Fun Fact:
Seattle, Washington gets an average annual rainfall of 92cm per year. My hometown of Fairhope, Alabama gets 171.98cm.

Who’s “The Rain City” now, chumps?

Allyson: You had a dream about chasing seagulls, and you didn’t want to wake up?
Me: No! What? I had a dream about JASON SEGEL, and I didn’t want to wake up.

Either dream would have been nice, but I was fortunate to have actually dreamt about the actor in lieu of those rat-bastards with wings. I mean, we all know the climax of that dream would have been when crap landed in my hair.

I have been indulging in some nightly Freaks and Geeks episodes, which has caused me to say a lot of “You know, I forgot how cute Jason Segel is” and “I sort of want to punch his character for all the music talk, but Jason Segel is melting my heart.”


Segel not shown here, due to unfortunate John Francis Daley head placement.

Anyway, thanks to the show, I found myself in a literal dream-date situation last night with him. The contextual clues led to the fact that he and I were an item, but were having a do-over first date. It was pretty cute. We went to the beach a played around, and I kept pouring sand down his pants and laughing, which I think would be pretty darn accurate. Then, he was all, “What do we have here?” and pulled out a dinner made entirely of beans. I ate every single thing on my heaping bean plate and asked, “Are you impressed that I ate all those beans?” And he was. We cuddled and hung out with his friends (Paul Rudd, Seth Rogen, etc.) and it was so chill and fun.

And then I woke up. And I tried my best to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t continue it. So, I vowed to make this dream continue in real life.


Back-lit beauty.

Jason Segel, let’s go out sometime. You seem like a tall, funny, cool guy, and I think you’d like me. Also, I thought you were great in Forgetting Sarah Marshall IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.


This is what I mean.

And I’ll be equal parts creeped and okay with your 40 puppets. Seriously, you’re always bringing up the fact that you’re single, so let’s do this shit. Give me a shot; plus, think of the PR: “Handsome Actor Dates Blog Girl with Big Dreams.” That’s winning material, buddy.

At least think about it. Or I’ll hunt you down and make you think about it.


P.S. - Sweet freckles.

During work, I had to drive out to photograph and measure a home we are preparing to add to our listing inventory. As always, and especially since my car overheated due to a lack of coolant, I had my windows down so I could enjoy the scorching sun and smoldering Alabama coastline humidity. 

As I was heading down Highway 64, a rock ricocheted off my window frame and hit me hard in the ear. It was no big deal to me; I’ve been hit by rogue rocks before while driving, and one even split my eyebrow open once. However, I did say aloud how I was grateful that my dog, Kava, wasn’t riding with me because I would have been so sad if it had hit her instead.

So, you know, whatever. I turned up my radio a bit to better hear the Wilson sisters belt out “Magic Man.” I always flashback to The Virgin Suicides and feel like a BAMF when I hear that song. Even my eyelids slide down a little to give the essence of I don’t even give a crap. 

Well, as luck would have it, I WOULD give a crap…because that thing that hit me? Not a rock. No, just as I was heavily grooving, I felt something on my right hip. I looked down, a little afraid of what I would see, and it was a beetle. Phew! Beetles are fine. I mean, it was big — about the size of my index finger (which is 55mm…don’t ask why I know that), but beetles are totally benign. Then, the bastard scuttled out a little further to reveal AN INCH LONG TAIL MADE ENTIRELY OF GOO.

I can’t lie to you; after I saw this goo tail, I did what I always do in times of crisis — take a moment to turn the radio off so I can better focus on the severity of the situation. I can’t be having a soundtrack to my trauma, you know.

But really…a gooey, slimy, greasy string of yuck was following this guy wherever he went, which was all over me. What in the hell?! I don’t even understand. And here I am, driving, screaming, flailing, swerving. I have one hand on the wheel and one hand groping for something/anything to get the grossness off of me. Finally, I grab a piece of cardstock that turns out to be a coupon for a free Chick-Fil-A Spicy Chicken Sandwich. I stick it under the beetle, who is just walking freely on my fuchsia, royal blue, and grey dress like it ain’t no thang. Well, you know how beetles have those jabby little legs that stick to fabric? Yeah. I was having zero success with flicking the beetle onto the coupon thanks to that tidbit of its anatomy.

BUT WHAT WAS THIS? It was swiftly approaching the hem of my dress! That means it was on the brink of touching my skin…the brink of dragging its horrific goop tail across my FLESH. Eff no. I tossed the coupon aside, and swallowed hard. I reached down in a panic and grabbed the beetle. What resulted was that my dress was being held up and my crotch getting a fresh breath of air. I freaked out a little more as I dropped it back down with utter despair. I held my breath as its scratchy foot touched my thigh. Then I plucked that mother-effer like a champ and tossed it out the window. I actually heard it hit the pavement, which is just nasty. Siiiigh. All is well again.

I look down, and ITS TAIL WAS LEFT BEHIND ON MY FINGER. And I scream bloody murder, swerve again, and wipe the remains on the exterior of my car through the opened window. I cursed my life for having to use all my “emergency napkins” on Kava’s barfing in the backseat a few days back. Honestly, that dog doesn’t pay rent and occasionally barfs on stuff….what good is she? Anyway, I also realize that there are remnants on my dress, and I’m about ten minutes away from meeting with a client. Great. 

I do what anyone would do and utilize that Chick-Fil-A coupon yet again. I wiped The Trail of Tears (named as such because I was seconds from crying while cleaning the stripes of thick, yellow-white goo) with the edge of that card and put it atop the trash box. Uck, but finally the nightmare was over.

Well, for me anyway. I totally used that coupon on the way back into the office. Sorry, Chick-Fil-A girl.

The brand-new Super Wal-Mart had opened, and my mom and I were shopping for school supplies. I walked past a boy and his mother, and I was knocked out. He had sun-kissed skin, big eyes, and bright blonde hair like mine, only his was cut into a John-John. I decided to savor the moment by watching him walk all the way past me and disappear down an aisle. 

You can imagine how I was floored when I saw the same boy, Bradley Veillon, on my first day of second grade — seated right in front of me (thanks, alphabetical order!). He was new to our school, but he was popular right away. He played soccer and could draw really well. I loved that he could run fast; being quite the runner myself, I’d race and chase with him at every opportunity.

Once, in third grade, my soccer team played against his. He and I were both forwards, and we made contact during a play. I was trying to show off, which immediately led to my getting hurt. Bradley went to steal the ball, and somehow my shinguard broke when he kicked me. A little piece of plastic went into my right shin. It eventually became a decent-sized scar, and I would always draw hearts around it with ballpoint pen.

 

After years of worshipping from afar, I found myself in sixth grade and still pining. Bradley and I had been flirting (for FOR-EV-ERRR, FOR-EV-ERRRR)

and somehow I’ve forgotten how exactly we started “goin’ out”. BUT WE DID! Victory was finally mine! So, I attended a Catholic school, and there was a mandatory overnight retreat being held in the gym. It was fine and good, and one thing I learned there really resonated with me: “Girls are pink, and boys are blue. Don’t make purple.”

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been nine years since my last confession, and these are my sins: I made purple. A lot of purple. How many Hail Marys will set this straight? In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit…

SO ANYWAY. The next morning, after we attended a very special mass to celebrate our retreat, I had made some plans for a double date. My mom picked up Anne, Taylor, Bradley, and me in her 1997 Toyota 4Runner (mine since 2002, y’all), and we headed across the bay to Mobile to see a movie.

We bought our tickets and settled in to watch, very aptly, Never Been Kissed starring Drew Barrymore. I remember making a mental note: That Kirsten girl is really pretty. I need to see who played her because she’s going to be big.

 
Alexi Vrabel: makin’ good calls on celebrities since 1999.

Well, the usual hand holding until the sweat becomes unbearable was going on, and I was ashamed as always. Sorry, future dates/boyfriends/husbands…I’m sweaty. But I think he really liked me because he didn’t mind that I had to let go after a while to wipe my palms on my jeans.

We hopped back in the car with my parents when our movie let out, and I was just so, so smitten. Just overly happy. We drove straight to Bradley’s house to drop him and Taylor off, and when we pulled into the driveway — just before the light came on with an ajar door — he leaned in and kissed me. It was one of those romantic, partially-opened lip kisses that are warm and moist and…ahhhhh. But what was this?! TONGUE! The tips of our tongues met, and we both pulled away a little surprised. All at once, I had grown up. I had [sort of] been French kissed! A quick “goodnight,” and he was gone-baby-gone. 

Anne was going to spend the night with me, so we talked my parents into taking us to Waffle House. We put in our order; back in those days, I would get a grilled cheese with hashbrowns “covered” (this is Waffle House speak for “with cheese”) and a homemade cherry Coke. As soon as our waitress walked away, I announced I needed to go to the bathroom, and I dragged Anne in with me.

“BRADLEY KISSED ME! GRHLJAIEGKYWE!”
“Oh my God, no way!”
“Yup.”

And then I pulled out my gum, held it up to her, and said, “This gum was practically in his mouth!”

When we returned to our booth and our food was delivered, I carefully put my gum on the corner of the plate…far from crumbs and ketchup. As we were leaving, I picked it up and tucked it into my once-sweaty palm. I got to my house that night and put the gum in a tiny drawer on a Hickory Dickory Dock clock, next to an amethyst Chip Bryars gave me in kindergarten. It was my little drawer of boy stuff. I might not have the little drawer anymore, but I still collect little bits and pieces in the form of memories from the men I have loved. They’re some of my most valuable possessions. 

When someone asks me what my first job was, I always lie. It’s not that I mean to lie, it’s just that I loved my second job so much more than my first. If you want the truth, my first job was being a photographer’s assistant. However, that won’t be on the test because we’re discussing the faux-first job.



I was a high school junior when my sweetheart of three years developed a sudden interest in coffee. I remember I went out to Wal-Mart and bought a tiny bag of French Vanilla coffee grinds to surprise him. The next time he was over at my house, I announced that I’d make him some coffee. The problem was that I had no idea how to make coffee. Like, none. So, I improvised by putting the grinds in the filter and filling the water up to the top line. I’ll never forget the way my sweetheart dumped it out after one sip. “This just tastes like gross water.” Ah, love.

Since I wasn’t doing so well on the Susie Homemaker front, I did the next best thing. I started taking him to The Coffee Loft after school. I went all the time anyway because I loved their Neapolitan Icerageouses (read: vanilla/mocha/strawberry “Frappuccino” equivalent), honey mustard chicken wraps with veggie chips, and turtle cheesecake. 

Can we pause a moment and reflect on how awesome the name “Icerageous” is? IceRAGEOUS!



He seemed to like it, and so — out of nowhere — I decided to apply for a job there. They didn’t have formal applications, so they gave me a piece of computer paper and a pen. I wrote out my info: name, contact numbers, school schedule, past work experience (the only time I really credited my first job), and references. I handed it back in to the girl I would later know as Kendra. Well, the owner was there at the time, and she came right out and briefly interviewed me. She seemed particularly pleased with all my art hobbies and clubs (as it turns out, it was so I could be assigned any and all aesthetic-based tasks such as label-making, signage, and the like).

On my drive home, I was really quite pleased with myself for being so proactive and being a teenager from a “rich kid” college prep academy who actually wanted to earn her own money. Well, I was pleased until MY PHONE RANG. When I saw “Coffee Loft” flashing on that Nokia cell phone with a plastic, cherry-adorned, snap-on cover…I panicked. I answered and Beth, the owner, was on the line.

“Would you be able to start Monday? You can also come to the employee meeting on Sunday.”

WHAT?! Just like that? I started to think of ways to tell her no. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t mentally prepared for taking a job; I was being way too spontaneous. But instead, I said, “That sounds great! Thank you so much.”



A very long story made extremely short, I loved it. I didn’t have a lot of friends at my school or anything, so Coffee Loft became a haven for me. Nearly all of my current closest friends were fellow baristas or customers at the Loft, and it’s where I met my first true love. I even gained a goddaughter from working there! You know, I have three years of memories made exclusively in that shop.

 
Countless birthday parties…

 
…educational opportunities…

 
…and strenuous, nose-to-the-grindstone business.

One of my most favorite moments was during autumn of 2004. We sold pumpkin pie cheesecake, and MY GOD, it was so good. I used to take so much pride in plating it for customers. They’d point over at the deli case that was loaded with homemade quiche, sandwiches, and treats, and my heart would skip a beat. No matter which barista was helping these people, I’d shout, “I’LL GET THE CHEESECAKE!”

I’d strut over to the deli case, whip out the glass cake-saver, snick my nose in the air, and strut back behind the counter. I’d wash my hands, grab a plate, and place a slice delicately on the plate…juxtaposed to the left. I’d go to the fridge, pull out our whipped cream, and shake-shake-shake. One big squirt on top of the slice back by the crust, and three baby squirts that resembled flowers on the side. I’d swipe the caramel sauce and squeeze it over the plate, very gourmet-like, in long zig-zags. As I handed the customer their food, I’d grin and wait for their ooohs and aaaahs. And they always came. I did excellent work with dessert garnishes. 

Well, one day, I was going through this rigorous and pompous practice when — aw shiz! —  I dropped a mother-frickin’ piece on the ground. The ground you just saw bubbling. That’s some nasty ground. 

So, I channeled my inner Rachel and Chandler and got out a fork. That pumpkin pie cheesecake was MAGICAL, and there was no way in hell I was letting any more than the bottom-most layer go to waste. I even got two coworkers to eat it off the floor with me.

 

Aw, I could go on forever with the stories. More will definitely come; look forward to the Washing-Feet-in-the-Sink and the Team Gloria Estefan stories. Until then, I leave you with another shining example of my dedicated work ethic:

 

PS - I still don’t know how to make coffee in a home coffee-maker. 

When I was in preschool, we had Show & Tell every Friday. I usually brought my doll, Catherine Jayne Mary (a very superfluous and Ladies-of-Henry VIII thing to name a doll when you’re three), every single week. I’d tell the same story about how she had honest-to-goodness Nursery Magic, and she was not just a toy. One week, however, I forgot her. Because I have always been pretty good in “Oh Crap” situations, I decided to introduce everyone to my first boyfriend.



Who is that, you ask? Well, he is the terror that flaps in the night; he is Darkwing Duck.

I proceeded to tell my classmates with amazing conviction that he and I were “going steady”. I told them we went on dates and we loved each other. I think some of them believed me, but Mrs. Donna probably thought I was nuts. A furry-in-training.

It does sort of weird me out that I have had a few crushes on cartoon characters growing up. When I saw Chip from Rescue Rangers at Disney World, I was so flustered with emotions. And even now, sometimes I’ll sit down with an animation, and I’ll be all, “Daaang, boy’s fly.”



Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t totally date Zeus if he could translate into a real human being. 

I guess that I can sum up this brief First with a few points:

• I was a straight-up liar in preschool.
• Though not a furry, I could have easily passed as one.
• You know Zeus is hot.
• You never forget your first love.