Real Talk About Babies

So, now that we’re married, Brian and I have been having the baby conversation. You know, because we’re not spring chickens or anything. Note, before we get things going here: I AM NOT PREGNANT. Okay good. Glad we got that out of the way. 

Our youngest wedding guest

This was our youngest wedding guest. I’m just smitten with the little boy I call Cap’t.

The conversation has kinda gone something like this.

Me: Brian, I want a little girl. If I don’t get a little girl, it’s all. your. fault.

Brian:  Oh really?

Me: Yep.

Brian: I see.

And, sometimes, it goes like this: 

Me: Do you want a girl or a boy?

Brian: It’s probably cliche, but I don’t really care, you know, if it’s healthy. Some people really want, like, a mini me. 

Me: …

Brian: You know like a miniature version  of themself…

Me: …

Me: starts nodding enthusiastically

Brian: I take it that’s what you want?

Me: Don’t YOU want a Mini-Me? Not like a Mini-You…a Mini-Me. A Mini-Chrissy. Can’t you just imagine living with two of us!?

Brian:…

And SOMETIMES, it goes like this:

Me: I want all the babies!!

Brian: Oh yeah?

Me: Yep. I want a Mini-Me and a little boy who loves me forever. And what if our first little girl is nothing like me? We’d obviously have to try again. You know, until we get it just right.

Brian:…

And then there are the times it goes like this:

Me: Brian, will you still love me if I get pregnant and am totally crazy? 

In other news, I think he’s warming  up to the idea of us getting a dog.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Wedding Comeuppance is Upon Me

You guys. I’m a little concerned. With my pending nuptials coming up faster than I can say September 16, I’m starting to realize that this is time for a little payback. From my friends and family.

14 things that people are going to do at my wedding

You see, it may surprise you, but I’m not always the most well-behaved wedding guest on the block. I’ve done my fair share of things that brides don’t just forget. And now I see that my comeuppance is surely upon me. Here are a few things that could happen that wouldn’t surprise me…but may irritate Brian to no end.

Someone or 30 someones aren’t going to RSVP. I’m going to have to hunt them down via text, email, or gasp an actual phone call. Bonus points if it’s a member of my bridal party.

Someone’s going to make hilarious commentary through the ceremony. I’m sorry it’s not in a church, MOM.

Chrissy and Three makin' jokes

Someone’s going to injure themselves. It just wouldn’t be right if someone doesn’t fall down, scrape their knee, ruin their tights, and possibly twist their ankle. Bonus points if it’s me.

Someone is going to bring their own booze. I mean, we’re having bombass open bar, AND allowing people to bring drinks to the ceremony, but you never know who’s going to decide they need a magnum size bottle of white zin by their side…bonus points if it’s a member of the bridal party…

Bottles of wine

Honestly, guys, learn from my mistakes. Bring a twist off bottle.

Someone’s going to bring an embarrassing date. Who complains about the bar and says something on the wedding video like, “I’m  sorry.” when asked to give a message to the bride and groom.

Someone’s going to convince my dad to buy him or her a bottle of wine. Bonus points if it’s a member of the bridal party.

Quirky Chrissy's dad

It’s really hard for this guy to say no to a pretty face.

Someone’s going to eat all the passed hors d’oeuvres. But if they know what’s good for them, they’ll save me a bacon wrapped date.

Someone’s going to get stupid drunk. Okay…probably a lot of someones. Bonus points if it’s before dinner.

Someone’s going to talk loudly through the speeches. A word to the wise, my matron of honor doesn’t fuck around, and her speech will probably be brilliant. And she might hit you over the head with a Corona bottle if you talk when she’s talking.

Someone’s going to stack a bunch of glassware on their table as a point of pride. I’m actually looking forward to the leaning tower of glassware part deux, you guys.

Someone’s going to steal glassware. Or centerpieces. Or the wine key from the bartender. I can’t be the only one who went through a klepto phase…

Someone’s going to spill wine on me. Or ice cream. Or a plate full of food. Bonus points if it’s one of the servers.

Someone’s going to take their bra off. In the reception room. In front of Brian’s dad. Bonus points if it’s a member of the bridal party.

Someone’s going to be a bouquetzilla. I mean, someone needs to take my place. I’m leaving an empty hole in the universe, here.

catching the bouquet

Yes. That’s me.

Triple secret bonus points if one person manages to accomplish all or most of these things for this one wedding. Pookie, I’m looking at you.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Completely Legitimate Reasons I Could Have Quit My Job

They took away my mirrors

My narcissism knows no bounds, and when the lobby renovation of my building was finished, there were no more mirrors for me to double check myself before heading up to my office. There used to be a wall of mirrors and gold mirrored elevator doors in which I could double check my hair, look for wardrobe malfunctions, and just get a good glance at myself as I walked down the long hallway.
image

Once they began construction, I knew nothing was ever going to be the same.

I had no idea what I was doing

I wasn’t a writer anymore, but I was still writing a little social media content. I was also negotiating big fat contracts and talking to potential partners. lt was strange and scary, but let’s be honest here…I was talking to people every day, shmoozing, and learning…I kinda liked it. And it turns out, I’m pretty good at it.

They wanted me to work in the office on Black Friday

Not at MY office, mind you, but the corporate office, which was about an hour drive. I was told to bring crossword puzzles because it was known that there was nothing my team could do to help the madness. Let me clarify that I was planning on working Black Friday. From home. I could care less about shopping these days, but driving up to the main office at 4 am to do crossword puzzles? Sounds like a waste of my time. If I had to work on Black Friday, and could be of any use to my peers (other than running coffee, which was also a recommended option for things to do), sure no problem. But that wasn’t the case. The office would have been a lonely skeleton in which I felt trapped by corporate entities that just wanted to look good in front of their superiors. That don’t impress me much.
image

My friends were leaving

At one point, I had oodles of friends at my old company. But they were all moving on to bigger and better things. New fancy companies with matching hoodies and name recognition that would make anyone swoon. I’ll admit I was jealous. That green-eyed monster can be a beast.

Something magical happened

Sure, those were all perfectly acceptable reasons to leave a perfectly acceptable job. But I’m not really that kind of girl. After a few less than savory experiences in the world of employment, I knew it was important to be picky as fuck when I did finally jump ship and the only reason I would ever leave would be if I found something amazing to take its place. And somehow, I happened across a magical unicorn of job listings at a company I really wanted to work for doing something I wanted to do…and the rest, as they say, is history.

I feel like I’m home.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Who Needs Big Brother When I’m Listening to Your Conversations?

I realize that I’m a total creeper. To be fair, you guys asked for more of these…so if you’re weirded out, you’ve only got yourself to blame. Except for the graphic. That was all me.

I'm always listening to conversations, and when I hear or see something noteworthy? I write it down.

My old company had a big ole corporate office that I almost never visited. I worked at a satellite office full of hipsters and people who didn’t seem to mind that I wore rainbow yoga pants to work. It was a comfortable place to be. In my last couple of months at the company, I was required to make my way to corporate on a weekly cadence. My teammates and I called it Mordor because a dark cloud seemed to loom over the long drive to the office.

One of the neat things about Mordor err…corporate was the miniature city within an office. When I realized I needed to buy tampons, I could just head to the convenience store inside the building. Which is exactly what I did on my last Mordor err…corporate day.

I walked into the shop, where a woman was sitting behind a register on the left side of the counter and a young man was standing behind the register on the right side. Another employee was walking back and forth through the store, and I made my way to the pharmacy aisle.

I grabbed a box of tampons, walked down the snack aisle, stared longingly at the box of Oreos that I opted not to purchase, and made my way to the cashier, a young gentleman in his late teens/early twenties. I thought to myself how far I’d come since my embarrassing first period, and how I didn’t give two shits that some dude had to pick up a box of tampons, look me in the eye, and ask if I needed anything else. If he did ask, I considered telling him to hold on a second, I needed some Midol – just for funsies, but he never gave me the chance. He scanned my tampons, and as I was punching in my phone number to the system, some other guy (my assumption is that he was the manager or supervisor) walked behind him.

This was the exchange that played out.

Cashier: K, I am not in the mood. I’m sick and don’t feel well.

Wait, what the fuck is going on? Where did that even come from? That guy never said anything.

Supervisor: I don’t give a shit.

Woah. Hostile much? Wait, these people are AT WORK. This is how they’re speaking to each other in front of customers. This is SO fucked up.

Cashier: Fuck this place.

Well, this is an interesting turn of events…I wonder if he’s going to…

The cashier reaches behind his neck, pulls off the lanyard he’s wearing, and drops his badge on the counter before I’ve had the chance to swipe my credit card.

Cashier: I quit. I’m done dealing with this bullshit. Have fun making deliveries today.

Did that seriously just happen?

Yep. Yes, it did. That guy just quit. While ringing up my tampons.

Me: Ummm…can someone complete my transaction?

The girl sitting down stood and moved toward the register I was at, and the previous cashier turned from the door before he left.

Cashier: A, I’m really sorry. I’m sick of this shit. I have to go.

That was fucking ridiculous.

The girl completed my transaction, and I went on my merry way. Furiously typing up the exchange in my “other people’s conversations” files, anxious to tell you about this insanely ridiculous story.

It seemed fitting that this happened on my last day at the central office, as I only had a few days left. I was glad I didn’t quit in anger like that guy, but it definitely added to the weirdness I felt about leaving.

Have you ever witnessed someone leave their job or have you quit in a rage? What is the craziest way in which you’ve left a job?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I’m Listening to Your Conversations and Writing Down Your Words

One of my favorite pastimes is people watching. It began as a simple pleasure.

Dining alone at a restaurant allowed me to play games in which I guessed everything about you, from your relationship status to the reason you ordered the salad or the steak. I’d watch carefully as you tucked that strand of hair behind your ear 15 times or as you hugged your girlfriend, wife, mother, child goodbye at the door. I’d create a story about you in my head that made sense. Sometimes it was a funny story, and sometimes it was sad. But it always felt real.

Sometimes, I’d pen a few words in a notebook as I watched you. Write your story down, to remember it. To change it and tell it later. Maybe you’d be the hero in my future fiction best seller. Or the villain in a screenplay I’ll write one day.

And then something changed. I started carrying this mini computer everywhere. I got lost in Facebook. Twitter. Instagram. Snapchat. Blogging. E-mails. Everything but what truly surrounded me. Scrolling through an endless stream of what people I “know” are up to. What they’re eating. Where they’re vacationing. When they go to work. How they go to work. I discovered I could people watch without watching anyone. I could see their lives unfold without being anywhere near them. I didn’t need to make up a story, because it was all right there on my screen.

You were forgotten.

Instead of watching you argue with the cashier at LOFT about a coupon, I was staring down at my phone in a trance. Watching them talk about their most recent Amazon purchase or what their kids ate for breakfast. Laughing about a meme that everyone was sharing.

Once in a while, I’m reminded of you. Your screaming is so loud, I’m drawn back into the real world. I see you. I hear you. And everything you say is absolute gold. And now, with this tiny computer, I can capture it. Whether I’m recording you on Snapchat like an asshole (I’m the asshole, not you) or sending myself your words for posterity in an email, I’m there. Listening to everything you say. I promise.

I'm Listening to Your Words

In case you don’t believe me, here are some of my favorite things you’ve said.

Middle Schoolers on an air plane trip to Washington DC

“I feel bad for all these people.”

To be fair, we were warned that it was a full plane and the back half of the plane was going to fill up with tweens.

“You have to pay $8 for Facebook!?”

Technically, it’s $8 for the whole Internet, but you know…tomato, tomahto.

“I’m attracted to a 7th grader.”

I’m assuming you’re in 8th grade, and it’s probably not going to work out for you, my friend.

“Wow, they’re really pooping those things [luggage at baggage claim] out.”

You’re not wrong, my young friend. You’re not wrong.

In case the Internet isn't creepy enough, whatever you say in public has become fair game. Click To Tweet

Lady on the train without a ticket

“My sister died! My sister died! They didn’t even let me see her! You know who my grandfather was? Al Capone. Could you hold this [coffee]?”

I feel really sorry for you, lady, even though you’re lying…at least about Al Capone. But I also feel sorry for the women to whom you passed your coffee cup. We shared a sympathetic look as she set your coffee cup on the floor while you went to take a crap in the train bathroom.

Business guys at a hot dog joint

“What is she Croatian? Is she Romanian? I know she’s not Greek, ’cause I insulted the Greeks in a meeting and she didn’t flinch.”

Oh boy, gentleman. Your deep Chicago accents are making this way more entertaining than it should be.

“He dead?”

You sound so flip. At least train lady was obviously distressed.

“Just like that guy who got his arm stuck in a boulder and had to cut it off.”

You guys are a train wreck. Please don’t leave. I want to listen to you for hours.

You left.

What juicy conversations have you overheard in your world? What are your favorite people-watching places?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

The 3 Best Reasons to NEVER Dye Your Hair at Home

As you may or may not have known from my glamour shots, I’ve been dying my hair since I was 12. I started out with highlighting and going blonde(r)…but eventually went dark…then finally the ginger set in.

I’ve gone to professionals, had friends do my dye jobs, and done it myself. I’ve done it all.

Of the three, I obviously prefer the first. But I’d been known to frequently do my own hair (typically when I was broke). Now, I have a relationship with a hair stylist, like a grown up. And I could never cheat on her.

I used to be pretty awesome at it. I mean, dying your own hair blonde is no big deal. The blonde dye doesn’t really stain anything. It cleans up pretty easily…

After several attempts at dying my own hair, I finally only let a stylist handle my mane. Theses are the 3 reasons not to dye your hair at home as learned from my own experiences.

Reason # 1 to Never Dye Your Hair at Home: Stains

I did the auburn/brunette thing… That got a little trickier. I may or may not have stained the bathtub in my college apartment. I may or may not have almost stained mom’s bathroom floors, walls, sink, bathtub…you get the picture. Mom banned me from ever dying my hair at her house again.

So then I finally grew a pair…and decided it was time to go ginger. I had been waiting for so long to do this. Years! Friggin’ years! And finally…I was ready. I went to the store. I bought the color. It was awesome. Bright. Delicious. Ginger. Excitement!

I was living at my pal Mark’s at the time as he was uber busy working in some foreign land, and someone had to make sure Jerry the Mouse didn’t invade again. (Note: This is not like the time I stole his car. I had permission to live in his home.) So I took the opportunity to change my look (in not-my-mother’s bathroom).

Reason # 2 to Never Dye Your Hair at Home: The Stains Hide

So, I may or may not have accidentally made a huge mess in Mark’s apartment bathroom. I cleaned it all up and made sure to get all of the red spots before they dyed anything permanently…or so I thought. A few weeks later, when Mark came home, he called me up and asked “What the fuck did you do?!” He found some red stains. I went over there with my trusty Mr. Clean Magic Eraser and discovered that there were apparently stains that I had missed…quite a few of them…whoops! Those bitches hide.

Reason # 3 to Never Dye Your Hair at Home: Drastic Errors

That same dye job over at Mark’s apartment required a double process. The first was my own, in which I fucked up royally and had blotches of red, blotches of brown, and blotches of in between. It was a disaster. I had to call my sister (a beauty school drop-out) to come over and fix my huge err. Luckily, the second process was done by my sister, and she handled it like magic. And then once I thought it looked hot, I STILL got some pretty nasty commentary about going such a bold shade of red.

Of course, this wasn’t my last adventure in self-hair-dye.

After a few months of dating Brian, it seemed like an OK idea to dye my hair at his house (well, his roommate’s house). You know, since Mom banned me, Mark banned me, and I had already dyed my hair at several hotels–staining their white towels pink (I know, right–it was a terrible idea).

I had a system though. I would run a bath while dying and sit in the bathtub. That way the dye wouldn’t stain the porcelain. Brilliant right? Except that as I set the dye down on the tub edge, I learned (the hard way) that the edge was angled. I first dropped the bottle into the tub of water.

So I placed the bottle on the floor outside the tub. I had removed all towels and anything that could get destroyed in the process. But when the bottle fell onto the bath rug (that I had carelessly forgotten to remove or hadn’t noticed…I don’t even know–sometimes I’m not very observant), it was game over. I freaked out. Red toner spilling everywhere onto this rug.

Brian’s roommate liked nice things. While I wasn’t the biggest fan of this rug, I assumed that it was costly. So I tried to do damage control. I scrubbed it. I loaded it with soap. I did everything I could think of to get rid of the stain. And it looked…better.

I Googled the brand on the tag. No luck. I didn’t know where it came from or where I could replace it. So I contacted Brian…and he told me it was his rug. PHEW and that it was from Walmart DOUBLE PHEW (and I should have known the minute he said it was his, because everything he owned was from Walmart–just like Danell Leyva’s Towels).

I told him we would likely need to toss it. He didn’t believe me and said it could be washed. I explained it was pretty bad and hair dye was permanent. I had just checked on it again, and apparently “cleaning” it made it significantly worse after it dried a little…it was blood red and the stain was enormous. I was still having a panic attack as I typed a G-chat message to Brian, even though he kept telling me it was fine and not to worry. (He still does this a lot because I have a lot of unnecessary panic attacks.)

The following weekend, Brian threw the rug in the washer.

It came out clean.

Who knew?

What errors have you made when dying your own hair? Do you see a stylist or do it yourself? What are your thoughts on stylist loyalty?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Hey Baby, What’s Your Myers-Briggs Type?

For the last few weeks, I’ve taken you on a little journey that started with two guys in a bar (this is the beginning of the story, so if you’re new around here, start with this post), and has led to a very serious flirting problem that included a lot more waiting than I would have preferred. Well, not that this should surprise you, based on what you know about my dating experience, but it took another month before I messaged The Grown Up again.

I had been seeing another gentleman caller, who was attractive, kind and okay to be around…I nicknamed him McDreamy during our brief time together, but he wasn’t entirely deserving of the name. He was what you might refer to as pretty, but dumb. He was about as intellectually stimulating as a carrot.

So I was looking for something a little more. Something with substance. SomeONE with substance…someone with half a brain.

And so I messaged The Grown Up.

photo credit: L1010203_v1 via photopin (license)

photo credit: L1010203_v1 via photopin (license)

This was our longest conversation to date. I think we chatted for a few hours that fateful evening.

I sent him a tongue-sticking-out emoji, because I wasn’t terribly clever when it came to starting chatversations. It was shortly after St Patrick’s Day, and I worked at an Irish bar, so it seemed logical for him to ask me about it. And for once, I was actually kind of letting him in.

TGU: How was St Patricks day? Nightmare crowd?
Me: I didn’t work.
They hate me.
TGU: ?
Me: They didn’t schedule me.
So I went out drinking all day 😀
TGU: Do you seriously think they hate you?
Me: Yes.
But, it was okay because I went to my local watering hole dive pub that was filled with people I knew and liked.
I had a happy little corner and people came to me.

Bars on St. Patrick's Day get pretty crowded...

Bars on St. Patrick’s Day get pretty crowded…

TGU: nice!

I was going to impress him with my barfly popularity. That always worked. Why I felt the need to tell him my job essentially sucked, I’ll never know. But he took it to a whole new level.

TGU: So are you Norm, or Cliff Clavin, or Sam Malone?
Me: Well, my brother is Norm.
For sure.
He walks into the bar and everyone is all “WOJ!”
TGU: Frasier? Woody?

I considered explaining to him that I was a lady and didn’t want to be a boy character…

Me: I’m more Diane
TGU: Really?
Diane was…kinda…

Dude, I chose Diane because she was the pretty nice one.

Me: Hmmm maybe Kirstie Alley’s character?

Not really, but what other ladies were on that damn show?

TGU: Umm

I know. You’re right. But I can’t even…wait! I know!

Me: nah…
Carla

TGU: She was definitely better than Diane
hahaha
Carla was awesome
Me: I’m a sassy pants.
I’m the hilarious one.
TGU: hahaha… always awesome when people think they’re the funny one… hahaha
Although I don’t remember you laughing at your own jokes, so you’re probably OK.
Me: lol
I just get told that I’m funny all the time.
I don’t always think I’m that funny…I just talk a lot
TGU: hahaha

Oooh he thinks I’m funny!

TGU: So, did you have a good time last night?

Finally! My chance to shine again. Stupid pre-dating questions.

Me: Indeed
TGU: you don’t even remember do you?
Me: I do too!
TGU: All some kind of greenish blur.
Me: I maintained a pleasant buzz throughout the evening.

Irish PrincessOkay fine, you guys, I drank all damn day…went to 4 different bars…got stupid drunk. He didn’t need to know that.

TGU: Nice.
That’s the best way to do it.
Me: Exactly.
Functional but fun.

It was at this point, I believe, The Grown Up decided he might actually be interested in me. I didn’t realize it for…well…a while. I’m not very observant…

TGU: <nerd talk>hey, did you ever take a Myers-Briggs test? </end nerd talk>
Me: LOL yes.

He was adorably nerdy. He used freakin’ code speak. I loved him. And, for the record, I generally hate personality tests. HATE. THEM. A lot. But I just went la-de-da a boy might like me la-de-da sure I’ll take your stupid test…

TGU: did I already ask you this?

Is this really a thing you do?

Me: No, I just really liked the nerd talk interjection.

True story. Loved <nerd talk>.

TGU: Hey, some people can’t handle the nerd-nitude.
Me: I <3 nerds
TGU: yay! nerd love!
There’s not enough love for the nerds out there.
Do you remember what types you were?
(MyersBriggs came up recently with friends, and so I’ve been thinking about it lately.)
Nice play, there, Grown Up. I now (as in real time NOW) see what you were doing here.
TGU: You’re probably an…EN something…because you’re very social and yet like nerds.
Me: LOL I don’t remember for sure.
I’m, like, all over the place, though.
TGU: Understandable…kinda outta nowhere…
 If you ever feel like it…
Me: Will do.
I’m not going to lie, here, guys…I went and took the damn test immediately. I was just all la-de-da…this could be interesting…la-de-da this boy is super nerdy. I should make him love me with my winning personality…
TGU: What I realized was that N’s are less common then S people.
And T’s are less common then F’s in women…
 me: What does each stand for?
TGU: so NT women are the most rare type
Me: I don’t know where I fall, but I’ve been told I’m a rare breed of girl. lol

The Grown Up went on a long discussion of personality types, but I’ll spare you the details. You’re welcome.

Me: I think I’m ENFP…but not 100% sure
Me: Oh yeah
That’s me
Hardcore!
Winning Personality
Please love me, Grown Up. I promise I’ll be really nice and stop being a serial dater.
TGU: Yay! That’s gonna be my new line… instead of “What’s your sign, baby?” I’ll say “What’s your MyersBriggs type, baby?”
For the love of GOD; we’re FINALLY getting somewhere.
Me:That’ll get you all the ladies!
You’ve got me, dude. Just ask me the fuck out.
TGU: Totally! world, look out!
Me: Okay, maybe only the intellectually nerdy ones…
TGU: Eh, they’re the only ones I want anyway
Me: Good point. pretty but dumb gets old pretty fast

And then The Grown Up started talking about a girl he dated who fell into that category (although not dumb, just an “S” versus and “N”). I refrained from talking about my “McDreamy” because I didn’t think talking about one’s current prospects with another of one’s current prospects was in good taste. I merely mentioned that I didn’t feel guilty about categorizing the “pretty but dumb.”

TGU: (the world is about 65% S people… it’s one of the few types that doesn’t have a 50/50 split in the general population)
Me: Strange.
TGU: I like to think that reality TV is their fault.
Me: LOL  probably.
God, I fucking hate reality TV. Unless I can get famous by being on reality TV. I’m not completely opposed…
TGU: So what have you been doing for fun lately?
Me: That is my least favorite question ever. I do everything fun.
TGU: Must be nice!
Me: Indeed. Just doing my Chrissy thing
TGU: heh. Threesomes with Jack Tripper?
Me: UGH!  swat
TGU: ouch!
Me: Watch it, buddy! No Threes Company references…
TGU: What Chrissy then?
 Me:  just me!
TGU: I thought your name was actually <insert personal e-mail address here>
Me: that’s a tough one for people to get on the first try, so we shortened it to Chrissy.
We continued to banter about my name for a few more minutes before he dropped the bomb.

TGU: We should hang out some night, so I can see you in person when you’re not working. What does your schedule look like next week?

Now THAT’S a sure thing. Asking about schedules means a date will finally fucking happen.

Me: I think that’s a stellar idea. At this point it’s pretty open.
TGU: How about something like Tuesday?
Me: I can do Tuesday.
TGU: Sweet.

And just like that, I had a date with The Grown Up. Honestly, it only took three fucking months. Whatever. It was game. On. We exchanged phone numbers and he promised to plan a whole date. I was impressed and excited. I was usually the one who had to come up with an itinerary. All I had to do was pick out a killer outfit and make him fall in love with me. Easy peasy, my friends.

Are you as excited for this date as I was? What’s the longest you’ve waited for someone to ask you out? Would you have even waited as long as I did? What are your thoughts on personality tests? Or better yet, what are your thoughts on personality tests before a first date?

Riding in Cars with Boys

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

The Perils of Working in the Original Skyscraper Jungle

I work in the city. THE city. As in Chicago. Home of the original skyscraper. Did you know that? After the Chicago Fire, they commissioned an architect to do whatever he wanted…and he wanted to change the world, apparently. Thus skyscrapers were born.

So I work downtown, inside The Loop, Chicago. Each day I walk a mile from the train, rain or shine, sweltering or bitterly freezing. And then I work. And then I walk another mile from work to the train. I used to occasionally take a cab (VERY occasionally), but mostly I’d brave the elements because a one-way $8-10 cab ride just doesn’t do it for me. I’ve recently discovered that I’m not as afraid of the bus, but for an extra $2.25 per trip, it’s only worth it when it’s REALLY fucking cold out. Like negative temperatures cold. Like WAY negative temperatures cold. Because that $2.25 would quickly become $22.50 PER WEEK. And that’s a lot on my already-expensive commute.

So I brave the dangers of walking in the city. When it’s freezing out, and especially when the freezing starts to warm up just a smidge, signs start popping up all over The Loop. On my walk to and from the train, I pass no less than 8 caution signs each way. Caution signs that warn passersby of potential falling ice. FROM THE FUCKING SKYSCRAPERS.

Caution Falling Ice

  1. How the fuck am I supposed to see the falling ice ball from the sky by looking at a sign 2 feet off the ground?

  2. How the fuck would I even protect myself if a giant, painful ball of ice were to come tumbling down on my head?

  3. What is the fucking purpose of the signs? Do they think they’re preventing legal repercussions of a chunk of ice decapitating some unlucky soul?

Because if a giant fuckball of ice falls on my head and doesn’t actually kill me, I’m going to sue something. Or someone. Okay, probably not. But I would most certainly be pissed. And in a lot of pain.

Then…THEN…I get safely inside the confines of my building? Only to discover that because of the wet, melting ice on my feet, I could fall to my death inside the fucking skyscraper. Because those floors are fucking SLICK. I should know…I slip on them on a regular basis.

Caution Wet FloorThese days, I’m not opposed to a nice, cozy suburban job…with a 5-15 minute drive. We’ll see.

Blog Friends, what dangers await you on your morning commute? Or do you have a dangerous job? Or do you avoid danger like the plague?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Love When People Take My Sass and Run With It

If you recall from a few days ago, I had an offer to discuss selling my site. Not like, a hey, we-want-to-buy-Quirky-Chrissy offer…More like a hey, we-buy-sites-are-you-selling offer.

After the first try, I ignored it…but when he went in for the second attempt, I delivered what  I hope made him laugh a little bit. His first response was all business, but his response to my response was baller.

It was like a mullet. Business in the front; party in the back. I just needed to pull the cap off. Which I did with a little help from you. I used some of your suggestions in my response e-mail, and I think you’ll appreciate how that went over. SassTaye Diggs and ShemarThanks RyanRyan was a real trooper about the whole thing. So thank you, Ryan! I like to think that you came here, saw my blog post and responded to my survey. In my little daydream here, I truly believe that you were the one who answered my survey with, “Just say thanks but no thanks.”

To the rest of you who responded to my survey, you’re hilarious and beautiful people. I think we’re going to do more surveys, because this was ridiculous amounts of fun for me!

Do you like to sass people in e-mail? Would you have had a little fun with this? What’s the sassiest thing you’ve done recently?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Think I Know Those Clowns…Not the Rodeo Clowns Though…

Last night, Brian and I joined a couple of our friends for an evening of Haunted Housing. Our friend who organized the trip usually prefers the regular passes as opposed to the VIP passes because the wait in line is usually a lot of fun and adds to the ambiance of the house. You know, gearing up the fear and shit.

So we get to the location of the haunted house, where we shelled out 28 bucks a pop for the tickets. Only to be told that we’d also be paying $5 for parking. We went to this house last year and didn’t have to pay for parking, so this was a strange and unpleasant new development.

I saw a crowd on the side of the venue, and wondered if that was a VIP entrance. As we drew closer, I realized they were all smoking, and they looked like they were in costume. Cowboy hats, plaid shirts, tight jeans…Must be a hillbilly room or something. As I got even closer, I noticed that some of them were dressed normally and there was a “smoking section” sign. They must just be regular employees, not actors. I looked inside the oprn door behind them and realized that they were not related to the haunted house at all. There was a concert of some sort going on with bright lights and loud mariachi music.

Mariachi band by the haunted houseWell that explained the $5 parking fee. Jerks.

So, we got in the first line at the haunted house (the first of FIVE different lines). This line was outside, and we were there before the house opened. I noticed a girl wearing a short skirt and rubber boots prepping for something with electricity. Just before we walked into the venue, she jumped on top of a beat up car, and started running some electric thing on a metal grindy thing near her lady bits while dancing like she was in a cage at the club. I wondered whether I was heading into a haunted house or a brothel.

We walked into the brightly lit first lobby, and stood in another line. The mariachi band was going hard core just a few feet away and the concert lights made it look like it was still daylight. I looked over, away from the band and saw a pair of uniquely costumed muderous clowns. I grinned at Brian and said, “I think I know those clowns.”

His response? “That’s a weird thing to say.”

When we moved upstairs to the next lobby (this time the actual “haunted house lobby”), one of the clowns was staring me down. I eyed him for a second and asked, “Do I know you?”

Yep, I definitely recognized him.

Yep, I definitely recognized him.

He nodded and I walked closer to him, when he gave me his hand all gentlemanly. We chatted for a moment (he really is my friend!) and then I had to go catch up with my people.

We got in the third line of the night about 15 minutes after the haunted house was supposed to be open. But the bright lights and loud VERY UNSCARY music coming from the open room beside and below us was really killing the mood. It wasn’t just a mariachi band; it was a full-on fucking rodeo.

The foggy image is because of the fog machines.

The foggy image is because of the fog machines.

There’s a bull back there. A motherfucking bull.

They haunted house refused to open until these people finished playing. These people just refused to finish. An hour and twenty minutes after the house was scheduled to open, they finally started letting people in. The mood was not set with scary music or dark lobbies. It was set with a fucking tuba and the running of the bulls. Or a bullfight. Or something. Come to think of it, I bet hooha electricity girl out front would have had one hell of a time trying to ride the bull…

Luckily, our friends are pretty fun, and the clowns kept stopping by.

Scary clown with a knife

The house itself was meh. The first part was a pair of too-long dark mazes. The second part was a neon 3-D porn cartoon. The last part was the kind of haunted house that you picture – murderous creepers, a shrine to John Wayne Gacy, people eating people…screamers, psychos…

image

Overall, not terrible, but the venue is going to get a nasty letter from me. Because they made Brian mad with this mariachi bullshit. And nobody messes with my boyfriend.

Have you been to a haunted house this year? What’s your favorite part of a haunted house?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!