I’ve over thought my childhood addictions

Lately, I’ve been on a Gossip Girl kick. Namely because Netflix, and everybody knows what Netflix does to you.

Which means that since Gossip Girl is six seasons long, I’ve been watching this show for ages and ages. I mean, for forever.

For.

Eh.

Ver.

So, imagine me, last night, somewhere between the hours of 2 and 3 am, watching Gossip Girl over and over. I read the books in their entirety from when the first one was released in like…2001 or something, until the last one came out sometime during college. Thus, I love the books, I love the show, and I know it like the back of my hand.

Or so I thought.

(Insert ominous music here)

I’m one of those people who will watch a show over and over. I’m one of those people who reads books over and over.  I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve gone through a series despite knowing it so well. But I was watching Gossip Girl last night and this happened.

Remember Eva?

THIS CHICK. She comes into Gossip Girl and saves Chuck from a gunshot wound despite being a random chick in Poland. It’s bizarre. And I’m watching her, and for some reason, she’s bugging me more than normal. There’s the normal botheration, where I’m so angry at her for screwing up my favorite fictional characters universe. And then there’s this weird thought in the back of my head, like I know her.

It’s that terrible moment where you see someone on the street and you know you know them so you smile, but you can’t remember why you know them so you’re just this idiot smiling at this other person trying to remember things before you pass them by and are branded as the smiling idiot on the street.

So, I Google her. Because it’s entirely possible to Google an actor in 2014, even if you can’t Google the random person on the street to find out why you know them.

FREAKING FLEUR DELACOUR.

And I cannot believe that I missed this. Sure, it’s probably normal that you don’t realize one actor is in two completely different things. Sure, it’s probably fine that the dots didn’t connect because it’s just Harry Potter and it’s just Gossip Girl, and I do have a real life outside of books and movies and things.

Thankfully.

But seriously. I could not figure out how I missed this.

She's a witch, Hotchy.

That’s about when I went off the deep end of pop culture.

Fleur/Eva

 

And that was Tuesday. 

POST SCRIPT RUN ON SENTENCE. I’m sorry I haven’t blogged but it’s stuff like this that is reasons I haven’t and HAVEN’T YOU MISSED ME or ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED or something like that.

 

10,000 Maniac[al steps to good health]. This has nothing to do with the band.

These are days, guys.

If you read Buzzfeed, or are on Facebook, or Instagram, or Twitter, or any social media with other like minded people (re: TwentySomethings), then you know that now is the time to be running, or working out, or eating healthy, or staying healthy, or something like that. 

Everyone and their mother is working out and running 5ks and 10ks and 26.2ks and Blerg-Ks and eating all this kale and does anyone really even like kale?!

Color Run 2013

Seriously. You hit your twenties and it’s just the thing to be doing. Or maybe the time to start telling people about the thing you were already doing. (I wasn’t doing it before, really.)

That was how I ended up signing up for something called The Hit and Run 5k with FunSized. Hit and Run 5k

It involved running and getting hit by things, then rinsing and repeating. Somewhere in the part where we were not getting hit by things, FunSized and I started talking about her latest piece of bling.

FunSized: It’s a Fitbit. It tracks how far you walk everyday. Like my goal is 10,000 steps and it’ll freak out when I hit it.

Me: 10,000 steps, huh?

FunSized: Yeah. I’ll definitely hit it today since we’re doing this, but it just motivates you to move around more. Like I know that you should park far away from Target, but now I actually park far away from Target.

Me: You’re kidding.

FunSized: During winter, I would walk to the store and just walk around until I hit my goal.

Me: …Sometimes when I go to the store, I’m tired and try to get Boo to push me in the cart instead.

The concept was bizarre to me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a slouch, and I play soccer every week, and I’m a biking kind of girl, but still. I’m kind of lazy.

Chat with Jade

So, I decided to join this revolution. I mean, I have a very big office. That has got to be a lot of steps I take everyday. At the very least, maybe FunSized would be right, and it would motivate me to move around more. Thus, the next time I was at Target, I parked as close as possible for the last time ever, and bought myself a Fitbit.

Day 1.

I got approximately 3,573 steps.

I’ve only owned it a day.” I told myself. “And it was only part of the day. So it really doesn’t count.”

Day 2.

I had 8,105 steps.

“What are you doing?” my mother asks me.

“Walking around the kitchen table,” I tell her.

Silence.

“FunSized told me this thing would freak out when I reached my goal.” I tell her.

“Hm.” my mother tells me.

Day 3. 

I’m in shock that I don’t take 10,000 steps per day. It doesn’t seem right. MY OFFICE IS LARGE, people. But then this happened.

Fitbit Walking

Total steps? 11,373. I’ve never been so happy to see a piece of technology freak out on me.

Day 4.

 Obviously I am more than capable of taking 10,000 steps in a day, because I did it the day before. I’m a pro now. So when it gets to midnight, and I only have 8,746 steps, I’m pissed. Like legitimately upset and realizing that THIS IS WHY I AM NO LONGER SKINNY, because obviously I never took the time to park far away or count my steps and I knew I should have been jogging in place while watching The Fault in Our Stars last night.

Conversation with FunSized

I think it rained on my tinder.

Update: I told you about the tigers. I told you about these freaking tigers. I’d also like to point out that there is a TUMBLR dedicated to said tigers and tinder men. I’m not the only one who noticed the ridiculous amount of RAHR.

 

The strange part of this story is how this app came to be on my phone. My co-worker, MT, is happily married with a puppy. She screenshots snapchats that her husband sends her while he’s away and doesn’t get in trouble for it. All her selfies feature two people (and occasionally the puppy). Main point: she’s happy.

CW and I are slightly more disgruntled about life. Thus, why it was strange when MT spent the better part of the morning trying to convince CW and me to download tinder.

Eventually, we caved and both downloaded it on our phones. It was probably harmless, after all.

First person comes up. I look at CW’s phone. She looks at mine. It’s the same guy. No words as we both swipe left.

“It said we’re a match!” CW exclaims, terrified. “But I swiped left! I swiped left!”

The Thought Process of L.A. on Tinder

Tinder is stupid.

Swipe.

I can’t believe I’m helping someone make money off of this.

Swipe.

This person put up a group photo and I have no idea which one he is.

Tinder2

Swipe.

I mean, this is basically a dating app.

Swipe.

I don’t want to date a group of people.

Swipe.

I don’t want to date anyone.

Swipe.

I don’t know why I downloaded this app.

Swipe.

Stupid peer pressure.

Swipe.

I don’t want to date your abs.

Swipe.

Or your puppy.Tinder3

Swipe.

Or your dead animal that you killed.

Tinder1

Swipe.

Or this girl that is in this photo with you.

Tinder4

Swipe.

Or this tiger.

Swipe.

Why are there so many tigers on tinder?

Tinder5

Swipe.

THIS MAN IS HUGGING A BABY BEAR.

Swipe.

Fuck, I know this person in real life.

Swipe.

New text: Did I just see you on tinder? Fuck.

Swipe.

Holy crap, I had a crush on this person back in the day.

Pause.

Click.

I’m a much better personality now than I was then.

Click.

I wonder which way he swiped for me.

Swipe.

Untitled

Swipe.

I feel so pretty right now.

Swipe.

It’s almost as if I’m not sitting in  bed with a bag of Doritos, How I Met Your Mother, and Tinder at 3 in the morning.

Swipe.

Fuck, I spilled the Doritos.

Swipe.

My life is so sad.

Swipe.

This guy’s face is terrifying.

Swipe.

I did not swipe right!

Swipe.

The terrifying face just sent me a message!

Swipe.

He must be deranged, why the fuck is he up at 3 in the morning on Tinder?!

Swipe.

Pause.

Reevaluate life.

Next Morning.

Me: I didn’t sleep last night.

CW: Tinder?

Me: I deleted it.

CW: It’s for the best.

when bad TV happens to good people

It’s finally acting like Spring outside, which means that the snow might be gone, but it’s windy and rainy and chilly outside. Considering what happened the last time Poof and I ventured outside in the wind, we’ve been taking to staying indoors. I head over to her place with coffee for everyone, and we chill out, watch TV, and partake in whatever is on TV that morning.

Today, commentary as follows:

L.A.: You know, that one douchebag is really starting to grow on me.

Poof: Kanye?

L.A.: No, I know who he is. I mean the dad douchebag.

Poof: Bruce Jenner?

L.A.: No, no. The douchebag that’s a dad.

Poof: Bruce Jenner?

L.A.: The dad that’s married to one of the daughters.

Poof: Which daughter?

L.A.: Lord Douchebag.

Poof: OH. Scott.

L.A.: YES.

Poof: I mean, you really just can’t go around saying “that douchebag” with this show. I mean, it IS the Kardashians.

Untitled

 

The Wedding Planner, not starring J.Lo

Me: I finally watched the purple wedding.

Her: Joffrey is such a little chatch.

Me: You’ve gotta hate someone.

Her: List of people you can hate: Cersei, the lady that birthed period blood in air form, the man that chopped off Jamie’s hand and hung it around his neck like an asshole…

Me: NOT THE POINT.

Her: …everyone that came to the wedding and was mean to Tyrion because what a guy, social media spoiler-ers…

Me: STILL NOT THE POINT.

Her: …George R.R. Martin for making us all love his nonsense so much.

Image from geekshizzle.com

Me: He must not get invited to weddings ever.

Her: At the rate you’re going, he can basically plan yours.

Me: …

Her: …

Me: …

Her: I’m just going to add my name to the list after Joffrey and Cersei. Please don’t poison my drink.

Me: I’m going to die alone.

Chicken: it’s what’s for dinner.

Poof and I have this tendency to go out on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. It’s our default. I’ll put on nice shoes. We’ll take photos for her blog. We usually head to our favorite local coffee shop, MADCAP COFFEE

…because it’s local, it’s delicious, and they do that thing where they make my Mocha look like a heart, and it’s nice to feel loved.

Well, since this is the rule, here is the exception:

L.A.: Coffee?

Poof: Not in the mood.

L.A.: Mall?

Poof: Sure. I want a root beer float.

L.A.: …

L.A: …

L.A.: …pregnant?

Poof had this thing when she was pregnant with LittlePoof where she always craved root beer floats. It was her food. My weakness when I was pregnant?

The good kind, not like the awkwardly shaped nuggets.

Cue to eating lunch yesterday.

Me: I’ll have the chicken tenders basket, please.

Mom: Didn’t you just get chicken tenders the other day?

Me: Yes.

Mom: And you want it again?

Me: I like chicken.

Boo: I like chicken too!

Mom: *Forceful Gaze*

Me: I’m not.

Mom: *Cynical Squinting*

Me: No, but really.

Mom: *James Marsden’s Character in X-Men*

Me: BUT FOR SERIOUS.

Mom: *Jedi Mind Trick*

Me: I HAVE ONE ALREADY.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you “Why I have added giving up Chicken Fingers to my lenten promise.”

We’re the Cougars, obvi.

Dad: Where are you off to?

Me: Dinner with the ladies.

Dad: Which ladies?

Me: The ladies. CoSi and FunSized.

Dad: Oh. Those ladies. You have a lot of ladies.

Me: I don’t even. You know CoSi and FunSized. I’ve known them so long.

Dad: Yes, but that doesn’t mean I knew which ladies you were talking about.

Me: The ladies. The high school ladies. The CC ladies. The cougar ladies.

Sign outside of CoSi, FunSized, and my old high school.

Sign outside of CoSi, FunSized’s, and my old high school.

Dad: …

Me: That’s excellent. It’s going to be so great when we’re old because we’ll go out to dinner and I’ll be like. I’m going to dinner with the cougars.

Dad: That’s a good thing?

Me: It’s so multi-dimensional! High school mascot meets geriatric old women who talk about inappropriate topics in Panera Bread.

Dad: That’s a good thing?

Me: It’s an amazing thing.

Dad: I don’t think you’ll think it’s as funny in twenty years.

Me: I’ll tweet it because it’s that level of amazing and I won’t want to forget it. I have to go now because I’m late for dinner with the cougars.

Dad: I thought you weren’t going to use it until you were old.

Me: Practice.

Dad: Roar.

You got a little schmootz right there, and other things I’ll probably hear today

Two years ago, I wrote one of my most embarrassing, albeit favorite blog posts since I started blogging back in 2010.

The Poonch-Key Diaries.

POONCH-KEY

POONCH-KEY

I’ve tried to write various other posts regarding the paczkis and the fattiness of Mardi Gras, but nothing comes close to the Poonch-Key post.

So instead, to follow up Fat Tuesday…

Ash Wednesday.

It’s perfect, it’s chronological, and I get to tell you about this guy seeing me with my ashes and being all…

If you feelin’ like a Pope, Catholics, do not brush your forehead off.

Bitches be sinners, Catholics, do not brush your forehead off.

I hope this guy didn’t give up being awesome for lent.

"Ashies are the new selfies." -@hey_itsjenna

“Ashies are the new selfies.”
-@hey_itsjenna

the sunday currently

Friday night, I headed to this…eclectic bar called the Log Cabin with FunSized and a few of her friends. There was a band playing there that I met through FunSized – always a good time. The bar was hosting a theme night

Cabin Fever

Clever, right? This meant that there were tiki heads and grass skirts and bamboo decorations and bad jokes everywhere.

Case in point? Dancing with FunSized, up by the band?

Yes. I got lei’d.

It’s time for the Sunday Currently.

C U R R E N T L Y . . .

READING… The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. I’ve read it before, but there’s a movie floating around that I’m determined to eventually see.

WRITING… a lot of journal-y stuff lately. Problem is, I keep misplacing whichever blank book I’m supposed to be finishing, so I have snippets of everything in at least three different notebooks. Chronology is a bitch, folks.

LISTENING… to the new song from Nashville because holy crap, this show is addicting. And musical. And dramatic. And awesome. And Jonathan Jackson. Tuck Everlasting has a guitar and can sing, people. I don’t know if you knew that, but you’re welcome.

THINKING…that the song in that link above really ought to be released on iTunes because I’m in love with it. It’s so good. I hate country and it’s so good. The night ain’t long enough, I ain’t leavin’ without your love.

SMELLING…spring in the air. I’m not at all, actually. But it’s March now, so I’m hoping.

HOPING…see the smelling, currently.

WEARING…UGGS. All day, everyday. They’re so warm and fluffy in  winter. I’m so ready to put them away.

LOVING…the new hat that I should not have bought if I’m hoping winter will end soon. But it’s courtesy of themittenstate.com, and it’s excellent and warm and fluffy.

WANTING…to get a sweatshirt off of MichiganAwesome.com. Because it says:

Cold Hands

Warm Heart

And that’s wonderful. It almost warms my cold, black, Michigander heart.

FEELING…Cold. I know. You’re surprised.

Look, back when I was warm-blooded.

Look, back when I was warm-blooded.

.Link up to the Sunday, Currently.

Let them eat timbits! and other things I’d say as a benevolent Queen.

Once upon a time, on a blog far away, Poof wrote a story that would be one of those stories. Everyone has those stories — the ones they tell over and over because they’re just that good.

I love to tell the Zamboni tale, or the time that my Dad accidentally left my sister and me at a gas station, or the time that VS parallel parked my car on the curb. Because the point was that the car was all in the space.

These are the stories that are still funny, or if they aren’t, then I either probably hate you or love you, depending if you’re still laughing.

I went onto timehop today, and came to the realization that there was a story that had gone untold. Two years ago today, I would give up doughnuts. Specifically, cake doughnut holes.

In real life, I tell this all the time: whenever the JumboTron gets mentioned or someone offers me a doughnut hole and thinks I’m completely cracked out because who does not like a tiny hole made of doughnut?

This is the story of the Doughnut Queen

JumboTron

Once upon a time, Poof and I made plans to go to a hockey game. We had a group of girls, a ridiculous amount of Sharpie’d posters saying phrases that probably shouldn’t be allowed around children, and a hotel room for the night. We had the capacity for ridiculous things to happen.

Hotchtics at the Game!

Hotchtics at the Game!

In true form, Poof and I began our day overly excited and exposed to social media.

Twitter: where all things good and wonderful happen.

After all, ever since she and I had both ridden the great bright ice cleaner that is the Zamboni, I’d been crazy gung ho to have Zambattle 2012 happen. Who doesn’t want to see two girls strapped to the top of Zambonis with light sabers battling it out?

zamboni war

That question was clearly rhetorical. Because not long after Poof and I had begun our early morning banter, we had received notification from “the social media guy”.

20120226-144208.jpg

Everyone likes the idea of a Light Saber Zamboni Battle. Except apparently, safety regulations and the like – which meant that on this day, we might not be able to Zambattle, but we would be fighting on a completely different battlefield.

Baked Goods.

@AyronattheWings offered us in exchange for our light sabers and souls, a Timbit eating contest. It sounded simple enough. Here is a box of doughnut holes.

Eat.

Compete.

Win.

Thus, we accepted.

Fast Forward.

It’s the first intermission. Poof and I have spent the first intermission trash talking each other about our eating abilities and downing whalebones. We’d been approached at the beginning of the game, and we knew that at some point during the intermission, someone would come fetch us for our shining moment of infamy.

The exact phrase was they’ll come for you.

Doughnut holes should never sound so ominous.

We’re standing in front of a camera with a woman brandishing a microphone. We’re wearing Tim Horton’s shirts that were given to us, because everyone also loves free advertising. We’re movie star waving to our adoring fans as the woman tells the crowd that we’ll have one minute to eat as many doughnut holes as possible.

Start the clock.

20120226-145932.jpg

Within the first three seconds, things go bad. Bitches gave us powdered sugar. Poof and I both had the strategy of shove as much into your mouth as possible [insert jokes here] because we only have one minute.

We had one minute. We did not have enzymes.

My mouth is full of powdered sugar and cinnamon and doughnut and I have no saliva left.

It’s like the Sahara Desert in here, and I. Cannot. Swallow. [insert more jokes here].

I glance at Poof. She’s looking at me. There are tears in my eyes and I don’t know if they’re from laughing or crying. The woman with the microphone is still counting down and I’m debating if it’s acceptable to drink alcohol on the JumboTron because my whalebone is RIGHT next to me and liquid would be perfection right about now.

Poof eats another doughnut hole. I debate which I hate more – losing or doughnuts, and losing wins. The next doughnut hole was a terrible idea.

Poof and I make eye contact again and a combination of laughter, doughnuts, booze, and peer pressure overload my senses. I hold the box up to my face — more free advertising for Tim Horton’s — and pray to the hockey gods.

For the love of all things holy, please don’t let me throw up on the big screen at a Red Wings game.

And then, in the best display of multi-tasking I’ve ever done, I managed to swallow [jokes], not choke, dodge a doughnut hole thrown at me by Poof, and not throw up on the Joe Louis Arena version of national TV.

They count the remaining doughnut holes. I have two. Poof have four.

I’m simultaneously thrilled and nauseous. I’m both proud of myself and mentally swearing that I’ll never eat another doughnut again. The arena is cheering at the spectacle of it all and I scream out,

“I AM YOUR DOUGHNUT QUEEN.”

As I celebrate, the woman gives me my prize.

It’s a gift card.

For doughnuts.

20120226-150303.jpg

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