The Avocado Incident

You know how when you have a really stressful, crappy day the only thing that will make it better is massive quantities of carbs and a good angry conversation with yourself in the car on the way home?

Well, when you’re on a “diet” and all you have at lunch that even halfway resembles cake is an avocado (and it’s not even close to car convo time), that shit’ll do.

I brought an avocado for lunch with the intention of cutting it up and adding a few pieces to my Mexican-style salad.

After a morning where positively everything went wrong and after hearing some not-so-happy news, my emotions were conflicted and I was HANGRY.AF.

I almost forgot I even brought that damn avocado and didn’t recall my salad’s one saving grace until I had already choked down my plain lettuce and farty black beans.

I also forgot the butter knife I meant to take so I could cut said avocado.

It was almost animalistic what happened next.

I needed that avocado and not a few measly I-have-self-control-look-at me pieces.

I took the end of my fork and I just mauled that avocado like a savage until the skin was ripped to shreds and I could start inhaling the poop green goodness.

I sat and angry ate an entire fucking avocado.

And, it was a big boy, too.

Even when I bring healthy food options, I end up figuring out a way to royally fuck it up.

I need help.

Have you ever eaten a whole avocado in one sitting? Maybe I’m impressed/shocked/disgusted over something that’s not even a big deal. If not an avocado, have you ever eaten an entire *something* and then immediately felt like a fat bastard?

I need to know.

Zumba, Zumba

You know, I really ought to finally give up on my dream to be a surprise breakout dancer.

I never learn from past fails, because time goes by and I forget all about when I was drunk dancing and thought I was the sexiest, smoothest dancer on the dance floor, but then I see the video one of my asshole friends took and I just look like a meth head really enjoying some fresh meth*.

THEN, I see a movie, like The Greatest Showman, and BAM! I’m determined to be the next America’s Got Talent breakout star.

I’d totally be a viable contender on Dancing With the Stars, too, except:

I’m not a star.

I have as much rhythm as a flag pole.

My body is entirely incapable of quick movements.

Well, since I have dance-shame amnesia, I took a Zumba class with a friend on Sunday. The only saving grace this time was that said friend is just as coordinated as I am.

Not surprisingly, we claimed a spot in the back corner, behind some old mats and a mop bucket. Absolutely not in front of the mirror and definitely not where anyone else could see us.

The class started out promisingly well, because they turned the lights off and added some strobe effects. Even better to disguise ourselves.

As soon as the music came on, the instructor busted out moves straight from a Shakira/Rihanna/J. Lo/Zendaya collaboration music video, choreographed by the dance gods.

Uhhhhh.

Back when I first did Zumba in Elko, the instructor would teach us the steps. I think she figured we were all inept, or maybe Zumba used to be more about actually learning a few moves versus trying to mimic a professional dancer with our strange, not-even-close movements.

Honestly, I think Zumba is now all about the instructors really feeling themselves and not caring that the fat chick in the back is 20 steps behind and looks exactly like Tina Belcher from Bob’s Burgers.

My friend and I just looked at each other and laughed, like, “NOPE!”

We tried (for awhile). We really did, but my hips do lie and they are never going to be mistaken for the hips of a gay Latin Zumba instructor.

During one of the songs, the group shifted so that half of the room faced the other half. Pretty quickly, I realized that we were taking part in a dance off.

Oh, hell no. Nope. NERP.

Not only did we have to engage in a dance off, the instructor started pointing at people, which meant, “OK, now let’s ALL look at this ONE person while they do a made up move they they come up with RIGHT ON THE FUCKING SPOT.”

I almost hyperventilated and fainted from fright right there.

For self-preservation purposes, I stood right behind a woman who looked like she knew what she was doing. I was literally on her heels and mimicking her every move so as not to be seen. I’m fairly certain a bead of her sweat flew straight into my eye, but it was worth it to not be called out.

Eventually, the asshole instructor was done giving the inept people cardiac arrest and the *dancers* moved back to their original spots.

That’s when I noticed him.

Now, I must preface what I’m about to say with the urging that I’m not making fun of this person. I’m really not. He just looked like the opposite of someone who would be at Zumba on a Sunday. This just goes to show that even when you look like you’d be the absolute worst twerker, you can really surprise people with your expert booty popping.

So, this awesome guy…he had curly, but thin-on-top hair and coke bottle glasses (on purpose). He was chubby, but it looked really good on him. He had on one of those “Straight Outta…” shirts.

I really wanted it to say “Straight Outta Nachos”, but when I finally got a good look, it said “Straight Outta Rehearsal”. That’s not even half as awesome.

He also could move his body in the most amazing way. I was jealous and felt instantly self-conscious. He was truly glorious and I was just a sack of potatoes rolling down a steep staircase.

I think what this all boils down to is that when you’ve got it, you’ve got it. When you don’t, it’s time to quit embarrassing yourself at Zumba.

*I have no clue what being on meth is called. Is it a trip? A high? Help me out, people.

The following are some really blurry stills from a video taken during the wine walk. We were dancing in a cage, if that’s not immediately obvious. It was the direct opposite of talented or sexy. In fact, we’re only allowed back if we promise not to drunk dance ever again.

How Do I *Make Shit Happen*?

Sometimes, I look at the lives of really successful, happy people and I wonder what I’m doing wrong.

All around me, people are purchasing their first homes, buying appliances and custom cabinets for said home, adopting pets, traveling, investing in IRAs.

And, here I am, buying a coat rack and feeling like that means I’m an adult.

It’s not like I haven’t tried.

I have.

It’s not like I sit around feeling sorry for myself all the time.

Sometimes I do, though. And, when I do, you better believe I really go all out with crying over dog videos in my onesie pajamas.

I tried really hard last year to find an affordable home to purchase that would provide me with the next step: adopting a dog.

I never found that home.

Maybe I was too picky, too hesitant, too scared of a major first step, but I’m going to give myself the benefit of the doubt on this one.

I chose one of the worst times to look for a home to buy in my area, as home prices are at a record high. I also wasn’t comfortable buying an overpriced home in a bad area. I’m no home buying expert, but that didn’t seem a wise investment.

Yet, still, I see people my age buying homes in my area.

What the actual fuck?

I’m planning a trip for this summer to the U.K., while at the same time, I can barely afford the gas to get across town during my monthly “week of poverty” before payday.

How are people, with huge families no less, able to travel so much?

What the genuine fuck?

I wonder sometimes if it’s my outlook. I try to have a positive outlook on things, but that’s hard when you feel like life is constantly beating you at some game you never knew you were playing.

I know a great many people will say that the power of positive thought truly exists. I’m not here to say I necessarily disagree.

But…until positive thought pays off my student loan debt, I’ll probably be a semi-skeptic.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’m not a hard enough worker or I lack gumption.

I’ve been looking for a side hustle to help pay for aforementioned trip.

I’ve looked into VIPKID, which is an online tutoring company. You tutor kids in China, so that means I’ll have to tutor with my Flock of Seagulls bed head hair and with sleep crusties still in the corner of my mouth, because the time slots for my time zone are un-Godly-early.

(I’m still highly considering VIPKID. I’ll just be a total sleep-deprived grouch is all.)

I’ve gone so far as to schedule a vehicle inspection with Lyft, but I keep getting this text message:

I’ve rescheduled twice, and Lyft doesn’t like to give out a phone number so one can problem solve using spoken words.

I didn’t even want drunk people puking in my car anyway, Lyft.

I should probably just figure out a way to make a side job happen and quit my bitching, but a very dominant, stubborn part of me knows I already work my ass off as a teacher, so I’m not thrilled at the realization that my career isn’t cutting it in the having-money-department.

So, all this to say, my goal for this year is to learn the secret to making shit happen.

Maybe it really is positive thinking? Maybe it’s not being more concerned about binging on Call the Midwife, but binging on bringing in some Benjamins? Maybe it’s not worrying how old I’ll be when I finally own my own refrigerator?

In fact, my first order of business is to quit worrying about everyone else.

(Maybe I can get this tattooed on my forearm?)

So, do you know the secret to making shit happen? Sharing is caring!

Poop Happens

What is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?

Maybe it was that time you didn’t notice your skirt was caught in your underwear after using the restroom, so everyone in the office saw that you were wearing your faded, hole-y Tuesday underwear on a Wednesday.

Maybe it was when you thought your crush was waving to you from across the hall at school, so you thought you’d be daring and give a seductive, yet girly pouty wave, but he was waving to Marci. The bitch.

Maybe it’s a series of moments, like every time the box office assistant says, “Enjoy your movie!” and you respond with, “You too.”

My most embarrassing moment, up until a few days ago, was the time I got my lady business in 6th grade and didn’t know what to do. I had to wear my huge puffy jacket around my middle all while playing it off like I meant to wear a hot pink polar bear around my waist, as I moved around the classroom accidentally brushing people’s papers and pencils off their desks.

A few days ago, I went to the chiropractor for the first time. A local chiropractor was offering a $20 spine assessment, so I thought, “Why the hell not?”

Surprisingly, my most Embarrassing Moment of 2017 did not occur in the chiropractor’s office (which is a real shocker, because I was sure I’d choose the exact moment he was pulling on my feet to really embarrass myself. I was sure that’d happen to me).

No. The moment that will be forever etched on my mind and played in a loop in my subconscious, occurred precisely five minutes after leaving the chiropractor’s office.

I don’t know if the manipulation he did on my lower back set something in motion, or loosened things up too much, or what, but as I was driving down a quiet, gas station-lacking street, it hit me.

I’m sure you all know the feeling.

You know.

The feeling when your bowels suddenly have a seizure or a rave or whatever, and the need to get to a bathroom is sweaty and urgent.

I’ve had this happen to me before while driving.

I’ve always been able to simultaneously find my inner zen while driving like an Indy 500 driver on crack.

I’ve always made it home to the comfort and judgement-free environment of my own bathroom.

This time was different.

I don’t know if it’s age. Or karma. Or just luck. But I was left frantically scanning the street for a private-looking tree.

It was that bad.

Can I really resort to pooping behind a tree in a neighborhood? What if someone sees me and calls the police? Is there such a thing as a public defecation law? What if I get arrested? WHAT IF I GET ARRESTED FOR POOPING BEHIND A TREE IN A NICE NEIGHBORHOOD?

Then, I wondered how bad it’d be if I didn’t make it to an actual bathroom and it happened in my car.

Jeezus.

Bad. Real bad.

I’d have to throw the whole car away.

As my sweaty hands were sliding off my steering wheel, and my hair was matting to my head, and my bowels were imitating a whale’s mating call, I came upon a luxury apartment complex.

I’d been there once before when looking for an apartment with a friend. They were laughably beyond our price range.

They’d have to do.

I veered off the road and into a “future tenant” parking spot on two tires. I don’t think I even put my car in park.

Shit.was.dire.

It was far past regular business hours, so I figured I’d just have to find a big rock or a large bush. Or, maybe I’d just black out.

Somehow, beyond all understanding, the door to the lobby was open.

In my peripheral, I saw a woman in an office to the right. She was talking on the phone.

I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t look. I just prayed that if I didn’t see her, she wouldn’t see me.

As I was practically flying across the room, I had a very profound realization that it was entirely likely that, despite how close I was to salvation, I was probably going to poop my pants.

I was going to poop my pants.

I tried not to think about how I looked literally holding my bottom (like that’d make any difference) as I was racing across the lobby of a ritzy luxury apartment complex.

Somehow, my survival instincts (or just good memory) helped direct me to where I needed to go.

Glory be to God, I made it to the restroom.

I.didn’t.even.use.a.seat.cover.

It was that close.

Guys, since we’ve come this far, and I’ve been so candid up till now, I might as well tell you that I was 100% sure that I had crapped my pants. Literally sure of it.

Well, all of those times I took my cart back to the cart corral, all of the recycling I’ve done, and all of the times I didn’t yell at incompetent drivers really racked up my karma.

My pants were safe.

Just as the realization and relief that I was still someone who could honestly say they’d never pooped in their pants sunk in, the reality of my situation smacked me right in the face.

What’s that sound? Oh.my.god. It sounds like an alarm. The woman in the office thinks I’m a crazy street person and she’s set off the alarm. The police are going to come.

I was shaking and sweating buckets as I sat on the toilet, terrified, waiting for security to bust in.

They’ll be sickened. Disgusted. Maybe they’ll just feel sorry for me and leave me to my shame?

As I sat and waited for my fate, I realized nobody was coming, at least not immediately. I heard no voices. No doors opening. Nothing.

So, maybe that’s not the alarm? Maybe I’ve lucked out? But, how am I going to explain myself when I need to make my eventual walk of shame?

I needed a good excuse for why I practically busted down their door and then ran, pinched cheeks, for the bathroom.

I’ll act like I’m interested in an apartment. Yeah. That’s it.

I figured it was the only viable excuse. I imagined myself leaning against the doorway, hair still matted to my forehead, as I said, mid-burp, “Uh. Yeah. I was wondering if you had any one bedrooms available?”

Totally buyable.

I realized that whoever was in the office was likely waiting for me, so I begrudgingly readied myself to be seen.

After I scrubbed up like a surgeon (it was the only way I’d feel half clean), I apprehensively cracked the door and peered out.

No angry office woman in a Liz Claiborne pant suit. No Super Burrito security guard. No one.

In fact, the lobby area looked rather dark, and it was at this point I realized the door to the bathroom was through another set of doors that led into said lobby. In my frenzied poop panic, I must not have noticed that I opened an additional door before entering the bathroom.

I bet she’s gone. Thank you, Baby Jesus. I’ll never think a bad thing about the bums who pee in our alley ever again. I promise.

I was in pretty high hopes as I made to open the door that would release me out of my poop nightmare.

It was locked.

THE DOOR WAS FUCKING LOCKED.

That woman locked me in.

Either she never saw a half-crazed woman fly by doing the poop dance or she did and she purposely locked the door.

You have to be freaking kidding me. I’m locked in here. OMG. I’m going to panic. I’m not even a resident and I’m locked in their lobby bathroom.

HALP!

As it turns out, there was a door further down the hall that lead me outside. I was sure an alarm would go off when I opened the door, but so far, I haven’t made it on the news.

(I keep thinking I’ll be scrolling through Facebook and I’ll see a local news story titled “Police Still Looking For Woman Who Broke Into Luxury Apartment Complex To Completely Defile Custom Bathroom”.)

As for the “alarm” I heard? It was the air freshener alerting anyone who cared to the fact it was out of freshness. I lost several minutes of my life believing cops would be coming for me, when actually the Odor Blaster 1000 was out of Hawaiian Breeze.

To completely exit the complex, I had to wait for a car to come in through the gated entrance, and then I ran like the wind to my car and burned rubber out of there.

When I got home and had to confess to my boyfriend that why I didn’t have the buns I was supposed to pick up for our chili cheese dogs was because I got momentarily locked in a random apartment lobby bathroom, he asked if he should add Depends (to keep in my car) to the grocery list.

I’m highly considering it.

I thought I’d start the new year out with a bang, ya’ll.

I really needed to know why I almost pooped my pants. I’m kind of scared that spontaneous poop attacks will be my life now. I’m also planning a trip to the Bay Area, so I’m engaging in my usual OCD research.

A Sublime Russian Hat

Ya’ll, I’ve been thinking it’s about time for a good ol’ random observation post (let’s add a random musing while we’re at it). It’s been a time since I’ve done this kind of post, and since I’m either trying not to lose my shit among the madness that is Christmas Shopping, or dealing with self-inflicted acid reflux due to excessive holiday eating, I seem to not have the time to write a proper post.

When I say ‘proper’, I mean a real, polished work of art (or a polished turd depending on who you ask) that I feel could truly be published.

Speaking of publishing-I think I might be getting serious about the writing a book thing. But, like, don’t tell anyone. I want to keep it on the DL.

This is another reason I’m not posting my “real” posts to my blog for the foreseeable future-they just might end up in a book!

HOLY SHITBALLS.

Now I really have to do it.

I can feel my acid reflux gearing up for another round, so let’s just move on.

The Musing

I’ve recently discovered I’m an utter shit show. I mean, I’ve always known, in some respects, that I’m a walking shit show, but now I’m one in all the ways.

I used to be that person who is annoyingly, embarrassingly early to any and every event that has a time associated with it. In fact, I’d stress about being late (on time) so much that my morning/get ready routine was much like that of a person who’s perpetually late (harried, sweaty, and cursy), but without the added benefit of sleeping in or extra couch time.

Somehow, there was a shift in the space-time continuum, and now I’m that person screeching into the parking lot with the bottom of my skirt hanging out of the car door.

This past weekend, a good friend of mine got married. The wedding was in Tahoe, which is a good hour away, but was in the late afternoon, so I had plenty of time.

I sat my fat ass on my couch the entire day, blogging, playing Words With Friends, and just generally enjoying my slothness.

About 45 minutes before our planned departure time, I lazily began my I-just-want-to-look-decent routine. Upon putting on the dress I planned to wear, I discovered I must have grown a few inches up, instead of the usual out.

That dress, unless I was going for the bottom butt look, was not going to work.

My second option, was a flowy number that was so wrinkled it would appear I had it bunched up between two couch cushions for years, instead of innocuously hanging in my closet.

If there’s one thing my mom taught me, it was “Dear God, just don’t show up in wrinkled clothing!”

Because I’m such a winner at adulting, I don’t own an ironing board. Whenever ironing is necessary, like once in a freaking lifetime, we just iron on the bed, against the wall, you know, whatever surface is available.

At this point, we had five minutes and the stress of having to iron, had me perspiring pretty heavily.

In my crazed-what-the-fuck-kind-of-ironing-is-that-job, I knocked over a half empty cookie container. As I frantically ironed more wrinkles into my shit show dress, I was stepping on (and spreading all over the floor) shortbread cookie crumbs.

Once I decided I’d done enough damage to my permanently wrinkled dress, I turned off the iron, folded the towel, and saw that while I was ironing more wrinkles, I was also removing the finish on the table.

I don’t even know if I’ll ever be an adult at this rate.

The Random Observation

The wedding previously mentioned in Tahoe was a picture perfect winter wonderland. It was just beautiful.

The wedding and reception was held at a resort and spa. The ceremony took place in an open area that looked out onto the lake and surrounding mountains. The guest rooms also looked out onto this patio.

The beautiful bride and a wedding crasher.

Do you see the woman in the top right corner of the picture?

She looks pretty easy to miss, right?

Wrong!

I almost missed the entire wedding ceremony, because I was trying to figure out a way to get a good shot of her without being rude or too obvious.

By the time the ceremony was over, so was my opportunity to snap a picture of her, because she went back into her room. The free wedding entertainment was over. Duh.

Here’s a zoomed-in version.

This woman made my entire life. It looks like she’s kind of far away in the picture, but she was practically on top of the entire wedding procession. And, she was every bit #goals with her Russian kubanka hat, glass of champagne, and zero fucks.

So, I iron towel patterns into kitchen tables, but maybe someday I’ll just live in a resort, drink champagne all day, and own a sublime Russian fur hat? If that’s the case, I’ll send my clothes out for ironing.

Forget adulting.

Source

I’m a Hot Money Mess

So, it turns out that I’m not only completely inept in the Eating Healthy and Working Out arena, I’m also a hot mess in the Saving (Having) Money department.

I’d like to reassure any and all who think I’m somewhat of a productive, responsible member of society by saying I always pay my bills on time, and despite having more debt than I’d like, I have excellent credit.

This is where the positives end and the what-are-you-some-kind-of-moron-or-something begins.

Without fail, the week leading up to my monthly payday, I am firmly living under the poverty line.

So, that’s why right now I’m on the struggle bus careening straight toward Mental Breakdown Town.

I’d really like to blame my monthly financial crises on my lowly teacher pay, but, no, it’s 100% me.

(That’s not to say I don’t think teachers all across the world deserve pay that accurately depicts the jobs they perform, because they do.)

True talk, my monthly salary is totally enough to pay my bills, buy groceries, spend on occasional fun, and put aside some (meager) savings. Now, I can’t go all crazy and buy a house or go on a trip or anything…

So, why am I washing our paper plates and rinsing and drying out paper towels, you ask?

(Speaking of fucking paper towels, Target recently halved what they give you on their 99¢ rolls and thought we wouldn’t notice. Assholes.)

Well, let me just plainly list the reasons why I’m forever transferring money from my savings and overdraft to my checking account:

1. I am paying for too many monthly subscriptions (Ipsy, Snack Crate, Weight Watchers, Netflix, Hulu, and numerous educational related apps and services).

2. I have an addiction to Starbucks. My “Once a Week” deal has turned into, “Manic Monday”, “Friyay”, and far too many trips over the weekend. If it has a cute, made up name for the excuse and it’s easier than pushing the Keurig button, I’m game.

3. I go to Target every weekend. I am firmly anti-Walmart, so our non-grocery essentials are bought by moi at the Happiest Place on Earth. It’s just that I’m-going-for-toothpaste, turns into shit-fuck-how-did-I-spend-$100?

I got $99 problems

I got $99 problems

4. I need, like, I’m not joking that it feels like needing-to-breathe-need bullshit things like these:

Amazon

RoseGoldRebel

FabFitFun

If I don’t buy/have a rose gold Starbucks travel cup, I don’t know how I can go on living.

Our Earth is really just a spinning globe of garbage, but I feel an intense need for endless crap that I’ll forget I own in 6 months.

It’s pathetic, really.

5. I will have a fridge full of food, but cooking sounds like hard labor, so I’ll pick up food whenever I’m feeling lazy. And that’s all.the.time.

Source

Me, when I have to cook literally anything.

6. I can’t start walking, hiking, doing yoga, or journaling without buying the latest and greatest accoutrements. When someone told me about the “envelope method” for spending money, my first thought was, “Well, I’ll have to get a really cute envelope. I wonder if they have fake leather ones in a gorgeous mint color?” WHAT THE FUCK EVEN IS A “CUTE LEATHER MONEY ENVELOPE”? (Google didn’t know either.)

Really, I could go on, but I’ll just quit while I’m not even close to being ahead.

So, I know. I need therapy, Dave Ramsey, and Shoppers Anonymous in a major way.

Because I don’t spend my money on things that will actually prove useful in time (*Ahem* addiction therapy), I’m going to list the ways I’m planning to attempt to straighten up my money act.

1. I’m finally quitting Ipsy (along with Snack Crate). I know it’s only $10 a month, but, holy shit, did you know that 10 times 12 is $120? Also, I already have 82 black eyeliners and 45 mini tubes of mud mask. How many black eyeliner pencils does one need in a lifetime? Because I think I have that many. Not to mention, this month’s ugly bag was just…I can’t.

This is not my favorite.

2. I’m going to get serious about Acorns. Haven’t heard of it yet? Y’ALL. It’s awesome. Basically, what they do is round up to the next dollar all of your debit purchases and that amount is “invested” into your Acorns account. You can also arrange to have a monthly payment invested into your account. I legit saved over $80 the last month (you better believe Homegirl wears out that debit card).

The beauty of this is that you hardly notice 23 cents being taken out at a time.

The downside? You can withdraw your funds at.anytime.

So, what I meant by “get serious” is I need to start actually leaving my savings the eff alone. Had I just not touched it from the moment I downloaded the app, I’d have so much money saved.

Ugh. I can’t even think about it.

P.S. If you like the sound of Acorns and you want to set up an account, follow this link so I can get credit for referring you. If 10 friends start using Acorns, I get a $500 bonus. (I’m not being compensated in any way by Acorns, it’s just legit one of my favorite apps).

P.P.S Thank you to Angela at Hot Mess Memoir for introducing me to Acorns.

3. I’m going to slowly back away from Starbucks. Not only is their coffee grossly overpriced, unless you do the sugar-free thing, the sugar in their drinks is through the roof. I hate how convenient they are, though. I have one so close to home and on the way to work. I can slip in and out of the drive thru and be on the freeway to work, before I realize I did it again.

My new deal is one Starbucks visit a month. It gives me heart palpitations just typing that. Also, I’m on the market for a shock collar that’ll give me a good wringing the second I start heading to the ‘Bux.

SEE I CAN’T SAVE MONEY WITHOUT SPENDING IT.

4. I’m going to give myself a weekly spending allowance of $80. This will include spending for dinner out or other entertainment on the weekend. On Sunday, I’ll withdraw the cash and only allow myself to use that cash for any and all purchases.

$80 sounds like a lot, but it’s mind blowing how much I spend when left unsupervised.

Maybe at some point I’ll be able to live off even less per week?

I mean, stranger things have happened.

So, what are your budgeting strategies? How do you save money? What’s something you struggle with not spending money on? Let me know in the comments!

Zombie Apocalypse Fail

In preparation for the new season coming up, I am crack-addict binging on The Walking Dead, and all I’ve been thinking about is how I’d be dead on the very first day of a zombie apocalypse. 

When the boyfriend and I got to the episode where the group makes it to Alexandria, I said, “OMG. How has Darryl not taken a shower yet? That’d be the first thing I’d do. And brush my teeth!” 
(Now the running joke during every episode is: “Has Darryl taken a shower yet?”) 

My super sweet boyfriend responded with, “Babe, you would have been dead months ago.” 

Indignantly, I protested, but when it came time to detail the myriad reasons he was wrong, I had nothing. Nada. 

Holy shit. If there was ever a zombie apocalypse, I’d last precisely an hour, if that. I’d be that inept idiot in the first episode no one even remembers.

Since my asshole boyfriend was right (don’t tell him I said that, he’ll take it and run with it), I thought I’d share the reasons why I’d never last in a zombie apocalypse:

1. My asthma 

I get out of breath walking around my classroom and talking at the same time. Really, I could just stop here. Asthma is reason enough for why I’d be one of the first people to be eaten alive by zombies. 

It took me two months to get to the point where I could jog (and by jog, I mean move at a slightly quicker pace than walking) nonstop for two blocks. So, if the time ever came for me to run like my life depended on it for more than a minute, I’d be done just like that. 

2. My sciatica 

I first had a flare up with my sciatica when I was in middle school. The pain from my big ass all the way down my leg was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I recall barely making it out of the fast-paced school halls alive. Once home, I milked it for all it was worth-Advil around the clock, Mom’s special Home Sick Sherbet and Ginger Ale, and hand delivered meals. 

It was simultaneously one of the best and worst times of my life. 

Occasionally, my sciatica flares up and quick movements just ain’t happening.  I tried to show off my sweet Tae Bo skills to my boyfriend the other night and I pulled a muscle and pissed off my sciatic nerve. And, just like that, I was infirm. 

So, if my sciatica were ever to act up during the apocalypse, I wouldn’t be able to run or karate chop a zombie in the head. Anyone I’d be with would quickly realize what a dud I was and they’d leave me for dead as soon as they had a proper excuse. I mean, I wouldn’t blame them.  

3. My acid reflux and digestion issues

I’m an absolute mess in the guts. If I ever run out of Tums, probiotics, Imodium, or acid reflux medicine, you might as well just leave me for dead. 

Not only am I not exactly fit for zombie battle when my stomach acid coming up my esophagus feels like hellfire, my bowel movements when stressed could potentially attract a horde of zombies from miles away. 

4. My germaphobe rituals

When you’re running for your life from zombies and terrible, evil people, warm running water and soap aren’t exactly a priority. Hand sanitizer would never be on the grocery list between water and food. 

As such, I’d probably never make it to my first meal of road kill surprise. Not only would I have the hardest time not gagging while eating hastily cooked raccoon, I simply would not be able to eat with zombie brains under my finger nails.

Nope. Just leave me for dead. I couldn’t.

5. My beauty essentials/routine 

And, let’s not forget the benefit to being appealing-looking and how that might aid in the continuation of one’s life. I would not be a looker after just a week without my electric razor, dry shampoo, and foundation.
I know that beauty is not exactly essential for survival, but when the broad with a beard and noxious gas needs your help again, you just might be tempted to leave her in the woods.

Honestly, I’m really disappointed in myself and quite terrified that I’ll never be a Carol or a Maggie, but an Idiot Girl-Episode 1. 

So, do y’all have any tips for me to beef up my zombie survival skills? Or, am I a lost cause, so I should just keep doing what I do best-avoiding any and all physical exertion and marathon eating Skinny Cow desserts?

 That’s what I thought, too…

*unwraps a Skinny Cow Simply Amazing Salted Caramel Pretzel bar*

WTF, Google?! 

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. 

Mmmm…this was so good! I can’t really describe the flavor of the marionberry. The flavor is just “berry”.

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. 

There was so much green- nothing like the pictures we saw online!

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.

‘Thumbs up’ to not hiking eight miles!

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). 

Paul Bunyan strength

This raging river, cutting through volcanic rock, had pools with beautiful Caribbean-blue water.
Huge volcanic rock formations
This was truly one of the scariest things I’ve ever done!
My boyfriend took this while he was crossing the bridge. I kept yelling for him to not drop my phone. I was totally concerned for his safety, too.

We didn’t have enough layers on to do the whole cave. It was FRIGID!

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. 

It was 93 degrees out. The sun beat down on us as we stood next to a glittery brick wall that was radiating heat. It took 20 minutes to get to the front. TOTALLY WORTH IT.
Utterly, insanely gluttonous
My favorite was The Neapolitan.
I’d like to spend some more time in Portland when it’s not melt-your-face-off hot. I DID NOT get the true Portland experience.

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. 


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References: 

Wikipedia

WTF Monday?

Yup, you read that right. Because I couldn’t think of anything wittier, WTF Monday it is. 

I already have my WTF Wednesdays post planned for this coming week, but I absolutely couldn’t wait for the following week to share a review with ya’ll. So, you get two WTF posts this week. Do you feel special? 

My boyfriend went out of town for the weekend, so I pulled out all the stops. I slept in the middle of the bed. I ordered in from all of the places he isn’t too keen on. I left my bra, gossip magazines, and girl products positively everywhere.

I also did a face mask. 

I don’t know why I felt the need to do this when he was gone (I mean, it could be that every time I do one, he acts like I’m a ghost and I’ve frightened him clean out of his shorts), but it just felt like a girl-on-her-own-for-the-weekend thing to do. 

So, I’m sure you’ve seen the videos and testimonials for the Shills black mask that’s supposed to be so magical that many don’t even recognize themselves after. 

No? 

You know. The one that’s supposed to pull off a layer of skin to reveal the real you underneath. 

Still no? 

The one that pulls out black heads, showing a close up view of the pretties, and it’s oddly satisfying to watch. It’s disgusting, but you instantly have to do it. 

Yup. That one. 

So, I’m totally not the type to jump on the bandwagon and buy every product that’s featured in videos that Facebook, so helpfully, pops into my feed. 

But, my direct deposit had just dropped and I was feeling like a baller. 


Source

This video:

Is the real reason I spent $15 whole dollars on a face mask. I want to know this woman. I want to be her best friend. Mostly, I wanted a mask that would remove my mustache!

Full disclosure: When I first saw this video, I was sitting on the toilet. I was full-on ugly-cry-laughing. My boyfriend knocked on the door to see if I was OK, as I’m sure I sounded like a dying seal. When I shared the video on Facebook, I mentioned this and my next door neighbor responded, “So, that’s what that noise was!” 

Dead. 

Gosh, I sure know how to do a preamble, don’t I? Let’s get to the actual review now. 

It took more than a week to get the mask (after ordering it on Amazon Prime), but lucky for me, I got it just in time for Girl Weekend. 

To prep, I washed my face with really warm water to open up my, already Grand Canyon-sized, pores. 

I used one of my makeup brushes, just like the pros, and applied the mask pretty thinly. Perhaps, this was because the tube is pretty dang small, and I could have easily used the whole thing on my giant face. That’d be a pretty expensive one-time-use mask, if you ask me. Also, there are zero instructions on how to apply it. 


Once it had dried completely, I was pretty giddy in anticipation of seeing all of my nasty black heads and bad choices being ripped out of my face. 

I started from the bottom, just like I’d seen countless times. It didn’t hurt at all. I was hoping all of my chin hairs would be pulled out, much like the rooting up of trees during deforestation. Nope. Those assholes stayed firmly rooted in place. 

As I started to pull my way up my cheek, it felt like it was pulling pretty good, but when I looked, there were maybe three black heads. Three.

I don’t even want to get started on my upper lip. I was so hopeful, yet it was so anticlimactic. While utterly disappointed, I was enlightened to what it surely feels like being that dude who can never seem to score, no matter how close he gets. Just disappointing. 

Also, IT DID NOT PULL OUT MY MUSTACHE. WTF. 

I guess you have to have one of those non-mustaches that are just baby hairs to qualify for hair removal.  

When I got to my nose, I got excited. Surely, there’s enough nastiness to be had there that I’ll have a major success. No such luck. It barely pulled up anything.  

At this point, I’m pretty damn mad. What a freaking waste of $15 that could have gotten me three days worth of Starbucks.

As I neared my eyes, they watered and snot promptly started rolling down my face – I finally felt the pain everyone goes on about. 

It was terrible. 

Excruciating.

I realized it was pulling out hairs-the baby ones that don’t count around my eyes. 

What.in.the.actual.eff.

So, now it decides to actually work. 

Watch me be the only one to grow full-on, thick, black hairs around my eyes now that I’ve messed with the baby hair that once peacefully, invisibly existed there. We all know what happens when you mess with those baby hairs

Also, it didn’t all come off in one nice, clean mask. I spent ages picking tiny pieces off until I just gave up. 

When I stepped back to take a look at the mess I had made of my face, it was pretty clear that I had failed at the black mask fad. 

I’m calling my face mask ‘stache the 360 Degree John Waters. 

Just wait and see, I will grow facial hair on my entire face*. I will either have to spend a fortune on hair removal or I’ll have to resort to joining the circus as the female version of Lionel the Lion-Faced Man. 

It maybe would have been worth it had more than three blackheads been removed. 

Next. 

*I edited and filtered the shit out of my face. You’re welcome. 

Sit Sleeping at the Movies and Other Ridiculous Things  

Nope. I just have to lay down for 5 minutes to read, and I’m out.

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I come from a long line of sit sleepers. What exactly are “sit sleepers”, you ask? Well, imma tell you. When you’re a sit sleeper, there’s a 98% chance that you will fall asleep within ten minutes of sitting down. The likelihood increases when you’re in a comfy armchair, it’s warm and cozy, and you’ve had any alcohol whatsoever. If you’re laying down, forget it-you’ve missed the entire episode of Orange is the New Black. 

I noticed I came from a family of sit sleepers early on with my grandmother. When I was kid, we got to spend the entire summer at the cabin on Coeur d’ Alene Lake in Northern Idaho. The best part of this wasn’t the long summer days filled with swimming, boating, and lounging in the sun. No, the best part was that I got to sleep in my grandma’s bed. It was the best sleep spot in the cabin. The other room was the “boys’ dorm”, filled with bunk beds and farts. It was gross. 

Without fail, the moment my grandma got settled in, covers just right, and with her current book, she was snoring. Except, it wasn’t just snoring. It was something entirely different. See, my beautiful grandmother took her teeth out at night. I still remember those weird, waxy looking chompers floating in a glass on her nightstand. Because her teeth weren’t in when she fell asleep, book opened on her face, it sounded like the subtle flapping of a flag in the wind. 

It was always really entertaining to bet on how many minutes, seconds it’d be until I’d hear the flapping. 

The entire time we had the light on to read, I’d slightly nudge her and she’d sputter awake and continue reading right where she left off. I remember really being concerned that she’d never get through her book. Somehow she did. The marvels of this world are endless. 

The best part of this whole nighttime ritual was that sometimes I’d tell her she was sleeping. Every time, she’d swear up and down that she hadn’t been sleeping. 

I’d say, “Grandma, your book was on your face!”

She’d say, “That’s how I read best.” 

Oh, how I miss the nights I’d nudge my grandmother to say, “Grandma! Your lips are flapping again!” 

Of course, my mother was gifted with sit sleeping. One of my fondest memories is of our nighttime reading. No matter how late, how tired, how stressed, my mom read to us from infacy. As we got older, my brother and I read to her. Each stage had a different level of narcolepsy-like sleeping spells.

Some nights, my mom would be in the middle of a sentence and suddenly, the book and her head would fall, and she would be quietly snoring. 

“Mom!” 

“I’m awake!”

Then, she’d pick up right where she left off. 

When we grew into voracious readers ourselves, we started to read to Mom. That was hilarious, because with no book to hold, and nothing to do other than lay and listen, she was usually snoring before we could even get through a page. 

If we ever have my mom watch Harry Potter, she’d likely say, “Why is this vaguely familiar to me?” 

We’d answer with, “Well, mom, we only read the entire series!” 

A fun little aside about my mom and falling asleep in inopportune situations:

Not only has my mom fallen asleep during reading and during every.single.movie. she’s ever watched, she’s also been known to fall asleep while eating. Yup. You read that right. I wasn’t going to mention that it was likely due to some medication she was taking for her back, but either way, she fell asleep while eating a burrito. Except that’s only what she thought she was eating. She said she was eating her lunch and the damn tortilla would just not cut. She said she hacked and hacked away with her plastic fork, but no luck. Eventually, she decided to just gnaw at it with her teeth. At this point, she woke up/came to and realized she was eating her paper plate. I ask her to tell this story at least a couple times a year, because it’s just too good. 

I always thought falling asleep the second one sits was an old person thing. Well, at 33 years old, I can tell you it’s not!

Guys, I have become a sit sleeper something fierce! 

I’ve seen two movies over break, and during both of them I’ve fallen asleep. 

Like, fell asleep and woke myself up snoring. 

Yesterday, we went to see Rogue One at the luxury theater. I am fully convinced that those damn reclining seats have led to my demise. 

I was all settled in-candy opened and ready to be demolished, napkins draped across my chest like an adult baby, and my contraband drink nestled safely between my ass and the seat. 

I felt I had enough food to keep me awake. If I’m eating, I can’t be sleeping. It’s usually a foolproof plan.

Except, it wasn’t. 

I finished my theater food too soon. 

All of a sudden, I hear the crinkling of wrappers. It sounds like it is coming from inside my head. 

It stops. 

I go back to drooling all over my napkins as I try to keep at least one eye on the screen. 

Suddenly, the sound again. 

What the actual eff? 

I suddenly realize it’s the girl next to me. She’s been crumpling her candy wrappers like inside my ear. 

I’m aghast. I’m shocked. 

How could someone be so rude? 

Then. I realize.

She was crumpling her wrappers next to my head, because I was snoring. 

My head was leaned to her side, my mouth was gaping, and I was snoring in her face.

Who is this person I’ve become?

At this rate, I’ll be ten times as bad as both my grandmother and mother combined. 

HELP!!

This is too good!! 😂😂

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