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On a recent trip to visit girlfriends in NYC I was approached by a gentleman on the dance floor. Calm down Mom, it was not because he wanted to talk to me or because he was impressed with my ability to step tap and drink at the same tim. It was because I was with Pam. Pam was my new bff for the night.
Remember when Sex and the City started and every girl wanted to move to New York and be a writer, slut, attorney, or hopeless romantic? Yeah, me too. But when I envisioned my fabulous New York life, I had Carrie’s closet and her legs. Yes in my dream I got new legs. The kind that are effortlessly toned, small, and attached to feet that never hurt even though I all I do is walk around the city squinting my eyes at the light bulb moments in my inner monologue in 5 inch heels. The point is, Pam is living my dream. She is petite with sex legs and big wavy hair. And to top it all off, she is cool.
So we are dancing, and a guy walks up with his friend:
Guy: “who ARE you?!”
Me: “who are you?”
He pats himself on his moobs and says: “I’m awesome.”
Me: “Seriously?”
Guy: “Are you foreign?”
Me: “I’m from Oklahoma.”
Guy: “I thought so. Who’s your friend?”
I’m fairly certain if I looked this experience up on urbandictionary.com it would tell me I was a “grenade”. Did I sulk? No. I told him her name is Pam and she’s too pretty for you. Then I told him she had a thing for break-dancers. Sucker.
It was 8:20 am and everything was going my way. I entered the office with an unusually optimistic attitude. On an I-hit-every-green-light high, I exchanged “morning”s with my coworkers. Then, just as I was approaching my offical, (office meets cubical) my name plate had a melt down.
 LaughAtWhitney_Name-Plate Crash Clang Silence. The double sided tape gave out and it crashed to the floor. Not only did it fall but it completely separated into three pieces. Every time I stuck it back up there it ended up back on the floor. It made so much noise people kept peeking over their cube walls to see who was throwing a temper tantrum. After spending an embarrassing amount of energy trying to convince myself not to be superstitious about my suicidal name plate, I grabbed my notebook and headed to a meeting.
I dropped my pen when I clipped the corner of my cube. As I reached for my pen, there it was. It was a fortune. From a cookie. Someone else’s fortune, but surely the universe was throwing me a bone here. At first glance I noticed the word “love”. To pick it up and assume its like a lucky penny or not to pick it up because it wasn’t mine what the question.
I played it out in my head. Maybe it was fate, or a God thing, or there was a string attached and a swarm of mean girls giggling at my expense in the next cube.
Here is what it said:
The love of your life will appear before you unexpectedly.
 LaughAtWhitney_Bad-Fortune This was a refreshingly positive fortune for me. I usually get the fortunes that say “check back later”. Or my personal favorite “Eat what you love and let the food fight it out inside.” (I kept this one. It appropriately lives on my fridge). So regarding the second-hand fortune I was gullible enough to pick up, can you guess what happened?
No cigar. No one showed up. Literally didn’t see a soul for the rest of the day. Not in the break room, not on the way to the bathroom, no one came to take out my trash, no one. I kept waiting for someone great, single, Catholic, employed, early to mid-30s (because is age is only a number…as long as you’re older than me) to walk up and say something so witty and charming even an oblivious hot mess like me would be left speechless!
Thanks alot universe. Thanks for throwing that one my way, then immediately in my face! Or if it was God, funny, good one, good aim God. Can you hear my eggs dying from Heaven like my mom can from Oklahoma?! AND I didn’t even get to eat the cookie!
Is it ironic/disturbing that i was on a street earlier called ‘Girl School Road’ that consisted of 4 schools and a prison all in a row?!
During my stay in Indy I joined a gang so I could finally go eat at the waffle house after sundown. I went with bloods because it matches my red lipstick. I wonder if gang status transfers or of it’s like having hoes in different area codes. Maybe I’m only in one if I’m in Indiana. I didn’t have time to check because I had a flight back to Texas to catch.
I finally got to airport security with only 45 minutes to boarding call. There was a little line but I wasn’t worried. Until the security guard asked me to step aside and combine my bags. So I put my purse in my brief case and had to wait while 3 people went ahead of me. Then he takes my ID and we had the following conversation:
Security: Did you know the lipstick you are wearing in your (drivers license) picture is identical to the one you are wearing right now?!
Me: Yeah there’s a good chance. It’s my favorite.
Security: It’s just beautiful. Like that movie star. What’s her name? You know the one that wore red lipstick.
Me: Thanks. Yeah red is a pretty popular color.
Security: It’s just beautiful. Great lips too. Do you ever put it on and play Marilyn? You know draw on a beauty mark and pretend?!
Me: No, but I will think about it. Can I go now? I’m running kind of late.
What did he do? Acted like I ran over his kitten and flagged me! He gestured for me to talk to the hand/hault. Walked over to the angry looking lady working the baggage x-ray machine and whispered something. Then he told me to go ahead in a very condescending tone.
They made me go in the glass booth. The one that reminds me of the one on the makeover shows where you stand in the glass box and strangers tell the host how old, haggard, fat and ugly you are, except for the one lady that says “she looks nice.” Do I stood on the yellow feet and made a diamond shape with my hands over my head. Then they kept rolling my bag back and forth back and forth.
Newsflash you old creep! Just because I didn’t sit and share stories about playing dress up with you doesn’t mean I’m a terrorist. I should call my Waffle House dwelling gang affiliated homies to handle him.
So training day three. Shadowed a delivery truck driver. I carried heavy boxes and loaded vending machines with soda and was really starting to think I had the driver convinced I wasn’t going to be a complete waste of space all day. Turns out my stomach is as weak as my I-can-only-carry-one-flat-of-cans-at-a-time arm muscles.
After about an hour of potholes, no shocks, and one lane roads, under construction, and full of angry stop and go traffic, our truck route landed us at Value World. Kind of like a Goodwill. I talked to the manager and made jokes with the staff. Even though the back room smelled like bad breath, masked by cotton candy and BO, I slapped a smile on my poker face, filled the machine, rolled the dolly back to the big truck, and was ready to earn the drivers respect for the day.
Then it hit me, I got really hot and a little dizzy and could tell the color was slowly draining from my face and, yep, I was going to vom. I kept telling myself “Be cool. Don’t barf at work. Every time you barf in public and angel gets sent to hell. You haven’t even been drinking which means your world doesn’t deserve to be spinning. Breathe! No! Don’t! Really?! You will forever be the girl from corporate that barfed on the truck route!…”
So I mentally slapped myself across the face to snap out of it. But my face refused to let me smile. As I hopped back into the truck, and the driver said “What did you think of Value World. They sell old underwear and socks. Pretty gross huh? Well don’t look like you’re having too much fun, now.”
My response was “That store was…I’m going to be sick.” I swung open the door, jumped down from the big rig and proceeded to throw up in front of Value World.
If you want to humiliate yourself and horrify a co-worker after they ask you if you are uncomfortable in inner-city areas, just jump out of their vehicle as they are taking it out of park, miss the last step, almost fall down, and barf on their clients sidewalk. Then spend the rest of the day trying to convince them that it was motion sickness, not poor people that made you sick.
Big rig fail.
 Creepy Goodwill campaign running appropriately alongside WishTV This morning at 5am I woke up to get ready for another day of training. I turned on the TV to see what the weather was doing.
Much NOT to my surprise, the newscasters were busy giving a crime report. Burglars break into an elderly man’s home and get more than they bargained for. The old man beat the burglars with his cane when they broke into his house. In the victim’s opinion, he thinks he was targeted because the crooks thought he was still in jail. “They are lucky I didn’t have a gun”, said the man, all bug-eyed and shaking his cane/old man nunchucks in the air.
The young journalist covering the story also wanted it noted that the victim is a self-proclaimed, compulsive shopper who loves a good bargain. This is yet another reason the man assumes he was targeted. “The burglars knew he would have good stuff.” Thanks again anchorman for the in depth analysis of old boy’s past-times.
This all followed, yet again, with the brilliant sign off of “…and poof we’re gone”.
Well right now I am traveling for work. I would like to start this post off with a few honorable mentions.
1. Adam of the front desk at my Inn, I appreciate his positive attitude, his ability to reactivate my card 4 times in a 24-hour period, and his sympathy laugh when I called to request my 5am wake-up call.
2. The people I have been shadowing have been very accommodating, polite, and fun to hang out with all day. I also appreciate their tips on areas of the city to avoid as a solo woman. Unfortunately, all of these places are surrounding the Inn I am staying at all week.
Shamus is now in custody! Horrrrrrrrraaaayyyyyyy! Who is Shamus do you ask?! He is what the local news anchor is referring to as a “teen of many faces based on his facebook pictures.” He is also the kid that has been arrested for shooting 10 people in Indianapolis this weekend.
Mom, you wonder why I don’t watch the news?! The one time I tune in there is the story of Shamus and his 3-shooting escapade and a truck driver who treated 192 patients posing as a doctor (he is an actual licensed doctor in the state of Indiana because no one bothered to call and verify if he went to med school). And THAT’S JUST IN INDIANAPOLIS! It makes you wonder if Heaven DOES in fact have a Ghetto.
 Heaven Got A Ghetto Yeah that is my t-shirt. It was a gift. Jealous?
Back to the story. Indianapolis, I am always willing to give people second chances. Just ask my ex’s. I will be here until Thursday waiting to eat my words although I have a sneaking suspicion that the only thing I will be eating is dinner from “Steak & Waffle Shop” aka the room service option at my Inn.
All I know is the women grow beards (saw my first female five-o’clock shadow today), the men don’t like to wear shirts (like the one walking through the drive-thru at Taco Bell in gym shorts and combat boots), the old ladies spit (like then one in front of me at a stop light who opened her minivan door to step outside-spit-and return to the drivers seat), and all the kids are African American but they all have white parents. I’m hoping the pop I heard outside my hotel room was fireworks but considering Shamus’s mom just told the news that she doesn’t think he did it even though everyone else says he did, the shooter could still be on the loose. I think I’m just going to stay away from the windows and call it a night.
 Yes I know the picture is blurry and no one is more annoyed than this girl. I wish I had a clear shot of this! At the end of a long day I was really excited to run into this dweeb. This guy paid extra to have a personalized license plate. You know he racked his brain to come up with something he considered to be pure genius.
Instead he chose to support either his favorite university or his favorite form of arthritis that is usually caused by obesity or alcoholism.
I’m pretty sure it says GO U T but from a distance it looks like it says “GOUT”.
Nice try sir.
I am a singer. I’m actually really good. I’m not cool enough to be in a band but it’s always been a dream of mine. I can’t play anything but my vocalizer so I wouldn’t be much of a solo act. This talent has turned me into a wedding singer. Not something I do professionally but for family and friend’s weddings. While sometimes I double as a bridesmaid, the phrase “always in the house party, never a bride” is a more appropriate cliche to describe how I spend my weekends.
In some of my previous entries you may have sensed some anxiety or bitterness when I have referenced weddings or showers. The truth is, I love weddings. I have a tab in my web browser with cool wedding sites I like to stalk and I think brides are always beautiful even if I hate their hair or dress or choice in music. I have just been on wedding overload for about 4 years which sometimes translates into bitter. A note to my married friends, I am more than thrilled that you are happily married and have been honored to be a part of your special days. However, that does not mean that I am always going to have the best attitude about spending all my vacation days and weekends in a taffeta dress and living by a Wedding Weekend itinerary. Smiley face emoticon.
That being said, I was in my friends wedding a few weeks ago. When the bride requested Ave Maria it seemed like a no brainer. My thoughts were, I have been Catholic my entire life, I’ve heard it a million times, she probably won’t let me sing Beyonce’s updated rendition, but the original will be classic and pretty. Easy enough. I tend to procrastinate when it comes to practicing for weddings. About two weeks before the blessed event, I realized Ave Maria is not in English. Hey judgey mc-judgerson, you can stop rolling your eyes at me now. No, I did not consider language to be a factor in mastering this epic piece of music. I practiced and googled and youtubed and practiced until I was pretty comfortable with it.
Finally the weekend had come to test my Latin skills. The wedding was in Oklahoma City (my hometown). On my way to rehearse with the organist on the day of the wedding I totaled my car. It was really scary. That crunching noise that haunts your dreams and makes your hands shake. Trunk in the back seat, car not moving but was in drive, smelled like burnt plastic, I called 911, and my phone died. So my car was what I like to call “schmoooosed” and I had to borrow the cell phone of the guy who’s Saturday I had just ruined so I could call my mom. One of the joys of being 25 and single. People look at you with an even poutier lip and give you the concerned eyebrows when they ask if you “need to call your husband” and you say “I don’t have one can I borrow your phone to call my mom.” The cops finally got there 45 minutes later to tell me to call my insurance company and a tow truck. The cop was nice. He didn’t give me a ticket even though it was my fault. And he didn’t make fun of me for crying and telling him I couldn’t move my car because it was broken and I’m afraid of explosions.
It had been a rough day. I couldn’t stop shaking, I couldn’t remember the words to Ave Maria, my vision was blurry, my eye-makeup kept running, I was sweating, and I think you could actually see my heartbeat. Needless to say, they said i do and got married regardless of whether I botched the song.
Going to the reception at a wedding is always overwhelming for the first 30 minutes. People want to talk to me about the singing and how long I’ve been doing it, whether I’m friends with the bride or groom, what church I belong to, 20 questions to fill the time until the happy couple joins the group. Thank goodness my dear friend Danielle. She grabbed me from the sea of attendees, walked me right up to the front of the bar line and said “This girl needs a drink.” That is when I realized that this was going to be one of those nights where I ended up “drinking my feelings”.
 The reception was a blast. My parents were there and they are really good dancers. Especially my dad. He is pretty famous. His favorite songs to dance to are “Hey Ya” by Outkast and “Yeah” by Usher. So needless to say we danced alot. The officer who worked my accident ended up being at the wedding. What are the chances!
My body was still in shock so I wasn’t feeling the whiplash yet. So I joined everyone at the hotel bar for the after party. We drank, we danced, took pictures and I tried to have a serious conversation with the drunk lady sitting at the end of the bar about life. The next thing I knew, the party had moved to a suite and I needed to go home. When I decide I’m done, I’m done. No questions, I usually just go grab a taxi and text a friend that I left. Not this time. I called my mom. Because I’m a grownup.
It was 3am and I asked my mom to come get me at a hotel bar because I was too drunk to drive. God bless her. She didn’t even comment on the fact that I didn’t drive to the hotel because I didn’t even have a car anymore. When I got in her car I had a phone in my clutch. To the right you will find a picture of the phone I unplugged from the wall outside the elevators on the 5th floor of the hotel. Why I felt entitled to this phone I will never know. I don’t even have a land line. My mom asked me to take it back inside and I told her “Mom, it’s really pretty. I just really love it. I’m going to use it at work. It’s done. I’m not taking it back. It’s done. It’s mine.” I woke up the next morning on top of the covers, still in my dress, next to a fancy silver land line.
Due to my severe Catholic guilt and a poll among friends over text message, I returned the phone to the hotel. I walked right in, up to the front desk, set the phone on the counter and said “I found this in my car after the wedding last night and I think it belongs to you.” As I was running away I heard the desk clerk shout “at least you brought it back…”
 Dallas Taco Bracket This website is hilarious! It is dedicated solely to finding the best tacos in the DFW area. This is particularly helpful for someone like me who could pretty much live on tacos. I eat salsa on literally everything and take Mexican food very seriously. Check them out and place your votes. I’m not exactly sure who you are, Taco Meister, but if you are accepting applications for friends, I am interested.
http://dallastacobracket.com/wtf/
Want my advice on who to vote for?!
If you have taste-buds and a soul, you should for sure vote for Urban Taco and Taco Joint in today’s Southeast Traditional Bracket. Urban Taco because it’s delicious and Taco Joint because their jalapeno ranch is so good that if it was single I would marry it.
http://dallastacobracket.com/traditional-bracket/southeast-traditional-bracket/
Grammer is my maternal grandmother. She is an Oklahoma icon who is 93-years-young, famous for her one-liners, an outstanding story-teller, the portrait of blatant honesty, and a damn good friend. She loves pushing people’s buttons and will always tell you the whole truth and nothing but the truth whether you are in search of such information or not. I absolutely adore her and totally want to be her when I grow up. She’s from Ardmore, Oklahoma and she’s fantastic. Not sharing such wisdom would just be down right selfish. And so the term Grammerisms was born. Here are a few of my favorite things she has said to date.
- How old is she? 86? That’s not a birthday party. It’s a going away party.
- Why hasn’t anyone married him yet? I don’t know if he would be much to live with but he’s not bad to look at.
- Nice jacket. Is it Christmas or the Chinese New Year?
- Well, hell Kathy, that was yesterday. Why should I have to remember?
- Why would I want a pound of pudding? I have enough physiological problems as it is.
- Lines! I don’t wait in lines. I’m old, I’ll probably die before I get to the front.
- So, you’re in the home. Stop crying Eilleen. You are just making everyone else miserable.
- (Impatiently riding in the minivan, on a one-lane, country road.) This is in response to my father (who we all refer to as “Fire-marshall Fred”) driving– we’ll call it cautiously– slow. “Step on it Fred. Pass this guy. Just like the Mexicans in my neighborhood”.
- Lauren: “I got you a little something for your birthday!” Grammer’s response: “I’m 93 years old, you better have gotten me something big.”
- You’re a pretty girl. You’re just a little bit fat.
- Grammer questioning my choice in gas stations. She asks “Why go to a 7-Eleven?”. My response “Why not?” To which she insists “They put water in their gas. It’s where gangs hang out you know.” I said “Which 7-Eleven?” She said “All of them.”
- We asked a neighbor to come across the street and take our annual family photo on Thanksgiving. They give the standard “One. Two…” Grammer interjects, “Smile and say sex.”
- I’m so old I don’t even buy those green bananas anymore.
- My mother and I took her to see The Ugly Truth. The whole theater giggled when she blurted out “Vibrating panties! Kathy, (my mother) do you have any?! We should get Whitney some.”
- She dropped by to see my mom and pulled a catalog out of her purse. She had a page marked and a mischievous grin on her face. “I’m going to get this for Fred (my dad, her son-in-law, who she LOVES to mess with).” My mother said, “Mom, that is the ugliest tie I’ve ever seen! Why would you buy that?!” Her response was “It’s only $20 and it will be so funny to watch him have to wear it.” (giggle giggle)
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You talkin’ to me?