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.