Category Archives: Bianca

You searched: Prius Envy. Did you mean…

Hello Ladies!

It sure is nice to hear my voice again, isn’t it? I have been so all-over-the-place-lately I haven’t had time to sit down and write you an e-mail in over two weeks. I have, of course, seen you both since then but haven’t had a chance to catch up at all. Which is why I’m very much looking forward to wine and the arts with you tonight.

I’ve really missed blogging lately, too. I have no idea what our fellow bloggers are up to. Like if Lucky has seen Ralphie lately, or if Gizzy is digging her new digs, or if Gina knows the sex of the baby, or if X has pissed off any librarians, or how Rod is doing filling Al’s soggy shoes… I’m looking forward to not working at all today and using my impossibly slow internet to catch up.

I have noticed, however, that our blog has been getting a lot of strange attention lately. Not by bloggers, but by google searchers. Thanks to an e-mail of mine crediting Liam Neeson with being fabulously well endowed, and an e-mail of Bridget’s trying to decode Spanish, we have hundreds of hits from terms like, “Well endowed celebrities”  and “Como se dice ass hole in Espanol” (It’s fundio in case you wanted to know, it seems like a lot of people do.)

I picture someone searching for a picture of Liam Neeson’s infamous package, seeing a site called Prius Envy thinking it sounds extra promising, then seeing our pink cartooned girly site with no gratuitous pictures whatsoever. Penis puns can be so misleading.

I understand getting hits like that, I would assume 75% of internet usage is for porn. But some search terms that bring traffic to our site just blow my mind. These are some popular searches:

Envy sex feet
Cheeseburger couch
Broke my leg again
sooo u shuld git it
do girls like prius?
sevgililer günü hediyesi
Pee girls
Go pee run sexy baby girl
Horrible Crashes
Eric Bana well hung
Bridget finished with grad school ha
Sushi Birth Control
فالنتاين
Well endowed teacher
Well endowed boyfriend
Beach mean girl mind games

It sounds like tracks on an R. Kelly record.

Now, I get how if one searched “do girls like prius?” it would show our site as a possible match (the answer is yes). But let’s talk about some of the other ones here, “sooo u shuld git it”. To what post did this match? What day could we have possibly misspelled so badly to match that search to our site?

Also, I don’t remember blogging about فالنتاين lately.

What stands out to me the most is the amount of hits we get from people looking for sex. Do we really talk about it that much? I think it’s time to change the content of our daily e-mails. I feel like a pervert knowing that “pee girls” links to our site.

I don’t know if Eric Bana or Ryan Reynolds are well hung or if sushi is an effective form of birth control, and feel bad that we’re letting all of these inquiring minds down. I would feel better if people were linking to our site after searching things like, “how to deal with dysfunctional friends and family” or “Type A personality + packing a suitcase” or “how to pull of taking a fake sick day”.

With a little luck, maybe in the future we’ll be able to help these searchers find what they’re looking for. In the mean time, here is a gratuitous picture of a shirtless Ryan Reynolds.

Well + Hung + Dirty + Prius + Boo Boo + Git it,
-Bianca

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They put the fun in dysfunctional

Good Morning, ladies!
 
I am enjoying this beautiful inversion-free SLC day. Not to mention it’s Friday and I have a new blondie blonde haircut. It’s a good day.
 
Bails I’m so sorry to hear about your Prius. It doesn’t seem like we have very good luck with cars. Maybe it runs in the family (along with killer good looks and a high tolerance for alcohol). To answer your question, No. I don’t know how much a new bumper costs, but I don’t think you’re going to like the answer when you find out. But your birthday is coming up and I’m sure your parents will oblige. (Do you ever get embarrassed that we’re twenty-middle and still getting rescued financially (and otherwise) by our parents?… Me either.)
 
The idiot who hit me in the parking lot’s insurance company has agreed to fix my Prius. Getting hit three times in two months is so unfair. They say everything happens in three’s but then you’re constantly waiting for the other shoe(s) to drop. I prefer isolated incidents that never happen again.
 
How was your weekend without us, Bridget? 
 
San Diego was warm and wonderful as per usual. We biked and hiked and almost got hit by a train, we partied and superbowled and most notably, watched QDW make a drunken fool out of herself. In between telling stories of her boyfriend she would sit on brother Jon’s lap and aggressively flirt with his friends. I ended up cock-blocking (AKA: helping her not cheat on her boyfriend) which was a wildly unpopular move.
 
While fun, this trip was more stressful than usual which gives me anxiety. Spending that much time with my family makes me happy that I have such an outrageous bunch to call my own, but also pretty certain that I couldn’t live at home again.
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Sometimes my life feels like the movie, Orange County with Colin Hanks (remember how many times the song, Butterfly by Crazy Town played in that movie?). I’m the Colin Hanks character, my mom is the mom character (to a T, old boyfriend and all), my brother is the Jack Black character but in Law School and my Dad is Clark Griswold from The National Lampoon movies.
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My dad made us hand wash every dish in his sink last weekend even though he has a working dishwasher. He uses the same TV he bought in 1994 even though he has a 50-in HDTV sitting in a box in the garage, and up until last month used dial up internet and Windows ’94 (I guess he was really in to technology in 1994).
 
My mom cried when she learned we parked her car at the bar. She “retired” last year from… (I still can’t figure it out, the last job she had was in 2001), and ordered a bottle of wine plus an extra glass for the table at brunch. There were three of us.
 
My brother was an undergrad for 7 years at three universities, lived in Australia for an extra month after missing 3 flights home (Bridget, you and I met his cronies down under and it’s no wonder. They were a special breed of hippies.), didn’t have a driver’s license for 9 years due to numerous violations yet still managed to finish at the top of his law school class this year. 
 
I know, they’re pretty great. I love them more than anything and miss them terribly but due to their neurotic behavior, when I move back to San Diego this year I’ll seriously be looking for my own place.
 
Armed with rocks from my glass house,
-Bianca 

*Picture courtesy of National Lampoon, inc. The Griswolds are my favorite dysfunctional family.

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My trip to the Cardiologist

Good Morning,

In case you were wondering where I was all morning yesterday (I’m sure you were not), I was at the Cardiologist’s office. I have had major chest pain ever since I joined the awesome yet creepy MILF gym, and was worried I might be dying (as per usual). The Doc was concerned so ran every test imaginable on my poor body. Including but not limited to drawing my blood, hooking me up to electrodes, a heart sonogram (it’s not pregnant) and my favorite… the treadmill stress test, a worst nightmare for women everywhere.

First of all, this doctor could’ve been out of Saturday Night Live. Sometimes I thought he was serious, but then he would laugh. Then he would crack (what I thought was) a joke, and then say, “No. I’m serious.” He was so interested in my mystery heart condition that he invited a couple more doctors to watch my stress test and asked them to weigh in. 

I had my work outfit on because it was a Wednesday morning and was instructed to take everything off but my (high-waisted) pants. They brought me some dingy men’s size 10  running shoes to put on, and I did as I was told. I’m sitting there, in this chair; with high-waisted pants on, men’s tennis shoes, and a completely bare chest under mockingly bright flourescent lighting.

The doctors were too busy looking at charts and beeping screens to pay attention to my mortifying state, but I wanted to die. The nurse came in with more electrodes and stuck about 10 all over my chest and shoulders and asked if I could unzip and roll my pants down so she could stick some on my stomach. She then hooked these electrodes up to a series of wires connected to the treadmill.
 
So not only am I bare chested in a bright room with 5 doctors, but I’m hooked up to wires connected to a treadmill with my stomach and the top half of my panties hanging out. I felt like I was in some futuristic fetish porn just waiting for a burly spaceman to come in and take his clothes off, too.
 
I’m sure you can guess what happened next… As if it couldn’t get any worse, I was asked to mount the treadmill and start jogging. As a courtesy, the nurse draped a gown around my neck, but it couldn’t shield the image of my not-that-small chest bouncing off my chin and the walls. I’ve never ran without a sports bra let alone no bra at all. It’s not a good feeling and it’s definitely not a good look.
 
They had to get my heart rate up to 180 BPM. That is 100 more BPM than a resting heart rate. It took 12 minutes. 12 excruciating minutes.
 
After sonograming my heart again, the doctor said, “Well this confirms what I thought.”… All of that for a formality. I couldn’t sleep on my stomach last night and have to take tiny steps as to not disturb my lovely lady humps because of a formality. Awesome.
 
He concluded that I was in good shape and had a “good strong heart” but need to come in once a year because of a tiny piece of scar tissue in one of my valves. I think I’m going to take the risk and not do that again ever.
 
Four hours, five doctors and countless tests later they found a harmless piece of scar tissue in my heart. My dignity, however, is still at large.
 
Preferring conversation over cardiovascular,

-Bianca 

*The picture above is not me, it’s a man. Although it looks like we might be the same cup size.

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In lieu(lulemon) of an e-mail

Bailey started her new job today (CONGRATULATIONS BAILEY!) and didn’t have time to send us a traditional e-mail. So we thought we would share our quickie IM conversation we had this morning instead.

*Bianca: Good Morning, Gals

**Bridget: Good Morning!

***Bailey: Busy Morning. But Hello! How are ya?

**Bridget: It’s Friday, therefore fabulous.

*Bianca: I’m fab too. I had a great workout last night.

***Bailey: Your new gym is weird.

*Bianca: Tell me about it. It reminds me exactly of cheerleading tryouts except you’re judged not by your high kick but the quality and quantity of your Lululemon spandex.

By this measurement, I am the poor smelly weirdo who lives in the house where the lawn doesn’t get mowed.

**Bridget: Dude. In high school, I was judged by my high kicks and my high tops. My High School was crazy judgmental.

I got to college and it was all about spangley ass jeans.

And now that we’re twenty middle – we’re defined by it all! iPhones, Cars, Skincare… Not going to lie, Bianca, I always feel embarrassed of my skincare next to you…

***Bailey: Spangley, huh. I’m going to have to look that up.

*Bianca: Where I am poor in yoga clothes I am rich in skincare. This is true.

If only we were judged on the fuel efficiency of our cars. Then we’d be the coolest girls in school.

***Bailey: I’m only rich in JCrew clothing and accessories thanks to my JCrew card and the outlet. But I guess that also makes me rich in debt?

*Bianca: Don’t forget friendship. We’re rich in friendship. Also, carbs.

**Bridget: Ha! Friendship and carbs, two of my favorite things.

I’m $100 richer today for not texting for a week. Thanks for betting against me, roomie (seriously, thank you).

And you’re right, Bailey, you’re very rich in preppie attire. And I’m rich in techie nerd gear…

*Bianca: I’m rich in hand-eye uncoordination.

***Bailey: Really, Bianca. Carbs? I have Celiac disease.

*Bianca: You are rich in allergies, my friend. And don’t see that as a bad thing. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. So you are both rich and strong.

**Bridget: And allergic.

***Bailey: I’m going back to work.

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Slow Day, I mean Snow Day.

Dear Jerks,

I’m sorry. That was rude. I’m just jealous that you two are skiing in Park City while I’m sick at home.

While you two are having a powder day, I am doing this:

That would be me forcing Snowball to pose for awkward photos against his will. And yes, it was the most exciting part of my day.

Although I am incredibly jealous of you guys up on the slopes, I can’t complain. It’s been a nice day of working on my almost-done deadline from my couch while I watch crime shows and nurse my mild illness. But I have to be honest with you, on days like today it’s hard to come up with an entire e-mail’s worth of words (especially witty ones).

So far today, I thought it was February when I looked at the calendar, the cable guy accidentally came to my house instead of the house next door, I ate some cool whip like it was ice cream and seriously eyed the vodka (I resisted, unfortunately).

Later on I’m going to take QDW some soup because she has a debilitating kidney infection (what do you tell people when something like that happens to you… I mean there is only one way to get one of those, right?), Zumba it up, and watch Modern Family which will be the cherry on top of my day (I’m not being sarcastic, I seriously love that show).

Slippy, Slappy, Swenson, Swanson… Samsonite! I was way off!,
Bianca

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Usted Mierda. Lo sentimos.

Happy Anniversary, Ladies:

While searching for my favorite e-mail from the past year I came across this little gem and couldn’t resist. It’s not necessarily my favorite but is too relevant to pass up.

I’m working on yet again, another Spanish ad campaign [new blog readers: I work on the marketing team for a pharmaceutical company]. Instead of starting this project, I’m currently searching e-bay for used copies of Rosetta Stone.

Needless to say, I removed “fluent in Spanish” from my resume.

Dear Bridget,

I apologize for being estranged this week, but am so swamped at work. I’ve really gotten myself in to a pinch here ever since I embellished my resume. I’m not a fluent Spanish speaker, and should not have implied that I was. I speak broken Spanish at best. The only thing I have going for me in this situation is that nobody around me speaks it, and therefore my translations are never questioned.

Just barely I had a coworker walk a letter up to my desk from an angry Spanish speaking consumer and asked me to translate. Again, I speak broken Spanish, not pissed off Pharmaceutical Spanish. To boot, I don’t decode handwriting very well, either. I recognized two words out of the whole foreign chicken scratched letter.

“She’s having a drug interaction. And she’s mad… About that” (Lies).

My coworker gave me a look like she was impressed with my worldly communication skills, then asked if I could write the angry woman an apology letter. Fantastic.

After closer inspection of the letter, I found out that the woman was upset because her irritable bowel medication is making her bowels more irritated than before. What am I supposed to say to that, Señora Martínez, I’m sorry that our medication is making you sh*t. It sounds like you have enough sh*t in your life already, and the last thing you need is more sh*t.

You’d think studying in Spain would give me the language skills needed to respond to such a letter. But no, I live in Utah, the whitest place on earth and haven’t spoken Spanish outside of work projects since I’ve been home (for almost 4 years).

With the incredible wealth of my Spanish vernacular, I’ve come up with this: You shit, we’re sorry.

The story of my life.

-Bianca.

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Unruly children and other forms of birth control.

Hello Gals,
 
Bridget, in response to your e-mail yesterday about being young and fabulous yet somehow baby hungry, I would like you to watch this video and remember why we are in fact twenty-middle and single:   
 

Many thanks to Bailey for showing me and letting me hijack this video as my own.
 
I am not baby hungry. In fact, I am quite the opposite.
 
While waiting for a table at a Sushi restaurant the other night I was jumped by two unruly children. The girl who was about six years-old not only had a cold consisting of bleeding lips and green snot but was also seriously angry at her five year-old brother. She used my lap as leverage to kick him in the shoulder and face while she screamed at the top of her lungs. (You know the kind. The shrill, loud, almost high-pitched enough to be a dog whistle kind of scream.) This in turn made the little brother scream in the same pitch and hit her back. Except that she was in my lap and he was five with bad aim so was open-hand smacking me in the face.
 
This went on the entire time I was waiting for a table which means the parents didn’t come to check on their kids or attempt to find them for over 20 minutes.
 
When I was seated I finally found the adults responsible for creating these little monsters. It’s no wonder they couldn’t keep track of their two ill and violent children, they had four more ruthless heathens. I know it’s America and we’re entitled to have whatever kind of family we want (unless you’re gay, of course), but I believe that if you can’t handle the kids you already have, you shouldn’t be having more.
 
It might be Utah that I have the problem with and not the innocent children (whom which most are adorable). This place is as unique as it is sectarian. Most families in other states have smaller more manageable families that I can relate to. Perhaps if I were subject to that more often than the hyper-families of the Beehive State, I might change my tune (and biological clock) a little.
 
With that said, I want to have children of my own some day.

I know that to mothers everywhere I sound like a snobby and pretentious brat. And in all likelihood when I am a mother, I will read a blog from a twenty something who is cursing unruly children and think that she is a snobby and pretentious brat, too.
 
Two things I’ve heard about mother hood that I can actually agree with: 1: You don’t understand until you’re a mother and 2: The only children you can tolerate are your own. Because of those two truths, I am looking forward to motherhood and having a happy little family. 
 
I also have two truths of my own: 1: I’m not ready for kids yet and 2: I’m not bringing my kids to a sushi restaurant until they’re old enough use chopsticks.
 
Thankful Snowball doesn’t need daycare,
Bianca

Photo courtesy of Jill Greenberg: End of Times, “Trillions”
Video courtesy of  Emma Melissa Ryan

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