I grounded myself from the Blogosphere.
You may have noticed.
We have a love-hate relationship. Kind of like my relationship with Facebook.
It's not them; it's me.
But at work I came across something adorable that made me sigh out loud like a pansy 8th grader during the final scene of High School Musical 2. (Please read this next sentence as though it is dripping with sarcasm) And I know how you love when I share with you all about my work.
I wasn't going to blog, but this might help out the gents, and the gents know they need all the advice they can get (here's some more advice: get off the girly blog and go catch a football or a delicious bass or something).
This evening as I was getting ready to close up the shop, a regal-sounding man called in requesting a 3-rose wrap-bouquet. Light pink. Because he called ahead (<------do that), I was able to put some extra time and love into the pretty-lil'-thang (<------I refer to flowers as though they are my girlfriends).
The suited man rode up to the store on his bike 20 minutes later. He had just gotten off a long day at work and dropped by to pick up some flowers for his woman waiting at home. Friendly and happy and complimentary, he held his bouquet with care. I asked him whether it would be difficult to ride his bike home while holding the flowers, but he smiled and assured me that it was amazing what he could do with just one hand when he needed to.
I watched in awe as he walked outside, buckled his helmet into place, tucked his bouquet into one arm, and rode off into the sunset.
Middle aged. Suited. On a bike. Carrying roses.
I submit this to be better than Liam Hemsworth.
And since I'm already blogging . . .
I voted! (and I read a Usage Dictionary before bed?)
From this experience, I correctly learned how to incorrectly vote.
Even though I thought I'd rather give blood than go vote (for some reason I've always associated the two--lines and stickers maybe),
I fully intended to read up on the candidates before casting my ballot.
Then I fell asleep. And the next thing I knew, my politically-inclined brother was dragging me to the polls. I really didn't have a say in the matter. He registered me already, and it would be a waste of a project to leave me at home. I've pathetically enough put no effort into this.
So I voted.
- I voted for one candidate based on the fact that his opponent had a really annoying fan-base on a street corner on my way over, and I just couldn't select that guy.
- I voted for another based on my annoyance with his opponent's cheesy campaign slogan.
- I voted for one based on the fact that his face hadn't been plastered, as big as my dog, on every street corner.
- Another got my vote because I'm sick of all the haters obsessing over getting rid of him (Hating on haters).
- I voted for one man because his name was Larry.
- And the final guy received my vote because I hadn't received half a dozen machine-automated phone-calls asking for my support for him.
Basically I'm just anti-advertisement or something.
But then after I had voted, I actually went and read up on everyone and realized that my method probably could use some revising.
Whatever. It's only the Primarys.
Don't be like me when you fulfill your civic duties and stuff.
You may have noticed.
We have a love-hate relationship. Kind of like my relationship with Facebook.
It's not them; it's me.
But at work I came across something adorable that made me sigh out loud like a pansy 8th grader during the final scene of High School Musical 2. (Please read this next sentence as though it is dripping with sarcasm) And I know how you love when I share with you all about my work.
I wasn't going to blog, but this might help out the gents, and the gents know they need all the advice they can get (here's some more advice: get off the girly blog and go catch a football or a delicious bass or something).
This evening as I was getting ready to close up the shop, a regal-sounding man called in requesting a 3-rose wrap-bouquet. Light pink. Because he called ahead (<------do that), I was able to put some extra time and love into the pretty-lil'-thang (<------I refer to flowers as though they are my girlfriends).
The suited man rode up to the store on his bike 20 minutes later. He had just gotten off a long day at work and dropped by to pick up some flowers for his woman waiting at home. Friendly and happy and complimentary, he held his bouquet with care. I asked him whether it would be difficult to ride his bike home while holding the flowers, but he smiled and assured me that it was amazing what he could do with just one hand when he needed to.
I watched in awe as he walked outside, buckled his helmet into place, tucked his bouquet into one arm, and rode off into the sunset.
Middle aged. Suited. On a bike. Carrying roses.
I submit this to be better than Liam Hemsworth.
And since I'm already blogging . . .
I voted! (and I read a Usage Dictionary before bed?)
From this experience, I correctly learned how to incorrectly vote.
Even though I thought I'd rather give blood than go vote (for some reason I've always associated the two--lines and stickers maybe),
I fully intended to read up on the candidates before casting my ballot.
Then I fell asleep. And the next thing I knew, my politically-inclined brother was dragging me to the polls. I really didn't have a say in the matter. He registered me already, and it would be a waste of a project to leave me at home. I've pathetically enough put no effort into this.
So I voted.
- I voted for one candidate based on the fact that his opponent had a really annoying fan-base on a street corner on my way over, and I just couldn't select that guy.
- I voted for another based on my annoyance with his opponent's cheesy campaign slogan.
- I voted for one based on the fact that his face hadn't been plastered, as big as my dog, on every street corner.
- Another got my vote because I'm sick of all the haters obsessing over getting rid of him (Hating on haters).
- I voted for one man because his name was Larry.
- And the final guy received my vote because I hadn't received half a dozen machine-automated phone-calls asking for my support for him.
Basically I'm just anti-advertisement or something.
But then after I had voted, I actually went and read up on everyone and realized that my method probably could use some revising.
Whatever. It's only the Primarys.
Don't be like me when you fulfill your civic duties and stuff.
Dear Ladyfriends,
If you're going to wear a heavy backpack with a lightweight skirt, just--be careful.
And maybe wear spandex booty-shorts for flash-insurance. With that being said . . .
I'm mostly just astonished that I didn't get whistled at; this campus is chalk-full of construction workers.
I'm also marginally embarrassed, but this blog has ruined me. Instead of locking myself in the bathroom to have a good long cry like any normal person would do after such a mortifying occurrence, "embarrassing" moments transfer to excitement that I get to share something so raucously exposing about myself with the World Wide Web. This complex definitely qualifies as a Simpleton Pleasure.
Never make a blog. It will ruin your life.
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I whistled and smiled gaily at everyone with whom I made eye-contact as I crossed three major intersections on my way to class after work. The weather was warm and perfect, with a nice breeze. I noted the breeze to be particularly pleasant on my lower half. Too pleasant, maybe.
I looked down, cautiously and suspiciously, with a bit of fear in my heart.
. . . normal. Whew. What a rare and exquisite treat in my life.
I breathed a sigh of relief and crossed the final intersection with an added spring in my step, as people often do when they are fully clothed.
Arriving successfully at the other side of the street, I smoothed the back of my skirt down.
Gulp.
There was no back of my skirt. The front looked as in-tact as ever, but the back felt more like freshly-shaven hamstrings than beautiful cotton clothing of joy. Apparently my joy-clothing had hitched a ride on my backpack and slid up to the party that is my lower-back, just enough so that my new lacy underwear could have a nice view of Provo. It was only fair; the rest of my collection of spicy underwear has already seen the outside world at some point. This is my life.
Already knowing what I would see, I slowly peered over my shoulder.
Oh good. Half a dozen guys, suddenly very interested in and happy about something in the sky. Probably a new super-hero: The Streak, flying cousin to The Flash.
And this is why everyone in every car had been looking at me like I was the frightening center of their universe.
I really should recognize that look by now. Live and learn. Live and burn.
1. I delivered a centerpiece to a woman who screamed and nearly stopped breathing because she was so excited. Walking back to the car, I was on such a high from her bizarre reaction that I giggled loudly and shouted hello to a girl sitting 20 yards down the hall whom I'd never seen before. I played it off more smoothly than I should have, considering I still haven't made the Police Beat and would desperately love to be cited for "Suspicious Behavior".
2. I accidentally flashed a street full of giddy spectators (TMI-esque drawing and details forthcoming).
3. I had some extra time (I had a German final I should've been studying for...), so I declared my "new" major. This is a full year after switching over from my math major, which also was never declared. And I maybe only have 20 credits left in the ELang program? Sometimes I procrastinate stuff.
4. My major offers all sorts of perks, like free dates. Free dried dates. My faculty advisor is like really old and like really awesome. Taped to the bag was an inspirational message of the Honors-Program-advertising brand: "Return with Honor." Considering the actual motives of my school and the cheesy word-plays upon which my major is founded, it really should have read: "Return with Dates." I feel an awesome Visiting Teaching handout coming on.
5. A gaggle of 14-year-old EFY boys, led by their popped-colla counselor, screamed at me over a bush that they LOVE my SUPER CUTE skirt!
Smile and wave.
2. I accidentally flashed a street full of giddy spectators (TMI-esque drawing and details forthcoming).
3. I had some extra time (I had a German final I should've been studying for...), so I declared my "new" major. This is a full year after switching over from my math major, which also was never declared. And I maybe only have 20 credits left in the ELang program? Sometimes I procrastinate stuff.
4. My major offers all sorts of perks, like free dates. Free dried dates. My faculty advisor is like really old and like really awesome. Taped to the bag was an inspirational message of the Honors-Program-advertising brand: "Return with Honor." Considering the actual motives of my school and the cheesy word-plays upon which my major is founded, it really should have read: "Return with Dates." I feel an awesome Visiting Teaching handout coming on.
Smile and wave.
As far as I can tell, dry shampoo is the most simultaneously great and terrible discovery
since Lord Voldy-thing. I don't know how I've made it 20 years without this dear alabi.
The sanitation police disagree, but that's fine.
If they had their way, I'd wash my produce and bathe regularly.
So in general I don't give much thought to their disapproval anyway.
I'm dangerously tempted to see if I can go 5 days without having to actually do my hair,
but for your sakes I'll try to keep it to 3.
Don't worry, this isn't how it seems;
it just means my shower cap and I are becoming exceptionally good friends.
And also that the man-scarf was non-refundable.
To run, or not to run?
Running is sooo cliche, meaning my first inclination is not to run.
But then I remember that I'm obsessed with running, so . . .
These are my secrets for getting up to jog on those mornings when you'd honestly rather have breakfast with Miley Cyrus than get out of bed and face your demonic running shoes:
1. Have someone to answer to.
At least at first.
Not a roommate. That doesn't work in the beginning. You know that when your alarm goes off, you'll roll over, look at her, grunt, acknowledge her nod of unspoken agreement, and go back to sleep.
Freddy came along in my freshman year of college, and I was suavely guilt-tripped into running each morning, regardless of below-freezing temperatures and ice on the sidewalks, because I knew if I didn't get out of bed to meet him he'd wait for me in the freezing cold for half an hour before giving up and returning to his apartment. It took a full seven months of going faithfully each morning with Freddy and Sarah to become a runner, but now I'm hooked for life.
 |
| Mission Farewell: Sarah, Freddy, Me |
2. Wear your running clothes to bed.
I don't care if you think it's nasty. You're nasty.
There's no way I'd leave the house at 6 a.m. if I had to change out of my pajamas to do it.
So, I just pretend like my running clothes are my pajamas. Problem solved.
Don't worry guys (/girls?), sports bras are comfy.
3. Run trails.
I don't like when people watch me run.
Probably because I look like a noob when I do so.
My solutions are to run obscenely early and to run obscure trails with nice scenery and overlooks.
Most of my trail "running" is actually walking and enjoying. I might be a nature hippie.
4. Buy new songs.
If I ever want to listen to my jammin new tunes, I know I'd better get my derriere out in the fresh air. And those iTunes gift cards your grandma's been buying you for every holiday since you turned 12? They aren't a-gonna spend themselves.
5. Buy new clothes.
Honestly, I'm a cheapskate so I opt for the $5 spandex Walmart tee in neon shades.
But you can go to the Nike Outlet if that's what it'll take for you to feel like an athlete.
Because everyone knows it's not about being an athlete; it's about looking like one.
I also quite love spandex pants from Old Navy, or you can get name-brands for cheaper at TJ-Maxx.
Once you go insane like me, you'll ask for running shoes as your big-ticket Christmas item.
I hope this tragedy never happens to you, but it is a fantastic motivation to get out and move when you have bold, pricey, fantastic new running shoes.
(I love Mizunos for long runs and, obviously, Vibrams for everything else.)
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| You can also buy magic running jelly beans for "energy." Basically, they just taste good. |
Think cardiovascular activity is for JERKS and it's just not meant to be?
In high school I seriously threatened to quit marching band multiple times a week because we were forced to run half a mile at the beginning of each practice (nerd status: attained). So, I know how you feel. If this Simpleton can do it though, so can yooooou (read Soulja-Boy style).
The yard is lovely, and the evening air simultaneously stimulates and sedates.
Mom wields a trowel.
I wield bland jokes and girl-talk topics.
Sometimes I wield a hose.
When Time doesn't hang over my head with the trowel of guilt, I might get my hands dirty.
Occasionally even when Time does hang over my head with the trowel of guilt, I give him a pile-drive to the face, take his blasted midget-shovel, and get my hands dirty anyway.
Mom instructs me.
I instruct them dagnabbit weeds.
One day I'll instruct some perennials of my own.
While clippers and grandma-esque knee-pads are encouraged, shoes are not.
Though it makes for a dirty experience, the soil feels better when fondled by my feet. (SCANDY PUN'D!!!)
Mom does the planter baskets.
I do the vase arrangements.
Peonies and pine-sprigs. Roses and Ruscus.
It's difficult to pick a favorite time for garden-loving, since crisp mornings and luminous evenings go head-to-head so regally.
I like when the earth is half-lit and the plants are beautiful.
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