time we don’t agree with the bad things our family does, we've just learned to cope with it. As long as your partner and you are on the same page, the rest is just noise.

So now, as you can see, I’ve emerged from my illness and have metamorphosed into a good and well adjusted person! Just kidding. You can take the girl out of physical illness but you can’t take the mental illness out of the girl. Tune in next week for a list of my favorite things and my take on the classic NY vs LA debate with a twist—which city is best for the depressed. Any thoughts?

Love you mucho,

Jade 

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Helloooo! and welcome to the first ever installment of Bed Crumbs, the newsletter followup to my weekly podcast, Live From Bed, and an alternative commiseration station for all my beloved Bed Heads out there. If you don’t know me, I’m Jade— an introvert who simply cannnnot stop talking. This newsletter will have everything from lists of my favorite things and stuff I think is cool, to ‘dear diary’-style essays about my ever-present, intrusive thoughts. So buckle up, baby and welcome to the inside of my brain.

I can’t believe it’s September again. The air smells like anxiety and back to school. Am I crazy or does 29-going-on-30 suddenly open up the Hoover Dam of nostalgia at this time of year? It’s like my Saturn return came and went (less-than-stellar experience, would not recommend) and suddenly there’s a pain in my chest whenever I think about how I used to successfully delude myself into thinking parties were fun. And it’s not just me– Miley has evidently been feeling it too given her newest single. I know, I know, every boring person on earth has long since stopped posting about how they sewwww can relate to this new phase of the Miley saga, but I think it’s high time I too chimed in.

The song goes something like: I know I used to be crazy, I used to be fun, you say I used to be wild, I say I used to be young. You tell me time done changed me, that’s fine, I’ve had a good run. I know I used to be crazy. That’s ‘cause I used to be young…

Ok, so she’s not going to be winning the Nobel Prize in literature any time soon, but hey, we’re all out here doing our fucking best, and we can (maybe) even forgive her for making everyone born in the early nineties feel like they are suddenly being taken out to pasture. Here’s the thing though: something about her flavor of nostalgia doesn’t hit right for me. I talked about this in the most recent LFB ep with my favorite lesbian Ali Kolbert, but when I was “young,” I wasn’t running around with flowers in my hair and stickers on my nipples, blacking out and having casual sex on the reg (at all). I wasn’t the fun kind of crazy, I was the clinical kind…before it was even chic—s/o to all my manic depressive queens! The fact is that in my ‘glory days’ I rarely stayed up past 9, even when the sleepover was at my house. My friends were getting up to all kinds of teenage mischief while I was knee deep in full-REM. And when I wasn’t sleeping like it was my fucking job, I was doing things like…making slime, or watching Tivo’d episodes of John & Kate Plus 8, or working up the courage to love bomb a stupid boy who say it with me: would never love me back whilst slowly calcifying into a self-conscious bed creature. But I think people like me deserve some representation out there too, even if our high school eras wouldn’t make for a particularly sexy HBO show. 

And what kind of person are we now, you ask? Who are these grown ass people who’s high school days more closely resembled Golden Girls than Euphoria? We are the type that sucks just as much at being an adult as we did at being kids. We’re the ones who still have no idea how to match our shoes to our purse let alone our purse to our outfits.

We feel competitive with 12 year olds we see sexy-whisper-singing on TikTok and people who are succeeding in fields we’re not even remotely interested in (are you a botanist whose career has really taken off and appears moderately happy? Congrats, you’re officially a threat to my mental health). We still look away during every surgery scene in Grey’s Anatomy, still don’t realize you have to wet a Mr. Clean magic eraser before scrubbing the whole damn house, and still, on occasion, shit our pants when the coffee hits too hard. We live our lives on 12% battery, use Chat GPT to write our wedding thank-you notes (sue me), and we despise, I repeat, despise brunch (pls don’t invite me) as well as any form of socializing in a dress in broad daylight like an absolute sociopath. We avoid making appointments and reservations like the plague, we avert our eyes if anyone in our family kisses their significant other, and we keep an old, positive COVID test photo saved on our phone for when we need a fun, flirty excuse for canceling on that person…again. 

For people like us, my people, my nation, the trepidation toward turning thirty lies less in the idea that by leaving youth behind we’ve lost that sparkle, that unbridled willingness to throw caution to the wind, and more in the fact that we are woefully under-qualified to actually be adults. So to those of you who are, like me, reminded of your arrested development at this time of year and delusionally hoping it will disqualify you from having to get any older, this first installment of Bed Crumbs is dedicated to you. I see you, I love you. Let’s not hang out and say we did. 

Love, 

Jade