Home Depot: A Review

UPDATE: There’s a lot that has happened since I last wrote. I got married, got a dog, stopped complaining to people on the internet and instead used my husband as an outlet (he would like that to stop soon because he doesn’t care). But most recently, I bought a house. And with that house comes the false sense that I am, in fact, Chip and Joanna Gaines morphed into one perfectly capable, handy human that can for sure do shit myself and it will be spectacular. So took my first trip to Home Depot. And this is how it went down.

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Dear God, what is this place?

I approached the parking lot in my sleek, white Jeep Compass fresh out of 2012 and a child’s soccer game and I was immediately overcome with anxiety. First, because for the love of all things good and well, there is never a good parking spot when you need one. Second, because I know the journey on which I am about to embark and I am terrified for both myself and my wallet.

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What my husband sees every time I leave the house.

In my mind, Home Depot is like Costco. Only there are no snacks to hide behind, just the shame of my ineptitude and the fact that I didn’t realize the dress code for entry required a tool belt, or at the very least, a back pocket tape measure. Nevertheless, I decided to treat my newfound homeownership the same way I treated purchasing wholesale groceries – with an empty cart, a half-baked list and no plan for how I will fit everything in my trunk.

So I parked and hesitantly approached the orange sliding doors. There was still time to turn back. No one would know. But that’s not how I roll. I do things solely because I can film them for Instagram and make people think I am cool, edgy or in this case – handy as f*ck. A short mental pep talk, a quick slap to my own face later and I enter the vibrant-and-not-in-the-slightest-case-pearly orange gates to home remodeling heaven. The ceilings are tall, the aisles are big, the signs are signing, and OH MY GOD EVERYONE IS WEARING MATCHING ORANGE APRONS.

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The Home Depot people deciding whether or not to subject their employees to a burnt orange hell.

Home Depot was like a choose my own adventure. And I was on a quest to do something amazing. Only where to start? Bathroom? Garden? Lighting? Hardware? The opportunities were endless and I was only limited by my own incompetence and the fact that they were closing in 15 minutes.

Ignoring the fact that I severely overestimated how many middle-aged men who consider Home Depot to be their personal Lord and Savior would judge me – literally not one human, man or woman, looked at me in any way shape or form – I made my way to the lumber section because everyone who is anyone knows every good project starts with, that’s right, lumber. I had a rudimentary sketch and an idea in my head of what I needed, but there I stood at a crossroads between four different aisles, full of different kinds of wood and I had absolutely no idea how to navigate this sea of pine and walnuts.

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Me tying to figure out which wood is the ‘good wood.’

But the man in the orange apron did. His name was Johnathan and he was my home reno sherpa. Johnathan told me about quarters of inches, types of plywood and all of the things my dad probably wanted to tell me when I was younger but I was too busy not being interested in learning practical skills at 14.

Johnathan didn’t care that I didn’t know that screws and nails aren’t interchangeable. He didn’t bat an eye when he asked what kind of wood I wanted and I replied with, “Whatever is the cheapest.” He just cared that I was there and literally trying my best to look like I belonged. Or he just wanted me to leave so he could close up, the jury is still out.

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Johnathan when I told him this wasn’t my first rodeo.

He looked at my rudimentary sketch and knew exactly the kinds of things I needed. He even cut the wood to size before sending me on my way with a cart full of stuff and no idea what to do with it when I got home.

Because what I came to realize is that, Home Depot truly is like Costco. While everything may be disorganized and the things you need aren’t ever really in the place they’re supposed to be, the people are helpful and at the end of the day, do any of us really know what we’re doing? No, right? Please tell me it’s a no.

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Everyone who knows how to do basic home improvement tasks.

About two hours and 147 wrong turns later, I said goodbye to Johnathan and his orange apron, checked out at the orange cash register and walked my orange cart full of stuff out the two orange sliding exit doors to my car and felt like I had just experienced something amazing.

But really I think I just inhaled too much sawdust.

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On tantrums, touchdowns and Odell Beckham Jr. being my brother from another mother.

What do me, and a 5’11 wide receiver for the New York Giants have in common?

No, it’s not incredibly confusing hair or the natural athletic talent bestowed upon us straight from Jesus himself. But I truly thank you for thinking of me and Odell Beckham Jr. in that light. It’s flattering, really.

We both just aren’t having fun anymore.

Let me take a step back here. Two years ago I would have given my unborn child and all of my future stock in Taco Bell to be paid to write. It was all I wanted. The insatiable and unquenchable dream that loomed over me as I sat monotonously day after day at my shitty receptionist job.

Then, one day, it happened. Just like Odell Beckham Jr. on draft day. I got the call. I dropped everything. I made it. I was going to be an all-star wide receiver for the NFL with confusing, yet intimidating hair that everyone loved to hate a writer for an ad agency.

Like my doppelgänger and brotha from anotha motha, I had trained for this. Hours and hours of cranking out things to publish that made me proud. Some that bared my soul, some that made me, and only me, laugh. Others that just made my mom happy that I was doing something besides sitting in bed moping with a glass of wine at 10am.

(Breakfast wine is a thing. It’s called fermented grape juice. Read about it.)

When OBJ got drafted, I can assure with as much certainty as someone who wasn’t with him, that he was ecstatic. And when I got that call, I was too.

But the moment I accepted that job, I stopped writing for myself because I was now going to write for someone else, and that was a far more superior venture in my naive mind.

Two years and a treasure trove of words later, I’m confused.  I sit at a computer and ask my brain to do something day in and day out that it used to do on its own. Except I don’t get angry and throw a tantrum on the sideline, I wait until I get home and cry in the bathtub like a goddamn adult.

Also I’m a Pats fan so this whole meltdown is kind of funny. Cue the 18-1 jokes.

I’d wake up with funny thoughts about being an interesting sponsor choice for Head and Shoulders life or weird observations and I couldn’t wait to rush to my computer and jot them down.

Unfortunately, that rush is going away.

It’s a hard thing to realize that when you started to do what you love and love what you do, eventually you’ll stop loving it. Because work is work no matter how pretty you dress it up.

What I’m saying is, I get how Odell Beckham Jr. is feeling.

What happens when you’re not passionate about your passion?  What if the one thing that kept you sane during a monotonous 9-5 job turns out to be the very thing that makes your 9-5 so monotonous?

Two years ago my life changed. And here I sit, two years later, wondering if it was for the better or not. And I don’t know how to figure that out. Maybe it’s a change of scenery or a different way to jumpstart my brain. Maybe it’s finding out how to reignite that spark that fueled me, drove me and motivated me to get up and write every day.

Whatever the answer is, and whoever has it. Let me know. I’m all ears.

Also, if you have OBJ’s number, please let me know so I can call him and tell him to stop being such a big baby. Anyone who makes that much money is not allowed to be sad. It’s science.

Or maybe I’ll just become a professional dog walker. No one in the history of earth has ever fallen out of love with a dog.

Stand by.

Thoughts On Cankles, Dieting, and Finding My Voice.

The night before I started my first diet, I looked a package of Oreos square in the eyeball and said, “This isn’t goodbye forever, this is goodbye for now.”

Every. Single. Day.

Every. Single. Day.

Some background on the subject: I went on said diet because when I came back from studying abroad, my mother informed me that I had developed cankles during my four month stint overseas. I guess eating carbs all day, erry day, while simultaneously washing them down with all the beers in the world causes your ankles to swell in such away that you actually can’t tell they were ever ankles in the first place.

I knew that the diet wouldn’t last forever. Mostly because I’m an impulsive eater and can’t keep my hands off of anything that resembles a dessert treat. But it was something I needed to do in order to learn balance and appreciation of food, rather than just shoveling it into my face without breathing.

My struggles with food and dieting is a conversation topic for an entirely different time. What I’m trying to do with that poorly structured metaphor, is explain that some times you need to step away from things that make you happy, in order to better yourself in other ways.

I started this blog back in 2013.  At the time, it was a great way to avoid doing actual work.  I was able to find my voice, define my writing style, unload all my weird thoughts permanently on the internet, and ultimately, figure out that writing was and is my passion, and that I needed to work hard to pursue it.

In January 2015, I achieved my goal of becoming an advertising copywriter.

In short, this means that there has been increasingly less time that I have been able to dedicate towards writing for my personal benefit. Sure, it’s sad, but just like the Oreos, there are things in life you have to give up in order to improve upon yourself.

Only instead of decreasing the size of my ankles so I can wear regular shoes, it’s taking a step back from growing in my personal writing to finding my voice within the professional world.

So this is not goodbye forever. I’m sure there will be gems that I can think of that truly deserve to be written, and they will. But in terms of regular posts and consistent content, I can’t commit to that any further.  For those of you who have been loyal followers, I appreciate it more than you know.

You have given me the opportunity to share my ideas, thoughts, and weird stories. I’ve been afforded the chance to read some amazing posts, connect and network with awesome writers, and find people that I admire, adore, and am completely jealous of their minds.

So check back periodically for some rambles that will most likely involve snacks, wine, and how I’ll really never understand how to be socially acceptable during human interactions.

If you’re not my mom and aren’t already following me on everything, and for some reason want to keep up with me on other platforms, please feel free to follow me on INSTAGRAM and TWITTER, and I’ll return the favor.

I Just Realized, I’m Twenty-Five And My Life Is Over.

I think the best and worst moment of my life was when I realized I had turned into my parents.

Not the sixteen year old realization, though, that would be sad. Not that the twenty-five year old realization is that much more profound.

But there’s something about growing up; I mean, actually growing up that really just grows arms and slaps you in the face and lets you know that everything that happened before this moment was just a prelude to you being an internally old human being, destined to live in yoga pants, braless on your couch watching reruns of Friends thinking about all those “good days” without responsibility.

At sixteen, if I had realized I turned out to be my parents I would have done everything in my power to regain my youth and just mess shit up for the fun of it.  As a junior in high school, you never, under any circumstances, want to be your parents.

It’s like going to that party and realizing that the girl who was always “the mom” was there, and she was going to make sure you didn’t drink too much beer, fall asleep somewhere inappropriate, or raid too much of that host’s refrigerator, so when the actual parents came home, it just looked like the kid in charge got super hungry one night and binge ate all the deli meats.

The worst part about realizing that I’ve turned into my parents is the fact that I’ve followed the status quo – depending on what you believe in, of course – and have finally graduated from crazy, party, uncontrollable college girl into full blown quasi-housewife, happy and willing to anticipate the needs of my significant other far beyond my own.

And the stark contrast is that I’m borderline, if not over the fence okay about it.

It’s like I turned twenty-five and all the sudden my brain cells and neurons started triggering all this nonsense about me not being the most important person in the world, and that someone else’s needs matter far more than my own.  And holy shit, I haven’t even had a child yet so this post will change in about five years.

I digress.

The best part about turning into my parents is the fact that I am saving a boat load of money.  I mean, like, saving is totally the thing to do right now.  I am hoarding without intervention because no one seems to think I have a problem with the fact that money isn’t confetti and I don’t need to throw it around to prove that I have it.

And hormonally, at my age, some people know putting it in a bank is far more worthwhile than drinking four glasses of wine at some bar called “Taco” that doesn’t even serve mexican food.

Sidenote: Not that I don’t still drink wines at Taco and complain about the fact that they don’t serve Mexican food. I still do that. It’s god damn outrageous and the owners need to be quarantined and condemned to a lifetime of solely eating burritos.

The other great part is that I don’t think I’m hormonally imbalanced, although that is still up for debate, but there is something extremely and unfortunately true about the phases of life.

We all go through these stages, obviously at different paces considering the circumstances, but we all do.  Birth to teen being the nourishment, get what we need to survive stage.  Teen to young adult being the fake it ’til we make it stage. And then here, where I am, the holy shit I’ve made it, I’m an adult, paying my own way through life, figuring out who I am and what I’m going to do for the rest of it stage.

Whatever stage you’re in, you’re going to make it out alive. It might not be on your timeline, it might not be the way you want it, but you’ll make it.

Just look at your parents.  The entire time they were telling you what to do, where to be, what grades to get, and what goals to set, they knew that someday, down the line, whatever you were going through was a phase. Because they went through it too.

And when you take a step back and realize that, on a Friday night, you’d rather be home, pants off, braless on your couch watching reruns of Friends and remembering the “good old days,” then you’ll know that you’ve turned into your parents.

Life is funny that way.  Things always seem to come full circle.  The people you distrusted the most and hated being around now become the sole reason for your coming home.  At the end of the day, your parents are fucking awesome.

Because when they had you, they had to wait twenty-five years or more for that moment to come, and think of how goddamn grateful they are that you are just now realizing how much shit they had to put up with in order to get to this place.

And be thankful that you finally turned into your parents.


Have you turned into your parents? If not, are you scared?

EMERGENCY ALERT: HELP ME WIN A FREE BURRITO

It’s been one year since I went to war with Chipotle, and now I have a chance at redemption.

This is the first Chipotle, ever, in the history of the world. I found it. And I ate there. And it was magic.

This is the first Chipotle, ever, in the history of the world. I found it. And I ate there. And it was magic.

If you don’t remember, or if you don’t care, it was basically the biggest victory of all mankind and I revel in the idea of winning fair and square this year.

Chipotle has given the public another chance to WIN two free burritos this Valentine’s Day by writing haikus and posting it on social media.

I need help winning this for the second time. This will not only be the greatest accomplishment in my twenty-five years of living, I’m pretty sure it will top the day I get married and/or have children.

And god only knows when that’s going to happen because on my first date with my boyfriend, all I talked about was my feud with Chipotle, onion rings, and sweet potato fries.  I think he partially thinks I’m certifiably insane. And no one wants to commit a lifetime to someone who is certifiably insane.

He’s not wrong though.

Whatever.  I don’t just want this to happen.  I need it to happen.

So, here’s what you can do for me.  And really, if you do this for me, let me know what I can do for you.  I’m really good at giving high fives, making cookies from mixes that only require adding water, and eating competitively against people who aren’t competitive eaters. 

Please head over to Twitter and retweet THIS tweet and the person with the most at the end of the day today will win!  I HOPE IT’S ME.

Or if Facebook is your social drug of choice, head over to Chipotle’s wall and ‘like’ THIS post by yours truly.

Thanks for supporting and fueling my inevitable descent into gluttony. 

Ps – I know. My life is sad.  But what else is there to do but ignore the world when there are two free burritos, chips and guac, and the fountain soda of your choice on the line?  NOTHING. NOTHING I SAY.

Hey 2014, Thanks For All The Cramps.

Have you ever stayed in on a Friday night drinking wine and wondering what position you’d chose to pose in as a gargoyle for the rest of time?

If you have, why didn’t you call me? And if you haven’t, you clearly not only have friends, but way less time on your hands than I do.

What I realized while arbitrarily planning to cement myself in time, is that a lot of what I do revolves around me being comfortable.  Like, if I’m going to be plastered in a position for the rest of time, you best believe I will try to avoid cramping.

This is what I would look like if I was a gargoyle.

This is what I would look like if I was a gargoyle.

To prove my point, yesterday, I had my legs vertical to drain all the lactic acid out of my fat ankles while I was simultaneously trying to reach for my beer, and my roommate boyfriend captured the ultimate depiction of the laziest human being on the planet.

help.

help.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t he just help? And while that question still remains in my brain, and I will subsequently keep it for ammunition the next time he asks me to get something for him, by taking this picture of me struggling to achieve the impossible, yet really, really simple task of picking up a beer, he unknowingly captured the picture that represented the entire year of 2014.

2014 gave me cramps. 

No, I’m not talking about lady cramps, although, I’ll do almost anything to avoid those. I’ll steal a baby. Don’t tell me I won’t.

(For legal purposes, if your baby goes missing, it was not me. I still have cramps and that’s how you know I’m telling the truth)

I’m talking about metaphorical cramps. These are the things that remind us something needs to change in order to become the best possible version of yourself.  Sometimes they’re good reminders, like the soreness after a hard workout telling you that you did everything right.

But then there are the not so fun ones, like the headache after a hangover, constantly making you question whether or not you’ll drink again.

Hint: You will drink again.

2014 was mostly full of bad cramps that yielded good results, because change is not always easy; sometimes it’s hard, it sucks, and you hate it.  But that’s life, and it’s unexpected as hell.

There was that chip on your shoulder.

You know, that thing that happened a while ago that you can’t really get over.  Everyone can tell everyone else to stop holding grudges, but it’s never that easy when you’re the one who has to let go and move on.  Most times, it’s easier to stay mad at the person than confront the actual issue at hand.  I guess that’s why it’s a chip though.  Whoever it was, and whatever they did, they kind of ate away at you.

You may have been a pain in the ass.

Or maybe you had one.  Whichever it was, remember that no one likes a pain in the ass. If you have a pain in the ass you should get rid it. Immediately. The last thing you need after a hard day of work is to come home, sit down, and be constantly reminded that someone or something is still annoying the crap out of you.

Maybe you found out your Achilles heel. 

There is nothing, I mean nothing worse than figuring out what can hurt you the most.  But the good thing about finding it out, is that you can make strides towards preventing that from happening.  Surround yourself with people that will be beneficial to you in the long run, those who will support you and grow with you, rather than those who will hold you back.

You realized life is better without the headaches.

If you’re constantly on edge, stressed out, or unhappy, there’s something wrong.  Knowing what may literally be causing your headaches is one thing, but eliminating them can be an entirely different process.  I love coffee. So, so much. And when I don’t have it, I get a massive headache. Is the risk of eliminating coffee out of my life worth it? Not yet.  But if someone or something in your life is causing you way more stress than comfort, take a closer look, and maybe you’ll decide that eliminating them gives you a clearer head.

Sometimes you have to accept that cramps are part of life.

Just like lady cramps, people come and go.  There is never going to be a year where you won’t have to make sacrifices in order to improve your overall well being.  I mean, come on, taking birth control pills to prevent yourself from becoming a she-beast each month is proof enough.

But bumps in the road are par for the course.  People come in and out of our lives for different reasons at different times.  Not everyone is meant to be permanent.  That doesn’t mean the time spent with you was invaluable.  We can all learn something from someone else, we can all help each other become people that we want to be.  We just don’t all have to hold hands and walk each other to the finish line.

Because no friendship or relationship, regardless of how long or short, is insignificant.  Those people were brought into your life for a reason, and maybe they’re staying for a while, but maybe they’ve left this year.

But when you start to get a headache, become a pain in the ass, or develop a chip on your shoulder, put up your feet and get rid of the cramp right there.  It’s better to deal with problems head on than to be lazy and let them unnecessarily morph into something bigger.

And this is also where I need to take my own advice.


What are your New Year’s Resolutions? How did you make yourself better in 2014? Did you get any cramps this year? If so, which ones?

Barbara Walters Is A Jackass

Last night marked the most important thing to happen in pop-culture after the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.  Barbara Walters put on forty-seven pounds of makeup and a suit from 1986 and rattled off her annual list of the most fascinating people on the planet.

And the top honor was, you probably didn’t guess it, Amal Alamuddin, or as you probably know her, as George Clooney’s wife.

Full disclosure, you can file this post under feminism... I think?

For most of the video – that is supposed to encompass why this woman is so fascinating – you sit and watch a compilation of clips memorializing George Clooney’s slingledom, emphasizing him talking about never wanting to get married, and throwing in after the fact that Amal is really fascinating to the people of the world because, much like George, she can wear a mean suit and has really nice hair.

There is almost no mention of her skills, talents, or endeavors, other than the fact that she went to Oxford to become a humanitarian and women’s rights defense attorney, oh except for the shocking revelation that she’s also, like really, really pretty, too. 

For Barbara Walters to highlight and harp on the fact that the main and most important reason Amal is fascinating is because she got George Clooney of all people to get married again is kind of actually really ridiculous.

And I personally stray away from feminist rants, but when I heard she earned the coveted label, I figured we’d be learning much more about Amal’s drives, aspirations, and achievements rather than a recap on George Clooney’s much publicized aversion to marriage (complete with a list and segmented montage of all those women who tried to get him to settle down along the way).

It makes her “inspirational” list more of a publicity stunt and ratings magnet rather than a real, in depth look into the lives of these people that we are so fascinated with.

I mean, let’s be real, her spotlight on Taylor Swift will hardly feature the work and dedication she has to making great music, but it will most likely talk about her past relationships, how highly publicized they are, how and why she hasn’t found a boyfriend and when on God’s green earth will she find the time and the urge to settle down with someone.

Like, I enjoy talking about boys, but at some point can we just talk about how amazing certain women are without the mention on their male counterparts (or lack thereof)?  Could Barbara Walters maybe have at least tried to make a connection to George dating cocktail waitresses and models before wanting to settle down with someone who holds substantially equal intellect, values, and ideals?

COME ON, BABS, HELP ME, HELP YOU.

Because, while marrying George Clooney is great – because he’s super hot #SilverFox – this would have been the perfect platform to unveil some of the lesser to little known human rights issues around the world that both Amal and George (SO WEIRD SINCE THEY’RE MARRIED, RIGHT?) think are important. Or the women’s rights issues or cases she’s been a part of, or the numerous charitable donations and do-goodey things she does on a daily basis that just makes her an all around badass and fascinating person.

I think that’s all I have to say about that.

If you want to read more about Amal and less about George, check out the articles below, you’ll realize that she is way more than a pretty face, she actually does good stuff for the world and wants to make it a better place.

But, she just married George Clooney, and I guess that’s more important.


Amal Clooney is the most fascinating person of 2014 because of who she married, says Barbara Walters

Amal Clooney married down. She’s way more fascinating than George.

What Is This Goddess Doing With George Clooney?


What do you think of Barbara Walter’s list?

Sweet Potato Fries Are Ruining My Relationship

If there’s one way to lose a man’s trust, it’s to be completely full of shit when you rate meals on a 1-10 scale. They take food very seriously.

I irresponsibly rated sweet potato fries an 8/10 on my first date with my boyfriend and it became a permanent stain on our relationship.  He claims he can’t trust me, that he doesn’t really know who I am or what I’m thinking.

I should have just gone with the onion rings.

What I learned from falsely embellishing the deliciousness of my side dish is that there are certain things you need to ask on the first date to make sure if this is someone you can be with long term.  I mistakenly judged the importance of food ratings and I have not been able to live it down since.

In order for you to avoid being plagued with ridicule when it comes to food for the remainder of your relationship and inevitably creating a rocky and unstable trust between you and your partner, I’ve compiled a list of questions you MUST ask on the first date to avoid irreparable damage later on.

Here are the questions you NEED to ask on a first date to determine if this is someone you can be with for a long time:

 

What kind of sports fan are you? For the most part, this question applies to the male species, but I’ll include those diehard females who rep it hard in the sports department. Knowing what kind of sports fan your partner is will be crucial for the rest of your relationship. Most men like a sport for each of the seasons, so you’re going to need to know if he’s going to lock you out of your apartment or rip a couch cushion if Dwyane Wade doesn’t hit 3 points or that guy in the NFL doesn’t get 1824396 carries and 2734061 yards in a random game that doesn’t really matter (It totally matters though, somehow).

What is your position on Christmas music? If you are one of those girls who starts playing Christmas music on December 26th to prepare for the next holiday season, you’re going to need to let your partner know that ahead of time.  Even if you’re a semi-normal human being who starts playing tasteful holiday tunes after Thanksgiving, you should respect the other person’s ears enough to let them know they should invest in earplugs for the next month and a half.

What do you rate Jennifer Aniston on a scale of 1-10?  This question can be tweaked based on the celebrity of your choosing, but Jenny Anz is a pretty well known celebrity that both men and women like. Once you’ve asked the question and both given answers, if your number differentiate by more than 2 points on a 1-10 scale, you may be in disagreement with what the 1-10 scale is.  This is not okay and will set a precedent for the future of rating questions.  You must find an agreeable medium and set forth a list of qualifications pertaining to each number on the scale. This is the only way you will be able to take each other’s opinions seriously when you ask questions like, “On a scale of 1-10 how good are these sweet potato fries?”

Are you able to commit to tacky/trendy/seasonal activities knowing full well it will interrupt your weekend/sports/day off plans? This applies mainly to women, but maybe some instances men will get the seasonal feels and want to go skate on a pond or chop down a tree for good measure.  If you’re not ready to commit to losing a couple hours on a Sunday to grab some apples off a tree or carve a smiley face on an orange gourd, you should just throw in the towel right now.

What are your thoughts on animals? Listen, I get it, some people don’t like animals. Whether it be an allergy, a bad experience, or just not being human, you need to find out if your lifelong dream of owning a farm of Great Danes is never going to come to fruition because you’re getting involved with the future bane of your existence.

Which side of the bed do you sleep on? There is nothing worse than having your first adult sleepover and both jumping in on the left side. Not only will it create an awkward rift when you lose because your boyfriend outweighs you by 100 lbs, it will most likely not work because sleeping is real life and you need that more than you need love. #HarshReality

Obviously, I encourage you to ask those awkward questions about wanting a family, politics, and religion, but if you want to get to the stuff that actually matters, take my advice.

Or don’t. I steered my boyfriend wrong when I rated the sweet potato fries, so I could be making things up entirely out of thin air.


What are the important questions you ask on a first date?

Watch Your Step, Mind The Gap, and Please, Just Don’t Look Down.

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Not that high up. But like… 2,000 feet high up.

If you do look down, just periodically look up. It sucks a lot when you accidentally walk into a mailbox, a tree, or fall off a sidewalk because you weren’t paying attention.

Unless you were trying to deliver the mail and missed.  But then I guess you’re just bad at your job and should probably think of a new career path.  Maybe bowling?

There are a lot of instances in life where you get to the top and look back at what you had to overcome to get there.  For me, looking at the thirteen stairs I had to surmount to make it to the second level of my house is a feat in itself and I do the Rocky jump every time I reach the top.

But aside from being overjoyed at accomplishing something elementary like walking up a flight of stairs, the initial shock after reaching a goal and realizing what it took to get you there is always humbling.  But it can also be terrifying.  Because there’s no where to go but down, right?

Is that cynical? I’m in a mood. It’s Thursday. WHERE ARE YOU, WEEKEND?

In the event that you’re unsure of what I’m talking about, here are some things in which you should never, under any circumstances, look down:

Heights: This is a no brainer, but anyone who says they love standing on top of really tall things and staring at their impending death upon falling is a certified jackass.  Aint nobody got time to stand up in the clouds without the proper harness contraption and feel safe, sane, and sturdy. I like the ground.  I like the ground a lot.

Other People: For real, you should never look down on other people.  You have no idea what kind of struggles they are going through, and making rash judgments about character or worth is not going to win you any sort of awards by stereotypically figuring them out.  Maybe you should take a cue from the book of humanity and actually get to know someone before you decide if they suck at life or not.

Other People: This is in more of a literal sense, because sometimes people are shorter than you.  And sometimes they get offended when you point that out.  Especially pay attention to this, ladies, if you’re out on a date with a short man, and you don’t think he knows he’s short, please refrain from making a comment. I can assure you he stares in the mirror every day praying to Height Jesus to bless him with some extra inches in the vertical department. I’m lucky to be short though, I’m always looking up.  I have seen my fair share of nostrils though,and those aren’t pretty. Clean it up, people!

The Ring Of Fire: Johnny Cash went down there and I don’t think he came back.  Mostly because he’s dead and stuff. So if you want to be daed and stuff with Johnny Cash, be my guest. Could be worse people to be dead with. ::cough, cough. Kristen Stewart::

Driving: Unless you want to add murder to your criminal record.  Keep your eyes on the road.  Especially you, person driving 45 in the fast lane, you’re definitely not paying attention. I can tell because I just drove up next to you to give you the middle finger and I saw your head staring down at your cell phone.

Cartons of Ice Cream: It’s never a good idea to look down at a carton of ice cream, because then you know just how much you’ve blindly eaten wile watching those eight episodes of 19 Kids and Counting.  Just keep the lid close and plop that sucker right on there so you don’t have to see the pit of despair you’ve created in that Cherry Garcia.

Wine: This should be a no brainer, because if you don’t look down, you don’t know how much you’ve drank. There’s always room for more wine, unless you run out. Actually, I take this one back. You should always monitor the wine. When the wine runs out, there’s chaos about. <– copyright that for me. PLEASE.

Shoes: This only applies if you have velcro straps or slip ons, because frankly it would be stupid of you to look down in that case.  What the hell do you plan on checking? If you still have feet?  If you have laces like normal humans above the age of six, please, check away.

Cell Phone While Walking: If you do this, you’re a jackass (aka I’m a jackass).  Not only are you saying that all other humans using the public walkways are completely and totally not important, you run the extreme risk of falling into a manhole, walking into a telephone pole, or bumping into another person that probably had a bad day and will throw a drink at you for making it worse.  Think about it. Pockets are your friends.

***

Do you look down at anything? Are you one of those people who walks and texts at the same time? Do you like sweet potato fries or regular fries better?

I’m Superior Because I Spent The First Year Of My Life Building A Chin Army

Scowls on my face, don't give a fuuuuuuuuuuhg. 

Scowls on my face, don’t give a fuuuuuuuuuuhg.

People are always telling me a lot of things can happen in a year.  And according to this picture, the better part of my first year on earth as a baby was cultivating an army of chins to protect my head from falling off.

But you take one look at that picture and you can sense the essence of pride my mother must have been feeling when her firstborn daughter turned the big bad numero uno.

And aside from being all things adorable and totally growing up to be an upstanding, completely serious and focused human being, you can’t help but want to celebrate the little milestones in life, even if those milestones solely consist your daughter’s ability to mass produce neck fat.

That’s why I’m here to celebrate, because today, my friends, is my blog’s FIRST BIRTHDAY.

Yup, October 2, 2013, I took the leap into complete and utter insanity and made a website where I complained about all of my life’s problems because I thought I was important enough to do so.

So if birthing and growing a blog for a year is anything like parenting, I’m going to be pretty good at it.  I mean how hard is it to pay attention to a kid for four or five days at a time and then do whatever the hell you want on the weekends?

Am I right, mom and dad?

In all seriousness, I am so happy and thankful for how far this little website has come from day one. Starting this thing as a place where I can write uncensored thoughts – that then became censored because my mother and grandmother starting reading – and having it turn into a chronicle of my life over the past year is amazing.

I’ve always had a penchant for journaling and writing everything down, and never knew that doing so would eventually open so many doors and opportunities to do this in my professional life.

This blog is my creative outlet; but more so a representation of who I am as a person, the way I think, and how I react to the ridiculousness of society and the world around us. I never could have imagined the reach that my posts would have, being featured on Freshly Pressed and eventually leading me to a Contributing Writer gig at Elite Daily and The Eighty8, and somehow making this thing still work to my advantage in convincing people I’m not certifiably insane when I say I want to be an onion ring connoisseur.

I want to thank each and every person who has read this blog over the past year.  Whether it be once, twice, or daily, I thank you.  Putting myself out there may not seem like a big deal, it’s hard when you take time to write something and not have it noticed.  I thank all the people who have commented, liked, shared, or reblogged my posts.  I sincerely thank all of the people who have let me guest blog, tagged me in a blog hop, and followed me on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.

I’m thankful that my baby did not grow eighteen chins over the past year, but there’s always the future and I can’t be held accountable for what happens to my brain child over the next 365 days.

But regardless, I thank you. Cheers, here’s to year two, three, and beyond. Maybe one day I’ll get paid for this shit. 🙂

Oh, and if you haven’t already, let’s be friends.