August 2013

Lights Out

August 16, 2013

You know you’re in a good place when…

You don’t need the last word.

You may not even need to participate in the situation/conversation.

The only thing you need to help you sleep is HBO.

Your favorite Bruno Mars song (the sad one) makes you smile.

You turn it up when you hear it. You’re not afraid of it (anymore).

You can set your ego aside (even if only at times).

You recognize how heavy a load an ego is to bear.

Even with the thickest neck and the broadest shoulders, it’s obvious an ego is beyond a burden.

You dream (again).

You can hear your own laugh. You can hear every single syllable.

You sing (so loud).

You dance (like such a nutcase).

You cry (it’s all got to come out).

You know you’re irreplaceable.

You desire no different/better company than the company of your friends.

You’re not looking ahead, or behind. You’re planted firmly where you are. You know there’s no other place you should (or could) be at this/that particular moment.

You name the puppy.

This poor pup has been through a lot since his adoption. A series of unfortunate events has required a handful of drastic, but necessary, name changes. At first, the puppy was Jameson…then Gosling…then Caleb. Now, he’s Ray Donovan. And he’s got serious street cred.

On that note…

Ray Donovan doesn’t say much.

He doesn’t have to say much (see: street cred).

On his behalf…I’ll say sweet dreams.

And goodnight.

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Twinning!

August 12, 2013

They told me not to do it.

Every last one of them.

They told me not to walk home.

They said they would call me a cab.

Or they would drive me home.

Or they would walk with me.

I just had to wait a little bit longer.

But I was hungry.

And it was coming up on 3 a.m.

If I wanted a gyro (stuffed with French fries), I needed to hit the road.

So I did.

Let’s face it…listening isn’t really one of my strengths anyway.

I got my gyro. I got some yogurt dip too. I needed both. Obviously.

I was less than a block away from home.

And I ate @#$%.

I ate @#$% so hard the sidewalk was laughing at me.

I shook it off (I was hungry) and I limped home.

I ate my gyro and I went to bed.

No big deal.

I woke up in a panic. Maid Marian was coming over. We had big things to do. She’s a morning person. I (clearly) am not. She’s also a good friend. I did not want to disappoint her (I’ve tried that before, it sucks).

I rolled out of bed…

My foot was fat. So was my ankle. Both were black and blue.

There was also blood all over my white comforter (classy, I know).

Apparently, I had taken a few layers of skin off my knee…which was also swollen, black and blue.

Rather than spoil mine and Maid Marian’s day, I threw on six band-aids and some shoes.

No big deal.

By the time we sat down for lunch, blood was running down my leg and I could barely move my calf.

I drove myself to Urgent Care.

I left – on crutches.

All the Bros that told me not to walk home thoroughly enjoyed telling me “I told you so.”

The crutches made me beyond miserable. So did the super stupid crutch things people like to say.

For example…

1. “Hey gimpy.”

Gimpy isn’t a cute word. It’s not a funny word either. You could call me pretty much anything else. Seriously. I have called myself (and I’m sure I’ve been called) WAY worse. I hate gimpy jokes. And I hate everyone that thought it was either cute or funny to make them.

2. “You look uncomfortable.”

Uh, that’s because I am. I have bruises in and around my armpits. I’m sweating (I don’t even sweat when I workout, actually, I don’t even workout). I can’t drive my own car. The only two living creatures totally available for me right now are my kittens. But I commend your use of common sense. Idiot.

3. “You should get a better story.”

I get it. I fell. Walking. It’s kind of boring. But these bangs aren’t boring. I fell REALLY hard in the most beautiful four-inch heels. And I saved my mother@#$%ing sandwich. I enjoyed eating said sandwich before I went to bed. LIKE A GANGSTER. That should count for something.

End. Rant.

I ditched the crutches and the brace after a week. I went back to my blunt-banged business as usual. I noticed my ankle would bug me from time to time. But I thought, eh.

No big deal.

During a very important waxing appointment, my esthetician (and dear friend) asked me what was wrong with my ankle. I felt scared. And vulnerable. She was ripping hot wax off my body while she was checking out my imperfections. I didn’t realize she did that.

Turns out my ankle was still pretty swollen (at least that’s what she says).

She threatened me.

So I agreed to see a specialist.

I had barely introduced myself to the specialist before I was being fitted for a seriously sexy boot.

Apparently, it was no sprain.

I had torn tendons and ligaments.

I WENT BIG.

Kathleen (what’s up Boo) and I took the boot out to celebrate.

In the bathroom, I met another boot.

But not just any boot.

A very cute glitter boot.

We both laughed hard when we saw our boots.

She snapped a pic and said “TWINNING!”

I knew it was meant to be.

I actually don’t know the other boot’s name, but I did get permission to post our pic.

Cheers pretty lady!

I think we make these boots look damn good.

Even in the ladies room.

Especially in the ladies room.

 

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True Bromance

August 9, 2013

I’ve been feeling this way for a while.

I thought it was a temporary thing.

A phase.

A rebellion of sorts.

I figured this feeling would eventually go away.

Like a cold, or a migraine.

But this feeling isn’t going anywhere.

It’s actually getting worse.

I’m concerned this feeling is here to stay.

I’m just going to come out and say it (you might already know).

I’m infatuated with Bros.

I heart them.

And I don’t just love your typical Bro.

I’m intrigued by the Broiest Bros.

Note: Based on the research I’ve done, this technically makes me a “Bro Hoe.” Yes, the website I read this on actually spelled the word “hoe” like a garden tool, rather than “ho” like a prostitute – which amuses me even more than Bros. (For the record, I’m not technically a prostitute.)

Back to my feeling(s)…

I’m most magnetized by the Brofessors…the Brofessionals…the leaders of the Brommunity.

I’m so drawn to them I came up with a new word to add to my (and your) Brocabulary. I’m serious. I’m the author. I made it up. I hatched it. I brought it into being.

I’m about to blow your mind (if all this Bromance/Hoe talk hasn’t already)…

After a seriously steamy trip to Target (I had to pick up a bucket and assorted knee high socks to go under my walking cast/boot/thing), I went to Safeway to buy a singing Disney princess balloon for my friend Scott (he just celebrated his 40th birthday). On my way to Safeway, I was talking to another friend that was telling me how disturbing she found my obsession with Bros. Then she said she loved my face and asked me to meet her for lunch. I worked instead of going to lunch (I’ve been so grown up this week)…but I couldn’t get the Bros off my brain.

I got to thinking about the progression of a Bro.

First, there are Baby Bros.

I’m only mentioning these Broddlers because they exist. No matter who (or what) you are, you had to start somewhere. Some Baby Bros are sweet (because they’re still babies). Most Baby Bros are not (because they’re still babies).

Then there are Bros.

Amateur hour is over. They’ve got more than a few notches in their belt (to say the least).

Some Bros naturally emerge as leaders, legends even.

Like Broseidon, Almighty Ruler of the Brocean, these Bros are immortal. Their skills, their stories, their insatiability – stand the test of time.

These, my friends, are…wait for it…BROUGARS (this is MY word).

They are Bros with A WORLD OF EXPERIENCE.

They’re kind of like Cougars.

But they’re also Bros.

They’re BROUGARS.

If you haven’t truly grasped the definition of a “Bro” – Urban Dictionary will assist you. You might also want to search for images (you’re welcome).

If you aren’t sure about the definition of a “Cougar” – well – leave some Rombauer chardonnay on your front porch. You’ll see what I mean.

Most importantly…

I MADE UP A WORD. MY MOTHER WILL BE SO PROUD. I’M GOING DOWN IN HISTORY AS AN INVENTOR. SOMEBODY HELP ME TRADEMARK/COPYRIGHT/PROTECT THIS @#$%.

I know you don’t want to love Bros.

I get it.

You don’t have to love them.

But before I finish this post, I’m going to give you a few things to mull over.

I’m going to give you a few reasons to consider going PRO BRO.

1. Bros prefer lean meats and vegetables.

2. Bros are pet friendly.

3. Bros don’t mind when you make this face.

4. When Bros make you breakfast, you don’t have to worry about consuming any carbs.

5. All Bros play hard. Some Bros work hard (see evidence below). Bros wear tank tops when they play and work hard.

6. Bros like, wear and share bright colors.

7. Bros go BIG on the bubbly.

(Photo Courtesy of M Portraits Photography, Taken at Vanguard)

8. Bros are creative on the dance floor. The deep, thumping bass seizes their core.

(Photo Courtesy of The Situation)

I’m almost done.

I only have a few more things to tell you.

Thanks to your sound advice Damien, I’m now the proud owner of Brougar AND Brougars.com (because two Brougars are better than one).

I’m currently looking for sponsors and investors to help me build and launch the site.

You’re all invited to the launch party.

There will be TONS of Fireball (Brougar Juice).

This kind of brilliance is going to make me a millionaire.

I’m going to have more money (and balls) than Tony Bromo.

 

 

 

 

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