How I Accidentally Found My "Potential"

Confession: One time, when I was in grade school, I got my mom (who has enough creativity to flood the entire market!) to draw a picture of a unicorn for me. It was awesome. It had a unicorn. And it had purple in it. What more can you ask for (besides glitter)?

I was so excited about the picture that I took it to school with me and placed it in my Trapper Keeper. (In case you weren't alive during the late 80's/early 90's, the Trapper Keeper was my generation's iPad back then.) Then my art teacher Mrs. Shaw saw it, and said how good it was, and what a great artist I was. She was BOWLED OVER! Simply simmering with the excitement that there was someone in her art class who might have some potential. I didn't exactly correct her and tell her that my mom drew it. So of course, she called my mother and said she thought I had potential and would like to give me private lessons.

Crap.

It was time to become an artist---stat!

I remember the first lesson I was so excited. I had my fresh artists sketch pad, my kneaded erasers, and my charcoal pencils all ready to go. The only thing I didn't have was talent. But hey, I was 8 years old, and I had an awesome imagination. I figured I could wing it. All I needed was to draw something super awesome so I wouldn't get caught in this lie.

For my first lesson, she asked me to draw my hand. It probably looked like a one-dimensional Oompa Loompah hand. Red flags should have been going off at this time for her. Big ones.

But, she persisted. She taught me how to sketch, paint watercolor, pastels, acrylics, calligraphy...you name it. I was doing still-lifes, painting scenes from Swan Lake...I even painted a portrait of my baby brother. And I loved every second of it. I wasn't an artist when I started, but I became one with the proper nudging.

My mom has never heard this confession. Until now. Oops.

As I got into high school I had less time for art. I managed to pick up a pottery class, or I would doodle in History when I was supposed to be taking notes. And after college I took up jewelry-making, which kind of stuck around even now.
But I haven't painted in a long, long, long time.

Until now.

A local business called Wine & Design asked me to sit in on one of their sessions and to check them out. As I understand it, they will sketch out a painting on canvas, and then you follow along with the group as you are walked through painting it...kind of like a very sophisticated Paint-By-Numbers. This is a good thing for me, since I haven't sketched in probably over a decade and am more than a little rusty. I'll let them handle the design of it, and then I'll fill in the blanks with the paint. So exciting!

Some people deal with stress by working out.
Some people deal with stress by eating.
Some people deal with stress by diving into creative outlets.

I happen to do the last two on that list. And Wine & Design satisfies both of those urges for me, as you can bring your own food and drink to the session with you.

Once I go I will have to check back in and show you my masterpiece. And since I'm a Baltimore-girl deep down in my soul still, I chose to paint a crab (see below for an example).

I'm sure mine will look more like THIS...

...But I will have so much fun doing it!

If you want to join me on this creative adventure, all you have to do is register for the event on Nov. 18th. I'll be there. And I'm thinking I might do my hair in a 'fro in honor of Bob Ross that night. Thoughts?

Cellulite and Tell You Right,

Andy

Hey Jerk! No one gives me a bad day but me, got it?!

Most days in the office for me are bad days.

Well, that's not really fair to say. A bad day in the office usually doesn't make the entire day bad, just 9 hours of it.


Example: Today, our temp. employee got mad at me because I called her a temp. (???) So, then she confronted me and for 5 minutes she explained to me how she takes her job "very seriously", and being called "a temp." hurt her feelings. (This is the same temp. who cannot write any of our press releases without several egregious spelling errors. The same temp. who I have to explain eight different times the location of our payroll office. The same temp. who (per my boss) has been made exempt from certain aspects of her job because she "doesn't do well talking to people". The same temp. who never, ever, ever responds to email requests from anyone. THAT temp.) And yes, I referred to her as a "temp." to someone...because she is in fact a temp. employee. But she was "insulted". So then I was made to apologize, and tell her I wouldn't ever do it again.

Forced apologies always make me feel like a 5 year-old again. "Now Andy, say you're sorry for calling Becky a poopy-head." Ridiculous.

So, to make sure Temp didn't have the final say on my bad day, I left the office for my lunch break and went bathing suit shopping. Because that ALWAYS makes you feel better about yourself, right?

Bathing suit shopping after a forced coworker apology is the office equivalent of eating a warm turd sundae and then topping it with salmonella syrup.

So yeah, maybe not the best decision. I had 29 bathing suits in my hands. Their fitting room limit is 6 (stupid rule!). So after all that squeezing, jiggling, jumping, and shimmying into these 29 different sausage casings called "swimsuits", I finally found one I could live with. I guess you could say the only winner in this scenario was Target, where for $30 I found this little gem...

Which I was pretty excited to find. Because 1) I am leaving for vacation in 2 weeks and my old bathing suit is so threadbare it is practically see-through, and 2) I am THRILLED to have found a bathing suit that did not weigh 15 lbs. all by itself.

What is it with swimsuit designers? They assume if you are a plus-sized girl, surely you must want a suit that nips, tucks, sucks, lifts, separates, and smooths every curve of your body. I have tried on a million different suits, and they all have so much sewn into them that you feel like you are wearing a Kevlar vest. Yyyeah, cuz that's what I want at the beach...to have an underwire from my bathing suit pierce my chest cavity, have my lung collapse, and then have the Life Guard not be able to even save me because he couldn't cut through the 18 layers of "slimming" Spandex in the suit in order to give me chest compressions. That's totally how I want to go out.

No thank you, designers.

I need something that lets me move. That dries quickly. And that makes me feel pretty. 

I don't need to feel like I'm wearing a laser-tag vest. And I don't need the suit to come with an instruction manual on how to strap myself into it. 

Anyone else out there this season find anything that worked for them? 

Cellulite and Tell You Right, 

Andy 

Happy Cinco de Andy. Or Andy de Mayo...whichever you prefer.

Well, today I turned 28.

Which means ten years ago....TEN WHOLE YEARS AGO.... I was turning 18. Oh, 18. I remember you. Bright-eyed. Two three five pants sizes smaller. Just ending my freshman year in college. Turning twenty-eight seemed 28 years down the road.

And yet, here it is. The day I turn 28. Had you told the 18-year-old version of myself what I would look like, what I would have been through, and who I would be becoming as a 28  year old, I would have laughed hysterically at you. If only, if only the 28 year old me could have a conversation with the 18-year-old me a decade ago, I would have been surprised to hear myself say these things about myself (huh, I'm confused?). This is probably how those conversations would go...

You will eventually want practical gifts. 28 year-old-me: Hey, 18-year-old me, Happy Birthday!
18-year-old-me: Yeah, Happy Birthday! Here's to us!
28 Y.O.M.- So, what kind of presents did you ask for?
18 Y.O.M- Oh, okay, so you know that sparkly turquoise shirt at Charlotte Russe? That. And this chunky bracelet I saw in the window of the jewelry store. And I totally want lots of flowers. And chocolates. And I want everyone to make a big deal and take me out for drinks and expensive food and limo rides. You know, the basic stuff. Why, what did you ask for? 28 Y.O.M- Oh. well number one thing is new tires on my car. They are totally bald, and everytime I drive in the rain I have to start talking to God outloud to make sure he has at least one eye on my and the car. Also, I reallllllly reallllllly want a double-barreled tumbling composter (I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish!!!). Also, I totally need some new underwear. You know, just black, cotton, bikini cut. No biggie.
18 Y.O.M- Oh. Well. That sounds...nice.
28 Y.O.M- Yeah. Actually, it is.


You will still be single.
18 Y.O.M- So, tell me everything about our life! I totally want to know about our husband. Please tell me he has dark hair. And is big enough to pick us up. And that he makes lots of money.
28 Y.O.M- Well, about that. We aren't married yet.
18 Y.O.M- Whaaaaat!?!? You're joking, right? Oh wait, I get it...we are engaged, just not married.
28 Y.O.M- Nnnnope. Not even close. We aren't even dating anyone right now.
18 Y.O.M- I think I'm going to puke.
28 Y.O.M- No no no, listen, it's really okay.
18 Y.O.M- "Okay?" How can you say that? If we aren't married by the time we are 28, all of the good men will either be married or on the verge of developing Alzheimers! ((Sob, sob, sob. Sound of popping another cork)).
28 Y.O.M- There, there, 18-year-old-me. Its really a good thing. Trust me. If you had gotten married at 21, or 24, or even 26, it would have been a disaster. We would totally have been divorced by now. You had no idea how to be a good wife. I'm finally just learning about myself at age 28. I am SO thrilled to not be married yet.
18 Y.O.M- Whatever.

You will be managing finances for a living.
18 Y.O.M- So, if we aren't married, we probably have some awesome, cutting edge creative job where we get to use our writing skills, right?
28 Y.O.M- Well, I wouldn't really say "creative". Or "use our writing skills" so much. But we do manage state-controlled finances including grants, trust funds, endowments, scholarships, and general funds. We are responsible for creating budgets, reporting on actuals, and answering to the spending of every single dollar of that money, which totals well over $1 million dollars.18 Y.O.M- You're joking. We barely scraped through our high school math classes. Thank the Lord for perky boobs and high school coaches who doubled as math teachers. We learned early on to either flirt with the teacher so he would doctor our grades, or flirt with the smartest boy in class so we could copy his homework every day. Those were the only two things that got us through math. 28 Y.O.M- I know. Trust me, I remember.
18 Y.O.M- Sooo, what happened.
28 Y.O.M- Honestly, I have no idea. How the stink did we get here? (Cue Talking Heads "Once In A Lifetime" song in our heads.)

You will be living with your mother.
18 Y.O.M- Well, I mean, I guess that's okay. Our job isn't everything. I bet we make slammin' money, and live in some kind of great bachelorette pad, right? 28 Y.O.M- We live with mom.
18 Y.O.M- Exsqueeze me?
28 Y.O.M- Yeah. But actually, it is awesome. We bought this cute little house together. And there is great veggie garden. She is the best roommate we ever had. And trust me, I know. We went through at least 12 roommates. She takes the cake.
18 Y.O.M- That is so lame. I could totally NOT have sex with my boyfriend while my mom in the same house.
28 Y.O.M- Yyyyyeah, about that...


You will be getting crunchier.
18 Y.O.M- I'm sorry. This is just a bit much for me. None of this comes close to anything I dreamt about. Here, pass me that can of aerosol hairspray really quick so I can fix my hair. Then we will jump in my gas-guzzling car and head on down to Dutch Family Restaurant to eat an entire artificially flavored, preservative-stuffed, transfatty-filled Banana Cream Pie. (Yes, W.A.C. friends, that was just a Dutch Family reference...just for you!) Who cares, right?
28 Y.O.M- Well, at 28, we actually do care. We aren't off the deep-end yet. But just wait...the older you/I get, the more we find ourselves concerned with the food we eat, the chemicals we put on and in our body, the cleaning agents we use, what we put on my garden and lawn, etc.
18 Y.O.M- Oh my gosh. You sound like some hippy-dippy, crunchy granola loving free bird. 28 Y.O.M- I know. But seriously. Our body is paying for the crap you are putting in it now. And the world is only getting dirtier and more toxic the older we get. Please. Back away from the Banan Cream Pie.


And even though 18-year-old me would have been horrified at the list I just rattled off, the 28-year-old me knows that I am more happy, more fulfilled, stronger, wiser, and more blessed than I could have even imagined possible at 18.

Not that I wouldn't kill to have that 18 year-old body back. ;)

But I've never been happier.

Thanks to everyone for making my road to 28 an amazing trip.


Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Me, at 18. Ten stinkin' years ago. Ten. Years.

Note the absence of underarm flab and the perky, bra-free boobs. Nevermore, nevermore.
Totally unaware of the crazy ride I am about to embark on over the next decade.

Me and mom in the hospital right after I was born. My favorite things about this photo...the rotary phone. Mom's complete embrace of the 80's hair. And how stinkin' large my head was.

I Can Totally Sleep on Four Conference Chairs...

**Yet another old blog resurrected and imported from the old site.**

Okay, so I'm having some car issues. Said issues are so complicated and frustrating, that I will not bore you with a blog about them. But instead, tell you how my life has become even more boring because of them.


Because of the car issues I have been catching a ride from someone else to and from work everyday. Which is fine and dandy, and I am super appreciative. But this also means I am arriving at work at 6:20 a.m. even though I don't really need to be there until 7:30 a.m. And I'm also not getting picked up until 6:00ish. So basically, I am now working a 12 hour day. Not fun. Especially since with this new work schedule I am averaging about 3.5 hours of sleep a night.

When this new schedule first started, I figured I would try to be good and get some extra work done. So I would get here at 6:20, dressed, made-up, heels on, and turn my computer on, log in, and get to work!

That "go get 'em" attitude lasted about two days.

After that, this is what I have done with my extra time....

Day Three: Came into work in my usual business wear, but wearing flip flops, carrying my heals in hand. Surfed online for an hour, paid some bills, etc.

Day Four: Came into work still wearing half of my PJ's, no make up. Got changed in the bathroom. Did my makeup and hair at my desk. Rested my head on my hand and slowly drifted off into a light state of sleep at my desk.

Day Five: After being dropped off at the curb, I didn't even go straight to my desk. I walked around upstairs, investigating all the office areas I've never gotten to see before, looking for candy jars breakfast, cute little puppy-calendars for me to "Ooooh" and "Ahhh" at, and snipping dead leaves from the office plants. I took some really boring pamphlets from the HR office, tried to shake a free soda from the soda machine (unsuccessfully), attempted to break my own record for speed running up and down the two flights of stairs, and stole a bunch of flattened cardboard boxes that were sitting outside some one's office.

Day Six: Came straight to my office, and proceeded to tape/staple the stolen cardboard boxes back together to create a fort under my desk for me to sleep in. Set my cellphone alarm for 7:30. Slept in my new cardboar-napping-house for an hour. Loved it!

Day Seven: Brought a pillow to work today to take into my cardboard-napping-house...only to find that the maids had taken it while they were cleaning the office! Noooo! I had big plans for that napping house. I was going to draw cute pictures on the inside of it. Maybe hang some Christmas lights outside. All for naught! I was so flustered that someone stole an entire napping house that I can't remember anything that happened for the rest of that day.

Day Eight: Brought the pillow back to work this morning. Searched for the keys to a co-worker's office who DOES have four walls and a door (lucky stiff). Found said key. Dragged four chairs from the conference room into the co-worker's office, lined them up one right next to each other (apparently, I am 4 conference chairs tall!), set my cell phone alarm, shut and locked their door behind me, and caught an hour of sleep. It was no napping house though. Sadly lacking.

Day Nine: Giddy and a little high off of my lack of good/sufficient sleep, I thought it would be a good idea to try and slide down the enormous stairway banister in the office. Man, I was right! That was an excellent idea! That entertained me for a good 25 minutes! I also decided to change around the name signs on all of my coworkers office doors. No one noticed. I also found a really cool little secret back door path leading to a wonderful little picnic-ish area outside. (Note to self: Next time work is making you want to shove paperclips into your eyeballs, go to the picnic-ish area, take deep breaths, take your heels off, and walk around the grass barefoot for a few minutes. You'll be fine.)

Tomorrow will be Day Ten. I would love to promise that something entertaining will happen, but I can't. In fact, I apologize for this whole blog being as boring as it is. I promise. I'll get some sleep soon. Then I'll tell you all about the time I almost got video-taped taking a shower by my creepy ex-next-door neighbor.

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Friends with Benefits

And now, I present to you, the 8 Friends With Benefits  Everyone Loves

1. Doctor Friend-
We'll come to you with every rash, boil, burning sensation, muscle pull, and bout of of explosive diarrhea we ever have. Cuz we know it won't cost us a copay just to get your opinion. And we are hoping you carry that lil' prescription pad around in your pocket. What's that...you're a Podiatrist? We don't care...it's all the same to us. Especially those of us without healthcare.

2. Cop Friend-
Maybe you can make those pesky parking tickets of ours go away. Or give us the inside scoop on where the speeding traps will be set up next Sunday. We want to hear all your crazy local arrest stories. We want to know you've got our back when we get into a scuffle with our neighbor about our outdoor cat peeing on his lawn. And we pretty much are DYING for you to ask us to go on a Ride-Along with you so we can pretend to be all Good Cop/ Bad Cop and wear a bullet proof vest and fulfill our childhood fantasies.

3. Timeshare/Vacation Home Friend- What's that? You are planning a ski weekend to your home in Killington? We'd LOVE to come! You're planning a Spring Break trip down to your home in Key West and you want our family to come along so your kids aren't bored?! Suuuuuuuuure....I'll put in my vacation request at work now! You're looking for someone to watch your house in Egypt for a month while you "take a breather back in Pennsylvania"? Ummmmmmmm....I think I am washing my hair that month.

4. Techie Friend-

This is pretty much EXACTLY like the Doctor Friend. Except people HATE going to the doctor, and will put it off for 10 years. In the tech world, if something goes wrong with our stuff and our office's I.T. guy doesn't respond in 30 minutes we feel like the whole world is on fire and we can't even Tweet about it, and OMG WHAT DID PEOPLE DO WITHOUT A FUNCTIONING iPAD AND IF I STAND IN LINE AT BEST BUY'S GEEK SQUAD COUNTER ANY LONGER I WILL STAB MYSELF WITH THE SHARP END OF THIS CHARGER CORD AND  "Oh wait, that's right....I have a friend who is a techie....I'm totes covered!" (Insert fastest-finger dialing/texting to our most favoritist techie friend in the whole world). Then we will proceed to tell you what happened to our favorite piece of equipment using super informative and helpful words, like "thingy", and "screen of death" and "I don't know what happened, but after I spilled my entire Starbucks Trenta Latte on it things started to go haywire." You will then proceed to tell us to try turning it off and back on again, we will hear that fabulous Start-Up tone, and all will be right in the world again.

5. Waiter/Bartender Friend-
Oooooh, we looooove you, Bonefish Grill Waitstaff Friend. You magically find us a table in two minutes when the wait is already out the front door. We love that you tell us what NOT to eat from the menu. And we love that when we get our bill it is mysteriously smaller than it should be. You, my friend, will get a FAT tip.

6. Employee Discount Friend-
Come on...it doesn't even really matter what store you work at, we will TOTALLY take advantage of your employee discount. Barnes and Noble Employee Friend? Yipeee! Nine West Employee Friend?! Score! Dollar Store Employee Friend?!?!/ We'll take it!!

7. Mechanic Friend-
Cars are stinkin' expensive!! And if we can get you to come work  on ours in our home garage and pay you in beers and home cooking then by golly, we're going to try! **Side note: You TOTALLY do not want to mistread Mechanic Friend...they hold your life in their hands....One sloppy break installation job and you will be wishing you sprung for the Guinness instead of the PBR when your buddy came over to work on your car.**

8. Strong Friend with a Truck-
This is a double-bonus friend. There will be times in your life when you are buying a huge sectional sofa, need to take bags upon bags of old junk to the dump, moving an entire house full of furniture, or are looking for someone to help tow you out of a mudpit...Strong Friend With a Truck is your go-to guy!


Who am I missing? Who is your favorite Friend With Benefits you love to have handy?

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Please don't put LSD in my Wonderbread

Okay- I have lived in my current town for almost 6 years now, and for 6 years I have driven past this bizarro store and wondered in confusion as I read its sign:

"Bakery Thrift Store".

Huh? What the stink is a bakery thrift store?

I mean, I know what heaven a bakery is: Delicious doughy carbs covered in high-caloric glaze.

And I know what a thrift store is: Where I dump all my clothes I'm too fat for and then they let other people buy my sweaters that already smell like my deodorant and pants that probably still have remnants of poop and snot permanently crusted on them (I work with a lot of old people and kids...bound to happen.)

But "bakery" + "thrift store" together just totally confuses me and makes me go to a bad place...

The only thing I can assume goes on inside those walls are that little old ladies bring in their week-old homemade bread that has gone uneaten but that their cats have started to nibble on. The thrift store owner gives them money, and then turns around and sells the bread to someone who doesn't mind stale bread with hairballs on it.

This is totally an accurate guess, right?

Or, all my local sex offenders bake roofies into some innocent looking cinnamon buns, then they wait outside the store to see who buys them, and then follow that person home and just lay in wait.

Totally plausible.

I know our economy is totally in the toilet, but whatever this "Bakery Thrift Store" place is, I am SOOOOO not there yet financially to even *think* about darkening the doors.

Now excuse me, I have to go dent some cans of soup at Walmart so I can get them at a discounted price.

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

With Sympathy

**(Another old one imported from the old blog. Old old old.) **

I have a real issue signing a sympathy card as a group, especially if it's work-related thing. I don't know…something about it just doesn't sit right with me.


I have no problem signing a group card for every other occasion…birthdays, graduations, congrats on the new baby, etc. Suuuure, pass the card around the office and we'll all sign our names on one big card. No prob!

But a group sympathy card? I don't know. I just feel awkward about it. And what the heck are you supposed to write anyway? Everyone always has terrible quotes on there, sayings, etc. "She's in a better place," signed in red ink by Jackie. "You're in our prayers," signed in sparkly turquoise ink by Katherine, the office agnostic. "God won't give us anything we can't handle," penned by Bill.

So the card finally gets to me, and I look like a schmuck no matter what I do.


Option A) Sign the card with just my name.
No quotes, no sayings, no prayers. Black ink. My name. All alone in a corner of the card, like a punished school child. Then everyone else who signs the card after me thinks I am heartless and unfeeling because I didn't offer some paltry little crumb of 'encouragement'.

Option B) Sign the card and write a tag line out of obligation.
Why? Because everyone else wrote something additional, that's why…peer pressure sympathy writing. "John, sorry about your mom. Let me know if you need anything." I can't write that…I don't really mean it. I mean, offering to help with ANYTHING is quite a commitment. What if they need people to serve guests at the viewing…would I help with that if he asked me? Probably not; I'm not good around corpses. So that phrase won't do. "John, this too shall pass." Terrible choice of words, and not a comfort at all. Can't use that phrase either. "John, were you really surprised? She was 98 years old." No, that makes me sound heartless. "John, she's looking down on you from heaven and I know she's proud of you." I can't write that. I think it's a lie that people are watching us from heaven, like we're the after-life's version of reality TV. I don't think our dead relatives are propped up on clouds with nothing better to do than watch our stupid antics down here. Nothing I could write sits well enough with me to write it on a card.



Option C) Don't sign the card at all.
I would be stoned to death by my coworkers…all southern belles who agree that any sadness can be lifted with a group card and a some home-made banana pudding.

Option D) Send a card on my own.

No. I'm not good with this, either. Because let's face it everyone…cards have motives. Oh yes…yes they do. Birthday card motivation is to bring a smile to someone's special day. Anniversary card motivation is to celebrate an achievement in holding your marriage together in this day and age of drive-thru chapels and even quicker drive-thru divorces. "Just Thinking of You" card motivation is to let the person know you're thinking of them…simple enough. Valentine's Day card motivation is mostly to help in the bedroom area…if you're honest with yourself. All of those types of greeting cards have the motivation of making the recipient feel good…they are solely for the recipient. What a pure motivation! Bring 'em on!

But sympathy cards motivation is not what it appears. It is much trickier…it is based on making the GIVER feel better. Not the RECEIVER, like all the other cards. Seriously, if you think about it, have you ever been standing in the aisle at Hallmark, picked out a sympathy card, read it to yourself before deciding on it, and after reading it said "Wow, that will really make John feel better. That card says it all. Surely he'll feel better after getting MY card!" No, I'm sure you've never thought that. Because if it's tragic enough to warrant you feeling like you should send a card, then it's too tragic to be made any better by a card.

Sympathy card motivation is to make the giver feel better about the situation. You can say to yourself "Well, I did the 'right thing' and I sent a sympathy card. My work here is done." You're buying that card to make yourself feel better, not the person you're giving it to.

Why not just skip the middle man altogether? Next time you feel like you should give someone a sympathy card, march yourself right to the Hallmark store, go to the "Just for Laughs" section, and pick out a card that brings a smile to your day. And send it to your self. Dear: Me, From: Me.

Now that you've got that obligatory card purchasing out of your system, why don't you pick up the phone and talk to your friend who is going through the rough time. And tell them, in a voice slow and steady, that you are there for them. And yes, you know it hurts like hell.



Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Your version of broke, and my version of broke....totes different!

So I use this awesome online budgeting tool, Mint.com. I love it, it does so much stuff, and it basically makes a budget for you and tells you when you fail/succeed at it. Since I do budget stuff alllllllllllll the livelong day in my prison cell job, the last thing I want to do when I get home is worry about my personal budget. Which is why I love Mint. Cuz I'm a slacker. And I have WAY more important things to do, like paint my nails, and pretend to be a gardener, and daydream about finding my Sugar Daddy.

Anytime you exceed your budget for something like "Mortgage", "Super Cute Ballet Flats", or "Chinese Food"...you know, the basics...it sends you a little alert email to let you know. Which is cool, cuz then I can say to myself, "Oops...spent too much on clothing this month...oh well...now let's go check out that new shoe store on Castle Street!".


Most of the time Mint and I are good friends.

But sometimes, Mint gets all "Whoah whoah friend, you spent way too much on Gasoline this month...stop going places!" And then I'm all "Hey, you can't tell me what to do. Besides, I have absolutely NO control over how expensive gas has gotten. Is it my fault that I now have to pay $3.11 for a gallon of gas?! I mean, no wonder I'm over budget...you would be too, Mint, if you weren't some lame website who doesn't even OWN a car to put gas in! Booyah! That's a burn!". And then Mint just rolls his eyes and goes quietly away into cyber world to laugh at my "Savings Account" balance.

Or sometimes, it sends me a warning that looks like this...



.....and then I just laugh! "Low balance?!? Dude, I don't know where you were born, Mint, but where I live, you know, Planet Earth, having $300 bucks in my account is daggone good! That isn't even NEAR the danger zone yet! Stupid Mint! Keep your bourgeoisie warnings to yourself next time until I hit the $0.75 mark, mkay? Thanks!"

But other times, I totally love Mint. Like the other day, when I got one of those nasty-grams from Mint, saying "You have exceeded you Charity & Donations Budget". I was like, "Huh, what, I did?! Mint, have you been hitting the holiday eggnog?" But then I logged in to further investigate, and lo and behold, I had totally exceeded my budgeted charity givings for the month. And I was so stoked, I printed out the email and pasted it on my corkboard where I put all my other super-important items, like concert stubs, tips on applying eye makup (fail!), and pictures of all my friend's babies they send me to be all "Hey, look at us, we are good breeders and passing on our Hot Lookin' genes to the world. What have you done lately? Oh, exceeded your gas budget...real grown up, Andy. Good job. Now peer into our gorgeous baby's eyes and weep in your self-loathing." (That's totally the desired effect baby pictures are supposed to have on single, childless, perfectly good women who are frittering away their fertile years, rrrright?)

So yeah, turns out I over-gave this holiday season, and my wallet didn't even feel it! How about that! The Big Dude Upstairs is awesome for stretching my money this year. And you know who else is awesome? All the amazing charities out there who deserve a lot more support than my piddly dollars. So if you have a minute, check out some of my faves. And maybe you can show your Mint who is boss this month.

World Vision- Dude, you can buy 10 ducks for a family (that's ten whole stinkin' ducks, who will have more baby ducks, who will have MORE baby ducks), or you can buy one single season of True Blood on DVD. Same price. One is WAY more adorable, and has less stupid looking spring-loaded fangs and less bad acting. Your call.

Compassion International- I sponsor a kid. And it is one of the best things I have ever done. When I get those little Kenyan report-cards in the mail showing me how she is doing in school, you know the waterworks are coming.

Skateistan- I'm not even going to give you a hint about this one...that's how much I think you should check this out on your own. Good things.

Child's Play Charity- Nerd alert. I love nerds. And I love being a nerd.

Wine to Water- This guy took a small idea, and turned it into a big deal. Hero.

Those are a few of my favorites...how about you guys? Any favorite charities you want to plug? List 'em in the comments and I will be sure to check them out. (Also, at least 17 other people who read this blog might check them out too...cuz that's how I roll....high audiences and whatnot) ;)

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Limboing Llamas with Lawnchairs, Oh My!

**Another one from the old blog...still importing and cleaning up**

Okay, so what I'm writing about happened two weeks ago, but I was waiting until I had proof before I posted this blog.

I was at Fort Fisher beach two weekends ago, enjoying a glorious Sunday afternoon basking in the sun and lunching on some Hairy Tits goodies. (For those of you who don't know, Hairy Tits is Harris Teeter. And Publix is Pube Licks, just so we're clear.)

When we got to the beach, there were 9 llamas standing around, with their owners, just chilling at the beach.

Okay, I couldn't just ignore them and go on my merry way, so we walked up to the owners and asked what the heck was up with all the llamas.

The owners said they just felt like bringing the llamas to the beach that day, so there they were! Taking a day on the beach to air out the llamas. I thought I remembered something about llamas being mountain-animals, but I wasn't sure. So I asked, "Are llamas native to beachy areas. I mean, do they like the ocean and sand and whatnot?"

The head llama lady (we'll call her Dolly Llama from now on since I don't know her name...but she kinda looked like a Dolly) looked at me like I was stupid and said "Well, I guess we'll find out today." Whatever.

Now let me tell you. The only thing weirder than 9 llamas on the beach are 9 llama owners on the beach. These people were weeeeeeird. I mean, really really weird.

I thought, "Okay, that's cool. Bringing the llamas to the beach to do a little public edumacation about the way of the llama. I can dig it."

But that's not at all what they were there for. They really didn't want anything to do with anyone else on the beach who showed any interest in the llamas. They just wanted to be in there own llama world...Llamaland.
So once they got settled they busted out the llama games. It was a veritable LLamalympics if you will. First, they started with limbo. Llama limbo. They seriously brought a limbo bar to the beach, and were trying to get these things to limbo. Not UNDER the bar, like human limbo. But OVER the bar. Like dumb llamas.

Only, the llamas looked like they had never seen a limbo bar before, so the owners had to "teach" them how to do it, by "jumping" over the limbo bar first themselves. (I'm using the word "jumping" very loosely, because these llama owners were about as athletic as me...and we all know that I'm the most nonathletic person in the world, next to Anna Nicole Smith. Oh wait, stripping does require some degree of agility...never mind, I now am officially the most nonathletic person in the world. And she's dead anyway.)

Let me tell you, there was only 1 llama out of the 9 who got the whole limbo concept. And I don't think it's because he was any smarter than the others. I don't think any of them were smart at all. I just think his legs were a little longer. That's not skill. That's genes.

So after llama limbo, they played a little marathon game. They had two buckets, strung together, which they slung over each llamas back. The object was to walk to llama to the ocean, the owner would fill the buckets with water, put the buckets back on the llama, and walk back to one giant bucket and empty the water in there. They split up into two teams, and whoever filled their big bucket first was the all mighty winner...the Dalai Llama.

Just one problem with this game...llamas do not in fact like the ocean. I would go so far as the say that they "hate" the ocean. So it ended up just being a human race, with the llamas watching in disbelief at the stupidity and unathleticism of their owners. You know it's sad when a llama, the dorkiest of pets, thinks that you are a dork.

During the water races, one of the llamas (which had been tied to a beach chair during the race since he wasn't participating...he probably had asthma) took off down the beach, still leashed to the beach chair, and dragging it in tow. The Dolly Llama had to chase after the thing down the beach for a few feet. That was probably the most exciting moment of that poor llamas life.

While all of this is going on, and while I am still in disbelief at what I am seeing, it hits me...I don't have my camera with me!!

Now, my friends can vouch for me on this...I ALWAYS have my camera with me. ALWAYS. I bring it to even the most mundane events, trips, get-togethers, etc. Because I never know when something awesome will happen that I'll want a picture of. I bring my camera everywhere.

Except for this day.

So here I am, on the beach, witnessing this remarkably ridiculous spectacle, and I don't have a camera to even prove it.

An hour went by as I watched the llamas, stewing over the fact that I would have no proof. An hour. Then I decided to do something about it.

I found a tourist on the beach. She had a camera. Her name was Cathy. Cathy was now going to be my new best friend. :)

Cathy agreed to take pics of the llamas for me and email them after she got back from her vacation, so I could show you all after writing my blog.

Cathy also suggested that she take a picture of me WITH the llamas. Cathy was now no longer my best friend.

I was terrified of the llamas. Did I mention that earlier? My bad. Yeah, they are creepy. Right up there with clowns, mimes, and marionette dolls. Llamas are creepy.

"Go on up there and I'll get a picture of you with the big one!", Cathy, my ex-bestfriend says.


Now, I can't tell her no and be mean to her, because if I don't do what she says, then I won't get my pics. I was going to have to take one for the team. (And by "team", I mean you, my dear readers. So you best recognize the agony I went through for you!)

So, here I am, next to the biggest, nastiest llama on the beach that day. I thought he was going to tear my arm off. Or at least spit in my eye. But I survived, and here are the pics to prove it. Enjoy.

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Kidney Stones are made from secrets. And embarassment.

If you've ever wondered what Kidney Stones are made from, it is 1/4 Secrets, and 3/4 embarassment.

Last weekend, my baby brother was coming to town. We had schemed and planned and plotted, all the while keeping my mom in the dark about it. He was supposed to arrive at my house around 430 on Sunday, so of course and hour before that the kidneys decided they were going to act up.

330pm Sunday: Sharp, sudden pain in my kidneys. Oh HECK no! I breathe through it, pacing back and forth in my room like a pregnant woman in labor. Nope, not the kidneys. Not today. This is just some weird flukey cramp.

430pm Sunday: .Brother arrives. Mamma is totally surprised. Brother and sister scheming totally worked. Let the awesomeness commence. Home cooking. Looking through old photos. Bizarre inside family jokes centered around Labyrinth and Predator commence.

730pm Sunday: Boyfriend arrives to meet brother for the first time. I'm trying to hide how much pain I am in, and all I desperately want to do is lay down on the sofa. At which point, Brother and Boyfriend decide they are now BFF's and are going to have The Farting Contest of All Farting Contests on the sofa I'm trying to lay down on. Thanks, boys. Really.

Monday: Brother stuck around for breakfast, then left in the afternoon. By the time he hit the road, and by the time Mamma C headed to work, the kidneys were in full outrage. I can pretty much hear them screaming at me by this point. How dare you ignore us for a full 24 hours! You will pay, Host Body. You will pay!

3:30 Monday: Things were bad now. Kidneys were contracting hard core. Had to call Boyfriend to drive me to the E.R.

(Now, I've had kidney issues for 10 years, but this is the first time Boyfriend has experienced it with me.) We get to the ER. Things are feeling really bad. They finally take me from the waiting are to a stretcher in the ER. A male nurse hands me a hospital gown, and says he will be back in a minute once I am undressed.

Awesome.

Doubled-over in pain. Delirious from the 24 straight hours of kidney contractions. And now Boyfriend gets to see me in a hospital "gown".

THIS is a gown...

THIS is not....

Also, since I was entrenched in my No Shave November-ness, I had 22 days worth of glorious growth on my legs. Nothing says "hot" like hairy legs, black ankle socks, and a hospital gown big enough to contain Chris Farley.

"You know, other people have worn these gowns. Sick people wear them, then the hospital washes them and gives them to other patients."

Boyfriend: I know.

"They die in them, too. Someone has probably died in this thing."

Boyfriend: Yes. Probably.

"Hurry up and pull that sheet over my legs so you can't see my fur."

I was totally the sexiest he had ever seen me. I thought things could not get any hotter.

I was wrong.

Urine sample time.

I peed in the cup, passed a kidney stone in the process, and twisted the lid back on the sample. I tried desperately to wrap some papertowels around the cup of pee, trying to hide the contents from view, to no avail. Those hospital paper towels are made from cardboard. Hobbling out of the bathroom back onto the stretcher, I plop the urine sample down on the table.

Don't look at that.

Boyfriend: What is it?

My pee. Just don't look at it.

Boyfriend: You're crazy.

You've already seen my blood (thank you, Wisdom Teeth). And my vomit (on the first date, nonetheless). This is the one thing I have left. Please.

Boyfriend: Okay weirdo.

Then the I.V. of Dilauded pain medicine came. And all the sudden the pain went away. And the worrying about anyone seeing my fur or my pee went away. And one of the last thoughts I remember before they wheeled me down to the CAT Scan was simply this...

I'm glad he's here. Holding my hand through the bars of the stretcher. Not caring about my pee or my leg fur. Just caring about me.

So with one less kidney stone, and one more person to be thankful for this year, I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving. Feel free to tell  me what YOU are thankful for this Thanksgiving Season in the comments section.


Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Are You My Apple?

**(Again, this is an old post that I am importing to this new site. Thanks for hanging in there while I clean-up the blogosphere).**



Okay, you’re gonna find out two things about me in this blog...(neither of them should surprise you.)

1) I’m a jerk.
2) I break my own rules. As a rule. (Wait, then doesn’t that mean that I don’t break my own rules?)

Okay, so I happen to work with a bunch of people who have not too much respect for anyone else in our office. I mean, they’re nice enough, and they speak to eachother respectfully, and they don’t screw you over at work with stuff that’s not your responsibility...no, they’re not THAT kind of disrespectful.

They are a WHOLE OTHER LEVEL of disrespect...a level where people who are THIS disrespectful are reserved a special suite in Hell, along with child molesters, fire starters, and people who stick chewed up gum under conference room tables.

They own the kind of disrespect that makes it okay in their mind to eat someone else’s food out of the office fridge.

I know, I know---I’ll give you a minute to collect your jaw from the floor...it truly is a HORRIFYING sin, so for those of you who are prone to fainting, I’ll wait until you’ve collected your smelling salts before I continue.






....you ready yet?




Okay, cool. On with it.


So, my office peeps have this condemning habit of eating other people’s stuff in the office fridge, that they KNOW isn’t their own food.I put up with it at first, because I was new, and didn’t want to make waves (wait, that doesn’t sound like me.) Ohhh yeah, that’s right, I put up with it at first because I was blinded by the giddyness of having a new job that I didn’t care if they stored monkey poop in that fridge of ours.

But, the honeymoon phase has ended, and I have grown tired of people eating/drinking my stuff.
So, like the jerk I am...I made a sign.

Now, you all know those people in your office, ’cuz every office has at least one person like this...THE SIGN MAKER.

They make signs for everything...they put instructions on the fax machine so you don’t have to "bother" them and ask how to work it; they make signs on the light switches, reading "Please Shut Off At Night"; they make signs on their office doors that say "Please Knock First"; they make little mini-sticker-signs on ALL of their pens, so no one will steal them from them. You know who I’m talking about.


Yeah, I know, I hate those sign-makers, too.

But, I have now had to join forces with the Sign-Makers, and make a sign of my own.

A few months ago, there was an "episode" in my office, involving one particular can of Diet Coke ( I won’t bore you with the story here, because most of my poor friends had to already listen to me have verbal diarrhea about it for a week), but anyway, if you know me, you know that you can do just about anything to me and we’ll still be friends (I’m resiliant like that), but if you touch my Diet Coke, it is WAR.

And not the kind of friendly war where I send my troops over to your country to fight, but in their free time they pass out Beanie Babies and immunization shots to all the local kids.

No no.

I mean the kind of war where in my soldiers free time, they are encouraged to pass out infested blankets and pee on national monuments. Yyyeah. THAT kind of war.


So, like I said...someone messed with my Diet Coke. Okay, it’s on.

After the battle between my coworker and myself had ended, I had to submit to my hatred of sign-makers, and join in their endeavor...I had to make a sign.

That sign was created 3 months ago, and all has been well so far.

Until today.

Today, I’m hungry.

And I can’t remember if that red apple in there is mine or not.

I think it’s mine, because I have the tendancy to not eat my entire lunch, so I’ll always have a yogurt or fruit leftover to have for breakfast the next day.

And I also think it’s mine, because I know for a fact that at home right now, there is an entire bag of Fuji apples that have that same "4131" sticker on them.

BUT, I’m not 100% sure.

And I am 100% hungry.

Now, I don’t know how the Food Sticker Industry works. Do ALL Fuji apples everywhere bear the "4131" stamp? Because if so, then I can’t touch the apple...the risk is too great that it belongs to someone else.

BUT---If the "4131" is signifying a particular batch of apples, then the chances are HUGE that it is, in fact, MY apple, and that I can eat it without breaking my own established rule.


Ohhhhhhhhh, what would Snow White do?


Would she eat it?


Heck yes she would! That hungry little snipe ate apples offered by a crotchety, wart-riddled, stranger in the middle of the woods!

I know there’s supposed to be one angel on my left shoulder, and one little devil on my right. Okay, check! I’ve got that going for me.

BUT, they both look pretty hungry. I mean- what kind of person would I be if I starved an imaginary angel?


Then again, what kind of person would I be if I fed an imaginary devil?

OH 4131.....WHAT DO YOU MEAN? WHAT DO YOU SIGNIFY?


Okay, I’ve made my decision...

If that apple sticker had "666" on it...then I TOTALLY wouldn’t eat it.

BUT, it doesn’t.

So I’m chowing down.


And possibly breaking my own rule.

Or possibly adhering to my own rule.

Who knows. But I’m hungry. And when a big girl is hungry, we can rationalize anything...even stealing (or not stealing) fruit that isn’t ours (or really is ours.)


I’m heading to the fridge....


Cellulite and Tell You Right,



Andy

The Time We Accidentally Joined a Cult

**(This is another import from my old blog)**

So, waaaaaaaaay back in high school, my bestest bud Brandon and I were "office assistants" in the Guidance Office. Which basically meant for an entire period we got to pretend we were helping out the guidance counselors, but in reality it was a free pass to do bad stuff and get away with it because the guidance counselor secretaries loved us to pieces. They were your classic high school secretaries....old, gray-haired, outdated glasses, hearts of gold, and a little slow on the uptake. Perfect for truancy-terrorists like us.

And thanks to them, this blog is about the time Brandon and I accidentally joined a cult, all thanks to the 'guidance' of our guidance counselors.

The guidance counselors approached Brandon and me one day and asked if we'd be interested in attending a luncheon to represent our high school. We were suspicious from the get-go. We definitely weren't the WORST kids in our high school. We went to school in Baltimore, which meant more than half of our fellow students already had a rap sheet. But we certainly weren't the BEST students, either. We wouldn't be your top pick as "representatives" for our school. Something was up...
Counselor: Hey guys, would you be interested in attending a lunch on CHS's behalf?
Brandon and Me: Um, you just need us to go to a lunch?
Counselor: Yeah, it would be you and a couple other seniors, plus the Vice Principal.
B and Me: And the catch is...?
Counselor: No catch. You just get to go to Martin's West (which was a la-dee-da kind of reception hall in Baltimore), have a free lunch, and do it all on school time. You'll get out of all of your classes that day.
B and Me: Sweet, we're in.

So a few weeks later, Brandon, myself, and a few other seniors show up at this lunch. We get to our assigned table, find our V.P. and the other kids, take our seats, make small talk, etc. (By the way, making small talk with the Vice Principal at your school when you're 16 years old...sUper uncomfortable.)

Before lunch is served, the host of the lunch gets up to the podium and asks us all to bow our heads to say grace before we eat. Now, those of you reading this who grew up in the South will think nothing of this. But to all my friends from back home in Baltimore, you'll understand that this just IS NOT DONE in the public school systems at all. I mean, people up North don't just go around willy nilly bowing their heads and thanking God for things out loud and in public. So that was weird activity number one.

Here comes weird activity number two....

We get through the prayer, and the emcee asks us all to stand while we sing along together. I'm thinking to myself, "Sing...What the?...What is going on here...I thought all we had to do was show up and eat lunch, now we're singing and praying. Too weird."

So Brandon and I throw each other a sideways glance, and sing along to the song as best we can. It's a song that NEITHER of us had ever heard, so we fudged and slurred our way through it as best we could, while trying not to laugh and piss off our Vice Principal. The song was something about Johnny Appleseed... which I managed to find online (God Bless Google), so here it is. How did that song relate to what we were doing there that day???? Good question. I have no idea.

So forever goes by, and we finally finish with all the praying and singing and whatnot, and they have us eat lunch.

Just when I'm thinking I'm free to leave and skip school for the rest of the day, the speaker asks us all to stand at our tables, raise our right hands and repeat after him...oh geez, here comes weird activity number 3.

So before I knew it, there was a room full of hundreds of high school kids, all taking some kind of oath or vow together, and I hadn't been paying enough attention to realize what was even going on. But there I stood, right hand in air, repeating whatever words were up on the screen.

Next thing I knew the speaker was congratulating us on becoming Rotarians, and we were given a membership card and everything. "Thanks for coming today, we had a wonderful time meeting you all, you are dismissed."

So, Brandon and I walk out to the parking log, get in the car, look at each other, and say "What the heck is a Rotarian? And what just happened in there?"

Our guidance counselors duped us!!! They were supposed to be there to guide us and shed light on our indecisions, and there we were, accidentally joining some group called the "Rotarians", thanks to their "guidance".

I was sure that after I got home that night I would realize that the food was poisoned and I would die in my sleep, along with all the other hundreds of kids who were tricked into becoming Rotarians that day. Man, that would really make for a story.

Instead, all I have is this old faded membership card, and an anticlimactic story about accidentally joining a cult, which turns out to not really be a cult at all.

Man, it's amazing what Americans will do for a free meal ticket.

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy (Junior Rotarian)

Embarrassment Illustrated

***(Hey all, I am shutting down my old blog site, so I'm transferring a few oldies from there to this site. Some of you might have read this before.)***
                                                                                                                                                       

Okay, so I had to go into the doctor the other day for some tests and whatnot. And I don't want to get on a soapbox about how "Men have no idea what it is like to be a woman" and what not, but seriously....Men have NO idea!

Being conscious during a pelvic procedure is totally torturesome. As if FEELING the procedure isn't enough, we also get to HEAR every thing going on. Sounds of metal scraping. The noise of the expandable tools clicking into place. We get to SEE exactly what they are putting in and taking out of us thanks to that perfectly eye-level tray of implements. And the doctor usually TALKS through the entire procedure. I just want to scream to him "Hey down there! Cut it out! If I wanted a play by play of my colposcopy I would have brought John Madden along with me. I'm trying to force myself into an out-of-body experience, and all of your jibba-jabba is distracting me!" I always tell myself I will follow through and shout this out to the Coochie Doctor, but believe me, the one dude you absolutely do not want to piss off is someone who will be digging around in your vajajay for the next hour.

Like every totally healthy girl, I like to mask my fear with comedy. (I know, I'm super mature, right?). So without further adieu while I wait for the test results, I wanted to share with you my illustration of Tuesday's events. And, for extra entertainment, I included a chart, which will show you my new theory. It is the "Love for My Vagina" chart, and it shows the direct relationship of love for my vagina to the amount of exposure time. It's really scientific and compelling stuff. I expect my honorary degree from Princeton to arrive any day now. (I hand-drew the chart first, then my buddy Rob made it look all official and whatnot for me...cuz that is what good friends with Graphic Design degrees do for you...they make graphs about your vagina.)

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

I need Wisdom Teeth like I need 4 new holes in my head (oh wait...)

It is no surprise I recently had all 4 of my wisdom teeth removed. I whined about it to anyone who would listen, and basically gave a play-by-play of the aftermath going on in my mouth through my Facebook status updates.

Long story short...it was awful. Majorly impacted. Sinus cavities penetrated. Week and a half off of work to recover. Shards of jaw bone working their way through my gums. It was gnarly.

But, I won't bore you with the details. I'll just bore you with the funny stuff that happened during my "recovery" (which felt more like assault and battery, but whose counting stitches?)

Story #1

Leaving the surgeon's office directly after the procedure, my mouth was shoved full of gauze to soak up the bleeding. The problem was that we had to drive 20 minutes to get to my pharmacist to fill the prescriptions, and then sit in the drive-thru pharmacy line for another 10 minutes. We learned very quickly that gauze is finite, and will only hold a certain amount of blood. After that, you're on your own. So sitting in the passenger seat, waiting patiently for the drive-thru drug-giver to dole us out the goodies, it all went down. Blood started pouring out of my mouth. It was running down my chin. Dripping onto my shirt. I was gagging from swallowing so much of it. At one point I started to spit it onto the floor of the truck. Combine this with the spaced-out after effects of the anesthesia and you can imagine the sight. Head lolling to one side. Blood and drool spewing from my mouth. Eyes unable to stay open and focused. Moaning loudly and incoherently. That's right, dear Pharmacist...the Zombie Apocalypse is upon us. Now give me the stinkin' drugs or I will come through that giant glass window and start nomming at your brains.

Story #2
So Boyfriend had been planning on coming over to check on me after the surgery. He tried to make it sound all "Oh sweetie, I just want to check on you and make sure you're okay", but really I know he was really just hoping to get a good laugh out of my post-anesthesia daze and to probably make fun of my chipmunk cheeks. When I got home from surgery, thanks to the anesthesia making me cra-cra-crazy, I became very worried about him coming over and making sure everything was "just so". (Sooooooo not me, right?!) I couldn't talk, but started to scrawl little nuggets of nuttiness to my mother about him coming over. Here is one of my favorites...

Clearly, bathroom reading material had become enough of a warped-concern for me that I went to the energy and effort of putting some books on the back of the toilet tank so that if Boyfriend had to use the bathroom while he was visiting he would have something to read. Cuz that's a normal priority when you are fresh out of surgery, right? Also, "potty"? Really?

Story #3


I had finally settled down into my favorite cushion crack of the sofa, and we were watching TV later that night. Still fighting the anesthesia, and now my loopiness is compounded by the fistful of drugs I was prescribed. I remember the E! True Hollywood Story of Dog the Bounty Hunter was on TV (seriously, why?). I started pointing to everyone who popped up on the screen, saying "You get a divorce!", "YOU get a divorce,"  "AND YOU get a divorce!", but in the Oprah "You get a car" voice. I don't even like Oprah. Or Dog the Bounty Hunter. Or divorce. But apparently the drugs loooooved that combination.




Story #4

Another note from that night...this time written to Boyfriend.

Why the heck was I trying to give away the ice cream in my house?!?!? That ice cream was specifically bought for me! And since when does my brain use the word "sammies" instead of "sandwiches"? Apparently I become Rachel Ray when I'm on drugs.

The next time I am playing nurse for one of my recently-recovered friends, you can bet I will be expecting bathroom reading material and ice cream sammies, or I am SOOOOO walking!


Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

There is not enough Listerine in all the world

Sadly, this is a true story.

As many of you know, I work in an environment where 99% of the people I come in contact with on a daily basis are an average age of 83.

Old people...God love 'em. They are close talkers. And butt pinchers. And heavy perfume wearers. And oblivious farters. These are just some of the precious facets I get to see every day.

One day in particular will live on in infamy on my Top 5 Worst Things That Have Happened At Work List. In my head, I have deemed this incident "Old Man Cookie Mouth".

Explain, you ask?

Why certainly...

Scene: Me at the office.

Setting: Tra la la, life is good, minding my own business, ready to head out for my lunch break, happy as a clam. No, scratch that. Happier than a clam! I don't know many clams that look that happy. Unless they have a pearl inside them...then they would be GIDDY, right? Oh wait, that's oysters. Never mind. Let's just say I'm fairly happy. Somewhere in between a clam and an oyster, on the mollusk scale of happiness.

I exit my office suite and into the hall to make my way to the elevator. The hall is jam packed with all the old folks though. They had just gotten out of a class, and were milling around catching up on each other's medications and aches and "Guess who died?"'s.

I can do this, I thought. I can totally weave in between the conversations without being noticed and make my way to my car without getting trapped. Just be fast. Like a cheetah. But don't knock anyone over with a cane. Easy now. Steaaaaady. Steaaaaaady.

"Andy, my dear!"

Crap.

"Emmett, I'm just on my way out."

"Andy, the committee met and asked me to approach you and see if we could possibly switch from the powdered creamer to the liquid creamer? That stuff tastes like drywall dust."

Oh em gee. Is this conversation really going to suck up 5 precious minutes of my lunch break? And why do they have to stand so close to you when they talk? Ugh. Close Talkers.

He moves to bring a cookie to his mouth and I take the opportunity to answer quickly then try and bolt before he can speak again.

"Sure, Emmett, I will see what the budget..."

"Andy, don't talk to me about budgets..."

And as he interrupted me, my mouth was still open, trying to finish my sentence when all of the sudden, a chewed up piece of cookie came flying at me from his denture-cream glopped up mouth and landed directly on my tongue!!!!!

OH EM GEE WHAT THE CRAP IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING SICK SICK SICK GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT!

I am no statistician. In fact, I had to google how to spell 'statistician'. But I'm pretty sure the odds of someone spitting something out of their mouth and having it land directly in yours is, like, 1 in 468,933,246 or something like that.

I ran through the hall, spitting out what I could onto the carpet as I made my way down the stairs. No time to wait for an elevator at a time like this.

OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT SICK DUDE SICK SICK SICK SICK.

Ran to my car, sped to the nearest CVS, where I promptly bought a king-sized bottle of Listerine. And not that nice, alcohol-free stuff that you would want to use when swishing at home. I'm talking about the old school, burn your entire palette, fresh breath for the next 2 months kind of Listerine.

I went out to the parking lot, sat in the drivers seat with the car door wide open into the empty parking space next to me, and cracked that bad boy open. I went through the entire bottle. Swishing. Gargling. Spitting it out into the pavement. I even swallowed some for good measure (and possibly hoping it would burn a hole in the memory cortex of my brain so I could forget this nightmare forever and ever Amen).

I must have looked like one of those sad drunks who can't afford alcohol so they get their buzz on mouthwash to make it through the day. All I needed was the paper bag around the bottle.

And THAT, my friends, is how I spent an hour of my life that day. Washing the remnants of Old Man Cookie Mouth out of my mouth. Wondering how I got here in life.

***********************************

Wanna kiss?

Cellulite and Tell  You Right,
Andy

I wish I was making this up...

Boss (who is perpetually late): Oh sorry, I'm running late this morning. I forgot to set my clocks back, can you believe it?

Me: Shouldn't you be early then, and not late?

Boss: (crickets chirping)

I just have to keep reminding myself that I am thankful that I have a job.

Also, I think I'm going to turn all of these weird things my boss says into a series on here. Gotta come up with a catchy title first. Hmmmmm....Stay tuned.

Fear and Loathing in November

As most of you know, I try to have the fewest things I am obligated to in my life at all times. I went through this whole life-altering realization a few years ago that I did waaaay too many things out of obligation and guilt, and that it was going to stop immediately.

Surprisingly, I have been doing amazingly well with this for the past few years. I have been able to keep my calendar mostly balanced, with the occasional blip here and there.

Until November.

What the frig happened to my November?!

Crazy Idea #1: Somehow, I decided it would be awesome to take a "Conversational French" class every Tuesday night in November.
(One important thing to note: The full extent of my knowledge of the French language comes from reading Eloise books, having an uncontrollable obsession with all of the French movies that Gérard Depardieu has been in, and love love loving Leslie Caron. What the heck was I thinking?) Here is the extent of what I learned after one session of the class... "Conversational" ≠ "Beginner". They are two VERY different things. Also, French is NOT Spanish. I had 6 years of Spanish under my belt...I figured I would totes be able to pick up French in un minuto. Wrooooong! I spent 2 hours avoiding eye contact with the teacher in the fear I would be called on. And also spent two hours feeling like I was 16 again, but not in the fun "Hey look, I have perky boobs again" kind of way. More the "Omg, I haven't done my homework in 2 weeks, I hope that doesn't show up on my report card, my mom will kill me" kind of way.

Crazy Idea #2: Starting the Couch to 5K training plan.
Oh man, even typing that out makes me crack up laughing. Those of you who know/have seen me, know I am not built to be a runner. I have fat knees that look really stupid in those running shorts. And super high arches. And ginormous boobs which will seriously poke me in the eyeball if they aren't strapped down with so much Duck Tape that I won't be able to breathe properly and will pass out before I get beyond my block of houses. But it sounded like a good idea at the time. And honestly, the first few weeks are not bad at all. Ask me again how I feel about this in a few weeks, and I might throw my Duck Tape-reinforced sports bra right at your naturally skinny face.

Crazy Idea #5 (I know, we skipped 3 & 4, but crazy ideas multiply exponentially...try to keep up): NaNoWriMo.
Basically, this is a writing exercise in production, with an emphasis on quantity over quality. It just frees you up to write write write write write and not get bogged down in the editing process too much. The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in one month's time. Now, if you rock, you could pump out 1,666 words a day and it would be a cake walk. That is, if you have time EVERY DAY to write. Which is a laugh. Especially since I have already signed up for the Couchto5K and the Conversational French class. So basically my Sunday through Wednesdays are completely booked and zero words will get written. Which leaves me with Thursday, Friday, and Saturday to write 4,166 words each day. But let's be honest....Thursday is the first night all week that I get home before 10pm. That night will clearly have to be used for laundry, plucking my eyebrows, pretending I have enough money in my bank account to clear all the checks I have to write to pay my bills, and in general vegging on the couch and trying to regain some semblance of sanity before I pass out on the sofa around 830pm and drool all over my favorite pillow. So that really leaves Friday and Saturday. Which would mean 6,250 words each of those days. But come on. You know Boyfriend and I are going to want to do something fun on either Friday or Saturday night. (Which basically means staying at home to watch UFC on the television and eating frozen pizzas because we are both super broke lately.) But still, we have fun. And fun is NECESSARY for sanity. So that kind of leaves me with one single solitary day a week that I might possibly eek out some writing if I am very lucky and wake up super early and the stars all align and there isn't a marathon of America's Next Top Model showing on TV. So yyyyyyeah, I'm thinking 50,000 words just aren't going to happen. I will be lucky if i get 5,000. But hey, it is all for fun and exercise. So I'm all in.

Crazy Idea #25: Give up soda during the week, forcing myself to only drink water or juice.
I am allowing myself one soda on Sundays before I have to jump in a room where I am responsible for 20 children, all three years old (or maybe younger). (Okay, clearly I must have bumped my head while doing my Couch to 5K run. This is the worst idea EVER!) Caffeine is SO needed to make it through my November.

Crazy Idea #625: Agree to paint my boss's spare bedroom.
I seriously don't know how this one happened. One minute I was living a life where I would never have to darken the doorway of my boss' house ever. The next I had agreed to not only come to her personal home, but to provide a service. I must have been in a very exhausted, very broke place in life for me to agree to this. (Also, bizarre side note: She is painting her spare bedroom the exact color of our offices. On purpose. Why would you EVER want to be sitting at home and be reminded of your office? I don't get it. Unless you are one of those people who just looooves their job because oh.em.gee. it is SO super great and fulfilling and honorable. And if that is the case, we are probably not friends, and you're probably not reading this blog.)

So in light of these ridiculous projects I have already taken on this month, I am also going to add one more to the list...

I am going to participate in No Shave November. Which actually is PERFECT timing, because it accomplishes two things: 1) Frees up exactly 12-20 minutes a week of my life to write/run/learn French/drink water/paint a room instead of shaving. Score for "found" time! And 2) Allows me to stay all warm and toasty since it has finally decided to start acting like Fall in my neck of the woods and things have gotten a little brisker. Plus, once my body hair starts to get reallllly long, we can compare who is the fuzziest, which will give Boyfriend and me something to do that is cheap and also gross entertaining. Score.

Sooooo, all of that to say this...

If during your morning commute, you see some furry-legged woman trying to run, all while she is listening to French lessons on her iPod, writing in a small journal, drinking something that looks like Coke out of her Deer Park water bottle and covered in paint splotches...Yyyyeah, that will be me. Hot, right?

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy