Warning: You'll be singing this song all day.

Watch this:


(Sorry about the Nyquil commercial, it’s cold-and-flu season. Wash your hands, kids.)

Then read this:

A Narrative Explanation of “Party in the U.S.A.”

I arrived in the Los Angeles International Airport with my career aspirations (and a sweater that buttons down the front) in tow. I realized immediately that this city puts a premium on notoriety and indulgence. That realization sparked feelings of insecurity as to my ability to conform to the expectations of the local sub-culture.

I took a taxi from the airport, noticing the iconic “Hollywood” sign on my right as I made my way to my destination. I felt a bit overwhelmed, particularly by the ubiquitousness of celebrities.

Suddenly, I realize that I’m actually nauseated by the stress of my new environs. What I wouldn’t give to be back home at this very moment. Fortunately for me, the cab driver decided to turn on his car stereo, and a Jay-Z song was playing. A Jay-Z song was playing. Just to reiterate: a Jay-Z song was playing.

I begin to dance to the music in recognition of the fact that the song in question has an emotional connection to me. It reminds me of home and assuages my fears and self-doubts. My head bobs and my feet move in time with the beat. I am reassured by this music. This is a celebration of a uniquely American character. Indeed, this is a celebration of a uniquely American character.

When the cab arrived at the nightclub, I felt the judgmental stares of the Angelinos the moment I passed through their collective field of vision, their attention settling on my questionable footwear. They realized instantly that I was an outsider.

What a difficult night this will be without my friends from back home. I would feel so much safer were this party on my turf. Unlike me, all the women here are wearing stiletto heels. Word about this aspect of the L. A. dress code apparently didn’t reach me in time.

I once again feel nauseated by a stressful situation. What I wouldn’t give to be back home right now. Fortunately for me, the club’s disc jockey played a Britney Spears song. He played a Britney Spears song. In case I haven’t made this clear, he played a Britney Spears song.

I begin to dance to the music in recognition of the fact that the song in question has an emotional connection to me. It reminds me of home and assuages my fears and self-doubts. My head bobs and my feet move in time with the beat. I am reassured by this music. This is a celebration of a uniquely American character. Indeed, this is a celebration of a uniquely American character.

Despite all the foregoing, I nonetheless continue to long for a return flight home. That is, of course, until I hear a familiar song again, at which point I return to some feeling of normalcy.

I begin to dance to the music in recognition of the fact that the song in question has an emotional connection to me. It reminds me of home and assuages my fears and self-doubts. My head bobs and my feet move in time with the beat. I am reassured by this music. This is a celebration of a uniquely American character. Indeed, this is a celebration of a uniquely American character.

I begin to dance to the music in recognition of the fact that the song in question has an emotional connection to me. It reminds me of home and assuages my fears and self-doubts. My head bobs and my feet move in time with the beat. I am reassured by this music. This is a celebration of a uniquely American character. Indeed, this is a celebration of a uniquely American character.

via The Axis of Ego

And now, tell me you are laughing hysterically. If you’re not? Well, then, you’re humorless, and I can’t help you. Happy Friday!

Some might say I'm obsessive.

Actually, all my friends might say that. But don't I keep things interesting? Don't answer that.

Background: I am a big—HUGE—Hines Ward fan. (Note: If you have to Google his name, I’m afraid we just can’t be friends anymore.) I was in school at UGA for two of his four years on the football team, and he was my favorite player. And after 1998 draft—when he went to Pittsburgh in the third round of the NFL draft—I became a Steelers fan. Please don’t judge me, I don’t actually own a Terrible Towel.

(But I want one.)

Anyway, for various reasons (all good!) I’ve put a lot of hope and faith in the upcoming year, starting with my 33rd birthday in August. I am happy to report that the weeks-long celebrations were more fun than I could have dreamed, and the zenith of all the events was finding Hines Ward’s house in Atlanta.

Put the phone down! There’s no reason to get the cops involved. I didn’t jump the fence or anything.

It was too tall and I wasn’t wearing tennis shoes. Next time.

Please don’t make me tell you how I figured out where his house is; it’s really not important. (File that under Things My Attorney Said Not To Discuss.)

(But if you need me for any PI work, I have to say, I’m pretty good.)

What is important is that I found his house. And, with a little navigational help from Mallory Crayne (whose name I’ve changed in the interest of protection), I drove to his house, jumped out, and demanded a photo—right there in front of the security cameras. Rebel, I am. It may have been one of the happiest days of my life.

I don’t have any children yet; I’m allowed to say that.

Coming soon: The story of how I got Hines Ward to follow me on Twitter. I’m shameless.


You can see from this picture that I was giddy but somewhat fearful (one foot ready to run!), and my partner-in-crime was afraid we might be committing an actual crime, so she snapped it from the safety of my car. But? Still awesome.

The other day I wore black skinny jeans to work, which meant I had two options in footwear: a pair of boots or tall patent leather peeptoe slingback wedges pictured here. (That may be the most descriptive shoe explanation ever.) Patent leather won because it’s shiny and sometimes I like to feel fancy and because I love these particular peeptoes. You can’t even tell that I am in desperate need of a pedicure!

I rarely ever wear flats because … well, because I don’t. This isn’t a therapy session so I’ll spare you the body image brain dump. I’m working on it.

So, as I was wobbling walking down the concrete hallway from my apartment to the parking garage that morning, a man crossed in front of me, opened the door, and stood there a good 15 seconds holding the door until I got there. I thanked him and apologized that I couldn’t walk any faster in my heels. And his response?

“I heard those heels and thought, ‘That’s a human in need of help.’”

Huh.

A human in need of help.

I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, sir, you do see that this is a stacked-heel shoe, yes? That’s more difficult to walk in than, say, a graduated heel. So maybe that’s why I looked like I didn’t have my sea legs and was making the noise of a herd of thundering buffalo.

See? Do you see? Not easy to walk in these!




I started to tell him that his overgrown beard and hooded sweatshirt pulled all around his face on a 65° morning made me look at him and think, "Hmm. That's a human who might blow up a library." But I'm classier than that. You know, because I smiled graciously and then immediately put him down on my mental list of things to make fun of blog about.

Brought to you by the Iron Horse

I'm a little slammed today (and all week, actually) so I considered asking Laurey to guest post about the Bret Michaels concert. But then I knew it would read something like this:

WESAWBRETMICHAELSINHOOVERSATURDAYNIGHTANDITWASSOAWESOME!
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!BRETMICHAELS!!!!
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!

So instead I stuck to Laurey's strengths and borrowed her mad photography skillz to bring you a picture post. My ears are still stopped up and ringing, and Bret ditched the meet-and-greet my friends paid for, but it was an excellent girls' night out anyway: We had fun, no one got in a fight (even though I almost had to take a fleece-robed girl out to the parking lot and show her what was up), and Amy and I got another picture for our Signature Dance Move photo album. (Contrary to what my oversize 80s shirt appears, I am not following Jessica Simpson's lead and trying to cover a baby bump. Thank you.) Please enlarge picture number two, and take note of our glittery eye makeup. I think my arsenal of sparkly face products startled Laurey a bit.







I got home around 3 a.m., and suddenly it was like 1999 on Lexington Road in Athens: I had to leave all my stinky clothes on the living room floor and Febreze my hair before I got in the bed. Seriously, who still allows indoor smoking?!

If you are Facebook friends with any of us, or if you follow one of us on Twitter, you were no doubt up-to-the-minute on our Saturday evening exploits. Erin and I were on top of the social media.

Know what's hard to eat in the car?

Bojangle's chicken. But we did it!

I think my friends were genuinely concerned that I'd never eaten there. But we did have a seven-hour drive home to look forward to, and it was raining so we were (at least I was) sleepy already and ready to get going. We needed food, and Bojangle's was right there.

Like fate.

And, people? Bojangle's, I had no idea.

Perhaps fried chicken (which I just mistyped as "friend" chicken, maybe I'm on to something) and mac-and-cheese with Bo-Berry Biscuits (hello, delicious dessert) weren't the best road-trip energy options, but my faithful Love's gas stations are all along the Interstate, and we took the edge off with coffee and energy shots. And maybe some Oreos.

But, oh, that chicken. I can't stop thinking about it. I can't describe it here because I'd have to use words I hate, like "moist" and "succulent." Wait. I just used words I hate to describe that chicken. But it was, seriously, some of the best fried chicken ever. Ever! And now a helpful (or sick, twisted) friend has alerted me to the fact that a shiny new Bojangle's is just around the corner from me.

Oh, friend chicken and I are going to have a fabulous Fall together.

Mad props to JCole for driving and eating fried chicken without killing us all. We probably owe her a car wash.

Fur Vest: Weigh In

Yes or no, readers? Not to sway you, but I really want this vest. So cute over a tissue tee, skinny jeans, and boots, right? I think you know how you should vote.

Have you seen this?

Probably. I'm late to the party with this one, but doesn't everyone love Anjelah Johnson (of Bon Qui Qui fame)? She's clean and funny. Credit to Val the Super Roommate for showing me this one. I was a little hesitant to post this because I didn't want to offend anyone, but ultimately I decided it's just hilarious. I'm giving this gift on a Saturday because I realize it's nearly nine minutes long. Totally worth it, though, so I hope you stick around for the whole bit. I'm heading out to get my nail done: OPI Suzi Takes the Wheel!

Self-Promotion

That's exactly what this is. But in case you forgot, I started a second blog, about homes and decor, and I'm posting there again, too. I don't know what's gotten in to me, but I like it!

It's Friday!

Raise your hand if you're happy the weekend's here. Unanimous! We're all ready to kiss this work week goodbye.

I'm sticking around Birmingham the next few days (I know, I can hardly believe it myself!), so I'll do what I can to create a weekend full of blog-worthy stories. Okay, okay, I can't keep a secret: We're totally going to see the Naked Eskimos and Bret Michaels at Iron Horse in the 'burbs Saturday night. I guarantee there will be adventures and stories and gold shoes and glitter. Try your best to hang on till Monday, loves. The Iron Horse offers some of the best people-watching this side of New Orleans, and I do love a good stealthy iPhone pic. Check it out: Last time we went we saw Rod Stewart. Hee!

Flashback: Dudes. Miss me?

Editor's note: Looks like I did try to start over back in August 2010, so I'm not a total slacker. Then again, I never published this post, so I guess I am. Anyway, enjoy this Rewind Thursday post, and let's all be grateful that 2011 has been a much better year!

Well. I don't know what to say for myself, really. It's been a long time. 2010 has been quite the Mind Bender. And while we're referencing roller coasters, let's just say there have been lots of highs and lows, dips and curves, top speeds and hard brakes.

This year has given new meaning to "Buckle up. It's going to be a bumpy ride."

Sometimes I really do wish for a dull life. But a dull life doesn't make good stories.

There's no way I can catch y'all up in a blog post. I tried. It was approximately eleventy billion computer pages long. Instead, here's a little photo mosaic and a soundtrack for my life these past six months or so. Feel free to read into any of the songs, but just know you're probably thinking about it harder than I did.



Don't Dream It's Over (Crowded House)
True Fine Love (Steve Miller Band)
Baby What a Big Surprise (Chicago)
Dance, Dance, Dance (Steve Miller Band)
Daydream Believer (The Monkeys)
Rhinestone Cowboy (Glenn Campbell)
P.Y.T. (Michael Jackson)
Keep Your Hands to Yourself (Georgia Satellites)
Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough (Michael Jackson)
It's Tricky (Run-DMC)
Your Love (The Outfield)
Hannah Jane (Hootie & the Blowfish)
Put a Lid On It (Squirrel Nut Zippers)
B-13 (Jump! Little Children)
Get Back (Ludacris)
A Matter of Trust (Billy Joel)
Love the Way You Lie (Eminem)
You're Only Lonely (J.D. Souther)
Don't Worry Baby (Billy Joel)
You Got Lucky (Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers)
California Waiting (Kings of Leon)
Midnight Train to Georgia (Gladys Knight and The Pips)
Wild Horses (Rolling Stones)
Beast of Burden (Rolling Stones)
Take the Money and Run (Steve Miller Band)
Fool in the Rain (Led Zeppelin)
Don't Go Breaking My Heart (Kiki Dee, Elton John)
Statue of a Fool (Ricky Van Shelton)
Shining Star (The Manhattans)
Wagon Wheel (Old Crow Medicine Show)

Super Freak!

And just like that, it’s October. Doesn’t it feel like we’ve been back together forever? Time flies when you’re having fun.

A couple weeks ago I journeyed back to Charleston because, let’s face it, that city is awesome. I went with a friend and we met up with friends to go to the food and wine festival sponsored by my old employer, Southern Living. (Side note: I just clicked on the SL site and my old condo—and me—popped up on the home page, "18 Budget-Friendly Makeovers." Aww, I miss that condo.) I won tickets at work, we had a place to stay, and we ended up catching a ride to South Carolina with a former co-worker, who was headed to the lovely city on official business (read: free gas).

But that’s not really the point of this story. This is about the road trip over. Seven hours in a car with two other girls where I discovered that, well.

I’m a bit of a freak.

What’s that? I’m not detecting any shock or surprise in your reactions.

Somehow—after we’d run out of gossip and YouTube videos to share—we got on the subject of weird quirks, and boy, do I have some. I’m not looking to sell out Tiff or JCole here, but I will say this: I’m not the only oddball out there. Ha! Kidding, girls.

(No I’m not.)

Anyway, for your ponderment (What's with the red line, Blogger? Is that not a word?), I'll share a few of mine.

* I will eat any combination of M&Ms except for orange and blue. I won’t eat them together. Football-related, of course, so I’m sure you can figure out my reasoning.
* I like—no, love—Oreos. My favorite cookie ever. But I prefer the cream-to-one cookie ratio, so I usually just twist them apart, eat the side with the filling, and throw away the other half. Except I did discover that my roommate will eat the other cookie half, so sometimes I save them for her. I figure I can eat double the amount of cookies this way. Yeah?
* I hate Coke. Have we talked about this before? No Diet, no Pepsi, no RC. Blargh. I do love Dr. Pepper (regular and diet) and Fresca. But I’m a tea drinker.
* I order EVERYTHING extra-crispy: wings, bacon, sausage patties (no links), homemade potato chips/fries. You pretty much can’t burn anything for me. Why this weird, I don't know. But I get lots of strange looks when I order extra-crispy food.
* I eat grated Parmesan cheese—like the kind you find on the tables at Pizza Hut—with my finger. Dump it out, stick my finger in the cheese pile, eat. If I'm someplace fancier, I might use a fork. When I was little my grandmother would let me pour Parmesan from the green Kraft container into a cup, and I'd eat it with a spoon. I called it stinky cheese. Should I be embarrassed?

I’m feeling very “I just walked into class with no pants on” right now, so I’m just going to leave you to wonder why you’re friends with me.

(This picture really has nothing to do with this blog post, but the words of a 6-year-old Bo still ring in my head: What kind of blog doesn’t have pictures?!)

Why, hello there.

Yes, it's me! I'm back! For now! Or until life takes over again! And you can tell from the abundant use of SCREAMER punctuation that I'm happy to be here! Yay!

Want to catch up?

Well. I see I haven't blogged since, huh, December. Of 2010. Almost one year ago. So a catch-up post could take some time. You might fall asleep. My life isn't that exciting. How about a few highlights instead? Okay. Here we go. Get some coffee. Or a Berry Five-Hour Energy Shot, my new drug of choice.

Just kidding, kids. Don't do drugs.

January 2011
All I remember about this month was COLD and SNOW and LAZY. See? Brrrrrr



February 2011
The shortest month of the year brought the annual Super Bowl pilgrimage to Dalton, Georgia, to see some buds and to cheer on my beloved Hines Ward and the Pittsburgh Steelers. My team lost, but there were Monster Nachos (re-created from our oversize indulgence at a Rockies game last year, oof) and the inside-joke cookie cake (Superbowl! forever), plus a new Hines Ward T-shirt, a post-game L&O marathon and plenty of karaoke. Oh, and we took off for a little basketball weekend in Athens. Yeehaw.






(What do you think of my dark hair?!)

March 2011
I don't have much to say for myself here. My calendar from 3/11 is practically empty and the only photo I can find in my files is this blurry camera shot of Hillsong Live performing (free!) at my church on a random Wednesday night. I can say for sure that we celebrated my Dad's birthday with an almond-amaretto cake. And then I guess March went out like a lamb.



Are you still awake? Wanna revisit April 2011?
The super-awesome new Railroad Park opened in downtown Birmingham, and we celebrated my good friend Amy's (here is where I would link to her blog if she would just START one!) birthday there, old-school field day style. And I made my first-ever deviled eggs. There was a shower demolition at the condo I was renting, we went bowling, and I found the long-lost finger puppet that Christopher gave me in December 2009. April was a big month. Snark.







May 2011
I kinda love the month of May, and this year it was full. And I'm not sure things have slowed down since. There was a Kenny Chesney concert (press tix, woot!), a big (and super-quick) move downtown—which we do not speak of, ever—I gained a roommate (Val, that's her below), a big ol' greasy feast at Milo's (Val had never eaten there, total travesty), and a Memorial Day trip home to the river for my grandmother's 90th birthday.








June 2011
Wild. That's all I can say about June. It was a vacation marathon: Charleston for a few days where we ate and beached and considered buying a boat and visited Firefly (!), Mt. Pleasant for a minivan ride and bowling with Nanny, Dalton/Chattanooga (my friend Jamie turned 34 and boxed some greasy dude, the beard continued to inhabit a zip code of its own, and Huey Lewis disappointed us all), and then I came home and collapsed. Vacation is exhausting, white whine.










July 2011
Nothing happens in July. It's too hot. Just kidding. There were birthday celebrations (Christopher, Val, my brother), a trip to ATL, working at The Cherry Zebra (oh yeah, my mom and sister opened a gift shop in Georgia!), and—biggest news of all—I won a free bowling party. Stop it, July! You're spoiling me.








August 2011
Click right here for all you need to know about my birthday month. I rang it in big-time. Except for my bum hip, 33 seems to be alright. Oh, and my football tickets arrived. (Don't worry, that's not my real address.)



September 2011
Wheeee! Rainy Labor Day weekend at the beach (no documentation, who wants to see that?) and my BABY brother got married. Seriously, what is that about? In between? Lots of football. And I got an iPhone (hello, lover—but not an iPhone 4S, s'okay).





Hello? Are you still there? That's 2011 in a nutshell. I'll pick up with October soon. Stick around.

*Note: I'm too tired to proofread this post. Cut me some slack?