How to Be a Grown-up: Event Edition

This has been a very exciting year...for my friends. I've been to, oh, 65 weddings, 329 baby showers and 997 bridal showers. Don't check my math, jerks.

I was thinking about this today as I stood in my Spanx and latest bridesmaids dress at the tailor (getting 4 feet chopped from the bottom of my third long chiffon dress of the year) and mentally reminded myself to pick up a gift bag for a baby shower I'm going to this weekend.

So, at this point, I'm 100% sure I should be the final word on what TO do and what NOT to do at these events. To save you the trouble of Googling "manners at grown-up events," I’ll give you some pointers of how to be the best guest at these events.

Bridal Showers:

Do: Bring a gift. That's what it's all about, folks.

Do: Wear a dress. It’s probably a hassle or uncomfortable, but any event with “shower” in the name implies you should look nice (and have taken a shower.)

Do: Mingle. You probs won't know tons of people there, so chat up the person closest to the finger sandwiches, and then you can get fat while you chat.

Don't: Get drunk. Well, okay, maybe you can…sometimes it’s tricky to know what kind of shower it is. But you should be able to tell if it’s okay based on how many bottles of bubbly and/or tequila are on hand.

Don’t: Be a buzzkill. Play the games, lady. There are almost ALWAYS prizes.

Don’t: Be rude. Thank the hostess, say nice things about the Guest of Honor and try to not burp or make poop jokes. (Note: See exception in Baby Shower section.)

Baby Showers:

Do: Bring a gift. That’s what it’s all about, folks.

Do: Wear a dress. (Sorry, ANY event involving a bunch of ladies on a weekend morning requires semi-formalwear.)

Do: Compliment everyone. Pregnant women, non-pregnant women, potentially-pregnant women and already-been-pregnant women all together in one room talking about babies means one thing: carazy hormones. Tread lightly and speak sweetly. TO EVERYONE.

Don’t: Say ANYthing scary about labor.

Don’t: Make the Guest of Honor feel bad about truly believing that she will love having a baby wipe warmer.

Don’t: Hold back on baby poop jokes. For Pete’s sake, the Guest of Honor is getting diapers, wipes and (inexplicably) a heated wipe dispenser. Everyone knows what’s up.

Weddings:

Do: Bring a gift. That’s what it’s all about, folks.

Do: Wear a dress. Ugh. I know. So many dresses…

Do: Listen to speeches, sign the guest book, enjoy the beautiful centerpieces, take a favor and get out on the dance floor. (These are just basic fundamentals of being a good wedding guest, so it all goes together.)

Don’t: Spill ANYTHING on the bride.

Don’t: Feel bad about getting drunk. Weddings are the only time some people CAN get drunk. Just don’t get sloppy and puke. Especially on the bride.

Don’t: Take your shoes off on the dance floor. It goes against nature, I know: I used to do this. But it only took one time of dancing to “Shout!” barefoot and a broken toe to change my tune.

These are really only the basics. (Oh, and really they are more directed at women because dudes often get to skip out on at least 2/3 of these events.) You’re gonna have to pay me to hear the rest, because my insight is THAT VALUABLE, and I have a TON more etiquette guidelines.

Also, I simply don’t have any more time to help you. I have baby showers, a bridal shower AND a wedding all in the next month that I need to start buying dresses for.

Do you have any foolproof pointers of your own for these events? Feel free to slap ‘em down there in the comments. Trust me, people need all the help they can get.

I'll Be Hair For You

I've been waiting my entire life for this, you guys. A lifetime of bowl cuts, ill-advised bangs, ineffective curling irons, split ends, fantastic shampoos, generic shampoos...I've spent years and probably hundreds of thousands of dollars on trying to do something with my hair. I've grown it out, chopped it off, colored it, stripped it...all in an effort to make my hair look even remotely fabulous.

It never worked. Nothing ever worked, because I have approx 10 strands of hair.

Until today. Today my life has been forever changed and I am officially a better person than you are now.

Because today, a package came. Probably from heaven. And inside the package was this life-changing miracle:

Ahhhh! SECRET EXTENSIONS!

I got obsessed with this product after yet another evening of watching too many infomercials. In this one, Daisy Fuentes and her pretty pals all have this fantastic hair and then they whip half of it out and voila! You see it's all thanks to Secret Extensions.

See, Secret Extensions involve, basically, a hair headband. The top half has no hair on it, but the bottom has all this real (looking) hair that pumps up any 'do. It's easy to put on, easy to take off, and guaranteed to make your hair look better than ever. I figured "Hey, Hip Hop Abs was surprisingly fun....why not go for broke?" So I did it. I ordered fake hair through the mail and just received it. I couldn't WAIT to try out my new life.

Here's the disgusting and entirely unimpressive Before:

Look at that heinously limp and sad hair!!!! PUKE! Now, let's slip on my Secret Extensions!

Oh, sorry, hold on. Garnier Fructis is calling me asking me how EVER did I get my hair to be so full and fabulous.

I don't care if you don't see the difference (which is what Geo has tried to argue). There is roughly 50% more hair tumbling down my shoulders. Here's the proof:

I love it. I love everything about having some strange hair from God-knows-where making my ponytail fatter and BETTER. I seriously LOVE Secret Extensions.

But...it didn't take more than 4 minutes of admiration before the true potential of this product hit me. Then these happened:

And then came some hilarious practical jokes:

 Shhh! I'm sleeping!!! PSYCH! I'm taking the picture!!

Waiter? There's a hair in my salad...

All in all, I had more fun with my fake hair in one night than I've probably ever had with all my hair products I've ever owned rolled together. And I've barely used it for it's intended purposes yet.

The only thing I have a little bit of issue with is that these extensions were made for adults. I have a toddler-sized head, so they're a tiny bit ill-fitting. But I figure that's a small price to pay for having the gift of thick, luxurious and fabulous hair. Oh, also, the hair DOES kind of fall out if you do stuff like make disguises with it.

I highly recommend this product. I plan on ordering another one that is a totally different color, actually, so I can change my hair to fit my look of the day. All told, these cost about $40-50, but if that's the price I pay to avoid knotting real extensions into my scalp, I'm  good with that.

Anyway, I'm pretty psyched that I actually bought something that delivered not only what it promised, but what I had been desperately hoping for. It's simple, it's effective. It's the Spanx of hair!

Now, when someone makes Secret 6-Pack Abs and Tiny Thighs, I'll be SUPER impressed.

Video Lames

I don't know the last time I woke up at 4 a.m. I remember the last time I went to BED at 4, but never has it been an hour at which I rise from slumber. It's stupid; it's insane; it's exactly what Geo did this morning. See, apparently a video game came out at midnight, called Destiny, and Geo got up before work to download it and play with his four XBox One-having friends. It's pathetic, right?

I was thinking about how dedicated these guys are to these video games. I mean, sure, I woke up and Skyped with my mom and sister to watch the Royal Wedding before dawn, but that was an HISTORIC event. Waking up early to play a video game is pretty much nonsense.

But he did it, and I did have a few brief moments before I raged against the machine that is Morning to think about my relationship with video games. It's been a tawdry affair, filled with weeks-long infatuation followed immediately by casual dismissal. 

It started with Nintendo. I played LOTS of Nintendo. Duck Hunt? Check. Super Mario Bros? Check. Other games I can't remember? Probably check.

But my true love was with Sega. I spent hours playing the Olympics and Sonic the Hedgehog with my brother Perek. We'd even make up lyrics to the instrumental songs on each level of Sonic. (That's right, LYRICS. A sample includes: "Must have been some magic in that old black haaaaat they found..." Shut up. It was musical genius.) I had as much fun WATCHING someone play as I did I playing. 

Then I never played video games because I was very cool and popular. (Also: No one invited me.) When Dance Central came out on the XBox, I thought life finally made sense because my worlds collided; dancing and scoring points hit all the right proverbial buttons for me. But no one wanted to play with me because, and I don't mean to brag but it must be said, I spent hours practicing the dance moves and got super good. (Oh, maybe I shouldn't brag about that?) Then I was just a grown-a$$ white woman dancing along to songs from the 70s in my living room while everyone else was being adults.

I had a brief and violent affair with Grand Theft Auto last year, and I remember Geo saying "Wow, so this is what it's like to have a video game compulsion...." I stopped because he moved the XBox downstairs and I can't be bothered to use stairs. 

So when I saw Geo playing his new game seconds after he took his tie and work pants off when he got home tonight, I sort of understood, but I also sort of thought that he is a loser. 

Here's the thing that no man/gamer will ever admit: Every single game that they love these days is exactly the same. Halo is the same as Battlefield, which is the same as Destiny (even though Destiny DOES have dance moves). It's all just shooting guns and then humping some stranger's head after you kill them. Snooze. At least I had VARIETY in my gaming obsessions. Perfecting diving techniques in the Olympics game was completely different from Sonic, and SUPER different from the sick moves in Dance Central.

Anyway, my point is that people are far too obsessed with video games, and as much as I have tried, I can't seem to muster enough interest in the hobby. What good is it to get so invested in some crazy fantasy world? Now, leave me alone because the rest of my night is dedicated to the Sons of Anarchy season premiere. 

Pharon Square to nude photo leakers: Not Cool

You know what I love? Celebrity gossip. You know what I DON'T love? Gross invasions of privacy. To me, the line between the two is quite well-defined. Do/say something in public when there are photographers around? Fair game. Having your private, behind-closed-doors stuff taken and posted online? Uncool, bro. Super uncool. And? Also? Worthy of pressing criminal charges.

And then I read about the people who dumped a bunch of personal, private photos of celebs online and I felt super disappointed in humankind.

Now, I like celebrity news as much as the next guy; in fact, I LOVE it. But I’m a fickle fan. See, I hate obvious fame-whores (read: any and everything Kardashian); and I have absolutely no interest in rumors spread by "unnamed sources" that put the marriages, parenting skills, dating life and private fertility issues in the spotlight, usually without any merit whatsoever. NO THANKS. That’s REAL LIFE, people, and you just don’t mess with that.

Now, I WILL read interviews and stories about who stepped out with whom at Ivy and think, "Hmmm, they are probs dating." Am I making the problem worse? I really, super hope not.

I feel like kids, private information, personal photos, weddings (where paparazzi are NOT invited), births, medical issues and other similar areas are NOT MY BUSINESS. I think that celebs should try and prepare for their picture to be taken in public, but I don't think their safety and privacy are any less important than mine. 

I think the fact that I can make that distinction is why I can tell myself that I am not part of the problem that created this insatiable appetite for celebrity pics at any cost. 

I read this comment on Reddit today in response to the leaked photos, and one regular human said something like "Somewhere, there is a 24-year-old woman crying because the entire world has seen her naked," and it really struck a nerve. 

I imagined what would happen if I were the one seeing private pictures of myself online that were put there without my permission. I thought about the time I took a picture of a bruise on my thigh because it was so gross...the bruise AND the thigh. I thought about the time I took a silly picture of me with my blankie wrapped around my face and sent it to Geo in Alabama and wrote "Blankie monster."

I’m guessing the reason that I can grasp on to the ridiculous notion that my personal communication devices are in any way private stems from the fact that no one on the planet cares about my bruised thigh. But when we encourage or ignore the fact that hacking/public release of private photos totally happens to people ALL THE TIME if they are famous is really not making the situation any better for any of us.

I realize this isn't my typical post; I know it’s not funny or sarcastic or anything I usually write about. But because I am a consumer of entertainment and fawn over famous people, I feel like it’s necessary for me to draw my line in the sand and say that stealing from or violating the basic expectations of privacy from people is definitely wrong and not something I will ever support. I hope you’ll all agree.

Hip Hop Flabs

Hey guys, who wants to pretend to work out with me? Yeah! Great! Now, go get those pajamas back on and let's go down to the basement with a cocktail!

That's basically how my first workout with Hip Hop Abs went. See, I have not been kind to my body since marriage and moving. I have, quite literally, let it all hang out. Call it boredom, call it loneliness at the gym; call it fear of the geese walking and $hitting all over the path I would go for a run on or call it "I love bread more than I love sweating." Whatever. The point is, I recently realized I was one pair of sweatpants away from The Biggest Loser and it was getting ridic.

I had a flash of motivation one day. I was like "Today is the day! I will do some activity!"

But, well, I didn't want to do TOO much activity. It's not like I'm training for a marathon. I just wanted to have fun working out again. And then, as if the fates were smiling on me as I laid on the couch, I saw a commercial for Hip Hop Abs.

Hip hop? Dance? Promises of never doing a crunch? I'M IN.

For the uninformed, Hip Hop Abs is a set of workout DVDs that promises you can dance your way to a 6-pack. I've never been a fan of DVD workouts, but on that night, at that moment, between those bites of old wedding cake, I was inspired. I ordered the DVDs and napped my way through the next few days until the mailman delivered the life change I had been waiting for.

The DVDs came with some elaborate swag. There's a billion brochures for diet plans, vitamins, etc etc etc, and a very detailed form on how to take your "before" picture (which I definitely didn't do) and a handy measuring tape to take "before" measurements. This was nice, considering I had previously been using the aluminum tape measure in my tool kit. I went downstairs to hide from the prying, judging eyes of my husband and popped in the first DVD.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but Miley Cyrus I had fun. For 30-55 minutes, I got to dance around, twerk, strut and shake what my mother gave me, and apparently that counts as a workout. (It was troubling, though, because I distinctly remember the instructor dude -- Shaun T y'all!! -- urging me to tighten my abs and all I could do was make an awkward "Have to go to the bathroom" move. I'm guessing here, but I probably wasn't doing it right.)

I finished the first of, like, 1,000 workouts on the DVDs and was actually sweating. A lot. Maybe it was all that vodka. Who's to say?

Anywhatzit, I've been trying (and failing) to do one of these "workouts" every day, and I gotta say: I like it. I like a lot. It's silly and fun and active and I probably look about as "hip hop" as your grandmother, but I don't care. I'm also 112% sure it's not actually DOING anything, but I love Shaun T and I love club dancing, so it's all good.

Sure, it's not the ideal workout plan. Sure, I should be spending hours in the gym and not eating weeks-old cake for dinner. But you know what? I'm NEVER going to be that person. I'm never going to be the person who wakes up early or stays up late or misses a Friends rerun to go lift tractor tires or run on a machine. I hate those things and I'm stubborn. It's a brutal combination. So, in the absence of the one thing I actually LOVE (a butt-kicking kickboxing class), I will settle for my second-favorite love for something I'm not great at: club dancing.

So here's my review: I'm pretty sure Hip Hop Abs is not going to transform my body into that of a professional backup dancer. I'm almost certain it won't be effective enough for me to swear off Spanx. But, all in all, I've done worse things with 55 minutes in my day.

Season 1 Finale

Well, we made it. Geo and I have officially been married for one full year. We celebrated the milestone with an awesome weekend getaway in beautiful Bayfield, WI. But it still feels like only yesterday I was stressing out about favors, flowers and photo booth pricing. I remember thinking "Man, if I can just make it through Aug. 10, 2013, life will be a breeze.

I neglected to consider that after the wedding is a Marriage.

A lot of my friends have gotten married this year, and one of my BFF's nuptials are just around the corner in October. Plus, you know, the ultimate Waste of Space Kim Kardashian got married recently, too. With that in mind, I feel it's my duty to enlighten the newlywed masses about what the first year of marriage is like.

Here's what happens in Year One:

• Suddenly your spouse's bill-paying habits reflect on you, and vice versa. That can be a great or a terrible thing. Either way, FICO scores become more important than Kate Spade surprise sales. Well, almost...
• You have to do things you don't want to. Non-marrieds get to la la la their way through their days without any concern for anyone else. Marrieds have to move to Rochester and hang out with the in-laws instead of playing Ultimate Frisbee on a Saturday afternoon.
• You can (and will) totally stop wearing makeup
• But your spouse can start clipping his toenails in the kitchen
• Making dinner becomes an exercise in futility. You can serve up a plate of kale salad and grilled chicken, but the other person doesn't have to eat it. And they're allowed to say the meal...could be better and less burned. 
• You may not go on many dates anymore, but you don't really want to because you'd rather save up for a house
• You will say something like "I'm just saying that I wish I had known you were completely unwilling to ever unload a dishwasher before we got married."
• Your spouse will have to get rid of that gross thing on your back.
• People will ask about your plans for kids. A lot. It'll be annoying and rude.
• You will use approx 15% of the gifts you registered for. The rest will be tucked in a closet because no one in their right mind wants to pull out the china for burned lasagna. Also, I guarantee that you registered for too many glasses. Who needs 12 liqueur glasses? Also, what is liqueur?
• You have to start saying "my husband" or "my wife," which will make you feel 10 years older than you really are
• Ladies? If you decide to change your name, it will be an inconvenient process and you will still sign your old name for the next 6-12 months anyway.
• You WILL get mad when he/she fails to tell you about going out for Happy Hour after work because dammit, dinner's on the table and you wanted to go to Costco to get 6 billion rolls of paper towels together!
• Anniversaries have themes, and no man will every really want anything made out of paper (unless it's money, or tickets to a Vikings game that he can bring his brother to).
• It's simultaneously better and harder than you ever expected

Well, that's the gist of what I have learned in the past 365 days. Are there any things I missed, fellow n00byweds?

Angry Birds

This week, on the Nature Channel, we explore the delicate - and painful - relationship between girl and bird. Watch now, as these winged creatures flap their way into a nest of terror and intimidation. These beasts truly know how to mark - and then poop on - a territory.

Guys? I am LIVING IN THE NATURE CHANNEL. Apparently, the bird-like creatures of the animal kingdom had a meeting this winter and were like "Birds, when the time comes, we will reign down a feathery terror on thy enemy, and thine enemy is PHARON! SOAR!!!!"

See, my birdmare all started back in Vegas. I had gotten through a terrible flight (not ironically) and was ready to calm down with some ladies. On our first morning there, we all spread our towels out on the lounges at the Paris pool and before I had smoothed the creases out in my rented towel, I felt a slippery wet blop on my back. I reached back and felt the strap of my ill-fitting bikini and pulled my fingers away to see a brownish GUCK.

"OMG. A BIRD $HIT ON ME!!! I'M IN VEGAS AND A BIRD POOPED ON MY BACK ON THE FIRST DAY!"

That was only the beginning. Then the birds started targeting my car.

A couple weeks after I recovered from the back poop saga, I was driving back to the Cities on one fine Tues. morning. It was like 6:15 a.m. when I raced out of Rochester. Ahead of me, I saw a bird. A bird on a mission. It swooped and rose before me, but when it should have ducked out of the way of my (barely) speeding vehicle, it instead locked eyes with me. And then it bird-dove RIGHT INTO MY WINDSHIELD.

Bird kamikaze.

I was being sent a message. A message that I would not soon forget.

It was but days later when I had recovered enough to venture out into the world in my car again. I cautiously drove down the streets of this city, calmly navigating obstacle after obstacle. And then I saw two birds bobbing and weaving together in the air.

"Love," I breathlessly thought. How adorable!

And as I tried to dodge the airy lovemakers in my car, I heard a faint "POOF." I looked in my rear view mirror in horror as two birds lay smack in the middle of the road. I was inconsolable.

I tried to calm my nerves (and stop getting fat) by walk/running around this one lake in Rochester. I was elated to learn that there was a lake with watery goodness and tasty trails upon which I could tread. But the bird word about me had gotten out to other feathery fiends. On my first trek, I met this gentleman:

Apparently, this jerkwad then alerted his buddies and about 100 yards later, this blocked my path:

Yeah, a bazillion hissing geese just waiting to peck my eyes out. Needless to say, my foray back into fitness was short-lived.

I really thought that I was overreacting; overly sensitive to the wily ways of the airborne terrors. But then it happened to poor Geo. Geo, who is unflappable, was stung by the bitter beak of airborne bullies.

We were sitting on our patio, enjoying a glass of wine and probably a conversation about why I can't wear two different shoes if both are equally cute. I noticed a tiny pile of comically miniature poop on our patio table. I tried googling from what creature the poop might have come, when Geo announced "I'm going to open the umbrella to keep the sun out. Is that cool?"

I replied "Ha! Yeah, as long as a bat or something doesn't swoop out."

And then, as if I had conjured up the beast myself, a bat SWOOPED out of the umbrella. Geo ran for the hills. I ran, much slower, and hid behind him; swatting at the unholy beast that I figured was trying to nest inside my unwashed hair.

I know a bat is not a bird. I know a bat is like, I don't know, a vampire or a rat or something. But whatever. It had wings and it was OUT FOR BLOOD.

What I've learned from this summer is that birds are not our friends. They don't make cute chirping noises to talk to each other about fun new worm spots or to spread juicy gossip about that one blue jay who we ALL know is just out to get some tail. They are, in fact, talking about how they will destroy the human race.