Category Archives: Epic Fail

Yo quiero angioplasty surgery

Screen Shot 2013-03-27 at 8.16.19 PM

I was going to make those vegetarian tacos up there for dinner last night, but after a long day at work I really didn’t feel like cooking anything. So I asked myself, “What’s the next best thing to tacos stuffed with roasted poblano chiles, corn, potatoes, avocado, and creme fraiche?”

And my brain was all, “TACO BELL.”

I know, I’m disgusting.

I think I suffer from Taco Bell-related amnesia, to be honest. I rarely eat fast food, so occasionally my brain will short circuit and be like YOU NEED A CHALUPA and I’m all GOOD IDEA, ME. And then an hour later I am clutching a bottle of Tums in my sweaty hands and wondering whether my cause of death will be nacho cheese-clogged arteries or debilitating shame.

I made myself a little photographic reminder that I’m thinking of printing out and sticking on the refrigerator so I can reference it the next time I think Taco Bell is a good idea:

03.27.13 Before the bell

03.27.13 Taco Bell After

It probably didn’t help that I chased my Chalupa with a Cadbury Creme Egg, but I will never denounce my love for Cadbury products. They only come out at Easter, so I’m pretty sure it makes Jesus sad if you don’t eat at least one creme egg a year.


Told ya.

It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s that I don’t care

You may have noticed that my blog has sucked for the last four days or so, and there’s actually a reason for that – I’m lazy.

Oh what, you were expecting a GOOD reason? You’re one of those people who floss regularly and dust the top of the refrigerator, aren’t you? Quit judging me, put on some sweatpants, and cue up some Law and Order: SVU. You won’t look back.

The truth is, I have no idea why I’ve been extra lethargic lately. I rarely work overtime, I don’t have kids, and Dave and I have the social schedule of two bedridden senior citizens. Yet for some reason I could only muster the energy to exercise twice last week, I’ve already skipped this week’s Monday workout, and I’m on the eighth consecutive day of moving the “clean bathroom” alert on my phone to “tomorrow.” I kind of want to blame Daylight Saving Time*, since it’s basically dark here at 4:30 (we’re surrounded by mountains that block out the sun well before it actually sets). By the time 7 p.m. rolls around, I’m already in my pajamas and wondering how early I can go to bed without it being weird. Is 8 p.m. pushing it? Can I hold out until 8:30? Should I get a nightlight and ask for a bedtime story since I’m basically living the life of a toddler?

On the other hand, it might have something to do with the fact that I’d rather lounge on the couch and look for holiday-themed crafts on Pinterest than do anything productive.

Does Daylight Saving Time make you feel like a zombie? How do you fight it?

* STOP! GRAMMAR TIME! Many people mistakenly say Daylight Savings Time, which is incorrect – since we are describing the act of saving daylight, the phrase is singular, not plural: Daylight Saving Time. My friends hate it when I point this out every spring and fall, but apparently the state of California was annoyed enough to point it out on their website, so DEAL WITH IT YOU GUYS.

Finally Friday

Friday highlights:

• I bought a bad-ass pair of fingerless alpaca wool gloves from a local shop:

• For dinner tonight we made bison burgers and covered them in Pioneer Woman’s onion blue cheese sauce, which is basically so good I am considering petitioning for human/cheese marriage rights:

Friday low points:

• Almost returned the alpaca gloves because I thought I had mistakenly bought two left hands. I went over to show my coworker, and she was all, “flip the other one over, bonehead,”* saving me a really embarrassing trip back to the store.

• I tried to do my hair like this picture I found on Pinterest:

It looked fine in my bathroom mirror this morning, but later when I was making tea at work I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw things had gone downhill. I’m not even exaggerating when say it looked like something took a turd on my head, which I then wrapped in a folksy braid. Do these pinners not have layers in their hair, or am I just especially awful at bun-making?

*Not really. She somehow managed to be very tactful while pointing out that I’m an idiot.


Friday afternoon I panicked when I looked down and saw a dark, raised mole on my chest that I’d never noticed before. I was Googling “signs of terminal skin cancer” when I noticed another dark splotch on the neckline of my shirt, right next to the death mole.

It was chocolate.

I don’t know whether to be relieved I’m not dying or sad that my life is basically a Cathy comic strip.

Seriously though, I’m a total hypochondriac. I was basically convinced I was dying for the last year because I never got the “everything is fine” letter from my doctor after my annual checkup. I was too afraid to call my doctor and ask what was up, since in the mind of somebody like me (aka, a moron), not getting that letter could not possibly be the result of a lazy office staff or a mistyped address or a Post Office mistake. No, the only logical reason I did not get my letter was because I HAVE THE CANCER.

My state of mind on Tuesday when I went to the office for this year’s checkup was hovering around “Gary Busey on uppers” because I was sure when my doctor opened my chart she would be all, “All we can do now is make you comfortable,” and write me a prescription for pajama jeans and a mai-tai drip.

It didn’t happen quite like that.

When the nurse was taking my vitals, she casually mentioned that since they are only required to run lab tests every other year, they’d be sending mine out after this visit. As in, they did not run any tests last year. As in, I SPENT A YEAR OF MY LIFE WORRYING OVER TEST RESULTS THAT DID NOT EVEN EXIST. Somebody pry the dumbass of the year award out of Dina Lohan’s withered coke-claws because I am clearly its rightful owner.

I’d like to be able to say I learned a valuable lesson from this incident, but I’m too busy worrying about my lab results.

What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever cried about?

I had every intention of getting at least some exercise while on my recent work trip, but I wound up having to pack some A/V equipment in my carry on, which meant there was no room for my workout shoes/clothes (I almost never check bags for trips less than a week). Any walking I did in Baltimore was counteracted by the sheer volume of crab cakes I ingested. Actually, most of the walking I did on the trip was only to get to places that sold crab cakes. Why bother with moderation when you can eat NOTHING BUT CRAB CAKES is a good motto to adopt when you find yourself in Maryland.

I had completed level two of Ripped in 30 before I left, so on Wednesday night I cued up level three expecting to totally kill it – I was full of energy and ready to work up a sweat after taking a week off. And I did work up a sweat – DURING THE TWO-MINUTE WARM UP. It only went downhill from there.

Every exercise in each of the three circuits was a complete struggle for me. (I’m starting to suspect that the person leading the video is actually Satan wearing a Jillian Michaels costume, and that hell consists of endless duck walks.) During the cardio portion of the third circuit, I started to hyperventilate from simultaneously fighting back tears and gasping for breath. So instead of pushing through it, I stood there and cried while Jillian and her sidekicks hopped around on one leg like muscular flamingos on amphetamines. At first my crying was due to frustration from feeling so weak, but then it was because I realized that I’m actually dumb enough to cry over a bad workout. Seriously, who does that? DUMB PEOPLE, that’s who.

While I’m thinking of it, here are some other dumb things I’ve cried over:
– When my kindergarten class sang “On Top of Spaghetti,” because I felt bad for the meatball when it rolled off of the plate
– Running over a squirrel
– That episode of Undercover Boss where the Russian 7-11 shelf stocking guy got his own store
– Accidentally cutting my bangs too short

Have you ever cried over something really dumb?

Stop! Hammer time

When my alarm went off this morning, I had a strong urge to turn it off and stay in bed all day. But then I remembered everything I ate over the weekend, which was enough motivation to get me out of bed and into my workout clothes. After allowing Jillian Michaels to abuse my body for 30 minutes, I got cleaned up and spent some time putting together a cute work outfit with the new skirt and shoes I bought over the weekend. I was actually feeling pretty good as I gathered up my purse and keys to head off to work.

Then I opened the front door and saw that the city had roadblocks up on both ends of my street and there were crews doing some sort of work down in the sewer. Which, whatever, I get that sewers sometimes need maintenance, tax dollars at work, etc., but is it unreasonable to expect a little heads up from the city before projects like this? Even just a little note taped to the door being like, “Dear resident, we plan to dig giant holes in your street on Monday, effectively trapping you in your home. We are warning you because not warning you would be really dick-ish.”

I stood there and weighed my options for a few moments. I could be an adult, change into more sensible shoes, and hoof it to the office, or I could get in my car and peel out around the roadblock in a fit of rage, knocking over a few cones in the process.

Sorry construction workers, cute shoes always win out.

Then, as I walked up to my office building from the parking lot, I saw that it was covered in scaffolding and the front door was blocked by a ladder. Because apparently the closure of my street was not a clear enough sign from the universe that I was supposed to spend today cocooned with cheese products in my Snuggie watching Golden Girls.

I was able to shimmy around the scaffolding and crawl under the ladder to get into my building, only to find some dude sitting two feet from my desk wielding a sander. Turns out, there’s nothing like the sound of power tools screeching next to your head to take a Monday morning from a mildly irritating experience to the dawn of a full-blown opiate addiction.

At one point I thought I could finally focus on an important project because the sanding stopped and the guy vanished. Just as I had my files pulled up and ready to go, he re-appeared; this time wearing a belt with all sorts of hammers on it. He made some lame Hammer Time joke and I laughed, but oh how I wish I had strangled him with a pair of parachute pants instead because OH SWEET JESUS the hammering. I’ve been home from work for several hours now and I still hear the awful sound, haunting me, like the melody of a Carly Rae Jepsen song. Once the hammering stopped he moved on to drilling. All of this was obviously super conducive to phone calls. One poor soul asked what that noise was and I was all, “Oh, just the sound of a table saw harmonizing with a power drill and four staple guns; does this not happen inside your place of business?”

My lunch hour took its sweet time to arrive, and as I headed into the office kitchen with my soup, I was informed that I was not allowed to use the microwave. Because even though our outlets were powering more tools than you’d find at a Creed concert, my pathetic little cup of chicken soup apparently would have been too much to handle. So I drove home really fast to get food, only to remember that, oh yeah, THE ROAD IS CLOSED, only this time there was no driving around the roadblocks due to the giant chunks of asphalt littering the roadway. And so I did the only thing that can be done on days like this: I watched It’s Always Sunny clips online and all was right with the world.