BeSt fRiEnDs FoReVeR!

A few days ago I was reunited with Mort. For those of you who need a refresher, Mort is the three-year-old boy I used to nanny who I lovingly named after a grandpa because of his large but dysfunctional vocabulary. (See entry “Out of the Motherhood” from September 6th, 2011 for more details on this amazing child.) I was so excited to see this little guy; I’ve been surprised by how much I miss him.

I had to stop nannying Mort because he started going to school, a place that I’ve recently realized harbors my greatest fear. Mort at school means he is constantly surrounded by teachers, teachers who could easily be confused for nanny-figures, and therefore nanny-figures who could easily replace me as Mort’s best friend in his mind. I didn’t know Mort forgetting about me was my biggest fear until I babysat him on Friday night and the time we’ve spent apart was all too obvious.

In an effort to remind Mort of all the fun we’d had, I acted like a 14-year-old girl desperately trying to win over the popular kid or a neglected son seeking his father’s love and attention. I was overeager (let’s play GAMES and have FUN!), I was overly flattering (cool new pajamas, Mort!), I was begging for his approval. I had to cram in enough fun in the hour and a half before bedtime to outshine the months of preschool fun he’d been having. I had no time to lose. As soon as the parents left, I decided to address the elephant in the room. I’m sure Mort was unaware of this elephant in the room; he was probably busy reflecting on the fun filled day he had at school with his cool teachers, but I had to know: did he miss me as much as I missed him?

“Do you miss me, Mort? Do you miss all the fun we used to have?” I was guilting him into reminiscing with me.
“No, I miss mommy and daddy” Not only did Mort not miss me in his daily life, he was also having so little fun with me that he already missed his parents who had been gone all of 5 minutes.
But I was not deterred, I was going to remind him how much fun I was whether he liked it or not! While playing with cutout monsters, Mort warmed up to me (I’d like to say I knew he would all along, but the truth is I was a jumble of nerves). When our monsters teamed up to successfully defeat an action figure, I found it to be the perfect time to bring up our friendship again.

“Nice job monsters! We’re a great team!” our monsters high-fived. “And best friends…” I added, gently insinuating that these monsters were a metaphor for us. Mort responded with a trailed off “Well…” and the very distinct let’s-not-get-ahead-of-ourselves-here tone was impossible to miss.

The lack of love I was getting from this kid was ridiculous. I found myself voluntarily doing things that he used to have to demand of me just so he would notice me. Hey, hey, Mort, do you see me hunching over, severely damaging my back so we can have this really life like train chase on this table that is a proper and comfortable height for a toddler but terribly low and awkward for a grown person? Do you see, Mort? DO YOU SEE??

I gave him some “look, I’m cool and fun” M&Ms, I let him stay up 30-minutes past his bedtime and I made sure the photo of us that I gave to the family before I left was front and center on their refrigerator. I really think I subtly reinforced my presence into his subconscious. Take THAT, teachers!

Cooking Up a Fire Storm

Happy belated Thanksgiving to all my food/American history lovers out there! This year I set out to cook my own Thanksgiving feast with my roommate and brother. I was excited, I was motivated, I was… not at all prepared for the stress that comes with cooking a large meal. Not just a large meal, but a large meal with such high standards attached. I mean for god’s sake this is the meal when the Indians totally forgave the white man for being real jerks and broke bread with them. Peace was accomplished, bygones became bygones, I’m pretty sure this is where the high-five originated. That is A LOT to live up to.

The struggles started in the grocery store. As someone whose grocery shopping is limited to spaghetti, vegetables and almond butter, I was flustered. I felt like I had never been in a grocery store before. When did those things get so confusing? I had so many questions. Many of which I was too embarrassed to ask of a real person. What if my questions were common sense? What if anyone who spent more than 12 dollars at the grocery store at one time could answer them? Does everyone know if active yeast is the same as nutritional yeast? If Lilly’s pure pumpkin is the same as pumpkin puree? The difference between kosher salt and regular salt or where the piecrusts are?

After we left the grocery store my nerves settled and the ease of Thanksgivings past crept into my mind, surely this year would be the same! I envisioned us laughing casually, nibbling on the cheese and crackers we set out and gently waving an oven mitt over a steaming dish to cool it down. Of course all of these visions were in slow motion because isn’t that how we all make memories? These images clouded the reality that would soon hit me.

The afternoon started out so peaceful and smooth, but it was not long before the fast-paced, high-risk activity of making sure every dish received the proper cook time and attention began. I cannot even accurately put into words the transition that occurred in the kitchen. And probably more likely than not, I was the one who instigated this transition from calm and collected to THERE’S NO TIME!!!!!! Gravy was flying, measuring cups went missing, people were crying! (a lot of the recipes called for onions.) My brother and I had a quick, pointless snap at each other over why we didn’t buy a potato masher. Honestly, I was treating each situation/minor hiccup as if a bomb were going to go off if we did not have each dish piping hot and on the table at 6:30.

But… SPOILER ALERT! I panicked for no reason. Dinner was delicious. We laughed, we drank, we cheers-ed to multiple things for which to be thankful, my favorite being that the house didn’t catch on fire when we burned through a pot while boiling potatoes. Oh, did I not mention that? It’s okay it wasn’t a disaster. Unless you call mashed potatoes that smell like burned steel a disaster, then, yes it was a disaster. But it didn’t matter; we had successfully cooked Thanksgiving dinner on our own! Maybe next year we’ll try to cook a turkey. Or maybe we’ll just buy a rotisserie chicken. Because I KNOW where that is in the grocery store.

Here is our wonderful dinner:



Here is the pot we burned through to make that beautiful dinner:

Home for the HOlidays

For some reason, during my last trip home to Colorado, I decided to get really into reminiscing. It might have been the crisp, nostalgic feeling of Colorado fall or the challenge I had made for myself to stop depending solely on the Internet and TV for entertainment (I’ve been feeling dumb lately) but I started looking through a bunch of old stuff in my childhood room. Okay, fine, the Internet was down. You can really learn a lot about yourself by looking through all your old stuff. And the things I learned were shocking.

Shock number one came from when I decided to check the small trap door under the ceiling vent in my room where I had routinely hid a treasure box. I was hoping to find extra cash, an ironic keepsake I once cherished, or at the very least, a funny note from my youth. But instead I found a (ONE) shoelace and the spare key to the very “treasure” box I was holding. Obviously I was disappointed. But that disappointment was quickly replaced by confusion.

What value did I place on shoelaces to warrant hiding them in the ceiling? Had something spectacular happened with this shoelace and it needed to be hidden in memoriam? It couldn’t have been making a game winning shot in a high school basketball game, because if that were the case I might as well have hidden all of my shoelaces (I was an all-star, okay?)

Why would I go through all the trouble of hiding something if I wasn’t even going to bother locking it? Did I really regard the ceiling vent as the end all be all of hiding spots? As if anybody determined enough to check this ceiling vent should be rewarded with an unlocked box. I mean they obviously put in the extra legwork. Either that or they are our electrician. What if banks took on this same mentality? A bank robber, after getting past security, would find all the cash divided into perfect to-go bags and a getaway car idling in the parking lot. Ya know, because they must have worked really hard to get there.

I guess I can only speculate as to what made this lone shoelace worthy of being hidden, but apparently not a lot has changed, because I put the shoelace and keys back in the box and returned it safely to the ceiling vent to relive this anticlimactic discovery in another 15 years.

After putting away my “treasures” I set my sights on my senior yearbook. And this is where I made my second shocking discovery: my family wanted my high school graduating class to remember me as a ho. There is a section in the Cherry Creek High School yearbook where parents of graduating seniors submit a baby picture and note for their child. In these notes parents usually gush about how proud they are and how excited they are to see where the future takes their shining star. My note was just like everyone else’s except for the extra special, “P.S. Oh I remember her…” signed at the bottom. While some families quoted scripture, my family quoted the famous Steve Carell line from “The 40-Year-Old Virgin” that ends with “…she was a ho. Fo sho.”

I know why the quote is there, it was my brother’s attempt to insert one of our favorite jokes and lighten the mood of what I can only assume was the most life altering transition in my parents’ lives (it is really difficult when your favorite child leaves home). I appreciate the connection my brother was making but the unfortunate reality is that our “inside joke” makes me look like a slut. I mean, “The 40-Year-Old Virgin” was huge when I was in high school; EVERYONE saw that movie. There was no way to utter the words, “I remember her” without someone following it up with “She was a ho!” It’s a hilarious scene in the movie, it’s a fun line to quote at parties, it’s NOT a great way to be immortalized in your high school yearbook.

The worst part, or best part, depending on your sense of humor, is that yearbooks are all about remembering. My note reads like my parents are predicting the future of what my fellow classmates will say out loud when my name is mentioned at reunions, etc. Or in an alternative scenario, a fellow classmate is also reminiscing while home for vacation and upon flipping through the ol' HS yearbook, stumbles upon my baby picture and note and thinks, “oh, wow. That girl must really have been a ho if her parents will so candidly put that in her yearbook. Who are they fooling? We all know the end of that quote.” Of course this person would be someone that clearly did not know me in high school (which is a high possibility; I had a graduating class of nearly 1,000) because I was anything but a ho in high school and that’s what’s FO SHO.

Child Stars All Over the Place!

Because we are huge ballers and love collaborating, my brother, Eli, and I are entering the Dorito’s Crash the Super Bowl Contest. The Crash the Super Bowl Contest is a competition for the average Joe, giving he/she (in our case literally he/she) the chance to shoot a Dorito’s commercial, send it in to Dorito’s executives (I’m assuming there is a division of Dorito’s dedicated to this contest) If they think it’s good enough, his/hers commercial moves on to the public voting stage, if it wins the voting, it is shown during the Super Bowl. THEN if it is ranked high enough among all the Super Bowl commercials, including the pros, then you can win anywhere from 400,000 to 1 million dollars. Any participant can enter up to ten commercials*, we came up with ten pretty fantastic ideas but after some realistic budgeting of money and time we decided to just do two.

Both of these commercials star children, meaning we had to hold the most difficult auditions of all time. We had to audition toddlers, kids and teenagers. I knew that instructing kids would be difficult, but because I’m not the director and because I wanted some extra entertainment, I let Eli take the reigns for the first few rounds just to see how he would handle kids.

Eli talks to children like someone talks to the person holding them at gunpoint: with a very polite, yet terrified, high-pitched voice. His interactions were an odd mix of a business agreement and a psychologist trying to explain to a child why their parents’ divorce isn’t their fault. I can’t really blame him, auditions are awkward to begin with but are even more so when you are trying to establish a calm and fun yet slightly authoritative relationship with a toddler in just a few minutes. I still can’t really wrap my mind around the idea that kids that age even totally understand what acting is. How are they not weirded out or uninterested? Why would a three-year-old do or say something for no reason? Why would a three year-old push over a 6’5” guy who is wobbling towards them in a squatted position, pretending to be a child? The answer is they might not. Kids are stubborn. A three year old will poop his pants to prove a point. I know, I’ve witnessed it.

But like I’ve said a million times: all you need to survive a day with a toddler is a really high high-five. Actors over the age of five but under the age of 18 are a different story. The hardest part of auditioning non-toddler aged kids is finding the appropriate language to use. Especially when you have six-year-olds coming in right after sixteen-year-olds and vice versa. Can you say, “jerk” to a third grader or do you still use “meanie”? Can you tell a child to act “pissed off” or is that like telling an adult to act “fucking pissed off”? Words that are G-rated to Eli and I are obscene to children but G-rated words to us are like PG words to teenagers, super lame and not nearly edgy enough. I knew Eli was having a hard time with the language barrier when he used the word “crap” when talking to a teenager. I have not heard my brother use “crap” in probably ten years. But it was a great choice because “crap” is like the training wheels for swearing and therefore perfect for a fifteen-year-old.

Aside from the kids, I was publicly dreading, but privately hoping for, encounters with stage moms. I wanted the kind of moms that would jump in and audition themselves for the part, but there were none! We had a real mix of parents throughout the day. A lot were clearly supporting their child’s dream, not their own. These kids were outgoing, talkative and truly entertaining. I saw how some people are born to perform.

We saw one parent who could not have been more bored with his son’s amazing audition. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than chained to this, what I can only predict will be, child star. Well guess what, pops? That’s what you get for naming your son (no joke, only first name has been changed) “Brady Rock Starr.” The kid has two options: child star or porn star. Rock star is out because that’s just repetitive. And there is nothing the music industry hates more than repetition.

A few kids were really shy, wouldn’t talk and clearly didn’t want anything to do with us. This was when I had a hard time believing these kids were begging their parents for auditions. One woman came in with her father (roughly 70 years old) to audition her young son (two years old.) She told us her son was a natural, could repeat anything we wanted and was great with direction, but he would not come out from behind his mother’s legs.

We did what had come to be our “toddler ice breakers” but the boy refused to look at us. It wasn’t long before the mother started talking briskly to her son in Russian, trying to peel him off her leg and turning to her father for some extra help. The grandfather then joined in on directing the child in Russian. I cannot say for sure what happened in the next five minutes, mostly because Eli and I had lost control of the room and Russian was the only language used for the duration of the audition. Eli and I sat silently as the boy turned away each time the mother moved him to face us. At some point we all ended up squatting on the floor where the mom would occasionally push me down to show her son what he needed to do. And because I don’t speak Russian, these shoves came without warning.

After a few more hits from the mom, we decided it was time to shut it down. In order to cut off the audition we had to first establish the language change. Then we had to excuse them based on the fact that the boy only understands, but still doesn’t respond to, Russian. After the mother backhandedly blamed us for her son’s performance (or lack there of) they left.

Two days of long auditions, fake smiles and tons of high-fives later, we have our actors and they are all the cream of the crop. We shoot in a couple of weeks and I’ll keep everyone posted.

In other news, I got another nannying job. AW, YEAH! So when I said that chapter in my life was over. I was lying. But this chapter is much more interesting and financially supportive than the unemployment chapter. I have been in Colorado since Friday for CU’s Homecoming weekend and will be here through Halloween and my m’fin’ Bday y’all. I will hopefully/probably/most definitely have something to blog about in the next few weeks. Hold on tight!

*Do not quote me on any logistics of this contest because there is a decently sized chance I could have mixed up some regulations.

Long Time, No Post. MY BAD.

It has recently been revealed to me that I have bigger feet than my male roommate. I wish I could say this is the first time this has happened, but that would make a liar. And I am many things; a riveting writer, a fantastic driver, friend to all, but I am NOT a liar. It is no surprise to me that I have big feet. It’s a reality I have been living with for years. And unlike most disproportional body parts that children grow into through the years, my feet have been large at every stage. My hands are also large, I can palm a basketball (if you don’t understand this then you should be even more impressed than if you do understand) God, if I was a guy I would have a biiiiiiig… selection of shoes because I have a normal sized foot for a male.

The worst thing about having big feet is the fact (okay, maybe not so much a fact but the belief I cant seem to shake) that it is weird and not at all cute to have the same sized feet as a boy. Especially a boy that you are interested in. I have had to rule out a lot of great date ideas because of my feet. Anything that involves me voluntarily revealing my shoe size is out. See ya, ice-skating, skiing, snowboarding, and his and her pedicures.

I will go to great lengths to keep my foot size a mystery. In college, my sorority had a roller skating date dash and I had to meticulously plan out a casual way to get away from my date and order both of our skates alone, a plan I was especially thankful for when it turned out we were the same size. While he never found out, unless he reads this blog, embarrassment in that situation was not totally avoided. I did have to tell the roller rink employee my shoe size. He reacted normally and emotionless but I can’t be sure that he did not burst into hysterics in the roller rink employee break room later. Trying to explain the freak-show-like shoe size that accompanied an otherwise very normal looking girl between heaves of laughter.

With careful planning I can make some foot-related activities work. But bowling is just out of the question. Having a foolproof way of getting my shoes alone means nothing when the size is telegraphed on the back of each shoe for the world to see. And of course bowling just haaassss to be the only sport where spectators watch from behind.

Someone needs to step up and represent women like me. I’m going to establish a community called WWBAF: Women With Big Ass Feet. And as the spokesperson, I will be a supporter and advocate for shoes that can be passed off as unisex (a special shout out to TOMS for making progress in this field) and stricter security systems at Nordstrom Rack to ensure that shoes are in the correct area. If I have to lunge at another cute wedge shoe only to find it’s 3 sizes too small, and in the wrong section, WWBAF (I) will start a riot.

Good thing I never actually revealed my shoe size in this post and left it to your imagination. Now you all probably think I have size 14. Or is it 12? OR IS IT BOTH? I can tell you accurately it is not both. But like many women in Hollywood who lie about their age, I will always, always lie about my shoe size. Except to the employees at roller rinks, because there is nothing worse than skating in discomfort.

I love (the idea) of football!!!!

The time we have all been waiting for has come; college football season is finally here! This past weekend I went to the CU alumni watch party for the game against our in-state rival, Colorado State. Long, truly kick-ass story short, Colorado won. I was in my element at this watch party. Surrounded by my fellow Buffaloes. It was great to talk about how amazing our college experience was and say things out loud that I am POSITIVE my swagger says for itself.

I LOVE this time of year, though I’ve come to realize that my love for drinking beer and yelling can be mistaken for a love for the actual sport of football. Let’s get some things straight. I could care less about any team other than the Colorado Buffaloes. I could care less about Colorado’s history with other teams. I could care less about Colorado’s odds in the present game. As long as I am wearing black and gold, have a Coors Light within in reach and can be prompted by those around me to yell obscenities then I AM GOOD. I can see how I confuse others when at the mention of college football I ask, “How ‘bout them Buffs?” This is asked not to start a conversation about our offensive line or our defensive prowess, because if those are the topics then, honestly, I don’t know ‘bout them Buffs. No, I ask simply to assert my blind loyalty and begin phase one of my newest project: Tell everyone I ever meet how great Boulder is.

Out of the Motherhood

Well it’s official. I’ve finished the “nannying” chapter of my life and am revisiting the “unemployment” chapter. And while I complained a lot about being a three-year-olds bitch, I’m going to miss that little guy. My time as a nanny was truly a give and take. With each positive came a negative. For example, there is nothing better than a hug from an overjoyed toddler, but there is nothing worse than a sneeze in the face from a sick toddler. In one simple move, a tickle of the toes, you can make a toddler laugh uncontrollably, but with a simple (and warranted) disciplining, you can make a toddler cry wildly. There are always delicious snackable treats around because the appetite of a toddler is ever present, but when they spot you eating your own snack you have to share because the nosiness of a toddler is also ever present.

Being a part-time mother has really changed how I think about a lot of everyday situations. I never realized how fire hydrants are so inconsiderately placed. Um, how am I expected to maneuver my stroller around this fire hydrant when there is a telephone pole on one side and a busy street on the other? Don’t be a jerk, city planner.

I never used to care but I now question whether I cut my food into small enough bites. Let’s be real here, guys; choking is a serious issue at any age.

I am aware of common objects/activities/toys posing a potential threat to a toddler. I surprised myself by how grown up and authoritative I sounded when I snatched a Frisbee out of the air and told the ten-year-old boys who were playing with it that they didn’t have good enough control of their throws to play so close to young children. I felt so accomplished, but it was a completely different sense of accomplishment than I had ever felt in my life. I felt the accomplishment of having just saved this child’s life. While at most I saved him from was a bruise and a good cry, the point is I SAVED HIM from that.

Throughout my time as a nanny I was exposed to some ridiculously annoying, grumpy, loud children. I was very lucky to nanny the boy I did. He was well behaved AND adorable. Because I wish to keep his identity anonymous, I will refer to the boy I nannied as “Mort” for the remainder of this post. The reason for the name Mort is two-fold. First of all, it was the first name that came to my mind. And secondly, it’s actually pretty fitting because he was very much like an old man stuck in a three-year-old’s body.

He had such well developed speech that I often had to remind myself that although he was using big words so casually he was still only three years old. His vocabulary tricked me into thinking he understood complicated concepts but when he would answer me in nonsense, I remembered he was just a child. It was very much like working with a senile old man. Mort would often repeat highlights of past conversations instead of addressing the issue at hand. Our conversations would go something like this:

Me: (after seeing him throw sand) Hey, we don’t throw sand. Do you remember why we don’t throw sand?
Mort: Because… because… We actually don’t throw sand because… I left all of my watermelons in the garbage truck.

Because he did not mumble like other toddlers, and spoke with such intent, it was hard to believe he didn’t actually think that was why we didn’t throw sand. Mort’s clear speech and large vocabulary produced hilarious quotes which brought me some of the most unexpected joy of my life. My top three Mort quotes are as follows:

3. (In reference to the sing-along songs we were listening to)
Mort: “Anna, who sings this?”
Me: “I don’t know, it’s just the same nursery rhymes we listen to every day.”
Mort: “I think it’s Lady Gaga.”

2. (Pretending a marker was a squirt gun)
Mort: “Anna, I’m going to squirt you with ice…and poop…and dog poop… and fire!”

1. (Wielding a magic marker as a magic wand)
Mort: “Anna, I’m a baaaaad guy. I’m, gonna turn you into a dress!”

Not only is it ridiculous that Mort knows who Lady Gaga is but he also followed up this comment by consistently humming the deep and rhythmic “mamamamaaa” from the beginning of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” while I made lunch. Being told you are going to squirted with the two most extreme temperatures and two different kinds of feces is borderline torture and just about the most unexpected thing to come from a three-year-old. And, yes, you are a bad guy if you are about to turn me into an inanimate object.

Ah, memories.

I will forever reflect fondly on my time as a nanny, but I am also so happy it is over. It is time for another environment to absorb, be awkward in and, obviously, blog about.

Crime Watch

I recently moved into a new house that I’m sharing with two other friends. One of my roommates went home to Oregon for a month and the other is set to make his move from New York to LA at the beginning of September. So I have been living solo for pretty much the whole month we’ve been renting. I like moving into new places because you can kind of start fresh; decorate differently and trick yourself into thinking that this will be your first grown up house. The place where you will host parties with appetizers and wine glass charms so there are no mix-ups. But then you carry your beer bong in and store it on the dining room table and you are taken harshly back to reality. The one thing I do not like about moving is having to learn all the quirks of your new place.

For instance, I’ve had to learn that the fan in the bathroom sounds like a terrorist attack, but is harmless. I’ve had to come to terms with that fact that my bedroom door only has a doorknob on the inside; making it clear to NOT go inside if the door is closed because there must be someone (not me) inside. I’ve had to grow accustomed to the squeaky front gate being the perfect entrance sound for a psycho killer, and reminding myself it’s probably just the landlord coming to turn on the sprinklers or his grandkids using the hose to fill up their water guns. And yes, all my concerns about the quirks sprout form a place of fear and that is because living I’ve been living alone for the past few weeks and THAT means I have had way too much time to think. I’m pretty confident that no one is going to break in, I live in a very safe and quiet neighborhood…And I check each door and window three times before I go to bed and use the deadbolt of my one-knobbed bedroom door each night. I’m safe.

The thing is that IF someone were to break in no one would know I was in danger because I don’t think I would scream. I think it’s unrealistic to think anyone can muster something more than a loud gasp when they are surprised by something/someone. I mean I know I can yell. But that is must more in the cheering sense. Like, I’m great at sporting events. I don’t think I would make a sound if I were in danger, most definitely not one of those bloodcurdling shrieks in movies. I’m sitting here at my computer and, for practice’s sake, can’t force myself to scream, and I’m not even paralyzed with fear right now. How could I possibly handle the real deal?

When I share this concern, which is actually much more of an observation than a concern, people tell me that in the heat of the moment, with an adrenaline rush I could and probably would scream. I beg to differ. The only screaming I’ve done off an adrenaline rush was telling an opposing player “I will fuck you up” in the middle of a basketball game. The problem being 1. It wasn’t really a scream; it was more of a low, winded, lie. And 2. I wasn’t in danger. Except of losing a playoff game. My senior year. When we really had a talented team. But WHATEVER IT’S IN THE PAST.

When I was much younger my dad told me that if there was an emergency and I needed help right away I should yell ‘fire.’ Yelling ‘fire’ gets the speediest results because a fire can affect a lot of people very quickly. I really wish that a barely audible ‘oh shit’ did the trick because then I wouldn’t be so concerned about my safety.

Don’t get me wrong I don’t actually think I will be attacked/robbed/or mugged, I have much more realistic things to worry about like running out of gas on the highway and flying. I do think, though, that I would be most okay-ish with being mugged. First of all, who mugs anymore? It’s useless. No one carries cash these days and you can cancel all your cards in a matter of 15 minutes, which might not even be necessary if you only have a debit card and the mugger doesn’t know your PIN. You really could argue that technology has affected muggings the most.

Mugger: (with gun) “Give me all your wallet!”
Muggee: “Okay, okay, here” (tosses wallet to mugger)
Mugger: (rifling through) “Dammit! No cash!”
Muggee: “My bank charges to take cash out so I never do.”
Mugger: (searching wallet) “Dammit! No credit card, only a debit card!”
Muggee: “I don’t want to develop bad credit.”
Mugger: “Fine! Give me your PIN number! Now! Give it to me!” (pointing gun at muggee’s head)
Muggee: (panicking) “Umm, okay okay. Let me think, it’s my birthday…”
Mugger: “Come on!”
Muggee: “I’m sorry I can really only think of my PIN with a keypad in front of me.”
Mugger: “Are you serious?!”
Muggee: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m a little flustered.”
Mugger: (pulling out iPhone) “Here, here use the keypad on my phone.”
Muggee: “I don’t know how to use these touch screens!”
Cops arrive.
Mugger: “Dammit!!”

Now, obviously this is the ideal situation. Honestly though, I think I would be okay with a mugging as long as they leave me my drivers license, ‘cuz, I mean, come on. No one likes going to the DMV. Don’t be a jerk.

Smell Ya Later

This weekend as I was getting ready to go to dinner with some friends I decided to use some perfume that I hadn’t used in quite awhile. This smell no longer had the fresh and exciting effect on me that it once had. Instead I was immediately reminded that I used to put this perfume on in place of showering when on a time crunch OR truly overtaken by laziness. Out of habit, my nose relayed to my brain that I needed to shower when time allowed despite the fact that I just did. I washed off the perfume to stop the confusion, embarrassed that my laziness had trained my nose in such a way. I knew I would have to find a new perfume, one that I would use to highlight my cleanliness not to mask my lack there of. I was happy that my new scent was my choice, a choice I can honestly say I don’t think grandmothers have.

This week, after two encounters with grandmothers who smelled just like my own, I began to question a lot of things. Do all grandmothers use the same perfume? Is this the smell we all naturally take on as we age? And, why does it make me want meatloaf? In one week, smells had confused me into thinking I was dirty when I wasn’t, I was with my grandmother when I wasn’t and I was going to get meatloaf when I wasn’t.

I don’t understand how a lot of things work. Most of these things involve technology (I’m still trying to wrap my mind around electricity so don’t even get me STARTED on fax machines and cell phones) but our sense of smell really gets me. How can something trigger vivid memories but turn on you in a split second? I have never felt so betrayed by my own body than when I drank a glass of Sprite that tasted like the zoo smells. Like, come ON.

Aside from my sense of smell I have been focusing on a lot of other things lately. I am half way through the 4th level of Upright Citizens Brigade improv classes - BE IMPRESSED. But on another note, I am losing my nannying job in September because, damn it all, kids grow up and go to school and don’t need their nannies anymore. I will be taking some time to reflect on my time as a part-time mother and will hit you all with a very mothering and nurturing blog post. But what is more likely is a post about how I’m worried I will develop a vitamin deficiency without the plethora of fresh fruit available to me at their house. But I have great news for network executives! I am now free to hire.

What Happens in Vegas Goes on Blogspot

This past weekend I took a little trip to Las Vegas for a friend’s birthday. Although I think we celebrated more so as if the Apocalypse were approaching. Which, I suppose it is. Sorry to get so real so early in this post.

I have a love/hate relationship with trips to Vegas because on one hand, they are amazing. And when the fatigue wears off, your brain can finally remind you of hilarious things that happened. It’s like a gift that keeps giving. But, then on the other hand, that fatigue never fully wears off until your next trip to Vegas. The recovery from a weekend trip to Vegas is almost double the length of your actual time in Vegas. This is not so much observation as a stone hard fact. Anyway, the point of this post is not to explain what the aftermath of every trip to Vegas is like but to tell you how I (tried to) handled mine.

You all might be aware that I do not travel well. Unless I’m traveling by car and only if I’m driving. I get antsy and frantic when I have to fly. Which is never actually visible on my face or in my actions. I look more like a non-chalant zombie than a person with a fear of flying. My anxiety extends past being on planes and includes being in airports. Which made it unfortunate that I had to spend almost 4x the length of my flight in the Las Vegas airport.

Because I wanted to spend my money on bloody marys in Vegas, I took the cheapest flight back to LA, conveniently scheduled for 10:20pm. Because my friends’ flight was at 8:40, I went to the airport with them at 6:30 and because I didn’t want to entertain myself alone for 4 hours I stayed with them at their gate, which was in a different terminal. It was pleasant sitting on the floor outside of their gate, eating a personal Pizza Hut pizza. It was an extra special treat considering we spent the excess time after our hotel check-out and before leaving for the airport searching for a place to sit. The sudden and out of place rainstorm took away our best option of sitting at the pool. So we flopped over a closed craps table under a covered patio and drank six cups of water.

Getting to their terminal was a breeze but when it was time to part ways, my Vegas fatigue had hit a sassy plateau and getting to my terminal was a stressful, sweaty nightmare. Looking back, the route from their Southwest gate to my Delta gate was up an escalator, around a corner and through a door. But at the time I asked five. FIVE. TSA guards where to go. That’s almost a TSA guard every ten feet. I should mention I had lost my voice and asking anyone for anything, let alone complicated (turns out not that complicated) directions, was a major struggle.

By the time I finally boarded the plane the trip was catching up to me. I didn’t have patience to watch the 13-year-old girls giggle and crane their necks to see Randy Jackson in first class. Randy Jackson, really? I didn’t have any patience for the woman swaggering down the aisle and stopping to ask the flight attendant at row 15 if row 25 was towards the back. No, bitch, plane aisles are in alphabetical order. OF COURSE IT’S TOWARDS THE BACK. And I most certainly did not have patience for the kid sitting next to me to immediately fall asleep slumped over, only to have each movement of the plane send his body over our dividing armrests and basically in my lap. But did I do anything about any of these things? No, of course not. I did what I always do. I sat in my seat and prayed the plane didn’t crash.



I’m going to Colorado tomorrow for a ten-day free for all in the clean mountain air. And by 'free for all' I mean I’m crossing my fingers for an extra few days to work on getting my voice back. I’m sure I’ll have something fantastic to share when I get back OR while I’m there? Who knows, who knows.

Talking Shop

My brother told me that I was really risking a hefty fine by not registering my car in Los Angeles upon moving here. I did not do it and I continue to adamantly refuse to. I love my Colorado plates. I could say not registering makes it easier to spot my car, but the Buffs window decal and the fact that I am part of the 2% of Angelenos who do not wash their car frequently (ever) make my car stick out plenty. To be honest, I love my Colorado plates because I love Colorado. I flaunt them proudly and I have no desire to ever get rid of them. And, as I realized this weekend, I will go to ridiculous lengths to keep them.

Months rolled by and I didn’t register my car, my brother warned me that the fine would continue to increase the longer I waited. He also told me that after two parking tickets I would be forced to register. Three parking tickets later and my car still remains unregistered. But I still knew there was someone out there trying to take my Colorado plates away from me. What if I was pulled over for a traffic violation? I would have to explain to the cop where I was going without revealing that I have been sneakily living in Los Angeles with my Colorado plates for over a year.

I decided that I would always say I was going to ‘visit’ my brother. I mean, I’m sure I would be going to see him at some point that day or, at the very least, that week. And he does live in Venice while I live in Santa Monica, so I think the change in city makes it a legitimate ‘visiting’ distance. My ‘visiting’ story was locked down and parking tickets were clearly not an issue, but I was not at ease. And then, this weekend, my paranoia took a turn for the absurd during a routine interaction at the bank.

I was taken to a back desk to activate a new debit card. When the banker commented on my Colorado ID I thought nothing of it, and when he asked how long I had been in LA, I said a year. Shit. Now he knew that I have been living in LA with a Colorado driver’s license, and was no doubt driving a car with Colorado plates for a whole year. My mind raced, I should have said I was passing through, I should have said I had just moved, OR I could have been a normal person and realized this was a banker not a cop and he had no authority over my driving business. But it was too late; I was already panicked. The interaction continued with completely innocent questions from the banker followed by blatant lies from me.

Banker: What brings you out to LA?
Me: Oh, I go to school here.
Banker: Yeah? What school?
Me: Santa Monica College.
Banker: I went to Santa Monica College!
Me: Get out!
Banker: That is until I transferred to Cal State Northridge.
Me (as if considering Cal State Northridge for my next educational destination): What did you think of that?
Banker: It was great. It depends on what you’re major is. I went for business, but we have great psychology and communications departments. I don’t know what your major is.
Me: Neither do I! Still figuring it out.

The banker walked me out and we discussed how the recent renovations to Santa Monica College have really improved the appeal of the school. I have never set foot in Santa Monica College in my life.

When I reached my car and settled in I had a chance to reflect on the conversation and became upset with myself for several reasons:

HOW was I able to so fluidly bounce from lie to lie? Granted they weren’t good lies, this interaction was going to end before I could weave a tangled web and get caught in it. But, damn, I was shocked and impressed by how I directed those lies so effortlessly.

WHY didn’t I just recognize this banker as the non-threat that he is? He was making small talk, not investigating. And most importantly…

WHO was I? I didn’t even recognize myself. I jump at any and all opportunities to talk about CU Boulder and I opted to say I went to a two-year junior college? I couldn’t even flatter myself and say UCLA?

I’ve decided that from here on out I’m going to save myself the stress and trouble and just tell the truth when asked anything about my car. That is unless you’re a cop, in which case I’m visiting my brother.

On a separate note: I will try my best to write a post that actually tells you what is happening in my life not just daily interactions that I approach with nothing but alarming awkwardness. I'm going to Las Vegas this weekend for a friend's birthday party so I can pretty much guarantee something great and blog worthy will happen.

PS: I will shamelessly plug my twitter account again! follow me! senny24

Silent Laughing Leads to Loudly Lying

I have realized lately that I dislike when people look to me for approval. I mean sure it’s flattering, but it really puts me on the spot. I should probably clarify what I mean by “approval.” It’s not like hundreds of people are lined up, presenting something to me in hopes that it receives my blessing. I’m mostly talking about a few encounters I’ve had recently in which others look at me to see if I am laughing as hard as they are at something we are watching. I’m a silent laugher and I’m kind of self conscious about it. I worry it does not give the proper positive reinforcement that my entertainer deserves.

This paranoia is only made worse when people look over at me to see how hard I’m laughing. Do they think I’m not showing my gratitude? I end up making myself laugh aloud, which sounds clearly forced. Then I just feel fake and like I’ve cheated my entertainer. But why, if my spectator is really enjoying this funny stuff so much, does he/she keep looking at me? Just look ahead and let’s regroup when it’s over. I’m not going to make a sound, no tears will be run down my face, I won’t slap my knee. What are they expecting?

I’m sure it’s not actually an approval thing. I don’t think people are looking to me for permission to laugh, it’s probably a camaraderie thing. Like, hey, we’re in this together. It’s just weird when the woman sitting next to you in the movie theater looks up at you expectantly at each funny part. It’s especially weird because she brought in what smells like day old McDonald’s french fries. If you are going to insist that we share a bonding laugh, then at least have the common courtesy to share your fries.

Learn To Road Rage!

I have been fairly frank about how I feel about the drivers in LA, but in case I’ve been too subtle, let me make myself clear; they’re terrible. I can count on one hand how many drivers I’ve seen make a right hand turn from the left lane LAST NIGHT. It is strange, though; since I’ve lived here I’ve seen very few car accidents. Please, please do not use that information as a basis for an argument that that means California drivers are good. It actually makes their dangerous and sporadic maneuvers more disturbing because that means all other drivers are adapting to their environment, this awful, free-for-all driving environment.

Where have all the courteous drivers gone? Are they crossing over, never to return again? Like when a vampire bites a human and changes them into a vampire forever; there is no turning back when you cross over into the California drivers category. But I’m going to fight that change! I will never become a California driver. I even have proof. I have been living in LA for over a year and have driving here for what seems like, and most likely equates to, longer than a year and just a few days ago was happily reminded that I still got it! (‘it’ being proper driving etiquette.)

I was driving in the left lane, like a normal person, when a woman trying to turn onto the street from a sidestreet on my right, honked. I looked around, confused. I was in the left lane, the right lane (the lane one is supposed to turn onto from a side street) was wide open so I wasn’t blocking her from making her turn, it wasn’t an intersection so I didn’t blown through a stop sign or stop light, I wasn’t speeding, and I wasn’t talking on the phone. I ran through all the possible scenarios that would warrant a honk, and confirmed that wasn’t doing anything wrong so surely that honk wasn’t for me.

But as I was easing to a stop at the upcoming stop light, the woman who honked rolled past me, yelled “fucking white lady” at me through our open windows and then cut me off. I was shocked. Only in California would someone not even know how to properly verbally assault someone on the road.

I cannot and will not claim to be a road rage expert, but aren’t you usually supposed to insult the driver you have beef with? Yell something that is sure to get under their skin, really put them down and shame them into making better driving choices? Was I supposed to be offended by being called a “fucking white lady?” It would have made sense if she yelled “dumbass” or “bitch” because no one wants to be called something they're not, especially in a derogatory tone. When did road rage insults turn into declaring observations? If road rage is now based on obvious physical characteristics I would have yelled back, “fucking highlighted hair!” But I didn’t because I made no driving mistake to defend!

If driving like a “fucking white lady” means driving well and within the law, then yes, I AM a fucking white lady! Well, and I’m a fucking white lady regardless.

A Cartoon Picture Haunts Me Daily

It was my brother’s birthday this weekend, he has reached the ripe old age of 26. A number that seems so much older and more mature than the age my brother seems to me. To me he is just my brother, an ageless friend with whom I have a fiercely competitive (we keep a tally score of our games of ‘Speed’. And, yes, we still play ‘Speed’) yet completely supportive relationship (I have written him stories to turn into shorts and he has called production offices to find me a job when I was too scared.) If he’s 26 then that means I’m 23, which can’t be right because I feel like I act exactly as I did when I was 17.

Lately I’ve noticed that I’m having an age identity crisis and I can trace the origin of this crisis back to the 2nd grade when I was reading a book about life… or something. This book had a series of pictures of what you look like and the things you do and achieve at different stages in your life (okay, it was a picture book.) I vividly remember the hand drawn picture of a 20-something year old woman. Her hair rested nicely styled on her shoulders, indicating that the ponytail and pigtails seen in the previous pictures of “teenager” and “child” were long gone. She had a purse that looked like a small briefcase, hanging on one shoulder. She was dressed in a green shirt and long red Bermuda shorts, and the slight heel on her shoes found a classy middle ground between childhood flats and business pumps. Clearly, THIS WAS MATURITY. I regarded this picture fondly and found it not only aspirational but also non-negotiable. This IS what I was going to be like at 20-something. But now being 20-something, I can honestly say there are obvious differences between this “model 20-something year old” and myself.

First of all, I love wearing my hair in a ponytail, especially since I don’t love washing my hair. I bought my first “round brush” a few days ago, a purchase to help me transition into the first stage of womanhood: styled hair. Which reminds me that I need to youtube “how to blow dry hair with round brush” later.

Secondly, I often don’t want to use a purse, and instead choose to juggle my belongings in my hands. This is not helpful when I need my hands to do common chores like pick up things up or open doors. I have to shove my wallet and/or phone into my back pockets or, if wearing gym shorts, slide them in my waistband. Gym shorts. NOT Bermuda shorts, mind you. Very immature.

The difference in shoe preference between the “model 20-something” and myself is not totally by choice. I was cursed with large feet, which leaves me looking for gender neutral shoes. So slight heels are obviously out.

The point I’m trying to make here is that I had an idea, greatly influenced by this picture, of what I would be like at 23. And I am not like that. Sometimes I wonder when I’m going to start identifying with what my elementary school-aged self thought a 20-something year old would be like…

I wonder when I’m going to stop refusing to go out at night without a pregame. I wonder when I’m going to know what information to give if I ever got into a fender bender. A cell phone number seems like too little, and a social security number too much. I wonder when I’m going to accept the fact that people I went to high school with are getting married and having children (probably never. Or when I’m 35.)

But I mostly just want to know when I am going to stop referring to money in Chipotle burritos. I’ll think to myself, do I want to spend 13 dollars on a movie I don’t REALLY want to see? Why, that’s two Chipotle burritos! WITH guacamole. I can only imagine in 20 years explaining that I spent 500 Chipotle burritos on my daughter’s wedding dress. I mean seriously, though… How does money work??

But this is not to say I am jealous of the “model 20-something year old” or that I’ve fallen short. I mean, let’s be real here, I’m much better than that cartoon drawing, stuck on that page and in that book for all eternity. For starters, I’m 3-dimensional.

Stars, they're just like ME. right??

Living in LA I see a lot of celebrities. Not only are they just everywhere, but I have an uncanny ability to identify celebrities from obscure guest spots or hit movies from the mid-90s. Yes that is the troubled teen from “Disturbing Behavior” at the Grove. And yes, that man with dread locks sitting across from me at the coffee shop did have one line in one episode of How I Met Your Mother… three seasons ago.

I see celebrities in so many different places and they come without warning. Like many of you (I’m sure) I assumed an army of paparazzi follows every celebrity around, snapping photos and giving us commoners a heads up to their arrival. But, no. Because there is usually no warning and I see celebrities in some of the most common, public places around, it reminds me that stars really are just like us. Like Ryan Kwanten at Starbucks, enjoying a coffee or Uma Thurman at the Apple Store, dropping an iPad.

I see celebrities in odd couplings, and I have always wondered if a celebrity sees another celebrity walking down the street, but they have never spoken, do they nod hello? Shake hands? Does their shared celebrity, the fact that they (and the rest of the world) recognize each other give them the ability to say hello without cause? I saw Jennifer Love Hewitt and Tyra Banks grab froyo together. I saw Kate Walsh and Angela Kinsey take in an improv show together. Have these women always been friends or did they just arrive at the same place at the same time, instantly bond over their shared fame and decide to enjoy the activity together? I’m not a celebrity and I would never just sit down and have a frozen yogurt with another non-celebrity just because we are in the same shop, but there’s something different about celebrities… I think they could pull it off.

I even see celebrities exactly where one would expect. Ie a disheveled David Hasselhoff atop an electrical box, barefoot, talking on the phone in the middle of Santa Monica.

Everyone has a different reaction to seeing a celebrity. Some ask for autographs, some snap pictures on their cell phones, some point so that no one around them will miss the sighting. I don’t do any of these things. Instead I make direct eye contact with them. For some reason I think this eye contact calms them into knowing I respect their job and we quickly bond over our mutual agreement that fame is just a ridiculous result of an honest days work.

The eye contact says, “we’re cool, buddy,” or “you’re safe here, I understand.” The eye contact has several flaws. 1. I’m sure it is not calming. 2. I am sure no celebrity needs me to telepathically tell them “we’re cool” and 3. I used to think the eye contact I made was by chance. But the more I think about it the more I think I just stare until we inevitably meet eyes. After all, there are only so many things a set of eyes can focus on in a certain amount of time.

Think About It. For Far Too Long.

I have this problem where I over think hypothetical situations to a detailed and ridiculous extent. I spend so much time playing out a second ending to a given situation that by the time I have mentally worked out the perfect solution, the possibility of the encounter has already passed.

For example, a few days ago, as I was leaving my nannying job I jogged lightly down the concrete porch steps to my car. My foot slipped a little bit but I caught my balance before I fell down completely. Instead of accepting my survival, I played out what would have happened had I not caught myself and, instead, had fallen down the flight of stairs and broken my ankle.

I imagined myself stranded on the driveway unable to walk; what would I do? I don’t have the dad’s cell phone number so I couldn’t call him to help me. I decided I would have to call the mom at work and calmly ask her between choked breaths to please tell her husband to open the front door. But what if the mom didn’t answer? While I debated between dragging myself to the garbage cans alongside the house and hitting them against the wall to attract the attention of the dad inside, I decided that was much too noisy and would wake the sleeping infant I had just put down for a nap. Of course the dad would be mad at me for waking the boy and he would prioritize getting his son back to sleep over getting me to a hospital.

No, that wouldn’t work. I would have to call my brother. But he lives far away so what would I do to pass the time while I waited, unable to move, on the front stoop of my employer’s house? I decided I was lucky that I have internet on my phone and would be able to surf the web, potentially google “broken ankle” while I waited for him. Then, because my alternative endings love to complicate things, the dad would come outside and see me sprawled on the driveway, my mangled ankle drooping to my side as I wait for my ride. And, of course, because I don’t want my pain and clumsiness to be the focus of the conversation I would casually explain myself, “I was going to call and ask you to save me from this agony but I didn’t have your number, so my brother is on the way. Yeah, he doesn’t have a car so he’s taking the bus from Venice. So, yeah, he’ll be here in about 4 hours.”

My desire to not talk about my problems first and foremost is actually the most realistic aspect of this hypothetical situation I’ve created. I always make small talk before announcing my true intentions, news or dilemma. If I call my mom mid-mental breakdown, despite being on the verge of tears, we always have the same opening: “hi, Anna” “Hi, mom” “How are you?” “I’m fine, how are you?” “I’m good, what’s up?” “I’m having a mental breakdown!!!!” Sure the outburst came out of nowhere, but at least I eased her into the reality of the call.

And before I know it I park my car and I'm at my apartment complex, I have just spend 45 minutes reaching a suitable conclusion for a near death experience I did not have. Phew, that was a close one.

Now, along the lines of weird hypothetical situations being played out in my mind. It’s not that I never thought this day would come, but I never thought this day would come so quickly…. I have lived in LA for ONE FULL YEAR. A lot has happened in a year, a lot of really, really boring stuff and some fun, interesting stuff. If you would like to know more about my accomplishments you can google me, or search me on IMDB. Or for much more accurate results you can read my past blog posts.

Dance It Out.... Just Not With Me

Wednesday night I unsuccessfully tried to attend an electronica concert with my brother and a friend. We stood in line for over an hour and moved about 15 feet in the line that looped around the block. We bagged it and opted for a reggae concert at a small venue. I use the term "concert" loosely. There were three people on stage at all times, but no one was singing. There was just the occasional “yeah”, “well”, and “come on” babbled into the microphone in between long stretches of swaying. We lasted twenty minutes. The night ended where none of us would have expected, but I considered it to be a success for I did not have to fend off any random, unknown male dance partners.

I usually have to prepare myself for nights like this one because I hate going out, ready to get my dance on, only to find myself bombarded by males jumping behind me and trying to join. Let me make something clear: I like to dance solo. I like the freedom of being able to circle up my friends, pretend there is a spotlight on us and show off our unique moves. I like to be able to stop dancing and rap/sing (usually rap) along, this usually comes hand in hand with a stationary lower body and swinging arms. And sometimes my hips want to linger on a looming beat without warning. Why should I sacrifice these activities because my self-declared new dance companion has a different plan?

I don’t like having to telepathically communicate a synchronized dance without knowing anything about this other person. What is their background? Are they a serious or funny dancer? How would they react to me switching from dipping on the 2 beat to dipping on the 3 beat? A random dance partner is too smothering, too stressful. I end up resenting the person for not allowing me to be the dancer I truly want to be.

Why do guys even think sneaking up behind a girl and dancing with them in a dark, loud bar is acceptable? I mean, I get it; these guys want to get your attention, maybe offer to buy you a drink when the song subsides. But what about having dance involved makes that sudden presence of a man behind you NOT creepy? If a stranger danced against you at the laundry mat you would call the cops. If a random man held you by the waist and guided your hips side to side while you waited for your Starbucks you would slap him in the face. And if an unfamiliar man tried to sway with you at the gym you would be grossly offended.

I personally do not find the sudden approach any less disturbing and weird when music is playing. Want to get my attention? Easy. If at a club I would like to see some funny solo dance, one that will allow me to admire your courage and creativity. If at a laundry mat, Starbucks or gym it’s even easier. Offer to pay for my laundry, pay for my coffee or pay for my gym membership. See? EASY.

My Love Letter to CU

It has been one year since I graduated from the finest undergraduate institution in America: The University of Colorado—GO BUFFS!!! It is near impossible and very frightening to believe that I have been a college graduate for an entire year. I like to think that everything froze in Boulder, CO when I finished my degree and moved away to find a job where a college degree is not necessary. Which made it difficult to believe that anyone younger than me at school had work, or tests, or parties, or FUN in my absence. But alas, it’s not true. Another class has graduated and left the place that has been called such things as “ The Happiest Place in America” (CBS), “The closest a college town is to Heaven” (Sports Illustrated) and “The shit” (Me).

The realization that this year has passed so quickly terrifies me for two reasons. My first fear is that each year of my life will pass by just as quickly and as ruthlessly as 2010 did. Before I will know it I will be asking my fellow retirement home residents to hit this “Take It, Bitch” beer bong, made my Junior year of college:




My second fear is that with each passing year hundreds of college graduates begin their job search, thus making it more dfficult for me to find a full time job. I know what these Colorado graduates bring to the table: every desirable quality.

A likeable attitude? Check. After four years surrounded by clean air at the base of the Flatirons, a CU graduate can’t help but be enjoyable to be around.
Dedication? Check. We Buffs have suffered through several horrible football years, but still support our team and fill the stands. And we aren’t even allowed to drink in the stadium.
Confidence? Check. Every CU graduate knows they went to the best school ever and will not allow anyone to tell them differently.

Combine these qualities and you have the perfect employee. Or politician. Or boxer. So to all my Colorado graduates I say, congratulations!... And don’t even think about writing for a sitcom. Unless of course you get a job writing for a sitcom before I do and to that I say, help a fellow Buff out!!

What's Your Sign?

I do not believe in signs. I don’t often over think any situation or occurrence, I don’t sit around and wonder what “out of the norm” interaction means for me in the long run, I caulk them up to being just one of the million weird things that I come across daily. That is, of course, unless I’m flying. As many of you know I have a fear of flying (if you didn’t know this I would like to direct you to blog post titled, “I’m Baaaaack” from August 20, 2010.) I am happy to report that I’ve seen an improvement and am no longer afraid of landing… taking off and being in the air are different stories.

So when I fly, everything means something. And that something is usually that God is telling me the plane is going down. On Thursday, I flew back to Los Angeles from a trip to Denver and was hit with so many “signs” I’m surprised I didn’t have a panic attack. First of all, I was greeted with a last minute gate change, which most normal people would find to be a slight inconvenience but to me it’s a warning: Do not board this plane.

As I made my way to my window seat, I was asked by a man to switch seats with his brother at the front of the plane so they could all sit together. Being the people pleaser I am, I obliged. But now I was in an aisle seat. How was I supposed to monitor that the distance between the plane and the ground did not suspiciously decrease? I could only think of that scene in Final Destination when Devon Sawa realizes he had mis-planned the course of deaths because he forgot that he switched seats with a peer pre-flight (sorry for the spoilers). What if I was perfectly safe in a window seat at row 16, but an aisle seat at row 6 was doomed?

Finally after I forced myself to file pop culture references away as “NOT signs of my death by plane crash” I sat down to prepare for takeoff. I picked up my phone to shut off and saw I had a new email; I had a new follower on Twitter! “aaliyah.” Aaliyah, the name of a popular American R&B star and actress who died in a plane crash, was now following me on Twitter. It wasn’t even capitalized; she must have rushed back from the dead, in too much of a hurry to bother with proper punctuation to warn me about this plane.

I took a few seconds, mentally slapped some sense into myself and now here I am. I am now confident that thinking is what forces the fear of flying into me. If only lobotomies were temporary….

Friendfest

A few weekends ago some college friends and I went to the LA Beerfest. We were happy, enthusiastic, and focused; but none of this was directed towards the beer. My friends and I are still yearning for a steady friend circle in LA, and we saw Beerfest as an opportunity to find these like-minded individuals. We set ourselves a goal: two phone number exchanges. TOTAL, not individually, that would have been a ridiculously unobtainable goal.

It never crossed our minds that a large gathering created with the sole intention of trying as much alcohol as possible would not be the best place to make lasting friendships. Thank goodness we went to a beerfest, I can only imagine a vodka fest being a very angry and aggressive festival. But the patrons of LA Beefest were jolly and fun and LIKED BEER. We assumed that was enough to start some solid friendship groundwork, but I soon found that it was hard to find a common ground beyond the beer.

I can tell you that you aren’t going to become friends with the person at the Snoop Dogg caffeinated beer stand because you both posed with the life size cut out of the beloved rapper and you both sang “Next Episode” as you did so.

I can tell you that you aren’t going to become friends with the perv who will only allow you to have a pretzel from his pretzel necklace if you bite it off his chest. I’d rather continue my day with this taste of dried beer bubbles in the back of my throat, thank you!

And I can tell you that you surely aren’t going to become best friends with a person you recognize from your gym and have had just enough to drink that you don’t think it’s creepy to tell them.

My fellow CU grads and I knew that we needed better talking points to make this beerfest our friendfest, we needed just one more common thread with these strangers to know our friendship could be the real deal. So we gathered in the middle of the festival and did what any other former Buff would do. We sang the CU fight song. This was not the first time I’ve busted out the CU fight song at a non-CU sporting event. It wasn’t long ago that I sang the CU fight song solo after the applause subsided following the introduction of a cake at my friend’s college graduation BBQ. I was just lucky enough to have some others to harmonize with this time around.

It did not take long for our fellow buffaloes to roam towards us, and join in and with that spirited decision we got our two number exchanges! While I would call Beerfest a success, I can see this whole ‘making friends at a beerfest’ thing being problematic. It gives way to waking up the next morning with new contacts in your phone under names like “Charlie Chocolate Ale” and “Amanda Brie Cheese” to signify which beer tent and food truck you met your new friend. Then upon thinking deeper into your conversation and realizing that you bonded over your joint decision that the beer should join forces with Hershey’s for a marketing campaign and the importance of trying different cheeses on sandwiches, you have to face the harsh reality that making friends is not easy sober or drunk.

Long Day At Work

All I have to say about my day at work yesterday is that I think a child is old enough to be potty trained if they are big enough/skilled enough to makeshift a ladder out of an upside down hamper, climb onto their changing table and throw an entire bottle of freshly opened baby powder around their room, ripping open diaper cream and rubbing it on their floor, mirrors and stomach in the process.

Just sayin’.

An Eye for an Eye

As a nanny, I’m a step down from being a parent in several aspects but the main one is that there's a lot less pressure. I love the comfort of knowing that the kid isn't going to grow up and resent me. No one at 25 blames their childhood nanny for the reason they're so messed up. I like (okay, love) being able to go home and do my own thang. This is more commonly known as nothing. But don’t be fooled, I still make sacrifices!

I have to make sure the child is fed and happy before I can feed myself and be happy. I have to make sure I don’t casually swear at the drop of a hat. I have to use the word "potty" in public. The life of a nanny is not as glamorous as it may seem. Sometimes when I feel like I’m getting too close to being a parent, like I’m making too many sacrifices, I need to treat myself. Just to remind myself I can. Last week we went to the farmer’s market near his house. This farmer’s market is close enough that a dizzy blind man could get there in less than 30 minutes. It took us an hour and a half. So, naturally, when I saw cookies for sale at one of the tents, I bought one to take the edge off.

This was going to be the perfect treat to eat after we got home and he was napping. Unfortunately, he caught onto my plan. Not only did he see the cookie, but he insisted that I buy the one shaped like a bunny covered in pink molasses. Whatever I thought, I’ll get the stupid bunny cookie; he’s only going to get a bite anyway. When we got the stroller I told him I would give him some of the cookie, but that this was “Anna’s Special Treat” so he only got a little bit. Of course he was greedy and wanted it all, crying ensued so, to prove a point, I didn’t give him any.

That’s not true. I did end up giving him a piece when we were half way home. Then, in an effort to avoid another meltdown but also satisfy my own desire to eat the cookie while he ate lunch, I surrounded the cookie in a barrier of cleaning products that were left on the counter for the cleaning people. Not only could he not see it but the warnings his parents spout out regularly of cleaning products would leave him too scared to venture over to see what I was reaching for intermittently.

I TOLD YOU I make sacrifices. I put my own health in danger by storing my food within a chemical fortress in order to avoid sharing. #therealsupernanny. <-- this reminds me! Follow me on twitter at senny24 because I misuse and overuse hashtags all day long!

Enjoying The Outdoors

The southern California weather is a real tricky bastard. The sun shines almost daily making the outdoors look appealing but then you step outside and BAM! The ocean breeze hits and you find yourself wishing you brought a sweater, jacket or down comforter to wrap around yourself. I always want to sit outside and soak up the sun, but the freak and abrupt temperature change, as well as my desire to sit in a comfortable, (preferably overstuffed) chair hold me back. Luckily for me, I have found the perfect solution: sit in my car with the windows rolled down. It gives me the illusion of being outside but provides the comfort and shelter I need but also adds the perk of listening to my own music. Not only that, but there are several activities I only feel safe doing in my car.

Such activities include dancing and talking on the phone. Dancing in my car has been the topic of past posts and will probably be the topic of future posts because I legitimately love my car dancing. I’m not sure why I feel most comfortable talking on the phone in my car, but I do. I like knowing there is no one there who can hear me. It’s not like a paranoia thing, where I think someone has bugged my house, but I do think it has something to do with being surrounded by windows. I can see if anyone is approaching, allowing me the time to change the subject or lower my voice. I do this pretty much everywhere; at restaurants I always stall my conversation when the waiter comes to my table. I think it helps maintain my anonymity. And I'll be damned if my waiter knows my plans for the rest of the day! I suppose if I lived in a glass house I would enjoy talking on the phone in my apartment. But then again, I would never be able to throw rocks and I love that. At any rate, this is NOT the topic of this post. This post is about what many of my posts are about: the freaks that live in my apartment complex.

Yesterday, I was sitting in my car, enjoying the sunshine, when I noticed a guy was walking back and forth, from one side of the parking lot to the other as if he was taking a casual stroll. It appeared that he was doing this for exercise, which is just weird because we have a gym and live a block from a park, but his attire told a different story. He had on dressy boots, jeans, a polo, a scarf and aviators; not exactly what someone would wear to work up a sweat. After his walk surpassed 20 minutes I decided was most definitely exercising. And then, since I have seen and interacted with the people that live in my complex, I assumed he was confused and thought a parking lot was a great place to walk and clear your head. And maybe it is! He is not the first person I’ve seen do this.

There is an elderly woman I've seen walking for exercise in the lot. But she is always wearing slippers I often see her sitting in a planter at the front of the apartment complex at 7:30am, drinking a Pepsi Max, so I had chalked her walking up to her being a little off. I know what you’re thinking; I should stop being such a "work out habit snob." But it’s MORE THAN THAT. Why would you walk around a seagull and trash infested concrete parking lot like you’re in prison, when you can see a green-grassed oasis on the other side of the wrought iron gate? I know there are much more pleasant places to walk. Places where you aren’t in danger of being hit by a parking car or long boarder. But who am I to judge? I’m sure the guy walking was thinking to himself, “Why is that girl looking at me? Doesn’t she know there are patios for sitting outside, or clubs for dancing or EVERYWHERE ELSE to talk on the phone?”

I'm still going to proudly believe I am the only normal person in this apartment complex. Possibly Souther California as a whole.....

Dude, Where's My Longboard?

It’s interesting living in Los Angeles and being able to recognize the different “feel” of each area. Within one city I can feel rushed (Hollywood), like I belong on a reality TV show (Beverly Hills), and as though I will be lied to before even having a conversation with someone (Everywhere). But I feel the most calm and comfortable in the beach cities. Not as comfortable as some of my peers, however. I live in Santa Monica and work in Hermosa Beach so I encounter a lot of beach-y, laid back, surfer “brahs” a lot. And since the weather has heated up recently, I have noticed people going about their daily lives sans shoes. Don’t get me wrong; I love the feel of sand between my toes as much as the next person, but what I don’t love between my toes is asphalt, shards of glass or blood.

I saw one of my neighbors riding his longboard barefoot through my outdoor apartment complex to take out his trash. On one hand, I was envious; I've been trying to find a quicker way to get my trash from my apartment to the dumpster and here he was gliding away with such ease. But on the other hand, isn’t this boy aware of how you stop a longboard? You drag your foot along the pavement. I’ve seen shoes that have had to be replaced because the soles had worn thin from longboarding. Yes, I was friends with longboarders in college (also known as every freshman boy), please contain your jealousy. I know I’m no doctor, just a humble writer; but I’m pretty sure it is pricier and less comfortable to replace a big toe than an Airwalk. And before any of my longboarder readers point this out, I know there is the alternative of jumping off the longboard and picking it up before it rolls away. To that I say: what kind of pointy, sharp, or even (opposite end of the spectrum) gooey things could be on these unmanaged streets that you would jump into? Wear shoes while longboarding.

The barefoot weirdness continued a few days later when I was driving in Hermosa Beach and saw some high school aged boys working out with a trainer at a small beach-side gym. These boys were throwing medicine balls to each other, lifting dumbbells, one was even outside doing lunges on the sidewalk. ALL were barefoot! Who was supervising such dangerous behavior? One Christmas, I dropped a metal stocking holder on my foot, my toe was black and blue for years (okay, weeks) and had to take antibiotics. That happened in the comfort of my own home, what would happen if one of these boys dropped a 145 pound dumbbell on their foot? I can’t even imagine rushing someone to the hospital on a longboard.

I love the laid back vibe of these beach cities, I feel much more at home where Coloradans will break for pedestrians and adhere to a blinker to let someone over. I’m just worried that this beach-y, no shoe wearing mentality is raising stupid kids. I was in Malibu a while back and struck up a conversation with the employee at one of the three Ralph Lauren stores at this small outdoor mall. He told me how one of his former Ralph Lauren co-workers had just moved to Colorado, enviously saying, “she finally got out.” Finally got out? Is Malibu really a place that kids work their whole lives to escape? I can just imagine the rest of the story, “yeah, she couldn’t take the fresh air anymore. She finally packed up her Porsche and headed East for the small towns.”

These beach kids can’t take the stress of sunshine, clear skies or mild weather, how dare I complicate their lives with shoes.

A Close Encounter With the Sweaty Kind

On Saturday I had my 201 improv graduation show. To say the show was a hit would be an understatement. We all did very well and I was really pleased with the show we put on. Unfortunately it was not recorded so I can't post a youtube clip or anything. However, I can tell you that the high points of the show included scenes about incest, strip clubs, drug use and abuse and police brutality. I challenge you to find funnier topics.

On a slightly different note, I ran into a college friend at the gym today. Now, you all know how I feel about hugging; that it's uncomfortable more often than not because so many people hug unneccasarily at first meetings, or when the other is not reciprocating the movement to hug. And after today I would like to add hugging at the gym to my list of hugging inappropriateness. Everyone is out of breath, sweaty, listening to their ipod or eager to finish their workout, so it's awkward to interrupt or slam bodies together and catch up. That's why I wish I could say I wasn't the one who initiated the hug today to my college friend.

In a new city it is damn near unheard of for me to randomly run into someone I know from Colorado. I was so shocked to see someone from my past, I was prompted to demand a hug. And no, I was not deterred from the embrace when he said, "I would hug you but you're kind of... sweaty" as I leaned towards him, my arms wide open, ready to confirm that he was real and I was actually having a chance encounter with a friend. No, I ignored his clearly disgusted comment and chose to keep going. Sweaty? Sweaty? Who cares! You're a connection to my old life. Sure, we probably weren't on hugging terms at school, but you better believe we are now. Get over here, right in front of this bench press, let's hug.

But after the hug, when the blackout of surprised happiness wore off, it registered in my mind that he did notice my sweating and it quickly become all I could think about. I cursed myself for wearing a grey shirt to the gym! As we continued talking, I become increasingly aware and embarrassed of my sweat, which obviously, because my body hates me, made me sweat more. Finally we wrapped up the conversation and left the gym. I must be on my game the next time something like that happens. I need to remember that just because I don't interact with people very often doesn't mean everyone else leads my same life. I need to reserve such enthusiasm for family reunions, lottery wins and eventual, substantial employment.

Pop, Lock and Dropping at the Wheel

Living in LA I spend a lot of time driving, an activity that I actually love. I really must credit my iPod for making my commutes enjoyable, though. But, then again, I guess I’m the one who fills my iPod with music so I should really just thank myself. Way to go, me!

I love listening to music in my car. I’ve found that if I sit semi hunched forward over the steering wheel, my right hand leaning comfortably on my stereo and my index finger poised above the volume knob, I have the freedom and time convenience to blast my music at a point in the song that gets me especially psyched. And when I get especially psyched I like to dance. Now, I wouldn’t’ say I’m a good dancer, but I do it anyway. And I feel safest dancing in my car because I like to think no one can see me. This is far from the truth because not only are my windows not tinted, but I am constantly surrounded by cars.

Driving in Colorado I was pampered with breaks in traffic, long stretches of time where there wouldn’t be a car directly next to me, allowing me to bust a move that could not be contained any longer. Not so much in LA. I’m usually neck and neck with someone at all points during the drive. I used to think I had developed the perfect car dance, one that allowed me to move freely, the only rule being that no limbs can make their way above the window line. But when I noticed that I could see my fellow drivers holding their phones barely above their laps to sneakily text at the wheel, and that I could see what kind of coffee they were drinking as it sat in their cup holder, harsh reality set in.

I took a good, long, honest look at my car dancing and realized that my hips played an integral part my movements. When you get a central body part, such as hips, involved in a dance, all subtly goes out the window (not literally, I can proudly say my dancing stayed within the confines of the car). Sure, my arms usually stayed below the window line jabbing side to side like I was playing turntables. But my popping shoulders certainly did not. My bobbing head certainly did not. And my pursed lips that make their appearance whenever I listen to aggressive/demeaning rap (which is all the time); a face I think looks like I just finished saying, “Ooooooo-weeeee! This is my jam!” certainly did not fall below the window line. My kneecaps were basically the only body part not moving.

It reminds me of my friend’s mom who said she could always spot her daughter from behind as a child because her chubby cheeks stuck out on either side of her head. My friend was using the oldest form of false sense of safety known to man; if I can’t see you, you can’t see me. She turned her head to confuse her mom and avoid having to leave the park, and I set up my own patronizing rules to avoid facing the fact that my mobile clubbing was all to well known on the road.

PS I want to take this opportunity to remind everyone to follow me on Twitter (senny24)! I make up my own hashtags on the reg because 1. It’s funny and 2. I don’t understand how to use them correctly.

Home Sweet Home

I think a lot of the people that work for and/or live in my apartment complex are constantly confused. Today I woke up to find my neighbor’s garbage disposal had backed up and spaghetti was floating around in one-inch high water in my sink. I didn’t have time to deal with this right away. As you all know, I’m a very important nanny and I had to get to work. I called the maintenance man of my apartment complex while we were at the park, he sounded flustered like I was a woman he was having an affair with and his wife was in the room. “Call the front office!” he blurted out. I imagined his eyes jotting back and forth, using his free had to cover his mouth and hide the receiver, “they will make a work order for me.” He is obviously doing repairs for another complex on the side.

When I got home from work, my apartment door was closed but unlocked. While my TV was still there, everything from under my sink has out and askew. Someone had broken in! After a few minor heart attacks, and logical thinking that because the only sign of a break in was under my sink and no one would steal Swiffer sweepers, I was safe. The maintenance man walked in behind me, apologized for scaring the bejesus outta me, and returned to fixing the garbage disposal. I asked what seemed to be the problem and he answered, “so much food in the pipes.” I KNEW it wasn't my fault. From day one I never trusted the garbage disposal, I’ve never put food down my sink. It was my neighbors! Plus it was fettuccine and I eat angel hair.

I stood at my door as the maintenance man passed by with a disgusted look on his face, so disappointed, so offended by the mess. He stopped and dumped a bucket of the old spaghetti found in my drain on the lawn/sidewalk right outside of my apartment. A path frequented by everyone in the complex. I was shocked. How was he so grossed out by my sink (a sight that lead him to use a face more commonly reserved for those picking up dead animals), but found the route of choice for many tenants to be a suitable place to dispose of it? Was he teaching me a lesson for something I didn't do? Was he mad I called his private line earlier?

As they finished their work, my neighbor walked by. He nodded to my open door and the maintenance man splashing food on the sidewalk and said, “they’re working on my sink, too.” Like it was a coincidence. “Weird!” I laughed out in response, dripping with half you’re a dumbass, half you ruined fettuccine for me undertones and walked to my car- I had to get away from this ass-backward situation that I call home.

Smarty Pants

Lately I have become concerned that being out of a classroom has left me quickly falling into the depths of dumbness. The lack of information being forced into my mind and the lack of requirement to make sense and/or spell things correctly in a paper or public classroom response have allowed me to lower my standards to an alarming level. I’m not going to lie; I was never a big reader in college. I was pretty good at getting the “gist” through classroom discussions and found if you read the first 2 chapters, the middle chapter and the last two chapters, you are pretty much up to speed in 1/4 of the time.

But I did always pride myself on my ability to articulate my point well in papers. As all of you have probably noticed, I have an uncanny way with words. But now I find myself misspelling the most common things. Today I almost spelled caps with a K. In my first draft of this post I spelled ‘swung’ as ‘swong’ and ‘original’ as ‘ariginal’. What makes this even more difficult is that I’m too proud to resort to spell check. I will re-type the mistake over and over in Word waiting for the red squiggly line underneath to disappear. You can imagine how much time is wasted adhering to my stubbornness. I tap at my brain and think to myself, you graduated from college, Anna, why does this word look so weird?
Oh, right, because I spelled traffic with two Rs.

I can’t even articulate my point well in spoken word anymore. I get easily flustered, forgetful and I believe I’m developing a stutter. The other day, the little boy I nanny ran in front of me as we crossed the street. He was safe but I still I yelled out a gentle reminder, “hey, stay on the… the… the lines… shit what is that word? The yellow lines…stay on those while you cross!” I swung my arms around like a conductor hoping the child had eyes in the back of his head and understood what the hand motions meant, because I sure didn’t. When I made it safely across, out of breath and completely mentally exhausted from searching for the correct word, it came to me. Oh, did I mean crosswalk? YES, I DID.

I have never been more consciously aware of my intelligence than I am now, when I’m no longer being graded on it. I have come to turn to the “story time” portion of my nanny job to get some new information. I first want to say everything is much easier to learn and remember when it is in rhyming form. So thank you, Dr. Seuss, I now know that all the planets of our solar system can fit in Jupiter! I also now know that it’s spelled Jupiter not Jupitor.

Inside The Mind of a Serial Writer

I’m reading “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott, a book of advice on writing. And it got me thinking about this two faced hell/heaven I call writing and trying to make a living out of it, the end goal being to write for a TV show. I have never done so much consistent writing in my life. Not only do I have to wrack my brain for hilarity to bring you in these blog posts (just kidding there is no “wracking” involved, this is all very natural and easy), but I am working on an original pilot, another spec script and several short story ideas I have. With this much nonstop writing going on, I’ve really come face to face with my personal writing process and the bipolar reactions that come with it.

I usually start writing with excitement and confidence. I have so many ideas, details, snippets of dialogue swirling in my mind that I want to include; how could this project not be solid gold? Shortly after that I realize that my thoughts are way too scattered to come together. The very thought of filling an adequate amount of pages and making the story smooth seems impossible, or just like a lot of work. Both of which discourage me. I immediately follow up this reaction by writing down these small details somewhere and then I continue writing, knowing I can add them in whenever and wherever later.
Then I start cruising again. Words flow swiftly yet peacefully like the most beautiful fucking river you could ever imagine. When I’ve reached a place that feels like a good stopping point, I re-read my work. And am so blown away by how terrible it is that I start looking up corporate jobs in Colorado to trick myself into thinking my inevitable move back is more by choice than it actually is. Then… right when I ask myself why anyone would ever want to read this, I keep writing. In the end, after multiple re-writes, I realize that I am slightly satisfied with the result.

Encouraging myself to push through these conflicting emotions and continue to write is tricky. It does not help that I don’t take compliments well (this does not mean you should stop giving them). Instead I find encouragement in the most bizarre forms. I can find motivation to get started writing again in a text message from a friend reminding me of a distant and hilariously amazing college memory. Or in a youtube clip of Tina Fey’s 30 Rock bloopers. Or in a small failure in someone else’s life. Writing is consistently agonizing and rewarding all at the same time. That’s exactly why writers have their vices. Stephen King drank Scope and I eat fro yo.

But even with the staggered stages of happiness in writing there is nothing better than finishing some good stuff that makes someone say, “Oh my God! This is the best thing I’ve ever read! This is worth THOUSANDS, let me get my checkbook!” This has never happened to me, but I can assume there is nothing better.

So there, there was an extra special glimpse into the inner workings of my mind that none of you asked for. But that is my weekly, daily, and hourly struggle while I write and “follow” (more like silently hate) my dreams!

Bad News on the Streets

I had epiphany last night that made me very sad. I was driving back from an improv show in Hollywood, was exhausted and really not looking forward to the 40 minute drive ahead of me. I cursed myself for staying out late when going to bed early had sounded like the ideal situation since about 5pm that night. I was stopped at a light and saw a homeless man to my right sleeping on the corner of the very busy intersection of Hollywood Blvd and Highland. There were still tons of people out and about, walking past him, shopping, drinking; living their lives. And then it hit me; one of the worst things (dare I say THE worst thing?) about being homeless is that you can never go to bed early. When all of society is your roommate no one is going to courteously tip top past you and press their index finger to their lips to warn fellow passersby that you’re sleeping, “shhh! He has a big day of panhandling tomorrow.”

Never wear a red shirt to Target.

I get severe buyers remorse. At any given point that I have money at my disposal, I feel capable of buying things. A feeling that quickly goes away as soon as I get home, sit on my couch and look at my the shopping bags full of mistakes. I usually return most of the things I bought the very next day.

It is interesting that I so quickly change my mind when I get home because a lot of planning goes into my shopping adventures. I need to think seriously about plan the area surrounding the mall or shop I will be patronizing and there are two things that must be available to me for a pleasant shopping experience.

The first is a place to replenish my shopping enthusiasm (this can come in the form of a Wetzel’s Pretzels or Mrs. Field’s, but it must, must have Coca-Cola products). I have on several occasions left businesses because they serve Pepsi products and in an activity that brings me to an internal mental debate I can’t risk the reaction of an unfavorable variable.

The second factor I must have before shopping is the availability of ample parking. I am not into circling my prey like a shark. I need to dive in before my buyers remorse sets in pre-purchase or even pre-browse. That, and I don’t know how to parallel park.

And because I am by no means a baller (in the sense that I don’t make a lot of money, however, I AM a baller in every other sense of the word), I have to do intense monetary weighing to ensure I will survive this shopping trip. I schedule what I will be eating day-by-day for the week before I will allow myself to spend any excess money. So screw you, cravings, Tuesday says “mac-n-cheese”. DEAL WITH IT.

The biggest problem is not that I waste my time, gas and energy justifying or criticizing my purchases. No, the biggest problem is that I’m bad at having buyers remorse. I usually go back to the store and after returning my items, take a lap around the store and find other things I want to buy. Yesterday I went to Target to return a $16.00 pair of sunglasses and left with $58.00 worth of bathroom accessories.

I have decided it’s my old athlete’s mindset taking control. I need the first trip to the store to warm myself up for the doozie of a purchase I will make upon my second trip. I could pull something if it wasn’t for these warm ups.