Friday, March 30, 2007

My Bitch Fit

OK, so I’m feeling a little feisty today. Might have something to do with the really good date I had last night. OR, it might have something to do with Guy #2 (who I haven’t spoken to since fucking St. Patty’s Day – get a clue dude, you’re starting to creep me out) calling me at 3 IN THE MOTHERFUCKING MORNING.

Now, if you don’t read me that often, you may not know that I love sleeping. I mean, I love sleeping. I’m a huge fan. But what I don’t love is being woken up. For, like, any reason. And people who know me are aware of this. 3 a.m. is an unacceptable time to call me unless it’s an emergency. So when my phone rings at 3 a.m., I’m going to assume it is an emergency. It wasn’t.

There I was, dead to the world and happy as a clam, when my phone rang. Struggling to open my eyes and look at the clock, I panicked when I saw the time. Who could be calling me? What was wrong? Had something happened? Fumbling around in the dark, I located my phone (randomly under a pillow in my bed) and answered it. I didn’t check my caller ID. I just answered.

I was expecting a family member or friend. I got a fucking moron:

Redhead: (still pretty asleep but concerned) Hello?
Guy #2: Redhead? (he actually said my real name here, but humor me)
Redhead: (realizing its not anyone I care about or like – and certainly not an emergency – I get instantly livid) Who is this?
Guy #2: It’s Guy #2. (he actually used his real…never mind)
Redhead: (not even trying to sound calm) What the fuck are you doing calling me at 3 in the morning?
Guy #2: I wanted to talk to you.
Redhead: (sitting up and letting my voice raise – sorry neighbors) Are you fucking kidding me? I haven’t returned one of your phone calls or text messages. It’s been 2 fucking weeks! Get a fucking clue! Don’t fucking call me in the middle of the night!
Guy #2: Yeah, but…
Redhead: What is your fucking problem?! I was just sleeping! I have to get up for work in 3 hours! And in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t want to talk to you, you fucking idiot! Fuck off, leave me alone, and never, ever, ever call me again. Jackass!
(Click)

So, yup. That’s what I call a meltdown. Inadvisable if this guy ends up being unbalanced and/or a stalker? Clearly. A solid 9 out of 10 on the bitch scale? No question. Something I regret in any way, shape, or form? Nope. I feel totally comfortable with how I handled the situation. I mean, 3 in the morning?

Anyway (deep breath), I’m over it now. And that’s not even what this post is about – that’s just kind of an explanation before I begin. You see, I’m seeing the world through bitch colored glasses this morning, and in my crabby (and sleepy) state, I decided to stumble through the news section of the US Magazine site (always a good brainless early morning activity). Since I hadn’t been there in a while, I went back a few days to read through all the posts. And one caught my eye.

Called Hollywood’s Teetotalers, I quickly guessed what that ‘story’ was about. And I smiled. Who doesn’t love typically stupid actress quotes? I knew I was going to get some holier than thou bullshit, and I normally love that stuff – it makes me feel good about myself and my intelligence. But today, since I’m in ‘a mood,’ I feel a particularly strong need to rip into these women and what they said. So, since I have this lovely space to do so, here are my top 3 nitwits:

—“I'm not really a drinker…I think it's gross. I really don't like drunk women; I think it is such a bad look. I think it's very inappropriate and I don't like it…I think it's incredibly embarrassing when people are drunk. It just looks so ridiculous. I find it very degrading. I think, ooh, you're really degrading yourself right now, to be this pissed out in public.”
-Gwyneth Paltrow

Really? You mean it doesn’t look good to get falling-down drunk? Are you sure? Because I always thought the reason women get totally fucked up was because it looked good. Those half-mast eyes, inevitably running makeup, and sort of clammy skin always looked hot to me. In fact, when the world is spinning around me and I’m praying I make it to the bathroom before I throw-up, I always think ‘damn this is a good look for me.’ But you’re saying it isn’t? Are you sure you pseudo-British wannabe?

Because you’ve never been drunk before, right Gwyneth? All those stories I’ve heard about your younger days are just gossip, I’m sure. And this quote I found after a quick Google search of you? This can’t be right – right?

“As a teenager at a posh New York private school, blonde, blue-eyed Gwyneth was a rebel without a pause. Never short of dates, she drank, smoked dope and drove her parents mental by staying out all night.” –Sunday Mail (UK), June 30, 1996

Hmmm. Now I don’t know much about the Sunday Mail, but it sounds like you DO have a few nights in your past that you’d like to take back. Interesting.

Well, no bother. Anyone who names her kid Apple isn’t someone whose opinion I really respect anyway.

Oh, but way to call out drunk women in particular – they ARE so much ‘grosser’ than drunk men. You’re a fucking genius.
-Redhead

—“I don't drink, I don't smoke and I've never done any drugs. I avoid fried foods and have even given up coffee. I have remarkably few vices and I'm never late.”
-Sarah Michelle Gellar

Wow. Sarah Michelle Gellar is a saint! I knew it! First Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and now just a perfect human being. How does she do it?

I mean, sure, she married Freddie Prinze, Jr., which is just sad. And she was in those horrible Scooby Doo movies. Oh, and some really bad romantic comedies – but they don’t hire her for those anymore.

Still, that teenage boy’s body seems to be working for her. And I’m sure she’s a really fun friend to have; what with the no drinking, smoking, drugs, fried food, or coffee, there’s so much more time to…um…

Well, she WAS Buffy.
-Redhead

—“I don’t drink – I’ll have a sip, but I’ve never been drunk – and I don’t smoke. I envy people who have those releases. They just have a drink or a cigarette and they feel better. I have to brave it through the whole day on my own.”
-Jennifer Lopez

You know, when I think Jennifer Lopez, I DO think ‘brave.’ It’s brave to get married three times in less than 10 years (but engaged 4 times – that we know of!). It’s certainly brave to appear in any movie after Gigli. And to go out in clothes that JUST BARELY cover the naughty bits – brave, brave, brave. To go out in sheer clothing without a bra – brave. To actually name your record ‘J to tha L-O!’ – brave. To still call yourself a ‘simple girl from the Bronx’ when everyone who's ever worked for you calls you a diva – brave.

To marry Marc Anthony – legitimately brave.

J. Lo, you are my inspiration.
-Redhead

Happy Friday everyone!

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

A Bunch of Randomness

-My microwave started shooting sparks at me yesterday. Naturally I turned it off and went without dinner. I’m putting the over/under at a week before I actually get off my ass and call my super.

-Just tried something called Chocolate Flavored Tea – tastes nothing like chocolate but a lot like coconut (surprisingly AND illogically). But since coconut is one of my favorite smells/foods, I’m not complaining. Have been steadily overdosing on it ever since.


-That new show on ABC – October Road – seems pretty stupid, but the guy who plays Eddie on it is all kinds of scrumptious. I’m thinking he’ll be enough to keep me tuning in for the next few weeks.

-Every once in a while I come across a song I haven’t heard in a long time but love. Why did I forget about the song? Who knows – I’m just glad to have it back. This week’s new/old find: Brass Monkey.

-My brother has somehow taught his son to call him Main Man instead of Dad (my nephew isn’t even two yet). If you knew my brother, you wouldn’t be surprised.

-If Carl Pavano pitches the season opener for the Yankees, I’m officially concerned about this year.

-One of the main selling points (for me) on relationships is the concept of the free massage. I’m not in a relationship right now, and my back is killing me.

-Land turtles can live without food for about a month. (I’m full of crap like this.)

-I never call my friends back right away – generally it takes me about a week to return a call. Does this make me a bad friend?

-Question: How long does it take to write captions for every photo in a 64 page nonfiction book? Answer: Approximately 2 hours.

-The movie She’s the Man is unadulterated cheesy goodness. I don’t have one (female) friend who didn’t secretly love it. I don’t know one man who’s seen it. Two thumbs up.

-I get kind of embarrassed when I’m reading a book on the subway and all of a sudden there’s a sex scene. It’s like being caught with porn. I inevitably turn bright red and stop to contemplate whether I should just wait until I get home to continue reading. I call these my wuss moments.

-I have to say that the fictional childhood character I related to most was Oscar the Grouch. Is that weird?

-Why do women take breast shots and use those for their blog/profile photos? How does that seem like a good idea? I REALLY don’t want to come across like a feminazi, but what the fuck?

-If I carry cash I immediately spend it – doesn’t matter how much it is. $20…gone. $80…gone. $200…gone. That’s why I generally have about 75 cents on me. I’m not lying to the homeless guy when I say I have no money to spare.

-Dogs (and dog people) are cooler than cats (and cat people). I have a cat and even I know this.

-And finally, a warning:
The overhead lights in my apartment are actually in these really beautiful ceiling fixtures, which is great from a visual standpoint. Plus, the ceilings in my apartment are really high. Also good. But a problem arises when the lightbulbs need to be changed. Especially the ones in my bedroom. You see, the fixture is right over my bed, which means I can’t really use a ladder to get to it (not that I even own a ladder). So what I do is stack books on my bed and try to balance on them as I unscrew the heavy crystal fixture, unscrew the lightbulbs, screw in new ones, and then attempt to reattach the fixture. Needless to say, I’m not standing on a stable base. And I’m really high up at that point. It takes MANY books for me to be able to reach (and I’m 5’8) – plus my bed is already on these pretty wooden blocks. To top that off, I’m kind of afraid of heights. Basically, it’s dangerous and I’ve almost fallen several times. And tonight I will attempt the great lightbulb swap again. So, um…if you don’t hear from me for a while, now you’ll know why.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Baseball Season Is So Close!

I’m sitting at my desk yesterday, editing a (painfully) bad book, and my email dings. Ah, a break, I thought. About damn time. Who’s saving me? Ooh, John*. And wait, what’s that? What’s the subject of the email? Yanks Tickets? Yes, I think I can read this one.

So I click on it, and I see that John just got back from the Bahamas (which he insisted on telling me just to piss me off), and he was the proud owner of some Yankees tickets (which he knew would keep me from hating him about the vacation). He, of course, was inviting me to go with him. Why? Because he owes me. And I’m awesome to watch a baseball game with.

Why does he owe me? Well, I have partial season tickets to the Yanks – right near first base; they’re beautiful seats – and I take him. A lot. I do this for several reasons, but the top two are he’s willing to go to games in the middle of the week, and he always buys the beer as a thank you. He also tries to return the favor by inviting me whenever he gets seats. So it works all around.

Plus, he’s fun. He’s laid back, he knows his baseball, he can drink me under the table, and he humors me when I get drunk and insist on buying cotton candy (which I don’t really like). He’s my buddy. I’ve known him since high school (when he was a first year teacher and I was a senior). And he doesn’t mind when we go out and I hit on other men. It’s totally platonic between us. Sort of.

You see, here’s the thing. Even if a relationship is platonic between a straight man and a straight woman, there’s always flirting going on. It never means anything of course – it’s more like practice. But, it is flirting. So you have to make sure everybody’s on the same page. But as long as everyone is, it’s totally fun and harmless. And John and I have always been on the same page. Kind of.

Except for that one time.

OK, here’s what happened. It was last year. We were at a Yanks game on a cold, rainy, miserable Saturday, and I was complaining. Why? Because I was hung over (I’m not an alcoholic, I swear) and freezing. And I can be pretty annoying when I’m complaining. Still, John knows me well, and this isn’t the first time he’s ever seen me in a bad mood. In fact, he thinks I’m cute when I’m cranky. Which I am. I swear.

So what did John do? He went in search of hot chocolate to warm me up, a beer for after the hot chocolate, and a blanket (that he saw them giving away for free as a promotional thing for…something). He came back with all this stuff for me, and I was so thankful that I let him rub my hands to warm me up – I know, I’m an angel.

And then we somehow (during one of many rain delays), got to talking. If I remember correctly, they were flashing those Happy Birthday!/Welcome (insert name) signs up on the big screen, and up came Welcome, Harry and His Bachelor Party (or something like that). And John goes:

John: Hey, I know those guys.
Me: You know Harry?
John: Yeah, I met them at Stan’s before the game.
Me: (considering) You know, if I could convince my friends to do it, I’d have a bachelorette party that included a Yankees game.
John: No one would go for it.
Me: Yeah. But you’d come. It doesn’t have to be just girls. I bet I could convince everyone.
John: I can’t come if I’m the groom.
(Dead silence while I look at him to see if he’s joking. He doesn’t seem to be. He’s actually looking at me in kind of an intense way.)
Me: Um…(nervous giggle) you wouldn’t want to marry me. I’m a pain in the ass.

Pretty much everything after that was awkward. I was miserable. He was quiet. It was just bad. Probably the worst baseball game I’ve ever been to, and it had nothing to do with the weather. When he suggested we go to dinner after the game, I said something along the lines of, “No.” No explanation. Just no. Then I avoided his phone calls for the next two weeks. Because I’m a pussy.

But we got through it! We learned to pretend there was never any awkwardness. I now make it a point to mention anyone and everyone that I might be dating or considering dating. And he continues to give the impression he doesn’t care (so I’m going to assume he doesn’t). In other words, my baseball buddy and I are back on the same page. And another season is upon us. Which is great. Because a good person by your side (at a game) is important. Not essential, but important (the game is always the most important thing). They make the experience EVEN MORE enjoyable. And I’d hate to have to scratch John off my list.

He really does always buy the beer.

*Not his real name

Monday, March 26, 2007

A Time Out for Psychobabble

Guys and I have a complicated relationship (I bet all women can say that). What I mean by that is guys like me – I know how that sounds, but let me explain. You see, generally speaking I’m a cool girl. I’m not clingy, I love sports, I enjoy hanging out with ‘the guys,’ I enjoy…other stuff, and I’ve been told I look good.

Note: This is not going to turn into a whole ‘I’m really hot’ thing, because that’s not for me to say. A woman’s looks always come down to personal taste. Plus, I think it’s weird when someone insists they’re gorgeous but won’t give you a picture to verify it – which I won’t. Ever. (Let’s keep this anonymous, OK?)

Only I’m not so good at relationships. This doesn’t make sense for lots of reasons, not the least of which is that I like guys. I think they’re fun. And I know relationships (real, long-term, working relationships) can exist. I’ve seen them. So there’s no reason for me to have issues. But I do. Big time.

I’ve found that as the years go by, I tend to run from commitment. Not that I’m going to turn this into a psychological examination of myself (I hope), but let’s just say I’ve been meeting a lot of guys lately – I just got out of yet another non-interesting ‘relationship’ – and I’ve been faced with my own limitations. In other words, my friends (and mom) have been very free with their opinions of late.

So I’ve started to pay more attention to my thought process. And it all starts with my ranking system. This is, basically, how I categorize guys upon meeting them. All guys fall into one of three categories. They are:

NO FUCKING WAY. These are the guys who either a) just aren’t attractive to me, or b) say or do something that totally turns me off. These guys will at best get a few minutes of conversation before my friends and I move on. And rarely are they even future friend material. Most guys fall into this category. Red Sox fans belong here.

HMMM, CUTE. These guys fall into my adorable range. In other words, they’re attractive, can hold their own in a conversation, and they have something interesting going on. Maybe something comes of it and maybe something doesn’t, but no matter what they never last long. A few weeks to a couple of months at the most. And I know this right off the bat. I don’t know how, but I just know if there’s not real future there. This is not a guy I will ever introduce to my family. Bad boys fall into this category.

YES, PLEASE. THANK YOU. These are the guys that kind of knock my socks off. Generally really good looking, they have their lives together and don’t need me. They may want me, but they don’t need me. They’re just as smart if not smarter than I am, have great senses of humor, and confidence to spare. These are the guys that I could potentially fall for. That is, if I weren’t me. As it stands now, these guys rarely last longer than the HMMM, CUTE guys do.

Why? Because I’m a runner.

I run from men. All men (eventually). Running from the HMMM, CUTE guys is easy. They were never meant to last long anyway. They were entertainment. But they’re also safe and don’t freak me out as easily. Which is why they’ve been known to last as long (if not longer) than the YES, PLEASE. THANK YOU guys.

This doesn’t make sense, I know. The YES, PLEASE. THANK YOU guys are the keepers. They’re the ones that should (ideally) work out. Because – outside of the little quirks that we all have – they’re pretty perfect. They treat me well, have their shit together, and push my buttons (in a good way). But I always wuss out with them. I’m in danger of ending up in an actual relationship with them, not my typical ‘relationship.’ And that scares me. Because I don’t like relationships.

You see, I’m not a big fan of change. And relationships force me to change. I like my life as it is. I’m comfortable. I suck at change. So while I can change things in the short term (the ‘dating’ stage), I’m not so good at it in the long term. The long term requires a new routine; the thought of which creeps me out. So the YES, PLEASE. THANK YOU guys generally don’t last long. I’m threatened by them.

Like I said, I’m a freak.

Unfortunately, I’m starting to piss people off with this gun-shy behavior – my mother, for one (although she’s trying to pretend my commitment issues don’t bother her, which is actually kind of cute). My friends have taken to teasing me (and telling me they’ll take care of me in my old age). And even the people I work with (I work with a lot of women) have started questioning me when I mention that’s I’m no longer seeing (insert name of current guy here). Apparently ‘I just didn’t get around to ever calling him back/I told him I was too busy for a relationship right now’ aren’t good reasons. Who knew?

So I’ve been thinking. And now I’m torturing you with my ponderings. Am I just young and stupid? Have I simply not met the right person? Will I actually know it if/when I do meet the right person (as so many people are fond of telling me)? Or, could I just not be the settling down type? I don’t know.

I guess maybe I’m willing to admit that I don’t really trust my instincts all that much. I mean, I’ve dated some real losers. And I’m not entirely confident that I can choose a winner (contrary to the name of this blog, I’m not actually always right – I just like to pretend I am). So I’m doing some soul searching (what, it’s Monday), and I’m throwing it out to anyone who’s reading. Any advice? Do you think this is normal behavior? Any words of wisdom for the relationship spaz? I promise to at least read what you’re going to say.



Anyway, enough of that (God, I just had such a girl moment…ugh). Um, what else is going on? Oh, met a HMMM, CUTE guy this weekend (my nothing time was destroyed by good weather), and he called already. We’re having dinner this week. Guy #1 and Guy #2 are continuing to call. I feel bad for Guy #1 since he was a firm HMMM, CUTE guy that I’m just not comfortable dating after all the drama. Only he doesn’t know why I’m not returning his calls. And Guy #2 – who is a firm NO FUCKING WAY guy – is still calling, asking if I hate him, and begging me to meet with him so he can apologize. What a moron.

Happy Monday everybody.

Friday, March 23, 2007

My Homage to Office Space

Michael: Peter, you’re in deep shit. You were supposed to come in on Saturday. What were you doing?
Peter: Michael, I did nothing. I did absolutely nothing, and it was everything that I thought it could be.

Fuck yeah.

That, my friends, is one of my favorite lines from any movie. Ever. And the movie I’m referring to is…Office Space – I’m assuming you had that one before I gave it to you (I have faith in my readers).

I love Office Space. Not only is it fucking genius, but it’s both inspirational and comforting to anyone who works in an office. Because it says that you’re not the only one who’s miserable. You’re not the only one whose boss is driving you nuts. And that’s an important message my friends. Especially this week (for me at least – fuck I need a weekend).

So in honor of Office Space, and Peter (my hero), I am going to pay homage to the above quote. I am going to do nothing. On Saturday.

That’s right, nothing. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, and I’m going to do what I always feel like doing when it’s raining – be as lazy as is humanly possible. I won’t feel guilty about not going outside to be productive and social (it will be raining after all), and I won’t be guilted into doing anything either (I have no plans and have an ironclad lie of ‘I’m not feeling well’ if anyone calls). I’m ready.

It will be perfect – a day of nothing. Everything I thought it could be.

I even have a (sort of) plan for my nothing day. Want to hear it? (Just nod your head.) Well, I can’t just give it all to you – ask something and I’ll answer.

Um, Redhead (yes, I’m really doing this – go with it): Are you going to sleep late? You bet. Get out of your pajamas? Nope. Answer the phone? Fuck no. Watch some basketball? Yup. Read a book? Probably. Watch a movie? If I feel like it. Take a nap? I’d be shocked if I didn’t. Order in Chinese food? Just try and stop me.

OK, now stop! We’re done. There’s not point in asking more questions – we’ve covered everything that I would potentially do. That’s the joy of the day of nothing. I’m actually going to accomplish nothing. Do nothing. Experience nothing (except rest – I will experience rest).

I have a pint of Haagen Dazs coffee ice cream in my freezer. A bunch of books I’ve been meaning to read. A huge bed that I don’t spend nearly enough time in. And a big, cushy chair right by a window. I have two TVs, a DVD player, and some yummy smelling bubble bath in case I decide to pamper myself.

I’m going to revel in my laziness.

And I know I’m special because of it. No, hear me out. I am. Because you see, most people aren’t truly lazy enough to do nothing for an entire day. Hell, most people have probably tried and failed. It’s not easy. But don’t worry – I can do it. I don’t have any kids. I don’t have a dog that needs to be walked – I have a cat who hides in my closet every time I open the door (she’s a freak). I don’t even have a roommate to bitch at me for sitting around the apartment all day. That’s right. I have no real responsibilities. (Which would be sad if I didn’t enjoy it so much.) So I’m going to take advantage.

I’VE EARNED THIS. (Probably we all have, but as usual let’s keep this all about me.) I get up at the crack of dawn every day. I work crazy hours. I bring work home every night. I exercise even when I don’t want to (and I never want to). And I practically live on Cheerios. PLUS, I’ve been going out three or more nights a week for the past few weeks, and I hate that. I need my alone time and I haven’t been getting it. So I’m cranky. I need a break. Just one day. For me.

Call me what you want (antisocial my ass) – I don’t care. I deserve this. And I will not be talked out of it (unless it’s nice out – please rain, please rain, please rain).

So, in honor of Office Space, a film that celebrates me and my plans, I’ll end this post with a few more Peter words of wisdom.

Have a good weekend everyone; try not to do too much.


Peter: The thing is, Bob, it's not that I'm lazy, it's that I just don't care.
Bob 1: Don't... don't care?
Peter: It's a problem of motivation, all right? Now if I work my ass off and Initech ships a few extra units, I don't see another dime; so where's the motivation? And here's something else, Bob: I have eight different bosses right now.
Bob 2: I beg your pardon?
Peter: Eight bosses.
Bob 2: Eight?
Peter: Eight, Bob. So that means that when I make a mistake, I have eight different people coming by to tell me about it. That's my only real motivation is not to be hassled; that, and the fear of losing my job. But you know, Bob, that will only make someone work just hard enough not to get fired.



Peter: What would you do if you had a million dollars?
Lawrence: I'll tell you what I'd do, man: two chicks at the same time, man.
Peter: That's it? If you had a million dollars, you'd do two chicks at the same time?
Lawrence: Damn straight. I always wanted to do that, man. And I think if I were a millionaire I could hook that up, too; 'cause chicks dig dudes with money.
Peter: Well, not all chicks.
Lawrence: Well, the type of chicks that'd double up on a dude like me do.
Peter: Good point.
Lawrence: Well, what about you now? what would you do?
Peter: Besides two chicks at the same time?
Lawrence: Well, yeah.
Peter: Nothing.
Lawrence: Nothing, huh?
Peter: I would relax... I would sit on my ass all day... I would do nothing.
Lawrence: Well, you don't need a million dollars to do nothing, man. Take a look at my cousin: he's broke, don't do shit.



Peter: I uh, I don't like my job, and, uh, I don't think I'm gonna go anymore.
Joanna: You're just not gonna go?
Peter: Yeah.
Joanna: Won't you get fired?
Peter: I don't know, but I really don't like it, and, uh, I'm not gonna go.
Joanna: So you're gonna quit?
Peter: Nuh-uh. Not really. Uh... I'm just gonna stop going.
Joanna: When did you decide all that?
Peter: About an hour ago.
Joanna: Oh, really? About an hour ago... so you're gonna get another job?
Peter: I don't think I'd like another job.
Joanna: Well, what are you going to do about money and bills and...
Peter: You know, I've never really liked paying bills. I don't think I'm gonna do that, either.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

One Girl’s Opinion

Someone emailed me this list of Rules Guys Wish Girls Knew yesterday. I guess he thought I might find it interesting after my Guy Rules post. And I did. In fact, I liked it so much that I copied and pasted it below. Because I (of course) have thoughts and opinions that I want to share. So here is the list, with my replies, since I now – as a girl – know what guys wish I knew.

(Note: Most of the points are here, but I deleted a few that were just too dumb to waste my time on. Honestly, who cares that guys don’t know the difference between pink and peach?)

Anyway, here’s one girl’s reactions to the rules:

1. If you think you’re fat, you probably are. Don’t ask us. We refuse to answer.
Redhead: I never ask this question on principle, because it’s completely pointless. I’ll keep my mouth shut if you’ll keep yours shut.

2. Learn to work the toilet seat. If it’s up, put it down.
Redhead: I’m inclined to agree. Is this seriously as much of an issue as it’s made out to be?

3. Don’t cut your hair. Ever. Long hair is always more attractive than short hair. One of the big reasons guys fear getting married is that married women always cut their hair, and by then you’re stuck with her.
Redhead: N/A. For as long as I’ve had a say, my hair has always been long. And it always will be – security blanket.

4. Birthdays, Valentines, and Anniversaries are not quests to see if we can find the perfect present yet again!
Redhead: No pressure – I find getting the perfect present stressful, too. But remember to at least wish me a fucking happy birthday.

5. If you ask a question you don’t want an answer to, expect an answer you don’t want to hear.
Redhead: Fair enough.

6. Sometimes, we’re not thinking about you. Live with it.
Redhead: Sometimes I’m not thinking about you either.

7. Don’t ask us what we’re thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as navel lint, the shotgun formation and monster trucks.
Redhead: Generally, if I find your answer uninteresting, I won’t ask a follow-up. So just fucking ANSWER and stop being so mysterious about it.

8. Sunday sports. It’s like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.
Redhead: Trust me, I’m right there with ya.

9. Shopping is not a sport, and no, we’re never going to think of it that way.
Redhead: I hate shopping and only do it when necessary. I want to get out of there just as badly as you do.

10. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine. Really.
Redhead: I’m never going to ask your opinion on what I should wear. Just tell me I look nice when I’m ready (without prompting) and we’ll be fine.

11. You have enough clothes.
Redhead: There’s no such thing. I hate to shop and even I know that.

12. You have too many shoes.
Redhead: That’s blasphemy.

13. Crying is blackmail.
Redhead: Crying is awkward and should only be done during a life crisis (death, serious illness) or during a movie/reading a good book – then it doesn’t count.

14. Your ex-boyfriend is an idiot.
Redhead: Agreed.

15. Ask for what you want. Let’s be clear on this one: Subtle hints don’t work. Strong hints don’t work. Really obvious hints don’t work. Just say what the heck you want!
Redhead: Fine, but the same goes for you.

16. No, we don’t know what day it is. We never will. Mark anniversaries on a calendar.
Redhead: Bite me. YOU mark them on a calendar.

17. Yes, peeing standing up is more difficult. We’re bound to miss sometimes.
Redhead: Just so long as you clean up after, I couldn’t care less.

18. Most guys own three pairs of shoes. What makes you think we’d be any good at choosing which pair, out of thirty, would look good with our dress?
Redhead: Again, there’s no way in hell I’d ask for your help on that.

19. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.
Redhead: Yes.

20. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That’s what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
Redhead: Fuck you. After you offer up suggestions (which are appreciated), just sit there and don’t say anything. Let us vent and don’t walk away. That’s all that’s required of you.

21. A headache that lasts for 17 months is a problem. See a doctor.
Redhead: No shit. Jesus.

22. Foreign films are best left for the foreigners.
Redhead: Most of the time that’s true, but there are some cool ones out there. But I can watch them alone.

23. Check your oil.
Redhead: Good God, I don’t drive. Running out of oil would be a best case scenario if I got behind the wheel.

24. Don’t fake it. We’d rather be ineffective than deceived.
Redhead: Yes, but sometimes it’s just not going to happen and you won’t quit. We get tired and want to go to sleep.

25. It is neither in your best interest nor ours to take the quiz together.
Redhead: What quiz?

26. No, it doesn’t matter which quiz.
Redhead: Um. OK.

27. Anything we said six months ago is inadmissible in an argument. All comments become null and void after seven days.
Redhead: Not a problem, I don’t remember what you said an hour ago.

28. If you won’t dress like the Victoria’s Secret girls, don’t expect us to act like soap opera guys.
Redhead: What if I’m willing to dress like the Victoria’s Secret girls?

29. If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.
Redhead: Sounds good to me.

30. Let us look! We’re going to look anyway, it’s genetic. Besides, if we’re not touching, what’s the problem?
Redhead: Not a problem as long as I can look too.

31. Don’t rub the lamp if you don’t want the genie to come out.
Redhead: Thanks Yoda.

32. You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done, not both.
Redhead: Pussy.

33. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to during commercials.
Redhead: Hey, that goes for you too.

34. Christopher Columbus didn’t need directions, and neither do we.
Redhead: Christopher Columbus got lost and ended up on the wrong side of the world, jackass.

35. Women wearing Wonder-Bras and low-cut blouses lose their right to complain about having their boobs stared at.
Redhead: Fair enough, but what about the women who don’t NEED the Wonder-Bras or low-cut blouses. Are they allowed to complain about being stared at?

36. More women should wear Wonder-Bras and low-cut blouses. We like staring at boobs.
Redhead: No shit Sherlock.

37. The relationship is never going to be like it was the first two months we were going out.
Redhead: Thank God. I need to stand vertically and get some work done.

38. Beer is as exciting for us as handbags are for you.
Redhead: And it’s less expensive.

39. We’re not mind readers and we never will be. Our lack of mind-reading ability is not proof of how little we care about you.
Redhead: I know, I know. But do you have to be such morons sometimes?

40. If we ask what’s wrong and you say “nothing”, we will act like nothing’s wrong. We know you’re lying, but it’s just not worth the hassle.
Redhead: I…have no defense against that. But I still reserve the right to say it and then remain pissed.

41. If we hear from an old girlfriend, we will briefly fantasize about having sex with her. But don’t worry, the fantasy includes you and her, together.
Redhead: Well then!

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

The Guy Rules

Quick follow up on my St. Patty’s Day post – yes, I heard from both Guy #1 and Guy #2 again on Monday. No, I didn’t answer my phone, and no I don’t intend to call either of them back. Oh, and yes, Guy #2 is a complete douchebag who screwed over his friend.

However, the experience did get me thinking (not about myself – I’ve had enough introspection to last me a while, thanks). No, it got me thinking about the rules. Not girl rules – I already know those – but about guy rules. Because clearly Guy #2 broke a huge one when he cock-blocked (can’t believe I just used that in a sentence) his friend and then made a move on me. I get that. I also get that the poor treatment of his buddy is considered way worse (to other guys) than the whole cheating on his girlfriend thing. Fine.

But what about other things – other similar type things? What are the guy rules on, say, dating a friend’s ex? Is that better or worse than dating a buddy’s sister? These questions need answers.

So I came up with some hypotheticals, and I jotted them down below. Take a look and give me some feedback on where things fall in the guy rulebook. Tell me where things stand on a scale from 1 to 10 – 10 being really bad and totally against all guy rules, and 1 being no big deal. (And for any girls reading, what’s your take on all this?)

-Picking up a girl your buddy has been hitting on – but doing it in front of him
-Picking up a girl your buddy has been hitting on – but doing it behind his back
-Letting a girl your buddy likes (but isn’t dating) pick you up
-Dating a buddy’s ex
-Remaining friends with a buddy’s ex
-Getting with a girl that your buddy slept with but never dated
-Dating a buddy’s sister (I think I already know the answer to this one, and let me just say it’s pissed me off for years)
-Asking for details about your buddy’s sex life (I know it’s cool with women, but I’ve never gotten a straight answer from a guy about this one)
-Saying something negative about your buddy’s girlfriend/wife – even when she’s a complete bitch and/or ugly
-Telling your buddy’s girlfriend/wife that he cheated on her
-Telling YOUR girlfriend/wife about your buddy cheating on HIS girlfriend/wife
-Not telling your buddy about HIS girlfriend/wife cheating on him
-Blowing off plans with your buddy for a girl
-Ripping on your buddy’s sports teams – how far is too far (or is there no too far)?

And this one just because I’m curious – it doesn’t involve guy friends, but I really need to know:

-Hitting on your girlfriend/wife’s friend (note: this one have happened to me several times and it creeps me out – has this ever actually worked? When did guys start thinking this was a good idea?)


OK, those are all I can come up with off the top of my head, but I’m sure there are more. Feel free to add other rules or opinions in the comments section.

Monday, March 19, 2007

St. Patty’s Day Recap

I don’t really know what this feeling is. Either I’m still hung over from Saturday or I’m wallowing in self-contempt. Hmmm…

OK, the truth? I know exactly what this feeling is. It’s called, “I’m such a fucking moron!” And trust me, I’ve felt it before. And it seems that I’m feeling it again, thanks to that glorious holiday – St. Patrick’s Day.

Now St. Patty’s Day has normally been kind to me. Except for the year when I was cocktail waitressing on St. Patty’s Day – and spent the entire day drenched in beer and trying to fend off grabby hands – it’s been a holiday that I invariably enjoy. But this year it’s the aftershocks of St. Patty’s Day that are making me feel…well, like crap actually.

And I’m going to share it with all of you (sort of – you’re not getting all the details). Hopefully this will help with the guilt.

So, the short version: Christine (my friend) and I went to a pub near her apartment for a Guinness or two on Saturday, met a group of guys, and one took a liking to me (Guy #1). He seemed nice, and I was a little bored, so I let him buy drinks for us. Somehow he kept buying drinks, we ended up at another bar, and after a few hours one of his friends (Guy #2) pulled me aside and said, “Stop messing with him, I know you’re not really interested in him. Just leave him alone.”

What? Where had that come from? I’ve never been told to leave anyone alone before. And (surprise!) I didn’t like it.

Now I will admit that no, I probably never was going to date Guy #1. But we were having fun hanging out and flirting, I hadn’t promised anyone anything, and I honestly didn’t think I owed anyone anything. Guy #1 offered to keep buying drinks, and he never asked for anything in return. Plus, he was a nice, cute guy – it wasn’t like I had taken on a charity case. I just didn’t really see anything coming of it. But that was my choice. What was his friend’s problem?

Honestly though, between Guy #2’s disapproval and Christine’s boredom (she hadn’t connected with anyone and wanted to go home), I decided it was time to call it a night. So I said my goodbyes to Guy #1, gave him my number (hey, you never know), and went outside. And who just happened to be out there?

Guy #2 was standing at the corner, trying to hail a cab. Christine gave him a wave, gave me a wave, and took off (since she lived nearby), leaving us alone. And there I was, stuck with a guy who had basically told me to back off his friend. So no, I wasn’t exactly excited to be spending more time with him.

BUT, he was headed in the same direction I was, and he insisted on sharing a cab. Fine.

Let me just reiterate right here that I had been drinking for hours. I was floating in a state of unreality. Yet what happened in the cab still seems particularly unreal. Basically, we started talking. He insisted that he didn’t hate me. He just thought I was “too good” for his friend. (Who says that about their friend? Does this guy even know the meaning of the word loyalty?) He then continued by telling me I was “the most beautiful woman” he’d ever seen (I know, I know – total line), my hair was driving him crazy (some guys do get off on the red hair), and he didn’t want me to get together with his friend because he wanted me for himself.

What?!

Now at this point I have to say that a bunch of things were going through my mind. 1) Wasn’t this literally against every guy code out there? He was making a move on the girl his friend had been hitting on for hours. And he had been at least partially responsible for my cutting the night short with his friend. 2) Much as I knew they were lines, all the compliments were nice to hear. (What? So I like to have my ego stroked every once in a while.) 3) Um, he had a girlfriend (has, actually). I’d heard all about her from his friends – they couldn’t stop talking about her because apparently she’s a model (this always excites guys). So basically, he was off-limits. If I touched him, we were talking about seriously bad karma. I don’t need bad karma. 4) He was hot.

Anyway, I ummm…alright, I made out with him. I know, I know. I’m a bad person. But really I only made out with him a little bit – in Christine’s words (after I described everything to her), it was a ‘high school makeout session.’ It could have been much worse.

But I stopped him. A little too late, but I stopped him.

And I then got the hell away from him. After giving him my number.

What the fuck? Well, without really psycho-analyzing myself (something I avoid most of the time), let’s just say I have horrible taste in men. Oh, and it turns out I’m a hypocrite (who knew?); I always say that cheating is for the weak (I NEVER cheat), but I did make out with someone who was cheating (sort of – I’m pretty sure kissing is still cheating), so are we really that different? After all, his lack of character pissed me off – not enough apparently, but still - but it was my lack of character that really pisses me off.

Because, I mean, I may not have been the one in a relationship, but I knew he was.

So, yes, I was feeling a little bad yesterday. And I called Christine to talk about it. That turned out to be a mistake.

While reading me the riot act, Christine reminded me that both she and I had been cheated on in the past. And now I was no better than the girls our boyfriends had cheated on us with. (Oh yeah, she went there.) It was bad. I'm kind of avoiding her phone calls now. Because I feel awful, and what I don't need right now is someone making me feel worse.

But wait, the story isn’t over yet. Both guys – Guy #1 and Guy #2 – called me yesterday and asked me out. I was evasive with Guy #1 – because how could I date him now? His friend made a pass at me (and asked me not to mention it to Guy #1 – dickhead), and I…um…I made out with him. Fuck. And Guy #2, well, he was very apologetic and also very, very flattering on the phone. I reminded him that he was screwing over his girlfriend and his friend (again!) by asking me out and telling me…stuff. He agreed but continued to lay on the charm. Somehow I got off the phone with him. And now I’m not answering any numbers I don’t recognize. Or Christine. Shit.

So that’s it. That's my story; that was my St. Patty’s Day. That’s why I feel guilty. That’s why my friend is disappointed in me, (and doesn’t mind telling me), and that’s why women say guys aren’t to be trusted (even by other guys).

How was your holiday?

Friday, March 16, 2007

Odds and Ends

OK, it’s the end of the week, and I don’t have a lot left in the tank right now. Not only have I been tired for 6 straight days, but my job has been driving me nuts lately. However, since no one likes to listen to another person bitch about work, I’m going to just leave it at that.

Anyway, I thought I’d throw out a few suggestions/recommendations for everyone out there reading – there are people out there, right? Fuck it, even if there aren’t, I’m narcissistic enough to keep going:

• I’ve been loving the songs Tones of Home and Paper Scratcher by Blind Melon this week. I mean I’ve always liked them, but they’ve just been working for me more than usual recently. I also can’t seem to get enough of Caress Me Down by Sublime (Sublime again? Yup, they fucking rock and they made a lot of music – so leave me alone). They’ve all been on my iPod for a while, but they’re in heavy rotation now and keep getting better. Check them out.

• If you like scotch, I strongly recommend Lagavulin – it’s smoky and smooth, and I always feel significantly cooler after having some. Nothing is quite as relaxing as a good scotch.

• Watch the movie Crank, with Jason Statham – it’s On Demand right now (if you don’t belong to Netflix). Anyway, last week someone suggested that I watch it, I did, and it was FUCKING AWESOME! I mean, it was completely overdone, totally implausible, and just plain bad in a lot of ways, but I still loved it. Amy Smart’s career has imploded, Dwight Yoakam is a freaking genius, Statham is hot, and the action is awesome. I haven’t laughed that hard in a while, and while the sex scene is horrifying, I dare you to look away. Highly recommended.

• Try the new Sugar Free Peeps. Sure the concept behind them sounds strange – making a treat that traditionally celebrates sugar in all its forms into a sugar free snack – but they’re actually not that bad. And if you’re a fan of the sugar coated marshmallows like I am (and I really am weirdly addicted to them), then anything that makes them even a little healthier is a good thing. (I’ve been known to eat a whole sleeve – or two – of them for breakfast on a Saturday, and that’s just wrong on so many levels.)

• Never, ever, ever date someone who doesn’t like dogs. This is a great rule of thumb. Why? Because anyone who can’t appreciate a creature that is capable of unconditional love is not to be trusted. Plus, dogs are cuter than people (well, not some of those yippy dogs – but you can’t really blame them for how they were born). At the end of the day, I don’t care how much you like the person – just cut your losses and leave.

• Read The Road to Gandolfo by Robert Ludlum. Pretty much all of Ludlum’s books are great – yes, he’s written more than just the Bourne books – but this one is different. It’s as fast-paced as his others, but it also happens to be funny as hell. (And if you knew the book, you’d realize that that last sentence is ten times wittier than anything I normally come up with.) Just awesome.

And finally…

• Get your ass out on Saturday, drink some green beer, make some new friends, and enjoy yourself. What’s better than a holiday that’s all about drinking (essentially)? I wholeheartedly approve.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Talking Baseball

Alright, I promised myself that I wouldn’t do this until baseball season started, but…well, I lied (to myself not to you – calm down). The thing is, I need to talk about the Yankees. And while I would normally give you three more weeks of peace, it turns out I have to vent. About A-Rod.

You don’t know me that well yet, but I’m actually not an A-Rod hater. I never boo him at games – although I do bitch about him to my friends whenever he chokes (which is a little too often for my taste) – and I never bash A-Rod publicly (until now apparently).

Because, honestly, for the past three years I’ve mainly just felt sorry for him. I mean sure, he’s good looking (guys – he is), he’s ungodly rich, and he’s phenomenally talented. But he’s also sensitive. He’s a people-pleaser. He’s the guy who just wants to be popular – the little puppy just looking for our approval. And New York has collectively rejected and mocked him in response. Repeatedly.

Take the Central Park incident last season. A-Rod went to the park with his family on a hot fucking day, and he took off his shirt. That night he went out and had a craptastic game. So what did the papers do? They freaking ran the shirtless pictures of him and blamed his poor play on his lack of work ethic. They intimated that he was lounging around the park instead of working on his game. Complete bullshit, sure, but great copy.

So yeah, I feel sorry for him. I don’t mind that he wants everyone to like him. I don’t mind that he makes a lot of money – I’ve resigned myself to drinking $8 beers at the stadium while sitting in my $80 seats, watching my team WIN. I don’t even mind that he comes across as a little fake; hell, it’s better than coming across as a dickhead. I just don’t mind him. He tries hard. He seems like a perfectly nice guy.

But I don’t think he belongs in NY.

He’s too sensitive, and we’re eating him alive. He is, quite simply, not cut out for the Yankees; he wants to be, but he’s not. He will never be great here (don’t even bring up the 2005 MVP thing – as any Yanks fan will tell you, greatness begins and ends in October). And the spotlight is wearing on him. Between the local papers regularly killing him, the fans not accepting him, and magazines reporting on the situation, he has started to snap.

But the thing is, the errors, the slumps, the hideous postseasons, and even my own doubts over his ability to handle the pressure, didn’t inspire me to write this post. No, it’s his big fucking mouth that has inspired me to write this post.

When A-Rod decided to talk about his off the field relationship (or lack thereof) with Jeter this spring, I overlooked it. I thought it was stupid of him to answer any questions about a topic that wasn’t pertinent to his job – as Jeter pointed out – but whatever. If he felt strongly enough about it, I was willing to let it go.

But then he kept talking.

Apparently, without even being asked about it a couple of days ago, A-Rod brought up his free agent option for the end of the season. He was on the radio show ‘Mike and the Mad Dog,’ and he decided to mention how he wants to make sure “from the fans [and] management, I’m wanted here.” What? Why? Because “I have an option at the end of the year, and we’ll see what happens after that.” Um, excuse me?

Not only does that not sound like a guy who wants to be here (no shit), but it also kind of sounds like he’s calling out the fans. It sounds like he’s asking us to let him know we appreciate him. And it’s kind of making me not appreciate him at all. Because he may be talented and hard working, but he’s not irreplaceable. In fact, I don’t remember us winning any World Series rings with him, and I distinctly remember winning a few without him. So we don’t really owe him our loyalty. We don’t need him. I will either boo or cheer him as I see fit, but make no mistake – it’s MY choice. And he’s starting to piss me off.

So this is what I’m thinking. If he does a great job, doesn’t make me cringe every time he comes up to the plate with a man on third and two outs, and stops bitching and moaning about the people who help pay his salary, I’ll cheer. I’ll want him back. There is nothing I want more than for him to prove me wrong about the whole ‘not cut out for New York’ thing.

But if he keeps this whining thing going, I’m going to have a problem; and I’m guessing so is he. Because part of being in NY is taking it like a man. He needs to get back to that phony fa├žade – where he accepted responsibility without complaining – and he needs to do it soon. It was one of the reasons I didn’t boo him; because I honestly didn’t think he deserved it. Only now he’s making me think otherwise. Maybe now I’m not so sure. Maybe now I need him to earn my respect.

How’s that newfound honesty feeling today, A-Rod?

(Vent over. Sense of humor will return tomorrow.)

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

I’m So Tired

Is anyone else having trouble with this early Daylight Savings thing? I mean, yes, I like that it’s light out when I leave work at night. But I’m not loving it yet. (It’s like the fucking middle of the night when my alarm goes off in the morning now! I’m the type of person who needs all the help I can get when waking up, and I’m being sabotaged.)

I love sleeping. Let me repeat that: I love sleeping. How the nap fell out of favor for anyone over 6 years old is beyond me. I want it back (on Sunday afternoons I still take one by the way, and I’m not apologizing for it). This whole theory that you need less sleep as you get older is bullshit.

But you know what? I don’t need any extra help staying awake at 7/8pm. Ever. Sure it’s nice having the sun out then, but it’s not a necessity. I can live without it. I don’t find myself feeling sluggish in the early evening. I don’t find myself aching with exhaustion then.

However I ache with exhaustion every morning. So if the choice is between a little sun in the morning or a little sun at night, I’m voting for the morning. (And yes, I know I don’t actually get a vote). Still, I’m getting desperate. Let’s take a look at my mornings lately:

6:15- Alarm goes off. (Snooze.)

6:24- Alarm goes off. (Snooze.)

6:33- Alarm goes off. (Snooze.)

6:42- Alarm goes off. (Snooze.)

6:51- Alarm goes off. Fuck!

6:52- Stumble to refrigerator. Grab a Red Bull, open and drink.

6:57- Realize I’ve zoned out. How much time did I lose? Only 5 minutes. Need to take a shower. Fuck I’m tired.

7:08- Get out of shower. Wrap myself in a towel and notice I’m cold. Go back to bed and get under the covers – just for a few minutes.

7:30- God damnit I fell asleep! Get out of bed (again), go in search of clothes, pull them on, and face the mirror in the bathroom.

7:35- Shit. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep with my hair wet. Um…a ponytail it is.

7:38- I can’t really deal with makeup. A little mascara, some lip gloss, and that’s about all I can do.

7:40- Why the hell did I put on lip gloss before brushing my teeth?

7:42- Reapply lip gloss after brushing teeth. Wait, I’m hungry. Fuck it, I’ve already brushed my teeth and put on lip gloss twice. No breakfast for me.

7:45- I’m tired, I’m hungry, I can’t find my keys, and my cat looks so comfortable passed out in the middle of the bed. So jealous. Feel like crying. Need coffee.

7:50- Stop at Starbucks and get a tall coffee for the train ride downtown. Yes, just for the train ride.

8:15- Stop at the Starbucks by my office. They know me so I don’t have to speak, just have to pay. Get my second coffee of the day – this one will be a venti. Should I get something to eat too? Too tired.

8:20- Arrive at the office. Sit down at desk and blindly check email. Don’t respond to anyone. I am functioning in a fog.

9:30- Finally able to form coherent thoughts and start replying to emails and greetings from coworkers. Still wish I was in bed, but accept a granola bar from the woman who sits near me (who decided about a year ago that if left to my own devices, I would starve to death out of sheer laziness; she has sworn not to let that happen).

And that’s about it. From then on I’m a fully functioning human being (essentially).

So what is the point of this post (besides making it clear to me that I spend entirely too much money on things like Red Bull and coffee)? Well, there isn’t one really. Except to say that I’m tired. And I hate mornings.

And, okay, so my morning schedule (above) may be more typical than I originally stated – it may even typify how I start every day – but that doesn’t change the fact that Daylight Savings has made it so it’s fucking dark when I wake up. And I don’t need getting up in the morning to be any harder for me. So I’m going to bitch about it. Because I can. So bite me.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

The Infamous College Visit

Let me just say before I begin that my brother is actually my hero. He’s going to take a bit of a beating in this post, and I didn’t exactly make him look great when I mentioned him yesterday, but trust me when I say he’s been good to me. For every bit of torture he’s visited on me throughout my life, he’s done 10 things for me that were nicer than I deserved. This is, after all, the guy who let me live with him for a FEW MONTHS after I graduated from college and moved to New York. And believe me when I say that as a younger sister, I was no picnic.

But that won’t stop me from telling this story.

OK, as promised, the time my brother almost killed me:

So, it was my brother’s sophomore year of college. He went to school in the northeast, and it was an easy few hour drive to get there from our house. I was 15 years old at the time and was pretty comfortable with his friends and the school in general – he played soccer in college, and we would go up occasionally to watch his games. So when my brother offered to have me come up for the weekend and stay with him, my parents didn’t hesitate. I would be fine. My brother would keep an eye on me.

My parents even decided to make a weekend out of it themselves. They drove me up on Saturday, dropped me off with my brother, and went off to spend the night at a nearby hotel.

Meanwhile, my brother took me for a walk around campus. We went out to lunch, met up with some of his friends – basically took it easy. However, it just so happened to be Hell Week at his fraternity. That meant he needed to keep me entertained for about an hour or two early in the evening while he did something with the pledges (I’m assuming there was torture involved, but whatever). Anyway, since my brother lived in his fraternity house, I needed to be out of the way, too. So how did my brother choose to keep me occupied?

Well, he dropped me off with a group of his fraternity brothers of course (who I guess didn’t have to be there for the pledge torturing). And since he couldn’t just drop me off empty-handed, he dropped me off with a brand new bottle of Rumplemintz. (Stupid me, I had complained that I didn’t like the wheat beer he was going to send me with – I’m a moron).

Now for those of you who don’t know, Rumplemintz is a 100 proof peppermint liqueur. It tastes yummy – and it goes down smooth. But it will kick your ass so fast, a novice drinker shouldn’t be allowed near the stuff. You give a lightweight something like Dr. McGillicutty’s, not Rumplemintz. Apparently, my brother didn’t know this rule.

So there I was, in a room with 5 of my brother’s friends. All big guys who knew how to drink. And me. So what did they do? Did they take pity on me? Did they ease me into the whole drinking thing? Nah, they put out shot glasses for everyone, provoked me by saying that I couldn’t match them shot for shot, and began pouring the Rumplemintz. Now today I would know enough not to take that challenge. When I was 15? I jumped right on in.

By the time my brother returned to pick me up, we had finished the bottle. The 6 of us had finished the bottle. I’d had just as much as each of the guys. And I was fucking hammered. My brother didn’t seem too concerned though. It was all part of the college experience.

So off we went back to his room. This time when he offered it, I didn’t mind the wheat beer. After all, I’d fried my taste buds almost an hour earlier. Why the fuck not accept more alcohol?

I don’t actually remember ever going out to dinner at this point, but my brother assures me we did. And when we returned to his frat, they were having a party. Of course they were having a party – as if I wasn’t already screwed, let’s NOW start to party.

It’s only fair to let you know that from this point on, everything that you’re hearing probably happened. Why only probably? Well, because I don’t remember much more than snippets from the rest of that night – flashes of lucidity if you will. Thanks to those snippets, and the stories I’ve been told by my brother and his friends, I’ve come up with this rough approximation of what happened.

At some point, after drinking more beer in my brother’s room with yet more of his friends, we ventured over to someone’s room. As we arrived, it seems that I missed the fact that there was a couch in the middle of the room and took a face-plant over it. But no big deal! I was fine. Happens to everybody. Let’s go downstairs and party!

Um, it would seem that at this point I had a bit of trouble with the stairs (I know – shocking), but since I had several guys “watching out for me,” I made it down to the party. Because I’m a rockstar!

Apparently the party turned out to be “boring.” This, coupled with the fact that I was doing some unauthorized flirting (never flirt in front of your brother – it’s guaranteed not to go over well), meant that we were moving on to a friend’s house. Fine by me. Whatever!

Only the whole walking thing wasn’t getting any easier for me. As we left the fraternity house, we turned at the end of the front walk and I kind of lost my balance. Thankfully, there were some bushes there to catch me. And it was while I was lying in said bushes (and yes, there was a crowd gathering at this point), this conversation took place:

Brother’s friend: Dude, I don’t think she’s okay to keep partying.
Brother: Really?

Yes, really.

So being the good guys that they were, they brought me back to my brother’s room. They deposited on the couch, gave me a garbage can, and left (which I was actually grateful for; no need for an audience at that point).

I remember very little after that – I do remember feeling like I was dying. I remember getting sick – repeatedly. And I remember coming to at some point and seeing not one, but two pledges passed out in the room with me. I’m guessing it was time for that audience.

The next morning, my brother somehow woke me up (which, looking back, was a miracle). We were late. Late for what, you ask? Late for brunch at my parent’s hotel, of course! Awesome. Just what I needed – food.

Taking one look at the garbage can, my brother walked over to his dresser, grabbed an empty garbage bag, and came over to wrap it around the outside of the can.

Me: (Mumbling. Mortified) Do you want me to clean it or something?
Brother: Nope, this one is dead. I’d really rather just buy another.

Yup. My sentiments exactly.

It took my parents all of a minute to realize the shape I was in. Not that it would have taken a genius at that point. I was green. I kept bolting for the bathroom. And I couldn’t have eaten if my life depended on it.

But did my brother feel bad? Hell no. He taunted me all throughout the meal.

In between laughingly recounting the story of the night before, he kept taking his plate of bacon and eggs and waving it in front of my nose. I mean, he had no shame. (My parents particularly liked the story of my trip into the bushes by the way.) He was cruel – and I’m more than annoyed that I’ve never been able to repay him for that. Yet somehow I made it through the meal.

Anyway, to wrap things up, the trip back to New Jersey was no fun. The fact that I threw up for 3 days after that – also no fun. And that fact that I’m ruined for life – to this day I can’t swallow anything that is liquid and minty (goodbye Scope mouthwash) – not fun at all.

In fact, years later on my 21st birthday, I was doing the rounds to all the bars in town. People were buying me shots everywhere. And at some point someone got me a shot of Dr. McGillicutty’s. The second I swallowed it – game over. It went down, I experienced a full body shudder, and let’s just say the night ended right there.

BUT, I can say that since then, I have never allowed myself to get that sick from drinking. Sick, yes. THAT SICK, no fucking way. So that’s something positive. Right?

As for my brother, his take on that night (hindsight being 20/20): “I probably should have taken you to the hospital. It was clearly alcohol poisoning…ah well.”

Yup. That’s my brother. Jesus.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Drinking with the Family

So my phone rings on Saturday morning, and it’s my mother. She has been asking me all week to come into Jersey for Saturday night dinner, and she had finally reached the end of her line. This is a woman who knows how to push and prod, and if need be she can lay on the guilt with the best of them.

I heard every argument she could come up with. There was 1) I needed to see the house (they’re in the middle of putting another addition on it), 2) I needed to see the dog (always an effective argument since I love our dog and she’s ridiculously cute), 3) my brother and his wife might come out with my nephews (a blatant lie since my brother’s out of town this weekend and I knew that, but I respected her effort), 4) I haven’t been out in over a month and my father missed me (a whole month!), 5) she would drive me into Jersey so I wouldn’t have to deal with Penn Station (a good argument actually since I’m lazy), 6) we would go for a manicure/pedicure at this great place that I like (and she would pay), and finally 7) my parents would take me to dinner at this restaurant they know I love.

All in all, I didn’t have a fighting chance. I am the child that can always be dragged home. So I took her up on the ride, got my nails done, didn’t see my brother, his wife, or my nephews, did see the house (why does it keep getting bigger now that all the kids are gone?), did see the dog (cuter than ever – got to love boxers), did see my father, and did go out to dinner where I proceeded to get drunk with my parents.

Now that may seem strange to some people, but you just need to know my parents. They are more fun than most of my friends, and I always have a good time with them. In fact, when my entire family gets together, it’s a guaranteed party. The first few times in my life that I got drunk, my family was right there. Sad but true. And while they didn’t often approve (well, except for my brother who was behind my worst offenses), they always got a good laugh out of it later.

Let’s just say that the first time I ever got drunk I did it spectacularly. I embarrassed everyone, and I did it in front of a large crowd. But that’s a story you won’t be getting. It’s reserved to holidays and my family’s first meetings with my boyfriends – kind of a way to check the guy’s sense of humor (and a way to humiliate me). It’s a multi-purpose story!

Anyway, as I dragged my ass back into Manhattan on Sunday, still recovering from the night before, I started thinking (amazing considering I was hungover). Not about how much I’ve matured (because that doesn’t seem to be happening), but about my family. They’re a cool group. My mom is chill, too sweet for words, ridiculously forgetful, and without a doubt my best friend (all together now…awww). She couldn’t care less about sports, but watches Sportscenter and reads the sports section of the paper every day. She does this because I care. Now she undoubtedly knows more about the Yankees than most fans. It’s adorable since she can’t sit through a game without mentioning how bored she is.

My dad is the serious one. Freakishly smart (I want to know how I didn’t get that gene), totally incapable of having a conversation with me when I clearly have no point (which is basically always), and sneaky funny. He is the stoic one who never shows emotion while my mother will cry at a really sweet commercial. But my dad and I get each other. We have always found the same things funny.

My sister is also serious (like my father), takes care of everyone (oldest child syndrome), but is also all sweet and emotional (like my mother). In fact, once she outgrew the whole torturing me thing, she was awesome. She always tried to keep me out of trouble.

Now my brother, he always seemed to get me into trouble. He may be a father now, but he is still the guy who crazy-glued my hands together and then bet me five bucks that I couldn’t pull them apart (my mom didn’t let him collect after we ended up in the hospital). This is the guy who orchestrated my first drunken night (see above story that won’t actually be told). This is the guy who also almost killed me when I went to visit him in college (without actually meaning to, but let’s not split hairs here).

And that is the story that I’m willing to tell. Tomorrow.

Friday, March 9, 2007

My Wish List

Today is the day when I’m going to break down my wish list. More specifically, my wish list of men.

Guys do this all the time on their blogs (generally featuring women), and I’ve always appreciated the idea behind it – if not the actual photos (what can I say, I don’t swing that way). So I decided to give it a shot. I certainly have opinions on the subject, and searching for the photos to attach has proven to be well worth the time I’ve committed.

Let me warn everyone (who’s reading and just not commenting, right?), that they shouldn’t expect to see Orlando Bloom here – or anyone like him. He’s not my type. I like my men masculine, not pretty. The ability to grow a beard if he so chooses is a prerequisite. So if your taste goes that way, you may want to skip this post.

Oh, and one more thing. There are more than a few athletes that made the list. There are probably a lot of reasons for that, but mainly it’s because I like sports and I like men – you do the math. However, that does not mean it’s made up entirely of athletes (I’ll leave that job to the Ladies… site). I like to find my men everywhere, and I don’t follow rules very well.

Russell Crowe

Got to start off with the grand poobah for me. Russell Crowe can gain weight, lose weight, grow his hair, cut it off – I don’t care. He does it for me. His voice, his talent, those eyes. He can behave as badly as he wants, and I won’t mind. I have wanted him for about 10 years now – ever since I saw LA Confidential – and I wouldn’t be surprised if I still want him 10 years from now.

Colin Farrell

Continuing in the bad boy vein, I do like Colin Farrell. The accent is delicious, and I just know he would be a fun, fun time. He is the kind of guy you can go drinking with (well, before he went to rehab at least), go home with, and never see again with zero regrets. And those dark eyes give me the chills.

Clive Owen

He just works. Tall, dark, handsome. He sounds smart with the British accent, and he gives me the impression he would take care of me. Yum.

Eric Bana

Eric Bana and Brad Pitt’s ass were the only reasons to watch the movie Troy. But those two things were enough for me. Plus, there’s just something about Bana. He has a quality – a sort of cool guy confidence with just a touch of little boy vulnerability. He (almost) makes me want to cuddle.

Julian McMahon

Normally a little too polished for my taste, but I don’t care. I knew who McMahon was before he was starring on the show Nip/Tuck, but the more publicity he gets the better as far as I’m concerned. When I look at him, I just want to suck on his lower lip. That probably sounds weird, but it’s the truth.

Dominic Purcell

I’m mainly including him because I love the show Prison Break, but the other brother (the prettier one) doesn’t do it for me. Purcell is much sexier, and he never seems to get his due. So I’m giving it to him here.


OK, that makes 4 Australians on the list and 0 Americans so far. What gives? Well, nothing actually. I sincerely don’t have anything against American men (although I’m starting to think I should take a trip to Australia). Anyway, onto the athletes (the best part).

Mike Mussina

I’m a Yankees fan, so of course there’s at least one Yankee that I think of in a not-entirely-sports-related way. But surprise, it’s not Derek Jeter. For the past 6 years, I have really appreciated having Moose around. He’s hard working and talented (and not as whiny as my father insists he is), smart as hell (went to Stanford), sarcastic in a funny way (usually), and really, really, really nice to look at. I’ll keep him.

Mark Mulder

My other baseball crush isn’t a Yankee, but I overlook that fact for him. Mark Mulder has been a favorite of mine since he came up in Oakland, and every inch of his 6’6 body more than makes up for his inability to play for the right team. God I wish he was still in the AL.

Fredrik Ljungberg

Yeah, so I’ll admit this picture is cheesy, but look at him! Yes, I’ve always had a thing for soccer players, but he is my favorite (to look at). I could say it’s all about his face and body (and they are very, very nice), but in all honesty it’s the tattoo – it does bad things to my imagination.

John Lynch

Now I’m not a Broncos fan, but I’ve been a John Lynch fan for years. Outstanding safety? Yup. But I don’t really care about that. It’s his looks. And while I’ve heard he’s a nice guy (and seems like one in interviews), I don’t really care about that.

Alexander Popov

This one is an old school crush – I’ve liked Popov since high school; he had to make the list (even though I haven’t seen him competing in the last few years). And don’t even both asking why, just look at the picture. Got to love those swimmers.

Marat Safin

Tennis is one of those sports that I never seek out but always enjoy watching. And nothing makes me happier than to see Safin play; he just looks good out there. But enough of my amateur stylings, let’s let Wikipedia take it from here, “He is known for his large physical size, athleticism, controversial antics, and aggressive “power” style of play.” Perfect.


Alright, that’s it for now. As always, I need to get back to work.

Thursday, March 8, 2007

Last Night

Some quick thoughts on what I did last night (and then I really need to do some work – damn job).

So, I went to Gelf Magazine’s Varsity Letters at the Happy Ending Lounge. This particular bar is about 8 blocks from my office, so I knew there was no reason for me not to go – even though I couldn’t find one friend who was willing to go with me. But fuck it, I went anyway.

Last night’s theme was sports bloggers (I never saw it stated anywhere, but I’m guessing that’s right). And they had a particularly great group of guys lined up to speak – guys I read every day. They were reading some of their writing and answering questions. So, being a total sports dork – something I try to tone down here; we’ll see how long that actually lasts – I had known about this event for a little while. And I couldn’t stop myself from going.

I wandered over after work, slipped into the massage parlor turned bar, grabbed a scotch, and sat back to listen. It was packed. Someone told me Varsity Letters is not normally that popular, but thanks to a post on Deadspin by Will Leitch, who was one of the guys speaking last night, everyone and their mother showed up.

Now for those of you who don’t follow sports, or the sports blogging world (shame on you), Deadspin is kind of huge. And Leitch is the brains behind it. He created this blog a little over a year ago, and it has become an institution. Funny, constantly updated, has a great voice, and the commenters are first rate (not that I would know anything about commenters). I was definitely interested in hearing Leitch speak.

He didn’t disappoint. Reading just a snippet from his new book – which he promises will come out eventually and will (or, wait won’t) be called The Ballad of Ron Mexico, Leitch gave a Resources section/cliff notes overview of a few prominent sportscasters. Very smart and funny, which I already expected he would be.

What I didn’t expect was Matt Ufford. (I mean, I expected that he’d be there, but what he chose to read surprised me.) This is the guy behind some of my favorite at work reading – what can I say, I have a short attention span. His (now defunct) blog Karmic Payback was guaranteed entertainment; while not actually about sports, it was an invaluable look inside a man’s head that always made me laugh. I actually found Karmic Payback from the Kissing Suzy Kolber site (which I found from the Deadspin site – you can play this game for days), which is also a guaranteed laugh. But lately Ufford’s main job has been his With Leather site. And I’m not a huge fan of With Leather.

Why? Well, With Leather is a sports blog for guys, and I mean only guys. Blatantly not caring about a female audience, the site is definitely funny, but also definitely not aimed at me. Maybe it’s the pictures of women wearing…um, basically nothing, but I don’t get the feeling I’m wanted. Now I’m no prude, but I can take a hint.

But anyway, getting back on topic, last night I was expecting Ufford to be a guy’s guy, a showman, and a whore for a laugh. What I got was someone who came across as surprisingly deep – one of the pieces he chose to read was about 9/11 (he’s ex-military) – and (I can’t believe I’m going to say this) unexpectedly adorable. I was more than impressed.

Fuck, okay I’ve officially stepped over the line where this can be called “quick thoughts,” but I’ll leave with this: Dan Shanoff, who I never really liked that much from ESPN, was especially great (and Flowers for Algernon is one of my all-time favorite books – his piece was a parallel between his life and the book), and the guys from The Dugout were great (and everyone was psyched to have them there as they reigned from their booth in the back).

Overall, two thumbs up (good God I’m a dork). I would do it again. And now I will leave you with this photo of Ufford (on the left) and Leitch (on the right) – completely stolen off the Gelf site (photo courtesy of Keith Huang) – so you can have some sense of perspective about the people I’ve been talking about.

Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Guys Don’t Like It When You Assume They’re Gay

OK, so I went out Saturday night with a few friends. Actually, that’s not true. I went out with one friend from high school (who’s the sweetest person I know), and her friends (who are a total bunch of losers). I mean, I had nothing to talk to these people about. They are musical theater to my baseball fan. They are Mike’s Hard Lemonade to my scotch on the rocks. They are Stevie Nicks (I’m not kidding, they had a lonnngggg conversation about how much they loved her) to my Metallica. So not surprisingly I quickly got tired of making fun of these people in my head. And I did what anyone would do – I called someone who would make fun of them with me (but quietly of course; it’s not like we’re bad people or anything).

My friend Christine was my roommate for 2 years in college. She just moved back to NY after spending a little over a year in Chicago, and we can practically guarantee a good time when we hang out. So it’s generally a safe bet whenever I drag her somewhere that it will be fun. But even so, when I called and said simply, “Get your ass over here,” she came without asking questions. That’s because she likes me. (Notice how I didn’t say she trusts me – she’s not stupid.)

Oh, I should probably also mention that she owes me. When a friend of hers from Bumblefuck, Wisconsin (real place) came to visit a while ago, I showed up and helped entertain the girl for an entire weekend. She was afraid of the subway. She didn’t like how much walking was involved. And she complained…a lot. But I hung in there because I’m cool. And because it’s always good to have friends who are indebted to you.

Anyway, Christine showed up – like an hour later – and was introduced to everybody. Immediately she turned to me with a ‘what the fuck?’ look. She knows me, and I can be lazy as hell on the weekends. I’d rather stay home than go out and pretend I’m having a good time. Practically everyone I know has gotten the “Yeah, I think I’d rather stay home than go out with you,” answer from me at least once. I don’t do it to be mean – I just tend to be painfully honest on occasion. So it was clear that Christine was wondering what I was even doing there. The short answer to that is I’d blown off my high school friend for about 6 months, and that’s a long time. Anyway, back to the story.

So after shrugging my shoulders at Christine, I bought her a drink as a kind of ‘my bad’ gesture, and we quickly settled into our usual banter – often offensive but generally good-natured. Only the group didn’t seem to find us funny. In fact, they seemed a little shocked. Which is stupid. It wasn’t like we were discussing our last trip to the gynecologist or anything.

Let me just say here that most people love us. Christine and I are laid back, have tons of great stories, and we’ll talk to anyone who’s mildly interesting. We’re not loud and obnoxious, we’re sarcastic and amusing. Only my friend from high school and her group didn’t seem to appreciate us. So Christine and I decided to branch out. And that’s where the real horror of the night began.

Soon enough a guy came over and started chatting with us. Only he was making a real effort to include the whole group and not just me and Christine. Which of course was fine, but no one can blame me for the conclusion I reached. See, he well dressed, soft-spoken, a little effeminate…gay, right? It made sense, since we had three (obviously) gay guys in our group. I mean, it’s not completely beyond the realm of possibility that he would be gay, right?

OK, I’m going to take a deep breath here and continue on with the story. (I’m dying of embarrassment right now.)

Anyway, Christine and I both tend to flirt when we’re out. So we were looking for some straight men. And after about an hour of New Guy (and the group from hell) we were relieved to see a cute group of guys enter the bar.

So upon catching eyes with them, we had this exchange:

Christine: (while looking over at the group) Let’s go say hi.
Me: Absolutely. They’re the first cute guys we’ve seen tonight. (realizing that New Guy looks hurt, I quickly explain) I mean they’re the first cute straight guys.
New Guy: (looking confused) I’m sorry?
Me: (getting a little confused and starting to blush and stammer) Um, you’re gay, right?
Christine: (choking)
New Guy: (deadly tone) I’m not gay. I’ve been hitting on you for the last hour.
Me: But you’re so…um…oh fuck.

It really went downhill from there. New Guy left in a huff. Christine started trying to explain the difference between the metrosexual and the gay man to me (while laughing hysterically). And I tried to explain that I knew the difference. That of course earned me the reply, “Doesn’t look like it.”

And now, days later, I’m still mortified. Christine won’t stop making fun of me – I get texts from her about twice a day saying things like “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” And every once in a while I get an email from her that reads simply, “Hee hee hee.”

Weirdest of all. I seem to have offended my high school friend’s friends. (Did that last sentence make sense?) I mean seriously, do these people have zero sense of humor? It’s not like I meant to offend anyone. Plus, at lease have the grace to rip on me for shoving my foot so far down my throat that a shoehorn couldn’t get it out. For fuck’s sake!

Anyway, the moral to this story - I’m a huge freaking spaz.

Monday, March 5, 2007

Random Suggestion

If you ever want to test how cool a person is, I suggest playing them the Sublime song Date Rape. It’s on 40 oz. to Freedom. And while the song is undeniably offensive – in the best way possible – I guarantee it will tell you within a few minutes whether you’re dealing with a loser or not. (It’s all about the sense of humor.)

The first time I heard Date Rape, I had the classic reaction. I was talking to a friend of my then-boyfriend, and I wasn’t really paying attention to the music. Then it started to filter in, and I stopped talking mid-sentence to really listen. My mouth dropped open, and I didn’t move or say a word until the song was over. And when it was, I almost didn’t know how to react. I mean, what the hell? Did I really just hear that?

And then I started laughing. That had to be one of the craziest songs ever – and I fucking loved it! Immediately I told then-boyfriend to play it again. That (of course) meant I was cool – it’s always important for boyfriend’s to realize this as soon as possible. It also meant he was cool for playing it – and he was in a lot of ways (except for that whole sleeping with a stripper thing).

Anyway, I’m getting off topic. What I was saying was that Date Rape made me probably 10% horrified and 90% entertained/amused/fascinated. Basically, the awesomeness of Sublime spoke to the awesomeness in me.

So that’s how I judge people in my mind now. I ask myself if they would pass the Date Rape test. (That last sentence sounded really bad.)

Anyway, let’s just say that I went out with a bunch of people on Saturday night who wouldn’t have passed the test. More on that tomorrow.

Thursday, March 1, 2007

Confession

I’m kind of obsessed with this show on A&E called, “Dog the Bounty Hunter.” How did it start, you ask? Well, one day I was sitting around doing nothing on a Sunday – which pretty much describes most of my Sundays – and I was flipping through the channels on tv. As I came across A&E, the screen was suddenly filled with the sight of a guy wearing a leather vest, no shirt, tight pants, cowboy boots, and a long blonde mullet. Excellent, I thought, and stopped flipping.





As luck would have it, I had just tuned in during a “Dog the Bounty Hunter” marathon. And for the next few hours, I was transfixed. I didn’t change the channel once. Between Duane “Dog” Chapman (the guy I described above), his wife Beth – a rather large woman with dyed platinum blonde hair and WAAYYY too tight clothes, and his team of family members/friends, it really is too good to be true. This reality show follows them as they run around Hawaii arresting “fugitives from the law,” and talking about drugs and God. Occasionally they mace people. I’m almost giddy describing it. I mean, the person who thought of giving Dog his own show was a genius.

After all, bounty hunters are fun in general, but these guys…they’re outstanding. I can only describe the show as trashtastic. Because it is, in the best was way possible. I go out of my way to watch them every Tuesday night now. And I freely admit that. I’m not even slightly embarrassed about that.

But there’s one thing I won’t admit. It’s too upsetting. And if this blog wasn’t anonymous, I would never own up to it. But since it is, here goes:

I am totally attracted to Dog’s son, Leland. I mean, when I watch this show I find myself wanting this guy bad. And trust me when I tell you that’s upsetting.



Now you don’t really know me, so let me just say that this is out of character for me. I’m attracted to clean-cut guys. Long hair does not fly with me. And Leland has more than just long hair (which he braids on occasion), he has the long hair on top and shaved head from the ears down thing going on. He looks like he’s maybe 5’5. And he doesn’t strike me as the sharpest knife in the drawer. On top of all of this, his family is horrifying. But it doesn’t matter. When I watch the show, I want to * cough * him. In fact, the only thing he has going for him is the tattoos. He has some hot tattoos. (What can I say, I like clean-cut to a point.)

When I want to amuse myself, I imagine introducing Leland to my father. That would be…nope, there are no words for what that would be.

As for what my friends would think, let’s just say I would never live it down. But that’s okay, because they’re never going to find out. And while they would never even imagine something like this, if they did suspect something I would simply deny, deny, deny. I look at it like this: when you want your friend’s boyfriend, you never admit it. To anyone. Ever. For any reason. Maybe not even to yourself. And this is kind of like wanting your friend’s boyfriend. It only exists in the dark recesses of your mind. And maybe on your blog.

Until next time…