Swimsuit Foresight from the Marshalls Dressing Room Lady

“Good Luck”

That phrase, buckling under the weight of a Ukranian accent, were the last words the dressing room attendant at Marshalls uttered before she handed me the five swimsuits I had chosen to try on.

Really?  Good Luck?

She could have said a myriad of things:

  • Thank you
  • Here you go
  • Don’t try stealing anything, I’m watching you
  • Nice selection
  • Call me, maybe?

But to say “good luck”, as if sliding the latch on the dressing room door could be the last thing my pasty wintered body might ever do…What was she expecting the end result to be?


Please.  Happy swimsuit season, everyone!

Have you ever had a bizarre shopping experience? Tell me about it in the comments section

The Choir Boy


The following is a Past Times post.  Enjoy!The Choir Boy

November 3rd, 1962

It was another rough day at school. Father doesn’t want to hear about it, so I guess you’re the one who has to listen to me, journal. The one great thing about you is that you don’t ever tell me to shut up.

Catherine smiled at me today, which was wonderful….but when I tried to sit at her lunch table George “pretended” to spill his chocolate milk all over my shirt. I spent the rest of the lunch period in Mrs. Marshall’s office, trying to get the stain out. The stain never really came out, by the way. So I had to spend the rest of the day walking around looking filthy. It was stupid, but at least I didn’t get into any fights.

Now for some good news: I think I finally came up with a plan to get Catherine to like me. Father won’t like it, but mother will be excited. You see, Catherine is always walking around humming Patsy Cline songs. She never outright sings them, but that’s ok, she’s a great hummer.

I figure if I can learn how to sing, I can walk around the halls humming, and if I get good enough at it-singing. She’d really notice me if I were a good singer. I might even learn a country song, she likes country I guess. So I signed up for the chorus today.

Mrs. Clanahan said she was proud of me for “branching out into a cultured pasttime”, whatever that means. I wish the uniforms they make us wear could “branch out” into the garbage. I feel like a marshmallow with that thing on. The sleeves are white and poofy, which isn’t so bad….but ontop of that we have to wear a big green bowtie. A gigantic, poofy, big-as-your-face bowtie. At least it’s green. I’d puke if it were pink or yellow.

Tomorrow I’m going to learn the scales. I wonder how many of those are in a Patsy Cline song.

Alright, I have to wash up for dinner. I’ll let you know how the scales go.


Joke Time

I am currently reading the book “Comedy Writing Secrets” by Melvin Helitzer to sharpen my humor writing skills. My thoughtful boyfriend got it for me and I must admit: I love it. You can check it out here.

Tonight I practiced word play and came up with two original jokes that I think pass as “not terrible”. Tell me what you think:

Where does the First Lady’s gynecologist hold his exams?

The Ovum Office.

And lastly,

Who provides the body guards for the cast of ‘American Idol?’

The Seacrest Service.

Well, what did you think? Be nice honest.

The Witch Hunt for Beauty

I’m no Kim Kardashian. In addition to never having made a sex tape that shot me and my galaxy-quaking booty to celebrity status, I’m not a girly-girl. Kim loves make-up, dresses, shoes, hair products and glamour. I’m what can best be described as a “guyly girl.” I take the man approach to my appearance.

Do I have toothpaste on my face?” Are inappropriate parts of my body showing? Is my mustache unkempt?

If the answer to all of these questions is ‘no’, I’m ready to head outside-and honestly, I’d be lying if I said I never found little speckles of Crest on my face hours into my day.

I’ve always respected girls who take the time to get gussied up, and know how to get gussied up well. That has never been a forte of mine. Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m an attractive person, but I just have never cared enough to make an effort to look nice on most days. I credit my loving family and my inherent naiveté for bestowing to me an impressive amount of self-esteem for my physical self.

When I was a child I used to think that wearing make up was a type of sin. Side note: I went to a Catholic school grades K-12, so I literally thought it could be a sin.

Why would anyone want to change the way they look? God wanted you to look a certain way, and you’re perfect the way you are. Makeup changes what you’re supposed to look like. Why mess with something that’s already perfect?

That feeling lasted right up until I got my first set of volcanic pimple colonies that decided to loudly and proudly take residence on my forehead. They still visit me three to four times a month. Bastards.

Even when puberty started deflating my confidence and made me crave attention from boys, I just couldn’t bring myself to make the effort to spruce up my looks. There were rumors that some girls woke up three hours before they had to leave just to curl their hair and make sure their make up was perfect. Was I jealous of their perfectly coiffed hair and glossy lips? Of course. But Holy-Beauty-Sleep-Batman, who has time for that?

When I was in college, I thought I would take my newly found freedom and my years of nonexistent beauty expertise out for a test drive. I was going to attempt the mecca of all beauty adventures: it was time to dye my hair. (Mistake #1)

My reasoning: My hair is brown but my eye brows are black. Shouldn’t the curtains match the valances?

Before I reveal how horrific this endeavor proved to be, let me say this: thank God I didn’t attempt to dye my eyebrows brown! I’m sure I would have ended up looking like this guy:

hey sexy

I, Lady Beautynoob, needed assistance with this quest, so I quickly appointed the two most qualified candidates for the job: my two dude friends. Their skateboarding skills and insatiable competitive drive to out-fart each other didn’t seem to align with the beauty aspect of this adventure, but they were endearing.

I let them pick out the box of dye. (Mistake #2)

The color: Black Pearl. (Mistake #3). Did you know that the word “pearl” ,as related to hair dye, is not a noun but an adjective? As in “Shiny as a pearl.” As in “So shiny you will look like you used Turtle Wax as conditioner.” As in “Your hair will look like a Halloween witch’s wig.”

The resounding silence after I finished drying my new noir locks should have been my first hint that I had made a terrible mistake. Re-cue my naiveté; it couldn’t be that bad.

Dudefriend #1: It….looks…good?

Dudefriend #2: Yea…..I think you…..you pull it off?….yeah, you totally pull it off…

Dudefriend #1: …..Totally…

Hair that has been treated by a box of grocery store hair dye feels like a bale of hay that has been microwaved, sliced with rusty sporks and laid out to bake in the Sahara.  My mane was very, very mad at me.

So I did the only thing a girl who doesn’t care about her appearance can do when her witch hair is crying out for respite: nothing.  For seven months I just let my hair do it’s thing.  It grew and grew and before I knew it I had about four inches of brown roots on top of my head, trying to catch up to the 12+ inches of witch hair below.

I didn’t realize I had done anything wrong until I came home on summer break.  I hadn’t seen my high school friend in about a year and was excited to have her come over.  When I opened the door to let her in the first words out of her mouth were not “Hi! I missed you!”  Instead, she immediately blurted “Oh no.  We need to fix this.”

I’m so glad I have women in my life that know what to do in hairy beauty situations.  Under the steady hand of a trained hair professional my locks returned to brown.  But my beauty apathy levels have stayed relatively the same.

My hair keeps slowly wrapping itself around my neck, which means it’s almost time for a haircut.  I think it’s just trying to enact revenge for the black pearl incident.  Honestly, I don’t blame it.  I think I’ll just ask the stylist to do whatever she thinks would look the best.  I wonder what Kim Kardashian would have to say.

Do you have any hilarious beauty mishap stories?  Are you a ‘Guyly Girl’ too?  Comment below!

Life Lesson: DO NOT ‘Grin and Bear it’

I’m an animal lover.  I don’t eat meat and I try not to smush spiders.  But if there were a big red button I could push to ensure that I would go the rest of my life without ever being graced by the presence of one animal, it would be the bear.  Because I want people to realize the dangers these animals pose to our human race, I have put together a list of reasons why bears,if they wanted to, could wipe out humans, take over the world and wear your skin as cape.  Plain and simple: bears should be feared, not respected.  Respect leads to trust, and trust leads to Old Mr. Grizzly using your femur as a toothpick.

I can hear all you naive internet dwellers now: But Danielle WHY?!  Bears are so cute!  What’s your beef?

My “beef” is precisely what’s at stake! I like my meat to stay on my bones.  Bears have two jobs on this planet:

floss, anyone?

floss, anyone?


oh, look, a family of face-grazers

By “food” I mean ANYTHING! Bears ain’t picky. They’ll eat plants, berries, trash, preservatives, insects, birds, angry birds, boomboxes, fish, your firstborn…it doesn’t matter…IF THEY’RE HUNGRY AND SOMETHING IS NEAR THEM, THEY WILL EAT IT! They don’t care about maintaining lean physiques. Their goal is to get as fat as they can so they can hibernate when it gets cold. Those winter-hating bastards. I have to kind of admit that I’m a little jealous. I wish I could lie down for a nap in November and wake up in April.  At least I wouldn’t have to wait so long in between seasons of “The Walking Dead.”

 “But Danielle,” you say “Even if bears were out to eat my flesh off, they’d never be able to catch me.”

“I’d climb a tree.”





Good luck with that.








“I’d swim away.”

That sounds like a great idea if your next stop is swimming with the fishes.  Dummy.

“Ok fine, I’ll run away.”


Bears walk on two legs faster than you can run.  Once this bear was finished mocking runway models he devoured the camera man.

Our children have been disillusioned into thinking that bears are cute and  cuddly.  We even encourage babies to nuzzle up next to stuffed versions of these death machines in their cribs.  In my opinion, every time a child hears the word “bear” or sees an image of a bear they should be immediately pinched.  Then they will begin to associate bears with pain, and we no longer set our children up for shock and disappointment when they come across Mr. Blackbear at the local dumpster, try to high-five it and end up losing a limb.  We owe it to our children to pinch them.


Damn you, Teddy!

New tee-shirt sogan: SAVE A LIMB, PINCH A  TEDDY BEAR CHILD.

So, please, take heed:  Bears are not cuddly creatures who want to be our bffs.  If there is anything you can take away from this article it’s this:  Be careful when you’re in bear country (which by the way is everywhere except Australia, Africa and Antarctica).  Bears are dangerous.  They are hungry, mean, tree-climbing, water-swimming, fast-sashaying creatures of destruction that will digest your family faster than you can say “Teddy Ruxpin.”

I’d move to Australia, but the spiders down there are big enough to squish me.

Do you have any irrational fears of animals?  If so, tell me about it in the comments section!

For Shame….


“I’ve heard that hard work never killed anyone, but I say why take the chance?”

~Ronald Reagan

Boy oh boy I’m ashamed of myself.  I had a lovely blog set up and I let it sink into the darkness of the ‘lazy blogger graveyard.’  I even missed my golden opportunity on Jan 1st to restart my writing goals with a New Year’s Resolution.  But as Ronald Reagan used to not say, “there’s no time like the present.”  BLOGGING is restarting now!

Apologies to anyone out there (Mom) may have missed my posts.  But mostly, apologies to myself.  My lazy, unmotivated, good-for-procrastinating self.

Girl Brains- The Delinquents

*Author’s Note* Girlbrains is a section of this blog where I write commentary on actual diary entries and/or notes that young girls write.  It’s funny because they’re insane.*

Warning! If you are thinking of having children, read with caution.  This post may make you want to hire a med student to take out your uterus and sell it on the black market.  Take a moment and read a note sent from one wild child to another during the dreaded teenage years.  Having trouble reading the note?  You can read a typed out version here.

Where do I even begin?

First of all, I want to speak directly to any new parents reading this.  Don’t worry.  Not all teenagers will scoff at your parental guidelines and reject your care for their well being like Simon Cowell rejects special needs singers.  Then again, I’m sure the mother of this bull-minded young lady never thought that her child would grow up to be such a defiant delinquent.  Ha.  I’m still amused that she called her parents delinquents.

Lets get down to business now.  While reading and re-reading this note, I couldn’t get over the injustice this poor girl is suffering at the hands of the monsters that call themselves her ‘parents’.  Thank goodness there was a child brave enough to stare down the evil entities and ‘put them in their place’.

A curfew?! What do you think this is?  Some sort of system where you provide me with food and shelter and I am expected-nay-DEMANDED to adhere to guidelines ensuring my safety?!? Oh the inhumanity!

How dare these ingrates demand to know where their daughter is going!  William Wallace could have found a life partner with the author.

“They may give me a curfew, but they will never take my freedom!”

Actually, to be completely honest, I kind of admire her conviction.  She is sassy, strong, and won’t stand for injustice.  If she headed up the Occupy Wall Street movement I’m pretty positive the demands would have been met three months ago.

I would also like to thank the author of this note for clearing up a controversial subject: This is clear evidence that corporal punishment does not work.  Do you want to punish your children by hitting them? Apparently the pain only lasts for a minute, and after they endure the pain, they win.  Spanking leads to  calloused-bottomed children running amok in the neighborhood, doing laundry and keeping their rooms clean.  For the love of humanity, use the time-out method- USE THE TIME-OUT METHOD!

Some of my friends have recently had babies, and for a nano second I began to think  “oh, wouldn’t it be so much fun to be a mom?”  But this letter reminded me that cute babies turn into egotistical, irrational, LUNATIC teenagers that are capable of speaking.  No babies for this girl.  Crisis averted.

Did you drive your parents crazy? Tell me how in the comments section!

Marcel the Shell…with shoes on

Here is a little peek inside my sense of humor:

If you have not yet seen Marcel the Shell with Shoes On Pt 1 and Pt 2, here they are.  Brought to you by the very funny former SNL-er Jenny Slate, I give you the funniest shell I have seen all year.

Part 1

Favorite line:  “Compared to what?”

Part 2

Favorite line: “Read on!”

Why I’m Not Ashamed to Love Pop Music

Ok, my cool points might go down in the eyes of all you hipsters and indie rockers out there, but I need to get something off my sequin and lace chest.  I love pop music.  There.  I said it.  Stop shaking your heads in disgust.  My mother taught me to be proud of who I am, and I’m not going to live in the shame shadows any longer!

I used to find myself trying to hide my beat-loving tendencies from people I respected. I didn’t want them to think I was uncultured or shallow or dumb, so I programmed the last preset button of my radio to NPR.  That way I could quickly hit the fifth button on my console to impress the socially elite travelers who found themselves climbing into my Honda Accord.

But Danielle, you are 28 years old.  How on earth can you listen to such drivel?

The answer is simple, friends.

Press here for more images by this artist

Sometimes I don’t want to think anymore.  

I work all day, and have to deal with very difficult people.  I come home and read the news and realize that the world is going down the toilet faster than a brick-eating troll’s daily bowel movements.  Sometimes there is no better release from the tortures of every day life than listening to repetitive bass lines with catchy hooks that have no profound impact on the world around me.  Yes, Kelis, your milkshake undoubtedly bring all the boys to the yard.  Of course they prefer your milkshake to mine.  I’m glad you charge a fee for your teaching services.  Ahhh. Sweet, sweet release.

There is an Inner Freak Inside Us All

Go on, admit it.  You love to hate the outrageous fashion of pop icons.  There is a reason why the fabric (or lack thereof) draping  singers’ bodies can make it to the front page of cnn.com.  We all have a secret burning desire to ruffle our peacock feathers and make bold and daring wardrobe decisions…..but only a select few are brave enough (and paid enough) to do it.  While I don my standard jeans, sneakers, sports bra and t-shirt, I live vicariously through pop stars who wear things like this:

And this:

     And this:

And lets not forget this:     

Who knew fashion could be so bold…so delicious…so nutritious!

If I’m Going Through A Hard Time I Don’t Want To Be Reminded Of All My Pain…I Want To Dance My Feelings Away

I have the utmost respect for singer/songwriters.  I do.  But when things in my life are more poison ivy and monsoons than roses and sunshine I don’t want to listen to someone accurately articulate the misery that is brewing within me.  I would much rather find a song that I can blast in my car while driving down the highway entertaining passers by with my interpretive steering wheel dance moves.

When this song plays it makes me feel like I’m being slowly crushed to death by a group of sad pandas:

But this song makes me want to assault any woodwind playing schmuck that dares get close enough to my gyrating pelvis.

I love all kinds of music: country, rap, jazz, folk, indie.  Now is the time to come out of my pop music closet and let my Rihannagagaspears flag fly!  If you are ready to embrace the pop in you, say it with me now: Ra ra ah ah ahhh…..

Do you have any guilty pleasures? Share them in the comments section below!