I’ve heard there’s a TV show by this name, but considering that we haven’t had cable at my house since about 2009, I wouldn’t really know. What I do know, however, is that getting dressed is such a pain in the ass.
Work in 16 minutes. Still no pants. #HappyFriday
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) July 3, 2013
Poof, SoccerGirl, and I decided last week to go out to eat. Which was a great idea. So great, that we decided we should dress nicely and wear heels since we barely ever get to do that (Except for Poof because she’s a fashion blogger and stuff). But seriously. I’m always in scrubs.
I wanted some damn high heels on my feet.
At least, I did, until it came down to D-Day.
Poof texted me a number of times throughout the day asking what I was wearing.
I tried to think of my closet and envision what I could wear, but then my head started to hurt because I hated everything single thing in it.
Poof: Did you decide what you’re wearing?
L.A.: No. I think I’m just going to go naked.
L.A.: I’m literally in underwear. This isn’t even allowed in public.
Poof: I’m going to burn my whole closet.
L.A.: OH. I want to do that too.
Poof: Did you know you can burn Doritos as kindling? And it makes multi-colored fire?
L.A.: I have heard that. We should burn our clothes AND Doritos. It’ll be a big colorful fire.
Poof: But what are you going to wear tonight?
A timeline of my evening before going out.
6:21 pm: Get home from work. Acknowledge I will not wear scrubs to dinner. Take off scrubs.
6:23 pm: Glare at closet.
6:25 pm: Candy Crush marathon.
6:35 pm: Above conversation with Poof. More angry glaring at closet.
6:41 pm: Try on outfit 1.
6:43 pm: Outfit 2.
6:45 pm: Outfit 3.
6:52 pm: Outfits 6, 7, and 20394803948.
7:00 pm: Stare at floor in dismay.
7:01 pm: Cry because I don’t know why I have so much laundry to do.
7:03 pm: Put on outfit. Hate it. Leave bedroom.
7:05 pm: Walk out door. Lock door. Realize I have no make up on and have not done hair.
7:05 and 30 seconds pm: Decide I’ve come too far.
7:10: Officially leave. Decide to later write blog. Decide to probably not do laundry.
7:30 pm: Don’t worry. We were both clothed and complete ladies in public.
Helllooooooo ❤ pic.twitter.com/N1UgNnMOyB
— Jenna (@hey_itsjenna) June 21, 2013
10:21 pm: Mostly.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) June 21, 2013
Oh, and fast forward a week. Repeat process.
Same story. Different event.
P.S. You can for real see exactly what Poof wore. Here it is.
- I Have Nothing to Wear: Part One (ninabadzin.com)
- How To Get Dressed in the Morning: Time-Saving Tips (stylecaster.com)
Once upon a time, I was in 8th grade. I was 13, young, innocent, and dating a boy that lived a block away from me. We were hanging out in his parents basement with a bunch of our friends, watching a movie, declaring our couplehood to each other, and occasionally kissing. Because that’s what all 8th graders in relationships should do.
At one point, my boyfriend leaned in to me and told me that he didn’t just like me — he really really liked me. I, being the sophisticated teen that I was, swooned and decided that I had the best boyfriend ever.
And when I turned my head to tell him this, he leaned his to kiss me. That’s when it happened. I felt his tongue crash into my mouth and hit my teeth in that awkward young version of kissing where nobody knows what the fuck is going on.
So, this is french kissing…I think to myself…I wonder if I’m supposed to do anything.
He all of a sudden leans back and jumps up from the couch, holding his hand over his mouth.
“I cut myself!” He yells, his hand still over his mouth. “I cut my fucking tongue!”
Did I mention I had braces?
Have you ever seen the movie John Tucker Must Die?
There’s a part of the movie, where the guy is about to kiss the girl and he bobs and she weaves and it’s basically really…really…awkward.
Heads butt, boobs are awkwardly brushed and then you don’t know if you should apologize or yell at the person for not matching your hugging technique.
So, rewind to last year sometime. I’ve been talking to this guy. Good guy, good friend, and the way we’ve been talking, it could potentially turn into something more.
The downside of the situation is that he’s living a couple states away, and the most personal we’ve gotten with each other is by text message and one very drunk phone call.
How the hell do you act in person then?
Time passes and the guy ends up moving back to Michigan. We make plans. I’m excited to see him, but am so nervous. It’s like I don’t know how to deal with real life contact after all this time apart.
But he comes over, and real contact is made.
He leans in to hug me. I lean to hug him. And all of a sudden…
He went one way and I went the other way and it ended with this awkward sort of bumping, bumbling hug that you give a relative or someone you don’t really care for. Where do you go from there?
We kind of awkwardly smile at each other and attempt to ignore the fact that we probably both would give better hugs to my Aunt Lenore, and I don’t even have an Aunt Lenore. At that moment, I find myself thinking back to that 8th grade boyfriend and my awkward first french kiss…
This guy and I still hang out that day, though we never really make any contact with each other besides eye contact. And that’s a stretch. When he leaves, we try the hug again. Only this time we switch directions and it’s still a fail. He finally just wraps his arms around me, and I kind of just chill out. I’m still thinking of that 8th grade awkward moment…
…in case you couldn’t guess, the 8th grade boyfriend and I broke up two weeks after the braces incident. Another month later, I woke up and found my house TP’d.
Awkward kissing encounter with the neighborhood boy turned into full fledged battle of the sexes neighborhood war.
I’m so sorry. This post is technically from last March. But it’s such a strange story that I’m sharing. That, and I’m sure you’re all wondering if GoldDust and I pulled a Thelma and Louise and drove off a cliff to escape you all. We didn’t. We still exist. Believe in us.
Lately, if you’ve been keeping track, I’ve been asked out on a number of occasions. Not really, I’m completely lying. I’ve been asked out thrice, and all the occasions were by young’ns with peach fuzz and vertical driver’s licenses. I never had a vertical license. It’s bizarre, really. My quarter life crisis is that I don’t look like I’m a quarter century old.
I have issues.
All this youth in my life made me remember this tale from last year. And reminded me: I need to stop dating down. Granted, I never actually dated this guy. I hung out with him once. That doesn’t count…right?
Originally posted March 12, 2011.I texted Poof last night, probably midway through the second period of the Wings/Oilers game. I really wanted to be AT the game, but just couldn’t bring myself to dish out the required $90 that would have gotten me there. A girl has limits. Scratch that. A girl’s bank account has limits.
So, I text Poof midway through the 2nd period. The wings are down by one. We’re losing to the Oilers. That’s not right. My fingers are crossed. I believe in the Wings. But I’m in a bad mood. I need good things to happen.
L.A.: Should I go hang out with a minor?
Poof was pretty adamant on this. So I listened, for part of the night. LeBebe was occupied with showing off for BabyDaddy’s parents so I instead escaped to the wonderful world of Buffalo Wild Wings for some old friends, hockey talk, and the third period.
I arrived just in time for Lidstrom’s equalizer.
I ate some boneless wings, drank a tall beer, talked about topics involving my high school playing hockey at the Joe for the State Championship or something like that. LET’S GO COUGARS, etc, etc.
Before long, however, I found my compatriots heading out following the OT win (Datsyuk!), and leaving little L.A. with nothing to do.
I’m sorry, Poof. I saw the minor.
His house ended up being fairly close to where I was at, and being that it was only around 11, I stopped by to say hi.
Now, the minor isn’t illegal. He’s 20. He’d need me to buy him alcohol and he couldn’t come hang out with me in a bar. But it’s not illegal.
So things could be worse. We talked about high school, and about my high school being awesome in hockey. We came to the conclusion that when I was a senior, he was a lowly freshman. Weird.
Minor put on SportsCenter and we watched the highlights from the game. He put his arm around me, because in case you didn’t know, hockey is really romantic.
Seriously. You can propose to me at a hockey game. Especially if you’re Darren Helm.
In this case, however, it was kind of weird. This young boy just put his arm around me, and then his mom brought us brownies. She warned me to be careful, because they were just out of the oven, and we didn’t want anyone getting burnt.
At this point, I’ve realized. Holy Shit. I’ve time traveled back to 2005.
At this point, it’s time to run. It’s moderately early, but I’m freaking out. Isn’t this why I have friends my own age? I’m debating how to plan a smooth exit when this happens.
“You know,” Minor tells me. “I’ve got this old jersey, and it just doesn’t fit me anymore.”
“You should save it,” I tell him. “Give it to your kids someday [when you’re old enough to have sex.]”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t think guys do that. I’ll probably throw it out before then.” He then gets up and leaves momentarily.
Five minutes later, he comes back and he throws a jersey at me. It’s a legit jersey, not one of the crappy fan jerseys. It even has the Konstantinov patch (see picture at top) on it. It’s definitely too small for him.
“It’s yours if you want it,” he tells me, sitting back down.
I pull out my phone and text Poof at a furious pace, which is actually about how quickly Poof’s dog can text. Poof’s dog has no thumbs.
L.A.: Can I take a hockey jersey from a random minor? Is that taking advantage?
Poof: Yes and no.
It doesn’t take more convincing. I take the jersey. I hug Minor goodbye. I leave with a Shanny jersey, my morality [mostly] intact, and a zip-lock baggy filled with Ghiradelli brownies.
I think his mom liked me.
Then, I hopped into my DeLorean and drove back to 2011.
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe there is something in my DNA that attracts people far out my age range to ask me out and put me into awkward situations that I can later blog about.
Or maybe it’s because I went to a high school with a motto that pretty much designated that I’d be asked to prom at 25. The world may never know.