Commercial Hit? I Don't Think So

I may be completely wrong about this, but whatever.

I don't think that music albums that are advertised on tv will be any good. It doesn't matter if the reviews are good or if the artist is actually talented enough, I immediately discount it to the likes of infomercial quality and well, no.

My theory, if you have enough of a fan base, you don't need to advertise, let alone have a commercial, to garner publicity.

I'm not really a music person to begin with and since I don't actually buy music, this is not a problem for the artist attempting to get the sales. Maybe the album is worth my while, maybe not. If I care enough to find out, I'll just check it out from the library. (oh I totally put stuff from there in my itunes. I haven't bought music from apple in a year!)

The Twitter of My Life

For your snarking pleasure, some thoughts that have run through my head the past week.

• Wtf people, it's January in Kentucky. Stop it with the flip flops.
• She's kinda pretty, in that obviously fake tan orange sort of way I mean.
  
• Eff it, I'm going to be the talker in class. I have something to say on social theory.
  
• On that note, dude, don't be the talker in class. Everything you say comes out with a douché accent.
• I wonder if that's teased or a bump-it? Either way, I can't see over/around it.
• I bet he's 19, he has that 19 year old I totally know what I'm doing after one semester of college cocky walk.
• Holy crap, there are a lot of people smaller than me. I'm talking 8" shorter. I could put her in my put pocket small.
• You know, for as tiny as that girl is (and that she's a uk cheerleader), she has remarkably big man hands.
• How does a person chew gum so loud?
• Dreads on a girl...no, just not a good look.
• Hey that's angry chem girl! Wow, she still looks seriously angry. Maybe that's just her default face?
• That's right kids, these are peanut butter Oreos, and you should be jealous. Grown ups bring good stuff in our lunchboxes

Watch What You Eat

Today as I was walking to the gym, I started to feel funny. I got really warm really fast, (and it was 21 degrees fyi) felt my entire body going flush and my knees were getting watery. I knew exactly what was happening, my blood sugar was starting to drop, and it was dropping fast. This almost never happens to me, only twice in my life (now 3). But because they are such freak occurrences, they stick out in my memory and I could immediately identify what the hell was going on and know what to do.

Fortunately I was very close to the gym and even more fortunately, I knew I had an apple in my backpack (I've given up on the bananas in the backpack- while tasty and fun alliteration, it is also very messy when squished). As soon as I got to the lobby, I fished out my apple and sociology book (I had to do something to not look unhealthy, they wouldn't have let me work out) and remedied the situation. (fruit juices are a great quick fix, a whole piece of fruit can't be that far off of the same benefits). But this sent off a red flag in my mind and I realized, I need to start watching what I eat. Not in a going on a diet sense, I do need to be more aware of what I'm eating in lui of the activities I'll be doing the rest of the day.

I've never been one to (consciously*) diet, and I've always eaten whatever I wanted, when I wanted and never had to worry about those mean diet mantas such as: nothing taste as good as skinny feels, or once on the lips, forever on the hips. I eat meats, carbs, I can't stay away from cheese, and if there's desert I'll take 2. If it's on some forbidden list of some diet, I will probably eat it, not think about it and be on my merry way. I know, I would hate me too if it wasn't so awesome.

But today's blood sugar drop made me realize that I can't be as cavalier about it. Because while I had breakfast before class, a bowl of fruit loops and coffee was apparently not enough to get me to early afternoon. So while I'm not going to start shying away from a twinkie (and the day I do, check me into a mental hospital because I freaking love twinkies), but I know I don't want this to happen again.

*I pretty much stopped eating before I left my fiance. I was on the I'm too depressed to eat diet and lost 10 lbs in addition to 180 lbs of upcoming rock star. If I ever do go on a diet, this isn't the route I want to go.

Baffled

Wanna know how to baffle a college student? Pull out Tupperware.* Yuh-huh.

There are plenty of other ways to confuse them, but this is one of the more subtle things.
Pourquoi?

They are first jealous that:
(a) you have a snack.
(b) brought it from home and therefore did not buy it on campus.
(c) which means you planed ahead.
and
(d) carry it in a container that you don't throw away.

*Gladware works well too. Plastic baggies achive same level of confusion up to level (d).

Pace Yourself

This training, I'm mixing where/how I run these halves. My first I ran outside or at the gym at work. Bailey and I went for runs together until she messed up her knee. (Don't worry, I didn't just start her running at 3 miles, we built up together.) Last spring, I ran exclusively on the treadmill. Now, I'm mixing it up a little. I run on the treadmill when I need to charge my ipod, (you plug it into the machine and it charges it while you run. It's pretty cool and forward thinking). I run outside for my longer runs as long as it's not raining (I'm quite the persnickety prissy runner). I feel that I have to go somewhere to run, or else I won't do it. And I run on the indoor track at the gym to work on my pace work but also on days that I wear pants with pockets so I have a place to put my ipod (I've lost my arm band by way of ass tax and apple doesn't make a band for my model anymore). Though I have a tendency to loose count of my laps which is problematic.

I don't run fast. Which I know sounds very whaa?, because the point of running is to get somewhere faster. What I mean is that I don't take off careening down the track trying to run a lap in under a minute like almost everyone else there. I get passed a lot, quite often I get lapped a few times by a someone. I lap people too, but usually it's the walkers. But so what really. I'm on the track longer, I run the entire time (I really do this time Amy! Aren't you proud of me!), and I do twice the distance that lapper is doing. And even when I pull off and cool down, yeah I'm tired, but I don't look and feel nearly as exhausted as they do.

So I may not be competing with anyone for speed, but I'm still competing in my own way. Mentally and physically, I'm trying to outlast everyone and anyone on that track. And when I manage to do so, I'm not above a little nanny-nanny-boo-boo! in my head.

I Dreamed a Dream

Last night, here is what I dreamed:

I dreamed that I eloped with Tim Tebow (the Florida quarterback-though this Tim Tebow had blond hair and a beard. Whatever, he was definitely Tim Tebow in my dream), and then I pushed a blond girl in the face when she hit on him. I then flashed her my wedding band with a smug stay away from my husband.

And then later he passed me a note in in my high school chemistry class but I woke up before I got to read it becasue I was busy taking notes. So I don't know what the note said, but it had little hearts drawn on it. He had very girly handwriting.

Yep. I shit you not.

Somebody's Watching Me

Actually, I was watching you! Creepy no?

I used to be tracking my readers. Yep, I had a code somewhere that linked something to somewhere to something else that let me know what areas of the world were visiting, how long they stayed on my site and how many times they visited during the day. And I'm flattered y'all keep up with me.

But it wasn't as creepy as you may think, because well (a) I'm not creepy. And (b) I knew the city that was reading, but not the actual person/computer. So unless you are the only person I know someplace, then I didn't know exactly who you were.

But someplace in that somewhere chain disconnected and readership according to my tracking thingy stopped. At least, it wasn't being recorded or noted. Readership dropped 100%. Boo. And first I was hey, ouch people. But then I figured, that has to be a lie, because I've gotten comments to me and on the blog about stuff I've written, so clearly, people are reading.

So because I didn't care about the technicalities of the whole thing and I know that people are reading anyway, I just deleted the tracking thingy account.

So you people are wonderful but you're off the hook now. You can totally say you read and I'll believe you, because I'll never know the difference.

Waiting List

I realized I go the gym 5-6 days a week. I attend two fitness classes (though we'll see if I stick with the pilates, the devil class), and the rest I run. Since I'm there so much, I decided I would try to rent a locker so I wouldn't have to carry my wet towel and shower stuff all day, and I inquired about it at the front office.

There aren't any available at the moment, so the desk clerk/fitness trainer offered me the wait list. Sure, I thought. I've been on a few waiting list in my time. Classes, middle school (I was on the waiting list for middle school y'all. My dad kept calling and asking what number I was, and they finally told him 17 so he would stop annoying them), and eventually I got in to whatever I was waiting for and its worked out pretty good for me so far.

Out of curiosity though, I ask how long is the wait list is as she hands me the sheet.
"This is page 7."
"Oh"

Page. Not 7th on the list. Page 7.
Right, so I'm not renting (paying) a locker this semester. Guess this is one wait list I'm not getting off any time soon.

False Sense of Security

I would say around 80% of my tank tops have one of those built-in bra things. But let's be honest here, they don't so squat for me. Since I've had roommates, (w/the exception of my fiance), I usually don't leave my bedroom without some sort of support, even if I'm wearing something with a built-in.

But this morning before I even fixed my coffee, Bailey decided she had to go out rightthisveryinstant, and was ringing the bell while blatantly staring at me. (I have her bell trained. Even if she doesn't listen to anything else I say, at least I have that. Admit it, that's cool) Unfortunately for her, I was still in my pj top with only a built-in. Unfortunately for me, I know when she paws the bells with that much gusto, she really has to go and we don't have that kind of time for me to get ready.

Fortunately, it's one of my tighter tanks so there was a false sense of security with it. And I was wearing a few layers over it (my house is cold) so there wasn't much to be seen. So I set my jaw, threw on my coat and thought, here goes.

Not a complete fail, but definitely not a win.

Pilates are the DEVIL

The burn is so deep in my core that I can't tell if it's coming from my abs or my back.

Like I said, pilates are the devil. Yes. The DEVIL.

And that's all I have to say about that.

So I had This Thought the Other Day

Since the Vatican is an independent country, does this mean they could compete in the Olympics?

Well no, we looked that answer at up at work (oh btw, even though we claim to not notice/comment/judge on what materials you check out, we so totally are).

Then I started giggling uncontrollably, because I get the mental image of the pope running in a race in full pope regalia, blessing people along the way. Meanwhile the other athletes are going nuts because they've trained their lives for this, but dude, you can't beat the pope. I mean, who does that?

And yes, this is really what goes on in my head.

Twitter on my Mind

Twitter is great for those moments when you have to snark RIGHT NOW. But because there are so many random thoughts/snarks in my head, if I tweeted every time I would have an astronomical text bill. And plus, I get bored with texting around the 40th character, so by the time I finish the message, the moment has passed. So to save my own interests and my sent box from filling up, I usually just write down my snarky thoughts in my notes and come back later to them. Here's a snippet of my random thoughts and life doings from the first few days of class:

1. Remember that article in the paper "cold effect's those outside?" Yeah file that under no shit Sherlock. I can't feel my ass or my toes right now.
   
2. I've had my coat on for so long, I don't remember what shirt I'm wearing right now.
3. I thought buying all my books this morning was efficient. And green because I put them in my backpack and didn't use a store bag. Now, they are just heavy.
4. Why, why, was the only word of those guys' conversation that carried was boobs? And the only one I caught?
5. Seriously dude, could you breath any louder? Just breath through the mouth, it would be quieter. What the hell number burp was that? It may have sounded chunky too. Yep, I'm dropping this class.
6. If you wore a hat, or you know socks, you might not be so cold. Just saying.
7. My 2 years high school french, 12 years ago, might mean I have to take a placement test. Merde! (that I remember)
8. Is it just me, or do my boobs look really big in this top? Hmm, maybe that's why my french partner keeps looking at me.
   
9. Yep, I am the only girl on campus who does not wear makeup to class.
10. I also think I am the only person on campus who brings their lunch.
11. Sure honey, that bag of Cheerios you are having for lunch will help you loose weight. The bag of cookies I know you're going to binge and snarf down later isn't going to anything for the saddle bags you claim to have though.
    
12. My professor just exclaimed "no shit!" I see why everyone likes her.

American Idol

The world does not stop for American Idol. There I said it! I don't watch American Idol, I may be the only person who does not watch it, see #60 on the 100 things about me list.

Honestly, I've never had a problem with idol and it's menagerie of borderline circus freaks. You think I would like it because it's all about judging! But when it messes with what I judge as quality television, I decided the all consuming monster Idol is a bastard.

Why? Because I have to wait until April, yes April, for my beloved Glee to come back.

What do you think I want to watch?
A: a televised popularity contest under the guise of a singing contest?
or B: an ensemble cast containing several Tony nominated actors and Jane Lynch as a maniacal cheerleading coach at a high school in Ohio?

(hmm, when you put it that way, that's actually a tough call. But no, I don't watch idol and I have no intention of starting now)

But I know I'm in the minority. Because a lot of the people who watch Idol also watch Glee. They're probably relived that don't have to split focus. So I'm just going to sulk and pout that Fox IS stopping the world (well, the program that I want to watch) for it's asshole cash cow known as Idol.

Way to piss me off Fox, way to piss me of.

Yoga, ommmmm

So I finally got my tush to a yoga class, completely justifying the 2nd set of yoga pants I bought the other day. I've always thought that yoga could be a "me" kind of thing, but I was a little afraid to get started because I might look foolish in the class. But this class is free (sorta, I pay tuition which included the fitness fee, so in a way I pay a gym membership), I have the time, I need to cross train, and I have the pants. There was no reason for me to not put on my big girl (yoga) pants and try to bend with the rest of them.

The results? Not bad. Since I'm in decent shape right now I could keep up with the class and I can bend and balance better then I thought I could. So I'm bendy, but not that bendy. And if my flexibility improves, that's something I will totally mention when trying to entice future suitors.

But you know what I liked about it most of all? That I got an hour and a half work out, and I didn't break a sweat. Because even though I like to run, I sweat like a lot when I do. (I should hope so, I'm working!) But working or not, and no mater how good I feel after a run, I plain just don't like to sweat in any case.

The Lines of Friendship

As a med/peds doctor, my doctor friend treats kids and grown ups. Anyway, she can and has delivered babies, and she tells me it's a pretty great moment. And as long as everything is normal, when the time comes, she could deliver my kids.

But instead of thinking, oh wow, one of my best friends would be there at seemingly the happiest moment of my life, I asked her:

Me: Umm, would you have to look at my hoo?
P: Well, yes. That's where I would have to be if I'm delivering your kids.
Me: Then no, I do not want you delivering my children. We're friends and all, but I'm fine if we never cross that line.
P: Phew, cool.
Me: You can totally be my kids' doctor after they come out though.
P: I better be.

I've been told there's a remarkable lax of privacy when you're having a baby, with doctors, nurses, med students (if you're at a teaching hospital), and invasive family (Seriously, stay out almost mother in-law!*) all entering the room when you are in that state. Maybe at that point you don't care if a friends sees that because she's a medical professional and it's just another day in the office for her. But I for one, still think it's a little icky. And I'm glad that she agrees.

*Oh yes, I *actually* had to have that conversation with the almost mother-in-law. She was in the delivery room for her daughter's first born. Held back a leg and everything. So she assumed the same for the ex and I. I flat out said no (not that it matters anymore, she can invade another girl's private moment now). She was a little hurt, until I explained I don't even want my own mom in there. When I relayed this story back to my mom, her response to I don't want her in there was: "oh thank god! I don't want to be there either!"

Lost Soul

So the broad on Project Runway who cries at every. single. fcking. thing: Man up. God, you can tell you never went to design school.

How do I know that?
Because she cries at every. single. thing. She got a forehead wrinkle from Tim Gunn, fell down the pitiful hole and started her entire outfit over. Mark my words, one crit (that critique for you non-design people) and she is going to loose it. (I can't wait, meltdowns make great tv. Oh, whatever, like I'm going to deny myself the pleasure of judging someone who signed a billion contracts allowing them to be exposed)

But you could argue that just because she can't hold herself together, that doesn't mean I know her lack of education status. Au contraire mon amie, you do not make it through design school with out one bad crit. You man up and defend your work, and you learn that your professors and guest critiquers feed of the crushed dreams and souls of students.

Moral of the story: design school takes your soul.

Being Compared to an Elephant is Never Good

So yesterday I'm at the gym, which is pretty normal for me since I'm in training mode. I'm starting to recognize a few of the workers, but that's mainly because they wear shirts that say staff on them. But besides that, no one really stands out and I don't notice much of anyone else. I'm not exactly in the mood to be noticed or be eye candy when I'm at the gym either. Not to say I mind it when eye candy for me strolls past, but that's just a bonus. I'm there there to train.

But yesterday, I could not help but notice this one girl when I was running. It's not that she was dressed to impress (oh yes, UK girls wear full makeup to the gym) or exerting her physical prowess. In fact, she was quite homely, and she's probably often over looked. Poor thing had terrible acne, I think there was more inflamed skin then there was cheek bone. I digress. But she was just running, so, well... not right. I'm far from someone who is able to tell what you're doing right and wrong (despite my overwhelming tendency to judge on everything else) when it comes to running. I annoy my sister anytime I have the slightest question running wise. But this plain pimply girl was just not doing it right.

She had the treadmill set entirely too fast, because she was stomping as she ran. She looked like she was practically leaping and then crashing back to the belt. The whole machine was shaking from the impact. I could hear her over my ear buds and 3 treadmills down. She sort of sounded like an ungraceful elephant. And judging by the amount of people who turned to look at the source of the noise, others noticed too. The stomping went on for a while, then stopped. Then started again and stopped again. Stomp stop stomp stop. You get the pattern.

I finished up my (much quieter) run after her 3rd or 4th stomp fest and started walking towards the stretching area. But I had to walk past her to get there. And I was really tempted to interrupt her workout, tap her on the shoulder and say: seriously, slow down, because either this treadmill or your kneecaps are coming out of this run broken.

SPCA

I do not claim to be a complete and utter animal lover. I love my dog, I like a lot of other people's dogs a whole lot, but that's about as far as I go. I'm not a super fan of cats (I'm convinced they are all trying to kill me by a slow torturous sneezy asphyxiation). But since I got my dog here with me, I've been much more aware of the humane society, animal abuse news and I can't read a book about a stray or abused animal, let alone a dog, without welling up a little (seriously, Shiloh, I don't think I can finish it). And ever time I see a commercial or hear a plea from the ASPCA, I want to give all my worldly goods to help them.

We originally adopted Bailey from the SPCA, which I why I'm on a little soap box right now.

Only a person with an iron heart can not be effected when you see those sad, often abused and abandoned eyes on the TV. Asking nothing but to be loved. It disturbs me so much that there are people who abuse, neglect and abandon their pets. I know there are times you have to give a pet up, allergies, it doesn't get along with your kids, or you leave your fiance and your parents who let you live at home rent free don't relent for months. But those are different situations, and (I hope) a heart breaking choice, and it's your last and only option.

So every time I see those commercials, I look at my spazzy dog peacefully curled up in a ball. She drives me nuts a lot, but she's same loving dog I helped raise as a puppy and she's so excited to see me come home her whole butt shakes, that my heart swells. I rub behind her ears (she loves that), and tell her: I don't understand how anyone could be that cruel, but I promise I will never hurt you. And I will never leave you again.

Updated 01/15/10: The (local) Humane Society just sent a request for donations letter. Yep, I'm giving. Not a lot, but hey, I'm trying to help when I can.

How I got Bailey

Do you know the story of how I first got a dog? Long story, but ridiculously happy ending, I promise. Totally worth the read in my opinion. Anyway

I mentioned to my ex after we got back from vacation that I though I would be ready to take on pet ownership. I figured, he was proposing (though I wasn't supposed to know that, but I did know and he knew that I knew and I knew that he knew...) and since I was getting something I wanted, he should have something he really wanted too (besides an attractive fiance).

So the Saturday morning arrives and I'm ready to go, but he wasn't as pumped as I was and really hard to get moving. After some unsuccessful attempts to rise him out of bed, I resorted to poking and annoying him.

Me (slightly pleading) : Come on, we don't have may free Saturdays together. Let's go to just look.
X: (sigh of resignation) Ok. But I'm warning you, the pound is a sad place and you'll want to save every dog there. And you know we can't do that.
Me: Pftsh, I know that! Our apartment's too small for one thing, and we don't have any dog stuff either. And we're only looking.
He shakes his head, knowing I really have no idea what's going on. But he indulges me anyway and we go to the SPCA. "Just looking. We're just looking," I repeat over and over to myself.

But then my pretty tan puppy was placed in my arms and "just looking" went out the window. I coo over the puppy and puppy induced babble spills from my mouth. I'm falling in love and everyone, including my fiance, can see it. At the same time he realizes my "just looking" pep talk was a complete lie and starts to have concerns about my ability to care for a dog. He's not worried about his ability, but me, he has doubts.

X (gently): Babe, you've never had a dog before. And this is a puppy...
Me (snort): You're the one who wanted a puppy in the first place so we could train it from the beginning.
X: But you're baby sitting tonight, and I'm working. You can't handle a toddler and a puppy by yourself.
Me:(slightly (totally) indignant) Excuse me? Oh yes I can! (I have no idea if this is true, but he has just challenged me and that will not do)
X (still gently): No, you really have no idea how hard a puppy is...

--the nu-uh yu-uh argument continues for several rounds. My face get's stormier and stormier, and my grip on my puppy never loosens--

X: maybe we could start the paperwork now pick her up tomorrow...
Me: Put her on hold you mean? Leave her?!?! Well that won't work!
X (another sigh of resignation): I'll go talk to the desk and see if it's at least possible. Hold onto her. But don't get too attached babe...
Me (sing song voice and making silly faces at Bailey who I've already started think of names for): too late!
A few minutes later he walks back in the puppy room and asks: what's the number on her temporary tag?
Me (I'm in a puppy haze (that sh*t's potent - if I could figure out how to bottle it, I could rule the world)): Huh? What? Why?
X: (rueful smile) I need the tag number to finalize the adoption.
Me (jumping up and down in excitement): She's ours?! Squeeee! Oh puppy! I'm your mommy!
Bailey: Arf! Arf! Arf! (and a kiss for good measure)

--later that evening in our (small) apartment, the baby sitting done (he called in sick to work to stay with me while I babysat. Though I say I totally could have handled it)--

Me (still sing song voice): I have a puppy! I have a puppy!" (She snuggles closer to me as if to say hi mom!) How how could you think we were going to leave her there?
X (slightly chastened at how attached the puppy is to me): Yeah, I was watching you. And your face was telling me you were going to be really pissed off if we didn't get her.
Me (nodding at his correct assessment): yep, you're right. I would not be speaking to you right now if we left without her.
X (big grin spreads across his face): we have a puppy!

I Want to Suck Your Blood

Last year right around new years, I dropped by the blood center to try and donate. I've attempted to give blood in the past, but my iron was consistently a smidgen too low. But to my surprise, my iron was high enough and I was able to give. I was super proud of myself and I blogged about it to commemorate the occasion. As those of you who have donated before, you know the blood bank calls as soon as you are eligible once that 50-something days window opens. And I make an appointment and attempt, but pretty much, my iron is still riiiight below that acceptable line. Grrr.

Well, yesterday, I knew I would be in the area of the blood center so I planned ahead a little bit. The past couple of days I took vitamins w/extra iron, kept my caffeine intake to a minimum (stupid leecher), and ate the right combination of foods to maximize absorption.

And woot! My iron was finally, finally high enough yesterday! (I took the vitamin 1/2 an hour before I tried to give. And it worked, so there) I was so excited I even said "woo-hoo!" when the screening tech told me so. She probably thought I was nuts too, but whatever, it's not like crazy travels through blood. Happy everything is ok, I gather my stuff and I'm put in the donation room.

I settle in the chair and wait patiently. I've only given blood twice in my life so this isn't old hat for me. I'm a big girl and I know I signed up for this, but from those two measly times, I remember it being slightly uncomfortable with a needle in my arm. But I don't like to watch, I know this about myself. So the anticipation ends up making me nervous. Really nervous, like palm sweating nervous.

The vampire, (or phlebotomist or tech, whatever, the blood taker) notices my nerves and asks if I'm ok. I figure I'll be so once the needle is in and as long as I don't look either, which I tell her. I watch while she cleans the area, but as soon as she tells me to turn away, I do so without hesitation. I don't want to seem like a baby, but I let out a tiny whimper when the needle went in. And it doesn't hurt that bad once it's going, it's really just a pinch. But the mere thought of it is what's making me a little skittish.

We're ready to go! I'm given the squishy thing to pump (it was a Big Ass Fan donkey, which amused me and I knew without looking at. Those things are popular in this town), but something isn't right. Vampire 1 called over Vampire 2, and they turned the needle a few times. Cute boy technician (vampire 2) was really gentle (what? I was nervous, not blind), but something just wasn't working and they stopped.

So after all that, the prep, the nerves, the head turning and blatant not looking, getting the needle in and going as far to squeezing the squishy donkey, my veins decide to not cooperate and ruin the whole process.

So the blood center wasn't able to get a usable donation from me. And now I have to wait another 8 weeks to try the whole circus again.

BOO HISS.

Dear Carly Phillips

I felt as if it was a trashy romance novel kind of weekend seeing as I was piled ankle deep in snow. But I am not typically a trashy romance reading kind of girl, and since I have read a few of your novels before, I decided you were a good starting point.

Now, I do think you are a decent writer and you tell a steamy story. And you are on the NYT best seller list and you have many books so you are obviously successful at what you do. I know how hard it can be to get published in the first place, let alone get multiple books, and here you are in double digits. And you appeal to a mass audience as well and that's awesome for you. But along those same lines, all those mass appeal stories are kinda the same story. You really like the trio, and I get why, it continues a story arc and gets you multiple books. Shrewd business woman, that you are. But well, there are a few overlying trends that I am having a hard time with from my recent readings. Such as:

• That almost everyone found their one and only (o&o) true love at 17.
• That there is a o&o true love either.
• That no one moves on or lets go. Ever.
• That the same love of your life breaks up with you at 17 to save their heart or their partners heart. Have you ever met a benevolent 17 year old? Especially when it comes to sex?
• Oh and that at those same 17 year olds who are so in love have lots of amazing sex. Because being good in bed takes practice. Lots of it. If they are good, they are slutty.
  
• And then 10-15 years later after no one has moved on, those o&o 17 year olds, now older and wiser and much more open to a fair partnership, reunite and have super hot makeup/missed-you-soooo-much sex, the past hurt and pain is forgotten and everyone lives happily ever after.
• Along those lines, while I'm glad that you always make your character use and strongly advocate protection, I don't believe that only one time without it will get you instantly pregnant. Also, your women are often on the pill, which is 99% effective if taken properly. Make your heroines better at their birth control or less fertile.
• I do not believe two people can fall mutually in love with each other in a week or less. In the stories where your characters are not reunited o&o and are complete strangers at first, they always, always fall in love in a ridiculously short amount of time.
  
• The word use of her mound and his length. I'm a big girl, as are many of your readers. I can take a dirtier word here and there. And as someone who has been in some passionate positions herself, I have used much dirtier words and I was not thinking nearly as clearly or emotionally at the time as your characters do in the same situation.
• In Hot Zone series, it's mentioned Annabelle has a baby girl named Sydney. When she returns from maternity leave in the 3rd book, Sophie asked how her nephew is doing and Annabelle responds with he's at his grandparents. Then at the end of the book, they have a daughter again. I can't believe no one caught this in your arsenal of editors before the book was printed. That just bugged me, though I admit I like the Hot Zone series the best out of all the stuff I've read.
  
• And that everyone is so freaking good looking. But then, they are your characters and I wouldn't want to write a sexy novel about an ugo either. So this one, I'll just say those are my insecurities talking.

However, despite all my finger pointing, you are the one with the book deals, and I am the reader. And I will continue to read your novels on occasion. So pretty much, I'm the asshole here. Sorry 'bout that. Carry on!

Target IS my Happy Place

Last week, I noted that Target, my happy place was having a sale on sports bras and other workout wear. My friend and I both do high impact sports, she dances, I run, and as members of the larger chested club* we both value a sports bra that holds 'em in place. And we were both on a shopping kick and happened to both be in need of the sports bras I just mentioned.

So we get to Target after a round of semi-annual sale* shopping and try on a few things just in case. I tried on a pair of black yoga pants (which I am wearing now and am seriously thinking of taking up yoga now for the excuse to buy more of these super comfy and cute pants) and a black running long sleeve top. I delightedly realized I looked like a ninja and in my excitement I yell in the direction of my friend's dressing room: "I look like a ninja!" (Of course, announcing that severely negates my ninja stealth qualities and makes me highly un-ninja like) But anyway, I decide to be prudent and only get one on sale sports bra and the yoga pants, and not the (ninja) running top. To be prudent.

Right.

'Cause then we see super cute patterned * underwear, that we think is on sale across the aisle. My friend realizes that @ $3 a pair, the 5 for $15 they are claiming is not a sale at all, but just cleverly disguised ploy to make us buy more. Sneaky Target, but well played. I only picked 3 though, once again to be prudent.

Uh-huh. because then we check out the seasonal selection and they since January doesn't have any themed holidays, it's just a bunch of bulk products and workout tapes on sale. Nothing caught my eye, until I saw on an end cap giant boxes of fruit snacks. And can I just say I LOVE the Target brand fruit snacks? And, the box was only, get this, $6. For something like 60 individual packets. Clearly, I had to have it.

By that point my friend I realized that we better get out of there since our arms were getting full ** and went to check out. But I'm telling you, I was walking through that store as pleased as punch with my giant box of fruit snacks. And I'm still a little ridiculously happy that it was only $6.

*I'm going on record: I love my twins. If I'm bitching about them, I'm lying and doing it for attention only.
* if you have to ask what semi annual sale that is, clearly you do not know me.
* Zebra print! Oh yes I did.
** we skipped a cart and/or baskets. Why? We were pretending to have restraint

Hostess with the Mostest Part 2

As promised, part two of how I'm a a rocking hostess. (go me! go me!)

Over Christmas my friends and I planed to hang out as much as we could, seeing as we're so rarely in the same place at the same time. Sunday night was one of the designated play times. We just couldn't decided what to do and where to go. Snippets of the planing conversation/text/gmail chats:
P: desert/movie/game night? That's my suggestion, but I'm going to take a nap, someone else plan the night. She proceeds to sign off and take nap.
S: I prefer desert and game to movie, more interaction.
T: what about fondue?
Me: all sounds fun. I call not it on the planning!

---one hour later---
after several let's do this mentions and then realizing the restaurant we wanted to go to was way expensive, and we also didn't have a solid head count (which pisses off restaurant to no end), I make the executive decision and

Me: my place @9, I'm going to attempt fondue.

I leave the calling and gathering of other people to others mentioned above, and start looking through the kitchen to see what food stuff I already had. I food network search recipes, and half an hour later I'm in traipsing the aisles of Kroger for dippers and cheese. (I used box wine in the cheese fondue and I am not ashamed to admit that.) As I pull up to my house and pop open my trunk to grab the groceries I said to the lightly falling snow: I'm throwing an impromptu fondue party in two hours. I AM the hostess with the mostest.

Hostess with the Mostest

Wanna hear about the times I totally rocked the hostess thing? Of course you do. Stories of such follow:

Before the whole having doubts about the marriage and I was still pretending to care about he band, the ex's band was on the radio as the local artist feature or something. We were going to go to a bar to listen (umm, really? Because you can hear the radio in a bar?), but there had been thunderstorms that night and the bar had no power. However, our apartment had power, the sound system to hear it, and was huge (I loved that apartment). It's pretty obvious our place is the back up plan, but my ex wouldn't tell me one way or the other. So while he hems and haws with his friend about I don't know what, I take over the situation and enter this conversation:

Me: Honey. Hey! Answer me, yes or no. In 30 minutes, are your friends and their girlfriends coming over to our apartment?
Ex: Yes.
Me: Ok. Then don't think I'm crazy because I'm going to go clean.

--flurry of activity ensues--

I wipe down the kitchen counters and bathroom surfaces, stock the toilet paper, took out the trash and recycling, dusted the coffee table, grabbed all the chairs, stools, floor pillow, and fans in the place, arranged both for maximum circulation, taped the cords down and even rearranged the fridge a bit to fit more beer in there. (though when 15 people each bring a 12+ pack, some of it stays warm because it had to go on the very clean counter tops. It's my fridge, and my stuff gets precedence over a friend's crappy beer that was going to be taken away in a few hours anyway)

Meanwhile, fiance and friend left to go buy beer. In fairness, he had learned the hard way to stay the hell out of they way when I snap into crazy hostess mode. They came back to a rearranged living room with the fans blowing at full blast and together say: Whoa!

Ex: Babe? (in a kinda scared/yet slightly awed voice) You did all of this in 30 minutes?
Me (with glass of wine in my hand and makeup applied): 20.

2nd story tomorrow! (I'm tired of typing honestly)

Save the Date

I received my my friends' wedding save-the-date in the mail about a month ago. They're getting married on May 29th 2010. Gee, that sounds kinda familiar. And really close to May 30....

Just because I was going to get married on that day, doesn't mean that anyone else whoever knew me can't have that particular time frame forever and ever. And since I did not get married on that date, I definitely do not have any sort of claim whatsoever to a date that was never mine to begin with.

I am happy for my friends who are getting married, and I can't wait to celebrate that. I am going to put on my big girl pants (well dress since it is a party), celebrate with all my college friends and we're all going to have a rip-roaring-feel-good-for-days-wonderful time.

But god I hope there's an open bar. Just saying.

Where my boys at?

Ok, a different semester, different major, a different set of class mates. Which means different means of getting a boyfriend.

So. Where do I get a guy in college? What classes do the cute smart nice guys take? To be totally stereotyping and wrong: what are the "boy (getting) majors?" Because interior design, not a boy major. Chemistry is definitely a guy (getting) major, but I was too worried about my grades then I was trying to snare a guy anyone's attention. (even nameless guy's. I never did learn his name, but I did eaves drop more). And now that I've switched majors for the billionth time, I'm not sure what kind of kids I'll encounter in there.

So once I figure out where to look, there's the matter of getting one.
To start, I should put up a flier:
Non-traditional slightly older college female seeks cute smart male student who will not annoy her.
Wonder how many takers I would get.
And second, I have to stop looking like I'm going to kick almost everyone. That's got to make me look unapproachable.

It's Not a Party Until Somone Looses Their Pants

Five years ago I was a bridesmaid in my friends' wedding and I kissed her brother (who was a groomsman) at the reception. So after calling dibs on him (on the aisle pairing), flirting with him the past 2 nights and then some drunken kisses, a hookup seemed like the logical next step. Except that night I was sharing a room with 3 girlfriends, my dress was so tight it made me light headed (that may have been the open bar though), my dyed shoes hurt like a mthr fcker, and I was tired from the mass amounts of running around that being a bridesmaid entails. A hook up wasn't on the front of my mind.

A bunch of us hit the after party, and groomsman and I separated to hang out with our respective people. Somehow I ended up with is bag because he was planning on changing or crashing in my room. But I really just wanted to go to bed, so I decided to return to my room and do just that. But knowing I had his stuff, a roommate and I made an attempt to find him for 10 minutes. One of his friends told me was was looking for me (I'm assuming it was to get his stuff), and wandering around the hotel and he may or may not have lost his pants.*

*it was actually his shoes he has lost. But we thought it was pants at the time and pants are about a billion times funnier

This information, and being a little drunk and very tired, was too much for my metal threshold. My friend and I went back to our room and went to bed. But as I entered the room, the other two girls who were in there asked me: Where's A?

Me: "Apparently, he's wandering around with no pants looking for me.
As I turn out the light and fall into bed:
"I just can't deal with a boy with no pants."

Hooking Up

Remember when I wasn't sure I was a f*ck buddy type girl? Well, turns out, I kinda can be. The past few months I've re-hooked up with Library Guy on occasion. It's often under the guise of "stress relief," or a few hours of company, or what the hell why not, but it's happened. Not regularly, but enough to not be blips and moments of weakness. And I don't know how long or if this is going to continue either.

I've tried to rationalized and justify it (mainly to myself), but there's not much to it. There are no expectations beyond the physical, and there's no one else for either of us at the moment. Yes, ultimately I want a boyfriend, but I know it's not going to be in the form of him.

And truth, having this semblance of a couple, even if it is only for a few hours makes me feel better. I've put on weight since the summer, school kicked my ass and I've been lonely. So here's a guy who despite the weight still thinks I look great (yes I know he could be saying that just to get in my pants. It works), doesn't talk about school with me, and is a few hours of dirty/sexy/fun company.

It stops when it gets complicated or when either one of us wants/starts to see someone else. But it's not there at the moment. This works for those moments in time when I need it to. It's not the greatest arrangement ever known to man (that would be oreos and frosting. Or wine and everything), but it's not the worst (that would be the Laura/Katie roommate situation of 2000) either.

I admit thinking when I drive away, I'm going to have to stop this eventually since it's not going anywhere. But, it's not going anywhere so... Why not? It's a tightrope I find myself mentally balancing on each time. And then a few weeks later when he mentions a dirty/sexy/fun time, I throw my emotional caution to the wind and toss out dates that would work for me. How come I can throw that around like a pro, but an actual physical throw I can't hit the broad side of a barn?