My holiday letter to friends and family...

Hello All!

As we wind down 2014, I realized I've dropped the ball when it came to blogging on a somewhat regular basis. In light of that, I've decided to blog my "Holiday Letter." I'm saving a ton of money on stamps and you get a review of what my year has been like. A classic "Win-Win."

Family: As of today, I am still in the will. Of course, that changes daily but I like to remain cautiously optimistic. Luckily, my [white trash] stepbrother went into diabetic shock over the holidays, which ended up defaulting me into mock hero status within the family. There was a moment (in his crazy, low blood sugar state) when he squared off with my dad and was prepping to fight. In my first and only Christian moment of the year, and against every ounce of my being, I calmly talked my dad out of kicking his ass. I'm pretty sure that should give me much-needed brownie points to get into Heaven. At the very least, with the stepbrother out of the picture I think I should get his share of the inheritance.

For those of you who have been out of touch, I still do not have children (that I know of). I have come to the conclusion that instead of parenting, I am better suited to be a rodeo clown. After the crazy experience with my dad and stepbrother, distracting a raging bull doesn't sound so reckless or scary...but changing a poop-filled diaper on a screaming child? I quit.

Friends: I have made some new ones and lost touch with some old ones and according to my math, I am now up to 3 in total (this time last year I was at 1.5 friends). At this rate, I should have enough friends to fill a funeral home upon my demise. RANDOM ADVERTISEMENT: One of these 3 friends is in desperate need of a girlfriend. If any of you know a single lady with a pulse (brain activity not required) please let me know, as I spent at least 2/3 of 2014 acting as his wingman and quite frankly, I'm over it.


Work: I got myself a new job. So far, more people like me than hate me. They also gave me a company car. In typical "me" fashion, the first thing I did was accidentally spill a coffee and dump French Fries in the front seat (like a douche). In other news, people at work keep telling me I have "a great personality." I was flattered at first but then realized I am one "pretty face" comment away from being the new fat girl in the office. Seriously...I put butter on a donut ONE TIME in a team meeting and I am subtly labeled for life.

Pets: My dog is still alive, going on 15 years. She has morphed into a fairly obnoxious roommate. I'm certain if she had opposable thumbs she would be totally unbearable. I could see her raiding the fridge and making a lot of overseas phone calls. I have also discovered over the year that she is deaf. The good thing about a deaf dog is, she doesn't lose her mind when the doorbell rings. The bad part is, I look pretty stupid when I take her outside, using hand signals to give her commands. To date, I have assisted with the successful landing of 7 planes, although my dog still doesn't come when I "call" her. The bird is also around. Earlier this year she laid an egg... ON ME. I would like to think that's good luck in some culture, but until I find out which one, it is still pretty gross in mine.

Life: I have learned a few things throughout the year, which makes 2014 a success in my book. I learned that kidney-punching my mom will never get old. I learned that I overcome shitty first impressions more than I realize; that sarcasm is not universal. I learned that it is really hard to compliment a guy with low self esteem on the glory of his beard. I also learned how to indoor rock climb... Ha ha, yeah, okay, that part is a lie. "Doing" is not "learning," and considering I can barely walk across a flat surface without falling to my death, I find it ironic someone would invite me to scale a wall with many uneven surfaces. I learned that drinking a Coke while eating a Mentos could make your face explode, and if you can keep them alive long enough, Sea Monkeys get big and creepy. I learned our advancements in Science aren't enough to find a lost commercial airliner but are developed enough to land a space probe on a moving comet.

Lastly, I learned it gets really old to have people ask me if I have a boyfriend (when I don't have a boyfriend). That is why in 2015 my new answer will be: "No, I'm just sleeping around."


So in closing, I'd like to wish all of you a happy and moderately healthy New Year. I hope you follow through on your resolutions to lose the weight, fight that infection, not show up drunk at your next custody hearing and stop stealing toilet paper from your office. Here's to 2015! Wear a helmet.

You may kiss the bride.

I read once that if you ever wrote a book you should give it a title after you're done. In the spirit of going with that general concept, I've decided to title this blog with how it will end.

There was a time when I didn't drink at all, until I was almost 23 years old. Yup, even that one night when I was 19 and my sister and her friends snuck me into the hottest local bar in town (Tink's). They made me wait in the creepy, dark, raper side alley. My sister kicked open the side emergency exit. I ran inside and froze, watching as bouncers fought through the crowd of people to get to that door. "GET LOST!" she yelled, and full-force shoved me into the crowd, where I immediately got lost in a sea of people, bad music and plastic jewelry. Even that night, I couldn't bring myself to drink. It was illegal. I didn't do illegal things! And for those of you who don't know my back story, I had every intention of becoming a nun after I graduated high school. My mom made me go to college. But I digress...

Flash forward to today. I don't have the same hang-ups about alcohol as I did back then. In fact, I pride myself on making up for lost time. Here are just some examples of my evolution...

I went to a wedding as a rent-a-date with a friend about 13 years ago. It was one of those fancy, "we have so much money we burn it when we're bored" kind of weddings in New Jersey. It was held at the same place where the movie Cocoon was filmed. We started drinking White Russians because we were fancy, like the people around us. This story ends with me being so hammered I couldn't chew my food once dinner was served. I ended up sleeping in my car on the side of the highway somewhere in between states. To say I was hung over is an understatement. Clearly, I was an amateur. Note to self: Get your shit together.

More recently, I was at a work function where we got set up in sweet hotel rooms. Literally. We were in Hershey. And because no one had to drive, the booze was flowing like...uh...wine. Literally. Figuratively....? It was an unlimited, open bar tab from 5pm to midnight and people were drinking like we were 3rd class passengers on the sinking Titanic. I ended up sitting next to a manager from another part of the company who was drunk and priding himself on being the King of Offensive Jokes. As soon as he told me he that, I believe my next statement to him was, "You're adorable." Of course I challenged him (I tend to throw down when I drink). I won after 2 jokes AND I got him to move his seat. Some people can't handle my Awesome. There are even rare times when even I can't keep up with my own Awesome. That's what the next story is about.

Wedding story #2: So, I go to this wedding and it is in the country. There were tents set up. There were bugs, grass, and a big fancy trailer with separate facilities for the ladies and gents. I hit the ground running, which is just a polite way of me admitting that I was rage drinking due to some ridiculous shit that occurred to me before I got there. First drink - vodka tonic. Were you expecting beer? What am I, a farmer? Who drinks beer at weddings? Then a dude from Duck Dynasty showed up (one of the younger ones from the show - his beard wasn't gray) and I witnessed the grandmother of the bride trying to sex him up. He escaped her first attempt and I immediately decided to stick close to him and turn that into a Grandma Love Connection. I knew he'd thank me later. Alcohol gives me the best ideas. Flash forward 3 vodkas later: Love connection forgotten, I started grabbing random people to drag them to the bar to get drinks, because "NO ONE SHOULD DRINK ALONE." 6 vodkas and one beer deep: I hit that special stage of Drunk where I really thought I could dance. No, wait. I didn't think it. I knew it. Even now that I think back, I am pretty sure I was A-MAZE-BALLS out on that dance floor of grass. And then an hour after that, Fate stepped in and I threw up in a garbage can, scaring the innocence out of a little girl who was standing nearby. Lesson to that kid: Showing off your amazeballs dance skills will cause you to vomit. That is the biggest reason why I don't dance. It just gets too messy.

Wedding story #3: I perfected my skills.

My friends got engaged and had asked me to officiate. Actually, it went something like this:

Couple: "We're ENGAGED!"
Me: "That's awesome! Hey, can I be your minister person? Ha ha ha"

(a few days later)

Couple: "Will you really marry us? That'd be great!"
Me: (to them) "SURE! It'll be fun!" (in my head) "Oh hell, I was only joking."

Being their Officiant was terrifying, no matter how I looked at it. Yeah, I write a blog but this is for fun and most times it sucks. Not to mention, my blogs aren't usually read by more than 5 people and 3 of those people are relatives and 2 of them can barely read. Lastly...writing for eyes and writing for speech are wildly different. But hey, what's the worst that could happen, right?

My friends were expecting 75 people at their wedding and wanted a ceremony that would make folks laugh AND cry. The end result was a ceremony that referenced all of the following: The IRS, Miranda Rights, prison, Ebola, Jurassic Park, Rueben sandwiches, beer (mentioned twice), Dr. Seuss, love and a grapefruit martini. And it was a hit - I got compliments all night. And ya know what I drank before the ceremony? Vodka. And after? More vodka. I believe the most unruly I got that night was when I demanded the bartender on duty buy my house, but in the grand scheme of things that's not so bad.

And by the power vested in me by the State of Pennsylvania, Montgomery County, Universal Life Church and the grapefruit martini I had before the ceremony...I now pronounce you Husband and Wife. You may kiss the bride.

Damn. I'm a natural.

"Don't use the ladies room. It smells like someone dumped a dead body in there." -- my email to a coworker

There are all kinds of people in this world. I'd say most of us are fairly normal with abnormal moments sprinkled in there. Then there's everyone else: the true 1%, if you will, and not because they've got more money than God. At least, not unless "crazy" can pay an electric bill.

Like the hot chick at the bar who seems SUPER fun and SUPER cool and SUPER bendy. You know who she is. She's the one who lets the entire bar in on her little "secret" (SHE'S NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR!!!!), but gets offended when the 75 yr old regular smacks her on the ass. She has made out with at least two bartenders, one bouncer...and remember when she dry humped the acoustic guitar player the Wednesday before Thanksgiving? (no one likes Free Fallin' THAT much) Most of the time, she's pretty cool, until one guy makes the fatal mistake of not returning her 17 phone calls one night 3 weeks ago, after grabbing a coffee with her after last call. This is the guy who (irrationally) thinks he can just show up at the bar the same night she's there and act like nothing happened. He's the "No Big Deal" guy. Little does he know, it IS a big deal (to her) and he is about to unleash the Crazy.

This chick puts the Hot in Psychotic. She's not afraid to make a scene...and she does. Hard. If you have never seen this happen in a bar, the best way I can describe it is, it's a lot like whale watching: Exciting when the activity starts, but then you get a little nervous because holy shit, it's happening way closer than you expected and you're not confident they'll understand you are not there to hurt them. Standing even remotely near "No Big Deal" is enough to get a drink in your face when Crazy goes off her rocker. Just stand back and make sure you've got a grip on that gin & tonic; You are about to see how scary 102 lbs of booze, body glitter and dad abandonment can be.

Then there's the "No Sense of Humor" person. EASILY one of my favorites. This type of person also doesn't understand how sarcasm works, which makes conversations even more fun. I cross paths with these people often around the office (they tend to be my managers), and every so often I am lucky enough to run into them in public.

One particularly memorable event was when I ran into an old friend from high school. Okay, that's a lie. We got old, but we weren't friends. We weren't enemies, either. I guess we were...acquaintances? Acquaintances enough that if either one of us got murdered, the other would tell people we knew the victim. That's more familiar than if you found out your gynecologist was tragically killed; I know I wouldn't admit to knowing that guy (I knew where his hands had been! ewwww)

On this particular night, this pseudo-friend tried to start some shit with me. It came out of nowhere. What I didn't realize at the time was that certain posts I made on one particular social media website was interpreted (by him) as being personal attacks. I guess he thought I was taking shots at him directly. It was all very Son of Sam-like (I'm the neighbor's dog in this analogy) and I admit, it threw me off balance.

What you are about to read is the abridged version of the conversation that unfolded; not that it matters either way, the full version is equally confusing...

So...David Berkowitz 2.0 comes up to me and tried to engage me in some kind of intellectual dance off. He pointed to the cross necklace I was wearing and asked what it meant to me. Having answered unacceptably, he called me a bad Christian. Then he showed me some carved bird-on-a-shoelace thing around his neck and asked me if I knew what it meant. I'm not too bad at Pictionary so I figured I'd first identify the creature, then guess at its profound meaning. Dolphin? (no) Seagull? (no!) ... ... ... DOVE! Yes, it was a dove! Okay...uh...doves mean... love? (no) Land?? (huh?) I got it -- PEACE!

And the final answer was...NOPE. At this point (and in my mind), I'm thinking there is NO WAY I could be wrong on this. But then again, what are the odds some dude wearing a Peace symbol necklace would try to pick a fight with me? In my world, the odds are pretty good, apparently. And that's when it hit me...I knew what it meant!

"YOU'RE A PRINCE FAN!" I was so excited, I HAD to be right, it was the only obvious answer left. Of course, not having a sense of humor, Pseudo Friend stormed off. Was he defeated? Not at all. Clearly, I was the asshole in that exchange, and I am sure he told everyone who would listen that I was, too. But I get that a lot. People who don't understand sarcasm are awesome.

I never did get confirmation on that damn necklace. I'm still pretty sure it meant Peace. Or Peas. Maybe he's a vegan. Maybe that's where I went wrong...

Of course, these moments in my life get a little awkward (for them, not me) when they happen in the workplace. Especially when it happens with my superiors. Like the time my boss brought his son to the office for "Bring Your Child to Work Day." He stopped by my desk to introduce me to the little guy. When I asked the kid where his younger brother was, my boss said they set the age minimum at 8 yrs old; His other son was only 6 and wasn't allowed. I told the son in front of me that that was a lie, that it was really, "Bring Your FAVORITE Kid to Work Day." He smiled & giggled, and my boss couldn't drag him away from my desk fast enough. Have fun explaining that one at dinner, Dad!

It's nuts that I've managed to build an entire career being like this. To think, I started off working barefoot in a small office in my hometown, only to end up being loose-lipped in a Fortune 500 company AND randomly blogging when the spirit moves me. I am living proof life doesn't give a shit what your "plans" are. I didn't really have a plan, but I know this wasn't it.

So stay in school, kids. Life needs all kinds of kinds.

"Dear Prince,

That's not at all what we sound like.

Signed,
Doves"

If I had a band I would call it, "Fight Me to Spite Me."

But I'll get to bands a little later in this blog. (trust me, if I had all the time in the world, I'd blog about rock stars all day long. Luckily, I have a job...)

Okay, where to start?

I admit, about 98.9% of the time, I'm a douchebag. 100%, completely, unequivocally, hardcore douchebag. BUT: 1.1% of the time, I am actually a fairly decent friend-person. No, seriously. I am the biggest, okay-est friend you could ever ask for. When that 1.1% comes out, I am magnificent, hands down. Part 1 of this blog is about one of those (rare) moments in my life.

I know a rock star. Because of this, I have been in places and talked to people I would have assumed only existed on Sponge Bob Squarepants or Reality TV.

One fateful evening, in a moment of absolute slit-your-wrists, paint-the-garage, shave-the-dog boredom, I figured I'd take a short road trip to see my rock star play in his rock star band. My first mistake was thinking it was a short trip. One wrong turn and 3 hours later...

...I walked into a bar in the middle of nowhere.

That's a lie. I was somewhere because GPS admitted this place existed. It was minor technicality, to say the least. It was the kind of bar where your shoes stuck to the floor, the bartender was 70 yrs old and angry, and there was at least one pregnant girl drinking a Bud Light.

I bought my first beer (bottle, not draft) and sat back to enjoy the show. By "show," I mean the patrons, not the band. There was a crew in front of me playing pool. Player #1 was meth-head skinny and wearing a relatively clean bandana. I could tell he was madly in love with his wife (who was at least 7 months pregnant) by the way he kept buying her shots and telling her they were gonna, "make a sister for that baby" that night. I often wondered what true love looked like. Now I know.

Player #2 was the bitter single friend (admit it, we all have one). Redneck single friends are the most bitter of all, probably because their most recent ex-girlfriend is their friend's sister, their cousin's friend, their own half-sister. What I'm saying is, the bitter friend is bitter because he can't escape her, and his ex is probably at the same bar that night (which is the only bar in town), with her new boyfriend (his brother/cousin/father). Anyway, bitter single friend was playing pool, HARD. I guess he thought if he showed his ex what she was missing with his skillful sinking of balls, she'd come back to him. From what I could tell, her new boyfriend didn't have to borrow his mom's car so there was no contest.

As to be expected, at some point in the evening in a 1-star establishment (as this place was), Drunk Angry Guy inevitably shows up. As luck would have it, he came up to me and Rock Star as the band was starting to pack up. Drunk Angry Guy (heavily slurring): "Heeeeeey. Imma give you money for the drinks. Get yerself sumthun and buy me shots. Yeah?" Rock Star and I exchanged looks and he said, "Sorry dude, I can't do that. If they cut you off, they probably don't want you to drink any more." I was impressed. I don't speak "drunk" fluently. Rock Star must use Rosetta Stone.

Drunk Guy (suddenly irrationally angry): "You mutherfuckerscumbags from Pennsylvania!!!! I own a bar in New York! This is bullshit!" He stumbled away.

That's kind of the abridged version, but it still gets the point across. Drunk redneck people are waaaay scarier than regular people.

But they are NOTHING compared to the pompous douchebags from Arizona....

My buddy moved to the desert almost a year ago. During a trip to visit family, I visited him as well. One night, I swung by to see him while he was bartending. That was the night I met some of Tempe's finest.

My first meeting was with Jarrod. He was the exact opposite of the white guy who only ate Subway. This Jarrod was a black man who, within 10 minutes of meeting me asked if I had ever "been" with a black man before. I said No. Then I asked him if he was ever with a white girl. He responded with, "I've NEVER been with a black girl." I wasn't sure what to say, so I said, "Uh, me neither. So I guess we have that in common."

About a half hour in, Mr. Wristbands showed up. Had I been a 15 year old girl with daddy issues, this guy would have been absolutely DREAMY. But, I'm not and he wasn't. Jarrod introduced us and Wristbands said, "You look familiar. Have we met before?" I said, "Maybe in prison?" Wristbands didn't find my wit endearing (guys like him never do), and he said, "Oh, so you have a dick?" There it was. That was my moment...

..but all I did was smile at him. Not because I was at a loss for words. Not because I thought he was amusing. I smiled because here was a 30-something year old guy who clearly never broke a sweat outside of a Golden Corral buffet in his entire life, wearing exercise sweat wristbands with the TV show "Sons of Anarchy" logo them, had his hair tips bleached, cracking a joke about ME having a dick. To that I say, Really, guy? I HAD SO MUCH GOOD MATERIAL!!! My response could have been epic!! But because I'm a Christian (and more accurately, because I was in a town in a state COMPLETELY out of my comfort AND safety zone), I passed on all the obvious jokes and let him win that round. I smiled.

Things work out in the end, though. His quasi-girlfriend/groupie showed up and she was one of those "worn hard & put away wet" gals. She was super nice, but you could tell he kept her around because she paid his bar tab and she paid his bar tab because he kept her around (and she ALWAYS wanted to date a rock star). True love: Not these two. The only thing they truly shared is probably an STD.

I don't know...rock star lifestyles are tough. I mean, I see it from their point of view: The girls, the fame, the attention, the money...it's a helluva good time, a party always. But as someone connected to them (like Mr. Wristbands' lady friend), she's really just a tag-along. Collateral damage, if you will. She's one vagina away from being kicked to the curb and then being stuck picking up a bar tab for some regular schlep who only sings at karaoke and digs ditches for a living. So the ending to her story is a sad one. Yeah, that's something to avoid, fo' sho'.

But at the end of the day, it's not my problem. It is good to get out into society, though, and meet these people. It expands your horizons, makes you realize how lucky you have it, and at the very least, it gives good material for which to write a blog. So for that, to all you Crazies out there...I thank you.

If people could read my mind, I'd get punched in the face a lot.

I have had some amazing experiences over the past few weeks and I wasn't sure how to wrap them all up in one blog. Then I had the idea to buy some wine this afternoon, which lead to the GLORIOUS idea to drink it, and here I am, blogging my face off. What can I say? Wine makes me want to share my thoughts with you. Yes, YOU.

For anyone who doesn't know me (whether that is your choice or mine), here's a personal fact: I like to people watch. Correction: I LOOOOVE to people watch. You can safely assume if I am ever in a room with you, I am watching you. So with that being said...

I was at a bar a few weeks ago. Not alone, I had a bodyguard (he didn't know he was my bodyguard, but I find it's best not to tell your protector that's what they are; it only makes them nervous). It was the kind of place where dudes parked their motorcycles on the sidewalk because they could, and ladies wore ghetto gold jewelry because that made them classy. I guess in all fairness, I wouldn't call it a bar. It was more of a hole-in-the-wall dive and easily one of my new favorite places. So...

We walked in and were immediately hit by the smell of cigarettes and unpaid child support. All in all, it was everything I could have hoped and dreamed it to be. We ordered some beers and settled in to watch the crazy unfold.

It didn't take long before Brett Michaels showed up. It wasn't THE Brett Michaels, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I am fairly certain he was already drunk by the time he got there; he complimented me and my "twin sister" on our outfits. He stumbled around like he just got some new legs. I figured he was due to pass out or puke, and then something amazing happened: His ex-wife walked in with her shiny new husband. WHOA BABY. How do I know this, being a first-timer to this fine establishment? Brett told me and everyone who would listen that not only was that his ex, but she was STILL in love with him and only divorced him because he was in jail. I turned to my man and said, "We're getting another round after this."

What, did you honestly think I was going to leave? When the universe hands you a perfect storm, you don't put on a raincoat and grab an umbrella. You kick off your shoes, walk into it head on and declare, "I WANT TO SEE BRETT MICHAELS START SOME SHIT." Plus, I REALLY wanted to find out what he did that landed him in jail.

Slight side track here: It is a pretty well-known fact that I'm immune to sensing danger. I just don't have a survival instinct. With that being said...

Brett was on a roll, REALLY letting his ex-lady know what she was missing. Is the band singing "The Final Countdown?" Brett was determined to sing it better TO his lady AND her Shiny New Husband, WHILE he played pool...poorly. (note to Brett: Not all pool shots need to be taken 'behind the back.')

Just when I was getting into it (about the same time New Husband was cracking his knuckles), Bodyguard informed me we had to leave. Nooooo! *fist shaking* I think he sensed the impending shit storm that was about to unfold. Again, I can't sense danger so I must depend on those around me. I finished my beer (it's hard to drink when you're pouting) and we left. "We're leaving together but it's still farewell..."

Onto Bar # 2. This was one was definitely cleaner. My shoes didn't stick to the floor at all. The ladies room had soap. But that doesn't mean there wasn't any people watching to partake in. Oh, they were ALL around us. As we all know, at some point after 10:30pm you will usually find "The Make-Out Couple" at a bar.

They were there and they were ALL OVER each other. They were making out so hard, the guy could barely keep his NY Rangers jersey on.

While that was happening, there was a different kind of love occurring on my side of the bar. Drunk Fist Bump Man was in the house and as luck would have it, he has got a HUGE man-crush on my man! So of course, it didn't take much for that bromance to get kicked into high gear. Fist Bumper: "HEY!!! I love you man! It's so great to see you!" *forces awkward hug* Bodyguard: "Uh, hey man, what's up?" Me: SMILING EAR TO EAR

Oh, that's the other thing I guess I should tell you. I don't play favorites when I people watch. If I know you and you are the victim of some weirdness, I will not only watch it happen, I will revel in how awesome it is for ME to watch YOU feel awkward. Which is exactly what I did. (I'm that jerk friend your mom warned you about) For the rest of the night, Fist Bumper celebrated pretty much every bar "milestone" with Bodyguard. "Someone just ordered a shot?! Hey bro!" *fist bump* "Bobby just came back from the bathroom?! YEAH!" *fist bump* "LAST CALL?!?!!?! F--K IT!" *several fist bumps* I think the total fist bump count was up to 22. I could be wrong, but this isn't CNN so who gives a shit?

Back to The Make-Out Couple. A guy can only take so many hours of sucking the lips off a girl's face before he needs a little more...uh, well...lovin'. Apparently his lady wasn't privy to that bit of information and by 1am, our Rangers fan had had enough. He left his lady (and his Bud Light) at the bar so he could dance to the band. Or rather, WITH the band. And help them sing their songs, you know, in case they forgot the words he was making up. One would think she would have gotten up with him, but nope. She just sat there, a sad gal left behind. I'm pretty sure we all know how their story ended, though: He threw up in her car and then passed out on her cat when they got back to her place. But I bet she still made him a bowl of cereal the next morning. #she's a keeper

My final story is a pretty short one and happened while I was at work (a place which does not serve alcohol, to the dismay of many employees).

We had a new guy start in my department. I've nicknamed him, "Terrified Coworker," because he is. I have never seen such an extreme case of social anxiety in my life before I met this guy. On his first day I tried to joke around with him to loosen him up and I am pretty sure he almost cried. (insert Tom Hanks here) Acknowledging that lately, I seem to have that affect on guys, I immediately backed off and didn't speak to him for the rest of the day. However, while he was sitting with other members of the team, "job shadowing," as we call it... I realized something: He laughs through his nose.

You read that correctly. THROUGH. HIS. NOSE.

He doesn't open his mouth when he laughs, it is entirely through his nose. I didn't think that was physically possible, kinda like keeping your eyes open when you sneeze or scratching an itch on your foot while it's still in the shoe. It's hard to describe the sound of a nose-laugh, but it goes something like this: HRRMPH HRRMPH HRRMPH HRRMPH! However you cut it, it's strange, unnatural, and I am pretty sure I can't trust him. Ever. I'm sure this particular story will develop over time, so stay tuned for that.

Well my friends, I hate to be so abrupt in my wrap-up but that's all I've got to offer for now. Until we meet again...stay cool and if you see me around, I'll be watching.

“I used to be self conscious about my height, but then I thought, fuck that, I'm Harry Potter.”― Daniel Radcliffe

On more than one occasion I have had someone, somewhere tell me I had low self-esteem, all because of some joke I made about myself. Don't these people realize one of my mottos is "What people think of you is none of your business?" Yet, they volunteer that shit. Did I ask your opinion? Then shut your lips. And quite frankly, it is shit. For as much as it pains me to have to blog about this, I have a diarrhea-level urge to set the record straight.

I do not have low self esteem. I am a realist. With that being said, let me explain some things:

I was raised in a household where physical attributes didn't mean a whole bunch. It was understood that there would always be someone prettier than you out there, so figure out an alternative. My sister got off easy; she's the smart one. She is good at math, quick to make friends, she can dance and is generally excellent at everything she does. Thank God she got her Masters degree, I was running out of ways to disappoint my parents (I can only get so many tattoos).

Then there is me. I don't have the brains my sister does. Math is hard. Dancing isn't an option: I don't just not have rhythm, I have anti-rhythm. I'm terrible with names and when I meet someone for the first time, I end up nicknaming them "Branch" (in my head). It makes me awkward in social situations. Short of discovering a hidden talent (plate spinning? belly button whistling?) my go-to thing ended up being humor.

If only it were that easy.

Humor is a tough thing to pull off. You have to know your audience and find a common ground that you can both laugh about. Unfortunately for those around me, I am not good at identifying either of those things. As a result, I have inadvertently publically shamed people at work, made people cry (sorry random guy in bar, but thank you for serving our country), and I am pretty sure that priest would have laughed during my confession if he could see the "I'm only KIDDING!" look on my face (75 Hail Marys? Jesus Christ, it was a JOKE!)

Needless to say, the only thing left in this world that I can safely joke about is myself. It isn't low self esteem; it's self-deprecating humor. (I know that's a big word...Google it) Hang with me long enough and you'll realize I'm a pretty big fan of myself. Just because I acknowledge that I have the coordination of a new born calf, a farmer's tooth, big hips and a fire victim's hairline (and those are the easy ones!) doesn't mean I'm self conscious about them. I was never known for my striking good looks, ninja math skills or exceptional coordination anyway so why attempt to play that hand now? You'd have to be blind not to notice these things about me. But you know what? I can rebound on a trip & fall like a BOSS. I use my farmer's tooth to open things that most people need scissors for. I've swung these hips to bounce skinny girls out of the way so I could get into the bathroom first. And my hair? I'm pretty sure it has more fun when I'm sleeping than I do (at least, that's how it looks when I wake up in the morning), but I'm cool with it.

I save all my bragging for my diary. Let's be honest with each other: If all I did was tell you how awesome I was, how I was a hero at work, how AH-MA-ZING my arches are (these feet were designed for high heels) and how I'm 97% sure I sound exactly like Carrie Underwood when I sing in the car, you'd feel pretty bad about yourself. Plus - you'd think I was a douche nozzle for being all braggy and you would be right. It's like those girls who brag about getting hit on all the time. Big deal, you're pretty... Talk to me in 35 years. I can eat a mixing bowl full of pasta in under an hour. Oh sure, that may not have guys banging down my door and in 35 years I'll be the size of a house, but at least it's a true accomplishment. Not that it matters anyway, because that shit goes in my diary. Now, the next time I slip on ice and slide under my truck when I try to get in it? That's a story I will shout from the roof tops.

To leave the house, or not to leave the house...that is the question in 2014.

I knew it has been awhile since I last posted anything. I didn't realize it's been 6 months, though. Had I made some bad decisions the night of that last blog, today I would be 3 months away from being someone's mom! Or would I...? Given how 2013 went down, I am not too sure I want to leave the house in 2014 to even practice. By the end of this blog, you might back me up on that decision.

Let me make one thing clear: I've got a fairly thick skin, so what you are about to read is my way of sharing the good times. I will admit, though, that after some of these events occurred two packages of Oreos, one extra large pizza (with black olives) and several shots of Bourbon lost their lives in my attempts to self-medicate.

Story # 1: I was out one night, wearing my nicest burlap potato sack, when I was introduced to a friend of a friend. He had all of his front teeth and as it turned out, he was 4 years younger than me. I knew there was something special between us when later in the evening he said, "I don't usually find older women attractive, but you're not too bad." Really? You're adorable. I'm not even that much older where I could have been your babysitter. Hmmph. I think in today's society, ages are now being calculated in dog years. It's a whole new world out there and I am very unprepared.

Then there's the wee little man story. I am being 100% honest when I say this guy was approximately nipples-high (I'm 5'4, you do the math). It was a night when I was wearing my favorite cat sweater, feeling pretty good about my hot self. Several adult beverages in, wee man's balls must've dropped and he says to me, "I'm not usually attracted to bigger girls, but I think you're kind of cute." Gee, thanks? And coincidentally, I am not usually attracted to grown men who are still legally required to use car seats, so hey, let's step outside our comfort zones. I'll pick you up at 8pm? *literally picks him up*

So those two dudes were my "something new" learned in 2013: Anytime a guy starts a sentence with, "I don't usually..." it's going to end poorly for me. Duly noted.

Then there are the random comments that aren't story-worthy, but are still worth sharing. These are times in my life I'm pretty sure I have stumbled into a Tourette Syndrome convention:

1. You have thick legs. No, I mean that in a good way. Like, good-thick. (just shut up already)
2. I think you're a serial killer. (meant in the nicest way possible, I'm sure)
3. That's a nice outfit. I can really see what you were trying to do. (bitch)

And to think, people tell me that I lack an internal filter. Irony is fun.

Last but not least, how could I forget one of the most complimentary conversations I've had so far this year? On this particular evening, I looked exceptionally good with my off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and stirrup pants. This story is slightly different, however, since my fellow conversationalist is someone I've known since...well, since my stirrup pants were in style the first time around. Anyway, we got talking about my Hollywood marriage that ended in a white trash divorce. In talking about my ex, my pal said, "You know, one man's trash is another man's treasure." He clearly mistook my shocked expression for confusion because he went on to clarify with, "I mean, you know, you're the trash in that analo--" I got it, I got it, thanks. You can stop talking now. But just for that, I will make you buy me all the drinks this bar has to offer. And food. And that girl's coat across the room, because I've never seen that shade of blue before. Yes, I am demanding you buy my friendship back.

I guess I need to let it all go. Leave the past behind. Smile every day. Think positive. Don't suck. Never wear underwear. I don't know, inspriational quotes are hard. You get the idea, though, and that's all that matters.

So until we meet again...Cheers and Happy New Year!