How ya been?

Every blog has at least one of these posts…a “sorry for not posting’, “this is why I’ve been gone”, “I resolve to be more consistent this time”, etc type entry. I’m guilty of just such an entry on this very blog, in a post made nearly 36 months ago entitled New Direction, Same Old Snob.

That post was born out of a pledge to write more in 2010, a resolution that along with managing my finances, getting fit, and trying things outside of my comfort zone rounded of my goals for that year . Clearly I did a pretty bad job of making those habits stick as they're all back on the list of resolutions for 2013.

So why the hiatus? Well there were several contributing factors to my absence in cyberspace, namely office firewalls and general lack of inspiration. However, that’s not to say there wasn’t plenty of material worthy of posting. In fact there was an abundance of judgments and confessions perfect for these pages, and yet, sadly, I lacked the motivation and network access to share. I make no promises this time; however I’m hopeful you’ll be hearing from me a whole lot more regularly than every 36 months. But just in case – here’s hoping you have a wonderful 2013, 2014, and that 2015 treats you well.

A Snob, yes. An Adult, debatable.

I am twenty-three years old. I live on my own. I pay my own bills. I shop for my own groceries. I cook my own food. I can stay up past 10 on a weeknight (though to be honest, this is personally a challenge as I’m usually in bed by 9:30). By conventional standards, I am an adult. I’ll let you in on a secret though- I am most certainly not.

And to prove it…here is the latest reason I can not yet consider myself to be grown up:

My boss called my mom.

A few weeks ago I was out with my team toasting a coworker who was leaving the firm. My boss declined the invite, but was aware I was attending said event. Lunch wore on for several hours…and copious amounts of socializing was occurring amongst my coworkers. Being the new kid, I was enjoying finally getting a chance to get to know the team outside of the workplace, and while I likely should’ve been more concerned with the time, I was not. That was until my coworkers phone rang- her boss had been contacted by my boss regarding my whereabouts. It struck me as odd that no one had phoned me directly but I dismissed the thought and called my boss at his office to ensure him I was on my way back. Four hours after I’d left. My wisest decision- probably not.

I returned to find that he’d left an hour or so earlier, but had called and emailed me several times regarding a document that needed to be sent to St. Louis. I quickly took care of the task and spent the remaining 45 minutes of the work day in shame and apprehension for going AWOL on my boss. Still, I wondered why he hadn’t just called my cell phone first, I would’ve left immediately and handled the issue in a far more timely manner.

Well, I got my answer the next day when I met with him to discuss my progress on a few projects. After our standard conversation he paused for a noticeably long period of time before stating that he wished to ‘wrap up some loose ends regarding yesterday’. Matter of factly, he explained it was fine that I was out with the team but he would prefer if I were easily accessible and maintained contact with him should I be gone for any extended period of time. I assured him I would do this, and suggested I have his cell phone number in my phone for just such an occasion. I followed up that suggestion reminding him that I had provided him my cell phone number when I started here six months ago, to which he responded with another long pause- an air of awkwardness immediately pervaded the office air. “I called the number you gave me-it was your mother."

I was mortified. I pictured my boss placing the call, quizzically saying ‘Amy?’ as my mother answers, only to have her say ‘Oh no! This is her mom!’. The embarrassment I felt harkened back to my middle school days when the phone call from the cute boy was intercepted by the madre…only this time it’ not my seat at the cool kids table in the cafeteria in jeopardy, its my reputation with my boss.

In my defense, our numbers differ only slightly. Nonetheless…my boss called my mom. I am absolutely still recovering from the embarrassment and awkwardness of the entire episode…and working hard to make up for it.

Snobs Can Be Ghetto Too

It’s hard to pass judgment on other folks when one’s own life is in a shamble-ish state itself, similar to the statement that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones- people whose lives are crumbling around them should certainly refrain from casting judgment anywhere besides upon themselves. Thus, the second installment of a series that examines the downward spiral of my life.

In today’s edition we’ll examine how now only am I stuck in a rut, but other elements of my life are in such a state that the word ‘ghetto’ is the only adjective that can adequately describe them.

Let’s start with my car- a perfectly good little, red Corolla. In years past she’s served me just fine, with little maintenance required save your routine oil change. However, of late, it seems every time I turn the key something new is wrong. I am 97% sure this is payback from the fact that the front headlight burnt out in December and it took me till April to replace it, but that’s beside the point. After fixing the previously referenced headlight and springing for an oil change, I followed up with a trip to the service station for the emissions and state inspections. Low and behold, my car failed…a fact that I took seriously enough to shed tears in front of the mechanic who delivered the news. Adding insult to injury, the cost to repair the problem preventing passage (alliteration!) was $400. This is not a sum of money that I have hanging around, and if I did I surely would have found something more fun to spend it on than brake pads. Anyways, with a little help I finagle a deal and replace the offending pads, allowing my car to pass inspection and clear the way for it to become a registered vehicle in the Commonwealth of Virginia.

I thought this would be the end of my car related expenses and efforts for at least a week, however I was incorrect. A few days later, upon starting up my car, the check engine light lit up. This did not please me. Not only did I lack the patience for this nonsense, I certainly did not have any money to remedy the situation. Thus I continued to drive it at my leisure, ignoring the angry orange engine shaped light glowing on the dash. Now this may not be the smartest thing I’ve done, as experts (to include my roommates, my brother, my parents, and coworkers) all warned against doing just that, however I bravely took my chances and am sure glad I did as last night when I got into my car after a brief excursion to JoAnn Fabrics (I live dangerously.), the light had turned off. I take this to mean my car has fixed the problem itself, and while others have warned that this is not in fact the case, I stand by my assumption.

Next on the list is my Blackberry. Earlier this week when I was making good on my regular gym session promise, my roommate noticed that the track ball had popped out of its tiny compartment. I was unaware of just how this happened but did my best to pop it back into place and continue on my merry way. Fast forward to the same time the next day- the little round circle that holds the ball securely in place has permanently detached itself from my phone and is no where to be found. I am left, instead, with just the trackball and the little cradle it’s attached to to hold it loosely in place. And by loosely in place I mean not hold it in place at all. Thus my phone currently sits in a Ziploc bag, ensuring that should the ball dislodge itself (it will), it cannot venture further than the confines of the plastic bag. All day I have been conducting furious BBM conversations and Facebook stalking through the protective covering of the plastic.

Genius? Debatable. Ghetto? Definitely.

In a rut.

Allow me to preface this post with an apology: Sorry I’ve been MIA…I’m in a bit of a rut. One that has unfortunately consumed me enough to impact my creative process and prevent any posts…therefore, in a combative effort against said rut- I’m posting about it.

For the past few months neither myself nor my life have ‘sparkled’. I understand that sparkle is a term few use in describing their lives, as it conjures up images of disco balls and drag queens…and for some of us, a period of time during middle school when we would wear copious amounts as eye shadow, but it’s rather appropriate when describing the lackluster feeling I’ve been embodying for the better part of two months.

I can’t precisely pinpoint when I went off course, but at some point I diverted from the path and have landed squarely in the aforementioned rut. My rut has manifested itself mainly in my appearance, as I am fairly certain that 58 of the last 63 days have been bad hair days. This is serious for me- my hair has always been a source of pride…be it during the days of yore when it hung long and luxuriously, or in more recent times when I accidently wound up with somewhat of a butch haircut, it still looked great. Probably better than yours in fact. However, now that its somewhere in between…its hideous. No matter what styling product or tool I use on it, I wind up looking dreadful. As a temporary solution, I’ve adopted the ‘lesbian ponytail’ for work. This involves pulling it back into a stub of a ponytail at the nape of my neck and spending the rest of the day praying it will grow out.

Speaking of growing out- my eyebrows are excelling in this area. As a child who once suffered from the terrible affliction known as a unibrow, the chance of a reoccurrence is all too real of a fear. On top of this (literally, in some cases), the breakout that’s spanning my forehead is really compounding the issue and driving me further into despair. If a giant sunhat and oversize sunglasses were appropriate office attire, you can bet I’d be sporting them from 9 to 5 daily.

Instead what I am sporting is whatever I can find on my bedroom floor in the morning. Yep, floor. Its my newest storage solution as my recent move has me living in a place I absolutely adore, but the offers me very little with regard to storage space. Up until 5 am this Saturday morning I had narrowly avoided employing floor to store my clothing- instead relying on a freestanding clothes rack to hang all of my dresses, skirts and other work staples. Twice before it had collapsed (once onto the rack of handbags on the back of my door, once on top of me), however Saturday morning saw its ultimate demise. Since then its been resting in pieces on the floor alongside the clothing it once housed. Each ensemble I select from my new organizational arrangement has lead me to believe that I not only need a new closet, but potentially a new wardrobe to fill it with.

Alas, a new wardrobe is certainly out of reach, but I will be treating myself to something I hope will be a kickstart to get myself out of this rut…heres to regular gym and tanning sessions to commence ASAP.

True Life: I'm a Match.com Burnout

So I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from my plunge into the world of online dating. No, not because I’ve met someone…though I have met people, just not exactly anyone who I really hit it off with. Instead it’s a combination of not having found any chemistry with any of my dates, and that Match is INCREDIBLY time consuming and tedious. Corresponding with a bevy of online dates, weeding out the undesirables (read: jorts, hair gel, 42 year old creeps who live in the suburbs, the guy who called me Porkchop, etc.) is exhausting. And those that I did want to get to know better had me glued to my computer, perfecting every single email to come off as smart, witty, and charming. However, despite how well our e-flirtation would go- it would ultimately dissipate once we came face to face. This is not to say that my Match.com days are over, as I can’t rule out the possibility that I may reappear on the online dating scene someday down the road. But until then, I’ll always have the memories…

Take Dave for example…at 6’4 he definitely hit my height requirement. Having earned his degree in some engineering field of sorts, he was now pursuing a masters in the same thing. Fancy. First impression of his photo was – WOW. He’s cute. As my first Match.com date, I was both giddy and apprehensive, but after exchanging some of the best emails to date (yes- I rate on those levels when it comes to Match), I was psyched. We opted for margaritas at my favorite Mexican place, to take place on a Friday evening post-work. Sounds good right? Then he gets out of the car- and by car I mean Volvo hatchback. I’m slightly confused by his choice of vehicle. But I push these thoughts aside and stride toward him to introduce myself. Upon closer inspection, my concern begins to grow, as his ensemble paints him in a far more metrosexual light than I’d envisioned throughout our emails. He had on a white zip-up…which looked nice despite my preference for half-zips, but definitely bordered on seasonally inappropriate slash urban hipster. Again, I pushed these judgments aside. However as he turned his back to get back into his car, I noticed the telltale Rock and Republic R’s on either pocket of his jeans. This gentleman was sporting better jeans than me. I was quite unsure what to think- was I impressed? Disturbed? Puzzled? Perhaps a mix of all three. With his gator skin loafer pressed to the pedal, we sped off in the jaunty little Volvo as that first sentiment dissipated and I was definitely left wondering where the evening would lead.

In the span of our 1 mile trek to the restaurant, Dave made roughly 7 racist/sexist/bigoted jokes. Now, I’m not a bleeding heart or really even a nice person…but this astounded me. Um sir, WE JUST MET. This clearly wasn’t an issue for him…as he continued to put down everyone (myself included) but himself. This guy was way into himself- he purchased the hatchback himself- bought the condo he was currently residing in, refurbished the kitchen. He literally dominated the conversation…my eyes bugged out wondering how I could get a word in edgewise. And when I finally took a stab at contributing to the conversation, I was sorry I had. Thus, I downed my margaritas, and enjoyed my fajitas. Then the check came. He instructed we split it- and while I was prepared to pay my way, I did not take kindly to the way this subject was broached. Once our respective cards were run and the receipts returned to the table, I shared my absolutely love for the mints included within. Big mistake. Evidently these mints were subpar…just like every other interest of mine I’d shared that evening. Hesitantly I followed him back to the hatchback, and prepared for the car ride home. I reached into my bag to check my phone (probably rude, but whatever) to find numerous concerned texts from a friend…including one inquiring as to if I were dead in a ditch. I shared the message with Dave…who came up with what he clearly thought was a clever response:

“Tell her you’re smoking a cigarette after your third orgasm.”

I nearly vomited…and not from the mix of margaritas and Mexican sloshing in my stomach. This guy was a skeeze. Thank god this comment came from him right as we pulled up to the ambiguous corner near my apartment where I met him. I got out of the car, so confused by this person I’d just spent the past two hours with. I was both majorly creeped out, and somehow hoping he’d call me? The latter of these sentiments definitely arose from the fact that I absolutely did not want to be a Match.com failure.

The next day I sent him a polite text thanking him for everything (and considering I paid for my dinner, everything really only consists of the awkward hatchback ride, the one-sided conversation and the crass humor), and headed out for some wine at a friends.

As girls do, my friends eagerly plied me for details on the date- I explained my reservations…how he seemed like a jerk, was definitely full of himself, and had questionable taste in music. Then I shared one final detail- his username. My friends eyes lit up- he had asked her out at 2 am that morning…roughly 5 hours after our date had finished, and probably about an hour after returning from McFadden’s with his broskis. This somehow made me feel so much better- we determined this guy was a serial Match-er, and a complete dbag, for lack of a better term.

And that was the last of Dave…may he and his hatchback be eternally happy.

Gymservations: Vol. II

I’ve recently switched gyms, and though the ambiance of the new locale falls far beneath that of my previous arrangement, I’m going to have to say that this one offers a neat little perk not offered at the WSC up the street. And it’s name is Kyle. Cute Trainer Kyle (CTK) to be precise. Now to be fair, I am pretty certain I am known to him as Severely Uncoordinated Chick (SUC?). But that is both A) beside the point and B) detrimental to my fantasies.

Upon first meeting CTK, I was alarmed by the amount of chemistry that sparked between us. Especially in comparison to the last four fellows I had so closely encountered (yes- Match.com men, updates to follow). I’m pretty sure I went home that night and reported precisely that to my roommate.

Cute Trainer Kyle gives me something to look forward to…twice a week. Which is exactly two more things than I had to look forward to prior to signing on with him. After work I mosey over to the Bally’s location caddy corner to my office building, I wander down the steps into the dark basement…where black walls meet black rubber floors, and windows and natural light are no where to be found- but amidst the otherwise dungeon-esque surroundings is the ray of light that is Cute Trainer Kyle. Now by conventional standards, CTK is not so much hott (if he were, we’d call him HTK…), nor is he what I’d typically describe as my type. However…in the glare of the fluorescent bulbs down in the Bally Total Basement…he’s enchanting. It doesn’t hurt that he’s funny…and more or less guaranteed to have a bangin’ bod either. Unfortunately his presence makes me more than a little nervous…which doesn’t help the fact that I clearly lack the coordination necessary to look graceful out there on the floor. Regardless, CTK does not appear to hold this against me. 

Though I’m only three sessions in, I’m fairly certain CTK and I will end up being at least best friends by the end of our six weeks together. If I re-up for another three or four, we’re pretty much guaranteed to take our relationship to the next level, right? Impressive sales tactic Bally…

Love Thy Neighbor? Ha, thats for the birds...

I reside in a charming little neighborhood in NW, bustling with young professionals, new families…aaaand old people. My complex itself may as well be a retirement community, but I can’t complain- the silver set make excellent neighbors. They’re neat, they’re quiet, and save falling and throwing their hip out once in a while, there is very little drama associated with them. Since moving in in October of 2008, I’ve avoided all neighborly conflicts…a welcome change from some of the nut-jobs who lived next door, upstairs, one building over during my collegiate years.

However, my good neighbor streak came to an end just as the last round of snow began to melt. Allow me to introduce you to Bird Lady. Though Bird Lady does not live in my building, she does park next to me in our designated spots. Being that I’ve fully embraced the public transport system here in the area, my little car remains parked for the majority of the time, where it rests beneath the shade of a large tree. The aforementioned tree provides plenty of problems; in the fall- my vehicle is awash in freshly fallen leaves. In warmer months, it becomes the landing pad for bird droppings.

Now I first met Bird Lady while shoveling out my car from this February’s blizzards. While I struggled to remove tons of snow from beside, on top of, around my vehicle…Bird Lady was calmly brooming two inches of white powder from her car’s roof onto the snowy ground beside her car. Two inches, you say? Yes- because she’d already flung the other 46 into the area between our cars and watched as I broke a sweat (something I do not enjoy doing outside the confines of the gym) hauling it away. The other side of Bird Lady’s car was completely plowed/shoveled/scraped down to the asphalt, courtesy of the Georgetown North HOA, as she has the good fortune of parking next to a building entry. On a related note, I have bad fortune of parking next to Bird Lady. As my roommate and I worked furiously to free our cars, Bird Lady retreated to her building and emerged with a bag of bird seed. She immediately dumped the contents of the bag onto a snow drift between our cars and instructed us not to shovel any snow onto the seed. I should’ve spited her blatant lack of snow removal respect, and dumped a huge shovel full on the bird seed, however I suppressed this urge and left the seed unburied- a decision I now regret.

Now, upon my first interaction with Bird Lady, I sensed something was a little off....though she just seemed like a harmless old bat. However, my tune has changed. After successfully freeing my car from its snowy den, I was proud to behold the gleaming reddish paint sparkling against the heaps of white we’d shoveled away- a beauty that has faded with the melting snow. You see, after the birds partook in what I can only assume was a literal feeding frenzy, indulging in the roughly 3 lbs of bird seed left for them- they understandably needed a place to rest. And what better place than the large tree directly above my little car? I think you see the problem…the landing pad thing- yeah, this is like that times about a hundred.

And as for Bird Lady, this is war.