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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. 

Goose and Maverick.

Goose and Maverick.

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.


3. Anonymous.

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.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 "punk rock" costume.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 “punk rock” costume.

Weird little L.A.

Imagine my surprise then, and the surprise of my girl friends, when I received a candy-gram.

To L.A.

From: ???

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.

This was college L.A. You're probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine's now.

This was college L.A. You’re probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine’s now. Please note that I am wearing an NES wristband and have a flip phone clipped to my pocket.

In honor of the holiday, I sent this text off:

Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you!

The response:

Who’s number is this?


5. Finally,  I’d like to direct your attention to Valentine’s conversation with my sister, VS.

“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!


What Not to Wear

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.

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.

My silence is due to me having no freakin' clue what to wear. Besides like, clothes.

My silence is due to me having no freakin’ clue what to wear. Besides like, clothes.

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.

Poof: Just wear what you’re wearing now.More Questioning

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: Done.


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.

Rejected Outfits

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.

L to R. Poof, SoccerGirl, L.A.

L to R. Poof, SoccerGirl, L.A.

7:30 pm: Don’t worry. We were both clothed and complete ladies in public.

10:21 pm: Mostly.

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. 


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?

Oh, the humanity.

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 Back! I’m Back from the Future!

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.

I digress.

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: Nooooo

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.

Thanks, Mom.

At this point, I’ve realized. Holy Shit. I’ve time traveled back to 2005.

Young Doc: No! It can’t be; I just sent you back to the future!
Marty McFly: No, I know; you *did* send me back to the future. But I’m back – I’m back *from* the future.

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.


Pope John Paul II must be so upset with me.

Earlier today at Poof’s:

“Poof,” I ask. “You’re Catholic. And Polish.  Can you spell paczki.”

Poof ponders this for a moment. “P…a…zc…cz…ki? No. I can’t.”

Captain comes out.

“Spell paczki.” Poof orders him.

“What’s that?” He asks. “P…U…N…C…?”

Here’s a small fact about L.A.: Catholic school girl.

Seriously. When I say Catholic school girl, I mean LIFE LONG Catholic school girl. Since age 5, I have been enrolled in the Catholic schools systems. Grade school, high school, even some college. All Catholic. And yes, I was taught by nuns.

What does this have to do with anything? Well, non-Catholics, this means that during school hours, I was allowed to celebrate Fat Tuesday. We would get our Mardi Gras on by eating piles and piles of…


Now, when you’re in a Catholic school, lots of times on Fat Tuesday, we’d do little Catholic activities…like learning to spell PACZKI (See Poof and Captain’s attempts above). So since I was young, I’ve been able to spell this word. Seriously. I got extra credit in 3rd grade for spelling it right. Spelling? CHECK PLUS.

And because of all this, today was especially embarrassing.

While driving to Poof’s for coffee and merriment, I was reading twitter. She lives far away from me, people. And really, like you don’t tweet and drive. There were tons of tweets about #FatTuesday and #MardiGras and #ShroveTuesday and the like.

And there were lots of people tweeting about the paczkis. And they were all spelling it incorrectly. So, like the little grammar gremlin I am, this is what I did…

@LA_thegirl: If you can’t spell paczki, I’m unfollowing you. #fattuesday (the original tweet was removed due to embarrassment)

Anyway. I get to Poof’s and I’ve received a reply from JukeBox.

Please note that you can see the original embarrassing twat.

I don’t really read it over, just notice that he is saying I spelled paczki wrong. Which is impossible. Me spell pazcki wrong? That’s unpossibleSo, the smart ass that I am, I immediately do a search for an image of paczki to prove that I am correct and that he can go douche-tickle himself.


Haha, I think to myself. I’ve got you now, you music lyric-loving-twatterpants! WHAT NOW?!

By this point, I’ve sat down in Poof’s kitchen and questioned her and Captain’s spelling capabilities.

“Look,” I tell Poof. “JukeBox doesn’t think I can spell paczki. What a douchecanoe.” I open up twitter and scroll through to show her the tweet.

Oh no. I read my first tweet. Oh, the humanity.


Although, on the positive side, I did tweet maybe 30 seconds after my angry at bad spellers with incorrect spelling tweet. And I spelled paczki correct. I TOLD YOU I COULD SPELL IT. I do wish I had spelled it correctly in the angry twat, rather than the “GIVE ME PACZKIS OR GIVE ME DEATH” tweet.

PROOF I can spell this word. I wish there were more of a time stamp to prove my point.

You know what we’ve learned, readers? Polish people spell things funny. Also, there are reasons that they tell you NOT to text and drive*. It’s to avoid embarrassing moments such as these. Hope you had a fabulous Fat Tuesday.

You win this time, JukeBox. Game On.

*I don’t really condone texting and driving. Be safe, people.

The success rate of saving horses by riding cowboys

I told you. I told you that if I drank, this would happen.

THINGS. THINGS ARE HAPPENING. And yes, they are exciting, and YES, I haven’t blogged, but really. If you had the option to be DOING or BLOGGING about DOING, what would you choose? Plus, this way, I have so much more to tell you about.

You’re welcome.

Last weekend, I sang in the yearly Holiday Hoopla with the Symphony Chorus. It was the normal. Lots of Christmas Carols. Santa making jokes about the reindeer #occupyingthenorthpole. Merriment, cheer, etc, etc.

Thursday night, after the show, I pulled my friend Soprano over.

“Tomorrow night,” I said to her. “Gather your forces. I want to go out. I want to wear heels. I want to ingest this alocholic thing everyone keeps talking about. It will be wonderful.

Soprano agreed. She told a number of other choir members. And Friday Night, the heels came out.

We started at a brewery. We had four people in our party. But Soprano and I, exchanging words via Words With Friends, decided that we needed more. We needed to be up all night, just like the song. Thankfully, Facebook intervened.

Mystique and 3.16 are tagged at The Lodge.

I thanked Facebook, and immediately posted that I couldn’t believe they were downtown at the same time as me. Then, I showed Soprano, and off we went.


We enter the Lodge. There’s a country band playing. I remember this band.

The Country Band. Last Summer. Or maybe two summers ago. Who knows. I was drunk.

Mystique and 3.16 are huge fans of it, and last summer (or somewhere around there), I met up with them a few times and heard the band play. I was drunk. I sang to country music. Mystique tried to teach me how to line dance, but that ended terribly, up until I sat down sober some years later and learned Cotton Eyed Joe.

Mystique, rocking a musician's hat. I wanna say it's the bass player's?

Those drunken nights however…they even involved stealing the singer’s hat at some point. And wearing it. Until he stole it back.

Yes, yes, I’m a charmer.

You can see how excited I was that this band was playing. Everyone loves to be remembered as the drunk girl, after all.

Soprano and I took a seat at a high top table, looking straight across the dance floor at the band. Sitting is classier than drunk, I figured.

I leaned over to Soprano. “The last time I saw this band,” I told her over the music. “I was so drunk that I stole the singer’s hat, and that when we left I tried to limbo under every single parking lot gate.

Soprano gave me a look. “You’re kidding.”

I was not kidding at all.

I shrugged. “It’s mildly embarrassing.” We sit back with our beers to listen to the music. It’s nice and calm and not embarrassing at all until…

The lead singer takes a break from vocals when some girls take the stage to sing. He’s playing guitar and walking around the dancefloor when…

“Is he coming over here?” Soprano asks me. Seconds later, he’s at our table. Still playing guitar.


“Hey,” he leans over to me. “Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

Oh dear Lord, I think. He remembers my drunken antics.

He gives me a hug and I grin awkwardly. I’m so good at being awkward.

“Do you remember my name?” I ask him.

He gives me a sheepish smile. I’m secretly grateful because I’ve forgotten his. Blackouts count as forgetting right?

We [re]introduce ourselves. He tells me it’s good to see me. We joke about him serenading me. He heads back to the stage.

“What did he SAY?” Soprano asks me. I replay the situation to her. She grins at me. “We’re staying til closing time, right?”

OH HELL YES, we are.

FAST FORWARD. Soprano and I are being accosted by a man in a plaid jacket and an Asian in a snowflake turtleneck. There’s a bear wearing a sweater on the wall. It’s time to go home, kids.

I tell Soprano I’m going to say goodbye to the MusicMan. After all, he came to say hi to me.

“I just wanted to tell you good night,” I tell him. He hugs me again. “You had a great show.”

“Thanks,” he says. “It was cool seeing you again.”

I blush. “Considering last time you saw me I was pretty drunk, and I’m pretty sure I drunk texted you…”

He grins. “Well, hey, if you ever want to sober text me.”

More blushing. I fumble over some words like I don’t have his phone number anymore because I had only saved it under MusicMan the last time I had it.

And thus, he ends up entering his number into my phone.

Handing it back to me, he says, “You can save it under MusicMan again.”

Wink. End Scene.

Now readers. Aren’t you glad I went out drinking. And also.

Who wants to ride a cowboy?!


Cause and Effect

I’m sure you all know the concept of cause and effect.

Something happens which then causes something else to happen, etc, etc.

For example.

Effect: I have not been blogging.

Cause: Nothing BLOGWORTHY has happened.


Effect: Nothing BLOGWORTHY has happened.

Cause: I have not been drinking.

I hate to admit it, but interesting things happen when booze is in my system. Plus, since I never really drink anymore, I’m a huge lightweight. That means BLOGWORTHY can easily be purchased for under ten dollars.

Last night’s price, in particular, was $5.96.

NeighborGirl and I saw each other for the first time in about a month, which is terrible, considering how close we live to each other. She had tales of life, and I had stress, so we of course began our outing with beer. Tall beers. Tall beers for skinny girls.

Cause: Tall beers for skinny girls.

Effect: The following text message conversation with theCousin.

TheCousin: my dad watched twilight the other day.

TheCousin: I can’t wait to hear what you have to say about that.

L.A.: …

L.A.: Twilight is a terrible movie. Lol. I feel bad for your dad.

L.A.: BUT. Twilight did teach me not to bang a vampire.

L.A.: BECAUSE they WILL NOT kill you. NO. they will IMPREGNATE you.

L.A.: and then their VAMPIRE SPERM will kill you.

L.A.: which is bizarre because to impregnate someone you need to ejaculate which means you need to get it up and to get it up you need increased blood floe AND DO YOU KNOW WHO DOESNT HAVE BLOOD FLOW, THECOUSIN?!

In conclusion. Cause: Drink More, because Effect: Blog More.

This PSA was brought to you by Bud Light.