Ay! Top o’ the evenin’ to ya! Yup, that’s my best attempt at an Irish accent. A few more words and I go all Australian/Pirate (adding “Mate”, “Matey”, and “Arrrr!” to everything). I’m a-not-a so good with the accentos. Anyway, Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Are you enjoying a green beer? Dancing a jig? Punching out a fellow unruly partier?
Same here!
Oh, wait. No, I’m not doing any of those things. Besides the green shirt I accidentally wore to work today (I mean I accidentally wore GREEN, not “I accidentally wore a shirt”) I really didn’t indulge in anything too Irishy. I grabbed a beer at a decidedly non-Irish bar with my friends Nick and Liz, and the brew was just the familiar honey-wheat color. Not a green river or leprechaun or clover or kilt in sight.
I love St. Patrick’s Day, usually. I mean, what’s not to love? It’s always Spring-like outside for the first time (not unlike TODAY! 45 degrees? Break out the SPF!), so everyone comes running out their houses to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air. And then heads promptly inside to a dark, dank pub. And then it’s just a day of drinking, yelling, occasional punching, and GREEN. As you probs know, I have a very unhealthy love for the color green. Like, Spring/grass/Kate Spade/4-leaf clover green. Everything is better in green. Even holidays. So, I’ve got a very substantial supply of appropriate party clothes to wear on SPD. Today, though, I didn’t even consider my IRISH I WERE DRINKING glittery green t-shirt. Green argyle socks? Never even crossed my mind.
I hate that SPD falls on a stupid weekday this year. Dumb. [Side Note: Is it just me, or does it feel like St. Patrick’s Day is ALWAYS on a Thursday?!] So my Irish debauchery is on hold until Saturday, when Lana and her husband are holding their annual Irish Fest. I’ll be there, shoving my face with Irish Car Bomb shots and cupcakes. Slainte! Until then, though, I’m just doing my best to avoid the drunken mobs in downtown Minneapolis. Yeah, they’ve been out since the top o’ this morning.
So I guess I’ll have to keep my clever Irish-isms to myself for the next couple days. That shouldn’t be too hard, considering I only have like 3 of them. And – whoops - I’ve already used them up in this blog. Blarney!
Well, I hope you find a 4-leaf-clover, rub it, and make three wishes on the leprechaun that lives under a bridge (wait, that IS what this day is all about, right?!) Arrr! Matey!
Alert! Alert! I've been browsing the Kate Spade website for over an hour now, periodically adding items to my Shopping Cart and then quickly removing it, lest I quickly click "BUY" in a spontaneous fit of Spade Lust. I need an intervention. Aw, but those tidbit plates are sooooooooooo cute! NO! No. Must. Write. Blog.
Okay, I made it. That was close. I was thisclose to rationalizing my way into a new bag AND new rain boots. Priorities, Pharon. Anyway, Happy Fat Tuesday! Apparently, Fat Tuesday is officially the the last day to gorge yourself silly before fasting begins on Ash Wednesday (tomorrow). Silly me, I always thought it was "An awesome reason to go out in sequins and fake eyelashes on a school night". (Not that I ever really needed a reason, but oh well.)
During college, my friends and I would get all snazzed up and go celebrate this "holiday" we knew nothing about. All we knew was that it was a big night in New Orleans for some reason, and there are bands and stuff, but as far as we were concerned, it was a pre-St. Patty's Day party. But with more beads. We'd all go out and throw on 10 pounds of beads, find some feathers, trade some girl a glow bracelet for a masquerade mask, and dance around drinking fruity drinks. We may not have really known what we were celebrating, but trust that we were celebrating. Yay! Mardi Gras! (Or something!)
I don't think I've gone out for Fat Tuesday since college. Sad. Now it's just plain ol' "Tuesday". And, depending on what I've eaten that day, it may or may not be Fat. Tonight, for instance, I'm at home watching Teen Mom with the roommies in our freshly HEATED house (yes, we have heat again!). To make it worse, I missed a text from Geo asking if I wanted to go out for a late dinner/drinks, because I was too busy NOT shopping online. Laaaaaame!
There are no parades in my 'hood today, no sparklers, no sequins or feathers. The only things I indulged in today were too much Crystal Light and Angry Birds. Ah, the life of the aged. I've changed, I know it. I talked to Madeline today and we both decided our lives were sorely lacking the fun and spontaneity of our younger years. She's way out in Chicago, I'm in frigid Minneapolis, and I have a feeling neither one of us is going out and tossing beads around like it's our job. (Madeline, you BETTER not be having that kind of fun without me!)
On the plus side, I did just snag a highly coveted hair appointment at a salon Kim recommended (but is apparently impossible to get in to), so maybe my indulging will start on Friday when I'm enjoying a Stella Artois at Salon Stella, getting my burlap-y hair snipped, and gearing up for a crazy fun weekend. And before that I've got Happy Hours, shopping, and Skype dates with Madeline planned. Turns out my Fat Tuesday this year is turning into Fat Week-After-Tuesday. I'm psyched. Mardi Gr-awesome!
Well, for the first time in the history of this blog, I'm gonna have to phone it in. I just got home from Wine Night hanging out with Lana and Val and I'm officially exhausted of good topics. I got nothin'. Between the three of us, we solved a number of world issues. From jobs to boyfriends (I believe Valerie wins all contests because her boyf works in Hollywood and I get to enjoy the perks of free pre-released DVDs of Oscar-winning movies) to appropriate wedding etiquette, we nailed 'em all.
It's late. I'm tired, and I just had a frighteningly grown-up conversation with Geo, so I'm drained. I keep sitting here, waiting to write something all clever and/or profound and yet I continue to come up short. There's something about some good ol' female conversation that knocks the complainy/deep thought out of me.
We talked about first kisses, first time we learned what really happens during birth (EWWWW), and why there are so many TV shows that feature some fatty/lazy dude inexplicably married to a clever, hot woman. I postured that we need more shows with normal, well-rounded women married to some cutey Calvin Klein models. If this TV show exists, please do tell...
We skimmed the topic of Anonymity in a Digital World, and we all realized: Privacy is Dead. So that was a lesson learned. Also, kids raised in sterile environments develop more allergies than kids raised in normal households. Yeah, it's true. Sorry, OCD parents. You're just not really helping anything.
Okay, I'm calling it a night. Do you have any insights you'd like to share with people before we embark on the weekend? If so, please share. And try and make them very prolific. We have standards here, people.
Have a great weekend, everyone!
(In this thread of random, not-quite-giving-it-your-allness, I give you a great song to blast this weekend. It's random. It's not great, but I just love it. And it's really very catchy....)
I'm totally distracted, yo. Sorry. I'm watching the Oscars, and I'm super pumped about it. A couple notes to the producers of the Oscars. 1) If I cared about old movies that won a certain award in 1980, I would google it and watch THAT years awards show. I have a feeling the show wouldn't constantly go over in time if they stopped "taking a look back". Booooring! 2) Let's 86 the pre-awards show interviews. Ryan Seacrest makes me squirm when he tries to make small talk with the likes of bland ol' Gwenyth Paltrow. Let's just ask 'em what they're wearing, judge them from our couches, and be done with it. I don't care about whether or not motherhood changed someone's outlook on making movies.
Moving on...I finally did my taxes, just like a real, live grown up! Got me some money too. Thanks, Government! Here are a couple notes to the writers of tax forms: Me no understandy many of your wordy things. I've been doing my own taxes for as long as I've been paying them. Back when I picked up my first 1040EZ form, my dad made me learn how to do my own. It's a good lesson, I guess. I don't own anything, or go to school, or anything crazy like that, so my taxes are still pretty simple. But I wish whoever is writing these tax questions was a little more straight forward. It took a couple readings before I understood to answer "No, I didn't win the lottery or a game show this year". Sheesh. I'd like to thank Google and the handy little "HELP" icons on the taxact.com website for helping me get through my taxes every year.
On Saturday I got a little crazy. It was my aunt Karen's 70th birthday. To celebrate, I joined some of the other women in my family and went to learn how to belly dance. It was great, and so much fun. We went to this rec center place and there was a ton of food, a henna artist, a bunch of my aunt's friends and fellow belly dancing enthusiasts, jingly jangly skirty things that we wore over our jeans, and a belly dancing instructor. Note on belly dancing: It is MUCH harder than it looks. At one point, both my cousin and I had side aches. I sweated. I made the jingly jangly skirt shake and ring, so I thought I was getting the hang of it. Then I saw myself in the mirror. My body was just NOT doing the same thing as the instructor's. I looked like a crazy person. Note to self: Never EVER do any belly dancing in public.
Later on Saturday, Kim brought her Kinect over and we spent the night playing Dance Central - which, annoyingly, I had to actually BUY because Blockbuster is the worst place ever. "Well, you can't RENT games here, but we can MAIL it to you." After hearing that, I told the guy "Um, that's probably the least convenient solution ever, since, you know, you guys are a rental place." Anyway, I digress. Luckily, there were no belly dancing moves involved. But Note to everyone: Dance Central is the bombest game ever. Kim was hesitant at first and wasn't sure she'd get into it, but we had an excellent time dancing our butts off all night long. Sure, it could have had a lot to do with the rum and diet Coke's we were pounding all night, but I doubt it.
Finally, today I picked up Geo from the airport and listened patiently as he regaled me with tales from his trip to exotic Alabama. Okay, so it was 70 degrees there while it snowed all freakin' weekend here, big whoop! And yeah, I guess the malls sound really cool there. But whatever. After listening to a long story about what "ROLL TIDE" means, I was relieved when Geo finally suggested going out for a good ol' Minnesota food staple: Juicy Lucy burgers. Zummy zummy zummy. Note to my body: Sorry about all the dark liquor and caffeine on Saturday night, followed almost immediately by shoveling down a delicious, greasy burger with salty French fries. But it just couldn't be helped.
Notes on the entire weekend: Solid performance. One suggestion, though. You were far too short. Let's work on that.
Well, I guess I'm livin' the single life this weekend. I dropped Geo off at the airport tonight after work and he's on a plane right now, off to visit his bro in Alabama. Honestly? I got a wee bit verklempt as I sent him off. Yes, yes, that's right. This stoic blogger bid her man farewell and shed a couple tears on the car ride home. Sue me. He used to travel allllll the time when he was playing on an Elite ultimate Frisbee team, so I spent most weekends kickin' it with my friends and doing my own thing. I was used to it. But now I'm all, I don't know, NOT used to it, so I was a little surprised at my own emotions.
But he's only gone until Sunday, which leaves me man-less for a whole three nights and 2 1/2 days. So what did I do when I got home from the airport? I slapped on MY favorite - and Geo's LEAST favorite - bedazzled Vikings sweatpants and made the kind of dinner that would make a skunk blush. Yay! This weekend, I plan on living it up. And after living with Geo for the past 3 years, I'm going to try and take advantage of this "me time".
* Sweatpants. All the time. The reason this is different from any regular Sweatpant Day is that I can wear the ugly, gnarly ones that Geo usually tries to hide in garbage cans.
* There will be NO ESPN in this house at any point. No sports all weekend. No basketball, no golf, no bowling, no poker. Nope. None of it.
* I'll have the XBox all to myself. This is weird because I usually have NO desire to play XBox. But Kim and I put our heads together and discovered that I have a huge living room, but nothing to do in it. Meanwhile, KIM has an XBox Kinect, but not enough room in her house to play it. So Kim and I will be dancing our butts off in my living room all day on Saturday without any interruptions by someone wanting to play "one quick game of C.O.D."
* Clay mud masks. I love these. When my old roommate Nick lived with us, he had a dog Payton. One day I came downstairs with the mud mask on, and the dog straight FLIPPED out and started going all nutso and trying to bite off my face. Geo has a similar reaction.
* I'm thinking I'm going to turn Geo's "office" into more of a "personal spa room" while he's gone. You know, move his desk into the hallway and replace it with a comfy chair and a foot bath, and have an adorable little table stacked with all my issues of Vogue next to the Nail Polish Basket.
* Three words: Hygiene May Suffer.
* I'll probably lose a couple lbs. Without Geo here, I won't be constantly tempted to eat mac n' cheese, pizza, burgers, fries, Baja Sol, and anything else that contains Velveeta and/or 3 sticks of butter.
* I will be singing Rihanna at the top of my lungs whenever possible. Geo is, to put it mildly, a really good singer. Like, "American Idol" good. So I usually keep my karaoke-ing to a minimum. Now that he's in Alabama, he's probably far enough away for me to safely belt out any song my little heart desires. Any requests?
Okay, so maybe a couple days on my "own" won't be so bad. (Ugh. I keep forgetting I have 2 other roommates...buzzkill.) Oh well, I'm just kind of planning hoping to have a lovely, laid back weekend. I hope you have the same, dudes!
Well, well, well. Here it is Valentine's Day, and this girl's got plans. Even though I've been dating someone on Valentine's Day for a number of years, I've never had the desire to really DO anything that exciting for it. Sure, a girl loves eating chocolate, but I hardly need an actual HOLIDAY to indulge. But this year, I forced this celebrated day of love into mine and Geo's schedules. Sweet, sweet, love.
I came home from work today to this, though:
Awwww! What an awesome boyfriend I have!
So, Geo and I are going to dinner. When I started nagging him about it last week, I don't think Geo was exactly stoked about it, but it turns out he's not as opposed to it as most guys. He recommended a dinner spot that would have cost more than my car insurance bill, so I could at least tell he didn't hate me for wanting to go out. We settled on a happy medium of good food/not going into debt for a meal. I even went out this weekend and bought a dress - an actual DRESS! - that I didn't even try on, so I can only guess that it will look fabulous. I also spent all day Sunday hunting for a Valentine's Day present (yes, it was very last minute, lay off me). I ended up waaaay outside my comfort zone. I was the only chick to enter Golfsmith on a Sunday, and walked out after getting LOTS of help picking out white golf club grips. Nothing says "romance" like the purchase of a gift that will ensure we spend at least a few hours apart every week.
This fine day is also my anniversary of being friends with Kim. About ten years ago, Kim and I got together for the first time and threw an Anti-Valentine's Day party. We drew black hearts all over the place, bought V-Day decorations and ceremoniously cut them up, blacked out Cupid's teeth, and just celebrated hating this wretched day with friends. It was crazy fun. It was more fun hating the day than celebrating it.
It hasn't always been like that, though. I LOVED Valentine's Day when I was a kid. My mom would plan a nice dinner for all of us rugrats, and after soccer practice or band rehearsal, we'd all finally enjoy a great dinner together. We'd get to the table and my mom had always set the table with heart-shaped box of chocolates on each of our plates, and a little gift too. I think it was the only time of year I looked forward to getting new pajamas. And then we'd eat, and show each other our gifts and trade chocolates. I always LOVED that. I guess that's why I've always associated Valentine's Day with family, moreso than romance. Thus, the historical lack of forced romantic plans.
Even when Geo and I had our first Valentine's Day together, it couldn't have been more appropriately romance-less. Perek's girlfriend was out of town for the weekend, so Perek was flying solo. Geo and Perek went and bought lobsters for each of us. Giant, live lobsters. Perek set his lobster on the ground and we watched it crawl around our kitchen. Hilarious. Then they killed the lobsters and they were deeeelicious. Geo and I brought our food upstairs to the office and enjoyed a "romantic" dinner there while Perek was downstairs. We opened our lobsters with wrenches. Yes, as in: actual monkey wrenches. Then we all regrouped and spent the rest of the night watching TV and playing a drinking game that consisted of tossing cards into a bowl across the room. Be Mine indeed.
So I don't know why I suddenly got the urge to be all sugary and sweet and romantic. It kind of came out of nowhere. Maybe it's the Spring-like weather outside, but I'm in the mood for some love. Or at least a fancy schmancy dinner while I play dress-up in a new dress. And maybe it's the fact that I've been really trying to up my game this year when it comes to feminizing myself. All the make-up and brushing of my hair must have shook something loose in my brain: High Maintenance Girl Behavior. Careful what you wish for, men...
On that note, I hope you have a wonderful Valentine's Day. And whether you're cutting up Cupids, or eating lobster with your friends, or sitting on the same side of a restaurant table with your lover (that's really annoying to everyone around you, by the way) exchanging "I love you's", or not doing anything at all, I hope you guys have a loverly Valentine's Day!
Business, business. Big ups to my friends Miss Valerie and Miss Kim for being born this weekend 20-30something years ago. This weekend, I'll be celebrating Kim's birthday by drinking German beer from glass boots and possibly polka dancing at a German bar. But last night, I celebrated Valerie's birthday with Lana by eating zummy food, exchanging Silly Bandz (awww yeah! I gave them each a set, and I'm sure their lives will never be the same), and drinking wine while discussing everything from boutiques to whacked out female hormones. Juicy stuff, people. JUICY.
Oh GIRL TALK. You're so fun. The night started with Lana's hubby Phil making some extremely good Indian food in the kitchen while Lana and I discussed various locations at which we could find adorable jewelry. Lana made these killer Salty Sweet Brownies that I wanted to take home with me and cuddle with. When Valerie got there, Phil brought us the food (I've never scarfed down tofu quite so quickly before) and we just chatted like normal human beings. It was lovely.
Lana is the only one of us three who is married (yeah, Valerie and I are, in fact, the sane ones). And she did it in like the lowest-maintenance way possible. She and her then-fiancee were already planning a vacation to Scotland, and just straight up decided to say their I Do's amongst a couple of kilt-wearing, scotch-drinking, bagpipe-playin' Scots. Easy peezy. They've always kind of been like that, and as I told Lana last night, it's just one of the zillion reasons I love them.
Married couples. I tell ya, you can't live with 'em, you can't live without 'em. Well, I guess mostly you can't live with them because they probably only want to live in their house with each other. Anyway, I'm starting to see this weird-o line in the sand that married couples inadvertently draw. I realize that many of my readers are married. YOU must realize, therefore, that the chances are very high that you've started to, uh, suck a little bit. You may think you're all "La la la, let's merge our finances and never change." But reality check: You've changed.
I am the sole remaining survivor of Wedded Bliss Syndrome in my family. Yup, I'm the only unmarried one in the clan, and I'm pretty sure I'm the most hesitant about the whole concept. Arguably, I'm also still the most fun (according to me). Most of my friends remain untainted by a wedding band, but one by one, I see them - willingly! - flinging themselves from the safety and security of Singledom into the deep, weird abyss that is Marriage. I'm not one of those people who gives marriage a bad rap because my parents had a bad marriage or something. Nope, my parents have, from my point of view, the world's BEST marriage. I idolize the relationship that they have. So much so that is seems like an impossible act to follow.
So, now that you realize I'm not just bitter about marriage, I hope you'll trust me when I explain my side. I have two friends, Lana and Kelly, who have the kind of marriage I would hope to have. They are still very much the same people, and they kept all their friends. They hang out with us poor, sad, single folk all the time (when possible), separately or together, They don't sit and refer to themselves as "we" all the time. You know, "WE just don't like that restaurant anymore." Or "WE have to think about finances." Or "WE think Pharon needs to stop calling so much."
At Book Club, I mentioned once, in the aftermath of a disappointing phone call with a Married, that "Married people are SOOOOOO lame!" In the midst of my self-righteous rant, I failed to recognize that at least 4 of the girls in my club are married. So I got the third degree from them. I know now that it could actually be my bad. When people I know get married, I still want to keep them to myself. I want them to still do the same crap we did before, without having to "answer" to anyone else. But now Marrieds either bring along their Life Partner which jeopardizes the flow of conversation, or they look at me with sad pity when I threaten to break up with Geo if he leaves his macaroni pan out ONE MORE TIME. Marrieds? DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT. I'm aware that your version of "breaking up" is "Divorce", so my version of "problems" don't amount to donkey poop compared to mortgages and baby fever and that awkward ring finger tan you'll get.
Having said all that, Marrieds need a bit of a reality check. They're all living with their husband/wife/"best friend" (puke), way separated from the Singles and assume we are immature and you falsely think you've grown out of the fun we used to have. But guess what, Marrieds? You LOVE the Single's lives. You do. You're scared to admit it, I know, but you love it. Your lives are HARD and, well, kind of like written in stone. Mine? Not so much. My relationship could fail at like, ANY second. BUT I don't have to ask anyone about anything when I buy an Xbox Kinect. It's all a crazy, crazy world where anything could happen.
In closing, I urge you this weekend, if you're a Single, to explain to your Married friends to lighten up. And if you're a cool Married, I urge you to take minute and thank the Singles in your life for keepin' it real.
So, the Super Bowl is over. I'm drained from eating my face off and cheering for a losing team I have nothing invested in. In lieu of a traditional blog, I'm posting pics from our Super Bowl party. Note: My camera is jacked. I don't know what I did to it, but I messed up the settings so the pics are questionable. Oh well, enjoy this little peek-a-boo into my life. Also, it's like proof that I have friends. Yay!
Fooooooood!
Well, yes, as a matter of fact I DID make these wontons myself!
Based on my availability of black and yellow socks (go Hawkeyes!), I decided to be a Steelers fan for the night. That didn't work very well.
So then a few peeps decided to shotgun a beer outside. Here they are, pulling the triggers.
The knife they used to open the beer cans was carefully placed in the porch.
Here are a few of my loverly friends who came by: Allyson, me, Liz, and Kim.
Here's the group.
This is Geo's friend KG's dog, Grey, snoozin'.
Just when we were almost ready to fall into a food coma, these guys came on the TV and spiced up my life. I'd like one of these outfits for when I go walking at night.
Through it all, though, I represented my Vikings.
Then the food was gone...
The beer cans were empty and stashed all over the house...
And night was a huge success. I don't care who won, actually. I just don't. But I'm going to miss football every Sunday. How long until preseason starts???
Last night, Liz and Kim and I spur of the moment decided to cheer ourselves up with manis and pedis! Eeee!! OMG! We are such girls! We talked about our feelings, the problems about men (will they ever learn?!), and our unusual love for drinking German beer out out glass boots at Gasthof's. Hey! What a coincidence! We've also decided to throw Kim's birthday AT GASTHOF'S! Yay! Here's to Das Boot and flickers of snuff! If you're not sure what that is, forget about it. It's something that needs to be experienced to be loved. Oh well...we ended the night with a glass of wine and pretty toes. (Just wrote "glass of toes and pretty wine" accidentally...or not.)
So, we get to the nail salon - one of those little strip mall places. Ladies, - and high-maintenence men - you know what I'm talking about. There's a mini shrine to an elephant in the corner, the walls are painted neon green, and people buzz around mopping the floor behind me and screaming at me to "Sign in!! Sign in!! What services?? PICK COLORS!". Ahh...such a relaxing atmosphere. I stared up at this enormous sign listing services like "Acr Fill, Nail Take Off, and Both Gel" and went ahead with the relatively straight-forward French Toe. Then the nerves started goin'.
In high school, my mom knew how psyched I was for my high school prom. I had the hot dress, the cute date, the best friends, everything. So she surprised me with a manicure and pedicure at the FANCY salon. I was ecstatic! I had never had a pedicure before, and sat back in the heated seats and enjoyed the soothing music, the calming colors in the room, and lilac scented eye pillow. Then, horror of all horrors, this Demon of Torture started, like, RUBBING MY FEET! She had all these crazy tools and devices of foot destruction. I writhed in my heated seat, and continually reflexively snapped my foot away from that demon like a dozen times. Finally, I gave up and stopped that evil pedicurist. "Please, you just...you just can't touch my feet anymore. You have to stop. I'm sorry. Can you just paint them without touching them?" The poor lady obliged, and a mere 5 minutes after my appointment started, I was tucking my tootsies under the heater. Sorry Mom. Turns out, I totally wasted that gift. BUT! My manicure looked bomb!
Since then, I don't get pedicures. I just don't. I can't stand the stress and anxiety of constantly resisting the urge to kick my exfoliated foot in someone's face, thereby giving them a bloody nose and resulting in a trip to the Emergency Room. Total day-ruiner. But then a few years ago, my dear friend Claire devised a wonderful plan. She called the mall nail place (which we still go to), asked them to stay open an hour later, and she'd come in with 8 girls and guaranteed a big boost in business that night. The best part? We got to bring WINE. The first time we did this, I think I was on my third glass before gingerly dipping my toes into the soapy water. I leaned back and in a haze of wine and laughter, got my very first pedicure.
Those are the only circumstances under which I've gotten pedicures. In total? I've probably gotten like 5 in my life. So last night, when I went with Kim and Liz, I was nervous again. We went during regular hours, which meant No Wine. Which meant Pharon Constantly Snapped her Feet Away From the Lady. But you guys? I MADE IT! I made it through and came outta there with some pretty toes and a BAC of 0.0. Then came another part I usually liked to block out. The payment. Turns out, when I chose my service, I made my choice based on the Worlds Biggest Sign and List of Services. Silly me - I should have KNOWN those prices were specials for HIGH SCHOOL students. She's all "Okay, $32." I'm all "Uh, it says right there $12." The woman turns and points to a faded, 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper that just barely reads "SPA PEDICURE: $32.00." I looked at the woman, like, Are you kidding me? She looked back at me like You Sucker. So I said "Uh, I'm a high school student." She gave me a $3 discount because she thought that that was soooooooooooo funny. Rude. And Awesome.
Well now what? Kim and Liz and I all wore flip flops to the bar after our appointments for the above-mentioned girl talk, wine and awesome chicken nachos, and it was the most refreshing hour of my life. My tooties were in FLIP FLOPS again! No more scratchy wool socks and stinky winter boots. But then I got home and slipped immediately into socks in order to stave off the almost-inevitable hypothermia that comes with living in World's Coldest House. So, exactly like 5 people saw my pedicure. Remind me why I put myself through that only to shove my feet into socks the second I got home?
Oh well, I like 'em. I guess those brief 10 minutes in the morning if when I take a shower will have to suffice. Now I just need to be on the lookout for those rancid diseases people get at mall salons like that. Yay! What a refreshing, relaxing, simple experience!
Dudes: Do me a solid and have yourselves a disgustingly fun weekend, okay? And if you see my brother Peter or my sister Prinna, make sure you wish 'em a happy birthday!! Happy Birthday, Peter! Happy Birthday, Prinna!
Okay, well, first thing’s first. It’s my friend Kelly’s birthday today! HBD, Kelly! AND, it’s my MOM’s birthday TOMORROW! w0000000t! In lieu of a birthday gift this year, I’m giving you guys a shout out on my blog! That, my friends, is worthless priceless.
Now that that’s taken care of, let’s move on to the big issue here today: You guys? Hollywood is totally lame these days. I’m really very disappointed in all my celebs. And I think the lack of action is contributing to my malaise as of late. Remember when Lindsay Lohan was like all nutso? Well, she moved in next door to her ex-girlfriend after getting out of rehab, and all that happened was that they had a “friendly lunch”. LAME. Miss Britney’s in the news again, but it’s because her new song is TOTALLY listenable and catchy, which is, you know, nice. I guess. All the people who are pregnant right now are like all settled down with some totally non-threatening dude who they’ve been dating for longer than 2 weeks. And all the breakups? Amicable. Oh yeah, and SNOOKIE wrote a BOOK(IE). I guess it’s fine, because I guess that means she can read, but I like my Snookie like I like my coffee. Way too dark and full of booze.
Apparently Charlie Sheen is doing something sort of crazy these days, but I don’t know what it is because I just don’t care about him. I can’t believe his stupid show is even on the air, by the way. Two and a Half Men? Are you kidding? Dumbest. Show. Ever. UGH! Look at me, people! Look what this Scandal Dry Spell is doing to me! I’m taking all my frustration out on poor Charlie Sheen, who I really liked in his tiny roll as a juvenile delinquent being held at jail in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I’m bullying him because his wacky drug-fueled antics just aren’t doin’ it for me these days. He’s on the verge of irrelevancy anyway, so it seems too EASY to rag on him. Sorry, Charlie.
What happened to all the adulterers of 2010? Where are the mental breakdowns resulting in baldness, jail, or worse? I saw a picture of AMY WINEHOUSE this week and I was so relieved. If anyone is dependably insane, it‘s her. But she’s actually performing, at an actual concert and she actually showed up. Plus, she’s gained a bit of weight back and looks healthier. And she was smiling! What is going on, people?! Are you trying to ruin my winter, Hollywood?
This week on TMZ, there were more stories about Michael Jackson’s former doctor than anything else. Oh, and no-name athletes who keep doing stupid crap. I don’t know them, I don’t care about them. Please stop writing about them, TMZ, and just start making stuff up again. I want that. I need that.
Where’s the HEART man? Where’s the fire and the passion for crazy hijinks in Hollywood? Whatever happened to “All Press is Good Press”? That’s like the golden standard out there! Sad, maybe all the stars and starlettes are growing up. Like, instead of going out on cocaine benders and having fights with trees, they’re staying in with tea and updating their contacts list. If ANYthing makes me feel old these days, it’s the boredom I get from listening to the famous people in my generation do nothing. Well, nothing except, like, working. And that’s just not interesting at all.
I need a fat, juicy story. I want Rihanna to start dating Miley Cyrus. I want LeBron James to admit to taking steroids, or Natalie Portman to give birth to 16 babies. Or, better yet, how about Brad and Angelina break up because she finally admits she’s an evil demon, and has only come to Earth to start her own evil army by adopting a zillion kids, but then eats all her babies?! Can someone find out if that’s going to happen!?
Again, I feel like such a hypocrite. I used to think “God, why do tabloids write about all this negative crap?” Well, I’ve found my answer. I NEED that negative crap. I do. When I get home from work and I’m exhausted and my house is messy and I have to pay bills and I can’t fit into my jeans anymore and my phone is broken, nothing perks me up like hearing that people have way bigger problems than me. Especially people who are skinnier than me, with way more money, too. Call me immature, call me mean-spirited, I don’t care. I’m a product of my generation. I’ve been spoiled my whole life with juicy Hollywood gossip - Remember Christian Slater and Madonna and OJ Simpson? HELLO!? Now, it’s like politicians are stealing the gossip limelight, and that is really dumb. I want my politicians to make the world better, not have reality shows.
So, whaddya say, Hollywood? Let’s get back to work. Go ahead and get back on those drugs! Get arrested for something heinous, and take a wicked bad mug shot! Get married and divorced…this weekend! You can do it! I need something big to happen. It’s going to take a Tiger Woodscapade-sized thing to get this group of “stars” back in my heart. Outside of that, I’m just going to stop caring about them and move on to hoping Justin Bieber comes out of the closet…
Oh yeah. Happy Hour with Lana and Valerie tonight. We meet at the same place, laugh about the same things, and order the same food every time we get together. I love it. I need it. Aside from just being a supes fun night out with my girl friends, it also just happened to be the Four Year Anniversary of Lana's successful brain surgery. She had a tumor from her brain removed four years ago. Imagine that: She was just driving home one day, and all of a sudden, she tried to turn left, and her body turned right. Cray-cray. But luckily for me (and, okay, for her too), she's back to 110% awesome! Happy Brain-iversary, Lana!!!
So the three of us sat, chatted, and drank wine (oh, and ordered a very unfortunate Panna Cotta). Then the conversation turned, as it always does, to crazy, scarring events from our adolescence. Did you guys ever get a robot baby in middle/high school? Lana did, and Valerie apparently got an Egg to take care of. I never enjoyed such an opportunity. Then, as if she took the words out of my mouth, Valerie exclaimed, "It's gotta be so hard! You can't just shove the robot baby in a locker! They like TRACK it!" I might have failed that test.
I looooooove babies. (Well, babies I KNOW - stranger's babies are weird, everyone knows that.) I love snuggling them and smelling their Johnson & Johnson No Tears-smelling heads. I love them. I have cuddled and snuggled the five most perfect nieces and nephews ever, and I get all high on their baby powdered bodies. They're so sweet. They're so perfect.
For two summers in college, I worked at a day care in Bloomington, MN. That's right, folks. I was in charge of America's Future. ME. Nevermind the fact that I couldn't even get myself dressed for the day, I presided over classes of spongy little brains that soaked up whatever nonsense I'd spill. I'd bop around from the three year-old room, to the school age kids, and back to the toddlers, but nothing was more sweet, more perfect than cradling a wee little baby in the Infants Room and rocking 'em to sleep. Nothing was more refreshing than seeing a baby smile for the first time, or being able to calm a baby down after a major tantrum. Watching those tiny little fingers work their way around a Cheerio and pop in their mouth was total icing on the cake.
So, yes. I love me some babies. I, however, am not ready to have one of my own. I like an uninterrupted sleep. I like knowing that, on a day-to-day basis, I will have nothing to do with another person's poop. At any given moment, though, I will drop absolutely everything I'm doing to go and hang out with my nieces and nephew. They're funny. They're clever. They think anything I do is funny. They're like the greatest audience ever.
The big thing here is, at the end of the night, I'm gettin' out of Dodge. I go home, watch Family Guy and fall asleep when I'm good and ready. And on some random nights, instead of chilling at home, watching TV in sweatpants, I'll squeeze into some skinny jeans and head out to meet friends for drinks. Tonight, I briefly considered how horrible I'd be at finding a babysitter on such short notice. Plus, I still hand off my sister's kids to someone else when they need changing, and when they're inconsolable, I panic and leave the room. That's like the HARD WORK that I am, at this moment, ill-equipped for.
And yet, ironically, the new season of Teen Mom is on right now. I feel waaaaay too similar to those poor, stupid girls. Except the one who's totally idiotic who literally couldn't care less about her own BABY. She should be sterilized.
Anyway, back to robot babies. I think I always WISHED I could have had that opportunity. I feel like I'd surprise myself. Like, I'd get a robot baby and turn in back in and they'd tell me that I'd just started to raise the next Einstein. I think I'd make a sick temporary parental figure. I'd probably go down in history as the best fake parent of a robot baby. As long as I could give it back eventually.
Did you guys get robot babies? Did it fan the flames of parental desire in you? I don't know. I don't think it would have helped me. I have too many incredible little kids I can hang out with whenever I want, and then just dip out when I need to. (Meanwhile, I'm posting an a-dor-a-ble video of one of my nieces playing with an iPad on the Pharon Square Facebook page...check it out for SURE!).
The consensus tonight was that not a one of us is necessarily ready to give up Happy Hour for If You're Happy and you Know It. But, if you have the opportunity, I highly suggest you encourage all your brothers and sisters to have a zillion babies. They're totally fun, when you don't have to clean up their poop.
Had dinner with Kim tonight. It took forever to meet up because of all the snow and cars and idiots. First and foremost, let me tell you that Minnesota drivers are, far and away, the dumbest people on the planet. When there is snow piled on snow, piled on cars, piled on top of more snow, the solution to finding a parking spot on the street is NOT just parking in the middle of the street. I mean, I don’t know if that’s for sure on the driving test, but you’d just assume that’s a bad solution.
So, finally I meet up with Kim. She was halfway done with a beer by the time I took my coat off. It had been a loooooong day for her. She just had one of those generally really crap-filled days. She texted me this afternoon, and was frustrated and stressed out. My response? I sent her a very detailed text about how much my feet smelled. Yeah, she laughed. I was glad to have helped her out a bit.
At dinner, we both kind of loudly dumped our respective bad stories onto each other. After we had purged our bad news, we went back to discussing my feet. I explained to Kim that it is a little disturbing when you’re sitting there, wearing socks and winter boots, and you can still smell your own feet. At the time, it seemed like a bigger problem than work drama. Kim disagreed.
I don’t know what’s better, though: Enjoying a good dinner with a friend, or discussing the validity of whether or not people’s feet and armpits are in any way connected with each other, thereby distributing a finite amount of the smell glands. I explained to Kim that I must have all my sweat glands in my feet because I don't have ANY in my arms. I don’t sweat there, and I don’t smell (Perek once helpfully suggested, during an extended period of me living the single life, that maybe THAT’S why I didn’t have a boyfriend. No pheromones or something. Jerk). There are people you can smell a mile away because of their armpits. I’ve moved away from these people on the bus. Ew. No thanks. But I wonder if they sit around at home wearing their boots all night because they don’t want to offend people’s olfactory glands by taking them off. I think it just might be a trade off, then. Armpits or feet…choose your stinky weapon.
Chances are, if you’ve got cartoon stink lines coming from your armpits, you probably walk around barefoot like it’s no biggie. Is that right? Does anyone know if there’s any science behind it?
Well, back to dinner. I wish I went out to girl dinners more often. Usually, I’ll go out with a few girls, and we all get tangled up in different conversations, talking over each other, and recapping stories when one of us goes to the bathroom. But the one-on-one girly dinners are easier to manage. You’re either talking or listening. You give and take. There’s not as much interrupting, and you can end up having a really good, solid conversation about whether or not people sweat the same from their feet as they do from their armpits. We departed company and made promises to hang out again this weekend. See? That’s what I love about friends like Kim. We sat together for a couple hours, complaining and whining, and talking candidly about how much we smell, and yet? We make plans to hang out AGAIN in under 48 hours. I’m hoping by then, she’ll have had a better day at work. She’s probably hoping that by then, I will have showered.
Well, you guys? That’s all she wrote this week! Hope you all have a fabulous and fresh weekend!
P.S. No plans this weekend? How about spending some time writing an award-winning script?! Check out the current Lifetime Write Off Challenge for your shot at winning pride, glory, and your very own Pharon Square t-shirt!
Finally! The first snowfall in Minnesota, and I MISSED IT! I missed the whole thing because I was lounging around in South Dakota at Geo’s family cabin. Perek, Geo, Mitch, Chad, Chad’s girlfriend Angie, and I trekked into the untamed wilderness for fun times and drinking. It was definitely a great break from the stress and monotony of the Cities. We played Trivial Pursuit and Sega and ate nothing but junk food. I got a healthy dose of ribbing from the guys, and Angie and I helped them execute a wine tasting challenge for their pod cast, Good Guys to Know. I haven’t laughed that hard in too long. My stomach still hurts.
So, Saturday morning, Geo gets a call from his dad. We were all sitting around this cheesy little malt shop diner place for breakfast, and Geo informed us that his dad has a guy who works for him that has a limo. And said man would be willing to drive us around that night if we felt like going into Sioux Falls for a night on the town. After some half-hearted debating, we decided that this was too good of a chance to pass up. At 8:30, our driver Darryl rolled up to the cabin in the “limo”. We walked out with a cooler of adult beverages and saw this black, like long station wagon. I was getting stoked to stick my head through a sunroof in the sub-zero chill, but there was no sun roof. It had six doors and three rows of seats. The back two rows all faced forward, so it wasn’t quite the Limo I am accustomed to (if you call riding in a limo for high school prom and for my sister’s wedding being “accustomed” to limos).
While we were making our way the 45 minutes to Sioux Falls in the limo, we decided to take advantage of the whole limo thing. I had sunglasses in my purse, and a hooded sweatshirt on. So, we decided that I was going to be famous, and the guys and Angie would be my entourage. The limo pulled up to a bar, and we all got out. I had my hood up and sunglasses on, Angie shielded me from the people standing outside the bar. I held my face down and let Angie pull me in to the bar.
People fell for it. It was perfect. When I was walking back from the bathroom, some guy shoved his camera phone in my face and snapped a picture. The girl behind him squealed “Ohmygod, she’s still trying to hide!” I don’t know who they THOUGHT I was, but it was awesome. We pulled the stunt a couple more times as we progressed to more bars. At one bar, I went to close out a tab, and the bartender asked me to sign my “receipt”. After I did it, he was like “Oh, wait. Here’s the actual receipt” and then pocketed the fake receipt. My autograph! Hahaha.
So throughout the night, I kind of got a little TOO into my concocted alter ego. I was suddenly very aware of my facial expressions, in case someone snapped a picture that would show up somewhere with the headline, “Stars: They’re Just Like Us! They pick their nose and have mascara smeared on their cheek!” I felt like everyone was looking at me, I didn’t want to go the bathrooms alone, and I just sort of felt weird. Poor Britney Spears. I now understand her pain and aversion to normal social venues. Finally, we gave up the gag, and I put my sunglasses back in my purse and shook my booty on the dance floor without a care in the world.
It was definitely fun being a “famous” person for a couple minutes. On the car ride home, I reflected on how gullible people are. Geo made a good point, though. He said “I think people just like the idea that someone famous would come into their world and share the same experiences for even one night.” It was a pretty smart statement. The limo, the entourage, the feeling of being thisclose to someone who may or may not enjoy the perks of Hollywood life seemed to intoxicate people. I just hope that a few people had at least one good story to go home and tell. I should have advertised my blog…you know, bump up the traffic.
Alas, all that fame and fast food has wore me down. I’m definitely going to sleep hard tonight. Tomorrow, it’s back to reality and a job that doesn’t include lunching at Ivy or photo shoots with Annie Leibovitz. Oh well, I think famous people crave the kind of anonymity with which I can lead my life. I better enjoy it while it lasts!
Big election week. Congrats to the winners, bummer to the losers. Politics, man. It’s a dirty game.
With that in mind, let’s move on to the Wednesday Winners!! Such a tough week, people. Too many of you have been incredibly good to me, unyielding in your compassion, and overall generous with your kind words and gifts of Kate Spade bags (Lana and Valerie!). But, decisions must be made, and a winner must be crowned. This Wednesday, I have two winners who must share the prize. The two have spoiled me rotten this week with bribes, incentives, and praise. That shall not go unnoticed (as mentioned in the first installment of Wednesday Winner). So, Congratulations to People Who Bribed Me!!
First, my sister Padrin.
Padrin went above and beyond her sisterly duties this past week. I feel like I should give you a brief background on Padrin and me. When I was little, I called her Queen Padrin. Every night, I’d go downstairs in the dark and fetch her a glass of water with “a lot of ice, and a little water”. I did this DESPITE the fact that she also told me that little gremlins live in the cupboards at night. Still, I did it. I was obsessed with her. My childhood diary is basically Padrin‘s itinerary. “Padrin came home at 12:51 tonight and Mom got mad.” “Padrin is going on a date tonight, but said I could watch a movie in her room”. Or even “I was bored tonight, so Padrin said I could paint her toenails.” Eeesh.
But now, all is well and I’ve finally developed that backbone I sorely lacked in childhood. So, now she lives in Decorah, IA with her hubby and 2 awesome kids. On Thursday night when I met up with my fam for a nice birthday dinner, I was shocked to see Padrin standing at the top of the steps. She drove over 3 hours to surprise me at dinner, only to turn around and drive back the next morning. That, my friends, is dedication. It was an incredible surprise, and to top it off, she got me what every young, modern woman dreams of: a bag of Amish items. Amish bonnet, Amish potholder, book about being Amish. It was Amishtacular. And lest I mistake her gifts for simple adoration, she then said “If THIS doesn’t make me Wednesday Winner, I don’t know WHAT will.” Well Queen Padrin, Congratulations! You’ve finally achieved the highest honor in the land. Secondly, I also recognize my friend Kim.
Brief background on Kim and me: We met in Minnesota and moved to Iowa City for college, where we lived and laughed together for 2 years. Now we’re both back in the Cities and more annoying together than ever! (Just ask Geo.) This past week, especially, she pulled out all the stops for me. She suffered through shopping at Forever 21 with me, she and I watched the triumphant Hawkeyes game together, she treated me to an awesomely delicious “chocolate explosion” ice cream cake, and on Saturday night when we all went out, she did her darndest to make sure I was having as much fun as possible. Plus, she made a house full of drunk people come together and sing Happy Birthday to me. The icing on the cake was the adorable sweatshirt and Kate Spade perfume she got me. I look and smell better than ever!
So, my sincerest thanks and adoration go out to Padrin and Kim this week. You guys made me laugh, made me smile, and totally made my week! All it took was an interstate road trip, endless hours of attention, and a few spot-on gifts. I told you guys I’m not above being bribed. In fact, I am allllllllll for it. Congratulations, ladies! May this fake, yet well-deserved, award serve you well in future weeks. May it carry you through the darkest of days and toughest of times. And to all others who are reading this: I am still accepting gifts in the form of cash, Kate Spade bags, and surprise road trips. Well done, ladies!
The concept of Trick-or-Treating is so rude. At this moment, we’re sitting in our house, with no lights on, TV turned down, and debating whether or not we should run out to the store and buy candy for other people's kids. We are prisoners in our own home, held captive by the fear of sticky, loud kids arriving at our door demanding free candy. Also, what kind of parent lets their kids go to a strangers house and beg for candy? You’d think they’d be dissuaded by amount of beer cans on the porch, or the fact that we kept the whole block up last night with our music and wild partying.
Last night was a crazy fun night. Our house was packed with pre-partiers. Pretty much all my lovely friends showed up, and sang Happy Birthday, and chowed down on ice cream cake. It was super fun. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen any pictures from last night yet, so I don’t have the photographic evidence of my wildly underappreciated costume. I wore the Amish bonnet, a bedazzled cross necklace, and a black dress I had initially purchased for a Snooki costume. I looked great. No one understood it though. Someone thought I was a Salem witch and suggested I hang a noose from my neck. At the bar, it became tiresome explaining what Rumspringa is.
Plus, I was competing with insanely extravagant costumes around me. My brother went as a giant box of Franzia. And it REALLY DISPENSED WINE. Geo got his hands on a giant bear head (seriously, it’s large. Almost doesn't fit through any doorways) and was a popular Bear character from the Conan O’Brien show. And Kim’s boyfriend Nick was Brett Favre. Well, HIS version of Favre. He colored his hair gray, wore the jersey, the cleats, everything. But then he attached a box to the front of himself and had a little, like, diorama with some inappropriate material that would pop out when you turned a crank. So, needless to say, no one was looking at me anyways.
I love dressing up for Halloween. I blame it on my mom. When we were little, she would make us these incredibly adorable and complicated costumes. I was a mermaid, a head on a platter, a scarecrow, and my brother and sisters went as the California Raisins one year. We always looked awesome. So I still heartily embrace Halloween, and totally appreciate a good, clever costume. As long as it doesn't involve kids coming to MY door.
Well, Happy Halloween, everyone. I’m calling it a night as I have still not recovered from the debauchery last night. I haven’t moved much from the couch, and I really don’t intend to. Thanks again to all my lovely friends for coming out last night and making it such a memorable birthday! Time to start planning NEXT year's birthday party...
If Facebook only existed so that people could wish other people a happy birthday, I'd be satisfied. All day long, my phone was chirping with totally awesome birthday posts on my wall. Total ego boost! I have the best family and friends ever...seriously. They are the cookie layer in my ice cream cake.
Okay, so because I'm exhausted this is going to be a quickie. The birthday extravaganza really got kicked off when an almost obnoxiously large cookie bouquet arrived at my desk at work. My parents definitely know me well enough to send birthday cookies. Flowers are too hard to transport, and fruit is, well, FRUIT. But cookies? YUM! And they were snickerdoodles to boot. I challenge you to find someone who doesn't appreciate a good 'doodle.
When I got home from work, a bouquet of the most gorgeous roses from my friends Kelly and Nic were waiting for me. And while I was arranging them in a vase, Geo handed me a present. Yes, it looked like a 5 year-old wrapped it. But inside was the watch I've been drooling over for literally 3 years. Black strap, black face, military-style, with diamonds around the face. It's a great balance of masculinity and femininity. Just like a certain blogger I know...
So do you remember how I had been such a brat about dining at Olive Garden? Well bless my parents' souls! Geo started driving in an odd direction, and after I berated him a little for going the wrong way, we pulled up to the Edina Country Club (we used to be members there when we were little). I LOVE that place! The wine was great, the food was delicious, and the company was bombtacular. Not only was it both my brothers, my parents, and Geo, but my sister Padrin came in to town from Iowa to surprise me! I was shocked! It took me a second to realize what was happening. Surprise restaurant AND surprise sister? Yes please! The only downer was that my other sister Prinna is currently on bed rest, taking care of that fetus in her tummy. I wish she could have been there with us, but I SUPPOSE she had a good reason to miss it... :)
So, while we were waiting for our food, I opened some gifts. Padrin's surprise trip was WELL WORTH IT. I opened her gift, and it was an ACTUAL AMISH BONNET! And there was an Amish potholder and book as well. Needless to say, my Halloween costume has now changed. No longer will I be Snooki. I'm going as an Amish girl on her RUMSPRINGA! As if to restore the balance of the day, I was brought back to the twenty-first century when I opened a Kindle and Kate-Spade-green cover from my parents. I've wanted a Kindle for forever. As soon as I'm done here, I'll be purchasing an ugly amount of books on Amazon (for which I ALSO got gift certificates from my parents and Prinna).
I took the day off tomorrow, so in the morning, I'll hop on in to Caribou with my gift card from Peter, and bum around in my new Vikings tshirt and sweatpants (also from my parents). I'm gonna carve my pumpkin and make disgustingly salty pumpkin seeds, finalize my new and improved costume, and just generally enjoy the first day of my new, elderly life. So far, it ain't half bad! And if today's success is a sign of what's in store for the year, I'm definitely psyched.
Thanks to everyone for your well wishes, the (probably) empty promises of a free drink in the future, and overall awesomeness. I feel like the luckiest girl - woman? - ever. I'm ready and eager to take on the next year. And with friends and family like the ones I've got, I'm sure it's going to be an awesome ride. And trust me: I'll be telling you allllllll about it.
I’m going to do my best at blogging coherently tonight. I’m writing this during the Vikings game, and it’s a tight game so far. But I’ll try my best to stay focused, because I have a lot to get off my chest.
Okay, so first of all, I want to say “Sorrrrrry, Mom….” to, duh, my mom. She has planned a birthday dinner for me this coming Thursday night (have I mentioned it’s my birthday on Thursday? Probably not…I like to be really low-key about my birthdays. /sarcasm) and I crapped all over her plans. Which makes me sound like a total jerk. I’m lucky to have almost my whole ginormous family come out for my birthday, so restaurant options become limited. And when it was decided that we’d go to the private room at Olive Garden (When we’re there, we’re family!) I couldn’t get past the thought of the unlimited breadsticks that I could eat for days. The problem is, I’m about to squeeze myself into a tiny black dress for my Halloween costume next weekend, and my will power is lacking. But instead of just deciding not to eat 20 breadsticks, I complained and sounded like an ungrateful brat. So, Mom, in front of the fives and tens of people who read this, I’m sorry.
Now that we’ve gotten that ugliness out of the way, I’d now like to apologize to the fine people at Forever 21 who may have had the unhappy sight of my Minnesota-white body squeezed into a black sequined mini-dress. I don’t typically find myself in the glaringly bright store with floor-to-ceiling mirrors anymore. But, in the interest of finding an appropriate Snooki dress (yup, I’ll be dressing up as the lovable Guidette for Halloween), Kim and I made our way to Forever 21. I was reminded immediately, that I am NOT forever 21. We filled my arms with gold, black, bejeweled and ruched mini dresses and, well, it went questionably. At one point, Kim, who was waiting for me outside the dressing room as I tried on dress after dress, had to ask “Pharon, what are you laughing at!?” I mean, people, seriously. It was hilarious. There were cut-outs and elastic in places that should not have cutouts or elastic. Plus, I’m only 5’2” and these dresses were S.H.O.R.T.! Who wears that stuff?! But finally, I found one that didn't make me want to throw up. I peeked my head through the curtain and beckoned Kim in to the room with me. I stood uncomfortably in front of my dear friend, tugging at the dress, and hoped she wouldn’t start crying at the sight. Instead, she said, helpfully, “You’ll have stilettos on, and so much jewelry! Plus, the bars don’t have florescent lights in them. I think you look great!” God bless you, Kim.
Finally, I want to say “My Bad” to my liver. On Friday night, Liz, Ally and Kim came over and we did some work on some Prosecco and other various wines. Clean up on Saturday morning was really easy because all I did was collect like 8 empty bottles of wine and throw them in the garbage. But I really pushed my body to process all that, and it did a great job. So, I’m sorry and thank you, Body.
Whew! I feel better already! Now I can start the week fresh, and determined not to commit these same atrocities again. I mean, except the last one. That one just, well, my heart wasn’t really in that one.
But for realsies, I had a great weekend, and hopefully I have no more apologies like this next Sunday!
I’m going to come right out and say it. I want a nickname. Like a really bomb nickname. This weekend at Geo’s Frisbee party, I hung out with a room of guys I ONLY know by their nickname. And tonight, I watched Jersey Shore and they all have nicknames too. I’m jealous. All I want is a sick nickname. A sickname, if you will. But no. I’ve been Pharon my whole life.
There was a brief period of time when the guys I lived with called me P.H.-Dawg. It was a sorry attempt, because they had been calling Perek “P-Dawg” forever. So, I just got like the Xhilaration version of that. (Please tell me you know the brand Xhilaration. It’s the like generic brand of clothes at Target.) Eventually, and for like a couple weeks, they took to calling me “P.H.” I kind of liked it, but it was so vanilla. But, alas, they stopped calling me that anyways. And back to Pharon I went.
In middle school, I was known as “Pharon the Boy” for a couple traumatizing weeks. A couple jerks in my homeroom plastered the walls of the classroom with pieces of paper with a Microsoft Paint picture they drew of a boy, and on all of them, they wrote “PHARON THE BOY”. I walked in the room, my usual happy-go-lucky self, and my jaw dropped down to my Doc Martens. I seriously have NO idea why it started, but kids are cruel. I took it like a champ, though. Mercifully, this one eventually faded as well. Thank God.
In college, I sent in that little form to get some checks in the mail. They were going to be sooooo cute! Green pin stripes, I believe. So, I got the box of checks and went over to Madeline and Kelly’s house to show them off. (Luckily they are easily impressed.) I open the box of checks for them, very dramatically, and said “VOILA!” We took one look at them and Kelly burst out laughing. The checks were for PHARM. Sometimes Kelly still calls me Pharm. I think I’m even in her phone as Pharm. But again, it just didn’t stick.
As I mentioned a long time ago, my friend Claire calls me Papou. I actually do love that nickname. When she texts or Gchats me, she always says “Hey, Papou! How are YOU? What‘s NEW??” I love that! It rhymes, it’s cute, it’s not offensive, it didn’t stem from anything nasty. It’s perfect. But, she’s the only one who calls me that. It’s kind of our thing. But I want to walk into a party or business meeting and say, “Hey, what’s up? I’m Papou.” I can’t. No one else gets it.
But none of them stick! Can someone tell me how to get a nickname that actually STICKS? There’s like NO nickname for Pharon. It’s basically a nickname all in itself because it’s barely a real name. Curse this clever name! Can I just start one myself? Like, from now on everyone call me “Snooze”. Because I love to sleep, it rhymes with Booze, and, uh, my blog is Pharon Square, which rhymes with nightmare. When do you have a nightmare? When you’re taking a little snooze! I can’t believe no one else has thought of that!
Loooove me some Happy Hour. Valerie, Lana and I met up at Cause in Uptown tonight (I highly recommend this place if you love good deals and excellent service, without having to fight for your server) and had some good ol’ fashioned girl time. Out of the hundreds of topics that were brought up, the one that really got my attention was Eyebrow Waxing. We talked about the intricacies of waxing vs. no waxing vs. do-it-yourself vs. professional service. We came to the conclusion that humans have entirely too much hair on our bodies.
My first experience with shaving was when I was 12. I went away to soccer camp, where I was on a team with older girls. One in particular took one look at my pre-pubescent legs and said “EW! Why don’t you shave?!“ Then she went back to organizing her Multiples and snap bracelets. I got home from soccer camp and asked my sister Prinna “How do you shave your legs?“ She wasn’t all that interested in, like, teaching me a vital life lesson so she mumbled “You just take a razor and go zhoop zhoop zhoop up your legs.“ She made quick, upward motions with her hands. So, I went in the bathroom, found a Bic and went zhoop zhoop zhoop. I was not planning on the 4 inch long piece of skin that came off due to too much pressure and dry legs. My mom made me use an electric razor after that. Then, when I was in high school, I used to shave my arms. Like, the whole arm. I thought it made me look skinnier. At the time, I was all of 80 pounds soaking wet, so I don’t know what my problem was.
The point is, I’ve never really “gotten” shaving. I’m lazy, clumsy, busy, tired and a bunch of other things that makes it exhausting to care about it. The only times I really focus on tweezing my eyebrows is when I have insomnia and can’t sleep. Then it becomes an obsession. And the morning after, it becomes a Mistake. I look like I’m always questioning what you’re saying.
However, I LOVE beards and moustaches (on men, duh). If I had one, I’d groom it constantly. I’d make funny shapes and styles. Facial hair is like an accessory! I’m always fascinated by it. I would have a little comb, and twirl my moustache between my fingers, or tug my beard when I’m confused…stuff like that.
Now, I’m not necessarily saying guys have it easy (Okay, I KIND of am saying that) but they have a much smaller surface area to attend to. I will say this, though. Two gentleman, who shall remain nameless to preserve their dignity, decided that they wanted to wax their backs. They didn’t want to go in someplace to have it done, so they gave me money to go buy them some wax. Next thing I know, one is laying on a dining room table while the other rips off the strips with the brute force of a dinosaur. The next day, one of them had a ginormous bruise on their back from the unfortunate technique of the velociraptor he had hired for the job.
Turns out, being a human is a hairy situation. The one thing that separates us from, say, lizards, is the fine hair that covers our bodies. Also, we are warm-blooded. And we don’t eat bugs. And other stuff that makes us different. But really the relevant thing here is the hair. And yet we spend zillions of dollars and like a quadrillion hours of time removing it. Why?
Well, I don’t know what to do about it. I guess people are just fine with their razors and laser hair removers and bleach and whatever else people use. Me? I have found that if I just systematically shave off layers of skin, like when I was younger, the hair will stop growing eventually.
On that note, you hairy freaks, have a great weekend!
Another weekend, another set of lessons learned. First off, fake blood is, well, not removable. But before I get to that very useful tidbit of information, I just want to say one thing. Saturday was the 3rd Angel Birthday for my niece Sophia who passed away from SIDS. I spent the day with my family at Pine Haven pumpkin patch. It was really wonderful to spend time together, enjoying the weather, and thinking of Sophia. And in addition to all this tragedy and grief, my brother-in-law is being sued and harassed by his former employer, Federated Insurance. And while I spent Saturday night with 8,000 people dressed up as zombies (again, more on that later), this disgusting excuse for a company is the real soul-less, blood-thirsty monster. I urge you, when you have the time, to check out my sisters blog at www.fedupwithfederated.com. Their actions are nothing short of merciless and evil. So, yeah, please check that out if you haven’t already.
Okay, so apparently every year for 6 years, people get dressed up as zombies and stagger around the West Bank moaning and yelling “Braaaaains!” I have never been on this Zombie Pub Crawl before, but this year, Ally and I went and bought the make up and got all zombified. Ally was a Zombie Geisha, and I was a Zombie Mental Patient. And we. Looked. Good.
Another lesson I learned was that when they advertise “drink specials for zombies” what they really mean is “No drink specials, and in fact, Pharon, beer is way more expensive than you thought.” So, my wallet is significantly lighter…and bloodier. Yeah, there was a lot of fake blood around. And it got all over me. I had some that I applied myself, but I came home with a lot more of it. It’s still on me. It like STAINED my skin. My hands, legs and stomach all looked like I was slapped repeatedly. So yeah, I don’t know how to get it off. Note to future zombies: Don’t put fake blood on anything you can’t cover up for work on Monday.
But it was a pretty fun night. Seeing 8,000 people dressed up as everything from Zombie Santas to Zombie Marilyn Monroes staggering around the city, moaning and begging for braaaains was quite a sight. And being part of it was great. One bonus of dressing as a zombie for a Saturday night was that I was really comfortable. I wore scrubs and a white t-shirt with flip flops. It was like wearing pajamas. And there was cheering going on, which I love at any event. “What do we want?” “BRAAAINNS!” “When do we want ‘em?” “BRAAAINNS!”
But, now all I want is bed. And when do I want it? Now.
