08.06.12

Monday Dare: This is why we can’t have nice things

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the complete list of Monday Dares or learn about its origin.

This week: Stop losing shit

Back in the day, when I only owned a bunch of cheap shit, I never lost anything. It was a point of pride for me. I wouldn’t shove my specialness in other people’s faces when they complained about losing another pair of sunglasses or their kid. I might say something like, “Oh man, that really blows. I don’t know what you’re going through because I’ve never lost anything before in my life, but I still really want to be friends with you because I choose to focus on the positives in people and not their faults.” I’m pretty good at building people up. It’s another one of my qualities.

Then, I started buying nicer things. Yes, it would be nice to scoop up a paisley print tote at the dollar store for a total investment of $1.09, but sometimes, I just need to be fucking reckless with my life. “Go ahead and buy a similar-looking tote at Target for $19.99. You DESERVE it,” I would tell myself.

And I insisted on a real diamond wedding band. I don’t know if you’ve ever checked out the impressive selection of moissanite rings at Kohl’s, but they really do have a diamond-like presence for a fraction of the cost. I gave this option some consideration, but then I remembered that diamonds are a thug’s best friend. I’m all about staying true to the game. It’s also another one of my qualities. I hope I’m not starting to sound too brag-y.

Harv insisted on insuring the diamond ring. He’s all about the “just in case.” It’s also why we have health insurance and not one, but THREE boxes of band-aids stashed around the house. You’re probably thinking that he wastes a lot of money. I happen to agree.

Maybe the Universe thought my specialness was really starting to bring other people down and devised a plan to level things out. And what better way to stick it to me than by losing my wedding ring in a Vegas nightclub. While sober. Did it fling off when I put my hands in the air and danced like I just don’t care? Did it fall to the floor as I was doing the Dougie? I have some pretty impressive dance moves, which is another one of my qualities, but let’s not focus on that right now. We’re trying to solve a mystery.

I searched in vain, crawling through a sea of hooker heels and Drakkar Noir. No luck. I finally admitted defeat and stepped outside to call Harv. After explaining the situation, I asked if it might still be okay to come home. I was prepared to start looking for a new place of residence. And because Harv’s best qualities are patience and forgiveness, he focused first on calming me down and then reminded me that the ring was insured.

I promised never to lose anything else again. He showed his faith by giving me a beautiful gold bracelet soon afterwards.

Which I lost this past weekend in New York.

I’m terrified of walking out of the house with anything of value now. I suppose I could staple shit to my body, but I’m afraid of pain. Does that make me a selfish person?

Do you lose things? What are some things you’ve lost?

P.S. I’ve received so many emails since I started blogging about my blog designer, Lindsay Nicole. She designed this blog from scratch and I’m so thrilled by her aesthetics, fair prices, and attention to detail. I love her dearly for being so goddamn patient with me. She’s back in the blog design game full-time. If you need a blog re-design or something totally new and fresh, Lindsay is big pimpin.’

P.P.S. You. Me. Facebook. Let’s make it happen. I post original content on Facebook throughout the week. “Like” the page to see pictures + posts in your news feed.
image via pinterest

August 6, 2012
06.18.12

Monday Dare: Is it really stealing if it’s free?

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the full list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Stop embarrassing the shit out of people I know

I’m writing with one eye closed. This usually only happens after I lose one contact lens, and I shut the gimp eye to see half-decently with the good eye. High rollers might bust out a brand-new lens, but I can’t. It throws off the balance. What good is having three contacts for the right eye and only two for the left? Then I would be forced to order more. Since I’m so goddamn cheap and try to make a year’s supply last 32 months, I just go about my day-to-day business with one eye closed until it’s time to replace both.

But that’s not the reason I have one eye closed today. I’m sick as hell, and my eyes burn. I think I have the Bubonic Plague. Or the swine flu. That’s what WebMD told me, and it’s never been wrong. Except for that one time I thought I had prostate cancer for about a month.

I’m pretty sure the passenger sitting next to me during my flight back from Paris gave me this debilitating and possibly deadly illness. I don’t know how I managed it, but I ended up in Business Class. It felt right to me at the time because I’ve always imagined it’s the well-mannered, upstanding, gentile members of society who sit in that section. You know, people like me.

I did my best not to make eye contact with anyone or open my mouth because that’s always how shit gets started. Since my family was doing their best not to know me, I turned my attention to the copious amount of warm rolls I asked the flight attendant to bring me.

I wasn’t really in the mood for rolls, but thankfully, I had a gently-used sandwich bag in my purse which I filled to the brim. Who am I to say no to free rolls?

The lady next to me coughed throughout the whole flight, but she was good about covering her mouth with the crook of her elbow and turning away. Until she went to sleep. I was making another deposit in the Warm Roll Bank (sometimes, I like to name my sandwich bags) when she started coughing again. Not wanting her germs to land on my hard-won doughy goodness, I leaned in to cover the opening of The Bank with my torso, putting me in direct path of her deadly germs.

Cal pretended not to notice for the first three or four hours, but finally she made a plea, “Stop with the rolls, mom. PLEASE.” Naturally, I replied, “Are you going to eat yours? I have room for one more.”

When she turned away in disgust, I noticed the knot in her hair. Luckily, I had the comb I swiped from our hotel room in Germany handy in my purse, along with a few free lemon-scented hand wipes taken from a seafood restaurant in San Francisco last fall.

Because of the new TSA regulations, I had to check in all of my other souvenirs: Individual packets of condiments, miniature bottles of hotel bath products, only-thrice-worn hotel slippers, shower caps, hotel stationary, and travel brochures. With each new item, I heard endless nagging from Cal. I don’t know what she said exactly, because I’m good at tuning shit out, but I think she used words like “embarrassing” and “criminal.” Fuck it. The next time someone has a craving for an individual serving of Nutella, guess who’s not going to share?

Nah, just playing. I’ll share. And I’ll do my best to stop embarrassing my kid. Because I want to be in a FANCY nursing home when I’m old.

Did your parents ever embarrass you? Do you embarrass your own kids?
Are you a partaker of free souvenirs?

P.S. Thrilled as hell to be the newest contributing columnist for Inside the Mind of a Ghetto Genius. My alias: Flo-Rich. I wrote about assholes. Because we all know one.

P.P.S. Only find me slightly embarrassing? Then let’s get connected on the Flourish in Progress Facebook page. I post original content on Facebook throughout the week.
image via pinterest

June 18, 2012