Friday for Thought: Retirement Funds

Years ago, between American Girl dolls, episodes of Home Improvement and long addition I decided to start a retirement fund. I had opened a checking account and learned to ride a dirt bike by age 8, so for an 11-year old I was would say I was advanced. My parents were invested in my continued development, encouraging my hobbies, athletics and financial security.

Naturally, being as “matured” as I was (and still am, thank you), I found the best, most aggressive investment as possible. I recently read that the younger years are the best time to make more “high-risk” investments.

See? Advanced.

So, I sunk my weekly allowance, meager babysitting earnings and the all-too-often double please to my parents into the obvious:

Beanie babies.

I hit up the local Hallmark Store and scoured every swap meet Dad took me to for those tough to find and/or retired pellet-filled plushes. I begged for a few extra bucks to cover the cost of a $20 Seaweed (the Otter) and protected the sure-to-be goldmines with tag sleeves and caps to ensure my Babies would be protected and in pristine condition. I had a printed, plastic sleeved list of retired, high-value Beanies with highlights. Don’t even get me started on all the Happy Meals I ate for those mini matching Beanies.

And, apparently, I joined the Beanie Baby Club – with printed certificate to prove it.

So, it’s fair to say when I asked my Dad to being my tub of Beanies over I was preeeetty confident that I had several hours of eBaying in my future.

Just the Beginning

What the hell was I thinking? These things crashed faster than the 2009 economy. I would have been better off turning them weeks (days?!) after purchase to return at least some sort of positive profit.

I spent an hour on my bedroom floor filtering through the bears, cats and dogs. Hippity, Hoppity, Floppity — one of these things MUST be worth something. Anything! After I found my Princess Diana bear I thought — BOOM! Dynamite. This is gonna be it.

Next time you want a good laugh, go ahead and search “Princess Diana Beanie Baby” on eBay. Want to know what that “must have” sells for?

Screen Shot 2014-04-25 at 10.40.21 AM

Yah, like $3. Maybe $7. But mostly $3.

So that was disappointing. (See #14 on the Huffington Posts “15 Things That Happen to You When You Start to ‘Grow Up'”)

But not quite as disappointing as realizing that I bought THREE of them. THREE?

How much did I pay for the extra two?

Weren’t those hard to come by?


Reviewing the current value of retired American Girl doll cloths/accessories that would have been a better use of funds. How was I to know that Beanie Babies would fizzle out and die like a dud firecracker?

Since Beanie Babies don’t pay the bills, I am going to transfer some money into that IRA now…before I convince myself that I can retire on shoes and airline miles.

Oh hey! How about these BitCoins…



Hugs for Me!

You know how sometimes you think if you met a celeb you would become automatic BFFs with them? That you would be so laid back and chill about the fact that their name has been splashed across every form of media, social network, etc.? You would be all, hey whoa! but then hold a normal conversation?

Turns out, I’m not that person.
Like at all.

There was that time Bestie and I got to go backstage at the Fray concert in Spokane. We ate Doritos on their tour bus. (#hungry) And had drinks with their family. Then, at 21, I was a more level headed celeb-greater than the mature 29-year old I am today.

Last weekend at Bestie’s bachelorette, a weekend full of sunning, vodka and dancing, we left the club and haphazardly ended up walking next to one of the loudest mouths to come out of Seattle ever. I favorited him right after the “you mad, bro?” picture and instantly became amazed by his skill on the field and accomplishments as a person.

Between the time he told a room of high schoolers the average NFL career is 3 and a half years then “pinched his fingers together, emphasizing the short period. He then lifted his arms out wide to spread his full, 78-inch wingspan” and said, “‘This is the rest of your life. Be prepared.'”(Read the full article from the Daily News here.)

To when he pulled this little Bourbon Street stunt with the Bleacher Report:

…how can you not just love the guy?! I have dreamt of meeting him (literally meeting him has been in my dreams.) And there he was!

Mind. Blown.

My cohort starting yelling, “SEA-HAWKS!” While trying to run after him. I was still in shock, stunned and trailing after her. Naturally I was wearing my favorite [pink] wedge platforms and several vodka grapefruits so I was moving somewhat slower than my runnin’ pace.

We were told, “no photos!” several times. Me being me in my starstruck state said what any fan would say when faced with a no picture dilemma: I don’t want a photo, just a hug!

And you guys, he hugged me.

“Richard Sherman fucking hugged me.” That is the exact text message I sent Boyfriend at 3am when I could not stop obsessing over it.

And because I’m not the calm and low key person I once thought I was, and I don’t think Richard found immediate friendship in my loud, giggly, near tears persona, I naturally tried to log in to my Twitter to tweet about it.

But of course, at 3am trying to download a Twitter app, remember your handle, then your password is virtually impossible for a flaky tweeter like myself.

And of course when you’re a flaky tweeter, you don’t realize that the only time you tweet is when the Hawks are playing and 50% of the time it’s about #25. (PICK SIX! PICK SIX!)

So you definitely probably shouldn’t tweet at him about that hug he gave you that one time in Scottsdale…because he’ll probably think you’re a jersey chaser.

But I did all of that, because even though we didn’t share an immediate and inseparable friendship – you guys – RICHARD SHERMAN FUCKING HUGGED ME.


Did you hear? Today is my birthday. Praise, celebrate, text, post, drink because today is MY DAY! In fact, I have been known to say things like, “but it’s MY MONTH!” or “it’s MY BIRTHDAY WEEK” or the classic, “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!!!!” Phrases that are telling of my combined single-childness and obnoxiousness that my closest friends endure throughout April.

Except my Mom. She embraces and promotes this behavior.

While you may find my birthday attitude a combination of narcissistic + self-centered, I invite you to review the name of my blog and hold your tongue.

So, in honor of me (me, me, me…) here is a list + links + PICTURES of my favorite things:

1. Michael Kors Fulton Moc Flats in Fuschia: because LOOK AT THE FUSCHIA? Don’t these just say, “wear me with jeans!” Also, because I live in Seattle I will tell you that MK’s leather doesn’t lend itself well to rainy days. Like, you might end up with ombre shoes if you aren’t careful. (The good news is you can usually replace them via eBay. #BidsWhileDrinking)

Image2. Everything at Anthropologie, specifically this dress (Vernalis Maxi Dress): ok SPOILER alert, HBD me because I bought it. Yes, yes I know, I didn’t wait and see buuuut you guyssssss all the sizes were selling out and I needed it. I thought if I tried it on in the store in a size too small I would be all, “no way, jose” but instead I lusted for days. And when the store associate (is that what they are called these days?) said, “where are you going to wear it?” I said, “EVERYWHERE” maybe a little too quickly.

Image3. Black Puffy Vest w/ Hood: did I mention I live in Seattle? Where it’s currently 60 and raining [hard]. No, I didn’t wear open-toed wedges because, “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” and I wanted a cute outfit and everything else I had was dirty. Or on the floor. Anyways, it’s time for a new puffy because the one I am rockin’ now is beat up, faded and blah.

PS: if it had faux fur trim, I wouldn’t be mad.

4. Stylish Home Goods: ok, Boyfriend and I are 3+ years into this thing and I am going to call it pretty close to almost permanent. I have been nesting up a storm in his house (#keeper: owns his home), painting rooms, painting furniture, secretly moving in – the usual. And I continually find things that will make his (OUR) house a little more homey. Like this mirror, which is upsettingly no longer available:


Or this summer quilt with shams + throw pillow, which had to be purchased immediately after the aforementioned mirror trauma:

ImageOr these bowls – ooooh these bowls! Anthropologie gets me again with their delicious kitchen goods. Also, can I just say that their online shipping is completely ridiculous? Can I say that? Because it is. I can barely bring myself to buy a $200 dress (bday discount + gift card, cha-ching!) so don’t throw salt in my credit card wound with your $15 shipping. Rude.

Back to these bowls, perfect for ice cream, top ramen or…err..a salad..


5. And finally, my all time Kryptonite: Trophy Cupcakes. Holy Mother of all that is good and pure. My co-worker knows where I stand on celebrating myself and my deep-rooted obsessionlove for Trophy Cupcakes. Not just any ol’ cupcake will do, for if I am going to spend the calories it better be the best cupcake Seattle can give.

Ok, not true. I will definitely eat any cupcake. Anyways, I came to work and found the following:










A cupcake with a crown? AAAAAW. NOM NOM NOM NOM@#!@!

Project Post: Furniture Painting Pt 1

A few months ago I was feeling bored with work and my extra-curriculars. This was before I was in three weddings (what, three?!) and had zero work travel on the books. You would think our Christmas trip to France and Iceland would have left me with plenty to think about, but between my dreams of the Eiffel Tower and cheese – oh, the cheese! – Annie Sloan Calk Paint filled the gaps.

I was out for Thai food with my parents one night when I proudly declared, “I have decided to take up furniture painting!” If you know me, you know I am easily excitable and have a tendency to exclaim things with gusto. But, since the table next to us didn’t know me (at least prior to my declaration) they did not share my parents thrill to my soon-to-be new found hobby.

Anyways, months and months ago, possibly even a year, our friends over at chezerbey* decided to get rid of an Ikea bed frame. Being the furniture hoarder that I am, I was all “WE NEED THAT BED. I SHALL PAINT IT.”

And Boyfriend was like, “Yeahright.” because this bed is a giant ahole. It’s got a lam coat (or something, I made that up) and all these slats that are close together and how was I supposed to sand those?

Details, friends. Details.

Instead of painting it I put it in the guest bedroom and said, “um, that thing can’t be painted. how am I supposed to sand it?!?” (Stupid details.)


Enter Annie Sloan Chalk Paint. ASCP claims no sanding, no priming, no pain in my ass. You’re probably thinking it’s not possible. But dammit, it is!

It’s kind of tough to come by because Annie (first name basis, obvi) only distributes to the select few. Check it, direct from the Annie Sloan dot com:

We like to have a broad range of shops in styles from elegant and chic to rustic and country and more. Our shops are broadly home decorating and include florists and upholstorers for instance. We like our shops to be aspirational and inspirational run by shop owners with a strong understanding of their own style. All sell painted furniture and all run workshops.

OMG don’t you just LOVE that?! I just loooove it. Call me an obsessed freak but before I even bought the stuff I was in love with it. And if you YouTube up some Annie interviews – like this on with Home & Family – you probably will too.

One Saturday later, after spending the morning going ga-ga over all things Sloan, I found myself at the closest store that sells ASCP. For you Seattleites, it’s a place in Kirkland called Haley’s Cottage. There is a Starbs right down the street so grab yourself some caf because, I promise, if you are going to buy ASCP you are going to be in there for awhile. Drooling. Proms.

If you’re not a Seattleite, find a location near you with this badass link.

Did I mention that in addition to being MADE IN THE US of A, ASCP is also low in VOCs so it’s has barely any smell and you can paint inside? Oh, I didn’t? Well, boom. It is.

I knew the colors I wanted from Haley’s Cottage, but that wall of paint cans! the paint sticks! the swatches! the options! It took me about an hour to pick two colors, clear wax and yes, they did upsell me on the Annie Sloan branded brush. (“It’s the best investment I ever made. It’s SO good for waxing!”…they pinned me as an easy target.)

After spending a dollar amount I would rather not put into permanent writing I headed home. I set up paint shop in the office also known as Boyfriend’s Empty Cardboard Box Storage Room. His mom gave us (read: me. Because have you ever seen him with a paintbrush? No.) a thick plastic shower curtain to use a paint drop and it is seriously the best drop ever. I recommend it x1000!

Here’s what you’ll need to get started to pop your Sloan Cherry:

  • ASCP: duh.
  • AS wax: you can buy clear or dark, but, is it your first time? yeah, clear for you, Sloan Virgin.
  • Some form of drop cloth (seriously! plastic shower curtain!)
  • Paint brushes: I use 2″-2.5″ regular ‘ole brushes, just make sure they are clean
  • Optional: $38 wax brush: if you’re a craft sucker like me, you also need this. But I am told a regular ‘ole brush works too.
  • Old cotton tshirt: you’re probably going to want to throw this away after so make sure it’s the one with the worst pit stains. y’know?
  • Tunes: obviously up to you but I would go with the Backstreet Boys Pandora station. I have no shame.

This feels like the longest post of all time. Especially if you aren’t into the furniture painting. So, Pt 2 will cover the process and end result. I know, I know. You’re waaaaaaay excited to see my finished project.

*In the meantime, you can pass some time checking out the Zerbs over at chezerbey and be in awe of them. They take DIY to a whole new, no-fucking-way-I-could-do-that level and it’s awesome.

2014: Huzzah!

This happens every year, did you know that? I sit down and think, “I am going to write more.” Then I tell you (yeah, YOU) that I am going to write more.

And I turn to my co-worker and say, “I AM going to write more.”

Then I don’t.

It’s not intentional. Things like that never are, rather I think we set out each January with new goals and a clean slate. A fresh start that isn’t bogged down by the memory of last year’s resolution(s) and when you decided that a cupcake > the gym and gave up all hope of losing 12 pounds.*

I bet that cupcake was good, though. I freaking love cupcakes.

Generally my resolutions are similar variations of one another:

1. Write more.
2. Gym more.

They kind of sound like yours, don’t they? Do something more or less. Drab.

And as much as I don’t want to resolve that I am resolving to do the things I always resolve to do, the fact is they are both things that I enjoy doing and allow myself to forget. So this year, rather than listing out all of the things you can list out on a fresh medium, I am going to keep it to one simple resolution:

To remember.

I will remember that my time is valuable, and work isn’t my life.
I will remember that doing what I love, whether it be traveling or writing or napping or eating an extra cookie or going to a gym class (yes, they are listed in priority) is important for my well being and mental health.
I will remember that technology isn’t second nature to everyone, and that patience is a virtue best embraced with open arms.
And finally, I will remember that life is too short to be spent dwelling.

Resolve on, friends, readers and weirdos! I hope you have a wonderful 2014 and that you kicked it off with bubbles, sparkles and kisses – I sure did! I totally spent more than$6 on a bottle of champagne, then drank it from a plastic glass.

*Now it’s more than 12.

True Love + Baseball

Here’s the thing, I really love my boyfriend.

A lot.

I love him so much, that when he said, “all I want for my birthday is to go to the Mariners game and dinner!” I figured, suuuuure, why not? They suck (sorry, Ms) BUT I am always game for a $9 beer and some stadium popcorn.

Has anyone else noticed that I get popcorn everywhere I go? I won’t dive into the Trader Joe’s caramel popcorn that I eat half a bag at a time in my car because that makes it ok.

Plus, Boyfriend has been studying for his PE test a lot. So much that it didn’t matter what we did as long as it was something other than me cooking, cleaning and watching NCIS (even though I am ob-sessed). (HashtagActingLikeaHousewife)

If you are from the NW, you are likely very aware of the torrential rain we had this past weekend. It rained, rained harder and then stormed.

I went all Girl Scouts and layered up in my Zella Live-In leggings, two pairs of tall socks, boots, pink plaid button-up under my chambray under my black vest with a puffy hood under my men’s North Face used-to-be-waterproof jacket.

Plus, I had several packages of hand warmers, gloves, a scarf and fleece blanket on my person.

And when we went to leave my building, an older lady (my building has three type of people: older ladies, older gents and students) stopped us and said, “you know, I am going to a game myself how did you dress?”

So I told her.

Then she said, “it’s not like it’s that cold out.”

Um, thanks lady. It might not be “that” cold, but I am guessing that if you went with jeans and a sweatshirt, you might GET cold. Didn’t your mom teach you how to dress for the rain here? Did they even have rain in your day? Gah.

At that moment, this happened:


“It’s raining, babe.” – Boyfriend

Do you SEE THAT? My parking lot IS A LAKE. There were actual RIVERS rushing down the sidewalk during our trek (5 blocks) to the bus stop. At one point I vaguely remember yelling, “WATER IN THE BOOT” but my memory is blurred from the trauma.

Of course, by the time we actually got downtown, Boyfriend’s jeans were sopping and I was all, “I’m not affected by this because I layered well.”

We made it to the eighth inning before we had to leave to meet friends for dinner – and you’d never believe it, the Ms WON.

Since we were celebrating Boyfriend’s birthday, he was the sober-driver. By the end of the night, we found ourselves at a dive bar walking distance from his casa that I have deemed the best dive bar in the history of dive bars. It looks like a tiny barn from the outside but you walk in and it’s all hipsters and Cougars and single old men drowning their sorrows.


Naturally, I locked on to the gianormous poster that said, “HOME OF DAVE SHEA, FIREBALL’S BARTENDER OF THE MONTH” And when the bartender walked up and the guys ordered their ales or something normal, I was all, “ohmygod, are you?!” ::dramaticpauseforeffect:: “DAVE SHEA???

Now, Boyfriend is used to my dramatic antics, weird comments and odd sense of humor that I swear usually only makes sense to me, and this time was no different. He was gawking at me with this weird why-did-I-agree-to-this look that he followed up with a, “do you know him?” (I always run into people I know, maybe it’s a Seattle thing or maybe it’s a I’m-too-friendly thing. Who knows?)

Didn’t know him. His picture was on the poster. Duh.

Obviously my new bartender friend and I telepathically decided to be BFs (barfriends, patent pending) and we were off to the Fireball races.

Since the idea of shooting anything gives me the phantom-gags (verb.; a vomit-like reflex caused by the thought of something; Tequila shots give me the phantom-gags) I sipped on Fireball and decided that my next at-home party-project should be Fireball-soaked cinnamon gummy bears.

If you’re like me, you just thought to yourself, oh-em-genius.

And if you’re my Mom, you’re planning an intervention.

Friday for Thought: World Tourism Day!


(Found this gem of an image on, I need a giant poster in my office, no?)

Happy it’s Friday. I am counting down the days until my next adventure (the French Alps!!). Did I tell you it’s Boyfriend’s first trip abroad? Passports, Brie and romance – oh my!

We are going to have an amazing time “shredding the gnar” in Chamonix, eating our way through Paris and capping our trip off with 48-hours in Iceland. Obvi I will give you deets, pictures and my “Top Things I Ate” list when we get back, but until then, you shall listen to my incessant babble about HOW EXCITED I AM! and HOW IT WILL BE THE BEST TRIP EVER!@$#! (Until the next one…)

Currently, my places to go in 2014 looks something like this:

1. Kauai: no explanation needed. ever.

2. Chile: happy 30th birthday to Boyfriend! more international skiing!

3. The Philippines: this one is ever so slightly out of my comfort zone, but it made the list.

Where are you going in 2014? Wishing YOU a happy World Tourism Day! Au revoir! 


Bra-less Troll Dolls

According to Word Press analytics, 80% of my readers are women.* And on Monday, when I was having what I found to be the most entertaining conversation of all time, I naturally assumed you would, too.

While it seems that gay-men-BFFs are still on the rise for city-dwelling ladies, my equivalent to this is my very good friend El Hefe. While he isn’t gay and doesn’t particularly care about the majority of the information I launch at him (i.e. if we only eat once a day in Vegas, we’ll save so much money) I continue to talk at him.

And, it works wonders on my relationship since Boyfriend usually plugs his ears and starts in on “la-la-la-la” if I use the words uterus, tampon or period in his presence. (Not cramp though, for that he takes pity on me.)

PS – If you ever want to train your sig-other not to do something annoying, in my case fart all.the.time. audibly and in my presence, begin to explain the menstrual cycle. It’s amazing how quickly the farting stopped.

SPOILER ALERT: Yes, the following content is totally about my monthly visit from Flow.

Me: Omg. I’m craving a cheeseburger.

El Hefe: I was last week, I wanted a Red Robin Burnin’ Love burger

Me: Omigod I’m dying

El Hefe: Oh yeah? Because…

Long Pause

Me: I want a vacation.

El Hefe (2:43 pm): I fell asleep in my desk chair for a bit. Eh, my neck is sore now. I think I’m going to go hit golf balls tonight, want to come practice?

More pointless chitchat, mostly surrounding El Hefe’s relationship status. (If you are a red head between 5′-5’4″ and golf, I have the perfect guy for you.)

Me: Cramps. Sorry. (You’re welcome.)

El Hefe: Gross.

Me: Just be lucky that based on my calendar we won’t be traveling together when this is happening. Otherwise, it’d be all ow-this and cramp-that and i-might-vomit and GETMECHOCOLATENOW.

El Hefe: So are you just useless for like 4-5 days every month?
Me: Only the first and second day usually. I get really tired and more cry-y than normal.
Like 98% of movies make me cry instead of 90%.
El Hefe: Being a girl must suck.

Me: Life is really hard.

El Hefe: All that, and you have to sit down to pee.
Me: Don’t even get me started on how much i have to pay to keep THIS (motions to face) lookin’ pretty. You’ve seen me in the morning. This shit isn’t free.
El Hefe: It isn’t really the face that is a shocker in the morning, it is usually the hair. Troll doll, minus the colors.
See the hair-resemblance?

See the hair-resemblance?

Me: I would argue also the lack of bra. I mean I go from 17 to like 35 with the absence of this magical shape shifter.

El Hefe: It does change the silhouette a bit.

Me: When you were in high school, did you know you were gonna be the straight guy that ended up with primarily chick friends?

El Hefe: I was going to say no, but then I caught myself.

*I made this statistic up because I am not sure where to find the true stat or if it’s even offered. I CAN tell you that three people in Alaska read my blog on 9/13. Forreal.

The Mormon State

You guys, listen.

First off, I have to tell you that First Class Bloody Marys are amazing.

Secondly, I have to tell you about my trip to Salt Lake City….SLC!

I had a mere 24-hours in the Mormon State (yes, that is the official slogan). A quick trip to evaluate some stuff for work. This meant I planned on spending my Friday evening alone and shopping.

You might be thinking, did you go see the Temple?? No, I didn’t. I went to T.J. Maxx because you never know what you will find there. Sure enough I found Hudson Collin Skinnies in the wash I have been lusting over AND IN MY SIZE. That almost NEVER happens.

I guess Utes have bad jean-taste because I snatched those right up.

ANYWAYS. This particular T.J.’s just happened to be connected to a Homegoods (same parent company) and since I had never been to a Homegoods, I was all “Cool, I’ll check it out.” with the expectation that “duh, you can’t buy lamps because you have to fly home.” I had mentally prepped myself to be all, “that’s cute, but I can live without it.” because how good could Homegoods really be?

OMG. IT’S SO GOOD. After laying claim to these amazing jeans (#amazeballs, trademark pending) I mozied on over to check out housewares, since the Homegoods was literally connected. Seriously you guy, I just about lost my shit. Ok, yes, I was a little hungry. But it was as if I had found my motherland. Rugs, and lamps, and not one but SEVERAL aisles dedicated to throw pillows.

If given the option, I would have cancelled my reservation at the Sheraton and just stayed there.

I was in the middle of a personal debate about red or blue Le Creuset casserole dishes when my boyfriend called and said, “maybe you should eat…and not spend all of our money…..” (I think he said YOUR money, but I am going to pretend he said our.) My brain was so excited about all of the houseware shit I could buy at such amazing prices I had to force myself to leave.

Luckily, SLC is home to the delicious Ekamai Thai so I was motivated to leave.

I picked up my dinner and headed for the Sheraton, not without getting lost between 2-5 times on my way. Y’know, a typical solo-trip for me. I checked into the Sheraton looking like a bag lady (backpack, overnight bag, T.J. Maxx bag, thai food, San Pelligrino in-hand) and requested a non-first floor room. Because honestly, do you really want to be on the first floor? No one does. Make the whole thing a freakin’ bar. It would probably be more profitable.

I am not sure if it was a combination of my shopping-euphoria, excitement to eat and/or shower or just general Friday-exhaustion, but for some reason I thought I was room 321 not 324. When the elevator stopped, I was that person that said, “oh! Is this me??” after about 3 seconds of no one moving.


I trudged down the hall to 321, excited that I made it to my room before 9pm which meant I could shower AND watch Say Yes to the Dress. Winning!

Key card in, green light, door click open. BAM! Temporary home, I am here!

I opened the door, and it was less BAM! Temporary home and more “why are there shoes on the floor and..”


For the record, it wasn’t like he was standing there in all of his glory. It was entirely NOT like that. That would have probably been less awkward. Instead, he was laying on his side with his butt toward the door. Fruit basket? Not quite, but almost.

Since I am 98% my mother, I squeaked “oh my goodness” and immediately cursed the front desk for playing such a malicious joke. As the door was closing, I heard a woman laugh.


Listen, I barely like to look at my own thighs, specifically from that angle. So, there literally NO REASON anyone should be subjected to excessively pale and hairy thigh-backs with YKNOW.


I checked my true room numbered, scuffle across the all AS FAST AS POSSIBLE and locked myself in.

With the deadbolt.

Then I rolled the office chair in front of the door, just in case.

A Skort? Really?


Let me start by telling you that a few months ago, Boyfriend and I stopped at the Nike Outlet on our way back from somewhere far enough away that we passed some outlets. Anyways, we stopped because he wanted something or other and I like to buy things.

Obviously, I’m more about “oOOoooO how cute” and less “this is so practical…” There is also a far amount of the voices in my head screaming, “SALE! DISCOUNT! BUY!”

And, so there I am tearing around the sale racks of the Nike Outlet squealing and grabbing, unsupervised mind you, when I come across this pink-orange running skirt with attached neon yellow spandex shorts. I’m not sure if I gasped audibly or if that was more of the head-voices, however when I did the extra-discount calculation (“$12.97!!! OMG TAKE MY WALLET!) I B-lined for the dressing room.

Then I bought them and took a hiatus from running.

So, this morning when I packed my running (I’m back in the game!) bag, I was anticipating it being in the 70’s by the time I was able to hit the pavement. This made it the perfect day for my adorable running skort (it says Nike Running on it, don’t judge me).

Ok, here’s the thing. If you have been blessed with thighs that touch (represent, yagirl) you are probably going to see where I am going with this in about two seconds. If your thighs don’t touch, congrats, eat a cheeseburger and go buy yourself some more boots that don’t require stretching or some new phenomenon called “wide-shaft.” (Giggle!) Seriously though, the cheeseburger…

Back to me! I’m a mile into my run when I realize those super-cute, had-to-have-but-only-on-sale spandies were riding up. This began the first of many combination waddle-tugs that involved me trying to pull my inner shorts from my crotch without tripping over the front of my feet. You might ask, why didn’t you stop? Oh, jee, the same reason you don’t pull over when picking your nose. My neon thigh wedgie could only attract more attention when stationary.

And, did I mention the chaffing? OH, the chaffing! Not only did my shorts refuse to stay down, the stubborn bitches, my blessed thighs (see also: strong, powerful) started to sting. Eff, really? Did I not learn anything after a day of walking Disney Land in a skirt? How could I forgot a pain so bad I had to sleep with a cold wash cloth pressed between the frisbee-sized swells?

It was about this point on the run that I remembered Darwin’s Theory and came to the conclusion if we did not live in an advance society I might not survive.

The worst part? I still had to GET HOME, and yes, I was strongly considering an Uber car. I was 1.5 miles from away, and run, walk – it didn’t matter. It couldn’t be avoided. My poor inner thighs could do nothing but carry me while I tried to occupy my mind with aloe lotion, ice packs and a cold shower.