How to Throw a Favorite Things Party

Thanks to the all-knowing, addictive, most amazing website to come out of 2011 – Pinterest – I came across a few blogs that shared the idea of throwing a Favorite Things Party. So, I decided to host one for my San Francisco girls. Here’s the gist of throwing a Favorite Things Party: everyone brings five (or whichever number you choose) of their “favorite things” under a price limit. We did five things for $30. Favorite things can be your favorite condiment, nail polish color, book, amazing product you can’t live without, etc., but it should be five different things, not five of the same thing. Each person “presents” their favorite things one by one, and after each, pulls a name (from a box/hat) for the person who will receive the favorite thing. At the end, everyone goes home with five different “favorite things” from everyone at the party, learns a little bit about each attendee, and learns a lot about great products! It’s super fun, and a great change-up to the usual white elephant party.

Here are a few details I added to my party to give you some ideas if you want to throw your own Favorite Things Party! (P.S. I did it as a holiday party, but it can be thrown year-round without a Christmas theme!)

I bought brown bags, printed out labels that said, “A Few of Our Favorite Things” (you can download the labels here) and tied the bags with string. This was to play off “brown paper packages tied up with strings” from the song, and each person had a bag to put their “favorite things” they received at the party.

I made this fabulous Cranberry Mojito cocktail, also found on a blog courtesy of Pinterest. This might have been one of the biggest hits of the party. Because of it’s festive red and green appearance, everyone took pics and shared it on the social interwebs.

In keeping with the theme, I asked guests to bring their favorite appetizer. One of my girls brought pigs in blanket (or as she said, “Pigs in Down Comforters”) – everyone’s childhood fav!

I was really grateful to my friends who put a lot of thought and energy into their appetizers and presents – it was so fun to just chat, nibble on good homemade food and sip festive cocktails. The holidays are for celebrating with those you love most!

One of the best parts about the party is how fun it is to learn about each other through your favorite things. Like your friends love to travel… or love Owls… or appreciate fine wine… sometimes if they’re new friends, like most of girls in San Francisco, it’s a great way to get to know each other even more.

Some of the “favorites” that made their way to my party were: popcorn box for watching movies filled with candy, chalkboard wine glasses, Mac lipstick in Ruby Woo (I scored this one!), funny suitcase tag, non-slip headbands, Trident layers, Great Lash mascara, e.l.f. lipgloss, Almond Champagne (!!!), Bath & Bodyworks True Plue Paraffin lotion (supposed to be the best for dry hands), Gap thong (supposed to be super comfy), plastic flask for outdoor concerts, massage oil, eos lip balm and a Christmas amerilious plant.

My five favorites were: Forever 31 earrings, The Carrie Diaries(to represent my love for SATC, Carrie and blogging), Space Noodles (to represent my love for Seattle), a lululemon headband (to represent my love for yoga) and Tapatio! I put that stuff on everything.

What “favorite things” would you bring?!

One of my girl friends went home with Mac lip liner in “Cherry” and a lesson from a make-up artist friend on how to apply it – doesn’t she look fab?!

Again keeping with the theme (*cough* theme party whore *cough*), I made “warm apple strudel” (part of the Favorite Things song lyrics) for my dish and topped it with homemade eggnog ice cream! It was my first time making either, and they were quite the hit. Apple strudel is a crowd pleaser with all that butter and brown sugar, and eggnog is pretty much ready made ice cream mix in a carton! And of course, I had my “whiskers on kittens“ tied up in a pretty red party bow.

It was truly a night filled with our favorite things – each other, great food, drinks, conversation and the little things in life that make us smile. All recipes for an awesome holiday party with close girl friends!

Happy holidays, blog lovelies!

Currently Feeling: Like the holidays are even MORE crazy when you have to squeeze in meeting up with everyone you don’t see all the time. Whew – I’m tired! But it’s so much fun too.
Currently Anticipating: A girls night tomorrow night – dinner at Pearl and a tour of Snowflake Lane.
Currently Loving: Spending so much one-on-one time with my high school girl friends – it’s been awhile since so many of them have lived back at home, and it feels so special to catch up and stay good friends after all these years.

How to Throw a Roaring Twenties Party

As one of my blog tags suggest, I am totally a theme party whore. I loooove them. I love going to them; I love throwing them.

Throughout my 20s, I’ve thrown some pretty good theme parties, including but not limited to: a silver birthday party for my silver 25th birthday party, a Dirty 30 party for my ex-boyfriend’s 30th with a boob cake and dirty mustaches, a Mustache and Sombrero birthday party (what party is complete without mustaches?!), a Sexual Chocolate party (Passion Party + chocolate fondue)… and now a Roaring 20s theme for my 29th Birthday!

Since 29 is the last year of my magnificent 20s, I decided to celebrate it with a Roaring 20s theme. I researched decorations, food, costumes and all the details. Here’s what I did, and how you can throw your own Roaring 20s Party.

Location:

I chose a private party space in Seattle called The Upstairs, which had a “speakeasy” vibe. The entrance was a nondescript door in the city, and guests had to walk upstairs to what looked like an underground bar during Prohibition… lights were strung across the ceiling, handmade art adorned all the walls and guests could dance or sit on velvet couches and chairs to chat. (If you live in Seattle, seriously have your party here! It’s owned by Cory, the brain behind Pinxto – and he is AWESOME at accommodating needs and wants to make your party special!)

Invite:

To get the guests into the Prohibition mindset, I sent an invite with an address that said the party was at “a door next to” a popular bar in Seattle, and gave them each a password to give at the door to get in (something that was often done during Prohibition for entrance into underground bars). Then I hired a door guy to ask guests what their password was at the door. (Gin Fizz!)

Decorations:

Tall vases of feathers and Cali lilies were on tables, feathers adorned bar and tabletops, and I purchased boxes of candy cigarettes to set around the party too. I also had glass candy dishes with gummy bears and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups – candies that were both invented in the 1920s, and bowls of nuts on the bar top – another popular snack food in the 20s.

Food:

My mom catered the party, and we researched popular party foods in the 20s, and dishes invented in the 20s. The menu included:

Shrimp cocktail (popular party food in the 20s)

Zucchini chips (zucchinis came to the U.S. in the 20s)

Deviled eggs (egg creams were popular in the 20s)

Waldorf Salad (served to President Coolidge in 1924 at the Waldorf Astoria hotel in NYC)

Brie cheese platter (popular party food in the 20s)

Olives (popular party snack in the 20s)

Mini Pineapple Upside Down Cakes (dessert invented in 1925 after Dole’s pineapple recipe contest)

Then I created and printed little tags with rhinestones that said the food, the year it was invented and were displayed using photo holders I bought at Michael’s Crafts for $1!

Drinks:

The bar created a custom cocktail list for me, which included:

Mint Julep (whiskey, mint, soda water)

Gin Fizz (gin, lemon, powered sugar & soda water)

French 75 (gin, lemon & Cava champagne)

Roaring Jeanna (whipped cream vodka & soda water – my fav drink!!)

Costumes:

All my guests dressed in 1920s costumes! What do these look like, you ask?! Mostly flappers in fishnets, black wigs, feather headbands and garter belts for the ladies – but also slip dresses with a low hemline, pin curls and pearls. For the boys – gangster gear or just plain suits, suspenders and fedoras.

Party Details:

I hired a photographer and set up a “photo booth” area for my guests with 1920s props such as feather boas, a fake cigar, pearl necklaces, a martini glass and a chalkboard to write fun messages on for the pics. I also created a box and a sign that said, “What Should I Do the Last Year of My 20s?” and asked guests to write their advice for me on little white cards and place them in the box. I’m going to spend this year actually trying to accomplish all the advice from my friends (another post coming on that soon!)

And now… all the photos! My favorite part of the whole shebang because it shows how AWESOME my friends are, who are the “detail” that really made my whole party:

Closet blanket with sleeves wearer without the sleeves

Me: i don’t like the sleeve concept
they make me feel restricted
i use the snuggie without the sleeves. lol
then it’s just a big dumb blanket made out of cheap fleece

Friend: i just had a great idea. i’m going to put my fleece jacket on backwards and market it as a waist high only snuggie. those cost more cause they’re specialized. i’ll make a fortune.

Friend:
then i’ll take a t-shirt, but it open on the front and put it on backwards. I’ll market that as a waist high, short sleeved, summer snuggie made of lighter fabric.

Too bad he didn’t protect his chats! I’m totally stealing his idea, and I’m going to make a FORTUNE from it! Summer Snuggies made from T-Shirts! Waist-high-only Snuggies!!

What I wish I knew then, I guess I know now

Writing Prompt: If you could write a letter to your younger self, giving advice for troubles that will happen in the future, what would it look like? What would you say? Would the letter be funny, or would it be serious? (from Apricot Tea., check out her new project – Ask Apricot)

Dear Younger Self,

It’s me, Older Je. I’m here from the future, briefly, to tell you a few things you should grasp tight in your memory and not let go of. Tidbits of advice, if you will, to help tackle some stuff that you’ll find hard, a perspective on the things to come and a few words to still your mind. If I could be there with you then, this is what I’d tell you:

First and foremost – stop feeling bad in your skin. It’s you. The only body you’ll ever have; and it could be a lot worse. Let me tell you, every time you’ve felt squishy or pudgy or unlike the pretty girls in the magazines, I’ve looked back on pictures of you, and you looked like a million bucks. I only wish I could have that figure right now. I work every day to get it back. So dammit, put on a f*cking bathing suit in public and prance around. Kick your toes in sand. Bend over and pick up your beach towel without putting a T-shirt on. Look in a mirror and appreciate what your momma gave you.

Speaking of momma – try to let up a little. You’ll look back of some of the stuff you said and did to hurt her feelings, and it’ll sting. She’s great, and all she’s ever wanted in life is to be a fabulous mother, and your best friend. And while she might be a little hard on you (yes, I still agree Bs are not a bad thing and a midnight curfew blows), she molded you into what you’ll soon become – smart and independent. A lot of girls don’t get a supportive family. Appreciate that they love you so much they’re willing to push you, ask what you’re doing and punish you. It might feel like you’ll never agree, but trust me, she’s a great friend waiting in your future, and she’s worth it.

You know what’s not worth it though? Credit cards, a poor credit score and calling your parents to bail you out because you lost your job and can’t pay your bills, or living paycheck to paycheck and barely squeaking by. Or not being able to drive your car cause you spent your last $9 on Snickers ice cream and Oreos while drunk one night instead of gas to get to work. This one is easy – stop freakin’ spending. Stop it. Now. The eight sweater coats in every color and length that you couldn’t live without – they’ll be the ugliest thing you’ll see in a couple years, so you don’t need all of them. And that poncho. And those jelly sandals. And that suede Pocahontas-looking jacket. It’s all just material junk that you’ll look around at, unable to sell it for any sort of value, and wish you had all that money back to pay off your credit cards.

I know you’ve never been good at money – but you’ve always been good at friendships. Keep that up. Friends and your family – they are what matter – not the latest fashion, or 46 tubes of the shiniest lip gloss, or the car you can’t live without and the perfect vase for your living room. Just remember – there are a few of these people you’re going to lose too soon, and it’ll be hard to grasp or understand. So always return that phone call, and always visit when you feel you don’t have the time. Because you’re going to look back and wish you did.

And finally, I’m here from the future to tell you to stop worrying so much about me. Take it one day at a time. Here’s a tip – you’re not going to be married at 27. So chances are you’re not going to have your first kid at 30. And guess what; it’s all going to be okay. You’re not going to love your job, but you’re working toward smaller goals and you’re figuring it out. All the answer won’t be at your fingertips when you thought they would be, but you’re well on your way. You’ll discover that living in the moment is much more rewarding than always worrying about the future, so why not start that now? That job you felt like you’d never get – you’ll get it. So continue to sling coffee and live for free off your parents. You’ll never be that free of responsibility again. That relationship you thought would never come – life is full of love and being alone is some of the best times you’ll have to grow. So stop moping on the couch because you couldn’t find something to do for one night. Relax, take a breather and let it all just come, one day at a time…

Love,
Older Je

Bad luck in the Random Shiz That Goes On department

I have some serious bad luck in the Random Shiz That Goes On department.

I don’t think I’d consider myself a clumsy person – I don’t generally have a problem with dropping things, falling over, tripping, etc. But I do have a problem with little mishaps and sometimes I just do stupid shiz, so I guess I might be a little accident prone.

It appears as if I have to “initiate” myself into a new home with one of these little accidents before my body, mind and soul can feel comfortable there. It’s becoming a tradition.

For example, for those of you who are new readers, when I moved into my old apartment about two years ago, I came home after an all-nighter at the bars and accidentally knocked deodorant out of the cabinet above the toilet after flushing it, and it was SUCKED UP the freakin’ toilet. Full story is here. Can you believe that? How does that happen? So, for at least the first week, the toilet was out of order while my landlord called a plumber. The whole debacle cost me $75. For bumping something out of the GD cupboard. Anybody else and the deodorant would have probably just fallen to the ground. But oh no, me – well, for me, it has to actually be timed just perfectly to be sucked up the toilet, clog it and cost me a mighty large fee for a drunken stumble. Bad luck in the Random Shiz That Goes On department.

So, last week was my first week living in the sexy new place, and I was packing away with bated breath, waiting for me to do something stupid. I almost lost an entire 16 ounces of dark iced tea all over the white carpet while walking into my room on the first night – but I caught it at the last minute. Phew. Looks like I was going to escape being a retard* just this once.

The next evening I was making dinner and hanging some pictures in the kitchen (I’m an ultimate multitasker), so I go to pick up the hammer, and the edge catches the plastic container of nails and screws that I have, and the ENTIRE freakin’ container FALLS into the SINK with the GARBAGE DISPOSAL and at least 10 NAILS and other metal objects fall DOWN the disposal.

F*%#$@!

Now, because garbage disposals and gross food particles kinda give me the gag reflex, I told my roommate not to use it, put a plug over it and waited, sneakily for my boyfriend to come over a couple days later so I could ask him to fish out the nails for me, via the form of a “favor.”

Saturday morning I woke up and started off with, “I’ll make you breakfast if you do a favor for me.”

“Are you serious? Like what…” he eyes me warily. At this point, I’ve already enlisted him for moving my entire apartment, helping me break down and take out all the cardboard boxes, hanging items I can’t hang myself, storing a lot of my stuff I can’t fit at my place in his garage, and cleaning my old apartment. Some might say I’m running a slave relationship. I just say this is the reason why girls have boyfriends next to the fact that battery-operated items sometimes get old.

So I explain the nails to him, and he shakes his head, rolls up his sleeve and starts to fish around for NAILS and SCREWS in the garbage disposal. Of course, when I explained it to him, I just said, “a few.” I didn’t say “nearly the entire box.” So by screw number four and nail number eight, he was starting to get a bit frustrated with me. After about 40 minutes of fishing and a few scraped knuckles, he couldn’t see anymore, so we turned the disposal on.

RUUUHHH RUUHHHH SCUUUUUGG RUUH. zuuuuuu uuu uu u

The sucker stopped spinning. After further inspection, we still couldn’t find any more nails – so that means one is probably stuck somewhere we can’t reach, preventing it from spinning, and now I’ve broken the GD garbage disposal in week one and have to call my landlord to fix it.

The BF flicked off the switch, shook his head and looked at me.

I know exactly what he was thinking….

How in the HELL do you do this shiz?!

How?! I’ll tell you how – because I have BAD LUCK IN THE RANDOM SHIZ THAT GOES ON DEPARTMENT.

*I’m sorry if this term offends you. If it does, you should probably not read the blog. Hence the terms of my profile. Perhaps I should amend it to say, “I drink, fornicate and use the word retard a lot, therefore I’m not going to heaven.”

Currently Feeling: Jazzed up for the 30-day challenge I just enlisted myself in. Check it out!
Currently Anticipating: A dinner tonight to celebrate my Bestie’s one-year return to home, a boat festival and parade on the Seattle waterfront tomorrow in 66-degree weather (!!!) and a lovely Sunday planned for Mother’s Day, including brunch at a new spot in Ballard.
Currently Needing: Some really great summer/spring shoes.

The few, the strong, the braaaave

[If you haven’t already, please enter my blog giveaway for five copies of Thanks for Coming: One Young Woman’s Quest for an Orgasm. Contest closes Friday.]

When I first met my boyfriend, a little over a year and a half ago, he was a commercial fisherman in Dutch Harbor, Alaska. Yes, like Deadliest Catch. It’s a running joke between us because every time it has casually come up in a group conversation, someone will go, “OHMYGOD. Like the DEADLIEST CATCH. That is SO SCARY/cool/dangerous/insert adjective here!” which I usually laughed at and rolled my eyes while he answered all their questions. I had never seen the Deadliest Catch and could never really commiserate with them, even though it was my boyfriend they were talking about, and I probably should have been able to say something like, “Oh my God, I KNOW. He’s so strong, brave and amazing.”

When I met him, I knew that commercial fisherman made a lot of money, but I could only focus on how it meant he was gone six months out of the year doing what some will deem the “most dangerous profession.” He left two months after we met each other, and we decided to do the long distance thing even though we were barely official. But, this wasn’t just any long-distance relationship; this was three months with only a two minute, choppy phone call once a week via satellite phone. One time, he didn’t get to call me for two weeks solid and I was sure he had died – swallowed up by the waves of the Bering Sea.

To say it sucked is an understatement. Luckily, he had made the decision to quit before I met him, so the three-month trip we endured was his last. And since, it’s been really hard for him to let go of. It was a profession that he and others respected, and one he was good at. It was a lifestyle and a community he became a part of for five years of his life. It made him feel accomplished and manly and proud. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I think a small part of him died when he decided it was something he couldn’t do anymore for other personal reasons, even though his decision brought me a huge sense of relief. I couldn’t imagine myself the other half of someone who was only home six months a year. I imagined myself a lonely and widowed wife of a fisherman. Uh, no thanks. So while he’s longed for it sometimes, I’ve told him he needed to move on. Oftentimes not so nicely. I recognized the way he felt about fishing, but I didn’t really understand it.

This last year or so of our relationship has occasionally been peppered with reminders of his past boat life – he’ll point out ships in the Seattle harbor that were fishing boats he delivered catches to; he’ll make a reference to “boat lore” or superstitions they used to follow; I’ll tease him about a particularly worn-out and stained pair of socks or underwear, and he’ll say, “They’re boat socks! I need to do laundry;” or I’ll often poke fun at him when he wears his sweatshirt around the house that says, “Bering Sea Fisherman: The few, the strong, the brave.”

“The FEW. The STRONG. The BRAAAAVE,” I’ll say in a deep, dramatic breathy voice, and make a face like this:

(I’m such a jerk).

“Shut up,” he’ll throw back.

Being a fisherman is a part of him. It makes up the DNA of his past, whether or not I understand it or ever will. So although I might have inwardly groaned last night when he asked if we could watch the season opener of Deadliest Catch, I agreed. I guess I decided to unravel one more strand of that DNA.

And I’m really glad I did.

For maybe one of the first times ever in our relationship, I felt totally engrossed in something HE was teaching ME. A part of him that I knew nothing about. I asked him hurried questions – I couldn’t get them out fast enough.

“What’s a skipper??? I mean, besides Barbie’s little sister…, ha ha” (I like to laugh at my own jokes frequently).

“A captain. The captain of the boat,” he answered.

“Why do they have zinc on the bottom of the boat? Do all boats have that?!”

“Yes. The salt from the salt water attacks the zinc instead of the boat so it doesn’t erode.”

I watched as they baited the crab pots, dropped them, and pulled them up, searching for Dungeness crab. And he patiently explained every detail I wanted to know. As I watched the show, totally engrossed, I kept glancing at him and I could see the excitement in his eyes. The knowledge. The longing. The manliness. Rawr. I finally understood the magnitude of this profession. The magnitude of what it meant to him. It was almost, for an overly dramatic effect, like watching a caged animal in their natural habitat. I don’t know that I’d seen him quite like this before.

Anyway, it a special moment for me. In day to day life, there are very few moments when we are in total awe of our significant other. So when it happens, I feel it should be grasped onto and remembered, so the next time someone says, “OHMYGOD. Like the DEADLIEST CATCH. That is SO SCARY/cool/dangerous/insert adjective here,” I won’t roll my eyes. I’ll say,

“I know.”

Currently Feeling: Like I have the worst back pain in the world. I can barely sit at my desk or breathe. What the hell?
Currently Anticipating: Viewing this apartment tonight that I think is PERFECT. I’m so anxious that someone else is going to snag it!
Currently Needing: Drugs. Lots of drugs. And some Bestie Amanda time.

A trinket from my memory shelf

This past weekend I headed up to Victoria B.C. for a friend’s bachelorette party, with a teeny stop along the way in my old college town to stay with a nearest and dearest friend on Friday night. I haven’t been back in more than a year – and haven’t stayed more than one night since I graduated four years ago. But, as soon as I drove around the Evergreen-lined bend of the freeway and saw the approaching exit sign with “Western Washington University” on it, my face stretched into a huge grin.

Bellingham has been deemed one of the best places to retire, and now that I look back – it was one of the best places to go to school. As I drove through the familiar streets on my way through the sleepy town, I, quite literally, took a trip down memory lane. I thought about all the bus rides I took to school, bumping people with my huge art portfolio that carried the naked sketches I’d managed to do without busting at the seams (a wrinkly penis from an 80-year-old man is really hard to look at for three hours without wanting to giggle). I remembered the party where I chipped my tooth, the night I accidentally left my friend in my trunk, the day I partook in festivities from 4:20 in the afternoon until 4:20 in the morning, and the afternoon I made out underneath a sleeping bag on the cliffs of Larrabee State Park. I remembered eating popcorn at The Beav and shaking my groove thang to 80s music and Journey at The 3-B. I thought about Belgium waffles and buffet breakfasts in the cafeteria, the house on the corner with bumper pool, a dozen pink roses on my birthday and holding hands in the park, Franzia wine in a box, and frantic mornings I spent at Kinko’s, printing out my graphic design projects after I stayed up more than 24 hours to finish them. I remembered drinking 40s on Thirsty Thursdays, walking through bars, searching for half empty pitchers left by people I didn’t know, interviewing bands, restaurant owners, mothers and graffiti artists for the school magazine, and painting my nails every day at the salon I worked at. As I drove, I thought a lot about laughter, a lot about friends and a lot about heartache.

“It’s hard because I have some of my best times here and some of my lowest,” my girl friend said as we drove together on our way back through the town after our girl’s weekend.

What is the expression – “nail on the head”? Yeah… that.

College was, well, amazing. There is no other time in my life that I’ll get to live in a community with thousands of people within three years of myself, start a life for the first time without parents, or have my only commitment be three hours of class a day. I will never get to skip work just because I want to watch The Price is Right. But, I also went through some bad roommates, losing a few good friends and a little bit of heartache.

I think life is a lot like trinkets on a shelf – there are parts of yourself that hold either a tiny memory, or a lot of memories, that are put up on a shelf and seldom thought about, until you take that trinket down for a minute, dust it off, rotate it in your palm, smile or feel sad, and then put it back and continue with your day…

For me college is one of my most cherished trinkets. When I take down my college life off the shelf and think about it for more than a fleeting second, I do occasionally get a twinge of sadness. But, for the most part it makes me grin so big that I can’t hold it in.

Those memories will be with me forever.

Currently Feeling: Twitterpated after our spaghetti dinner and cuddle under the covers date last night. After four days away, our reunion was quite nice.
Currently Anticipating: Finding a fancy new place to live, with a dishwasher and a washer and dryer! Imagine that.
Currently Needing: Something to knock me out for the plane ride to Mexico. I’m already getting nervous. I freakin’ hate flying with a red hot passion. When did I become so neurotic?!

Deodorant Popcorn Snacks

Here’s an embarrassing little TMI fact for you – I have a weird obsession with men’s deodorant. Like I love, love, love the smell of it. I love to hug my boyfriend and kind of nuzzle my nose a little bit in the general armpit direction (or yah know, poke my nose directly in it) because his deodorant just smells so.damn.good. Why don’t they make women’s deodorant fragrances an extension of our perfumes? We only get sickening smells like “Powder Fresh” and “Springtime Floral Escape.” All reminiscent of the same smells you probably find on Summer’s Eve package, if yah know what I mean. Gross. Anyway, I’ll be the first to admit that my obsession with men’s deodorant is totally weird, but it always seems to get a laugh out of my BF, so I don’t think he minds too much.

But, recently I figured something out about myself – while I love the SMELL of men’s deodorant, I don’t love to EAT men’s deodorant. I bet you’re dying to know how I found this one out…

A couple days ago, my boyfriend and I were watching some realty TV show together on the couch (he doesn’t seem to mind my obsession with realty TV, which I love him for), and I was eating one of my new favorite TV snacks – 100-calorie packs of Smartfood White Cheddar Cheese Popcorn. Picture this: I’m leaning against him; he has his arm up on my knee; I’m mowing down on my white cheddar popcorn, but I keep dropping pieces and kernels that fall down on the couch; I continue to pick them up and swear to myself about how messy I’m being; I finish my popcorn bag and get up to throw it away; I come back to the couch and see there’s a little kernel left on the seat; I grab the kernel and put it into my mouth and start gagging – it is NOT popcorn.

Somewhere between me throwing away the bag in the kitchen and coming back, a little ball of my boyfriend’s deodorant fell on the couch, right where my white popcorn kernels previously were, and I ate it. That’s right. I ate a deodorant ball that had been heating up in his armpit. Is that seriously not the grossest thing you’ve ever heard? Or at least close.

Let me tell you, men’s deodorant, or any deodorant for that matter I’m sure, does.not.taste.good. It’s kinda like hot, chalky soap. That sticks to the inside of your mouth. Kinda like you just had your mouth washed out after saying naughty things.

I think I just inadvertently cured my obsession with his armpits.

Currently Feeling: Excited to check out Jimmy Johns’ sandwiches at lunch today with my coworkers.
Currently Anticipating: Bellingham tonight to stay with my old friend from college, and then Victoria, B.C. for a bachelorette party!
Currently Loving: Rilo Kiley on my fav Pandora station.

In limbo

The past two weekends, I’ve been out and about in a couple different bars in Seattle that I used to call my stomping grounds, but not so much anymore. Without being able to pinpoint when the exact transition happened, I found myself feeling a bit older than the crowds, a bit less likely to puke in the bathroom or knock over someone’s drink while stumbling by, a bit more likely to head home early so I can get up and jam out a workout or list of errands without feeling like death. I felt out of place in the singles scene – something I thrived in just a short year ago. I felt out of place in the 20-something scene – despite belonging to the club for another three years. In each bar, I looked around the room and thought to myself: getting old sucks.

I used to be the 22-year-old out with her group of stylish friends who made guys’ heads turn. I used to know bartenders, door guys and cocktail waitresses. I used to be able to post up at bars where I knew everyone and had all my drinks discounted. I felt like I owned the city – I could go out at a number of different bars in a number of different neighborhoods and see people I knew. I was a networking, friend-making, drinking and bar-scene machine.

But, that’s all tapered off. The thought of getting up in the morning to make it to work by 8 a.m. makes me want to stab my eyeballs out. Throw booze into that equation, and I’d be burning through my sick days faster than I could accumulate them. Read: I’m a sucker for going to sleep early on “school nights.” And, I feel like more often than not, I’m opting for one stay-in night and one party night on the weekends. When I go big both Friday and Saturday nights, I’m left feeling like I need a weekend from my weekend.

“I feel like just another face in the crowd,” I said to my boyfriend, after explaining all of this awkward “I’m not that girl anymore” stuff to him on our walk home from one of these said bars Saturday night. “You’re still cute. You stand out to me,” he responded.

Cute or not, I’m feeling a bit awkward these days. People say moving into your upper 20s, and eventually your 30s, is great. We’re supposed to be more financially stable, more sure of ourselves. I’ve been wondering when the pay-off happens because at 27, I’m feeling too old for some bars; okay with staying in, but depressed with the lull of life; financially semi-stable-but-a-lot-of-times-rocky; and generally a little unfulfilled.

I’m trying to find something else that fulfills me other than feeling like the center of attention in a bar – something a bit more healthy and sane. But the transition, the next “phase” of life, which most people my age are going through, is just another awkward room where I feel like I don’t belong. Marriage in my 20s is just not for me. Sometimes, I think back about all the ridiculous shenanigans and stories from my 20-something days of being out six or seven nights a week, and I feel like I was laughing and loving a whole lot more back then. Or at least saying to myself, “I LOOOOVE my life” a whole lot more.

I need to fall in love with my life again – the one where I’m staying in more often than I’m going out – I just don’t know how to do it.

The Tale of Two Non-Virgins Who Can’t Perform at the Pool

Last night I took a trip to the public pool. Or la piscine (piss-seen), as one would say in French, which I think is much more fitting than “swimming pool.” After all, a public pool is probably very a la piscine from all the kids. Cause really, as a kid, we all know we were warned and reprimanded 100x about peeing in the pool, but we did it anyway, holding our breath to see if the water really would change another color from the “special chemical.” And it didn’t. This therefore just warranted a cycle of peeing in the pool very discreetly instead of getting out of the water, freezing cold, for a trip to the bathroom. (I might or might not have just admitted that I used to pee in the pool).

This is what I think about now that I’m an adult and swim in common areas with children, such as lakes, docks and pools.

But, it still didn’t stop me from brushing those thoughts aside for a Monday-night trip to the pool and community center in my neighborhood. A little pee never hurt anyone! (Gross. I can’t believe I just typed that).

Baby Daddy and I threw the good ole suits on and paid our $4 fee, entering our respective locker rooms. I haven’t been to a community pool since I believe I was in 5th grade. As a child who took swim lessons and attended a number of pool dates with the neighbor kids, it was all very familiar to me – the lockers with keys that you pin to your suit, inevitably leaving a hole in your swimsuit; the cold cement floors with clumps of other people’s hair; the freezing cold shower you’re supposed to take before jumping in the pool; the sting as the smell of chlorine hits your nostrils; the scratchy pool lining that snags the bottom of your suit; the echo of little kids shouting and run-walking down the sides of the pool to the diving board; and the dum, dum thump of the diving board as one swimmer jumps off before the next one walks to the end.

I was hoping for a hot tub, but no such luck. There was a sauna that we spent 15 minutes in before I felt like my face was going to melt off while I simultaneously hyperventilated. (Am I the only one who things these are bearable, at best, and totally uncomfortable to sit in with other people?) So then we jumped into the pool for a bit, and I grabbed a noodle to float on. I figured I’d do a little kicking, doggy paddling and seeing how long I could stand on my hands under water, and count it as my work out for the day. Except just as we got in, a very official pool man started putting up signs that dictated speeds and others began rolling out the plastic floating lines. Dammit – lap swim.

Baby Daddy and I got out and sat on the bleachers and watched the swimmers crowd their chosen lanes.

Me: Well, crap. Do you want to do lap swim?
Him: I don’t care. Whatever you want; I’d be just okay with leaving.
Me: But, we’ve only been here for 20 minutes. I’d be a little embarrassed to walk out passed the lady we paid $4 to at the front desk. We could just get in a kick around a little bit.
Him: Yeah.
Me: I mean, look at that dude, he’s got a kickboard. We couldn’t look any stupider than that.
Him: I wouldn’t use a kickboard. No way. Look at that guy, he’d probably go somewhere a lot quicker if he weren’t slapping the water with every stroke.
Me: He’s old. Cut ‘em some slack. Besides, we don’t know that we’d look too much better. That’s the problem – I have no idea what I look like when I swim.
Him: Me either.
Me: Everyone’s got a cap on. I don’t want to wear a cap.
Him: And goggles.
Me: Crap. We’re total public-pool amateurs.
Him: Yeah. And now it’s probably too late to get in. We’ve sat here too long, staring at everyone.
Me: I can’t believe we just paid $4 to sit in a sauna for 15 minutes and watch people swim for 20.
Him: I’d be down if it weren’t lap swim – there’s too much pressure to perform.
Me: Yeah, we’re pool shy.*

Ba boom, CCHHHINGG.**

*I was referring to definition #2.
** That’s supposed to be my drum and symbol sound they always make after jokes.

Currently Feeling: In need of some serious workouts this week – the last three-week push until Mexico!
Currently Anticipating: Home sweet home. This daylight savings time transition is rough.
Currently Loving: Chocolate protein shakes with milk, NOT water.