Catharsis-Farts

Let me get this off my chest in as eloquent a way as possible.

I was sitting on a concrete bench, and there were ants, not a lot of ants, but a few, crawling around on my fingers, and I remember being able to see the moon. It must have been one of those afternoons when you can see the moon before the sun goes down. It’s never a full moon, rather, it’s a moon in transit, close to the beginning of its cycle, thus closer to the earth (or something like that). I remember looking just past his ear as I tried to explain myself and seeing the half moon in the light of day.

I had done a bad thing, he told me. We recently spent the weekend together at our future home out west with our future church, and I had rudely rushed him out Sunday morning while he was being admired by one of the members of the church. I can barely even remember the moment.

The first time we met the members, in December, we had instantly fallen in love with them, and they had fallen in love with us. He told me that he believed he would not have been hired without my charming personality. I remembered him as generally happy and usually admired wherever he went, but he always felt a little awkward and nervous in interview situations. That was where I came in. I was the warmer, the joker, the one to find common ground. I was not, however, much of a lady about it. Ever. Oh how I hated and loved that about myself.

Now it was March, and the preacher and his wife were leaving, waving to us, and calling back that they would go ahead and get a table at the restaurant, but we were surrounded. A shy gentleman had been speaking with us for longer than anyone was comfortable. He wasn’t a bad guy, just one of those guys that keeps nervously talking until whoever is listening cuts him off to leave...to escape. My love was too nice to walk away, so I cut in to remind him that people were waiting for us.

Seems like a normal thing to do, except that I, apparently, am abrasive. The way some had described me to myself at that point in my very early twenties, my voice and words must've gone over like a rusty bucket of soggy diapers.

He told me that he was so embarrassed by that particular interaction that he was listing it as reason for ending our engagement.

We had been together for almost four years, three years when he proposed. We were performing a David Ive’s sketch for the current group of young Christians with whom he was working. It was in Sunday school. Asking me to marry him was in the script, written years before we would ever even read it, but actually having a ring was not. And he had a ring.

Then suddenly, there we were, almost a year later, sitting outside of the laundry room, in the shadow of impending doom. I, shifting my gaze from the ants on my hands to the early moon, was half listening to him explain how inappropriate my behavior had been over the past weekend. He had driven to Dallas from Abilene to tell me all of this. My dad and I had run into him at my place when we got back from dish shopping, for the wedding registry, for my wedding registry.

When I think back to that weekend and turn it around the folds of my gray matter, I remember having brunch at the home of a young married couple from the church. They were quiet and reserved but very intelligent. We talked about politics (within the church) as well as lifestyle, since we were planning a big move west and were looking forward to slower, warmer living. It was dull conversation, if I’m honest, too polite.

Somehow we ended up talking about film, and that conversation made its way to the topic of curse words and sex (or "biblical fornication") in film. He and I were all too familiar with this conversation. We’d had it with each other a million times, and a million times we had been in agreement. Movies were our thing. We went to see so many movies and rented or purchased enough VHS tapes of our favorite films to satisfy the nerdiest of obsessions. We had crossed the bridge from VHS to DVDs together. We saw the rise and fall of Circuit City, and we shopped at the liquidation sales. We basked in our haven of electronics and entertainment like the excellent Americans we were.

This couple was not a fan. They liked movies, but they preferred the ones that didn’t barrage them with unpleasant violence, sex, and language. This was not uncommon among church goers. Entire campaigns to show the world we stood behind our word included pledging, as a Christian, to walk out of movies where the Lord’s name was taken in vain, and I fancied myself one of them for a moment.

Unfortunately, the creative madwoman in my head wouldn’t let me avoid seeing the films that received the highest accolades which were always the films rife with sin. I was a snob and a junkie. We were, together. So I argued as I believed, that if art is to be a reflection of life, it must reflect all of life, even the parts we don’t like.

She (I don’t remember her name, but she was a nurse or something because she was wearing scrubs...or she was just a person that liked wearing scrubs...which is worse, not that being a nurse is bad...just...scrubs) argued that she did not want to fill her mind with such images. I said I couldn’t imagine denying myself knowing how the world works, and what life without church would look like. This was an important moment along the timeline of my relationship with my first love.

And he was my first love. With him, for the first time in my life, I realized that love was easy. That falling in love was something that couldn’t be stopped or controlled, and that the amount of love I had to give was greater than I had ever imagined. I loved him so much it hurt, every single day.

Relationships, on the other hand, were tricky. They required immaculate communication and compatibility. He and I were very young, and he had, I would learn, a few expectations about marriage that I would have never expected. Namely, he had never seen his parents argue, and we argued all the time.

When asked his opinion of “unpleasantness” in film, he surprised me with an about-face and agreed with our new “friends.” It would do us all some good to protect ourselves from having to hear and see, to consume, such violence, such harsh realities. 

Looking back on it, this was the moment I should have known for sure. There were many times before when I should have known something was wrong. He talked about different women, "amazing" women in his life, and I should have seen the lust behind those words, but THIS moment should have thrown me a lot further than it did at the time. 

He, whom I had known so well, was not himself...any more. At least, he was not the man I loved, my heart, my best friend, every night with our feet up laughing about farts and debating the validity of the Best Picture win for Titanic, eating buckets of fries from McDonald's (literally, they sold buckets for a short moment), and laughing our equally unique and ridiculous laughs. He was not himself.

He had not been himself for a long time. I just didn't see it.

I fought him, tumbling into the hole that I didn't even see coming. We wrestled, and I raged. He just wanted it to be easier, and I guess I always knew it wouldn't be...for me. 

A year later, I was in Europe, an overfilled and heavy backpack strapped to my back. It started as motivation, my first effort to build the best revenge: a better life, but revenge is usually misguided, and the most painful breaks are often born of circumstance. We were both victims. 

I don't want to be a victim any more.

I remember a tiny piece of the pain that day every once in a while, when I look up at the sky before the sun has finished setting, and I see the moon. I used to hold onto it like a talisman, a metal of honor for taking it in the face. 

But I had to let it go. I had to stop fighting...without losing my pluck. This is tough to say, but I used to tell people, "I'd rather die than have my heart broken like that again." I'm glad I haven't yet... died, that is.

I was thinking about trying to tie the ants in here at the end, talk about how I don't mind them any more, and how they can't hurt me...but ants are gross...and I will dance on their graves. I will delight in their demise. Is what I'm saying.

Thank you for listening, and pardon me if it seems like I'm abusing our friendship.

Helvellyn

I visited the lake district with Liam the summer of 2007. His America-hating Rome-loving grandmother drove us to our campsite after we spent a couple of nights at her home in Carlisle. I read the last Harry Potter book in the warm grass of her garden, and Liam took me to my first very local football match where he told me about the lyrics "panic on the streets of Carlisle" in regards to the old Smith's song. We walked home, boozy from the pints through a cow pasture as quietly and calmly as possible, but the cows still took note and slowly began to follow us to the "kissing gate" that separated them from the dirt road.

On our way to the glacial hills of the district, as I gaped at the breathtaking scenery, Liam's grandmother asked me, "is there any place you can go walking in America?" I glanced into the backseat at Liam who smiled and rolled his eyes.

"Of course," I responded, "Lots of places. It just depends on what you're looking for and how far you're willing to travel."

We camped just beyond a large pasture of sheep who kept me up at night with their less than comforting "baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahs." The tent was small, and the wind raged the first night; thus, between the bleating of the sheep, the flapping of the tent fabric, and my boyfriend's farting (I had met my match), I slept very little.

I started my period the next morning, and we headed out from the campsite to scale Helvellyn.

It's a well known range in the lake district, I would later discover at a bar in Dahlonega, GA. I had just moved to town, was dipping my toes in the bar scene, and had chosen a seat next to a gentleman with an English accent. The topic of conversation eventually got around to places I'd visited in England and finally to Helvellyn. He seemed quite impressed that I had hiked the mountain, especially via striding edge, but I, of course, downplayed my adventure by explaining, in detail, the number of tears I shed in front of all of the United Kingdom that day as I climbed the rock face to the final peak of the trail.

I had cramps for the first five hours of our six and a half hour hike. I couldn't walk them off. Despite the pain, I enjoyed the views, the sheep and goats along the way, and the companionship of Liam, who had taught me so much about taking the time to soak up the world around me...by walking.

I believe this little glacial "pond" is called Red Tarn

All the while, I knew striding edge was coming up, and though I tried to convince myself it would not be as bad as it looked from far away (it looked like people were walking a tightrope), I knew it was going to be pretty hard.

Liam described the landscape to me, how it had formed, and what makes a glacial lake. We ate fruit and prosciutto while livestock watched and waited for scraps. We passed Englishman after Englishman clad in waterproof walking gear, rosy cheeks and all.


I would explain to you how it all works, the science of it, but that has never been my forte. Instead, I'll just keep to what I know best: the emotional roller coaster on which I was forced by the breathtaking landscape and difficulty level "high" climbs.

The beginning of Striding Edge 

It's called Striding Edge because...well...."walking" it is like striding the edge of the mountain. I bent down a few times to hold on as I made my way across the narrow path leading to the final summit. I had a headache like you wouldn't believe, and I was sweating bullets and freezing, but I stood up at one point and looked out to my left to behold nothing but lakes and peaks as far as I could see. I'm not sure if I was actually looking west, but I imagined I was, and I pictured home and all my friends waving to me from the eastern coast of the United States.

I had Liam take a picture of my lovely mug at the end of Striding Edge

As soon as we finished striding the edge of the damn mountain, we faced the final ascent to the top of Helvellyn. The trail eventually ended, and there was nothing but rock, straight up, all the way to the top. So I started crying like a baby.

Through hiccups and tears, I asked Liam if he could please encourage me and not laugh at me as he climbed behind me. I also asked him to hold my butt in case I lost my footing. He was a little uncomfortable, to say the least, having to climb behind a weeping American with his hand groping her butt, but he obliged like a champ as what seemed like hoards of spry Brits climbed down past us with looks of bemused pity. I was a snotty wreck. I HAD CRAMPS. AND A HEADACHE.

Plus, nobody told me that I was going to have to do this. I hate being surprised, and I hate it even more when the surprise leaves me underprepared. I'm sure if I had known what was coming, I would have been able to bolster my emotions and my strength. I'm sure I wouldn't have made a fool of myself by crying like an infant on what most "locals" would call a "walk," but, then again, I'll never really know if that would have been the case. I had to take the trail as it came to me.

Oh the life parallels. They just keep grabbing me by the butt.

When we finally got to the top, and I, with a boost from behind, pulled myself up over the edge (it probably wasn't that drastic, but it sure felt like it at the end of five hours of walking and climbing), Liam immediately spun me around and warned me not to read the stone that memorialized the first climbers, I think because one of them had fallen to his death.

It was cold and windy, and my head still hurt like nothing I'd felt before, but I was done climbing up, it felt amazing, and I laughed almost all the way down the mountain.

We went "down tha pub" for dinner, and I rewarded myself with a roast and potatoes covered in gravy as well as a side of Yorkshire pudding, which I also covered in gravy. The tent was going to be warm with farts that night.

Walking back to the campsite, my legs wobbly from the hike and the pints, my belly warm with gravy and potatoes, I saw a lamb bounding and flopping about around its mother. I had never seen a lamb before outside of pictures, and it was precious, excited by the prospects of its own legs.

That's how I felt, all of a sudden. I was excited by the prospect of what else I could do. My legs had just helped me up and down one of the most difficult hikes in England. Sure, I cried like a baby, kicking and screaming as it is forced into the world from the warm comfort of the womb, and sometimes I still cry like that, but that's life, isn't it? Nobody can really tell you how hard it will be. Adults can shake their heads and sigh when a twenty-something says "I'm invincible," but they cannot prepare him or her for the struggles that lie ahead.

It's good to be excited by the prospects and certainly better than being terrified of them.

So, life, I see your struggles, and I raise you the strength of my own legs. Keep in mind I know nothing about poker, but I've climbed some peaks in my lifetime, and I know that I always get to laugh down the other side....and eat mashed potatoes.

The Family You Choose

I chose the title for this blog a week ago, and I had almost forgotten my inspiration for it until just now. I finished eating yogurt covered pretzels, sipping my morning coffee of leftover Stumptown coffee beans that had to be removed from the espresso grinder by hand and either thrown away or stuffed in a pastry bag and transported to my home, whilst watching John Oliver, and I began my daily perusal of the facebooks to read yet another post from a good friend of mine that sparked a delightfully (actually) intelligent debate which, in turn, reminded me of the reason I would like to write about "The Family You Choose." Long sentence? It's legit. Try reading some Cormac McCarthy.

I've had a strange relationship with the idea of "family" for most of my life. I suspect we all do. There are societal norms, 2.5 children and such, and there is...everything else.

My mom is the youngest of seven. Holidays and vacations spent in the exotic small towns of Oklahoma were bustling, frenzied, and fascinating. There were so many siblings with children with their own children, and cats and dogs, and food and football, and that remarkable Nevills sarcasm. I could write books about the people I met, that claimed me and I them. My family.

My dad, on the other hand, is one of two. There is a certain level of intimacy, I gather, from growing up in a family of four, an almost perfect nuclear family. There is also a certain level of honesty that ferments from mutual strife. I remember meeting my dad's sister once, vaguely, as a child of about five, and a second time, years later, as a confused as hell teenager. I walked into my grandmother's room at the nursing home, and my aunt stood up to shake my hand, say this, "remember me? If you do, it's probably not good because the last time I saw you I hated kids," and give me the warmest smile I can remember.

Then there's...us. The three amigos. My mom and my dad and me against the world. And for twenty-four years, that's how it seemed it would always be. Until my parents divorced, and I, basically, fled the country.

I don't think I had started to grasp the vastness of the cosmos until my parents got divorced and I felt, for the first time, that I was completely alone in the universe, that my leash to the space shuttle had broken and I was Sandra Bullock-ing through space (Damn, she fine in that movie, though). The remarkable thing that I take from that whole...moment...was the simultaneously deafening yet beautiful utter silence.

Imagine being reborn, except this time, you're old enough to remember every terrifying second, from realizing that this liquid room you live in isn't big enough any more, to being SLOWLY forced through your mother's vagina, head first, to all the damn SHOTS you have to get...again. You have to shit your pants a lot, too.

At the age of twenty-four, I began the painful process of relearning the whole damn universe.

The most remarkable part of growing up is meeting your new family members. If you go looking for love, you will find it. I was lucky enough to meet some incredible people that fell in love with me and took me in. These are the people that occupy the space of my heart because I know that I occupy the space of theirs.

When I feel alone, misunderstood, lost, insane, broken, and bloody, I think about my family. The family I chose. I think about how much they must love me, to keep coming back after experiencing my waves of depression and anger. I think about how brave they are to be jumping off of cliffs every day to live the lives they've always dreamed. I think about how proud of me they'll be even if I fail at everything.

The people in my life, that I love, are so smart. They are inspiring. They are beautiful. And they love me. So I've got no excuse not to do the same.

The best part of it all, is that I still have my family from my childhood. It looks different and feels different. It is different, but that doesn't mean it isn't better. The honesty that comes from mutual strife, that ferments, becomes a relief. It becomes a resting place, where we can be ourselves, where we can be safe.

BOOM. Whole post about my dog who is incredible. GOTCHA!!!!

P.S. Not really. 

   

End of Part One

Every time I start to think that life makes any kind of sense, I'm reminded of that time I saw that Hobbit movie...two?...years ago. I was arguing with my dad before seeing it about whether or not it was going to be one movie or three movies. "There's no way that book fits three really long movies," I laughed at my dad's obvious naiveté. I mean, it's the smallest book in the series.

I graduated from the conservatory at Second City a little over a week ago, and holy hell has this year been a year. I moved to Chicago the day of new student orientation on June 23, 2013, and I finished my last show in the conservatory on July 21, 2014.

The year was long (I'm still suffering from PTSD because of the polar vortex), but not nearly as long as the years leading up to this exact moment. My road to my...life...has taken more twists and turns than I ever thought possible...when I graduated from college. That's a good thing, you know, because I've really been striving for a while to live the life of an autobiographer.

I used to tell my college boyfriend how I dreamed of going to Second City. The mere notion that people like Gilda Radner (who taught me that I wasn't the only weirdo), Mike Myers (who basically wrote my 90s experience), and the Ghostbusters (the Ghostbusters!) had studied at this institution in Chicago, made it essential on my list of places to be, if only for a moment, before I die.

He bought me a coffee table book about Second City from the bargain book table at Barnes and Noble. My first teacher at the conservatory is in that book.

Skip ahead to another chapter. I was a few weeks away from defending my Master's thesis and moving to England indefinitely (and what a fun turn that was), when my mom asked me, "what would you do if you weren't moving to England?" "I guess I would go to Second City and audition for the conservatory."

That was 2007.

Those seven years between then and now were just as earth shattering. In fact, every minute of my life I spend moving forward tends to crush it. How weird is that?

I don't know when I decided that I wanted to stop waiting to arrive, but it was in between all these places and spaces.

My favorite book as a kid was The Monster at the End of this Book, starring Grover. If you're familiar, you know that the fun is in the title. As a kid, you can't wait to turn the page because every turn gets you one hilarious page closer to seeing the monster. Even though Grover is so cute and does such a silly fun job of trying to keep you from doing so, you eventually get to the end. Don't worry. I don't do spoilers.

GUYS! We know that there is a monster at the end of our book, and it's a scary monster. Nobody wants to die, but most of us turn the pages so damn fast, it seems like we have a death wish.

Who the hell invented "settling down?" It's a crock. Settling down is something I want to do when I'm six feet under.

As scary as it is to know that we are all moving as one towards a similar fate, the thought of stopping, or slowing down, is more terrifying than any inevitable outcome.

So I checked off a bucket on my list..or something, but I'm not anywhere near done, and coming to that realization is terrifying and wonderful.

My only problem now, is making my opening metaphor match my final message. You see, I was NOT happy when I came to the end of the first Hobbit movie to find that there were TWO more movies that were just as long to be released over the next two years. There's a monster at the end of that book too, but I know what it looks like, and I know how it all goes down. Maybe it's the fact that this installment in the Peter Jackson wheelhouse feels less like art and more like watching a bunch of nerds masturbate (and, friends, masturbation is a sin) that makes it tiresome, or, perhaps I just don't like having to wait to pee for that long multiple times in a series.

I'm excited about the end of this chapter of my life, however, because I know that it only means the beginning of another chapter, and I can only speculate about the outcome of this one. I've read the Hobbit and the other books. They're old news. The books are better, anyway...as is this guy's version of the book in question.

In my case, however, as a future autobiographer, my actual book will just make the (billions of) readers jealous. Take that little bit of advice for what it's worth. *wink

Totally unrelated side-note: If you are a fan of Sesame Street literature, may I also suggest this book:

The End of Innocence

As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve been trying the online dating thing these days, and, I must say, I've been semi-successful...and by “successful,” I mean, I’ve been on a lot of different dates with a lot of different guys. 

The thing about online dating, for…me, I guess….is that I could have the same luck if I walked into a bar and said, “Um, Hello! I am looking for someone to sleep with on a regular basis. Wah wah, wa wawawa. wa wa wawawawawa.” In other words, some in the online dating scene see no difference betwixt it and the bar scene. 

But I am not online to "get laid." I don't need online for that. I am a woman with a woman's body. It's SCIENCE. I'm online to seek out connections, to discover people in my area that are my age that I might actually be compatible with outside the confines of propagation. Am I getting too vocabulary happy with you? Should I include a glossary? 

With this is mind, one must first accept the truth that, when given the opportunity to “sell” themselves, SOMETIMES BOYS TELL LIES. 

Par Example. 

Photo Credit to these silly guys: http://www.rad-dudes.com/?m=200912

I was on a date with a super cute guy I met on OkCupid that was a pretty high match for me. We were both into a lot of the same things, shared a lot of the same philosophies, but most importantly, when asked by the robot on the website, “Do you prefer to give or receive massages,” he marked “give,” and I marked, “receive.” 

Are you kidding me? I just found hit the jackpot. If things work out with this guy, I could be looking at a future of free massages for the foreseeable future without any sort of compensation required...I thought.  

I like getting massages and he likes giving massages. 

So we were on a date, and by “on a date,” I mean, we were making out on his couch, and I suddenly realized that I had never actually given him the chance/offered to let him give me a massage. So I asked him in my sexy voice "Hey...I hear you like to give massages,” and he answered, “Yeah. I do....I also like to get them.” 

...I laughed. HAHAHA. “Well, you wanna give me a massage?” 

He replied, "Sure. You wanna give ME one?" 

...

...

"But…on okcupid, you said you liked giving massages, and I said I liked receiving them." 

"Well, yeah. I like to give them, but I also like getting them. Who doesn’t like getting a massage?"

...

"...But…I don’t LIKE giving them. I like getting them...and I said that on OkCupid." 

"Well, there wasn't an option for both, so I just figured I’d say I like to give them because...why not?" 

...

…….Because why not? Because I don’t want to give massages. I don’t like it. It requires a great deal of effort, and, unless I’m getting paid, or…no….you’d pretty much need to pay me, I don’t want to waste my time rubbing on people’s bodies. I mean…is there anything wrong with that? I don’t think that makes me a bad person, or a selfish person. I think that just makes me human…and I was honest about it on OkCupid. I wasn’t like, “HEY! Why not?” I was like, "No. I don’t like giving massages."

BUT YOU. YOU skirted around the issue, “Sure. I prefer giving massages. I PREFER.”  The word prefer suggests you have an affinity for one over another. Given the choice to give or receive a massage, by marking that you “prefer to give” you are expressing to interested individuals, me, that you, more often than not, choose to be the GIVER of massages, and that, I say, is a noble answer. 

If someone were to ask me, “would you prefer to die in a violent car accident or die in your sleep,” my answer would, unequivocally be, “I would prefer to die in my sleep.” I don’t want to die in a violent car accident. I don’t want to do it. The same is true with giving massages. I don’t want to do it. If the fact that I don’t like to give makes me ignoble, then the fact that I am completely honest about that fact should absolutely absolve me of that sin. Along the same lines, If I fart in a room full of people, I will immediately own up to it. That way everyone can relax and not worry about whether they are no longer aware of or even in control of when they fart. I do that as a service to humanity. I tell the TRUTH. I believe there is honor in that. 

But now, thanks to you, my innocence is lost. I am painfully aware of the simple fact that YOU, sir, and perhaps a lot of others like you, are A BUNCH OF LIARS! AND YOU SMELL WEIRD. AND I JUST FARTED! TAKE IT TO THE DAMN BANK, WHY DONTCHA!?!?

AMIRIGHT?!?! Where my girls at?!?!

More Like Farts and Crafts

Look. I'm a girl. I can do things. I can do a lot of things. I can cook, clean (I am ABLE), train a dog, grow vegetables, fold clothes, write, edit, wax academic, be sexy, be casual, bathe myself, eat an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's in one sitting, binge watch television on Netflix (or any channel offering an America's Next Top Model marathon), read, snore, swallow more than one pill at a time, exercise, cycle, drive a stick shift, gossip, give advice, tell jokes, do shots, do my hair, pack a bowl, read a newspaper, teach a class, follow instructions...I could go on forever. I can do anything really, except CRAFT.

It's not that I CAN'T craft, and it's not that I don't like crafting...no...it is that I don't like it. I don't want to do it. If you're thinking about inviting me to a crafting extravaganza, you might want to think again. And no, adding wine as an incentive will NOT make me somehow want to come to your craft party. I can drink wine any time I want. I'm an adult. I don't need the excuse of a party to drink wine. I have a dog, a couch, a library of books, a television set, AND a box full of cheap wine glasses. I can drink wine on my own and not feel an OUNCE of guilt. There's no magic in taking a handful of buttons and some Mod Podge that will somehow make me feel like drinking wine is suddenly OKAY. I already think drinking wine is okay. There are no superlatives to the word "okay."

I have listened to friends that I LOVE, that I think are the coolest people, BEG me to come to their crafting parties, and I didn't argue. I just laughed. I just laughed. You think I can't talk girl talk with you unless I'm gluing lace to a pillow? Look, I wear makeup. I know the art of seduction. I don't need to prove it by crafting a birthday party for my boyfriend (Okay. I don't have a boyfriend, but if I did, I wouldn't make decorations for his birthday party. I would invite his friends and buy booze. What more could he want?).

And don't think I haven't tried it. I've tried crafting parties. I usually just sit there watching everyone dive into these incredibly intricate and thoughtful projects while I finish off a whole bottle of wine. The only thing I get out of a craft party is purple lips and teeth. Sometimes I cover my fingers in glue and peel it off...cuz that's fun, but I rarely get into the spirit of creativity.

And I KNOW....OMG, I KNOW that it might make Christmas shopping easier. I could just make some crappy hand made cards for people and drop them in the mail and BOOM...Christmas is done, and I feel no guilt for how broke I am. I made pretty things for you. Except that was more okay when I was a kid and making macaroni collages.

You know what. That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to make macaroni collages for ALL OF YOU. Macaroni, Elmer's glue all, washable markers, and maybe my handprint. And you HAVE to love it...because I DIY-ed it. I freaking do-it-yourselfed that shit.

Finally, in protest of the most harmless of all of the activities (because, honestly, ladies, more power to you), I'm going to have a girl party where we just drink wine, listen to music, and fart (which means I'll be inviting you to a regular day in my life at my apartment). Who's in?

I have no pictures for this blog.....yet.

As Usual, Something "New" and "Different"

I was sittin on the bus the other day, and I noticed an advertisement inside the bus for a speed dating organization. They touted themselves as "different" from the rest because they offered "categories." Through the miracle of inner-bus billboards, I learned that such "categories" unique to said "different" organization included:

Singles in their 20s.

Singles in their 30s.

Singles over 40.

Christian Singles.

Jewish Singles.

Muslim Singles.

I'm sorry. But...if you're offering me categories that can be considered "different" from those OTHER speed dating organizations...shouldn't the categories be...like...different? I mean, goodness knows I've never tried speed dating (although it might be fun..ny), so I guess maybe I'm not one to talk, but think about it this way:

As if the mere existence of multiple speed dating organizations wasn't SAD enough, now we come to find out that "most" of them (?) don't actually offer "categories," but when they do, they are the dullest and most obvious/redundant categories one might possibly be able to think of.

Thus, in response to the ad, I made a little list in my head of categories that might actually make me choose one service over another...were I ever to find myself bored enough to take a drunken run through a few speed dating shin-digs. Here's my list of categories that would make MY speeding dating worth calling unique.

Democrat Singles

Republican Singles (only if I haven't been INSANELY ANGRY in a while and need to feel that burn)

Traveling Singles

Steady normal job Singles (only out of curiosity)

Pothead Singles

Pothead Democrat Singles.

Singles who don't like real beer or whiskey. (avoid)

Singles who LOVE real beer and whiskey.

Singles who like to tell jokes.

Singles who don't laugh at anything.

Singles who fart only when alone.

Singles who fart most of the time. (not unlike my relationship with Target, I will look everywhere else for him and then find exactly who I was looking for in this very category)

Singles who laugh at farts.

Singles who don't laugh at farts.

Singles who love food.

Singles who don't love food. (or Singles who mostly eat just chicken fingers)

Messy Singles. (no more lying to myself)

Organized Singles.

Singles who don't mind Being Single, but occasionally have moments of despair, during which they weep at the overwhelming thought of being alone forever and being eaten by their cats.

Okay. There are more. I could honestly go on forever. But I won't. You get the picture.
If you want, feel free to comment (anyone with a gmail or google account can do so!) with categories that would make YOU get off your tookus and grab life by the speed dating bell.

Until next time, my lovelies.