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...