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[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.


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.



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

Me: It’s pleather.

Her: Of course it is.


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.


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.


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.

Vacation. Also, adventureland is a terrible movie.

I’m leaving for Labor day vacation in t-minus 6 hours. I have plans to just run out of work, stop by the house, throw all the luggage and babies and babydaddies in the car (I don’t actually have plural of either) and drive until I hit Mackinac Island. I hope that the Equinox is actually a submarine.

OF COURSE my car is bigger than the ferry boats.

But you know what’s stopping me? The fact that I have absolutely have nothing packed. I’m a weird female in a lot of senses. I like sports more than most. I take little to no time getting ready. I barely ever wear make up. I spend as much time barefoot or in flip flops and only wear heels when necessary. But there’s one thing that I’m terrible at.


Thus, I present to you: a timeline of my packing skillz.

Last night.

9:34 pm: Arrive home. Acknowledge that I should pack before bed so I’ll be ready to leave on time tomorrow. Smell self, and decide that I need a shower after soccer more than I need to start packing.

10:00 pm: Get out of shower. Lounge around waiting for hair to dry.

10:15 pm: Realize that my hair still isn’t dry. Pull out bags to decide which one to pack things in.

10:20 pm: Convince self that I don’t need to go out and buy a new bag for a weekend trip. Glare at old ugly bag.

10:45 pm: Decide that the bag will have to do. Count the number of days I’ll be gone and pack appropriate undergarments.

10:50 pm:Exhausted from picking out underwear. Turn on Netflix to distract myself. Adventureland is suggested.

10:55 pm:Decide I hate Adventureland. Stare into closet and wonder how much I’ll have to pack. Wonder if I can make it through the rest of the weekend just in underwear.

12:00 am: Finally give up on movie. Check bag. Still only have underwear packed. Toss in a hairbrush, deciding I’ll probably forget that in the morning.

12:01 am: Pass out.

8:30 am: Wake up and get ready for work. Realize I still need hairbrush before I can pack it.

8:31 am: Unpack hairbrush.

8:35 am: Brush hair. Decide that I might need a swimsuit. Pack three.

11:30 am: Realize I forgot to repack the hairbrush.

11:33 am: Facebook GoldDust that I haven’t packed. Wonder if she brought enough for me not to pack more.

12:30 pm: Debate making list of things to pack so when I go home on lunch and I can pack easily.

12:31 pm: Watch Jenna Marbles tell me how females pack. Laugh a lot. Decide it’ll be okay because I at least remembered the underwear.

12:33 pm: Watch more Jenna Marbles vlogs because they’re more amusing than the thought of packing.

12:45 pm: Decide I really might need a list. Write PAJAMAS in big letters on my arm.

12:47 pm: Add heels and make up to my arm. Just in case.

Oh, and bring a toothbrush too.

12:50 pm: Write blog.

12:52 pm: Post blog.


2:30 pm: Manage to sort of pack things into small duffel pack. May have packed more shorts than underwear. May not be able to zip bag closed all the way.

**Update x 2**

6:57 pm: Load successfully packed small duffel with mostly zipped zipper. Stare at BabyDaddy’s enormous suitcase and declare him to be worse than me.

***Update x 3***

11:56 pm: Totally did forget hairbrush.