Accidental Cardio

Something has been amiss this week. Maybe it's those post-wedding blues. Or the return of fall, which means that winter is just around the bend. Or maybe it's just fluxes in hormones and weather. (Or maybe I just got bit on the bum by a bitch bug.) Whatever it is, this girl needed to jostle something back into place.

Best place to start: tackling the walrus and getting back to some sort of physical activity (other than bustin' out sick dance moves at various wedding receptions).

So, gave it a go. Jumped back into my go-to TIU workout. Rearranged our second bedroom so all the mirrors were just perfect for me to openly judge myself so I'd work extra hard. Locked the beau out and went to town for a time. Decent workout, clearly out of shape, but did pretty swell for still dealing with my bum knee (#CuzIm90).

Post workout, bopped over to the bathroom to rinse off. Decided to bump some jams. I haven't gotten in good shower jams in far too long, so spent a few minutes deciding on music. Tried to reflect on the source of my funk (my weird week funk, not like, my groovin' dance funk) and decided on a throwback. Went way back and tried to think what my favorite inspirational tunes had been back in middle school, during a much simpler time. Came up with the quintessential song: Under Pressure by Queen and Bowie. Freddie and Bowie, my straight up favorites. That was just the ticket!

Putzed with my phone to get the song going. Set it on the sink and hopped in the shower. After the infamous opening beats, as the stellar vocals chimed in, I realized the volume was way too high. Moved the shower head aside, shook some water off. Quickly scrambled out of the tub and turned it down. All set. Back in shower. Hot water, cool shampoo, hitting all the right notes.

Hardly a minute in, the song stops. Hands in hair, mid shampoo, my eyes popped open, filled with rage. Shampoo in said eyes. A cranky sigh, a half-assed rinse, and I was out of the tub again, this time caring less about dripping, as my frustration built. Can't a lady just get her groove back and shower and Bowie in peace without all these interruptions??

Realized it was a WIFI issue, so spent several minutes awkwardly pacing naked, with my phone above my head as the water flung off my waving arms and I tried to regain signal. Finally, restored. Set phone down and turned back to shower, singing all the "de da day"s leading up to Bowie's epic line.

Opened curtain, got in.
"It's the terror of knowing what this world is about..." 
Realized I wasn't alone.
"...Watching some good friends screaming..."
There was also a GIANT centipede that was half crawled out of that little "overflow" thing above the drain and below the spout. It was halfway out and was already two inches long. Panic set in.
"...'LET ME OUT!'"

"These are the days it never rains, but it pours."

With zero regard for water spillage, completely ripped the shower curtain out of my way in order to find something to smash the creature with.
"Turned away from it all, like a blind man..."
Total flood, water everywhere. Thrashed about. Grabbed toilet paper, but it just like melted (as TP is wont to do when it gets wet), so that was no good.
"...Sat on a fence, but it don't work." 
Decided to sacrifice the pink polka dot hand towel from the dollar store. Turned back to the shower to destroy the pede.
"Keep coming up with love, but it's so slashed and torn. Why, oh why?"
Dramatically threw back curtain. Further flooding.
"Whyyyyyyyy?"

And it was no where. It had escaped / gone back to the fiery depths from whence it came. I set the towel on the tub ledge and got back in to just finish my shower, my heart racing. Closed the curtain... and that's where it was.
"Insanity laughs, under pressure we're breaking..." 
A silent, open-mouthed shriek of horror, and I began batting at the curtain. The pede scuttled frantically down to the tub, away from the flailing plastic. Water flying everywhere. More scuttling, more waving about. Total chaos.
"Can't we give ourselves one more chance?? Why can't we give love, that one more chance? Why can't we give love, give love, give love...."
STOMP. Instinct took over and I literally took my bare foot and smashed the pede against the tub.

Then I had a nervous breakdown. Filled with regret over my reflex, I attempted to scrub off all my skin with that damn pink polka dot towel which had failed me. At no point though did I regret the song choice. And that's what really maters.

Sorry, towel, I have to go light you on fire now.
(Note: blur is from my literal throwing in of said towel)

I Frickin' Love Your Wedding

As a child, I was never one to dream about weddings. There was no secret hope chest or promises of bridesmaidship to the gals at the lunch table. I wasn't opposed to marriage in general - my Barbie dolls had more relationships than Fleetwood Mac and got remarried every other day - just wasn't interested in it for myself. Fast forward many years, and there's still no fantasies brewing or elaborate Pinterest boards lurking, BUT, without even a slightest bit of sarcasm, I can honestly say:

I frickin' love your wedding.

To be clear: I'm not obsessed with weddings in general. Just yours. Nuptials for a stranger? Pfft, don't care much, just a party. But your wedding, my dear friend... oh, what a treat!

Seriously. It does bring us all together.

When it comes to your wedding, there are a few things I want you to know:

1. This ain't my first rodeo. Having attended 28 weddings in a span of seven years* (a four-time bridesmaid), I've seen many things. They've been at bars, in backyards, at country clubs, on a mountain, and everywhere in between. Each one holds a special place in my heart and is uniquely its own. No two are the same and each shows the flare specific to the couple. The only thing in common: a whole lot of love. Love is like oxygen, dude; I need it to live. May I be lucky enough to be in attendance for a million more "I do's." 
2. Reach out and I'll be there. Contributing in some way or making you less stressed, it's all I want. You've invited me to be a part of your special day, and I'm going to make it as amazing as possible. Give me a glue gun or a guest list, and let's get to work! If you want to get married on the damn moon, I'll build a rocket ship and get there (early, so I get a good seat). 
3. I want it all. Every detail. I want to know every little detail. Really, I do. From flowers to footwear. The whole process of picking the venue, the photographer, the DJ, the wedding party, the hashtag. The engagement story and the full aftermath. The look of your new signature (if you're changing your name at all that is - #bosslady). All the Pinterest projects you plan to undertake and every DIY that ends up going to hell or falling to the wayside as the big day approaches. Every scuffle related to the seating arrangement or guest list, every minor meltdown, every tiff between you and your mom. I live for the drama. I drink that shit right up and am genuinely interested when I'm asking about your nuptials. 
4. I'm gathering intel. Those details? I'm internalizing them to offer as guidance to future brides. And to judge others against (because yes, we all do that). Plus, someday, if I have to go through the madness myself, I'll have the benefit of all the chaotic wisdom from hordes of brides and grooms in my back pocket to remind myself what to avoid and what magic works best.
5. This gal is a sucker for traditions. Popping bows and popping babies at the bridal shower. Awkward dollar dances and post-ceremony receiving lines. Grand marches. Tinking glass. Old, new, borrowed blue. First dances. First looks. First cake-to-the-face. Your grandma's veil and your mama's pearls... oh my heart! Sure, a lot of traditions are total malarkey,** but that doesn't mean they aren't fun. And, yes, I will ask all about them in advance - before some extended family member who's hellbent on them harasses you first.
6. Backup photographer, right here. Because damn you're gorgeous, and I just can't help it. You'll see the photos by the time your five year anniversary hits... probably.



Your bridesmaids are wearing chucks and sandals?!
STOP! I LOVE it! Let me take 50 photos and insta-hashtag them!

7. Your family is my family. Mother of the bride? My BFF. Crazy auntie so-and-so? She and I just did shots. Cousin whoever? We're in the photobooth. Groom's dad? I wrote his toast and handed him a hanky while he read it. On this day, we're all family.
8. Your friends are my friends. Yeah, I'm totally cool sitting at your childhood friend table (this was my most valuable asset for years as a typically solo attendee - easy filler for table gaps). Hearing  tales of your misadventures from a time when I didn't know you is a fantastic window into how you became who you are. Not one of us have the exact same moments / stories with the happy couple, but we all got picked to be at their wedding. We all merited being a part of their lives. So I'll tell you mine, if you tell me yours. 
9. There will be tears. Odds are, I will cry. Like a baby. It's not going to be dainty; it will likely be loud. The sight of the groom when he sees his bride the first time, the hug and awkward handshake as the dad "hands over" his daughter, the cracking voices as the couple tries to keep it together during their vows - I weep. I am a major weeper. Niagara Falls, Frankie angel. (Which is why I have so many movie quote gifs about crying on hand - just in case.) And yes, I did bring tissues. Oodles of them.
10. I'll be at the bar. The bartender and I are bound to be friends. I'm sorry in advance if you've declared an open bar. You knew the crowd of hooligans you invited, so just grab a drink and I'll meet you on the dance floor (the Electric Slide is playing, and my dancing shoes are ready to go). Promise not to be as drunk as your mom. 
11. Your wedding day is frickin' MAGIC. When we're young, we get the spotlight all the time. The older we get, the fewer moments we have a light shine on just us. At your wedding, you get that light. Shine on, you happy couple. Shine brighter than that diamond on your hand! On your big day, I want you to feel special and unique like the little snowflake that you are. This moment is YOURS. Anyone who tries to make it anything less than magical, I will happily take out back for you. Ain't nobody got time for naysayers when you're checking off milestones! You go dance your face off and talk to whoever you want, throw obligation to the wind and you just enjoy. If you're doing it right, you only get one go at it! 

More than anything, I want you to know that my love for you doesn't stop after the vows are said. You may have a new person legally bound to love you, but I'll be waving around in the background, throwing glitter at your life for years to come. (You can't get rid of me just because you got married; sorry, friends! From this point on, I just have to fight harder for your attention is all.) The ceremony itself is just a representation of a commitment. A commitment for two people to care for one another, and a commitment of all witnessing to support the couple as they grow together. The ceremony is the fun part; the marriage is the hard work part.  And I'm in it to win it for both. So when you come back home from the honeymoon, and life kicks back in after the year of nonstop planning, and the magical wedding happiness bubble pops a bit... just give me a call. I'll be ready to hit up happy hour with you to figure out where to go next.



* My heart is breaking in advance for the time that this wedding train slows down. Baby showers just aren't as much fun. ALSO, for those whose weddings I could not attend (I think there were three of you), due to scheduling conflicts, travel restrictions, etc. - I'm sorry, I'm the worst. Please can we have a re-do? You can re-wear your finery (I know you have that dress in the box in a closest somewhere), and I'll get drunk and cry and tell you how happy I am for you and give you presents. It'll be fantastic!
** GAH! My world is shattered, I always thought it was "balarkey" not "malarkey" - been saying that one wrong for years!

Talking 'bout my Generation

Warning: I may or may not be cranky AF in this post. There is more than one way to skin a cat (thanks, Boomers, for that one), and my views on this topic can swing depending on context, but  for today it's all the rage.

Today at work came up yet another conversation about those damn "millennials." I'm in marketing, so this is a frequent topic, as millennials are a hot commodity for advertisers. If you can "hook em young," you get the coveted "brand loyalty" that will pay out for years to come.

BUT no one can agree on who exactly this group is, or what age range it includes. Some say those born between 1980 and 2000. Others break that into Gen Y and Gen Z. If the range is that wide, then anyone age 36 to 16 is getting clumped together. And we're allllll getting pigeon-holed into the same frickin' stereotypes (so quit being so snooty, Gen Y, we're all in this together).

So, when I commented that what we were really targeting for marketing purposes (young moms) was the "older millennials" - it was like I'd shot each Gen X and Boomer in the room straight in the face. OLD?! How dare I! Typical youth, being ridiculous! They got so hung up on the word "old" that they didn't get my point -- that the "millennial" generation isn't just one small group, and more importantly, it's not as simply defined as their countless conferences would have them believe.*

Here's where I get a bit ranty...

The one thing I think all millennials agree on - we hate fucking being called millennials. The word comes with a negative connotation (created by the media) of being lazy, entitled sheep, herding toward the latest social media craze. If the label is bad, the images are worse. As a friend of mine put it: they can call us whatever they want, as long as they stop pinning up Lena Dunham** as a stock photo for our generation.

Sure, every generation feels "misunderstood" at some point. And while stereotypes are often rooted in some form of truth, that truth is sometimes found via only a small sample size. Putting that aside, let me bitch about a few 'leading definitions' of my generation for a minute here:

1. Delayed rights of passage. They call us the Peter Pan generation. Not just because we all love the movie Hook, but because we "won't" grow up. As if we purposely refuse. Well guess what, it's hard to grow up when you graduate in a recession and can't get a job. We didn't break the market, we were just kids. Those who came before us shot the economy in the face and then blamed us for moving back home. We wanted so desperately not to that we all eventually accepted jobs with horrid pay so we could spend that pittance on overpriced apartments to prove we could make it. Which lead to...
2. Debt issues. Yep, the price of higher education and interest rates on student loans decided to skyrocket. So when we came out into that recession, we came carrying the weight of thousands of dollars in debt on our backs. Oh yeah, and those shitty jobs have set us up to make less money over our lifetimes. Because when you get a pay raise on dirt, you just get slightly more dirt. And unless you live in Waterworld, that really doesn't help you out. But of course, the real reason we're poor is because we're just....
3. Lazy bastards with side gigs who spend all their money on smart phones. AKA we have to work two or three jobs just to pay rent and minimum payments on our loans. And the only light of hope while we work 60 hour work weeks (salaried at $30k a year) is to have some escapism via the tiny technology we carry in our pockets that connects us to the world and which we rely on for our...
4. Social media obsession. Since our lives are frequently rubbish, we live vicariously through the "me-myself-and-my-fabulous-friends-and-adventures" stars of the Youtubes and blogosphere that we mindlessly scroll through (while sitting on the toilet, which is really our only downtime since we're busy with all those side gigs). We "consume video" because videos allow us to multitask so we can have both escapism and enough time to do the dishes. We also spend countless hours curating our own online presence to display the version of ourselves that will get us the most likes, because we constantly need...
5. Instant Gratification. Unlike generations before, almost everything now is more measurable. We can tell if people approve of our ideas based on the statistics on social media. We don't have to guess, we know. Technology feeds us all the data we need to be happy about our place in the world, or to feel like a total loser on a clear scale that's not just in our heads. And technology will always tell us because...
6. Technology and us grew up together. We were in the cradle with computers and cell phones. We started school when computers started showing up in homes. We went to high school with floppy disks in our pockets. I got my first cell phone when I went away to college, and my first laptop only when I went to study abroad. I still don't have a smartphone, but I spend half my workday discussing device rendering issues for our website - because I can.
   

   

   Whose bright idea was this??

   Because technology and us have been BFFs for years. We grew up awkwardly together: braces, bruises, buzzy dial-up and all.  We feel like access to information is a right, even if that sounds a bit....
7. Entitled. We grew up in a world with freedom of information, and we're not going backwards and accepting anything less.
   
   Do we feel entitled about getting a promotion at work? NO, but we feel like we should get one when we've earned it. Why? Because a bunch of Boomer parents put the doe-eyed notion in our heads that if we WORKED HARD and stayed positive, and showed off our talents, and all the things that made us bright little stars, that we WOULD be able to excel. Hard work, dedication. Be kind, rewind. Go to college and get a job. You filled us with a false idea that at graduation, we'd receive diplomas and jobs, just like that.
   
   And then we walked out into the world, with stars in our eyes and ambition in our souls, with a drive to make the world a better place... and most of us got knocked flat on our asses. So we picked ourselves up and worked hard, just like we were told. We switched jobs because our work wasn't appreciated (unlike our parents, we don't want to just put up with being shit on by "the man" - we want some g'damn positive affirmation). We got shut down for ideas because things have "always been done" a different way. We kept working hard. And you know where it got us? Mostly, it just got us bitter.
   
   As we watched older people with less talent run the companies we worked for into the ground, powerless to move up and help. We reached out for mentors to guide us, we networked, we scrambled. Some took any job they could to try and stop living paycheck to paycheck. To the point where the only thing most of us feel entitled to now is our free time outside of work. If putting in the extra time isn't rewarded, we're not going to keep being indentured servants - we're going to squeeze every ounce out of our free time and make it as shiny as possible, because we DO feel entitled to the same happiness we see from those internet personalities. It's why we cover our tiny cube walls with bright motivational quotes - to remind us that there's life out there.
   
   We give up on changing the world.
   Just let us grow up to be unicorns and let's be done with it.

As it is, was, and always will be, the young don't have the benefits of wisdom and the old don't have the weightless optimism of youth. Older generations always point out something to bitch about when it comes to "those damn kids," just like the generation before bitched about them. Basically, we all just bitch at the youths because we want them to know better. But they never will. So, let us make our mistakes and lay off the judgement, because we're over it (AF).***

The internet gave this to me, because we're friends.

* Here is one of many decent articles about millennials. Go read this, not the other rubbish.
**Sidebar on Lena Dunham re: Girls. Not a single millennial I know can relate to the characters on that show. We all hate them because they give a bad name to our generation. I went into that show hoping I'd get some fellow youths to commiserate and empathize with, but I only grew to dislike each character more and more as time went by. They're awful; we are not like that... Except for the gay dads, we might have some gay dads. 
*** General disclaimer: I'm not living paycheck. I've finally almost paid off my $27,000 of student loan debt. I'm not just surviving, but am thriving - but that was after a lot of years of shit and struggle. A lot of my friends have finally come through the other side (now that we're all pushing 30), but many have not yet. We're not all the same, this whole article was just another set of stereotypes *shakes fist at the irony of it all - and the possible misuse of the word irony*

Rainy Days and Wednesdays

A little throwback to last Wednesday...because we all know how much I love the rain.

It had been raining intermittently throughout the day. Sometimes light rain, sometimes a sudden downpour, never consistent. The mood swings of Mother Nature played out, framed by the window I can see over my cube wall.

When quitting time arrived, however, the rain hit hurricane status. Forest Gump style, we're talking up-down-and-sideways rain. As I stood up from my cube and gazed out into the ominous darkness, I knew: no one was coming out of this dry.

At the door leading to the parking lot, several coworkers stood staring. Waiting for it to pass, they said. Ready to sprint during a lull. Codswallop, said I. One pointed out the large pooling areas of water, which I noted while quietly rolling one cuff on each pant leg. And then threw open the door and stepped out into the storm.

Seeing my daring, the coworkers all took charge of their own destiny and followed, recklessly, into the abyss. What they didn't wait to see is that five seconds into my purposeful stride, I was knee-deep in rushing water. Pushing forward, I realized the sewer drains in the parking lot were creating a current vortex that was impossible to avoid. The howl of the wind and the cries of my coworkers intermingled as shouts of, "You led us astray!" and "Damnit, Gina!" flew between the raindrops. I let out a shrieking, "I'm filled with regret!!" so they would all know that I cared - but that it was every man for themselves and I didn't give two hoots about anyone but me during this mad dash.

Sopping wet, I made it to my safe haven: the car.

In the car, on the road. Rush hour: cluster. Rush hour during a storm: double cluster. Two lanes stopped at a stop light. The left lane: filled with people who want to go straight, but are stuck behind the front two cars who just put their blinkers on to turn left. The right lane: technnnnicallllly a bike lane, filled with the a-holes who saw the blinkers flip on and zipped over to the right to go around the left turners who will be waiting the entire light, only to not end up turning left. (But who would be biking in the rain anyway, amiright?!)

Danger Zone, full blast, white knuckling it.

So there I was, in the right lane. Second car back. A risky spot, being so close to the gutter during a flash flood situation.

Wipers on full blast, I still almost didn't see it happen, but I could definitely hear it. Just before the light turned green, a huge gushing POP noise, the sound of metal on metal, as the sewer cover SHOT up and logged itself (who knows how) between the wheel well of the van in front of me and the gutter. The vehicle couldn't move.

The left laners shot past, laughing at how karma came back to bite the right lane asshats. I just sat, watching the scene play out. Two men who had been hiding out under a tree near the intersection (trapped in the storm) had seen what happened and rushed in to aid. Soon they were standing in two feet of gushing water, trying to dislodge the sewer cover. Drenched, they succeeded and the woman in the van sped off. These hero men then managed to get the cover back onto the sewer and sloshed their way back from whence they came. We all proceeded.

After an obnoxiously long, hydroplaning commute, I arrived to my own parking lot. Already soaked through, I gave myself a hot second to regroup and then bounded back out into the rain. My slow, silent stride through the downpour turned into a shit grin and an uncontrollable laugh as I realized that every car driving by (while waiting to cross the road) was probably looking at me, a wet rat in a blazer, and chuckling. So I laughed with them, and smiled the rest of the walk to my apartment, finally collapsing through the front door, in stitches.

Standing there were several people. Waiting for the rain to pass. Ready to sprint during a lull. As I burst through the doors, chortling, the by-standers looked me over, exchanging semi-alarmed looks. One pointedly commented "Damn, that sucks." To which I just smiled and said, "Better to enjoy the storm than to wait forever."

Seize the day, bitches. Even the rainy ones.

Wet rats of a feather, flock together...
and then spread bubonic plague!

Sugar Mama: A Junkie's Tale

Every time I watch a documentary, I have a total crisis of faith.

Not religiously speaking, but more like a panic over my faith in myself or the world I call home. Whether it's a total meltdown about plastic bags, a sudden urge to free (or destroy) all killer whales (before they destroy us), or a desire to become a doomsday prepper (more to come on that), I leave with some extreme call to action. The worst though, is the food docus. In particular, the ones that make me feel bad about the food I consume (I'm a selfish creature - sad cows don't bug me, but attack me personally and I hit DEFCON 2).

Recently watched a docu called "Fed Up" - solely because the cover shows two M&Ms spelling out "F U" and I'm a sucker for witty marketing (yes, I judge EVERY book by its cover). Around all the hoopla about childhood obesity, one statistic (lord knows I love me some statistics - and apparently parentheses, too) really hit home. It was in regards to my first love and lifetime addiction. The sweet stuff: sugar.

Per the WHO (the one without Keith Moon), in regards to the daily recommended sugar intake:

"Less than 10% of total energy intake from free sugars - equivalent to 50 g (around 12 tsp) for a person of healthy body weight consuming approx 2000 calories per day, but ideally less than 5%."

So. That's 25 g to 50 g of sugar per day.

This figure has been quietly haunting me over the past several days. It was coupled with a bunch of lovely info on the addictive properties of sugar - something about lab mice and cocaine vs sugar water that made me hesitate as I mindlessly chugged my soda. Sugar has always been my default life fuel. Mountain Dew, the sweet nectar of the gods, my number one choice when running low on the energy front. Gummies have been consumed by the pound, as breakfast, lunch, dinner and anything in between. How could they demonize my sweet happiness??

As these stats brain ninja'ed their way around my mind, I started getting super self-conscious about every piece of candy I came within five feet of. Last night, I started to have a freak out about my teeth rotting away and the probability of my being pre-diabetic (something my previous needle-phobia self always dreaded) until I had a restless night of worry: something had to change.

Cue today, when I resolved to go grocery shopping to get low/no calorie options more readily available. Between meetings, my mind wandered as I planned out sugarless options. And that's when it kicked in. The craving.

It was like my body knew what I was up to. It knew that I was going to take away it's delicious candies, and its rebuttal was to make me see sense and not deprive it of my favorite things. The chocolately, sugary goodness...

Running to the water tapper, I filled cup after cup of crystal, clear liquid - guzzling it back in an attempt to drown out the craving. Hours later, it was no good. If I didn't get sugar, I was going to literally flip my shit. (Note: for work, it's my job to stare at food all day, so you know, that doesn't really help - especially when it's Christmas cookie prep season.)

Soon, I was scrambling through my bag, seeking cash. The vending machines only take cash, which has always been a blessing and a curse. Grabbing a dollar, I sprinted to the hallway where the decision was made: M&Ms. That would do it. I could just have a couple now, and a few later maybe. Just a few. Just enough to satisfy the need, but not go nuts.

In went the dollar, and the little spiral started to unwind. And of course... it stopped. Just as the bag teetered on the edge of falling, laughing at me. The fates had decided: no. My lack of willpower was not going to fly; the universe stepped in to stop me.

Then the mad dash back to my cube, and the retrieval of another dollar. Frantically, I rushed to the vending machine before someone else could swoop in and screw me out of my treat. Staring at the bag, hanging there, living on a prayer, I knew I should just walk away. Accept that this was a lucky turn of chance and go on my way.

But in went the second dollar. And I left with not one, but two bags (which made me feel vindicated for the initial screwing over from the machine who tried to fuck with my happiness - no, not still bitter at all). And this afternoon, two bags of M&Ms found their way straight into my mouth. I hulked out on them, with full abandon.

Celebrating 75 years - of crushing my soul...
It's snack-attack-o'clock, and mama's hangry!

There were 31 g of sugar in EACH of those tiny bags - so in one fell swoop, I launched well beyond the top end of my daily recommended allotment. If I'd tagged on one of my dear Mountain Dews (at 46 g in one can), I'd have been at triple or double the daily. Now, that didn't happen, because I gave up drinking soda at work when starting my new job, but the overall tally is mind blowing.

So this week, it's low sugar. And by "low," I mean, at least staying within that range. Once you start actually looking at how many things have added sugars (or natural sugars even), it's almost like... I may starve. Okay, that won't really happen, but still, it may feel like it. There will be a point in the morning at work, walking into a meeting, when I'm exhausted and need a boost, and sugar won't be there to pick me up. Because it lifted up those coke rats, and it didn't end well for them. So. Time for some awareness and time for some change. Here goes nothing!

Two Shiksas Walk into a Baseball Game

Before I begin the ridiculous tale, two key points of context for y'all:

1. Two years ago, I started dating my lovely beau, who (when it comes to dance moves at least) is self-proclaimed "half white, half Jewish." Since his mom is Jewish, he is technically Jewish, even though neither of them practice - it's more a tradition and heritage thing than religious fervor. Since I'm a sucker for tradition, I've tried to of course pick up as many things as possible. These days, I can make a mean matzoh ball soup, throw out a handful of Yiddish terms, and host a killer Passover Seder. Also, it's easier to pick up on small little things related to Judaism that I'd never noticed before... sometimes.
2. Yesterday, an old friend (Marjo) from France came into town. We hosted her in high school and she and I have since visited one another several times (in Europe or in Wisco). Haven't seen her in eight years, and shenanigans have ensued.

Cue yesterday, when I decided to take her to the most American thing possible: a baseball game. 

After forcing her into a "take me out to the ballgame" t-shirt and some US flag sunglasses (#yaskween), we hit up a local bar to grab a drink (yes, at 1:00pm on a Thursday) and a shuttle to the game. Arriving sans tickets after the shuttle, we quickly had a shady exchange with a blue-haired woman who had a few extra tickets. Some negotiation, cash palming, and a fond "see you in there!" later, and we were headed into the stadium.

Now, while I've seldom made it into a game before the second or third inning, Marjo was like, "We're late! Hurry!" So I barely had time to grab margaritas before we were rushing to our seats up in the nosebleed section. Marjo lead the charge as we pushed past several people to get to our spot, which was dead center of the section by both row and seat number. We arrive and two teenage boys are in the seats, Marjo asks them to move, trying to explain in broken English that these are "our places" and I intervened with a boozy, "Sorry, these ones are our seats." Confused and apologetic, the boys frantically scrambled to nearby open seats and we plopped down.

After a frazzled discussion on the "rules" of baseball, we settled into casual chitchat about the game and watched and cheered and went about our sporting. Slowly though, I began to realize something. 

I looked all around us. No blue-haired woman in sight. And there wasn't just those teenage boys we had made move, there was like, nothing but teenage boys.

And they all were wearing yamakas.

And t-shrits in Hebrew.

And... we were in the wrong section number...

I turned to Marjo and told her we needed to leave. Confused, she said she didn't understand, we had only just gotten there. Hissing under my breath I said, "Marjo, these are not our seats, we're in the wrong section. This entire section is a Jewish summer camp for boys, and we just plopped down in the middle of it, and I think we're making a scene and their supervisor/teacher is bound to notice." She looked wildly around at our surrounding area and came to the calm conclusion, "Bof, they let us sit 'ere, they clearly do not mind. We stay." 

It was at this point that the full realization sunk in that they indeed did NOT mind that a couple of young shiksas, wearing short shorts and waving about margaritas had sat in the middle of their group. We had literally kicked two boys out of their own seats, and they had willing gone along - we could've asked them to get us popcorn and they probably would've, for that matter. So we stayed. For a few very uncomfortable innings (on my part, as I awkwardly tried to show less skin), before I totally panicked and made us leave to go to the bathroom before relocating to our actual seats. 

But hey, at least the delightful awkwardness now makes for a good story...

Views of a California Gypsy

When it comes to trips, it's either elaborately planned out and packed with activities, or a vague cluster fuck of "this'll be fine, just go!" My recent trip to California was a brilliant mix of the two. And since the journey of a gypsy is exhausting, but everyone's been asking, here's a little photo highlight of my recent attempt to roam the hell out of the beautiful west coast. (I'll likely blog some specifics in their own posts, but for now, I'm keeping it low verbiage - I know, I know, I don't believe me either.)

FRIDAY
After a half day at the office, it was airport time. As the beau dropped me off, I turned and said dramatically, "I suppose now is a good time to tell you I'm leaving you and never returning." He just smiled, kissed me, and made a snarky comment about a rent check... and off I went!

Wisco contraband (Spotted Cow) and ironic readings with plane cocktails

Arriving in LAX, a saint of a friend came to fetch me. We dined and dished about the new digs with her and her beau. I found my spirit animal in her old, curmudgeony (dwarf) shih tzu - who is literally me in dog form (#CuzIm90).

Watson hates all the things. He is my new best friend.

SATURDAY

Dreams literally come true. Waking at dawn, I harassed my hosts like a small child til they took me to Universal. My friend had waited to go to the new Wizarding World of Harry Potter until we could go together (she's a gem), and it was pure bliss. Yes, tears were shed. Yes, my heart literally exploded at one point - I reparo'ed it back together.

"Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home."

I drank all the butterbeer, scoured all the shops, went on the rides, watched the singing frog show, photographed every angle of the Hogsmeade rooftops, and stared longingly at Hogwarts, my one true home. Literally, I was more excited than any child in the place. I was affected. Naturally, we also found some legit Dark Mark tats and immediately put them on, to complete our nerdy badassery.

Oh my wizard god, were the details amazing! Evanesco, butterbeers!

Eventually, we were also joined by another friend and her fiance, and together, they all convinced me that there were "other parts" of the park outside of HP world. (Pfft, what? Why??) We wandered to several other rides, and even grabbed a Flaming Moe over by the Simpsons. Every ten minutes or so, though, I'd wander back to the magic. My stubbornness to stay kept us at the park until almost closing time (10 pm), which is right around when things when south.  

From Flaming Moe's to Zonko's - and every eatery in between! 

Fun fact: butterbeer is not a particularly 'hydrating' beverage. So, after almost 12 hours in the 90+ degree weather, in which I had nary a care in the world, the dehydration hit me like a shit ton of bricks. I'll spare you the details, but, let's just say that when you feel super sick in a car and can't get off the LA HWY because of traffic (slash, being in the 'we may get shot' part of town), you're going to be SO fuckin' thankful that you bought that commemorative butterbeer mug.... 

SUNDAY

After a brunch in which I got to push a puppy around in a stroller (YAS!), this gypsy hit the road. Running late due to a variety of circumstances, that rental car and I flew over the hills between LA and Fresno. Granted, I still had to frantically change in an airport bathroom and throw myself pleadingly at a taxi man to just so make it to the wedding on time... but I made it! 

While chatting up all the wonderful lady ghosts of college past, they helped fix my frazzled hair and disheveled outfit. One eventually whispered at me, pointing at my arm, "Did you get a TATOO?" It was of course my Dark mark, which, in all the chaos, I had completely forgotten was there. So instead of having a bright red arm from scrubbing, I of course just left it on. It was a big hit with some; with others, it sparked alarm and confusion. Either way, ya make an impression.

What a beautiful wedding, says a bridesmaid to a waiter.
(or, a Death Eater in the candlelight)

The wedding was amazing. There are not adequate words to describe how beautiful the happy couple and their families were (both literally and in every other way). Moving from the church, to the outdoor (115 degree) patio with apps, to the large reception hall - all within yards of each other - it was a perfect venue. The ceremony and half of the (dozen) speeches were in Armenian, but it was easy to understand the sentiment: these two are perfection and make the world a better place, together. All the tears. The universal language was big cheek kisses and huge smiles. 

From 7 pm until almost 3 am, the dance floor was completely packed. There was a candle dance in which we all almost caught fire, and several courses of food between all the dancing. The speeches were that of legend. When asking the bartender for a rum and coke, his response (in a thick Russian accent) was, "Darling. Vodka or Bourbon." It was that kind of night. It was wonderful. All the friends, old and new, and a room full of happiness. 

MONDAY

After fleeing our Airbnb, I hitchhiked with another friend and her hubby back across Cali again, this time bee-lining it to San Francisco!

Death eatin' all the In-n-Out! On the road again!

We took the rental all over the Bay area, and took in some fabulous sites. We drove down that winding street everyone loves taking pictures of, and up some 60 degree slopes (on which I sat in the back seat screaming and my friend honked at all impediments like, "MOVE or we're not gonna make it!"). Also, finally get to check the Golden Gate off the bucket list!

What a perfect day in the city by the bay!

Pulled a Marilyn with some windy public exposure by the Full House houses, and decided to switch to pants before roaming the hills of San Fran. It's no wonder all the women have calves of STEEL and bangin' bums in this town!

Everywhere you look, everywhere you go, here's a heart, a hand to hold onto 

I parted ways with my friends and their cousin (and their cat with the badass name: Smitten) after a burrito in the Mission. Moseyed around alone for awhile, grabbing ice cream and watching the sunset in the park overlooking the city. Then my fabulous beau called me an Uber (due to my lack of smartphone and his fear that I'd get murdered on the BART) and it was off to the airport once more to catch my red-eye! 

Nomadic at best.

Now, the red-eye back to Wisco may have been literally the worst flight in my life. And getting off a plane at 8 am and going straight into the office may have been a bit overly ambitious. BUT even with that, and even with any other little bumps on the way - I was stupid happy about the trip overall. Grateful for all those who joined up in my gypsy caravan along the way, and for finally being at a point financially where, when a friend says she's getting married in California, I can say "hells yes, I'll be there, and I'm gonna make a weekend of it!" All the adult points, all the joy. And without even unpacking, this California Soul and her suitcase are off on the next adventure... Atlanta, here we come!