I have an actual, honest-to-goodness post almost finished and ready for Friday. It was supposed to be my post for tomorrow, but, life.
All I have to do for this post is add pictures, links, and do some fact checking- all the shit that really sucks when you’re getting a post ready to *publish*.
Am I right?
Also, I’ve been wondering why I feel it necessary to “have to have a post done by *insert day of the week here*” like my life depends on it.
This isn’t a job. No one is supervising me. I won’t be receiving an evaluation for my work (or lack thereof).
I’m sure my loyal followers will be around whenever I decide to grace them with my presence. Or they won’t.
I keep seeing people all around me with incredible side hustles, and here I am just doing my regular full time job and blogging whenever the mood strikes me.
Sometimes, I feel insanely stupid for spending so much of my time doing something that yields absolutely zero income. I’m aware enough to know that money doesn’t always buy happiness, but it does pay off debt and allows for luxurious travel and isn’t that the same thing?
I have been really needing a side job, but I know that if I do, my writing and blog will suffer.
(Or, I just need to write a book, but how will that ever happen when I can barely get a new post out every week?)
Whenever I realize this, I feel utter panic. This blog, my writing, my incredible followers mean a lot to me. They mean everything.
Unfortunately, these beautiful, wonderful, necessary-for-my-sanity things aren’t helping me pay off my debt or save for my upcoming trip to the U.K.
Well, that was depressing.
Let’s move on to another topic.
Along with the supremely deep pondering I’ve obviously been doing, I’ve decided I have an unhealthy relationship with popcorn.
I’m not even joking.
I legit eat three mini bags a night. It used to be two bags, but that didn’t bloat my stomach quite enough, so we’re on to three effing bags now.
Also, I feel I need to be totally transparent-I don’t just eat the popped kernels…
I…I eat the un-popped kernels.
They are probably growing a massive popcorn tree in my bowels as I type this. I might as well draft up a will.
But, seriously? Is eating kernels hazardous to one’s health?
Another awesome thing going on right now is that I’ve mysteriously hurt my ankle.
It’s swollen and puffy and sore.
Almost two weeks ago, I engaged in a 5k for the program Girls on the Run. I say “engaged”, because I sure as hell didn’t run and “walked” sounds even more lame.
Looking pretty decent, but this was 100% because this was taken before the race started.
So, somehow, while merely walking I hurt myself.
As if that’s not enough, my eczema is flaring up. I have itchy splotches of diseased-looking rashes all over my already-gorgeous body.
There ain’t anything sexier to a man then, “Babe, can you come put some cream on the eczema I can’t reach?”
You might as well just take me and my popcorn-growing eczema guts out back, because what in the actual fuck?
This is a rant and a dedication. So, buckle your seat belts, people. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.
After yet another carb-filled and merrymaking trip to Apple Hill, I’ve learned more than just how far I can push the load-bearing limit of my clothing or exactly how many fruit-filled pastries I can eat before my stomach implodes. I learned this year that:
1. People are assholes, even when they are surrounded by apple pastries, alcohol, and an endless assortment of exciting crap to buy.
2. Surrounded by said assholes, if you’re among non-assholes, you are far richer than the dick in the Tesla who thought it was cool to park in the pick-your-own apple orchard.
This Apple Hill year, I brought along my childhood best friend. We’ve legit been friends since we were two. Some years we’ve hated each other, but, somehow, we always find each other again.
The first time this friend attended our Apple Hill shenanigans, my mom almost lit the motel bathroom on fire trying to light a Hostess Sno Ball turned into a birthday cake fireball from hell. My aunt almost didn’t see her 45th year.
Since, my friend has admitted that her trips to Apple Hill without us are just not the same.
We left for The Hill in the morning on a sunny, way-too-warm-for-fall Friday. Despite the fact that the weather report said it’d be almost 80, I wore a scarf and ankle boots, because, HELLO, it’s practically a basic bitch law that if you go to a pumpkin patch, you wear a scarf and boots. Bonus points if the pattern on your scarf is chevron.
Our first lunch was spent at a popular spot, so it took almost an hour to stand in line and get our food. Because it was still early, the wait and the endless people didn’t affect my mood too much.
Right after devouring a cheeseburger and garlic fries, it was sprinkled caramel apple time! It’s tradition!
After I got my sprinkle fix, I was pretty much over walking around in the heat, looking at the same stuff, different farm.
While my mom and aunt looked at every single item, at every single booth, making friends with every single crafter as they went, my friend and I parked ourselves in the shade with an apple cider slushy.
After way too much time in the sun and heat, we decided it was beer o’clock, so we headed to the Jack Russell Brewery. It’s the only brewery in the area, so it is a must-do every time we go to Apple Hill.
Without a doubt, every visit to Jack Russell is memorable, and this time was no different.
This year, though, we decided that we very much dislike the people who own/run this establishment. They are rude with a capital bitch-eat-a-Snickers.
Due to the unseasonably warm weather, the umbrellas were a hot commodity. After a table full of college-age girls near us had left, we tried to position their umbrella so we could get some shade. As we were trying (and failing) to make the umbrella grace us with sweet shade, one of the Cave Bitches (their meadery is in a cave-like room and they are serious bitches, thus their apropos nicknames) started going around closing the umbrellas.
Um, are you blind?
This incredibly unfriendly lady wouldn’t know customer service or kindness if they each, in turn, smacked her upside her RBF.
So, after being so kindly assisted with the umbrellas, we decided to just move one over to our table. In the process of doing this, we struggled a bit as the umbrella was awkward and there were quite a few trees.
From the meadery cave, about 20 yards away, the Cave Bitch started screaming at us.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU’RE HURTING THE TREES!”
This terrible person couldn’t even crawl out of her rotting crypt to speak in a regular voice level or to, gee, offer to HELP US?!
I hope we ruined your tree, Cave Wench.
I had had just enough alcohol to feel brave, so in order to not make a scene, we moved to the other side of the outdoor seating area and drank an ungodly amount of beer.
The next morning, it was Apple Cider Donut Time. Along with Beer o’ Clock and Cupcake Thirty, it’s one of my favorite times of the day!
I was pretty much in heaven as I devoured my fried cake and coffee. But, then, some asshole’s dog wouldn’t stop barking.
If you know me personally, you know I’m obsessed with dogs. I love the shit out of their drooly, adorable faces, but sometimes dogs can be left at home.
I know that’s a novel concept for some people.
This particular dog, the one who majorly interrupted my enjoyment of the sound of my gluttony, simply could not handle the sight of other dogs.
So, one must ask…
WHY THE FUCK DID YOU BRING YOUR OTHER-DOG-HATING DOG TO THE MOST CROWDED RANCH, WHERE OTHER DOGS ARE SURE TO BE FOUND?
Because I’m an asshole (that’s Asshole speaking). That’s why.
After this, I had a mediocre apple treat that contained, precisely, one slice of apple, bought a metric ton of fudge, and drank even more cider.
When we were attempting to leave the 80th farm of the day, a woman, unearthing her child from underneath all of the crap she bought and was storing in her stroller, decided a fine place to do this was smack dab in the middle of the narrow roadway.
At this point, I was still hungover, sweating profusely, and had killer acid reflux from all of the apple I had eaten.
I couldn’t even.
After six hours, she was finally done unloading the stroller and we were able to leave.
I may or may not have rolled down my window to thank her for making us late for more eating.
Don’t keep this fatty from her eighth apple brownie. Don’t even.
Despite the rude and pretentious people we encountered, the bullshit heat, and the unbearable indigestion, being with people who made my food baby bump jiggle from infectious laughter made it all worthwhile.
My favorite part of the trip was leaving the brewery, drunk and laughing obnoxiously at the spaceships we found by the Porta Potties (they were bee catchers). We piled into the car (don’t worry, my aunt was driving and totally sober and capable), excited for impending Chinese dinner (as if we had not had enough). My mom kept yelling, “Look out, Dana, there’s a car!” every time we passed every reflective sign on the road. I was laughing so hard, I could barely breathe, as I sang along (horribly) to Eric Church’s Springsteen, head back, staring at the endless stars in the sky through the moonroof.
So, take that Idiot Dog Owner, Stroller Simpleton, and Cave Bitch, you were no match for 10,000 calories all from carbs, fabulous, but unnecessary junk, and 100% necessary-for-my-sanity ladies who know how to party.
Apple Hill 2017 is one for the books.
I won Apple Hill!
When I think about 17, I think about my best friend.
Ya’ll! I finally broke down and joined every other basic bitch and got me a FabFitFun box. It was a splurge (even at the discounted price of $39.99) that I really didn’t need, but TREAT YO SELF!
I love, love, love the excitement that exists when you know a package is headed your way. It’s why I do Snack Crate and Ipsy, and why I order far too often from Amazon Prime, Zulily, and many others I’m too ashamed to list.
I decided to spare everyone a cringe-worthy Tori Spelling-esque “unboxing” video. I’m super awkward on film, and so many other *greats* like Snooki and Teresa Giudice are doing video “unboxings” for your viewing pleasure.
So, let’s just get on with it, eh?
The very same day I received my box, my darling guy got me this sweet and quite apropos treat, and somehow, my FabFitFun box didn’t seem quite as fabulous.
So, when I was done feeling all the feels, I finally got around to opening my box.
The packaging is nice, and I like how they add the paper “grass” (what is that shit called?).
What I didn’t like is that these “high end” items come in mass-produced-feeling plastic. This type of packaging takes away the “expensive” feel of the items.
Now might be the time, especially if you’re not familiar with the concept, to mention that FabFitFun profess that their $49.99 box is worth $200+.
More on that as we continue.
Let me show you my perfectly staged photo of the contents. Aren’t I so talented in such a basic-bitch-taking-a-photo-for-Insta-way?
Now, let’s review each item and their supposed cost.
The MER SEA & CO scarf is one of the items in the box that I feel lives up to its apparent cost. Even so, there is no way in hell I’d ever intentionally buy a $98 scarf. With Target, Marshall’s and TJ Maxx’s amazingly low priced on-trend pieces, I can get a decent scarf for $12.
I asked my live-in photographer (boyfriend) to snap a couple shots of me in my new scarf. What you will notice in the images is that the scarf is behemoth (maybe that’s why it’s so expensive-each one is made from 50 polyester trees) and that my Blog-Instagram Boyfriend was not having it, as I now have 82 random, blurry images of me getting ready to pose. Great job, Babe!
Also pictured in the above images is The Jetset Diaries cable knit beanie. This is probably my favorite item, because my day 4 hair loves the crap out of beanies. This came-in-plastic beanie is supposed to be worth $49, and I just can’t. I bet you all that right now, this very minute, in any Target across the nation, sits a black beanie, almost identical to the one from the box and it’s $10. Again, why is a thin cable-knit beanie $49? Who are the idiots buying $50 beanies?
Next up is the Mytagalongs hot and cold pack ($15). I am actually really excited about this, because I totally needed another ice pack to add to the 20 already in the freezer. The reason: IT SAYS, “ICE ICE BABY”.
This was totally appreciated, because BUTT WIPES ARE EVERYTHING, YO.
I can’t speak too much for these products, as I have yet to use them. I am totally excited to try the apple cider vinegar hair rinse, though! I’m also really looking forward to never using the lipstick, because I don’t wear lipstick. The Whish Beauty mud mask is valued at $48, the DPHue rinse at $35, and the Trèstique lipstick at $28.
The Deco Miami lavender cuticle oil is just too cute. When I was first opening the box, I thought it was nail polish. I was so bummed, because I get gel manicures, so nail polish is useless to me. When I used my reading decoding skills and saw that it was cuticle oil, I was giddy. My cuticles are inexcusably ghastly! The oil is priced at $12.50 and is the only reasonably priced item in the box (save for the Cottonelle buttwipes).
The imm-Living ceramic and wire geometric heart jewelry holder is the exact thing I’d use my last $5 to buy at Ross. It really is adorable and is already proudly on display on my vanity. That said, IT’S A PIECE OF GARBAGE.
When I got it, there was a nub of ceramic in one of the holes where the wire base goes. I had to take some skinny scissors and jam it loose. Even then, the hole was too tight (that’s what he (?) said) and upon jamming the metal into the hole some of the “metal” flaked off.
This cheaply made piece of poo is priced at $33. Fuck me.
When I first saw the fall box on Instagram, I saw a gym bag that read, “Will Workout For Cupcakes”. That sealed the deal. I had to have it.
Well, in my box I got a Walmart special that reads, “Meet Me at the Barre”. I’ve never been to a barre fitness class, and this bodacious bod has never, ever been confused for that of a ballerina’s. There’s no way I’d ever carry this bag. Just embarrassing.
Not only this, FabFitFun is claiming that the thin canvas Private Party bag is worth $59. Excuse my French, but FUCK YOU VERY MUCH.
I don’t shop at Walmart and haven’t for a solid four years, but I guaran-fucking-tee that they have a similar bag for no more than $10. If not Walmart, Wish is guaranteed to have it for $1.50.
So, I’m still laughing that Private Party and FabFitFunthinks this bag is worth $59.
I have a really, really, really effing hard time believing the items that came in my box truly total $377.50. If this is indeed an accurate sum, I’m appalled at what is deemed high quality just because it has a high price. If this is the true state of the world now, maybe I can start harvesting my boyfriend’s belly button hair and sell it as “organic inner ear warmers”. I bet I could get 40 bucks per pair.
I do believe I got my $40 worth, though. For sure. I just don’t like being taken for a schmuck.
***When I realized that I didn’t get the cupcake bag, I immediately emailed FabFitFun and asked if I could make an exchange. I explained that I was Fatty McCupcakes and that I needed the cupcake bag. I said I’d write a blog post about my box and everything.
They got back to me very quickly and said that they’d exchange the bag “as a one time courtesy”. No, “We’d love for you to write a blog post about us, and not only will we send you the “Will Workout For Cupcakes” bag, we’d like to offer you a job as a paid blogger for FabFitFun” or anything. Rude.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful they are exchanging the bag, but the wording “as a one time courtesy” sounded kinda bitchy.
Don’t let me discourage you. It really is a fun way to spend $39.99-$49.99. Just remember, it’s Reba Fancy, not Real Fancy.
I think I’ve mentioned here a couple thousand times or two that I’m a germaphobe. If you know me personally, you would most definitely say that hand sanitizer is the one item I’d choose to take to a desert island.
I always try to play it cool, like I’m not afraid germs will jump right off surfaces straight into my mouth.
When I first started at my school, I tried not to be the token germaphobe teacher. I thought I was doing well until our old (as in, not-at-our-school-anymore-old) counselor made some joke about me almost certainly having a black light app on my phone (We were in a really shady bus. I’d explain why we needed a black light, but I think you know).
I remember thinking, “How did she know?”
After some self-reflection, I realized she knew, along with everyone else who’s come into contact with me, because I put on hand sanitizer precisely 537 times a day.
I really thought I was stealth about my hand sanitizer use.
Also, I’m that person sending death glares to adult you-should-know-better creeps who don’t cover their mouths.
1. I have to be minutes from death before you see me in an ER.
2. If someone close to me looks like they’ll be sick, I’ll run for the hills/call for an adultier adult/point to somewhere far away from me, indicating that’s where I’d like them to be.
3. I use my shirt to open doors with questionable handles.
4. I ask my boyfriend if he washed with soap after he uses the bathroom.
5. I’ve been known to put hand sanitizer in my nose if forced to breath in someone’s sneeze or hot death fart.
In all seriousness, I have problems.
I’ve always had a fear of vomiting-hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, doing it. Nope times ten million.
Also, I hate having someone see or know I’m sick. Just leave me alone. Better yet, let me hide in the hole I’ve just dug until I’m human again.
Shit got real about 10 years ago when I worked at a daycare during college. There was a huge norovirus outbreak, and it fucked with my mind in a major way. Like I mentioned before, I’ve never been a fan of puking, but when we went so far as to bleach crayons and books to prevent the spread of a virus, something clicked in me.
This is bad shit. Literally. I don’t want to puke and poop, involuntarily and simultaneously. How long does this illness from Hell last? Will I have to go to the ER with a puke bucket? OMG. No. We’re all gonna die. HELP. We’re.All.Gonna.Die.
So, during the great Norovirus Outbreak Freak Out of 2006, I would go to serious OCD extremes to “protect” myself from getting sick. Really, these were just compulsions that made me feel safe.
When I got home after being stuck in the hot box of germs all day, I’d strip at the door. Before scalding myself in the shower, I’d wipe my purse, keys, and phone down with Clorox wipes.
This was an everyday thing and I didn’t feel *OK* until my routine was done.
Whenever an illness starts making its rounds, I try to play it cool. Even after I hear of the 58th person I know to bite the dust, I try to act like I’m not about the worrying life, but then I find myself spraying my face down with spray hand sanitizer whenever someone’s breath comes a little too close to my face holes.
As much as being sick sucks, I realize that vomiting is not the end of the world (I mean, if you are vomiting due to Ebola, that mightmean the end of the world. But, that was so 2014).
I’m not as OCD about getting sick anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend two days on my bathroom floor.
So that I’m not the only freak in the room, tell me what you’re phobic about. Any fellow emetophobics? If so, how do you calm yer tits when shit gets real? Let me know in the comments!
Remember this from my But Don’t Do That post? Even this is a lie. If you’re puking in my house, I’m packing and heading for Mexico. NOPE.
Blog comments-I live and breathe by them. I mean, my life would obviously go on, and I’d figure out how to get oxygen the good, old fashioned way if I suddenly didn’t have WordPress. But, no shit, my day is made exponentially better when I see a slew of love waiting for me to read in my WordPress app.
That is, unless it’s an unnecessarily rude/bitchy/salty/passive aggressive comment.
Those aren’t my favorite.
Way back when I first started putting my ridiculous thoughts out *there* for God and everybody to read and critique, I was scared out of my ever-loving-mind.
What if my humor doesn’t translate well to others?
What if my use of the word “fuck” offends the majority of those who attempt to relate to me?
What if the only person who thinks I’m funny is me?
What if what I write about is too TMI, and the people in my life start regarding me as a loud, unfunny, crass imbecile?
These were very real concerns.
The response over the years, however, has been incredible.
Somedays, I don’t even believe that I’m able to put together some words and those words mean something to others.
Somedays, I have to check to make sure it’s me who’s getting the laughs about unfortunate yoga flatulence and insane vacation fails.
The love has been real, immense, and supportive.
Except, when it hasn’t.
There’s always gotta be that person. You know who I mean:
The guy who has to ruin the good time with their overly concerned beliefs or their inability to get a joke, even when it slaps them in their dopey face.
Only very recently have I had run-ins with some haters making their presence known on my blog.
I’ve always heard or read stories about relentless haters from other blogs and bloggers. To be honest, I only half believed that someone was being harassed by strangers over their content, language, or grammar usage.
Really? Does that *really* happen? (There’d always be an eye roll, too, for good measure.)
Well, I’m just a little late to the game, ya’ll.
Yes, people actually take time out of their day to comment on minor grammatical errors.
Yes, people actually miss the entire main idea of a post and then make their disdain of a tiny kernel of an idea known in your comment section.
Yes, people actually make it a point to sound as bitchy and passive aggressive as possible when commenting on a harmless subject, like book suggestions.
I can’t even.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m always first in line to spread some bitter all over the comment section of dumb articles or videos on social media. I have too big of a mouth to not.
And, I’d be lying if I said I was never tempted to comment on terrible grammar or topic choices when reading blog posts.
But, here’s the difference between myself and your average Comment Creep:
I understand that blog posts are off limits in regards to unhelpful, just plain salty opinions.
A Facebook post took seconds, and likely, very little thought. Yet, a blog post, almost certainly, took hours/days/weeks, tons of creative energy, and a shit ton of guts to post.
I feel pretty confident that fellow bloggers understand this code of conduct, but the “others” obviously don’t.
I know excuses for constructive criticism might come up. My opinion on “helpful” suggestions is that they aren’t welcome unless specifically asked for by the author/blogger.
Also, respectful dialogue and discourse on a topic that is controversial is fine. There’s nothing better than having a lively discussion with someone who believes differently than you do.
I’m strictly speaking of rude-ass comments that make you feel stabby, yet, instantly self-conscious.
So, here’s where I need your help.
What do you do when you come across a rude comment? Do you delete it? Do you ignore it/not approve it? Do you comment back? Do you dust off your voodoo doll?
How do you deal with Debbie Downers? Let me know in the comments!
Every month, I get a massage. The wonderful masseuse I go to is extremely talented AND gives teachers a killer discount. Even if she charged full price, I’d go. It’s for my sanity and it’s a real fucking treat. It’s a win-win.
Every month, because of said massage, I also get treated to a visual display that damn near gives me heart palpitations.
I know I’m going to see it, so I don’t know why it’s always such a shock to my system. Just like damn clockwork, it happens every month. Still, it’s such a sight that no amount of preparation would suffice.
I’m sure most of you are thinking that maybe my masseuse has a wall of mirrors in her room. So, when I’m hastily undressing, I get a real candid view of myself. Or, maybe, her ceiling is one big, fat mirror, so I have to stare at myself as my body spreads out and over the massage table.
No. It’s much worse.
THERE IS A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR…
IN FRONT OF THE EFFING TOILET…
IN THE BATHROOM…
AT THE SALON.
In fact, the whole room is just one asshole mirror.
WHO, IN GOD’S NAME, thought it would be a good idea to put a mirror in so people could view themselves on the toilet?
I don’t care if you’re Twiggy or Daenerys-friggin’-Targaryen, no one wants to watch themselves disgrace a public toilet.
Not only do I not need to watch my toilet activities, I really don’t need to be reminded of exactly how fat I am.
Before a massage, I should be readying my brain for zen thoughts, not being shocked clean off the toilet when I see how my gut, so elegantly, drapes itself over my lap and into the toilet bowl.
If this wasn’t already bad enough, the toilet is way too close to the wall on one side. You have to practically become one with the wall just to sit on the throne of shame. It’s a real nightmare for germaphobes. And, for people who have asses that need to be given a wide berth.
So, why subject myself to this masochistic ritual every month?
Well, quite simply, it’s because I have the bladder capacity of a thimble. Even if I really don’t need to go to the bathroom, my neurotic brain thinks I do and I spend the entire time trying not to have to use the restroom.
I know. It’s exhausting.
So, as terrifying as the Funhouse of Horrors really is, using it is a necessity in order to fully enjoy my massage.
These last few months, I’ve been trying to just not look.
If you’ve ever had to talk to someone with a boil smack dab in the middle of their forehead or a goiter growing out of their neck, you’ll know it’s impossible to not stare at the elephant in the room.
It’s impossible not to look.
Also, each month, I’m hoping I saw it wrong, and it won’t nearly be as bad.
Nope. It’s that bad.
I’ve even left a Yelp review for the salon*, but no one has taken the hint.
So, I’m left with being reminded of how truly fat I am every month.
Maybe the continued shock to my system is good for my heart?
*My wonderful masseuse has no affiliation with the disgraceful mirror in this post.
Historically, I have never been the one who is known for her athletic ability, nor have I ever been loved for my adventurous outdoorsmen spirit. Because I do not possess either of those. Never in my life have I been asked, “Hey, want to snowshoe across Siberia with me this winter?” (Who fucking does that anyway?)
Despite this, I have really been wanting to get into walking local trails for exercise. Well, if we are being completely honest, I just really want to marvel at the beauty of nature while I sit my fat ass on a comfortable rock. Doing this while eating something, like a dripping slice of watermelon heaven would really just be the cherry on top.
Because getting anyone I know to just sit in nature with me, without sounding like a total lazy loser, is a hard sell, I have been trying to be adventurous by engaging in hiking.
Well, I can most assuredly say that hiking don’t want my fat ass. Hiking wants me to just stay at home with my Halo Top ice cream and Netflix. Hiking does not play.
I’m going to detail three times I failed on the trails recently. Really, this could also qualify as a “This Is Why I’m Fat” post, because almost anyone would have given up after the first failed attempt. So, I hope the Trail Gods are listening. Ya’ll have some work to do…
A week or so ago (I’m a teacher on summer break, so I have no idea what day it is), a friend and I went on a much-needed girl getaway to the Point Reyes Seashore in California.
It was gorgeous, but strenuous. We did a lot of walking, trailing, and huffing and puffing.
1. The Stair Climb of Doom
Our first order of business was almost dying on the stairs to and from the Point Reyes Lighthouse. The climb is equivalent to 30.flights.of.stairs.
30 flights, ya’ll.
I just thought I’d reiterate in case you missed it the first time.
I’m 1000% sure my friend didn’t let on to that fact beforehand, because she knew for certain that it’d be a hard pass from me.
Despite the fact that an elderly man passed me on the hike up the stairs (do you see him in the picture?), and I had to stop at every rest point, it was actually totally worth the sweat-drenched pits and rat’s nest hair (it was so windy, that my phone almost blew away several times).
2. Cataract Fall-Down-The-Hill-Trail
The day after almost needing to be airlifted from the lighthouse steps, we did some more adventurous trailing. I figured, “Why not? Might as well work on another bunion!”
The first few trails were quite easy, as there was no elevation or climb whatsoever. It was absolutely grand. Because we didn’t have to expend energy on moving our bodies up a steep hill, we had energy to climb trees and crawl into reproductions of Native American dwellings. I felt like an obese kid again (I was actually not obese as a child, strangely enough).
It wasn’t until we thought it would be a good idea to try to find the Cataract Falls did we have problems. This is also the part in my story where I’m going to be putting All Trails on blast.
Not only was the following hike not “easy” as it was mistakenly rated, one of the lengths of the “loop” was not a trail at all. It was a grassy hill, and we almost broke our asses more times than I’d like to admit as we stepped/slid at a snail’s pace the whole entire way down.
(I was also insanely afraid a mountain lion was going to come up behind me. Do you think that was irrational?)
When we made it to the bottom of the hill and the actual trail, we found that our pants, socks, and shoes were positively filled with foxtails and these terrible poky stickers that were absolute bitches to get off of our clothes and shoelaces.
If this wasn’t bad enough, when we got to our first trail marker, nowhere did it say “This way to the waterfall”, and the names of the available trails had nothing to do with the trail we thought we were on. We went the wrong way for 30 minutes before we got service on our phones and could see where we were on the trail.
When we finally found the waterfall, after a huge descent into what looked like middle earth, it was stunning and worth the trials we went through to get there. Well, it was a beautiful experience until I realized that’d I’d have to climb back to the car at some point.
Honestly, at one point during the hot, sweaty, and ugly hike back, I questioned how much it would cost for Search and Rescue to retrieve me from the trail.
It was so bad. And hard.
3. Jones Creek Loop Trail AKA Call For Help
After being back home for a week or so, I decided that I would try hiking again (Why? Maybe I am a masochist, or I feel I deserve punishment for past transgressions?). So, the boyfriend and I looked up easy trails in the trees. Shade FTW!
We settled on the Jones Creek Loop Trail because it was rated as easy and only 1.5 miles.
We used the All Trails’ directions app, and it took us right to the trail head.
After a little trek that was almost all uphill, we came upon a sign. It said, “Jones Creek Loop”, and it had two arrows pointing to the right and to the left. Considering it was a loop, we figured it didn’t matter which way we went, as it would just bring us right back to where we started.
We seemed to be hiking quite awhile when the boyfriend remarked, “I think 1.5 miles seems longer when we are on a trail, because it’s not just a straight stretch?”
At this point, we were getting a little apprehensive. We also realized that our “loop” did not seem to be looping back to where we started whatsoever-we just kept heading further and further away.
We saw a man coming off of another trail (I will get to the myriad off shoots of unmarked trails in a minute…) and we asked him how to get back to the parking lot. He said we needed to go in the direction we were headed in, but for three or four more miles.
Somehow we got onto the wrong trail, but we had not taken any of the unmarked trails that veered off of the main trail.
At this point, my stress began causing my asthma to flare up, and I saw images of us, emaciated and half-eaten by mountain lions, in front of my eyes, like a mirage.
We decided to just keep walking and hope the guy didn’t know what he was talking about.
Ten minutes and almost all of our water later, we saw another guy coming off some other trail. I tried to stay calm when I asked him how we could get back to our car. While I was asking him, the boyfriend was off admiring some bark, pretending he didn’t belong to the sweaty girl who was in a near panic.
The guy said he was headed to the parking lot, and we could follow him.
A half mile later, we saw what looked like civilization and our spirits rose. We came upon a parking lot, but we quickly realized, stomachs sinking, it was not our parking lot.
As we were looking at the posted map and trying to look cool, like, “We meant that”, the guy waved us over.
He realized that he had led us to the wrong parking lot. He offered us a ride back to our car, three miles away.
We had somehow ended up on the 9 mile trail called the same damn thing as the 1.5 mile trail.
So, we ended that trail fail crammed into the cab of a tiny truck belonging to a very kind man. The whole way back to our car, I was trying not to reek of sweat and defeat.
We massively failed on the trails again only yesterday, and I was going to write about that fail too, but I have already gone on long enough.
I will say, though, that the most recent fail is not entirely our fault. What in the actual eff is up with All Trails and their “easy” loop trails? Not only are they not easy, whoever is creating trails that feed off of the loop ought to be taken out back and given a stern talking to. In my mind, a loop is just that, A LOOP. Yet, every single trail we have tried is not really a loop, but a maze of deviating trails that go off in every fucking direction.
Really, it is no small miracle that more people do not get horribly lost in the woods on “easy” trails.
We are just utter idiots, and we need to take a “Trails For Dummies” course.
Tell me: Have you ever gotten lost on trails? Is it just me who can’t seem to find my way on “easy” trails? Help a fatty out! Let me know in the comments.
Last week, my boyfriend and I went on a quickie road trip up through Portland and on to Mount Saint Helens (I almost typed “Mount Rushmore”, and that’s where I said we went when the gas station attendant asked us where we were off to the morning we left. It’s a wonder I can even function).
Mount Saint Helens is an active stratovolcano located in Washington state, about 50 miles northeast of Portland (thanks, Wikipedia). It last erupted in 2008, but it’s most famous eruption was on May 18, 1980. Growing up, I heard stories of how the ash from the 1980 eruption found its way nearly 400 miles to the deck at my grandparent’s cabin on Coeur d’ Alene Lake in Idaho. My mother said the ash blocked out the sun and it looked like the end of days.
Since I always heard the stories of the eruption growing up, and I teach my students every year about the cause and effect of volcanos, it was decided that it would be our summer destination.
We left Reno around 7:30 AM, stopped in Klamath Falls for some Taco Time lunch and a Dutch Bros. coffee, and arrived in the Portland area around 5:30 PM. It was a long day of straight driving, but it was the start of our vacation, so there was no bloodshed yet.
We stayed with my aunt, who was gracious enough to host us. She had her pool ready and raring to go, so we definitely took advantage of that luxury. Our TBs (tired butts) were very grateful.
The next morning, we were up early and excited to see Mount Rush..Mount Saint Helens (See? There’s something wrong with my head).
We stopped at Tom’s Pancake House to fill up, as we planned on doing some hiking (to be honest, I was really hoping there’d be less hiking and more sitting in a scenic spot, eating the “hiking” snacks we packed). When I saw that Tom’s had an option to top your waffle with Oregon marionberries, it was an easy choice! I’m not really sure what a marionberry is, but since we don’t usually see them in Nevada, I had to try them.
When we got back into the car, we used Google to get the directions to the mountain.
Before we had left Reno, we did a small amount of research and knew that there was an observatory and plenty of hiking trails to choose from on and around the mountain (I liked the sound of the 1.5 mile one and the one that had no incline).
So, back to Google. Via maps, we were given the directions to Cougar, WA. So, we merrily made our way to where we’d hoped to find a spunky grandma who’d take a picture by the town sign.
After we wound our way through a quaint rural community, the road became very twisty and turny (yes, that’s a word) underneath a thick blanket of trees. We were climbing a mountain, just not the mountain we had come to see.
The landscape was not at all what I had expected. We also saw not one sign indicating we were headed toward the mountain, an information center, or the observatory. In fact, there were some signs, but they were stangely covered up.
Eventually, we made our way to the first hiking spot. We were hoping there would be further information at the trail head that would help us glean where the heck we were. But, no such luck.
Also, the hike was an eight-miler, so that was a no-go.
We got back into the car and continued up the mountain. Not long after, we got sight of Mt. Saint Helens and it was glorious, but, worryingly, still pretty far away.
While we were admiring the volcano with our 10x magnifying binoculars, a friendly German couple came up to talk to us.
They remarked on the beauty of it all, and we asked them if they were headed to the observatory. The woman said the road to the observatory was closed due to a late winter.
(The jury is still out on that).
We felt pretty defeated and downright lost, as we had zero service on our phones and no paper maps to help guide our way.
We decided to get back into the car and continue further. Almost at the very end of the road was another spot to hike. We decided it would have to work.
I’m sure by now you’re realizing that we were lost or just completely mixed up. Well, right you are!
It wasn’t until we headed back down the mountain and to Ape Cave did we come across an information kiosk/gift shop where people with factual information could be found.
When I asked how we could get to the observatory, the young man working the gift shop said it was some three hours away, but we could still make it, as they didn’t close until six.
Three hours away.
We were on the complete opposite side of the mountain.
We had spent our entire day, dedicated to seeing Mount Saint Helens, like total dopes on the wrong side of the mountain.
So, how did two college-educated individuals mess up so royally?
It’s all Google’s fault. Yes, just like a tattletale seven-year-old, I’m blaming it on someone/something else.
When you Google, “Johnston Ridge Observatory”, Google has you go to Cougar, WA.
Notice how, in the first website under the egregious misinformation, it says, “Toutle, WA”? Yeah, that’s (closer to) where the observatory is.
Our trip wasn’t all in vain, however. The hike we took was through utterly stunning terrain (honestly, I think it was way prettier on the wrong side of the mountain). We also went in Ape Cave, and I crossed a suspension bride just like the one in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. It was just like that one (don’t listen to my boyfriend. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about).
We decided against driving another three hours (one way) to see the observatory, so we drove back into downtown Portland for some sightseeing.
We hit up the world-renowned Voodoo Donut and the Deschutes Brewery.
Donuts and beer totally made up for not getting to the observatory.
So, kids, learn from Aunt Fatty. Do not rely on Google, it’s not all-knowing. Go to the actual website for the location/landmark/attraction you are going to visit. Do some damn research before you go, and don’t rely on your phone for everything-you might not have service where you’re going!
Know before you go:
Johnston Ridge Observatory, last stop on HWY 504, 52 miles from Castle Rock. NOT in Cougar, WA.
I’m a satire writer. I felt the need to start with that, in case you’re new here or you haven’t already realized that 90% of my blog is humor-based.
So, I think almost anything is laugh-till-I-pee funny.
My friends either love or hate going to the movies with me, because there’s a 110% chance I’ll be the loudest one laughing at every.single hint of a joke.
I laugh at myself and my ineptness. I laugh at fart and poop jokes. Hell, I laugh at farts. Every fart. I laugh at the fact that my boyfriend and I call each other Miss and Mr. Poopy Butthole (instead of the usual “Honey” or “Sweetie” *gagging noise*). I laugh at my students’ corny straight-from-the-dollar-special-Scholastic-knock-knock-book. Like, I genuinely laugh. I laugh at puppies simply being puppy-y. I laugh when conversations turn awkward. I laugh at my dad’s pronunciation of a Yoo-hoo as Yo-ho.
I fucking think everything is funny.
Not everything is funny.
What makes me stop dead in my tracks during a laughing fit?
What makes me instantly get on my high horse soap box?
You want to know?
It’s when people pass off utter, on-purpose stupidity as “cute”.
I’m all for laughing at silly things like this:
Because it’s not stupidity, it’s a misunderstanding, turned hilarity.
Recently, I stumbled upon a stupid af BuzzFeed article about–are you ready for this–Chrissy Teigen’s butthole.
Get this, despite having had sex with her husband, however many hundreds (thousands) of times, she had no clue he’d spied her butthole.
Apparently, she had always assumed her coffee crumpet was the one sacred place left on her body that her husband had not seen.
Chrissy, didn’t you ever wonder why all of your friends were getting their assholes bleached? No, it wasn’t for health reasons. SMH.
I really don’t aim to be a snotty bitch, but, really? How can someone be that dumb?
Furthermore, why are we perpetuating the stupidity by glorifying it?
All images from BuzzFeed, obviously.
I was planning on completely dismissing this article as a slow news day at BuzzFeed, until I continued reading (why did I continue reading??), and was forced to choke down her grammatically incorrect, cringe-worthy tweet.
There are at least 11,378 fools out there who either didn’t even notice the lack of any understanding of grammar whatsoever in her post or they just didn’t care.
WE NEED TO START CARING.
As an educator, it is literally my job to spread knowledge and to stop the scourge of ignorance.
Why are we continuing to share, repost, retweet, and glorify stupidity masked in I’m-pretty-so-it’s-OK?
So, I did my due diligence as an educator, and I commented on the poor grammar and lame subject of an article someone actually got paid to write, and I was met with being called a “judgemental bitch”.
I will be honest, I was my usual snarky, dripping-in-satire-self, but I simply can’t sit by, as someone’s stupidity is celebrated, and do nothing.
In hindsight, maybe I should have privately messaged Chrissy, and said something along the lines of:
“Chrissy, sweetie, I’m not being mean when I say this, and really, I’m just trying to help you, but you might want to invest in a basic human anatomy book. While you’re at it, you might want to also add to your Amazon cart, “Grammar For Dummies”. Actually, no. What am I thinking? You’re paid for your good looks. You don’t need basic common sense. Nah. You’re good. Forget I even said anything.”
While I’m at it, ladies, can we stop playing the dumb, because it’s perceived-as-cute-card?
Maybe Chrissy Teigen is secretly a rocket scientist, but since women are still more valued for their looks, she plays that role, because a girl’s gotta eat?
Either way, I don’t care how “judgemental” I’m perceived to be, I’m going to continue fighting ignorance one snarky, time-wasting social media comment war at a time.