#IceBucketChallenge. Dump AND Donate.

Ok herrreeeeee we go… it’s opinion time.  I try to keep most opinions to myself (wait…)

This ice bucket challenge to create awareness for ALS is creating so much social media buzz.  What’s blowing my mind, though is that much of this buzz is negative.

“You’re dumping ice on your head so you DON’T have to donate to ALS???”

Oh, good point, my friends, good point.  Donations to a cause are always helpful.  But let me ask you this… how is anyone participating in this stunt negatively affecting ALS?

I’ll tell you how:  they’re not.  They may not be directly assisting the cause by contributing in a monetary way, but they’re doing what this challenge calls for, and creating awareness in some way, shape, or form.

One thing I agree with… we shouldn’t be doing this challenge in LIEU of a donation.  This challenge causes for ice to be dumped on our heads OR a $100 donation.  Here’s my take.  Dump the damn water on your head… but please get the water from a lake, a bay, an ocean, even a freakin’ pool.  Some of us are in a drought, and other friends on the other side of the world struggle to survive without clean drinking water…. but ALSO, do what you can in the form of a donation.  Does it need to be $100?  I think not.  Does it need to even go to ALS??  That would be wonderful, being that’s what this challenge is for, but let’s look at the greater picture.  This challenge is a call to action to wake us up (in a very literal sense), and push us towards awareness and generosity of a special cause.

Here’s what set me off today and made me run for my laptop to get this off my chest.  It’s a Huffington Post article  titled:  “#IceBucketChallenge:  Why You’re Not Really Helping.”  And although this article may have made some good points, this is what made my blood boil:

“And although the ALS Association has seen as much as four times as many donations during this time period than last year, just imagine with me for one second: What if the thousands of people who spent money on buying one or two2 bags of ice actually gave that money to ALS? It would be out of control.”

Wait…. let’s hear that again…  “And although the ALS Association has seen as much as four times as many donations during this time period than last year…”

Ummmm… HELLO!!!!!!!!  FOUR TIMES as many donations!  Kudos!  Kudos to the man who began this challenge.  Kudos to everyone who participated, and continues to participate.  Kudos to the silly videos, and kudos to the donations, big or small that have rolled in.  You’ve all positively contributed to a cause.

Let’s continue using social media for positive things.  What if for every photo of our lunches we posted, we contributed one dollar to the charity of our choice… like O…M…G!!!!!

And OMG, my only tweek to this (I almost said twerk), would be to recycle water instead of getting it from our sinks or hoses.  But hey… keep on doing what you’re doing.  Silliness creates awareness… silliness creates donations.  Just please pair your donations with the silliness.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

Roommate Search Begins…

Our rent went up, so V is moving out, and into a less expensive abode with my sister…  Which is traumatizing on its own.  Looking for a new roommate to fill her spot has already proven to be somewhat of a challenge.  Saying we have unrealistic expectations in a roommate is probably something I wouldn’t admit.  But our expectations are quite high.

Living in a desirable beach town, in an uncharacteristically large house for the area, and having perfect, sweet, fun, pretty, smart roommates, has created a situation where we are weeding through loads and loads of emails.  We realized pretty quickly that we couldn’t keep up with responding to them all, and even more importantly, we had to choose carefully who we agreed to actually meet in person, otherwise we’d have weirdos in and out of our house for days straight.

Tay asked V to be part of the process, because she felt like I wouldn’t like anyone at all.  So V would be a mediator.  Tay wrote the first Craigslist ad.  She made us sound like lovely, clean girls who do nice things and are kind and loving to all.  It was a great, well written ad, but it caused us to get a lot of emails with people describing their “healthy lifestyles.”

As we’re all sitting on the couch reading through emails, Tay says, “What is with this HEALTHY LIFESTYLE everyone is talking about??”

“Maybe you made us sound too healthy.  You were talking about hiking and working out and I don’t do any of those things.”

“Yeah but I also said we like happy hour and day drinking.”

“You didn’t harp on that enough.”

“These people won’t eat pizza with us on Sundays.  That’s a problem.”

Tay had an original list of 32 potential normal sounding people.  The three of us sat on the couch social media stalking one after the other, crossing them off as we went.

“Too skinny.”

Next….

“Too ugly.”

Next….

“Too much beard.”

Next…

“She takes too many pictures of food.”

Next….

We ended up with a winning four, and invited them to come see the place.  We found ourselves warning them of what they’d be getting into.

“People show up and have parties here some Saturdays… people sleep on our couches… we’re loud every Friday and Saturday….and sometimes Thursdays, and Sundays… The dog is pretty annoying… V will basically still be living here because she will miss us when she moves out…. Court walks around naked if she works from home some days…”

We scared people away.  But we felt it was only fair.  That way they wouldn’t move in based on our “lovely” persona and then hate us. At this point, I decided to re-write the ad.

I added some flavor and some spice.  I instructed potential roommates to bring us wine.  And I put every sort of “warning” in black and white, in a charming tone.

Bingo.  The slew of emails that came after that were from fun, creative, friendly people who offered to bring us wine, play with the puppy, watch the Bachelor with us, and jump in for driveway hangman and beer pong sessions.

We had our first visitor from the new batch of potentials come to see the place last night.  It was Thursday night so we forewent happy hour out, and just opened some wine at home, hung out and waited for the guy, who didn’t arrive til 9:30pm.  We considered this sacrifice.  Carissa was over, and so was another girlfriend, Danielle.  This dude walks into a house of 5 slightly buzzed girls, some with purple teeth (ok that was me), and was probably somewhat afraid to be eaten alive.  We give the tour of the house, Danielle leaves to go home, and Carissa and V sit outside while Tay and I interview the crap out of him.

He stayed for SO long, that we had to offer him beer (he drank two), and he is now well versed on how badly Tay’s farts smell, which of our friends would probably try to jump in his bed, and how much I don’t shut up after a couple of glasses of wine.  Although I warned V to not be weird and quiz him on his athletic abilities, I jumped right in for her to decide if he’d be a candidate for our softball team, and basically gave him a verbal tryout.

What’s funny is that he’s still interested in the place.  We figured if he could handle that… he’d survive with us just fine.

We have four more girls coming this evening.  We don’t have high hopes for the first because she’s way too pretty and skinny and none of her clothes would fit us.

…to be continued.

Until next time.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

 

How to Build a Garden (Video)

As I was perusing my computer files, I found some DIY project footage I never finished putting together.  If you’ve met me, you’d know that I’m just kinda more like “let’s see how this goes,” than like “let’s plan this out thoughtfully and logically.”  I also from time to time set up a camera before I “see how this goes,” in order to document how it goes.  Last time, it involved taking down a Christmas tree [How to Take Down a Christmas Tree (Video)].

Rewind to February.  This time… it was a garden.  I had seen a post on Pinterest that looked super cute and easy to make.

garden

So I tricked my sister into coming to Home Depot with me (“I’ll buy you an ice cream cone?”), and got to work.  A little taste of our trip to the store:

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, please.  We need wood.”

“What kind of wood?”

“I don’t really know.”

You can imagine how the rest went.  We were thankful for patient employees, and the fact that the store wasn’t closing anytime soon, because we definitely over-stayed our welcome.

I started the garden on my own.  When it came time to paint, and lift heavy bags of soil, I took a break for a bit.  Thankfully, around this time, Gingey entered my life.  Upon his insistence on a Sunday afternoon, we spent our fifth or sixth date at Home Depot, followed by a few hours in my side-yard, finishing up the garden by painting, lining the bottom, and planting… while listening to Van Morrison and drinking a few Bud heavy’s, of course.

As much fun as we had that day, testing our teamwork skills, and revealing some of my weaknesses [ie. things that involve coordination and a brain], if the fate of the garden was any sort of indication of the fate of our relationship, we should have been broken up a long time ago.  I’m not the best at keeping things alive… And when I got a puppy, I decided if I was going to choose one thing to put my effort into keeping alive, it would be the animal.  Unfortunately, after a few delicious tomatoes, and a cauliflower and broccoli plant that looked like they were beginning to bud, the cute little garden went to shit (excuse my French).

Cheers to “seeing how it goes,” … garden style:

Hopefully my next project will have a better long-term outcome.

Tata for now, munchkins.

xoxo Gossip Girl

 

 

 

Confessions of a 31-Year-Old

As my sister and I slowed to a walk, and turned into a dark ally, trying to catch our breath, I huffed, “we can never tell anyone about this,” and she quickly agreed.

Then I decided to blog about it.

It was a Sunday night.  Carissa didn’t have to work, so we decided to get dinner together at a BYOB restaurant, which will remain unnamed.  It will remain unnamed because I’d like to avoid the possibility of someone going there and revealing our identities.  I’m still convinced they can knock on my door and take me to jail.

It was an uncharacteristically hot day and night in San Diego.   I had burnt my skin to a crisp the day before, so I holed up in my house all day with a book.  I use the word house lightly, as it more resembled an oven.  I spent the day switching between the couch, the cooler wooden floor, and my bedroom, which is strangely about 10 degrees cooler than anywhere else.  By the time Carissa showed up, the sun was on its way down, and I was ready to exit the sweat chamber.

We sat out on the front porch for a while, chatting, watching Oliver play with every other dog that passed by, and drinking wine.  V and T came home and joined us for a bit.  By the time we decided to make moves for dinner, we had finished the open bottle of wine we started with, so grabbed the new big double bottle Carissa had brought with her.

The restaurant was a quick walk away.   It’s the kind of place where you stand in line to order, and then they give you a number and bring the food to you.  It always takes forever.  And the food always sucks…  Which is an issue I’d normally take up on Yelp, being this was the third unpleasant food experience… but my photo is on Yelp.  So they’re getting off easy on this one.

I stood in line and asked Carissa to get someone to open the bottle of wine.  When I met her at the table, I asked where the cork was, knowing we weren’t going to finish this huge bottle.  She said the waiter didn’t give it back to her.  I walked up to the bar and asked for the cork.  The bartender wouldn’t give it to me.  He told me we weren’t allowed to re-cork it.  Ok…

We finished eating and had about three-quarters of the large bottle left.  Carissa grabbed it, uncorked (how annoying), and we left.  A few feet onto the sidewalk, someone from the restaurant comes out after us.

“You’re not allowed to take that wine with you.”

“Oh… why not?”

“We’re not allowed to let you leave with an open bottle of wine.  You’ll have to either finish it here, or leave it.”

At this point it was late.  We weren’t really interested in drinking more wine.  But we also weren’t interested in wasting wine.  So we went back in, took a seat around the fire, and began to plot.  This is what we do.  We plot.

“I’m not wasting this entire bottle,”  I say.

“We can just run.”

“We can’t just run.  There are people everywhere.  They see us.”

We sat there thinking and slowly sipping for a few more minutes.  We talked about how much the cheap bottle of wine cost, and did the math on how much was left, and decided we’d only be wasting about $8 of wine by leaving it.  But that wasn’t the point.  The point was that it was our wine, there was a lot of it, and we wanted it.

Carissa had a purse.  I had my American flag backpack.  I was clearly the one who was going to have to sneak the wine out.  With Carissa on the lookout I quickly slipped the open bottle into my backpack, and clenched the fabric around the neck of the bottle.  The restaurant had emptied out, and there was just one other couple sitting outside, with a waiter chatting with them.  We decided to make our move as soon as the waiter went back inside.  There were three exits and we decided on a different one than the way we left the first time.

Carissa instructed me, as soon as we exited the gate, we run.  I was giggling already.  Finally the waiter left the table and walked in the door to the restaurant when Riss whispers, “GO!”

We get up, quickly walk through the gate, and then break out in a sprint down the main street.  Carissa is ahead, and I’m clutching the backpack in my arm like it’s a football, as I didn’t want to spill the precious uncorked wine.  I’m in flip-flops and going as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast.  A few seconds later, we hear:

“HEY!  STOP!”

The waiter is CHASING us.  Literally, running after us, chasing us down the street.  It was in that moment that I had to make a decision.  Carissa was far ahead and showed no signs of slowing.  I could hear the waiter catching up.  It was in a split second where I considered stopping, laughing, handing the bottle over and apologizing for the ridiculous behavior, and then it was in the next second where the adrenaline kicked in and I decided to just keep running.

The waiter was still chasing, and yelled “THIS IS SO CHILDISH!”

I knew it was, but at this point I couldn’t stop.  I saw Carissa turn the next corner, and I yelled to her, “IS HE STILL COMING???”

She turned around and shook her head.  We slowed to a walk, and turned down a dark ally.  Safe from the waiter.  We caught our breath for a few seconds, and I say, “I can’t believe we just did that.   We can never go back there again.”

Carissa says, “Well at least for a year.”

“We can’t tell anyone about this.”

“No definitely not.”

“I’m gonna tell Ginge, and that’s it.”

“I’m gonna tell Shane.”

We nervously giggled for a few blocks.  I felt like a teenager running from the fake cops who caught me hanging out with my friends in the local cemetery.  But I wasn’t a teenager.  I was 31 years old.  And I was running from a waiter.

Guilt set in full force.  Should I go back and apologize?  No, it’s too late.  I’m embarrassed.  I can’t tell my roommates what I did.  It’s awful.  Am I going to get arrested?  Do they have cameras?  Will they find me?  Was that illegal, or just against their rules?   I slept on it for a few nights, and then decided to confess to Ginge.

“I did something bad.  I need to tell you.”

Worry covered his face.  After I was done with the story, he made a muffled sound in his throat and then started cracking up.  Laughing.  A lot of laughing.

“This is not funny.”

“It is very funny.”

“Well I’m glad I told you.  I haven’t told anyone.”

“Do you feel like a weight has been lifted off of your chest?”

“Yes.”

The weight has been lifted.  It’s interesting that it took me 31 years to experience running from authority, in a very literal way, at least.  I’m glad I got that out of my system.  What is the statute of limitations on running from a waiter with an uncorked bottle of wine?  Until then, I’m avoiding all BYOBs.

Please don’t judge me too hard.  I’ve judged myself enough already.

Until next time….

xoxo Gossip Girl

 

 

Less…Than…Three…Pounds

T comes home from work one day and says, “My trainer put together a cleanse I’m going to do next week.  V wants to do it to.”

“Okay.  I’m in.”

5-day cleanse… how hard could it be, right?

The cleanse consisted of a strange combination of foods that were to be eaten in the same order each day.  These foods consisted of things like canned tuna, pears, oranges, unseasoned baked meat, plain baked veggies, hard-boiled egg whites, an entire cucumber, balsamic vinegar, and plain organic chicken broth.  You also had to drink a gallon and a half of water per day, and drink absolutely no alcohol or coffee.

On Sunday, before the cleanse started, I told Ginge I had to go to the grocery store to prepare.  When he asked what we were doing and I explained the cleanse, he decided he wanted to do it with us too… In retrospect, I never should have let him in on it.

Our refrigerator was packed to the gills with Tupperware upon Tupperware of cut-up, prepared food to take to work with us.  I have never spent so much time planning my meals, and that part on its own was exhausting.  Also, who would have thought Ginge would turn into a Cleanse Nazi??

At one point on day two, I’m sitting there minding my own business, nibbling on my hard-boiled egg whites when Ginge looks over and goes “No!”

“What???”

He peeks into my bowl and says, “Oh, I thought you were eating part of the yolk.”

O….M….G………

I’m cranky when I’m hungry.  I’m also cranky on the same several days each month.  This month, those cranky days aligned with me also being constantly hungry, and I may have turned into the Tazmanian Devil.  There was an exercise program that was supposed to go along with this cleanse, but Ginge and I decided to start the Insanity program instead.  So here we are, the four of us sipping on chicken broth, whining all day over group text about how hungry we are, and then sweating our asses off in the driveway (or at the gym), waiting to be skinny.

You’d think 5 days wouldn’t be a hard task.  But when Tuesday comes around and you have your weekly softball game with no beers, it all-of-the-sudden becomes a problem.  When your team goes to the bar to celebrate a victory, and you go straight home instead to eat some plain baked asparagus…really, that’s a little depressing.

Mid-week, T texts and asks if we have any questions about the cleanse that she should ask her trainer.  I fired off several:

-Are we supposed to be pooping?

-How come I’m not pooping?

-Why is this called a cleanse and not a diet?

-What’s the reasoning behind the combinations of foods at each meal?

V didn’t have any questions, just one comment:  “Tell your trainer she sucks.”

If we thought Monday through Thursday was bad… we were in for a rude awakening on Friday.  V had already caved on day three when she was offered a free sandwich at work, but T was mainly on track, save a cheat or two (or four) for things like Hershey kisses.  Ginge and I were following the cleanse perfectly… [while moaning and complaining the entire time].  Friday night its time for our last meal of the day.  We had perfectly saved 4 ounces of chicken each, for the final cleanse meal.  It was about 8:30 and we were starving.  V had just made pasta, and the delicious smell of it in the kitchen lit a rage inside of me.  I left the house to go grab some supplies for the next day, while leaving Ginge to put the four strips of plain chicken in the oven.  I figured that was an easy enough task.

Five minutes later I get a picture text…. it was a baking sheet with THREE strips of chicken on it, with the message, “Guess who helped himself to two ounces of chicken?”

I wanted to murder somebody.  I leave him alone with our precious protein and a 5-month-old puppy for five minutes, and next I’m going to be left to starve to death.  Going to get more chicken was going to delay my shoving my pie-hole with food, and that did not make me happy.  The dog, on the other hand, was in his glory for the rest of the evening.

We did it.  We finished out the 5-day cleanse, and 5 days of Insanity.  I didn’t really feel much skinnier, or cleansed… I actually felt bloated and full of poop, but I figured the amount of crankiness it caused had to be equivalent to weight loss.  I set an early alarm Saturday morning to get a last workout in before a day and a weekend filled with wine tasting and other indulgent activities.  Before meeting Ginge out on the driveway with a laptop and yoga mats, I went into the bathroom to weigh myself.

Less….than….three….pounds.

I lost less than three pounds.  Five days of an 800 calorie diet, no alcohol, and Insanity workouts, and I lost an amount that I could have pooped out in one sitting.  I tried to compose myself, but I was mad.

I went outside.  Ginge was waiting for me.

“I’m in a really bad mood.”

“Why?”

“I lost less than 3-pounds.”

He made some comments about well, at least I lost something!!!  [not helping].  We started the workout.  We’re doing the jogging in place, starting the awful warmups and V walks up to the front porch, just returning home from the gym, and says hello.  I continue my jogging and say, “I lost less than 3 pounds all week.”

“Ugh…. really?  That sucks.”

Ginge, jogging away chimes in, “I only lost 11 pounds.”

I stopped jogging.  Tears started flowing.  Ginge looks at me, and says, “Are you crying??”

I nodded.  I felt so defeated.  He came over and hugged me.  V offered me some pretty good words of encouragement;  but the only ones that really helped were when she said, “Want me to make you some coffee??”

Oh coffee, how I’ve missed you.  I could kiss her right now.

My sister was on her way over, so I figured I should pre-warn her about the crying to divert any rude fat comments that were bound to happen (isn’t that what sisters do… call each other fat)?   It’s nicer to warn someone about the things you will probably cry about, before they say them and then have to deal with your crying.

“Just warning you I lost less than three pounds all week and I cried.  Like actual tears.”

“Don’t cry, little baby.  That’s just because your muscles ate up all of the fat…and muscle weighs more than fat!”

That gave me a good laugh all on its own.

What have  I learned this week?  T’s trainer sucks.  I also learned that I could eat a perfectly healthy, well portioned, whole foods diet, not go to happy hour, do intense workouts and drink 5 million gallons of water for 5 days, and lose the same amount of weight as if I were to just take a laxative at the end of the week.

Go suck a fat one, cleanse.  Bring on the wine and french fries.

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.

20140430-131958.jpg

20140430-132028.jpg

20140430-132044.jpg

 

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:

20140314-165223.jpg

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:

 20140314-175627.jpg

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:

20140214-174017.jpg

20140214-174039.jpg

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

Ginger Comin’ in HOT

Our first date was a Friday night. Second was Monday, third was Wednesday, fourth was Thursday, fifth was Friday, sixth was Saturday, seventh was Monday, eighth was Wednesday. I’m not sure when you’re supposed to stop counting. But I’m very confused.

I’m confused as to how I have been being completely myself the entire time… at times, purposely pushing the envelope to see if I could creep him out, or he’d get squeamish, and he keeeeeppppsss coming backkkkk. I’ve burped, I’ve knocked over food, I’ve told him I had ghost pets, I’ve had him hang out with my sister and HER burps for an extended period of time, he’s witnessed my dance moves, I’ve made him sit through The Bachelor…TWICE… he’s stilllll calling.

I’m trying to find things wrong with him, but I really am having a hard time. He takes initiative on plans and always follows through, he’s been the epitome of a gentleman in every sense, he drunk dialed me, like an actual phone call… which yes, I consider very romantic, he’s a crap ton of fun to hang out with, my friends love him, he thinks we’re funny, and he has a cute bum (and a pool).

But there’s the one thing… The day after he came out in PB and met everyone, my sister was over, and was asking what I thought of Ginge. I explained that I thought I liked him, but there wasn’t anything that jumped out at me that was different. She responded:

“That’s because he’s a normal guy.”

“Yes! That’s what it is. He’s normal. I don’t usually see that as a positive.”

She gave me a long look. She didn’t even need to say anything, and I knew what she was thinking.

“Ohhhh…. maybe that’s what my problem is? I keep dating weirdos? Maybe that’s why it never works out?”

“Ummm… yeah…maybe, Court.”

Hmmmm… something to think about. Of course, now I thought I had found something wrong with him. He was too normal. But the more time I spend with him, the more his little quirks come out. He’s still normal, but there’s definitely a little spice in there.

Keeping true to form, there have obviously been the awkward moments. One night I was planning on going out in his ‘hood… Mission Valley… land of the strip malls (this is called sacrifice). I told him I’d leave in 15 minutes to pick him up at his place. About 15 minutes later, I’m getting ready to walk out the door, and Brie calls me.

“Ummm… I’m at Target in Mission Valley and I think I see the Ginger.”

“My Ginger??”

“Yeah.”

“No, it can’t be him, I just got off the phone with him and he was home. I don’t know why he’d need to go to Target right now.”

“Pretty sure it’s him. He’s wearing a blue shirt. Do you want me to go find him again?”

“Yeah… go ahead…”

I hear mumbling, and then Brie goes…”Yep…it’s him. Oh, we’re giving awkward hugs.”

She calls me back when he’s out of earshot.

I tell her, “I wish you didn’t let him see you. I could have been so creepy about this.”

“Court, don’t be creepy yet.”

“Was he buying anything weird?”

“No, just hair gel because he dropped his in the toilet or something. I wish I caught him buying condoms.”

“Ohhh yeah, that would have been so good.”

I picked him up a few minutes later, gave him a stalker look and told him I had eyes all over town. He just laughed, and our night continued as usual.

There’s something wrong here. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it. But I think I’ll wait to figure it out until after we jump out of a plane together… which he just bought us a Groupon for. Maybe he’ll swap my parachute for a faulty one and I’ll end up dead. Maybe murder is his end game. I think I’m going to go with that.

Until we meet again, chickadees…

xoxo
Gossip Girl

The Ginger

He messaged me on Tinder a couple of weeks back. He had a witty opening line, and kept interesting conversation going.

A few days into our conversation, I had a couple of glasses of wine at happy hour, looked over his pics again, and messaged him:

“Are you a ginger?”

His response was a solid, “No,” but I didn’t really believe him.

We were both busy in upcoming days with weekend plans and work trips. We kept in contact throughout, with conversations ranging from ear cleaning with q-tips to our biggest life fears. He occupied me via text during a week-long of loneliness I spent traveling around Arizona. I appreciated his virtual presence, even though I hadn’t yet met him.

I could not wait to get home after that week… I felt like I had been in solitary confinement (I was very dramatic and cranky about it). The Ginger wanted to get together. I made plans to do dinner and happy hour with the girls on Friday night when I got back, but suggested that we could meet up after. For some reason I forgot that I hate talking to people for an extended period of time before meeting them. I really do hate that. But I had done it anyway. When I realized that’s what we had been doing for two weeks, I all of a sudden got a little bit nervous.

I felt comfortable enough with him at this point to suggest we make a plan to escape each other immediately after meeting, if we decided we didn’t like each other in person. His response?

“If you want, but I already know I’m going to like you.”

Oh, a sweet talker. We planned to meet at Dirty Birds in PB. I somehow timed a really long trip to the bathroom perfectly for right before he showed up (this is sarcasm. This was really not perfect at all). He walked in, and apparently really awkwardly looked around for me. The girls saw him looking and thought it might be him, so they picked up my phone from the table and checked his Tinder pics to confirm. I came out several minutes later, saw him already standing there with them, and thought “Crap…” [pun intended]. Thankfully, even after I’m sure an awkward introduction to the girls, (my sister was involved, it was obviously awkward), he was holding his own.

We hugged hello, I apologized for being missing for so long (I wonder if he knew I was pooping?) and then he went to the bar and bought a round of Fireball shots for everyone. Sold.

The night progressed, we made our way to our usual spots. The Ginger was tall, and had a hot bod. I learned he was a D-1 baseball player which made him juuustttt a little bit hotter (I’m shallow… what can I say?)

**************************************************************

…. I started writing this post almost two weeks ago. I got pretty distracted. I just pulled it up to continue, but realized it would turn into a novel at this point… so… until next time.

Previous Older Entries Next Newer Entries

%d bloggers like this: