One to Nothin'

My life paradoxes

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I have several contradictions that make up my being. Here goes.
I write about my life on a public platform, share it with the whole world (aka Facebook) to see, check my stats like a heroine addict trying to get high off a spike in pageviews, cry into my chevron duvet when nobody comments and yet I don’t want anyone (new) I meet in real life to know it exists.
I feel like a 10 year old, I look like a 16 year old (and my skin is acting like one lately), I’m actually a 24 year old and I keep finding gray hairs like a 40 year old.
I say I want to have Shakira’s bod and yet I eat things like bacon maple funnel cakes.
I went 30 days without carbs among other unhealthy things (TWICE) and now I can’t go 24 hours.
I’m a feminist and I go and write posts like this (and I did make that curtain rod my bitch, thank you very much).
I say I’m going to go HAM on running and I’m sitting on my computer blogging instead.
I crave dairy more than most other food groups and it makes my stomach explode.
I have lyrics, artists and song titles to millions (I don’t even know if I’m exaggerating) of songs memorized and yet I can’t remember how to drive to a location I just came from.

I won’t spend 99 cents on an iPhone app but I will spend hundreds of dollars at Target on any given day.

I bare my soul on the internet but talking to strangers gives me anxiety.

I wrote this article the other day.

Chevron and power tools.

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The thing about being a serial relationship-ist is that I’m not good at being single. And no, I don’t mean I cry into my pillow at night because the only spooning action I get is from my dog, in fact it’s nice being able to hog the covers and practice my Kung fu throughout the night. And again, I don’t need someone taking me out or getting me drunk because I can do that just find with my friends. What I mean is I relied on these male counterparts for a lot of life-related things without realizing it, like moving into a new apartment or grocery shopping for example. From packing all my random shiz into boxes to carrying the world’s heaviest TV up four flights of stairs, a dude has been there to help me out. 
All throughout my childhood my dad was there to assemble all my impossible-to-build desks and bunk beds, and then in college the dude would help (but really just do it for me) put together side tables and provide me with a hammer, screwdriver and all the other things I find impossibly boring. It’s not that I thought I was incapable of carrying 12 bags of groceries up the stairs at once or that I couldn’t just buy my own set of tools, but it seemed to be a mutually beneficial routine — he feels like a manly man and I don’t have to learn what a drill bit is. Win, win.
But where does that leave me when I have a new empty pad and no guy around to do all the dirty work for me? Screwed (pun intended). Anyway, I went to Target because it’s the happiest place on Earth (besides the airport, of course) and was all, “Woo hoo! Construction Barbie, reporting for duty!” and I went ahead and bought a set of curtains (so I could stop flashing the neighbors with my see-through blinds) and a rod. NBD, my roommate has a screwdriver! Good to go! 
I got home and realized that not only was the rod too short for my window, but I also only bought one panel of a curtain and I definitely needed more than a dinky screwdriver to secure the rod to a wall. Target trip round 2: Fight! I walked in past the carts to the customer service counter with purpose and returned the rod. Piece of cake. I headed for the window section where I realized the one panel curtain I bought was one-of-a-kind and had to pick out two more. I’ll just return the other one later, whatever. After a quick Google search, I realized what a “duvet cover” was and that I needed one, so since my arms were full, perfect time to go check out the power tools. 
Luckily the dude in the electronics department jacks a cart for me and takes me to the tools section (once again, relying on a man. Rosie the Riveter would slap me across my face right now). I buy a power screwdriver that’s cordless so I can reach (at his suggestion since I was ready to buy the cheapest one I could find..), a set of pink tools and head back home. This is when I realize how little I actually know about anything. I start obsessively measuring and freaking out because I don’t have a pencil, I’m trying to use a level on a rounded rod support, I’m standing on a swivel chair and I don’t know what a freaking drill bit is, but with the help of Google and my roommate, I realize I do not have one. 
I feel like you should just be able to screw the rod into the wall. Or better yet, I should be provided with blinds that aren’t effing see through to begin with. So now I’m sitting on my adorbz chevron duvet cover (such a weird word, “duvet”) perfectly visible to the world outside my window reflecting on my codependency and how the majority of my Sunday was spent on this unsuccessful project. Just another day in the life. But really though, I think I’ve learned more about myself, my inadequacies as well as my strengths, in the past few months than ever before. Eventually I’ll make that curtain rod my bitch, just like I did with the carwash, and I’ll be a better person for it. Eventually there will probably be another guy in my life to help me measure windows before purchasing curtains for them, and hopefully he’ll enjoy carrying groceries in (because frankly it’s a pain in my ass), but for now I’m perfectly fine sitting on my girly bed with my girly dog feeling frustrated about a silly task gone awry. There’s a learning experience around every corner these days.
This journey to the west coast has been one of self discovery, Full House style. I’m diggin’ it.

Fitness Friday.. on Sunday.

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You may have noticed that in the past few weeks I’ve allowed my bod to be anything but Shakira-esque (cough, this, cough), but no more excuses, friends. Granted I was at a food festival all weekend, BUT I’m ready to get this marathon training back on track. I’m also ready to hold myself accountable again. I’m bringing #OperationShakiraBod back and I’m going HAM (yea, I just learned what it means..). So on that note, here’s my week in fitness:

Monday: 6 mile-run (in which I ate shit around mile 3 on the sidewalk where there were lots and lots of cars to witness it)
Tuesday: this, this and this
Wednesday: this
Thursday: 3-mile run

This chick has been motivating the crap out of me with her posts lately. I’m definitely not on her level yet, but I hope to get there in the next few months. I may just have to follow her training plan too.

And since I am sort of terrible at blogging lately (my brain can’t even stay still long enough to decide on a topic..) go read my guest post for my bloggie BFF, Sarah from Friday. It might explain a little bit of my crazy.

I might even go try to find a dresser today, who knows? I’m feeling saucy.

Purple Haze

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Sorry to force my eyeball upon you, friends, but I just wanted to show/tell you a little something about my job now that I’m 98% sure that I’m not just dreaming and it’s not going to disappear as soon as I tell people about it. I am the resident writer/blogger for a new website called Glamourpage. It’s dedicated to all things beauty-related and it’s basically heaven for us bloggers because the more articles and tutorials you submit, the more exposure you gain. So if you’re into the whole hair, makeup and nails thing, click here to get started, and if not, just go check it out so you can see my goofy self try to teach you things. Here are some previews.

Also, feel free to get pin-happy here, here and here.

And on a completely unrelated note, this video is incredibly touching and made me cry, kind of an embarrassing amount. I considered writing a whole post about it, but I don’t think any of us are ready for that right now, so if you watch please let me know your thoughts, reactions, feelings (because we have a lot of them around here).

Happy Friday Eve!

All your diction dripping with disdain

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Saturday morning I woke up feeling rough and hit the showers. A few blue Gatorades, an egg frittata and kombucha tea (because we’re in SF now, y’all) later I was standing in front of Atlas Genius with a big goofy grin on my face.


Then came Young the Giant, who Emma and I first saw in Florida back in this post (so much hair), and they were just as good as they were back then.

We then ventured to a smaller stage to see Thao and the Get Down Stay Down, where we saw two women wearing nothing but paint, panties and hoods and another woman puking. That was exciting. But I love, love, loved this band. I had never heard them before and at one point the super cute singer just busted out “What’s Your Fantasy?” by Ludacris. It was very enjoyable.
Next came The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and they were definitely my favorite show of the day. That singer is insane and I’m all about it. She wore this purple, crinkly suit and shoved the mic down her pants at one point. Their energy was amazing and I got so amped up. Definitely a band to see live.
For Saturday’s finale, we opted to see Phoenix instead of Nine Inch Nails because we’re happy people and we like happy-sounding music. It was super crowded and we couldn’t so much see the stage, but we enjoyed the pretty lights and danced around until we once again ended the night on an air mattress (this is becoming me and Emma’s thing).

Then somewhere in between I obviously had a moment with the gourmet crispy bacon and maple funnel cake stand, ate a seaweed wrapped taco and other delicious food that will be at the SF Street Food Festival next weekend (if you’re in the area, you need to go. Seriously.), drank some local chardonnay and more whiskey and saw one more person puke. I’d call it a success.

On Sunday Emma and I dragged our tired music-loving carcasses back out to Golden Gate Park to catch Hall & Oats (which we enjoyed from afar while scarfing down the most delicious fried chicken and waffles the world has seen, or just the first I’ve ever had. Seriously, though, it’s a great combo) and Vampire Weekend, who I had never seen live before and they blew me away. They sounded perfect live and they were so dancey that you just had to smile. Then we decided to be old together and miss Red Hot Chili Peppers so that we could actually commute back without fighting 500 drunk people wearing three wolf moon shirts to get on a bus. I know, I know, I’m cringing just typing it, but what’s done is done and we made it to work on time Monday morning as a result. Whatever.

Outside Lands gets two thumbs way up.

A convoluted story that starts and ends with a Beatle obsession

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After sitting through eight excruciatingly long hours of work (missing Wild Belle, Twenty One Pilots, The Head and the Heart and Band of Horses..) I sped my way over to the BART station to start my journey to Outside Lands in hopes of making it in time for the finale, Sir Paul McCartney of a little band I like to call The Beatles. If you haven’t heard of them, slap yourself across the face and then go educate yourself.

When I got to the train station, there was a line going out to the parking lot of shwasted Raiders fans who had clearly never used public transportation before and since I wasn’t about to waste time doing silly things like emptying my bladder or feeding myself dinner, I may have had a little bit of hangry rage building up inside of me. I even had my ticket ready except it only had a dollar on it.. (womp, womp). So I waited. And waited. And even explained the entire process to a lovely lesbian couple who just did not understand why they both couldn’t use the same ticket. While they discussed it, my Kensie Smash countdown started and luckily they moved before I had to tear the place down in the name of Helter Skelter.
Then I convinced myself to calm the eff down because my crazy wasn’t going to make the train go faster, but in order to do this I obsessively played with my phone that obviously hadn’t been charged all day, making its already short life span dwindle faster than usual. It’s also important to note that all my friends (and by “all” I mean the three people I know in California) were already drinking snuck-in whiskey and singing along to all the bands at this point.
So I finally arrived at the stop that Google Maps told me to go to and I somehow managed to follow the little blue dot to a bus stop and hopped on, feeling like a champ. Hung out on there obsessively checking the streets I was supposed to get off on and pulled the request stop button as soon as I heard one of them. Got off to realize that my stop was about 12 streets down. I considered just running and remembered I had a huge backpack containing all my living essentials for the weekend on my back in addition to a giant purse on my shoulder, so I waited 15 minutes for the next bus all the while imagining Paul finishing his set without giving me so much as a “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.”
I arrive at my stop and followed the blue dot for three quarters of a mile into the woods where I decided to follow the crowds instead. Turns out a lot of people who don’t have tickets just get loaded and walk in massive crowds to dead-ends to watch from the outside, so I proceeded to walk to three different dead-ends before  finding the entrance, at which point my phone was on its death bed and my bladder was on the brink of spontaneous combustion (those body guards who patted me down are lucky I didn’t give them a golden shower). So as I made my way in and started to hear Paul’s glorious voice, I made the responsible decision to pay a visit to the port-a-potties (which have been in full force since about 11am and it’s now about 8pm) at which point I was riding the struggle bus pretty hard.
Not only does one never want to have to use a port-a-potty, but one must never touch anything inside a port-a-potty, right? So here I am, in the port-a-potty, trembling over the seat trying to pee straight while holding up my jacket, my about-to-pop backpack AND giant purse while not falling face first into a pile of poop and vomit all the while hearing, “Blackbird singin’ in the dead of night.” And you know that unfortunate anatomical truth about how the longer you hold your pee, the longer it takes to get it all out? Yea, I’m pretty sure my thighs are still sore from this ordeal.
Finally I got out and made my way to the stage where I was certain my phone was going to die and I was never to find my friends. I started rationalizing it in my mind, like, “There’s food and water all over the place; I have several jackets in my backpack; there’s a lake I could bathe in; I’ve slept in grass before; I can totally camp here..”

And then miraculously, about an hour later, I found my amigos and proceeded to drink all the whiskey and moved on to the rum. From there it was all Paul McCartney singing to my soul, dancing, jumping, squealing, crying and fireworks lighting up the sky.

I want love in the aftermath

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Sometimes when you see funnel cake smothered in maple syrup and bacon, you just have to accept that your inner fat kid will, in fact, sit on Shakira’s bod while you eagerly hand over 12 of your hard-earned dolla bills to experience an intense mouthgasm. 
My weekend needs several posts and coincidentally this funnel cake masterpiece needed its own, so go treat your ears to my newest favorite band from Outside Lands here.

Hangovers, politics and stoner hip-hop

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If you haven’t already started reading the Laurel Gazette, now is the time to do so. This chick is gorgeous (duh) but she’s also hilarious and brutally honest (oh, and she used to live in California). Basically I have a big ole bloggy crush on her. So get to know her so we can all be friends.


Best hangover cure:

Original Corn nuts, chocolate donuts from 7/11, and blue Gatorade. If it’s really intense I might skip those first few steps and go straight for a cold beer. And, if things get really bad, a clean toilet seat upon which I can rest my chin is a necessity. 
What made you start blogging:
I go to law school at night. Last year I took Civil Procedure and it was painfully boring.  I started blogging as a way to get through those agonizing, tedious evening classes.  But there were also the usual factors  – I love to write, I needed a creative outlet, my girlfriends encouraged me, etc. 
What brought you to DC:
I went to college in Southern California and majored in government. I figured I should go to DC after graduation to make the best use of my degree. It was a brutal transition but it’s fun to work in politics and to be a part of DC’s “industry,” if you can call it that.  Still, any time I meet a teacher or doctor or banker in DC I’m like, “what the hell are you doing here? don’t you realize you could be doing your job in California??!?” If my job didn’t require me to live here, I’d be back in California in the blink of an eye. 
Boozy drink of choice:
New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc on the weekdays, champagne on the weekends, and Coors Light when I’m gardening or on vacation.
First three songs on your iPod:

Here’s where you find out how totally uncool I am. Lots of showtunes – the Boo and I swear we were Broadway stars in a past life. My other standbys are kind of old school –  “Juicy” by Biggie, “Your Hand in Mine” by Explosions in the Sky, and “Pursuit of Happiness” by Kid Cudi. It sounds sort of crazy but I went to high school outside of Cleveland, Ohio, and a lot of us from that area have an inexplicable soft spot for stoner hip-hop.

Finally caught up. Bubbles.

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As I mentioned here, last Friday Emma and I drove to San Diego to see the most adorable couple the world has ever seen get married. I am very proud to report that not once did we get lost despite our debilitating and shared directional handicaps. We arrived at our hotel (which was found and booked by my girl since I didn’t stop to breathe for about a week straight) at 3am Saturday morning and were surprised (read: terrified) to find that many of the hotel (or does the presence of mold make it a motel..?) patrons were outside chillin’ still. We were already a little miffed by all the traffic we encountered while driving so late and extra creeped out by the large man sitting on the steps staring at us as we awkwardly stumbled around the parking lot looking for the front office (pepper spray in tow). Go to bed, you crazies!

We eventually found our room and slept gloriously until our 11am checkout. We then got to explore San Diego a bit eating super delicious food at Carnitas Snack Shack and making plans to jump off the cliff into the water at a later date (seriously, these people looked like they were having the time of their lives jumping off of these cliffs). And bubbles were, of course, a necessity.
Eventually we made it to the wedding where my date was of the prettiest female variety. We may or may not have shed a few tears as we threw up our sorority gang signs (my big got married) and watched two very in love people make it official. Then I drank too much wine. Obviously. The end of the night involved a puzzle and an air mattress. Cut to Sunday’s 8(more like 10)-hour drive and you have two very sick and ragged looking ladies (if you can call us that) sitting on the side of a curb at Jack-in-the-Box somewhere in LA drinking sweet tea and eating french fries and chicken nuggets very slowly. Eventually the nausea subsided, sour gummy worms were purchased and an entire conversation about talking trees came to be.
I literally can’t believe it’s Friday already. It’s been one adventure after another in this life of mine and I’m having a hard time keeping up. I think writing about it helps me to grasp onto it even more though, so I’m beyond excited to officially have wifi set up in the new pad. And even more excited that I will be seeing Sir Paul McCartney at Outside Lands tonight!!!! Have a fabulous Friday, friends! 

The Winery Tour: A Story of Redemption

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If you haven’t already, read Part I of this story here. All caught up? Okay. The next morning we had a winery tour scheduled because my dad is ambitious like that. But after our traumatizing experience the day prior, we all made a pact that if Robert showed up to drive our bus we were leaving immediately, refund or not. Instead we arrived to a friendly, hilarious bald man (named Phil)who wore a sweet hat and told relevant, interesting stories about our scenery, kind of like tour guides are supposed to. It probably didn’t hurt that he encouraged us to get drunk along the way.

So basically we drank lots and lots of wine. I wore a sweater with an image of the Golden Gate Bridge on it while standing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. Totally not a tourist (who forgets a jacket after three months of living here..) or anything.

 My parents continued to make me laugh and the tour guide continued to be awesome.

My mom was even prepared to wingman it up for me at one point, but I assured her that I was not in fact interested in the dude who decided to go on a wine tasting by himself (I’m all about the independence thing, but just no).

We even met, like, five other people who were visiting from Florida. It was incredibly confusing. We ended the night by eating at The Franciscan on the pier, which was amaze-balls. I’m already having withdrawals from the overdose of delicious food my parents fed to me. In fact, I’m sure I have pictures of it all on my phone right now. Maybe I’ll replace “Fitness Friday” with “Fat Friday” and show off the 10 pounds I gained this week (#worthit). Speaking of, I’m about to hit up Panda Express in a hot minute. There’s only so much blogging I can do while sitting at Starbucks listening to middle-aged women explain how “Marriage isn’t about being happy..” while getting extraordinarily hangry.

So sayanara for now, my sweet baby angels. And many apologies to my bloggie besties for my lack of lovin’ lately. I swear I’m going to binge read those posts like my 17-year-old self and Smirnoff Ice.
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