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. Except...it 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 near...one 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. 

"...no?"

"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.

"GOOD JOB!"

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?

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.

WORTH IT THOUGH.

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.

A DISCLAIMER:

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.

Proceeding!

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 and...it's VEGAS. So...no 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."

*swoon*

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 THEN WE DANCED.

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.

Then...my 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.

Fuck.

Me.

Sideways.

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.

VEGAS.

Lifelist

Yeah, I know.

I suck.

What can I say? I haven't posted, but I've been living life. I do have things to talk about. Nothing to brag about on the, you know, weight loss front, so the whole thesis of this blog is kind of moot at this point, but we soldier on! WHO GIVES A FUCK?

Not I.

(This is a lie.

I give so many fucks.)

1) Still seeing Thumper. I think...that he is growing on me more and more. He's just fucking adorbs, y'all.

'Cept he got me sick. 'Cause boys have cooties.

2) He'll be meeting my friends this weekend, like the Biff and the Buff and her Husband and all that group. Should be a very interesting evening.

3) I have not, however, lost the urge to hunt. Like a lioness in the wild. I downloaded Tinder, which is motherfucking hilaaaaarious. I haven't met anyone off it, but it's such a boost to the ole ego. Completely superficial. Tinder, y'all. Super entertaining.

4) Exactly 7 days from oh, right now, I'll be on a plane to Vegas. VEGAS. YES BABY. To meet up with Mantana, and my Jersey girls, and my friend living in Australia, and WOOO HOOOOO. SO FREAKING EXCITED. I really don't have the money, I shouldn't be taking the time off of work, but dammit, I'M GOING.

5) Speaking of work...I have a phone interview tomorrow for a new job. Yup, back on the search. Something needs to change. I'm really excited about it. Wish me vibes.

Uphill Climb

I don't like going uphill.

I've always known this, but it solidified on a hike with Mantana, a hike she swore "wasn't so bad" as we cruised there in the convertible. She told me did it for a run, speed walked up the hill to the top then jogged afterwards on the path coming down, did it in no time at all. 

Piece of cake.

Or not so much.

I was huffing and puffing halfway up, took a few breaks, and by the time we were nearing the top I was cranky. Because I do not like going uphill. And I do not like having to take breaks. And I do not like feeling fat. And I do NOT LIKE UPHILL.

Yet somehow, I've managed to convince myself I like hiking. I don't really know what that's about. 

The metaphor I'm seeing here: Making changes is a lot like going uphill. Doing things the same, day after day, is going with momentum. Down down down, into my hole, making the same easy, self-destructive choices that I always do. But making good decisions, healthy decisions...those take more effort. Effort I hate to expend. 

All decisions, all choices, they carry weight behind them. They matter. I either have to haul myself uphill with the weight of my good decisions, or let the bad ones pull me down with gravity. But either way, I feel a strain. I'm just going to benefit positively or negatively from it, grow or wilt away, let it build me up or tear me down. 

Going downhill isn't easy either, you know. You start to go faster than you want to, you skid and grasp at anything for a little balance, you claw at the trees and ground and rocks for purchase. It's hard on your joints, going downhill. It wears away at your spirit until you slump.

So, this ramble probably makes no sense. But my point is this. What I've been doing, this downhill slide...it hasn't been easy.

So let's try going uphill for awhile. I can take breaks, I can get cranky...but why not let the weight of my decisions make me stronger, not weaker? Why not change my direction, and try to see the view from the top again?

A Recounting of Events: Hardly Complete

So, what exactly happened on my trip, you may be wondering. Or maybe you don't care, and it's just the narcissist in me assuming you do.

But you know me.

I like to talk.

1) In case you didn't notice in the picture post yesterday, I sorta pierced my tragus on impulse. Twice. I'm in love with it. I want more.

2) Someone kinda became smitten with me. Maybe more than smitten. It's baaaad. See, Mantana's friend apparently developed a crush on me awhile back from Facebook pictures, and so we all had dinner my last night in town. And now he's been inundating me with comments on FB about my, well, stunning beauty, and the like, and privates messages like, "Thinking of you, sweet, sexy girl!".  It's progressed to text messages, and he even invited to fly me to San Diego for a concert. I cannot make it, and probably wouldn't go regardless. I am learning there is such a thing as TOO much attention. He really is nice and cute, but I didn't really feel a spark...and yes, I tried to feel one. Ahem.

3) I did, however, feel a sparky connection with an older, Canadian businessman with an incredibly Canadian name. We had drinks. We laughed. Then this Canadian and his couple friends took us to three am Chinese food where they served us after hours alcohol called "cold tea" aka "beer", then adventures continued till sunrise. Whoops.

4) The next night, Mantana and I fell in love with a bartender. Fell. In. LOVE. It was our last night in Vancouver so we HAD to go out, even if it was in yoga pants and very little makeup, completely exhausted from a wild week of non-stop fun in Montana and a late night the night before. We picked a low key pub and two seats at the bar. Up walks the bartender, and...love. LOVE. He spent the whole night talking to us. First he proposed marriage to me for a green card, since I live in California and he wants to move there. Then he proposed to Amanda, for her lawyer status. LE SIGH. He made eyes at us. He smiled. FLIRTED.

Miss Mantana claimed him, which was only fair because it was her birthday. But oh dear god he was so brutally, blisteringly, devastatingly attractive. We sat at that bar till closing, till the lights came on. But I'm not allowed to talk about him, since he's been claimed, so we have to move on. Shh.

5) Oh, and I was ADVENTUROUS this trip. I went down the world's largest and tallest zip line. I went rock climbing on a boat. I cracked crab. I'm a little bad ass.

6) That is all...for now.

"Baby, you a song..."

Mantana and I listened to this song on repeat while driving in her hot ass yellow convertible Camaro, cruising around lakes, garnering the stares of every male on the sidewalk...

Not a bad life.

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Hubbard Glacier

Goodbye, Radiance!

6:30 AM

#onatrain

Anchorage, AK