“You Dated HIM??”

The year was 2008. Maybe. Something like that. I was living in an apartment in Hoboken, NJ with two of my girlfriends at the time.  I was single, ready to mingle, and living it up the in the young, fun NYC ‘burb.  I don’t remember exactly where I met him, some bar, but I remember we went out several times.  He was a little bit younger, and a little bit of a ginger (yes, I’m noticing this trend), and seemed super sweet.  I guess I liked him enough to see him a few times.  I didn’t really understand what his job was at the time, but I remember him inviting me out to a local bar for a function to support this website he was working on.  I didn’t really understand the website.  It was something about watching sports at bars.  I didn’t care about it, or give it much thought.  I didn’t go to the event.

One day we were hanging out at my apartment, having a conversation, and some of, (let’s call him Devin), Devin’s stories just weren’t adding up.  He had originally told me he was staying with a friend or something like that while he was in between apartments.  His new apartment “wasn’t ready yet?” Some sort of complicated situation I don’t remember completely, and had no desire to keep up with.  During this particular conversation, however, I caught him in some sort of confusing tale in which he finally had to reveal to me that he had been lying to me since we met, and he actually still lived with his parents in Northern Jersey.  He just visited Hoboken, and stayed on his friend’s couch while he was there.  

I was pissed.  I wasn’t necessarily pissed that he lived with his parents (ehhh), but I was pissed that I was going to have to stop talking to him.  He was pretty cute and nice and seemed somewhat normal, and I was having a good time with him.  But I don’t do lying. Hard no. If during the first several weeks of knowing each other, you’re basing multiple conversations around a fact that is not true (an alternative fact, if you will), what the hell else are you lying about?  I couldn’t.  I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore.  He was super apologetic and tried to explain his reasoning behind lying (obviously I get it; I know why you were lying, dumbass).  But it was over.  I’m pretty sure we didn’t speak again, besides maybe a couple of Facebook invites to attend events in which you watch sports at bars?  For this website he worked on?

Flash forward, the year is 2017.  I’m sitting on the couch with Ginge, he’s getting ready to play something he had DVR’ed on Comedy Central.  He’s been waiting for this.  The three main guys from his absolute favorite website are going to be on National TV.  He spends the majority of his free time on this website, while simultaneously listening to their podcasts.  The show comes on and the host introductions start.  I look up from playing Scattergories on my phone and am surprised.

“Hey, wait, I dated that guy.”

Ginge whips his head around and stares at me.  He then pauses the TV.  “You dated ‘DFC?'”

“Is that what we call him? Yeah, briefly.  Then I found out he was lying to me and he was living with his parents so I never talked to him again.”

“Well he’s rich now.”

“DAMMIT!”

That weird website he had been working on where you watch sports at a bar? Or something like that? Yeah, that was Barstool Sports.  And he’s one of the three main guys. How did I never come across this fact in the last nine years?  I really have no clue.  *#$(@&@#^($*&@#

I swear I’m Good Luck Chuck.  I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. Date me, as brief as it may be, and you’ll eventually marry a model, become rich, or do both.  You’re welcome, Devin, you’re welcome. Yes, I’m giving myself some of the credit for your success. I’m glad that little project turned out well for you. Truly. Cheers to Barstool Sports.

barstool

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

 

Hair Modeling and Date Night

I’ve been spending my time unemployed the same way I’d imagine most would be… I’ve made business cards for my dog, and watched 87 episodes of Gossip Girl (that’s not an exaggeration…I’m on season four, episode 22).  I’ve also created a profile for a website called Backstage, which casts for extras and background work.  I figure when I’m not busy going on real interviews and trying to make my dog instagram-famous, (follow him and tell all your friends), I can keep busy standing around in a crowd of wanna-be-actors and maybe make a few bucks here and there.

While I’ve so-far been too busy with Gossip Girl to actually do much with the Backstage website, I did get an email asking if I’d be interested in being hair model for Bumble and Bumble.  They wanted to style my hair and do some before/after pics.  I assume it’s because they looked at my non-brushed hair in my profile pic, and decided that so much could be done to improve that mane. I’d be handsomely rewarded with:  “A complimentary editorial style (SOLELY styling- no scissors or color used) + TWO full size Bumble and Bumble products to take home.”  OMG… TWO full size Bumble and Bumble products to TAKE HOME!  Sold.

Ginge and I have a thing.  Whenever I make an appointment to get my hair done, I let him know in advance that he’ll need to take me on a date that night, since you know, my hair will look so good.  So I confirmed my hair modeling gig, bragged about it for a week, and got a date night on the books.  I was gonna look gooooooooood!

I arrived to the salon on time and learned that people are rude to hair models.  I tried to make conversation, but no one wanted to talk to me.  Is this how all models are treated? Or just the hair type? They also didn’t tell me what they were going to do to me, and I didn’t ask.  I figured I’d just wait to be surprised at my fabulous new look.  Two hours later I took a gander in the mirror at the almost-finished product, and I kid-you-not, I looked like Elvis Presley.  The text went out to my friends group chat, who had to hear at-length about my hair modeling job for days, “I look like Elvis.” I wasn’t sure how to react.  The BB people took some pictures and told me how great it looked, I shoved my free TWO FULL SIZED PRODUCTS in my bag, and off I went… into public.

My first step out the door of the salon, I took a few selfies to capture my new ‘do.  Thank goodness, because by the time I made it to my car, it had fallen at least 3-inches.  I can’t even say photos do it proper justice…. My friends reacted:

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Because this is what I looked like:

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I can’t even fathom why they would think this is a good look for anyone in this decade?  My girlfriends told me my date night was ruined.  I couldn’t wait to show Ginge, but by the time I got home it was almost fully deflated (deflated?  is that what you’d call it?) I think that means they did a shitty job.  The Elvis look wasn’t sustainable once standing and walking occurred.  And the selfies continued:

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In the grand scheme of things… I have 7 pounds of product in my hair, but at least I got my date night.

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xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

Fork in the Road

Hello my old friend. I used to come to you to bitch about first dates gone wrong, and make fun of my mother. I feel like I’ve been neglecting you now that I haven’t had a first date in almost three years, and my mother now lives about 3,000 miles too far away to make fun of on a regular basis.

In any case, I’ve found myself in a situation in which I’m in-between striving for ordinary, and purchasing a one way plane ticket to somewhere… anywhere I’ve never been before, and figuring the rest out from there.  In short, the situation is called unemployment.  I’ve gotten laid off, yet again… a result of working for a start-up that got bought out shortly after I began my employment.  I didn’t cry when I found out.  I was somewhat expecting the call when I heard we were getting acquired.  (I’m lying.  I definitely cried… but only for like 3.5 minutes, which I think is basically considered not crying).

IS IT A SIGN???  IT’S A SIGN!  I’m destined for bigger things!  The past 3 years since I moved out to California have been tumultuous, career-wise.  Although, with every closed-door, a new one presented itself very quickly.  Sometimes it presented itself before I was even really ready to walk through it (that’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever typed).  For the first time in my career, I have found myself a full week without a job or even a lead.  WHAT.IS.GOING.ON?  HELLO?!  I’ve applied to every medical sales and sales management position on this side of the Mississippi (well, mostly ones in California), as well as signed up for websites that cast extras for TV and film… you know to pass the time while I look for a real job.

Expecting to be bombarded with emails and phone calls after day one of getting out my professional resume and my adorable self-taken head-shot (ok, it was a selfie),  I was sadly wrong, and baffled.  No one wants me.  I feel alone.  I feel lost.  Not in the sad, actual lonely, lost way.  Just in the confused, anxious, bored, what-do-I-do-now way (hey there…wine).

I’ve said countless times that next time I find myself unemployed, I will not jump straight to the next job again.  I’ve vowed to take an international trip, maybe back to somewhere in Africa, work my way around the world, and then come back and figure out my next move.  But when unemployment actually happens, I get this feeling… I don’t know what to call it… hmmm…panic?  Logically, I know I’ll find a new job eventually, but the thought of my severance running out in a month (tick, tick, tick… 3 weeks), and no direct deposits entering my bank account for the foreseeable future, just straight rubs me the wrong way. Seems wrong. Is taking off and gallivanting the world really the best move?

Also, I’m an introvert. “WHAT?!?  STFU COURTNEY YOU ARE NOT AN INTROVERT.”  Yes I freakin’ am.  I’m slightly terrified to travel alone for an extended period of time.  I’m not scared of the unknown, or finding my way around, or flying by myself.  I’m scared of having no one to talk to because I’m sometimes bad at entering into social situations I’m not familiar with by myself.  If I have someone with me that I know, it completely changes my dynamic and my attitude, which is why some of you may not believe that I’m actually, deep down, an introvert.  You’ve never seen me in an uncomfortable situation by myself.  It’s weird, it’s strange, and I don’t like it.  And I’m being very open with all you random people right now for some unknown reason.  Probably because I’m unemployed, bored, and have nothing else to do but open my emotions to the world-wide interwebs.

So here I am… at a fork in the road.  Can you call it a fork if there are more than two ways to go?  I think you can, because actual forks usually have three to four prongs.  I had to replace my three-pronged forks with four-pronged ones because I was getting complaints from guests.  In any case… If I take this fork to the left:  I find another well-paying job within my comfort zone of medical sales. Sell my soul. Pay my bills. The fork goes right:  I take off and travel the world, apply for a volunteer opportunity or two and come back by Christmas or my family will have my head on a platter.  The fork goes straight, dead ahead:  Someone from The Bachelor Franchise realizes I’m destined to work for them.  I become best friends with Chris Harrison, and live happily ever after.

help.

xoxo, Chickadees.

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New Beginnings… And the Girl on the Other Side of the Fence

Last November, Ginge and I, who had been cohabitating (living in sin) in a house in Pacific Beach with two other roommates, decided it was time to move on, “grow up” a little, and get a place of our own. 

 Although I was very much at peace with the decision to leave the party-beach town I had called home for the past two-plus years, I knew very well there were things I was going to miss.  

Besides all of the roommates I had come to love over the years (ok that’s a total lie…those roommates were definitely hit-and-miss), our neighborhood developed a special place in my heart. Between the guys with no apparent day-jobs across the street who were constantly outside playing corn-hole or jumping rope, and the middle aged-man and his 30-year old “roommate,” Tyler, on the right side of us, things were rarely boring. The old man Howard, offered me new designer clothes that his friend had just “found” with all the tags on, which I graciously accepted, giving a $70 workout jacket to a petite old homeless lady promptly afterwards, and keeping the red sweater and workout pants that would come in handy at some point in my life, I’m sure… while his “roommate” Tyler, would stop by very frequently during nights we were sitting on the front porch chatting, while he was on his way to the gas station around the block, always coming back with nips of Fireball and dropping them off on his way home.

Malta, across the street, the German man who had invented fully recycled stuffed animals, and created a semi-successful start-up, was a frequent visitor whenever there was someone meandering on the front porch, or hanging out in camping chairs in the driveway, and Antwan, two doors down, an Athletic Director at one of the universities would always stop by to pet Oliver and have a chat while he was walking by. Irena and Chris became constants, as their daily walks of Bear (another huge Goldendoodle) took them passed our house, and the two doodles developed an immediate platonic love affair.  

The move out of the neighborhood was bittersweet. Our roommate Emily (a “hit” as in, the roommates being “hit-and-miss”), threw us a big going away party the night we moved out, in which Bear was an obvious VIP guest, and we got to say goodbye to all of our beloved neighbors who made a cameo at the Val party (please I’ll give you a dollar and a kiss if you catch this reference).

The new house is all we had hoped for… a big side yard which we furnished with new outdoor furniture, an extra refrigerator, my favorite twinkle lights, and a grill, enough space for a guest room and an office, and a place on one of the walls for our dartboard (totally classy, I know… but necessary).  

The location, although not in a beach town is pretty sweet… close enough to walk to the bumpin’ gay bars, a grocery store across the street, and the most delicious Thai place I have ever encountered just a few blocks away. Something was missing though… a neighborhood. Neighbors. People to converse with. Being on somewhat of a main road, we don’t sit out front anymore and talk to people walking by. We don’t let Ollie gallivant all over the front lawn and make friends with the mailman and all of the neighbors who become his friends whether they want him to or not. We are semi-secluded to our own backyard, giving us more couple’s bonding time to play lick-it-stick-it (don’t get weird ideas…think: “20-questions”), and have nightly dance parties, just the two of us.  

One night a couple of weeks ago, we were sitting in our yard with the lights on, and out of no where, a little blonde head pops up over the tall fence separating our yard from the condo complex next door. “Hello!”

“Holy crap!” I was scared shitless.  

“Hi! I’m Ashley! I’m your neighbor! Can I come over?”

“Yeah…sure!”

Ashley came over with the guy that had lifted her high enough to pop her head over the eight-foot fence. She told us she’s been wanting to meet us since she discovered she had new neighbors and saw the strings of lights lit up on a nightly basis. We sat outside for a little, had a beer with them, and Ashley and Ollie became fast friends. She offered to watch him whenever we needed, and “lend us a cup of sugar or booze WHENEVER!”

We didn’t get Ashley’s number that night… which we realized when we were in LA the following week and were trying to find someone to let Ollie out to pee. I figured we’d run into her again at some point. I just didn’t realize the some-point was going to be a few days later, when she had yet a different guy lift her up over the eight-foot fence to announce her presence, as I yelled “Holy crap,” yet again, startled by her head above the refrigerator.  

She came over, introducing her Tinder date, Nick, who was rugged and handsome, but apparently boring as a paper bag, as we learned shortly thereafter… the third time Ashley bounded up above the fence, held up by a third guy, who came over to go out to dinner with her.  

We spend our visits talking about our love lives, careers, and travels… not to mention the woman with the mullet who lives in the apartment above Ashley, and growls and slams her window every time she hears us outside. One night, Ashley’s roommate, Britt was walking by the other side of the fence, and we recruited her to sit and join us for a bit. We’re growing to appreciate a new neighborly feeling that’s developing, and learning that if we keep the lights on, we’re bound to have a cute blonde appear over the fence… (come to think of it, I’m going to have to make sure the lights are unplugged when I’m out of town… ahem)… and on the flip side, we’re learning to turn the lights off when we’re not so much into a random visitor on a Tuesday night.

It’s encouraging that a new friendship is starting to develop, and I’m learning that things take time to get used to and start feeling more like “home.” Oliver still barks at the mailman from the window, instead of getting to chase him down the street, and he misses Bear’s frequent visits, but now he has a side yard to lounge in, and special play-dates and babysitting weekends set up to spend more time with his buddy.  

As for the girl on the other side of the fence… I’m grateful to now have my own, personal “Wilson…” I mean how many people can say that? I’m sure more surprise visits are in store, and hopefully the next guy who lifts her up will be a keeper.  

  
xoxo

The Time We Went to the Chinese Consulate

It was just about a year ago that I was sitting on my old front porch on Oliver Ave, on my second (or sixth?) glass of wine, that I said to Ginge, “So, do you want to go to China?”
He answered with a simple, “Ok,” which nearly made me fall off my chair (or maybe that was the wine).
See, I had gotten a really amazing Travel Zoo deal in my email inbox a few days before, for a 10-night trip to China, including airfare, meals and a 4-night river cruise, which I had forwarded to Ginge with no response. When I heard, “ok” come out of his mouth I immediately jumped up and told him to give me his credit card and passport. He obliged (also having indulged in a few beverages that evening). I got to work, booking two travel packages, and we set the trip date for the following April… almost a year away.

“Almost a year away” is basically here now, and we procrastinated a bit applying for our travel visas. Last week I realized we really needed to get on it, factoring in processing and mailing time, so I got my passport pictures taken, finished my application, nagged Ginge a bit to get his done, and then looked for a mailing address.

There was no mailing address. You apparently need to submit visa applications IN PERSON, at a Chinese Consulate office. The closest one to us happens to be in Los Angeles, and the office is conveniently open from 9am to 4pm, which didn’t really give us a great window of time to work with. We realized we’re cutting it close, now that we’re leaving in 3 weeks, so we sucked it up and made the trip up to LA yesterday.

LA is geographically not that far away… but mix in normal SoCal traffic, plus the blessing of ever-so-rare complete RAIN STORM, and we drove for over three hours to make it to the office on time. We stopped in the ghetto of Chinatown to get Ginge’s passport pictures taken, and finally made our way to a large office building. We gathered all of our documents and photos, got in the elevator, and right before the door opened to the third floor I said, “I have a really bad feeling we’re forgetting something. I just feel like they’re going to tell us we’re missing something.”

They didn’t tell us we were missing something. They didn’t tell us we were missing something, because we arrived at the office door, and it was CLOSED… with a sign on the front stating the hours from 9am- 2pm. It was 3:10. I looked at Ginge, he looked at me. There were no words exchanged. I wasn’t sure, but there may have been steam coming out of his ears. I didn’t give up yet. This couldn’t be right. I had read on the website 4pm. I was sure of it! I saw people coming out of a door down the hall which was connected to the same office, and I scurried down there. I waited for someone to come out and I piggy-backed and shoved my way in as Ginge stood staring at me going “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I was getting in, that’s what I was doing. Well, I was getting in, until a large dark man in a security outfit caught me entering through the exit door and promptly stopped me in my tracks, blocking the hallway with his extra large body.

My begging and pleading and straight up charm was just not cutting it. The security guard informed me all the windows were closed and locked. I asked if he could see if someone could just make an exception and he said there was no way. All of the machines were shut down. “Butttt we just drove over three hours to get here! And your website says 4pm!”

“The website does not say 4pm.”

Ugh. We (I) finally gave up in defeat and started walking away. Ginge didn’t say anything. I was wondering if he was waiting ’til we got outside to fly off the handle. I processed the fact that we just drove for over three hours to get nothing accomplished. Also, I processed the fact that at this time it would take about five hours to turn around and go back home.

“Are you mad at me?”

“No. Let’s find a happy hour spot.”

What the……… At this point I really didn’t want to check the website. I knew in my head I had read 4pm, and I told Ginge that. I also tried to blame it on him for not double- checking himself, but realized I was encouraging him to not trust my reading comprehension skills, so I decided to just blame the Chinese Consulate for not posting correct information. As we’re driving out of Chinatown looking for the first non-ghetto neighborhood with a good happy hour, I couldn’t help myself. I pulled up the Chinese Consulate Visa and Passport Office Website to check the hours.

There it read… Office hours: 9:00 am—14:00 pm

WHAT THE FLYING F***LFSJKDLFKJ:…. WHO PUTS OFFICE HOURS IN MILITARY TIME!

“Ginge LOOK! You can barely even see the number 1!!!! This is SO not my fault!”

“You can definitely see the number 1, and this is 100% your fault.”

I’m still holding on to the fact that this is not.my.fault. We were planning on driving back to San Diego after dinner, but due to the events of the day, we decided to make a night of it. Our first stop was a place in West Hollywood with two-for-one deals, and a female professional football player slash musician as our bartender. It was just the two of us in the whole place, plus a cute young male gay couple, who promptly moved their bar stools so we could all touch shoulders, and we drank our sorrows away with a few cocktails, while being serenaded by the large woman with the guitar and an amazing raspy singing voice. In between songs, she would break to refill our drinks, and listen to the young guys next to us cry (literally) over their last breakups, and tell her how fabulous she was.

Our new friend, Kyle asked the bartender, “So are you gay?”

She stared at him for a second and said… “Ummmm… yeah I’m gay- I’m wearing a leather jacket.”

I looked down, held my leather arms out over the bar and exclaimed…”Well… wait….”

The bartender put her head down and laughed for about two minutes and then admitted that straight girls can wear leather as well.

After a couple of drinks and a huge, fresh, steaming hot bag full of un-touched, delicious Greek food handed over the railing to us by a business man who said he ordered too much, we said goodbye to our new friends (after exchanging numbers with the one who lives 3 blocks from us in our Gayborhood), we headed to Hermosa Beach for a random concert we somehow finagled our way into for free, not knowing it was an actual concert. We called my sister to see if she could feed and let the dog out (she could… #blessed), found a hotel, slept in the clothes we were wearing, then woke up and drove home in the clothes we were still wearing.

So here we sit, three weeks from out departure to China, with our passports and visa applications still in hand. We’ll have to try that again. What did I learn from this experience? I’m not sure. Military time is confusing.

Until next time… xoxo

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

Sorry, Charlie… [Video]

There’s apparently this new thing all the kids on fleek are doing (that means the cool kids, not the ones on drugs… although probably most of them are also on drugs).  It’s a game called “Charlie Charlie.”  I heard about it last week in an article that showed up on my Facebook feed.

If you’re not under 15 and on fleek (I’m sorry if I”m overusing this term, but I”m old, and it makes me feel nice about myself to use it correctly), you may not have heard about this yet, but it’s a game in which a demon named Charlie is summoned to answer questions; think of it as a simpler version of Ouiji in which no one is actually touching anything.  You draw two perpendicular lines on a piece of paper, intersecting them in the middle to make a cross, and then write the words “yes” and “no”  in each of the four spaces created.  You then put a pencil on each line of the cross, balancing one pencil on top of the other.

In this game, you’re supposed to ask: “Charlie, Charlie, can you play?” or “Charlie, Charlie, are you here?” and the top pencil will begin to spin and point to either yes or no.

This game has picked up so much social media attention in the past week, that a Vatican-approved exorcist has actually weighed in on the subject and warned youngsters of the dangers of summoning demons.

A story written in a British newspaper explained that the game is only a combination of gravity and the positioning of the pencils that make the pencils move.  I fully believe that, but needed to try it for myself to check it out.  I don’t actually think demons are coming to move the pencils, but I also didn’t want to play around with that weird stuff.   I just wanted to prove that the pencils will move with or without demon summoning.

The hardest part about this game was finding wooden pencils.  Who even owns pencils anymore?  Out of four people in my house, nobody had a pencil.  I texted V, who was coming over to watch The Bachelorette, and asked her to steal some from work, but she had already left, so she said to check the bins she left in my carport.  The girl is moving to Guatemala for two years, and getting rid of almost all of her stuff, yet she’s still good for a package of number-two pencils which she is storing until she returns.  What am I going to do without her?

I set out with a hypothesis.  I could balance the pencils, say whatever I wanted, or nothing at all, and the pencils would still move, just as they did in the countless vines and youtube videos out there.

I gathered my supplies and began my challenge.  On one attempt, the pencil actually did move a little bit, but I realized the ceiling fan directly above me was on high speed.  Not fair.  My roommate, Emily walked in from work during one of my attempts and was completely confused, “I don’t get it…” and Ginge was in the carport where I locked him, with instructions of not speaking while I was videoing.

Later on, a few more of the ladies came over for our Monday night viewing of the Bachelorette (yes, I’m 32, and yes, I still have Bachelorette viewing parties).  When I filled Lexi in on my evening activities, it was immediately, “Court, I really forgot how weird you are.”  Can I be weird?  Maybe a little… but five minutes later, who was the one begging me to try the Charlie game again?!  (Lexi)!

There we went again….  Here is a compilation of my attempts of debunking the Charlie demon:

What do I have to take from this?  I’m not sure.  All I know is that I couldn’t completely say this game is BS.  I really wish I could have.  Charlie, if you’re out there, I really hope you’re enjoying this media attention, and I also really hope you make peace with yourself and transition from “demon” to “loving, sweet boy of the afterlife.”  I mean if Bruce Jenner could transition from Olympic male gold medalist to beautiful older woman, “Caitlyn” in this crazy world, I have faith in you.   And THAT’s a story for another day.

Goodnight my muffins.

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

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