If you like this…

2 Apr

then you should probably follow my tweets and new blog.

I will still update in this blog (because J and L are awesome and I would never leave them) but if you…

need a little silly L in your life-
wonder what the Pirate is up too-
want to know how far I ran-
need advice on how to keep creepy guys away-

Than you should probably read this:

Im a Keeper

And if you want tweets about the current state of the Pirate household:

Pirate Household

I promise I’ll post lots of pictures.
And give away things, like beautiful plastic bead bracelets that I craft.
Or my hippie sister.

She was sleeping on the luggage. Almost didn't spot her.

Free shipping.
She comes with a yoga mat, too.



I need a makeover stat

1 Apr

FIRST, a quiz:

Out of these statements, find the one false statement:

A. Today I was asked to be a model for a photography session involving skirts, high heels, and fruit. But no nudity- phew. I was really worried.
B. Today I had to deal with a stalker and it has totally freaked me out and I wish I had a dog.
C. Today my brother was laughing hysterically and when I asked why all he said was “In 10 years, I will open a door.” I didn’t laugh.
D. Today I surfed t.v. while laying in my parents bed (because it is a queen and very comfy, but they keep bars of soap in between the sheets- wtf?) and flipped between Bounty Hunter and Sweet Home Alabama and LOTR: all 3 made me emotional and cry.

Are you guessing?

Ill give you a hint….

They are all TRUE.
My life is too dramatic.
I’m turning into a horrible lifetime movie, I can already see the credits rolling.

Okay, I’ll blog about the makeover issue now:

I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and yowzersssss- I need a makeover.

But  I don’t feel very good at the moment.
I have a huge amount of lack of sleep in me.

Why? Why are you not sleeping? You may ask yourself.

Oh, just because I have a stalker. I won’t go into details but I’m completely freaked out at the moment. I quite possibly may purchase a dog in the near future. Or some sort of taser.

I also have been running to the bathroom and feel pukish.
I think I might be coming down with something…

So, let’s change subjects.


1. My Nails:

Yikes, these are not very pretty people

I’ve never had anyone come up to me, grab my hands and say “Oh, you have such pretty nails! I love how manicured and dainty your hands look!”

Nope. Not me. I have very long, skinny fingers.

Good piano playing fingers, perhaps?

2. My current boyfriend

Oh, did you meet my current boyfriend?
He lives in my bed.
And sleeps with me.
Cuddles right up and spends the whole night tucked underneath my arm.

His name is BABO. He came with name and I have no idea what it means.

Actually, he spends the whole night suffocating underneath my arm. It probably is not very comfortable for him. I also sometimes wake up with him underneath my head and realize I have drooled on his plush, grayish head.

Tsk tsk– this is a major reason I need a makeover.

Alas, this is my bed companion.

3. My ballerina ability

Okay, Momma and I went shopping and she bought me some really snazzy new shoes.
We were in the shoe department and she said “Pick whatever you want! I’m having fun!”
Naturally…. I choose…. KEDS.
(Is this too old lady of me? They get an A+++ for comfort though, come on people!)

They look like this:

Why am I so GIGANTIC AND LONG looking???

Anyways, I then decided that this picture did not do my shoes enough justice and I needed to take a picture of them with a mirror.
That idea, turned into the picture below which is me trying to look very dainty and ballerina like, showing off the shoes:

My feet aren't even straight. My hand is a creeper. WHAT IS GOING ON ?!!?

J would say that I look somewhat busted in this picture. And she is right. I am a little busted.

But when you are up all night with a stalker, that is what happens.

So I need a makeover so I can carry myself with style and proper-ness and give off an attitude that says This woman is all about business and wit even if she does sleep with an ugly doll.

Tomorrow, I’m going to start sitting really really straight all the time, walk tall like a dancer, and try to move like jello on springs- you know ladies, make your hips sway smoothly so that all eyes are memorized (but not in a creepy, sensual way. ew.)

4. Blistered and Battered Feet

Do you like feet? If you don’t like feet then shield your eyes.

My feet need a makeover. From running, they are totally blistered up.
Water and blood.
Tough everywhere- I could probably walk through glass and only notice a little (actually… I’d probably notice A FREAKIN’ LOT).
The heels are cracked and begging for moisturizer 24/7.

They look nice here but just wait...


Water blister. Blood blister on baby toe. My heart blisters looking at this.

I need a foot rub.
If only my boyfriend could rub my feet, but unfortunately, he would probably get soggy and I’d have to dump him.

5. Because I am not attractive in clay formation.

Let me explain.

My parents have art and decorations everywhere in the house. One day, I’ll post it all but for now, I’ll just give you a taste.

This is one piece of art, the Hergott kids, hot glued to a plastic picture frame, all created with oven-bake clay:


Aren’t we just an adorable, pasty white bunch?


Let me give you a better look at me and why I desperately need a makeover.


I am ready for the.... bath tub? Pool? Work out? Where are my eyes?

So much…. to question. But the bottom line is that I am not very attractive looking.
Actually, I am really quite frumpy.
I look at this and think- Yes, this person is going to grow up to be a spinster librarian. And have cats. And calfankles.

6. Because if the shakers can, anyone can do it!

Look. These two are stillllll at it in the wittle sippy cup, in the cupboard:


Too much scandal in the kitchen

Girl shaker clearly has got something that other shakers don’t have and has got Boy shaker’s heart in her hands.


Psssst- I have no idea what this has to do with a makeover but 6 is my favorite number, so I couldn’t end it at 5.


I’ll leave you all with that thought and image in your brain.

Let’s hope I sleep tight and don’t kill my boyfriend with my massive upper arm.



Know better, learn faster

31 Mar

You should listen to that song, it’s by Thao with the Get Down Stay Down. And pretty much sums up my life – like I should know that some days just do not go my way, and learn how to deal with them faster!

So bliggity bloggers, as you can tell today was not the best day. It wasn’t the worst, more like a series of unfortunate events that are comical for others but otherwise unfortunate for me. For example, today was my last Italian language class of the winter. To celebrate, my class was going to have a party at the end and we were all supposed to bring something. My thing was fruit – so I happily went to the store early this morning and got strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, and a huuuge bag of really yummy grapes. If you couldn’t tell, I really love fruit. Almost as much as L loves salad. While checking out, I contemplated buying a re-usable bag. This was my first mistake. I ended up going with plastic because I have a number of reusable bags at home and do not need another one. However, I didn’t think about the weight of everything I bought and my bag immediately began to tear. On top of that I had a very heavy purse filled with Italian textbooks, my lunch bag and my umbrella.

I somehow made it to work without any major disaster, but I did notice the the button on my coat was severed in half. How did this happen, I wonder? Alas, I have no idea and will have to walk around for the rest of the winter season with a button that looks like a small gremlin got hungry and started eating it.

Now, if there’s one thing you should know about me it’s that I’m very clumsy. I often refer to myself as Liz Lemon (as in, the Liz Lemon from 30 Rock that I mentioned in my bathroom fiasco post).

Liz Lemon

We both say “nerds” and “what the WHAT” a lot, which helps the comparisons.

Me as Liz Lemon for Halloween

Sometimes I think that my life could be similar to characters in a movie, or tv, because they’re just as clumsy/socially awkward/cynical as I am. For example, Liz Lemon is clumsy and always seems to say the wrong thing, Bridget Jones has very little luck with love (well, in the beginning at least), and Ally McBeal is  a complete wackadoo … except that in the end, Liz Lemon has an awesome job in NYC and lives in a great apartment, Bridget Jones ends up with Colin Firth, and Ally McBeal lives in a huge two bedroom apartment in Boston where, coincidentally, it’s always sunny and beautiful – and I live in a crappy two bedroom apartment with NO insulation, am perpetually single, and have a cat that I am convinced is trying to kill me.

My creepy cat, plotting my death from atop the refrigerator, where I'm sure all maniacal cat planning takes place.

Anyway. As I am rushing from work to my Italian class, it starts to rain. So, juggling everything I have I manage to get my umbrella out and try to balance my bag of grapes on top of my plethora of berries. The wind is blowing, the rain is getting in my eyes, and to make matters worse there are TOURISTS EVERYWHERE. One gust of wind and my little body is thrown off balance and plop, squish – down go my grapes, all over the sidewalk. Balls!

Now if this were a movie/tv show, that would be the moment that the good looking and slightly off-beat male sees my moment of distress, decides to help and discovers that I am cute in a quirky way and asks me out for some coffee. BUT, because this is REAL LIFE people, and because I’m me, this is what I got instead:

Obnoxious tourists

Stupid tourists who proceeded to laugh and squish all of the grapes I had just bought all over the sidewalk! REALLY PEOPLE?! Is this necessary? I think not. *fist shake* I don’t have a picture of the great grape-spill of 2011 because by this time it was reeaallly raining, and I was reeallly late for class. But let me tell you, it was not pretty. A lot of good grapes lost their lives today, and for what? For some dumb tourists to laugh at my misfortune! Pinheads!

But don’t worry, blogosphere, all hope for my day was not lost. There was a good amount of pasta, dessert, and most importantly WINE to go around at my class’s party! Now, none of that wine was Lambrusco, the drink of choice for L, A and I, but it was very good and made me temporarily forget about my day. I may or may not have finished the last of it by drinking straight out of the bottle. Listen, before you judge me just know that no one else was going to take it home, no one else wanted it and no one wanted it to go to waste. So being the trouper I am, I took one for the team. I do what I have to, ok?

“J”, you may be saying “I don’t like wine. This post is of no relevance to me. Except that I like to laugh at your misfortune like all of those tourists.”

First of all, go suck an egg for laughing at me. Second of all, go suck an egg for doubting the wonderful taste-sensation of Lambrusco. It is amazing! If you do not like wine, you will still like this delectable beverage. If you don’t believe me, go to your local grocery store/CVS and pick up a bottle for roughly $5. You’ll find it near the concord grape juice – wine snobs, judge away – but while you’re paying over $20 for your uppity bottle of wine that you’re sipping because you want to make it last longer, I am enjoying a nice buzz off of $5, so I think we all know who comes out on top here.

Happiness in a bottle

Well, I think that is all for the night. Theoretically I will be awake in six hours to work out, but we’ll see how I’m feeling. For some insane reason I’ve decided to start doing Jillian Michaels’ “Ripped in 30” dvd alternated with her “6 week 6 pack” dvd. Apparently, I hate my life and want to torture myself because this woman is a MACHINE and my entire body hurts after just two days. HOW CAN SOMEONE BE THAT FIT?! We should all ask L, because she is a pretty fit lady.

Until next time,


Dinner with the Hergott men

30 Mar


First of all, I was planning to blog about something else BUT after this family dinner it is imperative that you hear this.

Er, read this. Please bear with me as I will try to accurately describe the dialogue.


Please, don’t do the latter.

That is nasty.


Scene: Hergott kitchen table.

People: 3 men (Pirate, Al- younger bro, Lou- youngest bro and baby in family). And me.

AHEM, let me begin…

SO, I walk in from work and can tell Pirate is up to something in the kitchen.

Fabulous! I am starved and my tummy is growling! I wonder what we are having…. oh…. oh my…. what is THAT-

16 LARGE steaks... is this necessary?


Steak. An abundance of steak.

Let me ask you, dear Reader, how much steak does your family buy? A few pounds? Perhaps, 5 pieces?

Answer this riddle: How much does Pirate buy?

Solution: 16.85 pounds or 16 SEPARATE steaks

I think to myself, this seems to be a bit too much. I mean, you could easily feed 16 people. Or 32 small children. Or 56 infants, yes?

Pirate immediately stabs the package open with a large fork and starts thrusting it in and out of a steak. He wields the fork like he means business.

Stabbing of the Steaks

Seriously, why is there so much? 7 cows had to die for sure.

So as he is stabbing, I think to myself, I’m going to ask about that damn ice-cube vomit in our yard. There is no excuse for it.

This is what it looked like today, by the way:

It has significantly has melted, yes? Doesn't look so... weird.

DAD-” I have to speak loudly over the thrusting and stabbing. He is clearly in the zone.

“Yay,” he says. Stab. Stabby Stab Stabby. Cow criesssssss.

“Well,” I search for the right words because I am not sure if he noticed the ice-cubes and I don’t want him to get paranoid that someone is secretly disposing of their cubes on our lawn, “I don’t know if you noticed, but there were a whole lot of ice-cubes on our lawn.”

“I know,” he stabs some more, “I put them there.”

Whaaat? He knew about this!

“Why, did you put them there? That doesn’t make any sense!”

He starts gathering the well stabbed steaks to go out to the grill. “Because, they needed to go, L. Sometimes you just got to get rid of them and make some new ones.” He walks out with the plate of steaks, directing me to make a salad.

Um…. Reader, is this true? Do you need to purge your ice-cubes ever so often? Like a water filter or a light-bulb?

I begin to make a salad, which is a job that I love. I could eat salads all the time. Just like a rabbit, not only am I fast runner (but not a sex maniac), I could eat lettuce all the time. I begin to chop up cucumbers, celery, carrots, and throw some basil/crushed black pepper for flavor. I begin to forgot about the ice-cube issue and am looking forward to eating some greens and half a slaughtered cow.

Brothers are setting the table and wandering around the kitchen. Well (in reference to wandering), only Lou, because let me tell you- he wanders all freakin’ long day. The main floor in our house is like a loop, and he just loops and loops all day long.

When you ask him, What are you doing? Why are you walking around in a circle?

His response is- I’m wanderin’ yo!

He is not really ghetto or tough but tries to act like he is.

But come on’, look at this punk:

How adorable is this baby?

Okay, he is respectively not his current age in this picture, but you get what I am sayin’.

All of sudden, Pirate wants tomatoes in the salad.


“No tomatoes!” I say firmly. “I loathe tomatoes Dad, they kill me on the inside. They cause me… pain. NO.”

He looks at me, sympathetically. “You are a handful… and I’m putting a handful in. Tough.”

I grimace. Ew. I open the fridge and see a half opened-can of chicken. I quickly make a reach for it and without thinking, I literally just plop it right in the middle of the salad.

Chicken plop muhahah- revenge is mine!

Pirate whips around and peers at the salad.

“WHAT is that?” He bellows. “I carefully placed the tomatoes along the edge, decoratively I might add, so for those of us (he suggestively points at me) that don’t want tomatoes can easily pick them off. But nooo- you have to just ruin the whole salad by putting chicken right in the middle…. you… you… -”

“Bombed it,” Al says calmly from the kitchen table.

Really, super quiet brother? You haven’t said one thing all night and you are now suggesting I bombed the salad?

EXACTLY. You bombed it. You bombed it just like DRESDEN,” Pirate says with a very accusatory tone.

I roll my eyes. It is always me vs. them. One woman vs. three men.

“Dad, you don’t even know what that means,” I snarl thinking to myself I don’t even know what he means by that.

“Oh, I know exactly what that means, young lady! You are like Ms. Shirley Temple. You are always and always have been a conniver.”

That is me, alright. A conniver. A secret ambusher of all things right and good in the world. I am, deep down, a very evil person full of plots to overthrow the world’s rhythm.

We sit down to dinner and commence eating.

Then the phone rings.

Pirate answers and says “She’s not here.” And then hangs up abruptly.

“Now, kids,” Pirate asks as he slices a piece of asparagus, “what do you think that was about?”

I think logically that it was most likely a telemarketer for my mother, who is not here. I voice my opinion since my brothers are obviously too consumed with thier food to process anything in their brain.

Pirate’s eyebrows raises and says, “Or… do you think it was some guy in Colorado? Her secret lover that has been hiding out for the past decade in the mountains?”

I drop my fork. “WHAT?” Seriously, what is he talking about? Why Colorado? Why mountains? Why?

Apparently, this is where secret lovers are available.

He doesn’t answer me but now begins to lecture us on math and how buying these steaks saved him X amount of dollars which is enough to buy A, B, and C.

Reader, my father does this all the time. If you go grocery shopping with him, he will constantly quiz you on how much this is per pound and if you buy X amount of these is that a better deal than just buying X many?

I don’t like grocery shopping with him. It is like a math test that follows you around and always involves slabs of meat and BBQ sauce. Or gravy.

“Now kids,” Pirate asks (and he says it with a very You-Better-Get-This-Right-Or-Else-I-Will-Judge-You tone), “I bought this steak at …. blah X… blah blah”

I honestly don’t know what the question was because I have a problem.

It is called selective hearing.

Perhaps you have it or have heard of it. I lose interest and focus on something else, completely tuning out the person. It can be a good thing and a bad thing, but alas, this is my cross to bear in life.

All I catch of the math problem is him saying “5 times 7?”

Lou puts down his salad fork and from his moustache of Ranch dressing comes the answer, “60.”

Al immediately puts down his steak (which he is eating like ribs, they are all over), ” No, its 41.”

I slap by hands over my eyes and snappily say, “Its 35! 35! You numbnuts!” Pirate looks just as frustrated.

“See… see L, this is what I have to deal with.”

We ate some more and now Pirate is talking about some girl he saw at the gym reminded him of me. He explained that she was running crazily on the treadmill. I ask  him how fast and for how long and explain that I sometimes will do an hour set at the 8 mph pace.

“Really,” he says impressively.

Yes, I think to myself, I have impressed my father. I just need to like win something, like the Olympics, or get a really snazzy spandex outfit and then he’ll be really impressed with me. His prodigy athletic child.

I have a long way to the Olympics..... blah.


My happy bubble bursts when he turns my running into another math quiz.

“Now, kids,” (he always starts off all the questions like this- have you noticed), “How fast is L going if she runs for an hour at an 8mph?”

Lou looks up and says, “Well…. 8 mph for an hour…. is 60 mins. So, 60 mins.”

We all freeze and stare at him. WHAT? What does that even mean?

“Um, no. Are you even thinking? How fast per mile?” Pirate badgers him. “Just give me the 1st number, geeze!”

“Oh… Okay,” Lou answers, “Um… 1….4. It is 14. 14 per mile.”

We all give up and throw in the towel. Lou clearly is not a math genius and the rest of us would rather just eat than try to correct him now.

Then the conversation turns to who is driving my parents to the airport because they are going to the Bahamas. Al and I both volunteer and begin to fight a little bit over who gets to do it. I mean, I like going to the airport. I have many good memories there and it is a great people watching melting pot.

“You know what… you both should go!” Pirate says, as if it is the best idea ever. “And after you drop us off, go to Butcher’s Inn. You got to go there.”

“What is that?” I ask, thinking it sounds like… well a creepy-slaughter house.

“You can starting drinking there at like 7am, perfect! Go there! Order some Jim Beam!” Pirate responds.

Pirate loves this stuff. Ewwwww is what I think of it.

Then, quiet Al simply says as he is clearing his plate, “Jim Beam… tastes like… alcohol.”

“Sometimes Al,” I say to him, “you just say…. things without thinking.”

“I know, it just comes out.”

And because I can’t help myself, I have to say this:

“That’s what she said.”

Lordy, lordy, does anyone want to join us for dinner? Preferably, another woman?

Pray for us. Or me.


Ice, Ice, Baby… and Crock pot mail?

29 Mar

First, I have an announcement— HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MARMAR:

My right eye has a white spot... that looks weird. I look weird.


Hi. Ice, Ice, Baby! I would keep reciting the ‘Ice Ice Baby’ song… but alas, that is the only line I know.

Aren’t you sad? I know, I’ll sing to you some other song… if I ever am capable of learning lyrics.

La de da dum!

It is Monday.

I have a light for a face... awesome.

This is me, all bundled up about to go to the gym. I look like this every morning.

Don’t you like my stick legs and super warm fitted coat with fur lining? I totally rock the Russian spy look with this thing on. I absolutely am in love with this jacket. It is like wearing a sleeping bag… and I may or may have not slept in it before thinking it was a sleeping bag.

(I was really tired, okay? No judging.)

So on my way to the gym, I step out the front door and find this in the front yard:

Titanic iceberg?

Oh, hey there, random ice-cubes. Look at this picture, the sun isn’t even up all the way. It is early and already…. something weird is on our yard.

Seriously, what is up with this?

We decorate with... ice?

Okay, I know most people string random knickknacks in their yard, such as wind chimes, trolls and gnomes (very creepy if you ask me… its like they know something that you don’t), and those really ridiculous ducks that change outfits 76 times throughout the year. Seriously, those stone ducks have a better wardrobe than I do.

But ice-cubes? BALLS. (as J would say).

I decided to ignore it, walk past the army of cubes freezing on the grass, and go running.

___run____running____still runninggggg________________________________okay im done.

THEN 8.5 miles later, I returned home and Pirate father said there was a letter for me.

A letter, for moi???

I love mail! Who has sent me mail? Oh, I love them for sending me mail! I shall mail them back! Hooray!


it is like 9am… the post has not come yet (that sounded very British). I asked him where he got it from.

(Are you ready for his response, brace yourself Reader.)

“It was in the crock pot,” he said calmly.

As if, finding mail in the crock-pot was a completely normal thing, like finding the soap in the soap dispenser.

“The CROCK POT?” I question.

Crock pot that hoards mail.

He says not only did he find a letter for me but also a check of money for him. He was in a very good mood because of this while I was very puzzled.

He obviously, was not going to question the crockpot-that-produced-mail because it produces some green for him.

Me, on the other hand, the crock pot was not so nice. It produced this in the form of a letter:

REJECTION LETTER from crock pot

A job rejection letter.

Add kitchen appliances to rejecting me. Email, letter, phone calls, and now crockpot. Nice.

This particular rejection was dated on Feb. 2nd (so apparently the crockpot ate the mail almost TWO MONTHS ago) and I applied for this Nashville, IN job in November.

I don’t love them and am not going to send them mail back.

(sticks out tongue and makes a face)

ALTHOUGH, I could mail them back and explain that I just go their letter out of my crock pot and now it has found its way into my trash can.


Pirate Texting

26 Mar

First, let me say, I almost was crushed at work today by a co-worker. I was in the stockroom, shoes, where there are large rolling shelves of shoes. I was between two of them, trying to grab at shoes and somewhat hidden from view (I’m tiny and can hide easily in these environments).

My back was turned and the shelves were tightening, closing in on me, and I had to give a quick yelp and jump about before being crushed between two metal shelves…. of Reeboxs and Nikes. Shudders. Rocks in fetal position.

It was very traumatic. I deserve a metal of… bravery. Or a new pair of shoes. Something.

Actually, I think I am the only one that has a serious fear of these racks of shoes and being crushed, but seriously, it could happen. And it scares me something terrible.



Who likes to text?

If so, raise your hand. Or text me saying “I am!” (Just kidding, don’t do that, silly.)

My hand is not raised. I don’t like texting. I think it is impersonal, costs too much, and leaves too much room for misinterupptation. Sure, the little note here and there, but overall, I’m a lets-talk-on-the-phone-and-hear-each-other’s-voices kind of gal. Anyone with me? Can I get an Amen, please?

Honestly, just call me, I’d love to talk to you. Texting is for weeniessssss.

My pirate father is NOT a texter. I repeat, not a texter. In fact, he is not very talkative on the phone either, usually calling and talking for about 27 seconds and then abruptly hanging up because the hockey game is on, or his HOOTER wings have arrived and he needs to devour them in manly timing, or he is stuck at Lowe’s and just found some really great deals on carpet squares- something that is a necessary in every room- right?

Why then, my father, this morning was texting at 7am is a mystery to me. Let me explain.

This is his phone:

Razor, my pirate's cell phone

I have only seen him use it to call people occasionally, and when he does, he just flips it open and bellows the name of the person into the mouthpiece. It is voice-activated (very trendy and high-tech if you ask me), making it very foolproof for people who are not well adjusted with tech phones ::father::

No dialing needed, just have the name ready and a loud, clear voice.

So this morning, I am up early, drinking my freshly made french-pressed coffee at the table. I have one of my many girl magazines spread out in front of me and am completely engrossed in an article with a very chiseled-looking man with a rueful smile, when my father goes-

“Did you get my text? I just texted you.”

I look up. Text? It is 7am and he and I are the only ones up. Why would he text me? My phone is upstairs, next to my bed, where I always leave it.

“No,” I respond suspiciously, “Why would you text me? I am right here, next to you… we can talk.” I gesture at the kitchen table.

He gives me a goofy smile. “I texted Mom too. I want to go to breakfast. I invited you guys.”

Ding! Ding! Ding! My mother’s cell phone, which is clearly in her purse next to the kitchen table, goes off with the breakfast invite text.

My pirate father looks very pleased upon hearing the text come in on her phone. Some weird euphoric sensation?

“I just texted everyone,” he says it very nonchantantly, like you would say I just read this book or I just got the mail.

He sips some coffee. “I just clicked a bunch of boxes hahahaha, I even texted that guy from Up North!”

Now, I am puzzled. What guy from Up North? Am I suppose to know about some hermit up there? Is this some distant relative?

Or maybe, I begin to think excitedly, he is talking about some kind of secretive, attractive lumberjack character that he stealthily has been honing and priming for me… Oh my, stop it. My mind has been eroded by these darn magazines, I think, staring down at my Cosmo.

DAD,” I say sternly. “What guy from Up North? And how many people did you text?? Why didn’t you just ask me to breakfast like, in person?”

He is completely engrossed in his phone now, having gotten a response from his mass breakfast text. Dismissively, he doesn’t answer my questions but concentrates on responding to his text.

“Oh Shit, this is harder than I thought…. Danny texted me back and wants to know where Linda’s and Benny’s is at (two breakfast locations)… Hey, L, is there a send all button? Like, if I want to send something to everyone?”

He peers up and looks at me as if he has just asked the million dollar question. So, this is what you want to do, I think. This has been the scheme all along.

“No,” I answer quickly. “Not possible.”

“Well, shit… this is taking a lot out of me. Now I have two messages to read.”

More texting.

Finally, after sending his friend directions to where the breakfast locations, he gets a response. This is what his friend texted back:

“I’m in FL. What’s up?”

My pirate father smiles, acting like this is completely scintillating news. “Now, isn’t that cute,” he says in a satisfactory way as if he is communicating the elite way.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Dad! Why would he tell you he is in FL and what is up after he asked for directions to your breakfast invite?” My voice is shrill with frustration. Oh dear, I am aware that I am slightly snappy but this whole texting business has completely ruined my plan of drooling over chiseled-man article and ads for really cute sun dresses and tangerine sandals!

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he goes over to the computer and begins to check email. He is in sweats and as always (without fail) is wearing a Detroit winter hat on his head. Only, is is not on his head really, but mostly just propped there- carefully balanced snuggly.

Checking email

This is the front of the famous hat. I have always, always seen my father wear this. It probably is older than me.

This hat is like a relic in the Hergott household.

Anyways, I should really go see what this text was all about, don’t you think? I grab my coffee and Cosmo (pirate father does not need to see what kind of scandalous crap I am reading these days), and sidling out of the kitchen, upstairs, I grab my phone.

OH my. Oh my…

Why at 8:32? Why not.... 8:30? Anyone?

Obviously the right sentence of inviting others to breakfast takes a bit of honing, I think in his defense.

I still have not gotten a straight answer out of him as to why we were invited to breakfast at preciously, 8:32 AM.

Why not…. 8:30? 8:28?

Does anyone else get breakfast invites like this?


Elephants, Pizzas, and Bathrooms – Oh My!

23 Mar

Well people of the internet, today has certainly been interesting. Usually L is the one with the most humorous, random days … but this just might give her a run for her money/ovaries. And to think, this afternoon I was talking to L on the phone saying I didn’t know what to post about, that nothing ever happened to me. Well, let’s just start from the beginning, shall we?

As I’m talking to L on the phone, I’m walking around the Botanic Garden and decide to take a walk along the National Mall. However, I notice that there’s police cars everywhere, all streets are blocked, and there are hordes of people along the sidewalk. At first I thought there must have been a fire alarm at one of the federal buildings around, because there wasn’t any sign or anything indicating some kind of even was happening. I ask a man and his children what is going on, if there’s an emergency, and he looked at me in all seriousness and said:

“The elephants are coming.”

Umm … what? I asked him if he could clarify and he said “Oh the Circus is coming, so they’re marching the elephants down the road!” Now, I’m not a fan of circuses, but really, how was I going to turn away from seeing elephants being walked down the National Mall? So, while on the phone with L, I documented elephants being walked down the road like it was just any other day:

So, on a lunch break while talking to L, I got to witness some elephant butt. Totally random and probably the weirdest my lame archivist day could get, right?


My roommate S has a friend in town visiting. When I got home he warned me that my bathroom doorknob no longer works – the little metal part that locks in to the door frame is broken and only sticks out – so if you closed the door, you wouldn’t be able to get out. Simple enough to remember, right?


Now this all started with me wanting to write a blog in the “yummy” section about how to make pizza from scratch, which is what I did tonight. And let me tell you, it was the best pizza dough I’ve ever made. I had the water at the right temperature, the yeast frothed just like it should (ew that sounded gross) and my dough rose beautifully. I caramelized some onions to perfection, had a perfectly ripened pear and my favorite honey goat cheese. It was going to be glorious. My pizza was juuuust about done when I just haaaaaad to us the bathroom. This may be too much information, but you all might just be as weird as me and relate to this: when I have to go to the bathroom, nothing else matters. I have to go, and there is nothing that will get in my way. So without even thinking about it, I rush to the bathroom and make some room for my awesome pizza. I wash my hands and get ready to grab my pizza out of the oven. I hear the oven timer go off. I turn the door handle.

And then I remember … that the doorknob is broken. And I am now stuck in my bathroom. BALLS.

My first thought is to bang on the door as loud as I possibly can so that my upstairs neighbors will hear, since my roommate and her visiting friend went out for dinner. So I start pounding on the door yelling “HELP!” and “BATHROOM!” as loud as I can, hoping they would put all of that together. Now, while yelling help I try to sound as casual as possible because I don’t want to incite any real fear in people as I’m not in any real danger. Time goes by, my hands hurt from violently slapping the door, and I figure my neighbors can’t hear me. Meanwhile the oven timer is still going off, and all I can think about is my poor pizza. Turns out, my neighbor just thought I was building something. Ummm … how many people do you know yell “HELP!” and “BATHROOM!” as they are building things? None? I thought so.

My next plan: open my bathroom window and wait for someone to walk by – then I’ll yell for help – have them knock on my upstairs neighbor’s door so they can call my roommate to come let me out (my front door was locked, too – because really, if I’m going to be stuck in the bathroom why make it easy for someone to help get me out?). I live in a pretty happening area of DC, and my street is usually pretty busy. Usually. Tonight however, everyone decided to stay in a knit a sweater, visit their grannies, clean their lampshades, do everything else EXCEPT be outside where I need them to be. Balls. ALL I WANT IS MY PIZZA, PEOPLE!

Now I’m on to plan C, which is to do whatever I can to break the doorknob. I take a scan of the bathroom for what I think will be the most effective tool, and I come up with my bottle of conditioner, which worked for a while but after much pounding I started to break the plastic! I take another look around and spot the toilet plunger. The handle is wood, and with my beefy muscles I was able to knock the handle off shimmy the gears enough to make a grand escape!

The first thing I did upon tasting my newfound freedom: save my pizza from the 9th circle of hell that was my oven. Surprisingly, it wasn’t burnt, just very, very well done. I still ate half.

I then called my mother, who proceeded to laugh hysterically at her daughter’s misfortune.

Here’s to hoping tomorrow is a little less eventful! Although, this is just further proof that I am, in fact, Liz Lemon from 30 Rock (If you do not watch that show, stop reading this immediately and start watching it!). A friend of mine pointed out that she has never seen us in the same room together, so now I am thinking that maybe this is a Fight Club situation and I just think she’s a different person, but really we’re both Edward Norton.