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.

Hungry, Hungry Hippo

It took little to no convincing for my bestie N to entice me to purchase a three-session boot camp LivingSocial deal for $15 - which includes a $50 skin care gift card. The actual GOING to the classes did and still is taking some persuading. You see, the preferable time slot for us is 6am, and I am not a fan of the following:

• Waking up (ever) 
• Darkness
• Peppy instructors
• The Morning 

So, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster at the dawn of time I popped out of bed, anxious to put my body through what I could only imagine would be equal to the 60 minutes of hot yoga I have been enduring recently.

WRONG.

First things first. Upon entering this little studio, an office space that has been converted into an empty room with a wall of mirrors, iHome (for beats, yo) and inspirational wall mural I was thankful that I had been hydrating and had also taken a few quick swigs of a Sugar-Free Rockstar I dug out of the fridge. I was not thankful to see that the next 50 minutes of my life were about to be dominated by a girl that I went to high school with, same graduating class and everything. ::insert f-bomb here:: And at 6 am, she recognized me. ::f-bomb x2::

Most people go to theses classes to get in shape to then see people they went to high school with and say "yah, SUCK IT - who's hot now?"Rather, I end up in a class taught by a classmate, in the front-center row none the less. Great.

Being that I spent the past six months not working out, drinking champagne and eating out -- I can honestly say I am not in my peak physical condition. In my attempts to hold a plank position (read: torture) and do Woman Makers -- I got a first name (pronounced wrong) spout of encouragement. And that sealed it. I looked to my right to see the slight smirk developing on N's strained face.

Meanwhile, my thoughts were screaming "SCREW YOU SCREW YOU!! You did this for like 10 effing seconds and you're making me do it for a MINUTE. I HATE YOU."

Gillian Michaels provokes a similar response from me during her 20-Day Shred.

While trying to complete a 1-minute wall sit with my right leg raised and my foot pointing and flexing, I tried to mentally "commit" to finishing out the 50 minutes.

Thirteen minutes later I'd had it. No more of this. My upper body was jell-o. Sure, why don't we take the weakest part of my body and exploit the $#%* out of it? Leaving the studio, it only took seconds before I'd turned to N with steely eyes and flat pursed lips - a look that is neither attractive or comparative to what my Grandmother can accomplish - and said, "really?" (btw, have you seen the new Microsoft Windows phone commercials? They are up there with the AT&T texting commercial that can be credited for Grandma's everywhere saying "IDK my BFF Rose.")

By 7 am, I was ready for a Starbucks, a shower and a new instructor. Also, less of whatever it was I just did but more physical results. (The term you are looking for is lazy.)


If you're wondering about the title, after expressing my desire/immediate need for Starbucks, N said "Hungry, hungry hippo?" ...um, excuse me? She then pointed down to the game I once dominated as a 4th grader piled crookedly in her trunk.

Oh, Cannonballs.

I love my blog, and wish I could quit all things work related to sit around trolling the Internet all day then writing about it, however unless someone gives me a million dollars or marries me so I can stop working all together, this will not happen soon. This weekend I pulled myself out of hibernation – which includes cooking/eating, Glee/Grey's and 8+ hours of sleep – and had two big events that filled up my socialite requirements for the month. Obviously, I was the backbone of both and without me they would have failed miserably. (Ok, slight exaggeration.)

Event One:

I belong to an “athletic” club disguised as an expensive social networking club that throws a huge gala every December. Being that I love all things this party promotes – dinner AND dessert buffets, champagne, dancing AND formal attire – I skipped at the opportunity to go.

In an effort to find a new manfriend/husband that could promise a life without work, I found a gorgeous dress with a beaded plunge, to allow focus on the goods. Now, I enjoy cleavage and the rewards that are often reaped from have a noticeable bra size, believe me. And seeing that new unders were needed, Mom and I headed to the always popular Victoria’s Secret. Though some of your may scoff and others may cheer, VS has always been my source for all things under PLUS I had a gift card so it was a no brainer. I snatched up my size, the same consistent size I have been for years, and headed to the fitting room.

Standing there, appalled, I could not figure out for the life of me WHY this stupid bra did not fit me the way it always had. Of course! VS has changed the pattern and suddenly the bra that once shelved me nicely, had created some sort of boob sandwich that was no where near attractive, nor comfortable. Six bras later, I finally found one that fit. It was my last resort. The only option I had unless I wanted to brave back to the mall (it was Black Friday) and give it another go. Seeing that I had been up since 3:30am, I decided to bite the bullet.

No big deal, right? Wrong. This style, the style that lies to boyfriends, suitors and husbands-to-be everywhere, tacks on two extra cup sizes. TWO. If you are an A-cup, you might be cheering, but let me tell you sister, no man will ever have that same response when realizing that you falsie advertised and there is less to hold onto. This was not my woe, rather, I felt like I needed to schedule a reduction consultation because my melons were out of control. How is it possible that the ONLY bra that Vickies had to offer gave me bowling balls? If you are interested in purchasing said bra, it is called the Bombshell – however you could probably stick two throw pillows in your bra and receive the same effect more economically.

Event Two:

Every year my alma mater basketball team (GO ZAGS!) plays a game in Seattle, at which time all GU alum meets pre- and post-game to celebrate how awesome it is to wear red and blue. It’s always a marathon of a day, which can add up quickly. Sans Bombshell, I picked an appropriate cleavage-baring shirt that would ideally cut my bar tab, while also saying “I’m respectable.” (Oxymoron?) After a mis-communication with the bartender last year, and him confusing my identity with someone else who was more than willing to claim my name in return for SEVEN SHOTS, I have also relinquished my rights to leaving an open tab when surrounded by sneaky classmates with no shame. (Hussies!)

A friend insisted on buying me a shot, which after several attempts I finally gave in. Where are my convictions!??! He promptly returned with three shot glasses filled with the clear liquid of my choice - vodka.

Ew.

Being the quick thinker that I am, I checked my blind spot. Empty.

Reviewed the carpet. Crappy.

Checked both directions for viewers. Clear.

And once he turned away, motioned my head back and threw the shot over my shoulder. With one hand over my mouth, I started to gag, realistically and similarly to how one does when swallowing anything that tastes like lighter fluid. Upon turning around, he was surprised to see that I had gone ahead without him. I apologized with dry heave, and took a sip of my Bud Light as if to wash away the fire in my throat.

If you learn anything from this post, let it be that you can fake a bra size -- and you can almost always fake a drink. Just check behind you first.

My Mother, the Rockstar

Fun fact: my Mother will never leave the house without lipgloss. Ever.

It used to be an annoyance of mine, waiting for her as she carefully re-applied her Color of the Month in her visor mirror. As if those extra 30 seconds (she's precise) would actually make a difference in the scheme of things. Yet now, I appreciate her constant attention to detail. Even when going through treatments for the "C" word, she never looked short of spectacular.

So, it should come as no surprise that today, while making an unannounced and inaugural visit to my office, she looked like a movie star. If you know her, you know I am not exaggerating. I am not sure how my co-workers perceived her prior to said drop-by, however not they call her my mom "the Rockstar."

Clad with a tea length, winter white fur, classic black pants, sunglasses and open-toed heels - and a perfectly cropped platinum bob - she walks with an ease that makes me curious which genetics I got when trying to walk in stilettos.

Two of my co-workers returned, rushing to the windows at the mention of "my Mom just popped by, sorry you missed her" - impressed, and likely surprised that the girl known to sport sweatshirts and tennis shoes was bred from such a creature.

Co-worker #1: "What was your Mom all dressed up for?"
Me: "Umm..I mean, that's just what she wears. Oh, and it's the company holiday party at her office tonight." 
Co-worker #2: "Was that real fur?" 


And with that, I will leave you with this snotty, only child remark: my Mom's more fabulous than your Mom.

Six Reasons to Always Eat Ice Cream

Recently I have become OBSESSED with trendy, yuppy ice cream. No, not the chain-style Cold Stone or [slightly]healthier TCBY - but the calorie-packed goodness of Molly Moon's. I know, I'm late on the uptake here and people in Sea-town have been licking on this creamy goodness for years. However, as a somewhat rebellious flip-flop Weight Watcher I have attempted to cut all things that could set off the Fat-Sensors across the world - which includes high-end ice cream. Kind of like how I associate high-end purses with HIGH price tags, similarly I associate this ice cream with a caloric content in the thousands.

Ok, I have to note that this TOTALLY goes against my other blog, Sexier than Meatloaf, which is committed to convincing you calories don't count - and is all about baking, yum! You say hypocrite, I say that I am a not-so-closet sugar fiend trying to repress her constant desires to eat anything high in calories. Po-taaaa-toe / poh-tah-d'oh!

Anyway, any and every time I drive past this somewhat discrete gem of a creamery, I try to come up with any and every reason/excuse to stop for a scoop...or a pint. Y'know, for later.

Reasons include:
I had a stressful week. (And, clearly, eating my feelings will fix it.)
I can skip another meal to subsidize the calories. (But I won't.)
I can go for a run...err, walk. (But I don't.)
It's shark week. (Advil is overrated.)
It's Saturday. (Or Sunday...)
I drank to much and it will settle my stomach. (Oh ya? I'm sure your body loves that one, Champ.)

After compiling this list of logical, rational reasons, I have come to conclude that it can also be applied to purchase of the following:
Thai food
Shoes
More ice cream
Shoes
Cupcakes
Shoes
Wine
Shoes
Mexican food

A slippery slope of temptation if you ask me. Ice cream here I come...

CARMA

About a month ago my boss sent me on a field trip to research products in our category carried by a national drug store chain. Being that I love any excuse to leave the office, I excitedly nodded my enthusiasm to writing down brand, retail/temp. reduction pricing, etc. while standing in the middle of an aisle. Better than listening to my co-worker ask me how to merge cells in Excel or remind her dog had not pooped yet that day. (Jealous?)

Off I bounced, happily to my car and off for an errand. Similar to paying bills, I enjoy weird mindless tasks like buying shampoo and making free right turns.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that each parked car alternated with an empty spot, a bad equation for door dings when parking in between them. Being that I am harped on constantly by the Subaru Doog Ding Patrol, I opted for a much smoother alternative. The row directly across offered wide open space, free of aggressive door slammers, so I backed Lucy in between the lines and joyfully headed into the store.

Ten minutes later I emerged, notes in hand, and approached my car.

"What is that?" I thought. A parking ticket? I apprehensively looked around. I am familiar with the area, and know there are numerous cat-callers, had someone left me a note? Yes, I am in fact narcissistic enough to believe that someone would leave a note on my windshield indicating interest in me. I wear puffy vests with fur hoods, who can say no to that?!

How wrong was I? Well, rather than a phone number and creepy invitation for drinks, I was surprised with a phone number and...insurance information. Wait, what? She hit my car? I frantically circled my property, almost with a defensive crouch, looking for the dent, the gash, the scrap! But..nothing. I quickly rescanned the note.."right front fender." My eyes darted..scan..scan..scan..and there it was. A small, dime size blemish that protruded out of my bumper.

So, that's how it goes huh? Park in a ding-free zone and get backed into. All I can say is this driver must have some fantastic karma, because backing into Lucy - pushing her bumped in the bumper beam - is going to cost a whopping $1000.

I would have much rather gotten a sketchy phone number.

Like, ohmigod, totally 'Trick or Treat!"

For Halloween this year, I was entirely lame. I didn't get a costume, nor did I go to a party. Rather, I grocery shopped, made dinner, then sat with my laptop waiting for trick or treaters to come to the door. Sometimes, it's great to have friends that live in the 'burbs.

COSTUMES! KIDS! CANDY!

How is this entertaining, you ask yourself? Well, the majority of it isn't. What immediately struck me as "my life for your entertainment" was my encounter with the Safeway checker.

I approached the checkout and began unloading my cart. This is where it all started.

Checker: Let me guess, college student?
Me: Oh, no no, I graduated.
Checker: No, your costume..

Yoga pants + Sweater = college student.

Me: Ah yes. During finals week. Ha. Ha. Ha.

After making a silly crack about his own army costume (note: apparently it's illegal for him to wear it, even though he's retired...) I entered a realm of blushing and TMI.

Generally, all things kid related make me go "awwwwww" and put a smile on my face. Not this time. We, nay HE, dove into a "s*it my kid says" type of conversation. He was kind of ringing up my groceries but mostly telling me about his 4-year old's bowel movements.

Ok, fine, that is a slight exaggeration. Regardless, my eyes begin to roam with my thoughts.

"I love this wallet...."
"Why is he scanning so slowly? Doesn't he know about trick or treaters?"
"Let's see...who's standing behind me..."

He continues, "...so anyways, of course we had to go to Value Village for his costume. $4!"

I nod, then add "What a deal!"

"It's basically too small, but you know kids, even though it's up his butt he doesn't care."

Nodding.

"...and I tell him it's ok to say 'bottom,' because, well, that's what it is."

More nodding on my part.

"...but, of course, he says 'penis.'"

My eyes snapped forward, while my cheeks turned a hot shade of red. My eyes shifted to the line of men behind me. Was I shrinking? Or does that not happen in reality, and only in movies with Rick Moranis? Somehow I managed out an awkward chuckle.

"...which is fair because that's what it is you know."

Back to the nodding. Maybe if I don't make eye contact he'll figure it out.

"...because I don't want him using the word 'dick.'"

OH MY GOD. Take my wallet! Take my credit cards! Take my groceries! YOU KEEP THEM.

Don't get me wrong, the male anatomy is...um, well it's there, can I leave it at that? I have no trouble with sexuality but PLEASE MAN save me AND YOUR CHILD a little bit of embarrassment and skip the penis talk. Or at least warn me, so I can put my Zumba cloths on and chug some vodka while I'm at it. Oye.

Marry Wrench.

I learned some really good life skills in high school. There are the obvious things I use in my day-to-day life, like logarithms and how to sew pajamas pants. But, no one explained to me what a 'handle' was or how much gas one car could realistically consume in a four week period.

College was a similar experience, I quickly caught onto alcohol-related definitions, how to bat my eyelashes and what the best midnight snacks were...are.

However, seemingly small lessons seem to have been passed over, and as it happens there are various things I have recently encountered that make me stop and think, "wait, who was supposed to teach me that and when?"

Recently I explained to a male how there is an obvious buffer built into the suggested oil change time line, made specifically for women like myself. First off, I am very busy and driving aaaaallll the way to the dealership where they will give me a loaner car to avoid me wasting an hour waiting around seems like a hassle. Secondly, when did an oil change become a monetary priority in my life? I like spending money on things like shoes and wine, not an oil change. Seriously, could anything be less sexy? However, as it happens, on the practicality scale these two points of rationale are irrelevant when speaking to someone who is obnoxiously auto-literate.

J: Didn't your Dad teach you anything about taking care of your car?
Me: Yeah, he did.
::pause::
J: Well?!
Me: He TAUGHT me his phone number.

...yah, I said it.

So, on Tuesday after avoiding the tire pressure light that had been on in my beautiful Lucy (don't act like you haven't named your car, too) for a week plus, I grudgingly accepted that J was not going to actively help me out and pulled over at a gas station. Air pressure, how hard can you be?

At the risk of sounding like a total idiot, I will tell you this, hard. There are so many rules when you have a car with a dent-free (knock on wood) finish. For instance, I am pretty sure dragging the air hose across the hood is a definite no-no. Which means I had to position it around and under the front bumper, while also unscrewing the tire cap, checking the beginning pressure, inserting the nozzle, learning that the hose pressure gauge is unreliable, fumbling for my own pressure gauge (thanks, Dad!), rechecking, pulling my shirt down/pants up to ensure no passer-by confused me for a plumber, realizing I put too much air in, panicking, realizing I could let some air out and checking it again with my own gauge.

Tire one, check.

At this point, you might think "ok, so she went to the next tire." If only. No, no, because I was convinced it was just the one tire, I got in the car, turned on the engine and DAMMIT THE LIGHT WAS STILL ON.

Repeat.

After the second time of the light not going off, I finally thought it best to check all tires.

Then my three minutes ran up, and I couldn't reach the last tire without dragging the hose all over my mostly unblemished paint. More quarters, followed by pulling my car forward.

Absolute mess. I am sure the guys at the tire center got a real chuckle from my absent-mindedness. They will never know I grew up with Tim the Toolman Taylor and a garage full of wrenches, engine lifts and...stuff.

Four tires, two dollars and one Americano later I was back in the car driving away from the Hellish place that will inevitably cause nightmares. I made sure all the PSI or PPS or whatever matched what they were supposed to match. And, guess what. THE LIGHT WAS STILL ON.

Turns out, you have to drive for a few minutes before the freshly filled tires register. Err...at least I think that's what happened because now the light is off.

Growing up, women are told to marry rich. I know I can make money, so I say, women marry a man with a wrench.

In other news, I have recently started editing a blog for the above mentioned J, even though he refused to fill my tires with air. He will be documenting his snowboarding adventures, skill progression and terrain coverage. Check him out here.

Philadelphia :: A City of Moops

2010 has been a year of travel for me. I spend a minimum of one weekend out of town, if not two. The past four days, I have been in Philadelphia – a city responsible for many things I am found of, including but not limited to the show It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia…ok so that’s the only immediate thing that comes to mind.

Everyone is so friendly in Philly, except for – ironically – the girl at Starbucks who wouldn’t change my $20 bill. Really? Next time, I’m paying with a $50 and you better get some small bills because I want ones. I didn’t fly all the way from Seattle to go to Starbucks and have you be rude to me. I’m telling Howard.

To start, we rented a car – because 1) it’s paid for by my company and B) rental cars provide for endless hours of comical relief. This time around we got a Nissan Versa which is similar to a matchbox car but with less power. It’s the same size as a Hybrid, has the same horrible pickup and sounds exactly the same. Yet, it is not a Hybrid. In theory, it’s a waste of a car. Per my usual, I declined the insurance because I am “economical,” sure let’s call it that, and overly confident I won’t get into an accident.

For the record, additional insurance is probably statistically a good idea. I thought I was aggressive driver. Enough so that I could handle Philly and Jersey – combo pack! – without peeing myself. False. Driving a matchbox that whirs when accelerating on the on-ramp, while also checking my blind spot to make sure I don’t get run over like Mario Kart creates all sorts of panic within.

While chugging my Americano (appetite suppressor + mood accelerator = bliss) and stopped at a light, the Queen o’ Sportscenter and I were exchanging our typical useless conversation. Really, nothing we every say is funny except to us, but we banter continually. The light turned green, and whaddaya know, I hit a pothole hence spilling my venti all down my front.

Me: DO SOMETHING?
QoSC: What do you want me to do?

Coffee drips down my jacket

Me: SOMETHING


Still driving because it’s an on-ramp, and I can’t stop.

So she grabs the wheel. Obviously, of all the things I am holding the wheel is the most convenient. Not the coffee that I’m holding in the hand closest to her. Hell, she could have wiped the coffee of my boob (freebie!) and I wouldn’t have cared. Meanwhile, a crazed Phillies fan with a car that had real horsepower – probably a Ford – came up fast on my left.

QoSC: OMG look out!
Me: DO SOMETHING!

To be honest I was so concerned that my favorite jacket was absorbing my Sbucks to think of a different phrase. Clearly, verbalizing myself wasn’t going well and I was secretly hoping she would read my mind. Jedi.

QoSC: I CAN’T BREAK FOR YOU!
Me: OMG TAKE MY COFFEE!
QoSC: Oh.

(Also, did you know after you pass through a toll, there are no lanes? NO LANES. It’s one big fishbowl of cars with either NJ or PA plates, again with actual horsepower, racing for the exit. For a girl that cries, I am not sure how I made it out without tears.)

In addition to the driving escapades, we also decided it best to create a word – just in case people didn’t already think we had twinsies-terrets. They do now. We spent so much time saying “MOOP” that I am guessing they thought we were saying “poop.” (Philly isn’t the cleanest place.)

Moop = Man on Stoop. We made it our personal goal to find as many stoop-sitters as possible while driving from South Philly to City Center. Mostly because movies tell us that people sit on stoops on the East Coast.

As we are college graduates (four years, in a row), we had to go out at least one night in Philly. And being advocates (read: cliché tourists) of It’s Always Sunny we of course went to Mac’s – a pub owned by Rob McHellerny and his wife, Sweet Dee. It was here that I made the strongest $10 investment of my life. For $15, we had the opportunity to purchase a Philly foam hat, and get a free beer! with said purchase.

Me: Hmmm $15. For a beer? That’s pricey.
Him: But you get this hat! Plus you’d spend AT LEAST $7 on a beer.
::contemplation::
Q o’ SC: I’m never going to wear that again.
Me: BUT IT’S AWESOME.

I was never a strong negotiator. I show emotion too quickly. Dangit.

Him: Ok, ok. What’s your name?
Me: Tami. With an I.
Him: Ok, Tami, how about I give you two for $20 with 2 free beers.
Q o’ SC: Um…uhhh…
His ‘friend’: That’s such a good deal. We’re not even making a profit on that.

::blink.blink:: Friend leaves.

Him: Ok, ok. While he’s gone, how about I do two for $20 and 4 free beers.
Me: SOLD.
Q o’ SC: Basically, we are paying $10 for two beers and getting a free hat?
Me: GIve me your purse.

Needless to say we ended up with said fantastic hats. See photo below. They are shaped like bells, with giant cracks, and say "RING IT."

Later, after refusing to wear hers all night, the Q o’ SC gave hers to a homeless man who proceeded to try and bum a smoke. At least he got a new pillow.



PS: yes, that does say ‘Crack Head.’ Glasses not included.

Sitting Room Only?

Currently I am 10,000+ feet in the air, elbows at my sides – replicating a pushup position, but while sitting. Am I doing bicep curls? No. The gentleman in front of me so kindly reclined his seat so far back I could probably cut his hair. Or shave it. (If only I could travel with a razor.) It seems Delta really went all out for the ‘commuters’ traveling cross-country. Though I rarely complain about airlines, ask anyone I know (who you might also know, if you know me. If you don’t know me, it’s best you keep questions about me to yourself.) and they’ll tell you Southwest is my airline of choice. No seat assignments, comfortable spacing, and best yet — affordability. However, this time around we opted for Delta. A major provider for mass air transit, well established and the cheapest.

I feel as if I am riding on a Greyhound Bus complete with shotty drop down TVs but with less stench. Which is debatable as my sinuses are completely dried out from being awake at 3:30am.

Update: the stewardess just walked the entire aisle harping “excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.” As a curvy woman myself, I understand sometimes hips don’t lie, however in this instance Ms. Size Two was indicating that elbows should move so she didn’t RAM them with her drink cart. In addition to massive seating space, we also sprung for the wide aisles, eh Delta? I’m glad you gave the 8 people in first class free elbow pads, because you can’t already lay across the aisle up there or anything. Let’s be extra safe with the people that paid a smidge (read: what I cant afford) extra. If I would have known I was hindering the ability to move and risking a broken funny bone, I probably would have upgraded. Lucky for me I am in the coveted middle seat, so the worst that can happen is an elbow to the boob as my fellow travel buddy attempts to dodge a drink cart assault.

Don’t try to blame Boeing on this one. You pay for what you get.

Continuing on, the man, I’ll call him Stewart, since that’s what his hat says, seems to be paired with he woman on his right. Fantastic. Do you think you could sprawl her way a little bit champ? I would like to respond to some work emails; however space-infringement has broken my pervious writers’ block. Stewart has given up on sleeping and is doing...nothing. Unless he is planning on popping out a child anytime soon, I don’t think it’s necessary for him to take up 1.5x the amount of space given to him. The good news is it looks as if he plans on ordering some food, which means he will likely spew crumbs up and over his seat. Sounds impossible, but I wouldn’t put it past him.

This vendetta is beginning to feel personal, no? If I could retaliate by kicking his seat and put stickers on his back without him noticing, only for him to go walking the streets of Philly with “I am inconsiderate” plastered against what I can only imagine is the back of a t-shirt that says “Nascar” on the front, I would. Unfortunately, I can’t move my legs, and I forgot my “Suck It” stickers at home.

I always forget something when I travel.

In other news, the gentleman to my left is very friendly, and my travel-companion, known in prior entries as The Queen of Sportscenter isn’t obsessively explaining the important of Fantasy Football to me. Yet. Since it seems her eyesight is worse than that of a legally blind person, it is safe to say friendly-man and the 6 rows behind me all know that Stewart has a light case of dandruff now.

Sorry bud. What can I say? It’s karma.

Can I get sanity as a bonus? Please?

Everyone has his or her quarks. Small annoyances that rub other people the wrong way. The good news is, you don’t have to spend extended periods of time with people that annoy you constantly. Usually.

Unless you work with them. Mere feet away. Your sanity resting upon their ability to make as little noise as possible. Similar to “The Quiet Game,” however adults usually comprehend when this is suggested it really means “Please, shut the f#$@ up.”

“Gee, this feels personal? Is someone irritable?”

Everyday, stalkers. Everyday.

For years I was a nanny. Through high school, college and even after I graduated and refused to accept my fate in the working world. (Read: I couldn’t get a job immediately.) However, once The Man offered me a 9-5 with a reasonable salary I put down the diapers and Goldfish (so good!), and traded up for a wireless mouse and sticky notes.

Or, so I thought.

Little did I know that even with a wireless mouse and stack-o-stickies that I had simply graduated into the world of adult-nannying.

What’s that? You aren’t familiar with this unless it includes Depends and memory loss? Let me help you then. Has your mom ever called you and said “how do I resize a photo?” Or maybe your Dad has questioned, “How do I check my bank balance online?” This is more like adult-babysitting because these wonderful people listened to you babble on for years about things that weren’t that important. For example: your high school crush(es), what kind of car you would one day purchase, and endless hours of “Mom...mom…mom…mom…” Their current sanity is unexplainable. You were probably a pain in the butt, though 75% of parents would never tell you that.

Some of you nanny your bosses. Organizing their calendars: they claim their busy / you claim they’re lazy. Taking their messages: too busy to answer the phone / you are not. Minion.

My boss does not inflict daily annoyances. Rather he provides me the necessary tools for me to get my ish done as efficiently as possible – minus my sanity. After 18-months of sharing an office space I can tell you that I am as close to going postal as a new mother. My hair is too thin as it is to get any thinner, but my shoulders contain the stress of a woman far my senior. Why you ask? Because, dear stalkers, I nanny a 42-year old with full cranial function.

And it makes me wish I had padded walls.

I never understood why my mother was sensitive to silence. Now I do. There is a never-ending amount of noise reverberating from her desk. Whether she’s talking to herself, me or her dog – she rarely sits in silence longer than five minutes. Her questions are generally rhetorical – hence pointless interruption. Her statements are generally righteous – making me want to contradict them for sheer distain of yet ANOTHER interruption. The all-time favorite that takes my cake (which sucks, because I love cake), her ability to yell through a wall to ask my co-workers questions.

And no, she is not Super Woman. The walls stand strong, and her voice certainly bounces off of them. We have: an intercom system, iChat, e-mail and legs. All of which provide silent, or quieter, question-asking options.

Her: IS THERE A BARCODE ON THE SAMPLE PACKS??
::silence::
Her: HEY KYLE?
Me: You could look at a sample pack. ::holds up package::
Her: Ha. You’re such a smart ass.

Or, maybe I am just a logical being that is capable of independence.

Remember that dog I mentioned earlier? The one she talks to? At a geriatric 14+ the dog refuses to sleep where it's supposed to, not smell bad, breath quietly or obey anything she tells it to do. Ever. Unless it gets a treat. Gee, who trained who? Also, it has an ear infection, so she responsibly cleans out said disobedient, arthritically stubborn dogs ears at the office. Then blames the smell on that. Ew, people. EW.

As an avid supporter of all things Excel, our company president prefers Excel sheets to, well, anything else. This may come as a shock to all of you, but I am not an Excel tutor. My company pays me to get my work done in a somewhat, almost timely manner (Facebook break!) not explain how to match the square peg with a square hole.

Here is a list of questions I have been asked in the past 48-hours:

Do you like Cold Play?
What happens if I delete a cell?
Can you come here? (Note: I can see her screen, which is big enough for Helen Keller to read, from where I sit.)
Can I ask you a question?
Why isn’t this pasting with I click paste?
Do you have a hair roller thingy?
Responds to own question: Probably not.
What do you think of my.....(trails off not to finish sentence. AT ALL.)
Don't you love this color?
When are you getting K-Cups?
How do I copy a formula?
How do I copy a cell?
How do I set my mouse with a double-click?
Does B seem crabby?
How late are you staying?
Do we have rechargeable batteries? Yes. We do?
Can I call Kyle?

…I don’t know, can you?

To make it even better, our intern (he’s 30, I like to make fun of him) has caught wind of her need to be right ALL THE TIME and has started inter-office debates with her just to get her going. He’s kidding / she’s serious. If it weren’t so funny, it’d be annoying.

Scratch that: it’s annoying.

A Daily Dose of my Momma

Today, while ensuring I get the most out of my college degree by sitting/laying/sprawling on the couch watching a Law and Order: SVU marathon I was exposed to a fantastic website. It's like Hungry, Hungry Hippos for shopping addicts. Imagaine getting a Blue Light special without having to beat off Captain Mullet and Ms. Snaggle Tooth. Click and buy. Almost-instant (5-7 days) gratification of knowing that you beat 5k other people to purchasing something at 66% off. Suckers.

This website could be a terrible addiction. Crack for gear junkies: Steepandcheap.com.

Today's blog isn't about the amazingness that is Steep and Cheap -- rather it is to document a simple conversation I had with my Mom.

Me: I have to tell you, J sent me a link to this website that had a North Face puffy vest in pearl white with a HUGE fur-rimmed hood. And I ALMOST got one for you too. J was pressuring me to buy it, and I kept saying, "I need to get one for my Mom, too!!" But then remembered you have a
white puffy vest.

Mom: Not one with a fur-rimmed hood though.

Typical.

Serves me right. This a written post-it to remind me to always buy an extra for Mom. Except that generally, she looks cuter than I do. I need every Steep and Cheap leg up I can get on her. ;)

Hit the Showers!

Recently, I have attempted to convince myself that I enjoy going to the gym with daily “The Gym is Fun” mantras. In the summer, it’s much more difficult to justify the cost when the sun is out begging for me to play in it’s rays. But with a winter trip to Hawaii approaching (not quickly enough btw) now seemed like the best time to get my ish together. Rather than the week before, which has proven to be less effective in the past. Who knew?

As I am not masochistic, I dislike trying to kick my own ass while pumping lots and lots of iron and doing millions of crunches. Rather, doing few reps/crunches before, again, trying to pin my athletic laziness on asthma. Therefore, I prefer going to classes and forcing someone else to drill-sergeant my ass to soreness. Then, before the pain really sets in, I shower before work.

Our showers are nothing short of being luxurious. With doors that click, high water pressure, water temperature adjustable to the degree and even a little pedestal to rest your foot when shaving. Oh, and the shower cream? It’s right there, too. The razors are by the sink though, so you have to grab those on your way in…

(Yes, I do go to a cushy gym. Idolize me later, peasants.)

Here’s where is gets interesting.

My gym consists of women mainly above the age of forty. There is an age, I’m not sure what it is but I promise it’s not 25, when it’s ok to be a nudist in the gym locker room. Because, really? Who cares? It’s all women anyways, right? At my current age I would like to continue thinking that my body will never succumb to gravity, the effects of child birth or what I will call ‘maturity.’ Sure, call me modest, but they provide robes for a reason, right? To be used. ::hint hint::

Last week, after chugging half of my complimentary coffee to jump-start my brain, I headed toward the shower IN MY ROBE. (I also wear shower sandals…more of you should take a lesson from freshman year of college and do it too. Fungus exists people.) As I approached, I was taken aback, immediately began repeating ‘look away, look away’ in my head and tried to get to my stall without tripping, slipping or walking into ANOTHER naked person.

Remember before when I mentioned the shower pedestal installed specifically for shaving purposes? Apparently, some people don’t find this to be an effective tool, preferring to step OUT of their CONCEALED shower and INTO all places out in the open. And since it’s not high enough, said people also like to rest their foot on the TOP of a stool facing outward. Toward the walkway. Where everyone else gets a nice little peek into the private world of being a female.

Males, you may be thinking “Dude, that’s sweet!” or “Whatever. I bet what happens below deck for us is worse.”

Nay. On both accounts.

The likelihood that you are shaving your legs spread eagle for all to see is very, very low. In the event that old men are free-ballin' (sorry, Mom/Aunts) you only have to keep your eyes above the waist, which is no feat for a gender that usually stares chest level anyways.

A wench walks into a bar...

Spokane: a city of so many nicknames (i.e. Spokanistan. Spocompton), none of which infer it could be anything but a ghetto sand trap that is possibly poverty stricken. Rather, it’s actually a nice place to visit (or attend college) – hot and sunny in the summer, snowy and sunny in the winter. And for a girl that enjoys sunglasses 24/7, the prevalence of sun is quite drawing for me.

That’s not to say that some sketchy things have not happened to me in the many years I lived, and have visited, Spokane – because they have. It’s possible some of these events were self-induced…but I refuse to accept the notion that I may have “asked” for any of the following. Truthfully, I am always cognizant of my actions and sometimes it can be beneficial. I’ll explain.

As a junior in college, I was the youngest of my roommates. The last to turn 21, and for those of you that know me, being left out really isn’t my “thing.” I prefer being included, invited and in the know. Everyone knows at 21 house parties become irrelevant whereas the Bar (really, any bar) is much more appealing. I mean, come on, that’s where all the guys are, right?

*BTW, this is not a new concept for me. I’ll tell you later about my interest in participating in activities that boys generally populate.

Recently 21, and in possession of a fake ID she no longer needed, my roommate passed hers onto me. At that time, Thursday was the new Friday (it still is, FYI) and my friends were frequenting the biggest dive bar within walking distance. An American-Chinese joint that offered karaoke and killer drink specials. At the time, Andrew was their main bouncer – sporting dark brown hair with a mullet that screamed I’m all business until I turn around. The photo in my newly acquired ID looked something like me, back in my “goth” days when I liked black eyeliner. At least, that’s what I told people when they gave me a quizzical look. What’s a girl to do when her ID’s legality could be questioned? Flirt. And flirt I did. Andrew took an immediate liking to me, and if you subtract the time they tracked me down and requested I leave, as I could not produce an ID that someone else hadn’t used moments before, he stopped carding me after my second visit. This did limit my libations to the one locale; however you make due with what you have right? Better than a house party with the freshman, right? Scoff. However, this meant endless minutes of flirting with Andrew before I could join my friends on the dance floor -- then what felt like endless minutes of ridicule for shamelessly flirting with the bouncer.

Side note: What I wouldn’t give for a house party right now. As it happens, once you enter the world of the working-[wo]man people start to care about their dwellings enough to limit the beer-spilling, mess-causing keggers that produce the best dance EVER.

Fast-forward to this past year when passing through Spo after a weekend of skiing, J and I were invited to a house party. SCORE! ::queue dance party remix:: After a successful night of house-partying it up – we called a cab. I quickly curled up, closed my eyes and drifted off while J proceeded to have the following conversation with our almost English speaking cab driver.
Cab drive: So, what do you do over there for work?
J explains his job..putting me into a deeper sleep.
Cab drive: Whatthewenchdo?
J: The who? What?
Cab driver: Whatthewenchdo? The WENCH. What does SHE do?

I imagine that passing out on someone’s shoulder at 1am gives him the right to refer to me as a wench; however while assigning me that nickname why even bother asking about my profession? Urban Dictionary defines a wench as:

“A voluptuous female pirate type woman, usually with a firey attitude, and usually seen around taverns and bars, seaside fishing towns, and wherever pirates roam.”

OR

“Historically a non-derogatory word for a woman who was not a lady. Thus a waitress in times of yore was a "serving wench." more modernly synonymous with bitch or slut but slightly less offensive.”

I will give him voluptuous and firey – otherwise it seems he peg-legged me as a slutty waitress.

Which, looking back at my waitressing days, is debatable.

Get Yo' Self a BAD BOY!

Last night, rather than being a low key adult that stays home, cleans her apartment, packs for a weekend trip and goes to bed early I decided to revisit my teen years with a Backstreet Boys concert.

The girls and I met for dinner and drinks – guzzling our Peach Sweet Teas (with vodka, DUH) and watching the girls/women/gay guys/reluctant or secretly gay boyfriends head toward the concert venue. (BTW – the venue was a hockey rink. Classy.) As it happens, a few cocktails pre-show no longer makes it when preparing to see BSB live. You need homemade shirts. You need Glo-Sticks. You need short hemlines and high, painful heels.

My work attire definitely did not give me a “I’m such a groupie I’d sleep with you immediately just to say I did” look – more so it was a “I should be drinking wine on a sailboat.” Blue and white stripes are totally hot…if you’re sipping champagne with the Captain. Had I known to go full-slut I would have gone shopping WEEKS ago.

After paying our tab, which was conveniently the same price as two tickets to a BACKSTREET BOYS concert, N and I opened a few beverages to slip in our purses for the walk. We weren’t boy scouts, but I can tell you that we are always prepared. (In this event, N was..)

We blindly found our seats, or what we considered to be close enough to our seats – but not without a few stumbles (come on, it was pitch black in there!) and spilling beer down the back of the girl in front of us. It was then that I realized how old I really am. The combination of food, booze, heat and a full day of work had exhausted me. Yes, I do enjoy the boy band goodness of yore, but more so I enjoy melting into my mattress and pillow.

“I hope they don’t start screaming. Ugh,” N said as the lights begin to dim. Then it happened. It was like a pterodactyl screeching its mating call while preying on a young, idiotic, neon wearing teeny-bopper. I looked to my immediate right to see N’s tonsils vibrating, her perfectly straight teeth extended as far apart as possible and her mouth producing what can only be described as the piercing cry of an injured animal. A few tequila shots and she quite possibly would have been trying to slingshot her bra on stage.

We weren’t even that close.

The hour that followed included much karaoke – don’t worry, I was drowned out by other BSB loving folk. However, it seems that the international sensation that was BSB is no longer working with an unlimited production budget. The video screen was playing graphics that resembled a screen saver circa 1995, back when you had to lift with your knees to move your computer. I think there were back up dancers, however it was hard to tell if they’d actually been trained or recruited from the street corner.

While operating a man down, the ‘Incomplete’ set seemed to have lost steam. Yes, it was pointed out to me that they are in their mid-thirties. Combined with the simplistic screen saver graphics, it was as if karaoke DDR was happening on stage.

But who would pass up an opportunity to see a childhood favorite in a po-dunk suburb with a crowd as big as my high school? Not I.

No Spank You.

It’s been awhile since my last blog. But it’s also occurred to me that many entertaining things have happened in my life.

If you are familiar with where I live, you are likely familiar with the maintenance guy that sloths around pretending to look busy. I want to say he means well and is just a friendly guy – however after a semi-recent elevator ride, I have found myself dodging him, hitting the “door close” button and speed-walking past him more often than not.

When I first met him, he was just a nice, helpful guy. He’d leave my packages inside the apartment (yes, I signed a form saying it was ok) and let me in when I was locked out at ridiculous hours (read: midnight) due to my own flustered memory. No, not drunkenness. And I am offended you thought that. (Admit it, you’re a lush.)

Recently, my Grandma has taken to sending me a monthly card to say “wuddup,” which I totally dig since I love mail of the snail-variety. After making my daily stop to see what the Post-Fairy had left me, I hopped in the elevator heading up.

FYI: My mom notes that I need to limit the details I give you blog-stalkers, since it’s public and you never know when someone will map out who/where/how you are based on your blog. That being said, I feel that mentioning “up” in regards to my elevator ride does not give anything away, other than that I do not, in fact, live in a cavern connected by crazy elevators. How awesome would that be though?

I diverge. So, I am in the elevator with said maintenance man (MM) and an Asian couple tearing into what looks like a card that could POSSIBLY contain money. Refusing to look up, or make direct eye contact with anyone – because to be honest, I didn’t want to make conversation – I now wish I would have had my ear buds in. The conversation was as follows:

MM – “Whatcha got there? A birthday card? Is it your birthday?”
Me (head still down) – “Nope. Just a card from my Grandma.”
MM – “Oh, that’s too bad I was just about to start spankin’ ya.”
Me (holding back a gag) – “Keep dreamin.”
MM – “Your parents said it was ok…”

Then the doors opened and I quite literally exited with a sprint. Luckily it was my floor.

I am not sure if the Asian couple was going with a “we don’t understand” approach or more of the “we are laughing at the inside” – either way they were also statuesque and avoiding eye contact with all parties. Or at least I imagine so, since I couldn’t look anywhere other than my toes.

That night I did call to confirm with my mother that she had, in fact, not given MM permission to spank me on, around or after my birthday. She had not. He is now not only extremely creepy – but he’s also a liar. And no one wants a creepy liar letting them into their home at midnight.

Anyone know a hide-a-key that blends with beige?

Put that in your pipe and...sing it?

It’s come to my attention that I have a very routine morning. According to Wikipedia, the most reliable source on the Internet, a routine is “a course of normative, standardized actions or procedures that are followed regularly, often repetitiously.”

In Lara terms? It’s a way to avoid getting ready for work.

My alarm goes off, I hit the snooze. My cell phone buzzes, I respond to a text blindly – for two reasons, the main one being that I refuse to actually open them and the secondary being that without my glasses focusing is a challenge. (Shut UP.) At this point, I generally try to go back to sleep while my phone and alarm race to be the next obnoxious noise to wake me.

This goes on for at least 20-minutes. Sometimes longer.

There are few things that wake me immediately. And this morning it became very evident that one of said things is trendy-pop music that I gobble up like a fat kid + cake.

Feeling vominous, yet? No?

I love Miley Cyrus. And I HATE that I love her.

First off, she is named after either your 90-year old great aunt that you met once and were enamored by the ridiculous amount of crap that she obtained throughout her life…or your next door neighbors dog. Secondly, she was born in the early 90’s…making her ALMOST 18 (boys, keep your pants on.) Even knowing both of these things, I am still addicted to her bubbly, mainstream lyrics.

When Party in the USA first came out, the radio station I listen to religiously worshipped all that is Miley by playing it at least once an hour. Meaning that I could wake up, snooze, text, dream, snooze, check my FB newsfeed, sleep, text and if I was lucky hear it again.

What a disgusting habit. What is the possibility that the music industry laces these songs with nicotine?

I had hoped that my adoration for crappy pop was a recent development. Something that my brain developed an affliction for after three years out of college and a job that is somewhat taxing on my mental stability.

Then S wrote on my Facebook wall:
“The door bell rings cause the party's here, I'm crankin up the stereo like it's New Year, walkin round the house like who's Da Man - can't nobody do it like Aaron can! Miss you!”

If you don’t get that, congratulations. You must play the Beatles, Bob Dylan and possibly Frank Sinatra through your ear buds. (If you don’t have ear buds, I am questioning my desire to be friends with you. Headphones went out of style with your rollerblades. Believe it.)

If you continued on, mumbling “First on the floor! You know that's me. Bustin' out the moves like it's MTV.” to yourself with a headbob – then your brain must be filled with endless hours of Backstreet Boys, pre-crazy Britney and probably Destiny’s Child. Welcome to my world. That, dear friends, is Aaron Carter – brother of BSB Nick.

And that is DEFINITELY no recent development. Prepare yourself for countless commercials of random hipsters shouting the side effects of catchy tunes that have limited cultural impact, because if Miley and Aaron produce an offspring I can only imagine the cheesey crap that will come out of that child’s perfectly harmonic mouth.

Until next time, find me changing stations until landing on Katy Perry’s California Gurls. Or maybe Kei$ha's Your Love is My Drug. She spells her name with a dollar sign and people think it's cool. WTF?

No sir, my finger does not lactate.

They say that the best birth control is babysitting. I am not sure who "they" are, but "they" are entirely accurate with that statement.

Last night, while allowing my addictive hair stylist to cut my hair in a stranger's kitchen (given, it was a friend of hers...but somehow made me feel like I was looking for one more hair-high...regardless of location) I witnessed the inner workings of a family of three.

While holding a crying newbie, desperate for his mother's boob, I had color slathered on my previously neglected hair. You would not believe how difficult it is to explain to a baby that you are not, in fact, able to feed him. Oddly, he was satisfied sucking on my finger for a short period of time. Until, of course, he realized that much like my boobs, my finger didn't lactate either.

Meanwhile, two toddlers -- who wouldn't talk to me otherwise due to shyness of strangers -- were running in and out of the room, waiting for a simple "boo" from me. At which point, they were scream playful, piercing child-screams of giddiness and run back out of the room, leaving me with the newbie who, if he could, would push the dislike button.

And continued to wail of unhappy hunger.

R continued with the color, in a soothing, "Momma's doing hair. I'll be there in a minute." Something I realize my own mother rarely would have done then or now. If I called "MOM!" she would rush to my side. I am sure this is instilling some true form of patience into M and O. At 28 (really? You're only 28?), R has the same tenderness of many mothers. Even when explaining to me that the male-toddler (her friend's son) had actually bitch-slapped her daughter in the mouth.

And yes, bitch-slap was her term.

Holy crap. Child violence. I am so not ready for this responsibility. Or bigger boobs.

As the night went on, I also learned that in addition to not being ready to be a parent, I will also never buy a house with a circular running path. Providing any small human with a track lacking obstacles, like doors and walls, is simply poor architecture. When given the opportunity to run, with EVERYTHING, children will literally sprint at the opportunity. After witnessing a reenactment of Harry Potter - wand included - I am quite certain my child will be using safety scissors until the age of 16, when the state trusts them with a driver's license.

I wasn't even babysitting these children. I was simply a guest. A temporary implant into their life. Can you imagine what would have happened had I been left alone with them?

I can. Only because I once babysat M when she was a baby, insisting that my cousin and his wife had a date night -- a term they are no longer familiar with. Though firetrucks, ambulances and CPS were not involved - I am sure that having a small baby pee on your knee then later spit-up ON YOUR FACE would be grounds for leaving her unattended...as joining a convent and life without procreation was calling my name.

So the next time you are strolling through Target (OMG I LOVE TARGET!!), passing the baby clothes and hearing yourself go "awwwwww cuuuuuteeeee!" remember that yes, floral prints in a mini-sized onesie is adorable.

Until it's covered in poop.

Hair: Such a Tease

If you are an avid follower of my blog (which you should be), I am sure that you know I am obsessed with a lot of things (i.e. Starbucks, myself, Facebook). Clearly, the examples provided are worthy of my time and obsessive nature -- however there are some things that I leave unnoticed. Namely my hair.

My locks are easily the simplest thing about me. They are a chestnutty brown. Cumulatively, my hair is equivalent to the state of Rhode Island, whereas my closest friend's hair is more like Texas. They require little attention from me (unlike my feet, hands, skin) and can often be dried in under a minute. ONE MINUTE. Think about the last time you blow dried your hair ladies. Men, well, I am flattered you are still reading.

For as long as I can remember, I have bounced from my Dad's stylist to my Mom's (love ya D!) -- each time saying, "I'd like a trim, and y'know, something easy." (Chill Grandma, I'm just talking about my hair.) I love highlights, and having someone else wash my hair. They always style it, giving me a momentary vision of hope...until it quickly looses shape once stepping foot outside the salon. Such a tease you are, hair.

In the event that you have had the privilege of waking up next to me, you know that my hair is infamous for being the worst morning hair OF ALL TIME. (Note: Thank gawd my Grandmother doesn't have the internet. I am sure that statement alone would be support for her "...whoring around" comment. See 'Drinkin' For Two' if you don't get the reference, you lazy follower.) Though it's straighter than raw spaghetti, my hair has the ability to form itself into some type of poofy, Meduza-esque mess that can only be replicated by stage-stylists.

I once had a roommate that taught me that half a can of hairspray + backcombing + a ponytail = sexy hair. That right there? Is the extent that I go through for my hair. If I curl it, it goes flat. If I crimp it, I end up looking like a lame Kelly Kapowski replica (side pony?!) No hair product has done me good, unless it's dry shampoo. Otherwise my tresses rebel, absorbing whatever I've tried so that I could pass as a Greaser. ::puke::

When I was 12, my hair waterfalled down my back. It was a long, thin mess of a pony tail that I assume was more trouble than what I can remember. I went to get a cut with my cousin, swearing I was going to have her chop it off. And chop she did. I went from being Cousin It's little sister to a tom-boy with a shag bowl cut. Imagine my Mother's surprise (she always has a perfect 'do, fyi. Blonde bob, with bangs. Perfect.) when I came home, pony tail in hand, near tears to what the stylist had done to my previously lengthy quaff. Needless to say I was rarely unaccompanied for cuts after that, nor did I want to be.

Hair stylists to women are like bartenders to men. They are witty, cheerful people that make you look beautiful -- or if you're a man, your bartender not only listens but pours you enough sauce so the woman next to temporarily appears beautiful. For years my Dad would take me to Great Clips, because what did I know of foiling and feathered layers? Once I finally discovered a woman who promised me effortless, cute hair I was in awe of my willingness to spend my meagre college paychecks every 6-weeks to sit in her chair, and babble about whatever unimportant drama was happening in my life (usually with a hangover.)

Then, I moved back home, leaving my stylist behind.

It's been more than six months since my last cut. My hair is long enough to pull back into a ponytail. My natural color has returned, and my morning beehive seems to be in full swing. I keep promising myself I'll find someone new. Someone just as good. Rather, I live in a world of hair denial, with full on stylist withdrawals.

To you, dearest quaff, I am sorry. I promise to no longer ignore your spaghetti like nature -- I'll find someone new.

But not quite yet...R's in town and I need her scissors one more time...

Drinkin' for two.

Last night I returned from a five day hiatus from the following: reliable cell service, a computer, Starbucks and cable. After spending a long weekend visiting my Grandparents in Montana you would think I wouldn't come back with much to tell -- oh but how you're wrong.

As mentioned above, my vacation lacked many of my favorites. Luckily, coffee is a staple for everyone not just the caffeine-addict that is rolling through town looking for a fix. Though she loves to cook, Grandma also likes to go to the Oasis, a cafe/bar/casino-type establishment. Why? Though their coffee is more expensive than at McDonalds, 75¢ versus 50¢, they have delicious cinnamon rolls. (Even if they are previously frozen, she pretends not to care.)

Yes - you did read that correctly. Drip coffee costs less than ONE DOLLAR. I can't figure out how they are making money. Or, maybe now I understand more clearly why Starbucks is a multi-billion dollar coffee pushing machine.

Though I do enjoy oodles of butter and sugar oozing down golden brown, cinnamony goodness, I was in the mood for an actual meal the morning Grandma and I decided to visit the Oasis. She was as well, and without even holding a menu ordered the senior portion of your standard diner breakfast: eggs, hasbrowns, toast and your choice of various meats. After she ordered, my conversation with the waitress was as follows:

Me: That sounds good. I'll have the same, but you know, the regular size non-senior portion. ::awkward chuckle:: two eggs...
Waitress: You got it.
She turns to walk away..
Waitress: Eatin' for two.

I quickly looked around, hoping someone else heard her. Then immediately looked down at my (empty) stomach. Confused, my Grandmother seemed oblivious of the waitress's comment of me having a cinnamon bun in MY oven. I didn't even have a loose shirt on.

The same evening after cautiously loading my dinner plate, and guffawing with my extended family about the above comment, I headed up to my good friend M's house. She happened to be in town, as was her older sister and adorable nephew -- whom I had never met.

M's dad stocks their house worthy of a Seattle bar. After a few glasses of wine, followed by a couple Greyhounds and enough hot tubbing to make me the fifth member of the Raisinets it was agreed that M and I should have a sleepover. After assuring Grandma that I would be home by 8 am for an intense bonding session, we mixed another and headed back to the hot tub.

As promised, I was home before 8...and locked out. It was reminiscent of losing your dorm keys after a walk of shame across campus, being forced to wait for someone (who was clean and showered) leaving before seeking refuge inside.

Oh the wrath that is a Grandmother. Once she opened the door, scowling, she busied herself. During this time I took the opportunity to sneak downstairs and try to catch a few extra z's. Really I blame the hot tub. It was dehydrating, I would have felt just fine otherwise. (Yeah, right.) It didn't take long for her to sleuth me out.

The light didn't stun my eyes immediately, as I'd pulled a blanket over my head, but after she whipped it back I can't say I was entirely surprised. As I turned over to meet her glare, she smacked me on the leg and snapped, "Get up. No more sleeping. You wouldn't be so tired if you weren't out all night whoring around."

Speechlessness ensues.

I am not sure if she was in cahoots with the waitress, however I hope they both know one can't get pregnant in a hot tub with another female. Otherwise someone gave them a very skewed version of the birds and the bees.

San Diego: The Land of Implants

Currently I am slouching, droopy-eyed and overly-caffeinated on a flight home from San Diego. It seems only appropriate I would recap what I learned this weekend while in SD.

1. Flotation devices are not provided, but strongly suggested.
No, I do not mean on the flight. Last I checked I could still use my seat cushion – however, no matter how often or how many times that is explained to me, I will never fully know how to implement said system until an actual emergency.

Rather, while in San Diego I guarantee you will see a plethora of overly-priced floaties. That’s right friends, San Diego is the unofficial silicone capital of the world. You are racking, pun intended, your brain for a city you have visited that also had massive fake ta-ta’s – LA, New York…well good luck. It’s too bad that the producers on Bravo have yet to tap into the Housewife drama that could be in San Diego with implants like these.

“Why aren’t mine that round?!” Well, simply put: because they’re not. And unless I am hanging upside down, my hood ornaments are also not defying gravity – even at my young, perky age. Even with a push-up bra.

2. Tattoos are required upon entry.
Though it’s not publically advertised, I would say it’s a general rule upon moving to SD that your second stop (first is the plastic surgeons office for a consultation) is a tattoo parlor. Whether it be a large tramp-stamp or less welcoming fire breath dragon on your forearm, it seems that tatts are all the rage. Paired with the deep brown color of a beach lifer’s skin, it’s the norm on the beach. San Diego is one blow-out away from being the Jersey Shore.

3. Mexican food is available. All. The. Time.
It’s a wonder to me that the girls are as anorexic looking as they are, because it seems that in my two day stay I had Mexican food with four out of six meals – two of those being after midnight. Yes, our late night regiment may have influence those two ‘fourth meals,’ if you will, however the fact that it was readily available and willing to play on my undeniable munchies is just….annoying. I would have been happy with a lousy plate of homemade nachos…yet, that sketchy taco stand seemed so appealing.
Also, not that I got food poisoning, but I am willing to bank on a low-sanitation level and a great defense of “it’s probably just a hangover” to any post-burrito nauseousness that has likely happened on more than one occasion. I just wish they served late night Margaritas to wash it all down with.

4. Smile, nod, then walk away.
The beach community of scum is prevalent. As much as I enjoy attention, I can tell you that I am only happy I was in my right mind to not only remember, but was also able to fully enjoy the ridiculous line I was fed while conversing with my weekend Partner in Crime. After multiple, shameless walk-by’s we found ourselves cornered, separately, by what I can only assume was the result of eight too many shots of Jager. Insert vomit noise here. Lesson I learned? My brother is somewhere in the bar – and I have to find him, immediately. If you don’t know that means I not only want to get away from you, but am also hoping I just instilled a hint of fear into your creepy self than you are a bigger idiot than I originally believed. And according to Darwin, you probably won’t survive.

5. Sun – Screen = Burn
Duh, right? Well, I really have no defense here. Especially since I grew up in a pro-sunscreen household and only discovered the magic of tanning oil in my late, late teens. I can only blame myself for falling asleep on my stomach without an ounce of block on me. Something (read: everything) tells me I have two options for my next encounter with my mother: avoid her entirely or dress like a 16-year old masking a hickie. (Note: maybe she won’t read this blog?) Regardless, I will most likely be wearing leggings and loose pants over jeans this week. Thanks, wind chill for tricking me into believing I wasn’t leaving my vulnerable, whiteness unprotected against ::gasp:: the sun. I am so accustomed to living under a shelter of clouds that I didn’t realize that the big yellow thing could harm me. It seemed so friendly – I had to invite in all that Vitamin-D without protection.

I am not sure if California plans on making a new set of commercials anytime soon but I am hoping after Arnold’s political run, he’ll tatt up, get the wifey a set of inflatable Shamu's and spend the majority of his time hitting on 20-somethings with the rest of the San Diego bar scum. All of which I will witness during my next trip to the Whale’s Who-Ha.

These Shoes Were Made for Stalking

For the past three weeks I have been shamelessly stalking a pair of shoes. Yes, shoes. These aren’t just any old pair of shoes – these are marigold, platform wedges that do not cost an entire paycheck. They are faux (I don’t see you buying Jimmy Choos. And if you are, really? Never feel like buying a house, huh?) and come from the most magical place on earth.

(Don’t act like you don’t know that I am talking about Target. If you didn’t, either you are my mother and way behind on my blogs or you clearly are not getting my e-mail updates. Look to the left, genius, and sign up. It’s way easier, I promise.)

I first layed my eyes on these adorable, economically responsible calf-lengtheners in Real Simple, another one of my guilty pleasures. Though I may be single female living roommate-to-roommate, I have the same nesting desires as a woman living in a house too big for her husband, 2.5 kids and Golden Retriever. I want to be organized. (Dream on.) I want to know the proper way to scrub my bathtub. (Also, faster!) I want to successfully cook a meal in under an hour. (Rachel Ray lies.) Somewhere between learning to read and access to my first debit card, I missed the desire to subscribe to Cosmo and preferred home and lifestyle essentials.

Lucky for me I try to pick roommates that enjoy reading about 32-ways to Please in Under an Hour and Sixty Things to Drive Your Man Wild (Which means: How to Contort Yourself Until You're Stuck.)

Anyway, after seeing Miss Sample Size in the April Real Simple wearing a floral-pattern dress and the gladiator-style wedges I mentioned earlier, I knew it was fate that both were from Target. Begin obsession.



The dress was easy; it was in my cart minutes after I set down the magazine.

But the shoes. Those pesky, popularly priced pavement pounders are IMPOSSIBLE to find. Where do I even begin telling you about my escapades?

After the initial disappointment of not being able to locate them immediately at my local Target, I knew that Al Gore’s Internet would come through for me. It had to. I needed those shoes. Even though there are plenty of Target’s within a 15-minutes driving distance of me, much like Starbucks, why waste my time going store to store when I could just get free shipping?

I booted up, clicked the browser icon and found them. Not available yet?! Ridiculous. Target teased my tootsies, and I was to wait another week before I would be able to ‘add to cart.’ Nobody likes a tease. (I think that article came from Maxim.)

Since their release, I have tried four Targets in two states. On opposite ends of the country. All were miserable disappointments.

I found flats in marigold. And the same desirable platform wedge in a brown. But no hybrid of the two. Don’t even get me started on the meager end cap dedicated to these ‘designed for Target’ masterpieces.

Desperation ensues.

Not to mention that they are sold out online. Somewhere out there, you’re stocking the shoes of my dreams. And I won’t sleep (lies. I love to sleep.) until my feet are safely nestled at an uncomfortable angle – making me three inches taller, and my legs that much longer.

If you work for Real Simple OR a Target warehouse, I wear an 8.5. Please e-mail me for my ship-to information.

Oh, and yes, I would like to freelance for you. Thank you for asking.

Middle-Class Matchmaker: With A Low Success Rate

I am sure everyone is more than familiar with the Millionaire Matchmaker, a third-generation matchmaker who has claimed her own spot on Bravo. Pairing her plethora of female beauties with socially-inept/awkward/smelly/workaholic/overly-confident dbag millionaires.

Not that I watch endless hours of matchmaking reality (seriously, it's real).

Or hold mixers that I invite my entire friend groups to in hopes that I can then force them onto one another.

Unlike Patti Stanger, I have one of the lowest success rates in match making history. I have not dedicated my life to pairing off all 700+ of my Facebook friends. If they really needed someone to date they could go to the sleaziest source possible: Match.com. Rather, my single friends must succumb to my continual social pressure to date each other.

And it's really not forcing, more intense encouragement fueled by direct comments, constant questioning and extensive texts. Also, less of a mixer type environment and more of a 'whoops, you both stopped by at the same time -- let's drink!' But who's paying attention to the details?

I like to think that each of my matches has the potential for the long-term. Not that I put a ridiculous amount of time, thought or true consideration into these pairs. BUT both parties are almost always single...

Foyfriends don't count. (Foyfriend = Fake + Boyfriend) If it's not FBO -- Facebook official, keep up. Who are you? My mom? -- it's not real.

I can say with great confidence that not only do I have an extremely low success rate, I also have found myself saying 'oh get over it' on more than one account, since as it happens when you cross-mingle friend groups in an attempt to balance your social calendar out for sole personal gain and you fail miserably - said failed attempts can create someone awkward situations (ye!).

(Did I just admit to you that I try to set my friends up for my own personal gain? Nooooo....)

My first attempt was almost too perfect. D stopped by and K was over..could it have been fate that they were both single? Or pure serendipity? As most of you know, I am obsessed with all things of a serendipitous nature and convinced myself that said pair could not fail.

Wrong.

The next try was much more successful, however can I truly credit myself when it was S that called and asked my permission to take out K's sister? Sure can, if it statistically helps me. If at any point things between them end, I refute all responsibility.

I am not sure about the next non-couple...as once again I really was not that involved in the whole process. Regardless, they know each other because of me...which could be good or bad depending on how you review the tapes.

And now that I sit down to think about it, I realize that I am a miserable 2 for 3. To make it even worse, three of the six people involved are related. I am sure that since all six of you read my blog, and four of you are probably annoyed that I publicly outed your failed relationships -- please wait to thank me later.

Caution: Vodka Required

Are you an out of work actor? Did you almost make it as a dancer then
fail miserably? Did you not get enough of the club this weekend? Do
you dream of one day understanding how to do an accelerated strip tease?

Well then, friend, Zumba is for you.

Last Wednesday I had my first Zumba experience. I started my workout with N at kickboxing -- a class that gave me a healthy ka-pow of reality. As it happens, I am less coordinated than I have always thought and jab-punch-cross-turn-knee'd myself into confusion for an entire hour. I sweated. I learned combo moves, just like old school Street Fighter. I even threw off the overly-know-it-all next to me's rhythm, sending her into a spiral of confusion. Overall, give me a few more practice rounds, and I will be upper-cut/round-house kick/jump/arm/hobbling with the best of them in kickboxing.

But Zumba. Oooooh Zumba...how you tortured me. N describes our
instructor as 'great.' Me on the other hand? Well, you have all heard
my feelings on my devil hot yogi, so I am sure you are thinking I am
going to take this that direction. WRONG. Nay, she was not the devil.
She even forewarned us that her style had hip-hop roots and sometimes
she didn't talk so really 'try to follow along.'

Background for you: I have trouble with the Cha-Cha-Slide.
Specifically the Cha-Cha part. This does not bode well during a Zumba
class. I have included the link for those of you unfamiliar with Casper's Cha-Cha-Slide.

During my experience, I believe said instructor was trying to say
"left foot" but her annunciation was muffled by the PARTY that was
going on around her...however "sexy time" was more than
understandable, and I learned where everyone goes to drop it like its
hot while sober.

I'm not entirely sure that it's healthy to consider a vodka-tonic pre-workout, however in this case it might be necessary. I always thought I was not only a competent dancer, but also a confident one. Never failing to flock to the dance floor in uncomfortable shoes, could it be that my Brooks were holding me back? Constricting my already wobbling ankles from the ability to roll, twist and slip at their will? Or maybe my sports bra was keeping the girls from moving freely? Maybe it was that the workout room provided space to move/slide/sexy time around without using another body as a bumper guard.

Because, really? There is no way I have vodka goggles about my dancing ability. It's just not possible.

Is that a CROWN?!

Today while I was at work, keeping a watchful eye on all the important news headlines (you know the ones I mean: Facebook, Gmail and my iPhone) I had a birthday epiphany. Tomorrow while I am reminding anyone and everyone of my birthday with a repetitious "IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!" I will have no way of pictorially conveying this via emoticon.

That's right, I said emoticon. How will you know I am wearing my princess crown? Even though it is an assumption you should make since IT'S MY BIRTHDAY.

And when I try to Facebook you to remind you that you forgot the most important should-be national holiday, will you truly understand the severity without said Princess crown emoticon? Probably not.

So I want to know who I need to call to make this happen. It's 11:30...giving me somewhere around 29-minutes to get it figured out. Yes, the probability is zero. Don't kill a sistahs dream, it's NOT your birthday*.

While I am on topic and you are busy creating emoticons, what about a nose-goes? I constantly find myself losing text battles. Maybe I am a push over, or MAYBE if we had a nose-goes emoticon I wouldn't be constricted to arguing then quickly folding.

Now, please excuse me -- I have to go polish my crown before midnight.

And find my sash.

*If it is, in fact, your birthday, making you my birthday twin - HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Attention Target Addicts

Tonight while I was doing a typical round-about through the Holy Grail of all shopping establishments, K and I debated on Target's actual hours. Turns out, they close at eleven. Eleven PM! It's like Christmas-come-early in the Lara household tonight. WEEE!!

Nothing about perusing the aisles of Target at 10:30 pm on a Monday seemed out of the ordinary to me. I am the night owl who yearns for the holidays simply for the extended shopping hours. I swear I am the most productive any one person can be after 9 pm. So, doing laps to combine entertainment, a shopping fix and obvious workout (it was too drizzly to walk the lake) seemed completely normal.

Until I got the following text:

"Wait you're at Target NOW?"

Crap. My obsession has been exposed. Maybe if I play dumb he'll never realize that I am dodging the question. "Huh?"

"You said you're at Target again...like right now?"

As it happens, the "I can't hear you, I'm going through a tunnel" doesn't work via text message. Something about the signal working and the person on the other end actually receiving the text in a decent matter of time. Avoidance is probably your best option here.

Target is the one-stop-shop that no one can refuse. If you're immediate response to this was, "I can" then we probably aren't really friends, and if we are I'm faking it. (Speaking of faking it, I saw a girl I went to high school with there tonight. As our paths crossed, no contact of any sort was made. Pft. Some Facebook friend she is.)

It's two floors of extensive homeware meets 'designed by [insert designer I've never heard of before] for Target' meets everything but produce grocery shopping...all of which equals a mecca of happiness in my world.

And it was here that K and I realized we may, or may not - because let's not jump to conclusions, be a combination of impulse shoppers...also known as addicts. While avoiding a simple "Yes, I am at Target," K slinked over to the cart with a box of Kashi, which she clearly needed and was obviously on her Target list under 'argyle socks' (YAY for MY birthday!) and above 'book for Mom.' As I piled in a few G2's, because you never know when dehydration can hit even though it's probably a Sunday morning (lush!), on top of everything else I deemed 'needed,' K had an epiphany.

"We need to go. ASAP." Turns out, what's NOT normal is trying to figure out how you can utilize pastel-colored, bunny-shaped Marshmellows. Or the butterfly cookie cutters next to them. Oooooh Target clearance, how I love thee.

Did I need eggs? No.
Did I buy a cartoon of eggs because they were only 10¢? Yes.
THEY WERE 10¢!! Again with the clearance.

Now, as it happens, friends/pals/champs, I am exhausted from all of the walking/escalatoring I did earlier tonight.

What's escalatoring? Yes, it is exactly as it sounds. And no, I do not ride the escalators as a mean of entertainment...although now that you mention it, I will probably be the mom that lets her child try to run up the down escalator. Why? Because I find the hampster-wheel effect extremely hilarious, and well, if s/he's fast enough it will be an ice cream worthy feat. If not, I can always adopt-out.

Escalatoring is essential during your Target-tour. It's inevitable that you will forget the sponges, convince yourself they are on the floor you are headed to and then realize that no, in fact, they are on the floor you just left.

Way to go genius. (Read: me.)

Because of this, you want to master the art of riding the Target escalators. Getting your cart to go up the cart escalator without jamming it. And managing to avoid that dang child that is running the opposite direction in hopes that her asshat of a mother will buy her ice cream.

For all of you that are wondering, no, my mother never let me do this. Rather, there were extensive escalator rules that a child known to go rogue such as myself was reminded of frequently.

Tax Free Tanning

Recently, the Obama administration passed a controversial health care bill - wait, don't get your granderwear in a twist too quickly because that isn't what I am talking about today. Today, I want to tell you plain and simple: I am pro tan.

It's true, dear stalkers, I enjoy my skin a shade at least three-times as dark as it currently is..more of a light caramel rather than a light white.

One: Don't judge me. I live in Seattle, it's March and my skin hasn't seen real sun since September.
Two: I most definitely do not go to tanning beds.

Which is why Obama's 10% tanning tax doesn't bother me in the least. If you didn't already know, in addition to being a clever writer and the most fun person ever, I am also quite a shopper. Taxes are obnoxious, tacked on at the end of your purchase, making your already spendy-trip that much spendier. Ugh.

However they are necessary. Or something.

And now, they are annoying sorority girls everywhere - dreaming of a SoCal life all the while pretending like they are supposed to be that color when it's barely 40-degrees out and raining. All. The. Time. Let's not get started on their hair color, but really? You had to go MORE BLONDE?

Quick tip: You can avoid that extra $2-$3 pretty easily. Stop trying to accelerate your imminent skin cancer, and get that color for free poolside. What's that? Yes, poolside. I am aware that these close seasonally, and if there is no sun out this method is less effective.

News flash: Unless you live somewhere where the sun it OUT and you can comfortably wear a swimsuit outside, you shouldn't be a dark shade of tan. To be quite frank, you are making me feel whiter (yes, a me-problem, I know) and to be even more honest, you look like an over-cooked chicken. Your teathery-skin and deep, dark color is clearly fake...so much like your implants, we all know you're lying.

Considering that tanning beds/salons will never be a seasonal option, I think it's best that you take all that money you want to spend on tanning and put it in a jar. Then once you feel like Casper, count your money and book a trip somewhere warm. First thing you can do once your plane lands is get a tan.

And guess what else? Now we are stimulating the travel economy. Everybody wins. I bet Obama is going to be thrilled with my genius plan. Stimulating travel, while decreasing the use of human size rotisserie cookers. It's just too bad Ron Popeil isn't around every time you climb into one of those contraptions.

Crossfit & Cookies

After a 4-week hiatus from hot yoga, I forced myself out of the apartment yesterday for a nice Sunday-sweat-it-out. Motivated, right?

Nay – my ‘scans’ are about to expire and I most certainly haven’t used all of them. Or even half of them. And I spent the majority of the day telling myself, and everyone that called/texted/FB’d me that I was going. Turns out, repetition is somewhat encouraging. Or whatever. I put my spandy-pants on over an hour early, drank a glass (maybe) of water and headed for I [love] Hot Yoga.

The saying goes that you learn something new everyday. Guess what I learned. My yoga teacher…is the devil. Who knew that such an evil person could reside in 5 feet/6 inches of slender cuteness? Not I.

Exaggerating? No way. The girl had us crescent moon/lunge/twist/binding until the Cat/Cow came home.

It’s good for me? It’s good for you. What did you do yesterday, asshat? Clean your room? Your laundry? Yah, I did that too. Then I stretched the Wendy’s out of my system (thanks PKG for getting that btw. E and I totally needed to eat), got a little light headed and sweat like I was having withdrawals. No drugs needed.

She was encouraging; I’ll give her that. Most yogis are. Unlike that Jillian Michaels. Please tell me you have done one of her 20-minute DVD’s.

Yah, I GET IT, Jillian. If I don’t want to put in hours at the gym, a 20-minute workout shouldn’t be easy – says her. If I am only willing to put 20-minutes into it, what makes you think I want to be doing it? I spend more time telling her how much I hate her, hoping that my weak voice travels to whatever media outlet she is currently interviewing with so she can hear my muffled swearing, than focusing on her little workout regiment.

This brings my to my next point: Crossfit.

Uncle J has been a track coach his ENTIRE life. He ran track, coached track, married into a family of track coaches then BRED more track coaches. My own personal hell. Thank gawd he lives on the other side of the state.

Saturday, 60-year old Uncle J told me the wonders of Crossfit. He had me air-squatting in a dress. At my Nonnie’s memorial. (Then we walked 20-miles to the nearest gym in the snow without shoes so he could improve my form.) With enthusiasm he proudly told me of his seven-lost pounds. The 6-minutes he cut from his Entry-test time. The 28-year old sorority ditz that he almost beat during the Exit-test – although, pretty sure at age 60, being behind by only 3-seconds basically makes you the winner.

I had to take a Diet Coke/cookie break at this point. Then hoped he osmosis’d those seven pounds away from me. (He did not, fyi.)

This conversation happened not even 24-hours after cousin K and I passed a group of Bootcampers, chuckled and reminded each other how we would never do that.

To Recap: My Uncle could kick my ass twice. Possibly three times. Pair him with a peppy-Yogi and you’d find me passed out somewhere between Greenlake and Eastern Washington.

So, find me at Hot Yoga. I’m getting my sweat on before Jillian Michaels tracks me down and tells me I lack motivation. Scary bitch.

Side note: My yoga teacher was actually really sweet. Her ability to make me hurt like I got hit by a Crossfit truck while gasping for what little air I could find in my non-smokers lungs was impressive. And yes, I should be thankful that she gave me a good workout. At the time though...she-devil.