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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.

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.

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.

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?!?

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.

Dream on

Normally I don't do posts about dreams because they're boring/cliche' and also because I rarely remember all of the details of my subconscious musings. This morning, however, I awoke thinking "what the hell?!?" because of a dream I had. It was so randomly bizarre that I feel the need to broadcast it to the world. And, if anything, I know K-Dub will appreciate it for the random Lindsay Lohan cameo.

To begin, I'm on a date with an attractive man. Great start to the dream, I know. Except his idea of a date is for us to watch some hybrid moto-cross/runner's race pass by a lookout location near the town where I currently live. Ever-the-optimist, I give it a shot and soon we're having a grand old time cuddling and watching idiots run long distances/pop wheelies on bikes (yeah I have no clue what kind of sporting event this would be) while we laugh at them from our cushy seats in his car.

Suddenly, though, we're no longer at the race, but at a high-end mall that I can guarantee would never be built anywhere in Minnesota. But we're there and suddenly my date leaves me with my overbaring mother, who squaks that we are now on a shopping mission from God, searching for something that is never fully explained to me. All I know is that I REALLY want a Jimmy Johns sandwich, but when we finally go there after combing through 26897 stores, they're out of bacon for my BLT so they make me some Mexican-esque dish. I am not pleased with this result, but my mom tells me to shut up as she inhales her delicious-looking sub while I pick at my guacamole and rice.

After we're finished, my mom leads me to this trendy banquet hall and mysteriously says "they're all waiting" before disappearing. I walk into the hall to find a dozen or so people seated around a large medieval-looking table. Guests include my BFF Emily, my date who mysteriously vanished earlier, random friends from grad school, Zac Efron and Lindsay Lohan. They all smile and cheer when they see me. They also start ordering copious amounts of alcohol and I get drunk off of one blue amaretto slushie drink (which sounds really delicious right about now). Zac keeps smiling at Emily and I and we keep giggling like preteen idiots because we really do have crushes on him in real life (because when we're together we digress from semi-mature twenty-somethings to barely tolerable teeny-boppers). Lindsay keeps ordering rounds of shots and is crowned queen of the night because she is more drunk than the rest of us, which equal most fun in our books. Soon though, she's slumping over chairs and attempting to dance on our huge table, which does not sit well with the staff. After Zac valiently tries to both sober up Lindsay (fail) and convince the staff that we're good people who just want to drink more slushie drinks and shots so they shouldn't throw us out because of one stupid drunk (fail) we're all ushered out. Zac takes my hand and I think I'm about to get lucky. Instead I'm lead to a non-denominational church service singing bad songs about Jesus while the rest of the crew presumably goes in search of more liquored-up slushie drinks.

Now, I love dream interpretation. LOVE IT. I jump at the chance to analyze my friends' dreams and I've gotten pretty good at digging deep at the symbolism of one's subconscious. But it doesn't take a dream analyst to realize that the dream I had last night denotes nothing good. I've looked up some of the key elements in an online dream dictionary and all of them basically stated that I'm messed up. Needless to say, this makes me feel so thrilled. Though I can see at least one silver lining in all of this--I'm going to figure out how to make a blue amaretto slushie drink. That shit looked so good in my dream last night. Maybe if I pass out from overconsumption of those I'll have better dreams.

Utterly Gleek-y

So. I've been on vacation for the past week. Seven glorious days filled with me not being anywhere near the, ahem, wonderful world of Minnesota. One week filled with culture, real shopping, close friends and drag queens. Yes, drag queens. (More about them in another post, I promise. We all know how I love the gays. Especially those who can give me tips on fashion and makeup.) But imagine my reaction when I realized that the final night of my trip coincided with the season finale of Glee. Shriek! Gasp! The horror! There was much nashing of my teeth. And groaning. And so SO much whining. Because as much as this girl loves her travel, she loves her musical television more.

Happily, I was able to catch the finale while on the west coast. But that meant attempting to ignore texts from friends who got to watch it three long hours before me. Texts that included things like...
"Ahhh! Glee is SO GOOD RIGHT NOW!"
"Oh sad! Do you even get to watch? You TOTALLY SHOULD BECAUSE IT'S SO GOOD!"
"OOOH! Vocal Adrenaline is KILLING IT."
"If you watch? Have lots of Kleenex."
Clearly I have great friends. My best friend last night, though, was my west coast friend who rearranged our final evening plans just so I could catch the finale. The only catch? She had never seen an episode. So my Cliff's Notes version of the show pre-finale went something like this:
"So Mr. Schuester, the hot Spanish teacher, took over Glee club and he's struggling to get it going and keep it going. Oh yeah--he has a psycho wife who pretended to be pregnant for FAR TOO LONG after finding out she had a hysterical pregnancy because she's an idiot whose main hobby is lying. But no worries because they got divorced last week. Thank God. Oh yeah, there's a pregnant cheerleader who got preggers by a hot football player who is totally going to be my future husband and we have no clue what she'll do with the baby but she's give birth tonight! Hopefully not during their Sectional performance, which the club has to place at or they're dunzo because of the cheerleading coach. Oh yeah, there's a lot of people in Glee that I want to be friends with and they're super-talented and even more adorable. Really? You just need to watch the show. Like, for real."

So then we're watching the show and I'm sobbing and squealing every three seconds while attempting to fill in the plotholes for my friend. Which is REALLY FREAKIN' HARD when apparently every lead male on the show got bitten by the "I love you" bug. WTF, writers? So after an entire season of great character development and writing you felt that the best closure for the season was for all three male leads to profess their love even though it seems really out of left field for most of them? Really?!? So right now? My thoughts from last night's episodes can be summed up in the one statement I made to my friend. "I SWEAR the guys don't just run around professing their love all the time. I swear it's better than that."

I'm not sure she believes me. Perhaps if she vacationed in my neck of the woods she would. Because when surrounded by forests and conservative billboards, it's a lot easier to get into a brilliant musical show. As wonderful as the finale was last night, it was overshadowed by my utter gleekiness as I tried to cram an entire season's synopsis into three minutes and then explain stuff in between musical numbers. But the episode was satisfying and my appetite is slaked...for now. But rest assured that in the future I am planning all further vacation plans around crucial episodes. Unless it's a reunion with K-Dub. Because then you know we'll be camped out in front of a massive flat-screen, passing wine and popcorn back and forth in between critical plotpoints.

K-Dub is the Devil

I am the girl with the red hair and the endless supply of red lipstick. But when it comes right down to it? K-Dub is the one in this relationship who is--how you say? oh yes--THE DEVIL. And of course I mean this is in the most loving of ways. But witness this text conversation we had earlier today. And by earlier today, I mean when I rolled my cute little butt out of bed at the crack of 1 pm. (No, I'm not joking.)

KP: How am I supposed to be productive when there's a True Life marathon on MTV?
K-Dub: Hahaha! U rock! I've already gone to an Imax movie, went to Chili's, went grocery shopping , and now I'm making bread. Something is clearly wrong with me today!
(KP's thought: Mmm...Chili's. And bread.)
KP: WTF?!? Clearly you took my energy and used it to eat at Chili's and bake bread! What movie did you see?
K-Dub: Hubble--about a space telescope. My husband loves that stuff.
KP: Oh cool! You're such a good wife going to stuff like that. Meanwhile I'm still in jammies watching iCarly.
K-Dub: Hahaha! That's why you're my hero!
KP: Stop! All of this flattery does nothing for my motivation! And? You're my hero.
K-Dub: LOL! I would never want to help motivate you! Psssssshhhhh!

See?!? The devil. Though, actually....upon examining the evidence it is clear that I really need to get my butt into gear and both of us need to stop reinforcing our far-too-high levels of self-esteem. But then what fun would that be?! If we stopped doing that, then I couldn't call my friend The Devil, when I'm pretty sure that beneath her very pouffy hair there are little red horns hiding.

(A note from KDub) - One of the many things I treasure about our friendship is our mutual lack of shame when it comes to enjoying trashy tv. And although I may be the devil by way of helping KP stay unmotivated, I will leave the Prada-wearing to her fabulousness. This devil wears flip flops, and I am sure KP is ok with that.

I prescribe to the theory that life is an adventure and should be treated as such. I am also a high-maintenance diva. While it might seem that these are two opposing viewpoints, I maintain that I, as a diva, can still suck as much marrow out of life as possible--so long as I can look cute while doing so. It's really not that hard. Especially when I get a daily heads-up about life via my horoscope. Each morning I awake to find my daily predictions waiting for me on my cell phone. While I don't always believe them to be true, it's good to be on the lookout in case karma decides favor me unfortunately. Lately, though, I think the cosmos (or the astrology writers working for my cell phone company) have taken a bit of a mental vacation. Or they've taken a cue from K-Dub and are hitting the vino a bit too much. Here are some of my more amusing text horoscopes from the past couple of months:

• Well, aren't you shinier than a bright new penny! And worth a whole lot more! (I can almost feel the cynicism leaking from their pores. And yes, I recognize that I'm a precious member of society, but thanks for the reminder!)
• You're unique. There's not a single person who's just like you. Yep, you're special. (Did my snarky posse' of friends write this?)
• You're sweet like honey and just as natural. you smell good, but rather sticky. (Ok, this just sounds like bad romance novel drivel.)
• You're good but don't showoff. Showing off isn't good. And you are good. Get it? (Is that a theoretical question? To go along with your circular logic? Did a first year philosophy student hijack Horoscope Central?)
• You are irresistable. More irresistable than a flower or a good game of football. (I'd like to thank whichever William McKinley High School football player came up with that compliment.)
• This is the day for some, how to put it, um, mm: love. And you're really into someone. (I would like to note that I just transcribed this word-for-word from my cell phone. If that is what love will be like--all umm-y and mmm-y, then I think I'm fine being a single lady, thankyouverymuch.)
• For a celebrity sighting look in the mirror! You're a star--and you know it! (Well, duh.)

And my personal favorite:

• Relaxing is good. Rainbows are good. Rollerblades aren't bad. Romance is good. Rad! (Again, this is exactly what showed up on my cell phone, transcribed word for word. I like how it sounds like a bad haiku, a page from my second-grade diary and dialogue from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles all rolled into one awesome text.)

Perhaps the stars are telling me to put a kibosh on the daily astrological heads-up. But if that's the message they're trying to send, then they need to try harder because with gems like these, I will never EVER unsubscribe. Ever. Because, like my friendship with K-Dub and my ever-growing obsession with Glee, daily horoscopes? They're rad.

Our posse'

The fabulous K-Dub and I have been friends for a while. We met while working for an, um, interesting corporation that neither of us felt entirely loyal to. So in between sight visits, we spent our time gossiping about celebrities, eating lots of junk food and laughing at ourselves (and occasionally the people by whom we were surrounded). I knew we'd be friends on her first day at the office when she came to my desk with a serious look on her face.

K-Dub: Promise me something?
KP: Umm...sure?
K-Dub: Promise me that you'll tell me IMMEDIATELY if my zipper is down, ok?

I knew we'd be fast friends. And we've gone strong ever since, despite the fact that I quit my job and gallavanted off to grad school and she quit her job and ran away to Florida (where she currently stalks the St. Petersburg monkey). Our friendship has grown steadily since our days of cheese and celebrities because we're committed to harassing each other via email, text and Facebook. It's a lovely friendship.

During the course of our technological friendship, we started to compose a list of people we want to be friends with. Here now is that wish list. I want to note that with the two of us, things change frequently based on our whims and fickle nature, so I'm sure we'll add to it (or edit people from it) as time goes on. But in a perfect world these people would be in our K-Squared Posse':

• Kathy Griffin. We adore anyone who can be both self-depracating and hilarious. She's a fame-whore and proud of it. We like that. And we're not afraid to grovel at her feet to be in our posse'. Or just to have an appearance on My Life on the D-List.
• Jen Lancaster. If you don't know who she is, then we're both disowning you as friends. She is brilliant and hilarious and sarcastic and gets paid to say the things the two of us wish we could say without repercussion. We recommend buying all of her books stat, but if you don't want to do that you should at least check out her blog, Jennsylvania. Seriously, we have mad love for her and her mad love of reality tv. If we had it our way, Jen would visit us weekly and we'd drink wine and watch lots of Tivo'd reality shows together. And our lives would be complete.
• Lady Gaga. Because she doesn't give a flying fudgeball what people think and the gays love her. Plus we can't get Bad Romance out of our heads. And we want her to teach us how to dance. (Sidenote: we came up with the idea to enlist her into our posse' while watching The Grammys.
  K-Dub: She should be in our posse'! Her performance was amazing!
  KP: YES! And I can steal her starry-orbity dress thingy!
  K-Dub: YES! Maybe she'll write a BAD ROMANCE with us! HAHAHAHAHA!!)
• Jane Lynch. Nobody can play a character like Sue Sylvester without having a little of her edge in real life. She, too, can get away with saying things that most people would get fired for. Plus we dig the fact that she's fighting the good fight for the LGBT community.
• Tina Fey. Another whip-smart woman on our list. Surprise surprise. Have you not seen 30 Rock? It's pure brilliance! Plus she could help us come up with smart ways to insult the dumb people in our lives.
• Teresa from The Real Housewives of New Jersey. We like her talk of "bubbies" and the fact that she spends money like she's the Queen of England. We'd live vicariously through her. And secretly hope she'd buy us some crazy-expensive furniture.

When all is said and done, we'd be friends with anyone who'll either bring us cupcakes or make us laugh if they're not on the above list. So what I'm trying to say is most people in this world could probably be in our posse'. But we dream big and dammit, we want to host a dinner party where Gaga and Teresa sit across from one another and debate the merits of feminism in the 21st century. Wouldn't you?

For My Entertainment

After watching Adam Lambert's "For Your Entertainment" for the 267891st time, I've come to the conclusion that I want a boyfriend like him. No, not gay. (I already have about 12 gay boyfriends. Hi, boys!!) But hot. And not afraid to push boundaries. And act little naughty. Granted, I could do without the leather-spiked wardrobe, but apart from that Adam is hot. He clearly knows who he is and what he wants. And that? Is hot.

So yeah. I'm just putting it into The Universe. A boyfriend like Glambert wouldn't be the worst thing in the world for me. I'm just sayin'.

Our new idol

You gotta hand it to Betty White--she's worked successfully in the entertainment business for over fifty years, starred in one of the most beloved sitcoms of all time and is a in a sea of successful actors and actresses. And thanks to Facebook, she can not only add "SNL Host" to her stellar resume, but she can bullet-point that with the fact that she gave the show it's highest ratings in two years. Not bad for an 88 year-old woman.

And not only did she give the other hosts this season a run for their money (I'm looking at you, John Hamm and Megan Fox--your stints were lackluster at best), but she killed every scene she was in. And she had the women alum from the past 15 years clamoring to be in a scene with her. Amy Poehler, Ana Gasteyer and Molly Shannon all looked more than a little starry-eyed during various portions of the show. And no, I don't blame them. This woman is amazing and while I may be jumping on the Betty Bandwagon a little late (though I did join the Facebook group that advocated for her hosting gig days after it was invented--go me!), I'm declaring myself to have a new hero. Any woman who can get on live television in her twilight years and talk about balls and muffins with a straight face has my undying love and affection. I only hope I'm half as feisty as Ms. White when I'm a card-carrying member of the AARP.

Be dazzled

My life is far too crazy to post anything legitimate or reflective so for the moment I'll just leave the world with this lovely little text exchange I had with my friend earlier today...

Friend: What size ring do you wear?
Me: It depends on the finger, but generally a size 8.
Friend: Do you like big stones?
Me: I like anything shiny. You know this!
Friend: Ok good. I got you a present!
Me: WHEEEEEE!'

The lesson to take from this? I like presents and shiny things. This is not new news, but I feel it's worth repeating in case anyone else is feeling generous.

A little texting between friends

(Said in my Jack Bauer Voice): The following takes place between the hours of 11:56 pm and 12:02 a.m - while in mid-text conversation ...

KP: That's exciting! It must feel good to have a plan in motion.
KD: What's even more exciting is that bottle of Kahlua Mudslide in my refrig that I really want to go hit. Woud I have issues if I were to get out of bed to drink?
KP: Why else would you get out of bed? I think it's more than legit. Better than getting up to go to the bathroom. Pssh! Hahaha!
KD: Well said. But let me be a cautionary tale. Don't take after me. Save your liver before it's too late. Mine's already pickled in vodka.
KP: You're my hero.

More ...
KD: Did you watch The Office?
KP: I did. Erin is craaaazy! But I loved the Cookie Monster plotline. Hahaha!
KD: Jim's impression of Kevin was hysterical. BTW - I am twittering with Kirstie Alley right now! I can see this easily getting out of control!
KP: When you say twittering with her do you mean she's talking back? Or that you are sending her tweets in hopes of becoming tweeting bff's?
KD: Oh, I meant twittering to her. She hasn't responded, but she will. When she does, you will know! Twittering may be my new purpose in life! hahahaha!
KP: Hahahahaha! Twitter = new purpose in life! Awesome!

Why we are Gleeks .. even via text!
KD: I think my cat's been reading my diary!
KP: I was going to text you the same thing! The songs have been great though. I loved the ballad duet.
KD: Yes, great music. But I don't like sad tears during my favorite show!
KP: OMG! it just got AMAZING! GO MERCEDES!
KD: Now I'm really in tears!
KP: Sobbing! Sobs! Lots of tears! That is one of the best moments on the show thus far. How incredibly profound and beautiful.
KD: Sing it! We are beautiful no matter what they say ....

Recipe for Fabulousness

Last week my staff members decided that they wanted to do a potluck. At 10 o'clock at night. Because that's how they roll. And that's why I love them. To show my love I wanted to make them something fabulous for our appetizer/dessert potluck so I pulled out a recipe my aunt gave me for caramel corn. It's sugary, it's buttery and it's mouth-meltingly sinful in its delicious-ness. And amazingly, it turned out the way it was meant to be, meaning I didn't burn or otherwise damage the fine ingredients (or myself or my lovely apartment) in the recipe. This brings the total number of things I can successfully whip up to a grand total of nine. Yes, nine. I am going to examine the nine culinary miracles that I have somehow managed to master despite my hopeless domestic disability.

1.) Pannakkakua. An old Finnish dish that consists of everything that people tell you is bad for you: butter, whole milk, eggs, and sugar whipped and frothed into an incredibly delicious breakfast food. My friends have stolen my mom's recipe and passed it off as their own, which is only alright because it really is that good and more people need to know about it.

2.) Fudge. My mom is famous for her fudge; she only makes it around the holidays and I'm pretty sure people would either throw gobs of money at her or kill other people to get a couple of tiny pieces. I finally understood why when I saw the ingrediant list and set out to make it with my friend. I follow the tradition and will only make it in December and only for my friends. If they're good.

3.) Stir-fry. One of the only transferrable skills I took from Home Ec was recalling how to make a delicious stir fry sans wok. (Though purchasing a wok might help things.) I feel healthy whenever I eat it, which is at least once or twice a week since it's one of the only things I can make.

4.) Fruit pizza. Ok, so this isn't the most difficult of recipes, but for some reason all of my friends love it when I make it. I think it's because the cream cheese "sauce" is ridiculously good. Sometimes I just make that and cut up fruit to bring to get-togethers. Yum.

5.) Taco salad. THE thing my mom is known for--she makes it at least once a month for church potlucks and ends up bringing double and triple batches to graduation, birthday and other various parties. The recipe makes a huge batch of it, so I always have to improvise and figure out how to halve it or gift it.

6.) Fondue. Both cheese AND chocolate--though not together. I've been obsessed with fondue since I went to The Melting Pot in 2004 for the first time. It's so freakin' good. Especially the cheese one that I make because it's a meal in itself. It's a good recipe to have on-hand when I want to do something celebratory and a little more special.

7.) Pesto. I decided out-of-the-blue to learn to make this one day and it astounded me how simple it was to make a seemingly gourmet meal from basil, olive oil and parmesan cheese. It's a fantastic summer staple and I love that chicken can easily be added to it.

8.) Baked brie. Another recipe I learned on a whim after forking over $10 to my favorite East Lansing restaurants too often for this appetizer. Everyone who loves cheese loves this. Paired with some good crackers and apple slices, it's a fantastic dish to bring to parties and it never fails to impress everyone.

Upon reviewing the list, I realize that many of the dishes and recipes are for sharing and/or not good meals. Yes. True. But I can cook meats and make salads so I'm not living off of fudge and cheese-based foods. But the listed items really are the only recipes I've ever been able to conquer. That should probably change. Then again, there's always take-out...