Excuse me miss...

In the panic that is prepping to be on the road for nearly a year, I found myself sitting at the DMV for over an hour waiting to get my driver's license renewed. First and foremost, I feel the need to comment on the lack of English being used at the DMV. I mean, damn it's a good thing I speak Spanish. Don't get me wrong, I am all about diversity, the use of other languages in the melting pot that is the United States, but come on here. If all the instructions, road signs and the like are in English, then shouldn't the instruction to follow them be in English? I don't know, just sayin...

Anyways, off track here. As I mentioned, I was sitting in the office for over an hour, just chilling and being patient, smiling at people and such without a clue that the entire time my top was completely unbuttoned. Yes, I was exposing myself right there for who knows how long. The thing that gets me is that nobody felt the desire to tell me this. Not the nice older woman sitting next to me, the lovely lady at the counter who helped me. Nobody. I mean, what is wrong with people nowadays? I feel like I am always letting people know when they have food in their teeth, toilet paper on their shoe, their fly is down, or their skirt is tucked into their undies. Either I am just overly aware or way too polite. But hey, at least I have a nice rack and a pretty bra.

Cheesy goodness

As many of you may know, I finally got myself a damn job! Of course, knowing my style it's not going to be anything normal right?! So folks, I am embarking on an 11 month tour throughout many a lovely U.S. state to slang cheese. Mmm....queso. While I originally debated back and forth as to doing a six week on/off dealio, I decided to throw caution to the wind and go for the gold so to speak. A lot of this decision came down to the fact that I didn't want to miss out on spending a good deal of time in sunny San Diego or miss seeing some crazy ass mountains in Utah and Colorado.

I couldn't be more thrilled to be living in hotels either. There's just something about mini-lotions and shower caps that make me smile. Not to mention I don't have to clean a toilet, scrub a shower or make my bed for nearly a year. Oh the joy! While I will kinda-sorta miss my friends (I may shed a tear for one or two of you) and my family (you all better keep in touch!!), I know this experience will be up there with others I have had in my life as of yet. Thankfully I am young so if it sucks I have plenty of time to make this year up. Just saying.

That's so wrong

I feel like I border on being highly inappropriate at times. I only verge on this though, so I may actually still be okay. For example, the other night I was volunteering at an emergency warming shelter for the Red Cross (we were below frigid here in P-Town for a week straight) and as I was sitting in a dark little corner watching a rather large group of homeless folks sleep, I felt the sudden urge to just scream at the top of my lungs. Did I? No people. That would be what we call inappropriate. However, the very fact that this crossed my mind as something that would be funny to do slightly concerns me. I mean, come on, it's quiet, everyone is asleep, their reaction could be hilarious as they wake up suddenly and think "what the f*ck?!" and then there I am in the corner laughing hysterically to the point of tears....or, um, maybe not.

I had another moment of this stupidity while sitting in my sexual harassment training today for the new job. For some reason all I wanted to do during the class and afterwards was say something so full-blown wrong and sexually inappropriate. I couldn't help looking around the room at everyone and wondering if I am the only weirdo who has these thoughts running through my obviously overactive mind. I guarantee I am not. I would like to think there are many other closet dorks out there.

Drunk Dialing....

After way too many close calls (pun intended), I have decided to make a few changes in my life. You see, I suffer from a disorder called drunk texting and calling. Don't laugh my friends, this can be very serious. Ahem, um, so for some reason I find I have little self-control when it comes to realizing that after a few drinks too many it may not be wise to send a little hate-note of sorts to an ex whatever he is. I just also came to realize it could be taken as highly inappropriate to call someone at 3am just to say "hey" and see "what's up." I don't know why it took me so long to realize that when I get those calls at that hour, it tends to look a lot like a desperate booty-call. So why it wouldn't appear the same when I do it is beyond me.

So after yet another morning of looking back over my calls and texts from the previous night and feeling a wee bit of regret, and let's face it, borderline humiliation, I decided to be proactive and take a positive step into my new found rehabilitation. Yes people, I hit the erase button and it felt so damn good. Perhaps I should also take into account that alcohol has something to do with this too....naw.

Snobby Bi*ch

Despite the fact that I haven’t worked in damn near two years, have a very small savings account (um, like $8), and admit that at times I do return pop bottles for gas money, lately I am feeling rather snobby. Surprisingly, this attitude seems to be rearing its ugly even though lately my overqualified ass (see what I mean) has not been able to find a job even as I keep getting told I am “great,” “extremely experienced,” and “more than qualified.” I have also managed to keep up a less than lackadaisical appearance with no roots (since I went back to my natural color that is), and thanks to discount shopping stores my fashion hasn’t suffered too much, although I still am in need of some hot new boots. But hey, whatever.

This feeling of snobbery hit an all time high the other night while out and about scoping the scene in town. Some guy (who will remain unnamed) at some lame bar (which will also go unnamed) thought it okay to begin to get his flirt-on with me. So, here I am, looking hot in my new black skinny jeans and über high heels kind of feeling the night and thinking this could be good. Semi-good looking dude is chatting me up with the basic compliments (yawn) and giving me the puppy-dog eyes (endearing at times, not so much tonight). We get to the breaking point of me thinking, well, maybe this guy is decent enough to share a few more moments on, after all the bar is not hoppin’ tonight. Then he begins to tell me how hard he’s been working lately…

I’m thinking manual laborer, which is totally fine and expected in this part of town, but I can feel the snobbery rising in my blood. He works with people…he has to be up early…he’s been there about 2 years…it’s just down the road…it’s retail…you’ve probably heard of it…it’s effing Subway. As in “Eat Fresh,” I am a sandwich artist. While I am glad that he has a job in this rough economy, it’s not as if he’s doing this to make his way through school. No, it’s what he does. Snob level has hit an all time high now as I look deep into myself to gain the strength not to look him dead in the eye and ask if he seriously thinks he has a chance with me. After all. I am highly educated, speak, speak multiple languages, am well-traveled, blah, blah, blah. Instead, I take a deep breath, look at him and say, “Um...yeah…I gotta go!” before grabbing the tab and hitting the door. Yes, I am a snobby bi*ch, so what?

Bitter

I feel like it's been a long time since I last blogged for whomever is actually reading my rants. I've thought about it, just really been too lazy to want to do anything about it. Instead I have enjoyed reading a massive amount of books at a rapid rate (every hold I had came into the library in one week!) and continued my job seeking endeavors. Oh, and I got what I assume was probably the swine flu because it's been in my body for over 2 weeks now. With that said....

I finally had a job interview! After spending the last year and a half with no luck I was thrilled to get an e-mail that didn't begin with "Thank you for your interest in Company XY, however...." Seriously, I actually got a letter from one potential employer that told me they decided to go with someone else for the position I applied for, and wait this is good, "any other positions currently available." Ha. Interview went well, I rocked it of course. It couldn't have come at a better time either, with the holidays approaching I am battling the depression that comes from the inability to buy anything, for me or others.

It has become a regular thing for me now to drive down my beloved streets of upper NW Portland and know that I cannot afford anything there anymore. Where I used to sit and have $15 desserts and $20 dinner plates after a delightful afternoon of shopping is now where I sit (for a $1.50 coffee) and watch everyone walk by laughing and enjoying a glorious afternoon with shopping bags in their hands. It's sad when you can't even afford to thrift shop anymore too. I budget Taco Bell for fricks sake. Over it. So over it.

People annoy me

It was pointed out by my bestie (yes, I use words like that) today that I have added to my continuously growing list of pet peeves. Hey, in my defence it's not my fault that people are just becoming more stupid! I also highly doubt that I am the only person who finds the blatant misuse of common words annoying and downright disgusting really. Okay, example. My friend sent me a text the other day and wrote, "Oh dam!" Really?! Really man? I know you aren't referring to something either beavers or incredibly brilliant engineers design right?

Oh, but wait, this is not the only new addition to my list o' peeves such as people who drink way too much soda and coffee (talking like 5 Big Gulps a day here, not a trip to Starbucks and a Dr. Pepper with lunch okay?) and those who can't seem to understand that dishwashers are designed for full-capacity, efficient loading. I have also come to realize that I have major beef with people who can't seem to use appropriate, professional e-mail formatting. If I know you, be casual. No need to address me accordingly each time, or hell, even sign your name. However, if you are corresponding with me about a job opportunity or something, check your grammar and use the lovely creation that is Spellcheck. I mean, come on, Microsoft has made it easy for you to appear smart, take advantage of it.

I am also under the very snobby opinion that if you are educated (not just college, talking educated in life, and just generally intelligent really) you are free to use improper speech in an attempt to sound cool, young or just plain hip. You've earned it. If you haven't been able to slightly master what is the English language (and your first language of course, I give a break to those who didn't begin the journey at birth. I'm not a total bitch.) then shut it please. It's painful for those of us that care.

TMI ladies, T-M-I

I have a bit of a rant for all my lady friends out there - for the love of God, please stop going into rancid details about what is happening to your lady parts! It grosses me out that some of these things actually happen to me, what the heck makes you honestly think I also want to be that in touch with your cycles and systems?! I can handle the "Damn, I hate cramps" comments, and won't cringe if you ask me for a tampon, I mean after all, I am 30 years old. However, I have to draw the line when you start telling me about itchy things, odorific stuff, having a heavy flow or anything that goes into an overabundance of detail about your nether regions. I mean really, can't you save that talk for your lady doc? I simply don't care, nor want to know that about you.

While I am on a roll here, for all you strange ladies at the gym: Do you honestly think I want to watch you dry off every crease of your wrinkly naked body while I politely change into my sports bra? Um, no. I don't even think your husband wants to witness that, so why would a strange female in the locker room be down? Oh, and FYI, I can understand how the Brazilian isn't your thing, but at least a little landscaping if you're going to show it off please.

I'll take a pack of Newports and your best Merlot please

Okay, so I have to be a snobby (real from birth mind you) Portlander for a moment because while riding the yellow line MAX this afternoon down the glory that is Interstate Avenue, I had a moment, of disgust really. After passing through the very north part of town and past the only Fred Meyer in the city you may need to pack heat to enter, we got to the "new" part of north Portland (NoPo if you will). This is where my disgust builds as I look at the very trendy New Seasons market filled to the brim with silver Priuses, Subaru wagons, and of course globs of bicycles, because this is not a classic image of this historic neighborhood. Of course spilling out of the store (baguettes, organic spinach and bottles of wine in their reusable totes) are this new breed of very white, very trendy in that, "Oh, this scarf and boots don't go together, I just threw them on, really" kind of way people; Who until 10 years ago were afraid to drive under 25mph past the beginning of MLK Jr Blvd without sweating profusely in fear of being car-jacked or shot.

Oh, but not now. Now, they flood the neighborhoods with their over-the-top ideas of what is true art, unkempt looking flower and veggie gardens spilling over their decks onto the sidewalks, and "I am so cultured because I moved away from the non-integrated burbs where I came from" attitudes. It bugs me, a lot obviously as I devoted an entire blog to it, because with this new influx of creamy white complexions to the "hood" comes a somewhat lack of consideration for the families that have called this neighborhood home for so many years. So while 'Tiffany' and 'Joey' flood the new shabby-sheik coffee shops with their iMacs to read the Willamette Week and wax-on about politics, the real locals are dealing with rising property values and the slow death of their colorful culture as they know it. There. I am done. Perhaps next time I will give my true opinion of the Pearl District.

Spanx me baby

Whoever said that Spanx were comfortable are big, fat liars. Actually, it's more likely they are tiny, skinny liars because, baby, if you have an ounce of chunk on you, these are not cozy okay? I fell for the Hollywood trend awhile back when starlets like Eva Longoria started raving about how they never leave the house without their Spanx, aka God's little secret for women. So I rushed to Nordstrom's, slapped down a quick forty and left with a big grin thinking to myself that no longer will I have any weird lumps, bumps or rolls on this hot body. No people, from this point on I will be smooth as vanilla soy in my pencil skirts.

My excitement was short lived when that next Friday night I decided to give my new wonder undies a try. It took me a good 10 minutes to jump, twist, crouch and tug my way into the torture device (and yes I had the right size, I am not so vain I buy 'too small for me' undergarments). I pulled on my pencil skirt and slightly fitted shirt excited to see how I am now going to appear "a whole dress size smaller." While I admit my tummy was now just one tight, round pooch, I appeared to have grown a massive tire around my thighs and one whole extra set of boobs - on my back. Need I go into the fact there is also a pee hole for all your urinating pleasure? But mind you, when you try to bend over and adjust accordingly to use it, the top of your Spanx will only roll down and piss you off. Despite all this, I decided to give them a whirl on the town. I spent the next 4 hours trying to stay upright and not allow anyone to touch me for fear they would find out I was wrapped up like a sausage under my skirt. Then I had the pleasure of pealing them off me at 3am and having to shower due to the sweaty, red lined mess they made me. Yeah, um, I think I may just try a good old-fashioned corset.

Mad Men...Mmm

As I sit here watching the glorious splendor that is Mad Men I wonder how long I would have lasted back in the 1960s since I tend to be a loud, opinionated female with a mind of her own. While I most likely would have been a "Peggy" due to my high intelligence and ability to be one of the boys (not a hint of narcissism there), I actually dig the odd, simple and quite nature of Betty. She may have it all: the hot husband, the big house in the burbs, two kids, a hot body, great hair and a closet full of the latest fashion.

I know she is married to a, albeit super sexy, terminal cheater who smokes more than a fire and favors one too many bourbons while demeaning her very being, but I envy her. Sometimes I feel like I want to be made a fool by a man like Don Draper and not say anything when he comes home after "working late" smelling like a Upper East Side floozy as he lights up another cig at the dining room table to eat the pot roast I spent all effen day cooking in between ironing, cleaning and taking care of the two bratty kids we had because "that's what you do" after you get married. Oh, and to spend all day getting gussied up to only have to sit through the dull evening with your colleagues that all know you are a cheating bastard when you think you live a Ken and Barbie lifestyle (although didn't Ken end up being gay? Anyways...).

I think I am smelling a little social experiment in the works. Does being a quite, weird women attract a playboy like Don Draper? Could be fun to find out. Then again, do I really want to put myself into a potentially emotional abusive relationship just to play out some silly 1960s housewife fantasy? Um, I hate to say it but...maybe.

Hey fat ass!

I finally got off my lazy butt and made it back to the gym today. I have a feeling this new found sense of urgency to get fit again came from my recent trip to the Gulf Coast beaches of Florida where the white sand shoreline was filled with motivating visions of large-and-in-charge women in tiny bikinis waddling along under the hot sun. Not the postcard vision of Florida I was expecting. On a positive note, I felt super hot and most of them were with very good-looking men, despite some resemblance to Tweedle-D. While I saw firsthand that there are many men out there who so enjoy more cushion for the pushin' so to speak, it still made me realize that I need to get my ass in gear, and pronto.

Don't worry, I am not one of those annoying skinny girls who thinks she needs to loose 20 pounds (so she can be an effin size 4 that is). I am 5'2" and weigh 1...ha! As if I were going to blast that number online, but really I could stand to drop a few L-Bs. So to be as healthy as possible in this endeavour, I am choosing to re-commit myself to Weight Watchers, although I really wish they had leaders who yelled and shamed you into losing weight, eat as much raw food as possible and actually go to the gym on the regular. So thank you Florida for hosting such fat asses on the beach, it really motivated me to get healthy.

Destination location: The airport please

I used to be one of those people that got all snobby and thought the U.S. doesn't have any real culture. I mean, come on people, it's not culture unless it twirls in fancy skirts, beats drums, speaks a foreign language, has weird food you can't identify, and well, basically looks nothing like a purebred white boy with a Boston cap - right? Oh no, no, no this is just not true, so I am learning. There are so many sub-cultures that exist in this sprawling country from west coast, to the south, the north and to the east (and all those useless states in the middle right?) we are different, some might say unique really, with little splendors that set us just the slightest bit apart from one another. The great thing about it is, I don't need to play golf in Arizona, deep sea fish in the San Juan Islands, ride a horse in Texas, catch some jazz in New Orleans, or hail a cab in New York City to get the gist of what these people are like. I just need about 10 minutes in their airport.

It should really be a vacation package of sorts, what with all the great restaurants, bookstores, upscale duty-free shopping, sometimes free music if you're lucky, plus the walls are adorned with great local facts, figures and pictures of the area. Why leave? Some could even be considered Eco-tourism, like Portland, which has a very sustainable airport you know. I'm digressing here, back to the people and culture. My travels have allowed me to stop off in many different airports and therefore given me just a glimpse into the local cultures and I thought I would share a few of those with you now, tell me if I am stereotyping too much by all means:

• Chicago: rude (a little smile and hello is much welcomed after being out of the country for 6 damn months thank you), dirty, gray, crowded, good looking businessmen, cold, great food, drab with only a hint of fun in the sports bar.
• Los Angeles: lack of intelligence (don't get me started here), crowded, an air of haughtiness, wait a minute am I in Mexico?, great variety of salads, lots of colorful clothes, fake boobies, fake blondes, lots of "important people" and nothing is on time.
• Hawaii: very friendly ("Aloha! Oh my, I am so sorry, but it looks like you have been randomly selected for additional screening. Is that okay? Mahalo." I'm not kidding), great tropical drinks, breezy tropical breezes, lots of flowers, smiles all around, no worries, no rush.
• Arizona: nobody pays any attention to anything, lots of tan people, the majority are pretty fit looking, people seem smart, they may own stock in the khaki shorts and sun visor industry, golf shirts everywhere and most of the women look like soccer moms with extra, sun-freckled cleavage and bachelor's degrees.
• Charlotte: more "colorful" if you will, fried food at every gate, people appeared a bit, um, stupid really with how they talk ("We be boarding zone 1 and 2 now" & "You be allowed one carry on..."), slow walkers, less fit in appearance that Arizona that's for sure, no apparent style to be noted, unless stretch cotton is the new thing.
• Portland: uber clean, bright, very "green," tons of stuff about nature all over, coffee shops galore, 8 out of 10 people wear brown shoes (this is my own personal survey I have conducted many times over the years), lots of readers, and super friendly people who keep to themselves.
• San Fran: almost as rude as Chicago, rushing, everything is a rush, good looking people everywhere (if you are into the stock broker looking, leather shoes, trench coat thing, yum), newspapers abound, good food variety, lots of coffee options, confusing, everyone appears to be doing something or going somewhere.

Ah...unemployment

People seem to be intrigued that I have stayed unemployed for such a great length of time, as if I prefer this lifestyle or something. I get a great deal of the classic, and frankly annoying, comments of "must be nice" in that sing-songy tone that is only intended to imply that my life is crazy good and I should feel sorry for them because, wah, they have to go to work 5 days a week. Because yes my dear friend, it is nice not having a steady income and have to rely on Uncle Sam to barely pay my bills each month. Oh, and it is so lovely to send out over a hundred (that is not an exaggeration) resumes, portfolios, applications, cover letters and the like to either get no response at all, or better yet a lovely letter telling you about how you would be a perfect fit, have killer qualifications, but they really just don't care to even bother interviewing you.

I know I shouldn't be complaining all that much, and that I should be grateful that at least I don't have a mortgage to worry about, kids to feed, I have my health, blah, blah, blah, but I have had to make some adjustments that make it hard to look at the glass as half full. It's not easy when you aren't able to feed your shoe habit the way you are accustomed to. It's also highly discouraging to choke down my well (ugh) whiskey and diet, get chased by damn wasps while washing my own car (finally decided I live in Oregon and who cares), buy my $4.50 hair color (that's after the double coupons), or have to actually budget in a Taco Bell splurge, because there is nothing like an occasional double beef burrito to keep you regular.

Bottom line, it is "nice" to be able to sleep in as late as I want, mooch of my parents more than usual, not shower for 3 days if I so desire, spend hot summer days at the river, volunteer, and have time to read a good book a week. I have to be honest though, as much fun as it is to see how long you can go without shaving your pits, I would much rather be meeting up with friends for happy hour to have a much needed bitch session about how unappreciated I am at work and how much better I am than half the people there. Come on, everyone says or at least thinks that, so don't be judging me. If something doesn't "come along soon" (another comment that makes me want to whistle and skip) I may end up finding my calling as an unemployment support group leader. We'll meet up at the pub with the $1 Pabst beers and kareoke, so we can at least drown our sorrows with cheep beer and bad music.

A jolly, gay ol' time

Times are rough right now, what with the high unemployment rates, health care debates, worries of swine f -oops I mean N1H1 virus, and for us single ladies, the lack of good-looking, fun, honest men who just want to find their best friend to spend the rest of their lives with climbing pyramids, laughing at each other's lame attempts at real humor, having crazy wine-induced sex while vacationing in Spain before coming home to our fabulous flat in the city where our extremely intellectual and amazingly cultured friends come to enjoy a fabulous night of conversation...okay, I went too far, but I think you get the point. Anyways, after little consideration, I have decided to go gay.

I am not writing off all men in favor of the female-persuasion, don't get me wrong, but I am utilizing my gay male friends a lot more, what with my stream of unfortunates lately. I'm not giving up though, I do believe that there is someone out there for me, I just need a little pit stop on that eventual road to bliss. It just so happens that my pit-stop involves being made to feel like you are the hottest chica in the room, late night cuddle sessions, romantic comedies, hot men, and great dance clubs. I'm not pulling a total Will & Grace here, but a little dose of cheeky, neurotic behavior can't be that bad for my single soul.

Hola, how much?

As many of you may know, I am currently seeking a job beyond honing my fabulous cooking skills, reliance on government funding and being a damn good social (and highly educated I might add) butterfly. So when I ventured out last night to down a few at the local pub my buddy works at I was expecting a night of bad karaoke, strong drinks, local drunks and non-thought provoking conversion - not an unconventional, albeit slightly enticing, job offer.

The older I get the less I am shocked by people, so when a very middle-aged Latino entered the bar, we'll call him Señor Suave for fun, I wasn't at all shocked that he wanted to talk to me. I was however a wee bit shocked at what he wanted to talk to me about. What started out as a very interesting conversation about his family history (his family lived in the Los Angeles area when it still belonged to Mexico, kinda cool) and the general bar-friendly chit-chat that means nothing really, was very quickly turning into the very first solicitation for my services.

Apparently my slight interest in Señor Suave's life translated to him thinking I would actually consider being taken on as an, um, personal assistant of sorts. Thankfully since the conversation was all taking place in Spanish I was the only one privy to my being cheapened. So according to my dark, wrinkly suitor, I was to be outfitted in all the expensive clothes I would want, have use of his Mercedes convertible and even get a flat in the Pearl. I don't know what offended me more, the fact that he thinks I would actually want to live in the fakeness and un-authenticity that is the Pearl District, or that I appeared to be someone that would consider such a thing as being "paid" for sleeping with a man. Oh but wait, I wouldn't have to sleep with him, he promised me, he was just looking for beautiful (aw shucks), young woman to have good conversation with. Ha, yeah right, what am I stupid? I could forsee the requests for a junior high school style hand job in exchange for the new Hermès scarf I would have never before looked twice at, before becomming a kept-woman that is.

Funny thing is, beyond my getting asked to be a hooker of course, that when I told my mother about this her first question was "Well was he at least good looking?" Really? Really mom? As if that would make a difference and then maybe, just maybe, I should have at least considered the poor guy. Okay, maybe it would have, I can't lie.

I give wedding advice...huh?

I got published again! Whoop whoop! Another little quirky story about wedding advice. I'm not married you say? Um, exactly :) Check it out HERE.

To Whom It May Concern:

For those who have been in the job application mode lately, you may get a kick out of this, and for those not, well you may get a giggle as well. You see, I keep getting these fabulous rejection letters from potential employers telling me how great I am, but no thanks. So, I think we should start sending them out for all types of rejection, because come on, why limit it to just the job market?

Dear potential boyfriend/girlfriend,

I would like to thank you for taking the time to apply for a position as my potential significant other. You have an excellent history of not cheating, a great background in commitment and are fluent in great conversation. However, after much consideration I have decided to interview other men/women for this position.

I will keep your application on file for future positions if the other idiot that I decide to choose happens to not work out, or I get extremely drunk and call you at 2am, whichever comes first.

Sincerely,

Miss/Mr. Jerk

Here we go again...

I am quickly coming to the conclusion that all men really are created equal; equally confused and living in their own little twisted world that is. This may sound like a rant, call it what you will, but I am honestly over some of those who consider themselves a part of the male species. While I like to pride myself on being a bit of an oddity at times, come on, I usually get invited to hang with the boys on guy's night because I'm 'just cool like that', but when it comes to getting duped I admit, I will always be just one of the ladies.

The fact that being 'confused' seems to happen not just to me, but basically all of my female friends, is leading me to believe that it's not just us ladies that are simply not getting it. Perhaps, it's all you boys (read into the fact that I said boys and not men) that lead us to believe that there is actually something substantial and worthwhile happening that we should stick around for. Perhaps we just want to believe that what you say and what you do are going to be the same thing, or perhaps it's just wishful thinking that there are actually people out there that mean what they say. I tend to be a rather good judge of character; I rarely make things up in my head (really, I try not to, so not a good practice) but every now and then apparently I like to get really girlie and think that there may be something when there is nothing. Funny how that happens. Sucks how that feels.

I have to thank the author of He's Just Not That Into You for laying it out there like a real man. I don't think he will ever fully understand the gift he gave to us women who choose to actually heed his advice. If he is "too busy" to make time, yup, not into you. Can't because he just got out of a "serious relationship?" Yeah, um, not into you. "Confused" about his feelings? You guessed it, really just not that into you. You see, I am glad that with age comes the increasing wisdom to know that if someone is not willing to put out an ounce of effort, despite some of the above excuses, then they really just don't care enough, because people, if you are really into someone, there is nothing that will get in your way.

I've been published!

Okay, so it may not be an article in the NY Times, or even Star for that matter, but I got published! So if you are interested in knowing all about Kim Kardashian's beauty secrets (oh I know you are!), the click HERE to check it out. Sweet.

Reality...it ain't no show

It has to be said that television and movies have simply ruined women (and men too) to the reality of what is reality when it comes to relationships. We fill our minds each day with the idea that men really do run off to Paris to rescue you (thanks Sex and the City), that people are always moving cross country for love, being spastic and crazy is actually endearing, and open-relationships can actually blossom into loving, committed bliss. Um, yeah right.

In my movie, sitcom, reality show, whateva, fabulous first dates are followed up by a text message, you move and are lucky to get a quarterly generic e-mail update about their new dog and fabulous new life without you, and being laid back and chill gets you...nowhere. Visions of grandeur that life is filled with helicopter rides over waterfalls and 25 men vying for your attention just don't ring true in the everyday. While I enjoy the mind numbing invention of the romantic comedy, I question if it hasn't in some way made an impact on the over 50% divorce rate we hear so much about. Maybe if we weren't being filled with unrealistic expectations on a daily basis we could all actually come to the reality that relationships are not all about prince charming riding up on his white horse to whisk you away to lala land. It's more likely he'll be riding up in an 85' Nissan Sentra and whisking you through the Taco Bell drive-thru, and then stealing all the fire sauce.

Fabulously Flawed

Okay, so I am a bit obsessed with this new show on the USA Network called Royal Pains. It is not because the dialogue and storyline is so riveting, it's not, but it does have something to do with the awkward, big-nosed, curly-haired, bow-legged star of the show, Mark Feuerstein (aka Dr. Hank Lawson). He's what I like to call fabulously flawed; by many standards not 'hot', but his unfortunate genetic code has created something super sexy. Hollywood is full of them too, just look at Joaquin Phoenix and his famous upper lip or Kirsten Dunst with her snaggle tooth. While society seems to be hyper-focused on perfection, I think they have it all wrong. In my opinion there is nothing sexier than an overly large, and if lucky, crooked nose, one odd little tooth that won't straighten out, or even ears that stick out just a wee bit too far. Maybe this obsession has something to do with the fact that I am perfect...naw...that can't be it.

Nice to meet you. I live at home with my mommy.

Just admit it, in some ways you are jealous of me. I mean, come on, I kind of have it made right now. Granted I can't paint the walls whatever color I want, have gentlemen callers when I want to scratch an itch, and my step-father seems to be in the bathroom every damn time I just happen to want to use it...but hey, I don't pay rent, I have an entire floor to myself, the fridge is always stocked, and my mom will still pick up my tampons for me without so much as a blink of an eye.

Even so, I feel discriminated against. It's sad and unfortunate that many here in the good ol' U.S of A find it less attractive to live at home than it is to have a fungal infection of some kind on your girlie parts. Yes, I just said that. Since when does living with your parents at the ripe old age of 30 mean you are less succesful, and let's just be honest here, kind of a loser? You know, cross the pond and you won't be surprised to find a nice bloke eating fish and chips in his parents living room at all of 38 years of age. If my mom gives me permission I may even go with you.

By the way, I'm at home while I wait for this stimulus package to actually work, and I was finishing my degree, and I wanted the chance to travel, and yes, I feel the need to tell you that.

Hello. My Name is Cheater.

So why is it that when a guy wants to cheat on his wife he feels it is totally appropriate to basically just let you know. Can't you at least try and lie? I mean, it was wierd enough when you were acting like a total creeper and just staring at me. It was also rather odd that you were all trying to get up in my biz when I was so obviously ignoring your blinged-out ass and trying to watch the show. No, we are not drinking. No, we don't want a drink. No, not married. Yes, he sings good. Yes, I have a lighter. No, unaware Market of Choice doesn't sell ciggies. No, we aren't going to drink with you. Yes, lame you are fighting with your wife. Yes, I am sure you do love her very much. No, didn't know your wife has issues with your torrid, slutty past. No, we are not drinking (didn't we cover that?!). Yes, you are an ass!

Welcome to my blog yo!

I find that I am a highly opinionated person who likes to spout off ideas, comments and the like without an invitation, so figured why not start a blog where nobody can stop me right? So here it is, hope ya'll can dig it.