Hey, Guy, I like your hard hat

So, this is what it feels like to be a dude.

Specifically, a dude who’s just been caught checking out a girl, by said girl. (I’d like to insert a link to this video I saw last week of this beautiful young woman who attached a tiny camera to her back jeans pocket and caught a million dudes, and a few girls, checking her out. It’s hilarious. But I don’t think YouTubing “hot girl butt cam” is a path I want to go down right now.)

Anyway, I have to say, getting caught slackjawed and dreamily staring out my window by a tanned, calloused stud is uncomfortable. But also mildly exhilarating in a non-creepy way. But maybe that’s because he smiled back at me and gave me a tilt o’ the yellow hard hat. I mean, I’m having a good hair day. So, yup. I’ve still got it. *snap snap*

English: 1942 photograph of Carpenter at work ...

English: 1942 photograph of Carpenter at work on Douglas Dam, Tennessee (TVA).Encyclopedic both as a document of carpentry during that era and as a historic example of early color photography. Supersaturation was popular in the United States during that era; a fine example of the esthetics of its place and time. Français : (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

They are forever doing construction work where I live, because pot holes are prevalent every season of the year. And I drive very slowly around the convoys. Not because we are charged large fines for endangering or killing a construction worker (those road signs are terrifying and I always say a little prayer for the road crews), but because it’s the right thing to do, people. Use your brake pedal! Creep on by! These men and women are fixing our roads so you don’t get flat tires. Also, they are often sexy, so slow your roll so you can check out the scenery.

Anyway. I don’t feel bad about it. The whole being caught staring thing. Maybe it made his day. His hip-hugging-Levis’d, hard-hat-wearing, white-thermal-shirt-adorned, Timberland-booted day.

And yes, I have a boyfriend. And yes, he reads this blog (hi, babe!). But, hey. There’s no harm in looking.

So, slow down.


Charlie Bucket and Supermarket Sweep

Supermarket Sweep

Supermarket Sweep (Photo credit: rickh710)

I feel as if I just won Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket (is the song in your head now?), the food lottery, and the Bonus Sweep on Supermarket Sweep (if THIS song is in your head, you get bonus points) – all rolled into one.

I, my friends, just ate a ripe avocado on my lunch break.

Now, I don’t know where you’re from, but around here, ripe avocados aren’t too plentiful. I check the grocery store weekly, and the barrel of avocado pears (or dinosaur eggs, as my boyfriend refers to them) are totally mushy or helpless. But not today’s. This one was RIPE, man. I’m talkin’ 3 blended hues of luscious emerald, a small pit making room for more avocado goodness, zero brown spots, and the perfect potion of firmness and give. Nothing at all like the typical gnarly brown pigmented disappointment.

So, I said, get in my belly, you incredible monounsaturated fat. And then I added some diced cherry tomatoes and lemon juice, forked it, mixed it up, and put it on my paper plate.

And then ate it along side my frozen bean burrito. Which felt so wrong.

Hair PSA: About those bangs…

…You’ve got to make them your bitch.


Here I am at the grocery store taking a photo of my bangs, because that is a totally normal thing to do.

Seriously, girls (and boys, if that’s your style), if you want bangin’ bangs, you’ve got to show them who’s boss the moment you’re out of the shower. I’m not joking. Step out of the shower, wrap yourself in a towel or royal purple fleece robe (okay, so that’s just me), grab your brush and a blowdryer. And blow.

And while it’s my personal opinion that should you rock bangs, they be a bit messy and relaxed, regardless the shape of them, you must take control of the situation before they take control of you. And your head. So. Dry your bangs as you wish. Use heat. Once done, hold them in their desired shape and blast ’em with some cold air to settle the style. Now you are free to carry on with your morning routine; perhaps put on some pants. And then return to your hair.

This has been a hair PSA.

Being a klutz is one thing.

But being a klutz during your morning shave is a whole new ballgame.

Here are some painful and/or absurd moments I’ve shared with my razor in the recent past. Please note, I am approaching 30. It’s not like I’m a squirmy 11-year old embarking on this exciting adventure (which, mind you, the act of shaving IS for young women). And when I shave in the morning, I’m not bleary-eyed and half-functioning from a short night’s sleep. I’ve already worked out for an hour, dancing and squatting to Ke$ha and Calvin Harris. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! Or something like that.

I have:

  • Sliced open my knee crack
  • Shaved 1/2 an inch of skin off my ankle, producing an adorable scar (really, who needs butterfly tattoos when you’ve got a cute little chunk of skin missing?)
  • Used a dull razor on my underarms (because I was too lazy to get out the scissors to open the new bulletproof-plastic razor package), which I assure you, is worse than you’d think. Try wearing a snug tank top after that, fellas
  • Occasionally shaved too quickly, producing tiny knicks, generally around the outside knee area where the skin is thinnest. Ladies, I know you feel me here. The tiny cuts are the worst offenders. If I may quote Cat Stevens (or Sheryl Crow, if you prefer), The First Cut is the Deepest
  • Sliced open my hip upon returning the razor to the shower rack. This happened this morning and prompted this post. I had to wear a loose jersey skirt to work because my pants lay precisely atop my newest battle wound
  • Considered waxing everywhere instead of shaving, but that is for another post I’m writing entitled:

No, Lady, I Really Like Your Nail Salon and The Way You Trim My Cuticles But If You Suggest I Get a Lip Wax One More Time, I Will Never Return

Stairwells and wrong assumptions

Whenever I am in a stairwell and I hear anyone else enter said stairwell, I automatically assume I’m about to be murdered. Unfortunately I also believe in taking the stairs whenever possible to work out the ol’ gluteus maximus. So, as usual, I just ran up 3 flights of stairs like an idiot, in a skirt, at work. Oh, and I’m pretty sure my potential attacker turned out to be the super nice maintenance man. Dang it. But, it could have been tiny Grandma Pearl for all I knew, and I still would have ran like my life depended on it (well, my glutes depended on it, anyhow).

I know I can’t be the only one with this (ir)rational fear. Of course, I blame Law and Order.  My active imagination may also have something to do with it. At least the stairs at work aren’t the kind with openings beneath each step that lead to the abyss below, just waiting for someone to grab your ankles.

Quick. Someone say something not terrifying.

Oh, I know. Here is our cat. Falling asleep. In a pan. Because that’s totally normal. And hygienic.