Resolve and Evolve 2008

"So this is the New Year, and I don't feel any different." - Deathcab for Cutie

It's that time again. Time to jot down some resolutions that I might actually adhere to in December 2008 just so i can have some sense of accomplishment. I seriously don't feel that 2008 will feel much different than 2007, but I am a) trying to set expectations low so that they have a chance of being exceeded, but also because b) 2007 wasn't really a bad year. I started a new job in April that I genuinely like, have made some new friends, have become slightly more financially stable, and yes, it took some serious patience, but I have even been nicer to my mother. So with the fundamental resolutions of 2007 having been somewhat met, it's time to dig a little deeper for 2008. So here's the list, Resolve and Evolve.

1. Do not judge a man on the first date, and if asked on a subsequent date, take it. They say that you should go on 3 dates with a person before making up your mind (who the hell do "they" think they are?). I have a hard time not passing judgment quickly, but am willing to be more open-minded and open to opportunities. This resolution is contingent upon a man putting his car in park when dropping me off, keeping his clothes on (unless taken off by me), and not whipping out a joint within the first 30 minutes of meeting. I guess this is somewhat a continuum of 2007's "go on more dates."

2. Confront confrontation. I have a serious problem with confrontation. Whether it be someone confronting me, me not being able to confront an individual, being a part of a group that is being confronted, or even watching confrontation on television, I literally have to get-up and walk away. Take the movie Borat for instance, probably saw 1/3 of the movie because I left the room anytime they confronted him on his antics, pathetic. From this point forward I vow to confront those that done me wrong, to stand up straight whilst being confronted, and to keep my ass glued to the sofa if watching an uncomfortable situation on the t.v.

3. Buy new bras. What is the average lifespan of a bra? I'm not really sure if there is an answer to that question, but I'm almost positive 99% of mine have passed their expiration date. It's like I'm in complete denial that my boobs have grown, and for the majority of women (and men), that should be a good thing, but to me it's like the whole Peter Pan syndrome of not wanting to grow up (or out, in this case). Like my bras carry any real memories worth clinging to.

4. Delete all sentimental text messages in phone after one month. That seems like a long-time still, but honestly I just deleted some text messages that have been sitting in my phone for 2 years. They were there to remind of days gone by, but all they were really doing was taking up storage in my Inbox that could otherwise be filled by more text-flirting with new, potential text-partners. A stored text, is not the safest form of text.


This is my list for now, but I have a feeling that it will continue to grow (much like my boobs).

Food Confession

Putting a 6 oz cup of Stoneyfield Farm french vanilla yogurt in the freezer, is not the same as eating Vanilla Frozen Yogurt. Just sayin'

The Bathroom Stall

There are few things more annoying to me than walking into the bathroom at work, seeing a co-worker also in the bathroom, and as soon you enter the stall and sit down she starts talking to you. I mean, could you have not started the conversation before I went into the stall? Then you have to make the decision on whether or not you want to hold your business and finish the conversation, which can become painful if it's a bathroom emergency, OR start your business and have the conversation over trickling noises. All in all it's just very uncomfortable. Even worse is when said co-worker also enters a stall and your forced to have the stall-to-stall conversation.

You're Never Fully Dressed

Sometimes what you’re wearing from head to toe is what matters.

I recently found myself back at a guy's apartment sharing a beer after we had been watching football with friends at a bar. This is a guy, who I have been on one date with, enjoyed his company, and since he doesn’t live far from me, was willing to share a night-cap. I was fully aware that he could potentially plant one on me. The evening took it’s usual course – open the beer, sit on the couch, listen to music, make conversation, and then pick your right moment to go in for the kill. Kissing not too aggressive and not too awkward. He stood up at one point, which was the sign that he wanted to go into the bedroom. I was fine with a little bit of horizontal action, PG-rated horizontal action, that is. Anyway, after drinking copious amounts of liquid, one usually finds themselves in need of some relief, so I said “I have to use the restroom.” Please note, that this was not said in a seductive, sexy way. Nor did it have the tone of “wait right there, mister. I’ll be right back.” It especially did not imply what I found when I came out of the bathroom.

I opened the door only to find that this guy had taken off ALL of his clothes. Okay, he left the boxers on, but what? It was wrong on so many levels. My gut reaction, an honest reaction, was to burst out into laughter – which I did, in his face. And I said “Oh my God, you just took off all of your clothes.” And he said “yeah,” (as in what’s the big deal), and too confused for words I just said “so we’re clear on one thing, my clothes are not coming off.” And then he's like, "you can at least take off your sweater." I know this story brings out my prudish side, but come on, there are signals and signs that a woman gives off if she wants to get busy. None of which were emitted by me that evening. I don’t even think I have that capability, period (sad, but true). It was a very presumptuous move and makes me wonder if it has worked for him in the past.

So, your clothes may be Beau Brummelly, but leave them on for a while, cuz brother three-fourths of the fun is getting to take each other’s clothes off! (when appropriate signal applies)

Stang Operation

I recently rented a car to drive from Nashville to Birmingham. Little did I know that when selecting a “Midsize” vehicle (read: cheaper) on my reservation form, that I would actually be stepping into the biggest ride of my life. The perfect early-fall weather had arrived which already made me excited for the road trip, but when the Hertz Representative asked “will a Mustang be alright,” I grinned from ear to ear and told her that I wouldn’t accept any less. And then when she told me it only had 54 miles on it, I suddenly had a flashback to Ferris Bueller - “You guys got nothing to worry about, I’m a professional.”

Once our transaction was complete she pointed me in the direction of Parking Space No. 12. Behold, the bright cherry red brilliance, and its seamless tan cloth interior that cleverly and continuously reads “Mustang” on each seat - just invisible enough so that one might think it a design, but in a way that only a true believer could see the scripture. This car needed no introduction, but just in case you’ve been couped up in a mini van your whole life, the geniuses at Ford had “Mustang” lettered on each side of the exterior. Coincidence that the words Respect and Mustang have the same number of letters? You do the math.

Once I got on the highway I had an out-of-body experience, the ‘Stang was in control. For the first few minutes leaving Nashville, the Mustang had to listen to the rest of the Colts v. Titans game. As you can imagine, the Mustang celebrated the Colts’ victory, kicked the speed up about 10 mph, and turned its radio dial to any station playing Lynard Skynard, Aerosmith or hard-core country. And soon my 3 hour trip, was taking much longer than expected. Who knew the ‘Stang would have so many important stops to make:

Everyone eating the Mustang’s dust.

Will you ‘mare’y me?

An empty bottle of dark liquor on the floorboard is a staple accessory in any Mustang. But Mustang’s don’t drink and drive – alone.

A Mustang in its natural habitat. Can you really take a man out of the Mustang?

The Mustang always pays homage to man-made marvels, fabricated out of steel, built to overcompensate shortcomings, and equipped with inter-galactic horsepower.

The Mustang breaks for DQ dip cones and an Alabama Terd Bird at Stuckey’s…obviously.

The Mustang only stops to refuel because the oil industry forces it to. But then again, this is America. Coincidence that the words America and Mustang have the same number of letters? You do the math.

Haley's Tip of the Month (yes, we're going back to the original title)

Going out to a bar after a dinner date is like a call option. Only when your stock is up should you exercise your option. If you exercise when it's down, you're going to take a loss.

Cruel Joke

Picture this: Three girls stuck in Labor Day traffic traveling from The Gulf back to Birmingham. Car moving at an average of 30 mile per hour in a 70 mile per hour speed limit. The inevitable happens - - all three of us made of the mistake of renting one too many diet cokes and now had to turn them in. We finally arrive to Greenville where every filling station was equally as packed as the Interstate. We find ourselves about 10 ladies deep in the bathroom line (of course, that's 10 persons more than the men's line). We're standing there, and all you can hear is a steady stream. It sounded like the world's longest urination...and it only made me have to go to the bathroom worse. And as it kept going, I kept thinking how unusual until I saw that some Jack-Ass had decided to spruce up the bathroom line by placing a FOUNTAIN in the hall by the restrooms. Are you joking? Either the manager of the Shell in Greenville is either incredibly clever, or devastatingly dumb.

The Act of Inaction

It’s never surprising to my friends when they come over to hear “don’t mind my bedroom, I forgot to pick it up.” The running gag, is that I never pick it up – or any other room for that matter. I HATE cleaning. I don’t know if it’s that I don’t like the smell of cleaning supplies, or the space the equipment takes up in my small apartment, or the energy you have to exert while actually picking up. It’s pure laziness, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. When you live by yourself, it becomes even worse because you don’t have to share a space with anyone; however, I’m sure many to all of my old roommates would agree that I probably had very little regard for public space as well.

Today, folks, I’m coming clean. The truth is, the act of inaction is much more exhausting, costly, time-consuming and unhygienic than the actual task itself.

Inaction #1: Cleaning your sheets, but never actually putting them on your bed.
Result: Sleeping for many weeks either on a bare mattress, or on your couch. This really disturbing result needs no explanation. Sleeping on the couch can result in a bad back, a poor night’s sleep, and a permanent indention between the far right and middle cushions where your ass laid to rest.

Inaction #2: Keeping a dry cleaning bag full of clothes, but never taking them to the dry cleaners.
Result: Either a really pricey dry-cleaning bill when you eventually decide to go, or, a limited days of the week wardrobe consisting of faded items that can only be put through the wash.

Inaction #3: Pretending to be healthy and fit by signing up for a gym membership, but never actually picking up your membership packet or stepping foot inside the door.
Result: Throwing $75 a month down the drain, and achieving the opposite physical results.

Inaction #4: Feeling hungry, looking into the empty fridge, and not going to the grocery store to buy normal food.
Result: Scrounging around for change because you don’t have any money after you wasted it on a pointless gym membership or new clothes because you don’t want to wash the ones you have, and hitting up the dollar menu at McDonald’s, or the convenience store for 8 packs of Ramen Noodles for a dollar (genius). Suspected physical results.

Inaction #5: Coming in from a weekend away and never once unpacking your bag except for the essentials like your toothbrush, and occasionally your hair brush.
Result: Wasted time looking for your favorite t-shirt in your dresser when it’s crammed at the bottom of one of the 10 unpacked weekend bags in your living room. Eventually turning your living room into the walk-in closet you always wanted.


I’m making myself stop here.

Charlie the Unicorn

I don't do drugs, but honestly I can see why it would be fun to do them, and then watch this video. Actually, I felt like I was on drugs just watching it, so if you don't have access to any illegal substance, don't worry, this will do the trick. Please don't let the length or the way the other unicorns say "Chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarlieeeeeeeeeee" deter you from sticking with it to the bitter end.

Check it: Charlie the Unicorn and the Trip to Candy Mountain

How The Fuck Do You Think I Am?

I’m apologizing in advance to all of the male readers, but honestly, if you haven’t yet dealt with a woman and her “time of the month” then I must ask – where have you been hiding? By the way, I would also like to say that I loathe the phrase “time of the month.” I can hear some Southern woman somewhere using that as an excuse to her friends because she has just been ashamed of her child’s unruly behavior.

“I do apologize for LuAnne’s un-lady like behavior at the dinner table.
She seems to be a little bit testy. You know, it’s her (voice turns to
whisper) time of the month” – then you hear all of the “poor dear” and “bless
her heart” responses.

Well, a few weeks back, it was MY time of the month. And, per my normal routine, I marched my aching back and writhing ovaries down to the CVS to make my “monthly purchase.” Now, normally when I go to the CVS, I usually get stuck with the same check-out clerks each time: the sweet, young African-American woman; or, the tall, gangly, middle-aged white guy with balding blond hair, a pony tail, and thick horn-rimmed glasses (let’s just call him Ron b/c in all honesty, that’s what he looks like). In these kinds of situations, you’re always hoping that you a) don’t run into somebody you know, and (b) that you fall into a line with a check-out clerk of the same sex. To me, buying tampons is equally as embarrassing as buying condoms. I guess I’m stuck in my junior high mentality of not wanting anyone to bust me with a box of tammies b/c then everyone would know that I was a woman – blasphemy! And with regards to the condoms, I wish I could actually get busted buying some these days, because that would mean that I was in deed having sex – boooooooooooo.

Okay, so a few days before this particular day I was in Ron’s check-out line buying some cleaning supplies. Noticing the abundance of chemicals I was purchasing, Ron says “you going home to do the dirty?” Which I have to say was pretty freaking hilarious, and replied “it’s only dirty if you get down on your hands and knees.” Okay, so I didn’t say that to Ron, but if Ron were better looking I probably would have. Well, it also happens that I ALWAYS fall into Ron’s line when I am buying my feminine products. I typically don’t like to stereotype menstrual moods, but sometimes you just flat out feel uncomfortable, sweaty and irritated - thus morphing your otherwise charming personality into the devil. So I get up to the front of the line with my purchase, and as Ron rings me up he says “Is everything right with the world today – how is it treating you?” Gee Ron, I’m not sure, I just threw down 20 bucks for 72 fucking tampons – how the fuck do you think I feel today? It took every ounce of my being not to hurl my Playtex Sports in his face. But then I thought, maybe Ron is in that 1% of the male population who just doesn't know what it's like during that "time of the month." So kudos to Ron for his ignorance and his positive attitude in curing PMS with one bitch at a time.

Shop Mere!

One of my best gal pal's just launched a site to show-case her FABULOUS talents in the world of handbag design. I have seen them in person, and they are made of soft, beautiful leather - so they are WORTH EVERY PENNY!

Check out MERE, and spread the word!

The Professor's Playlist (Introducing)

This morning I received an email from my old DC roommate, Jenny, recommending musical stylings that she's been digging recently and asking us to do the same. While those of us copied on the message have always had discriminating musical tastes, a particular line in her email had me thinking:

"can you guys tell that I'm missing music banter with Pat?"

I should mention that Pat was recently demoted to ex-Pat. I think all music-mavens can relate to Jenny's predicament. There's nothing worse than discovering new tunes that you know yesterday's news would love; and probably worse than the inability to share your finds, is the newly denied access to his musical library. I would say that close to 90% of the music on my iPod was downloaded from an old boyfriend - and I'm one of the lucky ones, as I got the thing three months before I was forced to open my on account.

So in an effort to (somewhat) take control of our own musical destiny, I will be starting a column known as The Professor's Playlist. This column will share all of the music that the Professor shares with me, enabling you to turn that neon vacancy sign off. Who is the Professor you ask? Well, not only is he the most recent player in the Nickname Game, he breaks just about all of the rules in the contract; however, the Professor has excellent taste in music. And every time we visit eachother he either makes me a melange of melodies to listen to before he leaves, or for my trip home. I know what you're thinking? I'm contradicting myself by saying we need to seek and scour for musical scores on our own - not rely on men to provide the music for us. And to answer your question...yes-I-am. So when the Professor is no more, what will happen to this column? Fear not, for I will face the music and find someone else to dance.

Stay Tuned for Playlist #1

Can You Leave Some Room At The Top for Milk?

So I turned on my hazards and dashed into my local downtown latte nook - Safari Cup. I opened the door and noticed that there was a table of three men who all turned their heads and stared at me. I'm thinking, gosh, I must have really stepped it up a notch this morning - maybe it's the new Herbal Essence shampoo I bought, or maybe it's the fact that I haven't broken out into a full-on sweat in the Alabama heat yet in the short distance from car to door. Anyway, I ordered my said skinny latte, and as I was exiting, the three men at the table continued to stare. I'm thinking - maybe I should just go over and introduce myself? nah. Turns out the only two people I needed to introduce had already come out to say hello....my left tit AND my right tit. I got into my car and noticed that the pesky third button on my blouse had come completely off - exposing my entire chest area. All I was missing were the tassels. Nothing like a little burlesque before 9:00 am, right?

Oracle of Pendergrass - A Memorial Day Salute to the Officer and the Gentleman

I knew those huge Chiclet white teeth (Mr. T from the Letter People anyone?), winning shit-eater grin, and dorky over-thought pre-rose ceremony monologues reminded me of someone. Nothing like seeing the blond twin of a former flame (flame sans big muscles) on national t.v. to make you realize the truth - he totally cramped your style. No more guys with pleated khaki short-shorts or tapered jeans for this girl.

Thank You Lieutenant Andy! I freakin' love you.

You Never Even Call Me By My Name

You don't have to call me Darlin'. Don't worry, I won't.

Whenever I find myself reminiscing on past loves (an extremely loose term for 98% listed), I realize that I sometimes cannot remember their real names, but only by the nicknames they were so lovingly, and most of them unknowingly, given. Just to name a few:

Weiner (a.k.a Wingnut, a.k.a Dzor)
Fishbreath (a.k.a Aztec, a.k.a Dustruffle)
Old Balls
The P.M.S
Salmonella
Star Wars Trilogy
Newman
Arrrrrrryoukiddingme
TomP - as if there were so many Tom's (a.k.a Mot, a.k.a Dorito Digits)
Sniffs (a.k.a Panty Sniffer Paul, a.k.a PSP)
Public Defender (a.k.a The PD)
Clementine
Tee-yum
Peter (only his name was Grant, true story)

What's Your Damage?

Well, this month, my damage consists of a 4'x2' hole in my bedroom, and a 5'x3' hole in my den/living room (both roughly 7-8' deep). The cause? Disintegrated floor boards, and rotten load-bearing joists. Translation = expensive, inconvenient, bad. Basically my buddies over at Acme flooring told me that if I had waited another month, my entire apartment may have caved in on me...comforting. More comforting than near death, exposed earth in your living quarters, AND getting a running start to leap over large gaps to get from on side of the room to the next, are the young men who have been at my condo for the past five days fixing my floors.

I'm pretty sure one of them is tarnished from too much huffage on the varnish. He's kind of a cross between Forrest Gump and Slingblade, 25 years old at best, Napoleon Dynamite glasses, and the kind of spotty facial hair that a 13-year old tries to pull-off because "he can." Today I went to go retrieve, at my anxious mother's request, my "jewelry", and on my way out the door SlinGump says: "I would be very, very careful if I was you." Whaaaaaaaaa? Are my brakes going to mysteriously give out on my way back to work? Will I "accidentally" trip over a 2x4 on my way down the stairs? OR, maybe he was referring to the other floor guy. That's right, the one with peroxide blond hair, pale-skin, but really red from a good sunburn, goatee and mustache. The one in the white undershirt, just pudgy enough, and some slick white Nike tennis shoes with a metallic silver swoosh. The same one, who on Monday says to me (with a really coy/creepy smile): "You were that girl at Club Elevation the other night." First of all, not really sure the last time I went to a club where the word "club" was actually in the title. Second of all - "that girl?" Like, "that girl that pulled off the really tricky maneuver on the pole", or "that girl that took one too many shots and threw up in her purse", or "that girl that everyone noticed because her pants were too low and her thong was t-boning in the back" - which girl was I? Not having ever heard of Club Elevation before I explained that he must have me confused with someone else. He shook his head in a way that was saying "don't deny it, you were there too, feeling exactly the same way I felt. I'll tell you where I'd like to lay this wood..." Creeped out by the pretend conversation I had concocted, I suddenly had to get back to work. My mom was taking the afternoon shift to oversee the work, and wouldn't you know Blondie thought maybe he could work the mother angle and says: "I know I saw your daughter at Club Elevation the other night. I bought her a drink and she talked to me and my buddy the whole time. And now she's denying it." Uhhhhhhh, mom, don't get mad, it was just one drink. What the hell? You're ratting me out to my mom for something that I didn't do in some place that I've never been? You're thinking she'll feel sorry for you because I shunned you and try to set us up so you can buy me another drink? (and we know for "another" to happen that there technically has to be a first!) What's your damage, dude?

So aside from the other discomforts mentioned previously, I now have to worry about the fact that this guy is going to be a permanent fixture in my condo (at least for the next week), he knows where I hide my key, AND did I mention the really large holes in my bedroom and living room - large enough that if someone wanted to enter through the basement, find their way with a flashlight to my unit, that they could crawl up through my floors (think in the same vein as Gale and Evelle Snoats in Raising Arizona). Hey mom, if I go missing - it's probably safe to bet that you can try me at Club Elevation.

Oracle of Pendergrass (f.k.a. - Haley's Tip of the Month)

The Oracle, in her infinite wisdom, on likening a failed relationship attempt to a lemon:

That was not a failed attempt. I don't think that had anything to do with you, except that you happened to like a guy who had non-datable qualitites. Kind of like buying a lemon. Its not the way you were driving, the equipment was faulty.

And wouldn't it just be like an Oracle to take more money from you to let you in on more prophecies, only to give you a prophecy she stole from a wise friend. Kathleen's take on the one-night-stand:

It doesn't count as a one night stand if you wanted to see him again. It's not your fault he never called.

Dating Parameters

This Conditional Contract of Dating Parameters ("Contract") is entered into by and between All Females with a Single Income and No Children ("FSINC") -, having an address in Anytown, USA, and all Confused Men in America ("CMA") for the express benefit of a Normal Dating Life ("NDL")

This Contract states that FSINC agrees not to commence any familiar relations with a CMA, for the express benefit of an NDL, if the CMA should fall under one of the following categories:

WHEREAS, the CMA is entering, considering entering, or already entered into a post-graduate educational institution where a degree will be received within a minimum of one year,

This is when an FSINC finds a CMA at his most heightened of confused states. His schedule will be nowhere close to yours. While you may be waking up at 6:00 am to get to the gym in time to get ready for work, he will be snoozing until 10:00am, waking up five minutes before class. And when you come home from work, he'll be heading to the library to cram in an all-nighter before
his exams. Speaking of exams, forget seeing your sweetie at least 2 weeks prior to exam time, then you block out another 2 weeks for exams, and then you have the one week of post-exam
celebration that will no doubt be spent with his other school buddies who are more likely to "understand." You won't understand him and he won't understand you. Be prepared for the "I don't understand why you're so tired, it's Friday night, we should be going out?" - well, technically your CMA is right, but if he worked a 50+ hour week dealing with ass holes, he would understand why you want to stay in. If your CMA happens to be in Law School, well, I've got two words - The Bar, and two more words - Dump Him.

WHEREAS, the CMA has an address outside of a 50 mile radius of your own residence,

If you are from New York and you reside on the West-Side, then you have no hope dating a man on the East-Side. Since we don't all live in Manhattan, I thought that a 50 mile radius was generous enough. That puts you door-to-door, hopefully, in less than one hour, making it just long enough to get a little irritating, but not too long that you can't stay over night and drive into work the next morning…on time. If you meet a CMA who lives beyond the 50 mile radius, do not plan on seeing him during the week - which actually, in my opinion can be a good thing, especially if your CMA falls under the first category. Furthermore, it is of utmost importance that your CMA make every effort to see you/you see him in the first months of dating. Distance is a bitch no matter which way you look at it, and trying to ignite a spark, let alone keep it burning, 250 miles apart is damn near impossible. If you insist on dating your long-distance CMA, make sure you put in your contract that you will NOT talk on the phone every night. Nightly conversations only contain boring topics which lead to frustration and ultimately self-conscious behavior - "you don't love me anymore…how come you never want to talk to me…is there someone else…you never want to see me" etc etc. Self-conscious behavior is not good for anyone, isn't how an FSINC should feel when in a relationship and only makes your CMA believe that you are not the fun-loving, sassy girl that he was willing to go the distance for earlier on in the relationship.

WHERAS, the CMA is employed, but going through a work crisis/transition,

If you want the attention that you knowingly respect and deserve, it would behoove any young FSINC not to become smitten with a CMA who is looking to change jobs, on the job hunt, or who's company is going through a transition like a merger or acquisition. If there is ONE thing that sends a CMA into a complete tail-spin (and no ladies, we can't flatter ourselves because it is not us), it is the J-O-B. Job is to man, like sex is to a nymphomaniac. You put what's sacred to them in jeopardy, and your liable to find them in God only knows what state of mind, twisted up in an awkward position, dry-humping the doctor's chair (did I just say that?). Bottom line is, they wig out, and can only focus on one thing - which is, their job. Not only will you have to be exposed at an all-to-early-stage of how the CMA handles stressful situations, but you will also have to witness a certain level of drama that just isn't flattering, nor appealing/attractive to the FSINC. So if you like him, give him space AND time. If he likes you enough (more than his job), the CMA may come around after the doctor throws him out of the office for lewd public behavior and scarring other patients in the waiting room.

and,

WHEREAS, the prospective CMA's termination of a previous relationship is in question, even though you thought it was established.

This category may seem easy to spot, but let me tell you, CMA's may be confused, but they are tricky. They fool you with their flirty behavior, tease you with over-the-top compliments, and then cold-cock you when they tell you they may or may not still have a girlfriend. No respectable FSINC would knowingly date a CMA with a girlfriend, they may be easily conned into a make-out, but that's only late at night after several drinks. Nobody wants to go on a few really good dates with a CMA only to find out that the next weekend he took his "ex" girlfriend as his date to a wedding. Weddings are no place for a new date OR a date with an "ex" girfriend. No FSINC thinks its cute when a CMA flirts with her all weekend at an out-of-town wedding, when no other girl's name was mentioned by the CMA or his CMA cronies, only for the loser to drop the word "girlfriend" at the bewitching hour as he's going in for the good-night smooch. And it is certainly not wise for an FSINC to become involved with a CMA who is fresh off the long-term relationship boat. This only means dealing w/ dramatic ex-girlfriends (at least we think they're an ex - also please reference "Statute of Grievatation), awkward run-ins, and basically not being able to go on any fun dates because everyone is anxious they might run into the poor, heart-broken FSINC , who could also potentially be psycho.


NOW THEREFORE, if the FSINC and CMA agree to the parameters set forth in this Contract, you are almost certainly guaranteed to embark on an NDL.

But then again, what the hell is NORMAL?

Elevator EavesDropping

When riding from the Lobby to Floor 27, I had the privelage of riding with two secretaries in my office. I obviously couldn't help but overhear their conversation over the domination of Anna Nicole Smith's death in the media. One turns to the other to say:

"I mean, I feel bad an all, but you know that baby is a whole lot better off no matter where it ends up."

I truly for the first time felt sorry for A.N.S - R.I.P.

The Way You Make Me Feel / The Age of Chivalry is Not Dead

I often write posts about misfortunes of being single, and the frequency at which I run into my ex-boyfriend. But I write this post for all of you ladies who, like me, are wondering when you're going to catch a break...don't give up hope. I too have been a victim (numerous times) of the recent male generation of non-door-openers, indecisive-restaurant-choosers, premature-sexual-advancers, never-call-you-backers and the i'll-give-you-10%-while-you-exhaust-your-psyche-with-the-other-90% 'ers.

When up in Nashville for New Year's Eve, I was re-acquainted with a guy (we'll call him Billy Jean) that I briefly knew while living in Washington, DC. I say "briefly knew" because the only encounter we had was at a party on Capitol Hill back in 2003 where we squared off at our self-initiated Michael Jackson dance-off (that's right, on the floor, in the round). One friend was touting my skillz, and another touting his. I can't help but think his shaming on the dance floor led to his eventual fleeing of the city. Anyway, determined not to have a disappointing/anti-climactic New Year's Eve, I decided to head up to Nashville, solo, where several of my Nashville-native/Vanderbilt friends from D.C. were renting out a bar to ring in 2007. Two of my guy friends picked me up before dinner to grab a quick drink at the bar, where we met Billy Jean, had a few drinks and several laughs. We we split up into separate groups for dinner and all rendezvoused for the soiree. While Billy Jean and I certainly had a great at the party, and shared lots of humorous stories, I wouldn't say that he nor I paid particularly close attention to the other throughout the entire evening. Although I did manage to work in FIVE smooches at midnight...him being one of them. Pecks, of course! Maybe he decided not to exhaust his energy on me that evening since my Clairvoyant ex-boyfriend (i know, I thought we were over this) decided to show-up - what? You don't know anyone here? You cross state lines and you still show up at the same party as me? The fact that I may or may not have gone home with the ex to start the new year off with a bang is beside the point....actually it has a lot to do with the point. I'll continue.

I spent New Year's day in my car traveling back to Bama, and I assume that Billy Jean spent his day traveling back to Chattanooga. Turns out that he was also spending his day tracking down my email address. When I returned to work on the 2nd I had an email dated on the 1st from Billy Jean telling me how much fun he had making me laugh and that he hoped to keep in touch. Talk about flattering. Well of course I responded with great zeal and offered to entertain him anytime that he wanted to visit the Magic City. After some rounds of emails that week, I was pretty excited about my new friendly relationship. That weekend I was driving up to Atlanta with Big Momma (my trooper of a friend who is 8 mos pregnant) for a bachelorette party. I looked down at my phone and noticed I had a message...wouldn't you know, Billy Jean not only tracked down my email, but my cell tell too! This definitely warranted a return call. I buzzed him back after getting situated in our hotel and just had the usual first chit-chat...not wanting to talk too long, so as to leave him hanging. Well, more communication led to another, and next thing I know he's asking if he can drive down to Birmingham to take me on a date!

I accepted the date, but as the time was drawing nearer I started to become nervous about where this guy was going to stay. I mean, he admitted himself that he knows nobody in this city. Do I outright ask? Was he presumptuous enough to think that he was staying at my place? Do I offer to put him up with a friend? Do I lay a pillow and blanket out on the couch so it's clear of my intentions? Well, next thing I know he's sending me an email telling me where we're going to dinner (Little Savannah, excellent choice) and that he's got a room at the Marriott. Not only did my wave of anxiety disappear, but wow, this guy has taken care of everything. Not only did he do the restaurant research on his own and pick a great one, but he also bucked up and got himself a hotel room because as he said "I am many things, but I would like to think that presumptuous is not one of them". Okay, so maybe this was a complete act, but I was totally buying it. The truly sad part of this whole situation is that I couldn't believe that such gentlemen existed...that his behavior was out of the ordinary, when actually it should be the total norm.

I am happy to report that the date was a smashing success, and whether or not Billy Jean was my lover for the night will remain between me and him. There has been a second date, and plans for future ones. So the point is ladies, fear not, you too can enter a dance-off and find your own Michael Jackson companion (okay, a less perverted, naturally preserved version) who will track you down even if you blatantly still sleep with your ex. While we may pimp ourselves out to the losers who go around breaking young girls hearts - - there is a Billy Jean out there for everyone who is ready to claim that you are the one.

For Booty or Worse

Recently I have been the victim of a few booty calls, ore more appropriately, booty texts (dang the age of cellular communication). I wonder how booty calls went down before cell phones/landlines were invented? is that when you would throw a rock at someone's window at 3:00am? And why does throwing a rock in the name of love seem so much more romantic?

After two bad decisions (made two months apart) to go home with my ex-boyfriend, I suddenly found that the booty calls/texts have been coming more frequently - more like two weeks apart. Please keep in mind that the previous bad decisions were made after running into each other in-person, which allowed for at least 20 minutes of face-time/awkward conversation, and the opportunity for the ole hand on the knee (universal indication for - you're going to come home with me - and isn't it sad that all it takes is a hand on the knee to completely melt you into makeout mode?). The recent phone calls/texts have been coming much later in the night, which to be honest slightly offends me. I mean, yes I may have gone home with you from a bar or party? But do you honestly think that I'll accept an invitation to meet you directly in your bedroom after no effort has been put forth? Okay…maybe, depending my point of desperation.

What exactly demotes one from bar hook-up to booty call category? I guess if I had actually granted a late night text request in the past, then I could understand. I guess a guy has to put himself out there, try, wait and see. My favorite, most recent attempt was over a week ago when I stupidly got into a text message exchange with said ex, until it finally climaxed to a 2:30 am phone call on a Thursday night. Secretly I was hoping it would be a booty call just so I could reject him to his face (or at least with spoken words, and not written). "I mean if you wanted to come over and huff my sheets, I would be okay with" - I bet you would. I laughed and gave him props for such a bold solicitation. Then he laughed and I thought that ended the booty call stint until...Pot Calls Kettle Black. My furiousness suddenly turned to flattery and desire this past weekend, when I found myself in a drunken stupor coaxing said ex for a late night rendezvous. Somehow it seemed okay if I were initiating. He accepted, and not very hesitantly for someone who hadn't just had multiple vodka-sodas and goldschlager shots(wha???)

What makes us fall into these damn traps. Is it the longing for the smell of Speed Stick? The comfort of just having another warm body in the bed? The cuddling the next morning while watching various MTV episode marathons? him buying you breakfast? the awkward conversation good-bye and wondering whether or not you even acknowledge what just happened? the anxiety of never hearing from the person again? or running into them a few weeks later pretending that you haven't seen each other in months and having more awkward conversations and perpetuating the cycle? Can it ever just be for the nookie???

Cooking Tip of the Week

Never pick your nose after chopping a jalapeno.

If you should be stupid enough to do such a thing, I suggest immediately going to the bathroom sink and snorting cold water up your nose. Only don't snort it all the way, just enough to hold the cold water in your nostril for a nice cooling effect. When water becomes luke-warm, repeat as often as necessary.