You know there’s those people who put I’m a people person on their resume, which really means that they have so little work experience that they need to put that they can hold some semblance of a conversation in order to try and gain employment?
I’m totally a people person.
Granted, it’s not on my resume anymore because retail is luckily and thankfully in my past, not that I didn’t get some great stories from the years and years I put it at Macy’s and Forever 21 and oh good fucking lord i always forget I used to work at Meijer.
But I’m still a people person.
Last week marked my two year anniversary at my current job. Two years of lots and lots of people person skills.
Today, an older couple came in together, as they always do. We started talking as they were preparing to leave, and it turned out that it’s their anniversary.
Him: 46th Anniversary.
Him: You’re wrong.
Her: You don’t remember to take your pills in the morning.
Him: I did this morning.
Her: Because I left them on your table like I always do.
Her (conspiratorially to me): It’s our 47th. He was a terrible husband the first year.
Him: I can hear you.
Her: I SAID IT LOUD.
I, of course, congratulated them on their love and marriage. They know I’m single [and once tried to set me up with their grandson. He's 20.] and told me that if they could make it work, anyone can.
Insert collective aw here.
So, of course, I asked them. What makes them work? How are they still so in love after this many years?
There’s a long silence.
Him: Here is the thing you have to remember. Here is the important part of life that no one realizes anymore.
Me: It’s my smartphone’s fault, isn’t it?
Him: Shut up. And yes.
Long silence again.
Him: It’s not where you are, or what you’re doing, but who you’re with that makes a life.
We all stop a second to take this in.
Her: I really wish you’d fart less.
Him: And I love you.
As always, follow me on twitter for the abbreviated versions of these sagas.
Husband: "it's not where you are, or what you're doing, but who you're with that makes a life."
Wife: "I really wish you'd fart less."—
Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) December 05, 2013
I read Camie over at Wild Spirit all the time (favorite blog alert)…
you & i, both.—
Wild Spirit (@camiejuan1) November 27, 2013
…and one of my favorite things that she does is her happy list posts. Things that make her happy on a day to day basis, which is something I don’t do enough in my life — acknowledging how good I have it. So, in honor of the amount of turkey and potatoes and pie I’ll be eating tomorrow, I decided to put together
.a thankful list.
Because I am really, really, thankful for a lot of crap.
2. Coffee, and the Keurig machine that my mother donated to my office so I won’t spend as much on coffee.
3. Singing. Singing with my Dad. Snapchatting Car-aoke to GoldDust and Poof. My out of tune guitar. Music of all sorts.
4. the amazing, astounding, irreplaceable group of ladies: Alto, CoSi, FunSized, GoldDust, Poof, and SoccerGirl, for being the best supporting, texting, BFFing, shopping, coffee-ing, snapchatting group of girls I have the privilege to know and love.
5. Writing. Journals and blogs and letters and tweets and everything that gets me out of my head and onto something that listens and responds and accepts.
6. Photos, cameras, snapchat, and the DSLR my sister gave me that I don’t know how to use, and the giant arsenal of memories that I have because of all those things. Mainly the memories, because of all the other things on the list. But it’s nice to have a tangible memory too.
7. That family group of people, that I appreciate more and more the older I get — how lucky I am to have a loving, weird, dysfunctioning functional family.
I know it’s not Thursday, but I’m gonna throwback anyway because PUKKA SHELL NECKLACE. pic.twitter.com/a97VT0gHD2
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) July 16, 2013
8. Soccer. I don’t even care anymore that I’m not really that good, and
probably definitely never will be. I have fun playing, and I have amazing friends that have come out of this team and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
9. this $1 zit stuff that actually really works. It’s make up of some sort. It kind of stings. But it totally works. Yay, working! Yay, clear skin!
10. Snow, and winter, and the whole, yay, magical season. I should be like this year round – more appreciative and thankful for everything around me. I really should, and I mean to be. But ugh, you guys. The snow falls, and it’s all magical and beautiful and shiny and I don’t even mind that I live in Michigan and everyone, and I mean everyone drives like a chatchnugget. DON’T EVEN MIND. Michigan, you’re gorgeous.
On that note. Here’s to an excellent and overstuffed Thanksgiving tomorrow, for whoever and however everyone is celebrating.
-1. Christmas Music. I am not thankful for Christmas music until after Thanksgiving is over.
A few years ago, on another blog, Poof and I wrote about how our friends MC Hammer and Judy Jetson would one day find a way to be together and be in love. Apparently, we’re ESP(N), because on Saturday, they did it.
1. The Hangover.
…which is really okay, because it meant in the great battle of Go Big or Go Home, we did good.
2. Another gem to add to my 27 Dresses collection.
The short bridesmaid dress was the best thing ever invented for weddings. Similar to when I head out for a random night out on the town, I’m all gonna dance all night.
This is a hell of a lot easier when you can wiggle around a little bit.
3. Preparation is the key to success.
Poof and I headed out to Target on a mission a few days before the wedding. We’d learned from prior experiences that you should always be prepared, like the boy scouts say, lest you end up in a situation like this one:
November 2k10 – Poof and Captain’s Wedding
We’d forgotten about making mimosas for the morning of, as we got hair and make up and such done. Therefore, I ended up in a sketchy area of town, in a sketchy party store, dressed up in UGG boots and a guava bridesmaid dress with a flower in my hair.
Man at the counter: …are you in the right place?
Me: Do you have champagne and orange juice?
Man at the counter: …yes.
Me: then this is the right place.
Therefore. Outdoor photos in November in a strapless dress?
Five inch heels and dancing all night?
4. Knowledge is Power.
After theAsian’s wedding a few summers ago, I learned that you should always bring flats to dance in, because you do not want to be the barefoot girl that goes home with black bottomed feet. Either you’re drunk in your sink, washing your feet off at 2 am, or you’re waking up the next morning hating yourself because you have to change your sheets with a hangover. You don’t like fitted sheets? Try them with the hangover on. This marriage was no exception to the new knowledge rule.
Bartender: Didn’t you just get a drink?
Me: I finished it.
Bartender: That fast?
Me: Some spilled.
Bartender: How much of it?
Me: It was an exciting song. I need a lid for my next drink.
Bartender: I can get you a sippy cup.
Bartender: I’m totally kidding.
Me: …but could you really?
Bartender: Why not?
I switched to beer after that, because I didn’t want to be the girl on the dance floor with the kiddie cup.
You know what was in my wedding present from SoccerGirl?
Lesson taken from this wedding. Grown up sippy cups mean fun for everyone.
5. What you don’t remember, the camera will.
83 photos from Poof. 91 from me. 15 from my actual camera which I forgot to use after I recruited my groomsman to carry it for me at the reception.
Photographic Memory, basically.
MAWWIAGE, guys. MAWWIAGE IS WHAT BWINGS US TOGETHA TODAY. Technically, it brought us together Saturday, but y’know.
All the best, friends.
Love and Marriage. pic.twitter.com/SvPUKTRmo0
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) November 16, 2013
I gave up Red Bull three weeks ago.
This might explain why I haven’t been blogging, because I’ve been all…
…without the deliciousness of taurine and caffeine and whatever other -ines I was regularly putting into my system to allow the amount of foot tapping and body shaking that I normally do.
But without Red Bull, I’m suddenly feeling like I have a clearer head. I sleep better. I’m not jittering all over the place, and I no longer have the desire to try and turn cartwheels down the impossibly long hallway of my office.
Wow, I realize. What a wise decision I made to cut something so terrible out of my life. Out, damned energy drink. Out.
This got me thinking. What other terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things have plagued me in my life that I should probably think about giving the boot?
Here, in no particular order, is my list of guilty pleasures that I’m in the process of kicking.
Fuck, I love my coffee. I love it so hard. And with no Red Bull, Starbucks has been poised to make a killing on my wallet and in my heart. But then some asshole posted that my drink of choice, the grande white chocolate mocha-licious, is about 1290343098573 (add comments accordingly) calories of love handles and empty promises.
Seriously. Basic math shows that my coffee habit of $4.29 at least twice a week is almost $500 bucks out of my pocket for the year. And I am poor. I am poor and I am paying to get fat. Granted, it’s so much easier to drive to Starbucks than make a cup of coffee in the morning. But I’m trying. Starbucks, you’ve been downgraded to special occasions and pity parties.
2. Shopping on an empty spirit.
Do you read my blog? Then you know. I’ve been a very, very sad person. I have had some very low moments in my life, and I’ve had a very, very full closet for some of them. Did I ever wear that t-shirt from Forever 21 that had the bicycle on it because it looked like me? How about that sparkly gem headband during that phase of fashion life where everything was bedazzled?
I’ve made some terrible fashion decisions because when I get depressed, I shop. Some part of my brain told me that if I was sad, things would make me happy.
They didn’t. Neither did my empty wallet. But now when I shop, I’m able to look at my armload of stuff and think to myself. Do I need this stuff? Do I want this? Am I feeling sad? And if any of the answers are yes, I set the things down, back slowly away, and call somebody who knows me.
Friends. Good. Impulse shopping. Bad.
I don’t know why I do this. I can’t think about it though, because it defeats the purpose of trying to kick the habit.
4. One Tree Hill > 8 hours of sleep.
I’m such a guilty pleasure TV show-er. I loved One Tree Hill, and Gossip Girl, and Gilmore Girls, and Veronica Mars, and OMFG, Did you know there is a Veronica Mars movie coming out!?
This would all be well and good, but Netflix. And TV on DVD. And other ways to spend hours and hours of your life just watching TV. I work a normal job schedule, then spend the rest of my time with my son, which means that the time I have to watch TV falls during post bedtime for offspring time. Which would be well and good except…
L.A.’s thought process for TV watching
Episode 1: I love this show. I’m going to watch this episode then go to bed because I have to wake up early.
Episode 3: Oh. Em. Effing. Gee. I have to find out what happens.
Episode 9. I can’t NOT finish the season now. I just should finish it. There’s only two episodes left.
Episode 34549837: Fuck. Is that my alarm?!
5. Sticking to things.
…I acknowledge that the following things may not be kicking habits, but simply growing up and making mature decisions. THE HELL, guys. THE HELL.
“I haven’t blogged lately,” I lament to Poof over my Benedict Timothy from Brandywine’s. It’s corned beef hash covered with eggs covered with Hollandaise sauce and it’s 200% delicious.
Poof is noshing on an omelette, which she’s affectionately named “n-omlette.”
“Blog about today,” she tells me. We’re dressed up to do photos for her fashion blog, which is our Tuesday/Thursday Mommy day routine. Sometimes it feels good to get out of the yoga pants. “Blog about wearing white after Labor Day.”
“But wearing white after Labor Day isn’t funny!” I argue. “White pants aren’t funny, unless you know the unlucky person who looks like Moses parted the red sea in her pants. And with my luck, it would be me, which means it wouldn’t be funny to me, so I wouldn’t want to blog it.”
We pause for a moment of silence – to all those women who don’t know when their TOM is and have ruined a good pair of white pants.
Post breakfast, Poof takes a photo of me trying to balance on a curb.
I’m failing, for one thing, for another, I realize my pants aren’t even white-white. The tank top I’m wearing is definitely white, but the jeans are just a shade or two off. They’re cream. Or ecru. Or off-white. Or…
“I’d call them more of a winter white,” Poof tells me.
“So they’d could be funny. If you happened to lose me in the snow,” I sigh.
“That’s why you should probably wear them after Labor Day.” Poof tells me.
Well. I’m silent. I have no response.
Touche, Poof. Touche.
I was filling out some paperwork the other day at work, and it asked me how old I was. I was running on autopilot, and immediately went to check the box that I’m most used to checking, when I realized.
Option 1: 18 and under
Option 2: 19 to 25
Option 3: 26 to 35
Option 4: You are old, Father William.
I am not the first option. I am not even the second option. I am the third option, and I am old. Buzzfeed keeps suggesting all these things on my timeline about “things you shouldn’t ask twenty somethings” and “how you know you’re in your twenties” and other such wonderful things expressing that I’ve aged.
It’s not that I really think that I’m old. It’s more that now that I’m old and falling apart with creaky knees and wrinkles, I’ve realized: my youth is over.
I saw my friend BlueSteel last weekend. He’s the same guy I’ve always known, beardy to perfection, with one exception.
“Blue Steel,” I ask him. “What is this?”
“Don’t remind me.” He shakes his head at me. “I don’t know how it happened.”
“Are we this old?!” I’m in shock.
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “I guess so?”
BlueSteel’s beard had gone from Henrik Zetterberg to George Clooney overnight.
“If it helps,” I tell him. “Whenever I shed. I have to stop and check. Especially if it’s a blond one. And I make sure it’s not grey.”
Poof turned the grand old 25 a few weekends ago. Quarter life crisis, yo. We had planned a nice, classy dinner with friends, followed by a drink or two. The day of the party, however, Poof’s husband Captain texted me with an idea.
All of a sudden, I wasn’t the DD anymore. We had the capabilities of “going out-out.”
Going out: putting on clothes that are not yoga pants, and going somewhere that is not your house. Out to dinner, out to breakfast, out to ice cream. Kids are possibly and most likely involved.
Going out-out: wearing heels. Wearing make up. Doing something to your hair, and staying out past your bedtime. Probably dancing. Probably loud music. Probably shots. Definitely a hang over.
And “out-out” we went. Next thing you know, it’s the next morning. I’m in my bed, in borrowed yoga pants and a t-shirt. GoldDust played responsible party and did not take a shot of Rumpleminze, and was much more bright eyed and bushy tailed. Then there was me.
Me: Yeah. Let me sit up. [Sits up]. Give me like five minutes now.
GoldDust: No breakfast? What if we just go to the mall?
Me: That sounds good. Let me just brush my teeth. [Heads to bathroom. Lays on floor. GoldDust finds me there.] Give me like five minutes now.
GoldDust: Do you think you can handle today?
Me: [Sits up on bathroom floor]. Give me like five…[GoldDust gives me look] I can’t do it. I can’t do today.
And I didn’t do the whole day.
Or the next day.
Two day hangover.
But, the big clue in that I’m out of my adolescence, and into the rest of my life I’m old and will continue to complain about it stage?
I was at work the other day, chilling, and one of my more amusing young patients came in. 16 years old, no filter, spiky hair. Probably a real catch on the high school scene.
Pt: I’m so old. Me: You’re 16. You can’t complain yet. Pt: You’re only like 20. Me: I’m 26. I was born in 1987. Pt: …that’s…vintage.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) September 25, 2013
That’s right. Vintage.
I have been too sentimental my last few blog posts. Getting back to random and funny parts of life.
My dating life…
Serious relationships are not my style at the moment, but it doesn’t mean I stop myself from enjoying the company of the opposite sex. And dating always has funny moments.
El and I met while I was on vacation in Grand Rapids earlier this summer. We met in one of my favorite bars, The Meanwhile. He was hard not to notice. Very tall and handsome with his dark hair and piercing brown eyes. He kept smiling and winking at me. He did this combo one last time as I walked out of the bar. I was smitten. I got a block away from the bar, and realized I was going to be bold. I told my friend that we were going back. I was going to talk to Tall and Handsome . She rolled her eyes at my grand plan, but agreed he was too hot to ignore. Making my way back into the bar, I sprinted up to him with my hand out to shake his, introducing myself. We chatted for few minutes and exchanged numbers. Feeling accomplished, I left the bar for the second time.
Ladies, that’s how it is done. You want to know someone and you want their number. Just go for it.
After flirty texting and two dates, we had realistic expectations about our courtship. I was going back to Detroit and he lived in Grand Rapids. But, it didn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy each other’s company when being in the same city. Physical attraction was too hard to ignore, too.
Two months, and countless text messages later…
El texted me to say he was coming to the D for the night. He and his buddy wanted to hit the casinos and wanted me to join. I was elated… a date with no expectations for a relationship. My style of a prince charming!
We had dinner and hit the casino. It started to get late, but El’s buddy didn’t want to leave the poker tables. So El and I left him behind and headed to hotel. Clearly, we wanted one on one time too.
Driving back to hotel, I pulled out gum. (You want fresh breath if you’re going to kiss your hot, out of town fling.)
Being polite I offered him gum too. Not really thinking, I just handed him my pack of Trident White Duel Pack. I expected he would just take a piece and hand it back to me.
NOPE! This did not happen.
Instead, he took a piece of gum for his mouth, and then ripped the dual pack apart. He handed me half and placed the other half in the middle cubby of his Audi.
I was dumb founded. Mouth opened, I looked down at my pitiful half pack of gum and then at the other half siting in the middle cubby. El stole my tartar fighting gum. I didn’t know what to say…
We made our way back to his hotel. I didn’t want to ruin the awesome evening by pointing out that he had stole my gum so I brushed it off. We finished out our evening.
The next morning, we said our see-you-soons and he drove back to Grand Rapids.
I can’t shake the thought that El is a gum snatcher. Like at least, he could’ve asked or offered to get me a pack gum when he saw me next. Any type of gesture would have been polite.
Ladies, beware you never know where a gum snatcher could be lurking. Keep your purses closed and keep an emergency gum pack for safe keeping.
Keep it secret, keep it safe.
Guys, I hurt. I hurt real bad. It’s not one of those crazy over emotional days or anything like that. It’s more of a “I hate being a girl” day.
That’s right. I’m oversharing, interwebs. I’m TMI-ing the hell out of the blog. Because right now, I have cramps, and they’re terrible, and that means that Mother Nature is about to send Moses to part the red sea or I’m about to ride the crimson wave or whatever the hell analogy you like to use to describe that I’M ABOUT TO BE MOTHER BITCH FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS.
I seriously hate this time of the month. DESPISE IT. I get all angry, then all weepy, then all drowsy, and then every emotion ever in the history of womenkind. I’m like the theater masks times six million.
So, I get all crampy, and realize that it’s about that time, and I go to check my “supplies.” As luck would have it, I’m completely bumblefucking out of my lady products. Of course I am.
So I wrap up the Boo, and buckle him in, and it’s off to the store. We get some string cheese, we pick out some random things from the dollar section because one cannot simply walk into Target and not buy things from the dollar section, and we get him a new toothbrush because why the hell not. Then we get to the girly aisle, and I get what I need, and I toss them into the cart.
Boo: What are those?
Me: They’re for mommy.
Boo: Can I have one?
Me: You don’t need one.
Boo: Why not?
Me: They’re for ladies.
Boo: Boys can’t have them?
Me: Boys don’t need them. They’re for Mommy’s…special time.
Boo: Like your birthday? My birthday’s in September.
Me: No, not that special. This is…mommy’s time of the month.
Boo: Oh. Can I have a birthday the next month too?
Me: No, it’s not like…present time special.
Boo: Do you get presents at your special time?
Me: Not the good kind.
Boo: They should be the good kind.
Me: I KNOW, RIGHT?
Then Boo saw some yogurt with Perry the Platypus on them and totally forgot about Mommy’s special things. Yay, short attention span.
We get home, and Boo runs upstairs and I start telling my mother about the awkward.com
Me: Boo asked me what tampons were. I debated telling him it means no siblings right now.
Mom: Don’t tell him that.
Me: Well, how do you tell a four year old about a tampon?
Mom: It’s for a lady’s time…
Me: -I’m being Boo. What time? Bedtime?
Mom: No, a time for a lady’s body to…discharge?
Me: WHAT’S DISCHARGE?
I go upstairs, feeling a little better because NO ONE CAN EXPLAIN A TAMPON TO A FOUR YEAR OLD BOY and Boo is in the bedroom with all his toys out. Also. With all my toys out*.
Me: Boo, did you open Mommy’s box?
Boo: They’re for boys too.
Me: How are they for boys? These are for mommy’s…body.
Boo: Uh, they’re pew-ers. DUH.