But it’s closing time and we both know why

But it’s closing time and we both know why

I had to stop the post I was working on to write this, as  I would be remiss as a lifelong Cowboys fan otherwise. Let me preface this by saying, yes, this blog is about the tribulations of female life. However, I am a gigantic sports fan (which comes with its own challenges that will certainly be discussed at length). So we will be taking a side trip every once in awhile. Not to mention, as a teenager in the 90s and winning three Super Bowls, I didn’t expect I would be 38 and not have another. I mean, my god, we even let the Eagles finally win won.

Outside of Dak Prescott – because he’s a perfect angel (more on this comment at a later date, as I almost threw a drink in someone’s face in Vegas over this, and not why you’re thinking) – I am fine with burning the entire team to the ground. I am completely over the online and in-person debates about what the Cowboys should/need/have to do to get better. You all are damn fools. Apologies to anyone who has heard me say this 175 times, but you fidna hear it again, the only way That Team will ever be better is for Jerry Jones to be six feet under. Preferably more like 20 feet with steel bars and some sort of voodoo. I have made peace with the fact we’ll most likely never win another championship until I’m retired (I’ve not made peace with that when it comes to the Stars, so someone fix that shit). And let’s face it, unless I marry Jake Gyllenhaal, I’ll never actually be able to retire.

I’ll hit pause on my overwhelming rage for a second, because we lost a good man today. And he deserves our collective respect and gratitude. There are those who think Witten is trash (I’m looking at  you, Drew Magary), and that’s okay. I can live with that. I live with a lot as a Dallas sports fan these days. However, I also know 82’s contributions off the field, both to the team and to this community, meant even more than his substantial contributions to the game. His leadership, his all around good humanness, his dependability – it will be missed. We knew this day was coming and most of us who don’t have Cowboys Fan Head Up the Ass Syndrome knew it was going to happen this year. But it still kinda sucks.

Dez is gone (I would have absolutely helped packed his boxes). Jason is now gone. For some reason I still have to deal with troubled child Zeke. And Perfect Angel is of course still here. Nonetheless, it’s a new day for the Cowboys.

And what does that mean? Not a damn thing. We will still be terrible.

Rage back on.

At $9.99, I’m perfectly disguised

At $9.99, I’m perfectly disguised

I love to shop. And by shop I mean look at pics from fashion bloggers on Instagram, outfits in windows at my favorite stores and on Pinterest. I personally can’t put together outfits to save my life or yours. So let’s hope we never find ourselves in a ryde or die styling situation. And as much as I love somewhat fashionable and trendy clothes, I would be perfectly happy in tank tops, jeans and flip flops for the rest of my life. Though I do love a good blazer/jacket as well. Therefore, when I say I love to shop, it doesn’t refer to the the physical act of shopping. Because that, my friends, is fucking terrible.

I have been a short, curvy girl with a skewed waist to hips ratio for my entire existence. My mom has always told me I am built like my dad’s paternal grandmother. That’s great, except she was close to 6 ft. tall. So, yeah. Not quite the same. Nine times out of 10, things don’t fit me on some level. To add insult to injury, I am extremely pale (but tan super easily, thank the lord – except my legs OF COURSE) and outside of one year in LA, I’ve always been blonde. So there goes most anything on the light end of the color spectrum. I think you get it. Clothes are difficult for me.

And I’ve never been rich. I won’t go into the history of finances of either my family or myself, cause that’s just boring and tacky. But I’ve never had money to invest a lot in clothes (though many times I’ve spent more than I should). Therefore, I am the one that will walk out of Old Navy with four shirts, two pairs of pants, three workout tops, maybe some shoes and a bag, a new dog, a Diet Coke (I don’t even really drink Diet Coke), two face masks and six pairs of earrings for $75.

But can’t make a cute outfit out of ANY OF IT.

I’ve promised myself when – not if, but WHEN – I get to “goal weight”, I will invest in a personal stylist. Cause your girl needs some help. However, who doesn’t need any help whatsoever? One of my best friends. She can step out of the house in workout clothes, hair in a topknot, flippies and a designer purse with no makeup and look like she just walked down a runway at New York Fashion Week. Me? Look a little closer and you’ll see three inch roots, a growing sunspot, a little hole in the crotch of my yoga pants and a statement necklace made out of animal hair.

A couple of weeks ago we were out running errands and popped into a well known and loved boutique here in Dallas for her to drop off some clothes that needed alterations. I have heard of this place for quite some time, but never dared go in there. I’m basically a scene out of Pretty Woman walking in wanting to yell out “yeah but look, my sunglasses and lip gloss are Tom Ford, you guys! Please like me!”

I must state, this place is absolutely lovely. The majority of the clothes in there I would never wear because I am just not cool enough. But boy, some are darling. And the denim! (Cause that’s what you call it there: denim). I started looking at price tags and promptly stopped. I could own my own Old Navy for the price of one rack at that place. So I turned to looking at the just jewelry and candles, thinking I was seeking the comfort of more familiar digits.

After I fell head over heels for a candle called Positano that costs $105, I decided to just sit in a chair, enjoy a free bottle of water and mentally vision board the day I will be able to waltz in there, drink champagne, and go on a complete shopping spree. A girl can dream, right?

But also, remind me to never feel out of place in Nordstrom ever again.

I said I wouldn’t do it, but I did it again

I said I wouldn’t do it, but I did it again

Today I hit reply all on email at work with a less than appropriate response that was meant for the sender only. I realized it immediately and wanted to die. Thank god I was not in the office. And mind you, I am the one who LOATHES when someone hits reply all. This is punishment for every time I overly judge someone for using that bloody button. I do the same when I get behind someone who forgets to turn of his/her blinker.

I promise judgement is a terrible habit on which I am trying to work. BUT IT IS SO HARD. But know this, friends – I judge no one in this world worse than I do myself. It’s a chronic disability and has become debilitating at times. And has continuously become worse the older I get.

I tend to make really stupid mistakes when I am drinking (that’s not exactly rocket science, I know). I swear I am not an alcoholic, but the problem is I can’t metabolize adult beverages as well as the average person/I used to. I’ve had to learn this the hard way in recent months. When I found out I had a defunct metabolism last fall, all I could focus on is how that related to my inability to lose weight for the past three years, not how it affected anything else of importance or consequence.

I talk about drinking a lot, especially bubbles, cause that is my signature beverage. But I actually don’t drink nearly as much as I did from my late 20s to mid 30s. Those hangovers do not play around the older one gets, am I right? Anyhow, when I do decide to throw down like it’s 2008, I pay for it, in one way or another. And it never fails my questionable overindulgence is in direct response to a situation that or person who brings out my insecurities.

I went to a Christmas party last year with a guy I had been “dating” for most of 2017. A guy, honestly, I had no business dating in the first place (hi, my name is Nikki, and I am a terrible choice in dudes aholic). We hadn’t seen each other for four months and I was quite shocked to hear from him. I let this person, like most guys I’ve dated, make me feel like pure shit about myself. Like, I weigh 400 pounds, am entirely too old to try to date, never going to be good enough for anyone pure shit. It’s not okay. I’m working on that. But the day of that party, I barely ate – not out of nerves, more out of scheduling – and hadn’t really been drinking a lot for several weeks. Not to mention, there were a lot of leftover issues from when we had split in the summer that should have been dealt with before we ever tried to hang out whilst partying. Recipe for disaster, much?

I am sure you can see where this is going. Stupid things were said and thanks to Tito, it got way out of hand. I will be honest and say I don’t remember much. Just the aftermath. I spent three straight days destroying myself over it. My friends were worried, my therapist was worried. It was an ugly situation and I wallowed in unnecessary shame and despair for hours of my life I will never get back. I cried to the point of dehydration (not the first time that has happened over a boy, but I swear it will be the LAST). A part of me will always miss this guy; I’ve never met anyone with whom I have so much in common. But now I know that might not be such a good thing.

I didn’t think I could ever feel that much self-loathing again until I went to Mexico earlier this year.  I was around individuals from all across the world and none of them speak English as a first language. Outside of the other two individuals from the U.S. and my roommate, no one spoke to me much. Instead of logically thinking about why, I automatically assumed it was because they thought I was silly, stupid, weird, a moron, fat, ugly etc. I let myself get a ridiculous complex. Again.

On the last night, one of the girls came up to me and told me most everyone had wanted to talk to me all week, but were hesitant to because they were nervous about their English. I had to bite my tongue before I screamed out “YOU LIKE ME, YOU REALLY DO LIKE ME!”

I’m an idiot. I know.

So what did I do when they actually started hanging out with me? Try to consume tequila like I was one of them, all of whom are born and raised Latin Americans. Needless to say, that did not turn out well. And the fact I had only a collective 17 hours of sleep that week did not help. I was not myself and borderline sick for days. And I was mortified. I beat myself up, again, for an absurd amount of time. I didn’t actually do anything stupid, but it was just a major “I am entirely too old for this” moment

Being chronically hard on myself has been a lifelong struggle. My parents were always called into school because my teachers thought I was under too much pressure at home. My mom had to tell every one of them it wasn’t her or my dad, it was all me. I have made an art form out of self-criticism. I have no doubt it’s why I am single, have anxiety and had a consistent eye twitch for the past two months. I am well aware I gotta get a grip. I refuse to take this habit and behavior into my 40s.

Having said all this, now you can imagine how I reacted when I accidentally replied all this morning. I wanted to die. So I literally googled “how to get over doing something stupid” and I came across a blog post from a therapist. I can’t seem to find it now, but this I remember:

You are human.

You are not perfect.

You make mistakes.

And that is okay.



It was one of those times, what a real good time

It was one of those times, what a real good time

I know there are many huge St. Patrick’s Day celebrations across this country. All boasting to be “the largest next to Boston!” I’m not certain how one could actually measure that, and more important, why in the world does it matter?! It’s not even OUR DAY. Have the largest Fourth of July party, you jerks.

Anyhow, Dallas tends to lose its mind on St. Paddy’s. Ask Ezekiel Elliott how it turned out for him in 2017. There’s a gigantic parade that Mark Cuban has saved (read: paid for) I don’t know how many times now. And then part of Greenville Ave. (a street of mostly bars and restaurants) is blocked off and becomes quite possibly the trashiest 1/2 mile in the United States of America. There must be people here from at least five area codes not even located in Dallas County. Here’s the fun part – this all takes place in the neighborhood I LIVE.

I did the parade and block party the first year I moved back from LA. I swore to never do that shit again. A month after that I moved in the neighborhood and from then on, my friends and I just do brunch and then a nice yard party. We sit in the sun, drink our weight in beer and watch all the crazy go by whist hoping none of it asks to use our bathrooms.

I now must confess, traditionally speaking, I have not made it past 5 p.m. on this day. And that’s being generous. Plus the chances of me crying at some point have been a solid 2:1. I’m pretty certain I am allergic to day drinking. At minimum, I end up with the world’s worst headache, take a three hour nap, then order Chinese food at 9 p.m. At most…well, thank god I’m not dead.

This year though. I was the fucking St. Paddy’s Day BOSS. I literally set the intention to make it to dinner (cause I am a grown ass woman). AND I DID IT. We were walking down Greenville late in the afternoon admiring the scenic piles of trash and puking people, as one does, and while holding my tongue not to shout Wakanda Forever at the lovely Kenyan people we met, I thought to myself, oh my god. So this is what it all looks like. And then – AND THEN – we went to dinner at a new Mexican food place. Which was LOVELY.

And it gets better. I came home, my neighbors were still throwing down, so I played one round of flip cup then ghosted (can you ghost at your own duplex?). I went to bed, slept like a champ, then woke up at 7 a.m. like a NORMAL GD PERSON.

Am I a grown up now?

Don’t matter how you feel, it only matters how you look

Don’t matter how you feel, it only matters how you look

So my 38th birthday was a couple of weeks ago. And okay, I am well aware of and extremely thankful for the fact I do not look this old. Nor sound this old. And definitely do not act this old (thanks, wine!) However, no amount of snail serum or having neither kids nor a mortgage will negate what my birth certificate says.

Naturally, what did I do as a birthday treat? I got a facial. Scrub away the fact I just took another trip around the sun, please and thank you.

For years now one of my girlfriends has told me to finally get microdermabrasion. No idea why exactly I’ve put it off, as I will try almost anything and everything when it comes to face products. But professional treatments are an entirely different adventure, not only due to cost,  but also due to potential consequences. We have all seen that episode of Sex and the City with Samantha and The Veil. You know which one I am talking about. There is no doubt, that would happen to me.

Having said that, there I was at the spa Friday night prepared for my regular ol’ routine facial, when the lady examines my skin and suggests I upgrade to microdermabrasion. I’m in a “whatever it takes to keep me off a ledge” mood, so why not?

I have seen countless microderm treatments on Sephora’s shelves. They’re basically a glorified mask, right? So I was not prepared to have someone vacuum my skin with sandpaper. I am quite positive half my face was left in a garbage bin in Lakewood.

However, I won’t lie, readers – my skin has look PHENOMENAL ever since. That lady is more than welcome to suck my face off with whatever she wants going forward.

Up those stairs, in that little back bedroom

Up those stairs, in that little back bedroom

If you are drinking bubbles with one of your best girlfriends on a Friday night and happen to see Nancy Meyers is live on Instagram (and she’s tipsy) and you DON’T drop the pizza and everything you’re doing to watch?

You are not living right.

And Nancy, please set design my life. I could really use your help. I know you didn’t direct Home Again. But you can’t tell me that wasn’t your decorating. I want to go to there.

Don’t know where I am or how I got here

Don’t know where I am or how I got here

I signed up for this blog back in November, yet I’ve not posted at all. There are many reasons for this, the foremost being absolute fear. Fear I don’t remember how to be funny or write anymore (it’s been a minute). Fear I won’t post as much as I should (this is a legitimate concern – blogging consistency is not my forte). And as always, fear of being judged.

I’ve had various blogs over the years, as many of my friends will tell you. Some good, some bad, some that probably made no sense whatsoever. Regardless, I do love writing. It is in no way part of my current job, outside of a million daily emails. I’ve been asked several times in the last six months by co-workers, friends and even my therapist if I could be anything in the world, what it would be. My answer is difficult for me to say, not because I don’t know, but because, again, fear. My dream job is without a doubt a full-time blogger. But I am scared. I am not as pretty and skinny as the fashion bloggers, I don’t have the time and money as a lot of the beauty bloggers, my kitchen is entirely too small to be a food blogger, and my patience for sports has gone way out the window, so I could never be a sports blogger again. Although my go-to phrase is usually “I got this”, when it comes to what to write about, I do not got this. At all.

However, the first time that thought went through my head, I realized that was actually it. That was my thing. My golden ticket. The fact I do not got this. I honestly do not got ANYTHING. I am terrible at dating; I am 37 and just now got in the habit of cleaning house regularly; my finances are a total mess (though I am getting them under control, at long last); I suck at losing weight (despite sufficient effort); I drink way too much for someone my age (why exactly have I not learned this lesson?); and at every minute of every day, I am at risk of saying something stupid, doing something stupid and most of all, breaking a bone.

Maybe this will be one big exercise in self-deprecation, I haven’t a clue. But what I do know is this, I am not alone when it comes to never feeling good enough or acting the ways you should; just wanting to stay in bed because adulting sounds horrible and you know you’ll just screw it all up; and overall feeling like a complete disaster at any given moment. And certainly not thinking that it would be this way at this age. But I also refuse to keep trying to be awesome and get all my shit together. And that’s what this blog is about.