Great deals on magazine subscriptions with no auto renewals.

So, you all know that I started a lovely new job in January. (And if you don’t, consider yourself EDUCATED, fool!!)

Said lovely new job involves a bit of travel. One and two day trips to consult with clients around the country; a conference here and there. At first, I was excited. “I’m so Big Time!”, I thought. “I’ll get to visit e-friends all over, see new cities, huzzah!”

Anyone who’s ever had to travel for work would now like to tell me one thing:

I’m an idiot.

Work travel is basically everything that’s stressful about a vacation, except, yanno… minus the vacation. You agonize over what to pack, only times a bazillion because it’s FOR YOUR JOB. You worry about being late, only times a bazillion because it’s FOR YOUR JOB. You actually have to shower in the morning, only times a bazillion because it’s FOR YOUR JOB. (What?)

In a nutshell, it’s travel without sun, sand, skis, or wine. Hopefully at the end of the day there is a job well done, and maybe HBO in the hotel (but never Bravo, WTF?!) – but that’s about it.

Now, I’m not complaining. Because even considering all that, traveling to meet with clients is still pretty cool, frankly. And I love my job, so putting a checkbox in the “great meeting!” box feels fantastic.

It’s just, you know… stressy and such.

(For those of you who were following my journey to Wisconsin on Twitter yesterday, which totally involved me DRIVING A CAR, LIKE, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FOUR-ISH YEARS??? … I’m alive! So is everyone else who I encountered on the road! The car is even intact!)

And, as a bonus, I had dinner with the absolutely hysterical and extremely freaking talented Jenn of Ex Hot Girl, who then- probably due to the multiple boozy beverages I plied her with- took me to her studio to just, you know, shoot some headshots for fun. Because that’s what awesome fun people who are also photogs do, apparently. And in less than three minutes (no, seriously) – the girl made me look like this:

Click here to see her professional site/portfolio

If you need a headshot for social media (or anything else), wedding/engagement photos, etc – please check her out! She does travel and she IS amazing. Thank you Jenn!!!

Mama said share.

So, remember that time I wrote this super whiny post about “blah blah my life is so hard because I’m doing way too much of all the things I love to do BUT ALSO I’D LIKE TO GET PAID FOR IT PLEASE”? And you guys were totally awesome and you were all “Dude. We hear you. You rock. If you whine build it, it will come” and that’s why I freaking love you so much?

Thanks for that. Seriously. Likealot.

(((Group hug)))

Moving on!

So, since I’ve been rocking this whole “OMG one foot in front of the goddamn other” ‘tude, I’ve noticed that every tiny little thing that happens has a very, uh, magnified effect in regards to how I feeeeeeeeeel about it. Basically, if I stub my toe, or I rip my tights, or that Thai for lunch gives me heartburn (which it does because I’m eighty apparently)…

DAY = RUINED.

Fortunately, this extreme seems to go both ways, in that something like buying tickets to see an awesomely bad movie or knowing that you’re getting on a plane to Boulder in the morning or a particularly awesome gif can mean

DAY = TOTALLY REDEEMED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Case in point:

I noticed I was dangerously close to being out of face wash on Monday. Le sad.

So I stopped at CVS and, remembering what the kind lady from my recent splurge-facial (oh god there’s at least 15 jokes in there) told me about the necessity for microbeads in one’s life, I picked up this bad boy from Neutrogena:

Simple enough, right?

Fast forward to the next morning.

You know that super, SUPER annoying commercial, with the two girls who are allegedly supposed to be dorm mates and one of them totes has a hangover even though they’re clearly preteens, and the non-hungover crazy peppy whore is all “I know what you need, gurrrrl, you need some of this amazing unicorn-urine-punch-you-in-the-face-with-special-zit-removal-powers-and-happiness face wash!!!” And the other girl is all “FINE, Peyton, I’ll use your stupid unicorn shit but then you have to SHUT YOUR FACE UNTIL I GET SOME BOONE’S FARM HAIR OF THE DOG IN MY LIFE”, but then she does use it and she magically comes out of her angry hangover cocoon and is born a beautiful butterfly who farts Lisa Frank rainbows and leaves a trail of glitter wherever she goes, and they start dancing around the room to some pop-alicious song about “waking up to love” or some shit, which sort of makes no sense because isn’t today’s message to women supposed to be “Forget Prince Charming, you good enough all by your badass self, chica*!”

*The “chica” is used to represent the company’s sensitivity to cultural diversity. Why am I not in marketing, again?

Right, so. Know the one I mean? No?

Seriously?

Fine. Here it is.

So ANYWAY, that commercial is so unbelievably annoying that I have to mute it every time it comes on, even though this action requires things like “movement” and “doing something other than drinking wine”, which are both things I AM OPPOSED TO DOING when I’m pantsless on the couch. That’s how much I hate it.

But.

This stupid Neutrogena face wash? For reals guys. It was just. like. that.

It makes me feel like belting out Miley in the shower while eating clementines. Because there’s just a hint of citrus in it… a GENTLE amount of citrus. The citrus hint is so tender, it’s not even mentioned on the bottle. It just wraps you up snugly in a faint and pleasant, not-overambitious citrus hug, probably with Norah Jones playing softly in the background.

And it makes me happy.

Baby steps, and the little things.

Sadly enough, I was in no way compensated for this post and the Neutrogena people don’t even know I’m alive, as far as I know. Though I am absolutely not opposed to them stumbling across this and offering me money for it. Just saying. What?

Mama said share.

After a couple years of gift giving, B and I seem to be running out of ideas for presents for each other.

We’ve done the watch, the nice coat, the Wii, the wine fridge, the Mad Men-esque scotch glasses (even if they did turn out to be hobbit-sized).

I searched everything online… even Red Envelope, despite their site being so vomitous it makes me want to punch it where its nutsack should be.

It was six days before his birthday and I knew I had to act fast. I did what any girl does when things get tough:

I called my daddy.

“I just don’t know what to do,” I whined said. “He BUYS everything he wants. The iPad, the Google phone, new speakers… all perfectly good gift ideas he stole from me!”

“Well,” my wise old man said, “you know those toy planes and helicopters? I always wanted one of those. Actually, I always wanted to fly a real plane, but those seem fun too.”

GENIUS, I thought! What man wouldn’t want to machine-operate something through the air?!?

After a bit of research and a lot of Twitter help, I found what claimed to be the perfect starter RC plane: the HobbyZone Firebird Commander (2)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Look at the badassery!! Rawwwwwr and such!

I paid way too much for two day shipping and was thrilled when the tracking told me it was indeed waiting for us at home on the day of his birthday.

B was already home when I picked up the enormous 4 foot long box (huzzah! Look at that wingspan, bishes!!!) from our apartment office and proudly lugged it upstairs.

His reaction when he saw me drag the package inside was almost worth it alone.

“What on earth…” He stared at it in disbelief. “WHAT did you get me??”

“Open it, open it, open it!” I chanted. “Fashion show, fashion show, fashion show at lunch!”

With some help from Axe Murderer, he did just that…

And stared at it in what I knew could only be awe and wonderment.

Until, that is, he started laughing.

Hysterically.

And this was not “child’s joy” laughter. This was much more like “wtf has my crazy-ass girlfriend done THIS time” laughter.

B: (in utter disbelief) “A PLANE?! … What am I going to do with a plane??”

Me: “Wha… FLY it, of course!!”

B: “Baby. We live in an apartment building in Washington DC. We don’t have a yard. Where exactly would I fly this?”

Me: “In the park! We have a whole park behind our building!”

B: “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal… hon, you do know these are pretty much impossible to fly? Like, people spend years learning. And pretty much everyone just crashes them immediately anyway.”

Me: (totally crushed) “You HATE it. You hate my present.”

B: (yup, still laughing) “I don’t hate it! I just was really, REALLY not expecting a plane. You win for creativity, my dear.”

Me: *sad face*

Le sigh.

He did come home the next night pretty excited about at least getting to crash it. Enjoy it, my love. You crash the HELL out of that stupid, stupid plane.

Mama said share.

If you know me, “shy” and “introverted” are two words you would never, EVER use to describe me. And you’d be right. I can- and will- talk to anyone about anything. Hell, I’ll talk to anyTHING about anyONE.

Leave me and my wall alone.

But seriously. Give me five minutes with a stranger and we’ll be do-si-do-ing around the bar, the park, the public restroom- whatever.

And they won’t even like country music.

But. But!

There is one social interaction in my life I struggle with on a daily basis.

Dum dum dum…

The security guards.

Ya see, my DC office building is about a 9 on the security scale… meaning there’s a guard at every entrance, and you have to scan your fancy high-tech badge with an awkward driver’s license-esque picture to get in.

The guards rotate positions, so I see them all regularly. They’re nice people, and frankly, I’m glad they’re there, seeing as we sit a cool four blocks from La Casa Blanca. (That’s “White House,” for everyone who didn’t pass fourth grade Spanish. What?)

But.

This means I see them quite a few times a day, coming and going, walking past the building, etc. And four years in Chapel Thrill, NC has taught this Masshole that it would be just plain Stephanie-Tanner-HOW-RUDE to just bluster by without so much as a head nod.

So, I try. Every time, I try to pull off a sincere and warm greeting of some fashion.

And every time, I fail miserably.

I don’t know what it is. My Joe “The Smooth” Camel just fails me here; I become a bumbling fool, questioning my methods and changing my mind midsentence, so that whatever does manage to come out makes me sound like an awkward 20-something stroke victim.

Don't smoke, kiddies. Cigarettes are only for desert beasts and Don Draper.

Sometimes I trip while trying to wave. Sometimes my “how-do-you-do” trails off into a mumble as the realization of how dorky I truly am washes over me. More often, I pull out a spoonerism unlike anything heard before.

“How’s your going day?”

“Lovely day here out, it is?”

“Have a good night, now!” (At lunchtime.)

“Your sweat stain looks like you peed your pants.”

(Okay, not that last one. YET. I bet I just jinxed myself and I’ll say it today.)

I should probably just develop my own hand signal. Then they’d be all “oh, that’s the girl who says hello with a golf clap” or “by throwing the shocker. She always livens up my day!” Or even better… the vulcan hand salute!!!

I'd do the stern face and everything. It's a walk off!!!!!!!! Where's David Bowie?

And then I’d never have to CHOOSE when it came to my form of greeting. And life, it would be a much simpler thing.

P.S. Oh, and as long as we’re on the subject of Star Trek, THIS made my life yesterday…

via Kay Steiger by way of my darling friend amblass.

Mama said share.

~Hey! Are you reading this in a Reader? That’s cool… don’t want the man to see you being lazy, for sure. But do me a wee favor and click here, just for a second, if you don’t mind… *vague and mysterious ftw*~

Well, it finally happened.

I knew it was going to. I could have stopped it. I could have prevented it, if only I had taken a precious few seconds of my life to think before I acted.

Ok, wait. Let’s back it up. (Ha. That will be punny in a moment.)

Every once in a while, I have to pee. Consequently, I will, at times, use a restroom. Sometimes I even do it at work.

But, see, here’s the thing. I have this really bad efficient habit of, um, “getting ready” before I enter the stall. “Making preparations,” if you will.

Must’ve been all those years of Brownies.

(And by years, I mean one. One class. Brownies freaking blew.)

So, yeah, without fail, I begin the pulling-down-of-the-pants, or the pulling-up-of-the-skirt, before I am actually within in the confines of a specific cube of bathroom privacy.

Which means that anyone walking in said bathroom would unwillingly be privy to a sneak preview of my bathing suit area.

Given that this is A) a women’s restroom and B) a place of work, I’ll go out on a limb here and say that none of the potential viewers want a piece of that.

And I KNOW this. I think about it every time I go to the bathroom, and think,

“Damn! I did it again! Moron… one of these days it is gonna happen, and it’s not going to be pretty. Check yoself!”

But I still do it every. damn. time.

And yesterday, Wile E. Coyote finally caught the Road Runner.

Or something.

Basically, I mooned my boss.

I'm slightly better looking.

No, that’s not accurate, actually…

I mooned my BOSS’ boss.

Is there a someecard for that?

Mama said share.

Last Friday, we had a little whine ‘n cheese party for a colleague who’s retiring. Which is nice and all, if you’re into forced smalltalk with a group of lawyers who constantly ask a) when you’re going to law school (never?); b) when you’re getting married; and c) what did you do last weekend so they can live vicariously through you.

But seeing as it was FRIDAY!!!!! and we’d been given permission to leave at 2 pm for the holiday weekend, I listened to the head honcho give his speech, bobbed my head knowingly at the appropriate moments, and then made like a tree back to my office cubicle wide open desk in the middle of a room where every single person can see my shit.

Hmm. I really need to stop looking at stuffonmycat.com.

Anyhoodle, I had work to finish, and hot damn if I was gonna be in the building even a minute after 2. (I am nothing if not a dedicated employee. …Dedicated to getting the fuck out of as soon as possible, that is.)

People were filtering in and out from the party while I worked, but I was as one-track-minded as a 13 year old boy watching Basic Instinct for the first time.

It was 1:53 and the clock was ticking down. Jack Bauer had nothing on me as I furiously printed, copied, emailed, and TPS-reported my way towards the deadline.

As I began the requisite preparations for my departure (starting with the change to flipflops under the desk, and working my way up to the more obvious “I’m OUTTAAAAAAAAAA HERE!!!!! turning off of the computer), my nostrils were very suddenly assaulted by an extremely pungent odor. The scent of a sweaty man’s gym socks punched me in the face, while an eau de Jersey Turnpike gave me a one-two uppercut to the nose.

Dazed and confused (FAH Q!), I quickly looked down at myself in horror. Was it even possible for a human being to smell that way?? I hadn’t worked out, I’d showered that morning, I have no history with any sort of BO (no, this does NOT count)… in fact, I’d NEVER smelled anything so horrible emanating from any living creature (well, other than kitten diarrhea) in my life.

Just as I was devising an emergency plan of action to get down to the office gym showers jump out the window out of pure mortification, I happened to glance over at the table to my right, aka our office’s “dumping ground” for all things edible, be it holiday treats, party leftovers, etc.

Sitting there, with those wavy lines in the air literally enamating from the source, was a plate of the moldiest, stinkiest cheese this side of the Atlantic.

(Gotta give the Frenchies their due. I’m sure they’ve come up with something smellier. But I never, ever want to meet it.)

After I wept tears of relief that I was not to be the new poster child for Smelly Kids Anonymous, I grabbed my bag and checked out a whopping five minutes early. I figured I’d earned it.

Though thankfully, there were no battle wounds odors to prove it.

Mama said share.

I had a bit of an adventure yesterday.

I met a new friend for a perfectly lovely lunch, and will hopefully be building a website for her campaign next month. (Speaking of which, did you see my sugarplum Jess’ awesome new online portfolio I made for her yet? Didja? DO IT! And then hire her!)

Anyhoo. While I am rocking my new healthy diet ‘n exercise lifestyle (blech), I couldn’t turn down the sample of homemade potato chips the bartender brought over for us. Trust me, it would have been a sin to waste those puppies.

About a half an hour after getting back to my desk, I was talking to a colleague when I started choking…

and felt my throat start to close up.

Now, I have never been allergic to a thing in my life. Maybe some sniffles in the Spring, but an actual hives/itching/choking sort of allergy? Never. So, I was a wee bit terrified.

We’re fortunate enough to have a clinic at my job, so when the half-closed throat sensation didn’t go away, I headed over.

After waiting for a half an hour and not dying, I decided perhaps I had developed a very sudden and severe case of strep, rather than a life-threatening allergy. A clearly inexperienced but very sweet nurse finally called me in and took my vitals.

“It’s a good thing you came in!” She said. “I’ve seen strep cases come on so suddenly.” She took blood pressure, temperature, felt my glands, peered down my throat and in my ears, but couldn’t see anything noticeably wrong, so she called in the wizened old nurse practitioner to give me a look.

“It’s just very strange,” I was saying. “I haven’t had strep in years, and I’ve never been allergic to a thing in my life!”

“Well, our bodies change, dear,” Inexperienced-Yet-Sweet Nurse patted my hand, as her veteran colleague entered the room. Without looking up from my folder, this was the first thing she said:

“So, did you have anything sharp at lunch today? Potato chips, perhaps?”

I blinked. “Um, I did, actually… OHHHHhhhhhhhhhh.” I began laughing as the truth sunk in.

“I cut myself on a potato chip, didn’t I?”

She peered down my throat.

“Looks that way. Here. Have a swig of Maalox and drink some fluids. I think you’ll pull through this one.”

Tail between my legs, I slunk out of the clinic and back to my desk, where I had to share my diagnosis with my colleague.

“Apparently, this whole “extreme workout” thing is getting out of hand. Even the way I EAT is extreme now… I don’t even chew!”

Sigh.

And now, to distract you from my idiocy, I give you…

Taylor Lautner looks like a llama.

Sorry, Maxie. But he really, really does.

 Happy Tuesday. Eat safely out there, kiddos… only you can prevent potato-chip throat injuries.

Mama said share.

Ten years ago, the best long distance runner on our track team was jealous of MY legs, and I was competing with the shot putters to see who could do more push-ups during calis.

Yes, it was ten years ago. Yes, I was 16 and didn’t yet have a curve to my name.

I don’t care.

I want it back.

I want that feeling… that strength. That swagger.

I want to rock it at my girl’s wedding. I want to make this look goooooood in Vegas.

Now, I am not a big girl by any means. I know this. 

But I am SOFT, y’all. I’ve gone from sharp chedder to a ripe brie… and I’ve had enough.

I am sick of feeling weak. I am tired of feeling self-conscious.

It is time for a real change. It is time to get EXTREME. 

And so, my friends… with the power of B by my side, an absolutely insane hour-a-day training program, and a devastating lack of cheeseburgers from my life… I will do it. I will get it back, with a side of Michelle Obama arms to boot.

Please and thank you.

Three months, six days a week.

Half the booze, none of the fried.

(Somebody shoot me.)

Mama said share.

Thoughts and tidbits from my “draft ideas” folder that never quite made it into posts, but are rather entertaining all on their lonesome (says me):

1. (Inspired by Avatar): I really wish evolution hadn’t done away with our tails. How much fun would that be? What a great conversational starter in bars! The physical comedy possibilities alone are ENDLESS.

2. Every time someone farts in bed (not ME, of course, I would never), I think about the scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams tells the story of the time his wife farted so loud she woke herself up and asked, “What was that??”

3. A delightful observation Foilwoman had over drinks a few weeks ago: twittering a conversation between two people- “Hey, I’ll be there in five minutes! Order me a beer!” “Okay, I’m to the left of the bar! I might order some chicken fingers!”- is the equivalent of talking really, really loudly on the metro. Whether it’s to a friend or (even more annoying) on the phone, we can alllllllllllll hear you. And, yanno… WE’D RATHER NOT.

4. Sometimes, I wish I was a more organized person. But I’ve decided that A) it’s part of my charm, and B) what the hell would y’all read about?

5. I quite often have visions of really odd things I would love to spring on people, just to see what they do. For instance, I have this recurring daydream where, during the groggy-ass morning bus commute when everyone looks like they want to kill themselves… I suddenly BLAST Lady’s Gaga’s “Just Dance” at top volume and boogie my heart out. How many people would join me in a gigantic, unprecedented dance party? (How many would call the police?)

6. I believe that dressing a man- (helping him with his cufflinks, straightening his tie)- is even hotter than undressing him… when you love him.

7. Speaking of undressing, I have a tendency to start to undress as I’m walking into the bathroom stall. You know, at work. This is absolutely going to get me in trouble one of these days… yet I do it anyway.

8. Whenever I leave a totally sappy, not-at-all-funny comment on someone’s blog, I’m always afraid Maxie will stumble on it and make fun of me. (Ed. note: Because I totally would do it to her, too.)

9. If someone took a movie of me watching a movie, it would probably be the greatest youtube video EVER. Even in the theater, my face is throughout a ridiculous overdramatized reaction to whatever’s happening on screen. I am also not allowed to have a wine glass in hand when “scary parts” come on. (“Scary parts” range from a slasher/babysitting movie to any time things get a little too tense in a Pixar flick.)

ZOMG watch out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

10. (Seeing as it’s Wednesday and all)… Would you rather have your partner cheat on you with a member of the same sex, or of the opposite? (This question brought to you by a friend far, far away that none of you know who caught her fiancé… well, um. NOT with a woman, but definitely cheating.)

Mama said share.

Sorry. The “aughts” was just such a great name. It’s going to be hard to let go.

Anyhoo. I think resolutions are for quitters, or something, so I’ll be doing these MY WAY.

Which is, of course, totes different from the way I ever do anything else.

(B, I can hear you laughing.)

My (Not-So-Resolution-y) Resolutions.

1. Start wearing more bling.

I’ve never been good at wearing accessories, be it of the sparkly/shiny, nail polishy, or badass hat/scarf/insert other French thing here. I HAVE them, it just never occurs to me to WEAR them. Matching is hard, yo. Most mornings I’m just trying to remember to wear a bra and some mascara, never mind make sure I have my brown watch on with my gold earrings, or whatevs. But I could probably stand to look a bit more, ahem, put together.

Either that, or start working from home and never, ever wear pants again.

God, option two sounds GREAT.

2. Call my sister more.

She’s pretty awesome. And she’s the only one I’ve got. And she gives me MAD SHIT when she calls me and I don’t answer and then email her back a month later with a link to some tardy cat video. I know, redic. Fine, woman. I will call you every damn day and ask you alllllllllll about your JOB SEARCH (holla? Anyone in Beantown hiring a genius, incredibly funny 23 year old?) and your LOVE LIFE and your BOWEL MOVEMENTS until you’re screening my calls because you don’t want your friends to hear me yelling about your stools. So there.

Love you mean it.

3. Never, ever, ever drink Firefly sweet tea vodka again.

No, really. NO, REALLY. I am still hungover from Saturday. That stuff rips me up. Firefly going in, FIRE coming out. Just sayin. *dies of death*

In fact, I think I may take January off from drinking, in honor of both shrinking my ass, and this awesome Scottish dude I used to work with in a Maggiano’s who always did it “just to make sure he still could”. I’m pretty sure Scottish dudes are wise, or something. Especially ones with as many awesome “this guyyyyyy!!!!!” jokes as he had.

4. FOUR? Whoa, whoa, whoa, little overachiever. Let’s take this slow. Mama’s still hungover, remember??

Happy New Year, lovers.

P.S. Did you vote for me yet in the 20SB Bootlegger Awards? You totally can. Til Sunday. I won’t even get mad. Swear.

Mama said share.