Honoring the Jankiness From Whence I Came

I have really exciting news, for me at least… Harper Collins / HarperWave is going to publish The Fuck It Diet book in early 2019.

This same week I found my old blogspot blog that I started back in junior year of college. It was called Non-Quick Oatmeal because I believed in slow food. This was back when I knew I loved to write and was also trying to legitimize my obsession with food.

So the site started as a terrible, terrible food blog, with dark pictures taken on my flip phone.If you read any of the 2009 and 2010 posts (don’t), you will regret it and be bored to tears. However, it is some pretty solid support for the concept of just starting, even when you have no fucking idea what you are doing.

The more I wrote, the more I found out that my talent and passion was NOT writing about “how crispy nachos were”, but instead, the stories before and after the nachos. And luckily for the 4 friends who read my blog, it started becoming more of a weird essay situation, and not a food blog anymore.

I remember thinking, “ugh I really love writing. I wonder how I could become a real book writer where I just write funny essays and never have to leave my house again. In the very least I wonder how I can have like, 40 readers instead of 3 and a half.”But I didn’t know how.

So I just kept writing and having to leave the house.

Starting The Fuck It Diet site was a totally different situation. I wasn’t trying to do anything except share some REALLY IMPORTANT SHIT I WAS LEARNING. I wasn’t trying to be funny or entertaining. The Fuck It Diet wasn’t supposed to be funny. I was so serious. FUCK IT. FUCK THIS. WHY ARE WE COUNTING ALMONDS.

I was anonymous. I didn’t want anyone who I knew in my real life to know I was writing about this. My name was Caroline Haagen, (as in Haagen Dasz). It was beyond me. I just had SHIT TO SHARE AND IT FELT VERY IMPORTANT AND SERIOUS.

This whole thing was also decidedly NOT THE ORIGINAL PLAN. I didn’t want to be a warm and fuzzy self-love body-image teacher. I wanted to be a BEAUTIFUL BROADWAY ACTRESS. BUT NO, LIFE HAD OTHER PLANS, AND THERE I WAS NAMING MYSELF AFTER ICE CREAM TRYING TO LEARN HOW TO EAT RICE AGAIN.

For a long time I thought that my regular facebook/nonquickoatmeal/email writing voice was the opposite from my “teaching you to not be so fucking miserable” voice of TFID. Maybe it was. I don’t know. All that matters is that now they are not separate. They have been joined. They are two that have become one. And I now spend my social media energy and time on instagram trying to perfect this union with varying degrees of success.

So I would just like to take a moment to revel in the mysteries of the universe, to honor the deep jankiness I started from, and to be amazed that now I get to have a book deal writing a funny book about pseudo-eating disorders.

All the proof I need of god

When I was 9, we got our first printer and it never worked.

It would make sounds and then — nothing.

It turns out, we didn’t know how to set it up from within the computer settings. Only later did my uncle tell us the setting was set to “fax” and not “print”.

But in the meanwhile I just felt like the tech gods were against me. Like I was technology-cursed. Everyone else could print things, why couldn’t I!? WHY DO YOU MAKE SO MUCH SOUND WHEN I PRESS ON, BUT THEN NOTHING WHEN I CLICK PRINT?!

So I decided to pray. It was my only option, I had tried everything else.

I prayed to Mary, mother of God, of course, because she was a girl and the only one who could understand me.

“Please. Please dear Mary. Dear Mary, please print this Kid Pix picture. I JUST want to print this rainbow squiggly line and pink circle. Please prove to me that you can heal all. Hail Mary full of grace…”

And it printed.

It printed my Kid Pix picture – one time. Even though it was set to ‘Fax’.

It never worked again.

So ever since then I have believed in miracles.

And ever since then, the sound that the printer makes me feel the presence of a girl God who appreciates rainbow squiggles.

Meditation and All of It’s Eventual Benefits.

Over 5 years ago, on December 29th, 2011, just days before what I refer to as my fuck it diet birthday bathroom mirror epiphany… I wrote this post. As a joke. About meditation. That old, questionable blog filled with typos is turning into the gift that keeps on giving.

These days, I “meditate” for 15 minutes a day. I have not yet today, but I will.

I have been doing this for only 2 weeks — so it has not yielded its amazing results yet.

So far it is just another task. Another way to pass my idle days of nothingness, coffee drinking, and “20 minute vitamin-D” walks. I am in Pennsylvania for 3 more days while I still have a “job” doing my shows at night. Soon my grueling work of afternoon babysitting and stressing over the auditions I did not attend, will begin again in NYC.

These are some of the meditation results I am hoping for: peace of mind, peaceful thoughts, happiness, amazing confidence, robotic indifference to my problems, physical beauty, glowing health, money, creativity, physical beauty, love, laughter, and physical beauty.

None of these have happened yet, but I have high hopes and even higher standards for my new and improved life.

It has become clear to me that all the noble and difficult things I do to try and improve my life are very selfish at their core, but I think that is true for many people. Or at least I tell myself to selfishly feel better.

These days I eat my buttery diet of psychotically and obsessively whole foods in order to attain brilliant health that everyone will be envious of one day.

I go for my daily walk in the sun to exercise a little bit, but not so much that I am annoyed, so I will be able to label myself as both lazy and healthy all at the same time.

I do a set of 15 girly push-ups once a week for the same reason.

I don’t drink a lot of alcohol anymore because I want to feel amazing when I wake up.

I gave a donation to a few Christmas charities a few weeks ago (I hear that if you give your money- you become rich by the laws of karma. See? Selfish.) But I am ok with it, because otherwise I may never do anything for anyone else, and then where would I be?! I would have no friends!

Then again, why else would I eat well (minus the entire $5 dark chocolate bar I ate in my bed last night) and exercise moderately and not be an alcoholic? For someone else? For my parents to be proud of me? For my unborn children!? I don’t know the answers to these questions, but again I am hoping that through meditation I will be able to answer all worldly and other-worldly quandaries.

Actually, in a very roundabout way, I guess I kind of do some of these self-improvement projects for my very hypothetical unborn children. Because if my children are horrible, then that would be very annoying to me, especially if I am still in an unimproved, un-enlightened state because I didn’t meditate enough in my youth.

Coffee + Meditation

One last thing I have to say about meditation is that I know I will be very good at it one day. Because I make it VERY hard for myself to be in any state of peace by drinking a LOAD of coffee right before I meditate.

This seems counterintuitive – and – it is. But I assume it is also really flexing my relaxation muscles.

That is all for today, for I must go meditate. If I don’t, my future amazingness is at stake.


Attention You Christmas Whores

It is November 2nd.

You are not allowed to start your jazz-fueled christmas-ennui until November 25th.

Then, on that lonely and drizzling Black Friday, you can listen to Mel Tormé’s version of Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas and cry your eyes out.

Cry – and consider moving to Canada where at least your tears would freeze in your eyes like they’re supposed to, instead of being fucked up by climate change.

But at this point… in early November, you are supposed to be focusing on Thanksgiving. Focus on hoping that THAT day will make you feel less lost and cold, but not quite cold enough.

Right now you still have a chance to hear how thankful your people are for you, while charmingly carving turkey and playing touch football in the crisp breeze while you wear a sweater that could have been knit by Mrs. Weasley.

Now is still the time for cornucopias, NOT the love actually theme music.

Thank you.

Travel Log

I just got back from Europe with my mom and sister. I didn’t have my computer, but I did occasionally take notes in my notes app on my phone. I have copied and pasted them here for you.

Zurich, June 17th, 9:30 am, 3:30 am EST

Oh hey. My mom slept on the floor of the plane under the seats.

We learned, when we just tried to order coffee in the Swiss airport, that we don’t even know how to say Hello in German.

I’ve already tried to say gazundheit instead of however you say hello.

I used sheer intuition to order our coffees and I got it all wrong. We also just ate a pretzel sandwich.

9:33 am

Do they speak French here?

I don’t know how to say anything in German except for BIRD. Vogelard. (Spelling?) I learned that from Seussical the Musical.

We also have no data and no wifi which means we don’t exist.

We have no German language book.

We have no maps.

We only have intestines full of plane food, and pores filled with organic eyeliner that transferred from eye, to eye mask, to pores.

On the plane, I overdosed on melatonin and fell asleep for 20 minutes.

I also peed about 8 times during the 7 hour flight because we are hoarding water as if we will never drink again. 6 of those 8 bathroom trips I did with no shoes on, because I am a germ-badass.

I also sneezed about 40 times in the plane onto my moms legs as she lay below me on the floor of the plane.


10:00 am Switzerland Time, 4:00 am EST

Now I am sitting on the toilet in the airport, getting some peace and quiet. We are just hanging around, not moving forward, mostly cause we don’t know how.

I am not complaining about being here, I love that I’m here, I’m having a good time even though my eyes are red and my stomach hurts. I’m happy to be in here, but we still don’t know what we are doing.

I’m gonna go wash my face.

“4:20 am”

Maybe my pores are this black every day but I just don’t notice because I keep my lights really dim around my apartment. I only look at myself by the dim glow of christmas lights. And let me tell you, it helps. Wanna think you’re pretty? Just don’t use real lights.

Nothing is as horrifying as the glow of iridescent Swiss airport bathroom. It’s brighter in Switzerland than in normal Europe, I bet you anything.


Sometimes when I’m exhausted, I become worried that it’ll result in irreparable damage to my health and skin and adrenals. That my adrenals will work so hard and suffer so much that I’ll die or be extremely maimed forever, and then… I remember Harry Potter.

He had to do so much on so little sleep, so many battles, so much adrenaline, and he never had a health problem, ever. So…

Also, I think about this: if my house caught on fire and burned down in the middle of the night and I escaped and stood outside my house with the news crew wondering why I didn’t grab my bra before I ran out? If have had to be up all night, staring at my burning house, and I’d also feel this tired, only I’d also not have a house. And I’d survive. My adrenals would eventually be fine.

It’d be ok.


Water hoarding.

Later- Still at airport 

My mom just walked into the men’s bathroom.

I am waiting with our bags and should have to pee but apparently don’t. I keep pressing my bladder to see – is there any in there?!?– because I should go again before we catch the long train to Lucerne, but I don’t actually have to. I’ll regret this.

(And btw, Laurence, our lovely Swiss tourism counter lady told us that hello in German is : hallo.)

Lucerne, 2 pm

Everyone in Switzerland is so nice.

We were bumbling through the streets, hitting people with our bags, and a man asked if we needed help finding the hotel (we did) and we couldn’t say anything because our hotel is called Romantik Wilden Mann, and we weren’t sure what that translated to or if we were staying in a brothel.

We’re not.

Venice Italy, June 27 (10 days later)

I know what creature makes spider webs, but what’s a cob?

Authentic Venetian spiderwebs. There are so many.

A photo posted by Caroline Dooner (@doonerbugs) on

Venice Italy, June 28

I think it’s really impressive that corn cobs make little webs in the corners of dirty rooms.

Venice Italy, June 28

Today while I was having lunch by myself next to a canal, I saw two fruit flies having sex on a piece of bread in my bread basket. I didn’t know that fly sex was a thing. I guess I thought they reproduced like worms. 

But no, it was sex.

I swatted at them and they didn’t budge from their spot. So then I poked them and they hopped together to the next piece of bread and continued.

This time they were on the other side of the bread basket and more out of view, so I tried to ignore them and went back to my clam spaghetti. I looked back about 5 minutes later and they we’re still there, still going.

5 more minutes later they were gone.

I think this makes it very clear that I respect the cycle of life and all of God’s many creatures .

Venice, June 29th

Why do we all change other country’s names? Who do we think we are?

Why couldn’t we call Italy Italia?

Why couldn’t we call Venice Venezia?

Why can’t we call China Zhong?

Why on earth would Firenze be changed to FLORENCE.

Why do we think our rude interpretations of these actual names are better than the real ones?

– Caroline Dooner (NOT Carolyn Donner)

Today, July 3rd.

I’m back.