Literally Holding a Tiny Dancer.

As I have mentioned before I am in the height of wedding season — and I love nothing more than sipping endless vino with friends as I showcase my classic dance moves in celebration of the happy couple.

At this last wedding I also did a fake piano playing performance – See Below:

There were a few excellent dancers at this wedding. A couple from LA who could have been hired wedding crashers their moves were so impressive — booty drops and high kicks ALL OVER the floor. Surprisingly both straight, married… to each other. Very impressive. But there was one girl’s moves I really had my eye on. The CUTEST little girl and her brother hoppin’ all over the dance floor.

I tried to be their friend all night without success until I caught them in a moment of weakness playing video games. I took a seat on the floor to help them beat a level + the dancing begun. The little girl hopped up and down holding my hands and laughed as I tickled her belly whirling around the dance floor in a perfect vision of my live 7+ years from now.

Until. I realized I was dancing with a strangers baby. In public. Yes, her mom was there and refrained from interference. But the courteous reminder from my friends that holding a strangers baby is weird and also wildly innapropriate was the cue it was time to leave…immediately.

We left to wait in the LONGEST karaoke line ever so I couldn’t even wrap up the perfect evening with a rendition of “Hold On.” But alas, I DID get to dance with the best dancer at the wedding so I consider it a win.

Block Party with the Pope

Who knew a cardboard cutout of Pope Francis would be a hot spot of beer-drinking young adult activity at the basilica block party?! We snapped this obligatory pic between bands + beers, and captioned it “gropin da pope” — which was then deemed as definitely not politically correct. I instead opted for my mother’s favorite saying to describe him. Way better.

MyBlueBoyfriend #TBT

Best friends for 26 years + counting – #tbt to enjoying a lunch date at Nanas with MyBlueBoyfriend! Matching bibs +a bowlcut for me, it’s safe to say we’ve always been a power couple.

My Pop-Pop included this pic on my birthday card this year with a photo of my human boyfriend on the inside saying I had swapped and now bring my human boyfriend to lunch at Nana’s. Which is true — I had brought Carter and left Eshu at home. Sure sign that I’ve definitely gotta bring Esh back into public more often, and I will certainly never visit Nanas without him again.

Note the band-aid on my knee in this pic. I was in a BIGTIME bandaid phase that year and also used them to cover up my tiny baby boobs every morning. It was so normal.

No gas. No problem.

I have always lived by the notion that the “low fuel” notification is an extremely premature alert for neurotic people who like to keep their gas tank above 1/4 tank even in above-zero temperatures.

I was having this conversation a few weeks ago on the phone with CJ as I sped to a syncronized swim meet for a high school student that I mentor. I was yapping away, rationalizing all the reasons I was not going to stop for gas on the way — I could NOT be late. Plus, who ACTUALLY runs out of gas? ever.

Approximately 30 seconds later…I did.

Halfway up a hill I puttered to a stop. Threw on the brakes and began my best miss America wave out the driver door. It was obviously rush hour on a busy road with no shoulder, so that helped.

A nice man pulled up behind me and offered to help me push my car up the hill. Convinced taking my car out of park meant crushing nice stranger man into a dead body I beckoned (read: demanded kindly) that this older man walking up the road “get in here and lend a hand, would ya” We pushed my car together in honking traffic as I mumbled excuses about a broken gas gauge and joked about idiots who actually run out of gas with functioning gauges.

We reached the top of the hill with a gas station in sight at the bottom. The younger man offered to come with to make sure I made it into the parking lot ok. I got in my car to coast down and was startled by a THUD on my back windshield. Sure enough, he decided surfing my car down the hill was certainly the best mode of transportation. He rode leaning on my trunk for about 100 yards —leaving a face print that would remain on my back windshield for like 3 days after. I seriously thought he was going to die this time.

I pulled in the gas station on the wrong side of the pump. Man thinks I’m helpless + helps get the gas actually pumping into my car. I offer to buy him a gas station snack + Big Gulp + ICEE for his troubles, he declines and runs back to his car. Minutes later he drives by honking with a double thumbs up as I leave the gas station. Brian was a true hero that day.

Moral of the story: I made it to the show on time // When the gas gauge is on E you should fill up // If someone is doing a princess wave out of their car it means they need help // Big Gulps + ICEES are a great prize for heroism even when they are denied.

Peaceful Hammocks + Beautiful “Gardens”

My worst nightmare came true today. Beware the dangers of porch hammocks. #thankgodforlongweeds

While gracefully attempting to get into the hammock this evening I took an equally as graceful tumble into our front “garden.” Obviously scraping each lanky appendage on the side of the porch as I fell so I would have scabby bruises to show off at the fancy event I was going to the next day. The hammock was hooked into a full ring on the porch + has never once slipped out before in the last 4 years of it’s existence. I’m so glad I could be the one to out-do its strength. I thought you may appreciate some physical evidence of my unmatched coordination.

(luckily all of my roommates + boyfriend were sitting on the porch to take this photo instead of helping me up)

Who’s Your Daddy?

I have had a variety of landlord experiences in my day. In New York – I never met them once, nor did I have their contact information. Next, my parents were my landlords – they bought my groceries. Then, my landlord was a 60 year old hippie who let himself into my apartment at any hour of the day without warning. And currently, a middle-aged anger management case who only communicates by text message and hires “nigel” to all of his work for him – and inconveniently, has a no dog policy.

My roomie was in the market for a pup – and I volunteered myself to warm our landlords icy heart by stalking him incessantly until he agreed we could have one. I started with two phone calls and voicemail’s before resorting to his natural form of communication:


OK.. so not actually potty trained, and not sure how we would protect the floors but…good start. Plus, I was polite. I didn’t hear anything for a few days until my phone rang in Target and my landlord and I had a nice 15 minute phone conversation as I perused the card and gift isle. He encouraged me to get a cat, claimed a dog would ruin the floors forever and no one would ever rent the house again, was intrigued by the offer of a pet deposit, and finally compromised that we could have a dog if we renewed our lease (which is up in September). Definitely a stretch, but I considered it a win. We were’t ready to renew the lease, and I certainly wasn’t ready to make that decision before finalizing my $25 purchase of greeting cards and candy – so, I told him we would regroup and call him back.

Just ten minute later the “dog-hater” sent me this…


Most concerning, who names their dog Daddy?! Even if you adopt a dog that comes with that name…probably you should change it. Secondly, where was this compassion for animals on the phone? Also, isn’t the saying an elephant never forgets? I’m not sure if I have missed the in depth research on the steel-trap-memories of canines, or if Daddy is just exceptionally bright. On another note – slightly shocking that landlord has a wife, but good for him.

Now that my eyes were opened to this compassionate and tender hearted side of landlord I decided to push the envelope one more time…

photo 3

The emoji puppy as the clincher, I was certain he would cave.

That is the last time I have spoken to him. But next time I do, I will let him know that Daddy is definitely disappointed in his lack of compassion for his puppy brethren.

Something’s Fishy.

As I tucked myself into bed on Monday night something was not right. I noticed my room smelled strange. Not dead mouse strange or good strange….like a fish market strange (I had just showered. It wasn’t me). I checked for trash, old food in the kitchen, anything that could be wafting into my room. Nothing. I turned to Google.

Google told me that a fish smell in the house means electrical wires are wet or corroding and could result in an electrical fire.

Naturally, I panicked and unplugged everything in my room incase that would solve the issue. Called my boyfriend and texted my dad to say my goodbyes (sorry, mom). And slept in my roommates room where the smell was non-existent and the electrical fire obviously wouldn’t start. *Note: both males insisted I had spilled something or left food under my bed (thanks) and did not seem nearly concerned enough that I could be engulfed in flames at any second.

The next morning … still fishy. I was irate – this house is SO old, how could our landlord not take care of this, they need to fix this immediately, shit I don’t have renters insurance, and so on. I resolved to give my landlord a piece of my mind when I got to the office.

I stopped at the grocery store on the way to work and noticed when I got back into my trusty Chevy that it too, smelled of fish. Hmm. I took a sniff in my purse…and sure enough…a bottle of fish oil from my Christmas stocking (that I apparently kept in my purse?!) had spilled in the bottom of my bag and multiple capsules had exploded fish oil all over EVERYTHING.

I nonchalantly emptied out the contents of my bag on my car and violently dumped the small items and pills directly into the parking lot garbage can – all with my dad on speaker phone asking him if “HE COULD EVEN BELIEVE IT?!” it wasn’t an electrical issue after all! PHEW! He did not find this revolution nearly as relieving or entertaining as I did. In fact, he was not even a little bit surprised.

When I got to work I bought renters insurance. I felt pretty good about myself until I realized my hands and all of my belongings were still covered in fish oil – and smelled like it. My coworker walked up as I was blatantly smelling my pen. I explained I was just checking if it smelled like fish. I had to repeatedly explain to everyone in my work space that the overwhelming scent was not someone microwaving leftover salmon…it was me.

Even better? I got to drive a car-full of people to a work outing mid-day and had to literally use the phrase “I apologize if my car smells a little fishy…” as they sat next to my purse in the backseat.

A few key lessons here if you ask me: A fishy smell could mean electrical fires for most people so beware. You should get renters insurance even if your apartment doesn’t smell like fish. Don’t carry fish oil in your purse.