The Happiness Challenge: Day 5

I knew a girl once who told me she didn't particularly enjoy a mani/pedi. I don't remember her name because we're no longer friends. I mean, that's the weirdest thing I've ever heard. Okay, maybe not the weirdest thing I've ever heard—let's face it, people are freaks. But it's up there.

I love mani/pedi nights as much for the pretty nails and soft skin I leave with as I do for the girl time and blissed-out break from the day. Lately, some girlfriends and I have been getting together weekly for a mani/pedi, sometimes just a pedi or even a quick polish change. That massage chair (seat massager OFF, thankyouverymuch) is an amazing place to catch up, gossip, and occasionally drink wine from an insulated coffee cup. (Shhh.) Lunches and happy hours are great, but there's something about the nail salon—the 2012 version of beauty shop gossip. Plus, the nail ladies always tell us we're pretty and inquire about our boyfriends (and lack thereof), just like this:


I know you've all seen this—I even posted it once before—but it's one of my favorites and so absolutely true!

And in case you're curious, I'm still using lots of Lincoln Park After Dark on my toes, and alternating between Skull & Glossbones and French Quarter for Your Thoughts on my nails. I hope this information changes someone's life.

The Happiness Challenge: Day 4

Every time I see this photo, I think the same thing: The California sky is so blue, it looks fake.

I took the Ferris wheel picture on the Santa Cruz boardwalk in August 2008 when I went to visit Brooke. We spent the entire day playing silly games, taking snapshots in a photo booth, eating food on a stick, and spinning and flying on carnival rides. We took a breather on the Ferris wheel, and when we got stuck on top for a bit, we had breathtaking panoramic views of the Pacific all to ourselves.

I think the goal of my visit that year was to forget about my life back home completely, and that day on the boardwalk was absolute perfection. (Except for when we got a little dizzy on the tunnel of love ride. But that could've been the corn dogs.) I want to go back. (Hey, Brooksie, I've been practicing my skee-ball skillz.)

We ended the evening here (twice), cause we're fearless like that.

The Happiness Challenge: Day 3

To reward your patience for yesterday's media-heavy post—ahem, you did watch all of my awesome videos, right?—today's will be short and sweet.

Bugles. Bugles make me happy.

Everyone made Bugle fingers growing up, yes? Delicious. No one ever showed me how. It's like I was just born with that magical knowledge.


I had a system: I stuck the Bugles on my fingers, bit off the tips of all 10 chips, and then ate the remainders one at a time.

Mmmm. Bugles. It's a much happier Tuesday when the vending machine guy at work restocks them. Sometimes, if I time it just so, I can get a free bag.



That'll make you feel better about life right there. (Free Bugles, not Turk as a witch with Bugle fingers.)

The Happiness Challenge: Day 2

I love music. I have thousands of songs in my iTunes library, and my tastes are all over the place. It's also well known among my friends that I can't sing a lick, but it doesn't stop me from belting it out in the car, or singing into a hairbrush while dancing in front of the bathroom mirror. I've wasted many a free night propped up in bed getting lost inside my head while listening to the weirdest mix shuffle ever did produce.

Anyway, today's helping of happiness is a mish-mash of song titles with commentary by, well, me. Who else would be commentating on my blog? To compensate for this self-indulgent trot down memory lane, I included videos and pictures. Guarantee you'll be singing along by the end. (I was going to attempt a playlist so you could listen to all these songs here, but things got way too technical for me, plus a few of these are NSFW.)

You Can Do It (Ice Cube)
This song always reminds me of the first time I saw Save the Last Dance, one of my very favorite movies. And who doesn't love Save the Last Dance? Exactly. Hot. And one time a kindergartner in my sister's class told her, "It's easy Miss Gibson, you just have to put your back into it." Heh. Good stuff.

Borderline (Madonna)
Watch this video, and you'll never listen to Borderline without doing "the grocery store" again. Ever. (Sorry for the snorting. My friends make me laugh.)



Forever (Chris Brown)
This song makes me think about this video. Remember when it went viral? Oh happy day.



These Arms of Mine (Otis Redding) and Heard It In a Love Song (Marshall Tucker Band)
These songs always remind me of Jason, who I danced with a lot in college. And for awhile one night in Colorado in October 2010. Ahh, college. Ahh, dancing. Two of my favorite things. Doesn't he look like fun? He is. Don't worry about the blurry part of my back; my hot pink underwear were showing. And yeah, someone spilled a drink on my jeans. That's what we get for hanging out at the Walrus. PS: People in Boulder are mean and kinda violent, but that's not really happy so we don't have to talk about it.


I Found Love (The Party)
Now I know some of you are dancing like fools right now. Hello? The Party, formed of members from The New Mickey Mouse Club. Yes. An after-school snack and some MMC. Woo!



I'm Just Looking for a Good Time (Lady Antebellum)
Now see, Chico made me karaoke this with him one time in Chattanooga, but before that, these lyrics were used to describe a series of photographs from a wedding reception I crashed in Fairhope. That's really all I can say about that trip, but I assure you, lots and lots of stories and pictures came out of it. Fairhope is also the birthplace of Elevator Karaoke. You know you wanna play. Happy times.



Dancing on the Ceiling (Lionel Richie)
Ha. I love this song, but it reminds me of this sign at Bottletree, which Amy and I discovered at Laurey's surprise 40th birthday party. And now, every time I hear this song, I think about the party, and how it was a night of laughing till my stomach hurt with people I love dearly.



Fire Burning (Sean Kingston)
Lyrics from this song are actually the name of one of Todd's FB albums, which contains pictures from several girls' (including me) joint birthday party two years ago. Todd drove us all around in a 15-passenger Econoline van while we sipped gas station Champagne out of paper cups. The best thing about this whole night was getting Todd inside Nana Funk's. We're much too pretty for Nana's, but I love a good sweaty dance floor, and the Funk delivers. Plus there's the cheesecake cheese steak cart outside at 4 a.m. (I'm never out till 4 a.m., Mom.)


Uptown Girl (Billy Joel)
My friends in Georgia call me Uptown Girl, mainly because they love to make fun of me and also because of my penchant for drinking San Pellegrino. A little fancy never hurt anyone. This song reminds me that, in their own twisted and mentally exhausting way, those guys love me. Hey, I'm just looking for my downtown man.



Magic (Ben Folds Five)
Always on the Bubble Bath playlist when I lived in the Homewood condo. And everything about my time in that happy condo makes me smile. Lots of fresh starts and good memories there, plus the hardwoods were really good for my solo dance parties.

Mr. Brightside, Smile Like You Mean It, Somebody Told Me (The Killers)
Get Back (Ludacris)
The Killers concert at City Stages was one of the first things Sara P. (hi in New York!) and I ever did together, and that’s just special. These songs actually have nothing to do with each other, but I know how many of you feel about The Killers, so I found a little mashup with Ludacris. Everything’s better with a little Luda! Get Back is a pretty angry song, but it sure makes me feel good when I’m in a foul mood. (Look, I listened to this while doing about 80 other things, so I can't promise you want to play it in front of your 3-year-old or your mother-in-law. But, gosh, I do love a mashup.)



Speaking of making something better with a little Luda, how about Baby (Justin Bieber)? Haters gonna hate, but my soul mate Tiffany and I love the Biebster, and this wedding video is solid gold. Anything less at my own reception one day is going to be a total letdown. If this doesn't make you happy, it's possible that you're humorless. Just sayin'. I'm over here dancing around my living room.



Wanna Be a Balla (Lil' Troy)
All my memories of this song are vague, but it seems like I'm always listening to it when it's sunny, driving around with the windows down. And that makes everyone happy!

Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go
If you don't start dancing and feeling three-margaritas-in happy, there's something wrong with you. Plus, one time (in Fairhope) Tiff and I karaoked tried to sing this one.

OMG (Usher)
Tiff and I share a complete and total love for Usher. It’s one of the reasons she’s my soul mate. Below is a normal picture of the two of us. The one below that is what happens whenever we hear an Usher song, OMG being a favorite. We can’t help it—Usher makes us wear our sunglasses in the clubs, throw our hands in the air, and dance with our mouths open.



It's really not important to have sound while you watch Jamie karaoke OMG. Just pay close attention at the look of shock on his face around 44 seconds, and then again around two minutes, when he gets poked in the eye. Go! Watch it quickly! As soon as he sees this he's going to make me take down the link.



I Don't Want to Wait (Paula Cole)
Remember when James Van Der Beek wasn't creepy, Katie Holmes wasn't a zombie, and Michelle Williams wasn't such a sourpuss? Okay, yeah, James Van Der Beek was always creepy, but oh, Tuesday nights back in the day. My roommate April and I watched with a group of guys at their house. Jamie (he of the Big Beard) made muffins every week, we watched Dawson's Creek, and then we played Mario Kart and tried to balance ourselves in the bionic chair. (I apologize for the poor YouTube quality. Apparently DC isn't as relevant as it was in 1998, so the options for embedding are few.)




Don't Go Breaking My Heart (Elton John and Kiki Dee)
This is Tiff and Chico's karaoke jam, and if these two don't make you happy, then I DON'T KNOW HOW TO HELP YOU.


Don't Go Breaking My Heart (Dance remix)
Did you know there's a dance remix of this song? Neither did we. Till it started playing at tacky Christmas sweater karaoke last year. I think Rodney and Trixie did it justice, especially the oon-ts, oon-ts, oon-ts parts. (If you're not doing the beat noises and making that face, then you're not cool enough to relive this memory with me. Move along to the next song.)


Back Where I Come From (Kenny Chesney)
This is between me and my sister. We used to drive around in one of our white Honda Accords bopping up and down to the live version of this song recorded in Dallas (no, literally bopping up and down). Laurie knows every word to Kenny’s intro, and our favorite line is “tan legs in the broad daylight,” which we sing with exaggerated accents while pointing to our appendages. Seriously. Greatest memories ever.



Get It On Tonight (Montell Jordan)
Both this song and This Is How We Do It remind me of college, but Get It On Tonite (also featured on the Save The Last Dance soundtrack) was pretty popular in 1999, back when my college roommate Lisa and I would ride to our tennis class in her red Camaro with the T-tops removed. Oh yeah. Enjoy the cheesy movie scene and song below. Then practice your sultry dance moves.



Lucky (Jason Mraz feat. Colbie Caillat)
This song makes me hopeful for the future. That's right, I said it. Lap it up, cause I don't get sappy often. If When I get married again, I do believe this will be our first-dance song. I may not have cast all the roles yet, but I have written my happy ending. I hope this brings a smile to the faces of my best friends, ABL and LAK.



Happy Friday!

Come on, get happy

I’m linking up with Amy for the month of March. Our challenge is to post one happy memory every day for 31 days. I’m not a miserable person, so I feel like this exercise will be a pretty fun walk down memory lane (departing from cliché corner in 30 seconds).

So, I bring you The Happiness Challenge (Day 1):

In April 2009, two of my dear friends and I journeyed east of Birmingham to a rustic resort in Georgia. We were to complete the resort’s zip line canopy tour for a story at the magazine where we all worked at the time. This was our “we are woman, hear us roar” moment: Strapped to harnesses and topped with helmets, we were going to sail through the air, high above trees and water and birds, on cables, crossing bridges from zip line to zip line. Bridges that looked as though they had been constructed by kindergartners.

No problem.
I'm terrified right here.


It was fun. We were fierce. And all of that was fantastic. But, nearly three years later, the zip lines and bridges and squeals and sweaty palms aren’t even what stand out most.

Those things? They were wonderful. But the memories I cling to, the ones I relive over and over, are the ones of the night before, after the three of us finished dinner and were headed back to our rooms. The next thing I remember, we were huddled together in one room, drinking wine and reassuring each other that we? Could totally do this. One bottle and a few high-fives later, we retired to our rooms, where we promptly began emailing, texting, and Facebooking each other about our near-crippling anxiety.

The next morning, we could barely eat, but that jittery meal is one of the funniest things I recall from the whole trip. Any other time, an outsider wouldn’t have been able to ask “decaf or regular” for all the chatter. The three of us together would have boring people reaching for earplugs and smarter folks leaning in to listen. I’d guess fewer than 10 words were spoken that morning though.

Much later that afternoon, we were speeding down I-20 toward home, singing along to the radio and laughing loudly at our day-before selves, those silly girls who were so scared of something like a 30-story climb to the last cable. And then suddenly, our little Hyundai wasn't going very fast at all. We made it off an exit and into a sketchy gas station parking lot (aren’t they all) before our rental car sputtered to a halt. And then we just burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of the entire trip. We staged photos of ourselves peering under the hood, pretending to fix the car. An hour later, we piled into the cab of the tow truck with bags of junk food and plenty of giggles. By the end of the trip, even our surly driver was mustering a half-grin. We took more pictures in front of the tow truck. I remember Sara saying, with a great big smile, that she was so glad this happened to the three of us, because we weren't mad or annoyed or frustrated at all. We were all thinking the same thing, “What a great story this is going to be.” It's always about the stories, the memories.

That dear friend, Sara, is no longer here. She passed away almost one year ago, and I can’t even think about her without a huge lump forming in my throat, tears levied behind my eye lids. One blink and they’re out. But they aren’t sad tears. I’m not even sure my heart has fully allowed my brain to believe she’s really gone. I miss my friend so much, but the memories sure are sweet. I’ll see Sara again one day, and that gives me hope. Joy. Happiness.

Brought to you by the letter W

For WOW. The Internet is full of such delightful gifts. Note: I like red shoes and PB&J sandwiches, but. Something went terribly wrong during the execution of these ideas.



I mean, these will only see the inside of the Playboy Mansion, yes? Real people don't wear red lace shoes.



A peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich. In a can. I can get behind chips in a can. (I'm looking at you, salt-and-vinegar Pringles.) But this? It's just weird.

I know some people will actually think these necklaces are bizarre, but I'm dying for one. I think you know which state. Awesome sauce.

My friends are enablers.

That's what I love about them.

Val's convinced I'm going to marry Hines Ward. So am I, so our little head game arrangement works out well. When I stalked visited Hines Ward's Atlanta house back in August, she totally supported me by taking a picture. Remember? Todd says I can be sure now that my photo is hanging in Hines's house—by the security cameras, snicker. But you gotta start somewhere.

Back on August 1, the start of my birthday month, I launched a campaign to seduce encourage Hines Ward (like a few other people in my life, I seem to be able to call him by full name only) to follow me on Twitter. I figured 23 days with which to work would give me plenty of time. I had friends join in the begging campaign. I told him I went to UGA when he was playing there, that I became a big Steelers fan after he was drafted, that this was my biggest birthday wish ever. And then, only six days in, it happened.


My joy rivaled that of someone who just won the lottery. (Though I'm still buying tickets in the hopes of one day having to test this theory in real life.)

(Although if I marry Hines Ward I'll be able to stop playing the lottery and focus instead on all of my diamonds and … more of my diamonds.)

Thanks to my friend Tempy, the below photo is my new FB profile picture.


Isn't it amazing? We are look so happy together.

Come to my rescue

Something happened to me today that, while not dramatic or life-threatening, still caused my friend to get angry on my behalf. And so she emailed this to me, along with a note that she was actually growling at that very moment. GRRRRRRR.



And that is why my friends (Hi, Amy!) are awesome. Happy weekend!

Friday Brain Dump

I know lots of bloggers who apologize for doing brain dump posts, but I kind of enjoy them. Probably because these types of posts are just bits of random, and I don't know a more random person on this planet than myself.

Roommate Val and I have been working on Project Pantry Clean-Out in anticipation of our expiring lease and upcoming move. We had fish tacos last weekend, worked through a Crock-Pot of taco soup this week, and, judging from the amount of tortillas we have in the cabinet, we'll be eating quesadillas most of next week. I think we're both dreading the day that we're down to canned pumpkin and peanut butter.

Someone on FB misread Val's post as Project Panty Clean-Out, and even though I am vehemently opposed to the use of the word "panty" (SHUDDER.), I think this may be something that needs to happen before The Great Move of 2012 too. Sorry for the TMI. I've scarred many a reader in the years since I started this blog. (Hi, Katie's Justin and this post.) (DO NOT READ THIS POST BOYS.)

Speaking of The Great Move of 2012—surprise!—I'm moving again. It's like my thing. Nine homes plus someone else's couch for a week in 11.5 years. One day I'm going to buy a house and live in it FOREVER. Anyway, moving on, Val is heading back to Florida mid-August for a job, and our lease is up May 31. Several friends offered me a place to stay for a couple weeks while I figured out where I wanted to go, and then suddenly, I had room-and-board lined up for close to four months. And then the same thing happened for Val through August, including a chance to housesit together for the last weeks she's here. I think I speak for both of us when I say we're nervous and excited and hopeful about our summers. I know it sounds crazy, but that just sort of fits right into my life. I'll be writing about My Gypsy Summer on a new blog, and I'll let you know when it's up and running.

The founder of Georgie Beauty came by work today to demo one of their new products—Winks, faux eyelashes that come in three distinct styles. Megan used No. 1 on me, called La Chèrie, which are the longest and most voluminous style. I feel ridiculous but in an awesome way.





I followed this with an afternoon hair cut and color touchup, so I'm feeling particularly Barbie-esque today, save for that whole perfect figure thing. Apologies in advance for all the eye-batting and hair-flipping I got going on today. I look, as one friend pointed out, like Nicki Minaj. Awesome.


GIFSoup

I'm going home to see this little guy this weekend, and I'm so excited I'm nearly giddy.



I'm very used to weekly time with two of my BFFs, and I haven't seen them in nearly two weeks. We've talked and G-chatted and texted and Hey Tell'd, but that's not the same as in person. Sydney misses you, Lorraine and Alice.



The Penguin Soda Maker I got for Christmas is pretty much the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me. Thanks, Santa.

Tardy to the party (as usual) but currently digging two great OPI grays: Skull & Glossbones and French Quarter for Your Thoughts (below).



Also loving my Pop Phone. Go ahead and laugh all you want, but my yellow one makes me happy, and it makes multitasking while talking on an iPhone totally awesome.

Happy Weekend!

Doppelgänger?

So, the other day I stumbled upon a conversation two co-workers were having about celebrity lookalikes. And without hesitation, one of them looked at me and said, "Christina Applegate!" The other instantly agreed.

This was a first for me. And I'm not going to lie (Sidenote: What am I trying to do when I say this? Differentiate between all the other times when I falsify everything that comes out of my mouth? I have issues.), I was pleased. I mean, come on, Christina Applegate?



I think she's gorgeous. Wait. Did I just call myself gorgeous? How does this work? Am I allowed to agree that my celeb lookalike is pretty, or is that just total narcissism? I'M UNCLEAR ABOUT THE RULES HERE, PEOPLE. But it seems really rude to insult Christina just to make myself appear gracious.

No one ever accused me of not making sacrifices.

Then I started thinking about the day that Amy's bestseller is made into a movie. My friends and I have spent many a night sitting around drinking wine and discussing not really given much thought to which celebrities will play us in the blockbuster, but there are some obvious standouts: Sandra Bullock (Amy), Charlize Theron (Erin), Blake Shelton (Todd). (Just kidding, Vanilla Kitten!) (No I'm not, everyone else.) And Rebecca Romijn will play me. Not because we so much look alike, but because, "She's tall! And blonde!" says Amy. Hey, don't get me wrong. Rebecca is lovely. But after the Christina revelation, well, see for yourself.



I mean, right? This is working for me. Oh, and here's my casual look, you know, for running errands in Beverly Hills and such.



And that night I drifted off to sleep with glamorous images of me-as-Christina Applegate dancing in my head.

Until 3 a.m. when these not-glamorous images of me-as-Christina Applegate rudely cut in on my red carpet waltz.



OMG, you guys, this one? I've totally made that face before!



Am I "Married … With Children" Christina Applegate? SOMEONE TELL ME.

Today's assignment

Read this. I'll be back later with some thoughts of my own, but really, what's better than a post—anyone's post—full of Stabler? Nothing I can think of. You shouldn't try either.


Sweet Lord.

Oh, look, he knows my other boyfriend Bradley Cooper:



I'm going to deduct one-tenth of a point from Det. Stabler Christopher Meloni because he went to the University of Colorado in Boulder, and I kind of hate those buffalo jerks.

Rewind: Oh, St. Valentine. How I loathe LOVE you.

As my friend Lindsey taught me, Happy Wild Hearts Run Free Day, people! All of the original post below is still true, but today I've:

1. Gotten an awesome Valentine's Day goodie box from my parents (with gift cards! and new earrings! and marshmallows!).
2. Received a singing voicemail from Rob, which made me laugh so hard it sounded like I was having an asthma attack.
3. Been invited to an Un-Valentine's Day (one of the greatest made-up holidays ever) dinner at Amy's. She's making baked spaghetti casserole, and the quickest way to my heart is through pasta. If she doesn't duck fast enough, I may kiss her.
4. Eaten chocolates from a heart-shaped box, courtesy of Erin.
5. Opened a text message from this guy, who I miss like crazy!



So, you know, not bad for a Tuesday that happens to be February 14.

Originally published January 29, 2010:

At the risk of sounding like a bitter old hag, I'd like to confess that February 14 really annoys me. I'm no loveless, heartless chick or anything, but icky romantical stuff really creeps me out. I present Exhibit A.



"Surround her with the strength of your love." I mean, really? There are so many, many things wrong with this commercial. I have to watch with my hand in front of my eyes because it's like the part in a horror movie when things are about to go horribly wrong.

All the hoopla surrounding Valentine's Day just makes me gag too: crowded restaurants, prix fixe menus, heart-shaped boxes of chocolate. If a dude wants to make me swoon just take the $75 in the rose fund, hand me the cash, and drop me off at Sephora. I guarantee you'll get to second base later.

Oh, lighten up. I'm joking. I'm also a touch-me-not.

I do not, however, begrudge you if V-day is your most favorite holiday in all the 365 days of the year. I actually do like these delightful little love cards.




Get 'em here.

They're perfect. Sweet, not too mushy. No unnecessary prose inside. Just sign it with a "xo, Pooks." Or whatever. You don't even want me to start in on pet names.

*Mom, don't forget my Valentine's Day gifts. I don't see any good reason to get all crazy and turn down a care package.
**Just so y'all don't think I'm some sort of robot: I do enjoy a good chick flick, I'm fine with hugs from *most* people, I cry every time I watch "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," and I love a playlist that mixes Harry Connick, Jr., Michael Buble, Otis Redding, Al Green, and Marvin Gaye. I'm still a girl.

Saturday's alright for fighting … bad grammar

Forgive me. I'm delirious and missing football and they always play that song before games in Sanford Stadium. Anyway, for those who missed this amazing breakdown on FB, behold. This is cocktail small talk gold, my friends. At least it is for me and my dorky entourage.

Thank you for being a friend

What up, tricks? Happy Friday. I'm so glad the weekend is finally here. I don't have too much on my agenda except work and more work and maybe a little girl time Saturday night.

Which brings me to this. (Actually no, the above statements did not "bring me to this," but I've fully established on here that transitions? Not my thing.)

Sometimes when Every time Erin, Amy, and I hang out, our talk inevitably turns to "The Golden Girls" and our plans to one day live together in a house near the beach. This house will definitely have a lanai, whatever that is, because the lanai is where all serious and healing heart-to-hearts take place. Plus, we can hose down the floor if we spill our red wine. Lanais are tiled. I think.



This is how I imagine we'll look: totally amazing. These grannies just don't care what anyone thinks, and that's a goal my friends and I will have reached by age 75. Only I'm going to look 60 because Botox is my friend.

We don't really have a Sophia in our group, so I think we should hold auditions soon. Those with an aversion to cheesecake need not apply. Everyone knows you can't solve any world problems or old-lady dating woes if you're not eating cheesecake on that lanai. (Or, for those of you in my circle, cheese steak. From the cart outside Nana Funk's. Boom.)

(I found this picture online somewhere. I should really know where so I can give someone some credit, but, well—I don't so I can't.)

Listen up, Mother Nature

I am not a fan of this weather. Oh, I think the first whiff of spring after a particularly Antarctica-like January is divine, but then? Let’s get back to the business of winter. I don't like to sweat in December. Or January or February or the first three weeks of March. I like wearing tall boots and tights and leggings-not-as-pants (although I broke that rule 1 or 27 times recently) and sweaters. I enjoy my straight, frizz-free hair and the lack of humidity. Heck, I'll even take the dry skin. I have plenty of lotion in the cabinet. I'm not looking for snow and ice and everything not nice or anything, but 68°? 75°? No, thanks. I don't know how to dress for that, and that's my big gripe here.



Look good, feel good, ya know?

I should be ducking, I'm sure, from the eggs my silly little warm-weather-loving friends are throwing, but here's my secret: I stay up half the night most days, and while you're all tucked in and sweet dreaming, I'm doing the 20° dance around my apartment, hoping to counteract all of your weird I-love-mild-temperatures-in-winter vibes. Sometimes I throw a bikini into my bonfire and hula around it as a little sacrifice to the climate gods—and it is too dang hot for a bonfire right now. Brace yourselves for a mid-March cold snap. It's coming.

Stolen Funny Stuff

I'm probably the last person in the universe to discover this YouTube video, but cutting-edge comedy isn't why you keep coming back to me, now is it? I stole this from give full credit to Amy for posting originally. Even if you watched it over on the hilariously funny Vodka Cranberry Clooney, I encourage you to watch it again here. Laughing twice never hurt anyone, and besides, we really need to discuss how anyone spends nearly $14 at a Taco Bell. When you're all done, click over to Amy's blog, because I said so and she's funny and I said so. I'm feeling terribly bossy today.



Seriously. Go jump on the Amy bandwagon now, because jumping on after her book is published and she's a super famous author who spends her days with me and Erin at the Ross Bridge pool drinking overpriced daiquiris is so obvious and tacky. Happy weekend, everybody!


This is the author photo Amy's book editor has selected for the inside jacket. What? No. My being her book's editor has nothing to do with the photo selection. How silly of you to suggest something like that. We're going to do something about that flash of white from my bra. Don't worry.

Hi.

Don't ask me what happened to the fall. Or the holidays. Or the month of January. I've no idea. In my head, I've written a thousand blog posts, but my memory doesn't preserve them long enough to set fingertips to keyboard so there's my excuse explanation for the absence. Yes, I recognize it's become a problem of perpetual sorts. I briefly considered a voice recorder, but I quickly squelched that idea because I loathe few things more than the sound of my own voice. Wait, that's not quite right—I loathe few things more than the sound of my own voice on a recording. Ha! Here all week, folks. (But only because the week is nearly done, and that's probably as long as this blogging roll will last.)

I swear I try.

I have no clever transition so let's just move forward. Tonight I was slumped over in bed—eating a bowl of Trader Joe's fake Rice Krispies for dinner, half-watching silent TV, half-surfing the Internet—when I suddenly became aware of the Frank Sinatra song playing on iTunes shuffle. "Strangers in the Night." And then it hit me: Bubble bath music. It's January—no, actually, January is nearly over. One more Month of Me done. Except I haven't really gotten a proper month full of slothing and no commitments and—hello—bubble baths. While listening to Frank Sinatra. Ooh, and drinking lots of Conundrum White Blend.

These people, the ones older and wiser than me, the ones who said the older you get the quicker the time starts to fly? Turns out they were right. And aging along with my seemingly current obsession of becoming the most over-committed person in the state of Alabama is a toxic blend for my already overly caffeinated system, my friends. That's why the theme of this year is Chill Out. I was only half-joking to one of my friends when I told him my New Year's resolution was "don't make any new friends." It's nice to have lots of friends. I'm not ungrateful. Nor am I patting myself on the back for having acquired those friends—it's not really about me, it's the natural progression of doing new things and meeting new people. But when I'm unable to keep up with those good friends I care about, unable to be a true friend to them, I begin to wonder what the point is. The numbers game, it's not so fun to win it.

Luckily Amanda has stepped in to fill the role of social secretary. Not in the sense that all requests go through her. That would be awfully presumptuous of me. No, instead she'll basically step into my sister's position of being the boss of me. Stop me from taking on too much. Help me learn to say no. Or hella no, as the case may necessitate. Or maybe just say no for me. So please direct all the tough questions to her. I'm going to take a bubble bath.

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.