A Puppy and Unemployment


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.





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.


Gossip Girl





A Weekend at Big Bear… and a Flat Tire

My newfound love of Southern California is that you can go from summer to winter in a three-hour road trip.  And by winter, I’m referring to only the nighttime hours when the temps drop into the teens, and the mountains can make plenty of snow for you to snowboard on the next day.

This past weekend I took my first trip up to Big Bear to hit the slopes, and spend a couple of days in a rented house of 20 friends.  The boarding experience was surreal.  The conditions obviously weren’t the top-notch, but they were way better than I was expecting…  And the weather during the day couldn’t be beat.  By the end of the first run, our jackets were tossed into the lodge, and shortly after, Under Armour was removed on the lift.  We spent the day getting tan instead of wind burnt.  Removing cold weather and constant snot coming from my nose from the equation was key… it was amazing how little I complained.

The antics that went on in the house were what you’d expect of a rowdy group of 20.  Or possibly not.  After seeing Clueless 150 times, and always wondering if the cool “Valley” kids actually played Suck ‘n Blow at their high school parties [see clip below], I never thought I’d be 31 and giving it a whirl for the first time.

Over a two-hour period of time around the dining room table, I gained a ton of respect for those actors, and the entire crew of the movie Clueless, for the amount of patience they must have had to get that 18 second shot.  Let me tell you… Suck ‘n Blow is NOT easy.  It started with three of us.  The first 20 tries were ruined with laughter.  The next 100 were trying to figure out the proper ratio of sucking to blowing.  The group slowly grew until there were about 10 of us and we refused to quit until we got successfully around the table.  About an hour in, it wasn’t funny anymore.  It became intense.  I never would have put my money on a 35-year-old man screaming profanities over a game of Suck ‘n Blow… and vowing to go home and practice in his living room.  But that happened.  And I loved every second of it.

Sunday morning rolled around, and it was time to go home.  As Carissa, V, Brie and I rolled out of the house in our mismatched pajamas, shoving all of our stuff back in the trunk and saying our goodbyes, we assumed the weekend was over, and it was a straight shoot home to plop on the couch for “Surf Sunday,” which included watching footage from the morning’s Maverick’s Invitational surf competition followed by the movie Chasing Mavericks.  We were wrong.

The drive was okay for about five minutes.  After five minutes V wanted to vomit.  It wasn’t hangover vomit, it was windy mountain road carsick vomit.  And unfortunately, the windy mountain road lasted for 25 miles, which equated to a full hour.  Brie was in the backseat chit chatting away, and one of the only times V opened her mouth to speak was to say, “If I vom, I’m aiming it at Brie because she won’t shut up.”

She didn’t vom.  We made it off the windy road without incident.  It wasn’t until we were on a real regular highway, about an hour and a half into the three-hour trip, that we heard a huge THUMP.

“What the hell was that??!”

I suggested, “It was probably a rock hitting us that came off that trailer.”

I moved over to the left lane to keep away from the trailer.  Brie asked V how she was feeling.

“I’d probably be feeling a little better if Court would stop swerving.”

I was swerving a little.

“I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault.  Don’t you see these divots in the road?  They’re making me swerve.”

I kept driving.  And kept swerving.  The damn divots in the road… Then I saw flashing lights in my rear view.

“Crap!  What did I do wrong???”

“He probably thinks you’re swerving.  Because you are.”

I pulled over to the side of the highway, and that’s when my car started thumping a little…. the girls looked out the passenger side door and noticed the back rear tire was COMPLETELY flat.  The cop came to the window and told me I had a flat.  ;aldfjsa;ldsfjal;dsjfa;ldfjal;kjdakld

Thankfully, there was a huge fieldy area next to the shoulder, so there was plenty of room to pull over.  Before I was even out of the car, Brie and Carissa were walking through the prickly field to bring back a large piece of cardboard they found, and they promptly plopped their asses on it.  V said she knew how to fix a flat tire, but didn’t trust herself to do it and then actually drive on it.  The rest of us didn’t have a clue.

I called Emergency Roadside Assistance who said there was high call volume, and they would call back in an hour to let us know when someone would come out to help.  At that point, V went and got another piece of cardboard that was a few feet away.

Carissa advises, “Stomp on the cardboard to flatten the grass before you sit… otherwise the prickly things might come through and stick you in the butt.”  Solid advice.

Five minutes later, we were all sitting there on the cardboard, snacks out, and Loaded Questions set up.  We figured if we were going to be here for the next couple of hours, we’d better make ourselves comfortable.  The suggestion was made to get a few beers out of the car, but Brie piped in with “I think that might be illegal,” which it obviously is, so we decided against it.

Hobo Picnic


At this point, we were very content, and in no real rush.  Carissa found a cut-out finger bunny on the back of a box of crackers, got scissors from the car, and was kept busy practicing her fine motor skills.  We crushed a bag of Doritos in 10 minutes flat, started on the bags of candy, and were playing some tunes.  We alerted some friends who were still in Big Bear that we were on the side of the road, so of course they offered to come to our rescue on their way back if roadside assistance didn’t get to us by then.

About an hour later, a passing cop on a motorcycle spotted us and pulled over.  Carissa says, “This guy’s shaking his head.  I don’t think he’s impressed.”

He approached us and asked what we thought we were doing.

“We’re having a picnic, because we have a flat.”

“Did you call anyone?”

“Yes, we called roadside assistance.  They’re supposed to call back within an hour but we haven’t heard from them yet.”

“None of you knows how to fix a flat??”

Three of us shake our heads, while V explains that she knows how, she just doesn’t trust herself to do it on someone else’s car.”

The cop grumpily says, “My 16-year-old daughter knows how to change a flat.”

Like what does he want us to say to that?  Brie responds, “Oh she must be very smart!”

Officer stars yelling at us, “You cannot be sitting on the side of the highway.  Do you know how easy it would be for a car to veer off and hit you?!  Then I’d be dealing with four dead girls.”

Brie pipes in again, “Well that wouldn’t be good.”

Officer:  “Who’s car is this??”

Me:  “Mine”

Officer:  “WHOSE?”

Me:   “MINE.”

Officer:  “The rest of you get in the car and put your seatbelts on.  YOU.  You’re going to change this tire.”

Me:  “Sir, I already called roadside assistance.  They will be here.  Thank you, but I don’t know how, and I’d just rather wait.”

He ignores me. “Open your trunk.  We need to find the spare.”

Is he kidding??  I open my trunk which is packed to the max with all of our weekend gear.  The girls are in the car looking back.  The cop starts taking all of the stuff from the trunk and throwing it into the backseat, demanding Carissa and Brie help him.  He grabs my backpack and starts to toss it from the back of the car into the backseat.

I say, “Oh my laptops in there.  Please don’t throw it.”

He responds, “It’s fine; it’s not going to break.”  And continues to toss it over the seat.

He tells me to get the car manual to figure out how to release the tire from underneath and find the jack and the tools.  V quickly locates it and hands it to me.  I’m shaking a little because this guy is so mean, and I finally find the pages that contain information on changing a flat.  There are secret compartments and tools and levers and lots of confusing things.  The cop is giving me some direction, but mainly wants me to figure it out myself, and is standing a few feet away watching.

A few minutes later, a car-full of our guy friends pulls up behind us.  I’m thinking “THANK GOD.”  Now this man will leave.

No.  The four guys pull up, get out of the car, and start walking over.  The officer turns around and yells, “All of you get back in your vehicle.  ONE person can stay and help.”

They all stop in their tracks, turn around and start walking back to the car.  I say, “Wait, ONE of you can stay!!”

The officer points to Clarence and says, “YOU. Stay.”

I plead, “Well can whichever one of you knows how to change a tire the most stay?”

Clarence turns around and goes back to the car, and Jarred was the chosen one.  The officer immediately starts calling him “Raven,” for an unknown reason, and bossing him around as well.  I just wanted him to leave.  He didn’t leave.  He was directing us, making me get under the car several times to LOOK at things because he wouldn’t just TELL me what to do.  The guys behind us were texting the girls to get out of the car and go into theirs when we needed to jack it up.  When they tried to do so, the cop shot them down and told them to stay where they were, and just sit on the opposite side of the car as the flat.

Raven and I are both fully under the car, because the jack is so far back.  We have it about halfway up, when it slips out from under the axle and the car comes crashing down.  I scream.  Carissa yells to get out from under the car.  Joey, watching from the car behind gets pissed, and gets out of his car.  The cop turns around, points at him and tells him to get back in.  Now I’m mad because I feel like I almost died.  I’m also really frustrated because I’m hot, dirty, and have cactus pricklys all up and down the front of my body which are stabbing me, from lying on the ground.  I DON’T want to be learning a life lesson right now.  I don’t want to be changing this tire.  I plead,  “Can we just wait for roadside assistance?”

The cop says.  “No, go put the jack back under the axle.”

I kinda want to cry.  “Can the girls please get out and go in the other car this time?”

“No.  It won’t make a difference.”

Back under the car we go.  The jack looked like it was going to slip again, halfway up, so we had to release it and start over.  Finally it was up.  When it was time to remove the flat, the cop demands that we kick the tire and then pull it off.  It’s not coming off.  “KICK IT HARDER.”

He decides to take matters into his own hands and starts kicking the tire with all his might, as the car shakes with the girls inside.  He finally loosens it and makes Raven take it off.  At this point, I’m thinking, even if I KNEW how to change a tire, I wouldn’t have been physically able to do this by myself.  This guy’s a jerk and I want him to go away.

When the new tire was on, and the old one was back under the car, the cop asked me how old I was and then pulled me aside.

“Are you going to reprimand me for not knowing how to change a tire?”

“No, I’m going to reprimand you for something else.”

We walk to the side and he continues to yell at me like I’m 5 years old and he’s the meanest father on the face of the Earth.  He tells me I should never ever get out of my car again if I have a flat and that I should remain in it with my seatbelt on.

I’m sorry, but I’m not sure how sitting 30 feet AWAY from the shoulder, waiting for roadside assistance, which, by the way, is INCLUDED in my insurance because I PAID EXTRA for it, is more dangerous than being under the car and changing the flat MYSELF.

I thanked him for his assistance and life lesson instead of doing what I actually wanted to do, and kicking him several times in the nuts, and got back in the car.  He then felt it necessary to get on his bullhorn and give us instructions on picking up speed in the shoulder before merging back onto the highway.  Really dude?!

The girls complimented me on my patience, saying they would have probably freaked out.  I’m not sure how I didn’t.  I just wanted it to be over.  I was beyond thankful that Raven and the other guys stopped to assist.  Having to deal with the drill sergeant bossing me around on my own would have been an even more hellish experience.

We followed each other to Chili’s and then it was all better.  We only half cared that we were still in our pajamas, and I was covered head to toe in branches, dirt, and cactus needles.  V asked me if I felt accomplished after changing the tire.  I told her I would have felt just as accomplished if roadside assistance had changed the tire.

Moral of the story is this:  If you have roadside assistance, you do not need to learn how to change your own tire.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.  Tire changing is for men.

Second moral of the story is:  If you’re with the right people, any situation can be turned into a positive experience.  But that’s something I learned a long time ago.

Cheers to a fantastic weekend with a bunch of terrific people.  And hoping that police officer got really bad diarrhea.  Or something else unpleasant and inconvenient.


Gossip Girl





Scum Between My Toes… Bobby Birmingham (the third)

I’ve been played like a fiddle! It’s a fact. Backed up by facts. And more facts. And lots and lots of screenshots.

So remember the story about the 4 Month Husband? If you don’t, or you haven’t read it, or you need a refresher, click here: The 4 Month Husband. Like just do it. The following story will make way more sense if you do. Promise.

Husband doesn’t have Facebook. I remember a fishy comment made by his brother last winter that he “couldn’t” have Facebook, or something to that effect, but I didn’t think much of it, and just assumed he maybe had a crazy ex-girlfriend or something. But I AM Facebook friends with his brother, Rory.

Husband moved to Atlanta “for work,” at the end of July- same exact time I moved to California. After almost a year of intermittent communication (CERTAINLY not consistent), and seeing each other here and there, I just pegged him as a nice, really fun guy with a great job, but one in which required a ton of travel.

So I was doing my regular Facebook perusing yesterday, and noticed his brother Rory was tagged in a photo with Husband, Bobby. I hadn’t thought about Husband Bobby in a while, so I clicked on Rory’s page and looked at a couple of photos. There was one, posted from a girl who I didn’t know, and I randomly clicked on her face. Husband Bobby was in her cover photo standing next to her and what looked to be her family. I thought “Oh! Husband Bobby got a girlfriend already in Atlanta! Super cute!”

Clicking on her profile photos, though was a little funny. There were photos of her and Husband Bobby, that went back quite a while. They were all visible to the public, so you didn’t have to be friends with her to see them. She had also written several posts over the past year which were visible to the public……………. which had me sitting in front of my laptop with my jaw dropped open.

Husband Bobby…. Bobby Birmingham the third, to be precise, had a girlfriend. The.Whole.Time. She lived in Atlanta. Holy freakin’ ;lsadfjka;ldskjfa;ldskfjadl;ksjfa;lkdjfa;lkdja;ldkjf;aldksjfal;dksfja;lkdfja;lkdsfja;sdlfkja;dlskjfa;ldsjf;aldkjfa;ldkjfa;dl.

I had no idea. And when I say no idea, I mean NO.IDEA. We had conversations about girlfriends, boyfriends, exes…. and she was not the one mentioned. There were lots of photos of Husband Bobby’s ex from San Diego on his brothers Facebook page, but zero current photos with any girls. Until now. Until yesterday when I happened to come across the update on my newsfeed.

How could someone do that? It wasn’t like he met me out one day and flirted with me, and that was it…. although it may explain him leaving the bar that first day WITHOUT my number… it may explain a lot of things, actually. But he was in communication THROUGHOUT THE YEAR. THE WHOLE YEAR. I have text messages on my phone from the beginning of time; I suppose if there were such thing as a text hoarder, I’d be one. I pulled up his name, and sure enough, I had every single text still in my phone. Which allowed me to correspond this poor girl’s Facebook public updates to his communication with me. I feel sick to my stomach for this girl. Does she have NO IDEA? Do I tell her? Would I want to know? Yes, I would want to know. I think any girl would want to know. Is it my place to tell her? I don’t know. No. Probably not. I don’t know her. But I do feel somewhat of a moral dilemma.

Guys, don’t do this. It’s sickening. I’m mad. I’m more mad for her than I am for myself. He didn’t owe me anything. We never actually dated. What he did over this year was wrong, scummy and disturbing. And I fell right on into it all. And I wish I could send out a public service announcement to have him banned from all women. Here’s a glimpse into the past year…. a sampling, if you will….


Husband Bobby: White bubbles on left

Me: Green bubbles on right

Bobby and I met on October 14th… two weeks before his 29th birthday.

October 30, 2012

Screen Shot 2013-11-15 at 6.57.45 PM

Two days before his birthday:




December 20, 2012:

Screen Shot 2013-11-15 at 5.24.14 PM

5 days prior:




And a couple of weeks later… Girlfriend comes to visit again:


Screen Shot 2013-11-16 at 11.34.44 AM



February 13, 2013:

Screen Shot 2013-11-16 at 5.54.23 PM

A week before girlfriend comes for a visit we have our first real date (four months after meeting):



Date went well… Four days before girlfriend visits: Booty-call attempt? [FAIL]:



And the next morning:



I guess I thought I liked him after our first date…


DURING the visit from his girlfriend (which happened to be on VALENTINE’S DAY)… And immediately after….







No date stamp on this one, but it directly followed the one above, Still February 22, 2013:



My sister and I met him and his brother at White Rabbit that night. Then we all crashed in his brother’s living room on the LES that night.


February 28, 2013:

Screen Shot 2013-11-16 at 11.34.16 AM


Hey Bobby… you left out the part about how you were skiing for 6 days WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND.


May 28, 2013:

Girlfriend visiting NYC again….

Screen Shot 2013-11-15 at 5.25.03 PM

Two days prior:


May take it easy because YOUR GIRLFRIEND is in town visiting? Ohhhh!


July 4, 2013…. Girlfriend in NYC:

Screen Shot 2013-11-15 at 6.52.35 PM

4 days prior to the July 4th visit:


And then a week AFTER the visit:



Well we met up at Husband Bobby’s apartment that night and then went out with a bunch of friends. I suppose we had such a great time THAT night, that the next….



Then I moved to California. Then Husband Bobby moved to Atlanta… “for work.” I know overkilled on these screenshots, but I felt the need to drive my point home. I don’t think I’ve ever been so fooled before in my life… but hey, I guess I could have been, right??

I think I need to put all men on a time-out.

I’d like to thank my girlfriends, specifically Team KP, for helping to develop and hone my internet stalkage skills. Without them, this post wouldn’t be possible.

And I ask you, my friends, what would YOU do, had you stumbled upon this information?


Gossip Girl

JR is Back (Kinda)… and a Day in the Desert

JR finally got back from Amsterdam after his 2-week work trip on Friday evening.  He asked me to go out with him that night, because he would be out-of-town Saturday and Sunday, but I already had plans with friends, so I told him he was welcome to join.

I don’t know how he did it, with a 9-hour time difference from Amsterdam to California, but he got off the plane, showered, and actually made it out.  And he was pretty fun too.  He’s the whitest of white boys, Irish as they come, but thinks he has dance moves.  No.

The night was fun.  He has been non-stop talking about Lobster Taco Night at some joint ’round here on Wednesday nights, so I guess we made tentative plans to go tonight.  I don’t consider things plans unless they’re set in stone, and even though he reminded me yesterday, there has been no time or location set, so as far as I’m concerned, I still don’t have plans tonight.

As far as his job goes, he explained he usually has about two weeks here in San Diego, then two weeks away, which he claims is ruining his life and is the reason he’s single.  That’s yet to be seen; I’m sure there are plenty of other reasons he’s single.  So I was thinking over the next two weeks when he’s home, I’ll probably see him a couple of times, figure out if it’s worth continuing to get to know each other.  But doesn’t seem it’s going to go that way… he texted me yesterday with a couple of curse words followed by:  “I just found out I need to go back to the Netherlands on Sunday for another two weeks, then straight to Dallas for 2 days when I get back.”

Wait WHAT?!  This is just getting obnoxious.  He’s pissed and ready to quit, but due to some other details, he’s biting his tongue and waiting until after September 30th.  I told him he should just move to Amsterdam (was that rude?).  He said they’ve been trying to get him there, and even told him they’ll have a 3-series convertible waiting for him if he goes for good (whatever that is).

I feel like he should just wait until he starts a more normal job before he tries to date for real.  He’s made it clear he wants a serious relationship, and is at the point in his life where he is ready to settle down, but I don’t know how he expects to get to know someone when his job requires like 90% travel.  I guess that’s for him to figure out.  Not me.

So anyway…

Monday night I’m sitting on the couch with my roommate V…. our couch is located 10 blocks from the Pacific Ocean.  I’m going through my work calendar and complaining….

“Ugh, I have to go to Rancho Mirage tomorrow… that’s like 3 hours away….”

V goes… “Oh… where is that?  West?”

I think for a few seconds longer than I should have, look at her a little funny and say…. “No… East.”

“Oh… yeah… I guess that woulda meant it was in the ocean.”

I kind of just wish I had a recorder on whenever V is around… she definitely keeps me laughing (and scratching my head).

So I had A LOOTTTTTT of flippin’ time in the car yesterday.  This is time I use productively to sing and dance and make up fake scenarios in my head with a British accent.  I drove 3 hours just to be a caterer, carry pizzas and salad through the parking lot in 116 degree heat (this is not an exaggeration; I was in the desert), and then wait TWO HOURS to speak with a doctor who gave me TWO MINUTES of his time.  And I had to be nice to people the entire time.

I make a couple of more stops in the desert before I decide its time to start the drive home.  Wouldn’t ya know it?  I get on the freeway and after a couple of miles, traffic STOPS.  Why is traffic STOPPED in the middle of no where?  Oh probably because it drizzled for about 30 seconds and the desert folk got freaked out and ran into a pole.  So I start noticing people in front of me getting in the shoulder of the road and BACKING UP…. they’re all backing up onto the oncoming ramp.  I’m confused.  More and more people start doing this from further ahead.  I’m just approaching the end of the ramp and wondering if I should do it too.  People in this state are SO WEIRD.

I opened my window to try to ask someone why we were all backing up to go the wrong way onto a one way ramp, but he didn’t stop to answer me, so I figured, ok, well if everyone else is doing it, I’ll do it too.


After I got off, I didn’t know where I was going.  There were just mountains and sand everywhere.  I started following a couple of cars down a narrow road, and after about a half a mile, I reached the end of the road, which was a patch of sand with a dead-end sign.  If it were any darker, I would have thought I was going to be murdered.  I was literally in the middle of the desert.



I turned around and got on another road… which eventually lead back onto the non-moving freeway.  And I was still 2 hours and 47 minutes from home.  F…M…L….

I had all intentions of joining a hot yoga studio this week.   In recent weeks my exercise has consisted of:

-Riding my bike to the beach

-Digging a hole for my butt to fit into at the beach

-Lifting a pint of beer from the bar to my mouth

By this point of the evening, there was no way I was getting back in time for a yoga class, and between the traffic and being nice to people I didn’t feel like being nice to all day, I was much less interested in stretching and breathing as I was interested in kicking and punching… so I sought out the closest LA Fitness with a kickboxing class, and hauled ass to make it in time.

I pulled my usual quick-change act in the car in order to save time in the locker room, and was fortunate to get an instructor who encouraged YELLING while kicking and punching.  Perfect.

I left in a much better mood and only had an hour and 45 minutes left to drive.

Thank goodness my day is contained in San Diego today… don’t think I could handle a back-to-back desert day.  DesSert… maybe… mmmm…. dessert.

Tata for now…

xoxo Gossip Girl










California Boys

This is just one example of what I’m workin’ with here:


Like, really? Sushi is that much higher on your priority list than work? We all like sushi. But how do you pay for the sushi? You’re almost 30! Ok I do realize I’m beating a dead horse with my “California boys are lazy” rant. So I’ll stop.

In other news I have a date tomorrow night at Tower 23, which is funny to me because

the past two times I went to the beach with my sister, we set up on the sand right near there and laughed walking by:

“Ooolala look at all the fancy people being fancy.”

Now I’m all like: crap, what am I gonna wear?

I’m not telling JR about this rendezvous unless he specifically asks, because he is in Amsterdam working 12 hour days and thinking I’m avoiding the male species and waiting for his return to have our second date. It’s not like I said anything to make him think that, but I wouldn’t want him to get pouty for no reason.

Plus, I think this guy is pretty short. And since I’m such a tall glass of water, that will definitely be a deal breaker.

Jokes, jokes (kinda).

Happy hump day.

Xoxo Gossip Girl

Apartment Hunting with T-Diddy

The only thing more entertaining than hanging out with T-Diddy is traveling with T-Diddy. For the Fourth of July weekend Carissa, T-Diddy and I took a trip out to San Diego in order to tie up some loose ends before our move out there (tie up loose ends= find Carissa a place to live). Since there were only about three weeks until we arrived there for good, the pressure was on to find an apartment and roommates in a very short period of time.

Although we wanted T-Diddy there for her wisdom and guidance, I think Carissa and I would both agree that we more wanted her there for the entertainment. Somehow, some of my funniest moments have been the three of us in a car apartment hunting. Our last epic hunt was in Philly, years ago, and we still crack up talking about some of the events of that weekend.

T-Diddy did not disappoint.

We arrived in California with high hopes and about zero apartment leads. Carissa had emailed several people in advance, with very few responses, and based on the fact that I have used Craigslist to find roommates and apartments way more than is humanly imaginable (and the fact that I’m a control freak), I decided to take over the online search. Between two iPhones, an iPad, a MacBook and two portable MiFi’s, we were able to navigate and apartment search non-stop. Our first stop out of the airport was the rental car place, where they had run out of the kind of economy cars that we had ordered, so they directed us to a metallic blue two-door Mustang. I think Carissa and I high-fived and jumped up and down a little… because it was sooooo cute…. but after about 30 seconds and 16 bruises trying to shove all of our luggage and our asses in the car all at the same time, we were over it VERY quickly. “THIS is when you need a man around!” and “Ugh this car is DISGUSTING.” and “This backseat depresses me.” and “We should have gotten a minivan.”

We went from apartment to apartment… meeting weirdo after weirdo. When I realized it pushed Carissa’s buttons every time I burst out into Taylor Swift’s, “We are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” I made it our theme song, and applied it to every appropriate situation, such as running out of a strange apartment and away from said weirdos.

We met Liz, a girl who was sprawled on her couch mid-day with a blanket wrapped around her legs and no interest in introducing herself to potential new roommates, Tammy, a redhead who shared a room with her 36-year-old boyfriend, detailed us on her financial aid problems for 10 minutes and exclaimed “A CLEAN HOME IS A HAPPY HOME!”, an Indian couple who had a shrine in the corner and did not believe in having TV in the living room because they didn’t like the energy to be focused towards a wall… and then there’s Michael.

Michael is worth mentioning for oh so many reasons. First of all he was about 55. Carissa spoke to him on the phone on our way over to see his place. “He’s middle-aged.”

“How do you know??”

“Believe me.”

We went anyway. He was middle-aged. He was a millionaire in the construction industry who lived in a modest-sized home, but with an extremely eclectic design, and attention to every detail. When we first entered his home my initial thought was “what a weirdo… what grown man with money is looking for a roommate??” I obviously assumed he was a sex-offender of some sort.

But as we got the grand tour of his home, the fountains outside, his over the top miniature models of multi-million dollar projects in the works, his cigarette boat in the backyard with a $20k paint job of skulls and naked women, and his beloved Porsche in the garage, I realized he wasn’t a weirdo sex-0ffender. He was just a harmless lonely gay man looking for someone to “keep the dogs off the front lawn” when he traveled.

T-Diddy had a soft spot for Michael. She found him interesting. She found his plants and trees even more interesting. After he gave us a 5 minute report on exactly how he measured out his front garden, T-Diddy had fallen head over heels in love with one of his trees which he informed her was called a “Bird of Paradise.” She was determined to have one. She was going to find one and bring it home with her.

“Mom, you can’t bring a tree on a plane.”

“Yes I can. I’ll get a small one.”

“You’re going to bring a TREE through security?!!!”


Well then that settled it. We left Michael’s with no intentions on Carissa living there, but on a mission to find a Bird of Paradise. The next morning we woke up in our hotel to a note from T-Diddy, saying she had gone out shopping for a Bird of Paradise. Sure enough, after two Home Depots, she found what she wanted, and in she walked with her beloved tree… which she immediately named “Aunt Bertha.”

Aunt Bertha spent her morning on the balcony getting pampered by T-Diddy. She then joined us in the mustang, on the floor in the back behind the passenger’s seat.

“Can you move your seat up?? You’re squishing Aunt Bertha!”

“Mom, you want me to crunch my legs into the dashboard so that your TREE has more room in the backseat?!”


Aunt Bertha came everywhere with us. She ate with us, drank with us and slept next to us. I’m not sure why T-Diddy didn’t want to wait until our last day to find this tree… but in any case, she became part of our family.

Time was ticking, it was almost time to head back home and Carissa still hadn’t found an apartment. We had a couple more on the agenda, so we were REALLY hoping to like one of them. We pulled up in front of the house where we had an appointment for 11am. It was cute. We were optimistic. We rang the bell, no answer. Rang again, no answer. Emailed the guy “we’re here.” No answer.

We obviously thought the bell must have just been broken… and since the bars on the door didn’t allow for knocking, Carissa decided to climb through the bushes and knock on the front windows. We weren’t opposed. She was getting desperate at this point. Still… no answer.

I’m not sure why, but we figured if we walked around the side of the house and yelled “hello” into THOSE open windows, maybe someone would hear us. No response. So we headed into the backyard… maybe they were back there.

Nope, no people, but there was a cornhole set with bean bags, so Carissa and I decided to play while we waited to see if someone would come out to yell at us (because then they’d obviously want to live with her). Nothing. T-Diddy comes around back during our game and spots a tree. “OHHHH A LEMON TREE!!!!”

She gets right in there and plucks a lemon from the branches, talking to herself, “This is such a nice souvenir!”

“Mom that’s not a souvenir! That’s somebody’s lemon tree!”

She doesn’t care. She’s busy sniffing her lemon. We were busy peeing in our pants. We decided that now that something had been stolen, it was time to go.

“Well that’s what he gets for not answering the door.”

FAIL. But at least we walked out of there with a fresh lemon.

The trip was filled with lots of laughs, a few bruises and some blood (that disgusting car), and finally an apartment and a roommate for Carissa. We even purchased quality mattresses from a random man in a warehouse after T-Diddy called a number she saw on a handwritten sign on the side of the road reading “MATTRESSES $150.” Who ever responds to those signs, you ask??? My mother does. We paid, and they haven’t been delivered yet, so the verdict on that man is still up in the air. Fingers crossed; it’s all we can do. Because obviously buying a mattress from an actual store would be logical, and therefore out of the question.

Onward ho…. road trip west begins in 12 days.














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