Smoke out

Can I pick the next group to be "separate but equal"? I'd like to choose smokers.

Today, (right now actually. Isn't technology crazy?!?!, I was sitting on the train, when the guy next to me got up to get off at the next stop. Well, his siesta was quickly filled by someone. Upon him sitting down, my sense of smell was immediately assaulted by his stale smoke leftover from his early morning stroll down cancer lane. Hey, I always say, what you do at home is none of my business...until it starts to invade my personal space. And this guy? All up in my personal space.

I am sitting here, forced to take short labored breaths to avoid getting a full blast of that just back from the smokers' lounge smell. I'm pretty sure my lungs haven't taken in more oxygen than an infant's lungs in about 5 stops. I'm further damaged by the fact that he's hindering my ability to fight my already losing battle against aging. Because I'm so disgusted, I've been involuntarily scowling for a good 9 minutes. All the good worklSt night's deep wrinkle cream did, promptly undone. Any longer and the people who think I don't look young will bs right. Which is more than a little bogus. I take more than a little pride in proving that petty nonsense wrong.

My solution? In addition to creating a smoking area, make it mandatory for smokers to stayin that area. At least until they can prove that they are no longer offensively smokey the bear. Besides, separate but equal is equal, right?

You're under arrest....for real

I came across this news story the other day. And, that led me to let out a silent yelp of joy. (It would have been a loud YAWP*** but alas, I was at work.) If I could put together a fashion police force, I would feel a thousand times better. For those who don't want to click on the link, the essence of the article is that a small town in southern Illinois has passed an ordinance outlawing saggy pants. Violators will be subject to a fine.

Ignoring -- for the moment -- the open invitation for racial profiling; I would like to celebrate this particular movement. Sagging pants have been in style since at least the early nineties, if not earlier. (My most recent memory of them is Kris Kross. But then again, their pants were also backwards). Sagging has got to be the single longest running trend, ever. And it just refuses to die! I just don't understand what the hold up is.

We've all heard the stories about how sagging started in prison, and was indicative of who was willing to get down and who wasn't on the homosexuality tip. And that's all well and good. If you want to rock a jailbird trend, far be it from me to judge. For the first decade. But, we are slowly working on decade number 3, and the trend has no signs of stopping. These idiots are walking around with their pants so low I can definitively tell you the color of their underwear. In order to walk, these idiots have to hold their pants up, to keep them from falling down. Frankly, I think they should just stop wearing pants at all.

The most egregious part of the "evolution" of the trend, is the addition of belts. I guess they got tired of hearing the old folks whine about the lack of belts. But, instead of buying a belt of their own size, and subsequently wearing their pants near their waist, the trend is to purchase a belt the size of the pants, and belt the pants at their knees. ARRRRGH.

Aside from the prison overtone, this trend ticks me off for additional reasons. Allow me to list them for you:
1. It makes a man's legs look like they're 2 inches long. I've never wanted a short man; I've never wanted a man who had a disproportionately long torso. And I don't intend to start now!

2. The holding of the pants. If you're walking about holding your pants up to keep them from falling down, you deserve to trip and fall in a puddle, while a dime piece is looking on...laughing at your dumbass.

3. Finally, you have no business asking for my number. Or hell, talking to me at all. If I can't trust you to buy pants your own size, I can't trust you to do a damn thing else.

Cart them all off to jail if you ask me! Fine them for all they got!!! Just sayin'.


***Give yourself 2 points if you caught that reference.

Cater 2 U

I frequently wax poetic about what a woman wants, in an effort to help men give their women more romance in their lives. But I rarely consider what a man wants. Let's operate under the theory that a happy man is more likely to romance a woman. So, how often do women think about making a man happy? Rarely. I suspect that's because most of us women secretly think that men are idiots and/or all they want is sex. Which is probably mostly true (I kid, I kid), but that doesn't mean the simple creatures don't deserve happiness, right? I mean, you throw your dog a bone every once in a while, don't you?

Ok then. So I asked a few of my guy friends and exes what it takes to make a man happy. After I got past the BS answers they all thought I wanted to hear, we got down to brass tacks. You know what a man wants? He wants to be catered to; to feel like a king. How do you do that? The most common request I've ever heard is cooking. A good meal, or even a putting together a nice spread for him and his friends when they're going to watch the fight. Then of course there are the intangibles -- listening when he's talking, letting him feel like he's in charge, letting him feel like the big man on campus.

My friend the officer said it best: "Men just want someone to like them. In return for letting us feel like we're in charge, we buy you things...In subsequent return for us buying you things, you let us touch your boobs."

Well said, my friend. Well said.

Racial lenses

Sometimes, you have to stop and think about differences. We all know that life in America is experienced differently depending on your race. (At least I hope we all know that. I hope that everyone reading this is not under some delusion that we've officially reached some post-racial world. If you believe that, please put yourself in a time-out until you have a reality check.) But the idea of how that experience is different can often be a vague and amorphous notion. Sort of like you know that horses are fast, the desert is hot, and Danielle from Real Housewives of NJ is crazy.

Ever since moving to Chicago, my racial awareness has been in overdrive. Part of it, I think, is that I am finally comfortable with my identity; and how I operate as a black woman. Another part of it is the rather sharp division of friendships I've fostered in the city. Much like the city itself, my friendships are completely segregated and always have been. There's the Cashmere Mafia, which was made up entirely of women of color, and the Fantasy Football League, which was made up entirely of white women. That said, it wasn't that these groups of women were unwilling to hang out with one another. Kaia is a testament to that, being that she'd hang out with me with both sets...that said, I suspect this lane changing was more of a result of her being a ride or die chick, who's always down. Anyway, my point is, while most everyone was willing to kick it with whomever, the groups generally remained separate, with divergent interests and tastes in activities. (Which incidentally left me in sometimes awkward positions, but that's a post for another day).

Thanks to this slight (major?) shift in my own perception, I've noticed some of the ways in which black people and white people see things. And, as always, I've decided to share those observations here.

#1. Let's start with an easy one, and one that I didn't come up with. (Thanks to the anonymous website commenter who posted this). Ok, picture it. It's a busy street corner in New York. A cab driver is at the end of his shift, and he just dropped off his last fare. He zooms down the street, in a hurry to get home and get the heck out of his cab. A white guy raises his arm to hail the cab, but the driver keeps going. Likewise, up the street a ways, a black guy raises his arm to hail the same cab, but the driver keeps going. What are their likely reactions? I bet the white guy thinks nothing of it, figuring the cab didn't see him, or some other explanation that has nothing to do with him. The black guy, meanwhile, may be more inclined to believe the cab driver intentionally went by, because he's black. (I'm told that hailing a cab in NYC for a black man can be hit or miss). Now, it's not that the white guy is arrogant, it's just that he hasn't grown up in a society where he's ignored on the basis of who he is. At least, not often enough that it'd be his first thought. Meanwhile, the black man has enough anecdotal evidence and personal experience to justify this reaction. The reality here is that this particular cab driver didn't see either guy -- he was just done for the day.

#2. This one just happened to me at the grocery store. I was in the produce section choosing apples. And in a not-the-brightest-moment left my purse in my cart. I'm smart enough to know better, but I did it anyway. So, as I'm leaning over the apple bin, I sense someone near my cart. I look over my shoulder and see that it's a guy – and promptly adjust myself to be closer to my purse, just in case ol' boy gets froggy. Now, if it had been a black man, I would have felt guilty, because the whole reason I was moving was to protect my purse, and I'd feel bad if he thought I was doing it because of a reaction to
a stereotype -- rather than because I live in a city where people steal things. However, it wasn't a black man. It was some white guy, who when I shifted said "oh no, you're fine." He thought I was shifting because I was politely moving out of his way. At this point, I found myself feeling slight indignation. Look man, everyone isn't here to make your life easier! I'm moving because you're standing too effing close to my purse!!! Why don't you understand that?!!??!! Rather than point this out, I merely reminded myself that this is a situation that racial lenses will change a perception quick and in a hurry. But I admit. I'd feel a whole lot better if just once that guy knew what it was a like for someone to pull their belongings in a little bit closer just because he walked down the street. There, I said it.

So what does all this mean? I have no idea. My thing is, I can see all of these things happening, and I know what my reaction is, but I don't think there is a wrong way or a right way to react to these things. I think what's important is to first observe the differences-- then and only then can we begin to work on solutions.

This Post Brought to you by Ne-Yo

You know what really bugs me?  There's a song by Pitbull featuring Ne-Yo called "Give Me Everything," and in that song at the very beginning, I swear Pitbull says Ne-Yo's name incorrectly.  I can't be the only person that hears this!!  It's even more obvious because during the song he also corrects himself.  So it goes "Pitbull, Nigh-Yo Nee-Yo...that's right."  WTF!!??!!?  How is no one talking about this?!

Anyway.  Aside form lyrical shenanigans, Ne-Yo is on my mind tonight because his video reminds me of a past relationship.  My gym has small tvs on each of the cardio machines; and it's a fantastic way to distract me from the upsetting exercise of, well, exercising.  One of the videos that came on during my run was "One in a Million."  It's a great song...it's classic Ne-Yo wooing the ladies with his warm-your-heart lyrics and creating the impulse that makes a girl go "awww."  Likewise, the video is pretty awesome.  Here's a brief synopsis (necessary for the point I'm making, I promise):   In the video, Ne-Yo sees a girl at a restaurant, and proceeds to attempt to woo her.  But the girl? Wholly unimpressed and uninterested.  She walks away when his back is turned, and he has to chase after her.  When he catches up to her, he gives her a rose, but she waves it away.  She makes an attempt at a clean getaway again, but he finally does something to make her stay and listen.  She begins with a small smile, and he proceeds to sing her praises in the middle of the street.  Aww...

Know what this video made me think of?  Astro.  Since I've been on a bit of a hiatus, y'all missed the mini-saga (mini is relative, you see) that was my relationship with Astro.  But, I think Ne-Yo's video pretty much sums it up.  He did a great job of doing the chasing.  When we first met, he didn't call.  So, I brushed him off as another one of those guys that asks for numbers for sport, rather than actually wanting to call.  *Shrug.*  A month later, he shows up at my office, and just wants to talk.  I tell him he missed the boat and to kick rocks.  He says, "I'll pick you up Starbucks."  I say, "ok.  I'll give you another chance" (sometimes an addiction leads you to make poor decisions).  Then, he disappears again.  Then he shows up again, and does a masterful mind meld to get me to go out with him.  I'll save the details, but it wasn't unlike Ne-Yo's machinations in the video.  The next several weeks were fantastic.  I was falling hard and fast for a great guy.  But, you know what?  It's easy to be a great guy for a couple months.  Sustainability is what separates the men from the boys. 

And this is where Ne-Yo's video comes in again.  At the end of the video, Ne-Yo is distracted by gorgeous girls dancing with him.  He's still singing the song to the first girl (who's one in a million, of course), but he's so distracted by the performance that he doesn't notice her first getting frustrated, and then walking away.

In a moment where art imitates life, this is precisely what came to be the end of my relationship with Astro.  He was still talking a big game, but 4 weeks went by and I saw neither hide nor tail of him.  I've never thought it was another woman (I mean seriously, what woman could ever measure up to pheebee?  Ok ok, other than Eva Longoria, Halle Berry, Serena Williams, or J.Lo).  But business/life/whatever became his mistress.  And in that case, mistress trumps girl.  And thus, it ended.  I took the next cab out, and didn't look back.  (Until the aforementioned wedding, apparently).

At the end of the video, Ne-Yo doesn't notice the girl leaving -- and neither did Astro.  But, I'm already aware that I'm one in a million. ;).

All of this was over a year ago, so you can forego the pity party.  As with any relationship, I learned a few things.  I learned that there is a rare breed of guy that still courts a woman when he's interested.  And there's also a rare breed of guy that cooks.  Sadly, dating Astro only raised the bar of things I'll look for in a man.  But, it also taught me the art of putting my foot down.  Sometimes girls, and by sometimes I mean always, there's just no reason to settle.

Read this. Trust me, you'll love it.

I am certain many have seen this already.  But it's so hilarious it's worth re-posting.  I kind of wish my blogs were as funny as this chick.  Also?  For the record...I would totally do something like this...

http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/

Emotions at the gym

Working out can be an emotional experience.  On Saturday, in an effort to pre-empt upcoming weekend caloric sins, I headed to the gym.  I woke up at the crack of dawn (aka 8am) to head to a cardio kickboxing class.  (Cardio kickboxing is the class' government name.  But Cardio kick-your-ass-twice is the street name).  There was a substitute teacher when I got there, and I noticed it was a a teacher that just works my last nerve.  Everytime she teaches a class, she spends the first 5-8 minutes talking.  She's got somewhat of a high voice, and does all this fake humble ish.  Like, "you know when there's a sub, you have to have an open mind."  PFFT.  Shut up.  Anyway, after chattering about goodness knows what, she asked the class if we wanted her to go over the proper form for the kicks and punches.  One rather type-A mother who was desperately trying to fit in her workout before returning to a life of playdates and bouncy castles (you know, I imagine), said with a healthy amount of snark "no, just start class."  Now, while I agreed with mommy dearest in principle, I thought it was ill-advised for her to make a comment to a cardio teacher.  Doesn't she know how it works?  If you imply that the teacher isn't working you hard enough, that teacher uses your implication as license to attempt homicide by cardio.  And, I had already been a victim of that particular crime earlier this week.

Anyway, true to form, Kelly the kickboxer started class, and proceeded to vicitimize us immediately.  Even the warm-up was mind-boggling. She counted every thing on the half count, and a lot of jumping was involved.  I didn't really mind that, though.  You know what my real problem is with this chick?  She was wearing at least 2 if not 3 bras.  Her rack was ginormous, and required a lot of suspension and balance in her hardware.  She was otherwise extremely toned -- she could've been a wrestler in another life.  Suffice it to say that you would not want to meet her in a dark alley when she was pre-menstrual.  Yeah, I said it.  During the workout, as my muscles slowly began to fill with lactic acid, I started to wonder if my mounting rage was because she had the biggest chest I've ever seen on a fitness instructor, or because I felt like I was cheated out of 10 minutes of class, or if I was just bitter because my skin itched and my lungs were on the verge of explosion.  Anyway, at the end of the day, it was very mentally exhausting.

As though my world isn't bizarre enough; I am continuing along my journey through past relationships.  As I mentioned before, the Titan really never goes away.  We still talk a lot, and we sometimes workout at the same gym.  For the most part, our relationship doesn't usually extend beyond weekday chats.  But today, as I was completing a day of errands and couponing, I decided I was craving deep dish pizza.  Having been well-trained by WW, I knew that I would have to do something to earn it.  Fortunately, at the moment I was having the craving, I was also driving past my gym.  Which made me think; if there is anyone that I can count on to fulfill a pizza fantasy after working out, it's the Titan.  He is a complete gym rat, but also a pizza fanatic.  So, I proceeded to call him and tell him that he should come by the gym, and then split a pizza with me.  Given his aversion to impulse, I figured he'd say no.  But, surprise surprise, he was down!  With one caveat, we had to walk to the gym. 

It wasn't the distance of the walk, it's maybe 4 blocks, (albeit uphill), but not far.  But the thing about that walk, is that it involves walking under an overpass, which houses a place for Hipsters of Tomorrow to meet up.  Tomorrow's hipsters are today's skaters.  Managing to sag jeans that are 2 sizes too small, find a way to wear plaid and flannel no matter the temperature, and the ubiquitous knit hat is, well, ubiquitous.  With all the brooding and teenage flirting going on, it's difficult to watch.  That, AND, it's the official pigeon port o' potty of the northwest side.  Seriously, I can't take it.  But, I wanted my deep dish pizza...so walk we would.  Naturally, the Titan picks one of the hottest days of the year to make this walk...and then he proceeds to complain that the a/c is too cold once we reach the gym.  *Note:  never NEVER walk in 90 degree weather with a man from Memphis. 

While we were at the gym, (and he had the audacity to lift hundreds of pounds right in front of me.  Tease), I started to notice something.  That boy knew a lot of the other gym rats that were there today, including the girl who apparently got her gym locations mixed up.  Whereas I was wearing the first pair of workout capris and bright yellow Nike dri fit, with a faded bandana, this chick had on an outfit straight outta Hoochie's Workout Wear.  While standing on a bosu (flat-side down -- punk), she did cute little squats in front of a mirrored corner.  She was wearing black bootcut stretch pants, with lime green racing stripes which went up the leg and crossed (rather conveniently) at the hip and around the back.  Drawing your eye to her nonexistent booty.  To match -- and I do mean match -- she had on a lime green zebra striped tank top.  Fitted, of course.  But, the piece de resistance was...wait for it... an Ed Hardy hat.  Who the hell wears an Ed Hardy hat to the gym?  After finishing her bosu squats, she made a beeline for the Titan.  The entire time I'd been up there, I'm pretty sure he was purposefully avoiding eye contact with me (or...he was watching his form in the mirror.  Whatever).  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them talking, and I KNOW he was smiling and whatnot.  And she was all "hi, aren't I cute and adorable?!!"  ***  And then, just before I'd worked myself in a tizzy, he brought her over to meet me.  What the devil?!  But I have been lifting!  And I forgot my gloves, so I look like a total amateur!! and I'm sweaty!!  Dammit! 

Not surprisingly, she had a little bit of attitude.  But meh.  Whatever.  I didn't tell her he and I used to date -- that's on him to tell her if that's the type of relationship they got.  The fun part for me?  Knowing that I was leaving with him, and all she could do was huff.  HA.  Ok, not really.  Truth be told, she did give me a little bit of a cold shoulder, but I didn't give her any hint that he and I came together or were planning to leave together.  I didn't give any hint that I knew him any better than she did, because really?  I'm not one to fight over a guy.  He's either mine, or he's not.  And when it comes to an ex?  He's not.  So, meh.  No matter the gender though, it's still a bit awkward to meet someone in a gym...when you're all sweaty and gross and whatnot. 

That said, the workout and extra mile of walking was totally worth it for the pizza.  Yummy!  While we were eating, the Titan gave me some insight into dating in 2011 from the male perspective.  I opined that men don't court women anymore.  He said that lots of guys don't feel they should have to court a woman, since so many of them are dating 2 and 3 guys.  Guys don't want to go all in, just to find out he's one of a few guys this chick is seeing.  I proceeded to roll my eyes.  Sounded like an excuse to put forth the least amount of effort necessary in order to get a piece -- but maybe that's just the cynic in me.


***Ok really?  I don't actually know what they were saying or doing.  This is totally what I heard in my head.

The importance of dryer sheets (or, I have a thong in my purse!)

I admit it. There have been times when I’ve been known to set the women’s movement back a few years. Hitting up the bars with Kaia, in hopes of using my feminine wiles to get past the door and (more than a couple) free cocktails. Purposefully wearing a skirt suit to court when I knew the hiring partner (that thought I was cute) would be there. (That one wasn’t entirely my fault, if MMM had never told me that the partner thought I was cute, I never would have done it. No, really. I wouldn’t have). There have even been times where I accidentally gave an inappropriate view of my boobs (and, let’s be real, my lime green bra) to a deponent and opposing counsel or two. That one was completely subconscious though. I mean, I was just trying to stay awake by shifting positions – is it my fault that one such position involved leaning forward, as though paying attention?! Ahem. My point here, is that as a woman, I haven’t always held up the feminist banner. Sometimes, I’ve just been out and about, throwing feminine wiles, cleavage, and leg around. But today, I think I crossed all bounds of (in)decency for the workplace.

My office, like many highrises in any metropolitan area, is filled with computers, servers, printers, faxes, and other electronic devices. It’s fantastic for saving paper and all that. Not so great for maintaining a temperature anywhere above frigid. No matter the time of year, you will find a space heater and a sweater in my office. The thermostat residing on my back wall is either broken, just for show, or some sadistic contractor’s way of torturing office inhabitants. Anyway, suffice it to say that it’s effen cold in my office. All. The. Time.

Because my sweaters get worn a lot throughout the year, there always comes a time when I finally remember to take it home to wash it. You’ve got to wash the stench of greedy (and desperate) executives off your clothes every once in a while, right? After one such cleaning, today, I brought my sweater back to its royal spot of draping over the back of my chair. Lately, I’ve been suffering from pre-menopausal hot flashes, so I didn’t need to put the sweater on right away. But eventually, as with any other day, I found myself slowly draining of body heat. Before turning into a fudgsicle, I politely lifted my sweater out of my bag, and wrapped myself in it. I then left my office to make a boiling hot cup of cream and sugar with coffee.

Imagine my dismay when I returned to my office to find a crumpled Kleenex sitting just behind my chair. I mean, don’t you just hate it when you forget to clean out your pockets before doing laundry? Wait a minute…this sweater doesn’t have any pockets. And that Kleenex is not one which survived an entire drying cycle. And, since when do Kleenex have lace…OHMY..!!!!! Nobody look! Everybody avert your eyes! No one needs to know that I do, in fact, own a pair of cotton lace thongs. Oh good grief. I wonder how many people walked past and noticed…*shudder*. Let’s just hope they all thought it was Kleenex, like I did. And THAT, my friends, is why you need dryer sheets when doing laundry.

Men who text...

Only want sex. According to Franklin & Bash, anyway. So, my question is, are they right?

Technology has thrown the rules and etiquette of communication out of the window. Whereas before, you could count on the 3-day rule as an overall standard of calls (even on college campuses!), the only rule of modern day communication is that there is no rule.

Back in the day, (I'm told), a man would wait at least 3 days before contacting a woman he was interested in. The reason for the wait would range from not wishing to appear desperate -- to making a woman sweat so she would know he was hot stuff. (That last one caused single women everywhere to collectively roll their eyes to the heavens. Fellas? We? Are not impressed). Fast forward to the new millenium, the land of Luddites and iPhones, BBM and IM; Match.com and eharmony, and goodness only knows when you'll hear back and what the timing of that contact will mean.

Let's start with the Luddites, shall we? What does it mean to you if a guy doesn't have a mobile? (I'm only asking the ladies, because my understanding is that when it comes to women, men only care about one thing...and it ain't her method of communication). How important is it to you that a man has a mobile? My guess is that it is important that he has a mobile phone, but it's more important that he knows how to use it. A woman wants to know that you're on her mind, and the best way to do that is to text or call her.

When it comes to talking, however, it is important that you actually hear a ringing sound when using the phone every once in a while. If all you're doing is texting, he isn't really trying to get to know you. My guess is, he's using the quickest, laziest method to talk to you. Which tells me that he has little or no desire to put forth any kind of effort to date you. That doesn't mean he isn't interested in taking you out. But, my guess is "out" may include paper napkins or big screen tvs. And, the ultimate goal of going out is a speedy invitation to get "in." Sometimes, that is exactly what a girl wants. (Hey, this is a safe space. No judgment -- tramp ;}). Let's get real...some guys are just for fun (read: a pretty handbag, as previously explained...). And that's ok. What's not ok is trying to turn that guy into a real relationship. Try to remember that! Any real man worth dating, is willing to face a dial tone to get to you. I mean seriously, if a guy isn't willing to risk a few awkward silences, what else is he unwilling to do?

Watch that workout

Right now, I'm sitting on my couch, enjoying a delightfully fattening cinnamon roll. It is roughly the size of my fist...at least, it was before I started. Every bite calls images of steps on the treadmill, climbing the endless escalator stair climber, and facing the spin instructor's awful hillclimbs. And today? I earned my cinnamon roll, and every caloric delight that comes with it.

After taking an unauthorized 5 days off, I made a rather reluctant return to the gym. In order to make sure I didn't punk out on my workout, I decided to jump on a stationary bike and take a spin class. For the uninitiated, "spinning" is the ancient art of riding on a hard banana seat while pedaling furiously and going nowhere. As you pedal on, you slowly start to lose feeling in your nether regions...a concept that would be slightly disturbing if it didn't hurt to maintain feeling in that area more. Nothing says dedication like pelvic bruising! Anyway, in the case of this class, your ride is with the background of a mix of Madonna, Gaga, and techno-remixes that would put any gay disco DJ to shame.

Anyway, after I finish my cinnamon roll, I'm going to file a complaint with the D.A.'s office. I was a victim of attempted cardiovascular manslaughter. Frankly, the spin instructor made a valiant attempt to kill attendees by workout. After enduring 60 minutes of screaming quads and fiery calves, we all found ourselves crawling out of the small room, with nothing but our pinky toes and elbows to drag our slowly decreasing body weight back to the locker room.

The true redeeming quality of the class is that it's the only place in the gym where the gender roles are reversed. In this gym, as with most, at least one entire wall of the group exercise room is glass and facing the free weight section of the gym. During any number of classes where women are sure to be shaking their booties, doing downward dog, or various stretching exercises, you'll find men who are "between sets" ogling the ladies. The women, to their credit, pretend not to notice -- all the while proving to themselves that the hardwork is worth it thanks to the received attention. In the spin room, however, the roles are absolutely reversed. Usually, the class is filled mostly with women. And, just as with the other group exercise rooms, 1 and a half walls are full on windows. And, just as before, the windows look out onto the free weight area. Unlike with the room which holds Zumba, yoga, and the like, the spin room holds only spin classes. Apparently, meatheads do not find women hunched over stationary bikes sexy, therefore, they tend not to gather at the window. Instead of watching, the muscle men get back to the business of lifting. What does that mean for me and other women taking classes? That means we get to take our minds off of the incredible cardio exertion by watching the boys doing sexy things like pull-ups, hovering push-ups with hanging chains, and various bi and tri curls. I'm not ashamed to say that this evening found me and my bike neighbor unabashedly gawking at a man who must have done 3 sets of all manners of abs, biceps, triceps, and pecs. He certainly helped me get through my workout :).

To spite all the hardwork I put in on that bike (against my will), I finished off the last of my cheat food from this weekend. While TOTALLY worth it, I can only hope that there will be some meatheads working out this week and over the next few; because I will need as much incentive (distraction?) as I can get to work off this softball sized bit of delicious. Hello? Male fitness models? I'll be happy to watch you and to check your form. ;)

Ex-Factor

I used think the time to expect to hear from boyfriends of dating past was in the winter time. I always figured that once it got cold, men start wishing for a cuddle buddy. The best kind of cuddle buddy is one that you already know, right? Apparently, late June is the new winter time.

In the past 2 weeks or so, I've heard from every man I've ever ended a relationship with. Oftentimes, I'm not the one doing the ending. I'm usually the one getting left in the dust. Apparently, June 2011 is the year in which men of my distant and not-so-distant past begin thinking of all the "good times" we had.

It all started with the Ninja. The incredibly stupid guy who had an allergy to using a phone, following through with promises or plans, and a penchant for overall douchebaggery. Prior to two weeks ago, I hadn't spoken to him in 3 years. And then, I got a text message on Friday, asking me to go to a wedding on Saturday...back home. Because I didn't learn my lesson when we dated in 2002, I assumed that the reason he was asking was because he was desperate. That it was going to be a wedding and his ex would be there; or his family was pressuring him and he needed a decoy -- you know. Weddings can bring a lot of pressure if you don't have a ready-made date to go; at least for women. I don't think it's as serious for men, what, with their ability to hit on bridesmaids and single girls that couldn't find a date. In fact, last I heard, weddings were basically shooting vulnerable fish in a metaphorical barrel for single guys. But, there are exceptions (like those I listed). So, being the good Samaritan that I am, I agreed to go. (That, and he agreed to pay for my gas and I was totally in need of a fill up).

I expected that he would get on my nerves a little, but I had a tiny, bite-sized hope that he'd changed. NOT. He made all kinds of extra-deep comments that were designed to wow me with his sensitivity. Did you know, that I've always been there for him? Or that he didn't want to lose me again? How about that he loves that I asked his opinion even though I wasn't going to take his advice? He had a bad case of "one that got away"-isms. Unfortunately, he completely forgot about the fact that we only dated for 3 months -- namely because we didn't get along. Of those 3 months, we spent 85 days fighting. Argh. I'll spare you the details of how he picked a fight with me 5 days after the wedding. But suffice it to say that I suspect we'll go another 3 years before I hear from him again. Suffice it also to say that I didn't get my gas money.

Maybe a week later, I hear from the guy I broke up with last year. Also asking me to go with him to a wedding. He, at least, I'd heard from about a month ago. It was sporadic and just an exchange of text messages; but still it was contact. For the same reason I agreed to go with the Ninja, I went with Astro. It was a completely different experience. Astro spent most of his time convincing me that there were certain things that had changed about him, and that I should remember all of the great things about him. For example, he reminded me about how he once brought me a rose to my train stop to surprise me first thing in the morning. And that he used to cook for me. He also mentioned how he had eased back on the substance abuse (which shall remain nameless). The most shocking thing is that when I was being introduced to one of his friend's mom, she asked how we knew each other...and he says "we used to date. But I miss her, so maybe we'll start dating again." Zweerrrrrrrrr. Rewind. Say that again. Did he just say that we were going to start dating again? Did I miss a memo? The friend turned to me and says "my mom just got more information from him than you have all night. Awesome." Actually? Not awesome! That is something I'd rather get a memo about before other people, you know? I mean seriously! What's going on!?!?

Finally, I heard from the last guy. The young blood from the southside. Now, he was just kicked off the island maybe a month ago. So it's not all that unnatural that he'd pop up. It's just so funny that he made contact in the same time frame as all the other guys.

Now, the Titan never really goes away, as we all know. So I won't count his phone calls in the list of exes who called popped up. But, get this. I was telling him about how 2 guys I dated had asked me to go to a wedding -- and that I was starting to get weirded out. Then, he says "oh, I might be next. I have a wedding to go to, too." I'm thinking he's totally kidding. Nope! He's headed down to Rio for a bachelor party, and that's the wedding for which he'll need a date. Before I got too creeped out, he explained to me that the wedding won't be until next year. So I won't count it. But still! When did I become everybody's backup date?!!?

Oh well...I guess there are worse problems to have, right? Think about it -- where there's a wedding, there is cake. And the only time I ever said no to free cake was when I didn't understand the question. ;)

Holiday Shopping

Happy Independence Day! I have a very patriotic friend, who happens to be a naval officer. He is th epitome of patriotism. Today, he made the following comment (via text) to me:

"Today is my 2nd fave day of the year. A holiday to our own. the day we set forth a new nation that, for the first time ever or since, chartered a legacy of liberty that we're always striving and never quite achieving. And, I kinda like it that way."

I proceeded to congratulate him on his patriotism, but reminded him that pheebee is not so patriotic. It's not that I don't think America is great and awesome, it's just that *shrug*. I have a hard time getting all twitter-peated about it. I'll tell you what I CAN get excited about though -- SHOPPING!

I assume that no one is surprised by this particular bit of info. I love shopping! When people get all philosophical about "following your passion" and all that; one of the first thing that comes to mind for me is shopping. If I could make money doing it, I swear I'd drop all pretense of practicing law and take up professional retailing. But, to be a shopping addict, one must be smart about it. Until such time that I've married rich (and probably after I do), I will never, ever, ever pay full price. I mean seriously, who does that?

So when's the best time to find a deal? Like anything answered by a lawyer, the answer to that question is "it depends." Everything has a sale cycle -- if you're smart, you shop when things are at the low price point. This doesn't have to mean that you're constantly buying clothes out of season, or last year's electronic model. It does mean that you have to pay attention to commercials once in a while.

This particular holiday, the day we declared our independence from the British, is excellent for summer fashions, furniture, and almost anything related to picnics and barbecues. And, don't forget, most holidays which involve great weather and a day off are usually good for great prices at outlet malls. I suspect the factory store owners assume that people will need some sort of -- ahem, outlet -- from hanging around family. An excellent stress and boredom relief is shopping.

It is with this wealth of knowledge that I decided to spend some money I don't have on things I don't need. On the way back from visiting the parents, I stopped by the nearest outlet mall. And, guess what? Pheebee's intuition was correct. I hit up Banana Republic which had 50% off everything in the store. I also picked up a few mini lotions to keep my hands soft and smooth at Bath & Body Works (sales of up to 75% off). Now, since I'm allegedly on a shoppping hiatus in favor of re-decorating, I held off from stopping at other clothing stores, and instead headed to Home Goods. Where I saw some of the biggest mirrors EVER. They were well over 2 feet taller than me (I guess that's not some huge feat -- but still). I managed to pick up a new shower curtain for just a coupla bucks, and possibly some new bedding.

For similar sales, check out Memorial Day and possibly Labor Day. Although, Labor Day is tricky because it's a signal for the end of summer -- that holiday will lean more towards back to school. A great time to pick up office supplies, and fall preview fashions.

So, happy birthday America. Thanks for the great deals ;)

Heavenly Hangover

Last night, I was sitting watching the Real Housewives of New York City, marveling over the sheer amount of arrogance, stupidity, and tackiness that can be packed into a 60 minute period. The proper way to watch RHofNYC is with a glass of wine or a cocktail. Apparently, I was not the only person to feel this way.

About 40 minutes into the program I heard loud cracking sounds. I looked out of my window to see ice cubes falling from heaven! It was as though the angels were making a Chicago cocktail – and they wanted it shaken, not stirred. I can’t say that I blame them – to truly get a good freeze on a cocktail, you really need to shake it. All stirring it does is melt the ice cubes and water down your strawberry-basil mojito. (RIP Martini Park). Anyway, I should have known something was up with the little cherubs started putting on a light show without any rain showers. Silver beams of light were cutting across the sky, in the pattern of a drunken woman’s walk after a night Vegas – as she stumbles her way back to a hotel room with only a shred of hope that the door she picks (#2?) is actually her room. Funny thing is, I’ve lived in this part of the country my entire life, and I’ve never seen hail this big. And I’ve certainly never seen it in July. I’m still trying to figure out how the little buggers managed to send ice cubes down while it was still in the 70s…

Well, after a night of angelic debauchery, the earth was certainly suffering a hangover. The streets were filled with all kinds of arboreal carnage. There was a carpet of leaves on the sidewalk – which, while romantic when in reference to the greenery of a pasture in a romance novel*, is not so idyllic in the middle of a city. On top of that, there were branches and sticks and all kinds of natural shenanigans on the ground. But, on the upside, the birds were still tweeting (in the bird-singing sense, not in the Anthony Wiener sense).

I wonder, are there several angels on a time out in heaven? Is there a legal drinking age in heaven?



*And, while I’m on the subject of carpets of leaves and grass and whatnot, who wants to walk on that? I mean seriously, if you’re in the middle of being romanced, shouldn’t you be wearing sexy sexy stilettos? If so, aren’t your heels sinking? Isn’t that, you know, the opposite of sexy? Ok. Just checking.

A lesson in sweeping

Here's something I really have trouble understanding. Why are men perpetually unable to sweep a woman off her feet? The other day, the Titan -- my "ex" (and I use that term loosely) -- was telling me that he thought he'd treated me well when we were dating. His proof? That he was always calling, I always knew where he was, he wasn't out playing around, and he opened doors for me. I don't want to completely discredit him, those are all fantastic things. In fact, given my past history of ex's, they were awesome (see: the Ninja. Boyfriend circa 2002. Completely unable to place a phone call). But, neither of these things qualify as sweeping me off my feet. Frankly, I was surprised at his surprise. I'd always assumed that he didn't make efforts to wow me, because he was so used to women chasing him. (Point of reference, he spent his teens and twenties as a basketball star. Those guys? Women chase them; they don't have to put forth much effort). And friends, before you say it, I KNOW he could have been just saying that -- but in the context of the conversation, there was no need for him to lie. And, although he was a blockhead when we were dating, he wasn't one to out and out lie. He was more of an omission kind of guy. In other words, whatever he said, he was pretty straight about it.

That said, he cannot be the only guy that (allegedly) doesn't know how to sweep a woman off her feet. So, I have taken it upon myself to help the men out. So boys, listen up! This is very simple: in order to sweep a woman off her feet, and make her fall all over herself for you, you need to do one simple thing. Ready? Here we go: do things to show her you're thinking of her. Allow me to give a few examples.

When you're walking past a farmer's market, buy one of the $5 flower bouquets, and give it to her. LISTEN when she's talking. She's bound to mention something she likes. Remember what that like is -- write it down if you have to! Then, do something with that information. If she mentions a restaurant she's always wanted to try, take her. If she is constantly complaining about tired or sore feet (because she makes a habit of wearing badass stilettos), give her foot rubs...without expecting one in return! If she seems stressed at work, give her a nice neck massage, or her favorite bottle of wine, or a tasty cupcake. Does she hate HATE HATE doing dishes and cleaning the floor? Pull on those rubber gloves, baby. Nothing is sexier than a man who knows how to work a scrub brush. (But don't do it half-assed. Then she'll just have to go behind you and redo it. Which will only serve to tick her off. And that? Is the opposite of wooing). When it's girls' night out? Drive her to the club!! Notice how not all of these involve spending money. Yes, some of them do. But it's rarely about the amount of money you're spending. It's about the thought and the effort you put in. It's showing her that you thought about her -- and then subsequently did something about it. See how not difficult this is?

Now, if you find any of this too hard, or the girl you're with isn't worth that effort...well, maybe she's not the girl for you. But seriously, no guy really has an excuse not to be any woman's Prince Charming. Let's start putting as much effort into wooing your girlfriend as you do picking your brackets for March Madness, shall we?

Dang. To bad I'm not a lesbian. I'd really be a pimp. I'd have chicks doing all kinds of ish for me. One cleaning, one cooking, and one to run my errands. ;)

That's sexual harassment, and I DON'T have to take it!

So, I'm walking down State Street, minding my own business, contemplating spending money I don't have on things I don't need -- especially after purchasing 2 rather awesome purple chairs with a gangster 15% discount that I got after talking to a woman who turned out to be a Delta and...ahem. I digress....

Anyway. I'm walking along and I know that it's that time of year where the boys are out and ready to get some action (of the female variety). Let me pause here by saying that I am not, (in this case), trying to be arrogant. I'm not saying that I'm the hottest thing since sliced bread. Especially today when I'm wearing a bra so heavily padded that I resemble one of those girls that appears as though she may fall flat on her face due to the sheer top heaviness of her figure. Unhappily, my butt is sticking out in such a way that it looks like I'm overcompensating; in hopes that I'll create some sort of gravity balance by twisting my body into the shape of a duck. My point is, that I don't think I look extra dextra hot today. Instead, the boys are just, well, horny.

I've lived here long enough to know the drill. They speak, you speak back without making eye contact and keep it moving. This strategy works well on marketers, those Save the Children people with clipboards, and skeezy guys that are raising their odds of success by hitting on as many women as possible. Today, it worked on the first guy that said hello. The second guy, however, not so much.

I didn't get a good look at the second guy (remember the rule for avoiding eye contact), but out of the corner of my eye I could see CarHart colored cargo pants that were 4 sizes too big, a black t-shirt, and a cap. But, what I heard was this "Hey L'il Mama. -- pause for reaction --". When I didn't respond because I was fairly certain he was the kind of dummy that wouldn't go away, I heard this:

"Hey L'il Mama. Hey L'il Mama.Hey L'il Mama.Hey L'il Mama.Hey L'il Mama.Hey L'il Mama.Hey L'il Mama.Hey L'il Mama.Hey L'il Mama.Hey L'il Mama...." This entire time, I'm walking rather briskly, in attempts to shake this guy. Sadly, being 5'2" makes it rather easy to match my pace. So, he finally decides to go all in: "Hey L'il Mama...can I get a hug?" With his arms held out, and more or less blocking my path on one side. To borrow a basketball term -- I was boxed in. Sadly for him, I've dated a lot of basketball players in my day. I stepped left, faded right, and spun my way out of his intended embrace. (Honestly, that may not have been the best idea for me. It would have been the most action I've gotten in over a month!) Anyway...

REALLY!?!? REALLY?!!?! I mean, did he think I was all of a sudden going to change my mind? What chapter is this in the playa's handbook?

So, what we've learned is, no more going over to State Street without an escort. I may have to get back together with my ex just so he can meet me at the CVS, escort me to wherever I need to go, and then drop me back off at the CVS. Geez!!!

Success is...

I don't know what I weigh right now. But, for the very first time, in recent memory, I actually like my body. I look in the mirror, and I am stunned at what I see. I don't necessarily have a flat stomach. And my thighs are a permanent fixture, apparently. (Literally, in 9 months they have remained the same size, despite any changes I've made elsewhere). My feet are still a mess. And today, my hair was straw. But, when I look in the mirror, my first thought is: damn girl -- you are fiiiiiine!!

I've always wondered what it was like to feel sexy and hot. Sure, there are times when I've dressed well and I know I look good. But being able to dress for your body type to use the tricks and illusions of fashion to create the figure you want isn't quite the same as having the figure you want. Now that I've got it, it's worth all the work to keep it. I can finally relate to the Titan's meatheadedness. Despite turning his body into that of a Greek statue, he keeps going to the gym 8 days a week; just for maintenance.

The truth is, you aren't ever really done. I'll spare you the "it's a lifestyle change" sentiment. Frankly, I think we all know I'm too shallow for that. It's constantly chasing that high from loving what you look like. Friends, it's not that there's no such thing as too skinny (because there definitely is...particularly if you are a woman of color). What it really is, is holding on and being able to repeat that moment when you walk by a mirror and you are stunned every single day. It's a great feeling. I encourage you to give it a shot!

So, how do you come to love your body? You are asking the wrong gal. I spent all of my high school years hating everything but my fingernails. Ditto for undergrad. I spent the better part of my teens and twenties confounding my boyfriends about what body part I hated that week, what diet I was on, and my worrisome experiments with Xenadrine, skipping meals, two-a-days at the gym and counting calories. You know what we learned? That's not healthy. By law school, I discovered the joys of ordering in, and all bets were off! Hello pizza! Hello chicken tenders and fries! Turns out...also not healthy. Goodbye size 3 and 5 jeans. Hello misses sizes...wait...what?

Thus began my very first trip to Weight Watchers. I went despite my fear, and despite my concern that the ladies of BBW club would push me out of the meeting, chasing me with pitchforks at my audacity to arrive at a mere 134#. But hear me out! First, I am only 5'2". Second, I had no idea what a balanced meal was. Double W could teach me! And third, I just have a really really low threshold, because my self-image was so screwed up. So no, I didn't have 50 lbs to lose -- but did that make my 10% any less hard earned than yours?! Yes? Ok then. Bite me. I still paid my $13.95 and the meeting leader didn't discriminate. So, with the assistance of Double W, I got myself down to high school weight. But back up. Remember when I said I spent most of high school loathing my self-image?

Fast forward a few years. (5, to be exact). I have a crisis or two of epic proportions, and found myself in nearly the same place. For five months, I tried it on my own. But sometimes, you need to know when to ask for help. I went back to what works, aka Double W. For the next 4 months, I hit it full force -- I was on a Mission, and I was NOT going to fail. Turning 30 was traumatic enough. The least I could do was mitigate that inevitable horror by looking my best. After Vegas, it was time to fly on my own. I spent the next few weeks testing the waters, keeping my membership as a backup plan; but making meal and workout choices without my crutch there.

Today, I don't know where I am in terms of the actual number on the scale. And, back in the late 90s, they weren't subjecting teenage girls to calipers and other torture devices to measure body fat. (Thank the Lord for small favors). But I'll tell you one thing, I carried my new (and kick ass) bar stool up 3 flights of stairs all by myself...76 lbs and in a big ol' box. That? Is triumph. It was the next day that I caught myself in the mirror. So maybe, that's truly the key. I was never chasing skinny -- I was chasing strong. Watch out world...I'm strong and unstoppable! (heh. 5'2" and lifting 76 lbs. Just call me Mrs. The Rock).

On Being an Adult

Well, pheebee has been an adult for 4 years now. There are a lot of things are pretty freakin' sweet. There are other things that suck. But all in all, it's a nice ride. So now, it's time to take it to the next level. Allow me to give the highlights of what you need to do to take it to the next level:

For the girls:
1. Keep your comments to yourself. Yes, you would feel better if you could tell that girl with her baby sister's clothes on that she looks like a 50 cent hooker, but in the end, it really isn't good for anyone.

2. Only show one sexy area of the body at a time. Dang girl, leave SOMETHING to the imagination.

3. Purchase a kick ass tv. Real adults have at least 32".

And, for the boys:
1. Pull up yer effen pants. SERIOUSLY. No one wants to see your azz in those plaid boxers when you're walking down the street.

2. Learn to court a woman. For real. Being hot isn't gonna cut it. Ok, it's gonna cut it for a while, but after a couple months buy some freakin' flowers!

3. Get a real bed. A futon does not qualify. And while I'm on the subject, any furniture that's left over from your dorm room should be thrown out immediately. Really, that's got to be a breeding ground for all kinds of cooties. Get some real furniture!

Ok, thus ends pheebees guide to adult life...for now.

Manifesto continues!

Well, slowly but surely, I'm raising the level of awesome in my life. Since my last post, I've been going to the gym more consistently. Yay for that! I've also been cleaning more consistently. Speaking of which, can I just wax poetic for a moment about the Swiffer WetJet? Whoever invented that should be given a medal of honor. That sucker keeps my otherwise icky floors clean as a whistle. It is fantastic because it's just as clean with a lot less effort than a real mop and bucket situation! It does so well that I just gave away my old mop. I definitely feel like those hilarious Swiffer commercials! Another ease of use product that has made life better? The Fresh Shower spray. You know the type? Where you spray your shower down after you get out and it helps you clean? LOVE IT. And this time, it actually does a better job than the soap and sponge method. My shower really holds on to overall grime (not specific dirt, but just the kind that hangs around when a shower is old...). Even after soaking the tub in bleach I just couldn't get rid of the water stains. Now? After letting the fresh shower do its thing, I am actually starting to see a difference. Nice!

Ahem, back to the manifesto. The level of awesome is moving slowly but surely. I'm only on week 3 of working out with the trainer as of tomorrow, but last week I did hit the gym 5 days. My workouts aren't as intense as before, but frankly "less intense than before" is a helluva lot more intense than not at all. Today, I suffered a little bit of a setback of the sore throat variety, but we're only on the 2nd day of the week. Hopefully, I've fought this cold hard enough that I will be able to go everyday the rest of this week. Hooray!

So, my next milestone? Halloween. I've decided to retire the Snow White costume, and replace it with something equally cute and scandalous. In order to do that, I'm going to have to get my act together in roughly 6 weeks. On the weight watchers schedule, that could be anywhere from 6-12 lbs between now and then. So, we'll see how that goes...Let the costume shopping begin. Because I? I am an "after" picture waiting to happen. ;)

A Disciplined Manifesto!

A Manifesto

The stresses of the past 3 months have taken a toll on my physical well-being. Which has resulted in a negative impact on my mental well-being. So, as of today, pheebee is making a manifesto!

It all started with the breakup. That led to the standard cycle of skip the gym, eat comfort food, watch tv, start all over. It’s a cycle familiar to women everywhere. Oddly enough, right before the cycle started, I had a loss of appetite. The failure to eat probably led to the lethargy, which is why I started skipping the gym in the first place. I was abruptly pulled out of my breakup blues by the mortgage crisis. When my funding didn’t go through (due to the direct negligence of my mortgage broker), I jumped into survival mode. Which meant, skip the gym, eat sporadically, and panic. Also not the best choice for a healthy lifestyle. Finally, packing and moving, and unpacking, and being homeless led to choices of convenience. I was staying at someone else’s house, therefore it was inconvenient to go to the gym. Then, I was eating mostly on the run, so I didn’t make the healthy choices, I made the tastiest choices. Now, I’m living in the new place, and *sigh* the gym is just so darned far away.

So now, here we are. Chubbier than we used to be – and likely carrying around all the weight previously lost while on weight watchers all that time ago. Enough, is enough. (Although admittedly, I kind of enjoy the weight gain in the booby region. I finally have enough for an ohh la la moment! Yay me!)

Breaking up, funding a mortgage, and moving has disrupted my discipline. (Which, has not only affected my body, but also the cleanliness of the new place). And while I fully acknowledge that for most people, I’m not remotely chubby (wouldn’t even register on the radar. No one hears you when you’re still a size 4). And my house probably isn’t that messy (I was just raised by a neat freak). I’ve decided to rein this in before things get too out of hand. Now is the time to do something about it.

Ahem, insert manifest here!

I will return to the gym, with a vengeance. Even if it means robbing a bank to pay for a personal trainer.

I will return to Weight Watchers. If they did it once, they can do it again.

I will be more disciplined about how I spend my time. My house is unpacked enough that I can begin a regular cleaning schedule. Even if it means cleaning boxes.

I will set strategic goals and benchmarks of achievement, so that I don’t lose sight of what I want.

Things they forgot to mention...

I made my first mortgage payment today. It may have been the biggest check I’ve ever written. Truthfully? I did not find that particular part of the home ownership process enjoyable. In fact, it was the opposite of enjoyable. But, I guess it’s part of joining the club of adulthood. Boo!

I’ve also discovered a new problem with this condo. The elements that are most desirable when condo shopping turn out to be the biggest pain in the arse in real life. For instance, let’s discuss the floors. Home buyers get so excited when they see the phrase “hdwd thru-out.” Do you know how much more maintenance a hardwood floor requires? A ton! With carpet, you’ve got 15 minutes with a vacuum cleaner, vroom vroom, you’re done. Hardwood floors? Not so much. They attract dust like magnets. And even once you sweep, you still have to go behind with a wet mop. Booo!
Another bit of happy? Granite countertops. Verrrry purty. And again, impossible to clean! You can’t just use plain old cleaner. Oh no. You need special granite cleaner. Pfft. What? Too good for 409?!

In other news, the closet is still a work in progress. I have a furniture designer who is drawing up plans to trick it out. I’ve already stressed the importance of shoe and accessory storage. Let’s hope he understands the importance of a shoe collection!

Soft Launch

This weekend I held a soft launch at the Manor. I figured, if a swanky resto can have a pre-official opening party, then why shouldn't I?! Since my dad was making massive amounts of bbq, I decided that this weekend would be the perfect time to host that party. (As a side note, did I ever mention that my dad is an awesome grillmaster? Because he is. Just sayin').

Anyway, I decided to host this Saturday party on Wednesday. This is very very bad for someone who suffers from party panic. By Thursday, I was ready to cancel because I didn't have enough time to properly plan for the party. I didn't have time to plan the menu, map out the space, properly consider the guest list. It felt very much thrown together, which is not really conducive to throwing the best party ever. NOT! Despite my panic (and likely thanks to good friends talking me off a ledge), the party went off without incident. I was really impressed with the guy/girl ratio...although the guys were mostly part of a couple. I had been aiming for a better mix of singles and couples, but the guy singles all bailed on me. (Jerks!). I did do a fine job of having a diverse crowd -- age, race, career. It felt good knowing that I had a wide variety of friends, AND they all got along really well.

All in all, I'd say it was my first adult party, and it went pretty well. Now, to set the grand opening. I'm thinking about a year from now? :)

Nomad Chic

I have been advised, on more than one occasion, not to rush into buying furniture. As my one friend put it “don’t rush into buying stuff just to fill the space. You’re bound to move, and there’s no way to tell whether the things you buy will fit in the space you move to. Better to find stuff you love instead.”

Ok, so this is a valid point. I rushed to fill the space at my last apartment because I had no furniture at all. But this time around, I do have some form of furniture. So, I have no excuse to go out willy-nilly buying furniture.

For me though, the whole place just feels unfinished. It feels like I haven’t fully moved in yet, or fully made it mine. I want to start adding elements that make it me. Fortunately, I haven’t figured out what that means yet, so I guess it hardly matters that I’m not out buying things. No sense going shopping if you haven’t decided on a theme yet. Although, heads up…the theme for the front room is going to be peacock feathers. Everyone who’s excited to see it come to life raise your hand!

One Man Short

There’s something to be said about having a man around the house. As I begin mapping out the things that need to be done in my place, some of them require the height or the brawn of a man. Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves and start revoking our independence or taking back the sexual revolution or anything. But, seriously, there are some things that just require a man.

For example, I have tall ceilings. Connected to those are walls which need to be painted. I’m only 5’2” (on a good day). Even on my newly purchased 3-step ladder, I’m not going to reach anywhere near the top of the painting surface. So who, may I ask, is going to handle that? And let’s talk about the soon to be beautiful closet. In order to install it, someone’s going to have to hold the top shelf and brackets against the wall. Those suckers are heavy! Cue music for my own personal superman here.

Ah well, such is the life of a (short) female homeowner.

The Price of Fashion

I went to Home Depot, and I saw bliss. I saw everything that my closet should be, and more. There were shelves, rods, valet rods, belt racks, drawers, shoe shelves! Everything a fashionista like me could want to appropriately display the fabulousness that is her wardrobe. And it was soooooo much cheaper than California Closets – the platinum standard of all closets. I went home happy.

But then, I whipped out the calculator, and my nightmare began. Because Martha Stewart so slyly sells each component individually, there were a lot of numbers to add up. Plus, I would prefer to have all matching hangers, which is another expense (although I did just find some on clearance for $29.95 for 50 plus 15% off). Plus, I have to pay my professional organizer friend to put it all up. And that’s when the dark clouds began to form.

Despite all this expense (and the overall feeling that I’m just bleeding money right now), I really really want a nice closet. It was going to be the best part about owning this particular condo. I was going to trick out the closet like the fashion diva that I am. And doggone it, why can’t I?! Oh right. Because I don’t have fashion diva money. When I started this process, I decided the closet was a priority. I guess I will just have to suck up the sticker shock, and go ahead and start shelling out some cash. *sigh*. Donations will be accepted beginning immediately :).

Confessions of a New Home Owner

Well, I have spent the last 3 nights and 3 days in my new condo, and frankly, I am still baffled by the whole thing. I can’t believe that I actually own a home. I. Own. A. Condo. Say what?! How did this happen?

It was about 10 months ago, that I got the grand idea to start looking for a condo. I knew I wanted 2 bedrooms – I just didn’t see the point in purchasing a one bedroom. And I knew I had to have a parking space included, a washer/dryer in unit, and a dishwasher. I was going to live in LP, LV, or downtown. And, I wasn’t going to raise my monthly payment by an obnoxious amount. 10 months later, I am sitting in a penthouse unit in LS, with two bedrooms, two full bathrooms, and a ridiculously-huge-by-comparison kitchen. Not only do I have a parking spot, but that spot is in an attached garage. I, am in real estate heaven. Truly there is a God, and I am blessed.

But, I am also baffled. When I first got in (after much trials and tribulations) on Thursday night, my unit resembled a refugee camp. Now, it’s more nomad chic. I don’t have nearly enough furniture, and the walls are soooooo boring. But, it’s mine, all mine! Squee!

Now, down to business. How do homeowners decide what to deal with first? Honestly! I can’t stand the sinks in the bathrooms, the neutral cream whiles have got to go, the floors need to be sanded and refinished, I need an alarm system, I’d love to change the hardware on the kitchen cabinets, and, did I mention I need new furniture? No one told me that on top of standard repairs, I’d begin to see things that need changing which I didn’t see when I first made an offer. I mean seriously! All the changes that need to be made seriously require a rich benefactor. Anyone got any ideas on when I might get one of those?

Short of robbing a bank, I wonder where to start after the paint color? Thus began my journey…how do I prioritize the changes I want to make?

The Beginning, Delayed

After a complete fiasco in the financing arena (as in, the banker I hired failed to complete any of the tasks he was hired to do), I was finally ready to close. My side of the loan approval went through without a hitch, and I was ready to go a week earlier than anticipated. Naturally, that was far too easy. The underwriter wanted to know about the status of the condo association dues. And, of course, there were units who were behind. As a result, I couldn’t close. Excuse me while I panic. My loan is being held up because two people not at all related to me are unable to can’t pay their effen HOA dues on time. GRRR!!!

But, time is of the essence, as I have to be out of my apartment by June 30. Does that make the condo association president move any faster? Of course not. It’s not his problem, so evidently he fails to see the urgency of the situation. A fact that becomes all to clear when he sends an email ON THE DAY OF CLOSE that he won’t be able to get the appropriate paperwork showing proof of payment to my (new) banker until that afternoon. Is he kidding?! Nope, he sure isn’t. That means I can, make my down-payment, move all of my worldly possessions into the condo, but I can’t have any keys. Nice.

I proceed to be homeless for 7 days. Literally, I am sleeping on couches and moving around gigantic suitcases for 7 days, until the bank can see proof that the condo dues have been paid by the errant homeowners, and underwriting can sign off, and the seller can get his money. It’s Thursday night, around 9:30 before I get my keys…I meet the association president (AP), and he says that the banker was a complete pain in the arse. Is he kidding? Really?! We are not off to a good start as neighbors. There should be a way to interview the other homeowners in a condo, and the HOA leadership. I’m starting to feel apprehensive about living with such a dense donkey. But alas, after sleeping on a futon for 5 days, and travelling back and forth to Milwaukee for 2 days, and wearing the same shoes to work everyday for 4 days, I’m just glad to be inside my own place. Will it be worth all the trouble? Stay tuned…

Crickets and frogs and owls, oh my!

For Halloween, Kaia and I went to the Roof for the Black-i-Ball party. The party was pretty low-key, but still a good time. There was even a red carpet and a professional photographer! Can you believe that?!

Anyway, the party wasn't really blog-worthy, other than the fact that pheebee was hit on by a woman. What was noteworthy was the overnight stay in theWit hotel. theWit is a fantastic hotel -- by Doubletree, believe it or not! the rooms are lovely, the tiniest bit of a downgrade from Westin. Same great comfy feeling, just less luxury. I liked everything about it. Loved even! But, they have the WEIRDEST couple twists I've ever noticed.

First, the complimentary lotion was by Gilchrist. Not the first time I've seen this brand in a hotel. But, this was the first time I'd ever used a lotion that smelled like freshly cut grass. Grass! I can't say that I don't like the smell of grass. It's very summery and nice adn reminds you of an outdoor barbecue. But, why on earth would a person want to smell like it? Weird, but we can live with it. Besides, the scent is going to fade after a few minutes anyway.

And then, we went into the hallway. Excuse me, but why do I hear crickets? We are still in the heart of downtown, right? They have it piped in. Yeah, you read that right. Instead of crazy Musak, they have nature sounds piped into the hallways of the hotel. And it gets wilder. They have crickets and owls at night. And then, in the morning? Roosters, birds, and ocean waves. So, I say to Kaia, why are there roosters and ocean sounds? Where are there farms near oceans? She says "maybe in Pennsylvania. Never underestimate the Amish."

Oh geez. Dear hotel management. Please stop wasting the energy to pipe in ridiculous nature signs. It's ok if the hallways are quiet. Or, in the case of Halloween night, filled with the sounds of 4 d-bags dressed as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles tossing stuff about. (True story. I found out that's who they were when these d-bags woke up the next morning, loudly yelling the title of the theme song in a ridiculous staccato voice. I could hear it through the adjoining door. Awesome).

One or Two Good Drills

So, I'm watching the Packers game against the Vikings. We're at home today, and it's been nail biting so far. Not much has happened, it's just incredibly tense to see Benedict Favre return to Lambeau with a shockingly good Vikings.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Ahem. Sorry, I was interrupted by awesomeness on the field. Hooray GB recovering a Favre turnover!

Anyway, as I was saying, the hype around this game has been huge, of course. But the best part was watching Favre walk out and get booed. And frankly, the booing was deafening. It was amazing. I imagine that had to hurt a little bit from Favre. Terry Bradshaw predicted that there would be more cheering than booing. Favre did spend 16 years in green and gold. Boy was Mr. Bradshaw wrong. Really wrong. I bet it hurt more than a little bit. Can you imagine coming "home" after all these years, after the Super Bowls, record breaking, blah blah blah, and receiving a pail full of venom?

I can't say it isn't what he deserved. Yes, the management in GB took a hardline stance. and they had their reasons. But, we all wished Favre well when he went to the Jets. But, he has just repeatedly thrown salt into the wound over the past year. First, to go to the Vikings. An arch rival!! And then, to not only go there, but to say that it's the best team he's played on. Whoever said that Favre didn't do it for revenge is lying. And by whoever, I mean Favre.

I sure hope they drill him!

More Wheeeeeeeeee!

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I decided to take the plunge! On Sunday, I raised money and awareness for the Respiratory Health Association in a way that was a million times more exciting than a run/walk would ever be. The RHA of Metro Chicago hosted the Skyline Plunge! on Sunday. What is that you ask? It is the awesome feeling of plunging down the side of The Bolt of The Wit Hotel with only a polyester harness, metal hooks, and nylon ropes holding me suspended over 27 stories. I used a metal mechanism to lower myself down those 27 stories.

People asked me over and over if I was nuts, scared, crazy, senseless. Truth is, I am none of those things. I was just feeling adventurous, and it was for a good cause. Although, I can't say I was really doing it for altruism only. No, I was doing it for the thrill. Honestly? How many people can say they rappelled down the side of a building in a busy downtown area?

The actual feeling was quite tiring. You basically have to hold yourself upright. Another blogger described it as holding yourself in a perpetual sit-up. I'd add that your tummy is tight, but it's more like holding your self in a crunch -- so not only are you holding your upper half up, but your feet too. The other thing? You're supposed to be "walking" down the side of the building. Pah! Whoever said that was totally lying. My feet kept slipping, so eventually I just gave up and let myself dangle. I can't say I was a big fan of when I started spinning around, and slamming into the side of walls made of glass. The other thing? No one tells you how tired your hand gets! To lower yourself down, you have to squeeze this little mechanism. It really feels like those old school hand strengthening devices that men used to use to prove their strength.

Eventually, I got to the point where I just wanted to get down as fast as I could because my hand, back and inner thighs were starting to get really sore. That, and it was a bit repetitive after a while. There really wasn't much to look at up there. I bet the scenery is beautiful from a mountainside. But from theWit? Really just street, trees, and river. The Chicago Theatre sign looked REALLY cool though. Anyway, enjoy the pictures that follow!

Ad Nauseum

So, on Monday I saw an ad in the RedEye for a fundraiser for the Respiratory Health Association of Metropolitan Chicago. Instead of a run/walk, volunteers will be rappelling down the side of theWit Hotel!! How cool does that sound?! On Tuesday, I sent out an email to nearly everyone I know asking if they'd be willing to donate. On Tuesday night, I had insomnia so I signed up. On Wednesday, I started my big electronic push to get funds from friends, family, co-workers, acquaintances, friends of family, co-workers of family, etc. I even posted a link and status updates about my efforts on LinkedIn and Facebook.

Now, I'm about 58% to goal, and I've got a ways to go. For the record, I will have to cover any difference between what I raise and what is the goal. Which, I must say, is an excellent motivator. But now? Even I am sick of hearing myself talk about it! I've managed to slip it into so many conversations I'm starting to think I'm playing a perpetual game of 6 degrees of RHAMC (get it? Instead of Kevin Bacon?).

I'm almost done though. I go over the edge of theWit in 2 days. The irony here is that I've now managed to put it on yet another crazy. Ha ha!

Revenge of the broke

Today I went to look at a townhome for sale. It's up for short sale, and it was the very first piece of real estate that I went to look at with actual potential for purchase! Usually I'm just tooling around my neighborhood looking at places that I'd buy if I had oodles upon oodles of money. Anyway, I was really excited because the pictures on the MLS website made it look really awesome. Of course, being the cynic that I am, I was expecting the pictures to be total glamour shots, and that they'd oversell the place.

Nothing could prepare me for what I saw though! Ok, I've heard before that homes in foreclosure are often in terrible condition, because people are saddened by the fact that they've been evicted out of something they own. But this was ridiculous! Apparently, the trashing rule also applies to those homes that are under short sale. Ok, so we went after work. Obviously, it was going to be dark. Well, the people who used to live there were kind enough to leave lightbulbs only in the bathrooms. Seriously! They stole nearly all of the lightbulbs! They also took some of the light fixtures too.

What they did leave behind was portions of a sectional, piled in a corner. Some cleaning supplies that were obviously not actually used on the unit. Dust bunnies, nasty stains on the carpet, and a pencil. All I can say is, ewwwwwwwwwwww.

It's really sad too, that of the three places I checked out, this is the one that had the most potential. Ack! Quick, I need a couple hundred grand -- clearly I need more buying power.

Rush in NFL

I know I'm late to the discussion party, but I also know that all of you were dying to know just what I was thinking too. (HA!)

So, Mr. Rush Limbaugh wanted to buy a piece of the St. Louis Rams. Frankly, I think he should've gone ahead with it; or more accurately, I think his partners shouldn't have kicked him out. I would have love to have seen the fall out. Players requesting releases, free agents refusing to sign with St. Louis, the organization having to payout extraordinary sums of money to get players to stay or sign. The entire organization financially brought to its knees. Followed by the boycott of the games by fans (because the Rams begin to suck AND on principle). And Rush Limbaugh losing all of his money.

Here's what's sad, I don't think it actually would have gone down that way. I think some of it would've happened. But, I'm betting that everyone has their price -- and a lot of players would have gone to St. Louis just to be in the league. And I don't think all the hype would've had much of an effect on people who just wanted to watch a game. Sure, I think there would have been some sort of outcry/repercussion. But, I don't think that the attention span of the American people is good enough to really sustain a movement against an NFL team past the immediate season.

So, good work to the partners that kicked Rush out. I guess my real question is, what were they thinking when they put him in? You couldn't find anyone else with a couple mill to toss around!?

French Women Don't Get Fat -- PAH!

Well, I've been to paradise and back. I spent 3 days in the French and Dutch West Indies. Aside from the fabulous weather (a few minor rain sneezes, but otherwise great) there was a ridiculous amount of extraordinarily rich food. I ate two full French meals. Plus, I had a lovely catered dinner at the hotel. I for sure gained 10 pounds in those three days. I don't know how French and West Indies women don't get fat, but I'd die for their secret!!!

Now, aside from the extraordinarily rich food, I also marveled at the fabulosity of the hotel. And by calling it a hotel I am underselling the Dawn Beach Resort and Spa. A Westin owned resort, this place was every bit the tiny piece of heaven Westin advertises it to be. I must have taken 7 pictures of my room alone -- and I was in one of the less desirable rooms! I had a hallway in my room...a hallway! Then, off to the left, a nice sized closet with a cleverly placed switch that turned on a light whenever you opened the door. To the right, a bathroom bigger than my current bedroom. Big enough to have a separate glass enclosed shower and a huge bathtub.

Then, the bedroom, with a big flat-screen tv, a king-sized bed, a lounge chair, and a desk. And yes, bigger than my living room. And, the sliding glass door opened onto a balcony, large enough to hold two chairs and a wooden coffee table. It was fantastic!

The thought I had to myself as I was falling asleep my first night there? "I don't care where I go on my honeymoon, as long as I stay in a Westin Resort."

To top it off, I met my new married friend! She doesn't have a nickname yet. But, she is fabulous! She is for sure one of the most put together people I've ever met. And, she's got an extraordinary husband too. (At least, the way she tells it).

New Year's in October

It was a lot like New Year's Eve. I spent way too much money to go to a bar that normally doesn't have a cover charge. I was wearing a pair of extraordinarily uncomfortable shoes (that were fabulous!!!). And I wore a fantastic party dress that I purchased for no apparent reason 6 months ago but worked out splendidly for the event. It wasn't nearly as fun as it was hyped up to be. But, all in all, I would've been really mad if I hadn't gone.

And that, is my very accurate description of my 10 year high school reunion. Honestly? It was soooo not worth the $65 I paid. And, frankly, the reason it wasn't worth it probably had something to do with poor planning. However, I know I definitely would've regretted it if I hadn't gone.

In high school, I wasn't very popular (or awesome). The popular girls generally didn't give me the time of day. (These were the same girls that were too cool for school in elementary and middle school). As you can imagine, I was soooooooooooo ready to have my big (HAHA B*****S!!!!). I definitely didn't get that opportunity. None of those girls were there. Some of the nicer popular girls were there, but they were all kinds of hugs and kisses. It was weird. Even weirder, one of the girls that I was pretty good friends with in high school gave me (and the rest of us) the cold shoulder! Say what!?!? Hilariously, she's teaching theatre, speech and English classes now, and had truly turned into the crazy dramatic theater teacher. Seriously, the transformation was crazy. Picture one of your good friends suddenly morphing into that hippie teacher in high school. For the most part though, nothing truly outrageous occurred.

So, I didn't get my big HA moment, but I got to see a ton of people that I actually liked throughout high school and see what they were up to. And up to they were! One guy had toured with Prince, and another girl was a diplomat for the U.S.!! Unbelievable right? But most surprising were the number of girls who were married and/or with children. That was MIND BOGGLING! Can you imagine being married right now? Don't get me wrong, I would totally rock an engagement ring. And I am so amped for the cake and party. But to actually see the same person over and over again, everyday, and commit to love and cherish them for all of eternity? Good-ness. I am shuddering on the inside. Hmm...having recently read over older posts, it would appear that I'm totally over my desperate attempt to get into a relationship (for now).

The Glorious Return of Pheebee

I've had a lot of snide comments pass between my ears. Many of them made their way to my Facebook page. Those were mainly witty quips that could get done in 5 sentences or less. However, some things just require a full page of prose, and that's where the return of pheebee comes in. Yes friends, I'm back -- and hopefully with a vengeance.

Since most of you keep up with me by phone and email, there's no need for a serious review of what's happened in the last 3 months. But, for those of you just joining the party -- and those that need a refresher course, I figured I'd re-visit the characters that make a regular appearance in my book:

Married Martamack, aka MMM, aka Brother. An on again off again unsolicited older sibling who was invited on to the island after we met at my first job (also known as Dante's Inferno). Was kicked off the island a while later for being less supportive and more negative (and for accusing me of interfering in his marriage. An unfounded accusation at that). Has been given a passport for short-term visits, as he's keeping his negativity to himself and is otherwise able to give pretty decent advice (whether or not it's actually solicited).

Kaia. Ride or die girlfriend. A hero for actually having the guts to leave a crappy boring law job to pursue dream of being a famous actress. Also a former regular, now sporadic, partner in crime when out flirting with boys and trying to get free beverages.

The Cashmere Mafia, aka the Mafia. A group of fantastic ladies, mostly of color, with whom I used to kill every Tuesday at Martini Park. The group consisted of lots of chicas, but the main characters were Big Sis (also from my last job), Kaia, and an interior designer whom I don't think ever got a moniker. Our regularly scheduled meetings ended shortly after the big bash Halloween party.

The Young Titan, aka The Titan. A guy I met last football season, shortly before the holidays. Pretty guy, my own real life Calvin Klein model. I had to cut off all communication for about 3 months because I was sick of "just kicking it." As no one will be surprised to here, we're speaking again. My tolerance fluctuates with each passing day, but the peanut gallery seems to think I should give him a chance.

The Engineer. No introduction necessary. A guy with tons of qualities that I love living in perfect harmony in a tall, lithe frame. Said frame is unfortunately employed and living in Seattle.

2DP. Oldest and dearest friend from back home. First guy to turn me down, and I have no intention of letting him forget it. Also best friend and roomie of an ex-boyf of mine. Usually responsible for pervy remarks and overall silliness that keeps pheebee grounded and entertained.

I'm sure there are a bunch that I'm forgetting, but we'll reintroduce them as we go along. Stay tuned for future shenanigans!

Complaints Department

Current Complaints:
1. my job
2. my love life
3. my social life
4. the h'ing penguin
5. the titan
6. the shape i'm in

I don't understand, and if you do, please fill me in -- when, exactly did complaining about something automatically mean you aren't grateful about it? For example, today I was complaining (albeit publicly) about being unhappy at my job. For the most part, I got a lot of support from people in the same or similar positions. One person, (see complaint #4) was extremely vocal in saying that I should be the happiest person in the world but I'm not, blah blah blah I should count my blessings.

Well, excuuuuuuuuuse me! I was having a bad day at work, and I've been questioning my career choice for several months now. Excuse me for not dropping to my knees and being eternally grateful for being unemployed every waking second of every single day. Does the fact that I'm not entirely certain that I love my job -- or even my field, for that matter -- mean that I'm not grateful and full of praise to the Almighty because I am gainfully employed in a position that keeps me in my cute little loft apartment and fantastic shoes? Ugh, nothing like a little righteous self-indignation to set a girl's teeth on edge.

That being said, I can tie this all in to the more entertaining subject of my love life. Basically, aforementioned penguin keeps making random stabs at "trying to get to know" me. Whatever. Each time I talk to him I find my hackles raised. Sort of like walking in the sand with shoes and socks. No matter what you do, you'll keep picking granules of sand out of your shoes. SO ANNOYING! This last gratefulness comment just makes me want to throw him off a bridge...or at least off my island. The definitive answer is absolutely no!

Sniff, Sniff

I smell. In fact, I totally reek. I find myself in unfamiliar territory. I want, desperately want, to be in a relationship. I think I may even want one for the right reasons. Now that, my friends, is exceptionally weird. Most often, I don't want a relationship at all. If the time comes when I want one, then normally I want one out of boredom, or because it's winter and I want someone to snuggle with, or just to pass the time because my friends are all in relationships. While some of that is true, I can't really say that's the true motivation.

No, lately (probably the last month or so), I've been wanting a relationship for all the right reasons. Because I want to have that special someone. It doesn't take a rocket scientist (pun intended) to figure out that my craving for a relationship strictly coincides with the time I've spent with the Engineer.

The second most unfortunate thing, (the first being the Engineer living across the country) is that when the whiff of desperation is on you, a relationship is sure NOT to come. Sooooooooo, what are we gonna do? Well nothing, this feeling has always passed before, it'll be a passing feeling again.

And one other thing? Desperation or no, my standards haven't gone anywhere. And quite honestly, I have yet to find someone I care to spend more than 45 seconds with.

Under Where?

I have declared war on underwear. I HATE wearing underwear. I'm not the biggest fan of going commando either though. So what's a girl to do?

Who decided underwear was necessary anyway? Seriously, what purpose does it serve (aside from the obvious special time of month)? Here's my thing. Some masochist/woman-hater invented the thong. What kind of sane person walks around with floss between the cheeks not on your head? (Or either set of cheeks for that matter.) Floss belongs between teeth, and no where else.

The alternative is the dreaded VPL -- the visible panty line for those of you fashion backwards. Who decided that visible panty lines were such a fashion faux pas? And, even if wasn't a fashion no-no, do I really have to be bothered with wearing full coverage drawers? Ok, I know that they patterns can be quite adorable, but how adorable is it when nobody sees it, AND they're riding up uncomfortably between aforementioned cheeks? ARGH!

Ok, so the moral of the story. How do we banish underwear forever and ever?