p.s. sorry for the gritty picture of my thigh, I know the pastiness is frightening.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Notes from the weekend:
as previously mentioned, I love the nerdy boys. the ones that have national geographic maps in their rooms and probably own a bathrobe and act all nervous to hook up with you before and after (but are confusingly amazing during). the only problem with this is sometimes when you encourage the nerdiness, douchebaggery follows. and then you find yourself furrowing your brow and pouring another glass of wine and asking yourself "oh my god why the fuck are we talking about Ingmar Bergman?" prefer not to divulge how often I have said to myself "he would have totally gotten to third based if he had just kissed me instead of running through the schematic of his Intro to Modernist Film course."
- received a super nintendo in the mail on saturday (a friend didn't want to pay shipping from Canada. long story.) as the rest of my family was leaving to go out of town. prefer not to divulge how many hours were spent playing Sim City.
- rented "Zack and Miri Make a Porno." do not watch this movie if you like nerds and that "sure he's a slacker now but he has so much potential!" type of boy. you will fall in love with Seth Rogen (or further in love, as was my case). prefer not to divulge how many diet dr. peppers, sierra nevada pale ales, and miniature bags of fritos were finished off.
okay, the beard thing is starting to freak me out
happy monday everyone, from here
Friday, March 27, 2009
So if you've been reading this blog for more than four seconds, it's probably pretty obvious that I have never been referred to as a "hippie." With my penchant for tailored clothes, "the man," and miracle whip, I'm generally apathetic towards flower children but recently they have won me over on one thing: trail mix. I have a hippie uncle that makes these huge bags of trail mix with all sorts of crazy nonsense in them: coconut, sunflower seeds, freshly mowed grass, prunes, communist sympathy, etc. But recently I've discovered that all you really need for the perfect afternoon snack is the following: 3 parts almonds, 1 part m&ms, and 1 part raisins (or whatever dried fruit you like, just watch out for those super sugary cranberries and cran-combinations). I'm a recent convert to the almond myself; when I was in the ninth grade I went to smart camp at John Hopkins University and my roommate was this crazy japanimation chick with waist length hair, an online boyfriend in Australia, and the obnoxious habit of reading Dave Barry books in bed while munching from a huge bag of almonds and listening to the Lion King soundtrack. Every night! So you can see why it has taken me seven years to fully re-embrace the nut. But now that I have it is totally on. Plus this habit has the added bonus of confusing the people in my office; twice daily I take out my giant tupperware of the mix and carefully count out 8 m&ms, 8 raisins, and 24 almonds (roughly one serving). So not only am I getting several grams of protein and raising my good cholesterol, but I have an excuse to eat a few of my favorite candy coated chocolates AND make my officemates nervous by implying I have OCD. I dare you to come up with a more fulfilling snack.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
e-lationship [ee-ley-shuhn-ship] -noun: interactions between members of the opposite sex (or same sex, as the case may be) whereby the two parties utilize electronic forms of communication for romantic or flirtatious dialogue. Examples include salacious instant messages, coquettish facebook chats, and saccharine good morning haikus sent via text message. E-lationships allow both parties the facade of intimacy with the convenience of never shaving. Pros: the ability to spend upwards of thirty minutes crafting the perfect 140 character response, keep precise records (negating the potential for "I never said that!" based arguments), and garner attention from someone without paying for dinner and drinks. Cons: spooning with your cell phone is generally bad form, you'll agonize over those saved e-mails, and you'll never get dinner and drinks out of it.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Wanted: One exfoliator that replicates the skin polishing effects of making out with a boy possessing a five o'clock shadow. Seriously, it's the only thing that frightens my pores into submission. Facial scrubs with "gentle microbeads" and 2% salicylic acid need not apply (boys willing to rub their scruffy chins all over my face are appreciated, but need not apply either). Product should be as rough as sandpaper but better smelling and able to be used in the shower. Price negotiable.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Saturday afternoon was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and spring was in the air. It was the perfect day to go look at a Vespa. I've been wanting one forever, but live in a town where it is completely impractical to commute via 35 mph scooter. Still, there's no harm in looking, right? So I corralled Papa Strapless Living and Little Brother and we headed to Vespa Lexington. I was not disappointed. Row upon row of shiny, candy colored scooters with supple leather seats and bobble head helmets. Papa Strapless Living asked technical questions, Little Brother silently took it all in and I drooled. After filling me in on all the necessary scooter jargon, the hipster salesman nonchalantly asked "So which one do you want to test drive?"
"Oh no no no," I said "I've never driven one. I'll die." "Come on," he said "they're really easy. You'll be fine." Papa Strapless Living agreed. Which is how I found myself behelmeted and perched upon a candy apple red 2009 LX50 in the parking lot in front of the store. I cautiously took it around in a loop. So far so good. "You want me to turn it around for you?" the salesman asked when I made it back. "Yes please," I replied, since it was sort of tight and the lot was full of cars. "I mean, you can do it yourself," he said, "it's really easy." "Umm...." I wavered, "that makes me kind of nervous." He assured me I could do it. So did Papa Strapless Living. Nervously, I attempted. I made it 160 degrees around before giving it too much gas and makring a beeline for a black mustang parked in the lot. Fearing the wrath of a typical meathead mustang owner, I did what any rational girl on a scooter would do. I slammed on the breaks, veered to the left, and ejected myself from the Vespa; landing in the fetal position like a turtle in its shell.
"ARE YOU OKAY?" the Vespa salesman screamed. Still tucked away in my turtle shell, I flopped my arms open and sighed. Then I popped up from the ground and assured him that the only thing injured was my pride. A couple cuts and scrapes. Same for the Vespa; a big set of scratches where the bike had hit the ground.
So that's how I bought a Vespa. Well, technically I still haven't bought it. But depending on how much it's going to cost to repair the one I toppled, I very well may own it by this time next week. Because clearly, taking the traditional path to vehicle ownership is impossible for yours truly. No matter. Scoot on!
Hello lovely readers! This post will be notably devoid of snark, pictures of man-skorts, or humor because it is a boring technical update. Two things:
- I officially own www.straplessliving.com now, so no need for that pesky blogspot.com thing. Of course the blogspot.com address still works so you don't have to change your links, bookmarks or anything. But now, if you want to pass along this site (shameless, I know) less energy will be required to do so!
- This means a new e-mail address too. So from now on, feel free to send your comments, suggestions, offers to join threesomes, inane surveys and questions to email@example.com.
- I finally organized the blog labels list (bottom right hand corner) so it is more usable. The list is still sort of lengthy, but you should find it easier to navigate the blog through relevant labels if you choose to do so. I'm going to keep working on this so let me know through comments or e-mail if you have any suggestions!
Friday, March 20, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The minute the sun comes out I go all Appalachia on myself. Seriously, by July I'll have a slight southern drawl (like when your college roommate went to England for a year and came back saying "shed-yule" and it lasted, like, a day), a penchant for boys in pick up trucks and PBR, and perhaps some daisy dukes. Recently I've been thinking that jean shorts for summer are going to be a really good idea. Cut off? Maybe really dark denim with a cuff? It's actually been weighing on my mind since last summer but back then I was still trying to maintain some semblance of class and normalcy. But I think we're past that. Right?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
spring cleaning [spring kleen-ing] -noun: Phenomenon occurring every March, whereby one is suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to declutter. The bigger your expanse of closet space and free time, the hairier this will get. Initially it will be all "wait, I bought a cable knit turtleneck from Abercrombie and Fitch?," worn out flip flops, and junk mail. You'll fill bags with J. Crew catalogs and partnerless socks and heels you bought that one time when it was an emergency and you needed something to match that red dress so you ran into Macys barefoot only to emerge with the ugliest pair of strappy sandals known to man. Then you'll hit a wall. Physically, it could be that now you have twelve piles of random stuff on your floor and no energy to put it all back. Mentally, it could be an old sweatshirt that still smells like Old Spice or an abandoned love letter or jeans from your eating disorder days. Either way, dust will be unsettled, order will be disrupted, and before you know it, it will be summer.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
So who believes in love at first sight? Love at first kiss? First text message? First orgasm? First "oh my god you cooked this?" First child? Er, first puppy?
I don't know anything about love. I've never laid in bed biting my tongue trying not to say it. I've never had it blurted at me or ceremoniously spelled out for me or written to me in verse. My friends are not overly affectionate; I introduced ocassional hugging only a year or so ago. I don't say "love yah!" and I make the most awkward face on the planet if someone tells me I'm pretty (seriously, it's like sucking on a lemon and smelling gas at the same time). I ruin "moments" with jokes, am driven insane by introverts, and more than once have transfered my neuroses to my partner once I became comfortable in the relationship ("wait, why are you so calm? am I missing something? Hannah?"). So how will I know when it's love?
Will I not make the face? Or will he see through it. Will I need him without being needy and will I want enough to wait? Or wade? Will I change or will the game change? Will I know once we know everything about each other or before the end of our first conversation? Most importantly, will it be something I'm capable of messing up?
Because sometimes, in matters of the heart, I feel like a maypole. Sort of a cold, serious loner that gets wrapped up when someone comes along with vibrant attention. Spinningly happy and then locked in. Once I'm comfortable enough to be sweet and entangled and a hot ribbon mess, everyone has moved on to watermelon seed spitting and ice cream sundaes.
So how will I know? Will I stay rigid and grey and upright and not give into to comfort so he'll stay? Or will he look at me and see me twisted in ribbon from the start?
Monday, March 16, 2009
Tattoo belong on: sailors, the lower back of "that girl you went to high school with," boys who skateboard for a living, celebrities with poor impulse control, and newlyweds on cheap honeymoons. Tattoos do not belong on: clothing, grandmothers, linens, or $800 purses. Let it go.
photo from coach
I kept stutter starting this post to be about a variety of semi-interesting legitimate topics but I'm in a sort of spastic mood and it's just not coming together. So here are five things you probably don't know about me (I make no guarantees here, it's possible that you will already know some or all of these things):
- I once told a cop on a segway to "shut the fuck up" because he was weedling in circles around me after I had just rear ended someone in my dad's car. Which I wasn't supposed to be driving. Because he was in Africa. Climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro.
- My little brother will only allow me to cut his hair. I'm not entirely sure why. I think it's because real hairdressers in Lexington don't understand hipster. They only understand John Edwards hair.
- I absolutely deplore my handwriting. Seriously, I want handwriting lessons more than anything else. If someone attempted to decipher my handwriting, my personality would appear to change on the daily because I expend so much effort trying to make it look different. I blame the whole problem on my left handedness.
- I'm left handed.
- If you attempt to feed me something with even the most minute amount of cilantro in it, even after I've told you how much I hate it, you will receive the death glare. The same goes for dill (unless it's on potato salad in which case I'll mourn what could have been a better potato salad but move on).
Sunday, March 15, 2009
I've been craving new things recently. New music, new style, new being comfortable in your own skin. As you've probably guessed [with the whole quitting my job thing] I'm going through a veritable metamorphosis of sorts. Which I guess is sort of redundant; when are people not changing? But anyways, I'll still have brown hair and the inability to send a text message with internet-acronym-usage, I'm just going to be a little more present, hopefully. I've been sort of MIA from my own life for a while. Anyways, as if the powerbook weren't already sagging from the overwhelming amount of media on it, I need some new blogs in my life. Those of you who have blogs I already read, this doesn't mean I don't love you or that you're not enough or that I'm going to stop reading. But it would be super fabulous if in comments or via e-mail you all would share a blog you love, a blog you write, or a blog you stalk. Because I think we all know that when I try to find things on my own, it takes 21 years too long.
because who doesn't love a penguin? really?
Friday, March 13, 2009
5:05 am - phone gongs. boy with whom i am engaged in a text message based relationship has a crude understanding of how time zones work.
6:55 am - get out of bed.
7:01 am - drop bottle of conditioner on foot. consider this to be a fate worse than death. consider recommending extra large bottles of Pantene to the U.S. Army for torture purposes.
8:14 am - get to work. am psyched to be wearing jeans because we are allowed to for blood drive day.
10:08 am - haven't seen anyone at work all day. briefly get nervous that we weren't really allowed to wear jeans.
11:57 am - can't wait any longer for lunch. forgot to put my sandwich in the fridge so it is sort of warm and sad.
1:07 pm - just received an e-mail from a colleague whose signature ends with the quote "Don't squat with your spurs on."
1:34 pm - check on UK game, which is playing in conference room. Awkwardly stand around with half a dozen male co-workers that don't know my name. They say really authoritative things about basketball. I nod and mentally picture them as a toddlers while they talk.
2:00 pm - go down to blood drive. am forced to describe each trip I've ever taken out of the country. used to be an ex-pat (that's annoying, I know) so this takes forever.
2:46 pm - the phlebotomist has spent 20 minute palpating my veins. I know they're small but a)there is a neat little dent-scar where the needle goes from years of donations and b)isn't this your job?
2:48 pm - she finally stuck the needle in. blood squirted halfway down my arm. awesome.
3:15 pm - finish bleeding into a bag long enough to watch UK lose to LSU. awesome.
4:27 pm - can't wait for 4:30 any longer. bail on office. drive with left arm only because right arm is slowly turning into an appendage made entirely of bruise.
5:16 pm - light headed and achy, order medium sized pizza to be delivered. get half cheese and half mushroom. realize that it's kind of weird to get two different sides when ordering for one. have serious issues when it comes to making choices regarding food.
5:59 pm - sit down with pizza, Superbad, and invitations to do real things sitting unanswered in my text inbox. awesome.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
- Apparently Bristol Palin and her baby daddy broke up. My response to this is eerily similar to the one I had in the tenth grade when an acquaintance told me her boyfriend had attempted to supplement a grocery bag for a condom when taking her virginity but "it didn't work." That response was "um, duh."*
- Lets go ahead and start the end of work countdown shall we? I wish I still had my dual dry erase and bulletin board from high school (to which I faithfully attached concert ticket stubs and upon which I drew elaborate grids counting down the days until: end of freshman year, my driver's license, etc.) because that would be the ideal tool. In a pinch, however, this bullet point will suffice so let's just say: 16 days. And a thing I won't miss for everyday: the fact that the fluorescent lights in the bathroom are perfect for pore obsessing but that someone walks in on me awkwardly gauging out my nose every time.
- No teacher training school tonight. Because I had perfect attendance for the first four sessions, I don't have to go to tonight's makeup one, which means you won't get to hear about our favorite colorblind SAT tutor (who seems to always be wearing red, a color she can't see, interestingly enough) for two weeks. But starting April 14th you will get to hear about a whole new group: the kids I'm actually teaching! I'm really excited to share with you every glare, sigh, and "whatever," that gets thrown my way.
- The man at the pump next to me this afternoon starting chatting me up while I was waiting for my tank to fill. His hair was completely white. He asked if he could take me to get a cup of coffee to warm up since it was so cold outside. I'm pretty sure he was old enough to be my grandfather. Can I get vaccinated against this please?
*Seriously kids, don't do that. First of all, it seems like it would be crunchy. And crackly. Do you really want your lovemaking to sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies? No. Second of all, think of where that bag has been. A warehouse, a grocery store, the bottom of a grocery cart in which Hebrew Nationals and leaky diapers have sat, and the bottom of your car. Would you stick your manhood through one of the slots of a grocery cart? Didn't think so. And finally, I haven't done any scientific studies on the effectiveness of the grocery bag but I'm thinking it's about on par with Juice Fasts for preventing pregnancy and the transfer of STDs. Besides, condoms are BOGO at drugstore.com! I know, who knew that the same term used by Payless to describe cheap flats would apply to contraceptives? Although, honestly, I think BODGO (Buy One Don't Get One) or BODGATTORCOTC (Buy-One-Don't-Get-A-Tiny-Tot-or-Case-of-the-Clap) would be more appropriate.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Once, when we were in the 6th grade, my friend S and I went together to an away football game. We were wandering aimlessly around, buying cokes, eating sour patch kids, and gossiping about how annoying it was that Ben W. only went out with girls in the seventh grade. I was wearing a navy blue skort from L.L.Bean. And I believe a light blue polo from Gap Kids, but it could have been white or orange. Regardless, it was after school and my polo was untucked and I was LIVING, you know? Which is why I was particularly thrilled when the dance team and cheerleading coach told S and I we should totally audition for the squad. Unfortunately, S's mom crushed our dreams of tween dance sensationalism with a haughty "Do you know what kind of lewd dancing they do?" and a snort.
That story may seem totally irrelevant but it is meant to highlight the negativity that can come into your life when wearing a skort. Honestly, put on a skort as a twelve year old and someday you'll wake up in matching Mommy & Me skorts with your toddler taking an easter photo. They're lethal. But some Godless corporation with endless amounts of khaki and hate keeps making them. If you ask me, it's to keep women from rising up. Take a skort off the tennis court and you'll never be able to rise to CEO, or pass the bar, or be president. So, although startled by the following photo, a small part of me is glad to see this inequality being leveled.
Yes. A man skort. Perfect for tipping the scales back to a matriarchal society. Or the office. Or parent-teacher conferences.
So while this may be considered a small victory for both men and women, women getting to spread the blame for skortiness and men able to branch out past shorts and pants and kilts, why do I sense that, really, with a mens skort, everyone loses?
couturely castrate your man here
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Isn't it amazing how easy it is to get up for work on the day you quit your job? Not that you necessarily springboard from bed like a thirteen year old Romanian gymnast but perhaps the morning goes just a little smoother. This morning's serenity manifested itself in the form of diminished road rage. "Sure, angry late 90s model Lexus, cut me off, why not?" Out of sync red lights down Main? More time to sip my coffee and figure out how to change the clock one hour forward using buttons like "scan" and "AM/FM." Because this morning I walked into my boss's office and broke up with her and her excel spreadsheets and polyester v-neck tops and pilot v ball extra fines.
I gave her my schpeal about migraines and fluorescent lights and computer monitors. It's not you or the cheap prints of Tuscany on the walls or the fax machine with smudgy fingerprints where touchtone numbers used to be; it's me.
"Wait," she said, "before you say what I think you're going to say, shut the door, let me tell you something." It was the first time she'd said more than ten words to me; budget cuts, a meeting this Thursday, could I stay until April 3rd?
So today I didn't get to run from the building scattering the ashes of manila envelopes, tax IDs, or premium checks. But I do have an end date. April 3rd. The first day of horse racing in Kentucky. Right after March has gone out like a lion. When I mouth the words, it feels like I'm saying irresponsibility and mix tapes for driving and the prom and front porches and the smell of sunscreen. And fresh air. Like saying it makes the first gust of wind I've felt in months.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Today was one of those days. You know? Where random unnecessary things collide for no other reason than to make you wonder if you can apply to be on A&E's "Intervention" for addictions to suck. Or any of the following:
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Last night, before we headed out to the show, I told S and J not to be disappointed if it was fun but normal. I mean people go to shows right? They fill up on good music and t-shirts and light beer and leave a little heavier in a Christmastime way. They don't ignore social boundaries until they have to jettison self-pride and decency to stay afloat. It was possible that I would act the former and not the latter last night. Right? That my normal streak this week would continue? That they would have to find a new friend to act out in public and provide them with anecdotes to tell at parties? No. Because while they were sober and dancing and blond and responsible I did the following:
- got drunk for no reason.
- yelled at a boy for leaving his bike flasher on the back of his pants and walking around with a flashing red light on his butt.
- made best friends with the drummer after the show.
- and the guitarist.
- and the other guitarist.
- oh, and the keyboardist (keyboardist?)
- did I mention the drummer had a massive beard? mountain man style?
- took shots of Makers Mark with the beard.
- kissed it.
- discussed the potentially openness of his relationship with a girlfriend in Oregon.
- gave him my phone number.
- and drunkenly, gleefully, sanguinely text messaged with him all night.
Friday, March 6, 2009
My friend J and I are visiting our friend S in Nashville so posting will be light today and this weekend. We're going to see Blitzen Trapper tonight (so good, go listen, you'll like it, I promise.) and then just lounging around. S is getting over a crush on a totally ridiculous boy and I might get to meet him on Sunday. From what I've heard, the boy sounds like a total whiny-pants-douche, so when I meet him I'm planning on whipping out a box of heavy tampons and saying "hey, these are too big for my vagina, but I think they'll fit yours." Too harsh?
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Rap Nerd [rap nurd] -noun: A person, usually male, that bridges the gap between chain-blinger-low-rider-thugs and harry-potter-fan-fiction-writing-nerds. Spends more time dissecting the genre than Watson and Crick spent on DNA.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Dude, I keep trying to write something light hearted and it is just NOT coming together. Somehow I existentially tripped and ended up in a bad mood this afternoon. Normally when I get in this mood it's attributed to the fact that I want: a new job, to move out, or to buy something. But today I took the day off from work, bought a ring I have been coveting for months that was like 80% off, and have the option to take a room in an apartment that would 80% fit my needs perfectly. So I should be at least 80% happy. I think. Unfortunately, I believe this mood stems from "the desire to do something more with my life," which doesn't have a shallow, material answer. I also got turned down for a job teaching underprivileged kids today, so I'm pretty sure the universe is trying to let me know "friend, you aren't meant to do anything more. You're meant to be shallow and awkward, and too tall to attract the kind of boys you want. Just let it go."
So what do I do to get out of this melodramatic mood? Return the Piperlime box that just came in the mail? Accept that teaching overprivileged kids the ACT is as close to humanitarian relief that I'm going to get? Take the room in a loft apartment and never ever have guys over because the walls don't go up to the ceiling? Admit that the likelihood of that being an issue is slim to none? Weed? Sex? Rock and roll? I'm willing to try anything except organized religion. Or becoming one of those people that becomes homeless by choice and pretends they're off the grid when really they're just moochers. So seriously, I know there are some of you that read and never comment (which is fine, and I don't mean to call you out) but girl needs some communal thoughts. I don't know how to make a poll so we'll do this the old fashioned way.
A) cut the addiction to material goods for real in the pretend hopes of stockpiling my money and then moving to somewhere random as soon as possible (which we know I'll never be free spirited enough to do).
B) take the apartment in Lexington. Who cares that the walls don't go all the way up to the ceiling? It's just a month to month lease so if it's awkward for a month I can just move home.
C) do nothing. just relax and carry on. things could be worse.
D) option C but up the amount of drugs and alcohol I consume.
E) ___________. you brilliant readers can fill in that blank as you see fit.
Posted by Hannah at 4:49 PM
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Tonight I am taking my 14 year old brother to his first unsupervised-by-parents concert. Seeing as I work really hard to be the best older sister ever, I hope it goes well. Mostly because the last time I saw Ben Kweller was a year ago in Nashville and I ended up backstage making out with a watermelon.
Well, making out is an exaggeration; there was no tongue, obviously. But when the guitarist from the opening act latched on to my friend S and I, I forced her to roll with it (rule one of attracting bizarre shit: don't say no to anything with a funny:scary ratio higher than one) and we ended up walking right on back with him, where he pulled a huge watermelon out of the green room freezer. "It's for after the show," he said. He then said what I have come to consider my favorite pick up line ever, "Now is the part where we take pictures of us kissing." S gasped. I raised an eyebrow and said "Kissing...the watermelon?"
After I assured him that neither of us wanted to make out with him (my friend, for whom I was mostly concerned about, since Lord knows I have made out with worse, is seriously into abstinence. At one point I used the excuse "well, like, she doesn't kiss boys. she kisses...Jesus?" and she informed him that she is narcoleptic. She isn't. But I can see where she would think it would deter him.), or eachother, he accepted the compromise of photographs of us kissing the watermelon. I haven't quite forgiven S for not allowing me to stay backstage after the show to navigate other ethically murky waters but, Greg Fite of Tim Fite, if you're reading this, I'd like a copy of those photos please.
Monday, March 2, 2009
It's Monday and I know everyone always complains about Monday but bear with me and maybe we'll get through this blog post together.
- I got three hours of sleep lat night. I think. I got home a little after 2:30 because around 2:00 my sleeping companion (with whom I had just settled into a nice spoon shape) would not stop fidgeting. Annoyed but sensing he wanted his bed to himself, I said "Okay, you know what, I'm going to go. Clearly you can't sleep with me here." At which point he became 1 parts defensive and 2 parts embarrassed and said "no, no, no, nothing like that." and sort of sighed.
Oh great, I thought, here comes the ex-girlfriend sob story. Did she sleep on this side? Read you bedtime stories? Face plant into your dresser while simultaneously kneeing you in the balls like I did two hours ago? (ed: yes, it happened. no, I can't tell you how.) Please don't tell me she lifts weights and is going to kick my ass. Please don't cry.
But no. The ashamed response was "I have a paper due at 9am that I need to finish." Apparently he thought that leaving me to slumber in peace while pecking out something about the Russian Revolution would grossly offend me. Because, you know, it's not like I went to college or anything. Or ever kicked a friend out of my bed post hook up because, dammit, I had budget constraints to draw. Anyways, I looked at him and said "Seriously? That's it? Dude, no big deal. You should have just told me instead of making me feel all awkward about taking up space under your madras comforter." And then pulled on my jeans and headed home to a colorful comforter of my very own. So what I want to know is, who are these bitches that are turning our menfolk into such babies? Clearly, this boy will need to quickly learn that for something to warrant being "an issue" with me it has to involve: life, death, personal grooming gone wrong, jail time, or any of the thousand medical maladies that could make my hair fall out.
- Sorry that number one was so long. For some reason I couldn't make that anecdote any shorter.
- I am supposed to be on a spending hiatus but this weekend somehow ended up with: 2 target dresses ($40/each), one nine west handbag ($50, thanks jennifer!), 3 tickets to see blitzen trapper in nashville this weekend ($10/each), and enough tampons to keep the titanic afloat (what? I'm switching brands and that shit takes trial and error). Obama better send me some fanmail for keeping the economy bobbing above water.
- I have a crush on the Hasidic Jews that run the gourmet pizza place near my house. I'm not sure if it's the huge beards that get me going or the fact that whenever I see them I'm surrounded by the smell of pizza. Which is worse?