Tuesday, December 22, 2009

How deep my super love goes...

So I officially kicked off this years' first round of Christmas shopping...yesterday. Somehow I managed to purchase an entire H3's worth of goodies (I'm serious, trunk, seats and floor space jammed with crap) and yet have not finished even one person on my list. In fact, I only got one half done and another half started. Apparently I was so overcome by the Christmas spirit that I spent all my time finding the perfect gifts for random friends and relatives. After making 2 separate trips to my car I was finally ready to begin shopping, for reals. Uh, what's that, the mall closed? Aren't you suppose to stay open until, I don't know, Christmas? All your little blue haired retail elves are so high on potpourri and hand-sanitizer they can't possibly need more than a 10-minute break.

Finally got home at 11pm, Red Bull really starting to kick in, actually looking forward to wrapping all my useless gifts. As I gathered my purchases and stumbled toward the elevator, ninja kicking the UP button I waited...and waited...put my treasures down...and waited. Then I noticed a little note on the bulletin board. Elevator needs new part, will be fixed Monday. Wait a tick, isn't today Monday? We apparently have enough in our condo reserves to have the carpets shampooed weekly, garage pressure washed twice a month, entire building facade painted when it looked fine and money for a new "library" (bookshelf in the lobby), but can't seem to have our one elevator serviced in a timely fashion? For heaven's sake, 90% of the building's occupants are elderly! I'm just lazy, but let's think of the old folks please.

After re-assessing the situation (read: debating whether or not I'd take any gifts out of my car until Christmas) I decided a little exercise wouldn't kill me, right? Right?! 4 trips back and forth up and down 6 flights of stairs and I'd have to reply YES, a little exercise would kill me. Not so much the sheer volume of items I was transporting, rather the untimely manner in which it took me to reach their new haven. As a responsible dog owner (hehe) I decided to allow my dog pack to accompany me. It would appear that 4 hours left to their own devices, elicits sort of a frenzy when unleashed upon the hallway and garage areas of their domain. The middle child has taken a new liking to barking frantically up and down the hallway when we leave unless he's on a leash. However, when he's on a leash the puppy torments him, gets bit, cries, then he barks. Sort of a lose-lose. When we finally get to the garage everyone has a favorite corner/car/service area they enjoy best. It's like two little rockets and lumbering bear darting about in every direction. The real treat was getting the door open to the stairwell while balancing as much as my sad little arms could carry, hoping everyone else was on board. 1 out 3 times this was the case. The other 2 times Judge was more preoccupied with eating a dead bird he found outside and Maverick wouldn't leave the side of my car.

Stayed up until about 5am wrapping gifts. Why so late? You try doing this little holiday task with a 3 month old puppy who has a taste for anything paper or plastic. Including but not limited to - shopping bags, wrapping paper, scissors, tape, Sharpies, bows, ribbons and boxes. And the gifts themselves, of course. [Judge found one of his Christmas gifts - Snuggie For Dogs - so gay, but made me laugh when I saw it at the grocery store. Besides, I'm stimulating the economy. After he opened the box and bag and inspected his prize he immediately tossed it aside in favor of a glass ornament.]

Upon further inspection of my purchases, I did in fact buy for pretty much everyone not on my list. Hopefully today will be a little more successful or my super loved ones (not the so-so loved ones I actually bought gifts for) will know how deep my super love goes. Somehow that sounded gross.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Dear Mr. & Mrs. Gross...

Well it's that time of year again, where your mailbox is overflowing with catalogues you've never heard of and Christmas cards. As I eagerly opened all of the sparkly envelopes, bedazzled with special yule tide stamps and stickers, I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of letters this year. By letters I mean those sagas printed on gingerbread and Christmas tree adorned stationary, recapitulating the years events. I appreciate a well written update of loved ones lives, detailing big changes in careers, living situations, family, etc. What I don't understand are the holiday authors who feel compelled to elaborate on disgusting health issues, macabre accounts of the demise of family, friends or pets, or an overtly gasconade tone to unimpressive accomplishments. To be fair, I'm not really impressed with much. This includes not losing your job, not contracting a flesh eating virus, or not murdering your children to name a few. See my face? Not impressed.

Anyway, my favorite letter came from one of my best friends from high school. She epitomizes everything good in this world and has such a cookie cutter dreamy life, that I often wonder where the hell I went wrong? I mean we were best friends. Dressed alike, same friends, same interests. At what point did she veer off to Candy Land while I strayed toward the enchantment of a Ouija board? Her Christmas letter detailed the birth of her daughter and I swear on the wooden planchette of my dusty spirit board that I almost shed a tear.

After that heart warming missive I opened another holiday tale from a couple whom I have not seen nor spoken to in years and am slightly concerned as to why they have my address friend we shall simply refer to as Mr. & Mrs. Gross. At first glance everything was in order. Holiday vestiges upon the margins, standard formatting and font, let's begin... I didn't get halfway through the page before my stomach began churning and my expression was a combo of repulsion and consternation. Mr. & Mrs. Gross graphically described the symptoms, treatment and recovery of a malady I did not know previously existed, nor ever wanted to know. I won't go into detail because the bile begins to rise when I think of the whole yuck fest contained on one page. I almost feel abused. Mr. & Mrs. Gross took advantage of this festive time of year, coercing their victims with all the accoutrement's of a typical Christmas epistle, all the while injecting clandestine medical jargon. For the record, a Christmas card should NEVER include the following words: infection, drainage, contagious, or pustule.

Not one to dwell on the inappropriateness of other's (ha!) I decided I'm going to write my own Christmas letter...right here...

Dear Everyone,

The past year has brought many exciting new disasters changes. Maverick, Rebel and I welcomed a new addition to our family, thus solidifying my prestigious title of Crazy Dog Lady. My dream dog Judge, born August 20-something, 8 pounds and 2 hand lengths of pure Doberman exuberance. We are still adjusting to our new family dynamic as kibble and toys litter the floor, knit pants, socks and slippers have new ventilation holes, garbage cans reside on bathroom sinks and band aids are my new favorite accessory. Our new little bundle of joy is growing so quickly and eager to show how he can now reach kitchen counters and climb the spiral staircase to the loft, gaining a more advantageous post to bark and destroy play with things.

I look forward to the new year as I begin packing for the big move to the bustling metropolis of Oak Creek into my failed investment brand new house! Yard work, maintenance, 3000+ square feet of space to clean, barely scratch the surface of this exciting new change. I also anticipate a speedy sale of my condo in the dead of winter, that often resembles a warm and inviting doggy daycare. Though I will miss my fussy elderly neighbors, the middle aged lesbian enchantress directly beneath my condo will be the hardest to leave. Without love letters taped to my door, phone calls applauding my "heavy gait," or the sounds of Celine Dion or showtunes blaring into my windows until midnight, I know how much my heart will ache. The ninja stealth that I've developed in order to sneak the dogs down the stairs while in my most attractive pj's in the middle of the night will be an adventure sorely missed. Rounding up the troops pulling Maverick out of a neighbor's open vehicle while Rebel barks at children and Judge pees on the garage floor for an adventure will never be the same.

I have been blessed with another barrage of vacations. Most notably my family trip to Prague and Germany where I discovered the flow of beer rivals that only of Milwaukee and gay men in assless chaps are a thing of beauty. My upcoming travels include Riviera Maya, the Olympics in Vancouver, Oktoberfest in Munich and possibly a Caribbean cruise. Time permitting, I wouldn't hate another European adventure or backpacking excursion either.

Finally, this past year has brought many new faces into my life. Some made me smile, some made me cringe and some made me wish I had asked for plastic surgery for Christmas before entering the witness protection program. I have made wonderful new friends through a completely normal and not at all loserish venue of internet dating. After all, isn't that why one joins such sites? To make new friends with the false hope of finding true love and subsequently having the "just friends" discussion? Such a joy.

Happy holidays to one and all. God bless!

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Can I buy a cryptex from Target?

It's been awhile folks. Ah, where to start?

Last week Wednesday I got a text from DTabs - [The Ex] is having a procedure tomorrow. He might have testicular cancer.

WTF?! Attempted to reach the Ex, some weird message, no answer. Did he really block my number like he said he was going to? What a child. Sent an email and a text. Finally calls me back.

The Ex - Been having tests done past couple months, will find out if it's cancer tomorrow. Thanks for the concern, but don't worry about it. Go on with your life as if you never found this out.

Me - WTF?

Thursday I get a voice message from the Ex - Guess who has testicular cancer? It's me! giggle giggle.

Me - Waiting for the "just kidding" portion of this message.....WTF?

That weekend we went with a bus load of friends to the dog track, got Christmas trees, watched movies and basically went back to the way things were. Minus the cancerous mess in his pants, of course.

Monday he went in for surgery. Monday night I brought him back home. Of course not one doctor spoke with us before we left but we did have a very unhelpful nurse wheel him out while not explaining anything to us either. Seriously? Let me do a dramatic re-enactment of the days events for you.

Welcome to Elmbrook, I hear you have cancer let's just snip snip that out for ya. Now just sit tight in your room and watch your Radio Shack tv circa '83 until we figure out step 2. By the by, you're spending the night. I know we said you didn't have to but we like you. How about another test? What for? Oh don't worry your pretty lil head about these doctory matters. Zap zap test done! Now you can eat some slurry and wait til we decide what that test was all about....2 hours later slurry arrives...Guess what, we changed our minds. Leave. Now. Hmmm...okay.

Thursday we had a follow up appointment with the Emperor of Urology. Well, according to him at least. I'm the king of urologists, rah rah, I'm old so that means I'm experienced and wise, please no pictures, you'll probably die if you go to anyone else, rah rah. When the Magnate of Urine ripped off the bandage on the Ex's abdomen I thought security may be called as I saw a tentative hand fly near the offending Prefect's face. I get the whole rip the band aid off quickly scenario and applaud it's effectiveness, however this was a 5 inch bandage secured with what I can only assume was gorilla glue. Hmmm....looks good. 8-syllable medical terms, blah blah blah, hear how smart I sound, I own a medical dictionary and checked out WebMD before your appointment, blah blah. Meanwhile, I'm furiously taking notes trying to decipher the Da Vinci code of a prognosis. Made a note to buy a cryptex before future appointments.

The Ex - What's the deal with the stitch in my testicle? When or how is that going to come out?

Sovereign of Urinary Tracts - Hmm...dunno. Lemme see! Well maybe I'll cast an expulsion spell on it later, or maybe just cut it out another time.

So what's next? Find an oncologist and start chemo as soon as possible. Well we've got some recommendations for docs at X, Y and Z hospitals. Oh, don't go there. Then I won't see you again and you'll probably die because I won't know what they're doing and my methods are secretive and way better. Do you wanna die? Umm...no, but we're probably going to get a few opinions. Fine. I've got other reproductive organs to fiddle around with. Your funeral. Alright then, thanks for the anagrams and Jeopardy words, we'll have fun decoding this when we get home.

So that's where we're at. Meeting with oncologists next week, hopefully one with some information that makes sense to someone who did not spend a decade in Med school or study with the Knights Templar.

I haven't had time to process this whole situation yet and I think that's why I'm relatively sane at the moment. Everything just happened so quickly. I think cancer was about the only thing that would have brought me into the same room with the Ex's family (we have issues with one another). The fact that I wrote a whole effen post on finally letting go, then being thrust back into everything with a vengeance is almost laughable. Who would have seen this coming?! Cancer is a really crappy Christmas present. My focus is making sure he gets the best medical treatment and that he's comfortable and knows he's cared for. This sucks...

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

My puppy eats electricity

Currently I'm up to my eyeballs in Christmas decorations. This little project started on Friday. I have the tendency to unpack all of my festive doodads and stare at them until inspiration strikes as to where they'd like to reside for the holidays. Apparently every counter top and table is on their list of places to hang until further notice. Wrestling garland and extracting glittery pine cones from a tenacious puppy is really getting me in the holly jolly spirit as well. I think Judge wants light bulbs most of all for Christmas. The fact that I will be listing my condo soon has become sort of a running joke (in my head at least). Is cluster fuck a new kitschy mode of decor? Because I've got it, and then some.

Anyway, things are looking up lately. Perhaps it's the perpetual Christmas music, cheesy Kay Jeweler's commercials, or sorting through my holiday decorations, but I'm feeling pretty content. Is my life sort of dancing between limbo and complete chaos still? Of course. But I think that is becoming the norm and I'm quite adaptable. After my come to Jesus moment I feel a new sense of peace. Life is not an emergency. I'm in good health, I've got a roof over my head, candy in my belly, and I think my puppy's brain is actually beginning to develop. Normally I'm not content with good, always striving for great, but I think I'll let this one ride for awhile.

I feel like God's testing my current serenity with little glimpses of things that might send me back into my typically neurotic state. For example, I was looking through a friend's photos on Facebook and stumbled across an ex...on his wedding day. My reaction? I smiled. I'm happy for him. The fact that his bride looked like a Barbie doll could have easily sent me into a tailspin, but my friends I'm still standing. Now I realize this may not seem like a big deal for the average guy or gal, but for me the relentless cynic, it's huge. It's also huge because I finally get what "letting go" is all about. The selfish internal part of me (that would never admit this) always wishes that whomever I've dated will fall into despair, move to Tibet, and renounce all women after me. Seeing as this has yet to happen, I figured I better grow up and start being a bit more positive.

Back to my "letting go" epiphany. As I was putting up my Christmas decorations I was dusting off some picture frames of my ex-fiance. Why do I still have them all over the place? Not for nostalgia's sake, it's far more practical and uninteresting than that. I didn't feel like taking the time to have new pictures enlarged and subsequently placed in the frames. At first I ignored the pictures (the pain, the horror, gasp!) but after awhile I sort of stopped noticing them all together. See, adaptable. As I was dusting a frame of my ex and I on our first homecoming (junior year of high school!) together I couldn't help but smile. We were so young. I didn't look at it with regret or sadness. We were just kids, with a whole lot ahead of us, and most of it we would do together. At some point things changed. Things always change. Not good, not bad, just different. I grew up with my ex, he was one of my best friends, and he'll always be in my heart. Right now we're not speaking to one another and it's probably for the best. Will we ever be friends again? It's hard to say, but I hope so.

He made a good point awhile back. He said that the only time I really reached out to him was when I was stressed or lonely, and he was right. He had been my sense of calm for so long, it was difficult not having him to lean on. I admit it. But isn't that what friends do? Apparently we're both on a different "friend" page, so I suppose it's not fair to him. It took me awhile, but I've managed to resist my urge to call him when I'm having a bad day. I'm a big girl, I guess I had to learn how to bottle up my emotions and shove down my problems in an unhealthy manner like every other adult sooner or later.

I think it's probably time to take the pictures down though. My life is moving forward. Plus, it's awkward explaining them to my ahem, guests. The truth is, the ex will always be a part of my life, whether he's physically in it or not. That's what happens after a decade of interactions I suppose. I guess what feels really amazing right now, is that I can think back on our relationship and smile. Just smile. Would I change a few things here and there, sure. However, everything that happened led us to where we are now and I think this is exactly where we're suppose to be. I think the hardest part of letting go is the fear of what will take it's place. There's an inevitable void. I think I've been too adamant about attempting to fill that void before I actually tried to co-exist with it. Maybe some things are not meant to be replaced. Maybe that little hole is suppose to stay empty.
Wow, this got a little too introspective. I'm gonna lighten the load for ya, with some pictures of my naughty and supremely ridiculous puppy, Judge.

He just got his ears cropped. Hopefully we'll be done with this nonsense soon. Such a pain in the ass. Judge is currently tipping the scales near 30lbs. I think 20 of it is hiding in his front paws. I can't tell you how many mornings I have to check the mirror for a black eye. He slaps me around a bit. I suppose I probably have it coming. Hehe...

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Counting my blessings

The past year has been an interesting one to say the least. The bad is usually more engrossing than the good, but there has been so much good bursting from my cornucopia (hehe...lame) that I thought I'd make a list.

What I'm Thankful For:

  • When my dastardly puppy nestles his head underneath my chin when he sleeps.

  • Big Daddy and his highly inappropriate text messages that always make me laugh out loud no matter where I am.

  • Every pair of Ed Hardy shoes that I own. I know I'm a sell out, but they are so comfy.

  • My Gramps being at home again.

  • My cousin Emily for helping put things into perspective for me.

  • Feeling peaceful after leaving mom's house.

  • My brother being home from Canada.

  • Maverick and Rebel turning out to be the best dogs ever.

  • Spending time on my dad's ranch.

  • Songs that I can listen to 100 times and not get sick of. (Aerosmith's Dream On)

  • The first cup of coffee in the morning.

  • Chanel and Dior beauty products.

  • Still being able to fit into my jeans from high school.

  • Joining the rest of our dog pack with Seany at Minooka.

  • Looking through pictures of all the amazing places I've traveled.

  • Talking to Aunt D. She always makes me laugh, think and prioritize!

  • Grams being sassy.

  • Clean 1200tc Egyptian cotton sheets.

  • When the weather is just right (no rain or snow, chilly) so I can wear my white goat boots.

  • Being blonde again!

  • Mr. Merlot

  • Mario Party, real estate tycoon board....awesome.

  • Packing for the next trip.

  • Being up-north with just my dogs.

  • Mom making faces in church and letting me snuggle against her shoulder like I used to when I was little. I wish she'd still let Jake and I lay down in the pew and take naps.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Count your blessings!

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

I'm sick of dating, ya hear that Nick Nolte?

I'm sick of dating.

Would I enjoy a stable, consistent, impossibly handsome, humorous, employed, handy guy in my life? For sure. Do I want to actually go out and proactively search for him anymore? Not so much. At first getting all dolled up and hoping your mystery man didn't turn out to be Nick Nolte or rivaling a potted plant in conversational aptitude was fun. Hooray, butterflies and little dinosaurs (indigestion?) in my stomach! Now it's sort of tedious and inconvenient. It's one thing getting ready for a date that you're actually looking forward to, it's another story when you're planning your impending escape route before you've walked out your door.

I'm sick of dating.

Over the past year I've realized there are tons of great eligible bachelors. Good news ladies, there are plenty of smart, witty, successful, gorgeous men just ripe for the picking! Don't get me wrong, I've enjoyed perusing the fields, but haven't quite found the one I feel like throwing into my basket. I have noticed that all this dating has become rather deleterious to my Christian inclinations.

Let's quickly go through the 7 deadly dating sins timeline:
  • While primping for a date - Pride/Vanity
  • Attempting to impress with clever banter and mundane facts about yourself - Envy (yeah, it's a stretch; I want to make you envious of whoever gets me if it doesn't happen to be you? Eh? Good?)
  • Consuming waaaay too much alcohol for that boost of liquid courage; or if you're sure there won't be a second date, ordering and subsequently shoveling the most expensive items on the menu into your smooch hole. - Gluttony
  • Being a giant sloot. - Lust
  • Wanting to be with someone who wants absolutely nothing to do with you. Sorry you blew it, let it go. - Greed/Avarice
  • Turning into a certifiable lunatic after your love interest moves on. Spurn love, opt for fury! - Wrath
  • Wishing someone would just arrange a marriage for me already. - Sloth

I'm sick of dating.

I was going through some Match.com profiles the other day and saw I had received an email from a handsome, Lutheran, successful, home owning, tall, blonde hair, blue-eyed, 37 year old....virgin. I shit you not. He boldly proclaimed this fact in his tag line, followed by "saving myself for my bride" in his profile. I'm all about unsolicited pontificating, but come on! What is a horny modern 21st century girl to do with that little detail?! I refuse to corrupt a seemingly cherubic man. In no universe would someone that um...what's the word...good? righteous? restrained? co-mingle with the likes of this frequently morally ambiguous gal. Not to say I'm the whore of Babylon, but I'm not exactly the blessed virgin either. Sorry mom, but I refuse to add liar to my list of transgressions.

I'm sick of dating...and exposing some not-so-fun facts to my mother.

Here's where I'm at. My come to Jesus moment has shifted my dating life from 6th gear to Neutral and I'm laying low for a bit. Should my anti-Nolte appear in the meantime, yippee for me. I'd love to skip the dating period and jump right into matrimonial bliss (I'm 98% certain this is an oxymoron. I'm 99% certain this is something you should not say on a first date...and of course, I have). I think I'm ready to be in a real relationship, I'm just exhausted from looking for one. Hehe...I've got a lot of quit in me.

Did I mention I'm sick of dating? I did? Just checking.

Am I still hoping Uncle Haru has an arranged marriage in the works for me? Absolutely.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

At least I didn't steal any babies.

I'm in the middle of a come to Jesus moment as I have recently been on a sinnin' spree! Seriously, one bad choice followed by an even worse action, rounded off with a really stupid situation. I'd love to blame it on the a-a-a-alcohol, but sadly I can't. Seeing as I'm pretty into my reputation and the way others perceive me, I'm gonna have to forgo the details of my ridiculousness. Let's just say on a scale of 1-dumb of how poorly my decision making has been, I'm dancing dangerously close to retarded. Hence, my come to Jesus moment.

Ecclesiastes has always been one of my favorite books of the ol' Bible, so I spent a good portion of my Sunday reflecting on its words. The book emphasizes that life from the human perspective - without the grace of God - is empty. Power, prestige, popularity and pleasure cannot fill the void. Ah, so true. I got a whole mess of void that still needs some filling.

Luther on Ecclesiastes: While in the first book [Proverbs] Solomon teaches obedience in the face of mad lust and desire, so in this book he teaches that men are to be patient and steadfast in obedience, in the face of unpleasantness and temptation, and ever to wait out the brief hour in peace and joy. What they cannot keep or alter, they are to let go; it will all work out.

Always a fan of Luther's lucid deductions, I'm hoping it does in fact all work out. I need to take a step back and shift my priorities a bit. The little Cosmo quiz revealing my quest for pleasure was not too far off. Ha! Cosmo you're so smart, I won't make fun you anymore next month.

I denied myself nothing my eyes desired; I refused my heart no pleasure. My heart took delight in all my work, and this was the reward for all my labor. Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun. ~Ecclesiastes 2: 10-11

Ever notice how stupid decisions lead to even more foolish actions that eventually compound themselves into a hot mess of consequences you brought on yourself? I even saw this shit coming! (Probably shouldn't swear in a post riddled with Biblical connotations. I am seriously the poster child for lack of self control.) No excuses, which sucks because I love finding someone else to blame my problems on. You're off the hook this time DTabs!

This week is going to be a little bit different. Here's hoping at least.
  1. Attempt to refrain from jumping into situations that seem harmless enough, but could very well land you in jail or purgatory (if I believed in such a place).
  2. Actually consider others' feelings. Selfishness is not a pretty color on anyone, not even me.
  3. Take a moment to mull over the 5 minutes of fun you're about to have and how you will most definitely have more than 5 minutes of regret afterwards.
  4. Just don't go out in public.

These cryptic confessions are honestly not thaaat bad. I suppose that's left to ones own interpretation, but I didn't murder anyone, steal any babies, engage in any orgies, and I haven't taken to necrophagia or black magic. So that's gotta be worth something, right? Silver lining folks!

Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgement, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil. ~Ecc. 12: 13-14

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Cos-NO, NO, NO-politan #2

Don't you hate it when you realize you've been singing the wrong lyrics to a song and wonder how many times you've exposed your deaf ear? DJ Khaled's "We Taken Over" apparently does not contain the phrase murder city attitude, rather one city at a time. Not even close, well played Khaled.

Anyway, I picked up this month's Cosmo because I was curious to know if "Stress is Turning You Into a Raging Bitch." Not to worry, they've provided some killer solutions. All I need to do in order to stimulate my "feel good hormones" is lock lips with someone, practice saying the word No, and skip the New Year's resolution. After all, that New Year's resolution really gets my cortisol raging. Phew, dodged a bullet there.

This month's anthology is filled with perfume ads from celebutards. I'm sorry Jessica Simpson, I'm sure your fragrance is lovely, but I have a hard time spritzing myself with Fancy Love and not feeling like a giant douche. Also, Mariah Carey's Forever ad is one of the creepiest photos I have ever seen. Sort of makes you want to buy that dangerous looking vile of kryptonite in hopes of supporting those afflicted with Bell's palsy.

Moving along, Turn a One-Night Stand Into an LTR (long term relationship for those of you who have not given up on complete English in lieu of Twitter/text/Facebook speak). The tag line - If you realize that Mr. In-Your-Bed-Right-Now could possibly be Mr. Right, you need to act fast! - is so sad on so many levels. It should read - If your slutty ass realizes that the lagoon creature in-your-bed-right-now could possibly be carrying various strains of VD, you need to get to a clinic fast! Seriously Cosmo? It's bad enough if you find yourself preparing for your sad walk of shame, let alone giving advice on how to draw it out. Little tip ladies, one-night stands don't usually lead to romance. You've already given up the goodies to a guy who was willing to sample the goodies before you've even learned one another's last names. Where exactly do you go from there? Uhhh...so, do you like, have a job? Oh, I see you collect toenails...interesting. I don't normally do this ::nervous laughter:: I'm just gonna grab my scrunchy and head out. Byyyeeee.....

In the Man Manual under Guy Truth, I had one of my most urgent questions answered: Can I ask my guy what's going on in his head during sex? I mean c'mon, is this query really worthy of publication? Does anyone wonder if this is an appropriate activity during sex? The other question I've been dieing to have some light shed on: This guy I met only talks about sex. Is that all he wants from me? No honey, he's Dr. Ruth's apprentice, it's just research.

Let's see, I learned Why Love is Harder in Winter. Answer - you feel gross. Solution - adopt a puppy together! WTF? Do you get rid of the dog when the earth thaws and you're done feeling gross?

I've taken on a new obsession - I plan on compulsively analyzing the way men hug me. What I've gathered thus far is that the sneak attack, the rub, and the waist wrap = good. The pat = bad. Although there's an exception to the sneak attack. "If your man almost always hugs you from the back, that might mean he craves a closer connection but thinks you're unavailable." Agghhh! How does one remedy this?! The investigation continues...

The Need to Know section really tugs at your heart strings this month in a little composition entitled Why I Got Rid of My Fake Boobs. Spoiler alert! Everyone stared at them and didn't take her seriously. I did need to know that.

Finally, the Cosmo Quiz, Do You Get Enough Pleasure? brought on the startling revelation that I am the Queen of Temptation: You're at a 24/7 pleasure party...but there's more to life than caving in to every instafun (if we find a great lack of authors, editors, or English teachers in the future I'm blaming Cosmo) temptation. Try ignoring your buzz-kill radar and riding out tough times (um, no thanks. You're on my buzz-kill radar Cosmo) you'll attain a deeper level of pleasure. I don't like the insinuation behind this, makes me sound like a harlot.

So that's this month's Cosmo for ya. I've got to go find some pleasure now and start a hug journal.

Check out my inspiration for doing a dating promo below at Talkie Time. Love. This. Woman.

Monday, November 16, 2009

A blonde's take on genetics...riveting!

Webster's Dictionary defines patient as:

1. Capable of bearing affliction calmly. 2. Understanding: tolerant. 3. Persevering: constant. 4. Capable of bearing delay. Synonyms include: forbearing, long-suffering, resigned; adj. core meaning: enduring or capable of enduring hardship or inconvenience without complaint.

The only part of this definition that really resonated with me was the bit about long-suffering. Every year I expect to develop this little adult idiosyncrasy, but alas, it eludes me. In fact, my impatience appears to be blossoming. I want everything figured out and tucked neatly into place...yesterday. I absolutely abhor the phrase, "Just enjoy the ride!" I'm a roller coaster type girl. I enjoy the anticipation, inevitable stomach flip and abrupt ending. Onto the next! I don't have the attention span for the effen Tea Cups.

This is precisely the reason I'm not a huge fan of dating. When you meet someone you want to see naked connect with, it's difficult to muster Buddha's patience. I want to know what is wrong with you or why we will inevitably fail within a 3 date time frame. Is that too much to ask? When you dilly dally around playing nice, hoping to conceal the crazy, you're simply delaying the "it's not you, it's me" song and dance. Be honest! You're not going to change someone, so you might as well be upfront with your expectations. If you no longer want to see them naked connect, then you've wasted very little time, energy and emotional turmoil. Win-win!

Now I understand certain traits will not initially present themselves. Does your love interest harbor passive aggressive argument tactics? Horrible at karaoke? Suck at board or video games? Fart in their sleep? I suppose if you're still a passing interest to me, I can hold out long enough to discover some of these deal breakers. But not too long. I'm sort of an outta sight, outta mind person. I lose interest quickly (and by 'lose interest' I mean, forget that you exist) and don't enjoy the waiting around portion of dating. If I like you, I want to spend time with you. Now this attached-at-the-hip feeling is quite fleeting, but initially I do want to be near you, a lot. Whether we're physically together, or just talking on the phone, I need to know you're on the same page as I am. There is nothing worse than pursuing something that was never meant to be pursued.

After you finally get to know each other and evaluate the potential of spending more than the odd date here and there, then I'm as patient as Job. (Pick up a Bible if you don't understand that reference or know how to pronounce his name.) I like my life pretty much the way it is. I don't want a roommate or a Siamese twin. I want to spend time with someone because some activities are better as a dazzling duo. Video games (if you don't suck), tennis, walking 3 dogs, going out to eat, shooting darts and camping to name a few. Also, marriage and parenthood seem to work a little better with a partner, or so I've heard.

I certainly need to improve on my severely deficient patient gene (is that a gene? I'm gonna go with No on this one). I've probably passed up a few amazing experiences or people because of its absence. However, the one propitious aspect of this lack of patience is its undeniable filtering capabilities. I've been able to sift through a lot of nonsense, thus avoiding a lot of wasted time. Wasting time, now that's a gene I've housed in great abundance.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

I feel I've been a bit melodramatic lately my friends, so I'm going to give you a break and regale you with some of my new "Matches."

[Yes, the above picture was found in Mr. Mary Lou Retten's profile. Aside from the impressive pose I can't help but admire those teal trunks.]

This 80's icon describes his education as "went to the tech school," and his "ideal girl will be fit and well kept." Well by golly, I better dust off my apron and put a little rouge on!

Not to sound off color here but this guy looked like a terrorist until I gave him that jazzy bow tie. Also, this picture is either photoshopped or yet another failed Glamour Shots project. His profile indicates he loves a sensitive woman with feminine ability. I am seeking a lady who is take care of me, and well spoken...finish my work at work and give my girl its time as my partner in life. I like to participate her in everything...even in problems we must think together how to solve. I am also friendly, amiable and lovely. Just in case I was onto something in my initial pre-bow tie assessment, I'm going to let you make your own conclusions here.

I have never laid claim to being a master of linguistics, but I was under the impression that the description "athletic and toned" did not encompass man boobs or a belly button stuck in the wink position. Apparently this dashing fella, who claims to be a writer, does in fact think "athletic and toned" incorporates these attributes. There's a hearty dose of yuck for ya.

Hooray, Superman thinks we're a Match!

As I'm certain you've concluded, my dating life is really starting to take off. When I check my Match.com account, at times I have to eyeball the browser to make sure I didn't accidentally access Fail Blog. Sad, really sad. Have a great day folks!

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Pee Wee's School of Drivers Ed

Since my puppy has graciously allowed me some much needed rest I've been engaging in one of my favorite activities once again - pondering trivial dating ideals! In true Pee Wee Herman secret word of the day style, COUNTERPART (aggghhhh!) let's begin.
What do you do when you meet your counterpart (aggghhh!)? Maybe not necessarily lifestyle, socioeconomic status, or career counterpart (agggghhhh!....okay, I'm done), but personality wise. What happens when your life converges with someone else whom represents your equivalent in future expectations, approach to relationships and fundamental beliefs? Is this a recipe for disaster or success?

Everyone loves the idea that opposites attract. Truthfully, I think this is a comfortable explanation for why you ended up with someone you never pictured yourself stuck with. At the end of the day, too many divergent attributes leads to discord and frustration. What may seem charmingly offbeat in the beginning, eventually becomes arduous. Your differing opinions may provide exciting banter in the early stages when you're still trying to get laid devouring each others words, but you'll eventually succumb to the fact that the other person is a disparaging idiot. To reference Sex and the City, Miranda and Steve would NEVER work out in real life. Sure the charmingly dimwitted Steve would provide a little amusement for the domineering, Type A Miranda at first, but a real world Miranda would find this exhausting and obnoxious after awhile. What does Steve bring to the table? Unless you're an oppressive maneater who delights in subjugating a weaker species, this match is destined to fail. Polar opposite personalities may be intriguing, but lend themselves to future discord. It's alright to have contrasting viewpoints such as James Carville and Mary Matalin, but their seemingly paradoxical relationship works because essentially they're passionate about the same things, politics.

The idea that two people with completely different ideologies, familial status, financial security or basic intelligence could thrive as a couple is ludicrous. Certainly you may have some analogous qualities like the desire to eat and avoid fire but there needs to be some fundamental similarities in order to progress.

So back to my original thought, what do you do when you've met your match? Your COUNTERPART...aggghhh! Couldn't resist. Someone who is used to assuming a particular role in a relationship, a role typically reserved for your expertise. Does one half of the relationship compromise? If so, which half? As a rule I'd say I am usually the driving force behind a relationship. Meaning I dictate where it's going and how quickly we get there. I don't think I've necessarily aspired to be in the drivers seat, I just end up there as I'm hopelessly devoted to dating student drivers. Perhaps I could be willing to turn the keys over to someone who exhibits proper U-turns and parallel parking. The problem that remains is simply this. I'm not sure I'm ready to be chauffeured around. I like having some control over my relationships as I feel ever so confident that my charming disposition and scintillating repartee will keep my heart free from collision. Allowing someone else to take the reigns feels as if I'm taking off my seat belt after hitting 80 on the freeway. Perhaps we could try the driver's ed car, at least allowing myself a modicum of control if need be. It might be nice for a change to have someone else direct the route of a relationship. I suppose if it's not, I can always pull the emergency break.

Another teensy-weensy matter of contention with finding your dating counterpart is what course of action do you take to ensnare court them? I've grown accustom to pursuing men that think I'm the bees knees (whoa, shout out to the 1920's). Who doesn't want to surround themselves with people that are easily impressed through very little effort of your own? So upon finding my counterpart, one who is also inclined to cultivate relationships with eager admirers, which one of us becomes the groupie? I can just envision two closet narcissists on a date, waiting for the other to kowtow to ones majesty. Seems as if someones gotta budge or you're going to spend a lot of time pursing your lips and giving creepy sly winks in hopes of breaking down the other's barrier. Hmmm....is this an exciting new challenge, or a Martha Stewart caliber recipe for utter disaster?

I suppose if the fawning never takes place but you both realize you're happy in each other's company it might be really fantastic. Who doesn't want to be with the adult equivalent of the prom king/queen? This of course based on the assumption you deem yourself worthy of such a prestigious title. I'm not one to quickly reveal my soft spot for certain attributes that make me swoon. Such attributes include: religious affiliation, height, good credit, mortgage toting preppies, and dog lovers. I'm also a sucker for anyone who is not completely appalled by my candor. Shhhh....let's remain a mystery.

Now if your counterpart doesn't exhibit some of the fundamental qualities that you need to feel secure, loved, or completely and hopelessly devoted to, then you're destined to fail. Simple as that. As much as I may be willing to attempt a supportive acting role in a relationship, I cannot compromise certain requisites...no matter how dreamy you were on prom night.

If you happen to stumble across someone that parallels your every dating philosophy, don't run back to your pimply student driver just yet. Put yourself out there. Of course you run the risk of being completely put in your place with a hearty dose of humble pie, but it could be fun. The higher you aim the farther you may fall. However, if you do secure that diamond in the rough just imagine the sparkly future.

More disturbing Pee Wee's Playhouse videos below at Talkie Time!

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Dear Hearing Impaired Bobbleheads, I bid you adieu. Sincerely, Rumpelstiltskin

Why don't men listen? Let me clarify, why don't men believe what I say unless it's exactly what they want to hear? In the past I think I confessed more to my journal than my actual partner but I've changed my ways! In fact, I've ventured to the opposite end of the communication spectrum and am lingering around brutal honesty. So why aren't things easier? Am I not using small enough words? Are my cleverly crafted phrases misinterpreted? Maybe I speak too softly? Perhaps I have a knack for dating the undiagnosed hearing impaired? I'm utterly baffled. It's as if I date bobbleheads. They nod their heads while I'm speaking, as if to convey the fact they are understanding what is coming out of my mouth but then are completely shocked when I follow through. For example - I'm not sure I'm ready to be in a serious relationship just yet. I don't want to commit until I'm certain I'm done playing the field. Why is this difficult to understand? When you stomp your feet, shake your little fist and purse your pouty lips because I denied you this exclusive relationship status, I can't help but think WTF is wrong with you? Did I not make myself clear before? I haven't changed my mind in a week! I think a lot of this bobbleheaded inattentiveness stems from complete denial. I'm not a girl whose mind is easily changed. Especially if you have not seriously engaged in ANY activity that would illicit your desired intentions for me. If I say I need space that means I need space until I tell you I don't need space. Not when you decide you're done giving it to me. If you can't abide by these rules than I guess I will bid you adieu.

This honest communication ruse I've attempted is about as effective as having my lips stapled shut. I might as well not even open my mouth as the words somehow get lost in translation, forever to linger in limbo. I naively believed my honesty would make dating progress more smoothly. If you lay your cards out on the table from the start, everyone has a clear picture of what's expected. However, if your honesty is not what your partner wants to hear, I guess it might as well not be said. Sure you can feel good about yourself but really what have you gained? This works both ways. I want to know your expectations as well as your limitations. If I can't deal with them then again, I will bid you adieu. This is not difficult! Believe what I say, because I WILL follow through. Stop casting me as the villain in every scenario.

I do not aspire to speak in riddle like the dastardly dwarf, Rumpelstiltskin. Perhaps I should provide cliff notes for all of our conversations, so you can quickly review what we've discussed. Confusion averted! I'm sure this wouldn't even work, as not all written word is believed to be the Truth (the Bible, ahem). Anyway, from this point forward I'm done feeling guilty, I'm done second guessing my vernacular, I'm done coddling your feelings. I will be fair and I will be honest with you. I expect the same in return. It's not a matter of protecting ones feelings, it's about understanding eachother in order to avoid hurt feelings. Relationships are difficult enough without the added headache of misinterpretation or complete denial.

One final point - don't pretend you care so much about me when you can't even respect me enough to listen. Don't pretend you want our relationship to work when you ignore what I'm telling you I need to make it work. Don't pretend you're the bigger person because you're ready and I'm not.

Rumpelstiltskin, out...

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Age ain't nothing but a number

...according to the late Aaliyah. To those who date outside their socially acceptable age group I'm sure these lyrics are inspiring. However, at what gap does romance start to become creepy? I've typically dated men 2-3 years older than me. As my love life began stagnating, I thought I'd expand my pool of eligible bachelors to the 24-35 bracket. Most women adhere to the notion that men mature more slowly so it's imperative to seek the older, more cultivated renaissance man. There's some merit to this when you're in your 20's because frat boys and recent college grads are just getting over their awkward growing pains. Being of course, the uncontrollable urge to comment or stare at breasts, thinking posters are an acceptable form of decor, affection towards Hooters hooters cuisine, and of course NARBs. I don't think the age matters so much as does the point you are at in your life. When you're 37 and your spouse is 48, does the age gap really matter? Of course if you're 15 and your boyfriend is a senior in college, there's bound to be some (legal) issues.

The youngest I've dated was about 3 years my junior, oldest would have to be 13 years my senior. Most of the women I know tend to stick in one specific age bracket. Whether they prefer the young, nubile stud or the seasoned gentlemen, there is usually very little deviation. Since my dating life has been pretty much a crap shoot, I thought I'd buck tradition and dabble in all brackets. Okay, minus pubescent jail bait and septuagenarians. Based on my rigorous testing methods (that being, try anything once) and precise analysis of my importunate research, here are the results.

The appealing aspects of younger men are as follows: they're eager to please, probably have not sustained too much emotional damage yet, and have loads of potential. Get him at just the right point in his life and he'll be an eager apprentice waiting for you to mold and guide him. I've attempted this route and although it's nice to be a part of someone coming into their own, it's also exhausting. You spend lots of time feeling like his mommy and I think we've already established I'm not exactly the maternal type. In his defense, the young guy is usually game for anything, doesn't have a lot of responsibilities tying him down (nice way of saying McDonald's cashier), and is unsure of what women want so he's willing to try anything to make you happy. He's also more apt to being impressed by things such as checking accounts, owning your own car or home, and if you can cook his favorite meal just like mom does. Young men are refreshingly easy to be around as they're always in search of the next adventure or slightly amusing activity. No pretension or underlying motives, they're simply happy to be with you for that moment. These are the guys that seem the most exciting to marry initially because you envision a life of carefree shenanigans that will keep you young and vibrant for years to come. The reality is that at some point they will grow up and become just as boring as you.

Moving along to men my own age. Problem with these fellas is that they're usually looking to get married and start families because that's what all their buddies are doing. They are also beginning to establish their careers. This is great if their career interests, inspires or impresses you. If not, then you can't very well expect them to change at this point. These men have begun to feel the pressures of adulthood and it shows. Commiserating about jobs, relationships and money are the new talking points at happy hour. Sure I relate to this age group on most levels, but the things I consider "issues" in my life are generally quite different and I don't like to wear my flaws on my sleeve anyhow. It's depressing and boring. No one has any meaningful advice or answers to alleviate these new grown up responsibilities so what's the point of discussing them? I believe most of these men prefer avoiding any sort of investigation into the root cause or possible solutions, because what would they have to discuss on a Friday night? Long gone are the days of college parties and hooking up with everyone you meet to inspire conversation. No more springbreak vacations or plans for the future. So what's left to talk about? How about pick up a freakin' newspaper! Sometimes it's interesting to discuss things outside of your own little bubble. There's a lot going on in the world and if you can believe it, most of it is happening outside of the greater Milwaukee area. So you see, this age group has grown somewhat tiresome for me. Call me a traitor, facts are facts.

Finally, the trickiest of all age groups - older men. To clarify, I'm considering 10+ years my senior the "older man." Here's where things get a bit dicey. For starters, I'm in the prime "cheat on your wife" age group for older men. All the tawdry tales of middle aged men diddling their 20-something year old secretaries, yep these are my peers. By societal standards, older men are simply in pursuit of the next hot young thing that makes them feel virile. After all, what could you possibly have in common? I'm not a fan of this stereotype because a) I'd like to believe I have more than a wrinkle free face and non-drooping boobies - maybe not making a great case for my maturity by utilizing terms such as boobies, eh - to offer an older man, b) maybe they still want children and mother nature can be a real bitch when it comes to women and their reproductive time frame, we're talking pure science people, human longevity and the survival of the species...riiight... and c) men unfortunately tend to age more gracefully than women and often feel years younger than their drivers license would have you believe. 20-something year olds have a different mindset when it comes to their "problems" and relationships compared to older women. This can be good or bad, depending on what you're willing to put up with. Our issues deal more with superficial desires and are easily appeased by a supportive partner whom rivals their mom in the pick-me-up speech department. We're still rather idealistic and don't cling to past wrongs so moving forward is usually pretty painless. No offense to older women, but you tend to get a little bitter especially if you're still single and no one likes a spiritless spinster (bonus points for alliteration!).

Most younger women are easily seduced by the maturity and apparent stability of older men. However, you must compete with their set ways and may indeed find yourself taking a backseat to their needs. You have to wonder whether or not they take you seriously or simply humor you because you titillate their dusty parts. DTabs made a valid point the other day. She said older men are appealing to younger women because they have what we long for. That sense of self and their place in the world. As we struggle to figure out who we are to become and what path will take us there, these men seduce us with their stoic confidence. Yet one day (similar to the young men growing up to be your boring counterpart) we'll figure it out and find our own sense of calm and purpose. So where does that leave our unwavering rock of an older man who no longer impresses us with his assuredness? Just old I guess.

So there you have it - men come in all different packages at any age. That revelation was free of charge my friends. Some of the old may be the most juvenile, whereas some of the young may be years ahead of themselves. Each individual is different in their needs and expectations. So basically, yet another dating cliffhanger. I swear at some point I will provide you with a valid lesson of some sort. Okay, definitely maybe not but at least you know I'll vouch for you if you find yourself dating anywhere along the creepy age gap continuum.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Turn up the Enya and hide the razor blades

Why is that everyone born after July 28, 1983 (that being a monumental day in history as the world welcomed the enigma whom you have grown to know and love...me!) insists that I cherish my 20's, as they are the best of days that I will look upon fondly as I grow older (and no doubt) less charming. I almost feel guilty for resenting this period of my life. A period that has brought a lot of discouragement and confusion. Sometimes I wish I could fastforward a decade or two and figure out what I am suppose to be doing because for the life of me, I don't have a clue at the moment. Most people think fondly of their 20's when the monotony of daily life becomes irksome. Some miss the anticipation of what drunken debauchery the weekend may bring. Some miss not having a spouse, children, in-laws, or boss to answer to. Some may miss the thrill of what's to come. Youthful optimism of what path your life may take, unencumbered by the fear of failure, driven by puerile certainty that you will succeed. To those whom affectionately reminisce upon their 20's, wishing for a moment they could recapture that bold excitement, allow me remind you of what your 20's were really about. A period when your life comes to numerous crossroads and your crutch (college, friends, financial support from mom and dad) no longer cradles your juvenile impulses. Decisions need to be made and responsibility beckons you from every corner no matter how hard you resist.

Throughout high school and college, everything lacks urgency. There's always more time to make important decisions. I'll figure out my passion later. I won't worry about my debt(s) until I'm done with school. Of course my friends will always be around to entertain me. Mom and dad will keep paying my health insurance and giving me beer money. Then one day you wake up and realize that you can no longer rely on your friends to split the rent 5 ways, eat from the cafeteria on your meal plan or expect mom to keep doing your laundry. The 4 years you spent partying studying landed you with a piece of paper that proclaims your expertise in some chosen field. For me, I apparently am an economics guru. I remember walking across the stage on graduation day, reaching out my hand for the coveted slip manifesting my genius, and feeling like a complete fraud. What did I know about economics? Sure I sat through a few classes, passed a few exams and read a few books, but to think I was at all prepared to take on a job requiring these skills was absurd. I only chose econ in the first place because it sounded smart and was about the only subject that didn't bore me to death. Not exactly what fuels ones future passion when entering the workforce.

At this point, most 20-something year olds get a job that either pays the bills or has potential of becoming their desired career. No one lands their dream job right out of the gate. Now you may wake up at 40 and realize you're still in your post-college entry level position but you didn't consciously decide that was going to be it. Somewhere along the way you may have missed an opportunity, life may have thrown you a few curve balls and you may feel like a failure, but you made your bed so deal with it. Throughout college (the ambitious types) dream of what exciting and profound career they may one day profess on their business card. Supreme Court Justice? Can't wait! Nation's leading heart surgeon? Where do I sign! Titan of industry? Yes please! Of course, no one actually achieves these coveted positions at 21, but isn't it fun to think of all that potential your professors and parents have been feeding your ego all these years? No one tells you how morally crushing it is to be rejected by a small firm that has typos in its Jobs.com ads and polyester clad HR drones. No one clarifies that your "earning potential" is just that, potential. You may have the fortune of making that bank decades down the line but don't think you're getting that great health plan and bonus package with zero experience. No one rewards you for your efforts with concrete affirmation of grades, diplomas or smiley face stickers. Sure a paycheck may be considered a reward for your attempts at being productive, but when you see the paltry amount that barely covers the gas it takes to get to work, it feels more like a cruel joke.

So while you're feeling particularly nostalgic about your 20's, remember how disappointing, stressful and degrading it was to realize you're not as "special" as your parents and professors built you up to be. Think back on that first despondent memory of rejection. Whether it's an internal defense mechanism (I haven't run the diagnostics on this theory yet and I only minored in psychology) or the capacity to remember stressful times dissipates with the aging brain, people tend to remember only the carefree carousing of their 20's. Somehow they seem to have forgotten that epiphany whereby one realizes they're most likely NOT going to reach that elusive "potential." Coming from the generation of entitlement, this is a particularly difficult reality to grasp because most of us are not equipped with the necessary skills to cope with our own shortcomings.

In your 20's it's hard to imagine the people you once played beer pong with while taking breaks to do keg stands will one day run off and get married and produce offspring. That girl who spent every Friday night clutching the toilet, mascara running down her face, drunkenly sobbing over another rejection will actually dupe find some dude to marry her. When you hit your mid-20's most of these friends will inevitably be engaged or married, while you sit and blog, waiting for your chance. Friendships change as lifestyles change. If you're single, your newly married cohorts tend to associate with other newlyweds and begin looking at you with pity or disdain. It's even worse if said cohorts begin procreating. What could you possibly have in common then? My single species is dwindling. Every week it seems as if another friend gets engaged or finds a little demon seed in her belly. I can no longer muster my false enthusiasm for such news. I'm actually beginning to resent most of these people. Not necessarily because I'm bitter or jealous, but because I truly enjoy scrutinizing other's relationships and finding the flaws for them. You're welcome. Not callous enough to point them out, I silently reassure myself that by the time they realize the hasty decisions they've made and plan their matrimonial escape, I'll be well on my way to wedded bliss. Ha!

However, those of you who've made it through your 20's with a little grace and sanity, and do find yourselves married (happily or not) be thankful you fit the norm. It's not so great on the other side. When your love life is floundering, it's difficult to be constantly surrounded by a bunch of newlyweds. They're like a plague of locusts sweeping over your self-confidence, leaving very little behind. Making more of a spectacle attempting NOT to speak about their upcoming nuptials around those who have none to speak of. Especially around the girl who called off her own wedding. I'm either the basketcase who couldn't make it down the aisle, or the spoiled brat who didn't see the value of making it down the aisle. So, be thankful if you're in this elite group of couples and stop bitching about missing the good ol' bachelor days. Sure it's fun to have the freedom to look, but not so fun if no one is looking back.

Still miss your 20's? Miss all the insecurity and doubts? Miss feeling like the outcast or that you're falling behind? Miss the eagerness of what may lie ahead only to discover it's pretty bleak? The only period of my life I've look fondly upon, were the days I was free to poop my pants. I guess by that token, I'm really looking forward to my 90's.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Van Buren Commie Lofts

I almost lost it 2 days ago. And by "lost it", I mean lost my dog after hurling him off the balcony. Not literally, but tip-toeing the line of very literally. Between the barking, biting, peeing and circling my legs all day, I checked my condo rules to see if it would be "unsightly" to have a dead dog on the neighbor's balcony below. Speaking of condo rules, I recently found the new 14 page packet outside my door. As my heart started racing and little beads of sweat began to inhabit my brow, I knew it. They found out about the 3rd dog and now I will be driven from VBCL by an angry pitchfork and torch bearing upscale elderly lot. After briefly running through my various escape plans (one of which includes the great Mylar balloon diversion/hide in the attic plan but first I must find an attic) I realized all the neighbors had new rules outside their door. *Phew* I'll admit I still tentatively flipped through the pages, anticipating a few highlighted sections or specific "Unit Owners Named Rachel Rules" but found none. After going through all 14 pages of restrictions I couldn't help but wonder why the hell I was paying so much to live at a place that is beginning to feel like a Soviet Gulag. Okay, that might be a little overly dramatic but I'm not what you'd call a fan of rules, regulations, restrictions or any other "R" word that limits my impulses or causes heart palpitations.

The rules that really irritate me are all the "unsightly" elements that one is to avoid. An entire page is devoted to balconies. Although the rules are prefaced by "The balconies, while for the exclusive use of the unit to which they are attached," [alright, I paid for and own the balcony so...] "impact the appearance of our building and can pose certain safety concerns." Final summation - Your $9000 taxes, mortgage payments and condo fees do NOT omit the fact that you live in a condo and not a house, and therefore must succumb to the whim of the almighty board as if you still live under your parents roof. Some of the balcony rules that I found to be particularly Commie in nature include the following:

  1. Children are not permitted on balconies except under the supervision of an adult. (Although the average age of residents at VBCL is 76, I don't really foresee grandchildren hurling themselves off our tiny balconies being a serious concern.)

  2. No unsightly tables, chairs, grills or other items will be permitted. (I've looked at my neighbor's balconies and have to seriously question who determines what is unsightly because I'm seeing a lot of random foliage and faux Roman statues. Also, could this pertain to people? I find my freaky neighbor below, to be quite unsightly.)

  3. Balconies may not be used for shaking rugs. (Why? Not that I shake my rugs anyway, but if I did I can't imagine that so much debris would be strewn about as to become a hazard or blemish on the facade of the building. A little dust and bits of kibble should eventually blow away, am I right?)

  4. Residents may not drop items or pour liquids off the balconies. (Okay, this makes sense but it's the equivalent of saying "Don't make toast in the tub.")

  5. No signs or banners shall be displayed. (Commie bastards.)

  6. Residents may place a reasonable amount of flowers or other plantings on their balconies. (WTF? What is considered a reasonable amount? Is there a formula to this? A ratio of petunias to marigolds that must be followed? How many marijuana plants am I allowed? Again, I want to know who is setting these standards as it looks like the freakin' Milwaukee Domes on most balconies.)

  7. Balconies may not be used for drying laundry. (Way to go Green guys! Personally I think this is a dig at Chinatown's all over the world. Who doesn't want to see what clothes I spilled wine on the night before?)

As I've mentioned, there is also a 2 dog per household limit. Why only 2 dogs when the city of Milwaukee allows 3? Couldn't tell you, other than I suspect there's been some sort of elderly dog fighting issues in the past. The new rules also include the ramifications of any sort of deviant and felonious behavior. These include - a written reprimand (which I've already received a number of times for various infractions), a fine not to exceed $250, plus admin costs of $20, plus $15 per day the malevolent conduct persists. By my calculations I owe the board roughly $800 for the Judge already. Oh, and loss of use of the Association's recreational facilities. That being a pool table in the lobby. Drat!

So you see, I'm not cut out for this type of bastille living. I'm a real maverick who's not afraid to live outside the law. I've got to find a new place of residence that doesn't restrict my renegade lifestyle. Some place where I can flaunt my unsightly patio furniture, throw decorative objects and various paraphernalia outside my windows on a whim, stomp and shout down the hallways, let my canines run rampant and children hurl themselves off the balcony if they so choose.

Sure I like living downtown for the nightlife and convenience, but Judge has made those shining qualities a thing of the past. I think my overwhelming desire to never interact in a neighborly fashion with anyone inhabiting my zip code eclipses my love of 18' ceilings and Cream City brick walls. I just need to get out of here before the KGB discovers all my dastardly deeds and eats away my handbag and shoe fund savings.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Shark vs. Jets

You know how people say that after you have a baby it's hard to think of a time before you had baby? I finally get it! I'm having a difficult time remembering what it was like to sleep for more than 3 consecutive hours, have all the skin on my hands intact, walk through my condo without tripping over toys and smashing kibble. I think I used to wear clothes other than sweats and shower on a daily basis. I vaguely recall a time when my vocabulary consisted of words and phrases other than - NO, don't bite, don't bark, don't nurse off the other dogs wieners, and what the hell is wrong with you?! In fact, I believe my brain is actually starting to atrophy. Problem solving, grammar, and a general working knowledge of civil functioning is beginning to dissipate. I've already raised 2 puppies so I figured, how hard could a third be?! I've got this! Not the case. A Doberman puppy does not exhibit the same qualities of a teeny Italian Greyhound puppy. For example, Doberman puppies latch onto your flesh with the determination of well, a Doberman. This attack/guarding quality would be impressive and noble if I could harness this madness and redirect it at burglars, felons or bad dates. In fact, my little guy already has the strength and stamina to drag a suitcase around my condo. Doberman puppies are not timid at all. At least not mine (the vet actually said he was very "self-confident" which I believe is code for "good luck, this dog will annihilate you"). Nothing scares him and he has yet to back down from any apparent challenge, including my authority. Most people bring their undisciplined, under exercised, unsocialized dogs to the dog park. This results in a bunch of crazy ass dogs running wild with little to no respect for space, puppies, small dogs, or nice apparel.

[Sidenote to any reader who has a dog such as this: DO NOT bring your dog to the dog park if you haven't walked it already, taught it basic commands or socialized it with a variety of people and other dogs! It's not fair to the rest of us to have your stupid dog get poopy paw prints on our clothes, bang into us, harass or teach our dogs bad habits. Some disgusting, grunty little gremlin looking dog was humping the daylights out of my puppy and within about 10 minutes my pup embarked on his humping spree. Not cool.]

Anyway, for some reason I've noticed a lot of people own boxers, huskies and a variety of hunting/working dogs downtown. For those of you who know anything about dog breeds, these are generally not the best condo or city dogs as they require a lot of exercise. Letting your dog frolic in the park for 20 minutes ain't gonna cut it. These are the dogs that knock you and your dogs over with no inhibition. My pup unfortunately bears the brunt of a lot of crazy dog energy as they plow into or paw at him. They're too rough and I get irritated when the owners of said crazy dog don't reprimand or at least call Cujo back to them. Take the time to socialize your dog with puppies you irresponsible idiots! Then I get to "protect" my future guard dog. Last week a boxer kept running over him and pawing at him too roughly. At the time my little guy had the coordination of a severe alcoholic after a 2 week bender. He'd flop over, cry a bit then march right back up to the boxer and stare him down. Of course he'd get pounded on again, but he kept getting up and facing his assailant. I'll admit I was proud. He's either extremely brave or extremely stupid. The jury is still out. In a few months, I look forward to having them "play" together and I will take a cue from the boxer's owner and not reprimand or control my dog either. Hehe.

The first week or so the Judge (oh, that's his name by the way) slept like an angel and I was patting myself on the back for having found the perfect dog. Within a couple days sleeping through the night transformed into brief naps throughout the day and a hearty appetite for flesh. Seeing as he's so young, reprimands and misdirection register about a zero in his brain. I now know why God makes puppies so adorable (to look at). It's so you don't throw them against a wall, which I will admit I've seriously considered. Having this puppy makes me realize what an unfit mother I'd truly be. I have absolutely no patience for shenanigans or tomfoolery. I also try to reason with the unreasonable which then turns into swearing at the unreasonable. Thank goodness dogs never learn to speak or Judge would sound like a Tourettes sufferer. Since he's a Doberman everyone's warning me that I 'must be firm.' I need to remind myself that I 'must not drown him.' It's not difficult to be firm with a dog who bites your face as soon as you shut your eyes or takes a steamy poo in your hand. I wish I could fast forward about 3 months when his brain starts to develop past fetus status. I'm happy I got to see him all cute and tiny, but I'm over it now. Scary thing is, he gains about 3lbs a week and I'm almost certain none of it can be attributed to brain mass.

Another neat discovery - my dogs hate him. Maverick wouldn't look at him for the first few days and Rebel snaps every time Judge touches him. I'm hoping the Italian Greyhounds work on their attitudes because Judge is going to decimate them in a couple weeks. In my head this little scenario played out differently. My beautiful IGs frolicking about with their spunky new little brother. Taking naps by the fireplace, forging an unbreakable bond. *bloop! imaginary bubble bursts. It's like the Shark (Judge) vs. the Jets (Mav and Rebel), but without the neat choreography and snapping.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Animal Kingdom BEWARE - DTabs Dominion of Death

Sorry I've been MIA lately, it's just that I've been trying to keep a secret for the past week and I didn't trust myself not to blab it all over the Internet. I did however blab it to numerous family members and friends. I guess my future in safeguarding national security secrets is out the window. I seriously talk a lot, no water boarding necessary. The secret that I've (sort of) kept the past week was that I've added a new addition to my family and brought my title as crazy dog lady one step closer to fruition. I got another puppy! Yes, that now brings me to 3 dogs. However, my other 2 are equivalent to one medium size dog and display the characteristics of a fat old house cat so I'm considering this little guy my first "dog." So, why the secrecy? DTabs is not a fan of canines (or any living creature for that matter). Sure she tolerates my pups in small doses, but I'd never trust her alone with them. For example...In college I had a bunch of pet mice. Sort of gross but I've always liked having some little creature dependent on me, sort of a god complex. Well DTabs was to watch them (literally, just watch them and drop some water in their cage) over the weekend. Seems simple, right? When I returned home I couldn't find my beloved disease-ridden rodents.

"DTabs, where are my darling pets?"

"Oh, I burned them."

"You what?!"

"They started losing their fur and looked nasty so I burned them in their cage."

[wondering if my mother isn't in fact beginning to show the tell-tale signs of a serial killer]

"Um...okay, thanks for incinerating watching my pets. I've got to go back to campus and pray for your soul."

Example number 2:

DTabs was having a leisurely afternoon of gardening when she thought she spied a mole corrupting her lovely flower beds. So what does DTabs do? Grabs a golf club and smashes the thing to death, of course! Oh wait, she doesn't stop there. After desecrating the first little "mole" she spots a few more offenders and proceeds to go on a Tiger Woods inspired killing rampage. When the dusts settles and her blood shot, crazed eyes regain focus DTabs realizes that the carnage was not in fact aimed at the dastardly mole species. Rather, she MURDERED A NEST FILLED WITH BUNNIES. Yes, little hippity-hoppy sweet fuzzy bunnies. All of them. Not one sole survivor to warn the rest of the animal kingdom to steer clear of DTabs dominion of destruction.

So you see, DTabs is not a lover of animals nor does she see any of the finer points of pet ownership. Meh.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Vaginas and VD: Another trip to Michigan

I spent the weekend visiting my cousin M in Michigan again. We had a wonderful time (as always) but I had to share her briefly with the new man in her life. Seeing as I'm a bit selfish, I'll admit I had more fun when I had her all to myself. Here's the weekend wrap up.

Friday night I arrived to an empty parking lot because M and Silas (what I've named her new lova, since I thought this was his real name the past couple weeks...not even close) were having a "quick bite." By quick bite I'm pretty sure they skipped the sorbet and after dinner drinks of their 12 course meal. "Hi Silas, I'm Rachel." [Insert some inappropriate discussions about bodily functions, my dating experiences and profanity which I can't seem to wriggle out of my vocabulary.] "Nice to meet you Rachel." *shakes my hand then secretly wishes he had some hand sanitizer.

We get ready and M calls a cab to come get us...30 minutes later a party bus arrives. As the 3 of us pile in, I can't help but wonder if M anticipates picking up a dozen hitchhikers to party with? I had called a friend to meet up with us at the bar so I could avoid the third wheel scenario I had envisioned. Thankfully he showed up and the 4 of us spent the remainder of the evening dancing, drinking and wondering why M was in the bathroom so long. Hehe...

Saturday I woke up to an empty apartment because the lovebirds had flown the coop, leaving me just enough time to struggle with a NASA engineered coffee maker. The remainder of the day M and I went shopping. Most notably, our experience in Armani Exchange. Or as I like to refer to it, Armani Lite. We tried on our clingy fashions, sweating in the same fitting room, oblivious to the fact we were not in a soundproof cubicle, for about an hour. I'm pleased to note that if you spend enough money in this store they will not ask you to leave even if you insist on walking around the fitting room hallway with your pants around your ankles or discussing vaginas. At one point I felt M and the sales clerk were in cahoots because she remained in the fitting room agonizing over camel toe inducing skinny jeans while I was left to "browse" the displays near the register. I use the term "browse" lightly, because I just fondle the baubles for a moment, if the weight and texture is pleasing in my grasp it goes on the counter with all of my other purchases. The sales clerk was rather crafty about stashing my bounty behind the counter so I could not mentally keep track of my ever growing pile of goodies. That is, assuming I would mentally keep track in the first place. Not my style. By the time we left it felt like Christmas, as I had no idea of the contents in my bag. I'm pleased to announce that when I did open my presents, still giddy with excitement, I found that the only questionable purchase was a black leather cuff that would only fit a large strapping man. Note to self: find a large strapping man before Christmas.

We ate dinner at 10pm and finally went out to the bar at midnight. In all of Lansing, we happened to be at the same bar as the married cop who had handed M the phone to speak with his wife a few months back. [See Tolls and Trunk Pizza: My trip to Michigan post]. A rather bold (read: sloppy drunk) joined us for a bit towards the end of the evening. He introduced himself and I asked the obvious, why was he wearing his wedding ring on his right hand? "Oh, thish riiing? Myyy mom gavsh it to meh." Umkay. We're talking thick platinum band, diamonds, the whole nine yards of wedded warranty. Fellas if you're going to try this slick maneuver, at the very least, put the ring in your pocket or wallet. Eventually you'll get busted anyhow, but a woman might at least flirt with you a few moments longer. That is, unless the woman is a VD-toting hussy who doesn't care what finger or pocket your ring is on or in at all. To this woman, I say, best of luck with the inflammation and rigorous ointment application, you model citizen.
As M and I were discussing highbrow topics of hair, makeup and fashion, we were treated to a Britney Spears look-a-like crotch peepshow. I'm talking full on crotch shot. This young skank girl was attempting perhaps a yoga split on some dude's lap in a dress that barely covered the offending crotch even if she had been standing. He seemed to sort of prop her up in his lap as she drunkenly slithered towards the floor. Her skanky clone girlfriend beside her was molesting another dude while standing and trying to wriggle her own dress (maybe dress is an overstatement, long-ish tee perhaps) up another few inches. Not even subtly I might add. Just grabbing the hem and yankin' it up. Sad thing is, these girls were very attractive in an overly processed, Girls Gone Wild-inspired sort of way. They didn't need to get sloppy drunk and rub their VD all over the place. Alas, I'm sure they'll make some middle-aged banker very happy for a few years before their faces crack and their greatest assets look like little Ziploc bags of pudding. This sort of behavior makes me re-think procreation. If I ever had a daughter like this I'd be looking into underground clinics that specialize in aborting 22 year olds. To date I have never seen anyone protesting this particular brand of abortion so I can avoid the awkward fetus posters (see, I'm definitely becoming a closet optimist).