When did I become an old fuddy duddy? July 21, 2008

I would like an exact date and time please. You know, just in case a time machine is ever invented I can go back and make sure it doesn’t happen again. I went out for the first time in about a year with some girlfriends Friday night. We were celebrating the fact that my bestest friend, Jo, passed her boards and is now a nurse practitioner. That all by itself made me feel old - we’re not old enough to be Nurse Practitioners! That’s crazy talk.

 

We started the night out in Ballard at a very cool restaurant called Madame K’s. It used to be a brothel back in the day and the waitresses dress the part. They have amazing pizza and a delicious dessert called Chocolate Chip Orgasm, which lives up to its name. We chose Ballard because one of the girls has an apartment there that we could crash at. I had absolutely no intention of crashing there (I love my bed) so I had planned on remaining sober all night…well, after we went through three bottles of wine at dinner I was pretty sure that I was going to be crashing on a couch while praying for a hangover free Saturday.

 

After that we went to a bar down the street called Balmar. We were really in the mood for dancing so we made sure at the front door that there was a dance floor and dj. They lied to us. We went up to the second floor and there was nothing but pool tables and couches. I asked the bartender what happened to this so-called “dance floor” and he pointed to the corner of the bar and said, as if I was a complete moron, “It’s right there.” Let me tell you interwebs it was in no way a dance floor. There was barely room to stand let alone dance! There were couches and tables everywhere. It was absolutely ridiculous. I am getting more indignant the more I think about it.

 

Since none of us ever go out on the town anymore and Jo lives in Boston we had no idea where we could go that wouldn’t suck balls. We decided to ask the coolest guy we could find in the bar and by coolest guy I mean the guy standing closest to us. We lied to him and said we were visiting and didn’t know where to go. He said the Ballroom was the place to go. Unfortunately, we were well aware of the Ballroom and that was not the answer we were looking for. The Ballroom is where we went for my 21 run. The Ballroom is where the college crowd hangs out. The Ballroom is where you do one too many shots of tequila, throw up in the sink, and get thrown out by the security who asks you out as he’s walking you to the door. As Jo said, we aren’t 21 anymore. But on the plus side the cab ride would be less than $10. We decided to go for it. Biggest. Mistake. Ever.

 

We quickly made our way to the dance floor and, thank God, they were playing good music, but within minutes there were two guys accosting us. We studiously ignored them since we were not interested in dancing with any guys (I don’t think our boyfriends would have liked that). But this guy would not give up. Jo finally turned around and told him she wasn’t interested. His response was to go into a diatribe about what I’m not 100% sure of because I really couldn’t hear him, but part of it was that he didn’t believe her and he was sure he would see her in an hour grinding with some other guy. Jackass.

 

At this point I had to go to the bathroom where I ran into some real characters. First, there were two girls standing outside the bathroom: a brunette crying her eyes out while a redhead comforted her. I squeezed by them to get inside where there was, of course, a long line. While I impatiently waited in line I entertained myself by watching a girl drunkenly try to explain over the phone how to get to the bar while she had absolutely no idea where she was. Also, she was wearing a cleave-tastic dress and the strap had fallen off her shoulder leaving ample room for her boob to pop out for all the world to see, but she didn’t care because it was imperative that she figure out where she was. As I was contemplating whether or not I should let her know what bar she was at when one of the stall doors open to reveal a girl pulling up her spanx. Aren’t you supposed to do that before you open the door? Annnywwaaayy, after she pulled up her spanx she relinquished the stall to me and when I came back out the directionally challenged girl had disappeared and the redhead and brunette had migrated into the bathroom and now the redhead was sobbing and the brunette was comforting her.

 

I got the hell out of there as quickly as I could to find Jo and her friend waiting impatiently for me. They had been accosted again by someone who didn’t understand the meaning of no. We had been there for a total of about four songs before we left. We grabbed a cab and as we got in Jo kept asking, “When did we get to be so old?! I can’t believe this.” She then made the mistake of asking the cabbie how old he thought she was. His answer: 34. She turned 26 a month ago. She wasn’t what you would call a happy camper. You might say she was the opposite of a happy camper.

 

That was my Friday night. Probably the last one like it for a long while.

Icanhazcheeseburger is funny….NOT! July 8, 2008

That’s right. I don’t find it funny. Actually, that’s not 100% true; it can be funny at times. But really what I’m trying to say is I am not a cat person. I had a cat growing up, or, I should say, my big sis had a cat growing up, but then she left for college and we were left with it. He had a very cool and creative name: K.C. Guess what it stands for! Just guess! You’re never gonna get it. It’s Kitty Cat. KITTY CAT!!!

 

I really didn’t like Kitty Cat until I went to college and conveniently forgot how unbelievably annoying he was. He could spend all day just walking in and outside every thirty seconds. I would let him in from outside and sit down to read my book and he would immediately be howling again wanting to go outside. Well, like I said, I forgot about this fact when I moved out, but when I came home to visit he had this cute habit of sleeping on my pillow right by my head and sometimes being a pillow hog so that I had no pillow at all. I’m sure that if I had had to put up with this for more than a few weeks at a time I would have been quite upset, but in small doses I got a kick out of the stupid thing. Annnywaaay, the kitty cat has since been sent to a nursing home for cats because my parents are heartless and didn’t want to give him shots every month for his hyperthyroidism and his arthritis.

 

This does not mean (unfortunately) that I am sans cat these days. Chuckles has a cat. This cat goes by multiple names: Tigger, Pillsbury, and Kitty. I call it Kitty because I refuse to grant it a name…or a sex for that matter. It is a well known fact that I am not exactly a fan. I talk incessantly of the puppy I will have the day I graduate. The puppy is a much better incentive than a better job and more money. I may have pointed out one night that I thought Kitty had had a stroke and would probably be dead when we woke up the next day (I am chuckling as I type this because I still think it was quite funny), but Chuckles did NOT find it funny. In fact, I think it might have been one of those moments when he wondered why he was dating me. Wellll, yesterday I almost killed the cat, but the important thing to keep in mind is I didn’t! Kill the cat that is. I was pulling into the driveway and the cat ran right in front of my car. One might even think Kitty has a death wish. Luckily, I was able to stop in time. Of course the cat then sat down in front of my car so I couldn’t pull in all the way so I leaned my head out the window and screamed, “Move your ass and or risk getting run over!” The neighbors were probably concerned, but I got the message across! Kitty moved!

 

After I informed Chuckles of what appears to be his cat’s death wish I innocently asked what his reaction would have been had he come home to discover that I had accidentally run over his cat. He replied that he would have been upset because obviously I was driving too fast. I insisted that although I didn’t in fact kill the cat it could have easily happened even if I was driving at a safe speed. For whatever reason this convinced Chuckles that I have it in for the cat and whenever the cat (finally) kicks the bucket he is going to have an autopsy done to make sure it wasn’t murder. So, yeah…my boyfriend thinks I’m capable of murder.

It’s Friday and I can’t think of a title. Deal with it. June 20, 2008

I was thinking yesterday while I was waiting for my bagel to finish toasting (the toaster is so fucking slow!) about what my sixteen year old self would think if she could read my blog knowing it was her ten years down the road. My mind works in mysterious ways. Here is what I think she would think (we’ll call her Megsi for convenient purposes because that was my unbelievably annoying nickname at that time). Megsi would be very impressed that I am moving in with a boy. I wasn’t what you would call “popular with the boys” in high school. I think it was a combination of being a big, big, BIG nerd and being very shy - it turns out that is NOT a killer combination when you’re trying to pick up cute boys and get asked out to dances. On the other hand, I think Megsi would be a bit bewildered by my career choice. I can’t really remember what I wanted to be when I was sixteen, but I’m pretty confident it was a doctor who made a lot of money. Emphasis on the “makes lots of money part.” Megsi would be quite upset by the post about the money I did NOT spend at Nordstrom. But even more than that she’d be disturbed by my talk of exercising and my attempts at eating healthier. Her size 0 self would not want to be told that her metabolism is going to take a dive in college. No, Megsi, you heard me right. At some point your diet of Pepsi and chocolate donuts has to end. Life is a bitch. I recently, very randomly, found my first drivers license. I showed it to Chuckles and I shit you not this is what he said, “105 pounds? Wow! Where’d that girl go?” HAHAHA! I couldn’t stop laughing, in fact I locked myself in the bathroom so I could laugh in private. Not really (that is called sarcasm Apollocreed). Anycrap, those are my random Friday thoughts. So what would your 16 year old self think of your life if they could get a quick peek of it?

It’s ME! Megan! June 9, 2008

I did something embarrassing this weekend and since I’ve had a couple days to recover from the shame I will share it with you. Last Friday night Chuckles and I met some friends and went to Fremont to eat dinner. We went to a very cool bar/restaurant called Norm’s where they serve forties in paper bags and dogs are allowed in. They even have menus for the dogs. Since it is Fremont and there is never any parking we had a ways to walk to get to the restaurant. As we were walking there we were crossing a side street in front of a car that was patiently waiting for us to cross so they could turn. I took a peek inside the car and, OH MY GOD that girl in the passenger seat looked just like my friend Catherine. I looked at the driver and OH MY GOD he looked just like her husband Mike. So what did I do despite knowing that they were still in Montana? I stood in front of their car and screamed, “Oh my god! What are you guys doing here?! It’s me!” They did not react at all. AT ALL. In their minds I guess I was another crazy lady yelling at them, which I guess I was. As they continued to not react I took a closer look and realized that they were complete strangers. I turned to walk away to see my friends doubled over and laughing on the street. Yep, that’s me - yelling at complete strangers. “Don’t you know me?! It’s me!” I think I might make this a habit and see if I can get anybody to reply, “Oh yeah, YOU! I remember you from…? Riiiigght, good times, let’s have a drink.” This will be my new way of making friends.

Times be changin’ June 5, 2008

Soooo Chuckles and I are taking the next big step. No, silly, we’re not getting married. Stop with the Crazy talk! I’m moving in with him! Oh my god I know - so exciting! Not really, though. It’s really not that big of a change. Lately my apartment has just turned into that smelly place where I keep my books and shoes and occasionally shower. But what will change is my books and shoes will be housed somewhere else - at Chuckles’. As we were discussing this last night I felt the need to share a story with him. I told him that I needed to pay part of the mortgage because I didn’t want the same thing to happen to me that happened to this girl I know, we’ll call her Carrie. See, she moved into this place with her boyfriend, we’ll just call him Mr. Big for the sake of convenience, and he paid for the whole thing and she was all nervous because what if something happened to them and she had NOWHERE to live. Wouldn’t that be horrible? So Mr. Big said let’s get married. Wheeeee! But, THEN, he jilted her at the altar. Bastard. Then she was homeless. And Jilted. Life’s a bitch sometimes. The moral of the story, I told Chuckles, was do not, I repeat, do NOT make me homeless. But it’s ok. He assured me his dad has a spare room. Phew!

 

I think, despite the fact that I pretty much already live there, that things are going to change. Because I have something of an OCD personality…specifically when it comes to my shtuff. I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping my craziness on the DL over the past several years. This is due to my always having my own room where I can shut my door and nobody questions what I’m doing in there, but this will no longer be true. This means that Chuckles will witness the insanity that is me trying to decide what to wear. And it is insanity - don’t think for a second that I am over exaggerating. Actually, now that I think about it is really just insanity inside my head, to everybody else it looks like I am blankly staring at the closet for long periods of time. So, Chuckles? Sweetie? Are you reading this? If I stare at the closet and it looks like I’m daydreaming and it’s been longer than 15 minutes it’s ok, really it is, I haven’t finally lost it. Just don’t interrupt me because I’ll have to start all over again. And you might be cornered into answering questions like, “Do I have a muffin top in this skirt?” “Is this too much cleavage for work?” “Is this too much cleavage for a little kid’s t-ball game?” “Which earrings look better? The pink roses or the gold birds?” “My ass has grown some hasn’t it? Could I be described as having junk in the trunk?” I think we can both agree that it would be in your best interest to not interrupt me while I decide what to wear as I act like I’ve gone into a catatonic state.

I apologize for the mushiness May 23, 2008

Where to start? I really struggled about whether I should write this post or not, for various reasons. But I have been thinking about it since the plane started its descent into Las Vegas and it is something that has been on the back of my mind for the past month. So, without much ado, here’s my story about my last trip to Las Vegas, which was NOT for work. A little over two years ago I went down to Vegas for a girl’s weekend with my two closest girlfriends, Jen and Jo, and some of Jo’s college friends. This was towards the end of March so the NCAA tourney was in full force. Jo and her girls were all HUGE Gonzaga fans and insisted on wearing these shirts that said, “You can’t stop the Stache!” DISGUSTING! But, as it turns out, the Stache was stopped on our flight down. (I can’t even look at that picture it makes me feel so nauseous…) Well, needless to say the girls were DEVASTATED. This meant that the second we got off the plane it was time for Everclear slurpies and a night of hijinks ensued. We went to some bar at the New York New York casino where Jo proceeded to get in a yelling match with some guy who had the audacity to say that the Steelers won the Superbowl fair and square. Jackass. Yes, I am STILL bitter. Anyway, we met some guys and decided to leave because obviously this bar was filled with Assholes. And by assholes I mean steeler fans. This is where things started to get fuzzy…So I’ll just fast forward to 5:00 the next morning when I found myself wandering around a casino with  no idea where my friends had disappeared off to. But no big deal right? It’s Vegas - there’re cabs everywhere - I’ll just hop on a cab back to the hotel. But when I walked outside to get in the taxi line…there was no taxi line and I couldn’t even see the strip - I was in the Middle of Nowhere. It turns out I was just in the middle of old down town, but I did NOT know that at the time. Of course my first instinct was to call my friend Justin and leave him a long voicemail that basically went like this, “JUSTIN! WAKE UP! You have to help me! I don’t know where I am, my friends have disappeared, there’s no cabs, I can’t even see the strip to try and walk there….you’re an expert on getting into trouble in Vegas. YOU HAVE TO HELP ME. I’m flipping the fuck out right now!” Of course Justin, who I worked with, went to work and shared the voicemail with my boss…who didn’t find it quite as funny as he did. So he called me at one in the afternoon to make sure I was ok and then make fun of me for a good 30 minutes before I told him I had to go. Since I’m sitting here writing this I am sure (since you are so smart) that you have figured out that I made it home safely. But flying back into Vegas made me remember all of these things…especially since I had to go back to that crazy casino in the middle of nowhere for work. But, what I’m really trying to say here, and can’t seem to get it out is I miss Justin. He died two months later and I’ve already written about this so I won’t go into any detail (mostly because I don’t do too well when I try and talk about it), but this weekend is the two year anniversary and my hands are shaking as I type this so I guess I’ll have to type fast. Here’s what I miss most about Justin:

I miss how you never judged me. I could tell you anything and, more often than not, you would just think it was funny.

I miss shooting the breeze with you at work. I could confide in you and know it wouldn’t be passed on to somebody else.

I miss your passion for karaoke and that you didn’t get the chance to audition for American Idol.

I miss your vanity and all your designer clothes. It made my vanity and shopping addiction pale in comparison.

I miss going to gay bars with you. Gay guys are the best at complimenting and I miss your compliments (you actually had me believing that I had one HOT body).

I miss how excited you got for costume parties…probably because it gave you an excuse to wear a speedo with sequins on it.

I don’t think you quite understood how much it meant to me to have you as a friend. I wish you had told me you needed help and I wish I had had the balls to make you talk to me when I knew you weren’t feeling so great.

I have lost all ability to say No May 15, 2008

I have this problem where I can’t say no to people. This problem has become more pronounced lately. My theory is that all my free time these days is spent studying so when somebody says, “Hey, want to spend lunch at a lame party supply store and then go to your least favorite restaurant ever, Taco Bell?” I enthusiastically reply, “Hell to the YES!” Because otherwise I’m eating my boring peanut butter sandwich while resisting the temptation to drink the biggest mocha ever and see how many chocolate bars I can eat before I can get sick while writing a five page essay on bullshit trust exercises what makes a good leader. I mean, come on, nasty tacos accompanied with shooting pains in my stomach will win out EVERY TIME. Another example is my new Stitch and Bitch club. I have always wanted to be part of one so when offered the opportunity why in HELL would I say no?! Oh, that’s right, I have zero free time and just adding more to my overbooked schedule makes me flip the fuck out. Everybody should send Chuckles sympathy cards for having to put up with me. The weird thing is even when I don’t like somebody I still say yes when they ask me to do things. For example, the girl from the retreat that was all negative and I don’t know how to smile and didn’t you know little kids are starving in Africa and I am in physical pain so YOU SHOULDN’T BE LAUGHING asked me to join her for coffee before class today. Did I say no? Don’t ask me stupid questions! Of course I said YES because I love to torture myself. Sure I was going to spend that much needed hour catching up on the reading for my finance class, but it will be much better spent sharing coffee with somebody who does not find ANYTHING funny not even the hiv. So my new goal is to learn to say no even if that means that I have to actually spend some quality time doing school work. Gawd, I bore myself sometimes! The true test will be next week when I have to go to Las Vegas next week and am able to say NO to any offers of going to see male strippers, or boozing, or skinny dipping at the hotel pool, or everclear slurpies. I mean, really, I should NOT be consuming everclear slurpies on a business trip. Right? Although, it is Las Vegas - isn’t the whole point of Vegas that anything flies? I’ll let you know if I pass the test when I get back.

This is the part where I offend as many people as I can May 14, 2008

This post will be about my ability to feel hatred for people who are completely undeserving of it. Kiala at Face of the Cookie wrote a post a while ago about how funny AIDS is and it reminded me of this story. Maybe I’ll get a lot of shit for my post just like Kiala did. I hope so! But if you can’t laugh at AIDS what CAN you laugh at? That statement alone should anger at least 20 people. AT LEAST. Annnnywaaay, about a year ago I used to live in Green Lake with my awesome roommate Jeni and we had quite the Blast. Our apartment was ok minus the old appliances and the fact that it was infested with ants. Lots and lots of ants. But it was big and it was in Green Lake and across the street from a cool bar so we put up with the damn ants and the inevitable ant traps that were everywhere. It was also pretty affordable…probably because of the ants. We moved into it almost two years ago to the day - right when the weather was getting sunny. The apartment building across from us had much nicer and Fancier apartments. We’re talking new appliances, huge balconies, and it didn’t look like it was about to fall apart. The apartment also had young girls who just sat on the balcony alternately sunbathing and having parties all while wearing cute clothes and drinking. I hated them. They were ALWAYS there. They didn’t appear to have jobs and could afford an Awesome apartment and lots of booze and fashion-y dresses. So one night to make myself feel better my friend J and I decided they probably had STD’s and that made everything alright. Sure I was overly jealous of their lives, but, hey, I don’t have any STD’s, so THERE! But we couldn’t exactly go around and say things like, “Can you believe the dress that syphilis girl was wearing?!” or “I can’t believe the girl with Crabs has yet another boy stalking her!” So we called them the High Five girls. Totally innocent to anybody who has no idea that in my mind High Five is slang for the AIDS. As in HIV…GET IT?! So now you all know what a horrible person I am.

 

I tried really hard to post this video in this post, but it wouldn’t let me so you’ll just have to click on the link to watch it. I apologize to all you lazy people, but it’s a Family Guy clip so you KNOW it’s worth it: The AIDS Song.

 

 

 

 

Laxatives are fun! May 5, 2008

On Saturday night while eating pizza with my entire family my sister made a seemingly innocent comment. She informed my sister-in-law that I had posted a picture of her on my blog. Most of my family was unaware that I had a blog, but I can’t get angry at Erin because she had no way of knowing that and it wasn’t really a secret…I will just have to cut back on the F-bombs. So my dad asked how does one find this blog? My sister informed him that she had caught site of the title: Golightly. This is the point in the night when Hilarity ensued. Lindsey had just got her doctorate in pharmacy and my mom works in the medical field and they gleefully informed me that I had named my blog after a laxative. I know - it is quite the hilarious mistake. So I would like to clarify that I did NOT intentionally name my blog after a laxative. Instead, I named it after Holly Golightly - my favorite movie character. Wasn’t it obvious?! I always said that one day when I opened a fashion boutique I would call it Golightly. Obviously, this is no longer an option. I’m sure that Lindsey and my mom did not mean to stomp all over my dreams, but that is exactly what they did. Feel guilty yet? That’s what I thought.

Now I need a new blog title and I am completely stumped! I was thinking Ms. Megan Fancypants at first because I am fancy and sometimes (like right now) I wear pants. But it bores me. So unless my witty readers come up with something better that will be my new blog title. While you’re at it think of a new boutique name too!

I think I have stumbled on the new purpose of this blog. Readers do my dirty work for me. Please share: how will I apply my leadership class to my life? I need five pages - Start Typing!

Spokies! May 3, 2008

I am in Spokane this weekend for my sister-in-law’s graduation. Gooooo Dr. Lindsey!!

Isn’t she a cutie?!

Although, that was the whole point of the trip the highlight might have been seeing people on the street corner by our hotel dressed as Darth Vader, Storm Troopers, and those weird sand people, which my sister informed me are called Tuscan Raiders. Here’s a blurry picture:

My sister isn’t into Science fiction she just has a three year old son who is obsessed with Star Wars - he has, oh I don’t know, approximately 40 star wars figurines. My sister just happened to be on the phone with Jared when she saw these guys. Here’s their following conversation:

Erin: Jared, You will not believe who we are looking at right now on the street! Darth Vader and he is waving at us!

Jared: Will I see him when I get in the car?!

Erin: No, babe, he’s in Spokane and you’re all the way in Seattle.

Jared: I think I can come over!!!

Luckily, I did get a blurry picture to show him.

Update: I showed Jared the picture and his response was, “Where’s the Storm Trooper?” I guess Darth Vader wasn’t good enough for him. But he is trying to convince his parents that a trip to Spokane is quite necessary.