Hey kids! Please excuse my lack-of-posting. One day, I was a ridiculously under-occupied little lady who had her entire summer wide open with no official engagements and ample time for shenanigins. The world was my oyster. And the next, BAM! Adult life decided to hit me like a ton of bricks. And now I’m all sorts of busy. The kind of busy that required me to stop at Walgreens on the way home from work and purchase myself a planner to keep track of all my appointments and all that jazz. 

I know what you’re all thinking: “Maddie, what could possibly be robbing you of your precious free time?!” Well i’ll tell you. A big-girl job. That’s right. The kind where you have to wear slacks or a skirt, and jeans are strictly prohibited. I am now Maddisen Tingey: blogger, student, competitive eater, feminist, and grown-up employee. 

As part of initiation into professional grown-upism, I have been enrolled into an intensive, virtual class in order to develop my professional people skills and such. It’s an 8-5 kind of gig, which I’m not used to at all. And I have a rather hard time sitting still for prolonged periods of time in an stuffy office that reaches somewhere between 2 and 7 zillion degrees in the afternoon. 

Sounds pretty brutal, eh? 


But I am an optimist. And as an optimist, I have discovered several gratifying features of my new workplace. For starters, my chair spins. And the spinning motion is superbly effective in keeping me alert during the late after-lunch hours when my eyelids are ready to give out and the clock gradually ticks slower and the conclusion of my shift seems to drift further and further away. 

Also, the window of my office faces a self-serve car wash, and I find pleasure in watching its patrons accidentally drench themselves with the hoses when my focus refuses to remain on my computer monitor. The building in which I work has a popcorn machine, so there is always a fresh aroma of movie-theater butter deliciousness in the air. 

And also, I get an hour break for lunch, and there’s a Starbucks a block up the street. 

See, it’s not so bad after all.

I’ve only been at this new job for two weeks, but i’ve already learned many vital, and occasionally painful, lessons about the real world. 

Lesson #1: Nobody cares if it’s your birthday. 

That’s right. This past Tuesday, I turned 19. The big 1-9. I can legally buy cigarettes now. (I won’t, because lung cancer and premature wrinkles wouldn’t look good on me, but I could if I wanted to and that’s what matters.) But in adult-world, your birthday is just Tuesday. And daily requirements persist as if it were nobody’s anniversary of birth at all, and there is no cause for celebration. The cool coworkers wish you a happy birthday, but despite their wishes, your birthday doesn’t get particularly happy until after you’ve commuted back home to the people who appreciate you for existing for the past 19 years and demonstrate said appreciation by showering you in generous gifts, sushi dinners, and cold stone. Image 

That’s me and the sis on the glorious anniversary of my being on planet Earth. 

I have one year left to be able to rationally call myself a teenager. I’m practically ancient. 

Anyway, that’s what I’ve been up to lately. 

And now i’m off to go be a 19-year-old for 51 more weeks. Here’s to immaturity and recklessness! 


But A Number

The other day, my little sister McCall and I went on an adventure to the Holy Krishna Temple to participate in their Festival of Colors. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s basically some religious celebration in which people gather at this temple in the middle of freaking nowhere to bond together over the throwing of chalky, neon-colored powder. I highly recommend this event, it’s the cheapest, messiest form of entertainment I’d ever participated in.



There we are, all pretty and tinged. (I’m the short one.) As I mentioned before, this event was boisterous, in the best kind of way. Strangers became friends (or enemies, based on your mood) by flinging handfuls of color at each others faces, limbs, and glutes. I’m For some reason, being in a crowd full of people covered head-to-toe in neon chalk gives you all the confidence in the world.

Everywhere you looked, you’d see strangers kissing strangers, guys slapping random girls’ butts, homeboys holding “Free Kisses” signs, and, my favorite, photobombers. 



I don’t have a clue as to who this guy is. Maybe he cleans up well. We could totally be a couple.(: 

It is a rare person who escaped that event without having her personal bubble ravaged by some dude who thought she had a nice tush. 

However, it’s even more rare to be asked if you’d like a “handprint on your ass.” Yes, kids, that’s a direct quotation. A spirited young fellow literally asked me if i’d like his handprint on my butt. No thank you, sir, I’m golden. 

My sister and I were approached the second we got out of the car by two thirty-something man-children who informed us that we were pretty and gave us each a lingering embrace. 

We’ll never see handprint guy or the tenacious huggers again, which makes it all okay. 

McCall and I took multiple laps around the Holy Krishna, sprinkling our chalk on strangers, taking selfies in front of the temple, and getting cat-called and smothered in blues, greens, yellows and pinks. Having the time of our lives. 

One particular bloke had shown his fondness for my appearance by throwing multiple handfuls of color in my face, over my head, and at my tummy. Later that day, he’d found me again, but this time he didn’t throw anything at me. Instead, he said “Hey, how old are you?” 

My typical response to that question is “how old do I look?” 

He hesitated, but finally responded that I looked around sixteen or seventeen years old. This typical of strangers. Can someone please tell me what it is about me that makes me look like I’m still in high school? Please and thank you. 

A little annoyed, I bluntly, and rather sassily, informed him that I was nearing my nineteenth anniversary of life. He reacted exactly the way I would have expected; he asked for my I.D. I looked over at McCall, who was grinning from ear to ear. She gloats in the fact that nearly every stranger we encounter assumes her to be the elder. She really doesn’t look older than me, though. I’m convinced that the only reason for this nonsense is the fact that she is a solid four to five inches taller than me. Her superiority in height seems to entitle her to an attitude of condescension toward me, which I do NOT tolerate well. 

I was huffing with exasperation at this point in our brief interaction. This stranger sensed this, uttered an apology, and assured me that he believed that I was telling the truth about my age. Then, he granted us the opportunity to reconvene later that evening for a hot-tub sesh, and insisted that I save his number in my phone. I humored him, and typed his digits into my contact book, and later cleared that entry. 

This is just one of multiple flustering events  in which people mistake me for being much younger than I am, which is extremely frustrating when my maturity level indicates otherwise. People always tell me I’m going to love it when I’m forty, and people think I don’t look a day over thirty. And that may be true. But right now, it SUCKS. (For lack of a better word.)

When I tell you I’m almost nineteen, don’t question it. I get that this fellow was trying to validate that I wasn’t “jail bait” or whatever, but once I told him I was no longer a minor, that should have been the end of that conversation. Geez. 

Other than that incident, McCall and I had a very enjoyable afternoon. However, it takes DAYS to completely cleanse yourself of all that chalk. It. Gets. Everywhere. 

And also, it dyed my golden locks a murky, purplish-green color. Which I am just not edgy enough to pull off. Seven shampooing treatments later, and no sign of it fading. I’m a plum-head.