That's What You Get

Hello friends. Remember me? That literate voice inside your head as you read to remind you that you indeed did go to college and are able to read? Hi.

You probably want an apology. Something like, "I am so sorry for not blogging for months." Too bad 'cause you're not going to get it. However, you will get this new post from me. Oh yes, me...the aspiring writer. If you're wondering where I have been the past few (read: six) months, here's my list:

• My foyfriend (patent pending) and I decided to commit (to each other) which spawned some sort of nester from my inner self. Don't hate, she's pretty french-toastin' cool. 
• My company hired a new VP of Sales and Marketing. I am not exponentially more busy than I was before. Then I was just "busy" but not I am "omg why is my hair so frizzy?! can i get more caffeine over here?? - busy."
• I went to Europe. 'Nuff said. 

So what inspired this post? Well, eavesdropping and lots of wine....obviously. I am traveling for work tonight - yup just the one night - and the W Hotel I am staying charges $15 a day for internet - which btw is total crap - so I went to the one place I knew it was free: the bar.

I also knew they had food + wine, two of my favorite things EVER. Let me start by saying, as a curvy woman, there are boobs everywhere here. I didn't know that Las Vegas cocktail waitresses spanned outside of the state. I was wrong.

Back to my inspiration: eavesdropping. While waiting for my two part dinner of truffle fries and lamb sliders, I have been catching up on my (free) e-mail. Prior to my updated relationship status, which was 26-years of "umm...single"/"umm...kind of seeing someone?", I loooooooved my some socialization. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a leper now or anything, but I do enjoy solo bottles of wine mixed with hours of Law & Order SVU and/or NCIS because have you seen Mark Harmon? Um, have my babies much please? My newly found status and solo travel has left me very low-key, chill and buzzed on red wine (one glass.)

However, I was distracted by a slew of "fucks" carrying over from across the bar. Sorry Mom, since I'm not the one saying it, I feel it's ok to use it in writing. Here's how it went:

Girl with large (fake) boobs: ANYWAYS, it's like my purse was $600, my wallet another $400..

My inner voice: Ohhhh she's drinking champagne...I love champagne. Why is she yelling?

Girl with large (fake) boobs: and so I'm like "FUCK ALL MY SHITS GONE.

My inner voice: Whoa, earmuffs. Also, send that champ my way, would ya?

Girl with large (fake) boobs: my CREDIT CARDS AND MY SOCIAL SECURITY CARD.

My inner voice: In all fairness, they tell you not to carry your social security card with you...that's your own fault.

To follow, I then looked at her surrounding company and I wonder, does Mr. Salt and Pepper Hair really think that MacFake Boob is going to put out?

Read my next post to find out more.

Mint Conditions & Being My Mother

At some point in woman's life, she has the cliche epiphany of "oh.my.god. I AM my Mother." Where she might fear it, I have come to embrace it, only because my reflected actions are cool. If they sucked, I would probably stick my tongue out with disgust, yet it's unlikely that my mother (of her caliber) would do anything uber lame.

My realization came to me, big surprise here, in a bar.

Let me back up. I was in Whistler, snowboarding with a group of my friends. It was only my second day of the season, and I was dragging. My list of grievances was long (including tight boots/numb foot, poor visibility, the temperature, laziness), and rather than hiking with the crew, I opted for some "me" time to take a couple runs on my own before lunch. I don't particularly like skiing/snowboarding solo, but I was too lazy/numb to hike and figured it best I went it on my own -- knowing I'd likely make it half a run then call it quits.

After fiddling and refiddling with my boots and bindings, I took off down a familiar run. I have a tendency to not only talk to myself while riding, but also sing - current soundtrack includes Hit Me Baby, One More Time by Britney Spears. If you see/hear Britney floating down a mountain, don't be confused, it's likely just me trying to fend off boot pain or fear with the soothing sounds of 1998. While riding the lift back up, I silently argued (there were others on the chair) with myself about doing another run while enduring strong wind-gusts. The temperature detoured me, and I headed for the lodge.

FYI: I believe that every lodge is equipped with leather chair, a huge fireplace and lots of space. This is not an accurate representation of ANY lodge I have visited in my life, yet I still continue to dream it.

As I approached, I noticed an entrance to the right for a bar. It was this, or the main entrance in front of me. I'd only done one run and the guys were off hiking. Hmm, plenty of time for a little something to warm up my hands and brain. With this, I headed to the bar where I quickly peeled off my snow-laden jacket and gained the bartenders attention. A single Bailey's and coffee and I was in business. It was a Thursday, which meant there would be American football on that night and my fantasy football team (which I know nothing about) would hopefully be racking up a few points. I stared at the screen with intent, hoping they'd take a quick hockey brake and tell me who was playing that night, when the gent next to me started talking.

"You follow hockey?" he asked.
"No." I replied, my eyes steady on the screen.

Apparently this warranted a chuckle, thus interrupting my sports-related concentration and encouraging me to look at Sir Laughs A Lot.

"I follow American football because I have a fantasy team and was hoping I could figure out who's playing tonight."

He filled me in, and we proceeded to discuss our fantasy teams and why mine was better (maybe? it was really all talk..) I'd already asked the bartender to add an additional shot to my Bailey's and coffee because I could taste the coffee and that was no acceptable. Upon looking outside I saw a few bodies, but mostly what looked like solidified coldness. This was the moment that I thought to myself, "man, I am so happy I'm not outside.." and realized that I had become a ski bunny just like my mother. Even though I removed the fur from my coat hood, I still personified her 100%, I was sitting in the bar chatting up all who surrounded me and drinking soul warming coffee wasn't I? Realizing I had become lost in my socialization skills and liquor, I confirmed with the bartender that it was only ten 'till twelve and if he were to meet someone for lunch it would obviously be in the bar. I relaxed, and my new friend ordered me Round Two: Mint Conditions per my recommendation. Ah, the life.

Around noon I started to shift. Where were my friends? Surely nothing bad had happened while hiking, it wasn't like they were venturing out into the back country. It was here that I felt the need to ask the bartender, "excuse me? If you were meeting friends - where would you meet them?"

 He replied, "why..the BAR of course!"

Of course! So, there I sat with my back to the rest of the lodge and my eyes glued to the drink warming my body (and soul.)

Minutes later, I turned around to see two of my friends hustling through the lodge. Even though I was yelling at the top of my lungs - something my new friends truly enjoyed, I am sure, more than their facial expressions showed - no one heard me. Which meant that I went bonding (attractive, no.) through the lodge, boots unlaced, screaming.

Personally, I would put that on the mint conditions.

As it happens, the crew had been eating, and finished eating, and manfriend was having a minor freak out about my whereabouts. Which, btw, considering we spend a fair amount of time together including many ski days, I assumed he would be the first person to suggest looking for me in the bar.

How does this tie in? Well, once upon a time my mother was a ski bunny. She wore the fancy white fur trimmed one pieces, the high wasted ski pants that showed her curves and the puffy ear muffs that made her look so 80's Madonna's cone bra couldn't hold a candle to her.

And while being too cute for the mountain, she dislocated her clavicle (look it up.) Rather than bitching, moaning and retreating to her room - she did the only practical thing she could think to do.

She enlisted the valet/bellhops/idiots that drooled over her butt to help her schelp snow and ice to the base of a lift. As she couldn't lift, with the dislocation and all, I imagine this meant she mostly purred orders at them. Which they happily fulfilled. When her friends came down from a day of 'shredding the gnar' - formerly known as 'skiing' - she was perched on a lawn chair ready Vogue, sipping champagne and nibbling on hor d'oeuvres.

Though my way was a little more conventional, it was on that bar stool, looking out to the gusts of snow and wind that I thought, "Shut the front door*, mom would do the same thing."



*Please note, I do not actually say "shut the front door" on a daily basis. However, being that words like fuck and shit aren't family friendly...wow...really just blew that one, didn't I?

A Crazy Cat Lady

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

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

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

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

Wait..what?

The conversation went something like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do I hear an echo?

Hello? Hello? Helloooooooooo?

Remember when I made that 'cute' New Year's resolution to blog more? And I was all, "omigosh, three times a week? No problem!" Well, that went to the curb, and I can't even tell you where the past two months have gone. Excuses aside, this blog is far to entertaining to forget to write. And with that...I will try to be better. I have recently (two days ago) taken on the project of running a 5k. A 5k, you say? But you loath running, and people that run! Yes, I know. BELIEVE me, I know far better than anyone that running is a fun suck. And, yet if I can teach myself to enjoy ::pukes:: running, then really I can do ANYTHING. It's all in the mindset, readers.

Plus, it means I get to spend more money at Lululemon. EVERYbody wins. I stimulate the economy, get my heart rate up, my weight down and the best part is I can now start almost any sentence with "Now that I'm a runner..." Read about my progress, my quips and my successes here > wogginandbloggin.blogspot.com.

You're managing TWO blogs?! You're a crazy woman!

Yes, yes I am. A crazy woman with goals in mind. So watch me, minions.



Funny story envolving a family member and a crazy girl to follow. The f-word comes up a lot in this one, so if you have a better substitution please let me know before I post it.

Black & Yellow Nightmares

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crisis averted, yes? No.

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

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

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

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

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



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

Smart Hookers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.