Next

When I first settled on the title for this blog post, I didn't have the following thought progression in mind, but stick with me for a minute here.

Do y'all remember the show Next?

If you've seen Next and forgotten about it since the reality-TV heyday that was 2005-2008, shame on you. If you haven't seen Next, I'm sorry that your life is so sad. The premise is as follows. A lady or gentleman is set up by the MTV powers that be with five potential dates. Every single one is a certified freak show.

Honestly, Kyle? Same. 

The daters are all contained in a bus (whose idea was this series?) and they come off the bus one by one to try their hand at wooing the lady or gentleman in question. The person being courted by the five bus-dwellers could, at any point, yell out "NEXT!" and send the person back to their sad bus alone. 

This is an apt metaphor for my dating life, given that no man on earth could live up to my impossibly high standards and I essentially want to scream "NEXT!" at everyone I ever meet. 

At the moment, however, I'm using it in a different context, so here comes the MTV metaphor you never knew you needed. 

I Nexted Ireland. I gave it a shot, we had a good run, and at the end of my designated year, I decided our time had come and I was going to head back to the U.S. with no new job lined up and no clue what polo-shirt-wearing wonder was about to hop off the Next bus. 

What fell into my lap was Denver, Colorado. Just four days after landing back in the U.S. of A., I found out I had gotten the internship I applied for at 5280, and they wanted me to start in two weeks. So I went. I found a roommate on Craigslist, packed my trusty Ford Focus with an assortment of my belongings, and, after a handful of days at home, drove across the country to start my Stateside post-grad career in a state I knew pretty much nothing about. 

Denver's not too bad. I systematically hate both beer and the outdoors and am neutral on both dogs and legal marijuana, which means I have pretty much nothing in common with the average Coloradan. It turns out to be a cool city, though, with exciting things like vegan chocolate Oreo ice cream down the block from my office (hello, fittest state in the Union) and the entire principal cast of If/Then reuniting here in town for the first leg of their national tour. Yes, that means both Idina Menzel and Anthony Rapp. Yes, I have a ticket. Yes, it is a solo ticket and I plan on going alone and weeping throughout the performance. Yes, that's going to be the best night of my life. 

It also isn't half bad to have views like this from the roof of your apartment building. 

I miss Dublin, far more than I thought I would. I miss living on Merrion Square and making jokes about craic and sweet, sweet Lord, I miss San Lorenzo. If I'd known how much I would miss Dublin, I may very well not have yelled "next." 

But, in a way, I'm glad I did. When this internship ends, it'll almost certainly be on to a new city. Maybe I'll go back to Ireland. Maybe it'll be Singapore. Maybe it'll be Portland, or Cleveland, or Durban or Dallas or Des Moines. I don't know. What I do know is that I'm excited to find out. 

For my next order of business, I'll probably go to bed. Go to buy shampoo. Go to work for a few months. I'm looking forward to a great time on this six-month blind date I'm on with Colorado, but I'm not settling down any time soon. 

I've got a question and a challenge for you, Great MTV Producer in the Sky. Bring it on. What's next? 

I Went to a Breakfast Rave and This Is What Happened

A few months ago, I discovered that breakfast raves are a thing that occasionally happen in Dublin. If you don't know, breakfast raves feature all the strobe lights, techno, and idiotic dancing of regular raves, minus drugs and alcohol, plus massages and yoga and breakfast. They are totally ridiculous, they are patently trendy, and I needed to go.

I thought I would miss my chance at breakfast raving because I was always busy when the monthly events were happening - or, more realistically, because I forget about things really fast and never planned ahead enough to actually look into buying tickets.

When I was researching this article, though, I discovered that the one Dublin breakfast rave remaining before I leave the country was scheduled for July 1. My last day of work was June 30. My time had come.

I bought tickets and, at 7:00 yesterday morning, it was rave time.

First, I had to figure out what exactly one wears to a breakfast rave or, for that matter, any rave. My personal style basically consists of owning this t-shirt in 20 colors and wearing it every day with some kind of jeans or, like, a skirt if I'm forced. Rave wear is not so much my thing.

I bought a pair of harem pants one time - at Forever 21, because I'm a poser - so I settled on those and a tank top that I mostly use to sleep in when it's hot outside, confirming my status as a Fashion Girl. My roommate conveniently owns a neon yellow workout tank top (disclaimer: this does not mean that either of us works out) and a matching sweatband (?), so we ended up a surprisingly rave-y pair.

I had a great time.

My roommate and I always end up looking like weirdos when we go out, because we dance really shamelessly and non-sexually and people don't know what to do about it. We were excited by this rave premise, then, because basically the whole point is to dance really shamelessly. As it turns out, people will still stare at you when you pony for three straight minutes to the beat of techno music, even if you are at a rave and literally surrounded by things to stare at.

I danced very energetically for the first thirty minutes or so on the pure adrenaline of being at a breakfast rave. Then I remembered that I'm comically out of shape and retired to a corner where I could pant and sweat profusely in peace.

From my sweat corner, I did some people-watching and spotted a lot of rather interesting things.

Most importantly, there was the tribe of otherworldly hoop women who I blatantly stared at the entire morning. Dreads, sarongs, harem pants, lotus tattoos...basically everything you'd expect in a person who'd show up to a rave at 6:30 in the morning. They were fascinating. I could not look away.

Similar to the hoop women was the gang of employees running the event, who ran around the whole time encouraging people to dance and generally acting like overzealous camp counselors, with more hugging. I was hugged by no fewer than five rave employees when I entered the club. Weirdly, I didn't even mind, because I was so freakin' excited about being at a breakfast rave.

Me. 

One thing I still minded as much as I ever do was children. An appalling number of people brought small children to this thing. (By "appalling number," I mean roughly three.) In theory, this is a cute addition to the "all are welcome, our rave runs on pure love and harmony" vibe, but in practice, the kids kept running through the crowd and only narrowly avoiding decapitation by errant hula hoops. The whole thing made me nervous. We all know kids won't be allowed if I ever have a wedding. I can now say that they also won't be allowed in the equally likely event that I host a rave.

Overall, I'm not gonna lie: this thing was every bit as awesome as I thought it would be in my head. It was a great excuse to drag myself out of bed early in the morning, and it really did end up energizing me enough to have a really productive day. I would absolutely go to a breakfast rave again if I end up in a city that has them. And if someone invented a fitness class that just consisted of pre-dawn rave dancing in sketchy clubs, I would probably actually "join a gym."

So, cat cafe, breakfast rave...what trendy nonsense should I wholeheartedly buy into next? Give me your ideas. Just don't even think about suggesting kale.

Sorry for the Delay, Here's a Vlog

You've all said you wanted me to vlog sometime because you think my voice is funny or something so here's a really poorly made video of me talking at you from a very sunny room. 

Worst thing you've ever seen? Best? You want to give me video editing lessons? 

Cool, tell me about it on the Facebook! 

All of My Life Updates Explained With GIFs

When you consistently go for a month at a time without updating your blog, you end up with a lot of random things you want to talk about when you finally start a post. I like to theme my posts, and it turns out that, with a month of material, that is sometimes impossible. I have updates about weather. I have updates about food. I have updates about my job. I have travel updates. How can I relate these things to one another? 

With GIFs. 

Without further ado, friends and readers, here is the story of the last month of my life, illustrated with GIFs. 

Update #1: I am a food blogger now kind of. I've been contributing a lot lately to a local food blog called Lovin Dublin. I eat a lot, and then I write about it. So....largely I do the same thing I've been doing here for a long time, but now a lot of people read it and occasionally follow me on Twitter because of it. Joke's on them. 

In any case, this is an exciting update and you should read my stuff. 

Update #2: I bought a bikini yesterday, and the above is how I look in it. Go ahead and take a look at it; it's super cute. This purchase is a big deal to me on a lot of gender-studies levels. I will omit that particular soapbox from this blog post. What's important here is that I have been searching for a good plus-sized bikini for about two years now, and I have finally found one. In this swimsuit, I believe the teens would say that I am on fleek. It makes me feel good about myself - almost as good as my honors degree from the University of Notre Dame does. 

Update #3: I saw the pope again! 

In a strange instance of four-day-long deja vu, I went to Rome this weekend for all of the Vatican Easter festivities. This trip, which I also did in 2013 when I studied abroad, was a good time. I ate a lot of gelato, including Frigidarium which will forever be my favorite no matter what you Giolitti's and Old Bridge lovers say so haters back off. I had an awesome meal at Tony's, which I hear will mean a lot to my friends who studied in Rome. (Yes, y'all, I loved it.) At this meal, I accidentally ordered two courses that consisted of just potatoes in different shapes. I really do belong in Ireland. 

Update #4: At Easter Mass, I learned that sometimes it rains so hard that umbrellas stop working and rain just pours through them!

I know. Yeah, so, as you may have seen on the news, it was a rainy Easter for the record books in Rome this year, and I was right up in the middle of that. I created a rain cocoon for myself, which gave me about 45 minutes of dry happiness and then three hours of sad. I had my rain jacket on. This thing is extremely waterproof. It's just a short jacket and I often forget to zip it up as high as I should, so it doesn't always cover that much area - but if it's covered by this jacket, in almost all circumstances, it's dry. I also had my umbrella. This trusty contraption was a gift for my high school graduation and has been with me ever since. It's a good umbrella. It works. And finally, for extra waterproofing, I laid a trash bag out across my legs and my backpack to make sure I'd be totally dry. Sitting in my seat with these three systems in place, I was bone dry and perfectly content despite the rainstorm for the first three-quarters of an hour. Once the end of the first hour approached, though, things began to unravel. My neighbors' ponchos were raining in on me from the sides. A puddle was forming around my feet. And yes, folks, my umbrella STOPPED WORKING. It didn't blow inside out or break in some way. It just stood up to so much rain that water started dripping through the seams. Did you know this was possible? I didn't! You learn so much living abroad. 

Update #5: IT GETS WARM IN DUBLIN!! 

Now that I've said this, the local weather will retreat into wintry, rainy misery. For now, though - and for several days in a row, in fact - it's gorgeous outside! It's been in the mid-sixties, the sun has been shining. I didn't know that was even possible here. That's kind of why I moved here. But hey, after the lashing we all got at the Vatican on Sunday (didn't think I'd ever say that phrase), I could not love this sunshine business any more. I'm not wearing tights with my dress today, and not even because I couldn't find any. I'm not wearing tights on purpose. 

Life is good, everyone. Life is good. 

I Don't Know About Thee

If you've known me for more than a few minutes, you probably know that my favorite person in the world (possibly excepting Stanley Tucci) is me. I rarely experience this "FOMO" that I've heard tell of, because I feel that few people are better company than myself, and because I hate having to wash my hair and leave my house.

But even for me, the prospect of celebrating my birthday in a country thousands of miles from my friends and family with no one to celebrate with but my two-count-'em-two local friends was a bit of a bummer.

The three days leading up to my birthday were my spring break days, so I took plenty of steps to ensure I'd be having fun. I booked a solo trip to Madrid for my birthday eve and eve-eve, and I declared to my tiny circle of Dublin friends that we'd be going to the new restaurant on our street for my birthday dinner. I bought myself some ridiculous shoes. I was prepared. I knew the things that I could control would, hopefully, produce some birthday fun - but how would the experience actually go?

Readers, it was awesome.

First, there was my trip to Spain. Though it was an awfully quick visit (6 AM and 9 PM Ryanair flights are my new best friend), it was one of the best trips I've had in all my time abroad. After months of Dublin winter and rain, Madrid was 70 degrees and sunny, and I discovered that apparently, I don't hate the sun after all.

I made this trip alone, but I'd chosen Madrid because I have an old friend living there for the semester. She was the first of the many people who unknowingly conspired to give me the abroad birthday of my dreams. Though I love traveling alone, visiting museums and setting a pace with no one to worry about but me, it's great to have someone to meet up with now and again - and I had a great someone in Madrid. We took a rented rowboat for a spin on a local pond, we ate tapas and churros - we had a grand old time! 

Once a Berry, always a Berry.

On my one evening in the city, I stopped by the Mercado de San Miguel to sample various Spanish dishes (and sangrias) for dinner. I picked the market because it'd be easy and not awkward to eat there alone, but the birthday travel gods had other plans. While standing at a counter eating paella, a pair of Spanish girls accidentally bumped into me. They turned to apologize and struck up a conversation with me, asking where I was from and shocked that I'd come to Madrid all by myself. Within twenty minutes, they had decided I was their new best friend. They were from Tenerife. They were a little drunk. They gave me potato chips and bought me two rounds of "vermut!!!!". They made for an improbable and very strange evening, but they were awesome.

Here they are flirting with the bartender, Ruben.

Late Wednesday night, I returned to Dublin, happy and even a little tan, and collected the mail that had come for me while I was gone. Despite the fact that they'll be here to visit in under a week (!), my parents had sent me a package full of trendily-wrapped presents, so I would have something to open on the actual day of my birthday. And in case that weren't great enough on its own, I'd also received a postcard while I was gone that my friends had sent me from their recent trip to San Diego. I would probably have cried at this mail delivery, if I had feelings. A tip for you all? SEND ME MAIL. 

My mother made me an artsy birthday banner. I taught her everything she knows.

Then came my birthday itself. I returned from the shower that morning to find that my roommate had gotten me a lovely - and, more importantly, immaculately wrapped - gift, and I even got a cupcake at work, by which means I managed to get raspberry stains all over my shirt, to the surprise of no one. My birthday dinner, too, was a smashing success. I traipsed down the street in my five-inch crazy platforms to Trendy New Restaurant Xico with my roommate, our neighbor and only friend, and my roommate's sister, who was in for the week visiting. 

Trendy New Restaurants are THE place to celebrate a birthday, my friends. I had pulled pork tostadas with apples and peanuts on them. "My Humps" inexplicably played at one point. I bought myself a bright blue cocktail called a "Los Muertos" that, unbeknownst to me at the time, is served on fire. It was awesome. Also, I looked good. 

Ignore our dryer and focus instead on my shoes.

After dinner, we lounged around the apartment for a while before heading out to one of our favorite bars. I kept wearing those shoes and didn't even break my ankle or give up and walk around barefoot. I ponied in platforms. I had a darn good time. And then I bought myself some garlic cheese fries from a truck on the street and went home in a cab, because I am a twenty-three-year-old woman and I will avoid walking if I want to. I don't know if it was the best birthday anyone's ever had, but it's definitely up there. 

And then I got home and caught up to the birthday messages I'd been getting throughout the day. I still didn't cry - I'm me, after all - but it was really special to have so many of my friends and family wish me a happy birthday from so many miles away. I like being alone, and I'd had a great time with the small but fun inner social circle I have here in Dublin. But I miss all my friends back in the States - and even though a text or a Facebook wall post may not seem like much, it really meant a lot to hear from each and every person who wished me a happy birthday yesterday. I'm not one to be nice because I feel like I have to, so I assure you: if I replied to your message with some iteration of "I MISS YOU, TELL ME ABOUT YOUR LIFE," it's because I really do want to hear it. Even if I didn't tell you that, it's probably true. I want to hear about you all. You all rock. 

I've been waiting for quite some time to make this joke, and the end of this post (since you've read this far and won't bail now) is the perfect chance. I don't know about thee, but I'm feelin' 23. And it's pretty cool. 

Treat Yo Self

Unfortunate as this is, my weekends are rarely themed. This weekend, however, one theme triumphantly ruled my life, and that theme was:

I didn't make this, I found it on Google images, please don't take it from me, Internet gods.

Parks and Recreation holds a slightly smaller place in my heart than its Tina Fey sitcom counterpart, 30 Rock, but I have always connected with the Tom Haverford and Donna Meagle-inspired concept of Treating Yo' Self. Sometimes, you need to buy and do things for yourself just as a reminder that you're awesome enough to deserve them - and this weekend was one of those times. 

Tom and Donna (Tomma?) have their ways of treating they-selves, and I respect them. But clothes, massages, mimosas, and fine leather goods weren't gonna cut it for my weekend of treating me-self. Like Tom and Donna, I love four things in this world, and those things are food, cabs, Celtic Woman, and being a relentless basic. Let me tell you about them. 

On Friday, a series of events led my roommate and I to opt for a glorious girls' night. She caked several ounces of silver products onto my eyes, we drank several glasses of juice and frozen fruit mixed with...things, we obviously threw on a Say Yes to the Dress marathon, and by 11 PM, we realized there was no way on earth we were leaving our apartment that night. Instead of hitting Da Club as we had earnestly intended, we hit Da Web and ordered ourselves 20 euro worth of takeout junk food. I'm not going to lie: this was an appalling amount of food. We got a not-exactly-small pepperoni pizza, a side order of chicken dippers, and a fairly enormous order of cheese fries. And a Coke for her and a Fanta for me. I must say, it was actually pretty great value. Some people would say that eating all of this junk food is disgusting and really, really bad for you, and they would ordinarily be right. But I say, TREAT. YO. SELF. 

And then came Saturday. I woke up to a text from my boss asking if I knew anyone who would be interested in tickets to the Celtic Woman concert at the 3 Arena that night.

Um............yes?

Few of you reading this probably know this about me - though if you know me at all it shouldn't be a surprise - but I. Adore. Celtic Woman. This show was the first of their 10th Anniversary World Tour, so I would place the start of my Celtic Woman obsession somewhere in the spring of 2005. It feels like I have known them forever.

If you, for some insane reason, aren't familiar with Celtic Woman, allow me to explain. Celtic Woman is a magical group of 3-5 pretty Irish women who prance around in beautiful ball gowns singing angelic, lilting, head-voice-y classical music for audiences of generally elderly folk and/or at-home viewers of PBS. I have been told from far too young an age by my relatives that I have the perfect voice for Celtic Woman and could easily be a member of their group, a truth that I now firmly believe against all odds and reason. Celtic Woman are my everything.

I was over the moon at the prospect of these tickets. The problem, however, was that I had to be at a mass that started at 7 PM, and the concert began at 8. The church and the arena were a twenty minutes' drive apart. I would have to be horribly late, right?

WRONG. Our priest, knowing we had tickets, sped through the mass, and we clocked in at a cool 37 minutes. (A compelling motivation to join our parish if there ever were one.) We jumped into a cab and made unbelievable time getting to the arena, pulling up at precisely 7:59. We came in, were shown to our seats in the dead center of the ninth row, and got ourselves situated. As soon as we were settled, the show began. :-O

I'd talk about the show for you, but how can one even begin to describe the happiest night of one's life? It was incredible. When the lights came up on their famous fiddle-pixie Mairead, I almost fainted. You know that thing where brides and grooms see each other for the first time on their wedding day and they're all joy and hands-at-the-face and harps playing and dreams coming true? That is exactly what I looked and felt like for the duration of the evening. Early in the night, they performed "Si Do Mhaimeo I'." Most people wouldn't have any particular associations with this fact. But most people have not sung "Si Do Mhaimeo I'" on stage at this very arena. As it happens...

Hey. 

I have. I may have punched my roommate in the face during this song out of sheer excitement at my so few degrees of separation from Celtic Woman. I honestly couldn't tell you. Pure excitement was bottled and injected into my veins for this song. 

At intermission, we continued the weekend theme of treating ourselves with a trip to the concessions and merchandise booths. My roommate bought us drinks, I bought us an 8 euro box of popcorn, and, because it's Treat Yo Self weekend and I do what I want, I went ahead and bought myself a t-shirt, too. If I were capable of feeling embarrassment, this would be the most embarrassing clothing item that I own. Like. I. Even. Care. 

Oh, and what was my drink, you (didn't) ask? It was a rose-pink wine cooler that tasted like a Starburst. I loved every second of it. 

I continued living just on the edge of total hysterics for the rest of the evening, and screamed my lungs out like a complete maniac throughout the standing ovation that everyone gave. Celtic Woman are my everything, and I have now seen them live in their hometown. 

But don't you start thinking Treat Yo Self ended there. No, no, my friends. I woke up this morning rather chilly and tired, and I did not feel like walking to the bus stop to get to work. So I ordered myself a cab. 

I had plenty of food I could have made myself at home for lunch after work, but you know what I decided would be better? A fancy brunch date with my favorite person: me. 

AND IT WAS DELICIOUS.

On the way home from brunch, I walked by the cupcake shop I pass on my block every day, looked at the flourless chocolate cupcake sitting in the window, and what did I say? 

Readers, I do not have the money to keep buying myself cabs because I'm too lazy to get out of bed, or to spend 6 euro on a Vogue double edition ever again just to have some light reading to accompany my solo brunch. But it's not a new beach house. I can afford my modest little Treat Yo Self weekend now and again, and if you've got a few extra bucks lying around for a Donna Meagle mimosa or a Sarah Cahalan Celtic-Woman-merch impulse buy, go for it. Treat yo self. 

......Or treat me. Start here. Six weeks to my birthday, so with international shipping times, you'd better get to work. 

Down on the Farm

During my brief sojourn in Logansport over Christmas break, I trekked (as is tradition) to the Star Nail down by the BMV to have my lungs assaulted with chemical fumes and my nails turned into vicious plastic talons. I know that this is terrible for my nails and, after a few days of nail growth, slightly ratchet-looking, but I like to get acrylic nails put on once or twice a year to help curb my nail-biting habit. The plain white tips I get are fairly inoffensive and cute-looking as fake nails go, and, believe you me, they keep me from biting my nails. Have you ever tried biting through a fake nail? It is impossible. I imagine that the insides of bulletproof vests are actually just giant sheets of acrylic nails, because these things are bionic.

Acrylic nails serve an important purpose in my nail-biter's life, and I've rarely regretted having them on.

As I stood in a pile of ankle-deep mud in a barn in my first week back in Ireland, holding onto a metal fence with all four limbs and attempting to fight off a swarm of angry, pregnant sheep, I regretted my nails.

After my week at home, I spent my second week of Christmas break traveling Ireland, including a three-day stint on my relatives' farm in County Tipperary living out a real-life episode of The Simple Life with Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. 

The Logansport Cahalan family has long been in contact with the Cahalan family of Ballingarry, Ireland, and it has been tradition since the seventies that most of my family's visits to the Emerald Isle include a stop at the Ballingarry Cahalans' farm. This is a great, fun tradition. I learned a lot about my Irish ancestors, my (very) distant relatives still living here, and about the actual pronunciation of my last name.

But I also did a lot of work out on the farm. Me. Haha. Hahahahahaha.

As you read these tales of my work on the farm, remember that it is in fact me, your friend/loved one Sarah Cahalan, doing these things, and get in your quota for laughter for the better part of 2015.

The first task of my big day on the farm was helping the veterinarian in "scanning the ewes." (Word to the wise: "ewe" in this circumstance is pronounced "yo," as in "yo, dawg" or Yo! MTV Raps, so in other words, this whole ordeal is the most absurd thing I've ever been a part of.) All of my relatives' 270 ewes are supposed to be pregnant at the moment, and on this particular day, the vet had come by with a very fancy machine to determine how many lambs each ewe is carrying. Of the 270 ewes, only three were not with lamb, and this is a Very Good Thing.

To complete the scanning of the ewes (reminder: yoes), we had to create an enclosure using hay bale piles for two sides and cattle fences for the others, herd the ewes into the enclosure, and keep them there until they had gone through the sheep-gyno machine. If you think this sounds like an easy task, you are stupid and wrong.

In theory, it really isn't that hard, but in practice, the ewes want desperately to break free from the enclosure, and the amount of rope you have on hand is not enough to attach the final two fence segments to each other. To keep the enclosure closed, then, you have to throw your unsuspecting American relative on this fence vulnerability and have her guard it.

I don't understand animals.

I learned this as I stood in the corner, literally ankle-deep - I can't stress enough that this is not an exaggeration - in a mud substance that I'm certain was mostly fecal, and attempted to keep these 270 sheep from escaping through this clearly understaffed hole in the fence.

My relatives told me that throwing my arms in the air and shouting at the sheep would generally keep  the sheep at bay. "Generally," however, is not always, and in the instances where arm-waving doesn't work, they advocated gently hitting or kicking the sheep. This makes me nervous. I don't want to hit these sheep. Two of them, inexplicably, have horns! I've never met them before! This seems deeply inconsiderate! Instead, I attempted to reason with the sheep. "Please don't do that," I would say to them. "Why you gotta do me like this?", I pleaded. I wish I could say I was lying about this. I am not.

As the sheep kept closing in on me and my life flashed before my eyes, I thought about sheep and about children and realized that I don't do well with creatures that can't understand logical requests between adults. "Can you please not chew on my yoga pants? They are not made of food" is lost on sheep, and therefore, sheep are lost on me. I don't get them. But darn it all, I kept them in that enclosure.

Later that day - either right before or right after my relative pointed to the three non-pregnant, auction-bound sheep and said, "Have you ever had a doner kebab? There's three live ones"- we sent the ewes through a different set of contraptions to weigh and disinfect them. My task was largely the same as it had been in the morning, but somewhere in the middle of Gategate round two, the realization hit me that acrylic nails are a deeply stupid invention. Things one can do with fake nails: type, poke stuff, much more easily open pop cans. Things one cannot do with fake nails: everything else on earth.

On my last day on the farm, the relatives brought me along on a fox hunt. As most of you know or could guess, I don't particularly condone hunting. But a "hunt" in which a bunch of people don fancy equestrian gear and drink wine on horseback at a rich person's house for several hours before joyriding their horses through the countryside with the end goal of maybe finding a fox somewhere is a hunt that I can get behind. It also gave me a chance to make a lot of Taylor Swift references. It was a good day.

So, my friends, if you're ever looking to re-live the Paris and Nicole glory days of The Simple Life, just read back through this post and think of my time on the farm. You may call me Nicole.

Loves it.