Category Archives: Fix My Lighthouse

FML

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.

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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.

Same heart, same drink, same place. #Tuesday #MadCap #grandrapids

A post shared by Laura Anne (@la_thegirl) on

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.”

VD.

I did a project on St. Valentine once for my 10th grade religion class. My teacher was a nun, and gave me an A- for seeming completely nonplussed about St. Valentine’s martyrdom.

“Are you happy about this Saint, Laura? He dies.

I wish I had a picture of this nun, complete with sound recording, to show you exactly how distressed she was by my attitude. It ever so perfectly sums up how I am towards Valentine’s day.

I wouldn’t be too surprised too, if St. Valentine was in the same boat as me on today’s culture though — chocolate and hearts and OHMIGOD, I DIED FOR MY RELIGION and all.

Here, in no particular order are my favorite Valentine’s tales of my life, thus far.

 

1. My first Valentine.

My seventh grade boyfriend and I fostered a great love, that spanned two skating parties, my first kiss, and approximately five months. That’s basically marriage, guys. Love and marriage, Catholic school style. The relationship did pass by a Valentine’s day, which meant we gave each other gifts and stuff — I actually don’t remember what I gave him – color me shocked, as usually I remember everything.

It was probably like…a rhyming poem, typed in size 12, impact font.

But he gave me chocolate and a card. It was very nice, and I remember opening it up, all excited and….

Dear Seventh Grade L.A.,

Seventh grade words of like love and stuff.

From, Seventh Grade Boyfriend

Granted, he drew hearts around the word “from.”

 

2. When records are broken instead of hearts.

During my splurge of “I don’t know why social media keeps letting me win things,” NeighborGirl and I entered a Red Wings Wing[wo]man contest. 

Goose and Maverick.

Goose and Maverick.

We submitted why we should be allowed to watch hockey on Valentine’s Day.

Men are good at disappointing. There are the men that don’t call, the men that won’t stop calling, and the men that don’t appreciate you. That’s why we want to spend our Valentine’s Day with the Red Wings, the men who have never really let us down. 98 new potentials couldn’t hurt either. This Valentine’s Day, we don’t want chocolates, roses, or even a candlelit dinner. We want cold beer, rowdy fans, and a Red Wings victory. The only red we want to see is blood on the ice.

Which we won, along with a bunch of other single people, which meant that we were watching hockey on Valentine’s Day. This was actually a wonderful Valentine’s Day.

 

3. Anonymous.

High school really did more of the same thing that middle school did. Holidays would come around and we would send candy to each other to support like…athletics and stuff. I’m not actually sure where the money we spent went. Except the bon bons. If you bought bon bons, you were definitely supporting the Latin Club and the Latin teacher’s probable drinking habit because my latin class was definitely a reason to drink.

By this point of life, I had realized that I was really socially awkward, and had no idea how I’d managed to straggle successfully through my formative years thus far. I was single probably because of all those things, and maybe because I once tried to make a utility belt out of crushed velvet and the back pockets out of a pair of jeans to carry my pens and TI-83 in.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 "punk rock" costume.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 “punk rock” costume.

Weird little L.A.

Imagine my surprise then, and the surprise of my girl friends, when I received a candy-gram.

To L.A.

From: ???

Instead of a message, this person drew an arrow, pointing to the computer printed bear saying Happy Valentine’s Day. We never did find out who sent that one.

 

4. Nothing says I love you like a text message.

Because the college version of me was so romantic, I chose to send my love not by flowers or candy, but by text.

This was college L.A. You're probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine's now.

This was college L.A. You’re probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine’s now. Please note that I am wearing an NES wristband and have a flip phone clipped to my pocket.

In honor of the holiday, I sent this text off:

Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you!

The response:

Who’s number is this?

 

5. Finally,  I’d like to direct your attention to Valentine’s conversation with my sister, VS.

“I’m going out with some girls for Valentine’s Day.” VS tells me.

“That’s always so depressing,” I lament.

“No, it’s empowering,” VS argues.

“Oh yes,” I say. “A toast to our empty vaginas!”

VS shrugs this off. “We’ll put chocolate in them.”

 

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Fame is for A$$holes

Updated.

Today, I looked at stats for the blog, just to see how things were doing. We’ve reached a rip-roaring 16,522 views since starting this blog in May of 2012.

#FAME

#FAME

#FAME

I’m thinking to myself,

Wow, we must have the same amount of views in the entire existence of the blog that the Bloggess probably gets in a day. This must be how it feels to make it in the blog world. Sort of. Maybe another 100,000 views and then we’ve made it.

I always figured that’s it is a really good thing that I enjoy writing, because let’s be honest, I haven’t really put much into the blog to get more than self satisfaction, the occasional enjoyable reader comment, and a few twitter-y friends. And I’m okay with that. So imagine how surprised I was when I went to log into wordpress and found that my username had been put on lock down.

Holy shenanigans. I think. Someone is trying to steal my incredibly cool albeit worthless blog.

I’m the next @N_is_stolen.

That made perfect sense, until I remembered reading Naoki Hiroshima’s story about his twitter name getting stolen. His username? That was worth $50,000. Mine?

How Much is my twitter worth.

This is according to TIME magazine too, so it must be accurate. Find your own worth here, if you’re interested.

Obviously whoever was trying to break into the realms of the Mitt was not after fame (16,522 views) or fortune ($81 dollars). I’m sitting here, wondering to myself, why the hell would anyone try to break into Chicks in the Mitt?

And then I got the e-mail that potentially explained things a little bit.

Haterade

You know you’ve made it, or something like that, when you get your first dose of Haterade.

Cheers, angry human being. Thanks for the views!

Update:

It’s probably not a good idea to thank potential people that may or may not be trying to hack into your life.

Case in point? I just logged onto my facebook and found this at the top.

I didn't do this.

Which is confusing, because I haven’t been on Pinterest today, and have never had it set up to post to my Facebook, because I don’t think you want to know what I’m pinning if you don’t follow me on Pinterest, and I don’t really want what you’re pinning all over my Facebook unless it’s delicious food and you’ve made it for me.

Facebook is for getting angry at people posting photos of babies and marriage and getting overly angry at rude political memes. And that’s all.

So, I go to log into my Pinterest account because I definitely did not pin this thing two minutes ago, and I find this:

Pinterest

 

Suspicious activity?!

Guys, I think someone is after me. They must not realize that I accidentally and stupidly got stuck in a snowbank this morning and that I’m really not that cool.

No, but really.

I made a New Year’s Resolution this year that I was going to try and stop over-analyzing things. Granted, I made this resolution about a week into the New Year, after over-analyzing exactly what my New Year’s resolution should be and how much of an impact it would make on my day-to-day life and if I was even really going to keep my New Year’s Resolution, because duh.

It’s a New Year’s Resolution.

So, I made this resolution and basically a week later, was on the verge of breaking it. It started simply enough – kind of the way that an old school AIM conversation would, if I remember 2004 correctly.

You: Hey

Them: Hey

You: What’s up?

Them: N2M. U?

You: NM.

Them: Cool

Except instead of acronyms, we used proper spelling, and instead of the ding-a-ling IM sound, it was the generic Apple text sound that everyone checks their phone when they hear because #teamiPhone. So, really, it went something like this:

Me: How’s Mohawk?

Mohawk: Mohawk is fine.

Simple enough. It should be, at least. Simple question, simple answer, and we all move forward in our lives. Except for the fact that I had made a New Year’s Resolution, and Resolutions are apparently meant to be broken.

Are you fine?

 

One of the reasons I decided to try and give up on “over-analyzing” the shit out of everything is because I over-analyze the shit out of everything.

But I’m fine, guys, I swear.

There’s this assumption that comes with being a girl and being fine. Are you really fine, or are you, like, the completely fucked up not fine at all that is now associated with saying that you’re fine?

It’s to the point where I don’t even try and say that I’m fine — or even better, I disclaim my fineness to accentuate the fact that I’m seriously okay.

 

I’ve realized that hearing that someone is fine is really like going through the five stages of grief.

Stage One: Denial

Untitled

Stages Two and Three: Anger and Bargaining

Anger

Stage Four: Depression

Stage Five: Acceptance.

photo 2

I DIGRESS.

Seriously, what was this post about again? [Scrolls to top of post, re-reads…]

Right. Over-analyzing.

Resolutions: 1.

L.A.: 0.

I’m fine, guys. Really.

[stereo]typically, i might be a stereotype.

Yesterday, during mornings with Poof:

Poof: We’re here so much, I feel like we should know their (the barista people) names.

Me: Are we here that much?

Poof: Basically. We’re probably almost hipsters.

Poof: (to the guy making coffee): Would it creep you out if we told you we like the way you brew?

Poof and I were at our regular seats at our latest favorite place.

MadCap Mocha in all it's glory.

MadCap Mocha in all it’s glory.

We normally head to MadCap on my mornings off, sit in the window seats, people watch, and instagram our coffee. I guess it’s kind of hipster, depending which filter you use on instagram.

Me: You are basically wearing Beatle boots. That seems kind of hipster.

Poof: Says the girl wearing combat boots and skinny jeans.

Me: …touche.

I debated the situation as the day continued.

I mean, sure I was rocking combat boots, but I’d been wearing combat boots since the 90’s.

I had a pair of these from GUESS that I basically wore straight through junior high. I also had a sleeveless white cotton shirt with a hood that I wore with the boots for whatever reason. WALK, WALK, JUNIOR HIGH FASHION, BABY.

MAYBE I WAS A HIPSTER 12 YEAR OLD.

I get to work and ask CW to document my outfit, for blogging purposes.

Me: Am I a hipster?

CW: [Takes photo.] You kind of look like a hipster.

Me: But the question is if it actually makes me a hipster.

I felt like I was in the hipster version of the You know you’re from Michigan when…jokes that Jeff Foxworthy does.

You might be a hipster if…

Hipster L.A.

So, then I’m heading to Harvest Health Foods, listening to The National and thinking that hell, if I am a hipster, then I guess maybe I’m kind of a hipster.

It is what it is.

I find what I need and head to the checkout. The cashier has multiple piercings in each ear. She’s wearing plaid and has a button on her apron that says “Hugs, not Bombs.” Her glasses are plastic, and when she steps out to bag my items, she’s wearing TOMS.

My inner monologue tells me that she might be a hipster, and so I smile at her, thinking that we might be kindred spirits if I’m a hipster and she’s a hipster.

Cashier: …that’s a nice jacket.

Me: Thanks.

Silence.

Silence.

Inner Monologue: I don’t think she actually thinks it’s a nice jacket.

Me: It’s pleather.

Her: Of course it is.

I can hope and I can dream, cuz I am full of…full of…full of…

It’s funny, after a wedding actually happens, I spent next month or so just saying that they should totally throw a wedding every weekendAll the hubbub in getting up to the wedding is over, and the end result is so awesome that you really forget about said hubbub.

PAR EXEMPLE.

SoccerGirl requested that the Bridesmaid wear nude shoes with our dresses. Which was well and good, and I was all of course I can wear nude shoes, until three days before the wedding when Poof and I both realized we don’t really have appropriate nude shoes.

This prompted the hubbub of a shopping trip – of finding nude shoes, and texting SoccerGirl pictures of nude shoes because it turns out there are a lot of nude shoes out there, and trying on nude shoes, and finally buying nude shoes. Then eventually, there was the hubbub of trying on said nude shoes with said bridesmaids dress because you really should see how it looks all put together.

You know, just checking and stuff.

I get to this step, and I put the dress on and the shoes on, and send pictures and snapchats and tweets and think to myself —

Said shoes and said dress.

Said shoes and said dress.

YesI can rock this.

After this whole process, I go to get out of the shoes and the dress, because it’s Michigan, and it’s cold, and my family has this thing where we don’t turn on the heat until after it snows, and it’s only November and it hasn’t snowedand this dress is strapless, and-

And I’m like. Mother. Fucker.

I start yelling at my mom like Will Ferrell in Wedding Crashers because it’s seriously really cold and I’m seriously really stuck.

Me: Mom. MOM. MOMMY. MOMMY! I AM COLD AND I AM STUCK.

Mom: Stop yelling. You’ll wake everyone up.

Me: It’s so cold.

At this moment, I get a tweet back to my #GirlProblems twitter plea.

Me: This guy says I’m flirting on the internet.

Mom: Tsk. People shouldn’t flirt on the internet.

Me: I wasn’t even flirting!

Mom: If you flirt too much, people won’t like you.

Me: I’m not flirting.

Mom: People who are like that just have low self esteem.

Me: …

Mom: …

Me: …

Mom: …

Me: …unzip me?

the quintessential halloween post.

When I was in the seventh grade, my classmate Katie hosted a Halloween party. It was for the entire class (boy/girl/gasp), and I had the genius idea to go as a punk rocker. Mind you, I was a 12 year old Catholic School girl. This meant that my idea of a punk rocker was a crushed velvet orange dress, orange colored hair spray, and the highest heels I owned (which meant I borrowed my sister’s three inch silver shoes, similar to what Judy Jetson probably rocked on a good day).  I even tried to mohawk my hair with the colored hair spray, but it’s fine Asian quality wouldn’t have it, and I ended up looking like I had stuck a fork into an electrical outlet and then set off an exploding ink pack.

Halloween 1999

Halloween 1999 probably looked something like this.

Then I showed up to the party, in all my orange glory. Half the girls were dressed like Britney Spears’, ala the Hit me Baby, one more time era. The other half was dressed up like poodle skirt girls. It was like the prepubescent female version of West Side Story. And I was dressed like an angry orange punk rocker fox.

I’ve never cared much for Halloween after that.

11 months out of the year, I’ll be excited-ish for Halloween.

I can be a butterfly.

I can be Daria.

I can be a parallelogram.

I can be a sexy parallelogram.

 

I’ve even passed the great divide of I’m going to be a lush in short-shorts for Halloween because that’s what girls do into the I’m going to be as unique and original as I possibly can be for Halloween because Halloween is a giant Pinterest campaign.

But then October comes around, and then the day off comes around, and I’ve got all these ideas that I’ve never actually gotten around to executing because I’m so dead set that Halloween will probably not be that great anyway. THIS YEAR, GUYS. THIS YEAR, I’M GOING TO GO AS A CATCH-22.

Instagrammed to Perfection. Hello, Sailor! Thanks to @hey_itsjenna for suiting me up.

Halloween Last Year, my thighs and I went as a sailor, courtesy of the House of Poof.

Case in point – last year, I borrowed a costume from Poof because I just could not decide on anything. I headed to Bottom40 with Alto, and while I, as always, had a wonderful Bottom40-y time with her, there were some random females that for whatever reason (Probably because I officially was wearing no pants) did not care for me, and essentially knocked every drink I had out of my hands. A few went onto Alto. Most went on to me. 

Happy Halloween, bitches.

So, here we are. It’s Halloween. 

This year…I’m going to be a Pikachu.

Or maybe a little pony.

Or possibly Mulan.

The Little Mermaid.

Texts with GoldDust about I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO BE EVER.

Texts with GoldDust about I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO BE EVER.

I’m being a Pika-LittlePony-Snowflake. So far.

I’ll keep you posted. Happy Halloween, kids.

Oh, yeah. This happened once.

Oh, yeah. This happened once.

I solemnly swear, etc.

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.

1. Starbucks.

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.

Full of delicious empty promises and cash money

Full of delicious empty promises and the college funds of all my future children and my children’s children and my children’s children’s children.

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?

Nope.

Never.

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.

3. Overanalyzing.

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.e. Sorry I haven’t blogged every week like I promised.

 

…I acknowledge that the following things may not be kicking habits, but simply growing up and making mature decisions. THE HELL, guys. THE HELL.

 

20 something is the new Decrepit.

So.

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. 

the creepy true then and now cartoons from collegehumor.com

Example:

I saw my friend BlueSteel last weekend. He’s the same guy I’ve always known, beardy to perfection, with one exception.

The Salt-N-Pepa Show

The Salt-N-Pepa Show (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“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.”

I lamented the troubles to Poof later, because #darkhairdontcare, except I really really care.

Example Two:

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.

That thing in the background? That's a limo. It's pink. It's a hummer.

That thing in the background? That’s a limo. It’s pink. It’s a hummer.

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.

GoldDust: Breakfast?

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.

Death becomes me.

Death becomes me.

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.

Sunday texts with Mohawk.

Sunday texts with Mohawk.

Or the next day.

Monday Recovery Texts with Poof

Monday Recovery Texts with Poof

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.

Anyway.

That’s right. Vintage.