Growing up, fishing was one of the things my father and I always did together. We’d stay at a friend’s lakehouse and drag rods down to the water’s edge, or rent a rowboat for an afternoon upstate. His favorite thing to do (not mine) was wake up at some ungodly hour of the morning and drive out to Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, in the freezing dark, where we’d board a boat with a collection of vaguely terrifying-looking men already cracking beers. We’d spend the day far out in the ocean, catching nothing but enjoying the sun on the water and the conversations that unspooled between us, and by the end I’d have to admit it had been worth the early wake-up call.

When I told my kids that we were going on a boat like this with their grandparents — wake up at 5:30, on the water by 8, back many hours later — I got some complaining, but less than I’d expected. We drove out to Ventura Harbor, boarded the boat, and settled in with breakfast burritos and coffee for the long ride out to sea.

The fishing was fantastic: I made a double-catch — two fish at once! — and my daughter had the best luck of all, coming within a hair’s breadth of winning the pot for largest fish with a triggerfish she pulled in by herself.

I spent a lot of time just watching my kids with my parents, my son listening intently while his grandfather showed him how to fix a squid onto a hook, or my daughter jumping up and down, showing off her latest catch. I took pictures of their rods leaning up against the edge of the boat, silhouetted against the sky. Remember this, I thought.

And then something happened that changed the day’s tenor entirely.

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I have always had a Pickle Problem. When I was a kid, I’d stop at the bodega across the street from the bus stop on my way home from school, and buy one of those massive pickles that sit in jars on top of the counter — and then, once I got back to our apartment, I would literally pour a bowl of salt into which I would dip that pickle while I ate it.

Truly, sometimes I’m surprised I’m still alive.

My favorite packaged pickles are Grillo’s and Claussen’s, but I also cannot abide how much they cost (the cost of groceries these days! Through the roof! When did I become my grandmother Bithiah?!) — so I went ahead and solved that problem by learning to make my own.

These pickles are the opposite of the ones I used to get at the bodega: They’re light and fresh and don’t make you feel like your blood is ocean water, and they also are ready to eat in just 24 hours. I cannot stop eating them. Unfortunately, neither can my daughter. Hands off, my love.

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Refrigerator Pickles

What You Need:

• About 2 pounds pickles (get pickling or Kirby ones — I use the small ones from Trader Joe’s and find them lovely and crunchy)

• 1 1/2 cups distilled white vinegar

• 2 cups water

• 1 tsp sugar

• 1 bunch fresh dill

• 1 head of garlic, peeled and divided into cloves

• 2 tsp whole peppercorns

• 2 tsp coriander seeds

• Jars with lids (no need to sterilize them

  

What You Do:

1. Cut the cucumbers into either spears or rounds, according to your preference. Fill the jars completely — you don’t want them swimming around in there. Add a sprinkling of peppercorns, a few garlic cloves, and some dill sprigs to each.

2. In a saucepan, combine the water, vinegar, and sugar, and heat until the sugar has dissolved and the water is simmering.

3. Pour the brine over the cucumbers, put the tops on the jars, and let them sit in the refrigerator for at least 24 hours — the taste will strengthen the longer you leave them in, and they’ll be good for up to a month (but will definitely not last that long).

   Ramshackle Glam by Jordan Reid is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

I have been An Unmarried Woman (so speaketh my mortgage documents) for eight years now, pretty much to the day. Over the course of those years, I have been on twenty thousand (approx) dates, most of them atrocious. I’ve had a few short-term relationships — a month, maybe three or four — but I’m now in one that’s going on two years. Which is wild, if you ask me, mostly because I no longer appear to be the same relationship-requiring human being that I was when this whole process began.

It’s not that I’m not enjoying my relationship, or that it’s not a positive thing in my life; I am, and it is. It’s just that the absolute need to find a partner that I felt so acutely for the entirety of my adult life has simply disappeared.

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I know now that I’ll be happy if this relationship continues, because being in it will be a choice I make, not something I require in order to feel whole. I will also be okay if it ends, because my safety does not and never again will depend on the presence or absence in my life of a man. Put it on my headstone.

When people ask me how it’s “going,” I tell them it’s great. Then, of course, they ask, “So are you planning to move in together? Or get married?” to which I shrug my shoulders. This nearly always elicits the “oh, dear” look. (It must not be going that well after all, the look says.)

I don’t care.

I see divorced friends of mine getting remarried and blending families and I am so happy for them. I also don’t understand what something like that would look like for us, and until that’s a thing I can understand and actively wish for, it’s a thing that is not going to happen.

I’m also not super concerned about that fact.

Like I said: WILD.

When my partner and I had been dating just a couple of months, due to various circumstantial events and my own tendency to rush into everything, always, all of the time, we considered moving in together. I told my therapist about this, and she, for lack of a better phrase, bugged out.

Absolutely fucking not, under no circumstances, she told me.

And in a whiplash of a move from what I’d usually do…I listened to her.

We still do not live together.

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The other day, I was walking from my house through the parking lot to our community pool, wearing just a bathing suit. It’s only a minute-long walk from door to door, but let’s just say I don’t typically enjoy crossing streets in bikinis; ever since my boobs decided to balloon into DD cups (thereby hiding the evidence of the exploded implants; watch this video for an explanation) I’ve been a cover-up girl apart from when I’m within ten feet of an actual body of water.

It’s just a lot of look to have those things bouncing around in public. You know?

It’s now four weeks or so post-surgery, and I’ve been testing the waters with how to dress this new body of mine. (OK, I’ll be honest: I’ve been trying on everything in my wardrobe and positively GLORYING over how many long-lost favorites appear to fit me again.)

Anyway, I’m walking across the parking lot in a salmon-pink bikini that I haven’t been able to wear in years but has recently reclaimed a spot amongst my favorites, and I pass these two older women walking their dogs.

One of them calls out to me:

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We went through a phase during COVID when I’d drive down to this adorable little seafood market across from the beach and spend too much money on things like ahi tuna steaks (which I’d either sear in a soy-miso marinade or chop up into a tartar along with avocado and sesame seeds) and fresh jumbo scallops. This was lovely, and made it feel like we were having a restaurant experience even though we weren’t, and also quite expensive (albeit less expensive than ordering such things at an actual restaurant).

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I’ve loved scallops since I first tried them done the right way (that is, quick-seared in brown butter) many years earlier, but find that they’re one of those things that you need to just keep an eye out for at the supermarket, and grab when they look good. This is a place where freshness and quality really matters.

Anyways, the scallops looked good yesterday. And over on IG you guys said you wanted the recipe, so: ta da!

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Brown Butter Scallops

What You Need:

• 4-5 jumbo scallops per person

• 5-6 tbsp butter

• Salt & pepper

What You Do:

1. Lay the scallops on a plate in a single layer. Pat dry on both sides, then season with sea salt and cracked fresh pepper.

2. Heat a tablespoon of butter in a large, heavy-bottomed pan. Working in batches (and adding more butter between batches if necessary) sear the scallops for 1-2 minutes on each side. Keep the seared ones warm while you cook the rest.

3. Heat another 3-4 tbsp of butter in the pan until foaming, then return scallops to the pan and cook another minute or so, spooning the butter over the top. Serve immediately.

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Asparagus Risotto

What You Need:

• 1 yellow onion, finely diced

• 3 stalks celery, finely diced

• 2 garlic cloves, minced

• 2 cups arborio rice

• 6-8 cups chicken or vegetable broth

• 1 bunch asparagus, preferably thin, tough ends removed and cut into 1” pieces

• 1/2 tsp fresh lemon juice

• Optional: shaved pecorino, lemon zest

What You Do:

1. Heat the broth and let simmer.

2. In a large heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven, heat a little olive oil and cook a diced yellow onion, and a couple of finely diced stalks of celery until softened. Add a couple of cloves of minced garlic and cook another minute or so.

3. Add the rice to the pot and toast, stirring frequently, about 2 minutes.

4. Working 1 cup at a time, add the broth to the rice, stirring constantly until the broth is fully absorbed before adding more (it should take about 20-25 minutes total). For the last five or so minutes, add the asparagus. Add lemon juice and salt and pepper to taste.

5. Optional: Add a little shaved pecorino or lemon zest.

x

J

The 90s were fantastic. Color me stuck.

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You know what I have done, though? In recent years, I’ve discovered that I care very, very little about brand names and perceptions of fanciness. Like, I used to enjoy whipping some Cle de Peau concealer ($77) or Guerlain lipstick ($87) out of my purse, because it made me feel like a with-it, adult-ish version of myself. Now, though? Do not care (and also do not go in public unless pressed, making this mostly a non-issue).

So while the basics of my beauty routine have stayed steady, I’ve grown pickier about what is worth the money (foundation), and what is really, really not (mascara).

Let’s take a look!

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Top Row:

Giorgio Armani Luminous Silk Foundation: This is the best foundation. I have confirmed this with multiple makeup artists and Sephora employees: Whenever I say “Is there a cheaper version that’s just as good?” the answer is “No.” It’s absolutely weightless and disappears into your skin while making it look flawless, and even as a very-dry person I don’t find it drying in the least.

Essence Lash Princess Mascara: When I abandoned eyelash extensions a few years ago, I went through a few different brands in search of the most dramatic (but non-clumpy) formula I could find. I may not want to lay on my back for two hours once a month while a questionably accredited woman pokes sharp objects around my eyeballs, but I do want big lashes. This costs, like, four bucks, and it gives volume and length. It also doesn’t smudge in the heat.

Oh, my Lipstick Queen. This is Saint in Pinky Nude, and it is the absolute perfect creamy neutral. I discovered it when I was a baby blogger and have hoarded my tubes ever since…but now I am down to my last one, and I am sad. I don’t know what else to tell you about this.

Middle Row:

Ace Beaute Liquid Eyeshadow. I spotted this eyeshadow on the woman who managed my boyfriend’s shared workspace, and I almost tackled her trying to find out what it was. It’s a sheer, gorgeous, slightly pink shadow that’s more “sparkle” than “shimmer,” so while I happily wear it during the day I do understand that for some people it’d be more of a nighttime vibe.

Glitterpuck. I bought this because it’s called a Glitterpuck, obviously. It’s technically an eyeshadow, but I use it during the summer months to add shimmer to my cheekbones and shoulders; it’s such a gorgeous, beachy color.

Gisou Lip Oil in Peach Bee-lini. I have been on a 40-year quest for the perfect lip gloss — one that’s shiny without being sticky, and only the tiniest bit pigmented — and it was my 11-year-old who turned me on to Gisou. All the shades are lovely, but this one is my favorite. One quibble is the packaging: This will leak in your purse, so do with that information as you wish.

Bottom Row:

MAC Eyeshadow Palette in Embedded in Burgundy. I’ve stuck to MAC and NARS eyeshadows since I was a teen, and for the past couple of years have been wedded to this particular palette. For everyday and lining my eyes, I use the lighter brown shades, but the deep purples and mahoganies look fantastic for evening, especially on blue eyes.

e.l.f. Liquid Eyeliner: For years and years, I exclusively used Sephora’s store-brand liquid eyeliner, because I’m very picky about the flexibility and weight of the brush. e.l.f.’s is, to my mind, exactly the same, and costs three dollars (!).

Charlotte Tilbury Lip Cheat Liner in Pillow Talk. If you don’t already own this, do yourself a favor and try one out. Along with the Giorgio Armani foundation, this is my desert-island must-have; if you do a little over-lining and add the Gisou lip oil, the effect is very Kylie-coded (in a good way).

Also pictured: Mary’s Medicinals Energy THC Tincture, which is off-topic for this post but which I also recommend enthusiastically.

Note: While looking for a dupe for my beloved and no-longer-available (except for on eBay for $129, which, no) Lipstick Queen lipstick, I came across this.

I changed my mind. I would very much enjoy owning this for the sole purpose of pulling it out of my purse. Evolution!

x

J

All three of these recipes are confusingly easy (the dip on the top left in particular, which has a total of two ingredients), and you have to make them. I insist. Trust me.

First up: two-ingredient chili-cheese dip.

TWO-INGREDIENT CHILI-CHEESE DIP

What You Need:

• 1 container of Trader Joe’s Pub Cheese

• 2 cans vegetarian chili

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What You Do:

Mix ingredients together in a microwave-safe bowl, and microwave on high for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. That’s it. (Serve with corn chips.)

Now we have to talk about potato salad.

I think there are two main schools of thought when it comes to potato salad recipes: either you’re into the vinegar-y, mustard-y ones (like this recipe, which is one of my personal favorites), or you want your potato salad all mayo-y and egg-y. If the latter is your preference, I think the simpler you go the better, because really: potatoes and eggs and mayonnaise don’t need a whole lot of bells and whistles.

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SIMPLY PERFECT POTATO SALAD

What You Need*:

• About 8 new potatoes

• 4 eggs

• About 1/2 cup mayonnaise

• 3 scallions, finely sliced

• 1/4 tsp salt

• Pinch of paprika

*Caveat: I really just eyeball these proportions – especially the mayo. Just add it gradually until you get the consistency you want.

What You Do:

Place the eggs in a pot of cold water on the stove. Bring the water to a boil, then cover, turn off the heat, and let sit for 12 minutes. Carefully remove the eggs and let cool before peeling and roughly chopping them.

While the eggs cook, quarter the potatoes and place in a large bot of boiling water for 12 minutes, or until a fork goes in easily. Drain and return potatoes to pot.

Using a potato masher or ricer, mash the potatoes (but not tooooo much – you still want some larger potato pieces mixed in there). Add the chopped hard-boiled eggs, the mayo, the scallions, the salt, and a little paprika to the pot, and stir to combine. Finish with a little extra sprinkle of paprika on top ’cause it’s pretty.

(I ate this for breakfast this morning. Had to.)

And last we have these genius creations, made by my friend Erin.

DONUT-BERRY DESSERT SKEWERS

I mean, you clearly don’t need me to explain how to make these. You just need to make them. SUCH a cool entertaining hack (and there is not a kid on the planet who won’t freak out over them; they transcend age and affectations of too-coolness).

Happy Fourth! Try to spend a few minutes ignoring the state of utter chaos that our country is in and eat a hot dog, ‘k? You deserve it.

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A few years ago, I spent months and months flying back and forth to St. Louis, filming a project that I was all cagey and secretive about, because I contractually wasn’t allowed to discuss it. I am now, though!

The project was a pilot for a show called The House That Trash Built. Basically, what the show involved was our team literally building a house from the ground up using nothing but shipping containers and a vast assortment of reclaimed materials (a.k.a. trash). We found old windows at a church, pulled 18th century tiles out of a house that was slated for demolition, and made a couch out of tires.

It was exhausting, and oh my god so hot, and also a complete dream come true. I loved the work; I loved the creativity; I loved my cohost and producers and crew – by the end of it all, we were practically family. It was also one of the most emotionally strenuous things I’ve ever done; I spent far too much time away from my kids – so much that I could hardly bear it.

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The show did end up getting “picked up” (when a network gives you the go-ahead to film an entire season; it’s the goal of any TV pilot) for 18 episodes, but then various confusing things happened at the network and…anyway, spoiler: it never went to series or aired.

I wasn’t surprised – I’ve been kicking around the entertainment industry for long enough now to know that it is actually impossible to be hired to star in a television show, forget about also being given input into creative direction and content and having the show be something you believe in and love. It is triple-impossible to have this show actually end up going to air.

I knew all that. But when it fell apart at virtually the last possible second, it hurt. A lot.

It’s been almost eight years now since the whole thing began with a phone call from a producer who’d seen me on YouTube and wanted me to audition, and the reality is that it’s a very, very good thing that I am not currently hosting a television show that would have required me to be on the road for well over half of each year. Beyond the emotional strain of being away from my kids: Given the events of the past several years, it would have been logistically impossible.

And honestly, that much traveling might’ve killed me. I vastly prefer being alive.

But still, there’s a part of me that misses the road. I’m glad I have this to remember it by.

Me at 25, twenty years early for my Love Island audition

I have a recurring nightmare where I’m asked how old I am, and reply “25” before suddenly realizing that no…that was twenty years ago. Last night, however, the nightmare flipped on itself: In it, I was actually twenty-five, newly graduated from college, and my parents kept asking me what I planned to do with my life, where I planned to live, what I planned to be. I had no idea what to tell them. Now that’s a nightmare.

There are plenty of reasons I’m glad I’m no longer in my twenties — among them, the aforementioned existential dread — but you know what I’m really mad I missed out on? Whatever the kids are doing with fashion these days. I mean, have you seen the dresses on Love Island? Let’s put aside the joy that the Zach/Bryce (b?)romance brings me — oh god, they’re so adorbs — and how much I enjoy Kenzie’s facial expressions; I simply cannot get enough of the asymmetrical, skintight, completely gravity-confounding dresses that these girls seem to possess in infinite quantities. Did we have dresses like that when we were younger? I seem to remember the sun rising and falling on slipdresses, and that’s pretty much it.

And sure, I’m sure there’s some kind of fashion budget these ladies get for clothing (is there?), but I have to assume most of these are off-the-rack from relatively inexpensive brands. (I looked it up, and yes: most of these are from, like, Fashion Nova and Shein.) So that’s just…what’s available nowadays?

I am so jealous.

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Let’s look at a few of my favorite looks from the current season (so far), shall we? I’m going to include Ariana’s dresses in here because while they are most certainly on a higher plane in terms of quality and cost, making it not really a competition…I mean, they’re so good.

Trinity (#Brinity4eva) in CouCoo: The color! My favorite thing about this, though, is that it shows 1/800th of the amount of skin most of the Love Island dresses show…until you realize that it’s completely see-through, and if she’s wearing anything at all under it, I certainly couldn’t tell. God I love these women.

Kayda in Outcast: I just…I don’t…how did she figure out how to get this on?

Melanie in Jaded London: Again, the color. I (somewhat unfortunately) relate to Melanie the most out of all the girls in the house — the willingness to completely ignore reality plus the constant low-grade chaos that’s ready to erupt at the first sign of a Sol — but I have to say: She looks consistently spectacular. I think it’s the face. And, ok, the body. And the hair. Someone get her a contract.

Kayda in a Fashion Nova crochet maxi: I gasped when I saw this. Out loud. I would look like an actual couch cushion if I wore something like this nowadays, but I love this for Miss Kayda. It is a fact that every 20-something should spend as much time almost-naked as possible, and these women are doing the lord’s work.

Kayda in White Fox: Can you tell Kayda’s looks just do it for me? I love a long-sleeved mini, love a nice twist on an LBD, and especially love dresses that are apparently $20 or therabouts.

About the bikinis: I’ve spotted Princess Polly, Frankie’s Bikinis, and Hello Molly, but the vast majority are from Shein. I don’t endorse shopping at Shein, although I (shamefully) do, because I cannot afford my daughter’s current growth spurt and fashion tastes, and one does not always have time to hit up the thrift shops. Just saying: These bikinis are so good they make me fear the coming apocalypse that much more.

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For our finale, this Patbo gown (pictured on Ariana) is the best dress I have ever seen, ever. If I ever get married again — which…well, I won’t, but I mean if I ever have, like, a non-legally-binding ceremony at which I can wear something like this in front of an adoring group of family and friends again…I want to wear this. Perhaps with slightly less exposed nipple, but perhaps not.

Moving on to Yesteryear, which I loved, of course, although I did not love the ending at all. [SPOILER ALERT.] You know what I wanted to happen? I wanted to discover that Caleb’s politician dad had actually won the election, and had transformed the entire country into this frontierland vision. There, I fixed it for you.

(If you’re wondering what I’m reading now: I went straight from Strangers and Yesteryear to Homeschooled, which was good but not as insightful as I might have liked, and then moved on to David Sedaris’ new book. Never, ever disappoints.)

Ramshackle Glam by Jordan Reid

Graphic Content Warning

Ten years ago, after two babies, I decided to get breast implants (the original story/video is here.) Then, during last year’s hospital drama, I heard one of the doctors say in passing that she thought one of the implants might have ruptured. I’d gained weight in my breasts that had more or less obscured the implants completely — I couldn’t even really…

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2 months ago · 8 likes · 6 comments · Jordan Reid

And finally: An update on The State Of My Boobs. I had intended to do a video update today, but that’s going to have to wait because I can barely keep my eyes open despite the fact that I slept for eleven hours last night. It’s been nine days, and I absolutely expected to be up and at ‘em by now, but it appears that having your body more or less sliced in half takes a spot longer than a week to heal. I’m still not supposed to be driving, and when I tried to pick up my son from school on Tuesday I found out why: Just instant dizziness and nausea. I had to turn around immediately (and thank god for my love Margo, who deployed both herself and her daughter Claire to come to my aid practically before the words “Um…I think I need your help” left my mouth.)

The good news: The autoimmune rash that I developed about a year and a half ago? Almost completely gone. No joke. I anticipated some kind of positive result from the removal of plastics from my body, and sure, I guess there could be other reasons why the rash decided to go away right this very moment, but…I mean, how could that not be related?

Also, even though the scars are way more considerable than I’d anticipated, I’ve discovered that I don’t think I care, and cannot wait to throw on a bikini or five a few weeks from now. I might even manage to do so without one or both nipples making a surprise appearance! IMAGINE. (I can’t. I haven’t managed to successfully contain these things in beach attire for years, and trust: I have tried.)

That’s it for now. If I seem loopy, it’s because drugs.

x

J

Ten years ago, after two babies, I decided to get breast implants (the original story/video is here.) Then, during last year’s hospital drama, I heard one of the doctors say in passing that she thought one of the implants might have ruptured. I’d gained weight in my breasts that had more or less obscured the implants completely — I couldn’t even really find them — and wasn’t sure I’d even heard her correctly (see: drugs), but eventually I did end up making an appointment and…well…yikes. You can see for yourself (but be forewarned: I show you in very graphic detail what they found).

Consider this your PSA, ladies.

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I’m not ordinarily a huge complex-experimenter, but in 2020 I, like everyone else, got real weird in the kitchen. I made big batches of homemade ramen every single weekend, and whipped up rainbow cakes, pancake cereal, and even wine made from Welch’s grape juice (not recommended). So when, one day, my friend texted me that Disney had released their “secret” churro recipe and that the ingredients were all things I happened to have laying around, I was on it within minutes.

I have to say: If you’ve never had an absolutely fresh baked good straight out of the deep-fryer, you are in for a REVELATION. There is literally nothing like it.

Below is the OG Disney recipe, with a few little tweaks to make your life easier, but no less delicious.

What You Need:

• 1 cup water

• 8 tablespoons butter

• ¼ teaspoon salt

• ¾ teaspoon ground cinnamon, divided

• 1 ¼ cups all-purpose flour

• 3 eggs

• 1 ½ cups vegetable or canola oil

• ½ cup sugar

What You Do:

1. Combine water, butter, salt, and ¼ teaspoon cinnamon in 1 ½-quart saucepan over medium heat. Bring pot to rolling boil.

2. Reduce heat to low.

3. Add flour and stir vigorously until mix forms a ball (this happens really quickly, and it’s a cool mini chemistry lesson for kids, too). Remove from heat and let rest for 5-7 min.

4. Add eggs, one at a time, and stir until combined. Set aside.

5. Using caution, heat oil in medium skillet or 1-quart saucepan over medium-high heat or until temperature reaches 350˚.

6. Spoon dough into piping bag fitted with large star tip (or just a Ziploc with the corner cut off – you won’t get those ridges, but who cares?). Pipe 1-inch strip of dough over saucepan, cut with knife, and drop into hot oil. Repeat until churro bites fill saucepan with room to fry.

7. Fry churro bites until golden brown. Remove with slotted spoon or mesh spider strainer.

8. Drain churro bites on paper towel.

9. Mix sugar and ½ teaspoon cinnamon in medium bowl. Toss in churro bites until coated. Serve immediately.

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This week’s Like Me guest was late, so while I was waiting I made a little subscriber-only bonus episode, which you can watch below. It’s just me this time, talking about summer plans, surgeries, and Spencer Pratt (ugh).

While I’ve got you, a few quick recs:

• Neon orange (like Orly Melt Your Popsicle) is the only thing I want on my nails this summer.

• How to make a Salty Squirt, because you know you want one.

• Hash Brown Breakfast Pizza: A thing you must try.

• Currently coveting a really classic brown leather belt. Mostly because of Yellowstone.

• Trader Joe’s flowers are FANTASTIC right now. Here’s how to make a couple of bunches of supermarket flowers into a beautiful custom arrangement.

• If you’re looking for a high SPF but completely weightless sunscreen, this is the one you want (and it’s cheap!). Trust me.

• On a related note, the perfume made by Vacation (the sunscreen brand) is gorgeous for summer.

And now…a hello! I cut all my hair off, as you can see.

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Everyone – and I believe this from the depths of my soul – should have a pair of house booties. I don’t mean “slippers”…I mean house booties.

It is vital that said house booties possess the following qualities:

(1) They must hit precisely at the ankle;

(2) They must be filled with fluffy sheepskin;

(3) And they must never, ever, on pain of death, be permitted to come into contact with even the tiniest speck of ground that is not physically located inside one’s home.

If you can achieve this trifecta, I promise: Every single morning, when you slip on your booties that are somehow – miraculously – cool when it is hot out and warm when it is cool out, you will thank me. And you will thank me even more when, one day in the not-so-distant future, you have people over to your house and are walking around barefoot and then suddenly realize oh my god, my feet are disgusting and my family already knows that my feet are disgusting but my guests don’t, and I really don’t want them to start knowing that my feet are disgusting right now, and then there you go:

House booties.

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The pair of house booties that I’m wearing in the above photo – these Koolaburras – were not my first pair of house booties. My first pair of house booties died. And the reason why was that I had a momentary lapse wherein I forgot Rule Number 3: Never, ever – no matter how important the reason may appear to be – allow your house booties to leave your house. There is nothing in this world that merits the sacrifice of a truly excellent pair of house booties.

Let me tell you how my first pair died, because it involved me doing something completely illegal in front of my children – two things, actually – and stories about doing illegal things are fun.

I was at home with my kids, happily puttering around cooking or whatever, when the phone rang. It was my friend M: she was visiting family in another state, and had left her brother-in-law in charge of her dog. The dog had gotten sick and had been taken to the vet for surgery, but her brother-in-law couldn’t pick him up. Could I go grab the dog and bring him back to her house? Of course. No problem.

I was all flustered and rushed trying to get out of the house in time to beat rush hour traffic, and so the kids and I made the forty-five minute drive to the vet wearing exactly what we’d been wearing when I received the call. No big deal whatsoever for my children…but for me? Oh, for me it was a big deal. Because guess what I was wearing on my feet?

Correct.

Anyway, I picked up the dog, discovered that he weighed approximately eighteen times as much as I do, and yet somehow managed to wrangle him into my trunk by planting both hands on his dog-butt and pushing with every speck of my distressingly un-muscled body while yelling “FUUUUUUUCK” (which, sure, one should try not to scream when children are nearby, but there are exceptions to every rule). I got in the car and began driving to my friend’s house to drop off her dog.

It was then that I noticed the smell.

Remember that time when I spent a morning scrounging around in a dumpster with slime walls that smelled like Cheetos and death? Even as that was happening – like, at the very same moment that I was absorbing the fact that my head was located in a narrow passageway of probably-radioactive slime – I actually thought to myself “Oh! I remember this smell!”

Because as singular as it was, I had actually smelled it once before: In my car, while driving M’s post-surgical dog to her house.

At the time, I figured the smell was some kind of dog-surgery thing – I mean, I’ve had surgery a few times in my life, and you don’t really leave smelling like peaches. But this was BAD, you guys. Like, roll-down-the-windows-and-breathe-through-the-mouth-but-it’s-still-an-emergency bad.

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Five or ten years later, I arrived at M’s house, and the dog and all associated smells ceased to be my problem. I have never been so happy to say good-bye to a theoretically adorable four-legged creature in my life.

So I got back in the car, and we drove away, up the on-ramp to the highway. The car still smelled just as terrible as it had with the dog in it, so we rolled all the windows down to air out the car…but it just kept getting worse, if that’s possible. And worse. And worse. And then I was on the highway, going about sixty miles an hour, with two children in the backseat, and quite literally panicking about the smell because I was definitely going to throw up and throwing up in a moving vehicle is a terrible, horrible idea, especially if you are the driver…and all of a sudden I realized:

It wasn’t the dog.

It had never been the dog.

It was ME.

I picked up one of my house-bootied feet and yes, there you go: Embedded in those formerly-pristine rubber treads lay the scent’s source, which I shall not describe to you because I love you. (Suffice it to say you should probably watch where you’re walking next time you swing by the vet.)

What happened next was that I took off my house booties, and threw them out the window. More specifically, I threw them out the window of a moving vehicle in front of my children, and then had to have a serious chat with them about the fact that littering is super illegal and you definitely shouldn’t do it. Next, we had to have a serious chat about the fact that throwing things out of cars is also super illegal, and you definitely shouldn’t do that, either. And then I had to teach them the most important lesson of all: as a wise lady once said (several paragraphs ago), there is an exception to every rule.

(Except the rule about letting your house booties leave your house. Just please don’t ever do that.)

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J

Ramshackle Glam is a website about parenting, divorce, aging, mental health, and other funny stuff. Free posts are published every week, but FYI if you want to upgrade you’ll automatically receive an eBook that I wrote just for paid subscribers.

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Let me tell you about the moment when I realized that even though my work has always been vitally important to me, I also need to actively shut off sometimes – not just in a half-assed way (where I’m technically engaging with my kids but 60% of my brain is devoted to the email I need to remember to send), but all the way.

And I need to do this on purpose, because it doesn’t come naturally.

This realization has happened to various degrees many times over the years, but the first time it really stuck in was when the kids were little, and I had taken them to a Children’s Science Museum. They were playing with this massive model of hills and trees and buffalos, and I was half-watching them play and half-checking my text messages because even though I’d taken the afternoon off I still needed (wanted?) to make sure everything was cool work-wise, and suddenly I looked up and realized how photogenic and symmetrical the background was and how great the colors were, and thought, oh hey – I should Instagram this! It’s cute! And symmetrical! And those colors!

I went to open the photo app, and they moved a little to the left. And suddenly the background wasn’t symmetrical, and they were standing in front of a brown wall, not that pretty green one. I heard myself start to say “Oh honey could you go back to where you were standing before? On the other side of your sister…?” and then realized:

What. The fuck. Am I doing.

I was literally contemplating asking my children to stop playing so that I could “capture a moment” that wasn’t even the moment that they were in. (I did take a photo. It was in front of the brown wall, and it was really cute. And then later, when I was home and they were napping, I sent it to my mom.)

It’s so hard to remember, though. So often, I’ll turn down a movie or a game or a bike ride because I have work to do, and they’ll shrug and retreat to their rooms. Or they’ll come up to ask me a question, but I’ll be so focused that I don’t even hear the words coming out of their mouths, and they have to repeat them. Even as I say the words that I might as well have tattooed on my forehead by now (“You guys need to give me a minute so I can finish up work”) I hear two different people in my head: one is yelling at me that nothing – nothing – is more important than time with my children (don’t forget to savor! every! moment! time passes so fast!) and the other is yelling at me to stop feeling guilty about being an adult who loves both her kids and her work – and for god’s sake don’t apologize for it, because men sure as hell don’t.

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The other night, I took my daughter out for dinner, just us two. I was angry with her for saying that she didn’t want her brother to come, because I thought she was making him feel bad, but mostly because I didn’t want to argue about who got to do what and when and where; I just wanted to feed them and be done with the day already.

She started crying. But mom, she said. You’re always in such a rush.

She qualified this quickly, because I guess she’s learned how much guilt I carry, which of course only made me feel guiltier. I know it’s because you’re working hard to take care of us.

Then: I just wanted to sit and talk to you for awhile.

…And so yes, my heart broke. She is right. Still, even after years of working towards some semblance of balance, I am in a rush, so much of the time. I’m in a rush to get out the door, a rush to get dinner on the table, a rush to go to sleep because if I end up having an insomnia night and don’t spend enough hours with my eyes closed I know that my brain will work at half-speed the next day and that is not an option when the things that you have to do are Everything.

Her words stopped me in my tracks, though. I just want to sit and talk to you for awhile. Isn’t that all I’ve ever wanted, really? A daughter who not only wants to be with me, but is able to express that so clearly?

We did go out to dinner, just us two. I didn’t touch my phone once, not because I was forcing myself not to but because we were busy singing Benson Boone into each others’ faces. We talked about the seismic shifts that our family has undergone. We talked about hair. When the check came we went for ice cream instead of heading straight home, and she beamed — I mean beamed — the whole way.

When I first re-entered the world of dating a few years ago, it was via Raya. You’ve heard of it; it’s the invite-only “celebrity” dating app (it’s not, not really; it’s a few celebrities mixed in with a lot of “photographers,” “Instagram models,” and a horrifying preponderance of Burning Man enthusiasts).

Over seven or so years I went on a lot of one-time-only dates, and ended up in a handful of short-term relationships. My longest was actually a long-distance COVID-era situationship with someone living across the country during which we mostly browsed the Williams-Sonoma catalog over Facetime on Sunday mornings, and only met up in person once. It was lovely, and we’re still besties even though both of us have been in relationships with others for a long time since.

Which brings me to something I find kind of remarkable: Virtually all of the men with whom I had what I’d consider consequential connections — meaning that we cared for each other and gave it a decent shot, only to realize that a partnership wasn’t in the cards for various reasons — remain in my life. In each of these cases (which can be counted on one hand; come on, I don’t have that much free time) we recognized relatively quickly that while we weren’t right for each other romantically, we would make for excellent friends. (Related: Raya should probably start paying me to be an ambassador, because while it didn’t do the job it intended, it did a different and infinitely better one. HMU.)

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Ramshackle Glam is a website about parenting, divorce, aging, mental health, and other funny stuff. Free posts are published every week, but FYI if you want to upgrade you’ll automatically receive an eBook that I wrote just for paid subscribers.

In two weeks, I will be 45 years old. My son is about to enter high school and my daughter is moving into seventh grade, and they have more friends and activities and responsibilities and emotions than ever before, their lives growing bigger by the day. I’m trying to write the most exciting and difficult book of my career in the spaces between chauffering them to what seems like hundreds of end-of-year events, planning out their summers, and doing whatever I can to maintain some version of a semi-steady income. All of it very literally solo, as my ex-husband has hightailed it off to Europe for the time being and no longer keeps an apartment here, so there’s also that. It’s obviously logistically and financially challenging, in addition to being soul-crushingly disappointing — and while my kids are doing well, that doesn’t mean I don’t live in daily fear about if and how all of this will impact them both now and in the future. (I just finished reading Strangers, and let’s just say that it hit.)

This is not where I anticipated finding myself as I turned 45; when I think about where I was ten years ago, I feel an almost physical sense of whiplash.

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🎧 Prefer audio-only? Go ahead and listen via Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

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Jenny McCarthy has lived in my head rent-free for the entirety of my adult life. Fun fact: The moment — and I mean the moment, pee stick in hand — that I discovered that I was pregnant, she was the very first person I thought of, because she had written in her book Belly Laughs about how when she’d found out she was pregnant she instantly ran over to the mirror to see if she looked different. So that’s what I did, too. (I did not look different, although I did look mildly hungover from a party we’d been to the night before, so the second thing I thought about was also the second thing Jenny thought about, which was “Oh god I pickled the baby.”)

In this conversation, I obviously fangirl out a bit, but we also get very real and very intimate about what it’s like when the product that your business is built upon is you, and how that feels as you get older.

We talk about her beauty company, Formless (the lip gloss is specifically very, very good), her iconic Candies ad (above), how MTV originally rejected her for Singled Out (!), and the challenges of overcoming the Playmate stigma back in the ‘90s. Oh, and we also discuss her adorable son, and she would like me to tell you all to DM her if you have a kind, lovely, theoretically age-appropriate lady friend for him. So there you go.

(I put some fun BTS clips and outtakes over on the Like Me Instagram, so make sure to check those out, too.)

I hope you enjoy! I loved this one.

x

J

🎧 Prefer audio-only? Go ahead and listen via Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

What if the internet actually didn’t ruin culture—or us?

In this episode, I sit down with Magic and Loss author Virginia Heffernan to talk about the idea that might give us all hope: Maybe (maybe?!) the internet isn’t a fall from grace. It’s just…what happened next.

We get into why the early internet felt so electric, and why we might be confusing that feeling with youth, not technology. We unpack why we’re drawn to vulnerability online (and why content featuring scared or hurt kids performs so well, shoutout to Fortesa Latifi), and what that says about our need for catharsis versus our appetite for real-life suffering.

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And then we get into the big one: aging in public.

Seriously: What happens when the women who built a culture centered on visibility, youth, and self-presentation start to age inside it? What does it mean to look like yourself on camera, instead of chasing “Instagram face”? And how do you let go of the version of yourself that once worked?

Virginia reframes all of it not as loss, but as evolution.

This episode is about:

• Why nostalgia for the “old internet” might actually be nostalgia for who you once were

• The hidden labor and emotional cost of early influencer culture

• The blurred line between performance, fiction, and truth online

• Why discomfort is the default—not the exception

• And how to stop treating change like a catastrophe

As always, thank you so much for watching and/or listening. I still have a hard time believing I get to sit down and talk so intimately with women whose work I’ve followed and loved for decades, but I guess that’s what this episode is about: You just keep moving on.

• Follow Virginia on Substack

• Check out the Omnishambles podcast

• Order Magic and Loss

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J

You know what no one buys at thrift stores?

The artwork. Seriously, no one: in every thrift store that I’ve ever been to, the corners are piled with stacks of forlorn-looking faded prints of, like, fruit. Maybe some dancing kids, or a vase of flowers. And because nobody buys them, ever, they’re usually in the realm of a buck or two each.

I generally take a peek at the stacks of paintings and posters to see if any of them happen to have really good frames that I can repurpose…but then I saw the below photo on Pinterest and was all: OOOH.

Ooooooo.

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Allow me to get all analyze-y for a moment and explain why I like the idea of dipped paintings so much. First, the idea of dipping paintings – effectively destroying existing artwork in an effort to transform it – is an interesting and kind of provocative exploration of the whole “what is art” thing.

But most importantly, a big reason that the majority of thrift-store paintings aren’t especially attractive is that they’re so…blah. And adding bold color – or bold anything – makes a picture that’s dusty and old feel fresh and alive. And making a piece of art that’s sitting in a corner somewhere, unloved and forgotten, into a vibrant image that finds new life on your wall is such a cool thing to do.

It’s saying that artwork that no one wants still has worth; you just have to find a way to make it yours. I love that.

Oh yes, and then there’s the fact that you can’t screw this particular project up. Even if you don’t like the results, all you’ve lost is about a dollar and half an hour or so of your time.

OK, so on my last trip to the thrift store I picked up these paintings. Not because they’re good examples of what I was looking for (which would ideally be paintings with cool frames and a non-terrible mat color)…but rather because I wanted a matched pair, and this was the only one they had. So that was that.

First step: painting those ugly frames, obviously. I went for gold. Obviously.

Next (and final) step: I laid a strip of masking tape sideways across the entire painting (frame included) to create a clean line, and then painted the lower halves (with Martha Stewart Crafts Paints, which are great and come in small tubes, so you don’t have to make a big commitment). It took three coats to get a “dipped” (e.g. fully covered) look.

Then I just let the paint dry overnight, pulled off the tape, and…

Cool, no???

I like it. I think I would have liked neon orange and neon green (to pull out the colors in the fruit) even better. Next time.

Now, project number two, which may be my absolute favorite thing I have made in recent memory, just because it is SO WEIRD, but also kind of…beautiful. I think so, anyway.

We’re going to call it a “Dripped” painting rather than a “Dipped” one. You’ll see why in a moment.

I started with that floral painting above, which can probably best be described by the word “unremarkable.” Why I bought it: it had a nice gold frame, pretty pastel colors…and was $1.50.

I laid a strip of tape about two-thirds of the way up the picture, then painted the top third. Next, I took the squeeze bottle of paint and kind of poured paint across the top of the frame and let it drip down (I set it upright overnight so it would keep dripping while it dried).

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The end result: an effect that my friend Erin referred to as “Dexter-ish.” Which I think is quite the compliment.

(I hung it under our Alice in Wonderland painting because they have a similarly creepy-whimsical vibe.)

#obsessed #paintallthethings

🎧 Prefer audio-only? Go ahead and listen via Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Today’s guest is Caroline McCarthy — one of the first mainstream journalists assigned to cover social media full-time, back when Facebook looked temporary, Twitter looked unserious, and being “very online” was still considered a little (or a lot) embarrassing. At 22 years old, she was handed what many editors saw as a novelty beat. Instead, she ended up with a front-row seat to one of the biggest cultural and economic shifts of the century.

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But what makes Caroline especially compelling is that she wasn’t just reporting on the new attention economy — she was also being shaped by it. As journalism began rewarding personality, visibility, and personal brand, Caroline herself became a recognizable internet figure during the exact years she was documenting that phenomenon.

Baby us circa 2010 (Caro is on the left; I was SO EXCITED to meet her)

And then, like so many people from that era, she experienced the less-flashy aftermath: what happens when public attention moves elsewhere, and you realize how much of your identity has become entangled with being seen.

This conversation is about the early internet, yes — those weird kids who built online culture before it was cool. But it’s also about something far more significant: status, friendship, aging, relevance, and the emotional consequences of losing a currency it sometimes feels shameful to admit you ever wanted.

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Thanks so much for watching! Remember, you can click here for lots more full-length episodes of Like Me.

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J