Bubblegum Barbie

Last week my friend Dub asked me to prom via text message. It was all so non-threatening and friend-like that I couldn’t say no. Plus, I love any and every excuse to dress up in sparkly things.

I excitedly told my co-workers, ran it by manfriend (yknow, in case he was all ‘no! you are mine and I will not share you on a Friday!’…yearight.) and frantically called my mom screaming, “gather the dresses! The time has come!!”

Yesterday I mentioned said invite in a small snippet of a post. But then you had no idea how whimsical adult-prom could truly be.

Though Momma Social Narcissist (forever now to be known as Momma SN) never said the words “stop obsessively calling/texting/Facebooking me, I will find your damn dresses” I’m pretty sure she thought it. She graciously had our local courier (read: Dad) drop them off for Dub and me the try on.

Who can still fit into her dress from junior year? This girl.

Anyways we were clearly unsatisfied with what we had, and rushed out to Ross the night before with 30 minutes before closing. Several gaudy, scratchy, tulle-layered dresses followed and I found my re-prom dress. Let me tell you, it is eighteen-dollars and ninety-nine cents of bubblegum pink goodness falling somewhere between my Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding and pure trashy. When combined with Vegas tan, I really look like a GTL-ing Jersey girl from the Shore.

IMG_3827

Dub had some trouble finding a dress, and because she likes fashion-fueled stress and sheer panic of not knowing what to wear, she decided to purchase multiple (yes, multiple) dresses day-of. Ballsy.

Her top choice, a black and hot pink glittered gem, much like my own attire, was about three sizes too big. But really, it was just so perfect for the event. She showed up at my place looking like a taffeta hoarder. We established that yes, in fact, the dress was three sizes too big and could we a) tighten the elastic b) tie some extra tulle around her waste like a poor-trannies belt or c) possibly add straps? Then, the answer became obvious.

“I’m gonna take it in,” I said coolly and headed off to find my free-from-the-Sheraton sewing kit. It was about 6:30pm and our date was due to pick us up at 8:20. Which is a joke because, duh, what girl is EVER on time? ESPECIALLY on re-prom? I stitched up the left side, admired my hand work and proudly said, “See! I told you it could be done. Now I need to eat” then devoured an entire order of pad see ewe. The clock was ticking, I still hadn’t showered and Dub’s dress wasn’t finished. I got back to sweat-shopping and took in the remaining side – surprisingly with no needle-stabs (go me!).

And then, we were right back where we started. Dub pulled the three-sizes too big dress over her head and I went to zip her up and…

“Ut oh.”

“What do you mean, ‘ut oh’? Tell me it’s going to zip.”

I was laughing so hard I think I peed (thankfully, I still hadn’t showered), “It’s not going to happen.”

“What do you mean? This dress was THREE SIZES TO BIG!” Yup, I took it in about six inches.

I quickly removed the sticking from one side and said, “asymmetrical is so in!” then zipped her up (on the left.) Sure, she couldn’t breath but really, who can?

Our date was on time, and so we quickly threw ourselves together, iPhoned for an Uber and headed to prom! (OMG, PROM!) After much discussion, Dub declared that yes, in fact, the crown was too much and I should leave it at home – much to my chagrin. I decided to wear my sunglasses (at night & inside) for the majority of the night to make up for the loss.

IMG_3851

Ok, even though I never plan on turning 30 (because I think 29 is a perfectly acceptable age), if I do bite the bullet and go for it I hope to have a party as fun as this one. We walked in, in all our glory, me with sunglasses (duh) and a boa and Dub with her gloves to find faux-flower corsages and boutonnieres waiting for us. After awkwardly and unsuccessfully trying to get Date’s boutonniere on, we took on turn for pictures.  Still waiting on those btw.

IMG_3838

Then a table of jell-o shots happened. And Dub was busy socializing, so Date and I went ahead and helped ourselves.

IMG_3842

So that happened. Maybe a little too much.

The rest of the night consisted of dancing, dancing without my shoes on, Dub removing her glove WITH HER TEETH and then more dancing.

IMG_3848

I chose to wear these silver shoes I got as a bridesmaid gift years ago because they were the most prom-esque shoes in my closet. They have like a 2 inch heel so I was all, “I can rock these all night!”

Wrong.

After taking them off, my second mistake (the first was wearing them), I couldn’t put them back on as my feet decided to reject the idea of shoes entirely. There is essentially NO padding and it felt like I was balancing on wooden dowels.

I am pretty sure everyone at the party either kicked me or stepped on my feet at one point – which did not bother me at the time. However, when I awake with a scrape on my ankle I quickly remembered why steel-toed boots would have been a better choice, though less fashionable. (Or, maybe not?)

The party broke up around 1 am and Dub was set on having beers at her co-workers house. I was set on being home. We stopped at Dick’s (another duh) and I then proceeded to ask and ask and ask if they could just please please please drop me off at home. They did, and I woke up at 9am in a pile of boa feathers with a wounded-soldier-chocolate milkshake on my bedside table. I was awake long enough to let Dub in to get her keys, before claiming the world was too bright and pulling out my eye mask. It’s amazing how late one can sleep when all light is blocked out (1pm).

Re-prom was the exact OPPOSITE of my real prom. Thanks and happy 30th to our host, who threw one bitchin’ party!

Friday for Thought: Prom

I know I owe all of a break down of my recent trip to LV; don’t worry it’s coming.

In the meantime, I wanted to give a quick Friday snack to tell you that I, the Social Narcissist, got asked to prom.

Before you get all, ‘whoa…10 years ago much?’ let me tell you that it’s an ADULT prom.

My real prom was semi-disastrous considering my high school boyfriend 1) forgot about the dance and 2) prompted a breakup convo due to my lack of commitment. Which is ironic since he is the one that forgot about the most important night of my adolescent life.

No, we didn’t end it, and I swore I would put ‘more’ into the relationship.

I didn’t, and we broke up a few days later.

I spent prom night trapped on an Argosy cruise in a plain dress I got at T.J. Maxx because I love T.J. Maxx and at the time I felt that I could totally accessorize the crap out of my dress. Again, I didn’t and was ultimately bored with my choice.

Tonight is the night to re-do prom thanks to a fancy gent who is throwing himself a 30th birthday-prom.

How will the night turn out?

Rewind & Replay: Las Vegas

A few years ago, I jetsetted off to Las Vegas with a group of my bestest friends ever (you know who you are, right?) It was equally fun as it was extremely emotionally traumatic. My manfriend refuses to return (once was enough for him) so three of my girlfriends and me have planned a 3-day-vacay to Sin City for sun, booze, etc. Below is a post I wrote in March of 2010. Curious to see how much changes after three years…read up and compare against what I write next week. 😉

A Q&A sesh with Las Vegas and myself.

How low can you go?
Turns out, quite low. I apparently have the ability – even after a vodka/Redbull or two – to stabilize myself, heels and all, and still drop it like it’s hot. Important note for you rookies: always wear boyshorts. No one wants to see your Britney on the dance floor, except the creepy European guy that’s been following you around for the past 20 minutes while you dance with every other person to avoid his inevitable attempt to grab your ass.

Can I teach you how to snap two nudey cards together?
If you’re a guy, of the straight nature, I think that you should be issued a complimentary baseball card holder once landing in Vegas. No, wait. Even if you are a girl you should be given this free gift with airline ticket purchase, because regardless of what kind of situation (hehe…ye) you have going on down there in Mexico, it doesn’t matter. You will be non-verbally handed hooker trading cards everywhere you go. It’s kind of like when you were seven and your parents took you to Disneyland and gave you one of those autograph books. The purpose there was to get as many signatures as possible. I am going to go out on a limb and say if the same goal were true here, there would be free clinics on every other street corner. Legally these baseball card pimps can’t talk to you, or so I am told, hence the snapping. However, the hungover girls walking-three-wide to keep each other vertical are going to pass on the girl-on-girl action. Thanks anyways.

Is the phrase ‘What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas’ true to your experience?
Maybe it was in 1998 when you, sweet LV, felt the need to try and stimulate your economy by convincing unsuspecting travelers that you are a vortex of secrecy where they could fulfill any possible fantasy without their wife/hubs/coworkers/kids from knowing what kind of perverse things could come of them. Then, in an interesting turn of events, Facebook happened. Unfortunately, for these fratboy-wannabes-gone-wild, Facebook opened the front door to Vegas. No, actually, Facebook straight up bulldozed through it. And now there are tagged photos, quotes that have no meaning other than to the person saying it (HAHAHAHHAHAHA “CEASAR! WE’RE BACK!” – See? No idea.) and a plethora of wall posts that may or may not be about you. Wait…someone else made the same bad decision I made? No, no, no it must have been that other girl that I ran into..Also, I love signing into my account and getting a notification that says “Blank has tagged you in a photo.” Crap! Rack-brain. Thinkthinkthink. When was this photo taken? What was I doing? Did I have boyshorts on at the time?

Would you like an late check out?
No, I would not. I want you to get me to the airport as quickly as possible. The sooner I forget I was in the at-will Bermuda triangle of vacations and get back to reality, the better. Except, right now I can barely move and either I find $8 for a Gatorade or I might die a slow and painful death in this extremely comfortable bed/bathtub/hallway/doorjam. Lucky for you, I opted to bring my extra dignity with me, so you keep whatever I left by accident.

Do you have your exit buddy?
I do now. Did I this weekend? Debatable.

Would you do it again?
Wait which part? The coming to Vegas part or the…I’m sorry repeat the question please.

Friday For Thought: Men

Tell me this isn’t awesome:

IMG_3545

Happy Friday from me – and the AdCouncil and Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality.

This billboard is MORE about getting the medical testing you need (read: uncomfortable, I’d prefer not to kind of tests) and less about the fact that  98% of men (except my Dad, he’s perfect, obvs) are stubborn. Alas, snaps for the AdCouncil, they nailed it.

Oh, and also since we are talking about this, go to the doctor for that thing you didn’t want to go for.

SF.

This past weekend Manfriend (sometimes Boyfriend, depending on his attitude) and I jet-setted down to San Francisco for a fun weekend. After the Chicago debacle (see previous post), Alaska Airlines gave me a $100 credit so we felt the immediate need to put it to good use. No sense in letting that bad boy hang around for too long.

We got a screaming deal on flights ($166 RT after the credit, say whaaaat) and applied some additional credits toward a hotel (motel, holiday inn) and sha-bam! we were aweekending.

In three words? San Francisco rocks. If it were a mathmatical equation it would be:

Seattle + 4(public transportation) + 2(walkability) + cable cars + extra transients

That’s right, SF’s homeless population is mass-ive, but I guess if I were going to be homeless I would probably pick somewhere in CA. (San Diego, duh.)

We skipped out on work early on Friday (half-day Friday!) and were in SF by 4pm. The BART, which is a big reason I think their pubtrans is AWESOME, took us RIGHT from the airport to like three blocks from our hotel. And since we have legs, we totally walked there! Bitchin’.

It was naturally time for happy hour, and I needed a drink BIG TIME, so we set off on a never-ending adventure to find discounted food + drinks. This proved to be much more challenging that any person would every expect since

  1. I have an iPhone
  2. It has several food-related apps on it – including but not limited to Yelp, Urbanspoon, FourSquare and Happy Hours.

After making Manfriend walk around for almost 45 minutes looking for the “cool, hip San Francisco bar of my dreams” we settled on Morton’s. They have good eats but no drinks specials which…no. It doesn’t do anything friendly to the bill, let me tell you. To avoid another wandering adventure for dinner, I spent the majority of the time sipping my bubbles (weee!) and searching on several of the aforementioned apps for the “cool, hip San Francisco restaurant of my dreams.”

AND I FOUND IT. Hops & Hominy. If you are in SF right now, just stop what you are doing and RUN There. Unless it’s a Friday night, then first make a reservation because this place was hoppin’ (no pun intended).

Their featured drink was a bacon Manhattan which I definitely would have guzzled if I drank Manhattans. Their menu is simple and focused on Southern comfort food (I had shrimp & grits, he had fried chicken). We also got the sauteed spinach which was WAY overpriced (anything over $3 falls into this category for me) but I really could have made a meal out of it. ::drool::

We then retired to our hotel because it was 9:30 and, dammit, we were tired.

Saturday walked toward the water, got completed engrossed in the market and enjoyed the sun. We shared a hot dog AND a burger – then sat down to listen to these buskin’ fools:

ImageMad Noise. Their drummer is entertaining to watch & the guy rocking the guitar has an amazing voice. Listen to them now. Image

ImageWe walked back to the hotel to change and I stumbled upon this creme brulee cart:

ImageAnd since they weren’t around on Sundays I HAD to get one. I’d do it all over again. And thank GAWD Seattle does not have one of these. I would be there every.single.day. and would never lose weight ever. Om nom nom. #burntsugaryesplz

Then we hit up a Giant’s game (balls cold) where this adorable old couple gave us their tickets because it was (balls) cold and the Giant’s won in a 10th walkoff homerun. For the second night in a row. Plus, look at that view!

ImageImage

Sunday was dedicated to Cable Car-ing to Alcatraz from our hotel. Acting as supreme tourist nerds, both Man and myself were VERY excited about this. (Tickets booked here.) We even did the audio tour, which I would strongly recommend because it paints a real picture of what life was like on the Island PLUS it tells you where to go. So, if you aren’t an idiot, it makes the tour easy and interesting. (I just pushed my glasses up my nose, nerd alert).

ImageWe took the 1pm boat and spent about an hour and a half on the island. Plenty of time.

We managed to get in one more high-priced, tourist-trapped happy hour on Fisherman’s Wharf at Lou’s before heading back to the airport. Lou’s features live music upstairs, and we could hear it loud and clear on the patio. Happy hour here is dedicated solely to drinks (opposite of Morton’s) so we had full-price-food. FPF is the WORST but I will say, it was tasty. Since it was Cinco de Mayo, we got a bucket of Corona’s and called it a weekend.

Image

Chicago.

For the first thirteen years of my life I spent every summer at my family’s wheat farm in Montana. Before you even think it, no we did not have cows/horses/pigs. My parents only did spring wheat, as it meant my dad could commute between Seattle and Montana. When I say “commute” I mean it in the sense that he would shuttle back and forth 2-3 times between April and September, depending on me, my schedule and my mom’s pleas for him to come back (it’s tough being away, yknow?).

Anyways, small towns are the exact opposite of the city. People wave when they drive last you, often with the simplicity of two fingers raised from the wheel. It’s not as official as Southern hospitality, but it’s something that is lost in the city. Maybe it’s because there are more people per square mile, or maybe it’s because they are just that much more self centered. Either way, I like to think I got my manner from the country and my driving skills from the city (speed up or move!).

After driving from Green Bay, WI to Chicago in attempt to catch my flight home the past February, I endured a massive snowstorm. A storm my mother would have surely abandoned her car in the middle of and my boyfriend begged me not to drive through. After days of being away from home, I promised to be safe and pressed on with my front wheel drive Ford Focus (hatchback, see photo). Not to plug Ford or anything, but that thing can definitely hold its own. And even though I made it to Chicago with hours to spare, my flight was cancelled.

IMG_3212IMG_3209

So, there I am stuck in a city I’ve never explored though I have flown into it more times than I can count in the last two years. Rather than saying, ‘screw it! Let’s go exploring!’ I said, ‘mmmm shower, Ben and Jerry’s, hours of Big Bang theory.’ Maybe it’s my age, late 20’s are sooooo brutal (read: sarcasm) or my relationship status (though not Facebook official, it’s been two+ years) but there was nothing about this night that motivated me to trek into the wild Chicago airport suburbs.

IMG_3210

I was smart enough to bail on my flight before it was cancelled, effectively avoiding the scramble and panic of securing a seat on the next available flight out. I managed to get a seat with no problem by calling Alaska, although it did mean I missed my exit thus lengthening my commute to the airport by almost an hour. Ironically I had no issues driving in the snow covered freeway however later while looking for my hotel, following my phone map and shoving Jelly Bellys in my face I did encounter some issues. Kind of sad, no? I easily picked ice cream + jelly beans over wine.

I had an enjoyable, slow day before my 3pm flight out. Getting stuck was more of a blessing than a curse. The Chicago airport is big and bustley but it’s also home to the BEST AIRPORT FOOD EVER: the Frontera Grill. Thank you, Rick Bayless. Anything you get there is good, but the guacamole is the best. Put it in your face and thank me later.

When it was close to my flights boarding time I leisurely walked over to my gate. I usually stand amongst the MVPs and MVP Golds to ensure early boarding. People that say, “I don’t understand why everyone is so anxious to sit down” (usually with a scoff) are commoners with no boarding status. I’m anxious because sitting > standing, putting my bag up top > being forced to check it and getting stuck behind a row of people that only once a century < than not.

Though my low-level status doesn’t allow me to board until the first class, Golds, armed forces members (thanks for your service, btw), anyone with something resembling a child or limp – I SOMEHOW manage to survive.

While waiting somewhat patiently to board, I noticed a woman moving glances between the gate and her ticket. She approached a nicely dress first class or Gold member and politely said, “Excuse me? Is this flight going to Seattle?”

Though a simple, “yes” probably would have sufficed, THIS guy decided that, “I don’t work here.” was a more appropriate response. Who says that??

Dude, I get it. Chicago was a total asshole to me, too. However, I’m not an asshole in return to everyone I meet. So, in the event that you are ever approached by someone with this same question, I have compiled a list of appropriate responses to get you by:

1. “Yes.”
2. “Yes, it is.”
3. “I sure hope so, ’cause that’s where I’m going!” (this should be said with a genuine, non-creeper smile.
4. “Yes, ma’am.”
5. “No.” (only if that’s really the answer.)

While it took me almost a full 15-seconds to come up with those extensive, deep and heroic responses I assure you that they will make someone’s day a little better.

PS: the aforementioned woman had an accent and this is exactly why non-Americans say things like “Americans are rude assholes.”

Lesson: don’t be a rude asshole, no matter where you are.