Cancellation feels pretty darn good.

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.

Have you ever...

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.

I'm just one of those weird people.

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.

Keep it like a secret.

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?

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

"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.

Some people just shouldn't pole dance.

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!)

How (not) to have a good birthday.

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?

I don't really see the connection, but maybe it's just me...

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.

In which I ramble on about relationships and you skim or skip this one.

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.

This may be the most awesome thing a computer has every generated and spit out at me.

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'.

Since I'm on vacation, I thought I'd post the rest of those pictures.

So I've arrived in Seattle. My time in Denver was a blast. Good to see old friends and hang out. But Seattle? I want to make slow love to it all night long. It is amazing here. I just got cold walking to get coffee. COLD. In July.

Oh you know how people are always joking about not being able to walk in Seattle without tripping over a coffee shop? That's not really an exaggeration. At all.

Anyway, here are the pictures. Promise I'll log in and blog more later. After I shave my head and get several tattoos.


More from my younger days. This is me with my Aunt Dana's Boston Terrier, Tucker. I was scared to death of him, despite what it may look like.



My mom's second wedding. That's my sister's dad with the child molester mustache. He's not a child molester, though, I promise.



I'm at the beach! Someone carved my name in the sand with a shovel!



Meet Sanders, my first boyfriend. I suspect that he doesn't know he was my first boyfriend, but that's his problem. He lived next door to my aunt and uncle (I helped dig their pool with a spoon...dressed in my bikini. Shut up, I was three.).



Me and my little sister (of Moving Checklist fame) at Rock City in Chatanooga, Tennessee. Note the sexy hot skort things we're both wearing and my sister's 12-inch thick bangs. Anyone who's ever asked me what color my hair really is...I'm pretty sure this is it!



Let's move on to some scary hair. I really have no idea what the fuck I'm doing or why on earth I would still have such a picture in my picture album, but...here it is. Try not to be afraid.


Seriously...WTF?

Oh, and here's my I-have-no-idea-why-this-is-my-school-picture 8th grade school picture in Hawaii. With three of my best friends. And in case you were wondering, yes, I do believe that is a rodeo scene across the chest of my white button-down shirt. No, I have no idea why that would be the case.



On to high school, where my mom promptly made me do Glamour Shots. Please hold while I scrub the two inches of makeup off my face. I remember the whole time this "photo shoot" was taking place, feeling like I couldn't smile, lest I crack my face in half.



A montage of high school/high school dance pictures. Eesh.

My high school boyfriend, Marc. I'm wearing a vest. I don't know why.



In this one, I look possessed.



School pictures, junior and senior year. Who let me get a perm (no, it wasn't the first time)?






Sophomore homecoming. It seemed like a good idea at the time to go ahead and dance before we got our picture taken. Nice hair, eh? And seriously, if you haven't already, check out those eyebrows. They're like caterpillars. I hadn't really noticed yet, though.



Junior homecoming. Meet Tony. He was the goalie on our soccer team. And he had green eyes. And a car! Oh, and he was kind of a jerk. Why yes, those are chopsticks in my hair.



Senior prom. Meet Travis, son of the nudist parents. Oh, how my mom hated him.




We stayed at prom for about 45 minutes. Then we went out somewhere but I have no idea where no one tell my mom. I can't still get grounded for something I did 12 years ago, right? There must be a statute of limitations on that...

After senior prom. At the Village Inn. I'm wearing overalls. They were the thing then, trust me. Everyone was doing it.



After high school, I moved to Dallas, met some people, and did some stuff.

Jay and I dated for almost five years. For some reason in this picture, he's trying to eat my face or something. I picked it because it's the only one where I might look cuter than him. He totally reminds me of Jim from The Office.



I blame this next picture on him. Completely.



Back in the day, before college, I spent a number of years selling houses. I looked like this:



These are some random embarrassing shots:





Oh, and I can't forget...the moment I knew I didn't want to have children. When they parked me at the foot of my stepmother's vagina and made me watch her give birth. I. Am. Never. Doing. That.



And last, but certainly not least, here's me...this morning, while sitting at a coffee shop in Seattle making this blog for you. Hi!



If I'm not home in a week...leave me the hell alone. I love it here!

It's a sad day...

Steve McNair, former quarterback for the Tennessee Titans was shot and killed on Saturday evening in downtown Nashville.

As I am a Titans fan, and a Steve McNair fan, I am sad about the loss.

Click here for the few details that are available.

Is it just me, or does it seem to be in fashion to be dead? That "if everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?" question kind of seems to make more sense now, doesn't it?

I would like a break from death, please.

It's the end of the world as we know it and frankly I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Oh goody. Not only did one of my coworkers find me on Twitter and therefore start reading my blog (sorry, but it makes me uncomfortable to have to deal with that at work), now my step-dad has found my blog. Which means, apparently, even though I told him that I didn't want him to read it because it wasn't really for family and I was uncomfortable enough with the thought of my aunt reading it, that he's reading it. AND SHARING WITH MY MOTHER.

I'm not sure there are words to describe the feeling in the pit of your stomach when you tell your mom about falling in the shower and she says, "Yeah, I heard there are pictures of it on the internet."

Oh. Crap.

If someone would like to share the link with my grandparents, now would be the time to do it. Oh, and while you're at it, go ahead and tell them I'm an atheist. My Nana's heart-attack is on your head.

I don't know what to do here, folks.

Part of me wants to just scrap it all and start over in some little anonymous hole where no one I know can find me. That's just sad because part of the fun of all of this was sharing it with some of my friends. But now I feel so claustrophobic and censored.

The other part of me wants to say a loud "FUCK YOU" and just keep writing without giving a damn what anyone thinks. Except that this is my MOM we're talking about, yo. We're only just starting to have a relationship. We don't have one of those tell each other everything without judgment kind of things. At all.

This blog is my home. I want to feel comfortable here. My heart is pressed between these internet pages. I put it out there for anyone to read, and I didn't hide it very well, but my parents are a little more audience than I would have chosen.

I'm aware that no one really cares and that life will go on whether I write or not, but I love this blog. I love that it is 100% me. I love the people who read and comment and share their stories. I've made friends. I've laughed and cried and thrown up in my mouth a little at all of your stories.

But this is my MOM we're talking about. Help!

I went to the Denver Zoo!

See?



The giraffe didn't even try to molest me. Even though I've clearly gotten my lips injected with butt fat or whatever they put in your lips these days. And I think I'm smoking. That's probably what kept him from sticking his head in my enormous boobs (Thanks Joanna!).

Also, I need supervision. Like all the time. Any takers?

Be warned, I probably won't like you very much if you try to supervise me all the time despite the fact that I've said I need it.

Oh oh! And I promised I'd share my sad, lame attempt at a comic in MS Paint with you guys, so here it is: (seriously, it's lame, don't look!)



Get it? No? I didn't think so. I'm not sure I do either.

Closets & Basements

When I'm really down (or really up, for that matter), music really speaks to me. This song describes perfectly (and far better than I ever could) how I felt and feel about...well, everything. It brought tears to my eyes this weekend to think back on things and realize that over time, this song still feels like it's about me and only me.

It was written by Davida (Davi) Something That I Can't Remember (I looked! I can't find her) in a local band called Something Shiny that no longer exists. Music (that you can't hear) by Brian Davis.

Closets & Basements:

Been standing so long in this moment
It seems time's forgotten to move
I thought what I wanted was everything
Turns out all I needed was you.
In my life there is so much that's common
The rest is what you do
How can you blame me for bein' so crazy to live for these pieces of you?
How can you blame me for bein' so crazy to live in this memory around you?

I'm tired of lookin' in mirrors
And knowing the parts you can't see
I've never believed that I'm perfect,
But I just might be everything you'll ever need.
In your eyes, I can see every faith
That I've ever had in me.
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live in this place that you would leave?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live for your return to me?

Been trying so hard to move forward
To swallow my heart, hold it all in.
It gets harder to keep on believing
Until you're finally convinced you never did.
Over time I've turned longing and anger into
Something's wrong with me.
How can you blame be for being so crazy to give away hope meant for me?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live in this place called empty?

A year and a half and I'm finished
Completed my trip, I'm back home.
I've cleaned out the closets and basements
And counted only things that are my own.
All this time to learn one simple lesson
Your last gift, I cannot keep.
How can you blame me for being so crazy to rip off this blindfold to see?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live past this blame-seed in me?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live beyond you to love me?

Toilet Paper, Punctuation, Then and Than, and Why Things are Always Better MY WAY.

I'm pretty laid back. Generally speaking, I care too little about most things to get all worked up. Oh wait. I just defined "laid back."

There are a couple of things, though, that really just must be my way.

1. If the toilet paper runs out while you're using it? REPLACE IT. I really don't need pee dripping down my leg while I look for another roll. At work.

Contrary to popular belief, there is only one correct way for the toilet paper to be placed on the holder (which, you understand, doesn't involve sitting it on the back of the toilet). The roll must roll over the top. I don't want to spend precious seconds of my time chasing the end of the toilet paper down. I just don't. Then people will think I'm taking a morning poo. And I'm a lady (I use this term loosely. Like my hips).

2. I like to match up the silverware in the little cups in the dishwasher. With the used end up. That means big forks go with big forks, little forks with little forks, etc. It's just easier to unload that way.

3. Please learn about this crazy thing we call "punctuation." It's not just for English majors.

4. The words then and than are not interchangeable. Then is about time (And then he wanted to put ice cream on my toes!). Than is about comparison (My ass is so much better than Susan's face). I promise you can figure this out.

5. Apostrophes: They don't make things plural.

Just follow these simple rules and we'll get along just fine.

My way is probably better than yours anyway.

Maybe I'm a computer?

And if so, I seriously hope I'm of the Data from Star Trek TNG variety (don't judge, I love that show).

These "captcha" things? Are designed to "captcha" me. Apparently.

I can't seem to ever get one right on the first try. My fingers refuse to type nonsensical letters in sequence. The font throws me totally off base.

Sometimes there's one "word." Sometimes there are two. I never remember if they're case-sensitive and I refuse to use caps lock, so I'm forever stretching my little pinky finger over to the shift key.

I ACTUALLY JUST TYPED ALL OF THIS IN CAPS WITHOUT TURNING ON THE CAPS LOCK. THAT'S HOW RIDICULOUS I AM.

Ahem.

I get that we don't want those scary little bot guys spamming our blogs and things (so many words in this sentence are not even words I would have used ten years ago), but can't we make them slightly more human friendly? Or else can't we find a way to send sexually transmitted diseases through the internets so that all the scary bot programmy people die a horrible painful death? Only they'd be better at it than the rest of us, so I guess only us good guys would end up with the internets STDs.

That was a bad idea.

Why do you men insist that you like outgoing and funny and smart chicks when really you just want someone to make you a martini and cook you dinner (which I totally excel at anyway)? This has nothing to do with the rest of the post.

Rollin' with the Big Boys

About a month or so ago, I started taking Jiu Jitsu. My friend The Mole takes it and she asked if I wanted to come with her sometime. Uh, yeah.

I thought it was going to be a lot of kicking and punching and all that. It's not. It's pretty much two hours of rolling around on the ground trying to hurt each other. Which is awesome.

Our instructor doesn't really understand girls. It's like he thinks we're going to cry or puss out or something. So the whole time The Mole has been going, he's barely even talked to her. Which was okay for her, because she goes with her boyfriend and he's a blue belt and he can teach her things.

It's not so okay for me, though. As I have no one to ask. Well, except The Mole. So I keep going over to him like, "I don't understand. Can you explain it to me again?" And he's all, "Stupid girls in my class, ugh." And I'm like, "I don't care, just show me the shit again. Now." And then last time he actually showed me how to do something by doing it to me. The Mole and I were shocked because he usually won't touch us girls. Maybe we have cooties?

Anyway, The Mole's boyfriend had been out for the whole month because he injured himself on a take-down. Not a hooker on Cops take-down. So it had just been me and The Mole for the whole month.

We had tried a couple of times, unsuccessfully, to get some of the boys to roll (AKA rolling around on the floor, wrestling...with clothes on, you pervs) with me. But none of them would because they're scared of my boobs or something. It's the only reasonable explanation.

Well, last night, I got to roll with some boys. I rolled with The Mole's boyfriend. I rolled with The Mole's boyfriend's friend, and our climbing buddy. And while it's completely awkward at first to be sitting on top of boys with all your clothes on knowing that this is going nowhere but actual pain, it was pretty awesome.

The only problem is, today I look like the girl who lives at the trailer park whose daddy beats her on a regular basis. I have about 37 bruises (and no, that's not an exaggeration) and they're all bright pink. All the ones on my arms are in the shape of The Mole's boyfriend's hands. Which is just awkward no matter how you look at it.

And I realized? I am so weak. Climber was all, "Okay, I'm not even going to use my hands. So you only have to defend against my legs."

I said, "Um...can we start with one leg? You have a lot more muscles than The Mole."

Interesting point: In Jiu Jitsu, when someone "has your back," that is a very very very bad thing for you (and I totally had Climber's back once! I got imaginary points for that one). And "shrimping" does not mean the same thing as it does in the Urban Dictionary, but I still giggle every time they tell me to "shrimp out." (I'm not providing you with a link because if my aunt reads this, I don't want her clicking it...go look it up if you don't know, but it's not that business about toes.) And I get totally creeped out when our instructor tells me to "do the domestic violence choke."

I'm thinking of a career change.

Oh, wait...I don't have a career.

I just read a book about shoe addicts, and one of the women in it was a phone-sex operator. I'm just sayin'...it sounded like she made some bank. I mean, $1.49/minute to make some moaning noises on the phone to a bunch of pervs? I could do it.

Maybe.

As long as these perverts were big fans of giggling. Because I would be giggling incessantly trying to get through five minutes of "Oh baby, you're so hot...blah blah blah." Am I? Well, yeah, actually. A little bit. But you don't know that.

But in that five minutes (I'm assuming the pervs get off pretty fast...) I will have made $7.45. I think it's a reasonable trade off.

Okay, maybe what I crave in a career is not actually listening to some sweaty pervert on the other end of my phone. Hell...I'd have to get a phone. And I'm not going out of my way to spend $20 just to listen to you pervs.

So that's out.

Start my own cleaning service? Never mind that I can't keep my own apartment clean. The cleaning service we used to have at work - and note that I say "used to have" because my boss decided that the reason we weren't making enough money was because we were paying the cleaning service good money to do something we're perfectly capable of doing ourselves - charged us $175 to...well, take out the trash. I think that's all they did. Once a week. That's $43.75 to take trash out of 10 trash cans. That's $4.38 per trash can. Not bad, I say.

But I don't really like to clean. Or dig around in other people's freshly-tossed-out trash.

I have recently developed a severe addiction to Food Network. It would be totally awesome to be some posh chef who turns her nose up at every delicious entree put in front of her. "This tastes like the butt cheese left on my grandmother's arse after she's been on bed rest for six months. You should try a career in garbage collecting instead."

Unfortunately, I'm thinking they want you to be a chef first, and I have very little hope of that. My palate is just not wide enough. I'm more of the why-use-all-that-foliage-when-regular-lettuce-would-do kinda girl.

I briefly considered a career as a dessert bar artist. What's that you say? It's the person who designs the super yummy dessert bars at fancy weddings where they either do or don't have cake. Apparently most people think wedding cake is gross. Sacrilege! I love cake. I chucked the idea when I realized how often I'd be either puking from the constant wedding love fest (which, let's face it, isn't bad for my girlish figure)or murderous from dealing with bridezillas (jail time is so bad for the social life).

What I really want is to get paid for handing out my opinions (I have a lot of them). My own magazine column or something. But who doesn't want that? So instead, I'm off to grad school where I will (hopefully) study forensic anthropology and become that creepy freak all of you have been expecting.

Or, ya know...I'll come up with the next Twitter (you can follow me!). Or maybe be the next Jen Lancaster (Aside from her politics, seriously, I think we're soul mates. Go. Read. Her. Books.). Or become a bum and hostel my ass all over Europe and Asia before getting tossed into Thai prison where I will lose my Wonderbra and be forced to sing Madonna songs until I die. Or...

Oh yeah! I want to take over as "The Person Who Names Stuff." Because I think that person is asleep on the job. Now. Where do I apply?

25 Random Things About Me

I've been tagged about 37 times to do this on Facebook, but I'm bucking the system and doing it here instead. Thanks to Snarky Amber for the blog post idea!

1. I like dead stuff.
2. I'm completely obsessed with bones (ahem, get your mind out of the gutter).
3. I read 2-3 books per week.
4. I watch reality television because it makes me feel normal.
5. I feel like a terrible person when I read Sad Guy's blog to remind me that things could always be worse, then I do it anyway.
6. I have something like 16 total siblings, some of whom I've never seen.
7. I hate mayonnaise more than anything on the planet (aside, maybe, from two girls one cup...but it's a close call). Even typing the word is making me gag.
8. The word "moist" ooks me out.
9. I like Pepsi better than Coke.
10. I am terrified of failure.
11. I cannot stand to look at nail polish on my fingernails.
12. I hate the noise that macaroni and cheese makes when you stir it.
13. I would usually rather do things for someone else than for myself (but I'm working on this).
14. When asked what I wanted to be when I grow up (as a child), my answer was often, "a cheerleader."
15. I hate fake people.
16. I miss Peanut everyday. (She was my dog. She got hit by a car in November 2008.)
17. I think marriage is a bad, bad, bad idea.
18. I'm far too selfish to want children.
19. I have no idea what color my hair really is any more.
20. I think my lips are my best feature, but my eyes are a close second.
21. I've actually thrown sushi up in my napkin at a restaurant. Damn seaweed.
22. My "under-the-sink" spaces (bathroom and kitchen) are very organized.
23. I will watch just about any show on television that involves dancing.
24. I judge you for your poor grammar and spelling. Constantly.
25. This was harder than I expected.