My chicken soup for the soul is a dirty Tito’s martini.

The Cheek 003: deuxmoi is pissing me off and you can shove intuitive eating up your ass.

Chicken soup Martinis and Cigs for The Soul.

This week in my Friday yoga class, one of the students walked in crying—her dog had passed away the day before. She was accompanied by two of her closest friends, and even though she was visibly upset, I was happy to see them. We’re all friendly, and they don’t usually practice on Fridays. One of the friends told me they wanted to bring her to yoga to cheer her up and get her mind off things for a bit. It was heartwarming to see these women drop everything—one of them being a mom and the other a professor—to support their friend in her time of need. It’s what great girlfriends do.

But. But. If I went to my best friend while going through something difficult, and she suggested we go to a yoga class, I’d assume the devil himself had possessed her.

Don’t get me wrong, I love yoga. I practice 4–5 times a week, and it’s like church to me. But if I’m in the trenches—if Shit. Hit. The. Fan.—the only thing you better get me is a dirty martini and a cigarette. If I’m going through it, you better take me to a dark bar so we can gossip about your sister-in-law. You will not catch me trying to sun-salutation my way out of a breakdown, babe.

My chicken soup for the soul is an extra filthy Tito’s martini with blue cheese olives and a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights. A basket of truffle fries wouldn’t hurt either.

…Namaste.

Me on a bad day.

It Never Ends

I can’t believe I’m giving this more attention, but I’m hopeful about the impact the whole Blake Lively and Justin Baldoni saga might have on society. With each new piece of “evidence,” the sleuths seem to be realizing that not everything in life is black and white. Maybe, just maybe, nuance is making a comeback. People are starting to stop taking sides and realizing—get this—that they weren’t there. What a concept!

Have we stopped for a moment to consider that both parties might actually just be… annoying? Narcissistic? Self-centered? Just me? Okay.

And are we over deuxmoi yet? Her takes are beyond irritating at this point. I’m convinced there’s a celebrity running the account. On one of her posts about this whole mess, someone commented suggesting Blake caught feelings, and Ryan got jealous. Is there any proof of that? Absolutely not. But deuxmoi responded by calling it “the weirdest take” she’s seen yet. The weirdest? Out of all the fan theories we’ve endured in this saga? Sure.

I mean, who is she working for?!

Intuitive Eating Is the Diet Equivalent of the Clean-Girl Aesthetic

Don’t hate me for saying this, but intuitive eating isn’t for us chubbas who want to get in shape. I’m not saying intuitive eating is bad—if we all learned to eat that way from childhood, we’d probably be healthier and happier. And sure, if you’re someone who struggles with heavy disordered eating tendencies, like restricting and bingeing, it’s probably very helpful. But if you’ve got weight to lose, I just can’t see how it works.

Most of the women pushing intuitive eating don’t seem to have ever weighed more than 160 pounds. Is it just me, or does it feel like they’re speaking from a place of privilege when they tell us to trust our hunger cues? Can a doctor or dietitian tell me if I’m off-base here? Because as far as I understand it, weight loss boils down to a calorie deficit. And if you’re in a calorie deficit, you’re probably going to feel a little hungry sometimes. So if intuitive eating is all about following hunger cues, wouldn’t that make it nearly impossible to lose weight? Best-case scenario, you maintain.

I don’t love this Ozempic world we’re living in—I’ve been very vocal about that. But maybe it’s time to find a middle ground on weight loss. You’re allowed to want to lose weight without it being considered disordered. I just don’t need lifelong skinnies giving me their woo-woo methods to get there. Thanks!

Kristina’s Dirty Martini

You’ll need:

• Vodka

• Dry Vermouth

• Spanish Green Olives (Just the juice)

• Blue Cheese Stuffed Olives

• Ice

Fill a cocktail shaker with ice and pour in three parts vodka, two parts olive juice, and the tiniest motherfuckin splash of vermouth. Cover the shaker and shake it like your life depends on it. Shake it until it is frosty and your fingers are one shake away from frostbite. Strain it into a chilled martini glass and garnish with three blue cheese-stuffed olives. Enjoy!

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