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.

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.