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.

Eat, Pray, and Go Away!

So maybe I am shallow. Or maybe I am just cranky (ok, there’s really no question about that), but I get annoyed by overly introspective people who have the need to “find” themselves. This is why I love and hate the book Eat, Pray, Love. It’s a well-written memoir with a plot that, to some extent, we can all relate to. For those who haven't read the book, it's about a woman who reached her breaking point and took a year to travel to Italy, India, and Indonesia to find herself, and along the way did a lot of eating, praying, and a little loving. Hence the title. Who hasn’t reached a boiling point in life and wanted to run away for awhile? I’ve been there more than once. But the whole “Who am I?” crap just wears on my last nerve. Just look in the mirror. Surprise!! THAT’S who you are. Do you really need to go see a guru in India to figure yourself out? And the only thing you are going to find by eating your way through Italy is that you’ve doubled in size. The real you is not hidden under that 20th bowl of pasta you are about to gorge on. But maybe that’s the secret to the Olive Garden’s success … just a bunch of lost souls trying to find themselves via ravioli.

I know, I know, it’s all about the emotional journey. I get it. Some people need to see what else is out there; to put all their troubles behind them and start anew. A fresh start can indeed change one's life. But life shouldn't be so hard to figure out. I’ve had my share of hell, but one thing I know for sure is who I am. I am comfortable in my own skin and couldn’t care less what people think about me. Maybe I should care, but that would require more effort than I am willing to exert. I guess I am lucky in that sense, and I didn’t even have to join a commune or run off with some guy named Luigi Spaghetti to figure it all out. If I do ever lose myself and need to find my center, I will just get some Ben and Jerry’s, pray to the sports gods, and love my husband some more. That’s pretty much my life anyway, and so far it’s working just fine. Ciao.

*As a side note - if you really need to go on a spiritual journey, save yourself an expensive plane ticket and go pray to the "Big Butter Jesus" statue in Ohio. (Disclaimer to cover my ass: I mean no disrespect to the religious types, and I did not make this name up. The statue is affectionately known by Ohioans as "Big Butter Jesus" because of its textural resemblance to butter. But I like to call him by his other name, "Touchdown Jesus." If you have ever driven on I-75 through southern Ohio, you know exactly what I am talking about.) If you choose to take this journey, just be warned - you might learn more about yourself than you would by going to India. It's Ohio, after all - home of William McKinley High School (gratuitous Glee reference) and Lima Beans. Plus, you will have an awesome picture to post on your blog!

TOUCHDOWN!! Amen.

I've fallen and I don't want to get up

I’m getting old. I’m having teeth pulled. I take a handful of prescriptions daily. Something always hurts. I bitch a lot about my ass aches and have long conversations about them with friends that are in the same pathetic physical state. So what happened? When did this all begin? And how is it that at the age of 43 I feel like I’m 80? Well after very little thought, I’ve concluded that it all started when I got married. That’s right. I said it. And you married people know it’s true.

Marriage ages you and sucks your former self out of you, and I mean that in a good way. It takes a once fit and energetic person and turns you into a blobitty blob that is barely distinguishable from a couch. “Did the couch just move?” Nope, that’s just my husband. But it is all good. Being married is a good thing, and my former self was pretty boring anyway. Marriage adds a foundation of contentment to your life that you didn’t know was missing until you get married and realize that it is exactly what’s been missing. And then there’s the thing about having that person who always has your back, no matter what. I must say that it's pretty damn cool. But yeah, it ages you. The contentment ages you because time flies by so fast that before you know it you’ve just spent the last decade staring at each other (or more likely the t.v.) and you haven’t moved off the couch. You are no longer running to or from the unknown, nor are you working hard to accomplish some intangible thing that you can’t quite put your finger on. You get married and you’re good. It takes awhile to get to this point in marriage, but one day you look around and realize that you can just stop, because everything you will ever need is sitting right next to you on that couch. So I guess the getting old thing isn’t so bad after all. My better half makes my soul happy, and he’s worth every ass ache that I have.

In Conclusion? I need to be famous

It's that most charming time of year. When Target rolls out pallets of blank, shiny notebooks and packages of multicolored pens and highlighters. When colorful backpacks take over endcaps and entire aisles and lunchboxes dot shelves. When I dash down the aisles sqealing "wheee!" because I love new school and office supplies so much. It's back-to-school time! Hurrah!

Now, it doesn't matter that I'm not in school anymore. I can always find a use for shiny paper clips, cute notebooks and more blue pens. Sadly, my back-to-school glee has been slightly dampened by the fact that I work in education, so this time of year isn't so much spent buying sparkling new notebooks as much as praying that I can get everything done in preparation for the school year. So I'm a little stressed right now. And while I could use new pens and cute paperclips, I need far more than that right now. Below, is a list of things I could use more than school supplies at the moment:

• A massage. For, like, five hours. Hell, I need an on-call masseuse.
• A case of Riesling. Or a vineyard so I could access all the wine I'd need to help e relax at night.
• A new haircut and color. My hair is all split end-y and the color is a cross between rust and puke. I need a salon appointment STAT. Or an on-call stylist.
• An assistant to take care of all of the detail-work that needs to happen by mid-month.

Upon looking at this list, I realize that while some of these things might be reasonable, overall I sound like a high-maintenance diva. And I am. But this list of wants rivals Mariah Carey's rider for her concert tour (minus the M&Ms request, which is just ridic). Perhaps I should work more on my diva skills so I can have my demands met and less on my impending and huge workload. Or maybe I should stop making lists of things that would make me very happy and tackle the to-do list that looms over me. But that doesn't sound as fun. And besides--I LIKE being a diva. Now...where's my wine?!?

Those aren't cupcakes!!

So a couple of nights ago I received a text message from KP. This is not unusual seeing that we text just about every day and our text threads usually involve a good 10+ texts for each important subject we discuss. In fact, I went way over my text allotment a couple of months ago, all to and from KP. We were likely simultaneously watching either Glee or an awards show together at the time, via text, as we have been known to do. But the text I received the other night seemed more urgent than usual. “Oh my God! You have to turn on TLC. They’re doing a doc about a seventy-something cougar woman and it is amazing!” I have to admit, her excitement was contagious and my first thought was Oh my god! Which was immediately followed - Wait. Gross. The last thing I want to watch is grandma getting it on with anyone. But just like driving by a car accident, I had to look. Unfortunately (or not), by the time I turned the channel on, that particular cougar show was over. However … and most definitely unfortunately, I was not prepared for what else I encountered that night on TLC. As a result, I will most likely have to seek therapy for the sudden onset of TLC-induced intimacy problems that I am likely to have for years to come.

Imagine the horror of innocently turning on TLC and witnessing a circle of men writhing on the floor as they played with their mipples (man nipples) as they were …. wait for it ….. “Thinking Off.” That’s right. Thinking Off. An alternate form of enjoying oneself that doesn’t necessitate the standard physical touchy-touchy. The premise of thinking off (I’m going to stop capitalizing “thinking off” … it makes it much less disturbing to me) is that all the magic happens in the brain and manifests itself in the form of a happy ending. Now I am not a sexual prude in any way, shape or form. I watch Jersey Shore. But this was more than I could take. And it got worse. Much worse.

Picture this - A very giddy 50’ish woman with pink streaks in her bleached blonde hair, bursting at the seams with excitement while explaining the virtues of thinking off. TLC decided that it would be a GREAT idea to do a segment involving this woman thinking off while getting a brain scan so that the doctors could study her brain activity during this absolutely not-made-for-television event. Bad idea, TLC. I knew this wasn’t going to end well. Not for me, anyway. I SO wanted to change the channel, but again ….the whole car accident thing.

So the woman proceeded to get into the MRI machine and the fun began. Let me tell you, this should have been rated G for GROSS! What would you do in this situation? Would you pull out your full menu of vocal exclamations that escape you during such an occasion? No, most people would not. Not if it were being broadcasted to millions of homes. Not if someone other than your accomplice were watching. Not if there was any chance in hell that your parents or your co-workers or your pedicurist could one day stumble upon your TV work. But the mayor of think-off town didn’t hold back. She brought out her ENTIRE menu, and my eyes and ears will burn forever. She couldn’t hold still. Her legs were flailing! She was pounding her fists! She was moaning! And laughing! And screaming!! Screaming as if she were being tortured! Screaming as if there were three men in the machine with her! And it was gross. GROSS!!! I almost vomited in my mouth. Control yourself, I say!! You are on TV!!!! No one wants to know what your hoots and hollers sound like. No one wants to watch your crazy lady legs kick in the air. NO ONE wants to witness any of this! EVER! Case in point: I called my husband into the room, told him what I had just witnessed and offered to rewind it for him. He immediately walked out of the room.

The concept of thinking-off is not the part that disturbs me. It actually seems quite fascinating. Masters and Johnson studied the connection between sexuality and thought, and there is obviously a strong connection - especially in women. And I’m all for whatever works for you. It’s just that I don’t want to witness you doing whatever works for you. I have watched many, ummm, how do I say … movies not suitable for those of the prudish persuasion. Many. A lot many. But at least I knew what I was getting into. I was prepared. I knew how each movie was going to end. The people were actors and they exaggerated for effect. But watching some woman do her thing on TLC - (TLC! A network with 9 different shows about cake!!) while destroying a piece of medical equipment as she kicked and screamed like a caged monkey on crack? JUST. PLAIN. GROSS.

KP, the next time you text me about a TV show, please pre-screen the lineup and make sure it only involves cupcakes or makeovers. A cupcake makeover would even be better. That's all my fragile mind can handle from this point forward.

This is what happens when you get us on the phone

KDub: We had someone view our blog from Latvia!
KP: They have internet in Latvia?!?
Then later...
KDub: We could be big! We could start with Latvia! We could become celebrities in Latvia! We should probably know the language then. What do they speak? Russian? Latvian?
~~~
KDub: I just...I don't understand Twitter!
KP: It's just like a Facebook status update. That's all. Just in 140 characters or less.
KDub: But I don't like that you can't see what everyone is Twatting to celebrities. I WANT TO KNOW!!
KP: *big huge sigh*
KDub: You think I'm an idiot, don't you?
KP: I would never say that you were an idiot! Though I might describe you as internet illiterate to my other friends. You have a degree in lawyer-ing and you're working on an MBA. HOW you don't get Twitter is beyond me.
~~~
KP: I feel bad for anyone who leads an ordinary life. And that person? Is going to lead an ordinary life. Poor honey-child. While I will go on to live an extraordinary life in extraordinary places.
KDub: What is that from?
KP: What is what from?
KDub: What you just said! That quote! Where is it from?
KP: Ummm...my mind?
KDub: You just made that up?
KP: YES!
KDub: YOU NEED TO BE FAMOUS AND WRITE BOOKS! AND BLOGS!
KP: Well check and check on the blog thing!

Our Summer Portrait

Birthday baby

Today is technically July 18th. I say technically because it's past midnight and my night owl tendencies once again find me writing at an hour that many sane people spend sleeping. ANYways, it's July 18th. Do you know what this means? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

July 18th means that it is officially ten days until my birthday. My 28th birthday. My 28th birthday is on July 28th, which means it'll be my Golden Birthday, which means I'm golden. (Though I'd rather be platinum.)

I love birthdays. LOVE THEM. I love them with an adoration that can only be described as glittery and pink puffy-paint hearted. It's a day all! For! Me! And people give me presents! And buy me drinks! And dinner! And they say nice things about me! It's a glorious day! I looooooove it!

Because I love it so much, in recent years I've prescribed to a theory of not just having a birthday day, but a birthday "week". So the seven days before and after my birthday (July 28th) are officially KP's Birthday Week. (So my week runs from July 21st to August 4th. It's the most wonderful time of the year.) Which means I get to indulge in any way that I want, be it with an expensive bottle of wine, the purchasing of yet another sparkly necklace, demanding that we go out to the restaurant of my choice, taking three bubble baths a day or simply by squealing "IT'S MY BIRTHDAAAAAY!!!" During one's birthday "week", a person can also run around in a tiara and/or feather boa and nobody can roll their eyes at the birthday person because it's their day dammit.

I recognize that this all sounds a bit childish and selfish. But it's really not. The way I see it, people don't spend enough time doting on themselves and doing whatever they want. We live in a society where we're not supposed to give ourselves validation; instead we're supposed to work 50+ hours per week, juggle a ton of responsibilities and be available 24/7 because we're all chained to technology. We're also not expected to get sick--and if we do we're expected to bounce back immediately and be checking our email during our time "off". Americans get less vacation time than most other industrialized countries and we don't even take the friggen vacation days that we do get. I? Think all of these facts are stupid. And sad. And I refuse to be another working drone who doesn't have her life in balance. I think that I am pretty freaking fabulous and my birthday is the one time of year where it's socially acceptable for me to toot my own horn. (Women also get to do this at their Bachelorette parties and on their wedding days, but I don't see this happening for me anytime in the next decade. Plus I have some feminist issues with these things--but that's a whole other entry. Or blog.) I want to treat myself well and even if I'm stressed for the other 364 days of the year, I want one day--or "week"--to listen to myself. And to get presents. Because presents are awesome.

I do love me some gifts. Even when people just write me a note on a Post-it and give it to me, I get all giddy-fied inside. It's the thought that counts. I'm a diva, but I'm pretty easy to please. As a way to reflect and gain clarity on what I want, I make a wishlist on my other blog. It's a way to put it out into The Universe that these are things that would be fabulous to have. I never actually expect to get these things, but it can't hurt to wish, right? Like I said: presents are awesome. And this is what KP's wishing for on this, her Golden Birthday:

• A pony. I've wanted one since I was four. I'll keep right on wishing for this until the day I die.
• To be published. Oh, it's going to happen.
• A guest spot on Glee. Although once I arrive on the soundstage I'd promptly be removed for attempting to hump Mark Salling and Matthew Morrison. But still.
• A new car. My car is, um, less than perfect. I love it to bits--I do! But if there's one thing The Universe could do for me, it'd be to bestow upon me a newer vehicle. Please and thank you!
• A beau. One who is intelligent, funny and isn't put off by the massive amounts of reality tv that I watch. If he's cute, that'd be great too.
• A cruise with K-Dub. We seriously need to make this happen!
• Shopping sprees at Target and/or Barnes and Noble. AKA my meccas.
• Jewelry. This girl cannot have enough. Seriously.
• Wine. Tip it!
• To have an amazing 28th year. The words "abundance", "love", "fulfillment", "inspiration", "hope", "growth" and "friend-filled" come to mind. But I reserve the right to redefine "amazing" as much as I need to.

Feel free to crack open a bottle of wine on my day and do a toast if you so desire. I'm sure K-Dub won't pass up the opportunity to do so. I'd also encourage everyone to reflect on their own birthday wishes, purchase a tiara and mark their birthday weeks on their calendars. Because birthdays should be a big deal. Because really? We're all pretty much big deals and we need to celebrate that more often.

Not OK, Cupid

I am the single girl in this duo of deviance. K-Dub is happily married and has been for a number of years. I, on the other hand, have been single for two years and counting. (Seriously, my last--and first--major relationship ended two years ago this week. I didn't plan this entry around this charming anniversary, I promise.) The break-up devastated me, so it took me a while to even feel comfortable with admitting that I was looking because I took myself off of the so-called market for so damn long.

It's only been recently that I've become comfortable admitting that I have a profile on OKCupid. I'm not necessarily doing the online-dating thing to find my life partner. I'm not dillusional. Rather, I consider it to be a sociological experiment of sorts. The sorts of men who occupy this site are, um, interesting to say the least. Here are a few of the responses I've received from the online male population since I activated my profile a month ago:

• "I have two kids, but I'm not tied down! Want to meet?" (No thanks, I do NOT want to become a mommy.)
• "You're pretty. I'm lonely. Want to have a cam conversation?" (GROSS.)
• "You're luminous! What kind of makeup do you use?" (I mean, I did say that I'm looking for a gay boyfriend, but I'm pretty sure that this is more of a pick-up line fail than a rainbow boy looking for new cosmetics.)
• "Want to take my virginity?" (Wait...WHAT?!? WHO asks this to a random hot girl online?)

After such an overwhelming response for these winners, it's no wonder that I'm contemplating taking down my profile and seeking out an application to become a nun. But before I do that, I want to share my rules for online dating sites, culled from the magical experiences I've had this summer.

KP's Online Dating Site Rules (Alternate title: Don't Be Stupid, You Stupid, Stupid Men)

1. Be honest. I don't believe any guy who says he's looking to connect and find a "genuine girl" or a "soulmate". If that were the case he wouldn't have photos of some half-naked girl clinging to him while he does a keg-stand prominently displayed in his profile. If you're really just looking for sex just say it. The same goes for guys who say they want a "real" girl. Yes, as long as by "real" they means "big boobs, tiny waist and is semi-literate" because they certainly doesn't mean "big mouth, curvy body and Masters degree". Trust me, I know.
2. Don't lurk. OKCupid has this awesome feature that allows users to see who is visiting your profile. So all of you 30-something, semi-cute guys who visit my profile every day? Either email me or stop drooling over my pictures, you creepy creeper. Shit or get off the proverbial pot.
3. No sexy talk. Women are like cute little bunnies. We want to be lured in with carrots (or in my case, carats--I like shiny things). By carrots, I mean refreshing, yummy conversation. In NO WAY can you have that kind of conversation if you're questioning us on our sexual preferences three minutes into an instant message converation. Save that shit for the third date, stud. If you wave around your, um, weapon, you'll scare the cute bunnies away. Or just have them laughing at your stupidity.
4. No body shots. I am a fan of mens' abs. I'm not stupid--I know a beautiful work of art when I see it. But if a guy's main profile photo is a closeup of his chest and abs I don't think "ooh sexy", I think "oooh looky! A douche!" Fine, show-off your bod if you think it'll help get you laid. But do us all a favor and pretend to have respect for yourself by not posting body shots as the first picture we see. You can post, like, ten pix. Can't the six-pack be photo #2?

There you have it. The simple rules of online dating. Unfortunately I highly doubt any of the men who need to read this will. But hell--it'll give me more fodder for my memoir if nothing else. A good story trumps a good date most days. So until I find my own perfect partner, I'll keep reporting back with stories from the beau battlefield.

OH KP!!

There are few things in life that I enjoy better than a regular dose of KP. So imagine my sadness as my blogging co-conspirator continues the “KP Across America Fabulousness Tour of 2010.” Because she has extended her tour (due to popular demand), I am left to hold down our blogging responsibilities. This isn’t an easy task for me. KP is the brains behind this masterful operation. She is also the one with the mad creative writing skills. I am just the grumpy middle-aged muse who she occasionally refers to in any blog entry that has to do with alcohol. Her absence puts quite a lot of pressure on me to be creative, funny, and witty - none of which come natural to me. My most creative blog entry involved the use of stick figures, which can only be interpreted to mean that my 8 years of post-high school education have failed me miserably. So until KP decides to put down the microphone (and her pink girlie drinks) and accepts the fact that performing karaoke across America is NOT going to get her hired as the newest cast member of Glee, this blog is screwed. I miss KP, and I’m sure our 3 readers do as well.