Monthly Archives: February 2012

The Valentine’s Day Diet

The Valentine’s Day Diet 2

A previous post about my glorious pair of Tory Burch flats may have implied that Valentine’s Day 2012 went off without a hitch.

Come on people, this is me we’re talking about.

I’m about to show you my dark side. Also known as my secret love of dairy products. Brace yourself.

Scott and I had settled for dinner reservations at a local restaurant after realizing we were too late to snag a table in the Twin Cities.

I should probably mention that I’ve been dieting again. Remember this post where I discussed my newfound love for running and recent fifteen pound weight loss?

Well…then this little event known as The Holidays came. Which was followed by a Hawaiian vacation. The cherry on top? A stressful move to the Midwest which obviously required a going away party where I ate nothing but cheese.

A chain of events which left me feeling like the human version of this.

Jolie with her tongue sticking out

“No more macadamia nuts…”

Actually, canines are deathly allergic to macadamia nuts.

Unfortunately, I most certainly am not. I’m pretty sure I’m carrying at least five pounds of those delicious Hawaiian gems in both my right and left thighs. So, in regards to my weight loss, I’m back at square one.

This is a code red situation as Scott and I are travelling with friends to Puerto Vallarta in April. And my bikini definitely isn’t going to wear itself.

Don’t get me wrong…I don’t care if I look fat in front of my husband…but looking fat in front of friends from college? I’d rather die a long, painful death from a macadamia nut overdose.

It is for these reasons that I was determined to have a romantic Valentine’s Day without going over my calorie limit for the day. So, I did what any neurotic girl on a crash diet would do and woke up at 4:30 in the morning to get an intense cardio workout in before we drove to Small Town on Valentine’s Day morning.

Yes, I spent another day working in Small Town so that Scott and I could check out more potential rentals after work. This time we were lured into a double wide trailer, followed by a house that came complete with teal carpets from 1982, and at least three dozen dead mice.

I swear, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I wanted to. The good news is that we’ve finally settled on a place and will be signing our lease on Tuesday. Stay tuned for more updates on that.

But back to my thunder thighs. After my butt-crack-of-dawn Turbo Fire session, I managed to spend the entire day working at Caribou Coffee without offending anyone or exceeding my allotted calories. Plus, I was wearing my new shoes of love and fabulousness. It was a Valentine’$ Day miracle.

Or so I thought.

We arrived for dinner in our Sunday best. Scott was donning his pricey threads from the most ridiculously metrosexual shopping spree ever, and I was sporting my new Valentine’s dress and heels. All of my “going out” clothes still remain in our storage unit, which forced me to take on the arduous task of going to the mall and picking out something new.

I don’t know how I do it sometimes.

I suggested we have our recently smashed-in Toyota valet parked, but apparently, people at this restaurant don’t know what that term means.

I really don’t know how I do it sometimes.

Scott quickly made up for this by ordering a bottle of Malbec wine while we waited for our table. He worked in fine dining to put himself through graduate school, and consequently has become one of those “fancy” wine snobs.

At times like this, it’s good to have him around. I would have simply resorted to finding the cheapest wine on the menu and then ordering the bottle that cost 2 dollars more. That way people still think I’m “fancy”.

Scott begs to differ on that one.

We were soon escorted to a candlelit table in the center or the restaurant and seated directly in front of the baby grand piano. Melodic music swirled around us as we gazed at a beautiful arrangement of red roses before being served two glasses of champagne.

Champagne was included with everyone’s meal that evening. A nice touch, although it would have been nice to be made aware of this before ordering an entire bottle of Malbec.

Scott doesn’t care for champagne, so I drank his for him while he ate all of the bread.

When our appetizer of grilled wild mushrooms was presented, I noticed it look more like a bowl of canola oil with some Portobellos swimming in it.

I opted for a glass of the Malbec instead. Canola oil and bikinis don’t get along.

When Scott asked why I only tried a few small bites, I smugly replied with “Oh, you know. I’ve been eating clean for the last few weeks. All that oil…if I eat too much of it I’m afraid my stomach will get upset. I’m just not used to anything that greasy.”

He rolled his eyes and sopped up the remainder of the oil with the last slice of bread.

Our waiter strolled by and poured me another glass of Malbec.

What? Red wine is healthy. Especially in comparison to greasy Minnesota mushrooms.

Finally, our entrees were served. I was disappointed to discover my halibut was overcooked. Painfully overcooked. It was one of the few moments in life where I would rather be eating lutefisk.

I took a few bites before giving up hope. There’s no point in wasting my calories on something that tastes like a broiled fillet of squirrel meat. Not that I would know what that tastes like or anything. Although Jolie’s informed me it’s not half bad.

I have to say that our food really didn’t matter all that much. The ambiance was fantastic; Scott and I had a beautiful evening reminiscing, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. Before we knew it, it was time to leave.

I stood up, and felt very funny.

I’m assuming I also looked very funny, as Scott immediately noticed something was awry.

“Katrina…are you okay?”

“Umm…I’m don’t know. I think I may have drunk that entire bottle of wine on accident.”

“Yeah, I’d say you did. And you had the two glasses of champagne. And barely touched your food.”

Let me just say that I am not a drinker. I rarely have more than one or two beverages and never allow myself to overindulge. This was all just one big weight-loss attempt gone horribly, horribly amiss.

By the time Scott had picked me up from the front of the restaurant, I was already halfway through the Snickers bar I had packed in my clutch.

Why on earth would someone on a diet have a Snickers bar packed in her clutch?

I was concerned Scott may want to order dessert, which would definitely not be apart of my meal plan. If this were to happen, I would simply say, “Oh, we don’t need dessert…I have a Snickers bar in my purse!” to avert being tempted by a giant slice of peanut butter cheesecake complete with two forks. It’s called planning ahead.

Yeah, that plan definitely backfired.

But I knew I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to be sick, and was ready to abort my diet if it meant avoiding a killer headache the next morning.

Things started to get particularly ugly on the drive home, when I requested demanded Scott take me to the Culver’s drive-thru window.

What is Culver’s, you ask? A midwestern fast-food chain that serves butter burgers and frozen custard. It is disgustingly decadent. In a good way.

I lost count after about ten minutes, but would say Scott told me “no” approximately seven times before giving in. Upon ordering my Caramel Cashew Custard, the girl at the drive through asked me if I wanted one, two, or three scoops.

I desperately wanted three, but settled for two. You know, so I could look at myself in the mirror the next morning.

Culver's caramel pecan custard

A picture is worth a thousand calories

It may have been the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten with plastic silverware. Or regular silverware, for that matter. Funny how a $4 custard can blow a $100 dinner out of the water.

I think this was the point where Scott, oozing with sarcasm, asked, “Are you sure that’s going to sit okay with your stomach? I mean, I know you’ve been eating clean and everything.”

I just hate it when he’s right.

Twenty minutes later, we were home. I proceeded to conquer a variety of off-limits treats that I’m not going to publicly divulge. Partially because I don’t want you to think any less of me, but mostly because nauseating my readers is not the goal of this blog.

But don’t get me wrong…I knew exactly what I was eating. Think of it as strategy with trans fat and high fructose corn syrup.

I crawled into bed feeling much better, and woke up feeling fresh as a daisy the following morning.

The moral of this story?

Don’t, under any circumstances, attempt a diet on Valentine’s Day.

You will you embarrass yourself in front of your husband, ingest 960 calories of fast-food dairy products and have to tolerate a week’s worth of teasing from your father-in-law.

But all these struggles will be eclipsed when you wake the following morning and reach the ultimate low point: realizing you’re beautiful, brand-new dress is ruined; covered in melted custard and caramel.

Heh. So much for that 4:30am workout.

Will I reach my goal in time for Puerto Vallarta, or be foiled again by fermented grapes and high-calorie dairy products?

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This is why you shouldn’t Google yourself

This is why you shouldn’t Google yourself 2

It was Friday night in rural Minnesota.

And after an hour or so of dancing in front my web cam, I had grown weary and restless.

So I did something that most of us, whether we admit it or not, do every six months or so. I attempted to conquer my boredom by Googling myself.

This was my top result.

Trina the rapper Wikipedia





I told you I had street cred.

Trina the rapper

The other Katrina Taylor.

The notoriously vulgar rapper and I have more in common than you might think. I actually went by “Trina” until I was in college, and also happen to be totally somewhat skilled at freestyle rapping.

Katrina freestyle rapping

Really, I just have the ability to quickly think of words that rhyme while flashing white girl gang signs. 

Scott is notorious for bragging about my mad skills to his friends at parties and then putting me on the spot with something like “Quick! Do a rap about a grapefruit!”

The man has no respect for my art.

But back to the Googling. There were roughly 5,720,000 results for “Katrina Taylor”, and even a few related searches Google suggested.

I found one in particular to be quite disturbing.

Katrina Taylor murder



I know, right? I’m completely repulsed that Google has dared to index the images from my webcam.

The murder thing was also mildly upsetting, but it was a good two hours before I was actually able to click on that link.

Not because I was frightened. Not even because I feared that opening the link might set a supernatural chain of events in to motion that would result in my untimely death.

Two hours happened to be the amount of time it took to remove the viruses that ravaged my computer after I clicked on the stupid webcam link. Apparently some…um…not-so-classy ladies have been posting photos of themselves using my name.

Shame on you, Katrinas. Not for your low morals, affinity for feather boas from the dollar store, or even your lack of good lighting. I admonish you for doing something much worse.

Tarnishing my reputation.

Katrina wearing drop seat footie pajamas

I’ve got a carefully crafted image to uphold here, people.

Perhaps carefully crafted is the wrong phrase.

Nonetheless, people who wear Andy Warhol inspired chihuahua footie pajamas to a Christmas party do not engage in scandalous webcam behavior.

Although there might just be a market for that sort of thing.

By the way, if you happen to be in the market for a pair of snazzy PJs like the ones above, you can purchase them at I chose the  PajamaCity® Warhol Chihuahua Print Fleece Footed Pajamas with Drop Seat for their comfort, style, and overall ridiculosity.

But mostly for the drop seat, which Pajama City highlights as one of their most cutting-edge details:

Butt-flap back – Keeps you warm when nature calls!

When I read the above description I couldn’t help but giggle. Who would actually be so disgustingly lazy that they would even consider using such a feature?

I’ll give you a hint.

Their name might just be the same one that I Googled last night. (The honest and ugly truth is that once you go butt-flap, you never go back.)

In other words, I’ve become what I hate.

The good news is, people who use stretchy fleece butt flaps when relieving themselves in the middle of the night definitely don’t get murdered. At least that’s the excuse I’ll give Scott when he asks why on earth I insist on wearing them.

Every. Single. Night.

What? Something has to keep me warm in the midst of this frigid Minnesota winter.

The moral of this story? Don’t Google yourself. You will be appalled, disappointed, and possibly stabbed to death in your sleep despite the fact that you are swaddled in the protective PJs of frumpiness.

There is one exception. It’s entirely kosher to Google yourself if  you utilize Google’s “personal results” filter. In which case the smarty-pants (sans drop seat) Google folks will only show you results that relate to you and your various social media contacts. Which hopefully will not involve manslaughter or feather boas. (This handy feature would have been nice to know about before I gave my computer a digital STD from those nasty webcam images.)

When I safely Googled myself using the personal results filter, I was given much more accurate content.

So, without further ado, I give you my true top result.

Jolie dressed as a Norwegian Chihuahua

Jolie, dressed in Norwegian colors, at the Syttende Mai parade.

Google knows me entirely too well.

Here’s hoping they’ll also be able to help me locate a pair of Norwegian Chihuahua drop seat pajamas. (You know, to protect me from all those crazy Swedish people.)

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I promise, if you click here, you WILL be signed up for email notifications. And there won’t even be any sketchy webcam photos! 


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Let’s get physical

Let’s get physical 5

I’m continually amazed that people actually trust me to lead group fitness classes.

You know what’s even more amazing? The idea that they pay me to do it.

Obviously I’m hiding my cupcake addiction quite successfully.

I got into teaching group exercise classes for a variety of reasons. But mostly because I don’t have the willpower to go to the gym unless I’m actually getting financial compensation.

I also, you know, care about helping people find their passion for fitness and all that other crap.

But mostly, it’s all about me.

In 2010 I became certified to teach Turbo Kick — a format that I can truly call my “soul mate” workout?

What’s a soul mate workout? A workout you love more than your husband, of course.

Just kidding.

It’s a workout you look forward to. A workout you enjoy. A workout you need.

So basically, it’s a workout you love as much your husband. On a good day.

So why Turbo Kick, you ask?

It kicks my gelatinous butt in a way that leaves me sweaty and stunned for a good twenty minutes.

Sweaty Katrina

They say rigorous exercise makes your skin glow...yet they never mention how creepy you look immediately afterwards.

It allows me to express my…um…unique sense of fitness fashion.

Fitness fashion

Sombreros are the new sweat bands.

It’s helped me meet friends who are just as sparkly, sweaty and caffeinated as my self. Also? They don’t judge me for listening to the Pussy Cat Dolls.

Turbo Kick friends

The family that sweats together, stays together.

That last caption sounded way better in my head.

Most importantly, Turbo Kick incorporates roundhouse kicking with hair whipping and booty pumping.

Try as I might, I couldn’t find a booty pumping action shot of yours truly anywhere.

So I created one.

Katrina does the booty pump

You're welcome.

Sadly, out of the…oh…100 or so shots I took with my webcam, these were the best.

I’m already starting to regret posting this.

But this blog isn’t about making me look good.

It’s about being honest, candid and shameless.

It’s about embarrassing my dog.

And perhaps most importantly, it’s about booty pumping to a Nikki Minaj song in front of my laptop on a Friday night because there’s simply nothing better to do in rural Minnesota.

Anyway, I soon realized upon moving to Small Town how important it would be to get connected with the local fitness community. After working at home all day, I need to get all of my pent-up energy out at the gym. Telecommuting can get quite lonely, and there’s definitely a social aspect to exercising in a large group.

Especially when you’re leading the workout.

This is why I applied for the position of group fitness instructor at the brand-spankin’ new YMCA of Small Town.

Somehow they were able to overlook the fact that I recently gained ten pounds and offered me a job. Come April, I’ll be teaching Turbo Kick and a group weight lifting class.

I suppose I wasn’t totally surprised they gave me the gig. I’ve got over two years of experience and had a good recommendation from the YMCA I worked at in Seattle.

I also know what mistakes not to make during a fitness instructor interview.

I’m sure it comes as no surprise I learned the hard way that showing up to your interview in a business suit will make things extremely awkward. Particularly if they were expecting you to perform an “audition”.

Also? If they offer you a soda, you should say no. Fitness instructors don’t drink soda — at least not publicly. They are merely testing you.

Finally, you should never say what you are actually thinking. If you’re anything like me, that would be a dire mistake.

Take my interview for an instructor position at the Starbucks Corporate Headquarters in Seattle as a prime example of this. As usual, my thoughts are in hot pink — the official color of Turbo Kick.

INTERVIEWER: So, Katrina. How long have you been teaching Turbo Kick?

ME: I actually just got certified, so this will be my first teaching position. I’ve taken Turbo Kick for almost three years, though, and am really comfortable working with people. I do have teaching experience, just not in a fitness environment.

I have no idea what I’m doing and will probably be a terrible instructor for at least a month. Possibly two. But I was a T.A. for six months in grad school!

INTERVIEWER: Cool. And don’t worry about not having experience; as long as you have the appropriate training, all of your certifications in order, and have fitness instructor insurance, you meet our qualifications. Now, what made you want to teach Turbo Kick?

Fitness instructor coverage already comes with my auto insurance policy, right?

ME: Oh yeah, I’ve got all those things covered. So, Turbo Kick. Wow–it’s been such a positive outlet for me in so many different ways. It’s amazing how fitness not only affects your health and appearance, but also your confidence, mood and psychological well-being, you know? I want to help people experience the wonderful benefits of health and fitness, while doing something that’s a lot of fun. Enabling others to enrich and improve their lives is a passion of mine. I also love dancing to great music, which is exactly what Turbo Kick is all about. Sometimes I’m having so much fun that I actually forget how hard I’m working. The class is really set up to feel like a party.

I work from home and need to get out of the house to make some friends. I desperately need to be forced to exercise on a regular basis to counteract my abnormally high carbohydrate intake and break my addiction to Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I also like to be at the front of the room so I can get a good look at myself in the mirror while I shake my thing.  On top of all that, I get a great deal of pleasure from telling others what to do, not to mention being the center of attention.

INTERVIEWER: That’s great. So what makes you interested in teaching at the Java Gym?

ME: Well, I really like the idea of a smaller gym, it feels much more personal than some of the large 24-hour gyms in the area, and the smaller class size for group exercise allows me to focus more individual attention on each participant. That’s really important to me. I also think it’s great to encourage employees to pursue wellness at the workplace, and would love to help Starbucks do exactly that. There’s just so many unique perks this gym offers that other larger facilities simply don’t have. Don’t you agree?

I’m obsessed with your coffee. And your pastries. I’ll do anything to get my foot in the door so I can work here full-time.  I want to network. I want to soak up information that will put me at an advantage as a job applicant. I want to get free coffee. And pastries. Coffee and pastries. Yum.

Lucky for me, the interviewer definitely wasn’t telepathic. I started three weeks later.

Boot Camp Class Seattle

My boot camp class at the Java Gym. Don't worry, by this point I knew what I was doing. Mostly.

I would like to think I got hired at the YMCA because of my prior experience, positive attitude, and healthy physique.

In reality, I think I was hired because I employed the above interviewing technique.

And possibly because I was wearing a compression undershirt and three pairs of Spanx in order to look deceptively skinny. Although that part kind of backfired. I ended up looking about two pounds lighter but thirty degrees sweatier — those things are insulated.

In all seriousness, I think I’ve come a long way as an instructor. I genuinely care about creating a positive and memorable experience for my students and I want everyone to leave class feeling confident and energized.

I want to empower people to get healthier through movement.

I want to create the amazing friendships that come as a result of conquering a tough workout together.

And, if the above webcam shots didn’t give it away, I still want to be in the front of the class and watch myself in the mirror.

I suppose some things will never change.

Will Small Town be able to handle Turbo Kick in all it’s booty pumping glory?

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‘Sota Snooki

‘Sota Snooki 0

Want to know a secret?

I’m not a natural blond.

Okay…maybe that’s not exactly a secret.

Especially after my dad exposed me at my going away party a few weeks ago.

After a few too many beverages, Mark approached two of my light-haired friends and I, a mischievous glimmer in his eye.

With a swagger that can only be described as slightly arrogant and highly inappropriate, he explained that he had a wager going with “the fellas” as to how many of us were natural blondes.

By “fellas” he meant the group of guys half his age who had allowed him free access to their beer pitcher that evening. My apologies, Eric.

I will say that it ended with my father proclaiming for all to hear that I was “chemically enhanced”.

I’ll also say that once your affinity for animal print speedos and dumpster diving is public knowledge, there’s not a whole lot you can do to shock people.

If my dad’s announcement didn’t give away my natural hair color, this photo that recently surfaced on Facebook did.

Katrina as Oliver Twist.

I'm really a brunette. And a boy.

That’s me at the age of five playing Oliver Twist in the Seward, Alaska performance of Viva La Broadway. As it turns out, Scott isn’t the only member of our family that enjoys wearing bow ties.

I’ve been lightening my hair since college, and was in desperate need of a touch up this weekend, as my roots had grown to a length I’m too embarrassed to specify on the internet. Choosing a hairdresser in a new town is terrifying. I had finally found someone I trusted in Seattle, and blindly booking an appointment based on a Yelp review required a great deal of courage on my part.

Yes, getting my hair foiled by a stranger was courageous. Particulalry because I’ve had my fair share of hair colorings gone wrong.

There was the time I payed over $250 for a Ballard hairstylist who shall remain nameless to dye my locks grey.

Or the 2008 incident where my mane ended up a shade that can only be descirbed as earwax gold.

And let’s not forget the catastrophic bang trim that set me back no less than $72.

When I arrived at Concrete Image Salon on Saturday, I was shaking in my boots.

No, shaking in my roots.

You see, hairstyles in Midwestern small towns are a little…um…different than what I’m used to. One of the most popular looks is something I refer to as the “chunky skunk”.

Chunky highlists

Stripes are for zebras and nautical knitwear. Not hair.

I made it abundantly clear that I wanted only blonde foils. No low-lights and no skunkiness.

Two hours later, I emerged looking like the Norwegian version of Snooki.

New hairstyle

Who lives in Minnesota and sports a rock-hard golden helmet? The Minnesota Vikings, of course! Oh, yeah...and Katrina.

I take full responsobility for the furry collar, by the way. But not the poufiness. Never the poufiness.

I had a feeling this was going to happen. Especially after my stylist informed me that “big hair is happy hair”.

Fortunately, after a few hours of shopping my coif began to deflate.

I’ve been left with locks that are a little lighter than I had anticipated, yet in the Scandinavian motherland I now call home, it’s necessary to take things up a notch in order to still be considered a blonde.

New hairstyle

Mirror, mirror on the wall. Whose the blondest Norwegian of them all?

Overall, I’m quite pleased with the end result. Especially because the full foil, haircut and style came in under $100. I’d heard rumors of these mythical low prices, but never believed they actually existed. Which left me with some leftover cash for a new pair of jeans, and renewed confidence that unicorns really do exist. If I can get my hair done for that price, anything is possible.

Unicorn jeans

Such great news calls for a celebratory pair of unicorn jeans.

But seriously, I needed a new pair of jeans.


Because when getting dressed that morning, I ripped the seat out of one of the two pairs I had remembered to pack.

Which just may be more embarrassing than having my dad “out” my true hair color at a party.

Regardless, I needed new pants. And some possible tweaking to my cookies/jogging ratio.

I made sure to ask my stylist if the mall across the street had a Gap, so that I might purchase my denim with ease and convenience. The Gap makes great styles in “ankle length” which my stubby midget legs truly appreciate.

“Oh…yeah, they have a Gap. It’s right by the entrance to Sears. But I never go in there…the Gap is so boring. There’s some other shops you should try if you want jeans that are a little more fun.”

Disparaging comments about the Gap are normally blasphemous and punishable by three-hours of hard time in the nearest Old Navy. But I’m all about having more fun.

Against my better judgement, I went in search of these jeans she spoke of and quickly learned that “fun” is Minnesotan for “douchey”.

Rhinestone jeans

I give you, exhibit A.

Don’t worry gentleman. I didn’t forget about you.

Men's rhinestoned jeans

For the man who wears his heart on his sleeve, and his spirit animal on his right hip.

I love all things bedazzled. With the exception of jeans. They are sacred; the one item of clothing with which I feel it is important to demonstrate restraint.

Yes, I just suggested exercising restraint. Somewhere pigs are flying right now. Probably with all the pretty unicorns.

I’m ashamed to admit that for a split second, I considered getting the douche denim. I already had the big hair covered…would it be so wrong to just give in and transform myself into ‘Sota Snooki?

Who exactly is ‘Sota Snooki, you ask?

‘Sota Snooki drinks Aquavit eggnogs instead of  Vodka Red Bulls.

‘Sota Snooki much prefers Lake Wobegon to the Jersey Shore.

‘Sota Snooki goes to the Lutheran church, not the tanning bed.

‘Sota Snooki thinks GTL stands for “Gravy, Tater tots, Lutefisk”.

‘Sota Snooki assumes that fist pumping is something you do to your opponent’s face during a game of ice hockey.

Overall, ‘Sota Snooki seems like kind of a cool chick.

Minnesota Snooki

"Ya sure, you betcha!"

I take it back. Spray tan + Walleye = not something I want to be a part of.

Unless there’s Aquavit eggnogs involved, of course.

I stuck to my instincts and purchased two pairs of “boring” jeans at the Gap. Along with a navy and cream trenchcoat that claims to be 98% effective at repelling “The Situation” and his legion of sparkly jean-wearing protégés.

I’m not trying to dog on Minnesota style. Most of my new northern neighbors are quite stylish and trendy. Just yesterday I spied a Michael Kors chunky knit sweater than nearly brought a tear to my eye.

Well, the tear was either from the sweater or the fumes coming from the man smoking reindeer meat next door. Regardless, it was a breathtaking piece of knitwear, which ironically had reindeer embroidered on it. I found the entire situation quite poetic.

Dare I say it, ‘Sota is not only sexy, it is stylish. More than anything, my insults are directed at small-town fashion, which is certainly not exclusive to the Midwest.

In case you’ve forgotten, I hail from the South Tacoma suburb of Parkland. If my hometown isn’t the birthplace of douche wear, it certainly deserves an honorable mention.

And, as much as I hate to admit it, this Washington Apple doesn’t fall far from her Parkland-planted tree. While I may turn my nose up at bedazzled, whiskered stretchy jeans, I’m not above purchasing a $3.25 tank top from the 98445.

I heart Parkland t-shirt

One should never pass up the opportunity to purchase clothing from an establishment that also carries Monster energy drinks.

By the way? This top looked awesome with my newly teased hair. I know because I tried it on the instant I got home. And then promptly reclined on the couch  to watch the latest episode of Cheaters while demolishing an entire bag of Funyuns.

I may or may not have summoned Jolie to lick the crumbs from my lap.

If the Funyuns have any say in the matter, I’ll be ripping the seat out of my new jeans in no time.

You’ll know I’ve really let myself go when I start incorporating smoked reindeer meat into my diet. Although apparently, it pairs wonderfully with tater tots.

How long until I truly lose hope and start sporting the “chunky skunk”?

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