Monthly Archives: December 2010

Adventures in Physical Fitness and Fatness

Being an adult (or at least, being older than 18) comes with so many perks and downfalls. One of the major downfalls is weight gain, loss of metabolism, and “filling out.” Please do not think that this is going to be one big complaint about my weight and size, because it’s so not. Stop pre-judging and just read, people. No one wishes, or should wish, to look like those skinny teenage bean-poles with no shape or musculature. Every dude I’ve ever asked (and I’ve asked a lot) prefers their women to actually have some kind of shape. Plus, being that thin makes it hard to bear children and buy adult clothes. No one wants to wear Limited Too for the rest of their lives, and petite sizes can only be so small.

Anywho. This is not meant to be a body image discussion, because as my old roomie used to say (also the originator of trife), you’ve got to love yoself in good times and bad.  Since living on the left coast, something I have noticed is that there are much fewer overweight people here than back east. This is a gross generalization, as I have clearly not done a scientific study, but it is a noticeable enough difference that I noticed. I’m not sure exactly what it is that drives this, and I can really only guess at it since I’m not one of them. But I think it’s a combination of things. Less Burger Kings, more yoga, less KFC, more vegan restaurants, no Bojangles (sad for them really), focus on fresh and local foods, less NASCAR and college football (sad again), more hiking and biking. These are general trends, and it looks like those that grow up with it have grown up healthier. Anyway, all I’m saying is that it sure is easier to eat healthier out here than back home. Not that this has made a huge or any difference in my eating habits, but it’s true.

Recently, my good ol’ nearby 24-Hour Fitness gym, walking distance from my apartment, closed for renovations. For a month. Granted, since running the 10k (sort of a while ago for those of you not up on my calendar) I sort of fell completely off the working out wagon, and really didn’t give two coots about it. But then I was super grouchy at work for too many days in a row, was completely unmotivated to do anything, eating worse than usual, was rude to someone unintentionally (rude) and feeling sloth-ish and fat. The scale told me I was edging (though slowly) towards a place I didn’t want to go. Buying jeans and work pants is no picnic y’all, and I don’t want to replace the hard-earned collection I already have. SO. It was time to take action, because nobody likes a grouchy Miss Sassy.

Not far from my now former gym is a magical place called LA Boxing. Take a second and chuckle. It’s fine, because I now have a pair of [pink] boxing gloves (I know) with which to punch you in the face! JK. But seriously. Best. Workout. Of. My. Life. Poppa Pants says I exaggerate and make statements like “Best [fill-in-the-blank] of my life!” too often and that whatever it is really couldn’t possibly be so great that it’s worthy of that qualifying greatness. And I will humbly acknowledge that he is, as usual, right about this (though I argue that I just like to express my excitement is all…”the best!” just sounds fake, but add “of my life!” and people really know you love it) BUT this time he’s wrong. Because I’m fairly certain I burned a million calories in just one hour. Not only did I burn a million(ish) calories, I took out probably a month’s worth of aggression on that thick 150 pound bag and O.M.G. did it feel good. I’m not sure I’ve ever punched anything before that day, but after the first 60 seconds of punching was over, I knew I was hooked. The best part of this is that the girls at this gym are…friendly! When’s the last time you saw a friendly girl at a gym full of gorillas? Never. And there’s perk #500.

If you’re not convinced that this is the most amazing workout ever, consider this: The kickboxing instructor shared a fantastic success story. Apparently a middle-aged man formerly extremely overweight and considering surgery, started taking her class 4 days a week just hoping to get in some kind of shape for the surgery, lost 150 pounds in 10 months. One hundred and fifty pounds, you guys. That’s a lot of pounds. That’s like losing me plus another half of me (that’s a generous comparison…go with it). Seriously.

So do I still have bad days at work? Yes. Do I still get stressed and freak out about things? Quite often. Do I still not take a lunch and work until midnight? Every day. Do I now take a break every evening to punch (and sometimes kick) everything and everyone who has put themselves in my bad graces? Absolutely. It improves my mood, I dropped 5 pounds in a week, I’m less grouchy, and now I’m more of a badass, if only in my own mind.

Real Life Rookie Year: She all on me, I think she want me

Props to lyrical genius T-Pain who gave us today’s title. I love me some T-Pain, and not because his songs speak to my soul, but because they transport me to college days and my work husband Mr. President. Whitest guy ever, yet somehow every time I hear T’s scratchy voice I think of all our good times. Love you, Pres. Anywho. Last week I hinted something about mean girls and expensive breasts, and I don’t want to disappoint. I may even tie in the lyrics. So here we go.

Since I began working for my wonderful employer, I’ve worked in a total of 3 different offices and cities. It’s not as cool as it sounds, but it is pretty cool, and therefore I am kind of cool. Among the many benefits is that I get to meet so many different people from so many different walks of life. But it seems that people from small southern towns, large northeastern metropolises (metropoli?), and those who hail from swanky northern California wine villages all have things in common. Not only are we all Americans, thriving participants of a great capitalist society, finicky voters, and struggling to pay rent and/or mortgages, we all have a little green giant inside us named Envy. Please note that I’m using “we” to include myself and all Rookies in this. Everyone has a jealous streak. Stop arguing.

When I first started working, I was so excited / trying to stay excited about working. The paycheck is awesome, the clothes are uncomfortable but it’s fun to try to be as fashionable as possible and wear cute shoes and do my hur. I looked forward to giving and receiving compliments daily, and commiserating with my fellow lady associates about bad hair days, uncomfortable but way cute skirts and shoes, and in general the camaraderie that comes with being a professional woman (read my girl-power rant here). I think perhaps we know where this is going. Women are not as friendly as I thought, and in fact a majority of them are major haters. Though I have to say, this doesn’t prevent friendly little lunches or shrill-voiced compliments as we pass each other in the hallway. It is surprising how friendly and honest a compliment or comment can sound at first. And it’s also surprising that I am even surprised at the sting which follows.

My favorite is the comment that’s not really a compliment but not actually an insult either, and usually goes something like this: “Ohhh look at those shoes!” Said with something that looks suspiciously like a sneer, this one really bites. Because what can you respond? Thank you? She didn’t actually say anything worthy of a thank you. If anything it was more of a command to whomever might be standing nearby. Perhaps they’re hideous (not likely if they’re on my feet) or perhaps she’s just so shocked by the beauty and perfection she can’t put a decent sentence together (definitely likely if they’re on my feet). Any way you look at it, it’s awkward.

My favorite happening is when I get looked over with a look that is definitely a sneer, and then get zero comments. I don’t require a compliment at any time. I know I look good, or I know I look trife, but regardless I don’t need ego boosts (though they are the warm fuzzies which sustain us). But I also don’t need rudeness. All of this trifeness comes down to jealousy. We are young. We have clear skin which is gloriously wrinkle free. We are single. We are child-less and stress-free. We go on dates. We catch your husband’s eye. We wear ridiculously good looking shoes. We haven’t let ourselves go. We are just awesome. High five to us.

You, on the other hand, are not young or single or child-less or stress-free. But listen here, ladies. Don’t be trife and stop hatin on us. We can’t help it. You had your turn as a young fabulous woman. You overcame more adversity in the workplace. You made it through bad fashion and hair in the 80s and 90s. You are happily married or happily divorced and happily raising your children. You now have Chico’s, Ann Taylor, and many other fashion choices other than Dress Barn so you can look like us. High heels are not reserved for the 20-something. Wrinkles aren’t even necessarily required, and I bet if you scowled at me less and laughed with me more, you’d have less wrinkles. Plus you make more money than us. I am nice. I will get old, and when that day comes, we can gripe in private about the new hot intern. But if I were you, I’d be nice to me and that intern. She does the copying and gets the coffee. So you should be nice. Because even though I’m no intern, I might just get you coffee when I get my own. We could be friends, and you might actually like me. Plus I could maybe babysit your kids (though not for free, sorry). And wouldn’t that be nice? But if you’re a huge biotch, passive aggressive though it may be, I notice (because I’m smart) and I am not a fan (because I’m human).

Happy hunting, rooks. Be nice to the old people, and maybe they’ll be nice to you. And to you non-rookies: be nice to us, we might be your boss one day. Yeah, I went there. Plus I know where all the good shoe sales are, and I know you want in on that action.

Nice to meet you, wanna marry me?

If you thought maybe I left men behind after that last dating series, you were sorely mistaken. Sorry. Actually I’m not sorry because it’s fun to talk about men. They are intriguing creatures. They are predictable, they’re unpredictable, they’re mysterious. Just kidding, they’re totally not mysterious, but they are interesting. Plus ask any of your girlfriends, young or old, what they think about most often right before they go to sleep and I’d bet my new pair of awesome shoes (loves) they’ll answer men if they’re honest. Even the ones that are married, engaged, dating, texting, flirting in the office, or utterly and completely alone. They either think about one man in particular, or a couple men, or simply the idea of a man they’d like to come along someday, possibly soon. Or maybe they’re cursing men and wishing they were all burning in hell. Regardless, minds are on men. Unless you are a lesbian, you are thinking about men more than you want to admit. Let’s stop fighting the urge to deny and just come out with it, shall we? None of this, “Oh I’m thinking about my career!” Or perhaps, “I actually hate men because I’ve been screwed over so much, so I really couldn’t think about them less.” Or, “I’m living my life and don’t need a man to make me happy.” Just carefree and skipping along through green meadows with unicorns, are you? That’s called denial. But it’s cute.

Is it kind of sad that we do this? Maybe. But I really don’t think so, since I hate to think of myself as a sad person. I think it makes us normal. Because everyone knows men think about sex something gross like 98% of their waking hours, and we can only guess how much of their sleeping time they spend dreaming about sex. At least women are a little less…I can’t think of an adjective. It just seems more classy to think about sex less than they do. Not that we don’t think about sex. But my parents read this jank so we’re not discussing sex, just men (plus I of course don’t know anything about sex anyway so the point is moot). Ahem. I’ve lost my train of thought and completely digressed.

Back to the point. Remember when we had Lisa Frank folders (so hard to choose just 3!) and those hideous composition notebooks? And on the inside of them you’d write “Mrs. [your crushes name here]” all over it in the scripty cursive you were learning to use? No? I’ll share mine if you admit you did it too. In 4th grade I wanted to be Mrs. Jennings, because young Mr. Jennings kicked me under our desks all day and I just thought it was the cutest thing ever, obviously. Nevermind bruises on my skinny little shins. Wounds of love, y’all. And of course we both rode our bikes to school and his house was conveniently on the way home for me so we got to be together for about 5 or 10 minutes every day. He never talked to me of course. I’m digressing again. Anyway, then in 5th grade I’m pretty sure it changed to some other young man. And same in 6th, 7th, and 8th grade, though somewhere along the way I think we stopped writing their names on our notebooks. SO not cool to put your feelings out there in the open like that. Someone could steal your notebook or something and you’d be ruined. Much better to have a delegate bff ask him if he likes you. Thank goodness those days are over. So much pressure and waiting, and sometimes your trusty delegate would mess up the note or message. It’s just not worth it to put your love life in someone else’s hands like that.

These days, we still do these kinds of things though we are much more level-headed and less crazy about it. For the most part…I obviously cannot speak for every female on this planet and we all know there are some crazies out there who are just nuts and cannot conduct themselves in a rational manner (…and I just described every woman when she’s hormonal…whatever). But ANYWAY we all still imagine almost immediately what life could be like with almost every man we ever meet. Yes you so do. Friends included I think. Again, this is a generalization, but I do believe you’re lying to yourself if you haven’t at least once thought about what it would be like to be Mrs. My-best-friend’s-last-name-who-I’ve-never-been-attracted-to-not-even-while-drunk. Right? Of course right. And we reject these notions for any number of reasons, regardless of the attraction factor.

One of my dear friends from college comes to mind. In high school, this pretty girl was dating a young man with a HORRIBLE last name. I’m not sharing specifics because this is the interwebs and anyone can find anything. But let’s just say his last name rhymed with like 9 diseases and/or viruses. And honestly, who wants to be Mrs. Streptococcus, or Mrs. Mononucleosis. Obviously if we reject men based on last names, that is not only shallow and ridiculous but unfair. Ancestry is not something we choose. But this girl really had to think from day one, do I really love this guy? Because if not, there’s no reason for me to have this ridiculous last name. Perhaps it made her smarter and helped her not settle. Either way, it’s something she thought about and we all think about almost from day one, whether on purpose, subconsciously, or by accident. Just think about Kate Middleton. When she first met Prince William at university (as the Brits say), I can only imagine what went through her mind. I mean not only would she be Mrs. Windsor [I actually had to google this…apparently royals don’t really use surnames and there is a debate as to whether they actually even have them, but according to Wikipedia, “Windsor” is the name dictated by the Queen…so just go with it], she would be Kate Middleton Windsor (or whatever), Princess of Wales. Princess. Of anything. This is like every little girl’s dream to be a princess, and here she is actually becoming one. I mean come on. So cool.

Men just don’t think about these things, and what boring lives they must lead without these fanciful fantasies (the fantasies they have are not fanciful in my opinion…raunchy and inappropriate for mixed company perhaps but not fanciful). I know that I have gotten endless laughs from thinking about this particular topic related to men. Jokes about how beautiful/hideous children would be, or being Mrs. Uglynameitis, or being married to a most loved frenemy’s cute brother, or being the pregnant barefoot wife of a bff. Good times, ladies. Just don’t get crazy. He doesn’t want to hear about your marriage plans. Leave those up to him, or at least wait until after the first date for crying out loud.

Real Life Rookie Year: You Look So OLD

Anyone who does not get the reference in the title cannot be my friend. No, really. I think it’s kind of a requirement to even get me to have seen or at least have some knowledge of MBFGW. Otherwise I spout off random quotes in an odd accent and you think I’m just weird. Which is also true, but at least it’s funnier if you’ve seen the movie. Anywayz.

Today’s nonsense concerning the RLRY obviously concerns age. Age is funny. Age is beauty. Age knows no love. No wait, that’s love knows no age. Whatever. Age is a big deal when you’re a rookie. And I don’t mean your age as the rookie, just age as a general concept. Since this is not making any sense, allow me to extrapolate.

Think about being in college. With very few exceptions, undergrad is filled with people within 2 or 3 years of your age. And once you hit that magical legal time thus allowing you to indulge in libations in public establishments, perhaps you tend to stick to your own kind. Yes? In general, of course. I can recall a minimum number of times I hung out with freshman during my senior year. Not because I was super cool, but because I spent a great deal of time at TOTS, and there aren’t many freshman who can do the same. It’s not discrimination, it’s just circumstance. Classes towards the end of school are spent with others within 1 or 2 years of us, max. We all turned 21 the same year, we all turned 22 the same year, and then we were all gone from Blacksburg (sniff), and out in the real world.

So now here we are, little 22- and 23-year-old babies flourishing in corporate America or where ever. What happens when people in the office ask how old you are? For me, it has mostly gone something like this: “*wrinkles nose* OMIGAWD you’re younger than my daughter!!” Or “Can you even DRINK yet??” Or “Awww that’s so cute!” It’s always a chore trying to think of something polite to say in a non-sarcastic manner after these comments. Because we all know me. I love a good opportunity to be sarcastic, and it’s just so hard to not respond, “OMIGAWD you’re, like, older than my MOM!!” Or, “Do you have your AARP card yet??” Right? That would be funny, but perhaps a crucial CLM (Career Limiting Move). Anywho. It’s weird. These people end up being our friends, and perhaps you will recall that back in my glory days in Raleigh I was frequently seen out in the company of men who are my father’s peers. This is not a bad thing, but just something we are not used to as Rookies. Old people are old. Old people are parents. Parents are old. Parents are uncool. Old people are uncool. We don’t hang out with them. They are lame and only do things like watch NCIS marathons and do laundry. Right? Wrong. These myths and misconceptions, while true in some cases, must largely be left behind and forgotten. People in their 40s are pretty cool, and they have some hilarious stories. Plus they can probably help your career if you act like you have a modicum of class.

But that one is easy. What about the other 20- and 30-somethings? These people are our peers now. It seems to me in my limited experience talking to my limited number of friends (you guys, I was not prom queen.) that we, as rookies, have a difficult time adjusting to meeting people who are upwards of 5 or more years older than us. Gasp. 5 whole years! But this really is normal. And if you can discard your disregard for people who are 29, 30, 31, even 32 and 33 (I mean, omg), you will go far.

For example. I may or may not have witnessed this in real life, and may or may not have been shocked to my core at the awkwardness. Young Man is chatting with another Young Lady at this bar. Bar is full of beautiful people. Young Man is chatting up Young Lady like it’s his job, and it is obvious he thinks she is cute. They are having just an adorable little conversation. You know, the kind that leads to exchanged phone numbers and first dates. Just presh. Conversation evolves and she discovers that he is a recent graduate. Recent = within the last year or so. I can tell she’s slightly surprised but she’s classy and moves on smoothly. Then the talk turns to age. Well just how old is she, he wants to know? I am trying not to gawk that he actually asked this question, despite the polite manner in which he attempted to get it across. She smiles and politely informs him that she is 31. He is clearly struggling for something to say, and I am now laughing on the inside at his truly rookie mistake.

Firstly, everyone knows you should never ask a woman how old she is if you suspect she is over 25. I just made that rule up. I don’t know when it would be appropriate to ask a woman her age, except that I am not offended by the question and assume that this is because I am a young and vibrant 23. Perhaps when I’m 26 I won’t like it. But I’m pretty sure Emily Post or Dear Abby say it’s a no-no. It’s also unnecessary. Who cares if she’s a bit older than you? Or if he’s already celebrated 30 big ones? I don’t much care. Of course there is always a line, especially if there is some kind of romantic interesting-ness going on. I don’t want to date my dad’s bffs. It’s just odd, among other unpleasant adjectives. But I don’t think there is an age limit on friendship. In these modern times, there are so many more things that we can all have in common, and age simply doesn’t have to be one of those things.

So there you have it. We’re overcoming rookieness one stereotype and hardship at a time. Next week, we’ll discuss another facet of age weirdness rookies have to deal with. Think Mean Girls, only older and with more expensive breasts. I just made myself giggle. Stay classy y’all.

Random Phone Love

You know what is super great? iPhones. You know what else is super great? All smart phones and new technology and the fact that a “home phone” is a declining trend. As in, no one has one anymore. This is kind of nice because it’s one less number you have to save, remember, and store in your 16GB phone. You have lots of pics and music on that jank now, no space to spare for something silly like someone’s home phone number. And it’s super cool that we can be contacted at any time, anywhere, in the middle of anything. And for those of you who complain about being connected too much…you can always turn it off or leave it at home as I have actually done a couple times. It’s nice.

But recently I have discovered that newfangled awesome technological devices are lacking in one area: anger satisfaction. Remember in the old days when you were pissed off talking to someone and could slam down the phone into the receiver and it made a loud noise and very satisfying slam? And even older phones even made a little ringy-ding noise if you slammed it hard enough. It relieves stress, having this little outlet, knowing that your poor little phone can take a little abuse without breaking. Probably don’t want to do that every day, but it will prevail. With smartphones, and especially those of the touch-screen variety, this is impossible. A couple days ago, I had a very unsatisfying convo with someone, and I was irritated upon completion of this convo. I very much wanted to throw something or slam down the phone. Instead, all I could do was pull the phone away from my ear and…*tap* …..…that’s all. A light tap of my finger to hang up. And I can’t throw my phone because it might break. I can’t slam it onto the counter because I might shatter the screen, which would upset me so and thus negate any satisfaction I may have redeemed from performing this possibly satisfying action. I don’t have a solution for this conundrum. I just miss old phones I guess.

On the other hand, technology has also enabled us to be more emotional more effectively. Think back to the days when we all communicated via hand-written notes. What a time. Back then I suppose people portrayed negative feelings in a classy, beautifully scripted and well thought out narrative. “Dear Such-and-Such, It has come to my attention that you have done something that is extremely unsatisfying to me. I am forthwith stripping you of my friendship, my dear sir, and will refuse respectfully to carry out any future social calls for you or on your behalf, including but not limited to calling upon you at your residence or any parties you may host there or elsewhere. Most Sincerely, Me.” Right?! This is such a nice way to basically say “F-off.” Now, we have things like caps lock and larger font, and it’s not even a waste of paper or precious ink. So saying something as simple as “you made me mad” is much more satisfying when it reads like this: “YOU MADE ME MAD!” The first is almost just a statement in anticipation of a clarifying “but,” statement. The second is most definitely getting the point across that you in fact have made me extremely angry.

The same goes for other emotions. Don’t want everyone to think that Miss Sassy is all about anger and madness, because I’m totally a lover. Technology has given us emoticons, which I believe are some of the funnest things to include in emails, text messages, and even blog posts. Consider the following statement: “I can’t wait to see you!” This by itself is still very exciting, and accurately portrays the senders excited emotions of not being able to wait to see you. They are stoked, no doubt about it. But add a smiley to the end, and it’s even more effective. Or even a smooch face, or a wink, both of which would then add a totally different connotation to the statement. Think where we might be without such feats of technology. Have you ever tried to hand-write an emoticon of some sort? It’s kind of difficult beyond the standard frown, smiley, and wink. They even have some that automated now. Quite fun.

At least with the sweet RAZRs of yore and flip phones of high school we could flip closed with a rewarding *clack* but no more. Here’s to finding alternate and more creative outlets for our frustration and anger. I’m signing up for some kickboxing classes, so perhaps that will solve my issue. And here’s to emoticons. You’ve changed my life, emoticons.

My One True Love

I really really love my car. It’s kind of weird to some people, and admittedly I am kind of weird in many ways, and this is one of them I suppose. Many people love their vehicles. We all laboriously choose an automobile of our very own from the millions of options and become quite emotionally involved. Everyone wants something different in a car, and for me, the Mini Cooper embodies everything I could ever ask for. No, this is not an official endorsement, or an unofficial endorsement. But seriously, they are so freaking cute!

When I began planning my great journey across the country, I contemplated road-tripping in little Rosie-Rose for about .5 seconds before I decided that was a terrible idea. The next order of business was to find someone to ship my precious from Richmond, VA to Walnut Creek, CA, which in total is somewhere in the neighborhood of 2,800 miles. NBD (Ma, NBD = no big deal). This is where knowing someone who owns a big rig would have been convenient, but unfortunately my life up to that point had not granted me the pleasure of meeting such a character. Which meant I had to enter in my info on some obscure website which apparently sent my name and number to every car-shipping broker in these United States. It is super fun to answer the phone 9 million times per day while I’m BUSY at WORK and hear this each time: “HELLO! Miss uhhh *mis-pronounce my last name terribly* I haveaquoteforyoutoshipyourMiniCooperitwillonlycostabilliondollars” *deep breath* “anddon’tlistentoanythinganyoneelsetellsyouIamtotallythebest!!” *another breath* “itincludesinsuranceandyouwon’tfindabetterpriceanywhere” and “don’thesitatebecausethispriceisonlyavailableforalimitedtime!!!” Yes that’s pretty much how they all went. One in particular, however, charmed me via telephone. Michael (real name) of (doesn’t even sound like a real business) was consistent/persistent/annoying in calling me just about every day, typically 2 or 3 times per day, until I acquiesced to ship my car through him. Really I think his tactic worked quite well because eventually I just got stinkin tired of him calling me. Also though, my tactic worked quite well, which was to be all hemming and hawing over the price and letting him know that I was just so stressed and busy with work and just so nervous about shipping my lovely that I was breaking out in hives every time I even thought about it! Just playing. But seriously,  I must have played the coy customer well because he ended up giving me exactly what I wanted. Which was a deal, obvs.

ANYWHOOZ. Bottom line is this: if you ever have to ship your car, you drop Miss Sassy a line first and I’ll send you the name of my trucker man who was so nice and caring for my little girl. She arrived safe and sound in just 5 days, no dings or scratches to be found.

I cannot describe accurately just how much joy that little hunk of metal brings me. It’s sort of weird and a little silly. But I can say this: it is totally worth that monthly payment when I beat everyone (other than the bajillion Porches and Lamborghinis around here) at every green light, and when I zip around slow people on the interstate, and when I take exit and on-ramps at twice the suggested speed limit. And when I see other Minis on the road and give them the peace sign, it makes me giggle when they wave back. And when I can park in the special low emissions/fuel efficient/compact vehicles only parking spots, it’s a little exciting. It is probably the best purchase I have made personally to date (I’d say my education is the best purchase, except I didn’t personally purchase it. Thanks Poppa Pants), even above all of my shoes. I know!

Something else I super love about having my super-duper love out here with me in this crazy place is my good ol’ VA personalized plates. Little Rose turns heads for numerous reasons, and I love passing people in a parking lot or somewhere and catching them looking at my plates, and then immediately looking in the car inquisitively, like, “Oh look, Jim! Someone from Virginia! What does someone from Virginia look like?!” Followed by, “Yes Sally they sure do seem to be normal looking from out there!” Which is probably followed by, “Where exactly is Virginia??” Anyway. It’s funny, and I get some good laughs. The other benefit of course is a benefit anyone with out-of-state plates can enjoy, is having an excuse when violating minor traffic laws and flailing around having no idea where you are going. You know, that person. I just smile and wave, knowing my plates are saving me. Plus the car is just so darn cute, how can anyone get mad? They can’t, of course.

So when I say my car is my one true love, that’s obviously an over-statement. I do love it, but honestly I’m hoping the position of my one true love will someday be filled by a real live man (had to mention men at least once, sorry). But Rosie does for me what no man could ever do. She brings me joy and keeps my irritation level down when I commute to and from work, or encounter idiots on the road, which is every day. Find me a man that can weave me in and out of traffic, make me happy when I’m surrounded by incompetent drivers, enable me to park in a low-emissions spot, and save me from colliding numerous times with other vehicles and inanimate objects, and I’ll gladly trade her in.