Rabbit Food

On the evening news the other night, one of the anchors was presenting a national health report. I always perk up during this segment always interested in what the latest trends in health are. I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that smoking rates were at an all-time low (as they are almost $10/pack now). But the shocking part of this report was when the woman announced that obesity is at an all time high and researchers couldn’t come to a consensus as to why.

Now, for those of you who are non-smokers, I don’t expect you to understand this. However! It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that people who quit smoking gain weight. I think that next time they have an opening for the Executive Director of the APHA — I might throw my name in the hat just to see what happens… Based on what I’ve heard, it can’t be that difficult of a job. Hell, I might even be successful!

I just reached eight months of non-smoking status and keeping the fork out of my mouth is the most difficult part of quitting. If you can’t tell by my cynical writing— I am not thrilled with the weight gain. I’ve gained 12 pounds. I would like to think that it’s muscle (and most good people will lie and say that it is) but I know it’s not. Since when did potato chips and Starbucks contribute to muscle gain? They don’t. Bummer.

So instead of complaining about this gain I decided I had two options: A.) Start smoking again (YAY!!!) or, B.) Work out and watch what I eat. I crunched the numbers and unless I get a substantial pay raise, I don’t think I can afford to smoke again. I really don’t know how I would pitch an increase in salary to my supervisor either. So, I really am only left with option B.

Here I am. The end of week one. I just went grocery shopping with my husband and it wasn’t pleasant for either of us. I put Cheetos in the basket, he took them out and replaced them with rice cakes. Cookies – out. Vegetables – in. I was thoroughly irritated that by the time we left I promised I would go home and make a huge breakfast of greasy food. That would sure show him!

I watched as he put away the normal food and my rabbit food was put in special places by itself to make it easily accessible. I was chastised by my husband to quit pouting and that I would thank him this summer when I would once again rule the backyard in my tiny bikini. I doubted that I would ever be thankful that I was living off granola, rice cakes and veggies and continued my glare-down as he made himself a pepperoni pizza for breakfast.

I only perked up when he said that he would need to start exercising soon because he too, would like to trim down before summer. Wicked thoughts flashed through my mind of making him do push-ups and sit-ups with me. Jumping jacks and squats…. VUAHHH HAHAHA!!!

Misery truly does love company.

Thanksgiving

Today was the type of day only a movie could portray accurately. I don’t know how else to explain other than to say that Martha Stewart would have frowned and shook her head when my sister literally shouted “BINGO!” during grace. Yes, this was Dunbar Family Thanksgiving 2010.

I have often told my parents that I wanted to list our family holidays on Ticket Master as an event. My mom, bless her sweet soul, has always tried her best to plan our festivities to be more beautiful than a Thomas Kinkade painting. However, the rest of the disorderly family members often ruin all that effort in a matter of moments.

This evening, after the prayer fiasco* we were told to ‘dig in’. In my family, it seems as though everyone is afraid that there won’t be enough to go around. There was more grabbing of meat than if we were at a hot dance club. Stuffing and potatoes were plopped onto plates, my dad ran hot laps around the table to be the first one for Yams**, and my uncle’s head was literally missed by mere inches as a homemade roll sailed through the sky. Yes, this is really what it is like.

After the initial commotion of jockeying for food, the table goes silent except for the munching of hungry mouths. Somewhere amid this solace of silence, murmurs of chatter begin to take place. It is then that I proudly announce that they really don’t serve beer in hell+ that a firestorm of conversation erupts. Cursing sprinkles the dialogue until my sister cuts in and states that our talk is probably making baby Jesus cry. Yes folks, this is the same sister who couldn’t help but shout “BINGO!” during grace.

I pour the last glass of wine for myself.

Soon after dinner, everyone finds themselves too full to help clean the kitchen – this is pretty typical. Being the resourceful gal I am (and not wanting to get stuck cleaning the kitchen), I find our only non-family member (A.K.A. real guest) smoking outside and instruct her that it is her duty to wash the dishes in the kitchen. I find this extremely satisfactory. I get the feeling however, that my mom, doesn’t think so. My dad, often on the end of the spectrum with me, agrees and instructs something else to our lone-non-family guest.

I find a bottle of champagne and pour myself a glass.

I then meander under the family radar to my parent’s quiet bedroom. I stretch out on their designer comforter set and allow the fullness of my belly to absorb every bit of me. With my half-marathon quickly approaching, I suddenly appreciate carb loading – and with gusto. I am completely stuffed, tired from the turkey, and perhaps a little tipsy++.

Just when I am getting cozy, my mom comes in to berate me for falling asleep. She tells me that I need to come out and visit with family. Mind you, this is the DUNBAR house. I can HEAR them even if I had stayed home. Our family is loud and rambunctious. I slowly make my way back to the living room where my husband is glued to the football game alongside my brother in law. I wonder how on earth he can even hear it over the top of my aunt yelling at my uncle, my uncle pretending that he’s old and senile, my mom asking everyone if they want pie (bless her for trying to keep the spirit alive) and my dad telling me that I need to finish off the bottle of champagne.

I grab the bottle of champagne and after evaluating the contents, I decide it’s best to shotgun the bottle and not waste any time. I am ready to go home. My sister tells me that I shouldn’t drink all the champagne, my husband snaps out of his trance and grabs the camera and my mom scolds me in advance for vomiting on her carpet. All I can think is: Game On! Down the hatch the champagne goes and my name is being shouted in a chant by my family.

I win the champagne challenge and as first place, I get to recycle the bottle.

Whoever could have planned a better Thanksgiving?



*Dear Jesus, please take mercy on my sister’s soul.

**Which no one likes anyway.

+No idea where this came from, at the time, this part of the conversation was relevant. Now? Not so much.

++ Okay, maybe a LOT tipsy. But who cares? It’s a holiday.

Snow

Snowflakes flittering down from the heavens can mean only one thing—the brain cells of Western Washingtonians are quickly dissipating. I often find snow fascinating. Not in the sense that it is precipitation that falls from the sky, but rather the way it changes people immediately. Suddenly we find that we have professional meteorologists among us and Double Doppler radars are abounding!

One of the more frequent comments I hear is that of drivers when they say, “It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s all those other idiots out there!” If we really take a moment to ponder this statement, someone has to qualify as the ‘idiot’. I have learned that I am one of the token idiots and any person that I happen to ride with is as well. I have never actually met anyone who is a perfect snow driver. The women get too distracted by the snow’s beauty and the men are typically trying to showboat. Idiots. We are all the idiots everyone else is talking about.

The other comment I find endearing is, “I will just go as slow as I want and people can pass me if they want to!” Well, I am the first to tell you, you can move faster than a snail and not wreck. This type of driving environment should be the hay day of marijuana smokers— you can literally drive 5 MPH, and law enforcement is none the wiser! In fact, pot smoking might actually help those other over-paranoid peeps relax—pass your pipe to the driver next to you who’s sporting some white knuckles!

I also find it humorous that the snow brings out the wanna-be trucks. You all know what I am talking about. If it isn’t a Ford, Chevy or Dodge—it isn’t really a truck. It may pretend to be a truck, but it’s not. It’s like dressing your girlfriend up to be a man—she still has boobs and therefore will never be a man. Your Hyundai, Honda, BMW, etc. will never qualify as a truck in my eyes. Ever. Love me or hate me, I drive a Focus and I know it isn't a luxuary sedan or truck. At least I am real.

Finally, isn’t it strange that when you try to shove your kids out the front door to play in the snow, they complain that it’s cold? It’s like, DUH! Are you new? Snow has never been warm… Hmmmm… I digress. I’ve trashed on enough areas about snow, I suppose I can leave the kids out of it.

I guess my final thought is this, where can you purchase snow shoes online? I am out of wine and my husband took the truck. Dang.

The Curious Incident of the Case of the Body Snatchers in the Bookstore

I am the proud parent of a tween. It’s not as glamorous as it may seem, in fact, it is often times baffling. Today for example, I took my lovely daughter to Barnes & Noble. Let me preface this statement by interjecting parental perspective—she HATES to read. Literally loathes it and (I think) would rather be dropped off at school in clothes I picked out than be caught dead reading.

So here we are, finding ourselves in the biggest bookstore in West Olympia. We are there with my BFF and her daughters. Tiana strolls off with two other younger girls to keep an eye on them while my BFF and I saunter through the book shelves completely lost in book world. I am happily reading and relating to I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, when my daughter comes bounding at me begging to buy not one, but TWO books. I look at her and think to myself, “Is it really 2012 already?”

Her eyes are twinkling behind her nerd glasses* and she asked me once again if she could purchase two books. My stunned silence must have indicated that I didn’t think she was really talking to me so she repeated herself for the third time. “No!” I stammered. She looked at me with her mouth hanging open and then quickly went into tween sulk-and-be-pissy mode. I have to say, I think buying her a book would cause the future development of small countries to become deterred, because buying her a book would upset the balance of the universe that drastically.

After the decision was made that we would not be purchasing said books** she stomped around the store until we left. I felt bad, because let’s be truthful—I like getting my way too—so I asked if she would like to go to the mall and pick out new jeans. Immediately, she was back to the daughter I knew and was completely stoked about new clothes.

Once at the mall, I told her that we needed to shop the sales and she could only get two new pairs. She agreed*** and we were off. While she tried on jeans she complained that they weren’t “skinny” enough of a cut. Let it be known, I couldn’t even get a wrist in these jeans if I wanted to (which causes me to ponder laundering them). However, after many changes, we finally found the jeans that fit just right, are the right price, AND the right color. WHEW!

As we make our way out to the car, she getsquiet again. I get nervous. I need a simple day today and I feel like she’s gearing up to launch into a serious conversation that I’m not prepared for. So I do what any good American parent does…I plug in my iPod and blast some Lady Gaga completely dodging the situation. There! That should fix anything bothering her. Finally though, her shifty eyes have penetrated my right ear enough. I sigh heavily and turn down the music while simultaneously asking her what’s wrong.

She asks, “Can we go get my books now?”

The only thing I can think of this — some sort of body snatching happened inside the bookstore, and I need to go back and look for my precious baby. What else can explain this phenomenon?



*What’s up with those anyway? When I went to school, we used to punch the kids that wore glasses like that.

**Because in all honesty, I am going to gain HUGE parent points for buying them as Christmas gifts.

***THANK GOD I HAVE TAUGHT HER THE VALUE OF A SALE!!!

Adult ADD

I often wonder if I am a victim of Adult Attention Deficit Disorder. I seem to sign up for things and then all of the sudden my attention is diverted and the first thing that seemed fun is no longer interesting. You will often find this behavior when you observe two-year-olds. The only benefit of me having ADD is that I will most likely not whack my friend over the head with a wine bottle to take her glass because hers looks better*.

Some of the things I have signed up for have been a half marathon – which I stopped training for. And the National Novel Writing contest – which is half over and I am only ¼ of the way through my 50,000 word count. Hmmmmm. The things that I am suddenly interested in are my CD collection, reading, and sleeping**.

The half marathon is going to hurt. It’s in Seattle which equals that most of it is going to be UP HILL and with my luck, probably BOTH WAYS. I was okay with paying almost the $100 for the entry fee+ and I was deliriously optimistic about my chances of actually finishing the race—until I started talking to people about it. I told my co-workers that I was going to actually RUN the entire 13.1 miles. I told people that I would SMILE when I crossed the finish line. I told my family and friends to come WATCH. What the hell was I THINKING??! Clearly nothing. My boss, sweetest guy ever, looks at me with pity in his eyes and says, “Dacia, there is a really big hill and it’s okay to walk it.” What did my over confident self think when he said that? “Gawff! Dacia doesn’t walk up hills!!! SHE RUNS THEM!”++ Did I mention how fit my boss is and how he probably is right? Yes, people, I am going to die mid-half-marathon.

So the novel writing contest...Ha! I got this idea for a book based on some song lyrics. I figured I could turn it into a full blown novel until I got to page 22 and thought, “Hmm….I don’t have a plot.” I am aimlessly writing and wondering just where this story is going. People have asked, “What are you writing about now?” and I can’t help but just stare at them like a deer frozen in headlights. I haven’t got a clue but I assure you all that it’s going to be a masterpiece+++.

As of today, I have decided that I am not going to sign up for anything else after November. I can’t seem to keep a focus on anything and my CD’s seem to captivate my interest for right now. Although, as I look at this eclectic mash of musical taste, I can’t help but wonder—does even my music suffer from my inability to focus? *heavy sigh*

Looks like Spanish classes start up in January. Maybe I should look into those to give me some focus.


*Notice the use of ‘most likely’ here. It could happen…you never know.

**AND eating…always eating. I never seem to lose interest in that.

+ I am going to wear the thread out of that race t-shirt I tell you!

++ Clearly I am not only a victim of ADD, but also insanity. I am legally insane, I think.

+++Most crazy people do their best work at the height of their insanity.

The Writing Biz

What a whirlwind time I have had these past couple of weeks! Being a small time writing celebrity sure is a lot of work. I can’t wait to be a REAL celebrity with all my personal assistants in tow… imagine if you will, me, with four gorgeous assistants who keep me fed, watered, walked and happy. Wait a second—that almost sounds like a dog hoping for a family. Maybe I am a puppy. Nevertheless, dog or human, it would be grand.

So back to writing. I wrote a book. I have actually written two and the one I just finished self-publishing (which I would like to add is only for those writers who are mentally insane) is finally up for sale on Amazon.com. Never in my life did I think I would have a book for sale. I collected pre-orders for those who wanted theirs signed and the feedback has been outstanding. Supportive networks I have going on out there. But that’s not the first thing in this chain of wild events.

I said I’ve had a whirlwind of a few weeks (I seem to keep getting off track here) and it started with Meeting Ann Rule at a book signing in Tumwater. It was my first ever experience meeting a real author and I have to say, I was a little star struck! For once in my life, I was speechless until my new friend, Kim told me to speak. Oh! I suppose I should introduce Kim to the rest of you...

I met and made friends with a REAL reporter for a newspaper down in Lewis County. She* interviewed my dad and I for their local paper (while we stood in line waiting for Ann) and lo and behold we were printed up. Of course my dad had far wittier things to say, BUT! we were there just like Lloyd Christmas is to Harry Dunne** hamming up the scene. Anyhow, Kim is a really cool gal*** and perhaps I can bring her around Shelton for show and tell sometime.

So, back from the rabbit trail—my book is finally published and is released for sale, newspaper prints story, people are shoving $20 bills into my hands left and right, my oompa loompas are going crazy with all the crazy fans surrounding the estate, and this circus just keeps getting crazier. Perhaps I should start photographing my circus life? My next book Dacialand: The Circus in Pictures.

Anyhow, it’s been a fun ride thus far and I can’t wait for more…

Bring it on life, bring it on. +

*Kim the reporter!

**Lloyd Christmas and Harry Dunne are the characters in Dumb and Dumber. I had to explain who Lloyd Christmas was to my boss the other day so I just wanted to make sure everyone else understood this too. :)

***which makes me question – would a person make friends with someone they didn’t think was cool? My guess is no.

+Last time I said that I was given a HUGE project at work so I am thinking this mantra will work!

The Insanity of Runners

I completed the most difficult foot race ever yesterday. Every inch of my body aches and I can’t seem to find the phone number for that good looking Swedish masseuse that I love so dearly. But nonetheless, I completed my goal and that’s what matters.

The part about running that I find to be insane is where the mind goes when the body is working that hard. For example, yesterday, the music in my iPod changed to Shakira’s She Wolf. Instantly I thought to myself, ‘I really do think there is a she-wolf in my closet!’ and my butt started swaying to the tempo – as I ran. I felt like suddenly I was on MTV and the world was watching me dance – but I wasn’t dancing, I was running. It wasn’t until a stump appeared out of nowhere that I stopped dancing.

Another funny thing happened…These two guys in incredibly SHORT-SHORTS* were running ahead of me when all of the sudden they started jumping up and down like to little girls yelping and screaming. I couldn’t help but completely stop what I was doing and stare. Apparently, they ran into a bees nest and one of them was stung 3 times! This was on mile 2 of 9… and he finished the race – are you kidding me?! I would have cried, asked for a refund and my mom. Insane. Completely insane.

My final thought is that when I get real fatigued, I start running with my imaginary friend, PB. I call him that because it’s short for Pretend Boyfriend and he is always super handsome**. At any rate, I think everyone who runs for distance has an imaginary friend. The part where it becomes insane is when you really want to quit and your very own imaginary friend*** starts telling you that you can’t quit and they lovingly sort of taunt you. Equally disturbing is when you vocalize your rationalization with your PB and NO ONE LOOKS AT YOU LIKE YOU ARE WEIRD.

So indeed, running is an insane sport which I love to compete in. And who knows? Maybe someday I will run with my PB on MTV with the bees.



*This is another blog post altogether.

**If my husband would run with me, I wouldn’t have to have a Pretend Imaginary Boyfriend. BUT! I am not sure that I would want my husband to compete with me? He would probably trip me at the finish line to win. I mean really? We all know him pretty well.

***Who YOU created.

Hungry

It seems no matter where you drive these days; you can find a homeless person on a corner begging for something. My heart truly goes out to these people, because in reality, it could be any one of us someday. I am thankful that for right now, I have my health, home, family and happiness.

HOWEVER! This is my blog and therefore, I can write whatever I want :). The other day, my bestie and I decided to make a trip to the grocery store to pick up some fresh veggies for dinner*. As we made our way out to the parking lot and into her Jetta, I noticed a man standing on the corner. Immediately, I felt sorry for this man as he had a cardboard sign with the word ‘HUNGRY’ scrawled across it in black sharpie**. When we made our way to that corner, I looked at my best friend and said, “Let’s give him your Snickers Marathon bar.”

Time out for a sidebar….

Now to truly paint an accurate picture about what happened next, I believe we must first define the term ‘hungry’. In my world, when I say I am hungry, that could mean a range of things such as;

• I’m eyeballing your food and would like you to share with me (I call this my dog approach);

• I am going to go from real nice to real mean in 2.5 seconds unless food is immediately shoved down my throat;

• I’m bored and since I don’t smoke anymore, food will have to do.

Other people have different meanings for the same basic idea. My boss, for example, will frequently wander out of his office, rub his tummy and say he’s hungry only to really mean that he’s wondering if I have a nice treat that he might like. My dad, well, when he’s hungry he typically means that he wants 2 pounds of bacon ASAP (refer to bullet #2 in my list – daughter like father??). And finally, there’s the type like my mom and sister would prefer to sample a little bit of everything for taste, texture and the like. These women tend to be of a higher class than my father and me.

SO! Back to the story….

Being the thoughtful person she is, Andrea rolled down the car window and reached over the top of me to hand this perfect stranger her marathon bar***. As she extended her arm and I smiled at him, he looked at us and said, “I don’t eat candy. Do you know what they put in those things?”

We were flabbergasted! Not to be pushed away from her handout so easily, Andrea said, “No, it’s not candy. It’s like a granola bar.”

He continued to look at us disgusted and said, “I can’t eat that.”

Needless to say, I promptly rolled up my window – thoroughly done with this Hobo.
I don’t know what this man expects when he has a sign that says ‘HUNGRY’. Did we not offer him food? Was he expecting organic wheat bread with almond paste+? If I was truly hungry, I would think that I would eat anything offered to be, barring of course inedible things such as wood.

So, in my now slanted view, I don’t feel quite as sorry for the homeless out there knowing that unless it’s money, they will turn it down.

Moral of this story: If he was hoping for sampling of foods, the dumbass was right in front of a grocery store and could have grazed the produce isle and deli. He deserves to be ‘HUNGRY’…..whatever that means to him…does he expect people to routinely roll around with bacon in their car?

*Those who know me well are probably thinking that I also picked up a bottle of wine too. Cynical people! Cynical correct people. 

**I identify with hungry…or rather just food in general. Eating happens to be one of my hobbies.

***I would like to mention that these bars are NOT cheap! They are about $1.80 each and runners typically eat them for energy. They are not a candy bar and are a considered a coveted food.

+ © Andrea Billingsley.

Margaritaville Excursion

As most of you know, I am planning to depart for Mexico soon. Leaving behind my precious cargo (daughter and husband) to their own devices*. Thing 1 and Thing 2 will also be on their own so I hope they don’t starve and my fake houseplants survive.

At any rate, I have thought about some activities of interest that I would like to do while livin’ la Vida Loca and one of these activities is drinking at a swim up bar. Those who know me well, know that I love the hot weather, have too many swimsuits/bikinis to count, particularly enjoy floating in my 12’ pool and especially enjoy all of this with a frozen margarita** in my hand. All of which leads me to believe that my return from Mexico may never happen—who would want to leave when the resort’s target demographic is me?! Hopefully my boss will forward my checks+ and my husband and daughter will come looking for me at some point…but not too soon.

But I am off the point, the point is this—what exactly happens at a swim up bar? For example, when I go to a Mexican bar, I am typically served chips and salsa with my margarita. I have also been known to drop a chip or two on the floor or accidently spill a drink++. So what actually happens at the bar when you are sitting in the pool and drop something in? Does the wait staff run over with a little vacuum cleaner and suck that stuff up out of the water or are you then swimming in a sea of margarita mix, chips, and salsa#?

So, during my excursion to Margaritaville, I hope something is dropped in the pool. I will be waiting anxiously with my camera to document this wonder and post to Facebook. The only thing left to wonder now is:

Where do all the drunken people pee?

*Dear God , help us all.

**Let’s not kid ourselves here. I like ANY cold alcoholic beverage in my hand on a warm summer day while floating. Who doesn’t?

+Teleworking was invented for Mexico.

++This is an exaggeration. My drinks are never on the table long enough to spill. It’s usually some drunkard that leans into my table to slur some pick up line at me. Ew.

#This suddenly sounds like a dream come true.

Dogs in Public (or my house)

I love dogs. I must use that as my opening line or hate mail will certainly flood my in-box for what I am about say. However, I firmly believe in this post.

Dog lovers in America – why must you bring your four-legged friend with you to everything?

I don’t understand what has happened to otherwise sane people. They bring their dogs with them to everything. Just this summer, I have witnessed dogs in the following places*:

• Soccer games
• Football games
• Restaurants
• Hotels
• Funerals
• MY house (and it wasn’t my own dog)
• Parades
• Running races

These are just to name a few of the spots where I have spotted man’s best friend. People, I hate to be the smashhole who brings this up, but there are two things you must understand**; your dog is NOT a person and in some places, it is not okay to bring your pooch along.

On the first point, I have actually heard people say (and argue) that their dog was a person. In my head, I rebuttal with two main points, “Ah, no. It is a dog. No woman had intercourse and nine months later pushed your dog out.” And my second thought: “No matter how hard your dog tries, it could never run for political office, because it is, well (again I sound like an asshole here) a dog!” Do I really need to explain this point any further? And why do I appear to be the bad girl when these facts are stated? It’s not my fault that your dog has paws instead of fingers.

On the other side, there are places where it is appropriate and inappropriate to bring your dog. My house, for example, is inappropriate. I have two cats. Would you like me to bring them over and let them loose in your home? I doubt it. I have often pondered loading them up in their carrier and taking them to a friend’s house. Imagine the shock when Thing 1 and Thing 2 bolt out of their crates in the friend’s house to poop in the potted plants and climb the curtains? HA! Take that, you dog-lover-who-brings-your-dog-over-to-shit-on-my-floor! HA HA HA!

What started this whole topic today was that while watching my daughter’s game this morning a Saint Bernard ran onto the field. Really? This isn’t even a trendy dog that fits in a purse! So, while I was content to keep my mouth shut and not comment on the topic, the annoying dog lovers (who cram their dogs down my throat) evoked this post.

With that, I would like my final thought to be this: If your dog is worth something to you, take its picture and put it on the front of a t-shirt. I will acknowledge it from there. Unless of course you or your dog is hideously ugly....In that case, no matter what you do will elicit my attention...well, nudity always does, but that's for another post.

*Note that none of these are service dogs.

**Lest you garner yourself an asshole for the remainder of your existence.

In a Million Words or Less...

Tiana's new Literacy teacher, Ms. Shrum (a.k.a. Katie Shrum's mother in law) (a.k.a. *Tony Shrum's mom) sent home some homework for us deadbeat parents to do. Now, I don't know about the rest of ya'll but I finished college a while back and have a $40,000 piece of paper that says I don't have to do homework anymore.... But! Since that piece of paper isn't paid off, and I think Ms. Shrum has the authority to send my kid to detention, I did the homework**.

The homework assignment was to write about your student to help the teacher get to know your child***. The following is what I submitted (really complete with header!):

Dacia Stricklett
(Tiana Dunbar's Mom)
September 7, 2010
Literacy/Shrum

In a Million Words or Less…

Tiana Dunbar. Really? What more needs to be said? She is by far the biggest rockstar her dad and I know. She is constantly surfing iTunes to download the latest and greatest music, all the while grooving out to what she already has streaming into her ear buds.

I lovingly refer to her as my ‘fashionista’ as she is equally engrossed with fashion as she is with music. As a regular subscriber to Teen Vogue, she will try just about any new trend out there — from scarves to hats, skinny jeans to flare or boot cut — Tiana knows what to put together to maintain her status as a fashion icon.

However, do not let these seemingly girlish things fool you! She is one intelligent young woman. Tiana excels in every subject as she yearns to learn about the world around her. She is a well rounded student who studies regularly and asks for help when needed. Some of her favorite subjects include math and P.E. but once you get to know her, you will soon realize what a great story teller she is too!

Tiana likes to be the center of her attention, much like her mom, and can tell tales that will have her audience in stitches often. A wise teacher would keep a close eye on this show stopper as she can tend to distract if given the opportunity. That may seem like a negative characteristic, but sometimes the distractions in life are what add to the scenery of the journey.

As an athlete in many sports, a friend to many, a good student, and the world’s best daughter — it’s hard to keep this assignment to one page. However, I must, as I am sure there are other students you need to read about although most (I would have to say in my very unbiased opinion :)) are probably not as entertaining as Miss Tiana Dunbar!

Enjoy the school year!

*Tony is married to Katie if any of you weren't making the connection. :)

**And I would like to add that I turned it in 16 days before it was due... Take note procrastinators!

***Really, we all know this is the exercise to weed out the 'bad' kids.

Dacia’s Dating Guide

I went to lunch today where I learned that my cousin has started dating again. I was instantly excited for her and then was abruptly disenchanted when I heard what kind of A-holes are out there. I thought about it a lot today and I have a lot of knowledge to share about dating. This post will be geared towards the ladies, but guys, please feel free to use the same advice (although reverse the genders. Unless you are gay, then that might not be necessary).

Advice #1: No one is that happy.
How many times have you received a ‘lol’ or ‘haha’ or ‘:)' from this person when messaging them electronically? If they use it regularly, or god forbid, all the time, ditch them. No one is that happy. I don’t care who you are. If you truly smile all the time, laugh out loud or chuckle that much, you are either a toothpaste model, on drugs or psycho. And with the economy being what it is, I doubt there is much demand for toothpaste models.

Advice #2: Get them intoxicated—and quickly.
Invite your said date back to your place for some cocktails. While you pour yourself some “red wine” (read: diet cranberry juice) give them the hard stuff and as much of it as you can. The goal in this task is that you want them to be too drunk to drive, carry on a conversation, want sex, and therefore ultimately pass out on your sofa. Once Mr. Houseguest Extraordinaire is counting sheep, take his wallet and run a background and credit check. As a lady of 2010, you have a right to know their criminal background and if they are broke or not*. It is essential to ensure maximum credit worthiness.

Advice #3: Avoid the Red Flags
Girls…some of you extremely disappoint me. If you see the red flags, and you know you know what they are, run. Simple as that. Don’t be a smash hole and stay because you think you can fix them. You don’t invest in broken stilettos to repair the heels so why would you invest your time into fixing a broken man? Yuck. Just don’t do it.

Advice #4: Get Dumped Gracefully
This is a huge one and an element not to be overlooked. Guys don’t like to feel like losers. SO! If they dump you, you treat them like a used car that turned out to be a lemon—because they clearly are! When they say “This just isn’t going to work out for me.” You look them dead in their eyes (DO NOT CRY) and you say, “Well, it was a pleasure getting to know you.” Then you smile, shake their hand, and walk away confidently. The man will wonder what in the hell just happened, they will question if the chick they are going to date next is worth it, and always just wonder about you—as they should!

Advice #4 really works because round two can always be a lot of fun with someone you already know. Besides, you can always rub it in their face when they realize what a mistake they made. And trust me they always come back—always**. Also, it always helps to run into them with the girl they dumped you for.

Imagine for a moment if you will…

She turns mousey and chubby (like we all do when we settle down***) but you are still super glam because you’re single and loving life. You see them out at a bar and he looks at you longingly and miserably and you cross the room (in the model catwalk way because you’ve been practicing) and you hold your hand out and say, “Oh! You must be (insert dumpy girl’s name here)! It’s so nice to meet you! I am (Insert your WAYYY better name here). (Pause and let it sink in who you are. Then add…) Your boyfriend and I used to date but (insert his excuse for breaking up so it sounds really lame. An example might be: we were just two different people). But you two look great together! Have a great evening!” Perhaps and added wink for effect is nice here.

The point is, you can be a nice girl, but date intelligently and get what you want all while having fun. So, cheers to the single ladies out there. I wish you luck, and I hope you all get dumped once after reading this, because getting the boot can sometimes be the best part of dating.


*Some credit blunders are okay and excusable—we are in the middle of a recession.
**When people in general are rejected, they start acting like stray cats.
***I’m not gonna pretend like some women don’t. They just get this “taken” look about them.

Confidence

I feel compelled to write about confidence today. This particular post isn’t intended to be humorous, but like all things surrounding me, humor usually weasels its way into my words. So, if you enjoy a chuckle or two, GOOD! I am glad that I brought a smile to your day.

Today, amid a lot of conversation, my boss asked me where my confidence went. Poor him that he doesn’t get to see where the inner Dacia-ness of confidence really comes from. However, how lucky you, my few readers, to learn where I tap into this said confidence.

(Ah-hem) Confidence is:

• Driving my Ford Focus and pretending it’s a Mercedes.

• Singing all the words to every song I know as though I am the original artist.

• Drinking my $2.99 wine like it is Dom Perignon.

• Telling my dreams to everyone and believing that it’s only a matter of time before they all fall into place.

• Writing my stories and promoting them to be the next New York Times best seller.

• Planning vacations to far-away places that may or may not ever happen.

• Treating my friends and family like they are celebrities (and I am too).

• Refusing to be treated any less than a goddess.

• Posing for all photos like they are going to be plastered on a billboard.

• Treating my daughter to all of life’s pampering—even if that means I go without.

• Working my tail off and saying ‘thank-you’ when someone notices.

• Respecting everyone I encounter because I have no reason to be an a-hole.

I am sure there are a lot more of these bullet points to share, but I have already had my $2.99 wine this evening and therefore don’t have much more to add for the time being. I would like to invite all of you to post what makes you feel confident. A lot of people lack self-confidence and rely on others to help them find it. Rely on me this time and shout it out—tell me—what makes you feel your best?

Voicemail

I hate voicemail. I really, truly, hate voicemail. To me, it is a waste of time. In the age of text messaging, caller ID and email, I don’t see a need for it. Just today, my handsome husband called, listened to my phone ring three times and waited to hear my voicemail greeting. All of this was in an effort to simply say, “Hey, it’s me. Call me back.”

SO! To actually engage with people in my life (read: I just wanted the icon on my phone to quit its silent nagging), I checked my voicemail. That exercise consisted of dialing my voicemail, entering my password, listening to the recorded voice giving me options, listening to the stupid message my husband left, and then listen to the options again to delete the message.

(Insert exasperated sigh here)

I believe we, as Americans, are a culture of intelligent people. Why, then, are we still wasting our valuable time recording our voice for people to listen to? We have caller ID for crying out loud! I knew my husband called today—I was lunching with girls from work and ignored the call. If I truly wanted to talk at that moment, I would have taken the call (why is this such a difficult concept? Was voicemail truly invented for those who couldn't take rejection? So in an effort to make them feel better we let them record their voice? Hmmm...). Instead, I kept my attention centered on the interaction in front of me (which I would like to point out is the respectful thing to do). I knew he probably wanted to talk since he called, so why would he leave a message to call him?! Absurd when you think it over, isn’t it?

I only throw my husband under the bus on this topic because he loves me enough to take the abuse. However, the other people who floor me (and this is classic move of a certain unnamed person in my life*) is when someone calls, waits for the whole answering machine/voicemail gig, and then HANGS UP AFTER THE BEEP! I wasted my time to hear a dial tone?! What the heck? I have dated and been dumped enough in life to have had my fill of the dial tone thank-you-very-much.

So, as a resolution to my annoyance: please, please, PLEASE —just send a text, email or let me notice you called via caller ID. I rarely listen to messages anyway and I probably delete your long drawn out verbal drawling**.

The take away from this rant is this: if we are going to use voicemail; let’s bring back the fax machine and type writer too. If we are to go back to our archaic roots, then let’s go WAYYY BACK.

And for those of you reading this—and you know who you are—USE YOUR VOICEMAIL and call me back!


*Carrie Shilman

** Unless it’s my mom, dad or sister—they are the ONLY exceptions—and that is purely out of fearing for my life due to their wrath should I not listen to and return their calls.

Weight Gain

I quit smoking four months ago. I know this should be really good for me, but in reality, I just traded up from lung disease to heart disease because I can’t keep the fork out of my mouth. I see that this is normally a problem for most when they quit smoking, but honestly, my muffin top is morphing into a loaf. My husband, bless his soul, is trying to shed some weight with me.

Being the great support system we are, we write out a grocery list that is complete with healthy fruits, veggies, non-fat this, low calorie that and we are determined to be the next models of fitness magazine…Until the other one isn’t looking.

Just the other day, I was dumping some coffee grounds into the garbage when I noticed a Burger King bag precariously hidden beneath other garbage. Does my husband really think I don’t search the trash?? C’mon! I love to snoop; I actually have that listed as a hobby on Facebook! When I confronted him with the bag, he pretended like he had no idea it was there and couldn’t understand why ANYONE in our house would order a double Whopper with extra bacon and mayo. The audacity of someone in our house doing that is absurd! He only stopped yapping when my eyes narrowed on the Burger King cup in front of him. Like a deer in headlights, he dare not acknowledge the cup but rather paid me a compliment on my slippers. Game over buddy.

So back to myself. I made an honest effort to go running the other day. It is something I enjoy to do, yet, I have built parameters in which it makes it almost impossible to run. For example, I don’t like to run right when I wake up. That’s way too much, too soon and honestly people, you know me—when do I ever wake up on a day that I can run in the morning NOT hung over? My point is made.

However, the other philosophy is that if I get moving really soon after I wake, my brain hasn’t woken up enough to realize that exercise is happening. So really, it’s a 50/50 shot on the timing of the run. I don’t like to run when it’s warm. I already sweat like a pig in menopause that I don’t need the sunshine contributing. BUT! The gray skies are depressing to run in so it really needs to be a mix of blue skies with the sun partially hidden behind clouds. You can imagine my plight and what a chore running can be for me. Did I mention I only run on flat terrain?

I digress…today I decided that I would eat healthy and run after work. I brought everything with me and listened to New Kids on the Block all the way in to the office. I put myself in a positive mental state and was ready to kick some caloric ass when I parked my car. I headed into my building (running gear in hand) and took the elevator from the garage to the second floor. Wait?! WHAT?! NO WONDER I AM GAINING WEIGHT! I prepare myself for a healthy day, and then avoid 4 flights of stairs and unconsciously take the elevator….

***Sigh*** I can’t win.

Moral of the story:

Someone, please get me a cigarette and for goodness sake; clean out the McDonald’s wrappers hidden in my trunk before my husband finds them.

Golf Club Update

Continued from Blog Post on July 7...

Slowly but surely I have worked every angle possible on the Nike Golf Clubs. They were on their way out the door in the garage (waiting to be sold) when I casually asked my husband that they sleep in the house. He was defiant in them being moved into the house until I softly suggested that they might get dirty in the garage. The following scenario ensued:

“Honey, I think the clubs are cold in the garage.”

My husband rolled his eyes and with a heavy sigh says to me,“Dacia, they are fine. They are golf clubs.”

“I know, but they really don’t want to go live with someone else.” At this point, I am stooping so low that I only bring this subject up with a low-cut shirt on. Without doubt he can’t say no to ‘the girls’.

“Well, we aren’t good enough to play with them,” my husband says as he looks reluctantly at the floor. “They need to be sold.”

With fret flooding my body, I suddenly panic envisioning some schmuck walking away with the precious golf clubs I have been eyeing for months.

“Wonderful almighty husband,” I coo, “Friends come over and smoke in our garage…surely you don’t want the clubs smelling like smoke do you?”

With a heavy sigh, he puts down the bucket he was carrying and very firmly says to me, “They may stay in the house, only until they are sold on Craigslist. Then, they need to go!”

“Okay!” I agree and once again all is well in Dacialand. I still haven’t listed them on Craigslist but they are one step closer to being mine as I have them sitting next to my book shelf…

1 point for The Girls—0 points for the husband!

To be continued!

Wino in Tenino

Excitement for an event you have never been to is a very weird feeling. I am going to the Wino in Tenino and from what I hear; it is a very pleasurable experience. I find that most things with the name “Wine” —or some other variation of the word—is almost always a guarantee that good times are to be had. My friend and I are attending on the coattails of my husband who has to work the event.

His work always interests me because he is a beer salesman. He is the closest thing to a legalized drug dealer the free world will ever know. He makes friends easily and although I find him charming, I do find it peculiar that the ears of men perk up when they learn of my dashing husband’s profession—he suddenly becomes a God right before their eyes.

Beer, wine, liquor—it’s really all the same in that it assists you in having either a really great time or an awful and miserable experience. I find that people who really don’t have much of a personality tend to go for the hard stuff. This way they can be drunk faster and thus, become rapidly interesting if only to themselves.

Lightweights who tend to get in a lot of trouble when they drink (read: men) normally go for the beer, microbrews, or malt liquor (think OE or Mad Dog 20/20). It takes a while to get a buzz going and if the person tends to do stupid things, there is always a greater chance they won’t get to that level until the party is damn near over. Then, at that point, nothing the beer drinker does will matter because no one will remember anything—accept the designated driver (read: wife/girlfriend/female) who will mop vomit off the center console at the end of the night.

Finally we get to the winos. These people are true alcoholics. They are refined, yet love to be in a constant state of drunkenness in which wine is about the only medium that can sustain them. Sure, if they pounded the vino, they would be right alongside their hard A friends, but if they drink too slowly, they end up in the beer drinkers/lightweight category. This of course all funnels down to the basic principle that wine drinkers are the only true and professional alcoholics. They get it done—not to mention with class, sex appeal, and sophistication.

So as I think about the Wino in Tenino, I smile because I know I belong with all of my fellow wine lovers.

Welcome home, Dacia, Welcome home.

My Mom - The PR Rep

As some of you may know, I have written two books and am working really hard to self publish one of them through Amazon. There are some things I have come to realize through this process—self publishing for the mentally insane and you really find out how much people are willing to help you in making your dream come true.

I was asked by a friend today how many hours I have put into the novel I am currently working on. My close approximation is about 177 hours of writing, editing and rewriting. The first month I spent writing this dang novel equated to a part time job (which I didn’t earn a paycheck for). (Yet! I am always optimistic!) At any rate, these are not sane hours for one to keep. The time could have perhaps been cut in half, but due to my vice (read: WINE) it took a tad longer in the rewriting process. I am absolutely sick of my characters, just the other night; Quinn (the real annoying one) made a cameo in my dream. Like really? Where in hell did she come from?? So here I am, busting my hump to get this book off the ground and keep up the blog for those of you who are interested.

So! I was at lunch a couple weeks ago with my parents (and I would like to also add that before this story even gets off the ground that I was severely hung over. Not quite sure what happened the night before to render me so hung over, but whatever it was, I am sure it was fun. The tattoo I found on my lower back that said, “Fun Cheeks” ensured me of that. Not sure what that was about??) and we were talking about careers and jobs. It was at this point that my mom (who was particularly perky that morning) announced that I, who was on her left, was the next best thing to hit the Barnes and Nobel best sellers list. I about choked on my own tongue as the table turned to look at me expectantly.

My mouth suddenly went dry and all I could think was where am I? Am I still drunk? Who are these people? Am I still drunk? Did my mom just really tell all these people about my book? AM I STILL DRUNK?! Where did my mouth just go? As soberly as I could I smiled, nodded and tried to explain that the book wasn’t really that big of a deal to try and get the attention off me. This was by far the ONLY TIME IN MY LIFE when I didn’t want the limelight and apparently no one was picking up my ESP vibes.

In true mom fashion (well my mom’s fashion) she went on to tell the table of ten what a wonderful daughter, writer, employee, citizen I was and she was so convincing that even I believed her and wondered when I was going to meet this said ‘daughter’ of hers. It wasn’t until she actually said my name that I connected the dots—it was me! My mom was talking about me!

It was at that moment that I decided I no longer needed to worry about my PR rep for when I became famous one day. My mom would take care of that in one fail swoop. As for my job now, I wonder if my work would allow me to take my mom on interviews with me…She does a way better job presenting me than I do!

The Great Outdoors

What a wonderful time of year to be out and enjoying nature’s finest. This time of year, it’s warm, the rivers, lakes and streams are cool, and it’s so nice to get away from it all. I don’t know about all of my readers out there, but there’s that soft spot in me knowing when I kiss my husband he’s either going to taste like OFF! or Coors Light—warm, breathy, sweaty, buggy Coors Light.

A comedian once said that he couldn’t understand why people would bust their butt all year to climb the corporate ladder just to (while on vacation) pretend to be homeless. When I first heard that, I admit, I scoffed. This of course was until I met my husband— my days of camping in my parent’s trailer were over.

The first time my husband (then boyfriend) took me out in the woods, he came home to a giddy, much younger and dumber version of myself. I had picked up all the essentials for camping: a table cloth for the picnic table, trial sizes of various hygiene items, a roll of quarters for the state park showers, etc. I proudly showed him all of my goodies and happily chattered about how I loved to camp. When his silence was apparent, I looked up to see the shock on his face. It was then he informed me that where we were going, there was no such thing as a bathroom or picnic table. My stomach dropped and all I could think was “What in the hell did I just sign up for?!”

And so, after years of camping in the middle of nowhere, I have gotten used to the fact that everything is prepared in your lap, there are no bathrooms so you have to bury your own poop, it is wise to lock your food in the front of your truck, and baby wipes are worth their weight in gold.

This weekend, I had enough of normal life and needed to get away from it all. Since I haven’t made it to the rich and famous status yet, we could only afford to go camping — I mean, it’s not like I am a Kardashian or Hilton girl (only in my wildest and frequent dreams). So onward we went for our weekend of being unplugged. We took our daughter’s friend with us and we headed out as soon as we could on Friday.

We had a great time sitting in the river all day in the 90 degree weather, and it wasn’t until I couldn’t feel my feet anymore that we decided to get out of the river. Drunk, a little sunburnt and tired, we retired to our tent.

A few hours after dark I awoke to a half-flat air mattress. The tent was stuffy and the night air was stale. I tossed and turned and couldn’t shake the sensation that we were being watched. After coaxing myself to be brave (and reasoning that it might be something to blog about) I looked outside the tent. I couldn’t see anything and I didn’t have a flashlight with me. I remained as still as possible and over the bubbling of the river I swore I heard a bear rummaging around our campsite! I did the mental inventory of our tent’s belongings. I quickly surmised the only gun with us was in the cab of the truck. This meant that if the bear attacked, I would have no choice but to sacrifice my husband for the sake of myself, our daughter and her friend. It was a price I was willing to pay for safety. I stayed awake most of the night awaiting destiny.

The next morning, we woke up to blue skies, birds singing and two moody pre-teens who were done with camping. After trying to rally them to behave and enjoy nature, it was apparent that it was time to wrap things up and head home. As we cleaned up camp, my husband and I chatted about the night before and he too was tired because he was awake most of the evening. We never did see bear prints or scat, but both of us think there was a big animal waiting outside our tent. It was either a bear or a really great imagination on both our parts.

As pathetic as it is, a weekend of being unplugged only lasted 24 hours. The trip did give us time to get away from it all and reconnect.

It was during this camping trip that I learned pre-teens are probably easier to throw to a imaginary bear than it is a husband who outweighs you.

Gifts Between Spouses

Rarely do I post stories here that are completely true and are not riddled with fiction. However, some of the things that occur in Dacialand are stranger (and much more entertaining) than fiction. Tonight, my husband and I were discussing gifts.

He won a really nice set of Nike golf clubs from work and as his wife; I feel that I am completely entitled to having them. Since he already has a nice set of clubs, he doesn’t want to keep the new set. His rebuttal is that he wants to sell the Nike’s and get the cash because he earned them. The golf clubs are now an issue of pride because I would rather go out and buy myself a new set of $1,000 clubs (and pay the tax AND be inconvenienced) than hand that money over to my own friggin husband so he can upgrade the accessories on his truck. But I digress…

Tonight, while discussing gifts, the following dialogue happened between my husband and I:

“Honey, do you remember back when we were really in love?” I ask, as I bat my lush eyelashes.

“Not really,” He grunts as he puts his hand down his pants while sitting on the sofa.

“Oh! Well, I was referring to when you would have a rough week at work and I would surprise you with a 6-pack of mirror pond, a king size Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, and a mushy card.” I look at him hopeful that he will remember how sweet I have been to him over the years. My husband turns thoughtful as his brows crease trying to remember the blissful memories.

Finally, he perks up.

“Well, now you just get yourself a bottle of wine and yell at me all night!”

And so it is. We still love each other, but the one thing I have learned is that liking each other is a whole different situation. He seemed to have liked me yesterday. Today though, I think he would prefer that I have a glass of wine. That at least gives him a 50/50 chance of a nice evening.

My plot to get the clubs is far from over. I just need a new plan of action.

Freedom for Americans

Ahhh…Fourth of July. Nothing quite says freedom like setting your hard earned money ablaze in the middle of an economic recession. I have been thinking a lot about the 4th of July this year and pondering what freedom means to me. I thought about our troops over in the sandbox of the Middle East, I thought about voting, our flag, and all the rights, freedoms and liberties we have as Americans…

Then I received a text message from a friend.

“Hahahaha! I just rode through downtown with my ass hanging out the window!!! Good thing I shaved!”

I laughed and thought; this is the best part of being free (and I am soooo blogging this!). Sure, my friend probably is sitting in a drunk tank somewhere with his buddies wondering what just happened but the reality of the matter is that he was FREE to hang is butt out the passenger side window. He was FREE to send me a text message at 11 P.M. on a Saturday night. He was FREE to get so intoxicated that he would lose his inhibitions. I am sure he probably isn’t free now—considering that he just drunkenly waved his derriere to a wide populace of people—but he did enjoy the liberty.

So in the pursuit of life, liberty, happiness and FREEDOM I would like to wish you all a very safe and Happy 4th of July.

Take care of yourselves and next time you see a soldier out there in your corner of the world, buy them a beer and tell them thanks for letting us be free.

The Hobby Girl

I always thought that once I finished school, I would bask in the freedom of unscheduled time. It has now been 10 months since I graduated college and I am ready to climb the walls from boredom. I don’t understand what people do all day long when they aren’t consistently in crisis mode. Standard operating procedures for me consist of working my tail off towards a goal between the hours of 4 A.M. to 8 P.M. —that’s 16 hours of non-stop awake time doing something. Now, I really don’t have to get out of bed until 5:30(ish) and after work, I am free until I decide it’s time to go to bed.

So, to alleviate this I have taken up hobbies. Lots of hobbies. My husband didn’t like when I was in school due to the amount of time I spent holed up in our home office. Now, he doesn’t like that I am out of school due to my opinions on television shows, endless amounts of craft supplies, and constant chatter. In the past ten months:

• I have written a book
• Edited a second book
• Started authoring a third book
• Started this blog you’re reading right now!
• Knitted 4 scarves, one blanket, and one semi-done purse
• Scrapbooked the past 15 years of my life
• Read 40 books
• Narrated 5 movies (for my Husband)
• Drank 18 gallons of wine
• Colored my hair 3 times
• Ran 3 races (93.59 miles)
• Quit smoking

Still, in all of the obsessive compulsive activities; I haven’t found my calm sense of belonging. I wonder when that part of my life kicks in?

My family is always supportive of me and my husband is too—only he understands that I am also mentally insane. When I decided to start knitting, I turned to YouTube for instructions. Now, I own half the inventory from JoAnn’s Fabrics yarn section. Each time I start a new project, he peers at the yarn on my needles in horror. He knows there will come a day when he unwraps a much anticipated gift only to realize that in the wake of my insanity, I have knitted him a sweater—with one arm longer than the other—and I will expect him to wear it.

The other hobbies he can pretty much ignore. At least, he can ignore them until I have filled all the extra storage spaces in our house with craft supplies, glue, glitter, wine corks, shoes, etc. I would really feel sorry for him, except for the fact that he really likes to clean. He cleans up after me and our daughter often. In my mind, I rationalize that my obsession with hobbies leads to a happier life for him where he can clean. And as they say:

A clean house is a happy house.

(or do they really even say that?)

Java Juggs

Bikini Baristas! I can now say that I have officially seen one with my own eyes and it wasn’t all that I hoped it would be. For the past year or so, women who brew espresso have been popping up everywhere in Western Washington sans clothing. Sure, they wear pasties and thongs, but really – those don’t count as clothes.

There are a few things that I would like to point out which I simply don’t understand:

#1. In Western Washington it rains and is cold for 364 days in the year. Do these young women not get cold? I feel like I should start a clothing drive for them so that they don’t freeze to death. I will call my drive, “Blankets for Bimbos” and collect said blankets at bikini selling businesses throughout the Puget Sound area.

#2. Believe it or not, witty and wonderful I used to sell coffee – and I LOVED IT! It was really the best job I ever had. However, I would like to beg the question that has floated around in my mind since I heard of this concept: Who rolls out of bed at 4:00 a.m. to open a stand at 5:00 a.m. and WILLINGLY wants to put on a bikini and/or costume and/or pasties? Throughout my barista days, I could hardly get my hung-over body out of bed to put on a Carhartt Hoodie. These women have GOT TO BE hard up for the cash.

#3. I have heard the arguments for and against the elicit coffee stands and I am really at a point that as long as they employ people, pay their taxes, and don’t give out sexual favors where I can see, I could really care less. I mean, look how long Hooters has made their girls wear those hideous nylons with their shorts?! They should be shut down based solely on their fashion faux pas. (or the girls that work there should sue the pants out of the corporate offices for making them wear such awful uniforms. Hooter girls – if you are reading this, I will totally represent you!)

#4. Point number three never really had a point, so with this point (#4)… why haven’t the naysayers brought up the issue of safety and litigation? If one of these girls accidentally spill coffee down their stomach or other womanly areas, they could be seriously injured and sue the owners. Let the girls wear what they want, but make them wear a Visqueen Plastic see-thru track suit for goodness sake! Besides, I don’t want my tax dollars going to defend them after they have been burned. I have people on welfare to support (duh)!

So all in all, they are out there trying to make a buck, and I think that’s great. It is a super fun job and when you’re single, you can do as you please! I am sure not all the girls do favors for money but I would like to warn any of them who read this to avoid writing down that they work for ‘Java Juggs’ when trying to gain real employment.

When I asked my husband to pull around so I could see a real life bikini barista, he thought I was insane, or had the possibility of lesbian tendencies. However, now that he is reading my blog, he knows it was a tricky ploy for good writing material. I will probably never get coffee from one of these places but the experience of seeing the trauma first hand was shocking and very educational – it really does exist. My husband, poor sap, realized all too quickly that these women are just like strippers – laden with zits and faces of steeds.

Drink on, I told him. Drink on…

Effing Recession

There comes a time throughout the recession where we all need to sit back and really take personal inventory of our financial situations. I am not immune to this. I have had to forego many things that I like to do in order to save money for vacations. These things include:

• Only having an espresso drink once a week;
• Buying shoes on sale;
• Buying generic brand aspirin;
• Limiting my clothes shopping to JUST Saturday mornings;
• And making my own lunches

I am fully aware that these are not huge strides, but thankfully my husband and I are still gainfully employed and the ramifications of our nation being in the toilet haven’t fully impacted my life.

Making my own lunch every weekday morning has been a real chore. Not only do I have to plan to wake up a tad earlier, I also have to tell my husband what to buy at the grocery store. Yes, you read that right, my husband does ALL of our grocery shopping (neener, neener!). At any rate, it is burdensome but I do what I must and carry a lunch bag to work nearly every day.

Today, however, was special. I decided that this morning, I would buck the routine and come to work without any food. Hence, allowing me no other option but to go to a fast food place to acquire rations. When I got to work, I immediately began my countdown to lunch. I envisioned the drive-thru where I would be ordering my meal and what the guy in the window would look like. Would he be the teenager variety with a pimpled face? Or a fat boy with rolls upon rolls of burger induced fat? Either way, I was excited.

When lunchtime finally arrived, I was ecstatic! I quickly jotted a note to my boss asking him if he wanted food, flashed him a smile and flew down to my car. I was going to get fast food today! I love fast food. I love the idea that I can get a hot meal for cheap, its fast (hence the term ‘fast food’), and that all of it is deep fried. However, amid my obsession is the harsh reality that it is expensive if done often enough and it’s terrible for my health (which normally I wouldn’t care, but because there are men on earth, it’s not attractive to be 800 pounds).

I cruised around town until I finally decided that it was Arby’s that I needed to satisfy my hunger. I pulled into the drive-thru (palms sweating and a smile plastered across my face), placed my order (roast beef and French fries), and giddily extracted my debit card from my wallet. I pulled up to the window where I was asked what condiments I wanted as I paid and was handed the brown bag of goodness. Success!!

The whole ride back to work my car was scented with roast beef loveliness. I couldn’t wait to rip the bag open and dive in so imagine my surprise when I got back to work and everyone of my co-workers was missing from their seats. Getting to eat alone at my desk was a better treat than snow on Christmas morning!

I dumped my purse on the floor and opened my bag. To my utter dismay and horror, the realization hit… They only gave me ONE packet of Arby’s sauce. One. Just one. How could they do this to me? Arby’s sauce is what makes their food good and they cheated me of the one thing that I desired the most – a drippy Arby’s Roast Beef sandwich. Upon further inspection of the bag, I realized that I was only given one napkin. One? For a sandwich and fries, I get one napkin?

Comprehension of the situation at hand finally struck it’s nasty cord to the pit of my being. Arby’s was trying to save money through the recession on my dime. Disgust sank into my mind and suddenly I felt ill and unprepared to feast alone....

The effing recession had finally made its way into my brown paper bag of goodness.

Doggie Style

Every great American childhood has at least one pooch in it. Except for my daughter’s childhood. This is why my husband and I have decided that now it is finally time to start looking to adopt a dog to round out our family of three. Of course, in my world, this isn’t a simplistic process.

We used to have a dog by the name Ubu. She was a cute dog who I loved very much. The story of how I acquired her in the first place is a story all its own. The day I got Ubu was the day in which I took my first ‘mental health day’ from work. It was a day that I just couldn’t seem to muster the strength to yard myself out of a very cozy bed in which to work my tail off for a good nine hours. Instead, I convinced a pal to also skip work with me. He obliged and we met at the casino and enjoyed breakfast and good conversation.

After a leisurely breakfast, it was time to hit some slot machines and try our luck….By ten in the morning, we were both pretty drunk and I was up by about $500. It was then that I decided (after much discussion and contemplation1) that what I needed most in my life was a four-legged furry friend to spend my days with.

We arrived at the county pound around 10:15 a.m. and had to wait for them to open. Once they did, I spied Ubu and slurred to the pound keeper, “Weeee’ll take er!!” After a flourish of pen markings on a sheet of paper, I emerged from the pound with a dirt covered animal that was more than happy to leave doggy jail. My friend and I proceeded to the local grocery store where I loaded up on at least $200 worth of puppy supplies. From there, we promptly made our way to the Do-it-Yourself dog groomers where I polished my new puppy - I WAS IN LOVE!

I got home and didn’t know really what to do. So I took a nap. I awoke to a crunching noise that I couldn’t quite place. After staggering around my house for a bit, I found Ubu – delightfully eating my wall. I panicked before reality hit me and I realized that this was my dog2! I picked her up and brought her back to bed with me. I tossed and turned as I tried to get her to lie down. Finally, she rested right alongside me. After about twenty minutes of light sleeping, I awoke once again to the sensation that I wet the bed3! It wasn’t until I threw off the blanket that I realized it wasn’t me who wet the bed.

Needless to say – One wall, a drainage ditch, a gas furnace, five pairs of shoes, a couple of baby gates, a dumpster, two bras, a book, a movie, two video games, and numerous other items – Ubu had to go live someplace else. The only time she became destructive was when I went to work. After realizing that it was costing me too much money to go to work every day – I found The Ubunator a new home4 where she has happily lived ever since.

Now that we learned our lesson, we plan to get a new puppy. This time, my husband believes that if we get a pure breed, it won’t do as much damage.

His choice – a Labrador Retriever. Good luck to us!

1 About five minutes of drive time.
2 Holy crap! That wasn’t a dream?!
3 Gross. Not good.
4 My choices were that or permanent unemployment.

Social Networking

Ahh….Social networking. MySpace, Facebook, Blogger, Twitter… What could possibly be better than publicly humiliating yourself to 572 of your closest friends and all their friends? Clearly nothing! I love it as do most of my friends and family. I mean, where else can you intimately tell all those people (closest to you of course) that you are currently flossing your teeth? Or that your loser boyfriend finally dumped you? Or that, yep, you went home with that butter-face last night? Only on the internet can we network in such a way that is socially vogue and really not even talk to each other!

I really find it fascinating how there are some people out there who truly believe that because they are on someone’s ‘page’ and they have been ‘friended’ that they are truly friends with that person. In real life people; you probably will never have a phone conversation with that person or hang out with them. Because you have a way to contact them through social networking does not make you friends. Please take special note that this also applies to celebrities – they will accept anyone (duh).

The other interesting concept in social networking is when there are people that trash on it but say they use it merely for “work purposes” to “make those contacts”. I have one thing to say to these peeps – Are you really that lame that you will talk shop with other lame people on your OWN time without getting PAID? Get a life! Oh, and yes, I see you on Farmville (don’t think I don’t stalk you).

The argument will then come from this same group indicating that they are trying to ‘branch out of their industry to penetrate other opportunities’. I call foul on this one too. I highly doubt that Joe Schmoe executive pants is going to hire you based on the qualifications that you are currently ‘considering buying a goldfish’ and that ‘check out the pic of my Chihuahua snowboarding with me!’

I love social networking just as much as the next girl (hello? Blogging every day!) but I also know that it is making me socially retarded. I no longer put out the effort to call my friends. If I care about what they’re doing, I’ll check up on them. I don’t need to see their babies – their pics are posted. Hell, I don’t even have to deal with their smelly animals or houses anymore! I can just admire from afar. I do tend to be a little more honest in the electronic environment. For example, “Whoa! Susie! Your kid looks like a Rhino with that nose!” I figure, as long as I put ‘LOL’ after it, no harm – no foul.

Finally, I must admit that my friend Evan had a superb idea. He thinks that there should be some sort of ghettoized version of Facebook. Like someplace your employer is not allowed to go or search and instead of collecting friends, you collect “bitches”. When I asked him what you would do when you no longer wanted to have said “bitches” he replied, “Bitch Slap Them!” He said this with a tad more excitement than necessary. Repressed rage? Possibly.

I think his idea is golden and he is sitting on a literal multi-gagillion idea and now that I have put it out there some a-hole on my Facebook list (who probably is NOT my friend) is going to capitalize on this idea. Sorry, Evan.

So, in a nutshell, I am that narcissistic demographic who wants to put all my junk out there for the world to see. I like me, and I think everyone else should too. So really, why wouldn’t I share?

Passports

Working for the government doesn’t make me feel nearly as dirty as does working with the government. I applied for a passport today because my cousin convinced me that going to Mexico would be a lot of fun. After first ensuring that BP hadn’t destroyed the beach we are planning to stay on, I agreed. I mean, what isn’t appealing about Mexico?

The men down there love them a fresh American woman. It’s really a nice change of pace seeing as how American men find most of us irritating, demanding and spoiled. No, Mexican men find us to be beautiful mythical creatures of whom they can’t understand a single sound we utter other than, “cash” “margarita” and/or “boobies” – I rest my case – they love us and we all know why.

Secondly, when you are from the rainiest corner on the planet, it is nice to be near the equator every once in a while. This is when I most appreciate the holes in the ozone layer, pollution, and global warming. All I can think under that hot sun is “HELL YES! MAKE ME BROWN!!!”

But I digress... I applied for a passport. The part that makes me cringe in the application process is that they want to know how many different times you have been married, how many different last names you have had, and if you are currently still married to the person you listed in box 1 (this is after you have filled out all the other name issues and are on box 84). What can make a woman feel dirtier than having to list every worthless person they have ever wed? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That’s what.

So after listing my first 18 husbands and name changes, they ask about your parents. They want names, birth dates, places they were born, etc. THANK GOD I KNOW WHO MY DAD IS! That saved a bit of embarrassment to say the least. However, I still had to call them to double check where they were from and everything. As I picked up to call them (of course I called my dad because he would be more understanding of the loop hole of mental retardation when it came to remembering dates) my palms got sweaty…. Thoughts raced through my head, what if my parents were illegal and I didn’t know it? I mean, not ALL illegal immigrants come from south of the border. After some reassurance (somewhat – I mean I was talking to my dad), and correct information intact, I was ready to submit it.

A flash of nervousness swept over me one final time. I quickly Googled, “America’s Most Wanted” and double checked that I wasn’t needed anywhere in the U.S. for something I couldn’t remember (refer to last post – beer is a sport). After searching the database of American criminals, I felt comfortable enough to submit my application. I hit send.

The next page said that I needed to have 25 pieces of identification proving who I was (my social security number is apparently not enough for them), two recent color photos (does Girls Gone Wild try-out photos count?), and oh yes, of course they want: ONE HUNDRED AMERICAN DOLLARS for me to prove to them who I am so that I can visit a third-world country and get lice, sunburned, drunk, disorderly, and stimulate their economy.

With the way things are going here – I’m in. Here’s my Benjamin...

Organized Sports

I excel at very little in this life of mine. The three sports where I really kick some ass happen to be drinking, shopping and pampering myself. To all of you Negative Nellie’s out there who think I am kidding; these three sports really are just that. They are organized by an objective (to get hammered, collect items you want, make yourself pretty), have clearly defined rules (don’t vomit, don’t exceed your credit spending limit, no plastic surgery), and are clearly competitive (Beer pong, end-of-season sales, look prettier than everyone else). So when I was asked to play soccer this spring, I was thrilled that I would be able to contribute my abilities to a new area.

And contribute I have! I have mad skillz. I have skillz that would make any five year old nervous. I see the ball and I run for it. No matter that I am playing defense and running to score, or that while playing offence, I hang back to talk to the other team’s defenders. I am that good.

There are other girls on my team who are constantly cheering me on to “Kick the Damn Ball!” and “Offsides!” These girls are truly good players and its super awesome of them to help me along and coach me as I come to my own. There annoyance of me as their team member is barely noticeable and when I run to kick the ball and totally miss - they laugh right along with me.

The men on my team are another story. They look at me and encourage me to kick and yell to me that I don’t need to duck when the ball comes flying at my face at 90 miles an hour. (No really, that happened. I almost broke my perfect nose because the KICKING COACH of the SOUNDERS was playing for the other team! Like really? He needs to play on a coed recreational team?? Loser.) This season has truly been a delight every step and game of the way. I can now add this to my list of specialties…anyone need an extra player for summer?

So what I have learned this soccer season is that at least I am the hottest girl on the team, with the best outfit and I mask my beer breath before I make it on the field. Otherwise, I would have been a terrible addition to their team.

Public Bathrooms

Can I ask a question that no one else in the world has dared to approach? Who in their right mind created the inspiration behind public bathrooms? I mean really? It must have been someone from a European country (they are all about nudity) and definitely a man. No woman would have willingly put two to three commodes in the same room so that women could defecate and urinate together. It’s just a foul concept.

For the female race, you know when someone is taking the Browns to the Super Bowl. Merrily, you waltz into the bathroom needing to pee really quickly and touch up your make-up when suddenly; you notice the restroom is eerily quiet. So quiet in fact, that it dawns on you that someone is pooping behind one of the stall doors. Sure enough, after looking under the door, you see feet sitting as still as possible. One eye roll later (since you are already committed to using that bathroom) and you race as fast as you can into the stall to do your business and get out of there.

Meanwhile, the person in the stall peers through the crack in the door only to realize the person coming in is a cubicle farm mate and so they can’t exactly be honest and yell for some privacy. No, no, that would be too obvious! So the human female will sit there, like a deer in headlights (deadly silent), waiting for the intruder to pee and get out.

If all goes well, this is just how it is done. Awkwardness fills women’s bathrooms across the United States every day, but all women manage to get through it.

When it doesn’t go well is when some moron chooses the stall directly next to you. Ladies, I am here to tell you, there is a one stall separation rule that most of you clearly don’t understand. When I am sitting there like a discomfited deer, the last thing that I want to happen is to have your dumb ass sit down in the stall next to me! Do you really need to be that close to me while I relieve myself? I think not! Do me (and the rest of the females on earth) the courtesy of taking a stall at the opposite end of the restroom.

And may you perish; if while sitting on the toilet, you start chatting me up from the next stall because you recognized my shoes. That is disgusting and you are a complete idiot.

Attack of the Wal-Martians

Ahhh… Wal-Mart. The store we all love and hate. Besides all the controversy, it really is a company you can’t avoid. The prices are wickedly cheap and the selection vast. With the OP line now available there, I hardly ever have a need to veer from the $3 clothing racks.

But I digress from my love affair with Wally World to discuss the part I hate the most. It has nothing to do with the prices, selection, or people that work there. It has to do with those who shop there. I lovingly refer to these people as “Wal-Martians”. This term says everything it needs to; like, what planet are you weird people from?! I don’t see them any place BUT Wal-Mart and they seem to flock by the hundreds.

Today was a typical shopping day for me. My daughter is leaving for camp so naturally, I took out a small loan to purchase all of her necessary items. I mean, how has she lived this long without facial wipes, hairspray in a mini-can, or an extra flashlight? I must have been a terrible mom up to today.

I got the things she needed off the list – four items to be exact. These were just the items my husband forgot on the first three shopping trips. After collecting my loot, I go to the checkout area and scan the six out of fifty open check stands and take my chances on the 20 items or less isle. I scan the Wal-Martians in front of me and note that they have very little items so this should go smoothly. I smugly do the mental ‘BOO-YA!’ to the other Wal-Martians that chose the longer lines. Idiots.

It isn’t until I have read (cover to cover) the latest In-Touch, People, and Cooking with Paula Deen that I realize I haven’t even moved up in line. I look ahead of me and realize that the people at the front of the line have four separate ‘20 items or less’ transactions (cheaters!) and don’t have enough money for their final bill. To my utter dismay they are counting out change to the cashier (Coin Star anyone?) and the cashier is ‘in-training’! Of course she is training though; it wouldn’t be my Wal-Mart experience without the cashier being trained!

It is then that the ultimate horror has descended on me and the other patrons… The check stand light has been flicked indicating that managerial help is needed. Dang it! I mentally retract my BOO-YA and look longingly at the Wal-Martians happily plugging along through their lines.

After another fifteen minutes and the latest Vogue magazine thoroughly read; the lady in front of me gets her turn. She then unleashes pent up fury on the cashier. Missing front teeth otherwise gnashing, she demands a pack of Pall Malls, and pays for her magazine (Earth to Wal-Martian, waste of money to buy the mag when you could have easily read it by now!). When it’s finally my turn, they change out employees. *HEAVY SIGH OF DEFEAT*

After my escapade, I trudge out to my car relief pulsing for my veins. It isn’t until I am halfway home that harsh realization hits me.


I forgot Toilet Paper.

Starbucks

I woke with a start this morning; heart pounding and skin balmy. I had an affair last night…with Brad Pitt. CRAP! I really hope my husband doesn’t find out! After I took a minute to calm down, I realized that it was just a bad dream. Or let’s just say a dream – because all things Brad Pitt are good. I had to smile to myself because I got to enjoy all the benefits of cheating on my spouse without the guilt. POOF! Brad just evaporated and I can go on with my day. Dreams are a wonderful thing, and so are nicotine patches when you accidentally leave them on overnight.

I had an award ceremony to attend for work this morning in Seattle. I had stayed overnight with a co-worker so that I could eliminate an early morning commute. The award ceremony was delightful and went off without a hitch. After the award ceremony, I was dropped off at the Coleman Dock to take the nine o’clock ferry into Bremerton where my car was patiently awaiting my arrival. However, I missed the boat. Dang! I waited for the next one, at ten, and was delighted to finally be on my way home on a nearly empty vessel.

As I parted ways with the boat, it occurred to me that I still had an hour drive ahead of me and was pretty tired. I had remembered seeing a Starbucks the day before so I high tailed it in the general direction of the coffee Mecca. With my perfectly pressed suit, designer shades, and luggage trailing behind me; I plowed through the door like I owned the place. I clip-clopped my way to the counter and fumbled with my wallet (envision this like a crack-head looking for a crumpled $20) and barely greeted the gal about to take my order before demanding a caramel macchiato. It was then that I looked up.

Mind you, the girl smiling back at me was very pretty; however, her hair seemed ‘off’. Upon closer inspection, I determined that most of her hair had to have been a wig or Jessica Simpson hairpiece. I tried not to be obvious about it but I couldn’t take my eyes off her bouffant ‘do.
Now…this is where it gets weird. As she turns to teeter over to the espresso machine I realize that she doesn’t have any pants on! Something tells me that whatever was in the apple martini I had consumed during happy hour the day before is some good stuff. I mean, really?! Pants are now OPTIONAL in the workplace?? To make things even more interesting, she was even sporting go-go boots. I mean, I thought this was STARBUCKS? Don’t they have to wear green or black polo shirts? Maybe the corporation doesn’t specify that the employees must also wear pants. Someone really screwed up the policies there....

Moral of the story: I am no longer wearing pants if the workers at Starbucks don’t have to. AND! Apple martinis are god’s single greatest creation.

Starting a Blog

After the morning I had, I decided that it was high time to start my own blog. Why, you may ask? Because I have a very interesting life, hence the name 'Adventures in Dacialand'. I will be the first to admit, although young (ish), I had not a clue as how to blog. I always thought blogging had something to do with a big green blob of a monster - sorta gooey? Then I realized they were called BLOGS not BLOBS! (Insert lightbulb here.)

When doing preliminary research (about 5 seconds worth) about blogging, I realized that I should choose a topic I am most comfortable with and therefore would be considered the expert by industry standards. Blogs, I learned, should contain passion and heart (Really? You know how many worthless blogs there are floating around the internet - ones almost exactly like this??). So, by carefully considering my options, I am proud to self-proclaim that I am the leading expert in all things Dacia. That's right, I am here to write about myself and my Aventures in Dacialand.


Strap on your safety belts, people! Welcome to my world.