This Monday is Confusing.

I have about agrillion things to say. It's been insanity lately. So much moving around - e'erday I'm shuffling, bouncing around this mid-west like silly putty. Milwaukee to eat pulled pork, drink PBR and listen to The Promise Ring tear shit up at the Turner Hall and make every late 20-something, 30-something remember Happiness is All the Rage. Nashville to get drink specials, love on my best friends, buy books and eat a ridiculous amount of fried food. Yesterday, La Porte Indiana to hang with some cousins, get my hair did, and eat a 1/2 pound hamburger with 4 strips of bacon.

This is my life: moving, shaking and eating all the things.

Then, it's back to work. Sometimes I'm vacant there. My eyes are dead eyes - and I get inspired to write eulogies for everyone who has died on the inside (starting with me). Anyway, this is basically what I want to tell you: something terrible happened at work today. Something ridiculously weirdly bad that I cried for about 2 hours. But in the midst of that dumbass shit storm, something amazing happened. I think I'm going to use the word "miracle" - a "miracle" happened while the chaos was swirling. Actually, I don't know if miracle is an appropriate term, but really, it kinda felt like one.

So, this bad thing happened and of course it had something to do with a human. This particular human hurt my feelings. And that should be normal, I work with the public; that happens. But this was unseen. Completely out of the blue, so to speak. And he not only yelled at me in this weird manner, he turned it around and made me feel like this whole confusing ordeal was my fault. He even used a phrase ("cordial conflict") that made my head spin. What the hell, dude? I just asked you to follow the rules. No need to slam through the door and start yelling insane things at me in front of the whole Children's Department. Okay. Enough of that.

After that. Oh man, after that I was sitting down at my desk trying to wrap my head around what I did to make this man so angry, especially because I'm so damn nice. Anyway, I'm sitting there. Two kids around the age of 11 or 12, came up to me quietly. One girl one boy - cute little red heads. He has glasses and they both had khakis on. Quietly, they looked me right in the eyes and they told me: "sorry you're sad. [pause] sorry he hurt your feelings." Then, as if the universe really cared about me, they said, "is there anything we can do for you?"

I told them I was sorry they had to see that man yell at me. They continued to examplify this amazing love and said, "that's okay."

tell me that's not the closest thing to a miracle you've ever heard.

An Indy Rant (indie rant coming soon)

I've been driving for about 9 years. I'm a very good driver. That's not just by my standards. My insurance company lowers my insurance all the time. Because I'm great! I've been in two accidents. Neither remotely my fault. I've been living in Indianapolis since June. Since then I've been involved in nearly 30 separate collisions. On top of having my car spit at about 3 times a week as I drive home. By pedestrians. Pedestrians on the sidewalk. Pedestrians I am in no way near to striking, but that's not the point. The collisions are the point.
I don't think Indianapolis has traffic laws. The only time I ever see anyone stopped by a police officer the driver is also in hand-cuffs. So that doesn't seem like a moving violation.
One day I was driving home from work. I'm coming down a one-way street to an intersection where my street merges to make another street become a two-way street. So my eastbound traffic comes against westbound traffic. At the intersection though eastbound traffic continues onto a one-way street. Are you following me? At the intersection there is two-way traffic to my right and one-way traffic to my left. I turn right. As I'm turning someone from my left misses my car by less than a foot because I'm a good defensive driver and I stopped in time! I honked with my newly repaired horn. The cop behind me honked at me for not going through the intersection, completely disregarding the car driving the WRONG DIRECTION on a ONE-WAY STREET!
There's a curve near my apartment. The speed limit is 35. And it's right at the Monon Trail. I always slow down because my biggest fear in life is hitting a pedestrian with my car, because no matter the scenario that always ends up being the driver's fault. I also now always slow down, because when I'm driving west the traffic traveling east ALWAYS crosses the center line. ALWAYS. I've yet to have a morning when I'm going to work that someone from opposing traffic has not crossed the DOUBLE YELLOW line. The solution is real quite simple. Slow the hell down! I always honk, which I secretly hope scares the shit out of them and causes them to crash into a tree. Or me. Because then ya know, new car. I've seen cops do it. And now that the horn on my car works they ALL get honked at. Coppers too.
And today, I was coming back to the office from lunch turning right on a green light. And Johnny Left Turn, who was waiting behind another vehicle that sped in front of me, decided if that car could do it so could he. In his big-ass van! I slammed on my brakes, which squealed and yelled. Oh did I yell.
I yell at people who don't use their turn signals. I roll down my window just for that. And it's a manual crank for that window, kids. I yell at pedestrians who cross the street 30 feet from the crosswalk WHEN the cars start approaching or when the crosswalk changes to don't walk.
Because I'm the only person in ALL OF INDIANAPOLIS who knows about traffic laws. I'm looking at you Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. I know there are other crimes to stop, but a pedestrian losing a leg in a car accident is a pubic safety issue too!

Disney Rehash

I did some more thinking this weekend, about how discontented I am. And as a member of a very selfish generation I've once again decided to shirk to blame. Disney, this one's on you too.
Every girl you've offered me was a malcontent. She didn't just want to be the best she could be, she wanted to get the heck out of town and start all over. Because she simply couldn't be held back by the support of a dopey father. She went out into the world to begin something new. It's just that something new always happened to be mucking up her entire life. And isn't that the dream?
If you don't believe me. Ask these guys.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-V4KEnbYo0&feature=related

Listen, guys, there are rules

Listen up, I have real world knowledge. I know a thing or two about a thing or two. And of course, I'm adding to that list daily. Daily, guys. Well, maybe not daily, but surely weekly, right? Last week, my etiquette skill-set was broadened to DANCE CLUB RULES - but not just dance club, SOBER DANCE CLUB. (As a clarification, I was sober. The only sober one)

1.) GOTTA GET DAT SKIN: Dressing for the occasion.
Turns out, if you wear jeans and a reasonably cute shirt that covers your body and flat shoes, (optimal for dancing) you are OVER dressed. And by over, I mean, coverage wise. To fit in, one must wear ridiculous heels. Also, short short short short short dresses or skirts with tight tight and low cut shirts. Here's an example, I watched someone try to get to the ground floor from the third level of dance floor, and guess what. I saw her whole ass. Yep. Entire thing. So did everyone there, except, I might be the only one who remembers. Also, she didn't have underwear on. I'm glad I got the back view.

2.) PUMP IT UP: Having sex on the dance floor.
This is appropriate. I didn't know that until Saturday night. At a dance club, laying a woman down on (ON) the dance floor and rubbing pubic symphises together is okay. Not just rubbing, grinding. Hard. Grinding hard. This happened. With three couples surrounding me. I even watched one couple pretend to do (graphic link)  cunnilingus. It wasn't hot.

3.) ALL THE SINGLE LADIES: Don't bring your partner to the club.
I, personally, didn't have my man because dance clubs aren't his thing, but my friend Heather did. I overheard her, at least 3 times say, "I'm here with my husband." In turn, the pursuing party gets pissed and promptly finds another girl to grind. (see rule #2).

4.) I WANNA DANCE WITH SOMEBODY: Laughing at jokes.
This rule is split into two parties. I'm on the side of laughing at inappropriate jokes made by the DJ. However, many around me did NOT think Whitney Houston jokes were kosher this soon after her death. It was hilarious, though. No one seemed to be mad at me for laughing, so, honestly, for this one, follow your heart.

5.) SING IT OUT: Singing with strangers (even drunk ones)
Journey, Dexys Midnight Runners, Vanilla Ice - it's okay to know all the words. And when you do, sing the shit right out of them. Look to your left, look to your right, look out into the crowd - everyone is singing and singing loudly. It's amazing. Honestly. If people aren't too busy having dance club sex, they love that you love the song that is on. Eye contact will be made, eyes will get bigger with enthusiasm and together, you will sing. It will be wonderful and rewarding, and I'm not kidding about this. Here and there, throw a point toward the person with whom you are singing. They love it and so will you. Let the universe align while you are singing one hit wonders and classic rock. It feels like, even at 2:30 am with puke on the toilet seats and slutty girls and nasty boys gettin' busy near the speakers, it's okay to be at a club.


Hope this helps.

John Wayne Gacy Jr.: Sick...fascinating

I'm relatively awful at making friends. As evidenced by my last eight months in Indianapolis where I've made exactly no friends. Outside of the obvious issue of me never really leaving my apartment. I have this problem when I do meet people.

Guys, I love serial killers. See?! That's the problem. I don't love them. Well, no. I do. In a "as a human I should love all people" sort of way. But I do like them. See?! No. I don't like them. I think they're fascinating. The mental state of serial killers enthralls me. The psychopaths. The sociopaths. Call them what you will. The complete lack of empathy. Not just a lack, but a near lack of understanding of empathy.

It consumes my brain. I spend hours on wikipedia reading about them. Stumbling about sociopaths. That's not okay! It doesn't mean I'm a serial killer. I think it means the opposite.

I read about them and want to know so much because I can't wrap my head around the idea. It's sick, and yet I can't stop reading about them. I know more about psychopaths than most people I know.

Which is weird, sure, but I think it's only bad when I drop facts about specific ones into conversations. The people who know me mind less, because it's just like talking about sports or movies. No. It's not like that at all. It's weird. It's gross. But I can't stop reading about them. So to anyone who has ever met me, I apologize. You probably know more about John Wayne Gacy Jr. or the Bloody Benders or Dean Corll than you ever wanted to know. I can't apologize enough, but also did you know...

Disney says I need a pet and so much more

I got to thinking about Disney movies today. Outside of some of them being totally underrated because they're nothing like the story or just not flashy enough, I noticed something that I know influenced my brain. I could credit that to my family always having a dog, but I won't. I want to blame Disney for my seeming need to have pet.

Jasmine had Rajah the tiger. Pocahontas had Meeko the raccoon. Cinderella had all those mice. Belle had Filippe the horse. Rapunzel had Pascal the chameleon. Mulan had Mushu a dragon AND Crickee a cricket. Ariel, while half animal herself, had Flounder a blue tang AND Sabastian a crab Snow White had all of those woodland creatures. So did Aurora. Princess Eilonwy had Gurgi a dog. Esmerelda had Djali a goat. Olivia who was already a mouse still had Toby a basset hound. Wendy had Nana. Alice had Dinah.

What is that? Are girls so incapable that they cannot survive life without an animal friend? And why couldn't they find female human friends? Why are there no friends in the Disney world? Sure, Snow White had her dwarves. Aurora and Cinderella their fairies. Wendy had her brothers.

Where is the friendship component of life in Disney movies? It's really starting to bother me. I'll give it to Ariel because she's half fish, but why couldn't she make friends with any girls? Why doesn't she spend time with her sisters? She has six sisters, and the only time she spends with them is when she's getting ready in the morning, at which point she's completely ignoring them. All of them are surrounded by men. Men trying to control them or men trying to save them. Their mothers are evil. Their fathers are idiots. While Disney girls are getting themselves into all sorts of trouble that can only be rectified by falling in love after abandoning their evil mother or bumbling father the only real friends at their side are animals.

I recently had a debate with someone as to whether or not Esmerelda should be considered a Disney princess or not. It was decided she should be because she fit the bill. Because Belle wasn't really a princess, and Cinderella wasn't until the very end. But we can say Esmerelda is the princess of gypsies. She's put in danger by an evil man, and she's rescued by a gentler man she must fall in love with to be saved. Because that's what it is to be a woman. Your only friend is an animal, because animals don't quickly betray. Your father is a dummy or overbearing. Your mother is probably your step-mother, and she's undoubtedly evil. The only way you can live your life is if you fall in love, and the only way that can happen is if something truly dastardly happens to you.

I'll be a real woman some day.

Excuse me while I rant (aka: this is just the beginning)

I consider myself to be a connoisseur of sorts when it comes to customer service. I'm a consumer with lots of different businesses, but more importantly, I'm really ridiculously good at providing customer service. Really good. I'm not very good at lots of things, but this one, this one's my shining star. It's always been something I could do - relate and listen and care. I blame my dad, my dad's dad and mom, my mom's dad and my brother for this: we're all really good at it. When I was a social worker: good. When I was a server: good. When I library: good. So, I know bad service when I encounter it. And when I do, it's all-consumingly offensive. It's like a stinky, burning fart in the middle of a lily field. (Yeah, I did just say that).

Here's the history: I have acne. At one point in my life, I had terrible, horrible, bulbous acne that hurt and made me feel hatred towards myself and everyone else in the universe. I might have been vain, but mostly, I was heartbroken. When I was 12, I started using my first topical retinoid. When I was 18, my face exploded with "adult onset acne". I cried EVERY SINGLE DAY. I started going to Three Rivers Dermatology in 2002. This is when I fell in love with Dr. Sassmannshausen. He did things like listen to me cry and give me pep talks about my personality and remembered personal facts and tid bits. He wore funky ties and made jokes. He took serious and aggressive, but patient and comforting approaches. We, patiently, took my acne to the cleaners. He's awesome. I recommended him to at least 10 people in the last 10 years.

Somewhere along the line his practice has started taking itself way too seriously. It has a damn spa thingy attached to it (it's called Windy Ridge. WINDY RIDGE!!!), he has a staff of like 25 nurses and he's way too busy to interact effectively. This is great, right? His practice has boomed! Except, where does that leave the customer? Rushed and pushed around by nurses who cut off your sentences and have the same amount of bedside manner as a corpse? Yes. Sitting in a waiting room for 20 minutes to hold audience with the doctor for 2? Yes. Calling in to ask a serious question only to be redirected to 2 different people, ending up talking to the phone nurse who is, at best, kind of a jerk? Yes. Sorry, but in my book, this is not progress.

Also, while my nurse was updating my patient history today, she cut me off at least a half dozen times and NEVER let me justify my answers. Don't we all think it's important to note that histories are unique and side bars should be considered? It was infuriating. And to the point where I intentionally moved my body away from hers and crossed my arms. I wanted her to get the point that yes, in fact, she was cutting me off from my own appointment. She didn't seem to care. It doesn't matter, except that it does. For mainly two reasons:

1) I'm a long time patient. 10 years, guys. When I think about breaking up with Three Rivers Dermatology, my heart actually aches. 2) I actually paid them money to make me feel like a doofus.

On the upside, Dr. Sassmanhausen is still cool as hell. And we have a thick history. I can't sever that so easily -- but I can't continue to put up the notion that taking yourself too seriously, being cold and pre-occupied and being rushed and pushed around is to be considered professional. I had a horrible experience (2 within one month)and it's like this: What the hell?

I mean, he can always hire me for Customer Service Consultant, I'd be up for that - because some of these nurses have a thing or two to learn about humans. And I'm not talking anatomy.

He's just so adorable

Last Thursday consisted of several things. Work. Waiting in line. Talking to strangers. Wandering downtown Indianapolis asking for celebrities to flock to me. Waiting in blob.
But most significantly about 4:10 with my only two friends in Indianapolis I made my way into the Hilbert Circle Theatre. We sat in our seats in the center box at the back of the theatre on the floor. Well, we sat there and then got shuffled around by a lady with a huge vagomach. Then shuffled around by a girl and her boyfriend, but this time with three Russian girls. We finally settled into our seats after an adorable old man leaned over all of us to tell us if we left during a commercial break we could lose our seat. And if we shook hands with someone coming out of the bathroom we might pee hands.
We sat through the opener, who wasn't that bad, but wasn't that great. But I suppose that's the point. Give us a middling guy so the real guy is extra wonderful.
Let me tell you, Jimmy Fallon? Extra wonderful. The Roots? EXTRA wonderful. But the reason anyone even goes to Jimmy Fallon is because he's so adorable. He's pretty good at impersonations, but what he's really great at is loving his job. When a football player breaks a tricycle Jimmy Fallon laughs at the ridiculousness, not because he's horrible at holding character, but because he loves life. One has to hand it to Andy Samberg on that one. Jimmy Fallon is always excited about everything. Despite Taylor Lautner or Adam Levine or the emphasis on sportsball Jimmy Fallon remained entirely precious. Even when he nearly hit himself in the head with a plate all I wanted to do was give Jimmy a hug. In a completely uncreepy way. I promise. He's grown from the little laughing lamb he was on Saturday Night Live (yeah, that's right. I don't abbrev. that). Easily my favorite part of the whole night though was watching him nitpick about his hair and the sweat on his face or watching him laugh as we watched "the Real Housewives of Late Night." He just loves his job. And who wouldn't.
If you watch Thursday's episode and any portion of Sunday's live episode, or if you didn't watch either, I do want to point out that Jimmy Fallon should always wear a blue suit over a black or charcoal suit. He simply looks sharper in the blue.
It was not his most hilarious show, but it was the most wonderful time.
But I'm just going to say it, I wasn't going to, but I'm going to. Jimmy Fallon did not go out for drinks with us afterward, and I'm not remotely happy about it.

Mom, is this the bible?

When you're in my line of work, you can hear some funny stuff - and, to be fair, you get to *say* some funny stuff. For example, the other day I overheard this gem: Kid: "Mom, is this the bible?" Mom: "No, that's a goosebumps book."!!

Today, this little girl came flying in through the department, ecstatic to be at the library (which is awesome). She couldn't really put into words how happy she was so she exclaimed: "I'm going to take off my shoes AND my socks." Quietly behind her, her mother said, "No, you aren't."

Also, during storytime today, we did a little change up to "If you're happy and you know it". I had approximately 90 kids screaming, "If you're a monster and you know it, give a ROAR::: ROOOOAAAAAR" and so on and so forth.

Are you jealous yet? Because most of the time, my days are spent finding World Record books, Dinosaur facts, talking with kids about killing zombies, and being a damn rock star at storytime. Can I tell you that I made so many kids "ew" and "ah" with delight because of a pop-up book? It's an incredible thing to hear so many toddlers absolutely lose their shit because of a book. A BOOK. Take that, iPad. (No offense, iPad. I want one of you)

Lastly, look at this poster of Justin Bieber. A kid did this. Straight up put lip stick on his pouty mouth and heavily doused his eyes with marker eye liner. I mean, don't be mad at me that I get to live this life. It's fun to be the cool librarian. It's fun to hear a kid say to his mom (about me), "she helped me find all these books" - if I do nothing else in my life, I know that my stint as a librarian is meaningful and important and down right awesomely hilarious.




sappy enough for ya?

Robots and Dinosaurs

I'm 24 years old. In a little over a month that will change. Last week a travesty occurred. I was getting into bed when I noticed a tear and a growing hole in my sheet. Now I don't believe in top sheets, so we're just talking about the fitted sheet. Flannel sheets, so not some piddly cotton sheet. Flannel sheets I've had for, well shoot, probably two years? It's encouraging to a degree, because now I know that when I am sleeping, rare as that is, I'm a power-sleeper. I'm a destroyer of sheets with nothing more than my snoozing body!

"Then why is it a travesty?" You're asking. Well, these weren't just flannel sheets. They were flannel robot sheets. Vaguely like this rug. Well exactly like this rug, only sheets, and on a lighter blue.

And I know as an adult I should learn to have sheets for adults, but I'm single. I don't have a roommate. I have a twin bed. So losing the robot sheets was a real blow to my sense of security.

So Saturday afternoon my mom and I went to anywhere we could think of. I had already conquered the internet shopping experience. Marshalls (where I originally purchased the sheets), T.J. Maxx, Target, Macy's, Penneys, Bed Bath and Beyond, Gordmans. We started at Target and ended at Target. I reluctantly went back into the store and bought white sheets with dinosaurs on them. Cotton sheets. Not flannel to better keep me warm in the apartment I refuse to heat. Cotton. Not robots. Dinosaurs. Don't get me wrong. I love me some dinosaurs. Jurassic Park is in my top 10. But they aren't my robots.

Plus! They mix dinosaurs with dino bones. Well, dino skulls. Which I feel is just cruel to the dinosaurs.

"Behold your future," said the sheet to itself.

Crying Shame or What I learn from America's Funniest Videos

Sometimes the lesson in life is simple. Sometimes it's convoluted, tangled and insanely difficult to .. you know, grasp. Sometimes the lesson revolves around serious life events, but mostly, lessons are something like: Don't play with puppies in your underwear. Or, for the love of all that's good in this world, don't jump on an old trampoline. Or, listen up, don't let your grannies ride scooters.

But can you believe it? Have you ever even SEEN an episode of America's Funniest Videos? Never, NEVER jump on a trampoline. NEVER NEVER try to get into a paddle boat off a rickety dock. Don't sled. Just DO NOT sled. I mean, most of my life lessons I've learned from AFV.

Well, there are other life lessons that AFV can't *really* portray on the show. For instance, never have sex on the first date. And if you do, that's okay, just don't let it get *too* weird.. you know, paddling and masks and acid. Like, burning acid not dropping acid. Dropping acid is okay. Also, don't show up at your male lover's house with a gun and shoot his wife. I'm looking at you, Amy Fisher. I mean, life goes deeper than what AFV can show you, but not really. If it seems like a bad idea, don't do it. If you think jumping on an exercise ball is a bad idea, don't do it. If you think clubbing your opponent's knees is a bad idea, don't do it.

Same lesson, different vehicles to teach the lesson. Right?

For now, I think I have a handle on most things. But, to fill in the gaps, this is me. Driving. Taking a picture of myself. That's a terrible idea. Don't do that either.

Jesus Christ!

Interview Outfits and Other Things

I don't have a picture of the outfit I wore for my interview in Providence this past weekend, but don't worry because I looked cute. I wore brown cords with a grey blazer, some brown moccasins (I have a thing, I told you) and a green glass necklace. My hair was up like a messy librarian's would be, and I sported a borrowed red vintage peacoat and a snazzy umbrella, so that when I shook hands I could rest it in the crook of my arm like I was Dr. John Watson. If only.

The interview went well. I met all the other applicants, and they were smart and good looking and did things like wear purple coats and nice shoes, and they asked intelligent questions. For the most part I was just awkward and nodded a lot. I almost kicked a table over, too. Suffice to say, I was myself.

Traveling takes it out of you, really. But now I'm going to spend the next two weeks, as always, writing poems about people I saw in the airport.

...and all I know for sure is what earrings I'm wearing

About a month ago I applied for tickets to go to the taping of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon while he's in Indy for the super bowel. (You read that correctly.) A couple of weeks ago I received an e-mail that said I was going to the taping of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon while he's in Indy for the super bowel. Well, now it's the Monday of the week I go to the taping of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon while he's in Indy for the super bowel, and all I know for sure is what earrings I'm wearing.

I have to work that morning, but I'm getting off early to go pick up my tickets with my two friends who have to be present when he get our tickets. And then we'll spend the afternoon downtown wondering where celebrities hang out in Indianapolis the week of the super bowel before we get in line to go to the taping of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon while he's in Indy for the super bowel. So I could theoretically change after to work. Into some jeans, but as a very typical girl, what do I wear?! I got dressed this morning and as I walked out of my apartment all I could think was, "Well, dang. I should have saved this for Thursday." But it's too late now. I'm sitting in it now. Soaking my day's filth into the fibers. Jimmy will know. I will know.

What's worse is I just learned who will be on the show this week and Thursday, my friends, is a disappointment. Tonight is Glenn Close and Emmy Rossum. Tomorrow is JACK MCBRAYER! and people I don't think are real. WEDNESDAY is TRACY MORGAN and Tim Tebow. Friday is SNOOP DOGG. But Thursday? Taylor Lautner and Adam Levine with Nas as the musical guest. Come on, Jimmy. What that does mean though is we could run into Jack McBrayer or Tracy Morgan this week. What that also means is it isn't Seth Rogen or Jason Segel.



And the real point is I only know for sure that I'm wearing these.

Why I don't want to meet your mother

Not YOU specifically, but "you" Ted Mosby's children you. I've been watching "How I Met Your Mother" since it started, and when we made it to season 2 all I could think was "wait really?! You're going to pick this up for more seasons? I mean, I love it, but no one else is watching it."

We got to season 5, and I was surprised. I was happy, but I was surprised that it lasted this long. And that it persists. Still. The show is contracted for 8 seasons. So far.

My first complaint is this.

The name of the show, as I recall it, is "How I Met Your Mother," and the first two and a half seasons were about that. About halfway through season 3 the show made a switch. It became vaguely about Ted and the long road to meeting his future wife, and it moved to what should now be titled "How Barney Slept with Way Too Many Women Before I Met Your Mother, and How Inappropriate It Is That I, Your Father, Am Telling You These Things." (As evidenced by this picture that barely contains Ted's face.) Don't get me wrong, I love Barney Stinson. I adore Neil Patrick Harris. And I loved the chance to hear a little bit more about Marshall and Lily, because I want to marry Jason Segel and I want to be Alyson Hannigan. And the heart-breaking news about Robin not being able to have children forcing her to realize just how much she wanted them. It resonated. These are all important things, and I'm sure they do play a role in how Ted's life shapes before he meets his future wife. All of that except Barney's promiscuity.

But what I don't ever want, more than anything what I don't want is to meet their mother. I just don't. It's bad writing if we meet her. Because from the beginning we've been told the kids know the short story of how Ted met their mother. So all of the story we're hearing should lead up through that point, and at most see the back of her head. Any person they give us will be a disappointment, and anything beyond that moment will be "How Your Mother and I Began To Live Our Lives Together."

But, we will meet her, and it could easily go beyond. Though it never should. Something about American television says "Drag it out as long as you can. No matter how little sense it makes." I'm looking at you, "The Office."

Blog Post About Liking Things on a Bad Day or knowing somethings about yourself

Don't ask me when I became the person who started worrying about the fragile skin around my eyes because, basically, I don't really know. But you know? I don't care. I'll sing it from the mountaintops: I LOVE EYE CREAMS AND GELS AND ALSO HIGHLIGHTING POWDER FOR MY CHEEK BONES.

In addition, I like cheap wine, expensive pizza, tall socks, wearing head bands. I like talking, talking about pets, and feelings and babies. I also like alcohol. I like talking about my grandparents and watching lots of TV. I like that I form emotional attachments to fictional characters of all sorts. I like playing games on my phone. I like dishing out high fives and compliments and jokes. I like chatting online. I like tweeting and blogging and stalking people on facebook. I like thinking that people's parents like me. Reading and writing and browsing internets. Meeting people, making friends and making expressive movements with my arms, I like those things, too. I like having lunch dates and brushing my teeth. I especially like flossing.

I like wearing socks and sweats and oversized shirts. I like shopping at the mall, but also, I like staying at home and getting so drunk playing catch phrase. Hip hop music and tanning beds. I like getting approval from authority figures, and your parents and my parents and my cat. I like baking and eating the things I bake. I like being right. I like that I sometimes write poetry that could be considered good by some people somewhere who might want to read about the shit I write. I also like that I'm sometimes an elitist, but also, that I'm so approachable. I like that when I take personality tests I'm 100% extrovert, but sometimes all I crave is the quiet turning of the earth.
Et cetera.

I like lots of things.

Chances are, I like you. Unless you're part of that small group of girls from college... you know who you are. I don't like you... still.

BioFreeze Back and Sugar Scrubbed Feet

Hey, you guys, don't worry, for the first portion of today I was steeped in luxury like a damn queen. Or, like someone who was born into wealth. Or, like a high end prostitute with clients who pay for luxurious spa days. Or, like someone who had a little bit of christmas money to spend. Either way, I spent my day at the Woodhouse Day Spa alone and loved every second of it.

I'm not going to only talk about how amazing Spa water is (Basil and Orange infused water) or how deep tissue massages are simultaneously the best and worst pain ever or how going on a Monday morning essentially ensures a private spa - I'm not. I won't. That's boring. But I will talk about walking around with an oversized white robe covering my naked body in front of strangers... LIBERATING. Not joking at all.

Let me first, before I go on, lay out an exception: I still had my undies on, but they are skimpy undies, so basically, totally nude under my robe in front of people I don't know, lapping up basil and orange infused water while getting my feet massaged. WHAT THE HELL? Who am I?

So, here I am, walking around in spa shoes and robe, sauntering to the massage room, orchids and lilies littering the room, quiet ambient sounds invading my ears - and when the therapist tells me to disrobe, I do no problem. What does all of this say about me? I don't really know. Here's what I can only think:
I like being naked in front of strangers.

Hopefully that's okay. OH, and also, I slam down Spa Water like they're those test tube shots and I'm at a night club. And that, I know, is okay.

It's not pathetic. It's the '90s.

And I want them back! In light of my recent skorts-related post I realized how much I love the '90s way too much. And by "realized" I mean "was reminded." And by "way too much" I clearly mean "in exactly the right portion." It's not dramatic, but what I know is exactly this. On Friday nights I still stay in, but there's no "X-Files" or TGIF on. Well, okay, some times the X-Files is on, but I did that. Not the TV. It's never TGIF. It should always be TGIF. I want to be able say that I'm staying in on Friday night for a real reason, and not because I hate leaving. And yes, I do consider TGIF a real reason. "No, sorry I can't. 'Full House' is on." "No, not tonight, Cory and Topanga are getting married, and I was invited to the wedding." "Friday? Oh no. Not Friday. Sabrina has used her magics all incorrectly and that crazy witch has to get herself out of that mess. Can't miss it." "No. No. Urkle is on." "No, I can't come to your house for a sleepover. You're not allowed to watch 'Dinosaurs.'"

Clearly, the '90s trained me to stay in on a Friday night. That's not pathetic. That's the '90s! And cost-effective. And far less intimidating.

I want my jellies to give me blisters with fashion legitimacy. Not insanity and the usual result of sweating feet in the summer in plastic shoes. I want the bright peach sweatshirts and t-shirts I wear to be normal and ridiculous. Obviously, I want to always be wearing skorts. What I'm saying is I don't just want to be watching TGIF, is I want to be Stephanie Tanner. It's not an outrageous desire. But before I wanted to be Stephanie Tanner, which is my current goal. I wanted to be Clarissa Darling. I wish I'd never given up that goal. I simply don't have enough hubcaps on my wall.

I want a Giga Pet! A sad, unfed and neglected Giga Pet. Not Angry Birds. I want Keds! Not Toms. I want Doug pining after Patty Mayonaise. Not Spongebob. I want 'N Sync is better than Backstreet Boys. Not the Biebs. The only way I want to see Kenan Thompson is on "All That" or "Kenan and Kel." Not "Saturday Night Live." I want slap bracelets. Not Silly Bands. (Silly Bandz? Seelly Brands? Steely Dan?) I want Beanie Babies. Not Furreal Friends. (Those are ROBOPETS!!!!) I want to hear about Zach and Kelly and Slater. Not Edward and Bella and Jacob. (name checks.) Green planet propaganda from cartoons. Not politicians. (Captain Planet. Fern Gully). I want to change the radio station in angst from the Macarena. Not LMFAO. I want the Spice Girls. Not the Pussycat Dolls.

Stirrup pants. Wide leg jeans. Grunge. Surfer fantasies. Hacky sacks. Hypercolor. Pogs. Scrunchies.

It's a rant we've all felt before. I know that deep in your hearts the only thing you want in life is for pizza to be motivating children to read thanks to Book-It.

The what's missing conundrum

So last night before my 8:45 bedtime I was looking for something in my room and something super weird and very unlike me happened. I got this weird and uncomfortable feeling. It was exactly the feeling that I'd been wearing a necklace or bracelet or ring for months and months and suddenly wasn't. The feeling was exactly on my left ring finger. Right where a ring would be, if I talked to other humans, had met a man who actually wanted to spend time with me and was stupid enough to want to marry me.

But that's never happened. I go on dates with guys who get up and leave. I leave my apartment to go to work or to go to the grocery store (once a month) or to the Edingers, which is hardly like leaving my apartment. I go on a date once a year, if I feel like putting pants on. So what the hell is going on with my finger?!

I never wear rings anymore. Only because it's not 1997 in the world, even if it still is in my heart. So the only explanation a friend of mine and the Drugged Librarian's could come up with was this.

Aaaalternaate uuuuuniverrrrse. But not just one. All of the alternate universes. Every Hayley from every alternate reality has been wearing a ring on that finger. Purity rings. Engagement rings. Wedding rings. Mood rings. Friendship rings. Giant moosehead rings. But they all lost them last night about 8:42 p.m. And now we're all feeling the loss, which is totally unfair because it's not my fault that engaged Hayley's fiancee was two-timing her or that married Hayley is clumsy and dropped her ring down the garbage disposal or that Portland Hayley's mood ring was giving bad vibes when she felt totally chill or that slutty Hayley got caught or that perpetually thrid grade Hayley's best friend found a new best friend. Why should I feel the uncomfortable for their mistakes?

I had only one solution. A bunny ring.

But only because I couldn't find my giant moosehead ring.

Sunshine on my shoulders

On the way home from lunch today, I became engaged in a conversation that made no sense at all. These are the best. It all started with a man in a hunter's jacket. You know the kind. Violently bright and, honestly, absurd if worn anywhere doing anything besides hunting.

Andy made mention that the jacket was assaulting his eyes. I told Andy he should sue the sun.

What if we did? Just brought a law suit down on the sun so hard for all the supposed wrong doings -- sunburns, drought, bright colors that hurt our eyes, snow blindness et cetera... but then, as a form of retaliation, the sun just decided to freeze us to death????

And then, just like that, 8 minutes later - we were all Popsicles. Dead. Because we think that we should be allowed to fall asleep in our backyards without shirts on.


addendum: I don't want to sue the sun. at all. it was just a thought.

Skorts, please, come back

It's winter now, if you didn't know. I know it's hard to tell these days. What with the midnight thunderstorms in January and what not. But I assure you, it is technically winter. When it comes to skirts in the winter I wear them with tights. It's the practical solution, even if those tights are bright yellow or orange or purple and make my legs look like muppet legs.

When it isn't winter though, it's too hot. And when it's too hot I don't wear shorts. Not denim, khaki, board, bermuda, gym. I won't wear them. They make my legs feel funny. What I will wear though is skirts. Lots of skirts. But that puts a real damper on my activities. What if there's a spontaneous game of tag or floor is lava? Or what if there's a spontaneous picnic at which a short skirt would make sitting on the ground difficult and unladylike?! My answer is always spandex shorts. I have four pair. Two blacks, one gray and one white. Three of them have lacy edges. It's like being Stephanie Tanner every day! Bright colored skirts and white spandex shorts? Who wouldn't feel like Stephanie Tanner?!

But Stephanie Tanner makes me think of one wonderful thing, and I can hear it echoing through your head and heart. I hear you longing for them too. Skorts! SKORTS. Half shorts. Half skirts. All awesome. Some times they were just a pair of shorts with a panel in the front to make it look like a skirt from the front. Some times they were really just over-sized shorts that looked like a skirt if you stood with your legs together. (like a woman's legs should always be). Some times they were a skirt with the shorts built right in, and that is exactly the style I want back.

Think of all of the things I could do, while still looking like Stephanie Tanner. I don't feel like it's an outrageous desire. Juvenile? Maybe. But not outrageous. It's everything you want too, you're just ashamed to admit that even in elementary school you'd always rather you'd been wearing a skort than some silly skirt or shorts. Fancy and functional. That's everything I want in life.

Pho tai, nam and being good at things

There are things I do really well. Seriously. If you know me, this is something I bet you doubt, but it's true. For example, I'm pretty damn savvy in most social situations. There are, of course, some scenarios that send me over the edge, but mostly.. mostly, I'm prepared for many awkward interactions.

Also, I'm kick ass at my job. I am. Right now, I'm planning a puppet show, Mail Art programs for home schoolers, a poetry workshop in April and bringing in real life comic book artists in May. Kids love me. Kids love my robot earrings and red shoes and the high fives I dish out on a regular basis and my story times and how they know I will stand up for them when bullies are dick heads and grown-ups are mean. Kids know this about me, they remember the people they like and like you back. They remember when a grown-up doesn't take herself too seriously. They remember when you take time to listen. Kids, honestly, are the best things ever. They know I think that and they reward me with devotion reserved for cool ass librarians.

I, also, must be really good at bragging.

Anyway, among other things (and the aforementioned items), I'm also really, really good at eating. No lie. I'm good at ordering foods I like and eating the shit out of them. Pho, pizza, coney dogs, chili and soups, sandwiches, sides, appetizers, desserts and everything of the sort. If it's food, I'll eat it. I'll eat it in a way in which one would think it was my job to consume food - sometimes gracefully, with manners, sometimes lacking both elegance and table side charm. I mean, it all depends on the food. I eat pizza with my hands, pho with chopsticks, sloppy joes with getting the sloppy on my face, ice cream in little bites.. honestly, I've gotten it down.

Take me out to eat and you'll see. You won't regret it. In addition to seeing a professional eat food, you'll also get to hang out with me. And I really like making friends.

Alright, Jeans, let's talk

Alright, so I've got this tummy brought on by beer, poor eating habits, candy, cake and laziness in all aspects of my life except eating things that are bad for me. But my legs are slammin'. If I'm honest with you, which I am. And Tina Trendiness says I'm supposed to be wearing skinny jeans. You know what sucks about skinny jeans? Well, I'll tell you. Fat people look ridiculous in them. That's just true. Even if you have kickin' legs (ha), you end up looking like some sort of living ice cream cone.

Now I own exactly five pairs of skinny jeans in varying styles and colors. One black, one gray (of course) and three dark blue. The dark blues are all in different sizes because I keep getting fatter. Tina, or Ms. Trendiness to those of you unfamiliar with her, says that I should always be wearing these jeans. Because they're cool. Well, this morning, CASUAL FRIDAY, my favorite pair of these skinny jeans, and the only blue pair left that fit me, were WET, because the only dryer left in my building barely works. So I had to wear a different pair of jeans. Moreover, a non-Tina-approved pair of jeans.

So I grabbed a pair of dark blue flared jeans. Like it was 2003. And I'll be Frank with you; you can be Dean. My ass looks great in these jeans. I always forget. And it's a great feat, because I have an innie-ass. But what's really important is this. I was walking into the office, and I looked down at my feet. (I do this because I tend to trip if I don't.) And I see my brown mocassin slippers and my flare-leg jeans, and I think to myself. "NO, TINA! I'll wear what I want. I'm comfortable! And NO, you can't see how amazing my calves are, but you also can't tell that my stomach is going to consume Rhode Island."

The problem with Tina is she's always telling you what you're doing is wrong. You apparently always have to be dressed like her to be living your life correctly. But my friends, you do not. Wear what you want. Dress in the style that makes you most comfortable in that situation. If a trend doesn't work for your body type, don't buy into it. I've always said they shouldn't make certain styles of shirt for every size, because the people that will buy them are exactly the people who shouldn't. I, for example, can never buy a shirt with designated boob placement. My boobs will always pour out from all sides. Left, right, top, bottom. Made to look completely ridiculous. Even if I buy the shirt to fit my boobs perfectly, I'm then suddenly dressed like a pregnant lady trying to hide the fact that her belly is full of baby.

If you like flare-leg jeans, wear them. Don't be an ice cream cone. Just eat one.

Bone Thugs & Uncle Charlie.

Last weekend I felt really lucky. I went to a cluster of antique stores and in the 3 hours I was out looking at old stuff, I heard my two favorite Bone Thugs-N-Harmony songs. Can you even stand it? Both songs are on the album E. 1999 Eternal and I first heard this album in Jr. High. A time when No Doubt and Mazzy Star were busy influencing my blue fingernails and purple space purse. I'm pretty sure Coolio was my gateway drug to Bone Thugs but really it doesn't matter. What matters is two fold. First, they taught me the love of fast talk and rhyme. Seriously, they probably somehow made me a better writer of poetry. Probably not too, but I don't want to talk about it right now. Second, and perhaps scarier was the fact that my childhood best friend loved them too. Tha Crossroads was her favorite song and it was my favorite song. What I'm really getting at is that my childhood best friend is now in jail for attempted murder. Do you get that? So every time I hear this very nostalgic fast talk rhyming, I also get sad for my childhood friend that will be sitting in jail until we are well into our old age. And here is maybe the saddest part, we came from the same sort of life. Good, country kid, had a house and school life. Do you think Bone had anything to do with it? Probably not but sometimes I think I should write her a letter and put Tha Crossroads lyrics at the bottom. I am only half serious about that but I still think it. "...can I get a witness? We livin' our lives to eternal our souls."

Bruno Mars, I'm concerned

I don't like the music of Bruno Mars. For several reasons.

1) It gets all stuck up in my head too easily.
2) It sounds so happy, but it's really the same whiny things Dashboard was singing about 10 years ago.
3) It's not good.

That being said, I'm concerned, and here's why.

First, I heard his song "Just the Way You Are," in which he expresses to unknown woman...sorry, "girl"...well, not even to, more about. So there's this girl, and her eyes are making shiny things appear less shiny, her hair is perfect, she doesn't buy into compliments, and she don't see what our boy Bruno sees.

What we've learned so far, Bruno Mars puts his lady friends on a high pedestal but keeps them in check by calling them "girl" regardless of age. This woman has, in Bruno's mind, an unrealistic self-image. Bruno is crap at grammar.

Now it's the chorus that really gets me. Every time, EVERY TIME, this lovely young lady asks Bruno if what she's wearing looks okay he says THE SAME THING EVERY TIME! And everything he has to say about her is about her face, which has nothing to do with what she's wearing.

Just say, "yes," and we could move on! But no. Not Bruno. He evades the question. He won't answer about her clothes; moreover, he says the same thing every time she asks making it a thoughtless and careless response. It's rehearsed and loses all meaning.

So let's assume she did not dump him.

Now the only other Bruno Mars song I've ever heard is called "Grenade." In this song Bruno's lady is put into HORRIBLE situations (or she's completely safe), and Bruno will do nothing helpful to save her. He will, however, kill himself.

She's tossed everything Bruno had in the trash, probably because he's just as careless with his compliments. All Bruno wants from her is all of her love. Is that so much to ask? He can promise in return to blindly compliment you and evade questions. But this lady doesn't seem to understand that Bruno would catch grenades (that may or may not have been thrown at said lady of interest), throw his hand on a blade (in a grand gesture of blood sacrifice, I guess), jump in front of a train (to stop it so she can get on it maybe?), take a bullet to the brain ("I'll kill myself if you won't love me"). Bruno would die for this woman, completely unnecessarily.

And because of the lack of returned affection he suggests the woman is going to hell, or is at least in cahoots with Satan.

Here's the thing though. At the end of each chorus Bruno points out that she's not going to do the same for him. One, because she doesn't love him. Two, because he's a sloppy complimenter and inattentive. Three, because she's not suicidal.

So, if you get a moment, maybe just write Bruno Mars a little note asking him to calm down. Remind him he has so much to live for. (There's cake to be eaten). In the meantime, listen to some Kings of Convenience.

...and the booze makes three

I'm healed. I'm putting off so many things, like grad school applications, like glancing over Aesop's Fables for potential puppet show scripts, like cleaning my kitchen, like putting up clothes, but I don't care right now! All I care about is telling you this story that I remembered midday and it made me laugh and laugh. This story is quite telling, so - I hope you're ready!

I work hardware trade shows 2x a year for Do It Best. I do. I'm good at it. Mostly, I sell locks, but what I really do is sell my conversation. I'm a tiny blonde in a booth selling WordLocks in a convention center filled with busy people. Slowing down, talking to a chatty little Midwestern girl is what lots of people like to do. And by people, I meant to say .. Hardware Store owners. It's not weird. It's awesome. Then I walk myself through downtown Indy and stay in a free hotel where I run and watch emotional porn and take baths and paint my nails and prepare for the next day - where I will talk to people and sell locks. Honestly, it suits me.

Sometimes the husband will visit while I'm down there because, hey, even extroverts get lonely after a long day talking to people...This last market, October 2011, husband and I decided we wanted to blow the money I was making. We went out drinking. Shots shots shots and shots. Except, we had a tequila shot served with sangrita (look it up, it'll blow your mind (best shot experience I've ever had)). Anyway, here's the good part - we decided to go to Circle Center Mall. Drunk.
You actually might think this was a bad idea - you might be totally wrong. The things that bother me about the mall just didn't matter. Every thing was great and funny and so attractive and "of course this will look good on me". Can I just tell you we spent SO MUCH MONEY THAT night. On booze, on oversized T-shirts, floppy mustard hats and other items we ended up returning... but the best part, most amazing part? The husband went into the girl's bathroom on accident. Laughter was uncontrollable. And now, as I reread that, it doesn't seem as hilarious as it was.

A series of unintentional decisions led us to the mall where WE were the annoying ones. How funny life can be. I don't regret it. I never will. That trip gave me the balls to buy my most favorite shirt -- an oversized purpley guy - if you've seen me since October, chances are you've seen this shirt.

I went to the mall tonight and bought the pictured items. I had an okay time, but boy, I do wish I would've gone drunk.

e


(addendum: Basically, we were technically buzzed, but I've heard "buzzed shopping is drunk shopping"... so, there's that. Also, I only recommend buzzed shopping for people of age - of course. What am I, irresponsible and dangerous?! well, depends on who you ask, but as a rule NO!)

Everyone says, "It's not THAT bad" - WRONG

Here I am, y'all. Here's a picture of me last week after the "ordeal". Do you want to know what constitutes an ordeal? For me, it was extraction of wisdom teeth.

And not just extraction of wisdom teeth -- aware extraction! Just local shots, no gas, no going under, NOTHING. Yes, once again, I'll say I was totally AWARE.

The pain is bad, but the remembering is worse. Tugging on my head, pulling, and pushing and clamping and pressure and breaking, cracking then... the worst of all, SAWING MY TOOTH OUT OF MY HEAD. Guess what, guys? They nicknamed the bone saw "THE MINNESOTA". I'm not kidding. He sliced through my bottom cheek, too, you know, to make more room. Worst experience of my life. This picture was taken the next morning.

Yesterday, Sunday, I started experiencing Dry Socket. A phenomenon that is quite literally the worst pain I've ever experienced in my whole entire life.
Wisdom teeth extraction happens to be a shit storm of terrible. Don't do it.
Today, I'm on the upswing - I got my (dry) socket packed with medicinal cloves and I'm feeling more like a human and less like a nerve-less alien.
Wait! Did I tell you the second best part of all of this? (The first best part being THE MINNESOTA) - Not only do I have dry socket NOW, I also have shit tons of infection. Yay! OH, and one more thing. I can't feel my chin. And I probably won't get feeling back for another 6 months.
Alas, I am part of The Drugged Librarian, and I'm actually .. well, drugged.
It's all on the upswing.
I hope.

Soon, I'll post a better, more accurate picture of me - until then, YES, I can *actually* look THAT bad.

e

Gray, the opportunity for anything

I've fallen in love. Head-over-heels, sick-to-my-stomach, can't-live-without-it love. I've fallen in love with none other than Gray. Not some silly man, just the irreplaceable color.

Now don't get me wrong here, I love all of my neutrals. Brown is my favorite color, for pity's sake. But Gray. I mean have you seen what he can do.

Gray can take your fuschia sweater and move it from obnoxious to mellow. But your sweater is still going to pop. What's great about Gray is no matter the shade of any other color you can still wear Gray. With Black or Brown or even Navy you run into issues with "Does this look too much like I'm trying to wear the same color, but accidentally grabbed a brown sock and a black sock?" Gray doesn't do that to you! Gray is forgiving!

And I know what you're thinking, "Gray? But Gray is cold. He's harsh and somehow simultaneously bland." I know. I thought that too, but get out your Grays. All of them. I'll wait. Now grab any color and put it next to a Gray. Suddenly Gray is warm and inviting. It softens and mellows without removing the power of a color. Gray is your neutral salvation.

There's this strange and inexplicable fear I see in people when it comes to neutrals. That somehow one neutral means only neutrals in an outfit. WRONG, so wrong, unless you're an elderly woman, then you can feel free to wear an entire outfit of cream. But if you aren't 82 yet, might I recommend one neutral and many colors?

Though, I don't know if you should trust me as I so often accidentally find myself wearing costumes to work rather than outfits, but more on that later.

Meanwhile, take a look at these shoes before this post calls it quits.

First, GRAY! Second, they look so much classier than they are. Wing-tip stitching. Laces. It looks like I put effort into wearing these shoes. Secret: The only effort I put into them was stretching them a little. They're just jazz shoes, at the heart of the matter. Gray flats with fancy stitching and laces that secretly slide on. I could go be in some stage production where I need to be doing some soft-shoeing, but still look like a businesswoman. Plus, comfort city. But the truly beautiful thing about these shoes? I spent a measly $8 on them.

Getting My Act Together

I'm trying to get my act together in 2012. Which, I guess, should really read: "I'm trying to get my closet together in 2012." It might help if my closet weren't the size of Miss Trunchbull's chokey, but whatever.

I have made it one of my goals this year to stop looking less like a baglady and more like a handbag lady. I don't think I own any handbags. What's the difference between a handbag and a purse? Is a handbag the same thing as a pocketbook? I thought a pocketbook was a wallet. Why are there so many names for "small place to put your crap"?

Anyway, I've started following a few fashion blogs. Mainly this girl and this girl and this girl. Because it seems like I have all these clothes, but I never know how to wear any of them. Learning how to wear clothes shouldn't be such a difficult task, but if you're me, and you've recently had to add words to your vocabulary like "flats" and "accessory" and "handbag" (I'm going to keep using that one in random contexts until somebody tells me I've done it right), then you can understand that it is a very difficult task indeed.

I guess I have to man up and stop saying "I'm a poet, I can dress like a baglady" and start saying "I'm a poet, but I still have to look like a human being."

What are your best closet tips?

We're coming

Prepare yourselves for the future.