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Life In Tha Dirty B

Today I woke up from my Xanax-induced slumber with a chihuhau-mix puppy on each breast.


I’d like to tell you that the night before I had left my crack den apartment, white-girl twerked the night away & made an emotional connection with a human woman/man, but no. Instead I spent my night frantically Wikipedia-ing Gouda cheese, lisping along to Drake through Crest Whitestrips, and forcing my two 8-lb dog-children Taco & Nacho into a position so that I would be middle spon.

I recently moved to Bushwick aka “Tha Dirty B” aka “Rape St. USA” and am living with my friend Roman and a Canadian male model named Tina*





They sleep in a bunkbed in the next room, and our apartment is something like a bizarro world Threes Company, only with more hair products.*

I also now have a corporate j-o-b where I have started wearing Hillary Clinton pantsuits and I like it.


Now instead of waking up hungover next to a pizza box that looks like a raccoon has attacked it, my mornings consist of me:

  • removing dogs from each teet
  • taking a shower (I know)
  • packing a healthy lunch (I know, again)
  • power-walking to the L train in sensible flats to the husky overtures of an elderly meat factory worker grunting: “Looks goooood on ya, snowflake.”

(I assume he’s referring to the flats, but he could be a shoulder-pad guy.)

Check back soon for my next post “OKcupid? More like OKSTUPID!!! #LOL #SINGLE”


*Names have been changed for privacy

*Thanks to Tim Garbinsky for this lucid and haunting comparison

Filed under drake male model zoolander comedy ucb the pit okcupid funny girl werk twerk girls hillary clinton justeatthefood food foodporn

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Naming My Fupa: A Journal Entry from May 10th

I’ve spent the past three hours rolling around in bed in a mixture of sweat and Indian food. I can’t tell if it’s hot in my apartment or if the heat is coming from the kinetic energy of me eating three plates of paratha.

I started tonight thinking, “You know what? I’m treating myself. I deserve it!” (and all that Eat, Pray, Love bullsh*t) Cut to three hours later, I’m spread-eagle on my bed, angrily sipping a mango lassi out of a straw.

I’ve decided to stop eating meat for a while. This turn of events came when I touched the ribbed, hard vein on the underside of a raw chicken the other night and nearly threw up.

My new “vegetarian” diet has increased my bread and cheese intake tenfold. I now order Tomato Cheddar soup from Hale and Hearty two times a day. I am slowly going broke, gaining weight and losing self respect. (In other words, my usual prep for bikini season.)

You know what F**K THAT S**T! F**k killing yourself to look good for three months out of the year. Just give up like me. It’s easy. Turn the lights off during sex. Problem solved.

I’m beginning to get a belly and I kind of like it. Now I just unbutton my top button at work and let it hang. That made for an awkward moment with my co-worker the other day but it sure felt good.

My pouch is comforting like a little friend, or a pet. I want to name it something cool like “Zanzabar” or “Melissa” or something.

Eh well, Master Chef is on.



Filed under collegehumor fat food girl humor indian food justeatthefood sad the pit nyc vegetarian

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The Morning After

Editor’s Note: If you’re related to me or hold me in high esteem please do not continue on, as there are things I will share here with you that will make you clutch your turtlenecks and cardigans in horror.

Now that two of you are out of the way, let’s go!

It was a warm summer afternoon and I was passed out in a bra and underwear on top of my comforter with makeup smudged on my face from the past night, and empty applesauce containers scattered on the floor.

It was like any other Tuesday.

But this time was a little different. This time I sensed that I was not alone…

Now, we’ve all been there: the dreaded “Morning After.”

  • Maybe you had a few too many Malibu Woo-Woos at the bar last night and you don’t remember how you got home
  • Maybe you met up with some girlfriends from college and got “cRaZyyyy” like Spring Break ‘08 
  • or maybe, just maybe, you were drinking alone in your apartment after a particularly intense Toddlers and Tiaras marathon

Who can really say?

It was at that very moment that I began to sense a presence in the bed next to me, like someone was watching my every move.

“F**k!” I whispered, grabbing my phone quickly to see who I was last talking to. The last text I sent was, “Hayyy, wat r u doin. I’m drunzzzzks.”

It was to my grandma.

I don’t even think she gets text messages.

"Whew, dodged that bullet", I thought with shmide*

Still sensing someone next to me, I immediately went over possible escape plans in my head:

“I can pretend to be dead”


“I can say that I have an appointment to run to!”

No, I don’t look like the type of person who has appointments.

"I can just leave!”

No, it’s my apartment.

After twenty minutes of debating to how to exit, I decided to face my fears.

I attempted a seductive yawn like I imagine a sleepy Playboy Bunny would do and rolled over, instead I sounded like I was having a small stroke.

My eyes closed, fearing the worst, I reached out next to me and touched something firm and cardboard-like. Then I opened my eyes and saw it: an extra-large Papa John’s pizza box ripped down the middle like an animal had gotten into it. Pieces of crust were scattered all over the bed and remnants of marina sauce were on my face and body.

“Wow”, I thought and then said the only thing I could think to ask,

“Well was it good for you?”


* Check out my “How To Eat A Bag of Tostitos Hint Of Lime Doritos In One Sitting” post for more on this word.

Filed under the morning after papa john's CollegeHumor the pit nyc the peoples improv theater food funny girl nyc just eat the foo

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Confessions of a Gross Eater

Setting: Sixth-grade cafeteria

“What are you doing?”

My best friend Jessica was staring at me with a look of disgust usually reserved for roadkill and vomit as I panted excitedly, balling up a grilled cheese sandwich in my hands and shoving it in my face, “Romggg. You gotta try this!”

“You’re such a gross eater,” she snorted, as I stared at her blankly, half of a grilled cheese sandwich hanging out of my mouth.

“Warrever…” I slurred, continuing to eat my sandwich.

It was grilled cheese day and no one was going to ruin it for me. No one.

I am a gross eater. It is my cross to bear.

I eat with my hands, nose and sometimes forehead, tossing morsel upon morsel of delicious food down my gullet.  This is an especially great tactic on dates if you want someone to like “you for you.”:

GUY: “Um. You have food in your hair.”

ME:  “Ohhhh, haha. Weirddd…”, I would say with feigned embarrassment, frantically eying the table for scraps.

I eat sourdough bread by scooping out the doughy middle, rolling it into a ball and slowly chewing on the yeasty goodness* leaving the carcass of hollowed out crust on whatever surface is closest to me, before raiding the fridge for cheese.

It’s an addiction.

While some little girls want dresses or Barbies, I wanted Burger King.

There’s a home video of me when I was three years-old, wearing tiger print velour overalls standing on top of a wooden fence near our house with my dad shouting, 

 “Come on Peachie! Who wants Burger King??”, goading me in the same tone of voice one would use when asking a dog if they want a treat.

At the mention of “Burger King” my eyes widened to twice their normal size and I started yelling wild jibberish and scooting my butt at record speed along the wooden railing to meet him until my mom came out yelling,

“Paul! What are you making her do?! Peach! Get down from there!”

But I just keep motoring on towards glory and that glorious BK paper crown.*

So gross eaters of the world, embrace it. Who cares if you always seem to get milkshake in your beard? Or your hands always smell like garlic? Or the sight of you eating lunch makes people physically sick?

You’re enjoying one of the best parts of life! Delicious, terribly unhealthy food.


*Realizing that “yeasty” and “goodness” should never be used next to each other in a sentence. Keeping it in.

*Just spoke to my dad on the phone this morning and confirmed this story saying, “That explains a lot” and breaking in a fit of laughter. Five minutes later, he stopped laughing and ended the conversation with, “Alright kiddo! Well hope you’re going to the gym!” Thanks, Dad.

Filed under the pit nyc the peoples improv theater food comedy gross eater funny girl nyc

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The reviews are in, my good friends!

  • “A good companion to ‘My Drunk Kitchen’.” – Seana Wilkerson
  • “Stop asking me to follow your f**king blog.” - Everyone Else
  •  “Peach, how do I open the link?”– My Mom

I smell success!

 Or I might just be smelling my own body as I haven’t showered since I started this blog and I’m running on pure adrenaline!*

But seriously, thank you for the support and the nice comments. I really do appreciate it. Otherwise all this snarkiness would just bottle up inside me and I’d end up a bitter, weathered alcoholic in a robe eating two-day old lo-mein out of the carton. (too late!)

But for real, I love you. I am IN love with you.


*This may or may not be true.  I actually can’t remember the last time I showered. Get over it.

Filed under the pit nyc the peoples improv theater comedy funny girl food reviews collegehumor

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How to Eat a Bag of Tostitos® “Hint of Lime” Chips in One Sitting:

Step 1:

Wake up sweaty and disoriented, ten minutes before you have to leave for work wearing a Soroptimist Women’s Organization shirt your grandma gave you and those stained dELiA*s sweatpants you bought in the 7th grade (when JLo’s velour sweat-suit was a “thing”)

Step 2:

Grab a pair of jeans crumpled up in the corner of your apartment.

Step 3:

Do the sniff test. If they pass, throw them on. If not, Febreze® them and then throw them on. Same goes for socks. It’s quick, easy and saves tons of money on laundry! Also prevents you from having meaningful romantic relationships.

Step 4:

Grab a bag of Tostitos® “Hint of Lime” chips located in the “nacho supplies” section of your kitchen. If you do not have a “nacho supplies” section in your kitchen, stop reading this immediately and kill yourself*

Step 5:

Throw on that magenta puffy coat your mom got you on sale from L.L. Bean. Yes, you look like an overgrown toddler with a disability but it’s f**king cold and your self-respect is a gone anyway.

Step 6:

Jog down your hallway cradling the bag of chips in your arms as if it were a small child. Drop the bag: lose 12 points. Nobody likes crumbled up chips*

Step 7:

Jump on the subway. Push past the finance bros in Grand Central with their ill-fitting Dockers and “Super Cuts” haircuts. Start to laugh at them. Realize you are wearing a puffy L.L. Bean coat your mom bought you. Stop laughing.

Step 8:

Breeze into the office, mingle, check email, stare at that puppy desk-calendar you bought at Staples last week. Note that your desk resembles less of a “professional work-space” than the bomb-shelter of a confused tween girl.

Step 9:

Engage in an awkward run-in at the coffee machine with that guy whose name you can’t remember (Elijah? Enrique? Jamiroquai?).  

Step 10:

Your conversation will go something like this:

You: “So what do you do?”

Jamiroquai: “I’m a headhunter.”

You: “Ooh headhunting!! Scary!”

Jamiroquai: “Umm… It means we recruit talent for companies.”

You: (blank expression) “Ah hah! Well… This coffee is really coffee today! Bye!

(Run into glass door, realize it’s a “pull.” Laugh uncomfortably, then swing it open and bolt down the hallway. Do not look back).

Step 11:

Lunchtime! Your co-worker is eating Tomato Cheddar soup from Hale & Hearty again (your favorite). It smells delicious, but unfortunately you spent all of your money at (insert name)’s birthday/holiday party/bar mitzvah last week, so instead you are going to eat this bag of lime-flavored tortilla chips.

Step 12:

Rip open the plastic bag with your teeth and put your dignity aside, (probably next to the puppy desk-calendar.)

Step 13:

Eat the entire bag of chips.

Step 14:

At some point you won’t feel hungry anymore. Power through this. It is an illusion. You are always hungry. This is who you are.

Step 15:

Soon your co-worker will ask if you’ve “done that spreadsheet yet.” Just act like you can’t hear them and point to the bag of chips mouthing the word “lunch.”

Step 16:

The bag is done. You’re filled with a mixture of shame and pride. You decide to call this “shmide.”

Step 17:

Write down “do yoga! :)” on a sticky-note.

Step 18:

Never do yoga.

Step 19:

Repeat weekly.

That’s all folks!


*OK, don’t actually kill yourself. It’s not good press for the blog. But do take a moment to look at your life and your choices and then do the opposite of everything you’ve been doing. Now proceed to Step 5.

* Unless you mix them with sour cream (but I digress.)

Filed under collegehumor comedy food tostitos funny girl nyc food the pit nyc the peoples improv theater

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Eat - (Pray + Love) = My year of indulgence

Have you ever loved someone so much you would do anything just to spend one moment together? You would give them everything you have, because you know that you will never find another person who satisfies your needs in the way he does? And every morning you wake up and thank God you found him?

Well, that’s how I feel about sour cream.

“What?” I hear you saying, “That’s not a person. That’s a topping.”

You raise an interesting point.

Sour cream and I, while not a conventional couple, have a very intense relationship. Sometimes if I can’t find something to dip in it, I’ll just eat it right out of the container. A week ago my roommate walked in to find me crouching behind the refrigerator door, wide-eyed, frantically spooning sour cream into my mouth. I’ve never seen that kind of disappointment in someone’s eyes before.

That was a wake up call.

That afternoon I decided that I needed an excuse to rationalize my disgusting behavior, and what better way than to start a blog!

That very day I began a year-long journey of indulgence, where I will eat whatever the f**k I want and document my progress, as well as my inevitable weight gain and crippling depression.

It’s kind of like Eat, Pray, Love. Only minus the pray and the love part.

It’s kind of like Super Size Me, only there’s no political message behind it. Just me, straight up, eating my brains out, until I become the size of a giant bean bag.

It’s like Mardi Gras! If your idea of Mardi Gras is eating alone in your apartment while watching Top Chef and crying.

So here we go!

I woke up around at 3:30 PM today.

I say “woke up”, but I didn’t actually leave bed until 4:30 when I rolled my fat ass out of bed, ripped open a packet of ramen noodles with my teeth and followed it with lemonade out of the carton.

It is now 5 PM and I am comfortably back in bed. At this point I’m considering getting a catheter so I don’t have to get up ever again.

“What are you doing?” you ask,


This is my Valhalla, my heaven, my paradise.

So throw on your robe and grab a family-size bucket of Ben and Jerry’s.

Sh*t’s about to get real.


Filed under collegehumor comedy funny eat the food food girl nyc sour cream yum gross obesity the pit nyc the peoples improv theater

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My name is Caroline and I have an intense relationship with good food.

Whether I’m eating at home, at a restaurant or hunched over take-out in the back of a movie theater, I have been known to attack a plate of food with a ferocity that scares small children.

Lunging, I dive my fork into whatever is in front of me, shoveling it wild-eyed into my mouth while greedily sucking in breath through my nose to avoid suffocation. (This is especially sexy on dates!)

Honestly, you could tell me that you’re going to hike Mt. Kilimanjaro, naked, with no oxygen, but mention the possibility of a snack and I am on board*

To prove my devotion to the culinary arts (and the greater art of being a fat-ass), here is a sad but true story from my life: one time I was making Spaghetti Carbonara, a classic Italian dish that I learnedfrom my Italian grandmother (aka Mark Bittman’s “How To Cook Everything”) on a hot plate in my tiny studio apartment.

I transferred the pot of boiling water to the strainer in the sink when the pot slipped out of my grasp and spilled a cascade of boiling hot water onto my sock foot. “MOTHERF**KER!” I screamed, gritting my teeth and wincing from the pain.

Hobbling, I opened the refrigerator door, cracked an egg and beat it together with parmesan, crumbled the pancetta, set the table, salted and peppered my meal and ate it.

Twenty minutes later I remembered that I had severely burned my foot. I removed my sock to find that entire top layer of skin on my foot had melted off*

My foot now resembled something out of Michael Jackson’s Thriller music video, but all I could think was, “At least that pasta was good!”

So that’s a little bit about me. Now I want to know about you!

What do you like to cook? What are some of your stories with food? Thongs or granny panties? Let’s get personal!

Send restaurant suggestions/pictures/recipes to and I’ll post my favorites!

I’ll also be posting weekly stories, recipes and inspiration and restaurant reviews.

Thanks for stopping by :)

And remember, JUST EAT THE FOOD

*As long as it’s not f**king Cheese Nips. Seriously. Cheese Nips are the bastard, redneck brother of Cheez-Its. They taste like a cheesy cracker dipped in sh*t. Please stop eating them, America. Send Nabisco the message it needs to hear!

* Here’s the damage in case any of you are freaky like that:

Filed under comedy crazy food funny girl the pit nyc the peoples improv theater collegehumor michael jackson yum