Bros have been Icing Bros all over the place, man. And it's getting to be a dangerous world out there.

If you've been under a social-media rock and haven't heard the term "Icing" yet, it's when you are presented -or tricked into discovering- a Smirnoff Ice. Yes, that deliciously disgusting Malt beverage that tastes somewhat like lemonade and cat piss and vodka all at the same time. If you get "Iced", you're supposed to immediately take a knee (or both knees, if you're a lady like me and donning a skirt at An Tain at 5Pm and end up Iced) and chug the whole thing in one sitting (kneeling). Gross. But everyone's doing it. And I have yet to get puke on my shoes.

Your only defense is to keep an Ice handy to Block your icing (if so, the original instigator is supposed to chug both. OUCH) with your own bottle of Smirnoff Ice, ready in hand. But carrying around a Smirnoff Ice just-in-case is about as lame as you can get. Might as well store it in your fanny pack while you re-strap your Tevas.

Anyway. Dear Boyfriend was iced while performing the other night, which made for some stellar comic relief. In the end, he discovered it was Mike's Hard Lemonade and he was indeed duped by our friend, who had the bartender pour the equally-disgusting malt bev into a pint glass to conceal its real identity.

Regardless, I present to you Motherfucker Just Got Iced. It's a jam.

Let's start this with a very general statement;
I can grill. By which I mean, I can maybe cook you a steak and serve up some veggie kebabs. As long as you have absolutely no preference in your meat temperature and enjoy peppers and onions brushed with olive oil.

My grill and I have a somewhat sordid past. The day after I received the grill as a gift from my parents, I attempted to cook marinated tequila-lime chicken from the North Andover institution known as Butcher Boy. I got as far as opening the bag with a butcher knife when I slipped, cut open my left index finger, and was rushed to the ER by my roommate. I didn't even make it as far as pre-heating the damn grill. Grill - 1. Allie - 0.

So let's just say, I'm not the most skilled with the clunky propane beast that sits outside my apartment, but I have come a bit further since that first attempt. Last weekend, I busted out plum tomatoes, halved and skewered, stuffed with artichoke hearts, parmesan, and goat cheese. The idea may or may not have been borrowed from a Rachael Ray mag, but the execution was there. (And damn, were they tasty.)

But regardless, I remain a novice at cooking in general, and my overall fear of hurting myself/acknowledgment of my clumsiness doesn't ease my mind around a grill.

So this past weekend, as Boyfriend sat in a cold-induced Dayquil coma playing games on his iPod Touch, I decided to go to to the grocery store and tackle something I never had before: Beer Can Chicken.

You're welcome.

There are times that I wear yoga pants to work.
Some Fridays, I drink beers at my desk around 3:30.
Sometimes my CEO will IM me and ask about my weekend, and will reply with "LOL" when I tell him what a shitshow it was.
There are times I roll into the office at 9:55AM with a coffee and a bagel.
There are times I roll out of the office at 8PM and go home to do more work.
Sometimes I curse a lack of structure and lack of definition in my job role, but all too often I relish in the fact that I can be dubbed the "Go-To-Girl" of the company.
Every once in a while, I'll voice a product idea that will become fully executed and put into motion, and I will realize that I am a working part of a much bigger machine.
Sometimes, notably on the 15th and 30th of each month when direct deposit goes through, I thank my lucky stars for a steady paycheck.
But far more often, I thank fucking God that the thought of going to work doesn't fill me with dread.
There are times I come into work and am greeted by a black lab, while her owner punches along on his keyboard. Other times, a four-year-old will make an appearance and I will take every chance to revert to childhood by hanging out with her, while her dad, my boss, actually gets shit done.
Sometimes, I work from home because the warm glow of The Price Is Right on my TV is better ambiance than an office building.
There are times I answer emails on my smartphone at 1 in the morning, and so does my boss.
Every now and then, someone in the office will bring in some sort of baked good, and the day is immediately better.
Sometimes, we get drunk at happy hour festivities. Other times, we get completely trashed.
Sometimes I text my boss about completely non-work-related-things.
Sometimes I wear slippers at work.
Sometimes I don't wear shoes at all.
Sometimes I get called out on having a mouth like a fucking trucker in a somewhat professional environment. All too often, laughter simply ensues.
There are so many times I watch friends in service industry gigs sling drinks and hustle for their money, and feel like they are just simply getting by. Those times, I feel even more than usual that my work ethic has been noticed, and my ideas are appreciated.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened, had I never answered a job listing on Craigslist in January of 2007.
I never knew a job could be this rewarding.
Frustrating.
Stressful.
Promising.
Enjoyable.
Exciting.

There are times I think I will never be able to go elsewhere after this.

I am a Startup Kid.