Well hello there, friends! How was your Christmas? Mine was wonderful. Relaxing, fun, family-filled, blah blah blah. It was great. Now, of course there were blog-worthy things that probably happened, but I had a week off of work, so blogging was the furthest thing from my mind. Oh and also, my computer wouldn't turn on and I was too lazy to figure out why. (Turns out, my laptop -- which needs to be plugged in to work -- was unplugged, but the plug was under the couch. I was way too busy laying on said couch to look around and figure that out.)
But, new year, new Pharon! I have made several resolutions that include losing the 100 pounds I've gained since locking down a husband, learning how to not burn eggs and saving money for a new computer by stealing from Geo's wallet. And yes, blogging more is also on that list.
Now, as anxious as I am to start doing unpleasant adult-like things, I feel like I've got some loose ends to tie up. As we all know, 2013 was a big year for Little Miss Wonderful (ME!) and there were lots of things that happened. I got married, challenged social and gender misconceptions, bought a leather skirt, moved and stared fear in the face because of a scary neighbor.
I've gotten a lot of questions in real life that I feel like I've failed to address and over-discuss on my blog. And before the end of the year, I feel like just dumping it all on you so I can start blogging next year and not have to stop to explain why I have dreamed up an imaginary friend named Lucy Treadwell.
1) Hey Pharon, how's Rochester?: Well, Rochester is okay. I miss meeting friends out for a trip to the mall or the gym or the bar with less than a 2-week advance notice, but it's growing on me. Geo has been awesome and we laugh all the time and he makes me do fun stuff. I love my house a LOT because it's big and there are no mice and we have a garage and not once has anything prompted me to build a home-made security gate. So it's bittersweet. And until the ice/winter came, I could go home whenever I wanted, but now? Not so much. So...I'm adjusting.
2) Hey Pharon, how's that video game you were obsessed with going?: Yes, I played WAY TOO MUCH Grand Theft Auto V for quite a long stretch there. But I stopped. Not because I wanted to, but because Geo moved the Xbox down to the man cave and that room bums me out. So, I haven't played it in months.
3) Hey Pharon, what's the best part about being married?: So far, it's been pretty awesome to spend time with my favorite person in the world every single day. It's taken some getting-used-to, but I really like having Geo around to help me with stuff and lean on. Also, I have gone for like 5 days without showering more than once and there's not a damn thing he can do about it. He HAS to love me. It's the LAW.
4) Hey Pharon, are you still going to the gym?: The short answer here is technically. I miss my old gym A LOT and don't like all the spandex-y women at my new gym, so I have largely been avoiding it. But I'm going. Well, I've GONE. And I will be going more in 2014, I promise. I have to. I'm in two weddings in the first half of 2014 and don't want anyone to mistake me for being pregnant and then judging me when I get drunk and lift my bridesmaid dress over my head on the dancefloor.
5) Hey Pharon, how come you haven't written a blog in so long?: I know, I know. It's been bad for awhile now. I just kind of do the same thing EVERY NIGHT so rather than bore people with another story about how much I love TV, I keep my computer under the couch. But, as I have done about 5 or 6 times in the past year, I promise I'm working on it and will try to be better at enriching your lives with loveliness and hilarity and a willing butt-of-a-joke.
6) Hey Pharon, do you miss your friends at home?: Of course I do, dum dums. I miss seeing my friends faces whenever I want and chatting with them about this and that. I even missed them so much one night that I dreamed up this fun chick named Lucy Treadwell. She's pretty cool. Yeah, she's a little too chatty and BOY can she put away a bottle of wine, but she's a great imaginary friend.
Okay, so are we good here? Did I answer your burning questions you've had lately? I hope so because now I can go into 2014 with all my cards on the table and everyone in the loop. But if I've missed anything, slap your need-to-know question in the Comments and I'll do my best to answer them. And while we're talking about the Comments section, why don't you go ahead and type in YOUR New Year's resolutions so I know what I'm up against this year....
Monday, December 30, 2013
Thursday, December 19, 2013
That is SICK!
It started a couple days ago. Geo's allergies were more annoying obvious than usual. He sounded like Barry White swallowed a frog and he didn't even try and get me to go rock climbing or to the gym or to The Hobbit movie or anything. Something was up. Geo was actually sick.
Then yesterday after work, he declared that he was going to bed at 5 p.m. and I said "Well do you want dinner?" And he was like "I'm not that hungry. Maybe just an entire pizza." Boys. So I made him dinner, brought it up to him in bed and it was like walking into a pre-teen emo cliche. The lights were off, the Miami Heat game flickered softly on the TV and Geo was tucked under the covers with his black hoodie pulled over his eyes. "I can't even look at the light. Can I have a Coke?"
Well, I'm an awesome wife, so I said "Yup, got one right here, buddy."
This morning he didn't go to work, meaning he was REALLY feeling bad. When he got out of bed, he came downstairs to where I was working and announced that he couldn't even drink coffee...that's how bad he felt. And he proceeded to go down to his man cave to lay in the comforting embrace of a dark, windowless room, video games and Netflix. I started to worry about him around lunchtime. I went down and saw him on the couch with his black hoodie covering his face.
"Do you want some NyQuil or something? Or are you hungry? Do you want some dry toast and tea?" That's ALWAYS what I want when I'm sick.
"No, thanks."
"Geo, I will get you whatever you want. What do you feel like? Coffee? 7-Up?"
"Um, maybe just a large double-cheeseburger meal from McDonald's? With a Coke? And maybe an extra double cheeseburger?"
Is that all?
I went and got him the type and amount of food that usually MAKES me sick.
(I also picked myself up a Happy Meal as a reward for being such a great caretaker. Side note: this came with my Happy Meal:
I took that picture and texted it to Geo downstairs to cheer him up. He texted back "best pic ever." So yeah, it was worth it.)
Anyway, around dinner, I asked the patient what he felt like eating. "I'm not really hungry. Can you just get me a twice-baked lasagna from Fazoli's and a Coke?"
No problem.
Okay, so the point is that even when they're sick, boys get to eat whatever they want. It's unfair. Girls (or at least the ones I know) are all dainty when we're sick. We need tea and dry toast, and maybe some oatmeal...you know, when we're feeling up to it. But not men. No. they need MORE junk. Then again, I'm usually only sick for a day or two, whereas Geo will still be talking about his watery eyes on New Year's Eve. I guess it's a trade off. Whatever. I'd take the McDonald's ANY DAY.
Then yesterday after work, he declared that he was going to bed at 5 p.m. and I said "Well do you want dinner?" And he was like "I'm not that hungry. Maybe just an entire pizza." Boys. So I made him dinner, brought it up to him in bed and it was like walking into a pre-teen emo cliche. The lights were off, the Miami Heat game flickered softly on the TV and Geo was tucked under the covers with his black hoodie pulled over his eyes. "I can't even look at the light. Can I have a Coke?"
Well, I'm an awesome wife, so I said "Yup, got one right here, buddy."
This morning he didn't go to work, meaning he was REALLY feeling bad. When he got out of bed, he came downstairs to where I was working and announced that he couldn't even drink coffee...that's how bad he felt. And he proceeded to go down to his man cave to lay in the comforting embrace of a dark, windowless room, video games and Netflix. I started to worry about him around lunchtime. I went down and saw him on the couch with his black hoodie covering his face.
"Do you want some NyQuil or something? Or are you hungry? Do you want some dry toast and tea?" That's ALWAYS what I want when I'm sick.
"No, thanks."
"Geo, I will get you whatever you want. What do you feel like? Coffee? 7-Up?"
"Um, maybe just a large double-cheeseburger meal from McDonald's? With a Coke? And maybe an extra double cheeseburger?"
Is that all?
I went and got him the type and amount of food that usually MAKES me sick.
(I also picked myself up a Happy Meal as a reward for being such a great caretaker. Side note: this came with my Happy Meal:
Anyway, around dinner, I asked the patient what he felt like eating. "I'm not really hungry. Can you just get me a twice-baked lasagna from Fazoli's and a Coke?"
No problem.
Okay, so the point is that even when they're sick, boys get to eat whatever they want. It's unfair. Girls (or at least the ones I know) are all dainty when we're sick. We need tea and dry toast, and maybe some oatmeal...you know, when we're feeling up to it. But not men. No. they need MORE junk. Then again, I'm usually only sick for a day or two, whereas Geo will still be talking about his watery eyes on New Year's Eve. I guess it's a trade off. Whatever. I'd take the McDonald's ANY DAY.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Happy holidays from the Pharon Squares!
Ah...'tis the season to start getting loads of adorable Christmas (sorry, HOLIDAY) cards in the mail. I love getting these cards. I do. Everyone looks so bright and...merry. I love getting them and taping them up to a wall and thinking "Hmm. My friends and family sure clean up nice. Not a hint of crazy in any of their pics!"
Okay, so while I do love getting these cards, I also think it's a titch weird. The only people who send these cards have something to showcase in their pics. Their kids. Their wedding. Their pets (shudder). What, do you guys think you're better than me? Prettier than me? More interesting than me?
(Disclaimer: I couldn't send out wedding pics for a Christmas card because we already used a pic for thank you cards. Also, we haven't sent out all our thank you cards yet.)
Fine. You probably are more interesting and prettier than me. You probably have some adorable picture of some wrinkly baby or a pudgy dog...or a wrinkly dog and a pudgy baby...and it's probably so cute that I'll tape it on my wall for a couple weeks and walk past it thinking things like "What a super awesome family. I should probably change out of these socks I've been wearing for 3 days."
I've always loved my family's Christmas cards. We've got a huge family now, so it's like hilarious to send out a picture of 412 people to others being like "Here's our family this year. Yup, there's a few more people in there, but even WE can't keep track of everyone's names."
But as a kid, it was usually just me and my brothers and sisters and I still love those pictures. They are proof that my parents had gotten the five of us kids to stand in clean clothes long enough to actually document the event. My dad would snap pics while my mom would wrangle the five hooligans. We'd punch each other, step on each others toes and call each other "putz" while my parents silently wondered how easy it would be to run away from us and head for Aruba. But every year, the glossy picture would be sent out with holiday well wishes, and we'd look like an adorable, well-mannered bunch of kids. I don't know how my parents did it, but they always made us look good and worthy of being taped onto the wall.
I asked Geo if he wanted to take a Christmas card picture this year and he gave me a resounding No. He was like "People know what we look like." And he's right. But I don't want to rob you fine people of getting a little glimpse into what my wonderful life has been like lately. So I DID make a Christmas card this year documenting me at my finest, and it would be a crime not to share this with you all. Feel free to print it out and tape it up wherever you'd like. Happy holidays, nerds!
Okay, so while I do love getting these cards, I also think it's a titch weird. The only people who send these cards have something to showcase in their pics. Their kids. Their wedding. Their pets (shudder). What, do you guys think you're better than me? Prettier than me? More interesting than me?
(Disclaimer: I couldn't send out wedding pics for a Christmas card because we already used a pic for thank you cards. Also, we haven't sent out all our thank you cards yet.)
Fine. You probably are more interesting and prettier than me. You probably have some adorable picture of some wrinkly baby or a pudgy dog...or a wrinkly dog and a pudgy baby...and it's probably so cute that I'll tape it on my wall for a couple weeks and walk past it thinking things like "What a super awesome family. I should probably change out of these socks I've been wearing for 3 days."
I've always loved my family's Christmas cards. We've got a huge family now, so it's like hilarious to send out a picture of 412 people to others being like "Here's our family this year. Yup, there's a few more people in there, but even WE can't keep track of everyone's names."
But as a kid, it was usually just me and my brothers and sisters and I still love those pictures. They are proof that my parents had gotten the five of us kids to stand in clean clothes long enough to actually document the event. My dad would snap pics while my mom would wrangle the five hooligans. We'd punch each other, step on each others toes and call each other "putz" while my parents silently wondered how easy it would be to run away from us and head for Aruba. But every year, the glossy picture would be sent out with holiday well wishes, and we'd look like an adorable, well-mannered bunch of kids. I don't know how my parents did it, but they always made us look good and worthy of being taped onto the wall.
I asked Geo if he wanted to take a Christmas card picture this year and he gave me a resounding No. He was like "People know what we look like." And he's right. But I don't want to rob you fine people of getting a little glimpse into what my wonderful life has been like lately. So I DID make a Christmas card this year documenting me at my finest, and it would be a crime not to share this with you all. Feel free to print it out and tape it up wherever you'd like. Happy holidays, nerds!
Monday, December 16, 2013
eShopping
OMG. Christmas shopping. Anyone else get titch stressed out with this? I LOVE Christmas. AND I love shopping. Every other year, it's been a total joy to spend a couple nights out at the malls and stores finding something good for everyone on my list. I liked picking things up, holding them, pretending to give them to the recipient and feigning humbleness when they say "OMG, Pharon. This present has changed my life." It was the best.
But now, all my shopping is done online. The mall by me has 5 stores, and 4 of them are for underwear or bath products for preteens. Disturbing. So I took to the interwebs this year. Listen, I know how to find the perfect pair of brown riding boots in an eternal sea of websites. I don't know how to find "great gift ideas for your sister Padrin." It's too hard.
Here are the worst things about online shopping:
* Shipping: Screw you, every site ever. You're literally making me PAY for not doing my shopping two weeks ago? That's just mean.
* Deliveries: Dudes, I just got married this summer. I'm accustomed to getting packages delivered to my door that are FOR ME. Instead, the UPS man drops off things just about every day that I eagerly open only to be reminded that it's not for ME. Ugh. Grinchy.
* Bad photography: The worst thing anyone can do online is put a picture of their product that does not accurately reflect the product itself. Whether I'm buying a phone case or a Swedish wife, I want to know I'm looking at exactly the same thing I'm ordering. I have gotten at least 2 things delivered to me that I've been like "Whoa. No. This is....it's not right." They end up being too small, too large, poor quality, or not even remotely as skilled at being a robot maid as shown in an ad.
* Returns: Unless you're Zappos, your return policies and procedures are THE WORST. That is all.
* Requirement of phone numbers: Why, random stranger online, do you need my phone number? YOU DON'T. Back in the first days of the Internet, I threw out my parent's home phone number like it was bread crumbs for hungry birds. I'd just toss it around without any care of what would happen with those bread crumbs. But now, I'm a much smarter bird lady. I HATE giving out my phone number and hate it even MORE when the automated website calls me out for typing in a fake number. You are not better than a drunk guy at the bar. You do not get to complain about a fake number until AFTER I've made my getaway, Internet.
* The wait: When I do a lot of shopping, I like to prance around with zillions of colorful bags like Cher in Clueless. It makes me feel rich and important. But when you shop online, you just feel broke and empty because you spend and spend with absolutely nothing to show for it at the end of the day. You just have to sit and wait for your purchases to just drip into your life piece by piece. In brown cardboard and bubble wrap. As if!
So, while I love to shop for myself online when I have no deadline to meet, it is simply not acceptable for holiday shopping. And when you can't hold something and see it in person, it becomes a very disjointed experience. But, you know, I guess it's better than the alternative: teen underwear and bath products for everyone!
So, while I love to shop for myself online when I have no deadline to meet, it is simply not acceptable for holiday shopping. And when you can't hold something and see it in person, it becomes a very disjointed experience. But, you know, I guess it's better than the alternative: teen underwear and bath products for everyone!
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Book your tickets today!
Today was a pretty great day in Minneapolis. I had a big, fun work outing at the zoo AND it was my dad's birthday and my family all got together for an impromptu party! Fun, right?!
Too bad I missed all of it because of the @#$*% weather that made the 100-mile drive seem like a trip to the moon: Overly complicated and needlessly dangerous. I woke up this morning at the crack of 5:30 a.m. to head in to the cities only to learn that the ice, snow, wind and cold had already decided I wouldn't be going anywhere. What a bunch of bitches.
I was stranded.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Looking for an affordable chance to get away from it all? Pack your bags and head out to exotic Rochester!
Come and feel like your worries (and friends and family members) are a million miles away when you nestle in to the comfy, quiet, icy tundra that is an isolated town 100 miles away from the nearest Pizza Luce.
Who needs relaxing ocean waves when the vicious wintry winds right outside your door can lull you into a calming hibernation and borderline schizophrenia? And honey? Leave those body image issues at home! The local attire of Rochester natives consists of comfy down parkas and fleece sweatpants.
Want that fruity cocktail in a coconut with an umbrella but without the cost and exhausting 6 minute wait? Say no more! Stroll into your partially-stocked kitchen and pour yourself a tall glass of wine from your very own box! Over and over! Before you know it, you'll feel a million miles away from everything. Because you are!
Enjoy all the isolation of a tropical island, without that annoying sand between your toes! In Rochester, go ahead and dig your feet in to the frigid snow and feel the frozen numbness spread throughout your body. And that's just stepping foot onto the bathroom tile!
Dig in to the local fare, delivered right to your door at your request! In just 1 1/2 hours, the delivery person will show up at your door after trying to navigate the pathetically-plowed streets with a steamy, lukewarm box of pizza that was made in a restaurant just 1 mile away.
If you're not sold already, maybe keep this in mind: a short stay in Rochester can make all your complaints about city traffic and having too many restaurant options disappear in the blink of an eye. And who needs the stress of snow emergencies when you can just never leave your house anyway? That's the comfort and all-inclusive treatment you'll enjoy here in luxurious, tropical Rochester.
Call your travel agent today!
Too bad I missed all of it because of the @#$*% weather that made the 100-mile drive seem like a trip to the moon: Overly complicated and needlessly dangerous. I woke up this morning at the crack of 5:30 a.m. to head in to the cities only to learn that the ice, snow, wind and cold had already decided I wouldn't be going anywhere. What a bunch of bitches.
I was stranded.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Looking for an affordable chance to get away from it all? Pack your bags and head out to exotic Rochester!
Come and feel like your worries (and friends and family members) are a million miles away when you nestle in to the comfy, quiet, icy tundra that is an isolated town 100 miles away from the nearest Pizza Luce.
Who needs relaxing ocean waves when the vicious wintry winds right outside your door can lull you into a calming hibernation and borderline schizophrenia? And honey? Leave those body image issues at home! The local attire of Rochester natives consists of comfy down parkas and fleece sweatpants.
Want that fruity cocktail in a coconut with an umbrella but without the cost and exhausting 6 minute wait? Say no more! Stroll into your partially-stocked kitchen and pour yourself a tall glass of wine from your very own box! Over and over! Before you know it, you'll feel a million miles away from everything. Because you are!
Enjoy all the isolation of a tropical island, without that annoying sand between your toes! In Rochester, go ahead and dig your feet in to the frigid snow and feel the frozen numbness spread throughout your body. And that's just stepping foot onto the bathroom tile!
Dig in to the local fare, delivered right to your door at your request! In just 1 1/2 hours, the delivery person will show up at your door after trying to navigate the pathetically-plowed streets with a steamy, lukewarm box of pizza that was made in a restaurant just 1 mile away.
If you're not sold already, maybe keep this in mind: a short stay in Rochester can make all your complaints about city traffic and having too many restaurant options disappear in the blink of an eye. And who needs the stress of snow emergencies when you can just never leave your house anyway? That's the comfort and all-inclusive treatment you'll enjoy here in luxurious, tropical Rochester.
Call your travel agent today!
Monday, December 2, 2013
Feelin' like split
It's taken a few days for me to process the recent development in my adulthood. I had to split holidays for the first time ever for Thanksgiving, and I wasn't too sure how I felt about it. And then Geo and I decorated our Christmas tree together and it got a bit clearer for me.
The thing is, I don't have my childhood ornaments with me. I like keeping them where they grew up...on my parent's tree. They nestle in there with the billions of other ornaments for my sisters and brothers and they just look...right, you know? But Geo's mom sent some of his childhood ornaments back here and now we have a tree full of dozens of horse ornaments (he gets one for every Christmas). It was weird.
But then I got to pump tinsel and gold ribbon and lights all over the tree like it was Lady Gaga in a Mardi Gras parade. Geo didn't love it, but I LOVED it. (I even broke my mom's cardinal tinsel rule of only putting three or four strands on a branch...I straight up DROWNED our tree in tinsel by the handful. REBELLION!) But when all was said and done, his ornaments and my tacky drag-queen taste went perfectly together.
So yeah, the tree decorating experience made it a little easier to cope with having to spend Thanksgiving Day away from my family. We went and spent it with Geo's parents, siblings and his sister-in-law's family instead. I love them all, but I couldn't help but wonder what it was like back at base. Like, is my grandma making her gravy yet? Has anyone told my mom to stop freaking out about seating yet? Did the kids at the kids table take loads of my beloved stuffing and then not eat it? Has my brother taken a nap on the floor in the middle of the main room already? Could all of this still happen without me there?
Now, this is not to say I didn't have fun. Thanksgiving with Geo's family was wonderful and relaxing, and because it would have been rude for me to saunter into the guest room and take a quick 2-hour nap like I might have at home, I didn't miss a thing. It was lovely. Different, but lovely.
But I couldn't help but think about how this would all play out in the future. I don't want to split holidays. I want to spend each and every one with MY family because MY family has the best holidays ever. There are traditions to observe, people, and no one else does those traditions the same as MY family. So, I don't want it to change.
Okay, so it was rough for me this year. Geo and I have always gone our separate ways on holidays. He goes and does his relaxing thing with his family and I submerse myself in joyful and unrelenting noise and chaos at mine. It's always worked just fine.
Ugh, and then it started to make sense. I say "Ugh" because it was such a cheesy and cliche realization. We put our respective crap on one tree for the first time, and it all came together. It didn't look like his tree or my tree, it looked like our tree. And it wasn't half-bad. It was the start of our own traditions, and it was a horribly mature and wonderful thing to realize.
So splitting Thanksgiving was much better than I thought. I can see how this will work in the future.
Except on Christmas. I may have changed my last name, but I will NEVER give up Christmas with my family. NEVER. (You hear that, Geo?)
The thing is, I don't have my childhood ornaments with me. I like keeping them where they grew up...on my parent's tree. They nestle in there with the billions of other ornaments for my sisters and brothers and they just look...right, you know? But Geo's mom sent some of his childhood ornaments back here and now we have a tree full of dozens of horse ornaments (he gets one for every Christmas). It was weird.
But then I got to pump tinsel and gold ribbon and lights all over the tree like it was Lady Gaga in a Mardi Gras parade. Geo didn't love it, but I LOVED it. (I even broke my mom's cardinal tinsel rule of only putting three or four strands on a branch...I straight up DROWNED our tree in tinsel by the handful. REBELLION!) But when all was said and done, his ornaments and my tacky drag-queen taste went perfectly together.
So yeah, the tree decorating experience made it a little easier to cope with having to spend Thanksgiving Day away from my family. We went and spent it with Geo's parents, siblings and his sister-in-law's family instead. I love them all, but I couldn't help but wonder what it was like back at base. Like, is my grandma making her gravy yet? Has anyone told my mom to stop freaking out about seating yet? Did the kids at the kids table take loads of my beloved stuffing and then not eat it? Has my brother taken a nap on the floor in the middle of the main room already? Could all of this still happen without me there?
Now, this is not to say I didn't have fun. Thanksgiving with Geo's family was wonderful and relaxing, and because it would have been rude for me to saunter into the guest room and take a quick 2-hour nap like I might have at home, I didn't miss a thing. It was lovely. Different, but lovely.
But I couldn't help but think about how this would all play out in the future. I don't want to split holidays. I want to spend each and every one with MY family because MY family has the best holidays ever. There are traditions to observe, people, and no one else does those traditions the same as MY family. So, I don't want it to change.
Okay, so it was rough for me this year. Geo and I have always gone our separate ways on holidays. He goes and does his relaxing thing with his family and I submerse myself in joyful and unrelenting noise and chaos at mine. It's always worked just fine.
Ugh, and then it started to make sense. I say "Ugh" because it was such a cheesy and cliche realization. We put our respective crap on one tree for the first time, and it all came together. It didn't look like his tree or my tree, it looked like our tree. And it wasn't half-bad. It was the start of our own traditions, and it was a horribly mature and wonderful thing to realize.
So splitting Thanksgiving was much better than I thought. I can see how this will work in the future.
Except on Christmas. I may have changed my last name, but I will NEVER give up Christmas with my family. NEVER. (You hear that, Geo?)
Monday, November 25, 2013
Man (or Woman) In the Mirror
Geo and I headed out tonight to throw bowling balls with our pals Chad and Angie. In between my stunning attempts to perfect my grandma-throw style of bowling, we managed to work in some surprisingly insightful conversation. It started, much like all my conversations, as a weak attempt at a joke. I said something along the lines of Geo practicing his bowling technique in front of the mirror.
Me: Geo probably stares at himself in the mirror practicing bowling.
Chad: Ha!
Geo: I used to practice Frisbee in front of the mirror...
Me: Hahaha, what a nerd. You're so vain.
Chad: Yeah, like "Oh yeah, look at how amazing my form looks."
Geo: Definitely!
Chad: I feel like that's the difference between men and women. Women look in a mirror and see a bunch of stuff they hate and men look in the mirror and are like "I look amazing."
Geo: For SURE. Like, you're standing there and thinking "I'm pretttttttty sure my muscles are bigger today and I haven't even DONE anything! I look GREAT."
And it's super true. Men look at a mirror like it's smeared in Vaseline and compliments. They see fuzzy versions of themselves that make them 100% confident (overly confident, some would argue). Women look in the mirror like it's a high school bully and pick themselves apart. What gives? (PSA: Bullies are the worst.)
I do lots of things in front of the mirror. I make faces. I stick out my gut. I will occasionally dance in front of it to see what would happen if I twerked without pants on. (Not pretty.) I'll stand there for several minutes examining my face wondering where it all went wrong. I'll pull sections of my hair to the front of the mirror to see if there's a gray hair. I'll stare at my eyebrows for 20 minutes, trying to figure out why they are so different. I'll jut my hip out in 10 different pairs of pants to see which ones make my hips look fattest and then set those pants on fire. I'll be brushing my teeth and find myself wondering if my pores are too big or my lips are too thin or my shoulders are uneven.
Geo will glance in the mirror for 25 seconds, confirm that his clothes are on in the right place, and then go about his day with confidence that he looks perfect.
How does this happen? How do men get nothing but confidence from a mirror when women get nothing but complexes? How come men don't look in the mirror and think "I look nothing like Ryan Gosling. I am nothing but hot garbage."? Also, do men even KNOW that they have pores? Probably not, because I've never heard of ANY man even mention them before.
I wonder if it all stems from that stupid fairy tale with that insulting mirror. I can't remember which one it is, but it's the one where some mean ol' hag is all like "Mirror on the wall, who's the prettiest one of all?" And the rude-ass mirror is like "Not you, lady. It's some milky-skinned blonde chick with a 10" waistline." RUDE! The mirror should have lied and been like "You're beautiful. I mean, there's some weird blonde girl, but she's just pretty in a different way. You are a strong, proactive woman who knows what she wants. Own it, girl!" See, people think that the witch lady WITH the mirror is the villain in that story. But no...in reality, all the evilness comes from the mirror.
I'm trying to think about a comparative story about men and mirrors, but all I can think of is that Michael Jackson song, and that lady was crazy. The point is that little boys are not taught that their mirror is judging them...girls are.
So, my point is that mirrors are the worst and men are the worst. And also fairy tales are the worst. But seriously, these giant pores on my earlobes are THE. WORST.
Me: Geo probably stares at himself in the mirror practicing bowling.
Chad: Ha!
Geo: I used to practice Frisbee in front of the mirror...
Me: Hahaha, what a nerd. You're so vain.
Chad: Yeah, like "Oh yeah, look at how amazing my form looks."
Geo: Definitely!
Chad: I feel like that's the difference between men and women. Women look in a mirror and see a bunch of stuff they hate and men look in the mirror and are like "I look amazing."
Geo: For SURE. Like, you're standing there and thinking "I'm pretttttttty sure my muscles are bigger today and I haven't even DONE anything! I look GREAT."
And it's super true. Men look at a mirror like it's smeared in Vaseline and compliments. They see fuzzy versions of themselves that make them 100% confident (overly confident, some would argue). Women look in the mirror like it's a high school bully and pick themselves apart. What gives? (PSA: Bullies are the worst.)
I do lots of things in front of the mirror. I make faces. I stick out my gut. I will occasionally dance in front of it to see what would happen if I twerked without pants on. (Not pretty.) I'll stand there for several minutes examining my face wondering where it all went wrong. I'll pull sections of my hair to the front of the mirror to see if there's a gray hair. I'll stare at my eyebrows for 20 minutes, trying to figure out why they are so different. I'll jut my hip out in 10 different pairs of pants to see which ones make my hips look fattest and then set those pants on fire. I'll be brushing my teeth and find myself wondering if my pores are too big or my lips are too thin or my shoulders are uneven.
Geo will glance in the mirror for 25 seconds, confirm that his clothes are on in the right place, and then go about his day with confidence that he looks perfect.
How does this happen? How do men get nothing but confidence from a mirror when women get nothing but complexes? How come men don't look in the mirror and think "I look nothing like Ryan Gosling. I am nothing but hot garbage."? Also, do men even KNOW that they have pores? Probably not, because I've never heard of ANY man even mention them before.
I wonder if it all stems from that stupid fairy tale with that insulting mirror. I can't remember which one it is, but it's the one where some mean ol' hag is all like "Mirror on the wall, who's the prettiest one of all?" And the rude-ass mirror is like "Not you, lady. It's some milky-skinned blonde chick with a 10" waistline." RUDE! The mirror should have lied and been like "You're beautiful. I mean, there's some weird blonde girl, but she's just pretty in a different way. You are a strong, proactive woman who knows what she wants. Own it, girl!" See, people think that the witch lady WITH the mirror is the villain in that story. But no...in reality, all the evilness comes from the mirror.
I'm trying to think about a comparative story about men and mirrors, but all I can think of is that Michael Jackson song, and that lady was crazy. The point is that little boys are not taught that their mirror is judging them...girls are.
So, my point is that mirrors are the worst and men are the worst. And also fairy tales are the worst. But seriously, these giant pores on my earlobes are THE. WORST.
Monday, November 18, 2013
TRUly hilarious
Okay, this is going to be a quick one. I'm in the middle of an epic show-a-thon but I want you all to enjoy this with me. Watch Impractical Jokers on Tru TV. It's hilarious. I have laughed HARD for 48 of the last 60 minutes and I can't even stand how hilarious this is. Four guys who have been friends since grade school make each other do hilarious, embarrassing stuff and there's never been anything funnier.
That is all. Watch it and then help me plan some awesome pranks to play on other people. And then we can figure out a way for me to be friends with these guys. Sound good?
Awesome.
That is all. Watch it and then help me plan some awesome pranks to play on other people. And then we can figure out a way for me to be friends with these guys. Sound good?
Awesome.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Eating white
It is no secret that I have been having a steamy, toasted love affair with bagels for the past, oh I don't know, lifetime or so.
But what you may not realize is that there is so much more to this story. I, in fact, just love every white food you put in front of me. Milk, cheese, pasta, ranch dressing, potatoes, white corn tortillas, white chocolate...you name it, and I'll eat it. If it's white.
People say that white food is not good for you. Well what's so great about green food? Sure it's probably got more nutritional value and vitamins and is probably not made out of sugar and delicious, delicious carbs, but it could also be moldy and no one would ever know. Now if BREAD is moldy? Yeah, you'd know it. Oh, and pasta can't poison you if you cook it incorrectly. And cheese only gets better as it gets stinkier.
Anyway, I gave myself a little challenge today. Which turned out to be not a challenge. I wanted to see if I could eat only white food. I succeeded. Egg whites and toast for breakfast. Laughing Cow cheese for a snack. Pasta with olive oil for lunch. More pasta for dinner. (I did find myself preparing a salad to accompany the pasta, but no no. No green for me today. Not even hidden under a pile of ranch.) And I feel amazing. Lethargic and slightly scurvy-ish, but amazing.
It's obviously not a good idea to spend all day eating just one type of food, no matter how perfect it is. I know that I need fruits, veggies, protein and apparently just about ANYthing that didn't start as warm, delicious dough. But I just can't help myself. I just love it all.
Anyway, I've been eating a lot of white food lately because Geo also likes white food but I've gotta be honest. I need a serious break. Not a CLEAN break, but a break. When Geo went to the grocery store tonight, sure I asked him to get Bagel Thins, but then I added apples and green beans to the list as well. Balance!
Okay, so I love white food and white food loves me so much that it likes to stay with me on my hips and butt. Nice and close. But I'm renewing my efforts to throw some reds, greens, yellows and maybe even some browns (ew) into the mix. Then again, Geo just reminded me that the color white contains all the colors everywhere. Therefore, by eating white foods, I already AM eating all colors of food. Yeah! Science, you've finally worked in my favor. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to chug a glass of skim milk before bed.
But what you may not realize is that there is so much more to this story. I, in fact, just love every white food you put in front of me. Milk, cheese, pasta, ranch dressing, potatoes, white corn tortillas, white chocolate...you name it, and I'll eat it. If it's white.
People say that white food is not good for you. Well what's so great about green food? Sure it's probably got more nutritional value and vitamins and is probably not made out of sugar and delicious, delicious carbs, but it could also be moldy and no one would ever know. Now if BREAD is moldy? Yeah, you'd know it. Oh, and pasta can't poison you if you cook it incorrectly. And cheese only gets better as it gets stinkier.
Anyway, I gave myself a little challenge today. Which turned out to be not a challenge. I wanted to see if I could eat only white food. I succeeded. Egg whites and toast for breakfast. Laughing Cow cheese for a snack. Pasta with olive oil for lunch. More pasta for dinner. (I did find myself preparing a salad to accompany the pasta, but no no. No green for me today. Not even hidden under a pile of ranch.) And I feel amazing. Lethargic and slightly scurvy-ish, but amazing.
It's obviously not a good idea to spend all day eating just one type of food, no matter how perfect it is. I know that I need fruits, veggies, protein and apparently just about ANYthing that didn't start as warm, delicious dough. But I just can't help myself. I just love it all.
Anyway, I've been eating a lot of white food lately because Geo also likes white food but I've gotta be honest. I need a serious break. Not a CLEAN break, but a break. When Geo went to the grocery store tonight, sure I asked him to get Bagel Thins, but then I added apples and green beans to the list as well. Balance!
Okay, so I love white food and white food loves me so much that it likes to stay with me on my hips and butt. Nice and close. But I'm renewing my efforts to throw some reds, greens, yellows and maybe even some browns (ew) into the mix. Then again, Geo just reminded me that the color white contains all the colors everywhere. Therefore, by eating white foods, I already AM eating all colors of food. Yeah! Science, you've finally worked in my favor. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to chug a glass of skim milk before bed.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Wait, wait
Geo and I went to dinner tonight. He sold this Mr. Pizza place to me by comparing it to my favorite 'za establishment in Minneapolis, Pizza Luce. Well, it wasn't Luce, but it was good. And it was pretty fun, too. But during my third bite of my first piece of pizza, the waitress ran over (she was literally RUNNING) and begged "Anything else I can get you?" Before I finished chewing and while Geo was setting down his glass of wine, she goes "Okay, I'll get you the check."
I get crazy-annoyed by servers when I can tell the have an ulterior motive. We were clearly the last table in her section, though the place didn't close for another hour and a half, but sister had places to be. She wanted us OUT and I wanted to eat my damn Luce-like slice. We raced through the rest of the meal and got out of there out of panic and guilt. (Also, I think Geo wanted to get back home to play Battlefield.)
I would like to think myself an expert on servers. I know what is good and, more importantly, what is bad. I know this because I was the worst server on the planet. THE PLANET. I waitressed for like a year before the manager (who was also my bff) told me I had to git. It was harsh, but absolutely warranted and necessary.
As much as I love talking to people, I hate DOING things for people, which made me a HORRIBLE server. Oh, I forgot your diet Pepsi? Sorry, but I'm not sorry. I'll get it for you after I've scarfed down some queso in the kitchen. You are at my mercy, customer.
It's not that I didn't like being a server, I just didn't GET it. I didn't get how to balance conversation with service. I either checked in too much or not enough. I got defensive when I'd be informed of a mistake I'd made. Rather than just being all "Whoops, sorry. I'm on it," I'd try and blame it on the customer. "Oh, I forgot your guac? No, you just never asked for it. Not my fault. You're wrong. I'm right."
Yeah, I was bad. My tables hated me and my co-workers were often covering up my mistakes, so they probably hated me too. In fact, I remember vividly the ONLY TIME I got a 20 percent tip. I got a table of a guy and two girls. I charmed my way through delivering drinks and then forgot to bring the appetizer. When I brought them their cold quesadilla, I braced myself for the "Um, this is cold" lecture that I was all too used to.
Instead, one of the girls at the table asked me out on a date. I was so flattered that I brought them salsa even before they had to remind me I had forgotten it. Even after I explained that I prefer hairy-chested men who love video games, she forgave me and I finally got my first ever 20 percent tip. It had nothing to do with being a good server, but it was a legit tip.
All of this is proof that I am the queen of what NOT to do as a server, and giving out a check while people are basically taking their first bite of their food is one of those things that even I know to avoid. And I once served someone a Coke that I had taken a sip out of to make sure it wasn't diet. It was. And I still served it. Because I'm the worst. But at least I never pre-billed anyone.
I get crazy-annoyed by servers when I can tell the have an ulterior motive. We were clearly the last table in her section, though the place didn't close for another hour and a half, but sister had places to be. She wanted us OUT and I wanted to eat my damn Luce-like slice. We raced through the rest of the meal and got out of there out of panic and guilt. (Also, I think Geo wanted to get back home to play Battlefield.)
I would like to think myself an expert on servers. I know what is good and, more importantly, what is bad. I know this because I was the worst server on the planet. THE PLANET. I waitressed for like a year before the manager (who was also my bff) told me I had to git. It was harsh, but absolutely warranted and necessary.
As much as I love talking to people, I hate DOING things for people, which made me a HORRIBLE server. Oh, I forgot your diet Pepsi? Sorry, but I'm not sorry. I'll get it for you after I've scarfed down some queso in the kitchen. You are at my mercy, customer.
It's not that I didn't like being a server, I just didn't GET it. I didn't get how to balance conversation with service. I either checked in too much or not enough. I got defensive when I'd be informed of a mistake I'd made. Rather than just being all "Whoops, sorry. I'm on it," I'd try and blame it on the customer. "Oh, I forgot your guac? No, you just never asked for it. Not my fault. You're wrong. I'm right."
Yeah, I was bad. My tables hated me and my co-workers were often covering up my mistakes, so they probably hated me too. In fact, I remember vividly the ONLY TIME I got a 20 percent tip. I got a table of a guy and two girls. I charmed my way through delivering drinks and then forgot to bring the appetizer. When I brought them their cold quesadilla, I braced myself for the "Um, this is cold" lecture that I was all too used to.
Instead, one of the girls at the table asked me out on a date. I was so flattered that I brought them salsa even before they had to remind me I had forgotten it. Even after I explained that I prefer hairy-chested men who love video games, she forgave me and I finally got my first ever 20 percent tip. It had nothing to do with being a good server, but it was a legit tip.
All of this is proof that I am the queen of what NOT to do as a server, and giving out a check while people are basically taking their first bite of their food is one of those things that even I know to avoid. And I once served someone a Coke that I had taken a sip out of to make sure it wasn't diet. It was. And I still served it. Because I'm the worst. But at least I never pre-billed anyone.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Blurred Lines
After getting married, things have changed for your all-time favorite blogger (me). Not, like, relationship-wise. Nope, Geo and I are pretty much the same as we were BEFORE the ol' ball and chains were clamped on. No, the changes are more like "Time to sign up for wife-y stuff"-wise. Betty Draper-style stuff. You know what I mean? No? Let me explain.
I found myself looking up egg bake recipes tonight. And Googling how to make cute Christmas ornaments with only a bobbin, some pie crust and a hair pin. Making plans to start a book club. Wondering if Miley Cyrus might, in fact, be a bad influence on a child. Gross stuff like that.
For many posts recently, I realize that I have been talking about this whole growing-up thing. I have fought it, denied it and laughed at it, but I'm worried that my recent behavior has made it seem like I'm embracing it. Am I? Could that be true? Is this real life?
As I mentioned, I have started engaging in some troubling behavior as of late. I have voluntarily taken part in traditions that I previously shunned because I was too busy, too single and too...desperate to not conform. Now they seem, I dunno, fun, maybe! And I have decided that it might NOT be a bad idea to have a go-to egg dish to bring to a potluck. Before recently, that sounded cliche and predictable. Now it just seems...like planning ahead.
Who knows what is happening to me. I've read about 2 1/2 sentences on Stockholm Syndrome, and maybe that's what I have. Maybe I've been spending so much time around sane, normal, married people who DON'T fall asleep with their foot in a Lean Cuisine dish on the couch and maybe I've started to see their point.
Maybe it's affected my blogging too. I'll clear out my inbox now (at pharonsquare@gmail.com, FYI) for the inevitable hate mail here, but I'm thinking that getting married has made me...boring. Less fun. Less ridiculous. Less likely to spar with roommates or end up at some ridiculous bar with drinks named after American Apparel executives or whatever. More likely to listen to NPR. On purpose.
It's been a tough pill to swallow. I wanted to write a whole post about those dumb Miller Lite punch-top cans that I'm pretty sure I hate, but I haven't even gotten a chance to actually test drive the ridiculous product because grownups DON'T order Miller Lite, and if they do, they don't need some dumb punch-top to show them how to shotgun it. How will I complain about something I haven't even tried? (LOL. I complain about stuff I've never tried all the time...hybrid cars, Pilates, breastfeeding...)
Anyway, I have no plans to turn this blog into some rendition of the Happy Homemaker Starts Her Third House Fire With a Hot Glue Gun And/Or A Stove, so I'm going to have to regroup a bit. I think this might involve me trying some of the new, ridiculous things that married folks do...like making a budget, trying to sleep without my blankie (yeah, right), assigning chores and exploring new depths of sober Scrabble. I'm scared. So, yeah. Stay tuned.
I found myself looking up egg bake recipes tonight. And Googling how to make cute Christmas ornaments with only a bobbin, some pie crust and a hair pin. Making plans to start a book club. Wondering if Miley Cyrus might, in fact, be a bad influence on a child. Gross stuff like that.
For many posts recently, I realize that I have been talking about this whole growing-up thing. I have fought it, denied it and laughed at it, but I'm worried that my recent behavior has made it seem like I'm embracing it. Am I? Could that be true? Is this real life?
As I mentioned, I have started engaging in some troubling behavior as of late. I have voluntarily taken part in traditions that I previously shunned because I was too busy, too single and too...desperate to not conform. Now they seem, I dunno, fun, maybe! And I have decided that it might NOT be a bad idea to have a go-to egg dish to bring to a potluck. Before recently, that sounded cliche and predictable. Now it just seems...like planning ahead.
Who knows what is happening to me. I've read about 2 1/2 sentences on Stockholm Syndrome, and maybe that's what I have. Maybe I've been spending so much time around sane, normal, married people who DON'T fall asleep with their foot in a Lean Cuisine dish on the couch and maybe I've started to see their point.
Maybe it's affected my blogging too. I'll clear out my inbox now (at pharonsquare@gmail.com, FYI) for the inevitable hate mail here, but I'm thinking that getting married has made me...boring. Less fun. Less ridiculous. Less likely to spar with roommates or end up at some ridiculous bar with drinks named after American Apparel executives or whatever. More likely to listen to NPR. On purpose.
It's been a tough pill to swallow. I wanted to write a whole post about those dumb Miller Lite punch-top cans that I'm pretty sure I hate, but I haven't even gotten a chance to actually test drive the ridiculous product because grownups DON'T order Miller Lite, and if they do, they don't need some dumb punch-top to show them how to shotgun it. How will I complain about something I haven't even tried? (LOL. I complain about stuff I've never tried all the time...hybrid cars, Pilates, breastfeeding...)
Anyway, I have no plans to turn this blog into some rendition of the Happy Homemaker Starts Her Third House Fire With a Hot Glue Gun And/Or A Stove, so I'm going to have to regroup a bit. I think this might involve me trying some of the new, ridiculous things that married folks do...like making a budget, trying to sleep without my blankie (yeah, right), assigning chores and exploring new depths of sober Scrabble. I'm scared. So, yeah. Stay tuned.
Monday, November 4, 2013
I left the house without showering today...and you can too!
Getting ready in the morning makes me angry. Every day that I have to get up and get ready is a day that I have to remind myself not to punch myself in my clean, made-up face. I hate everything about it.
I know that we all don't have the luxury of working from home in a town where there is zero chance of running into anyone from high school or whatever, but the fact remains: If you have the time/energy/self respect to shower EVERY SINGLE DAY and shave your legs, put on makeup, dry your hair and put on unstained shirts day after day after day, I feel like we are probably not friends in real life. Those people exhaust me.
So it should come as no surprise that I skip at LEAST one of those things every day. Today, however, was a "Let's Just Skip All of That" kind of day. I woke up, drove Geo to work in my pajamas got home and just started working. But everything came to a crashing halt when Target called to remind me to pick up a prescription.
"Leave the house?! During the day?! I am not prepared for this."
But because I am such a pro at polishing this turd [gestures to self], I pulled it together and left the house in 5 1/2 minutes looking totally...not disgusting. I feel like everyone could benefit from my expertise at leaving the house in this state of hot garbage.
Hair: It's almost winter, so break out those cute winter hats! That's an easy enough solution for amateurs, but there are other options as well. Girls with long hair like me have a challenge when it comes to hiding evidence of skipping the ol' wash down. If you can braid, go ahead and pry your hair into three separate sections and twist 'em together for a chic, messy braid held together by last night's sleep. If you can't braid, brush that rat's nest out and slick it up into a bun...no one will be able to tell the dirtiness from the bed head. Plus, people might actually think you are a ballerina. BONUS. (Try and walk with your toes pointed outwards to really sell it.)
Makeup: I tell myself I'm naturally beautiful and have the confidence to step foot outside without a stitch of makeup. Call it confidence, call it blissful ignorance, I don't care. But in the event that you don't possess this same kind of misguided bravery, here is all you need to know. Put on mascara and bright lipstick. That's it. Are you half-way ready for a gala? Have you not figured out tinted moisturizer yet? Is your bathroom lighting really bad or are your lips just naturally blazing red? That's what people will be wondering. Not "Is that girl just covering up the fact that she hasn't washed her face for two days?"
Wardrobe: This can be tricky. But I have found if you put a jean jacket over virtually any outfit, you will at least look like you TRIED. (I even saw a chick wearing a WOLF SWEATSHIRT under a jean jacket on a fashion blog this month...thank you hipsters!) A jean jacket can be thrown on over just about any shirt, but there may be limitations when it comes to pants. It might not work with sweatpants or flannel pants with a hole in the crotch and knee, but it will definitely work with yoga pants, black pajama pants, leggings, and any other type of leg wear that girls laze around in. Any of these things with a white shirt (turned inside out if it's dirty) and jean jacket will make you look normal.
Odor: This can also be tricky, as I don't have b.o. That is a proven FACT. But I imagine you can't just leave the house smelling like you've been sitting around sweating and eating bagels all day. I suppose you could freshen up by tucking a Bounce dryer sheet in your cleavage. You'll smell linen fresh and avoid static cling.
Voila! You're all ready to leave the house without going anywhere near a shower. Now your only problem will be what to do with all those hours I've just saved you...
I know that we all don't have the luxury of working from home in a town where there is zero chance of running into anyone from high school or whatever, but the fact remains: If you have the time/energy/self respect to shower EVERY SINGLE DAY and shave your legs, put on makeup, dry your hair and put on unstained shirts day after day after day, I feel like we are probably not friends in real life. Those people exhaust me.
So it should come as no surprise that I skip at LEAST one of those things every day. Today, however, was a "Let's Just Skip All of That" kind of day. I woke up, drove Geo to work in my pajamas got home and just started working. But everything came to a crashing halt when Target called to remind me to pick up a prescription.
"Leave the house?! During the day?! I am not prepared for this."
But because I am such a pro at polishing this turd [gestures to self], I pulled it together and left the house in 5 1/2 minutes looking totally...not disgusting. I feel like everyone could benefit from my expertise at leaving the house in this state of hot garbage.
Hair: It's almost winter, so break out those cute winter hats! That's an easy enough solution for amateurs, but there are other options as well. Girls with long hair like me have a challenge when it comes to hiding evidence of skipping the ol' wash down. If you can braid, go ahead and pry your hair into three separate sections and twist 'em together for a chic, messy braid held together by last night's sleep. If you can't braid, brush that rat's nest out and slick it up into a bun...no one will be able to tell the dirtiness from the bed head. Plus, people might actually think you are a ballerina. BONUS. (Try and walk with your toes pointed outwards to really sell it.)
Makeup: I tell myself I'm naturally beautiful and have the confidence to step foot outside without a stitch of makeup. Call it confidence, call it blissful ignorance, I don't care. But in the event that you don't possess this same kind of misguided bravery, here is all you need to know. Put on mascara and bright lipstick. That's it. Are you half-way ready for a gala? Have you not figured out tinted moisturizer yet? Is your bathroom lighting really bad or are your lips just naturally blazing red? That's what people will be wondering. Not "Is that girl just covering up the fact that she hasn't washed her face for two days?"
Wardrobe: This can be tricky. But I have found if you put a jean jacket over virtually any outfit, you will at least look like you TRIED. (I even saw a chick wearing a WOLF SWEATSHIRT under a jean jacket on a fashion blog this month...thank you hipsters!) A jean jacket can be thrown on over just about any shirt, but there may be limitations when it comes to pants. It might not work with sweatpants or flannel pants with a hole in the crotch and knee, but it will definitely work with yoga pants, black pajama pants, leggings, and any other type of leg wear that girls laze around in. Any of these things with a white shirt (turned inside out if it's dirty) and jean jacket will make you look normal.
Odor: This can also be tricky, as I don't have b.o. That is a proven FACT. But I imagine you can't just leave the house smelling like you've been sitting around sweating and eating bagels all day. I suppose you could freshen up by tucking a Bounce dryer sheet in your cleavage. You'll smell linen fresh and avoid static cling.
Voila! You're all ready to leave the house without going anywhere near a shower. Now your only problem will be what to do with all those hours I've just saved you...
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Booooo(ring)!
I think the neighborhood kids hate me. I live 10 yards away from a playground in an area with several terrible kids who scream bloody murder at 8 a.m. at the bus stop 20 yards away from our house. I put up all these fun Halloween gel clings on our front door, sent Geo out for three bags on candy, turned on our front door light and waited for those ankle-biters to ring our doorbell all night long. But they never came.
The children never came.
We had zero trick-or-treaters. (Somehow, the mini Twix bars still disappeared from the bowl anyway.) Plus, I didn't even get to dress up this year.
I would like to think of myself as something of a costume connoisseur, and I really let my freak flag fly on Halloween. But this was the first year (I think?) that I didn't dress up and it was pretty lame. In previous years, I've dressed as everything from a mermaid, a head on a platter, a flamingo and an Amish girl on rumspringa to Slash from Guns N' Roses, J.Lo, and Suri Cruise complete with diaper. But this year, I didn't dress up as anything except Girl Who Watches TV And Eats Twix Like It's Her Job Before Seriously Considering Taking Up Bulimia.
So on top of no costumes, I also had no stupid kids in costumes bothering me all night. How rude of them. I have candy! And didn't they see the gel clings?! What more do I need to do in order to get some kids into my house? Buy a creepy old van? Whatever. Fine. Kids can hate me and point to my house and whisper that it belongs to a witch who never brushes her hair and always wears pajamas, but I can deal with it. You know why?
Because I probably have more candy than all of them. Oh, and I can drive. Zing. Nailed it. Dumb kids.
Happy Halloween!!
The children never came.
We had zero trick-or-treaters. (Somehow, the mini Twix bars still disappeared from the bowl anyway.) Plus, I didn't even get to dress up this year.
I would like to think of myself as something of a costume connoisseur, and I really let my freak flag fly on Halloween. But this was the first year (I think?) that I didn't dress up and it was pretty lame. In previous years, I've dressed as everything from a mermaid, a head on a platter, a flamingo and an Amish girl on rumspringa to Slash from Guns N' Roses, J.Lo, and Suri Cruise complete with diaper. But this year, I didn't dress up as anything except Girl Who Watches TV And Eats Twix Like It's Her Job Before Seriously Considering Taking Up Bulimia.
So on top of no costumes, I also had no stupid kids in costumes bothering me all night. How rude of them. I have candy! And didn't they see the gel clings?! What more do I need to do in order to get some kids into my house? Buy a creepy old van? Whatever. Fine. Kids can hate me and point to my house and whisper that it belongs to a witch who never brushes her hair and always wears pajamas, but I can deal with it. You know why?
Because I probably have more candy than all of them. Oh, and I can drive. Zing. Nailed it. Dumb kids.
Happy Halloween!!
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Staycation
I took this week off of work. Initially, I had scheduled this time to really nest my way into Rochester, but because we've already been here for like two months, there are very few nesting opportunities that have not already been tackled. So this week has been...not productive.
On Monday, I spent the day laughing at Tina Fey's "Bossypants" audiobook on my 100-hour drive back from Chicago. But after that, I had nothing planned. Nothing. Zip. And now, I'm halfway through my big week off, and here's what I've accomplished:
* Took 2-hour naps after driving Geo to work in the mornings
* Painted my fingernails AND toenails at the same time, AND the same color AND without falling asleep and getting sheet marks on any of them
* Watched two movies
* Watched 6 episodes of "Law and Order: SVU" in a row
* Made an actual dinner (chili, cornbread and apple crumble)
* Bought ice cream...and then ate all the ice cream
* Measured a dress zipper to go buy a replacement zipper and learn to replace it. Only got as far as measuring it
* Checked the mail
* Hid from the UPS guy because I was laying on the floor in a t-shirt and one sock pretending to do crunches, but really just seeing if I could make a carpet angel
* Unpacked my china
* Put on a mud mask that I'm only SORT OF SURE was not past it's expiration date
* Went to the bank
* Bragged to the banker about my amazingly exciting staycation
* Got a videogame for Geo, but then he moved the XBox downstairs to play it, and now I can't play GTAV without walking down like 20 stairs, so I haven't seen it all week.
* Spent an entire afternoon without my phone because I couldn't find it (it was in the pocket of my sweatpants which I had ditched in an effort to complete the aforementioned crunches
* Tried to come up with some amazing blog topics...and failed
So, as you can see, it's been a suuuuuper rad week so far. Let's see if the rest of it lives up to these amazingly high expectations....
On Monday, I spent the day laughing at Tina Fey's "Bossypants" audiobook on my 100-hour drive back from Chicago. But after that, I had nothing planned. Nothing. Zip. And now, I'm halfway through my big week off, and here's what I've accomplished:
* Took 2-hour naps after driving Geo to work in the mornings
* Painted my fingernails AND toenails at the same time, AND the same color AND without falling asleep and getting sheet marks on any of them
* Watched two movies
* Watched 6 episodes of "Law and Order: SVU" in a row
* Made an actual dinner (chili, cornbread and apple crumble)
* Bought ice cream...and then ate all the ice cream
* Measured a dress zipper to go buy a replacement zipper and learn to replace it. Only got as far as measuring it
* Checked the mail
* Hid from the UPS guy because I was laying on the floor in a t-shirt and one sock pretending to do crunches, but really just seeing if I could make a carpet angel
* Unpacked my china
* Put on a mud mask that I'm only SORT OF SURE was not past it's expiration date
* Went to the bank
* Bragged to the banker about my amazingly exciting staycation
* Got a videogame for Geo, but then he moved the XBox downstairs to play it, and now I can't play GTAV without walking down like 20 stairs, so I haven't seen it all week.
* Spent an entire afternoon without my phone because I couldn't find it (it was in the pocket of my sweatpants which I had ditched in an effort to complete the aforementioned crunches
* Tried to come up with some amazing blog topics...and failed
So, as you can see, it's been a suuuuuper rad week so far. Let's see if the rest of it lives up to these amazingly high expectations....
Monday, October 28, 2013
Birthday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I woke up this morning and found a giant zit on my nose. Oh, nature. You cruel, cruel bitch. I am 100 years old and still battling with clogged pores and hormones. How terribly Macbeth-ian. I know that's not accurate, but I don't care. I'm too old to care about what I say anymore.
It's my birthday. I am surprised that I need to tell you this, because usually I have a good, long 12-week countdown to my birthday and I make sure to announce it as much as possible. But this year, I simply forgot. Blame it on age, blame it on Rochester-related depression, but I simply forgot that my birthday -- the most IMPORTANT day of anyone's year -- was today.
Before my amazing parents and super-fun aunt Sarah showed up tonight for an impromptu delicious, carb-y dinner tonight, I drove 6 hours back from seeing my bestie best best Madeline in Chicago. That super long car ride back from Chi-town to Crochfester was a long time to be alone on a birthday.
I tried to be cool about it and think about the awesome things that come with age. But all that stops at 25 when you can finally rent a car. After that, there's nothing important and it's simply not adorable to send out b-day invitations. After 25, birthdays are just ways of measuring what you HAVEN'T done....and then everything is dumb and over-thought.
I refuse to actually admit how old I am today. I do. Not because I am crazy or vain, but because I never want you guys to think of me any older than 25. That way, my lazy showering habits and ratio of bottles of wine to nights in the week remains firmly rooted in the naivete that is the mid-twenties. I feel comfortable there. I expect zits there.
So, without the fanfare and giant publicity stunt that usually comes with my birthday, I had this weird, uncomfortable, disgusting feeling. I do believe I'm growing up. But my God, how gross is this: I'm more worried about the aging eggs shriveling up in my body than the number of beer bongs I could do on a regular birthday night (answer: 5). This has never happened before.
A lot of people hit some magic age and think "I am this age, I need to be doing these things." But in my case, I've been coasting comfortably on "OMG, as long as no one knows I'm 100, I don't have to deal with real life." Age, to me, is only about how you feel. And I've always felt 25. Even when I was 21.
I loathe getting older as a woman. It's downright garbage. We are always supposed to be at some "phase" in our lives. If we're not mothers, we're supposed to be aspiring mothers, or soon-to-be wives or some such garbage that will always make women feel like whatever we are doing to just be cool at life is bull. At my age (which is 25), you start to realize that people are the worst. There is no magic age that you're supposed to be doing anything. Period.
Today, on my drive home, I thought about what I have built in the last 238592375810348673486 years. I thought about my family, my parents, my siblings, my husband, my in-laws and my friends. I thought "Is there any person on the planet luckier than me?" And I know there isn't. For the first birthday ever, I thought more about the people I have in my life and less about how many people showed up to a birthday party.
Tonight, I will be celebrating the fact that, despite being older, I am zero percent wiser. I still want my parents to tell me how to do things, and I still expect Geo (who is now my husband) to treat me like the clueless girl who sometimes shows up to overcook his chicken. But, it is my birthday, so here's my birthday wish:
I wish that you all could be half as lucky as me and twice as appreciative, but possess only a fraction of the neurosis.
It's my birthday. I am surprised that I need to tell you this, because usually I have a good, long 12-week countdown to my birthday and I make sure to announce it as much as possible. But this year, I simply forgot. Blame it on age, blame it on Rochester-related depression, but I simply forgot that my birthday -- the most IMPORTANT day of anyone's year -- was today.
Before my amazing parents and super-fun aunt Sarah showed up tonight for an impromptu delicious, carb-y dinner tonight, I drove 6 hours back from seeing my bestie best best Madeline in Chicago. That super long car ride back from Chi-town to Crochfester was a long time to be alone on a birthday.
I tried to be cool about it and think about the awesome things that come with age. But all that stops at 25 when you can finally rent a car. After that, there's nothing important and it's simply not adorable to send out b-day invitations. After 25, birthdays are just ways of measuring what you HAVEN'T done....and then everything is dumb and over-thought.
I refuse to actually admit how old I am today. I do. Not because I am crazy or vain, but because I never want you guys to think of me any older than 25. That way, my lazy showering habits and ratio of bottles of wine to nights in the week remains firmly rooted in the naivete that is the mid-twenties. I feel comfortable there. I expect zits there.
So, without the fanfare and giant publicity stunt that usually comes with my birthday, I had this weird, uncomfortable, disgusting feeling. I do believe I'm growing up. But my God, how gross is this: I'm more worried about the aging eggs shriveling up in my body than the number of beer bongs I could do on a regular birthday night (answer: 5). This has never happened before.
A lot of people hit some magic age and think "I am this age, I need to be doing these things." But in my case, I've been coasting comfortably on "OMG, as long as no one knows I'm 100, I don't have to deal with real life." Age, to me, is only about how you feel. And I've always felt 25. Even when I was 21.
I loathe getting older as a woman. It's downright garbage. We are always supposed to be at some "phase" in our lives. If we're not mothers, we're supposed to be aspiring mothers, or soon-to-be wives or some such garbage that will always make women feel like whatever we are doing to just be cool at life is bull. At my age (which is 25), you start to realize that people are the worst. There is no magic age that you're supposed to be doing anything. Period.
Today, on my drive home, I thought about what I have built in the last 238592375810348673486 years. I thought about my family, my parents, my siblings, my husband, my in-laws and my friends. I thought "Is there any person on the planet luckier than me?" And I know there isn't. For the first birthday ever, I thought more about the people I have in my life and less about how many people showed up to a birthday party.
I wish that you all could be half as lucky as me and twice as appreciative, but possess only a fraction of the neurosis.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Kate. Spade.
I had an awesome weekend, which was very crucial because I won't lie to you: Adjusting to living in Rochester has been a little rougher than I thought. So this weekend, I headed back to the Cities for a girl's night with Kim, wine and Center Stage on Friday night and on Saturday night, we went to an Oktoberfest party with a bunch of other pals I haven't even seen since our wedding.
But the most revitalizing thing I did all weekend was to hit up the BRAND NEW KATE SPADE STORE! It just opened in Edina at a mall just 1 mile away from my old apartment just weeks after I moved. (I am trying not to take that too personally.)
Going to the Kate Spade store was much like going to Disneyworld. It was bright and beautiful and it had a billion things I wanted to take my picture with. But, much like Disneyworld, there was a massive sticker shock that came when I wanted to get on the rides. And at the end of the day, it was just a little overwhelming.
I peeked into display cases of jewelry, ran my fingers along the pristine clothing and tried out bag after bag commenting to Kim (my shopping buddy) how much I just loved every single one more than the last. I didn't want to leave.
But unlike online shopping for Kate Spade, I couldn't filter out things that would cost me an arm, leg and soul. So I got stuck falling in love over and over again with $50 socks, $500 watches, $700 coats and $900 bags that I knew I would never own. It was rough. I wanted Kim to take my pic in front of the store, but I thought even that would cost me my grocery money for the week.
And then it got super crowded. The checkout lines snaked through the store, full of Edina hockey moms buying a couple of those $900 bags while chatting to a friend on their phone about barre classes and not wearing mismatched socks. I suddenly felt very out of place. The customers and the girls working in the store were all perfectly shiny and pretty and wearing ironed clothes. Shoppers picked out whatever their little heart desired and the girls behind the counter would gently tuck bag after bag into the colorful Kate Spade boxes I put on display at home in our china cabinet.
Then there was me. I had gotten more dressed up to shop at Kate Spade than I did for my own prom. I was clean, had styled my hair and actually had clean, cute clothes on. But inside the bright, beautiful store, everything on me just kind of seemed....dull. I clutched my own Kate Spade bag that I had snagged last year at a sample sale online, fiddled with my Kate Spade necklaces and scrolled through my email on my Kate-Spade-case-protected phone to find a 30% off coupon. It's like I was wearing the right uniform, but I was at the wrong school.
Maybe it was the overly-chipper staff or the non-chalant way that other women were picking out bags without even peeking inside at the price tag or the bright paint and decor inside the store, but I suddenly had the feeling that I needed to buy EVERYTHING in the store to feel like I am in the same league as the other women.
Luckily (or not), my bank card seemed to yell at me from inside my Kate Spade wallet, screaming out reminders to me that I am NOT in that league, but that was okay because MY Kate Spade purchase would not just be another bag in a garage-sized walk-in closet full of designer labels and diamond shoes. These people may have the goods, but they'd never love Kate Spade stuff like I love Kate Spade stuff.
After getting that little lecture from my checking account, I plucked out what was possibly the smallest bag in the store, pulled out my $48 gift card I had from an old return, and flashed my 30% percent coupon before paying about half-price for my newest best friend.
It was such a deal that I went home and ordered a pair of earrings from katespade.com.
Anyway, I loved shopping at the new store and will definitely be going back again and again, even though it made me question my values and doubt my self-worth. But really, doesn't that happen in any love affair?
But the most revitalizing thing I did all weekend was to hit up the BRAND NEW KATE SPADE STORE! It just opened in Edina at a mall just 1 mile away from my old apartment just weeks after I moved. (I am trying not to take that too personally.)
Going to the Kate Spade store was much like going to Disneyworld. It was bright and beautiful and it had a billion things I wanted to take my picture with. But, much like Disneyworld, there was a massive sticker shock that came when I wanted to get on the rides. And at the end of the day, it was just a little overwhelming.
I peeked into display cases of jewelry, ran my fingers along the pristine clothing and tried out bag after bag commenting to Kim (my shopping buddy) how much I just loved every single one more than the last. I didn't want to leave.
But unlike online shopping for Kate Spade, I couldn't filter out things that would cost me an arm, leg and soul. So I got stuck falling in love over and over again with $50 socks, $500 watches, $700 coats and $900 bags that I knew I would never own. It was rough. I wanted Kim to take my pic in front of the store, but I thought even that would cost me my grocery money for the week.
And then it got super crowded. The checkout lines snaked through the store, full of Edina hockey moms buying a couple of those $900 bags while chatting to a friend on their phone about barre classes and not wearing mismatched socks. I suddenly felt very out of place. The customers and the girls working in the store were all perfectly shiny and pretty and wearing ironed clothes. Shoppers picked out whatever their little heart desired and the girls behind the counter would gently tuck bag after bag into the colorful Kate Spade boxes I put on display at home in our china cabinet.
Then there was me. I had gotten more dressed up to shop at Kate Spade than I did for my own prom. I was clean, had styled my hair and actually had clean, cute clothes on. But inside the bright, beautiful store, everything on me just kind of seemed....dull. I clutched my own Kate Spade bag that I had snagged last year at a sample sale online, fiddled with my Kate Spade necklaces and scrolled through my email on my Kate-Spade-case-protected phone to find a 30% off coupon. It's like I was wearing the right uniform, but I was at the wrong school.
Maybe it was the overly-chipper staff or the non-chalant way that other women were picking out bags without even peeking inside at the price tag or the bright paint and decor inside the store, but I suddenly had the feeling that I needed to buy EVERYTHING in the store to feel like I am in the same league as the other women.
Luckily (or not), my bank card seemed to yell at me from inside my Kate Spade wallet, screaming out reminders to me that I am NOT in that league, but that was okay because MY Kate Spade purchase would not just be another bag in a garage-sized walk-in closet full of designer labels and diamond shoes. These people may have the goods, but they'd never love Kate Spade stuff like I love Kate Spade stuff.
After getting that little lecture from my checking account, I plucked out what was possibly the smallest bag in the store, pulled out my $48 gift card I had from an old return, and flashed my 30% percent coupon before paying about half-price for my newest best friend.
It was such a deal that I went home and ordered a pair of earrings from katespade.com.
Anyway, I loved shopping at the new store and will definitely be going back again and again, even though it made me question my values and doubt my self-worth. But really, doesn't that happen in any love affair?
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
CustomHer Service - Ipsy Edition
There is nothing I like more than giving Customer Service a piece of my mind. I love it. I crave the opportunity to give feedback, both helpful and spiteful. So I have decided to regularly bless you all with my wisdom. That's right. I'm going to relay my experience with Customer Service with different companies on a very regular basis because I am an expert and I want to help you all avoid the same nightmare companies I have battled (Comcast) and encourage you to work with companies I love (Zappos! Hooray! Gold standard!)
Listen, I have gotten married, moved, cancelled cable, and shopped out of spite, anger, depression, excitement and happiness lately. I've had a LOT of experience with the folks over at CS lately.
So yeah, I'm going to start regularly reporting on the good, bad and ugly side of dealing with the dreaded Customer Service.
DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUN!
Today's inaugural edition of CustomHer Service is focused on ipsy.com. Ipsy is a monthly subscription deal that you pay $10 for and every month, you're supposed to get a bag full of beauty products you might never purchase but end up either tossing or loving. It started as pretty fun and a little confusing (what is "lip liner"? What am I supposed to do with this soy "hair wash"?) But I grew to love it.
Then August came. I was getting married and getting ready to move. Needless to say, I was not focused on whatever nail polish and body lotion I was supposed to get in the mail. So, I missed the fact that Ipsy had totally neglected to send me my bag o' pretty. In fact, I didn't realize it until like 3 days ago. My sister Padrin, who also subscribes to Ipsy, assured me that their CS rules and I'd receive an apology, a free package, AND a reimbursement for the month I missed. So I emailed Customer Service.
"Hi. I didn't get my August Glam Bag." (I know, I also hate the term "glam bag", but what can ya do?) "I know I should have realized this sooner, but I didn't because I'm an idiot. Can I get it resent to me?"
Response (paraphrased): Sorry, we have a 45-day return policy so there is nothing you can do. But hey, don't you just still LOOOOOVE ipsy?! Keep on not cancelling us!
I was unsatisfied with this response and centimeters away from straight-up cancelling. I was reading their email before I was about to get into bed. Geo looked at me with my glasses on, my lips pursed and my hip jutting out as I stood in our bedroom doorway, furiously typing on my phone. He was all "Uh oh, this can't be good."
See, I'm kind of known for letting CS have it when I'm displeased (but also when I'm thrilled!). When I feel cheated, I hurl the phrases "disappointed," "I expected better from you," and "You have no idea what I'm going through" like they are common salutations. I want what I want when I want it, and I don't want to overpay for it. So if and when I get pwnd, I get SUPER annoyed.
In this case, I gave ipsy the benefit of the doubt because I actually do LOVE their service (they send SUPER cute stuff and really fun products that I'd never even think to buy, but then decide that I simply can't live without...even though they've sent me 3 of the same nail polishes in a row. Bygones). Instead of launching a full-fledged "I'M NOT PAYING FOR YOUR CRAPPY SHIPPING PRACTICES" attack, like I would normally do, I instead opted for the "Well, I'm unhappy with that result. Can you reimburse me for the lost month of product?"
I waited about 5 hours before I was informed that they would, in fact, send me that $10 package that I pathetically wait for every month. I had won. It was a success, but it was not one I'm proud of. Ten bucks? That's what I was fighting for?
I'm annoyed that ipsy made me fight even relatively hard for the stuff I pay a tiny fee for every month. I want tiny eyeshadows and adorable shampoo samples as much as the next guy, but I don't want to have to get all dragon about it. I don't want to have to hip-jut my way into not being robbed of $10. That's just poor form.
So, I will end this first installment of CustomHer Service with this: ipsy is great, but their problem-solving is terrible. If your whole business relies on people giving you money every month to send them adorable things, and then you DON'T send those adorable things? Apologize, fix it and make it easier to recommend the service to others.
My Take: ipsy is okay, but may consider Birchbox.
Listen, I have gotten married, moved, cancelled cable, and shopped out of spite, anger, depression, excitement and happiness lately. I've had a LOT of experience with the folks over at CS lately.
So yeah, I'm going to start regularly reporting on the good, bad and ugly side of dealing with the dreaded Customer Service.
DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUN!
Today's inaugural edition of CustomHer Service is focused on ipsy.com. Ipsy is a monthly subscription deal that you pay $10 for and every month, you're supposed to get a bag full of beauty products you might never purchase but end up either tossing or loving. It started as pretty fun and a little confusing (what is "lip liner"? What am I supposed to do with this soy "hair wash"?) But I grew to love it.
Then August came. I was getting married and getting ready to move. Needless to say, I was not focused on whatever nail polish and body lotion I was supposed to get in the mail. So, I missed the fact that Ipsy had totally neglected to send me my bag o' pretty. In fact, I didn't realize it until like 3 days ago. My sister Padrin, who also subscribes to Ipsy, assured me that their CS rules and I'd receive an apology, a free package, AND a reimbursement for the month I missed. So I emailed Customer Service.
"Hi. I didn't get my August Glam Bag." (I know, I also hate the term "glam bag", but what can ya do?) "I know I should have realized this sooner, but I didn't because I'm an idiot. Can I get it resent to me?"
Response (paraphrased): Sorry, we have a 45-day return policy so there is nothing you can do. But hey, don't you just still LOOOOOVE ipsy?! Keep on not cancelling us!
I was unsatisfied with this response and centimeters away from straight-up cancelling. I was reading their email before I was about to get into bed. Geo looked at me with my glasses on, my lips pursed and my hip jutting out as I stood in our bedroom doorway, furiously typing on my phone. He was all "Uh oh, this can't be good."
See, I'm kind of known for letting CS have it when I'm displeased (but also when I'm thrilled!). When I feel cheated, I hurl the phrases "disappointed," "I expected better from you," and "You have no idea what I'm going through" like they are common salutations. I want what I want when I want it, and I don't want to overpay for it. So if and when I get pwnd, I get SUPER annoyed.
In this case, I gave ipsy the benefit of the doubt because I actually do LOVE their service (they send SUPER cute stuff and really fun products that I'd never even think to buy, but then decide that I simply can't live without...even though they've sent me 3 of the same nail polishes in a row. Bygones). Instead of launching a full-fledged "I'M NOT PAYING FOR YOUR CRAPPY SHIPPING PRACTICES" attack, like I would normally do, I instead opted for the "Well, I'm unhappy with that result. Can you reimburse me for the lost month of product?"
I waited about 5 hours before I was informed that they would, in fact, send me that $10 package that I pathetically wait for every month. I had won. It was a success, but it was not one I'm proud of. Ten bucks? That's what I was fighting for?
I'm annoyed that ipsy made me fight even relatively hard for the stuff I pay a tiny fee for every month. I want tiny eyeshadows and adorable shampoo samples as much as the next guy, but I don't want to have to get all dragon about it. I don't want to have to hip-jut my way into not being robbed of $10. That's just poor form.
So, I will end this first installment of CustomHer Service with this: ipsy is great, but their problem-solving is terrible. If your whole business relies on people giving you money every month to send them adorable things, and then you DON'T send those adorable things? Apologize, fix it and make it easier to recommend the service to others.
My Take: ipsy is okay, but may consider Birchbox.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
How to Commute
Today was my 2nd trip to and from Rochester for work. It takes an hour to get to the office and 4 days to get home, I think. Or, at least that's how it feels. But I will go ahead and consider myself an expert in commuting to work and have decided to give you all some helpful tips.
1) Make sure you start your journey at the butt crack of dawn. I choose somewhere around 6:15 or so in order to make sure I can see the sunrise on the way to work. Makes for a lovely trip and is a brutal reminder that you have showered, made coffee, put on matching shoes (hopefully) and driven halfway to work before the sun even comes up.
2) Try to break up the trip by giving yourself mini-rewards at regular intervals. Like, 15 minutes in? I start drinking my coffee. And 30 minutes in, I get to turn off my I Heart Radio app and tune in to real radio stations again. At the 45-minute mark, I roll down my window and spit sunflower seeds out of it. By the time I'm making the final turn into the office, I feel like I've really accomplished some things.
3) It is important to be prepared for a long commute. I bring: A water bottle, coffee, snacks, sunflower seeds, and a Go-Girl in case of emergencies. (I kid!) But most importantly is the mental preparation. It's going to be a long time before you actually get anywhere, so don't be a jackwad and try and stay connected with your phone. Put that guy away and refrain from texting, Facebooking and generally being an idiot. If you absolutely must speak to someone, bring along a friend or get over it and just be quiet for awhile.
4) Podcasts can be a real treat. They can be very interesting and funny and an excellent way to pass the time, if you choose the right ones. I recommend the Nerdist, Comedy Bang Bang, How Did This Get Made, This American Life and Ted Talks to get you started.
5) Okay, cruise control can be your best friend or it can be the devil. In the afternoon, it's lovely. But in the morning, setting your car to cruise and zoning out can be a super bad idea. Keep yourself alert by constantly changing speeds. Try slamming on your brakes before accelerating up to 90 every once in awhile. Keep it interesting.
6) Temperature is tough. Right now, it's freezing cold in the morning and warm and sunny in the afternoon. In the morning, a warm car is as risky as driving after slugging back some NyQuil. Keep it chilly. Plus, the teeth-chattering will give you something to do. In the afternoon, you can roll down your windows and chillax. This will, however, make it very noisy in the car so turn up your talking podcast super loud. Other motorists will be jealous of your diverse interests.
7) It is unavoidable: Every person on the road will be annoying and terrible at life. They will cruise at 2 mph under you and hang out in the left lane right next to a semi. Fight the urge to GTA your way through the situation. Instead, drive pretty close to them and extend your middle finger up in the air very aggressively while yelling helpful suggestions out the window such as "GET OUT OF THE LEFT LANE, @(*$)(%*#*%$*@&!!!!" Expert tip: Turn your podcast down before doing this so they can hear you loud and clear.
8) Go ahead and play the alphabet game by yourself on the drive. Because guess what! No one is around to call you out for cheating by counting the K in "Kwik Trip" as a Q because it's not your fault they spelled it wrong. Bonus? You win every time.
9) Speed can be a conundrum. On the one hand, you want to get to your destination and OUT of that godforsaken car so bad that you may be tempted to go way too fast. On the other hand, you may be so afraid of getting a ticket that you play it like a nerd and drive the speed limit. My tip? For every 5 cars you pass, let one pass you. I don't know how or if that works, but it sounds about right. Almost scientific. Right?
10) Finally, when you eventually get home at the end of the day after sitting in a car and sitting at a desk and then sitting in a car again, find yourself inexplicably exhausted and lay down for a nap. Then wake up and play a driving video game because you are insane.
There you go! I figure if you follow these 10 tips, your commute will fly by!
1) Make sure you start your journey at the butt crack of dawn. I choose somewhere around 6:15 or so in order to make sure I can see the sunrise on the way to work. Makes for a lovely trip and is a brutal reminder that you have showered, made coffee, put on matching shoes (hopefully) and driven halfway to work before the sun even comes up.
2) Try to break up the trip by giving yourself mini-rewards at regular intervals. Like, 15 minutes in? I start drinking my coffee. And 30 minutes in, I get to turn off my I Heart Radio app and tune in to real radio stations again. At the 45-minute mark, I roll down my window and spit sunflower seeds out of it. By the time I'm making the final turn into the office, I feel like I've really accomplished some things.
3) It is important to be prepared for a long commute. I bring: A water bottle, coffee, snacks, sunflower seeds, and a Go-Girl in case of emergencies. (I kid!) But most importantly is the mental preparation. It's going to be a long time before you actually get anywhere, so don't be a jackwad and try and stay connected with your phone. Put that guy away and refrain from texting, Facebooking and generally being an idiot. If you absolutely must speak to someone, bring along a friend or get over it and just be quiet for awhile.
4) Podcasts can be a real treat. They can be very interesting and funny and an excellent way to pass the time, if you choose the right ones. I recommend the Nerdist, Comedy Bang Bang, How Did This Get Made, This American Life and Ted Talks to get you started.
5) Okay, cruise control can be your best friend or it can be the devil. In the afternoon, it's lovely. But in the morning, setting your car to cruise and zoning out can be a super bad idea. Keep yourself alert by constantly changing speeds. Try slamming on your brakes before accelerating up to 90 every once in awhile. Keep it interesting.
6) Temperature is tough. Right now, it's freezing cold in the morning and warm and sunny in the afternoon. In the morning, a warm car is as risky as driving after slugging back some NyQuil. Keep it chilly. Plus, the teeth-chattering will give you something to do. In the afternoon, you can roll down your windows and chillax. This will, however, make it very noisy in the car so turn up your talking podcast super loud. Other motorists will be jealous of your diverse interests.
7) It is unavoidable: Every person on the road will be annoying and terrible at life. They will cruise at 2 mph under you and hang out in the left lane right next to a semi. Fight the urge to GTA your way through the situation. Instead, drive pretty close to them and extend your middle finger up in the air very aggressively while yelling helpful suggestions out the window such as "GET OUT OF THE LEFT LANE, @(*$)(%*#*%$*@&!!!!" Expert tip: Turn your podcast down before doing this so they can hear you loud and clear.
8) Go ahead and play the alphabet game by yourself on the drive. Because guess what! No one is around to call you out for cheating by counting the K in "Kwik Trip" as a Q because it's not your fault they spelled it wrong. Bonus? You win every time.
9) Speed can be a conundrum. On the one hand, you want to get to your destination and OUT of that godforsaken car so bad that you may be tempted to go way too fast. On the other hand, you may be so afraid of getting a ticket that you play it like a nerd and drive the speed limit. My tip? For every 5 cars you pass, let one pass you. I don't know how or if that works, but it sounds about right. Almost scientific. Right?
10) Finally, when you eventually get home at the end of the day after sitting in a car and sitting at a desk and then sitting in a car again, find yourself inexplicably exhausted and lay down for a nap. Then wake up and play a driving video game because you are insane.
There you go! I figure if you follow these 10 tips, your commute will fly by!
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Let's Go Crazy
"Get ready. You have 15 minutes until we are leaving."
Those were the instructions from my sister Prinna last night. I had had a really rough Friday night at home by myself in Rochester for the first time ever, so I went back home and spent the rest of the weekend with my parents and sister. Turns out, Prinna had the skinny on a supercalifragilistic event. Prince - PRINCE - was having a surprise concert at his Paisley Park recording studio. Those were all the details we had. There was the concert of a lifetime and it would only cost me a $50 donation and some serious soul-searching.
See, it turns out, I'm not the spontaneous kind of girl I'd like to think I am. Without a schedule, advance ticket sales, assigned seating and a firm parking plan, I was less-than-enthusiastic to spend my Saturday in chaos. But Prinna was adamant...this WOULD be a fun night. Whether I liked it or not.
So I put on my leather skirt (yay! It's already come in handy!), a white tee and jean jacket with some freaking high wedge boots. I slapped some makeup on and came out of my parents bathroom in 7 minutes. Prinna was all "Let's go...crazy."
We drove in her minivan to Paisley Park where a line had been forming since 10 a.m. The lady told us "You can't park here. You either have to go to Target and walk 1/4 mile back to get in line, or park at a remote lot and wait 1 1/2 hours for a shuttle."
Strike one.
Obviously, we weren't going to walk because we are not stupid. We parked and waited in a line of about 30 people in a Lifetime Fitness parking lot. (The attendant there was like "Are you here for the Prince concert?" And I was all, "No, I'm coming to work out...idiot." He laughed and sent us towards the line. An hour later, a ginormous shuttle and luxury van showed up.
[I should note here that Prince explicitly forbids alcohol AND cellphones at these shows. So, while everyone was calm and sober, we were downright lost without our phones. It was like being naked...and sober.]
So as Prinna and I start to board the bus, the bus driver stop us and are all "Sorry, all full." We were pissed. Strike two.
But then they directed us to the fancy shmancy van behind the bus where we waited with 15 other people who were equally uncomfortable without phones. Oddly enough, we all started chatting and it turned out to be amazing.
Forty-five minutes later, we left the parking lot. I was SURE we'd be at the end of the very long line only to find out that we weren't getting in. I was like "Well, at least I saved $50. Someone's buying some new shoes tomorrow."
But we drove to Paisley Park...and then we PASSED BY everyone who had camped in the rain and waited in line since that morning and drove right through the gate. To the front entrance. We were dropped off RIGHT AT THE FRONT. We had skipped the line in a luxury van.
I kept thinking "This can't be happening. Coming to see Prince at a surprise concert could NOT be this easy." I kept waiting for someone to come over to us and be like "You're at the wrong concert, dummies," or something because it had all been way too lucky so far.
We wait in line again for another half-hour or so and then the doors open. Prinna and I ended up being like the 20th and 21st person admitted inside. We paid our donation, and went into this enormous room with this incredible stage. And when I say we got close, WE GOT CLOSE. There were no more than three people between me and me licking Prince's mic stand.
Then more waiting.
But I totally didn't mind. Some warm-up musicians came on and sang with a little 18-PIECE BAND known as New Power Generation and Prinna and I were IN AWE. There is no way to explain how amazing these musicians were. And even the 50-year-old idiot who tried to smoke pot right next to us and then got kicked out couldn't ruin the vibe. And even though my feet were bloody stumps inside my 5-inch wedge boots, I felt amazing.
The doors opened at about 9:15. At around 12:15, my life changed forever when Prince sauntered up on stage with absolutely no fanfare. He just came on during a warm up song, wearing the most amazing 'fro and heeled-boots ever. Then he broke into song and it was all I could do to not weep during "Diamonds and Pearls". He was the show-stopping, top-of-his-game singing musical genius I had always hoped he'd be. And then he'd talk into the mic in this tiny, quiet voice that made me want to crawl up on stage and get inside a Baby Bjorn that he'd carry around stage.
He played for TWO HOURS. My ears have never been happier. If it weren't totally gross and probably a medical emergency, they would have wept with gratitude that I had given them this experience. Prince sounded AMAZING and the band? The band was the best band on the planet. And would probably win every Battle of the Bands competition on Jupiter.
The best part of the night was when Prince whisper-talked into the mic that Purple Rain was Minneapolis' song. Prinna said "I felt like I was on acid during that song. It was unbelievable." And I would have agreed with her if the lump in my throat wouldn't have been there. It was the most indescribable musical experience I will likely ever have.
He played some standards that I sang along to (quietly, because I didn't want to miss one note that came out of that tiny, beautiful man's mouth) and then a bunch of others that I had never heard. But it didn't matter. They were all my favorites. And if you have forgotten, I was THREE PEOPLE away from a musical icon. I could see his sweaty brow, his fingernails, the bedazzling on his tulle cape and I felt like I could feel his breath on my face. It was absolutely surreal. For $50 bucks.
Two and a half hours later, Prinna and I were heading back to the car (after another amazingly-lucky line jump) and in la-la land. It's like we were high on the music. We got home at like 3 a.m. and I fell asleep with "Nothing Compares 2 U" in my head and a smile on my face.
This morning, I was reliving the whole experience to my parents. I tried to explain everything to them, and just wanted to show them pictures of Paisley Park and Prince and NPG, but I couldn't. I didn't have a concert tee or a hand stamp. I had nothing but the images and notes smashed inside my brain. And while I feel a little bad that I can't share it with others, I feel amazing that I got to have it all to myself.
And to think...I would have missed it all if Prinna hadn't insisted that I buck up and try something new for once. I guess some pretty amazing things can happen when you leave your scheduling, phone and inhibitions behind.
Those were the instructions from my sister Prinna last night. I had had a really rough Friday night at home by myself in Rochester for the first time ever, so I went back home and spent the rest of the weekend with my parents and sister. Turns out, Prinna had the skinny on a supercalifragilistic event. Prince - PRINCE - was having a surprise concert at his Paisley Park recording studio. Those were all the details we had. There was the concert of a lifetime and it would only cost me a $50 donation and some serious soul-searching.
See, it turns out, I'm not the spontaneous kind of girl I'd like to think I am. Without a schedule, advance ticket sales, assigned seating and a firm parking plan, I was less-than-enthusiastic to spend my Saturday in chaos. But Prinna was adamant...this WOULD be a fun night. Whether I liked it or not.
So I put on my leather skirt (yay! It's already come in handy!), a white tee and jean jacket with some freaking high wedge boots. I slapped some makeup on and came out of my parents bathroom in 7 minutes. Prinna was all "Let's go...crazy."
We drove in her minivan to Paisley Park where a line had been forming since 10 a.m. The lady told us "You can't park here. You either have to go to Target and walk 1/4 mile back to get in line, or park at a remote lot and wait 1 1/2 hours for a shuttle."
Strike one.
Obviously, we weren't going to walk because we are not stupid. We parked and waited in a line of about 30 people in a Lifetime Fitness parking lot. (The attendant there was like "Are you here for the Prince concert?" And I was all, "No, I'm coming to work out...idiot." He laughed and sent us towards the line. An hour later, a ginormous shuttle and luxury van showed up.
[I should note here that Prince explicitly forbids alcohol AND cellphones at these shows. So, while everyone was calm and sober, we were downright lost without our phones. It was like being naked...and sober.]
So as Prinna and I start to board the bus, the bus driver stop us and are all "Sorry, all full." We were pissed. Strike two.
But then they directed us to the fancy shmancy van behind the bus where we waited with 15 other people who were equally uncomfortable without phones. Oddly enough, we all started chatting and it turned out to be amazing.
Forty-five minutes later, we left the parking lot. I was SURE we'd be at the end of the very long line only to find out that we weren't getting in. I was like "Well, at least I saved $50. Someone's buying some new shoes tomorrow."
But we drove to Paisley Park...and then we PASSED BY everyone who had camped in the rain and waited in line since that morning and drove right through the gate. To the front entrance. We were dropped off RIGHT AT THE FRONT. We had skipped the line in a luxury van.
I kept thinking "This can't be happening. Coming to see Prince at a surprise concert could NOT be this easy." I kept waiting for someone to come over to us and be like "You're at the wrong concert, dummies," or something because it had all been way too lucky so far.
We wait in line again for another half-hour or so and then the doors open. Prinna and I ended up being like the 20th and 21st person admitted inside. We paid our donation, and went into this enormous room with this incredible stage. And when I say we got close, WE GOT CLOSE. There were no more than three people between me and me licking Prince's mic stand.
Then more waiting.
But I totally didn't mind. Some warm-up musicians came on and sang with a little 18-PIECE BAND known as New Power Generation and Prinna and I were IN AWE. There is no way to explain how amazing these musicians were. And even the 50-year-old idiot who tried to smoke pot right next to us and then got kicked out couldn't ruin the vibe. And even though my feet were bloody stumps inside my 5-inch wedge boots, I felt amazing.
The doors opened at about 9:15. At around 12:15, my life changed forever when Prince sauntered up on stage with absolutely no fanfare. He just came on during a warm up song, wearing the most amazing 'fro and heeled-boots ever. Then he broke into song and it was all I could do to not weep during "Diamonds and Pearls". He was the show-stopping, top-of-his-game singing musical genius I had always hoped he'd be. And then he'd talk into the mic in this tiny, quiet voice that made me want to crawl up on stage and get inside a Baby Bjorn that he'd carry around stage.
He played for TWO HOURS. My ears have never been happier. If it weren't totally gross and probably a medical emergency, they would have wept with gratitude that I had given them this experience. Prince sounded AMAZING and the band? The band was the best band on the planet. And would probably win every Battle of the Bands competition on Jupiter.
The best part of the night was when Prince whisper-talked into the mic that Purple Rain was Minneapolis' song. Prinna said "I felt like I was on acid during that song. It was unbelievable." And I would have agreed with her if the lump in my throat wouldn't have been there. It was the most indescribable musical experience I will likely ever have.
He played some standards that I sang along to (quietly, because I didn't want to miss one note that came out of that tiny, beautiful man's mouth) and then a bunch of others that I had never heard. But it didn't matter. They were all my favorites. And if you have forgotten, I was THREE PEOPLE away from a musical icon. I could see his sweaty brow, his fingernails, the bedazzling on his tulle cape and I felt like I could feel his breath on my face. It was absolutely surreal. For $50 bucks.
Two and a half hours later, Prinna and I were heading back to the car (after another amazingly-lucky line jump) and in la-la land. It's like we were high on the music. We got home at like 3 a.m. and I fell asleep with "Nothing Compares 2 U" in my head and a smile on my face.
This morning, I was reliving the whole experience to my parents. I tried to explain everything to them, and just wanted to show them pictures of Paisley Park and Prince and NPG, but I couldn't. I didn't have a concert tee or a hand stamp. I had nothing but the images and notes smashed inside my brain. And while I feel a little bad that I can't share it with others, I feel amazing that I got to have it all to myself.
And to think...I would have missed it all if Prinna hadn't insisted that I buck up and try something new for once. I guess some pretty amazing things can happen when you leave your scheduling, phone and inhibitions behind.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Adjustment
It was my grandma's 95th birthday today. NINETY-FIVE. And she's every bit of a baller as she has always been. It should have been a big enough day, but something else was happening.
I was leaving Minneapolis.
Today was the day I officially signed out of my lease and moved to Rochester. I closed up shop in my Minneapolis apartment and handed over my keys to my old life. No backup. No extra apartment. Needless to say, I took it like an adult.
I cried for 55 of the 75 minutes it took me to drive to Rochester tonight. And then when I got here, I unloaded all the absolute crap from my car. Geo wasn't back yet, so I pulled in to our luxurious 2-car garage and sat at the steering wheel. Crying.
Like any full-grown woman, I unloaded my car, crying, and started just putting stuff in places thinking "This isn't where this belongs. This belongs in Minneapolis." I was literally heave-crying. And that's the ugliest kind of crying you could ever do. I pulled all my stuff up the stairs, crying because I wanted to be melodramatic about it. And when I realized no one was around to see my emotional breakdown, I cried harder.
I was already SO homesick. And the fact that Geo wasn't home yet didn't help. I cried and hauled my stuff into our house. I cried and unpacked linens into the linen closet. I cried and unpacked the accidental bag of garbage that I had collected from my old place. The memories! I was a mess.
So I cracked open a beer, took off my pants, crawled into bed and just laid there watching Law and Order: SVU while sniffing my blanket and that's when I decided that I am not equipped for adult living. My mom moved from Rhode Island to Minnesota to marry my dad, and that was before Skype. I had thought "Surely I can move 75 minutes away from home and take it like a man," but it's so much harder than I was expecting.
Geo did what he could: he got me beautiful flowers, made dinner and got us Grand Theft Auto V. He did everything the best husband in the world would do for a gal who's down, and for awhile, it was the greatest time EVER! But then, Geo went to sleep and I was left to my own devices. Night owl + homesick + being TERRIBLE at Grand Theft Auto = Pharon is a mess.
Am I telling you all this for sympathy? Perhaps. Do I know that other people have moved way further away and to worse places for love? Of course. But none of that happened TO ME. And the point here, people, is that I'm a big baby and nothing but time and constant complaining will get me through this. And probably a lot of late-night GTA.
I was leaving Minneapolis.
Today was the day I officially signed out of my lease and moved to Rochester. I closed up shop in my Minneapolis apartment and handed over my keys to my old life. No backup. No extra apartment. Needless to say, I took it like an adult.
I cried for 55 of the 75 minutes it took me to drive to Rochester tonight. And then when I got here, I unloaded all the absolute crap from my car. Geo wasn't back yet, so I pulled in to our luxurious 2-car garage and sat at the steering wheel. Crying.
Like any full-grown woman, I unloaded my car, crying, and started just putting stuff in places thinking "This isn't where this belongs. This belongs in Minneapolis." I was literally heave-crying. And that's the ugliest kind of crying you could ever do. I pulled all my stuff up the stairs, crying because I wanted to be melodramatic about it. And when I realized no one was around to see my emotional breakdown, I cried harder.
I was already SO homesick. And the fact that Geo wasn't home yet didn't help. I cried and hauled my stuff into our house. I cried and unpacked linens into the linen closet. I cried and unpacked the accidental bag of garbage that I had collected from my old place. The memories! I was a mess.
So I cracked open a beer, took off my pants, crawled into bed and just laid there watching Law and Order: SVU while sniffing my blanket and that's when I decided that I am not equipped for adult living. My mom moved from Rhode Island to Minnesota to marry my dad, and that was before Skype. I had thought "Surely I can move 75 minutes away from home and take it like a man," but it's so much harder than I was expecting.
Geo did what he could: he got me beautiful flowers, made dinner and got us Grand Theft Auto V. He did everything the best husband in the world would do for a gal who's down, and for awhile, it was the greatest time EVER! But then, Geo went to sleep and I was left to my own devices. Night owl + homesick + being TERRIBLE at Grand Theft Auto = Pharon is a mess.
Am I telling you all this for sympathy? Perhaps. Do I know that other people have moved way further away and to worse places for love? Of course. But none of that happened TO ME. And the point here, people, is that I'm a big baby and nothing but time and constant complaining will get me through this. And probably a lot of late-night GTA.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
The Great Plate Debate
I'm moving. Have I mentioned that? I'm moving to Rochester to live with my husband. For the past month and a half, I've been living part-time in Minneapolis in an apartment I leased when Geo was in Alabama and I was trying to figure out how to live by myself. But now the lease is ending and I've gotta get out or I'm pretty sure they'll be pretty mad and like poop on my doorstep, or whatever it is property managers do when they want you to leave.
I can't verbalize how ecstatic I am to finally live full-time with Geo. I want to finally eat breakfast AND dinner with him more than a couple nights in a row and stop packing up bags to go back-and-forth. I want to share closets with him and buy toilet paper together and do everything we used to do when we first lived together. (PharonSquare amateurs: I met Geo because he was my roommate. We lived together for a year before dating, and it worked out better than perfectly, but then he had to move away for grad school.)
But I can't lie to you guys: It's been kind of an emotional journey for me to pack everything up and say goodbye to my one-bedroom apartments and hand-me-down kitchen appliances. I've packed and unpacked MY things like 100 times since high school. But I keep getting really hung up on my dishes.
My dishes were actually my sister Prinna's. I think she got them from my parents, but then they came to me. I unpacked those dishes when I moved in with Kim in college, when I moved into my first solo apartment, my second solo apartment, my first apartment with guys, my second apartment with guys (and Geo), and then again when I moved in to my current place. They are pretty much the only things I've ever had and not broken.
So tonight when I tossed bags and bags of "single girl" stuff into the garbage, I stopped when I got to those dishes. I'm married now, and my bomb loved ones have given Geo and I all the brand new gorgeous dishes that we handpicked as our Everyday Dishes. I LOVE the new ones. I don't NEED the old ones.
But I feel like a total abandoner (it's a word) tossing out the old dishes. I never LOVED them (the bowls are a weird shape and the dinner plates are always too big for dishwashers), but I NEEDED them. And I've somehow gotten extremely attached to them. It's like the ugliest sweatpants ever that every person has in their closet. They don't look good, and sometimes you just wanna throw them out, but you never do. You keep washing them and putting them right back where they belong. And you pack and unpack them 1 billion times. But then you get married and you feel like you need to pretend like those sweatpants never existed.
But you can't. Because it's hard.
Anyway, I made a bagel and put it on my single-girl plate and then gave it a little high five as I smeared the cream cheese off of it with my tongue.
Then I tossed it in a garbage bag with the rest of my dishes. (Yay! No more dish-washing!) I hauled the bag out to the garbage and heaved it into the bin with unimaginable guilt. (No, not because I was throwing away perfectly good dishes. I know I could have recycled them or donated them, but I'm not a hippie, and also I didn't know how to do that since I've never gotten rid of dishes.) But I stood there, kissed two fingers and saluted my dishes with a peace sign before turning back into my apartment to open some wine and mourn.
Am I insane? Am I? Does anyone else have something that they had trouble letting go of when they got married or turned into a grown-up??
I can't verbalize how ecstatic I am to finally live full-time with Geo. I want to finally eat breakfast AND dinner with him more than a couple nights in a row and stop packing up bags to go back-and-forth. I want to share closets with him and buy toilet paper together and do everything we used to do when we first lived together. (PharonSquare amateurs: I met Geo because he was my roommate. We lived together for a year before dating, and it worked out better than perfectly, but then he had to move away for grad school.)
But I can't lie to you guys: It's been kind of an emotional journey for me to pack everything up and say goodbye to my one-bedroom apartments and hand-me-down kitchen appliances. I've packed and unpacked MY things like 100 times since high school. But I keep getting really hung up on my dishes.
My dishes were actually my sister Prinna's. I think she got them from my parents, but then they came to me. I unpacked those dishes when I moved in with Kim in college, when I moved into my first solo apartment, my second solo apartment, my first apartment with guys, my second apartment with guys (and Geo), and then again when I moved in to my current place. They are pretty much the only things I've ever had and not broken.
So tonight when I tossed bags and bags of "single girl" stuff into the garbage, I stopped when I got to those dishes. I'm married now, and my bomb loved ones have given Geo and I all the brand new gorgeous dishes that we handpicked as our Everyday Dishes. I LOVE the new ones. I don't NEED the old ones.
But I feel like a total abandoner (it's a word) tossing out the old dishes. I never LOVED them (the bowls are a weird shape and the dinner plates are always too big for dishwashers), but I NEEDED them. And I've somehow gotten extremely attached to them. It's like the ugliest sweatpants ever that every person has in their closet. They don't look good, and sometimes you just wanna throw them out, but you never do. You keep washing them and putting them right back where they belong. And you pack and unpack them 1 billion times. But then you get married and you feel like you need to pretend like those sweatpants never existed.
But you can't. Because it's hard.
Anyway, I made a bagel and put it on my single-girl plate and then gave it a little high five as I smeared the cream cheese off of it with my tongue.
Then I tossed it in a garbage bag with the rest of my dishes. (Yay! No more dish-washing!) I hauled the bag out to the garbage and heaved it into the bin with unimaginable guilt. (No, not because I was throwing away perfectly good dishes. I know I could have recycled them or donated them, but I'm not a hippie, and also I didn't know how to do that since I've never gotten rid of dishes.) But I stood there, kissed two fingers and saluted my dishes with a peace sign before turning back into my apartment to open some wine and mourn.
Am I insane? Am I? Does anyone else have something that they had trouble letting go of when they got married or turned into a grown-up??
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Stranger Danger
I hate Craigslist. I do. It makes me so uncomfortable that any potential benefit of a quick profit or easy sale is quickly masked by my racing "worst case scenario" thoughts and compulsive googling about the seller/buyer. My sister, on the other hand, has basically furnished her entire new house with top-of-the-line furniture she found on Craigslist for a fraction of the price.
But I simply cannot embrace the process of posting something anonymously online and having some stranger show up (or show up to a stranger's creepy house in the middle of abandoned woods), hand over cash and then just exchange goods without incident. It seems way too...I don't know, naive.
Recently, I had to buy something off Craigslist. I had no other options. I called my sister and my mom and was like "Hi. I am getting something off Craigslist and I need to not go get it by myself. It's not big, I'm just petrified."
So they humored me and agreed to come with me. Before we headed out, I googled everything I could about the seller, Google street-mapped the address he gave me and checked out every link on a website of his that I found to make sure they didn't send me to some black market wife-swapping/kidnapping webpage. Then I went to the bank, got out some cash and wrote down the serial numbers of the bills in case I went missing and the kidnapper tried to use my own money to buy duct tape and rope (or whatever it is that those crazy kidnappers are using these days) before sharpening my fingernails into a point and heading out.
Flanked by my body guards (my mom and sister), I got into the car and we drove 40 minutes to the guy's office building. About 3 minutes into the ride, I started sweating and trying to think of everything I've been taught in kickboxing and Karate Kid in preparation for the exchange. Who in their right mind goes to a stranger's house, goes inside and gives them money!? I was making the same terrible decision that every idiot chick makes in every scary movie: walking right into a trap! What was I doing?!
I gave the cash to my sister and pleaded, "You have to do this! I'm so scared!" And she laughed and was like "Okay, crazy. I'll take care of it."
So we get to this tiny office building and the guy shows up with a woman who was either his wife or latest victim. I get out of the car with Prinna and whisper "OMG. YOU BE PHARON!" and luckily she complied and introduced herself as me. They let "Pharon" and "Crazy" into the front lobby, which had been pitch black when we first arrived. I stood with one foot out the door and the other just barely past the threshold while Prinna examined the goods. The lady went to get something and the guy looks at me and says, "Shut that door, please." And he said it, like, menacingly. My heart raced and it was all I could do to keep from running away and leaving my sister, my mom and my cash behind.
So the woman's gone, the guy has instructed me to shut the door - "tightly" - and he is encouraging us to examine our purchase. Bend over a box with my back to the guy AND the door?! NO THANK YOU. I leaned over for a second, but kept my eyes squarely on the man's hands in case he reached for a statue to hit me on the back of my head with.
Prinna paid the guy, and then we hauled a$$ out of there. Back in the safety of the car, I had an odd thought. For as scared as I was to be showing up to this guy's place, I couldn't help but think how sketchy I looked.
For starters, what kind of name is "Pharon"? He probably had no idea WHAT to expect. I show up at night in a conversion van, and then whisper something to my companion/accomplice while I wait in a dark parking lot. Inside, I stand with my foot out the door, seemingly on the lookout for a getaway car. I stare eerily at the man, flinch when he asks me to close the door, show no interest in the item and shift nervously as the woman leaves the room.
The point is that I do not understand how ANYONE gets through a Craigslist transaction without firing a taser out of sheer panic. But, at least I got what I wanted, for a helluva deal and didn't get kidnapped or robbed. Score.
But I simply cannot embrace the process of posting something anonymously online and having some stranger show up (or show up to a stranger's creepy house in the middle of abandoned woods), hand over cash and then just exchange goods without incident. It seems way too...I don't know, naive.
Recently, I had to buy something off Craigslist. I had no other options. I called my sister and my mom and was like "Hi. I am getting something off Craigslist and I need to not go get it by myself. It's not big, I'm just petrified."
So they humored me and agreed to come with me. Before we headed out, I googled everything I could about the seller, Google street-mapped the address he gave me and checked out every link on a website of his that I found to make sure they didn't send me to some black market wife-swapping/kidnapping webpage. Then I went to the bank, got out some cash and wrote down the serial numbers of the bills in case I went missing and the kidnapper tried to use my own money to buy duct tape and rope (or whatever it is that those crazy kidnappers are using these days) before sharpening my fingernails into a point and heading out.
Flanked by my body guards (my mom and sister), I got into the car and we drove 40 minutes to the guy's office building. About 3 minutes into the ride, I started sweating and trying to think of everything I've been taught in kickboxing and Karate Kid in preparation for the exchange. Who in their right mind goes to a stranger's house, goes inside and gives them money!? I was making the same terrible decision that every idiot chick makes in every scary movie: walking right into a trap! What was I doing?!
I gave the cash to my sister and pleaded, "You have to do this! I'm so scared!" And she laughed and was like "Okay, crazy. I'll take care of it."
So we get to this tiny office building and the guy shows up with a woman who was either his wife or latest victim. I get out of the car with Prinna and whisper "OMG. YOU BE PHARON!" and luckily she complied and introduced herself as me. They let "Pharon" and "Crazy" into the front lobby, which had been pitch black when we first arrived. I stood with one foot out the door and the other just barely past the threshold while Prinna examined the goods. The lady went to get something and the guy looks at me and says, "Shut that door, please." And he said it, like, menacingly. My heart raced and it was all I could do to keep from running away and leaving my sister, my mom and my cash behind.
So the woman's gone, the guy has instructed me to shut the door - "tightly" - and he is encouraging us to examine our purchase. Bend over a box with my back to the guy AND the door?! NO THANK YOU. I leaned over for a second, but kept my eyes squarely on the man's hands in case he reached for a statue to hit me on the back of my head with.
Prinna paid the guy, and then we hauled a$$ out of there. Back in the safety of the car, I had an odd thought. For as scared as I was to be showing up to this guy's place, I couldn't help but think how sketchy I looked.
For starters, what kind of name is "Pharon"? He probably had no idea WHAT to expect. I show up at night in a conversion van, and then whisper something to my companion/accomplice while I wait in a dark parking lot. Inside, I stand with my foot out the door, seemingly on the lookout for a getaway car. I stare eerily at the man, flinch when he asks me to close the door, show no interest in the item and shift nervously as the woman leaves the room.
The point is that I do not understand how ANYONE gets through a Craigslist transaction without firing a taser out of sheer panic. But, at least I got what I wanted, for a helluva deal and didn't get kidnapped or robbed. Score.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
The Black Leather Skirt
We can blame this one on my mom. In 5th grade, she took me to this awesome little children's store for some back-to-school clothes. I got to pick out whatever I wanted, and this girl [points to self] browsed around for oh, 5 seconds before setting my sights on a black leather skirt. It wasn't skanky. It was for kids. It went to my knees and hung off my bony body like a garbage bag on a lamp post. I was in LOVE with it.
So, I wore that skirt everywhere: school, church and probably soccer practice. I paired it with a super boxy (but also very-loved) red blazer and looked like a 40-year-old businesswoman. Seriously, I LOVED IT.
Cut to: freshman year of college. I hadn't worn the skirt in like 8 years, but because I'm a clothes hoarder, I brought it with me. I pulled it out for a disco-themed sorority party and it still fit. But it looked very, very different. It was considerably shorter and tighter. But it still looked super cute and I wore it multiple times with confidence. Then it no longer fit and it went back in the closet, where it still hangs to this day.
Okay, so that was then. This is now. More specifically, this is the night before I head back to Iowa City for my friend Kim's bachelorette party. We are going to tailgate and go out and have a ball. I can't WAIT to go back to my old stomping grounds.
But things are different. I'm a wife. In the suburbs. With an SUV. So I suppose it wasn't surprising when I went through a tiny little identity crisis at the mall tonight. Suddenly, there was nothing else I wanted more in life than a black leather skirt.
Because I am in Rochester, I figured my best bet at finding a black leather skirt was to go to Forever 21. I sent Madeline a text that said "Having an identity crisis and am shopping for a black leather skirt. At Forever 21. Send help." And she responded with "NO! BAIL OUT! BAIL OUT!"
So I did and I went to Express. I felt better about shopping there because the girls working there were NOT wearing mesh leggings with crop tops that said "GANGSTA" on them, which was a nice change from Forever 21. Then I actually FOUND a black leather skirt. For GROWN-UPS. Like, one that you could wear with a red blazer and almost look like a business woman. (Who works at Forever 21 corporate headquarters.)
Geo questioned my wardrobe when I proudly displayed my purchase. He was all, "Um. So. Wait, what?" And I was all "Listen, it's not super short and it's a loose-fitting style." And he goes, "Yeah, but it's...leather." And I was all "Well, FAKE leather!" And he goes "That doesn't make it better."
But I don't care. I'm going to bring it to Iowa City and wear it for the bachelorette party (not the tailgating, duh) -- if I have the guts.
Honestly, chances are, I will probably end up wearing sweatpants and a dirty tank top...because hell, what do I care? I've got a man locked down and money for my own drinks now, thankyouverymuch. Plus, I seem to remember a very important lesson from Friends and I would like to avoid a similar fate:
So, I wore that skirt everywhere: school, church and probably soccer practice. I paired it with a super boxy (but also very-loved) red blazer and looked like a 40-year-old businesswoman. Seriously, I LOVED IT.
Cut to: freshman year of college. I hadn't worn the skirt in like 8 years, but because I'm a clothes hoarder, I brought it with me. I pulled it out for a disco-themed sorority party and it still fit. But it looked very, very different. It was considerably shorter and tighter. But it still looked super cute and I wore it multiple times with confidence. Then it no longer fit and it went back in the closet, where it still hangs to this day.
Okay, so that was then. This is now. More specifically, this is the night before I head back to Iowa City for my friend Kim's bachelorette party. We are going to tailgate and go out and have a ball. I can't WAIT to go back to my old stomping grounds.
But things are different. I'm a wife. In the suburbs. With an SUV. So I suppose it wasn't surprising when I went through a tiny little identity crisis at the mall tonight. Suddenly, there was nothing else I wanted more in life than a black leather skirt.
Because I am in Rochester, I figured my best bet at finding a black leather skirt was to go to Forever 21. I sent Madeline a text that said "Having an identity crisis and am shopping for a black leather skirt. At Forever 21. Send help." And she responded with "NO! BAIL OUT! BAIL OUT!"
So I did and I went to Express. I felt better about shopping there because the girls working there were NOT wearing mesh leggings with crop tops that said "GANGSTA" on them, which was a nice change from Forever 21. Then I actually FOUND a black leather skirt. For GROWN-UPS. Like, one that you could wear with a red blazer and almost look like a business woman. (Who works at Forever 21 corporate headquarters.)
Geo questioned my wardrobe when I proudly displayed my purchase. He was all, "Um. So. Wait, what?" And I was all "Listen, it's not super short and it's a loose-fitting style." And he goes, "Yeah, but it's...leather." And I was all "Well, FAKE leather!" And he goes "That doesn't make it better."
But I don't care. I'm going to bring it to Iowa City and wear it for the bachelorette party (not the tailgating, duh) -- if I have the guts.
Honestly, chances are, I will probably end up wearing sweatpants and a dirty tank top...because hell, what do I care? I've got a man locked down and money for my own drinks now, thankyouverymuch. Plus, I seem to remember a very important lesson from Friends and I would like to avoid a similar fate:
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Lady Grotto!
I had a very enlightening discussion with my dear pal Madeline today on Gchat. We were talking about decorating our respective homes and what we wanted to do. They all sounded like amazeballs decisions, but we both lamented over the fact that our guys showed much less interest in decorating a home than we do.
Unless it involves a Man Cave.
Um, it is RIDICULOUS that men feel so entitled to have these stupid Man Caves. Who started this phenomenon?! I'd like to think it started as a way of throwing men's ugly stuff away without making him feel bad. You know, just shove his broke-ass ping pong table in the basement next to his beanbag chair and make him feel like it's a "special place" for him. But suddenly, it's turned into this insane thing that every man thinks they need. And they have decided that it also needed to be "awesome."
Men do not need Man Caves anymore. Unless they live with Laura Ashley, there are plenty of ways to decorate a house in such a way that it is fun, accessible, party-proof AND nice looking without covering everything in flowers and lace. Yes guys, women ARE capable of decorating without potpourri and pictures of cats. (AND non-functional decorations will not kill you, men.) Case in point: I suggested hanging Frisbees instead of framed pictures in one of our hallways. As long as they were "nice" Frisbees. See? COMPROMISE.
The worst part about a Man Cave is that when they are challenged about their little hole, men ALWAYS come back with "Well, you have the rest of the house!"
GEE. THANKS. That leaves us the bathrooms, maybe a dining room, a bedroom and, of course, the kitchen. What else could a gal want than a bathroom and kitchen all to her purdy-little self!? So much space to clean and talk about boys and have our periods in! Huzzah!
Um, 'scuse me, but women need to stop egging this behavior on. If a guy has terrible taste or wants a game room or whatever, make it work in the house or throw it away.
Or, wait. You know what? Actually, fine. Have your smelly Man Caves. But then I'd like a Lady Grotto. That's right. I want a Lady Grotto so that I can put MY stuff in it: A craft cart, my wrapping paper supplies, an Apple TV and Dr. Mario area, a wine cellar, my Kate Spade china, billions of Tampons, 2 years worth of InStyle back issues, my fresh linen Scentsy, matching furniture, full rolls of toilet paper, and posters of Charlie Hunnum on the walls.
But no. There are no plans for a Lady Grotto. And that's just fine with me. I'll deal. I don't need a whole room to just fart and drink beer in. I can do that anywhere I want to in my house.
So far, we have a tentative Man Cave going on in our new house. Geo doesn't have bad taste or ugly stuff or anything, but he is one of those guys who has somehow just assumed that a den in our basement will be "his." And he's got big plans for that room. It'll have a bar, his Xbox, a Pacman machine and possibly stadium seating.
Say what?!
Anyway, that's a fight we have yet to have. But after talking to Madeline, I've decided that unless we have a Lady Grotto, there will be no Man Cave. Problem solved.
Unless it involves a Man Cave.
Um, it is RIDICULOUS that men feel so entitled to have these stupid Man Caves. Who started this phenomenon?! I'd like to think it started as a way of throwing men's ugly stuff away without making him feel bad. You know, just shove his broke-ass ping pong table in the basement next to his beanbag chair and make him feel like it's a "special place" for him. But suddenly, it's turned into this insane thing that every man thinks they need. And they have decided that it also needed to be "awesome."
Men do not need Man Caves anymore. Unless they live with Laura Ashley, there are plenty of ways to decorate a house in such a way that it is fun, accessible, party-proof AND nice looking without covering everything in flowers and lace. Yes guys, women ARE capable of decorating without potpourri and pictures of cats. (AND non-functional decorations will not kill you, men.) Case in point: I suggested hanging Frisbees instead of framed pictures in one of our hallways. As long as they were "nice" Frisbees. See? COMPROMISE.
The worst part about a Man Cave is that when they are challenged about their little hole, men ALWAYS come back with "Well, you have the rest of the house!"
GEE. THANKS. That leaves us the bathrooms, maybe a dining room, a bedroom and, of course, the kitchen. What else could a gal want than a bathroom and kitchen all to her purdy-little self!? So much space to clean and talk about boys and have our periods in! Huzzah!
Um, 'scuse me, but women need to stop egging this behavior on. If a guy has terrible taste or wants a game room or whatever, make it work in the house or throw it away.
Or, wait. You know what? Actually, fine. Have your smelly Man Caves. But then I'd like a Lady Grotto. That's right. I want a Lady Grotto so that I can put MY stuff in it: A craft cart, my wrapping paper supplies, an Apple TV and Dr. Mario area, a wine cellar, my Kate Spade china, billions of Tampons, 2 years worth of InStyle back issues, my fresh linen Scentsy, matching furniture, full rolls of toilet paper, and posters of Charlie Hunnum on the walls.
But no. There are no plans for a Lady Grotto. And that's just fine with me. I'll deal. I don't need a whole room to just fart and drink beer in. I can do that anywhere I want to in my house.
So far, we have a tentative Man Cave going on in our new house. Geo doesn't have bad taste or ugly stuff or anything, but he is one of those guys who has somehow just assumed that a den in our basement will be "his." And he's got big plans for that room. It'll have a bar, his Xbox, a Pacman machine and possibly stadium seating.
Say what?!
Anyway, that's a fight we have yet to have. But after talking to Madeline, I've decided that unless we have a Lady Grotto, there will be no Man Cave. Problem solved.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Happy Anniversary (kind of)!
Well, they said it couldn't be done. They said it'd never last. But "they" were SUPER wrong. That's right, Geo and I have officially been married for one month! Thirty days of marital bliss. People ask me "How's married life?" And I say the same thing every time: It's much the same as non-married life. But upon reflecting on the last month, I realize just how much has changed in one moon.
In short, I am now a wife with a new (not-quite-legal-yet) name. My husband and I have a townhome in Rochester and a spankin' new SUV in our two-car garage. I purchased a vacuum. I made a (frozen) lasagna. I joined a Fantasy Football league. We have a Guest Room. OMG. What is happening to me?
In the midst of all the growing up I've been doing this month, I realized that I have gone 30 days without regaling people of the story of the best day in my life...a.k.a. my wedding.
It started with a hangover. It was a late night for the rehearsal dinner, and I woke up sandwiched between my sister and my sister-in-law on a queen sized bed in the hotel. Padrin played "Going to the chapel" and I felt 1000% amazing. We rallied the troops, got our hair and makeup done, went to the church, got dressed, and then took a zillion pictures.
The best part was the 45 seconds or so when I first saw Geo during our "First Look" pictures before the ceremony. It felt like the day had been amazing but was missing a tall, thin piece. Like in Tetris. And then when I saw Geo, it all fit and made sense.
Then the ceremony happened. Geo sang a song with his uncle, we exchanged rings, said "I do" and then smooched in public. Then we walked down the aisle while our friends launched off confetti streamers all around us. It was amazing.
Then we took a bus to the reception. I had 3 beers in about 45 minutes without even realizing it because I was so relieved and pumped all at the same time. We got to the reception, my dad announced the bridal party and we sat down to eat.
People told us "Don't worry about the food. You'll probably never even taste it. Or your cake." To which Geo replied once, "I think you underestimate how self-centered Pharon and I are." And turns out? He was only half right. HE barely ate his dinner but I was busy finishing mine and digging into his, too. Then I ate two pieces of cake. What can I say? I was hungry and it was the best food ever.
Meanwhile, my sister Padrin sang her toast to the Gilligan's Island theme song and I had never heard anything better ever in the history of time. It was AMAZING. Then I danced with my dad, Geo danced with his mom, Geo and I danced with each other and then everyone danced all together. For hours. People drank and ate late-night grilled cheese sandwiches and took pics in the photo booth. It was totally amazing.
The evening was absolutely perfect. Nothing broke down, nothing got skipped, and everything just went perfectly. I can't wait to get all the pics ready to share with everyone! Oh, and the weather was perfect but yes, I sweat. A LOT. And then we skipped town for Southern Cali for our incredibly fun and relaxing honeymoon.
And now it's 30 days later. One month after the "I do's" and the night when all the hard work and stress and anxiety and fighting paid off. And to be honest? I'd do it all again. Is there such thing as a One Month Vow Renewal??
In case anyone is interested, here is a list of the bestest group of Twin Cities wedding vendors in the whole world!
* Bumble Bee Floral
* Hazeltine National Golf Course
* George Street Photography and Videography
* Flow Event DJs
* The Traveling Photo Booth
* Buttercream
* Flutter Boutique
* Creative Beaute Agency
In short, I am now a wife with a new (not-quite-legal-yet) name. My husband and I have a townhome in Rochester and a spankin' new SUV in our two-car garage. I purchased a vacuum. I made a (frozen) lasagna. I joined a Fantasy Football league. We have a Guest Room. OMG. What is happening to me?
In the midst of all the growing up I've been doing this month, I realized that I have gone 30 days without regaling people of the story of the best day in my life...a.k.a. my wedding.
It started with a hangover. It was a late night for the rehearsal dinner, and I woke up sandwiched between my sister and my sister-in-law on a queen sized bed in the hotel. Padrin played "Going to the chapel" and I felt 1000% amazing. We rallied the troops, got our hair and makeup done, went to the church, got dressed, and then took a zillion pictures.
The best part was the 45 seconds or so when I first saw Geo during our "First Look" pictures before the ceremony. It felt like the day had been amazing but was missing a tall, thin piece. Like in Tetris. And then when I saw Geo, it all fit and made sense.
Then the ceremony happened. Geo sang a song with his uncle, we exchanged rings, said "I do" and then smooched in public. Then we walked down the aisle while our friends launched off confetti streamers all around us. It was amazing.
Then we took a bus to the reception. I had 3 beers in about 45 minutes without even realizing it because I was so relieved and pumped all at the same time. We got to the reception, my dad announced the bridal party and we sat down to eat.
People told us "Don't worry about the food. You'll probably never even taste it. Or your cake." To which Geo replied once, "I think you underestimate how self-centered Pharon and I are." And turns out? He was only half right. HE barely ate his dinner but I was busy finishing mine and digging into his, too. Then I ate two pieces of cake. What can I say? I was hungry and it was the best food ever.
Meanwhile, my sister Padrin sang her toast to the Gilligan's Island theme song and I had never heard anything better ever in the history of time. It was AMAZING. Then I danced with my dad, Geo danced with his mom, Geo and I danced with each other and then everyone danced all together. For hours. People drank and ate late-night grilled cheese sandwiches and took pics in the photo booth. It was totally amazing.
The evening was absolutely perfect. Nothing broke down, nothing got skipped, and everything just went perfectly. I can't wait to get all the pics ready to share with everyone! Oh, and the weather was perfect but yes, I sweat. A LOT. And then we skipped town for Southern Cali for our incredibly fun and relaxing honeymoon.
And now it's 30 days later. One month after the "I do's" and the night when all the hard work and stress and anxiety and fighting paid off. And to be honest? I'd do it all again. Is there such thing as a One Month Vow Renewal??
In case anyone is interested, here is a list of the bestest group of Twin Cities wedding vendors in the whole world!
* Bumble Bee Floral
* Hazeltine National Golf Course
* George Street Photography and Videography
* Flow Event DJs
* The Traveling Photo Booth
* Buttercream
* Flutter Boutique
* Creative Beaute Agency
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Team Pharon McDadden
Hey bros. Grab a beer and let's pee standing up. It's football season!!!!
Tonight I had my first ever Fantasy Football draft. I LOVE football. Professional football. I have only a minimal knowledge of the rules and the most basic of understanding when it comes to which team is good and which team is bad, but I seriously LOVE watching football and drinking beer and eating wings and just being a guy. I mean girl. Whatever.
So it's a little surprising that I've never been in a fantasy league before. But then again, I don't know enough to play with hardcore guys and I like it TOO much to play with casual non-chalants. So I was stoked to be included in Geo's work draft. It did not go well.
For starters, Geo didn't show up until oh, split seconds before the online draft started. I was sweating and texting and calling Geo being like "When are you going to be here?! I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRAFT! DO I PICK 2 RUNNING BACKS FIRST?! WHAT IS HAPPENING!? WHO IS CALVIN JOHNSON!?"
So Geo gets home, calms me down and we get ready for the draft. I am an irrational drafter. Totally and completely irrational. Here's why:
* I HATE Bears and Packers fans so I absolutely refused to draft any players from those teams. Which wasn't hard because they all suck.
* I kept claiming that I needed an "emotional" connection to players I wanted to draft. If I didn't feel a "connection" to someone, I skipped over him.
* I drafted some guy named Darren McFadden because I made myself cry-laugh when I accidentally called him Pharon McDadden. Fate.
* I refused to draft Reggie Bush because he's been with Kim Kardashian. Then I SUPER wanted him because he was strong enough to BE with her and make it out alive and with dignity. Then someone else stole him away and I didn't know HOW to feel.
* There's a guys whose last name is Pead. As in "I peed my pants when I saw there was a dude named Pead." I've never wanted anyone on my team so bad in my life. Didn't get him. Got pissed. (HA!)
Then things got ugly. I stated that I wanted to draft Blair Walsh, who is the awesome effing kicker for the Vikings in, like, the 6th round. Geo said it was way too early to draft a kicker. I argued "But I love him. And he'll get more points than some mediocre receiver. Also, I just want SOMEONE to cheer for on the Vikings." He insisted, "Just wait. He'll be there next round."
He was NOT available next round. Someone else took Walsh, and my dreams right along with him. I was more upset than a normal person should have been. But I was sick of getting all these players who are on teams I have spent eons rooting against and just wanted ONE purple dude on my team.
The wind went out of my sail pretty quickly after that. I picked a few players out of spite after Geo tried to give me some tips that I ignored because they didn't include Blair Walsh. I was like "Oh, you think I should take this dude who is handcuffed to so-and-so? Screw that. I'm picking up Aaron Hernandez."
Anyways, I lost interest when I stopped knowing who players were and as soon as I got sick and tired of drafting running backs. Snooze. Everyone knows I love wide receivers.
So, the draft came to an end. I got a kicker who was NOT Blair Walsh, some pretty decent players and a handful of spite picks. Seems like a well-rounded team, right? Well, the entire process was an emotional roller coaster and I'm absolutely exhausted. But if it's possible, I'm now even MORE excited for the start of football season. And no matter who is (not) on my fantasy team, I will be sporting my purple and gold every week and screaming for Adrian Peterson to kill people on the field. SKOL!!!!!!!!!!!
Tonight I had my first ever Fantasy Football draft. I LOVE football. Professional football. I have only a minimal knowledge of the rules and the most basic of understanding when it comes to which team is good and which team is bad, but I seriously LOVE watching football and drinking beer and eating wings and just being a guy. I mean girl. Whatever.
So it's a little surprising that I've never been in a fantasy league before. But then again, I don't know enough to play with hardcore guys and I like it TOO much to play with casual non-chalants. So I was stoked to be included in Geo's work draft. It did not go well.
For starters, Geo didn't show up until oh, split seconds before the online draft started. I was sweating and texting and calling Geo being like "When are you going to be here?! I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRAFT! DO I PICK 2 RUNNING BACKS FIRST?! WHAT IS HAPPENING!? WHO IS CALVIN JOHNSON!?"
So Geo gets home, calms me down and we get ready for the draft. I am an irrational drafter. Totally and completely irrational. Here's why:
* I HATE Bears and Packers fans so I absolutely refused to draft any players from those teams. Which wasn't hard because they all suck.
* I kept claiming that I needed an "emotional" connection to players I wanted to draft. If I didn't feel a "connection" to someone, I skipped over him.
* I drafted some guy named Darren McFadden because I made myself cry-laugh when I accidentally called him Pharon McDadden. Fate.
* I refused to draft Reggie Bush because he's been with Kim Kardashian. Then I SUPER wanted him because he was strong enough to BE with her and make it out alive and with dignity. Then someone else stole him away and I didn't know HOW to feel.
* There's a guys whose last name is Pead. As in "I peed my pants when I saw there was a dude named Pead." I've never wanted anyone on my team so bad in my life. Didn't get him. Got pissed. (HA!)
Then things got ugly. I stated that I wanted to draft Blair Walsh, who is the awesome effing kicker for the Vikings in, like, the 6th round. Geo said it was way too early to draft a kicker. I argued "But I love him. And he'll get more points than some mediocre receiver. Also, I just want SOMEONE to cheer for on the Vikings." He insisted, "Just wait. He'll be there next round."
He was NOT available next round. Someone else took Walsh, and my dreams right along with him. I was more upset than a normal person should have been. But I was sick of getting all these players who are on teams I have spent eons rooting against and just wanted ONE purple dude on my team.
The wind went out of my sail pretty quickly after that. I picked a few players out of spite after Geo tried to give me some tips that I ignored because they didn't include Blair Walsh. I was like "Oh, you think I should take this dude who is handcuffed to so-and-so? Screw that. I'm picking up Aaron Hernandez."
Anyways, I lost interest when I stopped knowing who players were and as soon as I got sick and tired of drafting running backs. Snooze. Everyone knows I love wide receivers.
So, the draft came to an end. I got a kicker who was NOT Blair Walsh, some pretty decent players and a handful of spite picks. Seems like a well-rounded team, right? Well, the entire process was an emotional roller coaster and I'm absolutely exhausted. But if it's possible, I'm now even MORE excited for the start of football season. And no matter who is (not) on my fantasy team, I will be sporting my purple and gold every week and screaming for Adrian Peterson to kill people on the field. SKOL!!!!!!!!!!!
Friday, August 30, 2013
Swift Justice
OMG! Special Friday edition of Pharon Square!!! It must be important, you may be thinking. It must be something well-worth the weekend read, you likely expect.
Sorry, this is just a post about Taylor Swift.
Besides the fact that Miley and her chicken butt (ha!) and gross tongue have been in the spotlight lately, one event from the VMAs recently caught my eye. It was Little Miss Perfect mouthing "Shut the $#%& up" to her pal Selena Gomez while one of her billion ex-boyfriends spoke on stage. I was annoyed.
Taylor Swift is everything at 23 that I was when I was 12. I was a flurry of extreme emotions, bouncing from boyfriend to boyfriend, constantly chasing the same thing over and over without realizing that it was my desperation, not mousey face, that was turning so many dudes off. I'd be depressed and elated 50 different times in 8 minutes and go chasing after bad boys despite the fact that my parents (much like her rep as a goodie-goodie) made it impossible to actually bag one.
Now that I'm older, I feel I should give Miss Swift the benefit of my wisdom. Why she never figured this stuff out in high school, I'll never know. But here's my biggest tip for Swift: Be an adult and raise your expectations and standards.
Here is why I say this. The following is a list of lines from her songs which are supposed to illustrate the magical moment or trait that made her fall for whatever completely replaceable blahfriend she happened to be into at the time. I swear, I wrote half of these exact phrases in my middle school diaries:
* I guess you didn't care and I guess I liked that
* I knew you were trouble when you walked in
* You make your way through the crowd and say "hello"
* He opens up my car door
* He says "you look beautiful tonight"
* You looked me in the eye and told me you loved me
* And you stood there in front of me
* You('re) doing your best to avoid me
* Your eyes whispered "Have we met?"
* I love your handshake
* You came in wearing a football helmet and said "Okay, let's talk."
* You open your eyes into mine and everything feels better
OMG. I have to stop. I can't read these TERRIBLE lyrics anymore. WAH WAH WAH. A boy said he loved you and turned out to be a dick. Big surprise, lady. You insist on fishing in a very shallow pool where all the fish are exactly the same.
But seriously, can you do us all a favor and stop falling for every d-bag who makes eye contact with you or breathes in the moonlight or ignores you or completes a polite gesture? Make the dude work for it, Swift. When I was 13, I was convinced a boy named Tony liked me because he loaned me a pencil. He did not like me. He was gay (seriously). Life lesson: Everyone who does something nice for you is not in love with you.
And consider the men you are attracting. Who the eff wants to date an emotional nightmare with access to a music studio? A person who, although very pretty, is hellbent on making every relationship end in such a way that she feels "ugly"? An ADULT who writes more about love stories and princes and fairy tales than a preteen girl at a Lisa Frank convention?
The answer, my dear, is social-climbing, fame-whoring idiots. And I swear, if you can't figure that out by now, I'm pretty sure it's your own fault. So put down the glittery pens and slumber party invitations and woman up. Stop complaining about how all your relationships end tragically and break the cycle. And PLEASE stop writing about the men who tell you they love you and don't mean it because it makes YOU look like a gullible moron. In other words: Shut the %&$@ up.
Sorry, this is just a post about Taylor Swift.
Besides the fact that Miley and her chicken butt (ha!) and gross tongue have been in the spotlight lately, one event from the VMAs recently caught my eye. It was Little Miss Perfect mouthing "Shut the $#%& up" to her pal Selena Gomez while one of her billion ex-boyfriends spoke on stage. I was annoyed.
Taylor Swift is everything at 23 that I was when I was 12. I was a flurry of extreme emotions, bouncing from boyfriend to boyfriend, constantly chasing the same thing over and over without realizing that it was my desperation, not mousey face, that was turning so many dudes off. I'd be depressed and elated 50 different times in 8 minutes and go chasing after bad boys despite the fact that my parents (much like her rep as a goodie-goodie) made it impossible to actually bag one.
Now that I'm older, I feel I should give Miss Swift the benefit of my wisdom. Why she never figured this stuff out in high school, I'll never know. But here's my biggest tip for Swift: Be an adult and raise your expectations and standards.
Here is why I say this. The following is a list of lines from her songs which are supposed to illustrate the magical moment or trait that made her fall for whatever completely replaceable blahfriend she happened to be into at the time. I swear, I wrote half of these exact phrases in my middle school diaries:
* I guess you didn't care and I guess I liked that
* I knew you were trouble when you walked in
* You make your way through the crowd and say "hello"
* He opens up my car door
* He says "you look beautiful tonight"
* You looked me in the eye and told me you loved me
* And you stood there in front of me
* You('re) doing your best to avoid me
* Your eyes whispered "Have we met?"
* I love your handshake
* You came in wearing a football helmet and said "Okay, let's talk."
* You open your eyes into mine and everything feels better
OMG. I have to stop. I can't read these TERRIBLE lyrics anymore. WAH WAH WAH. A boy said he loved you and turned out to be a dick. Big surprise, lady. You insist on fishing in a very shallow pool where all the fish are exactly the same.
But seriously, can you do us all a favor and stop falling for every d-bag who makes eye contact with you or breathes in the moonlight or ignores you or completes a polite gesture? Make the dude work for it, Swift. When I was 13, I was convinced a boy named Tony liked me because he loaned me a pencil. He did not like me. He was gay (seriously). Life lesson: Everyone who does something nice for you is not in love with you.
And consider the men you are attracting. Who the eff wants to date an emotional nightmare with access to a music studio? A person who, although very pretty, is hellbent on making every relationship end in such a way that she feels "ugly"? An ADULT who writes more about love stories and princes and fairy tales than a preteen girl at a Lisa Frank convention?
The answer, my dear, is social-climbing, fame-whoring idiots. And I swear, if you can't figure that out by now, I'm pretty sure it's your own fault. So put down the glittery pens and slumber party invitations and woman up. Stop complaining about how all your relationships end tragically and break the cycle. And PLEASE stop writing about the men who tell you they love you and don't mean it because it makes YOU look like a gullible moron. In other words: Shut the %&$@ up.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Teen angst
There is 100% nothing worse than a teenage girl. I've never raised one, but I WAS one, and it was a time of fiercely angry hormones, mean friends and just basically the worst time ever. I was reminded today of how much I loathe teenage girls today when I went to get my gel manicure removed. It was like 4 p.m. and I was in my gym clothes (Yes, I hate myself already) and I sat next to the anxiest (is that a word? According to spell check, no...but whatever) teenage girl on the planet.
She was probably 15 and she sat there, with her fancy little pedicure and manicure setting and then asked for a pillow for her back because their chairs were uncomfortable. Then this little twerp looked ME up and down as I sat next to her and goes "What, do you do yoga at CorePower?" And I got inexplicably intimidated by this girl. I mumbled "Uh, no. Just regular gym stuff." And seeing as how this level of "workout" wasn't in her milieu, she scoffed and went back to her dumbass phone with the world's most stupid phone cover.
See, teenage girls are dicks. For as self-conscious and insecure as they are, they are equally rude and bratty. I hate them. And I CAN hate them because I WAS one. I was a horrible, nasty, rude, bratty little girl like every other teenage girl on the planet.
But the difference is that now they don't even WANT to be teenagers. Suddenly being in the financial prime of your life (you don't need a job and you hopefully have zero bills) is not enough. Teenage girls have ridiculously decided to try and be, like, 22. Girls? I hate to break it to you, but 22 ain't all that. It's not all just pantsless raves and big apartments and hilarious STD scares. It's not being in rap videos and expensive lunch dates with friends. It sucks. It's hard and, I hate to break it to you, but you still get zits.
I don't know who to blame for this. On the one hand, obvs, I'd blame the parents. Stop making adulthood look cool! On the other hand, I want to blame celebs. Hey, Miley, we get it! You're not a teen anymore and you have antlers and a onesie and are making (arguably) some of my favorite songs! And on the OTHER hand (there are several hands, here) I want to blame over-achieving 20-somethings who insist on making success look easy. But on the other OTHER hand, I want to blame the girls themselves for not being smart enough to realize that getting older is dumb. Adults get fired and go into debt and have trouble getting pregnant and have to pay for new brakes and aren't "naturally skinny" anymore and have meetings instead of recess and can't find a man and have breakdowns and can't go back to the blissful days of being a teenager.
So, if anyidiot teenage girls are reading this, you should know that being an adult is hard and it's SUPER DUMB sometimes. Sure, we can drink, but that's only because we have to drown out the harsh realities of adulthood. If the hardest thing you have going for you is whether or not your mom will pick you up on time from your manicure, do me a solid and just stay a teenager for as long as is socially acceptable. But, you know, you don't have to be a jackwad about it.
She was probably 15 and she sat there, with her fancy little pedicure and manicure setting and then asked for a pillow for her back because their chairs were uncomfortable. Then this little twerp looked ME up and down as I sat next to her and goes "What, do you do yoga at CorePower?" And I got inexplicably intimidated by this girl. I mumbled "Uh, no. Just regular gym stuff." And seeing as how this level of "workout" wasn't in her milieu, she scoffed and went back to her dumbass phone with the world's most stupid phone cover.
See, teenage girls are dicks. For as self-conscious and insecure as they are, they are equally rude and bratty. I hate them. And I CAN hate them because I WAS one. I was a horrible, nasty, rude, bratty little girl like every other teenage girl on the planet.
But the difference is that now they don't even WANT to be teenagers. Suddenly being in the financial prime of your life (you don't need a job and you hopefully have zero bills) is not enough. Teenage girls have ridiculously decided to try and be, like, 22. Girls? I hate to break it to you, but 22 ain't all that. It's not all just pantsless raves and big apartments and hilarious STD scares. It's not being in rap videos and expensive lunch dates with friends. It sucks. It's hard and, I hate to break it to you, but you still get zits.
I don't know who to blame for this. On the one hand, obvs, I'd blame the parents. Stop making adulthood look cool! On the other hand, I want to blame celebs. Hey, Miley, we get it! You're not a teen anymore and you have antlers and a onesie and are making (arguably) some of my favorite songs! And on the OTHER hand (there are several hands, here) I want to blame over-achieving 20-somethings who insist on making success look easy. But on the other OTHER hand, I want to blame the girls themselves for not being smart enough to realize that getting older is dumb. Adults get fired and go into debt and have trouble getting pregnant and have to pay for new brakes and aren't "naturally skinny" anymore and have meetings instead of recess and can't find a man and have breakdowns and can't go back to the blissful days of being a teenager.
So, if any
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Where Am I?
I thought living in two different places for a little while would be so very cosmopolitan. You know, Geo and I would have one place in Rochester and another place in the city? I was expecting it to be all fun and snobby to be one of those people, you know? Well surprise, surprise, Pharon was wrong.
Turns out, living in two places at once blows. I thought I'd be able to have my cake (supporting Geo in Rochester) and eat it too (without having to leave Minneapolis). See, I have my Minneapolis apartment through September. Until then, I was all "OMG, it'll be so cute. I'll stay in the city a couple nights a week so I can still be close to family and happy hours and work, and then I'll go to Rochester for the rest of the week to be with Geo. What could go wrong?"
This was the first week of that experiment. Geo went back to Roch Sunday evening. Then on Wednesday, I packed a bag and some boxes of crap and headed over there after work. It was actually more pleasant than I had expected, and it kind of hit me how much I miss Geo. When I got there, Geo had gotten me flowers and had some of our new wedding gifts set up and it was all so awesome. But it was definitely missing a woman's touch.
For instance, there was no toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom. None. And also not soap, hand towels or cool picture of a cat coming out of a pail of sudsy water. For breakfast and lunch for two days (before I finally was able to find and drive to a grocery store without getting lost), I had to choose between old pizza, mac n cheese, pretzel rods, animal crackers, Coke and PB sandwiches on the whitest bread of all time. Eating in a boy's kitchen is no place for a girl who has taken zero steps towards losing the 25 pounds she gained on her honeymoon.
But after I set a few things up and got some carrot sticks in the refrigerator, it started to feel really good. (As did the central air conditioning and being able to walk across the room without running into a pile of garbage or a person.) As soon as I started to kind of feel okay with being sooooooooooo far away from civilization though, it was time to come back for my City Life. I repacked a bag and drove back to my apartment, missing Geo already.
When I was in Rochester, I realized I didn't have have proper towels or drinking glasses or a pizza cutter or my iPhone charger. Now that I'm back home with all that stuff, I realize I don't have any new wedding presents, a washer and dryer, a garage or my husband. So, it's pretty obnoxious.
I feel like I'm living two different lives. One is in the city and the other is in a different city just like 75 miles south of the other. It's a little sucky and disjointed to be living this way. I don't know how people who have secret families do it. But, we'll see how it goes. I'll keep shuffling around and trying to figure out where I am on any given day.
Turns out, living in two places at once blows. I thought I'd be able to have my cake (supporting Geo in Rochester) and eat it too (without having to leave Minneapolis). See, I have my Minneapolis apartment through September. Until then, I was all "OMG, it'll be so cute. I'll stay in the city a couple nights a week so I can still be close to family and happy hours and work, and then I'll go to Rochester for the rest of the week to be with Geo. What could go wrong?"
This was the first week of that experiment. Geo went back to Roch Sunday evening. Then on Wednesday, I packed a bag and some boxes of crap and headed over there after work. It was actually more pleasant than I had expected, and it kind of hit me how much I miss Geo. When I got there, Geo had gotten me flowers and had some of our new wedding gifts set up and it was all so awesome. But it was definitely missing a woman's touch.
For instance, there was no toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom. None. And also not soap, hand towels or cool picture of a cat coming out of a pail of sudsy water. For breakfast and lunch for two days (before I finally was able to find and drive to a grocery store without getting lost), I had to choose between old pizza, mac n cheese, pretzel rods, animal crackers, Coke and PB sandwiches on the whitest bread of all time. Eating in a boy's kitchen is no place for a girl who has taken zero steps towards losing the 25 pounds she gained on her honeymoon.
But after I set a few things up and got some carrot sticks in the refrigerator, it started to feel really good. (As did the central air conditioning and being able to walk across the room without running into a pile of garbage or a person.) As soon as I started to kind of feel okay with being sooooooooooo far away from civilization though, it was time to come back for my City Life. I repacked a bag and drove back to my apartment, missing Geo already.
When I was in Rochester, I realized I didn't have have proper towels or drinking glasses or a pizza cutter or my iPhone charger. Now that I'm back home with all that stuff, I realize I don't have any new wedding presents, a washer and dryer, a garage or my husband. So, it's pretty obnoxious.
I feel like I'm living two different lives. One is in the city and the other is in a different city just like 75 miles south of the other. It's a little sucky and disjointed to be living this way. I don't know how people who have secret families do it. But, we'll see how it goes. I'll keep shuffling around and trying to figure out where I am on any given day.
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