My Mother Got Me A Job… And She Doesn’t Know It…

It’s pretty funny how things happen.

About three years ago, my mother, T-Diddy, as we call her, came to visit me in Hoboken, NJ where I lived at the time.  She brought her bestie, my Aunt Di, my sissy Rissy, and my cousins, Tara and Sam.  During this visit we did a lot of things, such as eat Italian food, drink wine, and eat frozen yogurt, and drink more wine [eat, drink, eat, drink…repeat…usual things].

The other thing T-Diddy felt necessary to do during this trip, was to try her hand at match-making.  This wasn’t a new thing for her, but she had never been very successful before.

We were all hanging out by the water, taking in the sights of Manhattan across the Hudson River, when T-Diddy spotted a handsome man playing with his dog near us.  In true T-Diddy fashion, she approached this man, asking if he was single.  Turned out, this man was in fact, single; so she made quite the effort to bring her oldest daughter (me), over to introduce to this random man.  She encouraged an exchange of numbers, and I’m sure she felt very accomplished.

This man, “J,” we will call him, actually followed through and called to ask me on a date.  Myself, as a nice, classy lady, agreed to the date, and of course chugged at least one (read: three)  glasses of wine beforehand, normal first date preparation.  He took me to a nice place I had never been to, and me, being myself, after some interesting conversation, asked him if he was gay.  He said he wasn’t, but me, being myself some more, decided to not believe him.  Openly not believe him… like as in, telling him I didn’t believe him.   Turns out, I’m not sure what his actual sexual orientation is, nor does it matter, but after that date, neither of us contacted the other ever again….Ever….

…Until [flash forward] three years later… when I decided I needed to look for a new job.  I subscribed to LinkedIn Premium… don’t get me started on what that is, because I’m not entirely sure…all I know is I paid money for it;  but I was on this website day-in, and day-out for several days perusing some opportunities.  Who did I come across? Obviously, I happened to see “J.” [hence this blog post].  Although I now live on the complete opposite side of the country, in San Diego, I noticed “J” now owns a recruiting firm that specializes in Medical/Biotech Sales (and which he named after his dog)… hmmm…. how ironic.  Just the type of position I’m looking for.

What did I do?  I shamelessly inboxed the guy on LinkedIn.  I mentioned that we had met several years ago in Hoboken, [hoping he had forgotten the actual circumstances, but maybe recognized my name].  He responded positively [what?!] mentioning the place we had gone out [how did he even remember–? I didn’t!], and he told me to send him my resume in case he came across any appropriate SoCal job openings, although he didn’t have any at the time.  I sent the resume.

Two weeks later I get a call from a recruiter in his office…. “‘J’ gave me your resume;… we have an opportunity for you.”

Flash forward… I’m now employed by this company “J’s” firm proposed.

Thanks, T-Diddy… you’ve been there for me through thick and thin, you’ve stuck your neck out when you felt I needed a man in my life, [even when I didn’t agree], and whatever else you thought you were doing that was helpful…[it’s really usually not helpful at all… but I love you anyway for it].  What you don’t know until now is that the handsome [gay?] guy with the dog you hit on for me three years ago is responsible for my most recent employment..   You’re the best.  I owe you one.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

Another Day… Another Cleanse. #Paleo

I decided to start a diet and exercise blog.  I will entitle it, “The Best Way to Start Fad Diets and Exercise Programs and the Quickest Way to Quit Them Without Lasting Results.”  I will constantly post updates to The Facebook and The Instagram of what I eat, how I eat it, and what I look like in the mirror before and after I have explosive diarrhea.  Then I’ll document just how long I stick to an exercise regimen before foregoing it regularly for happy hour and trash TV watching.

I feel like I’ve exhausted my audience when it comes to documenting my “cleanses” and just how much they fail me each time, how I poop and fart in public, on dates with random men, and how I cry when I only lose three pounds at the end of a grueling week of eating straight tuna and chicken broth.

Let me preface this entry by saying, if even ONE of you diet and exercise salespeople on my newsfeed tries to contact me after reading this and pitch just how wonderful and different, and LIFE CHANGING your Advocare, Beach Body, Isogenix, or Body Wrap program is, I will send you something really mean like a lot of glitter and confetti in the mail and promptly block you, even if I happen to not mind you so much as a person.

So I went back at it again.  A couple of friends come over one night to watch hockey, and start talking about the three-day juice cleanse they just finished.  Steph, who weighs as much as my right arm did it, and  lost seven pounds, and B.Coll lost 13.  They both said it was the most awful thing they ever did… B.Coll being a little more dramatic about it than his better half.  But hmmmm…. three days of just drinking fresh cold-pressed juices and that much weight loss as a result?  And if this skinny bitch could lose seven pounds, my out-of-shape fatass is bound to lose like 15…. right??

Ginge was heading to a bachelor party the following weekend which prompted him to immediately order the cleanse.  Whyyyyy…… do you ask does he need to cleanse for a bachelor party???  “There’s going to be a pool! I’m going to have to take my shirt off… Nobody wants to be the fat friend!”  OMG…I’m dating a girl.

My roommate Karli also ordered it.  I was traveling to Hawaii for the next few days for work, so I couldn’t join the cleanse team.  Their three days ended, and Ginge, of course, lost 12 pounds, and Karli lost seven.  All four of them reported feeling great, cleansed, energetic at the end, and not craving anything unhealthy.  Ok, now that’s four success stories…. gotta do it.

I decided to cleanse from Monday through Wednesday.  Of course, everyone goes out for wing and beer night the Monday of my first day, so I go and sip water and watch wings get devoured by the dozen… drooling and wanting to punch people in the face.  I leave early.  That.was.torture.

The next night is softball.  What is softball without beers?  I’ll tell ya what… its a big fat L on the books.  Night two with no food.  I’m not going to lie… I was hungry.  I wasn’t hungry all the time, but I wasn’t NOT hungry all the time.  Driving around all day looking at restaurant after restaurant, and each time I stopped for gas, immediately thinking what snack I was going to buy inside, I realized that even if I wasn’t PHYSICALLY hungry, eating is such a HABIT.  The juices really weren’t bad.  They are from a place called Juice Crafters.  They boast that with their special cold-pressed juicer, they are able to extract 3-6 times more nutrients than most normal juicers.  Whatever.

By day three I still hadn’t pooped much, I didn’t have that “mental clarity” or “feeling of lightness,” or “elevated mood” everyone speaks of.  I literally felt like I was turning into juice.  This is going to sound like I’m making it up, but how would one even think to make this up…. I was surrounded by fruit flies.  Ok.  I know that sounds weird and gross, but it’s true.  Hanging out on the couch, fruit fly circling my head.  Sitting on the toilet, fruit fly sitting on my leg.  WTF?!  I must be emitting fruit smells.  This is flippin’ disgusting.  I am literally turning into fruit juice.

By the end of night three I had dreamed of eating food every single night, followed by a feeling of guilt, and I went to bed just hoping for a miraculous number on the scale when I awoke.

I awoke, wondering if I actual had eaten those huge loaves of bread I took bites of in my fantasies.  I hadn’t.  Thank goodness.  I stepped on the scale.  THREE POINT FIVE POUNDS.  Mother F**SFDLJKJ***CKER.  I knew this was going to happen.  I HADN’T EATEN A DROP OF FOOD IN THREE DAYS, CONSUMED 20 POUNDS OF FRUITS AND VEGETABLES IN LIQUID FORM and I had lost a measly 3.5 pounds.  I really wasn’t surprised.  But I also wasn’t done.

This can’t be right.  Maybe my body just takes longer to catch on than most.  I went to Juice Crafters, paid another extraordinary amount of money, and collected eight more bottles of juice to take me through one more day.  I decided I would also eat a few real veggies that day to ease my way back into real life, and I’d drink some all-natural poopy tea.

Day.Four.Was.Awesome.  My pipes cleaned themselves out.  “Pipes…” yes… I’m in the medical field.  I drank the juices til about 4pm when I ate tomato and cucumber salad (HALLELUJAH- CHEWING!) and then finished the day with more juice and aloe water.  I felt like I was on a high.  I know this sounds so cheesy but I was in a better mood than I have been in months, and felt like I could run a marathon… and I hadn’t eaten real food in four days.  I was sooo glad I decided to stick it out another day.  I guess all bodies are not the same.   I beat Ginge at darts three games in a row (sorry, bud), and actually felt compelled to start cleaning my house and doing laundry.  WHAT IS GOING ON!??

I woke up this morning, and stepped on the scale once more, to discover that extra day did its duty.  I was down a total of six pounds.  Now, I know, that’s nothing compared to some others, but six pounds to me feels a lot better than 3.5.  I wasn’t even hungry this morning.  I still felt great and started out my day with another juice, then added in some more veggie salad and fruits til I ate real cooked chicken and beans for lunch.

Now I think I should name my new blog, “HOW TO LOSE 6 POUNDS IN FOUR DAYS AND FEEL LIKE YOU CAN RULE THE WORLD!”

I’m just kidding.  This is obviously just another one of my fads, but I think I’ll do it again in the future and follow it up with some fad exercise.  I’m zoning in now on Orange Theory.  I hear it’s a cool trendy new gym where you get super hot and skinny and tan and pretty and smart and loveable and…. yeah…. well I’ll try it out for a week or so.

In any case, I hope all you muffins have a wonderful weekend.  I’m about to go eat and drink my cleanse away… obviously.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

How NOT to Get on The Price Is Right (and other tips)

A couple of months ago, our friend, Maxwell informed our group of friends that he created a ridiculous amount of email addresses, and eventually scored 20 tickets to The Price Is Right, filming in Hollywood for a Tuesday afternoon.

I didn’t even get the invite yet, when I cleared my calendar and decided on requesting a vacation day.  I shortly after, got the invite (I would have some way wiggled my way in, of course, but the legit invite was nice to have).

The group was intense.  Our group of PB friends is often intense, but throw in a game show in which there is a chance one of us has an opportunity to showcase our intenseness, and we rise to a different level of intense.

It was decided upon that we’d all be wearing Hawaiian shirts, and a party bus from PB to Hollywood was immediately booked for 8am on Tuesday morning, April 7th.  The internet savvy members of the group did their due diligence to find out the best way to actually get to contestants row, and we learned a few things:

  • You’re being judged by roaming producers, as well as hidden cameras as soon as you step foot in line
  • Over-the-top enthusiasm will take you far
  • Large groups of 15-25 are basically guaranteed to get one person chosen for contestants row
  • You need to arrive at noon and plan on being there for 5 hours

Over-the-top enthusiasm?  I’m pretty sure we have that covered on our sleepiest of days.  Add an 8am, three-hour bus ride (including at least one bathroom break), coolers full of mimosas, beer, and some Fireball, and we’ve got the whole audience covered on the enthusiasm-meter.

We get there close to noon, our deadline, and are ready to wait in line for a while (acting peppy and friendly, of course), and ditch alllll of our food and drinks on the bus.

Let’s fast-forward to FOUR HOURS LATER… we are STILL in line.

Here are some things I’ve learned from actually GOING to The Price Is Right:

  • BRING THINGS– drinks, food, whatever floats your boat.  You are waiting in line for legit 3 hours before you even get to the security area where you need to ditch drinks, food, and your cell phone
  • BRING YOUR CELL PHONE– many of our group members left their phones on the bus, after reading the show’s instructions that they would need to be “checked” at the door.  The “check-point” isn’t until an hour before you enter the studio, which leaves you THREE HOURS of potential selfies with your super cool PIR name tags, texts to your jealous friends, and responses to work emails if you happened to just “call in sick” or “work from home” that day.
  • DON”T BE AN ASSHOLE–  there is a fine line between enthusiasm, originality, and assholism.  As a group, we did not put ourselves on the right side of that line.  Being enthusiastic, sweet, friendly, is great.  Leave the cockiness at the door [*guilty as charged]
  • YOU ARE NOT GUARANTEED TO HAVE A GROUP MEMBER GET CHOSEN:  It doesn’t matter how big your group is, if they don’t want one of you, they WON’T PICK ONE OF YOU

As we’re waiting in what seemed to be the last leg of the line, right before security, after several overpriced Red Bulls and stale, tasteless personal pizzas from the show’s “snack stand,” and after being told we ONLY have an hour and a half left ’til we get into the studio, my sister says to me,

“I’m tired of this, do you want to just go to the bar across the street??”

I respond, “Umm.. yeah, if it’s really gonna be another hour and a half, I’ll go.”

“No, I mean, INSTEAD of going to the show.  I”m over this.”

That’s where I put my foot down.  There’s no way I’m waiting in a sea of ridiculous lines for this long, and not even getting in there.  We started making jokes such as,

“What if Carissa gets picked and they’re like ‘CARISSA!!!  COME ON DOWN’ and we have to say on national TV— OH- she’s not here anymore– she went to the bar!!'”

She resorted to just napping once we got to our seats.  She was over it.  Little did she know… there would be NO NAPPING.

The person I feel for the most in production of The Price is Right:  The young’ish looking man, who had a title I can’t even fathom, (Cheer police??) who stood on stage having anxiety attacks every time the cameras rolled, convulsing over getting everyone to stand up, clap, and act like they were having the times of their lives.  This poor guys was sweating down his cheeks and looked like he was about to cry when he wasn’t getting a proper response.

My hands were literally sore from clapping, my voice horse from hooting and hollering, and my Fitbit going out of control with all the fist pumping.  Sitting in the audience of The Price is Right is a much different experience from sitting on your couch.  You can’t hear anything that is happening on the tiny little stage.  You literally have to wait to see poor little Cheer Police’s note card to know who was chosen next to “COME ON DOWN,” because you couldn’t hear a damn thing.

The group of assholes with the Hawaiian shirts and enough enthusiasm to light the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, (even after a mid-afternoon hangover at this point), was strategically seated front and center, two rows behind the contestants.  We were USED.  They baited us before the show started, by saying all the contestants were not yet chosen after the interview process (obvious lies), and that they’d be watching us throughout the show to see who was cheering loudest, and helping out the most.  That’s how they continuously got us out of our chairs and screaming.  We bit the bait.  Bastards.

Contestant after contestant was chosen.  Not.one.of.them.came.from.our.group.  W…T…F…

The beginning of the bus ride home was somewhat solemn.  How did NOT ONE of us get chosen?  We were soooo cool, and fun, and enthusiastic.  Weren’t we??  We got over it by the time we hit the highway, got back to our normal selves, and started  pumping the jams (I’m old… I say pumping the jams), cracking the beer, and passing the Jack.

We made the bus driver get to record speeds on the way home (approximately 55mph), as six of us on the bus had a  co-ed softball game to get to at 9pm.  Forfeiting was not an option.

We made the game.  Me, still in my Hawaiian shirt, jeans, chucks,  and Price is Right name-tag, as I didn’t have a second to change.  We also won the game, due to something I can’t put my finger on.  Probably the fact that the other team had never played softball in their lives??  There’s nothing else I can guess there….

Ginge and I had a talk later on that night… why didn’t any of us get on?  It wasn’t very hard to decode.  After all of the tips we read about being outgoing, enthusiastic, and original, we didn’t really stop to think about the target audience of the show.  Who is the target audience?  Mostly old retired people, maybe some stay-at-home moms, and the obvious kids who pretend they’re sick to stay home from school and binge-watch game shows.

What were we lacking in our approach?  Genuineness.  Plain and simple.  We didn’t need to be these over-the-top ridiculous people, making up fake occupations and turning on the ham.  That’s not what people want to see.  That’s not what people are rooting for.  At least not on this show.  We discussed the people who got called up, and the old woman who won the entire showcase, whose husband, who was bound to a wheelchair was crying tears down his cheeks.  We realized then, people want to see good people win things.  Not annoying people, not crazy-hyper people… real people with good hearts and a great desire to play the game.

We are those people.  We are all, individually, good, genuine people who have good hearts and want to play the game and win things.  Every one of these people I love is that great person you’d cheer for if you knew them.  But I’m not sure we portrayed ourselves in the best light possible.  I’m not going to say we were the drunk idiots of the interview process, because we weren’t.  Maybe we would have been if we knew better…. they kept us in line for so long beforehand that it would have been somewhat impossible to STILL be the drunk idiots that we may have been on the bus.  But they may have read our enthusiasm incorrectly.

Here is my humble advice for anyone who scores tickets to this show:

  •  BE YOURSELF-  Just maybe a less-inhibited version of yourself.  Be friendly and kind, very happy and really want to play the game
  •  BE PREPARED- They tell you not to wear open toed shoes.  Don’t.  Our friend with flip-flops stopped at a store outside the studio and bought a pair of knock-off chucks for $194.  (He’s pleased with his purchase, so all is good).
  • DON”T PLAN ON HAVING A VOICE…OR PALMS the next day:  You will clap like you’ve never clapped before, and yell like you’ve never yelled before.  Even if you don’t want to.  Cheer Police knows what he’s doing.  He’s no joke.  You will clap.  You will yell.

All in all, I could not have thought up a better way to spend my Tuesday.  A group of great friends getting together and sharing an experience so close to home that most don’t really put on their priority list…. we put it on our priority list.  Thank you Maxwell, for all of your finagling and hard work.  I love you guys all to the moon and back… and no RV, Range Rover, pony, sailboat, washer/dryer, cooking set, or bear hug from Drew Carey could even make me love you more.

To all of you thinking of going to The Price is Right?  Go.  It’s an experience for sure.  Just pack a backpack full of snacks and refreshments for the wait… and try not to act like an asshole.  😉

PS- Our episode airs June 1, 2015.  Look for the sea of Hawaiian shirts up front. 🙂

xoxo, pumpkins,

Gossip Girl

price is right

A Bit of Reality… ‘Aint Never Hurt Nobody

Me:  “I think I’m going to sell my SUV and get a Prius…”

[as i look across the couch to see his facial expression]

———————-

[he doesn’t look up from his laptop; his facial expression doesn’t change]

Ginge:  “I think we should start seeing other people…”

I just smirk.  I would never sell my SUV to buy a Prius unless absolutely necessary.  Not that I have anything against Prius’ (or Priuses?) in general, but they’re really just not my cup of tea to drive.   I just knew the suggestion would ruffle Ginge’s feathers, as it did.   Yet, he knew I was joking with my random comment.

What this got me thinking about, however, was, what if Ginge were to say to me truthfully and genuinely, “I think we should start seeing other people?”

I mean this comment stemmed from the jokiest of jokes, but it brought to my attention that in the past 14 months, this thought has never crossed my mind.  Am I naive?  Am I egotistical?  What the HECK am I?  I thought back to the time when I just met Ginge.  We had only gone on two, maybe three dates, and T-Diddy [mom] was asking about him over the phone.  I remember telling her:

“It’s weird.  I don’t have to guess about him.  He always calls, he always texts, he always follows through with plans… I don’t even have to wonder with him…”

What the HECK game did he play?  Well apparently a freakin’ good one.  He played the game in which you are an actual genuine person who says and does what he says he’s going to do, and treats a woman like she’s actually a human being.  I mean, really?  It’s not that hard.  But sadly, it’s out of the ordinary, and this is something I commented to T-Diddy.   She, of course, gave me her wonderful motherly advice, that I SHOULDN’T have to wonder and I SHOULDN’T ever worry if he’s going to call me again.

Which brings me to my current point.  At over a year I have NEVER wondered or worried about if Ginge was going to call again, or if he didn’t like me anymore.  He’s always made me feel like I’ve had him and I’ll never lose him.  But this one comment really got me thinking more than I usually do [I guess I don’t think that much?]… Have I made him feel similarly?

I feel like I’ve been screwed over so many freakin’ times over the past several years, that it’s been all about me… “does he like me?”  “is he treating me correctly?”  “is he making ME his number ONE priority?”  “does he love my family?”  “can he live without me?”  …blah blah blah… me, me, ME….

What about HIM?  Let’s not get me wrong… I’ve come to really love this guy to death.  But that silly comment just put this thought in my head…. what if he were to want to leave ME? [I mean who really would want to leave me?? But still…]   HELLO!!!! Get off your high horse, you ASS!  This is a two-way street!!    How have I never even considered that this wonderful, kind, handsome, completely fantastic man could ever do better?  [Well, better…?  No, he couldn’t…]  But my point being… I knew those silly words that came out of his mouth, “I think we should start seeing other people,” were completely nonsense, and joking around, but they really hit home.

If I had heard those words out of his mouth in truth, I’m not sure what I would do.  I know I’d probably be in shock… because apparently over the past 14 months, I’ve felt the most secure I’ve ever felt in a relationship before.  I guess all I can say here is that maybe i learned a bit about myself.   I’ve learned that I hope I’m doing all I can to make my man feel just as secure as I do.  And if I’m not, I sure as hell need to do a better job.  Thanks, Ginge… for being you.

‘Til we meet again… hopefully less than 3 months from now….

xoxo

Gossip Girl

A Puppy and Unemployment

Worst.blogger.ever.

My blonde cousins were in town last week.  On her last night, as we’re sitting at a Miller’s Field with some beers, Samantha says, “Why haven’t you blogged in a while?”

I think about it, look at the guy sitting to my left, and respond, “I don’t know.  Ginge is pretty boring.  I don’t know what I’d write about.”

Ginge shoves a handful of nachos in his mouth and says, “See how boring I am once I push you out of an airplane.”

Truth is, my life hasn’t really been boring lately.  I suppose based on blog feedback, I felt people are mostly interested in hearing tales of my awful dating life and the momo’s I come across.  Keeping Ginge around has eliminated these tales, because he has been pretty far from awful.

Since my last post, a few life events have occurred…  In this order:

1.  I got a puppy

2.  I lost my job

3.  I got a new job

 

The Puppy:  Oliver Twist ‘n Shout:

Yeah yeah… I know… I’ve done this before.   I’ve gotten a puppy:  [The Story of Prince Harry].  But that time was different.  I wasn’t ready.  I hadn’t thought it through.  But after I returned Prince Harry to the pet shop on that cold March day, over two years ago, I continued to think about him.  When I spoke of him, I would tell people, “I won’t get another puppy until I get a boyfriend.”  I decided boyfriends were probably good for things like training puppies and picking up poop.  It turns out I was right.  They are good at that kinda thing.  I know this because I bagged a boyfriend, and then shortly after, bought a Goldendoodle.  SCORE!!!!

Before I paid for the puppy I told Ginge, “I’m going to make you sign a contract stating that you won’t break up with me until after the puppy is fully trained.”

He agreed.  My roommates wondered what he must think of me to request such a thing.

So there we have it.  I had a puppy.   I present to you, Oliver Twist ‘n Shout… Oliver Twist for short, Oliver for shorter, and Ollie, used most frequently, for those who love him.

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There’s no denying how stinkin’ adorable this puppy is.  But, I’ve never raised a puppy before.  I never even had a dog growing up.  I have no idea what I’m doing.  I was prepared for the puppy to bite and try to eat things that aren’t edible.  I had pulled a couple of thongs (the underwear version) out of his mouth when I realized it was something he enjoyed chewing on.  But I was not aware that this puppy was dumb enough to actually swallow a thong.  The first time I realized that he was, in fact, dumb enough to swallow a thong is when I watched it get pushed out and hang from his butt… in public…. in front of people… at CVS.

I’m standing at the pharmacy when the poop starts coming.  Big ones.  On the floor.  He has never done something like this before.  Not knowing what to do, I start dragging him across the floor, with poop still coming from his butt, creating a trail across the carpeted floor.  I’m whispering:  “STOP!” hoping no one will notice, but knowing the stench has already taken over half the building.  Then a customer sees whats happening, and exclaims in horror:  “I think he ate something!”

I look, and sure enough… there it was… a pink lacy thong, hanging from his butt covered in poop.  I didn’t know what to do.  I was mortified.  I ran him out of there.  I stood outside for a few minutes, staring at the poop covered thong.  Knowing there was more inside where that came from… and knowing everyone had seen what just happened.  I didn’t have an option.  I went back in.   Dog leash in one hand, plastic bags and paper towels in the other, I got to work picking up the crap that was strewn about the store.

An extremely observant customer suggests, “I think he ate something that didn’t agree with him.”

“Yeah, he ate a pair of my underwear.”

He looks astonished, “Oh….. [pause]….. yeah, that wouldn’t agree with him.”

I walked out of that CVS with my tail between my legs [ba-dum-CHING], with zero intentions of ever returning.  After Oliver passed the thong, he was happy as a clam and ready for more shopping.  I was not.

This adorable little fluff ball = more responsibility.   Enter life event number two:

 

I Lost My Job:

My job liked me.  Which is why this was such a blow to the gut.  Also, no one saw the layoff coming when it did.  I’m pretty sure this was the first time a layoff of any sort happened without the little birdies calling to gossip about it beforehand.   I had good insiders.  It was a Thursday morning.  I was in Tucson, at a Hampton Inn about an hour and a half from Sierra Vista (aka the ends of the Earth), for an appointment I had that day.  It took me two flights and the good part of a day to get there, and I didn’t get into my hotel until almost midnight the night before.  I was beat.

My iPhone ringer was off, and I was getting myself together.  When I finally clicked my phone, it lit up to several messages.  One from a very close co-worker saying “Well, I got laid off.   It was a good run,” and a missed call, a voicemail and a text from the CEO of my company.  I just froze.  Could this really be happening?  I felt dizzy.  I knew at this point I’d be laid off too.  I called the CEO back, to just get his voicemail, and then it was a waiting game.  I talked to friends on the east coast who had been let go hours earlier, and it seemed most of them were gone.  When I finally got the call and listened to the cold, unemotional speech, I was silent.  I knew if I said anything it would come out crying.

This has never happened to me before.  I’ve never lost a job.  I’ve gone through multiple layoffs and seen colleagues go through it, but it had never happened to me.  My company was struggling for a while so we all saw it coming, but not so soon.  It just felt like someone punched me.  I didn’t know what to do.  I wasn’t supposed to fly home til that evening and it was only 8am.  I was sure as hell not going to sit in a hotel room all day and wallow in my misery.  I was wallowing.  Hard.

It’s amazing how different a Hampton Inn’s continental breakfast buffet looks when you’re all of a sudden unemployed.  It was like a switch went off and I was acting as if I were homeless and starving.  The apples and bananas got shoved in my purse, a couple of hard-boiled eggs in a bowl for later, TWO cups of coffee for the road, because one of them would surely run out, and now I obviously couldn’t afford to buy another.

I booked a new flight out of Phoenix and drove the two hours to the airport with my smuggled snacks.   As soon as I got there, I sat down at my favorite bar, ordered my favorite chicken sandwich and the largest beer they had.  I quickly whipped out my laptop and updated my resume.  I had a puppy to support.

 

Life Event 3:  I Got a New Job

So yeah.  I got a new job.  But not before two weeks of saying things like “Helllpppp me, I’m poor,”  and “Oliver’s never going to eat again.”  This job was like a little fairy Godmother.  Or my old colleague who referred me for the job I guess would be more of the little fairy Godmother.  The majority of the interview process took place on my front porch in my pajamas, on multiple phone interviews with multiple people until the company flew me to Seattle for the final meeting, which is where I was given an offer which I obviously quickly accepted, and then there might have been some hugging.  Maybe squealing.  I’m not sure.  I’m just not the type who can handle the whole not having a paycheck thing.  I forgot to breathe for a minute just typing about it.

This brings me to my current state… a week and a half with nothing to do except study about cancer.  It’s very confusing.  I didn’t realize how dumb I am.  Things going through my mind as I sit at the pool with 300 pages of notes:

  • Was I always this dumb?
  • What are these words?
  • Can other people understand this?
  • Who’s that guy in the mini shorts?
  • I’m hot
  • I’m thirsty
  • It’s too windy to study
  • Should I go in the pool now?
  • Am I even getting paid right now?
  • I really hope there’s not a test on this
  • Is this even English?
  • I wonder how Oliver’s doing
  • I should have brought him
  • No, he would have been a disaster
  • Maybe I should just close my eyes for a few minutes
  • Yeah, definitely a nap will help
  • Ugh now I’m too sunburnt to study

So that’s going well.  Sorry for this long-winded update.  It’s obviously just a ploy to avoid this gibberish I’m supposed to be learning about.  LEARNING IS HARD.

Tata for now my loves.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

 

 

 

Goodbye Tinder… Hello Golf

I apologize for being MIA and crappy about the updates.  Where do I start?  Well, this happened:

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It was a couple of weeks back… a dark, dreary, depressing day in San Diego.  Eh, who am I kidding it was obviously warm and sunny.  Ginge hasn’t run away yet, so we both deleted the app.  This was way more traumatizing for me, as Tinder was a new thing for him and he just happened to hit the jackpot right away swiping right for this dreamy piece of sunshine.  I kinda whined and moaned as I hit the “delete” button, and he sympathetically said,

“This must be hard for you.”

“It is.”

My thumbs have so many less things to do during the work day now.  If I want to see a good tiger selfie, it has to come in the way of a screenshot from a friend.  It’s a whole different way of life, I tell ya.   I literally had to counsel myself before clicking delete, repeating in my head, “It will still be here waiting for you if you want to download it again.”  I think I have a problem.

Ginge asked me to do something with him that no other man has ever asked me to do:

“Do you want to come golfing with me tomorrow?”

“Are you for real?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how to golf.”

“You don’t have to golf.  You can just ride around in the cart and drink beers.”

Whoa.  Really?  BEST.DAY.EVER!  I love golfing.  Except for the golfing part.  At one point there was no one creeping up behind us, so Ginge told me to hit a ball.  Easy enough.  I’ve hit moving balls all my life, how hard could it be to hit one sitting still right in front of me?  Right?  WRONG.  I swung… I missed.  I was shocked.  He tells me to swing again.  I swung again.  I missed again.  Three times in a row, swoosh swoosh swoosh (the sound a golf club makes when you swing it really hard and it doesn’t make contact with anything), and then I ran right back into the cart with my tail in between my legs.  I was so embarrassed.  Ginge didn’t laugh too much.  He told me I was swinging it like a bat and we’ll need to work on it.  I just cracked open another beer and turned the iPhone speakers up.  I figured I’d leave golfing to the professionals.

I dwelled on the golf swinging for about a week.  I practiced with a broomstick, I whined to my friends about how badly I sucked.  I vowed to practice until I could hit the damn thing.  A few days ago I picked Carissa up.  We didn’t really have a plan- we just wanted to be outside.  We figured we’d just lay out by the bay.  As we’re pulling into the parking lot, a lightbulb went off.

“Oh!  We should go to the driving range!”

Carissa looks at me funny, “Like… golf?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.”

So we turn around and head to the nearest golf course.  As we’re getting out of the car, I remember we don’t have clubs…  hmmm… hopefully they will have them for us.  We felt like we were in unchartered waters.  We didn’t know where to go.  We didn’t know what to say.  As we’re wandering around, Carissa says, “Maybe we should have just stuck to the familiar and gone to the batting cages.”

We finally figure out how to purchase a bucket of balls, and the man directs us outside to find some clubs which were all mixed up in a huge trash can.  We weren’t sure where to start.  Carissa picks one up, but it’s not a driver.  I know this.

“No, that one’s wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.  Put it back.”

As we are staring into this big confusing bin of clubs, a guy who works there comes over to help.  He picks a couple out for us, and I tell him they look kinda crappy, and we’re gonna need ones that hit the ball far.  He tells us to start with those, and he’ll go inside and get us some good ones from the office.

We find the spot furthest away from the people… as we’re pretty sure we’re gonna hit someone with something.  Ball, club, shoe, who knows.  I get ready to go, determined to hit the ball, with all of my broomstick practice.  Swing…and a miss.  Strike one.  We both start hysterical laughing.  We are not golfing at the same time.  There was a conveniently located Adirondack chair right next to our little launching pad (I don’t know what the hell it’s called), so we took turns sitting in it and cheering the other person on.   After a few misses, I started hitting.  Not every single one… not even most… but it was an improvement.

Carissa got up and wiffed.  Hard.  About 3 times.  I don’t think the driving range has seen this much commotion in a while.  We were trying so hard not to pee our pants.  Carissa’s in cutoff shorts and Timbs, which she realized were not suitable for golfing, and became barefoot after several swings.  Then she got in her groove and started drilling the balls.  Swing, miss, drill one to left field.  It was a rollercoaster of emotions.  Laughing, screaming, high fiving.  I’m not sure this was driving range etiquette, but we didn’t really care.  We made an employee friend who lent us his finest drivers, and old man golfer friend who gave us some brand spanking new tees, and got a bit of a tan.

As we started heading back to the car, we discussed taking lessons.  We saw a group of teenage boys taking a group lesson and I say, “Oh, that lesson is putting.  Boring.”

Riss agrees, “Yeah, we’re not gonna take a lesson.  We don’t do putting.”

And we leave.

A couple of days later, as Carissa’s leaving my house, she says, “Oh, I figured out why we are really good at golfing.”

“Why?”

“It’s because we don’t have any boobs.”

I’m wondering if she’s serious.  “Ok, but you do know we’re actually not good at golfing, right?”

She looks at me like I have 8 heads.  “What??”  And then walks out of my house.

When Ginge saw a photo Carissa posted on fb of my awful swing, I’m sure he threw up a little in his mouth.  Several hours later I received this document attached in an email:

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I died.  And now I’m determined to make this look like a golf swing.  It’s on, baby.

‘Til later, my little nuggets.  Have a safe and happy St. Patrick’s Day weekend.  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

Lovers

It was a Thursday afternoon. Yesterday, Thursday to be exact. As a medical sales rep, I bring lunch to offices on occasion. On this occasion, I was bringing Olive Garden.

With my $130 worth of Olive Garden in hand, I enter the doctor’s office only to find that they had double booked the lunch with the Vesicare rep, and everyone was already eating her food. So I hid mine in a corner, and we double teamed the meeting.

Driving back up from the Mexican border with 3 tins of Olive Garden food in my car, I was wondering what I was going to do with it all. I thought about who would appreciate it most.

1. My broke little sister
2. BRIE

Brie LOVES the Olive Garden more than any human should love a chain restaurant. We went on a girl date there a couple of months ago, and she couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks… there were Facebook statuses, follow-up texts, the works. I knew the amount of OG food I had in my back seat was enough to make her jump with glee. I just wasn’t sure how I was going to make my delivery.

I made my first stop at Carissa’s apartment and spread the trays of food out on her table. I told her I wanted to secretly leave some of it at Brie’s house with a note. She thought it was a fabulous idea, and pulled out a large tin with a plastic lid from one of her cabinets… leftover from Thanksgiving. Perfect. We loaded the tin with the three entrees and threw in a bag of breadsticks. Then, came the note:

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We were giggling like children and really excited to make the delivery. When we got to Brie’s place, I pulled over illegally and asked Carissa to go drop it next to her front door. 2 minutes later, she calls me.

I ask, “Where did you go? I didn’t see you go up her steps.”

“Her front door is WIDE open. Someone’s in there.”

It was about 4pm, so I knew Brie wasn’t home yet. I assumed it was her roommate who works nights.

“Oh it’s probably K-wags. Hold on, I’ll be right there.”

I turned off the car and ran over. Sure enough, the door was wide open, and the apartment was up a long flight of stairs. I took the bag from Carissa and said, “I’m going…”

We’re whispering and trying not to laugh, and as I start climbing the stairs, she tells me to run. But I didn’t want the bag to make noise, so I slowly proceeded. At the top, I reached over, quietly dropped the bag, and sprinted down the stairs. The two of us ran like banshees across the grass and back into my car, and just started laughing hysterically.

“I really hope she tells us that she gets this…”

Sure enough, she hadn’t even made it home yet, when we got a group text from her saying that someone dropped off a bag of Olive Garden when K-wags was sitting right in front of the open door doing laundry.

For about two hours, V, T, and Brie went back and forth trying to figure out who did it, with guesses ranging from every single one of our guy friends to the creepy neighbor that lives downstairs. I didn’t respond much. I couldn’t. I was dying.

We had Bunco night at our house last night, and Brie coming over, so I knew I couldn’t bring the rest of the tins home. I left them in Carissa’s fridge. When I got home from the gym later that night and everyone was already over, the note was out, the Olive Garden bag was there, and all the girls were talking about who it could be. It was so hard to keep a straight face. But Brie was in her glory with the tin in her lap and fork and knife in hand. And that made me happy.

She won’t know the culprit until she reads this post… and she just pulled in my driveway. I think I might get murdered tonight. So I will leave you on this note:

Guys… it doesn’t take much to make a girl happy. Shucks, a tin of leftover Olive Garden and you’ll have her over the moon for days. Use this as a lesson. Pay attention, and throw a little surprise in there once in a while.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lovers!!! Out to paint the town…

xoxo
Gossip Girl

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