I survived my big, scary medical procedure!

done doneLast week, I blogged about needing to get a colonoscopy and endoscopy to confront my chronic stomach issues once and for all. As you can imagine, this was the most personal story I’ve ever published, and I share loads of intimate details about my life online. I’ve written about heartbreak, relationships of all kinds, love, and professional woes as a way to sort out unresolved problems. Those posts were intended to help others, but they were very much for me as well. Writing about my colonoscopy, however, had nothing to do with me. I made the announcement in hopes of encouraging others to be proactive about their health. A colonoscopy is about as taboo as it gets because we exist in a culture that denies women have functioning digestive systems, and I wanted to address just how dangerous and repulsive that attitude is.

I debated waiting until after my procedures to write the post. Then I realized I could write two articles on the same topic: One about the drama leading up to it and another about the experience itself. It took lots of courage to agree to the procedures, even though I knew I needed both, but the preparation day is no walk in the park either. I can say I survived my intense procedures, which required me to go under and fast for more than 24 hours, and here’s how I did it.

The procedure took place Thursday morning at a prestigious medical center in Beverly Hills, and I had to start preparing on Tuesday night. My boyfriend got home late from work, but we had just enough time to enjoy a meal together. My cutoff for eating solids was midnight, so during dinner, I kept looking back at the clock to ensure I wasn’t cutting it too close.

“You still have some time,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

The next morning, I skipped our usual smoothie and coffee breakfast routine, as I needed to avoid all solids and red or purple colored drinks until my procedure. I made some work calls and nursed two bowls of chicken broth, oddly satisfied with the taste. It wasn’t until noon that the hunger emerged, and going to Mimi’s Cafe with my mother (who came down from northern California to support me), made my stomach growl even more. I ordered tea and drank two bottles of lime green Gatorade, my only source of calories. I text messaged my boyfriend to say just how long the day felt without any food in my system.

Wanted this so bad all day
Wanted this so bad all day

By 3 p.m., I started feeling very weak, so I chose not to push it by answering too many work emails. I tried watching TV in my mom’s Beverly Hills hotel room, but the images of food on so many channels were tough to look at. I didn’t dare turning on the Food Network. Ironically, my former coworker Emma texted me to say she was at Chipotle, which reminded her of me since my obsession is basically common knowledge among everyone who meets me once. Heck, it’s part of the reason my stomach lining is in such a bad place (not Chipotle’s fault, my fault for mistreating my insides for so long). Emma had no clue I was fasting, but just the word Chipotle was too much. I couldn’t stop thinking about how hungry I was. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t even bedtime yet. All I wanted was to fast forward to the next day and scarf down whatever I could find.

Of course, a really awful thing needed to happen before all that. Part of the colonoscopy process is drinking a solution that cleanses your intestines. Everyone told me this would be the worst part of the whole experience. You’re essentially living in the bathroom for hours so the doctors can have a clear look at your stomach.

By 10:30 p.m., my mom and I relaxed in front of “And So It Goes” On Demand. I looked away whenever Michael Douglas’s character took a bite of something on screen, and I kindly asked my mom not to bring up food until after my procedure.

“The free breakfast here is so good,” she’d said. “I’m sorry you have to miss it.”

I consumed tons of fluids until midnight, when my cutoff for liquids of all kinds, water included, began.

I woke up around 6 a.m. with intense thirst. I sleep with my mouth open, so you can imagine how dehydrated this makes me. Right around that time, my boyfriend’s mother sent a text wishing me luck, and I told her how badly I wished I could have a glass of water. Having been in my shoes, she sympathized and assured me I could stick it out until the afternoon. I went back to sleep and dreamed of eating chips, steak, mac n’ cheese, and burritos. I woke up relieved I hadn’t eaten before the procedure, but sad I couldn’t just stuff my face already.

A couple hours later, we headed to the surgery center in Beverly Hills. I went in for a colonoscopy with another lady who seemed fond of botox and Juicy sweats, and I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to my mother before they took me back to the patient area.

The medical assistant asked for a urine sample before bringing me over to my rollout bed, gesturing towards the hospital gown and towel on the cotton white sheet. She gave me some privacy to remove my clothes, and I remember being shocked by the warmth of the gown and towel. When I laid down on the bed, she verified a few things on my file. She asked if my birthday was correct and I nodded.

“I knew you were a Leo,” she said. “I could tell the second you walked in here.”


“Your hair. The way you carry yourself. I’m a Leo too, but I was born in August,” she said.

“I was supposed to be born at the end of August,” I told her. “But I showed up at the end of July instead.”

“You were ready to be here.”

“Too bad my parents weren’t. They didn’t even have a crib at that point.”

I got really uncomfortable when she told me to put my hair in a shower cap. They removed my glasses as well and suddenly I felt unbelievably vulnerable. In came the anesthesiologist, a tall guy with a goofy disposition that made me nervous given the nature of his role, and another nurse. I panicked when the anesthesiologist confused me with the botox lady, visualizing him giving me the wrong dosage and accidentally ending my life. This is how quickly I jump to ridiculous conclusions. I know in my heart it’s nonsensical, but when I’m on a roll, nothing stops the racing, catastrophic thoughts that flood my head. Add to that a florescent lit surgical room, rollout bed that feels like cardboard, and gown that doesn’t tie in the back and you’ve got one distressed neurotic patient.

Where was my doctor? Who were these people talking at me all at once? How could I pay attention to the anesthesiologist’s spiel when I had a tight rubber band wrapped around one arm and a needle approaching the other? Inexplicably, the tears poured down my cheeks and I started hyperventilating.

“What’s the matter?” the nurse asked. “We do these all the time.”

“I just want it to be over,” I wailed.

“It’s OK, she’s a nervous person by nature,” the Leo medical assistant said, inching the needle closer to my right arm. “Don’t look down.”

“I’m trying to distract her,” the guy said, and that’s when I got the injection. Fast and easy. The tears subsided as they rolled me into another room, and I completely relaxed once I saw my doctor. I know him, I thought. It’s all going to be OK.

“Hi,” I said.

“How are you?” he asked.

“All right,” I said, hoping he couldn’t tell I’d just been sobbing.

The last thing I remember is laughing about the “funny hats” the doctor and anesthesiologist were wearing. Next thing I knew, I was awake in the patient room and the procedures were over. I was done, and my results looked good. There was a biopsy, as well as a confirmation of my gastritis and some inflammation on my esophagus, but the doctor was optimistic.

When it ended, I inhaled baked potato soup and mac n’ cheese at Corner Bakery. I’ve never been happier in my life to eat, not just because I’d been fasting for more than a day, but because my results came out fairly positive. As far as I knew, I didn’t have an ulcer. I didn’t have colitis. There wasn’t even a polyp. Just gastritis and non-severe inflammation, the cause of my bleeding and constant burping for more than a month.

Out of the woods!
Out of the woods!

For the rest of my life, I have to avoid consuming excessive amounts of certain foods. Anything acidic is going to upset my stomach, so I have to watch the coffee, alcohol, and tomato intake. As the doctor said, I need to have a very “bland” diet from now on. My roommate used to say that I have a very mellow pallet, and perhaps it wasn’t about being a picky eater all along.

“When you were little, we used to make fun of you for having such boring dietary preferences,” my mom joked. “But maybe that whole time, you knew deep down that you could only handle basic foods.”

“That’s probably true,” I said. “Now let’s go to Target so I can buy Taylor Swift’s new album.” I needed to reward myself. In the words of Swift herself, I was “out of the woods.”


This is my last month to wear fun clothing :(

Even though it’s my birth month, I’m glad July is over. The suffocating heat appears to be behind us and fewer people are bringing out the FOMA in me with their showy vacation photos and engagement announcements. We get it, you have an awesome fiance and/or tons of money and can run off to cool places like Hawaii while the rest of us try to work in an overheated office. I really needed that reminder moments after my office’s air conditioner gave up on a 100+ degree day.

I can’t knock on these folks too much though, as I’m apparently going to Vegas in a couple weeks now that I have time to enjoy myself, let alone weekends. I like to go to Sin City every year, especially when the desert is still blazing hot. With absolutely nothing to do this month, I can actually visit Vegas … and then face the reality of my aimless, wannabe MPDG existence. I should probably worry more about my situation, but we all know I’m always anxious anyway, so a little relaxation is good for me. I got my teeth cleaned today, and after the dental hygienist finished doing damage control (I almost cried during the procedure, BTW. I’m not doing enough for my health!), she said it’s clear I grind/clench a lot. That, of course, is a result of stress, so the less of it I can have, the better. Everything works out in the end for fun-employed Jessica Day in “New Girl,” so I’m trying to stay optimistic. I know, I know. I’m not Zooey Deschanel, but can’t a girl dream?

Seriously Zooey, can we be like those girls on Disney Channel original movie "Wish Upon a Star" and switch places? :)
Seriously Zooey, can we be like those girls on Disney Channel original movie “Wish Upon a Star” and switch places? 🙂

Anyway, that excursion should be lovely, and thankfully I don’t have to wait until I get to Vegas to wear awesome summer and desert attire. August is pretty much the last month in which I can walk around the city in a sundress of pair of shorts, so I’m going to make the most of it, even though this is theoretically my last year of having to “dress for the weather.” No more ugly, boner-killing frumpy jackets in 2014 — I should be soaking up the sun in LA by then. I’ll miss you all terribly, but let’s be real. You couldn’t escape me if you tried. My internet presence won’t allow it.

I’m not much of a fashion blogger, and I never will be, but I shop more in than summer than any other time of year, and I hope some of the cool accessories I’ve added to my collection can inspire you to have some more fun with your look and embrace the warm  month of August. I used to make fun of fashion writers/fashionistas, but if NYC has taught me anything, it’s that you can use your style as a form of self expression and art. When I put my outfits together, I want every little piece — my earrings, scarves, headbands/headdresses, necklaces, bracelets — to serve a purpose for the overall presentation. I don’t always match or look my best, but more often than not, I love the fashion choices I’ve made, as they do say a lot about my personality. The flowers I stick in my hair and heart shaped sunglasses I just got should show you I gravitate toward a more playful look, and sure they’re not necessarily professional or going to prove to anyone that I can be serious, but they depict what I want to tell the world about myself.

I won’t be able to sport some of my new purchases come October, so scroll through them now while they’re still timely and appropriate:

From Fred Flare(Fred Flare, $12)

Taylor Swift Keds

ked(Keds, $40)

keda(Keds, $40)

(Urban Outfitters, $1.99 clearance)


(Fab.com, currently out of stock)


(OpenSky, $48 full retail price)


(OpenSky, $9 final clearance)


(ModCloth, $10)


(ModCloth, $12)


(ModCloth, $4.99)


(Uniqlo, $29.90)

uniqd(Uniqlo, $5.90)

Lots of fun pastels, right? I won’t wear anything else. Keep your black dresses and grays — I’m interested in brightness.

The following photos aren’t technically of articles of clothing, but I was stoked to receive these fragrances for my birthday last week. Who loves having a roommate in the beauty industry?! THIS GUY. I now own all of Taylor Swift’s perfumes, including her newest release, “Taylor.” Laugh all you want at my appreciation for T-Swift, but not only is she a great pop star, but an exceptional business woman. All of her productions are high quality, from her colorful Keds line to her Elizabeth Arden perfumes to her Walgreens/Duane Reade partnership. A friend recently joked that no one could ever get positive male attention wearing Taylor Swift perfume (or anything, for that matter), but I assure you the opposite is true. I’m complimented on “Wonderstruck” all the time, and when I tell people T-Swift made the fragrance, they’re usually stunned. One guy went so far as to say to me, “I hate her, but her perfume is awesome.”

Taylor Swift's perfumes
Taylor Swift’s perfumes

I also got fragrances from Philosophy and Christina Aguilera … I’m basically set for life, so I honestly have no excuse not to smell great 24/7:


Have you all enjoyed the summer? Let me know in the comments, and remember, wear fun, light clothing while you still can!

What the heck just happened to me in the gym locker room?!

miss-usa-2013A couple of days ago, I realized it had been a while since I’d shared any unusual NYC stories. Well, more like two weeks, as I was called Taylor Swift, serenaded, and cursed out all in a 20 minute period late last month. Besides that, I haven’t had many uncomfortable weird encounters with strangers recently, so I was startled and unprepared when a short Asian lady essentially accosted me in the gym locker room this afternoon.

Just as I was about to leave the room to hop on one of the treadmills, the woman screamed, “Hello, darling!” from the sink, where she’d been washing her hands. I smiled and greeted her back, but before I knew it, she was in my face and grabbing my wrists, getting them wet.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately,” she said, further confusing me since we’d never met. “I think you need to be Miss New York. You’re tall and beautiful and will take home LOTS OF MONEY.”

“Um, okay,” I replied. “But I’ve had my chosen career path for a while, and that’s not it. I already have a job and am pretty happy.”

“You want lots and lots of money, trust me. That’s what life is all about,” she went on. “Just don’t share with your mother, unless she’s sick in the hospital. You need to be Miss New York.”

Staring at the woman’s cap and fanny pack, I tried not to laugh. She sounded shallow, selfish, and delusional all at once. Not to get down on myself or anything, but if I’m the best NYC has, the beauty industry is in trouble. I take good care of myself and go the extra mile for my appearance, but if I wanted to be a pageant queen, I would have had to start working towards it decades ago. Really. I love carbs way too much to be competitively thin, and I’m just about as accident prone as they come, more so than Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality. I’ve never had an interest in modeling, and all the cash in the world wouldn’t change that.

“I’m not following you,” I said. “I don’t really know what we’re talking about anymore.”

Squeezing my wrists and getting closer to me, she started to whisper. Though a full foot taller and much younger than she, I was beginning to feel afraid and even vulnerable. After all, we were the only two in the room, and she’d been slowly backing me into a corner. I gulped, becoming more worried by the second. Maybe it’s because I’d just re-watched the Freaky Friday trailer and am superstitious and silly enough to think maybe old Asian ladies have a special touch or something.

How did she know that I’ve thought about giving a ton of money to my mother before should I become wealthy? I mean, I even documented that in response to an old dating site question about what I’d do after winning the lottery. “Pay off my mom’s house and let her retire” was my answer, so yeah, that coupled with the fact that a stranger was literally pulling me and speaking in a low, knowing voice seemed very unsettling.

“Get plastic surgery, too,” she said. “I take out appendixes at Lenox Hill and want you to come work for me. You start out as receptionist and then become doctor.”

“Wait, I thought you wanted me to be Miss New York?” I said. “Now a doctor instead?”

“Yes, you will be very rich, rich enough to get pearl teeth,” she said before pulling down her bottom lip to show me her own chompers, which actually looked pretty white and healthy for belonging to an elderly person. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. “I need new teeth. I’ll bring you a job application tomorrow. You going to be here at the gym?”

I’m doing the Sunday shift tomorrow, but given the peculiarity of the situation, I lied.

“Yeah, I’ll be here.”

“Great. You will be a doctor before you know it,” she said, punching me in the shoulder rather aggressively. Then she was out the door, leaving me totally confused near the sink faucet, which she’d left running on full blast during her entire spiel.

The moral of the story, kids, is that you can’t just become Miss America or a doctor in your mid-twenties. I’m turning 25 in less than two weeks, and though I definitely want to go into screenwriting and novel writing someday, I’m not naive enough to believe I can just fall into any field at this age, especially not one requiring a decade of intense schooling or dramatic physical makeover. Maybe she’s having regrets about the way she’s lived her life and is hoping to fix them through a random fellow gym member who might actually have some time left to make a career 180, but everyone should be able to have their own path, and if mine includes loads of money, great, but that’s not why I’d like to eventually write books and TV shows.

So, Mallory Hagan, you can have the Miss NY title. I’m not going to try to steal your crown Miss Congeniality style, but the kooky lady from today might, so be careful.


Can we just talk about my really weird day for a moment?

Yesterday, my trusty coworker Alex g-chatted me to say he was certain I looked like Peppermint Patty as a kid. He’d never seen young photos of me, but after I sent him one that was both adorable and cringe-worthy, he turned it into this:


Scary, right? I had the bangs, freckles, pale skin, orange hair, and pageboy cut and everything! I looked pretty happy for a kid with giant teeth (that’s no longer the case due to all my overnight grinding and clenching), perhaps because I knew I’d have braces in a few years. I didn’t particularly like my look, but it’s hilarious how much I resembled the dorky Peanuts girl for so long! Not anymore, I hope:

The kids and grandma, Christmas 2012
The kids and grandma, Christmas 2012

After Alex put together the side-by-side pictures, my day started getting even weirder. I kept waiting for it to rain, as the forecast included thunderstorms and torrential showers, but NYC only got some sprinkles. On my way to my work happy hour, which I never ended up attending for reasons that will soon become obvious, I found myself in three bizarre situations involving passersby.

My umbrella in hand on the sidewalk, I tried to navigate around a large crowd of people surrounding a bar in Chelsea. None of them would move, and I accidentally swatted a lady with my umbrella as such. Turning around to apologize, I got a close-up of the victim: a snarling short woman who couldn’t have been more than 5″1. I’m much taller, but about as intimidating as a snail. I was in trouble. 

“You bitch!” she screamed, drawing stares from everyone around us. I gulped, preparing to enter full apology mode.

“I’m so, so, so sorry. It was an accident, I swear,” I said, trying to understand her frustration. I’d be livid if someone nearly took my eye out on the damp, muggy streets of NYC.

Once our eyes met, her expression softened, as if she could immediately see just how much of a non-fighter I was. I may get riled up a lot on this blog, but I oppose senseless violence more than almost anything else and would lose miserably in a physical altercation. I was willing to just take a verbal beating and get going.

Suddenly I was surrounded by the men outside the bar, and for a second, I worried they were all going to gang up on me for my faux pas. Just then, a pit bull, who apparently belonged to the woman, emerged from the doorway, seemingly curious about its owners shouts. I glanced at the lady’s face, which appeared unscathed, before continuing my journey to the bar. I didn’t want a spat or to make a scene. I just wanted to relax with my friends/coworkers, so I took off.

After that, I was in a weird mental place, not to mention nervous about going on a movie date later on, so I chose not to attend my office happy hour. I’d only be able to stay for ten minutes, and I hadn’t eaten anything, so I walked from 9th Avenue to 2nd Avenue in the light rain, my dangerous umbrella in hand.

I’ve been known to have weird luck with umbrellas, so it didn’t surprise me when the odd situations continued piling up that night. When I walked by Penn Station, two men sang their own version of Rihanna’s “Umbrella” to me, belting out, “Can I stand under your umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh, under your umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh.” I laughed, but almost immediately after that, the wind picked up, so I had to hold tightly onto the umbrella and the bottom of my dress. It’s not easy to do, but I’ve reached the point in which I honestly don’t care who witnesses me flashing Manhattan anymore. Go ahead and laugh if you see my underwear. It’s the story of my life.

When I was ten minutes away from the theater, another random guy pointed at me and yelled, “OH MY GOD! IT’S TAYLOR SWIFT!!!” She sure pulls off the tall, lanky blonde look well, so a T-Swift comparison is always fine by me:

t swill


By the time I made it to the east side, I had fifteen minutes to spare before meeting up at the cinema. I hadn’t eaten in hours and knew I would be grabbing drinks later, so I decided to buy something small to snack on. I’ve never been a huge pizza person, so I went with Dunkin’ Donuts, where I ordered a chocolate sprinkled donut and banana, both of which cost less than $2 total. I don’t know what compelled me to do this, but next thing I knew, I was inside DD’s single bathroom stall, which didn’t have a lock, desperately trying to stuff my face.

“How did I get here?” I said aloud, too grossed out by the puddles of water on the ground to actually go near the toilet.

Who ever told me it was socially acceptable to scarf down a donut in a Dunkin’ Donuts restroom ten minutes before a date? I said at the beginning of June that I knew I had a weird summer ahead of me, but never in my wildest dreams had I envisioned myself stooping this low.

And yet, I managed to outdo myself seconds later. I had to urinate, so even though there was no lock on the door and I feared being walked in on, I chose  to take the risk. Naturally, a man opened the door in the middle of it all, but I couldn’t find it in me to feel violated or freak out. Maybe that’s what living in NYC does to people: they stop worrying about exposing themselves at their most vulnerable, disgusting, or primal state. After telling him I needed another minute, I took two large bites out of the donut, checked my face in the mirror, and ran a hand through my hair.

“Please tell me tonight is going to be better than the last hour,” I mumbled to myself, not expecting much.

But it did improve. “Monsters University” is hilarious, and what do you know, a short film called “The Blue Umbrella” played after the commercials ended. Given my umbrella luck of the day, the last thing I wanted to see was one of the ineffective, deadly contraptions, but the movie was surprisingly cute. If you can make audiences root for an umbrella and create an adorable “parapluie” love story, you’re definitely going places.


So yeah, the weekend has been peculiar so far, and I still have a Times Square ladies night to look forward to this evening! Wish me luck, but more importantly, hope that it doesn’t rain, because I just can’t take any more umbrella drama. I just can’t.

I have Taylor Swift’s Wonderstruck Enchanted perfume!

Last summer, my roommate got me Taylor Swift’s awesome fragrance Wonderstruck, for which I’ve received a ton of compliments, even from people who dislike the singer:



She just gave me the newer version, Wonderstruck Enchanted!

Wonderstruck Enchanted by Taylor Swift


I’m obsessed! I have more than enough bottles of perfume to last me a lifetime, but that of Taylor Swift is definitely the best. Now I have no excuse not to carry around one of my fragrances with me. Love or hate T-Swift, everything she produces is quality, and her non-musical products are no exception. My spring has already been made!

And I go back to December all the time

Switch -September- for -December- (hey, they even sound alike) and you’ve got my situation, which Taylor Swift explains best in her tune, “Back to December.” I just wish I didn’t have to be punished this much for a single wrong-doing. I don’t want to seem totally lame for deferring to a pop singer, but I’m already pretty vulnerable at the moment, so what’s one more florid move on my part? This goes for more than one person, by the way. It’s unfortunately easy to take others for granted, at least if you’re me:

“So this is me swallowing my pride
Standing in front of you, saying I’m sorry for that night
And I go back to December all the time

It turns out freedom ain’t nothing but missing you
Wishing I’d realized what I had when you were mine
I go back to December, turn around and change my own mind
I go back to December all the time

Maybe this is wishful thinking
Probably mindless dreaming
But if we loved again, I swear I’d love you right

I’d go back in time and change it, but I can’t
So if the chain is on your door, I understand”

Guess who has Taylor Swift’s perfume, Wonderstruck? This guy!

I’ve wanted it for a while, and now I have my own bottle thanks to my very generous roommate:


We’re going to see “The Dark Knight” this evening. I’m surprised it’s still in theaters, but we didn’t particularly feel like watching it in the Aurora shooting immediate aftermath. I still can’t stop thinking about how everything unfolded that day. Hopefully the movie won’t disappoint…or make me sad.

Guess what I’ll be ordering while I still canAn extra large cup of Coke. A large popcorn, too. I’m not too pleased about Nanny Bloomberg sweeping in and trying to dictate the diets of New Yorkers. Next thing you know, he’ll take away Chipotle, and that will be the day I escape this place like a bat out of hell. That said, I need to school myself at the gym tomorrow and Sunday. I really need to work out more than seven times a month. My current routine may seem impressive, but if Michelle Obama can wake up every morning at 4:30 to exercise, I can certainly step up my game at NYSC. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up burritos or ice cream, Nanny Bloomberg. Vegetables do wonders for my skin but are incapable of ever satisfying my hunger, thank you very much.

Anyway, the movie theater should be an interesting place tonight. Last time I went, they were passing out anti-Bloomberg cards and rolling commercials about the ridiculous proposed ban. Loser.


I guess NYC residents don’t have a problem with being told how to eat. Oh well. The city is also home to a lot of great things, like vibrator giveaways and gay pride parades. I must take the bad with the good, and we all know the weather is the former. Fingers crossed I won’t freeze this winter!

Manic Monday: Psycho emails from raging racists, trolls

Last night, a twisted racist named Mario sent me a bigoted email about the Kardashians. To highlight the absurdity of his words, I posted a censored version of his message on my blog. Little did I know, he had more hateful notes to come.

This morning, I opened up my inbox to another email from him. I’ve taken out the horrible slurs, but here is what he said:

To whom it may concern:

This Snooki is nothing more than a drug addict,alcoholic,untalented ‘Slut”.This girl is cetainly no roll model for are teenage girls today ! !This Jersey Shore program is a total disgrace to television viewers.This isn’t the only program that should be removed from the airways. Shows like the Housewives Reality programs on Bravo are nothing but a bunch of middle aged and older gold digging Sluts and Whores looking for a Sugar Daddy.Then of course you have E !! channel with their N—– and white trailer trash like Cocco and Ice Tea,one of the Kardasians Sluts with the … Basketball player and former Playboy Bunny Kendra with her … husband along with their pickin-ninni kid ! ! Where does it stop ?

UPDATE: I’ve erased certain parts of the message, as it is highly offensive. When I tried writing the guy back to ask that he never contact me again, I received an automated response that the listed email address was invalid. What an intolerant creepster.

Here’s another bizarre email I received this afternoon. It makes little sense but is free of racism, so that was a relief:

D >>>—> @

– Mr. Anderson

For even more insanity, read the comments people left on my latest Taylor Swift article. On my Patrick Schwarzenegger piece, one commenter seemed to think he was insulting me by writing, “Next stop for Laura Donovan — TMZ. (How superficial are you, anyway?).” To answer your question good sir, I’d love to someday work for TMZ, but I don’t consider myself superficial. Say what you want about me, but that’s where I stand.

For something a little less TMZ (hah), be sure to read my article on Coker College’s new fitness assessment program, which requires freshmen to have their body fat measured, participate in several physical activities, and determine their physical fitness level. If they’re dubbed out of shape, well, they can decide what to do about that reality.

As I told the doctor who I interviewed in my story, it seems unusual and perhaps counterproductive to give the exam to freshmen before they’ve experienced the inevitable college weight gain. It might be more beneficial to have a yearly assessment to see how students’ bodies have changed over the course of twelve months. Maybe the school will look into that after the pilot program takes off. We’ll see. I was pretty proud of this particular story, so please read it.

To finish out this post, I’ve included the funniest, most random search terms Internet users have Googled to end up at my blog. Here are today’s winning phrases:

girls in tight fitted shirts
when i went through recruitment, i forgot to paint my toes or fingernails
explain phrase “art of getting by”
confessional bar
bum rush
she is the man
social distortion t shirt
friends girls photo
paint nails for sorority recruitment
should i become a yoga teacher?

More to come later, I’m sure…

Beauty hurts, Baldwin gets away with trash talking HuffPo

Need your daily dose of celebrity news? Check out some Daily Caller links for the latest in Hollywood gossip:

1. Alec Baldwin trashes Huffington Post readers…again. PETA speaks out on the matter.
2. Lady Gaga discusses Amy Winehouse’s death, inevitably makes the tragedy all about herself. (Story by Nikki Grey)
3. Cat that looks like Hitler has found a new home!
4. Taylor Swift pays late night visit to Lincoln Memorial after D.C. concert.
5. Charlie Sheen’s character to die on next season of “Two and a Half Men.”

Here’s today’s list of bat-shit crazy Google search terms that people used to arrive at my blog (Note—Some of these are from last month):

roomie burger
jerkoff instructors
daily caller cub laura donovan
בא של נמו
thai food resembling pigs feet
how long do creepers last?
scooter hockey rules
moldy cheese
yoga themed cupcakes
lara logan’s butt (WOW 😦 )
girlfriend study abroad weight gain
february 23rd brother jed daughter punches guy in face
is it socially acceptable for a 60 year old woman to have long hair?
smile teeth arch
fear of not having friends after college
wait for your turn rule; preschool
a another day our dream 80er
italy sex fuk naked (UM?)
postal worker accused of stealing breakup book
“clipped his toenails”
josh and mia at the beach party in princess diaries
bad teacher feet
tv ad’s type are not useful
cameron diaz broken her toe
cubs story with laura love castro
effi laura donovan nee kennemer

Oh crazies, how I love you.

At the moment, my mom is super proud of me because I booked an appointment for a pedicure, which I haven’t gotten done professionally since prom. In high school, I blindly frequently went to the salon for a mani/pedi combo, always wishing I could jump out of the chair and write something instead. Unfortunately, the whole wet nails condition prevented me from doing that. My mom, a former Miss San Diego State, influenced my salon trips, but I realized in college that I was far too lazy to be polished.

This couldn’t have been more obvious than during sorority rush, in which I reluctantly participated as a college sophomore. Some people have filial obligations to earn tons of money. In my family, I had a duty to test the waters of Greek life, which wasn’t for me. I adored Kappa Alpha fraternity, but didn’t have the patience, gracefulness, desire, or fashion sense to join a sorority. When I went through recruitment, I forgot to paint my toes or fingernails. I later found out that the majority of sorority houses will automatically cut a potential new member for failing to get a mani/pedi for the shallow try-out process. I’m so glad I never ended up following in my mom’s sorority footsteps.

At the end of the day, I have a lot of respect for the women who make an effort to look nice on a daily basis. This has never really been a priority for me, as high heels are painful to wear, I’m too type-A to sit around while others paint my nails, and my claustrophobia hinders me from stepping into a tanning salon.

Since my toddler days, I’ve done the bare minimum for dressing well. When I was three years old, I remember crying inconsolably as my best friend Lillie’s mom brushed my matted dark red locks after a fulfilling day at the river. Several minutes into the agonizing experience, I pleaded with Maryanne to please stop untangling my hair.

“I don’t care if it’s messy, you’re hurting me so much,” I said, choking on my own sobs.

“Laura, have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘beauty hurts?'”

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“Don’t you want to be pretty like Belle?” she asked, referring to my favorite Disney heroine.

“Of course,” I said.

“Well Belle wasn’t born beautiful. She has to wear nice dresses, take baths, and comb her hair. If you want to look like her, you might have to shed a few tears along the way.”

Maryanne couldn’t reason with me at the time, but I never forgot what she said. After all, looks were important in my first hometown of Los Angeles, so I spent my early years around people whose lives revolved around shopping, working out, and beach bumming.

At 23, I realize I need to make more of an effort if I want to get ahead in my career, especially on the east coast. I’m going to swallow my pride and walk around in heels at least once a week. I’ll make a trip to the nail salon each month. There’s no chance in Hell I will ever visit the tanning salon, but I’ll certainly continue to get my hair colored every few months. I enjoy highlighting my hair, so that’s not changing. I’ll shop at all the same places but cut down on all the sweaters. As a colleague told me in March, it’s important not to look so cold all the time.

Besides, if I ever go to New York someday, I’ll need to step up my game. There’s no way I could ever blend into that crowd, but I could roam the city with more confidence.

In twenty minutes, I’m retrieving California Crystal from the airport. Unsurprisingly, we text messaged throughout the day. She was in a humorously terrible mood this evening, especially before getting on her connecting plane. An hour ago, she wrote in a text, “Are there a lot of nerds in D.C.? I’m noticing a trend as I board this flight.” As the saying goes, the nation’s capital is Hollywood for the ugly. Luckily for me, I’m drawn to the less-than-attractive nerds, so I fit right in. I’ll fill you in on Crystal’s assessment later this week.