She’s No Phone-y

Hey there readers. It’s been a while. Let me ask you all a question: do you know what a hero looks like? My guess is no.

I’ll tell you what a hero is (“hero” in this case is according to a very specific set of standards).

Tonight, in a humble home in Los Angeles, a tragedy was narrowly avoided. “Tragedy” here is of course held to the same standards as “hero.” This story will be written in third person, heads up. Three beautiful young women were seated outside discussing the day’s events. Oh, have I forgotten to mention an important detail? These beauties were seated right next to… the pool.

The topic of spiders came up. Don’t ask me why because I don’t remember and I don’t care anymore. Too much has happened since for that to matter.

Anyways, Katie (the youngest and most anxious of the bunch) stood up to shake out her cardigan for fear there could be a spider lost in it per a suggestion given by Allie (it’s crucial that I note who suggested this). Suddenly, her phone – which had for some reason remained in her hand for the entirety of the preventative shaking – slipped out and shot into the direction of the pool. As if in slow motion, the phone glided in the air with all the grace and refinement one could expect from a phone gliding through the air.

Watching it sail towards the pool was almost more traumatizing to Katie than the destruction falling in the pool caused. Except that sentence is of course not true.

Once the phone was fully submerged, Katie and Kylie stripped down out of their clothes in a panic, prepared to swoop the phone before it could realize what was happening to it. Allie watched.

Kylie looked at Katie, and in that moment, one thing was as clear as the murky water: Katie was not moving. Katie could not move. Or at least, she chose not to move. The only action cutting through the tension was Katie’s high-pitched alarming scream.

In a matter of seconds and without breaking eye contact, Kylie clapped her hands above her head and dove so effortlessly and with such determination that even an Olympian would’ve stopped to think that was a solid dive for an amateur but I could still get more girls than her. The Olympian is Ryan Lochte.

As Kylie disappeared into the deep end, Allie yelled for Katie to turn the pool light on, as Katie was closer to it. “The box the box!!! The lights are on the box!!!” Allie screamed. Katie (also still screaming) instinctively threw a nearby Styrofoam box a couple feet from where it had just been. To this day she still can’t explain why this was the box she went for. Eventually, it registered that the lights were attached to an electrical box and she flipped the switches.

After a few gut-wrenching moments, Kylie emerged with the phone like a butterfly fresh out of the cocoon. The girls ran inside and threw some rice and quinoa (because LA) into a bowl and tossed the soaking wet phone in. Silence overcame the house.

More accurately, delirious laughter overcame the house and the girls realized that a) Katie’s phone was a goner b) everyone but Allie was still basically naked and c) Kylie was a hero.

 

Even if Katie’s phone is (definitely) forever broken, she will never be able to fully express her gratitude for Kylie’s immediate heroism (and for Allie’s lights suggestion). As a shocking twist to this tale, I’ll now reveal who Katie is. It’s me. And this blog post is dedicated to Kylie. Also please note Allie was there as well.

Urgent Care

I hate being sick. I take for granted the ability to breathe in and out my nose, so I’m understandably taken aback when all of a sudden I cannot. What’s even worse than being sick is being sick away from your mom. The first time I fell ill (sneezed a few times and was tired) at college was also the first time I discovered that no one tolerates dramatic exaggerations quite like Mom does.

Well, I woke up on January 1st 2017 feeling like death. And after chugging gallons of water and coffee, I was still left with lots of sneezing and coughing. I could tell I was on the verge of a sinus infection, and you know what that means: Urgent Care.

If you don’t have an object sticking out of your head or something, you feel super boring describing the inflammation in your sinus cavity to the lady at the front desk of the Urgent Care. When I first walked up, she asked how she could help me and I thought you probably can’t unless you’re storing steroid shots back there but instead I blurted out some clever quip like “I’m sick.”

I’m sure this process is much more complex than it appears to a non-medical person like me who passes out every time I get blood drawn, but it’s so awkward for me to describe what’s wrong with me while standing at a window writing my name down in front of a crowd. Maybe they have to note my symptoms at the window for their records? But if that’s the case, why do I then need to repeat it to the person who forces me to get on a scale and then again to the nurse and then yet again to the doctor? By the time I tell the doctor how I’m feeling, I’ve said it so many times that it has lost all meaning and I’m starting to believe perhaps I’ve made it up in my own head.

This particular visit, while I was detailing my lame cold to the woman at the computer, a little boy in a baseball uniform with ice taped to his arm walked in with his dad. I had already finished filling out my forms, so I knew I’d be called back before he was. The guilt flooded my chest even more so than the phlegm currently residing in there. Next, naturally, an elderly couple entered, followed by a mother and her newborn baby. I felt like a Disney villain when they called my name and everyone stared at me like she looks fine. That shoulda been my name.

After Mr. Hott Nurse took my blood pressure (fun first date idea) and asked me several questions that certainly would’ve turned me off had this really been a first date, the doctor came in and asked what was wrong with me. I didn’t know how much time he had, so I just stuck to describing my cold.

None of this, of course, is to undermine my gratitude toward all the Urgent Cares out there. Without them, I’d waste a lot of money on tissues. Without their waiting room magazines, I’d waste a lot of money on magazines. And for all you readers dying to know how this all ended, you’ll be comforted to learn that I am feeling a lot better. I’m almost totally breathing through my nose again and I’ve enjoyed many a delicious cough drop. Also, as this is my first post of the new year, 2017 can only go up from here!!!

Lots of Love Lost

The world is kind of terrible right now. This is far from a political blog post, however. I haven’t written a blog in quite a while (which for many of you is hard enough to deal with without the added culture of modern America) and I feel called to discuss something that happened today. Something that saddens me to my very core.

Today, Tinder failed us.

Now, I’m not a huge proponent of this particular online dating app. Don’t get me wrong, I – like every person alive – have downloaded this app out of boredom, and then deleted it out of self-disgust, and then re-downloaded it for girls night entertainment, and then re-deleted it out of self-disgust. But I’m fully aware that it’s creepy and not as good as Bumble.

However, several people near and dear to my heart have actually filtered through the creeps and discovered some actual prospects (as far as they know. It’s still the Internet after all).

But today, Tinder crashed. It was down for a while and then came back. But, to my friends’ dismay, it erased every. single. pre-existing. match.

All those prospects, all those potential soulmates, all those clever dudes who threw out totally appropriate and flattering pickup lines (nah I’m kidding). Gone forever.

One of my friends lost out on an Australian gentleman who promised to teach her how to surf one day.

Another of my pals missed out on a Cher impersonator who speaks 4 languages and proposed a skydiving date.

I, myself, lost my opportunity to get drinks with a “Hollywood actor” (listed as occupation) who is “very wealthy” (told me that himself) and “not a fake account” (I just assumed this). Soulmate material. Erased forever.

I know what you’re thinking (mom), but meeting someone in real life is not a realistic thing that might happen. The bottom line is this: we had all found our husbands. And now the dream of happiness and a lifetime of love has been squashed. And there is nothing we can do about it.

Thanks a lot, Tinder. Thanks for ruining our lives.

*editor’s note: as soon as I posted this, all the lost matches were brought back. False alarm.

24 Presents For a 24-Year-Old

Birthdays make you realize what’s truly important in life: the people you love. One day a year, everyone in your life stops what they’re doing and reminds you how much you mean to them. But more importantly, they give you presents.

However, unless you’re a Kardashian, the older you get, the fewer presents you receive for your birthday. I’m not sure why this is – I mean, I appreciate lip smackers chapstick necklaces just as much at 24 as I did when I was 12. Perhaps even more so.

So I’m going to assume the reason is simply that no one knows what to get a 24-year-old. Fortunately for y’all, I’ve decided to put together a realistic (give or take) list of 24 universally desired birthday gifts for the 24-year-old in your life:

 

A giant neon pink banner to hang above my garage that reads – in rhinestones – “Less is not Moore. Katie is Moore.”

*So that one may not be universally desirable. The relatable portion begins now:

A guaranteed, front row parking spot anywhere I go.

A romper that looks good.

A puppy that never ages, never goes to the bathroom and can be trained to shave my legs for me.

HP’s cloak of invisibility. I mean, duh.

A pack of gum that automatically replenishes itself and a constant supply of chapstick and Ariana Grande perfume.

Permanently clean makeup brushes.

The type of intimidation factor wherein the sheer combination of a confident facial expression and an expansive vocabulary can win arguments. i.e. Sterling Moore.

A portable, wireless, super fancy coffee maker equipped with packets of stevia and peppermint mocha flavored creamer.

A tolerance for lactose.

A memory bank full of 2 Chainz lyrics and/or historical fun facts that I can whip out at a moment’s notice.

Mind control – but I would swear to only use it to get parking tickets retracted.

A general knowledge of cars.

A pet otter who is content in any environment

A baby penguin friend for my adaptable pet otter.

A radar that can detect whether or not a dude is lying about being directly related to a Franco.

Both Ellen’s and Lin-Manuel Miranda’s personal cell number and the promise that they will be there for me if ever I need them.

A wine opener that doubles as a cuticle cutter/deodorant/the perfect shade of red lipstick with a punny name like “I Red That Somewhere.” Everything you need for a night out is right there in one contraption.

Spinach that has the same taste and consistency as a red velvet cupcake but with the nutritional components of spinach.

A mimosa machine that everyone at work is cool with having in the break room, and a designated naptime every day to accommodate for all those mimosas at work.

A baseball cap that will not mess up my hair in any way whatsoever and in fact will make my hair will look better after I take it off.

Invisible socks that provide a comfortable, Tempur-Pedic feel to stilettos. Yes I had to google the correct spelling of Tempur-Pedic.

A phone case the same shape and size of a book so people will think me intellectual while I search my inbox for Sephora coupons.

A bottle of wine that whitens your teeth and cannot ever run out.

On that note, a bottle of sunscreen that acts as a moisturizing, streak-free self-tanner.

*If you’ve been counting, there are more than 24 items on this list. I am an adult. I am allowed to change the rules damn it. As I was saying:

A double date with John Krasinski and Emily blunt and my date is John’s lesser-known identical twin brother who also mysteriously happens to have Emily’s accent.

A snapchat filter that turns you into Blake Lively in the picture and in real life and you continue out your life as Blake lively.

A ginormous over-stuffed stain-resistant white couch that magically matches every item in the room.

A dishwasher that can handle hand-wash-only items sans damages or issues.

And finally, a pocket video camera that starts recording automatically when someone begins to try and describe something that is super common but uses really specific and obscure word choices.

 

Aside from the fact that you’re another year closer to the end, birthdays are the bomb. They’re full of love and fun and cake and friends. And just so you know, it’s never too late to give me a birthday present. So, if you have something on this list, you’ve got until August 23rd 2017 to fork it over to me. Thanks in advance.

Ballad of Pokémon Go

These days when I see others glued to their phone,

I cannot help but let out a groan.

For I know they’re not texting and nor are they tweeting,

Because I am sure it’s Pokémon Go they are beating.

 

Everywhere I am, everyone I see,

Every place to which I journey, these creatures follows me.

A Ratatta here. A Pidgey over there.

Or perhaps a Zapdos, which is evidently more rare.

 

I can’t help but wonder, when people look my way,

Are they truly seeing me or simply hunting their prey.

Youths dart in front of my car, shouting “gotta catch ‘em all!”

Just be aware that next time, I will run over y’all.

 

Some people question why I abstain,

Well, give me a moment to explain all the pain:

When I was a child, my brothers laughed and smiled,

Pokémon on their gameboys got them all riled.

They traded those damn cards for hours each day,

But alas, they never once allowed me to play.

 

And now I am bitter; I’m filled with disdain.

And because I’m no quitter, I’ll never cease to complain.

 

And so I refuse to jump on this trend,

And I pray that eventually it will come to an end.

However it does not seem to be slowing,

Sadly the popularity is growing and growing.

 

So I suppose for now I will tolerate the game,

And maybe my sanity I shall begin to reclaim.

As the world quickly shifts to a new status quo

Encompassing all that is Pokémon Go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adulting

I incorrectly labeled myself an “adult” after I successfully finished my first load of laundry as a child.

After promptly realizing my mistake, I decided I would truly be an adult once I turned 18.

On my 18th birthday, once I realized that too was a joke, I thought perhaps graduating college would signify official adulthood.

Wrong again. In fact I think I may have gone backwards. Once I decided to move to Cali, I believed surely that would make me an adult, right?

Well, the move itself didn’t do the trick. However, I have since determined the specific milestones one must pass to ultimately be considered a full-blown adult. So, in order for me and probably me alone to consider you an adult, you must:

 

Discuss the weather with a stranger in an elevator.

Begin or at least try to begin watching Downton Abbey.

Physically make trips to the Post Office for various reasons.

Purchase a lint roller rather than just dealing with dog hair.

Cry over a Pier 1 sale.

Cry over a Target sale.

Cry over a Staples sale. Sure, you may not frequent Staples, but you like knowing that you have the option. And for a discounted price!

Be addressed as “ma’am” at Starbucks or Chick fil A. I think the Chick fil A employees are required to do this, but it sure cuts deep nonetheless.

Internally complain about the movie theatre and everyone inside it being too damn loud. And then throw a thunderous groan when some youth whips out his phone.

Crave a salad 1-2 times a day (Chick fil A counts) because you know that the better, less healthy food will make you tired.

Designate a portion of your monthly budget to coffee.

Designate a portion of your monthly budget to espresso shots for said coffee.

Regret how much money you’re spending on caffeine every month.

Purchase another coffee to deal with your regret stress.

Have pain. Just, like, in general.

Ask a younger person to explain the newest social networking site to you. Why are there so many?

Wonder why there are so many social networking sites.

Google “how to do insurance.” Word for word.

Return a purchase you intended to return.

Look up your credit score/attempt to build a credit score/learn exactly what a credit score entails.

Devote your snapchat solely to pictures and videos of your roommates’ dogs. This one feels a tad specific to me.

Invest in a badass frying pan.

 

I may or may not but definitely have done all these things. But I think the real lesson here is that no one ever really becomes an adult and, even more accurately, no one knows what the hell they’re doing. And that is all the reassurance I need.