1) Blow drying your hair while it’s 90 degrees outside is not ideal. You will sweat. A lot. Put on your mascara AFTER you are done if you do not want to look like one of those sad ceramic clown masks from the 80’s. Or heck, let your locks air-dry. You can call your semi-curly mullet “beachy”. It’s totally the season for that. Ugh. It’s a hot mess. Literally.
2) Going to the gym at two in the afternoon is the best. No one is there. Except that one guy, with his button down shirt tucked into his jean shorts. He is looking at your butt. You can see him doing it. There are mirrors everywhere. Okay. Maybe it’s time to change machines. Definitely.
3) I would like to hang out with a Capybara. I imagine us dressing up in matching outfits, walking the streets and dancing to this song. My brain lives in these places. It can get kinda weird in there. Continue reading →
When you are a kid, there’s pretty much no vehicle more awesome than an ice cream truck. It’s sugar on wheels. I remember the ice cream truck targeting our neighborhood since it was filled with kids. My brother and I would perk up, then in a joint effort run to our parents. “Can we PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE get some ice cream?!” It was as if nothing else mattered and maybe we could possibly die if ice-creamy goodness did not hit our lips in the next two minutes. Sometimes the ice cream truck would travel to our house close to dinner time, and the answer would be no. In these cases I remember the world ending a little bit. There was some light pouting, maybe some foot stomping. My brother, who is six years younger than myself, would either follow my pout-y lead, or in a true act of excellence THROW himself on the floor. We were dramatic. Mom ignored it. Good move, mom. Imagine what we could do if we had an audience! Continue reading →
I know pretty much nothing about football, unless you count watching every season of Friday Night Lights (Clear eyes, Full Hears, Can’t Lose). I know there are touchdowns and fumbles and first downs but I cannot tell you which is which. I grew up in a football household. My parents would wear jerseys and make large volumes of guacamole for Super Bowl Sunday. I would play with my Barbie Dream House, make things with glitter, and occasionally comment on how tight all the football players wore their pants. I somehow managed to miss learning all the rules. When my father asked me if I would be watching the Super Bowl this year, I responded honestly and told him probably not. He was disgusted. How could he have gone so wrong? The 49ers were playing and I wasn’t even going to turn on the TV? Awful. So, on game day I decided to get into the spirit of things in order to not be a total disappointment to the man who raised me. I bought a lot of spinach dip and a bag of crinkle cut potato chips and ate my weight in both. Apparently getting into the spirit means me eating myself into a dip coma. Continue reading →