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.



This weekend my Saturday was dedicated to The Fair (also known as The Puyallup and this year the Washington State Fair). The Fair literally put Puyallup on the map, and the only legitimate reason to go there is to eat something fried and proceed to throw it up after getting wild on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

As a kid, my mom made The Fair an annual tradition. She’d pack up all five cousins (how did we fit in the car? We didn’t have an SUV…) and we would spend one full day getting a sugar buzz followed by stomach ache walking the As Seen on TV pavilions and riding rides. Her three Fair rules are as follows:

1. Eat as much junk food as possible
2. Ride as many rides as you can
3. Close the place down

As an adult, reason for going to The Fair has evolved. Usually centered around a concert – this year our reason for going was the Rodeo Playoffs followed by a Trace Adkins concert. Instead of eating as much junk as possible, we now focus on drinking the caloric equivalent in Bud Light.

Because our focus is on cowboy butts and beer, we were sure to be there RIGHT when the gates opened to secure a clutch spot in the beer garden.


YES. It was awesome.

By concert time, I had a light beer buzz, sore feet and tired eyes. Naturally, 9:30pm is more bed time than Go Time for me but I pulled it together. Boyfriend and my cousin (aka Driver) patiently waited while E and I sang, danced and went to the bathroom more times than I can remember. Apparently I was well hydrated. During my 300th trip to the Lou, I patiently waited in line though I would have been more than happy to drop trou in the bushes if it emptied my bladder more quickly (alas, alcohol enforcement was out). I was finally next in line, when a Lady in Red came up and awkwardly stood next to me.

Here’s the thing, Lady-Lou cutting is not cool. I get it, you’re gonna burst, but that’s what Keigal exercises are for. And women, especially women in Wranglers, are not keen on cutters. So, the
gawks and mumbles started almost immediately.

Almost serendipitously the next stall that opened was her target. She rushed the door so fast I couldn’t even say, “it’s not your tuuuuuurn! I have to peeeeeee!” All of a sudden there was beer pouring, face slapping and more squabbling that a flock of seagulls. Red was screaming, “FUCK WITH MY HUSBAND AGAIN AND I WILL HURT YOU!” while her victim’s posse was trying to pull her away.

I turned to the woman behind me and said, “is this seriously happening” and her respond was, “here…hold my stuff.” She piled her purse and what not on me and headed for the stalls to join the action.

What? A bathroom brawl? Are you kidding me? A mascara running, beer-drenched hair and bitch-screaming brawl that reminded me of that scene from My Best Friend’s Wedding when Cameron Diaz goes all don’t-steal-my-man-bitch on Julia Roberts.

The victim of all of this didn’t want to press charges (guilt-stricken maybe?) and after finally getting to go potty I found Red returning to the scene frantically looking for HER WEDDING RING. That’s right in all of her open-palm slapping and hair pulling, this crazy lost her WEDDING RING. How do you explain that to your insurance agent?

Moral of the story: don’t get in bathroom brawls, you’ll loose shit.

Laundry: Reserved for Marriage

What’s going on right now? Well, let me tell you. My boyfriend (after a superficial conversation with one of my favorite satirist, I have decided to go back to boyfriend over manfriend) is studying for the Professional Engineering Test. And when he’s done studying, he studies a little bit more, eats a snack and then logs his hours. The man uses Excel in his personal life as much as I do at work. Respect.

Anyhow, with all of this studying pulling from the usual stream of attention slash annoying me, I have gotten to spend my free time at my condo, not going to the gym and taking baths.

Oh, and cooking for him because quote, “I am going to need you to make me lots of food while I am studying. I need to eat.” And so I do, because when he passes this test I can quit my job and focus on things like going to JoAnn Fabrics. (Ya right.)

Also note, I do these things with a big, fat smile on my face.

Last weekend I got up early, like 930, on a Sunday. I was zombie-walking around with bed head, coffee and morning breath being all sorts of attractive and eventually found myself trolling Pinterest. Y’know, the usual. I was making use of my Sunday and had no immediate plans to shower.

And then, this happened. I was focused in all of my laziness and Boyfriend says, “Can you help me do laundry today? I really need to do laundry and get six hours of studying in and it would be super helpful.”

There was a really long pause combined with a stare down, followed by me saying, “Are you serious?”

Yeah, I said that. Because I have guidlelines! Standards! We aren’t married. We don’t live together. I have my own laundry, and you don’t see him coming over to fold it for me when I have been bouncing all over the country from one thing to the next. First it’s laundry, then it’s cleaning his house, and before you know it I’m like a part-time wife without the medical benefits or access to his bank account. Besides, it’s important to save something for marriage, it gives them something to really look forward to, and a reason to put a ring on it.

So here we are, me ranting and you finding yourself thinking, “did she do it?”

But we both know I did it. Was there really ever a question in your mind? I turned on ABC Family (for the remainder of the day) and did laps between the couch and the dryer. (And thank you, ABC Family for the Kristen Bell marathon!)

Then I made dinner.