I’m Pretty Much a Motivational Speaker

There’s no shortage of inspirational accounts on the Internet, and unless you’re new here, I am not one of those accounts.

OK. Maybe I’m being a little hard on myself. I decided to take a look at some of my tweets and updates and see if maybe I’m mistaken, if maybe I am actually some sort of motivational speaker and I don’t even realize it!

After two minutes of careful evaluation, it turns out I can be inspirational in several different aspects of life. Sure, it’s not “conventional,” but one can not be picky when one spends more time picking out a head of broccoli at the store than she does picking out her clothes in the morning. 

First of all, there is my prowess in the kitchen and around food:

The only time I’ve ever cut carbs is when I was slicing a bagel.

7:30: Eats breakfast. 7:35: Checks clock and mentally calculates how long until I can eat lunch.

I successfully opened a plastic produce bag at the store in under 2 minutes and the manager gave me my own reserved parking spot in the lot.

I react to the smell of fresh bread the way a cat reacts to the sound of a can opener.

The most unrealistic thing about commercials is when it shows people actually sharing a frozen pizza.

It turns out the answer to my problems wasn’t at the bottom of a jar of cashew butter, but the important thing is that I tried.

And my extraordinary social skills: 

On second thought, maybe faking my death was a slight overreaction to being stuck in a group text.

The woman who cut in front of me at the store had a box of tampons, ice cream, and wine in her cart. I wasn’t about to mess with that situation.

Home is where the people aren’t.

My friend just got her Ph. D, and I’m just over here wondering why they don’t make the macaroni out of cheese in the first place.

Them: Good morning!
Me: This feels like a personal attack.

Saw a guy throw a fit and then walk into an automatic door, so it’s been a pretty solid day over here.

I can be socially awkward, but not “Interview portion of Jeopardy” socially awkward.

Not to mention my domestic disability dominance: 

“My lavish lifestyle affords me certain luxuries,” – I say as I place a new Kleenex box that perfectly matches my bathroom on the toilet.

Welcome home, new body wash. Meet your family: a half-full bottle of conditioner and 983 almost empty bottles of shampoo turned upside down.

I like to do laundry in stages. For example, right now I’m in denial that I should be doing laundry.

Nothing travels faster than a roll of toilet paper you drop while sitting on the toilet.

The cashier at the dollar store told me to have a good day like my purchase of shelf liner suggested any other plan.

Unfortunately, “weather stripping” isn’t what I thought it was, and the employees at Home Depot didn’t care for my little dance.

I establish my dominance as the alpha neighbor by putting my trash out on the curb before everyone else.

Not to mention just living my life to the fullest: 

Monday through Friday: Hits the snooze three times in the morning.
Saturday: Wakes up before the alarm would go off during the week and can’t get back to sleep.

My personality is 30 percent genetic, 10 percent environmental, and 60 percent whether or not I’m hungry and slightly inconvenienced.

I tripped but then I found an almond on the floor, so it’s true what they say about one door closing and another one opening.

Don’t sweat the small stuff. Lump it all together with the big and medium things so you can have a major breakdown instead.

I just stapled the hem of my workout pants like some kind of white trash fashion MacGyver.

It took me five minutes to realize why the unplugged toaster wasn’t working, so I just went ahead and used my college degree as a napkin.

I just used a real trash bag in my bathroom instead of a plastic grocery bag like I’m some kind of Rockefeller or something.

So, as you can see, I basically have inspiration coming out of my pores. No, wait, that’s garlic. Oh well. At least  I tried. 

Like the blog? Buy the books and cool things!

It’s Not Easy Being Me

I’ve never had my identity stolen, thank god, but I have had a few instances with identity theft-ish things with my taxes and debit card. Needless to say, it’s very stressful and not that much fun.

But with that said, these criminals obviously aren’t that bright if they’re trying to take my identity. Why?

Along with a variety of psychological malfunctions, you are also getting an intolerance to soy and bullshit. But even more than that, you’re getting a lot of responsibility. 

If you checked out my Twitter or Facebook pages, you would know that being me requires that you are:

First and foremost, a social butterfly who is totally a people person.

Like a good neighbor, stay over there and be satisfied with the cursory “hello” head nod.

A chipmunk just ran into my leg, screamed and ran away. Given my history, it’s safe to assume it was male.

Relationship status: Just found an almond in my pajamas. This is as close to nuts in my bed that I’ve had in years.

I can tell just by talking to some people that they lift up the car door handle every time that you go to unlock it.

Age 23: Yay! Plans!
Age 33: Yay! Plans got cancelled!

I establish dominance at the store by never breaking eye contact with the person behind me when placing down the grocery lane divider.

Ever caught a 33-year-old woman singing “Uptown Funk” to the stray cat in her yard? If you’re my neighbor, you can say that you have.

I never talk on the phone while I’m driving. Or when I’m not. Basically I just avoid talking on the phone whenever I can.

I accidentally made eye contact with a creepy guy at the store while putting on ChapStick and now he thinks that we’re dating. 

Along those lines, you will be responsible for being a fashion icon.

I will never have the confidence of people who use magnifying mirrors.

Can someone else be a sex symbol today? My good T-shirt is still in the wash.

It took me two months to use a package of 7-day teeth whitening strips in case my dedication to beauty was ever in doubt.

I’ve never won the lottery, but I did just find a piece of cereal in my bra so I imagine it feels something like that.

If you played connect-the-dots with the stains on my shirt, it would reveal a picture of a grown woman who should probably use a bib.

I think I just blinded a chipmunk with the whiteness of my legs.

Well, set the “Consecutive days gone without spilling food on myself” calendar back to zero. It was good two day run.

An old man told me I reminded him of his late wife. I’m hoping he meant while she was alive. 

You don’t have to be Martha Stewart, but there is a certain domestic goddess status to maintain.

A good indication of your cooking skills is when you’re asked to just bring ice to a party.

A “Woman vs. Food” show but just me attempting to get food from the fork to my mouth without dropping it in my lap first.

I just used four paper towels to wipe out one Ziploc bag to reuse. I think I’m doing recycling wrong.

I just accidentally hit the switch for the garbage disposal instead of the light again. In related news, I no longer fear death.

The food isn’t done until the smoke detector says that it’s done.

I just burned my hand on the toaster. There will be no more fancy breakfasts around here.

I threw old kale under my feeder last night and now the squirrels are requesting coconut water and wearing yoga pants.

And finally, you are expected to be a motivational force, inspiring people with your knowledge.

Saw a guy pushing a “pull” door several times and instead of helping him, I said, “Never give up. Don’t let anyone tell you how to live.”

Sometimes I impress myself. Other times I try and get out of the car while still wearing my seat belt and wonder how I made it this long.

You say “bed.” I say “nocturnal worry pod of overanalysis.” It’s really just semantics.

My weekend to-do list just reads like a menu of things that I want to eat.

That’s one small step to the fridge, and one giant leap back to the couch.

The woman who cut in front of me at the store had a box of tampons, ice cream, and wine in her cart. I wasn’t about to mess with that situation.

All I’m saying is that I’ve seen more people smiling while eating than smiling while out on a run.

I just threw away my to-do list. Like I need that kind of stress in my life.

Stop, drop and roll is also great advice for when someone unexpectedly knocks on your door.

I woke up planning on being positive, but my spoon fell into my oatmeal and so now that plan has gone to hell.

If you’re happy and you know it, stay in bed. It only goes downhill from there.

Okay. So the answer to my problems wasn’t at the bottom of that jar of almond butter, but the important thing is that I tried.

If I burn my mouth on pizza one more time I will continue to eat pizza because it’s delicious and I can’t hold both a grudge and a fork.

“I’m in no mood for this today.”- Me, any time of any day when anything slightly inconveniences me.

I try to find the good in every situation. Wait. That was a typo. I meant “food.” I try to find the food in every situation.

I never forget a face. Just names. And dates. And why I walked into a room and where I was going with this.

See? It’s not easy being me, so you should probably just move on to someone else. Remember, I have issues.

Like the blog? Buy the books and cool things!

Thank You for Shopping at Kohl’s

On the list of things I like to do, shopping for clothes ranks somewhere just above listening to people loudly eat apples and poking myself in the eye with a dull butter knife.

In other words, I kind of hate it.

First of all, my wardrobe consists of gym clothes, “good” T-shirts and stuff I have to wear to work because evidently, “business casual” has a formal definition. Plus, I have no interest in fashion and would rather spend my money on food, so there’s that.

However, once in awhile I receive a gift card—as I did for my birthday last month —and that takes away my excuse that I can’t spend money. And seeing as it was for Kohl’s and they have things that aren’t clothes for sale—and the “biggest sale of the century” every weekend— the purchasing probability looked promising.

Then again, we are talking about me.

Whenever I don’t have a gift card or money, I find a bunch of stuff I would buy. But when I actually have a gift card—free money!—I can never find a damn thing.

But they say, “Expect great things,” in the Kohl’s ad, so I decided to give it a shot. Here’s how my last four Kohl’s attempts have gone:

1) Walk in, lust after the vacuums and accidentally wander into the clothing department, confused as to where I belong. Clothes in the juniors department says “slutty schoolgirl” while those in the women’s department scream “stodgy schoolmarm.”

Considering I’m not going for either of those looks (at the given time, mind you) I was done looking at clothes two minutes and one “uncomfortable moment when eye contact was made with an employee while I attempted to re-fold a shirt and put it back” later.

2) Drive by Kohl’s, see a busy parking lot and continue to drive right back to Target next door, promising myself I’ll hit Kohl’s on some other day.

3) Dropping the pretense of even looking at clothes, I return with the mission to find running shoes and maybe a new bag. Spend .05 seconds looking at bags, five minutes smelling all the scented wax melts and two minutes testing the cushy bedding they have on display before getting “the eye” from an employee.

Wander through the aisle of running shoes and find three pairs that I like and want to try on before realizing those are the only three styles in the store or on the planet that they don’t have in my size.

4) This is it. The damn gift card is burning a hole in the purse that I need to replace. Head back over to shoes and  delight in finding a pair in my size that I like. Noting they’re marked down from roughly $1,350 to a mere $49—sometimes I get the feeling Kohl’s exaggerates a bit — I decide they’re meant to be mine.

Get up to the register and go through the cashier conversation—no, I’m not using my Kohl’s charge; sure, I would love to scratch off a coupon to see if I won extra savings; yes I’m aware that you’re angling to replace both the Euro and American dollar with Kohl’s cash by 2020.

After swiping the gift card I’m informed that I saved approximately $2,034 by purchasing the sale items and that I qualified for additional Kohl’s cash to be used next weekend on the next biggest sale of the century.

Even knowing that I did not in fact save approximately $2,034, I still leave feeling slightly triumphant—until I realize I still have $30 left on my gift card, no clothes, no purse and no energy to come back later.

Maybe I’ll wait until they have a sale. 

Like the blog? Buy the books!

P.S. If you don’t want to miss anything, be sure to subscribe here on the blog and/or follow me on Facebook, Twitter or Pinterest.

I Crap Glamour

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I actually cared how to coordinate clothes or correctly apply fancy makeup. Maybe I would have more friends or wind constantly blowing through my perfectly colored hair like it shows in all those commercials.

But then I remember that I’m the girl who went out in public with a Velcro roller stuck on her head, has blinded herself with liquid makeup applied directly to her eyeball and designates “good” T-shirts/jeans/yoga pants for when she needs to feel classy.

Basically, I just crap glamour.

It started early, as growing up I wasn’t what you would call a “girly girl” at all. My best friends were boys, but seeing as girls were around us as well, I carefully balanced stuffing my leotard with foam balls and coating my eyelids with glitter to lead “Get in Shape Girl” sessions in the yard with digging in the mud with a stick and baiting a hook for fishing.

Although I did have a Marilyn moment or two early on.

I experimented with a variety of questionable “girly”-type things to try and fit in—a crimper, Electric Youth perfume, a Caboodle filled with plastic barrettes and scrunchies to match my colorful socks exposed under my stirrup pants and Jelly shoes—but once I got past the awkward years of 11 to 20, my interest started to fade even more.

Now if someone were to sweep me away and completely make me over, I probably wouldn’t object (as long as they didn’t abduct me near a meal time.)

However, I have no interest in learning how to do it myself—kind of like automotive repair or computer programming, but with more glitter and possibly more power tools.

I just don’t understand things like $25 mascara or dry shampoo. Isn’t spraying more crap in your hair instead of washing the other stuff out counterproductive? And I’m pretty sure if I went for a manicure, the tech would suggest amputation as the least laborious option.

Plus for me, it’s just not practical.

My real goal in life is not to always look fabulous, but rather to get through a meal without dropping food on my shirt or find the fabric softener sheet in my sleeve before someone else does. And I feel like high heels would clash with even my best yoga pants.

So for now, the paraffin hand treatment I get every time I spill the wax out of my Scentsy scented wax warmer and my vegetable steamer facial every night are good enough for me.

But if they make a Bump-It that promises to bump up my chest—not my hair—I  might just shell out the cash.

(Unmanicured fingers are crossed!)

Like the blog? Buy the books!

P.S. Don’t forget to enter for a copy of my book and drop an F-bomb or two of your own.

Why I’m Glad I Grew Up When I Did

Children of the ’80s and early ’90s had to endure the mental anguish of trying to manually untwist the insides of  a cassette tape, but all in all, I look back and think we were pretty damn lucky.

Now: Pinterest and “vision boards”

Then: A bulletin board filled with color-coordinated push pins, pictures of teen heartthrobs, quotes created from random cutout letters that end up looking more like white trash ransom notes and school pictures of friends that perfectly captured their awkwardness. Speaking of which…

Now: Selfies (for the record, I have never taken a “selfie”)

Then: Cameras. People took pictures when something special happened, not when they ate breakfast. As kids, school picture day was a big deal with the most important decision being what “laser”-color background you wanted. You couldn’t wait to get the free black plastic comb so you could bend that sucker back and forth a few times until it got hot and brand the kid next to you with a touch.

And the anticipation of getting a roll of film developed really can’t be overstated.

Now: Jeggings and skinny jeans

Then: Stirrup pants and stonewashed jeans. Pants today are basically tights, which were something I loathed when forced to wear. Stirrup pants—they’ll stay in place forever!—and stonewashed jeans—they’ll hide any wear and tear!—were designed for function much more than fashion.

Now: Blogs

Then: Diaries, and god save anyone who tried to pick the flimsy lock and read the drama of trying to decide what color rubber bands to get in your braces. Thoughts were private and you didn’t WANT to share every detail of your day, mostly because like pictures taken of yourself in the bathroom—see above—you were aware that no one would care.

Now: Politically correct “holiday” parties with “refreshments” from Costco or Whole Foods in which there is no trace of sugar, peanuts, lactose, gluten or fun.

Then: Actual Halloween/Valentine’s Day parties with room mothers who would bring in homemade goodies and roller skating parties with a “couples” skate when pre-teens with sweaty hands would shuffle across the rink together with Boyz II Men playing in the background.

Now: Reality TV

Then: The only real slime on TV came from “Double Dare” and we had actual TV shows with actors and a real TGIF lineup. I’m talking about Full House, The Cosby Show, Family Matters and Alf, that smart-mouthed, cat-murdering alien we loved.

Now: Smartphones and texting

Then: Landlines and notes. I remember dragging the cord into my room to have what I’m sure was a very important discussion about Punky Brewster or zits. Instead of texting and getting instantly rejected, we were forced to actually write notes, those of which an inordinate amount of time was spent folding into a specific shape for delivery.

Plus, we knew how to spell and how to write—even cursive. OMG. LOL.

Now: Ecards

Then: Because computers were huge monstrosities with a four-color screen, use was relegated to games of Junior Jeopardy or Oregon Trail. While we eventually got Print Shop to make birthday cards and banners, hours were spent cutting out construction paper to create our own cards with scented markers we had to resist the urge to lick.

Also, the joy of getting a card in the mail also can’t be overstated.

Now: Kindles and iPads

Then: Scholastic book orders, Book-It and the smell of library book pages illicitly dog-eared and worn. It was fun to wait for the order or go to the store. True, Book-It rewarded kids for reading with a free personal pan pizza full of grease and devoid of veggies, but we all lived to tell—and read—the tale.

Plus unlike a Kindle, books don’t break when you drop them.

Now: Instant gratification

Then: Patience

Okay, maybe not patience, but we had to wait for our favorite songs to play on the radio, stand in a line without checking a phone and make up games or Mad Libs on car trips instead of watching a DVD on an iPad. We kept ourselves busy by creating things instead of relying on something else to keep us busy.

True, it might have involved law jarts and hypercolor T-shirts—Sweaty armpits? Show them off with your heat-sensitive teal shirt and hot pink pit stains!—but at least no one could take a picture on their phone and share it on Twitter.

Ugh, like, gag me with a spoon.

I’m glad I grew up when I did.

Like the blog? Buy the books.

A Letter to My New Yoga Pants

I understand you had higher hopes for where you’d end up, maybe some fashion-forward type with a perky butt that would fill you out better than I can and wear you only once every few weeks while “slumming” and sipping wine on a veranda.

However, the simple fact is that I chose you to come into my life and join a rotation of about three other pair of these pants. You play the hand you’re dealt.

I need to make clear up front that even though I will wear you when occasionally doing yoga, I’m aware you’re not technically yoga pants—you’re workout pants. I don’t pretend that you’re a $100 purchase from Lululemon that I’ll never buy when you’re actually a $12 purchase from Target, but seeing as I don’t sip wine and eat sushi on a veranda, please allow me to sound fancy when referencing you.

I also need to make it clear that for me, you aren’t just weekend wear or something to lounge in. You will become a highly valued member of my family. Because you’re new, you will be considered my “good yoga pants” and will be worn to the gym, the store, etc.—in other words, you will be a public figure of sorts. 

That means I’m going to need to rely on you day in and day out until I feel others get suspicious and I throw you in the wash.

This cycle will continue until you literally wear out your welcome, like the others who have journeyed before you. When that time comes, be secure in the knowledge I will keep you around as my “home” yoga pants, which is a pretty much like retirement in the Florida Keys for you.

Public appearances will be replaced with home workouts and actual yoga sessions, but your primary function is comfort. Every day when I get home from work, you are expected to be standing guard at the ready, next to the sports bra and T-shirt that complete my fashionista trifecta.

There will be challenges—cat hair, spilled food, quick sprints outside to try and move the recycle bin out to the curb on the days I remember—but when all is said and done, you will know that it’s you and you alone who provide me with a sense of relief and relaxation from “real” pants that just don’t get me.

So welcome to the rotation, my friend.

I look forward to breaking you in.

Like the blog? Buy the book.