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Ladies and gentlemen? Love sucks.

No--I take that back. Love isn't the thing that sucks. Rather, men who decide to let love intentionally slip through their hands suck.

I have spent more time in 2011 mourning love lost than I care to admit. For a while I was hopeful and Disney Princess-like to a fault. I was all sorts of starry-eyed, believing that love would triumph over adversity and that The Boy and I would make it through a tough spot in our relationship because of our love, our strength and our ability to burst into songs about our love and our strength. (Ok, I made that last part up. Though I do like to burst into song randomly. My life will resemble a musical, dammit!) It quickly became evident that I was the only one who believed in "us" and thus, the relationship fell apart. And by "fell apart" I mean that the man I fell in love with stopped calling, texting, emailing and dating me without so much as a word about his charming plan. He faded "us" out.

I did what any girl would do: I cried. Lots. Often. I went over the minutes on my cell plan calling my friends-cum-therapists nightly. I journaled incessantly. I even petitioned the Universe. (I am a bit of a hippy, you should know, readers.)

And when none of that worked I got angry. Not angry enough to slash his tires or call him screaming at three in the morning. But angry enough to call my friends and have them yell with me. During one of the yelling sessions I had an epiphany.

We have to give a list of references to potential employers. We can review products we purchase on websites. Why can't we get reviews or references for the people we date? And why, for the love of God, why can't former flames give love references to their exes?

If we can see all the rants and raves for a friggin' coffee pot before we buy it, I think we should be allowed the same level of information about the people we see naked. I think that's only fair. There should be a website or blacklist or Secretary of Lost Loves where people can log their complaints against the people they've dated. Because I know what I would say...

Name: The Boy
Age: 26

Rating (out of 5): **

Overall impression: He was sweet and charming during the first few months of the relationship. He was happy to spend time with me, eager to try new things and a fantastic cuddler. Things began to go awry after three-ish months when cracks began to show and he showed an aversion to adversity. His unwillingness to put any energy into the relationship caused us to fade away, forcing me to end things after no communication for more than a month. Bottom line? Only date him if you can handle relationship problems by yourself.

Would you recommend this man to other women? Only if you like not talking to your partner for long periods of time. Autonomy can be awesome, so they say.

In my perfect world, I wouldn't have to write something like that. But life doesn't always work out the way I'd prefer. Who knows, though. Perhaps by posting this I'll be able to get past the anger and find some cute sucker to have a fling with in order to help bandage my wounds. Though I would like to see his references before any sexual healing would commence.

My eyes can only take so much

There are some things I never want to see again: Gwenyth Paltrow singing with Cee Lo Green, Taylor Lautner with a shirt on, and anything with the words 'Mel Gibson' in it. I ESPECIALLY never want to see THIS train wreck again:

(I keep my eyes closed and arms crossed while fantasizing about Niles. It's a coping mechanism.)

I almost hurled my tossed salad and scrambled eggs. Kelsey Grammer sucking the tonsils out of his mistress/girlfriend/fiance's throat at JFK is enough to make anyone have a bad case of air sickness - or in this case - ground sickness. Judging by her body language, the M/G/F concurs. I mostly feel bad for the foreign tourists whose last impression of this great country before boarding their planes was a scene straight out of a Woody Allen movie. On behalf of the people of the United States of America, I apologize.

Kelsey, please button up your shirt the next time you're in public, then take some of that Fraiser money and do us all a public service by staying out of public view. If you must go out, surround yourself with body guards, for cripes sake. That's what they're there for - to protect both you and the public from irreparable harm. It may be too late for me, but I would greatly appreciate your efforts in protecting the next generation.

And for the love of David Hyde Pierce, if you do go out in public, please PLEASE don't play kissy kissy in the airport airport anymore. I must use this mode of transportation on occasion, and there are not enough bars in the Delta terminal to erase the memory of this level of grossness. You've gone off the deep end by cheating on your wife and thinking that these young blonde things want you for your balding, pot-bellied self, and I really don't think Roz will be happy about this.

Banishment: The price you pay for being a Gigolo

(I must stand like this or the little Ricos will fall out of the hole in my pants.)

Remember the Rico Suave guy? You know, the hot guy from the 90’s named Gerardo? The one with the bandana, unbuttoned flannel shirt, ripped jeans, and rock hard abs that could cut your tongue? Well I thought of him today. Out of the blue. I was sitting at my desk and for no reason at all I thought, “whatever happened to the Rico Suave guy?” Just like that. It was like my very own VH-1 “Where Are They Now” special. I know this may be the first indication of early onset dementia, but I’ll deal with that at a later date.

After pondering all the possibilities of where the Rico Suave guy could have gone, I started wondering why he popped into my head at all. Riiiiiiico. Suaaaave. I’m not afraid to admit that lots of superfluous things go through my head during the day. For example, I often think about tacos, wine, naughty stuff, baseball, and Glee. (I might just be turning into a gay man.) But why Gerardo? Why? He hit his popularity peak in 1991 and hasn’t been heard from since. So why think of him now? The only explanation I can come up with is this: Gerardo is from Ecuador. Ecuador is located right next to Colombia. Colombia produces coffee. I like coffee. Far reaching, I know. But that's all I got.

(I feel so dirty, but I cannot bathe. The water will ruin my home perm. Why is that women in my tub?)

So where HAS Gerardo been? Did he join the Russian Menudo? Why did he disappear after taking the United States by storm and becoming a national treasure? I asked Google those very questions. Surprisingly, there was actual information on this tall, tanned hunk of girly man. According to sources at funnyordie.com, Gerardo was spotted by a turnip farmer named Juan Alomar, in Villanueva, New Mexico, circa 2008. At first sight, Alomar thought he spotted a coyote, but upon closer inspection he confirmed that the subject in question was in fact Gerardo. So to erase our worse fears, it is confirmed that Gerardo is still alive. However, funnyordie.com goes on to say that the supposed existence of the pop star has fueled debate in the scientific community for the last 17 years. Dr. Edmond Ray, Professor of Abnormal Biology at New Mexico State University, remains doubtful of Gerado's existence: "Gerardo is a purely mythical creature, like Jon Secada. Every year, I investigate wild claims of people spotting Gerardo or members of the original Menudo. These 'pop stars' have not existed for decades and quite possibly never existed in the first place. They are a figment of our collective imagination."

So that explains it. Gerardo is nothing more than a figment of my imagination. It is, after all, Monday. The events of the weekend tend to catch up to me in a funny way on Mondays. If I am going to have some mythical figure randomly pop into my head, it might as well be a hot and greasy Ecuadorian with better hair than mine, right? It could be worse. I could have daydreamed of Rerun from 'What's Happening.'

Finally, in closing, I give you this: “So please don’t judge a book by its cover. There’s more to being a latin lover. You got to know how to deal with a woman that won’t let go. The price you pay for being a gigolo. Riiiiiiico. Suaaave.” You’re welcome.

No Fishnets Needed

To all the women running around half-naked for Halloween:
Slapping on your cutest bra and panty set or a tight bodysuit and pairing it with stripper heels, fishnet stockings and enough glitter to make Mariah Carey gag and then topping it off with a pair of wings and/or some animal ears does not a costume make. You know what that makes you? Completely uncreative. And sweetie? You come off as a slut.

Now, I know. I know. You're doing it for attention. But the kind of attention you're going to draw is going to be from frat boys too blitzed out of their minds from Oktoberfest lagers to recognize you as anything more than a slutty bumblebee. (Emphasis on the "slut" part) Or lecherous, creepy older men who just like to leer at anything with legs. Frankly I don't know which one is worse. (Though the frat boys do tend to grow up a little once they leave college. And age about ten year.) So is it really worth it?

I'm all for the power of expression. All for it. I myself adore fishnet stockings and I bust them out occasionally. I do not, however, pair them with only a thong and some masking tape and call it a costume. I live in the Midwest. We have weather. It's borderline psychotic to do that, in my book. More than that, though, it's uncreative. And this, in my world, is worse than coming off as slutty. Really? You didn't have anything else in your house that you could have used to put together a costume? No shirts you could have cut up, paired with leggings, a scrunchy and crazy eyeshadow to be an 80s groupie? No fishnets, cute skirt, tank top, and blanket that could double as a cape to become your own unique superhero? You couldn't take the time to invest in a $4 makeup kit to do yourself up as zombie you? Really? REALLY? You don't have to spend gobs of money; all you really need to do is invest a little time. By merely picking up a pair of angel wings and slatering yourself silly with glitter and calling yourself a Victoria's Secret Angel (the official costume of every Michigan State freshmen, so it seems) you're really telling the world that not only do you not care if you're objectified, but that you have no intelligence to put forth into celebrating one of the most festive nights of the year either. That, to me, is spookier than any of the ghost stories or monster movies that are abundant at this time of year.

So this is my plea, to girls around the country: plan early. Put the underwear down and instead grab a couple of kids books and start brainstorming your costume early. I've seen a few Waldos lurking my campus and I thought each of them were brilliant and beautiful. I heard about a student dressed as Carmen San Diego who rocked a fedora and trenchcoat and lurked in the background of people's pictures as a fun way to celebrate her character. Some students who didn't want to spend money swapped jewelry and various wardrobe items, then styled each others' hair and piled on the makeup to become a group of cougar housewives. Myself? I purchased a comfy tracksuit, cut the crap out of a cheap blonde wig and ran around calling people "sloppy babies" as the one and only Sue Sylvester. I've never been called brilliant so many times in my life. If Lady Gaga can wear a dress MADE OF MEAT to an awards show, then I'm pretty sure any woman in America can come up with a costume that consists of more than some cute underthings.

I'm just sayin'.

How Not to Date Starring KP

Things not to do on the first several dates:

• Inhale chicken wings. In the process, accidentally smear teriyaki sauce all over your cute, new halter top.
• Kick your date's ass at trivia. Beat him so well that you end up on the Recent Top Scorers Board at B-dubs. (Not a joke--I am the Queen of Trivia, apparently.)
• Practically hump date's car when you see how freakin' sexy it is. And I am not one to fall in love with cars.
• Go karaokeing. New boys may not be prepared to witness the glory that is my rendition of "Baby Got Back." It's a flight-risk.
• Suggest hiking as a fun, casual Sunday activity, not realizing that in warm fall weather the bugs will be out in full force, ready to feast on exposed skin. (A tip? Romance will likely not blossom when I'm busy squealing and scratching a multitude of new bug bites.)

Those who know me well should not be surprised by this list. Because I am nothing if not completely charming when it comes to dating. That list is in no way fabricated--ALL of those things happened in one weekend. And with one guy. Because despite me kicking some ass at trivia, smearing wing sauce all over myself, and tripping over myself to sing Sir Mixalot, this guy agreed to see me three times in one weekend. And he has continued to ask to see me. And! More than that! He gets excited when he sees me! (And don't even get me started on how well he can kiss because hot DAMN!)

So despite all of the charming fumbles I have made I think I have a keeper on my hands. And I now have a new descriptor to add to my title. As of last Thursday, I am not only KP, writer, diva, student affairs guru and dork extraordinaire, I am also this incredible guy's girlfriend. (Yay me!)

Stuck on his elevator

There is a legend among my coworkers that tells of a handsome elevator repairman. A devastatingly gorgeous man. A man who could have (and this is a direct quote) "stepped off the cover of a Harlequin romance novel." I did not believe my friends. I had never seen this guy. I didn't think he existed. He sounded too beautiful, too perfect for the central plains of Minnesota. I mean, seriously--I've been at my current job for over a year and I had never seen this man. I live right next to an elevator--one would think I'd have seen this guy at some point. But no. So I maintained that he was a figment of people's imaginations.

Until today.

After spending a decent amount of time in my friend's office I cavorted back to my hall to tackle emails. My hands were full, juggling iced sweet tea, my work bag and my keys and I was humming a random song from Glee. As I got to my door I dropped my keys, which then caused me to almost drop everything else. I cursed as I bent down to pick it up, nearly falling over in my heels as I did. As I shakily stood back up, I noticed a guy next to me in the hall.

Not just any guy. Harlequin elevator guy.

And he was stunning. Like, the most beautiful man I've ever seen in the world stunning. Not only did he have rippling biceps, dark eyes, thick hair and the perfect tan, but his voice was deep and his eyes sparkled. The world stopped, time stood still and I swear I heard an angel choir when he smiled at me. When he asked how I was I believe my exact words were "mmbblaahgood HEHEHEHE!" as I stumbled into my apartment to squeal like a tween.

One the door was closed I immediately called my coworker friend who thinks he looks like a romance novel hero. "AHHH! OH MY GOD HE IS GORGEOUS. My life is now complete because I've seen him. He. Is. GORGEOUS. He. Is the. Singular. Most. Beautiful man. I've. EVER SEEN. All I can do is giggle when I think about him--HEHEHEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!" She just laughed. "I told you so!" We both squealed a bit longer before I said I needed to go and do some work.

I opened my office door and heard some rustling. A few seconds later, Mr. Harlequin emerged from the lobby area a few feet from my door. He smirked at me as he fiddled with some paperwork. I immediately started blushing and had to keep from giggling at his pretty-ness. But as I held it back a realization dawned on me: oh. My god. He heard my end of my conversation. Ohgodohgodohgod. No wonder he smirked at me!

This is the reason I will never be the stunning heroine (complete with creamy, bulging breasts and flowing, ass-length hair) in any romance. Because of my stupid mouth. But at least I caught a glimpse of the work legend. And at least I can giggle at his beauty. He may never be my leading man, but I can guarantee he'll make a cameo in at least one mid-afternoon, post-sugar high daydream.

I never was a fan of gravy

Recently I’ve noticed an onslaught of radio commercials for products that control breast sweat. The commercial I am most fond of is for a product called “Fresh Breasts.” Evidently breast sweat has reached epidemic proportions and requires a major radio campaign to get the cure to the sweaty masses. As a big-breasted woman myself, I understand how this could be an issue. It tends to happen to me when I use the girls as paperweights or to prop a drink between them. And apparently it’s not just breasts that are having a sweaty problem. There is a similar product called “Fresh Balls.” (When I heard of this I immediately had visions of air fresheners shaped like balls, swinging from rear view mirrors everywhere.) Hearing about boob sweat is bad enough, but I REALLY don’t want to listen to ads about perspiring man parts. Knowing men the way I do, the application of the product alone will inevitably result in everything else becoming sweaty. I’m really not convinced these products will work anyway. Call me a pessimist, but I’m pretty sure putting some sort of lotion-y, powder-y product in those areas is just going to produce gravy. No one wants to be around people who can make their own gravy. So I beg of you, the makers of "Fresh Balls" and "Fresh Breasts," please stop with the radio commercials. It's bad enough that everyone in this tropical hell in which I live is constantly glistening from sweat. I really don't need visions of them cooking Thanksgiving dinner in their fruit of the looms. Some things need to remain a sweaty little secret, so let's just pass out paper towels and call it good.

Where have we been?

It's been awhile since we've posted here. Seems like both KP and I have been pretty busy. KP has been especially busy, as this time of year is her craziest time at work. Here's a quick update of what we've been up to lately:

KP has been participating in tribal drumming around bonfires, riding horses, dancing in videos, and attending mixers and various luncheons, all in the name of "work." She's a regular renaissance woman, and quite possibly could be the female answer to the Old Spice Guy. KP does have a demanding job. She's on a mini-vacay at the moment, which is well deserved after the last couple of weeks of training new disciples. Have I ever said how much I dig KP? I do. If her spirit could be bottled and given to every soul, the world would be a better place to live. There would be no wars, and everyone would unite over cheese and music. Perfect.

I've been busy, too, but not having as much fun bonding with my co-workers as KP has. I've spent a lot of time lately with a visiting family member, and there wasn't a restaurant we left unturned in the county. I also just got my hair cut very short, and I really like it. It's been many years and many pounds since my hair was this short, but whateva. I love it. My husband likes it as well, but says it makes my boobs look bigger. If you knew how big my boobs were to begin with, this would really scare you.

KP and I are exceptionally excited about the season premier of Glee in 2 weeks, so I am sure we'll be posting like crazy when it starts. And of course, I can't wait to mock the cast of Dancing with the Stars!! Bristol Palin! David Hasselhoff! Michael Bolton! I can't WAIT!! Stay tuned!

The beauty of music ...

Seriously, watch this video -
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_NpxTWbovE&feature=related

Just wanted to share a little inspiration for the day. Hallelujah (written by Leonard Cohen) is my absolute favorite song of all time. I've probably listened to it a thousand times over the years. The lyrical beauty brings me to tears every time I hear it. And K.D. Lang's rendition is the most moving I've ever heard. (Where have you been, K.D? Your voice is one of the most beautiful in the world! (Calm down, Celine. Yours is right up there.)) I watch this video whenever I need to be inspired, I'm off-center, or just need to relax. It always sets me straight. Whatever your spirituality is or isn't, this will blow you away. Leonard Cohen's view is that many different Hallelujahs exist, and I couldn't agree more. Peace. K-Dub.

Consider this!

Well played, Glee writers. And Sue. I flippin' LOVE this. Sheer brilliance in my opinion. In my mind, the people of William McKinley High School can do no wrong. September 21st cannot come soon enough. Now please excuse me so I can go and make the most kick-ass Glee playlist ever for my iPod.