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.

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.