Breaking up and making up. A tale of retail.

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I recently did three things I haven’t done in ages (well at least since I met Zee German and happily started co-habitating…aka became the old married couple):

  1. Went shopping
  2. Went drinking
  3. Went “when the hell did I stop being able to drink past 9!?”

The last of which is a sad new found revelation that I’m getting bloody old.  Actually if I’m honest, I’ve known this truth for a long time but happily feigned ignorance until ignorance came to smack me in the face in the form of a GLASS of tequila (apparently Hard Rock Cafe serves glasses NOT shots of liquid pain and regret).

But it was mostly number 1 and 2 that were the entertaining portion of my weekend – though I’m sure some people thought step 3 had it’s humorous moments.

Shopping.

I’m not really a girl that likes to shop.  I like to covet.  I see things on other people, Facebook stalking, random Pinteresting, etc. that I adore but really never have that much fun when I try to go find those items in real life.  Either that or those things look nowhere near the same as when I was coveting from afar.  HOWEVER, my good friend Yuri (who is a shopping maven) pointed me in the direction of Express.  Now, I’m no stranger to Express and in fact my closet is still full from my former days of salestitution, but then there was this awkward breakup.  We both said things we didn’t mean.  And three years later we merely nod and politely look the other way.  That is until they started selling THESE

These my friends will make love to your legs and have you saying things you’ve never thought you’d say, like “can I get these a size smaller?” (thank you Express and your polite upsizing).  Seriously they’re like invisible spanx on steroids and diversified in their ability to flatter, meaning even though I look like I lost my butt in my last pair of jeans when I normally try skinnies, these tighten, tuck and showcase in just the right ways.

THEN of course I had to take part in their buy 1 get 1 50% off deal (if this is still going on, go there. now.).  And with that I felt pretty pleased with myself for breaking my style strike…with twins.

Until I found this at Nordstrom last night

Which just happens to be a Pinterest crush.  So now I’m thinking, I HAVE to buy it.  It’s a sign!  Plus a date with my bridesmaids is coming up to try on dresses and foster our inner tween with Breaking Dawn (but in a theater that serves alcohol, so we’re obviously not the same as the squealing, clapping 12 yr. olds…We’ll be drunk on vampire love AND cocktails).

And what better way to celebrate this reunion with teen angst than to proudly wear THIS LITTLE BAUBLE 

I have an addiction.  It’s name is Pinterest.

I don’t want help.

Confessions of an addict. about that time i stayed up until 2 AM “pinning”. and the next night.

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Word of warning, if you do not already know what Pinterest is you may want to stop reading right now.

Seriously.

This is your last warning.

Fine. Well then welcome to the world of so many pretties #IDie. A life in which the hubby-to-be goes to bed alone. Sleep becomes oh so uncreative, and life is a nonstop wedding.

The irony and most Pinteresting part of this addicting site is that it was founded by three dudes. Apparently has one woman (re: “three dudes” link). And yet a barrage of women posting wedding, decorating, styling and cooking boards dominates the space. In fact, when Zee German thought he’d check out his competition, he quickly gave up when the results for “gun” showed up with this…

 

Obviously he’s not the target market (or any “he” for that matter). But that’s quite alright, because that means my own searches are undiluted, beautiful, feeds of

this.

and this.

and THIS!!!!

 

Oh Pinterest. You had me at hello…just don’t tell my fiance.

adventures in growing up

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As we left work Zee German said something related to babysitting, which led us to mention Adventures in Babysitting and how we both loved that movie, which of course then led us to how Zee German obviously made it his goal to relive this movie in his daily life as proven by his track record of dating sub-25 year olds. Then deciding to marry one who frequently tries to get herself killed by texting and walking, crossing the street when everyone else does (despite the oncoming traffic) and drunkapades involving tutus, butts in the air and walking away with anyone that takes her hand (Oh hai mom! Promise I would never do that), where by making the rest of his life one big bad adventure in babysitting.

And that’s really all any of this mid-20 something life seems to be. One big adventure. Adventure in finding yourself. losing yourself. discovering yourself. accepting yourself. pushing yourself. Currently I’m somewhere between re-finding myself and letting go of the self I thought I was supposed to be.

This quote has popped up in my life about 5 times in the last couple weeks, which usually would mean that it’s a big flipping sign I’m not really doing what I should be (workwise or by spending too much time on sites like Pinterest – you decide).

And I really like this quote. It makes perfect sense that you should be doing what you would prefer to spend your time with when you have the choice. However, I also hate this quote because it makes me want to punch babies in the face when I re-assess how I spend my time and realize I need to find a way to become a professional Facebook Stalker, Pinboard Curator, or Coco Puffin Cuddler.

So the takeaway here is:

I need to be more flipping productive with my time

But also, it does help me narrow down interests, because it’s true that while many of us enjoy spending our time on Social Media sites and stalking  connecting with others, there are some things to be discovered in why I personally enjoy it so much. I like connecting. I like creating. I like beauty and visuals. I like writing. I like ideas. I like sharing. And I’m sure that if I keep analyzing this idea of work being what I prefer to do with my time, I just might figure out what the hell it is that I am “supposed” to be doing with myself. Or at least I’ll have a really great Pinboard about it in the meantime.

things that can’t be unheard

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I’ve come to the sad realization that my parents have more of a social life than I do. Which on one hand I’m happy for them and all, because they spent 20+ years raising kids and deserve to cut loose, but on the other hand makes me feel slightly pathetic and like I need to launch operation “out-cool kid” my parents ASAP – apologies in advance to Zee German who last weekend announced he hated when it was sunny because it meant I wanted to run around outside chasing one sunny spot to another. HELLO SEATTLE LIFE.

On a side note this kind of reminds me of the Toyota comercials, which I actually think are horrible because they basically market to their audience by telling them they sucked at parenting and their kids are now loosers. And they annoy me.

But back to how my parents are beating me in the cool kid race.

Apparently my parents are now groupies with back to back concert schedules filling their weekends. And while I was listening to them excitedly retell the events of their night with “Motown” musicians (on our way to breakfast), my dad busts in with giggles (yes he giggled, which should have clued me in on the time to plug my ears and sing “na na na na” was upon us) about how they should really call their concert an “intimate concert”. No, no “sensual concert” with lyrics that if you listen closely would be considered porn. Things like “deep inside you is my magic place”. And ding, ding, ding – time for plugging ears has come and gone and I have officially heard my dad giggle, refer to porn, intimate and sensual in the same sentence and state the words “deep inside you”. Things that can’t be unheard.

Breakfast. ruined.

childhood nostalgia and parent traps

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Whenever my mom would make huckleberry muffins it was like Christmas morning. No matter how tired we were, or how much we didn’t want to get up because it meant our last ditch efforts in playing sick would be up, my brothers and I would stampede to the kitchen. And there they’d be in all their huckleberry glory with melting butter (Mom was is a big fan of butter – I’m actually surprised I made it out of the house under 200 lbs.) dripping from there perfectly baked domes.

So this morning I decided to make Zee German (read: myself) some of my mom’s muffins. And though they looked and tasted yummy, they still didn’t produce quite the same mouthgasmic experience as when my mom makes them (I’m pretty sure this may have something to do with an obscene quantity of butter that I’m only okay with if I don’t add it myself). Didn’t crumble in quite the same way, and definitely don’t make me feel warm, safe and giddy as when my mom makes them.

Damn you mom and your magic muffins. I realize this is part of an evil ploy to keep me in driving distance to home. Well played. Well played my friend.

thinky thinky thoughts and socialcide…you know the funecessities of life

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Technology is my savior, but man is it trying its hardest to be the death of me.

Sometimes I miss the days of penmanship, lined paper and number 2 pencils.  I miss crayola crayons, more specifically the monster box with two rows of freshly wrapped colors of creativity.  And every year despite having a complete box, color coded, with about 30% of the crayons untouched, I needed a new box.  Ah the simple funecessities of life.

Now it’s Microsoft to the rescue of all of us we us poor grammar, spelling and penmanship handicapped fools.  It’s Facebook streaming stalker news of all of our friends, co-workers, family – raise of hands who else’s parents are

on The Facebook please – boyfriends/girlfriends, ex-friends, ex-boyfriends or girlfriends (or both) and totally random people who apparently went to the same school as us though we can’t remember them – from a class of 43.

 

 

 

 

Whoever decided it would be fun to have an open window into the happenings of ALL of these people’s daily status, pictures, hookups, drunken nights of debauchery and relationship break ups and makeups?  Really we should be able to organize our feeds: Friends, Family (Shh! Don’t share THAT or THAT), Random people who think we’re friends because they know one of my friends, Exes (AKA Facebook Marijuana – Gateway Drug to intense “Research”).

 

Of course I know I could always politely decline the massive over-share of information, but who are we kidding here?

So instead we commit socialcide of finding out information that really never would have been ours to know.  On with reading things that you used to find out from friends in person or at least from a phone call (oh hi I’M GETTING MARRIED….AND I’M PREGNANT! – Former Best Friend Feed).  And on and on with the social drug of choice.  Stalker Feed.  Funecessities.

 

Then there are those moments when there truly is something big.  And Something important.  And AND Sometime exciting.  Or Something devastating.  Something to share.  But here we are in this world of social feeds and sharing, struggling to remember how to communicate.  Trying to remember how to form a sentence.  To share something that actually matters, that grips our heart and soul.  That keeps us up at night with thoughts, and more thoughts, and thoughts that seem to never go away.  How do we share that news?  How do we comment to THAT news?

[Photo Credits: 1.) Facbook Poem – 9Gag 2.) Research – vi.sualize.us]

airplane etiquette…or lack of and a time to speak up

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At what point did it start being okay for people to just lay diagonally in their seat on a fully packed airplane (AKA diagonally all over the people sitting on either side of them)?  I’m sorry did I miss the memo or did their mothers completely FAIL in her duty to teach them how not to be a horrible, inconsiderate person.  Maybe that’s a little dramatic, but seriously a five hour flight with a teenage boy draped over you isn’t that much fun…unless I guess you’re a cougar…

But in my five hours of “I’m going to drop kick you in the face if you put your elbow in my stomach one more time” running through my head I realized that part of my nun chuck to your head feelings may be of my own doing.  Looking back over the last week I may or may not have been a little on edge. I might have road raged on the car that interpreted merge to oncoming traffic as drive faster to try to cut into the tiny spot that person has between themselves and the car ahead.  I may or may not have visualized running over the teenage boys in neon vests trying to tell me where I can and cannot park at the grocery store.  But really just because you’re wearing a bright yellow vest, it doesn’t mean you get to put even further delay in my path to get dinner and get home after working all day.  And who decided that Safeway checkout boys have the authority to direct traffic in the parking lot anyway!?  But the point being I may have had a little stress and frustration building up.

And as I sat quietly contemplating the ways in which I could dislocate said airplane neighbor’s arms and tie them together in a manner that would ensure they stay within the barriers of his own seat, I realized that this wasn’t the first time in life I hold myself back.  And no, I don’t mean hold myself from committing aggravated assault on an airplane, I mean holding myself back from just telling him, “Listen, I know that you’re in full on teenage mode where you think you just have to lay out over all three seats to obtain the perfect “cool lounge” position, but do you think you could keep yourself from manhandling me for the next 4 hours.”  Or something a little more polite, but the point being I didn’t SAY anything.  I nudged.  I “ahem’d”.  I coughed.  I gave the evil, Asian death stare.  But I did not just SAY to move the %$#& off.

Which I now realize happens a lot in life.  I’m so afraid of coming off as a bitch or being judged that I often just keep things inside and LET things happen, rather than MAKE things happen.  Promotion?  What?  No, please just keep having me do 3 different roles without a promotion, raise or even acknowledgement that I’m saving you from having to hire more people.  And in relationships?  I’m a total case of dodge the confrontation.  But where has that gotten me?  Happy and fulfilled?  Or wishing death by nun chuck on teenage boys?

So the goal is to start talking the talk.  And maybe, just maybe, I can stop hating the existence of all teenage boys.  But seriously STOP telling me I can’t drive out that way!!!  THERE IS AN ARROW THAT SAYS OTHERWISE!!!

“Well this has really been a waste of my time” and other genius of a 5 year old…

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On the last day of Kindergarten I turned from my Crayola masterpiece to my parents and told them, “Well this has really been a waste of my time.”

In all fairness my parents had indulged me the year before and let me drop out of preschool, but then for some reason had determined that Kindergarten made it legit.  That I had to completely finish Kindergarten before moving on to 1st grade, then 2nd and some day (far, far away in a far, far off land, or so it seemed to me at that time) college.  And while I love and respect my parents, 21 years later I have to say, “Says who!?”

Who made it mandatory that we lay our lives out in a line, starting with grade school, moving through high school, college and up the ladder right to the glass ceiling (if you’re still employing that line of thought)?  In real life people don’t live in lines.  I mean sure some of us planned on being cops and robbers as 5 yr. olds then ran the lines to become exactly those things (see parents of the latter, linear living ain’t so great now huh?).  But in most cases I would say a good percentage of us aren’t even using our undergrad degrees and have ran the professional gamut leaving us in a completely different career than we started with our first job.  It’s not because we’re all having identity crises (well…) or because we think it’s fun to spend thousands of dollars to become more well-rounded.  It’s because you can’t predict life.  You have to live it.

As a 5 yr. old I knew that secret which I then spent the next 21 years being brainwashed into forgetting.  I knew that sometimes I might have to leap, skip or dance in circles to get to where I’m going else spend a ridiculous amount of time walking the line.  I had sass and spunk and I spoke up.  I had opinions.  I made decisions.  I was a flipping little 5 yr. old version of the self I keep trying to become (well with hopefully a little better fashion sense…and boobs – albeit small, Asian cursed ones).  So here’s to a little circular living and getting back some of that 5 yr. old swagger.  And this time I’m not wasting my time.

[Photo Credit: luigi diamanti]