Monthly Archives: July 2011

Happy birthday to me!


Today was literally the first day in 2 weeks I got to sleep in past 7:30AM and of course my brother Tim calls and wakes me up at 7.  If I wasn’t so excited to see the punk this afternoon, I would have disowned him right then and there.  I got to the funeral home last night after 6 lumpy and beer filled days in Wisconsin.  I learned many important things in Wisconsin, such as the Bottoms Up bar is not in fact a strip club, one cannot survive on cheese curds and meat sticks alone and Wisconsin doesn’t suck nearly as much as my Minnesota upbringing led me to believe.  

Upon arriving at my grandpa’s yesterday evening, I was handed a glass of wine, acquired a baby to coo at (see below– her mouth is stuffed full of grapes) and sat down to watch the chaos unfold.  Because when there are that many people in the same room, chaos is always to be had.  I’ve decided a lot of things while reflecting on the past year of my life, but the most important one so far– always come home for your birthday.  I have gotten the best presents and even get my very own party.  (Also learned, don’t expect birthday breakfast in bed when your mother has been up and unable to sleep since 4AM.  Make your own damn BLT.)

I’m attempting to assess the 23rd year of my life.  The common thread last July and for much of the past year has been that I felt like I was treading water– not sure if I should stay in DC, frustrated with my job and attempts to find a new one, lonely for someone to spoon me at night, filled with anxiety about where my life was heading, my friends kept moving out of DC.  Not knowing where I would be in the next month (different city maybe, new job) made it hard to make plans or envision what my life would be like in a month or six months or a year.  Now I’m able to do that.  Deciding to stay at my current company allowed me to do that.

Saying I’ve found myself in the last year is the most cliché and ridiculous thing I can think of– especially since I’m convinced I have to re-find myself year after year.  But ultimately age 23 taught me that my own two feet were good enough, because while I’ve always been able to stand on them– I just didn’t always like what shoes I was wearing.  I’ve decided to quit treading water and swim to mother fucking something.  What it is I’m swimming to I do not yet know, but at least I’m no longer waiting to see what my options are.  Full steam ahead.  I’m 24 now, after all.

And on a note much more important than my birthday–  congratulations are in order.  My cousin John is getting hitched tomorrow afternoon and we intend to get down and party in their honor.  Christi, welcome to the family.  We’re happy you’re here.  And brace yourself.


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Live from Wisconsin!

My life for the past couple of days has been simple in the great state of Wisconsin: eat some cheese curds, eat some meat sticks, drink some Spotted Cow, eat some more cheese curds, think about how much tighter my pants have gotten, have another beer.  I’ve been roaming the world wearing khaki shorts and a navy polo against my will for the past 3 days feeling both unattractive and lumpy.  I do not look attractive in Wisconsin. 

I was left to my own devises last night to dress myself for an industry party and tossed on a sundress that I’ve had for years and wear often before running out the door.  Standing at the bar with a co-worker, she looked down at me and said, “Wow, you brought out your a-game cleavage for Wisconsin.” 

“Um, not intentionally,” I said.  And then proceeded to have an existential crisis as to whether my boobs had gotten bigger or my dress had gotten smaller.  I’ve made the executive decision that my dress has gotten smaller and spent the rest of the night holding my pint of beer in front of my boobs for modesty– epecially when standing anywhere near my CEO and his wife. 

Wisconsin has been nifty otherwise.  I’m off to Minnesota tomorrow for birthday and wedding festivities.  Fingers crossed that I managed to pack something other than khakis and polos– that would not be fashionable wedding or birthday attire.  Back in DC and the sweltering heat on Monday. 



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Up and Out


I got promoted this week.  Normally a circumstance that would call for much celebration, but after trying so hard to get out of this place for the past year, I’m still getting used to the idea that I am actively choosing to stay.  I went into the meeting with my CEO ready to go– I was going to put my foot down.  I will not answer my blackberry on Saturdays!  I need this much more money!  I’m going to have a backbone!

And then of course caved to all of his demands.  He’s a former high ranking military dude.  He’s scary.  So I’ll be answering my blackberry 24 hours a day 7 days a week for the foreseeable future.  I’m incredibly overwhelmed at the moment by all the moving pieces but once I settle down and create 130 different folders in my e-mail inbox and figure out how to even use a damn blackberry, I intend to be the best damn executive assistant this office has ever seen.


I’ll shortly be departing for a Midwest tour– Wisconsin for work and then Minnesota for my cousin’s wedding.  This is the first cousin from Generation B to get hitched (I’m pretty much smack dab in the middle of 37 cousins, which have been separated into Generation A and Generation B, respectively) and now that the majority of cousins are over 21 we’re going to get down and party.  No one does the Footloose dance line or freaks out the new in-laws like my family does.


Also while I’m gone I will turn 24 years old (July 29th, gifts are encouraged).  I’ve decided that as I’ve done everything else in my life early– developed an attitude problem (age 2), started attending college (age 17), graduated college (age 20) (I swear I’m not an over achiever, just good at playing the system), I’m also going to have my quarter life crisis this year.  I’ve started planning for it financially.  While I don’t see a hair dye job and a red sports car in my future (saving that for 49), I do planning on buying lots of shoes and if possible going on many vacations.

My birthday will be celebrated in my grandfather’s funeral home, as we also do on Christmas and other celebrations.  This will be my first birthday party in a funeral home, but note that I’ve also been to a funeral, a wedding, a family reunion, a rock ‘n roll concert and family party at a funeral home.

I’m not sure how much access I’ll have to a computer– or frankly how much time I’ll have to myself (I’m guessing zero with all the work/family bonding over the next ten days) but I can promise lots of lamenting via Twitter.  Follow me @dointhegrownup.

Back in DC on the 1st.  God speed surviving the heat wave.

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A bunch of crap

Like for real, this is shit.

1.  K and I had our first date 3 months ago today [I’ll give you all a moment to simultaneously like go awww and fake vomit].  The only reason I know that is because our first date was on 4/20.  Stoners will always be able to associate with my relationship.  Word.

2.  My life these days has been incredibly busy, so when the opportunity presented itself last night to sit around, eat an entire pizza and watch “Sons of Anarchy”, I did just that.  I don’t think K appreciated how much I talked about the pure sexiness that is the character Jax, but I assume he’ll live.  K should probably pray that Jax never rolls up next to me on his Harley and says something along the lines of– Would you like to go have hot outlaw sex with me? — because then I’d be like K who?

3.  BFF4EVA would also like to state for the official record that me putting my hair up and down and up and down on my first date with K was in no way indicative of whether or not I liked him, because I do that all the fucking time.  It was also brought to my attention that when I am in the process of putting my hair up, I tend to check out my armpit.  Please don’t ask me why, people, as I do not have a single clue.

4.  Speaking of armpits!  I am usually a dress-before-deodorize type of girl but switched up the order this morning.  As a result, I had deodorant pretty much from the top of my newly dry cleaned dress to the bottom.  Which was awesome to find out after I strolled into the office.

5.  And speaking of BFF4EVA– she sent me this photo on Tuesday night of a messed up lemon:

I actually thought this lemon looked pretty gross and made comparisons to a slimy piece of chicken.  That observation brought on a series of text messages which I won’t bore you with here, but led us to rework the time honored quote, “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade” to “when Satan gives you slimy chicken lemons, make a cocktail”.  I’m not sure it made sense to us either at the time.



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I realized that I made a complete and utter asshole of myself Friday night by essentially stealing Brynn’s* thunder right out from under her.  When she told me she had accepted a job offer form another company, the first two words out of my mouth were literally CONGRATULATIONSMOTHERFUCKER!  Just like that.  (Please note that was not: Congratulations [comma] mother fucker, but Congratulations [period]  Mother fucker.  As in– what the hell am I going to do?)

We both have been job hunting for the past year– participating in the complete stress and self-esteem killing process of sending out resumes and cover letters and then being rejected.  It was always my intention to get out before Brynn did to avoid the whole– I might get a promotion!  Promotion?  Do I even want that job?  Do they even want me? situation that has been consuming my thoughts for the past week.  I never once occurred to me that it would come to this.  I never considered what would happen if she got another job before me.

Not that I in any way want to lessen or undermine Brynn’s commitment to her job hunt (which I think I am doing, despite that precursor), but I sent out more resumes than she did.  It was a numbers game and I thought my odds were better.  So when she was offered a job elsewhere and I had yet to be– I was stunned.  Incredibly excited for her, but stunned– which launched me into a confusing conundrum of what the hell I should do.

I said congratulations.  I said congratulations 100 times.  And I meant it.  But then spent the rest of the evening making her discuss what the hell she thought I should do and essentially– stealing her big celebratory night right out from under her feet.  I’m a big enough girl to recognize how inconsiderate I was and apologize, but there is something so frustrating about someone getting something that you so badly wanted.

I assume it is much like how people want to punch me in the face when I say stupid shit like “I’ve got a boyfriend!  He’s super awesome!” and they are single.  I wanted to punch people in the head when I was the single one– so I get it.

The same feelings are for this situation.  I am truly proud and happy and excited for what comes next in Brynn’s life.  But I am also frustrated, anxious and confused for myself.  I hate that I took any part in overshadowing what was her big news, but I also can’t stop hating the simple fact that is just wasn’t my time.  Because I’ve tried so mother fucking hard to get myself out of this place and it has yet to happen.  And of course it seems effortless!  (when I know in fact it wasn’t in any way) that she jumped her way on out of here.

So– the moral of today is that I’m an asshole.  Brynn apparently still loves me anyway.  And despite a year+ of job hunting– it just wasn’t my time.  It was hers.

*If I haven’t mentioned– Brynn is the executive assistant in my office.  I am the staff assistant.


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A Potential Promotion

The executive assistant for my company quit today, therefore the position is on the table– a position that would be a promotion and one I swore to high heaven I would never accept.  But now I am starting to rethink that solid “no”.

I never in a thousand million years thought any good would come of working here, but now can name a few things.  I’ve made a couple of great friends and had some interesting life experiences.  It was because of my extreme boredom during the slow holiday season that I started writing this blog. It was because of one of those work friendships I met K.   As a result of my intense hate turning to tolerance and then onto acceptance, I don’t mind showing up to work every day.  I can for once see the benefits of working at this place.

The many things that I do despise about my current job description would be no longer if I took the new position– while I’d still essentially be an administrator, I would not be the administrator in charge of making sure each of my co-workers preferred pen is stocked in the backroom or that there is enough soda in the fridge.  And largely the job description of the executive assistant job is the same of any other job I’ve been applying for.

While a new job would be a fresh start, a new scene and learning experience– it could also be a complete and total fucking disaster.  In this instance, I know the company, my co-workers, who we work with on a daily basis.  I know who to avoid when they’re stressed out and that someone will cover me if I show up 2 hours late due to a doctors appointment, or two hours late due to a “doctors appointment”.  It is essentially a better the devil you know type of situation.

In my attempt to avoid another situation in which I am sobbing in a doctor’s office— or in this case– my own office, I am trying to deal with this potential change/conversation/situation pro-actively.  I am thinking about it, what terms I would need to commit to this new position, what expectations I have and what questions can be answered before I move from the front of my office to the back.

I’ve sat and pondered and made pro/con lists and solicited advice and had mild anxiety attacks for the duration of the weekend.  But this is mostly out of my hands at this point.  I don’t even know if they want me yet.  Or if I 100% want them.  Standby.

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Three Things on Thursday


My neighbor’s house set on fire last night.  Being that I live on a DC emergency access road, the sounds of fire trucks and police cars usually lull me to sleep, but being that they all stopped short outside my bedroom window, I got dressed and went to investigate.  5 fire trucks, including the hook and ladder, a police cruiser and an ambulance pulled up within minutes.  The windows were smashed, bars cut, smoke billowed out of the house.  Roommate A was the one that called 911, thus is the hero of the block.  It surely put perspective on what I perceived to be a no good, very bad Wednesday.

I’ve had a headache for what feels like forever this point, but I finally conceded that I did most likely have a sinus infection (and not a brain tumor) and bought half of the pharmacy aisle at CVS.  Despite my knack for self-diagnosis, I usually go for a mixture of straight denial and/or it’ll just go away theory to illness.  It takes me about 24 hours, multiple consultations* and some serious pain to finally admit I don’t feel good.  And then I cry, because being sick makes me feel like a baby.  So I’ve got that going for me.  But when the neighbor’s house sets on fire, your headache really ain’t that big of a deal.  Luckily no one was home.


Post-fire fiasco last night, Roommate A and Roommate R and I were making idle chit-chat before bed.  Both had recently been on first dates– one went great, while the other was just so-so.  Roommate A has many tricks to the trade, which I suggested he share with R.

Me to R:  A is convinced that when a woman likes you, she can’t stop touching her hair.
A:  That is absolutely true.
Me:  Seriously?  I don’t know…
K [from the next room]:  That’s true!  On our first date you put your hair up and put your hair down and then up and then down.

The damn traitor.  How did he know I just wasn’t having a bad hair day?!  Realizing I was horribly outnumbered, I quit and went to bed.  Keep this in mind ladies– first, if you touch your hair, dudes know you are into them and secondly, overall we don’t know shit about men.


K and I were on our way out of the house this morning when I stopped to get a snack for the road.

“I heard a bag crinkle, are you eating salami again at 8AM?” K asked.  I nodded.  “Well, give me a piece then.”

I’m rubbing off on the poor dude.  I guess I did tell him he had to embrace my idea of breakfast foods (salami, asparagus etc.)  if this relationship was going to work out and turns out he has– so K gets a gold star for the day.

*My co-workers took a vote– here are my symptoms, do I have a brain tumor or sinus infection?  Sinus infection won.


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It’s really only Wednesday

It took me until about 3PM yesterday to realize that DC Blogs had linked to my post about my very awkward run-in with a girl who’d seen my vagina at a party– I largely assumed all morning as I watched the stat counter rise that mother was just clicking reload 70+ times.  Thank you, DC Blogs.  In retrospect, I should have tried a little harder to think of something more witty than how I am good at herding drunk people to post yesterday with all those new readers, but oh well.  My mother was very pleased to learn that the post was not actually people having to take care of her very drunk daughter, but her [moderately drunk] daughter taking care of very drunk others.  So there is that.

My mother and I talk often.  I may be grown-up as hell (sometimes) but I still call her with any and all questions about my life as often as I can such as: Where do you think I left my house keys?  How do we feel about bangs?  What do I do if my garbage disposal smells funky?  Etc.

Being that she used to be a nurse, she is also my go-to for all medical related questions.  She is a master of online medical research and used to do this shit for a living, therefore I 100% support her diagnoses.  When we were kids, she also served as our unofficial primary care doctor– often medicating us herself and taking  out our stitches in the dining room.  Being that I’ve had about a weeks worth of headaches, I called my mother yesterday–

Me:  Hi, mom.
Mom:  How are you, dear?
Me:  I called to talk to you about my brain tumor.
Mom:  Rachel Shea, no more Web MD!!!
Me:  But I have a headache!
Mom:  Take an Advil!
Me:  I have been taking Advil!  If I take anymore, I’m going to get an ulcer!


Turns out I probably just have a sinus infection.  Realizing that I was going to get no support for my brain tumor from my mother, I tried other outlets.

Friend:  You know how there is antibiotic-resistant gonorrhea?  I think this is antihistamine-resistant pollen.  My allergies are killing me.
Me:  Um…?
Friend:  I’m serious!  It’s in Japan.  It is going to circle the globe in 20 years.
Me:  Well, I have a brain tumor.
Friend #2:  What the hell is wrong with you two?


A lot, Friend #2, a lot.

On a scale of working’ hard to hardly workin’ I’ve actually got a fair amount to do today, so that is all.  I’m having dinner tonight with my cousin’s girlfriend who is in town for a conference.  She was witness to many of my drunken college antics and I’m sure she’ll love reminding me of many things I’ve chosen to forget.  I’ll think strongly about sharing those stories with you tomorrow.

If you’re new here, welcome!  Like me on Facebook (I currently only have 12 friends and that is sad) or follow me on Twitter @dointhegrownup and have a most excellent day.

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Drunk Whisperer

Believe it or not, but I once was a very highly sought after nanny.  Despite my affection for swear words and drunken debacles that one might associate with being a bad role model– I get toddlers and they get me.  I am well versed in diapers, know all the words to many annoying kids songs and make the world’s greatest mac and cheese.  I can also potty train like a champion, if I do say so myself.

While there was nothing worse then being out on the the town with your friends and accidentally pulling Matchbox cars out of your purse when searching for your fake ID– the perks to nannying were numerous as a poor college student.  I got access to a well stocked fidge, time to study during nap time and always had an excuse to go to the zoo.  Plus, the kids were pretty fun too.

Skills I learned dealing with the terrible twos and temper tantrums has also taught me important skills in life– mostly, how to deal with drunk people.  The science behind it is simple: treat drunk adults exactly how you’d treat toddlers that are having a meltdown in Starbucks because you bought him a broken cookie.  Talk softly, talk slowly, patronize them just enough that they know you are in charge and never ever let them out of your sight.

While at a beach bar in Costa Rica, we coincidentally ran into a bachelor party of former Howard students.  We immediately bonded over our shared love and/or hate for Washington, DC and how small the world seemingly is.  One of the gentleman, that we’ll call Florida because that is where he lived, had been over served from the get-go.

Florida had tripped and fallen into the ditch upon leaving their beach house after drinking quite a bit of rum and taking a couple hits of pot for the first time in about 7 years (the last time he smoked he tried to convince everyone to take him to the hospital– I was told).  By the time I met him, Florida was sitting at the bar half passed out resting his head against his bottle of water.

When he wandered off into the palm trees to puke– I organized the babysitting efforts, instructing people to get him bottled water and make sure he didn’t wander into the ocean.  Once we got him situated and passed out in a plastic chair on the beach, he’d list back slowly even so often and we’d kick the chair to right him again.  When the group went to leave, he tripped on a beach dog napping in the sand.  I gave instructions for his hangover/if he kept puking (that was more from dealing with freshmen rugby players rather than children) and sent them on their way.

We ran into him at the airport in San Jose on our way home.  Really, I hadn’t put my drunk whisperer skills to full effect, but was greeted with a large hug and a thank you for “saving his life”.  In reality, I just watched him to make sure he didn’t asphyxiate, but I’ll take good karma– even exaggerated karma– where I can get it.

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It’s a small city afterall

K asked me to accompanying him to a birthday party Saturday evening for one of his best girlfriend’s from high school.  We showed up to a fancy house in Cleveland Park, introductions were made, cocktails were distributed.  As I settled into the couch, I noticed a girl sitting across from me that looked incredibly familiar.  She caught me staring after a minute and I casually asked, “do I know you from somewhere?”

“Um, you’re one of my patients,” she said.  Patient meaning the girl sitting across from me was my OB/GYN’s medical assistant.  A girl who had stuck me with needles (apparently my veins are hard to find), seen me naked from the waist down, had intimate knowledge of my medical history and during my last appointment witnessed what can only be described as a complete and total meltdown because I was convinced I had cervical cancer (I don’t).

[Side note:  As a part of my I-am-a-non-smoker personality, I now use hysterical crying when stressed as a coping mechanism, as opposed to chain smoking Parliament Lights like a mother fucker.   Most people of course think the crying is much healthier than smoking but I miss my dignity and pride.]

I responded, “I bet you’re not used to seeing me with my clothes on.”  So, needless to say– shit got mildly awkward.  Or at least I thought it was awkward, everyone else thought it was funny.  I drank 3 glasses of wine in quick succession and took deep breaths.  She is in fact a lovely person, but being that I had essentially lost my shit in front of her a month prior, I wasn’t interested in seeing her anywhere, let alone in a social setting.  I’m sure under normal circumstances (or when enough time has passed that I view this situation as hysterically funny, as opposed to awkwardly funny) I’d actually quite like to take her out for cocktails.

I was completely under the impression those people– teachers, doctors, shrinks etc., mainly anyone who has intimidate knowledge of your grades, physical or mental state– would never ever ever be someone you’d casually run into on the street.  Let alone at their parent’s house for a BBQ.  DC is a ridiculously small city sometimes.

Otherwise, the celebration of TB’s day of birth much later Saturday night was a great success– sushi was eaten, dance moves were made, beers consumed and I decided to cap off the night with shots of vodka chased by cheese balls.  I felt awesome when I woke up yesterday morning, simply awesome.  My hangover begs the quote by Frank Sinatra, “I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.”  Well said, sir.


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