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.

IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!

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:

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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..

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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:

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

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.

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*Now it’s more than 12.

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.

JoAnn Fabrics: Girls Only

Did I ever tell you about that time I took my Manfriend to JoAnn Fabrics? Probably not because it was equal parts stress and frustration. At one point I thought I was better off just cutting my losses and leaving him there.

To be clear, it’s not like he was acting like a small child (“ugh, can we goooooo”, “I’m hungry”, “I have to pee”) in fact he was being extremely patient as I ooo’ed and aww’ed at fabrics, batting, etc.

We were there for foam. Foam? Foam.

Four inch thickfoam that was on sale 50% off and I needed for my pallet-turned-ottoman project. Yes, I know I have referenced this twice now (that’s it?) and I swear I will post a tutorial once I complete the damn thing.

Anyways, we were in JoAnns surrounded by crafty, older ladies who were noticeably without husbands/boyfriends/lovahs. Not like they were single and/or widows, to be fair I didn’t question their FB status, but more like their sig-others knew better than to even set foot inside JoAnns.

And because I’m me, I did not have a schematic or blue print of my to-be-ottoman or how I was going to build it, which meant I was trying to pull up my Pinterest page and find the link to go to the page and then read what this other person wrote and did I mention I hadn’t eaten in awhile? Like a long while.

And how was I supposed to know how the foam was going to be sold? Why would I look that up online? I needed to SEE it.

So when Manfriend said, “Don’t you think you should have figured this out beforehand?” I literally almost lost my shit. I’m not positive what my facial expression was but I can only imagine it read as, “fetal position, protect yourself!”

I’m not sure what happened next because I was either so annoyed or so hungry I blacked out that portion of my memory. (I know what you’re thinking, I wish I was drunk too.) I calmly (yaright) walked back to the wall ‘o foam, pulled two pre-cut pieces and decided that would do.

Luckily, I am almost a mathematician (yaright x2, I was not math major) and figured out how to machete those pieces to fit together for my little project.

And because M was so happy to get the hell out of dodge/JoAnns and also knew there was a high probability I would try to pull a praying mantis, he promptly took me to Taco Time. Win.

(Writer’s note: I swear we went to Taco Time but M says we went to meet my parents for dinner. whatever.

Two weeks later, M went out of town and I was able to go to BOTH JoAnns AND Michael’s IN THE SAME DAY! It was the best day.

And while I was trying to pick fabric to upholster what will be the most badass ottoman of all time I was sure to text M a picture of each and every single fabric I liked until he finally said, “whichever one you want, sweetie.”

And now I think I found a new strategy to getting my way. This is what I decided on:

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The smart lady that posted a how-to on making this ottoman said it took her four hours total. I couldn’t even tell you how many hours I’ve logged thus far because its taken my for-ev-ar to compile all my supplies.

And if you even think the words, “don’t you think you should have figured this out beforehand?” I will hunt you down. Hunt. You. Down.

Oh baby, baby!

Though I probably already mentioned this, I get a lot of ‘what kind of Asian are you?’ from various strangers. Most recently a customs agent told me I look like his old (prior, not age) Japanese roommate.

In fact, one of my most fond memories (they are few and far between) from my 21st birthday celebration was being hit on and having said [asian] dude say, verbatim, “so, what kind of Asian are you?”

He lost interest immediately after I said, “I’m not.” Who does that?!?

Anyways, this questioning often left me wondering if maybe, just maybe, I was adopted. You see, I am actually part Native American. And my parents were always like, the documentation proving that was lost, which could have totally been their way of covering up the fact that they really got me from overseas. My cheekbones are apparently reminiscent to those of Asian descent – but of which country, no one is ever all too sure.

Since I’m a little bit crazy (you are too), this adoption-theory was totally plausible to me. At 28, I still hadn’t seen a picture of my mother pregnant or in the hospital or me swaddled in anything. Plus, people always say things like, “omg you must get your Native American genes from your dad” except that I don’t. My mom is a blonde-hair, blue-eyed all American lady. And since the supposed gene comes from her side, this really left room for doubt.

Anyways This morning when I wasn’t working because of an ‘IT disruption’ day (a whole other story) I was digging around in my storage unit and found two lone pictures in my grandma’s old dresser (don’t ask). The first was me at 4-months looking really, really Asian. Like big time Japanese. And the second was my mom, in the hospital bed holding me!

PROOF! PROOF!

I feel like I should carry it around in my wallet so I can say, “see! Not adopted, thanks for asking” to random strangers. A passport of my heritage, if you will.

(And yes, I realize a photo is not a) a passport or b) documentation of my descent – but thanks for thinking so little of me, asshat.)

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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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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!

A Crazy Cat Lady

I am sure you didn’t already know this about me, however I am {surprisingly} an only child. My cousins are the closet people I have to siblings, and we all treat each other accordingly. We blame each other for things we are responsible for, we mooch off each other and we don’t call each other back with any promptness whatsoever. And with this, I can say that we would all go to bat for each other any day of the week, and twice if vodka has been involved. Of the five of us, one is married to his high school sweetheart, E, who has become like a sister.

Since we are 20-somethings, trying to figure out love, careers and whatnot, it’s only natural that a few bad apples pass through our lives. What is not natural is my eldest cousin C’s ability to attract girls that are full blown crazies. At first the family (we aren’t a mafia, but we are just as tightly knit) thought it was because he went for girls a few years younger than him, or at least that is how I rationalized it. No matter what it was, E and I are always hoping he’ll meet a fun girl that we can hang out with – read: drink mimosas with. And once the Seahawks found themselves in the playoffs, we thought C had found a somewhat rough but nice enough girl to make us forget about all the crazy ones.

You can probably see where this is going, since this post is titled A Crazy Cat Lady.

Her true occupation was as a hairstylist, well, actually almost hairstylist since she was finishing up beauty school, she had many extra-curricular activities including singing in a cover band and being able to pick out a “good” rescue cat.

Wait..what?

The conversation went something like this:

Me: I work with a lot of rescues and have been thinking about adopting an older cat.
Her: Omigod you totally should!!!! And I know this sounds crazy but…

Time out. Whenever you premise a statement with “I know this sounds crazy but..” you are crazy. There are no words that will make a person think, “since you premised that statement, you’re right I think you’re totally onto something.” In fact, you have actually increased the odds you will be deemed a whack-job since you essentially planted the seed into your listeners heads.

Her: …if you ever need help picking out a shelter cat I have a great sense for them. I can totally help you pick a good one.

And obviously now that I think about it I might still give her a buzz and take her up on that offer, since my cat-picking strategy was to go with the loud, screeching one that tries to scratch me. What do I know?

At that point, I should have thought ‘whack job‘ but rather thought ‘ok. but she is LESS crazy than the others. Of course you can cut my hair!’ As you know, I have been pretty desperate since I moved away from my stylist in Spokane. Desperate enough to agree to having the Cat Whisperer cut my hair.

Since we all live in our iPhones these days, I exchanged phone numbers with Madam Meows A Lot AND my cousin C. You see, C and I are so good at being related that we had never traded numbers prior to, again, the Seahawks making the playoffs. After dodging drunken offers to go bowling, I said my goodbyes and headed back to my apartment for a night of laundry, napping and Transformers on FX. Dibs on Shia LeBeouf. My phone rang around 7pm, at which time I was groggily struggling to lift my arm.

It was C. Should I answer it? He probably wants me to meet him at a bar. I don’t feel like drinking. Or putting on normal pants. Debate. Debate. Debate. He’s only had my number for a few hours, and he’s already calling?

Me: Hey C, what’s going on?
C: Hey! What’re you doing?
Me: Watching Transformers and napping.
C: Are you at home?
Me: Yah.
C: Wanna do me a huge favor.
::pause.evaluate.consider::
Me: Ummm…
C: Can you come get me? I just really, really don’t want to hang out with these people anymore and my car is in Bellevue. I will totally owe you. Please?! Please!

Remember earlier when I said that we keep each other’s backs? I mean, he would come get me if I had that much panic in my voice…

Me: Sure. Where are you?
C: I don’t know.

At this point, I probably should have hung up the phone. Lost cause. Said my goodbyes, and checked Craigslist for people looking to adopt into a family. But of course, I didn’t.

C: I can see the Space Needle. And I-5.

After a few rounds of questions, I deduced his general location, which he followed up with cross streets. Then it hit me.

Me: Did you go to whatsherfaces house?
::pause::
C: Yeah…
Me: Oh no. Is she…crazy?
C: She’s bat-shit crazy.
Me: I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

After a few missed exits, a wrong turn or five, I picked C up on the corner. He seemed relieved to not only be in a warm car, but also to see the apartment building fading behind us. And like I would really let him ride for free – I needed the scoop! You want it too, eh?

C: I couldn’t drive but I wanted to hang out, so I went back to her place with her. She seemed cool until she went crazy.
Me: How’d she go crazy?
C: I mean, we have been hanging out all day, give me some space!
Me: But..you went back to her house with her..
C: So, I saw an out and I took it. I told her I was going to buy beer so I left. And I have been avoiding her calls and texts since then.
Me: Beer was your out?
C: Yes! I saw an out and I took it.

That’s right, he left and just never went back – entirely. Rather, he waited on the corner for me, which was apparently in sight of her apartment…because it sounds like Crazy Cat Lady and her cats were looking our the window for C. In the 20-minutes we were in the car, she texted him a minimum of twice a minute. They went something like this:

Hey, where’d you go?
C..where are you?
C?
Helllooooo…C?
Where the [french fry] are you?
What the [fidora]?!
Seriously, C, what the [flipper]?
You’re a jackass. What the [foil]?
Where the [french toast]! You are such a [filling] asshat!
Seriously, C are you coming back?
Omigosh you are so [fridging] retarded.

I am currently out of words that can replace my beloved, yet less family friendly, eff-bomb but if you’re not stupid you get the point. And with that, I told C, “I’m sure she is a great hairdresser but I don’t think I’ll be letting her cut my hair, being that I am related to you and everything.”


Black & Yellow Nightmares

I am a fantastic shopper. Not only do I take quality into account, I also look for value. Paying full price is a rarity, yet sometimes it must be done.

I can spend hours (literally) trolling travel sites, putting together the best possible outcome for whatever adventure is up next. I have mastered shopping at TJ Maxx by scanning the tops of hangers rather than flipping through each item. I can identify designer jeans by the waist band. I don’t mess around. I’ve even taken to reading the Tuesday mailers from my local grocers — because if I save 50¢ enough times I can buy that new [insert anything but groceries]!

So, you might think when my boss said “research new printers” I’d jump at the opportunity to shop [with permission] during work hours. Wrong. While I graduated with a degree that does place an emphasis on research, I choose to research things like Prague rather than Hewlitt-Packard. You might be thinking, “great! apply those same skills!” While I would, and that sounds like a great, albeit obvious, solution, I seem to have directed myself to blog instead. Mostly because if I don’t stimulate my brain somehow I am going to fall asleep switching between the seven open printer-related browsers.

Here’s the thing about printers. They suck. Sure their benefit is there — they allow us to print documents we can almost never need a physical copy of, encourage us to kill more trees and are generally a pain in the butt when it comes to cartridges. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a printer-a-holic, but that’s only because someone else set up the printer at my office and the only maintenance previously required by me was reloading the paper tray, which I rock at btw. Somehow, while sneakily adding ‘Office Manager’ duties into my job description, I also became responsible for replacing/ordering printer cartridges. Ok, nbd, I can handle that too.

Then the trouble started. A thin yellow line began forming on the long-end, some call it the hot-dog end if you will, of the page when printing in large volumes. Then a black line joined forces with the yellow. Needless to say Wiz Khalifa’s recent hit “Black and Yellow” (click here to listen) causes nightmares up that rival Freddy Krueger and that scene from the movie “Office Space.” Considering that I was printing pages off by the 10’s – I’m very important, don’t confuse me with people that print single pages – this was an extremely miserable, environmentally unfriendly process.

Boss: “Hey L, can you clean the printer?”
What I thought: “No.”
What I said: “Of course!” [with cheer!]

So I tried the only way I technically knew how to clean a printer: a napkin. As it happens, this is not an effective means to printer cleaning and in the end I decided to save everyone a “that-time-of-the-month-you-can-kiss-my-printer-cartridge” freak out and send the files off to Kinko’s. Consider it my own personal gift to everyone else’s sanity.

Crisis averted, yes? No.

Boss: “Hey L, I’d like you to research three new printer options for us because these suck.”
What I thought: “Dammit.”
What I said: “Of course!” [with cheer!]

Let’s see, for the past four-ish hours, give or take depending on if you count Priceline Negotiating for work travel work, I have effectively been avoiding researching this. Why? Because I did not study printers at college and if I were shopping for a personal printer, which I never would because helloooooooo I can print for free at work, I would buy the one the sales guy told me too. Just like I change my oil when the oil change guy tells me too.

For the record, I am all about equality. If the person that changed my oil was a woman, I’d listen to her too. Unless she was showing cleavage. In which case I’d assume she had just boinked the guy that really changes my oil and thought giving advice to unsuspecting motorists was a funny trick. I digress.

When chosing between two options, I tend to pick the more visually pleasing one — which apparently isn’t the most recommended way to shop for electronics. This is likely the reason I am obsessed with all things Apple. They are simple, streamlined and pretty. Sure they have a fantastic track record for…working…but that’s not the point. My first virtual stop on this shopping escapade from h-e-double hockey sticks (HELL!!) was Apple.com because if Apple says “buy,” I say “here’s my credit card. you keep it.” They had one recommendation and one recommendation only, which means that I am forced to get out of “the box” to get this done.

That being said, I think I will continue to procrastinate. There is probably an Excel spreadsheet that needs updating or something. Or a printer to yell profanities at.

http://www.liveleak.com/e/ec6_1187579158

(PS: YOU’RE welcome, people I work with that don’t read my blog because I write about you and your annoying tendencies.)

Smart Hookers

With a poor and passive effort, I try to pretend like the center of attention is not where I like to be — while in all reality we know this is where I am usually most comfortable. Whether you attribute it to my only child upbringing or being a people-pleaser, being the life of the party are tall shoes, and someone has to wear them. (I love a few extra inches of height..)

Last weekend, I piled into a car with three of my good guy friends, quickly gained control of the iPod (hello, JT!) and nuzzled comfortably in to the back seat as we road-tripped across the border and up to Whistler. Whistler is not only known for it’s world class skiing, the most recent set of winter Olympics and a beautiful ‘village’ — it’s also a great place to party.

And party we did. It was like college all over again. Hot tubs. Cheap beer. Spaghetti for dinner. Not enough beds for bodies. Ah, the good old days when my liver was fresh and my back could handle the floor.

Some despicable combination of Bud Light/hot tub/lack of sleep/lack of heat caused my sinuses to dry out, an invariable sign that I was getting sick. Though I was able to fight it off for an AMAZING day of fresh powder (read about it here: The Chrinicles of Gnarnia), my immune system gave way and I was all sorts of snot, hindering my full ability to party like a freshman. This only provided me with hours of entertainment watching my inebriated friends giggle, frolic and bicker.

As my immune system had knocked me down to chaperon status, grandma-style (cold, tired, feeding people ice cream..), I had dressed in layers. Also, I forgot all but one pair of pants which meant it was black jeggings every night. Clad in my jeggings, UGGS, sweater, puffy vest – WITH FUR HOOD, hat and North Face coat I was ready to take on a Village of snow.

My crew was a mess. There were passive aggressive comments (“When T goes to the bathroom where he will find he’s no longer a man, let’s run out and leave him!”), drunken escapes on the snowy playground and multiple games of “King of the Mountain,” in which one claims the title of a snow pile until he can be knocked off.

Meanwhile, I was cold. It was snowing non-stop, and the Village was lit with gorgeous blue lights. Really, Whistler Village is one of the most romantically whimsical places I have ever been.

In my attempts to not fall on my butt, the team forged forward – on to the club! Untz, untz, untz. Bumbling past the night club Garfinkels, G drew the attention of two young ladies wearing black mini-skirts/Saran wrap, Fuck-Me boots with spiked heels and an entire counter’s worth of MAC make-up. It seems they migrated north rather than south to Las Vegas. Let’s just say it must have been very nipply out.

Enthralled with the attention, the girls swooned over G – and as a girl familiar with the concept of not paying for her own drinks this tactic hit close to home. It wasn’t until they made their way down the line of girls in our group that things got weird. Overly-friendly sluts? Odd. Slut #1 hugged T, telling her she was, “fucking hot” and where was her boyfriend? Chivalrous and confused, JK claimed her and Slut #1 moved on. I must have been frozen in shock and amusement by the time she got to me, because as she flung her arm around me and pulled herself in close to my face my immediate reaction was to strain my neck back – a move perfected from years of dodging drunken kisses.

With my personal bubble invaded, my eyes begin to shift awkwardly and then she said it, “you’re fucking hot. where’s your boyfriend?”

Time out. Hold up. Wait. Hot? A glance in her direction confirmed she was, in fact, talking to me. I was wearing so many layers I could melt Antarctica, and be the Michelin Man’s counterpart. My nose was red and dry, reminiscent of Rudolf and my lips were so bare my mother would have been smearing lip gloss on me for days. In no world was I hot.

And this would be where a Canadian prostitute almost kissed me. I’m not sure the exact shade, but I can with certainty that she was wearing a matte shade of lipstick that wasn’t moving any time soon. I was so taken aback that when she asked my name I couldn’t even get my bar name out, rather muttering my actual name for fear if I opened my mouth too much she might swoop in for the kill.

She immediately ditched me to heckle the boy closest to me, then move back to G who lost interest in both of them when they admitted they didn’t ski. Like I said, I think they got lost on their way to Vegas.

The next morning, it was brought to light that prostitution is legal in Canada, though the negotiation of terms is not. It was like the puzzle pieces all came together. Their strategy is to figure out which males are ‘taken’ by inquiring with the girls of the group who they are dating, then preying on the single males who are more likely to pick up the tab, if you will.

They aren’t dumb hookers, I will give them that.