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.