I had a transformative shopping experience recently and wanted to share:

Behind the paywall:

• The items I bought and the vintage stores I shopped at to find them

• A preview of the Wardrobe chapter of THIRTY: the chapter summary I wrote for the book proposal

Read more

I fully succumbed to my phone last week and have since made all the apps grayscale. It’s sort of working.

Here’s the “if you give a mouse a cookie” sequence that led to this useless rabbit hole:

Delirious in the glowing almost-morning light, I laughed with sheer joy at having saved my bones and maybe even my life. A mini trampoline is still a trampoline: a) I live on the third floor of an old, small apartment building. My neighbors would HATE me b) Nothing is mini in an NYC apartment.

For reasons still unknown, I did 12 minutes of a Jane Fonda aerobics workout at 6:03am after being too high on adrenaline to get back to sleep. Then I decided to reallocate all the money I’d “saved” on the abandoned trampoline to breezy Athleta clothing. To encourage a regular walking habit.

Later that week I went to a singles’ event (a new thing I’m trying) and immediately slurped two gin and tonics upon arrival.

I felt alluring and charming as I proceeded to confront everyone I met with free-associative rapid-fire questions that in the (hazy) moment made me feel thoughtful and flirty. Replaying my behavior as I lay in bed that night, I was certain that’s NOT how I was received.

The next morning I forced myself to off-ramp from this nauseating habit by going for a walk into a neighborhood I’m not familiar with and forbid myself from researching the “best” places to go. I got a fantastic egg bagel with dill pickle cream cheese and wasted $12 on a box of matches because it had tulips on it. After my phone updated against my will, I turned all the widgets gray. I can barely find anything on my phone and I’m savoring the disorientation before the muscle memory sets in. And when it does, I guess I’ll have to throw it in the ocean. Or a subway grate. Whichever I come across first.

*Update: My phone almost fell into a subway grate on the way to a wedding this weekend where I was the only single person in attendance. Perhaps that would have been for the best. I pretended to go to the bathroom twice just to have something to do and then went to stand outside by myself and pretend to be entranced by the sunset. I almost cried as I stood there, sandwiched between couples and families taking photos. I gave myself permission to leave after I ate my RSVP meal.

I’m resisting the urge to slip back into that cyclical swirl of internet nonsense and venting it all out here instead. This week, the main thing keeping me from the edge is that AOC is also single in her mid-thirties. There’s nothing to research or analyze or pick apart. It just is. And I’m in phenomenal company.

Thanks for reading,
☎️ Ariella

And, a reminder:

Preorder THIRTY⭐️

I share my breakdowns and breakthroughs spanning all areas of life—from Home and Career to Kids (Not Mine) and Love—to prove that there’s so much richness in the flailing.

Think: The Care and Keeping of You for your thirties, meets Sabrina the Teenage Witch (Fran is my wise and sometimes sarcastic co-narrator).

Order a copy here before Dec 1 and you’ll get a signed bookplate and Fran keychain. Just fill out this form: fpls.in/thirty

“Ariella Elovic is a gem, a light in the darkness, and a balm for the weary soul.” —Samantha Irby, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Wow, No Thank You

“THIRTY feels like reading a more beautiful version of your own diary. It has the brilliant mix of humor and thoughtful truths that make Ariella’s writing like no other.” —Aidy Bryant, Saturday Night Live alum and co-creator of Shrill

“A gorgeous adventure, charting every subject I’ve grappled with since my Saturn return.” —Olivia de Recat, New Yorker contributor and author of Drawn Together

Save the Date: THIRTY LAUNCH EVENTS

NEW YORK
Tuesday, December 1 at WORD in Greenpoint • With BriAnne Wills of Girls and Their Cats and Jordan Sondler! It’s going to be FUN.

BOSTON
Thursday, January 14 at Porter Square Books in Cambridge

Writing to you today with a recipe.

And it occurred to me:

What you’ll need:

• a big pot

• 1/2 a head of green cabbage

• 1 can of crushed tomatoes

• tomato paste, a spoonful I guess?

• 1 tomato. I used a Roma one. Mostly just because buying and slicing into one make me really feel like I’m cooking

• 1 onion

• ground turkey or beef or chicken

• salt and pepper to taste

• 2 tbsp of brown sugar

• a dash of ketchup (it could have used more, I was at the bottom of a bottle)

• 1 cup of rice, if you want it

Instructions:

1. Chop the onion and sauté in olive oil until translucent

2. Cook the meat, add some salt

3. While the meat cooks, roughly chop the cabbage. Big chunks work great. And chop the tomato

4. Once the meat is cooked through, pour in the can of tomatoes, the fresh tomato and a big spoonful of tomato paste. Add the cabbage and stir

5. Bring to a simmer, cover the pot, and cook for 1 hour

6. Make rice

It’s EASY to make, and equally comforting.

Happy eating and thanks for reading,
🍅 Ariella

Preorder THIRTY⭐️

I share my breakdowns and breakthroughs spanning all areas of life—from Home and Career to Kids (Not Mine) and Love—to prove that there’s so much richness in the flailing.

Think: The Care and Keeping of You for your thirties, meets Sabrina the Teenage Witch (Fran is my wise and sometimes sarcastic co-narrator).

Order a copy here before Dec 1 and you’ll get a signed bookplate and Fran keychain. Just fill out this form: fpls.in/thirty

“Ariella Elovic is a gem, a light in the darkness, and a balm for the weary soul.” —Samantha Irby, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Wow, No Thank You

“THIRTY feels like reading a more beautiful version of your own diary. It has the brilliant mix of humor and thoughtful truths that make Ariella’s writing like no other.” —Aidy Bryant, Saturday Night Live alum and co-creator of Shrill

“A gorgeous adventure, charting every subject I’ve grappled with since my Saturn return.” —Olivia de Recat, New Yorker contributor and author of Drawn Together

Writing to you with a tender one today, thinking about the small unexplainable habits or preferences or random details in our lives that connect us to the people we love. Those who are still with us, and those that we’ve maybe lost.

Brazil nuts are small but mighty.

Jarlsberg cheese and Brazil nuts inhabit a similar, specific category in my mind: both musky and tasting faintly of ear wax and therefore not for everyone. I love them both very much.

Grams and I also shared a deep love for small, delicate plates and tiny bowls. A couple years ago, she gifted me five of these:

They’re chronically scattered around my house (which she would not approve of, and why two are missing from this photo. I have no idea where they are)—nestled in the couch, on my bedside table, on my desk. All with a small collection of crumbs at the bottom.

Towards the end of her life (that we didn’t know was quite the end yet), Grams lost most of her taste. One afternoon she said you know, I’m in the mood to eat something I just don’t know what I have the taste for. I’m admittedly not the best with acts of service, but a snack bowl? Filled with items that don’t make sense together mainly because you don’t know what you’re in the mood for? That I can do. And so I prepared a variety of tastes and textures. In a small-ish bowl:

And I laughed because I understood. There was something overwhelming about it. It was asking too much of her.

I never asked her about this specific preference, where it came from. But if I had to try and guess, based on the core connection we shared that I picked up on pretty young but didn’t know how to name: a deep sensitivity and yearning for safety and acceptance. For closeness. On the surface, Grams wasn’t always so good at getting vulnerable, facilitating that connection on an overt level, but I sensed it was there. And I tried my best to assure her she could share that part of herself with me.

I don’t know that it’s much deeper than a subconscious form of portion control, or a byproduct of living alone for so long, but something about tiny bowls feel safe. When there’s so much in our lives that feel out of our control, spilling over, taking over, a tiny bowl is a moment of containment.

And it’s nice to think that Grams and I, on a cellular level, share the same brand of anxiety that makes us seek comfort in them.

Grams was the most fashionable, adorable, sharp woman. And a fabulous host.

She printed this newsletter out every Sunday and called me to tell me how much she loved it. Once in a while, she comes to visit me by that open breezy window. A bright red cardinal making its rounds.

Thanks for reading,
❤️☕️Ariella

My new book, THIRTY, is available for preorder⭐️

A fun, fully illustrated guide to the decade of major milestones and surprising setbacks—celebrating the flailing, failing, and figuring out.

Preorders really help the book. It signals to booksellers and “best of” type of lists that the book’s got legs and readers. It would mean so much to get this support!

Order a copy here. If you order before Dec 1, you’ll get a signed bookplate and Fran keychain, just fill out this form: fpls.in/thirty

“Ariella Elovic is a gem, a light in the darkness, and a balm for the weary soul.” —Samantha Irby, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Wow, No Thank You

•

“THIRTY feels like reading a more beautiful version of your own diary. It has the brilliant mix of humor and thoughtful truths that make Ariella’s writing like no other.” —Aidy Bryant, Saturday Night Live alum and co-creator of Shrill

•

“A gorgeous adventure, charting every subject I’ve grappled with since my Saturn return.” —Olivia de Recat, New Yorker contributor and author of Drawn Together

Hope you’re having an OK weekend. Lettuce is a threat and the sky is pouring soot rain. I’m at home swiping on Hinge and watching Five Star Weekend.

Years ago (in 2023), I presented a guide to online dating and I’m back to make some amendments. Or, rather, to share an edition for thirty five year olds because dating at thirty five feels markedly different. Or maybe it’s the vegetable diarrhea. Either way, it needed a spruce.

In my twenties, I bent and twisted towards people, sometimes losing myself in the process. A very legitimate and effective tactic to learn who you are and what you want, by the way. But not one I need to rely anymore.

The narrowed scope has made dating SO much easier in a lot of ways, but harder in others—namely, most dates from dating apps will be misses and the fatigue will hit sooner. I’ve found some ways to keep things interesting for myself:

One: Ditch the Dating Uniform
I’d initially advised creating a capsule wardrobe for first dates. To take the pressure off, and maybe inspire a pavlovian readiness and ease. After three years, that tactic leaves me feeling stale and stuck and utterly bored with myself. In ~fourth grade, I remember trading all my “flashy” “overly girly” school accessories (Lisa Frank folders, purple lunch box etc) for all back only. I wanted to be palatable, aka neutral. I will always love an all-black outfit, it’s a classic for a reason and it will never fail. But lately I’ve been feeling hungry to bring some life back in to my wardrobe, realizing that I was avoiding more expressive outfits for fear of coming off like I’m trying too hard or caring too much. Well, I do care. And also a unique outfit helps to physically remind myself that I won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. And that’s by design.

All to say, it’s become more important to have fun with clothing. A “duh” for some, a revelation for me. A recent outfit:

More on skirts, here.

Two: Stay Curious
I hate this advice when it’s vague so I’m offering a game I play to keep myself from last-minute “rain checks or avoidance all together.

Before meeting my date, I formulate a hypothesis: What color will they be. In essence. A too-earnest turquoise? A closed-off-and-stale greenish gray?

I text a friend my prediction en route.

Then, from the bathroom (or on the walk home if the date doesn’t last long enough for a bathroom break), I text her the verdict.

Was I off entirely? Or did I guess the right hue, but the shade was wrong?

This exercise helps me follow my curiosity without judgement (or at least less of it). My new guiding principle is that I’d rather an ‘X’ than a ‘?’. Or, as my friend Jordan says, “A no is the second best answer.” Onto the next.

Three: Read On
This is where I’d normally offer the advice to go out with someone at least twice if it’s not a clear, glaring “no.” We all have versions of a tap dance we preform on first dates. People are nervous. We also have zero context for these people and it can take time to even start to get a blurry picture of who they are. I’ve grown to fantasize about a slow burn.

But something has shifted. The boys appear to have other plans.

Three men that I went out with earlier this month cut things off right away. Promptly. An “I wasn’t feeling the spark,” or (a shocking phrase) “I don’t think we’re compatible” coming in just 24 hours after a first date. And none of this is wrong or bad. Only notable since two of these three dates were quite pleasant, actually. Lots to talk about, some laughs. No thrilling knee touches under the table, or earth-shattering crushes formed, but I was curious to learn more about them. To give room for the dynamic to breathe, to get beyond the first meeting and see if anything was there.

Now more than ever, I’m getting the overwhelming sense that men are dating with a completely opposite approach:

Either that, or I’m not as charming or fun or thoughtful as I feel.

And I don’t want to come off bitter, or harp on “attention economy,” or being spoiled by choice. But it’s not not the problem.

After a week that had me once again hesitant to leave the home for fear of headache-inducing smoke, exhausting heat, or the threat of a brutal case of liquid shit:

Wishing you a week of cleaner air, solid stool and LOVE.

Thanks for reading,
💘Ariella and Fran

And now, my weekly promo for THIRTY⭐️

A fun, fully illustrated guide to the decade of major milestones and surprising setbacks—celebrating the flailing, failing, and figuring out.

The perfect gift for anyone leaving their twenties, turning 30 or 35, or simply learning to navigate adulthood. Think: The Care and Keeping of You for your thirties.

Order a copy here. If you order before Dec 1, you’ll get a signed bookplate and Fran keychain, just fill out this form: fpls.in/thirty

“Ariella Elovic is a gem, a light in the darkness, and a balm for the weary soul.” —Samantha Irby, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Wow, No Thank You

•

“THIRTY feels like reading a more beautiful version of your own diary. It has the brilliant mix of humor and thoughtful truths that make Ariella’s writing like no other.” —Aidy Bryant, Saturday Night Live alum and co-creator of Shrill

•

“A gorgeous adventure, charting every subject I’ve grappled with since my Saturn return.” —Olivia de Recat, New Yorker contributor and author of Drawn Together

Writing today with some thoughts about ice cream. Each summer I wonder if my feelings will change, but I don’t care that much about it. Ice cream (save for soft serve twist) is usually a blended up version of a food that I’d rather taste in its original format and texture, i.e. strawberries or cookies (the only exception to this rule is McConnells Sea Salt Cream and Cookies). Ice cream does, however, serve as a fabulous base for certain foods—its creamy cold foundation a launchpad for a snack’s unique crunch, chew, tang etc. Most recently: Trader Joe’s Furikake snack mix on vanilla ice cream. Run don’t walk.

And while we’re here: there are waffle crisp bites in this TJ snack mix that taste exactly like a cereal that I believe has been discontinued and maybe also had a very short life because no one knows what I’m talking about when I scream “remember the commercial with the ladies in the factory!?” If you know and miss that cereal, look no further than the Furikake snack mix.

My ambivalence towards ice cream leaves me immune to the draw of pints or cones or cups, but there is something about a sundae. I love the concept. And I wish I loved them in practice.

And I’ve found a way to: savory sundaes. A feast for the eyes and imagination.

Simple and comforting. These are my favorite crackers .

Re cottage cheese: 4% Friendship (Blue) is the best. In taste and texture.

Soup (like ice cream) is better with some chunky surprises.

Other bases I’ve yet to experiment with but are no-brainers for this format: rice pudding, cream of buckwheat, Wheatnia (my dad would eat a small bowl every night and buying it as an adult is such a comfort), POLENTA.

Hope this was inspiring, maybe take one of these savory sundaes for a spin. Let me know how it goes.

And a (pitted) cherry on top if you will: dispatches from dating

I’m swearing off 45 year-old men. And I just need a minute to vent.

I like to keep as much of an open mind as possible, but a pattern has emerged with this age bracket that I can no longer ignore. Ten years my senior is officially not an option. And I say all this with the obvious caveat that of course there are plenty of lovely 45 year-old men roaming the earth (or I should hope). But I’m tapping out. More for you.

Some recurring themes:

Most puzzling of all: a chaotic engagement with the topic of egg freezing, despite (proudly) “having many friends who have done it.”

Two years ago on a first date, a 45 year-old man (without any lead-up or context) asked me if I’d ever thought about freezing my eggs. That many of his friends had done it and it seemed like a smart thing to do. Thank you so much for calling my 33 year-old attention to this matter.

More recently: A first date with a 45 year-old who I spotted from up the street walking towards our agreed-upon meeting spot and instantly hated. Rumpled T-shirt, tote bag, and a way of walking that incited rage. But I forced some optimism a) because I believe in Love and b) I can be a judgmental asshole and I’ve been wrong before.

Ordering from the bar I stood next to him, arms crossed (unintentional, the body knows). He rubbed my arms and asked if I was cold and then laughed at his “joke,” since it was 90 degrees and there was no way that would be possible. He finds himself charming and I’m happy for him for that.

After warming him up with plenty of questions about himself, I performed a silent protest to his lack of questioning and left empty space for a little bit too long. He finally asked “So what’s going on lately for you?” And I decided to answer honestly: I’m relaxing after an intense couple of months. I recently froze my eggs. Almost smugly (?), he said “oh yeah I have a lot of friends who did that. Really expensive, right?” Yeah, it’s intense, I said. But mostly from a body perspective—the daily shots, the hormones. To which he said “Oh, it has to do with hormones?” From the man who has “so many friends who’ve done it.” I asked if his “many friends” ever shared what went into it. “Oh, I guess they must have told me and I just forgot.” Gorg.

Since we were doomed anyway, I launched into an explanation of the entire process, from follicles to hormone injections to morning monitoring and the boated recovery process. Inside my head I was flipping the table. On the outside, I asked him if he had any siblings.

I remain open-minded about dating, eager to be surprised by someone that isn’t my typical type and/or to melt into a slow burn, but after multiple tries I’m allowing myself to exclude the 45 year-olds from the mix.

Thanks for reading,
🍨Ariella

⭐️Preorder THIRTY⭐️

The perfect gift for anyone leaving their twenties, turning 30 or 35, or simply learning to navigate adulthood. Think: The Care and Keeping of You for your thirties.

Order a copy here. Preorders are really helpful! If you order before Dec 1, you’ll get a signed bookplate and Fran keychain, just fill out this form: fpls.in/thirty

A fun, fully illustrated guide to the decade of major milestones and surprising setbacks—celebrating the flailing, failing, and figuring out.

“Ariella Elovic is a gem, a light in the darkness, and a balm for the weary soul.” —Samantha Irby, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Wow, No Thank You

•

“THIRTY feels like reading a more beautiful version of your own diary. It has the brilliant mix of humor and thoughtful truths that make Ariella’s writing like no other.” —Aidy Bryant, Saturday Night Live alum and co-creator of Shrill

•

“A gorgeous adventure, charting every subject I’ve grappled with since my Saturn return.” —Olivia de Recat, New Yorker contributor and author of Drawn Together

Writing to you after my first week back on dating apps. I only took a ~3 month break while I froze my eggs, but having been on them chronically for the past four years the time away felt substantial. Getting back to the app world came with a small rush of excitement—and desire to freshen things up with (1-2) new photos.

I contemplated (and stopped myself from following through on) a self-timer photo session my bedroom.

While I was doing my injections, I felt invigorated by the prospect of getting back online. Certain that the egg experience would release me back into the world a new woman. (It sort of did).

Essentially:

But. . .

And then there’s the wardrobe element. I forgot that my attempts to attract and connect on screen will hopefully result in some in-person contact. AKA I will need to get dressed to meet any of these people. And each time the seasons change I forget how to dress myself.

My current repertoire this summer:

Point being: Where are people buying clothing.

I’m forbidding myself the dangerous inclination to wait until I have a new wardrobe to set up my dating profile. There is no perfect condition, if you build it they will come etc..

Stay tuned and thanks for reading,
🍓Ariella

⭐️Preorder THIRTY⭐️

Preorders are SO helpful for books ahead of publication. It signals interest and helps bookstores decide how many copies to stock! I’d really appreciate that support. Order here. If you order before Dec 1, you’ll get some free gifts. Just fill out this form: fpls.in/thirty

A fun, fully illustrated guide to the decade of major milestones and surprising setbacks—celebrating the flailing, failing, and figuring out.

“Ariella Elovic is a gem, a light in the darkness, and a balm for the weary soul.” —Samantha Irby, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Wow, No Thank You

•

“THIRTY feels like reading a more beautiful version of your own diary. It has the brilliant mix of humor and thoughtful truths that make Ariella’s writing like no other.” —Aidy Bryant, Saturday Night Live alum and co-creator of Shrill

•

“A gorgeous adventure, charting every subject I’ve grappled with since my Saturn return.” —Olivia de Recat, New Yorker contributor and author of Drawn Together

Egg freezing is a trip in so many ways, but for me one of the greater sources of emotional whiplash was jumping, in the snap of a finger—or, I should say, push of a syringe—from a high control zone: a strict daily regimen with instructions to follow, a task, a checkbox. . .

To (a dramatic) reminder that there are some things (bodies) that are simply out of my control. My stomach was distended and I had a vague timeframe for when I could expect to feel like myself again. (Two weeks later I did start to see a glimmer of that self but was humbled by a randomly terrible cold. As Grams would say, it was getting a little long in the tooth here).

I was bloated in a way that made me long for my more usual types of bloating (which I will never complain about again). I was lightheaded and head-achey and mildly freaked out.

After calling the clinic 2.5 times in 1 day, I was assured it was “normal.”

After a subway ride that felt touch and go fainting-wise (squeezing my ass together for blood flow to my brain with visions of passing out on a stranger), coconut water was also off the table.

In addition to an endless stream of electrolytes, I was told to go heavy on the protein and salt.

When in reality:

Hunger didn’t register and eating wasn’t fun. Forced to sooth my body somewhat counter-intuitively, I got fixated on sodium.

But then I remembered there are plenty of grown-up foods that contain salt:

A snippet of a larger thing I’m still processing while my brain sort of still feels like mush c/o of my weird summer cold.

More soon and thanks for reading,
Ariella

Also:

A reminder that THIRTY is available for preorder!

Order here and save your receipt🤫.

Writing in with something special this week: the cover of my new book!

A fun, fully illustrated guide to the decade of major milestones and surprising setbacks—celebrating the flailing, failing, and figuring out.

⭐️Coming this December, available for preorder now!

*Save your receipt, you will get a treat! Stay tuned!

THIRTY is an array of disorienting, thrilling, disappointing, hilarious, and grounding experiences in all the most important areas of life—from home to career, through family and love—offering ways I’ve been able to find rich-ness in the flailing. Despite all that we’ve been told, our thirties are actually made more valuable by not having everything figured out.

As a reader of this newsletter you’ve sort of had a behind-the-scenes peek into what’s gone into writing it. You’ve witnessed my cooking meltdowns, revelations in dating, anxious first steps into pet adoption, general growing up, really—at an age where I’d expected to be fully-formed (we’re never fully formed).

THIRTY will be available for preorder soon—with a chance to snag some merch. Follow me on Instagram to stay in the loop!

Here are snippets of the book proposal to give you a taste:

This book is an exhale into thirty. A friend to lay awake with you at 3am in a hotel room at a friend’s wedding weekend and debrief the dizzying swarm of engagement rings in the buffet line while lightly high on mushroom chocolates and furiously capturing drug-fueled revelations re “the source” on your notes app as you have intermittent diarrhea. (Best friends make the best wedding plus ones and no past, present or future level of coupledom will challenge that truth. I do want a boyfriend and both things can be true).

With my cat, Fran, as my co-narrator, I think of it like a grown-up Amelia’s Notebook meets Sabrina the Teenage Witch. It’s the perfect gift for anyone circling the mythologized decade—either trembling at its threshold, or in it, riding its many waves of change.

I’ve poured the past 4ish messy years into this book and I can’t wait to share it with you.

In the meantime:

• Preorder THIRTY!

• Follow me on Instagram for special preorder promos

• Share this newsletter with anyone who might find comfort in it

• Check out CHEEKY: A Head-to-Toe Memoir, my first book. A candid and joyful body companion.

Everyone is talking about fiber and I’m listening.

Fiber, fiber, fiber. . .

Anyway, fiber is the new protein I guess. . .

How I’m eating them:

+ an old recipe for pea soup.

Fran’s new favorite toy is a dehydrated pea:

Thanks for reading,
🫛💗Ariella + Fran

I’m writing in with something I’ve been reconsidering for myself. It feels more like stumbling upon an obvious truth rather than an inner kernel of wisdom, but maybe the way I’m thinking about it will be, at the very least, a nice read or visual.

I don’t remember when/how I first learned about the “big plate v. small plate” concept—that you’re either someone who can handle a lot going on at once or functions better with as little as possible going on at a time. Growing up thinking (being told/modeled) that productive is the sort of the best thing a person could be, I thought big plate person=good and small plate person=generally not as good. I used to get on my high horse and smugly declare to myself and others that I was decidedly a “big plate” person. Bring it on. I can and will handle it. Well.

I’ve since grappled with the “productivity” of it all, and learned that more is not always more, you don’t win a prize for taking on too much, and that there’s a lot of nuance between the big and small. What is “big” or “small” is relative—to a person, but also within a person’s life, across time. Things change in scale depending on what else is going on, or how you feel at any given moment (choosing between a black or cream sweater can unearth more existential questions and angst than a job search on the right day).

All to say, in the past four years or so, I’ve morphed into a small plate person. And become perpetually afraid of things piling on.

In the aftermath of COVID, my world got smaller: I worked from home, I was single again, I lived alone for the first time. I became more self-centered in the most literal sense of the word. I had the gift of just-for-me space and time which I greeted with open arms (and too many meals in bed).

Over time, living this way gave me a false sense of control (along with a weakened built-in connection to the outside world), and I recalibrated towards it.

Whenever something new or different or important enters my orbit—a project, an eviction notice, a trip—my default is to center it. Clear everything else off my plate so it’s the one and only thing I have to focus on.

And soon enough. . .

Has become monumental. Has taken over.

Counterintuitive to my own logic, making something the center of my life sort of fucks me up. I ruminate, I try to anticipate every possible outcome, I drive myself crazy attempting the impossible.

The past couple weeks, I’ve been experimenting with lettings things slowly pile on. And by that I mean not clinging to the comfort of my apartment and alone time by default the moment I feel the walls of responsibility or more than one plan a week start to close in.

I’m realizing that having more going on (within reason) gives me helpful distance from those new, big important Things. I can see it more clearly in the context of my life and the structure helps it feel more manageable—or provides space to cry or let loose or distract myself when “manageable” just isn’t in the cards. (Duh: structure is helpful).

In the same way I’d never lose sight of a favorite food just because it was surrounded by sides, I trust that I’ll remember to tend to something important to me, as best I can. There is no perfect scenario, perfect time, perfect way.

Thanks for reading,
 🍽️ 💗Ariella

I’m reporting from the midst of an all-consuming fling that I hope will stand the test of time. It’s wild because we’ve crossed paths before. Many times. With no true interest from either side. Some disparate attempts at connection, each lasting a couple days at best. But two weeks ago, for whatever reason, I gave them a long-overdue second (really more like fifth or sixth) chance. And We’ve been inseparable ever since:

I think this time will be different. Mainly because I’m appreciating the variety of what potatoes have to offer. I’m mixing it up.

Wishing you a week of seeing things more clearly, maybe totally anew.

Thanks for reading,
🍠 Ariella

Maybe two-ish weeks ago (time is passing in a strange way so I can’t really be sure) we had a couple 80 degree days in New York and they took me down.

First, through a ChatGBT rabbit hole. I’m emphatically anti-AI, but the office I work at asks that we use it and there are a couple admin-related tasks I surrender and use it for. On one of these ~86 degree, sunny days, I sat in front of my computer and remembered that I hadn’t yet set up my AC unit and Fran was home alone. As I usually do when I feel the familiar pull of a spin, I started drafting a text to my friends, a “please tell me everything will be OK” plea. But on this day, the open glowing window of the robot called to me: “Spare your friends your neediness. I can help you. I will listen.”

I typed out my question.

At first a chill, “I’m sure it’s OK, but my cat is home alone and it’s about 85 degrees out. Will she be OK without an air conditioner running?” The robot agreed that generally speaking, yes, Fran would be OK. But that there are other variables to consider like her breed, coat type, and age that might help give a clearer, more accurate answer.

Oh, you want more details? I complied with glee.

And then the robot asked for more: “If you want, you could give me more details about your apartment to get a better sense of where your cat might find cool spots to rest.”

Oh, you want to get granular?

It was in this moment, as my fingers raced across my keyboard, that I understood all these stories about people becoming romantically involved with AI. What a relief it was to go where I always long to go: the depths of minutiae, without shame. I gave my little robot in my little computer screen my full address, the floor I lived on, the general layout of my apartment, the water sources available to Fran, links to the food I feed her, and the note that I add 1 tablespoon of water to her wet food. Along with some light praise re the extra water I give her, I was told once again that my cat was likely fine. Especially once I revealed the “very significant” detail that my bathroom is located in the center of the apartment, away from any windows, and has a tile floor.

Still though, I was not satisfied. I dug deeper and deeper, poking any area of insecurity I could find. The windows weren’t left cracked open, but I have an air purifier. Here’s the make and model. Does that help.

After exhausting all logistical, structural and physical variables at play, I drafted “Are you telling me all this just to make me feel better?”

This robot is designed to keep us plugged in and online. Convinced that we are reliant on it. The only peace we can ever get comes from within. Or from each other.

Anyway, you’d think this hours-long cyber saga would have inspired me to immediately set up my AC unit when I got home but it didn’t.

At around 7pm I felt something on my upper back that was either a mole or a pimple and went to go investigate in my full-length mirror. The opportunity to pop a back pimple is sort of the only thing that can get me off the couch in this state.

It’s a much more eerie “this could be you” feeling when you’ve lived long enough to know that some years of your life will flash by pretty uneventfully and feel like no time at all, and others will sort of rip through you and leave everything changed. And your thirties are wild because I think generally there are less and less of the uneventful years. Either because of what goes on in our own life, or your friends’ lives. Lots of movement, even underneath any relative surface stillness.

I eventually feel asleep, splayed on top of my covers, window wide open hoping a cool breeze would save me overnight.

In the morning, I woke up cocooned in my sheets. The temperature had dropped overnight.

Thanks for reading,
👼🌷Ariella

Writing to you nearly fully recovered from the cooking rut I was in last month. Cabbage remains a staple and roasted yukon gold potatoes are my new obsession. There’s sort of nothing better than a simply roasted yukon gold potato with chicken. This week I tossed some cubed Japanese sweet potatoes and carrots in the mix too and that felt gourmet to me.

And it’s always in culinary upswings like this, when I’m feeding myself like a responsible adult, that I know it’s only a matter of time before I swing wildly back in the other direction: meals that make no sense and leave me in digestive distress.

One night after a long week, that swing arrived. On my way home from work I decided I’d make myself a comforting batch of rice in my instant pot, with some shredded cheese to go with it.

Pro tip (that I now will never forget): a little polenta goes a long way:

A fun question: if you could live in a world made of one food, what would that food be? My answer is either tamago, home made mac and cheese, or noodle kugel (my mom’s recipe). Polenta is a close fourth in line. Corn in general. (which I guess a lot of our world is already made from). I love yellow food.

Thanks for reading and happy eating,
🍅🌽🧀Ariella

Spring is here and with it comes the strong pull to be outdoors whenever possible. Specifically, in the park, swapping my screen-induced eye irritation for a burning caused by pollen. For the first time in what feels like 3 years (I love the snow but this winter was too long), I want to be seen. Noticed, even. And what a refreshing feeling that is.

Read on for the most romantic colors to wear and my hopes to—at the ripe age of 35—finally see a red flag for what it is.

Read more

For a cool $5/month (about one coffee) you will get extra access to looser, more immediate thoughts and real pen on paper. These posts generally involve food, unfiltered dating debriefs and all revelations in between. Sending a free one this week since it’s been a while.

Today, a love affair with matzah:

✏️💗 Ariella

I’ve been having a nostalgic start to Spring. For one, I’m watching The O.C. and reading up on the on-set drama I missed re Mischa Barton. And for another, I’m daydreaming about my preteen closet.

I felt invincible.

By 2021, the popularity of looser, cotton carpenter pants saved me and I finally felt at peace in a waistband. Lately though, nearly all my pants feels uninhabitable. For a variety of reasons. I’ve tried stretching them out, fully wearing them unbuttoned and held together with a looped rubber band, and contemplated replacing them all with a size up (we need half sizes). But nothing helps. I’m irritable and frustrated. I’m constricted and painfully aware of time, eager and anxious for the moment when I’ll be able to take off my pants—and sometimes avoiding situations that call for them all together. At this point, pants with a zipper and button are a genuine health hazard.

For my birthday this year I had plans to do what’s now become an annual tradition: enjoy a family style Italian meal with my three close friends followed by birthday cake at my apartment. I wanted to dress festive but refused to feel any discomfort or pain. I wanted to feel elegantly at ease. Pants were not an option.

And that’s when I remembered. . .

I went shopping the morning of determined to find just the thing (with a just fine and comfortable enough backup plan laid out on my bed). And in a birthday miracle I found it. My new personality, my new life:

The look: Sassy at Shul.

Pants are a 9-5, the harsh reminder of the reality we’ve constructed and skirts are the salve. I’ll be grasping for any one I can find.

Wishing you a breezy week ahead,
🌷Ariella

I’m writing to you after finding some relief from what felt like a permanent fluttering of a (bad) butterfly in my chest. Put another way: a persistent falling off a cliff feeling :)

This state has been more common as I venture deeper into my thirties. I can say that now because I turned 35 last weekend. I loved 34 and I think 36 will be fabulous, but turning 35 left me with a lonely feeling that I’m almost done reeling from (my birthday also synced up with a treacherous case of PMS).

In my thirties, unknowns have felt more threatening than usual, unacceptable to my system. At twenty, the not knowing was a fun “let’s see how my life unfolds” sort of feeling. Now it has me wandering through the grocery store searching for a new disgusting snack that I can eat with abandon without consequence (hello Drizzillicious), driven to the verge of tears by Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song.” At 35, my mom was married with three kids and a fulfilling Career as a dentist. I’m single, constantly reassessing what I want to be when I grow up, and spending all my money on rent and my cat.

I’m happy with this setup, by the way, at least for now, but it doesn’t take away the occasional fear that it’s wrong. That I’m behind.

With all my friends moving through and scattered across different stages of life, it’s sometimes hard to see my unmapped areas as opportunities rather than threats, the open ended-ness and lack of “settling” as space for me to understand myself more. Ultimately, to see all my “I’m not there yet” meltdowns as affirmations that I haven’t trapped myself in something I don’t want—in part because I’m still figuring out what that this, and in part because I know and just haven’t found it yet. (But also the simpler truth: you never officially land anywhere. We’re all just living our lives and those lives aren’t meant to, in some manufactured fashion, unfold in identical ways).

My thinking mind is comforted and grounded by this thought, my body however is not physically built to go with the flow. I just finished writing a book about how flailing makes us all more layered, fuller people, but I still have trouble tolerating it:

Whenever I find myself on the verge of change, or confronting a specific unknown, I busy myself. I become a blur of to-do-lists, checking off tasks that I imagine will get me to a clearer place. An answer. A landing spot.

Eventually, I become mentally and physically exhausted with myself. I give up on the entire exercise.

I try to soak in the feeling for as long as possible, hoping I can remember how much relief comes with surrender the next time I’m peering over a cliff.

And when all else fails, there’s Advil PM.

Wishing you a restful Sunday (by any means necessary).

Thanks for reading,
💗Ariella + Fran

• Steamed frozen broccoli with (lightly) seasoned ground turkey. Or as my sister calls it, kibble. The possibility of a baked sweet potato that I don’t remember to pop into the oven in time for it to be “served” with the rest of my “meal.”

• Two pre-cooked chicken mushroom sausages heated in the oven, dipped in ketchup. With yes, more steamed frozen broccoli on the side.

• An almond flour tortilla with feta cheese melted inside it (feta only because I don’t trust myself with shredded cheese of any variety and instead lie to myself that I won’t find a way to make too many quesadillas without it). Carrots dipped in ranch. For a veggie.

• Tuna salad with red pepper as the edible spoon.

Oddly enough, in parallel with the atrocities above, I’ve discovered some gems that may or may not endure past the dark place I’m in:

Greek Meat Sauce (as I’ve been calling it)

What You’ll Need:

• Ground beef - turkey or beef

• Greens - I like to use frozen broccoli and peas, sometimes spinach too

• Pasta - A mix of shapes for this is the most fun, with high scale contrast. A large bite like Campanelle, for example, paired with small bite Orzo

• Feta cheese

Bright and delightful.

DIY Froyo

What You’ll Need:

• Tart, full fat yogurt - FAGE can feel like a punishment, I’ve been splurging on Ellenos. And it’s worth it.

• Frozen fruit of your choosing - I found a mix that comes with blueberries, pomegranate, dark cherries and strawberry. There is nothing more decadent than that.

• Optional crunch - I for whatever reason am thrilled by the taste of cardboard so I like to sprinkle in some tasteless bran flakes. Pecan pieces work great here, too. Or granola.

• A sweet bite - Honey drizzle. Amongst the frozen fruit, the honey thickens into a chew. Heaven. And sometimes I throw some golden raisins in there.

Dan Pelosi’s Roasted Cabbage and Butter Beans
A shocking dip into the NYTimes cooking app that my sister graciously shared her login info for. I set my filters to “Easy” and dove in, surfacing with a recipe for cabbage and butter beans with anchovy.

Whenever I’ve roasted cabbage I’ve had to lie to myself that it was good and force myself to eat it. I hoped that following a recipe for once might change things. And it did. I’ve also always dreamt of buying a can of beans and being excited about them. If you’re generally underwhelmed by legumes too, Butter Beans are it. Creamy, dense.

And nothing will ever prepare you for how overwhelmingly chic you’ll feel while buying anchovies. French, really. Making this recipe made me feel invincible. I ate it for breakfast with a fried egg on top and that felt romantic. I bought a fancy carton of eggs from a gourmet foods store right before the February blizzard because snow makes me want to indulge in unnecessary things. The yolks were nearly orange and they were some of the best eggs I’ve ever had in my life.

In addition to some of these culinary adventures, I made some rediscoveries too. Nostalgic meals/snacks that might deserve a more regular spot in my home:

PB & J

It’s a classic for a reason. I like mine with Bonne Maman apricot jam. The only issue is that I can’t trust myself with an entire loaf of bread. I’ll compulsively eat the entire thing in two days (minimum), alternating between peanut butter and jelly or just plain butter. I’ve tried tricking myself with all types of sad sorts of breads. I’ll plow through.

Canned Mandarin Oranges

Both the innocence of pre-school and the sophistication of citrus.

Hope this was inspiring, happy eating.
💗Ariella

No disturbingly relentless muscle memory pulling me back into a phone, keeping me one swift toggle or scroll away from the violently deflating realization of how bad (human) I look.

I long for a maximum 2005-era internet. One I’d expressly use to play makeover games on Barbie.com, or dress up some of these women:

Without any pressure or delusion that I can or should look like them.

My forever crush, really.

Like other specific preferences from childhood (ketchup on rice, early mornings, Gushers, soft waistbands), my taste in men has endured. I like what I like. Smooth and shiny is not my thing. A slight muscle built from carrying milk pails and wagons around is sort of all I need. Whenever I watched my tied-for-first other favorite movie, Grease, I of course was entranced by Danny Zuko (who wouldn’t be), but felt a “he’s not for you” sort of barrier. He was best appreciated from afar. Also, I watched an interview with Olivia Newton John where she noted how difficult it had been for her to fit into that leather jumpsuit and that was my final confirmation to sort of tap out. Sonny LaTierri was the move.

All to say, I’ve always appreciated more human-looking people. Or, as my friend Sophie puts it: “we like a little dirt in our sandwich.” Maybe a little bit of a self-preservation tactic to never feel like I have to be something I’m not?

I can work with this.

Watching as a child, Golda and Tevye were the couple I imagined would eat trail mix together and wonder if there is a God. And that always sounded great to me.

Now, as painful as it might be, let’s set the two VHS tapes down and flash forward to 2026:

Tevye is suddenly everyone’s type (i.e. West Wilson, and I’m being very nice to West Wilson when I say that. Using him as a reference mostly because you won’t know what I mean when I say “the two guys I just saw getting coffee who should be on their knees begging for my company) and has therefore been ruined. West Wilson would want to date me if the internet didn’t exist.

I, a grown adult woman who could pass for a 21 year old at best, rolling around in my calf-length sleeping bag of a coat and fleece pants and sometimes hiking boots because I think they look cool, isn’t going to cut it.

It’s not groundbreaking to say we’re in the midst of a connection crisis, I’m just feeling it very acutely in this specific way.

After a weekend spent with people or things that matter, I am the feminine ideal. The soul-searching, meaning-making siren that every man aged 28-45 (I’m casting a wide net these days) is looking for.

Deep down, one divorce later, that might prove to be true. But in the meantime I must ask (and scream to the heavens): Where have all the Mandy Patinkin’s gone:

I want to talk about life and go on a walk and make weird snack mixtures to take on said walk. I want to talk about why we’re here and if it matters and why it matters. (If you or your aunt know a man who is kind and might like the sound of this and me please get in touch).

Thanks as always for reading, now go play or lay outside.
💗Ariella + Fran