shine out loud

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2010-01-13T07:37:00.000-06:00

TMI Thursday - No, but really...this happened.

2009-12-17T06:37:00.002-06:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

I'm writing this on Tuesday because well, because it happened last night. I'd like to keep all the details fresh.

Last night, after I got home from work, I decided to take a bath before meeting my mom for dinner. For those of you who know me, you know how much I love a good bath. I had about an hour, so I settled in with a book for a good soak.

Of course, in the middle of it, I had to get out and poop, but that's a whole different TMI story. Probably one that doesn't need to be told.

Anyway, I finished my bath, but instead of reaching down to unplug the drain while I was still sitting in it, the way I normally would, I just...got out of the tub. With all the water still sitting in it.

I realized my mistake as I was drying myself off, so I went to the side of the tub where the drain is located, so I could lean down and unplug it.

Sounds simple, right? But here's the thing. My skin was still all wet. And my shower curtain is vinyl. It was basically like sitting in a car with vinyl seats on a hot summer day. My skin stuck to the shower curtain like a tongue to a frozen metal pole. All of my momentum was carrying me forward. I lost my footing and proceeded to fall, head first, back into the tub. Pulling the shower curtain into the tub with me, but somehow not ripping it from its metal loops on the rod itself.

It took me a few minutes to come to terms with what had just happened and then a couple more minutes to untangle myself. I got out of the tub, dried myself off and realized...I still hadn't unplugged the drain.

Mexico: The Speedbumps

2009-12-15T06:37:00.000-06:00

Last year, over spring break, I took a little trip to Me-hee-co. It was lovely. The beach was awesome, as was the swim-up bar. Who doesn’t love a swim-up bar? But I think my favorite part of the whole thing was the speed bumps.

I know, I know. It seems weird. Mexican speed bumps are the shit, though. There are at least five different kinds, and they’re everywhere. Residential streets, highways, sidewalks, hallways, you name it. And they take that shit seriously in Mexico.

First, they have the normal, average, everyday USA kind, but about 2 inches taller. If you’re in your teeny tiny car, it’ll rip you up if you don’t slow down. So everyone slows down. These were mostly in public parking lots, like the airport.

Then there are… well, how do I put this? You know the road tits? The ones they use for the left turn lane, so you’ll think really long and hard about trying to get out of it once you’re in it? They’re like the lane dividers but ten times the size? Well, there are speed bumps made out of two to three rows of those. They’re all over the highways and busy streets. They seemed to be the most effective. No one speeds over those things.

After that, we have the big-wide-rounded-top speed bump. It was my favorite when I lived in El Paso, because it’s fun to speed over that kind. They had them in the Target parking lot, and we always referred to them as “Target Speed Bumps.” It never occurred to me that Target may not put those in parking lots nation-wide. What a disappointment. But they had some in Mexico. Not as fun because the cab drivers slowed down too much.

The next ones are the slant-up-flat-top-slant-down kind. I don’t really enjoy these so much. They were the least prevalent, usually seen at check points and things like that. I actually only remember encountering them on the day trip to Chichen Itza. I was on this giant bus. And I get carsick. The tour guide wouldn’t shut up. He kept making these incredibly ridiculous numerological parallels between the Mayan pyramid and everyday things in Western culture. Yeah, I’m pretty sure the Maya didn’t know anything about Snow White and the Seven Dwarves or that there would eventually be 52 cards in a deck. But thanks, dude. Glad you could listen to yourself talk for nine hours.

My all-time favorite speed bumps were these ones that were almost the reverse of the slant-up-flat-top-slant-down kind. There were two slant-down-flat-bottom-slant-up-flat-top ones in a row. These were everywhere, but mostly in the residential neighborhoods. Like the one on the way to the hotel. It was almost like they just decided to build in structured potholes. Probably you could get away with speeding over those things, but I wouldn’t advise it.

Of course none of that matters, since lanes and speed limits are really barely even suggestions in Playa del Carmen. Going the wrong way, but in the right lane? No problem. Just pull a U-turn in front of all the traffic, they won’t mind. And if you happen to drive a tour bus, you have the right of way. At all times. Even if it means the guy driving the other way while you’re passing someone has to go off-roading for a few minutes. Some would call it a really boring game of chicken, in which everyone knows who the winner will be. On another trip, some passengers were telling us about the driving in the Dominican Republic. Apparently, there mothers will drive little scooters while just holding their children onto their sides, sort of football style in my imagination. Compared to that, the driving in Playa del Carmen is amazing.

Why my kindergarten* boyfriend was not the love of my life.

2009-12-14T08:37:00.005-06:00

To start your Monday morning off right, Rebecca over at Losing It in AZ came up with an awesome idea. We should all share some stories of our past failed relationships. These stories can be about any relationship: a boyfriend, your mom, your cousin, your boss, your cat...you get the picture. Obviously, you're going to want to hop on this train, because I think if we put our heads together, we can come up with a really hilarious collection of our failures.

Failed Relationship: Josh, kindergarten boyfriend
Age: 4
Length of Relationship: Approximately 48 hours

I started kindergarten* at the ripe old age of four. As you can imagine, I was the youngest person in my class. Actually, I was pretty much the youngest person in my class until I graduated from high school. You see, my mom had to work. And, well, she needed me out of her hair. So even though I was three months past the cut-off birth date for admittance into school, she talked them in to taking me off her hands.

I was in class with my cousin Summer, who was a giant trouble maker. I bet she still is. She's the reason I got spanked for talking at nap time. You see, I was big into rule following. I still am, actually. It's just that now I pick and choose instead of following all rules presented to me. Life's more fun this way. Oh, and my mom ALWAYS signed that little piece of paper saying they could spank me at school. Rude.

Anyway, in our class, there was a boy. And this boy would steal my jacket and color on my paper and eat my chapstick and drop the see-saw really hard when I was on the other end. It was love, obviously. Except, of course, that I hated him. Then one day, he gave me a Valentine. Oh, that day was Valentine's Day. I suppose I should clear that up, so you don't think that he was some weirdo kid making Valentines on April 12th or something.

Oh man, I was so excited. I got a Valentine!

From a boy.

Weird.

Kind of icky.

Well, maybe it could be all right, if he would stop eating my chapstick. Ass.

After that, he held my hand and we played together at recess. Somehow this still involved him stealing my jacket during tag, but I think that's because he would always grab onto it to try to catch me, and I would unzip it and skip out of it (Yes, I totally mean skip. I was always a crappy runner, so I would skip and I could still beat most of the boys. True story.), leaving him holding my jacket and looking puzzled. Worked. Every. Time.

This is about the time I learned an important lesson. Boys are dumb.

Write that down.

About a week later, I found out that he had also given a Valentine to one of our other female classmates. What a jerk! We "broke up" and he stopped eating my chapstick (Yay!) and I refused to play tag and that, my friends, was the end of that.

*Actually, for all I know, all of this could have happened in the first, second, third, or fourth grade. Those memories are all sort of jumbled together in my mind. Except I know that in third or fourth grade I peed on myself and had to wear a borrowed Alf sweatshirt for the rest of the day. Along with borrowed pants, obviously. I didn't manage to just pee on my torso. Wow, that was embarrassing...

TMI Thursday - Gynecologists are the new celebrity hairstylists, apparently.

2009-12-10T08:37:00.002-06:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Today is my 30th birthday. WTF? How did this HAPPEN?

Boys? Feel free to skip this one. It's about going to the GYN. (That's gynecologist, for those of you who didn't bother to read the title.)

A little over a year ago, I found a super great awesometastic gynecologist. I'd tell you his name, but I don't remember it.

And therein lies the problem.

I can't remember his name. Which makes it really hard to make an appointment. I do remember where he practiced, so I went online to look him up, just knowing that if I heard the name, it would trigger my memory.

It didn't. Or else he's not there. I'm pretty sure he's disappeared off the face of the earth. So after a small freak out, I set about the business of finding a new GYN. Fun!

This, of course, involved asking all my friends for referrals.

I quickly realized that all gynecologist's offices, if not all doctor's offices, have incredibly long, convoluted answering machine thingamabobbies that make very little sense. Could you at least go in numerical order, guys?

The first lady parts doctor I called wasn't accepting new patients at all. Apparently she has all the business she needs.

The second womanly doctor was accepting new patients, but she didn't have any "new patient appointments" open until March. Thanks, but I'd like to not get pregnant in the next three months.

The third woman didn't have any appointments until June.

The fourth wasn't accepting new patients.

The fifth had retired.

What the HELL, people? I feel like I'm in Hollywood and trying to get an appointment with the latest and greatest waxer or hair stylist or something. You poke around in people's vaginas.

Luckily the woman who retired worked in a group, so I managed to get an appointment with one of the other doctors at the end of the month. Whew.

Now I just have to deal with all my anxiety about having a new lady in my parts. I almost had to resort to Planned Parenthood.

I don't know how many of you have ever used Planned Parenthood for your basic gynecological needs, but...it's not very pleasant. At least, my experience never has been, and I went for years.

I had one doctor tell me that if I was so worried about getting pregnant (after I asked her a simple question about trying a new method of birth control. Something along the lines of, "How effective is this, compared to the pill?"), I should probably just not have sex. Um, dude. You're PLANNED PARENTHOOD. I asked you about BIRTH CONTROL. You should be thrilled that I'm responsible.

Then there was the doctor who acted like I was some sort of sinner and she would have to cast out the demons because I have...SLEPT WITH MORE THAN ONE PERSON.

Then there was the doctor who didn't bother to, ya know, even TRY to be gentle with my girly bits. That one was the worst.

In related news, I hate the gynecologist. I just want my awesome dude back. No, that's a lie. What I want is to be a dude and not have to worry about this crap. What I want is to not be forced to go have my business poked and prodded just because I don't want to get pregnant. I'm being RESPONSIBLE and for that? I'm forced to go have my bits checked out once a year, for which I have to pay, then I have to pay for my prescription for birth control.

What I really want? Is to have my tubes tied, but I'm not allowed to make that decision until I'm 35-years-old. Which, let's face it, is coming at me like a freight train. Now, I love being a girl, and I wouldn't trade it, but let's stop with the inequality where this shit is concerned, mkay?

Performance Reviews

2009-12-09T07:37:00.001-06:00

You may already realize that my boss is quite the character. If you don't, you can find some stories about it here (and here and here (with MS Paints!) and here).

Now that we've taken care of that, and you can see what I'm working with over here, I'm going to tell you a little bit about what Performance Reviews are like in our office. Basically, think Michael Scott...but older.

These days, I pretty much run the office, so I'm the one who does payroll and all that jazz. Which, ya know, means if you work in my office? You should probably not piss me off. Look, it's not that I don't LIKE archaeology (but I don't really like the kind we do), it's just that it pays better to do what I do now. And it was a full-time gig. I don't know if you've noticed, but the economy's not really doing so hot. Full-time = good idea.

Last year, my boss decided that maybe it would be wise for us to have an employee handbook. He decided this because a coworker and I pretty much beat him down until he came up with the idea all by himself. Unfortunately, this meant that I had to write an employee handbook. I had no earthly idea how to go about that, so I gathered a few examples and set about writing it up. This also meant that I had to pick my boss's brain on every subject from lunch breaks to vacation time to pay increases to attendance. Trust me, my boss's brain is not really a pretty place to be.

It turns out that my boss does not believe in giving his employees "cost of living" raises. He went on and on about how he didn't believe in just giving someone an increase in pay for doing the exact same amount of work, and so, if anyone wanted a raise from him, they'd have to come talk to him about it.

Yes, I tried to explain that cost of living raises are designed to keep employees' salaries in line with inflation and that not giving them essentially means that he's making it more difficult for the employees to live, while they're still doing the same amount of work, etc. He didn't buy it.

I argued and argued, but to no avail. And alas, it says in our employee handbook that no cost of living raises should be expected and that if an employee feels he deserves a raise, he is required to discuss the matter with the boss. Of course, no one but me will actually do that.

Every year, at the end of the year, we're supposed to have a "Performance Review." Last year, I think mine went something like this:

Boss walks up to my desk. "Shine, go ahead and give yourself a such-and-such cost of living raise. Oh, and here's the list for everyone else."

So...yeah.

After an employee has been here for three months, he is also entitled to a "Performance Review" from the boss. This review should determine the employee's future status with the company and his rate of pay for the coming year. About six months ago, we hired a new guy. He was only supposed to be here for a month. But, after three months, when he was still here, it was time for a Performance Review with the boss!

This is how that went down:

Boss calls me into his office. "Shine, what do you think of New Employee?"

Me: "Well, I think he works hard. He's not scared to ask questions. I've read some of his stuff and he seems to have a really good grip on the English language.

Boss: "Anything else? Do you think we should keep him around?"

Me: "I think NE is a pretty good asset. He's a little flaky, but I think he more than makes up for that with his writing. I don't know how he is in the field, though."

Boss: "Oh, he does just fine in the field. Let me ask you this, though. Would you date him?"

Me: ".........Ummmmm....what?"

Boss: "Would you, you know...date him?"

Me: "........Ummmm, well, uh, considering that he works here and that he HAS a girlfriend and that he's nearly five years younger than me...no. I really don't think I would. Why do you ask?"

Boss: "Oh, I was just curious. He has a girlfriend? What's she like?"

Me: "Honestly, Boss, I have no idea. None. I've never met the girl."

And now NE has a full-time position with our company. I can't say I'm sure whether the correct answer was "Yeah, I'd date him" or "Um, Hell no," nor do I see what in the FUCK that has to do with his employment status at our firm, but there you have it. A Performance Review by Boss.

You know what I'm sick of hearing about?

2009-12-08T09:37:00.001-06:00

Tiger Woods.

Guess what people...I JUST DON'T CARE that he slept with a bunch of women who weren't his wife.

Not even a tiny bit.

Less than you're thinking even.

And yet here I am talking about it because it's all I hear about on the damn radio.

Let me ask you this: Did Tiger Woods ever sign up to be anything but a really good golfer? Nope. So he cheated on his wife. He can still probably swing a golf club and that's all I expect of him. Whatever else he wants to do in his spare time is really none of my business.

Please tell the media to get it together. There MUST be something else to talk about, right? Anything? Hell, I'd even listen to more TO talk if it means I don't have to listen to everyone act like Tiger Woods has raped and murdered a small child or something.

In which I pretend that you're going to find this interesting, but we all know the truth.

2009-12-07T08:37:00.001-06:00

My apartment occasionally gets a little out of control in the messy department.

I know. You're shocked, right?

Generally, I'm not unclean, just cluttered. Basically meaning that while my kitchen is pretty clean, there are clothes EVERYWHERE. This gets particularly bad when I do anything that messes with my routine.

Oh, man, I just totally lied to you guys. I don't have a routine at all! Ha!

What I really mean is, this generally happens when I don't bother to make time for me at home.

And lately? I really haven't been.

Finally, the mess just got to be TOO MUCH. So I cleaned. And I did ALL my laundry. All of it. This is no small feat.

Here's what I discovered:

1. That purse that I lost? Was exactly where I thought it was. It was just covered up by my spring jacket.

2. I own most of the world's stock in wife-beater tank tops. I do use them for sleeping, working out, and other things, but 40 of them? Probably too many.

3. There is now enough underwear in my underwear drawer for me to go about six months without needing to wash any. And that's after I got rid of all the pairs that I don't like.

4. I probably have 100 pairs of socks. This is not an exaggeration.

5. My carpet doesn't actually have any red flecks in it. Apparently that was just my hair.

6. My bed looks really weird when it's made.

7. There's a chair in my room that I hadn't seen in six months because it was covered in clothing.

8. There's actually carpet on my closet floor. I even know what it looks like now.

9. I have enough workout pants to work out every single day for at least a month without running out. That does not include shorts. Don't even get me started on the sports bras.

10. And finally, my bed is REALLY REALLY comfy. I hadn't slept in it in at least two months.

So you see where cleaning your apartment can get you, kids? I realized at the point when I was vacuuming that I hadn't actually vacuumed since I moved in. That's just wrong. Don't tell my mother.

Twitter just scared me. A lot.

2009-12-03T10:37:00.000-06:00

So okay, yeah, I know...it's TMI Thursday. And you should really go look at LiLu's TMI Thursday Post Secret blahbadies. Like now. I'll wait.

I actually did have a TMI story all ready to write up today, but...then I decided to search for something on Twitter. And my mind has been blown. In a bad way.

Shot through the brain! And you're to blame. Twitter, you give the English Language a bad name.

Okay, I think I'm done with my Bon Jovi moment of the morning.

I've been thinking to myself (because really who else hears me when I think?), "Self, there must be a better way to googly chat on your phone than this really stupid Google Talk application that shuts off every time you close the window. I mean, people out there are clever. They must have come up with something."

And then Jenn over at You'll Grow to Love Me (WHAT? You're not reading her stuff? GO READ IT NOW. I'll wait...again.) tweeted a little somethin' somethin' about downloading an application called BeeJive. Hmmmm...

Then I promptly forgot all about it.

This morning, I remembered and looked to Twitter for advice. None was forthcoming, so I typed "BeeJive" into the search box.

Such a bad idea.

Here are some of the profiles that caught my eye:

ThaNiggaD

Favorite Tweet: Its crazy when u sellin drugs @ a yung age but u doin it n the wrong way! U gotta kno 2 hand off the right way!wtf I seen ur whole exchange

JAZZY_C0UTURE

Favorite Tweet: #twitterafterdark get me open while im cummin down ya throat and! U wna b my main squeeze nigga? dnt ya? Ya wanna lick btween my knees niqqa

DreyDayBaby

Favorite Tweet: @[some other twitterer] oh yea I feel u .. Your a junior rite? I'm at my cuzins job christmas party deep in da bx sumwhere lol

Patticakez

Favorite Tweet: #sidechickawareness you call him and he talking to you like u 1 of his boys then says aight my nigga ima call u later and hangs up lmfao

And my PERSONAL FAVORITE - Swaggz9mg

Favorite Tweet: Dis new ubertwitter app is iight I cud fuck wit it

I love that last guy because between all the horrid spelling and bizarre sentence structure, there's this tweet: Work is dead right now surprisingly.

That one tweet gives me hope that people actually DO know how to spell and make sentences. And then crashes me back to the ground when I realize that this means that they're just CHOOSING not to bother.

Sad Panda.

In other news, I think I'm going to go ahead and download BeeJive.

Holiday Grumps

2009-12-02T08:37:00.000-06:00

Aunt Kim, if you're reading this, I'm NOT talking about you. Well, unless I mention whistling. Then I'm probably talking about you. But I don't think it's going to come up.

(My Aunt Kim and Uncle Howard and a couple of my aunts on my dad's side are pretty normal and fun and don't talk about Jesus all the time.)

While chatting with Gofahne on Monday morning (I know, I wish she would blog more too! But we have to let her go at her own pace, folks. Be nice.) about our respective Thanksgiving weekends, I went on a little rant about holidays.

You see, my sister (we all remember my sister, right?) started a campaign a couple of months ago to get everyone together in Tennessee for Christmas this year. She asked me about it and I said that I probably couldn't go because I can't really afford a ticket and I don't want to take more time off work. The campaign continued to the rest of the family.

Most of my family still lives in Tennessee. This includes my dad's family. My mom's parents and my mom's youngest sister (Aunt Dana, who also made an appearance in both posts about my sister) live here in Dallas (well, the 'burbs), along with my mom and step-dad. My sister lives in New York with her boyfriend.

I mentioned all of that so you could see that this will involve a lot of plane tickets. I guess I probably could have just told you that and saved a paragraph.

Now, I had already told my sister that I probably couldn't make and I thought my mother had said the same thing. Then my sister's boyfriend passed the bar in New York (YAY! CONGRATULATIONS!) and started his first job as a lawyer with a really good law firm and he can't really leave to go visit Tennessee for Christmas. So now my sister, who started all this mess, can't actually go to Tennessee either.

In the meantime, my mom jumped on board with the "everyone in Tennessee for Christmas plan." She asked me about it and I said the same things about a plane ticket and not taking time off work. I said I would think about it, but that I wasn't really all that interested.

She heard, "Yes."

Now we return to Thanksgiving evening. After Princess and I finished dinner with my friends, we had to haul our cookies all the out to the 'burbs for "dessert" with my family. My mom had been quite distressed that I wasn't spending Thanksgiving with the family (despite the fact that I hadn't done so for the last two of them) and had been trying to convince me to just invite my friends (who had their own plans, yo) up to her house for Thanksgiving.

You can imagine my surprise (except I wasn't really, because this is pretty typically the case) when Princess and I showed up at 7:00 pm and they had just sat down to eat. Mom had been working all day, as usual, so no one even cooked anything. Imagine if I had invited my friends up to my parents house for a dinner of Luby's that was supposed to take place at 6:00 and didn't actually happen until 7:00 pm.

This is one of those things that I just don't understand about my mother, but that's a topic for another day.

Quickly the topic turned to Tennessee for the holidays. I said, "Yeah, I don't think I'll be there (blah blah plane ticket time off work blah)."

My mom said, "What?!? I thought you said you were going?"

Crap.

Now, I'm facing off with my mom AND my Nana. No excuse is really working. What I really want to say is, "I DON'T WANT TO SPEND THE HOLIDAYS FEELING UNCOMFORTABLE AND EXHAUSTED BECAUSE I HAVE TO TRY TO SEE EVERY RELATIVE I HAVE IN TENNESSEE IN 48 HOURS. Also, I don't really like Christmas or Christmas carols or spending endless hours with my family." You see, I was trying to AVOID saying all that.

Me: I can't really afford a plane ticket right now.

Mom: That's okay. I can help you out with that.

Me: I don't really want to take more time off work and I don't have any vacations days left.

Mom: Well, you can wait to leave on Christmas Eve after work.

Me: So really, it doesn't matter what I want?

Everyone: Geez! Don't get all upset! If you don't want to go, just say so! We don't want you to spend time with us if you don't want to!

CRAP.

Me: Yeah, I don't really want to go. I just want to have a nice, relaxing, quiet Christmas and if I go to Tennessee, I will be exhausted.

And I thought it was over.

WRONG.

About an hour later, my mom brought it up again. I think I left it at, "FINE. You buy the plane ticket and tell me where to be, since I clearly have no say in the matter.

She said, "Okay."

So it looks like I'm going to Tennessee for Christmas. Or maybe I'm not. I'm at the mercy of my mother now. When we had dinner on Monday night, she said, "Sarah can't come? This was all her idea...maybe we should just scratch the whole plan and go to New York to visit her."

I'm guessing I'll know the plan on Christmas Eve.

I recounted this story to Gofahne and she said, "The holidays are meant to torment single people that would rather just chill, relax, and be alone. I swear that is their purpose."

I kind of agree.

Look, I don't hate my family. I'm just tired of everything always being on someone else's terms. What about what I want? I suppose the difference between my dad's family and my mom's family is that I actually feel like my dad's family wants to see me and isn't just pursuing some bizarre "Our family loves to be together, see everyone? We're PERFECT!" ritual. However, my dad's mom only talks about calories and Jesus any more and my dad's dad goes on about socially conservative politics all the time and I just can't take that crap. You can see the dilemma, right?

We'll get back to your regular grumpy holiday blogging tomorrow, today? It's poo time.

2009-12-01T07:37:00.001-06:00

I understand that popular notion of waiting until you get to the office to take your morning dump. The toilet is clean (except that you pooped in it yesterday morning and our cleaning people only come on the weekends), you're at work so you're getting paid to relieve yourself of the giant load of crap you're hauling around in your intestines, and there's the added bonus of subjecting your coworkers to the smell of death wafting from your rectum.

What's that you say? You've never contemplated the third one? Ah! Then you obviously don't work in my office.

See, most offices have restrooms for men and restrooms for women and they aren't located, say, in the middle of the space. At my job? We only have one bathroom downstairs and one bathroom upstairs and both of them are within a (two year old's) stone's throw of each and every desk. Which means each and every person. Which mostly means ME. (Obviously.)

Every morning, most of my coworkers choose to wait until they get to work to take their morning poo. I've ranted about this before, but I feel the need to do it again, because I just got knocked in the face with POO SMELL.

Here's the thing, boys. It's disgusting. I don't care who you are, your shit does, in fact, STINK. We also have several different kinds of poopers in the office.

The "I Have a Lot of Gas and I'm Going to Force You to Listen to It, But Then We're All Going to Have to Pretend That Didn't Happen" Pooper: I hate to tell you this, but having to listen to you relieve your bowels every morning is really not inspiring any more respect for your cause here at work. If you feel like it's going to be a gassy one? Please poop at home.

The "I Just Rocked a Big Deuce and I'm Going to Leave the Door Wide Open and Never Bother to Use the Air Freshener so Thoughtfully Provided for Me" Pooper: If I never have to smell your crap again, it will be far too soon. Please subject your wife to this, she took vows. I didn't. That doorway is in direct path to my desk. For the love of all that is orange, please close the door at least a little and feel free to use that fancy little bottle of Febreez (which, actually, now just smells like poop to me anyway...but at least it's slightly prettier poop than whatever roadkill you've been consuming).

The "Close the Door All the Way and Trap the Smell in the Bathroom" Pooper: While I'm generally okay with you trying to be considerate about the smell, all you're doing is making it worse when I realize that I have to pee. Which is inevitably about five minutes after you've expelled the large quantity of meat you ate for dinner last night right into the work toilet we all share.

The "I Work Upstairs, but I Don't Want to Smell my Own Poop While I'm Working" Pooper: Seriously, POOP IN YOUR OWN BATHROOM. I'm already dealing with a lot of poop down here, I don't need you adding to it. If you get the urge, just as you come downstairs? I feel sure that you can hold onto that log until you get back upstairs to your own space. I usually manage to hold mine ALL DAY. Hell, I barely even pee at the office any more if I can help it.

So, this is to you, dear Office Poopers. Please, please, please...KEEP YOUR POOP IN YOUR OWN TOILET. If you're so regular that you can plan your poop for every morning right as you get to work? Please schedule that poop with your intestines just a little bit earlier. You know, when you're at home. I'll talk to the boss about counting that time as work, so you can get paid. It's not like you're doing anything useful in the bathroom for that half hour anyway.

**In case you didn't notice (seriously, what's wrong with you?), I changed the layout on my blog. What do you think?**

Okay, yes, I've talked about this before, but it's my blog and I'm going to talk about it again.

2009-11-30T08:37:00.000-06:00

Grocery stores. Grocery stores. GROCERY STORES.

As I'm sure most of you know, this past Thursday was the day of the turkey. Frankly, I'm not a fan of turkey, so Thanksgiving is one of my least favorite holidays.

This year, Princess and I were going to hang out with two of my friends (who just got married) for a grown-up Thanksgiving. They were doing most of the cooking (because they're both really great cooks), but I was told to bring anything that means Thanksgiving to me. So I did.

Unfortunately, this meant a trip to the grocery store. I shudder to think what might have happened had I been there to pick up more than five items.

Here are the items I needed: noodles, Kosher salt, cheese, cream.

This particular grocery store has always made very little sense to me, as is the case with most of the Albertson's in the metroplex. On top of that, they decided that the Thanksgiving holiday would be the best time to rearrange the store.

So there were boxes all over and most of the aisles were mislabeled. My personal favorite: The milk/cream, yogurt, cheese, and eggs? Are all in different locations around the store. The cheese, specifically, isn't even all in one place. Half the cheese is with the produce and the other half? Is in the aisle with lunch meat. That aisle is labeled "frozen foods" and is in the middle of the store. No, I'm not joking.

It probably took an hour to navigate and find the simple things I needed. More than once, some poor (usually male) soul looked up at me when I passed, "Do you know where I can find baking soda (or some such item)?" Sir, I don't even know where you can find the door at this point. (It turned out he really needed baking powder, and that they were completely out of it. Good thing he didn't get baking soda instead, we all know how that goes...)

I have to say, if I never have to go to another Albertson's again? It will be far too soon.

But then I made cheese and spaghetti (my must-have Thanksgiving food) and it was delicious. Princess and I made it to my friends' place, where we feasted on beef tenderloin, au grautin potatoes (for which, you probably would have given up your first-born...I have the recipe, but I don't want your children), cornbread dressing (seriously, we all have our own, and I didn't really like this variety as much as the one my Granddaddy makes), cheese and spaghetti (I can eat my weight in this stuff, seriously), and some really crunchy green beans (which I don't like).

For dessert, my friend out-did herself with a Triple-Chocolate Mousse Cake. TASTY.

And if that had been the end of the day? It would have been a fun and relaxing Thanksgiving.

It's [Wednesday], we should break up - Dallas Cowboys Fans

2009-11-25T08:37:00.001-06:00

Since today is, for all intents and purposes, Friday, and I will be spending the next four days (at least in theory) wrapped up in a blanket in my pajamas, watching endless hours of pointless television, reading books, and drinking hot chocolate from a giant mug that never empties, I'm going to break up with Dallas Cowboys fans today.

Living in Dallas and NOT being a Dallas Cowboys fan is, well, kind of rough. You see, I love football. And in Dallas? The ONLY football I ever get to hear about is Dallas Cowboys football. They don't even talk about other games in passing. Aside from, yesterday, discussing the merits of luring Vince Young away from Tennessee to come to Dallas because he's so much better than Tony Romo (I'm not saying this, they were saying this. Vince is still on probation with me). May I remind you of the Vince Young who had to sit his ass on the bench last season because he got booed for throwing an interception and freaked the hell out? Even though he won the game. You really think he can HANDLE you Cowboys fans? No sir.

But my issue isn't with the constant coverage. (Seriously, even when it's not football season and could we STOP talking about TO? He's GONE.) It's with the fans.

The Cowboys are never allowed to lose. Ever. Every loss is ridiculous and a reason to fire everyone and Tony Romo sucks and Wade Phillips is incapable and Jason Garrett can go suck an egg and wasn't Roy Williams supposed to be good? More than that, though, no win is ever good enough. You Cowboys fans are like...an overbearing perfectionist mother. Oh, you got a 99 on your test, honey. Why didn't you get a 100?

And even if they win, and they win by a lot (which, let's face it, just doesn't happen that often), the fans find something to bitch about.

Tony Romo was given the key to the city in...Illinois or something and he had the AUDACITY to wear a backwards baseball cap to the ceremony? FIRE HIM!

Wade Phillips said "ya know" too many times in the press conference after the game? OFF WITH HIS HEAD!

Roy Williams caught the ball? THAT'S JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH!

I'm soooo sick and tired of this crap. Get over it, people. Your team hasn't won a playoff game in 13 years. Your owner is, well, a little loony. Not Al Davis loony, but hey, at least Al Davis's team has been to the Superbowl in this decade. And I HATE the Raiders. But having watched them beat the Bengals last week? I'd say you Cowboys better at least be on your toes.

And to all you sports talk radio hosts out there: Someone expressing some minor doubt in their team does NOT make them less of a fan. So shut your face. And to Arnie Spanier? May your Thanksgiving bring you salmonella. You are scum.

So that's it Cowboys fans. I'm out. It's been a nice run (not really), but I just can't take any more. Don't call me, I'll call you. (Unless I know you and love you in spite of your Cowboys love. We can still hang. I'm not talking to you. Yet.)

A metered reaction.

2009-11-24T07:37:00.003-06:00

I love downtown Dallas. I really do.

I had never really spent much time downtown, but Princess lives in a schmancy high-rise building (for only another month, SADFACE) (his new apartment is awesome, though, so I'm not complaining), so I've had plenty of opportunity to get my downtown on. And I have.

Here are the things I've discovered:

Everything closes at like 7:00 pm. And I have no idea why.
There's only one grocery store and I can't even keep a straight face while calling it that.
There's a distinct lack of laid back dive bars.
Walking everywhere you want to go is AWESOME.
Everything is pretty damn close to where you are.
The Walk/Don't Walk signs? Actually work. You don't even have to push the button like everywhere else in the DFW Metroplex. (Seriously, folks. There's just a steady "Don't Walk" hand, if you don't push the little button. In Dallas, we're serious about our cars. Please, dear pedestrians, get off the road. NOW. My personal favorite is when you push the little button, the "Walk" sign flashes up, you step off the curb, and immediately the "Don't Walk" sign is blinking at you. You must be The Flash to cross the street.)
Parking can be really easy if you know where to do it, however...
No one knows how to park at the damn meters.

Last night, Princess and I planned to watch the Titans (WOOHOO!! It was a rough start to the season boys, but it's good to see us playing football again. Let's not talk about that Patriots game, mkay?) play the Texans at a bar near his apartment. Usually he just picks me up because he's very concerned that my car will be vandalized and all my stuff will be stolen. You see, his apartment building? Has no guest parking. None. They have a parking garage, with the kookiest layout in the universe, FULL of empty parking spaces, but to get in it, you have to have the little key fob dealimajigger. You also have to have the key fob dealimajigger to get OUT of the parking garage. It's kind of a pain in the ass.

On the occasions when I do drive over to his apartment, we either to the little dance to get me into the parking garage or else I just park at a meter on the street. They're all free after 6:00 pm. The only catch is, they start up again at 7:00 am. It's not so bad really. Just means I might actually be on time for work!

Finding a meter can be tricky. Other people use them, and most of those people don't even remotely understand the concept of parking at a meter. You see...your car? Should not be in the middle of the parking meter itself. A la this:

This way, no one can park at the meter in front of yours, or possibly at the meter behind yours. Because you are taking up all the space. You can see the problem, right? With your single vehicle, you have occupied up to three free parking meters. This is about the time I curse you*.

Last night, I passed about five such vehicles. WTF people? Get it together. I even googled "How to park at a parking meter" to see if I could find a tutorial, and guess what...even google thinks you should know how to do this. So please, get in your car, drive around, note the proper technique, and employ it immediately. Thank you.

*I'm pretty sure in New York or Seattle or Boston or DC, they'd shank you. So consider yourself lucky you only had me to deal with in this scenario.

(Dear Cleveland Browns, please please get it together. You're killing me. And I love you. --Shine.)

Cancellation feels pretty darn good.

2009-11-23T08:37:00.000-06:00

I canceled my MySpace account today.

Let me say, though, that I probably hadn't logged in or used the thing since February, at least. I would have probably canceled sooner, but I couldn't remember my password. It came to me in a flash of brilliance and short-term memory this morning, so I took the plunge.

I know there are probably some friends that I only communicate with that way, which probably means I haven't talked to them in nearly a year. So I guess maybe we weren't very good friends, eh?

Canceling my MySpace account feels like permanently closing a door on a past I no longer care to contemplate. It's not about you, MySpace friends. I assure you. If I remember who you are, I'm sure I love you dearly.

I would say you should look me up on Facebook, but I barely use that. What can I say? Follow me on Twitter. Occasionally, my head finds its way out of my ass and I tweet something. Sometimes it's even funny. No promises, though.

So long MySpace. I doubt I'll miss you.

Oh, and Princess and I went to see Bob Saget on Saturday night. He wasn't really as funny as I might have hoped. And I love Bob Saget. The problem, I think, is that he's Bob effing Saget, so he doesn't have to bother to write material any more. He just says whatever comes to mind, with a healthy dose of curse words and a foul mouth. My thought for a good half of his act? I'm funnier than that (okay, maybe not today, shut up)...

That's not a good sign, Bob. Pull it together.

It didn't help that the people sitting in the row with us each individually climbed over us to take a piss/get a drink/smoke/have sex in the bathroom three to four times (there were four of them). The rows at House of Blues are so tiny that there's literally no way to get out of the way without standing up. So every five to ten minutes, we were having to stand up to let these people by. Until the fourth or so time...then we just sat there and let them struggle. And seriously...DON'T touch me. If you can't hold your pee for an hour and a half, I have no sympathy for you. None. And if you know you have a bladder problem or are just completely obnoxious and rude, please...get an aisle seat.

The guy who opened up for Bob, though? He had me doubled over and unable to breathe in all the right ways. Ryan Stout? Call me.

It's Friday, we should break up - Hovering Servers

2009-11-20T08:28:00.004-06:00

You know what time it is, guys! Time for another breakup. Read past breakups here!

To be fair, this particular thing has only happened to me at Asian restaurants. I'm trying not to stereotype and suggest that only Asian servers do this, though. I'm sure that's not the case.

Normally, when you go eat at a restaurant, half the time you're searching for your server. Your drink is empty, you never got any silverware, you need a new napkin, you spilled red wine down the front of your dress. Usually, they're nowhere to be found. Servers develop this skill which, frankly, I would love to master. It's the focused "I'm not going to look at you because I know you want something from me" skill.

They walk past your table, careful not to meet your eye. You see them coming, of course, so your heart lifts, you raise a hand, you catch your breath, ready to speak and then...you're ignored. It's quite the letdown.

Not the case at Asian restaurants. At least, when the restaurant is less than packed. They stand behind you, hovering, in case you have an iced tea emergency. They pick up every stray piece of paper or crumb or lemon seed you deposit on the table. They ask if they can get you anything...every five minutes.

While all of that can be really really annoying, I've found that the solution is just to take incredibly graphic reading material to the restaurant with you. And no, I don't mean pornographic. That might not work.

When I was in college, I often went to this little sushi place across from campus. The waitress would hover behind me as I ate, quietly judging my less than masterful skill with chopsticks, I'm sure. I, personally, don't want anyone to be standing behind me for an extended period. Ever. It makes me nervous. Like when your step-dad hovers around the back of the couch when you're trying to watch television. SIT DOWN!

Anyway, I noticed that when I started taking my forensic anthropology and anatomy books in to study, she had absolutely no interest in standing behind me. I like to think it's because she couldn't handle all the pictures of dead people, but, to be perfectly honest, my anatomy lab book smelled like formaldehyde and rotting shark. So it was probably that. (No one really wanted to sit next to me in my other classes when I had my lab book with me, either. Go figure.)

One day, however, this woman just CROSSED THE LINE. Now, I know that this was her job and she probably notices how much food everyone ordered and that kind of thing, but woman, it is NOT your place to comment. You see, that day, I had ordered an extra two sushi rolls to take home with me for dinner. I just ordered them all at once, because it's not like it matters. I ate two rolls and then asked for a box. She had already looked at me like I had two heads when I ordered four rolls, but now she said (and this is not me being a giant racist, this is what she said, verbatim), "That too much sushi. I didn't think you should eat all that. You get fat."

Seriously?!?

I said, "Just bring me a box. And my check." I never went back.

Then yesterday, it happened again. Sort of. I went to this Thai place across the street from work. I ordered a Bento box with some sashimi and some sushi. It also came with a seaweed salad. Now, don't get me wrong, I like seaweed salad. I just wasn't in the mood for it that day. So I didn't eat it. I HAVE THAT OPTION.

The woman came to pick up my mostly empty Bento box and she said, "You no eat salad? You no like it? It good for you."

Thanks. But I don't have to eat it. I'm still going to pay for it and I just don't need your commentary on my eating habits or food choices. Though I appreciate that she at least didn't tell me I was going to get fat.

To me, these women are as bad as the ladies who try to suggestive sell you a lip wax when you go to get your eyebrows done. You know what? I don't really HAVE a mustache. Please don't try to tell me "I need lip wax. It ugly." Screw you. We're finished!

Except, of course, I'll still be eating in Asian restaurants, so I guess, um, we'll still be seeing a lot of each other. I hope this doesn't make things awkward. Please don't put any puppy in my food or anything. I was kidding! It was a joke!

TMI Thursday - The Poop Ninja

2009-11-19T08:37:00.000-06:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

In a new relationship, there are always some adjustments to be made. I like to watch TV when I fall asleep, he doesn't. He likes to keep his syrup in the fridge, I don't. You know the drill.

The biggest of these (hopefully) is poop. Not only am I not a big fan of sharing the bathroom with ANYONE, I don't want anyone smelling my poop, I don't want anyone to know I'm pooping, I don't want to poop in someone's bathroom, etc. I'd rather we all just pretend that pooping? Is not something I do.

Now, I've been around enough men to know that pooping isn't really as big of a deal to them. And by the way, thanks guys. I really do love to smell your poop in the morning. Or the evening. Or all afternoon while I'm working. It's awesome.

Well, Princess and I have been spending a lot of time sleeping in the same place. For warmth and the whatnot. You understand what I'm saying. Interestingly, neither of us is really willing to poop while the other is around. I was raised in the South with Southern Manners and all that, so technically I'm not even supposed to talk about my poop. You'll notice that lesson didn't really stick. At first, I thought I'd just be clever and suddenly have to "go home" for something. So I could poop. Of course that leads to all kinds of questions and eventually I just had to say, "Look. I have to poop. And I'm not doing it here."

One morning, things were getting really rough. I had to poop REALLY bad. I'm pretty sure I said, "Uuuhhhhh...I have to poooooppppp..." about a dozen times on the way to my place.

What I had yet to see, though, was Princess pooping. I don't mean see. Princess, if you're reading this, please. I never ever want to see you poop. Like ever. I mean it. Anyway, it was like the man never pooped.

Then one night, I woke up from a deep slumber (I'm like the soundest sleeper in the WORLD) to find myself alone in bed. Um, confusion, party of one. Then I looked over to see the light on under the bathroom door. Hmmmm...

It turns out that, all this time, Princess has been waking himself up in the middle of the night (he claims it's early morning, I claim those are pretty much the same thing) to take a stealthy poop. So I'd never be the wiser. But I am. I saw it. Again, I didn't see the poop. Just the evidence that the poop took place. Stick with me here, people.

This morning, when I went to pee, I noticed that, even though I was the last one to pee last night, there was a new roll of toilet paper waiting for me. (Yes, Princess does actually put a new roll of toilet paper ON the toilet paper holder every time it's empty. I know. He's mine, ladies.) When I came out of the bathroom, I glared accusingly at him and said, "Did you get up and poop in the middle of the night again?!"

He looked at me and said, "Yep." Cue knowing smirk.

Apparently, he's a morning pooper and he can't poop while I'm there (even though I leave for work before he does most of the time), so (because he's this regular) he's trained himself to poop before I wake up. Ya know, at like 3:00 am.

This led to an amusing conversation about super powers and that he should from now forth be called "Princess Poop Ninja" and how he poops so stealthily, no one will ever know it was him. Kinda like The Spleen from Mystery Men only...well, more subtle. And with a tiara.

I just can't leave this one alone.

2009-11-17T13:37:00.001-06:00

One of my most awesomest girlfriends, generally referred to as "Pretty Bitch," wrote a blog on Friday, which I just came across today. I have some things to say about it.

And we all know I'm never one to keep my mouth shut, right?

So go read her blog and then come back here, m'kay? GO!

Basically, Nat holds a When Harry Met Sally belief about the relationships that can happen between members of the opposite sex. That men and women can never really be "just friends." While I think she makes some very good points, and I agree that the whole situation can be sticky, I have a slightly different opinion.

I might agree 100%, if I hadn't seen a male-female friendship with my own two eyes. My ex-boyfriend and his friend/coworker were/are FRIENDS. And only that. When they started working together, they were both married. Her marriage ended first, and she was...a bit of a mess (for good reason). His marriage ended a couple of years later and no one would know if he was a mess or not because he doesn't show emotions like a human being. But there were opportunities for them to test the boundaries of their relationship and neither of them even wanted to. Simply put, they're not attracted to each other.

Now, I know what you're thinking. I'm being naive and they were probably doin' it like monkeys behind my back. But they weren't. I can't say I know that for a fact, but I've never for a second doubted it. She met a guy and now they're married. My ex is living with his current girlfriend. And my ex and his friend have never even looked sideways at each other in that way, to my knowledge.

If they were the last people on earth, would they do it? Probably. But that's not really saying much.

While I do think that male-female friendships can complicate and put pressure on an intimate relationship, I think that's about more than just "men and women can't be friends." Your relationships are all based on trust, or should be, if they mean anything. And not trusting your partner to be able to have a friendship with a member of the opposite sex is just...sad. And more likely a problem with your relationship, not with your friendships.

Additionally, I have several male friends of my own who are just that. Friends. I could turn to these guys for just about anything, and I would be there for them in the same way. And no one wants to make the sex with anyone else, or if they do, all parties are keeping their pretty parts in their pants.

I'm not sure that I agree that a fleeting thought about another person naked or what it might be like to kiss that person constitutes awkwardness in a friendship (Honestly, I've contemplated this about nearly everyone I know...family members aside). Hell, once I had a sexy dream about one of my girlfriends and we've survived just fine. Though she was more than a little disturbed when I told her about it, as she's the least bi-curious person on the planet.

The statement "Cheating is anything that dilutes the relationship" just...makes no sense to me. Gaining 150 pounds could dilute the relationship. Taking up a hobby and spending all your free time on it could dilute the relationship. Having to travel five days a week for work could dilute the relationship. All of those things are probably signs that something is wrong, but not a single one of them involves a third party. I would hardly call them cheating. I think I know what Natalie was trying to say (that anything you do with a member of the opposite sex that dilutes the relationship is cheating), and I respect her opinion, but I don't think this is the best way to say it.

In truth, if you're closer to a same sex friend to a level that leaves out your significant other, you're probably diluting the relationship and treating your boy/girlfriend unfairly, but it's rare to hear anyone get worked up about that.

I think that men and women can absolutely just be friends. And that it's perfectly acceptable to retain close friendships to members of either sex while you're in a serious relationship. Don't be stupid about it. Your significant other should probably be your closest relationship, if you're serious about it and it's gotten to that stage. But it doesn't mean that it's unhealthy or wrong to have close friendships. Period.

What do you think? Is this possible?

(I took a poll of some online friends. It seems that most men think this is totally possible and most women think that it's not. Obviously, there were a few exceptions and a couple of "maybe" or "in the right circumstances" answers, as well.)

Have you ever...

2009-11-16T09:37:00.001-06:00

Woken up one morning and realized that maybe you are, in fact, more like your ex-boyfriend than you care to admit?

Because I just did.

I just uttered the words "But I don't want to be dependent on anyone." Fuck me.

That is all.

TMI Thursday - The Pancake Story

2009-11-12T06:37:00.004-06:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Disclaimer: Despite what you may think after reading this story, I AM a good cook. I promise.

A few years ago, I moved in with a boy. It was pretty much my first (and last) time ever to do so for any length of time. I had sort of lived with my high school boyfriend for a few months and I had kind of lived with my first Dallas boyfriend briefly, but technically he had his own room and we had another roommate. And when we broke up, we still had to live together. THAT was fun.

So anyway, on a bright shiny day in December, I began the process of cohabitation. And yes, I do mean BRIGHT AND SHINY. We had a heat wave and it was nearly 90 degrees the entire time we were moving. I was only moving from about a half mile away and he...well, he didn't really have much stuff.

Our apartment was wonderful, still one of my favorite apartments, despite the two soccer players who moved in upstairs and tortured us until all hours of the night. We had a pretty sizable balcony, on which we put my old breakfast table.

On our first weekend, I got up early. I was going to surprise him with "breakfast on the balcony."

I decided to make eggs, sausage or bacon (I can't remember which), and pancakes. From scratch. No Bisquick for this girl. I set up the table outside, started the coffee and then pulled out all of the ingredients for the pancakes. Everything turned out beautifully. I poured the coffee, put the food on the plates and took everything outside.

He took his first big bite of pancakes and got this funny look on his face.

"What's the matter?"

"They taste kind of...funny."

So I cut off a piece of mine, forked it up, and shoveled it in my mouth. My mouth exploded with the flavor of salty, syrup-covered hairspray. I spit my pancake out into the courtyard below our apartment and said, "THE PANCAKES ARE BAD."

He said, "They're not that bad," and started to take another bite.

I said, "STOP EATING THEM. THEY'RE TERRIBLE."

I couldn't figure out what I had done. I followed the recipe exactly.

Then I went into the kitchen. Immediately, the problem was clear. Instead of baking powder, as the recipe suggests, I accidentally grabbed the baking soda.

I'm just one of those weird people.

2009-11-11T11:37:00.002-06:00

In email. In chat. On Twitter. Pretty much everywhere in my life, I'm the person who is always writing in complete sentences, with proper punctuation. Only rarely do I abbreviate things (WTF? is totally the new black, so shut it).

Things you'll never find in any written message from me (unless someone is holding a gun to my head):

u - as in "you."

ur - as in "your" or "you're," how handy that you don't even have to figure out which one.

lol, LOL, lololol - or any combination thereof. Also, I'm probably not laughing out loud. I don't lie about that sort of thing. For instance, mooog35? Caused me to actually launch snot across my desk with the joke at the end of this post.

2 - as in "to" or "too," or hell even as in "two." I actually follow the "if it's less than two digits, write it out" rule. And again, how lucky that you don't have to figure out which to use, "to" or "too."

dont, cant, shouldnt, didnt - as in "don't," "can't," "shouldn't," "didn't."

Wednesday's, DVD's, steak's - as in "Wednesdays," "DVDs," "steaks." Plurals don't need an apostrophe. Ever.

tho - it has three more letters people. How lazy can we be?

I'm sure there are others, but I can't think of any more.

The thing is, seeing any of those things in written communication to me? Pretty much causes me to stop paying attention. I try, but it's hard to take anything seriously when I have to translate it in my head. And I know I have some friends who do this...and I'm not judging you (only a little), but know that it is a testament to my love for you that I continue to translate. With anyone else? I'm out.

Don't feel bad. I'm the weird one. All the cool kids are doing it. But I don't want to get dumber, so I think I'll stick with complete sentences and stuff.

Today is Tuesday

2009-11-10T08:37:00.002-06:00

And I can't think of a title for my blog post.

I'm hard at work on my NaNoWriMo novel, but I keep forgetting to update my word count. Never fear, WriMo Buddies! I am writing. My internets at home are sketchy at best.

I'd like to say it's going well, but...well, I can't. It's been tough this year. But I'm pretty determined to make it.

Having said all of that (it was a lot, I know!), I don't have much for you today.

Except that I've been pretty much listening to this song on repeat in my car (Aunt Kim, don't click that. I mean it. Mom, you too...if you've managed to find my blog again. You won't be happy.), what? It's INSPIRATIONAL.

Also, I love this kid. He's so special. We got dicks like Jesus.

I'm alternating with this one. I'm pretty sure I've got more junk in my trunk than a Honda. My favorite line: Jean wasn't fat, she was easy to catch.

Tell me you don't want to shake your booty on the dance floor right now, I dare you.

And also, too, as well.

2009-11-09T09:37:00.001-06:00

People.

People people people.

Just because Sarah Palin says, "...and also, too..." doesn't mean you should. In fact, whatever Sarah Palin says, you should probably just go ahead and say the opposite. But I don't want to get political up in this blog.

Also. Too. As well. They all mean pretty much the same damn thing. Which means there's no need for you to use more than one in any given sentence on Any Given Sunday. Oops. That last part was about football.

Actually, let's change the subject for a second.

MY TITANS WON!! In case you haven't noticed, they've been basically falling all over themselves this season. Justin Gage? Call me. Chris Johnson? You're delish. Keep up the good work, boys.

It's Friday, we should break up - Handwriting Edition

2009-11-06T07:37:00.000-06:00

So, as you can see...my handwriting is terrible. And I blatantly stole this from mylittlebecky and Just a Girl. And probably even Alice, since I read hers too.

Happy Friday, y'all!

The Rules for Dating Shine

2009-11-05T06:37:00.000-06:00

First of all, before you say anything, this blog is about ME, okay? Just so we're clear.

And yes, if you want to know how awesome I am, you can just ask me.

So for future (or possibly current) reference (I'm looking at you, Princess), these are the Top Ten Rules for Dating Shine (as of today, who knows what tomorrow will bring?):

1. Do what you say you're going to do. There are no exceptions to this rule. (Okay, probably if you call AHEAD OF TIME with a good reason for why you can't do the thing you said you'd do, I'll let it slide. Once or twice.)

2. Do not cling to me like Leo after the Titanic sank. I will let go. This means you should have your own life/friends/hobbies.

3. You MUST want to ~~make the sexy time~~ play cards. Often. Death and disability are no excuse. What?

4. If you listen to Nickelback or Creed (even on accident), you should probably get out of my face before I punch you in the vagina.

5. I can pay for myself, open my own doors, and I do NOT need you to protect me. But all of those things can be nice, in their place.

6. Be a man. A real one.

I don't need to hear about every single one of your feelings. Talk to your therapist/best friend/dog about the trivial stuff.
Find it on your own. You can look up directions as easily as I can.
Have manners. If your mama didn't teach them to you, please buy a book or something.

7. I'm funny. Acknowledge.

8. If you wear a class ring, you need not apply.

9. The L-word is not a salutation. Use it as such, and it means nothing.

10. I like cake. Feed it to me.

These are really in no particular order, except the first. It's kind of like that rule about Fight Club. Break it, and the rest of the shiz doesn't matter.

Climbing the Wall

2009-11-04T09:37:00.001-06:00

I've been rock climbing for a few months now, and I love it. I had done it years ago, and sort of liked it, but now? It's a passion.

I'm not very good at it yet.

I don't care.

There's this one route at the climbing gym that's giving me trouble. It's a route I should be able to climb, theoretically. I can climb all the other ones that are at the same level (except one, but seriously...it's harder and I'm working on it, too).

You see, on this route, the second move is to grip these holds that I simply cannot grip. They are awkward and slippery and I just can't seem to get them. But the third move is this perfect yellow hold, for my right hand. Last night, I finally (after weeks of trying to just get off the ground) managed to get my right hand up to that yellow hold.

It hurt.

A lot.

Then I realized that I needed to get my left foot up underneath my butt. The only problem was that my right hand was smashing the left side of my body against the wall, making it really difficult to move my left food underneath me without pulling my right hand out of the hold.

I was in my own way.

I finally got my left foot where I needed it to be, but I didn't have the strength to pull myself up any further. I didn't trust my legs to hold me. I'd seen other people do it. I knew what needed to be done, but I just couldn't quite trust myself to do it.

This morning I was thinking about this problem and I started to realize that this route, this path on a rock climbing wall, might be a pretty good parallel to my own life.

I've spent so much time and energy trying to reach this one thing. I struggled and struggled. I fell down. I got back up. And then, I finally got my hand on it.

What if that one thing isn't what I want after all? It's the only path I can see. It's the attainable goal. But what if reaching it puts me in my own way? What if reaching it has drained me of the strength I need for anything else? How do I trust myself to keep going, or, even harder, find another path?

Is it just me?

2009-11-02T08:37:00.000-06:00

So the big hullabaloo on the (sports talk) radio station I listen to this morning was...the Dallas Cowboys cheerleader who dressed as Li'l Wayne for Halloween.

The controversy is this: She's a little white girl with blonde hair. And she dressed up as Li'l Wayne for Halloween. In order to accomplish this, she used dark makeup to darken her skin. BECAUSE SHE WAS TRYING TO BE LI'L WAYNE. Who, ya know, isn't white.

For reference, here's her picture, both as a cheerleader and as Li'l Wayne, and a picture of Li'l Wayne:

Now this poor girl is being labeled as a racist and being disciplined by the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading Nazi, Kelly what's-her-name. For her HALLOWEEN COSTUME.

Look, if she had dressed up as a person of color being hung by a noose from a tree? That's incredibly offensive. But to dress up as a famous rapper? I'd say that's complimentary. Maybe she was being offensive about it at the party she attended, I don't know.

However, not that I'm watching the fourth season of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team, because that would just be silly, Kelly what's-her-name just nearly cut someone on the last episode because she was "looking a little chunky." Which means that normally girls "her size" weigh 112 pounds and she weighs 123. So she really needs to cut that down if she expects to make the squad.

You know what I find offensive? THAT.

It's Friday, we should break up - Marriage

2009-10-30T08:37:00.002-05:00

I would assume that most of you know that I'm not really a big fan of the marriage idea. But if you don't...well, I'm not.

I think it's a silly concept and completely unnecessary. Making a legal contract with someone else for the rest of your life? No thank you.

It's not that I'm against celebrating your love for someone else. I just don't understand why you need a little piece of paper in order to do it, why you want the government involved in it, or why you need to spend thousands upon thousands of dollars on it.

Aside from this, I would like to separately breakup with engagement rings. I didn't realize this until a couple of days ago, but engagement rings are wrapped up in all kind of legal bullshit. Legal bullshit that basically means, "If you're a woman, please to bend over so we can shove something in your bum."

It seems that an engagement ring is an offer in a contract of marriage (It's a nasty word, isn't it? Contract...ugh). And as such, if the marriage doesn't take place for any reason, the man is legally entitled to the ring.

I always thought that this was just a matter of protocol. Generally speaking, my opinion was always this: If you're the girl, you should probably give the ring back. If you're the man, you should probably expect that the ring is gone. I don't know, it just seems shitty, especially if you're the one who ended it, to go to the woman and say, "Yeah, I know I hurt you and stuff, but that ring I gave you as an everlasting symbol of my love? I'm going to need that back."

Um. Douche.

Generally speaking, it's equally douchey to keep the ring, if you're a girl. Though the common consensus seems to be that if the guy did something shady, the ring is yours.

But the law says no. Because we still live in 1637.

How is an engagement ring not a gift? Albeit a stupid one. And this whole spending two months salary on a ring, if you're the guy? Um, no. Especially not if you make any amount of money. And why is it that if two people are both gainfully employed that only the MAN should buy the woman something? It's just lopsided and wrong.

Instead, I propose this: Go on a "we're getting married" vacation! Split the cost, everyone has a good time and instead of a ring, you have pictures to show everyone.

Or buy each other something.

Or don't buy anything.

Or don't get married. Just have a mature, long-term relationship, based on mutual respect and trust that either party can leave without calling a lawyer. Because everyone knows that lawyers are the devil. Right, Princess?

So that's it, Marriage. And everything that goes along with it. I'm out. I'd like to be happy and continue to have sex, thanks. And those are two things it seems most (NOT ALL, I know) marriages are without.

In other news, tomorrow is HALLOWEEN! I'm so excited. I love you, Halloween. You are the best holiday. Everyone have a fun and safe weekend!

UPDATE: I do know that there are logical, rational reasons to get married. All of Erin's points (in the comments) are valid, even if she did sign in using her husband's name (which I think is pretty funny, considering). And for those very reasons, and pretty much only those reasons, I may one day get married. But an engagement ring holds very little interest to me, either way. Unless, of course, the government we now live under decides to come to its senses and stop supporting so fiercely what is essentially a religious institution and institutes civil unions for all with equal rights to everyone. Which would be great.

TMI Thursday - I guess you could call it a submarine.

2009-10-29T07:37:00.002-05:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Today's TMI post is brought to you by...my childhood in East Tennessee. Oh yes, we lived in the STICKS.

I used to have this cousin. I say "used to" for good reason. She was probably never really my cousin in the first place. See my mom married my sister's dad (not my dad) who had a brother who used to be married to her mother (but who was not her father), but wasn't any more. So basically we're like twice removed by divorce at this point.

She wasn't always terribly nice to me. I was younger and new and my mom wouldn't let me do anything fun. I will say though, that she's the reason I saw Dirty Dancing at the ripe old age of eight, when my mom probably would have chosen for me to wait until I was married. Sorry Mom!

Dirty Dancing: It's where I learned all about pre-marital sex and awesome dancing.

So anyway, when I met this sort-of-cousin, I was four, I think. She was five. We hung out a lot. I spent the night at her house all the time, which was cool because her mom let us do cool things like build blanket forts with chairs in the basement and listen to Michael Jackson records and dance until past my bedtime.

One evening, we were taking a bath together. I have no idea why. Probably it was just more efficient. Possibly we had made a mess of ourselves in the mud. There's really no telling.

We were in the tub, playing and splashing and I'm sure being ridiculous. Just by the way, this cousin is the reason you will never hear me pick dare at Truth or Dare, which I have still never played to this day because I was so scarred from her trying to get me to do or say things. Now I'm not scared of the truth, but I'm still a little scared of the dare.

Anyway, we were in the bathtub and all of a sudden, I looked down and saw something weird in the water. It wasn't floating, just sort of...sitting at the bottom of the tub. It was brown and kind of log-like in shape.

Yeah, you guessed it.

She pooped in the bathtub. WHILE WE WERE IN IT.

Hi, my name is Shine and I don't know how to deal with nice people.

2009-10-28T07:37:00.005-05:00

As you possibly know, or maybe you don't, I started dating someone. An actual person. A guy, even. I call him Princess.

He's nice. I'm not. Obviously. What kind of nice person nicknames her boyfriend Princess? (But seriously, he takes longer to get ready than I do, which he claims is because his clothes are fancier. And okay, yes...he has to wear real live suits to work and I could show up in my pajamas and no one would care, but STILL.)

(I'm pretty sure his suits are dead. Sorry for the misrepresentation. Don't come after Princess PETA!)

And I'm in "oh, you're doing nice things what do you want oh you're just nice why are you so nice just say something shitty to me dammit!" mode. Because that's how I roll.

I don't recall having these issues in the past, but my last relationship wasn't exactly the stuff that romantic comedies are made of. So here we are. I live in horrible fear of being my last boyfriend.

The thought of taking advantage of someone's giving nature or of walking all over someone terrifies me. COMPLETELY.

So now I'm doing this new dance in which I've been complimented so much I feel like I'm about to puke rainbows and butterflies.

How messed up am I?

In other news, I went on my first grown up date (I even had to dress up a little! Hello little black dress, nice to see you.) a couple of weeks ago. Since I'm so fancy now, I'm going to write you a restaurant review (and not tell you how many tries it just took me to type "restaurant").

Without further ado, I present you with a review of Local (click the link, damn it):

Local, located in Deep Ellum, transformed the face (and guts) of Dallas's oldest standing hotel, the Boyd Hotel. While retaining the charm and coziness of the structure, built in 1908, Local has transformed the space into a modern restaurant. Chef Tracy Miller's menu of upscale American cuisine will certainly make your mouth and belly smile.

The amuse-bouche was a broccoli soup that nearly brought tears to my eyes. Seriously, broccoli should start using this soup as an advertisement. (I've just been informed that it was, in fact, broccoli rabe soup, which is an entirely different vegetable, so I guess broccoli is still out of luck unless it wants to get sued for false advertising.) It was creamy, but not heavy and full of simple, yet luscious flavors. None of which I can identify because I took one bite and my entire mind went blank save for the thought, "Get this soup in my mouth now PLEASE THANK YOU." So that's what happened. Only I continued to use my TEENY TINY SPOON, so no one would notice that I had reverted to caveman status.

Next we ordered an appetizer of lobster cakes. Hello, delicious! They were just the right amount of lumpy and crumbly and (god, it pains me to write this word because I HATE IT, but there is no other word) moist. I calmly forked my cake into my mouth at a slow enough speed to not cause alarm. I refrained from licking my plate, but don't even think that I didn't contemplate it. I did. About a dozen times.

Our server spouted off the specials and one of them involved cheese grits. Yes, please. When my entree arrived, I almost cried (again) it was so beautiful. Fresh, lightly sauteed spinach on top of a Fillet Mignon marinated in something blah blah vinaigrette, all of which sat on a love seat of cheese grits. It couldn't possibly taste as good as it looked, but I gave in, after staring at it lovingly for five minutes, and sunk my knife into the steak. This was the most tender steak ever to be put in front of me. On my fork, I assembled the perfect first bite. A piece of spinach, a small cut of the steak, covered in cheese grits. I brought it to my mouth and closed my eyes and...FOODGASM. This was possibly the most delicious bite of food to ever enter my mouth. Cue tingling in my lady parts. I put my fork down on my plate, both hands on the table, eyes still closed and just savored the moment. I wanted to make slow sweet love to this plate of food. I'm pretty sure I proposed marriage. What?

I was stuck between a rock and a hard place at this point. If I continued to eat my food, it would be gone. It, the new love of my life, the apple of my eye, the mac to my cheese. But I wanted to inhale it like a hoover vacuum because it was so delicious. I went back and forth for a while, but I finally managed to eat Every. Last. Bite. And I did so without yelling, "GET IN MY BELLY YOU DELICIOUS PIECE OF MEAT." It was close, but I made it.

You know that scene in When Harry Met Sally where Sally shows Harry that all the women he's been sleeping with have been fakin' it by fakin' her own in the middle of the diner? Yeah, it was like that, but FOR REAL. I'm pretty sure the lady at the next table said, "I'll have whatever she's having" and everything.

At this point, I was so full, I didn't think I could eat another bite. Possibly for the rest of my life. But oh no, dessert was upon us.

One scoop of homemade "mint chocolate chip" ice cream. It's in quotes because it's not the same ice cream you buy in the store. Chef Miller steeps the mint leaves in the cream for the ice cream for a completely explosive flavor of pure spearmint. The chocolate isn't too bold. Basically, in the words of Goldilocks, it's just right.

Then the banana Bundt cake, which was topped with roasted banana ice cream and chocolate ganache. I don't like ice cream and cake together. Ever. But this? Was heaven on a spoon. The cake and the ice cream went together perfectly. I almost jumped up on the table to hump the plate. I think ice cream smashed on my crotch would have made the perfect addition to my little black dress, thankyouverymuch.

And then it was over. And I didn't even make the sex with any of it. But I'm pretty sure Princess got a ~~how-do-you-do~~ kiss on the cheek later that evening. Our only wrong step was to go see Where the Wild Things Are after eating all of that delicious food, instead of going somewhere and having bourbon on the rocks, smoking a cigar, and ~~humping like rabbits~~ staring deeply into each other's eyes.

So this, my dear readers, is what happens when I get taken on a date. I nearly do the horizontal mambo with all my food and then force you to go to the movies afterward. Oh, and I leave on a jet plane the next morning at 6:45 am to go to #pbandtuna, so you don't even get to sleep in. Okay, that probably doesn't always happen.

Is it too soon to ask to go back? I should mention here that I put up a fuss like you would not believe when Princess said he wanted to take me to this, his favorite restaurant in Dallas (the man's got good taste...OBVIOUSLY). I don't accept dates to places I can't afford and friends and lovers, let me say that this was no McDonald's. I've had too many crappy dates and I just don't go places where I can't afford to pay at least my half of the check. But he convinced me that he wanted to take me, so I should shut my face. And after my orgasmic eating performance, I suspect he might not even mind taking me back there.

It's not a World Series if yours is the only country competing, assholes.

2009-10-26T10:37:00.000-05:00

So the Yankees are in the "World" Series. Color me pissed off.

Not that I'm an Angels fan. I'm not. Pretty much anything Disney related can kiss my grits (What? I'm from The South.). Well, except The Little Mermaid and Mary Poppins. Okay okay, there are probably others I like. But still. This whole Disney Vault thing? Blows horse penis. And I think we all know it. (Sorry, family. It's Monday. I'm not in a censorship mood.)

Since my Dodgers couldn't pull one out (TWSS), I'm stuck with a Phillies/Yankees "World" Series. Frankly? I couldn't care less about it.

But let's talk about this for a second. A WORLD Series? Because the United States of We're More Important Than You encompasses the whole world? No. You people kinda make me sick.

I guess it's too late to change it now. Just make a note: I think this is complete jackassery.

In other news, I, too, am a jackass. For an entirely different reason, though, don't worry. And this isn't an interesting story. I'll just warn you now.

At the office, we have this printer, copier, scanner, fax machine thing. We all hate it. For months, it printed all white backgrounds blue. Which is fine, except we print A LOT of maps. So it looked like everything was underwater.

We lease this machine from a company and that company pretty much refuses to give us a different one. So we're stuck with this one.

Well, it's a laser printer, so it uses toner. LOTS of toner. And of course, the excess toner has to be stored somewhere. They give us a little reservoir thing which has holes that correspond to each of the toners. When the reservoir fills up, I have to change it out for a new one. All of this sounds pretty simple, right?

Removing the completely-full-of-excess toner reservoir is where things get a little tricky. See, it has a bunch of holes in the top, for the toner. No problem, right? But when it's full, I have to do something with it. This is usually on a day when I've actually gotten ready for work and/or am wearing something white. Cue disaster.

I pull the reservoir out of the copy machine; carefully trying to put it in the plastic baggy that the new reservoir just vacated (with my help, of course). Inevitably, I spill toner all over myself/the floor/someone else's face whatever. ALWAYS. Then came the day I realized that the little baggy? It has a HOLE IN IT. Oh good!

Last week, I was changing the toner reservoir when I noticed all these little plastic knob looking things taped to the front of the container itself. They are oddly the EXACT size of the little holes in the top. Like so:

Now, I've been doing this toner thing for nearly two years now. And I've never noticed this before. I'm supposed to be using the little plastic things to PLUG THE HOLES (TWSS?) in the toner reservoir before I dispose of it. You know, so I don't get toner all over the damn place.

Hi, my name is Shine, and I'm an idiot.

It's Friday, we should break up - Pretty much everyone on any airplane, including you Mr. Turtleneck Sweater Airline Flight Attendant.

2009-10-23T08:37:00.001-05:00

As you well know by now, M and I went to DC last weekend to celebrate in the love and festivities for our darling dears LiLu and Maxie.

As you also may have noted, we were grumpy bitches on our flight home. I had clearly caught whatever plague was floating around the party and M, well she was doing the major hangover dance. I was a little hungover myself, but mostly I was suffering from allergies (to CATS, Tony, not just elusive "allergies.") and plague.

And on both of our flights home we encountered...SCREAMING, WHINING, ANNOYING CHILDREN.

M actually likes kids. I don't. I mean, some kids are okay, but only the ones who are smart enough to act like grown-ups. These were not those kids.

In the row across from us, there was a little girl sitting on her mother's lap. Every once in a while, for no apparent reason, this child would let out a wail that nearly made my ears bleed.

Let's talk about this, airlines. Why oh why would you make it CHEAPER to fly with children by letting them sit in their parents' laps? You're killing me here. There should be a premium on seats for children. And they should have to have their own. The plane is crowded enough due to you trying to cut costs and therefore squeezing as many seats on every plane as you possibly can with no regard for how you're going to actually fit people into them.

So, new rule #1: Children should be required to have their own seats. And a seat for a child should cost more than a seat for a reasonably intelligent adult.

Next, in the row across and in front of us, there were two little girls, sitting on each side of their dad. One of them kept staring at us. The other pretty much screamed and wailed and whined and cried for the duration of the flight.

To which I have to say this: Parents? Get a fucking grip on your children. They're kids, so they're going to be bored on a plane. Bring some activities. Knock them out with some Benedryl. Gag them, if you have to. But do NOT let them disturb everyone on the plane. Take a road trip instead, please.

Just because you decided to have children doesn't mean I should suffer. Which leads us to rule #2: If your kids are obnoxious cretins, don't bring them on my plane. Or I will be forced to start performing retroactive abortions. (Hey, it's not murder! It's retroactive abortion! Yes, I'm offensive.)

Rule #3 should really be "STOP HAVING KIDS!" But I know that's not going to happen, so I'll just leave it at two rules for now.

And to everyone else on the plane: really, stop being ridiculous. You know you can only bring one carry-on bag and one personal bag. You know you can put one of those in the overhead bin and one under your seat. You know that if you're sitting in the back, it's stupid and a pain in the ass for you to fill up the overhead storage in the front. You know that if you're already in your seat you should wait until everyone is seated before getting up, blocking the aisle, to get your book out of your carry-on bag. You know that I'm going to curse at you if you get in my way doing any of these things.

Flight attendants in turtleneck sweaters are just assholes, as far as I can tell.

That is all.

Oh, I wrote a blog today.

2009-10-22T08:37:00.000-05:00

Yes, yes I did.

Go find it.

Wednesday Wipeouts

2009-10-21T07:37:00.001-05:00

Well, folks, I told you to enjoy them while they last!

Here's your last installment of Wednesday Wipeouts.

~~~~oOo~~~~

Subject: Hi

Hi, I love to get know, looking for new friend to hang out with and have good time.

I'm pretty sure this guy is from the United States, and therefore should speak English.

~~~~oOo~~~~

No Subject

you look fun,and i want a new friend.what do you say

Translation: I'd like to make the sexy time with you, wanna do it?

~~~~oOo~~~~

No Subject

that firey red hair, those sparkly green eyes, an unquenchable thirst 4 guinness - I think I'm in LOVE!

seriously, u want to elope? dead serious, just try me!!

Um...no. Also, I'm pretty sure my eyes aren't green. But whatever.

~~~~oOo~~~~

Subject: We are not alike and I like that!

Hello!

I love your picture! That first one which you label as the face you usually make in pictures! What a delightful image. If you don't reply to this, at least know that you gave me a nice smile at the end of a hectic day.

OK... we're not a lot alike, but I think that might bring out better things.

For instance, I know almost nothing about sports... but if you like sports (especially football), I wouldn't mind having you tell me what's going on... or simply sit along with you and watch you enjoy the things that have meaning to you.

I, on the other hand, love movies. All kinds of movies. I love chick flicks and zombie movies and science fiction and drama and action and super hero and period pieces and... well... I can't always explain what I'll like in a movie. Sometimes... badly written movies will turn me off utterly... but sometimes, I'll see a movie that's badly written, but something about it will be charming and BANG... I'll have a good time.

I'm overweight, sure... but I'm trying to exercise and be more fit... and I imagine that someone with a more active exercise program might help motivate me to work harder... though right now, what I'm doing is taking its toll... but I know it's all for the best.

I'm not an outdoors person at all... but I would NEVER be the sort to hold you back from the things you enjoy...

However, there's hope here. I also hate smoking, I love to laugh... and while I try to be very polite in public, I can swear like a sailor as well. I like to read, though I'll admit my mind wanders and it takes me longer than I'd like to get through the books I enjoy. Currently, I'm reading a collection of Lovecraft short stories, "A Clash of Kings" by George R. R. Martin, and Obama's book about his father.

My musical tastes are all over the place. I've got indie, alternative, punk, classic rock, classical music, pop, even one or two rap songs, blues and so on and so forth. I would never want to be in a place where there was no music.

If you'd like to talk more... maybe even get together for a movie... please contact me here or at [obviously, I'm not going to let you see his email, but it had "uncle" in it.]

I hope to hear from you!

-[Name]

Truth? This is probably more sweet than anything else, aside from the ellipsis situation. But this is A LOT of information to vomit up when sending a first email to someone.

~~~~oOo~~~~

And my PERSONAL FAVORITE:

Subject: You

oh, man, you are a nerd of the highest caliber. That whole thing about next gen, well I got you beat on that but I'm not bragging. Oh yeah, and I wanted to call you a poopface. There. I did it. I called a perfect stranger a poopface! Haha!

[weird name that surely wasn't his name, but also didn't match his username]

He called me a poopface. I hope he's proud. His momma clearly raised him right.

~~~oOo~~~

So, as Porky Pig would say, Th-th-th-that's all folks!

This girl is actually dating a man. And it just feels weird to continue to receive emails from strange men all the time, so my dating profile is now disabled. Also, he's been reading my blog (and somehow still likes me...I think his favorite so far was my assplosion), so he's probably reading this. Everyone wave!

I'm not posting today.

2009-10-20T07:37:00.000-05:00

Because if I post today, I'm just going to go on a complete bitchfest rant about men (my boss, the crazy drunk Jesus-loves-you man in the bar last night). And no one wants to hear that.

Also, I'm sick. WTF? Was there a plague in DC?

So instead, I'll just direct you here (Seriously, click it or I'll punch you in the vagina) for a much needed recap of the weekend's festivities. There's a picture I completely don't remember taking.

A lesson in what not to do. And an awesome time at #pbandtuna.

2009-10-19T08:37:00.000-05:00

So this weekend, the fabulous M and I put our asses on a plane to fly to DC for LiLu and Maxie's wedding, AKA #pbandtuna.

There are some obvious logistical and practical problems with this plan. Mainly that we spent a total of 12 hours on planes to go to a party for less than half that amount of time.

TOTALLY WORTH IT.

If you'd like to read about the ticket purchase, please click here. It was a bit of a disaster.

We managed to get to the airport at 5:45 AM and get on our 6:45 AM flight. We were more than a little giggly, but we soon PASSED THE FUCK OUT. We slept so much that we didn't realize that the flight was actually over two hours long.

Once we finally made it to DC, M headed off with LateNight Drama Queen to have lunch with her Grams in Baltimore, while I was picked up by the lovely PQ and we went to snuggle the faces of GingerMandy and Just a Girl (and JP, of course).

I? Was in blogger heaven.

What no one bothered to mention is that people in DC don't stay home on the weekends. They drive. IN MY WAY. We sat in so much traffic, I was sort of concerned that my ass was going to permanently attach to PQ's front seat. Why weren't these people home having sex?!? Having said that, I've never had so much fun in a car, sitting in traffic.

And then it was finally time to go to #pbandtuna!

I would list all the lovelies I met, but...well, I was a little too drunk to remember. But I will say this: LiLu (and B), Maxie, Alexa, Lexa, Rachel, Alice, Just A Girl, GingerMandy, PQ, JP, Matt, Katie, Restaurant Refugee, fB, katierose, LateNight Drama Queen, and too many more to name. You guys are all amazing.

I can't even tell you what happened because...what the fuck happened? A bunch of awesome, that's what.

The worst decision? To fly home with a massive, angry hangover. On two planes with screaming children. I almost died. Scratch that. Children almost died. And I know exactly what I'm breaking up with this Friday. I'm looking at you kids on airplanes.

It's Friday, we should break up - Using tax terms to define your relationship.

2009-10-16T07:37:00.000-05:00

DISCLAIMER: I completely understand why taxes are filed this way. You do NOT need to explain to me the difference between paying taxes as a single person and paying taxes as a married person. I promise.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way...

When you're filling out your W-whatever at your place of employment, you must choose how to file your taxes. In general, there are three boxes (yes, seriously, I understand that there are really only two choices):

Single

Married

Married, but filing as Single

In terms of taxes these choices make perfect sense. But relationships have far more grey area. You could be dating someone, you could be sleeping with someone, you could have a purely platonic relationship based on a mutual love for shopping, you could be engaged, you could be dating a dozen people, you could be polyamorous.

In all those circumstances, when the IRS asks, you are single.

When anyone else asks, however? You better the hell state your business. Claiming to be "single" when you're actually in a relationship with one person is just jackassery.

Furthermore, following that up with "I'm not married to you," when your girlfriend or boyfriend questions your response is really unnecessary. I'm guessing that as long as that other person can at least eat solid foods, he or she probably knows that a marriage has not taken place. And in that moment, he or she is probably very glad to be "single." Maybe even Single.

Also, that "Married, but filing as Single" relationship could get a little tricky.

I don't want to hear it. Hell, I don't even want to see it. But yes, I did it.

2009-10-15T00:37:00.000-05:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

When I was on the drugs a couple of weeks ago, I might have decided it would be a good idea to record a video of myself.

Now, it's my wedding gift to LiLu and Maxie.

It's disturbing on more levels than one. Good luck.

Wednesday Wipeouts

2009-10-14T07:37:00.001-05:00

Welcome back to another addition of Wednesday Wipeouts!

No subject on this one:

If I were to order off the menu of potential girl friends that would be good for both of us, I would order you. Let me know if there is interest on your part.

[name]

I have to admit, I'm a little confused about how he's planning to pick from a girlfriend menu to satisfy me. It's possible this is sweet, but it sounds a little creepy to me.

~~~~oOo~~~~

Frankly, this guy takes the cake. Not because of his message, but because of his profile.

Subject: I love your profile and we seem compatible.

You're smart and pretty and like to get around and have fun. I may be a bit older than you have in mind but please at least let me know what you think of my profile. I'd be honored to meet you someday.

[yes, he has a name]

Normally I wouldn't do this, but...I'm going to share a few excerpts from his actual profile. First, he's 55-years-old and looks everyday of it. I'd actually question his veracity at claiming to be so young. Second, I really dislike it when people tell me what I do and don't do. Third, while I don't personally practice polyamory, I have nothing against it. It's just not really for me.

In his self-summary: (This is only one of maybe six paragraphs.)

Note, some of you younger ladies (30's, 40's) may wonder why I'm interested, is it just the usual stereotype reasons? Actually, I think mostly not. Some ladies in their 30's have found me attractive and some have even become girlfriends, they seem to appreciate my maturity compared to the 30 something men they know who they say are like dogs or something... go figure... as for my own interest in women 30-60 who are in good health - having been widowed twice in 3 years gets old, I want someone who's not going to die on me this time - I'm not looking for pity and that may seem a bit selfish, and I'm not the healthiest guy around either, but I think I've paid my dues by now if you know what I mean. Besides, I'm in much better shape and plan to be around for a good long time, I've got too much to do before I go... ;)

What is he doing with his life?

Running my businesses, playing Dungeons & Dragons, playing bass and keyboard at jam sessions, working on various political projects, trying to save money, getting out to meet people and have fun.

The most private thing he's willing to admit here? (This section is INSANELY long. I'm really really really cutting down.)

[...] I'm polyamorous. I am NOT collecting a harem or anything like that but I am open to being blessed with a small number of high-quality loving Long Term Relationships that complement each other, I don't expect any one lady to meet all of my needs. Of course this is mutual, it works both ways, I don't expect to be your only boyfriend either. Polyamory is NOT cheating, it's the opposite of cheating, it's all above board and consensual. This is not about swinging or casual sex, it's about committed Long Term Relationships. It's about love more than sex, although of course responsible safe sex is required as with any relationship. To make poly work requires the same kind of commitment, honesty, understanding, and communication as in a marriage of 2, only more so.

Very few species are naturally monogamous, and humanity is generally not. Monogamy is natural for some people, polyamory for others. People have the capacity to love more than one person. Most people have multiple parents, children, siblings, or friends and love them all; none of them insist on being your only friend or whatever. Why should lovers be any different? Rules? Where do these rules come from?

If any of you think that this sounds immoral, I think that God would disagree with that idea; remember that many of the heroic role models of the Bible had dozens of wives and girlfriends. Of course that was in a sexist Middle Eastern culture; polyamory is the generic, non-sexist version of polygamy and is not oriented toward any specific religion. Just as I have enough love to share with more than one girlfriend, I wouldn't mind sharing you; you too should be able to have more than one lover if that works for you and them. Safe sex of course.

Jealousy is based on insecurity and the idea that if your lover falls in love with another, they'll leave and you'll lose them. With poly, this is not a problem, so jealousy gives way to compersion, in which you share your lover's happiness just as you would a friend's. Yes, it takes getting used to, but it feels so much better in the long run... with poly, you can be lovers and still be friends too [...]

[...] So here it is, yes, I'm poly, and I have a new girlfriend I met here on OKCupid. As I said above, I'm still available for dating, leading to friendships and ultimately, high-quality LTR's. You need not be poly but should be at least poly-compatible; it's up to you whether you also want or have other boyfriends or not (safe sex of course). For example, neither of my last 2 girlfriends wanted any other boyfriends besides me, but they didn't mind sharing me because they could see that I had enough love for both of them. They wanted to meet each other sometime, but never got the chance as one died and the other had to move away due to family issues [...]

[...] I've recently become aware of a possible further need for clarification. Opinions differ in the poly community about such labels as "primary", "secondary", etc. as people understandably don't like to be labelled, and who can really classify love anyway, right? Well, generally, these refer not to the relationship itself or how much love is involved, as these are not really quantifiable, but to the role of the relationship in the person's daily life. Don't get me wrong, my new girlfriend A. and I love each other very much, but this does not get in the way of her relationship with her spice (husband and wife), nor does it prevent me from seeking more relationships for myself. Indeed, her spice felt that her happiness would increase if she had another boyfriend, so they encouraged her to look, and we found each other here on OKCupid. They are happy for both of us. I feel that finding the right primary girlfriend/wife for me will enhance my own happiness (and hopefully yours as well, otherwise it would be pointless), and when I do, A. will be happy for both of us, just as a friend would be. Eventually you might want to meet her, but that's not required [...]

And finally, you should message him if...

[...] The more of these qualities you have, the more I want to meet you, but these are not all required, and close does partially count: white, Asian/Pacific, or Native American; 5'10" to 6'2"; 180# to 240#; voluptuous, soft and cuddly; IQ 130 to 160; religious minority (especially Pagan); libertarian/ancap; entrepreneur; techie; musician; D&D player; nudist; enthusiastic about sex (if and when the relationship gets to that point) and open to different things (not too kinky) [...]

[...] Please don't be offended but we are less likely to be compatible if you: are racist, sexist, homophobic, a religious bigot, etc.; want to preach at me or convert me; are closed-minded or have to always have things your way; are extremely conservative; think that morality cannot exist outside of religion; believe that America is (or should be) a "Christian nation"; believe that Witches are devil-worshippers; are a devil-worshipper yourself; can't stand the idea of dating someone over 250# or over 50 or of a different religion than yours; have significant mental health problems, or severe physical health problems (I'm not cruel, I've just done more than my share taking care of people with these problems and already lost a wife and a girlfriend); are just barely making it from check to check or cannot support yourself most of the time (same as previous note, I'm not greedy, I just don't need another burden); believe that it's commendable to be poor or that it's a sin to be rich or that rich people must be greedy or evil or exploiting the poor; are an addict; are abusive or violent or dishonest or passive/aggressive, or think that "little white lies" are no big deal; are unable to discuss issues or disagreements calmly and rationally; expect me to read your mind; think of abuse as something that men do to women; think that polyamory or open marriage are just forms of cheating and don't want to learn the difference; don't believe in dating and want to quickly move toward a closed, exclusive, monogamous, possessive relationship; believe in no sex until marriage; or are a nazi, communist, fascist, or other totalitarian [...]

I didn't edit any of that except to remove stuff (A LOT of stuff). I would have posted the whole thing, but it made me sleepy to read it.

Who knew a purse could crash a plane?

2009-10-13T08:37:00.001-05:00

This weekend, I traveled to Huntsville, Alabama for the wedding of two of my friends. It was beautiful. A bug flew in my eye and caused it to tear up, but I did NOT cry. Of course, I don't want to talk to you about that sappy stuff, though.

Let's talk airlines. As an experiment, I left my cell phone on for the duration of both flights.

The plane did not crash.

Has anyone ever contemplated what would happen if we all just refused to put our seat backs and tray tables in their fully upright and locked positions? If this actually affects the way the plane takes off and lands, someone please let me know.

I'm pretty sure this is all just an elaborate game between flight attendants to see what they can get a flight of people to do next. Or rather, not to do. Because they still have to give their oxygen mask/seat belt demonstration every time and no one has bothered to listen since 1982.

The latest? You can't even hold your purse in your lap while the plane is taking off and landing. So I was sitting on the plane, in the first row, where I couldn't put my purse under the seat in front of me because there was no seat in front of me and I was thinking to myself, "It's cool, self, just hold your purse." Then they told me I couldn't hold my purse. Unfortunately, it's the kind of purse that has no zipper. As you can imagine, I didn't really feel comfy putting it up in the overhead bin so things could fall out of it all over the place.

--You know what they never say any more? They never tell you to be careful opening overhead bins because carry-on items may have shifted in flight. You know why? Because overhead bins are now stuffed like sardines in a can because they've limited what you can bring on the damn plane while simultaneously deciding that the cargo space they already built into the plane for your damn luggage is now prime real estate, for which you must pay. Assholes. In other news, my hair is a frizzy mess without some kind of product in it and they don't make mousse in travel size. So yeah, I looked vaguely like carrot top for the entire weekend. I can only hope there are no pictures. But it was a WEDDING.--

Instead of holding my purse, I held my wallet, phone, two books (I was almost done with one, so I had to have the second to start before the pilot turned off the "Fasten Seat Belts" sign...which he never did), and chapstick. I feel sure that this was better than me just holding my purse. I mean, if I need my hands, I could just sit my singular purse on the floor or whatever and now I'm doing a juggling act, but I kind of wanted to join the circus anyway.

To sum up, fuck you airlines, for making my life as difficult as possible. Also, homeland security? Let's get rid of the pretty color system, shall we? Has the threat even GONE below orange in the last eight years?

It's Friday, we should break up - Dating Rules

2009-10-09T07:37:00.001-05:00

Okay, so I know I broke up with dating a while back. But we sort of got back together.

I know.

I think what I really meant to do (aside from getting away from the crazy freaks I'd been out with) was break up with all the rules associated with dating. Maybe you love them. But I? Am done.

If you want to date me (and I'm sure none of you do), I'm not going to engage in some complicated ritual of waiting to call, trying to be mysterious, getting you to buy me things, and stressing over sex.

Coy: I don't do it.

I spent some time perusing the Internets for dating rules. I came upon a little gem at TopDatingTips.com. They have rules specifically for women.

Some of my favorites:

Never reveal information you don't have to. An enigmatic woman drives men wild. (I'm just bad at this. If I know something, it's going to come out of my mouth. Period.)

Keep dates brief, but your men interested. Less is always more. (No, sometimes more is more. What about that great date where you sit and talk for hours and feel like it's only been ten minutes? How can you have that date if you have to keep them all brief?)

Let your man pay. If he is interested, he is interested enough to ensure you eat well and get home safely in a cab. (This sort of disgusts me, personally. Why does his interest hinge on money? Why am I not capable of paying my own way? If both parties are gainfully employed, it's ridiculous to expect the man to always pay. Take turns. It's FAIR.)

Never ever sleep with a guy until he has fallen for you. Sex early in your dating game plan will ruin everything. (Ugh. Have sex when you're ready to have sex. Just don't confuse sex with love. They're not the same.)

Always keep a guy waiting and never turn up early. It is a lady's perogative. (I've killed people for less. Being late is just rude.)

Never be available when he wants you to be. Never be at the end of a phone when he calls and always let him leave a message or two first before replying. If he is available Tuesday, you are available Thursday. (REALLY?!? I would walk away immediately. If you genuinely have a challenging, busy schedule, there's nothing wrong with that. But don't just make it up to be difficult. Have the balls to be real.)

Keep your man standing on quicksand by shifting landmarks and goalposts constantly. (What does this mean? Are you traveling? Playing football? I'm confused.)

Ensure you receive flowers. If he doesn't know what a florist is, dump him. (Flowers are nice, I suppose. Until they DIE. And how do you ensure this anyway?)

If the guy in the corner is gorgeous, go get him and create the need in him for you. Never wait for men to come to you because you may watch him leave with someone else. (Okay, this one I mostly agree with. Create your own damn opportunities. I don't know about this "creating the need" business, though.)

Consider this: What if you just went out, acted like yourself (the you you are when you're with your best friends), talked about whatever felt natural (I suppose there are exceptions. He probably doesn't need to know about your indigestion right away, save it for date two.), did whatever felt right (aside from holding up a liquor store or murdering anyone), and had a good time? Why must there be all these jackass rules?

TMI Thursday - But she can't use tampons...

2009-10-08T08:37:00.000-05:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

When I was 11-years-old, my mom moved me and my sister from Nashville, Tennessee to Honolulu, Hawaii. The whys and hows are long and boring.

We lived in Honolulu for a year. (I know what you’re thinking…no, it wasn’t really awesome.) During that year, my mom and my (now) step-dad tried their hands at a few tropical hobbies, like scuba diving.

This also happened to be the year that my uterus decided to start releasing eggs or whatever, so I could make the babies. Apparently my uterus thinks I’m Mormon or in a cult or something.

Dear uterus,

I do not want to make the babies. I certainly didn’t when I was 11. Please fall out and die and stop making me bleed every month. This is getting ridiculous.

Love,
Shine

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way…

On the blessed day, I was home alone with my (now) step-dad. Let’s just say that he wasn’t on my list of favorite people. And here I am, bleeding from my tiny girl parts with barely a clue as to what’s happening to me.

I asked to call my mother, he asked why. I said, “I just want to call Mom, okay?”

I called my mom at the hospital (she’s a nurse) and explained what was going on in hushed tones. She laughed and told me it was just my period and no big deal. Turns out I wasn’t dying after all. I didn’t want her to tell my (now) step-dad because I was horrified about the whole thing.

She said she wouldn’t tell, but she would have him bring me to the hospital so she could give me some stuff.

Yes, I’m the only kid probably in the history of the world who actually had to go to the hospital for her first period.

I handed the phone back to my (now) step-dad and of course my mom proceeded to tell him what happened.

He turned to me with a big shit-eating grin on his face and said something horrible like, “I hear someone’s becoming a woman!”

Gross.

I immediately burst into tears.

The ride to the hospital was silent. We found my mother and she took me to the bathroom. Apparently the only “supplies” they had at the hospital were the, uh, GIANT PADS they give the pregnant women AFTER CHILDBIRTH. It was almost as tall as me, and nearly as thick as my arm. And I was supposed to fit it in my pants…

I waddled out and my (now) step-dad took me home.

Over the next couple of months, my mother suggested I try to use tampons. That was a no-go. At the ripe old age of 11, my vagina was a steel trap. And it did NOT want to be stuffed with cotton. So every month, when I got my period, I couldn’t swim.

One of said weekends, my mom and my (now) step-dad were going scuba diving. I went along to hang out on the boat. Some of their friends were there, and one couple brought their 18-year-old son.

Their drop-dead gorgeous (mind you, I was 12, at this point…) 18-year-old son. I fell in love on the spot. I had no plan, but I knew that we should get married and make many babies (And I could! I started my period!). I’m guessing he didn’t even really notice me. At first.

As we’re heading out on the water, the beautiful boy’s mom asked my mom, “Is Shine going to be snorkeling?”

Now, this would be a time when a simple “no” would suffice.

Instead, my mother said (right in front of the beautiful boy), “No, Shine is on her period. She hasn’t learned how to use tampons yet, so she can’t get in the water.”

Cue red face.

I don’t think I spoke a word for the rest of the trip.

Thanks, Mom!

Wednesday Wipeouts

2009-10-07T08:37:00.001-05:00

Sit down, strap in, and hold on for today's edition of Wednesday Wipeouts!

Subject: Hello

You have a very nice profile and you're a very beautiful woman, I like the fact that you don't hold back on cussing sounds kinda crazy but I enjoy a woman who cusses and isn't afraid to offend. Smart ass women turn me on and so do redheads yeah I'm proly to crazy for you but I thought I would email you and find out I'm not looking to have any more kids I've got two that are half grown and I'm done LOL but I'm just looking for a honest, good hearted woman that cusses and speaks her mind when she wants, has her own opinion and doesn't just agree with me right away type, someone who can be my friend as well as lover, someone to walk holding hands with on the beach as well as play wrestle with each other over the last cupcake in the house :)
I laugh and smile all the time it's a brain problem people say...Well holla back if u want to ?

[I know you're surprised that I didn't leave his name here]

Every time you forget a period, someone kills a kitten. You don't want that, now do you?

And in another really fine venture into the creepy:

Subject: You're/your/ur :)

Hey [nope, you don't get to know that either]

Well, you're definitely sarcastic in your profile. And you must be smart since you abhor Nickelback. But I just don't get the feeling that you're very thirsty... Did the 3/4 glass of Guinness that you knocked back not do the trick?

You sound like a lot of fun. And you cuss like a sailor; five aborted attempts in the first 50 words is pretty impressive. I could definitely bring you around my kiddos (it wouldn't surprise me if they actually made you blush!) but how am I going to bring you around my mother? ;)

-[I wonder what his mom's name is, don't you?]

Talking about taking me to meet your children and mother is a good way to freak me the hell out. No thank you.

The Middle Man

2009-10-06T08:37:00.003-05:00

Relationships have three basic parts: the beginning, the middle, and The End.

Most people love the beginning. The beginning is exciting. It’s new. It’s sweet and you stay up all night talking and making the sex and kissing (there’s actual kissing at the beginning, you know).

Graygrrrl hates the beginning. In her blog, L’amour in B flat, she says:

The other part of the problem is that I hate beginnings. Everyone seems to love them, movies are made in their honor, but for me- they can suck it. I much prefer the middle. It’s comforting. You already know where you stand. You have learned some of the bad habits, and good ones as well. Your friends are used to the idea and treat him/her in a respectable manner. Perhaps they even like him! Middles are where it’s at.

Gofahne feels like she can’t be herself in the beginning sometimes. It's like she becomes this person, trapped in her head, and even though she’s thinking all the right things, she can’t seem to say them. She’s actually a fan of the “casual hookup” that Nicole wrote up last week (GENIUS), though on a different level. (The casual hookup is a thing I loathe, at this point.) Gofahne would rather meet someone when she's out with her friends and not even realize that he likes her, so she's completely being herself. I get that, but I don't want to hook up with or date my friends, really (I've been there, The End of that leads to no boyfriend and no friends. Pass).

Recently, though, I’ve come to notice The Middle Man. The man who may not wow and get your panties all wet right out of the gate, but you know that he would be amazing in the middle. The gooey center of the relationship, if you will. He’s the guy who will take care of you when you’re sick. The guy who will let you know that he’s thinking about you. The guy who calls when he says he will call. The guy who will pick up some little trinket for you while he’s out because it was just “so you” (understand that this is not about money, and could even be a rock he found in the street). The guy who will make an effort with your family (even though they’re crazy). The guy who has seen you at your worst, and still thinks you’re amazing (and maybe he thinks you’re beautiful even when you wake up in the morning).

These guys are few and far between.

Most men are like the M&Ms in your ice cream. They seem like a great idea at first, all colorful and chocolate-alicious, but before you know it, all the color has run off in your ice cream, and they’re just cold and hard and taste like shit. The Middle Man is like molten chocolate cake. It may not be the most exciting dessert on the outside but once you break through the cake, the warm, gooey chocolate in the center is amazing.

(I assume it works this way for guys, too, but I have little experience with girls as M&Ms or molten cake.)

But the question is, how do you get past the beginning if it’s not all rainbows and sunshine and lounging around doing crossword puzzles on Sunday mornings (that's just me, then?), having sex all day and only getting out of bed for ice cream? Is it possible to start a relationship purely based on potential?

Trust me any post I wrote you today would be full of schmoop and unicorns and rainbows and flowers and stuff.

2009-10-05T08:37:00.001-05:00

So instead, I leave you with this:

Visit Cyanide & Happiness for more funnies like this one:

And, as always, if you're not laughing at Natalie Dee, you're doing something wrong!

Hope the smile on your face is as big as the smile on mine. (I know, I'm about to puke too. Or punch myself in the face.)

It's Friday, we should break up - Scooters, Mopeds, Vespas, Motorcycles and pretty much all other forms of two-wheeled transportation.

2009-10-02T11:37:00.000-05:00

Beckbee, Mike, HoHo, Big Gulp, Mouthful, and everyone else: I'm sorry, but...

I HATE TWO-WHEELED VEHICLES.

All of them.

Bicyclists? You're in my damn way. While I (generally) appreciate your spandex-clad physique, riding your bike in front of me on a two-lane road, so that I can't pass you because you "have a right to be there"? Is going to make me want to run you over. I can't blame all of this on you. Dallas? Please make some bike lanes so that these damn bikers can GET OFF MY ROAD.

Scooterers, Mopeders, Vespa-ists whatever you want to call yourselves, you're seriously pissing me off. Does your vehicle really need an entire parking space? In case you're considering the answer, it's no. It just doesn't. So when I get home at midnight and I have to park 37 miles from my apartment because I passed a dozen of you bastards in perfectly good, full-sized parking spaces, I kind of want to put a hole in your tires. Motorcyclists, you're in this category, too, but I have a separate bone to pick with you. Again, I can't blame this all on you, I suppose. But there are other choices of parking spaces, and I've come to notice that none of your two-wheeled vehicles ever actually move. If you don't even drive them, must you take up my parking spaces with them? Again, the answer is no.

Ah, motorcyclists. You might be the sexiest of all the characters lumped into this post. Not that you are actually sexy. But your motorcycle probably is. Here's the thing: You're an asshole. I'm almost positive of it. Yes, I'm making a generalization because surely all motorcyclists can't be assholes, but, well, I've never experienced that on the road. I know that your vehicle was built for speed and is actually more stable traveling at a faster pace. So maybe don't ride your motorcycle in traffic? Weaving in and out of lanes, cutting people off, and other general douchebaggery makes all of us four-wheeled vehicle drivers a little miffed. Stop acting like a jackass and follow the rules like the rest of us.

So I'm done with all of you. Pedestrians? Watch out. I might be coming for you next.

It's my turn to write some letters.

2009-10-01T11:37:00.002-05:00

Dear Men in My Office,

Let's consider changing our diets, shall we? Your shit smells like death. Here are some interesting facts about poop. Let's ponder them together while eating more fruits and vegetables, hmmm?

I'd like to be able to breathe while sitting at my desk,
Shine

~~~~oOo~~~~

Dear Car,

I'm about sick of you. Please behave or I'll be forced to sell you for parts. Not that your parts are worth anything. Also, if you could buy yourself new tires since you just drained my bank account, that would be wonderful.

I don't like you very much,
Shine

~~~~oOo~~~~

Dear Twitter,

Please stop trying to be something you're not. Isn't it bad enough that I have to know which character from Friends all my Facebook friends would be? Do I really need to know this about my fellow Twatters? The answer is no. I just don't. Of course I also don't really need to know what they ate for dinner or that they've just picked up their dry cleaning, but that's a matter I'll take up with them.

Please remedy this quiz situation immediately,
Shine

~~~~oOo~~~~

Dear Life,

I've been handed enough lemons. I've made enough damn lemonade. In the future, please just send the lemonade. Or better yet, a milkshake. Actually, I think maybe you just sent me one. Don't worry, I appreciate it. But I'm still looking for the lemons.

Cautiously yours,
Shine

~~~~oOo~~~~

Dear Self,

Stop being so shitty about the news you got recently. A success for someone else does not mean a failure for you. Be happy for the other person. Even if it does feel like a kick in the teeth. You're working hard and you'll have your day. It will happen. See previous letter to Life, above.

That's enough missy,
Shine

Wednesday Wipeouts

2009-09-30T08:37:00.001-05:00

First let me say this: I'm also helping Jeff over at This is Why Your Hold Time is So Long today. He asked me to come up with the rules of etiquette for the ladies' room. So yeah, you heard it right: Jeff and I put our brains together to give you a list of bathroom rules. I'm scared, too.

~~~~oOo~~~~

I'm not sure how much longer Wednesday Wipeouts will last, so enjoy 'em while you get 'em.

I particularly enjoyed this message. It came to me from a man with "daddy" in his profile name. And no picture.

Subject: hey there

5 10 160lbs (32" waist) athletic 45yo (eek!!). Clean, ddf and safe, (still married tho separate bedrooms 8 yrs now and an open marriage) courteous :o) non smoking, (though I don't care if you do) open minded, fun English guy (you'll love the accent) living in [you don't need to know], just north of [somewhere] and south of [somewhere else], looking for a mature, longterm, exclusive friend I can spoil, exclusive and hopefully permanently
All the info you need to contact me is here.
Please get in touch if your interested in me despite my dysfunctional life, send a email here or hotmail and I will get in touch.add me on yahoo messenger as [is it bad that I kind of wanted to leave this one in here?]
meet me - u might even like me! lol
I'd love to take you to lunch/dinner/coffee w/e you're more comfortable with. Sometimes older is better :o)
lets exchange some pics if ur interested and open minded enough and then maybe we can meet for coffee
[name]
Hope you have a great weekend!
[phone number] I will ALWAYS reply - if you dont receive one please resend as my cell was prolly powered off :o)
I'm sorry if my email freaks you out - but I simply want to be totally honest and up front from the get go

I know. It's shocking I didn't call him, right?

Also, my dearest Gofahne had me in stitches with tale of a horrible date. While I wish I could share it with you here today, alas, she has to write about it herself. And she's still...traumatized. Let's just say the words "I love my penis" (completely out of the blue) were the highlight of the evening. Well, I mean, aside from it being over.

Keep it like a secret.

2009-09-29T08:37:00.001-05:00

My favorite Built to Spill album. What? Center of the Universe rocks the shit.

That's really not the point though.

Today, we're going to talk presents.

1. I am totally one of those people who thinks that you should know what I want as a present. If you have to ask and I have to tell you, I may as well just go with you to buy it. Suck it. Pay attention and it's not so hard to figure out. I know of at least one ex-boyfriend who would likely argue with this...

2. I haven't really gotten a present in quite some time (unless you count that plastic dead grandma in a rocking chair I got at the White Elephant Christmas party I attended last year, which I don't). My last boyfriend didn't "do" presents. Giving or receiving. Which was actually fine as he would have been completely horrible at picking them out anyway. Paying attention? Not really his strong suit.

I don't really remember any Christmases before my sister was born. And in fact, I don't remember any before she was old enough to open presents. But we are exact polar opposite present-openers.

My baby sister would get up at the ass-crack of dawn, drag me out of my slumber, race to the presents and put her hands on EVERYTHING. Presents from Santa were unwrapped (he doesn't have time to be wrapping presents, yo), while presents from family were wrapped immaculately. We are excellent present wrappers.

She would rip the paper off of everything, try everything on, play with everything, and name everything in about 15 minutes.

I, on the other hand, would sit and stare at the presents. The unwrapped ones. From Santa. Just taking it all in. After a while, I would reach for a wrapped present.

I actually hate opening presents in front of people. To me, it's such an experience and I'd rather be able to take my time. I like to savor the moment.

The anticipation is usually the best part. That's why I don't want to know what the present is. Because until you open it, it's perfect.

Present opening by Shine:

Feel the present in your hand, experience the weight and/or shape of it.

Then, slowly, remove each piece of tape one at a time, careful not to rip the paper.

Unfold the paper from around the present.

Carefully lay the paper aside.

At this point, you're probably holding an unwrapped box (PERVS. Yeah, I giggled).

Slowly lift the lid and peak inside.

Remove any stray tissue paper and set aside.

See that the present is, in fact, a diarrhea poop brown T-shirt, given to you by four of your relatives. It came from the Mens department and is an X-Large. Wonder if you possibly received a present destined for some relative no one likes. Realize that no, four of your relatives thought that this would be the perfect gift for you. Wish you had just left the wrapping on the present.

And that? That is why I hate opening presents in front of people. And why I'd prefer to open them slowly and savor the anticipation.

There's something in my life that feels an awful lot like a present. And for now, I'm carefully looking at the wrappings (which are pretty amazing, so far), but I'm not ready to peak inside. What if it's another diarrhea poop brown T-shirt?

Drugs, I haz them.

2009-09-28T07:37:00.001-05:00

On Friday, I had reason to be under the influence of some (completely legal) drugs. Normally, the strongest drug I do (aside from alcohol) is Advil. And I don't even take that very often. Here's a random collection of thoughts that I wrote down to share.

Gosh, my bathtub is deep. I wonder if I could put in a diving board?

My teeth don't really feel like a collective any more. What if they decide to go to war with each other in my mouth? (This was a recurring issue all day.)

I know I'm supposed to be asleep, but I think I'll get a pedicure instead.

It's probably not a good idea to trim my bangs right now...but that one strand is really long... (get scissors)

If I fix my hair and do my makeup, no one will know I'm on the drugs.

I'd really like to take a picture of my ass right now. It looks juicy. Wonder if I could bite it? (The answer is no...but not for lack of trying.)

Huh. I'm pretty.

Ice Cream. WANT.

I should really...groom. (This? Was a horrible idea. Who knows? It could be a TMI Thursday post!)

What the hell color are my eyes any more?

I wish someone were here to give me a hug. Someone without boobs.

My dress is wrinkled. But it's so pretty!

Ice Cream. WANT.

My hair straightener is REALLY hot. Does this count as heavy machinery? It's not very heavy. But it's...REALLY HOT. Hmmm...(continue to straighten hair in the hopes that no one will notice I'm high as a kite.)

America's Next Top Model makes more sense on drugs. This explains the mindset of the producers, I guess. Except the Tyra Banks part. Where are her calves? Maybe my teeth ate them.

Cheese is what's it's all about. Not that hokey pokey bullshit. I wish I had some cheese. Oh well, hokey pokey it is.

Yep. Pedicure. I'll go get one. (Get in the car.)

Uh, those trees vaguely resemble the scary ones in The Wizard of Oz that tried to hurt Dorothy. I'm scared.

Ow. Ow. OW! Asian people should not be allowed to massage. And now I kind of want Chinese food. Does that make me racist?

Someone really should have stopped me from driving. But this is kinda fun. AAHHHHHH! TREES!

So, the question is: Don't you wish you had talked to me? It was quite the experience from what I hear. Also, this is why I don't do drugs.

See? I'm not the only one who has bad dates!

2009-09-25T08:37:00.000-05:00

Today I've got a special guest post lined up from Jay of Genius Pending fame. Jay is a minimum 30 kinds of awesome, and I truly aspire to be like him in at least 27 of those ways. He was nice enough to offer to shorten this post if I thought it to be too long, but honestly, I don't think I would want change a single thing about it.

(Jay took it upon himself to write his own introduction and I can't really do any better. Although I would have probably said he was 37 kinds of awesome because 37 is my favorite number. I also would have said that I'm more awesome than Jay, so I don't really aspire to be on his level of awesome, as I surpassed that around age five. But we all knew that anyway, right? And without further ado, I give you Jay's worst date, which almost beats the crap out of all my bad dates. But not quite.)

(Oh, and I'm currently working out a way to send Jay anthrax and/or herpes via internets for that Burger King link. I have nightmares about that. You could have at least linked me to a hot picture of Shirley Manson, but noooo...all I get is the Burger King. Watch your back, Jay. And I'm writing over there today...so click and read, bitches!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello there to the sexy readers of Shine's blog. Trust that I'm intimately aware of your collective sexiness because Shine outsources all of her Facebook stalking to me, and yes, that picture of you in the "WWJD Inside of Me?" t-shirt did help to sway my sexy decree. However, I'm not really here to talk about how incredibly sexy either of us is. This is a guest post, and the rules of engagement clearly state that if I'm going to fawn over anyone, it must be the host blogger. Although Shine did say that I could also fawn over Shirley Manson, or exploit her odd obsession with The Burger King.

What I'm here to talk about today falls right in line with a popular topic on these pages. As we all know, Shine's prone to having awkward dates, or more to the point she somehow manages to discover a previously uncharted sector of dating hell with each new guy that she meets. Normally I'd assume such a situation to be her fault, as she's the only constant in this never-ending vortex of bad conversation and creepy douchebags, but I've yet to find any overarching flaws in her that would necessitate such blame (read: she's not the bad kind of crazy). In fact, the only plausible theories that could be attributed to her dating woes are 1. she was somebody horrible in a past life, or 2. she stole something from an Indian burial ground and has yet to return it.

Now while Shine is admittedly a pro with bad dates, I imagine that very few of us can claim total inexperience with them. There are some dates that you just know something is off with and/or you simply have no connection. Things can get a little crazier, like the girl with the cold sore you can't stop staring at (who STILL tries to kiss you at the end of the night). You might also experience mid-range bad dates, where they won't stop talking about their ex, ditch you halfway through the night, or drop a racist joke before the first drink even shows up. Sadly, those are all examples of girls I actually went out with at one time or another. Sadder than that is how none of them even come close to touching what I went through on the worst date of my life. We all have one of these stories, and I hope you appreciate mine:

It was the summer of 2000, and I had recently moved to Oregon from Texas. I was living in Portland, and my brother in Salem about 50 miles south. He was adamant about setting me up with his co-worker, I was adamant about getting laid for the first time in over 6 months, so we set something up. I didn't have a car because I didn't really need one where I lived, so she agreed to come to Portland for the day. We went to the rose gardens and the Zoo, had lunch, and honestly I thought we were hitting it off quite well. On our way out, she told me that her sister was having a small "get-together" at their apartment that evening, which we could gladly let our date spill over into. "You can stay the night, it's no big deal" she said. This should have thrown up a red flag immediately, but all I heard was "Please come sleep in the same house with me after a night of drinking." So I said yes.

This is where it all started coming apart, as if I were a superhero in the capture of some supervillain, and she now felt confident enough to expound on her master plan of crazy to me. Over the course of the hour-long ride down to Salem, she shared the following tidbits about herself:

That her Mom had left her Dad 5 days ago, and wouldn't tell anyone where she was staying.
She had an abortion last year because she dropped so much acid the first month of the pregnancy (before she found out).
Her previous boyfriend of 2 years, who was the father of the lost baby, had sold naked photos of her after they broke up -- ONLY 3 WEEKS AGO.
How much she hated science fiction, especially Star Wars and Star Trek.
She once woke up in the back of a police cruiser completely naked, save a blanket from the cops and one of her socks.
That pain and pleasure are often good bedfellows.

My head was swirling by the time we arrived at her place, and the quaint "get-together" turned out to be a 30 people crammed into a two-bedroom apartment. I was already planning my retreat, but decided not to put any plans into motion after seeing the insane amount of alcohol they were hosting. I had surmised after our car trip down the TMI Expressway that this night would not be ending well, and it sort of made sense that the best approach to the situation might in fact be a drunken one. Many beers later I was feeling much better and not just from the beer, but also because my date had been noticeably absent from the crowd for over an hour. Then I got peer-pressured into taking a shooter I had never heard of before, something called a “Prairie Fire.” It looked reddish and soupy, and in my mind I imagined it as some kind of cinnamon liqueur and Kahlua combo

Wrong.

A Prairie Fire is actually shot of tequila with a dash of hot sauce for flavor. Only in this case as I later learned, my impromptu bartender opted for a liberal amount of habanero sauce instead. My throat and mouth were instantly on fire, as were my eyes a moment later after accidentally rubbing them. The pain I experienced faded slowly, although it was quickly replaced by a far worse one in my gut. I knew what was coming long before it arrived, although I daresay we've all been at that point where you know you're going to puke but choose to fight anyway. Once I could fight no more, I ran into the bathroom and without a moment to spare fell to my knees, lifted up the lid, and proceeded to turn and projectile vomit all over their bathtub. While I had in fact made it to the toilet just in time, it was too full of someone else's... business for me to even consider sticking my face in there. Although if I were to be completely honest, it looked more like the business from a demon that had been eating from a taco truck for the past week.

The night continued to carry on against my favor, subjecting me to such personal tortures as round after round of charades and an impromptu rap battle. Somewhere past 2am, the party finally dispersed and my date's sister gave me the all clear to sleep on their couch. No doubt she felt bad for me since her sister disappeared several hours ago, and that despite the multiple angry voicemails I left with my brother, a rescue mission didn’t appear to be in the works.

Cut to 4am. I'm abruptly awoken by my date climbing on top of me. I can tell she's drunk because of the way her breath smells as she tries to make out with me; a wonderful milieu of cigarettes, gin, and what is possibly throw up. "You're so nice for sticking around" she tells me in a slurred voice. It was either sleep here or pay $60 for a cab back home, I think to myself, and it's really too bad I'm so close to broke right now. I sat up and got her off of me, launching into my normal nice guy routine, "You're drunk, this isn't a good idea, so on and so forth..." and she loses it. Near hysterical crying, blubbering things like "I just want to know where my Mom is" and "We were supposed to get married," each belligerent declaration doubling the size of the red flags I had been skillfully ignoring all night.

But you can only take so much crazy you know? Especially when it's 4 in the morning.

I knew what had to be done. In my nicest nice guy voice I gave her the "let's get you to bed" line -- I even went the extra mile by carrying her to her room. After laying her down gently in bed, pulling the covers up nice and close, I told her to try and relax while I go grab her a glass of water. Although instead of fetching the water, I opted to get the fuck out of there immediately.

Two hours later I managed to backtrack to the freeway and get to my brother's house. Upon finding me on his doorstep, all he said was "So I guess the night didn't turn around for you after all?" When asked – since he had obviously received them – why he didn't return any of my desperate pleas to be evacuated, he said it was because he knew this girl was a sure thing, and that all I had to do was tough out a little bit of crazy for her to eventually come after me. This pissed me off, but only because it made pointless the rage that had been building towards him all night. After all, he was right about the whole thing, even if he did severely underestimate the level of crazy I’d have to work with.

Violence UnSilenced

2009-09-24T09:37:00.000-05:00

I know that today is TMI Thursday (click for all of LiLu's TMI goodness). And this post? Is certainly TMI. But it's not funny or silly. If you want funny and silly, stop reading now (and come back tomorrow for an awesome guest post that makes my bad dates seem tame). This is the story I wrote to submit to Violence UnSilenced, a website dedicated to giving men and women an outlet to tell their stories domestic violence and sexual assault. Anyone can submit a story, and it can be done anonymously. The stories I've read have brought me to tears. This is mine (no tears necessary).

I didn't write this for your sympathy. I didn't write it to persecute anyone. I wrote it because it's part of me. I've told a few people over the years, but it's not something I generally share. I had a lot of trouble putting it in this little box. I'm having a lot of trouble clicking the Publish button. Trust me, it's not easy. It's my story, though. And now I'm going to tell it.

~~~~oOo~~~~

My mom was always “over-protective.” She practically interviewed my friends’ parents before I was allowed to sleep over at their houses. I wasn’t allowed to go to parties or stay out late or do any of the normal things that teenagers do.

Of course I didn’t understand. And of course I wasn’t okay with it. I whined and moaned and complained. And then one night (yeah, okay, no…this wasn’t the only time), I lied.

I was 15-years-old and there was a party. My high school boyfriend (though we weren’t together at the time) was going to be there and a bunch of my friends and I wanted to go. I knew my mom would ask if parents would be there. And if I said, “Yes,” she would say, “Then I want to talk to them.” So I lied.

I had been told that a bunch of people were just going to crash at the party, and I was welcome to do the same. So I told my mom that I was spending the night at a friend’s house and went on my merry way.

I may have been going to a party, but I had no intention of drinking. I didn’t drink and had never drunk, so I didn’t even really know what it was like.

Someone handed me a bottle of Coke and I drank it. I thought it tasted a little funny, but I didn’t want to complain. It tasted funny because about half of it was rum. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, now I would know the difference. But then I just didn’t want to complain or seem less cool. So I drank the damn Coke. All of it.

At some point in the evening, the party got a little loud and someone called the police. We all scattered like ants when the police arrived. I ran with one of my friends, to his car. We hopped in and he drove us down the street, where we parked and waited.

He was a cute boy (sort of). And I sort of liked him. I think he kissed me in the car.

After about 15 minutes, we drove back to the house. Most of the party had cleared out. This is when I discovered that “a lot of people crashing at the party” meant me and eight guys. Me. And eight guys.

I was freaking out. And more than a little drunk.

My high school boyfriend secured me a room by myself and I went to bed. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. The boy I liked.

“Can I please sleep in here? I have practice tomorrow and if I sleep on the floor, my back’s going to be all screwed up.”

I didn’t really know what to do. So I just sort of stared at him for a minute.

“You mean, you want to sleep in here in this bed with me?”

“I won’t touch you, I swear. I just can’t sleep on the floor and you have the only other bed.”

This is where the smarter, stronger girl says, “Too fuckin’ bad.”

But I said, “Um. I guess.”

And so it began.

The rest of the night is a blur of touching and crying and pain. I don’t know if I ever said “No.” I really can’t say that I did. But I was crying and trying to push him off me. The weight of him was so overwhelming that I couldn’t keep pushing. I tried to roll out from underneath him, but he had me pinned down. He was a basketball player; tall and strong.

And he was my friend.

So I thought.

But he wasn’t my friend.

I gave up. I gave up and let it happen. And when it was over, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep. All night, he snored while I cried quietly. I didn’t sleep much at all. I went to the bathroom to try to clean myself up at some point. It wasn’t pretty.

In the middle of the night, he rolled my way and carelessly tossed an arm over me. He was still sleeping, of course. His arm almost made me throw up. As I squirmed to get away, he rolled into me and pushed me off the bed. I hit my cheekbone on the bed frame on my way to the floor and gave myself a bit of a black eye.

Pretty.

I didn’t know what to do the next day, so I talked to my best friend about it.

Turned out she wasn’t my best friend at all.

She told everyone what had happened. Unfortunately, he didn’t see it my way. He called me a couple of times over the next weeks. Cussing at me, telling me that he didn’t rape me.

But he did.

I never told my mother. I never really told anyone else, save for one or two close friends. I don't think anyone believed me, so I just pretended it never happened.

A few years later, I ran into him at the mall. He walked up to me, smiling, and tried to hug me. I looked him dead in the eye and said, "DON'T touch me."

He seemed puzzled by my reaction. I walked away. He didn't think he did anything wrong. I'm sure he still doesn't.

But he did.

Wednesday Wipeouts

2009-09-23T07:37:00.002-05:00

For your reading pleasure, two more strange or awkward messages I've received on OKCupid. I promise I am in no way editing or making these up. I'm not that creative.

The first begins: Greetings, fellow humanoid!

I must state the obvious, and then it will be out of my system...

Thirty-seven!

*ahem* There, I'm done.

You seem like an interesting member of the earth species known as human and I would like to pick your brain *ahem* have a conversation. By the way, "I may shove my ovipositor tube down your throat and lay eggs in your stomach... But I'm not an alien." (which is perhaps the strangest thing you may have heard on a website geared towards dating)

Archaeology, eh? I'm sorry I don't know more about the subject, although I have a slightly related hobby that when I go to a used book store, I prefer the books that have been written in over a clean one.

Have you actually met someone who doesn't laugh? I've heard of people who "don't vomit", but purposely avoiding a pleasurable social act seems odd.

[redacted], good; doubt in the mythos of the popular, good; getting to have a conversation with you, great if it happens.

--[redacted]

No, but really. He may shove his ovipostor tube down my throat and lay eggs in my stomach. It's in quotes. Is this from a movie?

I'll admit to being completely freaked because 37 is my favorite number and there's no way he could have known that, so...is that also from a movie? If it had been 42, I would have understood. Or even 34. But 37? Anyone?

~~~~oOo~~~~

These next messages are from the same dude. I must have left myself logged in to OKCupid on a Friday night, while I was out.

(11:09 pm, I'm at dinner with friends)
Subject: hey there

its friday night and we are both online, i was just checkin you out and saw that you are online... wanna chat

(11:10 pm, I'm still at dinner with friends)
Subject: or

maybe meet up and have a guinness somewhere

(11:18 pm, you guessed it, I'm still at dinner)
Subject: reread your profile
getting the idea that the perfect weekend would involve watching crank, death race, the new star trek movie, a case of guinness, and laying in bed watching the cowboys on sunday. i have a laptop, netflix, and a leadfoot that can get me to the beer store on time...
:-) [name]
[email address]
[phone number]

Really? And I hadn't responded to any of that because I didn't even get the messages until the next day. I was kind of creeped out.

Oh, they'll pick you up all right. But then they'll bend you right over that counter without even buying you coffee first.

2009-09-22T11:37:00.004-05:00

"Call Enterprise! We'll pick you up!"

Yeah, no. They won't. Well, they might, but it will take three hours.

This weekend, I had a little car trouble. And by little, I mean a lot of car trouble. Like, my car is in the shop and I can't get it out without paying them more money that I have car trouble. Good times.

I was in my car Friday night, driving to girls' night sushi, when I realized that my car didn't really want to accelerate. I mean, it would accelerate, but it clearly didn't want to do it. Which is weird, since acceleration is most of its purpose.

I made it to the sushi place, had a rockin' time with my girls, then we went for some karaoke and I had a date. (Brave soul came out and met me with all of my girlfriends...)

I made it home, but the car still felt really weird. It was 4am, though, so I went to bed and didn't think about it until the next day.

As I was driving to my rock climbing gym, I found that my car wouldn't really go over about 45 MPH. Huh.

Then when I left the climbing gym, it wouldn't go over about 30 MPH. Oh dear.

I knew I was due for an oil change and I was hoping that would solve the problem. No, I'm not stupid enough to think it actually would solve the problem, but a girl can hope, right? Plus, it wasn't making any weird noises, so I couldn't do my usual turn-up-the-radio-and-drown-it-out plan, hoping it would spontaneously go away. Silent but deadly; it has a whole new meaning.

I sat at the oil changin' place for quite some time while they changed the oil, topped of the fluids (TWSS) and inspected my vehicle. I had mentioned my little acceleration problem, hoping they would locate the issue and tell me all about it. My car passed inspection with flying colors and I drove off the lot...once again realizing that I couldn't accelerate. But this time, it wouldn't go over 15 MPH. It seems that passing inspection has nothing to do with the car actually...going. Interesting.

The Move Trading Company parking lot was looming, so I pulled in there and had my car towed to the dealership. Which meant I was without car for the rest of the weekend.

It was too late to rent a car that day, and I was in a hurry because I was supposed to have a date, which I had to move to the bar across the street from my apartment (so I could walk), rather than going to Oktoberfest.

Rental car places are closed on Sundays. Who knew? So I made a reservation and asked that Enterprise pick me up the next morning. The guy on the phone said I had to call them an hour before I wanted to be picked up.

The next morning, Monday, I talked to the people at the dealership and talked to my boss to remind him I would be late. I called Enterprise for a ride and was told that the driver was out picking someone up, but that as soon as he got back, he would be on his way to my place.

Thinking I had a limited amount of time, I hopped in the shower and got ready quickly. Then I settled in to wait. And wait. And wait.

Two hours later, I called the office. No answer. GREAT.

Another hour later I called back. No answer.

Ten minutes later I called again and got the same song and dance about how the driver was out picking someone up and would be on his way as soon as he got back.

"That's what you told me at 8am. I'm really late for work now..."

FINALLY, an hour after that they called to tell me that the driver was on his way. Twenty minutes later they called to tell me he was lost. The office is three miles from my apartment. (I should have walked.)

When the dude finally arrived, I was beyond annoyed and he was trying to tell me what I should have done about my car. I almost killed him.

He walks me into the Enterprise office and asks for my ID and my insurance and all that jazz. (JAZZ HANDS!) I hand him my debit card (I don't like credit cards, so I don't have any) and he said, "Oh, do you have a major credit card?"

I said, "No, I have my debit card."

He said, "Oh, if you're going to use a debit card, we have to charge you a $250 deposit AND we'll need to see two recent utility bills."

Um...what?

I said, "Don't you think it might have been wise to tell me this before I left my apartment? Do you really think I just carry two utility bills around with me at all times in case someone wants to look at them before letting me use my own ACTUAL money from my own ACTUAL bank to pay for something?"

He said, "Adam? Did you not tell her about this on the phone?"

Adam said, "I didn't know she was going to pay with a debit card."

I said, "So this is my fault? You don't think if you had mentioned any of this on the phone, I might have mentioned I was paying with a debit card? You know what? This is fucking ridiculous. Give me my card back, I'm leaving. And if you charge me even ONE CENT, I will be back in here with some words for your manager."

With that, I walked out the door and realized I was stuck, three miles from home, with no car and no way to get to work. Of course, it was noon anyway, so I'd already missed half the day.

Sometime in the middle of all that, the dealership called to tell me that my car needed new coils and spark plugs and the pistons were misfiring so much that they couldn't even tell if this would fix the problem, but that these things had to be replaced for them to even look any farther.

"How much?"

"Ma'am, with labor and everything, that will be $878."

"Fuck."

Here's my thinking at this point. I've already spent money having my car towed there (For which they, of course, accidentally charged me twice, so I have $200 sitting on hold at my bank for three business days. Goody.). They charge $100 to even look at it, which they'd already done. This money comes out of the repair cost, if they repair it. I can't drive the damn thing as it won't accelerate, so I'd have to have it towed somewhere else anyway. Just to likely find out exactly what they just told me and have someone charge me almost the same amount, which, when you add in towing fees and $100 would possibly even be more. So I said, "I don't really see what choice I have. Go ahead and do it."

And please, please, one more person tell me that they're doing too much to my 7-year-old car which has 140,000 miles on it. PLEASE. Guess what? It's a piece of crap, but I have no payment and I don't want one. And sometimes cars need work. Especially when you know nothing about cars and haven't bothered to do anything you're supposed to except change the oil. SHIT HAPPENS.

Every single time someone not at the dealership has tried to work on my car, from individuals to other auto shops and such, it has been a SHITSTORM OF FAIL. I don't know why. Also, the dealership people work fast and I know where they are and they're unlikely to be gone next time I need something.

Ahem. Can you tell I've been dealing with this for three days straight now?

I had a little bit of a breakdown when I walked out of the Enterprise place. So I called my mother. Which I was trying damn hard not to have to do. I'm almost 30, for cryin' out loud. However, at this point, I was stuck and trapped and they have an extra car.

I walked home and my Aunt Dana (who's been working on cars since she was old enough to walk) came to pick me up. We went to the dealership and evaluated the situation. As it turned out, the car needed several other things, including a new timing belt (which should have been replaced at 100,000 miles) and a coolant flush because the asshats at the oil changin' place had put the wrong coolant in and now they were all mixed in there and my car is old, yo. Dana said that the car gods had clearly been smiling on me and she thought that the work they suggested was warranted if I wanted to continue to drive the car.

SEE? I didn't just go with whatever they said. I'm not a complete idiot. (Even if someone did happen to call me one for being an atheist...on our first date. Wanna guess if we had a second one?)

At this point, making it to work was out of the question, so I went up to my mom's to work there and pick up my sweet ride. For the next two days, I am the proud driver of this:

Oh baby. HOT. It has the same size steering wheel as a racecar bed, I think. Maybe smaller. And it's ELECTRIC blue; inside and out. And doesn't the exhaust pipe look a little...phallic? Oh yeah.

Aunt Dana and I also saw this gem on our way to my parents house from the dealership:

The first thing Dana said? "That's a Pops move, right there."

My Pops (her dad, my granddad) is the master of all things bungee cord or rubber band or duct tape or...bubble gum. He tried to fix a gas leak in my mom's car with bubble gum when I was a baby. Bubble gum. Just in case you're thinking maybe that's pretty clever...it's not. Gasoline takes all the sticky out of gum in about five seconds flat. But he's cute. And he's the only person I've ever known who actually drives just as well asleep as awake.

It's Friday, we should break up - Expectations

2009-09-18T08:37:00.003-05:00

As a general rule, I feel like a disappointment. At least to my mother.

I'm never going to be a doctor or a lawyer or some other respected profession where the participants typically make a lot of money. And the truth is? I don't care a lot about that. But I hate feeling like a disappointment. Because I had all this potential, and I'm wasting it by not pursuing something that probably would have made me miserable in the long run.

My mother would never ever tell me I'm a disappointment, at this point. But deep-down, I know it's there. She struggled most of her life to make sure that we had everything we needed financially. And she wants us, as her girls, to be financially secure.

My priorities are different, though. As the little girl who never got to see her mom because Mom was always out working, I see things through different eyes. I'd rather enjoy the time I have (and not have a lot of money) than work through it and miss out on everything.

I love my mom. And I appreciate everything she's done and continues to do for everyone in her life. But we are cut from a different cloth. I do not have her drive and determination. I want to be me. And I want to be happy being me.

So today, I've been thinking...and here's my list:

I'm supposed to: Have a clean apartment at all times.
In reality: My apartment is forever strewn with clothes. If I know someone is coming over, it's a mad rush to make things appear presentable.

I'm supposed to: Go to graduate school or medical school.
In reality: I want to be a writer. And I don't want to go to medical school. Even if they pay me.

I'm supposed to: Want a husband and 2.5 children and a house with a picket fence.
In reality: A husband seems like a lot of trouble and rather expensive to get rid of once he pisses me off, children barely speak English and are usually more of a pain than they're worth and the idea of having a child scares the bejesus out of my vagina, and I like living in an apartment and calling maintenance to fix my sink.

I'm supposed to: Make mature decisions regarding love and finances.
In reality: I'm still feeling my way through life and making the wrong choices. But my stories are damn interesting!

The girl I should be: One who walks through the grocery store with her healthy salad and bag of fruit for dinner. And a bottle of water. The big one.
The girl I am: One who has a cheeseburger, fries, and a beer. Possibly with cake.

The girl I should be: One who is put together impeccably, and floats around in heels like they were made for her feet.
The girl I am: One who's usually wearing jeans or cargo pants (or a skirt and thigh high stripe-y socks, yes!), never irons anything, and usually wears heels for no more than 15 minutes before kicking them off in favor of her flip flops. My feet hurt, damn it.

The girl I should be: One who owns her own car and owns or is in the process of owning her own home.
The girl I am: One who is still driving a hand-me-down from her parents because she'd rather buy heels she'll rarely wear or take vacations than have a car payment. See above for home-owner question.

The girl I should be: One who never gives anything away. One who never admits that she drank too much and threw up, or that she fell in the shower and busted her ass, or that she doesn't have any food in her fridge that wouldn't go on a hot dog (but no hot dogs). A lady.
The girl I am: Is a pretty open book. About her flaws and her indiscretions. Lady is not a word used to describe someone who ass-plodes all over the work bathroom after some McDonald's and then tells the internet about it.

Truth? I love who I am. And I wouldn't change it for anything. The girl I am is pretty awesome. She's a good friend. She cares about other people. She will stand up for what she believes in, but she knows how to admit she's wrong. She can tell you a damn good story. She will make you laugh through your tears. She works hard and plays hard. She doesn't think she's better than everyone else (even if she accidentally makes it sound like she does on occasion)...except Paris Hilton...she is definitely better than Paris Hilton. She can cook. She will always buy you a drink, and never expect one in return. She is generous and helpful, sometimes to a fault. She will punch you in the vagina before she'll watch you hurt yourself. She always says the hard thing, the thing no one wants to hear. She's willing to ask the question, whatever the question may be. She will listen to your opinion. She's willing to make an ass of herself, pretty much any time. And she is a damn lot of fun...most of the time.

So while I may never make a lot of money, or achieve success by society's standards, I will always be a person I'm proud to be. I don't need a Masters degree or a PhD or an MD to be a good person. I am a good person. So screw your expectations (not you, Mom). I have my own.

TMI Thursday - Possibly my worst date ever.

2009-09-17T08:37:00.002-05:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Yeah, I know. I've already told you about some bad dates. But this one happened a really long time ago.

About six years ago, I had a friend. I know, right? I had a friend! Okay, no. But this friend had a little boy who...was my world (and you guys know how I feel about kids). Cutest little thing you ever did see. He was three when I met her and five when she chose to cart him off to Louisiana to marry a crazy, controlling freak of an asshole.

None of this has anything to do with the story, except to say that I had this friend who wanted to join Match.com. So of course she wanted me to join Match.com. So I did. And this is the story of my very first online date.

His name was something I didn't bother to remember. James or John or Jeff or something. We chatted for about a week before we finally bit it and met up for a drink. Now, at the time, I didn't really drink at all. So when I say "a drink," I do in fact mean, one drink. We met at Gloria's in Dallas (really far away from where I lived). I had a margarita, he had a beer, we ate chips and salsa and talked and everything seemed okay.

He asked if I wanted to do something after the drink, so I said okay. But then he discovered he had left his wallet at his apartment.

"No problem," I said. "I can get this."

Thinking all the while, "Oh great...he's one of those..."

I paid for our drinks and then he said, "Yeah, but I can't be without my wallet for the rest of the night. I need to go get it."

Let me back up a second to say this, he was already at the table when I got there, and the waiter brought him his beer shortly after I arrived. He had already ordered it. When I ordered my drink, they asked for my ID. But this isn't unusual because as a general rule, I look about 15. I hadn't really thought about whether or not they would ask him for his ID, though.

I said, "Well, okay, so do you just want to tell me where we're going and then meet me there after you get your wallet?"

"My place is really close. Why don't you just follow me there and and I'll get it and then you can follow me to the next place."

This seemed harmless enough in my naive little mind, so off we went. I followed him to his place, fully expecting to sit in my car until he came out with his wallet.

"Why don't you come up and see my place, since we're here?"

"Uh, that's all right. I'll just hang out here," I said.

"What? You think I'm going to lock you in or something. Just come up for a second. You can stand in the doorway, if that makes you feel more comfortable."

Yeah, I'm an idiot. I went upstairs.

He showed me around and then said, "Oh, and this is my room."

I walked in and stood there, willing him not to toss me down on the bed and rape me, while he fumbled around in a drawer, presumably looking for his wallet.

Then he turned around with this weird look on his face and said, "I thought maybe we could play with this?"

I look up and he's standing there, with this really strange creepy yet hopeful look on his face, holding a pocket pussy. A POCKET PUSSY.

Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a pocket pussy before, but it looks like (NSFW! REALLY REALLY NSFW!) this.

"Wanna touch it? It feels really real." (I have serious doubts at this point that he'd ever touched a real one.)

I was so freaked out that I kicked him in the shins, turned around and ran out the door. I discovered that he had indeed locked me in, but I knew how to work a lock, so I unlocked the door, ran down the stairs and got in my car. I spent the next 30 minutes shaking like a leaf in my car, on the verge of tears, lost in Dallas. In another hour, I was home and in the shower.

I'm sure there was some flirting while we were having drinks. But flirting to the point of trying to put your sex toy on me? No. Just no.

He messaged me the next day. Not to apologize. To see if I wanted to hang out again.

Serious.

Wednesday Wipeouts

2009-09-16T07:37:00.001-05:00

Oh, OKCupid. Oh, the men on OKCupid. Actually, from what I hear from our dear Phronk, the women are just as bad...but I don't have to deal with them.

Wednesdays will now, for the near future at least, be devoted to weird messages and/or conversations I've had with men on OKCupid. I know, try to contain your excitement.

This week's winner:

Well hi

My name is [it would be mean to tell you] I am 200 lb and 6ft I am from [somewhere], and I think your cute (just so you know its hard to tell a total stranger that they are cute or pretty threw a computer without sounding creepy, please forgive me).. Just the same I am white I shave my head I love the cold not really into sports that much but I play volleyball twice a week I have a dog and I take great pride in being Irish.. So if you like guys that are strong quiet that have tattoos and love to cook stop buy and say hi or text dosent bother me [for his own protection] wish you the best..

It just hurts my head. PUNCTUATION, people. Figure it out.

And since it's our first week of Wednesday Wipeouts, here's a bonus conversation I had with a dude because I just couldn't stop myself. Later, as I was telling Gofahne (ahem, please to sit your ass down and write your first blog, thanks) about it and we had a nice chuckle. Then I sent her the link to his profile and she said, "Um...remember how I told you that I was maybe having coffee with someone this week? Well, that's him."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oops.

It went like this...

Him: hey, what are you upto?

(Now, I had been chastised for never really responding to people, so this week I was trying to be a good girl and at least say something. I went to check his profile and his list of "I'm really good at..." things was this:

Kick boxing
Tigers
Water Falls
Jet Skiing
Para Sailing
Scuba Diving
Muscle Cars
BMWs
Roller Coasters
Basketball
Kite Surfing
Chess
Horse Riding
Bowling
Pool
Card Games
Long Drives
Racing my car
Movies
Music
Reading
People
Dancing
Salsa
Camping
Nature
Photography
Travelling
Massage
Reflexology
Eyes
Kissing

Which is...a lot of crap that makes little sense, but the first "move" we learned in pole dancing class was "water fall," so I found it amusing that he's good at that. Anyway, it seemed like a bit of douchebaggery, but I decided to respond. But not much.)

Me: No good.

Him: oh no. what's wrong?

Me: Um, nothing. You asked what I'm up to. And I am up to no good.

(This is no longer amusing once I have to explain it. Now I just sound weird...)

(Also, is this no longer a frequently used expression? I thought it was...)

Him: lol no good means something is not good...are u living your life?

Me: (Trying to refrain from saying, "No, I'm dead.") It's an EXPRESSION. And everything in my life is lovely.

Him: Are u lovely too?

Me: Generally speaking, yes.

Him: Generally is the keyword here...It saves more lot of worries...so what would u prefer for yourself...intelligence or looks ?

(I still have no idea what the hell that means...it saves more lot of worries?!?)

Me: Intelligence.

Him: do u think intelligence is perfection?

Me: No.

Him: explain

Me: You want an explanation for "No."?

Him: (Fifteen hours later) nopes...i want an explanation for why u like me :)

Me: Whatever would have given you that impression? (Which should have been my other choice, "That's easy. I don't.")

Him: (Five hours later) YOU...and dont try to make me scared of it...its ok to like someone :)

I can't even think of a response to that that isn't "drop dead." So I'm just leaving it there.

The long and short of it.

2009-09-15T08:37:00.001-05:00

I have this problem.

I'm shallow. I really never thought of myself as shallow, but it turns out, I just might be.

As a general rule, I only like tall boys. So, if you're funny and smart and generally awesome, but two inches shorter than me? I'm probably not going to even look twice at you.

This presents a particular problem with online dating. As I will be intrigued by a profile, look over at the height and see that the person is 5'5" tall and think, "Crap."

And then I can just pretend you never existed.

I'm not going to tell you what the problem actually is with short guys. Because, well, I'm just not. But trust that it isn't about wearing heels or what people will say or anything of that nature. Don't call me Jessie Spano.

(You know, because of that episode where she goes out on a great date with the short guy and then ditches him when she finds out he's shorter than her? First, how did he not stand up when she got to the table? Second, why would Lisa do that to her?!? Third, those jeans! How did she breathe?)

It's something else.

And the thing is, in person, you might win me over. But "on paper," ahem the internets? It's really unlikely.

I was...encouraged by at least one friend to stop being such an ass and just go for it. So I did. I sent a message back to both of the shorties that have messaged me.

In my head, though? Sex with a short person is just...really weird. Like I'm some kind of giant and he'll just be crawling all over me or something. For serious. I'm ridiculous.

I'm still calling it a dinner party.

2009-09-14T12:37:00.000-05:00

My friend The Willis is moving to Oregon this week. And the thought makes me want to cry. She's leaving her boyfriend behind, but he's insanely anti-social without her, so I'll probably never see him again either. And he's actually one of the good ones.

To say goodbye, I decided to have a little dinner party at my place on Saturday.

Of course, since I'm kind of a hot mess, I got off to a late start.

I was making margaritas (okay, those were actually made by LOB), creamy chicken and spinach enchiladas (well, one without chicken for our resident Pretty Bitch), chicken and shrimp nachos, and this amazing cheesy corn dip (seriously, this shit is incredible). And Puppy Chow, because it's The Willis's favorite.

I was too much of a mess to take any pictures of the spread (TWSS?), but trust: It was awesome.

After college football was over, someone (who shall remain nameless) suggested a drinking game. Mostly a drinking game in that you stand around and drink while you do it. Now, I was on my fourth margarita and LOB didn't skimp on the tequila. So I was already a little tipsy. And the game is this:

Take a paper bag and place it on the floor. Like so:

The first person must lean over, touching only the soles of his or her feet on the floor (so no hands, knees, or elbows) and pick up the bag using only his or her mouth. Everyone takes a turn, all the while hoping no one has the herp. What?

After everyone has had a turn, someone cuts one inch off the top of the bag. And the whole thing starts again. If you fall, you're out. If you touch the ground with your hands, you're out. If you just can't do it, you're out. This proceeds until only one person is left standing.

Now, let me explain something about The Willis. She's very tiny. Except for her boobs, but that's not really the point. She's 5'2" tall or so (as is Gofahne, but for some reason she seems taller to me). Her boyfriend is probably 6'0" tall at least. And LOB is 5'10" tall, I think. I'm about 5'7" tall. So you can see that The Willis and Gofahne might have a bit of an advantage.

I'm pretty flexible, but the lack of friction between my bare feet and the carpet got me far sooner than I expected. Soon, it was just The Willis and her boyfriend. Two of the most competitive people I've ever known (aside from my Aunt Dana). The paper bag had maybe a 1/2 inch ring around the bottom. So far The Willis hadn't even looked strained. But her boyfriend wasn't going to give up easily.

After watching her essentially curtsy down and pick up the bag with no problem, he stepped up to the plate.

There was stretching and straining and a little grunting and a lot of lunging. And, after a minute of trying, he plucked the bag up between his lips and stood. Victorious. Sort of.

So we did what any slightly drunk party goers would do. We cut the rest of the lip off the bag, placing just the bottom of it on the ground. It was completely flat. The Willis pulled her curtsy move again and popped back up, immediately. Her boyfriend struggled, but still managed to get the thing.

Now what?

DO IT ON ONE LEG!

Yeah, that ended in both of them nearly face planting. I'm sure my downstairs neighbors love me right about now. We had to call it a tie.

After one more drinking game, in which I took a shot of tequila to avoid having to drink 40 drinks of my vodka/Bailey's cocktail, we called it a night. That tequila pushed me right over the edge. And I spent some quality time with the toilet after that.

When I woke up in the morning, I found that my friends had cleaned my kitchen, almost entirely, even going so far as to run the dishwasher, put away the dishes, and run the thing again. I love you guys. Seriously. LOVE.

But really, none of you could bother to fix the garbage disposal? My sink nearly overflowed twice. Geez...

I keed! I should really call that in, huh?

It's Friday, we should break up - That guy with the Hitler mustache I met at the bar last night (UPDATED)

2009-09-11T20:37:00.000-05:00

(Oh, dear. It's 9/11 and I just now realized. Moment of silence.)

Some (most) of my friends get a real kick out of hanging out with me because I'm not scared to go up and ask anyone anything. And last night was a prime example.

First, I watched my Titans lose in overtime to the damn Steelers. Troy Polamalu? Please stop being so awesome (and on the wrong team) or I will have to lick your face. This is not a joke.

I was sitting on a patio, enjoying a beer and some insanely nice weather when, suddenly, three extras from Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love video (embedding disabled by request, bastards) walked by in the parking lot.

My friend DD was like, "Um...what the hell?"

So we stared awkwardly as they walked across the parking lot. And I do mean awkwardly.

Me: "Do you think they know they're dressed like the chicks from the Robert Palmer video?"

DD: "I don't know..."

Me: "Should I go ask?"

DD: "I will buy your next drink if you do. Please do!"

Shit. I ain't scurred.

I walked over as they were getting in their car.

"Um, hi! Excuse me. I'm sorry. But...are you dressed like the ladies of Robert Palmer on purpose?"

As it turned out they were doing a roller derby photo shoot with a Robert Palmer Addicted to Love theme. YES! I love roller derby. I would be doing it right now if I knew how to skate. Or had time for practice. Because I? Look good in some fishnets.

With that mystery solved, DD and I proceeded to do some karaoke. Yes, we're that lame. And we love to be that lame. Shut it.

Sometime in the middle, our bar - our awesome, laid back, not full of douchebags bar - flooded with what appeared to be preppy, yuppy Greeks (You understand here that I mean fraternities and sororities, not people from actual Greece. That would have actually been kind of cool.) from our local private university (we assume, because we're assumers).

Me: "Uh, what are all these pretty people doing in our bar?"

DD: "One of them is walking around with a Hitler mustache."

Me: "NO! Why? I'm going to go find him."

DD: "YES!"

I started searching through the crowd to find this mustached man. It took me more than a little while because he was about five-feet tall, but all his friends were of at least average height. Finally, the only guy I hadn't checked was the tiny one. He had his back to me, so I tapped him on the shoulder.

Me: "Eureka! Uh, what's the deal with your mustache? Please tell me that's an Inglorious Basterds thing (You STILL haven't seen it? Go see it!) and not a Hitler thing."

(In case you live under a rock and somehow don't know what Hitler's mustache looked like...)

Him: "It's not a Hitler thing. I don't want to be like Hitler. Or Obama...since they're basically the same person." (This was said with a great amount of disgust.)

Me: "Turn back around before I punch you in the vagina."

Cue walking away.

Uh, really, dude? Obama is just like HITLER? That doesn't even make sense. Does it? Someone explain it to me. I'm just not smart enough to figure it out.

My awesome friend Joanna posted a link to this in the comments, but I know no one else will likely bother to paste it into their browser to see it. So here it is.

TMI Thursday - Be vewy quiet, I'm bweaking wabbit.

2009-09-10T10:37:00.000-05:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Okay, so I had another post all lined up about some lame softball failure. Then, somehow, while talking to Just A Girl, I managed to let slip that I had...um, done something TMI-worthy not too long ago.

Mom, Aunt Kim, um, other relatives and/or coworkers who aren't my sister? Please stop reading now. Seriously. I take no responsibility for your discomfort if you keep this up.

Last chance.

Stop.

NOW.

Okay, at this point, it's on you.

So I have a rabbit. No, I don't mean the cute, cuddly, furry kind. I mean (and this is NSFW. Really.) this kind (except it's orange).

A small while ago, I was...playing with said rabbit. Playing? You know what I'm talking about.

(As a side note, all of this really works better for me if I'm...on top. Even where a toy is concerned. This may or may not be important information.)

Suddenly, I heard a crack. At a crucial moment, if you catch my drift. And the whole thing just stopped. Cold.

I almost cried.

Upon further inspection, I discovered that in my, ahem...excitement, I had actually broken my rabbit.

No, no. It wasn't worn out. Though I've had that problem on many an occasion. What?

This time I had broken it. Nearly in half. The part that houses the batteries was hanging on by a thread.

Sadly, I did not take a picture. So I give you this MS Paint rendering:

Vibrator FAIL.

Some people just shouldn't pole dance.

2009-09-09T08:37:00.001-05:00

And that person is me. Well, and my friend Gofahne.

If you know anything about anything, you know that Alice, over at Alice's Wonderland has just started level 5 pole dancing. And she seems to love it. Well, aside from that amazing upside down drawing of herself on the pole the other day. By the way? That was awesome.

This is a lot of the reason I thought this would be a good, fun thing to do. I mean, if Alice does it...how bad could it be? She doesn't really seem like a skank whore, right?

(And she's not, folks. Seriously. Okay, I don't really know, but it doesn't sound like she is.)

So when Gofahne sent me the link to the Groupon for pole dancing class, I said, "Um, yes please! LET'S DO IT!"

(A fact I later denied vehemently while trying to blame the whole experience on Gofahne. What?)

Well, last Friday was the day. The day of the pole dancing class.

First, let me say that the studio is a "half address." Meaning that it's a tiny little unmarked door in a strip of other bars, clubs, and restaurants. Meaning that I couldn't find the damn thing. Of course, I had left my phone at home. So I stopped and asked a valet guy, who suddenly was a whole lot more interested in what I was doing than necessary.

Gofahne had the same trouble finding the place. She tried to call me, which was useless. I realized that this might be the case, so I walked outside to see if I could find her. Lo and behold, she's driving down the busy street in front of me.

I yelled for all I was worth, jumping up and down, flapping my arms, running after her car. I chased her up and down the road (I was on the sidewalk) at a run about three times before I finally got her attention. That's when I noticed that everyone on the side of the road was staring at me.

Hell, I would have been staring at me, too. I waved, curtsied, and jogged off to meet Gofahne at her car.

We went upstairs and...all skank broke loose.

I'm not kidding.

The instructor, I can't remember her name, but let's call her Talula, was wearing little boy shorts underwear, as were half the girls in the class. I was wearing yoga pants. Clearly I didn't get the memo to just arrive in my underwear.

My favorite part of the Groupon description?

"Note: Bring comfortable, fitted workout wear and bottled water to class. Prior to class, don't apply lotion to your arms, hands, feet, legs, or steering wheel."

STEERING WHEEL? Um...

I asked Alice about this. She had no idea. I think it must mean something else. Hey baby, don't put lotion on my "steering wheel."

Within the first five minutes of class, Gofahne and I were given advice on "doin' it doggy style." Because, ladies, you know you have to pop your booty out, if you want him to hit the spot.

I nearly lost it at this point. And we were only five minutes in. Gofahne was little more than horrified.

I have to admit that I didn't expect it to be so challenging. I also didn't expect that the beginner class would involve immediately spinning around the pole with my feet off the ground.

Honestly, I have no skills in that department. I have huge bruises on my knees from trying. My arms were sore for days.

Also, to the girls in front of me? I had no urge to see your vagina. Also, you need to do some trimming.

I keed, I keed! Well, except about the vagina part.

The other thing I wasn't expecting? Being told (over and over) to "love my poonanny" or to "rub my poonanny."

Listen, my "poonanny" and I have a great relationship. But I don't really spend a lot of time loving or rubbing on it in front of fifteen women and a floor to ceiling mirror. Well, the mirror might be okay, but the fifteen women...yeah, it was just very odd.

Never realized how much I hate that word until that class.

To make a long story long, I'll just say this: I've never felt less sexy in my whole life. Ever. Including when I fell and busted my knee a couple of weeks ago.

It was the skankiest, most classless, least sexy thing I've ever done. Wherever my sexy is, it's not in pole dancing class.

And I think that chair I molested owes me dinner or something.

And I have two more classes. Why couldn't it have been a Groupon for Burlesque dance classes? Now that, I can get down with.

(HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO GINGERMANDY AND RACHEL!! 09/09/09!)

It's Friday, we should break up - But let's not because instead I need some advice

2009-09-04T09:37:00.000-05:00

One of my friends is having a dilemma. I'm here to ask your advice on her behalf. I completely understand that this will make some of you think less of my friend, but nothing is ever black and white. If you know me, and you've already heard about this, I apologize. Feel free to weigh in with the advice you've already given.

She dated a guy years ago, for a really long time. They, being young and stupid, broke up 37 times. The last time, this guy met a new girl a week after they broke up, and married her about a year later (His reason: "She never fights with me.").

Cut to two or three months ago. My friend and her ex-boyfriend got together to have a couple of beers and catch up. This generally happened every couple of years or so, over the course of the last seven years (since their breakup). It's always a dangerous game to play because this particular guy is...well, let's just say that when my friend pictured her "dream" guy in her head when she was younger, this guy was pretty much it. Except his eyes are brown instead of green, but she was willing to compromise on that.

They still get along pretty well. Aside from one errant "You always vote Republican" statement from him that caused her to say, "Well, no, actually. I don't." But all in all they get along.

While they were together, they fought about really stupid stuff. She was 19 when they met, he was 22. She felt really self-conscious around him because he was good at everything. So she wasn't very willing to look a fool in front of him. There was one ski trip...well, let's just leave that alone.

So two or three months ago, they got together and had some beers and caught each other up on their lives. Unfortunately, the chemistry between them was still strong. Like crackling in the room strong. Knowing he was married, though, obviously my friend didn't want to act on it. And the guy is generally a good one, so he didn't act on it either. But there was a bit of a lingering hug when they parted ways.

My friend suggested that maybe it would be better for her ex-boyfriend if they just didn't see each other any more. He agreed. He didn't want to do anything to hurt his wife. They walked away and she never expected to see him again.

That was fine with her. It had taken her a long time to get over him in the first place, but she had done it years ago. Having him in her life in some capacity was nice, but not necessary.

They texted about random stuff every once in a while, but that was it.

Cut to last week.

My friend received a text from her ex-boyfriend. It was suggestive in nature. After some back and forth, she determined that (SHOCKER) he's maybe not so happy in his marriage, at least where the sex is concerned. As in (again SHOCKER), they don't really have it. He doesn't know what to do and he thinks about her a lot and blah blah blah. He asked for her opinion and she gave it.

She told him that she didn't really think he should be married. And that in her opinion, he married the wrong girl and he did it for the wrong reasons and now he was sort of stuck. He said he'd thought about that a lot and about her a lot.

Basically, he thinks he wants to have sex with her. He says he doesn't want to get divorced, but that something has to change because he can't live like this. She told him that things weren't likely to change. If his wife hadn't developed a sex drive by now, she probably wasn't going to, so he needed to consider that. And this wouldn't fix anything in his marriage. She also told him that if he went through with this, it was likely he would want to do it again. She reminded him that she had walked away from him once and she could easily do it again. So if, for some reason, they went through with the whole thing, she could walk away and not see him or talk to him again. But she didn't really think that he would be able to do the same.

She's discussed this situation with some of her friends, and received a variety of different advice. All of which is valuable. But she's still a little torn. After all, she's not the one who took vows. She's not the one who's married. Hell, she doesn't even believe in marriage. And she already knows the sex is good and that this guy won't bug the crap out of her all the time. Obviously, she knows this isn't the best decision, but...she can't seem to stop thinking about it.

One of her other friends suggested that maybe this guy is "the guy." My friend isn't really a believer in the concept of "the guy" (Even though, in many ways he is "that guy." A subtle distinction, but an important one). But some part of her feels like maybe there's a reason that they haven't been able to lose each other over all these years. Even though that's a sappy thought and not one she's prone to have. If she does go through with the sex thing, that's all it could ever be, and it could easily be more trouble than it's worth (not to mention she's doesn't really want to be a home wrecker, though I would argue that the home is already a bit wrecked). If she doesn't and he actually gets divorced, it could be something else (but oh dear, please don't tell her mother, as she's not a fan). If she doesn't go through with the sex and he never gets divorced (which she suspects will be the case), nothing has really happened except an awkward conversation and a lingering hug.

She knows the answer should be WALK AWAY. But it's somehow just not that simple. She's a good person, but no one is perfect. So I ask you, dear readers, what do you think?

TMI Thursday - In which I don't have time to write something new, but I wrote this before I knew about TMI Thursday, so you should read it.

2009-09-03T08:37:00.001-05:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

A while back, something strange happened to me in a Kinko's parking lot. You may or may not have already read about it (sorry!). It really falls into the TMI category, so...

Please to click here.

Also, I know everyone in the universe has probably already seen this since that's the way it always goes with me and YouTube, but this? Made me giggle ALL DAY yesterday.

How (not) to have a good birthday.

2009-09-02T09:37:00.001-05:00

I haven't really had many good birthdays. In fact, that was so much the case, that at one point, I decided that I would just spend them alone (and for a few years, I did). So as to circumvent the disappointment of having a crappy one.

My last two were marred by my boyfriend either yelling at me (at which point I cried) or bitching and moaning about fucking square plates at the burger joint where we were eating for half an hour.

No, I'm not joking. Yes, feel free to call me an idiot for dating him for over a year.

The one stand-out birthday should always be your 21st birthday, right? Well, let me tell you about mine.

I was living with a roommate at the time. Sweet girl. One of the nicest people you'll ever meet. Not always the brightest, but a wonderful human being. Aside from that nasty passive-aggressive streak.

She was a little younger than me and we were both super excited about my birthday. She told me not to make any plans; she was going to take care of everything. Like an idiot, I listened.

What she had neglected to contemplate was that she was still only 20. So, you know, she couldn't do anything that I couldn't do the day before. I hadn't really thought about it either, since I had no idea what the plans were.

On the big night, I looked at her expectantly. I was sort of hoping for a party. No one has ever thrown me a birthday party. Including me.

Her big plan? We would go to the grocery store, I would purchase some Mike's Hard Lemonade (the only thing we would both drink), and then we would stay home and play games.

So.

Let's recap.

My 21st birthday was spent drinking lame-ass, sugary, malt beverage whilst sitting on the living room floor playing Uno. Just the two of us.

This year, I turn 30. I'm thinking about going on a cruise. Or renting out the bounce house.

What are your awesome/lame birthday stories?

Some people just shouldn't date.

2009-08-31T09:37:00.003-05:00

I am one of those people.

This weekend, I had my second OKCupid date. It was...interesting. Yeah, let's go with that.

First, I'd like to say, for the record, that I'm tired of being asked if I need to be in a relationship to feel like a whole person. I don't. I'm not expecting to find love on the internets. But it's good for stories and interesting experiences.

I also don't think that people only resort to online dating because they're pathetic, anti-social losers who can't meet people any other way. It's a valid, albeit less likely to work (just because there are a lot of weird things about it), way to meet people these days. I'm out all the time. I meet people in public all the time. I talk to strangers a lot.

That being said, this is definitely an adventure.

My first OKCupid date was fine. He was funny, but I didn't really feel very attracted to him. At the end of the date, he kissed me. And that pretty much sealed the deal. The kiss? Was meh. Dry with hard lips and no tongue. And I don't mean sweet and soft no tongue. I mean awkward no tongue.

My second date was Sunday night.

I'm just going to clear this up before I get started. I actually like Star Trek. Quite a bit even.

Okay, now that that's out of the way...

We met at a bar to watch the Denver Broncos/Chicago Bears pre-season game (Ouch, Jay Cutler. Rough reception). I didn't really have a lot of excitement about the date, but I figured a little football, a little beer, how bad could it be?

And really, it could have been much much worse.

We hung out for about three hours. For two of those hours, my date spoke of nothing but Star Trek. Now, I know we both like Star Trek, but unless we both show up in costume, it's probably just not a good idea to talk only about it for two hours. That's a lot of Star Trek.

The other hour, we mostly talked football. Which is fine with me.

I ordered a burger and a beer. He ordered some kind of appetizer thing and a beer. He had already started on one when I got there (20 minutes early), so this was his second.

He had a third and was schmammered. Like, got up to go to the bathroom and could barely walk, schmammered. Again, it's not like I'm against someone getting drunk, but maybe it's not such a great idea on a first date.

At that point, he was ready to go (obviously), so we paid the tab. I paid more than half, though my part was less than half. He insisted on paying cash, and I put in most of what I had. The tab was $46 or so, I put in $30 and he put in $20. Leaving the bartender...the worst tip in the world (less than 10%). When I tried to argue about it, he said, "I don't wanna do math" and led me out the door. Seriously? Minus 20 points. You do not leave the bartender a crappy tip.

We walked outside and he said, "So, can I walk you to your car?"

I said, "Oh...um, noooo...that's okay. I...parked really far away. There's no need for you to do that. No. And actually, you know, gosh I have to pee. I think I'm going to go back inside and do that (and leave the bartender the rest of my cash)."

I would think that any normal human being would have taken that as a "don't kiss me" sign, but before I knew it, he was leaning in, with his tongue literally sticking out of his mouth. I turned my face and pulled back quickly. But not fast enough. He licked up the entire right side of my face.

Ugh.

I said, "Okay, I'm going to go pee now. Um. Thanks!"

He said, "I'll call you soon!"

AAAAHAHHHHHHHH!

I went inside, gave the bartender my cash and waited for him to leave. Then I went to a nearby bar and had a beer on my own.

And actually met a funny and interesting man. Hhhmmm...

I don't really see the connection, but maybe it's just me...

2009-08-31T08:37:00.001-05:00

Effective tomorrow, a new law will go into place, making September 11th a holiday for all firefighters in the state of Texas.

I'm confused. Please to discuss.

UPDATE: I should add more. The firefighters didn't even know about this. They're moving around their other holidays so as not to give them an extra one, so some firefighters are losing an extra day around the (actual) holidays, when they might have wanted to be out of town visiting their families. If they give the firefighters an extra holiday, all other city workers have to get one, too (at least in some municipalities). The police departments have actually requested to be left out of the whole thing. Not to mention, clearly not all firefighters can be off on the same day, so plenty of them will still have to work that day.

In other news, what about airline pilots? Office workers? Generally everyone who experienced loss in this tragedy? I'm so not in any way trying to diminish the contribution of the firefighters, but really...why just Texas? Shouldn't this at least be a national thing? Also, is it really appropriate to call it a holiday?

But the thing is, who can argue with it? It's like, if you argue, you're automatically a horrible human being who doesn't recognize or appreciate the tragedy that was 9/11.

Politicians make me gag.

It's Friday, we should break up - (Awesomely) Bad Ideas

2009-08-28T08:37:00.000-05:00

You know the ones I'm talking about. Like Clear Pepsi. Ick.

I'm making a completely separate and really stupid personal decision right now, but I thought I'd share the awesomely bad idea I had last night.

It was time to dye my hairs. First of all, I always hate my hair for at least the first week (this time is no exception). It's either (that) too dark, too bright, too light, too...ugly. Whatever. Right now, it's far too dark.

Second, I can't really figure out how other people do this hair dyeing thing at home. I can't really do it with clothes on. I always drip the dye all over myself and then when I have clothes on, it's hard to get them off without getting dye all over them. So I just do it naked. It's easier that way.

Except of course, that I then have to rinse the dye out of my hair...naked.

I don't like to get in the shower and rinse it because I don't like the feeling that the dye is all over me. So I usually kneel in front of the tub and put my head under the faucet.

In a normal bathtub, this isn't really an issue. I, however, have a garden tub. And a busted knee. This time I particularly didn't want to get dye in my open wound, but I also didn't really want to kneel in front of the tub.

I stood there for a minute, contemplating. I didn't have many options. Grin through the pain (and thereby, surely get hair dye in my mouth, yuck!), get in the shower (and thereby, surely get hair dye in my open wound, yuck!), actually wash the glasses in my kitchen sink and rinse it in there (but it was time to rinse!), or...this:

Let me explain. You should know that I told my eight-year-old niece about the situation, and she drew that picture. I think she's quite good, no?

That's a lie. I drew it. I'm a terrible artist. I know this. But here we are.

So my brilliant plan was to lie (Naked, mind you. Seriously, I'm this smart), long-ways along the edge of the tub, with one leg stretched out down the length of the tub. However, I couldn't really balance very well, so I ended up propping my other leg up on the toilet.

I should maybe mention that the proportions of this drawing are probably completely off. See above. I'm a terrible artist. You're getting an aerial view because I have no idea how to adjust my perspective to make corners and such. I tried and my tub just looked like it was about to fall over. So maybe that's where my talent lies. Drawing wobbly, unstable things.

And no, I don't have an amputated arm. That one was just up underneath me. Also, um, I have no idea how to draw my own ass. So I just went without. I tried with disastrous results. Which have been burned.

This technique actually worked pretty well, for the first ten minutes. When I still couldn't get all the dye out, though, my arms started to fall asleep. It was hard to breath with the tub pressing on my lungs. And I got dye in my eyes. Of course.

All this so I could hate my hair for a week.

Some people actually do get in the shower before they turn on the water.

2009-08-27T12:37:00.000-05:00

There's an email or a website or a list of some kind going around right now. I've gotten it about five times. And it's funny. Oh, and true.

However, I take issue with one of the "truisms": I find it hard to believe there are actually people who get in the shower first and THEN turn on the water.

Because, well, for years, that's exactly what I did.

When I was younger, at some point, we had one of those bathtubs that's a bathtub, but still has a sliding door on top. Or maybe it wasn't me, but one of my friends. Or a relative. Okay, I don't remember, but I encountered one somewhere.

I was so terrified of slipping and falling on my vagina that I didn't want to step into a wet bathtub. I still am a little.

I'm really clumsy. You know this. Don't make me show you my knee again.

Since I was terrified of breaking my vagina, I would step into the tub, turn the water on, and get it to the right temperature.

Then I would pull the little knob and shrink back against the back of the tub, so that the first spray of water (always cold) wouldn't hit me.

I didn't even know other people got in the shower after turning on the water. I mean, who wants to break a vagina?

In which I ramble on about relationships and you skim or skip this one.

2009-08-25T09:37:00.002-05:00

In my recent contemplative-about-relationships state, I’ve been paying close attention to my friends’ relationships. That and I can’t seem to let go of that Sex and the City scene. And here’s what I’ve come up with: I am not a simple girl. I never ever will be. And that makes me so happy.

I disagree with the term simple, though, because I am not complicated. And that’s kind of the opposite of simple, isn’t it? I think I’m pretty easy (and no, I don’t mean that way).

I’m logical and rational, I think things through, I’m not terribly dramatic, I tell the truth (sometimes when I probably shouldn’t), I’m straight-forward, I laugh a lot, I’m confident, I like sports, I have no problem peeing outside, I don’t cry very often, I watch chick flicks and go shopping with my friends, I’m fun to be around, I don’t need to have my hand held at a party full of people I don’t know, I have my own life, I’m fiercely loyal until you betray me.

However.

I have my own opinion. And I’m not scared to tell you what it is, even if it differs from yours. I like to discuss things. I’m not scared to tell you I think you’re wrong. I do expect you to do what you say you’re going to do. I do expect you to treat me at least as well as I treat you. I do expect you to make an effort with my friends and my family. I do expect you to not be an idiot. And it helps if you’re funny.

The thing is, it’s hard to be with a girl like me because I’m probably smarter than you. Or funnier than you. Or cuter than you. Or more outgoing than you. Or all of the above. And that’s kind of a scary thing. Because…I might leave if I find something better. You might have to put on your thinking cap to hang out with me. You might have to actually put forth some effort, if you want to be with me.

Don’t worry. I’m not claiming to be an original here. There’s a whole slew of women out there just like me. Not that we all have the same qualities, but we’re all confident and strong and opinionated and funny and smart. And that makes us “complicated.”

The so-called simple girls are easy because they will likely just glom on to whatever you’re already doing. They aren’t going to push you or challenge you. They probably just want to be with someone and once they find someone, they’re happy to settle and put up with any amount of crap…to avoid being alone. Their self-esteem probably isn’t the greatest, though it will often seem like it is (at least at first). They come in all shapes and sizes. And they're everywhere.

Most of my girlfriends who are in relationships right now don’t seem very happy to me. They complain and whine and moan, but they stay.

“He never wants to hang out with my friends.”

“We never have sex any more.”

“He doesn’t do anything nice for me.”

“He makes me feel stupid and small.”

“He never wants to leave the house.”

“He’s not there for me when I need him.”

"He's mean to me when he's drunk."

"Well, yes, he sleeps with hookers, but he says it's only because I don't give him what he needs." (I keed...mostly)

My question? “So why are you with him?”

The answer is always: “Well…because I love him.” Or, “Really, it’s not as bad as I just made it sound.”

And I’ve been there, believe me. I was with a man who broke me. I cared far more about his happiness and comfort than I ever did about my own. I loved him more than I loved me. It wasn’t that way when we started dating, but slowly, over time, things changed. I was so worried about him that I forgot to be worried about me. Which made me miserable. I wasn’t a miserable person, but I was miserable in the relationship. I couldn’t figure out why. But it was because I gave me up to be with someone else. I was so lost, I didn’t even know who I was any more.

It pretty much all boils down to this: Most men are lazy and most women think they “need” a man. Also, there's a damn big difference between love and habit. Learn it.

I know approximately two happy couples. Maybe three. And that’s counting Lilu and B who I don’t actually know, but love anyway (Hi, I’m a stalker!).

As women, we generally want to feel special. We go after men who are emotionally unavailable, or dangerous, or just generally jerks because we feel like if they would just see how special we are, they would want to change and chill out and be with us. But that’s not how it works.

I believe that people can change, but I don’t believe they change for anyone but themselves. I wanted to be that special girl once. Now, I just want to do my own thing and live my own life and not have to deal with anyone else’s emotional mommy issues (or whatever, I’m not being specific…ahem). If you want to ride this train, you better have your shit together. Trust me, it's worth it.

If that man that you’re with is treating you like crap, he’s probably always going to treat you like crap. If you’re happy with that, by all means stay. But sit down and think about it for a week. Is that really what you want? A lifetime of being unhappy just to be with someone else? Because I think you’re better than that. Until you think you’re better than that, though, you’ll probably just stay with that guy because he’s there.

You look great, but I? Am a fat cow.*

2009-08-24T09:37:00.003-05:00

I just had possibly one of the best weekends ever. Aside from falling off a step trying to get Thai takeout and busting my knee. Which originally looked like this:

And now, looks like this:

You're welcome. And just to further gross you out, it won't stop oozing. It oozed in my bed last night and when I woke up this morning, the hairs that I had shed in my bed were all crusted in the ooze (What? It's TMI Monday!). Yummy.

Friday night was amazing. Inglorious Basterds was truly glorious (and seeing it with Graygrrrl made it that much better! A serious case of the giggles had by all). As of right now, it is my new favorite Tarantino movie. Brad Pitt was fucking genius. GENIUS. It was bloody and gutsy and just the right amount of random, useless, over-the-top violence. Then I met @gaveupthefight and friends (Really, too many to name. She is one popular woman) at the club for some booty shakin'. And booty shake we did. Only got better when the Pretty Bitch (she loves it when I call her this, I swear! Maybe), @nataliecottrell showed up. She may be gorgeous, but man is she hilarious. We danced until our clothes were soaked.

Saturday I met up with @mouthful, Little Ring, and Chihuahua Balls for rock climbing and hot wings. Also, 34 ounces of everclear lemonade. Such a great idea, considering I was going on a HUGE pubcrawl later that day. Here are the rocks I climbed. I was considering getting some action shots, but it's just awkward to keep up with a camera while climbing. You'll just have to trust me that my ass is MAGIC in my climbing harness (this is a lie).

Saturday evening, I attended the Dallas Becomes Chicago Pub Crawl. I had a fan-fucking-tastic time with @beckbee, @mikerehyer and about 200 or so other people. No really, there were at least 200 people there. The whole thing is public transportation-based. I can only imagine how the regular patrons of the DART rail felt about 200 people in matching Tshirts flooding the train all night.

One of our stops was Lee Harvey's. A great little bar with a huge outdoor area where people can bring dogs and stuff. Barb found a hoola hoop and went to town. The picture's a little blurry, but I think it captures the essence.

We all messed with our shirts at the second bar, to customize them. Mine turned out like this:

With the help of some lovely ladies.

It was a ton of fun and I'm hoping to get to do it again next year.

When I got home on Sunday morning, I. Could. Not. Move. For about five hours. I finally picked myself up off the couch (at 12:30 pm) and went to get Thai food take-out. I missed the step on my way out of the restaurant, which is why my knee looks vaguely like hamburger. My legs just wouldn't hold me up.

I pulled my ass together, though, to make it to @gaveupthefight's pool party. Where everyone promptly said, "Good god, woman, what the hell happened to your knee?!?"

My response? "There was a step."

Signature drink of the day? Brandy's Tall Paul. It was DELICIOUS. I saw it on her blog and I've been wanting to try it ever since. It was a huge hit and everyone loved it. Thanks, Brandy!

Needless to say, I couldn't really get in the pool. Motorboater made an appearance and felt the need to apologize for his behavior last Saturday. Can someone please just let him know that saying nothing is better than being a dick and apologizing later? I've had enough. Also the fact that I jumped six feet in the air when he touched my back should probably have been some kind of indication that I'm particularly interested in him being anywhere near me.

The second pool party of the day was also a blast. However, I learned that beer pong? Not so fun to watch. And it takes a really long time.

And today? I'm exhausted.

*This is in reference to one of the skinniest girls I know taking diet pills because she's decided she's fat. Seriously, at least complain about it to a skinny person. I don't want to hear it. Your waist is the size of my thigh. And said girl is GORGEOUS anyway. I might have to slap her. Then we probably won't be friends, and I love her too much for that already.

It's Friday, we should break up - Dating

2009-08-21T09:37:00.001-05:00

(Today, my funny is gone. Feel free to skip this one.)

I think maybe I'm done trying to date. I suck at it and I'm picky and it just hasn't been working out for me.

I can't seem to find a happy medium between emotionally unavailable and cries at Disney movies. It's exhausting. I'm kind of a man when it comes to feelings and relationships. At least at the beginning. I don't like to talk about my feelings, so I probably don't want to hear about yours right away.

I had dinner with one of my best friends @newslacker this week and he basically told me I was being a little too hard on boys. Especially for talking about their feelings. He's kind of a sensitive guy and I'm okay with that. It's not that I'm uncaring. I just don't want you to tell me you love me on the second date. Or say that you think we're involved after we've been out once. Or introduce me to your mom after three dates.

I just want things to happen the way they happen. No pushing. Just LET IT BE WHAT IT IS.

Is that so wrong?

I know I probably seem like kind of a bitch. But I'm really not. I just miss feeling the butterflies, you know? And until I feel them, I don't want to hear about your feelings.

Also, this: (Sorry boys, it's Sex and the City, but it totally describes how I feel right now for some reason.)

Now...where can I find some of those butterflies?

TMI Thursday - Gas Pump Fail

2009-08-20T08:37:00.001-05:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Several of you have commented that you'd like to hear the story of how I accidentally walked in on a donkey show. And I really want to tell you. But I can't tell you here. I'm going to try to write that story up elsewhere today, so if you'd like to read it, shoot me an email (ishineoutloud [at] gmail [dot] com) and I'll send you the link when the story is posted.

Today, at shine out loud, however, I'm going to tell you about a rather embarrassing incident that happened to me quite a few years ago (Read: TEN). You'll recall that I used to work at Kohl's Department Store. If you click to go read that, I'm sorry. Really, I am. But if I had to deal with it, I feel like it would be wrong of me to keep it from you.

I had to dress up for work in the department store, which usually meant I was annoyed and uncomfortable. I had one pair of shoes, however, that looked dressy enough, but had these giant rubber-ish soles, so they were really comfy. Look, it was 1999 or something. Trust me, they were cute at the time. Kind of like this:

I was forced to wear pantyhose at this job. Much like Lemmonex isn't interested in working in a place that will make her remove her nose stud, I am not interested in working in a place that will force me to wear pantyhose. EVER AGAIN. They are the most horrifyingly uncomfortable things I've ever had to wear. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with my legs. Hell, they make pantyhose to look like legs, anyway. Why not just put my legs right on out there? Sexist bastards.

And if you're about to tell me that you've worn pantyhose all your life, and they're not uncomfortable, hear this: That's the pantyhose talking. You've been brainwashed.

That was quite a detour, but I think it was a necessary one.

On the day in question, I was wearing a sheer lavender shirt with a white cami underneath, an A-line skirt, pantyhose, and the aforementioned Mary Jane shoes. I had to be at work right after lunch, which happened to be a really busy time for the main street in my 'hood.

On my way to work, I noticed I had almost no gas, so I stopped at a 7-11 right off the main drag. I pulled my car up to the gas pump (there was only one) and turned off my engine.

Now, I should explain that the gas pump had those concrete barriers around it to make sure that if someone crashes into the ends of the pump, they don't take out the pump itself. Sometimes these consist of giant concrete poles, but these were little concrete half walls. They came up to about my thigh.

I got out of my car, walked over to the pump station, and did the whole paying thing. As I reached for the handle of the pump itself and started turning toward my car, my shoes sort of...tripped me up. They stayed in their current position, while my body tried to make a 180 degree turn. You can imagine that this didn't really go over very well, especially when you consider how clumsy I am already.

I toppled over backward and landed, wedged in between the concrete half-wall barrier and the pump station. Hard. Unable to move my hips and wriggle out hard. Legs up in the air arms flailing hard.

All this time, mind you, there are cars on the road right next to me. Stopped at the traffic light. People were laughing and honking and cat-calling (as everyone could now see up my skirt).

I managed to brace with my hands against the concrete and the pump station, twist my hips, and get my feet on the ground. When I finally got myself into a standing position, which took quite a bit of effort, there were about 15 cars of faces staring at me, not to mention everyone inside the 7-11 and everyone in the parking lot.

My pantyhose were ripped (Oh, darn!), my shirt was torn and smudged with black, and I had huge bruises on my arms and legs. I. Was. Not. Happy. And having a bunch of people hollering (What? I'm from Tennessee. It's a word.) at me wasn't helping.

Also, in the melee, my gas cap flew out of my hand or off my car or whatever. The point? It was lost. I had no idea where it was, so I started looking around for it. Some guy in the parking lot said, "Hey! Hey. Lady!"

I turned and gave him my best bitch look. I really didn't need any more comments from the peanut gallery. "Look. I've had enough, okay? So just keep your fucking comments to yourself, asshole."

He looked at me, sort of taken aback, and said, "Um. I think it's over there." He was pointing at my gas cap.

I felt like a jerk. I was late for work. And my pantyhose were ripped!

Failure to use a turn signal when you're not changing lanes may result in the acquisition of a ticket.

2009-08-19T07:37:00.000-05:00

Monday night, I was driving home from dinner with my mom, talking to Cheese on the phone. I was in the far left lane on the highway because that's how I do. Also, my exit is a left exit. I like to be prepared. There was a car beside me in the next lane over.

All of a sudden, in my rear view mirror, I see a speeding car come riding up on my ass. It's a cop. I check my speed to make sure I'm not going 85 mph. Sometimes this happens when you're not looking, ya know? I was going about 65 mph, though. No problem.

Mr. Policeman Asshole was seriously on the edge of my bumper. I couldn't even see his headlights. We proceeded in this fashion for about five miles. At which point, his lights flash on and he slows down.

Ummm....WTF?

To Cheese: "Uh, I think I'm getting pulled over. But I wasn't even speeding! I have to go."

I hang up the phone and start pulling over to the right. Once I get there, I put my car in park and turn on my hazard lights. Of course, I'm BLINDED by the policeman asshole car spotlight. I HATE those things.

The policeman asshole comes up to my window.

PA: "Is this your car?"

Me: "Um." (FREAKING OUT. Has someone reported my car stolen or something?!?) "Yeah."

PA: "License and insurance."

I got out my wallet and handed him my driver's license. His response? To bark "INSURANCE" at me, like I'm some kind of idiot.

I said, "I'm getting it. Just give me a second to find it."

Of course, I can't find it. It must have fallen out of my wallet. And I can't really reach or see into my glove compartment well enough to tell if I have the current one in there. And no, I wasn't about to take off my seat belt to look. I don't really need a seat belt ticket on top of whatever the hell ticket I was about to get.

Oh, it happens like that. I was in the car with a friend who got a ticket for not wearing his seat belt when he had only taken it off to get stuff out of his glove compartment.

Me: "I can't seem to find the piece of paper, but can I show you my insurance card in my email? I have it on my phone."

PA: "You can do that?"

Me: "Yeah."

PA: "Well, that's pretty cool. I'll be back with your license in a minute."

I should mention here that I had to piss like a racehorse. I drank three glasses of tea AND a cup of coffee at dinner with my mom. I knew I had to pee when I left the restaurant, but I figured it was only about a half hour home, and I could make it. I had already told Cheese 10 times that I had to pee so bad it was about to come out of my mouth.

Mr. Policeman Asshole took my license, went back to the squad car, and (I'm guessing) talked about sports, boobs, and donuts with his partner for the next 15 minutes. My bladder was aching. Aching.

When he finally came back to my car, I showed him my insurance card on my phone, and he said, "Well, ma'am. I'm going to have to give you a ticket for failure to use your turn signal when changing lanes."

Me: "Uh, when did I change lanes?"

PA: "Back there. Now, that's a really dangerous thing to do. People are always getting messed up in this area because they don't signal lane changes. This is for your safety, ma'am."

But.

I DIDN'T CHANGE LANES. At least, I hadn't for the five miles he was behind me. HE WAS BEHIND ME.

What can I do, though? I took the ticket, he told me to be careful, and I drove away.

I called Cheese back and said, "Guess what the fuck I just got a ticket for doing?"

Cheese said, "Not using your turn signal."

Me: "Are you...here? How did you know that?"

Apparently, "that's how they get ya." Because there's no way, really, for me to prove that I didn't change lanes or that I did use my signal or whatever.

So thank you, Mr. Policeman Asshole Dallas Constable Dickhead. I appreciate the life lesson, but maybe next time you could let me break the rules before punishing me. I don't care about your quota. May your wife's vagina shrivel up and seal shut so you never get laid again. May you lose your penis in a tragic donut-hole-cutting incident. Also, STOP SPEEDING AND TAILGATING, douche. And I didn't see you signal when you changed lanes either. Prick.

At least I managed to not pee myself in the car while I was waiting. Just barely.

If you look closely, you can see a real cougar in the wild...only she's wearing leopard print.

2009-08-18T07:37:00.000-05:00

The Willis and I went out for drinks last night. At our second stop, we ran into...Motorboater! AND HIS MOM!

If you look carefully, you can see Motorboater's mom over The Willis's shoulder. Yes, she sat down right behind us.

Motorboater didn't speak to me for the entire night. Not even when he decided to hang out with him mom (Who was hitting on some guy wearing a top hat. Yes. A TOP HAT.) right next to us. Which was fine with me, really. But kind of awkward.

The Willis and I left around 1:00 am. When we got in the car, I heard my phone signal that I had received a text message.

"Oh that better not be from Motorboater."

But it was. Of course.

Text #1: "Wow, thought I recognized you but wasn't sure as I hadn't seen you in a while (Note: I look exactly the same. It's been less than two months.). You look great. Fantastic. Didn't mean to me rude."

Response #1: "It's cool. I just figured you weren't speaking to me."

Now, I realize I probably should have just said nothing. But he was being sort of nice and I didn't want to be an asshole. Especially because we kind of tend to end up in the same places a lot, and I'd rather it not be awkward every time.

Text #2: "No, I realized from the girl after you I have some issues I need to deal with. I was prob a bit over the top in being mad at you. I am sorry."

Response #2: "It's no biggie. I'm not sweatin' it."

Honestly, what else am I supposed to say here?

Text #3: "Word. But I was still a jack ass (I'm not editing). But from our convos you expected nothing but."

First of all, you don't remember what I look like, but you remember our conversations? I doubt both of those are true. Second of all, I pretty much called him a jackass the entire time we were "dating."

Response #3: (At this point, I'm a little irritated that we have to continue this coversation) "I did actually try to tell you you were a jackass. You just weren't interested in listening."

I don't feel like I'm doing anything to encourage a continued conversation.

Text #4: "I was angry. Not an excuse but there are some things I need to get straight before I can deal with anyone else. I take small things very personally right now. Not sure how to get over that but at least know where it stems from and that is a start."

Response #4: "Like I said. No skin off my back. I'm good."

Read: I'm not a therapist, but maybe you should get one. Also, there's really no need to explain that you're a jackass, since I've known that for years.

Text #5: "That attitude was part of my prob. Needed somebody that gave a shit."

So okay, fuck you. Now I'm really annoyed. AND IT'S 1:00 IN THE MORNING. WTF?

Response #5: "I told you from second one that I wasn't interested in anything serious. It's not that I don't give a shit, but I barely know you. And I'm not really interested in taking on anyone else's shit right now and you have a lot of it. All I'm trying to say is that I didn't take your anger personally. If you want to make it personal, that's a different story."

Cheese and rice people. What the hell?

Text #6: "Sorry, anger slipped for a moment. All I wanted to do was say that you look great. I can tell that you stuck with working out and it shows. C'mon, I wasn't even sure it was you!"

What I wanted to say here: "And I can tell that your genius 'walk up and down the stairs' plan hasn't really panned out at all. Also, I looked good two months ago and I look exactly the same now. Feel free to grow up. Fuck you."

Response #6: "Thanks."

Lesson learned. Just don't bother to respond to text messages, even if they seem reasonable and nice on the surface.

I had forgotten that my sister was also a little OCD at Christmas, too!

2009-08-17T07:37:00.003-05:00

You may remember reading about my sister's move. She reminded me in the comments section (In which both she and her boyfriend commented. They are hilarious.) that she had also gone off the deep end a little bit for Christmas.

Now I love a schedule and a plan as much as the next girl. I'm just well aware that they rarely work out. My sister, Sarah, and my aunt, Dana, continue to live their lives as though every plan they make will work perfectly. And if not, don't worry, there's a backup plan. Or twelve.

I love them both dearly, but neither are really living in the same reality as the rest of us.

You'll notice that I'm not actually on the schedule at all (because of course I can't really be counted upon for much and I was busy with my head up my ass about the guy I was dating anyway). Though, as it turned out, I had a hand in quite a lot of the cooking. Because trying to plan my mother is like trying to cage an enraged bull in an aquarium. Futile at best. Disastrous at worst. But she does try really hard. (Hi Mom! Love you!)

(Did I mention that my mom actually started read my blog yesterday. Yeah...)

Sarah's list is wonderfully color coded already. Anything I add, I'll add in orange and bold and these [] thingies..

And now I give you...my family's Christmas schedule!

On 12/22/08, Sarah wrote:

Please review this schedule....

Christmas Eve

12:15-1: Travel to Lake Village
1-2:30: Christmas Caroling at Lake Village (Expected Attendance: Pops, Nana, Ginger, Gary, Sarah, Dana, Osiris, Omar, Carlos and Fernando) [I HATE CAROLING. I HATE CHRISTMAS MUSIC. Though I have a soft spot for Amy Grant Christmas music. Shut up, she used to go to our church and she rarely gets blasted at me EVERYWHERE I GO for two months before Christmas.]
2:30-3:00: Travel to Prairie Estate
3:00-4:30: Christmas Caroling at Prairie Estate [See above.]
4:30-5: Travel Home
5:00-7: Final Christmas Dinner Preparations
7: Christmas Eve Dinner (Expected Attendance: Nana, Pops, Ginger, Gary, Dana, Rachel and Sarah)

Christmas

1:30: Travel to The Forum (7827Park Lane, off of 75 on Park Lane)
2-5: Volunteer at The Forum (activities include playing bingo with residence and serving snacks to residence at the nursing home) (Expected Attendance: Pops, Ginger, Gary, Sarah and Dana) [What?!? I would have attended, but I was going to a Christmas day thing with some friends. It was white elephant. I got a plastic dead grandmother in a rocking chair. You can't buy memories like these.]
5-7: Christmas Dinner Preparations
7: Christmas Dinner (Expected Attendance: Nana, Pops, Ginger, Gary, Dana and Sarah)

Some Notes

1. I hope everyone enjoys this volunteering activity-- surprisingly, it took me quite a bit of time to find a facility that would allow a group our size to volunteer together. (Other organization required training, background checks, or had to split us up). [It seems odd to me that there's this much of a pain in the assness associated with volunteering. I'm not surprised more people just choose to stay home.]

2. Christmas Eve Dinner Menu: Turkey, Ham, Broccoli and Cheese Casserole, Cheese Spaghetti, Creamed Corn, Deviled Eggs, Banana Pudding, Banana-less pudding, Dressing, Sweet Potato Casserole, Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Rolls, Sparkle Punch and Sweet Tea

3. Christmas Dinner Menu: Pork Tenderloin, Pesto Pasta, Twiced Baked Potatoes, Mixed Vegetables and Cheesy Garlic Bread

Any additional menu requests must be submitted tonight (12/22) [Yes, there's a deadline.]

Sarah

Later that day on 12/22/2008, Sarah wrote:

Here are details for the Christmas Eve Dinner Preparations-- they are color coded so its easy to see what each of us is responsible for....Dana is blue, Sarah is Purple [I'm sorry, this looks more like pink, but I'm not going through and changing it now. Just pretend it's purple.], Ginger is Red, and Nana is Green.

Turkey- Dana

Ham- Dana [Dana is the meat preparer and griller of the family. She has more grill tools than any one single human could ever need and she is HILARIOUS out there.]

Broccoli and Rice Casserole- Sarah will prepare on Tuesday (cracker topping will be placed on Wednesday by Sarah)[This is not a joke, folks. This cracker topping will not place itself!]

Cheese Spaghetti: Sarah will prepare on Tuesday

Creamed Corn: Sarah will commence prep work on Tuesday by taking the ear and juices off the cob [This just sounds really gross to me, even though I know we're talking about corn. I don't really ever want to hear "ear" and "juices" in the same action again.], Ginger will do the final cooking on Wednesday after we get back from Caroling [NOPE.]

Deviled Eggs: Sarah will boil eggs on Wednesday morning before Caroling, Sarah will make the deviled eggs on Wednesday after returning from Caroling [You'd think since Sarah is the one doing all the preparing AND Sarah is the one making the schedule, she wouldn't necessarily feel the need to be so detailed. But you'd be wrong.] [And I think I made these.]

Banana Pudding/Banana-less Pudding: Nana will bring on Wednesday [Neither Dana nor I actually like the bananas in the banana pudding. They get all slimy. NO THANK YOU.]

Dressing- Nana prepare and bring on Wednesday

Sweet Potato Casserole- Dana making on Tuesday [This meant it had brown sugar and pecans instead of marshmallows, I think. I don't like sweet potatoes, but I LOVE marshmallows.]

Mashed Potatoes- Sarah will shave [What the hell kind of hairy potatoes are we eating?!?], cut, and boil the potatoes on Wednesday morning before Caroling, Nana will mash and prepare the potatoes on Wednesday evening [I would like to add that this is NOT what happened. Somehow, Mom decided to mash the cooked potatoes the night before without any of the appropriate ingredients. This was a HORRIBLE IDEA. In case you were wondering. This is why we have an agenda, people, let's respect it.]

Rolls- Sarah will place in the oven on Wednesday night after the Turkey is done

Sparkle Punch- Ginger will make on Wednesday Evening [I made this.]

Sarah

I should add here that Mom (Ginger) didn't make it home from seeing patients until about a half hour before we ate dinner. There were many moments of confusion before Nana (Mom's mom) showed up to guide us through the "making creamed corn" process. Also, I made a huge mess of the deviled eggs, but I really only like the filling anyway. Sarah did place the rolls in the oven on Wednesday night after the Turkey was done. I think Turkey is capitalized because it is Very Important on holidays. I pretty much hate turkey all the time, though, so I refuse to capitalize. Leave me alone, turkey. I want a new holiday meat (TWSS?).

Dear Men,

2009-08-16T01:23:00.001-05:00

Please have less vagina. Be less dramatic. STOP BOTHERING ME WITH YOUR FEELINGS AND CRAP.

I don't care.

This does not mean that I don't care about anything. It means that I don't care about you. You who I barely know. You who I went out with a few times. You who didn't really do anything for me. You, holding on to all your anger and crap. You who felt the need to text me and be all fucking dramatic at 1:00 am. You who expected me to be all broken up that you were angry with me when I didn't want to go out again.

I. Do. Not. CARE.

Because you're not worth caring about.

But do NOT make that about me. If you were worth it, I would care.

Also, don't tell me you're a jackass and get mad when I agree. You're a jackass.

I am done. Save your drama for your mama.

It's Friday, we should break up - So-called "invisible solid" deodorant.

2009-08-14T07:37:00.000-05:00

Wait a minute. It's not "so-called 'invisible solid' deodorant." It's either "so-called" or "invisible solid." Cause there ain't nothing invisible about it.

It's all over my clothes.

Secret, Dove, Degree, you're all the same. "New! Improved! Formula!" That just means the old formula sucked and you know it. Unfortunately, you've made little progress in this arena.

Even more unfortunate is the fact that there are so few other options. That clear stuff does weird things to my clothes. And it feels all wet and sticky. In a really bad way.

I'm at a loss here, but I stand strong. Invisible solid deordorant? We're threw.

TMI Thursday - Tidal Wave

2009-08-13T08:37:00.000-05:00

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

(This is really gross. I'm just going to warn you now. It still makes me puke in my mouth a little. I don't think I've ever actually managed to tell this story in its full glory. Please don't hate me.)

I used to work retail. A lot of retail. My services (hehe) have graced establishments such as Sam Goody, American Eagle Outfitters, Lids (the baseball cap store), and some shoe store in a horrible outlet mall where I swear they just used a dump truck to dump all the shoes in there without a concern about having them in pairs. Ugh.

But possibly my worst retail experience was at Kohl's. I don't know if you have them where you live, but they're a discount-ish department store, kind of like Target, but without the groceries.

My title? Department Supervisor of the Lingerie Department. Sounds sexy, right? No.

I'm sorry to burst your bubble here, boys, but WOMEN ARE NASTY. Okay, not all of us are nasty, but the nasty ones more than make up for any nastiness lost by us normal girls.

Basically, it was my job to make sure that all the bras and panties and sexy nighties and pajamas found their homes on hangers and that all the dressing rooms were clean. By the way, I wouldn't hang up a bra now if you paid me money to do it (I probably would).

I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't try on underwear. I know what size I wear and I buy that size. If I get it home (wash it) and try it on and it doesn't fit, well, I'm just out that money. Not all women feel this way.

NOTE: If you're a woman and you're reading this, when you buy underwear WASH IT BEFORE YOU PUT IT ON. Trust me on this one.

I had to keep a stash of gloves in my little podium because I was constantly finding tried-on underwear in the dressing room. AND I'M NOT TOUCHING THAT WITH MY BARE SKIN. Gross.

Then I started finding dirty, used, pre-owned underwear in the dressing rooms with the empty hangers from the brand-new, clean(ish) underwear that had been stolen.

The last straw?

I walked into the dressing room and was hit with a wave of stench in the air. I gagged and walked back out. But really, no one was going to deal with whatever it was but me. So I trudged back in. One by one, I opened the dressing rooms and peeked in. Expecting to find some small, dead mammal. Oh, how I would have preferred that to what I actually found in the last stall.

It seems the last woman in the dressing room was having a visit. From her Aunt Flow. A really really really really really big visit. Like someone climbed up into her uterus and used a Samurai sword to shred it big one.

In the dressing room, I found her underwear, which was soaked clean through. Her used tampon. And her old, worn, and...distinctly-more-red-than-anything-else pants. And a GIANT red spot on the carpet.

She had taken clothes and underwear from various departments and apparently decided that my dressing room was the place to change.

I nearly puked, turned, and ran. I found my manager and explained. I was told that I needed to start cleaning it up. I quit.

I only have one thing to say to this.

2009-08-12T15:37:00.000-05:00

So I received this message on OKCupid:

You have a very nice profile and you're a very beautiful woman, I like the fact that you don't hold back on cussing sounds kinda crazy but I enjoy a woman who cusses and isn't afraid to offend. Smart ass women turn me on and so do redheads yeah I'm proly to crazy for you but I thought I would email you and find out I'm not looking to have any more kids I've got two that are half grown and I'm done LOL but I'm just looking for a honest, good hearted woman that cusses and speaks her mind when she wants, has her own opinion and doesn't just agree with me right away type, someone who can be my friend as well as lover, someone to walk holding hands with on the beach as well as play wrestle with each other over the last cupcake in the house :)
I laugh and smile all the time it's a brain problem people say...Well holla back if u want to ?

THERE IS ONLY ONE PERIOD IN THE WHOLE DAMN THING. I'm scared.

I got nothin'.

2009-08-12T08:37:00.000-05:00

Last night, I stayed out far too late and now I'm sleepy and I feel a little like throwing up. So I leave you with this (introduced to me by Graygrrrl). You might not find it funny, but oh crap it makes me giggle every time. NO WAY. NOT NOW NOT NEVER.

In other news, I have a date on Friday night and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I have the nerves. Here's to hoping he doesn't want to wear my skin!

This may be the most awesome thing a computer has every generated and spit out at me.

2009-08-11T07:37:00.003-05:00

Having heard reasonably good things about OKCupid around the blogosphere, I decided to sign up this weekend. Saturday, I spent the WHOLE DAY in my apartment, doing absolutely nothing. Sans pants. I did put on pants around 9:00 pm to go to Taco Bell and get some tacos (which I then tweeted about inappropriately, but not to the extent that I was making taco jokes in my head...).

At one point, it looked like this:

And I couldn't stop giggling. Hi, I'm a 15-year-old boy, but with better boobs and less acne.

On Sunday, I found out that my ex-boyfriend is moving in with his girlfriend after only six months. I feel a little...hurt. But I'm surprisingly okay with it because I DO NOT WANT THAT. Certainly not with him. I was pretty prepared for it anyway. I figure they'll be married before next summer.

The thing is...have you seen the movie Good Luck, Chuck? I haven't. But I'm pretty sure it's about me. I'm always the girl you date immediately before you realize that you're ready to settle down. Just not with me! Because I expect things like:

1. You should really do what you say you're going to do. All the time.
2. If you're going to be late, please let me know.
3. Your actions speak far louder than your words. Please act accordingly.
4. Don't be a douchebag.

These things are really beyond the capabilities of most men. So after they date me, they meet some chick with low self-esteem (don't think I haven't been there. I have. But I still expect you to do what you say you're going to do. Like all the time.), who just wants to do everything they want and never questions them and basically runs around with no spine and they marry her.

This has happened at least three times.

And a couple of months ago, this news of cohabitation would have probably upset me. As I stood there, thinking about it (wishing, really, that I didn't know it), I realized something. I don't want that at all. Living with him would have been one of the worst ideas in the world. Yeah, yeah, we were supposed to move in together. He thought maybe after being together for two years, he would be okay with the idea. It would have been horrible. I had already compromised so much of who I was and what I wanted that I didn't even know me any more. It was a recipe for disaster, because I cannot function like that long-term.

Keep in mind, I'm not blaming him for this. It was my fault. I let it happen. Because his comfort was far more important to me than mine. Rest assured. That will never happen again. I've signed up for a serious ass-whipping with most of my friends should I ever inadvertently start losing myself for some guy.

Even if he's a great guy (ex-boyfriend is not).

I know that this is going to sound like bullshit to most of you. And I know you'll think I only feel this way because I haven't "met the right guy yet." And maybe you're right. But here it is: I'm perfectly happy being with me. Meeting a guy is just icing on the cake. No, that's not right. Icing on cake is a necessity. Meeting a guy is like...getting an iPhone 3GS, when I already have a 3G. Or something that's kick ass, but not really essential.

The nice thing about this is, it means I refuse to settle. I refuse to compromise who I am to be with someone else. I briefly lost track of this, and I was miserable. It won't happen again.

So I'm not really sure how serious about this "dating" thing I am, but online dating usually makes for at least some entertaining stories. I had some doozies last time I tried it (years ago).

So I logged into OKCupid and filled out a profile. I answered a bunch of questions about life and math and stuff, and filled in how my "ideal match" would answer the same questions. (My favorite? "Do you know what sperm tastes like?" And how would I like my "ideal match" to answer that? Hmmm...) At the bottom of my little home page, they were taunting me with making my profile more complete. "Do this and your profile will be 55% complete! Now do this and your profile will be 60% complete!"

I'm a sucker for this kind of thing.

One of the things I had to do was take some "Dating Persona Test." Dutifully, I answered all their questions, though I did have to guess on "How many people have you kissed?" I have no idea. The result of my test was this:

THE DIRTY LITTLE SECRET
(which, seriously, sounds pretty awesome, eh?)

Innocent but fundamentally sexual, like the word “finger”. You are the Dirty Little Secret.

Few women have the confidence for sex mastery, and among nice girls, like you, it’s almost unheard of. So congratulations. You’ve had plenty of adventures, but you’ve remained a kind, thoughtful person. Your friends appreciate your exploits. They even live vicariously through you.

You seek pleasure, but you’re not irresponsible. You are organized and cautious, and you choose your lovers wisely. One, you don’t like dirtbags. And two, you like to maintain control. Or at least lose it selectively. You might notice that older men single you out. They have an eye for your sensual nature. Take it as a compliment.

You enjoy making people happy, and it’s inevitable that many guys will fall harder for you than you for them. You’re not completely comfortable in a serious, long-term relationship right now. Our guess is that the key to extended happiness will be finding a responsible, but kinky, mate.

Uh, dudes? I sound awesome. Just sayin'.

Having a bar across the street from your apartment is better than not having a bar across the street your apartment.

2009-08-10T07:37:00.009-05:00

(Note: I'm not actually talking about this bar...it just had the right name.)

Friday night, Cheese met me at my apartment, and we went to the bar across the street. It's been open for months, but I'd yet to have a beer there. I'd heard from Graygrrrl that it was a lot like our old home, Ben's Halfyard House. EXCITEMENT!

I will say this: I'm not sure I agree. The members of the service staff I encountered were almost exclusively a new brand of stupid. With the exception of one waitress. I didn't talk to the bartender, though. I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt, though as I can WALK HOME FROM THE BAR.

Cheese and I sat down at a booth and inspected the menu. Typical bar food and a selection of pizzas. At the bottom of the menu, we found some delicious sounding calzones and desserts. Oddly these were all priced $0.00. Yay! Free food!

I ordered a salad and a Shiner (I promise that I'm telling you this for a reason) and Cheese ordered a spinach and mushroom calzone and a Boddington's pear apple Guinness cider pale ale (she actually ordered this once because she got all intimidated by the taps and I'm determined to never let her forget it...in related news, Cheese does not like beer.)

The waitress looked down at Cheese and said, "Um. We don't have calzones."

So apparently $0.00 means "we don't have calzones," not "calzones are free." My dreams of dessert walked out the door in that moment (aside from the cupcake Cheese brought me from the stash I bought her for her birthday).

Cheese ordered a (cheese) pizza instead and we moved on with our lives.

It turned out that Cheese knew someone at the bar. When he walked by the first time, she yelled (completely out of the blue, you understand), "Donny Baseball!"

To which I replied, "I like hockey pucks!"

What? I thought we were yelling out random sports crap.

She went out to smoke with "Donny Baseball," and I overheard THE MOST AWESOME CONVERSATION OF THE WEEK.

There were a couple of dudes sitting at the bar behind our booth and they kept yelling out weird stuff like "I didn't sign up to be in no swingers' party" and "I don't need nobody looking at me like that." No idea what any of that was about, but when Cheese left, I started listening in.

At this point, they were flirting with one of the waitresses. Always a good plan. Of course, I didn't realize the genius I was hearing at first. But then...

"I don't wanna make this all sexual. I want to like know you. Like really know you. Like know you're favorite color and shit. The real stuff. I don't want to cloud that by making things all sexual right now. What is your favorite color?"

This is all being said by the guy who was shouting about swingers' parties, while the waitress is practically sitting in his friend's lap.

The waitress apparently relayed her favorite color, because the guy said to his friend, "Look how she just threw that out there like that?"

As though favorite colors are the stuff secrets are made of. Actually, my favorite color is a secret from now on. Please forget that you know my favorite color is orange. Thanks.

Then he says to the waitress, "You know, there's a good chance I'm going to remember that shit later. But I'm not going to ask you any more questions because I don't want to lose that one. So I can know you. You know. For real."

Then he and his friends hugged the poor girl until I suspect she couldn't breathe and left.

The weirdest thing? I think the waitress was actually flattered.

I'd also like to add that my hair was doing this SEXY BEAST volume thing (What? I'm modest!). Like so:

And this is me, doing my best Jodi Sawyer impression (From Center Stage. Shut up Jay). I think I rock. Oh, let me explain. Jodi Sawyer only becomes a good dancer when she bites her lip (the night before her birthday, Cheese may or may not have done this about 75 times at her apartment after she took her Ambien. Also, she not only tried to kick my iPhone's ass, she practically licked it. It still hasn't recovered). Seriously. So I was doing my best:

Yes, I realize I look like an ass.

There's a picture of Cheese doing her best, but I suspect she'd kill me for posting it. So I'll keep it to myself.

It's Friday, we should break up - Texting

2009-08-07T08:37:00.001-05:00

Truth? I love texting as much as the next person. Mostly because I sort of hate talking on the phone. It gets all hot and then makes my face all hot and the battery dies and I don't have very many minutes.

(Oh, I'm also totally breaking up with McDonald's...for yesterday's reasons.)

Here's the thing, though, guys. And I want you to listen carefully.

Are you listening? I mean, reading, actually. Are you reading?

TEXTING IS NOT AN EXCUSE TO SOUND LIKE AN IDIOT.

I kind of already hate internet speak. It already gives me a headache when people don't know when to use "your" and when to use "you're." I don't understand the point of putting a "2" in place of "to." At all. That's saving you, what? A fraction of a second? If that?

So if you're trying to get in my pants, texting me "yo yo ms shine wat u doin 2nite" just isn't going to help matters. In fact, that's a sure-fire way to guarantee you'll never hear from me again.

From now on, I'm pretty much going to have to require all men to send me a text message before I agree to go out with them.

In other news, the youngster texted me at midnight-thirty last night. "What r u up too? Want to meet up?" (Seriously...it was "too." I'm never going to have another boyfriend as long as I live if I keep this up, I realize.)

He does realize that I realize that this means, "I'm not getting any anywhere else tonight, wanna have sex?" right? The funniest part? I said no, that I was going to bed because it was late and I had to be up early, blah blah. And then he sent me this: "I got a new phone, so I lost your number for sometime." And then what? The phone number fairy dropped it off for you? I'm not buying that at all. Don't bother making up excuses for why you haven't called me in a while...I was thrilled when you stopped. Actually, the only reason I responded was because I had sort of forgotten who he was. Oops. Proceed with the blowing off. Part deux.

Look, it's okay to be picky. Picky is how you don't end up with another douchey boyfriend. I promise.

TMI Thursday - Sometimes it just ain't pretty

2009-08-06T10:37:00.001-05:00

Welcome to TMI Thursday. Please buckle your seat belts and keep all your appendages to yourself. Or share with your neighbor.

As you know, LiLu started this whole TMI mess and now...well, it won't stop.

If you'd prefer a more racy TMI story, shoot me an email and I'll tell you where to find one. This will probably not work if I actually know you or you are a member of my family.

If you've ever thought to yourself, "Oh, hey, that shine is pretty cute. I might have myself a little bloggy crush on her..." (I realize this is unlikely, but I'm warning you anyway), this story will probably cure you of that. Or you can stop reading here.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

I had the brilliant idea to go to McDonald's for lunch. You see, it's close and it's fast, and I really wanted some French fries (yes, Antje, I know French fries are the devil and so is McDonald's, but I did it anyway). I was trying to finish up Water for Elephants for book club with my mom and sister, so I just wanted to sit somewhere and read.

I ordered a cheeseburger and some fries and sat down. Next to the play area. Like an idiot. Just in case you were thinking you could have any semblance of peace at a McDonald's, you'd be wrong. I'm not really super fond of kids to begin with, but screaming ones are really not my fave.

I ate about half my food, read as much of my book as I could, and left with a big, fat headache and an urge to kick kittens. Which I would never do, of course.

When I got back to the office, I dove right back into my work...but within a half hour, something was just not right.

Have you seen Van Wilder? I know, I know, but I love that movie. Possibly because I love Ryan Reynolds (and Kal Penn). At the end, there's a scene in which the incredibly intelligent and talented (I keed!) Tara Reid puts "colon blow" in her douchebag boyfriend's pre-exam shake. Mid-exam, his stomach starts to make all these rumbling noises.

Wait. Here, just go watch it (embedding disabled by request...blah).

Done?

So basically, I'm sitting at my desk when...RUMBLE. It felt like something was shaking up my intestines. And I don't poo at work, people. We only have one bathroom and I do NOT poo in it. But this time? I wasn't really capable of waiting it out. There were noises coming from my intestines that were probably scaring people in the next county.

I went into the bathroom and basically...assploded. It was like liquid in there. My poor insides were practically crying with relief. I've never been so happy to take a shit in my life. Ever.

The bad news? One of the boys had just taken a shit. Which means I had to sit in there smelling it. The good news? No one is the wiser about my assplosion.

I'm sorry to do this to you, folks. And I know you'll probably never look at me the same again. But every once in a while, a girl has to take a really big shit.

This is how you found my blog?

2009-08-05T09:37:00.001-05:00

I try not to obsessively check my blog stats. Because I don't care if anyone is reading or not (yeah...right...), of course. Yesterday, though, I happened to notice that people were arriving at my blog through some interesting google searches (though none anywhere near as awesome as those of Mr. Johnny Virgil).

For obvious reasons, if you google a question about poo, you're probably going to end up here. These were my favorite poo searches:

1. morning poo
I'm so glad someone searched for this. Good to know that the morning poo isn't just a problem in my office. Whoever you are, here's my two cents: the morning poo cannot be stopped. Also, men's asses are a home for vile, dead, smelly shit.

2. "i can't poo"
I'd suggest one of those over-the-counter constipation medications. You can get them at the grocery store. And eating less cheese. But who wants to eat less cheese? Just call me Dr. Shine!

3. men who have poo
Is this some sort of fetish thing? Because gross. If it's just a question, yes. All men have poo.

Then, there are the requisite pee searches:

1. my sweet relief had to pee
I'm not sure, but I think this is a country music song. Also, I've been there...

2. had to pee
Why are you googling this, asshole? Go pee. Is it more complicated than I think?

3. peeper cam peeps while peeing dude pees
This is my personal favorite. Who googles this? I bet you were really disappointed when you ended up here. But I'll set up a peeper cam for next time. LiLu, I'm watching you...sorry, but you talk about pee the most. It's only fair.

It seems people are frequently visiting me for "How-to" advice:

1. how to talk to a guy you first meet
Step one, think of something to say. Step two, open your mouth and let the words fall out. Step three, try not to sound like an idiot. Or an asshole.

2. how to attract a christian boy who just got dumped
I have great advice for this one. Why would you want to? Don't. My grandparents are proof that (at least some) Christians are a little wacky...

3. how to make my 5 year old sister shut up
This, my friend, is not an easy task. The problem is, it's very easy to get in trouble with the authorities...or your parents. I have no idea how old you are. You could try duct tape over her mouth, but most five-year-olds are wise to that game, and will just pull it off. Kind of like that scene in Four Rooms with the ointment on the eyes. Just go watch the movie and come back. I wouldn't suggest hiding a dead hooker under the mattress. That didn't really get those kids to shut up. Maybe you should try putting on a Disney movie or something. I hear kids like those. I went through the same thing with my sister.

4. how to put on a girdle
Very very carefully. Also, don't. Seriously, screw those people who say you need one.

5. how to expose yourself to a minor
I'm really curious as to how this one got you here. I don't think I've ever exposed myself to a minor. On purpose. There were a couple of times at the beach in Mexico last year when my swimsuit...well, I didn't do it on purpose. Please, sir (or madam, I'm not sexist), don't expose yourself to any minors. I believe the children are our future (even if they're getting dumber everyday). Oh, I may not have been a minor, but I did have a similar experience.

6. how to make clothing out of crown royal bags
Interesting. I'm guessing this has something to do with a sewing machine and as I'm deathly (irrationally) afraid of those, I'm going to suggest you go back to google for this one.

7. how to meet boys.
Okay, pay attention here, because this is really complicated. Ready? Leave your house. Get out and do things. Oh, and it helps if you have a personality. Please watch out for the crazies.

8. should i date her because i can
I don't even know what this means. But probably not.

There was one question I'd really like to address: is shine out of jail? And the answer is...no. I'm still in the big house. For exposing myself to a minor. I keed! I've never even been in jail. But I have bailed quite a few friends out of Mexican jail.

We're pretty much down to just random crap now:

yogurt eating methods
YOU EAT YOGURT WITH A SPOON. What the hell is wrong with you people?

boy fuck mom blogspot
I'm worried that this might have been an actual effort to find my blog. Because of, you know, the story about Motorboater.

"krusty's summer sauce camp" singles
I can't even begin to explain this. Is this the thing The Clevelanders were talking about? How did that land someone here? Also, summer sauce camp sounds kinda fun. Can I go next year?

does hellboy drink tecate light
Well, actually, Hellboy and I are really good friends and I will tell you that I would spank him if I ever caught him drinking Tecate Light. He's scared of me, you know. Because I'm hard core. Hellboy only drinks manly beer.

horny 30 year old milfs
Yes, please. I'm not sure how it led you here, but I hope you brought your own milfs. Because this vagina has not birthed any children. But I have experienced breastfeeding.

want to see the sexy nighty inn which boobs are come out
I can tell you without a doubt that you will never see this in person (unless you pay for it) unless you learn to spell and speak proper English. Unless you're not from America. In which case, I'm a douchebag. Don't be a fool. Stay in school. (Words of wisdom from Van Wilder.)

what makes you keep your penis up
Wow. Actually, it's a dilation of blood vessels in your actual penis caused my stimulation, whether it be touch or visual (or this guy's weird contraption). I didn't even look that up. This is the first time I've used that biology degree since college! In other news, drinking can have adverse affects on your penis's ability to stay up (also your balance). I should know, I dated an alcoholic for a year and a half.

sabrina is guilty because she ate blueberry pie!
What?

lisa frank shirt
It's not a T-shirt yet, but I've had many requests to make it one!

And now, for my two favorites:

punctuation pictures penis
What the hell does this mean and why would you google it? Also, way to research punctuation, people! I'm proud. Even if you did have to add penis to it.

i licked my sister breast brother and sister sex confession
I have no idea how this got you here, but I have to ask...WTF? Really? You want to see that? I mean, I can understand if it were two sisters maybe, but are we really that excited about incest these days? Gross, people. Gross.

My very first award. And I got it twice!

2009-08-04T07:37:00.001-05:00

Jeff, over at This is Why You're Hold Time is so Long, and Mysterg, over at Meditations in an Emergency, have both seen fit to give me an award!

I'd like to thank my fingers. Without you, this never would have been possible. You guys type like some bad ass bitches. I love you.

The award I've received is...The Honest Scrap Award.

Which is weird because I make all this shit up. I've basically been lying to all of you this whole time. Actually, I'm not even from this planet.

(Okay, okay. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. It's just too weird. And all of it has happened to me.)

They both seem to have different opinions of what one must do when one receives this award, so I'm going to do whatever I want.

According to Jeff: "The onus is on me to award this to three blogs, and they're to link back, thereby supplying the interwebs with more things to read on slow work days."

According to Mysterg, the rules are as follows:

1. “The Honest Scrap” award is not one to hold all to your self but it must be shared!
2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves in their blog that no one else knows.
3. The recipient has to pass along this prestigious award to 10 more bloggers.
4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.
5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

Since everyone I know has already received this award, I'm going to go out searching for new bloggers and I'll let you know what I come up with in a later post. Or I'll forget all about this and be a lazy bitch. Please start taking bets now.

I do think it's fun to tell 10 true things about myself, though coming up with 10 things I haven't already spilled will be an interesting endeavor. And away we go!

1. I convinced myself I was allergic to bell peppers and told everyone in my life this was the case, when really I just don't like them. I don't think it's possible to be allergic to some peppers and not others, but I'm not sure.

2. I stopped believing in Christianity when I was about 10-years-old. Now I'm an atheist.

3. I am really helpful. Almost to a fault. Hence, the nickels.

4. I once sort of...stole a friend's boyfriend. And I still relish in it. She was kind of a bitch.

5. I have never smoked a cigarette, but I love a good cigar. And not in the Clinton way, you pervs.

6. When I was 15 or 16, I walked into a donkey show in Mexico. I promise to elaborate on this on a TMI Thursday sometime, but I don't promise it will be here.

7. If there's dancing in it, I will watch it. With the exception of Mama Mia! Sorry, I just can't get on board with that one. But So You Think You Can Dance, America's Best Dance Crew, Dancing with the Stars, Center Stage, Step Up, Stomp the Yard, Dirty Dancing. I've seen them all. Except that Dance Your Ass Off show, that's where I draw the line. I saw a clip on The Soup and it scared the crap out of me.

8. I am a complete wuss about pain. Even though I really want to get a tattoo, I probably never will because I'm scared of how much it will hurt.

9. I would usually rather stay home and watch zombie movies and eat ice cream than go out, but usually I go out anyway.

10. I kissed a girl and I liked it. Oh, that was Katy Perry's thing (I can neither confirm nor deny whether this is true for me). Sometimes I drink the olive juice from the green olive jar.

11. I hate email forwards more than mosquitoes. And I probably think less of you for sending me one. Unless it was in jest or to make fun of people.

12. Men who cannot spell are far less attractive to me than men who can spell. Regardless of actual looks.

13. I'm allergic to latex. How fun!

I decided to go with a baker's dozen, since there were two sets of rules anyway.

And for your first new blogger (and you guys thought I wasn't going to send you to anyone!), please go check out Graygrrrl at The Art of Throwing Stones. I know her in real life and she is one of the funniest, most confident, no bullshit people I've ever known. I'm a little scared of her, actually. Please don't tell her you don't like Twilight. She will beat your ass (but I still don't get it). I'll let her choose the rules she'd like to follow (though I tend to lean toward the ones with numbers being legit).

ABCs of me...

2009-08-03T07:37:00.000-05:00

Blatantly stolen from Rachel. She blatantly stole it from Christina. So I don't feel so bad.

I do, however, feel kind of lazy. Without further ado, here are the ABCs of me:

A-Age: 29

B-Birth date: December 10, 1979.

C-Chore you hate: Laundry

D-Dog's name: Her name was Peanut and she was the most loverly dog in the whole wide world. She got hit by a car in November of last year.

E-Enter or Exit: Enter

F-Favorite color: Orange

H-Hair color: Ha! I have no idea. I think it's dirty blonde, naturally. But it's red now and has been for three years or so.

I-Instrument: Spoons. Yes, I can play. Or I could when I was a kid.

J-Job Title: Office Manager, I suppose.

K-Kids: No thanks. They make pills for this.

L-Living arrangements: Um, apartment? I don't do roommates.

M-Monkey or Moose: Monkey.

N-Nicknames: Shine, Merry Magdel-anal (long story), Cupcake

O-Odd thing about you: (Just one?)I can't really go to sleep if there are shoes on the floor because if I wake up at night, I usually think there's someone in my room and try to attack them only to fall on my face on the shoes. It ain't pretty. Also, strangers lick me. It's weird.

P-Pet Peeve: People who don't know the difference between then and than. People who don't do what they say they're going to do. People who are incapable of being on time.

Q-Quote from a movie: "It's fucking Sunday. And I've got to go to fucking work in four fucking hours 'cos every other fucker in my fucking department is fucking ill! Now can you see why I'm SO FUCKING ANGRY?" This isn't really my favorite favorite, probably, but I just watched Shaun of the Dead last night. And I don't want to think any more. It's an impressive amount of "fuck" in one sentence.

R-Right/Left Handed: I'm right-handed. But I can totally see out of my left eye just as well as my right.

S-Siblings: This is a really complicated question. Somewhere between 0 and 15.

T-Time you wake up? 6:30 - 7:00 am

U-Underwear: I'm a fan of the hipster (meaning sits on the hips, not meaning wears plaid scarves around my neck)/boyshort variety. Like so.

V-Veggie you dislike: I think peppers are a fruit, but I don't like them. Or carrots, but I guess those are a root. What the hell is a vegetable any more, even?

W-What makes you run late: I do not like to be late. But sometimes the key won't turn in my ignition. That makes me late.

X-X-Rays: Elbow, abdomen. Damn you, ulcer!

Y-Yummy food you make: Creamy chicken enchiladas, grilled shrimp nachos, gooey butter cake, fudge, divinity candy, cream cheese mints (delish!), macaroni and cheese (not from a box, you dope), salmon cakes, cheesy corn dip, chex mix. I really like to cook.

Z-Zoo Animal: The zoo makes me want to cry. But the primates at least get some space. And I like sharks. You know, to look at, not as friends. But all the poor cats are so sad. Stupid zoo.