One of the most difficult things in life, for me, is returning from vacation. I can’t lie; relaxing and drinking in a warm climate is pretty much my favorite thing in the world, so after a weekend of doing just that, I am downright depressed returning to my so-called “real” life. Especially during summer, the most festive season.
I have just returned from the Oregon coast. I journeyed to Matt’s beach house in Manzanita with a handful of my friends, and as they can attest, it was a lovely time full of the beach, booze, BBQ, bonfires, ummm.. can’t think of any other alliteration… so also golf, shots shots shots sho-sho-shots!, hiking, pie, music, oysters, World Cup, horseshoes, Catan, questionable Dairy Queen, Camaro, semi-sunshine… you get the idea. I’m still shocked by the amount of activities we were able to pack in, considering (a) how little time we really spent there, only four days, and (b) how intoxicated we were the majority of the vacation. Productivity at its finest!
Now I am back home, sitting alone at my desk, looking around my room, and feeling deflated. This is borrrrringgggg. I don’t understand those people who are all, “I can’t even relax on vacation! After two days I am so ready to get back to the real world. I hate feeling so lazy, there’s so much to get done!”… oh, shut up. You can do my work, too, then. Don’t get me wrong, I do love my job and I feel good after working hard on a project or whatever. But let’s get real. If I could spend the entire summer the exact same way I spent this extended weekend, I would be in heaven. I would not feel guilty in the slightest (in this imagined scenario, clearly I would have a lot more money and maybe six-pack abs).
We were talking in the car on the way home about how awesome it was being a kid in the summertime. No job, no school, maybe, like, sports camp (or if you were me, theatre camp, holla!) and even for that “obligation” your parents are the ones responsible for scheduling and paying for it and driving your ass around to it. One drawback, there is no sex and no alcohol, so you do miss out on those summertime delights. As a kid, though, those aren’t even on your radar. (Hopefully.) That might be even better! You are free to be totally lazy and selfish… unless you were some superachiever prodigy but clearly that was not my childhood experience. Now we’re adults and have to work for a living and worry about finances, relationships, careers… ugh, so complicated and often so devoid of satisfaction. I can deal with it, but c’mon, at least give me summer break! Twelve months of this bullshit?! It seems so unfair.
That is why our trip’s theme song should be everyone’s ultimate summertime life theme song. Observe:
Special thanks to Patrick for busting out that song on his iPod on our ride down, and another special thanks to Matt for getting it permanently in my head by constantly humming it while we were playing golf together. And special thanks to me, actually, for finding this sweet vid on YouTube. We love everybody but we do as we please
When the weather’s fine
We go fishin’ or go swimmin’ in the sea
We’re always happy
Life’s for livin’ yeah, that’s our philosophy …would that it could be so simple, eh? I think that’s why I love/hate taking trips. For a few days, you can pretend.
Now to detox, work out, unpack, balance my checkbook… okay, jk on that last one, I have never balanced a checkbook in my life. I do as I please!
I’m headed to Miami in less than 12 hours! Spring break! Immediately after I land, it should look something like this:
…maybe.
(By the way, everyone should do themselves a favor and Google Image “spring break” like I just did. Comedy.)
In all seriousness, I decided that this epic vacation deserves an iTunes playlist, as every occasion does. Are you ready for the ULTIMATE MIAMI PLAYLIST that I just created?!?!?
1. LMFAO – “I’m in Miami, Bitch”
2. Will Smith – “Miami”
3. Gloria Estafan – anything. but only pick one song or you’ll get annoyed.
Now just put this playlist on “shuffle” and “repeat all” and get ready for HOURS of prefunking enjoyment on the airplane. Try to get your seatmates in on the action! Singing loudly while repeatedly pushing the “stewardess help” button to request rounds of mini bottles of Malibu rum should do the trick.
This latest debacle is all my own fault, really. I succumbed to a potent combination of temptation and vanity. Play with fire (or UV bulbs) and you’re bound to get burned.
That’s right, I have been going tanning.
Maybe I am just too critical (heh, “maybe”) but I have always considered indoor tanning a relatively trashy activity. It’s one thing to get a nice tan in the summer when you’re outside playing sports, traveling, or just lounging by the pool, but committing to cooking your skin via manufactured UV rays is so… ugh. I mean, we all know it’s bad for you. We all know it can give you leather face. We all know it can give you cancer. And hey, we live in Washington, everyone is pale the majority of the year. It seems pretty unnecessary to me. I put tanning on par with like, acrylic nails. Almost everyone will assume it’s fake, so why bother?
Having said that…
You get to lay naked, listen to dumb music, and feel warm. Then you look more attractive. While the longterm effects are negative, it’s a good source of semi-instant gratification. Indoor tanning is, admittedly, a fun activity. Not that I think “fun” is a valid excuse in this instance (in almost any other, I think it is, though). And there’s that old argument that tanning indoors before spending time in the sun is more “safe” because you’re in a “controlled environment”… I don’t know where I stand on that aspect of the issue, but I do know that I am going to Miami in about two weeks and don’t want to look gross and pale. Armed with this motivation, last week I took a field trip to my local Desert Sun to get some color, and to use a phrase that immediately irritates me, “build a base.”
This is the most offensive tanning-related picture I found on Google Images, so of course I chose it.
I have indulged in Mystic Tan before (for Vegas!) and conventional tanning (for Spain!) in the past. I am unfortunately both judgmental and shallow; apparently my shallowness is the stronger of these two personal qualities I boast. But I judge myself the entire time I do something shallow. It’s a vicious cycle. ANYway, of course the 18 year old girl in the Victoria’s Secret sweatsuit could sense my inclination to sink tons of money into “investments” that are obviously bad and useless, so I ended up with a “Premiere Membership.” Fantastic. It was the part about getting to use the bronzer beds at no extra cost, plus a free Mystic, plus she’d throw in yet another free Mystic “just for you because you’re being so good about signing up for everything right off the bat!”… girl, do NOT encourage me. The membership has a $20 sign-up fee (what? WHY) and costs $60 per month or something offensive like that. Then add the lotions (“because you have to have lotion, it really amps up your tan!”) and I was signing a receipt for $97! For two weeks of base-building?! This is an outrage. But the person I should be outraged with is myself, because I let it happen. Sometimes situations are so ridiculous and wasteful that I feel compelled to ride them out, no matter what the personal or financial damage. This is the same reason I love Indian casinos. There is something psychologically wrong with me.
Then to add insult to injury (well, if we’re being literal, injury to insult) I have gone three times this week, once for five minutes and twice for six minutes. Pretty weak, but wouldn’t you know it? Yesterday I started to feel weirdly hot and itchy after my session (ew, two adjectives you really don’t want to apply to yourself in the same context) and… what up, GIGANTIC SUNBURN! What the hell! I thought tanning was supposed to deter your skin from burning! I EVEN USED THE DAMN LOTION! I didn’t have this issue before Europe last year. Once again: WHY.
Am I still going back? Well, yeah, I paid for a month of unlimited premiere membership, you bet I’m getting my $97 worth. For the next two weeks, I am going to smell like fake coconut lotion and carry those awkward tanning goggles in my purse. Secretly. Abashedly. I’d also like to add that I sometimes put the music in the room on the “Mexican fiesta station” so with my eyes closed I can feel like I’m tanning on the beach, naturally. I haven’t been able to trick myself yet, but the shame spiral has to end somewhere. Maybe the UV rays will fry my brain, too, then I can stop feeling so embarrassed of this new – albeit temporary – hobby.
I still vow to never get fake nails, the fact that I have abstained for 24 years and counting is the one shred of dignity I can still cling to.
When I was in LA, one of my top priorities was shopping. It’s funny, because when I was a bit younger, working a job that was emotionally unrewarding yet providing me with double the salary I currently make, I was a huge “shopaholic.” Ugh, I hate that term. But I was. I thought nothing of throwing down hundreds of dollars on a pair of designer jeans, and I racked up novelty track jackets like they were going out of style. (Oh. They were.) Currently, in these lean times, I rarely shop for the sake of shopping. My former disposable income and the delight I took in squandering it truly shames me now.
BUT APPARENTLY IT DOESN’T SHAME ME ENOUGH because once the plane hit the tarmac at LAX, I started rabidly fantasizing about Robertson and all the financial havoc I could wreak in one week’s time. Something happens to my brain chemistry when I’m in California. Things I could consider gaudy and wasteful in Washington suddenly become acceptable – no, more than acceptable, they become desired! For example, take my reaction when I discovered the Kitson clearance outlet in Santa Monica; I believe there were audible screams of joy and disbelief. Embarrassing…
Finally, though, I was able to reconcile my Californian thirst for spending ridiculous amounts of money and my Washingtonian rustic, cozy sensibilities with a new boutique I discovered in the heart of Robertson, right across from celeb dining hotspot the Ivy (talk about prime real estate! We saw Ciara!): MOODS OF NORWAY!
It’s a well-established fact that I am mildly obsessed with Scandinavian culture. Moods of Norway even won over my companions, who previously had been getting a little impatient with my wild-eyed window shopping. It was decorated like a cheesy lodge (made me happy!), had a huge golden tractor you were allowed to “ride” (made Grace happy!) and it was freaking “waffle Saturday” aka FREE WAFFLES FOR ALL (made KJ kind of scarily happy!). Those crafty Norwegians, they made it all too easy to justify spending $120 on a fur-lined jacket (see image). When I told the shopgirl I was going back to Seattle and needed something that would keep me warm all throughout our miserable, disgusting winter months, she claimed my jacket would be “warmer than a Northface, but ew, I am against Northface anyway” …ha, nice way to subtly stereotype and shoot down Seattleites. But the tactic worked, once she pointed out “these are jackets made BY Norwegians FOR Norwegians, and you know their winters are really cold!” Eh, true. It doesn’t take much to convince me, especially when I’m just begging for someone to validate my gratuitous impulses in the first place.
Moods of Norway is so hip that is only has that one boutique in LA. Otherwise it’s only in Norway itself. Providing me with faux-European elitism at its finest! Unless you are shopping in Norway or Los Angeles, YOU CANNOT HAVE MY JACKET. Apparently most people in Seattle don’t want it anyway; the other day I was walking home, proudly displaying my new coat, and this guy actually shouted at me from his front yard, “You can’t be that cold!” …whoa, way to call me out, random dude! Wearing anything with luxurious fur (albeit fake fur) seems to alienate and anger the natives here in Ballard. Everyone keeps ogling my outfit like I’m an asshole. It probably doesn’t help that I often wear the jacket with a pair of huge designer sunglasses, to drive home the fact that I am soooo fashionable and exclusive and I care enough about my wellbeing to keep myself fashionably warm while still protecting my eyes from damaging UV rays! Suck it, Seattle. My Norwegian roommate, Linn, loves my jacket. When I brought it home, she squealed, “Ooh! Moods of Norway! They’re SO HOT RIGHT NOW in Oslo!”
Made BY Norwegians, FOR Norwegians, and apparently APPROVED OF by Norwegians. As a ghetto-fabulous graphic tee I discovered at the Slauson swap meet proudly proclaimed: Haters keep on hatin, cuz u makin’ me famous.
Here I am.
Back in Seattle.
Wow, my enthusiasm is palpable, isn’t it?
While most people who just returned from a whirlwind trip would probably be exhausted and head straight to bed, I have priorities. And by “priorities” I mean “an addiction to the internet”… as we all can imagine, I packed a LOT of debauchery into my five days in Los Angeles, and to be honest I really can’t get into everything right now. One surprising aspect of my trip that I would like to address before I can sleep: how much I fuckin MISSED my old homestate! (Can you say “homestate” like “hometown” ? Maybe? We’re just going to go with it because it sounds less awkward than “Place I was born, then left, then returned and spent a few shockingly unproductive years in during my late teens/early 20s.”) I’m starting to develop intense anxiety about the possibilities of crafting a successful career in writing/entertainment in Seattle, I mean let’s be honest, it’s not exactly a hotbed of entertainment industry opportunities.
To allay my conflicting feelings about Washington vs. California, let’s do one of my favorite things EVER: making a pros/cons list! (Since my scribbling on a yellow legal pad can’t be published online, we’ll just go with this blog post.)
WASHINGTON
+ I already live here, so that’s convenient
+ Tons of friends/family here who I would miss terribly
+ I’m pretty into Husky football this year
+ The natural splendor of the Pacific Northwest (cause, you know, I spend so much time doing outdoorsy activities and don’t at all squander opportunities to enjoy my surroundings, instead choosing to watch TV on DVD and drink cheap alcohol and then sending inappropriate texts to people. With the heater blasting and the blinds closed and all the lights on.)
- I can’t find a full-time job that satisfies my talents and ambitions
- RAIN and COLD
- Bigfoot/ Sasquatch (yeah, obviously he’s cool in theory, but what if I get attacked?!? While I am enjoying all my aforementioned time in the wilderness of Washington, of course.)
- Less celeb sightings (basically… only have met Dave Matthews like 6 times and that’s about it.)
- No palm trees or Roscoes (my new obsession, obv) or swap meets or LA Tigers (other new obsession)(so I guess what I’m saying by this “con” of WA is that it’s too classy for me, because I just like ghetto/hilarious/AMAZING things that only LA culture can provide.)
- You can only purchase hard A in government-run liquor stores here.
CALIFORNIA
+ Warm warm warm weather (it was in the 80s today. Thank YOU)
+ Suck it mom & dad, the rest of my family lives in San Diego so I’ll still have somewhere to go for Thanksgiving. (Clearly, planning the rest of my life around where I will be to eat a delicious Thanksgiving feast is logical and necessary. I’m kinda like Seth Cohen when it comes to this holiday. PS I attempted to find a YouTube of his hilarious Thanksgiving tirade from “The Homecoming” but apparently it DOES NOT EXIST and I am outraged.)
+ Um, speaking of The OC, I can secretly pretend I’m actually living inside that TV show. Whereas in Seattle I can only pretend I’m in Grey’s Anatomy, and that doesn’t enhance my (fantasy) life at all.
+ In general, the people are more attractive. Seattle, get offended all you want, but if you have been to Southern CA you KNOW I am right!! Get it together! In turn, this will encourage me to take better care of MYself because I will feel more societal pressure to be beautiful. Instead of sitting here in sweatpants eating leftover Halloween candy. Basically I am endorsing redevelopment of an eating disorder and/or an intense drug problem, and really who can argue with those activities?!
+ CELEBRITIES
+ A ton of incredible people who are so so far away from Seattle, it’s pretty heartwrenching…
+ My super-legit alma mater, Cal State Fullerton! Represent! (While grabbing that link, I visited the website only to found that it’s been totally redesigned! Way to step it up, Titans!)
+ I mentioned Roscoes already, right? (Kinda negating the previous point of wanting to be in good shape for LA hottiez, but we’ll go with it.)
- Housing is even more expensive than Seattle
- You have to spend a lot of time in the car, driving EVERYWHERE, and if you know me you know I hate to drive and don’t even own a car
- I hear that eating disorders & drugs are dangerous. Then again I do live life on the edge in general.
- Everyone in Seattle will be hellllllllllllllla pissed off if I leave. The city will never be the same.
- If I relocated yet again and didn’t instantly achieve the wild levels of success I KNOW I DESERVE, I will sink into a deep depression and feel really embarrassed and probably weave this huge web of lies about my fake career to the people back in Seattle, then collapse under the pressure of maintaining the lies and it will just be a HUGE trainwreck for everyone.
- I might have to start going tanning and/or get a nose job. OR BOTH and I just don’t have that kind of money right now!
So, really… those are the only aspects about both locales I need to consider. And thankfully I’m a very logical and linear person, so I should easily be able to decide where I ~*~truly belong~*~ … to close, since I am too lazy to upload any California pics yet, here’s more Seth for us all to enjoy. I have many, many stories about the vacation, along with some horrendously embarrassing photos I’ll have to publicly display (because I am a masochist, apparently) but those will have to wait until later.
Great. So now I have yet ANOTHER stupid issue to deal with.
Apparently, I am now afraid of flying… I used to love flying! I thought it was awesome! I adored every aspect of it – trooping through the airport, getting seating assignments, watching the land get smaller and smaller as the plane ascended, little sterile packages of single-portion food, free wine on international flights… I even enjoyed relieving myself in airplane bathrooms!
Something has changed, however.
I first noticed it when I was flying from London to Istanbul. Glancing out the little porthole window during takeoff, I noticed my palms beginning to sweat heavily, and my heart leaped into my throat. I had to down like three Vicodin (my “mommy’s little helper” of traveling) to calm down and breathe normally. Uhhh, what was that reaction?! I asked myself. The rest of my travels yielded a similar reaction, but I attempted to push it to the back of my mind with copious amounts of poor quality airline merlot and expired prescription pills donated to me by caring friends.
My trip back to Seattle from Austin last weekend was worse than EVER! I don’t know what is going ON with me!
Perhaps I should paint a detailed picture so we can all visualize what a hot mess I was. First of all, it was an early morning flight and, predictably, I had stayed out late drinking an unhealthy amount of vodka. Last night on vacation, there is no other choice. Anyway, I hadn’t plotted the situation out clearly (imagine that) and had already packed everything in a precariously stuffed duffel bag. Including all underwear. So I donned the only skimpy sundress I had left out of my luggage, along with the bikini top I had been wearing in the pool the night before, since it was still drying out in the bathroom. And all the jewelry I had brought with me, since that was still out on the nightstand, of course. Quite the respectable travel outfit.
We finally board the plane and it’s absolutely disgusting. Thanks, hotwire.com. (It’s not really hotwire’s fault, it’s mine for being such a cheapass and settling on the very bottom of the barrel because it saved me like $50.) Anyway, this was a US Air flight on an airplane that had to have been manufactured in 1973. There were still ashtrays – WITH RESIDUE – in the armrests! Not only that, but the paint job left a bit to be desired. As in, there were scratches and suspicious stains everywhere on the walls of the plane and sides of the seats. Great. Also, it smelled weird. The plane took off and I realized I was in trouble. This was the bumpiest ride ever. Seriously, we would be better off taking a rickshaw to Seattle. It would at least be more comfortable.
I sat there on the plane, petrified of crashing. I was seated in an exit row, which is usually sweet because you get more legroom, but in this instance I was cursing my luck. With this deathtrap, we certainly would be in need of the emergency exits at some point, and this hungover, panicked woman dressed in an unnecessarily slutty fashion clearly was not the best choice to be manning the only pathway to freedom when this plane was up in flames somewhere over Colorado.
When we finally landed, I was shocked and embarrassed to see that I had been panic-sweating so profusely that my seat was soaked in sweat. My palms were so clammy that the novel I had been attempting to read was damp and its pages were all wavy and clumped together. SO GROSS. My heart had been beating so fiercely during landing that I was having trouble walking without wobbling. Plus, thanks to a combination of too much alcohol and too much stress, I had one of the worst cases of heartburn ever. Add this all to the fact I was paranoid I had contracted a case of clap from the 1970s from sitting on that sketchy seat with no underwear. I was a walking disaster; ask anyone else who had the privilege of being on that miserable US Air flight.
On our layover in Phoenix, I calmed my nerves (and acid reflux) with a little treat from TCBY (take note: nonfat, sugar-free frozen yogurt is a surefire way to my heart). I also dug through my bag to find some clean underwear and fixed that situation in the airport bathroom. These two activities improved my mood considerably, then the tables were turned even further in the right direction when I discovered one last Ambien leftover in the illegal Mexican pharmacy otherwise known as my purse. Perfect.
So the flight from Phoenix to Seattle was considerably more smooth, thanks to my pharmaceutical epiphany (complete with bizarre hallucinations the whole way; sleeping pill side effects: blessing or curse? You be the judge!) and before I knew it I was back on my home turf.
I think I’ve learned two lessons from my ordeal:
1. Don’t buy the cheapest flight off one of those travel deal websites. Even if you are pretty ghetto. At least spring for Alaska Air… or Southwest. Seriously, worth it.
2. Apparently I have some weird travel anxiety that has waited 23 years to rear its ugly head, probably time to take a break from jetsetting around this summer. I get a vague Final Destination vibe from all this.
My choices this month have really opened up my mind to new possibilities. The chief dilemma I am working on solving is this: Am I a trashy person?
Of course anyone reading this would automatically cry “NO!!!!!” but it’s okay, friends. I have accepted the possibility, and you can, too. I used to think that I couldn’t be trashy just because I am an intelligent person with a solid middle-class background (although that background is anchored in Kent and Renton; hmm…) but the more I ponder my situation, the more evidence I find to the contrary. Unfortunately, natural intelligence does not negate questionable behavior.
I knew it was getting bad when at brunch yesterday, my friend commented upon my guzzling of a pitcher of mimosas (after an early morning breakfast of Bud Light):
“Emily, you are getting to be really trashy.”
My defense?
“What?!? Look, I have a real Dior wallet!”
Pretty weak. I admit it. And I think Joe’s response summarizes it perfectly:
“…yeah. A paper-thin veneer of class…”
So in order to delve further into this issue, I need to take things on a step-by-step basis. Let’s inspect aspects of my lifestyle that could, to some, be considered trashtastic.
Today’s hot topic: PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION.
I don’t own a car. Honestly, I can’t really afford to buy one at this point. And even if I could buckle down and save up to purchase a cheap one, I definitely can’t afford insurance, payments, gas, the guaranteed barrage of parking tickets, the possible lawsuit after I hit a pedestrian… I mean, these are risks I’m just not willing to take. Also, with the amount of alcohol I usually am “celebrating” with throughout my travels, getting behind the wheel is a death sentence.
If anyone asks why I don’t have one, though, I tell them I’m being eco-friendly and don’t support the oil industry, it’s wasteful to put all those emissions into the air if I have another option, etc etc etc… what a ridiculous facade. Everyone knows I have practically no convictions. But I think we can all agree it’s way better to pretend to care about the planet rather than admit I am just poor, lazy, usually at least kinda drunk, and spend my money on more impractical investments, like vintage cameras I’ll never figure out how to use and fitness magazines that will never actually inspire me to work out.
I knew it was getting bad this weekend when I became one of those bus people: I was lugging not one but two sparkly lamé duffel bags to haul around my crap. Not only that, but I was carrying a pillow and tasseled yarn throw blanket (because I was planning on sleeping at my friend’s apartment and couldn’t find a sleeping bag or any normal bedding). On top of this, I was yelling at my iPhone because it was running out of battery power and I was trying desperately to make a call before it died. (So clearly, screaming “Please just WORK!!!” into the sky will give my phone more power. I guess I shouldn’t have wasted a fully charged battery sending about 80 drunken and humiliating text messages to a large collection of people who have the misfortune of being my “friends.”)
As I boarded the bus, I thought to myself, “Oh crap, it’s so crowded, I hope I don’t have to sit next to any sketchy people who smell bad or look like they might try to make conversation with me or awkwardly hit on me…” Then I realized something. I, for no real reason, was carrying around a closet full of clothes in tacky bags and some heavy blanket during broad daylight while lecturing an inanimate object. Yikes. I’m positive someone saw me boarding the bus and thought, “Oh crap, it’s so crowded, I hope that girl with the bleach-blonde hair and huge hangover sunglasses and weird bags of clothes and creepy blankets who is muttering into her dead cell phone doesn’t have to sit next to me.”
Seattle Metro. The great equalizer. Everybody is somebody’s “oh crap” and I really took it to a new level this weekend. Trash? You be the judge…
My dream of blogging while traveling didn’t exactly come true. Let’s be honest, did I ever think I would devote that much time to the internet when I could instead be drinking on exotic beaches and city rooftops? No. It was kind of like a mother choosing a favorite between her two children (in this case – computers and partying? I’m painting a really attractive picture of myself) but I had to prioritize. The majority of the vacation was FUN OVERLOAD; Spain is so relaxed and beautiful, Turkey is exotic and sultry, Greece is basically an adult playground with a large splash of incredible history. It’s hard for me to imagine actually living in any of those places because I don’t think I could ever concentrate on being responsible.
That said, it is admittedly GOOD to be back. I missed a lot of parts about this country and, more specifically, my life in Seattle. I won’t front; cable television and unlimited private internet access were two of the top contenders on my list of things to cherish about returning to America. Some things will never change, and my addiction to technology and pop culture is here to stay, no matter how long or far I am removed from it.
At the same time, I do wish I had taken a longer vacation. (Longer ideally means “at least the rest of the summer, possibly years and years” but let’s not indulge in the charade that I would ever be able to afford that.) We saw and experienced so many amazing people and places. But it was only the tip of the iceberg, you can’t really get to know a city, let alone a country, in a few short days. I feel like anything I write can’t even do these places justice. For example, how do I express the breathtaking beauty of the Alhambra?!
I never thought of myself as a travel blogger (no shit), but there’s a first time for everything. In the upcoming week, while I bask in the glow of Seattle summertime and an extended break from work, I will compile a little something I like to call “Emily’s Top Travel Tips” and share some of my most hilarious/interesting/embarrassing experiences… first, though, I need to unpack.
(That means I need to loiter on the couch and watch about 15 DVRed episodes of the new season of Intervention, while resentfully staring at the huge pile of clothing that exploded from my luggage.)
It’s two days before I leave on my great Mediterranean journey and my first official day of unemployment. I feel a strange and unwarranted sense of accomplishment about both of these facts. I also feel a VERY warranted sense of anxiety about both of these facts, so I suppose it balances out.
Additionally, I am experiencing a strong sense of guilt at the moment. I will partially attribute that to my job quitting and intense money I’m spending on this vacation, but I believe it is moreso caused by the eight vodka-sodas I imbibed at the Rickshaw last night, and the subsequent 2:00am Taco Bell feast I consumed. (Nothing says “post-work celebration!” like karaoke at a creepy/amazing Chinese bar in Greenwood. And nothing says “Grecian beach body” like a nacho cheese burrito from the drive-thru. Great job!)
Anyway, the question remains: I have a day and a half of leniency here before my departure. As a bonafide free agent, HOW WILL I SPEND MY TIME? Keep in mind I have not been jobless since I was… 16. That’s a hot seven years of obligation right now, and in under two days I need to make up for lost time.
Here are my goals/predictions for how to burn the hours:
Well, PACK, obviously. But let’s get real. We all know I’m going to wait until about 3pm on Tuesday afternoon, panic like none other, and throw a motley assortment of clothing and jewelry into the brand new purple American Apparel backpack I purchased for this occasion. (I am, above all, a logical traveler.)
Work out. And by that, I mean sit around miserably dwelling on how I should have exercised more in the past two months when I knew I was going on this damn beach trip. Then look at the sad collection of aerobics DVDs I own, decide all of them look boring and/or hard, halfheartedly lift some dumbbells while watching TV, then drink a sugar-free Rock Star and congratulate myself on my devotion to health. Then probably sit on the couch and think about jogging while watching season 2 of Beverly Hills 90210 on DVD. (I will rediscover my 90210 DVDs while looking for my exercise DVDs… and obviously I have to prioritize.)
Endure anxiety about the fact that I turned on the option for voting my blog “funny, interesting, or cool” at the end of each post and refresh the internet every hour to see if anyone voted on here. (I am becoming insecure about my e-popularity. Especially since this blog is my #1 “job” now that I… don’t have another one.) Although I modified the options to be “funny, interesting, or dumb” because of course I think everything I say is funny… but I am also realistic and know that everything I say is dumb. As far as interesting…? Well, that is up to you, the reader, to decide.
Go fake tanning at the ingenuously named “Electric Beach” salon in Wallingford. Have paranoia about cancer the entire 7 minutes I allow myself in the bed. Consider treating myself to a MysticTan but have yet more paranoia about it being uneven or flaking off on the airplane. Then go home and stare at myself in the mirror for two hours, trying to decide if I look tanner/thinner.
Drink lots of European beer at Brouwer’s to “prepare” myself for the trip… then feel guilty and repeat #3.
Incessantly iChat my friend Lindsey in Spain and ask her about what type of pants to pack. Even though we’ve already decided about eight times that the joke’s on Spain; I’m not going to BRING pants! Then ask her questions about cord converters, sunscreen, and Spanish pork products (or, should I say, jamón). Guaranteed she is going to be sick of me before I ever step onto the tarmac in Malaga.
Start to read about the latest plane crashes on CNN.com, experience a miniature heart attack, and frantically close out of the website.
Clearly, I boast an innumerable amount of ways to utilize my newfound freedom. I should have committed to an early retirement years ago. Now I can finally buckle down and devote 100% of my time to enriching my life.. and the world at large.
I recently returned from a lovely camping expedition. A handful of friends and I decided to spend Memorial Day weekend out east in the Gorge at Sasquatch! Festival. While we enjoyed hot weather, beautiful desert landscape (or what seems like intense desert to people from western Washington), breathtaking views of the Gorge, and of course an abundance of exciting live music, the real memories were cultivated back at our campsite.
Appears pretty innocuous, right? Wrong. This campsite turned out to be a hotbed of debauchery, embarrassment, and trashy denim outfits.
Although… if we’re being fair, I shouldn’t blame the campsite as much as I should blame alcohol and the questionable decision making skills of myself and my companions. Specifically, the combination of the two.
Here are some highlights (…lowlights?) that occurred in our three days of freedom out on the range:
Within the first couple hours of “popping the tent” (as we hardcore campers like to call it), I “lost” both my ticket and my left flip-flop on the way back from the outhouses.
I found my ticket in the front pocket of the overalls I was wearing at the time… after my friends helped me tear apart the site searching for it… I think everyone was less than pleased with me at this point in the trip. The next day, my missing shoe was found in the snack bin. Reaching for a handful of Costco-brand trail mix and ending up with a mouthful of deliciousness AND a black Haviana, now that’s what I call a good morning.
A traveling drug salesman attempted to interest us in some illegal substances, unfortunately for him he was approaching the wrong campsite. I decided that approximately 100 bottles of beer would be sufficient for the weekend and wanted to get rid of this hippie right away; I recited the FDA food pyramid to him instead (to demonstrate my commitment to a healthy lifestyle and NOT his questionable wares) and he rewarded me with a free granola bar! Naturally, I am suspicious of anything free from an unknown individual, so I did not eat it. It’s probably laced.
What DID I eat, you ask? Well, I sadly yet impressively developed a new and improved food pyramid. Its base consists of Fat Tire and PBR, while its middle tier is filled with varied salted nuts, M&Ms, and an assortment of packaged snack chips. Its tip is comprised of warm Ketel One, children’s Clif Bars, and Sparks Lite.
The pièce de résistance of our trip memories occurred when an unnamed member of our troop (I must emphasize: NOT ME for once) imbibed about 6 PBRs before noon, went to take a nap in the warm van, and emerged a short while later, projectile vomiting into the grass. When another friend went to check on this unfortunate incident, in her haste she ended up stepping in the vomit with her bare feet.
THIS WILL BE A TREASURED MEMORY FOR THE REMAINDER OF MY LIFE. I can assure you that.
While my recollection of the trip will be tinged with visions of van vomit, warm malt liquor-induced stomachaches, and the unwelcome addition of the Honey Bucket to my daily routine, I will also hold dear in my heart the beauty of Washington and the array of music I enjoyed over the vacation. Seriously.
I would especially like to thank M83, of Montreal, the Avett Brothers, Crystal Castles, and my eternally beloved Girl Talk for encouraging some relaxed dancing and entertaining me and my drunkass friends during this trip of delight. I would especially NOT like to thank the makers of sodium (so.. God?) for making every nonperishable camp snack so saltily delicious and addicting and only adding to my dehydration in the 90° weather.
Comcast rebranding itself as Xfinity? Wow... that is an xfinitely dumb name/idea. Embarrassing. (Xbarrassing? I can play this all day...)
05:54:03 PM February 04, 2010
from web
…maybe.
It’s a well-established fact that I am mildly obsessed with Scandinavian culture. Moods of Norway even won over my companions, who previously had been getting a little impatient with my wild-eyed window shopping. It was decorated like a cheesy lodge (made me happy!), had a huge golden tractor you were allowed to “ride” (made Grace happy!) and it was freaking “waffle Saturday” aka FREE WAFFLES FOR ALL (made KJ kind of scarily happy!). Those crafty Norwegians, they made it all too easy to justify spending $120 on a fur-lined jacket (see image). When I told the shopgirl I was going back to Seattle and needed something that would keep me warm all throughout our miserable, disgusting winter months, she claimed my jacket would be “warmer than a 
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