Blog Archives

I’m Alive and I Smell Fantastic

So, I’m alive.

I know. Thank God, right? The world stopped turning for awhile there, didn’t it subscribers and whoever recently googled “ Lena”? Sorry to put you through that. Also, sorry for a boring intro. The original opening line for my “comeback” post was significantly better.

“My hair smells like mayonnaise.”

Which was true at one point this summer, but has since faded from relevancy, much like Miley Cyrus’ virginity.

I guess I owe you an explanation, both for my extensive absence and my mayonnaise hair. I’ll start with my absence.

In March of this year, I quit my job and ditched my apartment and traveled around the United States volunteering on organic farms. I started a new blog, “” I wrote a farewell post on here and basically called it a day. I’ve been back since late May but didn’t care enough to tell you. And I know it’s been eating you all up inside.

Now for my mayonnaise hair. Since farming I have developed an entirely new approach to my health and beauty. I now eat 80% (ish) local and vegetarian and have made a serious effort to reduce the amount of toxins in my life. I know I sound all new age. You can punch me in the face if you want.

So since early June I have not shampooed my hair, used toothpaste, deodorant, hair products, perfume, some cosmetics, household cleaning products, etc. But I am squeaky clean and smell delicious. Here is how:

Hair: I don’t use shampoo. Eff that. I use a mixture of baking soda and water to wash my hair and a mixture of apple cider vinegar and water to condition. I don’t use hair products. I use a homemade hair gel made from organic flax seed, scented with essential oils. I also deep condition on occasion with eggs, coconut oil, or in some cases mayonnaise.

Me after washing my hair with baking soda and conditioning with a free range egg

Me after washing my hair with baking soda and conditioning with a free range egg


Deodorant/perfume: I still use deodorant. I lied for the added drama. But it is homemade, made out of coconut oil, arrowroot powder, and baking soda. And I still smell amazing, using perfume made from water, witch hazel, and sweet orange and lavender essential oil. According to my brother, I am almost a Wiccan. I take that as a compliment.

Toothpaste: I still brush my teeth obsessively. That will never change. Except now I use a mixture of coconut oil and baking soda with peppermint essential oil.

Makeup: My blush/lip color is made from a mixture of beet powder, cocoa powder, arrowroot powder, and sweet almond oil. My eye shadow is made from cocoa and arrowroot powder. Basically my face smells like a chocolate covered beet at all times.

Household products: Dish detergent from water and castille soap, laundry detergent from water, baking soda, castille soap, and salt, bathroom/kitchen cleaner from an orange peel/white vinegar concentrate.

If you got through all of that without calling me a hippie communist, you’re better than me.

But now that I am back and prepared to start blogging again (maybe) I realize I need to get caught up in the reality of the world around me. Like how we are almost at war with Syria and the word “twerk” exists. I don’t know how or why either of these things are happening, but I don’t like them. And I intend to blog about it…

Next time.


The girl whose writing experience at Dunkin Donuts is much like the Breaking Bad episode about the fly, only far less symbolic and much more about an actual fly.






Leases and Jesse Pinkman, Bitch

Today I signed a lease for a new apartment.

This phrase may not seem important enough to stand alone as a paragraph, however in my limited world, signing a lease is much a kin to a successful surgical operation to separate conjoined twins. Accept of course, much more impressive.

psh…child’s play

Why? Well because I’m psychotic. Because I fear commitment the way most people fear cancer or American Idol result night.  I live in constant fear that if I commit to something, anything, I will have to miss out on the opportunity for something better. Howie Mandel would make me his bitch.

But it’s different with this apartment. Sure there are cigarette holes in the carpet, and the bedroom is smaller than a French prison cell, but the second my landlord-to-be told me the apartment was most recently rented to a heroin addict crack dealer, I knew it was meant to be. How? Two words.

Jesse Pinkman.

It’s not that Breaking Bad has changed my life, but rather, Breaking Bad has completed my life, and meth-addict turned heroin-addict Jesse Pinkman had a large part to do with that. It’s not just his ghetto speak and unnecessary attraction to Big and Tall clothing sizes that feed my will to live, but the sensitive interior beneath the surface of his crack-head stupor.

Sooo naturally when I heard my new digs is a former drug haven, my eyes glazed over and within hours I took the apartment. Needless to say I will need some sort of security plan. I’m thinking I’m going to pull a Home Alone, and whenever someone knocks on my door, simply play this:


The girl with the lease, bitch