I’m at the beach for another Caturday. Life is hard.
As I pre-write this, it’s Friday morning and I’m rushing around like an idiot trying to pack (why do I never do this before the day I’m leaving?) and get ready for work and get to work early and drink all the coffee. Meanwhile, Ralphie is heaving something up in the bathroom. Cool, man. Cool.
“What if he died, you know? I was so scared.”
I like to chat up my Uber drivers. See what they’re up to and what their weirdest rides have been. Last night I was with Uwumugisha on my way to get my hands on something to celebrate National Tequila Day and he snagged the award for best story ever.
Uwumugisha is from Rwanda. He’s been in the US for a year but in Charlotte just 4 months. He was looking for flexible work that would allow him time to study and save up for his green card. Uber was the perfect fit, but it took him two months to get them to accept his application.
“They kept saying: ‘How could you know Charlotte? Do you know Charlotte?’ I know Charlotte,” he assured me as I directed him where to go. No worries, I said.
You know when you’re at a restaurant and you order something but then someone else orders something way better and the food comes out and you’re like: I regret everything. This is how I felt about my outfit choice the first time I met Emily Maynard. I was in a too-safe blue dress and she breezes in in this sassy printed mini and I was like: Damnit. I want one too.
I can’t be the only girl who thinks Emily is like a perfect little Barbie doll, right? (She is.) Tabloids be damned, I think this girl is cool as hell and also the master of the printed mini. Exhibit A and B.
So when I saw this skirt at Target I was all, “YES. WHAT WOULD EMILY DO?”
The answer is probably not wear it with a striped bodysuit from Forever 21. But that’s where this becomes my blog so here we go…
Somewhere over the course of the last three weeks the month of July has happened. I don’t know how…
Life lately is nothing but good. Here are some snapshots…
OH HELL YES.
I invite you to read this post to the tune of Iggy Azalea “Change Your Life” because that’s what I’m about to do.
If you’ve ever thought to yourself “Hey fruit is cool but I wish it grew stuffed with peanut butter and covered in chocolate” then you and I are friends and I have something awesome for you.
I spend a sizable amount of my time dipping fruit straight into peanut butter and chocolate chips so I finally just decided to make this happen. It’s more process than recipe since it’s literally just figs, chocolate and peanut butter, but humor me and let’s do this…
Ralphie got her annual lion cut this week and is looking fly as hell if she does say so herself. She wanted something Miley-esque but still mature enough for business meetings and afternoon tea, which I think we achieved with the partial buzz.
I won’t tell you how much I spent on this haircut because the judgement will be harsh, but I will tell you she swears she’s good for it and will hit me back as soon as her next record drops. She’s been telling me this for seven years so…
Anyway, behold this majestic creature…
We’ve already discussed how I feel about all white everythang (here and here), but since then I have upped my accessory game with some wedges everyone’s asking about on Instagram and a purse that has completely changed my summer game.
Let’s talk about it.
This post’s alternate title is “Period Panties are for Quitters.”
I’m trying really hard to act like a sane human being, but this morning I left my coffee at home and almost cried at the lack of caffeine. I would’ve gone back for it but I was too busy having what could best be described as a hot flash so I let it go. Then after sitting through a conference that made me want to poke my eyeballs out I returned to the office to tear into what I thought was a pan of chocolate eclairs but turned out to be Eileen’s frozen vegan lasagna. COME ON EILEEN. Almost cried again.
And since all I want to do right now is take my raging hormones straight to Cherry Berry for a tub of all the chocolate flavors covered in all the chocolate toppings, let’s just talk about spaghetti squash because that’s way more stable.
I’ve hit that glorious and unbearable age where my favorite bars are whichever ones have available seats, very few patrons, throwback music being played at a moderate volume, and drinks that do not suck. It’s hard to find them all in one place but Saturday night my friend Kseniya knocked it out of the park on our late-night hunt for Justin Timberlake. (We didn’t find him, but we did find some excellent cocktails.)
Blue was dead aside from a private party for the Alpha Kappa Alpha convention complete with DJ spinning remixes of such tunes as VIC “Wobble” and Ashlee Simpson “Pieces of Me”, which was totally totally working for me after about four drinks. We dodged cover, found seats at the otherwise empty bar, sipped on jalapeno strawberry-infused vodka and wiggled in our chairs. So old. So happy.
Yesterday I had grand plans to go to Chipotle for the billionth time this month but instead I got so excited about my farmers market haul that I delayed mealtime a solid hour just to make this toast happen. It was skip-Chipotle-good.
I’m “training” for a “triathlon”, which is hilarious in itself but less hilarious is me stuck in farmers market traffic at the lunching hour after a fairly substantial bike ride. (And by substantial I mean 45 minutes and by bike ride I mean a spin class at the Y so… It’s going really well.)
I drunkenly agreed to do this race a few weeks ago and am attempting to keep my inebriated word by taking it seriously but the bottom line is: CATS DON’T SWIM. There’s also not a competitive bone in my body so trying to convince me that I’m going to feel bad about myself if I’m the last one out of the water is a terrible, terrible argument because that is actually not a problem.
Anyway, let’s eat toast.