You’re prettier in your profile picture.

You’re prettier in your profile picture.

Welcome to a day in the life of my “other messages” folder on Facebook. I give this guy the slightest bit of credit for not just saying “Hey” or some other equally creative greeting, but just the slightest bit…

Inbox stranger: You’re prettier in your profile picture.
Me: Um….weird opening line from a complete stranger, but OK. Tell me something I don’t know.
IS: Seriously, you’re way more of a knockout in your profile picture than you are in the picture with the bald dude in yellow.
Me: Cool. I paid a small fortune for the profile picture. I had hair and makeup done by a professional, and the picture was taken at a strategic angle in warm lighting, using professional equipment being operated by a highly skilled professional. I’d be disappointed if it didn’t look better than the one taken on my Samsung Galaxy after being at work for 12 hours.
IS: You should do your hair and makeup like the one in that picture more often.
Me: Look….I’m sorry I can’t be viewed with perfect hair and makeup in warm lighting at a strategic angle at all times. I’m quite upset by this too, but I’ll always be the girl who would rather sleep for an extra 30 minutes than wake up at 4am to do hair and makeup.
IS: I’m just saying, the picture with the bald dude isn’t as flattering.
Me: Obviously.
IS: So, do you wanna hang some time when you’re out here?
Me: I think I’m going to pass.
IS: Why? Is it because I said you weren’t very attractive in the picture with the bald dude?
Me: You’re going to have to try MUCH harder than that to insult me. There’s literally nothing you could say about my appearance that I haven’t already said to myself. I’m passing because you don’t realize the bald dude is the Lieutenant Governor of the state you live in, and you couldn’t read that in the photo description. I’m passing because you clearly don’t realize the significance of having the opportunity to meet the Lieutenant Governor and his wife in a one on one setting. And I’m passing because the next time I’ll be anywhere near you with free time will be for a campaign event for the Lieutenant Governor, and you’re the last person I would want to take as a plus 1.
IS: Seriously?
Me: I’m also passing because you think the best way to “pick up chicks” is to insult their appearance. So there’s that. Best of luck in the next inbox you slide in to.


You guys….I wish I was making this stuff up, but alas, this weirdness actually happened….and is happening on a strangely more regular basis… Oh, and since you’ve spent the last 2 minutes reading about the profile picture versus the one with the bald dude, here’s a little side by side for reference. Of course the one in red looks better. Thank you Captain Obvious.

OK, I’ll Play

OK, I’ll Play

Last year, when the weather was still “Why the hell can’t it be spring already” crap outside, I went to brunch with this super cool guy. While we were chatting up a storm, he asked me “how often do you get hit on by complete strangers because of your job?” I told him “It literally never happens because I have a face for radio.” Then we laughed and moved on. What I didn’t know at the time, was that damn question jinxed me and random strangers have been sliding in to my DMs and being all extra AF on Tinder lately, so thanks a lot counselor.

Let me tell you about the latest person blocked from my Instagram. A few weeks ago, I woke up to a million (slight exaggeration) Insta notifications from someone who had started following me and liked almost every single one of my pictures. A little creepy, but no big deal. Then last week Senior Creeper sent me a super creative direct message, “Hi,” which I ignored because I’m 100% uninterested in messaging someone who has an Instagram account that is like 4 weeks old and is sliding unannounced in to my DMs.

Fast forward a week or so and I had COMPLETELY forgotten about the rando from the Gram when he commented on one of my pictures “ANSWER YOUR MESSAGES.” OK first of all, you can stop yelling at me with your all caps, and secondly, you’ve caught me in a moment of feeling sorry for myself, so I guess responding to some random DM wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Then this happened…

Instagram dude: Hey, thanks for finally answering my message.
Me: You’re welcome.
IGD: Why did you ignore my message?
Me: Do you make a habit of messaging strangers and then chastising them for not responding immediately?
IGD: No, I just think you are very beautiful.
Me: Thank you. I had a team of professionals making sure my profile picture was amazing.
IGD: What are you doing right now?
Me: Laundry
IGD: Why?
Me: I need a new maid because the current one sucks, and also she is me.
IGD: If your maid does not do her work you should get a new one.
Me: (already bored with this conversation, sends a picture of the meme this very joke was taken from) It was a joke.
IGD: Proceeds to ask random questions in idiot’s English, repeating questions as if they’re new, irritating the ever loving hell out of me, then says “Give me your number. I don’t like messaging in Instagram.”
Me: I don’t think so Tim.
IGD: My name is not Tim. Can you message in Hangouts then?
Me: I don’t think so Tim…another joke….from a 90s sitcom. Why is messaging in Hangouts any different than IG?
IGD: I just prefer it.
Me: Ok…

Then the conversation moved to Hangouts, where Instagram dude started right the hell over with the very first question he asked in my DMs. My response “Do we really need to go over all of this again just because you wanted to switch messaging platforms?”

IGD: I am going to ask you 10 questions so we can get to know each other better OK. And then you will ask me questions.
Me: Whatever floats your boat.
IGD: Proceeds to ask the typical “girl on a blind date trying to figure out if you have money” questions. What do you do for a living? What do you drive? Do you own your home? Blah, blah, blah.
Me: Waits longer than 30 seconds to answer because I’m actually doing laundry, and my phone is charging NOT in the laundry room.
IGD: Why are you not answering me? How many other people are you talking to on here. This shows you are online, but you are ignoring me.
ME: Wow. Calm your tits buddy. I already told you I was doing laundry, and responding to this message is not my priority.
IGD: Why are you online if you don’t have time to talk.
Me: Starts answering Sir Creeps-a-lot’s questions.
IGD: I see you are typing but nothing is coming through. Why is it taking so long for you to answer my questions?
Me: Hits send, realizing this conversation is only continuing for the purposes of this very post.
IGD: Those are good answers. Now you must ask me questions, and if you want the same questions I asked you, you have to type them yourself.
Me: Ok…controlling much?
Me: starts typing questions
IGD: Hello, you need to ask me questions.
Me: Annoyed AF sends the following:
If you only had one week left to live, how would you spend it?
What is the most important thing you’ve learned from past relationships?
If you found a magic lamp, what would your 3 wishes be?
What is your favorite place you’ve ever been?
What is your biggest regret?
What is the best book you’ve read this year?
IGD: Those are very good questions. I would wish to be rich, and wish for more wishes. I don’t read books. My biggest regret is my ex.
Me: If you don’t read books, what do you read?
IGD: I don’t read at all.
Me: I don’t think I have time to talk to you anymore….ever.
IGD: I think you would be perfect for a serious relationship.
Me: You’re 100% right, but you’re not the other half of it.

I deleted Mr. Overbearing from my Hangouts contacts right after that ridiculous encounter. 3 days later I received yet another message on the Gram. It read “Why did you quit talking to me on Hangouts?”

Me: I think I was pretty clear when I told you that I didn’t want to talk to you anymore.
IGD: I thought we were getting along just fine.
Me: You thought wrong
IGD: But I’m moving to Salt Lake in September.
Me: Good for you.
IGD: I want to start a business and make lots of money.
Me: Best of luck to you.
IGD: You’ll wish you were nicer to me when I’m rich.
Me: I’m going to block you now. Best of luck finding someone who is in to the controlling type. A word of advice though, you may want to delete your fancy “talking about business” post and redo it with a phone that has the cords in it that go to the handset and wall. Attention to detail might get you a bit farther in your next scam.
IGD: You’re kind of a bitch.
Me: Bye now. Buh bye.

You can’t say that on the air: Rudest Road Trip Ever

You can’t say that on the air: Rudest Road Trip Ever

This afternoon, while trying to decide if I could make it another 5 hours at work without a nap, I started scrolling through my camera roll and came across this little gem I took a picture of before I left for DC at the beginning of this month. It comes courtesy of one of our morning show prep services, but since we’re a terrestrial radio station in a pretty conservative state, there’s just no getting away with telling this story on the air. Like not at all, but my 15 year old boy sense of humor just couldn’t let this one go. So, for the 15 year old boy in all of us, here’s the story of the rudest road trip ever.

British brothers Magnus and Andy Tait recently took a tour of their homeland. However, it was no ordinary road trip as they spent six years mapping out a 2000 mile journey to the country’s rudest locales, from Fanny Street to Butthole Lane. The brothers also visited Titty Ho, Sandyballs, Cockermouth, Penistone, Shitterton, Lickfold, Fingringhoe, Slutshole Lane, Rimswell, and Wetwang. Andy dreamed up the idea after he drove past a place called South Gash , in Northern Scotland and couldn’t help but laugh at the sign. However, Andy said his favorite stop on the journey was Wilsford Cum Lake.

Yeah…that happened…and I laughed almost uncontrollably for about 5 minutes over this one, because as I’ve mentioned, I have the sense of humor of a 15 year old boy, and this road trip puts Utah to shame, where the best we can do to even compete with that is take a trip through the Fillmore Beaver area as we head to St. George, and the fine folks at UDOT have taken ALL of the fun out of that trip by removing Beaver from the road signs until you pass the Fillmore exits.

Worst Job Interview Ever…

Worst Job Interview Ever…

If you’re not following me on Twitter, I can’t say that I blame you. It’s mostly shares from Instagram and retweets of whatever Ben Winslow tweets during the Utah legislative session. Seriously, it’s mostly politics. I feel bad for my 97 followers, but some of those followers are decent members of Utah’s legislature and I might fan girl just a little bit when they retweet me. Anyway…if you’re not following me on twitter though, you missed this gem.

At this point, dating just seems like a horrible interview for a job that ends with 50% of people paying thousands of dollars to quit. Don’t believe me? Drive by the homes of my family attorney friends. They didn’t buy those gorgeous houses on the backs of happy marriages.

About the horrible interview….let me tell you what the last few weeks have been like for me in social media world.

Me: Accepts random friend request, because why not…it can always be undone later, and we do have friends in common. May as well live a little.

Also me: Repeats this process 10 times over the course of 4 days.

Still also me: Cringes at the barrage of “Hi pretty,” “Hello Beautiful,” and “What up sexxxxxy” that slide in to my messages. Um….My name is very clearly posted on facebook. You clicked it to add me as a friend. Maybe try using it?? BUT, I won’t hold the pretty, beautiful, or sexxxxxy thing against you, because that profile picture is a great one thanks to my very amazing photographer, and equally amazing hair and makeup artist.

Again me: Receiving messages with lines of questioning that read like a mail order bride interview.
Do you like to cook?
Do you cook well?
How do you feel about cleaning?
What kind of food would you say is your favorite?
Are you a Christian?
Do you smoke, drink, or use drugs?
Do you have children?
Would you be open to having more?
How did you vote in the 2016 Presidential Election?
Do you have anything concerning in your family medical history?
Would you consider selling your house and moving?
What marketable skills do you have that would allow you to relocate and remain successful?
Are you completely committed to the political involvement, or could you do something a little more lady like to pass your time?
Have you been with more or less than 2 men?

I shit you not. My eyes rolled SO hard back in to my head, and NOT in a good way. I’ve never blocked people so fast in my entire life. Seriously?! WHO T. F. ASKS QUESTIONS LIKE THIS TO SOMEONE THEY HAVE NEVER MET?! And also….Will I sell my house and move to God knows where for someone I don’t even know? Please…I can’t even sell my house, but if I could, I’d go as far as 3 hours, buy a condo, and live with my best friend, because his kids love me, and both of our lives would be a hell of a lot more fun that way.

I suppose I should just be grateful that the creepy factor showed up in Facebook messaging, instead of real life situations that would have had me faking an emergency or ordering an angel shot from a lifesaving bartender, because holy shit…dating just seriously feels like a painfully awkward job interview at this point.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

I feel like you have to have been living under a rock lately to not realize that people seem to be REALLY reaching for things to be offended by. Case in point: Baby It’s Cold Outside, written in 1944 is all of the sudden so offensive that radio stations are pulling it from their Christmas air play rotation in droves. Why? Apparently it’s a little rapey, overbearing, and generally creepy. 

I’m not always the biggest fan of Christmas music, since I work in retail and get the pleasure of listening to it for 6 weeks of the year. It gets a little annoying, but I LOVE Baby It’s Cold Outside. In fact, this song was my go to jam in the car all weekend long. It was a weekend of Car Karaoke featuring me, myself, and I, and this song was the most requested, by me, and performed by me, and not once was I offended by any of the lyrics. Why? Because I realize this song was written in nineteen forty freaking four when a gal had to at least make a show of saying she needed to leave a boy’s house when she really wanted to stay. That’s why there’s the back and forth of “I really should go. Ok, I’ll stay for another drink. Ok, now I really should go. What will everyone think. Ok, I’ll stay for a cigarette.” And so on and so forth. Do we know if she really left? No, but we know it’s cold outside, and she didn’t really want to leave anyway. 

Sure, if you look at the lyrics to this song as if they were written today, they seem a whole lot more sinister, but let’s be honest…. If this song were written today, in a day and age where you literally summon strangers from the internet using an app on your smart phone so you can hook up whenever and wherever you want (Related: THIS makes dating rather than hooking up in this day and age a special kind of hell!), the song would be insanely short, written post smash and feature a quick Nicki Minaj or Pitbull cameo. It would be an auto-tuned mess and go something like this: You really should go. (But baby it’s cold outside.) Aight boo, I guess you can wait for your Uber inside, but lock the door behind you.

But don’t let Baby It’s Cold Outside take all of the offensive Christmas song credit. Here’s some more that are equally offensive if you really want to find trivial reasons to be offended. 

  •  I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus: did we really just subject children to seeing their mom as part of an extramarital affair? And did Santa have mommy’s consent?  I sure hope so!
  • The Christmas Song: Open fire?! Really? Think of the pollution. What about folks dressed up like Eskimos? Can we say cultural appropriation being blatantly celebrated? And what about the chestnuts and people with nut allergies? Sugar plums dancing through heads of children that might have diabetes…
  • Is dreaming of a White Christmas racist?
  • Santa Claus is Coming to Town: He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. Well…is Santa a stalker or what?!
  • How about celebrating the blatant bullying in Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?  
  • Santa Baby: If ever there was a song to teach your daughters to be gold diggers, this is it!
  • Surely All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth is offensive to all of those poor unfortunate souls who have lost all of their teeth to meth…

I could go on and on and on with completely asinine reasons to be offended by nearly every Christmas song ever written, but I won’t, because I’m literally sitting at my desk laughing to myself at how the people who are so worked up over a Christmas song that is over 7 decades old are probably the same people who are dressing their daughters up in adorable dance costumes and stage makeup for their dance recitals. Recitals where they will dance to some of the most popular songs in the country, which are either subtly or overtly sexual in content without even batting an eye, but a playful Christmas song from 1944 is offensive and should never see air time again. And besides….if you’re going to be offended by something in that song, be offended by the fact that he’s setting her up for a lifelong addiction and possibility for lung cancer with that cigarette she’s staying for. 

So that happened…

So that happened…

I think I already need a new, new dermatologist. Why? Because skin cancer is a big deal, and when one starts going through risk factors, I light them up like a Christmas tree.

  • Fair skin that burns easily, check
  • Tanning bed use, particularly before the age of 30, check
  • Blue eyes, check
  • Freckles and moles, check
  • History of sun burns early in life, Check, check, checkity check.

But why the new, new dermatologist? Well, I’m not all that fond of the ONLY local option, so I’ve mostly relied on self checks, and having my family practice doctor remove any concerning spots, but I really need some help from an actual professional in the form of some annual mole mapping to more effectively check for any changes that could be concerning. I mean, I’m a little bit flexible, but I still can’t see my back well enough to be confident that there’s nothing serious going on back there, and there’s nobody looking at my back on the regular for me.

I asked some friends for recommendations on who they go to, did some research, and found a practice that is covered by my insurance, AND schedules Saturday office hours once a month so I don’t have to take time off work. #winning Here’s where it gets awkward though.

A few weeks ago, I was having drinks with this guy out of town. He was cool, but I was heading out with some friends later, so I declined his invitation to go back to his place. I’m still not sure if that had more to do with the fact I was going out with friends, or if it was because 2 days before that, I got low key slut shamed (for absolutely no reason, btw) by some arrogant asshole who poses as a friend, but the fact of the matter, remains that I didn’t go home with the guy.

Monday I got the calendar reminder of my appointment this Saturday morning, with the name of the doctor I’m seeing. You know where this is going…I looked him up…he’s the guy from the bar…the one I didn’t go home with. The one I probably should have gone home with, because now, if I don’t cancel my appointment and find a new, new dermatologist, only one of us is getting naked, nobody is going to enjoy it, and I’m going to have to pay for it.


Why are Mom Jeans making a comeback?!

Why are Mom Jeans making a comeback?!

This weekend, I stopped at a friend’s house and left with 6 pairs of jeans that she was getting rid of. Trading clothes with your girlfriends is the best. It really is. We had a nice little fashion show while trying everything on, then threw my new goodies in my trunk and went to brunch. When I got home, I threw them all in the washing machine and actually hung them up when they were dry, instead of sharing a queen sized bed with a pile of clean laundry (my most common “relationship” status btw, second only to sleeping diagonally across a queen sized bed).

This morning, I pulled a pair of jeans from the closet, threw them on, and left for work. Fast forward not even 2 hours in to the day, and I was going completely INSANE!! Why? High waist jeans. How on God’s green earth did we deal with these in the 80s and 90s? Really, I want to know. I mean, I fondly remember my Guess, Jones New York, Silver, and JNCO jeans of the 90s, but what I don’t remember was how insanely uncomfortable it was to wear jeans with a waistband set so high it could damn near double as the band on your mother F wording bra! (Clearly they’re not QUITE that high, but you get the picture.) I’m not 100% positive that the jeans cut so low you have to shave or wax your you know what of the late 90s and early 2000s were not in rebellious direct response to these mom jean monstrosities! I get it now. I really do!

I mean, I’m not in any hurry to go back to pants with a 1 1/2 inch zipper, because Lord knows after having a kid, those don’t do me ANY freaking favors. Honestly, even in the middle of a damn eating disorder, those ultra low rise jeans didn’t do me any favors,  but I’ll still pass on the jeans that can double as a bra too. Mom jeans shouldn’t make a comeback, and the only reason the ones I have on now aren’t going straight in to the donation pile….or trash….is because at some point, I’m going to fail at adulting, and be completely out of clean clothes, and at that point, the mom jeans MIGHT be a better choice than a skirt, and that’s only because they don’t require you to shave your legs (and other areas) without the promise of a pedicure, doctor’s appointment, or on the chance hell might be freezing over….a promising date.