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.