You Might Be a Diet Coke Addict If…

The company I work for provides “free” cokes to its employees. They’re not technically free because you’re supposed to put a donation in a jar that goes to the Boys and Girls Club at the end of each year. But whatever, it’s not like you’re sticking $60 in the coke machine. Anyway, we were out of Diet Coke this morning and I had a fleeting moment of panic. I was quickly comforted, however, when I realized I just happened to have an extra 12-pack laying in the back seat of my car. Then I realized that’s insane. I’m still drinking the Diet Coke I got out of the car while all the other Diet Coke drinkers around here are dealing with Sprite Zero. It gave me an idea for a blog post, though. So, without further ado, you might be a diet coke addict if…

10. You’ve been able to redeem Coke Rewards points for multiple items including a $50 Sephora gift card and a subscription to O Magazine.

9. You choose a restaurant based on whether they serve Coke or Pepsi products.

8. After five hours of working out, you pop open a cold one while everyone else truly rehydrates with Gatorade and water.

7. You wake up thirsty in the middle of the night, slam one, and then fall right back to sleep.

6. One of your most vivid memories involves the way your Diet Coke tasted after a long hike on a hot summer afternoon.

5. You can taste the difference between Caffeine Free Diet Coke and real Diet Coke. Chick-Fil-A will sometimes try to sneak some unleaded in your cup.

4. You bring your own Diet Coke when you travel or visit friends just in case they don’t have any where you’re going or the off chance you might drink all that’s there.

3. Your friends (and their parents) stock up on Diet Coke if they know you’re coming.

2. You crack one open first thing in the morning.

1. You’re keeping the secret stash in your car to yourself, even though you know there are other addicts who might even pay you for one.

Plastic Surgery Alternative

This evening while I was on the phone with Kristin, she walked in the bathroom to discover that sweet little Will had unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper and was playing with it. She attempted to save the pieces that were still usable and told him he would be using those. I immediately had a flashback to 1988 when my sister Emily and I found ourselves in a similar situation.

I'm not really sure what we were playing, but during a make believe session, Emily and I decided we needed bigger ta ta's than our 7 and 5 year old baby lumps. Our creative little minds decided stuffing our shirts with an entire roll of toilet paper would do the trick. We flaunted our eco-friendly enhancements and like any good like girls, threw them away when we were finished playing. Little did we know that would not be the end. I distinctly remember the day my mom came upstairs and discovered the big black garbage bag filled with our surgical waste. Mom was furious! Not only did we have to shamefully admit what we had used the huge bag of toilet paper for, we had to use the entire bag until it was gone. I'm pretty sure I found a way to NOT use the wadded up falsies, but it sure did teach me a lesson...at least for like 10 years.

Being the middle sister definitely had its challenges, but it also had its advantages, too. I seemed to have a magical ability to be best friends with one sister and turn her against the other with little difficulty at all. Depending on what type of mood I was in, I was best friends with the cooler older sister or buddied up with the adventurous and somewhat sneaky little sister. Most of the time the little sister and I were ganged up against the older one. One particular day Mandy (little) got the brilliant idea to surprise Emily (older) with some fun...decorations in her room. I'm pretty sure we used more than just one roll of toilet paper to cover her room. Again, my mom did not appreciate the work of art we created and our punishment was to clean up the toilet paper, making sure kept the pieces together so that we could use what we had wasted. And just like last time, I'm pretty sure I didn't use toilet paper from a garbage bag. And just like before, we still didn't learn our lesson.

A few years later, Mandy and I got the urge to give Emily another surprise entranace to her room. We found every single pair of panties and every bra she owned and carefully draped them on her ceiling fan and other various locations in her room. We rigged the fan up so that when she flipped the light switch it would turn on at the highest speed possible. To make sure the effects of our efforts would be pure awesome, we tried it out...more than a few times. I will never forget the sight of those 36 DD's flying across the room. Emily didn't seem to enjoy it as much as we did. I'm pretty sure we got punished. My mom made us wear the bras and panties we had scattered across Emily's room. Just kidding, but that would have been an evil punishment for my then little B cups.

Upon closer examination of my childhood pranks, we might be able to conclude that I have what some might refer to as "boob envy". Clearly, I wanted some when I was five. And at 15 I was jealous of Emily's so I punished her bras for being so big. Emily is two years older than I am and she was an early bloomer. I relentlessly harassed her and my mom always said that I would be punished for being so mean to her. I would consider being a -A cup punishment enough. Since I'm not willing to pay for enhancements, maybe I should revisit the idea of the economic alternative I came up with as a kindergartener.

Lagniappe

Lagniappe, pronounced lan-yap, means "a little something extra" in Cajun. Here's a little something extra on a Friday night. The following post is an actual email I sent to the work out buddy in November of 2009. The events are real. You can't make this stuff up.

The subject was "I'm Lucky to be Alive".

So the most frightening thing happened to me this morning. I was brushing my teeth and right when I put my toothbrush in my mouth, I took a breath and swallowed a little toothpaste. Well, I'm not sure how it happened, but it was like my throat closed up and I couldn't swallow. Since I couldn't swallow I couldn't breathe. I freaked the you-know-what out. I threw my toothbrush across the room and started running around like a crazy person. Then I was like ok, calm down, breathe, cough, do something! I couldn't breathe and I couldn't cough so I was like oh my gosh, I am choking! But it's not like I could do the Heimlich because I didn't have anything lodged down my throat. So I tried to take a sip of water and I could barely get my mouth open but when I did I couldn't swallow so I sprayed water all over the bathroom and threw the bottle across the room. I finally got a little air and just stood still until I could get bigger gulps, but I promise you that was the scariest thing ever! I was so sure I was going to die and no one would find me. I was white like baby Audrey when she stopped breathing. I called my dad and I told him what happened and I just started crying. Now, it's actually really funny and I'm sure if anyone had been watching it would have been hilarious, but I was seriously choking!

One time my cat Timmy got a bag stuck on his head and he ran around the house like a jaguar, except he was running in to things and sliding all over the place and he wouldn't let us catch him so we could rescue him. That's how I was. I was seriously running back and forth from the living room the bathroom. I don't know what I was thinking, but I couldn't make myself be calm! I am never brushing my teeth again. You can get me gum for Christmas so I don't have bad breath.


Hannah Herring
Client Services Analyst, Client Relations
TSYS, Customer Care Division
706.649.4450 work
706.644.9220 fax
706.505.6836 cell
haherring@tsys.com

GTGL

I am not ashamed to admit that I am a fan of the Jersey Shore. My only regret is that I jumped on the band wagon a couple months too late. Kristin called me one day and asked me if I watched our Guido and Guidette friends and I was so excited to talk with someone about them. I realized, however, that I missed an important episode when they explained a part of their every day lives--GTL. Gym. Tan. Laundry. That is so my life. I don't mind it one bit, either. I throw in an extra G and L on most day. If New Life Tanning Salon would let me, I would throw in an extra T, too!

This morning I started my day at 5 am so that I could be at the gym for the very last session of the TSYS Boot Camp (thank goodness!). After leading boot camp, my work out buddy said, "Wanna run a mile?" Of course I didn't really want to, but I had no reason not to. So I did. I passed the time by telling stories while gym buddy counted our laps. I didn't care if she was listening or not. I just wanted to make sure she knew how many laps we had left. Gym.

I get exactly ONE HOUR for lunch. This is hard for me. I came from a job that allowed me to pretty much come and go as I pleased. I was attached to a Blackberry, but still...I got to go where I wanted to when I wanted to for how long I wanted to. Not so in Omegaland. I have to plan my lunches out to make the most efficient use of my time. There are so many errands to run, but how did I choose to spend my one hour today? I drove 20 minutes to across town so I could lay in the tanning bed for 20 minutes and then drove 20 minutes back across town. Tan.

Our gym is launching a new release of RPM on Monday, so I have lots of choreography to learn. After work, my work out buddy and I went back to the gym to ride the release. We decided that we are going to come up with some sweet synchronized movements to entertain our classes next week. Don't worry, we know we're awesome. Gym.

It's Friday night. I'm sitting at home watching the Real Housewives of Orange County and blogging while I'm waiting for a huge load of gym clothes to be washed. Gotta keep the GTL flow moving. I am scared for my life if I ever have my own family. I wash about 4 loads of laundry a week, just by myself. And it's not like I just throw a load in the washer and throw it in the dryer. I only dry my pajamas, and not even all of them get dried. So I have these huge loads that must be sorted, then sifted through to pull out all of the things that hang dry or lay flat to dry. Then I tote my huge load of wet clothes in the house and proceed to hang and lay out my clothes. But it doesn't stop there. I have to wait for them all to dry, fold them, and put them away. I get that this is how laundry is done, but seriously...4 loads a week?!? Laundry.

GTL. It's my life. I like my life, so I'll keep doin' it.

The Sweater Song Vs. The Thong Song

Warning: I am about to tell you too much about myself.

I teach classes at the gym. Every three months I anxiously await my new choreography and music and tear open the envelope to see what pop song I will teach twisted with as a techno remix. Often they will mix two songs and the title becomes Song 1 Vs. Song 2. Today, something happened to me that made my mind mix two songs together.

I was sitting at a co-worker's desk when I suddenly became aware that when I leaned forward, you could see about 4 inches of my back (okay, my back and maybe the top of my undies). Let's just say if I was back at BYU in the Testing Center, or the Cougar Eat, the HBL, the Honor Code police would have probably given me a warning (You know how that feels, BFF). Anyway, I tugged on my purple tank top to cover up my purple panties, but I noticed a loose string on my panties. So, I gave that a little tug, too. But it wouldn't stop. I just kept pulling and pulling and pulling. I could feel the string that started at the top of my waist band work its way all the way to the danger zone. When I finally was able to snap off the string, I had a ball of thread about the size of a quarter in my hand. Stupid, cheap Old Navy panties.

So there it is: The Sweater Song Vs. The Thong Song. "If you want to destroy this sweater, pull this thread as I walk away (as I walk away). Watch me unravel, I'll soon be naked. Baby make your booty show. Let me see that tho-on-ong."

Too much information? You were warned. Sorry, that's what you get from a day in the life of High-Heeled Hannah.

I Love ME!

It might surprise you, given my long-standing single status, that I don't hate Valentine's Day. I think a day when you get to tell the people you care about how much you care about them is important. As with most things in my life, I am able to find humor in things that others might not be able to. With that said, today's post will highlight some of my most memorable Valentine's Days. Please don't mistake any of these for me feeling sad and sorry for myself. They are all funny, and some even sweet, in their own special way.

When I was in 4th grade my mom bought me some Girbaud jean shorts. I am pretty sure I told her to buy them for me and she did so to shut me up. But here's the thing....who gets shorts in February. I did grow up in Louisiana, and even if it was indeed warm enough to wear shorts, it should never be allowed in February, unless you live in say, Cancun. But I proudly sported my new Girbaud jean shorts to school, shirt tucked in so you could see the label, and froze my chubby, not yet shaven, legs off. Maybe my mom was trying to teach me a lesson: It's not always fun to get everything you want.

Shorty after the Girbaud jean shorts year, probably the very next year, my daddy gave my sisters and me Valentine's cards. In recent years, I can count on getting at least two cards from my dad on birthdays and other holidays, sometimes 3 or 4 or 5. But not when we were younger, so this was a special surprise. I will never forget the idea of this card on this Valentine's Day. My dad had a way of reaching out to me, without ever really saying anything deep or profound. I was a very unhappy and miserable child. I was teased and made fun of for lots of different reasons. Some how my daddy knew this about me even though I never really talked about it. He gave me a card that year that said something about guessing what his most special and favorite and beautiful Valentine was. When you opened the card, there was little piece of foil-like plastic, and my chubby, four-eyed face stared back at me. I had never felt so special in my whole life.

I honestly do not remember any Valentine's Days from high school. I have put a mental block on most things that happened during those 4 awful years.

Fastforward to college. In 2002, the year the Winter Olympics were in Salt Lake, my parents had just bought me a brand new Honda Civic (rest in peace, Civ). Of course I didn't have a date, so my roommate Sarah and I drove north on I-15 to find a Cracker Barrel. I think we got to about Sandy before I realized we should have driven south. So, not truly valuing the cost of a gallon of gas or an extra mile on my car, we turned around and made the journey to Springville. Sarah and I got to eat a special "couple" table--the checker board table on top of a barrel right next to the huge wood burning fire place. I know you're jealous that you've never gotten to eat at the checker board.

I have a best friend who has a husband who is a very hard worker. He works so hard in fact, that he often needs a little coaching and reminding about holidays and birthdays. I am more than happy to assist. On their second Valentine's Day as a married couple, I was called to action. I was given a budget and an afternoon at University Mall in Orem. There is something that can only be described as a high that comes from spending someone else's money on things that I loved buying. Then reality hit and it hit hard when I had to hand over all the gifts I would have so loved to keep for myself. But I didn't walk away from that Valentine's Day empty-handed. The best friend gave me a little vase of pale pink fake roses. She said she was giving them to me since no boy was going to give me flowers. If you don't know me and my best friend, that could sound pretty ugly and slightly demeaning. It wasn't. I still have those flowers and I would take them any day over flowers from a boy.

The next year, I had a friend who was a boy, but certainly not a boyfriend. He went to Vegas for Valentine's Day, where he slept in his car with 3 other boys since they didn't book a hotel before they left. When he came back, however, he wanted to see me and give me my gift. I really wished he hadn't. I was handed a drug store gift bag filled with drug store chocolates, a drug store stuffed animal of some sort a Diet Coke and...get ready...plastic hand cuffs. And that's all I have to say about that.

A few years ago I had a cute friend named Mary who worked with me. Her boyfriend didn't live here, so she and I decided to spend Valentine's Day together. We ordered Papa John's, watched American Idol, and made a homemade chocolate cake in the shape of a heart. We had a blast and were looking forward to sharing our Martha Stewart decadence with our co-workers the next day. The next day came, and instead of feeling good about sharing our treat, I wanted to shove it in this one guy's neanderthal forehead. When Mary and I told him how we had spent our night he looked at me and snorted, "Man...you really need a boyfriend."

There are other funnier stories from more recent years. However, I run the risk other people who read this knowing who I'm talking about, and while I'm okay with embarrassing myself, I feel the need to protect the guilty.

Bless my heart. Again, it's a good thing I love myself (maybe too much?) enough to not let these get me down. Love me! (Get it? Like "Love you!")

Self Esteem Beat Down

I decided to treat myself to a Valentine's Day manicure and pedicure. Warning: Do not go to a nail salon if you're looking to feel better about yourself. Please don't get me wrong, I am really not racist, but there is something about the filter on the mouth that doesn't quite work with those little Asian women. I recount for you now the things the lady said about me in English that I actually understood. Who knows what she said that I didn't understand in both English and Vietnamese.

"Your nail yellow. You leave polish on too long."

"Ugh...that nail gross. What you do? It hurt?"

After she cut my skin and made me bleed: "Ooooo....I sorry, honey. Your skin so thick right there."

"Now your nail look better. No more bumps."

"Your flip flop too tight. You make me mess up your toe."

"Bye. Have a good night. Don't drink too much."

That's not all though. As I was standing up to vacate the pedicure chair, she quickly moved in front of me to pull my shirt down over my muffin top. As if I that wasn't enough, she actually hooked her finger through my belt loop and pulled up my courdoroys. I'm serious. It's a good thing I love myself enough to endure the self-esteem beat that will always come with visitng a nail salon. At least this time she didn't ask why I don't have a boyfriend.

If you're bored and you haven't seen this video on YouTube, I highly recommend. It's one those that's so true, it's almost not funny.