The Joy That is Girls' Weekend

Email chains going on for weeks debating various fashion choices, timelines for arrival, and predicting who will pass out in the garden. Jabs at those who embarrassed themselves last year. Who is more likely to have issues handling their liquor? Ah, the beauty of planning a girls' weekend.

Today I jet off to the windy city for my third annual Chicago weekend adventure. A weekend only- yet a year in the making. Five girls and a whole lot a trouble. As soon as we stumble home rugged and ragged from last year's fun, we're already looking ahead to the next year. This is the joy of a girls' weekend! Who cares that it's only a few days? We can anticipate and plan with the best of them all in the good spirit of just being excited. 

See ya suckers!

The Old Lady in the Bar Bathroom (Me)

Last night I was out having a couple cocktails with the boys. You're probably wondering why on a Wednesday night? Well, I don't discriminate against weeknights. We hit up a new corner bar in town that has been promising to stay low key and casual. However, low key and casual no more. The place flooded with chicks dressed to the nines. Cleavage here, tons of MAC lipgloss, and lots of fake hairpieces. Then there I was, sporting a very casual sweatshirt type top. Ripped jeans. Hair that made a guy tell me I reminded him of Sarah Jessica Parker. No flat iron here. I was ill prepared for the impromptu bar appearance.  Oh well. As my fellow beer drinking partner reminded me, I already have the greatest boyfriend in the world- so it's not like I'm looking for men. (FYI boys- I dress for myself, not to pick up men)

The kicker of the evening came while using the restroom. I patiently waited in line while the two stalls served as telephone booths to drunk girls calling everyone they know. As I finally took my turn, I heard the following conversation outside my door:

"Oh my gosh, don't you feel old? I mean, there are like 18 year olds at my work." screeched a female voice.

"Well, how old are you?" asked another high pitched voice.

"Well, I'm only 22, but I feel soooo old now."

"I'm 24, so yeah, I am totally old for bartending."

Had this been a movie, I would have dramatically opened the door as the girls swiveled their heads in shock to see, to their horror, a woman in her upper twenties had been in the bathroom the whole time! The world would freeze, music would screech.

But instead, I studied the girl's unfortunate choice of belted plaid shirt as a dress, and secretly felt thankful that I am no longer 22. Then I drank another Miller Light.

Does Anyone Care if Miss California is Topless?

If you haven't heard, there's some big scandal on the Miss USA pageant. Actually, I'm not sure if it's Miss USA or Miss America...whatever. Anyway, apparently Miss California could be de-throned of her title because partially nude pics have surfaced of her on the web. According to the pageant bible, this is a big no-no and grounds for dismissal.

Let me get this straight.

It's perfectly fine for the Miss USA California organization to PAY for her to have fake boobs implanted to show off to the world in a swimsuit while parading around a stage on national television, but it is NOT okay for her to show those expensive additional pieces of anatomy on her free time. What, are they personal property of the state of California?

Ridiculous. 

If the Miss USA pageant can allow extreme idiocy (have you seen their interview answers?) to represent the organization, they can allow the girls to use their assets to the best of their abilities. I'm more offended by interview answers than any pictures of their fake chests.

There Should Be Laws on Facebook Statuses

Today while skimming the thoughts of the 300 something Facebook friends who are dying to tell me what they are doing/thinking/avoiding RIGHT NOW, I came across the following Facebook status:

                          "I am getting my period today and am really crabby..."

What? What? What?

Remember when uttering the word "period" was tabu? When we'd go to all lengths to disguise our womanly function? Now it's ok to tell everybody you've ever known that aunt flo has come to town? No with a capital N. Call me old fashioned, but bring me back to the days of secrets. If there were ever a reason to label Too Much Information (or TMI as the kids are saying) this would most definitely be the time. 

TOO MUCH INFORMATION!

Personal Grooming in Public?

I've reflected on my last few weeks of posts and felt as if I were complaining a bit. But, as the title of this blog suggests, this is my horrible rotten no good very bad terrible twenties, and I feel my keen sense of awareness does justice in bringing out via cyber word the atrocities surrounding us. And, I no longer have a day job, thus copious amounts of time to reflect and gather.

Which brings me to an alarming break in social code: personal grooming in public.

Yesterday a dear friend was merely trying to spend her lunch hour in well tailored garment elation as she visited her friendly J Crew retailer at a local mall. However, as visions of pop candy cardigans danced in her head, she was abruptly snapped out of retail happiness and into a vision of disgusting magnitude- a woman FLOSSING HER TEETH while working a Proactive booth. Yes miss, please hand me the zit cream with a side of your plaque. Gross gross gross!

Never should one groom themselves in public, particularly when working. Has our society of blue jeans ($200 ones at that) become so lax that anything goes? Are we going to start allowing copulation in public too? I mean, do people simply not have enough time to groom themselves in the privacy of their bathroom that they must do so on public time? Suddenly the absence of a great public transportation system in my city sounds like an advantage. Commuting while the chick next to me puts Nair on her legs sounds very unappealing. 

If you're out their Proactive girl, listen up. I'd much rather notice a bit of lettuce in your teeth than watch you perform dental work while selling me personal facial products. Take it to the bathroom. When in question if it's appropriate in public by default means it's not!

Weddings That Keep On Giving, and Giving

I was alerted to a new trend this past weekend, something I can honestly admit I've never heard of before. In fact, when my friend told me I was stunned speechless- not knowing whether to burst out laughing and make a smart ass comment or simmer in the sentimentality. 

For her Saturday plans, my friend was going to a "Relive Your Wedding Party" in which all former brides congregate with wedding albums, wedding videos, and other scraps of paraphernalia to share in reminiscing of each bride's glorious day in unison. Is this really a good idea? I see a potential recipe for disaster. 

As a professional wedding-goer myself, I know very well the intense scrutiny and perfection that goes into a wedding day. I know that for a year we pour over color swatches and paper choices and chair covers in hopes of piecing together the perfect jigsaw puzzle of The Wedding of The Century. Once the blessed day arrives and all unfolds...well...generally there are some after thoughts. In the days, weeks following the wedding day the bride has doubts, questions. Did that ice sculpture really look good? Should I have went with a cheesecake bar instead of passed cupcakes? Why didn't people dance to our third song? MAYBE THEY HATED MY WEDDING!?!?

You see where I'm going with this. 

So once six or so years have passed, I would think most would be content in their wedding day. But gather round with four neighbor ladies who had fathers pay with oil money for their weddings and I think something disastrous could happen. Suddenly your Vera Wang is dowdy and you're totally jealous over the Ralph Lauren Signature Collection the lady two doors down had. Then what happens? You go home and tell your husband you want a renewal of vows ceremony and you'll be flying to NYC to the Dolce & Gabbana store for a new dress. Oh, and you might as well decide its time to upgrade the bling on your ring.

So far, I haven't heard the aftermath. Perhaps they just drank wine, laughed, cried, and were done with it.

My Dad on Facebook?

Today I got another one of those emails from a facebook friend "suggesting I may know someone" and become friends with them. Usually I ignore these, as if someone really wants to be my friend, they should get off their cyber laziness and invite me themselves. However, today, I had to flex this rule.

This facebook request came from my brand new step-sister, saying:

Miss Step-sister recently became friends with Your Father and thinks you may know Your Father too.
To view this friend suggestion and request Your Father as a friend, follow the link below:

Thanks,
The Facebook Team

What the what? A new world we live in when my step-sister is suggesting I may want to become friends with my dad. None her fault- she's probably just trying to get him socialized. Although he still hasn't mastered Microsoft Word, bless his heart, so this'll be a feat. 

If he starts sending me hugs via email I'm going to lose it.

Why am I Not Gisele?

Reasons to wonder why the higher power made me "me" and not Gisele Bundchen?

Gisele: Utterly perfection of gorgeousness. Tall, thin, but with ridiculous curves in all the right places. Body perpetually glows with a "just strolled off the beach" vibe. 

Me: Tiny person that people run into with their carts at Target. Obviously not that memorable. Skin is forced pale by 6 months of sub-zero temperatures. 

Gisele: Travels the world for her day job where she basically makes faces at a camera in different outfits.

Me: Usually count down the weeks until I can use vacation time, but now that I don't work for a corporation, I don't have enough money to go on vacation. Double-edged sword for us normal folks.

Gisele: Makes over $100 million a year.

Me: Has made less money per year for the last three years.

Gisele: Married to Tom Brady.

Me: Had a crazy ultimate fighter flirting with me once.

Gisele: Is the step-mom to the toddler Tom conceived with his ex-model girlfriend

Me: Recently became a step-child in my late twenties (does it even count if I'm an adult?) 

Why are Teenagers So Giggly?

As I sit here at my favorite neighborhood cafe, I delight in the differences in clientele to entertain my wandering eyes and ears. Behind me a baby does baby things, in front of me a couple eats pastrami on rye, and next to me sits two teenagers with uncontrollable giggles. Giggles at absolutely everything- giggles at things that don't seem giggle worthy. 

A sample for you:

" I was like, so wondering (giggle giggle giggle)..."Fork scratches on the plate, causing an outburst of giggles.

"Oh my God, I like totally carried her through the first grade, I am so pissed (giggle, giggle giggle)."

"And then like, she was texting me, and like she just like totally wants all these guys attention (giggle), and I mean I would never (giggle giggle)." High-five, more giggles.

And this went on. And on. For, like totally 45 minutes. There was not 1 sentence uttered by either teenager that did not include a pre-giggle, mid-sentence giggle, or closing giggle.

Why is this? I don't remember giggling as a teen. Besides after two fresca & captain coke's in the back of my friend's convertible. Oh, how we change. Now in my late twenties, this same conversation would be more like, "That b*tch wasn't smart enough to get through the first grade without my help, let alone get into Columbia grad school- and late night texting? Pathetic." Then it'd be done and we'd be on to the next topic. No giggles involved. 

Whatever the case, these girls are making me think that A) They need some Ritalin or, B) Being a teenager is really fun/funny. I, however, enjoy my right to selective giggling. Thankfully as an adult we aren't required to compete with this teenage giggle quota. I would go so far as to bet that if I giggled like that, serious behavior therapy would be forced upon me.

Oh my, she just giggled with her mouth full of chips. This might get dangerous.

Guys Think You Look Inappropriate Too

As a female, it is my inherent duty to pass judgement on ill-advised fashion choices on my fellow gender members. Particularly when the fashion has created a monster. Literally.

Last weekend while accompanying a group of straight men to a restuarant opening event, I got the inside scoop on what men really think about what we women wear. I've always assumed men just like a hot chick- no matter how many push-up bras and hair pieces and bottles of MAC foundation it took her to get there. These details are noticeable to me, yet to a man I assumed they pass unrecognizable. If from the blurry distance she can appear somewhat Victoria Secretish, then she passes. At least for male entertainment purposes. Perhaps not to bring to Mother's Day Brunch.

But, during this event, I was proven wrong. Before I could even marvel internally at the number of fake eyelashes and plastic MILFs prancing around in their cocktail dresses, a guy in my group commented, "Man, there's a lot of scary ugly women here." He went on to say he was grossed out from all their makeup, women too old to be dressing in BCBG garb, etc. (Of course he didn't know they were all wearing BCBG, but he understood the principal.) I was giddy to inform him that close-up, the women were even scarier. Then, we reached total agreement on a vital issue in the fashion flub totality- did these women have friends??? No friend should ever let a friend leave the house looking like a chick trying to win a date with a Backstreet Boy on some VHI reality show. Come on. Makes me want to start a website "Fashion Yes or No" where girls can post a pic of themselves before going out and I can tell them the truth. 

So, I am not a mean girl. If anything I just really care about these women and the massive misfortune they bestow upon themselves in false hopes of fake beauty. But gosh darn am I happy some men get it too.

Jane of All Trades

The recent turn of economic events in my life have made me become, well, very resourceful. If you've read previous posts, I was laid off. Given-up. Fed to the dogs. Basically told I'm not worth a paycheck. That was fun. You work your a*s off for 5 years up and up and up, then you're tripping on your face as you fall down the ladder. Couple bruises and bottles of vodka later, I'm building that ladder back up. But this time, I'm changing the rules. 

As an experiment- because let's face it, not many opportunities out there in corporate America- I've decided to just take as many random jobs as possible. Freelance (in addition to my writing career). I'm not desperate- so I'm saving myself from anything requiring nudity (no offense Diablo Cody) or baby-sitting. Being murdered in a creepy basement isn't going to help matters much.

So far, so interesting. Yesterday I got paid rather well to be on a mock jury for a law firm. An insider look into the judicial system, and the absolute resolution to NEVER allow myself to be judged on a civil trial by fellow citizens determining my fate. People are not smart in a very disturbing proportion. Lets just say had it been a real trial, I'd be holed up in that jury room for weeks- as I'd never agree to their nonsensical basis of facts.

Today, I was going to be a paid before & after hair model for a local talk show. Upon arriving to the event, I was told rather flamboyantly that I looked too good to be a B&A. I'll take that! Sent home, sans a new hairdo, but still paid! I'll gladly spend an hour beating rush hour traffic to get paid for a full day of non-work.

T.B.C as my adventure into everything continues...

How to Find Your Soulmate

I’m not sure when this term became popular, the idea of a soulmate. But it’s big now.  Huge. I’m sure it was on a few episodes of Sex and the City. Everybody’s doing it. Finding their soulmate. With the amount of online articles and media mentions you’d think it was as common as replacing your running shoes. Or you stopped off at Walgreens to pick up your prescription and then grabbed a soulmate on your way out. How fantastically convenient. Birth control and soulmate in one harmonious errand.

What is a soulmate anyway? If you google “soulmate” the first thing that comes up is a wikepedia entry- so it must be real! Everyone knows Wikepedia is the bible for Millennials (sorry generation X’ers, I know you’re still getting used to this World Wide Web fad). According to the definition, a soulmate is:

“A term sometimes used to designate someone with whom one has a feeling of deep and natural affinity, love, intimacy, sexuality, spirituality, and/or compatibility. A related concept is that of the twin flame or twin soul – which is thought to be the ultimate soulmate, the one and only other half of one's soul, for which all souls are driven to find and join. However, not everyone who uses these terms intends them to carry such mystical connotations.”

Well then. What if you don’t believe in a soul-as I know there are those holding this belief- then is one soulmate screwed? Without believing in the need for another half to complete you, does that mean you’re missing the deep and natural affinity bliss boat? That sucks. Guess those people better start collecting cats and canned goods. It's going to be a long life.

I do like the broadness of the term though. By this definition, I’m a part of the elite group! I most definitely have a natural affinity and deep spiritual connection to champagne. And we’re super compatible- it always does what I’m thinking without even asking- like it just knows how I want to feel. And you can’t get much more intimate than licking every last drop out of a bottle. By golly I have found my soulmate.

Why Must Men Call Out Every Hot Girl?

We've all been there. Sitting on the couch watching Sunday night TIVO and your boyfriend starts foaming at the mouth over some chick on a reality show. Yet it doesn't stop at loss of body function- he must also announce to the world what he thinks about Heidi Klum, "God, she is absolutely gorgeous." And then you look at him, and he's in his fantasy world trance where it's just him and Heidi making-out like that Chris Isaak video on the beach. 

I get there are millions of glamazon gorgeous females out there. I see them. I see them plastered on my magazines, I see them trancing around B grade television shows, I see them in their Rock & Republic skinny jeans at see-and-be-scene nightspots, I see them in the posters at the stores I shop at, and I see them in my boyfriend's dreams. Thankfully my mother always assured me that "there will always be someone smarter, someone prettier, and someone better than you." Thus, I mostly just admire these women and wonder how in DNA they got so beautiful. Natalie Portman is a wonder. She could be studied in a museum of beauty.

There are equally as beautiful men. David Beckham? Hello, he's like straight out of grecian God days. Daniel Craig as James Bond? That body could stop the world and melt all evil. The difference is that I don't comment on this out loud in front of men. Of course we girls talk about it once and awhile- but we leave it at that and our thoughts. I can't imagine sitting on the couch, watching the World Cup, and saying, "David Beckham is so undeniably delicious!" and then putting my hand on my heart to contain my quickened pulse. Nope. I just keep that little thought to myself.  But who knows? Maybe I'm missing out on something. I think I'll give vocalizing hot men a try...maybe I will be enlightened to a man's perspective.

Those Men Whom Display Over-Confidence

I'm constantly amazed by male actions of over-confidence. Owning confidence is a touchy act of balance- too little confidence and you come off as a wuss, overly confident and you come off as a narcissistic jerk. But in some cases, an act of over-confidence is simply bewildering.

Take for instance Acts of Over-Confidence in a Bar. Last week my BF, myself, and another couple were enjoying a musical act at a nearby pub. As we stood at the bar, we were clearly displaying signs of coupledom. Body language, limited signs of affection, etc. Yet an older gentlemen either didn't get it, or simply didn't care. He approached the other female of the group and then myself proposing we dance with him on the dance floor. In front of our dates. We both politely declined, and he in his most polite manner continued to urge us to dance. He even went on to insist that I "looked like a girl who wants to dance". What does this look like anyway? Note to self: learn how to not look like that.

This situation could have gone badly. Certain male companions do not take kindly to a man somewhat hitting on his woman right in front of him. My BF was too intoxicated/diverted to notice, thus it didn't become a problem. Further, the man was clearly out of his social boundaries. Which makes one wonder- where does this over-confidence come from? Here are some of my theories:

1. Ignorance is Bliss: the man simply does not understand the situation, therefore has no qualms of interaction.

2. Confidence Boosting Inner Dialogue: after the man analyzes the situation (two women with their boyfriends) he performs a confidence boosting inner dialogue to divert him from his fear of rejection.

3. Really, Really Confident: the man's confidence level is so high, that no criteria (women with boyfriends, women 20 years younger, women higher on the attractiveness scale) can dissuade him from action.

Whatever the case, without properly understanding this man's method to madness, this act of over confidence couldn't be met with anger or hostile rejection. Of course, there are PLENTY of incidents where hostility is not only valid, but recommended...

Male Quote of the Day

MALE: You know, I really like my syrup to be warmed before it goes on my french toast.

FEMALE: Well, there's a microwave right there.

MALE: I said I liked it to be warmed, not me warming it myself.

Signs You Should Not Marry

This should be the next reference book. Wikepedia eat your heart out. Think about it- you notice a sign, an inkling, from your significant other and you feel it's a bit odd...a warning sign...that perhaps this isn't the one to marry (if you're into the idea of one marriage). For instance, he takes bubble baths every night while listening to Celine Dion. You find this a bit alarming. You stroll on over to your bookshelf and flip to the Celine Dion section, and next to the heading it reads:

"He might be homosexual, DO NOT MARRY!"

Then you place your book back on the shelf and dust your hands of the whole thing. Finito. On to the next potential. I think this would be really helpful to society. Who has the time for divorce these days? There's no way to fit in daily workouts and episodes of Gossip Girl while dividing up pots & pans.

I bring this up because recently a friend revealed to me a sign that she shouldn't have leapt into marital unbliss. When her ex fella proposed to her- he gave her a scrapbook. That he made. With the special papers. Personally, I would have hightailed it out of there as fast as I could and found the next pub to soak up some testosterone. Call me a crafting racist, but no man should be making scrapbooks. It's just so wrong. A man sitting cross-legged with special zig-zag scissors, old movie stubs and an ice cream napkin from your third date, contemplating between a solid blue border or decoupaging paisley print? And I'm to believe he's interested in girls in the I-want-to-sleep-with-you way rather than I-want-to-shop-with-you way? No way is what I say. You give him that precious scrapbook back and tell him to hide your picture in his bedside stand like any real man masking his sentiments would do. You propose to me and I don't want a freakin' scrapbook. I want you to tell me I'm the goddess of your dreams and you'd die without me. Can you imagine the marriage? Instead of being out of town on weekends to hunt or fish or snowboard, he'd be hauling his scrapbook tote to the Mall of America for the crafters fair.

Alas, after failing to realize this dismal sign, the friend seems to be fairing well. The marriage didn't last, obviously, but I believe she's learned from her mistakes.  Hopefully for the next round she has access to that book.

Taking Compliments Wherever I Can Get Them

In my world, compliments are hard to come by.  And I'm not talking about those fake compliments where the sales lady at Club Monaco tells me I look nice today. There's no way I look nice today, my hair looks like I have dreads and last night's mascara is still under my eye. A fake compliment is like an insult. Save your breath and find me an XS in that shirt please. 

But compliments are nice to have sometimes. When the going gets rough and doors are-a-slamming and you feel like your arms are getting chubby, sometimes the tiniest little shout out can feel like you just won Miss Universe. The most common places compliments generate from, the machines of self esteem boost, are lacking in my world. 

Little children are the #1 compliment machines. Kids think everything is amazing. While trying on a shirt my friend's 4 year-old daughter looked up at me admirably and said, "Wow. That color looks amazing on you, and your eyebrows look great!" Fantastic, keep them coming mini-me. The #2 compliment generator is your Mother. Moms are made to rise you out of the doldrums and tell you you're the greatest thing, ever. And you believe her. Unfortunately my mother is spreading her compliments generously in heaven, so I'll have to wait some time to get in on that action. 

But yesterday, much to my delight, I got some freebie compliments in none other than the waiting lobby at H&R Block. There I am, waiting to find out if I can buy new tires for my car or have to start selling clothes off on Ebay, and a woman across the way starts up a conversation with me. Turns out she's a Life Coach. Oh dear, I thought to myself. She starts asking me about my life, etc etc, and soon I'm being told I'm refined, cute as a button, and obviously very intelligent. Wow! Thanks lady with a weird sweatshirt and hair the color of red Koolaid. I'm going to soak soak soak up your compliments and let them carry me through the week.  The miracle of compliments come in strange places...and I'll take 'em.

I Will Not Be "America's Next Top Model"

To be clear, I do not fancy myself a model. Apparently I could be a Paula Abdul look alike, much to my dismay, but there's nothing else on me screaming to be shown to the world. But I found out this past weekend besides my large forehead and diminutive size holding me back, I also have no chance in heck for model aspirations because of my age.

The topic of NYC came up and how it'd be great to live there but greatly impossible to afford by my measly means, and I mentioned I have a friend who is a model and living in New York. Apparently this was a shocking bit of news, as from the far corner of the room came a teenage gasp, "Wait...people your age are models?!"

Ok, I am not that old. I'm like at 35% of my year usage assuming I don't live too long- that's less than halfway along! I've been out of college five years- which makes me a fun and hip Texas Ex with real world experience, not a geriatric alumni. I wanted to inform her that she had three years left to ever care about being old enough to do anything, as until you get senior citizen discounts, age fails to really matter for anything at all. Yet it's rather unnerving to be told I don't qualify to do/be something because of age. Sometimes I order off the kids menu- who are they to tell me I can't eat the same amount as an eleven year old? And what, you can't be on MTV's The Real world if you're over twenty-three? Guess what, the real world doesn't even start until twenty-five. But all in all, I'm willing to put away my dreams of being America's Next Top Model because of my age. Nobody this wise could handle Tyra Banks for more than 8 minutes sober. 

PSA

Someone help Lindsey Lohan. 

And that is your Public Service Announcement from Girl Twentiesh.

When People Pretend They're Kidding Only They're Not

You know when somebody makes a comment to you, usually a rude/demeaning/demoralizing criticism, only to backtrack and brush it off as if they are kidding? Only you hold a sinking sensation that perhaps they are not kidding at all, really wished to make a nasty comment, but aren't quite nasty enough to do so without the veil of a "just joking" protection?

Yeah, that happened to me last night. 

My BF and I had just joined dinner with another pair, and as I studied the sushi menu for something not ridiculously over priced, not covered in a mayo sauce defeating the purpose of healthy eating, the waiter came to ask our order. Across from me, the male diner said to the waiter in a tone dripping with sarcasm, "Well, we would be ready, but we just have to wait for her." All eyes turned to me. He snickered in his snickering way. But I was ready! Then he laughed it off, saying he was just joking. He wasn't joking. I saw it in his eyes, his deep judgemental eyes revealing the inner works of a brain wondering for the 100th time why his friend's girlfriend (me) was such a freak about food. 

You see, I don't go this route. If I want to insult somebody, I go all the way. Sometimes it isn't straight on verbal abuse, maybe just a slow and deliberate eye roll. But I realize the "just kidding sly insult" road can be a good move if you really feel as if you might lose it if you don't get a chance to slip one out, therefore backlashing to an all out freak out. Not to mention, there's a good chance at least 75% of the population is either too oblivious or too nice to realize they're being jabbed at. Like the ignorant pig- ignorance is bliss.

Whatever the case, I'm on to your game. I know I'm being insulted, and I'm ready to take it like a woman. 

Five Reasons A Guy Hasn't Called from the Experts at MSN

Whenever I need a good laugh I read the MSN Lifestyle dating and relationship section. They give jaw droppingly stagnant advice, such as smile and touch your face when you talk to let a man know you're interested. Snooze. If you want a man to know you're interested, I suggest flashing him. Straight to the point and rather unconfusing. 

Today I cyber-stumbled upon "Five Reason's A Guy Hasn't Called"- and I couldn't wait to find out what that annoying spiky haired spaz author of "He's Just Not That Into You" hasn't already revealed in the mysterious world of over analyzing a man's simple actions. I've taken the liberty of providing you with the genius insight, as well as my equally unwarranted professional advice on the reality of the situation.

Ready? 

MSN: He doesn't want to seem desperate

ME: You aren't that remarkable that he can't stop thinking about you. He'll call you when you cross his mind.

MSN: He's busy.

ME: He's fielding text messages from several possibilities, do you think you're the only girl out there? Give me a break. When a window opens, or he's bored, he'll call.

MSN: He's seen Swingers one too many times- which suggests waiting for a few days to call

ME: His friends told him there is a hotter girl going to the party tomorrow, so he better wait and see what she has to offer first.

MSN:He wants to slow things down

ME: He wants to slow things down, unless you mean after bar hours of course.

MSN: He's just not that into you

ME: If you had to go through 4 scenarios to conclude he isn't into you, you've wasted way too much time thinking about this. Go get a martini and chill.

Mean Girls

Most of my rumblings and rambles concentrate on those things both abstract and physically stripped away as you age. Today, however, I am concentrating on something that never seems to go away:

Mean girls. And they become meaner with age, or too lazy to disguise the meanness. 

Last week I had a great night out with my best night out bud. We like to go to scenester places in which we purposely place ourselves on barstools outside of the scene for ultimate viewing pleasure. We don't attempt to be a part of the scene, more semi-active voyeurs offering commentary. As I left my lair and treaded through the questionably clad masses in search of a bathroom, a woman stopped me dead with her nasty stare. Here eyes penetrating my being, giving me the once over with menace in her eyes. My response? Raising my eyebrows and moving on. Whatever.

When I returned to my partner in viewing, she rehashed the entire mean girl attack. 

"What the f*ck was that girl's problem?" she asked as she shot her own darting look to the mean girl across the bar. 

"I was wondering the same thing, I mean all I did was walk by her," I replied, this time studying the mean girl. Of course then I noticed she was sitting with a boy, a boy with a wandering eye. But who wants to look at a girl grimacing as if she's got a constipation condition? Then my pal explained that mean girl's boy had looked at me as I walked by. 

So what? Really girls, it's time to grow up. This has been going on for years and I'm over it. I'm tired of walking by your hallway of judgement. Nobody is trying to steal your boy. We aren't in the wild here, doing anything and anything to attract a mate with our feathers (which brings to mind a whole new topic). There's a big pool of mates out there, no need to fight over them with nasty grams.

After this same type of incident occurred yet again a few nights ago, I have resolved to fight back. My new response to this ludicrous behavior? Stare back, chuckle, tilt my head and raise my brows and sympathetically ask, "Really?"

The Big O's/Girl Twentiesh Quote of the Day

If you've ever flipped through an O magazine you've seen the mini tear out cards of inspirational quotes and words of wisdom. If you've ever read an O magazine, bravo, that's one book of depressing subject manner. You need those frickn' cards just to keep you from crawling into a hole of repressed memories and Bob Greene diet tips.

In honor of Oprah, here are my own words of reflection collected from a very recent event:

"Sometimes you have to sit back on a Sunday night, share with a close friend two bottles of champagne followed by one bitter lager and a bag of edamame, and remember all the ill advised mistakes you've made over the years. And then wake up early Monday morning and realize how ill advised it was to binge on a Sunday evening."

They Always Tell You To Keep Trying- But When Should You Give Up?

As children most of us were told that we could do anything if we put our hearts in it. Try try and try again and you shall succeed. Even if you are a foot shorter than every other athlete on your team, your parents still tell you to try your best. Even if you can't begin to color within the lines, they'll urge you to enter those coloring contests. I don't ever remember my parents flat out telling me, "Honey, you suck. Why don't we focus on something else?" Of course with five of us running around they probably forgot I was even doing anything at all. You would have thought they'd intervene when producing a neighborhood film on teen pregnancy at age eleven... But consider if you're just terrible and will always be terrible? I mean, maybe if Paris Hilton's parents would have told her she was an awful singer and actor she would have focused on her real talents and designed a miniature pet clothing line or permanent lip gloss.

But now, efforts become trickier to judge. Without any real watch dog on true talent, try try and trying again can be a slippery slope into massive time wastage. For instance, in college I was in the film program with an affinity towards screenwriting. Expert I was not, but semi-talented I believe. I did after all have to submit samples against others, beat them out, and gain 1 of 2 coveted spots within the exclusive class. To me, this is a standard sign telling me I'm on the right path. But then everyone knows someone who is writing a screenplay. Once my involvement became collegiate public knowledge, the ambitious closet screenwriters sought me out. Bombarded me. Eager to share their prized Oscar worthy work. As I scanned the works, I discovered that 99.9% of the time they were utterly awful. I mean, terrible. I would retreat into my own inner dialogue, wondering how in the world they were never told they should not under any circumstances be writing screenplays? What led them so astray to believe in a talent they clearly lacked? And more importantly, oh my God, what if I am this awful and I just don't know it?

And then there are those celebrity stories of being told over and over again they would never be an actor-author-model-comedian and here they are Heidi Klum. She was told time and time again she was too curvy to be a model. Guess those naysayers didn't realize the potential of hot female + curves=bank. If she would have listened, she might be serving sausage at a beer tent in Germany. Which she'd probably still make close to a mil in tips anyway.

Which leads to me wonder...when do we really know? Do we ever know? Or do we keep trying until we end up living in a van or become a millionaire? Or do we never try at all, and end up in a cul-de-sac?

Newsflash! Star from "The Hills" Wants to Live a Normal Life

I love it when stars say they want to live normal lives. When they reference normal lives, I assume the spotlight is on "us" normal people- meaning you and I. Those of us reading their heartfelt confessions on celebrity blogs.

Today on Pop Sugar, the normals are offered an exclusive inside look into Whitney Port of "The Hills" spin off "The City" pour her soul to literary gem Cosmopolitan on the stresses of being a c-list celeb. She goes on to admit sometimes she wishes she could just have a normal life. Sigh. Sniff sniff. 

Guess what Whits? If you have a normal life like the rest of us, you surely won't have to worry about cameras following you on the job. Because chances are you WON'T HAVE a job. Pressures of living in the big city? Won't exist, because you won't make enough money to live in NYC. Instead you'll find a lovely abode in Des Moines for $175 a month. And then of course the cruel fashion rag paparazzi won't be an issue either, because most of those photographers escaped Des Moines to have glimmer of glamor in their lives and wouldn't want their former manager at Dress Barn recognizing them. And choosing your fashion won't be a problem- as you'll have the funds and access to whatever the local strip mall has to offer you and the rest of the twentysomethings in the thirty mile radius. 

So don't worry poor poor Whitney from Laguna Beach with a handed job at Diane von Furstenburg...the normal life is willing and waiting patiently in the corner for you to dive in. Just remove your Jimmy Choo's and sell them on Ebay first, as this could be helpful in paying for your highlight maintenance. 

Kelly Clarkson is Wise to Relationships

There's a catchy tune inhabiting approximately 55% of the airtime on pop radio reeling you in to consider relationships after your teenage years. As so eloquently put, American Idol songstress Kelly Clarkson shouts in a melodic manner, 

"My life (my life) would suck (would suck) without you." Hmm. I think she's got something there.

In our early years, the formative years of dating, your romantic relationship holds about a 25% importance to life activities. Another 25% goes to family and such obligations, and about 50% to friends and activities. Of course, oftentimes the boyfriend/girlfriend is also a member of your friendship and activity portfolio, therefore easily attended to when everyone "hangs out" at the Super America parking lot following the football game. I sincerely hope you had a cooler place to hang out at than I. It's a harmonic and proportionate lifestyle, and should the relationship come to end, you've got a heck of a lot other stuff going on to nurture your pain or glee.

Things get a bit different in your later years. You end up in relationships because that person is somebody you can stand at long lengths and want to bring into the other 75% of your life. If you form a close relationship, you no longer have separate turfs- everything melds into the great relationship melting pot and soon he's got every single one of your family members and friends as his Facebook friend. There's no property lines there people, Facebook is forever. So you must wonder to yourself, "What will my life look like if we break up?" 

Not only will you miss this person, considering again that you actually like the person you are in relations with, but you have to abstract yourself from every little portion of your melting pot. Then what's left? A happy hour with old coworkers here, a shopping day with your friends there, and the very once and awhile coffee date. Your own family is mad at you, shaking their heads and continually telling you how much they liked so-and-so and why do you have to be so picky comments. Man, its no easy task. Heartbreak and extraction surgery bundled up into one big break-up ball to be followed be reconstructive scheduling surgery.

I'm going to have to agree with you there Miss Clarkson, keep up the great lyrical work. 

Male Quote of the Day

"I think he might be thinking about becoming almost exclusive."

    -in reference to a young man's intense thought process on eventually, maybe, committing 

     

Social Media: Man's Great Big Cry for Attention

I don't really care for social networking. Which also means I don't really care for this blog. 

I find myself trapped in an internal battle of facebook-Perez Hilton-and my own self indulgent ramblings pulling me down into the depths of narcissism and over exposure, while I purposely leave my phone in my car and fantasize about living on Walden Pond (Thoreau people). What really brings all my troubling contradictions to surface is reading anything Paris Hilton writes on her personal Myspace page. That's the problem with social networking, you can't run from anyone! I scan Perez Hilton, celebrity gossip machine who makes fun of celebrities while he himself is the biggest celebrity wannabe, in search of amusing tidbits on authentic talents such as Reese Witherspoon and Justin Timberlake. Yet I'm constantly bombarded with the disturbing existence of Paris Hilton's "deep thoughts". Recently she posted a near novel about "the scariest moment in her life" when her boyfriend got in a brawl with a DJ at a nightclub. Have you ever seen a DJ? They are the scrawny drugged out dude/dudettes in the corner usually maxing out at an intimidating 120 lbs. I couldn't help but wonder why she really thought any of us care about her stupid school yard fight? I've got real problems honey. Buy a new Juicy Couture tracksuit, I'm sure you'll feel better Paris.

Then I realized the hypocrisy of this all. As I too publish ramblings of insignificance. All social media has done to us is given the unlimited ability to cry out for attention. Usually unmerited attention. Consider Facebook statuses. Wow. Half the time statuses are like dogs who whine & whimper to get someone to just look at them. What has gone wrong in life that we must beg for attention in the vast cloud of the internet? Shouldn't this be indulged by the family and friends that surround us IN REAL LIFE? What did we do ten years ago when we needed attention? Oh yeah, we hung out with our friends. Face-to-face. And if you didn't have any friends you became a writer.

Clearly this absence of steady employment has given me way too much time to think. I'm probably not going to move to Montana and live on a ranch with no digital contact, although if you know someone I'd probably be interested. Instead I'm probably going to stay here and figure out what the heck Twitter is, because right now it's stunningly confusing to me why someone/everyone wants to know I just went to Starbucks. 

Why Do I Do This to Myself? The Absurdity of Choice.

As human beings we have options. Lots of options. While at times we feel chained to our jobs, our finances, and the decline of quality television programming, we really and truly are afforded the choice to do what we wish with our lives. Think of the freedoms! If I want to eat blueberries each and every day for every meal, gosh darn it I can do so. Other creatures aren't afforded such luxuries. They are limited to their environments and the offerings. It's not like a squirrel can hop on a plane and fly to Hawaii if he decides deciduous forests aren't his thing and aloha living is for him. Unless there is some sort of contract with sea spanning birds carrying squirrels across the world that I don't know about, then I'd say they're pretty much stuck.

So. 

As a free creature of this great world I must ask myself, "Why on EARTH do I choose to suffer in a climate presently at 24 degrees Fahrenheit? What is wrong with me?"

I am in an abusive relationship with my home state. Does A&E want to do an intervention?

I haven't always lived in this frozen tundra. No sir. I escaped. I lived in the south in overwhelmingly pleasant weather conditions. Sure it got warm, but air condition is this fabulous invention by humankind. You can neatly avoid overheating by driving in air condition, parking in a garage, and going directly into an air conditioned facility. But this isn't even an issue for me, as I wear a sweatshirt in 80 degree weather. 

Yet I choose to inhabit an environment in which 8 out of 12 months is downright miserable. Freezing. Dark. Snowing. Icy. Raining. Sleeting. Dark. I imagine the benefits of hibernation, and wonder if short term disability can cover the choice to stay locked in my bedroom until Spring arrives. And Spring, at some point or another, eventually arrives. And when the birds chirp, the snow melts, things start living...I'm ecstatic. Joy to the 10th degree. Euphoria. Flip-flops. But logically, it only feels this rewarding because I've been punched in the face by dismal doom weather for most of the year. Of course the high is going to feel higher when you can't get any lower than the low!

I must consider the absurd psychology of such a choice. Perhaps I am abusing the right to choose. Whatever the case, I'm cold. Really cold. 

The Real Housewives of New York. Yup. Real.

While preparing for slumber at the all inclusive Days Inn motel in Emporia, Kansas, I stumbled upon the Bravo series "The Real Housewives of New York City". I have heard of this show and have viewed its' sister program "The Real Housewives of Atlanta". The Atlanta version confused me. Do most housewives in Atlanta have aspirations to become recording artists with staggering lack of talent? And host Cavalli fashion parties in their homes?

The New York housewives were even more impressive. In this particular episode they were each shopping for New York Fashion Week ensembles to parade across town. Each woman went to their respective chum chum friend designer and were over complimented and lavished with unique trendsetting fashions. Wow. That's quite different from The Real Housewives of Minneapolis that I know. I get lots of invites to Pampered Chef parties. Sometimes they go outlet shopping or splurge on the 30% off sale at Banana Republic. The title of the series would suggest we as an audience are receiving the nitty gritty on what a New York housewife's life is all about. If this is the standard case, give me a husband and ship me to NYC. And according to the show, my husband can even be a closet gay man. Therefore my numero uno end of the marital bargain would be maintaining an uber stylish persona and lots of gossip.

Thanks Bravo for giving me this inside look at reality...I think I see housewife in my future.