REUNION

In the months leading up to my 10 year high school reunion I have...

Panicked about what outfit to wear (still haven't decided)
Logged extra hours at the gym and felt guilty about bad food choices
Worried that no one will remember me, or worse yet, have bad memories of me
Had an existential crisis about my accomplishments in life (or potential lack of)
Flip-flopped about whether or not to attend no less than five times
Confirmed that at least three of my best friends will be there so I'm not sitting alone in a corner eating french fries

One may argue that I'm a bit high-strung (I am) or that the anxiety I have experienced is unwarranted (I know). 

The idea of being old enough to attend a 10 year reunion seemed nearly impossible when I graduated, but sure enough, time continues to forge ahead. Over the years, my imagination led me to believe this would be a time for everyone to come together and finally get along, to toss aside their former teen labels and begin new friendships. In my mind it looked a lot like the final scene in The Breakfast Club sprinkled with the cast of Saved by the Bell and the unforgettable dance number from Romy and Michele's High School Reunion.

However, as the event draws nearer, I am becoming acutely aware that the scenario I assembled in my mind might not be real life. Not due to a different roster of characters, but because of my own insecurities. While I would never claim to have had an abnormally difficult high school career, I endured my fair share of (subjective) hardships. False rumors were spread, boyfriends broke my heart, girls poked fun at my shape, and I was in band (but I loved band). And much to the horror of my present self, I fought hard on a daily basis to earn the approval of all my peers.

To quote Angus, my favorite movie of all time:

"As for what anybody else thinks, always remember these words and live by them: screw 'em!"  

Unfortunately, I'm not always great at taking the best, and often simplest advice. I have been fixated on the opinions of others for far too long which has directly affected my ability to  experience the joy of the present, of now. Knowing this about myself, I have spent the better part of my twenties learning to be content with myself and to rely less on how everyone views me.

Once again seeing the people who knew me at my most awkward has me resorting to past fears and left me with an embarrassing desire to impress. All of a sudden I'm back in braces and wearing too much Bonne Bell bronzer (pro tip: bronzer should never be used as a replacement for foundation unless you want to look like a tan Edward Cullen in the sunlight). I have obsessed about who will attend and whether the other kids will like me. 

Growing up, my mom preached the importance of treating everyone with kindness and respect. She shared a story about being nominated a homecoming queen candidate in college (beating out the "very cute girl with huge boobs"). And while I was never the homecoming queen, the concept of being nice because you never know who is paying attention has stuck.

An equally profound piece of advice was shared by our high school principal. "Don't let high school be the best years of your life," he spoke. "Don't refer to these years as your glory days and don't let high school define your future." It was some of the most hopeful and sincere insight I had ever heard. 

While my celebrity-filled, after school special reunion fantasies may be far-fetched, I am attempting to ditch the prior judgments, grudges, and preconceived notions of others. No one is granted a lifetime or popularity or relegated to permanent nerd status. 

At 28, I don't have it all together. But I'm learning to be ok with that. With the reunion just a few weeks away, I can only hope others accept the imperfect version of myself that I have come to appreciate through the years. 

And if not, well, "screw 'em."

THIS ONE IS ABOUT POOP

It's no secret that I have a fondness for all things related to bathroom behavior. Farts and poops are funny, you guys! If we aren't on the same page about that, you should probably just go.

Shit's about to get a little gross.

The women in my office building have deplorable lavatory etiquette. Like, explosive, keep the plumber on speed dial kind of crap (literally + figuratively). I'm not convinced that most of them don't gnaw on jalapenos all day and quench their thirst with pre-colonoscopy juice. Every day I have the esteemed pleasure of witnessing the aftermath of a Harry Dunne-like catastrophe. 

For months my annoyance has been building and now I'm making it my personal mission to shame every single one of them. Let's poo it:

The lady who mistakes her own ass for an elephant's and consequently uses an entire roll to wipe and consequently clogs the toilet and then I subsequently walk in and see a bowl full of poop and TP. It astounds me how many people are unfamiliar with the rule of courtesy flushing and/or never learned an appropriate square count to wipe with. I swear some of these ladies gather toilet paper like a magician pulling a never-ending handkerchief chain out of his sleeve. And if we're being 100% honest here, I usually monitor the toilet to ensure everything disappears safely before exiting. God forbid someone sees me depart a stall then enters only to be greeted by my leftovers.

The chick who needs to poop, but doesn't want anyone to hear her poop so she sits in the stall in perfect silence, but doesn't realize I can see her shoes. And unfortunately for her, I have a photographic shoe memory. Admittedly, I'm a bit of a jerk when it comes to this one. When I can tell someone else in the bathroom is waiting me out to drop a deuce, I will purposely take my time. And sometimes, when I feel a little extra cruel, I'll linger outside the bathroom just long enough to give the "I know what you did in there" look. Conversely, I tip my hat to the woman who isn't afraid to let loose, because not much will get me to scoot out of the bathroom faster than the impending stench of BM. 

The woman who is terrible at pretending to wash her hands. I mean, really. She turns the sink on for about three seconds and I definitely did not hear her pump any soap into her palms. Does she think she is fooling me? And who hurries in and out of the bathroom at work, anyway? Personally, I escape to the bathroom for a few guaranteed moments of silence and catch up on whatever phone game I happen to be obsessed with at the time. Ok fine. I don't mentally recite the ABCs while washing my hands and if I did, I'd probably only get to G, but whatever. I still make a point to go through the shortened routine. 

The nincompoop (I had to) who lines the seat with toilet paper, does her business, then leaves said toilet paper in her wake. Specifically, the one who leaves two perfect balls of TP on the front edges of the seat and at least three strips of streamers scattered about the floor. See example below.

Yes, I did go into the bathroom at work to recreate the scene. And, yes, there are a few faint skid marks if you look closely. They are not mine.

Anyway.

After she became a fifth time offender (and I mistakenly walked into her war zone on a rotten day), I decided to leave a note:

Dear TP Wads, 

I understand you are concerned with ass germs and therefore line the toilet seat with an absurd amount of toilet paper, but perhaps you might consider not being such a jerk by figuring out a way to dispose of said toilet paper. One thought I had was to kick it into the bowl, since clearly you won't want to sully your perfectly germ free hands. 

Thanks.

People around the office caught wind (yep) of my note and applauded me for saying what everyone had been thinking. I felt like a real hero sitting atop the hypothetical shoulders of my supporters. And you know what? It got better for a few good months. I loved those months. I could once again use my second favorite stall in the bathroom. Life was sweet. 

Just recently, though, it was brought to my attention that TP Wads is back at her old tricks and that's why I was provoked to write this post. 

She ruined it for everyone. 

And maybe it's just me, but I'm usually on my best sanitary behavior in public and am a little more lax at home. Feel free to back me up on this.

IT'S NATURAL

"You have a gray hair," she stated. Right in the middle of class. For everyone to hear. As a pimply, braces-wearing seventh grader, the last thing I wanted was to be different. Was it not punishment enough that I sported sweatpants as a fashion statement on the daily, was on the C-team in basketball, never made the cheerleading squad, and had an uncontrollable chapstick addiction?

Sure enough, as someone held a Cover Girl powder compact up to my face, I saw a single Cindy Lou Who-esque strand of gray was standing at attention atop my head. Without thinking, I yanked it out.

She couldn't have known, but at that moment an obsession began. 

Friends (and my unfortunate younger brother) would regularly comb through my hair with a pair of tweezers in search of salty colored streaks to pluck. Finding a gray hair was the highest victory; unfortunately as time passed, locating the wiry strands became much less difficult a task.

I dyed my hair for the first time on a whim one day during the Summer before junior year when I caught a group of my friends cruising around town without me. In a lame effort to show them (or myself) how much fun I could have alone, I haphazardly covered my noggin with goop. A shade best described as 'exit sign orange' is what I ended up with. My mom was horrified and immediately sent me to Walgreens for a repair kit. I sobbed as the dye stung my head, positive all my hair would fall out, and not certain I didn't want it to.

Throughout the next ten years, I dyed my hair most every shade of chocolate brown imaginable and during my hardcore phase, I opted for true black. But every 4 - 6 weeks, as the color grew out, I could see just how much gray hair I was masking under the boxes upon boxes of L'Oreal Preference. 

To be 100% truthful, it made me incredibly self-conscious. I had this idea imbedded in my mind that I was not a beautiful person because of my gray hair. Coloring my hair was an expensive and time consuming security blanket I couldn't live without. 

I stumbled a upon this article one day, which planted the seed to quit dyeing. I read it over and over, attempting to talk myself into letting the gray grow out. With the continued encouragement of friends and family, I took the plunge. It was a very anti-climactic plunge as my hair grows at a painfully slow rate. Lucky for me the growth pattern is actually quite lovely, much of the white is concentrated around my temples and takes on a blonde shade at the tips. Most people actually mistake it for a professional color.

To date, I have not colored my hair since Winter 2012 which means every single strand of hair on my head is its natural color. Perhaps a silly achievement in the grand scheme of life, but it is a major fete in the ongoing battle to feel confident in my own skin.

And you know what's funny? I have never loved my hair more.

shirt | loft // jacket | bcbgeneration // jeans | urban outfitters // boots | dsw // necklace | j crew

I Can't Bear it

This sweater is my prized thrifting possession. Pretty stinkin' cute, right?

Tomorrow morning I have a job interview. I feel so out of practice with the interview process - although, I wonder if anyone ever grows comfortable with it. I just hope I don't sweat too much...

For anyone who read yesterday's story, I saw my new friend wandering around the block earlier today. He looked just as drunk/confused as last night. I'm incredibly thankful that I was at a safe distance in my car.

Hope you all had a lovely weekend and enjoy the week ahead!

These Days

Sometimes life can be incredibly sweet. That's all for now.

Have the loveliest of days. I know I will!

You really got a hold of me

As the temperatures drop, I find myself needing new hobbies since I'll be spending less time outside. The first idea that comes to mind is volunteering and after a quick online search, I've found a few potentials. 

1. Assist with set-up/tear down at a community theatre. I'm a terrible actor, but would love be able to help with the arts in some capacity. 

2. Befriend a senior. There is an assisted living center very close to my apartment and they are looking for volunteers to take seniors to beauty appointments and help with other on-site activities. 

Those are my ramblings for today. 

Have a lovely evening!

Oh yeah...I forgot to include outfit details during the photo editing process:

Dress - thrifted (Goodwill)

Tights - F21

Shoes - Blowfish

Adorable creature barrette - Rewind in Mpls

Mouse Trap

For any of you who happen to follow me on Twitter, you're probably aware of the recent arrival of my new roommate - an invisible mouse. Earlier this week I ran into Belva (landlord) and while we were chatting in the hallway, I saw a mouse scurry across to a small crawl space on my side of the building. The next afternoon Pennie and I were snuggling and watching the most recent episode of Pretty Little Liars (no teasing!) when we heard a scratching noise coming from the kitchen. Pen bolted to investigate and I wasn't far behind. After searching for twenty-ish minutes, I gave up and let my kitty stand guard...

Nothing.

That night I spent far too long researching the most humane way to catch the little bugger. Well, here is what I ended up with:

Yep, that's a picnic basket, wood cutting board and toilet paper roll. I had hoped to entice the mouse with a glob of peanut butter, yet, after hours of waiting my basket is still empty.

One thing is for sure - there is NEVER a dull moment inside my apartment.

Have the loveliest of evenings!

Puppy Party

This photo has nothing to do with anything, but a co-worker brought in her five daschund puppies the other day and I snatched this guy (Willy/Wavy Gravy) up so quick. Too bad my apartment manager has a thing against dogs. I think Pennie might also have an issue with me bringing another pet into the mix.

Have a lovely evening!

99 Problems But My Next Door Neighbor Ain't One

Ok, fine. I don't really have 99 problems - it's just that I needed a catchy title to segue into the story I'm about to share. But first (as promised), outfit photos!

 (It's hilarious that someone altered this park sign, right?)

A little background: I moved into a cutie new apartment a few weeks ago. One week after, I met an upstairs neighbor, Rick, who fed me a little info about our building.

1. The tenant before me...died. No wonder I was able to move in during the middle of the month.
2. There was a bedbug outbreak not too long ago. No worries, though, because, "the landlord took care of it real good." Rick's words. Less comforting than you'd think.

Ok, so now on top of that - I pulled into the parking lot last Tuesday and found two cops circling my building. Curiosity immediately set in, so I entered through the back door to investigate. After turning a corner to walk up the stairs I found my landlord, Belva, standing at the top of the first flight.

"Is everything ok?" I inquired.
"Well...I don't know yet," Belva responded.

I continued up the stairs to find the two cops and maintenance guy, Luckie, placed in front of my next door neighbor's door. The officers asked me to stay put as they broke into the apartment. After seconds, one of the cops announced, "he's dead." My neighbor had been deceased in his home for at least three days, during the hottest week of Summer. I was living next door to a dead guy and passed by his apartment a number of times during those three days. Needless to say, I was incredibly spooked.

...I really hope I didn't get a melon of an apartment.

In other, much happier, news, this blouse is one of the marvelous items I acquired at the Hill Vintage trailer sale. The colors remind me of cotton candy! Don't worry, I'm not going to eat my shirt.

Have a lovely evening!

Positivity Day!

This morning I woke up with a TAKE CHARGE attitude and it totally paid off - I may have a brand new fancy apartment! I'll be turning in my application tomorrow and crossing my fingers that everything works out.

Does anyone have a solution for smelly feet? I wear sneakers to work (sans socks) so I have to assume that's why my tootsies reek like trash, but there must be some way to at least minimize the problem...right?

Have a lovely night!