Thou shalt always keep a bottle of bubs on hand for special occasions. Or Wednesdays.

I'm relatively organized. I buy Birthday cards months in advance (I'll admit that I might be single-handedly keeping the Post Office alive and I'm ok with this.), I know exactly where my missing sock is hiding in the floordrobe (wardrobe + floor) that is my bedroom, and I keep all of my important paperwork in one place, clearly labeled. So, I grab the folder marked "CAR STUFF" and set it out so I can take it with me in the morning to complete my errand. On a whim, I open the folder to check that everything is there and low and behold, I find a sticky note that reads:

You lost the title.
Don't forget to get a new copy.

Things I learned while waiting my life away at the DMV:

• I really need to get my bangs trimmed, I almost fell asleep because they were serving as blackout shades.
• The speed in which a woman says "nothing" when asked "what's wrong?" is inversely proportional to the severity of the coming storm. Shout out to the couple across the room that decided to turn everyone's morning into an episode of Maury.
• Beware of the toddler running around like an escaped convict and handing people soggy cheerios. By the way, where is your mother?! 
• This child will throw up all over the waiting room floor.

This is just the classiest DMV that you ever did see. Honestly, I underestimated the amount of vomit a little person can projectile. I won't get too graphic, but I will never be able to eat applesauce again. I finally make it to work a whopping 3 hours later and I don't think I've ever been more relieved that my office smells like absolutely nothing. Other than the occasional waft of cigarette smoke/aroma of a forest fire from the emergency exit that people sneak out of, my office is usually smell-less.

This is surprising because the fire department/paramedics make appearances here at least once a month. You'd think that something exciting was going on, but that's never the case. That doesn't mean all the women will suddenly stop congregating at the window, fogging it up like children on Christmas morning to watch the first snow, it's more like a stake out post, hoping to see a shirtless fireman. Not just because they're shirtless firemen, but also because it's the middle of the week and we're all run down and desperately hoping for a pick me up of sorts.

When we reluctantly fail to witness anything close to a cast member on Dancing With The Stars, we start a message about our favorite childhood tv shows, sending youtube clips back and forth. From this conversation I had an alarming realization that Mr. Roger's Neighborhood might have greatly influenced my fashion tastes... I love a good grandpa sweater. Not a grandpa IN a sweater, I just realized that I own a shameful amount of cardigans. Now, I'm the youngest in my office, so things get interesting when I start naming the shows of my childhood. Mainly because I start singing the entire Duck Tales theme song and no one can relate. And then I get patted on the head like "awww shucks" when they've run out of "participation" ribbons.

Another childhood classic: Wishbone, one of my favorites. Of course when you give your opinion there is always someone that has to be negative and make remarks like, "I don't get it" and "That looks like a dumb show"... really? He's a dog and he's well versed in classic literature, and I'm sure he is smarter than you. Please keep talking.

What changes the tune of this conversation is the fact that Wishbone was actually filmed close by in Allen, also near where Barney was filmed (Now a printing company that I've been to several times for work - some useless DFW trivia for you). My coworker went on to tell us how sad it was for the community when Wishbone died. All three of us that actually know the show and it's awesomeness are reminiscing when my coworker casually starts in on how Wishbone died around the same time as Lamb Chop.

Nobody told me that Lamb Chop died!

That was the first time that I cried at work.

I didn't CRY cry, I just teared up a bit. It was a shock. I'm not proud of this.


No. Second. I lied.


The first was when an old boss decided to basically Salem Witch Trial me at every opportunity. The one time she gave me a compliment, "Nice skirt.", I immediately spun around to make sure she hadn't set it on fire as she walked by. I refuse to turn this into a tell-all for how evil this woman was, but she really made it difficult to love her like Jesus would. People with that much hate probably need more love than they're willing to let people give. She's gone now, we turned the sprinklers on and she melted.

No, seriously.

The boss that replaced her is heaven sent, an actual human being, and hilarious on business trips to Chicago. Yes, the one where we got lost in the city, hours before our flight home. Her remedy for calming nerves is to tell me the plot for "Adventures In Babysitting" while I audibly start praying for salvation and a road that doesn't lead us farther into the Southside of Chi-town.

By the way, trying to get to Soldier Field from the main highway is impossible. It's like a revolving door: exit too early and you smack into a wall of false hope and glass. Mainly the false hope bit. But you get to drive right past the road that DOES lead to the stadium. Exit just a little too late and you're cursing at yourself as your destination flashes before your eyes. And it's not an easy fix, either way you're left with no other exits to turn around as you're forced to endure the spin cycle around the city until you can try again. And fail again. Add one more try for good measure. Nope, missed the exit again. Spin cycle complete.

Want the drug lords of the windy city to think that you're a cop running patrol over their area? Miss that exit three times in 15 minutes and then see what kind of looks you get in a Prius. Damn you, Judy Garmin.

What up, segue.



Paper Thin Hymn by Anberlin old and new, this band can do no wrong by me.

Dear guy at Chipotle with the Power Ranger's ringtone: You are my soulmate.

I eat at Chipotle more than I would like to admit, but alas, here I am, professing my love anyways. I drive past the same one every day on my way home from work, and it's all too convenient to just pop on in and grab a burrito the size of a small child.

As for the Power Ranger business? This is the fourth time in the last year that I've stopped in my tracks because I've heard this damn ring tone. If it's the same person or a very loyal fan following in the North Dallas area, I have no idea. But I support it.

Long story short, my kindergarten boyfriend was the red ranger and I was the pink ranger and e v e r y day we would sit by each other on the school bus and talk about the Power Rangers episode we watched the day before and then what we thought the episode would be about that afternoon. Fascinating, I know. Then on Fridays I would kiss him. And we had the same favorite Van Halen song. We really had everything going for us... I think he had a mullet. Never mind.

When it comes to being dorky and owning it, I support this. Hell, I encourage it. That's not to say that this doesn't backfire a great many times. Men of the world that think it's OK to use song lyrics as pick up lines: It's not.

Stop it, or else I'm going to start using my favorite new rendition of your pick up line against you, "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but I'm on bath salts, and you look tasty." Did I lose you? Yes? Kind of? Too soon?

I've come to recognize that there is this strange phase that happens when you start to LIKE like someone, and that we've all (probably) experienced this in some form or fashion. Sometimes it's just nerves or maybe you're taking dating advice from Night At the Roxbury, I don't know. It's not the real you, it's the goofiest and most annoying side of you that you know. I hope.

This theory has been proven wrong many times, so I'm not declaring it in a medical journal that the jerk you met at a bar will drop the act and turn into Jim from The Office. He won't. He might. Don't count on it. I'm more so talking about the awkward phase that can turn you into a total goober in front of a the object of your affection: laughing way to loud and far too often at a joke before it's even told, doing that thing with your mouth half closed and making that clicking noise while winking, using cheesy pick up lines that are songs my 13 year old sister wouldn't even touch and just using pick up lines in general.

This phase is different and unique for everyone, sometimes you recluse when you're usually outgoing, sometimes you act like a monkey at the zoo trying to show off but falling out of a tree instead etc. I find that most go for the show-off route, which in turn makes me revert back to the equivalent of my kindergarten nightmare where I punched Mitch in the playground maze.

It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girl dies in tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.

Yes, that is a quote from The Naked Gun. Sadly. THIS, of all the sappy romantic comedies and tragic love stories, has resonated with me over the last couple of years. I guess I look at love as one of those uncontrollable forces of nature that can come from any direction at any point in time. So, with that I applaud everyone that's found the person that you just want to be around all the time in any way that you can.


Dear Chipotle,
I don't know how to quit you.


Pachuca Sunrise by Minus The Bear

If at first you don't succeed, redefine success and celebrate your victory in a Snuggie.

The roomie and I have adopted a motto: I will if you will. This is one of the strongest bonds of bestfriendship ever created.

Feel like going to a party? I will if you will
Want to eat a dozen donuts? I will if you will
Let's plan a trip to Fiji, who needs a savings account anyways? I will if you will

Looking/acting/being ridiculous and having someone on your team being just as ridiculous with you automatically makes you feel better. Sadly, it doesn't always make you any cooler, in fact, it hardly ever does.

With that, I'm going to make a very bold statement in support of Snuggies. Never have I ever had so much fun making fun of a blanket with sleeves, but the time has come, and now I must have one. You don't have to tell me, I know Snuggies are as big of a joke as the WNBA, Smart Cars, and sporks. Let's be real here, sporks?! Who got rich by creating an eating utensil just for a grapefruit? Hmmmmm?! Anyways, the Roomie and I had a long running Snuggie joke and it lead to me finally buying one for part of her Christmas present.

We then decided to list all of the things one can do in a Snuggie:

• Eat an apple!
• Read the mail! (Every daily function becomes amplified when donning a Snuggie)
• Make a pizza! (This was a terrible idea, the oven almost turned into a Snuggie inferno)
• Wear it backwards like an open-face robe! (Please do this alone in your room)
• Put your feet in the arm holes and wear it upside down! (This is frowned upon)
• Hide tissues in the sleeve like grandma!

We decided that the Snuggie was awesome. So, we're on the couch, about to start a movie, the Roomie sitting comfortably in said Snuggie and myself curled up in my blanket. Then, menu screen comes on, and by sheer proximity, I'm the designated remote grabber. Of all the gin joints. It's balls to the wall cold outside of my blankety cocoon. Try and follow me here: It's as if you're in a hot tub, in December and 1 of the only 3 valid reasons for ever leaving a hot tub in December happens:

1. You have to pee
2. You've turned into soup
3. Pizza guy is at the door

You raise just an inch of your body out of the water and suddenly the Artic tundra is gripping at your flesh, threatening you with death. You can feel the fierce winds of the blazing chill stab at your skin and envelope you into a frosty hell. Suddenly, you hate every decision you've ever made that lead you to this very moment that you are without a Snuggie. THAT is what it's like to have to take off a blanket and reach for the remote.

The Snuggie is also useful when you want to get out of a situation. As in, the guys want to grab dinner, but we feel like staying in and eating popcorn followed by spoons of peanut butter right out of the jar. So we reply back, "Sure thing! We're wearing Snuggies! See you in 10!" Suddenly we're uninvited to dinner and we can resume the fabulous life. We don't have to make up excuses like "Busy. Having a staring contest" or "We're cleaning the carpets" - that one is an actual excuse we've used. If you met our friend... Thor, we'll call him, you'd understand why we have some... unique "House Rules".

House Rules:

• Use a coaster or die
• No shoes on the carpet or else you have to remove an article of clothing... probably your shoes
• Must put lime in Corona or put Corona back

There are also a few Unspoken Rules:

• Don't let Amanda participate in a rap battle
• Or skateboard
• Or climb a tree 
• Always share your alcohol
• Always share your pineapple
• It is perfectly acceptable to be late to dinner if you're watching Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles

This is a non-judging Snuggie.

Times like this I'm happy to live with my best friend.

The General Specific by Band of Horses