Ugh. Downgraded to Economy Class.

        I had it all figured out.  Rico and I were going to be like Vince Vaughn and Reese Witherspoon in the movie "Four Christmases;" we planned on skipping Christmas in 2013.  Except, in the movie, V.V. and R.W. lie to their families about what they're doing, and then their flight gets cancelled, so they have to stay home with all their family on Christmas instead.  I guess I should have said *spoiler alert* before telling you that part.  But if you haven't already seen the movie, I just saved you 90 minutes of your life- you're welcome.  Anyway, it wouldn't really be like "Four Christmases" at all, except for the idea of going on vacation for the holidays to avoid the stress of the season.

Yes, we would probably wear these exact hats.

        I had it all figured out.  Then, I realized something; I can't fly coach to Sydney. 

It's all blue skies and mountains until you have to fly for 17.5 hours with the commoners.

        Turns out, I am maxed out on economy travel when I fly from here to Orange County and back.  There are techniques and precautions one can take, however, when one must fly coach.  Let me enlighten you...

       Rule #1 Get a manicure just before you hop on the plane.  

        Seriously, get a manicure at the airport.  I like the Butter London (despite British implications in the name of the salon) at SeaTac.  Then, just breeze on at the last minute with a pinky extended and a smug look that says, "Oh the door's about to close?  I wouldn't know, they always hold it for me- can't you tell by my fancy pink nails?" You could also try shaking your head as if to say, "Another last minute photo shoot in L.A.... it's just not worth flying coach for this."

There is an x-ray called a "hand bone age;" it tells you if your bones are the same maturity as your chronological age.
If there was a test named, "hand skin age,"  I would obviously be one million years old in this picture.

        Rule #2 Wear big sunglasses and a scarf.  The whole flight.

   

        Big sunglasses = movie star.  The scarf is the perfect accessory to flip over your shoulder; thus, providing a greater radius between yourself and the commoners, as people will steer clear in attempts to avoid thwacks from your textiles.

Don't smile, though.  It shows weakness.

        Rule #3 Have a driver.  

        While all the other fools are waiting for ground transportation along the lines of an airport shuttle or *gasp* a taxi, your driver will be waiting for you to notice the iPad with your name on the screen.  Once you have spotted said driver, quickly glance him or her over to ensure you are not stepping into the vehicle of a serial killer.  As you step into your plush seat in the town car, a non-murderous driver will kindly load your bag in the trunk.  This allows you to sink into your leather seat, sigh with relief that you have survived another flight with the commoners, and strategically plot out your first cocktail acquisition upon arrival at the hotel.

If you should be so lucky as to find one, I recommend a Coronita (Margarita with a mini Corona that slowly infuses into the mix as you drink it- obvi.)

        So, you see, these three simple steps can help you endure flying coach for an approximate duration of 2.5 hours.  This leaves me approximately 15 hours short of sanity, should I be subjugated to flying this way to Australia.  

        I tried to explain this to Eric.  As you might of guessed, he was a bit of a hard sell.

        Me:  I don't think I can go to Australia for Christmas

        Eric:  *Sideways glance*

        Me:  Yeah, I can't fly coach all the way to Australia.

        Eric: Yes you can.

        Me: No! I really can't. I am already antsy, and this flight is only two and a half hours long.

        Eric: You're always antsy.

        Me:  No, you don't understand.  I am in the middle seat. You never have to sit in the middle seat 

        because I always take middle when we fly together.  

        (For the record, I volunteer to take the middle seat because Eric is a giant human compared to me.)

        Eric: *considering* Sometimes we mix it up.

        Me: Name one time!

        Eric: ...

        Me: You see! I have to fly a minimum of business class to Australia- if not first.

        Eric: Fine. You can fly first class-

        Me:  YES! I knew it-

        Eric: -As long as you pay for it.

        Foiled again.

Just when I think I've outsmarted him, he goes all David Caruso and CSI Miami's my ass.
"I think her hopes of flying first class have... *sunglasses on* crashed." YEAAAAAAAAH!

        And so, we find ourselves at an impasse.  

        Time to get a manicure, find a scarf + big sunglasses, and hire a driver.  

Do you think he's onto me?

       

Too Cool for School

        I was going to start this post by saying, "Bad news!"  Next, I thought, "maybe it's good news?" Then, I wondered if I should just say, "Newsflash!"  Now, I realize that what I am about to advertise is neither good nor bad news, and I am probably the only person who would consider it a newsflash.

       Turns out, I'm a nerd.

Never would have guessed, would you?

        Here's how I know for sure that it's true: I had no idea I was a nerd... I seriously just found this out at approximately 11am.  Now that I know, the evidence to support my nerdiness is overwhelming.  

       This morning, I went for a run with my buddy, Heidi.  I was telling her about the most awesome prehistoric shark, Megalodon, while we were stretching.

The biggest prehistoric shark that ever lived (About.com-Dinosaurs)

        Heidi had never even heard of Megalodon!  I know, right?  Kind of embarrassing- for her.  In hindsight, I can see how the conversation took the next, obvious turn.  My running buddy revealed to me that she is pretty much on the far end of the nerd spectrum (ie: super nerd.)  While trying to explain to me how she knows this about herself, she said, "Well, you know, I like Wes Anderson movies-"  

        Now, wait a minute... prior to my rant about giant sea creatures, we had just been discussing our favorite KEXP music (nerd alert.)  I was trying to describe a new song by the band, Hey Marseilles, and I told her it sounded like something you would hear in a Wes Anderson movie.  (Which she totally understood- obvi.)  So you can imagine my surprise when she used liking his movies as a qualifier for nerdiness.

Just in case you're not familiar... totally cool.

        I thought maybe Heidi had forgotten our earlier conversation,"No, I like Wes Anderson movies too," I reminded her.  She just stared at me and gave me the big eyes.  You know, the eyes you give your husband when you point out a frenemy at a wedding, and he unwittingly shouts, "Oh, is that So and So that you hate?"  You give him the big eyes because said frenemy is within hearing distance, and he has a voice that carries, but he doesn't realize any of this.  Big eyes are helpful when you want to convey a message that should be obvious, but you are unable for any number of reasons to use your words.  

These eyes say it all.  (Also, this is not Heidi, just in case you were wondering.)

       Heidi gave me a pretty good dose of the big eyes, but the message still hadn't sunk in.  Then she sledge - hammered me over the head, "You're probably at the pretty nerdy end of the spectrum too."  *light bulb*

        All these years of snorting laughter at my own jokes, dancing with maniacally, seizure-like movements, and knowing more about prehistoric marine life than an 8 year old boy with tape on his glasses... it all makes sense now.  

I think she meant I'm at the awesome end of this spectrum. 

        Well, now what? 

        *Flashback*  I am the new kid in Green Bay, WI. I go to the Bay Port High freshman registration with one of my friends and her mom.  I don't know anyone else.  I have no idea who the dude is that gets up and introduces himself as some kind of president of student council or chess club- who can remember?  My friend's mom nudges me with her elbow, and whispers, "See that guy?  He's the king of the dorks."  I nod knowingly, as if only a fool, wouldn't already know this.

        That dude might have been the king of the dorks, but now he's a lawyer with a big ass office and a killer view.  I don't have an office with a view, but I have a pretty kick ass life, and I am happy.  Nerds and dorks, unite!

Consider me the queen of the nerds.
(Paleness combined with unabashed excitement over miniature sea life = proof.)

        And P.S. No one's cool.  If you think you're cool, you are probably a huge nerd, and you have no idea.   

        P.P.S. Felix Hernandez is legitimately cool, but unless your given nickname from the city of Seattle is straight up "The King," and you've thrown a frickin' perfect game, you don't count.) 

Just sayin'

     

How to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse

        I would be such a good mom because I looooove chardonnay before 6 pm.  Isn't that a mom thing?

You don't have to be a mom to enjoy a glass of white in the afternoon.

        Then again, I would be a horrible mom because I would be super grouchy until my kid had the fine motor skills to use a corkscrew.  Thus, I would be super grouchy for approximately 14 months, plus the 9 months of pregnancy... You know, I think I'm just going to skip having a kid- more reliable that way.

        You know what else is reliable? Owning a fire arm in the event of a Zombie Apocalypse.  Guess who wants me to die? Rico.

Rico:  At least we have a balcony, so we could snipe the leader of the Zombie Apocalypse.

Me:  Yeah, this is exactly why I need a gun, and you won't let me have one.

Rico: We're not having a gun in this house.

Me: Well, what am I supposed to do when I'm home alone!?

Rico:  We live in a secure building, Nicole.

Me: Homeless people get in here all the time.

Rico:  Homeless people don't get in here.  They sometimes get into the garage.

Me:  What about if a homeless Zombie was climbing our building and got on to the balcony?!  Our sliding glass door doesn't even lock, and I can't kill a Zombie with a Gerber pocket knife!

True, this is a mummy...and also a cake.  Totally harmless, but the closest image I have on file to a Zombie.

        Let me be clear.  I actually think having a gun is one of the worst ideas I've ever had.   Rico and Kittles would be long dead by now if we owned a firearm, as I am easily startled, and have lightning quick reflexes. Yet, if I were faced with a Zombie Apocalypse, I would want one.  In any case, this blog is for fun.  No political statements allowed.  (However, I presume everyone wants a semi-automatic weapon, plus a Gerber Machete, in the event of a Zombie Apocalypse so they can double tap without having to reload. Therefore, this is not me making a political statement; I'm just being pro-active.  Obvi.)

Also...Cardio + Beware of Bathrooms

        You know who's in some serious shit when the Zombie Apocalypse strikes?  Australia.  Those wild cowboys passed some serious gun laws back in the 90's.  Check this out...

"In Australia, civilians are not allowed to possess automatic and semi-automatic firearms, self-loading and pump action shotguns, handguns with a calibre in excess of .38in with only narrow exemptions, semi-automatic handguns with a barrel length less than 120mm, and revolvers with a barrel length less than 100mm"  http://www.gunpolicy.org/firearms/region/australia

        Surprising, right?  I mean, they have killer everything in that country.  Killer sharks, poisonous spiders, deadly snakes, saltwater crocodiles- the list goes on.   (Side note: I was reading the 2012 Shark Attacks and Related Incidents website last night-and why wouldn't I be?  According to my limited, unscientific research, a disproportionate number of shark attacks happen in Australia.)

How do you like that bullshARK?!  (Actually, I think it's supposed to be a great white shark, but you already knew that.)

        On the other hand, they have so many natural born killers, maybe the good citizens of Australia didn't want extra, man-made killers running around.  Still, where does this leave us when the undead start to take over?

Lego dinosaur.  Closest image I have on file to an actual Zombie attack.

        Let's consider this Zombie Apocalypse situation logically.

        Question: How did people defend themselves in the olden days (ie: without guns?)
        Answer: Moats.

        Australia is like a giant castle surrounded with a moat guarded by big ass prehistoric animals.  Now that I think about it, we don't need guns, people, we have great white sharks!

       

        Problem solved.  Go ahead and have a glass of chardonnay to celebrate.  I would keep up with your cardio, though...just in case you don't have time to get to Australia when the Z.A. strikes.

It's Elementary, Suckers.

        If you happen to love whiskey as much as I do, you will understand that there are two sides to this drink.  There's the awesome side, which is basically super cool and smooth; and then there's the shitty side, which often involves nearly killing one's friends with an incredibly poorly aimed dart, plus or minus *ahem* puking in said friends' toilet.

It always seems like a good idea at first...

        Living in the SoDo/ Pioneer Square area in Seattle is much like whiskey.  It's pretty freakin' rad to walk to sporting events during which people pay upwards of $25-50 to park.  However, it's a pretty big suckfest when crazy homeless people start running at you and/or smiling at you like, "I want to scalp you so I can make a wig for my dog."   (Truly, the other day I  looked over my shoulder for a boom mic to be sure I hadn't unwittingly been cast in a creepy horror movie or an equally creepy episode of CSI Seattle.)  

All that's missing here is a chalk outline, and a dude in sunglasses to say, "Looks like she was at the end of the line."
*cue them song- "Waaaaaaooooooooooh!" 

        I even saved my mom's life a couple weeks ago.

        First, you guys need to understand, I'm like Sherlock Holmes.  I notice details that no one else sees, and  I am five moves ahead of the bad guys.  Totally.

Jenny, this is for you.

        Although, I have to admit, I don't think a person would necessarily need to be five moves ahead of the bad guys to spot a cracked out homeless person running down First Avenue, Phoebe style.

Yeah this guy looked a lot crazier than Lisa Kudrow... eeeeyeah.

        And spot him, I did.  This man windmilled his arms around while running toward my mom and I. We were just trying to load a lifetime supply of crap my parents had brought for the weekend into their Honda Odyssey.  "F@#$," I thought, "We're sitting ducks."  Mind you, it was 11am, so it wasn't like we were fools wandering the hood in the dark, looking for trouble.  It's just that we were the only fools on the street in that moment.  My mom was totally oblivious to this psycho running at us, but I got ready.  I got low.  I was prepared to deny having any change. Then, this man did something I did not expect.

        He grabbed my dad's backpack.

        It. Was. On.  I lowered my center of gravity, dug my Uggs into the cement, and grabbed that shit back, "Get out of here!" I shouted.  I shooed him like a rabid dog.  (He scared me, okay?!)  He had headphones in (and why wouldn't he?) so he didn't hear me.  Of course.   Luckily, he started speaking Spanish, and I was able to  gather that he was hoping to put the bags in the van for us to make some money. (As opposed to murdering us, then putting us in the van to make some money.)  I was less scared after I realized this, and opted to utilize my fantastic Espanol skills.

        "NO NECESSITO!"  My battle cry was heard all over the neighborhood.  I waved our attacker/ bellhop away again, and herded my mom back into the building.

This is kind of the stance I took as I prepared to fight to the death.  Scooby wasn't there.  Also, that's my brother.

        I recounted the daring tale to Eric and my dad.  Neither one gave the desired response.

        Eric: So, you screamed at him, "I no need!"?

        Dad:  He touched my backpack?!

        Just like Sherlock Holmes,  my genius and heroics are misunderstood.

        

 

Casual Elegance and the Short Bus

        If you have never worn a sweatshirt blazer to your place of employment, then you probably have a minimal- if any- understanding of the following two words:

        Casual Elegance. 

Don't even try.

        If you don't understand casual elegance, then you're probably a commoner.  Bad news, my place of employment just demoted me to commoner status today. They tried, anyway. Obviously, there are powers that be who have not experienced my sweatshirt blazer.  Fools.  I bet this is the guy who sent me an email with RED BOLD FONT...

"He tortured me. With his awfulness." - Michael Scott

        "AFTER REVIEWING THE 2012 PARKING AUDIT, IT HAS BEEN DETERMINED THAT YOU ARE NO LONGER AUTHORIZED TO PARK ON CAMPUS..."

        What the -.

        I'll tell you what happened.

        Well, actually, there's not much to it.  They took away my parking.  You see, technically, I don't have the seniority to park on campus.  (No, I don't work downtown, or in another heavily populated area of the city where parking is scarce, but that's a blog for another day.)  However, as it is with most technicalities, there is often a way around it.  My way of avoiding schlepping in on mass transit and/or shuttles was to... park in the garage, where technically,  I wasn't allowed to park.  Genius, no?  In reality, nobody seemed to notice or care for the last three years.  You see, I was also technically allowed to park on campus because no one had updated my authorization level.  Technically, I forgot to mention it to the parking people.  Damn if they didn't figure it all out.  Curses!

        Do you see how tortured by awfulness I am?

Technically, this is my sister, but her look accurately depicts my face as I read the email revoking my parking privileges.

        Guess what, though?  Joke's on HR! I will never be a commoner. They can ban me to the furthest lot on the slowest shuttle route, yet I will always drink my Perrier with my pinky out.  Boom.  Try and stop me.  

We are sooooo not commoners.  If this doesn't prove it,  I don't know what does.

        Ever been demoted?  Ever had someone try to make you ride the short bus (AKA: shuttle) to work?  Don't worry my friends, they can take your parking pass, but they can never take your pinky.  Maybe in Egypt, they can...Actually, I wouldn't test that place right now.  But if you're stateside, hold your pinky out with pride; show The Man who's boss.  (It's basically the classy middle finger.)  

It's casual. It's elegant.  It screams F the Man.

       

I'll Wear Your Grandad's Clothes. I Look Incredible.

        I may or may not have had a solitary dance party in front of my Mac Book Pro to the following lyrics from "Thrift Shop" by Macklemore:
     
        I'm gonna pop some tags 
        I only got twenty dollars in my pocket
        I, I'm huntin'- lookin' for a come-up
        This is f*&$ing awesome...

        ...Ima take it grandpa style
        Ima take it grandpa style
        No for real- ask your grandpa
        Can I have his hand me downs?

        I'm not saying this happened...  because if it did, Eric would never admit I am that insane, and Kittles doesn't speak English, so there are no credible witnesses.

*warning- this is an explicit version of "Thrift Shop"*

        If it had happened, it would have included some serious hip hop mom-dancing.  It would have been incredible, and not awkward or embarrassing for anyone at all.

This painting at McMenamins' Hotel Oregon is awkward and embarrassing for all of us.

        Imagine this: (Don't worry, I am not going to subject you to picturing me hip hop mom dancing in my UGGs with a Hurley sweatshirt and skinny jeans on- at least no more than I already have.)  Seriously, envision a small microbrewery.  The beer is well above average, and the staff is the perfect mix of awkward, embarrassing, and completely endearing.  

Said endearing staff may have accidentally stabbed this  vat of beer with a butter knife and then told Eric and I, "Thanks for rocking out with us tonight."

        Hey, any time I am not sitting on the couch in my sweats,  it's a win.  Going to Schooner Exact Brewery is as "rock out" as I get these days.  I'm 31 years old here, people.  What do you want from me?  (I probably over-shared some or all of the above with Mark, our delightfully geeky server and beer expert. )

        Okay, now envision my most hated microbrewery, Elysian Brewing Company- or as I like to call them, The Evil Empire.  Picture rude servers that think they are too cool for school, and frozen crab cakes that are poorly heated, then slopped on a pretentious square plate in front of you while the same horrendously foolish server scowls on as you try to order a second beer.  Schooner Exact is the exact opposite of this.  Schooner is amaze-balls to the max.

This is how you do Orecciette, Evil Empire- take notes.

        I would never admit to being a romantic person.  However, if a person was inclined to be romantic, he or she would love Schooner exact, not only for the friendly service, delicious food, and excellent beer, but also for the atmosphere.  There is an unfinished cement floor, beer aging in bourbon barrels, an unidentifiable, yet undeniable indie song playing in the background; it feels like true love.

If bourbon aged holiday beer isn't true love, I don't know what is.

        Speaking of true love, and Macklemore...

        And I can't change

        Even if I tried

        Even if I wanted to 

        I can't change...

        Here's the thing.  I hate Elysian because they make me feel like an idiot for existing.  I love Schooner because I can walk in basically having a seizure from excitement that their kitchen is open, and not only do they not make me feel like an idiot- they make me feel like who I am is...okay.  Mark even seemed mildly amused at my complete insanity over their kitchen opening.

        Obviously, there is no comparison between food, and the right to marry whomever you want.  Obviously.

        All I'm saying is, think about who you are.  Think about what makes you you. Think about what it feels like to fall in love.  Whoever you are, be you; it's beautiful*.   

*Unless you are some kind of killer- in which case, you should probably seek therapy and serious anti-psychotic medications.  If that is the case, maybe don't be you.

        

I'll Give You Something to Cry About

        Actually, I'm not sorry I haven't written for a month.  I was too busy being awesome and running the Seattle Half Marathon.

Eric saved the day by bringing my Uggs and snowboarding coat to the finish line.

        Oh, and I was super awesome while running the Mustache Dache last weekend.  Eric actually ran that one with me.  We happened upon some friends who were there [with beer] to show support for relatives of theirs who were also stache daching.  Is there a better way to finish a 5k? Rhetorical question/ of course not.

Stay Classy Seattle.

Eric looks like he's running from filming a porn.
I am obviously disgusted by this.

        Okay, so here are the good things about the Seattle half:

        1.) I can run! (remember when all I used to blog about was how much I hated not running?)

        2.) It was not pouring down rain.  In fact, it was eerily foggy, which made me feel like I was about     

            to get murdered.  I mean seriously.  The hills on this course were killing me.

        3.) Running Buddies!

        4.) New, amazeballs running tights from the hundred dollar store

        5.) It only took about 5 minutes to get to the start line- as opposed to the hour it takes for some 

            *ahem- Seattle Rock n Roll.

        6.) Negative split (ignore this if you're not into running.)

        7.) Random people cheering for runners makes me like people.  (No small feat since I normally 

        have very little faith in humanity.)

Classic running buddy shot from the Mustache Dache- 'cause I don't have any from today

        Not the best things about the Seattle half:

        1.)  hills

        2.)  hills 

        3.)  I sort of hate my time a little bit

Kittles hates my time too.

        I know! I ran 13.1 miles before 10am. I should be happy I can run, and I am.  I was feeling mildly sorry for myself because it is actually the slowest half marathon I have ever run.  Then I remembered, I might have had a bunch of Japanese beer last night.  Might have celebrated two Thanksgivings this week.  Might have skipped a lot of Monday night training runs.  Might have had a giant Cherry Coke and popcorn at the movie theater last night...

The cake I partook in during "Fakesgiving" AKA: the second Thanksgiving meal I had this week.)

        It's kind of like that saying, "You get what you pay for."  It's also kind of like when one of the surgeons I work with tells his patients, "Now if you don't go to physical therapy, and if you don't do the exercises, you can't come to me and say your back still hurts."  

       If you eat like crap, and don't do all your training runs, don't  complain to me about missing your PR.

There might have been some Ben and Jerry's involved as well...

        Truth be told, this is one of the most fun races I have ever run.  It was a gorgeous course, and I had good company.  I definitely enjoyed the last three miles at my own pace.  

        Life lesson #23:  Go at your own pace, and be happy when a hot guy shows up at the finish line with your Uggs.