The Short and Fat of It

Treadmill Troubles

2013-05-06T21:34:00.001-07:00

So, one time I deployed for six months. I know, that is kind of a big deal and I should have mentioned it sooner, but I was too busy eating Oreos. For the most part, it was a great experience. I really had a lot of fun in a war torn country that is full of people who shit in the same water they drink regularly. I worked with amazing people and learned a lot about myself. I realized I'm not nearly as tough as expected, but that that's an OK thing and I can still tolerate a lot of bull crap when it matters.

I also managed to lose a lot of weight, and this has been the most eye-opening experience for me. I had no idea that I could run as hard and as fast as I can now. I had no idea that I had it in me to NOT eat a whole package of Double Stuf Oreos. I had no idea that I could lose 40 pounds on my 5'2" frame and feel pretty much the same on the other side. Skinny me? Chubby me? Still me and having lived as both people, I like them equally.

But this isn't about my deployment or my weight loss journey, at least not entirely. I will have to explore those topics considerably over the course of a lot of posts and caffeine-fueled beverages. Instead, this post is about my butt.

If you know me in a manner such that you are horrified by the thought of reading anything about my butt (e.g. Sorry, Dad.) then maybe go look at Bachelor Frog memes or something.

Alright, I came into this world with a blessing of a backside. I am not going to out my husband as an "ass man" (as opposed to "breast men" anyway) but I know that my former perky and round butt was not unappreciated.

I mean, I'm not saying I was Beyonce or anything, but I could give her a run for her money in the right amount of sequins.

On the flip side of things, I have dabbled with running off and on for the last 10 years. I have ran distances at qualifying times and I have dry heaved doing just one lap around a track. For the last two years, I've been secretly longing to start running again as my main form of fitness and secondary choice in stress relief. Two years is a long time to sit on your ass and think about running, but I did anyway.

Oh, and my butt? It got bigger during this time frame. I had to buy jeans in sizes that I thought only pregnant women wore.

Deployment came at a great time because I was at my hugest and on the precipice of being in really, really bad health. I started running on the lone treadmill available to me as I lived in the area that was not conducive to outdoor running (Uh, twisted ankles and torn ligaments much? I hate rocks.)

At first, it was bad. Like, extremely bad. I would run so early in the morning when no one else was awake just so no one would see me sputter and gag as I pushed myself through mile after mile.

Then, I don't know. It just got easier. I just kept running on that treadmill like I had nothing better to do. 5 miles? That's a warmup. 10? Whatever. 15? Now we're talking. I couldn't stop and I didn't stop and I am proud that I managed to stay motivated running on a human hamster wheel day after day after day for six damn months.

And here I am, 40 pounds lighter and infinitely faster and woefully butt-less. Treadmills destroy your butt. It is an ass muncher in the worst possible way. I now can't fill out a pair of pants without some padding and I NEVER THOUGHT I would be a pancake butt woman.

So, as I struggle to add squats and lunges and dead lifts to my fitness routine, I catch myself looking mournfully at my own butt in the mirror. Actually, it's not that I'm at looking AT it so much as I am looking FOR it.

Maybe you're sitting there rolling your eyes at me.

"God, she is skinny now. Get over it!"

Maybe you're a woman with a fine derrière laughing at my expense.

"Hahahahaha!"

Maybe you shouldn't have read this post about my butt and you're upset with yourself.

"I can't look her in the eye anymore....but then I'll look at her butt! OH GOD NO!"

Whatever the case and whoever you are and whatever state your ass is in, I want to caution you from running on a treadmill nonstop. Apparently, you don't really use your hamstrings or glutes as the treadmill extends your legs for you. I know, that sounds like science to me too, but this woman at the gym explained it to me when she caught me staring at her butt. I had to tell her my situation so that she wouldn't file a sexual harassment complaint, and she really sympathized with me and gave me that nugget of knowledge.

But she is a bitch because I could have dropped a book on that shelf...

This is NOT a DIY Blog

2012-08-22T15:39:00.003-07:00

I might not come across this away on the internet or even real life, but I'm actually a nice person.

Like really! You can talk to me, and I will respond - usually with a smile! Sometimes even with a joke. I love a good joke, so I usually feel inclined to share them with people because I like to laugh and to make people laugh and to hear laughter.

I know some psychologist would tell me that I use humor as a shield to protect myself from whatever psycho babble blah blah, who majors in psychology besides bossy people? I just don't like confrontation or yelling. I really don't like yelling actually. It makes me nervous and like my dog, I tend to get gassy when I become nervous.

When I do yell and let my inner Tiger Mom out (it has been known to happen), I never feel better. I actually feel worse, so I try not to yell altogether. About anything. Even when I have to yell across a football field, I'd rather ~~run~~ walk (who am I kidding?) to the other side and use my indoor voice.

That is, until I painted my living room.

OK, some background: I like to read a lot of DIY home improvement-type blogs because I like to look at other people's homes and judge their cleanliess, and I am inherently very frugal, so I appreciate projects where I can save a buck or two.

And painting the walls in your own house? That is, like, the cheapest and easiest DIY project you could ever do! Anyone can do it! Some people can even do it without painter's tape and drop cloths!

I fucking hate those people and their God-given Wall Painting Talent.

Why we decided to paint the largest room in our house first, I will never know. Why we waited to start drinking until 10 hours later, I'll also never know and I might regret that most of all.

I grew up doing a lot of different painting projects, so I assumed that skillset would come back to me as we opened up our first can of paint (of FIVE). I assumed very wrong. I also assumed that since these DIY bloggers could paint any room in about 3 hours, it would take us about the same time.

I was even more wrong on that one. In fact, I was so wrong that I was just fucking stupid.

When the first coat of paint went on, I didn't know what to say because the sun had gone down and I couldn't see anything. Then we turned on the lights, and I could see that we needed another coat of paint. Then all I saw was the color RED, and people, we painted our walls gray-iege, so either something was wrong with my vision or holy shit, I hate painting.

During the second coat (and opening of beers), we finally started on the ceiling. We don't have crown molding, and now I know why people want to have crown molding. It's not because they want decorative ceiling fixtures; it's because it gives you a clear reason to NOT paint the damn ceiling.

Nearly 12 hours later, we finally had a finished living room and an appointment to see a marriage counselor because PAINTING ROOMS? That is stressful on a marriage, y'all. I feel like I know where Britney and K-Fed went wrong, you know?

While I admit that the room looks more put together, I don't know if I can look back at that experience and say to myself, "Remember that one time when it took us 12 hours to paint our living room? Fa ha la ha haha la ha ha fa la la la." Because no, it wasn't funny.

At all.

Since then (which was, like, 2 months ago, sorry), I have painted two bedrooms by myself because 1) I don't want to subject my husband to that experience ever again and put our marriage on the brink, and 2) the bedrooms are teeny at 8'x10' cube shapes that actually take only 3 hours to complete.

Painting a room alone in the middle of the day is not exactly my idea of a good time, but I've learned to yell SO loudly and curse the longest expletive-laden sentences uttered by a woman that the builders across the street have come over to make sure I was doing OK.

And honestly, I've been feeling a lot better about these home improvement endeavors knowing that when I have a DIY meltdown, I can just cry my fifty shades of grey-eige to the whole damn neighborhood.

That doesn't even make any fucking sense, but if you've read those E.L. James novels, then you don't understand anything anyway.

I Was in a Time Warp, but I'm Back. Hey.

2012-05-21T19:46:00.001-07:00

I know, I know, I KNOW. Where HAVE I been? What on earth could have been so hugely important that I ignored my blog for (almost) the first half of 2012?

Since when did it become ~~April~~ May already by the way? What in the hell? I swear it was only yesterday when I was snowed in my apartment for three days straight, and now there is this THING in the sky that is called "sunshine" or whatever. I don't even think I have enough SPF to get me to the store at this rate.

But yeah, I know that I've been sorely neglecting this blog. Like, a lot.

I don't even have a great excuse like getting married (achieved that milestone two years ago, BAM!) or having a baby, or traveling the world with unreliable internet for the past five months.

Nay, instead, I've been doing a lot of this life balance sort of stuff, and the olde blog of yore here fell to wayside. As far as life balance goes, I dedicate at least 16 hours of my day to work in some fashion (to include waking up, getting dressed, and commuting) and I'm still not OK with that.

You're laughing on the inside at me, I know. I can tell.

I can feel it in your eyes because they're slightly crinkled from your non-smile that is a smile because you're thinking something about how hard and long you work every day, and you're not complaining one bit.

Oh, and you have a family and a sky high mortgage and a two-hour commute and gas is almost five dollars a gallon, so really, what do I have to complain about with my measly work day? I guess you're right. You are so right.

Is that what you want to read about?

How you're so hard working and right and not the complaining type?

You want to read about that?

Then write your own damn blog, asshole.

Anyway.

This job thing has been going strong for nearly two years straight now, so since this schedule ain't going to budge, I came to the conclusion that I'm the one who needs to get with the program and rearrange my inner feng shui.

I changed my diet a little bit in that I eat more protein, less packaged goods and bread-y products, and more things that are green, and that has had a profound impact on my energy levels.

Like, really. I don't need an IV bag filled with caffeinated fluids to keep me going anymore. I am an effervescent bundle of energy all by myself, and it's pretty amazing.

(In spite of what you might think, I do NOT NOT NOT NOT eat Paleo, Caveman, or Neolithic (Wo)Man or anything like that. Seriously. If it's not covered in cheese or chocolate, then please leave me alone and keep your almond-flour-coated, cashew-butter-filled, coconut-milk-drenched, WHATEVER shit to yourself.)

I also don't have a computer anymore. This was a tough adjustment at first, but I'm really enjoying it at this point. As someone who was formerly chained to her desk for hours on end, it feels awesome to stretch my limbs and walk my ass out of the building all of the time.

I actually feel like I get more shit done because I don't have e-mails to attend to or PowerPoint presentations to generate. I'm meeting and talking with actual people in the flesh! More often then not, people are just so stunned to see me shadow their doorways that they feel compelled to shoo me the hell out of there, so SHIT IS GETTING DONE!

Maybe my positivity is connected with the warmer weather that is slowly easing its way through the Pacific Northwest.

Maybe it has something to do with the change of work scenery or a better, slightly cleaner diet. (I live, breathe, and die for Double Stuf Oreos SO. BACK. UP.)

But I can tell you right now, it has nothing to do with buying a goddamn house because that shit makes it hard to keep your cool when you're dealing with stupid people who don't have enough fingers to count your interest rate.

My blood pressure has probably never been this high before. Thank you, DHI Mortgage. I'm coming for you.

This Is Me on a Diet

2012-03-20T07:53:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, I weigh a lot. Now is one of those times. Normally, I'm OK with this because I support and identify with women of all shapes and sizes. But lately, I'm less OK with this because I'm not active anymore, and I'm putting really bad shit into my body on a regular basis.

People, I am eating my feelings like NOBODY'S BUSINESS, and they haven't been very good feelings lately, so it has been very, very bad (but oh so delicious) food.

Balance is good. Binging is bad. Starving is worse. So where do I draw that healthy line when it comes to what I eat?

This is my inner turmoil:

Me: I really should start eating healthier food.

My Legs: Yeah, I agree. It's a getting a little Jell-O-like down here.

My Mind: MmmmMMmmm, Jell-O.

Me: You guys, I just don't know if I can commit to a diet.

My Mind: Don't call it a "diet" - call it a "lifestyle change." That is the new phrase for diet.

My Legs: It's supposed to be about, like, changing how you live for the better through what you eat.

Me: That still sounds like a diet.

My Legs: OK then, Negative Nancy, way to poop on this party. You're not the one suffering, you know! How would you like to be squeezed into the strait jackets you call PANTS every day?

My Mind: That's harsh.

Me: I GET IT. I eat a lot of cookies and don't do a lot of running, and I see what this is doing to all of us.

My Mind: Speaking of running, you're not very good at that either.

Me: I'm serious. I want to be healthier!

My Legs: Then things are going to have to change. Like, big time. You and I will need to get close and work together.

Me: Um, how close?

My Legs: Super close. I need to be your best friend every day. You need to take me out on hikes and stuff.

My Mind: HELLO? What about ME? I'm the cognitive center of MIND POWER over here. You can't leave me out!

My Legs: You'll come with us too. You need to convince her to go outside.

Me: Ick! I hate being outdoors.

My Legs: See what I mean?

My Mind: Being outside is not that horrible, except for the daily rain, sleet, snow, and/or hail. Oh, and that wind! It's awful.

My Legs: ......you're really not helping.

Me: Forget the outdoors for now. We'll worry about that when the weather finally perks up.

My Mind: Hahahahaha, that won't happen any time soon. We're in Washington.

Me: Whatever. Let's focus on what I should be eating.

My Legs: How about what you SHOULDN'T be eating? Those cookies and pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream ring a bell.

My Mind: Don't hate on my BRAIN FOOD!

My Legs: You are NOT any smarter with all of those sugary calories!

My Mind: How would you know?! Your piece of the nervous system is NOTHING compared to my labyrinth.

Me: I guess I should stop eating those things, and maybe lay off the pasta, bread, and potatos for awhile too.

My Mind: NoooOOOoOoOOOoOOoOOooooo!

My Legs: Yeah, that's the spirit! Now let's get some fruit, vegetables, and lean meat up in the kitchen!

My Mind: NoOooOoOOOOooOOoOOoOOoo!

Me: Yeah, OK! Let's do this! I can make those changes. It shouldn't be too hard to start eating those things.

My Mind: You won't make it! You don't understand! WE LOVE COOKIES!

Me: We need to LOVE OTHER FOOD!

My Mind: ....stop yelling at me....this is really hard to handle....I can't process all of these changes...

My Legs: You're super pathetic right now. Don't you want to live longer?

My Mind: Sure, but but but but but but but but can't we have one last cookie? Or bowl of spaghetti? Like as a goodbye?

Me: That's not a bad idea.

My Legs: NO! We need to start eating well NOW or else it will never happen!

Me: But if it's our last meal eating like that....we should make the most of it...

My Mind: And we can start eating better any time....like tomorrow.

My Legs: NO!!!! You guys are so - wait, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! Put the Oreo down NOW!

My Mind: She already touched it, she might as well eat it!

Me: Mmmmm, creme filling....chocolate biscuit goodness....om nom nom nom.

My Legs:...........................

My Mind: Mmmmm, sugar high....spike in energy.....om nom nom nom.

My Legs:..........................

Me: This is the best cookie I've ever had.

My Legs:.........................can you at least start wearing bigger pants for me?

I am the Cookie Monster

2012-01-23T06:58:00.000-08:00

If you haven't already heard, Western Washington (i.e. The Better Half) endured the Snow-Pocalypse of 2012 last week. Twelve inches of snow might not seem like a lot to you if you're from, say, the Midwest or wherever, but I'm not from one of the lesser states in the union, so twelve inches of snow is a lot to me.

I was snowed in for three straight days, and it was AMAZING. I took advantage of my bonus vacation by reading paranormal romance stories (What? Twilight, hello?), writing and deleting an innumerable amount of blog entries, and watching everything that I recorded on my DVR last year.

If you want to talk Housewives, I am all caught up so let's chat.

What I didn't do while I was snowed in was cook or bake very much because I ran out of appetizing food after about 12 hours. I only had a container of sour cream, random pastas, an egg, wine, and peanut butter in my kitchen.

Oh, and some onions.

It was at that moment when I realized two different things:

1) Domino's delivers, rain or shine.

2) I should never, ever run out of cookies.

I thought I had a well-stocked pantry, but my cookie-less 5-day weekend proved me wrong. Pizza can only sustain me for so long, you know? I was devastated to realize that I couldn't even bake anything chocolate chip or cinnamon sugar related, and I was at the edge of sanity when I discovered that I ran out of Oreos too.

Now that it's Girl Scout Cookie pre-sale season, my hunger for daily cookies might have clouded my purchase because I ordered forty dollars worth of cookies this year.

I know you're probably judging me and the size of my pants, BUT I REALLY DON'T CARE because of the following reasons:

1) I am supporting future leaders of America.

2) I am doing my best to make sure that one little girl scout gets the Top Cookie Sales badge this year.

3) Have you ever had a Samoa? Or a Thin Mint from the freezer? Stuff of DREAMS, people.

4) This will prevent me from running out of cookies during the next snow storm.

5) I stopped weighing myself many months ago anyway, so this will not have an impact on my self-esteem.

6) My husband will only eat the broken ones forcing my cookie consumption tp be subsequently smaller, if by a fraction.

7) You can only get these boxes once a year! ONCE A YEAR!

There are probably more reasons that I could add to this list, but I have been typing this entire post with my new pair of smart gloves and while they're awesome for track pad usage, they aren't ideal for typing. I wasn't really expecting that issue because they're "smart" gloves, but I'm assuming the patent is still pending on the keyboard-friendly pair.

I'll be the first in line for those babies and every blog post thereafter will be composed with them.

Thinking About Getting a Cat? Think Again.

2012-01-10T19:02:00.000-08:00

Growing up, we always had a cat. Usually, it was a big, fat, fluffy sort of cat that did a lot of sleeping and ignoring me. Maybe I forgot what they were like as kittens because my current cats? They are NOTHING like the cats of my youth. They are driving me to alcoholism with their kitty shenanigans.

That Hermione and Luna duo? TOTALLY BAT SHIT PSYCHO.

Let us count the ways:

1) Cats will steal your money.
True. I have an entry way table where I put down my daily essentials: keys, wallet, phone. I always set these things down on this table. I have never deviated from this pattern because I would lose these things if I did anything different.

My cats have witnessed me leaving my belongings there every day and have shown zero percent interest in that table until just recently. I leave my debit card in the front pocket of my many-pocketed wallet, and they managed to take it out of that pocket the other day.

You know, the pocket that snaps shut.

And then they lost interest in it and left it in their litter box for me as a nice surprise.

2) Cats can break down doors, or at least try very, very hard to do so.
I have tried to let my cats sleep in my room with me, but when I'm asleep, I become a jungle gym as far as they are concerned. I've been woken up countless times to find my cats wrestling on my face.

Now when slumber is imminent, I trick them into leaving my room by turning on this laser pointer thingy (a.k.a. The Babysitter. I hope this thing works on human babies.) and running back into my room.

Once the laser pointer shuts off, they find other ways to entertain themselves including, but not limited to, eating toilet paper, knocking over lamps, and breaking down my bedroom door.

I've been trying to get some footage of their antics, but I've come to the conclusion that they are throwing their bodies against my door with a running start because that is the only way to explain the thunderous sounds that they generate hour after hour.

More than once, I've woken up in a panic because I thought someone was trying to burglarize my home, but really, it's just my cats being insane.

3) Cats will attack anything and everything because they are always on the hunt.
Shoelaces? Prey.

Fingers? Prey.

Hanging towels? Prey.

Toilet paper? Prey.

Chairs? Prey.

Debit cards? Prey.

Something must be hunted at all times. Everything has the potential to be hunted at some point or another. This means that all of your belongings, and I mean all of it, will meet cat claws sooner rather than later.

I used to have leather chairs. Now I have two wooden chairs covered in leather ribbons and white upholstery stuffing.

4) Cats want to get all up in your grill.
You know when you are all snuggled up on the couch watching your favorite movie and reminiscing about your imaginary life as a Disney Princess? (What?) Cats will hone in on your state of comfort and then sit on your face.

Or paw at your face. Or knock the remote out of your hand (see #3). Or sit right in front of the TV blocking your view of Belle singing about her provincial life. Or lick your hair.

They will do anything it takes to make sure you are annoyed, disgruntled, frustrated, or generally upset, and then they will expect you to serve them because they are assholes like that.

5) Cats are picky as shit and nothing can please them.
Their food will never be fresh enough, especially when they can try to have your dinner. The water in their water bowl will never parch their thirst because there is a toilet they could try to drink from or a sink they could sit in while you are brushing your teeth. Their litter will never clump properly, and they will want to dig and dig and dig and dig into their box until all of the litter has been kicked out of the box.

You can never pet them enough. Cats want to know why you are going to work and paying your bills when you could be petting them. They're all like, "Who do you think you are, Human? Come hither and pet me right away."

The cat toys and cat treats and other cat-oriented gifts you buy for them are never good enough, and they will never ever sleep in a cat bed when they can sleep on top of your diaphragm instead.

In spite of, you know, everything, I do love my cats because every once in awhile, they will sit next to me, purr, and not attack my hand for about 10 minutes straight. It's almost like they're my pets and I don't live to serve them and make them more comfortable.

2012 - What What!

2012-01-01T16:04:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, you crazy hooligans!

Did you party until the wee hours of the morning?

Or did you fall asleep to the sound of Ryan Seacrest's voice on TV?

Whatever you did, I hope you did it safely. I, for one, stayed up well past midnight, but that's only because I took an 18-hour nap earlier that day.

I'm serious. I really did sleep that long. Impressed? I thought so.

I'm not one for resolutions, mostly because I forget them. I also think that they can be rather limiting because of the boundaries they can create in your daily life.

If you want to "eat healthier" this year, your intake of cookies and ice cream dramatically decreases. If you want to "lose weight" for 2012, you spend less hours watching Real Housewives and more hours at a gym. If you want to "save more money," you're shopping less.

People, I cannot live life like that. A life with less dairy, NeNe Leakes, and Sephora is not the life for me. However, I see the value of having a resolution (or a few) because it's like having a personal tracker of stuff you want to do in the next year that can make you feel happier.

I just don't like the word "resolution" very much because it's, um, rather resolute. Like, if you don't do it, then you're a big failure at life. What if you start out the year, you know, lifting more weights, like you resolutely promised yourself, and you realize that going to the gym is not your cup of tea? Why stick with something that makes you unhappy?

Resolutions should bring you joy and open some doors to new possibilities! You want to limit yourself? Well, that's what Lent is for.

Anyway, here are my resolutions-slash-things-I-want-to-do-to-be-a-little-happier for 2012:

1) Try out homemade laundry detergent
I know this might seem like a weird one, but have you seen what's in a bottle of Tide or Gain detergent? Laundry chemists or whoever put some crazy shit in those bottles, and then I wash my sheets in that, and then I rub my face on those sheets at night getting that crazy shit all over my skin and sometimes my mouth because, you know, we all drool a little bit, and who knows what that's doing to me internally.

I'm normally not worried about toxins and additives (HELLO! I eat cheese in a can sometimes!) but the folks at Yellow Brick Home sold me on the idea with their cute glass container of homemade detergent.

WHAT CAN I SAY? I'M A SUCKER FOR PACKAGING! Sue me!

Who knows, maybe this will inspire a whole eco-friendly, green-tastic way of living for me. Or maybe I'll just have some cute soap in my laundry room.

2) Go on day/weekend trips in the surrounding area more often
I spend a lot of weekends on my couch in my pajamas, which is great, but maybe I could change things up and wear jeans outside the house for once. By no means am I an outdoorsy sort of gal, but I can appreciate the occasional vista or sunset or rising tide here in the Great Northwest (so long as there is a major metropolitan area within 1.5 hours) and since my days here are numbered, I really should get outside more.

And who better to do it with than my partner in ~~crime~~ life? We deserve to have some mini-blasty-blasts together.

3) Write more. In general. Overall.
I know that some writers are very strict about how prolific they are in a given time period, but I'm not there yet in terms of my writing prolific-ness. As evidenced by my sporadic blog posts, I really don't have a distinct writing or publishing schedule. I write when I write and sometimes, things get published, and sometimes, things get scrapped.

Even still, I want to write more. In general.

I don't want to start on page quotas or anything like that until I feel comfortable because that is too resolution-y for me. You know how some people get rid of their scales and just gauge their weight gain/loss tango based on how tightly or loosely their clothes fit? I'm going to try and do that with writing on this here ol' blog.

Overall.

So that is how I'm going to spend 2012, in addition to my usual 2011 shenanigans that involve Oreos and reality television.

What are your non-resolutions?

The Real Housewives of Seattle

2011-12-13T14:48:00.000-08:00

If you're not into scripted, trashy reality TV shows, then we might not be able to get along because there are few things that I love more than a new episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. The southern hospitality mixed with the ghetto-fied Louis Vuitton bags is like a dream come true.

Kim Zolciak? I need to meet you and your wig, mostly because I want to know if your lips have been surgically enhanced or not.

Is Atlanta not your scene? Maybe The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, New York, Jersey or Miami get recorded on your DVR every week or maybe none of these shows meet your television standards. I'm honestly perplexed as to why Bravo has not included the city of Seattle in the mix.

As someone who has lived either in the heart of the city or the surrounding Seattle area for most of her life, I think I have a pretty good idea of what the housewives cast of Seattle would be like.

Let's meet them!

Skylar
As a former dot-com entrepenuer in the early 2000's, Skylar sold her online company for a cool 1.5 millions dollars and now lives in the perfect, pleasantville-esque, neighborhood of Magnolia with her young family. She opened a hot yoga studio last year in order to "have something to do" but her husband's salary at Boeing is enough to pay for her Range Rover, their kids' private school educations, and all the debt that her yoga studio is accumulating. Skylar considers herself to be very liberal and does her part to help the environment by bringing her own mug to Starbucks for her non-fat, no-whip, sugar-free, decaf mocha every morning.

Emma
Born and raised in the tiny bubble of Mercer Island (a.k.a. Millionaire Central), Emma had been living the high life. She met Skylar at University of Washington where they both majored in Communications and were sorority sisters at Tri Delta. Recently divorced, Emma has been down on her luck because she only receives forty grand a month in alimony, so she is a frontrunner in the local Occupy Wall Street movement here in Seattle. As an activist, Emma spends a lot of time baking cookies and creating care packages from her three-story, waterfront home on the Montlake Cut for her OWS brethren who stay outside in the cold night after night.

Maddie
After dropping out of college twice, Maddie spent her early twenties bar-hopping and cocktail waiting at various restaurants and clubs in the Belltown area hoping to land a rich man. While maxing her dad's credit card at the downtown Nordstrom last spring, a pro-football athlete for the Seattle Seahawks mistook her for a model, and the rest, they say, is history. Right now, she is planning her 650+ person wedding, but she has to hurry because there is already a baby on the way for the engaged couple!

Linda
If you're in need of some relaxing lamaze classes or you need to find an amazing midwife/doula, then you only need to give Linda a phone call. After having a traumatic hospital experience with her first child's birth, she has made it her goal in life to provide Seattle women with natural and therapeutic baby care, that is, for those who can afford her services and products. She invented and patented an eco-friendly baby sling, and has since opened three different birthing centers in the local area. Skylar and the expecting Maddie are just some of her many high-profile, big-bank-account clients.

Nicole
Originally from Spokane, Washington, Nicole is a gun-owning, deer-hunting, mountain-climbing Republican OB/GYN who is married to a Microsoft programmer. As an outspoken doctor who is confident in the power of medicine and science, Nicole has a hard time believing that the natural, pre-natal care that Linda provides is medically safe and sound. Even though they are complete opposites, Nicole is a close friend and neighbor to fellow housewife, Skylar, probably because they both drive Range Rovers without any gas-guzzling shame.

Maureen
While she has never been married and tells everyone that she is happy being single, Maureen is still looking for love in the Emerald City. Unfortunately for her, this liberal tattoo artist lives on Capitol Hill: the gayest, most-rainbow-lovin' neighborhood in the area. An avid bike rider and No-Shave-November participant, Maureen is not your typical housewife, but as a true Seattle native, her colorful personality is just what the other housewives need.

Will Maureen find love on this season of The Real Housewives of Seattle?

Will Maddie be able to have her grandiose, NFL-star-studded wedding before she has her baby?

Will Nicole convince Maddie that Linda's birthing center is not safe enough for her delivery?

Will Emma get her head out of her ass and realize how filthy rich she really is?

Stay tuned!

My Ho-Bag Was Retired in 2008

2011-12-11T20:17:00.000-08:00

I want to explain the definition of a "ho-bag" because I don't want you to be confused with similar variations of the term. First of all, a "hobag" or "ho bag" (no dash - see that?) is a term usually used by women who are referring to other women, typically their female friends.

It's a way of saying, "Hey, you kiss and do hanky panky with a lot of different people, and I'm judging you, but it's OK, so let's go shopping."

Women are strange creatures, I know.

(And I also know that women should not call other women derogatory names because if men aren't allowed to say those things without being offensive, then how can it be OK for women to say it nicely to each other? And ~~most of the time~~ sometimes, we don't say those names very nicely anyway, but let's not get into the politics of this right now.)

So, a "ho-bag" is a noun too, but rather than referring to the woman herself, the word refers to her bag of tricks that keeps her prepared for, uh, slumber parties and similar one-night activities. Toothbrush, toothpaste, change of underwear and/or clothes, makeup, prescription medications, and a stick of deodorant are the basic essentials that are necessary for a lady who is staying the night elsewhere.

Maybe she has her bag packed because her boyfriend has space issues. Or, you know, they just started dating and she doesn't want to overwhelm him with the products.

Maybe it's packed because she is spending the weekend with a friend.

Maybe she is a gypsy.

Maybe she just likes to bed hop.

WHO KNOWS?! The reasons and possibilities for a woman to have a ho-bag are virtually endless, but I think it's obvious that the ho-bag is an essential morning-after recovery tool.

I have not been utilizing a ho-bag since 2008 because that is the year I started dating my then-boyfriend/now-husband. After being taken off the market officially in 2010, I have put my ho-bag in complete retirement.

When I spent the night at a friend's house this past weekend to have some much-needed girl time, it became very apparent that I am severely out of practice in the packing of a ho-bag.

How in the hell am I supposed to fit all these essentials in one bag?

How did I do this ever?

Have my beauty and hygiene routines become so out of hand that they require multiple bags?

Apparently, yes.

I brought FOUR different bags with me like a crazy bag lady. I had a bag for toiletries and makeup; another bag was for my clothes; a different bag was for some snacks because WHAT IS A SLUMBER PARTY WITHOUT SNACKS?

Not a party, that's what.

One of my friends really out-packed me in the ho-bag department. Not only did she have the one ho-bag with all of her overnight essentials, but she also managed to pack her laptop, camera, and chargers in there. She only had to make the one trip to and from the car with her one bag. I, on the other hand, looked like a disgruntled Christmas shopper with bags criss-crossing my body every which way.

I just needed a mini-van, and my look would have been complete.

I have never really noticed the different between being married and not being married because my husband and I have always been so happy together, but you guys, I cannot pack for shit anymore. For the first time ever, there was a great divide between me and my friends because of my inability to pack for one evening.

Is this why so many moms have cargo-like diaper bags?

Tis the Season...To Get a Part-Time Job

2011-12-09T19:28:00.000-08:00

This recession is insane. If you're struggling to find a way to check off everyone on your Christmas list, then let me just tell you a secret: EVERYONE LOVES Q-TIPS.

It's one of those things that people run out of very suddenly but never have the thought to buy in advance. You would be the best Santa ever.

Friends and family? You are getting a deluxe-sized box of Q-Tips from Shasta this year. I will even put a ribbon on it. You will never have to worry about grimy ears or eye makeup removal ever again, at least for 2012. Merry Christmas!

Seriously.

This holiday season, I don't even have time to go Christmas shopping. I'm starting to look under my sink cabinets in an attempt to unearth some body soap and lotion products that I could re-gift. Or maybe I could pass a box of Chips Ahoy cookies as homemade?

Oh, don't act like you haven't done that before.

How many times have you looked up from your computer to realize, OH SHIT, it's December 23rd already? Then you remember that you have one of those mandatory holiday office parties later in the afternoon, so lo and behold, someone is going to go home with a bar of Ivory soap and a half bottle of Listerine in that White Elephant exchange courtesy of you and your Grinchiness.

Has this not happened to other people? No? Who are you and why do you have all this time and money?

Even though I don't have any time, I decided to take up a part-time job because apparently, I don't like having weekends to myself anymore. I don't know if it was a moment of weakness or what, but when my former manager asked me if I wanted to work on Saturdays and Sundays this month to help out for the holidays, I heard myself saying, "Yes! Of course!"

It was a bizarre, out-of-body experience because in my mind, I was cataloging all of the things I need to do at the office for my full-time employment and how there were just too many damn things to do and how I don't even have time to wash all my socks anymore, but I could feel myself smiling at the thought of working in retail again and before I knew it, I was selling jewelry last weekend.

But me, in retail? Who am I kidding?

It's been over a year since I worked there, and while I've mourned the loss of my carefree retail days, I know that I have turned into a regular ol' grump with my current job. I am way too damn snarky, and I don't possess a filter between my mouth and brain, so I really shouldn't be allowed to interact with perfectly nice strangers who want to buy stuff.

After a couple of customer encounters, it was obvious that I was pretty rusty:

"Hmmm...these are quite nice, but I think I want them in platinum. Do you have a similar pair in platinum? Maybe with different gems?"

"Oh sure, right here next to my platinum mine that I keep in the basement. Let me just grab a few hundred pair of earrings for you to waste my time with."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I don't know. I don't really work here much anymore."

"Um, OK. Do you have similar earrings?"

"OK, listen lady, I don't even know where they keep earrings in this place these days. They moved all the expensive shit to a safe I can't access."

"Do you even work here?"

"Sort of. Let me get my manager. She'll help you find everything you can't afford."

It's not that I'm purposefully unhelpful, it's just that I'm so used to trying to be mediocre at my office job in order to avoid extra work for being a SUPERSTAR that I can't get out of that routine when I'm in another work environment. It took a few hours of fake smiling and using a sing-song voice (Have you been in a jewelry store? You know what we sound like.) for me to get back into the groove.

After seeing so many harassed-looking shoppers, I realized that I'm not sucking at Christmas as badly as they are. Some guy bought his daughter a fugly purple watch that I'm sure she'll be exchanging come 2012, so really...if you think about it...

My Q-Tip idea...?

So genius.

A Wee Lesson in E-mail Etiquette

2011-12-02T22:24:00.000-08:00

Almost every aspect of my job revolves around e-mail. Everything is driven and powered by my Microsoft Outlook inbox like it's the engine to a car. Or something like that. I'm really bad at automobile analogies because I know nothing about cars, so please, just go with it. But I wish the whole E-mail is Everything concept wasn't true because that means I sit on my butt most of the day, but it is true and my butt gets sore from all the sitting.

Tough life, I know.

I understand that e-mail is a quick, handy dandy way to communicate, but most people...are too dumb to do that effectively without keyboards. You end up giving them a laptop, and shit, it's like they are the CEO of Being Better Than You, and the next thing you know, they are blasting you with e-mails that look something like this:

Hey-

Need you toget that presantation to me in 1 hour right now. Not sure whats taking you so long but its in my last email five minutes ago when i told you you had to do it now. K, thx.

-Douchebag

The author of this e-mail shall remain anonymous because, uhhhh, I wrote it to illustrate a point, but that is an accurate representation of the garbage that litters my inbox on an hourly basis. I know that a bachelor's degree isn't a "big deal" anymore, but if you have one and you're writing miserable drivel like that, then maybe you should give your degree back to your school, or, I don't know, go work in a field that doesn't require you to talk, write, or think in any way.

E-mail is also a really easy way to seem like you are important, demanding, and agressive even though you are a total doormat in real life. It's like people have Outlook alter-egos or something, but that gets really confusing after awhile because you start to seem mentally unstable.

I might be a little kray kray from time to time, but I know when to use a damn semicolon. If anyone ever asked me for a wee little guide on how to write e-mails, then they would need to look no further than this blog post because I am about to change the world here.

1) Put thought into your e-mails. Seriously.
I can't applaud myself for doing this all the time, especially when I'm replying to #58 of 114 e-mails, but I do it about 80% of the time. You are what you send, so if you want to send something that is a total hot mess, then by all means "send" away. If you want to seem like you're not a total asshole, then think about what you're typing. I am amazed whenever my office mates send e-mails without reading them over first. Sure, maybe it's uber important and urgent, but ten seconds couldn't be spared to look it over?

2) Don't try and be funny. Especially if you aren't funny to begin with...
Unless your intended recipient knows you pretty well and has laughed before at some of your jokes at the last mandatory office party, you really shouldn't try to add humor to your e-mails because that will inevitably go to hell in a handbasket. More often than not, your attempt at witty banter will end up very one-sided because you'll just come across as deeply confused. I have been a known offender of this rule, so I try to stick with no-nonsense e-mails now.

3) NO CAPS LOCK. BAD!
Caps lock=yelling. I yell a lot on my blog because I can showcase my personality here, but via e-mail? Yelling is not appreciated very much. You seem really rude and irritating, or worse, you seem totally batshit craaaaazzzzyyyyyy. How many times have you instantly deleted an e-mail or just never replied to it because it had CAPITAL LETTERS EVERYWHERE ASAP/FYI/BYOB and consequently rubbed you the wrong way? A lot of times, so maybe lay off that little button next time.

4) Learn or brush up on proper punctuation and basic grammar.
Not everyone majored in English, I know, but that doesn't mean we can't have some respect for the language and start arranging words coherently! Spell-check is amazing and has helped millions of worker bees worldwide, but until we get a grammar button and a punctuation button, we're on our own, people. Ask someone; Google it; delete the e-mail and pick up the damn phone instead - do whatever it takes to get your point across without risking a grave comma error.

5) Ask yourself if you really need to send this.
There is always that guy in everyone's office that sends you an e-mail with an inane question even though he sits right across from you and asks, "Hey, did you get my e-mail?" I hate that guy. Don't be that guy! It's always easier to get up and ask someone a question when they work in the same office or hallway or floor as you, right? Are we really that lazy, America? Prove me wrong!

I could go on and discuss the evilness that is forwards or the excessive usage of emoticons, but I think you all know where I'm coming from already. I'm all about the power of the Internet and staying connected and expressing yourself online, but e-mail is not something you can mess around with when you have an extremely specific audience in that "to" line.

I don't know why there aren't "professional" classes about how to send effective e-mails, but there really should be in this day and age when even grade schoolers and great-grandparents have access to an inbox somewhere. We're all just one click away from appearing like total idiots, so we should ban together and save ourselves from such embarrassment!

Who's with me?!

........

You'd rather just seem like idiots and send comma-overloaded e-mails all over the place, wouldn't you? I see how it is, guys.

I'm gonna delete that shit.

Let Me Talk About Harry Potter, Thank You

2011-11-29T21:43:00.000-08:00

I don't remember the exact day, and considering how important Harry Potter is to my life I really wish I could remember, but it was in the Autumn of My Sixth Grade Year-eth when I came across Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling tucked away on a bookshelf in the young adult section of Ye Olde School Library.

Hey, 13 years ago is a long time for us spritely folk.

My school was undergoing some serious budget cuts, so I was surprised to find a new book on the shelf, especially one that wasn't covered in a suspicious sticky substance resembling hot dog vomit. It looked extremely out of place with its shiny, colorful dust cover and clean white pages. I was instantly drawn to it, and I quickly grabbed it from the shelf before that one kid in my class licked it because, uh, he licked everything.

There's always one in every class.

Anyway.

You know how Moses found that burning bush in the desert and it was blindingly beautiful and frightening and he was in awe and God was there and was all, "What's up, Moses?" from His place on high? It was kind of like that for me, but I was in my school library and I didn't hear any voices.

Yet.

But seriously, people, this book changed my life. It was like Lumos! up in my head with my imagination running wild across the Hogwarts greens and Quidditch field. I don't think I put it down the entire weekend. I would say that that is a challenging feat for a 12 year old in the middle of the school sports season, but I was an extremely pale and nerdy kid with bad allergies and I was in band, so staying inside and reading a book was not very unusual for me.

Harry Potter isn't just about spells and charms and chocolate frogs though. It's about love and friendship and doing what is right all the time. I know that sounds OH SO TOTALLY BORING ZZZZZ AM I DROOLING, but it's not, I promise. It's easy for us to dismiss the HP series as a bunch of children's books, and while children have enjoyed reading this beloved story about their favorite wizard, these books aren't just for kids.

I re-read all seven tomes virtually every year, and I think I enjoy them more and more every time with my increasing accumulation of wisdom and life experience. If that makes me a little bit of a loser, then I don't want to know what your idea of winning is because YOU ARE SO COMPLETELY WRONG.

Supposedly, scientists and the celebrity fragrance makers have discovered that scents trigger memories and nostalgia and other mind stuff. So that bottle of Britney Spears' Curious that I have about 3.9 drops left inside of? Middle school rages through the VCR of my brain and I see myself in braces and itchy wool sweaters at top speed whenever I spritz some through the air. It's like a yearbook for my nose.

Well, the Harry Potter books? Totes do the same thing, but better because I don't have memories of my bad dental and frizzy hair, and no spritzing is involved.

Instead, I remember a kid who was extremely happy and book-ish and excited about libraries. Waiting for each additional book to be released was more difficult than waiting to open my presents on Christmas morning, and whenever I crack open the worn out spines, I have the same holiday rush of anticipation.

It doesn't matter that I know what's going to happen (SIRIUS DIES EVERY TIME). It doesn't matter that the last book was published in 2009, and Rowling swears that there are no sequels or Hermione spinoffs in the future (sob).

None of that matters because the books are like some of the dearest, oldest friends in my life. And while we learn that friends come and go, it is wonderful to know that there are seven of them that will always be there for you waiting on some shelf and ready to give you advice, make you laugh and cry, and remind you that love and loyalty are all you'll ever need.

OK, that might seem a little esoteric and, quite possibly, rather sad because books as friends?

Really, Shasta?

But I have never felt such a powerful connection to any particular story until then, and while many books have come close, the Harry Potter series will always be closest to my heart.

I didn't care and I still don't care if that's not very "cool" of me. I will gladly be a nerd or a geek or a dork or whatever for this series. If my daughter comes across a book that gives her happiness and makes her not care about being "cool" then I want her to love that story for her whole life as well.

Would it be wrong of me to re-read the series twice in one year? Because I'm thinking about it now.

I Was Not Ready to Rumble

2011-11-28T07:58:00.000-08:00

Originally, this post started about gluten-free foods and how I hate them because I ate a slice of gluten-free cheese pizza last week, and I just about died on my way to the bathroom. As it turned out, though, I must have contracted a stomach bug because gluten-free foods might be disgusting, but they are not responsible for ripping open my digestive tract for the last six days.

But they are responsible for the longevity of this season's NBA lockout.

If you can't already tell, this post will be about bodily functions, so if you're squeamish or can't handle these kinds of discussions, then please enjoy another blog post at this time!

I really thought that pizza was what did me in because about two hours after lunch, I felt a rumble in my stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. An additional hour later, I was writhing on my office floor trying not to throw up on my pregnant boss. I was doing the nausea mambo - dry heaving and butt cheek clenching simultaneously.

I know that sounds like a good time to you weirdos out there, but I do not have such inclinations. I usually have a pretty strong stomach, and I have been known to eat entire cartons of ice cream without so much as a burp, so this was miserable.

Once we were done for the day, I bolted into my car and started to head home, but in my nausea-induced panic, I forgot that you can't get anywhere in a timely manner in the greater Puget Sound area between the hours of 4 and 7pm.

I spent the next hour suffering through my 10-mile drive home trying not to shit myself in the car. If you haven't had to endure this, then consider yourself lucky because that was definitely in the Top 5 Worst Experiences of my life. I was frantically calling everyone on my iPhone (Bluetooth - what's up!) trying to distract myself from the pain, but no one was answering and I WAS ABOUT TO POOP MY PANTS from the stress of it all.

When I finally made it home, let's just say that hell hath no fury like a simmering stomach of indigestion because what happened thereafter is probably illegal in most states. For the rest of that evening, I crawled between my bathroom and couch like some sort of broken ass snake. I was cursing that pizza like you would not believe.

Wednesday was no better, and while everyone was enjoying a work-provided turkey lunch, I was sipping on Gatorade like it was the best damn thing I ever sipped!

But it wasn't.

There was hope on Thanksgiving. After picking up my husband from the airport, we made a ham and some mashed potatoes, thanked the Pilgrims, and ate a late lunch. At this point, I was positive that the pizza was the culprit for my digestive troubles because I was cleared out by then! I was enjoying solid foods! The toilet rested quietly in the bathroom!

Then Friday happened, and I have a new reason to call this day Black Friday. It just was not a good day for me and the plumbing. It started with some paralyzing stomach cramps that rendered me immobile and clammy, and it ended with a lot of whining and Googling "death from stomach problems."

Saturday was more of the same. We tried our best to enjoy the long weekend and attempted some eating out and Christmas shopping, but even though I hydrated with water and ate only different varieties of breads, I still felt like there was a time bomb in the seat of my pants.

During one of my quests for an empty ladies restroom, I ran into a friend who was out shopping AND OH MY GOD, PEOPLE, I never wanted to see her less. I mean, she's great! We've known each other for years! We both hate our jobs! But I was thisclose to either throwing up on her shoes or exploding out of my jeans, so I really, really didn't have time for small talk.

I wish I could say that Sunday was better, but it wasn't. I spent most of the day alone because my dear husband went back on an airplane to his work, and while I loved, loved, loved having him home with me because he is the most wonderful man ever, it was really inconvenient running to the bathroom and worrying about whether or not he could hear everything that was happening in there.

Because he could.

Now I'm on Day Six of this ordeal, and I don't know how stomach bugs work - bacterial, viral, magical, I just don't know - but I'm pretty sure I'll never be the same after this.

And neither will my toilet.

A Disclaimer Would Have Been Helpful

2011-11-23T06:02:00.000-08:00

Long story short (though I will inevitably make this long anyway), our lease runs out in March, and we are considering not renewing it. We really do like our apartment, and the location isn't that bad. The neighbors are quiet; we don't have a long commute; everything is set up just the way we like it; we are the perfect distance away from Seattle without making me feel like a country bumpkin.

But, you know, it could be better. We would like less traffic, more grass, and maybe a bigger closet so that I can hide more clothes, err, I mean, have more storage. So, with that, we're slowly scoping out some other living situations, and by "scoping" I mean that I am trolling real estate websites for houses that are way, way out of our budget.

"We don't need a 6-car garage and 3 master suites and a giant, swan fountain in the driveway, Shasta."

"But it's A MILLION DOLLARS LESS than when they first put it on the market!"

"I thought we were thinking about renting again since we might move out of state soon?"

"But this is obviously our dream house! You've been saying how much you want a garage!"

"We don't have six cars or six cars worth of stuff for this garage though!"

"Oh, well, I thought you liked swans."

"...."

What can I say? I love looking at crazy houses, and for the most part, I can see myself living in one, but I have a normal husband who deserves to live in an area where we aren't known as The Basket Cases With the Swan Fountain.

And you thought I couldn't compromise...

After browsing apartment complexes and living communities in the neighborhoods of Not Ghetto and No Vandalism, I found a potential place. The description was perfect. Like, seriously, read this:

"Life is about making big plans but keeping things simple. That's where we come in. [Our apartment community] has the comforts of the home you know and love without the maintenance or headaches of ownership."

That sounds bomb diggity, right? All of the reviews were like 5+++ stars with sprinkles on top, and the surrounding neighborhood is a great part of Washington where there aren't any meth labs or police officer shootings. We would be a bit further from work, but for granite countertops? I think I'll drive the extra 15 minutes.

I need to see it to believe it, though, so I decided to call their leasing office yesterday to schedule a viewing and, you know, get more information...and this is what happened:

"Hello, my name is Shasta, and I was just looking through your website, and I was wondering if you had any available units next March?"

"Why, yes, we will have some vacancies by then, and we can reserve a unit for you as early as January."

"That's great, and when can we schedule a viewing and discuss your policies?"

"Any time next week - we are available whenever, as I am sure you are too these days! Ha ha!"

"Uhhhh..well...no, I have a very busy work schedule, so do you have any morning or lunch openings on Monday or Tuesday?"

"You're still working at your age? Ha ha! That is very proactive of you! But yes, Monday at 8am we would be happy to meet with you."

"Wait, what do you mean at my age?"

"Most of our residents stopped working years and years ago, but there are still a few of you spritely ones with that gung ho spirit!"

I couldn't tell what she was talking about for the longest time, and her upbeat, cheery attitude and little laughs were starting to get to me. Maybe you're already picking up what the receptionist was laying down, but I was a little slow on the uptake.

Was this a rehabilitative center for homeless people or something?

Why don't these residents work?

Was this a Charles Manson type thing?

Would I have to be a sister wife?

Then, finally, the truth surfaced....

"So that we know what you and your husband are looking for, how would you describe yourselves? Outdoorsy and athletic or more meditative and artistic?"

"Uhhhmmmm, well, he's athletic...and I'm an aspiring writer of sorts..."

"OK, we can work with that! We offer tons of activities for active adults with different interests!"

Active...adults? What......?

Wait.

ACTIVE ADULTS? LIKE OLD PEOPLE? I'VE BEEN LOOKING AT APARTMENTS IN AN OLD PEOPLE COMMUNITY? OH MY GOD, WHAT THE WHAT?

I felt like I got slapped in the face by some crazy bitch with a bad weave and acrylic nails who I originally thought was from Beverly Hills but is more like Compton material once I got a good look at her roots. Unexpected and disillusioned.

What kind of old people community doesn't SAY that they are for the SENIOR POPULATION? Their
website has no stipulation about resident age - I just thought it was awesome that they offered knitting courses and shuffleboard game nights in their community areas! And while all of the pictures of the (fake actor) residents were all of a, uh, mature age, I didn't really think anything of it because paid models deserve to be of all ages, not just those young twiggy girls you see in magazines. I figured they weren't discriminating, that's all.

It probably wouldn't be such a bad deal being the youngest folks there. We would be doted on like grandchildren with fresh baked cookies and milk all the time. Maybe they even have a complimentary, lifetime supply of prune juice and those little butterscotch candies that grandmas always have in their carpet bags.

But I don't know if I could really live in a place where the primary reason residents leave is because they died.

A swan fountain doesn't seem so bad now.

Britney Spears is Turning the Big 3-0...How Old Does That Make You?

2011-11-21T18:57:00.000-08:00

Listen, Brit Brit's birthday is on December 2nd. She hasn't invited me to her party yet, but I think that's because she's still on the Femme Fatale tour down in Mexico, and she knows I don't have time to renew my passport, so I forgive her.

I have been a vehement Britney fan ever since "...Baby One More Time" premiered on TRL.

Yes, TRL? Remember that show? I always wanted to call and vote for my favorite video ("TOXIC!") but I was usually in school still when we were supposed to cast our votes because, unlike MTV, I was on Pacific Standard Time, so imagine my disappointment whenever I came home to find Britney in the number two spot.

WHAT IF MY VOTE COULD HAVE BROUGHT HER TO NUMBER ONE, YOU KNOW?

WHAT IF SHE WAS COUNTING ON MY PHONE CALL?

WOULD MY VOTE HAVE SAVED HER FROM MEETING K-FED?

Now I'll never know...

I just can't believe she is turning 30. Like, THIRTY. When my brother turned 30, oh, I don't know, a hundred years ago, I was like, "Damn, you are old. Your life is over."

But I do not feel that this is the case for Brit Brit. She is getting better and better with age. Her weave has been looking really good and less janky, and whoever spray-tans (sprays tan? I don't know.) her has obviously concocted the perfect shade of orange to match that weave. Both of her little boys are super duper cute and look just like her. I don't see trucker hats or grizzly stubble or pathetic stints on Dancing With the Stars in their future, if you know what I mean.

My only issue is that I am a little hesitant about accepting this Jason Trawick guy as her official boyfriend because:

1) She didn't tell me about him prior to Making It Official, just like that one episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and Kim ambushes her sister, Kyle, into meeting her ugly ass boyfriend, Ken, whom she has kept a secret FOR OVER A YEAR! I am so Kyle in this situation.

2) He is not Justin Timberlake.

Yes, I still have hope in my heart that the love between JT and Brit Brit will be resurrected because they should be together forever xoxo.

ALLEGEDLY, she cheated on him with some dancer guy who was not K-Fed, but we have no proof because that happened in 2001, and if we don't have Facebook pictures or an iPhone video of this unfair allegation, then we obviously can't fault Britney. Innocent until proven guilty.

For all of you JT fans who think that he is just "so much better" than Britney and that he "deserves more" and whatever, I just want to remind you of what he looked like back in the day:

Bleach fro, beige turtleneck, and lavender shades. Yeah.

If he is able to bounce back from that visual situation and be this "awesome" movie star circa now, then really, our girl Britney deserves another chance too.

I don't know, maybe she is too good for him, OK? I mean, if by being "too good" we mean the person who still creates pop music and dances her ass off and performs amazing concerts for her legions of MUSIC fans because her background is POP MUSIC and NOT STARRING IN MOVIES WITH MILA KUNIS, then Brit is the clear winner.

Clearly.

So, I'm definitely trying to give Jason the benefit of the doubt because he seems to make her happy and less crazy and JT is a Hollywood poser to the extreme (WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT THE ACADEMY AWARDS, JUSTIN?) but if they ever got back together, I would be 100% supportive and I would be the first in line (online on iTunes?) to buy their inevitable joint-album that announces his return to music (finally!) and their future child of pop music royalty.

But until then, I guess I'll just have to wish our Brit Brit a very "Happy Birthday!" on December 2nd from my corner of the Internet.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

2011-11-19T11:21:00.000-08:00

When I am in the mood to clean, I am a force to be reckoned with, no-joke, poker face.

Like, think of the Tasmanian Devil from those cartoons with the wiley wabbit and that Fudd guy, put my face on it, fill my hands with Windex, and BOOM, that's me. I become a tornado of sanitation and domesticity, and if cleanliess is godliness, then I am the Goddess of Detergent.

Don't mess with me when I'm cleaning beause I will throw your ass into my washing machine, line dry you by your hair, and bleach the shit right out of you.

I'm a Filipina, partial and proud, and that's just how we roll.

To say that I am critical when I walk into other people's homes is an understatement of epic proportions. When I walk into your house, I'm looking at the dust on your lampshades and the scratches that you didn't polish off your table, and people, I have x-ray vision, so I can see the unfolded clothes in your closet from the front door. You cannot hide your dirty secrets from me because I will find them, and we can chismis all you want, but I will still be able to see that coffee ring under your mug.

If I walk into your guest bathroom and you have that gunky spittle spattle on your mirror, I will clean it. I will look under your sink to grab that Lysol that better be there, and I will clean your bathroom. That splish splish splish that you hear going on around or near your toilet is me working that brush wand in a counter-clockwise motion to scrub that iron residue down your pipes.

You're welcome.

I would like to walk into a house and not be all Judgey-Mc-Judgester because I know you are all busy, and when you got one/two/three/ten kids and their friends over after school, I bet that it gets messy really quickly because they all got those sticky hands. I get it. I feel for you.

But when you walk into my home, and you tell me that it's too clean, I don't even know what you're saying. It's like you're not speaking English to me, and despite my vernacular of attitude going on here, I know my language, so you really have my head spinning on that one.

I've actually been told this many times before about my bedroom and then my dorm room and then my apartment and now my real, grown-up-married-woman home. When I was growing up with my Filipina mother, my friends and their moms told us the same exact damn thing too.

"It's like nobody lives here it's so clean!"

Bitch, are you kidding me? Of course somebody lives here! How else do you think it got so damn clean? Mice?

My mama scrubbed this floor with her perfectly manicured hands, fool! And she didn't even chip a nail!

Take off your goddamn, Payless shoes before you walk all over it, but keep your socks on so I can watch you slip and slide on the tile!

Here is a towel that can sit between you and my mama's pristine couch, and yes, it's a white motherfucking towel, that way I know how dirty your ass is when I bleach the hell out of it later!

That was me then, and that is still me now.

That is how I feel when you tell me that my home is too clean for you, and depending on how long it took me to vacuum that diamond pattern onto my carpet, I'll probably tell you how I feel because this? All this cleanliness you're gesturing at and complaining about took a lot of skill and practice, practice, practice! This is my Olympic sport, so you can look at my gold medal but you better not touch it.

Is my home like that all the time? No. My husband can vouch for that with certainty. I do not like to make the bed or wash the dishes right after breakfast/lunch/dinner, and if I have to take out the trash, it's like a journey to the great beyond.

But if I have guests coming over, the bed is fluffed and tight-cornered and the dishes will dance themselves into the cabinet all squeaky and sparkle-like and the trash? What trash? I don't have trash in my home. You trippin' girlfriend.

In my mind, it's not even a common courtesy to clean your house for guests, it's The Law. I don't mess around with the law because I don't have the time or money for a good lawyer since I'm so damn busy cleaning my bathrooms and making the bed. When I'm scrub-scrub-scrubbing, it's a solo effort. I don't want your help because you will do it wrong and leave water marks, so let me do it myself.

I know that this might seem crazy, but when I'm mopping the floor where my refridgerator just was because, yes, you bag of lazy bones, I moved that big ass thing to clean underneath it, I'm in the zone. That is my element. That is where I belong, and you better believe that I'm cleaning this place with my eyebrows drawn and my diamonds on because you have to look good to make good.

Maybe I'm succumbing to a sexist tradition against women, but I own it/live it/breathe it/love it because there is nothing better than smelling that lemony fresh scent of an immaculate household and watching your eyeballs bulge as you try to search for a speck of dust.

Because there ain't no dust in here. I killed it, and it went on the endangered species list, didn't you know?

Saying Goodbye...to Pants

2011-11-17T06:20:00.000-08:00

No, this is not about me giving up on a daily wardrobe staple and going pants-less for the rest of my life.

However, that is not a half-bad idea.

Mental bookmark.

But back to pants and my farewell.

What I am saying goodbye to is a particular pair of jeans that I bought back in late 2007. These are my Skinny Jeans. If you are a woman, you know exactly what I'm talking about, and if you're a woman who doesn't know what I'm talking about, then you and I can't be friends because I'll throw my tampon-laden purse in your face if you order another salad in front of me because I'll be TOO BUSY EATING BREAD STICKS to say anything else.

Ladies, really? You have to know what Skinny Jeans are, and I'm not referring to those matchstick jegging situations or those pants that the hipster boys wear in crazy ass colors.

But let's get rid of those jeans too because men should not wear pants that might potentially castrate them.

Anyway, my Skinny Jeans represented hope for me - hope that my body could get back into them. I think every woman owns a pair of pants just like this. They are the pre-pregnancy jeans or the pre-mid-life crisis pants or the pre-love-chub jeans or whathaveyou jeans. They are the pants you want to fit into forever because you think they're going to do shit for you, like get you laid or erase your stretch marks, but NEWS FLASH, no pair of pants is going to do that for anyone.

There's even an episode of Sex and the City where Miranda is able to fit into her own Skinny Jeans after she lost all of the baby weight, and I know every woman who has watched that thought about her own pair of skinny jeans hiding in her closet. I saw that episode, and I was like, "Girl, those are nice jeans, but you don't need them."

No one needs these Skinny Jeans malingering in their closets.

When I tried on my Skinny Jeans in the dressing room, I was in the best shape of my life in terms of lung capacity and shit, but I absolutely hated my body. Every inch was too big. Where I curved, I wanted to be flat. Where I was already flat, I wanted to be invisible.

These jeans had potential to be great on me, or so I thought. They covered what I wanted covered and the little size tag validated all of my hard work, or so I thought.

They were already tight, and when I say tight, I mean like, they were plastic wrapped around my legs, but I bought them anyway because I wanted to lose more weight to fit into them.

Let me repeat the ludicrousness of that one more time: I BOUGHT PANTS THAT DIDN'T FIT SO I COULD LOSE WEIGHT AND FIT INTO THEM LATER.

Who. Does. That?

Women across this country that's who.

When I did fit into these jeans, it was like victory, but not really. I gave up bread and pasta and chocolate to fit into those pants, and I ran myself into the ground to make sure that zipper could zip up. I just couldn't let them not fit because not only were they $200 (WHY, SHASTA, WHY?!) but they also represented my youth/my peak/the best years of my life/etc, or so I thought.

What I've come to realize is that every year is the best year of my life, and I am never going to tap out at the top of the mountain, and I am too damn busy to worry about what the hell kind of pants I'm wearing. Life is a crazy ass uphill battle that is both fantastic and terrifying, and regardless of where you are in that battle, the way your ass looks in an overpriced pair of jeans IS NOT IMPORTANT.

I know that magazines and celebrities and witch doctors and those bitchy girls from high school promote these conflicting ideas about loving yourself and your natural figure while simultaneously wearing only pants in the 0-2 range, and it's confusing and hurtful and entirely unnecessary.

Ladies, that is some bad juju, and our womanly butts do not need that sort of energy.

Don't be friends with people who tell you should look a certain look and weigh a certain weight. Don't look at pictures of objectified models and want to look like them. Don't treat other women like objects just because they have some junk in the trunk. Don't buy a stupid article of clothing you can't fit into with a psycho ambition to become small enough in order to fit into it later because that is kray-kray.

Eat that extra cookie. Spend your money on clothes that fit. Exercise. Don't exercise. It's all good so long as you don't have a pair of pants holding you back.

I'm all about being healthy and living a balanced life and whatever, but sometimes, I want to eat a whole package of Double Stuf Oreos while watching episode after episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians because I have to see the hot mess that is Kim's 72-day marriage.

And then after that, I usually open a bag of chips because you know what? I got a man, he put a ring on it, and since he prefers my pants off anyway, who cares what the calorie count is on these damn chips?

And even if you don't got a man or a woman or whomever you like to sleep over, and your ring is rusty or broken or nonexistent, you should eat some chips too because no pair of jeans is worth your favorite snack.

I know there is a lot of capitalization and girl power going on here, but what I'm trying to communicate is sort of a big deal. It's one small step for womankind, but it's a giant leap of epic proportions for me and my butt.

That One Time I Read Romance Novels for 4 Months

2011-11-16T13:10:00.000-08:00

I have an English degree. Sometimes, this is a cool thing, like when people ask if they need to add a comma somewhere (no) or what Shakespeare meant in Sonnet 116 (no idea) and, you know, that sort of English-major-y type stuff.

Most of the time, though, this is a trivial thing.

I majored in English because a bunch of books by a bunch of dead white guys seemed interesting to me, and I wanted to know what they had to say, and then I wanted to know what old white professors had to say about the dead white guys.

I might sound like I'm joking, but that is a fairly accurate summary of what happened during my four years of college.

I also majored in English because other than writing, I'm not very good at many other subjects. If I could have written more papers about math instead of doing math, I might have a different story to tell you, but I gave my TI-83 calculator to my brother during my senior year of high school (and I haven't seen it since), so allow me to feign ignorance when you talk to me about balancing my checkbook BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. NUMBERS? HUH?

Don't get me wrong - I loved being an English major! I didn't have class before 10am. I could find my books for fifty cents a pop at used bookstores. My classes never required full attendance (Mostly because I avoided the professors who took attendance....) so I spent a lot of class hours sleeping in my bed every quarter. Other than reading and writing papers, I didn't even have homework.

It was awesome.

When I actually went to class, I studied a lot of wonderful literature. John Milton, Anne Bradstreet, John Donne, and Sherman Alexie are some of my favorite writers, and had it not been for my major, I would never have picked up any of their works.

Reading English lit books day-in and day-out can take a toll on you, especially when you can't find the Cliff Notes versions, so I decided to stop taking English classes for a little bit. I wanted to read books that weren't assigned and discover authors who weren't Pulitzer prize winners. I started reading personal blogs more regularly. I picked up the occasional magazine and newspaper. I wanted to read fluff and enjoy reading fluffy stuff again.

That is when I decided to read romance novels, and those, my friends, are the fluffiest and some of the best damn books I've ever read.

When I say these books were of the romance variety, I'm talking, like, England regency era novels with, like, horse-drawn carriages and butlers and parasols and shit. There were rogue bachelors with family fortunes and scullery maids with hidden, royal lineage and a lot of cravats and corsets. The woman was always beautiful and free of love handles, and the man was dashing or daring or devilish, and they always ended up married after a lot of courting and riding in carriages and going to balls, etc.

I don't even know why I'm telling you this because that is sort of humiliating to admit, but then again, I am that girl who wrote a paper about sparkly vampires and spoke on that very same subject in front of a group of English literature smartypants-types in a giant auditorium. Had it not been for me, they never would have known about Edward Cullen and his impossibly perfect hair.

You're welcome, Stephenie Meyer.

But yeah, the one quarter that I decided to take a "break" from my English courses and register for a bunch of "fun" courses (SCI-FI FILM? NOT FUN! NOT FUN!) was the same quarter I reserved every Lisa Kleypas and Julia Quinn novel at my city library to balance my brain against the upcoming tide of Beowulf and Paradise Lost.

Despite what you might think of my college experience, I have never done drugs, so I don't know what that's like, but I think that the addictive quality that makes, uh, drugs addictive must have been sprinkled onto all of their books. I have read everything those women have ever written, and that's like 50 corset-ripping novels apiece because romance novelists? PROLIFIC TO THE NTH DEGREE!

Because there are so many romance novels and romance writers out there, I can see why The People Who Decide What is Good English Literature turn a blind eye toward them and ignore one of the biggest sections at any Barnes & Noble. There is just too much to read, and after awhile, all of the novels start to bleed together into one giant MidnightKissofStolenEmbracesForeverandAlwaysTheSequel. I get it.

But romance novels are happy, and they make for happier readers and happy people don't kill other people, so really what is so smutty and awful about reading a fluffy romance novel and believing that it is a legitimately good book?

Now that I'm all graduated and not around my English major peers, I have the confidence to give a voice to my fellow romance novel aficionados and tell the rest of the world to not judge a book by its airbrushed, mustachioed and bicep-bulging cover because it is probably better than that one book about a bunch of random people going on a pilgrimmage to visit a shrine.

Actually, any book is probably better than The Cantebury Tales.

I have a degree in this sort of stuff, so I have the authority to make such claims.

It's November? And I'm Still 11 Years Old

2011-11-08T08:35:00.000-08:00

I know. I know. Where have I been? What happened? Did I stop blogging? Did I die?

No. I'm not dead, and don't worry, this blog has already lasted longer than Kim Kardashian's ~~fake~~ marriage.

I was gone for most of October. It was a, uh, work thing, but it was also kind of like camping, and definitely a lot like prison (so I've heard from other people). I don't even want to get into it because the important thing is that I'm back, and my cats didn't kill anyone while I was away.

But what I really want to write about is something for the fifth grader that's still inside of me. Let us focus on the word "get" actually. When I was a wee fifth grader, my teacher was named Mrs. Keller. Her first name was Georgiana, and she was the first woman I had met with a pseudo-man-name.

Sure, there are female name counterparts to male names. Michael/Michelle, Alexander/Alexandria, Christopher/Christina - good examples. Even some unisex names are OK - like Riley or Morgan or Skylar.

But Georgiana? Are you kidding me? The female George name was not meant to happen.

My eleven year old self commented on this one day to a friend, and to reinforce my point, I thought of another horrible female/male name situation.

"Georgiana is a weird name, but at least it's not, like, Franktwina! Francis is terrible too, but Franktwina is AWFUL!"

"....My mom's name is Franktwina."

"Oh of course it is."

And on that day, Emily and I stopped being friends, not because she hated me for hatin' on her mama's name but because I couldn't look at her in the face anymore without seeing hot franks, Frankensteins, and the French franc floating around her head.

But this isn't about Mrs. Keller's name, this is about how she didn't understand the word "get" and my usage of it. Now, "get" is a verb about receiving something or coming into possession of something else. You get presents for Christmas. You got presents for Christmas. You are getting presents for Christmas. Etcetera, etcetera - it is verb-tastic.

You also can use the word "get" when you understand something that isn't physical, like you received knowledge or came into possession of the knowledge to understand a concept. Most people, aside from psycho English majors, don't think about the word "get" in this way because you JUST GET IT ALREADY and you don't need to put this shit into words!

You see what I mean? You guys getting it?

Mrs. Keller did not understand the word "get" in all its many definitions. We were writing these papers wherein we pretended to be children locked inside a concentration camp during the Holocaust, and we were supposed to communicate how awful it was and how much we wanted to escape and live like Americans.

It was kind of a messed up assignment that reinforced arrogant patriotism, but whatever.

I wrote a complicated, long-drawn escape plan in complicated code-speak that was way cool, and at the end of my letter, I wrote, "I hope you get my point and find the spotted dog."

By "spotted dog" I was referring to the opening that I would have cut out in the fence-lined perimeter of my fictional concentration camp.

Subtle.

I was marked down on my shining example of genius and asked to re-write it because, according to Mrs. Keller, I didn't use the word "get" correctly. In fact, my homework that night included writing the definition of "get" from the dictionary.

Also, I may have had to re-write my assignment because I wasn't grasping just how tough it must have been for a child in a concentration camp because, you know, I was a healthy American child in the 1990's. Since when does an eleven year old have the empathy to actualize the traumas that the Nazis inflicted on an entire population of people anyway? SINCE WHEN, MRS. KELLER?

I came home that night fuming, and in a teenage fashion that was well beyond my years, I locked myself up in my room to finish my damn homework. I re-wrote everything, and if you think I hate re-writes now, it's because of this first re-write in my young career.

Without a second glance, I turned my crappy story back into the "Additional Homework" box the next morning. After recess, I came back to my desk to find a smiley-face sticker on my paper and a note from Mrs. Keller that read:

I think you really got the story right this time!

...........

........

.....

...
She thought I really GOT the story right?

Thanks, Georgiana, for proving that fifth graders are smarter than their teachers.

Underwear is the Least of My Worries

2011-10-01T11:24:00.000-07:00

For the millionth time in the last six months, I put my underwear on inside out and left the house to go to work with the inner panty line thingy on the outside. Since I'm not an exotic dancer, this is usually a non-issue.

However, when you put your underwear on inside out, then go to the bathroom and see that Calvin Klein is backwards across the band, you will have a little bit of a meltdown and begin sniffling into the provided, cheap, one-ply toilet paper and wondering how you are going to manage taking everything off to turn your underwear right-side-in without actually touching anything inside the stall (impossible) before someone else comes in and sees your clothes all over the floor and tells everyone about it the next morning.

At least that is what other people have told me...

Anyway.

Back to my life...

This is just evidence that I'm overworked and overstressed and undersleeping and underdrinkingcaffeine. I don't even know how I get to my office most of the time. The hour or so in between waking up and getting to work is spent in a complete daze but I'm somehow able to OPERATE A MOVING VEHICLE in that time frame.

That is called skill, people. Be jealz.

I usually don't say a word in that whole hour because any sort of speech that would come out of my mouth would be unintelligible. I would sound exactly like Ozzy Osbourne actually, and that is both amazing and terrifying.

Work would be so much easier for me to deal with if no one talked to me at all because 99.9% of the time, when people are talking to me, it's because I need to do something for them in addition to all of the other 4.2 million things I need to do every day.

It's gotten to the point where I now show up to the office waaaaay before the sun rises, and waaaay before any of my office mates shadow the doorway, because I like to check my e-mail and work on my computer in a quiet, dark room entirely alone for as long as possible.

That probably sounds ~~completely~~ slightly creepy and vampiric, but it is a slow, relaxing way to ease into the work day. You should try it some time. Before you know it, you will be pale with bloodshot eyes too! It is a GREAT look for this fall and upcoming winter. Trust me.

I would say that it gives me a head start to my work load, but the thing about work is that it is infinite, and I might not be good at math, but I'm pretty sure no one can't count that high and accomplish everything on their to-do lists.

So with this late-to-bed, early-to-rise schedule, I have been highly forgetful about the direction of my underwear and, you know, other things:

What day is it?

Did I shower today?

Who ate this entire bag of candy corn?

Am I wearing deodorant?

What's my name?

In my spare time (ha ha ha, that's a joke!) I have been re-reading the Harry Potter series for the umpteenth time, and while this has been very enjoyable, it is not helping me decompress because it is making me consider unrealistic ideas.

By unrealistic ideas, I mean, like, magical ideas..

Like, why can't Avada Kedavra be a real thing, you know? It would come in handy when unreasonable requests at work are thrown my way, which is pretty much all of the time.

"You want me to re-do all of the PowerPoint slides before the meeting?"

It would probably be easier if you just deleted the whole presentation and started from scratch.

"But the meeting is in one hour."

I know, and I want to review everything before I present them at the meeting, so could you get these done in about 30? I'm going to grab some lunch now.

"......................"

And make me some notes to present with too.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

You see what I mean? If I could have control over my work with a little bit of magical assistance, then I would be so much happier and underwear would be a thing of the past. I would still wear it, of course, but inside out, right side in, on the outside of my pants, WHO WOULD CARE IF I COULD KILL YOU LORD VOLDEMORT STYLE?

Babies Are Nice From a Distance

2011-09-29T19:01:00.000-07:00

I like the idea of human babies. They are small and precious and smell nice (sometimes) and they are very, very easy to love in a single heartbeat.

Or so I've been told.

Pretty much all of the women in my office area are pregnant with spawn. In fact, I'm in the minority because I'm not expecting a little bundle of joy in the next 2-7 months. This doesn't bother me because while I might not be glowing in the family way, at least my feet aren't swollen and I don't feel compelled to dry heave in the middle of meetings.

Actually, sometimes I do want to dry heave, but it has nothing to do with being hormonal and pregnant and everything to do with WHY AM I STILL IN THIS MEETING WHEN IT'S EIGHT O' CLOCK AT NIGHT?

The baby showers have already started, and if there is anything I love more than babies, it's probably baby-things like wee little socks and fuzzy blankets and unscented shampoo. When I'm browsing through these endless registries, I actually get a little wistful, and I wonder if it's time for us to have our own baby.

But then I remember the crying. and the poop. and the spit up. and the crying. crying. cryingcryingcrying. DID I MENTION THE CRYING?

Similarly, all of my "maternal instincts" are of the crazy Asian lady variety.

My kids will play the piano.

They will take their SAT prep classes every Saturday.

Bad grades? No drive!

I also don't know how to, uh, handle babies. The only real-life baby I've ever been around is my niece, and she is already 2.5 years of age, and I've seen her maybe five times in her life.

When she was a couple months old, she was thrust into my arms rather unexpectedly, and I thought I was holding her like the way babies on TV are held, but honestly, it was like holding a bomb. A giant bomb of gurgling poop ready to wail and scream at the bat of an eyelash.

I cannot handle that right now. I would lose my shit and need my own diaper. I think I would cry more than my baby.

And no one puts this baby in the corner.

Brain Dump

2011-09-26T11:33:00.000-07:00

I know that I've been quiet on this blog lately, but I've just had way, way too much on my mind, and there is nothing worse than an overloaded brain. As my ninth grade English teacher once told me, too much on your mind just means you need to empty your cup. You know, because your brain is like a teacup and the knowledge is like tea that can flow in and out and WHATTHEFUCKWHOCARES that is the worst analogy ever, and why the hell did you give me a B in your class, Mr. Linn?

Anyway, here are some snippets of all the sort-of-connected anecdotes that have been running through my head these days:

Why can't I find an actual bottle of Taylor Swift's new perfume Wonderstruck? Don't even attack me about wanting to try yet another celebrity perfume because I. don't. care.

Have you seen this bottle on the internet or, perhaps, in real life? It's cute and sparkly with little gold charms, and when it comes to perfume, the packaging is, like, 89% of the product so GOOD JOB, TAYLOR SWIFT, I want to smell like you.

Speaking of celebrities, since when am I older than Selena Gomez and Taylor Lautner? Did the world stop turning or something? The whole point of famous people is for them to be older than the rest of us so that we will be comforted by the fact that they will die first, even though they have smoother skin, bouncier hair, whiter teeth, and tighter bodies.

Selena Gomez needs to kick the bucket. Now.

I actually decided that I am not aging anymore, at least not until I'm ready to be another year older. I mean, birthdays are so superfluous, and if age is supposed to be "just a number" then we need to start treating it like the meaningless piece of crap that it is.

So, yes, I'm still 23 this year.

Did anyone else buy "Jump" by Kris Kross from iTunes after watching the movie Friends With Benefits? Or maybe dust off the walkman and insert that cassette tape single?

Oh, you didn't see that movie because it had Justin Timberlake in it? I was thinking the same damn thing, but seeing him rap along to "wiggitywiggitywiggitywhack" was worth it.

But you saw the movie Drive with Ryan Goslin just because he was in The Notebook? What a double standard. I hope you fell asleep in the theater because I know I did.

My husband's car viciously attacked my thumbnail about four months ago, and only now is it long enough for me to paint it with nail polish. FrankenThumb is back in business and ready for that manicure.

You would think that after living in the Great Northwest for as long as I have that I would be used to the onslaught of autumn with its continual rain. If you think that, then you are very, very wrong. I will never get used to this dreariness or the bone chilling mist that greets me every morning. I don't know what the fuck Stephenie Meyer was thinking, but Twilight should not have been set in Washington. This place sucks. The Cullens could have sparkled in Las Vegas, Nevada and no one would have said a damn thing because everything is sparkle-tastic down there anyway.

Speaking of youth fantasty fiction, I am re-reading the Harry Potter novels, and I don't CARE WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT THAT because Harry Potter is awesome and nothing will change my mind on this subject. I don't understand people who don't read the books or watch the movies (or, in my case, do both).

Like, what is your problem? Do you really hate magic that much? What a hater.

Don't even talk to me.

Thirteen on 9/11

2011-09-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

Normally, I don't like to post about serious stuff because I try my best not to take myself too seriously, but 9/11 is not something I can make very funny, and honestly, I don't want to make it funny because it changed me and everyone I know.

When I was 13, I woke up at 7:00am right on the dot during the school week. My parents carpooled with another family, and that morning, Mrs. Fernando was supposed to pick me up. Usually, she was running a little late because she was both a teacher and a mother, so her mornings were very busy and frazzled. Sometimes we would make it to school by 8:00am, and sometimes her son and I would be racing the clock to make it to Mr. Canfield's door before he locked it for first period.

On September 11, 2001, Mrs. Fernando and her son, were already waiting outside my house by 7:45am. The car was turned off. When I got in and said good morning, they didn't acknowledge me right away. I was confused by their behavior, and then I realized the radio was on and they were listening very intently, but it wasn't music we were listening to - someone was crying on the radio.

They were talking about the people of New York City in between sobs.

Mrs. Fernando turned around and asked me if I heard what had happened in the news. I didn't watch TV in the mornings, and my parents were always at work by the time I woke up, so I didn't have contact with the outside world until I stepped out of my house. I had no clue what she was talking about.

I felt stupid, a feeling I usually didn't experience that early in the morning, and she told me very slowly and kindly that the Twin Towers in New York City were attacked by two hijacked American airplanes.

I looked over at her son, Kevin, in the front seat, and he simply nodded and asked his mom if we still had to go to school that day. I didn't understand why we wouldn't go to school that day because I still didn't believe that this had happened slash/ was happening still slash/ would affect us for the rest of our lives slash/ be a moment in history that we would never forget.

At some point, we went to school. I don't remember the drive or anything until we got to school. Instead of dropping us off at the curb, Mrs. Fernando parked and walked us over to the main parking lot where students, teachers, and parents were already gathering.

First period had started by then, but no one was inside of the buildings.

I found my best friend and her mom standing in the middle of the crowd. They were waiting for me, and before I could stop it from happening, her mom pulled me into a hug.

I did not realize that I needed a hug until that moment.

It was a weird day. Our principal made it clear that anyone who wished to leave that day to be home with their families could do so. Some students left with their parents immediately because they were so upset. Though, I'm not sure if "they" were the students or the parents.

I don't think it matters.

My parents did not pick me up early, nor did I call them from the school secretary's phone like so many of my classmates did. I wanted to go to school that Tuesday because I didn't understand what was happening, and school was something I could understand.

At some point that day, I realized that my dad might leave because of these events. I knew my dad had an office, computer-type job, but he wore an Army uniform every day, and that was his job first. I don't remember when I realized that exactly, but until my dad got out of the Army a few years later, I was scared that he would leave and be part of this war like so many other parents and brothers and sisters and friends and sons and daughters were a part of already.

Other than the first few hours of that morning, I don't remember how the day progressed.

I don't remember if it was my mom or Mr. LaRose who picked me up from school that afternoon.

I don't remember if my teachers gave me homework on that very dark and different day.

I don't remember if my parents talked to me about it all, or if I even talked to anyone about it all. It was actually the first day I skipped in my journal because I didn't know how or what to write about at 13 years old.

What I do remember, though, is feeling insanely proud to be an American. Even though our country had just been attacked, and we were experiencing a national crisis, there was no other place I'd rather be.

Even now, 10 years later, our country might be trillions of dollars in debt and we might still be engaged in one of the most exhausting and confusing wars we've ever faced, there is still no other country I'd rather live in because this is the greatest country in the world.

I know some people would disagree with me. Many Americans would even disagree with me, but I don't care. I've witnessed so many people give up their native citizenships so that they can fight this war as Americans that it would be an insult to their dedication (and their memory for those who have lost their lives) if I thought anything less of my nation.

On 9/11, I felt like I was 13 going on infinity because it was the first time in my life where I was connected to millions of other Americans in a more profound way than I could fathom. Regardless of what has happened since or what will happen later, we are all still connected.

VS Pajama Tirade

2011-09-09T12:02:00.000-07:00

(It might not start out this way, but I swear I have no idea what I'm talking about in this post. Evidence of sleep deprivation.)

I wear Victoria's Secret PINK brand, and normally, I am not ashamed to admit that even though I've been out of school for longer than I like to admit, and I've since upgraded the size of my butt. This goes without saying, but just so we're clear: I am not one of those teenage girls who runs around town with PINK in neon-puke-colored letters emblazoned on her ass.

You need more than a four-letter word to cover the size of that geographic space, OK?

But anyway, I wear it. You can't beat their reasonably priced cotton underwear and lacy thongs - all of which are actually quite comfortable. (Cheapskate side note: Remember when the running deal was 5 pairs of underwear for only TWENTY dollars? What is with this $25.50 business, VS? Just make it a round 30 already...recessions...shiiiit.)

Only recently have I started wearing legitimate pajamas to sleep. Like the flannel-jersey-knit-variety situations that come in various patterns of plaids, pinstripes, and polar bears. Growing up, I just dropped dead when I felt like sleeping. It didn't matter what I was wearing. I don't know how many times I fell asleep with jeans and shoes on still.

It didn't matter if there was still makeup on my face (And there usually wasn't any because I wasn't allowed to wear makeup until I was 18. Sephora has since made a fortune in my attempt to regain those lost years of cosmetic experimentation.)

It didn't matter if I it was 8pm or 3am. When I was sleepy, I slept.

Nowadays? I can't just sleep like that. I have to prepare for sleep. There is a bedtime ritual that I do my best to abide by because if something feels off, I will not sleep well, and you can ask my husband to verify this: I am my absolute worst when I am sleep-deprived.

It's a cranky, terrible ordeal that involves a lot of crying on my end and lot of bewilderment on his part.

I can't have any lights on whatsoever. Bedside lamp? Forget it. Open curtains with moonlight? Blinding. The little red dot on the television screen that lets you know it is turned off? Waaay too bright.

I must brush my teeth, remove all my makeup, wash my face, and tweeze/groom my eyebrows prior to bedtime. This can take up to 30 minutes if I'm feeling particularly indulgent after a long, hard day at work (which seem to be occurring in a higher frequency...more on that later) and it's a very Clinique-oriented process. I'm a big fan of all overnight masks and spot treatments.

There are a couple more things I could mention, but I don't want to be too ~~boring~~ honest. The most essential element, however, is comfortable pajamas. They can't be ugly. They must be soft. They have to be very comfortable and loose, but I can't look like a total homeless person (I'm married after all. Ahem.)

Until recently, Victoria's Secret PINK hasn't led me astray into itchy, ghastly pajama lady territory. Bright colors and cute patterns in breathable fabrics? Awesome! If you're not sure what to get me for my birthday (September 22nd....) or Christmas, you can always rely on pajamas in some shade of pink.

For real.

But for the love of soft skin, skip the rhinestones. Who thought that glued-on, plastic crystal thingies would be GREAT on sleepwear? Tyra Banks, was that you? If so, WHAT THE FUCK?

Rhinestones are hideous. I hate them. They are like glitter, but worse. At least with glitter, you don't really know that it's on you because it bears no weight or particular shape. But rhinestones? They are like hard rocks of annoying-ness that pucker your pajamas in odd places and leave you feeling bedazzled in a bad way. They also fall off at the drop of a hat so you're left with glue circles on your pajamas and rhinestones all up in your lint tray.

I didn't know that this last pair of pajama pants that I purchased had rhinestones on them because they were hidden very sneakily in the pant cuffs. I put them on and noticed that something was amiss near my ankles, and lo and behold, I found the rhinestones! This has happened to me before, so I thought I had found the one set of PJ's in the PINK collection that didn't have rhinestones or other plastic decorations glued onto them, but alas, I was foiled.

But for the last time, damnit. I'm severing my relationship with VS PINK as of today. This pushed me over the edge!

//End Tirade

Summer Vacation

2011-09-01T11:30:00.000-07:00

Firstly, I haven't written in awhile because work has been INSANE this last month, and with my inevitable exhaustion that follows such insanity comes a strong desire to sit on my couch and eat Doritos every evening watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians in my polar bear fleece pants sans my laptop.

If I bring out my laptop to start a blog post, I actually get all shivery and anxious because it reminds me of work. Even though my office has the shittiest Dell computers ever, my own Mac Book haunts me with its access to Microsoft Outlook.

What if someone e-mails me telling me I need to come in? (I mark that stuff as "unread" and pretend that I never read it.)

What if someone e-mails me asking where I was for lunch the other day? (I was shopping for eye makeup remover...)

What if someone e-mails me asking me if this blog is mine? (Lie, lie, lie, lie!)

But anyway, there has been a silver lining for me because right now, at this moment, like now, I am on vacation. I'm over a thousand miles away from my office. There is a giant pool outside my hotel window. I am getting an awesome tan. Some Latina woman (who we call Consuela because that sounds like a fun, hip name for an elderly maid) makes our bed every morning.

This is the life.

When I was growing up, I liked summer vacations away from school for, like, a hot minute. Then I would get a little bored...I would start missing my school library...and I would be miserable until the new semester started.

If I could meet myself as a kid, I would shake myself by the shoulders and scream, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? GO OUTSIDE!" because all I want to do as an adult is escape outside! All those summers I never took advantage of? Gone! Wasted! You can't save that shit, people! It's not like rollover minutes!

Someone really needs to get on that though. How can we save "minutes" on our phones but no one has figured out how to save entire weeks and months of summer time from our squandered youth? It can't be that hard. You would make a fortune too.

I will have 12 days of summer vacation this year. Twelve glorious, glorious days of drinks that cost $14 each and sheets that have a higher thread count than I thought possible. It has been awesome, and I am just over halfway done, but I am savoring every minute that I have left.

Now, if only my co-workers would NOT call me every day...assholes. I didn't call them when they were on their vacations!

In fact, I had secretly hoped that they would never come back to the office...