Irony is a Lifestyle

Irony is a Lifestyle Became a Tumblr

2011-11-04T11:22:00.000-07:00

I'm not being lazy, I switched over to Tumblr!

ironyisalifestyle.tumblr.com

Ok, I am being lazy, because one of my favorite things about Tumblr is that I can copy/paste my pictures and bold/italicize with ease.

Contented yawn.

Follow me on Tumblr!! Yay.

Couscous Cake is Sounding Pretty Good Right Now

2011-10-20T22:07:00.000-07:00

Some people think the worst part about cooking dinner is having to deal with all the dishes when it's all over.

Must. Be. Nice.

I think the worst part about cooking dinner is failing in the process, and having to do all the dishes after glaring at an inedible mess for a solid 30 minutes or so.

Starving.

Quinoa is harder to cook than you might think.

You Look Like a White Girl Trying to Dance Like a White Girl

2011-10-15T10:17:00.000-07:00

Remember Lanvin's Fall 2011 campaign video, with Karen Elson and Raquel Zimmermann showing off some of their best white girl dance moves?

I do. Because I watch it frequently. Because it makes me feel better. Because, as I have mentioned before, I am the Whitest. Dancer. Ever. In case I needed anymore proof, icouldprobablyturnironyintoacupcake sent me this video:

80's Dance Party in David & Mike's Kitchen. Standard Fare.

I would recommend clicking rotate 3 times. And hitting pause until it buffers or whatever it does to make it play smoothly. Because nothing else about the video is smooth. At all. Sorry - Mike, your dance moves are totally smooth. I was just focusing on me. Like usual. Like icouldprobablyturnironyintoacupcake was focusing on my a$$ for half of this 1:02 video. Also like usual.

Funny is Something You Learn?

2011-10-12T21:53:00.000-07:00

I like to pride myself on being funny. Really funny.

Apparently, a sense of humor is not something you're born with.

I recently (just now) stumbled upon a book from my childhood. It has three different titles.

"All About Me. Charlie's Brown's Encyclopedia. My Own Diary."

Essentially, it is one of those books that has small children fill out their favorite teachers and list their multiple hobbies, so that one day they can look back and laugh at how adorably naive they once were.

One of these pages is titled "Funny Stuff!" I shall list its contents below:

What makes me laugh the most is: Someone tickling me

Duh.

My favorite cartoon is: Looney Tunes

Probably why I like to steal other people's puppies and quote Elmyra at every opportunity: "I'm gonna hug you and kiss you and love you forever (and never use you up)" (while squeezing Furrball to death)

The funniest friend I have is: Stuart

My first (fine, yes, first and only) "boyfriend". Apparently I've always gone for a guy with a sense of humor. Apparently I had better luck as a 5 year old.

The funniest movie I've ever seen is: Home Alone

You have to understand that my favorite movies were Wizard of Oz and Gone With the Wind. Small child attempting to use shaving cream is totally hilarious when set against this background.

The funniest thing that ever happened to me is: When someone was tickling me

I'm sorry... does anyone else think this question is vaguely similar to question #1? Amateur hour.

My favorite joke: Why did the chicken cross the road?

I would like to think that this is my smart-ass response to a stupid question. Really? You want me to pull a joke book off the shelf and list one of its canned one-liners here? Please. I create humor as I go.

...
...
...

It's been a long journey. In other exciting news, when asked who I would like to costar in a movie with... I replied Super Fudge!

Dare to dream.

Did I Wash My Makeup Off Last Night?

2011-10-08T16:42:00.000-07:00

The tricky part about remembering to cleanse, serum, moisturize, and eye cream your face before you go to sleep at night... Is figuring out where your Ultra Replenishing Serum is the next morning.

Keeping Things Fresh

2011-10-07T17:56:00.000-07:00

Read this:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jeff-pollack/post_2506_b_995242.html

There are two things that I find slightly magical about that article.

1. Please note the first company listed. For more on this, please see www.stylemint.com, www.jewelmint.com, and www.beautymint.com. You love it.

2. The fact that Huffington Post, well-know for its tendency towards over-aggregation, is writing an article about "new ideas".

Please say I am not alone in this. Hilarious, no? Fine. Well, to each their own then. Chucklechucklelaughlaughsmirk.

Um, I Think You're in the Wrong Spot, Thanks

2011-10-06T23:40:00.001-07:00

Like most people, I'm a creature of habit. Unlike most people, I am completely neurotic about my habits and get seriously twitchy when I am thrown off my regimented (but totally laid back!) path.

I park in the same spot every morning. People generally take note of things of this nature. One person apparently has not.

One morning, I was running late to work and arrived to find that my spot had been taken. I was annoyed, but resigned myself to accept that I was 15 minutes later than usual, and perhaps the owner of this vehicle assumed I wasn't going to be needing my space that day.

The next day, I arrived early, to ensure that I didn't experience a repeat of the day before. WTF. Taken. Again. By the same vehicle.

I was not happy.

I would like to give this person the benefit of doubt. Maybe they are new to the lot and have no clue that they are rudely stomping all over my well-trod ground.

This is why I am strongly considering placing a sticky note on their windshield, informing them of their mistaken acquiescence of my parking place.

I feel like they would want to know.

You'd Think I'd Be Better At Climbing

2011-09-28T10:53:00.000-07:00

Those of you who have had the pleasure of taking a kickboxing class with me, hahem, mylifeissonotironic, are well aware of the excessive length of my limbs, and my impressive lack of control over their motions in general.

I know. I'm almost 6 feet tall. Of course my limbs are long. I mean, my pediatrician marked my height in the 98th percentile every year. (I think this is where my unhealthy need to overachieve began. How can you fight nature?)

Regardless of height, my arms and legs sprouted well past proportionally correct. I knew this occurred in my early years, due to an elementary school memory of a class trip to the Lincoln Children's Zoo. In front of the cage housing the Bald Eagle, there was a life-size replica of the national emblem, showcasing his impressive wing span. Let's just say mine was awkwardly comparable. At the age of seven.

Again. Overachieving. Naturally.

Recently, I discovered a photo that made it very clear that these albatross arms have been with me from the very beginning:

This is my first birthday. First. As in one tiny year old. My mother is attempting to take one of those adorable pictures, where you place your delicate baby girl next to her first cake and it's all precious and adorable and pulls at heartstrings and will make all your friends comment on just how nuggetty and squeezable your infant is...

Sorry, mom.

Did I Stumble into Some Bad Lighting?

2011-09-21T18:21:00.000-07:00

Dude I kind of dig is coming over to my apartment after work! Must make sure I prepare accordingly before heading to the office, so as to avoid being caught unawares, sporting unkempt hair and an unflattering outfit. Cue Clueless moment of Cher prepping for Christian's arrival. ... Probably should have selected a different movie moment for inspiration. Preferably one that didn't end in him being gay and her saying, "I don't get it."

Winning ensemble:
Hair carefully spiral-curled, black and white sheer polka dot blouse (with a cami underneath for reasons of work appropriateness), black frilly skirt, and, as a final touch, 60's cat-eye liner and red lips. (Pencil, not lipstick, for reasons of the hopefully-there-will-be-a-stellar-makeout-sesh variety.)

After work, I have 30 minutes for any touch-ups. One of these touch-ups involves removing the conservative cami to reveal a sassier lace layer beneath the sheer blouse. And by layer, I mean not really a layer at all. My mother would call it lingerie. But then she also called my game-day outfit lingerie, soooo...

Regardless.

Dude comes over. I proceed to behave in an uncharacteristically shy and awkward manner. Because I'm five. We have a lovely floor picnic, as I still have not managed to purchase a kitchen table. #beverlyhillbilly

Mid-picnic, dude asks, "Is that what you wore to work today?"

Fair question. There are two possible answers.

Conundrum.

Answer A:
"Yep! Well, minus a tank top - I'm not going to walk around the office like a ho."

Translation: "I knew you were coming over, so I started removing my clothing."

Awkward.

Answer B:
Yep!

Translation: I am the office whore.

Obviously, I went with Answer B. You know, to avoid any awkwardness.

...
...
...

I'll be back after I go feed my cats.

(Chosen outfit for my failed attempt at the art of seduction is pictured above. On me. While I'm holding a creepy doll at the Rose Bowl Flea Market. Somehow it all seemed very appropriate for this post.)

I Should Have Learned Something a Long Time Ago

2011-09-15T10:57:00.000-07:00

I was reading through I Learned Something Today, checking to make sure it actually made sense - late night posts are not generally advised. Those who care about what's left of my dignity have done the advising. As I was reading the post, I was struck with the sudden realization that this was not the first time this type of experience occurred in my 22 years of life. (Like that?)

Freshman year of college, I decided to be Tinkerbell for Halloween. I am desperately opposed to pre-made costumes, so I decided to handcraft my best rendition of Tink. Two minor details slightly inhibited this process. 1. I did not have a sewing machine in my dorm room. Baby turtle, yes... sewing machine, no. 2. I had less than one day to put the whole thing together, due to my class schedule. And previous engagements at the 9-hole.

Nothing a quick trip to the garment district couldn't solve. I grabbed the greenest tulle and organza they had to offer, snipped off some elastic and ran back to the Radisson to sew myself to Neverland. The skirt was simple, and a corset proved an easy solution for a top. I covered most of the white corset in green fabric, leaving the back open for my friend to cinch up and then put the final touches on its fine fabric coating. Foreshadowing: She ties really gnarly knots and sews super miniature stitches.

The evening was a rollicking good time. Eventually, I bid my friends adieu and took the elevator to my room, ready to throw on some PJ's and crash. Right. So. Some articles of clothing can be twisted around on your body, enabling you to unfasten the back of them. A corset that has been tied to the point of inhibiting your normal breathing patterns can not be twisted in any direction. Urgle. I gave it my best effort, exhausting myself and accomplishing nothing. Finally, I took a deep breath, walked to the end of the hall and knocked on a guy friend's door, praying he would be awake/home/not with some chick. He was/was/wasn't. He helped to extricate me from my corset captor. It was awkward. And embarrassing. I resolved to be smarter in the future.
(Sidenote: It was a super-cute costume. Worth it.)

Speaking of being smarter in the future... I purchased this black cocktail dress from BCBG one December, thinking it was the perfect staple to get me through a few holiday parties. The zipper was a bit troublesome at the store, but when aren't they? I wore it to one festive shindig, after which the zipper apparently decided o get super janky and refuse to work ever again. Shocking. I didn't find this out until a couple hours before its next planned appearance. Too late to grab a zipper from Michael's or to take it to a seamstress. Hm. Wear something else? Nope. Nothing else will work. I hate everything in my closet, this is the only thing I could possibly even consider wearing tonight, anything else would make me want to die and not even go to the party at all because what's the point if I'm going to look like sh*t? Right. Frantic search through sewing box/craft closet. Ta da! Hook and eye closures. Done and done. I'll just sew these suckers on, hook myself up, and be ready to frolic.

Step 1: Check. Easy-peas-y. Step 2: F. This is awkward. Step 3 may be delayed.

Have you ever tried fastening hook and eye closures up your back? Let me also add in that this dress has a corset built into the top of it and is designed to fit perfectly (ie: No wiggle room. None. Which can be difficult for my ADD. Also difficult for the task that was on hand. (And yes, I have a thing for corseted tops. In an "I secretly think I can be Scarlett O'Hara" kind of way, not an "I like to shop on Hollywood Blvd., and check out these lucite platforms" kind of way.)

The first few aren't bad. They just take a little manipulation. The next 15 or so prove to be impossible. The feeling of trying to fasten these hook & eyes blindly was similar to the feeling of attempting to cut off the end of a hair ribbon in a mirror. Try it. You will feel neither smart nor coordinated.

At this time, I was living alone, in a guest house. The family in the main house was finishing up dinner. Parents. Two small children. And me, sheepishly knocking at the door, half-dressed. Classy.

Luckily, unhooking myself proved to a simpler feat. Silver lining? Loud sigh.

Smarter. Future. Yeah.

I Learned Something Today

2011-09-14T22:35:00.001-07:00

If you need the assistance of a salesperson to zip up a dress while trying it on in a store, you will not be magically able to zip it up yourself once you get home.

I tried. For probably a solid 7 minutes. I managed to mangle two fingernails in the process, and still went out the door half undone. I bbmed a coworker on my way to the office, asking her to meet me at the elevator to top off my zip job.

I really shouldn't live alone.

I Am An Indian Giver. Truth.

2011-09-02T16:51:00.000-07:00

icouldprobablyturnironyintoacupcake baked some of the most delicious cookies ever, and was kind (ahem, mean) enough to send me home with a few of them.

I ate one of the few on my long ride down on the elevator. Four floors. It’s exhausting. The other two sat in my StyleMint tote on my drive to West Hollywood. (Check that product plug. I’m going to go ahead and count them as a sponsor since they almost pay me enough to put food on my table. I still don’t have that table though, sooo maybe when that bonus comes in? That bonus. You know the one, Bossman. Proper noun.)

When I finally got to ithinkironyisSOfunny’s place, I was starving. Probably because my day’s worth of meals consisted of 20 almonds, 1 fage yogurt and 3 cookies. Maybe 4. I pulled out the bag of cookies. I was excited to share them with ithinkironyisSOfunny, because she is as big a fan of icouldprobablyturnironyintoacupcake’s baking as I am. I also figured the polite thing to do was offer them to her first.

…

I realized my mistake immediately. When I pulled them from my tote, I said “Oh, I brought icouldprobablyturnironyintoacupcake goodness!” Obviously, this inferred that I had already had more than my fair share of said goodness (truth) and these remaining two cookies were what I had set aside to share (should have been the truth, but every tooth I have is on the sweeter side, soooooo… yeah.)

ithinkironyisSOfunny was appropriately excited and appreciative. “These are amazing, aren’t they? Thank you so much!”

Urgle. Should have taken my bite on the way up the stairs. So stupid. What was I thinking?

I sat cross-legged on the floor, watching as she casually enjoyed the sweet, sweet morsels, completely oblivious to my inner struggle. She picked up the bag, ate a bite, set it back on her lap, continued conversation. I followed each step with pained attention. I did my best to respond to her friendly conversation, all the while wondering when she would tire of the perfect combination of sugar and salt, and how awkward it would be to ask if I could steal a bite of my gift of a gift.

Very. It would be very awkward. And a little bit weird. Stop judging me; you haven’t tried these cookies.

I’m going to go be fat now. Meow.

Maybe This Is Supposed To Be A Sign

2011-08-31T19:06:00.000-07:00

I received a call from Wells Fargo today regarding questionable charges on my Visa. Every time this has happened in the past, I have found out that my card has been stolen. (See: If You Can't Use My Visa Correctly, Don't Use It At All)

Sidenote. An hour prior to this call, my lunchtime convo with iguessironycanbecoolmaybe went something like this:
Me: Oh man, I like this. But I can’t. I really need to stop buying things.
iguessironycanbecoolmaybe: Rules were made to be broken? No. Sorry. You’re right. You can’t. You’re not buying it.
Me: Loud sigh. You’re right. I’m not buying anything
iguessironycanbecoolmaybe: Oh wow, this is so you. You want?
Me: Omg. That’s amazing. Ok when it’s this cheap, it’s doesn’t really count.

And then I went back to the office and purchased a pair of thigh-high boots from TopShop. (On sale! With a Student Advantage Card discount! And free shipping!)

Moving along. I called Wells Fargo. They needed me to verify charges. First charge. Hm. Verified. Second charge. Yup. Verified. Third charge. Wait. Where was that? Was that me? More information, please. Ohhh. Right. Yup. Verified. Fourth charge. Uhhh let me think. Oh yeah. Verified. Fifth charge. Definitely me. Verified.

“Thank you for verifying these charges. If you need further assistance, please call the customer care number on the back of your card. Goodbye.”

Oh, you’re welcome!

I get it, Jesus.

Life is Confusing

2011-08-25T11:11:00.000-07:00

En route to my Sketch Writing class at Second City, I decided to grab a coconut water from the convenience store on the corner. I turned into the entrance and came to an abrupt halt in front of the door. The door was closed.

Inner monologue:
What?! It's closed?! How is it closed at 10:30 in the morning?! Ugh, I really want a coconut water dieeee. What time does it open? (Eyes search frantically for a sign posting the store hours.) Wait, it opens at 9. It's 10:30. I don't understand... Ohhhh. It is open. Thank God!

This inner monologue took me approximately 15 seconds to get through, all the while standing directly in front of the obviously non-automatic door. That must have been fun for all the people inside. If I hadn't been distracted by the 18,000 advertisements covering the glass, I might have seen those people and saved myself some crucial time slash embarrassment. (Probably not.)

Moral of the story: If the door is closed, it does not necessarily mean that the store itself is closed.

In unrelated news, please sign my petition to convert all convenience store doors to those of the automatic variety.

That's all.

Neighborhood Whore Watch

2011-08-24T13:56:00.000-07:00

There are few constants in my life. One of these is my unceasing fear that I will be murdered. When I was a small child, one of my chores was to bring the trashcans back up to the house from the street. I would check the backyard for strangers and proceed quickly to the end of the driveway - ears pricked and peripheral vision in full effect. Once I got near the trashcans, I would run up to them and kick them. Why would I kick them? To find out if someone was hiding in them, waiting to kill me. Duh.

I check beneath my car and in my back seat before getting behind the wheel... I check behind the shower curtain whenever I enter a bathroom... I have been known to walk home with 911 already dialed into my Blackberry, just in case. In short, I don't need any more information to convince me that rapists and murderers walk our same streets. Regardless, two weeks ago, I received information from ithinkironyisSOfunny, informing me that one of these rapist-murderer types was walking the streets two blocks from my home. (Yes, the information informed me. Shocking, I know.) Right. Better keep that mace cocked and ready to go.

Apparently, ithinkironyisSOfunny isn't the only person who thinks I need an extra warning or two.

I was walking down Robertson, late Saturday morning, when a middle-aged woman waved to get my attention. Thinking she needed directions, or something of the sort, I paused and removed my headphones.

Random Woman: "A good girlfriend of mine just told me there's a rapist around here. He just raped someone last week!"
Me: "OMG, I heard about that!! So scary!"
Random Woman: "Oh. Well. Because you're dressed a little...." (Full, slow-motion down and up scan of my general person)

And then she walked away.

Cool. Thanks. It's always nice to know your neighbors care.

My "I'm Asking To Get Raped" outfit can be seen (sort of) in the photo above. I'm on the right. (Duh.) Also, I hate people.

All the World's a Stage?

2011-08-17T09:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, I was privy to an electric altercation between an obnoxious hillbilly and a drunken hippie. Where does one see such a sight? On a US Airways flight, of course! As I watched these two disparate characters converse, I was struck with sudden inspiration.

The flight, up to that point, had been completely devoid of in-flight entertainment. The woman next to me remarked on the lack of televisions, and I nodded, adding a conspiratorial "I hate US Airways." To be fair, I hate all airlines that are not Jet Blue, Virgin or Alaska. Jet Blue gives you endless amounts of animal crackers, Virgin provides you with Colbert Report and Real Housewives, and Alaska serves up complimentary wine. This kind of entertainment was unavailable on this particular flight from Seattle to Phoenix.

Thank God a couple class-less souls decided to take action. Wherein lay the aforementioned inspiration? Well, when the incident occurred, I had an almost uncontrollable desire to ask the flight attendants if the altercation was staged.

I get it. In-flight programming, wi-fi, free snacks and booze... Those things are hardly cost-efficient. You know what is cost efficient? An actor. Actors do ridiculous things for a free lunch and always-promised-but-ne'er-received copy. If you offer them a free flight, they will literally do anything you ask them to do. Literally. Anything. In fact, there are so many attention-hungry souls in this great nation, that they would probably do it for peanuts. Honey roasted peanuts, to be specific.

Think it over airlines; this idea has wings.

Get it? Like how usually the saying is that something has legs, but we're talking about airplanes, so I said it has wings?

...

What started as a random act of raucous banter could one day become Shakespeare in the Sky. Hopefully my agent will be able to get me in the room.

Sometimes I Should Be Less Animated

2011-08-11T14:05:00.000-07:00

ithinkironyisSOfunny and I went to the Alice + Olivia Shoe Soirée at Palihouse last night.

Feel free to click to enlarge. Yup.

I make that face a lot. I should stop doing that.

Icebreakers Are Hard

2011-08-10T17:01:00.000-07:00

See that bow around my neck? Ask me how many dudes took it upon themselves to give me some variation of "It looks like you're a gift for me!"

...

...

The really awesome ones followed that up with a comment on my height. Swoon.

Etiquette Corner

2011-08-08T09:03:00.001-07:00

There are certain rules that are followed in polite society. One of those rules is not being a pretentious a-hole.

I am a huge fan of grammar. I can be really obnoxious in my love for grammatically correct turns of phrases. There is a difference between being obnoxious and being a dick.

Example:

We all know that the proper response to "How are you?" is "I'm well, thank you." For whatever reason, it has been ingrained into our society to reply with the grammatically incorrect "I'm good." I don't know how this happened... but it did. And it stuck. And it often comes out of very smart people's mouths. Now, if you are very conscious of this epidemic and carefully answer "I'm well" every time, then this is where the aforementioned rules of polite society come into play.

If you are the initial responder in the how are you repartee, go ahead - assert your wellness with full confidence. If you are the second responder, and your conversation-mate has already tossed out an instinctual "good", please quell your desire to shove your superiority in his face with a 'well'. It's rude. You're literally calling him stupid to his face. If this is you intention, then by all means, get after it; however, if you are not trying to be an ass, suck it up and give the standard American response. People will like you more.

You're welcome.

How Riot Was Stripped of His Innocence

2011-07-25T17:34:00.001-07:00

A large black man struck my child Saturday night. I specify his race, because this detail will appear later, as a special highlight, in this tale of love and loss. I was traveling home, after a fun-filled afternoon of sunshine and slander, and was paused at the stop light just before Hollywood & Highland. As the light turned green, my attention was on the a-hole cutting over from the middle lane. Suddenly, I heard a scraping noise and felt Riot move beneath me. I turned to see what happened. The scraping continued for an awkwardly long period of time, as the two men attempted to back away from my car, exiting just as gracefully as they entered. They had been pulling out of the mall's driveway, trying to sneak into the flow of traffic before the car behind me caught on to the light change. Major fail. We made eye contact and nonsensical hand motions, communicating that we would pull over up ahead to exchange information.

We turned onto Hawthorne Ave (AKA the street right by the Roosevelt. I had to Google map to find the name. Full disclosure.) This street, with its lack of streetlamps, is really creepy when it is night-time and you are pulling over to talk to strange men in a decrepit Buick. George, the assailant, came over and looked at my car, mumbling the entire time about how he couldn't believe this. "You didn't see me there?" I stared at him incredulously, and tossed in a delicate touch of condescension, "No, I did not see you preparing to hit my car from behind me." "I can't believe you didn't see me." "How would I have seen you? You're the one who hit my baby." "Mumblemumbleexpletivemumble." Good talk.

As he searched his car for his license, his passenger (an even larger and equally black man) came rushing over, looking through my windshield, confusedly. Apparently, George had repeated my utterance that he had hit my baby and this man was searching for said child. As I explained that the car was my baby, he pulled me in for a huge hug of relief. So uncomfortable. "I'm just glad you're nice." Let's not get carried away, sir.

He assured me that Riot's injuries could be 'buffed out'. George added that he could get that taken care of for me. "I'll let Toyota take care of it, thanks."

We exchanged licenses, I took pictures, and then I asked for his insurance information. Hesitation. Forced confidence. "Sure, no problem. Let me just find that for you." He searched the interior of his care. Fruitless. He moved to the trunk. Disgusting. At one point, he was thumbing through a folder full of paperwork - including certificates that appeared to be from some sort of drug/alcohol rehabilitation program. Shocking. "I just can't seem to find it in here. It must be at home. I can call you with that information. You have my license, you have my license plate." "Ok. I'm going to call someone to verify all of this. I just don't feel comfortable leaving without your insurance information." This did not go over well. He went on a rant about how I wanted him to get his car taken away and I wanted him to get a ticket, etc. I informed him that I was unconcerned with these juvenile accusations. I also added that I didn't exactly want him to hit my car in the first place and this was the last place I wanted to be spending my Saturday evening. "Why don't you just follow me to my house and I'll get it for you there?" EXCUSE ME? No thank you. "I have no interest in doing that." I continued my attempt to get a hold of a police officer. George and friend looked at each other, gave a single shoulder shrug and a meaningful glance and got into the car and drove away. That looked well-practiced.

The police dispatcher I was connected to informed me that the man was not actually legally required to show me his insurance information. Cool. Helpful. He assured me that I got the correct information and all was well. I prefer my well a little less car-crash-y, thanks.

As I drove home, George called and explained that he wasn't trying to scam me. "Stacie, I don't appreciate your not trusting me, just because I'm a black man." I'm sorry, what? Right. Well, George, I don't appreciate you calling me a racist, just because I'm white. I informed him that he could be a 50 year-old white woman and I wouldn't trust him in this situation.

The next day, he left a message. I left a message. I texted asking for his insurance information.

Today, I called. He said he had to call me back. He called me back, I said I needed his insurance information. He said he's been calling me for two days. Interesting, considering our accident was less than 48 hours prior to this call. Also interesting because he never called me back yesterday. Regardless. I repeated that I needed his insurance information. He said he'd have to get that together and call me back. Get what together? You're not doing your taxes, you're just giving me the name/number of you insurance company slash agent.

Hours pass. I leave a voicemail letting him know that I would really like to get this taken care of ASAP. His voicemail greeting is just one more element of special to add to this story. It is an expletive laced, generally incoherent conversation between him and another man. Classy. Hours pass. It is now almost 5pm, meaning I will be unable to make any forward progress on getting poor Riot fixed up. I call again. It goes straight to voicemail. I hate life. I politely request that George contact me by tomorrow morning, or I will go ahead and file a police report so I can get things rolling. I feel like that's not going to go over well.

I can't even get in normal car accidents. Loud sigh.

Let's Not Make This About Me

2011-07-21T12:32:00.000-07:00

My childhood memories are, as a whole, vague and sparse, but there are certain incidents I am able to relive in full color. I feel like these must mean something? This is the special moment that popped into my head this morning:

In elementary school, the gifted classes were given a standardized test by the state, complete with medals for the top scorers. This may or may not have been one of my favorite times of the year. In 4th grade, I was chatting with my teacher, while the rest of the class was at recess (I was SO cool.) She had just received the test results and was very excited to let me know that I had beat out another child in our class for first place.

Immediately, I ran outside to spread the good news to my classmate. Fun fact about this classmate: He was the reigning "Moo-ing" champion at the Nebraska State Fair. Yup. I mean, it was actually kind of impressive - his moo was SPOT ON. Well, fourth grade is no state fair, homie. You just got beat.

Me: "Guess what?! Mrs. Sellmeyer just got the results back from the state test - you got 2nd!!"
David: "You just wanted everyone to know that you got first place, didn't you."

...

No, really, David. This is your moment.

Don't touch my medal.

Mani/Pedi's Give Me Anxiety

2011-07-19T13:53:00.000-07:00

ithinkironyisSOfunny and I went to get a mani/pedi on Saturday. A relaxing afternoon activity. For some people.

The salon was packed with people, and the receptionist greeted everyone with a gust of energy - some might say too much energy. She stood over our shoulders as we selected our colors, remarking on our choices. I was debating between hot pink and neon pink, and she assured me that there was no debate, as the hot pink was perfect for summer. This innocent exchange foreshadowed what was to come.

She asked ithinkironyissofunny and I if we would like shoulder massages along with our nail treatments. I said no, ithinkironyisSOfunny said yes. I laughed at ithinkironyisSOfunny's delivery, the receptionist took that as me saying yes. As I sat in a chair, Cindy appeared behind me, unzipping the top half of my dress, and going after my knots for a dollar a minute. I resigned myself to accept that I probably needed a massage anyway.

Enter the manicurist. She asked if I would like to trim my nails: "You don't want to cut, do you? No, I don't think you do." Um, I'm pretty sure that is leading the witness. "Actually, I would - I like them short and round." She made a face and put her head down to attack my cuticles.

The pedicurist had trouble understanding my English, which always stresses me out in nail salons, because I don't want to seem like an a-hole for being unable to decipher her accent, but I also want to make sure that she understands exactly what I want. Manicurist helped to translate. With attitude.

I chose Flurry Up (Sephora by OPI) as a top-coat. Initially, I wanted the glitter only on the tips of my nails. Manicurist's earlier face made an encore appearance as she explained this to the pedicurist. When it came time for the glitter application, I changed my mind and decided I wanted a full top-coat on my toes and just the tips on my nails. Manicurist shook her head, "Full-coat is better. Not just tip." Maybe she was right?

When the time came to pay, she had already run my credit card for the mani/pedi/massage, but there was no space to leave a tip. I sat drying my nails, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do, as the receptionist had somehow disappeared. So awkward. I kept making eye-contact with this woman across the way, who was staring at me, expressionless, hardly easing my anxiety. Eventually, Cindy came over to say thank you and I took that as my cue to hand over some cash. Awkwardly.

Loud sigh.

Next time I should probably just take a Xanax.

The Coconut Water Cure

2011-07-18T15:38:00.000-07:00

There is a restaurant in Santa Monica (True Food) that I frequent pretty regularly. There are three things on their menu that I order. One of these things is a beverage they call the "Hangover Rx". It is composed of coconut water, orange juice and pineapple juice. And it is delicious. And if they happen to be out of it one day, causing your day to plummet into tragedy, the man behind the bar gives you two coconut waters on the house. Hypothetically speaking.

It is a rare day when I am hungover (shocking, I know), but it is a frequent day when I am craving Coconut Water-based scrumptiousness. But what happens when I actually am hungover? I'm now immune to the only prescription they offer. Luckily, it's a very simple solution, harking back to the age-old adage involving the hair of a dog: add vodka. 100% effective.

This incident may or may not have occurred recently. (Yesterday.) When the server brought me my cocktail, he announced it as "A Very Ironic Hangover Rx". I meaannn how fitting is that?!

I am aware that the amount of joy that half-second encounter brought me is awkwardly weird, but it was a large amount. It's the simple things in life? And yes, the only reason I am choosing to share this story now is that he referred to it as ironic, and I found that very, very special.

Jesus Wanted Me To Jump

2011-07-13T11:24:00.000-07:00

Saturday afternoon, I jumped off of a cliff. Intentionally. People who are well-versed in my love for adventure were unsurprised. People who know full-well how dearly I cling to the existence of my life were dumbfounded. I was somewhere in the middle. This vignette focuses not on any of these nay and yay sayers, but on Jesus. This may come as a bit of a shocker, but Jesus wanted me to jump.

Let me back up.

A friend of mine mentioned cliff-jumping. I said I was totally down. I thought I meant it. Then I started thinking about my life, and how much I love having it. I’m a Taurus; I like having things. I concluded that adventures like skydiving and paragliding are awesome because they have built in safety precautions. They also have someone to blame (and possibly sue) when things go awry. In cliff jumping, there is no one guaranteeing your existence post-activity. Ok, there were 11 people doing this, but they were holding Tecates at the time, which sort of diminished their credibility.

Fast forward two weeks. Friend is moving to NY. Friend decides cliff-jumping will be his stellar going-away activity. Conflicted, I hesitate but eventually agree, although I make no promises to fling myself from any elevated heights. Friend gives limited details as to what is involved in this escapade.

I figure we will drive somewhere, with cliffs over-looking large bodies of water, and proceed to jump off said cliffs, in our bathing suits. I picture flat lands, complete with bathrooms and drinking fountains. With this in mind, I slather on a solid dose of sunscreen, tie on a bikini, throw on a crop top and a frilly skirt and trek out the door in my comfy black loafers. I go back in the door to grab a pair of flip flops and a towel.

When I get to the apartment where we are all meeting up, I realize that almost everyone else seems to be in tennis shoes. Odd choice for a casual stroll off a cliff.

We walk over to grab some breakfast sandwiches while we wait for our crew to assemble. Two of the actors from Lost show up – separately. Water. Cliffs. Death. Good to see the day has a theme.

18,000 wrong turns later, we make it to San Dimas. To a trail. Specifically, a hiking trail. Well-worn loafers are not conducive to maintaining traction. I am beginning to sense that I am ill-prepared for the day’s activity. I manage to scramble up the path with the group to the cliffs. I get a good look at the 45 feet separating us from the grotto and reaffirm my decision to stay on land. Unfortunately, I am 12 and I really do like to have adventures, even if said adventures have possible life-threatening side-effects. I also don’t like to not do something that everyone else is doing, because I am awkwardly competitive. I decide I will jump. Problem. The route to get back up to the top post-jump is arduous and requires footwear. I am not taking this leap of tangible faith in my loafers.

I am defeated. My games are done for the day.

This is where Jesus comes into play. Sitting on the rocks, near our belongings, is a pair of beaten up Vans. They don’t belong to anyone in our group, and there is no one else around. Abandoned shoes! I check the tags. At first glance, I see a size 8 and decide that I’ll attempt to shove my feet in them anyway. I look closer. They are a men’s size 8. This means they are a women’s size 9.5. For those of you failing to grasp the gravity of this situation, I am a size 9.5. These discarded kicks are, miraculously, exactly my size!!!

Ok, Jesus. I’ll jump. Into water, that is. Don’t go getting any crazy ideas.

Lucy, You Know I Don't Speak Mexican

2011-06-24T10:50:00.001-07:00

Racist moment of the day:

I opened my inbox and glanced at the subject of my Who What Wear daily email. The actual subject was "What They Wear: Stylish Musicians". What I read was "What They Wear: Stylish Mexicans". Two things went through my head. 1. Wait - Really?? 2. A photo of a Mariachi Band followed quickly by a flash of people working in a field.

I know. So offensive. I'm offended by my own subconscious. I figured if I put it in print, it would make it less racist. I'm not sure it's working. If it makes anyone feel any better, I am the whitest dancer ever. Just ask my Asian Posse.