Deja Vu

I read once that when you experience deja vu it means you are in the right place at the right time. Like it’s the universe’s way of letting you know that you’re on the right path.

I never experience deja vu, so this theory makes me a little nervous. But every morning that I drive home from yoga and I see the two little corgis on their morning walk past my apartment, waggling their fuzzy little corgi butts, I take it as a sign that I’m in the right place at the right time.

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Christmas Shopping

Is there anything more aggravating than shopping for a man?

I’m super easy to shop for. Get me something sparkly, ocean-themed, or lipstick and I’m happy as a clam. I am so easy to shop for that I find myself frequently buying presents for me while shopping for other people. (I may be on the naughty list, but that doesn’t mean I can’t treat myself, Parks and Rec style.)

Men, though. Men are horrible to shop for. All they want is clothes that they don’t have to try on and beards. Look, men — one of those things is priceless and the other is impossible.

Funny Stories

I like to think I’m full of funny stories. This is because I have a penchant for drama, a ken for nonsense, and a natural magnetism for drunkenness.

Tonight I was out at the Cornish Pasty having a drink with Lover when I decided we should do an Irish car bomb shot. We cheers-ed to a three day weekend (his through work, mine through PTO) and drank as quickly as we could. He said he couldn’t remember the last time he did an Irish car bomb. I remembered vividly the last time I did one.

It was a little over a year ago, mid-October, before the first time Lover came to visit me. We were talking nonstop, but hadn’t yet kissed. A man we shall call Hairy Karl texted me and asked me to meet him for a drink. We had met on Labor Day when Melbourne and I had a bunch of friends join us for a pool party. Melbourne had spent the day hitting on him and telling him how much she loved his hairiness.

(Melbourne loves hairy men, and she was pretty close to breaking up with her boyfriend, so I had an aha moment.)

Aha! I thought. Hairy Karl will meet Melbourne and I for a drink, and I will hook them up, and all will be well.

Yeah . . . not so much.

The night out was fun. I told them about my upcoming week of endless sex and Halloween festivities. Hairy Karl told us about his new apartment and how he liked living in Scottsdale. Melbourne complained about her boyfriend. We all drank heartily. She and I ordered Irish car bombs and were presented with foamy glasses. We looked at each other helplessly.

“Did he pour the shot in already?” she asked.
“I . . . hope not, but I can’t tell,” I answered.
We hesitated, then cheers-ed and drank.

About a minute later, the bartender returned with the shots. We looked at each other helplessly. The bartender apologized. (Apparently it wasn’t the first time.) He gave us more beer.

Car bombs were consumed.

The night ended with Hairy Karl calling an Uber, and Melbourne and I walking home. I learned on the way that Hairy Karl wanted to date me, and I had embarrassed the shit out of him by bringing Melbourne. I couldn’t tell her that I was hoping she and he would hook up, so I just acted abashed (which was not entirely an act).

I enjoyed retelling this for Lover and thought you, dear readers, might enjoy it too.

So here’s to Irish car bombs and other people’s bad relationships.

Slainte.

Writing Bug

Welp, I’ve gone and caught the writing bug again. After a dismal failure in 2015, I skipped NaNoWriMo last year and spent November 2016 in a pleasant new-relationship hum and spent a lot of time drinking and watching football*.

But this year I mentioned it to a new friend in my group chat (it’s a local group for nerdy ladies) who was talking about wanting to write more, and now I’ve found myself with a writing buddy and a surprising amount of inspiration. On November 1 five of us met at a coffee shop (I rode my bike to the coffee shop, and then proceeded to write on my Mac while drinking local beer. I know, I hate myself too) to write and brainstorm and hang out. Turns out two of the group didn’t want to write, and one was editing grants, but two of us were definitely participating in NaNoWriMo.

I’m using Scrivener, and its word goal is super helpful. You can set your goal for the day, and the color changes from a vivid Snow-White’s-blood-red to a happy Bulbasaur green as you finish, hitting nausea-orange and indigestion-yellow along the way.

My project is a series of short stories about fairies. I think fate is on my side this year, because while hunting for a book I wanted I asked my sister if I should get the 25$ deluxe edition off Amazon or the 8$ regular edition off HalfPriceBooks, she walks into the living room and pulls the book off the shelf because she stole it from our dad when we moved out here.

My brain is awash in pipers and magic horses and sacrifice and wine. Here goes nothing!

*By watching I mean sitting at a bar while the game was on, not actually paying attention to or caring about

Honey, Honey

I am tired of shaving. I am tired of buying new razors and razor burn and ingrown hairs and being embarrassed at the pool when it’s been a few days (okay, a week and a half) since I’ve shaved.

So I decided to get my first Brazilian. Before you get too proud of me, I did sugaring, not waxing, which I’ve heard is gentler. I also had it done by the lady who has been doing my eyelash extensions all year, so we’re practically besties.

The process starts with removing your pants. So there I am, laying on my back on the table, wearing nothing but my work polo and a grimace. I have a travel pillow wrapped around my neck, and I am gripping it like it’s a shoulder restraint on the Top Thrill Dragster.

She starts talking to distract me, which works pretty well, until she pulls the first strip off and my hips shoot up from the table like a firework on the Fourth of July.

“Okay,” she says. “We learned you’re a jumper.”

“I’m sorry,” I whimper. “Am I the biggest baby you’ve ever done this to?”

She assures me I am not, and then asks me to butterfly my legs and relax.
. . .
Go ahead and try that right now, and see how well you relax. I’ll wait.


Fun, right? Now try butterflying your legs while naked from the waist down while someone removes your hair. But do that on your own time, I’m done waiting.

So the process continues, she compliments my mermaid tattoo, and in the middle of her compliment removes the worst piece and I yelp, my hips jerking spastically.

Then she goes, “Okay! It’s time for the bum!” She says this in the most chipper voice, not the voice of someone asking you to show off your bumble on a Thursday afternoon. (Fun fact: my browser autocorrected bumhole to bumble. Do you think it will catch on?)

I am left with no choice but to pull my legs into my chest and hold them as she continues her sugar attack.

And then I paid her for her time and unflagging optimism.

And I did all this so I can spend the next week on the beach without having to shave. What a time to be alive.

Addiction or Hobby

I wrote a post a while back about not being able to stick to things. And I’ve actually gotten better! I’ve been doing yoga five or six times a week for months now. I’ve been keeping a bullet journal. I put on retinol face cream at night (and oh my god, my skin looks amazing).

So I decided it was time for a new challenge. I like to joke that it isn’t worth drinking if it doesn’t have alcohol or caffeine, but after drinking until 3am a few Saturdays ago and coming home feeling sober, I realized I might need to stop saying such fate-provoking things.

So Lover and I decided to give up drinking for two weeks. It’s been 9 days, and surprisingly, easier than I thought. I have been genuinely surprised by how much I use drinking for entertainment. Nothing to do on a Friday? Stay in and drink. Nothing to do on a Saturday? Go out and drink! But alas, I had to find a real hobby last weekend.

So, I stayed home playing video games because it’s too hot to go outside. Sunday I woke up at 6:15am WITHOUT AN ALARM CLOCK AND I WASN’T TIRED. It was incredible. I went to the pool and read books until I got hungry.

But, being the stubborn Cancer that I am, this wasn’t enough of a challenge so I decided to cut back on caffeine. (I am not a certified lunatic, so I didn’t give it up entirely, I just decided to drink less.) Going cold turkey on caffeine would probably end up with me being fired for either crying from a migraine, not showing up at all, yelling at a client, or all three.

Now, this is hell. (What a surprise, to learn that the vice I thought I had was only a hobby, and what I thought was my morning routine is a legitimate addiction.) I felt like I had the flu for the better part of a week after cutting down to one cup of coffee a day. I snapped at Lover and Ithaca. I growled when approached and fell asleep early. I would not recommend this to anyone.

But the quest for self-improvement goes ever onward. Wish me luck!

Sleepless

I’ve been yawning all day. I’m so tired that I tried to pick up the splatter guard for the chicken I was making, grabbed the handle of the pan instead, and yelped because I thought I had melted the splatter guard to the pan.

It’s because last night at 2:45am Lover woke me up because I was hyperventilating in my sleep from a nightmare. And he held me and let me explain the dream until it sounded stupid and when I told him I couldn’t sleep anymore, he told me to turn the lights on so things would be less scary. And I read, with all the lights on, until sunrise when I snatched another hour of sleep in his arms.

And I thought, oh. So this is what love is.