Don’t Hate Me: Baby, I was Born this Way.

The 80’s: An era rich in the history of great hairstyles.

Note: But seriously. I was a somewhat modern 80’s woman and had to endure this actual commercial. For reals. On television before Fast Forward. An atrocity.

However, during this time I had hair and plenty of it. One might even say my hair was, like, totally righteous. Dude.

Photographic Evidence From 1987, Probably Procured from the X-Files or Something:


Don’t Hate Me Because …

Now, back to my thoughts, which are fleeting, to say the least.

The concept of “Don’t hate me because…” has been bouncing around in my fleeting thoughts because, well, frankly I’m feeling hated. And it’s not my fault, I swear. Plus, the haters are totally the ones in control of their own spitefulness and could stem the tide of hatefulness. If they chose to do so.

Note: This is not a hair post

No, this post runs far deeper than hair, if that is possible.

Okay, then. Here it goes:

I am a Golden State Warriors fan.


Don’t hate me because my team is better than yours.

There, I said it.

images-16I feel better already. Frankly, I’m tired of taking the high road with Portland Trailblazer fans (No, really. Purple is a great color for a uniform!) or with Utah Jazz fans (TakeNote! Your guys are going to be good …. someday) or with San Antonio Spurs fans (Wait, no one likes the Spurs) or the …. well, you get it.

And I don’t want to hear about the Bandwagon thing either. I’ve had my eyes on the Warriors since Latrell Sprewell choked the head coach in the locker room. And don’t tell me that I don’t know anything about basketball or I might have to cross-you-over and dunk on you.

Further evidence: I own an actual Strength in Numbers shirt (size XL) that I got at a play-off game.

Photographic evidence: Some random guy in Costco today touched me, almost awkwardly, in his attempt to make contact when he saw me in my Warriors sweatshirt, possibly the only clothing I wear.



Note: I need to go sweatshirt shopping. I admit that. But it’s so comfy.

Further evidence: Steph Curry lives just minutes away and I drive by his house anytime I want, except for the restraining order. And it wasn’t my fault that we were both at Chik-fil-A at the same time. Total coincidence. We both like chicken.

Here’s my point:

I like my team. Steph Curry is a great example of a moral, family man. Draymond Green is a hothead with a big heart. KD is kinda sexy. And Klay Thompson is … Okay, Klay is boring but he can really light it up.

So, let’s all just get along. I’ll like my team. You like yours.

But let’s keep one thing straight:  Don’t hate me because my team is better than yours.

Heck, yes!



Perfect: A Chipmunk’s Trip to the Grocery Store

While I was a sophomore and junior in college, I worked as a grocery checker (amongst other roles) at a number of different grocery stores. I actually really enjoyed the job. But, as a result of doing that for a number of years, I have this…problem.

I am awkward as a customer at a grocery check out. Like, really awkward. I feel this bizarre need to be overly friendly. And I can feel it happening – like some sort of weird reflex.

Unrelated: I don’t have normal reflexes. Never has a doctor bounced that weird little rubber hammer on my knee and made my knee move. Not once. I might need to Google that

Accompanying my checkout weirdness includes: sweaty palms, a lot of laughing at jokes that aren’t funny, speaking in a high-pitched tone that is clearly not my normal speaking voice, and overstated pleasantries. Odds are you’ll hear me say the words “fantastic”, “no problem at all,” and “perfect!” at least once each.

Actual checkout conversation that occurred the other day after I had waited a very long time for the person in front of me to try to figure out the chip reader (and ultimately paid in cash because she couldn’t work it out).

Cashier: “Thank you for your patience. That machine is more trouble than good!”

Me: (voice high-pitched, like a chipmunk) “That’s not problem at all! I’m here without kids, so, in fact, it was, like, a freaking blessing because it got me more time out by myself.” (awkward, high-pitched, chipmunk laughing)


Cashier: “Haha. Boy, you have a lot of produce. I’m new…I’m going to have to look up all these codes.”

Me: (still in chipmunk mode) “Oh, that’s totally super. Glad I came in your line so you could get more practice.” (More laughing. And I’m definitely smiling too big. I can feel my cheeks) 

Note: Watching the checker look up every item makes me feel itchy. In my head I’m screaming 4011! The code for bananas is 4011! But on the outside, my face still hurts, so I must be smiling.

Cashier: “Your total is $106.15.”

Me: (still a chipmunk) “That’s perfect. Great. Thank you.”

Note: Why do I always tell the cashier my total is perfect? Always.good-its-perfect

Next time I’m going to try just nodding a lot. Maybe if I don’t speak I can ward off the impending chipmunk. Or, I’ll eat a candy bar while I’m checking out. Yes, more candy. That may be the answer to all my shopping woes.


Bacon: We know you were a spelling bee champion and chose chemistry over art in high school to ensure you got the “Easy A” (weirdo). But tell us, did you ever fail a test? How did you handle it?