Smith’s: The Seventh Circle of Hell

Don’t get me wrong. I love to shop. Too much. Ask anyone. I buy things in bulk that I will never be able to use or consume (does anyone remember my first caselot sale where I ended up with 48 cans of peas?). I have been liken to a magpie by Big G, lured to all things shiny and out of my price range. So you would think I would be totally down with going to the grocery store, right?

ImageNot in suburbia. Not anymore.

I went to the grocery store yesterday with my trusty list, going through and marking things off, and it was relatively quiet. The weather was terrible, the roads hockey rinks. Few had made the attempt. And I was pumped. Until half of what I wanted to buy was missing. Missing. How does a grocery store run out of sour cream? Diced green chili? FRESCA?! WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THE WRATH!

ImageIs this because of the tarot cards?!

So on the way home, I decided to swing by the grocery store. I figure, it wasn’t that busy yesterday, and most people would go shopping on a weekend right? 



The store was like a scene from Resident Evil just as the zombie apocalypse is starting and people are desperate for food. The parking lot was full of drag racing insane people, there were infinity people jostling for the last bottle of Fresca (don’t worry, I got mine), and I was legitimately worried about whatever kerfuffle was going on in the baby food aisle. I saw an old man flick an old lady off for taking the last handi-capable parking spot, and when someone wouldn’t let another person in to merge, once they got into traffic they literally passed them against oncoming traffic.

ImageI felt like I was in DC all over again.

So lesson learned. I will eat peanut butter and sand until I run out of food before I go to Smith’s on a Monday afternoon ever again. To those of you who think you’re brave enough to face that big old bag of crazy, be ready for some Hunger Games bullsh%t. And not in a good way.

Until next time, stay classy (and may the odds be ever in your favor) Salt Lake.

I Put a Spell on You

And now you’re mine. And by “you,” I mean David Beckham. Or Sam Claflin. Or both. I won’t be picky, honest. Mmm… Beckham-Claflin sandwich… Whoa. Okay, back to reality. About a week ago, I found the old tarot deck, dusted it off, and started reading again. And while I am no expert by any stretch of the imagination, I’m an arguably better card reader than some. Except Zoltar.

ImageI would never have figured out that whole Tom Hanks thing in Big.

Now I know what many of you are thinking; you just started going to Church. You’re becoming a congregant (which is a big fancy way of saying I have to figure out how to squeeze $5 out of my weekly budget for when they pass the plate). What the hell are you doing reading tarot cards? What is this, a cheesy ’80s movie where psychic sisters bring their loved ones back from the dead, who can only stay alive if they find true love before a full moon?


And I do love Shelley Long, but I wouldn’t be caught dead in that dress.

Those of you who get the reference just earned yourselves some Girl Scout cookies. But I digress. It may be a bit on the hocus pocus side, but the last few readings seemed to give me a little bit of insight into some of the goings-on in my life. And hearing a sermon versus cutting a deck of cards to discern things that impact my life keeps me the way I’ve always been: A walking contradiction.

ImageNow serving low-carb burritos and a sassy attitude.

So I’ll keep the cloaks and wands packed, but I think that I might start to relearn all of the cards and what they mean, and end each day or two seeing what Aleister Crowley has to say about my future. Who knows, maybe Beckham is in the cards somehow. Shirtless even.


Until next time, stay classy (and mysterious) Salt Lake.


Yes, friends, there is more than one Superwoman. I don’t always talk enough about recognizing when really awesome things happen, when the stars align, when you know that those you love are enjoying themselves. As they damned well should.

They’ve earned it.

First and foremost, Hurricane Suzie’s birthday is today, and while I am behind on my postmarking her gifts, I am hopeful and excited that she will like them. She’s an amazing woman, putting up with not only having me in the first place (I was a fat baby) but with continuing to put up with me for the last 32 years. She’s resilient, she’s always put us first, and she’s always been as supportive as possible given my… questionable fashion sense.

ImageThrough thick and thin, blue haired or not.

I called Hurricane Suzie from work, singing Happy Birthday loudly and off-key in front of my coworkers, who got a real kick out of it. She spent the evening having dinner with old friends, and having just talked to her, I know she’s enjoying herself which makes me happy. And in even BETTER news (if that were even remotely possible), my friend Malinda is officially 5 years cancer-free after beating the everliving sh%t out of a whole mess of cancers. She’s happy, she’s healthy, and we’re going to celebrate tomorrow like it’s 1999.

ImageNot 2009; that’s when she was forced to start ROCKING the hats.

I am incredibly fortunate to have such incredible, strong, talented, intelligent, and beautiful women in my life. The irony is not lost on my queer friends, that I am lucky enough to have incredible ladies in my life given my… you know… “life choices.” But truth be told, I am not only lucky, I am humbled by the strong women in my life and how much they have given me, how much I have learned, how much of a better person I am for having them in my life. Whether it be my sister (and sis-in-law), aunts, Vaughn, Big G, South, the list goes on and on and on. I am grateful for their presence in my life. You, ladies, are incredible.

ImageStrong women are just that: STRONG.

I look forward to celebrating with friends tomorrow, seeing people I haven’t seen in ages while honoring friends and thinking about my family, both biological and happenstance. Until next time, stay classy (and hug your best gal) Salt Lake.

The Futility of Car Alarms

Here’s where I go.

Unless you live in a very dangerous area, and are driving one of the most stolen cars in Utah (to find out, click here), or you have somehow mistaken your car for a DeLorean and it’s the late ’90s where you think you’re living, you don’t need a car alarm. If you are driving a car built in, say, the last decade or two, and it’s not one of the most stolen cars in Utah, you don’t need a car alarm.

ImageThis would be more effective. Seriously.

There are a multitude of reasons that suggest that having a flipping car alarm on your brand new Lexus in Sugarhouse is unnecessary. First of all, more than likely your car has a key that is microchip-ed. If you do, even if they get into your car (in one of the safer parts of town, mind you) they can’t easily steal it. So yeah. Second, if someone interested in stealing your ride sees a little red light that flashes in your car (even if it’s obviously fake, see here or here) chances are they’ll move on. And third, they are f-ing ANNOYING.

ImageAnd I’m sick of it. Sick. Of. It.

Don’t get me wrong, having had cars broken into, I understand the frustration of someone breaking into my vehicle to steal things that are 1) easily seen through the window, 2) are valuable, even modestly, and 3) are things I don’t want stolen. The fact is, if you leave an iPod or a tablet computer on your passenger seat while you run into the grocery store, someone passing by might be interested.

So don’t leave expensive sh%t visible in your car.

All you are doing is pissing everyone else off around you, because car alarms typically go off not to deter theft, but instead because of user error. And by user error, I mean that the owner of said car didn’t bother to read the free (that’s right, FREE) manual that comes with the car they just bought because they can’t be bothered, more engrossed in whether it comes in Pearl Cerulean or Rustic Evergreen.

ImageJust saying.

So please, for me, for the children, if you are contemplating getting a car alarm, at the very least figure out how it works before you flippantly turn it on, because if you don’t you are frankly dead to me. Unless you drive a BMW and live in the Bronx or Compton (which is a whole other thing we should probably discuss), you don’t need one. You just don’t. Do everyone a favor, and install a fake or better yet, have some faith that either we live in a just world and that the thief will get what’s coming to them, or they were in need, or that in general people aren’t totally sh%tty at their core.



Let the haters hate. Until then, stay classy (and quiet) Salt Lake.

Return of the Mac

Wow. I seriously didn’t realize just how much time I spent staring at glowing rectangles during the two/thirds of my life I spend not sleeping. With only the crap-top computer to work with last night, with a battery life of 17 seconds and (when plugged in to charge) the ability to render men infertile, I was adrift, relying on my smartphone and actual physical books to pass the time while baking and cooking some delicious dishes.

ImageMolly Shannon completes me.

So now, typing furiously while checking all of my personal emails and listening to (you guessed it) NPR, I think I need to self-impose a semi-ban on my computer usage outside of work. This will not impact the BLERG, as that is a relationship, a passion if you will. But maybe I’ll spend less time watching B-rated horror movies on Netflix while waiting for commercials during Rachel Ray on Hulu to get out of my damned viewing pleasure.

ImageI’m pretty sure this is Mandarin for timesuck. Or is that YouTube?

In other news, work continues to rock, I’m starting to plateau in my weight loss (grrrrr) and I went out dancing last weekend. I’m working on the second book and reading Divergent because at my core, I am a cross between an old NPR-listening, crocheting, sweater-wearing lesbian and a 15 year old boy-crazy girl.

ImageSo much teen angst. I heart this Molly too.

It is what it is. And while I know I spend too much time on my computer, now that it’s back, and I’m sitting in the living room watching my rapidly expanding cat nap (I may rename her “Wide Load”; when she backs up I can hear beeping), I appreciate that while modern technology can push us apart, it still provides me with one of my favorite things to do in my free time: engage in mindless entertainment.

ImageTwo words: The Bachelor.

I am now going to check on the crock pot, chase Luna around the house, and listen to the news. Until next time, stay classy (and plugged in to a reasonable level) Salt Lake.

The Tyranny of Spring

Now don’t get me wrong. I do like it when the seasons change, things get a bit warmer, and it stays light out later into the evening. The few precious weeks of Utah spring see torrential downpours of pine cones in my complex, things finally start to green up, and I can open up the windows to let some of the clean(ish) air in. But with great opportunities come terrible challenges.


You all know about my troubled history with the cyclist community. And I don’t hate all cyclists, just like all cyclists don’t hate all motorists. No, I only hate the ones that believe that signs indicating to “share the road” means that cars have to deal with their nonsense moves, their weaving through heavy traffic, their six-deep blockage of roads that have f-ing bicycle lanes just so that no one can pass them. Oh, and lest we forget the silly notion that cyclists must stop at a four way stop sign intersection like everyone else during rush hour.

ImageAnd don’t even try to play like you’re illiterate. I don’t care what the rules are, STOP means STOP.

I will once again attempt to take this community in stride; living in my new neighborhood, I hope and pray that people in this part of town that choose to ride bicycles share the road with me. And I know that it’s the bad apples that have spoiled my opinion of the two-wheelers. I commend that they’re not polluting the environment, and that they’re fit, and that they are totally comfortable with the public really, truly seeing what their body looks like. More power to you. But you need to play nice too. And… with the spandex…

ImageNot leaving a whole lot to the imagination, gents.

Until next time, stay classy (and share the road) Salt Lake.

Pitch Perfect

That’s right. Instead of watching terrible disaster movies or catching up on Hulu tonight after my little shindig/pseudo-get together, I plan on couching in my pajamas laughing my ass off while watching Fat Amy “crush it.” Because at 32, I am getting to the point where a night in on a Friday night sounds like heaven. With the new job, keeping this house of mine from crumbling into the ground, and trying to write more books, this girl is tired.


Snuggling with a snuggle-buddy is totally negotiable. Just saying.

It was a good full week at work. I saw some friends, I readjusted to all of the changes Hurricane Suzie made to the house (which, by the way, I still can’t find my damned stamps), and I finally tackled the pile of laundry that I was wrestling with on my bed. Which was the size of a small island nation. I am getting used to ironing again, though I hate it, but it’s worth it because (again, it doesn’t take much to make me happy) I got my binders and my three hole punch at work today. It was like a thousand champagne corks popping simultaneously.

ImageI am just realizing the double entendre of this image. Apologies.

This weekend I plan on couching, reading, writing, and getting Big G to help me get my finances in better order. I am hoping to see my phantom roommate at some point to have some coffee, and to meet up with Kandyland after church on Sunday to get some brunch and dish. I also will be getting my Girl Scout cookies, which will live in my freezer until after my ten year college reunion, because I am so f-ing close to my goal weight. Until then, it’s Atkin’s bars, meat, and spinach.

ImageI am so. Sick. Of. Spinach.

So for those of you with the energy to go out this weekend, raise a glass or two in my honor, because this girl is tired and will inevitably do some work this weekend in an attempt to get my credit cards under control. Jebus take the wheel. Until next time, stay classy (and have fun dammit) Salt Lake.