The Night I Didn’t Meet Tom Brady

I just remembered I had a blog. Have I been boring lately or what? Maybe I’ve just been such a blast that I haven’t had time to properly document it. Let’s go with that.

The Patriots are in town all week to play the Chargers on Sunday. T and Brie are New Englanders so took a strong interest in “randomly” running into them while they’re here. You might think, “how can you just randomly run into football players?” Right? Right. Well here’s how… you stalk the crap out of their every move.

Within hours of them touching down in San Diego (touching down… see what I did there??), the girls had figured out where they were staying, what their curfew was, where they were practicing, and what Tom Brady ordered for lunch. Yes, that’s serious. He gets a tray of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day. Really, bud?

In any case, it had been thrown out there that no one would mind running into these dudes, but no moves had been made. It was a Tuesday night and one of those nights that one of us was having a hard time and needed girlfriends around. V and Brie came over after work to join T and me, and the four of us sat on the couches in the carport watching Friends re-runs, devouring pasta and garlic bread, drinking wine, crying, and laughing. T was in her PJs and nestled in for the night.

I got up to use the bathroom and two minutes later hear Brie’s loud mouth, “COURTNEY!!!! LET’S GO!”

I open the bathroom door a crack (get it…? crack) “What?! I’m pooping!”

“Well taper it off! The Patriots are at Tavern. We gotta go. Now!”

I cut my bathroom time short and rushed out. T is in her room doing a quick outfit change, exclaiming “Gotta wear an East Coast outfit!” as she throws a vest over a red and black plaid shirt.

Apparently T got a text from a friend who somehow knew where they were headed. V’s scrounging around my room for makeup, as T and Brie are already out the door. They told me I didn’t have time to change into a cuter outfit, so I did a quick hairbrush and makeup touch-up, chugged my last sip of wine and ran out the door. We piled into Brie’s little VW bug and raced down the street.

“We gotta hurry. They have to be home by 10:30 and it’s already after 9.”

I ask if I look cute enough to meet the Patriots. They tell me I have a boyfriend so what do I care?

“Oh, Ginge wouldn’t care if it was an NFL player.”

Brie agrees, “Yeah, I’d definitely get a pass too for a Pats player.”

Glad that’s settled. When push comes to shove, I don’t know any of the Pats besides my love, Tom Brady, and I was told he probably wasn’t there, so I wasn’t quite as giddy as the rest. They gave me a quick lesson on how sexual some guy named Gronk is, and passed a few pics around the car. We were hoping he’d be there.

He was.

I told the girls they had to play it cool. My version of playing it cool is acting like I have no idea that people are famous. I like the way this usually works. I utilized the method on a guy who later introduced himself as Darius. I positioned myself very near to Darius. I overheard a guy next to him ask, “Are you starting this week?”

He replied, “No.”

I took this opportunity to turn to him and ask, “What sport do you play?” [**playing it cool**]

“Football.”

“Oh, cool.”

He asks, “What sport do you play?”

“Co-ed softball.”

“Oh, like the slow pitch kind?”

“Yeah the ball has to go to head height. I think it’s harder to hit that way.”

“Oh yeah, I love watching girls softball.”

“No you don’t. Nobody likes watching girls softball.”

Darius chuckles, introduces himself. The girls come join the conversation. V asks why he has a tag hanging off his hat, which was on backwards, and he says someone had just given it to him. I ask to see the front, and it’s a Patriots hat. I ask why someone gave him a Patriots hat and he tells me it’s because he plays for them.

[Play.It.Cool] “Oh really? You play for the NFL?”

The girls think my act is moronic at this point, but I’m pretty pleased with how it’s going. He confirms that he does, indeed, play for the NFL, and asks if we’re going to the game on Sunday.”

“I’m not, I don’t have tickets…” [sad puppy dog face] [this face does not work] [Darius does not offer to gift me free tickets] [this is BS].

Brie pretended to play it cool for about 5 minutes before she broke into her story about how Gronk crashed her birthday party in college and ate all of her food. Mid-story I gave her a stern look to shut up, so thankfully she cut it short. Play.It.Cool.

The conversation somehow turns into an age guessing game, in which I correctly guessed Darius’ age on the first try, which made me remember my bar trick of guessing men’s weight. This trick was born a couple of years back at a national sales meeting for my old company. Professional as ever, one night I decided to have all the male sales reps sit on my lap one at a time, and I guessed their weight. I had never done this before, but I was surprisingly dead on the majority of the time, so I brought my talents back to Green Rock in Hoboken, still nailing it, and decided it’s quite a talent of mine. Pat.hand.on.back.

I asked for Darius’ height, and instructed him to get off his stool and sit on my lap.

I shook him around a little… “252.”

“Whoa. I’m 250.”

“Well probably after everything you ate and drank tonight you’re 252. And did you have that weird little patch of chin hair last time you weighed yourself?”

“Good point, you’re probably right.” He turns to his teammate and tells him I think his chin hair is weird. It is. His teammate agrees.

Darius got up and a few of his buds took a turn on my lap. I had no idea who anyone there was, being a loyal Saints fan and not paying much attention to New England (loyal Saints fan = I own a Saints jersey and know who Drew Brees is). I wish I had known who people were, I maybe could have yelled at some of them for ruining my fantasy season. T thought this weight guessing trick was hilarious and started taking pictures. She was instructed to not let the pics go anywhere, and one of the dudes asked her to not take any of him at all. They were all very embarrassed after a recent photo of them with Justin Bieber had just gone viral. T obviously immediately posted the photos to the fb.

1 2

When one of the guys asked, “What are you girls doing out tonight?” we clearly couldn’t respond with, “We got a tip that you were here, so we put on makeup and east coast outfits and raced over, ran down the street in the rain and arrived here out of breath…” so it was more, “Oh you know, just a girls Taco Tuesday night!”

After a bit, the guys had to hit the road, or they’d turn into pumpkins. We were very pleased with ourselves and left the bar as soon as they were out of sight. We ran back down the street in the rain and back into the Bug. Man, were our boyfriends going to be jealous. Not because we were flirting with large athletic men, but because they were not flirting with these large athletic men.

The girls’ stalking skills were at an all time high, and I’m proud to call them my friends. But the moral of this story is this: I didn’t meet Tom Brady.

The week isn’t over yet…

xoxo

Gossip Girl

#IceBucketChallenge. Dump AND Donate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo

Gossip Girl

Roommate Search Begins…

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t harp on that enough.”

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

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

“Too skinny.”

Next….

“Too ugly.”

Next….

“Too much beard.”

Next…

“She takes too many pictures of food.”

Next….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…to be continued.

Until next time.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

 

How to Build a Garden (Video)

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

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

garden

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

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, please.  We need wood.”

“What kind of wood?”

“I don’t really know.”

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

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

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

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

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

Tata for now, munchkins.

xoxo Gossip Girl

 

 

 

Confessions of a 31-Year-Old

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

Then I decided to blog about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh… why not?”

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

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

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

“We can just run.”

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

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

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

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

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

“HEY!  STOP!”

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

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

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

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

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

“We can’t tell anyone about this.”

“No definitely not.”

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

“I’m gonna tell Shane.”

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

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

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

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

“This is not funny.”

“It is very funny.”

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

Until next time….

xoxo Gossip Girl

 

 

Less…Than…Three…Pounds

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

“Okay.  I’m in.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What???”

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

O….M….G………

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

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

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

-Are we supposed to be pooping?

-How come I’m not pooping?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less….than….three….pounds.

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

I went outside.  Ginge was waiting for me.

“I’m in a really bad mood.”

“Why?”

“I lost less than 3-pounds.”

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

“Ugh…. really?  That sucks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That gave me a good laugh all on its own.

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

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

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

 

 

 

 

A Puppy and Unemployment

Worst.blogger.ever.

My blonde cousins were in town last week.  On her last night, as we’re sitting at a Miller’s Field with some beers, Samantha says, “Why haven’t you blogged in a while?”

I think about it, look at the guy sitting to my left, and respond, “I don’t know.  Ginge is pretty boring.  I don’t know what I’d write about.”

Ginge shoves a handful of nachos in his mouth and says, “See how boring I am once I push you out of an airplane.”

Truth is, my life hasn’t really been boring lately.  I suppose based on blog feedback, I felt people are mostly interested in hearing tales of my awful dating life and the momo’s I come across.  Keeping Ginge around has eliminated these tales, because he has been pretty far from awful.

Since my last post, a few life events have occurred…  In this order:

1.  I got a puppy

2.  I lost my job

3.  I got a new job

 

The Puppy:  Oliver Twist ‘n Shout:

Yeah yeah… I know… I’ve done this before.   I’ve gotten a puppy:  [The Story of Prince Harry].  But that time was different.  I wasn’t ready.  I hadn’t thought it through.  But after I returned Prince Harry to the pet shop on that cold March day, over two years ago, I continued to think about him.  When I spoke of him, I would tell people, “I won’t get another puppy until I get a boyfriend.”  I decided boyfriends were probably good for things like training puppies and picking up poop.  It turns out I was right.  They are good at that kinda thing.  I know this because I bagged a boyfriend, and then shortly after, bought a Goldendoodle.  SCORE!!!!

Before I paid for the puppy I told Ginge, “I’m going to make you sign a contract stating that you won’t break up with me until after the puppy is fully trained.”

He agreed.  My roommates wondered what he must think of me to request such a thing.

So there we have it.  I had a puppy.   I present to you, Oliver Twist ‘n Shout… Oliver Twist for short, Oliver for shorter, and Ollie, used most frequently, for those who love him.

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There’s no denying how stinkin’ adorable this puppy is.  But, I’ve never raised a puppy before.  I never even had a dog growing up.  I have no idea what I’m doing.  I was prepared for the puppy to bite and try to eat things that aren’t edible.  I had pulled a couple of thongs (the underwear version) out of his mouth when I realized it was something he enjoyed chewing on.  But I was not aware that this puppy was dumb enough to actually swallow a thong.  The first time I realized that he was, in fact, dumb enough to swallow a thong is when I watched it get pushed out and hang from his butt… in public…. in front of people… at CVS.

I’m standing at the pharmacy when the poop starts coming.  Big ones.  On the floor.  He has never done something like this before.  Not knowing what to do, I start dragging him across the floor, with poop still coming from his butt, creating a trail across the carpeted floor.  I’m whispering:  “STOP!” hoping no one will notice, but knowing the stench has already taken over half the building.  Then a customer sees whats happening, and exclaims in horror:  “I think he ate something!”

I look, and sure enough… there it was… a pink lacy thong, hanging from his butt covered in poop.  I didn’t know what to do.  I was mortified.  I ran him out of there.  I stood outside for a few minutes, staring at the poop covered thong.  Knowing there was more inside where that came from… and knowing everyone had seen what just happened.  I didn’t have an option.  I went back in.   Dog leash in one hand, plastic bags and paper towels in the other, I got to work picking up the crap that was strewn about the store.

An extremely observant customer suggests, “I think he ate something that didn’t agree with him.”

“Yeah, he ate a pair of my underwear.”

He looks astonished, “Oh….. [pause]….. yeah, that wouldn’t agree with him.”

I walked out of that CVS with my tail between my legs [ba-dum-CHING], with zero intentions of ever returning.  After Oliver passed the thong, he was happy as a clam and ready for more shopping.  I was not.

This adorable little fluff ball = more responsibility.   Enter life event number two:

 

I Lost My Job:

My job liked me.  Which is why this was such a blow to the gut.  Also, no one saw the layoff coming when it did.  I’m pretty sure this was the first time a layoff of any sort happened without the little birdies calling to gossip about it beforehand.   I had good insiders.  It was a Thursday morning.  I was in Tucson, at a Hampton Inn about an hour and a half from Sierra Vista (aka the ends of the Earth), for an appointment I had that day.  It took me two flights and the good part of a day to get there, and I didn’t get into my hotel until almost midnight the night before.  I was beat.

My iPhone ringer was off, and I was getting myself together.  When I finally clicked my phone, it lit up to several messages.  One from a very close co-worker saying “Well, I got laid off.   It was a good run,” and a missed call, a voicemail and a text from the CEO of my company.  I just froze.  Could this really be happening?  I felt dizzy.  I knew at this point I’d be laid off too.  I called the CEO back, to just get his voicemail, and then it was a waiting game.  I talked to friends on the east coast who had been let go hours earlier, and it seemed most of them were gone.  When I finally got the call and listened to the cold, unemotional speech, I was silent.  I knew if I said anything it would come out crying.

This has never happened to me before.  I’ve never lost a job.  I’ve gone through multiple layoffs and seen colleagues go through it, but it had never happened to me.  My company was struggling for a while so we all saw it coming, but not so soon.  It just felt like someone punched me.  I didn’t know what to do.  I wasn’t supposed to fly home til that evening and it was only 8am.  I was sure as hell not going to sit in a hotel room all day and wallow in my misery.  I was wallowing.  Hard.

It’s amazing how different a Hampton Inn’s continental breakfast buffet looks when you’re all of a sudden unemployed.  It was like a switch went off and I was acting as if I were homeless and starving.  The apples and bananas got shoved in my purse, a couple of hard-boiled eggs in a bowl for later, TWO cups of coffee for the road, because one of them would surely run out, and now I obviously couldn’t afford to buy another.

I booked a new flight out of Phoenix and drove the two hours to the airport with my smuggled snacks.   As soon as I got there, I sat down at my favorite bar, ordered my favorite chicken sandwich and the largest beer they had.  I quickly whipped out my laptop and updated my resume.  I had a puppy to support.

 

Life Event 3:  I Got a New Job

So yeah.  I got a new job.  But not before two weeks of saying things like “Helllpppp me, I’m poor,”  and “Oliver’s never going to eat again.”  This job was like a little fairy Godmother.  Or my old colleague who referred me for the job I guess would be more of the little fairy Godmother.  The majority of the interview process took place on my front porch in my pajamas, on multiple phone interviews with multiple people until the company flew me to Seattle for the final meeting, which is where I was given an offer which I obviously quickly accepted, and then there might have been some hugging.  Maybe squealing.  I’m not sure.  I’m just not the type who can handle the whole not having a paycheck thing.  I forgot to breathe for a minute just typing about it.

This brings me to my current state… a week and a half with nothing to do except study about cancer.  It’s very confusing.  I didn’t realize how dumb I am.  Things going through my mind as I sit at the pool with 300 pages of notes:

  • Was I always this dumb?
  • What are these words?
  • Can other people understand this?
  • Who’s that guy in the mini shorts?
  • I’m hot
  • I’m thirsty
  • It’s too windy to study
  • Should I go in the pool now?
  • Am I even getting paid right now?
  • I really hope there’s not a test on this
  • Is this even English?
  • I wonder how Oliver’s doing
  • I should have brought him
  • No, he would have been a disaster
  • Maybe I should just close my eyes for a few minutes
  • Yeah, definitely a nap will help
  • Ugh now I’m too sunburnt to study

So that’s going well.  Sorry for this long-winded update.  It’s obviously just a ploy to avoid this gibberish I’m supposed to be learning about.  LEARNING IS HARD.

Tata for now my loves.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

 

 

 

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