I'm afraid to be loved, because I have low self-esteem.

EXACTLY. I'm going to guess and say you all thought, "WHAT THE F--K?" when you read that, just like I did when I read it. It came from a "closure letter" from my ex. Apparently, those are his thoughts on why I booted his sorry ass to the curb. Now, I'm not one to air my dirty laundry...but I will air someone else's. And according to his letter, I'm still in love with him and I don't even know it. To answer those questions, YES, I told him multiple times that I wasn't. I guess he just wasn't so smart afterall.

According to him, the following reasons weren't legitimate for me to dump him:

~ Doesn't shower regularly
~ Eats all my food
~ Doesn't do shit
~ Breaks lawn chairs and toilet seats because of weight issues
~ Talks nonstop about (snooze) school, and barely acknowledges a world outside of that
~ Has no real life experiences; can only discuss movies, books, sitcoms, computer games and cool things his friends have done

Awesome. What on earth was I thinking? How could I even think about walking out on such a gem of a man?

According to him, none of that mattered. Deep down, I have low self esteem. I'm afraid to be loved. HUH??? That doesn't even make SENSE! And since my time is limited and the year is almost done, for the sake of the blog I'll put that all aside and bring up a new point, now that I'm a free (or rather, "single") woman:

Hotness Scale based on STDS:

Chlamydia Hot - Think Chandler (Matthew Perry) from "Friends". Hot enough where you're cool with catching it, because 7 days of antibiotics later and you're in the clear. Plus, he's generally a good time.

UTI Hot - Think Johnny Depp. Definitely worth the pain and discomfort, but really, you only did it more out of curiosity than anything else.

Herpes Hot - This one is George Clooney. You're perfectly fine with catching it because when it's all said and done, you can still say you banged George Clooney.

AIDS Hot - Jesus Christ. (bear with me) I can't really think of anyone worth sleeping with if you knew you would catch AIDS...so I would have to say the Son of God. If nothing else, at least you've covered your bases. Sleeping with him is like slipping the hostess at Perkins a $100 bill for a window seat - you're covered, no worries. It's Jesus Christ for crying out loud!

I guess the point of this blog is to bring to light one very important thing: You have to stop the Q-Tip when there's resistance.

Don't say you never learned anything from me.

Someone stole my Christmas tree!

I shit you not. I undecorated last night and dragged my dry, brittle Christmas tree outside. It sprayed pine needles everywhere - on the tables, all over the floor, down my shirt, up my nose, in my mouth...ugh. It sucked. I figured I'd leave it out on the patio and cut it up today after work - I had every intention of making it suffer, too.

So imagine my surprise when I got home and the tree was GONE. All that was left were some pine needles, but considering how windy it had been all day, not even many of those were around.

Now, I'm not saying I believed I lived in the world's safest neighborhood, but come on. Are times so tough that people will steal a dead Christmas tree after Christmas? I just cannot wrap my head around this. I know the garbage dudes didn't pick it up, for several reasons: 1. They barely show up to get the trash as it is, 2. I didn't tip them this year, and 3. Garbage pick up isn't until tomorrow.

Which brings us back to ghetto thieves. I've made some calls and as of right now, no one knows where it...

**NEWSFLASH!!**STOP THE PRESSES!!** The tree has been found!!!

The neighbor's boyfriend just swung by about 15 minutes ago. Apparently, my tree wasn't stolen; the sneaky bastard rolled down the hill. The 40 mile an hour winds surely had something to do with it. Thank God for nosy neighbors. Needless to say, I just got back from dragging the son of a bitch back up the hill. In my pajamas. And a ski jacket. In sandals. Bite me.

If I had the storage, I would totally get a fake tree for next year, especially now that they're all on sale. But I have no place to put it during the off season. Looks like I'll just have to buy a bigger house in 2010 to accomodate said tree. That makes perfect fiscal sense!

Another one bites the dust.

That's all she wrote, people. The fat lady has sung. It's over. Gone. Elvis has left the building. Stop asking me if I'm ever going back - I'm not. 2009 is wrapped up, put in storage, locked up and the key has been thrown.

2010 has got to be better, because really, it can't possibly get any worse.

Earlier this week I almost ran over the CEO of my company with my car. All I can say is, for an older man that dude can hussle! I stopped just in time, but there was a part of me that regretted not wiping him out, if only for the story. It would have made for the best, "Guess how I was fired?" tale in the world.

So imagine my surprise when earlier today he swung by my cube. Not just mine, but every.single.cubicle...to say Merry Christmas. What a guy. After he shook my hand and moved on, I told my coworkers he whispered, "Thank you for the gift of life," in my ear. Two out of five believed me. That's enough for me.

But anyhooties...

A lot has happened this year. There were a few deaths, there was a birth...a very brief engagement slipped in there and then the break-up. A few people lost some bets on me with that, so a general "I'm sorry" goes out to you guys. But in my best efforts to find that silver lining, I've kick-started a joke about it, telling people that the day of my break-up my credit score actually went up 100 points (that legal union would've tossed 125K in debt on my financial plate - yuck). Short of turning to stripping and pimping (neither of which I am very good at), there wasn't any way that shit was getting paid off much before the year 2060. Thank God for small favors, long distance, and random mini-strokes.

In the end, I think we should all look back at 2009 and try to remember only the positive. Aside from the obvious "weepy" stuff of being thankful for family, friends and jobs, I'm pretty goddamn grateful for beer, dive bars and small towns.

As Billy Currington sang, "God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy." No truer words have ever been spoken.

Goodnight 2009, and I'll catch you on the flip side!

Any song sung by George Strait is country at it's best. - Eric Church

(The only reason I posted Bradley Cooper's picture is because he is SO FREAKIN' CUTE, I can't hardly stand it.)

I think for the next several blogs I'm going to be cryptic, mainly because I've learned a lot of very important life lessons over the past several months, and yet, I don't want to reveal my entire stance on the meaning of life just yet.

I've been told recently that I have every right to be a pain in the ass. I've earned it ~ I am set in my career, own my house and do not have any kids. I have to say, I agree with that completely and I see myself abusing my position in life as we move into 2010. Society, I have officially put you on warning.

Life lesson # 2:
"You like someone for their qualities and love them for their faults." - patron at my local bar.

It's a pretty cool sentiment. Assuming, of course, that those faults aren't the kind that put YOU into counseling. Been there, done that, and it sucks. So let's not do that again, okay? GREAT.

Sidenote on weird people: There's a chick at work who pretends to have a boyfriend and who was recently spotted having a baby seat in her car. It's crazy enough that she makes up a guy; it's even scarier that she makes up having a baby. I bet that imaginary labor was horrible. Cutting the invisible umbilical cord must have been amazing. But I digress.

I guess the point of this blog is mainly to point out that 2010 is going to ROCK, and just like Bradley Cooper, I can't hardly stand it.

I don't kick asses and take names; I slap asses and give them MY phone number.

I have to admit, there are some days when I just want to fill a van with barrels of gasoline and drive it through a high school bonfire on Homecoming Night. Then there are days like today, when I'm just f*&king awesome.

Let me preface this story with how my heating system blew up. Literally. The service guy came and the moment I saw his mustache, I knew only good things could happen. Apparently the compressor thinger (not his exact words) literally exploded inside the unit, causing the system to shut down. Thank Darwin (you're welcome, Jess) for the Auxillary heat function, or my buttcheeks would've frozen together. It should be fixed by next week. Merry Christmas to me.

Then I called back a former manager I used to work with 2 companies and 1,327 beers ago. He left a voicemail for me this morning. I was so busy being awesome all day, I never got back to him until 5:30pm. He casually asked me if I'd consider working for him again. I explained how I just started a new gig and wasn't really looking. Then he launched into crazy detail about how he's involved in a start-up, and these brand-new positions will have a lot of potential, especially for someone with my [mediocre] experience. (Translation: They don't plan on paying shit for anyone right now). I told him I didn't really think it was a good move for me at this point, all things considered. THEN he says, "Come on, you had a lot of fun working with me!!" To which I responded, "You're absolutely right, I did. But you had a BLAST working with me, which is why you called me today." He forced a laugh.

We ended the call with the empty promises that I would think about it, and he'd meet up with me for a few beers later in the week.

Man it feels good to be a gangster.

I will never be the woman with the perfect hair, who can wear white and not spill on it.

Day 8 of my new work out routine. I wasn't in the mood to hit the gym, so I did 50 minutes on the stationary bike while I watched a True Hollywood Story about Angelina Jolie. Slap my ass and call me "Wild." Because yeah, I am.

Last week, I had hit the gym a little later than usual. As a result, I've met some people in my complex. In no particular order, they are:

~ The chubby married couple. You two are a pain in my ass. I don't care that you want to use the treadmills, but come ON. There are only two, and walking at 3 mph for 3 WEEKS won't get you any thinner, so stop wasting your time and mine. One of you needs to get off the damn machine and waddle over to Dunkin Donuts, because we all know you're going there afterwards anyway. It's my turn!

~ The two 14 year old Asian guys. Now that I think about it, they could be 5, or they could be 27. It's so hard to tell how old Asians are. Every single time I walk into the gym, they are just wrapping it up. What's "it," you ask? Initially, I thought "it" was doing P90X in the back of the gym, watching it on their laptop. But now I'm beginning to think it's a little more homosexual than that. I've run into them about 1,000 times already, and each and every time they are wrapping it up? Yeah, RIGHT. Something's getting "wrapped," and something's going "up," and it ain't no exercise routine. AND, they never turn the lights on. It's all very suspicious.

~ The 10 year old married guy. Okay, maybe he's older than that, but he's got super skinny legs and a baby face, and he's got a bracelet-sized wedding band (or maybe it looks that big because he's so little). We play this little game when we overlap. I usually get there first and put on the TV. I'm a sucker for realty TV shows, especially Keeping up with the Kardashians (Pregnancies!!! Weddings!!!!) He shows up a little later, starts his workout and pretends he's listening to his Ipod (when I can tell he's really locked in on whatever lame-ass show I've got on. I've seen him laugh at it). I get done first and on my way out I'll ask if he wants me to shut the tube off, and every time he waves me off and says, "Nah, that's okay." All nonchalant. Mr. 10 Year Old, you can act cool about it but you dig my shows. Loser.

~ The Hula Hoop Woman. Probably the best I've seen come into the gym ~ she's about 48 years old, has a horrible L'Oreal dye job...I think they call it Crackwhore Blonde. She puts her circa 1992 glasses on (with the tinted rose-hue lenses), then she pirates the TV by putting on Law & Order. Once she's set up, she starts hula-hooping. It doesn't even make sense! She doesn't need to come to the gym. It's an exercise she can do in her own livingroom! I think she does it just to show off. At first I was impressed, but then I noticed she has a textured hula-hoop. It's really hard to describe; the best and only way I can, is to say it's ribbed. (go ahead, say it: for her pleasure. Bunch of bonehead readers). All I know is, it's not one of those smooth, plastic ones that are hard to keep up. I think it's a specially designed hula hoop, kinda like a hula hoop with training wheels, designed to stay up no matter what. I need to do more research on it - I'll get back to you.

Overall, for those of you who are curious, the routine is going well. My plan is to be in wicked shape, just like the chick I've posted - it's "Kate," from LOST. The deadline is Feb 2nd, the day the very last Season Premiere is aired.

I've already taken a "before" picture. I've got the camera all queued up for the "after." Get your puke buckets ready - I make no guarantees that what you end up seeing will be pretty. Or even stomachable.

Someone parked their little penis outside my house tonight.

I've officially begun a new workout routine. It pretty much breaks down like this: A whole lotta cardio, toss in some weights, and don't eat much of anything. It's actually been working out very well for me - I'm working this whole anger thing out of my system and quite honestly, my appetite has gone to shit. So yeah, scoop me another bowl full of broccoli, chick peas and non-fat feta cheese/lemon juice salad. YUM.

In case you were wondering, the new department is working out well for me. I'm definitely a fish out of water and my new coworkers haven't quite figured out my sense of humor, but that's to be expected. Example: Man in his 40's (I'll call him...Hairy) sits across the cubicle wall from me. He cracked a joke earlier today about it being so warm in the office, he was going to take his shirt off. We all laughed and then I said, "Will someone please get this man a FAN?" AND?!?! [crickets] Really? It had all the elements of a great joke - the timing, the content, the truth... (sigh) If it wasn't against Corporate policy, I would have gone around and shook them all.

I have faith that one day, they'll understand.

And that's all she wrote, kids. I really didn't have much to offer you tonight; I just wanted to share my thought on the obnoxious Mercedes someone brought into my respectable, lower-Middle class neighborhood. I would have taken a real photo, but it's dark outside and I was afraid the flash from my camera would alert the neighbors to my suspicious motives. Luckily for me, Googling "Obnoxious luxury sports cars driven by assholes" found the exact vehicle I was looking for. Suck it, Bing.

I love the Internet. What I would love even more than the Internet would be to have an alien as a best friend. Like, someone from outter space, not the person who cleans your house and avoids eye contact.

And on that note, Good Night.

This week was the Ass, and I was the Wedgie.

I've been fairly angry all week. Don't worry, I won't go into it here. You don't care and I don't feel like sharing. However, WARNING: This might turn into an angry blog.

Today was my last day in my department. I will be moving into another gig in my company and far, far away from Douche Nozzle, the guy whose work I've been doing for the past 6 months. I'm as excited as a blonde with two dildos.

Let me tell you the shit I won't miss about this guy -

* I won't miss his disgusting Philly accent.
* I won't miss that gorilla mask on his face he calls a goatee
(gorilla mask: when a person shaves their pubes & glues them to a sleeping persons face.)
* I won't miss the, "I love you...I love YOU...No, I love YOU more" whispers on the phone to his equally hideous, shovel-faced girlfriend who has a complexion greasier than a truck stop kitchen.
* And most of all, I won't miss doing his work, then watching him get presented with a pseudo "Employee of the Month" award.

Believe me, while I have a great imagination, even I can't make this shit up. He was presented a $100 gift card and a pat on the back two weeks ago by our Regional President for how great he was at the job I was doing. I was dumbfounded. I mean, SERIOUSLY?! Who do you have to blow in this place to get recognition, because obviously this lazy turd whipped out a few Chapsticks and knee pads to get his sweet deal.

(Deep breath) But that is all behind me. It's over; The fat lady has sung and I no longer have to suffer through him (or his work) again.

I have a feeling there's going to be some crazy celebration in my house tomorrow night - just me, some wings, a 40 of Miller High Life (don't judge) and Battlestar Gallactica. Yeah, I'm badass. And you can admit it: Man or woman, you've got a crush on me. I get it. Whenever I shave my legs, I have a crush on me, too. And if I wash my hair that same night? Sweet Jesus, I can't keep my hands off myself!

Having more than 5 of anything makes you a fanatic - unless it's plates.

It's that awkward time between Thanksgiving and New Years. A lot of suicides and a lot of breakups happen right around now. But what exactly constitutes "a lot?"

I am not against collections. What I do have a problem with is the prejudice of women and collections.

Let's face it - a guy can have a huge comic book collection, or 15 baseballs, and no one bats an eye. A woman, however, can have 16 Good Luck Trolls, or 23 candles or 37 cats and suddenly, she's a "Crazy Lady" (heavy quotey fingers). Add the factoid that said woman is also single, and you can bet the neighbors won't let their kids stop by her house as they go trick-or-treating.

What if I really like unicorns? Maybe I want to stock up on apple cinnamon candles in case the electricity goes out...for months? And dogs are social creatures, it's a fact - If I want to own 63 of them so they are never lonely, that's my right as a taxpayer.

So when I start collecting these things because honestly, a girl can't live on insurance and pasta alone...I don't think I should be judged harshly for it. I think I may have to put the "spin" in Spinster. I'm going to bring it back and make it cool. If George Clooney can make being a single, middle-aged man seem cool, I sure as hell can turn "spinsters" into "spinkickassters". I'm working on the name.

In other news...I went to Home Depot and got a tree. Sure, it's about as tall as I am, but you make do with what you have. 'Tis the season, and I'm just trying to make it to January 2nd.

I'm the best business decision you've made all year.

There I was, minding my own business at work when an email popped up from my friend S., inviting me to a party at her house on November 21st. Always one to hang out and eat other people's food, I immediately RSVP'd that I'd be there.

This was no regular party. This was one of those "pleasure parties," where they sold lotions not found in CVS, and toys you could never get at Toys R Us. These were things that required car batteries for power, and one even came with its own saddle. Oh yeah, and veggies would also be available for snacking. Sign me up!

The night was a blur of wine, rubber, baby carrots and water-based lubes. The woman presenting was pregnant (bonus for me and things to blog about), but she also had about as much of a sense of humor as The Queen's Guard. Do I even have to tell you she was not at all amused by me?

Like when I asked if some of the toys were dishwasher safe; or when she rubbed lotion on my arm and I asked her what she was doing the next night (her response: Hanging out with my HUSBAND and SON.) At one point I wanted to say, Lady, lighten up. One, you're not my type. And two and three, you're holding a tricked-out vibrator named after a Disney character in one hand, and a book titled, "How to Have Circus Sex Without Banging a Clown," in the other. AND you're pregnant while you do this. I think the moment of seriousness has passed.

Although, I couldn't help but notice that halfway through the 'show' we had all started avoiding eye contact with each other. I guess that's to be expected. No one wants to openly acknowledge that even though we all have cars, sometimes we have the urge to ride the bus. Hey, we're human. It happens. You can't look at Skid Marks sitting across the table from you every night at dinner and feel that same excitement after 10+ years, each and every time. Because trust me, he's looking back at The Nag Master and you're not exactly revving his engine all the time, either.

All in all, a really good time was had. I think if I ever decide to pick up a part-time job, it's going to be to sell sex toys to women. I'd make a killing.

A pre-emptive "Sorry, Mom" goes out.

The End

Ever hit a cat on your way to work? Me neither, for as hard as I've tried.

There are a few things that can happen in the morning that indicate your day is going to be shit. One of those things is stepping IN shit when you take the dog for her morning walk. Another is when you think you've set up the coffee pot the correct way, only to get out of the shower, go into the kitchen and find coffee juice all over the countertop and floor. And lastly, the realization you should've kept your ass in bed is when you get to work and open an email from a friend that starts with, "You might want to get a new accountant." You click on the link, which takes you to a news article where you find out the guy who did your taxes last year is now in jail for embezzling $1.5 million. Nice mugshot, you world-class douchebag.

Does it get any better than that? Funny you should ask.

It's when a fart squeeks out as you stand at the copier and you realize a coworker is right behind you. It's when you suddenly notice your nipples are tweaked in two completely different directions (I like to call that the "crazy eyes" look). Or when you remember that you forgot to put deodorant on that morning.

Jesus, this is beginning to sound like that "Ironic" song by Alanis Morrisette. And ironically, hardly anything mentioned in that song was a true example of irony.

So here's the thing - the globe is warming, my accountant is in jail, my car needs an oil change and at the end of the day, I really don't give a rat's ass about any of it. Is this a sign that I've reached ultimate enlightenment? Have I finally learned to "not sweat the small stuff?" Absolutely not. It means I remembered the stash of baby vodka bottles in the cabinet.

It's not drinking alone when you talk to the TV.

I think it's time I got my own reality show.

I don't see why I can't have my own TV show. There are bigger idiots, bigger douchebags out there who have them, or who crash them. I mean, some knuckle draggers don't even HAVE shows and yet, they are all over TV! Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan...ugh. Lindsay Puke-han.

I live a pretty exciting life. I took the dog to the vet tonight. As I was paying the bill, I looked down and there she went, scootin' across the floor on her ass. I tried to get her to stop but she was on one of those industrial rubber mats - it must have felt good because she wouldn't quit. As I eventually shuffled her out of the office, some moron guy chuckled as we walked past. It could have been the dog-ass thing, it could have been my shirt. Or, it could have been that he sucked. Either way, I bet if I had cameras following me he wouldn't have doubted my coolness.

I think society would enjoy watching me eat. I'm pretty good at it. I can eat a whole box of pasta (white, wheat, gluten free, you name it) in like, 45 minutes. Sometimes quicker if I unhinge my jaw. I'm like a magician - now you see the Whopper, now you don't.

I brought home a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts yesterday. There are two left. I live alone. That can't be healthy, but it sure is fun (not to mention utterly delicious).

I enjoy watching both shows on TLC that are dedicated to midgets (Uh, Midget Show One and Midget Show Two). I want a pet midget. I would make it clean under the bed. I would teach it how to swim. When I wash my car, it could scrub up the tires for me. How many times have your socks fallen down and you wished you could call a midget over to pull them up for you? EXACTLY. Midgets are God's way of saying, "If you keep one of these around, you'll never have to tie your own shoes again!" I like God. He's clever.

Or maybe I could be a reality show scientist person. My first discovery will be to uncover how birds can whistle when they don't have lips. And then I'll see if fish ever get itchy.

And now I'm down to one donut. Don't judge me.

I've been told I should do stand-up. I've also been told I should floss more.

I only venture out of my house for 3 reasons:

1. Walk the dog
2. Go to work
3. For the stories

If not for these 3 things, I may never leave. As a result, I live a sheltered life. I'm sure my lack of life experience hurts me in the long run. I don't understand the difference between bruschetta and fresh salsa. I still forget what side of the car my gas tank is on and I occasionally slam my limbs in things - arms in shower doors, legs in car doors, and I recently smacked my skull off my desk at work when I tried to grab a dropped pen (is the head considered a limb?).

Last week I hit a happy hour with people I don't work with anymore. My one friend, "S," only drinks Coors Lite...as far as beer goes. If you throw wine, mixed drinks or shots at her, she drinks like she's homeless. But beeer? Coors Lite or nuthin'. I never realized how picky she was until I watched her send two beers back because they weren't Coors Lite. It was like watching Ed Norton break up with Selma Hayek. Ugh, what is this hoppy monstrosity, Sam Adams? Bring me a frosty glass of gerbil urine. I will not tolerate anything less than Coors Lite to pass these lips! Well, uh, yeah, of course...because there isn't any other beer in the world that's "less" than Coors Lite (that statement includes Mexican beers).

Before the happy hour came to a close, a chick I also used to work with dropped by our table to say Hey. She was that almost-friend/coworker you regret giving your cell phone number to because you didn't realize how insane she was until you got her text message one morning which was a picture of her with her boyfriend's d--k in her mouth. (and yes, of course I forwarded it to every other person I knew. You can't send me things like that) She was a nice girl, I guess. Behind her back, I called her "Krazy Kate," and it was an understatement. I ended up going to her wedding, which was...surreal, in a gross way. The bride was 7 months pregnant, 'dinner' consisted of mac & cheese which was served buffet-style with plasticware and styrofoam plates, and the open bar consisted of 3 types of beer, 2 types of liquor (bottom shelf) and Boone's Farm Strawberry wine. I gave the happy couple $100. Here's where I get petty:

I'm still waiting for my Thank You card (it's been over a year) and if I knew where she lived, I would send her a preemptive "You're Welcome" card, just to drop the "You're an ignorant, white trash, welfare case,"-hint.

Too much? Probably. And yet, deep down, I think we can all agree I haven't said enough.

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. - e.e. cummings

Before I get started, please note that I am, by no stretch of the imagination, an expert on video games. Not what they are, or how to play them...anything related to them. When it comes to video games, I am like Helen Keller behind the wheel of a racecar. Fun to watch, but a personal disaster.

In watching a short documentary on the man who created video games, I was reminded of the time I had the chance to play The Sims 3. For those of you unfamiliar with it, it's a game where you create people and then live their lives. It sounds easy enough. I live life every day. Sign me up! I was ready to live the shit out of that fake life!

I created my character and named him Bill Cosby. I made him a black, charismatic bookworm with mucho cooking ablities (in a Sims game several years ago, my Sims character died in a house fire from a cooking accident. I wasn't going to make that mistake again.) I got him a job at a hospital (hmmm). After working for a bit, he had enough money for a TV.

Then it all became...the same.

The days went by like this: He woke up, made breakfast, went to work, came home, had dinner, watched TV, took a bath, went to bed. Repeat the next day. Then repeat again. And repeat AGAIN. By Wednesday (in game time), it hit me that I was playing a video game that mimicked my own life. The only difference is that I don't work in a hospital and I'm not a middle-aged black man.

Here I was, given the chance to be a Pseudo God and go hog wild with anything I'd ever want to do in a fake world, and I fell right back into my own life structure. I was like Michael Jackson - by the time he died, he was imitating a white woman, but not very well. Put me behind the wheel of a Sims game, and I become a black man...poorly, or at least, very boring.

I think that should have been my big wake up call - so tomorrow, I've got a plan. I'm waking up, going to work but I'm quitting my job. Then I'm packing up my stuff and moving out to Los Angeles where I can get the job of my dreams - doing hot dog commercials. I'll make tons of money and retire young.

Laugh all you want. When you see me holding a big beefy dog in one hand, and raking in all my money with the other hand, we'll see who's laughing.

Anybody who watches three games of football in a row should be declared brain dead.

I'm sitting on my couch, listening to the same song over and over. I feel like I'm 15 again, except my sister isn't here to bitch me out (Do you HAVE to listen to that song a million times in a row?!?!?)

The screen door is open and the crickets are rocking out. It's that time of year when everyone is back in school and no one is taking any more time off from work. It's dark when I wake up and there's a chill in the air when I walk my dog. Plus...the man in my life has gone back to school, which has thrown me back into the awkward dance of the "Long distance relationship."

The past few years I've managed to date people who lived approximately 50 minutes away, at the very least. It's safe to say I've grown accustomed to being alone in relatinships. So of course, it was no surprise that I started dating a guy last year who, 3 months into it, went from living 45 minutes away to picking up and moving 4 1/2 hours away for grad school. Geez Louise. Good thing, right? I was beginning to feel crowded, as my last boyfriend not only lived an hour away, but was in an entirely different state. So yeah...going from 45 minutes to 4+ hours away? Impeccable timing sir.

Here's where the awkwardness kicks in: I enjoy having him around. I also enjoy being alone. Crazy conflict happening.

I like walking around in sweatpants and a tank top that hasn't been washed in...who knows when. If I want to leave a dirty pot soaking in the sink for two days, I can and not feel lazy. If the temperature plummets to 71 outside, I can turn the heat on and not have to worry about making anyone sweat. If I want to blast the radio (country music, twang twang) during my 5:30am shower, I crank that sucker up. I can burp anytime, as loud as I want. And finally, to quote Sandra Bullock - "I have full control of the remote; very important." Medical oddities on Discovery Health? Where's the popcorn? Take today for example: I ate Oreos for dinner. And yes, it WAS awesome.

Basically...when he's at school, I become a pseudo-homeless person, and I admit, I kinda like it. Okay, I like it a lot.

I've heard people say you hit a certain age where you become set in your ways. I think there's something to be said for that. I'm preparing to get married when several of my friends are writing up divorce papers. I'm almost 32. They all got hitched when they were in their early twenties. So who's acting foolish? Are they suffering from residual effects of capricious youth? Am I out of my mind for 'fixing' a life that isn't broken? I guess I just want to make sure that if the pot doesn't get washed because I'm too busy learning to burp the alphabet, I'll still have a person willing to let me keep my toes warm under his butt, even if it is 75 degrees in the house.

I think I'll play this song one more time.

If you made a list of the reasons why any couple got married, and another list of the reasons for their divorce, you'd have a hell of a lot of overlapping. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960

Give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day. But give a fish a man and see what happens.

When we're starting out, things move slowly. Expectations for us haven't been set yet - I mean, come on. We're brand new. A lot of shit is thrown around and basically, we're just big lumps, mooching off the system. We don't know what we're doing and everyone around us knows that. They understand it. They ACCEPT it.

Then it changes.

I'm not really sure when "expectations" kick in - 6 months? 6 years? And suddenly, we can't do anything right. It really is their way or the highway. As part of natural growing pains, we screw up a few times. But then it begins - the line of questioning: "Why would you do that?" "What were you thinking?" Suddenly, we start losing our cuteness and charm.

Time goes on, we get older and those questions become subtle threats: "You don't have to follow our rules, and you also don't have to stay here." "Oh, you think you know everything? If we catch you doing that again..." Have we been figured out?

Growing up and parents. Working in Corporate America and managers. Amazing how similar they both are to each other.

I'd hate to think it was true that you can't please all of the people all of the time. I beg to differ. Puppies. You can please puppies all of the time. And ferns. They are easily pleased. Or that random Mexican kid I see around town, bopping his head and singing out loud to his music (even though I'm not convinced there's music playing in those headphones). He looks like he's pleased all the time.

It reminds me of a story: A man, his grandson and their donkey were going to town and it was decided the boy should ride. As they went, they passed some people who thought it was a shame for the boy to ride and his grandfather to walk.

The grandfather and boy decided that maybe the critics were right - so the grandfather rode the donkey while the boy walked alongside. They passed more people who thought it was horrible to make such a small boy walk. So the grandfather decided they should both walk.

Further down the road they walked passed more people who thought it was stupid to walk when they had a donkey to ride. So, both got on and rode the donkey.

They soon passed other people who thought it a shame to put such a burden on a poor little animal. The grandfather and grandson thought the critics may have a point, so they decided to carry the donkey.

As they crossed a bridge, they lost their grip on the animal and he fell into the river and drowned.

The moral of the story is this: If you try to please everyone, you will eventually lose your ass.

I have a friend who's been married so many times, she has rice marks on her face.

When I got engaged, no one believed it. Some didn't want to believe it. Even I had to convince myself in the days following. Quite frankly, it simply wasn't in my game plan. My plan was to work hard (check), buy a house (check) get a sperm donor (researched) and a nanny (budgeted), and make-up some story about a one-night stand with a tall, dark and handsome stranger I met on a business trip, who only said (when I asked his name), "Tonight is about love - not names," with a thick Spanish accent.

Not to say I opposed marriage; quite the contrary. But since I don't believe in divorce and I also never believed in settling, I figured I had pretty much 'picked through the oranges' in the produce aisle, so to speak. There were the underripe ones, the bruised ones, the moldy ones...the ones that aren't even oranges, but tangerines. I had resolved myself to the idea that if I wanted anything from an orange, it was coming frozen, in concentrate.

But alas, here I am. En fianced. And turns out, it wasn't even an orange; It was real dude.

So now the initial planning has begun. Get married in a Church or Vegas? Can I even get married in a church? Are churches even OPEN when it's not Easter or Christmas?

And then the dress...I've heard of women spending thousands of dollars on a wedding dress... and it's only worn once! Is there a color restriction? Do I get white? I mean, really. Who am I kidding? I'm a 31 year old woman in modern society, in an industrialized country. The jig is up. Maybe I'll get God on a technicality; ecru...?

And don't forget the guests. Who do I invite? Or rather, who don't I invite? There will be two lists. The people I want there and the people I'll feel obligated to have there. I might have to distinguish my guests in the form of riddles: What was the name of Crystal's first pet hamster? Answer: ___________ If you are correct, list how many will be attending the reception: ___. I'll mail confirmations (or declinations) within 24 hours.

I don't see the point in inviting people who don't know me. They'll just pull the same stunt that I've pulled over the years - show up with $10 in a card, eat all the bacon-wrapped scallops, get drunk on top shelf liquor (that I'm only going to vomit in the ladies' room), trip into someone's grandmother during the YMCA and then tell everyone at work on Monday that "if it wasn't for me, that wedding would have SUCKED."

That's a lot to think about. It seems like one minute I'm researching Brazilian sperm banks and the next, I'm here - writing a blog about oranges and foreign strangers with herpes and heavy accents on business trips. Oh, and getting married.

Amazing where life takes you.

You can take the girl out of Scranton, but you can't take Scranton out of the girl. Paris, Part Une.

I just got back from Europe. Not literally, but close enough (last night). I have to say, outside of the history thing (Europe is OLD!!), it's a whole different world over there.

The first stop was Paris. We get to the hotel and holy cow, our room was the size of some bathrooms in houses. It was small. You could walk around, but only if you didn't have to put your luggage anywhere. So I squeeze over to the bathroom, and there's a shower, but no curtain. ??? Apparently most Europeans take baths, and as we all know, anytime you're in the bathroom, "yourapeein'. " For the 4 nights we stayed in Paris, I inadvertantly sprayed down the whole bathroom every time I took a shower.

Obviously, I didn't spend the whole time in the shitter. I did wander out every so often, and on one occassion I went to the Louvre. I get up to the ticket counter and say, 'Deux billets, s'il vous plais' (Two tickets, please). Mr. Ticket rattles off something in response and I say, "Uh, Je ne parle pas francais tres bien." (I don't speak French very well). Then he says something else...in GERMAN. We go a few rounds and eventually I get my tickets (he just wanted to know if I was a student or not). But apparently, the fact that he kicked into German now makes me realize I speak French with a German accent. Sprechen Sie...aw hell. Just give me my tickets.

Stop # 2: Eiffel Tower. I went up to a guard and asked if he spoke English. He asks in return, "You speak Spanish?" Uh, no dude. We're not bartering languages here. It's English or nothing. Nothing won, and it turned into a miming gig, which is damn near impossible. YOU try miming, "Can you buy tickets in advance?" It's hard, but a few high kicks and a double axle later, I found out you can't - tickets must be used immediately.

In true French fashion, I ate a lot of French onion soup. My last bowl was by far the best...it was even served by a waiter who looked exactly like Richard Gere circa mid-1980's. Then I found a rat turd. In my awesome soup. Gross. There I was, munching away, enjoying all the frenchy goodness, when I spooned a little black...thing. I pulled it out and asked for a second opinion. "What does that look like to you?" I asked J. He inspected it and said, "Uh...a rat turd." Yup. That's what I was thinking too. I pulled it apart, mashed it up, and tapping into my own personal experience as a former hamster owner, I was able to confirm that it was definitely a rodent turd of sorts.

I was good about it, though. I didn't puke; I didn't even gag. I was pretty goddamn stoic, really. And remember that part in "Pretty Woman" when Richard Gere feeds Julia Roberts the rat shit? Yeah, neither do I. We didn't leave a tip.

So there's Paris in a nutshell-of-a-blog. It was incredible. I was speechless for a lot of it. And on our last night, we walked along the Sienne River and watched the Eiffel Tower's light show. It was beautiful. Then we saw two rats ripping into a bag of trash. We called it a night.

Thanks for the memories, Paris. And in the words of Mark Twain: In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language."

Dude, just because I don't like you doesn't mean I have "daddy issues."

Seems like everyone has a game plan. I don't have a game plan. I barely have game. So when people say, "Oh, you're going to Paris! To London! Where are you staying, what are you doing, what tours have you signed up for?" and I respond with, "Uh, I don't know. It's La Blah a la Hotel de Sumthin'. And then some other place," that's when the "looks" start. No plan? No tours? I'm a savage. I just want to make it over there and back. Preferably in one piece.

I do have some concerns that my plane may go down over the Atlantic. Or that the train tunnel from Paris to London (the Chunnel, as it's called) will rupture and I will drown to death. And what will I see when my life flashes before my eyes?

When I was 4, I pooped on a neighborhood kid's bike seat. I had wanted to ride his bike all summer and he never let me. Then one day, I was getting ready to go into the house (because I had to poop) and he offered to let me ride his bike. I said, "As soon as I come back out..." and he said, "Nope. If you don't ride it now, you can't ride it." There I was - the rock and the hard place. So, I bit the bullet: I rode his bike...and shit on his bike seat. He freaked out, and I was never allowed to ride it again. I had chosen...wisely. However you look at it, I wouldn't have been given another chance to ride it again. A few years ago, my mom ran into him. He's now married and has a family of his own. He asked if she remembered when I pooped on his bike seat ~ she said, "We ALL remember when she pooped on your bike seat."

Then I was 12 and my mother had me in a department store, trying to buy me my first training bra. I was humiliated and tried to talk her out of it. I didn't have boobs. Why did I need a bra? I could wear my undershirt. Or, I didn't have to wear anything. She didn't buy any of it, and sent me off into the dressing room with an armful of AA cups, varying from 32-36. I tried each, one more uncomfortable than the next. I finished up, threw my shirt back on and stormed out, back onto the sales floor.

"How'd they fit?" My mom yelled out when she me. "What bra fit you best?" I wanted to die. It was like she yelled it into a bullhorn. In reality, I don't think anyone was in that section, but to me, 12 years old and boobs were still a big deal, the world was tuned in. I stormed over to her and hissed, "Do you have to say it that way? Can't you say something else, like 'What time is it?!' " She looked at me and laughed in my face. That's when she pointed out that not only had I put my shirt on backwards, but it was also inside out. Figures.

Flash ahead to when I was 16. My chore after dinner was to take the garbage out. Easy enough. The problem was, in the winter I had to walk down the back porch stairs to get to the garbage cans. Let me tell you, we had a leak in the rain gutter, and that dripping made for some icy stairs. One night, after my first step I hit an ice patch with my heel, and it was instant luge. I flew down the rest of the steps like a flash, hit the sidewalk at the bottom (full body contact), and the garbage bag rolled after me. After the initial shock wore off, I tried standing but couldn't - the sidewalk was a sheet of ice. I scooted over to the grass and eventually made my way back into the house, via the yard (I believe I just left the garbage where it stopped). Banged up, defeated, I marched into the house and was like, "Didn't anyone hear me fall down the back steps?!?" My mom was at her desk, which also happened to be underneath a window overlooking the back stairs. She said, "Oh, yeah. I thought you were joking. Why?" Why? I could have died! Geez!

Then I was 19. Went to a college party, ripped off an almost-empty bag of pot from some kids smoking it, and bragged about it to my mom the next morning when I got home. She yelled at me, but mainly because if I had gotten pulled over that night, I would've gotten busted for having contraband. I got lucky.

When I was 26 my mom and I had a surprise 'heart to heart.' She thought I was a lesbian. I hadn't been dating much, hadn't mentioned any desire, and she figured I finally came to realize what team I played for. She gave the whole, "I'll love you no matter what," speech, and I had to give her my "It's been a slow summer!" speech in return. But at least I now know that if I ever become a lesbian, my mom will still love me. Thanks, Mom. My girlfriend thanks you, too.

And now I'm 31. Hittin' Europe for the first time. Oo la la. Or even, Good day, chap! I'll have to write more when I get back. I'm planning on getting a picture of myself hugging or kissing or humping the Eiffel Tower. It will be awesome. I just hope I don't catch lock jaw or anything. At the very least, I'm sure I'll just shit my pants.

I steal other people's pictures. I also litter. Deal with it.

I never claimed to be perfect. I think previous posts have certainly proven this to be a fact. So it always amazes me when other people figure out that I'm only human. Bad mood? Bad breath? Me?!?! Don't act so surprised. It happens to the best of us.

Like sometimes, I get tired. And when I get tired, I get cranky (or at least subdued). But, call me out on being cranky, and man, I get even crankier. It's kinda like being fat. We know if we're fatties. Having someone say, "Hey, you're pretty freakin' fat," doesn't exactly score points. I don't point out your lazy eye. Hell, I don't even allude to the way you drag your leg when you walk. I assume you know, probably by the uneven wear of your shoes. So yeah..I'm fat, I'm cranky, whatever. I know. It'll pass. Let's move on. Pass me a cupcake....with a cookie on top. Hillbilly. (huh?)

Random topic jump:

I was in a training session at work today. It sucked, in case you were curious. But that's not what this is about. There was an old man sitting in front of me, and it was like watching National Geographic. I watched him pick his nose for 15 minutes. I was enthralled...and really, so was he. He gave each nostril his undivided attention. He didn't even stop to wipe. He bounced from one hole right on over to the next. I've never seen anything like it in my life! Who doesn't stop to wipe during the picking session?? The man was a beast, and yet, that was only the beginning.

Towards the end of the session, he took the cap off his pen. Then he tickled his earlobe with it. Yes, TICKLED. He self-performed a little foreplay. Is that even possible? Apparently so. And right when I thought he was wrapping it up, he shoved the cap in his ear and went mining for some ear-gold. Fascination turned to repulsion. I knew two things at that point: 1. I'm glad I skipped the grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, and 2. I sure as hell was never borrowing a pen from that guy again.

Unfortunately, that's my life at the moment. Work work work, with a little more work thrown in, and the random training session where I get to watch coworkers bathe themselves like monkeys. That statement could easily lead to the obvious poop-throwing and/or masturbation joke, but come on. I'm better than that...today.

And so, I'm going to end this blog on a bitter, feminist note, courtesy of Gloria Steinem:

"I have yet to hear a man ask for advice on how to combine marriage and a career."

Everyone thinks they have a sense of humor, even people who don't.

Scary enough, when I found that picture online (I just googled "Meathead"), it turns out the dude is a fellow blogger on this host site. Small world. Nice necklace.

We've got a new guy who started working in my department. Unfortunately for me, they put him in the cube directly across from mine. And I thought Crotch Grabber guy was a pain in the ass...

So, this new guy is 26, Eye-talian and he thinks he's the Fonz, or someone equally cool. Our first conversation went something like this:

Meathead: You look banged up today. Out drinking last night?

Me: Whaaa? No. I'm just tired.

Meathead: I started drinking when I was 12.

Me: And what, you haven't stopped since? You're drunk now? Good for you.

Meathead: Haha, giggity. Do you go out on the weekends?

Me: Sometimes.

Meathead: I always go out on the weekends. My girlfriend lives in South Jersey. She's 31. I love older women, giggity. I bet you don't go out during the week.

Me: Not usually. I wake up early.

Meathead: Yeah, sometimes I come to work straight from the bar. You're single, huh.

And that's exactly how he said it. It wasn't a question. It was a flat-out statement: You-are-single-HUH. Period.

I couldn't believe it.

With one statement, that little shit made me feel like I was back in high school, minus the over-sized tee shirts and violin case. Here I am, a 31 year old homeowner, and I felt the need to validate my existence on Earth to this creep...the same guy who asked at 11:50am, "Hey, so what do yoose guys do for lunch?"

It's going to be a looooong career. I should've seen it coming when he moved into the cube. He put up the DVD of "Boondock Saints." Yeah, it was a great movie, but he's presenting it like it is a personal photo. Uh, note to douchebag: Just because you like a cool movie, that doesn't make you cool. Christ, if it was that easy, I'd be signing up for Netflix and putting every awesome movie on the list, starting with "The Shawshank Redemption" and ending with "Battlefield Earth."

I'm sure I'll document what happens. I've got a touch of seniority on him, so I feel that gives me some license to tell him to shut the f--- up at times. Wow. I just realized I've been in the new gig for 3 months. If I had gotten knocked up when I started, I'd be making a formal announcement right now!

Imagine that. Giggity.

Libera nos a malo.

We all have hangups.

When my dad was in first grade, he couldn't unbutton his peacoat and it was one of the most embarrassing moments in his life. To this day, he refuses to wear that style of coat.

I think we all have a 'peacoat' in our lives. Some have more than others. I have many. Well...I wouldn't call them peacoats. I just have pretty basic hangups.

Automatic carwashes scare the bejesus out of me. I don't know what it is; the loud sounds, the slapping against the car, the inability to see...ugh. Just thinking about it gives me the willies. I feel like I'm in the Bronx and fifteen million homeless drug addicts are trying to wash my car with spit and hankies - simultaneously.

Bugs. The real reason I don't kill bugs isn't because I'm a Buddhist; it's because I'm crazy-afraid I'll miss the squish and they'll jump directly into my mouth. When I was younger, the reason I didn't kill them was because I was terrified they'd bite me through my shoe. Now, obviously, I know better.

Oatmeal-raisin cookies. Whenever I see a plate of cookies, I am always highly suspicious of the 'chocolate chip' ones. I have bitten into more oatmeal raisin cookies with excited anticipation, thinking they were chocolate chip than the Duggar family has kids. I hate them. They piss me off. (I'm back to the cookies...not the Duggars) And I will not let down my guard again. Ever.

Thunder. For as tough as I try to be for the dog, I want to pee my pants and hide under the sheets whenever there's a thunder storm. Every time there is a flash, I start counting so I know how close it is. And I always think it's too close. Always.

And finally, my # 1 hang-up has got to be flushing toilets in other people's houses. When I was little, I would be at a friend's house and use their toilet, and never flush. I was afraid it wouldn't flush, or that it would overflow. So, to avoid that fear, I just wouldn't flush at all. Problem solved. To this day, whenever I'm over someone's house and I use their bathroom, I get really twitchy at that final moment. I get that little argument inside my head - "flush...don't flush. Go ahead, flush it. No, no, I can't." Most times, Adult Me reasons it's fine, people do it all the time...and I flush. But every once in awhile, maybe one out of every 11 times, I leave a little DNA gift for the homeowner. No need to send a thank you. You're welcome.

There's a bag of Skittles in the kitchen with my name on it. And my new name is "Skittles."

Hope you all enjoyed the long weekend!

I went for a bike ride on Saturday. Well, I went Friday and today, too, but Saturday was memorable. I rode approx. 40 miles roundtrip (translated into 4 hours). GO ME. But that's not what this blog is about. (I was just bragging) I saw things on that ride that would make God cry. Like the 400 lb man on his bike. He was so huge, his body consumed the bike. It was like he was riding on air. Now while I can appreciate his awareness for the need to exercise, OUCH. I know how my "taint" feels after just a 10-mile ride. I can't even begin to imagine adding another 270 pounds and testicles to that mix.

Somewhere around the 15-mile mark, I rode past a white-trash picnic. They were in their early twenties, had a banged up Red Rider wagon (probably stolen), a boom box blasting (I think) Kid Rock's greatest hit, and a dirty blanket that they were setting up shop on. And no, that's not a typo. Kid Rock only had one hit.

The guy: Too pale, too skinny, wearing a white(ish) t-shirt with the short sleaves ripped off. The girl: I didn't catch her face; she was about to lay down on the blanket, but what I did see was a tube top, acid washed jeans and shoulder tattoos that appeared to be done by a blind prison inmate. It's that time of year: Love is in the air.

I eventually make it home: Legs shot, covered in dirt, and stinkin' on ice.

To celebrate my awesome ride, I went to Famous Dave's BBQ. Personally, I don't think he's that famous; I never heard of him before. But I was told Dave has more BBQ sauce choices than IHOP has syrup options, so I'm there.

Now, let me preface this with a little known fact about myself: I used to waitress. Poorly. Which is why I don't do it anymore. Which is why I get doubly pissed off when I get a waitress who sucks. I understand it's a hard job; but it's not "difficult." Obligatory tips should not exist. If you choose to suck at a job that pays $1.75 an hour, you deserve to make $1.75 an hour. Period.

My waitress was Bonnie. I'm guessing that back in the day (roughly sometime in the mid 1930's) she was one cute chicky who got passed around the school yard. But now? Gross.

When I ordered my BBQ pork sandwich with melted Jack cheese, she repeated, "American cheese?" No, dumbass. Jack. J-A-Yourandidiot-C-K. Then I finished my lemonade. I nonchalantly moved it to the edge of the table. Bonnie walked by, tapped the table with her Lee Press-On nail, said, "Everythingokay?Good!" in one breath and kept walking. Allow me to loop back at this point - I never got cheese on my sandwich.

Now again, I understand it's hard being 95 and a waitress, especially when you have to constantly adjust your apron so your Parliaments don't fall out. And I typically allow one mistake per dining experience. No cheese? Fine. Ignoring the fact I'm parched? Not cool. When she finally realized I needed a drink, she said, "Sure hon, I'll get you more water." I was like, "It was LEMONADE." Being a special kind of stupid? Priceless. Literally. No tip for you.

I don't even know why I was upset. It wasn't like it was a classy place. They had a chandelier made out of deer antlers and rolls of paper towels on each table for use as "napkins." What was I expecting? I don't think I'm being unreasonable; I just expect a certain level of "know how to do your freakin' job" when I go to an establishment - I don't care which one. I think we all do. But my tolerance is definitely lower than most when it comes to mediocre servers.

"I went to a restaurant that serves 'breakfast at any time.' So I ordered French toast during the Renaissance."

— Steven Wright

Don't promise "forever" when tomorrow never comes.

I've been starting this blog in my head for WEEKS. It's been a whole month since my last blog, which is horrible, because that blog wasn't even that good. Unlike pizza, even if it's bad, it's still...pretty bad.

On my way into work this morning the radio DJ announced the name of the chick who will be the next contestant on the 13th season of The Bachelorette. I almost drove over a bus stop curb packed with kids. Thirteenth?? Whaaa? Really?!?

I'll excuse the fact that everyone and their mother has a reality TV show. Okay-no-I-won't. What is that all about? "Rock of Love." "Daisy of Love." "Homeless Love." Even rip off's have spin-offs. The Real World bore Road Rules then VH1 stole it and set up I Love Money but that wasn't good enough, so now we've got I Love Money, Two.

Which brings me back to The Bachelorette. We're inching into the 13th season? Like the rip-off to that show, "The Cougar," couldn't nip that in the bud? And the Cougar...sweet Christ. Where do I begin?

A 45-year-old hot, single mom is thrown into a house with a bunch of meathead 21-27 year old guys, most of whom are younger than her own daughter (who I'm sure is mortified that her mom is on this show). Instead of handing out a rose to the 'chosen ones,' each episode ends with a kiss-thing. She says, "Kiss me." If she gives her cheek, he's off. If she puts her mouth on him, he gets to stay. The catch is, (aside from spreading oral herpes), if you're not the first chosen dude in line, you get sloppy thirds, fourths, fifths, etc.

I don't get these shows at all. There are thousands of fathers out there who deserve a good smack in the face. Would it have killed them to hug their kids just a few more times? Maybe say a quick "Congrats" when they graduated 8th grade? Even just poke their heads into the first 10 minutes on one dance recital. Just one. Ten minutes!! That's all. It doesn't take much to keep your kid from being a loser, and it only takes a little bit more to keep them from advertising it on national TV.

So to all you parents out there, here's some sage advice from a gal without kids:

HUG THEM. Remember their names. Don't talk to them only when you need them to run downstairs to grab your reading glasses. And for Christ's sake, when your 16-year-old daughter starts dressing like a hooker or your 15-year-old son starts wearing black nail polish, DO SOMETHING... Preferably, an ass-kicking, but with the law as it reads, try going back to that hugging thing. The cancelled reality show you could create may be your own.

I'm not speechless often, so when it happens, listen up.

To my parents, if you are reading this: I'm sorry if what I'm about to write upsets you. It upset me, too.

I went out with some girl friends tonight, thought it'd be AWESOME to hit a male strip club in my area. Let me preface this blog by stating two very unequivocal facts about myself: 1) I don't like being touched. 2) I REALLY don't like being touched by strangers. You will never see me in a crowded mall at Christmas. Why? Too much touching by too many strangers. Let me begin:

It started with dinner: Delicious. We go to the "club." $20 to get in. I twitch as I hand my money over; I work pretty damn hard to give up $20 at the door, but hey...good times are to be had, right?? I'll go with the flow.

We get inside, and the first guy out on stage is (surprise!!!) a police officer. Then the real show starts. Some bachelorette gets dragged on stage and he does some ghastly stuff to her; things involving handstands and faux oral sex, not to mention all the dry humping and even boob-grabbing. And the whole time, this chick is "acting" like she doesn't like it. Little does she know at that same moment her beloved fiancee is probably getting a blow job in the champagne room of a strip club somewhere across town. At which point, I figured out some major differences between male strip clubs and female strip clubs:

1. Male strip clubs do not put on airs. Unlike females strippers, who pretend to be in school and to like you, with the dudes, there's no acting. They are there to be sexual and to get paid; you are there to give them money. There's no chit chat. There's only dick in your face (in some cases, quite literally). Pay up and move on.

2. Women bring cameras. Women feel the need to document their girlfriend's bachelorette party with a million pictures...yes, even those of the blushing bride getting faux-gang-banged on a table. She'll make a great wife some day! Guys, however, don't want proof. They know better.

3. Male strippers have retard strength. I couldn't help but notice that 95% of the women who got "private" dances (aka, dances on stage) were over 200 lbs. Yet, these guys picked them up, twirled them like batons and performed some of the raunchiest pseudo-sex acts I have ever seen, some even with the women being held upside down (and yes, I've watched Cinemax at 3AM on a Saturday night). Even though I was disgusted, I was impressed they could pull that off.

4. We all know that dudes like school girls. Apparently, in pseudo-sex world, women like mechanics...even when said mechanic is dry humping a tire on stage. ??? I just don't get it. Obviously, he's not very good at his job. He doesn't even know what do to with a TIRE. But it got the women hootin' and the show went on.

So now it's MY turn.

Dancer # 1 is dry humping a girl about 2 feet away from me. When he gets done, I can't help but notice he shifts a bulge in his boxer-briefs from his ass to the side. Hmmm...weird. He sees me looking at him, mistakes my look for interest and starts squiggling around me. I hand him a dollar (literally...I HAND it to him), and he keeps doing whatever it is he thinks is thrilling me. At this point I recognize his "cologne." It's "Heaven," by Victoria's Secret. I own it. He's wearing it. How bizarre is this dance becoming? I yell above the music, "What does your tattoo mean?" but he doesn't respond (see above - no chit chat). I can't help but think how gross and sweaty he is...and how he's wearing a woman's scented lotion. A minute later, he's done acting like a dying fish near me and my friends come over, hysterically laughing. My one bud points out that my shirt is unbuttoned a bit more than when I first came out tonight. Holy shit. I was so distracted by how alternate-universe it all was, I totally missed the fact he unbuttoned my shirt. Double EWWW.

An hour later I go to the ladies room. I come back and my friends are giggling. Suspicious. Two seconds later, the DJ guy comes over. I'm like, "Hey, what's up?" What's UP, is that he starts trying to do stripper-grinding things on me. He's fully clothed and I'm fully freaked out. All I remember, is at one point I yelled to him, "Does your mother know you do this?" shortly thereafter my dance is over. Big shock there. My friends are slightly confused. They say, "You agreed with us earlier that he was cute!" I said, "You should've asked for more details. That guy reminds me of MY YOUNGER COUSIN." Gasps all around, no one makes eye contact, and they paid him $20 to freak me out on a thousand different levels. It worked. Well done, girls. With friends like these, who needs enemies?

So that was my night, and I have survived. If nothing else, I've learned something I already knew, but never really got to prove in real life:

You want to turn me on? Throw a guy on stage who will cook me dinner. Show me someone who will make me laugh over something absolutely stupid. Put a guy in front of me who will give me a ginormous bear hug after a shitty day at work. But don't put a guy on stage in a mechanic's uniform dry-humping a tire, because that's just going to make me want to change my own oil.

And yet, guys still dig school girls. Some things are not meant to be understood.

Go ahead. Click on the pictures. Make 'em big. You know you want to.

I am not a homophobe! I think gay people are cute!

Okay, I've been called out as being a big homophobe...maybe not a hate monger, but up there in the same part of the bleachers. I have to say, the accusation hurt. It hurt me like an Elton John concert in the rain.

Allow me to clear my name (which, by the way, is a combination of Serbian words meaning, "That who is of natural sexual orientation.")

I think gay people are cool. I watch them on TV like, all the time. I've even heard that the ground-up bones from gay men can cure cancer, and the mere touch of a lesbian can make crying babies smile.

Okay, but seriously. I feel really bad that all gay men have AIDS. I mean, it's not their fault, ya know? Well, maybe if they didn't do so many illegal drugs and hang out in ratty clubs, trying to have sex with strangers all the time...but hey, it's what they do. It's their gay nature. And lesbos? I wish I had the guts to get a buzz cut! How cute is that style??

Cut me some slack people. I love gays. Just the other day, I saw a big ol' bull-dyke in Macy's. She was in the jewelry department. I figured I'd help her out, because really, what do bull-dykes know about woman-things, right?

I stood next to her at the necklace case and said, "Oh, are you buying this for your sister?" She said, "No, it's for my partner." I said, "Maybe you should just get her gloves. Wearing dangly jewelry on construction sites could be dangerous...it might snag on a tool or something."

She looked at me and said, "I'm a nurse and my girlfriend teaches 10th grade Latin. Why would you assume we were construction workers?"

I laughed and pointed out that everyone knows all lesbians are construction workers. I told her I appreciated her gesture of the 'cover' jobs so that I could relate to her on a heterosexual level and not have to step outside my social comfort zone. I mean, how nice was that?

She got really mad. I don't know why. At first I thought she was PMS-ing it, but then I remembered that lesbians don't get PMS. So I guess she was in a bad mood or something. Needless to say, I got out of there in two shakes of an angry lesbian's mullet.

You see straight friends, I obviously don't have a problem with gay people. I barely even notice if a guy is wearing leather pants with platform shows and a fishnet tank top! People automatically think just because I'm from a small town in the Northeast that I don't like people who are not-like-me. So untrue. I love all people...gay, straight, black, white, Asian, half-Asian, partially Mexican, slightly retarded, mostly retarded, blind, deaf, deaf in one eye, blind in one ear...

Uh, yeah. So there. I'm a lover of everyone, which shames my family. But I do it anyway.

The End (jerks).

If you can't be kind, be vague.

I just finished an article about how women aren't necessarily "pre-programmed" into hetero- or homo- sexuality from birth; that we can 'change our minds' throughout the course of our lives. Men seem to be programmed, however, and there's even some research to show that gay men actually have a mutuated X chromosome. But women?? Not so much. Yes, it seems the feminist movement has officially made it into sex. First the right to vote. Then that whole burning bra thing. And now the right to flip-flop in between men and women and dammit, we're going to burn our bras and our girlfriend's bras! Take that!

Our first example is Lindsay Lohan. One of Hollywood's rising whores, and suddenly overnight, she's with a woman. Cynthia Nixon (redhead from Sex and the City) was with a man for 15 years, had two children with him, then dumped him in 2004 to be with a "woman" she met at some New York rally thing (and really, don't you think her "girl"friend looks more like a bad version of Chris Penn than a chick?). Anne Heche: Men, Ellen, back to men.

I'd be more inclined to believe that women were sexually fluid if they left their men for feminine women, but they're not. They're leaving men for women who could easily pass for being men! That's just cheating and quite frankly...silly.

Now, if Jessica Biel left Justin for Jessica Alba, THAT would make for some serious headlines (and the male readership of tabloid magazines would quadruple overnight). But Lindsay running off with some shemale? Hardly. It doesn't intrigue us; it disgusts us.

So, for all you pseudo-lesbians out there, take note: Get over yourselves. Switching from men to quasi-men is redundant. No one wants to buy your home videos. We don't want to see you holding hands in public. It's not sexy. It's awkward and confusing, especially when you broke up with your boyfriend to date a chick who looks eerily JUST LIKE HIM...sans penis.

Maybe I'm close minded, but I'm trying not to be. I'm cool with regular gay people, just not the posers... like those stupid girls who get drunk at college parties and then make-out with their friends, just so guys look at them? Really? That's how you get attention? Maybe some dude would have been interested in your Garfield figurine collection, or how you won the checkers tournament in 3rd grade against your biggest rival, Jason Selemba (cough). Okay, maybe not. Whatever. I'm just saying...I think all this lesbian-love is some kind of phase. Once their 'boy/girl'friends steal the last tampon, I bet that illusion of love goes right out the window.

Plus? You can always count on a guy to carry the heavy stuff, like microwaves and cases of beer. Your shemale can't do that.

Funny, I checked the weather this morning and it didn't say anything about a shit storm.

I haven't written in over two weeks, and let me tell ya, a TON has happened.

I celebrated St Patty's Day with some friends and let a drunk 85 year old guy dance with me. I thought I heard angels singing when he approached...it was a magical experience.

I started my new job. Not one person has so much as alluded to grabbing their crotch, and that alone makes me the happiest worker in the world. I even put up one of my favorite quotes: "I don't believe in animal testing; they get all nervous and give the wrong answers." Glorious. I'm officially settled in.

I even found the time to squeeze in a moderate fall-out with my parents. I'll spare you the gory details, but at one point my father pulled the, "You're not going to talk to me like that under MY roof!" Right about then the mature part of the fight started, and I stomped off to my old bedroom/new home office to pack my bags. My mom followed me and said, "Don't go home." I responded with, "That's bullshit. You know, I'M a homeowner too! And I'm going home." The logic was, I was going to drive 2 hours home, then call my father up and continue to tell him what I've been feeling for the past 20 years, all while under MY roof. HA! It was the ultimate technicality!

No one ever said I was smart. My lack of coordination might actually be a reflection of my limited mental ability.

My talents are limited, and they are diminishing at a fast rate. I forgot how to walk, twice, last weekend. I almost pulled a Natasha Richardson in the livingroom (too soon?).

I can't wear white. I can't walk with hot liquids. I don't even attempt running with scissors. I smashed my ear off the corner of the wall about a week ago and I swear my hearing has been negatively affected.

Oh, and holding the elevator door? Hardly. First...I judge. Chubby? You should be taking the stairs. Thin? I don't like you on principle. Suit? It's time YOU waited for a change. Jeans? You obviously don't work here and that automatically makes you the office-elevator-rapist in my near-sighted eyes. Someone who has held the door open for ME in the past? Sorry, you need to learn that life isn't always fair.

I never said I wasn't a jerk.