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. ;)
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, August 9, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, August 6, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
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?
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?
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