Blog Archives

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.

Advertisements

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.

That angry little ghost with the camera, and other social medias.

My friends tried for weeks to get me to get a snapchat. The latest craze, and whatnot. But I was bound and determined to never ever ever use facebook twitter instagram keek gifboom snapchat.

Let’s be honest. It was really just invented to probably make sexting easier for people. 

I actually used this phrase with the 9 year old that lives across the street from me and was trying to convince me to download the thing.

“When I was your age, I didn’t have a cellphone, let alone have snapchat.”

Guys, I’m old.

I mean, maybe not in like the big picture-the universe is ancient scheme of things. But like, in my regular I’m on social media too much for my own good life, I’m fucking old.

The progression of my life from then to snapchat.

Age 17: First Digital Camera. I am mad because if I had gotten the camera sooner, I would have been able to bring a smaller purse to prom.

Age 18: AIM adds direct connection and we are able to send our pictures via instant message. My computer instantly slows down with the addition of so many JPEGs.

Age 20. First camera phone. I embarrass the guy who sends me the very first dick pic in my life when I pull the phone out in a group of friends asking what the hell it was. You really couldn’t tell what it was. IT WAS A VERY BAD QUALITY PICTURE, AND I BLAME LG.

Age 21: First camera phone with flash. I am temporarily blinded by the next dick pic because let’s be honest, those things are fucking awkward, and those early camera phone flashes were fucking bright.

Age 26: Snapchat comes into my life.

A few weeks ago when I was out with AsianDave and Alto. We were chilling at Yesterdog when this hot mess of a woman(in a dress twelve sizes too small with a BAC that was above the legal limit to walk in five inch heels) fell all over herself, and the two of them went crazy snapchatting her sorry ass.

They were not subtle at all.

They were not subtle at all.

“You need a snapchat.” Alto tells me. “We can send pictures all the time to each other. It’s like texting, but better.”

“But let’s be honest.” I respond. “Snapchat was created by people who wanted to be able to sext and not get caught. AND NOW SMALL CHILDREN ARE USING IT.”

“That’s true,” Alto agrees. “I’m actually pretty afraid every time I get a snapchat, that it’s going to be a dick pic.”

AND THAT IS WHY I WILL NEVER GET SNAPCHAT.

Cue to the next day.

TomSelleck

Yeah. I gave in.

“Here’s my stance on snapchat.” I declare, while simultaneously sending the above snapchat, another one of the menu of the restaurant we were at, and yet another one of my hard cider. “The instant I get a snapchat of a penis, I’m deleting the app. I know why they made snapchat. I refuse to have random manparts on my phone.”

“Actually,” TomSelleck tells me. “I’ve gotten all sorts of balls snapchats, from when my friends are bored.”

“…”

“…”

“…maybe it’s a guy thing.” I shrug.

BUT WAIT.

I’m snapchatting with Mystique.

Tanner Jones is my right boob, by the way.

Mystique’s boobs have names too.

the age old question

Rhetorical question, clearly.

Rhetorical question, clearly.

Back to that conversation with TomSelleck.

“Now that I think about it.” I say. “I actually get boob pictures on snapchat all the time.”

TomSelleck frowns. “I’ve never gotten a boob picture.

GChat

Dear Snapchat,

Thanks for not letting any dick pics get through to my phone*, and for showing me that men and women, we aren’t so different after all.

Love, me

*I’ll for serious delete snapchat if I get any. Don’t send me any. WEIRDOS.

You can be my wingman anytime.

I have to start this blog by telling you that I was kicked in the twat last night. Seriously. Someone took a shot and his foot landed in my lady parts and it hurt. Following the incident:

Lady part kicker: I’m so sorry!

L.A.: Fuck you!

So, the remainder of the game, I was focused more on the pain in my poonani, then actually playing the game. And then, the icing on the cake, we finished our game to find…

The streak is over. Red Wings went down in a shoot out to the CaFucks.

I was devasted. I yelled things that no one could understand. I could not put my pants on correctly for at least five minutes. I tweeted tears.

TEARS.

So, now, instead of focusing on the fact that the Wings lost, I’m going to focus on the fact that the Wings are AWESOME.

This is the story of the #AmwayWingMan game.

NeighborGirl's 1st Game!

Everyone should know by now, from clicking the link just above, that NeighborGirl and I won some tickets to the Valentine’s Day game from @JakeDuhaime. He’s the Red Wings social media guy, that put together this whole Wingman thing.

I finagled my way out of work, finagled LittleBro to drive NeighborGirl from the airport to the Joe, finagled my car into Tom’s Oyster Bar, and finagled my way to the arena. Early, even.

And I am never early.

We pick up our tickets and some swag bags and head to booze up before the game starts. I treat NeighborGirl to her first whalebone, because it’s her first wings game. I hope she reads this and sees that I WILL ALWAYS GO TO WINGS GAMES WITH HER because her first game was a record setter.

The game starts. If you’ve never been to a play off, then I hope you went to this one. The energy in the Joe was infectious. It started with a tribute to Holmstrom’s 1000th game. We were playing the STARS, who the last time I saw them play us, stole Ozzie’s 400th from being at home. I wanted revenge on them. I screamed from beginning to end.

If you didn’t realize by now, we won. Longest NHL home record. Because we’re just that awesome. I can’t explain how epic it was to be chanting “21” over and over by the end of the game.

Winning tickets for this game was by the far, the tops of 2012 so far. Kudos, Red Wings. Kudos.

Now. The actual Social Media experience:

Being part of the #AmwayWingMan game was definitely a guinea pig thing. While it was cool to win seats, it was definitely the first time they’d ever done it. There were so many people there, that we were majorly spread out and it was hard to connect with anyone. I got to briefly meet a couple hockey girls I’ve been tweeting with (@dweezlepip and @jrgrotto) and we talked for a little with the guys sitting next to us. That was a prime conversation.

“Hey,” NeighborGirl leans over me to talk to the boys next to us. “Where are your drinks?” I’m of course sporting a whalebone, and she’s got a beer.

The first boy shrugs. “Not 21.”

We look at the second boy. “And you’re not drinking…for support?”

Awkward.

YAY, social media! You found us on the twatter!

I tried to meet up with blog commenter BowTie too, (@MercBG2k), but with our seats where we were, it was hard to get signal, let alone to twat with anyone. That was frustrating, since we were all supposed to twat during the game. We looked over at one point and saw someone ACTUALLY able to twat. He was sitting on the steps, and after a second, I realized who it was:The Social Media guy himself: @JakeDuhaime.

We talked with him for a little bit about the event, and he mentioned he was on the Joe’s Wifi, that’s how he could tweet recklessly like he was. Lucky dog. But it turns out he was handling the Red Wings account, which saves me when I can’t watch the games. I follow those game tweets religiously when I can’t be there or in front of a TV.

Anyway, he snapped a shot of @jrgrotto for the Red Wings page, and I managed to stick my head in since I helped hold the sign. Love.

#StaySingle

In retrospect, I should have given him a business card. READ MY BLOG, please.

To sum it up. It was an awesome game. I can still hear 21 being chanted. I might frame that ticket. For next time, hopefully there is a pre party or post party. And maybe hook us up to Wifi too, so we may twat along. But besides that, a great event, a great free ticket, and a freaking awesome game.

I’d do it all over again in an instant.

21.