leaves of three, let it be...

This is just not my week.  First, it's the whole post-vacation blues thing.  Then, I wore my underwear backwards.  Also, my legs are covered in bruises/a weird rash thing so I've been wearing pants every day.  In the SUMMER.  Yesterday, I slept through my alarm.  Also, my celebrity crush left town forever.  And now?  I go to the doctor about said rash thing, and the cherry on top of this poopy-flavored sundae?   I have poison ivy.

Yeah, that's right.  POISON IVY.  Also known as contact dermatitis.  Also known as a plant from the fiery pits of hell. The puzzling thing about this is that I never go outside.  The wilderness is not for me. So how did poison ivy find my skin?  The doctor thinks I picked it up while on vacation.  I can just imagine the poison ivy creeping around the Las Vegas Strip, waiting for an adorably innocent, fun-loving person to attack:

Lesson learned here?  Some things don't stay in Vegas.

L

PS: I promise this is my last Vegas post.

the post vacation blues

This morning, I woke up gasping for air, sunlight streaming through my windows, thinking "SHIIT....ake mushrooms!"  Or something like that.  I somehow managed to sleep through multiple alarms, and woke up at 7:43am, with a work start time of 8:00am.  Oops!  Miraculously, I made it through the front door of the office at 8 o'clock on the dot (and with my underwear on straight too!), so no harm done.

Only problem is that now that I'm here, I'm spiraling into despair.  All I can think about is how much fun I was having 72 hours ago.  And how I have tons of laundry to do.  And I'm tired.  And nothing is exciting.  And how I took this Friday off so I could make fabulous holiday weekend plans, but then neglected to make any.  AND I have split ends.  In the words of a certain someone within the last week or so... "What are you complaining about now?"  But in all seriousness, I'm going through some serious Post Vacation Blues.  So I wrote a song (just imagine the harmonica going along with it):

Lindsey went on a fun trip (doo do do do dooo)
Partied on the Vegas Strip! (doo do do do dooo) 
Explored the Grand Canyon (doo do do do dooo)
She had a little too much Fuuuuuun!!!

But then she came home (doo do do do doo)
Her frustration grew (doo do do do dooo)
Working life she bemoaned (doo do do do doo)
Oh Lindsey's got... the Poooooooooooost Vacation Blues...

Yeah I don't know.  That's pretty much my poor brain could come up with in 5 minutes.  If you can't picture what I'm going for with this, you just let me know-- I'll sing a private show for you, complete with fake harmonica sounds and everything. 

L

PS: Just one more photo from Vegas appeared on my phone.  I made best friends with a Mafia guy from New York.  Sweetest old man.  We lectured each other about how to be a good Catholic and being nicer to vacation boyfriends until about 4am.  And then he gave me 20 bucks to play the penny slots.  Enjoy, because I'm taking this down tomorrow:

what happened in vegas...

is staying in Vegas.  Literally.  I lost my camera and about 500 photos on it, so there's no evidence I even went to Vegas.  Except for this Blackberry picture of me playing the penny slots at 4am on Friday night/Saturday morning.  The trip was such a blur, and clear chronology has been lost with the camera.  So instead, I present to you the ABC's of our trip to Sin City--just 26 little tidbits of what may or may not have happened while we were out there:

Advil.  A necessary cocktail of Advil and Gatorade to counteract the other cocktails
Beatrice.  The name I gave to just about every new friend I made.  ("But you can call me Bee!")
Cirque du Soleil.  MINDBLOWING.  New goal is to add "Cirque du Soleil guy" to the list of guys I date.  So freaking hot.
Drugs.  I was offered party treats no less than 10 times.  In the elevator, in the pool, in the club, you name it.
Elevator.  The hotel elevator was crazier than the Tower of Terror.  But a lot happened in the elevator - making out, new friends, those creepy guys who invited me back for a foot massage...
Flabongo. We stayed at the Flamingo.  So naturally, there was flabongo-ing in the pool. 
Grand Canyon.  "Who let YOU near a giant hole?"
Hoover Dam.  We saw it. 
Injuries.  Blisters from sunburns, sprained ankles/EMT check-ups on legs from falling down a set of marble steps, bite marks, respiratory infections... I won't say which was whose, but let's just say I will be wearing pants for the rest of summer, and I owe someone plastic surgery on their neck.
Jay Sean.  Accidentally stumbled onto a live concert.
King-sized bed.  Our room reservation got all mixed up, and rather than switching rooms after the first night, we opted to share the California King all week.  So much snuggling!
Lost & Found.  Well... so far nothing's been found.  What's missing?  My sunglasses, camera, and dignity. 
Marriage proposals.  All 3 of the Planeteers were proposed to by guys from London.  My proposal: "You're so cute, I just want to pack you into my suitcase....Marry me and come back to London with me."  Fire and Heart found brothers-- they could have been sisters!!
New Friends.  SPF Ghost, my vacation boyfriend.  Nipple Rings.  Chris and Andrew.  Elevator Guys.  The Beatles.  Ben from Michigan.  Crazy Lady in Hot Pink Bikini Playing Beach Ball.  Nurse Lady From Plane.
Oxygen Bar.  I wanted it so badly, but it was always closed.
PURE.  Our favorite night club by far.  Site of the VIP table dancing and camera losing.
Queasy.  How we all woke up every morning. 
Rallying.  Also known as clawing your way out of the depths of drunken hell and and rejoining the party in full-on pimp style.  Theme of the trip.
Sugar Factory.  A candy store/bar...  Best combination ever.
Two-dollar bill.  There may or may not have been an incident where someone stole a two dollar bill from the bathroom attendant at PURE.
Underwear.  I'm so tired from this trip that I put my underwear on backwards when I got dressed for work this morning.  I felt this needed to be included.
VIP.  Fire and I got tagged into VIP by a couple of NFL players.  Dancing on the tables/sofas with Goose ensued.
Water.  Call to room service "... and could you send the biggest pitcher of water that you have with that?"
Xxx.  Kisses, x-rated action, or a terrible Vin Diesel movie?  You decide.
Yarf.  A little surprising, but no one worshiped that porcelain god all week.
Zzz's.  21-hour rage sessions with intermittent naps don't leave much time for sleep.

The verdict?  Vegas 1, Lindsey 0. 

L

1000 hits!

Today, my blog counter passed 1000 views.  Whoa!  And apparently I have viewers in Canada, Hong Kong, Belgium, Iraq, and Botswana.  I'm totally excited-- thanks to everyone who reads my rambles! So, in honor of 1000 hits, I'm going to unload 1000 facts about me:

1. Just kidding!

I leave for Vegas in 4 hours sans computer, so I won't be posting until Monday at the earliest.   (And with any luck, my writer's block will subside-- there has to be inspiration out there).  Don't cry, it's only a few days!

Until then,
L <3

city of light, here i come!

Right now, you may be thinking "Lindsey's headed to Paris?!"  I'm not.  The not-so-funny story here is that when we booked our tickets to Vegas, I got so excited I shouted out "City of Light, here we come!"  And have been teased mercilessly ever since by multiple parties.  Well, I have news for you.  Extensive Internet Research (Wikipedia) informs me that Las Vegas, better known as Sin City (oops!), is the brightest city on earth as viewed from space.  Some people do in fact refer to it as the City of Light.  Boo-yah.

In just 32 hours, I leave for Vegas.  I have yet to start packing.  And this is my packing list so far:

1. Party glasses.
2. Swim suits.
3. High heels.
4. Tylenol.
5. Wedding dress.  (Just kidding!)

Part of me is thinking this could be all I need for Vegas, but the other, more sane part of me is thinking I have a ways to go.  And the clock is ticking! My beautiful, charming, wonderful, delightful girlfriends Fire and Heart (Planeteers, of course!  I'm Water) plan to get me intoxicated and manipulate my sense of adventure to get me to do stoopid things.  I have a fool-proof plan to protect myself-- a second list, laminated to carry around, to remind me what NOT to do:

1. Get married.
2. Get a tattoo.
3. Use hallucinogens before seeing Cirque du Soleil.
4. Fall into the Grand Canyon.
5. Steal Mike Tyson's tiger.
6. Drunk dial my mom.
7. Drunk dial anyone.
8. Anything stoopid.

So here's hoping I survive the trip, and that it's the Best Trip Ever!

L

PS:  I'm a little miffed that no one seemed to notice my plans to marry Ronald McDonald in my last post.  Is that not concerning to anyone?

nicknames for guys i date

I have a hard time saying "no" when guys ask me out.  Let's just chalk it up to the romantic in me that believes in True Love-- because what IF that guy who works at the candy store was The One?  What if I said no and missed out on the Mr. Lindsey Marie of my dreams?  By saying "yes" every time, I've gone on a few too many dates, and my poor friends can't seem to keep their names straight (due in part to the fact that about 50% of Ann Arbor's male population is named Mark).  To help my friends out, I've been utilizing a genius method for creating monikers for my would-be suitors:  "_______-guy."

So far there's been PhD guy, MBA guy, professor guy, candy store guy, movie star guy,  online dating guy, Bar Louie guy, Rush Street guy, tennis pro guy, football player guy, baseball player guy, soccer ref guy, county commissioner guy, cell phone guy, and bouncer guy...to name a few.  (As you can see, I tend to chase the jerseys/academics). Thankfully, my friends have never met these guys-- their names make them sound way cooler than they are.

But where did this nickname system come from?  It all stems from "cute Jewish boy" (CJB for short).  It started when my dearest friend and housemate in undergrad, the Serena van der Woodsen to my Blair Waldorf, had a huge crush on a cute Jewish boy (no one said this naming system was rocket science).  When Serena tried to call him Harry Goldenblatt we had no clue who she was talking about.  All she had to say was "CJB" and it was crystal clear.  Sadly, nothing came of Serena and CJB, although we did name one of our Halloween decorations after him.

I suspect that any of my ___-guys will go the way of CJB-- just another guy with a story/nickname.  If I actually like a guy, I plan on making sure my friends know his name.  Otherwise, just picture it:

Me: "Hey friends, this is Ronald McDonald."  (Look expectantly at friends to recognize guy)
Friends: "Who?!?!"
Me: "Umm....Fiancee guy?"
Friends: "Oh yeaaaaaaah... Fiancee guy!"



L <3

PS:  The one _____-guy I'm hoping to never add to my list?  Married in Vegas guy.

surviving the zombie apocalypse

If you don't already think I'm crazy, that's about to change.  Usually I'm busy thinking about the 4Gs -- Guys, Girlfriends, and Gossip Girl-- just like any other 22 year-old girl.  (And sometimes the fifth G, where to find a good Gin martini).  But during the last year or so, I've found myself caught up in deep, serious thought about the zombie apocalypse.  My main question is this:  would I survive?

I'm going to go ahead and blame this fascination on a short period of time when I was geeking out on AMC's The Walking Dead, slasher films, Zombieland, and that Will Smith movie where he has to kill his dog.  Regardless, it's resulted in some pretty extensive research.

A mathematician at the University of Ottawa named Robert Smith? (who uses the question mark to distinguish himself from other Robert Smiths, of course), has calculated with a super-duper fancy equation that if one zombie were introduced to a city of 500,000 people, the zombies would outnumber the living in about three days.  And that in seven, everyone would either be dead or a zombie.  This means that in a city like Ann Arbor, I have about a day and a half.  Now that's something to think about.

How to avoid becoming one of the undead?  Based on my movie-watching and hours upon hours of pondering, I've come up with a preliminary list of skills required to survive the zombie apocalypse:

• Running.  I think this is easy enough to understand.  Staggering, guts-eating zombies coming at you?     You've got to be able to run away.
• Shooting a gun. Also pretty simple.  Have to eliminate the predator.  Combine this with the double tap (thank you, Jesse Eisenberg) and you're golden.
• Wielding a sword.  Conspicuously missing from the CDC's Zombie Apocalypse Preparedness list is a samurai sword.  Who needs clean, fragrant zombies with enough documentation to cross borders?  What you need is a sword for when the bullets run out.
• Hiding.  If they can't find you, they can't eat you.  Enough said.
• Hunting and Gathering.  Zombies aside, you need food.  So knowing what berries make you sick, or how to skin a deer could come in handy.  This could also apply to raiding abandoned grocery stores/homes.
• Hot-wiring cars.  I'm not actually sure this is necessary, but having a getaway car would be nice.  It also seems to be a theme in zombie movies.  [cut to scene where protagonist wastes half a tank of gas cruising around in an expensive car]

 I figure I'm three for six here, which gives me a 50% chance of survival.  On my to-do list for the year is bettering my sword-fighting skills, and YouTube-ing how to hot-wire a car.  I suggest anyone else looking to survive the zombie apocalypse brush up on their skills as well.  Or, if you're like my friend G6, join the army so you can be close to the guns when it all goes down.

L

PS:  Anyone out there struggling to think of a fabulous birthday gift for me?  I'd love a copy of The Zombie Survival Guide so I can add to my list, because I'm pretty sure no one wants to see me end up like this:

my love affair with Talls

It's no big secret I love the Talls.  I've mentioned it a few times here, and anyone who hangs out with me knows I get starry-eyed over Talls when I see them at soccer/the mall/the bar/anywhere and everywhere.  My last three boyfriends have all been over 6'5 (as evidenced above), and a majority of the guys I date fall into that category.  But it hasn't always been this way...

Back in kindergarten, I had about 3 "kissy friends"/boyfriends.  They were all about 40 inches or less.  Just saying.  Fast forward to middle school, when all the boys I had unrequited crushes on were Justin Beiber clones.  Short, tiny little skateboarder guys?  I loved them (this could explain my current creepy obsession with the Beibs). 

Sometime around junior year of high school, I read an article (that I scoured the internet for, but couldn't find) in the newspaper about man-to-woman height ratios.  Evidently, the average height ratios of happily married couples was 1.13:1.  At 5 feet, 2 and a half inches, I determined that my perfect match would be 5'10 and a half.  A few months later, I start dating my First Boyfriend Ever, and he's 5'10 and a half.  Turns out, it takes more than a "perfect" height ratio and good kissing to last longer than about a month in high school.  Heart-broken and alone, I don't really date until the summer before college, when I had a summer fling with a Short who had cheekbones from heaven. I arrived in Oxford, a young, eager, and innocent 17-year-old.  Within two days, I'd tricked a Very Tall basketball player, measuring 6'8, into liking me.  And it's been all Talls ever since.  

What, exactly, constitutes a Tall?  It probably depends on the girl.  For me, with a small, compact stature of 5 feet, 3 and one-half inches, Talls are 6'4 (previous 6'5, but adjusted recently to include one Nick Andopolis) or taller.  I draw the line at 6'10 as dateable though, because that's just insane-- and I did the legwork to determine this.  That said, for someone shorter, a Tall might be 6 feet even.  It's all relative.  But to be clear... when it's me talking about Talls, they're over 6'4.

Advantages of dating Talls:

1. easy to find in crowded places
2. can reach tall things for you with go-go-gadget arms
3. previously mentioned go-go-gadget arms are good snuggling arms
4. Talls (in my experience) give good piggy back rides
5. big people have more blood in their bodies, so their hearts are bigger [cue audience: "awww"]

What can I offer a Tall?  Well, my shoulders serve well as arm rests.  And they can set their beers on my head (years of balancing books for posture make this a viable solution in terms of cupholders).  It's also been suggested that shorter girls have a lower center of gravity, which could be Very Useful in the bedroom.  I remain skeptical.


So, anyone who knows cute Talls can send them my way.  In the meantime, I'll be stalking Ann Arbor, hunting down the last couple of Talls I haven't already terrorized.


L

my encounters with online dating

Yeah, you read that right.  I've joined the 20% of single people out there who use online dating services.  It all started about a year ago, when my best friend MC Hammer convinced me to sign up for a free online dating site.  I was feeling down on the dating front, and this was his prescription for my ailment.  I put up a profile picture, and I construct what I think will be a clever, delightful personal summary:

I'm what some would call a living, breathing paradox: Book-smart, but no street smarts. Outgoing and bubbly, but weirdly shy. Super girly, with a secret love for Star Wars and Star Trek. Love to be on the move, but love vegging out on my sofa. Love to be surrounded by people, but cherish alone time. I'm a health nut, but I love to eat mass quantities of Cheetos. And that's just the tip of the iceberg...

I go on to reveal that sushi is my favorite food, I love J. Crew and champagne, and I sleep with a nightlight.  Pretty harmless stuff, right?  So you would think ... [insert ominous sound effects here].

I start getting 5 or 6 messages a day from would-be online suitors.  They range the gamut from "What's your favorite sushi restaurant in Ann Arbor?" to "hey sxyy" to "What's your favorite Star Trek series?" to "I'm starting a foot modeling website..." Yeah.

And then Miami Moe messages me.  We both went to the same undergrad, we have dozens of mutual Facebook friends (Very Important Qualification), and he seems cute, nice and normal.  In a moment of daring, I agree to meet him in Detroit for the MAC championship game at Ford Field.  I tell no less than 10 people where I'm going, with strict instructions to call the cops if I don't text/call by a certain time.  Hey-- I've read the articles about the Craigslist Killer.  I have a wonderful time.  Moe is awesome! Cute, nice, respectful, the whole shebang.  We hang out for a few months, I meet his friends, he cooks me dinner, yadda yadda yadda.  And then one day he casually mentions that he masturbated in the car on his way to see me.  Let's just say that was a dealbreaker.  I booked it and never looked back. 

Cut to four months later, when Zanzibar messages me.  (I stayed on the site after the Miami Moe Incident-- the narcissist in me likes the messages telling me I'm pretty.)  Zanzibar is super cute, and seems like a well-rounded normal person.  I agree to meet for drinks at Sava's, one of my favorite places in town-- and his!  (Could we be soul mates?)  We have a nice time, good conversation, he says we should get together again, sends a follow-up text, and then.... nothing.  Jerk.  I  vow to never again be rejected by someone who I met online, and immediately delete my account.

Online dating is supposed to increase efficiency and decrease the "chance factor" of meeting The One.  But if a 90% match based on the Super Fancy Calculators that the sites have doesn't yield anything positive, is it really that efficient?  I could go on dates with 10 guys a week who I have a 90+% match with, but without that special "spark," all I'll have done is wasted my time (currently valued at $12.50 an hour, apparently).  I'd rather hit the bars and count on serendipity.  Worst case?  I'll have quality time with my friends, and maybe even jump in a kiddie pool.

L

PS:  I do believe that online dating can be successful-- I know a couple who met online that are now engaged.  Or, if you're like MC Hammer, you can ask out a girl online who never responds, only to start dating her roommate.... Awkward.

lindsey's guide to running marathons stoopidly

I ran a marathon this weekend at the Sunburst Races in South Bend, Indiana.  It's a nifty race, starting at the College Football Hall of Fame, and finishing on the 50-yard line of Notre Dame's stadium.  I finished the race in 4:03:01 in the midst of a heat advisory-- 86 degrees and 90% humidity.  My training plan?

1. Binge drink, rage, or go to happy hour 3-4 times a week.
2. Eat out every night.  The more burritos, pizza, and excessive amounts of sushi the better.
3. Play indoor soccer twice a week, and power walk once a week so you can gossip with girlfriends.
4. Run 5 miles 4 days before the race, just to see if you can.

I've done some Extensive Internet Research, and this is by far the funnest training plan on the web. The results of this genius/stoopid training?  A roller coaster of a marathon, as illustrated below:

Mile Zero:  It's 5am, and my stomach is upset because I was stoopid enough to drink milk without a Lactaid pill the night before.  It's 70 degrees and super sticky.  I drink some Diet Coke and cross my fingers that I don't die.

Miles 1-3: I'm flashing my Azzn peace signs to photographers, and I'm cruising along jamming out to Glee tunes.  Life is GOOD!!

 

Miles 4-11:  Man, it's starting to feel hot.  I'm sweating up a storm, but that hasn't stopped me from noticing when the course doubles on itself that there's a Really Cute Tall in third place.  Still cruising at an 8:15 pace and feeling like a (sweaty) rockstar.

 
Miles 12-14:  I pass the half-marathon mark at 1:48:45.  It dawns on me that I'm only half way.  My legs are still going, but it's taking a little more effort.  The pure adrenaline that's been fueling this run seems to be running out.  I also notice that I can't feel my right toes.  This can only mean bad things. 


Mile 15:  I quickly spiral into despair.  I'm hot and sweaty, I'm tired, and this is the Stoopidest Thing I've Ever Decided To Do.  WHY would I ever sign up for a marathon?  WHY would I not train?  I start planning escape routes.  Maybe if I throw myself into a car at one of the intersections, I won't have to finish.  Maybe I'll pass out and the paramedics can take me home.  My legs hurt, I feel like there's a blister on the tip of each of my toes (the ones that I can feel), and I'm ready to give up.  I run an 11-minute mile. 
 

AND THEN.... a shining light in my moment of darkness.  Kiwi.  My darling, beautiful, freckled, iphone-toting sister Kiwi is there, cheering me on from the sidelines!  My spirits soar.  I flash my peace signs for her camera, chat a little, and continue on my way.

Miles 16-20:  The red (warning) flag is up.  It's HOT.  There are salt crystals starting to form on my skin from all of the sweat. I start drinking one cup of gatorade, half a cup of water, and splashing the rest on my face to cool off.  Despite it all, I'm deliriously happy.  I'm listening to Glee's rendition of Endless Love, and seriously-- there could not be a better running song in that moment.  I'm chatting up other runners, and I've made a new friend.  Plus, I get another glimpse of the Really Cute Tall in the front pack   I do have a slight freak-out moment when I allow a volunteer to dump water on me from a gallon jug, and my ipod stops.  Water + electronics = bad?  But it miraculously starts again, and I keep on keeping on.  

Miles 21-26:  I finish out of sheer stubbornness.  (See to the right for my poor depiction of "grim determination").  I've made it this far, and I'm not turning back now!  My legs feel heavy, my gluteus maximus is killing me, but I'm not going to let anything stop me.  With a mile left to go, I pass little children holding up a sign that says "What are you, a potato?  You sure are running like one!"  and I laugh.  And when I see the stadium ahead, I quickly flip on Snoop Dogg's "Drop It Like It's Hot," and sprint across the finish line at 4:03:01.  

Though I'm proud of myself for finishing, knowing that I relied on natural athleticism I didn't even know I had doesn't feel like much to be proud of.  Also, my butt and quads are killing me.  Moral of this story?  Train for a marathon, Stoopid.

L