Thursday, November 18, 2010

Laundry vs Booze

Tomorrow is my first day of being furloughed. I have high hopes for the additional weekend day. My tentative plan: wake up at the same time I would if I were actually going to work. Work out for at least 45 minutes. Make a healthy breakfast. Do the 16 loads of laundry I have been avoiding but now must take care of because I'm out of underwear and I can't afford to go buy more since I'm furloughed. Play Frisbee golf. Go to Happy Hour (after all, it is still Friday).

What will most likely happen: wake up at 11 hungover because even though last night was Thursday, it's like Friday since I don't have to work the next day so I should drink as much as possible, crawl to the kitchen to inhale a banana. Take a nap on the couch. Throw up said banana. Take another nap. Watch reruns of America's Next Top Model. Make a real breakfast (with cream cheese and lots of carbs) around 2pm. Watch more America's Next Top Model. Go frolfing. Meet friend(s) at happy hour (what?! It's Friday!) to start the cycle over again.

Anyone want to lay down some bets? Over/Under?

I'm trying so hard to be an adult, but sometimes it's just so boring and predictable. That, and I really like booze. And cheese. And unicorns.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Friends who are kocked up, Disneyland and Furlough

Well hello there! It's been so long! First I must apologize for leaving that horrific post of my disgusting food up for so long. It made ME not want to visit my blog. My stomach still turns just thinking about it.

So, I must be honest... the goings on recently have not been very exciting. I have quit all of my extracurricular activities (although, as the boyfriend, JD, pointed out this morning while I was in the shower poking at my foopah -- that lower belly fat that simply doesn't go away -- commenting on how I miss drinking beer and "being active" since I quit everything... he claims I never quit... I simply retired. Semantics, my friend, semantics). And although I may not be doing too many active things other than working out my thumb via rapid-clicker-fire on the couch... many of my friends have bee gettin' busy... in the dirty sense. I know this because HOLYSHITTHEYAREALLKNOCKEDUP. All of them. Knocked up. Like little Mormon kids.

Some have already had their first kid and are on to their second, some are just going in for the first helping, some are married, some are living in sin preparing to raise a bunch of heathens... I don't judge... I don't care... just stop making me buy you presents and then forcing me to watch you open every. single. one. I'll buy you a present to take home and open. If I have to watch you open it in front of me, I'm going to run up screaming, snatch it back, and run away. Far, far away.

I promise you this: When I get knocked up and have a shower were I invite everyone I've ever met so I can get all kinds of free shit (half of which I won't know what to do with because oh my god, I put that WHERE? and WHHHHYYYYYY?) I will NOT sit there and open every single present, admire it, get up to thank the gift giver, admire again, and comment on the cuteness, or practical-ness, or thoughtfulness of the gift. And don't waste your money on a card. Write who it's from on the freaking bag in sharpie and put that money toward the gift. Or toward yourself. I don't care. But I don't like to read. It's going to be a civilized party, like a wedding, where you get to open and comment on your gifts in the privacy of your own home, which allows you to be completely honest and return things at will. And everyone gets drunk. You're welcome.

Now, I usually don't mind buying gifts for people who are crossing off one of those items on life's to-do list. However, we're in a recession. And I just got furloughed. That's right. The government makes the official announcement that we are no longer in a recession, and I get freaking furloughed. 20% across the board. Friday's off, and one day less pay a week. All I have to say is: ouch. My problem with getting paid less, or going on a budget, is that I always tend to go out and totally blow my wad in one foul swoop the day after I start anything official.

In unrelated news, I'm going to Disneyland this weekend.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

What the HELL am I eating?!

We're in a recession, so I've been cooking more at home. I have also been on Weight Watchers for the last four months and have lost a pretty decent amount of weight (and is also a reason to cook more at home). So when I sat down to eat today's lunch, which consisted of leftover "Vietnamese Noodle Salad" I was okay with it. Until I looked at it. All I saw was worms.

What the hell have I been eating?! Now it's just sitting on my desk, staring at me, threatening to jump out of the Tupperware container and suck my brains right out of my head.

I think I really need to rethink some of my cooking choices. Seriously... anyone have an idea?

Thursday, October 21, 2010

I'm a Member of the Mile High Club

Wikipedia says (so it much be true) that "The Mile High Club (or MHC) (<-- Seriously? MHC? It needs an acronym?) is a slang term applied collectively to individuals who have sex while on board an aircraft in flight."

Question: When was the last time you were in an airplane, and you were cruising at 5,280 feet? Probably NEVER. Because if you were, you'd CRASH right into the ROCKY MOUNTAINS. And it would be about half-way up the mountain, not just grazing the peak and rolling down the other side. No... you'd go SPLAT! Right into the side.

If being a member of the "MHC" (<-- so lame) means you've boned at a mile high, well, then, I'm a member, and have been for longer than I'd like to admit. Growing up at 6,700 feet will do a lot of things for you:
  • Give you amazing stamina for sports/running/marathon-between-the-sheet nights due to the lack of oxygen your brain gets from being up so high
  • The sun in a friendly reminder that it's hot. put some damn sunscreen on because you're 6,700 feet closer to the sun than you would be if you were at the beach and damn that shit is hot and intense.
  • There's nothing to do above 5,280 feet because there are no decent sized cities, so you learn how to drink, and drink a lot.
  • On the bright side, you can really booze it up if you even get down to sea-level.
I had a point to this post... oh! right. The MHC is lame and untrue and you don't have to bone in the micro-shitter on a plane to be a "member." How does that conversation go, anyway? "Hey... wanna put your ass on the counter inside that bathroom by aisle 24?" "Only if you're foot goes in the toilet" "But then it'll turn blue!" "Whatever, douche, my ass will forever be infected. "Oh hang on, I think that fat guy is taking a crap in there. He's been in there for a long-ass time" "Speaking of asses... get on the counter, biotch!" Ew. diseases. Gross.

And also, every single person I grew up with is also a member due to the need to entertain ourselves because the town was so small, and because we lived at such a high altitude. And when you have nothing to do at 16... you drink. Then eventually, you bone. It's the natural progression of things.

Mile High Club my disease-infested-ass.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Inside the Beltway

Washington D.C. is an amazing town. It's where laws are debated, passed, and vetoed. It was designed to be the most intimidating city on the planet (and actually IS the most intimidating city on the planet). It holds almost as much history as Jamestown, Virginia (the first English settlement in America, for you non-American-history peeps), and it has some of the best museums in America honoring people and cultures from all over the world.
Even though I was there for work, and was stuck in conference rooms for the majority of the time I was there, I still managed to get out and have a blast (sacrificing sleep in the process). Seriously. Here's my timeline (and I'm not sure how I survived):
  • Friday
    • Arrive at 6pm
    • Dinner at 7pm
    • Drinks until 4am (totally excessive) Saturday
  • Saturday
    • Up at 10am
    • Meeting from 12pm-9pm
    • After dinner drinks til 10pm
    • Excessive drinking until 2am Sunday
  • Sunday
    • Up at 6am
    • Meeting from 7am-5pm
    • Drinks at 6pm
    • Dinner at 7pm
    • Passed the **F** out at 11pm
  • Monday
    • Up at 6:30am
    • Meeting from 8am to 12:30pm
    • Lunch meeting from 12:30 to 2:30pm
    • Depart for airport (to arrive back in CA at 11pm. HOWEVER...)
    • Missed connection in Denver, stay night in Denver with old high school friend.
    • In bed at 1am (3am East Coast Time) 
  • Tuesday
    • Up at 10am to catch 12:30 flight
    • Home by 3pm
I. Might. Die.

However, the places I did all the excessive consumption is what makes DC amazing. Ebbitts, the 4th busiest restaurant in the country, one of the oldest, open til 3am, with a late night menu starting at 11pm, the best bartender on the planet (Brian, the Scot who loves Reggae music) and not one, but THREE amazing bars to choose from. Also a standard stomping ground for Congress and the President (many of them).
Ceiba, only the best mojitos, shrimp and taco nachos and fish tacos in the city, and within walking distance from Old Ebbitt Grill and the White House. Robins Nest at the Willard Hotel, this is only the place where the term "lobbyist" was originated. There's enough history here to knock Mrs. Deveroux, by High School History Teacher over (and she wasn't a petite woman).
These are just a few.  There are more, but I will have to reserve them for another post. For now, I bid adieu to the place that has given me so many wonderful memories, so many sleepless nights, and rarely changes from year to year.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Borrowing Money from Friends

Do you ever borrow money from friends? Do you lend money to friends? I'm not talking about a HUGE amount, like a down payment to a house, or thousands of dollars to bankroll their illegal midget fighting habit in the basement (I'm not sure if that means midgets fights are illegal, or if the midgets themselves are illegal... as in, not in America legally). I'm talking about a hundred dollars, maybe two hundred dollars at a whack. Sure, we all borrow and lend ten bucks here and there, but at what point does it become too much?

I have recently realized that the only time I lend friends money is when I think I will benefit in some way. Don't have enough to go out with me to that really nice dinner? I'll spot you some cash. Can't quite afford those airplane tickets so we can go on vacation? No problem, we'll just put it on my card and you can pay me back later.

It. Has. To. Stop. Right. Now.

There are now two people who owe me money, my best friend and my boyfriend. And I've tried to cash in, however, they are both perpetually broke and can't pay me back right away. However, each has dealt with the situation very differently. Allow me to clarify...

The BFF, Tabby (as mentioned earlier when I thought our boyfriends grew vagina's) and I went on vacation to New York. I bought her plane tickets for her 30th birthday (I know, I'm awesome), and we were going to stay with her friends who live in the city, so it was supposed to be pretty cheap. Oh, I must mention... Tabby doesn't have a job, hasn't had a job for quite some time, and it currently enrolled in grad school, but does not have financial aide. That is all good, no biggie, good for her for furthering her life. Problem being? The trip ended up much more costly than anticipated (New York pricey?! No way!), so I spotted her some cash here and there just so we could both enjoy the trip. By the end of the trip, she ended up owing me around $350. This was in May. It's now almost October. AND she's paid me back everything BUT $100. No problem. She wants to work out a payment plan, add interest, etc. (One of the many reasons I love her... she's got amazing pride and won't back down for anyone).

The BF, JD, wanted to BUY ME a plane ticket to fly to Detroit to meet his parents, attend a wedding where I would meet all of his hometown friends AND hit up the family BBQ for Labor Day. Aw... how nice! HOWEVER... The man bought the tickets on Priceline, named his own price, then was disappointed when we weren't flying during a convenient time. Like an asshole, I piped up and offered to pay for the difference in the price of the tickets. So, here's what actually happened... (brace yourself, there are numbers and math coming up) (jeebus I love bullet points)

  • Price of original tickets: $600
  • Fee to cancel ticket on Priceline: $200
  • Cost of new tickets: $750
  • Amount I'm owed from JD (in his mind): $400
  • Amount he was willing to pay me last week: $300 (never received)
  • Amount he is willing to pay me this week: "$100-$200" after I requested payment

Now I'm pissed, irritated, and want to scream at him to grow up and give me my damn money! Am I wrong? I'm sure some of this is my fault... I offered, I didn't lay down the rules ahead of time, I'm just NOW asking for payment... but really, do I have to ask for payment from my own boyfriend when he's the one who owes me money? I don't know how this works, but I'm never doing it again, I'll tell you that much.

Except maybe if there's a real midget fight that needs to be bankrolled. Damn that would be awesome.

Thursday, September 9, 2010


The Detroit Lions have a fight song. This crazy guy comes out of some random tunnel after they score (field goal, touchdown, ANY score). He sings the fight song. I LOVE it. But, at the end, they all scream "Gooooooo Lions!" except that no one pronounces the "L" in "Lions" so it sounds like Goooooiiiiiioooonnnnsss! Listen carefully, you'll hear it (ignore my hysterical laughing in the background. I just couldn't contain myself. Also, keep in mind this was a preseason game, which is why no one is there. Maybe.)

Friday, August 27, 2010

Does It Still Count As Exercise If I'm Drinking The Entire Time?

I like to consider myself a pretty active person. I'm not the most active, but, I mean, I live in California, so there are all kinds of tree-hugging, bike riding, dirty feet, granola eating hippies (sorry *mom*) that like to show us normal people up when it comes to exercise (and the worst part? They don't even consider it exercise... it's "getting closer to nature" or "enjoying Mother Nature" or some other bullshit like that). On the other hand, if I lived in the Midwest, I could just stay home and bake pies all day and eat pies all night. That is what mid-westerners do, right? Please tell me it is, because if it's not, then I need to rethink my retirement (you know, the time when you quite working, so you no long have clients to impress, you've been married for 458 years, so it doesn't really matter that you gained a bunch of weight because you've stopped boning your spouse a long time ago anyway, and you get to stock your house full on candy for when the grand-kidlets come over so you can get them all cracked out on sugar then send them home with their parents.). So if pie making and eating is not on the short list of things mid-westerners do, I might sink into crisis mode.

Shit! I just realized I don't even LIKE pie.

While I come up with Plan B, let's get back on track...

I do the following sports on a regular basis:
  • Softball
  • Bowling
  • Frisbee Golf
  • Competitive Sailing
I also do the following things while doing the above mentioned sports: DRINK.

So, my loyal readers/followers/posse (can posse be plural? posses? posse'? posses'?), I pose this question (wow, 'pose' is really close to 'posse'): Does it still count as exercise if I'm drinking the entire time I'm doing said activity? Sometimes I actually work up a sweat. Sometimes I smoke a cigarette. (Look at me! Dr. Seuss, y'all) But I'm still active, right?!

Friday, August 20, 2010

My Apologizes To My Future Children

You know those anti-depressant commercials that make you want to slit your wrists? There's the weird one with the little sulking white blob thing that gets all happy and bounces around at the end, and there's that lady who walks around to sad music feeling sorry for herself.

Well, it just dawned on me that I might be the only person I know who wants to PUNCH HER FACE IN, as opposed to giving her a hug. Man am I going to be a pain-in-the-ass mom one day.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Lunching with the Ex. Also, things I do to drive myself crazy.

I just had lunch with my ex... the one with the awkward grocery store run-in...

Things I said would or wouldn't happen that did or didn't:
  • What I said I wouldn't do: Have lunch with him. 
  • What happened: We had lunch. I swore that wasn't going to happen. But he called at my office from his office phone. Sneaky, very sneaky. Why I said is still something I'm trying to blame on someone, but haven't figured out who yet. I'll get back to you on that.
  • What I said I WOULD do: Tell him that he's a selfish asshole (but in nicer words). 
  • What I didn't do: I didn't tell him how I think he's a selfish asshole for doing what he does to girls (not in the dirty-sex way... THAT is just fine).
  • What I said I WOULD tell him: That I'm on to his evil ways and will spread to word to all other females I come across
  • What I DIDN'T do: I didn't tell him that I know the REAL reason he broke my heart and that I plan to ruin his life with it.
  • What I said I WOULDN'T do: Make this a regular thing.
  • What I did/didn't do: I didn't say "no" to the invitation to go to a movie next week. BUT... I didn't say 'yes' either.
All in all, it was actually a nice time. There's a reason we had such a good time together. Because we're both a good time. If (and I emphasis the IF IF IF IF IF) he wants to be JUST FRIENDS, then I might consider it. However, if he wants to get the stick-it-in-okay, then I'm out.

So... THAT just happened.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Where's My Beer?! Oh yeah! Here it is...

I, um, do a lot of things around the, um, house (one-bedroom apartment), where, um, I need (want/require) a beer, but I can't carry it because I'm being too, um, productive with my hands (playing video games). Yeah, that's why I need this! (Not because I usually always have a beer open, but can rarely locate it, even though I have a one-bedroom apartment and don't have a lot of crap laying around, yeah, I still lose it all the time). So, please, support my (drinking) habits and keep me happy.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

The Obligitory Birthday Fortnight

August 2nd was the last birthday I will ever have in my 20s. A friend (who is 30, with a house and a husband and a child), was sure to point that out a few days prior to my actual birthday. I hadn't thought about it until RIGHT THEN. I freaked out for... about 4 seconds, then didn't care anymore. Age is not what matters. How awesome you are is the only thing that counts. And, since I'm pretty damn awesome, I really don't have anything to worry about.

It's been a tradition that started in college, that you don't just get one day, or the weekend closest to your actual birthday to celebrate. Oh no. You get an entire fortnight. And since everyone seems to be catching on that this will be the LAST fortnight in my 20s (I mean seriously, do these people just sit around thinking about this shit all long?!), it's a BIG fortnight. I had a softball game on the actual day-of (hence the misleading hippy-vibe I am giving off in the picture below--team uniforms), but the team surprised me at the dive bar across from the field with drinks and a cake! We lost the game, and I was burping up a very strange cake/beer situation in the middle of the 3rd inning, but it was pretty awesome.

(What is REALLY AWESOME is that it says "Adolf" on the chalkboard to the left of my head in the picture below. AND I'm wearing hippy-Nazi red)

This weekend there are two surprise-days happening. One where I get to wear yoga pants (my friends are awesome) and one where I'm going to see an airshow.

AND THEN, on Monday, I'm going to see Miranda Lambert at the Ventura County Fair for the second time in two months. (see?! Told you I was awesome).

Now that I've spent at least 5 minutes of your time talking about ME, I want you to wish me a happy birthday fortnight and move along with your day.

Be sure to check back soon. Why? Because I said so.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Working from home, or getting paid to watch the Game Show Network? Also, blowjobs and metaphysical crap

My office is getting a new paint job (not as fun as a blow job, but about as messy) and new carpet this weekend and the first part of the week next week. I spent all day yesterday packing, moving boxes, moving furniture, labeling, lifting things over my head, and wish works comp could kick in ASAP (but that would require me to get hurt first, so... never mind). The state of my office is currently this:

The actual state of my office is usually just as cluttered, but more in a metaphysical way... (I don't actually know what metaphysical means, and when I googled it I only got far enough in the definition to know that it's something about philosophy and it's not easily defined. I figured that was close enough and went with it. Frankly, I'm surprised you're still reading this fine piece of literature at all).

So... there will be some magical men who come into the office this weekend to paint (NOT give blow jobs... at least not that I'm aware of), then on Monday and Tuesday, different magical men will come to lay carpet (giggity). I have no idea how they are going to do this. But what I DO know is that I get to work from home on Monday and Tuesday. So... my question remains:

Am I getting paid to work or am I getting paid to watch Game Show Network?

I'll be sure to let you know.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Things I Want That You Should Buy Me

From time to time I will be posting things that I want, but can't justifying buying for myself. Therefore, I will be posting them here, hoping and praying and holding my breath that YOU will buy it for me. There will be cheap things, expensive things, out of reach things and possibly fake things (don't you DARE include unicorns with fake things... THEY ARE REAL!).

You might also want to purchase some of these things... and if you actually end up buying them, I would really appreciate it if you would buy two and give me one. Why? Because I'm awesome, of course!

First on my list, are these amazing vases that will help me make more friends. Okay, it doesn't actually SAY that on the description, but I'm pretty sure if I had these at my house, people would want to come over. Oh, and when you buy them for me, please also include a tablecloth, a pretty one, because I think you need a tablecloth to trick everyone into thinking you have floating vases.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Celine Dion, Pictures in Port-a-Potties and ME!

It seems I've taken a bit of a hiatus recently... I promise not to do that very often. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Please come back! Jack! Come back! Jaaaaaack! (insert Celine Dion music here)

Just to keep you up to date, some things I've done (and haven't done) while I haven't been blogging (and because I feel the need to use bullet points whenever possible): I...
  • Marched in the 4th of July Parade, carried the Arizona flag, and did NOT have anything thrown at me over the AZ immigration law
  • Went to Tahoe and rode 20+ miles on a bike over two days (this is good for me)
  • Due to the above mileage, I bruised my taint on the damn bike seat
  • Was convinced to join Weight Watchers (possibly because 20+ miles on a bike was considered to be pretty awesome)
  • Have NOT attended a Weight Watchers meeting yet
  • But HAVE looked at buying a food scale
  • Have NOT bought the food scale
  • Am rethinking why I just brewed beer if I'm going to join Weight Watchers and will not be allowed to drink any of it. Assholes.
  • Finally got motivated to fix the array of random crap that is wrong with my car (and have agreed to hand over my first-born as payment)
  • Wore a very short, low-cut dress to the dealer to try and get a deal on the work being done (did not work) (maybe it will work better after Weight Watchers actually starts) (also, if it's called a "dealer" why don't they actually cut DEALS? They should be called "Screwers" or "We Don't Actually Care About Keeping You Happy/Fed/Clothed/Sheltered")
  • Ordered an iPhone 4
  • Found out they are SUPER back-ordered and don't actually work that well. Damn.
 So... the sun finally came out. It's almost the middle of July and June Gloom has finally left us. Took long enough. It's supposed to be 100 degrees for the rest of the week. And that's the forecast for the area NEAR THE OCEAN. I plan to drink a lot. And also have some water. However, the unexpected visit of Mr. Sunshine has me in a particularly wonderful mood. It's like I've found my rainbow. The Lovers, The Dreamers, and Me. There's no leprechaun though. Double Damn.

As promised, here is the pic of me in the porta-a-potty at Country Jam... please keep in mind that at this time, I had already been drinking for 4 straight days, have been shitting in these very same port-a-potties for the same amount of time, and have also been camping, in a tent, with two other girls.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

You Look Like a Girl Who Can Take Care of Herself

"I'd tell you to watch out for that guy over there, but you look like a girl who can take care of herself."

What. The. Fuck. Does. That. Mean.?

I'm not a cage fighter. I'm not a stick figure. I'm healthy, yes. Black guys love my ass (true story). But I'm also not a pie-eating, couch surfing Midwesterner (no offense to any of the above).

My question is: when someone says that "you look like a girl who can take care of herself" ... what exactly does that mean? Does it mean you look like a bitch? You look tough? You look confident? You look like you really know how to flick the bean? I need some clarification so I know if I should go beat this person's ass or not.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Happy 'Merika Weekend!

I loooooove me some American pride. I cry during the Star Spangled Banner, I get chills whenever there's a fly-by, and celebrating the birth of our fine nation is one of my favorite holidays. I am an all-American girl from a small town who knows how to shoot a gun, flies a flag outside her apartment and will spend more time at the monuments in Washington, DC than at the bars. The sad part is, most people would jump to the conclusion that I am a redneck, white trash, a card-carrying member of the NRA (and since when would that be a BAD thing?)... rest assured, I am none of those things. In fact, I'm pretty classy y'all. I sail. I'm a member of the Yacht Club. I've been out of the country more than most (and not just to Canada and Mexico). I live in Santa-Fucking-Barbara for Pete's sake.

But I digress...

Somehow, I have managed to get myself a spot in the 4th of July parade. I will be carrying the Arizona flag down the main drag in Santa Barbara before jetting off to two BBQs and some fireworks. How these things happen I have no idea. It's probably because I'm awesome.

I just want everyone to take pause this weekend, think about why most of us get an extra day off of work, why we allow ourselves to stuff our faces with pig-parts no one wants to think about and the wonders of barely and hops. Happy Birthday 'Merika! Thank you for being you!

Thursday, July 1, 2010

The Crazy Bench

There's a bench across the street from my office where all the homeless people camp out to sing, preach, beg and play instruments. However, they all seriously suck at playing their instrument of choice. I mean, you're homeless, there's no place for you to go, no house for you to clean, no one to pick up from school or camp or practice, (and let's face it, I'm pretty sure your to-do list isn't very long... 1.Eat 2.Beg 3.Sleep 4.Repeat)<---I'm fucking Dr. Suess over here... (I mean, not actually fucking Dr. Suess because he's dead, I'm pretty sure, and it would be gross to fuck a dead guy, I just mean that I'm awesome at rhyming) the least you could do is learn how to play your ONE instrument decently. Is it too much to ask?!

Anywhoo... I work on the second floor, and when I look out my window and across the street, this is what I see. Today at work, I went crazy. Crazy like goofy, hyper, annoying and needy. So I decided instead of risking my career, I'd go join the crazy people on the bench for a bit. However, I got out there, and no one was there.

I know, totally not a flattering picture, but I have a point here...

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
"What the FUCK is up with her hand?!" I decided the crazies were channeling my hand and took it over.

In the end, the bench worked. After 5 minutes I moved from the sun to the shade, then 15 minutes later I stood up, leaving the crazies behind, and headed back up to the office. So maybe it's not the homeless' fault that they are crazy. Maybe they catch it from the bench (I left my crazy there, so someone's bound to pick it up, right?), maybe it's the bench's fault.

Aw, who are we kidding, homeless people suck.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

A 12 day hangover

Just wanted to let all my interwebs know that I'm alive... I'm just still hungover, and my hungover storytelling is not quite up to par. However I will leave you with a few facts from the weekend:

  • The last picture I took on my camera was of me, sitting in the port-a-potty peeing.
  • Hand sanitizer is NOT a good substitute for toilet paper.
  • Keith Urban is a whiny bitch, but he's pretty good eye candy.
Pic of port-a-potty to come soon, I promise.

Monday, June 21, 2010

My Annual Drunkfest with (SHIRTLESS) Cowboys

Close your eyes. Why? Just DO IT! Are they closed? I can wait....



Okay, either your eyes are closed or you're an asshole. Wait... if you are reading this, then your eyes aren't closed and you're an asshole, but how can you keep reading if your eyes are closed? Hmm... I may have just screwed myself. Either that, or I subconsciously ONLY want assholes to read this. I'm not sure it really matters. But the POINT is, that I want to visualize what my life is going to be like for the next week (and is also an explanation why I won't be posting anything):

Picture this:
You're in the middle of an empty cornfield, 5,000 feet above sea level, on the Western Plains of Colorado, camping with 10,000 of your favorite country-music loving, shirtless Cowboys, in 100 degree heat, drinking all day and all night, and going to amazing concerts (all within walking distance)... for FOUR DAYS. 

That's what I'm doing... for the 15th year in row. I was waaaay too young when my mom first let me go to Country Jam, and now I'm borderline too old to be wearing a bikini in public, but that doesn't stop me, or anyone else there. That's the great thing about Country Jam... there will always be a woman older, and in worse shape than you strutting around in a bikini that's smaller than yours. It's quite the ego boost.

And the cowboys, did I mention that they are shirtless? There's nothing quite like the sight of a shirtless man walking toward you wearing a cowboy hat, wranglers, shit-kickers and a "nice to meet you ma'am" shit-eating-grin.

It's a wonderful escape from reality, and a place where there are enough stories and memories made to last you all year... until the next Country Jam rolls around.

So here's to cornhole, to Bud Light, to swimming in horse troughs, and cowboys who have lost their shirts!

See you in a week (if I make it back)!

Friday, June 18, 2010

Chicks vs Dicks, Sporting Events and Sex

I'm one of those Chicks who really enjoys sports. I like watching sports, I like playing sports, and I like drinking beer while I do both of those things. I also know the rules of most sports (especially football)... not because I want to impress all the Dicks* in my life, but because I ENJOY sports (shocking!).

However, when I really get into a game, it's passionate, it's emotional (for me), it's draining. Chicks get emotional about things they care about. Dicks, on the other hand, get worked up, but I don't think sporting events are emotionally draining, like they are to Chicks.

Case in point... the NBA Finals last night. Lakers vs Celtics, game 7. Disclaimer: I am a Celtics fan living in California. I was on the edge of my seat, I was biting my nails, I was screaming at the TV, throwing things at Kobe, and calling people names my mother would be ashamed of. At the end of the game, when the refs decided the Lakers should win, I had to step outside. Not because I needed air, but because my boyfriend NEEDED to watch the replay, NEEDED to see the highlights, and NEEDED to watch the trophy ceremony. Dicks like technique, Chicks like emotions. It's amazing how sports and sex are so alike.

Therefore, if you'd ever like to get in my pants, it's important that you know my passionate likes and dislikes...

My very passionate LIKES:
  • Denver Broncos (I basically bleed orange and blue)
  • John Elway, Shannon Sharpe, Terrell Davis, Eddie McCaffrey
  • Boston Celtics
  • Boston Red Socks
  • Colorado Avalanche
My very passionate DISLIKES:
  • Oakland Raiders
  • All Raider Fans
  • Brett Favre
  • NY Yankees
  • NY Yankee Fans
  • Kobe Bryant
  • LA Lakers
  • Lakers Fans (this one is particularly difficult since I live in Southern California and the majority of people here would pay loads of money to suck off Kobe Bryant)
  • Detroit Red Wings
Yes, my dislikes outweigh my likes, but once you're on my "Likes" list, I'm loyal through and through. Kind of like most men in my life.

Who's on your like/dislike list? 

*In this post, and this post only, I refer to "Dicks" as those of us who have male parts, NOT as those of use who have male parts and are also assholes.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Rediculous Facebook pages

I get a shit-eating grin on my face whenever I hit "IGNORE!" to invitations on Facebook to join a pages like "Stop Child Abuse NOW!" or "Help Stop Skinning Live Unicorns!" I mean seriously? If we need Facebook pages to tell people that we are against shit like this, what kind of world are we living in? And in case you feel like these pages are NEEDED, I have a few more suggestions for future pages you need to create:

  • Don't, I repeat, DO NOT eat babies
  • Try really hard to not trip old people
  • Stop calling old people "old people" call the old people the "elderly"
  • Don't tell people they look mulatto (even if they are)
  • Stop giving money to homeless people... (seriously, all they do is buy booze and get drunk which totally makes them lose any motivation to find a job and get a life.)
Now that I think about... all these Facebook groups/pages/whatever are seriously negative. Maybe I'll start some new, more positively charged pages like:
  • I'm awesome! Give me money!
  • Support NOT eating babies!
  • I agree! Unicorns are real!
What's the most ridiculous Facebook page YOU'VE been sucked into? Mine was: "If I get enough fans on this page, my sister will name her kid Megatron!" I've showed you mine, now you show me yours.

    Friday, June 11, 2010

    Wait, Our Boyfriends Grew Vaginas?

    There are two types of girls: those who can maintain a healthy relationship without alienating everyone around her and appearing codependent and needy, and those who can't. And, just like high-maintenance girls, the worst kind of girl is the girl who doesn't think she's the codependent/alienating type, but actually IS.

    Case in point: I have a friend, who we will call Tabby, who has been dating this guy for 5+ months. A new relationship, yes. They are allowed to still be excited about seeing each other and get butterflies in their stomachs when they accidentally brush hands, or one puts their arm around the other in public. However, neither of these two have jobs. That's right... they wake up mid-morning, in the same bed, wander out to the same couch, watch the same TV show, eat the same lunch, dinner and snack. They go to bed in the same bed and do it all over again the next day. So my theory is; given the amount of time they spend together, they may as well have been dating for at least 2 years.

    With that in mind... here's our most recent conversation:

    • Tabby: I was thinking about coordinating a girls night tomorrow night, what do you think?
    • Me: That sounds great! 
    • Tabby: Cocktails then Sex and the City then more cocktails?
    • Me: That's perfect! I was considering going to see Sex and the City by myself tomorrow night anyway! (don't judge me) 
    • Tabby: Morning friend! We still on for tonight?
    • Me: Abso-fucking-lutely!
    • Tabby: I was thinking... maybe we could meet up with the boys after the movie
    • Me: Did our boyfriends grow vaginas?

    I mean, how is it, over the course of 12 hours she realized that she would be spending more than four hours away from her man, and at what point IS THAT A BAD THING?!

    At least I can still look in the mirror and see perfection.

    (Okay, now even I can't even keep a straight face at that)

    Tuesday, June 8, 2010

    Calling in Burnt

    Air humping, motor-boating, excessive boozing and really good time. Last weekend was an amazing one. In fact, it was so amazing, that I called in burnt to work on Monday. You see, some of the benefits of living in California are that you can get away with b.s. like calling in burnt. And the best part? I actually DO look like a lobster. I also like to eat lobster. But I would prefer not to eat myself. Wait... that just got SUPER dirty.

    So Monday morning, there I was, laying a pool of my own drool, blinding slapping at the snooze button on my alarm clock feeling like death (and probably looking like it too). As I lay there contemplating what could possibly be worse than feeling the way I felt (hungover, burnt to a crisp, on 4 hours of sleep, etc), I realized that... I HAVE SICK DAYS! And... instead of calling in with some kind of illness and having to fake feeling like shit for the next week, I decided to tell the truth(ish). So I texted my boss (I love technology... like, more than a friend) and told her that I was all burnt and couldn't even put pants on and would really like to NOT come into the office. She promptly responded with the "no problem" text I was praying for. WHAT?! You mean I just called into the office telling them I'm an irresponsible asshole who can't even remember to slap on some SPF for my lily white ass and it's okay?! Sold.

    So, I spent the rest of the day on my couch, soaked in aloe and lotion, watching the game show network and reliving the parts of the weekend that I remembered.

    Upon reflection, I think it's absolutely necessary to share with you some very important lessons learned in just 36 short hours:
    1. Don't waste your money on going out to sushi for dinner when you're already wasted and just walk directly out of the restaurant (after eating all the fish you can handle) and into Taco Bell for "dessert"
    2. ALWAYS put sunscreen on your head and hairline so you don't end up with random scabbing grossness in your part and looking like a damn leper. (Have you ever looked at pictures of lepers? Because I just did for the first time and now I feel all creep'd out and also like an asshole)
    3. While sitting at the beach ALL DAY long, remember to reapply sunscreen more than once. Because no matter how much you've had to drink and how invincible you think you may be to the devil-sun, you're not. 
    4. There's a reason guys like to lay on girl's boobs... those things are damn comfortable! (I have some well-endowed girlfriends and put in some good "pillow" time... trust me on this)
    5. The word "pussy" is amazing (I think we all knew that). But when it's said with a southern accent, it's EPIC, and impossible to overuse.
    6. I'm pretty positive there were other lessons learned, but I drank too much and can't remember them. My bad.

    Here's to being sober for a few days, but also to a FANTASTIC weekend.

    Thursday, June 3, 2010

    Running into exes (not axes, although it may feel the same)

    Running into an ex-coitus partner is always interesting. It usually feels like hitting a brick wall at full speed. I hate that wall. It's a wall filled with all these horrible emotions that I've successfully tucked away into a deep dark place for safe-keeping until hell freezes over. The wave of emotions come in three parts: one emotion for the initial contact, one for the conversation that occurs immediately after, and a completely separate emotion for the post-run-in aftershock (this emotion can last for an undetermined amount of time). Since these situations are always awkward for all involved, let's tear it apart and see if we can all start squirming in our seats, silently wishing for some kind of national disaster that would give us an excuse to STOP READING, even though secretly you like to put yourself through this torture for reason unbeknown to anyone, especially yourself. 

    1) The brick wall...
    • Event: The actual physical act of running into the ex. (first glance/eye contact)
    • Emotion: Fear, anger, stomach butterflies, visions of bleeding unicorns
    • Reaction: Stop dead in current tracks, then a quick decision to either fight or flight
    This is where I ALWAYS stick around to fight. Why? Who the fuck knows. I sure wish I knew. Because if I took the (arguably) more cowardly road of flight, the next two steps would be irrelevant.

    2) The conversation that seems to last for-fucking-ever

    "Hey! So good to see you!" "Yeah, you too" "How've you been?" ... long pause while you think about your options here... make it seem like things are FANTASTIC and never been better since the break? Tell the poor, pathetic truth? Make up a lie? Him 'em in the shins and run away screaming? ... "I'm good! You?" "I'm doing pretty well. How's the family?" This continues on for quite some time. Every now and then you'll get a good piece of gossip, or something funny or clever will pass through their lips and you'll be reminded why you allowed the do-it in the first place.

    Then you find yourself standing there, awkwardly holding a dozen eggs (because, of course, you ran into him in the grocery store... so now he can see directly into your overflowing basket of food that's bad for you... DAMN IT, why didn't I put the veggies on top instead of the frozen mac and cheese... now he knows why I gained weight, and he knows that I'm not doing anything about it...). As you start to think about the details of the situation and he continues to talk (of course, the ONE goddamn day I don't wear make-up. Do I look at him in the eyes? Look around for people I know? People he knows? Are there any leprechauns nearby? I wonder what he's actually talking about... oh crap, don't drop the eggs! wait! don't squeeze the eggs too tight! What if you hold them too tight and one breaks right there in front of the two of you? Wait, why do you care? Seriously... loosen the grip! DON'T DROP THE EGGS!!!!)... "Yeah, it was good to see you too! We'll have to grab lunch sometime and catch up!" YEAH RIGHT.

    3) How you handle yourself and your brain after the encounter

    Walk away like you just don't care. Wag the ass a little bit so he notices you still got it, but not too much as to make him think he can have it. Whatever you do don't look back. Walk coolly to your car, get in, take a deep breathe and get the hell out of there. Now is the time to tear apart the entire conversation, rethink what you said, get upset about things you wanted to say and didn't, realize you were smiley, like, a lot, then remind yourself the shake it off and get over it. Tell all your friends, but act like you really don't care. Then fall asleep that night still freaked out and wishing it hadn't happened because, well, THOSE FEELINGS WERE MEANT TO STAY IN THAT DEEP DARK PLACE. What a bastard.

    (Just another reason to stick with the theory that females are crazy, and leprechauns should exist)

    (Do guys go through this hell and torture too?)

    Wednesday, June 2, 2010

    June Gloom, Oil Spills, Sinkholes and Skinny Kids

    I live in Santa Barbara, which can easily be considered one of the most beautiful places on the mainland. In July it's 72 degrees, in September it's 72 degrees, in December it's 72 degrees, in February it's 72 degrees, in April, well, you get the idea. It's 72 degrees year round, EXCEPT IN JUNE. In June, we get this weather phenomenon affectionately called "June Gloom." When I first moved here almost 11 years ago(!), I called bullshit left and right when it came to June Gloom. I mean, I was from Colorado, where it's either beautiful outside, or it's a living hell outside. But I was tough. I could handle anything. Whiteouts? DUN. Thunderstorms? Bring 'em on! Hail? Shmail. I scoffed at the idea of being cold in 50 degree weather... then, I moved here. Shit.

    We had THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WEEKEND last weekend (seriously, no lies, 80 degrees, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky-it-should-be-illegal-to-stay-inside type of weekend that was filled with BBQs, disc golf, sailing and convertibles). The sun set on May 31st and I swear I haven't seen it since. Yes, I know, it's only two days later, but still. It's cloudy, chilly... gloomy, even. And it's NOT 72 degrees. In fact, it's 58 degrees. Y'all are luckily I dragged my hungover ass out of bed this morning and made it into work at all.

    I supposed I shouldn't bitch too much, seeing as there's currently an ocean being taken over by the oil-gods, Guatemala just got swallowed by a giant-ass sinkhole, and you know, there are starving kids all over other countries, blah blah blah. But dude... I'M COLD!

    Top 10 Searched Questions
    (Giant-ass sinkhole... no lies)

    Tuesday, June 1, 2010

    Hello, World

    Initially, I thought the idea of setting up a blog would be a great way to voice some of the complaints I have about my life and the people in it, in an effort to vent and help get myself through some tough times, then I thought to myself "Self, get over yourself! Who in the hell wants to read about someone else's issues?!"

    Therefore, intertwined in my day-to-day trials and tribulations, are some really funny things, some random things, some frustrating things, some inappropriate things and some total life altering things. I will touch on all of these things here, on this blog.

    Read if you want to, don't read if don't want to (and if that's the case, why the hell are you even reading this far?!), but I'm here. I'm here for me, for you, for your dog and for your mom... or something like that.

    So, the first piece of business I have to tackle is none other than cheese. You heard me... cheese.

    I have an unnatural obsession with cheese. Blue cheese, soft cheeses, hard cheese, processed cheeses, you name it, I like it. I love cheese so much, it's the 'site key' for my bank account (please don't steal my identity), I tried to put string cheese on a personal pizza the other night (after quite a few hours at the bars, but that's another topic). Note to self: string cheese does NOT melt in the oven, no matter how high the heat. Who needs to put MORE CHEESE on an already cheese-filled pizza? I do. The string cheese didn't work, so I found some monterey jack to shred and put on top. And it was wonderful. But I digress...

    I can't recall the last meal I had that didn't include cheese in some form. I'm not sure if that's because I simply choose not to remember those meals, or if they just don't exist. The thing that really upsets me is how horrible cheese is for you. I try to diet, I try to cut down on cheese, and it just doesn't work. So I start making deals with myself... "If you give up potato chips, you can still have cheese" ... french fries for cheese, soda for cheese, my left pinky toe for cheese. And I wonder why the weight stays put.

    My theory: God loves me so much that he's guiding me toward cheese so I die early and get to chill with the Big Man (or the Big Cheese, as I call him) even sooner. Yeah... I'll go with that.

    Besides, I'll bet I can have all the damn cheese I want in heaven.