Category Archives: Twatterpants and other social networks
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.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) June 10, 2015
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)
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.
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.
I can’t believe I’m helping someone make money off of this.
This person put up a group photo and I have no idea which one he is.
I mean, this is basically a dating app.
I don’t want to date a group of people.
I don’t want to date anyone.
I don’t know why I downloaded this app.
Stupid peer pressure.
I don’t want to date your abs.
Or your dead animal that you killed.
Or this girl that is in this photo with you.
Or this tiger.
Why are there so many tigers on tinder?
THIS MAN IS HUGGING A BABY BEAR.
Fuck, I know this person in real life.
New text: Did I just see you on tinder? Fuck.
Holy crap, I had a crush on this person back in the day.
I’m a much better personality now than I was then.
I wonder which way he swiped for me.
I feel so pretty right now.
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.
Fuck, I spilled the Doritos.
My life is so sad.
This guy’s face is terrifying.
I did not swipe right!
The terrifying face just sent me a message!
He must be deranged, why the fuck is he up at 3 in the morning on Tinder?!
Me: I didn’t sleep last night.
Me: I deleted it.
CW: It’s for the best.
Dad: Where are you off to?
Me: Dinner with the ladies.
Dad: Which ladies?
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.
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.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) March 25, 2014
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.
Jack and Jill went up the hill and then slid down it on the other side on a board and were given a gold medal for their efforts.
*Note from the blogger — prior to publishing this post, a similar post of similar occurances was posted over at Waste Of Heels, a fabulous blog written by the incomparable-even-though-she’s-cheering-for-Canada-today-Lady B. This basically means that she’s me, but in Canada, and you should be reading her post too.
If you live in Michigan, you’re supposed to do winter-y things. Depending on your level of skill, this means sledding, or tubing, or snowman building, or if you’re truly talented, properly cleaning off your car so as to not be that douchebag that drives down the road with it flying off the roof at other motorists.
Now, I’m not saying that I don’t have winter activity skills…I’ve successfully built a number of snowmen in my time, and gone sledding and tubing while growing up, and there was this one time when my Girl Scout troop decided it would be an awesome idea to go cross country skiing, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t fall then.
…but if you haven’t noticed, sometimes I am occasionally…accident prone.
I saw my friend TomSelleck recently, and our conversation went like so:
Him: So do you have any new bruises?
(The answer is no.)
I’ve been snowboarding exactly
three four times in my life (now including the recent birthday festivities).
The last time I went, while attempting to figure out this “tow rope,” I fell.
Not coming down the mountain, but attempting to go up the damn thing. I fall within the first seconds of holding on to this rope, and since we had decided to try snowboarding on Christmas Eve, the place was basically deserted. No one was around to give me advice or maybe tell me,
DO NOT CONTINUE TO HOLD ONTO THE TOW ROPE.
Which means that I made it up the mountain. Hanging on for dear life to this rope. On my ass.
I showed up to Cannonsburg thinking we’d have a nice klatch of the high school crew, CoSi and FunSized to maybe be as skillful as I am and chuckle the whole way [potentially on my backside] down the mountain.
It turned out to be Arrington, his girlfriend (who brought her own skis), and me.
Arrington attempted to walk me through the basics of everything so I wouldn’t make a complete ass out of myself, and I actually made it down various hills of various sizes without too much bodily harm or embarrassment.
The Typical “Run” of L.A. down a Mountain on a Board
Start at top of hill. Congratulate self on making it up the mountain on the murderous rope of towing without falling. Strap foot in.
Arrington tells me to make sure that some foot that does something is either in front or in back because that’s the foot I can use for like steering or bracing myself or something like that. There is silent acknowledgement that I do not know how to steer.
Point snowboard down mountain because that seems like a pretty reasonable choice. Began sliding down mountain. Realize that I’m standing and not falling and try to keep my gleeful “sqee” noises to a minimum. I figure a deadpan face will make it look like I know what I’m doing.
Do a sort of turn to keep heading down mountain. Realize that snow seems to help with steering in the fact that it is making me go ways that I don’t think I was choosing to go. Pray that people know to get out of my way. Arrington tells me to use my back leg as a rudder to steer. I think rudders steer boats. This makes sense until another turn makes my back leg my front leg and I realize that I might not have full control of all my limbs and debate what I can blame this on when I inevitably crash.
Probably a spider bite. Paralyzed left leg. Have no control over it.
Realize I’m going incredibly fast. Arrington basically walks up to me because his normal speed is my fast and tells me ways to lean to slow down.
I lean. I slow down. It’s extremely effective. I remind myself to not forget the slowing down part.
Still going fast. Kind of freaking out. Realize that slowing down does not mean stopping and that the end of the mountain is getting close.
Lean. Lean. Lean. Lean. LEAN. LEANING.
Sit down on mountain. Stop. Am reminded of roller blading around my neighborhood as a youth, when I just jumped in the grass and hugged a tree to stop.
Did that on purpose, guys. I’m at the bottom of the mountain, guys. I didn’t even really fall, guys.
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.
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.
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.
Weird little L.A.
Imagine my surprise then, and the surprise of my girl friends, when I received a candy-gram.
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.
In honor of the holiday, I sent this text off:
Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you!
Who’s number is this?
“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!
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.
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?
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.
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!
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.
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:
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.
R E A D I N G I just finished reading Mitch Albom’s The First Phone Call from Heaven. The one thing I’ve always appreciated about Mitch Albom is his books are one-sit-reads. Quick, enjoyable, and PLOT TWIST.
W R I T I N G I’ve got my old journal which was started back in 2011 that I’ve been trying and trying to finish. I used to fill a blank book in two months with thoughts and ponderings and the like. I just cleaned out an old purse though, and it was filled with all sorts of mementos that I want to save. Plane tickets, concert tickets, photos, memories. I’ve decided that if I’m going to keep them, I need to put them in a journal now, lest they just sit in an old Coach bag forever in my closet.
L I S T E N I N G to Basia Bulat. The big sister (VS) introduced me to her song The Shore over Christmas, and I’ve been addicted ever since. The harmonies, you guys. The gorgeous, gorgeous, pee-my-pants-amazing harmonies. And then, you calm down about the harmonies and you’re like OMG, THE AUTOHARP. I tried to convince my Dad to buy me an Autoharp from Natural Wonders once. DOES ANYONE REMEMBER NATURAL WONDERS?!
Basia Bulat is actually coming to Grand Rapids on April 3 with The Head and the Heart and I’m pretty strongly debating going because I want to hold both hands up in the air and sing along to all the songs and all the words. Plus, it’s my birthday the next week.
T H I N K I N G that I might buy an autoharp. It’s a small instrument. It’ll fit right next to my guitars. They can all be friends.
W E A R I N G my church going clothes still. I’d like to also point out that I wore white jeans to church and they’re still clean.
L O V I N G that Peyton Manning is currently losing the Superbowl. I really don’t care at all for him. Or for Eli Manning. Or for the Williams sisters, or anyone else that participates in an OREO eating commercial.
W A N T I N G better commercials. Isn’t that what the Superbowl is about? The best moment thus far was when James Franco tried to sell everyone cars because Poof and I started texting Hoodie Allen lyrics to each other.
N E E D I N G Hoodie Allen to release new music. What’s the phrase they use? Drop the album, or something like that? Well, drop the album, Hoodie. Let’s go.
Feels good to make something you're proud of from scratch
— Hoodie Allen (@HoodieAllen) January 31, 2014
F E E L I N G like twitter’s White Bronco jokes might be more exciting than the actual Superbowl.
feels like 1994, because peyton is also a white bronco going nowhere
— josh (@Whoabot) February 3, 2014
Current Score: Seahawks: 5074915871, Bronocs: 17 close ups of Peyton’s face.
C L I C K I N G the refresh timeline on twitter. New jokes, kids. New jokes.
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.
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.
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.
Mom: Do you know who was running in the last election?
Mom: Do you know what political party Obama is?
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?
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.
I have a new found hope in the youth of our country.
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.
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.
I debated the situation as the day continued.
Apparently, I’m kinda hipster, but don’t identify as being hipster, and that may or may not make me more hipster.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) December 19, 2013
I mean, sure I was rocking combat boots, but I’d been wearing combat boots since the 90’s.
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.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) December 19, 2013
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…
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.
Inner Monologue: I don’t think she actually thinks it’s a nice jacket.
Me: It’s pleather.
Her: Of course it is.
I don’t know if I’m a hipster and my skinny jeans are too tight to properly debate the situation.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) December 19, 2013
It’s funny, after a wedding actually happens, I spent next month or so just saying that they should totally throw a wedding every weekend. All the hubbub in getting up to the wedding is over, and the end result is so awesome that you really forget about said hubbub.
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 —
…Yes. I 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 snowed, and this dress is strapless, and-
Send help. Can’t unzip dress.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) November 14, 2013
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.
@LA_theGirl this sounds like flirting.
— josh (@Whoabot) November 14, 2013
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!
@LA_theGirl oh god, i’d hope not. okay, i take it back, i take it all back
— josh (@Whoabot) November 14, 2013
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.
@LA_theGirl she is incredibly right hahahah hahah ha. …aw 😦
— josh (@Whoabot) November 14, 2013
Me: …unzip me?
@Whoabot She says she still loves me.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) November 14, 2013
- Nude shoes dos and don’ts (fashion.telegraph.co.uk)