For a good time, dial...

...www.match.com

Good grief, there are some good reads on Match. Forget Barnes & Noble, I have found my new source of laughs and entertainment.

Naturally, for us young 30-something-pumas-on-the-prowl, internet dating is just part of the game. I didn't realize until now, though, what a treasure it actually is. Consider "internet dating" without the dating part. Sure, you're left with the internet, but let me share with you, what others share of themselves. Enjoy.

This is WhatADouche. (Note: I have assigned WhatADouche his handle. Please understand, this is not his Match.com handle, which is being withheld, as I truthfully am not sure if this is considered "cyber bullying". Nevertheless, I'm not taking my chances neither by dating WhatADouche, or by sharing who he really is).

Anyway, notice the photos. If I had it in me, I would have copied the other 15 professional photographs with WhatADouche in his wife-beater in deep thought posing on scenic railroad tracks. Or his American Gladiators pose on his scaffolding. Or of him frolicking in the ocean riding atop two dolphins by the dorsal fins. Or in a mid-air freestyle ski adventure (both snow and water) or his on the ice shot during a MN Wild Fantasy Camp, which clearly shows his inner child. No, no. This is not even the best part. He actually has something to say.

Please read and get back to me. Let's break this down. Goodness, I can't even do that, it's toooooo much! He exhausts me, I hardly got past the first paragraph. Sure, his grammar and sentence structure sucks, but I can't even figure out what picture he's trying to paint. It's like a "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" commercial without the happy ending. What is going on here? Please discuss, so I don't have to. We all know what I'm trying to say.

Finally, we have Mystic_Writer. Not my handle, his. While his description of himself is painstakingly boring (i.e. describing in detail his work schedule, (yes - schedule) and how he prides himself on good hygiene, teeth and eyes), I'd rather direct your attention to what Mystic_Writer does for fun.

I cannot alone claim genius for the idea that sparked this blog. Credit is shared with my good friend, you know who you are.

Can't get 'em to stay, can't get 'em to go away 2.0

Originally penned November 2011: Can't get 'em to stay, can't get 'em to go away

UPDATE TO PREVIOUS BLOG POST. I don't get it, why is this so confusing for this young man? If he were to recall, I didn't want to share my number with him in the first place, but he wasn't going to take no for an answer. So what else is a young polite lady to do but instead take his number and avoid him until he gets the hint? There is nothing NOT to get!

Let's consider all the options here. 1) Perhaps I'm no longer, or was never, interested. 2) Perhaps I have a loving boyfriend, versus a psycho one. 3) Perhaps after all this nagging, you're really really showing your true colors. 4) Perhaps I'm questioning your competence. 5) Perhaps it's the random insults that turn me off. 6) Perhaps I'm hoping you "get it". 7) Perhaps I already regret stopping for gas that day.

Worst Texter Backer Ever

To some, I am affectionately known as being the "worst texter back ever". Literally, a facebook post said so, "liked" my several friends and family. I remember the day when text messaging became an option, albeit a painstaking process of pushing buttons on a flip phone sometimes three to four times in a row to accomplish just one letter. We've come a long way since then, smartphones, IM, Twitter, Facebook, traditional email, all accessible by a simple app, at any moment, by anyone. And because of all these ways in which to communicate, I have become increasingly overwhelmed with the sheer volume of technologies to respond to. I have become the worst texter back ever. The simplest tool of them all, at my fingertips, has become my rebellion.

I started to think, in the olden days, texting was so laborious, it was limited to brief messages, updates, FYIs, a quick flirty "I'm thinking of you". Now, as texting has become our main mode of instant communication, much preferred to a phone call, users and abusers alike have resorted to having complete conversations across texting. Whereas, originally, it was designed as a convenience, it's become (for me) a complete pain in the ass. Thus, evolved my texting rebellion. Let me give you a few Burger Rules of Etiquette.

1. You're more likely to get a response from me, if you ask a question or provide me a reason to reply. Assuming it's an appropriate question and is necessary for me to respond. Just to occupy your time is not sufficient for me to waste mine.

2. If a text conversation is started, and its purpose has been exhausted, I will stop playing our silly game. Call it ADHD, or "that's just Burger" but you've lost my attention.

3. I appreciate you more as a text buddy if you keep it short, succinct and to the point. And I'll play fair.

4. I do enjoy funny short stories or photos, those texts brighten my day. But it starts and ends there, because that's how it would happen in person. A friend shares, a friend receives, the end.

5. Etiquette also says that you shouldn't text after a certain time at night, the only object I sleep with at night is my phone, and I want it to neither ding nor vibrate before my morning alarm clock.

6. Don't text me to tell me you sent me an email or left a voicemail. Honestly.

7. Avoid, at all costs, text shorthand. I'm a spelling and grammar Nazi and I will rip your text to electronic shreds (or not respond) if you're writing to me using Algebraic language with letters and numbers. They don't belong together in math, and they certainly don't belong together in a text message. Ate is not 8. See is not C. You is not U. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

I believe text messaging is meant to share exciting, funny or important messages conveniently throughout the day, doesn't require a lot of energy from either party, can be responded to at leisure (if at all), is worthwhile and isn't something that is duplicated by another technological means.

A majority of the texting world doesn't share my opinions, so therefore, I've been labeled the worst texter backer ever. If you don't get a response, you've been red-listed. But you can redeem yourself, if, IF you demonstrate proper Burger texting etiquette.

A texting relationship with me can be harmonious, given these suggestions and recommendations. Anything else, I am THE most stubborn worst texter back ever and you might as well delete my digits from your smartphones' smartaddress book.

The Top 10 Most Annoying Text Habits (courtesy of Cosmo).
1. The Mass Text
2. The Texting Cult (when everyone brings their text plan as their date)
3. The Double Message (see number 6 above)
4. The Texting Tease
5. The Bulk Texter
6. The Bored Texter
7. The Show-and-Teller
8. The Goobers and Popcorn Texter
9. The Lingering K
10. The Needs-To-Grow-A-Pair Texter

Hit me up!

Can't get 'em to stay, can't get 'em to go away

Met this fella at a gas station. He was pleasant enough. Asked me if we could hang out, I said I wasn't really available. He saw the bike on the back of my car, suggested we hit the lakes for a ride someday. I considered it, and suggested that I take his number and I'd let him know when I was up for it. He caught onto my game quickly, and suggested that he text me his number. Wishing to avoid anything awkward, I obliged and gave my number. He texted once, twice, thrice and eventually I said, thanks but I'm booked. Since then, he has checked in from time to time. After he said "have a nice life", I figured that was the end of it. After two months, it is really necessarily that I respond back with a clarification that no, indeed I do not want to be friends? Boys! Honestly, explain to me your reasons!

Reasons SBNC is SBNC!

Why Women In Their 20s Get Hitched When They Should've Ditched by Joelle Caputa.

Young women with crumbling marriages should be thanking Kim Kardashian. She's giving each of their mother's something else to analyze 24/7.

Divorce in your 20s is horrifying enough to go through, let alone having to explain the change of your social network status to curious connections and fretting family members. For each woman on the receiving end of all those "I'm sorry," and "what happened?" sympathies is a stressed out, scared little girl wondering how her fairy tale turned into failure.

Through interviews conducted for the book I'm currently writing, Trash the Dress: Stories of Celebrating Divorce in your 20s, I've noticed common themes among women who divorced before hitting the big 3-0.

While the factors behind every relationship's demise are different, the underlying motivation behind marriage is similar for some of the women:

It was convenient. When maintaining a comfortable long-term relationship in your 20s, the next logical step is to get hitched. Madison, a 29 year-old accountant from New Jersey who is sharing her story in Trash the Dress, admits to marrying even though she didn't feel "crazy love," because was "content and secure instead."

A previous relationship left them heartbroken. They say you never really get over your first love. Tara, a 26 year-old freelance writer from North Carolina admitted during our interview, "I didn't think I would ever fall in love again so I figured it didn't matter who I married."

I can relate. Breaking up with my college boyfriend left me devastated. He wasn't just my first serious relationship; he produced the beats to my heart for years. I never thought anyone could ever make me feel that way again, so I settled for the memories and pledged my honor to someone with whom -- wait for it -- I was in a convenient relationship.

Madison also attributes a past heartbreak as a reason why she became Mrs. to Mr. Wrong. After being told over the phone by her first fiancé, "I have cancer and can never see you again," Madison had an understandably hard time trusting love. She married her ex-husband because "We were both financially stable and could have a good life. I loved him, but I'm not sure about actually being in love with him. I felt that I would never be hurt by him as long as I didn't give my whole heart."

They hoped marriage would change things. I am guilty of this mindset. I thought once we were settled into newlywed bliss, my ex-husband would be happier with his own life and able to hold a steady job and show me more affection. However, the honeymoon ended during my engagement. I brushed our problems aside, directing my efforts to tracking down black ostrich feathers for my bouquet and the perfect all-pink flower girl dress.

Casey, a 35 year-old travel correspondent and founder of GirlsGetawayGuide.net, described her ex-husband to me as "immature and insecure." She married him at age 24 and recalls "I thought getting married would fix those problems."

They had low self-esteem. When interviewing Kim (not Kardashian), a 30 year-old social worker who is now one of my best friends, she confided "I was a very insecure individual at that time. I was losing weight from gastric bypass surgery and wasn't happy with my appearance. He told me I couldn't do any better and I believed him."

During a recent interview about my divorce, the producer commented on a photo of me on my wedding day saying, "You don't look like yourself." She told me to cover my smile with my hand and look at my eyes: they were blank.

I had my doubts, but it wasn't until I was walking down the aisle that I realized the person I was about to marry was not my soul mate. I wasn't overwhelmed with joy taking steps towards the man of my dreams, father of my future children. I was seriously hoping everyone loved my dress. Emotionless, I read my vows and listened to my groom recite the sentiments I wrote for him- red flag?

Of her pending second divorce, 31 year-old Kardashian (who was married in her 20s to music producer Damon Thomas) wrote to fans on her official site, "I want a family and babies and a real life so badly that maybe I rushed in to something too soon. I believed in love and the dream of what I wanted so badly. I felt like I was on a fast roller coaster and couldn't get off when now I know I probably should have."

There's not one main reason that I, Kardashian, or any of the women I'm interviewing for Trash the Dress, can blame for why we got married. Some of us had inklings that our marriages were not meant to be but went ahead with it anyway. Others were over the moon in love. The one thing everyone does have in common, however, is that the end of our marriages were just the beginning to the rest of our lives as strong, independent, successful women.

Innocent Thief

After admiring two pieces of jewelry, and paying too much for the one I selected, how do you prove your innocence when the vendor calls to say the jewelry I didn't buy is now missing. FML.

A diet coke or a diet Burger?

Yesterday, at a sushi buffet, the server asked me for my drink order. I ordered a Coke. Seeming to not have heard me, he said "Diet Coke?" I replied, "No, a regular Coke is fine" and he says "Are you sure? No Diet Coke?". Perhaps that's a message that I should skip the soda all together, and the buffet!

Confessions of a Veteran BodyPump Instructor

As an instructor of nearly 10 years of the international fitness sensation, BodyPump, I've seen it all. This is a list of DO NOTs for your underpaid, over-trained, and over-certified fitness instructors.

1. Do not compete with me. While you have one job - which is to listen to me - I have multiple. Not only do I have to "exer-tain", but I must manage every one of my senses to ensure that YOU have a good time and a challenging workout.

2. Do not highjack my class. Just because you're taller, and wider, and stand in my way, they pay ME, not you, to lead this class.

3. Leave the technology at home. I am the only one to be pushing buttons and it's called a stereo. Quit pushing mine and stay off the g.d. crackberry.

4. Leave the vanity at the door. Do not use my mirrors to judge your "Hot or Not" status.

5. Put your $h!t away. At $14/hour, I don't get paid enough to pick up after you.

6. Stay on beat or stand in the back. Honestly. This is not a racially motivated request either, Caucausians.

7. Work out. Actually do the class if you're going to take up space. If you don't break a sweat, you've just wasted your time, and mine.

8. Don't ask me what's next if I just told you what's next. I might lie the second time around.

9. Do not stand directly in my face. If you see my chewing gum, you're in my bubble. It's awkward, you're weird and I scream.

10. Do not skip the cool down and be on your merry way. That's just rude.

11. Take your sweat, snot and yuck rags with you. See #5.

12. Do not try to beat me to the next gig in class. Again. My class, I'm the boss, you take instruction from me. See #2.

13. Do not wimp out. Your Gucci purse is heavier than that barbell you're lugging around. I know you can work harder, so do it.

14. You challenge me, I'll challenge you harder. When I challenge you, take it and trust me, it's good for you.

15. Do not stare at me. No one looks pretty in this condition, please don't remind me with your creepy ways.

16. Ditch the monkey-see-monkey-do behavior. Listen to what I say, follow instruction and be prompt. I start to question your competence when I observe you observing the dope in the corner. Again, see #2.

17. Tell me if my makeup is running down my face like black rivers of tar. Or when I start to resemble KISS. Why would you let that happen? You'll be my new BFF!

18. Do not talk over me. I have the mic, and yet I have to turn it up, to be heard over you.

19. Do not tell me I goofed. I know.

20. You CAN laugh at my jokes. "Exer-taining" isn't as cracked up as it seems. Give me a courtesy laugh now and again.

21. Do not make me tell you twice. Wow, see #8, 12 and 16.

22. Work on good form. It's for you, not for me.

The End.

The 5 Truths About Dating (That No One Ever Tells You)

The 5 Truths About Dating (That No One Ever Tells You) by Melissa Lafsky.

The best thing I've ever read on the Internet is this. And the best line is when the author, a confirmed bachelor, says of his married friends: "I doubt many of them would actually choose to trade places with me. Although they may miss the thrill of sexual novelty, absolutely nobody misses dating."

There's no denying it: we all despise dating. It's a cruel joke played on us by modern society -- while human beings are hard-wired to seek love and companionship, our culture plops giant boulders in the path of intimacy and calls them "dates." Movies and TV and YA books and grandmothers of all ethnicities push us to partner up, but the actual skills for successfully navigating a dating situation somehow get overlooked. Since my last column about weddings, I've gotten a slew of unhappy replies from women (and the occasional man) saying, "Quit complaining -- I'd love to have your problems. Meeting the partner is the hard part." Fair enough. Dating friggin' sucks.

Assuming you are a person who puts up with the suckiness of dating for a purpose -- to find a longterm partner -- then chances are you're looking to find an end to your dating days (if you're someone who goes on dates simply to have sex, or get out of the house on weekends, then this column will hold no use for you -- but read it anyway!). And a big part of reaching this proverbial happy end is facing a few icky truths. Full disclosure: I met my husband-to-be at a party in New York City, when I was in my early '30s (meaning I'm now in my less-early '30s). "You're so lucky!" people gasp when I tell them the story, as if I was a prepubescent plucked from Ceský Krumlov and handed a supermodeling contract. Casey Anthony was lucky. I'm just someone who decided I was ready to find a husband, and then did the necessary work to procure one. Yes, I said "work." Which brings us to the five truths about dating that no one ever tells you (but are nonetheless true):

1) Dating takes work.

We're taught to work hard to achieve our goals. Study until your eyes bleed, and you'll make the Honor Roll. Take 6 zillion extracurricular activities and snort Adderall before the SATs, and you'll get into college. Stay late and work weekends, and you'll get the promotion. And on and on until you fulfill the American expectation of constant accomplishment (or you die, or both).

Yet somehow, in the midst of all this cultural "can-do-it-iveness," a crucial lesson gets lost: meeting your life partner also requires work. Lots of work, in fact. This reality gets totally scrubbed from the lore of modern romance. We honestly think it just happens. We arrive at a bar on Tuesday night and our beloved is standing there with a rubber stamp on his/her forehead and 2 tickets to eternal bliss. Not true. Even the people for whom this sort of thing "happens" are lying about it -- they worked (whether they realized it or not) to ready themselves and prepare their lives to meet someone, be it by conquering fears of intimacy or overcoming emotional scars that kept them from nabbing the great people they did meet, or just cleaning out all the crap in their apartments to make room for someone other than the cat. And most of all, they got their butts to that bar on a Tuesday night.

So what's the specific work you need to do? Hell if I know. All I know is that if you're dating like a fiend and never getting what you want (more on that later) then there is work left to do. In a way, deciphering what work is necessary for you is like 10th grade algebra -- if you study the same way for every test and flunk them all, then clearly the way you're studying isn't working. And if you're putting on the same makeup/dress/mental state and heading to the same bar/restaurant/speed dating hall and expecting different results every time, same rules apply.

2) Chances are, you don't really know what you want.

All the frustration that accompanies not meeting the beloved of your dreams can be exhausting. And yes, it (both the dating and the frustration) can go on indefinitely. People do find themselves 60 and alone. Hell, people die alone. No point in sugarcoating it. But whether this happens to you is a choice -- specifically, it's a choice right now to make one thing a priority over another. In other words: figure out exactly what you want right now. Do you want to get married? Do you want it badly enough to do the work discussed in Truth #1? Why? What's so great about being married that makes it worth your time and energy? What traits/activities/emotional needs are you focused on enriching/fulfilling with a partner? What major life goals (travel/children/etc) are you looking to achieve with this theoretical spouse? Because if you don't have a clear idea of what you're trying to accomplish by dragging yourself on dates every week, you're just tossing matches at a tree and hoping it ignites. Or something.

3) Even if you do know what you want, you don't really think you can have it.

We're so good at negating ourselves. No other human has a chance at making us feel as crappy as we can ourselves. It's not even a contest. Just listen to that little voice in your head for a second -- it's negating you right now: "This chick is full of it. She just got lucky. I never get what I want. Nothing good ever happens to me." This charming voice is screaming at you during every date. It knows every insult and jibe to slice right through your good time and sense of possibility. And to make matters worse, it has countless arguments at the ready to convince you that what it says is true: "It's been clinically proven that men your age only want models or cocktail waitresses. Plus the 2010 census showed that single women outnumber single men in this city 8 quatrillion to one!" (I had a professor once who loved the quote "Statistics are like prostitutes -- play with them enough and they'll do anything for you." He may belong in a high-security ward, but there is truth buried in his awful metaphor).

Here's the thing: That godawful voice in your head is basically a life-destroyer. It will almost never help you achieve blissful happiness. It will never tell you that you can/will/should have everything you want in a lover/partner/spouse. And not to go all motivational speaker on you, but we all die in the end. So why not at least try for what you really want, inner voices be damned??

4) Every date really does go how you say it will go.

Whether you realize it or not, every time you go on a date, you've performed a mini-voodoo ritual to predetermine how it will go. If you've shaved off every body hair and wrapped yourself in lacy pink underthings, the chances are high you're gonna get laid. If you demand that your best friend wait a block away to sweep in and rescue you in case he's a psycho? Guess what -- you'll date a lot of psychos. When you're a hammer, every dude from Match.com looks like a nail. So to speak. You set it up from the moment you say yes to the date (or have the other person say yes). Just keep this in mind -- it'll save a lot of wondering "I wonder how it's gonna go tonight?"

5) The hardest part of dating is hearing reality -- even if that reality makes you want to rip off your fingernails with a pliers.

Dating is all about uncertainty and hard truths. You're not really sure what this person across the table thinks of you, and that opinion could be a hard one to hear.

The good news is that after every date, there are only 2 outcomes: either 1) you will see this person again, or 2) you won't. (Once you get into the relationship phase, it's much more complicated -- but that's fodder for another column.) The really tough part is going to be when it's option 2 -- and you'll have to face rejection. Which is never, ever something anyone wants to hear -- we'll yank out our eyebrows and rip off our pubic hair without hesitation, but hearing "I don't want to see you again" is somehow exquisitely painful.

The important part is facing that this pain is a possibility, and making yourself hear what is so. Not what you want to be so, not what romantic comedies say will be so, but what is actually so. He or she does not wish to continue seeing you, and the possibility for that relationship is now gone. Which sucks, but it doesn't MEAN anything (remember that nasty "meaning" trick we're all so good at?). If this guy doesn't fall-down adore you, it MEANS NOTHING about your status as a worthy and valuable human being. It also means nothing about your ability to find partnership in the future. Likewise, if a guy rejects you, it doesn't MEAN anything about men in general. All it means is that this one was a douchebag. And that you found out early enough to recover, pick yourself up, and get back to work. Which is precisely what I did approximately 38 times before meeting my husband. And hey -- it was worth it.

A blog of another kind

I'm taking a moment to relish the good things. At the moment, I am in a beautiful city, I've never been here before but it is certainly growing on me. Vancouver, BC, is clean, green, kind and diverse people, active, vibrant. This city has everything, mountains, rivers, seaplanes, city trains. I've noticed that people seem very healthy here, everyone walks. This seems like Canada's Miami with the glass condos lining the entire length of the harbor. I've heard the "ouuut" in about, out, shout, etc. It's cute. It feels like home. I know my Mom would love it here.

Another thing I've noticed that just warms my heart is when a complete stranger calls me an affection name - like sweetie, honey, cupcake. I think it's adorable and I wish I was bold enough to say so in return. The affection makes me feel more connected, it's always given with a smile, and often it feels truly sincere. I love sincerity, feeling connected, I love happy people. It also reminds me that I'm not the only one that believes happiness is contagious.

I had an enlightening moment where I'm sitting in the middle of a strange city, completely content, eating my po'boy lunch of baget, brie and salami, with my Harp's, taking in the surroundings. How fortunate I am to have a job that allows me to see these fine places. How great is it that I get to move to a new home when I return? How awesome is it that my family, dad included, was able to spend time with each other in one place, our cabin place, last weekend. How lucky I am to have friends that look forward to sharing their time with me. There are little complaints along the line, but all in all, when I look at the big picture, life isn't that bad. In fact, it's pretty damn good. Even if I don't have balls and chains!

Keep my age to yourself

No one appreciates reminders of their advancing age, especially at 32 when a young gal still feels like 23. At one time, I saw my hairdresser because I wanted to, now I continue to see my hairdresser because I have to. My roots do not just grow out, so do my grays. At one time, my waist circumference used to be in the twenties. Evidently, waist size increases proportionally (x.5%) as age increases. And not just waist size, but jean size, bra size and panty size. And to put the nail in my puma coffin, I drive a four door tan sedan. Speaking of four door sedans, and speaking of this puma on the prowl, I was an innocent victim of high school giddy games recently that REALLY made me feel my age.

Ladies, gents, remember WAY back when... back to a time when boys and girls had little crushes that left you giddy, nervous, and excited? And do you remember being that underclassmen who totally adored that upperclassmen, that cutie patutie teacher, or that hot something-er-other working the McDonald's drive thru, or the star athlete? Do you remember being totally enamored with an older, wiser, and totally unlikely object of your realistic affections? I do. And while I'm flattered at the mere thought that a car full of barely-post-pubescent boys felt it necessary to honk (twice), yell, (thrice), and another time even louder for the full effect, and then get all giddyasaschoolgirl with big wide toothy grins from ear to ear, and wave the "helLOO!". My first thought was, "well, how cute is that?" and then it donned on me what was really going on. I've been punked. I'm not old enough to be that "woman" that gets the hollers, the looks, the silly cat calls from boys that could, in all honesty, be my offspring. I refuse to believe I've reached that point that I recall so well - doing those stupid embarrassing things, like driving in endless circles in the neighborhood of the crush, just to catch a mere glimpse in the window, add my phone number with his, write his name over and over with mine, scope out our "sign" compatability (oh, wait...). I am not old enough to be the object of fascious attention, just for $hits and giggles. I am not old enough to be that girl that waves for the sake of "making their day"! I don't want to be that girl, yet, I want teenagers to ignore me like I do them!!

Like nails on a chalkboard...

.... I resent "reply all" unless it is dutifully necessary to include each and every individual on that email chain to be fully informed.

I especially hate the "reply all's" that are nothing more than a polite acknowledgement, "thanks!". What? Really?

The "reply all's" that use the critical mass of recipients to make a point, gain buy-in, and issue complaint, as if we are all part of it and are contributing authors.

The unnecessary "reply all's" when it's out of courtesy, and one might be interested in the content, but in all likelihood, will trash it because I have 142 other emails that are addressed to me.

And lastly.

Four-way stop-signs. I think it was the other guy that had a stop-sign pet peeve that designed stoplights, where there are clear instructions and protocol when approaching them. But stop-signs are a little ambiguous, especially if one was napping during that drivers training segment. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL I STOP at my stop-sign TO ADVANCE THROUGH THE INTERSECTION!

Point made.

Rumor Has It...

Rumor sure does have it!  Word around town is that I've turned into an angry lesbian!  It's funny what people start to believe when that little seed gets planted, and I have to send a shout out to David for spreading his seed.  To anyone who will listen. Someone at our kickball game this past Sunday actually did ask if I liked girls...so obviously it's not a stretch that I may swing on either (or both) sides.

Picture this.  Twins game at Target Field.  The weather is a balmy 70-something degrees and it's about as perfect for ball watching as can be.  To my right sits David, and on my left, a nice married lady around my age (or perhaps 10 or so years younger but whatever) and her husband of 3 years.  I make buds with this girl relatively quickly and David points out that I seem to flirt better with women than I do men.  Probably an accurate observation.  I don't have the pressure of 'flirting' when I am jiving with another chick, and I don't have the interest in her being interested in whether or not I am interested in her.  And, the one time I managed to get someones number instead of giving mine happened to be the time when I approached my now good friend Elizabeth on a boat cruise in attempts of setting her up with my friend Mike.  In my overzealous manner, I managed to walk away with her digits and form a great friendship instead of fulfulling my 'duty of the wingman' by getting HIM the number.  He still, years later, refers to me as 'The C**k Blocker.'   I think David may be one of my only friends who has witnessed my experiments with flirting.  It never ends well and it always becomes incredibly painful to watch.  Much like a train wreck.  But worse.  Once, at my waitressing job, an adorable regular customer came in and for the first time, sat in my section.  He struck up a conversation with me and it started to appear that he could either have been being really nice, or that he was trying to find out some dope on me.  Because he's hot, I decided it was the latter.  As soon as I made that decision, the build up to impress was too great and I knew it was only a matter of time before my foot would be inserted deep into my mouth without any hope of recovering from what I may say.  Sure enough.... "so, Christine, do you have any kids?" he asks.  I chuckle and say (as cute as I can somehow make it), "nope!  Guess I haven't found anyone who wants me to have their kids yet!"  Uh.  What?!  Who says that?  This customer used to come in religiously on Sunday's...generally with his kid.  After that happened, nobody has seen him (although I did see him at a local gas station not too long ago so I know he hasn't moved.)  Coincidence?  I promptly went searching on my iPhone for an app that'll teach me how to flirt. 

All of this really shouldn't make me question why then David would start spreading around the rumor that I like girls.  I mean, it has been a significant amount of time since I've proven otherwise (262,080 minutes, but who's counting?)  Can I just say, without any doubt whatsoever, that I am not an angry lesbian?  I am not even a non-angry lesbian.  Not that there is anything wrong with either, I just wouldn't be particularily good in that role.  Then again, I am clearly not particularily good at being fond of men, either.

Stranger Danger 2

In much the same way as Christy-Misty-Coco (CMC for short, from henceforth) appreciates the acknowledgement of her presence by strangers in a polite and courteous manner, I want people to leave me the (f expletive) alone! My story takes yet a different twist on (f expletive ing) people. I still agree with CMC, folks are rude, self-absorbed, unkind, and disrespectful, but I'd rather encounter an individual who wants nothing more than to pretend I don't exist than the (b expletive) who more than made her presence known to me yesterday.

My story begins at the end of my work day at the beautiful U. Each Wednesday and Thursday evening, I scramble from my office to arrive just in time to teach my BodyPump fitness class at the Y in South Minneapolis. To this day, eight years of teaching, I have never been late, once. And for those who know me, this is a great accomplishment. I really, admittedly, deserve a plaque for this. This particular Wednesday afternoon, we have a flash rainstorm, campus is surrounded by road construction in each direction, and I have been sitting in my car for 20 minutes, having moved no more than a few feet in that time. I start to get nervous, I still have my entire commute to the Y, now in less than 30 minutes, it's still raining and I'm convinced I'm not going to make it in time. I weasel my way around campus, and attempt a secret (although I discover it is not so secret) way to exit the area. And my futile attempt found me in another snag with road construction. As I'm sitting on Washington Ave bridge with nothing to do but wait, I decide that I need to initiate a Plan B, in case I cannot escape the gridlock and arrive to my class in time. As I am browsing my phone, in my lap, for phone numbers of other instructors, I am startled by the "excuse me!, EXCUSE ME!" from the woman in the car ahead of me, standing outside of her car. Immediately I begin to think, "oh no, did I leave something on the hood of my car, is my bike dangling from my rack in the back, are my high-beams on?" To my utter surprise, my confusion seems to spark a fuse and she begins yelling "Would you please (how polite, right?) get off your (f expletive ing) phone and pay attention to how you are (f expletive ing) driving?" Really? I am absolutely stunned. There is no one behind me, so I couldn't have be mistaken for someone else. I am not moving. I am not evening DRIVING at that point. I am at a complete dead stop on a road, marred by construction and when we move (which we hadn't been for a significant amount of time) we are moving only inches at a time. Perhaps she didn't like that I wasn't advancing with the traffic as they moved a few centimeters from moment to moment. Well, anyone who has driven a manual transmission knows, it (f expletive ing) sucks to continuously clutch and unclutch in rush hour, let alone, road construction. I laugh. I sit there and laugh at the stupidity of this woman. I am trying to be a responsible instructor by getting a sub and taking care of the participants that will be waiting for me. I am being a responsible driver by being completely aware of my surroundings and not moving while I'm accessing my phone. I am minding my own (f expletive ing) business. Who is she? The No Distracted Driving Police? Who do people think they are? Not to mention, who cusses someone out completely unwarranted, undeserved, and unprovoked? I am absolutely appalled by people. And this (b expletive) is so fortunate that I am who I am that all I chose to do was turn the other cheek.

My friend Elizabeth Becklin recently share the Four Agreements with me, to be a better person and to live a better life. I believe these to be so true. I had to put number 2 into practice immediately, to fend off my anger and to forgive a complete a (f expletive ing) stranger.

BE GOOD TO PEOPLE!

The Four Agreements are:
1. Be Impeccable with your Word: Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the Word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your Word in the direction of truth and love.

2. Don’t Take Anything Personally
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.

3. Don’t Make Assumptions
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.

4. Always Do Your Best
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.

Stranger Danger

It dawned on me not too long ago, how another frustration was growing into a new pet peeve.  I realized one day, while walking my dog Lucy, that as we passed by people on the sidewalk, they refused to look at me.  Or her.  Neither one of us got so much as a look, a smile or that stupid head nod to acknowledge our presence.  Since then, I find that it happens all of the time, every single day.  I give people the stare down on their approach because I want the eye contact.  I crave the eye contact.  I need the eye contact.  If I get the eye contact and a smile, I am happy.  If they add in a, "hello!" I find myself drunk with delight. 

I decided that perhaps it was just those lacking manners who were standing out to me.  That, surely, there cannot be that many passive men and women in this 'Minnesota Nice' state we're residing in.  So, one day I kept a running tab of everyone I passed on the way in to and out of work.  Along with those I came across at Target while running in to grab a bag of Cheetos.  And on top of all of those people, the ones I walked by as I hoofed it with Lucy during the 6 mile hike we took that day.   In total, I came into contact with 37 people.  Shockingly, I got a smile, look or hello from only 6.   7, if I count the cyclist who came up from behind me during my walk and shouted "on your left!" (incidently, she was the only one on a bike who let me know she was coming up on me.  Most never tell you so you get to be shocked when they pass by and scare the heck out of your dog.  Apparently, telling someone you are "on their left" is too much work.)

So, why can't we say hello these days?  Does a smile indicate someones interest in you and therefore we hold back so they don't think we're a creep?  I know I come off a bit aggressive in my stance here, because as I see someone approaching me, I'll literally stare at them until they look at me.  I just want to say hi!  Let me say hi!  Most times, they stare straight ahead, like a woman in the delivery room finding her focal point to control her pain and breathing.  They must think, "holy cow...someone is approaching me.  What do I do?  WHAT.  DO.  I.  DO?"  I'll just look away.  Or stare off into the distance.  Anything but make eye contact!

The worst experience during this sampling was my encounter at Target.  I was in the express lane with my Cheetos, and a gal blew by me in order to make her way to the door, knocking into my side.  She did this to the man in front of me as well, only knocking into him a bit harder.  There wasn't even an "excuse me" whispered.  She wasn't running out of the store because she was in that much of a hurry (at least, that's not how it appeared), she was simply walking by and decided it'd be better for all if she just bumped people without instead letting them know she was coming up and needed to get past.   I found that incredibly rude.  What is wrong with people?

I'll quit with the Tuesday gripe session.  Here's the thing.  I know when I do actually get a smile or acknowledgement from someone, it makes my day a little brighter.  Maybe your smile can impact someone more than you'd ever realize.  So tape your cheeks up and just smile.  I want to see them teeth!  Hell, be bold and offer up a high five.  Or maybe even hug it out with another. 

The Cost of the Feminist Movement*

I may ruffle some feathers with this, but it must be done and I am fully prepared.

As a female, I have to say that the Susan B. Anthony's of the world are amazing (how can you not think someone with their own coin is anything but?)  I appreciate what she, and her fellow feminists, did for the lives of women.  But I sometimes want to kick her in the throat.  All of them, actually.  The Women's Movement was making great strides.  Allowing women to vote.  Getting birth control recognized, approved and accepted.  Equal rights in the work place and no discrimination against you barefoot and preggo ladies.  All of this is rockstar status awesome.  But let me tell you what isn't.

Since the Women's Movement, we have, as women, become more and more independent and free thinking.  Again, coo.  Somewhere along the way though, we decided to tell men that it was ok for them to stop opening doors for us, because, well, "I can take care of that on my own!" or that he didn't have to act chivalrous at all, really, because we were too strong for that.  Being strong and independent kicks arse.  Taking care of yourself is essential and all people, men and women alike, should be able to do just that.  But that doesn't mean I need to cut the balls off of every man I meet and tuck them away in my purse!  It doesn't mean that I don't want a man to treat me with the respect a lady truly deserves (perhaps then I'd actually act like a lady.)  I really have no use for a pair of balls in my purse anyway.  It just isn't practical to take up space for something that really doesn't do me any good in having.

Back in the day, there was courting, there was true flirting, and there was kindness.  You know what dating has become since this Women's Movement?  A headache.  A mess of games and tricks and fear and frustration.  As independent and strong as I am (I am woman, hear me roar!), I can't lie and say that I wouldn't love for someone to come along and be a M-A-N.  When I say that, I don't mean I want someone to come in and dominate me (snicker snicker), but instead just to come in with the confidence a man should have and treat me like a man should.  Dating should be fun.  It should be exciting and knock-you-off-your-feet wonderful.  There should be butterflies when you get ready.  And he should be knocking at your door at the start of the date rather than meeting you on a random bar stool or honking the horn waiting in the car.  We should want to dress nicer, have our nails did, look a bit prettier than normal and care about exactly how we're coming across versus tossing on a pair of jeans, shrugging our shoulders and thinking, "here we go again..."  I believe this still exists in a small percentage of people, so maybe I'll just hold out for that man to show his face.  And his balls.



*the name of this creation is brought to you by Big Poppa.  David and I were in a chat sesh and he dropped the title like it was hot so I stole it.  But at least I am giving him credit (that's new for me.  Usually I thieve and take sole credit for things.)

Dibs

We all know what it feels like to be the third wheel. And the fifth wheel. What about the seventh or the ninth wheel? Do we all know how it feels to be paired up with the bachelor uncle, 20 years senior, when the family pairs off in two? How about getting the couch during the holidays when the other “pairs” retreat to the bedrooms for “private” time? Who said I don’t need “my” “private” “time”? The bathroom is my private time. And who is forced to wake up against their will because the parents can no longer seem to sleep past 5 am? Who is obligated to stand in the center of family photos, due to no other half to make this spinster whole? Who is not referred to in the plural sense because she’s still singular? What about the sole contributor among pairs when splurging for Christmas, birthday and Mother’s day gifts? So the “pairs” get to claim two names as gift giver, and I take my credit, all…to…my….self. Time is not of the essence as a Missus, having no balls (men) and no chains (children); we are on-call at their beck and call. Who has to single-handedly prepare a dinner for the pairs? Who gets the short end of the stick because there are fewer responsibilities like babies and husbands and families? Who seems to get saddled with assignments that require more flexibility, willingness and time? Sometimes it’s okay not to have that +1, other times, it feels like a -1.

And hell yes, next Christmas, I claim dibs!

Like a dog to a Fire Hydrant....

Sigh.  I don't even know where to kick this one off. 

Love is great.  It really is.  Possibly the best feeling in the entire world.  What I find so incredibly funny in this day and age, is that we feel the need to utilize social networking to shout our love for one another from the rooftops.  Taking this a bit further, I am starting to liken the women of today as the proverbial dog to a fire hydrant.  Pissing on the Facebook walls of their men, so to speak.  You rarely see men doing this to their women.  Hell, he probably just told her he loved her 2 minutes ago via text, so why blab about it on Facebook or Twitter, too?  Does doing so make their love stronger?  Their connection more real?  No.  I'll tell you what it does.  It makes every mutual friend that couple has (or at least one friend - that being me) want to puke from seeing the constant one sided stream of love.  Keep it in the bedroom, people.  Leave me out of it.

Have we become such an insecure breed that we must constantly make sure every female friend on your mans Facebook account knows, without any uncertainty, that he is taken?  I'm not trying to be a hater, I just don't understand is all.  What did we do before the days of social networking to ensure our loved ones knew they were just that - loved?  Did we actually - GULP - tell them?  Like, to their face?  Wow. 

I am a Facebook junkie just like many.  I especially love my daily Facebook stalking sessions and have come to really look forward to that.  But, come on already.  The only time pissing on someones page is funny is when Alyssa and I do it to one another, sitting right next to eachother at the bar and having the time of our lives.  Not that any of our mutual friends find it funny...but then, they're too busy spewing out their undying love for their mates to really even read our drunken mess.

Love you all!  ooxx

By the way, I am still looking for cat donations for this Christmas card idea.  Please people.  I know you're out there.

Get Your Read On...

I am not counting this as a blog entry (basically, if it's not snarky, it's not an entry.  Period!)  Just doin a little pimping of a site I think is pret-ty pret-ty pret-ty pret-ty goooood.  (that was my shout out to Larry David, if you couldn't tell.)

Lyss turned me on to something she likes to call Pass It Forward.  After you read a book, instead of popping it back on that bookshelf to accumulate dust, likely never to be opened again, she would give the book to someone she thought would enjoy it.  I really liked that idea and started doing it myself.   Then I stumbled on this website (actually, I think I found it one morning while doing my daily Facebook stalk) which basically allows you to swap out your books.  I find the concept a cool one.  Find a book you want to read, if there happens to be one available in the swap (there is a good chance it will be) then you request said book, pay only the shipping ($3-$4, typically) and the owner sends it to you.  And you can do the same for others.  The site keeps track of your swap history and for every 10 books you send, you get credit for them to pay shipping charges for the next one you request.  It also tracks where the book has been, so sometimes you see one book having made it's way to 10 or so people, and there is just something cool about that to me.  If some of the books you want aren't available for swap, you can add them to your wishlist and you can check that as often as you want to see if any have since come available, and you can receive email notifications of the books on your wishlist available for swap.  Ok.  Enough already.

It's maybe pathetic that I get so geeked up over this, but I do.  If you're a fan of the book, you should do yourself a favor and check out the site.  Instead of paying $20 for a new book you'll probably only read once, why not pay $3 instead?

http://www.goodreads.com/

I Think I Might be Allergic to Boyfriends and Babies

When the hell did I make the turn right into Crazytown?  Can somebody tell me precisely when it happened?  Perhaps I can't remember the dream where I was told to walk into the doorway of doom, but clearly it happened.  Somewhere.  At some point.

Actually, not one word of that is true.  I am not crazy - at least I don't think so and surely if I thought I was crazy, I'd gleefully admit that to anyone who would listen.  What seems to make me crazy, by the standards of society, is that I am knocking on the door to 33 and am in that category with the never been marrieds.  And I am pretty damn old for this group, I guess.  What makes me stand out as completely crazy, is the fact that not only am I without child, I can't think of a more hated notion for myself than becoming a mother.  That's right.  I said it.  Shank me.  I don't want kids.  They scare the bejaysus out of me.  They don't listen.  They're creepy (seriously, my neighbor kids are the creepiest children I've ever laid eyes on.  They make the twin girls from The Shining look like sweet little angels as they're screaming REDRUM or something along those lines.)  Truth is, I adore children....as long as they are not my own, and they choose to keep themselves at a fair distance from me.

When did we decide that the only thing in life is marriage and children?  Why is it so foreign to live without one, the other, or - GASP - both?  Why am I looked at as though I am Satan in disguise whenever I say out loud that I never intend on either for myself?  "Ohhhhhh, Christy!  YOU JUST WAIT!" (which is generally followed by some insane laugh that is, apparently, supposed to make me jump up and down with excitement over waiting for IT to happen to me.) 

Now, I am not knocking anyone who has tried marriage and had it either work for or against them.  It's a wonderful institution for some.  Just. Not. Me.  Living in sin with some nice gentle soul would suit me just fine.  But kids are out of the question.  This is what my sister and brother reproduced for (not with one another, but with their respective spouses.  I have some questionable redneck stuff going on in my family, but not my immediate peeps!)   My adorable niece and nephews are available for me to love up all over whenever I want.  And the best part about that is, I get to give them back when I am done!  I implore people to stop puking all over the spinsters of the world.  Maybe we don't want your puke on us!  Maybe we look forward to adopting 76 cats and living happily ever after (or until someone calls Hoarders due to that horrendous smell wafting from the home of someone with, now, 70 cats and 6 dead somewhere in the house.  Not that you can keep count of 70 cats.)

I understand that "it's different when they're your own" and that life changes for the better when you birth out 3 children.  I get it.  That doesn't make me want it any more than I did before hearing it.  The older I get, the more frustrated the "look" from people is making me.  Mind your bidness and tend to those creepy kids instead of telling me to have my own.

All this aside, I am a wonderful babysitter and would be willing to donate a Saturday night or two for something as simple as a Big Mac and a Redbox rental.  I'm easy.  Maybe this is why I am not married.

The little cat blurb made me remember that the annual Christmas card this year will be of me posing with as many cats as I can find (all vaccinated for rabies, of course.)  If any readers (do we even have any readers?) have cats they'd be alright with me using for this Kodak moment, I would be greatly appreciative.  I figure if I get cards of kids saying "Happy Holidays from The Anderson's!" then I can do the same with my cats.

(By the way, as much as many of you will want to do, please don't call me out on my being allergic to babies when, suddenly, I become pregnant at 35 years of age.  I don't want to be reminded of my hypocritical views.  I think anyone who knows me knows this entire blog was a joke.  No, I don't dream of being married someday.  And no, I don't want to give birth to children.  But I don't loathe or think kids are creepy.  You think I am some sort of monster or something?  Actually, I love kids.  They always pick me for their server when they come into the restaurant so obviously I don't hate them.  I more despise poor parenting and lack of discipline which has created demon children.)

The DEmasculation of a Man

Alyssa and I decided to try out the House of Comedy one Friday night back in April.  We were seated directly to the right of the stage (or I suppose one could argue that it was the left of the stage, but that's really neither here nor there) and I was excited to get my laugh on.  The comics leading up to the headliner were ok, but we soon found ourselves laughing and giggling when Mike took center stage.  Mike had the looks of a 40-something Jersey Shore cast member and his sense of humor was crass and just the way Pits (my pet name for Alyssa) and I like it.  During the show, he focused on our table, drawing much attention to the fact that two lovely ladies were seated at his side.  Alyssa loved this so much that, at one point, she pulled her hair out of the pony she was sportin' and shook it out a la Herbal Essense commercial style.  It was great, and being the self-proclaimed attention whore that I am, I gotta say I loved every second of it.  Post show, we were shuffled into the bar area to finish our drinks and Mike came and joined the partay.  We took seats next to him and let the funny start all over again.  At some point, Alyssa decided to head home, but I was having a great time and decided I'd stay.  It was no secret that Mike had a girlfriend, he referenced her quite a bit during the show...so make no mistake that I had no intention of doing anything but having a good time laughing at the bar with some strange man I barely knew.  Moving on into the night, Mike found his opportunity to proposition me back to his hotel.  "They're putting me up at the Ramada!" was, I suppose, his way of impressing the panties right off of me.  When that didn't work, we ventured into conversation that led him to tell me that I was single because I have opinions...something which, apparently, "demasculates men."  Men don't like women with opinions?  Would your girlfriend hold back her opinion if she found out you were attempting to woo some girl you just met at the Mall of America in Bloomington MN back to your room at the Ramada?  And, let's be honest here.  How could I possibly miss the correction that needed to be made?  "I think you meant EMASCULATE, Mike.  Demasculate isn't a word," I say.  He didn't think that was funny, but he did think it was time to try and toss his hat back into the ring for some action, so once again he asked me back to the hotel.  I said, "no thanks!" and he assured me that it would be a good time, but that "I don't use condoms so we can just raw dog." Uhhhhh, say what now?  We can just....raw dog, you say?  The night definitely took a turn here.  I decided it was time to leave (the bar was closing anyway, so I guess whether I was planning to leave or not didn't really matter).  Mike and I shared a cab back to the Ramada, where he gave me money so I could get home.  Without letting him raw dog it.  Or not raw dog it.  I never got out of the cab until hitting my home in the Valley.

So, here it is.  Clearly, we shouldn't offer opinions in conversating (while we're on the Urban Dictionary thing...) with men as we take on the risk of demasculating them and making them dislike us.  But, on the flip side, Mike proved that chivalry isn't all the way dead, either!  I mean, he did flip me a $20 so I could get home!  That counts for something, right?

Yup, that's right, edargorteR yrucreM

Some of you know that I’m a Believer. I’m a Christian, always have been and always will be. Some of you also know that I dabble a little bit in astrology and conspiracy theories. It’s true. I’ve been a bit in the closet about both, but I’m learning to be more open with my opinions as they are formed entirely by experience. As well as the occasional call to a psychic; don’t judge me, you know you wanted to. I digress. I have learned of this concept of Mercury Retrograde in the astrological circle. Before you balk at this idea, hear me out. From grade school lessons we know the planets orbit the sun, and at certain times throughout the year, the planet Mercury is opposite the Earth in orbit. Mercury slows down and appears to either stop or move backwards. It’s really more of an optical illusion, but this creates the Mercury Retrograde. So you might ask, so what? The Mercury Retrograde makes life feel a little quirky, unsettled and feels like things are in a backwards sort of motion. It turns out; the retrograde is a time for reflection, for looking back and to catch up. What does this have to do with being a single lady? Well. Let. Me. Tell. You. If I were a gambling woman, I’d bet my life savings (which isn’t much but I’m so confident in my theory, I’d take double or nothing, hands down), on any number of individuals that I’ve been so fortunate to have crossed paths, and guarantee that I will receive an email, a text, a Facebook message, a phone call and even an uninvited guest to my front door, all during the Mercury Retrograde. I’ve learned that they always come back, given you’ve left enough of an impact on their life, or bruised an ego, or had not sufficiently tied loose ends. They always come back. They want to know how you are, what you’re up to, if you want to meet up. They say their apologies, justify their actions, seek forgiveness, start again where we left off, and suggest we remain friends. They always come back. Weeks, months, years; it’s no match for the Mercury Retrograde! At first, I was flattered (young and dumb), and then I became a little bitter (less young, still dumb), and now it’s a joke (less young, less dumb, still single). There are actually Internet search engines which will tell you who’s been searching for you, but I have the answer! Watch for that Mercury Retrograde and it will tell you for free!

"I could use a beer. When are you going to be their?"

Before I go any further past that awful excuse for a headline, let me just say that I know I am neurotic.  A self-proclaimed b*tch.  Perhaps this plays a small part in why I am single, but that's not really what this entry is about so let's get to the nitty gritty.

I know I am in this weird spot where I really find dating to be a chore and it doesn't hold much interest for me right now.  That said, let's rewind to a cold February afternoon when I met Charlie (names have been changed to protect the identity of the victims of this blog).  My best friend Matt (his name has not been changed because he is not a victim - - at least not as I see it) and I were out to lunch and saw Charlie sitting across the bar.  After some time, Matt followed Charlie into the bathroom and in true creeper fashion, decided to tell Charlie that I thought he was cute and that he should come and talk to me.  Charlie, not being from around here (clearly, as you'll see what transpired next) tells Matt that he's "no CENSORED and that he'll come and talk to me directly" (see?  not from around here).  Anyway, long story longer, he does just that and I have a nice time chatting with him for the rest of our time there.  Fast forward a few months when Charlie actually moves to Minnesota.  Through a series of text messages, I invite Charlie out once again with Matt and me.  The response was devestating.  "I could use a beer.  When are you going to be their?" 

Charlie came out.  Had a couple of beers and went about his business.  But somehow I couldn't get past that interchangeable use of the word their.  I mean there.  Or is it they're?  Whatever.  The fact is, their were several more texts and the same mistake continued on.  It pains me.  It pains me that I not only use this as a reason to not date Charlie, but because I clearly find myself without flaw and can judge a person for such a dumb thing.  Although, we are in our thirties and should be able to use there, their and they're (as well as you're and your & here and hear) properly.  I could go on and on about this, but I'll save you the gory details.  Suffice it to say that I like my men to be able to know the difference between these words.  Neurotic much?

A day in the life of a single lady...(that's right, I said lady)

Ok, so, after much deliberation and some serious coaxing, Alyssa and I decided to venture into this blogging bit and let all of you experience our experiences in dating, love, and life in general.  At first glance, you may think, "what do I care what their experiences are?" but let me assure you that you will be entertained.  I am certain we should be saving this material for some book that would surely be life changing, but for now it's just you.  And us.  Cherish that while you still have it.  If Taylor Swift can gain fan support over her disaster of a love life, so can we. 

Alyssa and I have these amazing chat sessions on the daily that always leads to fits of laughter.  I imagine this blog will end up being our chat sessions played out to the world.  Hopefully anyone reading this doesn't feel personally offended by the humor we have.  Most of this is just our snarky sense of humor coming through and meant to make those around us laugh.  That's the disclaimer.  You can take it or leave it.

Oh, and thanks for subscribing.  I start to itch when people don't shine their love down on me in the form of attention.