bfs and exs

Ask any girl, she'll tell you shes been hurt, cheated, and/or misunderstood in a relationship. Don't get me wrong-- we've all been on the giving side of that coin as well, but that's not what this is about. This is about girls and our choice: to trust or not to trust. I think if you are going to trust someone, you have to feel trusted in return. I think that that is what it boils down to. Trust. It is hard to trust people once they've wronged you, but if you want things to work you have to take a chance. Breathe in, breathe out.... You shouldn't have to worry about what your significant other is doing. Vulnerability can lead to heartache, yes, but it can also lead to falling in love. Throw trusting them out the window, trust yourself instead. Trust that you can handle what comes your way. Trust your instincts and know that no matter what happens, you'll be able to come out on top in the end. With or without them. I raise my imaginary glass to all of my girlfriends, may we always be true to ourselves, the rest will all fall into place.

be pretty silly at work tomorrow. Me hobbling along in heels.

In a wine induced stupper I walked into a door jam. My toe is officially broken. It doesn't hurt as much as it should considering how ugly it is. It will

Actually, Lady, you don't own me.

I work at Nordstrom, and although this does mean dealing with the occasional rude and demanding customer, my general experiences with the people who shop there are good ones. That being said, I dealt with my very own personal Megabeast today. (Kudos to any reader who knows where that's from.) The Megabeast, or Eva (according to her), was trying on a pair of Not Your Daughter's Jeans (a premium denim made for the Baby Boomer generation. Tell your mothers) in one of our dressing rooms and called me in with a problem. The size 12s she was trying on didn't fit. I offered to get her a 14, stating that you want these jeans to fit snug when you buy them because the spandex in them would cause them to stretch about a half size after a little wear. She told me she would absolutely not try on a 14 because she has always been a 12. Instead of telling the Megabeast that she clearly did not wear a 12, I offered to get her another size 12 to see if that particular pair was incorrectly labeled. After trying on the new 12, she agreed that maybe a 14 would be better. This was of course after she stripped down to her skivvies (skivvies = very tiny thong with pubic hair spilling out everywhere. yikes.) in front of me twice. She then wanted me to get her a size xl in the Ralph Lauren blouse she was trying on. After searching our backstock (twice), I came back to her room to tell her that we didn't have any xl's in stock, but I would gladly ship one to her home and waive the shipping costs for the inconvenience. She stared at me briefly, obviously frustrated at our lack of xl's, and said that she'd just take the jeans. After ringing her up and thanking her, I clocked out for lunch since I was already 30 minutes past my 5 hours and legally had to take a break. I went in the back, giggled with a co worker about my very demanding customer, then grabbed my book, phone and wallet and headed for the Nordstrom Cafe. My daily delicious grilled cheese and tomato soup was awaiting my arrival. I was calling Courtney to check in with our plans tonight and right as I was stepping on the escalator, phone pressed to my ear, there was a tap on my shoulder. The Megabeast was there and said "Excuse me, Honey, I decided I want to buy that Ralph Lauren blouse after all. Can you go get it from my dressing room?" Um.... One- I'm on the phone. Clearly. Two- I'm obviously not working. Hence the phone pressed to my ear. Three- don't call me Honey, Honey. I hung up the phone and walked back down the upwards travelling escalator and said "I can see if I can find that for you" with the best forced smile I could manage (thank you years of cheer leading for that gift). I walk her back to the dressing rooms, but when we got there, hers had already been cleared out. I explained to her that dressing rooms get cleared out rather quickly due to there only being a few, but that I would try to find someone to find it for her right away. She got very huffy at this. As if I wasn't already helping her out on my lunch break with all my shit in my hands still. "No, YOU find it and find it NOW." I was so dumbfounded at her lack of brains at this point that I just stifled my giggle and told her that I'd help her look in the rounders on the floor for it. After ten minutes of searching I finally found it, no help from her since she stood there with her arms crossed and foot tapping like a child. I was so frustrated at spending 20 minutes of my lunch with this woman who obviously thought she was someone of some importance, that I handed her the blouse and told her that I was "actually on my lunch break and some other sales person would have to finish the transaction from here"-- pointed her to the nearest register and walked away.

Word to the everyday shopaholic: Sales people are people too. Just because you're maxing out your credit card doesn't mean we have to bend over backwards for you. And even if we do, its not because we want to.

World, Emily. Emily, World.

one fourth of the Chapman crew was at Jeanne's tonight. It was fantastic. I'm glad I am who I am now and that they all still like me. Since I am all kinds of different. No longer the silly in-need-of-affection scenester. The new live-for-today, comfotable-in-my-own-skin me is who I love. Hello world, I am Emily.

a wham of a sham

I am one of those kids whose Sidekick's are attached to their hands at all times. One who can be having a conversation on AIM, mass-texting directions to a party, and sending an email to her boss saying she's "sick" and can't make it the next day, all while also updating her Twitter account with the latest nonsense on her mind. I also am one of many Sidekick owners who feel completely lost without it. I call it "Sidekick fever" and it is not pretty. All that being said, I dropped mine in the toilet on Saturday night. And before you ask (or think, rather) "had you flushed?!"-- no. I had not flushed. And yes, I stuck both hands in a piss and toilet water cocktail to fetch my link to the very big, outside world. I tore that thing apart (while cursing everything under the sun) like Paris Hilton's dignity. After drying out for two days it still wouldn't turn on. Piece of shit. This morning, seeing my obvious symptoms of Sidekick fever, my mother told me that she had just donated a purple sidekick to her TIP program (cool program, look it up: http://www.tipsandiego.org/ ) and could call to see if it had already been turned in. I drove to Carlsbad and practically took down the door to the police station that the TIP office is in. Kathy, the lady at the desk, handed me the phone with a smile and I thanked her about a million times. So many times that I actually didn't even look at the phone until I got into my dad's truck. It was not a Sidekick, but a brand spankin' new T-mobile G1. A phone that sells for $399.99. And I got it for free. Free free free freefreefreeeeee. So yeah- goodbye Sidekick, hello G1.

On a side note, my father and I washed and waxed my car to an almost beautiful shine today. Everything but the roof is done. We'll finish it next weekend. And the ShamWow is Bologna.

bubble talk

I recently moved back in with my parents. Truth be told, that sentence was painful to write even after having been here for close to five months. I find it funny that while living in Orange County, more specifically the city of Orange, I thought I wanted to be elsewhere. it turns out all I want is to be back there. Not for the people necessarily, (although they're great) but I like the atmosphere.

Quick recap goes like this: grew up in Oceanside- moved to Orange for college- into the dorms I go, Hello Henley!- I hate my roommates, but not as much as they hate me... Move to my Aunt Molly's condo in Orange- found new roomies, back to the dorms- decided Chapman wasn't for me, left and moved back in with Molly- Move in with Boy and Gramma in Tustin- Boy and I break up, move in with BFF Alexis in Orange-BFF and I break up, move back in with Boy and Gramma- Gramma sells house, move into an apt with strangers in Huntington Beach- move back home to Oceanside to pay off student loans while I still can. That's pretty quick considering all the mumbo jumbo that went on during each one of those stays at each one of those places. Safe to say, I'm an EXPERT mover.

So here I am in Oceanside and it's not too bad. My mommy makes me yummy veggie meals I can eat. My daddy fixes my car when it needs fixin'. My brother wants me to go to bars with him constantly. Things here are great. But The Bubble is staring at me from the other side of Camp Pendleton. Just staring. It knows It doesn't have to say a word. Just the look on It's metaphorical face says "Emily what the hell are you doing over there?" and while I keep asking myself the very same question, I thought I'd start blogging to keep my head clear. I need more room in there for memorizing phone numbers I see on 'For Rent' signs anyway.