Two Truths and Another Truth

ONE

If I were a journalist, I would do an investigative, undercover report on Subway. First, I would pose as recovered drug addict teenager, then I would get a job at my local sandwich shop. Once outfitted with plastic gloves and a green apron, I would finally know the truth to my reoccurring questions--

a) Does Subway have a special training session on how to be successfully stingy with olives? AND does the winner of olive frugality win a plaque?

b) Do they have an opposing policy on mayonnaise?

TWO

One time I was wearing red shoes. And I tripped and fell down the stairs. At the Lincoln Center. In New York City.

Maybe someday I'll tell you that story.

But you'd have to promise not to feel sorry for me.

THREE

I want to go to Paris.

I don't know what I'd do once I got there. Probably sit on some steps and wonder why I didn't buy a map before sailing away to Europe. But I'd still like to go. Mostly for the change of scenery. I would appreciate a brief change of scenery.

I'd also like to go to Disneyland.

On account of it's the happiest place on earth.

And that's a true story.

If you like Pina Coladas

So the other afternoon, I'm in the bathroom, trying to find an inventive way to tie my hair in a bun on the very top of my head without causing a headache, when my sister calls me from the living room.

"Hey Alec," she says, "Would you say your looks are average, above average, good or stunning?"

I know there is only one proper way to answer her question.

I walk out of the bathroom. Then I stare at her with a look only a girl who has just been asked to define her attractiveness while sporting a head muffin can give.

She, my sister, is sitting on the couch giggling at her computer screen. I, in the meantime, am still staring at her, failing to ask the obvious question: Why isn't there an option below average?

She checks a box, and we move on to question number two.

"How many children do you have?"

"Two," I say.

"How many do you live with?"

"One." Obviously.

"How romantic are you?"

"Not very, but I love to cook."

By the end of this conversation, we have created an online dating profile that can only be described as "fascinating and sure to be wildly successful."

Seriously, if someone were to write a review of my dating profile, I'm pretty sure those would be the exact words they would pen.

Long story short, by 4pm yesterday afternoon I was a STUNNING Russian lady from St. Petersburg with two children (this was especially impressive given my young age--21). I enjoyed singing in Broadway musicals, collecting snakes as pets and practicing potions. I preferred not to read.

My sister and I spent a few minutes perusing the potential online candidates before deleting Stella forever. I miss her already.

There are a few key take away points that I hope you get from this story.

1. There is a reason people sometimes quit blogging. And it is usually because they are busy creating alter egos and aliases and doing equally cool things.

It is not because they are busy eating bowls of cereal and are afraid of typing whilst eating because of the looming danger of spilt milk.

2. If ever your life becomes dull, you should resort to lying to poor souls who are just looking for life companions. Being Stella from St. Petersburg will do loads for your self esteem and overall happiness.

3. You should always remain leery about the information available on the internet. Be careful. Your Russian lady with stunning looks, two children and a Broadway musical career could, in all actuality, be a girl with muffin hair, a dog and a Justin Bieber song stuck in her head.

Just saying.

4. If your sister decides to sign you up for a dating site, on a Sunday afternoon, under the pretense that she has nothing better to do...

It may be time for you to Get. A. Life.

And a lover.

So...

If you like Piña Coladas.

And getting caught in the rain...

Just kidding.

I don't even like Piña Coladas.

June 21

I'm changing my birthday to June 21st.

Not because I don't like the number 22.

But because I've always had better luck with birthdays that happen on the 21st.

I would expound, but my brain is foggy from the insomnia.

I think what I'm saying is that June 21st was my favorite day of this year.

And I'm also saying I'm tired.

And I'm also saying I'm weird.

And finally, I'm saying: if there are any hideous spelling and/or grammatical errors in this post, then we shall all accept the fact that I have been awake (with the exception of a few rocky hours of sleep on an airplane) since Monday morning at 5 am.

Which, in case you are wondering, was a long time ago.

And, IN CONCLUSION, my birthday shall henceforth be honorarily on the 21st of June, as I am fairly certain this will fix everything.

Okay, hugs and kisses.

Wait... I have Something to say

It is 11:15 p.m.

I am sitting at a small table, on a hard chair, and watching the airport man clean the floors.

I think I'd like his job. He gets to ride around in circles on a blue cart. Also, he gets to wear latex gloves.

I don't know though, maybe it's not as glamorous as it seems.

My flight to New York has been delayed 4 hours.

I can't complain of course, because I was begging the universe not to let me miss my flight. As far as I'm concerned, the universe not only came through for me, but also gave me the opportunity to watch the man two tables over sleep sitting up and let me enjoy this small table and hard chair.

I feel thoroughly validated.

The only problem with having an unanticipated four hours in the airport is that there is plenty of time for thinking. I have become unaccustomed to the process, and all the thoughts that have been waiting to be thought about, are now giving me a headache.

To distract myself, I am watching the airport workers change the light bulbs. I think I would like to own one of the machines they are using. That way I could reach the cups on the top shelf without having to crawl up on the counter.

Side note: I'm fairly certain every single one of the airport workers must think I'm a stalker with a thing for blue shirts.

Because I keep staring at them. Then turning back to my computer and typing away.

Unfortunately for all parties, I am not a stalker. And I feel pretty unenthusiastic about their blue shirts. I say unfortunately, because I think all of our lives would be a little more exciting if I regularly frequented the outside-of-security section of the airport, at around midnight, in attempt to pick up airport night workers.

I bet you think I'm going somewhere with this.

But I'm not.

Wait.

I changed my mind.

I have something to say.

First, I'm not a stalker. I'll admit, in high school I displayed some signs of stalkerdom, but I have grown out of it almost entirely.

Second, I am a little offended that the airport worker didn't even wink at me, despite my seemingly obvious interest in his blue shirt.

And third, I would just like to stand up and say that I still believe in dreaming big. I mean look at me, I wished for a little bit of luck with time, and I ended up with four extra hours in the airport.

I think I'm probably the luckiest girl EVER.

I wish I could just flush these tweezers down the toilet

I'm going to be completely honest.

When I woke up this morning, I did not think that by the end of the night I would ask my sister to comb through my hair, piece by piece, with her bare fingers to check for ticks.

I mean, that wasn't even on my radar.

And let's face it, I wake up with some weird ideas sometimes. (Most of these weird ideas are inspired by Katy Perry and her song about fireworks. Because for whatever reason, I wake up with that song in my head every. morning.)

But the point is, even Katy Perry couldn't make me think that by 11:59 p.m. I'd be standing in front of the bathroom mirror cringing everything my sister went in for a closer look.

But I was. Standing in front of the mirror. Praying that my sister would not see anything with eight legs crawling around in my hair follicles.

I hate arachnids.

A lot.

You'll be happy to hear though, that my sister did not find any ticks on my head.

Roxy was not so lucky. And after my sister finished checking me for creepy crawlers, I spent the next 45 minutes trying to dislodge one of the disgusting eight-leggers from Roxy's neck.

(That's where this whole thing started by the way. Cabo had ticks. Roxy interacts with Cabo. I like to let Roxy and Cabo sleep on my bed (because it reminds me of Homeward Bound). Homeward Bound failed to emphasize the realistic possibility of dogs carrying ticks, especially after having spent 2 weeks abandoned in the woods. And because of a groomer that likes to give poodle cuts and the civic irresponsibility of certain movies I watched as a child, suddenly I'm standing in the bathroom wishing that I had followed Brittney Spears example and just shaved the hair off my head.

Just kidding. There has never been a single second of my life that I wished I would have followed Brittney Spears example.

But I think I've made my point. Arachnids + bathrooms = trauma.)

So anyway, after I sat in the hall for an hour trying to kill one tick by pouring a half-empty bottle of Advantix on it, I finally pulled out a pair of tweezers and tickled the tick until it came out.

I couldn't pull it out, because 1) gross. And 2) the internet said it's head could get stuck in my dog's skin, which just didn't sound ideal.

So I just sort of poked at it until eventually it gave up its will to live and fell in my bowl.

It's been a long night. And, frankly, I'm exhausted.

But unfortunately, said trauma has resulted in the most unproductive all-nighter of my life.

I can't go to sleep - because if there are ticks in my hair, I will get them in my sheets, which I just finished washing.

I also cannot pack like I planned to do all night. Because if I touch my clothes, they will probably get tick germs on them. This is a completely rational thought--my belief that the tick germs will spread to my clothes. I know it is rational because I used tweezers AND latex gloves to remove the tick, and it it common knowledge that tick germs can infiltrate latex if said latex is used in conjunction with tweezers that were originally purchased so you could maintain your eyebrows.

Which brings me to my original point.

I wish I could just flush the tweezers down the toilet.

Goodness forbid I should accidentally use the tick-germ tweezers to try to clean up the excess hair upon my brow.

I threw those tweezers in the trash but still....

I would just feel a lot better if they were hidden deep, deep, deep, down in the sewer.

My phone will only let me type in the title so here's the short version: I'm holding a bucket of ice. In the hotel hallway. Can't sleep.

The Fridge is making a loud noise that is distracting my thought process, so if none of this makes sense, let's blame the fridge. OK? OK.

I have been waiting for this day all year long!

It's March.

Pull out your slip 'n slide and get ready for spring, because it's March and things are turning green.

(Okay, technically things have been green for a while now, because it's Arizona and because my grass is fake, but still...)

I love March.

I love it so much that I painted my toes at 11pm last night, so they'd be pretty for March. Then I promptly removed the polish because, as it turns out, I do not have a steady hand at 11 pm.

I love this month so much that when my alarm went off at 6am this morning, I almost actually considered getting out of bed and enjoying the new month. Then I promptly hit the snooze button because, as it turns out, I was tired.

AND... I love March so much that I have decided to log on to this blog and give you an update about my life. (I'll probably promptly delete it because, as it turns out, my updates are lame and slightly nonsensical.)

Since I last wrote, A LOT has happened.

First, I have decided to carry out my destiny as the reincarnation of Jane Austen. So far my achievements in this category include-- actually there is only one-- I have learned how to braid my hair all the way around my head. Also, I have not gotten married, so I guess that makes two.

Goals for this month: write 12 letters to dear friends and relatives. Also, write a novel that will later be turned into a PBS special.

Second, a few weeks ago I decided that ironing is a blatant waste of time. Since then I have spent an immeasurable amount of time trying to come up with creative ways to avoid it. Most of these creative ideas involve a squirt bottle. Occasionally that squirt bottle is followed by a blow dryer. But usually I just use the squirt bottle.

Goals for this month: keep up the good work.

Third, I signed up for the gym.

Goals for this month: go.

Fourth, I have tried to quit sugar 17 times. You should know that these attempts to quit usually end with me shoving chocolate chips down my throat.

Goals for this month: complete attempts to quit sugar 18,19 & 20. And try to keep the relapse chocolate chips to a minimum.

Fifth, I've become a whale detective. I'm not sure exactly what this entails, but I think I'm supposed to encourage people to save the whales. So, if you are eating fish caught by fisherman who kill whales, then STOP! Because if I catch you eating dolphin un-safe tuna, you'll have to face me and the badge (and by badge I mean paper card that I got from the Arizona aquarium).

But seriously, let's save the whales OK? Buy wild-caught salmon from Alaska instead of farmed fish. It's better for everyone.

And that concludes this update.

Oh wait, one more thing:

I just wanted to remind you that it's March.

I love this month.