There's a scene from the movie Mean Girls about Halloween costumes. The doors of the hot high school girls open up and they are all wearing animal print lingerie and matching animal ears. One of the girls ask another: "What are you supposed to be?" (she's wearing a gray teddy) and the other girl: "I'm a mouse, duh" (points to headband of mouse ears)
Somewhere in there Li-lo poignantly says (poignant because someone else wrote it for her): "Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it."
And it's so true. I went into the temporary Halloween store yesterday to look for cheap decorations. And for giggles, I looked at the "ladies" costumes. I was expecting slutty costumes, after all, my fail-safe costume used to be catholic school girl (but I still assembled/made my costume, even the rosary. I didn't buy anything for it and think I was original either). But Oh. My. GOD. Every single costume is so whorey. So, so. so whorey. And you know what? If you do not look hot in slutty clothes normally, why do you think you're going to look hot in a slutty Halloween costume? Are you that big of an idiot? It's a costume, not a miracle worker. But yes, I guess they really are that stupid. Because the kind of ass-hat who buys a costume is going to be the same ass-hat who thinks they're hot sh*t in a vinyl corset. Ladies have some self respect. I don't want to see your cellulite-ed ass hanging out of a short skirt any day of the year, Halloween is no exception.
Besides, a lot of the fun in costumes is coming up with and making it. Anyone can go out and buy a sexy devil costume and some grease paint. And there's nothing stopping you from making your costume slutty if you want to make it yourself.
So happy Halloween everyone! I'll be in prude in the poodle skirt and fake pearls. Because even though I might not be allowed to say anything about your slutty outfit this particular evening, there's nothing in the rule book that says I can't judge. And you know I am.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Da Club
I went out dancing a week or two ago. Maybe it's becasue I've been out of the dating scene for the past 3 and a half years, but I seriously forgot how high the creep factor was in there. It's like the black lights go on and the icky comes out (like csi-oh gross). And it's not just the guys, the girls are just as bad. Just becasue there is a pole, does not mean people want to see you up there. Black light isn't forgiving, muffin top is never sexy, even when you do have props. (It's bitchy because it's true) And the boys... well, number one, they're boys. Is there a troll convention going on? Who the hell moved the rocks you lived under? And what's with the aggressive? Dude, I walked away from you mid come-on, what part of that means, chase me, chase me! You know what also doesn't work? Standing a half inch away from me and leering at my chest. Neither is calling me a "sexy ass lady." (snort) Seriously, buy me a drink first. Not that it will get you anywhere, and I won't drink it due to the roofie possibility. Because yes, you are that type of guy. But if you are going to be that huge of a pig, you can waste your dirty money as a form of punishment. Smother on all the praise you can dirty boy, I'm not about to make out with you in the bathroom line.
But then again, I wasn't going there to meet my future husband (I wonder how he liked my letter?). I went to dance and have a good time with my girlfriends as a quick pick me up. And becasue my recoil factor was on high that night, it just shows me that I still have standards. And that was enough of a pick me up. That and trampling on a troll's mojo.
But then again, I wasn't going there to meet my future husband (I wonder how he liked my letter?). I went to dance and have a good time with my girlfriends as a quick pick me up. And becasue my recoil factor was on high that night, it just shows me that I still have standards. And that was enough of a pick me up. That and trampling on a troll's mojo.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
New Orleans
There’s no open container law in New Orleans. At least there wasn’t 5 or so years ago, pre-Katrina when my fraternity had our annual convention there. (yes, I was in a fraternity. It was professional, not social,and we're all considered brothers. And don't worry, I didn't consider myself real greek so all of you social people out there untwist your panties) So take one spring break (a bunch of college kids itching for a release), plus no open container law (alcohol flowed liberally), minus any sort of inhibitions (due to aforementioned beverages), equals over 200 very drunk college kids and alumni. It’s a safe bet that some portion of everyone's memory is blank over the course of those four days.
So when the question comes up, “hey remember in New Orleans when we…” and I say “no I don’t,” everyone laughs because they can't either. So then we try and patch the fuzzy details together and form some sort of mirthful memory. Like how awesome the 99-octane was. And the to-go cups of jack were quite possibly one of the most brilliant ideas ever. We danced to awesome 80’s glam rock outside the club because even combined; our female wiles were utterly useless against the gay burly bouncer, and he wouldn’t let us in. And when that moment had past and we blithely stumbled through the sticky street, we hailed a cab for the remaining two blocks to the hotel, because walking was simply no longer an option. The four days in New Orleans were filled with hilarious spotty stories that we relish in retelling (until we have children and deny we ever did anything of the sort, clearly). But as many times as they are retold, I can't remember a single one. Because I was never there.
No, seriously, I wasn’t there. But everyone else was so loopy, that didn’t seem to register with anyone. Not that I blame them, there were higher priorities then remembering my presence; like remembering your own name and who had everyone’s underwear for example. So when people ask “remember in New Orleans..?” and I say no, it's because I wasn't there to remember anything. And I’ve explained this to many people, but that seems to baffle them even more. So now, when the subject comes up, I laugh along and pretend I was there. I blame their own inebriation for why they can’t actually remember my presence, or how come I’m not in any pictures either. Which seems to make a lot more sense to them, and it’s a lot easier to explain that way. So no, I don’t remember New Orleans, but really, no one else did either.
So when the question comes up, “hey remember in New Orleans when we…” and I say “no I don’t,” everyone laughs because they can't either. So then we try and patch the fuzzy details together and form some sort of mirthful memory. Like how awesome the 99-octane was. And the to-go cups of jack were quite possibly one of the most brilliant ideas ever. We danced to awesome 80’s glam rock outside the club because even combined; our female wiles were utterly useless against the gay burly bouncer, and he wouldn’t let us in. And when that moment had past and we blithely stumbled through the sticky street, we hailed a cab for the remaining two blocks to the hotel, because walking was simply no longer an option. The four days in New Orleans were filled with hilarious spotty stories that we relish in retelling (until we have children and deny we ever did anything of the sort, clearly). But as many times as they are retold, I can't remember a single one. Because I was never there.
No, seriously, I wasn’t there. But everyone else was so loopy, that didn’t seem to register with anyone. Not that I blame them, there were higher priorities then remembering my presence; like remembering your own name and who had everyone’s underwear for example. So when people ask “remember in New Orleans..?” and I say no, it's because I wasn't there to remember anything. And I’ve explained this to many people, but that seems to baffle them even more. So now, when the subject comes up, I laugh along and pretend I was there. I blame their own inebriation for why they can’t actually remember my presence, or how come I’m not in any pictures either. Which seems to make a lot more sense to them, and it’s a lot easier to explain that way. So no, I don’t remember New Orleans, but really, no one else did either.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Matchmaker, Matchmaker Find Me a Match
I'm poking around a few dating websites because I figure, well, why not. Of course, you have to have your own profile to look at other peoples, so I filled out my stats (slender, dark brown hair, fear of snakes and whatnot), what I want (tall, dark haired anesthesiologist) and made myself annoyingly charming in the "in your own words" section. However, I'm not about to post a picture (despite that a picture profile gets 3 times as many looks), because I really don't want to be looked at. I simply want to be a voyeur. Oh and of course I'm not about to pay for a membership either. Because that would mean I was serious about this. And I'm not there yet. Just looky, no touchy. Or sending a wink. Wtf is a wink anyway, an e-flirt? I don't e-flirt, I real flirt.
So now that I have a pictureless profile set up (I claim it's because I prefer to remain mysterious), I can peruse (or judge) all the local singles I want. I sort of serious look at about 5 before the snorting and eye rolling starts. So here are a few observations that annoy me and my interpretation/reason for the annoyance:
So now that I have a pictureless profile set up (I claim it's because I prefer to remain mysterious), I can peruse (or judge) all the local singles I want. I sort of serious look at about 5 before the snorting and eye rolling starts. So here are a few observations that annoy me and my interpretation/reason for the annoyance:
- Emoticons should never be used. Are you a 17? :) :/ ;) :P = groan
- Misspellings-if you don't care enough to spell check, you are a lazy sonofab*tch
- The phrase: laid back guy = lazy and apathy towards life
- Loves the outdoors = that's just a fail with me
- Wants to travel = wannbe worldly apartment decor (you know it's all from Pier 1)
- Enjoys hanging out = doesn't do real dates
- Down to earth = dirty hippie mindset=high ick potential apartment
Monday, October 27, 2008
Big sigh
I'm annoyingly good. I'm far from pristine, but still, annoyingly good. My slate is smeared with life experiences, but none of them involve me going to jail or being in trouble. I (usually) know when to toe the line, I've crossed it a few times, and I'll hit bellow the belt if the outcome is advantageous to me. I may have pushed the envelope a few times as a teen, but I never opened it. And it's not just me, all of my friends have done the exact same thing. College and high school, (most) of us we're really good kids (at least, that's what they lead me to believe), and we've grown up to be responsible adults.
So I've done everything "right" it seems. And I know that I don't have a bad lot in life. Far from bad. I have my health, a roof over my head, a job, and a ton of people who love and support me. And I'm going back to school and getting a career. Poor, poor me.
So why am I the one hurting and not him? It doesn't seem fair. I want to stamp my foot and scream, what the hell did I do wrong to deserve these miserable feelings? Why am I the one crying my eyes out because I'm starting down a better path? Why am I the one starting over? Again. Why do I feel like I lost everything, when in reality, I have so much more too look forward to now? I'm trying to see the big picture, my over all lot in life is not bad and I'm being child focusing on this one part. But my perception's a bit warped, sometimes I don't have the energy to see past the broken heart. And then I get frustrated because I know I should move on. But if I know once I do, that means it's really over doesn't it. And I'm still kind of foolishly hoping he's coming after me. One of these days-and maybe here soon- I'll move on and I won't have sad blogs. But I'm still grieving. Sigh, poor poor me and my terrible lot in life.
So I've done everything "right" it seems. And I know that I don't have a bad lot in life. Far from bad. I have my health, a roof over my head, a job, and a ton of people who love and support me. And I'm going back to school and getting a career. Poor, poor me.
So why am I the one hurting and not him? It doesn't seem fair. I want to stamp my foot and scream, what the hell did I do wrong to deserve these miserable feelings? Why am I the one crying my eyes out because I'm starting down a better path? Why am I the one starting over? Again. Why do I feel like I lost everything, when in reality, I have so much more too look forward to now? I'm trying to see the big picture, my over all lot in life is not bad and I'm being child focusing on this one part. But my perception's a bit warped, sometimes I don't have the energy to see past the broken heart. And then I get frustrated because I know I should move on. But if I know once I do, that means it's really over doesn't it. And I'm still kind of foolishly hoping he's coming after me. One of these days-and maybe here soon- I'll move on and I won't have sad blogs. But I'm still grieving. Sigh, poor poor me and my terrible lot in life.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Wish list
I was pretending to clean my room. That meant I was throwing all my clothes from the floor into the hamper and putting my shoes back in their boxes. And underneath the mountains known as my wardrobe, there was a folded 8x11 piece of paper. Curious, I opened it and what I saw completely immobilized me.
They were my Wicked tickets. The tickets he got me for our anniversary. Tickets he called from his cell, his desk and searched ticketmaster online at the same time to get the second they went on sale. Because I really really really wanted to see this play, but I didn't think I would ever be able to get tickets for. I'm a memento girl. I save the cards from flowers, newspaper clippings, little presents and tickets. I have something saved from almost every boyfriend. I have tons of mementos from him, every card, every flower note, stuffed toys, pictures and some beautiful jewelry given over the course of 3 years. But these tickets, on a plain white sheet of copy paper, sent me back to my wishing place.
This was the guy I was going to marry. The guy I wanted to marry. The person I was going to spend the rest of my life with. The mere thought of that guy put a stupid grin on my face and I burbled with annoying happiness. So where did that guy go? The guy who brought me coffee at 11:45 pm while I was in studio. The guy who drove 90 minutes to hug me so I would stop crying? The guy who got me these tickets. This guy let me walk away? Yeah, and without a fight too.
The truth is, the guy that let me walk away is the one I was with. The romantic gestures, big and small, were wonderful; but they were few and far between. And it wasn't the lack of flowers and poetic waxings that made me leave; ultimately, it was consistent nothings. I have a wish list a mile long, full of wishing for something, anything more then what he gave me. It's full of empty promises and not-met standards. And the break that he wanted, made me realize how long the wish list was. And that it was there in the first place. But despite the list, I wanted us to work, and I really did hope that I wouldn't have to leave. The door's not fully closed like I lead him to believe, I'm still looking over my shoulder, hoping he's running to come get me. Not as often, but I'm still glancing. I'm getting tired of not seeing anything there.
So I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, silent tears running down my face, wishing I was with the guy who got me those tickets. I wish we wanted the same things from life. I wish he knew what he lost. I wish he knew me well enough to know that underneath all my bravado, I didn't really want to go. I wish he had fought for us. But mostly, I wish I didn't know him well enough to know he wasn't going to.
They were my Wicked tickets. The tickets he got me for our anniversary. Tickets he called from his cell, his desk and searched ticketmaster online at the same time to get the second they went on sale. Because I really really really wanted to see this play, but I didn't think I would ever be able to get tickets for. I'm a memento girl. I save the cards from flowers, newspaper clippings, little presents and tickets. I have something saved from almost every boyfriend. I have tons of mementos from him, every card, every flower note, stuffed toys, pictures and some beautiful jewelry given over the course of 3 years. But these tickets, on a plain white sheet of copy paper, sent me back to my wishing place.
This was the guy I was going to marry. The guy I wanted to marry. The person I was going to spend the rest of my life with. The mere thought of that guy put a stupid grin on my face and I burbled with annoying happiness. So where did that guy go? The guy who brought me coffee at 11:45 pm while I was in studio. The guy who drove 90 minutes to hug me so I would stop crying? The guy who got me these tickets. This guy let me walk away? Yeah, and without a fight too.
The truth is, the guy that let me walk away is the one I was with. The romantic gestures, big and small, were wonderful; but they were few and far between. And it wasn't the lack of flowers and poetic waxings that made me leave; ultimately, it was consistent nothings. I have a wish list a mile long, full of wishing for something, anything more then what he gave me. It's full of empty promises and not-met standards. And the break that he wanted, made me realize how long the wish list was. And that it was there in the first place. But despite the list, I wanted us to work, and I really did hope that I wouldn't have to leave. The door's not fully closed like I lead him to believe, I'm still looking over my shoulder, hoping he's running to come get me. Not as often, but I'm still glancing. I'm getting tired of not seeing anything there.
So I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, silent tears running down my face, wishing I was with the guy who got me those tickets. I wish we wanted the same things from life. I wish he knew what he lost. I wish he knew me well enough to know that underneath all my bravado, I didn't really want to go. I wish he had fought for us. But mostly, I wish I didn't know him well enough to know he wasn't going to.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
I hate to sweat
I really do, I hate to smell bad and I think sweating is icky in general. Plus if I'm sweating, that usually means I'm doing something physical, and we all know I'm not a super fan of playing sports. But I'm contemplating joining a gym. Like paying a membership joining. Ok that's a bit of a lie, my parents are thinking about joining and I'm going to hop onto their family plan if they do. It's within walking distance, (so double exercise if I walk there) has plenty of equipment stuff, and it's open 24/7. Not that I'm going to want to life weights at 3:30 in the morning, but it's nice to know that I could if I joined this place.
Plus I need a place to run in the winter. I'm doing another half marathon in March, so I do need a place to train when it's just too cold and icky to run outside. And on days that I cross train, it'll be nice to have a place I can lift weights or do another type of cardio besides the treadmill. But not the elliptical machine, I hate those. Those things make my thighs burn like hell, and that's just uncomfortable for anyone. Grimacing is not a good look for me.
While I would have probably joined along with my parents anyway, you want to know what really made me want to? The really cute guy that works there.
Plus I need a place to run in the winter. I'm doing another half marathon in March, so I do need a place to train when it's just too cold and icky to run outside. And on days that I cross train, it'll be nice to have a place I can lift weights or do another type of cardio besides the treadmill. But not the elliptical machine, I hate those. Those things make my thighs burn like hell, and that's just uncomfortable for anyone. Grimacing is not a good look for me.
While I would have probably joined along with my parents anyway, you want to know what really made me want to? The really cute guy that works there.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Facebook: making stalking SO much easier
I'm kinda facebook stalking my Pounce subject. Meaning, I'm looking at his pictures and giggling like a school girl with a bit of a crush. Oh wait, that's exactly what I'm doing.
Side note: how do people have 400+ pictures? Do people actually look at all of them? Because I don't. Also? Why do people put up embarrassing pictures of themselves? I get posting less than flattering shots of others so you look good by comparison, (don't pretend you haven't) but why do that to yourself?
To be fair, I'm facebook stalking a lot of other people too. I always do that when I get a new friend. I get sorta: OMG-what-have-you-been-up-to-and-you've-left-it-all-out-in-the-open-for-me-to-find-making-my-stalking-behavior-so-much-easier! But give me a day or two and my shiny object syndrome kicks in and I'll have forgotten I was facebook stalking someone. Or I just search for new friends. It's always a bonus to see that your nemesis got fat over time (once again, why put those photos up?) Just saying...
Side note: how do people have 400+ pictures? Do people actually look at all of them? Because I don't. Also? Why do people put up embarrassing pictures of themselves? I get posting less than flattering shots of others so you look good by comparison, (don't pretend you haven't) but why do that to yourself?
To be fair, I'm facebook stalking a lot of other people too. I always do that when I get a new friend. I get sorta: OMG-what-have-you-been-up-to-and-you've-left-it-all-out-in-the-open-for-me-to-find-making-my-stalking-behavior-so-much-easier! But give me a day or two and my shiny object syndrome kicks in and I'll have forgotten I was facebook stalking someone. Or I just search for new friends. It's always a bonus to see that your nemesis got fat over time (once again, why put those photos up?) Just saying...
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Oink! I Was a Flying Piggie!
I don't like to play sports, especially ones that involve balls and teams. Do not ask me to play on the company softball team, it will not happen. I don't consider myself an athlete, and I think the tomboys are happy I never tried to infiltrate their side. And I certainly don't consider myself a runner. I don't wake up at 5 am to run 3 miles before I go to work. I wasn't one of those people that ran around campus (though I'm never opposed to eye candy jogging past me), I don't buy new running shoes every 500 miles, I don't own "gym clothes" and I certainly don't watch what I eat. But a year ago as I cheered for my sister while she ran her 2nd marathon, I felt a twinge of "hmm, I kinda want to do that too." Then I quickly thought, wait, no, I don't like to run. After all, I don't like to walk more then 2 blocks to the bar (in heels), and that's for alcohol.
But that twinge was persistent. Because two months later, my sister was debating what race she would run in the spring. And before I knew it, out of my mouth popped: "well, if you do the half pig here in Cincinnati, I'll do it too." She didn't even hesitate and took me up on my offer. My first reaction: CRAP! But I wasn't going to back down. So I quickly signed up, paid the entrance fee, and bought real running shoes (of course they had pink in them), before I had a chance to chicken out. I was going to run 13.1 miles. Seriously.
And I did it! My goals were to finish and not die, both of which I achieved. I may have trained a bit half-assed (well, 25% assed, I did get a lot of millage in, I just didn't stick to my scheduled training plan as close as I should have), but I still did it! I didn't have to quit mid-race and go home with my tail between my legs. (I'm done with the animal euphemisms now)
I still don't care to run that much. I was bored as sin around mile 8, and I thought to myself, man, I don't know if I ever want to do this again. I'm a lier. Because I'm doing a half marathon mid-March. And I'm even somewhat considering doing another one in late April. Wtf, I don't run and now I want to do 2 half marathons w/in a month of each other? What has gotten into me? I'll tell you what: a great set of pins, that's what.
But that twinge was persistent. Because two months later, my sister was debating what race she would run in the spring. And before I knew it, out of my mouth popped: "well, if you do the half pig here in Cincinnati, I'll do it too." She didn't even hesitate and took me up on my offer. My first reaction: CRAP! But I wasn't going to back down. So I quickly signed up, paid the entrance fee, and bought real running shoes (of course they had pink in them), before I had a chance to chicken out. I was going to run 13.1 miles. Seriously.
And I did it! My goals were to finish and not die, both of which I achieved. I may have trained a bit half-assed (well, 25% assed, I did get a lot of millage in, I just didn't stick to my scheduled training plan as close as I should have), but I still did it! I didn't have to quit mid-race and go home with my tail between my legs. (I'm done with the animal euphemisms now)
I still don't care to run that much. I was bored as sin around mile 8, and I thought to myself, man, I don't know if I ever want to do this again. I'm a lier. Because I'm doing a half marathon mid-March. And I'm even somewhat considering doing another one in late April. Wtf, I don't run and now I want to do 2 half marathons w/in a month of each other? What has gotten into me? I'll tell you what: a great set of pins, that's what.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Teenagers hurt my head
I lied. The Princess Diaries were too teenager for me as well. I ended up skimming the last two books and looked up the rest of the plot lines on wikipedia. Even though I skimmed, i still enjoyed. And I don't hate myself a little for reading them either. Plus the last book in the series is released in January, wrapping up the teenage princess's woes, and I will probably get excited about it, and attempt to read it w/out skimming. However, if she continues to write her homework assignments in the footnotes, I will have no choice but to skim.
In other teen readings: while on wiki I fell down the internet rabbit hole when I looked up the Sweet Valley High books. Did anyone else read those things? Man, they seem really bad according to wiki. I tried to keep the characters strait for about 10 seconds, before I started laughing at the absurdity of the continuing plot lines. I wonder if I still have any of them in the basement...
In other teen readings: while on wiki I fell down the internet rabbit hole when I looked up the Sweet Valley High books. Did anyone else read those things? Man, they seem really bad according to wiki. I tried to keep the characters strait for about 10 seconds, before I started laughing at the absurdity of the continuing plot lines. I wonder if I still have any of them in the basement...
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Progress? ehh, maybe not
I'm not over it yet. But honestly, do you expect me to be? And even though I'm the one who called it off; and I've always preferred to be the dumper rather then the dumpie, truthfully, there isn't a better position to be in this situation. I'm not a mess all the time, in fact, I think I do pretty well most of the time. But somethings are harder to handle then necessary. You hear some random person talk about their upcoming honeymoon. Or a co-worked get's engaged. Someone in your fantasy football league had their baby (and she's beautiful). Or it's your friend's wedding anniversary. I am truly happy for their happiness, I'm not pretending to be. But part of me is also insanely jealous. The yay for them I feel is overshadowed by a longing: "I wonder if that will happen to me?" And "God I want that too, so, so, so bad I want that." But that all goes on in my mind, behind the smile that doesn't always reach my eyes.
But I don't want to hear that someone got married at what was going to be my reception sight. Or that some other bride walked down the aisle of the church I was going to in May. My mom continues to save the Sunday wedding announcements (why?), and ask if I knew the person since they went to my high school. And this bugs me for 2 big reasons: Dunbar was a big school, I didn't know half my graduating class, let alone the rest of the student body. And I graduated high school in 2000, like I really knew or even cared about someone who went there in 06?
And 2: It still f*cking hurts.
But I don't want to hear that someone got married at what was going to be my reception sight. Or that some other bride walked down the aisle of the church I was going to in May. My mom continues to save the Sunday wedding announcements (why?), and ask if I knew the person since they went to my high school. And this bugs me for 2 big reasons: Dunbar was a big school, I didn't know half my graduating class, let alone the rest of the student body. And I graduated high school in 2000, like I really knew or even cared about someone who went there in 06?
And 2: It still f*cking hurts.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Pounce
Is it wrong that I have a slight crush on my high school friend's younger brother? He's a total hottie! He's only 2 years younger than me, so he falls w/in my acceptable cougar age (it's half your age + 7), and if he's anything like his sister, with whom I have been friends with since middle school, I will have nothing but an amusing time. Of course, while I've remained friends with his sister, I don't think I've ever talked to him. I could facebook stalk him, but I only have 70-something friends, and he's smart enough to figure out my true motives if I suddenly tried to friend him. But let me point out, 10 years ago, I made his day. Yes, 10 years ago. The story of how follows:
A few of my girlfriends and I were outside our high school, killing time while waiting for color guard practice to start (yes, start the ridicule). When his older sister, our friend, runs up and says, "my brother is coming here for his jv football game, let's say hi and embarrass him!" (we were 16 year old girls, this is what we did). Oh yes, these 2 went to different high schools, redistricting got them. So anyway, the jv football team pulls up, and all these adorable freshman boys start filing off the bus. We see our intended victim, call out "Hi Clayton!" in our sing-song voices. (I may have thrown in a finger wiggle wave too for good measure), and he promptly turned red, but smiled and waved back anyway. And I learned the next morning from his mom and sister (since they gave me a ride to school), that our girlish act of salutation had made him somewhat of a stud on his team. Because after all, 4 junior girls (and 3 of them in sport bras) say hi to you (rather than saying hi in response) as a freshman, well, that is studly.
So I don't think I've talked to him except that time to say hi in passing 10 years ago. Hmm, this makes my potential cougaring discouraging. That and I think that if I actually did try to pounce on him his sister might hurt me, and I can't out run her.
A few of my girlfriends and I were outside our high school, killing time while waiting for color guard practice to start (yes, start the ridicule). When his older sister, our friend, runs up and says, "my brother is coming here for his jv football game, let's say hi and embarrass him!" (we were 16 year old girls, this is what we did). Oh yes, these 2 went to different high schools, redistricting got them. So anyway, the jv football team pulls up, and all these adorable freshman boys start filing off the bus. We see our intended victim, call out "Hi Clayton!" in our sing-song voices. (I may have thrown in a finger wiggle wave too for good measure), and he promptly turned red, but smiled and waved back anyway. And I learned the next morning from his mom and sister (since they gave me a ride to school), that our girlish act of salutation had made him somewhat of a stud on his team. Because after all, 4 junior girls (and 3 of them in sport bras) say hi to you (rather than saying hi in response) as a freshman, well, that is studly.
So I don't think I've talked to him except that time to say hi in passing 10 years ago. Hmm, this makes my potential cougaring discouraging. That and I think that if I actually did try to pounce on him his sister might hurt me, and I can't out run her.
Friday, October 17, 2008
My forray Into the World of Teen Fiction (thanks for the title lb!)
I'm currently reading the Princess Diaries Series by Meg Cabot. Much better then Twilight series. The Diaries series is a fun read, and I can usually polish a book off in a day or two. And that's without skipping whole pages like I did with another teen series. Ahem, Twilight. You could skip 20 pages in those book and the characters were still whining about their insipid little who-loves-who-more argument. My friend over at my mom thinks im pretty summed all the books hilariously, along with 4 little words: god I hate teenagers. I whole heartedly agree. I also stole the title of this blog from her too. I love my friends.
Anyway, Diaries, much more fun. Granted they are still for teenagers, and they are very, very teenage girl. If your looking for a deeper meaning of your own life though reading, you won't find it in Mia's (main character) babbling. And if you think you will (in these books I mean), then you're a bit sad in my opinion. But I'm not asking for these books to change my life, I'm just looking for some mind fluff and it delivers. And all the covers are pink! Pink! And have a tiara on them! Seriously, how could I not give them a try? They're pink!
Anyway, Diaries, much more fun. Granted they are still for teenagers, and they are very, very teenage girl. If your looking for a deeper meaning of your own life though reading, you won't find it in Mia's (main character) babbling. And if you think you will (in these books I mean), then you're a bit sad in my opinion. But I'm not asking for these books to change my life, I'm just looking for some mind fluff and it delivers. And all the covers are pink! Pink! And have a tiara on them! Seriously, how could I not give them a try? They're pink!
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Day of Boyfriends past
Once upon a time (about 5 years ago), in a land far far away (across the river) I lived in a big big house with lots of friends. I woke up the first Saturday of fall quarter like a typical college kid: late and hung over (I was 21 at the time). By late I mean before 11 am, and by hung over I mean, hung over. But I also woke up with a surprise. There was a boy, who was just a friend, in my bed. I vaguely remembered kissing him the night before, but he had tucked me into bed alone then continued to party with the rest of our friends who could hold their booze. But here he was, snoring, arms around me, reeking of sweat and Jack Daniels, a pungent combination. It was way too much for my olfactory sense that morning. Actually, ever. I do not find sweaty guy smell attractive at all, pheromones be damned. It makes me want to throw a up a little. You better smell clean if you want to get in my pants. Anyway, there's a smelly boy who I made out with the night before snoring in my bed. And it wasn't like he was on his side and I was on mine. My bed was small, it didn't have sides. What a way to start a morning. (ps, only kissing happened the night before. He left with his virtue still in tact)
Later that day, one of my roomies and I went to buy materials for our studio projects. But upon returning, there was someone blocking my way into my parking lot (plus all the other cars arleady there). Since rock star parking was available, I decided to snag it and not waste the gas idling while waiting for the ass-hat to move (didn't stop me from shooting death glares though). As we're gathering our things from the trunk, a generic frat boy turns into the driveway next to my lot in his generic frat boy (Gfb) suv. Normally I wouldn't have seen him because a tall fence separated the two places. But I'm in rock star parking, and the spot I'm in has clear vision lines of both our lot and that driveway. And they can see you just as well. The Gfb is walking up the driveway, and he's calling my name. Upon closer inspection, he's walking directly toward me, I realize Gfb is my ex boyfriend. And not just any ex. First gay boyfriend ex, Mike (couldn't remember what I had renamed him there for a second).
A bit of post break-up story. He tried to go back in the closet, denying he ever (halfway) came out. And he thought we were friends too. About every 6-7 weeks, he called 4 days in a row. It was always right around midterms or project week, so I lived in studio and was never there to answer the phone myself (I lived in the dorms at this point). My roommates took the messages, and no mater how many times he left his number, I lost it every time. But one day I actually answered the phone. I nipped his pseudo stalking then. I was never going to return his phone calls, see him again, and I never wasted my time thinking about him in the first place. He hung up in a snit and never called again. I was done with him for real. Yay!
Apparently not. Because he's now 3 feet in front of me, and he's looking pleasantly surprised (which I guess is way better then murderous rage). And of course I look like ass; I'm rocking the bed head, yoga pants, no makeup and sunglasses. (but at least I had showered before going out in public). And he wants to catch up, goody. He gave me his life so-far story (becasue I totally wanted to hear it). He's at a different school, rushed and actually joined a different fraternity (no bawling wimp-out this time). That driveway he pulled into, belongs to my school's chapter of his fraternity (they didn't have a house on his campus, and brothers share). And he lives there. He's my effin' next-door neighbor. Double goody.
Later that night, when I was doing the homework I had used as an excuse to get me out of the conversation with Mike as well as turn down the party invite he extended me (for the party next door in the house that he lives in), my phone rang. It's Ryan (I renamed him too) calling to make me break up with him. Let's review my day: I woke up with a boy I had kissed in my bed. I find out my ex lives next door. And now this weenie is calling to make sure there's an "official," break up so he can date his new girl with a clear conscious. Mother trucker that was weeks ago. You should have just assumed we had broken up when we stopped talking to each other like I already had, and avoided this confrontation all together. Because we were done, I had no scruples about making out with someone the night before. What was up with the universe that day? It was the day of boyfriend's past. I was not in the mood to play nice. So if Ryan wanted some sort of confirmation of a break up, he was going to have to grow a pair and ask for it. I flip open my phone to deal with him, and I'm thinking, bring it on universe. Bring. It. ON!
Later that day, one of my roomies and I went to buy materials for our studio projects. But upon returning, there was someone blocking my way into my parking lot (plus all the other cars arleady there). Since rock star parking was available, I decided to snag it and not waste the gas idling while waiting for the ass-hat to move (didn't stop me from shooting death glares though). As we're gathering our things from the trunk, a generic frat boy turns into the driveway next to my lot in his generic frat boy (Gfb) suv. Normally I wouldn't have seen him because a tall fence separated the two places. But I'm in rock star parking, and the spot I'm in has clear vision lines of both our lot and that driveway. And they can see you just as well. The Gfb is walking up the driveway, and he's calling my name. Upon closer inspection, he's walking directly toward me, I realize Gfb is my ex boyfriend. And not just any ex. First gay boyfriend ex, Mike (couldn't remember what I had renamed him there for a second).
A bit of post break-up story. He tried to go back in the closet, denying he ever (halfway) came out. And he thought we were friends too. About every 6-7 weeks, he called 4 days in a row. It was always right around midterms or project week, so I lived in studio and was never there to answer the phone myself (I lived in the dorms at this point). My roommates took the messages, and no mater how many times he left his number, I lost it every time. But one day I actually answered the phone. I nipped his pseudo stalking then. I was never going to return his phone calls, see him again, and I never wasted my time thinking about him in the first place. He hung up in a snit and never called again. I was done with him for real. Yay!
Apparently not. Because he's now 3 feet in front of me, and he's looking pleasantly surprised (which I guess is way better then murderous rage). And of course I look like ass; I'm rocking the bed head, yoga pants, no makeup and sunglasses. (but at least I had showered before going out in public). And he wants to catch up, goody. He gave me his life so-far story (becasue I totally wanted to hear it). He's at a different school, rushed and actually joined a different fraternity (no bawling wimp-out this time). That driveway he pulled into, belongs to my school's chapter of his fraternity (they didn't have a house on his campus, and brothers share). And he lives there. He's my effin' next-door neighbor. Double goody.
Later that night, when I was doing the homework I had used as an excuse to get me out of the conversation with Mike as well as turn down the party invite he extended me (for the party next door in the house that he lives in), my phone rang. It's Ryan (I renamed him too) calling to make me break up with him. Let's review my day: I woke up with a boy I had kissed in my bed. I find out my ex lives next door. And now this weenie is calling to make sure there's an "official," break up so he can date his new girl with a clear conscious. Mother trucker that was weeks ago. You should have just assumed we had broken up when we stopped talking to each other like I already had, and avoided this confrontation all together. Because we were done, I had no scruples about making out with someone the night before. What was up with the universe that day? It was the day of boyfriend's past. I was not in the mood to play nice. So if Ryan wanted some sort of confirmation of a break up, he was going to have to grow a pair and ask for it. I flip open my phone to deal with him, and I'm thinking, bring it on universe. Bring. It. ON!
Monday, October 13, 2008
Fantasy Football
Now that I have a fantasy football team, I have a sort of grasp on the whole football thing. I can name some players, what position they play, and even what team they play on. Sometimes I can name all three for one person. I know, awesome for a girly girl right? I even gained something that could be called enjoyment during the whole process.
Side note: I think being a defensive lineman is an awesome job, becasue you are a "professional hitter." Seriously, your only job is to yell and tackle someone. I bet it's a huge stress relief too. Had a bad day? Just drop a shoulder and lay someone out. I feel better already!
Anywho, back to the topic at hand. I love a dirty game as well. I like the harder then necessary hits, hearing the helmets smack into things (mainly other helmets), and the snarling/growling/smack talk the players utter. And if there's some sort of inclement weather too, and a dirty played game is dirty messy game, that's even better. So I enjoy watching some football, and I know it's a rough sport. But even though it's rough, I'm not about to cut them any slack for an injury. I'm sure it hurts to be hit by 300 lbs of charging/growling man. But it's one of the hazards of the job. A job you willingly signed up for alongside the exorbitant amount of money you get for playing a game. So since your job is to be the 300 lbs of charging/growling man, or to not get hit by him, you better be the prime example of physical prowess. If you get injured, put some ice on it and pop your pain reliever of choice.
But no. My fantasy players are doing all right; they have their good and bad games. And some of them get injured, despite my disapproval of them doing so. But if you are going to have an injury that takes you off my roster and not get me any points, it better be a damn good (or bad?) injury. Like surgery or a broken leg. And now, my 6'-2" 225 lb chunk of quarterback can't play for 4 weeks becasue he broke his pinkie. His pinkie. Prowess my ass.
Side note: I think being a defensive lineman is an awesome job, becasue you are a "professional hitter." Seriously, your only job is to yell and tackle someone. I bet it's a huge stress relief too. Had a bad day? Just drop a shoulder and lay someone out. I feel better already!
Anywho, back to the topic at hand. I love a dirty game as well. I like the harder then necessary hits, hearing the helmets smack into things (mainly other helmets), and the snarling/growling/smack talk the players utter. And if there's some sort of inclement weather too, and a dirty played game is dirty messy game, that's even better. So I enjoy watching some football, and I know it's a rough sport. But even though it's rough, I'm not about to cut them any slack for an injury. I'm sure it hurts to be hit by 300 lbs of charging/growling man. But it's one of the hazards of the job. A job you willingly signed up for alongside the exorbitant amount of money you get for playing a game. So since your job is to be the 300 lbs of charging/growling man, or to not get hit by him, you better be the prime example of physical prowess. If you get injured, put some ice on it and pop your pain reliever of choice.
But no. My fantasy players are doing all right; they have their good and bad games. And some of them get injured, despite my disapproval of them doing so. But if you are going to have an injury that takes you off my roster and not get me any points, it better be a damn good (or bad?) injury. Like surgery or a broken leg. And now, my 6'-2" 225 lb chunk of quarterback can't play for 4 weeks becasue he broke his pinkie. His pinkie. Prowess my ass.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Confession (gasp!)
I have a confession. This may be considered blasphemy in ohio, but I'm tired of hiding this: I think Busken's signature iced cookies are crap. There, I said it! The cookie dough itself is ok, I've had it in other baked goods of theirs. It's a crumbly butter/sugar cookie mess sorta thing, but it's still nevertheless ok. It's that bullsh*t they call icing drenched over it. And it's over almost every single cookie. Every. Single. One. And you know what, painting those seasonal decorations on them doesn't make them any better. It just adds more of that bullsh*t icing, only in fun colors! Mild fail. You may as well just hand your dentist a nice check, because your insurance sure as hell isn't going to pay for your own dumb mistake of eating a vat of sugar in the form of a lame cookie.
Now, let me say, I like Busken as a bakery just fine. There are plenty of other wonderfully indulgent baked goods to choose from, even tarts (the real baked good kind of tart, not the headlight tarts I saw at the bar) . But for some reason, a huge amount of people think these cookies are the epitome of awesomeness? Like they're some sort of treat and they should be regarded with reverence. No, not from this spaz.
So now I have confessed. Busken, your cookie is on notice.
Now, let me say, I like Busken as a bakery just fine. There are plenty of other wonderfully indulgent baked goods to choose from, even tarts (the real baked good kind of tart, not the headlight tarts I saw at the bar) . But for some reason, a huge amount of people think these cookies are the epitome of awesomeness? Like they're some sort of treat and they should be regarded with reverence. No, not from this spaz.
So now I have confessed. Busken, your cookie is on notice.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
public service anouncment
I went to a college bar the other night. Right, now I remember why I stopped going to them. It was too crowded, too loud and too exhausting. A lot of too everythings. So this is my attempt at a PSA for those of us who are not afraid to grow up.
Some observations:
1. If you are 24 or above, you are too old to be there. However, 23 is totally mature.
2. All the girls look the same, blond and tons of skin. And while I'm thinking about it, put a sweater on, I don't need to see your nips to know you're cold. And a little support never hurt anyone you tart.
3. A tart doesn't actually know what a tart is. They think it's only a baked good.
4. A guy may have on one or more of the following: strait leg jeans, rumpled button-down shirt, graphic T, frat boy orange, or baseball cap
5. If you drove yourself there, you think you can drive yourself back.
6. The I'm-bored-and-I'm-way-too-pretty-to-be-waiting-for-a-drink-in-the-first-place-look is taught during freshman orientation.
7. Everyone is someone's girl/boy/bff/ or favorite person that night
8. Once in line for the bathroom, you are trapped. Be wary of flailing gropers and random make-out partners. Nothing says romance like a full bladder
9. The virtues of late night food will be the most stimulating conversation you will have all night. But only if you can outshout the other person.
10. And no matter what, there is always someone drunker then you. If you cannot find that person, you are the one making out with people in the bathroom line.
Some observations:
1. If you are 24 or above, you are too old to be there. However, 23 is totally mature.
2. All the girls look the same, blond and tons of skin. And while I'm thinking about it, put a sweater on, I don't need to see your nips to know you're cold. And a little support never hurt anyone you tart.
3. A tart doesn't actually know what a tart is. They think it's only a baked good.
4. A guy may have on one or more of the following: strait leg jeans, rumpled button-down shirt, graphic T, frat boy orange, or baseball cap
5. If you drove yourself there, you think you can drive yourself back.
6. The I'm-bored-and-I'm-way-too-pretty-to-be-waiting-for-a-drink-in-the-first-place-look is taught during freshman orientation.
7. Everyone is someone's girl/boy/bff/ or favorite person that night
8. Once in line for the bathroom, you are trapped. Be wary of flailing gropers and random make-out partners. Nothing says romance like a full bladder
9. The virtues of late night food will be the most stimulating conversation you will have all night. But only if you can outshout the other person.
10. And no matter what, there is always someone drunker then you. If you cannot find that person, you are the one making out with people in the bathroom line.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Ehh
For the hell of it, I hit the next blog link. I discovered 2 things:
1. Most of them are not in english
2. Oh right, I don't care
So unless you are real friend of mine, I'm not reading your blog. I'm certainly not going to read a stranger's in the hope of finding something poignant. A cute puppy/baby picture, I might read 2 lines in the hopes of finding something funny. But honestly, I don't care other wise. Oh and if you have music that blares when your blog opens, FAIL.
1. Most of them are not in english
2. Oh right, I don't care
So unless you are real friend of mine, I'm not reading your blog. I'm certainly not going to read a stranger's in the hope of finding something poignant. A cute puppy/baby picture, I might read 2 lines in the hopes of finding something funny. But honestly, I don't care other wise. Oh and if you have music that blares when your blog opens, FAIL.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Cad monkey training 101
I can figure out how to use most tech-y things simply because they've become a part of every day life. So my parent's ineptitude with all things tech-y (cell phones, digital camera, i pods...) can bother the living crap out of me. And I love my parent's, I adore them, and I'm never going to leave as long as they keep feeding me. But sometimes they can be exasperating, like all parents are prone to be.
My father got it into his head he needed to learn autocad to remodel the basement. And since I did go to design school, and have autocad on my computer, I volunteered to do some simple drawings real quick, no prob. But he wanted to do it by himself, and I had to teach him. After a good deal of badgering, I agreed to educate him on the ways of a cad-monkey. So we do a rough floor plan sketch, record the measurements to the corresponding walls, (which was an argument unto itself. I insisted on writing the measurements down because "neither one of us will remember them all and I'm not traipsing up and down the stairs every single time you need to verify something dad. Write down the damn 12'-3"), and set up a brand new spanking cad document for the basement.
Now I know how difficult it can be to learn a new computer program, and I tried to be patient. Really really tried. But, well, just keep reading.
Me: Start here (pointing to paper drawing) in the corner of the basement.
Dad: Why isn't there a corner on the screen?
Me: because you haven't drawn it in the computer yet.
Dad: But I have it on paper here.
Me: Yes, but you have to draft all the lines that are on that physical sheet of paper into the computer if you want to be on the computer screen. It's like an empty word document, you have to use the key board to make the words visible. Only that's text and we're doing pictures.
Dad: Oh ok.
Me: So, this corner. Click that icon, it's your line command. Now click on the screen where you want the line to start. No it doesn't mater where. Move your mouse the direction you want the line to go (so far so good). Ok that wall is 12'-3", so type that in.
Dad: No I want the line to stop here (pressing fingertip to laptop screen and it changes color like my face), that looks right.
Me: But dad, it's not actually right, you can't just arbitrarily stop lines where you want them to if you want an accurate drawing of the basement.
Dad: Oh, ok. (furrows brow) Wait, start over. What command did we just use?
It took 15 minutes to draw that line (correctly), and for every other line, the above dialogue was repeated. I made the mistake of zooming once, and all hell broke loose. But eventually he had drawn a floor plan all by himself (kinda). Victory! And then:
Dad: But this is what the basement looks like now.
Me: yes...
Dad: But I don't need that. I want to see what it will look like.
Me: What, huh? Well, ok...what do you want it to look like?
Dad shrugs.
Me: So in autocad, you want to see something, that you have no idea what that something should look like in the first place. And you want to draw the something that you don't know what it looks like, in a program that you don't know how to draw in.
Dad nods.
I just walked away.
My father got it into his head he needed to learn autocad to remodel the basement. And since I did go to design school, and have autocad on my computer, I volunteered to do some simple drawings real quick, no prob. But he wanted to do it by himself, and I had to teach him. After a good deal of badgering, I agreed to educate him on the ways of a cad-monkey. So we do a rough floor plan sketch, record the measurements to the corresponding walls, (which was an argument unto itself. I insisted on writing the measurements down because "neither one of us will remember them all and I'm not traipsing up and down the stairs every single time you need to verify something dad. Write down the damn 12'-3"), and set up a brand new spanking cad document for the basement.
Now I know how difficult it can be to learn a new computer program, and I tried to be patient. Really really tried. But, well, just keep reading.
Me: Start here (pointing to paper drawing) in the corner of the basement.
Dad: Why isn't there a corner on the screen?
Me: because you haven't drawn it in the computer yet.
Dad: But I have it on paper here.
Me: Yes, but you have to draft all the lines that are on that physical sheet of paper into the computer if you want to be on the computer screen. It's like an empty word document, you have to use the key board to make the words visible. Only that's text and we're doing pictures.
Dad: Oh ok.
Me: So, this corner. Click that icon, it's your line command. Now click on the screen where you want the line to start. No it doesn't mater where. Move your mouse the direction you want the line to go (so far so good). Ok that wall is 12'-3", so type that in.
Dad: No I want the line to stop here (pressing fingertip to laptop screen and it changes color like my face), that looks right.
Me: But dad, it's not actually right, you can't just arbitrarily stop lines where you want them to if you want an accurate drawing of the basement.
Dad: Oh, ok. (furrows brow) Wait, start over. What command did we just use?
It took 15 minutes to draw that line (correctly), and for every other line, the above dialogue was repeated. I made the mistake of zooming once, and all hell broke loose. But eventually he had drawn a floor plan all by himself (kinda). Victory! And then:
Dad: But this is what the basement looks like now.
Me: yes...
Dad: But I don't need that. I want to see what it will look like.
Me: What, huh? Well, ok...what do you want it to look like?
Dad shrugs.
Me: So in autocad, you want to see something, that you have no idea what that something should look like in the first place. And you want to draw the something that you don't know what it looks like, in a program that you don't know how to draw in.
Dad nods.
I just walked away.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
A letter to my future husband
You will adore me. I will be the center of your everything, and life before me will be a pale comparison. You will be smart, articulate, driven, practical, mature, accommodating, supportive, want a family and anything else that makes my life better. No person, hobby or job will come before me. Until the kids come along, I am the incontestable number one in everything in your life. You will eventually be a doting dad but a responsible parent as well. You will not be afraid to try new things. You will be indulgent almost to the point of absurdity. you will tell me everyday; in some way shape or form I'm beautiful. You will be considerate, embrace my spaz qualities and rarely question my motives. You will attempt to follow my train of thought. Eventually, you will learn my random noises and act accordingly to them. You will kill spiders, reach tall things, open jars. You will have a tool box with tools in it, and know how to use each of them properly. You will massage whatever hurts when I ask and/or fetch pain pills w/out hassle. You will appreciate my need to take care of people along with any housework that I do. You will not create more house work for me either. You will put the seat down, use a coaster and not ruin all my furniture. You will acquiesce that my aesthetic ability and taste in (almost) everything is better then yours. Understand that classy with a K is unacceptable. You will not be a horrible dresser. You will love my friends. You will kiss me goodnight, good morning, goodbye and hello, every day, along with whenever you feel like it too. You will be my biggest cheerleader. You will never underestimate or undermine me. EVER. We will have similar ideas about our lives and goals, and what to deem worthy endeavors. We will agree to disagree on a few things, but not the core values of life. You will not make my life harder. We will be each others best friend. You will be pretty much perfect for me , with a minor tweak here and there. We will each have our own lives, and will enhance the other one's only for the better.
Mediocrity will not be accepted. I will be the same wonderful things I expect of you in return. Except kill spiders, reach tall things and open jars.
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