tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89016175058428950202024-02-07T18:07:56.622-08:00Not Lena DunhamUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-26497245656025358302015-10-04T16:36:00.001-07:002015-10-04T16:36:27.335-07:00Lil Life UpdateHey, Y'all!<br />
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So it's been about... a year (yeesh) since my last post. So much to update you on! Here we go:<br />
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I GOT THE MANSUR BAG OF MY DREAMS. It exceeds every expectation, and is the current love of my life.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiolMgwNfzIdBBFnK5kTowv1LmAkj4qIzeJ2ldAl5Ur129Op-BNSyStlRhZx7sA00zK1Eh6qzKzh7TryowSOF2GSB3IMJi2_pNWySZcoFi3BuYPVjagd7fX1fPw6hofmK0tL14HgmCihc/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiolMgwNfzIdBBFnK5kTowv1LmAkj4qIzeJ2ldAl5Ur129Op-BNSyStlRhZx7sA00zK1Eh6qzKzh7TryowSOF2GSB3IMJi2_pNWySZcoFi3BuYPVjagd7fX1fPw6hofmK0tL14HgmCihc/s320/FullSizeRender+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was in my first wedding, ever. Ever, ever. Don't worry, I'll write another post about things I learned as a first-time bridesmaid. For example -- there was no need for me to stress unnecessarily about bringing/ordering my own bouquet. That was a legitimate question I had. So as you can see, I learned a lot.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA2Pr2b0EVpM4YgILNallNjXTsGP9c5HWRIfT97djVeOfRaVYDUTw6R1ybQQCVYQXjfY3HY8VO-JW_xfwYNGwexr6nb3g3y4Xy7SUc3DwktueIKJ45IETBgbFPYALYrZwf7YajagVFyRs/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA2Pr2b0EVpM4YgILNallNjXTsGP9c5HWRIfT97djVeOfRaVYDUTw6R1ybQQCVYQXjfY3HY8VO-JW_xfwYNGwexr6nb3g3y4Xy7SUc3DwktueIKJ45IETBgbFPYALYrZwf7YajagVFyRs/s320/FullSizeRender+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another thing I learned: When told to "smile" at the bride, keep your mouth closed to avoid looking like a weirdo.</td></tr>
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I'm still working with/for my Bossmother. I've had to file about 6 insubordination claims against me, to HR. Which also happens to be me. So I may need to postpone my leaning in for a raise for just a lil bit longer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjAh6psXzgOsOrQNXngnsQPYu3W4gjWwjuJUg3aIzSPtw9YTwpijX5Ya2RgKCJS27zeMQadKBdMvrqPq-wrPL9ql_dAU2IkJoaz4P1XWtZl3URb1fvIoTl9tZzNzq9esxyARSPF6KbUy8/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjAh6psXzgOsOrQNXngnsQPYu3W4gjWwjuJUg3aIzSPtw9YTwpijX5Ya2RgKCJS27zeMQadKBdMvrqPq-wrPL9ql_dAU2IkJoaz4P1XWtZl3URb1fvIoTl9tZzNzq9esxyARSPF6KbUy8/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The "This Is A Test" newsletter is no longer. Since I pride myself on having extremely smart friends/readers, I assume you can come to a conclusion about me and my co-author. In totally, definitely really unrelated news I've finished 2.15 seasons of "The Goldbergs," 2 seasons of "Quickdraw," 2 seasons of "Rita," 2 episodes of Season 2 of "Empire," 1 season of "Another Period," countless Chipotle burrito bowls, pints of Ben & Jerry's, blocks of cheese, and Bonnie Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me" on repeat.<br />
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I've also been looking for new hobbies, or activities that will force me to bathe and/or leave the apartment. Here are some contenders thus far:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Learning to code!</li>
<li>Photography classes!</li>
<li>Taking a Coursera class on Ancient Greece!</li>
<li>Watch even more TV and don't get out of bed!</li>
</ul>
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I'll take any and all suggestions. Except for like cleaning my room or doing laundry.</div>
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Be on the lookout for more posts. This is a FULL promise -- I will be back! XOXOX!</div>
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No. I love YOU more.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-82687269243282532852014-11-19T12:07:00.001-08:002014-11-19T12:07:43.937-08:00MANSUR UPDATEI wanted to update you all since so many of you have been so helpful, and have sent me suggestions and dupe bags. I'll take a moment to shout you out:<br />
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"<span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jeni! It's Michelle - ok... the bucket bag post had me going "YES! I AGREE! GAH! WANT!" and I just found one that seems to meet your criteria (if you are still in the market) so I figured I'd pass it your way!"</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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Link <a href="http://wessleynyc.com/collections/collection/products/rae-bucket-bag" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
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That wasn't all. She then includes: <span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"</span><span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Also <a href="http://www.zippedblog.com/2014/09/upper-west-side.html" target="_blank">this is the post</a> I found it from, so you can get an idea of the look"</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15.3599996566772px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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Not only did she send me a suggestion, she also gave me a point of reference to see how the bag fared in the real world. I recently checked the link. BLAST! DRAT! SOLD OUT! I seem to be one of many individuals looking for a black bucket bag...</div>
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Reader Jennifer S. provided me with this gorgeous <a href="http://www.theoutnet.com/en-US/product/Iris-and-Ink/Brixton-leather-bucket-bag/479170?cm_mmc=ProductSearchDYNMRKT-_-US-_-Exclusives-_-Bags&gclid=CKn-4qi13MACFWho7AodjFMAOQ" target="_blank">dupe</a>. But by the time I finally had somewhat of a financial cushion IT WAS GONE!</div>
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Jesse E. posted links in the facebook comments for to two viable options:</div>
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This bag:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitcb2FJIIGrmJBVb7fHegHbpBFFSB4F4WGp1qFOSfu4wMiRtrnVFKSnVmu9bCMlsrB1vNrI5loYYAfFlQ0aYU_GyFZ7UdqihcWi_gZ6HUiMZZeg0IhFL5ZccGmLFczQ8zGNeyhRrC7Yno/s1600/FakeMansur.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitcb2FJIIGrmJBVb7fHegHbpBFFSB4F4WGp1qFOSfu4wMiRtrnVFKSnVmu9bCMlsrB1vNrI5loYYAfFlQ0aYU_GyFZ7UdqihcWi_gZ6HUiMZZeg0IhFL5ZccGmLFczQ8zGNeyhRrC7Yno/s1600/FakeMansur.JPG" height="488" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">100% of the proceeds will definitely not not fund ISIS.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Or this one:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImC49Z5fSGee9RlTdN-d3zFb6mBENJjpiltAZ7HPouJf6BJgoagfX8goCQgjQAqJyc7LJD8dIo9eRGcLvndZnnYFBUtmTTL-BvwJJfymqPGzzfdUwP3YOheSXfQTON6qkllaU2hNjQgo/s1600/FakeLouis.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImC49Z5fSGee9RlTdN-d3zFb6mBENJjpiltAZ7HPouJf6BJgoagfX8goCQgjQAqJyc7LJD8dIo9eRGcLvndZnnYFBUtmTTL-BvwJJfymqPGzzfdUwP3YOheSXfQTON6qkllaU2hNjQgo/s1600/FakeLouis.JPG" height="537" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously thinking about it.</td></tr>
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And reader Shelby F. gchatted me:<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 12.8000001907349px; white-space: nowrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 12.8000001907349px; white-space: nowrap;">Shelby: because whenever I see bucket bags</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 12.8000001907349px; white-space: nowrap;">, I think of you.</span></div>
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She so kindly provided me with a link to a <a href="http://www.saturday.com/Grommet-Bucket-Bag/4IRU0381,en_US,pd.html" target="_blank">Kate Spade Saturday bucket bag</a> which is... wait for it... sold out.<br />
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It seemed like all hope was lost and there wasn't a black bucket bag in sight.<br />
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But! Then! Reader Blair S. came up with a simple and genius answer -- why don't you just ask the company for one? She told me that she knew someone who received swag for copywriting. I can write copy! Technically I'm doing that right now. And thus the Bag 4 Copy mission began.<br />
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It started with this tweet:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUwislw8qax9FygyCq-H9TrKJeoCNxi1XN-PA4r1Os_VeWoZ-fimGMB3ypmwhkozES3mBdum_CA6HXB4HHNHoigIwhu1oQ6LUG0sWsCjn7LEWEQUI-fDU8Y8v4SJOSHs63KehpU1CqQM/s1600/mansurtweet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUwislw8qax9FygyCq-H9TrKJeoCNxi1XN-PA4r1Os_VeWoZ-fimGMB3ypmwhkozES3mBdum_CA6HXB4HHNHoigIwhu1oQ6LUG0sWsCjn7LEWEQUI-fDU8Y8v4SJOSHs63KehpU1CqQM/s1600/mansurtweet.JPG" height="268" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Check out that 1 re-tweet! (Thanks, Blair!)</td></tr>
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They hadn't tweeted me back instantly, so I lost patience and reached out to them via email with the subject line: "Just Tweeted You."<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPR-4hEcrhmlnOXzJK7sKgPkvZyBqdpiObohCCdJBC19L1QzrXCRXB4enFTyuEc9Eyn-3ee02xXt9ooTRX0pR5YUrdJJT46UcGFprjLcBrpwMnIaBw6PoQB2Wizih8vSn7JqOg8-9NZkE/s1600/mansuremail1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPR-4hEcrhmlnOXzJK7sKgPkvZyBqdpiObohCCdJBC19L1QzrXCRXB4enFTyuEc9Eyn-3ee02xXt9ooTRX0pR5YUrdJJT46UcGFprjLcBrpwMnIaBw6PoQB2Wizih8vSn7JqOg8-9NZkE/s1600/mansuremail1.JPG" height="190" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am not kidding.</td></tr>
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Lo and behold, 3 days later!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh05iIEvscRSJrx4zZ8qw6KdCQYUEEJrsmRJDg7h8o8JX_5W_NFz2Nekl_LEefUZIrP40sp5WRD34JpGQvvG1hbNUa_csf-qSNNlYiqKby49NRzB09iJZwDL4JWjIWHQvIXpvsC-ymcJcQ/s1600/mansuremail2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh05iIEvscRSJrx4zZ8qw6KdCQYUEEJrsmRJDg7h8o8JX_5W_NFz2Nekl_LEefUZIrP40sp5WRD34JpGQvvG1hbNUa_csf-qSNNlYiqKby49NRzB09iJZwDL4JWjIWHQvIXpvsC-ymcJcQ/s1600/mansuremail2.JPG" /></a></div>
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I see. So Christian's gonna play me like that, huh. (I can appreciate the used car salesman pitch to increase social media followers and email contacts.)<br />
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Well. Christian. The color combination I'm interested in would be "Really?" and "REALLY?" Please don't think the irony was lost on me regarding the date on which you decided to deliver this horrible news.<br />
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But, I do have to give them a +1 for responding to a (potential) customer email.<br />
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I guess long story that you've already read short, I'm still Mansur Gavriel-less. Since this will be my first year celebrating Christmas, I think I'm allowed to cash in one of those Lifetime Channel miracles. That's how Christmas works, right? You say something you want out loud and then some graphics like stardust appear and there's a fairy, or an elf, or Vanessa Williams who does all the dirty work for you and VOILA you get a new bag!<br />
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And then everyone's happy and I forgive Christian for his trespasses and end the 2-part made for TV special event by walking up to him, snow flurries falling, and whisper "Merry Christian Christmas, Christian" in his ear, and give him a chaste kiss on the cheek.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-40602920640597535952014-08-26T12:39:00.000-07:002014-08-26T12:39:04.984-07:00My Accessory OdysseyThere's been something missing in my life. It's not a spiritually rewarding job, or embarking on a trip to over-pinned travel destinations. No, it's something else that affects my life almost daily: Finding the perfect black handbag.<br />
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I should correct myself. I've FOUND the perfect black handbag. The Mansur Gavriel (yes, spelling is correct) Mini Bucket Bag.<br />
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It is a thing of beauty. Rich black leather with a subtle sheen. Three gold studs adorn the shoulder strap, whose length allows the bag to hit at exactly the right spot on the hip. The top of the bucket bag cinched by a perfectly-sized bow, with a teeny tiny gold embossed logo at the bottom which comes nowhere close to ostentatious. The flaming red interior mimics my pining, and how I so yearn for this piece of art.<br />
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It's true. I've fallen in love with a bucket bag. It's time for society to finally accept the union of a woman and a handbag.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s7d9.scene7.com/is/image/StevenAlan/ALL_NA_ALL_004_BLACK_PD?$pdplarge$" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://s7d9.scene7.com/is/image/StevenAlan/ALL_NA_ALL_004_BLACK_PD?$pdplarge$" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One day, you will be mine.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Alas, every good love story has that fatal hiccup. Romeo and Juliet, Pyramus an Thisbe, Britney and Justin. What's keeping me apart from my one true love (other tru luvs include Haribo gummy bears and "Suggested for You" on Netflix)? The price tag of $460.<br />
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A few weeks ago I had an internal debate. Pay off my credit card debt, or buy this bag. Debt or bag? Getting out of the red or putting me further into the hole. Creditor's calls or siren's calls. I'm only SLIGHTLY ashamed to say this was not an instantaneous decision. I went with my credit card payment, and now devote a portion of my day, every day, image searching "Mansur Gavriel Bucket Bag," as I lay my head on my hand, arm propped up, and audibly sigh.</div>
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I like to pride myself on being able to comb through the internet for dupes or hidden sales or a very specific gif of geese dressed in Victorian era clothing. Just give me two data points and I can google the shit out of anyone. College thesis, social sports league membership,government job annual salary -- you name it, I can pretty much find it. I'm still surprised the FBI/CIA hasn't reached out for my freelance services. Or they're just waiting for the right moment... which could happen annnnnnyyyyyy time now. (I just checked my email, still nothing.)</div>
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I've met my binary match. Finding a bag as beautiful as the one above, for a price that is not ~1/3 of my rent. The bag may be spacious, but I can't live out of it. At least not with the size of my current duvet. Now is the time for you, dear reader, to share my frustrations. I have yet to find a bag matching the beauty of the MG with a price that doesn't make me question if I can afford eating this month.</div>
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Attempt 1: H&M</div>
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A new H&M opened up near my office, which warranted a quick pop-in. I was just about at my scent threshold of ripe polyester when I spied a teeny tiny black "leather" bag. I'm using that term loosely. Its material could most likely be melted down and used to fill potholes.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i01.i.aliimg.com/wsphoto/v0/2024457389/-font-b-H-m-b-font-brief-square-pillow-small-messenger-font-b-bag-b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i01.i.aliimg.com/wsphoto/v0/2024457389/-font-b-H-m-b-font-brief-square-pillow-small-messenger-font-b-bag-b.jpg" height="249" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's not thaaaaaaaat baaaaaa-yes it is.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
Big enough to fit my necessary items? If I wanted to bring a license and maybe 2 keys, sure. Black? Check. Price cheaper than $460. Check check. At a sale price of $6.75 it basically cost me as much as gas station sushi. So I went ahead and bought it.</div>
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When I returned home and looked at the bag outside of its natural habitat, I was offended. The flimsy strap took the power of Zeus to re-size, the material was pretty much repulsive to the touch, and it was a $7 bag from H&M. It had to go. Plus, I kept telling myself "It's only $7! So it's your "for now" bag until you can afford the item around which your entire existence revolves." What's the point of paying for a "For now" bag when you're looking to avoid spending money. Now the tally would be $467. No. Nope nope no.</div>
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Attempt 2: J. Crew Factory</div>
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In a routine J. Crew Factory sale perusal, I spotted a shoulder bag that made me do a double-click.</div>
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Black? Yeah, most of it. Decent size? Mmhmm. Relatively inexpensive? At $78 bucks, I wouldn't go hungry.</div>
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Maybe it was just my online ocular fatigue and disappointment in not being able to find a dupe I was content with, that made me shrug my shoulders as I entered my card information. Sadly my initial accessory lust turned into a "I guess... Why not, right?" A phenomenon which coincidentally happens about 3-6 months in on OKCupid.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://resources.shopstyle.com/sim/36/12/36128dce464d0d8912dc1213c0964fd2/j-crew-factory-factory-mini-dorset-crossbody-bag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://resources.shopstyle.com/sim/36/12/36128dce464d0d8912dc1213c0964fd2/j-crew-factory-factory-mini-dorset-crossbody-bag.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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¯\_(ツ)_/¯</h1>
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The bag came, and THAT BAG WENT. OH THAT BAG HAD TO GO. I really couldn't get much further than this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9sAWyyeoBFDlN0RIV0W2Vc250e5Z-mnlMUTGpzhm5xYwddpjx4f0n4X8OhpfegYq7dGKu3fvCRgAbWlFpfDSfIin47SP1S2Q_sxSgeBXL4B5eTjPIqeCM4lNADZcxSAnuj69YnPh7ft4/s1600/photo+(31).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9sAWyyeoBFDlN0RIV0W2Vc250e5Z-mnlMUTGpzhm5xYwddpjx4f0n4X8OhpfegYq7dGKu3fvCRgAbWlFpfDSfIin47SP1S2Q_sxSgeBXL4B5eTjPIqeCM4lNADZcxSAnuj69YnPh7ft4/s1600/photo+(31).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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BLECH. Be gone foul creature! Go back to the J Crew Factory from whence you came!!!!!!!! There is no way you could ever replace the bucket bag-shaped hole in my heart.</div>
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Attempt 3: The Internet</div>
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You're probably thinking "How hard can this be?" Well, you're asking the wrong question. What you SHOULD be asking is "How picky is this chick?" in which I would respond "Very."</div>
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Here are some other options I found, and my insanely critical and irrational opinions of each:</div>
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The Kelsi Dagger "Benedetta Bucket Bag":</div>
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<a href="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=115185508" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=115185508" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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Oh, this looks promising! Price? $188, OK can do. Ehhh the strap is a little thick. What about a body ratio picture?</div>
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<a href="http://resources.shopstyle.com/sim/80/7d/807dc5284a6aa4fe7d91b40c117e0cc7_medium/kelsi-dagger-benedetta-bucket-bag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://resources.shopstyle.com/sim/80/7d/807dc5284a6aa4fe7d91b40c117e0cc7_medium/kelsi-dagger-benedetta-bucket-bag.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
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Oh no. Oh no no no. That's all wrong. Look how big that is! Also look where the top lands -- you'd have to bend your arm into an awkward bird wing just to get in there. Or you'd have to take the bag off and it's impossible to look through a bag without some sort of table or surface, but you'll most likely be outside and there's no way I'm putting this on a grimy sidewalk, no matter how cool it is for the kids to get "grimy" nowadays. I won't do it. I refuse.</div>
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Urban Outfitters "Cooperative Structure Bag" <i>Online Exclusive</i></div>
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<a href="http://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/32986143_001_b?$medium$&defaultImage=" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/32986143_001_b?$medium$&defaultImage=" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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I mean, I don't hate it. It seems stiff. Not crazy about the apparent seam on the bow, which looks cheap:</div>
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<a href="http://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/32986143_001_f?$medium$&defaultImage=" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/32986143_001_f?$medium$&defaultImage=" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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$49, is a tough price to beat. But then I keep looking at this picture:</div>
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<a href="http://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/32986143_001_e?$medium$&defaultImage=" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://images.urbanoutfitters.com/is/image/UrbanOutfitters/32986143_001_e?$medium$&defaultImage=" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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She's just SO SAD. So sad. Because she knows this is a poor imitation of such a beauty. NEXT.</div>
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Mango "Pebble Bucket Bag"</div>
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<a href="http://houseoffraser.scene7.com/is/image/HOF/I_8433883494062_50_20140727?fmt=jpg&layer=0&size=450,600&wid=450&hei=600&layer=1&src=I_8433883494062_50_20140727&size=450,600&qlt=80&resMode=sharp&wid=450&hei=600&op_usm=1,1,0,0" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://houseoffraser.scene7.com/is/image/HOF/I_8433883494062_50_20140727?fmt=jpg&layer=0&size=450,600&wid=450&hei=600&layer=1&src=I_8433883494062_50_20140727&size=450,600&qlt=80&resMode=sharp&wid=450&hei=600&op_usm=1,1,0,0" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Why am I even entertaining the thought?</div>
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BAGGU "Leather Drawstring Bag"</div>
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You think I'm being narrow minded?</div>
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<a href="http://www.notcot.com/images/2012/11/baggu1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.notcot.com/images/2012/11/baggu1.jpg" height="264" width="320" /></a></div>
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NOT AS NARROW AS THAT OPENING. How am supposed to get in there? Moving on.</div>
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David Jones "Drawstring Bucket Bag"</div>
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<a href="http://www.lorisshoes.com/Images/ProductFull/67462-3/drawstring-bucket-bag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.lorisshoes.com/Images/ProductFull/67462-3/drawstring-bucket-bag.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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I loathe you.</div>
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Maybe if I combine this year's Hanukkah with next year's birthday I can con a family member into buying me the Mansur Gavriel. Until then, my chin is firmly planted on top of my hand, head cocked in longing.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This bag comes with that BMI, correct?</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-69894293469794290852014-04-29T08:33:00.002-07:002014-04-29T09:12:30.420-07:00In Which I Try to CookMoney is a funny thing. Namely I laugh every time I open up my Bank of America App [sponsorship opportunity available] and review my account balance. In an effort to save some money, I have finally decided it's time to cook my own meals. This is a big move, because I've never had confidence as a chef. I'm actually kind of scared of cooking; thinking about it stresses me out. You're doing many things at once. Too many things. In my case, literally putting out multiple fires. I AM great at sous-chefing. I take direction well, and years of pouring and measuring at Montessori school really puts me in this calm zone where I'm hopeful there's naptime shortly after the meal. But helming my own skillet ship was slightly daunting.<br />
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This past Sunday night I decided to just go for it and found a <a href="http://www.slenderkitchen.com/sesame-chicken/" target="_blank">recipe</a> online that basically contained one main ingredient -- chicken. So my challenge was to cook, AND cook something healthy. Not sure if you remember this <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2014/02/im-challenged.html" target="_blank">previous post,</a> but let's just say I didn't win the challenge. Or come in second. Or place. any. number. Basically I got the "Total Body Transformation" memo, but went in the opposite direction. Come on, that many boot camp classes was just too many. It's outrageous. But I'm back on the healthy living bandwagon and even went spinning the morning after my 10 year high school reunion. Ultimately it was the wrong decision, but I felt smug walking around in workout gear and THAT felt wonderful.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't worry, I have pre-lowered expectations.</td></tr>
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Step 1: I wrote my grocery items on the back of an envelope, because it turns out I'm one of those women who pays for groceries with a check, or just asks their local grocer to add it to their tab.<br />
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Step 2: Buy food. Armed with my reusable grocery bag, because I'm full of love for the earth and myself, I headed to the neighborhood Safeway. Before entering, I got a call from one of my baes and attempted to maintain a conversation while in mental life delay from spinning. And alcohol. Mainly alcohol. And while searching for very specific items on a list. This is going to be fun. The conversation went something like this:<br />
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"Yeah, it was so much fun... so much... <i>where the fuck are the toasted sesame seeds</i>? No, No, I was talking to me... and now I'm talking to --SIR! SIR! Hi, hello. I'm looking for toasted sesame seeds-- no, I'm still here, sorry, yeah that's so funnnnnnaisle four? And nine? OR nine. No, I'm here, four? OK, you know I'll try them both thank you! You still there?"<br />
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So after a grocery trip that took me around 45 minutes for ~8 items, I came home and set up my laptop in the kitchen. First thing's first, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. OK, done, didn't screw that up! Yet! Now time to prepare the chicken. 2 pounds. 2 pounds of boneless skinless chicken breasts. I decided to make the suggested 6-person serving for the entire week because I'm going to plan ahead and bring this chicken and my prepared red quinoa (because I am REALLY taking control of my life) to work every day, like a woman who has her shit together and has skincare regimes and has that little purse inside her purse of things you never realized you needed and when you ask that friend for one of those things, SHE ALWAYS has one.<br />
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Back to work. I was tasked to cut the chicken into bite sized pieces, very subjective, OK but I'll err on the size of small. Done. Now what do I do with all of these pieces of raw meat...? Let me elbow mouse my computer awake. OK... chicken... done... put the chicken in the mixture of--oh. You were supposed to make a mixture. Alright, let me just put this 2 pounds of raw chicken back down and turn on the sink with my elbow. Ugh I have to grab the soap with my salmonella-y hand -- note to self, Clorox wipe the soap. Clorox wipe EVERYTHING. Alright, hands dry, time to make the flour mixture. 1/4 cup flour... pepper and done. Now, I just need to put the chicken in the bowl and mix this... together...it's a littlllllllle sticky, OK I think it's coated? Most pieces have flour so I'm going to round up and say yes, coated. Let me wash my hands, I think there's still flower on my--no that's chicken. That's gross, that's chicken.<br />
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This is when I realized I was supposed to use the soy sauce, chicken broth, sesame oil, rice vinegar and brown sugar for something... Something. Oh, right. The sesame aspect of the sesame chicken. I start to panic, and my roommate swooped in. This was after I audibly, instead of mentally exclaimed "OH SHIT." "Phoebe -- garlic -- minced -- now!" No, that's not how I asked her, but if I were a ball-bustin' clog-kickin' chef that totally would've been my command.<br />
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As Phoebe calmly chopped the garlic, I dumped the 2 pound mound of chicken into a pre-sprayed pan (see, I was on top of SOMETHING) and ran over to grab a bowl and frantically measured each liquid item while peering over at the pan to assess any potential damage. This may just work.<br />
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I finished mixing the sauce and poured that on top of the chicken. Everything was going according to plan muhahahaha-wait. Why is the oven on and set to 400 degrees...? I remember doing this, but I can't remember why... I Cloroxed my laptop mousepad (most likely not advisable) and keyboard, and scrolled through the recipe. Ah, I'm supposed to transfer the skillet to the oven to bake the chicken for 20 minutes. I look back up at the pan and its rubber handle. Now, I don't know much about science and heat and atom expansion and liquidation, but I do know what happens when you put a plastic measuring spoon in the dishwasher, turn it on, leave for work, have the spoon adhere itself to a heating coil, and your super calls you because your neighbor smelled something burning and called the fire department.<br />
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Phoebe could sense my panic, kind of like service dogs and seizures, and I told her we needed a new chicken vehicle for the oven. She calmly found a Pyrex dish (Why is she so calm? There are too many things! The flour bowl, the chicken board, the sauce bowl, the 5 forks strewn about, why did I keep taking out forks? The pan, the laptop, am I sweating? I'm sweating.) and helped transfer the almostcookedallthewaythrough(and would be the best diet ever if ingested now) chicken to the dish. I then popped that in the oven, and took note of the time.<br />
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Phoebe and I moseyed to the couch just in time for "Cosmos." Who else is watching this show? I hope it's everyone reading this, because my mind hypernova'd at last week's episode about star collapses, big bangs, and black holes. If you're not watching it for the science, then definitely watch it for the cartoon re-telling of the scientists' greatest achievements. Or NdGT's final line of the episode "We... are all star dust." BOOM. BANG. UNIVERSE. STAR DUST.<br />
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Speaking of explosion, how about that chicken? I scurried over to the oven, opened it up and VOI-THE FUCK-LA, it was a thing of beauty. I (with the help of Phoebe) am chef Phenomenally. Phenomenal chef, that's me.<br />
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Oh wait. The quinoa. Right, the quinoa. OK, side of the box, how to prepare... gotcha. "Add 1 cup of quinoa and 2 cups of water to pot, bring to boil," whatever, yeah yeah, got it. But I only wanted to make 1/4 cup dry quinoa because I am a lady with the willpower to suppress her appetite. So, if my Algebra 3 math is correct... (real class, did so well my parents suggested I apply to MIT. Good one, parents with an over-inflated sense of child's actual academic ability) I would need to put in a 1/2 cup of water for 1/4 cup of quinoa. Done. Dumped that thing in there, brought it to a boil, then brought it to a simmer, and slapped on the lid and went back to the couch.<br />
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After about 10 minutes I got up and checked out the quinoa. "Phoebe, how do I know if this is done?" I looked at the box: "You will know the quinoa is done when the germ of the kernel is exposed and the red becomes semi-translucent." Aight Wordsworth, didn't get any of that. Phoebe and I hovered above the pot and took a small taste. "It's kind of... crunchy." "Yeah... but that kind of tastes cool." "Yeah." And done, I'm done. It's done. I took it off the stove, forked it into a Tupperware container with 3/4 cup of the chicken (sans sesame seeds, damn you Safeway) and was good to go for work.<br />
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Before shot:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IMXwxVSiH3aesmff0BTA0rIciSRLgmghw1f0m4Ke4qhrQBVpKy6YWE9MIx3y3lOrlGZEPNcbVtRdgF5gXFig1H_b49ldizrjyeSTIk2-a8qvOYSdUaK9KS4kS4QPVfu373tGPRSTbTM/s1600/chicken.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IMXwxVSiH3aesmff0BTA0rIciSRLgmghw1f0m4Ke4qhrQBVpKy6YWE9MIx3y3lOrlGZEPNcbVtRdgF5gXFig1H_b49ldizrjyeSTIk2-a8qvOYSdUaK9KS4kS4QPVfu373tGPRSTbTM/s1600/chicken.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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After shot:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9bgnPlllTD68AFP3RQ3FnZL4Q0EcHbvnNgpmfodatiQrGm1amSKEBftMBwMVTfI7Bo8X-RduqGbcnEXa8XOC-kXITZQqZtlp_UpCBP7XVzWyllrwtaFVW2UiFn3XrVH_1NIIlJdFwvs/s1600/photo+(30).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9bgnPlllTD68AFP3RQ3FnZL4Q0EcHbvnNgpmfodatiQrGm1amSKEBftMBwMVTfI7Bo8X-RduqGbcnEXa8XOC-kXITZQqZtlp_UpCBP7XVzWyllrwtaFVW2UiFn3XrVH_1NIIlJdFwvs/s1600/photo+(30).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'm a monster. A monster who can kiiiiiinda cook.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-924024941252298762014-03-02T13:34:00.000-08:002014-03-02T13:34:26.924-08:00Olympics Wrap-UpClick <a href="http://hwcdn.libsyn.com/p/9/9/1/9917e46dde9001c3/Episode_47.mp3?c_id=6896253&expiration=1393803474&hwt=3606f29efbb02ee7f347d4d4d451e324" target="_blank">here</a> to listen to my coverage of the 2014 #Fauxchi Olympic Games!<br />
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And alll y'aaaalllll should subscribe to the "Fortnight on the Internets" podcast <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/fortnight-on-the-internets/id549052846" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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Kisses!<br />
jsbUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-14096772793856352062014-02-05T08:23:00.001-08:002014-02-05T08:23:16.926-08:00#FAUXCHI<a href="https://www.facebook.com/FortnightontheInternets" target="_blank">Fortnight on the Internets</a> somehow scrounged up enough rubles to fly me uber-economy to Sochi to cover the Olympics!!!<br />
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(THIS IS ALL NOT REAL.)<br />
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Be sure to follow all my inevitable kooky and zany mishaps via twitter -- <a href="https://twitter.com/jenisue" target="_blank">@jenisue</a><br />
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Or just follow the hashtag <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23fauxchi&src=typd" target="_blank">#fauxchi</a>!<br />
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(Please note: I am faux-liveblogging. Nothing to get twisted, because this is not real. Like when friends thought I was actually attempting to get impregnated by all of Mumford & their Sons when I was faux-liveblogging Coachella, because our offspring would have British. Fun idea, never really happened. Please Mom, don't panic. I didn't actually leave the country without telling you.)<br />
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#FAUXCHI!!!!!!!!!!!<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-42870076505076829852014-02-03T07:12:00.001-08:002014-02-03T07:12:18.769-08:00I'm ChallengedI've been challenged by Gold's Gym (Note: Gold himself did not personally invite me) to undergo a TOTALLLLL BOOOODYYYYYY TRAAAAANSFOOOOORMAAAAATTTTIIIOOOONNN.<br />
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12 weeks<br />
36 boot camp training sessions<br />
(aiming for) 24 loads of laundry<br />
And at least 4-6 people who will incur the wrath of my hangry outbursts<br />
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I am DOING THIS. I mean, look. Look at Steve:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.goldsgym.com/challenge14/images/header3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.goldsgym.com/challenge14/images/header3.png" height="290" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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I can only hope to look half as good as Steve, and Steve's beard.<br />
<br />
So far, I've executed a 10-step plan.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<b>Step 1: Sign up.</b></div>
<div>
<br />
<b>Step 2: Take the before/after ransom picture</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh, you thought I was going to post that picture? BAHAHAHAHHAHA...HAHAHA...hahahahh...hahaha...haha whewww haha, no.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
I call it the ransom picture because the Fitness Director positioned me next to that day's paper tacked to the wall as proof of life(CHANGING RESULTS!!!!!!!!!). I was told to dress in a sportsbra (personal/physical preference is 2) and shorts. I chose the most unflattering short shorts and my best mug shot face to really achieve the look of "Infinite sadness at not being in peak phsyical condition."<br />
<br />
The Fitness Director conducted the photo shoot in his office, and I appreciated the privacy. I appreciated it until I looked to the side and saw that his window facing one of the main weight lifting areas -- which was "covered" by a desk calendar, was larger than said desk calendar. I found myself making direct, intense eye contact with a guy in a cut-off frat tshirt most likely listening to Fall Out Boy. Or the podcast of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me!" I don't know his life! Except for the parts I do know because they are so blatantly obvious.<br />
<br />
Also noteworthy -- the Fitness Director took these photos on his phone. So that'll be a fun NSA data-mine found object. If the NSA manages to connect the photos with this blog, please note that I am not actually being held against my own will at the Gold's Gym on 19th & L.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Step 3: Buy a Pedometer</b> (This step not required, and I'm not sure it's entirely recommended)</div>
<div>
<br />
During a trip to Target last weekend (that resulted in a ratio of 5:1 things I didn't need, to things I originally planned to get when organizing the Target trip) I purchased a Fitbit Flex.<br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSqdGtq1Pkxbpx2W002ziEANBk3QBjVXWSIk0YfK32j8tnDpe_3SzgxqBYX" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSqdGtq1Pkxbpx2W002ziEANBk3QBjVXWSIk0YfK32j8tnDpe_3SzgxqBYX" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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This lil guy tracks number of steps, calories burned, active minutes, and quality of sleep. THIS IS THE FUTURE.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I set my goal to number of steps (10,000xday) and check it roughly... every 30 seconds to see my progress. The display shows a dot for every 2,000 steps taken. I've found myself marching in place to get to the next dot. I now have a compulsion to win at a game I've created where I am the only participant, and I win a 10 second vibration indicating I've hit my goal. AND PRIDE. SO MUCH PRIDE.</div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Step 4: Take a Zumba class</b></div>
<div>
<br />
This was not my first Zumba. But this IS the first time writing about Zumba. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Zumba is the Latin music dance class popular with housewives, mothers, and other very, very white people. Below is an example of a Zumba class. For your reference, I was Randy.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/NleS57MX5Ko" width="560"></iframe>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
I entered the dance studio and took an unassuming position in the back left, right behind the person in front of me. This way I could avoid all self-eye contact and glimpses of my body somehow resisting any attempts to stay on the beat. Here's the rub -- I can dance. In my mind. But not physically. Physically, my body makes no sense whilst moving to music.<br />
<br />
We started with a "warm-up" which I initially thought was high-impact cardio. Moving into the next song, the instructor shouted "I HOPE EVERYONE REMEMBERED TO DO THEIR HOMEWORK!" Homework? What homework? This was my first class. I didn't even get a syllabus! WHAT WAS THE REQUIRED READING?! I suddenly felt like John Cusack:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/NRwxjUyueaw" width="420"></iframe>
</div>
<br />
<br />
It seemed like every single person had memorized all the choreography to every single song. I just remembered the instructor's words at the beginning of class "Even if you don't get it, I want you to keep moving." OK, keep moving. KEEP MOVING. This included a hell of a lot of toe tapping, pointing, clapping, and random hip shaking in an attempt to blend in with the Salsa-ly aggressive mid-level bureaucrats LETTIN' LOOSE!<br />
<br />
I think the most frightening part of the entire experience was when the instructor would introduce a new move such as the "Step, step, step, STOP." I step, step, step, stopped only to find myself FACING THE SIDE MIRROR, WHERE I WAS NOW IN THE NEW POSITION OF FRONT OF THE CLASS. All I could see in the mirror, other than my frightened face, was the entire class looking at my ass for guidance and instruction. Unfortunately all they got was a few half-assed (literally) thrusts and a pleading face that read "ONE, TWO, PLEASE MAKE THIS STOP SOMETIME SOON, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT."<br />
<br />
Once the class was righted back around, the instructor reminded us that "Everyone has their own Zumba! So as long as you're workin' it, you're doing it right!" OK! This was good news! I was workin' it! Maybe part time. Freelance. Trial period. Internship.<br />
<br />
So everyone has their own Zumba. HEAR THAT? DID YOU HEAR THAT? EVERYONE HAS HIS OR HER OWN ZUMBA SO LAY OFF ME WITH THOSE JUDGMENT EYES, FRONT ROW CAMEL TOE.<br />
<br />
After an hour of slight dehydration and Latino tinnitus, I walked away knowing my hips don't lie. And the truth they are telling me is that I am incredibly mediocre at shakin' dat ass.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Step 5: Buy weightlifting gloves from Marshalls.</b><br />
<br />
I'm an aspiring hand model. I'll most likely aspire for the rest of my life, but you never know when a scout will pick you up at the nail salon, Mahjong tourney, crotchet club, etc. That's why I can't run the risk of calluses.<br />
<br />
So this happened, and here they are:<br />
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<a href="http://img.rakuten.com/PIC/27138423/0/1/500/27138423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://img.rakuten.com/PIC/27138423/0/1/500/27138423.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And yes, they pretty much look equally, or more ridiculous than they do here, in real life.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Step 6: Buy new running shoes you've yet to use.</b><br />
<br />
These shoes HAVE been in motion. From the box to my bedroom floor.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HGzH7egC8TTdW59XZncFaz6MMXaBB0Pr3tzoYR591_EgGfesPHlLYVFHngkCecUi7IfLOdpDZj8siA5-q1U0IEdNS2cpsUlEVc3c_N2biv51ndfCg_yncM6sXeNbOrI59iGtMGErhHQ/s1600/sneakers1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HGzH7egC8TTdW59XZncFaz6MMXaBB0Pr3tzoYR591_EgGfesPHlLYVFHngkCecUi7IfLOdpDZj8siA5-q1U0IEdNS2cpsUlEVc3c_N2biv51ndfCg_yncM6sXeNbOrI59iGtMGErhHQ/s1600/sneakers1.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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SIKE! They've been on my feet:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixdQfkvOQCOArXD0IQ0v6y6AH4dhMy_uT6uaKwHeEMQjKO3d2-83CQnLfmLenq_aY47u1_iD3Dp_REio-cBCDZZ_YMpVOIXXQmXpfmiNEWCetSChoVED2HhHBKsyVBwCy5mVCR1yFaOwo/s1600/snekes2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixdQfkvOQCOArXD0IQ0v6y6AH4dhMy_uT6uaKwHeEMQjKO3d2-83CQnLfmLenq_aY47u1_iD3Dp_REio-cBCDZZ_YMpVOIXXQmXpfmiNEWCetSChoVED2HhHBKsyVBwCy5mVCR1yFaOwo/s1600/snekes2.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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(I took them off shortly after this photo was taken.)</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Step 7: Start realizing that you have no money.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Shit. I have no money.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Step 8: Want to win.</b></div>
<div>
<br />
IIf I win, I'll have money! $6,500 to be exact*. (*IF I win the NATIONAL competition.) I tend to be somewhat secretly competitive. I guess it's not so secret since I'm broadcasting this to my readers, so yes, I'm competitive. ALL THE GLORY, ALL THE MONEY, MINE. MIIIIIINE!!!!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Step 9: Realize that if you do win, that "Before" picture will be in every Gold's Gym location. Every. Location.</b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Step 10: Shoot for 2nd Place.</b></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-452741857676122362014-01-22T11:31:00.000-08:002014-01-23T05:00:14.488-08:0030 Under 30There was no way to avoid <i>Forbes</i>' <a href="http://www.forbes.com/special-report/2014/30-under-30/finance.html" target="_blank">"30 under 30"</a> list. It was plastered ALL OVER my Facebook feed.<br />
<br />
But let me make it perfectly clear, I'm over it. I'm over the "Under."<br />
<br />
It is pretty neat that I'm friends with pretty cool people who are friends with pretty cool people who <i>Forbes</i> also agreed are pretty cool.<br />
<br />
Shout out to my RILL GURL <a href="http://www.forbes.com/pictures/mkl45edhlg/shauna-miller-27/" target="_blank">Shauna</a>, and fellow Holton-Arms School for Girls alumna, <a href="http://www.forbes.com/pictures/emeg45hfhj/clara-brenner-28/" target="_blank">Clara</a>.<br />
<br />
I would also like to give a huge shout out to<i> Forbes</i> for making me feel totally inadequate. Like I have somehow wasted 27 years of my life. After reading each bio, I mentally followed it up with my imagined concluding sentence of "And what have YOU done with your life?"<br />
<br />
Apparently nothing <i>Forbes</i>-worthy. I'm not exceptional. Unique. Innovative. Groundbreaking. Enlightening. Nor am I important enough to occupy 3 inches of website. I wake up, I go to work, maybe go to the gym, grab some drinks with friends, or go to a show, then head home, check my personal email, check my work email, check my Facebook, check my Instagram, check my Snapchat, watch some British detective series on Netflix while I fold my laundry I FINALLY REMOVED from the dryer after about 3 days, put on my phone alarm, complete my daily ablutions, check my personal email again, check my work email again, and go to bed. I'm average. And if I didn't already realize this, I have <i>Forbes</i> to thank for reminding me that I have done nothing deserving of a paragraph.<br />
<br />
Am I jealous? Absolutely. But not because I don't have a headshot and blurb. Please, I can do that all on my own:<br />
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<a href="https://scontent-b-iad.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-frc3/205066_882884954317_3164852_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://scontent-b-iad.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-frc3/205066_882884954317_3164852_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
JENI SUE BIRNBAUM, 27<br />
Self-Imposed Corporate Slave & Sometimes Freelance Writer (Again, for self)<br />
<br />
In 2013, Jeni realized she hated L.A. and moved back home to live with her mother. Her roommate also happened to be her boss, so her workday ended... never. At her job, she attempts to provide the best customer service, and by that we mean she's the staff member most willing to bend over her desk and take it without saying "I'D RATHER YOU STOP." Day after day her company gets paid for her to be cyberbullied. She credits her success to "Client-induced fear."<br />
<br />
I'm jealous because these people listed seem truly happy. Their success seems to stem from the fact that they love what they're doing and are passionate about it -- which seems to give them energy to do more! If I'm careful with my energy reserves then I might just swiffer my bedroom! Might just! Might. Just.<br />
<br />
I'm not really angry at <i>Forbes</i>. <i>Forbes</i> is just an innocent bystander in my mental, penetrating hate glare. The public loves a good list. I get that. I'm angry that they just remind me what has really been making me upset -- the fact that I don't feel I've lived up to my potential thus far -- that I'm not doing what I can, and what I WANT to be doing.<br />
<br />
Any time a new work email pops up, my mental reaction is: <b><u><span style="font-size: large;">"WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS????"</span></u></b> (~Dorothy Parker), but physically, my fingers and the keyboard translate that rage into this: !!!!!! : ) !!!!!!! OF COURSE !!!!!! THANKS !!!!!!<br />
<br />
I will show up, I will work my ass off, and I will go home after with enough energy to consume 2 episodes of a "Kardashians" marathon. But I don't want to have to do that. I want to wake up and instead of flopping out of bed pulled by some imaginary "Fantasia"-esque broom magnetism, and somehow propelling myself towards an office with a cubicle next to a sad tree that I have been tasked to water after I ACCIDENTALLY uprooted the lil guy whilst transporting him (her?) from box to pot.<br />
<br />
I want to wake up every day and go somewhere actually WANT to go. I want to finally be excited to get up and work on something that is constructive to pursuing my goals, my dreams. I want more. <span style="background-color: white;">I wanna be where the people are. </span><span style="background-color: white;">I wanna see, wanna see 'em dancin'. W</span><span style="background-color: white;">alkin' around on those... w</span><span style="background-color: white;">haddya call 'em Oh, feet. (I know at least 2 of you joined in with me there.)</span><br />
<br />
The other day, I was on the phone with my friend who started reading off the blurbs of some "Under 30-ees," and I had a rare reaction. "STOP. YOU NEED TO STOP. BECAUSE THIS IS MAKING ME FEEL BADLY, AND I DON'T WANT TO HEAR THIS ANYMORE." I snapped. I became unhinged. All because a magazine was saying "These 20-somethings are better than you." They're more talented. They're more efficient. They're more creative. They're more EVERYTHING YOU'RE NOT. At least that's what I was hearing.<br />
<br />
I've basically just complained for a few/a lot of paragraphs. Well done, you. You somehow made it through without rolling your eyes or saying "DO SOMETHING, THEN!" How "Girls" is this post? "Blah blah blah upper middle class white girl upset about life status blah blah complaints complaints whining, why isn't life fair." COME ON WHITE GIRL, QUIT YOUR YAMMERING. STOP HAVING PANIC ATTACKS ABOUT HOW YOU'RE NOT OK THAT YOU'RE NOT OK AND FORCING ME TO DO MENTAL OLYMPICS TO GET BACK TO YOUR MAIN POINT IN YOUR COMPLAINGUMENT IN THE FIRST PLACE WHEN THERE PROBABLY WASN'T EVEN ONE. You didn't say that, right? It's OK if you did, just don't tell me. But I get that! I need to DO SOMETHING.<br />
<br />
And that's where this changes.<br />
<br />
I took a break for a year. No, I didn't technically take a break, but I did decompress from my 4.5 years in L.A. D.C. was my L.A. rehab. And now that I've finished recovery, I've woken up from a daze. I need to move towards what I want to be doing. Because doing nothing but wishing and hoping gets me nowhere. Doing SOMETHING is my next step. Doing something means I'm in motion towards someplace I'd rather be.<br />
<br />
(/rant)<br />
<br />
So for now, that means writing more, and committing myself to my faithful readers. You are out there, yes? Hello! Hello? Hello. I'm just going to trust that you're there.<br />
<br />
And I guess if this blogging thing doesn't pan out, I can always pick up a nom de plume and write a trashy romance e-novel. I welcome all tittle (typo, and it stays) ideas in the comments.<br />
<br />
kisses!<br />
jsbUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-71961029651501105382014-01-15T12:43:00.000-08:002014-01-15T12:43:11.264-08:00Because It's JanuaryAnd we're only 15 days out from 2013, click <a href="http://hwcdn.libsyn.com/p/6/f/0/6f00f9b9124970aa/Episode_43.mp3?c_id=6559741&expiration=1389814495&hwt=99ab0a34b460377a8e6926345013d590" target="_blank">here</a> to listen to me drunkenly ramble about the best and worst of the internets from last year. You should be on top of your meme history. Dear God, will they teach memes in future history classes? I WEEP FOR THE YOUTH! OK, now go listen to me being a sterling role model for them cool kids.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/e5705a3ca081e5a9bb5f1ec15ea10c1d/tumblr_muqo0s7GAt1sk0t8jo1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/e5705a3ca081e5a9bb5f1ec15ea10c1d/tumblr_muqo0s7GAt1sk0t8jo1_500.gif" height="223" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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(By the by, if you're not watching "Adventure Time" then you're probably doing something more productive with your time. It's great nonetheless.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-78435599810535173102014-01-10T15:37:00.002-08:002014-01-10T15:37:23.872-08:00Adios '132013 was a huge year for me. Years, technically, are pretty huge -- being that they're 365 days, ~12 lunar cycles, 4 seasons, and on average 2-3 "WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? Why have I not moved to Wyoming to become a ski lift operator and have all the tourists be jealous since I 'Really just went for it.'" Breakdowns.<br />
<br />
<u><b>Here are some of the highlights:</b></u><br />
<br />
I moved back <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/02/its-only-fair.html" target="_blank">home</a>.<br />
<br />
I became <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/03/ahhhhhrtty-pahhhhtyy.html" target="_blank">more social</a>.<br />
<br />
I got (read: <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/03/fistfull-of-dollar-menus.html" target="_blank">am getting</a>) into <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/02/zengo-unchained.html" target="_blank">shape</a>!<br />
<br />
I went to my last <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/04/coachella-day-1.html" target="_blank">trendy music festival</a>.<br />
<br />
I figured out I <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/04/adult-lecence.html" target="_blank">wasn't quite an adult</a>.<br />
<br />
In an attempt to be more of an adult, I <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/11/a-few-weekends-ago-i-faced-very-white.html" target="_blank">moved out </a>of my mom's place.<br />
<br />
So, some stuff happened. Actually, a lot of things happened; I've just been delinquent with blog posts. In this add/drop period of New Year's Resolutions (the entire month of January) I resolve to post more. This will most likely be my resolution in 2015, but perchance by that point in time people will be trading me money for words and I'll be able to devote my entire existence to your entertainment.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i562.photobucket.com/albums/ss67/Oak1and/51987-Are-You-Not-Entertained-1a5I_zpsa70a758a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i562.photobucket.com/albums/ss67/Oak1and/51987-Are-You-Not-Entertained-1a5I_zpsa70a758a.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No? Alright, then we're done here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-30108012623466097882013-11-08T09:27:00.000-08:002013-11-08T09:27:36.587-08:00Sleep on It<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">A few weekends ago I faced a very white, suburban dilemma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do I go on a hike with friends in Virginia?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or do I go test mattresses and play tennis
with my dad?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It ended up being
mattresses + tennis, since I usually finagle a free lunch (There IS such
thing!).<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Before I left, my mom asked me what kind of mattress I wanted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Me: “You know, one where if someone else moves, you can’t feel
it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Mom: “Who else would move?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Me: “What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Mom: “Who were you talking about when you said ‘Someone else moves?’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Me: “No one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Mom: “You were talking about someone else in your bed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Me: “Someone else?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No. No I wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was just talking about some… thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like maybe I just want to bring a glass of
wine into bed and jump on the bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
just don’t want that wine to spill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are
those your keys?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>GreatthanksI’m gonna go, remember to buy some more Ezekiel bread, byeeeee!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I cruised out to Bethesda in mother’s whip, and since selling
the Prius, had forgotten what it’s like to listen to the radio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got in the car and on came a loud
voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carl Kasell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It then took a good 5-7 minutes to figure out
which knob turned the dial, which for the volume, what to press for a lil tush
heat, where the lever is that turns on the thing you use when you need to
turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, the think that
blinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blinky thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a pre-emptive apology to my mom if
she receives any speed camera photos where I am full out belting to One
Direction while potentially going 5… 10… maybe 25 miles sliiightly over Maryland’s
suggested speed.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img class="mainImage" height="300" src="http://images.motoring.co.uk/images/car-pictures/mucf-images/500x375/mbre1/9f/58/65/mercedes-benz-c-class-2010-fire-opal-red-saloon-sport-9f58655d31a6191c34b378ce21c92eea-m2.jpg" style="background-color: white; height: 375px; width: 500px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The whip in question. Yeah... really. I know. No, I know.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I pulled in to the Sleepy’s parking lot at 10:55am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For some reason, this micro strip on
Wisconsin Ave. is home to 2 mattress stores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Right next door to each other. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite there being someone in the back of the
store, the Sleepy’s doors were still locked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well, you just lost a customer (for about 20 minutes until I was done
peeping in Mattress Discounters).<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I entered Mattress Discounters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now, the only things I know about mattresses is that they should be
comfortable, and in my humble opinion, under $1,000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also now know “Sticker Shock” is a very
real thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had about 35 seconds before
being honed in and attacked by the retail drone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those seconds, I lifted up the covers that
hid the prices on a few mattresses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There’s a reason they keep those prices under fabric flaps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are absurd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me exclaiming out loud, “I’m sorry, WHAT?”
absurd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Faint-worthy prices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good thing there are beds, literally, all around
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And falling post-faint, on to
memory foam IS pretty nice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Darren, the suit-clad used car/new mattress salesman must have
heard my excitement and quickly approached me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Hi, how can I help you today?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well, Darren, have you heard of Overstock.com because THIS IS
RIDICULOUS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>THIS IS ABSOLUTELY
RIDICULOUS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>WHY WOULD ANYONE PAY THIS
MUCH FOR A BOX OF SPRINGS COVERED IN FABRIC?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>WHY?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OH, IT’S BECAUSE IT’S
“MEMORY FOAM?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’M NOT RISKING 2 WEEKS’
PAY ON A SLAB OF FOAM THAT MAY END UP WITH ALZEIMERS IN 4 MONTHS.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">None of that came out of my mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I answered, “Hi, um, I’m looking for
a mattress.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would be weird if I
wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m looking for a mattress that
does not cost this much,” motioning with disgust at the square bearing the sad
market value truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Darren looked
optimistic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We can definitely make that
happen for you today.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you,
Darren?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you make that promise?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I’ve been let down many times in my
27 years, and damn it if I’m going to be disappointed by a stranger in a
mattress store.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I should’ve known that wasn’t really going to happen when he
lead me to the back of the store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
talking back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we walked further in, climates
changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buzzards sat upon boulders that
suddenly materialized, waiting for me to finally keel over after my futile
price battle.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“This one here is a comfortable mattress, pretty firm, and in
your price range.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was right -- it
was pretty firm AND under $1,000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By 5
dollars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hopped on, taking my cue from
the couple in matching fleece vests and ponytails, lying side by side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing distracting me from my full
lumbar-attentive review was the pillow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I craned my neck, and saw their ponytails draped over the back of the
mattress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started to wonder… “How many
people have been on this bed?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw
their kid jumping on another mattress towards the front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How many kids have been on this bed?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“HOW MANY LICE ARE CURRENTLY ON THIS BED
RIGHT NOW?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I could actually
compute a realistic number of about a bajillion, I created a scientific law
that lice don’t attach to the hair of those over 12.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for those of you thinking “BUT WHAT ABOUT
CRABS??”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re gross.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img class="mainImage" height="408" src="http://www.saveatmd.com/uploads/images/mattresseducation/serta-lifestyle-mattress-tips-235-150.jpg" style="background-color: white; height: 150px; width: 235px;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MUST BE THE MATTRESSSSSSS -- Nelly Remix Feat. DJJSB</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">After testing the cheaper mattress, and then the even cheaper
mattress, I was not satisfied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frustrated,
I sat down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And sank into gel and foam
heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The KoolGel held my heart and
gently cradled my ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I flipped over,
took out my phone and snapped a picture of the mattress name and price.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
see.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Darrell approached me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Taking pictures, huh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I knew you were working for the enemy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I guess the enemy was a comparison shopper?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I waited until Darrell turned his attention to the married
twins, and scooted out of there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then walked
nextdoor to Sleepy’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently the
mattress market is not booming like I had anticipated, and I was alone in the
store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just me and a woman sitting at a
desk at the opposite end of the wide expanse of mattresses. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Employee: Hi there!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Me: Hello.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">(She continued to sit at her desk.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Employee: How are you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Me: Fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">(Still at the desk.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Employee: How can I help you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Me: I’m looking for a mattress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Apparently we were going to complete this transaction at a
casual distance of 60-70 feet.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">The woman lifted herself out of her chair, yanked up her pajama
jeans and waddled my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could tell
by her Kate Gosselin-inspired haircut with subtle, white highlights, and
bejeweled flip flops housing once manicured feet – this woman knew a lot about mattress
technology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I repeated my needs – a
mattress, and a positive checking account balance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img class="mainImage" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMilvbHBeEi68iF5ByTFmgCD-rl-eceoVUnlVwUmJjpM02GPl4qd-PcBuKln8x5EKnDcYsrffHmSB5h9VhjsNEf2BPK7Zo5r7yedbL9me5-gaMlNxq6WJ_dDoJQEG-SW6C3QseUoJ_cEPC/s320/kate-hair-b.jpg" style="background-color: white; height: 428px; width: 287px;" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I see this, I just think -- "Aficionada."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">She beckoned me to her desk, and fished out a stack of small
papers.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“These are the new special prices – and I mean NEW.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t even had time to put them out.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She licked her thumb and started fingering
through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, look at this one – Sealy pillow
top, normally $1,795 and I can give it to you for $1,400.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean that’s a steal.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She is stealing $1,400 of my money, and replacing it with a sleep
square.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Again, I plopped down on a few mattresses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bounced, turned, laid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stood up, sat down, repeated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She asked what I was looking for feel-wise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told her that I enjoyed the idea of memory
foam, but wasn’t really into the sinking-in feeling, which was the entire characterization
of a memory foam mattress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After we had
exhausted almost every option, I finally came upon the Serta Perfect Sleeper
Luminous Euro Top Mattress and Foundation Set.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It had everything I never knew I wanted in a mattress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luminous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Euro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>IT HAD ‘PERFECT’ IN THE
NAME.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There it was – the memory foam top
layer, supported by 520 coiled springs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was a hybrid dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is
what I wanted to be on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I flipped and I
flopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wine definitely wouldn’t
spill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, good, it was only
$1,250.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A family came in right after I
snapped a picture of the mattress tag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She could sense blood in the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The blood obviously a result of the cerebral hemorrhage caused by
calculating expenditures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I narrowly
escaped her Bugles-coated grasp and made it to the whip.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I then went home, and Overstock/com’d the S out of a new
mattress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was delivered to my new
place yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My retiree landlord
apparently let the movers in so… I think it’s there?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Next up is either a post about how impossibly smooth the new
move went/my mother’s emotional state after round 2 of emptying the nest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OR, a multi-paragraph rant WITH thesis statement, on the evils of
Overstock.com.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">Stay tuned.<o:p></o:p></span></u></strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-15845841778949403072013-10-16T17:46:00.002-07:002013-10-17T07:56:59.960-07:00Flu Shot<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">SHOTS SHOTS SHOTSSHOTSSHOTS, SHOTS SHOTS SHOTSSHOTSSHOTS, SHOTS
SHOTS SHOTSSHOTSSHOTS,SHOTS! ERRRRRRRYBOOOODDDDYYYYYYGetYourFluShotBecauseI'mScaredOfAContagion-likePandemic.
Alright, thank you, goodbye.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">For the second year in a row, I went to get my Flu shot. Alli,
one of my best friends from college-cum-Unknowing Primary Care Physician, OK'd me getting the shot. And like Dr. Oz, I’ll believe
anything medical-sounding that comes out of her mouth.</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmr8tkuanGTddDUaZ7mUiSA-Q2fJgZ6Q3YIyAG24eoYj6Y-jdpeXJ4t3Flq6d6_Ra1mwoDoOzkAF6RCdIN2w_JLpbjlWKQguIEy51nXDKVsEv-2o4IH5DfRcybGQVxOwqkMdlryQPcz44/s1600/flu+booze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmr8tkuanGTddDUaZ7mUiSA-Q2fJgZ6Q3YIyAG24eoYj6Y-jdpeXJ4t3Flq6d6_Ra1mwoDoOzkAF6RCdIN2w_JLpbjlWKQguIEy51nXDKVsEv-2o4IH5DfRcybGQVxOwqkMdlryQPcz44/s320/flu+booze.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was simply curious.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">For those of you who don’t know me (For real? Are there
people I don’t know reading this? Wild.), I’m a huge hypochondriac.
Cough? Lung cancer. Headache? Brain Hemorrhage. Pain
in my right ring finger? Glomus tumor. Well, that one actually
happened. I would like to say that after an extensive google search, I self-diagnosed a Glomus tumor under my nail.
Then after my full body MRI(For real. I asked the technician if he could just check out anything else
that may look “iffy”) the doctor pulled up the SAME google image search I
previously found, declaring it was a Glomus! HA, WHO GETS THE LAST LAUGH
NOW, PEOPLE WHO THINK I’M A CRAZY HYPOCHONDRIAC? I ACTUALLY HAVE A TUMOR!
It was a teeny, tiny, tumor in my fingertip. Benign. And for some
reason I had to be put fully under for the surgery… That was actually decided
during my first appointment—</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Me: So you’ll just do local anesthesia on the hand, and take it
out?</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">(Beat)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Doc: Well, after meeting you… I think it would be best if we just
put you all the way out.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">See?</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">When I woke up after the surgery the first thing I asked was why
my throat was in pain. “Oh, that’s because you were intubated.”
Again. A teeny, tiny, tumor surgery.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxUTGkihggiDx0BdMR3-LB2zzk9wNC55UvTdiUSQiXNqIqxSNeqwyqSYNaPLVnwTXzHI3BjYtH8YFchwnU5d-mkzdXfJzhuPqHeL2xvpxwpahErFvutCYujKCbhsvDUgozcWR2j6JYQiA/s1600/2012-08-24+20.03.20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxUTGkihggiDx0BdMR3-LB2zzk9wNC55UvTdiUSQiXNqIqxSNeqwyqSYNaPLVnwTXzHI3BjYtH8YFchwnU5d-mkzdXfJzhuPqHeL2xvpxwpahErFvutCYujKCbhsvDUgozcWR2j6JYQiA/s400/2012-08-24+20.03.20.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My teeny, tiny, fingertip cast. Real thing. Real life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">So last week after work, I strolled over to the neighborhood CVS
and went to the pharmacy.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Me: Hello, I’d like to get a flu shot.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Pharmacist: OK, just fill out these forms. Can I see an ID
and Insurance Card?</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">I handed him both.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Pharmacist (after unnecessary amounts of typing): So the vaccine
isn’t covered by your current plan. I</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">t’s going to be $31.50.</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Me: OK (Reaching for my wallet).</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Pharmacist: You know, you can probably go to your Primary Care
Physician and get it for free.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">(Beat as I thought about it.)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Me: Yeah, but I’d first have to FIND a Primary Care Physician
(Does my pediatrician count? I wonder if she’s still alive…), and then
take time off work, which includes the travel cost to and from the office and
the staff already resents me because I took a week vacation back in April when
I had TOLD my boss(mother) that I already had this vacation before starting my job. All of that plus the actual time off work not completing my tasks will end up costing the
company... priced out it would definitely be more
than $31.50.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">I guess I took something away from AP Econ. Probably an
incorrect usage of cost/benefit analysis, but something. Senior year
of high school, I would use cost/benefit
hypotheticals to get out of chores. One parent would yell: “JENI? You
need to take Moose out!” I’d be in my room, ACT book open, as well as ~10
AIM windows. “OK, but I’m studying. And I’m getting to the essay
questions, and if I leave now, I may not come back to these questions because
it’s a timed practice test, and if I don’t practice these questions and one of
them is on the exam, then I may miss that point, and if I miss that point—“ “FINE.
I’LL TAKE HIM OUT.” What a lil brat I wasssssiiissssss...? Moose was a 5
pound Maltese, and “taking him out” meant going to the basement, opening the
sliding glass door, having him pop out onto the fenced 3x3 ft Astroturf square,
wait for him to “do his stuff” as we called it, and then letting him back in.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">The Pharmacist looked at me, most likely thinking “Why didn’t she
keep that in her mind?” He rang me up, and I was then told to wait
for a few minutes while everything was set up. A few minutes passed.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">“Miss Binbom? She’ll help you now.” You wouldn't believe how often the “R”
becomes silent in my last name. I looked around, confused. Who?
Where was the onsite doctor? Should I be heading towards the medical suite? Am I looking for someone holding a bucket of Betadyne? No. The Pharmacist pointed to a co-worker who was standing next to a
chair. A chair that was sitting in the middle of the pharmacy area.
I mean, people coughing in my face while looking for NyQuil, middle.
People waiting in line to pick up prescriptions using it as a place to rest
their bags, middle. Holding someone’s spot at the register, middle.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Well, this seemed not at all sanitary. I hesitantly put down
my bag and took a seat on the ominously stained cushion. The woman administering the shot lay her
instruments down on the chair next to me. Her carrier looked more like a
tray used in a back alley nail salon than medical grade equipment As I took off my sweater, I noticed
that she doused her hands in hand sanitizer before putting on the gloves from a
box that looked like it was wedged between the Kleenexes and sweaty shinguard in the back of a mom’s
minivan. Good. Glad to see that she's taking precautionary measures when
it comes to needles and blood. She sloppily swabbed the spot as someone’s
gym bag knocked into my head.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Pharmacist 2: “OK, One… Two…”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Me: “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">Pharmacist 2: “Three.”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">And the shot was done -- NO WAIT, NO, NO, THAT BURNING SENSATION
SPREADING IN YOUR ARM IS THE ACTUAL VACCINE BEING INJECTED INTO THE MUSCLE.
OK, now it’s done.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">She looked through her caboodle to try and locate some sort of
covering for the micro-wound. “Can I get some cotton balls?” She
attempted to take the back off the Band-Aid with her gloved fingers, touching
every part of it in the process. “Cotton balls?!” An employee
walked over with a bag of already opened cotton balls, presumably from aisle 3. She reached in and
grabbed one with her gloved hand. Just because YOU are gloved, doesn’t
mean the 2 year old cotton balls that were somehow taken from under my bathroom
sink are clean. She wiped the trickle of blood from my arm, and plopped
on the Band-Aid. “All done.” Yes. And at this point I can only
assume my general health is, as well.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';"><b>UPDATE:</b> I’m alive. The day after the shot
I had very mild flu symptoms, which I obviously treated like the full-blown flu
-- bombing my bod with every type of fever-reducer and Vitamin-C product.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Courier New';">What should you take away from this cautionary tale?
BYOBalls, I guess.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-24077481505838722013-10-09T08:00:00.002-07:002013-10-09T08:00:16.935-07:00Bands A Make Her Dance<div style="text-align: center;">
<u><b>NIGHT 1: Portugal. The Man w/ Crystal Fighters</b></u></div>
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<u><br /></u></div>
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<u><br /></u></div>
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Since moving back to D.C., I've been going to a fair amount of concerts. I would've loved to go to more shows in L.A., but there were a few factors preventing me -- 1) Money, 2) Driving (and then inevitably going into a parking lot or to a valet in which case you can refer back to #1). Now that I get off work while it's still daylight and am feet away from a metro stop, it makes things a lot easier. This past Tuesday I attended the Portugal. The Man show in Silver Spring, MD. I would've gone with my concert/life buddy, Laura, but she had already seen them at Coachella. Oh, want to know more about my experience at Coachella? Well just click <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/04/coachella-day-1.html" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/04/coachella-day-2.html" target="_blank">here</a> AND/OR <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/09/coachella-day-3.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
I may or may not have already mentioned at some point during my textual ramblings that I'm big on doing things alone. I'm going to link it to the fact that I'm an only child, and NOT because I've recently picked up a hobby of being misanthropic. In L.A. going to the movies alone was just about as normal as driving one block to get groceries, or excusing yourself at work to go have your phone therapy session. I get the sense that in D.C., attending things alone somehow gives people the idea that you are (not by choice) very, very, painfully, unfortunately alone. I have TONS of friends. I have like, SO many friends. That's why the majority of the night I was on my phone. Hangin' with my biffs on Instagram.<br />
<br />
Back to the concert. I arrived at the Fillmore and unfortunately didn't have a chance to charge my phone before I left for the show. So I BYO'd my charger and had the bartender plug it in. Well, now I was REALLY alone. I walked in and saw there was a 2nd floor balcony area with seating. No way was I going to potentially have the spectators overhead judge me for being alone. But how would they kn-- OH THEY'D KNOW. I hopped upstairs and grabbed a piece of railing right as Crystal Fighters took the stage. Listen, if anyone was going to be judging anyone else, IT WAS GOING TO BE ME. And judge I did.<br />
<br />
Crystal Fighters. Let's see. They are basically a paella of band stereotypes and it really, really works for them. If you have a chance to see them live GO.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/3tZSY6RRGlw" width="560"></iframe><br /></div>
<br />
By the way, that video is exactly what their show felt like.<br />
<br />
I knew a few of their songs, but the majority of the people had no clue who they were -- as evidenced by the women in front of me wikipedia-ing the band. I bet if they accidentally clicked the link for "The Dark Crystal" they probably would have thought it was the correct summary. And then there were the DIE HARDS. This was a group of about 5 people in the middle of the crowd downstairs who were LOSING THEIR MOTHER FUCKING SHIT (yes the profanity is necessary to demonstrate the intensity of their exuberance). Remember that scene in "Independence Day" when the cultish group at the top of the Empire State Building gets ready for the aliens to benignly abduct them? That. That plus plaid. Arms everywhere, heads tilted back, bodies swaying in a motion that looked like they had suddenly become invertebrates/inflatable car sale outdoor figures. I start laughing to myself, and didn't really stop until the end of their set.<br />
<br />
The percussionist comes out. I'm going to use that title loosely, since he was the percussionist and so much more. First -- his look. He had long hair, strong brows, and an open eastern-inspired tunic exposing his bare chest. So basically an energy healer from any soon-to-be released Adam Sandler movie. His set up included bongos, tambourines, reclaimed driftwood fashioned into a massive xylophone of sorts, pan flutes, rain sticks, Bobby McFerrin & Michael Winslow from "Police Academy 1, 2, 3, 4" and "Police Academy: Mission to Moscow" (as well as the short lived "Police Academy" TV series), live turtles with painted shells, assorted skulls, a yeti, non GMO kale, and like 15 MacBooks -- all atop a Persian carpet. Can I ask you something? Sure I can, this is my blog. I'm wondering, does every band now have the guy who mans what looks like the DEFCON 3 of musical dashboards? Laptops, synths, beat machines, "The Jetsons'" Rosie? I feel like that, in and of itself, is a band, and now things like playing the guitar and singing live are about to become vestigial facets of a dead art. I think it's the neo-Luddite in me, but it freaks me out. We can't put all our dependance on machinery, because one day they WILL turn on us. That's why I've always been really nice to my Roomba. Who knows when the revolution will happen. But when it does, it's sure to be televised and synthesized.<br />
<br />
So the dude starts playing his beachwood, and out comes the bassist. I now have proof that time travel is real. He emerged from the portal originating in his mom's 1992 Seattle garage. He has his bass slung sub-crotch level low, tight low/NO rise pants, vans, and no shirt cause... why would anyone wear a shirt? It seems like a hassle. UGHGHGHHHHHH ANOTHER BUTTON? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? WHAT DO I DO WITH THIS SLEEVE? CUFF IT? WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE MY NECK IS TRAPPED? I GIVE UP. He starts bass-ing as his other bandmate is tapping his own cheeks, and then out come the two backup singers. One looked like she got kicked out of Haim, pre-fame:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/willbremridge/5481813407/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Ellie Fletcher - singer in Crystal Fighters by willbremridge, on Flickr"><img alt="Ellie Fletcher - singer in Crystal Fighters" height="334" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5255/5481813407_83f38b2d55.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/willbremridge/5481813407/" target="_blank">Photo credit.</a> I'm really scared of the internet police.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The other appeared to be a more sexual Anne/Egg from "Arrested Development." Then. The lead singer emerged. He looked about 6 feet tall, wearing black on black "for comfort" Asics, a skirt over jeans, and all of Blanche Devereaux's black tie optional options. I couldn't see his face because he had a sparkly gold sheet over his head, like a fAbuLouS KKK member. He starts singing with the fabric still on his head, and I am still laughing, still trying to figure out what the fuck is occurring in front of my eyes. During the second song he whips off the shroud, revealing 90's Versace-esque sunglasses and an adorable man bun (which was what I'm assuming propped up the cloth).<br />
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I can only describe their music as "infectious." I was compelled to keep the beat, and would hit the railing, shake my purse, drum on my neighbor's back, and just pat anything in the near vicinity. It was awesome, and you should see them and support the freedom to make weird art, as well as their drug habit.<br />
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Then, between songs, the bassist goes up to the mic and imparts his wisdom upon the Silver Spring, MD crowd. "Hey. I just want to thank you for coming tonight. Because you chose to be in the present with us, tonight. The future is a dream, and the past. The past... is also a dream. But the present is real. THIS is reality. And we thank you for being real with us." If someone could throw that into google translate for me, that would be great. The lead singer then leans into his mic, "That was deep brother." Apparently the 4th Dimension exists, and the musicians in Crystal Fighters occupy that space.<br />
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They also revealed something I have never before seen -- the ELECTRIC UKELELE. I'm going to let that sink in. A ukelele. Connected to an amp. So all you clowns out there who just bought one off Amazon Prime, super psyched for your free shipping and alt culture back alley cred, ya done. Oh, your ukelele is acoustic? That's... nice. STEP UP YO TEENY STRINGED INSTRUMENT GAME, SON.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://imgur.com/BMbEm" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="400" src="http://i.imgur.com/BMbEm.jpg" title="Hosted by imgur.com" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm somewhere between a loss for, and too many words for this picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Up next, Portugal. The Man, also with a NASA control center of electronics. Their setup was awesome -- they had these white pyramids onto which drawings and super colorful images were projected. Think "The Phantom Tollbooth" x Lisa Frank.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/9c4b24172474639d8eded1a118c90ae0/tumblr_mpxtlaWBmY1qapdgro1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/9c4b24172474639d8eded1a118c90ae0/tumblr_mpxtlaWBmY1qapdgro1_1280.jpg" width="393" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RIGHT?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As we know (and celebrate), the Manic Pixie Dream Girl is dead. But she has left a void, only to be filled by "Girl with Bangs who Plays the Tambourine." I'm sorry "And Sometimes Sings 'Ooooh Aaaaah' While Maybe Tapping a Casio with Her Pointer Fingers." No, she's as integral a member of the band as are those 903485903479438978943785934 pedals. She was beautiful and talented, but to me these girls are becoming an indie rock trope -- much like the wardrobe consisting of faded Hawaiian shirts with "Children of the Corn"-esque to-the-neck button styling. Friends, I'm just bitter because I'm super jealous. I'd love to be in a band where you get to travel the world while looking like Fran<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">ç</span>oise Hardy. Maybe I can sell myself as being the first chick who plays the game "Simon" like it's a legitimate instrument. It's just too damn bad I look horrible with bangs. Never meant to be. Le sigh, I guess it's just you and me, Excel spreadsheets. You SUM:(m+e).<br />
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Their show was fantastique (which is French for fantastic), and it seemed like they played one song right into the next, into the next, taking maybe like 2-3 breaks the entire show. Or I was high on Crystal Fighters. (I don't think "Breaking Bad" is really over, because that group was Heisenberg-ed out of their gourds.)<br />
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Here's my favorite song off PTM's (referring to them as such due to sheer laziness) latest album, "Evil Friends." I've had this on repeat since their show; wouldn't Simon be the PERFECT ADDITION??.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="380" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:7iOyMOxdOULvXqUqC26spJ" width="300"></iframe>
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<u><br /></u></div>
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<u><b>NIGHT 2: Two Door Cinema Club w/ St. Lucia and Smallpools</b></u></div>
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<u><b><br /></b></u>
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This past Friday, I get a message from my gchat soulmate Laura: "Want to go to the Two Door Cinema Club concert tonight? We can get free tickets." My response: "YES. DEFINITELY YES. FUCK YES. Sure." To be honest, I was probably more excited about the fact the tickets were free. Free stuff is always better. Costco aisle samplers, the current room and board rate at my Bossmother's apartment, or an entire swag ensemble I now own featuring apparel from the TLC/"Here Comes Honey Boo Boo" collection (thanks goes again to my HBB, Laura).</div>
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I had just finished work, and decided to take a leisurely stroll down to DAR Constitution Hall carrying a 10 pound gym bag, and my unnecessarily large work tote. At about step 4, I was sweating from any, and all sweat-producing areas. Leave it to D.C. to have an 85 degree October night. Well done, D.C. Apparently you didn't think you were dysfunctional enough at the moment. As I walk up the steps to the entrance, I notice something. In flats, I'm about a foot taller than most of the people coming to see this show. I see clues all around me: Impenetrable groups off girls somehow still managing to walk in a full circle formation, selfies everywhere, what looked like attempts at YouTube makeup tutorials, and braces. I was at a show, surrounded by 14 year old girls, and I just knew it was a matter of time until someone pegged me as a teen mom accompanying my soon-to-make-equally-as-bad-decisions daughter.<br />
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Laura showed up, and our first interaction was obviously comparing our sweating.</div>
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"Knee pit?"</div>
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"Yup. Eyebrows/lip/hairline?"</div>
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"Obviously. Elbow crook?"</div>
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"The worst."</div>
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We then grabbed our tickets from will call. By the way -- a big thank you to McKee F. for the tickets! Orchestra! Again, free things! I went to the bathroom, and was assaulted by pitches and octaves coming from teenage girls that seem to only exist in Morgan Freeman-narrated nature documentaries. I sidled to an empty mirror and proceeded to rearrange my post-work Picasso face into something that was a semblance of a moderately rested human being. As I'm tracing my marionette lines with my finger, I notice a girl adjusting her bralet that she was attempting to pull off as a shirt, and just thought "This. Right now. Is probably the hardest part of her day." The underwire wasn't really cooperating, and to be fair, that can suck. But it doesn't suck as much as working a 9-10 hr day with a desk lunch of Skinny Cow chocolate caramels. So... I win...? By the way, <a href="http://www.wikihow.com/Dress-for-a-Concert-(Teenage)" target="_blank">this</a> is why the internet is the worst, and the equation of what we know as the "World Wide Web" + puberty is fatal. "For guys, jeans or denim shorts are good." Are they? Also, please note the ads for "Disney Channel Auditions."<br />
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<a href="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=46296374" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=46296374" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HELP ME, YEEZUS.</td></tr>
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Laura and I then head to our seats. The Daughters of the America Revolution (despite being a fundamentally racist and backwards institution) really knows the way to my heart: A concert with assigned seating. Once I sat down I slowly turned my head towards Laura, and she just knew, and shook her head. There was no way we were standing up for this opening, opening act.<br />
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The first act, Smallpools, came onstage. The SECOND these girls had the SLIGHTEST HINT of testosterone/pheromones/Zac Efrons they just freaked the fuck out. No other way to explain it. Jumping, hitting, grasping, gasping, SCREAMING. Screaming. Like vocal Guantanamo. I looked around and made eye contact with a dad. A poor father, undeserving of this abuse. I stepped into another phase of adulthood when I sympathized with this parent. He's working hard all week, and then gets dragged by his daughter, let's call her Amanda, Amanda, who obviously has to bring her friends Sarah, Lauren, Katie, and Amanda P., because duh they do everything everywhere together. (DO KIDS STILL SAY 'DUH?' HELP ME.) And his Friday night is now spent shuttling these girls whose energy and enthusiasm, if harnessed, could power a small Midwestern town, to a concert he will probably not enjoy, and then hear a play-by-play of the entire night, the he too has already experienced and most likely wanted to leave in the past. We were all the anonymous father that night. And by "all," I mean me. I was. I mentally transformed into a 45 year old working father of a teenage daughter.<br />
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Back to the music, cause that's why we're all here, right? Smallpools. Um, they looked and played like an indie band formed by Lou Pearlman. That's basically it. Super unmemorable. I also resented them because they were really rilin' up the crowd. "HOW WE DOING D.C.? EVERYONE GET UP!" No. "LET'S GO D.C." Go where? Do we have to? "COME ON, WE WANT TO SEE YOUR HANDS UP, GET THOSE HANDS UP!" OK, this has gone too far. Hands are staying down. I will not be your crowd hype hostage. "GET 'EM UP!" No, Smallpools. I refuse to put my hands up in the air, and I will NOT wave them around like someone who does not have a care.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/500/91685933/Smallpools.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/500/91685933/Smallpools.png" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We're all wearing chucks, so we're a band.</td></tr>
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After their set, there was finally the semblance of a lull. Laura and I started to get excited because the next act was St. Lucia (who in my opinion should be headlining their own tour but who's going to listen to me, I'm just a gal who writes her thoughts in a blog so I don't end up saying them out loud to myself).<br />
<br />
The band takes the stage and they were glorious, despite the fact that there was a guy standing behind what looked like ENIAC and (again) another girl tapping at the synthesizer. She also looked super out of place. Like an adult ex-gymnast who was going to a high school "Flashback" dance as someone from Palm Beach in the 60's. At one point I just turned to Laura and said "She must be a cousin or family friend..." Later, I noticed she was playing the exact same chords at the exact same time as Dexter's Laboratory over on the left side of the stage. I asked Laura what that was about, and she said "Well, his is probably a keyboard and hers is a synthesizer." To which I responded "Or hers is unplugged and they never told her..."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://media.web.britannica.com/eb-media/67/19167-004-6A77ACD5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="342" src="http://media.web.britannica.com/eb-media/67/19167-004-6A77ACD5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you share a Grammy with Siri?</td></tr>
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Let me reiterate how good St. Lucia is -- they are very good. The other amazing thing about the band is that everyone just looked super psyched to be alive! It was like "HEY! I'M PLAYING A GUITAR! THIS IS FUN! YOU'RE SMILING! I'M SMILING!" Like more socially-adept Flanders children. Laura and I were bopping away, enjoying their tunes, when I was so rudely taken out of my zone by the row of girls in front of me. I noticed one girl pulling up a picture of the Smallpools frontman on her iPhone. Because I'm a super nosy observer (you're welcome) I witnessed something I wish I could un-see. I'm now forcing you, my reader, to share in this pain. The girl who pulled up the super posed, super emo picture of the lead singer turned the phone to her friend, who BTW TOTALLY approved of her taste in men, and then turned the phone back to face her. She then put the phone close to her mouth and mimed licking his face, millimeters from the screen. One -- that iPhone was probably dirtier than a Coney Island Boardwalk toilet, and two -- YOUNG LADY, THAT TONGUE BELONGS IN YOUR MOUTH AND THE ONLY PURPOSE IT YIELDS IS FOR SPEECH AND DIGESTION. St. Lucia's aural Wellbutrin faded to the back, and all I could hear was this (start at 1:17, unless you're into smart dialogue and Dick Van Dyke):<br />
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I apologize. If you're still affected by the the iPhone image, here's a mental palate cleanser:</div>
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<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="380" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:4hoB7jVAo22BXwMFWLdlxQ" width="300"></iframe>
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Finally, Two Door Cinema Club (or TDCC, again, lazy) took the stage. Well, if I didn't have epilepsy before, I sure do now. Their stage show consisted of every entrance light from Spencer's Gifts. Despite retinal burning, the show was excellent. They're so good live, and had insane energy the entire show. Also the lead singer is a ginger. But like, REALLY ginger. He's also 23. You know what I was doing at 23? A lot. Of nothing.</div>
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When I wasn't being Manchurian Candidate'd by their lights, I would stare at this 20-something blonde who was in the 2nd or 3rd row just dancing like no one was watching. Except there were a potential 1,000 people watching. Definitely 2: Me, and her boyfriend...? Male companion...? Guy who was sleeping with her after the show. Now when I say she was drunk, I'm talking shoes off, twirling in the aisle, thinking she was at a DMB show in 2002, drunk. While she was shaking it to a beat that was definitely in her head, I realized my legs started to hurt. I'd been standing up for about an hour, hour and 1/2, and flashed back to 7th grade science where I learned that doormen usually faint because of poor circulation due to constantly being on their feet. If I was going to faint, it would be on MY terms. No way was I going to faint in front of these kids, only to elicit a response of--</div>
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"OMG what happened?!"</div>
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"I think she fainted... cause she's old..."</div>
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"Yeah, totally. OMG my grandma once fainted."</div>
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"Really?"</div>
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BECAUSE SHE SAW YOUR TUMBLR.</div>
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I attempted a smooth dance transition into foot rub and aisle quad stretch. Luckily with the constant assault of light, I think I got away with it.</div>
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After the concert we went outside and chatted with our friends, commiserating on how old we felt, but that it's cool these kids have decent taste in music. HAHAHAHA what am I saying, they probably saw them on the "Featured On Tonight's Show" card after "The Vampire Diaries." While the teens went to their carpool lines frenetically talking about wanting to lick all the lead singers' faces, we were talking about how Vitamin B is good for that 4pm workday energy boost.</div>
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YOLO!!!!! As in, we should take care of our bods. Because, WOHO (We Only Have One).</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-39041919151769178722013-09-27T19:16:00.002-07:002013-09-27T19:16:26.821-07:00COACHELLA: DAY 3<div>
Preface: I'm so sorry this took so long. It was a combo of my real life job + laziness with laziness winning. I also have odd writing OCD, and I actually can't write any new posts until the previous chronological post is finished. I also can't watch TV shows out of order or start in the middle of a season. I also hate cilantro. And people who get mad at me for using 2 spaces after a period.<br />
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Let us begin.<br />
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Day 3. I carved the final tally into the stucco tile next to my aero bed. The insanity was almost over.</div>
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(Want to catch up? Read about <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/04/coachella-day-1.html" target="_blank">Day 1</a> and <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/04/coachella-day-2.html" target="_blank">Day 2</a>.)</div>
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Since I could no longer tolerate my stench of sweat, dust, weed, smoke, and rapid decline into old age, I took a shower. When I got out, one of my cabana-mates had turned on HGTV. Has anyone ever watched HGTV? IT. IS. FASCINATING. I couldn't look away. First up -- "Kitchin' Cousins." Two cousins remake your kitchen. That's it. But also so much more. Next, we watched "Property Brothers," where two very well groomed brothers help families to sell their home and fix up their new purchase. Equally hypnotizing. An hour later, and I was still in my towel, laying in bed next to my friend. I attempted to move, but then we discovered "Married to Medicine" on Bravo. (Has anyone does an in-depth report on Andy Cohen being a cult leader?) So, there went another hour of my morning. Was I really that upset? No. I secretly started planning to hide under the covers, and after my housemates gave up their search (which would probably be two minutes and a few yells of "Jeni?"), the group would proceed to the polo fields without me.</div>
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My reverie was interrupted by a friend who stormed into our guest bedroom declaring that we should "STOP BEING WASTES AND GET OUTSIDE." I respond out of fear when it comes to loud voices, and immediately threw on my uno-piece and hopped in the pool. It only took us 3 days to realize that the water we've been splashing around in, wasn't chlorinated. Compared to drugs, rickshaws, and dust inhalation -- that was probably the most dangerous part of the trip.<br />
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I could sense the magnetic pull of the festival, and my friends started making their way to gather venue necessities. I lingered around the pool saying, "You know -- they live stream the entire festival. You guys? I said they live stream everything. So we can just lay on a pool float and watch it on someone's laptop. You know... not leave? Just. Stay here?" No one really responded, and later a friend aggressively asked "WHY DID YOU NOT SPEAK UP? I REALLY WOULD HAVE PREFERRED THAT."<br />
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Well at this point, you know the drill: walk, bus, judge people, hydrate, off bus, walk, keep hydrating, judge more people, security.<br />
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My friend's boyfriend hit the first checkpoint and was interrogated by one of our yellow-shirted friends.<br />
<br />
"Any weed?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Coke?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Pills?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Poki Balls?"<br />
"What?"<br />
"Go through."<br />
<br />
Poki balls. I'm too scared to google it, but it's probably t-1 day until all local news stations have the "BREAKING" story that all the kids in the US are on "THE POKI." I mean, I kid about being old and out of touch, but once you stop recognizing illicit substances, then you are pretty much of out of the loop.<br />
<br />
We then proceeded to play the game "Band or Drug?"<br />
<br />
Booka Shade? Band.<br />
Murder 8? Drug.<br />
Tanlines? Band.<br />
New Yorkers? Drug.<br />
Sandwich Bag? Just a ziplock.<br />
<br />
Speaking of drugs, KIDS DON'T DO THEM. Or just smoke pot, I don't know. I don't really fancy myself a roll model. Maybe a hand model, but that's it. I made an executive decision to leave a bunch of rolled items back at the house, seeing as I pretty much poisoned everyone I love. My friend's boyfriend who desperately wanted to take the lollipop challenge on Day 2 recounted his experience: "Oh, yeah... I thought my nose ran off my face." And there you have it.<br />
<br />
My friends literally hazed me after they found out I only had about 1.5 items. "BUT YOU HAD LIKE 5 MORE BACK AT THE HOUSE!!!!" Well, I got the last laugh. Actually we all got the last laugh, because we physically couldn't stop laughing after finishing only half of one while waiting in line for mango sorbet. The teenaged boy in front of us turned and asked, "Are you guys sick or something?" This probably had to do with the fact we couldn't stop coughing. Coughing, laughing, laughing, coughing, probably crying. If I could sum up Coachella in one experience it would probably be 17 year olds are looking at us, shaking their heads, thinking "Those 27 year olds really can't handle their shit."<br />
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The mango sorbet was probably my favorite part of the trip. I couldn't stop talking about it. "It's mango sorbet IN A MANGO. You guys. IN the mango!" Apparently not that big a deal, because I was informed you can get something like it at Trader Joe's. What a wonderful place. You can also get full benefits as an employee! Which is great, because I'm convinced everyone who works there is on hallucinogens and dust-off. We were getting close to the register, so it was time to focus and figure out what we were having. Trying to get anyone in my group to make a decision at this point in time was like herding feral cats. I SOMEHOW became the group representative at the register, which is never going to be the best idea. One friend whispered in my ear that he wanted the "Clown on a stick" (real item) and physically couldn't handle that combination of words. When I turned around to check if that was for real, he was gone -- walking quickly away to the tent. I was up.<br />
<br />
"Hello."<br />
"Hey, what can I get you?"<br />
'First, I would just like to say that your stand is by far the best at this venue."<br />
"Thanks."<br />
"Have you thought about having a separate line for the mango sorbet?"<br />
"I don't think there's enough demand..."<br />
"Oh let me tell you, there is def--"<br />
"JENI JUST ORDER."<br />
"OK, so we are going to have one. Um two. Actually, three. Wait... that's five... six mango-- is it six? Seven? (Beat.) No, six. Six sorbets that are inside a mango, and one Clown on a Stick."<br />
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I somehow managed to count out correct tender and went over to meet our friend. We had a group text going with our other friends. Here was the entire convo:<br />
<br />
Table. Food. Come.<br />
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That communication somehow worked, and a few friends met up with us. We sat in silence, eating our respective mangoes and Clown when suddenly, and I don't know why, I felt compelled to exclaim "I AM SO GLAD I'M WEARING A DISTRESSED JEAN JACKET." I then ignored my friends' confused looks and continued talon-typing on my phone on the table. Let me explain. There was probably something in my mind right then or something from an earlier conversation that then triggered me to quickly chain-ponder to the point where I was really fucking excited about my apparel. A lot of people's minds go A to B or A to C. I'm kind of an A to Q.275 type of person... <i>I</i> don't even really know what goes on up there. I originally thought the band "The XX" was "The Women." I'm basically the emoji of the girl shrugging, right now.<br />
<br />
We then discussed how excited we were to see Wu Tang. One friend interrupted -- "What are some of their songs?" To which my friend and I responded by looking at each other, heads cocked, squinting... "Ummmm, you know... no, you'll know it when you hear it. Yeah." Or "Gravel Pit." But I physically could not recall any of their music. By the way, they were horrible. We can just write it off due to the fact there was a SANDSTORM. Sand was in the air, whipping around. It was pretty horrible. So intense, I went to the merch stand to buy a bandana.<br />
<br />
"Hi, I'd like a bandana."<br />
"Which one?"<br />
(There were numerous bandanas to choose from. Maybe robbery is really in right now. That, or maybe huffing Vicks when you're rolling is, but not like I would know what that effect does or what? What?)<br />
"Ummm the one with the peach?"<br />
"We're out of that one."<br />
"OK, the purple one."<br />
"You want the Bassnectar bandana?"<br />
"Sure."<br />
I then whispered to my friend "Who's Bassnectar?"<br />
<br />
Whoever they are, they saved my respiratory system, and I thank them (him, her?) for that.<br />
<br />
We somehow managed to stay awake for Red Hot Chili Peppers. Barely. During their set, my friend and I fell asleep with our heads on each other's shoulders, standing up. That's when we knew it was probably time to go.<br />
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The next morning we said our goodbyes, and went back to our real world lives where we handle finances, and accounts, and public perception of companies. Well, that's pretty scary.<br />
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I think I can sum up the weekend with this event I witnessed. That slow moving object from day 2? The snail? Some kid was peeing off it.<br />
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'CHELLA 2014!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!neveragain.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-26002403857137554392013-05-01T07:32:00.000-07:002013-05-01T07:32:05.064-07:00Fortnights on the Internets: Coachella RundownClick <a href="http://llnw.libsyn.com/p/1/9/2/1924326df7e77fd6/Episode_28.mp3?s=1367415883&e=1367421752&c_id=5642126&h=525843e114219fe91c4ba9c5b84b0245" target="_blank">HERE</a> to listen to this week's "Fortnight on the Internets" podcast where I sound like someone who's been woken up from an ambien-induced nap.<div>
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My dad had a unique anti-drug campaign when I was growing up. He'd show me a current picture of Keith Richards and say "He looks like this because of drugs."</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Put that in your urn and snort it.</td></tr>
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Let me be the new warning sign to kids out there -- don't do drugs, or you'll sound like an idiot featured on an awesome podcast.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-36003058433818167952013-04-29T12:25:00.001-07:002013-05-02T09:05:51.355-07:00COACHELLA: DAY 2I was our bedroom's alarm clock for Coachella -- Day 2. I think I was sneezing about 30 times in the span of a minute. I really don't know how my people managed 40 years in the desert without Afrin -- maybe that's the true struggle we should be remembering.<br />
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I left with two friends to pick up breakfast and do a Starbucks run. I ventured out looking prettttty much like death, in an XXL Redskins tshirt, Capri running pants, and sneakers with laces untied. I think people who saw me had the first thought of "What in God's name...?" and then saw the ubiquitous neon bracelet indicating I paid much too much money to abuse myself for an entire three days, and thought "Ahh, yes, another dumb white girl."<br />
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After bfast, I requested we stop at 7-11 to find appropriate headgear I'm not talking Native American headdress -- there were probably more kids wearing those, than the number of Native Americans who actually deserve the honor of wearing such a piece. What I needed required one thing: Maximum sun coverage. "I'm really just looking for something 'migrant labor-y,'" I informed my friends. Lo and behold, a beautiful straw hat with a brim large enough to accommodate manual tasks under the hot sun all day, was on the top of the 7-11 hat rack. I tried it on, and it was really a match made in a retirement community.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9WKZfME3XXYvAYD3nZApgkzKJLnJ1pCg6MTK_zmqO0xa4fG1bJm6K0HCb-O7-uDp5YmzpbJ9rri_e2k0BJtM2Yv6ksf1lfJTUDCQE8XVf8nxTEohqFFQoRHfY6jUu4NAUBCeXkyj6ns/s1600/straw+hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9WKZfME3XXYvAYD3nZApgkzKJLnJ1pCg6MTK_zmqO0xa4fG1bJm6K0HCb-O7-uDp5YmzpbJ9rri_e2k0BJtM2Yv6ksf1lfJTUDCQE8XVf8nxTEohqFFQoRHfY6jUu4NAUBCeXkyj6ns/s320/straw+hat.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dreamweaver -- is literally whoever crafted this hat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Back at the house, I decided it was time to venture into the pool. I slapped on my emerald green Mrs. Robinson one-piece and topped off my Blanche Devereaux look with my new straw chapeau. One friend stretched a volleyball net across the pool -- creating a makeshift court, and in my attempt to gracefully get on the pool lounge mat I collided with the net and went underwater. Hat -- RUINED! (For the day.) Sadly, I had to set it aside to dry, and moped, knowing I'd have to remember to constantly reapply my 100+ facial sunscreen. But, to make up for that devastating loss, my friends returned from downtown Palm Springs with a pool noodle! For me! Friendship's the best.<br />
<br />
In the pool, I noodled over to another friend, who reported what I missed that evening. She told me that as the medics were interrogating us, they all sat at their picnic table watching. One friend's lollipop kicked in full-force and she told me all he could focus on was that he couldn't see our faces, but knew we must be super high, and that there was potentially some danger in us speaking with "officials." After the medics took my friend away, I approached their table to give them the update, and my friend asked me, intensely, "How are you? How're you doing? You OK?" I didn't realize he NEEDED to hear me say, "Uhhh, yeah?" in order to convince himself, HE would in fact be OK.<br />
<br />
My friend then informed me that her lollipop kicked in later that night. This friend is a huge musicphile and Passion Pit is one of her favorite bands. She said when she got to their show, she didn't recognize one song, and her mind could only process the music note by note, so every song was unintelligible Passion Pit played a full set, and she had no idea who the band was. She also told me that her sense of time was totally shot. "I definitely had an hour's worth of life experience and then I'd look down at my phone, and it had been 3 minutes..." She and her boyfriend would be speaking and she'd interrupt the conversation, asking "How long has it been since we started talking?" He'd respond with "Umm, like 45 seconds?" And her reactions would be along the lines of "OK. Great. Great. OK. That's good to know. Thank you." She also asked, in between acts when they played filler music -- "What genre of music is this?" To which her boyfriend would reply "Like trance house dance music?" "Ahh, OK. I'm not really familiar with that genre, thanks."<br />
<br />
So I basically poisoned all my friends.<br />
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After lunch, we had a fantastic game of volleyball. I didn't keep score, but I'm pretty sure we lost. This was despite my bringing my 7th grade, A-team volleyball skills. I blame our loss on lack of communication and the fact that one player wouldn't get off the inflatable turtle. You know who you are. You know. I could have stayed in that pool all day. I even suggested that we bring out a laptop, go to the Coachella live-stream on YouTube, and float in the pool all day/night. I'm convinced people just pretended not to hear me.<br />
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As we were getting dressed in our pool house suite, one of my friends told me about her night. She committed to a plate of "Crab Fries," (which I'm assuming are french fries with crab on top). Unfortunately the fries didn't commit to her, and she ended up throwing up in a porta-potty -- a horror I would wish upon any Kardashian. "So will you attempt to eat them again tonight?" "Oh, absolutely." If there are any advertisers reading this who have "Crab Fries" as a client, here it is: "Crab Fries. They're worth it." And you are welcome.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwKY20c4qYwU0QyV_0o40HO1dWbG5ed34-g8AwnaPkIzZ-7ebtNmOzpQtOb-HK9OvADztNlt6rlx3P6mjlAzG7gdHvTtUkMpK1lfR01vz30KY9jTkSURQDSsO6gRlZj5h9hmRix9kfZE/s1600/crab+fries.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwKY20c4qYwU0QyV_0o40HO1dWbG5ed34-g8AwnaPkIzZ-7ebtNmOzpQtOb-HK9OvADztNlt6rlx3P6mjlAzG7gdHvTtUkMpK1lfR01vz30KY9jTkSURQDSsO6gRlZj5h9hmRix9kfZE/s320/crab+fries.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This plate is more S&M than Rihanna.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Speaking of edibles, that was the item of choice on Day 2. A rice krispie treat and a Key Lime Pie-esque baked good were shared by a few members of the group. One friend announced, in all seriousness, that he wanted to "take the lollipop challenge." 1. The result of Day 1's medicating was so severe that he had to refer to the consumption as a "challenge." 2. He was 100% serious. I questioned him -- "Are you TOTALLY sure? I mean someone ended up in the medical tent, another person had severe paranoia, and another couldn't process music or time." "I'm totally sure." This guy was not kidding around. Kind of like when he'd spike the volleyball at people's faces, which is an admirable strategy. So off he went with a lollipop.<br />
<br />
We got dressed and went on our wat to the polo fields. If you want to know what the shuttle/security line was like -- just read about <a href="http://notlenadunham.blogspot.com/2013/04/coachella-day-1.html" target="_blank">Day 1</a>. As we're waiting in line, we got a GroupMe text that read "Molly down at the first check-in :( Be stealthy." My first thought was: "Who's Molly? Do we know a Molly? Will she be OK? I should drink more water, dehydration is seriously no joke!" And then saw one of my friends standing at the Sheriff's tent. Ahhh. Molly down, 5-0 all up in my friend's business. Seriously. Because those pills were in a place where the sun don't shine -- unless you're twerking at a Major Lazer show (more on that further down). They ended up letting him go, but keeping his stash. FUCK THE POLICE. Actually if they were smart, they would just re-sell all the confiscated drugs for like 4x the suburban street value to kids in line. My friend's boyfriend was frisked in line and was asked "You got any drugs?" "No." "Pot, cocaine?" "No." "Heroin, poki-balls?" "No. Wait, what's a poki-ball?" Kids these days scare me.<br />
<br />
We walked that long path to security, which some people didn't have the strength for -- hence the numerous pedi cabs up and down the road. After getting through security, I was so distracted trying to find everyone and seeing if my friend managed to break out of Coachella Jail, that I must have missed the pedi cab driver who TURNED INTO ME. I walked the rest of the way with a tire mark down my left calf and this monologue in my mind:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/seRhXyoNrGI" width="560"></iframe>
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<br />
Much like your Grandma or Grandpa on an outdoor patio, The priority was finding a seat in the shade. We sat on the grass under a tent in the beer garden, and I met up with a friend from high school. Crazy -- 9 years at an all-girl's private school and look at us now, at Coachella! I think that's what you'd get if you played Drake's "Started from the Bottom" backwards. In the tent, I took out something that resembled a marijuana cigarette, but I can neither confirm or deny the contents of the item. I will say this -- here's a picture of me a few minutes later:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6xu4xF873reL77VBFbSqa4PE3Dm-cgsGygfKnDleO1i4g_nAr32OPEObuoISyudormErSlL5ObRJDrobbYnaXsajd4hpOt5fD_HTRvW2hyE1HtsiHbHrNBJAf9BikbM5TeGmy1P8ygfY/s1600/happyjeni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6xu4xF873reL77VBFbSqa4PE3Dm-cgsGygfKnDleO1i4g_nAr32OPEObuoISyudormErSlL5ObRJDrobbYnaXsajd4hpOt5fD_HTRvW2hyE1HtsiHbHrNBJAf9BikbM5TeGmy1P8ygfY/s320/happyjeni.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A picture is worth 1000 words (that I don't really have time to type b/c I'm at work.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As I was sitting there, fully enjoying life, able to tolerate the crowds, I noticed a random guy talking/flirting with one of my friends on the other side of our circle. He was holding an inflatable small bird, and kept asking her what is was. "A Kiwi." I responded. I knew I was right, but somehow he must've not heard me scream. "It's a Kiwi. You're holding a Kiwi." She guessed, and guessed, and still the correct answer eluded her. He'd smile and laugh, teasing her. "IT'S A FUCKING KIWI. It's a fucking Kiwi." Finally, he explained, "It's a Kiwi." I was livid. I knew it was a Kiwi. Like that one time at trivia I was the only one who knew "Three Dog Night" was a band from the 60s/70s, not the 90s/00s. I think that's the angriest any of my L.A. friends had ever seen me. So, I just kept staring down this neon wayfarer-wearing dude, playing with his inflatable Kiwi (no euphemism-o), muttering things to myself like "Fuck you, I knew it was a Kiwi, who do you think you are? You're nobody. You're a nobody holding a Kiwi." And then finally declared out loud "I don't like that guy over there and I want him to leave. He should go. Go away." It's apparently not all fair in love and factual questions.<br />
<br />
After the far too brief sit, my friend and I decided to go to Major Lazer. By "decided to go," I mean me announcing -- "IF THERE'S ANYONE I PAID TO SEE, IT'S THEM, AND WE'RE GOING." We made our way to the packed tent, which was so crowded we ended up in the spillover crowd right outside. The crowds were pushing so hard that any contact with my backpack sent me bumping into the people to the right and left. So I decided to flip it around, making me look pregnant with the North Face's child. Boyyyy was I boppin'. I was swaying, I was jumping, I was pointing, I was clapping, I was doing any and every gerund you can think would be appropriate at a Major Lazer show. No. Not twerking. My friend put it best -- "I actually think it's embarrassing if you're really good at twerking. Because everyone knows you've been at home practicing in front of a mirror for hours and hours." If you're not familiar with this dance "move," please check out <a href="http://instagram.com/diplo" target="_blank">Diplo's instagram</a> and it will instantly be clear.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="380" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:1EQUFBHa4jDUyQSCxRFkEz" width="300"></iframe> </div>
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I vaguely remember my friend telling me she was going to go to the bathroom, but I was entranced by the music (and most likely other factors that rhyme with the word "pugs"). She left me dancing alone. I was really working that back/frontpack, incorporating it in all my moves to the point where I looked like I was partaking in a pagan ritual, attempting to invoke the Lord of Light from "Game of Thrones." She managed to later find me in the crowd, and after their set was done, asked "You want mango, don't you?" I did. Seriously the mango sorbet in a mango was the highlight of the trip. Seeing my friends was too, I guess.</div>
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We got our sorbet and parked it at a picnic table under a tent, then looked at each other, slowly spooning frozen fruit goodness into our mouths, thinking the same thing. "Do we really have to get up?" After zombie brain-eating my mango skin bowl, I decided we should see Hot Chip. On our way to the main stage I almost walked into what looked like a wall. I stepped back and squinted my eyes, thinking that would help me see better in the dark. I asked my friend -- "OK. Is this thing moving really, really slowly?," while debating if I was in fact all there mentally. "Yeah, duh, it's a snail." I stepped back to see the entire structure -- a HUGE motorized snail moving at about 0.5 mph. When it passed, we saw a slimy bubble trail representing the snail goo. If only people spent this much effort on things that... matter.</div>
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We got to the main stage for Hot Chip, who were AWESOME. One of my favorite acts of Coachella. If you're not familiar, listen here:</div>
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<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="380" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:7lsFHOFeMyWiqaKrESLudT" width="300"></iframe></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Up next was The Postal Service. I don't know, they sounded just like the Postal Service. Whaddya want from me? I decided during their set I should maybe smoke some more of what may or may not be a totally legal item (with proof of medical need) in the state of California. Maybe. A few minutes later I realized I may or may not be too high, and leaned my head back looking at the sky. Lucky for me, the Postal Service decided to incorporate Klieg lights in their performance, and I spent the next 15 minutes or so staring at the convergence and divergence of beams in the night sky. Who knew that could be so entertaining? At least thousands of other people in the crowd, I'm assuming.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLlY5k3MCoLgMIsI59eSk72LUKiGY_Z8eneoov21kdHgm5OJEkT22BBOoCgdedZp7gHMt1PvAvSD8O92I23Yj92F1GwK1z-13jfBOsfbaNnIWxG1TxSJp1uwzqnmWWayhyphenhyphenf6e4VP4Evzg/s1600/lights.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLlY5k3MCoLgMIsI59eSk72LUKiGY_Z8eneoov21kdHgm5OJEkT22BBOoCgdedZp7gHMt1PvAvSD8O92I23Yj92F1GwK1z-13jfBOsfbaNnIWxG1TxSJp1uwzqnmWWayhyphenhyphenf6e4VP4Evzg/s320/lights.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are Klieg lights. I just got you an inevitable trivia point in the near future.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
After the Postal Service, my friend and I decided it was time to head back and get a reasonable amount of sleep. We went back to the shuttles and then home. At around 1am we were woken up by our housemates -- "OH MY GOD, DID YOU SEE PHOENIX??" We didn't think we needed to, since we saw them at Coachella 2010. Well, apparently we missed the showstopping event. The Ignition Remixes of all Ignition Remixes. "1901" x "Ignition Remix" WITH R. KELLY. My friend described her experience: "It was totally dark and all of a sudden there was this voice that came out of nowhere. But I knew. I knew. I whipped around to everyone and cried out 'THAT'S THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL!' And then my entire body just reacted by... grinding. Just grinding with myself." Listen -- I'm just going to tell everyone I saw it, and it was life-changing. Plus, I got a better view watching this:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/OxRk8qRyt2g" width="560"></iframe>
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And so, my chickadees, that concluded Day 2. Coming up: Sandstorms, "Band or Drug?," and much more mango.</div>
</div>
<ul>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-37011336664187309922013-04-23T12:14:00.000-07:002013-10-05T17:36:15.831-07:00COACHELLA: DAY 1<div>
As promised, here are my real-(not)liveblogging dispatches from Coachella! I'd like you to note that I am STILL tired. Baby's circadian rhythms were straight up SYNCOPATED.</div>
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A few things to note:</div>
<ul>
<li>I will not be using names, because when I asked my friends "How do you feel about being mentioned in a blog along with the use of "medicinal" materials that are 100% legal in the state of California?" -- their response was universally "Mmmmm, no, we do not feel good about that."</li>
<li>Also, their faces will remain anonymous, and any picture you see in these subsequent posts will be of my "friends." And random ones of me. Because as we all know, I am way beyond no shame.</li>
</ul>
<div>
OK, so let's start at the beginning. My friends and I stayed in a magical mansion in Palm Desert that oddly resembled Osama Bin Laden's compound featured in "Zero Dark Thirty." Surprisingly, the compound didn't come with militant jihadist families -- but it did have a great pool, fire pit and outdoor gazebo (which one friend decided would be his "bedroom" for the next 3 days)! My WEEKS of Coachella dieting paid off and I finally was able to fit into my <a href="http://aloriel.turismogoogle.net/post/710/el-burkini" target="_blank">burkini</a>. I also procured a large lunch sack/paper bag of medicine for my numerous ailments -- anxiety, headaches, anorexia, bulimia, and glaucoma. Because I have so much trouble swallowing pills, the medication came in different forms, such as inhalation mechanisms, lollipops, and baked goods like brownies, rice krispie treats, and something that resembled a slice of Key Lime Pie. I concluded that the first day would be a good time to medicate with a lollipop.<br />
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Next was figuring out what to wear. We all know everyone who goes to Coachella looks like an idiot. While some people attempt to make bold (confusing) fashion statements, I try to figure out what I can wear without producing an offensive amount of sweat. I ended up with a blousy tank and jorts, and because my fashion statement is "utility," I wore sneaks and brought my high school backpack out of storage.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOp0vwndNHC8V0Gdy51QGukkLNxGjNfngiKtf0znS320YYsiaF3KMOS1I0CnBc4uKQJc0REQC-NU1epZFoHUsF4goM9A95ISmEtiSf7j8c2jyjXRmxyF_W4ocn-6gktKNi_4a73ZDnfGM/s1600/anja.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOp0vwndNHC8V0Gdy51QGukkLNxGjNfngiKtf0znS320YYsiaF3KMOS1I0CnBc4uKQJc0REQC-NU1epZFoHUsF4goM9A95ISmEtiSf7j8c2jyjXRmxyF_W4ocn-6gktKNi_4a73ZDnfGM/s320/anja.jpg" width="204" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The festival is a haven for skanks. I'm reading you, child Ambrosio in your see-through dress. I'm read. ing. you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We walked to our shuttle stop -- and I think on that 10 minute walk alone, I lost 5 lbs in water weight. After getting off the bus for our hipster teen tour/birthright trip, we found ourselves in some sort of maze for the next 45 minutes. It was miserable. Everyone's rave paint was melting, fake eyelashes were falling in clumps, and amorphous, breezy fabrics were stuck to bodies. After getting though what looked like a Halloween Maize Maze on peyote, we made it to the first checkpoint. They were not messing around -- we were divided into lines for men and women (although there were a lot of people I wouldn't be able to place into one line or the other due to sartorial life choices), and then proceeded through security. They looked EVERYWHERE -- every pocket, every nook, every small pouch which held my tampons that I piled over my medication. Sike, they didn't look there because one of my friends shoved her bag in front of the woman's face before she made it into my side pocket. Right behind the bag checker was the feeler-upper. I turned to face the lines of waiting festival-goers as a security "official" groped me to the point of owing me a hot meal. I think the most awkward part was making direct eye contact with a guy waiting in line as I was getting groped. My only reaction was to connect with a knowing shrug, like "Don't you hate when this happens to you?" The good news is -- no lumps!<br />
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Whew! I wiped my brow because nothing was confiscated and a huge puddle of sweat was forming on my forehead. But what lay ahead in the distance? ANOTHER security check. It was definitely the heat and maybe some fear, but I just kept on sweating. Just for future reference: Drug mule probably wouldn't pan out for a career choice. The security at these gates was not as intense, and once we made it in we stopped to wait for our entire group to reconvene. This gave us time to watch one of the funniest sights of the weekend -- a bunch of white dudes entering the festival, arms raised high, shouts of success, as if they were exiting Robben Island.<br />
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Our first stop was naturally the bathrooms, or sheds on top of holes that were filled with human waste aka "Porta-Poties." These vessels were actually NOT as bad as one would expect, but I most likely took off a few layers of epidermis with the amount of purell used. As I was waiting for a friend, I noticed two girls go in together (I'm still curious as to if there was a sanitary place to do a line of coke in a porta-potty) and both were BAREFOOT. Their feet made direct contact with whatever did NOT make it in the excuse for a toilet that is a hole in the ground. The thought "THEIR LIFE IS A MESS!" popped into my mind, and then I realized I was 26, surrounded by high schoolers and would be heading back to D.C. where I live with my mother. Who's also my boss.<br />
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The lollipops were distributed to those who were suffering from headaches and or "general pain" and we meandered over to our first show -- Youth Lagoon. I've never heard, or heard OF them. Everything you need to know about this band can be summed up in this one picture:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgyW2MYExWTlpAdx7tcdWamoPNQs3Ro-A6j9we_kOr-A0mJ8gRJqpU6c8ceMalErqtS6VFlzpysw5JVUfRNP1GPewkdgswpezmr4NIVe4p8Ilk_1cd2zrqX0E5hTvf2INilm7AW23mNY/s1600/youthlagoon.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgyW2MYExWTlpAdx7tcdWamoPNQs3Ro-A6j9we_kOr-A0mJ8gRJqpU6c8ceMalErqtS6VFlzpysw5JVUfRNP1GPewkdgswpezmr4NIVe4p8Ilk_1cd2zrqX0E5hTvf2INilm7AW23mNY/s320/youthlagoon.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mother will be ecstatic to hear jean jackets are back. Since she's been wearing hers since '93.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Here's one of their songs: </div>
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<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="380" src="https://embed.spotify.com/?uri=spotify:track:2q4gGYNmNYNyqgpVmGJH0c" width="300"></iframe>
</div>
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I started mindlessly eating the lollipop and before long was at the point where I was biting off sugary chunks while looking at a group of "youngsters" in front of us. They were circled up, looking anemic and judgmental (I'm one to type...) passing around a joint. That's right -- they were smoking the dope. One kid, who was about 107 lbs, was in a Smiths Tshirt, black skinny jeans transformed into long jorts, and a pair of potentially ironic transition lenses. My guess is the kids hit Urban Outfitters HARD before piling into one of their parents' cars for the trip to the desert. I've never felt so <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2013/04/22/fashion/20130422-COACHELLA.html?smid=pl-share" target="_blank">old</a>. Oh wait, no, there was the moment shortly after, when my friend witnessed a group of KIDS snaking their way through the crowd, all holding hands, and turned to her boyfriend to exclaim "THAT KID IN THE FRONT IS NINE YEARS OLD." Unfortunately a kid further down the line thought this comment was directed at him and responded, oh so confidently -- "UM, EXCUSE ME. I'M FIFTEEN." At my age, I can safely say that's basically the same thing.<br />
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I'd just like to make a note of something -- most L.A. area private schools now GIVE THE STUDENTS THE FRIDAY OF COACHELLA OFF. It's an Angeleno holiday. AND, of the absences from other L.A. area schools -- the majority are "Excused," meaning THEIR PARENTS CALLED THE SCHOOL TO SAY THEIR KID WON'T BE IN ON FRIDAY. These parents are oddly encouraging their children -- and I mean children, because I don't even know if any of them had their permit or could grow facial hair, to go do drugs in an environment with a high risk of dehydration!!! I mulled this over as we walked out of the tent, and witnessed a group of teenagers doing key bumps while sitting on the ground. AH TO BE YOUNG.<br />
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We walked over to the next tent where Dillon Francis was DJing. We were boppin' around having a gay ole time when I had another aged moment. Intermitendly, Dillon Francis would scream to the crowd things like "I fucking hate you Coachella! And you fucking hate me! OK LET'S DO THIS!" To which we would kind of look at each other thinking, "Well. That's not very nice is it?" He also said "REMEMBER: YOU CAN'T GET AN STD IF YOU NEVER GET TESTED!" Seeing all the kids screaming and cheering I just wanted to grab the mic and say "YES YOU CAN! PLEASE GET TESTED BECAUSE I'M SUPER SCARED OF MAKING OUT WITH SOMEONE WITH HERPES! OK COOL YAY COACHELLA!"<br />
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Here's a video of his performance:</div>
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We hadn't eaten since lunch (it was about 3pm at the time) so we were FAMISHED. The group meandered over to the food tents. The lines were too long, but given the time, I would've definitely gone up to the vegan stand and asked "Hey... do you have any on trend grains? Like quinoa? Or farro? Or maybe just some chia seeds on top of some fair-trade dairy-free yogurt? Also, I'm going to need each grain to not be husked, and obviously gluten-free. But I mean like, wasn't in a kitchen with anything that had gluten in it. Like hasn't been in contact physically or spiritually with gluten. Just like, get gluten as fucking far away as you can from my system. Do you take Venmo?" I decided to get what would soon become the mascot -- nay, the glue that held our trip together... the mango sorbet IN a mango.<br />
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We took a seat across 2 picnic tables under a tent. This is when things started to get "interesting." Apparently, people reported to their medical professional (me) that they started feeling the effects of the lollipop. I didn't think I was feeling anything at the time, but I was also trying to eat my bowl made of mango after devouring all the sorbet -- ripping and running the skin through my teeth. One of my friends started to feel light-headed. We just assumed it was dehydration and she should have more water. We realized it was something a little more serious when she somehow could no longer communicate with words, and attempted to explain she was having a heart attack. One of my other friends clarified that it was merely the insanely loud bass coming from a musical act. But, because I'm a Jew + Hypochondriac (perhaps one in the same) I dispatched a friend to get the medics. I would like to note, everyone sitting at our table had a lollipop. The medics biked over and took her blood pressure, and pulse. They then started the inquisition. I believe it was at this point that the adrenaline in my body overtook any other "influence." They asked about her hydration, and then when we thought they would treat her for that, the main medic turns around a la a spandex-clad Columbo, and asks "Oh... one more thing. Did you have anything else today? Any drugs?" The other people at the table and I were looking anywhere but this man's face. She shook her head. He then said "Listen, we're not the cops... we need to know." There was then the longest pause in the history of pauses. Or maybe I couldn't process time in the same way as someone with all their faculties, WHO KNOWS. Finally, she whispered "A weed lollipop." "A weed lollipop? Did I hear that right?" She nodded slowly. "And do you know the person who gave you this weed lollipop?" WELL, THAT'S ALL FOLKS. I started mentally apologizing to my parents and my coworkers (one in the same), convinced I was going to the police tent, but then, the clouds parted -- she shook her head no! That's my girl! So instead, the festival medical crew thought she had been given tainted candy from a stranger. OK, could've been worse... not really, but OK. They took her away to the medical tent for some R&R (if you call getting an IV and sleeping in a MASH unit R&R).<br />
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I followed her and sat on the grass next to her cot. By the low-key nature of the doctor and staff, I could tell this wasn't their first hipster rodeo. Which I guess is roller derby...? As I sat in her "room" I watched numerous people enter due to "dehydration." So now we all know what celebrities mean when they use that as an excuse. Any time she turned or made a noise I would get in her face asking "Are you OK? It's me! How are you feeling? Are you OK?" And would receive a response of that face cats give you when they know you're mocking them with the feather toy. I was also convinced that my eyes were bright red, and that everyone in the tent was on to me. I had to think fast, so I started rubbing my eye makeup around and made wincing noises as if that was the cause of my ocular irritation, and then if I made eye contact with a medical staffer while doing it, would make that same "Don't you hate it when..." shrug as the boob line.<br />
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I guess there were some more acts during the day. The medical tent was near the main stage so Passion Pit sounded great. At around 5:30/6 she started speaking again -- her first words being "What the hell happened?" I just said "You got really, REALLY tired, and basically took a nap. With an IV. And medical supervision." We exited the tent and somehow got lost on our way back, ending up outside the artists' "green room." This space consisted of an outdoor lounge area with ping pong table. We stopped and observed the happenings, which looked the least "rock and roll" of any VIP area. Super low key, just some slow ping pong rallying, people lounging around speaking at a reasonable volume. I wanted to stay there forever.<br />
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Instead we hopped back on the shuttle. My ride nap was so rudely interrupted when we reached the Pavilions but at least I knew I was somewhat close... ish... to our house. If I knew exactly how to get there. But who needs to actually know where one is going, when one has Waze! Waze is an app that tells you the best (DRIVING) route according to traffic. So I turned it on, entered our address, and ended up spending an hour walking back to the house. Also -- apologies to anyone commuting on Hwy 111 who saw there was almost standstill traffic -- that was just me walking at about 2-3 mph.<br />
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My friend said I didn't have to accompany her home, but here's the not so secret secret -- I like my sleep. We got home, fell into bed, and thus ended our first day, Coachella 2013.<br />
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I'm going to give a non-endorsed shoutout to <a href="https://groupme.com/" target="_blank">"Group Me"</a> an app we used to group communicate during Coachella. Which led to some great conversations, such as:<br />
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Person 1: We're looking for you, any special landmark?<br />
Person 2: We are too, stay by the lions.<br />
Person 3: I'm between the loins.<br />
Person 4: I am the lion.<br />
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Also, also -- this is not a sketch. This is what we lived for 3 days:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/W_IzYUJANfk" width="560"></iframe><br />
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Coming up... Day 2!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-87502858407938167742013-04-10T12:13:00.001-07:002013-04-10T12:13:24.090-07:00PROGRAMMING NOTE'Ello Faithful Readers!<br />
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Some of you already know that each year, I "attend" the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival where I (faux)liveblog. This year, I decided to ACTUALLY go. I leave tomorrow, and from Fri-Sun will be gallivanting with probably ~100k white kids who have viking-raided Forever 21 in order to look like a mix of Sacajawea x Jack Sparrow. I am le super excited.<br />
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So I most likely won't be posting until next week, BUT I can promise photo-heavy posts and... I will gift you one post per day I'm there (3 posts).<br />
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Until then, Mes Hippopotames, watch this masterpiece:
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/0Au_8GMUxVs" width="420"></iframe><br />
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Peace, Love, and People Watching/Judgement!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-73512497052843831582013-04-05T09:01:00.002-07:002013-10-09T15:34:51.041-07:00Adult-lescenceAs I was laying in bed with my mother, watching "Chopped," she made an offhand remark that caught me way off guard:<br />
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"My therapist asked me when you were moving out."</div>
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Excuse me.</div>
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"She said, you know, that you're 27, you're an adult and you need your own life."<br />
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(By the way, my mom always happens to remember her birthday, and not mine. Both happen to be on the same day.)</div>
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First of all, I'm 26. And I won't be 27 for another 40-something days, got it? Actually, you should know that. Happy early birthday, my mom will probably get you a monogrammed leather luggage tag, you're welcome. So on my weekly Saturday phone call with MY therapist, Gil, I recounted the blasphemous remark my mother's therapist uttered. "Whoa, whoa. That's YOUR choice, isn't it?" "YES, EXACTLY, IT'S MY CHOICE." "MY QUARTER-LIFE CRISIS, MY CHOICE!" is my new war cry.</div>
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Other than potentially starting an East Coast/West Coast therapist battle, I did something equally as dangerous -- I started to reflect upon my life. <i>"You're an adult..."</i> Marion's words echoed through my mind, as I laid on the bed in an apartment for which I was not paying rent. But am I, though? I have a feeling that I am not the only 20-nothing who feels trapped in a purgatory between being a child, and bearing one. Biologically, yes, I am an adult. I can vote, I can fight in a war, and I can get a degree in Dental Hygiene and audition for "The Bachelor." According to my religion, I actually became an adult at 13. Because I guess that's the age where you finally receive the right amount of Tiffany's jewelry (Note: The amount is "Too much.").</div>
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But, it turns out -- and I'm not sure all of you were aware, there is actually a lot more to being an adult that the things I listed above. I know, just as shocked as you are. For example, there are these things called "Bills" and apparently you can't leave them on your kitchen island for an actual responsible adult/parent to pick up and pay. YOU must pay them. They're now addressed to YOU. Remember how much fun it was getting mail up until about age of 22? Now I see and envelope and just pretend it's not there. If you don't see them, they don't exist. This is the only takeaway I got from eighth grade Physical Science. Or was it middle school theater? Once you do pay it, you feel so mighty and in control that you grab that sword in the stone, unsheathe it, and lift the blade to the sun screaming, "I DID IT. I AM A RESPONSIBLE ADULT HUMAN BEING!" But. It's a fleeting joy. Because much like the Hydra, another bill comes in its place the next month, and the next month, AND THE NEXT MONTH. And you soon drop the kingly "No, that's for adults, sweetie" sword, and return to your peasant labor so you can shove a few shillings in an envelope to Blue Cross.<br />
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Also, there are those moments where I just feel like a dumb kid. One night, a few years ago in L.A., my car got towed. To those outside of L.A., this really isn't a big deal. It almost got to the point where it was the same hassle as picking up a friend from the airport. Except you can't hold a favor over L.A. County's head. So my car gets towed in West Hollywood. I was out with my friend Alli (no, not Allie or Ali), and we both went over to the impound which wasn't too far away. Inside the waiting area was a belligerently drunk gay couple retrieving their vehicle (that I hope they didn't drive home... actually no, I kind of do...). I approached the window, and this is what followed:<br />
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Me: I'm here to pick up a white Prius that was towed from Santa Monica Blvd.<br />
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(Guy shuffles paperwork.)<br />
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Tow Man: Yeah, I can't give it back to you.<br />
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Me: But it's right there, in the lot. I can see it.<br />
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TM: I can't give it back to you. See, you have five outstanding parking tickets and are overdue on registration.<br />
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Me: But I did my registration.<br />
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TM: When?<br />
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Me: Last year.<br />
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TM: You have to do it every year.<br />
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(Pause as I take this in.)<br />
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Me: What? Really? Oh.<br />
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(The guys waiting start laughing uncontrollably. Alli shoots them an icy glare. Go Alli.)<br />
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Me: Well, can I pay off the tickets and then go to the DMV to re-do my registration?<br />
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TM: Renew?<br />
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Me: Yes, renew, I will renew my registration. Can I pay for the tickets now?<br />
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Drunk Guy: You mean, your daddy. Your daddy's going to pay for the tickets.<br />
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(Alli was not having this.)<br />
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Alli: Excuse me, we're trying to settle this, and you're not helping. Thanks.<br />
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TM: You have to pay for the tickets at the West Hollywood Parking Office.<br />
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Me: OK, so then I bring proof of payment back here--<br />
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TM: Yup, pay the amount--<br />
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DG: That you're just going to get from your daddy. You're going to call your daddy and be like 'Daddy, I need money for my car.."<br />
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Alli: Hey. Hey. You don't know her life, OK?<br />
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I start shushing Alli, not because I was embarrassed by this becoming a scene (we were so far past that, at this point it was like a Tony Kushner week-long festival), but because the drunk gays DID know my life. They did intuit, in their inebriated state, that the first person I was going to call was my dad, and the first words out of my mouth were "I don't know what to do..." Oddly at this point I DID have enough money in my checking account. I was so used to seeing a "-" before my balance that whenever I received an overdraft notice, I just shrugged. "Come on Bank of America, tell me something I DON'T know, like is there a distant relative who died and left me enough money to cover 5 parking tickets and a Prius re-registration?"<br />
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Of course I knew what to do next. It had just been explained to me. Did I WANT to do it? Absolutely not. Would I accept help from my parents to get me out of the situation? ABSOLUTELY. I am "Life Lazy." I prefer to stay in a state where I can get assistance. Do you think a baby really WANTS to leave the womb? No. That's why I'm in my baby burrito of adulthood.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNKqkOIUAUJxj7KTn1cVtlBH8Fb7Jfgn0tKyYqxTmmiDLWerVTiWkxkC5zbH2EjxLEh3c_o3t0Iba63UBLupPpuQ6cw6dQ6AuRqYGyf5CAgxUEjNLLqEVa5BoL2czAeC1ijzpjp3BMydc/s1600/babyburrito.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNKqkOIUAUJxj7KTn1cVtlBH8Fb7Jfgn0tKyYqxTmmiDLWerVTiWkxkC5zbH2EjxLEh3c_o3t0Iba63UBLupPpuQ6cw6dQ6AuRqYGyf5CAgxUEjNLLqEVa5BoL2czAeC1ijzpjp3BMydc/s320/babyburrito.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After you've tucked me in, can you figure out my life's direction? Great, thanks.</td></tr>
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Alas, there are no forces keeping me in this fetal state. It's by my own volition. Every time I go out and my mom offers me cab money, I decide to take it. Or when I'm sick, I refuse to get treatment unless everything is mapped out for me -- see below:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhHLpy6CL97PyvuCpnMuz929TmEna-mc7SdOJpLKGFTzK0m-dWxsspYARfNA56w0LKnjhEGVox5AW0bflUEJ08ozJT9qUs4Hj7aRHfzGmXPKHZThTaqWmpNCjKFKZSWMkIvahWHkl5KLQ/s1600/dad+doc.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhHLpy6CL97PyvuCpnMuz929TmEna-mc7SdOJpLKGFTzK0m-dWxsspYARfNA56w0LKnjhEGVox5AW0bflUEJ08ozJT9qUs4Hj7aRHfzGmXPKHZThTaqWmpNCjKFKZSWMkIvahWHkl5KLQ/s320/dad+doc.PNG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Currently he's in his "office" (storage closet) filing my taxes.</td></tr>
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There's something so comforting, after living 4 years where no one else was looking out for me, about the idea of getting some good, old-fashioned coddling. I hypothesize that I choose to stay in this state because I'm in denial that at some point (NOW) I have to do adult things. And have adult responsibilities. And suffer adult consequences. My self-punishment was hard enough when I murdered my Tamogatchi, due to blatant "neglect." I mean, I just learned to write a check a few years ago. "Forty" is tough because your initial thought is ALWAYS, "there's a 'U,' right?" Bottom line -- if I DO adult things, then I AM an adult, and there's no going back from that point.</div>
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But here's the Benjamin Button of it all -- sometimes I realize, I do act like an adult. At my Seder last week, there were a few teens at the end of the table hitting the wine, hard. They wouldn't be quiet during the retelling of the Passover story, and I had the urge to "shush" them. It took every immature ounce still left in me to not do it. I was about to be the Shusher. I was NEVER the Shusher. I was always the Shushee! At one summer internship, our coordinator gave us evaluations and said I earned high marks on everything, BUT he needed to note that people complained I was too talkative. By the way, this consisted of me asking how their weekends were and striking up general conversations... Not like I'm still bitter from that 3 month experience... I am.<br />
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I'm also tired. About, let's say... all the time. When I was a kid I used to get so angry when my mom fell asleep in the movies. I would elbow her, thinking "HOW CAN YOU BE BORED BY THIS TALKING BAT IN 'ANASTASIA?' THIS IS LITERALLY THE FUNNIEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN UP UNTIL THIS POINT OF MY LIFE." I recently went to the movies and debated whether or not I should sleep during the previews. Sorry mom, now I get it. You, too, must have been really hungover. Also new to me-- the fact that "Irish Exits" were a thing, and that thing had a name. I always thought they were my signature move and were called "Just tell people you're going to the bathroom and never come back." I find myself doing these more and more to ensure my 8-10 hrs. I'm having a lot of fun going out in D.C., but it's like Cinderella at Midnight, except in my case, The Plucky Sidekick at about 12:45/1am.<br />
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Another odd adult thing that occurred -- I exhibited self-control. I was at a friend's goodbye party for his apartment, celebrating all the great memories made there, and the small fact he recently bought a condo. When he told me about the purchase, the first thing I said was "Whoa, you're like an adult. That's like... real life." Yes, you, it's REAL LIFE, which you are a part of, but somehow trying to desperately avoid. I went for drinks before the party, and was pretty liquored up since my adult tolerance has kicked in and after two drinks I'm like <a href="https://twitter.com/AmandaBynes" target="_blank">Amanda Bynes on twitter</a>. At the party I poured myself another drink and struck up a convo with some guy. I realized, after I had "Groundhog Day"-d him by asking where he was from, twice, I put down the booze and switched to water. The non-adult me would've thought "That was a blip. But in no way will ingesting more alcohol make you sound even more out of it..." Speaking of drinking -- here what happened on St. Patrick's Day:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOB8_m6RLkMo55BaHc4G5IYQ16Dgad2j7QFGJkzNwoRXYpbKbQbYa1PDOKZzhDu3c7DmNZ64PzCK4j_v0TaDQwLbTsSFAYdEoW8So0mf_fC6lkZa7hz_yJEfJKT8IsJoYWFrm_2EucFVs/s1600/lizziestpatricks.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOB8_m6RLkMo55BaHc4G5IYQ16Dgad2j7QFGJkzNwoRXYpbKbQbYa1PDOKZzhDu3c7DmNZ64PzCK4j_v0TaDQwLbTsSFAYdEoW8So0mf_fC6lkZa7hz_yJEfJKT8IsJoYWFrm_2EucFVs/s320/lizziestpatricks.PNG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After dinner, we called it a night around 11:30pm.</td></tr>
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Here I am, like the gang in "Toy Story 3" on the conveyor belt to the furnace (by the way, that film was NOT a comedy), struggling to get life to just hang on a sec and let me catch up so I'm ready to handle the looming "adultness" in the future. But, it doesn't work like that. Instead, we beat on, boats against the current, constantly applying SPF hand and neck cream because all ladies know those are the FIRST things to go.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-85212042885922619842013-03-29T12:45:00.000-07:002013-03-29T12:45:13.052-07:00Best in ShowI love dogs. I love this video. I love my friend Hillary.
<iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/62952428" width="500" height="281" frameborder="0" webkitAllowFullScreen mozallowfullscreen allowFullScreen></iframe> <p><a href="http://vimeo.com/62952428">Alternative Westminster</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user3471815">Hillary Lauren Levine</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-83649348469302248752013-03-28T20:57:00.001-07:002013-03-28T21:19:38.191-07:00Ahhhhhrtty Pahhhhtyy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Since coming back to D.C., I have made a pledge to be more social. "Social" aka "Not staying in bed all day binge watching Netflix." At least not doing that EVERY day. Sunday, a holy day. I've decided to explore the city, in which I was apparently raised. I say "apparently" because I sadly know nothing about it. Sure, I'm familiar with some things -- there are monuments, M street was the coolest thing to me between the ages of 16-18, and I live in a neighborhood filled with people wearing North Face fleeces swinging around their Coach wristlets. But words like "U Street," "Nationals Park," and "North East" -- it's like a foreign language.</div>
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I bought two tickets to a photography exhibit at a totally trendy* (*to people in D.C.) gallery hosted by a local news blog. Here's what I can conclude with 100% confidence from my time back in the district: You cannot differentiate the social scenes. Segregated social spheres are no more! Now, Barbour jacket-wearing kids whose full names sound like law firms are hanging out in the same venues as "creative types" with full-sleeve tats.</div>
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I have found a living, breathing identity crisis and his/her/hermaphie's name is WASHINGTON D.C. This goes waaaaaay beyond any upper-middle class white kid's quarter-life questioning. No one in D.C. knows who they are, or can identify themselves as a "type." Usually at an event like this you would see one social group of "art" people. But these attendees had no clue where they fell in a social spectrum. You're at an alt-cultural event but you're a wonk who dresses like a vice-principal at a state-wide budget conference. Or you're a tech start-up graphic designer, wearing creepers, and are actually socializing, nay, SMILING. Everyone's confused yet everyone's trying to fit in to some scene that doesn't even exist. Think outside the social box? THERE IS NO BOX. I have to stop typing about this or my mind will collapse upon itself like a full-blown prep-cum-jap-cum-not really hipster, star. (If anyone googled "cum" and ended up here then WELCOME! And, I'm sorry?)</div>
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At the beginning of the day, I chose to dress like someone who I thought would attend a gallery function:</div>
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<li>Big, messy bun? Check.</li>
<li>Thick cat-eye eyeliner? Feeling Friskies!</li>
<li>Vintage-y looking sweater? Yeah, whatever.</li>
<li>Oxblood lipstick? Mmhmmm.</li>
<li>Knee-high leather boots? Oh, you mean the ones I got that were marked down from $250 to $50? Then yes.</li>
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Here's a photo:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihiN3gN9pdoKfSAZpc4xA6JqGDQzPWeDnd-gIBUqqHHoiigfCHTXa-nAc-f9jufAdBFwnhYkTtjcy7JHhV99jfFIYJqPIZOJVazmpEIcVvo5uT75pi4IJnxqJ-hMosDzV_vda-EHWBxFE/s1600/boots1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihiN3gN9pdoKfSAZpc4xA6JqGDQzPWeDnd-gIBUqqHHoiigfCHTXa-nAc-f9jufAdBFwnhYkTtjcy7JHhV99jfFIYJqPIZOJVazmpEIcVvo5uT75pi4IJnxqJ-hMosDzV_vda-EHWBxFE/s320/boots1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2c_i4xG8vxDeTUyZydb2QbziWOibq_Fa4T3Mt8x6PQhNYu2dj6-dNDiC2Ur9VkFUtn7smwv4VvqA0yYUIDVoYJBzztw1_AYtAJXL770jI9KYCHknDiIALvuux2kza8TWtZworWHU8Kk/s1600/boots2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2c_i4xG8vxDeTUyZydb2QbziWOibq_Fa4T3Mt8x6PQhNYu2dj6-dNDiC2Ur9VkFUtn7smwv4VvqA0yYUIDVoYJBzztw1_AYtAJXL770jI9KYCHknDiIALvuux2kza8TWtZworWHU8Kk/s320/boots2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not pictured: My pinky toes, begging for mercy.</td></tr>
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Breaking in new boots is one of those things where you know you HAVE TO do something, but just don't want to because it'll bring about much pain. Like the term paper you decided to write the night before it was due. What? Why would I have any clue what that feels like? I've just heard it's really bad, and that at around 4AM you start hallucinating and see all the ghosts of Christmas, because they're pretty bored during the rest of the year.</div>
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So I left work, striding as confidently as I could without any feeling in my pinky toes. Sorry, that's a lie, the feeling was "OOOOOOOHHHHHGODDDDDDHELPMEEEEEPLEASSSSEEEE!" I got to the Bethesda Metro and stepped onto the down escalator. I tried to limit my motion due to the immense foot pain and the fact that I just did my awesome art gallery chick makeup, and didn't want to sweat it off. We all know I suffer from self-diagnosed Hyperhydrosis. (Please donate to my checking account so I can finally afford <a href="http://www.drionic.com/" target="_blank">a cure</a>.) I noticed that EVERYONE was walking down the metro escalator. So I ended up looking extremely lazy because I couldn't even walk DOWN a MOVING set of stairs. It was almost to the point where if someone passed by my left I would say, "New boots, can't move, you know."</div>
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Even with the lack of escalator motion, it happened. Once I situated myself on the red line seat -- LE DELUGE! I looked around nervously to see if anyone else was noticing my excessive face sweat. I didn't know what to do! I mean, sure, I could've taken off my wool coat, then sweater, leaving me in my long-sleeved dress and tights... but why? I thought to myself, "SWEATING IS MENTAL! YOU CAN STOP THIS!" Apparently my mind-body connection is like a verizon signal underground (or an AT&T signal ANYWHERE!! BOOM. Awwww snap, carrier battle!) because there was no stopping the sweat. I couldn't fully wipe my face with the back of my hand because the makeup smearing would turn my face Picasso-y, so I had to dab (like a fucking lady) at my upper lip and hairline. Why was no one else sweating?? At this point it looked like I was actually exerting myself by sitting down.</div>
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FINALLY, I got my body temperature to a somewhat normal range. I "walked" to the escalator (where I STOOD, haters) and was finally above ground in the refreshing 40 degree weather. I walked the two blocks to the gallery and entered. Immediately, I was greeted by a bouncer who most likely got lost trying to find his meatpacking district gig with apple maps. He was dressed entirely in black, was about 6'6", and wanted to see my I.D. I pulled out my California mugshot:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4DnKPKisKaAc1-i4dPglXmy8er425YGPUWUw3XFo4eSz9zsPMKjdPXJEVEXYt8LntvMxOigGdj-Rk61UtKpELh52Qbbq84HPfs7Yh_FxEoSpXoXXinPHGK1EsRegz_fSe8aoPY0c8XLM/s1600/calidmv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4DnKPKisKaAc1-i4dPglXmy8er425YGPUWUw3XFo4eSz9zsPMKjdPXJEVEXYt8LntvMxOigGdj-Rk61UtKpELh52Qbbq84HPfs7Yh_FxEoSpXoXXinPHGK1EsRegz_fSe8aoPY0c8XLM/s320/calidmv.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To be fair, this would be my expression if pulled over. Or just uncontrolled crying.</td></tr>
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He handed me back my mugshot, looked me in my sweat-streamed, mascara'd eyes, and said: "You look very beautiful tonight." My only reaction was to make a noise that sounded like a cross between a laugh and water going down the wrong pipe. I then realized he was being serious, and as a courtesy said "Thank you" in my most, "No, I'm actually trying to be earnest" voice.</div>
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I moved on to the ticket table, where I presented my printed tickets -- one for me, and one for my best friend Laura. Here's a bit of background on Laura: She's Asian. She's awesome. Shall we continue? I explained to the girl at the table (the one with a major case of Bitch Face, much like everyone else at this party) that I was arriving before Laura, so I'd like to leave her ticket here. The girl responded "Yeah, whatever, she'll just give her name," then yanks the paper tickets from my hand and throws them away. I don't even think she RECYCLED. At that moment I knew 2 things: I needed to get drunk, and I was starting to sweat again.</div>
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Here's the problem with sweating in an art gallery -- the lighting. The florescent lights were on FULL BLAST to ensure clarity of the photo exhibit. It also ensured clarity of the water/mineral salts combo seeping from my face. I immediately took off the coat, slung it over my arm, adjusted my work tote, and lasered-in on the bar. Attempting to navigate this crowd was tough. Not only was everyone carrying a bag that fit their "homework," (probably the entire U.S. Budget), but they were also dishing out side-eye like SNL Sloppy Joe's. Here's something Washingtonians need to hear -- you are not hot enough to be this mean! That is an exclusive right for the genetically endowed! You probably work for an endowment. NOT THE SAME THING. At least the people in L.A. were nice to your face before they proceeded with soul-shattering insults once you left the room. Laura attempted to call me while I was in line--</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6bH2tiDISTQhHMAedDf4GBIzxQSuxSKNauVDWhqvheR2WG8a4Y03t5phTQVDVMezHCxA39nb6gXUhwLVLvzpOgOVfOpIO3VpIRW4kPJrM_5tqB8Igk0H1KrfAudOSNYhrpGqZ0Dd6bw/s1600/firstgottheretext.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6bH2tiDISTQhHMAedDf4GBIzxQSuxSKNauVDWhqvheR2WG8a4Y03t5phTQVDVMezHCxA39nb6gXUhwLVLvzpOgOVfOpIO3VpIRW4kPJrM_5tqB8Igk0H1KrfAudOSNYhrpGqZ0Dd6bw/s320/firstgottheretext.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So young, so naive.</td></tr>
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As I was waiting in the endless booze line, something happened. A single droplet of sweat traveled from between my shoulder blades and landed somewhere near the top of my tights. It was one of those moments where I shut my eyes, inhaled, and exhaled while murmuring "Oh God." My only hope was to get drunk enough that my body would somehow forget to sweat because all hands were on liver deck. FINALLY I got to the front of the line, but only saw beer taps. "Do yo have any wine?", I asked the hipster-attempt behind the makeshift bar. "No, that's the other line." I then proceeded to do what only close friends and family have witnessed -- I put a hand on my hip, tilted my head down, and raised my eyebrows in a gesture of "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME/COME ON." My forehead crease must've been deep because it actually elicited a "Sorry." The best scam of the night (other than this being an art show -- the photos were all instagrams uploaded to flickr) was the sign I saw at the "bar." "Small pours due to high alcohol content!!" Please. That's like someone saying they need an "Emotional Day" off of work. I don't buy it. I HAVE EMOTIONS EVERY DAY. You're currently experiencing some of them by reading this blog.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LYzqAxU0O6OlHcwVQnm13ugXNtUHq8zHSFWYPnGLQvPm_y9e6-lQIwlp3bjz_4pch4riNFnwfhfmJsoVDguOhEYeTD6hXJWcf1QW5wFqg2j36wbfOmfZU-jE2b25S6knNk4bW4uei-o/s1600/winecup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LYzqAxU0O6OlHcwVQnm13ugXNtUHq8zHSFWYPnGLQvPm_y9e6-lQIwlp3bjz_4pch4riNFnwfhfmJsoVDguOhEYeTD6hXJWcf1QW5wFqg2j36wbfOmfZU-jE2b25S6knNk4bW4uei-o/s1600/winecup.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing like wine in a cup! Except for wine in a glass.</td></tr>
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I navigated to the wine portion of the bar where I was greeted with a few choices: Average-to-bad Cab Sauv in a box, or the same Average-to-bad Cab Sauv in another box. I chose the first. After I took a few large sips, I decided it was time to "socialize." By that I mean look like I somewhat belong at this event. This was a slightly difficult since I was the only one there without a friend, group of friends, or significant other. I would look at a picture, and when someone approached, I'd start to say something to get a conversation going, but the next thing I'd know they turned away to their group and I was left talking to myself. I actually talk to myself often, but it's to test out dialogue, and practice quippy one-liners for real life. My self-dialogue was interrupted by a text from Laura -- DID SHE ARRIVE? No.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sadly, not one of my lowest points.</td></tr>
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I decided to give up on socializing and moved to one of the least populated spots in the gallery. This happened to be next to two couples, one with a NEWBORN CHILD. At a noisy gallery party with a DJ. A few years ago, I started a tumblr called "Why Are Your Kids Here?" The idea came after we witnessed too many strollers at Coachella. I really should've made this the inaugural photo. I attempted to process the first-time mother like the teacher from Charlie Brown once she started talking about breastfeeding. It's still burned into my memory. Apologies for transferring the image to you. It's like the VHS from "The Ring" -- I have to pass on the horror to someone else. I couldn't move from the spot, since I deemed it the coolest (temperature-wise), so I distracted myself with more texting. Because we all know that looking at a phone and texting means you have a lot of friends and are a very cool person. Text to my friend Erin--</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2ohD3obvvE6T2JVE1eZFLX3_DLGgqEM2mJChMiS3lngvcpzkMskyNzQXMh08awBuUZHjC5EJggJsmWvg4136hQMEeciM9yARfkMp2f3vroTfwAdWq_s8uNlwcqf3tS6Sc8PwOBu3mzk/s1600/erintext.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2ohD3obvvE6T2JVE1eZFLX3_DLGgqEM2mJChMiS3lngvcpzkMskyNzQXMh08awBuUZHjC5EJggJsmWvg4136hQMEeciM9yARfkMp2f3vroTfwAdWq_s8uNlwcqf3tS6Sc8PwOBu3mzk/s320/erintext.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm trying to make "Valhalla" happen.</td></tr>
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It's like she USB'd into my mind and knew exactly what I'd RATHER be doing. Suddenly I got a text from Laura -- she arrived! My savior! The first thing out of her mouth: "Is it really hot in here? I am SWEATING." This is why we're friends. Along with about 948350983409850389443850439850439853 other reasons.<br />
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I explained to her that I pretty much tried to hide in every brightly lit corner, and then paraded her around saying "Everyone, I'd like your attention! Attention please! I do, in fact, have a friend!" We naturally started what we do best -- talking about other people. I would've continued, but it was just too damn hot, and we ended up talking about that. We spotted the temperature controls and went over to investigate. IT WAS ON HEAT. Heat. "Laura, can I turn it off?" "No! You can't touch it." "But what if I'm like... totally cool about it and maybe accidentally hit it or something?" I then leaned on the wall, draping my arm over the control panel, boxing Laura in like the she was prey at a Jersey Shore club. I then "accidentally" turned it off. To anyone who's reading this who was at the event last night, 1: That would be quite the coincidence, and 2: You're welcome.<br />
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Once we settled the overheating, we started talking about everyone around us. Wait, do you actually think two "adults" at a function who look like they're enjoying themselves are discussing current events or developments at work? No, most likely they're talking about your cropped jean jacket. I'm sorry. We went to get another drink -- beer for Laura, box for me. At this point I'm pretty tipsy. After four years of being too scared to get a D.U.I., my tolerance is at a negative level. By the by, the D.U.I. fear wasn't really one of bodily harm, but instead that it's like a $10k fine and aint nobody got time (or financial resources) for that! We noticed something out of the corner of our eyes. It was a man, about 5'5" dancing. By himself. Just doing a bob-shuffle combo. I started to use my dance inertia to head his way. Unfortunately we never made a dance floor connection, but we both felt the power in that music.<br />
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Ah, the D.J. Well, he basically looked like Rif Raff from "Rocky Horror."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqBLckMhEVhX8RbCwS5N4FCU1yASBGuo5pNnwnzRpuNN-fjfMjvu-UIjt1CgKkhbwOjqhyphenhyphenjm36kz2-WDuosWpNvHExIgctk1YZbn6T0iRFXDldYW-T_gptI4beN4-nuejAE-cbfCZ4DE/s1600/rifraff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqBLckMhEVhX8RbCwS5N4FCU1yASBGuo5pNnwnzRpuNN-fjfMjvu-UIjt1CgKkhbwOjqhyphenhyphenjm36kz2-WDuosWpNvHExIgctk1YZbn6T0iRFXDldYW-T_gptI4beN4-nuejAE-cbfCZ4DE/s320/rifraff.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Time Warp has really messed with my skin.</td></tr>
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Except there was more of a "stick your tongue into an electrical socket" bounce to his hair. He was just playing that weird non-lyrical, non-danceable music(?). I needed to take a break from the dance floor and dragged Laura to a small ramp walkway. I tilted back on my heels and rested on the waist-heigh wall. AHHHH THE SMALL JOYS IN LIFE. Momentary relief from the pain. I looked across at the other side of the ramp to see a girl taking off her pumps. I felt such a connection. Enough to make eye contact, point to me, point to my feet, point to her, nod, and say "I get it." I told Laura I wanted to wobble over there and make a new friend. "No, I won't let you." "Why?" "Because I don't want to meet anyone new. I'd rather die." Well, I wanted to keep Laura around, so I stayed balanced on my heels.</div>
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We decided enough was enough, and called it a night. On our way out the bouncer stopped me and asked "May I?" May he, what? Give me a piece of sage advice? Wipe the dark heroin addict-esque makeup from under my eyes? No. He gestured to my coat. He wanted to PUT MY COAT ON ME. I think the last time a man has done that was on a ski trip in the early 90's, and it was most likely my dad. I handed the bouncer my coat, and he did his gentlemanly thing. We then took a cab home, and I was in bed around 9PM. LIVIN THE LIFE!</div>
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The next morning, from bed, I texted Laura--</div>
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And I'll leave you with this final thought--</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-65865616187360906202013-03-22T13:33:00.001-07:002013-03-22T18:17:55.864-07:00Fistful of Dollar MenusNow that I'm working normal human being hours (9-6pm... no, I KNOW), I've committed to enhancing other areas of life. My mind was starting to atrophy, so I enrolled in an online class -- "History of the World: 1760-Present," and am currently 6 weeks behind. I also got very competitive with the quizzes. You can take the girl (WOMAN) out of <a href="http://www.holton-arms.edu/" target="_blank">H-A</a>, but you can't take the H-A out of the gal (WOMAN, please). Well, you <i>could</i> take the tuition out of your parents' account. Also, class message boards are a really scary place. Only second to the Equinox/Soul Cycle/EarthBar Juice Bar complex in West Hollywood.<br />
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Speaking of gorgeous models in spandex, I've committed to getting into shape. Baby just wants to be called "Gamine" or "Lithe" or "Waif," or "Girl with the body of a Victorian child" for <u>once</u> in her life, you know? So I signed up for a gym membership at Fitness First. <i>Personally</i>, it's food first, then naps, THEN fitness. I'm a big fan of this gym because it's perfect for young professionals (read: people with no money). If you're in the DC area, I highly recommend <a href="http://www.fitnessfirstclubs.com/" target="_blank">joining</a>. (<a href="http://www.fitnessfirstclubs.com/" target="_blank">AND IF SOMEONE FROM FITNESS FIRST HAPPENS TO READ THIS AND DECIDE TO GIVE ME A FEW MONTHS FREE, I WOULD THINK ABOUT ACCEPTING THAT KIND GIFT</a>.)<br />
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I've recently started a regiiiiiiime. (I hope you read that like someone who un-ironically says tar-jaaaay. Or vahhhjaaaaayjaaaaaay. Gross.) I have a trainer named Brennan. Brennan is beautiful, coordinates his sneakers to his non-uniformed apparel, and his teeth looked like they were touched by an angel, who carries Crest Whitestrips in her harp purse.<br />
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Before I start my workout, Brennan asks/suggests/tells me to get my ass upstairs and warm-up for 10-15 minutes on the treadmill or elliptical, where I would be ellipting... elliptical-ing... ellipticling? Moving on. The other day I walked in and headed over to my usual treadmill. I looked into the mirror in front of me, (because what's better the analyzing every area on your body that gelatinously pulsates upon each tread, on the mill), and made eye contact with a boy. Nay, a man. A man who used to be a boy, who I was pretty into in high school. I couldn't look at him. I reverted to the all-girls school (with uniform) me, where I couldn't physically make eye contact with a boy until about age 18. I looked everywhere BUT the mirror. "Oh, that's an interesting crack in the Styrofoam ceiling tile...I'll just observe it for another 7 minutes."<br />
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I started fear sweating. On top of the physical exertion sweat. Then I sweat on top of the striated sweat because I was nervous my butt wasn't cute enough. That was the view he had, so it better be good. Since I was so focused on my bootaaaaaaaaay (see above for pronunciation), I noticed something. My underwear was starting to slide down INSIDE my "yoga" pants (Old Navy says they're yoga pants...). Just so you get the image -- pants UP, underwear DOWN. This created a noticeable band at the top of my thighs. We all know what happened with <a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2013/03/19/lululemon-discovers-what-men-have-always-known-yoga-pants-are-see-through.html" target="_blank">Lululemon</a>, so imagine the quality of OLD NAVY pants.<br />
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I didn't know what to do. I couldn't stop, hop, and pop those suckers back up because that would require me reaching in my pants like so...<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3zavgk2_BJs" width="560"></iframe><br />
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So I continue to yog, and just start maniacally laughing. Of all the times my underwear decides to fall down and bunch in my un-flaw flattering pants, it had to be now. With Blank Blankity (not real name, so don't waste your time facebooking) right behind me. Why couldn't it be with Laura whilst watching Bravo? Or in front of my apartment elevator where I would shamelessly fix the sitch.<br />
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I'm going tangential, people. So, I like to think I have "interesting" logic. Most people go from A to B, whereas I go from A to Cyrillic. One time, when waiting for the elevator back in my LA apt building, the same thing happened to me but it was underwear under tights (under a dress). Maybe I have an underwear-repellent ass. (Note to self: Check WebMD to see if real disorder.) With no one in sight, I just flipped up the back of the dress and did what had to be done. Once everything was back in its proper place, I looked around for any witnesses and then noticed the T.J. Eckleburg of "Hollywood Regis Condos." There it was. Some jerk camera, staring straight back at me. And my FIRST THOUGHT, my FIRST thought. Was.<br />
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<b>"Oh my God. I really hope no one gets murdered in my building."</b><br />
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Here's my logic -- if someone gets murdered, one of the first things police do is review the footage. And then they'll see me (and most likely my Coppertone tush) setting things straight. Then thought train just kept on a-rollin' -- if I prevent the cops from looking at it by stealing footage, or they catch me deleting the tapes, they'll think I'M the murderer and then I go to jail, and then the truth will come in the end anyways. About the rogue underwear. Not the murderer. The murder's probably long gone by now because I've been interfering with the investigation. But if I had to bet, my roommate at the time was probably the murderer, because she was too silent to be emotionally stable. But she WAS lenient on late rent, so you gotta give her that.<br />
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OK where were we? The gym. So after I finished on the tread, I attempted to run to the women's locker room. This was a little difficult with my underwear down my pants -- sorry, I'm not sure if you've really gotten it, so here's a picture:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgel5XmkcEHZ0zkILXAhJeLbERcU64YLN9jJiqvnBJgGzvpoEtu651uAYrmvPr4OaMsMqiYKs486XGvBhK0INWTykdGPU8Kvjj8kOK5ycK1VIU8B3dZDQuo-Dxg9ZK82pI_cXgzjh6xgOk/s1600/photo+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgel5XmkcEHZ0zkILXAhJeLbERcU64YLN9jJiqvnBJgGzvpoEtu651uAYrmvPr4OaMsMqiYKs486XGvBhK0INWTykdGPU8Kvjj8kOK5ycK1VIU8B3dZDQuo-Dxg9ZK82pI_cXgzjh6xgOk/s320/photo+(3).JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My underwear set up shop at that middle ridge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Alright, underwear back up, let's get this show on the road. I have my training session. 30 minutes, 15 side-eyes, and about 5 exasperated "Ughhhhhscomeonnnnnnwhyyyyyyyyyyblehhh's" later we finished. He told me that he was really going to focus on my core because (in his words) "I wanna get rid of allllll this." He then grabbed my stomach. The man was handling my stomach. If Shylock were around, we'd have an adequate pound of flesh, easy. My response? I stared at him, sympathetic to his cause. Earnestly I replied, "I know Brennan... I know."<br />
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It's 2 hours out from today's session, and I am currently taping the band of my underwear to my core. Que sera Saran wrap...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-91154415415240437682013-03-12T12:10:00.000-07:002013-03-12T12:10:33.443-07:00No ChangeI've just learned that Entertainment isn't the only industry where bosses make you fetch their coffee. My bossmother asked me to grab her a large decaf cappuccino with lots of sugar. "Like Grandma Rose, Manischewitz sweet." She then handed me a $20 and a motion of dismissal.<div>
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<div>
At the neighborhood coffee shoppe (Caribou Coffee), I picked up her capp and a small fruit cup for myself. I slightly regret the decision because it was like 80% melon, and as everyone knows melons are the worst part of fruit salads. Why are they there? Who said we HAVE TO HAVE melons in fruit salads. Is there an anti-melon movement? Do they have twitter? I am on board and you have my full backing. Not financial, just emotional.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I came back into the office, handed her the cup, and strolled out pulling the patented timeless teenage move.</div>
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Mom: Jen.</div>
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I stopped right outside her office, not turning around.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Me: Yes.</div>
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Mom: Jen.</div>
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Me: Uh-huh.</div>
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Mom: Jen?</div>
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Me: Yup?</div>
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<br /></div>
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I slowly turned around and faced her.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Mom: Are you forgetting something?</div>
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Me: Nope, I got my fruit cup.</div>
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Mom: You sure?</div>
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Me: Yeah...</div>
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Mom: Change?</div>
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She put her palm out in front of her.</div>
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Me: Oh yeah. Right. Your change. You know what, coffee prices have spiked.</div>
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Mom: In the last 24 hours?</div>
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Me: Yes.</div>
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Mom: Is this some sort of special coffee?</div>
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Me: Yes, it's the one where the beans are pooped out of an animal.</div>
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Mom: Ah, I see. Did Chavez have anything to do with the market change.</div>
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Me: No, but his parrot did.</div>
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Mom: Got it.</div>
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I handed her back the $10.</div>
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Mom: Nah, you keep it.</div>
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16 year old me would've chalked this up as a victory! 26 year old me somehow sees it as panhandling with dignity.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-4381129770839043012013-03-11T12:15:00.002-07:002013-03-29T13:58:29.125-07:00Conversations with Mother DarlingBecause they're too just... all too real.<br />
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I'm sitting at my desk. Phone rings.<br />
<br />
Me: Yes?<br />
Mom: Jens. I need you to come in here.<br />
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I hang up and walk from my cubical to her office. Her door is closed which usually signifies that some serious work is being done. I open the door.<br />
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Me: Yeah?<br />
Mom: Close the door.<br />
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I close the door and walk over to her desk.<br />
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Me: What's going on, what's wrong?<br />
Mom: Nothing.<br />
<br />
She hands me her iPhone.<br />
<br />
Mom: Can you take a picture of my nails?<br />
Me: You need me to take a picture of your nails.<br />
Mom: Yeah, I need to send them to client who likes nail polish, so she can see what I had done. You know, see how cool my color is.<br />
Me: Alright.<br />
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She fans out her fingers, of both hands, on her desk. I hold the phone up--<br />
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Mom: No, closer.<br />
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I go closer.<br />
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Mom: Closer<br />
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I go even closer.<br />
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Mom: Closer, like just the nail.<br />
Me: You know I have *work I need to do (*this blog).<br />
Mom: OK well you can go when you've gotten a good picture.<br />
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I take the picture. I hand her back the phone, turn to head out and--<br />
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Mom: Wait, where'd the photo go? Where did it zip too?<br />
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I turn back around and retrieve the photo for her.<br />
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Mom: OK, but where are my pictures?<br />
Me: In your camera roll.<br />
Mom: Where's my camera roll?<br />
Me: I can't right now.<br />
Mom: Can't you just--<br />
Me: Mom. I'm actually working. (Which I actually was doing.)<br />
Mom: OK, FINE.<br />
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Conversations like this usually happen at least 3x a day and range from online dating response crafting to basic copy/paste formatting issues. Or we just shut the door and talk about everyone else in the office cause we're two girls and we love to gab!<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8901617505842895020.post-38425018713247094492013-03-06T20:22:00.001-08:002013-03-06T20:27:09.796-08:00Voice of a Tranny AngelSometimes I'm fortunate enough to be invited as a "correspondent" on my friends' podcast -- "Fortnight on the Internets."<br />
<br />
Before we go on, you should subscribe to the podcast <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/fortnight-on-the-internets/id549052846" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">HERE</span></a>, and become a facebook fan<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/FortnightontheInternets" target="_blank">HERE</a></span>. This is not a suggestion. Do it. I mean it. I know people. Who may know people. Who then may have some family member who knows someone who can make this a lot more painful.<br />
<br />
I was asked to be their 2013 Oscars Correspondent, and you can listen to my recap <a href="http://ec.libsyn.com/p/0/2/5/025b5c4af9646f6b/Episode_24.mp3?d13a76d516d9dec20c3d276ce028ed5089ab1ce3dae902ea1d01ce8531d2cd54b9e4&c_id=5461682" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">HERE</span></a>. I come in at about the 45 min mark, but listen to the whole thing because it's great and they're great and we're all great and hooray and shit.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">KISSES!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
(DISCLAIMER: None of the crap I ramble on about actually happened. I'm not sure who would actually believe I got a free couch in Sherman Oaks...)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0