Chasing Lala, Season One: Pilot

I give this pilot post two thumbs up. And a particularly cheesy (and well-whitened) smile.

Welcome to the series premiere of my newest blog, Chasing Lala.  The first post, in my opinion, is always the hardest because there is a lot of expectations for the blog that have to be introduced and concurrently lived up to in the first post (and then the second, and the third…hell, I guess for the remaining life span of this blog!).  The first post is kind of like the first date.  Or maybe the second or third, when you’ve decided that you’re going to have sex and you feel like you should bust out all your best moves, but then you wonder if your “best moves” are really that awesome.  The first blog post is full of butterflies and nervous giggles and word vomit and bragging and maybe one too many glasses of blueberry vodka and ginger ale (soooo delicious, trust me).

That said, let’s start.  This post is wearing its best push-up bra and racy-not-too-skanky-but-just-skanky-enough lace thong from Victoria’s Secret.  This post shaved its legs and painted its toenails with Lincoln Park After Dark because it wanted to look edgy but not too edgy.  Maybe edgy sexy chic.  This post put on its sexiest-but-not-cheap-hooker-smelling perfume for you and is wearing its prettiest sheer pink lip lacquer.  It’s feeling pretty and nervous and kind of vulnerable.  Its also hoping that you brought money for parking because it totally forgot to.

First things first, my name is Lashawn.  Well, really Lashawn with a capital S…LaShawn.  I kinda hate the way that looks, so I spell it with a lowercase S when I type or print my name.  But I sign it with a capital S because it looks dumb if I use the lowercase.  It’s silly, but I’ve been doing it since I started eighth grade and it makes perfect sense to me.  And reading those last few sentences makes me realize how stupid my explanation sounds.  And that I pretty much wasted 1.5 seconds of your life that you will never get back.  My bad…but anyway, that was a bit off-tangent.  Focusssss.

I am the product of twelve (thirteen, if you count Kindergarten) years of Catholic school, including four years in an all-girl high school.  I learned all the important things, like how to curse like a sailor, wear tube socks to avoid shaving more than once a week, fake having cramps/headache/upset stomach to get out of a test or a ridiculously boring class…Oh, and the Our Father, my Sacraments, and how to be a good little Catholic schoolgirl.  I think that definitely shaped me into who I am now, a pretty intelligent preppy girl with a trucker mouth.  I am a fabulous single mom to a hilarious six year old boy, Nicholas.  Nicky is the greatest kid ever.  I may be a bit biased, but I’m gonna say that he’s pretty awesome.  Most of my life revolves around him.  My birthday is in three months as of today (9/17), and I will be 26.  Writing that makes me cringe.  Ickkkk.  I am slogging through my freshman year (which has taken like 1.5 years) of community college, which is going to take forever thanks to idiotic 18 year old me (I have a super sweet 1.7 GPA to work with).  If I ever finish my stint at community college, I hope to eventually get my Bachelor’s in Anthropology.  I want to become a socio-cultural anthropologist and see the world.  My goal is to get my doctorate and become a professor with the most amazing field stories ever.  I am currently a receptionist, which I sorta kinda hate and hope to not make a career out of, a sentiment I feel very strongly about after almost four years.  I work at a car dealership, which is a love/hate kind of thing.  I’ll get into that later.

I am feeling like this entry shouldn’t be too long, or I’ll bore you and you’ll close your tab that this is open in.  So I’ll be brief and thank you for reading post uno.  And I hope that you’ll come back for the next one, and hopefully the next 79846343838 ones.  My Pilot post is thankful that you put money in the parking meter and that you laughed at its jokes, even the one about the priest and the rabbi that didn’t exactly make sense the first or third time it told it.  It hopes that you come back.  And it hopes that you aren’t mad that unlike me, it doesn’t ever put out on the first date.


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