Category Archives: PSA

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Technology saves the day.

I love my iPhone. Seriously. It’s a little too intense for life, how much one can love an electronic device. But here we are, me waxing poetic about my love for a stupid phone.

the top five reasons I love my phone

5. instant communication.

4. the ability to stay connected to people that you normally wouldn’t.

3. the information highway.

I love being able to be on a road trip with my family and have discussions such as these:

Dad: I believe the background Book of Mormon was written by Joseph Mormon and was based on these golden plates that an angel gave to him to translate.

Me: How did he translate it?

Dad: I think he had some sort of translating stone.

Me: Also given to him by the angel?

Dad: Of course! I don’t know, I could be making this all up. Look it up. Do you have your phone? Google it.

This also lead to the information drought of 2015, when we drove to Canada and didn’t have access to the internet, only texting and phone.

2. Selfies. On selfies on selfies on selfies. I love photos. AND NOW A CAMERA IS IN MY POCKET FOR EVER. #SNAPCHAT (@LA_theGirl)

#Selfie #MirrorShot

#Selfie #MirrorShot

And.

The number one reason that I love my phone:

1. Spider just crawled on my desk and that phone killed it dead.*

*Author’s note: the next day, another spider jumped on her desk, and she did not have her phone and she crushed it with her bare head because scared of spiders and BAMF.

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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

 

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

Politics, Schm-olitics.

Do you remember a period of time, where you would be in line at the grocery store/sitting at a bar/some other social situation, and you would hear someone else’s conversation and really, really, really want to butt in with your two cents?

Basically, it was life before twitter. You couldn’t just just hit the ‘reply’ button and interject yourself into someone else’s conversation. Well, you could, but that didn’t mean you were welcome to or that whoever you were about to spew your opinion on was going to appreciate it.

Granted, the same goes for twitter, but you’re on twitter. You have to understand on there that someone might not appreciate what you’re going to say, or might argue with you, or might unfollow you, or all sorts of fun consequences for whatever your 140 character opinion is.

Credit to DavidDrury.com. Click photo for link.

I’m in line at the grocery store with two packages of toaster strudels, a can of red bull because i’m weak, and the Bastille CD because it was on sale and I seriously heard it was good and yes, I still buy CDs.

So, the person in front of me is buying her groceries with her kid and talking to the cashier about life. I’m half listening because I’m within earshot. The conversation is vaguely political – the Mom is asking the cashier if he plans to watch the State of the Union.

Their conversation, paraphrased, because when it got interesting I started taking notes on my phone.

Mom: The State of the Union will be on this week. Are you going to watch it?

Cashier: No, ma’am. Probably not.

Mom: Why not? Aren’t you concerned about the country?

Cashier: Yeah, I mean, I guess.

Mom: Then you really should be watching. Are you over 18?

Cashier: Yes, ma’am.

Mom: Did you vote in the last election?

Cashier: No, ma’am.

Mom: Why not?

Cashier: …I didn’t really care.

Mom: You should do research. You should be educated.

Cashier: Yes, ma’am.

I don’t like getting into political conversations, because let’s be honest, people are not always going to get along. And when it comes to politics, there’s a good chance that it gets heated and may not end well.

Photo from Keep Calm Studio. Click for link.

I once made a comment on Facebook about something political, to which the person responded:

Obviously, you’re a Democrat and I’ll be defriending you now.

And I was defriended.

Back to the situation at hand.

This woman is lecturing the cashier and I’m half debating if I’m on an episode of What Would You Do and if I should fucking say something. No one wants to be the person that John Quinones comes up to and asks WHY they didn’t do something, after all.

John Quiñones, in all his glory. Photo from hollywoodreporter.com Click for link.

Mom: Do you know who was running in the last election?

Cashier: Obama?

Mom: And?

Cashier: …

Mom: Do you know what political party Obama is?

Cashier: …Um…

She’s berating this guy. Like, he only wants to ask her if she wants paper or plastic and she’s probably all set to give him a pop quiz on the America government. I’m seriously going through potential things I can say in this conversation, and if I have the guts to say them.

Mom: Do you know what political party you are?

Cashier: …I…

But then.

Mom’s kid: I don’t think I’d want to go to any political party because it doesn’t look like any of them have any fun.

My abbreviated notes from eavesdropping. I really need to work on my shorthand.

My abbreviated notes from eavesdropping. I really need to work on my shorthand.

I have a new found hope in the youth of our country.

[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.

Sh!t kids say and I’ve got some ‘splaining to do.

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.

If you’ve never been this girl, then I hate you.
(GIF Credit: http://tremorsintoronto.wordpress.com/)

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.

Yay.

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. 

Perry the Platypus

Perry the Platypus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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?

Mom: …I…but….

Me: EXACTLY.

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.

Me: …

*I would have photo’d this, but I feel like that would have made it seem okay to give Spiderman a tampon and call it a pew-er. Here is a rough drawing of exactly what was going on.
Spiderman and his Playtex Pew-er.

Spiderman and his Playtex Pew-er.

Life imitates FRIENDS. Also. Mooning.

The Place: Wolfgang’s.

The Day: Labor Day.

The Cast: Myself, the Boo, and HanSolo.

The topic: TV Shows.

Conversation as follows:

Me: FRIENDS.

Han: Meh, I was never really a FRIENDS fan.

Me: Are you kidding? ANY MOMENT IN LIFE. ANY MOMENT. Can relate to a FRIENDS episode. THE ONE WITH THE ANYTHING.

NEW STORY. The Boo is in school. Full day, kindergarten. I walk him everyday with his backpack and lunchbox and it’s adorable. But this means that my Hotch and I have these mornings to do kid-free things like go outfit shooting for her blog (and occasionally mine).

This past Tuesday, we decided to venture out for breakfast before walking around Eastown, because I love Wolfgang’s. Wolfgang’s is the food of the gods.

The sitting and eating and conversation was great. Post eating, we headed out to a gorgeous fall day. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and the wind was blowing.

And Poof and I were dressed like this:

Morning Dates

Skirts. Fun and flirty.

We made it through most of our photo shoot relatively unscathed. We took photos. We found fun new places to take photos.

Poof: This alley is awesome looking.

Me: This alley looks like homeless men have peed in it.

Poof was right. It was a cool looking alley.

Poof was right. It was a cool looking alley.

But then. As most stories go, things have to happen.

And do you know what skirts do in this beautiful fall weather?

I digress. BACK TO THE FIRST STORY.

The Place: Wolfgang’s.

The Day: Labor Day.

The Cast: Myself, the Boo, and HanSolo.

The topic: TV Shows.

Conversation as follows:

Me: FRIENDS.

HanSolo: Meh, I was never really a FRIENDS fan.

Me: Are you kidding? ANY MOMENT IN LIFE. ANY MOMENT. Can relate to a FRIENDS episode. THE ONE WITH THE ANYTHING.

The one in which L.A. moons Eastown on a Windy Day.

Upskirt

You’re welcome, Grand Rapids. You’re welcome.

Sunnies: Target. Sweater, Skirt, and Kneesocks: Forever 21. Boots: Francesca's. Ass: 100% L.A.'s

Sunnies: Target.
Sweater, Skirt, and Kneesocks: Forever 21.
Boots: Francesca’s.
Ass: 100% L.A.’s

Cue Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide.

So Labor Day Weekend marks the transition from summer to fall.

This summer has been a magical time for me. I have been so fortunate to be surrounded by so many amazing people. I wouldn’t trade the late nights that turned into early mornings, the laughter or randomness. But I’m ready for the winds of change. The air reeks of it.

The leaves aren’t the only thing changing colors.

It seems like myself and everyone around me is in transition.

I just moved into a new house. I’m also making plans to change a few other things in my life, not just geography.

My dear friend Hot Chocolate is moving to another state for a his job this week. I’m sad to see him leave, but I’m so proud of him and excited to see what this opportunity will bring him.

He has given me so much this summer. More than I could ever repay him, so I will not burden him with sadness of leaving. I rather celebrate the joy of something new and exciting.

Hot Chocolate and I at his going away party.

Hot Chocolate and I at his going away party. Throwing up a deuce to the past.

L.A. is also in her own set of changes. Boo started kindergarten. Someone very dear to her moved away. She has other things that are in transition also.

It’s all chaotic. We don’t know what each day will bring. It all seems to be moving so fast. Not a moment to take a deep breath and enjoy it.

Summing up our thoughts on change. I'm too happy to open my eyes and L.A. is confused. But, we have each other to get through it.

Summing it all up. I’m too happy to open my eyes, and L.A. is confused. But we have each other to get through it.

Even with all the confusion and chaos, I have a sense of calm.

I’m excited about all the change. It’s progression. I love progression.

I don’t know if there is something in the water or if I have reached euphoria, but I don’t fear change anymore. I crave it.

Good things can’t become great things without change.

I’ve been afraid of changing
‘Cause I, I’ve built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I’m getting older too oh yes
I’m getting older too

in which we don’t need no stinkin’ pants.

I’m not that girly. I’m not going to lie. GoldDust tried once to put liquid eyeliner on me, and I cried before she even got one eye done. I’m just not a high maintenance female. I roll out of bed in the morning, brush my hair and teeth, and head out the door.

I forgot pants once because I was in such a daze.

This means, that when I go to the effort of getting dolled up, it’s a big effort. On Tuesdays and Thursday mornings, however, sometimes I’ll make the extra effort because I know I’ll be seeing my BFF Poof, who runs a fashion blog. It’s nice when our photos don’t feature her being adorable and me in a t-shirt. But that’s happened before.

One Tuesday and/or Thursday (I’m not sure which it was), I happened to be dolled up after playing photographer with Poof, and good things happened to happen. I got tickets to the most epic of epic things in the hockey world: tickets to the Winter Classic.

And you guys know that I love my hockey.

So, in a flurry of excitement and high energy, I headed to the most ideal place: Starbucks.

“Coffbanger,” I tell my barista. “GUESS WHAT I HAVE?!”

Coffbanger happens to have been my barista for a long time standing, and thus, he knows of my hockey love. He guessed within three tries that it was hockey tickets, and laughed at my outwardly excessive amount of glee.

However.

His co-worker was not such a good sport.

“Wait,” the coworker tells me, interrupting Coffbanger’s and my conversation. “You can’t be a hockey fan.”

Eyebrow raise here. The awkward silence says that he should stop talking.

The coworker continues, however. “You can’t be a hockey fan. You’re in a dress.”

Cue the jaw drop. Of course, I would never take this lying down.

Immediately following this trip to Starbucks, I had to inform the masses.

I’m so irritated. I’m tired of having to define icing to prove that I actually like hockey, as opposed to just wanting to hump Darren Helm*.

“Well,” I tell him. I manage to keep smiling. No amount of anger can wipe my “I’m going to the Winter Classic” smile off my face. And then this spills out faster than they’re making my coffee.

“You can’t be a man, you’re in skinny jeans.”

Coffbanger, the coworker, and I are all silent for a moment before Coffbanger lets out a snort of laughter.

Barista2

Mohawk summed it up pretty nicely. Of course I had to text someone about my moment of greatness as I walked away.

Seriously though. Can’t a girl like her hockey in a dress?

And such a cute dress too.

And such a cute dress too.

Seriously. I looked fecking adorable.

Dress: Free People. Cardi: Forever 21. Belt: Banana Republic. Wedges: Charlotte Russe. Comeback: 2000% L.A.

Dress: Free People. Cardi: Forever 21. Belt: Banana Republic. Wedges: Charlotte Russe. Comeback: 2000% L.A.

Sound off, female hockey fans.

Can’t a girl wear a dress and be a hockey fan? Or a sports fan?

I know I’m not the only one with sports colored knee socks for playoff games.

*the writer acknowledges that yes, she would also like to hump Darren Helm.