Email Chain with My Mother

I have been emailing with my mom all day regarding health insurance papers, weekend responsibilites, etc.

This is the latest in a series:

Me: I'm famous on the internets (link to our company website and my photo...with quite a sad narrative on my prior experience)

Mom: looks good; we're impressed!! (like a good mom should)

Turn for the worse:

Me: I just went to the bathroom and realized that my favorite black vest, the one that brother calls my corset and also the favorite thing in my closet and the vest that K said I could wear every night because it helps me pick up men….and that I am wearing RIGHT NOW…is ripped in the back. How long have I been walking around all day thinking I look good but in reality like a fat girl in a little corset? I don’t know. Do my job responsibilities allow me to hide in my chair the rest of the day? No. Shall I start a new fad and wear my scarf backwards in an attempt to hide said rip? Its possible.

Ugh.

Oh and sorry I have been MIA...crazy busy at work. After next Wednesday this should be updated more often...many apologies.

UPDATE:
I am wearing scarf backwards. Going for an "OMG I am SO busy my scarf is just everwhere and I don't care or even know...so busy." How did this happen.

The Crazys Are Out Tonight

Ahhhh Halloween. In college this was like my most favoriteist holiday ever. Now, eh. Gross, I’m old.

Actually I don’t think it is as much that I am old, as much as it is that I don’t really have any confirmed plans. If I was going to a fun party, oh I would be all over this ishmael. I’m not going to get into why I haven’t confirmed plans yet, because I do have options thank you very much, but it is just a boring story about work and etc. blah.

So anyways, on a trip to Duane Reade for wheat thins this week I giggled when I saw a little cheap devil headband. Then I bought it. So if I go out tonight, and since I didn’t have time to costume shop this week, I will have to wear that.

Now this presents a problem for me as my mind likes to think waaayyy too into things and I get all self-conscious and well it sucks. The problem is this: this “costume” (so not a costume) could be interpreted by many (ie. people like me) who are wearing costumes as “OK WHAT is wrong with that girl she sucks. She is “too cool” to wear a real costume or what?”. Or it could be interpreted by others as my attempt to be “cute” and failing. Gross.

Lucky for me I think I am just going to intake bad things for my body, go to a scary movie and bust out my devil headband in a non-party scene. HAPPY HALLOWEEN Y’ALL!

Won't Stop, Can't Stop

OMG I am such a dork you guys. I have taken to giving the thumbs up. I do it ALL THE TIME and in MULTIPLE SITUATIONS. I am actually getting really embarrassed.

A few thumbs up situations:

Sitch #1:

Co-Worker: Would it be OK if I get said work document to you tomorrow instead of today?
Me: (thumbs up) Sure, no problem that is cool.

No, not cool. Not cool at all.

Sitch #2:

Co-Worker comes over to my cube buddy’s desk and starts speaking in Spanish. Cube buddy fluently responds. Co-Worker walks away.

I turn around and bust the thumb while laughing.

Cube Buddy: haha did you just give me the thumbs up?
Me: haha, yup I did. You speak Spanish now? You are like surprising me and being all important these days; speaking foreign languages, busting out your writing skills because you were apparently an English major…

Though the cube buddy responded with multiple laughs, WHY with the thumb? Many other ways I could have gone about that to get my point across, and I chose the thumb.

Sitch #3:

No-Name with GF comes over to my desk and asks how I’m doing.

My response? Smile, “good”, and again with the thumb.

It is true that I have invented a variety of uses for the classic thumbs up. How are you doing today? So good, thumb. Is it OK if this happens? Sure, thumb. You are being super cool right now; I’ll give you the thumb. It is nice to have a positive finger gesture when the middle finger gesture has given finger gestures in general a bad name. But, WHY AM I MAKING IT MY SIGNATURE MOVE? I don’t want it to be; not even a little bit, not even at all.

If any of you have seen the movie with the now anorexic Kate Bosworth and that dude who should have stayed on That 70’s Show because all he is doing now is movies like this then you will know what I am taking about in the next few sentences. There is a part in the movie that makes girls like my friend B (and me in secret) swoon when that dude tells Kate that she has 6 smiles and that means he loves her because he knows her smiles and stuff. Now this is a worst case scenario of a “what if” but WHAT IF the thumb busting doesn’t stop and some guy finally falls in love with me and tells me he loves me and I should know because he knows all of my 6 thumb move situations. I will die. Dead.

Post Weekend Update

I had a wedding this weekend. My poor friend had arranged for an outdoor reception and it ended up pouring throughout the entire day. Long story short I feel really bad for her and my new red shoes which are now covered in mud.

I did actually discover that daytime- evening receptions can be a hoot. This is because I was mildly sober and got to watch people line dance to songs that I did not even know called for such a dance and speak to the bride’s drunk mom who called a girl at our table a “skank” for leaving the party early.

And then came Sunday. K and I got stuck in horrid traffic coming back into the city. Few things about this:
1) I know NYC is a melting pot and so multi-cultural and blah blah blah but can I PLEASE find a radio station that is not either 1. Spanish 2. Indian or 3. Rap. Please.

2) I had my first displeasing experience with Sheetz. A creepy truck driver stood behind me in the screen order line. This was the one-way conversation that took place:
Creepy Guy: What are you going to get?
I place my finger on the “wrapz”.
CG: Oh yeah! Get a wrap! Oh what kind you gonna get? Get the beef. You should totally get the beef. Oh no get the chicken.
Me: ha uhhh.
CG: Oh man you making me want to get a wrap now!
Then he walked away. Unfortunately the wrap did not override the awkwardness that I endured ordering it.

3) I think big cities have a conspiracy to get people to pay the city by taking public transportation instead of driving their cars. No I am not high I am just a genius. My theory behind this revolves around the huge “Beware Congestion Ahead” signs placed on the highways leading into said cities. Yes, you do hit congestion. But why? Ever notice that when the signs stop the congestion stops? Why is this? There is hardly ever a cause. Accident? No. Construction? Nope. The traffic simply speeds up and off you go. If everyone just kept going 65mph and a comfortable distance behind the car in front of them everything would be fine! However, when a nervous driver sees a “congestion” sign they get nervous and begin to tap his/her brakes. There are studies behind this that confirm that one retard driver tapping their brakes can cause a traffic jam. K told me so and I believe her. I’ve broken the code. The city is evil.

At least today the Work Gods love me. I am tired to the point of exhaustion. My eyes are Asian from lack of sleep. I can’t walk because I decided today would be the day to break in my new 4 ½ inch pumps. These issues combined have almost run me into a few co-workers and walls while walking the hallways. Then there is the issue of maintaining a professional appearance while exhausted. I got Subway for lunch and was so hungry that I caught one of my co-workers silently laughing at me while he walked by my desk and I drooled ranch dressing and black olives while manhandling my 5 dollar footlong. Uhhhh…that could be a “that’s what she said.”

Anyways, the three meetings I had scheduled today got miraculously canceled. Halleluiah Amen to the Work Gods. I will now continue to do any work that needs done and does not require human interaction.

Update

Regarding this post.

A work friend just asked me who I went to the concert with the other night. I hesitated as I know I have told him about going to events with my roomate one too many times. Fearing that he was going to start thinking that I am a major dork and/or lesbian (not that there is anything wrong with that), I said "my friend K". And just like that, I created another friend. It was that easy. All I had to do was make two people out of one.

Genius. Let's see how long I can get away with that. If I keep up with this "I don't really have many friends in the city thing" it's really going to become sad and/or pathetic. It may already have. Last time I am talking about it, done.

New York is Slowly Stripping Me of My Belongings

It all started one day on the subway. I was jamming to “My Drive Thru” by N.E.R.D. because that song makes you jam. I could see a guy with a backpack, also with headphones on, on the other side of the turnstile. Naturally, as I am slowly but surely becoming a New Yorker, I thought screw him I can totally beat him to it.

So, I swiped my card and briskly passed through the turnstile before him. However, we did manage to bump/ uncomfortably rub up against each other. And that is when he stole by headphones straight out of ears.

OK, “steal” is a bit exaggerated. His backpack was really the culprit here. It snatched onto the rubber string and wouldn’t let go. Then I was left standing in the middle of the subway confused and alarmed while I watched the oblivious thief walk away with my headphones swinging gaily from his backside man bag. Two days of silent subway rides and a new pair of iPod ear plugs= over $30 in NYC theft damages.

Then there is the issue of my earrings. I have to admit that the loss of my items in this category is partially my fault as I have a tendency to not put on my earring backers when they are a member of the non-post family.

I have lost I believe a total of three earrings while in the city. This did not happen before. It happens now as a result of shuffling in and out of the subway train with headphones in. Or another occurrence is attempting to duck and curve and finagle my way in and out of ridiculously small bathroom stalls in city bars, usually while drunk. Total cost of theft damages= the embarrassment that results from walking around oblivious that I am only wearing one earring.

The breaking point wherein I realized that the city was stripping me of my belongings was this morning when I threw on my black dress, lifted my arms to brush my hair and saw…my armpit. A HUGE hole now rests in my expensive black dress. Thank you New York City insane dryer at the local Laundromat.

Did I change? Nope. Screw you city. I was running late so I simply threw on a jacket over my dress. And since I can’t sew, that is probably what is going to happen until I travel home for Thanksgiving and ask my mom to do it.

Total cost= the occasional breeze felt in my arm pit region which leads to the embarrassment that I am trashy and decided not to change this morning; plus the effects on my moms free time.

Last night I attended a Margot and the Nuclear So and Sos concert. As with the first time I saw them, they were fantastic. What impressed me the most was the encore.

The lead singer came out all by his lonesome and sang the entire encore with just himself and his guitar as he claimed that a bunch of the gears broke during the show. I don’t know if this was planned or if he just took one for the team, but it was great.

What made it even better was that he kept taking sips of his Budlight while being quite humorous and finally admitting that he was wasted. Wasted or not, every note was on key.

How do these people get so talented, honestly? So talented that they can bust out an entire show in front of picky, music snobby, NYC hipsters and impress them all?

This begs one to consider, can I do anything while on the juice and pull it off with flying colors?

I know I played lacrosse more than a few times in college while drunk. One of the times I thought I pulled it off, our coach gave us a huge lecture about how he could smell the booze stink on all of us throughout the whole practice and don’t think that we got away with it/ you guys are irresponsible booze hounds.

To consider what I do well drunk, I first have to know what I do well. This really bothers me as I feel as though I shouldn’t have had to take a break from writing this to ponder what this is. And then instead of listing out my skills, I am writing this paragraph.

Let’s go out on a limb and say that I sketch. This is based on the two weeks when I first moved here that I was in the apartment by myself and had nothing to do. So I went to Duane Read and bought a sketch pad. Since I had just watched “The Secret” I decided my first masterpiece should be an optimistic visual. So I drew a cutely dressed “urban” girl on a city street with friends. This is a futuristic visual as 1) my sketch girl has cuter clothes than I do in real life and 2) my friend making skills seem to be lacking (see previous post).

Long story short, while the sketch turned out much better than I had expected, the characters faces are shadowed in to the point of unrecognizability and their hands could pass for oven mits. If I had been wasted it probably could have passed as an abstract piece.

Game of life: DW- 0, talented band hippies- 1.

Neighbor Scouting

At some point, K (my roommate) and I need to make some new NYC friends. She reads this blog and I know she won’t take offense to this as I know she agrees.

This wouldn’t even be a post topic for some as certain people, extroverts if you will, can simply walk up to an intriguing looking person, have a two minute conversation with them, and deem themselves “friends”. “I think I shall call up Bobby from the Pathmark isle tonight. He was a nice chap and mentioned that we should meet up sometime while discussing our interest in domestic beer and cold cuts.” Yeah, no. With me that would never happen.

I have made a few work friends. But those friendships take a while to blossom from work time conversations to after hours events. You really can’t push those friendships. 1. could get awkward and 2. if it did get awkward, you have to see them everyday and they know who your boss is.

The girls who lived upstairs when we first moved in have now moved out. We were first pissed off by the replacements. Hammering things at 11 pm WILL piss your neighbors off. However, as their stay in our building extended, the noise changed from hammer to what we believe to be high heels. High heels wearing at late week night hours must mean they are going out. Could this mean they are cool? Cool going out during the week people?

Then another night we heard a guy voice. Boyfriend? Date? Whatever, who cares. You brought an often thought about but seldom seen man creature into our all girl building. You’re cool.

With all this I have become very intrigued by these new neighbors; however, have yet to see either of them. (I presume there are two as it is a two bedroom and no one in NYC can afford a two bedroom as an individual. It’s just simple science.)

So last night we heard an upstairs girl voice descending the stairs. K and I immediately met eyes. You thinking what I’m thinking?, our eyes said. Then we darted to the peep hole.

Me: What does she look like can you see her?

K: Hold on, stop pushing...she has a…suitcase?

Me: Is she alone?

K: Oh…uh oh. (moving away from the peep hole)

Me: what?

K: ummm I think she heard us. She like stopped in the middle of the stairs and looked around.

Me: That’s embarrassing.

And then we shamefully went back to our designated couches to continue watching TV.

I think we need a better friend-making tactic.

My Date with Hipster Glasses

While walking to the designated meeting place:

KG (my more sophisticated Baltimore friend): Heeeyyy! How are you?

Me: I need help.

KG: Okkk…

Me: I’m going on a date with hipster glasses and since we’re meeting there I have to walk into the bar and recognize him either when I walk in or when he walks in. I don’t even know if I remember what he looks like.

KG: Well he has Buddy Holly glasses you know that.

Me: KG I am in Greenwich Village, every guy looks like that.

KG: Oh. This it true.

Me: I am going to a wine bar. You know I don’t do wine. What should I order and not sound ridiculous?

After 20 minutes of reviewing my wine likes and dislikes and finally feeling comfortable with my decision, he commented that this bar’s wine sucks and ordered a vodka martini. That was bad sign #1.

The conversation began with him discussing how he was in various bands since he was in high school up until a few years ago, even playing at CBGB, and is just starting to get back into it and writing songs with hopes to record. I mentioned how cool it was that he played there since it is so legendary and he commented, “well no not really, at least not in the past few years. I actually like the store they have there now better, have you been there?” Me, “um, nooo.”

Then we discussed his job at MTV, which he hates because he contributes to “making people stupid”, and the options for his band name of which included “We Sell Balloons” and “Adjective None” or something like that which I believe is supposed to be some intellectual joke involving his French friend which I don’t really get. Then he asked me how I am creative/ my creative interests.

Well, I have none. So I said this in so few words and, for an attempt to sound charming, I said, “well I do have a great interest in music even though I don’t play it myself. So I do sing a lot, although you would never want to hear it!” Then I smiled a charming smile. Then he said, “well you never know you could keep working at it and…” OK, he is serious. So I said, “No really. I can’t sing.” Bad sign #2. Actually, I think we surpassed 2 at this point.

The night went on with me asking him questions because I lead a boring life and he does not. After making multiple jabs at Sarah Palin he told me he was voting for John. Although confused, I nodded. Then he looked me straight in the face and said, “I’m not really.” I laughed and said how that makes sense, he had me confused, guess I haven’t yet figured out his sarcasm. To which he said, “It wasn’t as much sarcasm as a lie.” Intellectual ass.

He grew up in the city and doesn’t understand the need for suburbs. I was born and raised in a suburb. He goes clubbing on Sundays, of which I have no interest in ever doing so. He defines his friend groups by “French friends”, “Spanish friends”, “Romanian friends” and “Gay friends”. I have college friends, high school friends and work friends. He likes the Rangers, I like the Blackhawks. He thinks the world is polluted and too much concern goes into things like “How I met your Mother.” I could rehash HIMYM’s Monday episode for you right now in this post. And I thought it was DE….LIGHTFUL. He goes out pretty much every night of the week. To this I eluded that he leads a pretty exciting/ fun life. His response? “I wouldn’t say that at all. I just think I pursue my interests.” Get me out of this date.

Long story short, it was not a horrible first date, but I definitely think I bored the hell out of him and he is not going to call. And I am completely fine with that. I actually think I would dread a second date as we clearly are not a good match.

Optimistic side of this? It was a learning experience.

1. I am not as scared of NYC dates anymore. Not as big of a deal as I thought.
2. I feel as though I am “getting back into the game”.
3. I learned more about wine from KG.
4. I know I thought of other good things but can’t think of them at this moment.

First NYC date = A Bust. Until next time…

Gym Hate

Is it just me or does it always seem that gym machinery is breaking down? What are people doing?

Seriously, my parents have had the same treadmill since the 90s and that thing still runs smooth. My dad used to use it everyday, along with me and my brother …still smooth. The kid next door that for some reason wishes he was a member of the family and tends to make everyone feel weird by calling my father “dad” even in front of his own kin? Yup, he used it...still not broken. Even my mom gave it a few whirls except for the two times she went to Curves...still running strong.

Then why, outside of my family’s basement and in the confines of “Merritt Athletic Club” or “the NYSC”, where they have 24 hour maintenance on these machines, do they breakdown AT ALL TIMES.

This makes for numerous infuriating and potentially embarrassing circumstances.

Unmarked broken treadmills are the worst. You get on and think you are good. I have learned to first press start to see if the thing rolls before stretching. This prevents the embarrassing situation of completing a full stretch, ipod turn on and set, and towel place before you attempt to turn the machine on and get nothing. Then you end up playing Treadmill Duck Duck Goose by getting off and trying one treadmill after the other. Chances are, the first treadmill you were on is YOUR treadmill aka your comfort zone. Therefore, since someone broke your damn treadmill and the stupid person next to you allowed you to look like a jerk and stretch for a half hour instead of telling you, “hey dude just saw 15 people do the same thing, think that machine is broken,” you have to try out other unknown treadmills, of which it’s guaranteed one of those is broken as well. WORST.

Another worst: noisy machines. Oh I HATE noisy machines. I like to be completely invisible at the gym. Don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, I am sweaty and don’t want to interact with you. Then I hit start and the noise begins. Eeeehhh rrrrrr ehhhhh. Hmmm maybe when I hit the incline it will stop…eehhh rrrrr boom boom racket. Guess not. Everyone can hear it and you know they hate you. I always look around to see if there are any people without headphones on before I make the ultimate decision of staying on the machine or risking getting off and getting an even noisier one. WORST.

Still more. The multimedia deadzone. This occurs when you step on your machine and realize your ipod is dead. Then you try the TV on your machine and surprise! That is broken too. Then you are forced to stare at the silent TV/ back of sweaty person’s head in front of you while trying to figure out what the actors are saying because gyms refuse to put on closed captioning. What can make this worse? A noisy machine. Then you hate yourself AND the gym.

You would think with all this hate I would be a Good Samaritan and tell the front desk when something is broken. But I don’t.

I think work no-name boy (not the one with the gf, the other one) has taken a liking to me. He began by asking me to a concert, then randomly happening to walk by my desk and stopping by on his way to God knows where because his job doesn’t include people who work on my side of the office, and then the latest, sporadic emails.

Unfortunately, to his ultimate embarrassment, he accidently sent one of his emails to another co-worker. Turns out I guess he really didn’t know my name either. To my evil-minded enjoyment, he happened to send it to one of my new work friends.

I saw her today and got to discuss this.

New Work Friend: Sooooo I don’t know if I am allowed to talk about this with you butttt...

Me: OMG are you going to bring up The Email.

NWF: Yessssss…OMG so crazy.

Me: Yeah, I know really weird. I told him no worries though cause you are cool.

NWF: Are you aware of the fact that he wants whatever you got and totally wants to have your babies?

Me: uhhhh…

This was included in the latest email: (^0^)/

That is a really complicated and time consuming way to make a smiley face. Or it is an owl waving, I have no clue.

And So It Happened

Out of the corner of my eye I see him approaching. He's got really big glasses and a really angry face. This could be potentially upsetting.

He places his hand on my cube.

I.T. Man: [SHOUT VOICE] So I see that you have been using SMS text on your blackberry.

Oh Shit.

Me: Uhhhh...

I'm smiling. Why am I smiling? You smile in uncomfortable situations. Remember high school chemistry class when you got kicked out of class for giggling about dirty words on your friend's calculator and burning someone's plastic pencil on the bunson burner? You smiled then. It's just what you do. STOP smiling. Oh God he's going to get more angry...

I.T. Man: [STILL SHOUTING] Our plan doesn't include texting so we have to pay for each one. No more of that. It's just for business purposes from here on out.

Me: [still freaking smiling] Sure, OK, yes. mmm hmm.

He stalks away.

Oh God. That sucked. That blackberry is never to be used again. Damn...hitting people up on bbm made me feel really cool.

I Yell Things and Make Weird Noises

If you have been reading this blog for a while now, you are most likely familiar with the fact that I may or may not have a bladder problem. That sounds gross…lets just agree that I have to pee…a lot.

On Sunday evening I was being lazy on the couch watching TV. I was extremely tired considering that I didn’t get home from my Saturday activities until that morning. I then woke up early and opted to watch Sense and Sensibility on Hulu.com instead of go back to sleep. Point of all this is to convey that I was very very tired and feeling very very lazy.

Anyone who has ever lived with me knows that I tend to subconsciously yell random things. Be it song lyrics, swear words, etc. If it comes into my head and I am in the right mood, it will come out of my mouth and most likely as a yell and/or shout.

So there I was lying on the long couch while K lay on the short couch. (We have only lived in this apartment a few weeks and have already assigned ourselves, without even talking about it, our own designated couches) And that is when I yelled, “FUCK PENIS!”

Yup. FUCK. PENIS. By the way, this post is NSFW. Too late?

What I really meant to myself inside my head was “Fuck I have to pee. I hate this pee problem I have…ugh I will just call it PEE-NESS. Fuck this pee-ness.” But it came out “Fuck Penis.” Needless to say, I just kept lying there watching TV following my bout with Turrets, not realizing that what I just did was highly unappropriate.

K: WHAAAAAAAAT?!

DW: What?

K: WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?

DW: ummm I think Fuck Pee…OHHHHHHHHHH.

Laughter ensued.

Your Mamas

...so fat she daydreams about a Subway sandwich then gets the "Five Dollar Footlong" song stuck in her head for the last three hours of work.

Oh wait that's me.

We’ve Got All Them Connections

Stepping a little outside of our normal comfort zone, K and I decided to go to a west village bar/club on Saturday night to dance to various DJ sets and pretend to enjoy getting all sweaty while pumping our fists with a bunch of strangers. It is actually a ton of fun minus the getting sweaty part.

In the process, we got to jump to the head of the line because we were the nerds who bought online tickets, I decreased my age by four years (when asked my age at the door, I nervously responded 21. Guess I haven’t gotten over that college fake ID at the door fear), I fell in love with an English DJ with skeletal face paint who goes by the name “Drums of Death”, K made-out on the dance floor, I talked to/ kissed a guy with hipster glasses, I made fun English friends in the bathroom around a lack of mascara and, once home and at the grocery store at 6 AM in our pajamas, got hit on by a Pathmark worker. All in all, a pretty fun night.

When the bar closed around 4 AM, hipster glasses ushered us into some side bar to drink past close. Apparently, he is frienemies with a girl whose brother owns the bar. While I was playing kissy face at a side table (so embarrassing) a guy struck up some friendly conversation with K.

Guy: So, who do you know that you are able to still be here?

K: ummm…I guess you could say I’m friends of a friend.

Guy: Cool, who?

K: well…umm…I’m friends with her (pointing to me), who’s friends? (inserted weird face and questioning voice as me and hipster glasses were doing some close faced talking at the moment) with him who’s kind of friends with her (pointing at frenemy) who’s brother owns this bar.

Guy: Oh.

K: Yeah.

Right. Moments later the frenemy confronted hipster glasses about how he has always been a “dick” to her the last few times they have seen each other. I, of course, was standing right there while she chewed him out. To her credit, he was a jerk to her; still awkward for me however. I guess she wasn’t all that bad as I later learned that she played teacher with K doing a “repeat after me” on how to actually pronounce the name of the bar we were at.

Long story short, we got to stay late night at a cool west village club due to a random compilation of short lived connections. On the walk home from the subway I mentioned that I didn’t really know if I was interested in this guy.

K: DW you are only saying that because he had glasses. You have to get over that.

DW: (realization that I was actually being a judgemental ass) Huh…yeah I guess you are right. Shoot well I kept pushing him away when he went to kiss me…damn well I like him what if he doesn’t call because I did that and he thinks I’m not interested but I really am?!

K: Shut up.

Food Me

One thing that I have found is a good and yet bad thing about living in New York is it is hard to be lazy. This is good because when one allows his or herself to be lazy, it always ends with some sort of depression. Oh God I did like nothing yesterday except ordered a whole pizza and then ate the whole pizza, I feel so gross…etc.

In Baltimore I would get in my car each morning as late as humanly possible then drive as fast as humanly possible to get to work. Now I am in no control. The trains control me. I have to make sure I am ready and out the door by a certain time or I will most definitely be late. Then I can’t sit in the comfort of my own car but instead have to endure around 20 minutes of humping a stranger and avoiding awkward eye contact.

Grocery shopping, morning coffee, a trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond and laundry (that task can fill a whole new post) are other daily activities that do not allow any room for laziness.

I love Whole Foods already prepared foods. Their salad bar makes me drool with just the thought of whatever pasta and chicken salady mixture they have going on today. But shall I risk the annoyance of rush hour Whole Foods just to get dinner? I want it sooo bad but I am feeling sooo not like dealing with whatever may come from going there.

So there you have it. I am attempting to make the transition to a non-lazy New Yorker. It sucks but is still so worth it. Did I mention that I am STARVING.

Week Night Adventures

I went out last night. On a Wednesday you ask. I know, it’s impressive. It’s kind of going to be my new thing- going out during the week. I moved to New York to experience New York, so that is what I am going to do.

I also went out a few Wednesdays ago and got a little too liquored up. Needless to say, the next two days at work were extremely painful. Today is better. I certainly do not feel completely normal, and my stomach is randomly churning in an uncomfortable manner, but it is better than last time.

My mom and dad picked up on the fact that I was a “binge” drinker during college. I think the picture that my brother found and threw in their face of me squatting eyes wide with a beer funnel in my mouth may have tipped them off. After this they sat me down for a little talk wherein they said it is so much more “attractive” and “potentially less embarrassing” if I simply get one drink and nurse it for the night. The sip and hold trick if you will. All the drunkies around you think you are drinking but really you are sipping and watching them be assholes. Eh.

Last night, for example, was so fun. I saw two good bands, the music was going, I’m dancing…its times like those when you think to yourself keep the booze coming. Game face? On. You give me a drink, I will drink it.

Luckily our after concert plans fell through and I went home and drank some water. And now I am alive. Hopefully someday soon I will grow up and into the sip and hold. Until then I will just dream of the morning that I am sitting in a NY diner and I look at my still drunk friend and say “I’m not hungover. I didn’t even get drunk last night.” And then that friend will get up on the diner table and yell “ohhh DW’s all grows up! And she’s all grows up and she’s all grows up!” That’s right. I don’t know which one of my friends would actually do that, but that imaginary friend is awesome.

PS
Worst part of the subway= the walk back up to the platform. Insert stranger’s ass in your face. It’s like that Nike ad that people claimed was homophobic but this situation is neither homophobic or racist. Just straight up “that ain’t right.”

Fail.

In the fashion mecca of the east coast I get a big FAIL. In my new life I have decided to choose my outfit for the next day the night before. This leaves me more time in the morning to actually do up my hair and leave the apartment in a timely manner.

When I am in my humble abode of Harlem, I do not care what I look like walking the streets. However, take the train a few (actually with where I live- a good 100) blocks downtown and I totally care.

I usually leave the apartment thinking I look pretty damn cute. For having not gone shopping in a good long while, and only recently taking in my 20 lbs of drycleaning, I am still doing OK. And then, inevitably, I get outfit trumped. Today it happened in the bathroom. One of the super nice (she would be nice so I can’t hate her) VPs was in there doing her hair and make up. And I swear, only moments before I was thinking my outfit is kind of cute. Very Anthropologie. And this even marks my first day wearing tights- so fall! And then I leave the stall and see her standing there all nonchalant in an outfit I would die for, and probably need to sell my whole current wardrobe to afford.

These situations always leave me feeling very Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink. They are the cool girls at school and I am the poor pathetic girl who has to resort to making up her outfits out of random scraps in her closet and the only person who pretends to like the result is my father and/or Ducky.

On another note, on my fateful trip to and from the bathroom I walked by one of our receptionist desks. She is this super sweet older and non-fashion forward lady with a bit of a limp who always tells me she likes my shoes. Thus, the last thing I pictured her listening to this morning would be Sean Paul “Temperature.” Yeah, what? Then on the way back it was “Keep Me Hanging On” 80’s classic by Kim Wilde. What is this station? Who is this person?

Reading All the Signs, Yet Still Getting No Where

Sign 1: A guy approaches a new girl and discusses gifts for his “sister.” Any suggestions? A conversation and acquaintanceship is formed.

Sign 2: Then the guy approaches the girl to discuss going out for drinks. He is going to try to get others to come he says. Til later in the week…

Sign 3: Day of said drink outing arrives. Whoops, no one else is around. I will see what I can do guy says. Later in the day, an email conversation is begun by the guy to discuss drinks. Hey, still no one else is around…weird. Instead of rescheduling, I’ll just wait here and play solitaire on my computer until you are ready to leave to go get drinks, just you and me.

Sign 4: A bystander giggles and tells new girl that someone has a crush! Who she asks? Me? She says looking “confused” with her best “what are you talking about silly” face. “No…Who do you think?,” bystander says, “I was a guy once before I got married and got my balls chopped off.” Hmmm…little inappropriate, yet true, new girl thinks to herself.

Moment of Crushing Reality and Embarrassment of Self: While walking to the bar, in the midst of conversation new girl asks the guy if he lives alone. Following a short yet slightly awkward pause guy says, “No, right now I am actually living with my girlfriend.” Um…oops. Confusion ensues, but new girl moves on with what she hopes was an “oh totally cool whatever” vibe.

Looking for something on the side? Just being a guy and not picking up on what he was putting down? Just being friendly to the new work girl with no friends? I am opting to pick one of the later options and move on while hoping to add a new person to my guy friend roster. Still…I can’t help but feel a little thrown.

PS. Rain, a 15 minute late train, stressful emails from boss at 6 a.m., an annoying UPS package that requires a signature while I’m not home, a baby screaming on the late subway train all add up to OMG EVERYTHING today. Law of Attraction says think happy thoughts…this must be why people take prescription drugs.

In a Dramatic Attempt

In a dramatic attempt to learn cute no name’s name following yet another conversation about possibly getting drinks in approximately 1 hour 15 min I emailed the guy behind me:

Subject: shhhh

What is the guys name who was just at my desk? I don’t know all of people’s names yet! Whoops!

Him popping head up: “I don’t know I wasn’t looking!”

Me: “What?? Ahhhh…OK hold on…”

I sent another email with physical descriptors. He obediently replied with a guess for a name and ? Then I realized, even if he guessed correctly, I don’t know the name so how will I know if it is correct. I’m in quite a pickle.

UPDATE
I just got an email from no name. It has been solved. HOWEVER...it is a name that can be shortened thus STILL presenting a problem. One would think, if you were said no namer, that if I really knew who he was, I would indeed know if he preferred short or long version of the name. AHHHHH. I guess I am just going to have to go the "so do you like being called..." Sucks.

That’s Nice, and You Are?

When you are new, and most likely on your very first day, a staffer takes one for the team and walks the newbie around the office to, in old school office language-show him/her the ropes. This is a humorous display for the non-newbies because it is entertaining to watch this person be dragged around the office, have to explain who they are 20 times, smile and shake, smile and shake some more, get dozens of names and job descriptions thrown at them, and then smile and shake.

The problem occurs when you start seeing one of the people/ persons that you were introduced to on that fateful walk about the office and they know your name, as you are said newbie, but you have no clue what theirs is. Not a clue. Not even an inkling. Maybe you so far as to not even remember their face and/ or department. I met you? You work here?

This has happened to me more than a few times, but two stick out as a continuing issue. And each conversation leaves me with that pink elephant in the room feeling.

1. After work hours invitation guy

I think it was the end of my second week and a guy that I had run into in the coffee room approached my desk. We had already shared brief conversations relating to “how am I doing” and “wow subway was crazy today huh.” All in which he said my name and I nodded with complete knowledge that I had no clue who he was. I kept this to myself, now regretting that decision. Basically, this guy came over to my desk and invited me to a Friday night show to see a band that he had an extra ticket for. I don’t think it was necessarily a date invite, as it wasn’t quite delivered in the “I am asking you out” way. However, I claimed other plans, which I actually did have, and still do not know his name. And still run into him.

2. Guy who I really wish I did know his name

Why you ask? Because he is cute. I met him on my second day and will randomly run into him at other times throughout the office. Up until last week we just shared a smile and hi acquaintance relationship but recently we have begun to actually strike up conversations. It is now to the point that I would feel really weird and rude asking him his name. This morning, ironically, a lady called him Henry. Turns out its an inside joke because she thinks he looks like one but he doesn’t like the name. Funny, cute, not fair- because I still don’t know the real name. At least I can rule one out.

The Big Apple Meets DW

So, I got the job that I referred to in the post below. I learned that the other candidate was a 40 something year old man. Feel a little bad about taking a job away from a man who could possibly have a family to feed, but…haha I win.

So I moved to New York City. I really thought this whole blog thing was over but with the changing seasons, my attention span is drawn back into writing and posting. My initial hesitation circulated around my life not containing interesting enough material, but as I stood on the train this morning getting sway humped into a half asleep pot-bellied man by an asian lady holding Starbucks I thought to myself, I am sure I could pull something together for a post each day.

When you move to New York you immediately try to identify yourself more with the “natives” than the “tourists”. Although buying a subway card and catching a speeding cab are daily activities that are still foreign to you, you attempt to the best of your ability to act like it is something you have been doing everyday for as long as you can remember. When you are actually a local and paying God knows how much money to BE a local, the last thing you want is for people to think you are NOT a local.

I am beginning to find that certain stereotypes held by the different NYC neighborhoods are actually quite spot on. For example, right now I live in the upper west section of Harlem. You begin a cab ride on the lower ends of the west side and as you gradually work your way up, lets just say I know when I am getting closer to home. And men do listen to old school R&B and play chess on fold out tables and chairs outside the subway stop. And non-English speaking people do try to force the Metro newspaper in your face each morning―don’t you remember me from yesterday and every other day- I DON’T WANT ONE! (Everyone is nice though…that is actually a stereotype that is not true- most often, if you are nice, they will be nice)

Another example, my roommate K and I went to West Elm to buy a new rug. We were not so pleasantly graced with the presence of a not as attractive version of Will and Grace at the check out counter next to us. In a quite unsuccessful attempt to purchase a curtain rod, the pair asked for pretty much every box of that particular item that they had in the store. Grace proceeded to examine every piece in the box and conclude that every single box of that item in the store was missing a piece. I may be wrong, but one could assume that since every box was “missing” this piece, it could be that Grace is actually mildly retarded and not that the West Elm factory managed to forget the same exact piece when putting together 20 boxes of that particular curtain rod. Anyways, the store and the surrounding streets appeared to be graced with a lot of Wills. Upon glancing at the West Elm business card conveniently located at the check out counter it all began to make sense. “K check this out,” I pointed to the business card that read “West Elm, Chelsea.” K responded, “OHHHHHHH. So that is where we are. Well that makes sense.” Not that anything is wrong with that, but it did make more sense.

The job is going well thus far, however I must add that this is day 20 of the new job and also marks the first day that I decided to not do my hair. From what I can remember, it all starts to go down hill from here. First you quit doing your hair, then you start blogging in the middle of the day (check and check), then you start “forgetting” to put eyeliner on, then you say screw it, wet hair it is…you catch my drift. But we’ll see, I would like this inevitable process to go as slow as possible thus to keep up the facade that I actually do not mind coming to the same place every day from 9-5 and am doing professionally well. More to come…

Vent Session and Other Tired Ramblings

For those of you who still have me nestled in your google readers awaiting my return, I am not back. No worries, I do the same thing with the Company Bitch. And let me clarify that I am not by any means comparing myself to the Company Bitch, because that would just be arrogant and silly. Plus I false alarmed you with a series of posts and broken promises a few months back. No, this post is not a return, simply a medium for releasing some stress and thoughts that are nagging my brain. That is what blogs are technically meant to be for right? Good. So now that we are agreed…here goes it:

Situation stands as an open position with a great company in NYC. There are two candidates. One is me and the other is a stupid whore or whore man (sex is under negotiation). Who is this person? I want to know as they are seriously screwing with my universe. My life is currently sitting in a bunch of boxes on the third floor of a new house that I didn’t want but am signed under in a two year lease. Shall I unpack or leave it packed?

Now I hate that I am writing this for a few reasons. One is that I am letting even more people know about this interview while there are already too many people involved. That just adds to the list of people I have to grin and act like I don’t care when they ask “did you get the job” and I say “um yeah NO.” Two is that I am already way too excited about this. The intent was to act like I didn’t get it and then be all yay and happy when I did. That obviously didn’t go so well.

Thus again begs the question, who is this other person? Are they an MBA city local with a business suit look by day and hipster tude by night? Are they a total nerd who stood at the top of their class and gave the graduation speech while their peers looked on wondering who the hell they were? Are they the naked girl my roommate slept with last night who walked the wrong way out of the bathroom at 4:30 AM and flicked on my light and started to crawl into my bed as I stuck out my foot in blanket to stop her while nervously repeating in a crescendo “wrong room, wrong room, WRONG ROOM!” (let me just briefly repeat that last statement in parenthesis and sporadic capital letters just so you can really bite your teeth into it: NAKED girl turned on my light at 4:30 AM, twice, and then tried to CRAWL INTO MY BED) Are they a person, unlike the aforementioned naked girl, that I would like and want to be my friend? Who knows. But I do know I don’t want them to exist. Not even a little bit, not even at all. (since I just made that reference I want to clarify that Julia Stiles would NOT be my friend, I kind of can’t deal with her)

So here I sit. Waiting and wishing and stressing. And tired. Because I was woken up at 4:30 and couldn’t sleep quite well after that. Weird I wonder why.

Life as I currently know it, is a circus.

Right

I started to try to explain and ended up with a not really funny tale involving a girl named Jenny, a missing corsage, a smitten Mr. UPS man and a torn dress.

Regret

5 Ways to Interact with the Hot Office Boy Who Looks Like Brad Pitt in the Neighboring Office

1. Get stuck in the elevator with him and make a witty comment about the pains of office employment
2. Walk by him in the hallway and give a lovely “come get me” smile
3. Strike up a conversation with one of his co-workers thus forcing him to join in
4. Walk by him in the hallway and drop a pen. Proceed with the “bend and snap” move made famous by Legally Blonde
5. Don’t break his nose while performing the bend and snap move

1 Way to Not Interact with the Hot Office Boy Who Looks Like Brad Pitt in the Neighboring Office

1. Finding yourself engrossed in a never-ending feud with the hallway door and your key that is too retard to open said door. Spot Hot Office Boy coming at you at lightning speed and spit out an illegible “grr he HI er” and still not manage to open the door.

Weekly Spam Porn Tivo

From: keisha-maksavat@COELBA.COM.br
Subject: In rod we thrust
Really? I mean, really?

Patty Pop: Creative or Just No?

Mother’s Day is vastly approaching and my mom will be mad if I spend money because she is very aware of the fact that I do not have any. So I bought her a nice card and spent a long and thoughtful five minutes during my lunch hour writing a meaningful message about her being not only my mother but best friend, tear. I can’t get her candy because she won’t eat it. I can’t get her flowers because my dad will bitch when they die and my mom won’t throw them out because they are “from DW” and then they attract bugs and I get a phone call about my stupid gift. And I can’t buy something nice because nice + $ = mom angry --> me :(. Then, much like those parents whose child splatters paint on canvas and they pretend it’s art, I believed I had a fit of creative genius. FYI the premise for this gift is that my mom loves peppermint patties.

The Ingredients for my Creative Mother’s Day Gift…which I now regret but it’s already been fedexed Saturday delivery:

1. two peppermint patties
2. two green drinking straws
3. green sharpie
4. tissue paper stolen from your place of business
5. clear tape

I made peppermint patty flowers. I really did, this is not a lie. In case your mind is not as advanced as my own, I will now explain how the aforementioned ingredients are created into a peppermint floweristic masterpiece. The patty is the flower (still wrapped I may be stupid but not gross), two straws taped strategically at the ends are the stem and the tissue paper (colored on by the green sharpie) ruffled up and taped onto the straw are the leaves. Shazam. Am I 4 years old? My brother will probably buy her a cashmere robe from Oprah’s Favorite Things and I will look like a total ass.

Spam is My Dirty Porn Tivo

When our company first set up our spam filters it would catch my usual Rated-G predators such as marketing conference updates and letters from my Uncle Ed. However, as time wore on it made a giant leap from Rated-G to Rated-XXX. Suzie wants me to buy a pleasure pump. Roger@asmatgrr.com thinks I’m single and hot. I think I will post a weekly dirty spam email a week. That will be fun, I get even better ones. Since I originally found this hilarious I decided to share it with my co-workers. Turns out Office Hater gets no such messages, it’s just me. Now I’m concerned. Delete Delete Delete. Why are they appearing? Why me? Maybe the cleaning guy is looking at porn on my computer after hours. Or somebody is playing a dirty trick on me. PUNK’D Cube Farm Addition. Kutcher you dirty little rabbit.

I did what I bet you wish you could do…maybe

I just screamed in my office. I am not quite enjoying my day so I was already experiencing that “I think I might scream OMFG what if I actually do what if it comes out of my mouth/ vocal cord” feeling. Then I went and got a cup of coffee. And then I screamed. It was like this weird cat scream; no real noise came out except a little “eehhhhhhh” while I made a weird squinting face with my nose and eyes. Then I just stopped. And then I felt weird about myself and walked out of the kitchen and back to my desk.

Welcome Back DW

So I’m back. I apologize for the long hiatus. I can’t really tell you why I stopped writing other than I just did. After my 4 readers bugged me about taking away a reading distraction from their days, I thought I would start up again. I have made the decision to write a bunch of posts before I post this to alleviate any pressure I would feel by posting this and then needing to post something interesting right away. So, right now as I write this, you don’t even know I am back but I am. Sneaky…and a little loserish on my end. However, no promises for duration; the world and my attention span are an uncertain place(s).

A Letter to the 11th Floor Cleaning Lady

Dear 11th Floor Cleaning Lady,

As nice as you are with your little Spanish accent and your curly black hair, you are screwing with my bodily universe.

I understand that life must be difficult for you. Technically, your position is a step down from that of a hotel cleaning lady. The contents of your cleaning bin do not catch the eye of passersby or hold precious little soaps from recognizable brands. Instead, you are forced to haul around a bright yellow roller cart with scratchy toilet paper and Aldi’s brand windex. Your co-workers do not giggle reminiscent of Blue Crush, but instead include a young Mexican who I often find reading the newspaper or stealing our company lunch’s leftovers. I feel for you, I really do.

However, do you have a time chart tracking my bodily functions? If you do not, I am honestly appalled. Because each time throughout the day that I have to pee, you are there. I cannot pee with you there. Stage fright always ensues. Each time you attempt to be kind and say, “It’s OK. You can go.” But I can’t, you just do not understand do you? The bathroom door is wide open, you are strolling throughout the stalls changing toilet paper and paper towel dispensers, things are clashing and crashing about…it is very stressful. Not to mention the fact that I know that anyone who walks in the office hallway during this time can hear me pee. That is straight up creepy and uncomfortable.

I must admit one more thing to you that may help you understand my predicament. I currently have an issue with our office receptionist. She no longer enjoys opening the office door for me due to my multiple bathroom breaks. And YOU ARE PART OF THIS PROBLEM. When I head to the bathroom and see you there, I walk right by. This means I still have to pee, yet the office receptionist thinks I already have. Don’t you see? She thinks I have a bladder control problem due to your incessant need to clean the 11th floor bathroom every time I have to go!

I am sure we can work something out. I have enjoyed our new found acquaintanceship and polite salutations. Maybe someday we can even share the “I know you nod.” But I ask you…no…beg you…when you see me approaching, take your cart and go.

Best wishes,

DW

Static Cling = Office Whore

Tights with dresses is currently a fashion rage. And I love it. I mean I have been eating it up all winter. However, tights often result in static cling. Static cling I have learned is the devil. DEVIL. I hate it almost as much as I hate Vera Bradley.

It is by far the worst when wearing a sweater dress. Today, however, I am actually wearing a dress that is more of the cotton family. Mental note: this material also results in static cling.

It is one thing to experience this when out shopping, or out to coffee or even out at a bar. However it is quite another thing to experience this when walking down the hallway in your office whilst attempting to appear professional. When walking, my knee length dress will suddenly become a mini dress. Before I know it I am balancing my coffee in one hand while attempting to pick my dress out of my crotch with the other. “Hi boss. Don’t mind me! Just picking my front wedgie, be out of your way in no time!”

Today it got really bad when I so boldly decided to get a water and coffee from the kitchen. This left me with no hands left to pull my dress down while walking back to my desk. I don’t think I have ever walked so fast in my life.

I know this is not just in my head. This realization is thanks to payroll Patricia who is one of those people you love because she does not hesitate to speak her mind. That is until it is about you. I nonchalantly mentioned that I needed some static guard and does she know anyone who might have some? She told me who had it hiding at her desk then proceeded to say that I better get some “earlier before later because my dress is currently hugging me in all the wrong places.” In girl code, this statement can also be interpreted as “I saw you walking in the hallway and you look like the office hooker. Change your dress slut.”

My Car is Getting Discriminated Against

I got in a car accident around a week or so ago. (By the way it was not my fault and I am wholly standing by that argument.) Anyways, I have not written about it yet because there is really nothing funny about it. It sucks. However, while driving around in my banged up automobile, certain things have come to my attention.

The accident involved me driving in my lane and the girl in the lane next to me merging into my lane while I was still there. She, after crashing into me, realized what happened and stopped while I stupidly kept driving out of shear shock. In that instance my driver’s side mirror got ripped off. So, this ridiculous damage to the left side of my car has now joined forces with the previous dents from street parking incidents on the right side of my car. On top of this, some hoodlums in my neighborhood stole my silver Honda sign off of the front of my car. If my car was a child it would most certainly be taking the small bus to school. That was horrible. Pretend I didn’t write that.

Long story short, there were no open appointments at the body shop until April 7th. So I have been driving this vehicle all around Baltimore for the past week. In doing so, I have noticed that people are not so nice to people with messed up cars. They most certainly will not let you in their lane. I have watched as they see my turning signal and then see my car. I can read their faces as they think, “hell noo that bitch isn’t getting in my lane!” And honestly, I don’t blame them. I mean come on, I don’t even have a side mirror. As I sat for a straight 10 minutes waiting for someone to let me into the street from my parking garage it occurred to me: dented cars are comparable to a three-legged dog. When you see one coming down the street you stare and feel really bad for it and wonder what could have happened for it to get that way. But no matter how bad you feel, there is no way that you are getting anywhere close to it. I don’t know how many three-legged dogs there really are walking the streets but you get my point.

It figures that this situation would happen to me just as roll down your windows season approaches. Yesterday the weather was beautiful. All I wanted to do was roll down my windows and play some music. Coming to a stop light whilst alone in your car and blaring music is embarrassing enough. This situation just begs for people to look at you and the last thing I want right now is people associating my face with my car.

As much as I would like to say that the situation with race is improving, I think we all know that it still very much exists. On a larger front we have the recent situation with Obama and his minister. And on a page closer to home, we have my car. The other day I was once again waiting for someone to let me into the street from my parking garage. I watch an SUV pass by, then a Mercedes, etc. And then, someone stopped and waved. As touched as I was I noticed that it wasn’t a stranger but another Honda. And of the same color, type and year. True story. Hondas helping Hondas. Maybe there will come a time when others will reach out as well. Someday, we shall overcome.

I Sincerely Apologize if This Offends You but…

Vera Bradley needs to die. If no one else does, I am going to take the first stand, find her and go all Mortal Kombat on her ass. I’ll pull a Raiden and give her death by lightning bolt. “Raiden wins”..Vera Bradley DEAD. I’m not messing around.

Annoyance #1: WHY tell me WHY does everybody love the stuff? Everyone does. It’s everywhere. Burning my eyes.

Annoyance #2: It looks like someone took their grandmother’s quilt and made a purse out of it.

Annoyance #3: It’s so teacher. I picture my first grade teacher in her little heart turtle neck and ABC pin pulling coloring books out of her Vera bag. And she’s 80. (not really but you get my point)

Annoyance #4: She has gotten so big that I think there is now more merchandise. And full luggage sets. So Vera fans everywhere can travel in “style.” And make me go blind.

Annoyance #5: She’s got an ego. From what I have learned from the Office Hater, who is a big fan of course (very fitting), she will come out with a new style and make it go extinct almost as soon as she releases it. This forces Vera lovers to buy an excessive amount of her hideous bags so that they can get the new style before it is no longer available. Which forces Vera haters such as myself to see a new bag from their local office Vera lover EACH DAY.

Annoyance #6: The patterns. Little swirl here, dot dot there. Vera lovers must not be on LSD because my God would they freak out. I bet they would picture an alien mushroom asking them to come play inside his pool in a flower and then try to jump in their purse.

Annoyance #7: Vera lovers are also usually Lilly Pulitzer dress lovers which means that there is way too much matchy-matchy color and patterns happening all over their bodies. BLIND.

Annoyance #8: It has become so popular that there are now knock offs. Knock-off quilt bags. Sold at your local Michaels.

Annoyance #9: I feel that it has become very non-PC to talk about my Vera hatred. Similar to how I try to restrain from saying “gay” or “retard” too often because I might offend someone, I try to hold back my “ugh I hate that purse” language because I will probably offend someone. Because the Vera lovers are everywhere. Trying to eat your soul.

Annoyance #10: Vera lovers love to compliment each other on their newest bag. Oh my God that is so cute! When did you get it, did she just release it? Yes and you better get it soon because it is only available for two days! Don’t you just love it though? I bought a new bright pink headband and pair of crocs to match it!

Annoyance #12: Vera Bradley lovers + croc lovers= OH MY GOD. Enough said, I can’t even comment anymore on this one. Except for if the crocs have those pin thingys in them. I can’t breathe.

Annoyance #13: The boxes that the purses are sent to you in when you online order them (Office Hater) also have paisley designs on them. Because you can never have enough paisley.

I am sure I will add an update with more annoyances. Stay tuned.

“I Don’t Know…Who Am I…”

There was a guy my friends and I knew in college who had a variety of different identities. I don’t think he really knew this as much as we did. We even gave the identities their own names, talked about it over lunch and cracked up the food service guy in our college cafeteria. After a few years I am going to attempt to remember the names: Ghetto Tony= T-Money, Preppy Tony= Anthony, Skater Tony= ? and regular Urban Outfitters Dressing Tony= Tony.

My point in rehashing this memory is to say, how cool would it be to have different identities? Seriously. I already attempt this sometimes but really do not pull it off so well. For example I try to dress all hippie-like when I go to music festivals or certain concerts. The fact that I now have a tattoo is really going to help that identity look more authentic. Upon consideration, I don’t think I have any others.

Let me clarify something. I am not talking different personalities per se, that would make me a little crazy. I am more talking fashion-wise. Slap on some shades and hoop earrings and call me Miami DW. Birkenstocks and organic beer by a camp fire and label me Tree Hugger DW. Maybe I’m feeling a little sassy. Throw on a sleek dress and some heels and you can find me at the “it bar” as Metropolitan DW. I’m heading to a concert. Bartender? Send me a PBR and check out my skinny jeans. I’m Hipster DW.

Maybe I’m weird. Or possibly I need to “find myself.” But if I may get deep on you blog readers, I feel there are parts of me that are a little of each of these things. I guess I try to live in balance with all of my interests. A little bit of ying and a little bit of yang. However, I do not go too far with any of these looks because I fear I may look a fool. My friends would probably look at me and say, “ummm what are you wearing? That is so not you.” Also, now that I think about it, I probably have to get more of a life and actually go to places whose attendance isn’t limited to middle class college graduates who look like a scene from an American Eagle catalogue. That could help.

In conclusion, I am really tired today and writing blog posts to refrain from doing work. Therefore, I apologize if this post makes absolutely no sense. But also, I’m a little bit serious.

I Have an Idiosyncrasy

Hi, my name is DW and I am a hair twirler. When did this happen?

I know I have been doing this for a while because people I work with will randomly walk by my desk, stare at me until I notice them and make some weird joke about me being flustered, confused or in a daze. Usually they are right.

I realize this habit makes me look a little dumb but I see no chance of it stopping anywhere in the near future. 1) I do not plan on cutting my hair to a length that would prevent hair twirling and 2) It has become a subconscious thing. I really don’t even realize that I am doing it.

When I was little I sucked on my finger. Not thumb, but finger. I guess I was daring to be different in a retarded kind of way. Actually, that finger sucking led to my dad nicknaming me “bucky beaver”, braces, and when I refused to wear a retainer, invisiline. That is so not cool.

Is my hair twirling going to lead to bad things as well? It must look pretty unprofessional/ stupid. (Insert hair twirling in a bad blonde joke)

What would be cool is if people really do start to think I’m a flake and stop asking me to do so much. In that case, this idiosyncrasy could work in my favor…

My Baby Jesus Wears a Charm Bracelet

Today I found myself breezing through the pages of Sundance magazine. As I gazed at the stellar ring choices displayed on each page I thought about a quote I heard on a TV show. The wife on the show was complaining to her husband because her friend had started to wear a charm bracelet. This upset said wife as she wore her mother’s old charm bracelet everyday which of course in girl code labels charm bracelets as her “thing.” I think it is a perfectly sound argument. Then a lightbulb went off in my head; I need a thing. I need, I want, I must have, “a thing”.

This, however, is not easy. I feel like you can’t just up and pick “a thing” out of nowhere. It needs to suit you. It also needs to be something you can sport with ease. I kind of want “my thing” to be something jewelry associated, however this will be difficult for me as when I do actually wear jewelry it isn’t always for the correct intents and purposes. Prime example is my outfit today. I am wearing a necklace but only because it helps to cover up the safety pin that is holding the top part of my dress together as to not let it become NSFW. Straight class.

I also kind of want “my thing” to be apparent. Not like a hidden necklace or something. Because then I will be the only one that knows it is “my thing” which for me defeats the purpose of having “a thing.”

Now I am getting worried. Am I being totally lame by forcing myself to have “a thing?” If I was really cool then “my thing” would just happen without even trying. I would have had my “thing” since childhood.

Actually, in high school my "thing" was my deceased grandmother’s ring which was a rosary but in ring form and I wore it on my left thumb. That was really cool. I wonder what I did with that, I should bring it back. I think I lost it. Which means that my grandma is probably going lightning zap me from heaven any minute now.

The Bad Smells Are Killing Me

Sensitive nostrils beware of the marketing corridor of my company’s office. It is not necessarily a bad smell per se, but it is a smell that would wake a dying man from the threshold of death. His nose hairs would prickle then he would suddenly come back to life in order to punch the person who introduced this overwhelming stench to his clean air.

In a less dramatic narrative, the girl next to me puts on lotion at approximately 2:30 PM each day. And it reeks. I am not usually one who is sensitive to certain smells. But the strong odor of this lotion, combined with the fact that I have a cold and my breathing capabilities are already struggling, is making this smell torturous. And it lasts. And lasts and lasts and lasts.

I had a lotion in high school that I used to think smelled great. However, my two best friends hated it with a passion. They even banned the lotion bottle from both of their cars. Therefore, I refuse to complain. Different things smell good to different people. But I must admit I have succumbed to making my fake cough every time the smell appears. To help you understand, my fake cough is very pathetic and comparable to the noise Derek Zoolander makes when he complains of the black lung. Possibly for this reason, it has yet to work.

I fear it is only going to get worse. I overheard Duane complaining of dry hands the other day. In a moment which seemed to take place in slow motion (because I could hear the voice in my head going “Nooooooooooooo”) the girl next to me offered Duane her lotion. And then Duane proceeded to walk by my desk about 50 times forcing me to survive the smell from all angles for the remainder of the day.

TGIF.

My Identity is Ugly

Two posts in one day, I feel very over-achiever.

So here is my dilemma. My signature is horrendous. I am aware that horrendous is a very strong word to describe a signature, but that is in fact why I used it. Because it is true.

The sad part of this is that my signature has greatly improved over the past year. A large part of this is due to my promotion last January which forces me to sign a lot of letters. In doing so, I have become very embarrassed that people are looking at these signed letters and wondering who the 12 year old was that had the nerve to send them this communication.

I feel that a good signature is very important. It serves as your identity on paper. It is a first impression in ink. I have judged people on their signature and I will be the first person to admit it. You are squiggly cursive with the possible inclusion of hearts equals you are girly and dramatic/ possibly Paris Hilton. You are scratchy and brisk cursive combined with print equals you are a tomboy who is in a constant rush. You are a full name spelled out in childish cursive that makes you cringe when you look at it equals you are my damn signature. I hate it.

I have even practiced. Then I have had my friends with good writing write my name and made attempts to copy it. While it has improved, it is still not even close to the high caliber that I want my signature to be. Maybe signatures work similar to how physical appearance does. Like how boys look at girls’ mothers to judge what they are going to look like in 10 years. Hopefully that is true because my mother has a fantastic signature. One can only hope.

Can I Get a Witness?

I have a bad cold. Colds suck for many reasons including the fact that you cannot technically call out of work when you have a cold because everyone in your office will think you are a pansy and talk about you behind your back.

Every office has a Duane. Ours just happens to be a temp and a Jehovah’s Witness. (see blog post “Why”). He is one of those insanely hard workers that by just watching him you get stressed out. But the problem is no one really knows why he is still here. He doesn’t even have an assigned desk so he just kind of floats around. It is very similar to the Seinfeld episode where Kramer gets an office job and the executive feels awkward “firing” him because he never actually worked there. While our Duane has been known to corner people in an attempt to convert them, I still feel bad writing about him because he is honestly a really nice person, however odd he may be.

So when Duane found out that I had a cold, he brought in these weird vitamins for me to take. There are AM packs and PM packs. He handed them to me with strict instructions to take the 5 (5!) pills in the AM pack in the morning and the 5 pills in the PM pack at night. Genius. Then he said, “Now I am not going to give you more yet because I want to see how you react to them first.” Ummm…react? From what I know about vitamins you just take them and eventually start feeling more energetic or something. Vitamins are not supposed to have the long list of side effects or a warning label for possible diarrhea or death.

So obviously I was not planning on taking these Jesus pills. The whole concept and way they were given to me freaked me out. Then I googled them and found out that they were in fact real, however only sold on the internet which is still shady. Long story short, I popped the pills and I have no idea why. I think I got worried that if I didn’t and just threw them out or something Duane would tell God and I would go to hell. I took them about a half hour ago and have yet to faint or die. Only time will tell I guess.

Ye Old Country

If I was English…people in my office wouldn’t look at me weird when I put cream in my tea.

If I was English my weird obsession with English indie bands wouldn’t actually be weird.

If I was English I wouldn’t be spending a million dollars on fixing my teeth because bad teeth are the norm.

If I was English my weird obsession with reading historical fiction from 1800’s England wouldn’t be as much weird but more like I was educating myself about my country’s history.

If I was English I could say cool words like bullocks and major and not sound retarded.

If I was English I would say the F word with an accent which gives it so much more emphasis. And since I would be an English woman swearing would be more OK for some reason.

If I was English I could travel to a bunch of cool countries without having to fly across the ocean.

If I was English I would probably get more wear out of the expensive wellies I just bought. (OK…that my dad bought me)

If I was English I would have a cool accent and people would tell me “I love your accent” and my cool factor would immediately rise.

If I was English maybe my dream of losing 10 lbs wouldn’t be a dream but a reality because American people are fat. (sidebar: IHOP)

If I was English I wouldn’t be writing a whole blog dedicated to my weird fantasy of being English.

You So Funny

My fellow blog friend has written before about the substitute voice that she uses when she enters the office in the morning. Her voice goes up a few octaves to add the extra friendly kick to the salutation. I do this as well. I think a lot of us do.

Office behavior is interesting. My office personality does a lot of things that the real me most likely would not. I laugh with a lot of people that I honestly outside of work would probably laugh at.

The new object I have sitting on my desk provides the perfect example of this. Right now, as I write this, I have a small package of shredded U.S. currency sitting on my desk. Right next to the stapler, highlighter package and tape dispenser. You know, normal office items.

One of my co-workers brought it over to me with a huge smile on his face. He handed it to me with a little too much pride and said “funny what you can find in this place.” Then he waited for me to giggle and walked away.

Obviously this was a joke. And supposed to be reallllly funny. But now I have absolutely no clue what to do with this. I would love to throw it away but…
1) It is kind of money so is it of value?
2) I would feel rude since he was so proud of his joke. What if he comes back for it?

My polite office humor has gotten me in quite a predicament this time.

UPDATE:
The currency has been removed. I decided that if I left it long enough someone would find it cool and take it. Someone did indeed come over and proceeded to make a few jokes about taping it all together while they pretended to throw the heavy package across the room to others. We all chuckled. And then I said, "hey if you want it it's yours!" Mission get weird shredded money off my desk accomplished.

Remember, It Could Happen To You

This week I have held a steady spot at about a 1.5 on the luck-o meter. Stuff just hasn’t been working out so well for me. However, ever the optimist, it can only go up from here.

If you have ever worked in a restaurant, or at least seen the movie “Waiting”, you are familiar with the cardinal rule of never f**k with the people who handle your food. The disgust of watching that specific scene of the movie “Waiting”, combined with the reality that I was raised in a family full of laid back push-overs, has resulted in the fact that I never complain in a restaurant. I just don’t. It makes me feel weird. My dad hates seafood. One time he ordered a burger and got delivered a plate of fish and chips and ate it instead of sending it back. His reasoning? Well, the waitress was nice and I didn’t feel like waiting any longer for my food to come. It’s just how we are.

So Monday night I had to go out to dinner with about 15 of my colleagues after we sat through a leadership training session all day. These are the events that you usually dread going to, but once you’re there you realize it really isn’t all that bad. You eat free food and get to watch some of your quiet co-workers get a little boozed up and say inappropriate things. It never fails that I am always the youngest one at these events. Because of this, I always try to go out of my way to act mature and composed. I don’t drink too much, and when I do I try to order a “mature” drink like a nice glass of wine, when I really want a pitcher of cheap beer.

All was going well. This is until the waitress brought over a tray of ice water and spilled a full glass all down my back. And when I say glass I mean like large-pizza hut size glass. It felt like a tub. Actually, one of the executives compared it to a football team dumping the gatorade barrel on their coach after a flawless victory. Another who was already two beers deep joked about how lucky I am that it wasn’t down the front.

I, of course, felt bad for the overly apologetic waitress and sucked it up. Luckily, I had the office mom sitting next to me who pampered me with an endless supply of napkins. Many of my co-workers stood up for me and complained to the manager. The first complaint I could live with. But then as the bad service continued, more complaints ensued. I could picture Ryan Reynolds hocking a loogy in my asian chop salad.

The bad luck continued when I walked into the office 15 minutes late the next day and got a sweet morning welcome from the office hater as I removed my smelly cashmere coat (it got drenched in the water incident the night before).

“We’ve already met.” Insert nasty side glance and the snotty “snuff” look.

“Um, OK. Morning. Wait…what?” Was my fantastically managerial response. Leadership training what?

Long story short, I missed the email about the early morning meeting and hence decided to come in later than I am already supposed to on usual days.

So now here I sit, two days after the water incident and one day after the meeting missing incident waiting and wishing for my week to improve.

I See the Light and It's Glorious!

Are you familiar with the country song by Alabama titled “Angels Among Us?” Well, if you’re not I am about to inform you. My dad is a big music guy and went through a country music phase somewhere in the 90s. That all ended after my mom said they were going to get a divorce if he didn’t stop playing Toby Keith’s “A Little Less Talk and a lot More Action” on repeat.

The chorus of “Angels Among Us” goes a little something like this:

Oh I believe there are angels among us
Sent down to us from somewhere up above
They come to you and me in our darkest hours
To show us how to live
To teach us how to give
To guide us with a light of love

It is very cheesy. However, I do have an angel and she visits me on the 15th and 30th of each month. It is almost as if she knows I am in my darkest hour and comes to save me.

With just a piece of paper and a smile she shows me the light. She knows I have been hungry and am in need of a grocery store visit. She feels my yearning as I browse the Piperlime site and restrain myself from hitting the complete your purchase button. She knows I want to drink this weekend and as she places that piece of paper on my desk I can almost hear her whisper sweet nothings in my ear, “go ahead, go get drunk, you deserve it.”

Maybe someday I will be able to live without the endless waiting and wishing for these days to come. But, until then, Patricia from HR…you are my angel.

Being Green is So 90s

A lot of the people in my office live pretty healthy lifestyles. I don’t know if this corresponds with the fact that I work in a health care company, but lets just say it does to make my company look good.

Part of this healthy lifestyle apparently involves drinking a lot of smoothies. There are smoothies everywhere. Fruit smoothies, protein smoothies, smoothies in the morning, smoothies as an afternoon snack and the latest: hemp smoothies. Um, I beg your pardon? Hemp smoothies.

I am so glad that I require a second cup of coffee immediately following the completion of my first coffee because this need placed me in our office kitchen right in time to take part in the following dialogue. One of the organic eaters anonymous staffers was preparing her early afternoon smoothie with the assistance of a jar full of green looking paste. Another lady just had to ask.

“Um, what is that?”

“Oh it’s hemp protein. I use it to make my smoothie.”

“Haamp? What is that?”

Another participant joins, who, just to add to my amusement, has a heavy accent. “haha no heeem.” (he said hemp but it sounded like heeem)

“Heeeem??”

“hahaha no silly, hemp!”

I immediately became involved because I could see this getting good. “H.E.M.P. Hemp”

“Oh hemp, what is that?”

OK, wow. The organic eaters anonymous girl looked right at me and said, “um, how do we explain this?”

I knew. “You know, hippies, pot, all that. Hemp.” I don’t beat around the bush.

The purpose of this post is to laugh at the fact that there are some people out there who did not enjoy the 90’s craze of hemp. I LOVED hemp. All of the cool girls could make hemp jewelry. I wasn’t actually one of these people, but I was cool by association and got to at least wear the jewelry the cool girls made.

But onto the earlier question, why are people now DRINKING hemp? Seriously? I am all about eating organic. I read Skinny Bitch. The truth is I am sure it is healthy. But this isn’t the 90’s anymore people. Being associated with hemp doesn’t automatically make you cool. But I guess these days, if you associate hemp with eating organic and not to “I smoke weed therefore I wear hemp therefore I am cool,” then you “live green and are healthy and don’t eat animals or pesticide therefore you are cool.” Interesting.

When Time is Not Your Friend

I have a case of the Mondays. I have been staring at my Dell Laptop clock for approximately 7 hours and 1 minute. And I want to die.

Time counting leads me to want to do inappropriate things. Like scream. Outloud. I get this overwhelming urge to just start yelling at the top of my lungs and have a minor freak out attack. What would people do? Then I become really intrigued by this thought. Intrigued to the point that I think I might actually go through with it. This in turn makes me very nervous that I may not be able to control it and then I will be very embarrassed.

To prevent myself from following through on this publicly inappropriate act, I attempt to distract myself with other musings. I have actually worked today, so that helps. Then when work makes me want to scream I check blogs or email. Today a random acquaintance requested to be my friend on Facebook. That is fun I thought, I totally forgot about him. This event distracted me for a small amount of time until a repressed memory of making out in a dark tapestry covered apartment with this now “acquaintance” with quotations flashed into my brain. Well…that is embarrassing.

I tried to push this event back into my vault of drunken black-out memories and decided to switch to the MSN site to keep from screaming. My MSN horoscope said that today I’m “looking especially beautiful, you're feeling especially sensual, and you could well attract admiring looks from strangers.” I don’t know what Cancer this MSN astrologist is talking about, but the fact that our office kitchen is currently housing free bagels from Trader Joes is not helping my carb count or the beauty factor. So that’s a bust. I decided to take another pretend water refill run to the kitchen. It’s pretend since I am really going for another small piece of bagel. Then my receptionist paranoia kicked in. I have really been into the kitchen way too often today. I think she knows that I am really going for a bite of bagel. That is embarrassing.

So now I am restricting myself to my desk for another…61 minutes. That is unless my pretend water refill run backfires and I have to pee which will of course force me to encounter the receptionist again. I might as well come walking out of the kitchen with bagel inserted in mouth.

It is true that my ideas for keeping myself from screaming have totally backfired since I want to scream even more than I did before. And oddly, today is really not even that bad of a day; I have certainly had worse. 58 minutes…

Whats with all Them Haters?

There is nothing like a major hater in the morning to make you want to be a perpetual optimist.

An office hater is that person that spits negative energy in every which direction at random moments throughout your day. This negative energy can include hate on co-workers, on-going work projects, meals that include too many calories and American Idol contestants from last night’s show. You name it, they hate it.

I swear one day I want to walk into the office with a big smile on my face carrying a bowl of fettuccini alfredo and scream “I love love!” in my office hater’s face. I think she would implode. And then there would be no more hate.

Office haters aren’t the only haters that get on my nerves. As a self-proclaimed daywalker I have an eye out for red on red crime. And there has been a lot of red on red crime lately.

Unlike black on black crime, red on red crime does not include the use of deadly artillery. We choose the less violent option of hair dye as our weapon to bring each other down. These actions give in to the whole ginger kid revolution of prejudice against our pigmentally challenged race. See http://gawker.com/5003023/how-bigoted-new-york-magazine-hates-redheads.

Lindsey Lohan is a famous contributor to the red on red crime circuit. Blond, black, brown, her hair has been about every color of the rainbow for the past few years; except for red. You have freckles Lilo. Your tan is not really “tan.” The insult heard around the world in your honor was “fire crotch.” Give it up, you’re a redhead.

My sadness for my people reached an all-time high when I saw a recent picture of Kate Walsh with black hair. She is the poster woman for a hot redhead. To me (and especially in that hot car commercial of hers where she uses her “sexy voice”) she is comparable to Jessica Rabbit in human form. And then she went black. Et tu, Brute?

The worse part of all this is that these daywalkers do not even look good with other colors of hair. God bless Karma.

You Tell Me Invest My Money, I Tell You Kiss My Assets

I am so clever. Today we had our 401K meeting. This always stresses me out. I do not understand a thing about money, and honestly I am irresponsible and don’t really care. I listen at first and even get a little intrigued. Then once I become confused I give up on listening and start daydreaming.

Each time we have a 401K benefits meeting we end up making the poor consultant from the company who came to give the speech uncomfortable. About 3 of the top executives start giving us a lecture on how irresponsible all of us are for not investing. The lectures have nothing but good intentions, but end up being very “dad giving the kids a lecture on life lessons.” After that, they begin to diss her plan by saying there are not good enough fund options, if you choose the option she just spent 15 minutes explaining you are stupid, etc. The poor lady today just stood there all scared face and resorted to the reliable “oh yes mmm hmm” head nod.

First off, I am very aware of the fact that I am dumb for not investing. And after these meetings I feel even more stupid/ scared to death that I am never going to be able to retire and just die an old maid with too many shoes and no dream of ever living on an island whilst drinking margaritas in retirement land. HOWEVER, maybe I would invest if I actually had a salary that allowed me to without totally giving up my social life.

Basically, give me more money and less lectures and then maybe we’ll talk.

The Ultimate Burn

My mom is a former English teacher. These days, when she isn’t receiving a double hip replacement, she is living the high life in retirement.

So the other day I confessed to my mom that I had a blog. I told her how I had wanted a hobby and when photography and rock climbing were deemed too far-fetched, I settled for writing. I thought that she would be proud that I was practicing my writing skills and following through with something. Apparently, I was very wrong.

I will get straight to the point of the matter and tell you that she laughed in my face. Well technically in my ear as it was over the phone. “DWWWW…if you want a hobby you should do something that gets you outdoors or exercising…or at least something that will introduce you to new people.” Bombshell! In case you are confused, that comment translated from “nice mom code” is…daughter you are a loser with no friends who needs to lose weight. I called her out on calling me a loser, made her feel guilty and hung up the phone.

In an attempt to win her over with the whole blog concept, I sent her a recent post that I thought she would find funny (see “The Hawk Eye”). The answer I got back was, once again, unexpected. First she told me that I wasn’t that desperate and to stop feeling so bad about myself. Then she berated me for writing on my blog during work hours. It didn’t end there.

“You know the news this morning had a young girl on there who got fired, FIRED, for writing personal emails at work DW, you need to be careful. Your brother had to sign a contract stating he wouldn’t write personal emails for his job- you sure you didn’t do that? You know these places have programs where they can see everything you do. This girl on the news, she thought she was deleting emails but she really wasn’t- they can see them all. DW, you CAN NOT afford to lose your job. You think you don’t have money now…” In conclusion, I have now graduated to a loser with no friends who needs to lose weight and is about to get fired.

This is the same mom whose response to my bad hairdo at my senior prom was “oh hunny it’s OK, it will be dark in there.” I love you too mom.

Um…You are so not P.C.

I overuse the word gay and it has become a problem. These days you need to be very careful because words like this are not widely accepted anymore, and understandably so.

I do not use it because I am anti-gay or anti-lesbian. That could not be further from the case. I am a strong supporter for gay rights and even have friends that lean in this direction. It is simply because in my earlier more sheltered life as a teen, I found that it described certain situations or feelings very well. A friend did something weird? That’s gay. A teacher gave a bad assignment? Gay. You did whaaaaaaaat? You’re gay. Since this time I still have not been able to find a better word to replace it.

Gay is not my only problem. There is the issue of retard. Still, at the ripe age of 24, I use it. Just the other day I found a new way of using it that I find highly amusing. Two days later, this phrase will sporadically pop into my head and I will laugh to myself. Out loud. The phrase is “too retard.” ie: “so sorry I didn’t finish that report boss, I was too retard.” Maybe it isn’t funny to you and I simply have the humor of a 12 year old boy, but it straight up cracks me up.

For an abuser of non-P.C. words such as myself, there is a striking moment of clarity where you realize that you indeed have a problem. It is very similar to an alcoholic or nymphomaniac, just not quite as dramatic. This moment for me was when I nonchalantly said the word “gay” in a conversation during my first meeting with my best friend’s girlfriend. This was of course later followed by a liquor induced sincere apology to my best friend wherein I pleaded my case and made her promise that her girlfriend didn’t hate me. Quite the first impression.

I beg you, if you have a substitute for either of these two words, please help a sister out and leave them in the comments.

And They’re All Grows Up

I like to think that I have matured a pretty good deal since college. If I haven’t, and I am just deceiving myself, please kill me.

But seriously, I have. However, I am still very cool with friends staying over at my house on the weekends, destroying it and cleaning it up when they leave. That is just a fact of life when you 1) live in the city in a good “going out” location and 2) are still in your 20s and continue to hold a flame for binge drinking.

I found have found that there does come a point where this starts to get old for some. It definitely is in the beginning stages for me, but I think it is no longer considered a feasible option for others. A few of my friends and I have high hopes for going to visit one of our college friends on his movie set. You may recognize him from a Home Depot commercial or his Fernando head shots on imdb. However, we were hoping to crash at another college friend’s apartment for the weekend.

This is where guys and girls differ. I believe that guys would throw it right out there and be all, “dude can I crash at your place or not?” Either that or just show up at their friend’s apartment with an overnight bag and a smile. For girls, it just doesn’t work this way. We tend to lean more toward the subtle “are you picking up what I am putting down?” form of asking for favors. God forbid anyone gets mad or someone’s feelings get hurt.

Loyally following by this girl code, my friend wrote a very well-written email to this aforementioned friend stating the date we will be in her city, our purpose for going and “yay we get to see you!” note. We got back a nice and I believe sincerely excited response, with no invitation to stay at her place. Basically, she picked up what we put down and threw it right back in our face. Expedia.com it is.

And Someday We All Fall Down

I was looking good. I had a great pair of shoes on with my nice black pants, cute belt and black silk shirt. My heavy black winter coat, new leather gloves and black bag finished off the look. Maybe it was a little “my dad just died” but it still looked sleek. And then…wait…wait for it…

There I go. Arms flailing, shoes spinning, eyes wide. Maintain control, must maintain control. Voices echoed in the background. “ohhhhh…OHHHHH,” is all I could hear. Blasted Federal Hill assholes. LIGHT POST. I spun and slid over to it with desperate arms outstretched. Can I make it in time? I did. Phew. That was close.

The lesson was learned with last nights close encounter. I knew it would still be icy for this morning’s commute; no way was I risking it again. I packed my four inch heels, slid on the outdoor slippers and headed out the door. It wasn’t bad at first. Steps? Good to go. I gained some confidence. First block of sidewalk? Not a problem. Let’s speed it up a bit. Rounding the corner? We have a problem.

So here I am. Wet stockings, a red knee and a bruised ankle that just refuses to stop throbbing. However, no outfit change was needed as my tights surprisingly did not rip (Target, $8- you have my strong recommendation). Winter is officially old. To quote my good friend DPack, “GET IT OUT OF MY FACE.”