2008

In case you didn't know because of some wildly obnoxious reason, tonight is New Year's Eve 2008, and, as is my wont, I have several resolutions that I'm going to share with you because, I'm hoping, successful or not, they provide some great blog fodder later on in the year.

Here's hoping.

Resolution One: Typical though it is, one of my resolutions focuses on losing some weight, because, let's face it children, I am plump. BUT rather than making a big to do of, "I want to lose 300 million pounds in five minutes," I'm forming a more complete, two-part goal:

1. I shall begin working out EVERY morning. Why yes, this does mean dragging my ass out of bed an hour earlier every morning (and about 5 hours earlier every weekend) BUT! it also means an energetic kickstart to my day as well as a boosted metabolism.



2. I will being lifting weights 3 days a week. Since I'll be taking care of the cardio in the morning, I'll be able to focus some of my energy on bulking up on the reps in the evening hours after work.

Resolution Two: I will move the HELL out of this god awful apartment what with the neighbors and all, and into my First Official Big Girl Apartment. Now, technically, I realize the apartment I'm in is my First Official Big Girl Apartment but it was only ever meant to be temporary and it feels it. Hell, my mattress is still ON THE FLOOR. I am still, technically, living out of a suitcase because THAT is the only place to store my unmentionables. No dresser and a mattress on the floor does not a big girl make. A headboard, bed skirt, and dresser? Yes, please.

Resolution Three: I will visit Dan in Guatemala. Luckily, I now have some potential travel buddies. (Three to be exact. You're welcome, Mom and Dad.)

Resolution Four: I will save for and purchase a motorcycle. Oh, and I will also get my license so I can ride said motorcycle.

Resolution Five: I will make an attempt (or at the VERY least explore my options) at travel writing, seeing how it's the only career I think I have ANY real incling to do (more on that later, like another post kind of later).

Yeah. Five sounds like a good, solid number to me. Ohhh, except:

Resolution Six: I will finally design and set up my web portfolio so that WHEN I get a chance to get the hell out of here, I CAN.

So there you have it kids. Six wholesome, wholey doable resolutions to keep me occupied well into 2008.

Also, as a new 5 year goal (though I certainly hope it doesn't take that long because suck!) is to get a new, awesome job (preferably one I can do from anywhere in the world... like TRAVEL WRITING) and move to Seattle. No, I'm not sure why Seattle but if I ever do move to the west coast, it would be north. Also, while there, I would like to date some rough and tumble Canadian mountaineer.

Um, yeah. I'm a H-U-G-E fan of guys who work with their hands. Seriously, the two sexiest things a guy can say to me, in order of importance, are:

• I have a 401K plan.


• Let me build you something.

And shut the hell up Matt:E, the 401K thing does NOT make me shallow because I am not looking for HIM to take care of ME, I'm much more interested in someone who is smart enough and forward thinking enough to make HIMSELF secure. So bite me, buttmunch.

You heard me!

I CAN'T GET OUT OF HERE FAST ENOUGH

Fear not dear and faithful reader(s) for I have returned! I know it was a long and dark week without me around but you should never fret, I could never leave you, my adoring fan(s). AND as a sign of good faith, I need your help.

I need your help to be mean. I need your help to be spiteful. I need your help to be mean and spiteful but what I really need is subtlety.

You see, dear reader(s), it's the "charming" ass wipes that live upstairs. They have this unholy need to party no matter the time of night or, and this is particularly to my distress, day of the week. Like last night. A GOD DAMNED WEDNESDAY. And this after I wrote them a (relatively) non-pissy note requesting they KEEP IT F*CKING DOWN ON WEEKNIGHTS.

Now, I've come to the stark realization that the only way I can get these guys to shut up is to move, but, alas, that isn't happening quite yet. So no, I'm not asking for ideas to keep them quite. No, what I'm asking for is ideas of things I can do to get back at them. Preferably legal things. Preferably something that doesn't necessarily point to any human culprit (such as letting the air out of a tire). Because THEY don't need to know something happened, because the POINT is I'll know something happened so the next time I'm awoken for the THIRD GOD DAMN TIME YOU PIECES OF SHIT I WILL END YOU, I'll lay there, cursing, but also, I'll smile a small, weak but knowing smile as I roll over and close my eyes YET AGAIN.

Won't you help me smile?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

Today is my 25th birthday. React accordingly.

BABY DADDY

Before I regale you with the originally scheduled story, I feel the need to tell you about the incident that happened today.

So there I was, minding my own business when OUT OF NO WHERE, my business decided, "Elbow? I don't need no fricking elbow." To which end I promptly swung my innocent appendage into a cabinet.

Holy freaking crap the pain. NO ONE ON EARTH HAS EVER FELT THIS MUCH PAIN. (Commense with the shutting it.) The searing heat of the assaulted area combined with the prickling, heavy sensation of my hand, friends, I have not been that breath-takingly stupid since I nearly tore my toe off when I crushed it against the side of my computer tower and that was nearly two whole months ago. (And, apparently, nearly scaring the piss out of D.O. when I almost fell on the trail that was quite close to a cliff is a whole new kind of stupid and thus doesn't apply here.)

And now on to our regularly scheduled programming.

This is Matt:E.


Everyone say, "Hi Matt:E."

(Hi Matt:E.)

For those of you new to the area and those of you not paying attention, Matt:E has been a somewhat prominent feature through the years. (You can check him out here, here, here, here, here, here, here, also here, here, and finally, because I'm tired of looking, here.)

So it should go without saying that Matt:E and I? We're pretty good friends, much better friends than either of us probably ever admit. For some reason, probably because we're both sort of assholes, we just click. Hell, we went to Canada together for a week, a 15-hour drive each way and NOBODY DIED.

Now all of this is NOT to say that Matt:E and I have EVER had any sort of romantic feelings towards one another. Because... he's Matt:E. Attractive though he may be... he's Matt:E. Case in point: Just the other day, while I was wearing my new favoritest shirt ever, he actually asked me why I was looking so sexy. (For the record, it was my new favoritest shirt BEFORE he said that.) While there was certainly some awwage, there were no funny, twinkling feelings of crushiness nor overzealous joy nor did I begin planning our wedding or naming out 2.5 kids. It is just not in me to have THOSE feelings for Matt:E.

So imagine mine and everyone elses surprise when I had a dream about Matt:E. A dream about him and me and me and him having a baby. Together. A female baby. A baby that asshat kept losing.

And even in the dream I'm all "Dude? The hell? HOW DO YOU KEEP LOSING OUR KID? NO, I WILL NOT CALM DOWN UNTIL YOU FIND OUR GOD DAMN BABY!!!"

He found the baby and I'm not eating right before bed EVER AGAIN.

UNDERWIRE WOES

"Well, that was awkward."

"What was?"

"I just had to adjust my underwire in a public bathroom. I noticed it was about to poke me when I leaned over to wash my hands."

"Yeah. I noticed that."

"What?! You saw that my underwire was about to jab me in the boob and you didn't tell me about it?"

"Well, it was kind of hot to see a bit of your lingerie I'm not supposed to see."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Hey! Our waiter's been looking all night, too."

"Wait. What?!"

"Every time he's been by here he's been checking you out. Why do you think he's been so prompt with your refills? I can tell you right now it isn't your charming personality."

"God, is it that blatent? Most days I wear a tank top under this shirt but I forgot this morning."

"I'm not complaining if that's what you mean."

THESE ARE THE IDIOTS I CHOOSE TO HANG OUT WITH

Don't they look sweet in that post-coital glow? They slept like that all night, smiles plastered to their cherubic faces, wanted so desperately to cling to one another in the cool, dark still of the night.



Matt:E and Jennith share a contemplative gaze, discussing the meaning of life and how to solve world hunger and cancer.



Until Matt:E get's fresh with Jennith's boobs and she attempts to eat his sombraro in a half-hearted retaliation.



These are shots that should have been in Matt:E's high school year book.
Matt:E happy:



Matt:E pensive. Or constipated:



Umm, yeah. That would be D.O. in a trash can. Because there is no other shot I would rather get when out in nature than sitting with a trash can lid on my head.

Sadly, he was actually allowed to be the alpha male of the group for a whole 10 minutes after pulling this stunt.



Kings of the world.

TUMMY ACHE

Hi.

I have a stomach something that has been struggling to suppress my immune system for some time. Unfortunately, I gave it a helping hand Friday night what with the drinking and the damp.

I don't feel good. Leave me alone.

HAPPY (EARLY) BIRTHDAY TO ME

Friday afternoon, a coworker who happens to be the Distraction's boss asked if we were dating. We aren't and I told her so. She seemed disappointed but she told me that she had plans to give the Distraction what I thought were some coupons so he could take me out for my birthday since she wasn't going to be around to use them. I told her that wouldn't be a problem since we are friends and do hang out when time and work permits.

The Distraction just called. Apparently, what I thought was a coupon is actually a gift certificate worth $175 to the Cincinnatian, a four star, four diamond hotel and restuarant where, according to the menu they have online, a STEAK, a prime ribeye with gratin of potato, shallot marmalade, and beef jus, costs $51. FIFTY ONE DOLLARS. Hell, the cheesecake costs $12.

I mean, god damn.

She must really want us to hook up. I mean REALLY really. I don't even know what to think.

Aw shit. What the hell am I going to wear?

FUN WITH LETTERS

Okay, something funny DID happen at work today. And I tell you this tale lest you say something so stupid in front of your entire HR department:

"What is in this soup?"

"GHB."

(Very Pregnant Pause followed by Very Loud Laughing.)

"Oh, son of a.. I meant MSG, didn't I?"

"For your sake, I sure hope so."

I LIED

Yeah, I know I told you to come back today for a nice, shiny post but work kicked my ass and if I post want I really want to say about it and someone from work found it, I wouldn't be terribly shocked if I were reprimanded, possibly even fired.

Unfortunately, things like that make the funny go away. Good god, I need a jolly good boinking.

COME BACK TOMORROW

So you might be familiar (at least in name) with my big sister, Tiff. Tiff already got me a totally awesome Christmas present* LAST WEEK and may make something borderline magical happen for (or around) my birthday.**

So when that sister requested that I use my degree and make her pretty pictures on that there voodoo box I responded as any put-upon sibling would:

"Oh, god DAMNIT! What do you want? No. What do you want? NO! I'll do it. I said I'll do it, just tell me what you want! Yeah. Yeah. Oh, you've got to be kidding me. No, I'm not judging YOU. I'm just judging your taste. What? No, I didn't say anything. No, I didn't. Yes, I think it's a (cough) good idea. I mean, it is if you want it to look like shit. What? Wait. No! Stop crying. Come on! No, don't tell mom, I'm sorry! Come on! It was a joke! I'm kidding! You do have good taste. No, really. I mean it. I'm sorry. No, no, you have nothing to be sorry about. No, it's just I've been hormonal recently and I'm stressed at work... It isn't you. I P-R-O-M-I-S-E. Yes. I'll do it. Now, when do you need it by? I.. what?! You realize I have a life, don't you?! I am not a brat! Yeah? Well, you're a whore! No, you go ahead and tell mom! I DON'T CARE! Fat ass. What?! I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING YOU CRAZY BITCH! WELL I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU ANYMORE EITHER! FINE. FINE! What? Yeah, I'll do it. But you sooooo owe me."

Aaaannnnnddddd THAT is why I can't write you a proper post. Please come back tomorrow. KTHXBYE.


*Fret not. There are still 20 shopping days left until Christmas for you to buy your way into my good graces.

** The 20th. Of this month. Yes, another present is required.

MAMA WANT

I recently stumbled upon a blog about a woman who spent two months in 2005 riding across country, from LA to NYC, on her Vespa.

I am drooling and turning a peakish green color in envy.

While every single part of me wants to exactly emulate her trip, right down to riding a bull in a bar, for me to take such a venture on a Vespa would be cheeky and kitsch. Cute certainly, but not exactly my style.

Unlike this:


THAT would most certainly be my style.

Anybody want to get their motorcycle license with me?

JUST A SUGGESTION

Should you ever find yourself in a situation where you are trying to come up with suggestions for a game of charades and should the topics be books, movies, songs, and television shows, I recommend "Like A Virigin" by Madonna.

You will not regret it.

BAD NEWS

I made our executive secretary cry at work today.

No. I wasn't mean to her. I didn't know what I was going to say would make her cry. I knew it wouldn't make her happy. Hell, it didn't make me happy and I have much more invested in it than she does.

I found out today that the job I was sort of riding on becoming full-time. Isn't going to become full-time.

Now, despite what you may think and despite the plans I had made because of the chance of that happening, I wasn't upset in the slightest when I found out. There was always a chance it would get cut somewhere along the line.

What annoyed me is what level it got cut at, the same level that weeks prior has approved it to move on to the next round.

What pissed me off is the reason. Apparently, I seem to get along fine at my job while only being 35 hours a week. That's right, kids. I'm being punished for being efficient. Stressed the mother f**k out, but efficient. I guess they haven't noticed that I've recently begged off any more small projects until I manage to get caught up after the debacle of just three weeks ago that left me so frazzled I thought I might have to commit justifiable homicide.

To top it all off, the ONLY god damn reason I only work 35 hours a week is because MY BOSS told me in no uncertain terms that am I never to work over that. Or get overtime.

Turns out, not only am I ALLOWED to work 40 hours a week if I so choose (though not all the time and I'd still be considered part-time), I can get overtime so long as it's approved by whatever department it's for first. Don't be mad at my boss. She didn't know this either.

Ugh. I'm disgusted. And this after showing a co-worker my clever hiding place for my passwords (That would be under 'P' on my rolodex. See, it's clever because I have SO FREAKING MANY.) and she stared at them, appalled and disgusted, and told me based on THOSE ALONE, I have too much to do. Because of the number of passwords I have! Too much! But I don't need a full-time job. Nope. I can get done a job in 35 hours a week that used to take two people 60. S-I-X-T-Y.

Morons. That alone makes me worth keeping.

SO WHAT YOU'RE SAYING IS I'M TOO COOL FOR YOU?

"I'm a nerd."

"HAH! My friends and I have you so beat!"

"Whatever."

"No. Seriously. I can watch five minutes of ANY EPISODE OF STAR TREK and tell you what it's going to be about."

"... Damn."

"Yeah."

"Well, I like Star Wars."

"Everybody likes Star Wars. Doesn't count."

"Okay, fine. If I'm not a nerd, what am I?"

"I've always thought of you as boarder-line hipster."

"I.. you.. REALLY?"

"Yeah."

"What about me makes you think I'm hipster?"

"I DIDN'T CALL YOU HIPSTER!"

"What about me makes you think I'm boarder-line hipster?"

"Well, you're a graphic designer."

"Okay, but I don't really think I fit in with a lot of graphic designers."

"And the music you listen to."

"The music I listen to is crap."

"Fine, well maybe you aren't hipster but your friends definately are."

"Are you f**king kidding me? They're E-N-G-I-N-E-E-R-S. Dweeby, nerdy, socially inept engineers!"

"Well what about Matt:E?"

"You mean your boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

"He's a BIOMEDICAL engineer! Besides he's from California. By California standards he's the most painfully nerdy man ever born, which, granted, makes him almost cool by Ohio standards. Did you ever tell you BFF (DBF) about your thing for Matt:E?"

"What?! No way! Come on! Matt:E is just an affair, a fling, a nothing really. Besides, he's high maintenance."

"He's high maintenance? How is he high maintenance?"

"He's demanding. Your personality has to mesh with his instantly or he throws you to the curb, therefore, high maintenance."

"Well, you two seemed to hit it off."

"I know! I've never meshed with anyone that quickly."

"Well, I think he has a bit of a man crush on you. He wants me to keep you around. He told me I should hook up with you."

(At this the Distraction giggles and leers at me.)

"Not like that! He wants us to be long term. Committed. He's afraid I might become fickle, get bored with you, and toss you away."

"HEY! That is a VALID concern!"

CHEWIE CAPERS

After spending a few days getting settled into his new life with my sister and her husband, Chewie, the newest addition in puppage form to the family, decided to show his assertive side.

He decided to do this several feet from the floor.

My family has always celebrated Thanksgiving on the Saturday before or after Thanksgiving and this year was no exception. Sure, we go out with Grandma on Thursday, but the real party, with an average attendance of 30 some odd people, and thus the real Thanksgiving is and shall forever be (so long as my parents keep hosting) on Saturday.

It was during this Saturday Thanksgiving that my Not Really Aunt But Close Enough For Our Purposes Here had Chewie sitting on her lap. He'd never really made any attempts to jump from any height so no one really thought to tell her to hold him still. Just as she turned to talk to me, Chewie thought it was a good opportunity to make a break for freedom.

Chewie is only 8.5 weeks old. Chewie is very top heavy. Every time this puppy attempts to eat anything, his hind legs raise up into the air in a way vaguely reminiscent the water drinking bird.

His front legs are not yet strong enough to catch the weight of his bulbous head.

He did a face-plant straight into the carpet at the end of a two-foot fall.

There was a resounding thud followed by dead silence for the briefest of moments. Then he started crying. He stumbled towards my sister, his jaw apparently stuck open from the impact (we think he briefly dislocated his jaw). He managed to work it back shut and quite crying but the poor thing knocked all the spunk out of himself (for the next few hours). I say this because he was exceptionally content to just be held for several hours following this event.

Our immediate reaction was to comfort and sooth him and I worried we might be creating a fear of heights in him. Until he almost attempted the same maneuver while my sister's husband held him.

Crazy little shit. At least he looks good in (and likes) sweaters. Pictures of said sweater to follow.

KINDA PISSED

I.. you.. gahh. It is terribly frustrating to care deeply for someone, several someones, and yet to be utterly useless and helpless and.. yeah. As much as I'd rather not be, I'm kind of resentful that I don't matter anymore.

And for the record, the Asshole is and shall be forever Mike. I don't consider Man Friend to be an asshole. Infuriating, but not an asshole.

NEWEST LITTLE ADDITION

I have a nephew.

I was just a surprised at you are.

No, neither of my sisters are or have ever been (as far as I know) pregnant. And yes, technically, I am already an aunt because one of my sisters has a cat. A very stand-offish cat who likes to, literally, roll in it when you put but a wee pinch of cat nip on the floor. A cat that only semi-tolerates me because I'm bigger than she is and she doesn't have much of a choice.

There are certain things, dreams really, that I've had. One dream in particular was getting a dog and I guess, seeing how I'm older and all, I just always thought I would be first. I would be the reason my parents would again keep treats and bowls and maybe even a doggie bed. I would be the one to be a pain in the ass at Thanksgiving since it would be my totally awesome, kick-ass dog underfoot, tripping adults and trampling the smaller children.

Alas. It wasn't to be and, to be perfectly freaking honest, I wasn't expecting to, once again, be last one of us to accomplish something in life, but this weekend, my younger sister's husband gave me a nephew. Or, more to the point, he surprised my sister with a puppy.

Introducing: Chewbacca Abu.


I promise you there is a puppy on that couch. I realize you can't actually SEE him, so I drew a helpful diagram.


He's a pug. And I found out he looks good in jaunty sweaters that I might buy him at PetsMart because HE WAS COLD!!! AND IT HAD A SCARF!! And it wasn't pink. Maybe a little metro but NOT PINK BECAUSE HE IS A BOY DOG, SO HELP BOB GOD!

Bean's only had him 3 days and in those three days he's only crapped on the floor 3 times. But he's a puppy and he doesn't know any better. However, the dogs in our next story did.

The Distraction recently moved back in with his parents in an attempt to continue to hoard squirrel away save money. His parents have two dogs. His parents do not allow the dogs to sleep on their bed so they got used to sleeping on the bed in the guest room.

The same bed the Distraction is now occupying.

He's been pretty good about keeping the door closed so they can't get in there and ransack his stuff but Wednesday morning, while he was talking his shower, he forgot. As he walked back into the bedroom, he noticed the room was smelling a little ripe. He scanned the floor but found nothing. Until he looked up.

One of the dogs had taken a shit on his FAVORITE pillow as punishment for kicking her out of her room and off of her bed. And the Distraction, ever the believer that he will NEVER FIND A PILLOW LIKE THAT PILLOW EVER AGAIN AMEN, is attempting to salvage it.

What do you do? HOW do you do that? You could never again lay your face on the poop side of the pillow, I don't care how clean you think you got it! And how do you find out which side is which? I don't know about you, but I'm too classy to have to SNIFF MY PILLOW to find out which side I'm going to be laying my head on. Particularly when I have friends like me that would take advantage of the situation and flip that sumbitch the hell over at EVERY AVAILABLE OPPORTUNITY.

I THINK I JUST THREW UP IN MY MOUTH A LITTLE

Last week my dad had surgery on his ugly-ass foot with his wigged out, curly toes in order to fix his bunion. Because he is a 90-year-old resentful, bitter, washer woman. With hideous feet. And curly toes. And veins, oh my sweet God, the veins.

They also removed the shattered remains of a bone he demolished almost 30 years ago, but that is neither here nor there. (But it is a lesson to you youngin's out there to NOT jump from first story roofs "all the time" lest your feet look my dad's. Let me assure you, if your feet look like my dad's you will scare small children and make them cry. And if your feet look like my dad's you will also never get into my pants because ewewewewew. If I seriously SHUDDER every freaking time you unfurl your toes, I will lose all interest in the rest of your body.)

He's being a rather brave chap about it all despite the pain and the swelling and the infection that he swears to my mother will turn gangrenous, and, ever the glutton for attention, after exhausting that topic of conversation he felt the need to point out the pain in his elbow:

Mom: "You know what would fix that?"

Dad: "Ice cream?"

Me: "Sex?"

Dad: "Yeah! Well, no. I have a tendency to flex my toes."

Me: ((Gagging, sputtering noises)) "Ew. Ew."

Dad: "I mean, I've certainly thought about it but that would hurt VERY much."

POOCH

Me: "The Distraction wasn't very happy with me today."

Mom: "And why is that?"

Me: "His sweater dried funny so it kept flipping up whenever he would sit down but before we knew that to be the cause we were making fun of him for having a pooch. Then he got mad at me because I kept grabbing at it."

Mom: "Better his pooch than his pouch."

Me: "What's the difference?"

Mom: "Well, his pooch is his belly and his pouch is... his testicles."

Me: "And you think he'd rather I grab his belly?! He's a boy, Mother."

Mom: "You're probably right. What was I thinking?"

QUESTION

How do you want to be remembered?

AND I'M NOTHING IF NOT CLASSY

Last night was Fight Night and we spent it at the newest BW3's, just off of campus. Unfortunately, last night was also a big UC football game so parking was all but non-existent (see: I parked on the opposite end of campus at my fraternity and walked a good mile to get there). So when it was time to go home, the guys and I hitched a ride back to my car.

"So what are we doing now?"

"I think just going home and going to bed."

"We could always go back to their place and have an orgy."

"I don't know guys. Four of you and one of me. I don't really think it would be so much an orgy as a gang bang."

(Disgusted groans)

"It just takes all sense of class out of it when you call it a gang bang."

AMENDMENT

I want to add to my list. I want to make an amendment. I just.. need to talk this out so bear with me. I'll try to make something funny happen tonight so you can (hopefully) get back to laughing at me tomorrow. (This is assuming you actually find me funny.)

It may seems to some that after my last post, I may be questioning some of the more monumental choices I've made. This is not the case. I still want to attend grad school. I still plan on pursuing marketing, probably at UC which doesn't thrill me but if they have the program... because, technically, I like what I do. When I actually get to do it. And I want to keep my current job (most of the time) but I also want to pursue something I've always loved doing, something that, until hearing a suggestion from Dan, I had sort of let fall to the wayside.

I want to travel. And I want to write about it. Then I want someone to pay me for it and actually publish it somewhere that others might read it.

When I visit Dan in Guatemala next year, he offered to take me to an area that was ravaged by the 36-year-long civil war, the longest in Latin American history. He thought perhaps I could freelance, write a story about my experiences while I'm there. And I think I might be more than a little bit in love with that idea.

Now I just have to figure out where to go from here.

(IN)(RE)FLECTION

Today, for the first time in over a year, I saw my best friend Dan. And today, for the first time in over a year, we talked about life and our pursuits, about friendships lost and found. We also found that we both intend to pursue a Masters degree.

"I really, really don't want to attend UC again but they're the only college around here that has the program I want to get in to."

"And what's that?"

"Marketing."

"... Is that what you want to do?"

"I... I don't know."

So now, based on one simple question posed with just the right inflection to evince both surprise and (a hint of) judgement, I'm thinking I have some thinking to do.

Handily enough, he also presented me with the answer. Problem is I'm now stuck with providing the how.

STANDARDS

Ahem... (insert wildly inappropriate joke here)

SOOOOO, after yesterday's charming little glance into my delicate inner psyche I thought it might be wise, dear reader(s), to entrust you with my eternal happiness. (Oh, yes, I did.)

How do I intend to do this? By allowing you to find me eligible men to date? Oh, H-E-L-L-Z no. (Why? Who did you have someone in mind? Is he cute? And loaded?) No, I'm going to let you be involved, gentle reader(s) by telling you all the simple and straight-forward qualities I expect.. nay! deserve in a life mate. This way the next time I bring home a unsuspecting victim play thing love interest and tell you all about it in a well-written and thought-provoking post (because ALL of my posts are well-written and thought-provoking... especially that one about my boobs), you can wave a warning, figurative finger in my general direction, sweet reader(s), and tell me in a stern but caring voice:

"NO! Bad girl! We do NOT like losers on this website. Stop it. Stop obsessing. Hey! Lookie here! Something shiney. You likey the shiney, don't you?! Yes, you do. Now isn't that better than worrying about that dumb old boy? Wait. What? Shit. Hey! Where are you going?! STOP OBSESSING, GOD DAMNIT. Oh, dear God, you're helpless."

Heh. Not that it will be anything like that.

As I said before, these standards, these qualities, these ideals are quite simple and straight-forward. I'm not demanding. I'm not high maintenance. I'm not looking for the moon on a platter. But I am looking for a few things that will set this guy apart from his contemporaries. A few things that will make me sit up and take notice. Those few things are as follows:

I want someone tall and rugged. We're talking a good 200 lbs but not so much fat as solid, barrel-chested if you will. Someone with legs like tree stumps that go on for days but not too long, rippling yet delicate shoulders, and arms that could bend steel, except not really ripped looking because that's icky. Dark, luxurious hair, almost black yet subtly blond, but not quite is a must and green or blue or brown eyes with flecks of color that pour out emotion and compassion and understanding but not in a sissy little nancy boy sort of way. No, I want me a manly man but one who is in touch with his emotions and likes cuddle in the early morning hours and listen to me talk about my hair and my period and that bitch in accounting. He should be intelligent, well-traveled, quick-witted, charming, and funny, and he must also find me funny, not to mention smart, independent, generous, sweet, kind, and dangerously sexy. He has to read rapturously, type 70 wpm, and like to write me love notes. But not sissy love notes. Manly love notes. And not poetry. He must be able to grow a full beard at will but he must shave it every day except Sunday. He should cook, clean, and take care of my car without a hint of whining or complaint. When in public, he should stoically carry me about on a satin pillow while feeding me chocolate covered strawberries or rubbing my feet (but not at the same time). Also, he should be able to fly.

[Ed. Note] Alright. Let's be completely honest because this thing isn't nearly as funny as I was hoping for. You know what single quality genuinely matters? The bastard has to be FUNNY. I don't care who you are, if you can make me belly laugh, I'll develop a crush on you. I am not kidding.

And he has to own a motorcycle.

In the interim while I'm waiting for Mr.ItsAboutDamnTime, I'd like to take a moment to introduce you all to my new internet boyfriend. Why no, I've never met him and no, I don't intend to and no, he doesn't actually know he's my internet boyfriend. Shut up. Whatever. He is so too. Because oh my shit is he funny. (Yeah, that really might be all it takes.) (Shut. Up.) (Bastards.)

HERE'S WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME

During my freshman and half my sophomore years of college, I dated a very nice, upstanding accounting major. Long distance. He was tall, sweet, charming, cute, smart, and treated me exceptionally well.

We'll call him Marc. Because that's his name.

Marc and I met a week after I graduated high school at my best friend's graduation party (oh dear God, that sounds vaguely familiar). He was my second boyfriend ever in the history of my life and we had our heads so far up each other's asses that we used one another's lungs to breathe. Three months into dating we were talking about getting married when we graduated (keep in mind, three months into dating I has JUST. STARTED. CLASSES. There was even a brief while during Spring quarter my freshman year that I toyed with the idea of transferring to Kent Read, Kent Write, Kent State to be closer to him.

This did not happen.

But it got me thinking and eventually I began thinking that maybe I wasn't ready to be in such a serious relationship. Maybe I wanted to have the normal college experience that I wasn't having by driving 4 hours home and 4 hours back every other weekend. Maybe, at 19 years old, I just didn't want to have the rest of my life planned.

While all those are certainly part of the reason I decided to break it off with Marc right after Christmas 2002, the real reason I quit is quite selfish. The real reason I threw him one out of left field makes me a little bit ashamed. The real reason I told him I wanted to take a break is because I wanted to experience falling in love with someone else.

No. I know what you're thinking and it's the same thing that he thought. I didn't have anyone else specific in mind, rather I just wanted to prove to myself I could MAKE someone love me.

It didn't go well. And by that I mean I didn't date ANYONE again for three years.

Three years, I have found, is plenty of time to dwell on and feel guilty about my decisions because that is exactly what I did. I spent most of the next three years regretting tossing Marc away so callously and eventually began to fear that I'd ruined my only chance to ever find anyone. So when the Asshole came around in the summer of 2005 and showed some interest, I went for it. I wasn't that into him. I recognized right away that he was cocky and arrogent but after so long, a little bit of attention felt nice.

And then, as if by magic, he turned into a R-A-G-I-N-G, sardonic asshole who made me feel like a chore, who would make subtle yet chiding comments about my weight, and who, I'm pretty sure, might have cheated on me. Yet, did I end it? No. I held on bitterly believing I could make it work; being too stubborn and hard-headed to admit that I made a mistake; fearing, more subconsiously than anything else, that maybe this was my only chance (and, even worse, thinking maybe I deserved to get treated like shit for the way I hurt Marc).

Do not lecture me. I realize how dumb I was. Though that doesn't mean the fear has gone away.

I have recently realized that I have this pervasive fear that has effected two more relationships since the Asshole. I fear that this chance, this time has to work because I'm not going to get another. As a result I tend to put far too much stock into something that I KNOW isn't right, where I SEE the signs but I turn a blind eye because, technically, you can make it work with anyone (though, obviously I seem to be missing the point that just because I CAN doesn't mean I SHOULD).

And this trait, it bothers me, maybe even frightens me, to realize this propensity in myself.

The holiday's always suck for me. I am one of two three left in my age group who doesn't have someone significant in their life, and to be perfectly honest, it makes me lonely. While I know it isn't expected of me, I feel as though at (almost) 25, I should have this figured out by now. I feel should have some clue. I feel I should be tied down at a time in my life when I keep telling myself that is the LAST thing I want. Because I don't. I don't want to be tied down. Not yet. But what I DO want is the reassurance it will happen someday. I DON'T EVEN HAVE TO KNOW WHO. It's just the lack of a guarantee that has me flustered and apprehensive, that makes me cling longer than anyone should to a cause I have known all along wasn't what I wanted.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone. But I also don't want to settle because I'm worried that this is it.

The good news is, now I realize this, which means I can fix it.

The bad news is, if any new guy reads this, I've pretty much admitted I'm neurotic. It's okay Future Boyfriend! I fixed it! Besides, crazy is TOTALLY the new sexy.

ASTHMA IS SEXY

"Oh God, I can't breath. I have to go. I'm sorry for being such a tool."

"It's okay! You can't help it... Wait. I didn't mean it that way."

(Coughing fit) "I... (cough) am going to kill you (hack)(hack)(cough) if I don't die first."

CONVERSATIONS WITH COWORKERS, PART 4 & 5

"What?! Since when have we been in charge of that? I've never been in charge of that! That isn't me."

"It's been yours since I started here. In JANUARY."

"Well, I didn't know that."

"... What exactly do you DO?"

"Nothing. I do nothing all day."

"Really? Would you like to trade jobs then?"

"Hell no, I don't want your job."

"Then quit bitching like you HAVE my job."

* * *

"What if I tazed her? Would they send you to jail for tazing someone? What if you had good motive?"

"Justifiable or not, sweetie, it's still considered assult."

POP!

Tonight I got the Distraction to take me to dinner. To my favorite restaurant. And he bought cake.

Tomorrow he's taking me to a movie.

Granted I'd much rather the reason he's being so nice NOT be stress at work that just might make my head explode so help me God woman if you change one more pointless, fricking thing I just might snap and and brain you with the leg I tore from your stringy, pointy body and then use the blood to paint my face before screaming and chanting as I dance about your entrails calling down the eternal wrath of god upon your house, name, and your annoying little offspring.*

Pant. Pant. Pant.

Thank everything that is good and just and right in this world that I'm getting overtime for this shit.



*Every part of this rant is entirely fictional. I'm not nearly strong enough to tear anyone's limb off. Nor do I have the ability to command the wrath of any god (that I know of)(wouldn't that be an awesome party trick if I could though?). Any exploding of my head would be completely coincidental but could be entirely blamed on her.

NOT SO MELLOW YELLOW

I feel as though I might vomit. Partially because my stomach has lodged itself firmly up in my throat.

And I'm not even sick.

No, no rather I'm an idiot. I mean, it's been a long ass night. I was late at the office earning myself a couple hours of overtime and all I really wanted was to be home for the night so when the light turned yellow I gave it a little gas and as I sailed through the intersection I noticed in the corner of my vision the ominous shadow of one of Cincinnati's finest.

I do believe I uttered, "Oh f**k me."

I then proceeded to do the "ohpleaseohpleaseohplease, God no" dance.

Because the light? IT. WAS. YELLOW. And I know that means clear the intersection and hey, you. Dumb ass coming up the off ramp. STOP.

But I didn't stop. No. I breezed on through that intersection like I enjoy lighting C notes on fire. And as that cop pulled up behind me I could feel my chest tighten and my cheeks flush and I begged for that cop not to turn the way I was going.

But he did.

I was in a panic because oh my God, I'm not showing NEARLY enough boob to sweet talk my way out of this. BUT IT WAS YELLOW! Not red. Not even ORANGE. Y-E-L-L-O-W. He MUST be screwing with me. Like a sick, perverted cat and mouse, he was just toying with me and strewning about my entrails before going in for the final kill. That dirty, rotten son of a bitch. I hope he's getting his rocks off from this because oh my GOD. Just pull me over already you asshat cop.

And then, as I pulled up to the next intersection and threw on my blinker and the cop continued on straight... I apologized to his mother for calling her a bitch.

And right now my mother is LOSING. HER. SHIT. I wasn't speeding mom!

Especially after that cop started following me.

ODE TO D.O.

Dear and gentle reader(s), there is much rejoicing to be had for I. have found. my iPod.

(Heavenly angels rejoice)

This means that NOT ONLY do I have my Africa pictures back, but, more importantly (for the sake of this post), I have my D.O. pictures back. Do you know what that means, dear reader(s)? Do you have ANY idea just how monumentous a discovery this truly is?

It means the D.O. video can actually be. I means that all of you will get to enjoy, nay, revel in the glory that is patented D.O. seduction technique.



Oh, you know yer hot for it.

But I need help. I need the perfect song to make this animation the most glorious of glorious it can be. Sans that though, I might just go with Creed.

Please don't make me go with Creed.


Also, the standing threat is if D.O. cuts Dan's majestic mane while he's down in Guatamala this week (meaning I am unable to do the job) I will end the animation thusly: "For a good time call 513-207-XXXX." Without the X's.

18 MONTHS AND COUNTING

I'm bored with my life as it is right now. I don't DO anything. I work all day, come home to an empty apartment, make dinner, maybe work out, then go to bed to do it all again tomorrow. No where in there is there much room for relaxation because just sitting on my ass and "unwinding" in front of the TV isn't cutting it. My job is stressful, moreso because I genuinely care than for any other tangible reason. Sure, there is constantly some project staring back at me with hollow eyes, something else that needs to be added to my evergrowing to do list but rarely have I felt overwhelmed to the point of panic (twice in a years time is F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C compared to the panic attack I had like clock work every quarter when I was still in school).

My point is, I'm not finding great ways to spend my time, to unwind. And I'm bored.

I also realize I can't blame anyone but myself.

But recently, I've been taking some proactive steps. Rather than just wait for the weekend to maybe, possibly think of something interesting to do, I'm making some plans. I'm researching and finding things I'm interested in and gathering up some interest in those around me.

On the short list so far:

• Meeting Dan D. at the airport (on a school night no less!)


• Attending the Found vs. PostSecret event with Jennith on November 18 (I just bought our tickets tonight)


• Renting a cabin out near Mammoth Cave the first weekend in December (Speaking of which, I'm looking for 2 to 6 more people who are willing to commit to going. Since it's the off season we can get a cabin for $15 per person if we get enough people.)


• Making ginger bread houses with Jennith and Courtney some weekend before the end of the year

On the long list:

• Skydiving


• Visit Guatamala


• Start grad school


• Get a dog


• Volunteer for Habitat for Humanity

Also:



Ireland. I plan to be in that EXACT SPOT in 18 months.

Sans that, I'll accept Nova Scotia.

FOUND VS SECRET

Who wants to go?

MATT:E

"Is that your purse?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't look like your style. That is more something I would imagine Jennitee having."

"..."

"Well, it's just that it's fashionable."

"..."

"I mean that as a negative."

"Good save."

PRIORITIES

Not that this will come as any sort of surprise to anyone in my bloodline but I found yet another reason I am My Father's Child.

It is currently 7:45 p.m. My friends should be arriving at my place in 15 minutes so we can head out for the evening.

I just spent the last 10 minutes cleaning my apartment like a mad woman to the detriment of putting on my makeup because I would rather my friends have to wait on me a few extra minutes while I put on some mascara than to see my apartment (THAT WE WON'T BE STAYING AT FIVE WHOLE MINUTES) in the state it was in.

Keep in mind, the "state" it was in took me ONLY TEN MINUTES TO CLEAN SO AS TO BE SPOTLESS. I even MADE. MY. BED. There is no good reason for ANYONE to go into my room.

And my makeup is done, too.

IF THEY HAD CONTROL

Contrary to popular belief, the Distraction and I are not actually dating. Yes, I realize I've been writing about him a lot but that can be explained thusly:

1. I see him nearly every day because we work together.



2. I have no life. (Call me.)

The reason I say this is contrary to popular belief is because there are a shit ton of people at work who think we are dating. And when informed that we are not, indeed, dating, they believe we should be. Let us explore some of the reasons why:

1. You guys get along so well!
   
   Alright, fine! This one is true and I have no witty (read: snarky) comment in response.



2. He just broke up with his girlfriend.
   
   And god knows you could use some play. Why are we still talking, girl? Hop on it!



3. You guys are around the same age, right?
   
   Which means it is your CIVIC DUTY to consumate RIGHT NOW. (I can also name three other guys I'm in the same age range of that I work with. Why not make me the town whore?)



4. He's cute.
   
   He is cute. I'm not sure why I'm arguing this point.



5. He's good with kids.
   
   KIDS?! Are you freaking kidding me? I... I... He... No.



6. You know, you're allowed to date people you work with. I know because J. and B. got married.
   
   KIDS?! The hell people?!!!

No, no really. Kids? Good lord the woman was selling him hardcore. Like a slab of man meat.

"He's tall and smart and funny and cute and you know what else? He's good with kids. I mean, that IS every girl's dream right? It must be because you're single and what else could you possibly think about? It must be shameful for you to still be without a good man and a couple of kids. How old are you again? 24? Yeah, you should have at least six by now. What's taking you so long? Ohhh! You know what?! You should totally get knocked up THIS WEEKEND! He's such an upstanding guy, he would DEFINATELY stand by you. Sigh. I can see it now! It'll be such a pretty shotgun weddin', because NOTHING is sexier than a barrel mark in the back of a rented tux."

BITTER GRAY HAG

I found something today. Something that almost made me cry. Something, that until now, I though was a myth. Okay, okay. Maybe not a myth but something that I hoped would never happen to me. Hoped, mind you, but I knew better. I knew it was just a matter of time.

BUT I THOUGHT I HAD TIME!!! I mean, I'm still young! I'm not yet 25. I just barely graduated college a year ago. I... I thought I had time.

Sadly, today ruined ALL of that. Today my innocence was ripped from me by cruel and callous hands. And by hands I mean follicles, because today, fair reader(s), I found my first official gray hair. I'll have you know that immediately after I tore that sucker out of my skull with nary a hint of remorse I called my mother and blamed her faulty genes for this tragedy that has befallen me.

You know what that heartless bitch said to me? (HI MOM!!! LOVE YOU!!! XOXOX) She said, and I quote, "I can buy you something to fix it." She then proceeded to snicker to herself before calling me old.

Wench. If I'm old you're ancient. What?! I'm just sayin'.

PRINESS PARKER POSIE

For Tiff with love:



You're welcome.

CONVERSATIONS WITH COWORKERS, PART... UM... THREE. YEAH, THREE

"Remember how I told you I was going to get a killer bruise from running into the drawer yesterday? It's definately a welt."

"Oh, gross. Is it all splotchy purple and yellow?"

"Ya know, for as bad as it hurt, the bruise is not that impressive."

"It's still gross."

"Don't worry. My tights hide it."

"You're tights?"

"Yeah. I wore orange tights for Halloween today."

"Well, R. wore an orange shirt."

"So, what are you wearing?"

"..."

(At this point we both break down into immature giggles)

"For Halloween. What are you wearing for Halloween?"

"I'm so telling HR."

"Sigh. Go ahead. I already touched someone from HR's butt yesterday."

"You what?!"

"It was an accident! I have big, oafish arms! And... she had a big, oafish butt."

TOOLY O'TOOL

The Distraction saw a new side of my personality this weekend, the bloody effing slave driver side.

No. He didn't call me that. I'm merely translating Sissy Boy Whimper.

Now, why did the Distraction get to see that bright and shiney side of me? Because he asked me to help him move out of his house and into an undisclosed location. (Yeah, his parent's house.)(He's not dealing with it well.)

His landlord, who also happens to be his housemate, got to see a new side of me, too. The side of me that thinks he's a huge fricking tool (the landlord, not the Distraction who is merely just a sissy). Because he is. And not just ANY tool but the Tooliest Tool who ever Tooled. He's also a world-class asshole.

Sadly, I am remiss in figuring out WHY he must think that I think he's a royal friggin tool. I doubt it could have been the two times I gave him the finger (since his back was turned both times) or the time I called him a tool (because it was said under my breath).

It could have been the glares. Yeah. It was probably the glares. I didn't really hide those.

You're probably wondering why Mr. Tooly O'Tool gets such a special distinction. Let me give you an example:

A woman that could be called, semi-accurately, Mr. O'Tool's girlfriend was on her way over, which Mr. O'Tool rolled his eyes about because fair from being his girlfriend, Mr. O'Tool is playing this woman to get her to buy some of his real estate.

But she's a bitch and kind of deserves it.

No, what really got me was the bitching about the mud in the house while we were moving (there was no mud... a leaf mayhaps, but no mud), and the fact that he asked the Distraction if he could buy the kitchen table from him. The Distraction says he likes that table. O'Tool suggests the Distraction can go buy another one (buy it yourself asshat.) The Distraction explains he promised the table to DBF BECAUSE HE ASKED FIRST. O'Tool then whines like a pussy little girl that DBF never does anything around here and how unfair that he should go without a kitchen table because HE IS TOO LAZY AND CHEAP TO GO GET ONE HIMSELF.

He also makes DBF go smoke in the grass because he doesn't like the ashes on the deck.

TOOLTOOLTOOLTOOL. And not even a useful one unless it might benefit him in any way.

I'm sure you all know I'm a closed book. No one can read me. So you understand why I'm so surprised he suspects I might not be his biggest fan. Prick.

BEANIE TO THE WEINIE

Because it's my blog and I'll do whatever the hell I want to, I would like to take a moment to introduce you to my youngest sister, Bean. (That's not her REAL name. It's just a nickname. Her real name is Jaymison McSnottypants-Buttheadface.)

She's a brat.


That face isn't so much the exception. It would be much more of a rule.

Oh yeah, she's also married... and younger than me. All at the same time, but whatever. I'm not bitter. She's taller than me, thinner than me, better endowed in the chest area, and bitchy to the extreme (WHAT?! You are!) BUT! to the untrained eye, we totally look like twins.

See:

SLRd (me)	Bean (her)

Ohhh! Guess who's sluttier! GUESS! (If you said me you're a prick.)

I know what you're thinking. THAT IS THE EXACT SAME IMAGE! However! It isn't true. I'm sure if I hadn't labeled our pictures and told you she was the married one you wouldn't have known. You would have accused me of such wrong-doing as using... the.. exact same picture. This is because I know you, Internet, and you are a harsh and judgemental bitch. Petty even. But I promise you on all this bloggity holiness that those are two drastically different individuals in those pictures. And I purport that I am the better dresser. I'm just saying.

Also, a side note to her husband, this is NOT a face you can ever hope to see again:


See, because she's married she doesn't have to do that anymore. Tiff said so.

But I digress.

The reason I went through all the trouble of giving you an intimate look at the Beanie to the Weinie is because she has provided us with an unpresidented opportunity. An opportunity to go on an adventure, dear reader(s)! An adventure THROUGH TIME. Would you do that with me? Would you like to travel back a few years to the ONLY NIGHT IN MY ENTIRE LIFE that I may not entirely remember? The only night that when regaled by hilarious quotes and reminisced witty banter I routinely laugh heartily before asking, "who said that?"

The answer is always me.

Now, rather than spending the last 300+ words making fun of her, I could have just rewritten her blog entry over here, but she used such pretty (obnoxious) colors, I thought, "what the hell?" Not to mention this was so much more fulfilling.

SHE'S A LADY WHOA WHOA WHOA

When I got back from working out you know what I wanted? Huh? Can you guess? Water, you say? Um, well, yes, but after that. A massage? Oh. Oh, you are good. Well played my dear adversary, but you're still wrong.

I decided I wanted a good, ole, steaming cup of tea.

But not just any tea. No, because last time I went to the grocery store I splurged. Because it was free. And I bought myself some Lady Grey, because sometimes an Earl is just too much. No, sometimes you just need a delightfully robust Lady to really get the juices flowing.

Me. Ow.

IS IT THE WEEKEND YET?

The weekend was a bust kids. I sort of feel like it didn't even happen.

I didn't go into this weekend thinking it would suck great big donkey balls. No, I went into this weekend thinking I had plans Saturday. Plans that involved a bar and some shameless, drunk flirting and a designated driver in the form of the Distraction, because it was his best friend's birthday.

There was no bar.

(There wasn't really much flirting either. Bastard.)

No, instead we went to the Distraction's best friend's (here after known as DBF) coworker's house. Where they talked about work. THE WHOLE TIME. Which, um, yay beer? But HOLY FREAKING GOD PEOPLE. Nobody, absolutely nobody in the history of the world is that interested in what they do and what they "do" is work for Macy's in the credit department or some such shit.

Now, I would LIKE to be liked by the Distraction's friends because to be such increases the chances of hanging out, but I find DBF frustrating in that he's a very one-sided conversationalist. If we aren't talking about him or if he isn't the center and the glory of the conversation, he glowers.

This annoys me. Particularly since I know that to be a good conversationalist, it is recommended you ASK THE OTHER PERSON SOME QUESTIONS or, at the very least, appear somewhat interested when they do dare to open their mouths.

I'm just saying.

And I have tried to engage him. I really have. The first night I met him I was content to ask question after question and listen raptly as he told me of his bouncer hijinks but come Saturday, even the Distraction was bored as evidence by the text he sent me that said, quite simply, "boring."

A TALE OF TWO MATT'S

"Men can lactate."

"No."

"Yes. It's a sympathy reaction in some men."

"No way. No man is that sympathetic."

"Not a straight guy at least. I wonder if that is a sign you're gay?"

"No. I think liking men is a sign you're gay."

A WORK IN PROGRESS/UPDATING AS IT HAPPENS

After drinking really expensive scotch:

"It's like if a briquette had a rectum and you licked it."

* * *

"Fanny in England means vagina."

"So why does it mean butt here? How did we get that so screwed up?"

"Knickers means underwear."

"No, that's bloomers. No wait. Those are those things with the elastic around the knee women used to wear under their dresses."

"And those were underwear."

"Roomy underwear!"

"What? You don't like roomy underwear?"

"I do! Heh. Wouldn't it be funny if I just dropped trow and was wearing bloomers?"

* * *

"You know what would make you feel better, Matt? If A had some scotch."

"But I don't want any scotch."

"But look at it. It likes you. It doesn't swirl like that for just anybody."

"It's trying to seduce you."

* * *

"Ohh! What if you soaked a steak in the scotch?!"

"It would no longer exist."

* * *

"Okay, what are you doing? I'm bored."

"We're sitting around talking about UFC and how my sister shamed me."

"Um.. yeah.. fun."

"Well, if you come over you have to drink scotch."

"DEAL. Wait. Let me ask Not Girlfriend."

"Oh my God, you're whipped!"

* * *

"It tastes like they distilled a tire fire."

* * *

"You should pet my fuzzy thing."

AND BINGO WAS HIS NAME-O

Tonight I skipped working out to go to the grocery store. This seemed like a good idea, particularly because the ingredients used in the last four meals I've "made" myself consist of bread in varying degrees of toastedness and peanutbutter.

There may even have been jelly used on one occasion but, alas, that too was in short supply.

So to the grocery store I went for the first time in numerous days (10. Ish.) and oh. I was a greedy little shit. I got just over $100 in groceries. Guess how much I paid? Just over $1. NO, I DIDN'T STEAL IT.

You see, this weekend my work had a really boring employee picnic. At said picnic there was BINGO and I did my damnedest to make my Grandma proud. At the picnic I won an envelope full of gift certificates to Krogers and while they were probably supposed to go to more than one person, their loss was my gain.

God, this post is going no where fast.

BUT! I did find out that Zanarans black beans and rice is some tasty shit. Even if it did pass it's use by date a couple of months ago.

Uch. Alright, I'm bailing now before this can get any worse. Maybe you should suggest topics again. Like "most embarrassing moment" or "first kiss" or "when can I take you out for a romantic rendezvous". Yup.

ISH

Friends, family, and stalkers. Dear, sweet, gentle reader(s) of my blog, I need your help to prove a point.

A good few of you have already weighed in on this debate but alas, it still rages. You see, the Distraction, he has this pesky little belief that is WRONGWRONGWRONG. And I, being the good and gracious person that I am, want to rub his nose in it.

The Distraction believes to the very fiber of his being that if he tells me he'll be somewhere at, oh lets say 11:30, and then throws an "ish" onto the end, that gives him leeway to be upwards of 40 M-I-N-U-T-E-S late. FOURTY. Four. Zero. I ascertain that "ish" equals 20 minutes, tops. Twenty. Two. Zero. As in HALF of what he thinks it should mean.

And that, dear reader, is where you come in. How much time does "ish" really give you?

Also, the Distraction has started to tell me that UFC is fake (WHICH IT SO TOTALLY IS NOT) because he likes watching me snivel and whine about it and also, he's an asshole. And now I have to go take a nap so I'm in a (somewhat) pleasant mood when he comes over to hang out after he gets off work tonight.

FOR MICHAEL DIAL 001# NOW ON YOUR TOUCH TONE PHONE

As fate would have it, I owe Michael a blog entry. Among other things. And, truth be told, a blog entry from me is like sexual favors because one mention on this bad boy and the lady friends will be lining up DOWN THE BLOCK, that is the sort of clout I have around up this joint.

Word.

And you know what potential lady friends of Michael the Great, the Stud, the MAN? It is a well known fact that smart is the new sexy and the Man? He has brains out the ass. He probably qualifies for MENSA but don't let that fool you. He's not one of those assholes who has to prove himself to others by talking down to them. No, no, the man is suave. He's smooth like butter without the greasy feel.

And easy on the eyes! He's tall and lean, like a love machine and Michael the Magnificent has a face that could launch a thousand ships, which, lets be honest, wars have been started over less ladies. But fret not. The man has time for all of his new beautiful girlfriends. Able to satisfy ALL of his charges with just enough time left over for cuddles and talking about his feelings.

And does he ever have feelings. He's open and sweet and caring and he'll make you feel like a queen.

Did I mention he's loaded? Oh, don't you let that grad school persona fool you. He's recently come into a multi-billion dollar inheritance and he would love nothing more than to spend the money on you and saving the penguins.

His tears cure cancer and he can stop global warming with his smile. The sun shines because Michael the Luxurious says it should be so.

And he could be yours for the low, low price of five easy payments of $19.99 each.

REINVENTING BRAND LOYALTY

I want to marry whoever came up with this website. I have not laughed this hard in a long, long time.

NOTE: This is NOT work appropriate. That means you, dear sister.

LONG STORY SHORT, I HURT MY FOOT

It is not unusual for me to drop things. My keys mostly but I've branched out. I've even dropped things like my cell phone, cups, eggs, and knives and usually quite close to my beloved tootsies. Yet, despite quite the list of sharp and/or dangerous falling within a hair's-breath of my feet, I am thankfully without scarring or a pronounced limp.

This is because as a sort of necessity against my own apparent lack of coordination, I, subconsiously, have developed a defense mechanism against such folly. I'm a very freaking quick to get my foot the hell out of the way. Seriously, though. It's almost comical to watch me kick the impending victim my leg out of the way the instant something begins to slip from my grasp.

Unfortunately, I found out on Thursday, I apparently have to be watching it fall to beget the required reaction.

Now close your eyes and come on a magical journey with me through time to Thursday morning as I was all naked and wet in the shower. The water cascaded down in thick, steamy streams as I lathered my hair as is my wont. Having had AT LEAST 15 years experience taking showers, it isn't common that something as trivial as soap gets in my eyes, nor did it this day because I closed them. "Go you", you might be saying to yourself (either that or "big freaking deal") but alas that was only the first is a not-so-long line of cause and effect.

It was about the time that I shut my eyes tight that I discovered I had not the significant amount of lather in my hair. So I reached out, clumsy and blind to grab at the shampoo.

Yeah, I knocked my conditioner off the shelf. Demon bottle landed TIP DOWN on the top of my innocent foot, causing a slight welt and a bruise that I have since developed the annoying habit of knocking into with my other foot while I sleep.

I know you all think I have this rough and tough exterior and that I could probably take a bullet without so much as flinching, but it's just not true (and really, this super hero worshipping has got to stop). I whined and whimpered like the sissy little girl I am and I even created this LONG ASS BLOG ENTRY over something as dumb as dropping something on my foot. While I was naked. In the shower.

What? Why are you looking at me that way? Ew. Stop it. STOP LEERING AT ME! WHAT MAKES YOU THINK THAT IS OKAY BEHAVIOR BEFITTING OF A LADY?!!! Why are you laughing? Stop laughing!!!

Pervs.

LAME BUT UPDATED

My apartment is FAH-REE-ZING. Why don't you turn on the heat you suggest? Because my heat is connected to the whole building so the landlord has to do it and he informed me Wednesday that on Thursday they would either turn it on for the year or DETERMINE IF IT NEEDED REPLACED.

Blink. Blink, blink.

And now I ask you, why was this not done BEFORE it got to be 41 degress IN MY APARTMENT?! My appendages might FREEZE. OFF.

WTF, dude?!

Oh, also, one of the screws that holds my toilet seat on is broken.

* * *

Last night my buddy's wife was making us all cake when his brother showed up and spewed this little gem: "Oh, you want that butter soft? I'll make it soft for you.... You won't still want it."


And then later, this one: "I gave you a perfectly good tag line and--"

"It was dirty!"

(Shocked, gapping-mouthed silence) "It was dirty?! Coming from you?! You're one towel away from becoming a pornographer!"


Asshole. I used a pink heart to cover up his cash and prizes, too.

* * *

This made me giggle. I heart the hat.

MAKING THE RIGHT CHOICE FOR RIGHT NOW

I'm giving up men.

Not entirely, mind you. I'm thinking a month to start off with. Because as much as I want to be okay with things, I'm not completely okay. And I know I will be but right now? All of this? It makes me angry. And it makes me frustrated and I feel hurt and yeah, even used.

Part of it might be hormonal. Actually, you know what? Yes. Yes, I can guarantee you part of this is hormonal, which bahh. WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS.

I think the biggest thing driving this decision is that I haven't been making the best choices for ME, right now, at this moment. And they haven't been BAD choices, just not the right ones or the best ones, and I'm emotionally drained from being angry at the outcome and angry with the people involved.

So for now I'm retreating, rallying the troups, regrouping for another charge. Because it's the smart thing to do. And it's the right thing to do. But it really sucks to do because temptation is an ugly bitch, and god am I tempted.


(On the plus side, I'm actually allowing myself to get angry rather than hiding how I feel and letting it fester and infect me until it presents itself as depression, so... go me.)

AND THE WEINER IS...

Michael!

You realize that with the w(e)inn(er)ing of my contest, you will be blessed with good luck and lots of amorous, pert women who will litter your bed with conquests?

OR

The OTHER great prizes you were promised for participating which are (in order of importance):

1. My love and adoration


2. Use of tagline on THIS VERY BLOG for the rest of THIS VERY MONTH


3. A nice entry written about you (that doesn't involve the earnings of college moneys in raunchy ways) that you can print and frame and hang on your wall so people realize you are friends with ME


4. An autographed dollar in the shape of an armadillo

All of which will happen later. Except the tagline usage, which is actually already happening. See: above.


So, yay Michael and thank you everyone else for playing along! For those of you distraught about not winning, there shall be more games later. Because I'm an attention whore.

IT WASN'T A DATE

We crept through the haunted house (themed with clowns, which, ew) with obnoxious 3D glasses that made the Distraction look like a lame superhero. I was so intent on making my way through the warped mirrors I didn't notice the Distraction mouthing to the creature sneaking up behind us to get me.

I screamed bloody murder, startling the older women ahead of us, before doubling over into a fit of giggles.

Those same older women also laughed at me for saying, and I quote, "Hold my hand, goddamnit," to the Distraction about halfway through. Right about the same time we were accosted by a CREEPY-ASS CLOWN, and I am not a fan of the clown in the BEST of circumstances, thankyouverymuch.

I also clung to the back of the Distraction's shirt as we felt our way through a choking, smoke-filled shack where he almost whacked his head on, well, a decapitated head hanging from the ceiling.

Ohhh! And there was definately the having of the cotton candy. Which he paid for.

But it wasn't a date. I asked.

"No." He glanced quickly in my direction. "Yes? I don't know! WHY DO GIRLS ALWAYS HAVE TO LABEL EVERYTHING?!"

I laughed maniacally, "Well, I have to know, because if it IS a date, it would be a first date, and that means I can't put out."

He eyed me suspiciously.

I punched my leg in self-righteous indignation. "It's the PRINCIPLE of the thing," I declared. "Besides, that would make me a whore."

I think it was about that time he realized I was kidding.

He looked at me, a bemused smile on his face. "So you can put out if it's not a date?"

I laughed.

"Yup," he said, "definately not a date."



The coolest thing I saw all night was a skeleton doing a keg-stand while his decomposed buddy bonged a beer out of a spine. HIGH CLASS.

ICKY-CREEP-OUT-FREAK-OUT

Yeah, yeah. I know I said I was going to leave the TAGLINE post up until Friday but I LIED! I realize you're shocked and appalled but I'm fairly convinced you'll get the hell over it.

Now, many, many, many, as in most if not all of you are WELL aware that I am easily startled. So easily, it isn't really even a challenge. So easily, YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO BE TRYING. So easily that if you MERELY STANDING where I do not expect you to be, I WILL scream and do my icky-creep-out-freak-out, which may or may not involve jumping in the air and the flailing of arms and legs because, when I'm startled, I seem to lose control of fine muscle movements and SPASM. It's an awesome party trick. See: Back when I was in the old house, and Eric and I used to hang out a lot more than we do now, he was talking to me in my bedroom before I kicked him out so I could change. Like any NORMAL PERSON would, I assumed he WENT THE HELL DOWNSTAIRS AND WAS NOT GOING TO JUMP OUT AT ME UNEXPECTEDLY (even though after the fact, I'm fairly certain I could HEAR HIM OUT THERE).

He jumped out and then collapsed to the ground as I screamed BLOODY EFFING MURDER and swung my shoes into his chest.

It's a shame they weren't heels.

Ahh, but here's the rub. I actually LIKE being startled. It's a jolt to my system, it gets the juices flowing, it makes me feel alive in a way that normal life just doesn't. And.. it's funny, which you know I'm all for.

And that, my dear reader(s), is why I'm so bloody, freaking excited. Not only is this wonderly delicious month the month of ghoulish horrors, when it's permissible and sometimes even encouraged to creep and scare and lose your shit, but tomorrow night the Distraction and I are going to the Halloween Haunt at Kings Island. Roller coasters and haunted houses all rolled into one and delivered to me in the shimmering darkness and (hopefully) crisp chill of a brilliant October night.

I am nearly orgasmic with excitement.

TAGLINE

EDIT: This post isn't going away until Friday so you might at well leave me a comment. Particularly if you ever have or ever want to call yourself my friend again. I'm looking at you and it isn't pretty.


Hi kids. You see my new masthead? The one where Jennith is viciously attacking me with what appears to be blood dripping down her face?

That so totally happened.

Now, you also see that blue box across the bottom of the masthead? That is where the tagline should go. The one I can't think of, so I'm asking for suggestions because I'm not thrilled with the one I came up with. So I'm taking requests and I will unceremoniously choose the winner on FRIDAY.

And the winner will win nothing but my love and adoration and I'll use the winner's tagline in the masthead you see above and I will write a VERY nice entry about how much this person means to me and how my life would be a worthless void without then and some other meaningless dribble. SO SEND IN YOUR ENTRIES TODAY! IN THE COMMENT SECTION!

Woo!


EDIT: In case you were wondering, if you DON'T play along, I'll cry. And besides, those prizes? ARE AMAZING! You would rue the day you didn't enter this FREE contest and win those totally awesome, cooler-than-cool prizes. Did I mention this contest is FREE? Ohhh! Ohh! AND! And if the winner lives in Cincinnati, I WILL BUY THEM LUNCH. And if the winner doesn't live in Cincinnati I will... send them a dollar in the shape of an armadillo? Autographed?

I WANT MORE ENTRIES THAN TWO!!! And for the two who have already entered, I LOVE YOU!!!! XOXOXOX!!!

TAKE A HINT ALREADY

Allow me to make a suggestion.

If you're looking to find yourself a distraction, might I recommend one who doesn't work 70+ hours a week? Because then, when he doesn't call when he says he will or is stupid enough to believe that you DON'T want to be invited out because you'd rather play a VIDEO GAME? (even one as cool as Guitar Hero), you'll know for absolute sure it's because he might not be all that interested, DESPITE all the flirtation and other less than subtle signs that you may want to cling to.

And to think, after our conversation on Friday, I thought we were making progress. Damn dude. No wonder your ex-girlfriend bailed out of this.

But it isn't all for broke. Last night, for the first time in almost a year, I went to an event my fraternity (Yes, I was a member of a fraternity. I've also been the best man in a wedding. AND THAT MAKES ME MORE OF A MAN THAN YOU.) and one of my brothers spent nearly the entirety of the evening hitting on me, only to yell after me as I was leaving, "If things don't work out with that 70 hour a week guy, you let me know because I'm only taking 13 credit hours so I'll have plenty of time for you."

Which is sweet, really, but I'm just not interested. No. No, really. I prefer my men to be helpless causes.

Around midnight I called 70 hour guy to tell him of my evening thinking he was still at work BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT HE TOLD ME HE WOULD BE DOING, only to find he was drunk at a bar and not really into taking my hints to invite me along.

Moron. Unfortunately, I'm not sure who is the bigger one though, him or me.

MEDICINE HEAD? YOU SHOULD HAVE TAKEN SUDAFED

Not that this will come as a surprise to most of you but I think I'm sick in the head.

No. Really. I think I have a sinus infection. The simple act of breathing has become laborious. Only one of my nostrils is working. When I'm lucky. And it wheezes. I sound like a sad, pathetic kazoo. You don't want to know what I coughed up this morning.

And the thing is, I PREDICTED THIS. From the very instantaneous moment I got my first noseful of overly chlorinated, yet disturbingly sludgy water I KNEW. But did I let that prevent me from swimming in the freaking freezing water and probably dropping my core body temperature dangerously low before some genius decided to check to see if the INDOOR POOL was heated?

Of course not.

AND did getting a second and then a THIRD noseful of questionable water prevent me from attacking the boys just to get an indian rug burn and one U-G-L-Y ass bruise, which... happens to... be on my ass?

Yeah, definately not.

Am I dumb enough to hope this goes away on it's own?

Yes. Yes, I am.

Bring on the cherry flavored NyQuil (What?! Sudafed makes me jittery).

GUITAR HERO II

I've been postponing writing this entry. It isn't something that happens to a girl every day. I mean sure, we all hope it will happen. Most of us day dream about it since the time we are little girls though, really, you can never truely plan for this day.

You see, gentle reader, I... am in love.

And his name is Guitar Hero II.

Our relationship had quite the rocky start. At first, I was hesitant. I didn't want to join in. I didn't want to be judged because of my lack of experience. You see, I'm not every good at coordinating my hands and Guitar Hero can be a cruel master. I knew deep in my soul that I couldn't stand his scorn should I fail to satisfy his every expectation.

And lo. I was right. That first night I attempted to please Guitar Hero was a disaster! I only made it part of the way through before being booed and mocked. I think there might even have been some crying and gnashing of teeth and I swore I would never touch his smooth, plastic casing and colorful, rainbow buttons again.

But, thankfully, that was not to be.

Friday, Guitar Hero and I ran into each other at a party. It was awkward at first. Particularly since he was hitting on everyone there. A player if ever there was one, that guy will do it with ANYONE. When I walked in I was determined to stick to my guns. I wasn't going to go down that route with Guitar Hero again. But then the peer pressure started and I had a couple drinks and my will power and morals went out the window.

Again, it wasn't good.

I fumbled, miserably, and didn't make it through before a repeat of my first time. But this time, rather than hanging my head in shame, it lit a spark of something deep within me and I decided I would be the one to change Guitar Hero's ways. I would be the one to win him.

I tried again and failed. And finally, on my forth attempt, I DID IT! Not well, mind you, but I could tell Guitar Hero respected my gut and determination. He even was so bold as to ask me back the next day to play. For hours. Despite Guitar Hero's roommate leaving and HAVING TO LEAVE A KEY BEHIND SO I COULD LOCK UP AFTER MYSELF.

I mean, it must be love. I can't stop thinking about him. I long for him throughout the day. I think I might even dream about touching his velvety keys. It pains me to not call him because that would totally give me away and I don't want to crowd him and scare him away. I'm even seriously considering having him move in with me even though he doesn't have a job and couldn't help me pay the rent.

But I NEED him. Okay, and maybe you don't understand. Maybe you think I'm moving too fast. Obviously, you've never been in love or you would STOP JUDGING ME!

I think Guitar Hero's roommate might read this. If you do, tell him to call me. XOXO!

IT'LL ONLY BE UP A WEEK... IF HE'S LUCKY

"I used duct tape across the top of my screen so I wouldn't have to look at your new masthead. That was just mean. I don't know how I'm going to get that tape off now."


I still hold to the conviction that he asked for it.

THE EVOLUTION OF A PROJECT

4.5 weeks before due date:
"Put these two massive projects on your to-do list. They both need to be done in 4 weeks."


3.5 weeks before due date:
"Take off one of those massive projects. We're going to save it until January."


2.5 weeks before due date:
"My bad. Put that project back on your to-do list. How are you coming with that other massive project?"


2 weeks before due date:
"Remember that project I had you remove but then we added it back on? I need three or four examples. Tomorrow. Oh, and I'm sure you have plenty of time to add two more massive projects to your list along with all the other little things you are required to do every week."

"Ohhh. Yeah. That other pain in the butt project you work on regularly is due now too, isn't it? It's due in four weeks? Make it two. What? Why would you think I hate you?"

ATTEMPT THREE AT THIS STUPID POST

I need a distraction. I need something, someone maybe, possibly, perhaps to keep my mind off of things.

I also say that knowing full well that I am not ready for a new relationship.

A distraction, I just need someone to go through the motions with me. Someone to think about, and yeah, maybe obsess over a little bit. Someone willing to make just a little bit of an effort, enough to keep me interested but not enough to be anything other than just that. Something fun that will keep my mind off of other things because yes. I decided, finally, in what may turn out to be not all that long ago, that I'm done. I'm over it. I'm moving on because this isn't healthy for either of us and I'm not helping by sticking around. And deep down, I KNOW this is the best thing for both of us. And I know now, having looked back on it with a clarity that wasn't there a few months ago, that we were broken and we were tattered despite my best attempts to think otherwise.

We weren't ready. We may never be.

I know all of that. I know it and I believe it. But then my favorite memory slips into my morning coffee and it gets under my skin. And it chafes and clings uncomfortably and I know I reek of it because I can feel it seeping out of my pores.

But I know. This isn't where either of us need to be or should be or any of the other psycho babble bullshit that people spout. But that doesn't make me any less lonely. Knowing doesn't make this any easier when I get like this, when my mind wanders despite my best attempts to thwart it.

I miss Man Friend.

I can't tell you the exact reasons because that is a memory I just don't want to share. I know I'll get better and I know in a couple days this feeling will pass. I know in a little while I won't feel so lonely.

It would just be really helpful if I had a good distraction because the one I thought I might have isn't working out so hot.


EDIT: Okay, it might be working out a little better now. Maybe. We'll see.

NOT AN ATYPICAL PHONE CONVERSATION

Me: "So what are you doing tonight?"

Asshole Friend: "Oh shit. I forget I need to call you about stuff."

Me: "... You people suck."

CONVERSATIONS WITH COWORKERS, PART DEUCE

"Bastard! How does it feel being the first person I've ever hit THAT I WORK WITH?!"

'You aren't supposed to hit coworkers. Didn't you watch the video?"

"Hit ON. I'm not supposed to hit on coworkers."

* * *

"Do you even know what my title is?"

"I know what we call you when you're not around."

"Harsh!"

"Come on! You walked right into that!"

* * *

"So how is your son?"

"... My son? What?"

"You know, he's 26. Lives in Alaska. Needs a good woman."

"Oh, ohhh. My son. He's good. He'll be home for Christmas."

"Really? So are you going to invite me to your family Christmas party?"

"Oh, definately."

* * *

"Did you get my text..?"

"7 a.m.!"

"Wait. What?"

"You texted me at 7 A. M.!"

((maniacal cackling))

"I picked up the phone and looked at the time and YELLED AT MY PHONE so that it might send the message back to you saying I cannot receive text messages until AT LEAST 8 a.m."

((choking giggles))

"My roommate even asked me who the hell I was talking to because 7 a.m.! I was all curling up hugging my pillow. You know what it's like to be hugging your pillow? I was all nice and warm and ASLEEP."

((chortle)) "I was eating breakfast."

"I wasn't!"

"Hah. I won't do it again."

"I'm texting you at 6 tomorrow!!!"



It will have been worth it.

* * *

I sent the link to my bloggity to a sort of, not really family member who I LOVE because she likes to be mean and catty with me but I only get to see her at special events which makes me sad in my pants (I may or may not have stolen that saying (number 30)). She wrote me back to tell me I'm not right. And that MADE ME PROUD.