My name is Stephanie. Welcome to my blog. Or welcome back. I started blogging back in 2008. Back then I was at a little piece of the internet called "chocolate and whine." Cute, huh? My BFF thinks so, too. I believe his exact words were "that's way better than Stephanie Harsh." Asshole. I moved a few times for various reasons, but mostly because I'm never happy, and here it is, 2012, and I'm still not happy.
But that has little to do with where I blog and more to do with where I live. Which is at home. With my parents. Which is horrifying at any age, but at 30? I'm crying myself to sleep and popping Xanax like something you pop frequently.
I live with my parents because I'm divorced. Yes, I'm 30 and divorced and bitter to boot. And I'm broke. Hella broke. (Do people still say "hella?") Mostly I'm broke because of credit cards the devil made me use. And also I'm broke because I'm saving every. fucking. penny. to move out. This doesn't stop me from going out too often with my best pal.
I like vodka tonics and lemon drop martinis and I like to snack when I'm drinking which means I spend too much money at the bars and I'm, well, fat. Yes, I'm a fatty. I wasn't always fat. I was fat and then I was thin for a little while and now I'm fat again. Which means weight loss blog posts are in both our futures. And let's admit it. We need another weight loss blog like we need another... blog.
I have a positive outlook on life while being incredibly negative at the same time. I use the F word too often. I drink Starbucks daily. I read terribly nasty novels. But also some very sweet young adult novels which totally cancels out the dirty nasty. I'm a Twihard. I procrastinate like a champ. And I spend most of my time working for a company that is so not in my career plans. I've been there for twelve years.
I hate black licorice, candy corn and believe the only good that comes from olives is the fun one can have when one puts them on their fingertips and pretends one is an alien. Also, I abuse parenthesis, quotation marks, and exclamation points. Let's have some fun.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Creeper.
I went to the library tonight. I even checked out a few books. (A habit my wallet only hopes I'll maintain.) I've been to this particular library before. Once. I wrote the post "how to start a novel" while I was there. Walking in, I was totally taken aback to that first visit. You see, I'm the kind of person who hates not knowing what I'm doing or where I'm going. It took me a long time to understand this about myself, but now I know. I rely on the buddy system. Unfortunately I didn't have a buddy the first time I went to this particular library. But it's a library! What could go wrong? Not wanting to look like a complete newb, I walked in and made an immediate right. I just wanted a place to sit, settle, and blend in. I quickly found a table and did just that. Twenty minutes later, after settling and, you know, taking in my surroundings, I realized my mistake. I was sitting in the children's section. Suddenly it all made sense why the desks and chairs seemed so small. I sat there for several more minutes... just so it would appear that I meant to sit there all along. Then I fake looked at my wrist like I was checking the time and made like I was late for ANYTHING. (FYI, I don't wear a watch.) Tonight I walked straight to the information desk. I asked the nice librarians, "could you please point me in the right direction?" and they did just that. Sometimes I'm amazed by what acting like a mature adult can accomplish.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Bombs.
I work with a lady who Starbucks bombs me on a regular basis. And this wouldn’t be a bad thing (it would be a freaking fantastic thing) if I actually liked her. But I don’t. In fact, I despise her with a passion the likes of which I’ve never in 30 (whole years!) experienced. I hate this woman so much that even when she manages to slither in and sneak a Starbucks my way I DON’T WANT IT. Me! Not want Starbucks! Not want a perfectly made toffee nut latte! CAN YOU IMAGINE!? That is how much I detest this woman.
A Starbucks bomb is a Starbucks drink that appears, almost magically, from out of nowhere. And normally you’d think how amazing is THIS! because when does anything ever just appear? Especially something that you love beyond reason or common sense. (If I had any sense I’d stop spending my hard-earned money- I mean, earned money on frickin’ coffee.) But then you realize where- er, who it came from and suddenly it's the most disgusting thing ever created. You'd rather drink puke beer. (Whatever you do, don't click on that link. It's a horrible, disgusting video, but it was the only way I could make you understand how much I loathe this woman. I'd rather drink puke beer.)
Okay, clearly you need an example. I'll give you two. And then I'll actually get to the point. (You're welcome.)
Example #1. A couple of weeks ago, I get to work, get settled, and start to, well, work. Or, you know, whatever it is I do here. An hour in and it's time for Starbucks. My coffee is delicious! I enjoy it immensely! Then I'm done and I throw it away. A little while later, there's a Starbucks cup sitting near my elbow. I think that's strange. Didn't I throw that away, like, an hour ago? I assume I didn't and I pick up said cup to do just that when, whaddya know! IT'S A WHOLE NEW DRINK! She never said a word. I didn't even know she left the room! I'm pretty sure she's psychotic.
Example #2. Last week we set up a satellite check-in desk in one of our ballrooms. Me and a few other people were out of the office and stationed there for the day. I'm doing my thing, talking to people, offering my expert assistance and generally being a superstar as is the norm when I glance to my left and find a Starbucks gift card. I turn to a coworker and ask, "where did this come from?" To which he replies, "Stephanie brought that a few minutes ago."
(Yes, her name is Stephanie. Just. Like. Mine. The universe is having a good laugh over this. That asshole.)
Peeps, this was no easy feat! Here, I'll show you. The ballroom we were in was approximately 10,000 square feet. (That's not an exaggeration.) It looks like this:
Inside this too-huge-for-what-we-had-planned room, we had six stations set up.
And I was on the far side of the room.
Imagine all these little x's-turned-scribbles-'cause-I-got-lazy are bodies. And that circle at the top of the line? That's a podium that I forgot to finish drawing. Whoops.
Now this Starbucks bomber (I refuse to call her Stephanie) made it through the entire freaking room and back without being seen by me.
She's nuts, I tell you!
She bought me the Starbucks card for my birthday. (Haven't you heard? I'm 30 now.) (When should I start picking out caskets?) Before you call me a complete bitch, who in their right mind buys a gift and DOESN'T SAY ANYTHING?! This is not normal behavior.
Anyway. That's the Starbucks bomb.
Let me tell you about another type of bomb. The e-mail bomb. These come in all sorts of styles. You've all probably received one at some time or another. I received one on my birthday of all days. My 30th birthday. (30. Fuck.) And it came from the father I haven't heard from in ten years. Ten. Years. Since that one day I called and invited him to my wedding and he said he already had plans. And what did his e-mail say?
"Happy Birthday."
First of all, "Birthday" should not be capitalized. By using a period, you've made this a sentence. You Don't Capitalize Every Word In A Sentence. Duh. (Just like you don't use "your" when you mean "you're." And I don't care if that book was only a dollar. I've decided that mistake is unforgivable in a PUBLISHED BOOK.)
Second, THAT'S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY? After ten years? To be quite honest, I'd rather you say nothing at all. Because, to be quite honest again, the (non-existent) relationship we have now is JUST FINE BY ME. No, really, it is. I'm not just saying that because I'm this sad little (or not so little) (dieting still sucks) girl with daddy issues. I may have daddy issues, but I'll take the issues over the daddy every day of the week. (I really hate the word "daddy.") (And, since we're on the subject, the word "panties.") (And, yes, I just used the words "daddy" and "panties" in the same freaking paragraph. I've lost all control of this post.)
So, here's my public service announcement:
Bombs, any sort of bombs, whether they include Starbucks or not (although, now that I think about it, if you're going to bomb someone, you probably should include their favorite coffee), are not okay. If you have something to say, SAY IT. Be polite and courteous and USE YOUR WORDS. Don't make a person wonder what you mean or why now. We all have enough going on in our lives without the added crazy that comes with an unexpected e-mail from someone you have no interest in hearing from and never expected to hear from in the first place! (Please picture me waving my hands around very dramatically otherwise you're not gonna get the full effect.)
Now I'm stepping off my soap box (is that the right term here?) and saying goodbye forever!
But, you know, not really on the forever part.
A Starbucks bomb is a Starbucks drink that appears, almost magically, from out of nowhere. And normally you’d think how amazing is THIS! because when does anything ever just appear? Especially something that you love beyond reason or common sense. (If I had any sense I’d stop spending my hard-earned money- I mean, earned money on frickin’ coffee.) But then you realize where- er, who it came from and suddenly it's the most disgusting thing ever created. You'd rather drink puke beer. (Whatever you do, don't click on that link. It's a horrible, disgusting video, but it was the only way I could make you understand how much I loathe this woman. I'd rather drink puke beer.)
Okay, clearly you need an example. I'll give you two. And then I'll actually get to the point. (You're welcome.)
Example #1. A couple of weeks ago, I get to work, get settled, and start to, well, work. Or, you know, whatever it is I do here. An hour in and it's time for Starbucks. My coffee is delicious! I enjoy it immensely! Then I'm done and I throw it away. A little while later, there's a Starbucks cup sitting near my elbow. I think that's strange. Didn't I throw that away, like, an hour ago? I assume I didn't and I pick up said cup to do just that when, whaddya know! IT'S A WHOLE NEW DRINK! She never said a word. I didn't even know she left the room! I'm pretty sure she's psychotic.
Example #2. Last week we set up a satellite check-in desk in one of our ballrooms. Me and a few other people were out of the office and stationed there for the day. I'm doing my thing, talking to people, offering my expert assistance and generally being a superstar as is the norm when I glance to my left and find a Starbucks gift card. I turn to a coworker and ask, "where did this come from?" To which he replies, "Stephanie brought that a few minutes ago."
(Yes, her name is Stephanie. Just. Like. Mine. The universe is having a good laugh over this. That asshole.)
Peeps, this was no easy feat! Here, I'll show you. The ballroom we were in was approximately 10,000 square feet. (That's not an exaggeration.) It looks like this:
Inside this too-huge-for-what-we-had-planned room, we had six stations set up.
And I was on the far side of the room.
Imagine all these little x's-turned-scribbles-'cause-I-got-lazy are bodies. And that circle at the top of the line? That's a podium that I forgot to finish drawing. Whoops.
Now this Starbucks bomber (I refuse to call her Stephanie) made it through the entire freaking room and back without being seen by me.
She's nuts, I tell you!
She bought me the Starbucks card for my birthday. (Haven't you heard? I'm 30 now.) (When should I start picking out caskets?) Before you call me a complete bitch, who in their right mind buys a gift and DOESN'T SAY ANYTHING?! This is not normal behavior.
Anyway. That's the Starbucks bomb.
Let me tell you about another type of bomb. The e-mail bomb. These come in all sorts of styles. You've all probably received one at some time or another. I received one on my birthday of all days. My 30th birthday. (30. Fuck.) And it came from the father I haven't heard from in ten years. Ten. Years. Since that one day I called and invited him to my wedding and he said he already had plans. And what did his e-mail say?
"Happy Birthday."
First of all, "Birthday" should not be capitalized. By using a period, you've made this a sentence. You Don't Capitalize Every Word In A Sentence. Duh. (Just like you don't use "your" when you mean "you're." And I don't care if that book was only a dollar. I've decided that mistake is unforgivable in a PUBLISHED BOOK.)
Second, THAT'S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY? After ten years? To be quite honest, I'd rather you say nothing at all. Because, to be quite honest again, the (non-existent) relationship we have now is JUST FINE BY ME. No, really, it is. I'm not just saying that because I'm this sad little (or not so little) (dieting still sucks) girl with daddy issues. I may have daddy issues, but I'll take the issues over the daddy every day of the week. (I really hate the word "daddy.") (And, since we're on the subject, the word "panties.") (And, yes, I just used the words "daddy" and "panties" in the same freaking paragraph. I've lost all control of this post.)
So, here's my public service announcement:
Bombs, any sort of bombs, whether they include Starbucks or not (although, now that I think about it, if you're going to bomb someone, you probably should include their favorite coffee), are not okay. If you have something to say, SAY IT. Be polite and courteous and USE YOUR WORDS. Don't make a person wonder what you mean or why now. We all have enough going on in our lives without the added crazy that comes with an unexpected e-mail from someone you have no interest in hearing from and never expected to hear from in the first place! (Please picture me waving my hands around very dramatically otherwise you're not gonna get the full effect.)
Now I'm stepping off my soap box (is that the right term here?) and saying goodbye forever!
But, you know, not really on the forever part.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Edward. And another failed resolution. Naturally.
2010 was an interesting year. (Yes, I'm taking us back just a bit.) My then husband and I had just moved into a new apartment and promptly split up. But before the drama there was a New Years resolution. One I never told you about because (gasp!) I never finished it and sometimes I just don't want to admit to quitting. Again. But I found these photos and they made me so happy (and so disappointed for not following through for ONCE IN MY LIFE) that I had to share.
Oh. The resolution? Was to take a picture of Edward every day for a year. In my defense, I did not buy myself the doll. A friend did. And I still have it, so maybe, one day, I'll take up right where I left off. (But maybe probably not.)
January 1, 2010 | "Today, Edward took up permanent residence in my purse for the adventure of a life time." (These captions are what I had typed in on Flickr. Sometimes my cleverness knows no bounds.)
January 2, 2010 | "Posing in front of the Christmas lights that SOMEONE has yet to put away. (And, by "someone," I mean me.)"
January 2, 2010 bonus! | "I just like twinkle lights."
January 3, 2010 | "I went to bed for a much needed nap, but made the mistake of bringing my laptop. I got distracted and we watched Under the Tuscan Sun instead."
January 4, 2010 | "Wrapping a Christmas gift that come TEN DAYS LATE. (NFLshop? You suck.) And the tape? Well, one of Edward's legs is longer than the other. Something Stephenie Meyer failed to mention this in the books."
January 5, 2010 | "Neglected on the dining room table."
January 6, 2010 | "Helping me choose a recipe. As you can see, he takes this very seriously."
January 7, 2010 | "In a Target dressing room."
January 7, 2010 bonus! | "Bonus picture. After leaving the Target dressing room, I was so mad at myself for not having the balls to take a picture in public that I threw him into a bin of bargain panties and snapped a picture. Yes, really. You're welcome."
January 8, 2010 | "At the movies where we watched Leap Year (awful) and then movie hopped because he just had to see himself in New Moon. For a 5th time. He has a problem. (By the way. Flash. Ew.)"
The end.
8 days. Pitiful, huh?
So, what do you think? Continue some day? Or let it stay in the past?
Oh. The resolution? Was to take a picture of Edward every day for a year. In my defense, I did not buy myself the doll. A friend did. And I still have it, so maybe, one day, I'll take up right where I left off. (But maybe probably not.)
January 1, 2010 | "Today, Edward took up permanent residence in my purse for the adventure of a life time." (These captions are what I had typed in on Flickr. Sometimes my cleverness knows no bounds.)
January 2, 2010 | "Posing in front of the Christmas lights that SOMEONE has yet to put away. (And, by "someone," I mean me.)"
January 2, 2010 bonus! | "I just like twinkle lights."
January 3, 2010 | "I went to bed for a much needed nap, but made the mistake of bringing my laptop. I got distracted and we watched Under the Tuscan Sun instead."
January 4, 2010 | "Wrapping a Christmas gift that come TEN DAYS LATE. (NFLshop? You suck.) And the tape? Well, one of Edward's legs is longer than the other. Something Stephenie Meyer failed to mention this in the books."
January 5, 2010 | "Neglected on the dining room table."
January 6, 2010 | "Helping me choose a recipe. As you can see, he takes this very seriously."
January 7, 2010 | "In a Target dressing room."
January 7, 2010 bonus! | "Bonus picture. After leaving the Target dressing room, I was so mad at myself for not having the balls to take a picture in public that I threw him into a bin of bargain panties and snapped a picture. Yes, really. You're welcome."
January 8, 2010 | "At the movies where we watched Leap Year (awful) and then movie hopped because he just had to see himself in New Moon. For a 5th time. He has a problem. (By the way. Flash. Ew.)"
The end.
8 days. Pitiful, huh?
So, what do you think? Continue some day? Or let it stay in the past?
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Cars. Those finicky little bastards.
I made my very last car payment a few days ago. Naturally, as soon as I hit "submit payment," the problems started. Suddenly that poor car was running a lot louder than normal and, horror of all horrors, I couldn't get above 60 without fearing the whole damn thing was going to break apart into a million tiny pieces. And, FYI, there's a whole other reason to fear for your life when you're doing 60 MPH on the 5 freeway and it's called OTHER DRIVERS. So, the car is in the shop and I'm waiting for them to call and let me know what they'd like to name my first born child and let me just say this: that little Toyota better enjoy this extra attention because, so help me, I am not putting another dime into it for at least... well, three months. Which is when I'll need my next oil change.
How's your car holding up these days?
How's your car holding up these days?
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
It's like I don't even know myself.
I've been thinking about Twilight a lot lately. Mostly because I put my big, huge Edward poster in my trunk to be taken to Goodwill. Yes, really. Except I'm kinda embarrassed to even take it to Goodwill and have to actually hand it over to a real, live human so it's just been sitting in my trunk for, like, three weeks. Maybe longer.
Anyway. Last night... or, technically, this morning... I stayed up reading. Until nearly six a.m.. I was reading Obsidian. When I started it a couple days ago (the first 30% was kinda slow hence "a couple days ago") (and, yes, I think in percentages) (thanks Kindle!) I very quickly saw similarities to Twilight. Except instead of vampires, aliens. Yes, aliens.
Edward is an alien and his name is really Daemon Black and he's super hot and also kind of an asshole but with the quick wit to actually pull it off (unlike in Twilight where he would brood a lot and mostly stay silent). I love Daemon. Oh, and Bella? I mean Katy? (Her name is Katy now.) She's BAD. ASS. She stands up for herself and tells
Despite my nocturnal reading frenzy, I did not finish the book until my sister woke me up just four short hours after finally succumbing to sleep. As soon as I was done, I went to download book two. Except I was quickly informed that book two HADN'T BEEN PUBLISHED YET and wouldn't be for another TWO MONTHS. (And did I mention I hate waiting?) I was all sorts of frustrated.
So then I went to Goodreads. 'Cause I add all my books to Goodreads. I love Goodreads. It's everything I used to love about book stores (remember those?) without having to get dressed and leave the house and, you know, talk to people. Unless you want to. I lose big chunks of time on Goodreads.
I pulled up Obsidian and added it to my "2012" shelf and did all the other things I do to keep obsessively meticulous records of my books (because I'm a freak) and then I stopped and just stared at the stars. 4 stars? 5 starts? I didn't know. I really liked Obsidian but did I think it was amazing? No. But in comparison to Twilight? I don't even know how to answer that! There were things about Obsidian that I liked more... but I love love loved Twilight. Didn't I?
Truth is I'm starting to forget what it is I loved about it. And who's to say I wouldn't like this new series better if all the books were already written and readily available? Is how a person feels about one book impacted by the whole of the series? When I joined Goodreads, I had already read the entire Twilight series. I added them and gave each 5 stars because HELLO?! IT'S TWILIGHT. But what if I had read the books after joining and had rated them one at a time as I finished? I can't help but wonder if my ratings for each book would be different today.
Peeps, you may be sitting there thinking to yourself that I've gone and gotten all panties-in-a-twist about something NOT AT ALL important, but to you I ask one question: have you underestimated my utter infatuation with all things Twilight? Do you need to go scroll through the archives to reacquaint yourself with the obsession? (Yes, I realize that was two questions.) This whole Obsidian vs. Twilight thing is keeping me up at night and making me question MY VERY EXISTENCE. No, not really, but it's close!
Monday, June 11, 2012
Write Poorly
This struck such a chord with me, I had to share it. It's a poetry slam from the book Point of Retreat by Colleen Hoover. (Still not sure I'm using the word "slam" correctly.) Anyway, it's good. (As were the books.)
"Write poorly.
Suck.
Write awful.
Terribly.
Frightfully.
Don't care.
Turn off the inner editor.
Let yourself write.
Let it flow.
Let yourself fail.
Do something crazy.
Write fifty thousand words in the month of November.
I did it.
It was fun, it was insane, it was one thousand six hundred and sixty seven words a day.
It was possible
But, you have to turn off your inner critic.
Off completely.
Just write.
Quickly.
In bursts.
With joy.
If you can't write, run away for a few.
Come back.
Write again.
Writing is like anything else.
You won't get good at it immediately.
It's a craft you have to keep getting better.
You don't get to Julliard unless you practice.
If you want to get to Carengie Hall, practice, practice, practice.
...or give them a lot of money.
Like anything else, it takes ten thousand hours to get to mastery.
Just like Malcolm Gladwell says.
So write.
Fail.
Get your thoughts down.
Let it rest.
Let it marinate.
Then edit.
But don't edit as your type, that just slows down the brain.
Find a daily practice, for me it's blogging every day.
And it's fun.
The more you write, the easier it gets. The more it is a flow, the less a worry. It's not for school, it's not for a grade, it's just to get your thoughts out there.
You know they want to come out.
So keep at it. Make it a practice. And write poorly, write awfully, write with abandon and it may end up being
really
really
good."
~ Edmund Davis-Quinn
"Write poorly.
Suck.
Write awful.
Terribly.
Frightfully.
Don't care.
Turn off the inner editor.
Let yourself write.
Let it flow.
Let yourself fail.
Do something crazy.
Write fifty thousand words in the month of November.
I did it.
It was fun, it was insane, it was one thousand six hundred and sixty seven words a day.
It was possible
But, you have to turn off your inner critic.
Off completely.
Just write.
Quickly.
In bursts.
With joy.
If you can't write, run away for a few.
Come back.
Write again.
Writing is like anything else.
You won't get good at it immediately.
It's a craft you have to keep getting better.
You don't get to Julliard unless you practice.
If you want to get to Carengie Hall, practice, practice, practice.
...or give them a lot of money.
Like anything else, it takes ten thousand hours to get to mastery.
Just like Malcolm Gladwell says.
So write.
Fail.
Get your thoughts down.
Let it rest.
Let it marinate.
Then edit.
But don't edit as your type, that just slows down the brain.
Find a daily practice, for me it's blogging every day.
And it's fun.
The more you write, the easier it gets. The more it is a flow, the less a worry. It's not for school, it's not for a grade, it's just to get your thoughts out there.
You know they want to come out.
So keep at it. Make it a practice. And write poorly, write awfully, write with abandon and it may end up being
really
really
good."
~ Edmund Davis-Quinn
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Easy by Tammara Webber
I love this cover. It fits the book so perfectly and even (maybe ridiculously) brings to mind the old chicken riddle. Which came first: the chicken or the egg? Or in this case, the book or the cover? Now I know which came first (at least, I think I do), but in that tiny, beat-down part of my brain that was once wistful and romantic, I could look at this cover and almost imagine someone else being so enchanted by it that they felt a need to write their story. "Their" being two people so internally lovely and strong you can't help but fall in love yourself. Oh, sure, there was plenty of conflict, but not the overly-complicated pull-your-hair-out kind of drama that makes you want to put your head through a wall. I loved Lucas and Jacqueline... and not just as a couple, but as individuals as well. I just plain loved all over this book. There couldn't possibly have been a better one to read after the neurotic shit-storm that was Thoughtless. (Yes, I'm still talking about it.) I am hoping with every fiber of my being that Ms. Webber sees fit to continue this story. (My wistful parts are sighing with longing.)
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