"I don’t want a capital. If I had wanted a capital, I would have typed a capital. I know how to use the shift key."
George R. R. Martin is my spirit animal.
"I don’t want a capital. If I had wanted a capital, I would have typed a capital. I know how to use the shift key."
George R. R. Martin is my spirit animal.
According to this databending delight, per capita consumption of cheese in the US directly correlates with the number of people who have died by becoming tangled in their bedsheets.
Most importantly - PEOPLE HAVE DIED BY BECOMING TANGLED IN THEIR BEDSHEETS.
You’ll probably be hearing more on this later.
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less traveled by. And that has made ALL the difference.”
“AGAIN. This time I want it even LOUDER.”
“TWO ROADS DIVERGED IN A WOOD, AND I – I TOOK THE ONE LESS TRAVELED BY. AND THAT HAS MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE.”
Every summer, at Nebraska Wesleyan University’s basketball camp, we bellowed these words back to the HBIC. These words were the key to our future, she said. We nodded earnestly, clinging to their innate confidence.
We did the same, when our seventh grade English teacher preached of Robert Frost’s prowess.
We hoped the college admission peeps did the same when they read the essays we crafted around his wholly undisputed grail of inspiration – you know, just to show them the kind of unique risk-takers we really were.
At what point would it have been appropriate for us to say, “No sh*t, Sherlock.”
I mean, I love Robert Frost. I even love The Road Not Taken. But are we really going to sit here and pretend it’s groundbreaking? “Two roads diverged in the wood, and I – I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference.” So you’re saying, if we choose adifferent path than the masses, that decision will have a major effect on our lives?! This is part of the curriculum that is supposed to prepare our nation’s children for the real world. Call me optimistic, but I feel like that’s something most kids could figure out on their own. I’d like to know what he did when he came to two roads that looked…pretty much the same.
Entry Level Position of Death by Fluorescent Lighting to the left or Entry Level Position of Death by Indentured Slavery to the right? Now there’s something sticky little hands could cling to. (Though, admittedly, the cadence isn’t quite as calming.)
Or maybe that’s where choir rehearsal came in.
Selecting eggs in a grocery store is sort of like solving a logic puzzle. White eggs. Brown eggs. White organic eggs. Brown farm-raised eggs. White organic farm-raised eggs. Which ones to pick?? Jumbo? Extra jumbo? Fertilized?
I’m sorry. WHAT. Fertilized?!? As in there are babies in there?? I wanted to Google immediately, but I was freezing (hi, refrigerated section of Trader Joe’s), so I grabbed a carton (suspiciously, also the cheapest option of an organic nature), high-tailed it home, and hopped on the Internet.
My quest for information started sanely enough. An article on Chow.com explained that while most store-bought eggs are unfertilized, some are not - all it takes is a rooster in the area to earn them a fertile label. And even if the chicken did get pinned down by the sultan of swagger, the process of refrigeration halts any growth inside the shell. Fun fact: There is no nutritional difference between the two types of eggs.
Phew. That solves that, right? Totally. Unless you have a penchant for over-Google-ing, and find yourself deep in a thread on backyardchickens.com:
PEOPLE HATCH THESE OMEGA WONDERS.
"When I was a newbie I tried incubating an egg that I had washed and refrigerated. It hatched, was deformed and sad."
Just let that sit on the proverbial griddle that is your mind for awhile. And while you do…enjoy this video of chicken mating. Also known as gang rape.
I get it. It’s so cool to hate Coachella this year.
No, really. I get it. It’s not what it used to be. It’s a pain in the a$$ to get tickets. Expensive tickets. Expensive tickets that not all of your friends were able to get, even after spending an hour in the online waiting room of death during pre-sale, totally f*cking up your standard Coachella group. And half of the ones who did manage to get tickets got them for the second week. F*cking up your standard Coachella group even more.
I, too, was slightly disappointed by the line-up. I f*cking love music, but I don’t go to nearly enough shows where I should be able to say that I’ve seen almost everyone on said line-up live.
And, of course, 90% of the people storming the desert could care less about the music, and are more concerned with parties, attractive strangers, and their ensembles. Hi, welcome to life. Do you hate that, too? (Totally cool, if you do. Just curious.)
The recent newsfeed-clogging, Coachella-bashing article on Bullett covered all of this. Its writer, Luke O Neil (no apostrophe after that O, Luke?) took it even one step further to say that music festivals aren’t for music lovers and basically shouldn’t exist.
Um, who made you king of the music lovers?
As I mentioned above, I f*cking love music. I also love music festivals. Because in addition to music, I love sunshine, happy people, friends and frolicking.
Yes, I will want to stab the oversized/underdressed whore in the Sahara Tent who won’t stop saying the stupidest things I’ve ever heard, in the most annoying voice imaginable, while stepping on my feet, elbowing me in the ribs and spilling her $15 beer all over my carefully planned Coachella outfit. (Yup. I plan my outfits. I forgot to mention that I also love playing dress-up.) But, while I’m staring her down with my most severe look of death, I will be surrounded by some of my best friends in the world, creating unforgettable* memories to an awesome soundtrack. Best friends I never get to see because they decided, at one point in their lives, to move to another country. They’re not going to fly to LA for a one-night concert, but they will trek out to the desert for three days of unabated bliss.
Sure, that awesome soundtrack could be a bit more enlightened. And it’s a bummer that it’s not. But, there are still a few names on there with which I’m unfamiliar, and I’m totally stoked to latch onto a new bestie’s hand and sprint in sheer euphoria across the polo fields for the chance to check out a possible new fave musician, in the most commitment-free of environments.
So yeah. As much as I would love Coachella to be as it once was, and as much as I loathe the masses for always ruining everything…I’m about to drive out to the land of dry heat for an amazing weekend filled with my favorite things.
If you want to sit in a dark room with your headphones, hey - you do you.
*We’ll take plenty of pics, just in case things get a little hazy. You’re welcome, Instagram.
The man-child next to me at Le Pain, breaking things down for his new assistant:
"Andrea is annoying. I’ve given her unrealistic budgets on the projects she wants to work on; so if she says yes, we make a sh*tload of money. If she says no, we don’t have to do it. Because we don’t want to do it."
…Someone might want to tell Andrea.
The next half hour of conversation covered everything from what to do when everyone ends up blackout at a celebrity-filled after-party: “Drunk girls always try to do business. Take note of that. I don’t want to work with b*tches like that.” - to how to handle “star-f*ckers” in meetings: “She kept staring down at her t*ts, and I was just like, I’m not in the mood today. Get her out of there.”
The poor child across the table from a-hole extraordinaire just kept smiling, nodding eagerly and nervously rubbing his legs.
Living. The. Dream.
Cursive script is disappearing. Apparently, several schools have deemed it an unnecessary practice, and are replacing its spot in the school curriculum with keyboarding.
Read all about it here.
Back in the late 80’s, I was able to learn both. Proficiently. (Without the aid of a home computer, I might add.) But these districts claim they are running out of time in the day:
"We’re trying to be realistic about skills that kids are going to need," says Jill Camnitz, a longtime school board member in Greenville, N.C. "You can’t do everything. Something’s got to go."
Sounds like someone’s an underachiever.
But I guess she has a point - why would a kid need to learn how to sign his name, when X is always an option?!
Oh - and according to handwriting expert, Michelle Dresbold, ‘Typing doesn’t help the brain develop as much as writing in longhand…children are not thinking as thoroughly.’
Awesome. That’s exactly what we need. People thinking less thoroughly.
I’m going to go cry over some half-formed status updates now.
Traffic in LA sucks. We all know this. The problem is you never know just how much it is going to suck. With the number of pedestrians, cars, intersections, police officers and sh*tty roads between you and your destination, it has become impossible to predict exactly what the streets will bring you at any given moment.
Some people like to indignantly proclaim, in a wide variety of pompously-judgy platitudes, that this suckage number is indeed quantifiable. That between sigalert and your general knowledge of traffic patterns, you have a pretty good idea of how long it’s going to take you. To them, I dedicate this story of today’s drive to work. (With a minor digression involving my get-ready time.)
It started off like any other day – just slightly more rushed. Someone had decided to put a 9:30a meeting on my calendar. At 6p yesterday. Ahem. I shall restrain myself from delving into office/scheduling etiquette.
Fortunately, thanks to my summer glow, I have been embracing a no-makeup lifestyle and my hair was freshly-ish washed. A quick shower, throw on the outfit I had pre-planned, grab the workout bag I had packed but neglected to use the day before, toss my paints and iPad into my satchel and I’m ready to head out the door!
F. This outfit doesn’t look like it did in my head. Quick change! Cute. I like this. Bracelet? Ooh necklace as a bracelet. Sh*t. Why didn’t I notice this clasp was broken? Quick fix. Done. Awesome. Oh! Sh*t. I was going to do one more coat of paint before I left. Should I? It will be really quick? No. Ugh. Paints are already packed. I’ll just do it later. Wow, my stomach’s already grumbly. I think we get a grocery delivery today…ugh, but what if it doesn’t come ‘til noon and I’m starving all morning. Ok. Throw stuff down for one sec while I grab a bite of yogurt. Eh 3 bites. Ok. Good to go. Why does my hair look kind of greasy? Oy. I was probably playing with it all day yesterday because it felt so clean. Typical. Twisties it is. Hm. I could have sworn I threw a few just-in-case bobby pins in this drawer. Guess I’ll snag ‘em from my vanity. Ow. Mother F*cker. Toe. Bench. Smashed. Pain. Ok. Shake it out. Yugh. Awesome, I f*cked up my pedicure. And by pedicure I mean toes I painted by myself. In the comfort of my home. Hm. This light is kind of weird in here…do I have to wear a bra with this? No, I’m fine. Hm. Maybe? Hm. Better check in the bathroom mirror. No, I’m totally fine. I think. Maybe I’ll just untuck it a tad. Ok, cool. Totally good to go. Ooh! Rings. Ok. Cool. Out the door. Oh shoot, I don’t have the key to my mailbox. It’s so full. I was totally going to do that this morning. Meh. Another day. Onward and outward!
As I put Riot into reverse, I spot the elderly woman who lives next door, being helped across the top of my drive by her caretaker. Ok, no problem. I’ll wait this one out. It’ll give me time to properly line up my car-belting-out-friendly Spotify picks. Once I hit the street, I take my first left, only to have someone pull out of a driveway right in front of me. They hesitate mid-maneuver, blocking both my forward motion and the entire street in general, as they consider whether that was a smart move or not. No, really. Take your time.
We both then take the first right, after a lengthy pause at an otherwise deserted 4 way stop. Ooh street cleaning day on the left side of the street. Score! Finally enough room for both lanes of traffic to drive normal speeds. Why are we stopping? Oh. Right. Beverly Hills Police. An accident. Of course.
I watch 3 rounds of traffic lights go by before I am able to make my left turn. Really glad I took this ‘shortcut’. I make it two blocks to Robertson & Wilshire, without further incident. Here, I encounter one of my biggest pet peeves. Cars in the right turn lane who have no intention of turning right. Awesome. I’ll just wait back here. When the green light finally shines our way, my curvature is blocked by a woman and a stroller. Woman gets stroller stuck as she exits the curb. Nothing a little finagling can’t fix! Oops – finagling caused her water bottle to hit the ground. Gotta grab that. Oh shoot. Her bag’s falling off her shoulder. As I watch in fascination, inhaling and exhaling with practiced care, I silently urge her to turn back around. There’s no way she’ll make it across now.
Coast is clear! I’m free! Or not. Why is this Prius driving in the middle of two lanes? The quiver of the vehicle’s irrationally slow and illegal movements lead me to believe the driver is elderly. I am not mistaken. I feel only slightly guilty about honking impatient/incredulous-ly. I make it around her in just enough time to miss the next light.
At this point, I decide to send the inevitable “I’m going to be a few minutes late!” text. And then pause for the pedestrian crossing at the crosswalk. I continue that pause for the next sluggish pedestrian as well. My humorous outlook on life is slipping from my fingertips at an alarmingly rapid pace.
At the next major intersection (read: 6 minute long light sequence), a car pulls out of the gas station drive and crosses the first lane to meander into my own, where he comes to a comfortable halt. At the end of a green light. As I’m sure you are aware, the follow-up to green is a yellow beacon of there’s-still-a-little-time-left-for-you-little-guy light. But no, that’s ok. I’ll just enjoy this moment of awkward cross-lane accidental eye contact. Moment(s).
It didn’t get much better from there on out. 10W traffic lagged more than usual (obviously). I would later find that to be the result of a poor excuse for a car crash. No one wins in a slightly elevated fender bender. Even accident freaks find themselves unable to revel in that depressing midi-crunch of aluminum. I attributed the intense backup at Cloverfield to the earlier time of morning and the traffic at Lincoln to amped-up tourists ready to grab hold of this 80 degree beach day.
5th & Broadway presented me with malfunctioning street lights, turning the at-the-time traffic-heavy intersection into a 4-way stop. Yet another Prius (why is my own kind turning against me??) blocked my entrance to my parking lot’s alleyway access point and once I made it to the entrance, my key card failed to work. Thank God for Juan and his magic gate-opening skills. And thank God for my penchant for taking the stairs. Best to leave the elevator out of days like today.
If you can predict all of that, I need you in my life.
As some of you may know, I recently penned my first article for Broke Girl’s Guide.
(In case you are curious, said article details where you should go and what you should do in Manhattan Beach - specifically, when a budget is involved.)
After a quick read-through, ironysformerbossman offered the appropriate conciliatory slash laudatory commentary, but then remarked that a couple places weren’t exactly broke-chick friendly. One of these places being Lemonade. I still don’t understand this. For a mere $10, you can get 6 half portions of amazingly delicious sides that will probably tide you over ‘til halfway through dinner. With leftovers. What’s not to love?
Maybe it depends on what you plan on ordering?
I should also mention that neither Shellback nor Sharkeez made it on my original list, and were added in later by conscientious editors who know their audience. I would never endorse such establishments, mostly due to my non-penchant for being groped and or puked on by fraternally-minded douchebags.
As I mulled all of this over, another almost-recent incident came to mind. My dear friend and fellow under-paid (but never under-appreciated?) blogger, isomehowthinkironyisnormal, found it amusing that Dominick’s, the bastion of Italian warmth, was (and remains) my fave neighborhood go-to for a casual dinner. I was similarly confounded.
Italian Wedding Soup? $8. Fried Rice Balls? $4.50 after you split the order with your dinner companion. Glass of wine? $9. That’s roughly twenty bucks for a ridiculously cozy meal and an ever-so-slight buzz. Bargain.
In short, I have come to the conclusion that I may not understand what “Broke Girl” means as well as you’d think I would, given the state of my finances.
Which perhaps explains the state of my finances?
I don’t want to hear it, Dad.
Business Insider recently posted this article, hailing Irvine, CA as the most fashionable city in America, based on new research from Bundle. (Excuse me, while I cough up the coffee I don’t drink for a second.)
What did this research entail, exactly?
From Bundle’s website:
We selected the 50 largest cities by population in our data set and created a fashion-conscious index, with 1.0 being average. We based our index on the percentage of “fashion-conscious households” in our sample, which we defined as households that had at least four transactions at top-end designer merchants in the past 30 months.
Here’s my issue with this survey. Top-end designer merchants carry a lot of clothing. A LOT. One might even say that there is something for everyone who is willing to pay for it. What did these people buy? How did they wear it? Did it complement/or enhance their personal style?
The fact that their obviously extensive research fails to take into account the age-old adage Money Can’t Buy Style renders their intended message ridiculous, in my eyes. I’ll go ahead and include your eyes as well. You’re welcome.
They seem to think this whole thing is more surprising than everyone else knows it really is.
Irvine. Home of Orange County. Home of plastic surgery, platinum blonde hair, and a penchant for proving one’s worth with a wallet…how shocking that they, of all places, have been found to spend the most amount of money at the most widely accepted bastions of fashion.
Just change the title. That’s all I ask. And please don’t ever put Irvine and fashion in the same sentence again.
Editor’s Note: I do have fashionable friends who claim Irvine as their point of origin; however, I would suggest that the word despite would come into play in this conversation. Italicized and possibly even bold. #luckyones