“I said squeeze your anus, not your butt!”

Ah yes, folks. Squeeze your anus. It is harder than it sounds. Or maybe it isn’t? It is definitely a complicated thought when you are upside down. That, I can guarantee.

The fact that I am squeezing my anus right now and relaxing my glutes is testament to the fact that because I managed to sort it out in a handstand with a particularly nice-assed male giving directions, anyone can – eventually – sort it out with their head above their groin.

So – if anyone is curious – if you’d like to stay in a handstand, SQUEEZE YOUR ANUS. Check? Check! Great activity – applicable to many things. Werk it. Put it on your resume.

On the subject of nice asses, Spain is ripe with them. I am fairly sure I’ve even made myself blush with the primordial ravaging passing through my brain like a pornographic View-Master while watching the boys at CrossFit Fuengirola do, well, anything.

Show me that prisoner’s squat again, not sure I got it. Also, definitely need at least seven more examples of the proper body positioning for a dead lift. Matter of fact, better review the power snatch for three consecutive days. (<- that actually happened; its like the owners had a pow-wow about just how sad it is for those of us (me) who can’t figure out how to do it without looking like C-3PO is trying out Crossfit.) Three glorious days.

In a summer filled with juicy, sensual fruit, beautiful yogis and rock hard beaches? it is no wonder my lips stay open just a little too long in awe of all of the mouth-watering goodness.

Also, here is a less-sexy behind view sent from a friend who was abroad; you are welcome.

IMG_9560

 

Advertisements

Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,

Today I locked myself out of my parents’ house. I tried all of the windows and ran my hand over the ledge above the front door to no avail.

I bet you are wondering how I got locked out. Well, I’ll tell you but it is TOP SECRET. (Only Sarah knows. And you, of course.)

This Thursday I have dinner reservations in the city and I am SO PUMPED! Except we booked three months in advance and OMG I don’t have a date. Because I’m (mildly) deranged, I started pouring through Facebook friends that went to Pennsbury HS and then looking at friend’s of friends. It got a bit messy. Finally, I texted my sister to ask her if there was anyone I had a crush on in High School because I couldn’t think of anyone. Really? No cursive heart bubbles on my brown paper bag wrapped books?

<Side note: Do kids still do that? A lot of stores don’t even use paper bags anymore…>

Anyway, I went to the storage above the garage in my leggings, glasses, loose fitting sheer top (no bra) to find my yearbook for clues. [editors note: my sister thinks that this is what I wear every day…she might be right.]

When my parents moved, basically we each got a container. Maybe two. Our lives, boiled down to two containers. I guess that is fair – though no one can find a baby picture of me if you asked them to.

Digging around, I found a yearbook with no signatures. Did that stop? Did I really have no friends my senior year? Possibly – I had an older boyfriend… I don’t know.

But here is the crazy thing. I came down carrying an armful of diaries and a huge tin of (what looks like) every note from the 90s that I ever passed back and forth that ended in my hands, nearly tripping over a bin of gardening tools obstructing the stairs.

Sweaty but amused by my find, I tried to open the door I came from. Locked. It turns out all of the doors were locked. And the windows. (Note: I just got in yesterday so every window is locked because I haven’t been using the windows to lean my body out to smoke weed or anything.)

Fuuuuuck. I start walking to my dad’s university which is pretty close. Then I realize there is a bike!!! I ride like a madwoman. Here’s the thing, though: the bike seat was incredibly low. The helmet incredibly old. The hill! Oh my god, the hill!!! I had to walk the bike up. And then the terror of going down…horrifying.

Pedal. Pedal. Pedal. I’m at campus now and I kind of remember… I see the science building but when I get close, it doesn’t look familiar. Oh yeah, I think. Dooling Hall. Undergraduate Dean’s Office is is Dooling. I pedal. The bike seat shifts awkwardly because after I raised it, I didn’t tighten it enough.

Surprise, DAD!

I had him snap a photo:

FullSizeRender

My dad didn’t actually have a key? So I told him to wait ten minutes and meet me back home. I figured, might as well flip through these diaries that caused all this trouble.

So, if you made it this far in the post, here is a little treat:

  1. Apparently I’ve been eating Chinese food and cleaning up in costumes since the 90s:FullSizeRender_2

Also, I ❤ Kyle! and Who the fuck took that picture?! Oy vey! << also, who is Kyle? >>

2: FROM THE INTERNET!!! FullSizeRender_1

TTYL!!

Love,

Andrea

 

You’re Beautiful and I Appreciate You

As we all prepare for what comes with the Trump era, I’m going to pause to point out something great.

img_3361I have been S E R I O U S L Y trying to be excited about how many work projects I have. Yay! But also annoyed that my fitness goals aren’t exactly on point and why the fuck is this boy ignoring me? Also what the fuck is with all of this laundry!? I don’t even have any clothes!!!

Sometimes you just have to get out of bed.

Even if you don’t want to. (Wayyyy better chance of staying in bed if you don’t have kids or recently got fired from your job, BTW)

But yesterday, I did get out of bed. With gusto. (Ish.) I spent the day in a satin robe with my best friend doing laundry and getting paid to write. Not the interesting, sexy or inspiring writing. But something that is paying the bills and allows us to do just what we were doing. Lingerie. Coffee. Best friends and avocado toast while dealing with annoying people.

After class I hit the library to do more work at at 11:30, feeling deflated because I still had a long To Do list for the morning, and while I was excited about clean sheets, I just remembered that they were still in the dryer, a car pulled up next to me with their window down. Mine was down too (balmy NOLA “winter”). They said “Hey!” and I said “Hey!” back. The guy driving and girl in the passenger seat were both snacking on something that looked like it was recently picked up from a drive-through.

I don’t know if I knew them or not. But then they shouted over: “You’re beautiful and I appreciate you!”

Something similar happened the other day when I was dropping off items from a photo shoot. A woman at the boutique I just exited paused to tell me how great I looked.

This is not to sound vain – the point is that I felt frazzled and disgusting (why is my car smelling like mold and about to overheat – again) and stressed to the max so it was particularly nice to see how something small can really help shift perspective.

This guy at the bar the other day (I was working, he was a customer) told me to “Stay out of the real world as long as possible.”

I’m fairly sure I’m in the “Real World” and, incidentally, recently got fired from that shitty bartending gig anyway.
So, for all those who are heading out on the town this weekend, remember to be kind. Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others.
Also, here is a poem we read last night:
screen-shot-2017-01-18-at-10-52-52-am

HELLLPPP! Uber, I’m lost!

Well, internet. I’ve delayed well into 2017 to save myself (and you all) the trouble of a “Gosh 2016 was the pits!” and “Good riddance and fuck off!” and “I bet if I change absolutely nothing and keep repeating the same behaviors, 2017 will be ah-may-zing” post.

You are welcome. And 2017 is going to be Totally. Amazing. Although I’m a bit terrified of what is going to happen to the EPA funding, the color orange, and anything rococo. (Don’t bother looking that up – it is the word for “Late Baroque” a la the new First Family’s home, reportedly decorated in a “color scheme of warm neutrals, such as gold, beige, rose, and blush, throughout” according to HomeBeautfiul.com.

Anyway, there will be plenty about that when half of the country turns themselves a shade of cheese-in-a-canister. All the rage up on Capitol Hill.

But back to me. I started off with a B A N G! So, you’re welcome, 2017. (I kissed a girl and I liked it.) No cherry Chapstick, though.

AND I did really well being swanky and sexy with my lovely ladyfriends for New Years Eve but somehow have spiraled since not taking my furry coat and my sweet outfit out on the town for a post-party bar hop.

img_4962

Everyone join me in a solid mantra for 2017: “No crying over spilled blowcaine.”#real #adult #theotherwhitestuff (jk).

Unfortunately, my future seems a bit shaky as of now because the other day, after far (FAR) too many drinks, I was unable to get myself the few blocks to my best friend’s house. You might say I was lost.

No one, except maybe my Uber driver Kenneth, really knows what happened. However, I apparently managed to switch my regular Uber to “Uber Assist.” It is one tier below VIP. And, for 0.76 miles, 3:01 minutes, I did this:

img_5023

And after finding this email, nursed my hangover with a bottle of wine with a cutie who just sat like a trooper for *many* hours of tattooed artistry, and we looked up what, exactly, Uber Assist is.

“uberASSIST is an uberX option that is designed to provide additional assistance to seniors and people with disabilities. Driver-partners are specifically trained by a third party organization to assist riders into vehicles and can accommodate folding wheelchairs, walkers, and scooters.”

The two of us got a solid ab workout over this development. And, naturally, we hypothesized about “What the fuck is up with that circle?”

Option one: Kenneth said “Um, blackout drunk does not count for Uber Assistance. Get out of my car so I can help someone with a real need.”

Kenneth got tired of me.

Kenneth said “No way am I taking you to a wine bar!”

Or maybe, I tried to get to St. Patrick Street to go to my best friend’s house. A phone call says that her place was my intended direction and got us all sorts of turned around.

It is possible I tried to get him to take me home but then ended up having him take me back?

After a lot of that, we kind of ended on the idea that more than likely he was tired of my shit, realized I did not need Uber Assist and was like “Please go away” and decided it safe to drop me back near where he found me.

A mystery. Kenneth?! Anyone know you?!

So, if you need me, I’ll be in my bed.

 

 

Partners-N-Crime and PB&J

There are two main kinds of PB&J. The first, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Jameson. The second, that delicious sandwich. Both types of PB&J can fall anywhere within the range of “YESSSS! This is ahhhmaazing!!!” to “Just fucking shoot me.” The latter part of 2016 was asphyxiated by PB&J.

And, while usually names are omitted from the lovely Bananas, it is a little hard to do with this one because I’m talking about Jameson (but not that whiskey shot that may or may not kill me one day) – I’m talking about a human.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that 2016 was a particularly low point in Andrea-land. A few weeks ago I was on the phone with my mother and I said something like, “Ugh… October was really really fucking hard.” And my mom said without malice (but a tinge of irony), “Just October?” BITCH. Okay, not a bitch. But really, though. I know that my life is full of ups and downs. Maybe it is because I’m so wildly passionate? I found a great image to depict my life:

12305117-heart-beat-monitor-or-ekg

I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like the above image. Totally and completely unique.

Anyway, in August I reconnected with an old friend who used to run in the same party circle as me. We’ve known each other ten years and (after my first spout of shit talking) it was nice to hang out. He’s a bit of an enabler but also incredibly smart. Smart and likes to party. AKA Trouble.

Additionally, for a long time I was searching for (what I thought was) a Nelly song – “Hot Boys,” but that is a different thing. What I really wanted was this song:

So I have to thank him for solving that mystery. (Also, I guess thanks for the threesome. I dig it.)

But, back to the main point. My messed-up-as-fuck almost attorney “friend” who really and truly sucks.

I thought I could help him. Get his shit together. Finish law school. Sometimes I am better at giving a fuck about other people than myself. If you ask, I’m happy to help. But, despite the time spent together (he was homeless, I let him stay with me a few times), nothing ever moved forward. It was always someone’s fault – just definitely not his. It was some reason outside of his control that he didn’t have a job. (Not that he was drunk, late and maybe stealing.) Not his fault that he couldn’t finish his thesis. Not his fault that he has (another) child that he can’t afford.

Finally (we are talking about not that long of a time), I was over it. I didn’t want free drugs and I didn’t want (probably) stolen booze without mixers. I had no interest in staying up past 9 or 10 p.m. and I can’t stand falling asleep to TV. *

*For the record: This is deal breaker territory. I suffered through it with Hot Chef but not again and certainly not when you are rolling in drunk and staying for free in my bed and you are going to drive me crazy by drinking and smoking (helllo, I asked you to go outside a gazillion times with that cigarette!) and watching shit on my laptop. Woof.

I really didn’t think he should give up his dream. In every success, there are casualties along the way. I was willing, if he put out any effort, to potentially be one. But, we’d slept together. >>I’m human!!!<< And it made things messy because he is the definition of Bad News Bears and he totally fell for me. But, he wanted to keep it a “secret” because “what would people think?”

I didn’t keep it a secret, but I didn’t talk about it. It only happened a few times and I consistently and firmly told him that I was not interested in dating him and had no romantic feelings whatsoever. It just happened that he was party to a situation that I couldn’t immediately surgically remove from my life so it seemed easier to just let it ride.

Jameson is in the music industry (unemployed) and thought that because I like this song, I was obviously trying to send him a message through the lyrics. He clearly doesn’t read my blog. Let me summarize: a) I like the song and b) I actually don’t always listen to the lyrics of pop songs that much and c) 5 years of Sometimes Boyfriend might connect him to that song now that I am implored to pay more attention to the lyrics but *certainly* not crazy dude.

So, a few messy phone calls later… (him to my voicemail) many, many mean texts. (As my bestie, she got some fucked up shit typed on little phone keys too…) Horrific actually. Followed by me blocking his number… (I thought messages from a blocked number just go to LaLa Land, but I have 5 messages from his 985 # and I refuse to listen.)  and a bit of violence later, I was cleaning up my trashed apartment (he dumped multiple bottles of water on my bed because since I didn’t want to spend the night with him, he was *sure* I was inviting someone else over and proceeded to make a mess of my bed as a precautionary measure.) including flipping over the coffee table and just making a giant mess.

I wasn’t there for that – I left (because he wouldn’t) and then – he finally quit it.

He also posted this on my Facebook later:

screen-shot-2016-11-21-at-6-26-03-pm

^ Don’t know why I was Googling “Billy Crudup” and the search for “rehab” came from a looking at the multitude of bottles of Taaka bottles and the disaster that Jmo made when he broke into my apartment and threw a bunch of shit around.

** also, I would say that the very, very public Facebook page made all of this OFFICIALLY NOT A FUCKING SECRET. (And potentially a cause for concern…)

He tried to call me for awhile from other numbers but, since he never listened to anything I said, did not attempt between the hours when I am awake. Seriously. Get out of bed before 3 p.m. (or don’t!) but if you are crashing at my place because you can’t get your shit together and I go workout at 7am, at least when you *finally* leave my house around 4, take the trash down. It’s your mess anyway. Also, cool it on the nasty text messages to me. Definitely don’t nasty text my best friend. And mostly, stay the fuck away.

BTW, I’m moving. Let’s all say goodbye to my apartment for the past 5 years. It wreaks of the past anyway.

The Letter P

P is for Portland. And also for Pabst. And Poboy. And Playboy. (Oh, shit! And for Pinot Grigio, too!!)

It is also for pussy. And pizza since I’m being tangential. But most importantly (today, anyway), P is for Parkway!

This photo is when they surprised everyone with a turkey day in May:

img_0950

Every November, Parkway dishes out their signature Thanksgiving Poboy. It used to happen throughout the month leading up to Thanksgiving (and would sell out daily) and then one sad year they only did it at the Oak Street Poboy Festival (YES I made it out that year. With a hot date, thank you.) They have since changed.

Today they are back to a more consistent schedule: They serve it on Wednesdays during the month of November.

So, thanks to a tip from social media (love you, Instagram!) I was made aware of the opportunity to indulge while at the peak of my hunger on the first Wednesday in November. Move over, world. I have a sandwich to inhale.

To be honest, November crept up on me. I was busy!

School? Definitely.

Boys? They are the worst! (But oh so tempting.)

Apartment? I can’t even.

Then, after working all day, I ended up at Felipe’s (again) in line (again) scrolling through Instagram (okay, again).  But instead of ordering (again) magic happened. I found out that 1) tomorrow is national sandwich day — hashtagnationalsandwichday and 2) Parkway is celebrating it a day early because it is also Thanksgiving Poboy Wednesday. Yassss. So, I immediately left the line for the greater good – turkey. (hashtagblessed. hashtagthewritelife.)

It was an almost-full crayon box of a bar when I walked in. There were just a few of the reject (favorite!) slots open. But, I know better than to queue up at the sandwich line outside. That is for novices. Solo diners, especially, should eat at the bar. It is super fast. And great!

Mike was behind the bar (he always is) and I squeezed myself into my favorite seat (no one likes it; it is in the sun and the bartender can’t see you. < Or that is what other people say. I’ve never had a problem ordering) with my newly delivered Playboy.

Hello, favorite corner seat.

I ordered quickly because I was a lady with a plan. I also threw in some regular fries and a PBR (self explanatory) and started reading an article about fried chicken. Yum and thank you.

Not two minutes in, there is a comment: “I’m sure you are just reading that for the articles.” Laugh, joke. The guy is from Portland…I’d encountered him briefly when I had to stick my head under the bar to find the hooks to hang my bag.

I offered that no, in fact, they don’t do nudes anymore (see below) but my dream as a writer is to be published in Playboy and I do, in fact, read the articles. They are great.

img_4028

(Not. Nudity.)

His hair was dark and hung in almost curls around his face. Pale, of course. Did I say Portland? He looks like a guy in a band that I can’t place.

Anyway, he was flirting. Heavy. You know, taking any opportunity to brush against my leg. Asking questions. The dark, artsy type. You can imagine how he was stoked when I revealed that I was a writer. (No matter that my genre isn’t literary. Although his diatribe when I said I wasn’t into poetry was something for the books…

My sandwich arrived and, full-on in a white t-shirt, I beasted the most delicious (messiest) sandwich without spilling on myself a single bit of cranberry. I washed my (admittedly half) order down with a bottle of PBR. < Drank it cold!! And all the while, Mr. Portland is talking to me. Flirting with me. I literally didn’t have a fork and was shoveling stuffing and turkey and bread dripping with gravy toward my open mouth with a dexterity I only have when dealing with my favorite sandwich. (Okay I’ve got similar skills with human body parts that I’m a fan of.)

Anyway, the level of flirting was off the charts considering the food consumption of the moment.

I then made a few really un-sexy (sexy?) stretch moves to make room for the second beer I was drinking. Mr. Portland kept hinting to wanting to hang out while he was in town. I would have loved to say I had a boyfriend, but I don’t (sigh) so I had to continue with the “I’m super busy…” Because I am! —  Busy unabashedly shoving a sandwich in my face.

I do also have several current/pressing/omfuckinggod work projects on my plate.

His friend finished work so he should have been “done” but ordered another round because he wanted to sit with me longer. He asked about the seasonal Abita. I warned him against the peach beer because I assumed that it probably tasted like baby food. He declined a taste and suffered through that whole pint. Whatever. I was right. Baby food.

Beer. Digestion.

Beer. Digestion.

I checked my phone a few times though generally enjoying the group conversation – me, Mr. Portland, Mike and the other guy next to me.

Finally, out of the mildest curiosity, I looked over after returning from the bathroom to see what book was propped open in front of my new friend. (Beer makes me have to pee.) Scratch that…Everything makes me have to pee.

Long story not-so-short, he flat out asked for my number. And said he’d love to see me while I in town. He quit with the subtle (not subtle) hints and just went for it. He was like, “How are you so tiny?” “Do you always eat like this?”  (Me: no and I work out all the time.) “You’re so pretty.” … it went on.

He was reading The Bell Jar. I thought of my best friend. I thought of me. I wondered how old he is, but since I had no intention of meeting him later, I didn’t bother to ask.

He told me he likes to say “YES” and aims to live fully his week in New Orleans. He wants to sleep under bridges (okay maybe my memory is wrong on that one – but that is the idea.) His friend, he says, just got his master’s in film and (omg) works at a pizza place.

Is that the fate for us all? He wants to know. He also wants to know how I got into writing. He wants to tell me how pretty I am some more. I bet he wants to do more than that. I decide he is most definitely under 25.

I wonder if I did hang out with him, how fast his enamor would last. I think I hold the record for guys falling hard and fast for me and then immediately thinking, “Better not.”

 

Hey, What Are You Reading?

So, I’m sitting at the pizza place across the street slowly sipping a giant glass of Pinot Grigio and reading my book when a bunch of sexy firefighters come in to pick up pizza. And by pizza I mean a stack of large pizzas. (There is a football game on, the place is getting crowed with pick-up orders.)

img_2936

Full Disclosure: That pizza/wine photo was from the pre-cleanse send off. But I love to rip the bubble off so I took this photo and would also like to say I’m sorry to everyone across the street for past and future impropriety.

BUT, back to my story. Saints Game! WHO DAT!

This very sexy guy in uniform interrupts my reading with a “Hey, what are you reading?!”

And I flash a copy of Technical Editing, Fifth Edition. And then he says “Wow that is so cool, I’m actually looking for someone to edit my dissertation and none of my friends will help me.”

(Insertion: I look super hot because before studying I went out to brunch with one of my favorite ladies and then got my nails done. I’m still rockin’ an all-black super cute skirt and tank combo and have on and this amazing purple shade of lip gloss.)

I have no idea what I would charge or what it would entail but it seemed pretty flirty. No man has ever asked me “What are you reading” when I am clearly not seeking attention unless they are actually trying to flirt. But I don’t know. He actually might need help? But who interrupts someone clearly not aware that there is a game on just trying to carb binge and who says “cool” to Technical Editing, Fifth Edition who isn’t flirting?

In any case, I wrote down my phone number and my email. (I mean, hottie fighting fires while he finished his PhD. SWOON.)

They walk out.

And then the woman next to me GUSHES about how he was just flirting with me and OMG yadda yadda yadda.

THEN, I get an email. Like within minutes!?

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-18-58-pm

Ummm what does that mean? That was so fast. Did he think he was going to forget?! So I waited like an hour… finished my wine and wrote back. Because I assumed he meant “editing” and maybe more… wink, wink.

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-19-21-pm

And then since I had his name I looked him up on Facebook. (UGHGHHG) And sent this:

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-19-34-pm

And then this happened:

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-19-47-pm

Ahhhh I am so awkward. ALSO: “Not too many New Orleanians interested in reading and writing” is a big fucking red flag. NOLA is where so many famous writers come to write and there are a slew of us competing for the same limited jobs.

I don’t even know. I was confused. Was he really looking for help? Who the fuck reads a Technical Editing book at a pizza place during a football match? (Me.) Or, as the rest of the crowd seemed to think, was he hitting on me? Or just wanting to fuck because he totally just got kicked out and no one was misreading the situation, I just have no filter and made it weird??

Who knows because at this point I’m drunk even though I ate a whole calzone the shape of a football because I was just finishing a cleanse. (Makes total sense, don’t judge me.) BUT JUDGE ME FOR THIS: and never, ever again wonder why I am single.

First I wrote, “Interesting.” SEND

Then I wrote, “I am confused” SEND

THEN I WROTE:

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-35-27-pm

Shockingly, he never wrote back. And that doesn’t even make sense? Anyway. Curtain call on that one. Sorry hot fire fighter, it wasn’t meant to be.