Don’t You YOLO Me!

Here’s another post where I tell you about something I don’t like and/or disagree with.

If you’re a friend of the blog, if you’re the Jon Hamm to my SNL, you know that I love personal safety. I can be spontaneous, but only if the threat of bodily harm is remote and contained to freak and unforeseeable accidents. As a child, was I up to taking a late night bike ride to a cemetery Now and Then, style? Absolutely, as long as a helmet was  provided. I just loved the security of wearing my helmet (but I wasn’t a total nerd, I begrudgingly put on my wrist guards when I went roller blading).

This cautious part of my personality is the source of why I hate the term “YOLO” (For my relatives reading this, that means “You Only Live Once”). I get the sentiment, but I think it’s irresponsible. Do we need young adults running around YOLO-ing– trying bath salts and passing around Hep C to all of Arizona State? NO!

Sure, you only live once (though Buddha and Drew Barrymore might disagree with you on that), but I’m still interested in getting through life without a meth addiction.

So don’t you YOLO me, bitch! I will not try your meth!!!

My idea of YOLO-ing (ugh how many more times do I have to type out YOLO? I can hear it  in my head, and I hate it) includes some low stakes bad ass-ery. For example, the other night my friend Jill came over, and instead of getting a male prostitute and REALLY living, we did something a little more our speed and snuck chicken fingers and wine juice boxes into a screening of Magic Mike.

Was bringing outside food and beverages against the theatre’s policy? Hell yes.

Did we see a movie about male strippers? Uh huh, I think we did.

Did I see Olivia Munn’s boobies (that weren’t even kind of necessary to the plot)? YUP.



A Day in the Life

I’d like to introduce you to a new segment where I talk you through a day in my life from the previous week. 

Date: 2.26.12 (a Sunday)

Morning: Without getting too into detail, I woke up to what I can only imagine was mild food poisoning from the Indian food I had the night before.

Afternoon: Worse still, my self indulgent choice of substituting plain naan for garlic naan on my combo meal has resulted in a kind of Peppy La Pue sort of stink where you can actually see the smell wafting from my body. I have to work at a restaurant later, and I fear that nauseating body odor may impact my tip earning potential.

I frantically search online for garlic odor neutralizers, and it would appear that my only options are to sweat out the garlic or eat the contents of a black tea bag. My mom won’t let me eat a tea bag.


That would be me in snow pants, several layers, and hot tea in my car with heat on full blast trying to make my Corolla my own private YMCA sauna (without the gay sexual encounters).

45 Minutes Later: According to my brother (whom-mmmmm I work with) we apparently don’t have to work, so my dad comes outside to get me (takes pictures first).

Night: I stink alone in peace.

Later that Night: I stink with Billy Crystal (Ya get it? He stunk! Hu-gos? He goes! ‘Cuz he’ll never work in this town again! Rotten potatoes, I tell ya!)

This has been a Day in the Life.