Spring has officially sprung here in New York City; the sun dress is here to stay, as are flip-flops, tank tops and shorts. If you’re like me, you might be looking down at your hairy, pasty legs and thinking “dear God, I actually miss December!”

And of course our trusty womens magazines are all about “getting ready for Summer” articles, reminding us that now is the time for manicures, pedicures, armpit shaving, leg shaving, fake tanner and…bikini waxes?

Really?

Bikini waxes are painful and, even worse, expensive! Cosmo online tells me I should wax about every 3 weeks, which would add up to probably about $400 over the summer months (considering the average bikini wax in NYC costs at least $50 w/tip!). At the moment I am a) single and b) not a surfer/lifeguard/swimmer/bikini model, so why the heck am I supposed to be getting bikini waxes? Painting my toes, shaving my legs, I get it–those are the bits that people can see when I’m wearing my little sun dress and flip-flops. Are shorts-that-are-so-short-we-can-see-your-pubes a new trend I haven’t heard about yet? Does casual Friday now include swim wear?

Someone, anyone: please enlighten me! Do you get bikini waxes in the Summer, even if you have no intention of hitting the beach/pool/water park?

According to the World Bank, global food prices have increased by 75% since 2005 and 45% in the last nine months. In the past two months, the cost of rice, a staple food for over half of the world’s population, rose by 75%. The price of wheat has risen 120% during the past year.

Deadly protests and rioting over these increasing costs are occurring throughout Africa and Asia.

In Haiti, where 80% of the population survives on less than $2 a day, mass demonstrations turned deadly. Rioting in Les Cayes killed 4 and wounded at least 20. A few days later Haitians attempted to storm the presidential palace in Port-au- Prince shouting “We are hungry!”

In Egypt, where over 33% of the population live on around $2 a day, police took over a textiles plant to prevent a widespread strike over rising food costs. The military has been enlisted to bake bread to curb the growing anger. Read More »

When I first moved after college I started talking to a nice boy. He eventually invited me out to dinner and we hit up this cute little Thai restaurant. It was a lovely evening that went on for hours before we both had to head home for the night. We did a little cheek kiss goodbye and promised to speak to each other soon. So, when he hadn’t called three days later, I called him. He didn’t answer. I called again. And again. I left messages and kept my phone close by (like, on my pillow as I slept) so I wouldn’t miss his call. Which never came.

I obviously should have gotten the hint, but I just couldn’t let it go. We had such a great date; how could he just stop talking to me? What did I do wrong? Why would he tell me he’d call if he never planned to? I needed to hear it – I needed to know he wasn’t interested. I needed that closure.

Eventually, which was far too long in any sane person’s book, I gave up and moved on. He wasn’t going to call. I had my closure. Looking back, I realize just how crazy I was. Literally, crazy. No wonder he never called back; he was probably at the police station trying to get a restraining order. But I was young and alone in a giant new city. That boy was the one thing I had to hold onto while I started a new job, found a new apartment and adjusted to life outside of Ann Arbor, Michigan. Read More »

I was at a bar last night, politely making conversation with a group of guys. They were nice and I was bored. Our drunken conversation soon went from the ‘awesome’ weather to a subject even less interesting: me and my singlehood. I like being single. I’d like to stay this way. Yet, somehow, this is always devastating news to everyone from my family and friends to strangers at a bar.

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

The response, “I don’t have one”, must be code for “I have SARS” based on the jaw dropping and disgusted looks that shoot back at me invariably.

So the guys at the bar were appalled. And probably simultaneously delighted because NOW, now they had a license to set me up with their ‘young’ friend…the one closer to my age…the one blushing because he is RIGHT THERE…the one I don’t even find remotely attractive.

And alas, I was yet again playing a game I have played far too many times to count.: The “Gracefully Decline Without Hurting Feelings” Game. I know, I know. I should just always be a bitch. To be honest, often times, I am. However, it’s harder to do this when I have been having a genuinely good conversation with the guy. Or when it’s my best friend who really believes in her gut that the new guy in her office is my soulmate.

The line that got me out of bad emotional karma last night was this one: Read More »

Basically, I ran out of things to eat.

Yeah, yeah, it shouldn’t be that hard. But somehow nothing seems quite satisfying enough, quite interesting enough when I have to think so hard about my food.

I am not the kind of girl who diets. In fact, I’ve never been on a diet in my entire life (excluding this “Passover diet” that I go on every year for a week). And I’ll tell you, I don’t like it. If I had to be so careful about what I ate all the time, I would definitely be a much bigger bitch.

Which is really making me a better person. Because now when someone is rude to me on the train, I can think, “oh, they must be on a diet,” and let it go. Thanks, Passover!

In any event, the last couple of days were annoying. I missed out on free Beard Papa cream puffs, on free cookies, on going out to (not free, but still) pizza with friends, etc. etc.

I ate Pinkberry frozen yogurt for lunch one day when I was in a rush and couldn’t think of anything else that was fast.

I was not always nice to my boyfriend. Read More »

When the romper (or playsuit, or onesie, or whatever else you want to call it) started to make a comeback last year, my friends and I scoffed. Oversexed American Apparel models showed off velor strappy shorts-and-tank-top hybrids, and I thought to myself: dear God, this can not be happening.

Rompers are for the fashion weirdos, like Chloe Sevigny, but I feared they might start popping up on the general public as well. “You are not five years old”, I thought to myself. “You do not need a one-piece playsuit”.

Well, a year came and went, and now Spring is here and once again the romper is prevalent in stores such as Urban Outfitters and Brooklyn Industries. I popped into my favorite thrift store a few weekends ago with my best friend, and tucked in among the racks of dresses, I spied it: a red velor American Apparel romper. “I’m going to try this on, just to see how ridiculous it looks” I said, adding it to my pile of finds.

I tried it on and emerged from the dressing room, expecting my friend to burst into laughter. She didn’t. Read More »

It’s as vivid today as it was when it happened five years ago: Chris and I bodysurfing on an abandoned beach just outside of Acapulco and Stephanie looking at us with wonder from the shore. He and I would get slammed, and slammed again, then come up smiling from sand-filled ear to water-logged ear. Just before going in, we looked out into the vast horizon. The sky was clear blue. There were no clouds in sight. The ocean held us in its wake. Suddenly, we both gasped at the same time: a flying stingray briefly jumped out of the water just fifteen feet away.

“Did you see that?” he asked me.

“That was so cool,” I said.

Christopher Cady was my best friend’s boyfriend. He and Stephanie — like myself — had a real case of wanderlust. With no one else could I share my travel stories and feel completely understood. Only they understood why I would want to attend college in Maine, a continent and ocean away from my home in Hawaii: for the pure challenge and unpredictability.

Steph and I lived vicariously through each other, traversing the globe and telling each other tale after wondrous tale. Their travels brought them from Maine to Mexico to Taos to Central America to Boston, but culminated abruptly in Chamonix one fateful afternoon in January 2004. Chris had prepared an engagement ring before their trip. He didn’t get a chance to give it to her because, despite the storm that was brewing that late afternoon, he took an off-piste route and went missing. Read More »

I lived with five other people my sophomore year of college. Three boys and three girls. We were all great friends when we moved in, but soon we cordoned off, built alliances and ended the year in veritable silence. It started when two of my roommates who were dating when we signed the lease broke up just before we moved in.

It continued when the boys never locked the door, and one girl was really obnoxious. It also didn’t help that we were politically divided in an election year. I’m surprised no one got stabbed.

But what really drove us apart were the notes. The little post-its I’d find stuck on filthy coffee tables, or the threatening comments on the dry-erase board. Everyday there was an annoying message reminding what I should or shouldn’t do in my own home.

Now there’s a place to laugh at all of those passive-aggressive notes, a great blog aptly-titled passiveaggressivenotes.com. Readers send in notes they find at work, at home or even signs on the street. Some are covered in unnecessary clip-art and capital letters, some are rude, and some can only be described as aggressive. But because they’re no longer littering my home, all of them are hilarious. Read More »

I once wrote an acrostic poem about my love of spam that went something like this:

Salty slab of not quite bacon —

Mocking my every taste bud?

I take comfort in the fact that I can buy a spam musubi from any 7-Eleven in Honolulu. If I need a pick-me-up or just something to fill my tummy, I head to the local convenience store and purchase this Hawaiian staple for just $1.09.

Spam is good prepared in other foods too, like next to scrambled eggs for breakfast or in fried rice for dinner. It really is the other white meat — except it’s pink.

And there is a reason why we Hawaiians love spam to such a degree that we consume more of it than any other locale in the world. (Almost 5 million cans of Spam are purchased per year). As the major Pacific port during World War II, spam was brought to the islands by the boatload mainly because it didn’t require refrigeration and it provided protein and sustenance for military personnel. For nearly 60 years now, numerous spam dishes have been invented and several continue to be special local recipes.

To be honest, though, I am only partial to spam musubi, which is really just a warm sushi. If you’re brave enough, here is my personal recipe to try it for yourself. Read More »

To be completely honest, after a long week of brain power the last thing I feel like doing in my free time is pleasure reading, however, I have found just the piece of literature to help re-light the spark: Chelsea Handler’s “My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One Night Stands.”

If you haven’t had the pleasure of witnessing her antics, Chelsea Handler is a complete trip with great material and no shame. I found Chelsea several years ago on the Oxygen Network’s “Girls Behaving Badly”, and from there followed her to the E! Network and caught a few stand-up shows — the rest is history.

So last weekend I picked up Chelsea’s book after many months of putting it off (like I said, reading for fun loses all appeal when you have to read for purpose), and headed to a nearby coffee shop to enjoy my book with a nice cup of coffee.

I have never felt like more of a spaz. I barely made it through the first chapter without literally laughing out loud – as in laughing out loud in the middle of a crowded coffee shop filled with students studying hard, sitting all by myself. Talk about being that girl.

It only took me a few more failed attempts to try and hide my laughing before I decided Chelsea’s book was best read in the privacy of my home, where only my roommates would judge me – and I have a feeling laughing while reading isn’t too high on the list.

I continued the rest of the book — yes, I read the whole thing in one sitting — in the living room with all my roommates, who continually asked me about every five minutes what I was laughing at, (the Jurassic park feet reference killed me.) Needless to say, this book became a cult-classic in my household within a week. Read More »