Not an Inspiration for the Dixie Chicks

There was a hit country song that came out when I was in college by the Dixie Chicks called "Wide Open Spaces." Let me tell you something. That song? Was not a song about me. Hi, my name is pheebee. And I'm an agoraphobic.

Earlier this week, I was invited by a friend from high school to her house to hang out with her, her husband, 2.5 kids and their white picket fence. She was throwing a little shindig for her really good friend (and incidentally, my very first non-elementary-school boyfriend*), his wife, their 2.5 kids, and their family SUV. As I was preparing (dreading) going, I had all kinds of thoughts going through my head, which mainly consisted of "What in the devil am I going to do at a 'family-friendly' party?!". But alas, I overcame my apprehension and decided to go. Why? Because I hadn't seen these people in forever, and in high school they were kind of cool. And, if I was lucky, the kids would be sleeping by the time I got there. ;).

So, I checked the address and realized that girlfriend had moved from the old 'hood to BFE. And I told her I thought as much as I was messaging her about my drive. I'd always heard of BFE, but I'd never actually attempted to go there. Far as I was concerned, if it wasn't in the city or an adjacent county, then it'd better be on the way to the city I lived in. In order to get there and not get lost, I jumped on Google Maps and requested some solid directions. Google estimated my trip to take about 40-45 minutes. Knowing that Google always assumes that you're driving a Maserati that's invisible to speed traps, I also knew that this estimate was exceptionally low. I allotted for just under an hour of drive time -- not including the stop I had to make at a liquor store.**

Here's the thing. I have 2 random phobias, ok? One of them, is not really relevant here, and I refuse to admit that I have it. The other is agoraphobia. I get all kinds of panicky and anxious when I'm far enough out of the city that the highways and byways no longer have street lights. And this is precisely where I was headed. Gah! Anyway, I got there safe, had a good time catching up and talking trash.

But, here's where the story becomes worth posting about. As I was leaving, my Ma asked me if I wanted to take some money to fill up her gas tank. And the reason she asked was not because there wasn't any gas in the car, but because I was going so far out of the city and "you don't really know where you're going." Petulant teenager that I become where my Ma is involved, I said I didn't need any stinkin' gas, and it wasn't that far to BFE, for heaven's sake. It's not like I was trying to get to the Capitol! I had just over a 1/4th of a tank and I'd gone farther with less before!! Seriously!

Well, as I was headed back to my parents' house, I realized that what was just over a 1/4th of a tank when I left, was rapidly becoming an 1/8th of a tank. But the gas was actually more expensive in BFE than it was in the city (yeah, I was that far out. They probably have to pay an import/export fee out there or something, since it's so far away). I was really going to push it til I got home. And then...(dum dummm DUMMMM!!!!!!) the check engine light came on. CRAP! I'm driving merrily along, and I'm internally panicking because I have a check engine light, there are no street lights around, and OMG WHERE AM I?!!?! I convince myself that the engine light is really code for low fuel so I decide to care of that small matter ASAP.

I pull off the freeway at the first exit with a blue sign for fuel. And, I'm thinking to myself that I would 1. never admit to my Ma that she was right and I should've gotten gas before I left; 2. that my face will freeze off while I'm pumping, which is really a shame; 3. that I would never EVER in a million years stop at a gas station in the middle of the night if I was in the city or back in Iowa but...what are the odds anyone else will be there to rape and pillage me?

Funny story, when I finally got to the gas station, all the lights were off and I was convinced I wouldn't be able to get anything. Because hey, it's the country and they close everything down, and they don't have automated systems because it's (all together now...) BFE. But they did have a pay outside option, and the pumps were still on (station was closed though. Wouldn't be satisfying my beef jerky quota any time soon). And, there was no one around...until I heard vrooooooommmmmmm! At this point, I'm thinking about how most crimes are crimes of opportunity, and I surely just gave some fool an excellent opportunity to perpetrate a crime against me...and here I was without my pepper spray, in BFE where no one would hear me scream.

The car that squealed it's way into the gas station was a silver Infinity sports coupe. Immediately I figured it was a drug dealer***. When the car got to the pump that was the farthest away from mine, the driver got out. And...wait for it...it was Doogie freakin' Howser meets Duckie meets DJ Conner. He was skinny as a beanpole with dark hair and glasses. At first I wondered why he wasn't in bed sleeping because it was so clearly past his bedtime. Then I dared him (in my head) to just try something because I was pretty sure that I outweighed him by 20 lbs. So much for his crime of opportunity. Guess that kid would just have to stick with living a straight-laced life as a etymologist somewhere.

I gassed up and got back on the road. And, wouldn't you know the check engine light STILL didn't go off? The next day I found out it was actually that the coolant levels were low. So, all that trouble for what? Being scared half to death by a child that was joyriding his daddy's car to the gas station.

And that right there? Is why we stick to the city and adjacent counties. Anything else will lead to stopping for gas at 12:30 in the morning...and no good can come of that. ;)





*And by boyfriend, I mean guy I asked to Turnabout in 10th Grade. Exciting, I know.

**PS. When going to someone's house, act like you have some home training. Take a hostess' gift and if it's a bottle of wine or liquor that doesn't get opened (or finished), it's tacky to take it back with you. You leave it there. (Yeah, I'm looking at you, Titan).

***Because Infinity sports coupes are big in the drug dealer industry? Clearly. Why else would I think it...not like I'd make something like that up. Riiiiiight.

Propaganda?

Sometimes I wonder about what's going through my head. I'm truly wondering if I'm a twee bit nut-so.

So, here's the deal. The other day, I was sitting around and I started to think about Disney. You know what I don't understand? Why is Disney out and out promoting straight-up propaganda? They've taken an entire segment of society that has been rightfully cast out to the gutters of society, and are constantly promoting them and trying to get all of us to accept them. You know what I think that is? BOGUS.

Who am I talking about? Mice. I mean, for real. Did ol' Walt have a secret fetish that no one ever knew about? First, there is Mickey. And Mickey is kinda cute, with his little squeaky voice and his cute little coordinating outfits. There was also duckies, doggies, et al. But then, along came Minnie. So, are we trying to procreate? But ok, I get it. All the animals go on the ark two by two. Fair enough, everyone needs a buddy. Cool. Besides, Minnie was likely the one running the show.

But...then there are all the mice of Cinderella. All of them are squeaking and talking and wearing little outfits. Moving through cinematic history, mice keep showing up in Disney movies, etc etc. Then, we end up in one of the more recent movies, Ratatouille...which featured an ENTIRE DAMN KITCHEN of mice. And, the restaurant critic meets the mice and he doesn't freak out. He has an entire conversation and shakes the hand of the little rodent. Ewwwwww!!!!!!!!!

I don't understand what is happening. On the rare occasion that they do show a mouse in the light that they're supposed to be; they are always rats, with creepy red eyes. EWWWWW AGAIN!!!!! Why is Disney trying to get us to embrace mice? What's up with that? Is there something we don't know?

A few weeks ago, my downstairs neighbor told me a story about a clogged drain. Evidently, one of the bathroom drains was plugged up, and nothing was working...not Drano or using a plunger, nada. So he decided to do a little manual investigating. Lo and behold he found the clog...and he's pretty sure it was a tiny little baby mouse. Excuse me, a DEAD baby mouse that had tried to climb up the drain and snack on all the non-poisonous food in the house. Let me tell you something. If there is ever a time where there's some little rodent running around my house -- or if I find one that died somewhere in my house -- EVERYBODY will know about it. It'll be clear after you hear the blood-curdling screams coming from my unit. Followed by the immediate packing of all my worldly possessions and the "For Sale" sign that will be posted on the front of the building, immediately.

And I don't give a rat's-behind what Disney or anyone else has to say about it.

Deep Waters

Jade and I often talk about our tastes in the opposite gender. Turns out, we are both into the hot boys. This is not news. Problem is, we are both forever destined to be branded as shallow. If you ask me, that's just patently unfair. Behold, I shall defend those who want a handsome fella or pretty gal on their arm just as much as they want a smart man or woman.

First of all, no one is saying that what an individual finds attractive is going to be the same as everyone else's. No where is this more evident than the recent crowning of Jennifer Aniston as the The Hottest Woman of All Time or some such thing. (Leading legions of people to say "what the hell?!!?!"*) The point is that everyone has a threshold of attractiveness. And if you're honest with yourself, you know you have certain attributes that you like.

Secondly, I once read somewhere that couples who are in love and married for a long time never update their images of their spouses. Whatever the spouse looked like when they were young is what you'll be picturing in 15 years. Isn't that an image you'd like to look at? Yeah, I thought so.

Finally, I've said it once, and I'll say it again. No matter what the personality is, eventually you'll have to want to see the person naked. I'm not saying you have to jump into the sack on the first date.** But for real, how enjoyable is the horizontal mambo going to be if you can't stand to look at the person? I mean seriously, a paper bag is only effective for the face. And is bound to get in the way of kissing.

Call me shallow if you like -- but I intend to enjoy looking at my significant other (with or without clothes). And I suspect you plan to do the same. You just don't want to admit it. So fine then...I'll be the shallow one. You be the liar. :-*


*Or maybe that was just me. Who vote on this anyway? Jennifer Aniston -- really?!!

**In fact, no you may not on the first date, tramp. Keep your pants up. :-P

Growing Up or Getting Over It?

Not too long ago, I was talking to my uncle. We were discussing maturing, and how it seems like some people never seem to stop doing the things they did in high school. The subject turned to going out. Now, my uncle is 30 years older than me, right? But he said that he had to stop going to the clubs because he was tired of seeing the same people there every night. He said they never seemed to want something different. It's a natural reaction of a young buck to protest "yeah, but things are different now!!!" But, before I could even get it out, my uncle pointed out that 30 years ago, the men were tryin' to get the drawers, and the women were wearing skirts that just barely covered their cheeks. (My words, but pretty darn close to his). That shut me up pretty quickly. Why? Because that's basically what's happening in the clubs today.

That conversation made me feel a little bit better. When I was in my late 20s and at the peak of awesomeness, I remember dreading the idea of turning 30, and becoming lame...saying things like "I'd rather stay in my house and drink" or "I don't want to go to a club to kick it with my friends" or "I don't like clubs, they're too loud. I'd rather hang out at a bar with my friends, where we can talk and kick it." These were all phrases that I associated with being old and lame. (Frankly, I still associate them with being old and lame). 2 things that are truly terrifying for me.

Then, shortly after turning 29, I moved to BFE...land of the hipster and stroller. There were families everywhere, and hipsters. The "scene" in my new 'hood was dive bars and coffee shops. All things that make me pull back in horror. And, I was far enough away from the real scene that I needed to drive or plan my night financially. I was sure to wither away and die in my pure lack of awesomeness.

Turns out, I was right about a couple things. First, there is nothing to do after 7pm in my new 'hood (except hit the gym). It's sort of like living in the suburbs, without the status or the space. I don't go to the clubs as much anymore (or at all, really). And I would rather go to a bar to hang out (sort of). But none of these things are because I'm old and can't handle the good nightlife anymore. I officially stand corrected!

The reasons going out to the club is less than appealing is because it's expensive! Dude, a cab roundtrip plus drinks plus cover (on the rare occasion that I'd pay it) is not something to be taken lightly. Alternatively, I can just have friends over and we can blow through a couple bottles of wine or liquor for a total of $10 a piece. AND, I don't have to concern myself with stumbling home. Now, let's not forget Sunday Fundays. When it go right, you get to go out (drive and park at the bar, if necessary!!), have a coupla cocktails, watch some football, yell at the TV, talk trash and then head home in time to sober up and not have a hangover. Finally, my uncle was right -- you really do see the same people over and over and over at the club. And really? How many times can you turn the same guy down? And the little soror-a-ho's that started working my nerves in law school are just as annoying now.

All that to say, it's nice to know that the reasons I started being lame are not necessarily related to being old. I kinda wish someone who'd already gotten there had explained this years ago...maybe I wouldn't have had such a phobia about turning 30.

So...who wants to come over to have a dance party?!!?

Torn or Multi-faceted?

I forget where I found the quote, but I loved it so I'm totally plagiarizing it...the as-yet-to-be-determined woman said she felt: torn between being a feminist and a stripper. High-five sister!

Ladies, let's be real, shall we? There is something rather awesome about feeling like the hottest woman in the room. A feeling that is usually preceded by teetering a pair of stupidly high stilettos such as these:

You know the type. The kind of shoes that hurt your feet like the dickens but the shapliness of your legs make the fire shooting up your shins completely worth it.

On the flipside there are times when it feels good to be a feminist. For instance, when you're proved right 90% of the time when having an argument with your husband/boyfriend/guy friend/brother. Or when someone underestimated you in the boardroom (or the courtroom) and you totally get your way. That feeling of total intellectual dominance is amazing.

Given my rather obvious obsession with football...I'll spare you any feminist references to watching football. But suffice it to say that if being a feminist means watching football, than sign me up!

What I don't understand? Why must a woman choose one or the other? Who said a woman can't be a stripper and a feminist? And for that matter, who says stripping isn't a form of feminism? Don't get me wrong, I totally get the objectifying a woman can be degrading and blah blah blah. But, if men are just that easily distracted by a coupla tassles and shiny sparkly platforms, what could possibly have more of a feminist flair than using said sparkly-ness to get what you want? (Favorable outcome in negotiations, really big house, nice car...). Isn't the whole point to use ALL of your *ahem* assets to get what you want?

pheebee's mom

So, my mom read this post and decided to give me some sage advice as a result:

Ma: I read your blog today, and I thought it was funny.

Me: Oh yeah?

Ma: Yeah. And you know, I thought that you should make a new year's resolution for next year. Next year, you should do things differently. You need to get in the right circles, just like that Anna girl that got killed in the islands.

Me: *Confused look pointed at my phone.* Who? What? What are you even talking about right now?

Ma: You know. Anna something. She was so in love with the lawyer. Or he was in love with her. And she left the little girl behind. She had a son, he was in his 20s and he got killed...er...drowned or something first. Anyway, she worked the right circles and got in with the right people.

Me: Say huh?

Ma: Well, you always say you don't have any money and you don't meet people. You need to join the right clubs down there. Anna Nicole something. That's it. She was a poor white woman.

Me: Anna Nicole Smith? Mother! She was a Playboy Playmate!!!

Ma: Well that's how she met all the right people and climbed her way to the top!! *emphatically*

Me: So....are you saying you want me to be a Playboy bunny?

Ma: If you can get in Playboy, I want you in there.

Me: ... *mystified silence*... Have you been drinking?

Ma: I'm just saying. So anyway, what are you doing tonight?

Me: Watching TV. *and drinking wine...but I don't mention that part. Or that the reason I'm staying in is because a Sunday Funday is scheduled for this weekend and I need to save up :)*

Ma: See. We need to get you out from in front of the TV.

Me: sigh.

Unbelievably, this is the 2nd time my mother's suggested I be a Playmate. Coincidentally, it's not the first time she's cited Anna Nicole Smith as a role model. And, on top of all these things, she's also the one who's scarred me for life for dating an older man. So, what we've learned is:

1. I should be a Playboy Playmate
2. My particular brand of crazy is hereditary.

Yup. That really happened. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming -- and then I checked the bottle of wine I was drinking. I'd only had one glass at that point; and the glass was more than half full. Definitely didn't hallucinate it. HAHA.

Would you rather...?

So, this morning I got to thinking...dating is basically a series of "Would you rather...?" scenarios. "Would you rather" is basically a question of 2 undesirable or worst case scenarios that are given to you, and then you have to pick one. There is no opt out, no escape hatch, nada. You must pick one. So, for example: would you rather spend an hour in a dark cave, with no light, and several creepy crawly critters, or would you rather swim in the Chicago River for 10 minutes.

If you ask me, dating is just one big game of "would you rather?" So, would you rather have mind-blowing sex once a week with a super hot guy who is clearly dating other women...OR date a mediocre looking guy with mind-numbingly boring sex who adores you?

Would you rather date a guy who has a decent job, but may never make it big...OR date an entrepreneur who might hit it really REALLY big someday, but may never have a steady income?

Would you rather date a guy who is super hot but has bad breath...OR date a guy who has truly awful fashion choices and refuses to change?

Would you rather date a man who is recently separated with two kids who is a really good dad (and therefore may cancel for things like taking his kid to a birthday party)...OR a man who lives in a different state than his kid and sees the kid sporadically?

Would you rather date a pothead exclusively...OR a guy who doesn't have a vice at all, and is so straight-laced his backbone could double as Marie Antoinette's corset?

Would you rather date a guy who is 5 years younger than you (but really mature) who isn't affectionate...OR a guy who is really affectionate and 2 years older than you (but refuses to grow up)?

Would you rather be a football widow once a week, or would you rather date a man who asks for a hall pass to go to Rio once a year?

And so it goes. (Of course the same applies for men, but given I have a lot less experience dating women, I'm going to have to leave it to the fellas to figure your own worst case scenarios out...)


The problem with the would-you-rather game, is that it's difficult to see the other side. If you ask me, a lot of singletons out there are stuck in the game, and are choosing the "or" instead of whoever they're with. My guess is, no one really thinks single is an option -- at least not at first. So, you go merrily along, hoping to find out what's on the other side of the "or" and hoping that you like it. At the end of the day, you just keep jumping from one worst case scenario to the next. The dating scene is a constant stream of blindly picking the other side, hoping that you made the right choice.

Truth be told, you can see all of the worst case scenarios out there, but you can't see yourself as the worst case scenario. So, would you rather date a pretty girl with ridiculous body image issues or an average girl that won't sleep with you or a complete idiot, or an egotistical girl who thinks her poo don't stank, or a *ahem* physical girl, or a nerd or a materialistic girl or a shallow girl or or OR.* Most people who are still searching for their "or" probably find it difficult to believe that they aren't the total package for someone. Wake up and smell the latte, my friend. Everyone is on the wrong side of somebody's "or." The key is to find who trips your trigger so much that you don't care what's on the other side, because you've got everything you need in him (or her).

Until you find that one, though, keep trying. First of all, the best way to get over a man is to get under a new one. Second of all, you can't find your match if you don't keep looking. And third -- you know what I always say...it's ALWAYS worth it for the story. :}


*having been called all of these, I'm not trying to offend anyone. With the exception of idiot or shallow. I've never been called either of those -- which is surprising, given the ratio of vapid to intelligent moments I have. (Roughly 10:1).

Evidently, I'm psychic...

You know what expression I've grown to hate? "Self-fulfilling prophecy." Do people say this to you? For example:

Me: Damn, my birthday sucked, hard. Top 5 of my worst days of all time.
Them: Well, you were expecting it to be difficult, so maybe it was just a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Internal monologue: Or. It sucked because I spent it alone in my apartment in my rubber duckie pjs.

Me: Whenever I wear this shirt, I always end up with makeup on the collar.
Them: Well, you're expecting to rub makeup off on it, so maybe it was just a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Internal monologue: Or. It has a really tight v-neck and a standing collar without much room to maneuver. Inevitably, whenever I wear it, I forget this fact until after I put it on...also known as too late because I've already slid it down my makeup enhanced natural look.

Me: I've moved to Siberia, and as a result, my social life blows.
Them: Well, you kept saying how far away Siberia was, and how your social life was going to go downhill. Maybe it was just a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Internal monologue: Or. My social life blows because I do not go out as often, because the social scene in Siberia is filled to the brim with hipsters and Siberians...neither of which interest me. And, because the places there are to visit are dive bars. Have you ever seen pheebee in a dive bar, guzzling a beer? No. Because skinny jeans and Kate Spade just don't belong in a dive bar. Neither does bougie. And I? Am all of those things.

Me: Today was just one of those days. People were trying my patience ALL. DAY. LONG.
Them: Well, you always say the people you work with get on your nerves. Maybe today was just a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Internal monologue: Or. People are ace-holes.

Me: That date was terrible. I was so not into him.
Them: Well, you weren't really willing to give that guy a chance, so maybe it was just a self-fulfilling prophecy that the date was bad.
Internal monologue: Or. He was the opposite of my type who asked me to split the check on the first date -- after I wouldn't agree to go to his house to "watch a movie."

Get the idea? This crap makes me want to put on my crazy pants, bunny slippers, and flannel robe, looking all wild-eyed with my hair standing on end, go outside and scream: "No, dammit! It wasn't a self-fulfilling prophecy. I am not psychic!!!!!!!! Did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, I was accurately predicting the outcome of the situation, based on past experience?!?!?!!?"

*Ahem*....I get that if you spend your life looking for things that are wrong, you will find them. If you are seeking out flaws and negative energy, it will come to you. A positive outlook does, in fact, change the way you see things. But it doesn't actually change facts. Fact is, if I look at things through a positive lens, I'm less likely to react in a bad way. If a dude is doing the electric slide on my last nerve, then with a positive outlook, I may just brush him off politely. With a negative outlook, I may cuss him out so hard his grandchildren are born half deaf from the ringing in their ears. Either way, he was tap dancing on my last nerve.

I feel like this "self-fulfilling prophecy" junk is just a way for people to put the onus on you to ignore bad situations. Ignoring them don't make them go away. Life isn't always a beach. Sometimes, life's a bitch -- your outlook determines how you deal with either scene. Sure, it's better to put on the rose colored glasses and pat life on the head like a cute little puppy. But sometimes, you need to take life by the collar and call it out for what it is. Sucky. Acknowledge it, and move on. It's not the observation of suckiness that's the problem -- it's what you do to move around the suck.

But hey, if people keep telling me my observations are self-fulfilling prophecy, then let me go ahead and say this. I will be one chick with happiness abound. I will be making good money, created out of a moguldom of things that I love to do. I will be surrounded by amazing friends that are ride or die, and have a hot and doting husband. I speak that into being...now what? Dare somebody to tell me THAT isn't a self-fulfilling prophecy.*

*Has anyone else ever noticed that only the negative things are self-fulfilling prophesies? NO one ever says that positive things are self-fulfilling. Then all of a sudden you're lucky or in the right place at the right time. You know what? Bite me. If I'm stuck with all these bad things that I made happen, then I want credit for the good ones too.

She Get It From Her Momma

Astro once told me that after he saw my Ma, he knew that I had good genes. As a result, he'd want to *ahem* for at least 40-50 years. This week, Ma told me the greatest story ever, proving once again that my genes are just fine.

So, apparently my Ma headed over to church on Sunday, even though earlier that day she thought maybe she should praise from home since her rotator cuff injury was acting up. But, she went on anyway, and found herself a seat. Not long afterwards, a gentleman sat next to her. Now, I can't say for certain what he looked like, because Ma only gave me a single description: he was drunk. Ma is a good Christian woman from the South. She just isn't a huge fan of people who drink. (She calls me an alkie at least once a week.) The irony here, is that she married a man who was a liquor distributor when they met, and shortly after that, Daddy bought a bar. Hilarious.

Anyhoo. After he sat down, her new friend leaned over and said "God sent you to me." She turned to him, like "say what?" But ignored it and continued on enjoying church. So, he leaned over and said it again: "I know God sent you to me." Ma made another attempt at instituting the "sit still and maybe he won't be able to see you" method. Unfortunately, that didn't work. So when he leaned over again, she tried shushing him. Of course, this was to no avail.

This alone would have been cringeworthy and hilarious (for me). But Ma's new friend took it to a whole new level. He leaned over and said "just write your number down here." The "here" was the church bulletin.

< Pause for outburst. > PAH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

So, this guy was neither shutting up NOR getting the hint. So Ma decided to find herself another seat. When she got up, she heard behind her: "Hey! Where are you going?!"

< Pause for 2nd outburst. > PAH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Honestly, I'm not sure what Ma's reaction should have been. I mean, are you offended that the drunk guy was bothering you? Or, are you brushing that dirt off your shoulder because you still got it? In my opinion? Go with the latter. Moral of the story? In 30 years, I'll STILL be a pimp.

Get it from my Momma, indeed. Heh.

Lessons Learned in ATL, Part 2.

1. The bougie bar CAN be raised.
People that know me would likely point to a small bougie streak. OR, they might point to the 8 lane expressway that is my bougie streak. Either way, suffice it to say I like the finer things. I'm the girl that will order a glass of sparkling wine at the bar for no other reason than my existence is celebration enough to justify a champagne glass.* A friend of mine once accused me of being bougie because I carried my Kate while on an island vacation to do some exploring. What can I say? It's my go-to bag, darn it!

Anyway, we'd been invited by the basketball player to a fundraising event that was happening that Saturday. The fundraiser was -- wait for it -- a polo match! As in, Pretty Woman, Kentucky Derby, fancy-hat-and-cocktails-in-the-middle-of-the-day polo match. Jade and I generally follow the philosophy of "EFF it, WHY NOT?!" So naturally, we were IN. The only problem was that we legitimately needed to look the part. There was going to be a fancy hat contest, for heaven's sake! Also? We needed to get this done in about 45 minutes. Well, let me just say, we were phenomenal. After digging in to Jade's closet and my suitcase, throwing things together and going to 2 different stores, we were equestrian chic and hot to death. Simply put, we were amazing.

When we got there, we were pleased to discover that our wool floppy hats fit right in. Our bougie bar? Splendidly raised. Just when you thought our fabulous level had peaked. HA!

2. The scumbag elevator always goes down another floor.
The last and most important lesson I learned in ATL is that I will never be desensitized to the scumbag factor. Just when you think you've reached the bottom, there is someone swimming in the gutter below the surface.

While at the polo match, we met an attorney there. (Of course we did). This attorney was on par with Smiling Irish Eyes from the fundraiser. Except he was much MUCH older. He was 15 years older than me if he was a day. Much like that guy, he was definitely overweight. He encased his pudgy in pinstriped vest and matching pants. Atop his head he had a pinstriped fedora. To bring the fit-out (as opposed to an outfit) out, the attorney had on mirrored sunglasses -- a la Megatron. While the sunglasses were necessary at the beginning of the day while standing outside, the tables were all open air but covered. Sunglasses, totally unnecessary. (Sunglasses at Night was on constant loop in my head).

Anyway, he was totally inappropriate, but it was generally funny. Let's be honest, I'm not easily offended by words. For example, he said to me "how tall are you? You're like a pin-up doll." A what? Yeah, I asked that too. He says "Like, I'd pin you up against the wall, doll." WOW. Did you just say that out loud? I was stunned, but it was still hilarious. And hey, drinking may have been involved. So I'm willing to roll with the punches.

And then, we jumped on the scumbag elevator and hit a new low. At the end of the day, someone said something that was wildly inappropriate but generally hilarious. In pure pheebee fashion, I reacted (over)dramatically, pretending to be so floored that I lost my balance. While I was bent over and giggling, I felt the rather distinctive feeling of 2 smacks being placed squarely on my arse by a foreign and uninvited hand. You know those moments when time totally stops, and you can't hear anything going on around you and you're moving in slow motion? Yeah, that's what it was like. I was so pissed I saw nothing but red. I'm not really a violent person, so my first thought wasn't to kick or slap him (although, that would have been totally preferable). My initial reaction was to tell him EXACTLY what I thought about his old fat self.

I spun around, and through clenched teeth I asked him if he had, in fact, just smacked my ass. With a disgusting pervert grin on his face, he says "yeah I did. *giggle*. You're wearing a thong, aren't you?"

At this point, I was doing everything in my power not to cuss him out AND kick him in his old wrinkled nuts. Clearly seeing the look on my face, Jade attempted to run an interference. She was talking a mile a minute (all I heard was "please don't" and "ruin" and "for real, like seriously") and her hands were making gestures akin to a baseball manager standing in the dugout telling his player to steal 2nd. So, what I say to him is "WHY THE PHCK WOULD YOU DO THAT? WHAT WOULD POSSESS YOU TO THINK THAT WAS OK? ARE YOU OUTSIDE OF YOUR MIND?"

He appeared to be surprised by my reaction. And pretended to apologize profusely. "I'm sorry. My bad." "I phckd up." "I was flirting with you." I was only hearing snippets, because the choice words in my head were SO DAMN LOUD!!!! I'd like to think he was actually apologizing, and was just drunk-stupid. But, no one is that stupid. The next thing he said was "do you want to meet me in Vegas next week? I have to go for a conference, and..." I'm not sure what he said next, because I was busy responding to the first part of the sentence "WHY THE HELL WOULD I GO WITH YOU TO VEGAS?"

Oh, did I mention that he was married? And that his wife was AT THE POLO MATCH?

Now, at this point, people who know me might ask "why didn't you cuss him out in your own special way?" Well, I refer you to lesson number 1 for today. It was a day of bougie, and there was a certain façade that was necessary. Plus, we were invited guests of someone that neither of us knew all that well. And, that person was the client of Jade's friend. Business before ego. Friendships before business. I couldn't go HAM because there were too many important relationships at risk. This was an unfortunate circumstance, because I had a couple sleepless nights since it bothered me so much that I didn't have the opportunity to tell that vile bastard exactly what I thought of him. Ultimately, I just have to remind myself that karma is a bitch with a looooooooooooong memory.

Perhaps even more tragic is that after it happened, Jade and her accountant friend were somewhat underwhelmed. Not because they're heartless, but because this caliber of scumbag is commonplace in ATL. It's a small wonder that any quality woman isn't single for life or so deep in her madness that she must be sedated just to get through each day. Honestly? If this was commonplace, I'd constantly suffer from laryngitis. There's no way I could keep holding my tongue. Even more sad, even if I had the opportunity to say something, it would have done ZERO good -- it would have fallen on deaf ears. Well -- not zero. I would have felt immensely better.



*In fact, Jade and I met and bonded over a glass of Moscato d'Asti. We'd both been invited to a birthday party of a guy we didn't know. I ordered myself an Asti (again, because my existence is celebration enough), and Jade was intrigued. I offered her my glass so she could give it a shot. And boom! We bonded. See that? Alcohol brings people together.

Lessons learned in ATL, Part 1.

So, I travelled to my least favorite city (to date) for a nice weekend jaunt with one of my favorite people of all time (to date).* While there, I learned all kinds of things. Allow me to share.

1. 5 Hour Energy Drinks really do work.
I worked a full day of work on Friday, so I was actually prepared to go out for a quick minute and then fall asleep. But, this was not an option because we were scheduled for some full time shenanigans. So, I drop a 5 hour energy drink in the carryon and roll out. Before I get on the plane, (and after packing the small bottled wonder), I stopped at Macy's to get a pair of eyelashes. When deciding which ones to get, I asked the lady for lashes that would fit in in the flossiest, flashiest, snootiest, most bougiest city in America. (That's Jade's description, not mine!!). Anyway, they were long, they were winged, and they were fabulous.** About 45 minutes before landing, I put in my contacts, touched up my makeup, and gave the guy next to me a nice little batting of the eyelashes just to make sure they were working. He promptly started fanning because his temperature raised at least 10 degrees -- they were working.*** After jumping off the plane, I dashed to the airport bathroom to change a la Superman with a bigger phone booth. Walking into the bathroom, I was a casual sorority chick visiting her long distance boyfriend. Walking out, I was a diva on her way to prove once and for all why northern women make southern belles look like chopped liver.

We headed out to the bar, where we met up with Jade's friend and his client. (Jade's friend being an accountant to the ATL elite). So, basically, I'd never heard of this dude before. But, I later found out that he was a retired basketball player. As in, in the NBA. That's right, I had cocktails with a retired NBA player. All I noticed was that he was really really tall and talked a lot of BS. But, he was nice and polite, and able to take all of the trash talking we did vis a vis the Falcons vs. the Packers. So, he was cool. *shrug* That's just how Jade and I roll...get on our level. ;)

2. Actually, you do need to put your bags back into your bag.
When I was going through security, I was hearing all kinds of wah wah wah over the speakers. I heard my gate mentioned, but I figured it was an announcement about a different flight. So I really didn't stress about it. When I finally got to the other side of the conveyer belt, I put my shoes on and hauled all my junk to the nearest bench in order to put my life together. I immediately checked for my phone, because I'm unnecessarily paranoid about losing my phone. It was there, so I zipped up my bag and got to moving. Just in time to hear them make the last boarding call for my flight. And THAT'S when I started to haul some serious booty. I ran, dragging my carryon behind me, coat flapping in the breeze. I made it -- and fortunately I wasn't the last person on the plane. I heard the guy at the gate say they were trying to get off the ground early. Yeah well, he was a total liar. The plane left maybe 3 minutes early. All that rushing I did? Totally unnecessary. No matter. I went to the bathroom before takeoff, and when I got back to my seat, I went to pull my 1 plastic baggie full of 3 oz liquids out to grab some lotion. And...it wasn't in my bag. I shrugged, figuring that I had stuffed it in my stowed luggage. Turns out? It wasn't stowed. I left the great folks of TSA a nice little present on the bench at Midway. Hope it didn't cause an incident. *shrug*. At first, I was totally calm about it -- I figured except for my foundation, it was full of all kinds of things I hijacked from hotel stays. And then I was pissed when I realized (2 days later) that my brand-freaking-new eyeshadow primer was in that bag. Some TSA agent is totally rocking longwear eyeshadow on my dime. #curses.

3. It actually is possible for Jade and I to get even MORE bougie.
Remember when I said that the NBA player was a nice guy? Well, on Friday night, he invited us to -- wait for it -- a polo match. A what? A POLO MATCH! It was a fundraiser, and included contests for best hat (a la, Derby hats), best place settings, and best cocktail. If that just doesn't beat all! So, in true eff-it-why-not form, Jade and I readily agreed. We managed to pull together "equestrian chic" outfits in 30 minutes or less.**** Part of that was getting humongous floppy hats. It was amazing. The entire time, I just kept thinking "am I for real at a polo match right now? Wow." It was a new experience, and it was wicked awesome that we did it.

While we were there, football was on. (Obviously). The Packers had a bye week, but my fantasy team was on and poppin'. Admittedly, I was concerned about it, because my opponent had some of the most awesome players ever (including Cam Newton, with his sexy sexy self). The boys were all checking their phones, and making all kinds of announcements about who was doing what to whom. I got into it right there with them. We were exchanging stats, comparing fantasy team members, and commiserating over Brees' horrible game against the Rams. At one point, we were talking about something really simple...like, the fact that Drew Brees' epic fail against the Rams was out of character for him. At that point, no joke, one guy turned to me and asked: "Are you a writer for ESPN?" Really dude? I didn't say anything remotely impressive just then. And I KNOW that you didn't hear me discussing the weaknesses in the Packers' secondary. So, are you truly that easily impressed?! (Man, southern women must really be out of the loop when it comes to sports. Score yet another one for northern gals!)

All in all, the trip was good. When I flew in on Monday morning, I was all around exhausted. Totally worth the sleep deprivation.



*Jade threw the friend card at me. Basically saying that if I didn't come to visit her, I couldn't be her friend anymore. So, I booked a flight out for a quick weekend turnaround.

**And, the Mac makeup artist also did some fabulous smokey eye flair to go with them. (She was amazing!)

***May or may not be a total exaggeration of what actually happened.

****I was totally unprepared for all of the activities we got into this weekend. I'm pretty impressed with what I managed to pull together with limited resources.

Twos

The last two days have been filled with pairs. At first, I didn't even notice it. And then, it started to become a little more obvious. Allow me to explain:

Number of exes that have professed their desire to get back together: 2.
Number of exes that I believe are completely full of it when it comes to trying again: 2.
Number of times I've been approached about going on a date with someone from Facebook: 2.
Number of times I said I'd do it if for no other reason than for the story: 2.
Number of guys in or around my office who have a crush on me: 2.
And so, you see the theme.

I've always suspected that the Titan hangs around as an insurance policy. I think he's got me as a back up plan -- in the event he doesn't find something better, he knows that I'll make a good to decent wife (his words). Yesterday was the first time he finally admitted to wanting to try again. But, wait for it. Did he ask me out at that point? Nope. He said he wanted to try it again, and I quote: "down the line." To quote SiQ's sister, what in the fresh hell is that?! Is there no honor in dating anymore? Isn't that one of those things you keep inside your head? Perhaps it would have been more effective if he just said to me "hey, if we're both still single in 5 years, let's get married, k?" Ohhh wait, he has said that to me. Look man, you're really good at helping me with my fantasy team and all, but kick rocks. We are so not going to get back together.

Side note? He came out of left field, showing signs of intelligence again. I said to him: "hey, what would we talk about if we never talked about football?" And he says, "lots of things. Like, how about Obama withdrawing the troops out of the Middle East. What do you think about that? I think it's about time." Zwrrrrrrrr. Say what? Who are you?!

Anyway, when I was working at my first job, I learned a valuable lesson about going out with people who work places where you frequent. After a brief interaction with 'bux (this guy), I became intimately familiar with the awkwardness that happens when it doesn't work out. (Remember this?) The lesson is, if you go there often, do NOT go out on a date with these people, unless you're prepared to change your routine in its entirety if things go south. This rule is particularly important at your local Starbucks, the gym, your office, and anywhere else you're bound to be at least once a week. Sadly, the only two people on the planet who have a crush on me are stationed at my local Starbucks and my office building. The Starbucks guy has been professing his crush for almost as long as I've been at this job. Fortunately, he's bought the excuse that I've got a boyfriend for most of that time. (It helps that he was there when Astro went to get me a chai -- back when he was doing an effective job of courting me). This Starbucks guy also has a kid and is still in school. Furthermore, I'm just not interested in seeing him naked. Like, ever. So...pass on that. It would for sure end, it would be awkward, and then I'd have to re-route my 'bux habit. Nobody wants that.

The other guy, is the doorman in my office building. It took a minute for him to build up to actually expressing his crush. In fact, he hasn't actually claimed it, yet. But it's officially the worst kept secret. He gives me a hard time, which is fun. He always holds the elevator door open for me, and walks across the lobby with me to the backdoor. It's pretty endearing. But, it would be even more awkward when it didn't work out!* He works at the door of the building for heaven's sake. There is no getting around seeing him after a breakup. We'll just have to maintain our relationship at the lobby flirting level :).

Meanwhile, the date with Mr. Smiling Irish Eyes did not happen on Monday (much to the chagrin of friends everywhere). There is a possibility that it could happen tomorrow, because the plans which were made were tentative. We'll see. I promise an update if it happens!

Hmm, maybe all these twos have a lot to do with the weather. I always say, when it gets cold out, the snow bunnies start looking for someone to pair up with. All we need now is for one of these snow bunnies to be my kind of snow bunny.


*For the record, I'm making a lot of assumptions here. It's not that I think I'm hot stuff. By the way, my proof came today when he told me that since we were fighting, he thought we should kiss and make up. I giggled -- it was kinda funny.

So worth it!

As we learned in the last post, a good story is always worth the hassle. Well, I tested this theory again earlier this week.

On Tuesday, Astro called me (out of the blue)* and asked me to go with him to a political fundraiser (aka networking event). Given my desire to raise my status as a super connector, I agreed to go.

When we got there, it quickly became apparent that I was going to have to make an adjustment to my strategy. Back when Astro was a "current" rather than an "ex" boyfriend, I'd often be more of a Jackie O rather than a Michelle O**. But, as an ex, I'm no longer obligated to fulfill that role. I'm not saying this is a bad thing, just a matter of course. So, we separate, and he goes off to meet his next investor, and I go off to meet my next sucker, er, client.

As I'm speaking to a woman, there is a guy who is standing a few yards away. He is oh, maybe just under 6 feet tall, has slicked back dark hair; a gray gimlet patterned suit, with a shiny blue tie; a shiny and obvious watch, and a tan. Basically, if someone were to play him in a movie, it'd be Robert De Niro (before he went gray). Oh, except Italian, he was Irish. (We'll get to how I know that in a minute.) So, I'm talking to this lady, and smiling Irish eyes says "wait a second...did she (meaning me) just say she's married?!" Ok. Entertaining, sure. I did like the boldness, that was cool. But, whatevs. The lady and I continue our conversation. Shortly thereafter, smiling Irish eyes says "hey Mrs. Irish Eyes, what would you like to drink?" (Ok, stop. Before you get all excited, we were at an event with an open bar.) The lady I'd been talking to was getting ready to leave, on her way out she says "this is the type of event where you could end up getting married. (sly smile)."

Well, Mr. smiling Irish eyes gets my white wine and hands it to me. I thank him for it, and he pulls me to the bar, and offers me a seat. He says "you're too beautiful to be standing." (Yes really, I'm so not making this up.) We chat for 3 minutes, he tells me he's Irish, and a friend of his walks over. The friend of SIE ask me who I came with and what he does. So I say I came with a friend who is a venture capitalist. Mr. SIE says "my friend and I are venture capitalists. We just put an in-flux of money into the economy whenever we go shopping. I always buy women's clothes and jewelry but I have nothing to do with it."***

Now, this guy is laying it on pretty thick, to the point of being comical. Except, he's being totally serious. Anyway, he goes on to say that if I want to get married, his friend is a rabbi so the friend can marry us upstairs.**** I politely decline the marriage proposal. So, it's time for them to go. Mr. SIE asks for my card, which I hand over. (Like I said, there may be a legit business prospect there, but I can't remember what he said he did. Mainly because I wasn't listening closely enough to retain anything he said). He then reaches in his pocket to hand me his card. And....it's his Amex Platinum. Yes, dear readers. He actually hands me his Amex. Now, we've just taken the evening to a whole new level. I don't even know what the appropriate reaction is at this point.

So, I'm telling this story to my co-workers, and they're all equally horrified. And so I say, well I'll let you know how the date goes. One of the girls says, "wait, what? You're actually going out with this guy?!" So, I look at her dead in the eye: "hell yeah! Either way, I get paid...either a nice dinner OR actual business because the dude has money. Either way it works out for me. And anyway, when a chance like this comes, you always ALWAYS go all in just for the story!"

So, here's hoping the sequel is just as good as the first story. Oh smiling Irish eyes, what else could you possibly bring?



*Side note? You know what really puts a bee in my bonnet? People who don't return messages -- voice OR texts! And, frankly, I'm tired of hearing that he's "busy." As near as I can tell, he just dix around all day on the computer and goes to "meetings" (most assuredly those meetings are with his dealer. If you ask me). Anyway, I don't care how damn busy a person is, unless your last name is preceded by "President of the United States" you are NOT THAT DAMN BUSY. PICK UP YOUR PHONE!!!! Ok, side bar over.

**In other words, a Jackie O is a pretty girl that is seen and not heard (and likely running ish in the background). A Michelle O is ahead of her game, and doin' her own thang (and STILL running ish in the background).

***Yes, really. I'm not making this up!

****Nearly forgot the best part. The event was held at the set of the recently cancelled "Playboy Club." Yup. Just adds a layer of shenanigans, doesn't it?

The Story that Almost Was

This weekend I travelled to Seattle to lay some smack down on Conference First Timers. The flight out west is sooooo far. (It's halfway to London for heaven's sake!!)

Anyway, I managed to get myself a window seat on the plane, and in a row where the middle seat was empty. Score! So, after making polite small talk, the guy on the aisle fell silent...leaving me the opportunity to engage in a power nap. Well, when I woke up a short while later (deep, satisfying sleep turned out to be elusive), I discovered that the once vacant middle seat had been occupied. Boo Hiss Boo!! The guy that sat there was a guy who apparently was a comedian. He was travelling to Seattle for a show, but he wasn't famous (seriously -- the guy in the aisle actually asked him that!).

Turns out, he moved to our section because he was going to go crazy. He'd been sitting next to a guy that apparently believed showering was optional. And, behind him, the kid that had been disturbing all of us with his cries of "no! No! NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" had also been kicking the back of his seat. He said it was so bad that he gave up the window seat to move into a middle seat. He feared that if he hadn't, he would've been the subject of every passenger's conversation: "OMG! Did you see that black guy who....". And so, I ended up with a new seatmate.

For the first hour of the 4 hour tour, he and I didn't really chat. It wasn't until snack time came around that we really started chatting. The comedian was living in NYC, but originally from Philly. He graduated with a degree in engineering, but decided to try pursuing comedy instead. He would be in Seattle for 2 days, and performing 2 shows. We discussed everything from television to seafood. We even stuck together for the walk from the airplane to the baggage claim. He asked for my card, and promised to get in touch later.

Now, I know you're all dying to know. Did I find him attractive? Could I see myself moving to NYC for him? Would I DO him?!!?! The answer is no. He just wasn't necessarily my type. (And by not necessarily, I mean not at all). But, I was really amped up about the whole scene because I have NEVER been hit on while I was on a plane. I'm just not the type of girl that gets looked at twice on a plane. Nor do I have the type of luck that involves a man giving me a second look when alcohol is not involved.* So, I was extra excited about having airplane comedian get in contact with me. (And for the record, I was exercising my right not to wear makeup that day).

Turns out, he did shoot me an email. And, we made tentative plans. I was totally in it, just for the story. Why? Because I love you, dear readers. I was going to endure what could turn out to be a disaster date just for y'all. Well, I met him at the comedy club where he was doing his show...and DL Hugley showed up! After that, he was free to head out, so he did a quick change and took me out for cocktails and dessert. Believe it or not, he had flowers waiting backstage for me! They were gorgeous!! (Admittedly, my first thought was: "how the eff am I going to get these back home on the plane?"). He took me to a great little bistro that....just kidding. None of that ever happened. Sadly, it never happened. Our schedules just didn't match up. But, just knowing that I almost got a date with a guy from the plane is bound to make a girl feel good!


*Or, when he isn't a homeless guy on the street. Or, a guy that just wants a hug. (eyeroll).

What would you do?

I'm reading a great book called The $64 Dollar Tomato. It's a memoir of one man's quest for the perfect garden. Naturally, hilarity ensues. There is a moment where the author begins to wonder whether the gardening has lost it's magic, and it's no longer worth the effort. He quotes a great philosopher (I'm too lazy to get up and find the quote, but I think it's Sartre), asking "if you had to live the same life over and over again, would you pick the one you have now?

I think I can answer that question without much thought. My response? Is HELLLLLL NAWWWWW. But to know that you don't want to repeat your life as is isn't really going far enough. You have to figure out what you want. In a moment of introspection, I've been trying to figure that out. And you know what I've figured out? I want to be a Real Housewife of OC.

As I've contemplated my options, I can't say that when I'm fantasizing about the perfect life I'm picturing anything that involves going to work everyday. And I can say without hesitation that I don't dream of owning my own business. You know what I dream about? I dream about going to the gym for a couple hours a day, putting together fabulous meals, and throwing lavish parties. And let us not forget the hours spent in a huge closet (and shopping to fill that closet). The moments I do have miniature fantasies about work, they tend to center around big board meetings, in which everyone in the room is scared of ticking me off. (AKA being on the Board of a charitable organization).

Although the shopping and the lavish decorations are part of the fantasy, the part I usually concentrate on is spending time with my significant other and good friends. I think about owning a house with a great big porch or patio or some kickass outdoor area. Sometimes I dream of having a pretty flower garden. (Oddly, I never picture myself gardening). Oh, and I also dream about getting it on with my significant other on a very regular basis...just sayin'.

All this introspection leads me to believe that I truly do aspire to be an OC housewife! I wonder if that means I'm destined to be a reality TV star too? Hmm...methinks a career change is in order. I'm ready for my contract, BravoTV. ;)

What the...?!?!

So, I started writing a post that was all kinds of introspective. But the St. Christopher gerwertztraminer kinda snuck up on me. So, instead, I am posting a reader submission. (One should never drink and blog.) Please see below.

My cousin sent this to me as a submission for the hot daggone mess portion chapter of the book. Can I just say, I'm traumatized? Possibly for life. Bad fashion is one thing. But this goes beyond bad fashion to straight out assault and battery on my eyes. To quote a recent commenter...what in the sam damn hell?! *shudder*

I figured it out!

I have finally figured out why chivalry is dead. This morning on my way to work, I jumped on the el like a bunch of other people. The train car I got on was full, but not quite crowded. I was the 2nd person on my side of the car, preceded by a young man. There was one seat left, and he took it. Actually, he looked at me, and then sat down. I proceeded through the car and started to lament the death of chivalry. That's when I realized that I think I've figured out the reason why it died.

So, back in the day when men were giving up seats for ladies, opening doors, and generally being gentlemanly, women were...well...expected to be quiet, for lack of a better word. Proper ladies were meant to dress nicely, take care of their man, cook dinner, mind the children, do the laundry, and basically be a domestic goddess. They were not off galavanting around, running board rooms, getting advanced degrees, or earning the big bucks. Unfortunately, they also weren't expected to really have much of an opinion or cause a whole lot of ruckus outside of the home. As a trade off, men were the great big providers, protecting women and giving them special treatment, just because they were ladies.

Around the time that feminism took hold, (I assume) women decided that the trade-off was totally not worth it. Women were capable of kickin' ass and takin' names outside of the home, and we wanted the right to prove it. And prove it we have! I think at this point, most men understand that women can do something other than cook and clean. But, it would seem to me that men started to feel cheated. Now, women are on equal footing and, near as I can tell, men aren't especially motivated to give them that extra-special treatment. It's like some sort of loophole that the feminists didn't contemplate. Who woulda thought that the price of entering the boardroom was being required to stand on the el? Or split the check on a date? Or be expected to put out right away?

This point was really driven home when I thought back to old relationships. The Titan was all for the modern woman. He wanted a woman who could do it all. But the boy didn't do anything to show that I was special. (As in, I'm pretty sure we split every check, and I saw nary a flower). On the other side, Astro treated me like a special lady. Actually, he gave me some pretty convincing evidence that chivalry isn't totally dead: During the first few months of our relationship, he bought flowers, paid for dinner, gave foot rubs. All in all, the perfect guy, right? The only thing I was required to do was be a well-refined and well-educated lady in the streets, and a freak in the bed. Easy peasy, right? Right. But* after our first argument, when I expressed an opinion that was contrary to his, chivalry kicked the bucket. Basically, he looked at me, and then took the last seat.

What I don't understand, my boys, is why is it that there's no such thing as a happy medium? Yes, I'd like to have my own opinions, and (continue) to kick ass and take names. But I'd also like the guy I'm dating to open doors, give foot rubs, and just be a gentlmanly kind of guy. I find this especially perplexing when women have been balancing for generations. Seriously, if we are able to complete the epic task of keeping or freak in the bed and off the street, and our lady in the street and off the bed, why can't you be a gentleman that doesn't feel emasculated when a chick knows that that was TOTALLY pass interference and Calvin Johnson and the Lions was absolutely robbed last season? For real boys. Your head won't explode, I promise.



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*There's always a a but, isn't there.

Decorating Time

I have an amazing friend who can turn any squalid studio into a chic urban loft. Jade is the type of chick who paints, faux finishes, and treats the walls of her rented space, just because she has to live there.* It's a trait that is nothing short of awesome. She has a million different service pieces, holiday gear, wall art, dishes, glasses, centerpieces, you name it! After a gathering at her space, I'm always inspired to go do something grand.

I, however, am not a decorating guru. I always find it difficult to muster up the excitement or motivation to turn my single gal's home into a festive space for holidays. When I go to department stores, the floor displays are always so well put together. The displays scream "Buy Me! Buy Me! If you do you will have fabulous dinner parties where people have a ripping good time and engage in all kinds of tomfoolery!!" They whisper to me about my hostess skills, the dinners I'll cook, the desserts I'll bake! Everything coming together and my guests being thoroughly wowed. There are displays for spring, summer, autumn, winter, and all the holidays that fall in those seasons. Visions of seasonally appropriate menus begin to dance in my head. But, I know full well that I have no such dinner parties. My cooking skills, while not sad, are not epic. There is no long guest list of people beating down my door to get invited to a shindig. And frankly, I don't have enough seating for a huge gathering. Where do these displays think I live? The 'burbs? HA! There is no good reason for me to run about buying autumn paraphernalia if I'm the only one who is going to be looking at it!

Ironically, I have oodles of willpower when it comes to home fashion trends, despite their inherent practicality. I have no such strength when it comes to the changing fashions. Could it be true that I am only motivated to participate in important trends if I think other people are looking? I should hope not! I am of the belief that you should (and your home!!) look good even if no one is looking!

Ok people, let's get it together. *Clap Clap!* Hence forth, all areas of our lives shall exude fabulous -- not just when the potential for seeing someone is high. Let's do it. Ready.....Break!

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*I like to think she does to her home what Stacy London does to casual outfits. Just because it's cas' doesn't mean it shouldn't be fabulous!

This is why I'm hot

Today, I got another memo about just how hot I am. Let me set the stage for you.

I was walking down the street, headed to meet some uber important people for lunch. I had on my red ombre stilettos. I also had on a trench coat and a scarf. Frankly, it wasn't my most fabulous outfit. Don't tell my fashionista friends, but my shoes were scuffed, I've lost a button on that coat* And, my hair got wet when I jumped off the building yesterday, so I was rocking a 'do that can really only be described as a shock of black hair.

Anyway, I was about a block outside of my building (aka, before my feet were on fire and so I was still walking normally). I was stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. I saw a guy on the opposite corner in a black windbreaker, a hat, and he had a backpack hanging on the lamp post on the corner. He's got a big smile on his face, and appears to be talking to everyone walking by. ... Wait a minute. Is that a styrofoam cup in his hand? Oh geez. It's a homeless guy asking everyone for change. ... That's so sad. ... I don't have any cash though. Oh! The light is changing.

So, I walk across the street, and I hear "Good afternoon!! You look great today. Man, when I get a job, you better run!!!!!"

Zwerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Hold the phone. Did I just get hit on by a homeless guy? Dude! Don't you have other things you should be concerned with?!

And see? This is why I'm hot. I got hit on by a homeless guy today. Who catcalled you?!!?


*On a related note? I hate that trench. The buttons are awesome because they're heavy, but they suck for the same reason. The heavy buttons are constantly popping off. Curses.

Adventures on the eL

Lately, all of my adventures have been happening on the el. And, my adventures have mostly (ok totally) been adventures of a boy-crazy teenaged girl. *shrug*

First, on my way home yesterday, I noticed a very well dressed young brotha get on the train just ahead of me. He had on an athletic cut pinstriped suit. (Navy blue with gray stripes for those keeping track). He was well accessorized with a tie, great shoes, and a pocket square. He had a rather unfortunate scar on his bald head...you know probably as a result of being probed by aliens or getting into a fist fight with a weed wacker (he won); but I was totally willing to overlook it because he was so very well put together -- and because he carried himself so well. I took it upon myself to sit right next to him, in hopes of getting a rise out of him. He wasn't looking at me when I sat, so I didn't bother with the flirty half-smile. Instead, I made small production of sitting down and pulling out my copy of the RedEye. When he STILL didn't do anything, I giggled at an article. I don't remember what the article was about, but it probably wasn't nearly as funny as I made it seem. And? Still nothing from Mr. Pinstripe Man. So, I continued reading, dejected at the lack of forthcoming pickup line. But, we had been on the train together for a mere 5 minutes; so I didn't mourn our relationship for too long.

I proceeded to the sports section of the RedEye, where I legitimately did laugh at an article about Cutler. (Football's greatest actor). And this is when Mr. Pinstripe decided to say something. He opened with "how are you today?" Or something equally banal. I responded, and followed my fine with "just laughing at this article on Cutler...[blah blah blah] I heart football." And he said something about the Bears, and I made a snide comment about the Packers being far superior. And then, our newly budding relationship was over. He made a comment about the Bears being the city team and awesome, and I pointed out that we'd won more Super Bowls. (The sitcom voice-over that I sometimes have in my head said something like -- "and that's how he knew it would never work. He bled blue and orange, and she was a cheesehead. They were doomed from the very beginning..." What? I'm the only person with a sitcom voiceover in my head?) For the next two stops, there was a cold silence between us. When I got off the train, I looked back at him, and he totally avoided eye contact. Whatevs. I was over it.

It wasn't until I was about halfway down the stairs when it hit me. That dude only said something to me because he thought I was making all kinds of noise to get him to notice and/or talk to me! So what if it's partially (ok, mostly) true?! Dude, you're not supposed to make it so obvious that you realized what I was doing!! Also? I'm not that desperate. I don't tend to find my dates on public transpo, ok? My dates? Are men I meet in retail stores, thank you.* I don't need you, Mr. Pinstripe. Ok? I can find a date. I just wanted to have a little fun. Geez!


Anyhoo. This morning, I was sitting on the train, reading whatever silly book Amazon had on Kindle for free.** (Incidentally, the free books are generally colossally stupid, and I tend to lose a few brain cells whenever I read them.) So, I'm reading, and we come up to the next stop. I didn't see the man get on, but I sensed him sit next to me. When I looked at him out of the side of my eye, I noticed he was a tall brother in good shape. I didn't see his face from the front, but his profile was nice, a good strong jaw. And then, I got a good whiff -- ewwwww. He was a smoker! Unacceptable. Moving on.

So, on the way back from work, I was headed to the train, and on the way, I pass a Fannie May. I've managed to resist the urge to go in and buy several chocolatey delights, but today it was a struggle! As I was passing the big picture window, I noticed a young Latino gentleman. He was cleaning the counters or packaging candies or...hell I don't know (or care) what he was doing. But the boy was fiiiiiiiiiiine. He had a close-cropped haircut, just this side of a buzz cut. He had on black pants (maybe jeans? Which I hear are back in for men); and a black tank. The tank showed off his lovely muscles, smooth skin, and inverted triangle shape. And then, he had a nice tat on his right forearm. It was pretty big...and just enough badass to make any girl smile. I am pretty sure he caught me lookin' ...but I don't care. Clearly, I didn't learn ANYTHING yesterday. HA!

Hey, at least my commute is never dull!

*See: 'bux boyfriend (Starbucks); Astro (at the See Eyewear); Spritely Asian Guy (Sunglasses Hut)

**Side note? Why the eff are books so expensive on the Kindle? I thought the whole point is that it was cheaper and quicker. What's the point of owning a Kindle if the e-book is just as expensive as the hardcover -- and more expensive than the paperback?! AND I can't get awesome books from the library? Please oh please explain the point. Seriously, Amazon. You built your empire on cheap books. Let's return to our roots, shall we?

9.11.11

Today has been a day of remembrance for many Americans. Many people have posted or spoken about what 9.11 means to them. I have generally avoided doing this, because even 10 years later, I remain confused by my memories and my reactions.

10 years ago today, I was in college. I didn't have class that morning, for whatever reason. I woke up, brushed my teeth, started getting ready, and turned on the TV. I remember thinking that I hadn't been watching CNN the night before, but maybe I'd turned for some reason -- since what I was seeing was very obviously news. I saw two buildings I didn't recognize with big billows of smoke on the screen. I don't remember reading the tag at the bottom. Frankly, I doubt I paid it much attention as I was getting dressed to go to my work-study job at the library. When I got to the library, my supervisor expressed all kinds of surprise that I showed up to work. It was THEN that I found out that the big buildings with the billows of smoke had been hit by a plane, and were two high rises in New York. My first thought? I wondered what went wrong with the plane.

As days passed, I remember the outpouring of support and the reaction of the nation. I remember feeling like it was an overreaction. Not because the victims and their families didn't deserve every bit of financial and emotional support...But because I was in the middle of Iowa, and I thought it odd that the shops and malls were closing. While I believe that crime happens anywhere and everywhere, I was still finding it difficult to believe that "attacks" or "terrorism"* could ever happen in Iowa.

Ultimately, I never did find a way to truly wrap my head around what happened. I didn't have a specific patriotic pull, because I felt so far removed from the situation. Despite being a short plane ride away, NYC was SO far...like another planet. I was so blessed not to have any family, friends, cousins, distant relatives, random acquaintances...no one I knew was in either of the places where there was an errant plane. I felt for the victims and their families in the way you feel for anyone who suffered from a tragedy -- man-made or otherwise. But it was (is) so hard to believe that it happened here.

Like any other American, I won't forget what happened that day. I pray for peace for those whose private memories are made public because of the tragically large community of people who share your pain.

But I will also let 9.11 serve as a reminder of just how blessed I have been. By the grace of God, my friends and family were spared from this particular tragedy. I praise Him for building a hedge, and I thank Him for all of them (y'all).

And by the way? I pray for those whose culture, race, and faith have forced you to become intimately familiar with the ignorance of some Americans. Those who fall into a minority category (of any kind) feel your pain. I can only hope that someday the great American spirit to whom much credit is given for being welcoming and open and diverse, will truly become welcoming, open, and diverse. Until then, stand strong, and continue to take opportunities to educate those who just don't get it.


*words which, at the time, felt odd in my mouth in connection with the US. They were things that happened elsewhere.

I am a girl, right?

Sometimes, I question whether I was born the proper gender. What usually sparks these gender-bending thoughts are my reactions to typically boy things and typically girl things.

For example, I spent the greater portion of my morning discussing fantasy football teams. We were discussing Knowshon Moreno -- and not just that crazy first name either. We talked about whether he was better to start over Anquan Bolden in the flex position, how his stats compared to Adrian Peterson (Mr. Fumble, if you ask me), and so on. We also talked about Pitt's defense versus the Packer defense, and whether Jay Cutler was as garbage of a pick as I thought. Now, the people at my office are generally used to my football base of knowledge. But, more than once, I've left a few guys with their mouths hanging open when I make some reference to yards after catch (YAC) or Matt Forte's success in the backfield. Frankly, I think most guys expect women to be confused by the difference between the O-line and the D-line. I don't think they realize that real women can identify when the defense is about to blitz or the offense is standing in an I formation.*

Today was really a gender bending day, apparently. Because my other guy-like habit is my complete and unabashed objectifying of men and I was doing some serious objectifying on my way home. I was sitting on the train when a group of guys got on. All of them were pretty cute, but there was one guy who definitely caught my eye. Actually, his taller friend caught my eye -- but I was kind of turned off when I noticed he was wearing a Tiger Woods' inspired outfit along with a figaro chain...Do they still make those?! Anyway, I spent the better part of my ride toggling between reading whatever free dribble I downloaded on my Kindle, texting JP and eyeing this guy up and down. More than once he caught me staring at him. And, more than once I didn't let that stop me. Sadly, my stop arrived before his did -- but he totally called me out on my less than ladylike staring. No matter. My only reaction was to tell him that he should've asked for my phone number before I got off the train.**

Don't even get me started on my tv watching choices. I am SUPER pumped for football season to start...but I also spend a fair amount of time watching various shows on Bravo TV. Oh well, I guess that means that whatever guy manages to trap me is going to be the luckiest guy ever -- a girly girl that loves looking pretty and also loves football?! Is there anything better? And now that I think of it, his friends are going to really be lucky too...the kind of ladies I hang out with are usually just as well rounded. HA. Lucky ducks. ;)


*Side note? Why is Fashion's Night Out the same day as the NFL opening game? LAME.
**Yes, I really said that. And you know this.

Silver Lining and all that

Given that I am ever the optimist, I try to find the bright side of things. (No seriously! Ok, not really.) Recently, I rediscovered one of my favorite silver linings, and I thought I'd share.

Ending a relationship is always a tough thing. There is a period of sadness and mourning that inevitably follows. And I don't know about you, but it seems to me that the shorter the relationship, the longer my mourning period.*

But, after you mourn and contemplate and do whatever it is you do to get over a man,** a bright side will emerge. Yesterday, I came across one of the best break-up benefits EVER! I found a pair of pajama pants that the young blood left at my house. I was just lounging about the house, maxing and chillaxin', enjoying the holiday off. They were soooooo comfortable. I can't say that I looked great in them; but I've learned something over the years***. Men find women sexiest when they are au naturel. No make-up, loose sweats, and a tank top. The relaxed and comfy look will do just as much as the dominatrix, lacy, Vicki's not-so-secret Secrets look. (Of course, maybe it's just easier to take off and that's why men like it).

Over the years, I've collected quite a few ex-boyfriend clothing items. T-shirts, pajama pants, an AWESOME flannel shirt from the Ninja. It's been great! I am still searching for the holy grail of ex-clothing...I gotta get myself an awesome sweatshirt from one of the basketball player guys. I think men are on to us now though...the sweatshirt is soooooo hard to come by.


*It took me a couple weeks to get over the young blood from the southside. We dated for 6 months. Astro? I'm pretty sure it took a good year -- and we dated for 3-4 months. WTH?!

**Including getting under a new one. :)

***Bonus bright side!

That's a [insert expletive] Shame!

I try to remember, when I'm at the club, that people are cutting loose and hanging out. I know that for the most part, folks are wearing clothing that reflects a caricature of themselves and that they probably don't have on something they might wear when the sun comes up. (At least, this is what I hope.) Therefore, the fashion police radar is usually relaxed. However, I've found that despite the relaxed rules, when you're looking at what people wear in the club, the fashion violations are likely to be extra egregious.

Well, last night was no exception. I found myself staring at an outfit that was the definition of, the very incarnation of, a HOT DAMN MESS. The first and most noticeable piece of the outfit was the brown fishnet top. It was long-sleeved, cropped, and fitted. Ok, I guess. If you're bringing the 80s back with a scoopneck, off-the-shoulder, Madonna-esque fishnet situation, cool. Combine it with those crazy ripped jeans (in white) (and skinny cut) then hey. Do you, girlfriend! Throw on a colorful tank and you'll have your own groove goin' on. Except...your girl did NOT throw on a colorful tank. No, she had on a leopard print bra. A LEOPARD PRINT BRA?! Are you sure you meant to come outside like that?

Of course, after seeing the fit-out*, I couldn't stop staring. Which I acknowledge is so wrong. Like, who do I think I am? Stacy London? We weren't filming an episode of What Not to Wear. Anyway, in an effort to be less judgmental (or at least, keep my judgment to myself), I didn't even mention the fit-out to anyone! I kept all my bitchy comments to myself.** Of course, given that I was out with my cousins, and we all inherited a certain snarkiness, my attempts at keeping quiet were thwarted when Cuzo said "Psst. Did you see what your girl has on?!!?" And we commenced with the obligatory eye-rolling. At that point, I whipped out the camera phone, because frankly, no one would believe me without photographic evidence. Behold...what we were looking at:

It wasn't until I got up to (covertly) snap the pic that I discovered the last two straws that broke the camel's back, leg, and toe (pun intended). Let's start with the least obvious thing in the picture -- and a backhanded compliment. Girl is wearing some badass shoes. They are tan and brown zebra print and from behind they look like suede booties. But wait a second. Zwwwrrrrr. Rewind!! I said zebra print. Remember when the bra was leopard print? Aren't those two different animals?!

And now, the pièce de résistance....The little bejeweled heart in the general vicinity of where a tramp stamp belongs. Notice the trifecta of white strings? Now...do what I did. Take a few moments to put 2 and 2 together. BINGO! That's her thong! So basically, she was "fully" clothed, and yet I could see each and every foundational garment that she had on. Wow dude. Wow. I mean, for real. Wow.

By the way -- this was not taken in Vegas. Just in case you were hoping for a logical explanation.

*As opposed to an outfit, of course.

**This is progress, people.

Pretty but smart

Today a Facebook friend posted the following link: http://moms.today.com/_news/2011/08/31/7539556-im-too-pretty-to-do-homework-so-my-brother-has-to-do-it-for-me?fb_ref=.Tl5qAik5Gzg.like&fb_source=other_multiline

For those who aren't going to click on the link, it's an article about a t-shirt that JCP put out for little girls that said "I'm too pretty to do homework, so my brother has to do it for me." I, for one, found the tshirt hilarious. But my Facebook friend (along with others) was appalled. So many people were appalled that JCP quickly pulled the shirt and offered an apology for being offensive. Later, I was discussing the shirt with kae.dea, and I told her how it made me giggle. She pointed out that it is funny for an adult because you're old enough to know that it's meant to be a joke, and that pretty and smart are not mutually exclusive. She also pointed out that little girls begin to decline academically around 4th and 5th grade when they find out it isn't cool to be smart. And this is the point that I could have been knocked over with a feather. What's this nonsense about not being able to be pretty and smart at the same time? Who the hell is teaching this BS?? Ok pause for a second. I'm not living under a rock. I'm totally familiar with the concept of pretty but dumb (useful for boys and girls, frankly.*) But, I've never been made aware of the fact that you can't be pretty AND smart. I definitely missed the memo on this. Grant it, as kae.dea says** my obliviousness to this phenomenon may have something to do with my sassy and smart mother.

When I was growing up, it was a given that I would keep my prettily powdered nose in a book. I would never EVER leave my house lookin' a hot mess, and the only place I'd be headed would be school or an extracurricular activity. It was a given that I'd be a cutie -- my mother had so many outfits that her auntie that babysat me would change my clothes halfway through the day. (She bought all the cute little dresses and bobby socks BEFORE ever knowing what I'd look like). When I was old enough to talk, stand, and point, I started learning to read. When I was old enough to learn and use the concept of charm, Ma entered me in Miss America Princess pageants.***

Later in life, I wasn't on anybody's top 10 list of hot girls in school. (Although that may have had more to do with how beauty was defined where I went to school, rather than how I looked). But goodness knows I still tried to look at least halfway decent and somewhat fashionable. Also? It's not like I went to a school where it was particularly cool to be smart. But, no one made fun of kids for being smart -- it was being smart AND dorky that was the problem. If you were smart and charming, or smart and pretty, or smart and kicked serious Mario Bros/Sonic the Hedgehog ass, you were in. Frankly, anything went when it came to making fun of people. Being too smart, too stupid, ugly, ditzy, wrong race, wrong religion, ANYTHING went. Which is why, it was important to be the total package. Hot, awesome, charming, smart, and having a car. These were the sorts of things that girls needed to be. In my experience, pretty was only enough if the girl put out. But where does that get you other than knocked up?

So, rock on JCP. If a girl starts dumbing down because she thinks that people won't like her, well, I don't blame JCP on that one. Maybe you should've told the little girl that she needs to be a total package. Because all a pretty face really gets you is "in trouble." Side note? Those girls weren't the ones who got engagement rings or flowers sent to them in class either. Seriously, all they got was laid.

*See The Titan, "The Early Days; or The First Time We Dated"

**and I will surely never admit, lest pheebee's mom gets a big head about it

***No, I was NOT a toddler in a tiara. I was a grade-schooler in a tiara. And I got 4th place twice, Most Ticket Sales once, and I won talent and went to Nationals once. And what?

Maintain the Awesome, Raise the Awesome

When it comes to reaching a goal, it's super important to work to get there. There are books, blogs, articles, hell a whole damn industry to help you reach your goals. Be them improving your self-esteem, getting ahead in your career, losing weight (natch)-- there are a myriad of goals to set and achieve. But you know what's rarely discussed? What to do once you get there.

First, there is a certain level of dedication required to maintain your goal. Once you've reached that top, you have to find your own motivation to stay there. I, for example, tend to have a lot of enthusiasm and dedication when it comes to working hard to get somewhere. But once the "chase" is over, and I've got that gold star, I'm kind of over it. Grant it, I'm usually pretty impressed with myself for achieving whatever I was after, but once I hit that goal? Done. For example, I did everything in my power to learn 4 languages (French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian). In 2006, I was a polyglot extraordinaire. By 2007, I was back down to just 2 additional languages. I worked my brainiac booty off for more than 2 decades...earning a post-graduate degree by the time I was 24. After I had it, *meh*. Honestly? Millions of people have the same degree. And, of course, weight loss goals are a constant source of pain. But, once I reach that goal? I love the result, but I lose all motivation for going to the gym.*

Sooooo...what to do about that? Perhaps setting a goal for maintaining. But that seems silly. Perhaps doing something to continue to award yourself as you maintain your goal. But that seems lame. Now taking suggestions :).

One thing that drives me a little bananas is how once you've achieved a goal, there are people (haters) out there who get totally offended when you set another, higher goal. A common refrain among this crowd is "you should be grateful for what you have!!" Is there a rule out there somewhere that says that when striving to raise the level of awesome, you are necessarily ungrateful for the current level of awesome? Why would that be? If that were true, we'd all have to be satisfied with wherever we are. Stuck in perpetuity in order to show gratitude for making it there. That is just plain asinine. Listen, I once read a quote from Etta Moten Barnett, and I've had it on my blog profile ever since: "the only difference between a rut and a grave is depth." Getting in a rut just to prove your gratitude is the dumbest idea ever. Clearly, those who say you aren't grateful for what you've got if you're trying to improve are just haters tryin' to hold you back. Tell those people to go kick rocks** and keep striving. We all owe it to ourselves to maximize the awesome and reach our full potential. (Or at least, find out just how far you can go!).

*EFF THE GYM!!!

**In flip flops. Nah.

Why do I bother?

The Titan and I have a recurring conversation about the way men and women treat each other. My argument is that men don't court women anymore. As proof, I always point to anecdotal evidence. Usually, just to drive the point home, I remind the Titan that when it came to wooing, he opted out entirely.*

A common (and irritating) response the Titan has is the notion that there are women out there who don't want a man to do things for them. The Titan has told me about all kinds of girls who want to buy men dinner, who want to buy their own drinks, and who want to do things for their man. *gag* I get so tired of hearing this from the Titan. For one, he refuses to acknowledge the reason he keeps running into these women is because he's an insanely tall basketball player dude with a pretty face, a tight fade, and clean cut goatee.** And, he played basketball through high school and college. He? Is being approached by jersey chasers. And jersey chasers are willing to do anything to get it in. I can't say that I blame him for getting with those chicks. If I was a dude that looked like him, I wouldn't woo anybody either! I mean for reals? Why bother when you can get a piece for free?!

What actually drives me bananas is that there are girls who aren't demanding romance from regular guys. And then you end up with men walking around thinking they don't have to do a darn thing to keep a woman. These women are ruining it for other women around the world. They're relaxing of standards are making men lazy...and then men start looking at women who demand more like they're asking too much. You expect them to buy dinner, and they think you're a gold-digger. You refuse to go to bed with them on the first date, and you're a prude (or worse, a tease). You easy ladies out there, that don't need anything? Bite me. Keep to the self-absorbed men that wouldn't do anything for a woman anyway, okay? Quality women don't want those guys anyway. But stay the eff away from the quality men. The ones whose mamas and daddies taught them that you have to put in some work to get a woman. I don't want your dumbass undoing all of his good habits. Ok?

And men? If what you want is a woman who wants to buy you dinner, buy you presents when she travels, and cook, and be a freak in the bed all in exchange for you doing squat...keep it movin'. I ain't cha girl. As my friend Jade always says... NEXT ----------------->




*To which he almost always says that I didn't give him a fair chance. Whatever -- that's a chicken or the egg conversation that just isn't worth having.

**Incidentally, if I had a type...this is what my friends would say it is.

Manscaping

There's a trend that's been brewing for a while called manscaping. I think the term was coined by the Queer Eye for Straight Guy guys back when Bravo/NBC was running that show. Basically, it's shaving, trimming, and grooming of men's body hair. I find men's opposition to the practice to be more than a little disingenuous. Frankly, I think they are just being whiny and lazy. Women have been landscaping since the day before forever. We manage to do it with minimal complaints.

But I digress. I can understand the confusion among the guys about whether they should bust out the razor. As near as I can tell, women just can't reach a consensus on whether they prefer men smooth as cashmere or rough and burly. I do believe, however, there are certain things that women everywhere agree on. So men? Take note.

1. Back hair is never EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER ok. There isn't a woman (in this country, at least) who wants to see that. If you can't figure out how to get rid of it solo, make an appointment at your local waxer. Word to the wise? Take some tylenol or ibuprofen before you go. Committing follicle-icide by hot wax is no joke. Don't be fooled by the warm soothing feeling of the wax being placed on your skin. That's just a trick that aestheticians play to lull you into a sense of complacency. And then? RRRRIIIIIIIPPPPP! Yeah, it's sorta like that scene from 40 Year Old Virgin -- except not as funny, because it's happening to you. But hey, it's totally necessary, I promise.

2. The unibrow. Pluck it, tweeze it, wax it, thread it. I don't care how you do it, just get rid of it. No one has ever said that Bert was sexy. So unless you've got a banana-shaped head and you're still wearing a stripey-sweater, try to rock 2 eyebrows at all times, mkay? Kthxbye.

3. Underarm hair. Listen, this isn't necessarily a popular one. But the times I've dated a man who kept the underarms smooth and hair-free have turned out to be nothing but pleasant experiences. Some of those guys were the classic pretty-boy metrosexuals that we all know I love. The others told me that they do it because they discovered that it keeps them from being stinky. And you know what's totally acceptable? Not being stinky.

As for the rest of the body hair, I'm all for you taking it off if you've got the body to support it. As it is, I demand a clean cut guy. A tight fade (if that's the cut he's got), clean shaven face, the whole nine. It was only natural that I'd progress to a smooth as cashmere kinda dude. Before I actually experienced it, I thought it might seem weird to touch a man's leg and it be as smooth as mine. But turns out? It's kind of awesome. And honestly? I kind of support men having to put forth a tiny fraction of effort that women have to do each and every day. I mean, even a male peacock displays his plumage. The least a human male could do is build up some pecs (and abs and back and legs) and then take away the layer of fur on top. Just sayin'!