The Taco Bell Guy

This afternoon, my parents and I went to Taco Bell.

We hadn't been there in years. We're more Chipotle people.

Anyway, as soon as we entered the place, we encountered a beaming 20-something-year-old guy juggling hot sauce packets.

When we approached the counter, he dropped them all.

"Oh, excuse me, my juggling skills are a bit rusty," he said, with a dazzling grin, before reaching on the floor to pick the packets up.

"What can I get you?" he asked.

We told him we needed time to think.

"Well my name is Scooter, so if you need help with anything at all, please holla at me," he said enthusiastically.

My dad eyed the menu skeptically.

"Is the Doritos Loco Taco any good?" he asked.

Scooter's eyes popped out their sockets.

"The Locos Taco is the most delicious item we have on the menu," he gushed. "And I'm not just saying that as your Taco Bell representative."

He put his hand on his heart.

"I actually had the distinct honor of meeting our guy out in Dallas who invented the Locos Taco," Scooter added. "It was a privilege. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life."

I laughed. But my parents looked impressed.

When my parents and I finally decided to order, Scooter was very involved.

"You can't just order one Locos Taco! You need at least three!"
"Get a combo!"
"If you add an extra burrito supreme, I'll add an extra cheese sauce for you on the sly."
"Come on this is Taco Bell, everything is good."

By the time we brought our food to the table, my parents and I spent ten minutes trying to figure out who had ordered what. Why was there so much food? Who ordered the kids meal?! Wait, why did we order four drinks?

In the middle of our meal, I looked up and almost choked on my nachos. Scooter was standing right in front of us, grinning. How long had he been there?!

He sat down in our booth, across from me.

"In 1987, my parents went to a huge family reunion, everyone in the family was there, and it was held at a Taco Bell," he told us, solemnly. "One day later, I was born."

I stared at him, dumbfounded.

What the fuck? Why was he telling us this? Why was he sitting with us?

I looked at my parents, expecting them to be equally horrified. Instead, they seemed genuinely touched.

"That is a beautiful story," my mom said to him.

Scooter beamed.

"Our cinnamon twists are really good," he said, before taking our trash away.

My mom immediately went up to the counter to order cinnamon twists.

When we walked out of the restaurant, my mom couldn't stop talking about Scooter.

"Now there is a young man who loves his job," she said. "What a sweet guy. I'll definitely be coming to Taco Bell a lot more now. What a nice place."

I trudged behind my parents, still trying to comprehend what had happened. I glanced down at our receipt and almost fainted.

Normally when we go to a fast food place, our bill is around $10. This receipt said we spent more than $25. AT A TACO BELL. FOR THREE PEOPLE.

And that's when the realization hit me.

Scooter is a fucking genius.

The Cosmopolitan Whisperer

Whenever I'm at the dentist office or stuck in line at the grocery store, I thumb through the latest issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine.

This delightful journal offers a plethora of information for the sexually active 20-something girl. Do you make it your life's ambition to please a man in bed? Do you want to get rid of belly fat? Do you want to orgasm? If so, these pages are a goldmine.

And since I know everything, I've decided to offer an analysis of Pulitzer-prize worthy Cosmo articles, based simply on their intricate headlines.

You're welcome.

Here we go!

Ummm yeah. Another line he wants to hear: "The only thing that could make our sex hotter is including my yoga instructor, Debbie." Seriously.

...holy shit. That's a lot. You better get started now...

Perhaps this is what the Cosmo girl's "va-jay-jay" is dying to tell her: "Wow, 125 sex moves, huh? Not only am I completely sore but I'm fucking exhausted. Thanks. Now we have crabs and I have absolutely NO idea which guy gave it to you this week. PS. Stop calling me va-jay-jay."

There are so many things wrong with this headline, I don't even know where to begin. First, am I the ONLY girl who simply doesn't want to know about men's masturbation rituals? Am I?? And do all men have the same "go-to fantasy"? I find this suspicious.

How to have an orgasm!

How to have a lot of orgasms!

Wait, what?!

?!?!?!?


Thoughts??

The History of Nail Art

I have this bad habit of thinking the entire history of the world revolves around me.

I mean, I know stuff existed before I was born, but I genuinely have a difficult time believing it.

I'm always shocked when I discover people living before 1983 did the same things I do today.

"People went grocery shopping in 1968?!?" I will exclaim, flummoxed. "But I wasn't even born yet!"

Yeah.

I'm trying to fix this perspective.

Well, when I was painting my nails the other night, I wondered if people had been painting their nails before I was born. Did nail polish exist in 1982? Or was it merely invented for my existence??

I was shocked to discover that nail art has been around...well, forever, it seems.

The history of nail art has a murky beginning.

Historians do know a form of it existed in 5000 B.C. when women in India would dye their fingertips with henna, leaving a reddish brown stain on the nails.

Nail coloring in ancient Egypt went by status. Kings and queens colored their fingernails and toenails ruby red, using solid gold manicure tools. Women of lower rank were only allowed to use pale colors.

In 600 B.C. China, nail art became a symbol of wealth as well. Men and women grew their nails to five inches long to show that they didn't have to perform manual labor for a living. Chinese royals often wore elaborate gold, silver or bamboo splints to prevent their nails from breaking.

During the Renaissance Period, nail art became fashionable again. Upper class European women rushed to get manicures, void of color.

On the other side of the world, the Incas invented nail art as we know it today, by decorating their nails with pictures of eagles!

In the 1800s, purity was all the rage. French manicures became popular (although the term "french manicure" actually wasn't coined until the 1970s). These original forms of french manicures consisted of a little lemon juice mixed with water, to whiten the tips of the nails. Also available were buffers, crystal stones, emery boards, cuticle creams, and bleaching powders.

The 1920s is when the fun began.

Automobile paint inspired nail polish enamel as we know it today. Nail salons started popping up all over the United States and Europe. Flappers invented the moon manicure, which involved painting the fingernail everywhere but the bottom.

In the 1930s, nail polish hit stores for the very first time, thanks to the newly created company, Revlon. Colors women had never seen before hit the stands. It was a phenomenon. In this decade, fake nails were invented as well.

Today, when it comes to nail art, anything goes. We not only use polish, but we use glitter, stickers, jewels, markers, and even newspaper. Blogs and fashion websites offer a vast amount of eclectic ideas and tips for colors, designs, and innovative tools.

What do you think? Are you surprised by the history of nail art?

My Britney Spears Story

When I was a freshman in high school, Britney Spears hit the scene.



Like every other 14-year-old girl, I became obsessed.



I bought her first CD and played it over and over again in my room. I used to cut out magazine photos of Britney and then try to copy her outfits. I even waited two hours to catch a glimpse of her at a mall appearance in 1999.



Then her second CD, "Oops...I did it Again" came out a year later, and she exploded pink sparkly fabulousness all over the world.



I was her most devoted fan, attending her concerts and watching her music videos on repeat. My parents even begrudgingly detoured from our trip to New Orleans to drive miles out of the way to attend the Britney Spears Museum in her Louisiana hometown.



I was her BIGGEST FAN.



When I was 16, Britney's website had a writing contest. The short story had to feature Britney as a main character. The first prize was a trip to meet Britney Spears in person.

Hyperventilating, I whipped out a story in less than an hour and mailed it that morning.

In my short story, Britney was kidnapped by a band of wild gypsies during a shopping spree in Beverly Hills. As a private detective, I tracked down the ruffians with Sherlock Holmes worthy skills and saved Britney. Fleeing her ruthless captors, we discovered the gypsies were actually a robotic boy band in disguise, commissioned from another planet to destroy the pop princess in an attempt to take over the world.



I spent the next 31 days fantasizing what it would be like if I won first place in the writing contest. The most logical reasoning was that Britney would immediately think I was the coolest person she'd ever met and we would end up being best friends. I saw no other conclusion.

I was so excited!



Well, I finally got notice from the Britney Spears website. I did not win first place. Instead, I was the third place winner. It was still a huge deal, I mean thousands of girls had submitted a story and mine was third best. But my heart was still broken.



My spirits weren't even lifted by the personal e-mail from Britney's PR lady which said my story had had the most creative plot she'd ever encountered.

Well, then, why didn't I win first place?!?

I wanted to meet Britney!

As the third prize winner, I got a shitload of memorabilia: books, CDs, posters, stickers, and t-shirts.

And when I read the two other stories that outshone mine, I got even more sour. The second place story was well-written, but revolved around a girl who met Britney at a concert. (Ummm okay. Super exciting.) And the first place winner practically cheated by writing a heart-wrenching sob story about a little girl with cancer who spent her single wish from a genie to meet Britney. Even I had tears in my eyes after reading it. (Not fair).



Well, it took almost a year for me to get over my disappointment.

And then when I graduated high school in 2002, both of us evolved into different people.



As soon as I got to college, my taste in music changed. I started listening to indie rock because I was surrounded by it. I spent more time studying for exams and climbing the ladder of my campus newspaper than keeping up with Britney's tabloid dramas.

Even though I'm not the biggest Britney fan anymore, there will always be a little part of me that unconditionally loves her.



Because no matter how hurt or lonely or depressed I ever felt in high school, she made me want to sparkle. And for a teenage girl, sometimes that's all you need.

Thank you, Brit Brit.

My Leo fantasies, revealed.

The other day, I told you about a friend of mine who had an unhealthy obsession with Jonathan Taylor Thomas.

Well, today, I'm going to tell you about my teenage love for Leonardo DiCaprio.



In 1997, Leo was a raging heartthrob. For some of you younger readers, who only know the creepy, slightly stocky Leonardo from today, I know this is hard to believe. But trust me, the guy was a stone-cold fox.

I couldn't even watch my worn-out VHS of Romeo + Juliet without heaving a heavy sigh of love.



When I was in eighth grade, I would have extremely vivid fantasies involving Leonardo.

I would be sitting in math class, and then all of the sudden Leo would appear, wearing a loose button down white cotton shirt and snug, slightly faded blue jeans.

"Come away with me, now," he would demand, staring intensely at me with his striking blue eyes.

Flustered, I would look around.

"But I'm in math class right now," I would protest.

"I don't care," he would say, dramatically, sweeping me off my feet. "I'm in love with you!"

The envy I envisioned on my female classmates' faces was always priceless.

And with one tilt of my head, we would kiss, right in front of my entire math class.

And then I would repeat this fantasy in history class, gym, and sometimes randomly at the grocery store.



These fantasies consumed me. I was feverishly in love. If I saw a tabloid that would even suggest Leo had a girlfriend, I would then fantasize about stuffing carrots up her nose and smearing peanut butter in her hair. And then Leo and I would share a hearty laugh over my jealous fit and skip off into the sunset, hand in hand.



The difference between me and Candy, however, is that I never told anyone about my fantasies.

In fact, I kept my passion for Leo hidden, out of shame.

If one of my friends even brought him up, I would jump out of my skin and stutter, "What Leo-who-I mean, what, of course I know who he is, but ew so not my type, I mean god, please." And then I would turn beet red and change the subject to the latest Spice Girls song or something.

But it finally got to the point where I couldn't keep my love a secret anymore.



Titanic came out in theaters.

I saw it on opening day with my parents.

After we exited the theater, I started uncontrollably sobbing.

My dad was surprised.

"Are you crying because it was a sad movie?" he asked, perplexed.

"No," I sobbed back. "I'm crying because Leonardo DiCaprio doesn't know who I am!"

And there it was.

JTT & Candy

Thanks to everyone who left a kind word yesterday. It was sweet.

I'm flattered that many of you think I'm a good writer. Sometimes I wonder.

Moping around in my transitional adulthood state has made me really miss being a kid. In the past year, I've found myself being more and more nostalgic for my days as a tween (are people still using that word?) and teenager during the 1990s.

I've decided that since it's my blog and I can do whatever I want with it, I'm going to start sharing my 1990s memories with you.

You're welcome.

Here is the first installment:

JTT & Candy



In 1995, I had a friend who was in love with Jonathan Taylor Thomas.

I mean, I was too. Pretty much every 12-year-old girl was at the time.

But this girl, Candy, was on the brink of restraining order love. She had more than a dozen JTT posters in her bedroom. She practiced french-kissing on ALL of them. She even autographed every poster, pretending that JTT had signed them.

Each poster had a story.



For a poster of JTT sitting on a red chair, Candy would tell people, "JTT gave me this signed poster after I ran into him at the mall and then we made out and he took me back to his place and we DID IT."

For a poster of JTT standing against a gray background, with his arms crossed, she would say, "JTT gave me this poster after I saw him at an Ace of Base concert in June. We made out and then we went back to his place and DID IT."

For a poster of JTT with a milk mustache, she told people, "JTT signed this poster after I saw him at the Bucs game last week. He bought me a hot dog and then we made out. After the game we went back to his place and DID IT."



All of our school friends were mesmerized by these stories, despite the fact that the plot lines were basically ludicrous. We lived in Tampa, while JTT was busy filming Home Improvement in Los Angeles. I highly doubt he was jet-setting it to Florida every weekend to hang out at the mall and attend pop concerts.

And would JTT really have had spontaneous sex with an overweight, acne-faced 12-year-old girl with braces anyway? I mean, let's be real.

What irritates me is that Candy, to this day, still insists that her stories were real and her lip-stained posters of JTT were autographed by the boy himself. I confronted her about it on Facebook.

What a crock. And no, I'm not jealous. Just realistic.

Seriously.

Teen Witch (gotta love the 80s)

I grew up wishing I had gone to high school during the 1980s. The decade seemed like a magical place for a teenage girl. Especially the late 80s. It was a Debbie Gibson world, filled with hot pink nail polish, fluffy crimped hair wrapped around pastel blue scrunchies, and cute boys hanging out at the mall.

Everything I love about the late 1980s can be found in one horribly cheesy, absolutely ridiculous movie: Teen Witch.



It is so bad. So, so bad. And yet I can't get enough.

Teen Witch, which came out in theaters in 1989, revolves around a teenage girl, Louise, who, despite being a geeky straight-A student, leads a pretty charmed life. She has a best friend who adores her. She is attractive. She lives in a big two-story house with her equally dorky, yet loving parents.



But how can life be perfect when the captain of your high school's football team doesn't even know you exist?!

Clearly, this was the end of the world for teenage girls during the 1980s. Louise, played by Robyn Lively, is madly in love with Brad, who is a dead-ringer for a 27-year-old Tom Cruise. But, unfortunately, sexy Brad is dating a bitchy blonde cheerleader with a better perm.



Luckily, Louise accidentally discovers she's a witch. The next logical step, of course, is for Louise to use her magic to make herself the most popular girl in school.



Will Brad fall in love with her now?!? I'm not going to leave any spoilers here. You'll just have to find out for yourself.



Despite its delicious cliches and adorably predictable plot, this movie has some cringe-worthy moments.

There is rapping. Horrible 1980s rapping. Warning: This might be the most uncomfortable video you will ever encounter on my blog.



There is a horny midget.



There is an excruciatingly random musical number, entitled "I Like Boys" sung by perky cheerleaders wearing leotards in a girls locker room.



Well, you get the picture.

Viewing this movie is like stuffing a bagful of Skittles into your mouth.

Anyway, imagine my shock when I discovered that the main character, Louise, was actually played by Blake Lively's older sister! Huh.



The two actresses are actually super close, despite the 15-year difference.

How cool is that?