Season Four, Episode Eight: 14/29 Struggles

So I am still talking to said guy, who still does not have a nom de plume.  I really need to give him one.  The fact that I am talking to him still is actually kind of a miracle–not a walking-on-water-in-the-middle-of-a-crazy-storm kind of miracle, but more like a I-ate-like-crap-all-week-and-ran-once-and-somehow-didn’t-gain-weight kind of miracle–simply because I am not good at this.  At what, you may ask?  Talking?  Well…no.  I am rather good at talking.  I am not good at talking to guys that I like.  Or know how to successfully flirt.  Or nab a guy…see how I used the word nab?  I make it sound like I am a police officer who successfully caught a bank robber.  I should twirl my mustache too, while I’m at it.

*twirls mustache*

When I'm not busy nabbing guys, I like to tie young maidens to train tracks.  I'm very early 20th century mustache twirler.

When I’m not busy nabbing guys, I like to tie young maidens to train tracks. I’m very early 20th century mustache twirler.


But anyway, I am still talking to him.  He is still pretty damn hot and funny and delish…and I haven’t done anything too crazy to make him think maybe he shouldn’t continue to talk to me.  So…miracle.  I actually think that he finds me hilarious, which is a win.  When in doubt, let my sense of humor cancel out my awkwardness like FOX cancelled American Idol (too soon?).  I’ve gotten pretty close a few times to doing something completely batshit but I somehow talked myself out of it.  Google is a life saver.  My search engine is full of random keywords that make me sound like a fourteen year old girl.  Who knew that there were so many articles out there in the Interwebs dedicated to making loons like me feel less cray?

Because there is a lot of stuff on the Interwebs to make me feel less cray.

Because there is a lot of stuff on the Interwebs to make me feel less cray.

There is one thing that baffles me(that is a lie…there are a lot of things in the dating world that baffle me, but for sake of keeping this post short, we will pretend that there is only one), and I suppose it baffles me only because I like him, and that is texting.  Why the hell go days without texting someone (me) back?  Especially if you like me/want to get in my pants/potentially more?  I stress about that and I have successfully stopped myself from texting him stuff like “why you no text me back” and flat out asking him if he secretly hates me.  Because I am pretty sure he doesn’t hate me.  He used to text me a lot when we first started talking and it’s trickled down and I’m sure it’s no cause for concern since he is still wonderful in person.  I feel like I have gone back in a time machine and it’s 1999 and I am 14 and I have bad hair and questionable fashion sense and I am all a-giggle and a-fumble over a guy in my class.  I tell myself that I sometimes don’t hear from my best friend for days, and I have known her since I was 7.  I can go days without texting other friends/hearing from other friends, so why do I get all panicky cliffhanger soap star when Unnamed Hot Guy decides to not text me?  The only answer I can think of is because I am secretly still 14 on the inside when it comes to men.

This girl is apparently stressed because she has multiple phones/crucial conversations/potential drug deals all going on at once?

This girl is apparently stressed because she has multiple texts/crucial conversations/potential drug deals all going on at once?

29 Year Old Me is trying to play it cool and act completely indifferent.  14 Year Old Me has a mini heart attack when we sit next to each other and our legs touch the entire time.  29 Year Old Me smiles at him when I see him and act like I’m completely chill.  14 Year Old Me freaks the fuck out quietly when someone tells us what a cute couple we make (29 Year Old Me simply smiles because I don’t want to look like I am so into him–being chill is my constant M.O.) and he says he agrees.  14 Year Old Me doesn’t know how to be cool and calm and so 29 Year Old Me is constantly fighting an internal battle with her so that she doesn’t do anything stupid to mess up whatever will happen.  29 Year Old Me isn’t in a rush to get hurt again any time soon.  14 Year Old Me worries that he doesn’t like me.

14 Year Old Me is obviously Angelina because Sun-In.

14 Year Old Me is obviously Angelina because bad bangs and Sun-In.

Well, 14 Year Old Me, put down the Sun-In (seriously, put it down…your hair is orange) and stop panicking and analyzing every damn thing that goes on.  If something comes out of this, awesome.  If something doesn’t come out of this, guess what?  Life goes on.  You still have wine and Netflix and comfy sweatpants and chocolate covered Oreos–he’s the one who will be missing out, not you.  Just smile and be nice to him if it doesn’t go the way you planned.  You’re an adult, and you’re supposed to be calm on the outside and 14 on the inside.  Enjoy talking to him, because it’s fun to talk to guys.  Just stop using Sun-In.  Please.

Let's be completely honest...your hair never once actually looked like this.

Let’s be completely honest…your hair never once actually looked like this.

Season Two, Episode Three: More Than You Probably Ever Really Needed To Know

It’s been a while.  Happy 2013!

I have this unrelenting habit of not posting for a very long time, even when I have every intent to do so.  Things that often seem relevant at the time lose their awesomeness by the time I sit down at my laptop to tell the blogging universe.  I come up with a lot of funny stuff when I’m at work, but I am a staunch believer in that you should never mix your personal life with your job life, especially on a company computer.  No sir.  So I often forget about whatever I planned on writing about or I’m just too tired to be witty and wordy by the time I get home at 4:40 am.

But here I am, for your reading pleasure.  What is today’s post about?  No idea.  I figured that maybe I could just do a little “About Me” post, especially since I’m not sure if I ever really did one before, and because it’s kind of fun to read about other people’s quirks.  Even more so when you are famous, which I am not, but I am still very awesome and intriguing.  Read away!


Lashawn, in a series of asterisked factoids:


*I am the shortest of my siblings, by at least a foot.  I am barely 5’1″.

*I am part Creole and a lot Cherokee, on my dad’s side.  My mom is German, Irish, and a little Italian.

*My dad named me Lashawn, my mom wanted to name me Elizabeth.

*I am scared of heights, deep water, big dogs, needles, and squirrels.

*I have been known to sit on the couch and watch TV while eating cheesecake right from the pan.

*My favorite book is Looking For Alaska by John Green.  John is a fantastic writer, and I recommend you read all his books, especially this one and The Fault in Our Stars.

*My favorite runners-up would be The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, and The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I haven’t read any of the Little House books in years, but I adored them growing up.  I even read the other series about her mother and her grandmother and her great-grandmother.  I used to imagine what it must have been like to live on the frontier back then.

*When I laugh really hard, no sound tends to come out.

*I am ridiculously clumsy.

*I am a huge worrier.  When I am stressed out or frustrated, I chew my lower lip.  If you see me biting my upper lip, that means I am overwhelmed or upset.  My lower lip tends to be slightly chapped at all times, even though I am an ardent user of lip balm.

*I am extremely nearsighted and am pretty blind when I don’t have my glasses or contacts.

*I love Double Stuf Oreos.  Preferably with a huge glass of milk.

*I think I have some hoarding tendencies.  And I am kind of a messy person.  Life is too short to be perfectly neat.

*I am particularly fond of sweatpants and hoodies.

*I mispronounce “belligerent” all the time.

*My favorite movie is Anchorman.

*I would love to go to Venice some day.

*I have an unhealthy love of pasta.  And cheese.

Season One, Episode Twenty-Seven: Naughty Bloggers and Quite Possibly the Shortest and Most Random Post to Date

I have been a naughty blogger.

It’s been what, like almost a month and a half since I last posted?  For shame!

In my defense, however, things in the life of Lashawn have been pretty hectic, and in a good way 🙂  I’ve been training for the casino opening, and I have to say that although my roulette skills need some serious tweaking, I could probably deal a successful hand of blackjack in my sleep.  We open in like 26 days or some shit…super excited, but hella nervous.  It kind of feels like how I used to feel before going on stage and singing–butterflies in my stomach, heart pounding, a general feeling of excitement…all under the nagging urge to vomit.  Fantastic.  I’m sure I’ll do fine once I get my girlish nerves out of the way, which should hopefully be the first few hands at the blackjack table, or the first few hours I’ve dealt roulette…because god forbid I have another tear-filled breakdown at the wheel again like I did during training on Sunday.  We will just be optimistic and hope for the best.

I’ve also been spending time with my gentleman lover (hahaha that sounds so awkward and horrible, yet awesome at the same time–makes me think of Anchorman).  We have done pretty much a whole bunch of nothing, which sounds boring but is actually pretty splendid.  We did go on some fancy schmancy art walk through Tremont the other night, but neither of us was really impressed with it, which leads me to believe that 1.) we are neither cool nor hip, 2.) we don’t know crap about art (although it really seemed like the theme of the evening revolved around taking random photos and either framing them or screenprinting them onto a large canvas, and then selling them for like $250 a pop), and 3.) it must be an acquired skill that neither one of us possess.  We ate dinner at a restaurant that was virtually non-Lashawn friendly (meaning it was super trendy and had super gross food on the menu), but the appetizer and the bread was yum, so it wasn’t entirely a crap dinner for me.  I also got chocolates from my favorite little chocolate shop (Lilly Tremont) and cupcakes (A Cookie and a Cupcake), so the night wasn’t exactly a culinary bust.

I shall post more frequently, I feel kind of like a deadbeat parent…which shall never happen again.  I am going to post a delightful picture for you from our hipster date.  I think I could frame it and sell it for like $50, hahaha.

Season One, Episode Twenty-Two: Musings of the Unemployed and Adorkable

It’s been like a week and a half since I got fired, and while it hasn’t been as horrible as I thought it would be, I have discovered a few things about being unemployed that I thought I should share with you.  Since I love making inane lists, I figured I would bust out my deep introspectiveness out on y’all that way.


Things That I Didn’t Exactly Know About Myself Until I Lost My Job, Version 1.0 (Because I’m pretty certain that there will be more editions as the time goes by):

*I am pretty lazy.  I actually kinda sorta knew this about myself, but not having a job to apply myself to has really brought out the lazy side of me.  I’m sure some may argue that my sudden laziness and sleepiness could be depression from my firing manifesting itself, but I’m just going with I’m inherently lazy.  I slept for like 15 hours the other day.  In two evenly spaced increments of time…I think I got up to gather my laundry in a sleepy, stumbly fashion at noonish, and then proceeded to lay back down and sleep til 5 pm.  And I think I was momentarily confused as to why it was so dark, realized what time it was, said “eh” and got up to go deep fry some mini tacos.

…which brings me to another thing I’ve learned about myself.

*I eat.  A LOT.  Several times a day, as a matter of fact.  I kinda knew that I had a big appetite, but back in the days when I had a job, general lack of morale and the crushing sadness of doing inane work made me forget that I was hungry.  Now that I’m unemployed, I do stuff like sleep half the day and then get up and deep fry some Jose Ole mini tacos in my deep fryer and read the Steve Jobs biography.  I’m pretty sure I’ve gained weight in the past week and a half.

Mmm...Damn you, Jose Ole Mini Tacos. You're a tiny calorie-laden bomb of deliciousness.

*I really have no concrete sense of time.  Since I don’t really have a structured day except for when I go to casino class, I pretty much have blurred the line between night and day.  I have stayed up until sunrise a few times in the past week.  I’ve woken up after sunset a few times as well.  I might have been a Cullen in a past undead life.

*I have a pretty persuasive mind, that if taken into the wrong hands could very well be used for evil.  Like I listened to Lana Del Rey on iTunes and couldn’t decide if I liked her or not, so I Hulu‘ed her horribly awkward performance on Saturday Night Live and thought she was a crap singer.  But I couldn’t stop thinking about her song “Blue Jeans” and wound up talking myself into buying a few songs even though I think she is pretty awful.  I listened to them a few times and I was like “god, she is horrible” and then my mind was like “is she really, Lashawn?  Perhaps you should listen again”.  And so I did.

Oh, Lana, I know you are terribly mediocre singer, but there is just SOMETHING about you that makes me go "hmm...I have to listen to you again".

*I read.  A LOT.  I mean, I know I read a lot, I pride myself on my superb love of all things literary.  I learned to read at three and a half, reading is pretty much an intrinsic part of me just as much as my love of music or cheese.  But I didn’t know that I will pretty much read anything, good or bad.  I blame it on my persuasive mind (see above notation).  I also think it might have to be partly due to the crushing boredom that is starting to sink in.  I spent four hours on Wikipedia tonight, reading about random shit and random tangents that I clicked on in the originally random article I started four hours earlier.  I think I’m gonna have to dust off my library card before my brain starts oozing out of my ears from lack of superb reading material.

*I like the idea of exercising, but I don’t actually like to do it.  I think that I might have to talk myself into liking it though, if my thoughtless eating and laziness continues.  I don’t want to be the girl that gained 65 pounds after she lost her job.  That just seems like the beginning of a very slippery slope that could lead to some pretty serious repercussions.  It’s time to bust out my free weights and my Gazelle and the Pilates DVDs I bought a few years back.  And that Women’s Health book of 584546846 exercises that I got on a fitness kick.

I get a pretty good workout on my Gazelle, but Tony Little makes me giggle.

Season One, Episode Twenty: I Don’t Want To Be THAT Guy…You Know, The One Who Throws Around Their Awesomeness

Oh.  My.  God.

I feel like I’m gonna throw up.  I think I’m being attacked from the inside by the delicious kugel I just sucked down like a friggin’ Dyson.  Ughhhh.  But you don’t want to hear how the noodley goodness is doing roundhouses in my tummy.  So I digress…

It’s January Fifourth (it’s that gray area between the Fourth and the Fifth, because to some it’s still nighttime and to others it’s early morning…I say it’s still Wednesday, but I know some of you may not concur with me and say it’s Thursday–and some people in the New Zealand/Australia area might even go a step further and say it’s nearly Friday), and I am contemplating the new year and the obligatory resolutions that come along with it.  I don’t really get the concept of making resolutions, especially when people make crazy and outlandish ones that they never really keep.  According to, some of the most common resolutions made in America are as follows:

  • Drink less alcohol
  • Eat healthy food
  • Get a better education
  • Get a better job
  • Get fit/Lose weight
  • Manage debt
  • Manage stress
  • Quit smoking

I wonder how many people actually are still keeping those resolutions by the time June rolls around.  I always feel like New Year’s and Lent fall too close together, and there is just way too much resoluting and sacrificing for Jesus and I just can’t do it.

Maybe I’m just non-committal?  Could be.  Whatever the reason, I have compiled a short, but detailed list of previous resolutions of yore and why they failed:

  • Swear less.  I’ve tried that one for Lent a few times too.  It doesn’t work.  I may look sweet and aw shucksish, but I have the mouth of a trucker.  I think all my attempts lasted a few hours.
  • Lose 10-30 pounds.  Pfft.  I love food waaaaay too much to eat healthy.  I hate most healthy food and I can rationalize consuming half a package of Oreos during an episode of New Girl.  That one has lasted me a few weeks, but I always crash and/or burn.
  • Get fit.  Yeaaaaaah…I lasted nearly a year on this one.  I am a pretty vain person, and I like getting all buff and toned and wearing smaller pants.  Who doesn’t?  I am also a sucker for having super toned arms and a fit back, so this was a resolution that I enjoyed…until work derailed me and I fell off the workout wagon.
  • Be a nicer person.  I am, for the most part, a pretty nice person.  Even more so if I like you or think you have potential to be included on my golden list of compadreship.  But if I don’t like you?  Oh that is a sad card to be dealt, because I am quite bitchy and mean.  In both the preppy mean girl mean and in the smart person who makes mean comments that sail over your head and that you don’t really get until you think about it later.  I can usually do good on this one until I inevitably run into a person that I decide I hate.
  • Be less messy.  Oh man…yeah, that one doesn’t get too far out of the gate.  I don’t even know why I try to make that one, to be honest.
  • Try to go to bed earlier.  Um…yeah.  You see how well that one worked out.

I decided that this year I’m just going to not make any resolutions and see how that works out.  Ash Wednesday is February 22nd, and I have to come up with something particularly good to impress Jesus, so I’ll come up with a good Lenten thing to give up.  Maybe I’ll actually keep it?  That would be a first.  I don’t think I have ever kept a resolution or whatever I gave up for Lent.

Wow.  I am a non-committal, foul-mouthed, slightly chubby, mean and messy nocturnal Catholic who eats badly.

You can't argue with perfection.

At least I’m funny.  That’s gotta count for something, right?  😛

Season One, Episode Eighteen: Migraines and Monochromatic Mayhem


So boring.

I feel bad for the poor day, however.  It’s not like it asked to be boring and dull and ho-hum.  It’s the monochromatic sibling in a family of neons and pastels.  No one wakes up on a Monday morning and jumps happily out of bed and chirps “Yay, it’s Monday!  I can’t wait for the day of neverending work and monotony ahead of me to begin!”  You think of Monday and you think, Crap, I have work.  All week long.  You think Monday, you automatically start to yawn because there is just something inherently tiring about Mondays.  Monday is not known for being a day of festivity and glee.  Nay.  Monday wanted to be cool, but instead Monday wears clunky glasses and ill-fitting sweater jackets.  Monday is Friday and Saturday’s nerdy older sister who would rather stay home and memorize the Periodic Table instead of go to the club and hook up with some greasy, over-tanned and over-muscled guy named Tony who wears waaay too much gel in his hair.  Monday is a day of general blah-itivity.  Monday is the Karen in the room (cool points if you caught the Dane Cook reference).

So…not only was it a droll and blah kind of Monday, it was a Monday after a three day weekend, one of those Mondays that you dread, especially when Christmas came the day before and you’re still kind of full of Yuletide spirit.  I really was not looking forward to today because I wasn’t really in the mood to go to work and do workish stuff, but to make things worse, I had a ridiculous migraine all day long.  My head was hurting when I went to sleep last night, but I figured it’d be gone by morning.  Wrong.  Not only was my head screaming when I got up, but I also had an upset stomach.  Faaaabulous.  I felt like I was completely hungover all day long, which wasn’t even fair because I haven’t touched alcohol in weeks.  The phones were obnoxious at work, and I took a few ibuprofen and chased it with Mountain Dew to try to soothe the ferocious brain beast.  I’m feeling a lot better, but my head is still kind of achy.

I just scrolled down my screen in my little composition work area and couldn’t help but notice the tags that WordPress suggested that have absolutely nothing to do with what I just wrote.  I’ll share a few with you:

Um…okay.  Did any of you guys see anything that would remotely correspond to any of those tags in the first few lines of today’s post?  No?  Me neither.  I just Googled this Louis C.K. fellow and apparently he’s a comedian.  Okay…I can see how broadly he fits into the grand scheme of tagging things, but I’m still a little confused by the other suggestions.  Whatever.  I’m thinking maybe a certain blogging platform had too much non-virgin eggnog on Christmas morning.  And on Kwanzaa/Boxing Day.

Speaking of holiday festivity and joy, I am wearing one of the new sweaters my mom and dad got me for Christmas.  It’s comfy, it’s warm, and I like it.  Especially because it’s all belted and business below my rack and ’80s prom dress above.  It’s got that weird shoulder thing going on…I’ll find a pic to show you.

Sorta like this, only as a sweater, and not white or ruffly at the top. Sorta hideous, I suppose, but super comfy and awkward. Yes!

I feel like Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink, only cuter.  I was messing with the shoulders all day to look like I really should have been at some kid’s Senior Prom, circa 1986 instead of at a Ford dealership, answering phones and informing people that our parts and service departments were closed due to the holiday.  Too bad my hair was in a ponytail and I didn’t have a particularly gaudy corsage on hand, because I would have looked pretty damn awesome at that receptionist window.

Next time, next time.

Season One, Episode Thirteen: Musings of a Night Owl

Hello. My name is Lashawn, and I am a night owl.

It’s four am, and what am I doing? Am I sleeping? Noooo. I’m sitting at my laptop in my badass penguin pajamas, playing with the Biblical Curse Generator. I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty entertained. It might be because it’s four in the morning, it might be because I’m slightly jacked up on caffeine, it might be because I enjoy the simpler things in life, I don’t know. What I do know is that the shit this site is coming up with is cracking me up. For example:

“May you see your pomegranates wither, O thou dabbler in abominations!”

Take that, guy who wanted to argue with me over the price of his oil change.

Staying up late opens your eyes to a whole new world dominated mostly by network syndicated comedies (such as How I Met Your Mother and That 70’s Show) and cheesy yet überslick infomercials for hair removal products and weird spandex bra shaper things that I don’t really need. Late nights make you feel classy, like you’re better than all the people who fell asleep during CSI: Miami. Horatio Caine peers at you over the top of his sunglasses and salutes you my friend, because you stayed up long enough to see him catch the bad guy and utter some really horrible and cheesy dialogue before and after he handcuffs said villainous villain. It’s a twofer kind of thing.

Horatio Caine: "There will be no tying of virtuous young maidens to any railroad tracks on my watch, evil silent film guy." Dastardly Evil Guy: "Curses, foiled again!"

Sleep? Ha, who needs sleep.

Sleep is overrated.

People often ask me why I stay up until the birds are chirping. I say why not? I work in the afternoon, my life is pretty boring…so why the hell not? I would much rather stay up late than wake up early in the morning, if that makes any sort of sense. I’ve always been a night person, even when I was a young lass. Nighttime is me time. I can shut off the Lashawn that the rest of the world gets to see and get in my pajamas and be the Lashawn who enjoys aloneness and contemplation and a good book or a corny sitcom.

I like the quiet, the solitude of what Robert Louis Stevenson called “the black hours”. I like that I can just sit and think and not have to be a mom or a sister or a receptionist or a friend or a daughter or anything that everyone else wants me to be. I can just be me, and not have to worry about what the rest of the world thinks. I can read random crap on Wikipedia or research the French Revolution or watch an old show from the ’50s. I can sit around with my favorite fleece blanket and eat Tostitos and salsa and not have to share. I can sit on my upstairs porch and just look up at the night sky and feel so infinitely insignificant and think philosophical things. It’s my favorite time of day, hands down.

To me, the night is beautiful, in some ways just as beautiful as the daytime, in other ways possibly more. One of my favorite things ever is when the sun sets and there’s this smooth, seamingless transition of blues and purples and pinks across the sky, from east to west. Simply beautiful. I adore the stars, and I think the twinkling, sparkling “heavens” are just as breathtaking as the white clouds across a vivid blue mid-afternoon sky. You can’t appreciate the sunshine without the inkiness of night. Sunrise wouldn’t be as memorable without the sunset. I’m suddenly reminded of one of my favorite quotes:

“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness so I can see the stars.”

Season One, Episode Eleven: The Ravages of Time Are Knocking Upon My Door

My birthday was this past Saturday. I am officially 26…and looking at what I just wrote, who the hell in their right mind would want to be unofficially 26? Perhaps a crazy person…yes, only a crazy person would want to go from 25 (which we all know is a whole ‘nother ballgame) and pretend to be 26. The only way I would do it is if there was a large monetary compensation, or something equally awesome.

Like, I don’t know, maybe this badass pegasus.

I’d consider it then.

But seriously, I’m 26. Four more years to 30. Ouch. I suppose 26 is a grand achievement. If I lived in the 1600s, like in Jamestown or whatever, I’d have like ten years left in my life before I died a horrible death from cholera or smallpox. I’d have 54516561 kids by now, all named after virtues and kings and whatever, married to a guy named James Blacksmitherson and living in a leaky shack shittily constructed out of logs and mud and no windows. I’d be all about sewing and hanging out with my equally fabulous friends, Rebecca and Prudence. We’d have the best gray bonnets in the entire village. The bitches would be jealous.

Oh yes. They would be jealous.

But anyway. Christmas is coming. Tres exciting, no? I am proud to announce that I finished my shopping for Nicky an entire week ahead of schedule. I usually am rushing around on the 23rd, hating myself for waiting until the last minute. This year, I finished on the 16th. I think that warrants a high five…so I totally just gave myself one. (I usually do this so that I am not left hanging, by well, myself. Denying someone a high five is such an asshole move, and I am not an asshole.) Perhaps this early shoppage is a part of turning 26? Perhaps.

Or I just remembered to do it early this year.

My god…I think I might just be growing up.

Season One, Episode Nine: A Funny Textular Interlude of Sorts

Taken from a conversation I had Sunday with my girl Destinie (with whom I seem to have the most amazing textular conversations):

Me:  I ate some cold greasy pizza and feel like Jesus must have on Easter morning.  Except He was, well, dead and I was drunk.  Minor difference.

Destinie:  Lmao aahhh you just made my day.  Lmfao…

Me:  That may be the quote of the day right there, lol.

Destinie:  It most definitely is.  Haha.

Me:  Haha I like to imagine Jesus as a fist pumpin’ party animal.  In a tuxedo tee shirt and flip flops.

Destinie:  Lmfao!  That’s perfect, and I can’t imagine Him any other way now.  Lol.

Me:  Hahaha I can totally see it.  The tee shirt is on over the toga.

Destinie:  Bahaha and Him rocking out on Guitar Hero.  Haha.

Me:  Hahaha exactly.  Telling Mary Magdalene to chill out because He just needs to finish this level and He’ll turn her water into wine.  Which could be taken very inappropriately lmfao.  I’m going to hell.

Destinie:  Lmfao!!!!  Ahahahahah, save me a seat!

Me:  Lmfao I definitely will.

Season One, Episode Eight: Of Peppers and Time…All In the Name of Science


Last week was craziness. Four of the girls in my office went to Niagara Falls (the New York side), so I had to work two thirteen hour shifts while the day receptionist was gone. I spent the rest of my week trying to catch up on my own work and sleep. I figured there was nothing interesting in the least to write about–unless of course, you wanted to read about dealer trades, filing repair orders and parts tickets, and the horrible joy that is known as month end at a car dealership. No? I didn’t think so 🙂

I’m going to insert a quick little red herring here and inform you that I am currently typing this with one contact lens (in my right eye).

Okay, so all was well until Friday evening. I decided that tacos would be delicious for dinner, so I dragged my mom and Nicky to the grocery store for taco-y goodness. I purchased some habanero and serrano peppers to mix in with the ground beef. I’d recently discovered the culinary punch that these little peppers gave ordinary dishes, and I figured that adding something new to my ho-hum Taco Bell taco kit would spice things up, both figuratively and literally.

Oh, how right I was.

I cut up the peppers with no problem, chopping them into little bits to add to the ground beef. Things were uneventfully going well until I got a stray piece of hair or dust or something on my lower lash line. For some incredibly dumb reason I completely forgot that I had habanero pepper juice on my fingers and I just oh-so-casually wiped away whatever had irritated my eye. Bad, bad move.

I’m going to try to describe what happened next as Hiroshima and Nagasaki going down in my eye at the exact same time in the tenth of a nanosecond. It was the most painful feeling I’d ever experienced in my life, apart from pushing out a nearly seven pound baby. I actually think I may have fallen to the ground in the bathroom as I tried to keep from crying out like a little sissy girl. There were tears. There was an eye that was squinched shut and I couldn’t really open it to see what was going on. I was scared that I may have blinded myself. I panicked and freaked all in about thirty seconds. Then I remembered that I should probably try to rinse the pepper juice out of my eye.

I fumbled around for my bottle of contact solution and I squirted like half the bottle in my red, angry, teary eye that burned like the hottest wildfire was raging across the span of my eye and under my eyelid. No luck. It was like using a Dixie cup to throw water at an inferno. I turned on the sink and started splashing my left eye with handful after handful of cold water. It would help momentarily but as soon as I pulled my face from the water the fire would start raging again. Two things came to me as I splashed my eye with the water: that my contact was still in my eye and that my iPhone was on the toilet seat. I squinched up my eye and quickly Googled what one should do when they stupidly get habanero pepper juice in their eye.

Yahoo Answers suggested that I try saline solution, water, and milk in the affected ocular area. I’d already tried two out of the three suggested remedies, and neither had worked. I’d even washed my eyelashes and surrounding area with Johnson and Johnson’s baby shampoo in hopes of washing the stinging juice from my skin. No luck. I was growing increasingly desperate and really was worried that I’d wind up spending my Friday evening in the emergency room. I was in no real desire to head up to Fairview General, and I didn’t have $150 to cover my ER co-pay. So…milk it was. I tried to rationalize what I was about to do by telling myself that when I ate hot food I drank milk to stop the burning feeling in my mouth. I also vaguely remembered all these fancy scientific terms that I really didn’t care about at the moment because my eye felt like it was on fire. I poured milk directly on my eye and the relief was almost immediate. Thank you, Yahoo Answers. I was able to get my contact out and I thought all was well.

I was wrong.

I refrained from wearing my contact lens in my left eye for the rest of the evening and most of Saturday. I was going out Saturday night and I figured that I’d soaked the lens long enough and that all was well. I popped that bad boy in my irritated eye and it was like a fiery blast from Hell all over again. I took the lens out and contemplated throwing it away. Obviously it was no good, it must have soaked up the juice from the peppers, but this was a lens from a new pair of contacts that I’d opened Thursday. I couldn’t justify throwing out a brand new contact, especially since I wear extended wear lenses and they tend to be kinda pricey. Moments of desperation are countered by moments of brilliance…so I filled my case with milk and threw the contact in it and went out. Not very hygienic, but pretty resourceful.

Taken from a text sent to my friend Destinie:

Hahaha I haven’t put it in my eye yet. I’m kinda scared to, lmao. But I must, in the name of science. When in Rome…hahahaha

When I stumbled in later that night I rinsed the case and the lens out with saline solution and soaked my lens until Sunday night when I put it back in my eye. Apart from some initial stinging, all was well. I wore it all last night and all day at work with out any problems until around 7 pm. My eye and upper lash line began to get irritated, so I took the lens out again when I got home. My eyelashes are still irritated, that grainy kind of irritation that comes with the onset of a stye or something equally awesome. I have a feeling that I may need to throw that lens out after all, which really, really sucks. Either that or my eye is really irritated from the peppers and I didn’t give it enough time to recover.

I learned a valuable lesson though. Next time I cut up peppers, I’m wearing gloves. And I’m definitely wearing goggles. I’m gonna make Mexican cuisine soooo dorktastic 😛