Note To Self

When all you’re craving is this:

Do not eat this:

 

I’ve learned my lesson.

I’ve also agreed to a weight loss competition with an identity-should-remain-a-secret person. It starts next week.

So, Monday, I eat this:

Today, I eat this:

PS- Somebody finally discovered paint! Somebody also doesn’t know how to make the text look bigger, so hooray for you guys– you get to look at giant pictures of my food!

A Donut Poem

Last night I was so excited
I could hardly sleep
Nothing could get me to drift off
Not even counting sheep

Instead I stayed up thinking
About my game plan for today
I mapped out every morsel
Before I finally hit the hay

What exactly am I planning?
I’m so happy that you ask
For I drifted off with a smile on my face
My excitement I can’t mask

You see, to me today
Is the best day of the year
Some might think this obsession is weird
But I don’t really care

It’s better than Christmas morning
Much better than any gift
And if I ever missed this event
I’d be really miffed

My friends, it’s National Donut Day
No, I’m not being clever
You really get to eat as many donuts as you want
With no guilt what-so-ever

No matter what you’re preference
Boston Cream or Blueberry Cake
You can stuff your gob until you burst
Of every kind they make

So, get yourself to a donut shop
And eat until you blow up like a balloon
Because you won’t be able to do it again
Until the first Friday of next June!

I hope you enjoyed this little ditty
About my favorite breakfast treat
Because in all their doughy goodness
They’re really hard to beat

Happy National Donut Day!

21 Things You Only Learn By Living Alone

I wrote my last rent check for my place last week.

Signed, stamped, and in the mail.

Can somebody please tell me what the f*ck I was doing the past 10 months? Because I could swear I was just moving in yesterday.

Although the past year has positively flown by, there have been a few life lessons that I’ve learned during my year of solitary living. Some important, some funny, and some just downright embarassing. But all worthy of noting.

1.) You will get bored. Sometimes you’ll get so bored, you decide you should take up meditation as an in-home hobby. You soon realize this is just as boring, just in a much more uncomfortable position.

2.) Consider yourself lucky if you have a pet to talk to. Because if you don’t, it’s just you and mirror. And don’t think you won’t go there. You will.

3.) It is possible to eat an entire bag of chocolate chips during one episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Even if you only meant to eat one. Or two.

4.) There is no need to cook an entire batch of tacos on a random Wednesday night. Nobody is going to “pop in” for dinner. And taco meat gets really old after eating it for four days straight.

5.) Walking around naked isn’t nearly as fun as television makes you think. I tried it once and got embarrassed.

6.) You can eat ice cream any time you want. Nobody will know. Nobody. Well, except your doctor when your yearly physical reveals you’ve gained 10 pounds.

7.) You’ll get really good at practicing your facial expressions in your bathroom mirror. I’ve got “surprised” and “concerned” down pat.

8.) Sometimes you’ll lie and say you went to the gym, when really all you did all day was sit in your 10 year old sweatpants eating saltines and switching back and forth between Mrs. Eastwood and Company and Bethenney Ever After.

9.) You will get lonely. Sometimes you’ll call a friend for a drink. Sometimes you’ll pick up the phone and have an hour long conversation with your mom. And sometimes you’ll just indulge yourself in a self-induced pity party. (Tears optional.)

10.) If you’re a girl, you’ll still change your sheets. If you’re a guy– probably not.

11.) You’ll get sad when you don’t get mail. Really– don’t people believe in writing letters anymore?

12.) Prospective tenants coming to look at your apartment don’t count as company. There is no need to bake cookies.

13.) There is nothing better than coming home to your very own space after a long day at work or a night out with friends. Nothing.

14.) You’ll get angry when your friends take longer than an hour to play Words with Friends. Constantly refreshing your phone will not speed them up. Trust me.

15.) You’ll know you’ve gone too long without talking to anybody when you’re own boyfriend texts you with “Are you alive?”

16.) It is possible to read Twilight in a week. No, not the first book. The entire series.

17.) Facebook stalking does not count as human interaction.

18.) It’s the only time in your life when you can be completely anal about the way your place looks. So if you can’t fall asleep unless all your throw pillows are in place on your couch, get it out of your system now.

19.) Screaming and jumping on your counter is a completely rational response to seeing a mouse. So is calling your boyfriend and making him come pick you up at 10pm on a Tuesday because you’re convinced the mouse is definitely in your bed. Like, under the covers. (Note: no, it isn’t.)

20.) Get to know your maintenance man. He’ll be a life saver when you have a gas leak. Or your hot water heater goes. Or when your kitchen light has been stuck on for a week and you don’t know why.

21.) And finally,it might take you 10 months, but you’ll realize that so far, it’s been the best year of your life. Everybody should live alone at least once.

I’ll definitely be sad when my lease is up July 31st, but I’ve also got a lot to look forward too. Now excuse me, I’m off to watch a marathon of New Girl. (Probably the least embarrassing show that I currently watch.)

This is What I Do When I Work From Home

What I should be doing:

What I’m actually doing:

Photo hunt! Where’s Lindsay?

I’m obviously going to get a ton of work done today.

Plantar Fasciitis

Hi everyone. Long time no talk.

I’m not even going to try to make excuses.

I’ve been slacking.

I’ve gotten so lazy I haven’t even made a real dinner in the last three days. I’ve been eating frozen chicken nuggets.

But that’s neither here nor there. I’m actually here to talk about my feet.

Oh yeah.

Remember a few months ago when I went on a rampage about “how this is it! I’m going to run race! A really long race! Rah rah rah rah, I’m going to read running books! And buy finger shoes! And run like a man doing Tai Chi! WEE!”

Ok, weelll– I started to do all of that. I did.

I began by reading Born to Run.

If you haven’t read it yet, you have to.

It basically made me wish I was an African bushman, living in a village and hunting antelope with my bare hands.

I was all like “Screw work! I’m moving! I’m quitting my job to live the life of a running vagabond, with nothing but the shoes on my feet and the fanny pack around my waist! Lindsay Gump!”

Thankfully, I came out of whatever dream world I was living in and came back to Earth when I finished the book.

(I mean, c’mon. We all know I wouldn’t actually wear a fanny pack. Africa, yes. Fanny pack, no.)

However, the book did inspire me to run again. (That was the point, right?)

So, I started in on my half marathon training program.

I even switched shoes. Goodbye over-cushioned Saucony’s– helloooo 5 year old Puma’s with the flat sole that I’ve had forever.

And let me tell you, I felt great.

I was running like the wind! I was passing people on the streets!

When I got tired, I simply did as one tribe in Born to Run did.

I would find a runner in front of me, pretend they were an antelope, and chase them.

Except the people on the book were chasing real antelope.

So they could eat. And, you know. Survive.

Me? I was just some creep running the streets of Boston, sneaking up on people, and doing a little dance when I came up on their heels in silent victory.

In my head I’d be like, “Ha! If you were an antelope, you’d be dead! Sucker!

In real life, if they turned around, I’d stop and pretend to tie my shoe.

This strategy was going great.

And then–disaster.

One day at the gym, I had forgotten my new trusty Puma’s, so I had to wear my old, over-cushioned, soul-crushing Saucony’s.

I sanely and rationally talked myself through it.

“Just one run won’t kill me. I wanted to do 5 miles, so that’s what I’m going to do. 5 miles. No less.”

So, I got on the treadmill and started happily running, pony tail bouncing, feet feeling over-burdened and claustrophobic, but essentially ok.

One mile down. Two miles down.

Three miles down.

Ow, my heel kind of hurts.

3.5 miles down.

Why does my heel feel like it’s cracking in half?

4 miles down.

Good God I think I shattered my foot but I’m finishing these 5 miles if it f*cking kills me.

5 miles later, I was literally whimpering like a wounded kitten abandoned on the side of the road.

I limped home, iced it, put my feet up, and assumed I’d feel better in the morning.

The next morning I woke up, stretched, and swung my legs out of bed, stood up…

…and promptly almost fell over.

The only way to describe the pain is– it felt like someone had shattered my heel with a hammer and then lit it on fire.

As it progressively got worse throughout the day, it became clear that walking ever again was out of the question. I had resigned to live the life of a person who never stood up.

I would simply be known as Sitting Lindsay.

A little research later, it was obvious I was suffering from the bane of every runner’s existence.

Plantar Fasciitis.

Bascially, it’s a horrible foot condition, typical in runner’s, that has no cure and has been known to last for up to two years.

Two years.

Never mind all that though. I was all hung up on the fact that one of the causes was “sudden weight gain.”

Not “overtraining” or “bad running form”.

Nope. Sudden weight gain.

No longer was I a stealth Bushman hunting unsuspecting antelope on the African plains.

I was reduced to a chubby, red-headed faux runner who thought running another half marathon was easily within my grasp, until I was stricken with an incurable foot condition.

Wah.

So in summary– my foot hurts.

Real bad.

I guess I could have just said that from the start.

I Lied About My Age

You guys, it’s happened.

It happened before I even hit 30.

I can now say that yes, I have reached the stage in my life where I’ve…

(shudder)

Lied about my age.

(insert horrified look here.)

It’s so shameful.

Before you judge, let me explain.

I’ve got a list of 3 or 4 blogs that I have bookmarked on my computer that I read when I need to take a little break from work.

Most people do, right?

Not weird.

However, while I think it’s 100% ok to be a blog lurker (Love Letters anyone?), I am not one to comment on random blogs.

What can I say? I’m shy.

(Sorry.)

But the other day, one of the blogs that I follow had a post up a swimming.

See, this particular blogger has just gotten back into swimming after a hiatus and is realizing how much fun it can be.

And fun fact– I just happened to be a swimmer all through high school and college.

So what did I do?

I commented.

I decided I needed to tell her that after swimming for over 8 years, I was so burnt out, I doubted I would ever get in the pool again.

And then, I went to say that it still wasn’t fun, even after being out of college for…

…4…wait no…5…sii-iix?…(panicky feeling starts)

….over 7 years.

Over 7 years?

Oh he-llll no! There was no way I was going to admit that.

So, what did I do?

Instead of just abandoning my grand debut into the world of blog comments, I instead committed the creepiest crime on the Internet.

I lied about my age. To a bunch of strangers. On the web.

That pret-ty much puts me in the same category as someone who trolls dating websites by posting a picture of themselves from 20 years ago in an effort to get a random girl’s number so they can sext them while sitting in the comfort of their basement apartment in Queens.

Ew.

Never. Again.

Oh, and in case anyone is wondering, I told them I’ve been out of college for 4 years.

So, if anyone asks? I’m 25.

Goodbye, Cube Door

I hope you can all forgive me for once again dropping off the face of the Earth for a solid three weeks.

I’ve been mourning the loss if my cube door.

Actually, I take that back. I haven’t just been mourning the loss of my cube door. I’ve been mourning the loss of my entire cube.

See, I used to feel pretty smug about my cube at work. It had walls taller than me, and a door that slid shut for optimum privacy.

If I wanted to, I could stay ensconsed in my cube all day and not talk to anybody, hidden behind the brown fabric walls and semi-transparent plastic sliding door.

No matter that I had absolutely no access to natural light. I was happy to sacrifice my vitamin D levels for the mere fact that nobody could see me.

I knew most people didn’t have such luxuries as tall walls and doors. But I still always liked to slip it into conversation, just so they knew how good I had it, and then act all surprised when they told me how lucky I was to have such an awesome cube.

Me: Ha, yeah, so the other day, the guy across the hall from me was picking his nose and it was grossing me out, so I just…(dramatic pause)…slid my cube door shut so I couldn’t see him anymore.

Friend: Wait– you have a CUBE DOOR??

Me (wide-eyed and innocent):Oh…my…I thought everyone had a cube door. Why…yes…I do have a cube door.

Well, let me tell you, all my smugness came crashing and burning down around me approximately three weeks ago when my company was informed that the higher ups from London have decided to move to an “open-floor concept”.

Of course there had been rumors floating around that this might happen. But they’d been floating around for months and months. Nobody actually thought they would take away our cubes.

And even if they did, I figured it would be years before they ever got around to it.

Well, they did take away our cubes and it didn’t take years.

As of right now, I have three moving crates taking up the majority of my precious space, directions on how to pack up my computer, and instructions to be packed up by 5pm Thursday so all my stuff can be moved to our temporary space while they do construction.

I’ll be sitting with four other people at basically a counter with computer stations.

So forgive me, if in the coming weeks I seem a little on edge and anti-social. I fear too much human interaction at work will have severe implications on how I act outside of work.

I’m scared.

On a side note, packing up a cube I’ve occupied for 3 1/2 years isn’t fun. Working at a parenting website means I’ve accumulated a lot of interesting stuff, particularly stuffed animals. Having to pack them all up resulted in me just shoving them all into my gym bag, and I’m pretty sure a lady in the locker room thought I was a pedophile.

I’ll save that story for my next post though.

Camping Will Make You Irrational

I’m going camping this weekend up in Acadia National Park. Moe and I went last year with two of our friends and it was a complete blast so we’ve decided that it needs to become a yearly tradition.

So, in preparation, I need to do a huge pile of laundry and start packing tonight.

I don’t know how many of you go camping, but packing for three nights in the wilderness can be tough.

It gets COLD in Maine at night (even in the summer) so essentially you have to pack fall and winter clothes along with your summery stuff.

And apparently, according to my brain, I don’t own any winter clothes.

(This is where my brain is wrong. I do, in fact, own winter clothes. I live in New England for Christ’s sake. I just can’t see them right now because they are packed away. Because it is summer. My brain can be really stupid sometimes.)

Anyway, thinking you don’t own any winter clothes when you’re going camping six hours north in two days can send even the most rational person into a blind panic.

And a blind panic for winter clothes will send even the most budget-conscious person running to H&M in search of warm (and preferably striped, because I’m obsessed with stripes right now thankyouverymuch) clothes.

And this, my friends, is how I ended up with a pair of fingerless gloves.

Yes. Fingerless (and stripeless) gloves.

Because having a pair of fingerless gloves will surely keep my hands warm in the dark, cold woods of Maine.

Who needs a coat or even a sweatshirt when you have a pair of fingerless gloves?

I mean, really? I need someone to slap me across the face.

No wonder they were $4.95.

They have no fingers you asshole.

So, I’ll be the one huddled in front of the campfire trying to keep warm while my friends sit comfortably bundled up in their practical fleece jackets and sweat pants.

Because on my lunch break today, I bought a pair of fingerless gloves.

Lindsay. FTL.

For. The. Loss.

Unicorns Live in Paraguay

Friday recap:
This week, I learned that unicorns live in Paraguay.

Don’t believe me? I can prove it.

The following is a conversation that actually took place between me, my brother, and two of my cousins on Facebook.

It debunks that fact that unicorns are a myth.

In reality, they live in Paraguay, where they duel with bubbles and donate blood to infants.

Read on:

Cousin Keagan’s Facebook Status:
Dueling is legal in Paraguay as long as both parties are registered blood donors….in case you were curious….
Comments:
Cousin Kevin: I’m going to Paraguay!

Me: Me too!

Cousin Keagan: Are you two going to duel? Can I watch?

Cousin Kevin: Yes, duh!

Brother Patrick: i call winner

Me: We all know who’s gonna win. Let’s not kid ourselves.

Cousin Keagan: Yeah. We all know I’m the toughie of the family. Thanks for the credit Linds 🙂

Cousin Kevin: Mm hmm

Cousin Kevin: And pat I say yes to your challenge!

Me: Wait. We ARE all registered blood donors, right?

Brother Pat: i’m a registered blood donor…my blood goes to infants. do you even know how to shoot a gun lindsay? and keagan i thought you were just watching?

Cousin Keagan: I’ll watch until the final duel and then ill jump in because we all know I’m good enough to skip the first rounds. And who said anything about guns, mr. Violent!!

Brother Pat: how else do you propose we duel?

Cousin Kevin: bubbles

Me: I thought we were going to shoot rainbows out of unicorn horns. Isn’t that how they dual in Paraguay?

Brother Pat: so that’s where unicorns live!
*************************************************

Never underestimate the power of a Facebook status. You might learn really interesting things.
Don’t you wish you could come to our Thanksgiving dinners?

Happy Friday! 🙂

And This is Why I’m Super Woman

One thing about getting my own place, aside from the sheer glory of living alone, is the fact that I have to buy everything to furnish it myself. I knew this going into it, obviously, and I’ve been pretty good about buying things little by little, but it’s still a really expensive endeavor to take on. As much as I would love to decorate my new place in Restoration Hardware and West Elm, well, that’s just not going to happen.

Enter IKEA.

IKEA is like the knight and shining armor to broke twenty-somethings like myself trying to create a cute space to live on a tight budget.

I’ve known for a while that this was the couch I was going to get:

Now, the original plan was to go buy it this weekend, during the tax free holiday.

Because, you know, that would have been the rational thing to do.

I would have saved some money. And, more importantly, I would have had some people to help me.

But, of course, this is not what I ended up doing. Because that would have been way too easy.

Given the fact that sometimes I am a completely irrational person, I decided that, actually, I needed to have my couch by the time I moved in on Thursday.

So, this is why I found myself frantically driving to IKEA at 8:00 Monday night, swerving in and out of traffic in a desperate attempt to go purchase my Karlstad sofa before they closed at 9pm.

I was so focused on getting the stupid thing, I never considered how I was actually going to get the sofa from where it was in the store to the checkout line.

See, IKEA is set up so you can view the furniture on the upper level, and when you find something you like, you go down to the warehouse and find it yourself.

You then load it onto a cart and bring it to the cash register.

By yourself.

When I originally decided on the urgency of having a couch by Thursday, I never took into consideration that going to IKEA to purchase it alone might not be the easiest thing in the world.

But there I was, flip-flops on my feet, sloppy bun atop my head, heaving and hoeing a 100+ pound, 8 foot tall hunk of cardboard onto a cart that didn’t have wheel locks.

It only took me about 4 tries (and several weird looks from people in the store, who I’d like to thank for not helping me), but I did it.

Boy, was I proud.

I got that puppy onto that cart without even messing up my pedicure.

After that ordeal, I managed to get it to the cash register without knocking anything over.

I may or may not have almost run over a baby stroller, but that’s not my fault. You try wheeling an 8 foot tall sofa around a giant warehouse.

Once paid for, I promptly wheeled it to home deliveries, scheduled it to be sent to me the next day, and went home exhausted, $600 in the hole, and one new couch richer.

It got delivered last night. And, to add even more to my superwoman status, I assembled it myself.

Ladies and gents, behold. A sneak peak at my new sofa:

Yes, I agree. The blue striped pillow doesn’t match. But I bought that before I learned the meaning of the term “impulse control”, so until I find somewhere else to put it, that’s where it’s going.

I know you’re all dying to see everything else, but the only other thing set up in my new place is this:

Obviously you can see where my priorities are.

But, the big, permanent move day is tomorrow. After that, I’ll have more pictures for you to oohhh and aaahhhh over.

Until then, wish me luck!