White Bits

After a long debate with my multiple personalities over the past couple of weeks we finally came to a unanimous decision. Having half a dozen different tan lines and then sporting a bathing suit is not pretty. For everyone. The scary part here would be that as one’s eye moves closer to the core or pretty much the area surrounding the bathing suit, it gets shockingly whiter and whiter. Think nicely tanned lower limbs and vampire white parts where the shorts and tank top would normally sit. With that visual in mind, and my sudden realization that in a very short time I am going to begrudgingly have to put a bathing suit on, I decide its time to take immediate action. I gotta tan up the white bits. The struggle here is that I am not a fan of lying around in the sun. When I do get to the beach I am lucky if I get to lounge in the sun for 5 solid minutes. (“throw the Frisbee, lets get ice cream, lets throw rocks in the water, lets build a sandcastle”…… yadda yadda, you get the drift). So I have decided to hit the tanning beds! Honestly, I chuckled to myself all the way there. The lady who owns the tanning salon that I go to (ok, I have only been there once before) is a totally cute, non-barbie who sports a sunkissed suntan look, not the Raisonenette look one would expect from someone who is among bright tanning beds all day. I know she is going to feel my pain and has most likely seen this kind of tragedy before. I explain to my new bff that I have Capri lines, board short lines, a teeny bit shorter than the board short lines, t-shirt lines and 12 different tank top lines, she smiles with the kinda knowledge that only a trained professional knows. That and I am reeking of desperation. All I needed to tell her was that in a weeks time I will be forced to put on a bathing suit and be in front of people and I do not want to be the cause of any future psychiatrist sessions so I need to even up the Tanning Plaid I have going on.

I’m not looking for the Jen Lancaster homeless person tan here. I’m thinking more like Okanagan Orchard Picker or maybe the more subtle California Lifeguard. Whatever it takes. So I happily hand over my credit card and Ms. Cute Tahiti sets me up with a whole 8 minutes of tanning fun. Bring. It.

As I leave I hold back from asking if I can come back in an hour. That would seem a little bit OCD don’tcha think?

Business Savvy Side Bar - I will be writing a little note to the makers of the sunny coffin’s to request that they start putting money into researching creating a tanning bed that also heats up and eliminates cellulite. Now that’s a money maker! If it happens and it gets huge – you read it here first.

Vampire side note – don’t you think if the Cullen’s had hit the tanning beds just a teeny bit they would not have looked so pasty and might have not looked like albino outcasts with red lipstick? Synthetic sun can’t mess with a vampire can it? Not like garlic pizza!

Carrie Bradshaw Moves to the Country

All right. This little joke is officially over. So not funny anymore. Bambi’s husband has now turned into the cartoon hunter at the end of the movie with the gun (you know who I mean right?). For name calling reference we shall call him: Elmer. Like Elmer Fudd. Dude who shoots rabbits (OK, I had to pick something and Disney did not give us a bio on the hunter fella in Bambi so I had to go with the next best thing.) Elmer – you’re a big, friend moving, no good bully. Your day will come. Mark my words Fudd, Carrie Bradshaw karma is on its way!

Elmer – this message is for you: I was under the impression a year ago that you cannot take the city outta the girl because there is always access to the world via some other way. But what kinda brainwashing shit you got going on over in Deer Forks is beyond my comprehension (side note here: Bambi does not live in the place with all the hot vampire dudes, sorry). My pal used to be one gold card away from Carrie Bradshaw and now? Now she doesn’t even check her email. For days! I’m panicked. I’m planning an intervention. I will drive for hours and hours with all my reverse Elmerbrainwashing ammunition: Chicklit books, People magazine, Cosmopolitan mix (for me, Bambi doesn’t drink – wait, I see the problem all ready!, Cheetos, some form of really good cheese, my personal copy of Sex and The City – The Movie, the entire 60bajillion seasons of Sex and The City on DVD and pedicure appointments! Beautiful toes should pull her outta this country funk. Oh ya Elmer – I’ma comin.

Dude isn’t gonna know what hit em!

 

The Reason I Don't Wear White

Having lunch at my desk the other day and thought about how nice it would be to get myself a little afternoon go-go juice to keep the noggin clear for the rest of the day – and to avoid falling asleep on the drive home. Win, win. I was all but extremely pleased with myself at this point because I was eating leftovers from dinner the other night that happened to be slathered in red sauce. Yup, to-mat-o sauce. All was good until the absolute last bite – you see I had done so well NOT making an absolute mess of myself (and bib free too!) that I was filled with confidence about my utensil wielding skill. This is the reason I never wear white – last bit of tomato sauce not in mouth. Lands on camel colored jacket. Shit. Now I am sporting a couple of orange spots that are six times as large as the original splatter due to my panic cleaning methods with Kleenex and water (doesn’t work, don’t try it). So a this point I have not only messed myself up I have completely negated any option of walking over to the local coffee shop to get the dreamy afternoon java in my plan. Double shit. Might mention here that if you are going to eat the sauce with a fork there is a super good chance you will lose some of the sauce through the HOLES in the fork. Should have used a spork.

Side note to the never wearing white: I belong to the Never Wear White Pants Club. Really. (Ok, I made that up. But if there were a club I would be on the Board of Directors). I have multiple examples to prove this however the old boy refuses to let me take pictures of the backside of complete strangers.  All I have to say now is: “Look, dude, that’s why one should never wear white pants”.  Hello pantylines and see through fabric. Not to mention it limits where you can sit down and will always sport more dirt than anyone should visibly walk around with.  Actually, come to think of it I’m out on white skirts and white shoes as well. It may or may not have any relation to spilling shit on myself all the time or being forced to live in the House of Boy a.k.a. The House of Sand and Dirt.

I have three words to back all this up: White Yoga Pants.

 

Nuff said.