Monday, September 30, 2013

The Bachelorette

This past weekend, I made a whirlwind trip to San Francisco for less than 48 hours for a combination bridal shower/bachelorette party to celebrate one of my high school friends. I went back in the archives to see if I discussed her engagement when it happened last summer, but I only mentioned it briefly in the context of a whine about being single, so here we go: she's marrying an Aussie she met on New Year's Eve in Budapest---very romantic! He was living in London, she was living in Spain, they fell in love over Skype and while traveling together to many exotic places. They've been living together in London for the last few years, and they're just adorable. I love her and am so happy for them.

I was stressin' about the weekend, as you know, but of course I ended up having a fabulous time, as I knew I would. I'm so glad I got to celebrate with her, as I can't make the wedding. SINCE IT'S IN FIJI. You think I couldn't really afford a weekend in SF? Try a trip to FIJI.

The weekend began, well, not as planned. I set my alarm early, giving myself plenty of time to shower, and finish gathering my shit, and get to the Buff's so we could carpool to SB, meet up with the rest of the crew, and head to SF. didn't go off. Because I set my weekday alarm. I happened to wake up exactly at 6:50am, which was precisely the time I needed to leave to get to her house by 7:15. I literally knocked on her door exactly on time. No shower for me.

We got to SB early, met up with the girls, and crammed ourselves and our stuff into one of the husbands' bigass SUVs. Thank god for married folk and sharing! We had an awesome time road trippin' up the coast, gossiping and laughing and singing along to the weekend's theme song. We stopped at Denny's for a wholly unhealthy feast of pancake bites and breakfast burritos and milkshakes, then immediately all fell into food comas once back in the car---except, of course, the driver. Before I knew it, we got to our classy hotel in San Francisco (after we looped around the block once when we missed the entrance, blasting Miley and Kanye and dancing our asses off for the amusement of strangers on the sidewalk) and the staff treated us ever so nicely. Like we were adults or something. Seriously, highly recommend the Stanford Court, they practically encouraged us to party.

We freshened and prettified, and the bride arrived, and off we went to the bridal shower. It was held at a beautiful, amazingly decorated apartment on the water, right of the various piers, 30something, with the following, unedited view from the roof:

The bridal shower was so sweet and wonderful, with delicious food and lovely conversation and fun games and copious wine and it was all very, very classy...just like me.

After all the older and younger and more conservative of the guests went home or back to their hotels, those of us with naughtiness in our veins changed our attitudes and our clothes and got ready to go out on the town. There were shots. There was face paint. And we were ready. 

Of course, the bachelorette was a vision in white as is customary, from her dress, to her veil, to her sparkly white wig, and we her loyal maids (not all official bridesmaids, but maids for the night in spirit) were bewigged in neon bobs.

Like SO:

And me?

I LOVED HAVING PINK HAIR. I was so sassy. I got to be someone else. It. Was. Fabulous. I never wanted to take it off. Now I know why Katy Perry dyes her hair so much.

We went out and danced and made friends and drank and squealed and were generally obnoxious. It was a grand ole time. I don't even know what we did half the time, but it was splendid. 

At the very end of the night, as we waited for cabs, I was standing off by myself on the side of the street. An extremely drunk British guy came up to me and said, with what seemed like complete sincerity, "Is that your real hair?"

"Do you think this is my real hair?" I replied with equal sincerity. 


"Good job!" It was like I was talking to a puppy. A drunk puppy. 

"What color is your hair?"

"What color do you think my hair is?"

"...brown?" His hopeful guesses were pulled out of his drunken brain verrrry carefully.


This went on for a while. I could not stop my playful bitchiness, until my friends found a cab and I ran off with a screamed, "Bye, I love you!"

The cab took us past Taylor Street, which of course made my narcissism very excited.

Once back in the hotel room, we ordered a 3AM pizza, feasted on Doritos, and then passed out happily.

Of course...the next morning, not so happy. But that doesn't need to be recapped. Eventually we all made it home safe and sound, including the bride, with our memories to comfort us when...other things were not so comfortable.

I hope my friend greatly enjoyed her American bachelorette. She also had a British hen party, and will have another in Sydney. Such the melting pot wedding, this is.

So...who wants to buy me a ticket to Fiji?

I pulled the trigger.

It's done.

No, not really.

I said what I wanted to say, and of course Thumper was as sweet as he ever is. No defensiveness, no arguing, just listening and support. And of course I did what I didn't want to do, I cried a little, and he ended up comforting me.

I am the worst.

He could see it coming this week. And he appreciated my honesty, and said he agreed with what I had to say. He even said he thought I was right. What else was he going to say? He's Thumper.

And of course, even though everyone tells you not to, because it's selfish but I AM selfish, I told him, no pressure, but let me know...about that friends thing. And he said he might like that, because he really does like me. Like I like him.

Right before I left, he said with a joking lilt to his voice, "Tell Bentley I still love him!"

Ugh. Excuse me while I go wallow in self-pity entirely of my own making, because I am COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY THE ONE WHO DESERVES TO BE SAD RIGHT NOW.

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Fuck People

I try to love the world.

There are lots of good souls that inhabit this earth. I know this. I just spent the weekend with quite a few of them.

But there are also some bad seeds out there. Bad seeds who do bad things. Things like break the driver's side mirror of my car while it's parked at the Biff's house, less than an hour after I departed for San Francisco. The Husband returned from the gym to find my Marilyn so.

Perhaps...broken intentionally? The mirror is pretty perfectly destroyed, without my car being sideswiped or damaged in any other way. If it was intentional, that would be the second time in my life some dickbag has purposefully killed my mirror for no reason other than shits and giggles, and the fourth time that mirror has been broken, either by me or someone else.

Motherfucking fucker. Fuck people.

Luckily, the Buff and I MacGyver'd that shit, et voila!

The mirror even still moves.

So fuck people. I will overcome.

Poor Marilyn.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Failure To Launch

Okay, breakup was a no go. Didn't happen.

Originally, Thumper was going to come over to my place, then I realized I couldn't very well have him drive all the way to me to get dumped without being a total bitch in the situation. So I offered to drive to him, which then resulted in him trying to get me to meet him and his friends for a beer. No. No no no no no. That could not happen. So I cancelled.


So, I guess I should just go ahead and explain why this breakup is happening, even though it hasn't happened yet. I feel shitty about doing so, since I planned to actually do the deed before broadcasting the details to the world, but since I'm fairly certain Thumper remains oblivious to the existence of this blog, I'm gonna.

But just in case...


It's pretty simple. It's just...not there. The spark. The connection. That thing you're supposed to feel, that electric something. The intangible. The thing you can't fake, no matter how hard you try.

I wish it was. I want it to be. I really, really do. Thumper is everything I could want in a guy. On paper, he's really the perfect boy for me---he's smart and funny and kind and cute and successful and supportive and so similar to me in so many ways. We have so much fun hanging out. I really think he gets me, as a person, and appreciates me.

He likes me. That much is clear. And I do like him. I do.

Which is why I feel like the shittiest person in the world when I say that I just...don't feel it enough. When I look at him, when I kiss's not the way it should be, after over two months. I've given it time, I've tried to let it grow, and it hasn't. Maybe it can't.

What I want? It isn't him. And what he wants isn't me.

Since I've decided this, I've felt awful, and guilty, and tortured, and and awful. And I've felt awful about feeling awful, because this shouldn't be about me, right? I'm not the one getting dumped. And then I feel awful about feeling awful that I think he'll feel awful, because how do I know he will? And then I'm cycling into a pit of total self-loathing.

I really should adjust my meds. 

I haven't been questioning my decision, though. Because with each fawning and flirty text Thumper has sent me over the last few days, texts I cannot reciprocate or acknowledge in any way lest I lead him on, a pricking knife drives deeper into my conscience, and I know I'm doing the right thing. Because he deserves better than someone who doesn't fully appreciate him and his sweetness. I don't understand why I can't, honestly. He's quite literally the best guy I've ever dated, no one else has ever treated me this well, and I can't fathom why I can't feel the way about him I want to feel. 

But...I clearly don't. And I can't try to force it. To date Thumper any longer past this point would be inauthentic, untrue to myself and a lie to him. That's not fair. 

And not what I want.

What I want is something pure and passionate, real and spontaneous. Something honest. I want to meet someone, and just feel it. Not meet someone, and hope it grows. I want to have a first date last for hours, talk until our throats are dry and the bar is closing down. I don't want to hope for the conversation next time to be better, or different. I need a touch to be electric, eye contact to speak volumes, not things to be tentative, need permission, ask questions. I want to be surprised, not comfortable, challenged, not surrendered to. I just want something different and new and unknown. 

Emotional Overload

Life is overwhelming right now.

I have so many posts I could write. SO MUCH IS GOING ON. I don't even know where to begin.

I have things I should be doing right now. I should be packing to leave for San Francisco early in the am. I should be wrapping the gifts for the bridal shower I'm going to once I get there. I should be showering, or cleaning, or taking out the trash.

But for now, I'm sitting. On brain overload, totally incapacitated.

Shit That's Going On Right Now

*I had a second interview for that job today. Yup. And I think it went really, really well. I don't want to sound cocky, but I think I might get it, and if I do...i have to decide if I want it. I know, I said I really did, but now I'm panicking, because change is scary and what if I can't do it? And it's not a raise. And it would be a really intense, non-creative, technical job, and I'm worried it'll do nothing but stress me out, and is that better or worse than me hating and being unfulfilled by my current job? Plus side, it gives me more experience on my resume, and I need a change, and it's really just as close to home as my current job....ahhhhhhhhhh.

*This bachelorette party is going to be so fun, but I'm stressin'. What to wear? What to pack? How much am I gonna spend? Will I run out of money before my next paycheck? Did I buy enough of a gift? Should I get something else? 

*I'm breaking up with Thumper tonight. Yeah. It's gonna suck.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Lazy Lady Links

I should be doing lots of things right now.

Laundry. (No quarters.) Unpacking. (No motivation.) Dishes. (No food to cook with, so no reason to.) Clearing out my car. (No desire to put on pants.) Cleaning my bathtub. (No fucking way are you kidding me?)

But instead, I'm providing you with some supes awesome links.


Amy Poehler Hilariously Raps About Paula Deen and Butter

Got 10 minutes? THIS IS SO GOOD. Her part starts at 5:20, if you really just want her part. "Butter be the best fucking thing you've had!"

31 Films You’ll Be Talking About This Awards Season

Soooo many movies I want to see! Once again, my goal will be to see all the Oscar nominated films. Better start early but just seeing everything good.

This Kitten "Wrecking Ball" Vine Is The Only Miley Parody You Need

9 Facts Worth Knowing About Human Attraction

Interesting article. The first one? No. Fucking. Duh.

"1. Sometimes we exchange a like for a like. Have you ever been told that so-and-so-who-you-barely-ever-noticed-before has a crush on you, then suddenly you felt a mutual liking for them? Well the attraction might be reciprocated based mostly on the fact that you feel complimented by their feelings, and automatically relate those pleasant, positive thoughts to so-and-so-who-you-barely-ever-noticed-before."

God, I should really be DOING something with my night.

After all...

Things You Do When You're Poor

  • Eat cereal and milk for dinner every night because it's gloriously cheap.
  • Inadvertently guilt-trip the guy you're dating into buying you a real dinner when you tell him this fact.
  • Wear a dress you haven't worn in over a year (as it's really not flattering) because you don't want to waste money doing laundry.
  • Stay at work during lunch to save a tiny amount of gas.
  • Contemplate bailing out of a best friend's bachelorette weekend because it will quite literally deplete your bank account. 
  • Realize you cannot do this and be a good friend, and wonder if anywhere around you buys blood.
  • Find yourself increasingly jealous of your cat's super easy lifestyle. What a lazy little bitch.

Danger Zone

Thumper was over last night, and we ordered takeout.

On my compter.

Where this blog is linked, very clearly, right at the top.


So...yeah. He could have seen the name, and thought to himself, "Gee, I wonder what FreakOutInColor is?" and decided to Google it later. Especially after I quickly deleted the links out of paranoia while he seemed to glance away from the screen. That could have caused suspicion.


That's not going to stop you, is it?

Fuck me.

Monday, September 23, 2013

EPIC RECAP: What happens in Vegas does not stay...

...because Sin City will always, ALWAYS, steal your voice (and your morals, and your soul), and you will end up dying at your desk on Monday, attempting to answer the phone while sounding like a seventy year old sexy smoker.


So hello, friends! I am back in the real world. There were shenanigans. There was scandalous behavior. There were injuries and material losses. And memories were made.


Do not read this post if you are related to me (HI DAD!), or wish to believe I am a pure and delicate flower who would never ever make out in hotel lobbies at three am and get scolded for it by security guards because apparently you are offending the elderly, who should really be in bed at three am.  

Okay? Okay.


Let's start at the very beginning, shall we?  Look what necessities I bought before heading to the airport. Band-Aids, glitter nail polish, and shaving cream. Vegas perfection, right?

So my flight was delayed on Thursday, 'cause OF COURSE, but Thumper ever so brilliantly suggested I try to get on standby, and I ended up on an earlier flight. That boy is wise. I would never have thought to do that, because I have no life skills. I managed to arrive an hour early and met up with two of my favorite ladies at the airport. We taxied ourselves to the Trump International, all atwitter with excitement, ready and prepared to take on the town.

These are the texts I sent to Thumper over the next hour:

Yup. "In the cab" to "drunk" to "cannot spell and needy" in the course of an hour. VEGAS.

Oh, so did I tell you I ended up buying a second dress? I did. It was only $12, practically free.

Check it out! You can't quite see the detail of the peplum in the actual Vegas shots so I included the selfie from my shopping expedition. I heart this dress.

So we got drunk and we got fancy, and headed out to the new hot spot Hakkasan at the MGM, where we were on the VIP list because we are important. We walked right the fuck in. Buh bye, line! And then...we danced. We danced, and shimmied, and got our groove on, and boogied, and got down, and DANCED. And then...I met a boy.

(Yes, yes, I realize I've been seeing Thumper for awhile now, but we have had no discussion of exclusivity or commitment's VEGAS. shame here. Nope.)

What happened was: I saw his adorable, bearded self behind Mantana, and I yelled to her, "GIRL. THERE IS A HOTTIE BEHIND YOU THAT YOU SHOULD DANCE WITH." Because in my mind, he was wayyyyyyy too cute for me. So imagine my surprise when he circled our group and came up behind me, and Mantana pushed me into him, and he started dancing with me. My inner fifteen year old was so excited y'all! I turned around to introduce myself, and not only did it turn out he lives in LA near me, it turned out he was super smart and super nice and super, super into me. Later we discussed this first interaction and he said I looked "incredible" on the dance floor and he was "intimidated" and I was like "wutnow?" So you know...I have no self-awareness whatsoever.

So, we danced. Then we went and got midnight breakfast with our friends. Then we made out in the aforementioned lobby until we were scolded and removed. And then, we played blackjack until he lost a sufficient amount of money (like, lots, he even offered to bankroll me). THEN, as we strolled down the Strip hand in hand, still not sick of each other nor remotely tired, he offered to get us a room.

"That sounds great, but I don't want you expecting anything," I said, ever so primly. Because I am not that kind of girl, gentle readers. No, I'm only the kind of girl who makes out in lobbies.

"I'm not expecting anything," he insisted. "I just want to spend more time with you."


So, a room it was. We talked, and made out, and cuddled. Then slept. He was very gentlemanly. He woke me up in the morning to say goodbye, since he was heading out that day back to LA. He asked for my number. I dozed as he got dressed to leave, and out of the corner of my sleepy eye I watched as he carefully hung up my dress.

So. Fucking. Adorable.

I slept a bit more, then dragged myself out of bed. My walk of shame was decorated with high fives from guys working on the Strip, and a kindly older woman in an elevator saying, "I hope you had fun, dear!" Also, my dress felt a lot shorter in the daylight.

I got back to the room to find one of the girls had gone to the gym, which, what the fuck man, and another one had just arrived home before me, shoeless. Yes, she had also stayed the night in a boy's room, and woken up without her footwear. God only knows, people. VEGAS.

Other things of note from that night: three out of the eight girls got their phones stolen/lost at Hakkasan, which is apparently a huge problem there according to Yelp reviews. Another group of girls we met had seven out of eight phones go missing. Way shitty. So the tally was three lost phones, a lost pair of shoes, and some lost dignity if we count my removal from the hotel lobby for inappropriate behavior.

And that? Was just Night #1. Night #2, another phone went missing, and more dignity was lost. Not mine.

Friday, half of us went to Daylight at Mandalay Bay for a pool party, where we partook in free drinks and sunshine.

From there, we headed to the Wynn, where the second incident of "inappropriateness via Taylor" occurred. See, apparently the buffet at the Wynn has a strict dress code, which yours truly wasn't following. My bathing suit coverup was not "opaque" enough. AKA, I was dressed like a slut. So I had to add Mantana's glittery cover-up as a second layer to be deemed appropriate for entry. I looked ridiculous. God, I was just a hussy all over the place this weekend.

After gorging ourselves at the buffet, there was an epic nap. EPIC.

And then...well. Thumper was supposed to be meeting up with us before we headed out for the night. He did not. He blew me off. Which earned him a place on my drunken shit list. I was not happy. Like come ON, bro. This is what you were missing out on.

RIGHT? Look at that side boob. Fail, Thumper. Fail. No sideboob for you.

Well I guess, considering the night I had prior, I suppose I shouldn't have been too upset, right? But I still gave him shit. Because I was not pleased. At least he knew he failed, he was very apologetic. He says he'll make it up to me. We'll see.

Night #2 we had pooled our money for bottle service at Body English at the Hard Rock, 'cause we wanted to feel like ballers. Plus, there was a music festival in Vegas this weekend, and we were worried about crowds (turns out it wasn't a huge deal, but whatever). So we headed to the casino and met up with our promoter, who was an adorable little thing in a cute red dress. We enjoyed some two for one drinks at the lounge before heading into the club, where there was a free champagne bar and we got a table right on the dance floor.


And that's about all I remember...

Although apparently drunk me very responsibly got myself back to the hotel and into bed fully clothed. And I did get all my things in my suitcase (minus my iPod, which is being mailed to me). Go, Drunk Taylor!

I woke up Saturday to my alarm making WAY TOO MUCH NOISE at 6:30am. My flight was at 9. Everyone else was staying for a third night, but I had teacher training at 2, so I scrambled my shit together, rolled myself out of the hotel and into a cab, and got to the airport by 7 or so. flight was cancelled. Not delayed. Flat. Out. Cancelled.

I cried.

Just the day before, I had joked that I wanted my flight to get cancelled. BUT NOT ONCE I WAS ALREADY AT THE AIRPORT. Before would have been great. While I could still stay for the third night, sure. But not while I was hungover as shit, with my bag already checked, ready to get on my damn way.

They managed to get me on a 12:15pm flight. Which was then delayed. Of course.

I puked on the plane during take-off into my Burger King bag like the mature, classy bitch I am.

I kept slamming my gigantic fucking blister on things.

I contemplated death.

I finally landed at LAX at ten minutes until 2, got into a cab, nearly puked in said cab, got home and threw my suitcase in my apartment, realized my car was at work, nearly cried again, walked to work, then finally made it to the yoga studio an hour late for training.

But I made it.




And that is my recap.

I think that's everything? If I think of more stories, I will certainly share.

God, I am such a shitshow.


Wednesday, September 18, 2013


Another interview today, for another job I really really want.


It went well, I think. Not perfectly, but pretty well. The first fucking question was, "What's the best joke you've heard recently?" which come on, talk about putting someone on the spot! Who knows appropriate jokes, anyway? The only one I could half-remember was Sarah Silverman, "I was raped by a doctor, which is so bittersweet for a Jewish girl..." Don't think that one would have worked. I ended up saying I'd make him laugh at some point in the interview to make up for not thinking of one, which I did, so all was well. The low point was not totally nailing the Excel test, but I think I showed I was smart enough to be able to learn what I don't know on Excel, if they hire me.

Which they won't.

See, when I want things, I pretty much have to prepare myself for the crushing blow of disappointment, because it inevitably comes, and then I'm just...disappointed. You know? You know.

So I'm taking this view: I will not get this job.

But if I would be awesome.

But I won't.

That's my view, and I'm sticking to it.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Eff Me Fashion

I've been obsessing for weeks about what to wear in Vegas.

This is a tricky, tricky problem.

Well, okay, I do have a closet full of suitable Vegas dresses from my numerous, numerous trips over the years, but we run into a number of problems. Effin' problems. F Problems, even.

The first problem is very shallow. Well, all the problems are shallow, but the first is exceptionally so. See, most have my dresses have been SEEN before...on Facebook. Oh yes, the dreaded, F. FACEBOOK. Effin' Facebook. Spoiling my style. But when you're trying to impress a quarter dozen different boys you hope are creepin' your profile spread out across the country with your sex appeal via your pictures, you kinda want some new duds. So shallow, I know.

Not that they likely really notice a variety of clothes, anyway.

The second big problem: Some dresses just don't fit anymore.

Because another problem: The other F word. A word I am trying to ban from my writing and thinking, a word with way too much baggage... See, of course, in my weeks of darkness on this blog, in the course of my recent binging, yoga-avoiding, and general malaise...I have gained weight. Which means I do not feel comfortable in most of my clothing anymore. Especially tight, sexy little dresses designed to show off the skin I'm not so comfortable in. Dresses I'll feel the need to suck


So I bought one dress, which is all loose and covered up, thinking it would hide the flaws I'm seeing in myself. But in reality, trying to hide these things just emphasizes them, no? A bigger body looks bigger with more fabric on it. And Vegas is for tight and shiny, not loose and demure.

So that dress is out.

(Plus, I already have pictures of it on Facebook from a few weeks ago...dork.)

I did find one option in the depths of my closet, so night #1 is all taken care of. I had decided to borrow a dress for night #2 from my Biff, but since she didn't end up coming to the Valley for our get together this past weekend, that didn't happen. So alas, I had to shop.


I'm not even being 100% sarcastic. It's a little tragic. 'Cause I'm 'po. But you know, such is life, and you know...I like new shiny things.

So today, I shopped at my favorite friendly neighborhood Marshall's, which was pathetically devoid of options, and man this post is extremely long and shallow but at least I'm writing, right, and to wrap it up here, I found a dress I feel comfortable and attractive in for under $20. More than attractive, maybe? Well...see...

It's a bit of an EFF ME dress.

The amount of side boob is...impressive. It has leather. It's black...I did mention I'm seeing Thumper in Vegas, right?

I texted him today: "I am totally going to inflict this dress on you."

He adored the use of the word "inflict."

I'm not completely sure I have the ladyballs to pull it off. I might go find something else tomorrow...or I might rock this sexy little frock in Vegas with my Barbie heels.

Teehee. *cough* Eff. Me.