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'.