Blog Archives

Technology saves the day.

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.

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)

#Selfie #MirrorShot

#Selfie #MirrorShot

And.

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.

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We’re the Cougars, obvi.

Dad: Where are you off to?

Me: Dinner with the ladies.

Dad: Which ladies?

Me: The ladies. CoSi and FunSized.

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.

Sign outside of CoSi, FunSized, and my old high school.

Sign outside of CoSi, FunSized’s, and my old high school.

Dad: …

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.

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.

Me: Practice.

Dad: Roar.

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

Fame is for A$$holes

Updated.

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.

#FAME

#FAME

#FAME

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?

How Much is my twitter worth.

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.

Haterade

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!

Update:

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.

I didn't do this.

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:

Pinterest

 

Suspicious activity?!

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.

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.

[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.

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.

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.

Silence.

Silence.

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

Me: It’s pleather.

Her: Of course it is.

I can hope and I can dream, cuz I am full of…full of…full of…

It’s funny, after a wedding actually happens, I spent next month or so just saying that they should totally throw a wedding every weekendAll the hubbub in getting up to the wedding is over, and the end result is so awesome that you really forget about said hubbub.

PAR EXEMPLE.

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 —

Said shoes and said dress.

Said shoes and said dress.

YesI 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 snowedand this dress is strapless, and-

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.

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!

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.

Me: …

Mom: …

Me: …

Mom: …

Me: …unzip me?

20 something is the new Decrepit.

So.

I was filling out some paperwork the other day at work, and it asked me how old I was. I was running on autopilot, and immediately went to check the box that I’m most used to checking, when I realized.

Option 1: 18 and under

Option 2: 19 to 25

Option 3: 26 to 35

Option 4: You are old, Father William.

I am not the first option. I am not even the second option. I am the third option, and I am old. Buzzfeed keeps suggesting all these things on my timeline about “things you shouldn’t ask twenty somethings” and “how you know you’re in your twenties” and other such wonderful things expressing that I’ve aged.

It’s not that I really think that I’m old. It’s more that now that I’m old and falling apart with creaky knees and wrinkles, I’ve realized: my youth is over. 

the creepy true then and now cartoons from collegehumor.com

Example:

I saw my friend BlueSteel last weekend. He’s the same guy I’ve always known, beardy to perfection, with one exception.

The Salt-N-Pepa Show

The Salt-N-Pepa Show (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Blue Steel,” I ask him. “What is this?”

“Don’t remind me.” He shakes his head at me. “I don’t know how it happened.”

“Are we this old?!” I’m in shock.

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “I guess so?”

BlueSteel’s beard had gone from Henrik Zetterberg to George Clooney overnight.

“If it helps,” I tell him. “Whenever I shed. I have to stop and check. Especially if it’s a blond one. And I make sure it’s not grey.”

I lamented the troubles to Poof later, because #darkhairdontcare, except I really really care.

Example Two:

Poof turned the grand old 25 a few weekends ago. Quarter life crisis, yo. We had planned a nice, classy dinner with friends, followed by a drink or two. The day of the party, however, Poof’s husband Captain texted me with an idea.

That thing in the background? That's a limo. It's pink. It's a hummer.

That thing in the background? That’s a limo. It’s pink. It’s a hummer.

All of a sudden, I wasn’t the DD anymore. We had the capabilities of “going out-out.”

Going out: putting on clothes that are not yoga pants, and going somewhere that is not your house. Out to dinner, out to breakfast, out to ice cream. Kids are possibly and most likely involved.

Going out-out: wearing heels. Wearing make up. Doing something to your hair, and staying out past your bedtime. Probably dancing. Probably loud music. Probably shots. Definitely a hang over.

And “out-out” we went. Next thing you know, it’s the next morning. I’m in my bed, in borrowed yoga pants and a t-shirt. GoldDust played responsible party and did not take a shot of Rumpleminze, and was much more bright eyed and bushy tailed. Then there was me.

GoldDust: Breakfast?

Me: Yeah. Let me sit up. [Sits up]. Give me like five minutes now.

GoldDust: No breakfast? What if we just go to the mall?

Me: That sounds good. Let me just brush my teeth. [Heads to bathroom. Lays on floor. GoldDust finds me there.] Give me like five minutes now.

Death becomes me.

Death becomes me.

GoldDust: Do you think you can handle today?

Me: [Sits up on bathroom floor]. Give me like five…[GoldDust gives me look] I can’t do it. I can’t do today.

And I didn’t do the whole day.

Sunday texts with Mohawk.

Sunday texts with Mohawk.

Or the next day.

Monday Recovery Texts with Poof

Monday Recovery Texts with Poof

Two day hangover.

But, the big clue in that I’m out of my adolescence, and into the rest of my life I’m old and will continue to complain about it stage?

I was at work the other day, chilling, and one of my more amusing young patients came in. 16 years old, no filter, spiky hair. Probably a real catch on the high school scene.

Anyway.

That’s right. Vintage.

Playoffs, Lucky T-shirts, and I’ve got a plane to catch.

So, it’s off to a sunny vacation after today. Which means you might be blogless without me for a few weeks — however, don’t worry, I leave you in very capable hands:

Wikipedia.org

That’s right. It’s playoff time.

It’s depressing that as I leave, round two is starting and I’ll basically be missing it, but I get notifications from every app on earth, really, not counting my hockey friends that text me in capitals letters when things happen, and oh, yes.

I have twitter.

This got me into a conversation over sushi on exactly what kind of fan I am, since let’s face it, now that the playoffs are in full swing, so are the bandwagon fans.

Photo credit: MemeGenerator.net

So, what exactly separates the bandwaggoners from the true fans?

Random Hockey Fan at a game I went to: We’ll get them in the fourth period.

ANYWAY. In no particular order, here are things that probably mean you’re [not] a bandwaggoner.

1. Eye rolls at the band waggoners. (See above comment from Random Fan). I asked twitter exactly what they thought of these fine sports folk, and that seemed to be the general consensus. You grin, and you bear it, or you post it on your twitter afterwards because this chick is legitimately concerned that everyone is upset now that the third period is over.

2. Superstition

I have a t-shirt. It got signed by Patrick Eaves (twice, in the same spot, because my Mom washed it and he signed it again for me, announcing, “shoot guys, we have a washer!”) and I’m afraid to ever wash it again. But every game I’ve worn it to — the Wings have won.

Superstition

I was gifted an epic pair of Red Wing scrubs. I used to wear them, clean laundry providing, on game days. But everyday that I wore them, the Wings would win. So, that last day of the regular season, when the Wings were playing for their play off life? It was jean day in the office. I wore Red Wing Scrubs.

3. You tweet about your sport. You tweet obsessively about your sport. You write about your sport. Your social media friends are fans of the same team, because twitter likes to connect everybody like that.

4. Your closet may or may not look like this:

5. The following type of conversation:

Dodger: Ah, the Equinox with the Red Wing Sticker.

L.A.: Says the KIA with the Dodgers license plate.

On that note.

Enjoy the playoffs, tweet me to keep me informed, and I’ll see everyone today, tomorrow, because it’s already tomorrow where I’m going.

SexCapades, by any other name.

So, after I wrote the post the other day involving the board games and the monopoly and the part where I question everything about modern courtship, I had some conversations with some of our readers (all seventeen of you*) about the content of the blog. On the one hand, I was all ERMAHGERD, real life people reading the blog and talking to me about it. On the other, the question asked gave me some pause.

Fan Mail

Well.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my blog persona of L.A…

Note the picture.

Note the picture.

And my “I don’t actually go by L.A. in real life” persona…

Same picture even!

Same picture even!

…have combined to really just be one mismatch of me on social medias. Really, I don’t have time to be hiding behind my blog name anymore. Which means, I’m sorry, but some of the content on here has disappeared to the nether reigons of the interwebs.

Maybe you did used to read about my various trysts or the time that a sheriff saw my butt in Otsego county, and maybe someday, I will continue to share those stories with you, because yes, they happened and yes, a lot of them are really freaking hilarious now that they’re in the past.

But mostly…

My mother reads my blog.

Fellow bloggers — do you have any “not postable” topics on your blog? Does your mother know what you’re writing about?!

*All 50 of you readers that like us on Facebook! (And if you don’t, WHY NOT?!)

Hey, thanks, y'all.

Hey, thanks, y’all.